( OPEN )

[excipio]

WHO: Caspar & Misc (YOU???)
WHAT: Just chillin
WHEN: Solace whenever
WHERE: Gallows, Kirkwall, wherever
NOTES: This is a catch-all post for personalized starters and tag-ins. I'll probably add some open starters later this month, but hmu on plurk or DM me if you want to plan something specific!

Comments

[excipio]

[ Kitty you have no idea

He grins, clearly not offended. ]

True. They'd simply take you for someone who does not understand how to wear Antivan dress correctly, which would be correct.

[ They're well on their way across the water, now, passing a half-empty ferry as it drifts the opposite way. Caspar spares its passengers a glance, giving them a casual once-over as he continues. ]

It's also true that you could wear whatever you'd like, so long as you find it at a local shop. Kirkwall's standards for "appropriate" are low, these days. [ Too many refugees, people from all over. You wear what you can find and what you can afford. ] A bit of advice on how to wear what you settle on may be useful.

[rathercommon]

[ She quirks her brows at him incredulously. What, exactly, is his opinion of Rifters? Not exactly offended, but bordering on it: ]

No offense, but I'm pretty sure I know how to wear clothes.

[excipio]

[ His smile turns apologetic, but his voice is distinctly amused. ]

Of course. What I mean is that function and fashion are two very different things — and fashion is rarely dictated by common sense, unfortunately. How to loop your spare belt, how to wear your collar, whether it's appropriate to wear your gloves indoors. If you intend to blend in, it would help to have a sense of these things.

[rathercommon]

[ She briefly contemplates getting prickly, but then he clarifies that this isn't vanity; this is if you intend to blend in. And he is right about that, she has to admit. There's a lot more than just clothes involved in looking like a local. In London, she could pick easy marks not by what they wore, but how they moved, where they kept their wallets, whether they paid with cash or had an account.

So she pushes her hair from her face. ]

And who could I blend in with? Who could I seem to be? Ferelden, right?

[excipio]

It would suit your accent, yes.

[ It's fair, wanting to blend in to avoid conflict or tiresome questions. Her insistence seems a bit more focused than that, though. There's a difference between laying low and considering a fake identity entirely. ]

What were you before you came here?

[ Just a helpful question to workshop a cover and absolutely not prying. ]

[rathercommon]

[ And Kitty hesitates a moment, weighing her potential answers, before settling on a plain: ]

English, not that that means anything to you. A commoner. Given what I've seen of this place, I expect that term's a more familiar one.

[excipio]

[ Very plain, though he gets the impulse. ]

Familiar, yes. Not particularly illuminating. Does "English" mean cities, farms? I assume you worked?

[ There's nothing pointed about the comment. If she was a commoner, then she wasn't sitting idle. ]

[rathercommon]

Cities. I was - a shopgirl, myself. Though a lot of people like me went into factories.

[ A hesitation. ]

D'you know what a factory is? Where people manufacture things?

[excipio]

I do.

[ He doesn't mind the question. He'll likely ask her obvious questions in the future, if he hasn't already. ]

Though I have not seen many, myself. I have certainly never worked in one.

[ They're nearing the other side of the water already, just a few more strokes before he'll have to pause and dock. In the meantime— ] What sort of shop?

[rathercommon]

[ She arches her eyebrow, just a little, at I've never worked in one. Really. You don't say. Ever so hard to tell. But she's being sweet, and so she doesn't vocalize her wryness; instead, she just responds: ]

An art shop. Not the sort that sold paintings, but the sort that sold supplies. Brushes and the like. So if you're ever in need of anyone to keep ledgers or sort paintbrushes by bristle type, I'm your girl.

[excipio]

[ Hey he could've worked in a fancy factory, you don't know. He smiles slightly at the mention of art, though there's an edge of harmless mischief in it. Self-deprecating, mostly. He hasn't had much time for painting the past few years. The past ten or so, more like, but he'd enjoyed it in another life. ]

But do you know how to use them? That seems like a far better use of one's time than sorting them.

[rathercommon]

[ A little huff of a laugh through her nose. ]

I don't know about that. Sorting them earned me a wage. No one would pay for the sorts of things I paint. What about you?

[excipio]

Someone, I'm sure. Rich fools buy all sorts of abstractions in the name of art.

[ A short pause as he brings the boat along the dock, then reaches for the post and tie as he continues. ]

I knew how to use them once, yes. Now I'm afraid I only use them to write gossip.

[ He means very important spy letters. ]

[rathercommon]

[ A little teasing: ]

Paintbrushes? You know that pens might serve you better.

[excipio]

You truly are knowledgeable. I hope they paid you decent wages.

[ Doubtful. And not to bring this back to serious topics, but also totally to bring this back to serious topics in a way that's meant to be very casual and not prying — that's why it's coming up now, like a curious afterthought, not directly. ]

When you said people like you, did you mean other commoners?

[rathercommon]

Hm?

[ She tries to remember when she'd said "people like me." ]

Oh - going into factories, you mean? Yeah. [ She tries not to let the bitterness enter her voice, to just be neutral - ] It was dangerous work. Thankless. So, yeah, we took the brunt of it.