faderift | [CLOSED] oh, the sweet sound of survival

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[CLOSED] oh, the sweet sound of survival

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."

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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.

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.

"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."

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?"

"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."

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."

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.

"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.

"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."

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.

Edited 2017-10-16 03:03 (UTC)

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."

"So," Kit responds slowly, "you're telling me the city is haunted."

Not an entirely unprecedented explanation, all things considered, but--"So is that a bad thing or...? Because I'm getting--" and here he points at that smile, "--mixed signals here."

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.

"No, no."

The chilly smile faded a little. "I simply thought of something amusing. But 'haunted' may not be the right choice of words."

He raised his head, for a moment resembling an animal trying to catch a scent. And then, without a word, began to trail after whatever he had sensed towards the entrance to the sewers.

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.

Edited 2017-10-16 06:43 (UTC)

Kit watches him go at first. There was no explicit invitation to follow offered, exactly; but with the Medicine Seller, social niceties seem to fall by the wayside like bits of unwanted clutter.

It's clear enough where the batty-looking elf is going. Exhaling, Kit takes a final pull from his cigarette, then puts it out underfoot and jogs after him. "You want some back-up?" he offers. If his memory serves him well enough, the Medicine Seller can hold his own in a fight, but a little extra muscle couldn't go amiss in a place like Darktown.

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.

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.

Edited 2017-10-16 16:21 (UTC)

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?"

A ruckus. "Yeah, that's one word for it," Kit answers wryly, but doesn't supply anymore details than that; either Anders has already heard the details about some Lowtown dwarf and a weird, brightly dressed elf subduing an ash wraith in the streets, or he hasn't, and regardless of which one it is, Kit prefers not to devote too much time to thinking about it.

"Where are these salves and potions headed?" he asks instead, sounding keen on making himself useful in some way. His arm injury will keep a little longer; it's not too severe.

"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?"

The bartender names an amount--it's a biggish sum for a bar tab, likely because Kit agreed to pay for a round of drinks for the folks he was playing against, but nothing that would realistically set him back a full day's pay or anything. Still, it's more than he had on him, and this is a damn embarrassing moment, and as he hangs out near Vandelin's elbow while he and the bartender sort out the bill.

Once it's taken care of, Kit gives the bartender another sullen look, then turns to follow Vandelin out of the Hanged Man and onto the dimly illuminated night time streets of Lowtown. "Tell me how much I owe you, I'll make sure you get it from my strongbox tomorrow," he says, shame making it near impossible for him to make eye contact with Vandelin while they walk in the general direction of Kit's shoddy apartment.

Don't worry about it, he could say, or I don't care about the money, something like that, and he almost does, but he knows it would only compound that shame if he were to make his lover feel like a charity case. He doesn't have to insist on that out of his own stubborn pride.

"Just a sovereign and some change, whenever you get to it," he says. It doesn't have to be a thing, but once Kit does pay him back, it'll be an excuse to call the entire matter case closed and cease all discussion of it, and there goes another possible avenue for Vandelin to help him. Neither of them is looking at the other as they approach the Darktown border.

"Sounds like you had a good time up until the fucker won," he says. It's not sarcasm, not at all, but perhaps it's bait.

Edited 2017-10-17 05:52 (UTC)

The corners of Kit's mouth twist into something almost like his trademark lopsided smile, but there's not much mirth in the expression. "Yeah," he says; already he can feel the old instinct to put distance between himself and the man at his side kicking in, and falters at how best to overcome it.

For a time, his only solution is to say nothing at all, though as they walk he reaches out to clasp Vandelin's hand once. He gives it a squeeze, meets his eyes in quiet sincerity, then lets go and tucks his hands into his pockets. Short of actual words, it will have to be sufficient for now, at least until they've got some privacy.

The rest of the walk to his apartment is uneventful, short of a few shady sorts who size the pair up in a glance and decide that their brand of trouble is probably not worth it. There's no Chuck to be seen as they approach the front door. "I got the locks fixed, finally," he tells Vandelin--meaning there's finally a lock on the door. Getting it open, the place smells a bit like plaster and mortar, but at least the hole in the wall where that desiccated corpse had been found is now patched up.

There's also a new table and a couple wooden chairs near the window. "Make yourself at home," he invites, then, "want a drink?" They've just come from the Hanged Man, sure, but Kit doesn't look like he wears stone cold sobriety very well right now. He heads over to a rickety cabinet to fetch out a dusty bottle of brandy.

He laces their fingers together when Kit takes his hand, squeezes back. I'm with you. He would keep their hands entwined if Kit would allow it, but that can come later.

The lock and the new furniture (and Chuck's absence) are a pleasant surprise, though Vandelin's sharp assessment does not miss that hole in the wall, and he is not about to assume that the story behind it is a harmless all's-well-that-ends-well one. He files it away to ask about at a more opportune time.

"A drink?" Vandelin still hasn't quite gathered that this is an ordinary thing for people to offer guests. He's only in the past year been exposed to anything that isn't the sour, watered-down special-occasion wine bought by the cheap barrel and kept under lock and key by the templar in charge of the cellars. He's never quite understood why Kit always asks him if he wants one, and he's never wanted to look foolish by asking. "If you're having one, I guess I will."

Now that they're alone, he reaches out again, approaching to rest a hand on Kit's shoulder as if gauging how much comforting touch is welcome.

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[CLOSED] oh, the sweet sound of survival

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