[CLOSED] oh, the sweet sound of survival

[ragweed]

WHO: Kit Gandir, Vandelin Elris, Myrobalan Shivana, Melys, Anders, the Medicine Seller
WHAT: Kit coping badly w/ shit.
WHEN: The week after Kit gets back from Orzammar.
WHERE: All around Kirkwall.
NOTES: Probable discussion of child abuse, murder, mercy killings, death more broadly. Will update as needed.

I.  THE HANGED MAN (VANDELIN)


Kit loses a game of Wicked Grace. (It's not a common occurrence, but it's been known to happen.)

The direct aftermath of the game sees Kit shelling out the last of his coin to the Antivan deckhand with a poker face like a slab of granite; with that miserable task taken care of, Kit finds a quiet corner of the Hanged Man's taproom, slouches into an empty chair, and swallows his pride.

Out comes the sending crystal; fiddling with it, he calls Vandelin.

"Hey, um." Grimacing his eyes shut, he rubs at his eyebrows. "I need a favour, salroka."



II.  DARKTOWN (THE MEDICINE SELLER)


For a mind already predisposed towards dark melancholy, boredom is dangerous. Thankfully, Darktown provides plenty of opportunities to alleviate that--as well as unexpected familiar faces.

He recognizes the Medicine Seller easily; the strange elf would stand out even in Hightown, and in Darktown, his strange attire and mannerisms are a beacon for stares and trouble.

Taking a drag off the cigarette he carries, Kit threads his way through the dingy road towards him. "You turn up in the weirdest places, salroka," he says by way of greeting.



III.  KIT'S HOVEL (MELYS)


The hole in his wall where the desiccated corpse had been residing for only ancestors' know how long was an eyesore when it had a body inside of it. It's still an eyesore now, but at least letting it air out has gotten rid of some of the mouldering corpse stink.

(Hopefully Vandelin has a cast iron stomach.)

The first level of his home now looks a bit like a stone mason's shop, with mortar and stone and building tools strewn about while Kit goes about making the necessary repairs to his dwelling after the ash wraith debacle. It's been over a month; time to deal with it.

The front door has been left open.



IV. THE GALLOWS (MYR)


Shortly after his call with the rest of the Other Powers project members ends, Kit can't stand the confines of his office anymore. He heads outdoors for a smoke, stares across the water back towards Kirkwall, then detours towards the training grounds. When in doubt, when you can't keep your demons at bay, best to try punching them instead.

Barring that, swinging an axe at a training dummy can't hurt.



V.  DARKTOWN (ANDERS)


His appearance outside Anders' clinic isn't entirely by happenstance; recalling his last chance encounter with the (rather unpopular) Warden mage, he's taken to strolling around the area in the evenings, maybe just to discourage anyone else from trying to take a second stab at the guy living on his own.

This time when Kit shows up, it's in the middle of the day, and he's rubbing at his arm like he's injured it. "Hey, salroka," he greets Anders with what he hopes is a casual smile, "hope I don't need an appointment or anything."

Comments

[justice_is_blond]

One day he's going to ask what salroka means. As he's had a particularly rough few days, and Kit isn't looking exactly the better for things with a smile that's a little odd and an arm he's babying, Anders doesn't feel like risking it.

"You don't," he says, finishing wrapping a bottle in fabric scraps before he gestures for the Dwarf to come over. Anders gives him a faint smile back. "Especially when I like seeing you, and not just because you've a nice face. What happened?"

Kit's asked about appointments and came to the Clinic injured. It seems very safe to assume he wants healing, so Anders' hand is already glowing green.

[ragweed]

"You don't. Especially when I like seeing you, and not just because you've got a nice face. What happened?"

Kit laughs; flattery or harmless flirtation, either way, he doesn't mind. All things considered, it's nice to have a little levity injected into his day. "Just the perils of doing your own home repair is all," he says; judging by the bits of plaster and mortar on his clothes, he's been at work for a while.

When Anders' hand glows green, however, he cuts his eyes to the side nervously. "If you've got a salve or anything," he says awkwardly, "I'd prefer that. Think I just pulled a muscle."

[justice_is_blond]

The smile falters but the glow goes away before Anders walks to his shelves and pulls out a salve. Wordlessly he offers it out. If even those who are friendly still can't trust magic being used on them... He pushes the thought away.

"What brings you into Darktown?" His voice is mild. "Clearly not a spirit healer."

[ragweed]

He accepts the salve as it's offered out and gives his friend a grateful look. "Thanks," he says, and hopes it's clear that he means it.

"What brings you into Darktown? Clearly not a spirit healer."

Kit pockets the salve, rather than applying it to his sore muscle directly; it'll keep for a while yet. "Well I'm just up the road from you, actually," he says and thumbs back over his shoulder in the direction of his hovel. "Figured I'd drop by, see what's shapin'."

Easier not to talk about his aversion to magic; aversion to magic clearly doesn't translate to an aversion to mages, at least in Kit's eyes.

[justice_is_blond]

He takes a breath and balances his mood out. Kit is not one of the people fighting to keep mages locked up, and it's not like anyone who had any authority or power there would listen to a member of the Legion of the Dead. Anders is stressed and upset, but it's not Kit's fault.

After a moment, he looks in the indicated direction and nods. "I'd heard there was... a ruckus in that direction. Anything related to you? Or should we ignore that and I can tell you that I'm about to run an errand through the tunnels and invite you along if you'd like? They're basic salves and potions."

Because he wants to keep the man a friend, because he likes the guy, Anders doesn't push the topic of magic. He is magic. But most non-mages don't understand, and it's likely even harder for a Dwarf to grasp.

[meds4sale]

Nobody bothered the Medicine Seller. Not in Dark Town. The people there had enough sense to recognize the difference between a strutting peacock who took a wrong turn while slumming in Lowtown and a brightly coloured viper that slithered where he pleased.

The way the Medicine Seller carried that heavy looking pack while wearing those impractical sandals with effortless grace painted him very much as the latter. His uncanny palour, icy stare, and the little fangs peeking out the corner of his mouth only cemented the fact that even the most desperate wouldn't consider him a target.

He had presently stopped, examining something etched in an exposed bit of masonry where centuries of plastering had worn away. His eyes narrowed and his face contorted into something resembling irritation.

"Hello again," he greeted, not taking his eyes of the peculiar grooves. His expression faded into its usual mask-like state, and he regarded Kit with polite interest. "I do not often run into others down here. It is good to see you."

Not a sentiment he usually had, but Kit seemed a decent sort.

[ragweed]

It's hard to tell when exposed masonry is a sign of decay, down here, or when it's a sign of something more sinister. Sometimes the two are one in the same. Kit comes to a stop beside the Medicine Seller and looks at the grooves uneasily; should he expect to encounter another dead body in this wall?

"I do not often run into others down here. It is good to see you."

"That goes for both of us," Kit replies, and doesn't bother clarifying whether he means one or the other. It's probably both. Looking at the marks, he takes a drag off his cigarette, then breathes out the smoke. "What're we looking at here?"

[meds4sale]

"I do not know, yet."

He folded his hands inside his sleeves, trying to sort out his thoughts. Kirkwall was... wrong. There wasn't really any other word for it. It seemed more chaotic than other places, but when you threw yourself into its ebb and flow, there was a strange rhythm that felt almost alive.

The Medicine Seller had been to many places and seen many things - perhaps the darkest edges of what people were capable of. But Kirkwall was the first time he'd ever felt overwhelmed.

"Places have a... current to them. I find when I try to go against it here, I wind up lost."

The way he said it made it certain getting lost was something that happened to other people.

"So I decided to follow it where it led. Along the way, I have seen these in the old masonry."

[ragweed]

"A current?" Kit repeats, bemused. Thinking of Kirkwall as a river of something unsettling isn't really news, though it's news he tries not to dwell on to the best of his ability. He frowns and turns his eyes back to the strange marks in the masonry.

"This city used to be part of Tevinter, I think," he says, in the tone of voice one adopts while scrounging for something useful to say, and coming up short. Still, the Imperium is widely known across Thedas to be the home base of all manner of magical weird shit. Suggesting it doesn't seem too wildly off the mark. Jokingly, he adds, "Maybe they left one in my place, too."

He's kidding. ...He hopes.

[meds4sale]

"Sometimes ideas and concepts take on a life of their own," the Medicine Seller explained in that slow and halting way of his.

"Like an Inquisition..."

He gave Kit an aside glance, his lips curling into one of his unpleasant and mirthless little smiles.

"...Or a city."

[misdirection_hex]

The fact that Kit hasn't abruptly pushed him away again after returning from Orzammar is a small mercy for which Vandelin would thank the Maker, if he were ever inclined to do any such thing. But Kit's demeanor hasn't put him at ease in the slightest, even when Kit tries, and this call does nothing to alleviate the mounting worry that Van's been trying to suppress.

"What is it?" Not even for Myr, his very nearest and dearest, would Vandelin agree to a blank-check favor, but his tone is more concerned than he means to let on, and there's very little he wouldn't do to help Kit in a moment of need.

[ragweed]

Kit makes eye contact with the bartender from across the taproom and holds up a hand as if to indicate 'yeah, yeah, one second,' and turns the rest of his attention back to his sending crystal.

He deliberates over what to say for a second or two, then decides that trying to sugar coat this shit sandwich won't actually make it taste any better. He exhales and leans against the table. "I need you to come pay my bar tab at the Hanged Man. Some Antivan deckhand took me to the sodding cleaners, and the rest of my coin is in my office back at the Gallows."

A pause, then apologetically, "I screwed up. I'll pay you back."

[misdirection_hex]

There's a lot to unpack there. In a strictly practical sense, Van's immediate worry is how much does a bar tab cost? Do I have enough? The Circle has not prepared him, or Myr, or any other mage raised in it, to handle or understand money well. He has been dutifully socking away his Inquisition salary and spending modestly, and he can only hope that will prove sufficient.

What happens if it isn't? The situation must be dire if they're forbidding Kit to leave. Is he in danger? Vandelin trusts Kit to prevail against a fair few assailants at once, and would almost pity the poor bastards when Kit was done, but Kit can't hold his own against an entire tavern if it's somehow turned hostile over a bill.

Why would he have let the game get so far as to clear him out of everything he's got? Vandelin--naively, perhaps, though he wouldn't dare admit it--had thought that Kit could handle himself in any kind of card-playing situation. What's gotten into him, and why, and how can Van possibly persuade him to talk?

There's only one thing to do for the moment, though, and he relents without protest. Vandelin's never had to care about money in his adult life and he isn't about to start now. "We'll worry about that later. I'm on my way. Don't piss the Antivan off any further, all right?"

He's there as soon as he can be, bearing a sack of unspent Inquisition coin and looking as if he does this sort of thing every day.

[ragweed]

It should be clear to Vandelin upon his arrival that the situation isn't truly that dire; the Antivan deckhand and his cohort are back at their gaming table taking the clothes off the backs of a new set of would-be gamblers, and Kit has situated himself near the fire in moody silence, staring at the flames while letting his last cigarette burn down to a nub. Every so often, he lifts it to his lips to take a drag. Aside from his poor mood, he's in okay shape.

When Vandelin appears, however, he grimaces in clear, shame-faced embarrassment, and starts to heave himself up to his feet. "I'm real sorry about this," he mutters, catches sight of the bartender scowling at him beyond his man's shoulder, and waves him off in annoyance. Yeah, yeah, he'll be there in a hot minute, hold your nuggalopes, etc.

[misdirection_hex]

Well, at least Kit isn't being actively assaulted by anyone, but Vandelin is not reassured, especially not by the way the bartender keeps looming. He ignores the man altogether for the moment, letting him know he isn't worth concern or haste, and greets Kit with a light hand on his arm.

"It's no trouble to me. I don't know what they thought they were going to do if you didn't happen to have a crystal on you. That's just poor logistics on their part." He'll save the pressing for details until they're alone. Concerned and a little upset though he might be about Kit's reticence regarding the mission, Vandelin doesn't want to embarrass him further in front of anyone else. Maker knows, he would probably have tried to fight his way out of the taven with fireballs before he'd have asked anyone for help in Kit's position--but Kit is a saner and more reasonable man than Vandelin will ever be, as a general rule.

He finally deigns to give the glowering bartender his attention, and conceals his slight internal panic at the prospect of figuring out how this transaction is supposed to work. "How much do I owe you?"

[aforethought]

The advantage of finding a body in your wall is people start feeling a lot less like unannounced visits.

That's dumb as rocks, far as Melys is concerned: You find one body, chances of finding another go way down -- houses only got so many walls in the first place. But hauntings are another story. Ghosts stick, she ought to know.

So when she shakes a leg over the threshold (past a bucket and tools, maker, just leaving those about; neighborhood must be spooked) it's not without a quick prayer thrown up to any certain prophets that might be watching. When she sets to rifling about the fireplace, it's not for any Autumn chill.

"You in here?" She hollers, because it's easier than bothering to look about the place. That'd take a valuable maybe ten seconds from her day. "Kids out front waiting for a glimpse."

Smiling at children is an excellent way to get them to fuck off, she's found. They'll be back soon enough.

[ragweed]

"Waiting for a glimpse of what, my new art project?"

Kit half-hears her approach, his bad ear turned towards the door, but her shadow across the doorway would've grabbed his attention anyway. He glances backward over his shoulder, in the process of applying another layer of mortar over some bricks, then turns back to his work. "Watch your step," he tells her, "it's a like walking on loose sand in here."

He finishes laying the row of bricks over the mortar, reaches for an old damp rag to wipe off his hands, then pushes himself up to his feet. He's got a smile on his face for Melys when he turns to look at her, but there's a question there, too. "What brings you by?"

[aforethought]

"Got back from th'Blackmarsh, and got to asking myself: Oi, where's Kit?"

She stoops to collect a jointer, begins dragging through the dusty corners of the fireplace. Nothing stirs (Maker bless, they might be alright, so long as the floor doesn't just become its own problem). Her voice pitches higher, affects a bad impression,

"Oh, ain't no one seen him a while after he moved into that haunted house."

A hand slaps off her forehead.

"Reckon I'd see if you needed a crate." To move with. Out of the haunted house. She tosses the jointer aside. "The fuck's a Painted Blade, and what's it doing out here, anyway?"

Looking at his face now, she reckons she's got the wailing on some Dead Skull figured. Kid's not much of a wordsmith, is he.

[ragweed]

"Painted what?"

He's quick to sort the rest out fast enough; evidently word of his and the Medicine Seller's little encounter with an ash wraith on the streets has managed to get around town, not that he didn't expect something like that to happen.

"The Medicine Seller--you know, weird looking elf with a lot of--" he makes a vague hand gesture seeming to indicate an excess of... well, everything, "--anyway, he came by while I was cleaning this place elf. Turns out there was an ash wraith making itself at home in an old piece of crockery and--" Here he nods to the wall, now half bricked over, and grimaces. "Corpse in the wall. Right there."

[aforethought]

"Yeah, I got that bit figured."

Not the Medicine Seller -- seen the guy, she thinks, but what selling poultices has to do with waving a sword around, who bloody knows. Fumbling pockets have out with a handful of herbs, inexpertly tied.

"What I don't is why you're still here. C'mon, give me a light."

She swoops a pinky toward the empty fireplace. Ash wraiths weren't ever much a problem back home. Anyone who survives a few years by the forest learns quick enough that when there's mage shit about, it's time to take off in the opposite direction. Still, you pick up a thing or two.

"Don't you got a room on base?"

Not as cozy as a wall, but they could lodge him up in one the same.

[faithlikeaseed]

Myr's become something of a fixture in the training grounds since that night in the warehouse--enough that the spectacle of a blind mage lighting into a hapless dummy isn't cause for gawking any longer. Physical exertion has a way of quieting thoughts that won't be made still any other way--

So no surprise he's there when Kit arrives, lunging in to skewer his inanimate opponent through its straw-stuffed gut with his staff blade. The expression on his face isn't his usual mask of intent concentration--it's something more like a snarl, like this is personal. Like it's a child-stealing Tevinter bastards he's condemned to a slow miserable septic death.

He wrenches the blade loose in a shower of stems, hissing through his teeth in unsatisfied frustration. It's not working yet; maybe another round...

[ragweed]

"Hey." It's not much of a greeting, as far as greetings go, but then again, there's not much point to making pleasant small talk when you've both seen the worst of what the world has to offer, and so recently. He comes to stand just outside striking range, just in case Myr's on edge enough to lash out.. though he doubts it.

He gives a glance at the training dummy, then heads over to the weapons stand for a pair of axes. "Why not take it out on someone who can give it back?"

[faithlikeaseed]

"If you're offering." No, no point in pleasantries or pretending to a pretty social contentment neither of them feel; not with his newfound experience of all the world's cruelty sitting leaden in his stomach. Blind as he might be, he's sure Kit feels much the same way.

Myr reverses his staff, grounding it and dismounting the blade with practiced ease. It joins the rest of his personal effects on a nearby bench once he's checked the edge for nicks. "Where to?" It's a little cramped by the dummies, but he supposes it will do if there's nothing else open.

[ragweed]

He rethinks the axes; no, best to try hand-to-hand. He can check his blows easier, if need be.

(An unintentionally condescending thought, he realizes, and feels a pang of remorse. He of all people should know better.)

"I saw some open space over this way," he says, comes back to Myr, and very lightly touches his arm; a silent offer to guide him around obstacles that might be in their path.

[faithlikeaseed]

"Lead on."

He accepts the offered help gracefully and follows Kit across the courtyard in silence. Ordinarily the brief walk might be an occasion to ask about the obstacles they thread around or who else is out practicing in the chill of the afternoon--but today the questions lie dead on the back of his tongue. At least he can manage a murmur of thanks when they reach their destination, before parting from his friend to pace out the boundaries of their arena. So many steps to each side--

In short order he finds his way back to the rough center of the space, having laid his staff aside, and settles into a loose defensive stance with his hands up and head angled in Kit's direction. Ready.