There's No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross [Semi-Open]

[yoknapatawpha]

WHO| Bayard and Maxwell, Bayard and the DAI cast?
WHAT| A kid shivering in the snow.
WHERE| Wandering the woods.
WHEN| First morning of week 5.
WARNINGS| None yet.

The place they put him tells a story, like most places do. He's a little surprised that it doesn't look like a killing field of any sort. He expected the stuff of rumors about the war, of weapons on the ground and dead horses and cannon smoke. Instead, he's in a quiet forest that bears all the signs of thawing. It's still cold, painfully cold to him, but he sees frozen puddles where the snow has melted and then reformed and drips coming from the trees above him. The chirps of birds and hum of crickets tells him that wherever he is, it's spring. Which is strange, because he was certain it was summer when he was abducted into this.

Somehow, though he's afraid, it isn't the blinding, freezing panic that, when he was first told what he was supposed to do, consumed him. He shook when the weight of what they'd told him sunk in, felt his insides turn to egg yolk, felt something go off in his head like dynamite that cleared out all those other thoughts about the bright lights and strange clothes his captors wore. And he doesn't really remember what happened after that, during his demonstration for his scoring or when they picked him up less than an hour afterwards to take him out to the Arena. He knows, factually, that things happened. He doesn't remember them.

Maybe out of nothing but automatism his body is animated. It's certainly not out of any conscious plan, because he doesn't know where he's going or even what he's looking for. He entertains a dim idea that he could look for a rabbit or a deer but then remembers he has no weapon, nothing but his small-but-rough hands and this strange, slick clothing they've put him in.

Water. He'll look for water.

Hands tucked into his armpits for warmth, face flushed with blotches of pink and white, he staggers through the woods, doing his best not to jump too hard at each rustle he hears in the brush. Maybe if the trees looked more like they did at home, it would be easier of him to pretend that the movements in the shrubbery were ordinary squirrels and birds instead of killers. Bayard doesn't want to look afraid, but even now his shaking can't be mistaken for mere shivering.

After several miles of walking in no particular direction except 'downhill', and seeing no one, Bayard takes a moment to rest. He finds a rock in a sunny patch, and for a good long moment considers it, except that someone might see him as a target. And so, shivering still, he finds a less-warm place at the base of a tree, and huddles up there.

Comments

[dreadinquisitor]

The melt was unexpected, but Maxwell wasn't going to let his shock keep him from the most of it. It was only marginally warmer, especially at night, but traveling was easier. He could go farther, the environment no longer fighting him every step of the way; snow and wind no longer holding him back and driving him back to the camp within a few short hours.

There was still his camp-mates - Dorian, in particular; minding him like a pack of nervous nannies, but he supposed he couldn't really blame too harshly. Not after Adella.

Not after the way he'd run after the voice, heedless of what even a few moments thought would have known to be a trap.

They hadn't called to him since - perhaps they were sated with the blood already split - but the whisper of wings still had him tensing. Had him reaching for an arrow as he moved through the trees, quiet and careful.

He'd promised he wouldn't be so foolish again. He doubted he'd be allowed to live it down if he failed to keep it.

In more ways than one.

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard's vigilance hasn't waned since he stopped here, and even though Maxwell's moving quietly Bayard hears a rustle and gets quickly to his feet. He has no weapon, and he doesn't know if he should run or hold his ground. His hands ball into fists, and he takes a step away from the tree, shoulders hunched more from the cold than anything.

He feels his heart slamming away inside his chest, somehow made bigger by fear. He realizes that maybe for all he's been told of love making blood rush and hearts pounds, it's fear that's the most powerful emotion, and out of stubbornness he doesn't just take off.

"Who's there?" Bayard tries to lower his voice, but it only goes so far, and the chatter of his teeth betrays that he's just a cold kid.

[dreadinquisitor]

Was the bloody bird following him? He'd thought he'd heard it land, but he swore he could still here it - a soft flutter and flap of pointed wings as it moved through the trees. The weight of strangely knowing eyes heavy between his shoulder blades--

The voice, when it suddenly came, even so soft and uncertain, had him whirling around, arrow coming up at-- nothing. The trees behind him were silent and still, safe for the gentle drip of melting snow.

Confused, he stared, not accepting until a beat later that it wasn't another trick. The voice had been real.... Which meant he wasn't alone, dogged bird or not.

Turning a slow circle, he cocked his head, uncertain which direction it had come from.

"Maxwell," he called back, introducing himself gently. "Who are you?"

[yoknapatawpha]

From Bayard's understanding of this place, every man, woman or child here is apt to kill him. He isn't expecting to hear a tone that's gentle, and out of the paranoia they put him into the Arena with he expects a trap.

"Bayard Sartoris." He's already got the sinking suspicion that that name means nothing here, for better or worse. It doesn't have the ring of the son of a great colonel, nor does it mark him kin to the Confederate bandit ambushing Yankees as they ate their meals. He suspects he may as well be stringing nonsense together for all it'll mean here.

He dregs up the last bravado from a well that seems collapsed and sand-chocked. He lowers his voice in a feeble, vain attempt to make it sound imposing, manly.

"I'm armed, mister, so you best keep walking else I'll make you regret it."

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell's eyes narrowed, his head tipping as he moved slowly in direction of the voice. The words were meant to be imposing... but the voice sounded young. Uncertain.

He knew there were children in the arena, had run into the young Lady Clementine himself a few days past, and he certainly knew they weren't all as incapable as their age might suggest. Neither were they necessarily alone.

But that voice - that little tremor beneath the threat.

Carefully, he slipped the arrow back into his quiver and strung the bow over his back as he moved closer.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised.

Spotting a slight shape, highlighted in a break in the canopy, he stopped and held up his hands, palms out.

"I'm only trying to find food."

[yoknapatawpha]

"They told me-"

Bayard's voice gets high with fear, and he wrestles it back down again, into something that isn't terrified. He's shaking, but he can't run now, not now that he's engaged with Maxwell and won't just be another kid running away, but a Sartoris, a named entity who can be called a coward.

He shoves his hand into the front of his windbreaker, so it looks like he might be carrying a hunting knife or a pistol. He'll be caught in a lie otherwise, and he has the comical thought that Maxwell might order he hit his knees and pray forgiveness for having done so.

"I was told everyone here is to kill each other. Including you and me."

He takes a tentative step forward, catching sight of the man with his hands up. And because the man's older, Maxwell can't help but add in "sir."

[dreadinquisitor]

He looked terrified, Maxwell thought, as he looked the boy over. Cold and tiny, even as he tried to puff himself up and held his ground.

Maxwell's heart went out to him, even has he admired his nerve.

"You weren't told the whole truth," he said. "They would like us to, and there are some who will, but many more aren't so inclined." Offering the gentle beginnings of a smile as he carefully lowered his hands, and held them loose and relaxed at his sides. "They're rather forgetful when it comes to mentioning that part."

[yoknapatawpha]

"Then are we supposed to fight our way from this?" Bayard's face lights up slightly, made fervent by the fear his youthful hope has to shine through. It's easy for him to accept the idea of the arduous but glorious battle for freedom - it is, after all, the diet he's been raised on as the son of a soldier. "Is there a coalition?"

He doesn't show his hand yet. It stays clenched inside his windbreaker. But he does relax just a slight bit.

It's all so bizarre, these last few hours, that he can't imagine it's impossible that there's an alliance of people here who're revolting for freedom. In the last few hours he's come to accept even the most inexplicable without question, as if the fledgling part of his brain that thinks critically has been put into hibernation.

[dreadinquisitor]

The boy seemed so hopeful about it, Maxwell truly wished he could confirm it for him. If only to keep some of that abject fear at bay.

"We... help each other, as best as we can," he said instead, speaking specifically of his own group, yes, but also of Thorongil and Clementine and the others like them who had shown him kindness in the arena. "And we try to survive. The rules say there can only be one winner, but perhaps if we all make it to the end...."

He trailed off, his own brow furrowing slightly. They hadn't put much thought into it beyond that - into what would actually happen. With every day a battle to see the next, the end seemed nearly as far away as Thedas.

"The point is, we have no interest in harming those who mean us none." He nodded gently to Bayard's coat, hand still tucked away as if reaching for a weapon. "I promise."

[revocation]

Since being forced out of the caves, and with their numbers dwindling, their little group is more vulnerable than ever. They can't defend themselves as well, both due to the geography and the number of injuries they've sustained. The supplies Hawke brought at least bolstered them a little, but Cullen is frankly wary of bringing anyone new to their group. So Cullen's first instinct on Maxwell's return with a stranger would've been to give him a stern talking-to - Inquisitor or not, Cullen has never been afraid to speak his mind and point out bad ideas when he sees them.

But the newcomer is just a child - a young boy, by the looks of him, and compassion wars with practicality in Cullen's mind. They'd be safer without the unexpected addition, no doubt, but in Maxwell's position, he couldn't just leave a child to freeze to death in the wilderness. It would be hypocritical of him to blame the other man.

He's hanging some wet scraps of cloth next to the small fire to dry them out - with limited bandages and so many injuries they can't afford to simply throw things away, and need to try and make use of everything they can get their hands on - as he looks the boy over carefully.

"What's your name?" he asks, quiet, flexing his injured arm carefully to keep the muscles strong.

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard seems smaller even than normal when he's sitting in front of the fire, hunched up with nothing but his windbreaker, refusing to ask for more and making room for anyone who chooses to take a seat closer or to do work with the flames.

He's collected some firewood without prompting, trying to carry his weight while he's here. He remains pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, not complaining, trying his best not to startle as he hears sounds in the woods or at the pops of the fire.

"Sartoris. Bayard Sartoris." He looks at Cullen's injured arm, then at the we scraps. "Would you like some help?"

[revocation]

He seems eager to help - it almost reminds Cullen of himself, at a much younger age. He shakes his head a little. "They simply need to dry, but I appreciate the offer, serah Sartoris." The honorific is one he hasn't used in a while, but it seems appropriate. "I take it you've only just arrived here."

[yoknapatawpha]

"Only been here a few hours, I reckon. It wasn't quite sunup when I came from the- the..." Bayard trails off a bit, finding his vocabulary woefully deficient to describe the strange world of the Capitol, the pedestals that they were raised into the Arena on, the Style teams that shoves him into clothing that fits perfectly yet feels so foreign on his skin. "The dressing room, I suppose, with all those queer-painted men and ladies."

He stares at the fire, which holds the fascination for him that it should for a boy his age.

"What's your name, sir?"

[revocation]

"It's a city, believe it or not," Cullen says after a moment. "The biggest I've ever laid eyes on. They call it the Capitol."

He hangs up the last of the makeshift bandages on the makeshift clothesline, and grabs a stick to poke at the fire, stirring the embers to keep it going.

"My name is Cullen."

[yoknapatawpha]

"I don't mean the city. I meant the room with the pallet that I came up on, where they fit me with these clothes." Which Bayard's trying not to be ungrateful about, but really, they aren't very warm and they feel strangely slick, not at all like a good cotton shirt.

But to tell the truth, it hadn't occurred to him that there was actually a city outside it, and that makes him both terribly excited and terribly scared.

"I'm Bayard Sartoris." Son of Colonel John Sartoris, he nearly says, but he doesn't want to get himself in trouble if Cullen's a Yankee sympathizer.

[revocation]

"Pleasure to meet you, Bayard," he says automatically, something borne of long habit rather than much genuine feeling. It's nothing personal; Cullen's dealing with an excess of grief right now, and worry.

"There might be a bit of food left," he offers after a moment.

[yoknapatawpha]

"I'd be much obliged, sir."

He probably wouldn't have asked for it, but he's never had to - for all the deprivation of his childhood, the adults in his life have always made sure that he was fed. He gets up and walks over to Cullen, looking at him with that sort of sweet expectation that children have.

[allyorfoe]

Cullen had told her that there would be children here. She had hoped she would never have to meet one. Never meet one pointing a weapon at her, nor even a friendly one, for bringing on a kid would only hurt their chances. And she knew that if she met one, she wouldn't be able to turn them away. Maxwell seemed to be of a similar position, at least in his inability to refuse, though he seemed to be a kinder heart than her, so he probably didn't regret it quite as much.

She looked up from her work trying to pluck a goose. She's never actually plucked a bird, but the idea is basic, right? Grab feathers, pull them out, repeat. She's tried to gather them up, pulling them into a pile, but feathers listen to no man, nor elf, and there are plenty that have escaped, sticking in her hair, her clothes, and around her. She gave the boy a look over, appraising his status. A slip of a thing, but not hopeless. She wouldn't really expect him to be much for fighting, but she could probably shove him up a tree and have him scout.

The elf nodded at him, belatedly remembering that she wasn't quite sure how to speak to children. Especially human children. Not for the first time, she missed her war hound, who loved to play with children. That would have set better than her leering at him over a half naked goose.

"Has anyone in this place bothered you?" She asked quietly, figuring a good starting point would be learning from him. Kids liked talking about themselves, right? "Not Maxwell, he's a good man. I mean, anyone threaten you? Try to hurt you?" If anyone was cruel enough to target this boy, it would be good to know their face, should she meet them.

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard does his best not to stare at her, at the strange ears and the way she holds herself so unlike any woman he knows from Yoknapatawpha. He imagines that his Granny would give him an earful for being so unkind as to stare at a lady, especially since it likely isn't her fault that her ears are that way.

So instead, he watches her with the goose as she cleans it out the way his father once taught him, for in case times got harsh. Figuring that the feathers might be useful for something - he imagines notching arrows for some kind of valiant archery assault, but thinks practically they may be better stuffed between layers of his clothing - he waits until the wind kicks the lost ones from by Tabris' feet and picks them up out of the frozen, bloody mud, keeping them held tight in his palm.

"No, Miss. I reckon I haven't seen no one but Mister Maxwell yet, and it's fortunate I did." He speaks to her with a sort of polite deference that only children who've had no opportunity to consider youthful rebellion have, a sort of full trust in adults. "Is there some way I could help you with the goose there?"

[allyorfoe]

She's no stranger to a few odd stares, as long as no one is calling her a knife ear, she won't make too much of a fuss over a few odd looks. She nods approvingly when he collects the spare feathers, and gestures to her attempts at a pile. "You can have the rest if you want. Don't think they'll make much of a pillow, but by the time I've finished I have a feeling I'll be tired enough of looking at feathers to scream." Tabris supposed she could use them for other things, but, well. He was a kid.

He's about the age Morrigan's kid would be, isn't he. She thought idly, and the thought made her lips twist in a strange amusement.

She nods when he affirms that he hasn't seen anyone else. That was for the best for everyone. "Good, if you run into anyone around here who tries to bother you, you run back here, alright? I'll take care of anyone that tries anything shifty." She moved her foot slightly, nudging the scythe besides her feet, to indicate just how she might 'take care' of them. And then at comment of the goose, she looked down at the mess she was making. "Well, I got some fish that need cleaning and gutting, as well. Very glorious, I know. But I'll let you pick which you want, the fish or the goose."

His accent was odd, and he used a few words that she didn't recognize, but it didn't take a linguistics major to puzzle out what he was talking about. Not exactly what she would have thought when she pictured some otherworldly being.

[yoknapatawpha]

"Did you want them?" Bayard suddenly asks in surprise, as if it didn't even occur to him that she would and that it retroactively has become something to apologize for. "I only thought they might stuff my clothing. Like the down jackets that the Yankees wear up in the North."

He doesn't see fit to explain what a Yankee is, because everyone knows what a Yankee is. It might as well be like considering if he has to explain what the sky is to someone. He's more skeptical about the existence of down jackets in other worlds, or even in his, given that he's never seen one. They might be as mythical as griffins.

He sits back down, picking through his feathers and straightening them out in his hand. "I can gut a fish right quick, ma'am." And so he collects one from her kills and with amateurish but practiced skill, starts to gut it. "You know how to use one of those scythes? It's a pretty rough way to kill, I hear."

[allyorfoe]

"No, like I said. Go ahead and use them. You'll get more use out of them, anyway, and like I said. Once I've finished with this? I'll have quite enough feathers to last a lifetime." Tabris assured him. Putting the feathers in clothing was a smart idea, though. Maybe if she brought down another bird she'd try it. But in the meantime, she'd give it to him. She wasn't going to prioritize herself over a child.

She doesn't bother to tell him that she has no idea what a yankee was. It wasn't relevant to the conversation, and she didn't feel like being the one to try to explain the different worlds to this boy. She had no idea how to even start, really. An adult she would have been frank with, letting them work out the mind reeling. But kids...how do you tell a kid that? She had no idea. Her dog probably would have been better suited to the task.

She nods when he takes the fish and starts to clean it. Decent enough, and with no qualms about the mess. They'd have to bury everything later, though. Try to keep the predators from smelling it. "It's not my forte, I'll admit. My weapon before was a large axe--Quite different, as you might imagine. But they don't give us much choice about our weapons here, and the scythe will serve well enough. If people don't want to die rough, they won't mess with me." She replied easily, inspecting the weapon. Definitely different, though not entirely dissimilar. You cut in an arc, putting your strength into the swing. She'd be able to use it to kill, she had no doubt.

[yoknapatawpha]

"If you say so, Miss. There's certainly enough feathers on all the geese you've got." Even not including the one she's near finished dressing.

He sets the fish aside, letting it keep its scales for now so the meat doesn't get dirty before dinner, and starts on another.

"I used a musket once," Bayard says, sounding a mixture of abashed and proud, as if he knows he should feel bad about that and yet can't quite get beyond the rush of it. He's never heard of a woman fighting someone with an axe or a scythe, but he knows that even the most genteel ladies might someday need to defend themselves when the men aren't around to protect them. It's just a shame that the war that took his own father away from him has some kind of parallel wherever this lady is from. "Were you a carpenter? Or working a lumberyard?"

[allyorfoe]

"You know what I like about geese? They're angry little sh--shhh.....ooters." She tries to reign in her tongue, remembering that she's around a kid. You're not supposed to swear around those. "It makes it easier to shoot 'em. And you don't feel as bad."

She doesn't bother to ask what a musket is, but nods. "We don't have any of those, I'm afraid. Can you use that knife on things besides food?" She frowned a little, tsking. A kid that age shouldn't have to have much skill with a weapon, but in this place..."If you don't, I'll teach you a little, alright?" After all, there was no guarantee that her or Cullen wouldn't get killed somehow, and the boy might have to try to survive alone.

"Ah...no. I'm a, well. We call them Grey Wardens." She stops, thinking about the cameras that could be watching her right now. She didn't particularly want to give these assholes any idea about darkspawn. That was the last thing anyone needed. She was one warden, not a legion, even if she was probably the coolest, and most famous, and prettiest. "We're warriors, and what we do...we put everything we had aside. All of our family ties, worldly possessions (except armor and weapons). Like a phoenix being reborn." She talked animatedly, leaning forward, a spark in her eye. The Grey Wardens were a point of pride for her, something that formed from people coming together to defeat evil, no matter the cost.

"When we rise again, we have one focus. And that's to protect the innocent people from the terrors that befall them." Well, that's pretty close. "Without any other distractions, we can focus on this mission with a complete focus. We're from all kinds of backgrounds. Kings and criminals, everyone who desires to help are welcome, and all their pasts are put aside for this." When did she become a walking ad for the Grey Wardens? Well, she'd spent the last ten years bolstering their numbers back from two shmucks, so. And of course, she wasn't quite truthful--Certainly, she had put things before her Warden duties. Or persons. Or one person. That was probably why Grey Wardens weren't supposed to marry each other. But hell, she was the Commander, who was going to tell her no?

[yoknapatawpha]

"We're not supposed to waste gunpowder on birds these days. It's all to be rationed for the soldiers when they come back."

He looks at her and he grins when she mentions teaching him with the knife, imagining a scenario in which he gallantly rescues women and babes from Yankees (which, in his mind, are wearing the uniforms he's seen his father return with but have faces like wildcats and long claws instead of fingers) with the aid of nothing but a pocketknife. His imagination runs away with the truth, hiding it from him, and leaves nothing but a childish enthusiasm in its wake. "I'd be much obliged, miss. I only know how to dress a bird or gut a fish and maybe whittle a bit."

He listens to her talk about the Grey Wardens, understanding maybe half of what she's saying.

"So you're soldiers, then? Or rebels?"