[open] to the need for more

[doneisdone]

WHO: Teren and you
WHAT: Wardenmom is consumed by secrets, as usual
WHEN: the first half of Wintermarch
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: will update as necessary

I. The Hanged Man

Sometimes found perched at her table by the window with a hot drink of some kind, Teren likes to sit and do her mending where she can hear nearby conversations but is out of the way enough to not appear too approachable.
Which isn't to say she won't talk to someone who sits with her, but, as usual, whether or not she's feeling sociable is a gamble for the person approaching to take.

II. Out and About

Provisioning for the Wardens is a busy job, especially when Teren has also been lending some assistance to the Kirkwall alienage through the worsened weather. Throughout the day she can be found escorting workmen both on foot and in the teetery little ferrying boats from the docks to the Gallows, all of them generally laden with various foodstuffs and other supplies necessary to keeping the Wardens alive.

Perhaps it's the cold ever-creeping into her bony frame, or the ugliness of the weather, but she seems more standoffish than usual. Not angry per se, but pensive and distracted.

III. Her Quarters

A very limited number of people are welcome to call on Teren at home, but they know who they are. Though the door is only left open when she's waiting for Wardens to drop off their uniforms for mending, often a light can be seen through the crack beneath the door, and the faint sound of her speaking to someone, low and gentle.

IV. The Stables

Boots needs feeding and brushing. She visits her druffalo at least once a day to make sure he's being kept well, and often stays to clean his enclosure and yell at anyone she perceives to be bothering him. Boots, for his part, is fine with whatever.

V. Wildcard!

Comments

[limier]

"Some idiot," By which she means a genius, because the idea's as clever as it is a pain in her ass, "Is trying to buy things off Rifters."

And it's in everyone's interests to keep track of that. She eyes the fur, the distraction Teren wears near as openly —

Yngvi's muddle of blankets and doubt springs to mind.

"I've heard he has a sort of spring," A loose, spinning gesture to the frigid waters. "I'd hoped he meant the season. Tell me they have you all out of the bloody tents by now."

Kirkwall's a sight away from Skyhold winters, but that's no call to freeze one's tits off. The Gallows and docks don't lack for room.

[doneisdone]

"Oh?" Teren, purveyor of shady traders, is intrigued. She raises a brow at Wren, who has her attention all of a sudden. "What sort of things?"
She snorts. "You've been to my room, Knight-Lieutenant." Surely at least once, even if not for anything clandestine.

[limier]

She has, and it's — a moment, before memory catches into place. The frown that creases between her brows is shallow, as quickly discarded.

"It might have been a cunning ruse," She stretches her neck up, an excuse to watch the sky, to bull past the blunder. "You would not be the first to keep multiple address."

"He wants anything, all of it, anything out of a Rift. A wonder he's not been swindled himself."

Anyone can stick a feather in their cap and claim it hailed from another land.

[doneisdone]

Teren catches the odd look, but says nothing of it. "Or none at all," she muses, then allowing the conversation to shift back to Barnabas.

"Anything?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. Wren may have just told a rat where the grain is kept.

[limier]

"Those prints I confiscated, the ones with the —" A short gesture. "— The dogs, and the sayings. A metal spring. No doubt, such similar junk."

If vermin must make run of the place, they ought at least be a breed one enjoys.

[doneisdone]

"Interesting." Another contact, for certain. Teren makes a mental note to look into this, her gaze going adrift as she thinks it over.