open | wherever we go, we'll never be lost

[supersonic]

WHO: Pietro Maximoff & YOU
WHAT: Arriving, complaining, settling in, poking his nose into things, etc.
WHEN: Anytime in April
WHERE: The Gallows, around Kirkwall
NOTES: Feel free to toss your own starter at this post! Gimme anything and I'll find a reason for Pietro to be there.

Arriving;

As accommodations go, the Gallows is one Pietro doubts he'll soon forget. After a long day of travel, longer still from Skyhold and the Brotherhood's latest camp beyond, watching those great white walls rise higher and higher from the approaching ferry, he's surprised he doesn't get a crick in his neck by the time they dock. When he finally comes to be standing on its front steps, feeling approximately the size of a pebble, he's started to wonder if all this was really such a great idea. Leaving. Pledging his loyalty to an organization he doesn't yet know if he trusts. Going to Kirkwall, of all places.

At least it's something different.

"Is all Tevinter architecture so oppressive?" he gripes under his breath as he starts up. "And spiky?" This seems like an unnecessary number of spikes. He's just saying.

—The garish pink birds milling about do help lighten the mood, he'll admit.

Group Quarters;

Inside the mages' tower, the long open rooms and rows of bunks are a little less intimidating, if no more welcome. It's been years since he's slept in an apprentice's hall, his sister tucked into the bunk above him, seeing who could whisper quietest as they fell asleep — or how silently she could toss a pillow at him for whispering something rude, often as not. Nostalgia isn't the right word for the memory of a time you wouldn't repeat, for the particular closeness that comes from living in shared fear, but it's heavy on his limbs the same way.

Still, this is the prudent choice. The choice their father would tell him to make. Best to have reason to linger within earshot of his fellow recruits. He wastes little time finding an unoccupied bed, dropping his travel pack and staff onto it with a resigned whumph.

"Just like old times," is wry.

Only the doors to this cage aren't locked anymore. One hopes. (He checks, actually, just a quick brush of his fingers over the mechanism, a glance for fresh wear on his way to the bath. Just in case.)

The Gallows;

Once he's had a chance to clean the dust and smell of hay and travel from himself, Pietro sets about getting the lay of the land. A new lean elf can be found surveying the training grounds with a close eye, not necessarily looking to participate but— appreciating. Magnus's training had been thorough, but he hadn't had anything so permanent to offer.

The herb garden and adjoining alchemy rooms earn a passing-through too, but it's the library that sees him pulled in for a longer visit. Careful fingers ghost over the spines of the books there, reading each title before pausing to pull one or two from their shelves with a sort of uncertain side-glance and a lift of the chin, as if daring anyone to question his right to them. If he is to work on behalf of this Inquisition, he ought to get something out of it. A history, perhaps, or a particularly esoteric-looking tome on magic, or even a book of myths might earn his attention, and a spot on the nearby reading table he's temporarily claimed.

Ostensibly, he ought to be looking for the proper office to report his arrival to, but — well, he doesn't seem to be in any hurry.

Wildcard;

[[Feel free to run into Pietro somewhere else in the Gallows or around Kirkwall, e.g. running errands or loitering in pubs in Lowtown, hanging around the alienage when he gets tired of shemlen, or plurk ping me for a closed starter, I just ran out of steam for more general starters tonight... x_x ]]

Comments

[supersonic]

"–Is friend the word we're using now?"

Like he may need to rethink its definition. Not that Pietro imagines that was meant sincerely, or that its insincerity particularly needed pointing out, but like a pebble beneath a fingernail, it's in his nature to irritate, well before he's bothered to consider if he should.

So he hasn't changed too much. But he does follow, with just a beat of staring after the other man, his brain still catching up to the more complicated reality of his presence. Inside, his eyes flick through the space, noting the exits as much as sizing up the man in front of him. Habits he didn't have four years ago.

"So this is where you have settled in?"

[wythersake]

"There’s an armistice, isn’t there." With someone else it might be cheerful, or dry, or much at all beyond distracted — "We’re bosom pals."

A short walk down the hall. The sickbay’s yet sized to a Circle, far more than they need. Rows of spare cots sit stripped and empty, Isaac’s small domain carved into an empty corner. The telltale trappings of herbs and bottles and rolls of bandage; little changed for the years, for the absence of robes or obligation.

Diminished, somehow, against the space.

"Two years. The Imperium lacked charm." And the Grand Enchanter to sell it. He doesn’t bother to lower his voice. They’re alone, if only for the moment, and whispers only court suspicion. A small business of drawers and rags unrolled, a passel of Elfroot and a knife pushed in his direction without fanfare. "Chop. Are you using your name?"

Before anything else, best to have the particulars out.

[supersonic]

A brief, flat, Chop it yourself sort of look passes over his face — just for a moment, before his palm finds the knife. How quickly this place makes him feel like an apprentice again, bucking against the hollowed out remains of someone else's Circle.

"I am." A handful of Elfroot is neatly straightened, the heel of the knife hitting wood in a sharp, even chops. "The Inquisition's leadership is largely aware of my history."

Largely. He says it like he hasn't got anything to hide; the truth is probably more that he isn't a good enough liar to hide more than is strictly necessary, but, well, he'd be equally proud of that, in his own way — of being brave enough for honesty, these days.

"And yours?"

[wythersake]

The herbs are an excuse for outside eyes; no need to clarify what he's already set to. Possibly the boy will feel better with a blade to hand, Maker knows he'd never been anything special with a spell —

"What do I have to hide?" Largely. It's too light to be anything but bitter. "Half the malcontents have taken up this outpost. Few of them from the battlefield."

A moment, he remembers to add:

"Kostos is here."

[supersonic]

Evidently, he has a similar level of talent for subterfuge.

The mention of Kostos brings a certain pause to his chopping, though. The knife teeters on its heel. "Good."

Here means alive. Pietro may not have been in tremendous agreement with Kostos either, last time they spent any significant amount of time together, but-- well, Isaac may recall the way he used to follow the other boy around like a half feral kitten. He'd grown out of it, but only so much.

"And the Inquisition, has it been as hospitable to 'malcontents' as they say?"

Hospitable is probably not the word people use, to talk about that.