THE SEA. Once, when Desidério was a boy, he took passage on a ship all the way from Antiva City to Val Royeaux. It had been him and two other boys—Sacristán and Vels, those ravenous dogs—, and they'd spent the whole of the summer doing their very best to either be gut from nose to navel in duels, or to fuck in similar proportion, all preferably without entirely ruining the reputation of Vels' very Orlesian cousin. Not on Desi's accounts, Maker no. It would've taken four or five generations of Amanza money to send their boy around in that kind of style. But he has long had a habit of finding himself in strange places, under odd circumstances, taking advantage of a certain kind of hospitality to which he isn't entirely entitled.
Take this hat for example. It's not his, but he's puking into it anyway.
Had the sea been this bad when he was a boy, and his stomach had just been more fit? Or maybe the season had been very different, and the winds simply lighter. Or maybe he can blame the food (miserable), or the drinking water (unpleasantly slimy). Regardless, this is the second straight day of this up and down and side to side nonsense, and it is coincidentally the second straight day of his being nauseated beyond what is humane. He has actively been considering whether one of the ship's ballista might be turned straight down and shot through the bottom of the deck. Sinking and drowning would be preferable at this point, and it would console his injured pride a little if he were to arrange to take everyone else on the ship down with him.
"There's a prison ship anchored in Rialto Bay that I've never much understood the threat of until now."
THE CITY. Two hours ago, the Lowtown gambling house had been doing a very good impression of the more prestigious kind of establishment which might be found higher in the city. Now, the fire that had been set in it had burned so hot and so fast that it's little more than smoldering campfire. At some point, the bucket brigade attempting to put the gaming house out and had instead turned their attention to safeguarding the neighboring buildings in the hope that the blaze would simply chew its way through the last vestiges of the parlor and decide to be finished.
In the way of most disasters that are slightly under control, a large crowd has gathered to watch while the Kirkwall Guard makes paltry efforts at discouraging stray embers from floating off an wreaking havoc elsewhere. Sat on the crowded window sill of the pawn broker nearly opposite the smoldering remains, Desidério Amanza is considering finding a better view. He's a slight man, and if the crowd grows any thicker, it seems unlikely he'll have much of a view when the second story collapses in on itself—an event he has some money riding on, and so should be monitored with some care.
But doing so would involve releasing the sullen orphan he presently has in a headlock, and it's in everyone's best interests to avoid that.
"You could at least let me sit on your shoulders, Messere," the little boy, who is maybe a large seven or a very small ten says. Difficult to say with grubby orphans. "I could narrate the proceedings or what have you."
"And later find you've stolen a patch of hair off the back of my head? No," Desi says, amiably tightening the joint of his elbow. "We'll make do."
CRYSTAL. [These wages are disappointingly shit for people who are meant to be saving the world from demons falling through little pinholes in the sky. Ergo:]
I've heard half of you recently died. I wager there's no one here who can take me in a fight either.
desidério amanza | native oc
Once, when Desidério was a boy, he took passage on a ship all the way from Antiva City to Val Royeaux. It had been him and two other boys—Sacristán and Vels, those ravenous dogs—, and they'd spent the whole of the summer doing their very best to either be gut from nose to navel in duels, or to fuck in similar proportion, all preferably without entirely ruining the reputation of Vels' very Orlesian cousin. Not on Desi's accounts, Maker no. It would've taken four or five generations of Amanza money to send their boy around in that kind of style. But he has long had a habit of finding himself in strange places, under odd circumstances, taking advantage of a certain kind of hospitality to which he isn't entirely entitled.
Take this hat for example. It's not his, but he's puking into it anyway.
Had the sea been this bad when he was a boy, and his stomach had just been more fit? Or maybe the season had been very different, and the winds simply lighter. Or maybe he can blame the food (miserable), or the drinking water (unpleasantly slimy). Regardless, this is the second straight day of this up and down and side to side nonsense, and it is coincidentally the second straight day of his being nauseated beyond what is humane. He has actively been considering whether one of the ship's ballista might be turned straight down and shot through the bottom of the deck. Sinking and drowning would be preferable at this point, and it would console his injured pride a little if he were to arrange to take everyone else on the ship down with him.
"There's a prison ship anchored in Rialto Bay that I've never much understood the threat of until now."
THE CITY.
Two hours ago, the Lowtown gambling house had been doing a very good impression of the more prestigious kind of establishment which might be found higher in the city. Now, the fire that had been set in it had burned so hot and so fast that it's little more than smoldering campfire. At some point, the bucket brigade attempting to put the gaming house out and had instead turned their attention to safeguarding the neighboring buildings in the hope that the blaze would simply chew its way through the last vestiges of the parlor and decide to be finished.
In the way of most disasters that are slightly under control, a large crowd has gathered to watch while the Kirkwall Guard makes paltry efforts at discouraging stray embers from floating off an wreaking havoc elsewhere. Sat on the crowded window sill of the pawn broker nearly opposite the smoldering remains, Desidério Amanza is considering finding a better view. He's a slight man, and if the crowd grows any thicker, it seems unlikely he'll have much of a view when the second story collapses in on itself—an event he has some money riding on, and so should be monitored with some care.
But doing so would involve releasing the sullen orphan he presently has in a headlock, and it's in everyone's best interests to avoid that.
"You could at least let me sit on your shoulders, Messere," the little boy, who is maybe a large seven or a very small ten says. Difficult to say with grubby orphans. "I could narrate the proceedings or what have you."
"And later find you've stolen a patch of hair off the back of my head? No," Desi says, amiably tightening the joint of his elbow. "We'll make do."
CRYSTAL.
[These wages are disappointingly shit for people who are meant to be saving the world from demons falling through little pinholes in the sky. Ergo:]
I've heard half of you recently died. I wager there's no one here who can take me in a fight either.