faderift | [OPEN] a dwarf making bad decisions

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[OPEN] a dwarf making bad decisions

WHO: Kit + you?? (starters for the Medicine Seller, Simon, Anders, and Cyril)
WHAT: The best way to deal with your problems is to act like you don't have any, right??
WHEN: The latter half of November.
WHERE: Kirkwall and the surrounding area.
NOTES: None immediately come to mind, will update as needed.

I. DARKTOWN (THE MEDICINE SELLER)

Killing demons is far from tedious work, but for Kit it’s frankly a nice respite from having to think about the low-key disaster the rest of his life is swiftly en route to becoming.

It also leaves him cagey; magic and magickery in general set his teeth on edge in a way he finds difficult to articulate, even to the peculiar elf (the “Painted Blade,” Melys, really?) who has become his friend. Perhaps especially because they are friends. Possibly this explains why, as they meander back down the poorly lit Darktown streets back to Kit’s house, he’s a little rougher than usual when he drags a couple of Coterie thugs back from hassling a pair of frightened dwarf kids.

The end of the encounter--the street fight, more like--leaves his knuckles bruised and bloody, but he wins, which is all that matters!! A bit roughed up, and keyed up, he’s in the middle of snapping, “--yeah, piss off back to your rat holes--” to the backs of their retreating figures, when he realizes that he’s frightened the children off, too.

That realization seems to take the wind from his sails. He stares at the spot under a bit of rotting lumber where they’d been hiding, rubs a hand along his jaw, then glances uncomfortably towards the Medicine Seller. He spits some blood out into the dirt. “..well.”

II. TRAINING GROUNDS (SIMON + OPEN)

(OOC: The thread with Simon is closed, but other characters should feel free to approach Kit after training/sparring on another day!)

He’s off his game.

It’s not the recruits’ fault that they’re still wet behind the ears and don’t know the difference between a parry and a riposte, and on a good day, their inexperience would trigger his patience, his understanding, the part of him that has always made him good with stubborn kids and loose cannons alike. Today it just makes him cold.

(The bruises on his knuckles and what looks like a split lip probably don’t help much.)

Once they’ve cleared out of the training grounds, Kit directs his attention towards putting up the last of the training weapons, then retreats to the pier to light himself a cigarette, squint at the early morning light coming across the water, and try not to feel anything.

III. NEAR THE DEEP ROADS (ANDERS)

The door sealing off a section of the Deep Roads from the surface isn’t that far below ground; sunlight still reaches the stone floor of the ancient roads from what time has turned into a ravine, far above. The worst that they’ve had to tangle with so far were a couple of ranging deepstalkers who tested their luck against a Legionnaire and a Grey Warden mage one too many times. Kit’s now wiping a bit of viscera off of one of his axes.

A Grey Warden and a Legionnaire down near the dark shouldn’t be unusual, but it is, given the two in question. Did Kit invite Anders on this trek seemingly out of nowhere? Probably. Has he been his normal chatty self for most of the trip? Nope.

“I’ll check the map, but I think we’re close,” he says at length, expression distant and neutral.

IV. THE OTHER POWERS OFFICE (CYRIL + OPEN)

(OOC: The thread with Cyril is closed, but other characters should feel free to pop by the office on another day!)

It’s taken about a month for Kit to wrangle the office into some semblance of control, or to sort out the previous project leader’s archaic filing system (translation, there was no filing system)--but he’s in the perfect mindset to perform mind-numbingly dull labour at present, and so cobbles together order out of chaos with remarkable speed.

This is where he spends his early mornings--and a handful of very late evenings--when he isn’t on the training ground with the recruits… or covertly killing demons in Darktown with the Medicine Seller.

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He grimaces at some of the goop on his boots before pulling a rag out of a belt pouch and scrubbing the leather clean. The Dwarf has been exceedingly quiet this trip, which has had Anders alternating between talking too much and being what feels to him like far too quiet. After the statement, though, Anders figures it might be time.

"Close to what, exactly?"

"There's a door, further in," Kit replies, "or there's supposed to be. I guess the intel could be full of sod, but I'm guessing not."

He gives his axes a quick onceover, then affixes them back in place over his shoulder blades. Then he looks at Anders, reads his look in an instant, and grimaces. He spreads his hands to either side. "Look, you don't have to come the rest of the way with me, salroka. This ain't exactly the best way to pass an afternoon."

Cyril knocks lightly on Kit's door. He had mostly wanted to make sure there were no other questions regarding the Qunari, but if he was honest he also liked looking at Kit. Every day he felt amazed that so many attractive men had joined this single organization.

"Do you mind if I take up a bit of your time?" he asked, smiling as if he didn't want to imagine doing anything else.

At that knock, Kit's voice from inside says, "Come on in, door's open."

Inside, he's seated behind his desk with a lit cigarette in one hand and several sheafs of parchment laid out before him. It looks like he's been at this most of the night, judging by how low the candles next to him have burned. He glances up, a little weary from so long spent doing the same tedious work (and probably for other reasons), but he manages to put on a friendly, lopsided little smile for Cyril when he sees him. No sense in spreading his own misery around to those who don't deserve it.

"Don't mind at all," he greets him, takes a quick drag off the cigarette, and blows a whorl of smoke off to the side. "You need help with something?"

Edited 2017-11-19 05:10 (UTC)

Cyril looks around and then settles his gaze on Kit. Damn, he really is so much better up close.

"Honestly? I was going to ask you the same thing. Do you need an extra pair of hands?"

If he were privy to Cyril's internal monologue, he'd remind him that flattery will get him literally everywhere. (Keep up with the flattery, Cyril, Kit definitely needs to hear it.)

At those words, he lets out an amused if tired snort and sits back in his seat. He taps the ash from his cigarette off into a little clay tray sitting on the corner of his desk. "You asking to join the project?" he asks, still smiling, but he looks almost exasperated as he speaks. Not by Cyril, no, but by the mess that his predecessor has dropped into his lap. He gestures at the workload in front of him. "Because not counting myself and Yngvi, just about everyone else here is a part-timer."

He lifts his cigarette-wielding hand up to rub his eyebrows, grimacing. "Sorry," he says after a pause. "None of this is your fault, salroka. And thanks, by the way," he adds sincerely, "for the report about your talk with the Qunari. You did good." This last added with a sincere if crooked little smile.

(It evidently has not occurred to him that the purpose behind Cyril's visit might have an ulterior motive.)

Cyril comes closer then, because Kit is talking to him and conversation says you can. He looks pleased at the praise but also shows some concern over Kit's words.

"You know, I haven't joined any projects yet and I really should," he said thoughtfully. "I could be tempted to join yours even more if it means spending more time around you. You're rather impressive, you know."

He always starts flirting with a compliment like that, to see how it's taken. Even if it is flirting, though, he sounds sincere. He has heard really good things about Kit and had been impressed by their dealings.

Anders exhales, shaking his head and looking a little amused.

"Please. I've spent many afternoons in far worse circumstances. I could tell you stories... but perhaps let's not." He straightens back up. "Besides. Only an asshole leaves a friend near the Deep Roads without backup and I try not to be too much of an asshole. Some days. But no one enjoys deepstalker muck on their gear or outfit."

The cloth gets discarded. Maybe in a few years some adventurer will come down here, find it, and sell it to a merchant for a few copper bits. In the meantime he's grabbing his staff back off his back and nodding forward.

"Lead on, Kit."

At some point, it occurs to Myr that he hasn't been by to visit Kit in his new offices. Not that it would--for his purposes--be all that different from meeting his friend anywhere else in the Gallows, but it's the principle of the thing that has him dropping in unannounced one chill Kirkwall morning. It took a little questioning of the base staff to be sure he's got the right door, but now he's here and doesn't hesitate to rap his knuckles on it.

"Kit? It's Myr."

Kit watches his approach with some curiosity, twisting the end of his cigarette between his fingers. It takes him longer than it might take another man to parse together Cyril's comments with the intent behind them, and for a moment he just sits quite still in his chair, startled into silence. Is he actually--?

...Shit, this guy is flirting with him, isn't he?

"Is that right," he says, smiling a little, like he's just heard something quite interesting, but can't decide what to make of it yet. He presses his lips together and turns his eyes to the red ember burning at the end of the cigarette, then takes another pull from it and breathes out the smoke. (He should shut this down now--it's too soon after Vandelin, his heart is too raw--but Ancestors if it isn't nice to have someone look at him like that again.)

"Pretty sure all the stories you've heard are exaggerated," he says after a pause, smirking a little, but there's still a flicker of interest in his eyes when he looks back at Cyril. Interest, but hesitation, too.

Kit cracks a grin at him. "All right then."

Lead on he does, far enough down the ravine that the last of the light winks out, and they have to resort to the use of a torch. It gives them enough light to, eventually, illuminate the large dwarven door that rests ajar fixed into the side of the stone wall--and to catch the reflective glint off a pair of eyes belonging to two prowling genlocks.

Kit should not be this pleased to find them. "Sodding finally," he grunts, almost under his breath, and drops his still-burning torch to the ground where it continues to flare, providing light as he grabs for the axes again.

"Hey," a familiar, though slightly distracted voice calls through the door. "Come on in."

Inside the office, there's the sound of some papers being shuffled around and a chair dragging across the floor. Then Kit (and a cigarette, naturally), approach, and he reaches out a hand to lightly touch Myr's arm, to help orient him. (He shouldn't be grateful that Myr can't see him, or read the lines of stress and unhappiness on his face, in his eyes, now that he knows how that blindness came to be.)

It's more than Cyril had been expecting and he smiles at the interest. He's not looking for anything long term or serious here, just a bit of fun for both of them and seeing Kit respond to that idea positively is encouraging, even if there are some barriers to get through first.

"That is why I'm here, you might say, to see for myself what sort of man you are, and to offer my hands to do your bidding." He looked around the office again, as if he was just innocently rephrasing his suggestion that he help Kit where needed, but his tone is too licentious to mean only that. "Or any other part of me, really."

"...and to offer my hands to do your bidding. ...Or any other part of me, really."

That's when Kit laughs, albeit quietly, but he flashes Cyril a white smile afterwards, his eyes crinkling warmly at their corners. "Damn, you get right to the point, don't you," he replies in kind. (It's not a 'yes,' not yet, but it's not a 'no,' either.)

He sits back in his seat, his eyes running quickly over what he can see of Cyril, before lifting to meet his gaze again. He exhales, then turns to tap the ash off his cigarette again, rubs a thumb against his brows. "Look," he starts, sounding almost on the cusp of an apology, "don't... think I'm not flattered, or interested, but I just had something pretty serious with someone more or less..." A vague gesture with one hand, his eyes gone distant and a touch bitter. "...fall apart on me." Silence follows behind his words, and he looks pensively off to the side. "I don't think I've got 'serious' in me again."

Cyril can understand that feeling. It's probably going to take him a long time before he opens himself up to another Rifter in any sort of meaningful way after Iskandar, but he doesn't get into that now. Instead, he opens his hands and considers Kit directly.

"Do I look like I'm suggesting anything serious?" he asked. His tone now is kind, careful. He doesn't want Kit to think he's making light of anything traumatic. "If it's too soon for anything, I completely understand and I'll give you space or we can discuss the possibility of me actually joining the Project instead, or whatever else you'd like to talk about. Void, I'll even talk about the weather."

"But sometimes, just sometimes, the thing to help you recover from something serious is something not serious. Something fun. I know how to have fun and not have it mean anything more than that."

"Sounds like you speak from experience," Kit tells him kindly in turn, and for a few more moments he stays where he is, considering Cyril and his offer. Then he takes one last drag from his cigarette and puts it out.

"You feel like going for a walk?" he asks and meets his eyes. (That's a 'yes,' according to Kit.)

"Experience in having fun? Every second I can," Cyril answers, avoiding talk about any experience he has about getting over something serious instead.

At the offer to take a walk he gestures towards the door in a 'lead the way' sort of motion.

That makes two of them.

Kit quirks another small smile, then reaches for his office keys and, with two callused fingers, pinches out the light of the candle on the desk, darkening the room save for a bit of moonlight coming in through the window. Then he stands up, quite close to Cyril in the dark now, and rather gently touches his cheek.

That's the extent of the intimacy he'll allow in his work space; business and pleasure should remain as far apart as is reasonably possible in an organization like this. "This way," he says, and makes his way out into the corridor.

It's touch meant as a courtesy, the kind of thing Myr's well-used to by now--and yet such has been his week (month, year--) that he can't keep from reaching back and brushing Kit's fingers with his own. "Thanks," quietly said and earnestly meant, before he clears his throat and makes an exaggerated joking pretext of "looking" around the office.

"Nice place," he remarks, mustering a reasonable facsimile of his usual sunny smile. "Guessing it's covered in paperwork the other fellow never bothered to file, though. How've you been settling into it?"

He'd hung back to let Kit take his roiling temper out on the thugs. One had broken off to have a go at the Medicine Seller, only to find that the strange, colourful man moved far too deftly for someone with a massive wooden box strapped to his back. He danced circles around the Carta thug, wearing him down and finally struck with almost serpentine speed and precision, using the blunt end of his sheathed sword to land a blow at the back of the dwarf's head, rendering him unconscious.

When they finally fled, dragging their unconscious companion with them, he turned to Kit.

"That was unlike you," said the Medicine Seller who'd felt something was off with his companion the entire day. He's already kneeling down, opening the bottom drawer of his box to retrieve some medical supplies. Bandages and antiseptic, mostly. Hardly magical, but then that was the case for most of his medicine.

He beckoned Kit over.

"Sit," he said. "You are hurting."

Whether he meant the injuries Kit had sustained or something else was hard to say.

[continued here]

"That was unlike you."

"You don't know shit about me." A retort that is also unlike him, frankly, but the frayed edges of his composure are just that, frayed and tattered, and the words fly free before he has the chance to let them pass through anything approximating a brain-mouth filter. Immediately, though, he closes his eyes and grimaces. "...Sorry."

(The apology is sincerely meant, even if the words themselves remain true.)

When the Medicine Seller beckons him over, he obeys with leaden feet, and seats himself with a wince and a grunt on an old crate. He takes the time to examine his knuckles. "Pretty sure I should've known better than to hit a guy with a closed fist," he says, trying to make a joke out of the whole debacle.

Life's handed them both a nugshit sandwich; sharing the burden with a friend should be something Kit welcomes. Instead, he grimaces, feels the old instinct to withdraw gnawing at him, but where can he go? This is his office, and Myr is blind.

"Oh." He clears his throat, makes a sound like a chuckle appear, and leads his friend over to a chair, just in case he should choose to take a seat. "Well, it was," he admits, "I've wrangled it a bit under control--" and reaches out to pick up a box full of records, and shoves it onto a shelf already crammed full of other boxes full of records that are probably long past their required retention periods. (Time to send those suckers to off-site storage. Does the Inquisition have off-site storage? It should.)

"What brings you by, anyhow?" This asked in a tone he endeavours to keep light, but part of him dreads that Myr already knows, that he's come to offer his condolences, or worse, to suggest that Vandelin might change his mind.

He takes the offered chair, slipping the satchel he's carrying from his shoulder and settling it on the floor with odd care. "On a scale of one to darkspawn, where would you put its pre-wrangled state?" The sound of an overstuffed box being jammed onto an overstuffed shelf is one not foreign to a Circle mage and it brings a little more earnest emotion to his smile--

But he's really not here to make smalltalk about the difficulties of organizing an office. "I'd wanted to see how you were getting on in the new office," he replies as lightly. "Since I hadn't. And--apologize for the other night. Didn't mean to wake you both up with--that."

He doesn't know.

And in one of those times when Kit is actually around? His latest pupil sticks his head through the door, sharp ears wiggling a little as he grinned at the dwarf.

"Hello there, Master Kit. You ready for our lesson?" He looked around, "Or are you still battling the good fight against parchment and pen?"

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[OPEN] a dwarf making bad decisions

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The Other Powers Office