let the day begin | closed

[aforethought]

WHO: Melys, Luwenna Coupe, Casimir Lyov + Atticus Vedici, Freddie Longlastname, Cosima Niehaus
WHAT: Catchall for closed prompts this month.
WHEN: Waves my hands about.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: Will edit as appropriate.

Editing these in as I go. HMU on plurk if you want one. ♥

Comments

ATTICUS

[aestivation]

The guard that shows him down isn't marked with the sword of mercy.

The Inquisition's supply of templars runs thin; so many are away, and the temporary swell of Hasmal's ranks have begun dispersing piecemeal back into the world. The prisoners are occasionally saddled with mundane minders — a grim-faced dwarf today, badgered into duty by sole virtue of species (itself grown vanishingly rare about the Gallows).

"Vedici, up at it," He rumbles. There's some kind of pattern he ought to follow, security protocols drilled over again by a harried human woman, but the old bat isn't here now, and all that's above his paygrade. He beckons into the dim hallway. "Come on, then. He's down here."

"Thank you," It's hollow of context. Casimir steps forward, glances over Atticus with a dispassion summarized in the fall of light across his forehead. "I'll require his restraints removed."

FREDDIE

[aforethought]

If there's one thing you've got to do before making a promise, it's figure out how to skive off it.

— So she may have been making a few too many of those lately, without paying enough attention to an exit strategy. It was easy for a while. Inquisition's run too thin to spend time nagging, and if this hand's been good for piss-all, it's been for making sure no one tells her to piss off. So she's had a nice racket: Collecting tasks like dominoes and stacking them all up against each other any time the wind blows. Can't do that, serrah, got responsibilities to see to.

Wind finally blew a little too hard. She's up to her knees in the stables now, and not the paying ones uptown, neither. That'd be alright. That'd just be horses.

But the lunatics down here keep deer and dracolisks and whatever these giant bloody nugs are just penned in with the rest. It unsettles them all. It's a recipe for disaster.

It's what sends her lunging to intervene when Freddie gets close to one of the biters.

"Don't move an inch if you value your fingers," She warns, inching up beside a tall roan stallion. The horse blinks, eyeing Freddie with with the innocent, contented curiousity of a two-thousand pound herbivore. "He's been stroppy all day."

COSIMA

[limier]

As the ancient saying goes: Everything happens so much.

It's been... longer than she'd like, truly, since she's spoken with Cosima at any length or depth. Her own fault. The past few months have not been kind, and Wren makes promises, they too often fall short, fall flat — and then it's bloody fall somehow already and she's left wondering exactly where all that time went.

Four years, soon enough. Four years since the world up and went to shit (or six, or fourteen; it all depends upon when you start counting). Only a little less than that since men and women began falling from the sky. To be so far away, so long,

No. The months aren't often kind.

"Forgive me the short notice," She pauses at the edge of the doorway, fist half-raised from its knock. "My afternoon cleared unexpectedly. Would you care for some air?"

An enormous white dog shoulders its way past, snuffling wetly at the floor.