faderift | [OPEN] I have never known peace

a thousand teeth; and yours among them, I know

It's as typical a night at the Darktown clinic as one can expect, given the events transpiring in the Gallows. Kit's been run ragged, both by his added obligations at work, and by keeping a certain blue rifter from seeking out every damned demon that Kirkwall has on offer. But his friend seems to have reached a stage where he doesn't need an anxious dwarf hovering around him making sure he doesn't make terrible decisions--and so he's here, putting in a hand to help Anders out around the clinic.

He's got a cigarette tucked between his lips and is sorting through a selection of packaged herbs. "You don't suppose the cure's secretly in one of these, do you?" he asks his friend, glancing over his shoulder, and smiles lopsidedly. Yeah, no, he knows it isn't, he's just being a shit because what other options does he have?

we lay here for years or for hours; thrown here or found, to freeze or to thaw

It's work that brings him to Vandelin's office door--and it is his office now, what with the condition the rest of his division is in at present. There are work orders sorted neatly into a folder he's got tucked under one arm, things for someone within the diplomacy division to sign off on; the regular workings of the Inquisition must go on, after all.

Still. Standing here makes his heart lurch, as it ever did, at the prospect of seeing Vandelin's face. So he takes a steadying breath and knocks.

"Vandelin? It's Kit."

No point in catching him completely unawares like last time.

Edited 2018-02-02 19:56 (UTC)

He huffs in tired almost-laughter.

"Did I tell you I tried an herbal remedy on a Rifter? Something meant to cleanse the body? Fully informed, of course, on how it might backfire... and it did." Anders comes over to the desk and leans against it, looking down at what Kit's going through while trying to keep his tone light. "I've cured so many things before. This... Maker."

There's a lot of stress on his shoulders, but thankfully he's not the only one working on matters. He just wishes someone would figure out whatever it is they're missing soon.

"I'd try nearly anything at this point." He picks up one of the bandages that's come unrolled and starts re-doing it, glad of the brainless way to keep his hands occupied.

so long we become the flowers; two corpses we were, two corpses I saw

Look, if he doesn't go back to his house sometimes, then Chuck is going to move back in and he's going to have more problems.

Taking advantage of a very brief respite from his duties at the Gallows, Kit is back in his hovel just beyond the reaches of Darktown, cleaning some old bits of soot and ash out of his wood stove. Over the months, the place has grown a touch of personality; the small charms and totems Melys gave him sit on rickety old shelves or dangle in front of windows; the plant that Vandelin gifted him early on has been moved away from the window to keep it from freezing to death, and while it has grown dormant, there's still some green in its twigs and branches. It'll survive the winter yet.

(The Medicine Seller's influence is clear in the colourful silks and fabrics left to drape across the old wood furniture, though given the state of his... friend... he hasn't been by in a while. Kit tries to tell himself that he doesn't miss him much. ...Or Vandelin. Emotions are complicated.)

The kettle has started to boil; dusting ash off his hands, he straightens up to tend to it.

"Shit," Kit swears sympathetically, as only he can, and raises his eyebrows. "Hope the backfire wasn't too, uh. Explosive." He mimes that part for added effect.

He doesn't miss the note of mild desperation in Anders' voice at that last part, however. Glancing up at his friend, he frowns, then gently nudges him with an elbow. "You're doing the best that any of us can do, all things considered. Go easy on yourself, salroka. You're just one man."

As Kit gets up there's a knock at the door and Nari's voice, muffled and tired, through the wood. She sounds markedly better than she had the last time he'd heard her, however.

"Kit? Are you in?"

The knock sounds muffled because he's got his left ear turned towards the door. Still, he hears it, glances her way, and then ambles over to pull the door open.

"Hey," he greets her with a wide smile, pleased to see her upright and, you know, alive. "You're looking a damn sight better than the last time I saw you." He steps aside to let her in.

i have never known sleep, like the slumber that creeps to me

i. Cade (+Simon if you want to jump in)

Whatever is ailing the rifters and Templars of the Inquisition means that it's affecting his friends, and this means that in between his duties, Kit tries to make time to check on them. (One he already has to wrangle more than the others, but he counts Cade and Simon among his friends.

He arrives outside their door with a covered pot of something that is probably nug stew--he's a one-trick bronto in the kitchen, okay?--and knocks. "Hey, anyone home?" Just kidding, he knows you're home, now open up.

ii. Benedict

Kit gave the boy some time to settle back in at the Gallows after his harrowing experience with the ship--and a second attempt on his life--before coming back to call on him. Whoever is guarding his door this time (not a Templar, for obvious reasons) must be used to the dwarf's comings and goings, because they exchange a little small-talk before Kit knocks and announces himself, and only enters once Benedict welcomes him in.

"How're you holding up?" No need to pretend that the Gallows around them aren't going a bit to shit at present.

The elf on the other side of the door smiles in return--it even has its lopsided crook again--and holds up a bottle of something brown. "There was a brawl the other night at the Hanged Man. I fixed all their chairs and got this. Can I come in?"

"There was a brawl the other night at the Hanged Man. I fixed all their chairs and got this. Can I come in?"

"I'd say that's more than fair payment," Kit answers her, grinning, and motions her in. "Come in--I was going to say I just made hot water for coffee or tea, but I think you've got the right idea."

The place is much the same as it was when she was last here, though the Medicine Seller is notably absent. Kit gestures at a chair. "Go on, sit down, make yourself comfortable."

after the insects have made their claim; after the foxes have known our taste, i'd be home with you

It's a rare night when Kit makes his way home through Darktown that he isn't accosted in some way--by a stumbling drunk, a pickpocket who needs to be taught just to ask first, salroka, and you'll get what you want, or some local toughs who think a dwarf on his own is an easy mark. (They're always mistaken.) It's happened less and less in recent months, the more he's developed a bit of a street level reputation for being the one to go to for help when the Carta or Coterie come knocking. Maybe it's less that Inquisition dwarf and a rifter that they're after, this time, than the Dead Skull and the Painted Elf.

When it happens, it happens very quickly.

They come at Kit from the left, which he doesn't hear, wouldn't have heard even if he hadn't been looking to his right, to the Medicine Seller, and the three Coterie toughs who have chosen to descend on his friend instead.

Kit has just enough time to snap, "Look out--!" when something firm and hard connects with his side, below the ribcage, with enough force to send him staggering. Kit throws out a hand to catch himself against one of the walls of the mineshaft, but his response time it strangely slow, and there's a new pain blossoming in his abdomen that is explained when he looks down and finds the hilt of a mean-looking dagger thrust deep into the meat of his stomach.

The person wielding it is still holding onto the hilt, too, and has a tight enough grip to give it a rough, vicious twist before yanking it out, along with a gout of blood.

It's a horrific injury, enough to fell your average warrior. Not a Legionnaire, though, which explains why Kit is able to seize his assailant by the front of his shirt and headbutt him with enough force to level a bronto, before he goes to his knees, unable to stand any longer.

(OOC: takes place after conclusion of modplot!)

These attacks were tiresome - to the point they had become almost routine. It's not as though he and Kit went looking for trouble - at least not with the Carta or Coterie. But it always seemed to find them.

He was busy fending off one particularly annoyed thug, either dancing around him or warding off blows with his sheathed sword that he never seemed to draw. He didn't pay Kit too much mind - the dwarf was a skilled fighter and had, more often than not, been perfectly fine defending himself.

He smelled the blood before he saw it.

When he turned, he saw the arc of red as the knife was pulled out of Kits stomach and the noise that ripped from his throat couldn't even begin to be called human. The accompanying blow of pure energy knocked their assailants off their feet and onto the floor as the Medicine Seller quickly closed the distance between him and Kit, hauling him to his feet.

"The clinic," he said, voice hoarse, expression strained, "There's still time."

He left in his wake a small lantern which, by the time their attackers got up, would start emitting thick clouds of smoke and blinding flashes of light.

The energy would knock Kit to his knees if he weren't already there, blinking dazedly and with growing confusion as the front of his tunic blossoms red and wet under his hand. He has enough presence of mind to press his palm against the injury, but it's deep and ragged, and already his fingers are wet with something other than blood.

Sod it all, the fucker had near disemboweled him--

"Fuck--!" he groans roughly, unable to keep the sound in when the Medicine Seller tries to haul him upright. Instinct has him rip his hands away from his injury to seize hold of his friend's shoulders, leaving smears of blood across the fine fabric, such a shame to do that, it looked so nice--

"No, no magic," he blurts out, and it's getting harder to think clearly all of a sudden. "Kusuriuri," but he remembers that name, "no, just--" Just let me go, he could say. Maybe it would be true.

(The blood loss probably has something to do with that.)

Cade has been too nervous and timid to even leave the room he shares with Simon, even though the latter comes and goes with varying degrees of lucidity. Kit receives the usual response to someone knocking on the door with a loud greeting: loaded silence, the holding of fearful breath.

A pause. ...huh.

"It's, uh. It's Kit," he adds helpfully.

Another pause, and then, slowly, the door opens. Cade is on the other side of it, frowning anxiously. The name Kit is familiar, and he knows the man when he sees him, but too much else is jumbled for Cade to do anything but watch him warily.

Each time there's a crisis, Benedict feels a little more comfortable back in the safety of his own quarters, no matter how bland and dour they are. He's at his writing desk by the window, head resting on his hand, when he hears the door open and looks over his shoulder to see Kit.
By this point, the dwarf has become a welcome sight, and Benedict smiles, almost sheepishly. "Fine," he answers, "not dead."

She follows the direction, stopping briefly to hand the bottle to Kit before sitting down. She’s pulling her knees up in front of her before she remembers she’s wearing boots and doffs them with a tired groan before completing the movement.

“I don’t know what it is, actually. Could be anything from good whiskey to... what is it the Wardens call it? Ritewine?” Nari makes a face, “Which makes it either a proper gift of gratitude or further infringement on your hospitality.” She says it with a wry smile, and then sobers as she notes the Medicine Seller’s presence and absence.

“Is... is he sick too?”

Anders snorts despite himself.

"If anything around me gets explosive you'll hear all of the Chantry set freak out. It would even rouse the Templars from their drugged stupor." His expression turns wry. "I didn't make this joke, but maybe blowing something up would cure the Templars of this mess."

He leans into the elbow for a moment. "And I know I'm doing the best I can. I've just..." He shakes his head. "I took care of Sina for how long and she died, and there are a lot of patients who we don't have a fix for yet."

Kit doesn't lose the smile he offers his friend, but it grows a touch wistful, pained. Yeah, he'd been worried about... something... like this.

"Hey, salroka," he says gently, and holds up a topped bowl of stew. "I thought you might be hungry."

"I'd say that's better than the alternative, sure." Kit cracks a grin and comes all the way in, shuts the door behind him, and makes his way over to the writing desk. He tugs over a chair and, as is his custom, tosses down a deck of cards for Benedict to shuffle and deal.

"I hope that prick--" Loki, Kit reminds himself, that prick has a name, "--hasn't given you any more trouble."

"Is... is he sick too?"

Kit's in the process of pouring two glasses of whatever this stuff is for them when Nari asks that question, and then he pauses, looking to where one of his friend's multicoloured coats remains hanging on a hook on the wall. He looks almost perplexed for a moment; sure, there's obviously an, ahem, physical aspect to their friendship now... but when had he grown so accustomed to just seeing the Medicine Seller's belongings interspersed amongst his own?

A thought for another time.

"Yeah," he says quietly after the pause, then comes back to the table and offers the glass out to Nari. "It's the weird... thing afflicting the rifters. He's all right, right now," he adds, and hopes he isn't saying something false, "he's just got to stay in the Gallows 'til this is all over. I'd be with him normally, but if I don't come back here sometime, there's this guy who sometimes just shows up and sleeps on my floor."

A shrug. Just part of life in Darktown.

"I didn't make this joke..."

"Salroka, you definitely did, but I won't tell anyone." Kit smirks at him, but then grows more somber the longer he speaks. The time for joking is past, then. "You'll get there, though. Yours isn't the only brain put to that task--it's not all on you." This time, he puts a hand on Anders' shoulder and squeezes.

She’ll raise her eyebrows at that, wrinkling the vallaslin that curves above them, and extends her hand for the glass. She tilts it back and forth in the low-light to watch its reflection slide back and forth through the amber liquid.

“The Templar have it too,” she says, leaning her head to rest it against the back of the chair. She doesn’t have to say more than that for Kit to know why she looks as drained as she does, nor why liquor had been the present. He’d been there when Cade had carried her half-frozen to Kit’s doorstep.

“Well.” Nari raises her glass with a small but warm smile to clink it against Kit’s. “To Darktown hospitality, then. And strange bedfellows.” Ostensibly the migrant man—or ...whatever else.

Edited 2018-02-03 04:47 (UTC)

Like a stray dog being offered scraps, Cade looks down at the bowl and then steps cautiously back, allowing Kit to enter but still without any overt signs of recognition. There's kindness happening, and something deep within himself tells him this person is trustworthy, but he just feels so awful that it's difficult to muster anything beyond a tired, shaking stare.
"Thank you," he says, trying for politeness, but despair has crept into his voice. "...what day is it?"

[OPEN] I have never known peace

ANDERS

VANDELIN

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NARI

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CADE + BENE

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THE MEDICINE SELLER (CW: VIOLENCE & DEATH)

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ii

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