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[OPEN] A dwarf out and about
WHO: Kit and OPEN
WHAT: Kit recovering from the injury he sustained in the Deep Roads, and then exploring the Gallows a bit.
WHEN: The latter half of Solace/July.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: This post is open to anyone who might have reason to drop by the infirmary, or interact with a slightly lost looking, ripped a f dwarf limping around the Gallows after his convalescence.
WHAT: Kit recovering from the injury he sustained in the Deep Roads, and then exploring the Gallows a bit.
WHEN: The latter half of Solace/July.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: This post is open to anyone who might have reason to drop by the infirmary, or interact with a slightly lost looking, ripped a f dwarf limping around the Gallows after his convalescence.
Kirkwall has changed since Kit was last in it.
He'd landed in the City of Chains the first time 'round the same summer the Arishok's warship ran aground and the Qunari themselves were camped out in their compound by the docks like dread sentinels. The dwarven mercenary band he'd been a part of at the time had been serving as a guard retinue for a Merchants' Guild caravan, and business had brought them into the city to settle old debts, and generate some new ones, all in the name of profit. The city had looked like a right shithole then, with the poor, the dead, and the dying right under the noses of the nobility, sitting pretty in their decadent Hightown estates. Chantry Templars and priestesses could be found at nearly every level of the city--save Darktown, of course, where they never set foot except in pursuit of apostates.
It still looked like a shithole--but at least the Gallows had a forest right in the middle of it now.
I. THE INFIRMARY
The cot he's been laid up in for the past couple of days is clean and comfortable; the blanket is a bit scratchy, and obviously cut for someone about a foot and a half taller than your average dwarf, but it gets the job done and keeps the chill out. A competent physicker has seen to his wounded leg, though after many failed attempts at cajoling Kit into accepting it, she finally accepts that he's just not going to tolerate a mage healer taking a look at the wound.
It means his leg still aches terribly days after his misadventure into the Deep Roads... but all things considered, he's definitely had worse.
It's a cool, early morning when he takes the crutch that has been left at his bedside and limps his way just outside the infirmary to roll himself a cigarette and have a smoke. Leaning against the doorframe, he squints his eyes against the morning light and enjoys the quiet, interrupted only by the drowsy sounds of the Gallows personnel as they wake, and the cries of seabirds.
II. THE LIBRARY
He's never been in a library before.
No, really. The casteless dwarves certainly weren't allowed into the Diamond Quarter back in Orzammar, let alone into the hallowed halls of the Shaperate with her many mysteries and memories of the dwarves who came before. As a dead-eyed duster kid looking up at the Diamond Quarter from the stifling ruins of Dust Town, Kit liked to imagine that there was, at one point, a Gandir dwarf who'd had a name, a caste, and a life recorded in those memories. Before he'd been reviled, and then forgotten, and then reviled again.
It was a stupid thing to waste energy daydreaming about, when he had no idea where his next meal was going to come from. And with the Legion, the only books he read were the ones that his fellows used to teach him his letters.
So it's not academic curiosity that brings Kit and his crutch limping into the Gallows library, each awkward step resonating with embarrassing noisiness throughout the cavernous chamber. He grimaces, and tries to peg-leg along more discreetly; does this place have anything on dwarven history? Probably not. He looks anyway.
III. WILDCARD
[got a better idea? go for it, man, I'll roll with anything as long as it's set in the Gallows]
II
CLICK. CLACK. SCRATCH. BANG. CLACK. CLACK. SCRAPE. CLACK.
Thedas's newest rifter has lately fashioned himself a second home in the most plush, luxurious, comfortable chair he could find in the library. He would rise at dawn, arrange a breakfast for himself, and take up his study as soon as his hunger was sated. He allowed himself dinner at one (roughly), supper at seven. But never, at any other point, would he venture to leave the flickering lamplight when there was so much material to pour through, so many new things he had yet to understand about his predicament and temporary lodgings. And he is perfectly content to lose track of the time in a thick, leather-bound tome in this way... for now. It certainly put most of his other troubles out of his mind, even the dull, throbbing ache in his palm.
On most days he is left to his own devices in peace and quiet.
Not so today.
Each scrape and clack deepened a scowl on his face until, sick and tired of the destruction, he dares to murmur sotto voce (and just barely audible to Kit's wary ears) a lyrical and distinctly foreign incantation.
It sounded something like, "Sishual, sishual, shhhhh..."
Kit may feel the prickling tendrils of magic brushing his ankles, and before he knows it, not a sound can be rattled from his crutch any longer. He can bang it, shake it, scrape it across a chalkboard, and all it shall yield is silence -- a feather drifting in the wind.
Ahhhhhh. Much better.
If Kit were to glance around, he would find a very sleek, satisfied tomcat of a man grinning to himself as he pages through a massive tome in his lap.
Re: II
For a few seconds, both of them puzzle over what happened to his crutch, before the apprentice seems to clue in to the fact that the crutch itself has been spelled by... someone. Perhaps they only look Sarkan's way because he is the only fellow nearby who doesn't look ruffled by Kit's difficulties. Kit studies him, his jaw tightening. t's not so much the spell itself that sets his teeth on edge (although having the magic quite so close to him, and unable to get away from it, feels a bit like knowing there's a spider somewhere in your clothes, yet being unable to find it). It's the thoughtless, short-sightedness of it.
"Thanks, friend," he said absently to the apprentice, then limps his way over to Sarkan's chair. Without preamble, he pulls over another chair across the floor--it drags across the stone, making a bit of noise--then seats himself in it. He gets comfortable, looks at Sarkan, and doesn't say a damn thing.
no subject
"At least one of us is attempting to read," he bristles without looking up. "And I certainly want to do it without a clamoring racket, which you're doing a fine job of imposing on me regardless. Now, what do you want?"
When will you go away? would be Sarkan's most tempting follow-up. But he manages to bite his tongue a little bit and doesn't spout forth with that rude comment. Not yet, anyway.
no subject
It takes Kit a startlingly short period of time to determine that he does not like this man one bit, and that's something of a rare occurrence for him, given the ease with which he's normally able to ingratiate himself with most communities topside. That said, most newcomers into his life don't hex (in his eyes) his crutches. So there's that.
He leans both of his forearms against the table and looks at Sarkan levelly. "What's the problem? Am I making you uncomfortable? Doing something you weren't expecting me to do?"
no subject
"Oh, for-- is this really about a simple little silencing spell?"
Someday. If they happen to run into each other under less aggravating circumstances.
Sarkan finally raises his head and meets Kit's stare, lean fingers drumming impatiently at his marked place in the text. Most striking about his face are his eyes; they are unnaturally lined, aged, ancient compared to the stone-cold youthfulness of his face.
"You were the one making that dreadful noise the instant you entered," he explains, matter-of-fact. Never mind that this is mildly more refined the equivalent of 'You did it first!' He pressed his lips together thinly. "I merely took care of that for you, me, and anyone else attempting to make any headway in their studies. If a harmless charm is enough to alarm you, then I can't help you there. Take a glance around the darker corners of the Gallows! There's plenty of other magic to disconcert you."
no subject
At last, once it appears that Sarkan has run out of steam justifying his behavior, Kit smiles and shifts to sit forward in his seat again. He gestures all around the cavernous library that they are currently forced to share with each other. "Know what the difference is between all that other magic and yours?" he begins, sounding almost friendly, before the smile drops off his face like a falling hammer. "It leaves me alone."
He lifts up his crutch, holds it high over the table, and drops it in front of Sarkan. Under other circumstances, it would've made quite the racket while clattering onto the tabletop. Now, it lands there soundlessly.
Kit points at it. "Fix it," he says, "and then I'll let you get back to whatever that is."
BFF 4EVA
At this rate, the Dragon will swiftly establish himself as That Unpleasant Library Lurker that clears out a room faster than the stench of moldy cheese. All the better for him to enjoy his reading material in utter peace and quiet (save for the occasional light, distant conversation from a handsomely-kept woman or two), just as he would do in his tower library in Polnya.
no subject
Anyway, "This isn't your private library, salroka. Last I checked, I've got as much a right to do my work here as you do. I can't do my work if I can't get around, and I can't get around if I can't hear this crutch hitting the ground." He points at the bookshelf. "Did you see me trip? Maybe you didn't. Why bother looking up to see the results of your actions?"
He sits back in his seat again, considering the pompous ass sitting across from him. "Get rid of the spell--or at least make it so I can hear the damn crutch when I walk."
no subject
"Listen, you irksome lummox," and he lazily flourishes his fingers toward the crutches, adding a corrupted, slurred version of his initial incantation: "Sish, SHhhhh, Sish." He then bends forward, lifts up the crutch a foot or two, and allows it to drop back onto the table. Although it isn't silent this time -- there's a perceptible thump -- it is muffled beneath an invisible feather-padding, incapable of the deafening screeches a chair scraping across stone could make. His stare could bore holes through Kit's skull.
"Like the full charm, it will fall away once you leave my sight," he reminds Kit snidely. "Which cannot come soon enough. It would be patently wise to better watch your step in your condition, regardless of the noise. Injury does not preclude some manner of mindfulness"
no subject
He picks up the crutch from the table and gets to his feet while leaning on it, testing out how supportive it is while Sarkan continues to hurl verbal abuse at him. He gets points for creativity; no one has ever called Kit an irksome lummox before, he'll have to remember that.
"Outstanding," he replies in a tone of voice that is decidedly not. "Are you done? Because I'm done."
no subject
"Conclusively."
And if they would ever chance to meet again, be quieter next time. The Dragon loathes interruptions in his study.
With the conversation concluded, it is clear that Sarkan does not want anything to do with this stranger any longer. He bends his eye back to his book, allowing himself a small disgruntled grumble as he attempts to find where he left off. No more will he give Kit the 'pleasure' of his attention for the remainder of the day.
no subject
Prior to this moment he'd never developed a bad taste in his mouth just from talking to someone. First time for everything, apparently. And so away he limps back towards the rest of the library with nary another word spoken to Sarkan.
"Prick."
Almost.