Open

[keenly]

WHO: Colin, Nathaniel, and you
WHAT: Open Log
WHEN: Present
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Will update.

I: INFIRMARY

The door to the infirmary is closed today, with a sign posted that reads

WELCOME - DO NOT LET THE CAT OUT

Colin thought it best. He couldn't bear to leave Ghast alone, locked into a small bedroom on his own. The poor creature has been through enough. So the cat is settled onto a pillow, tucked up like a loaf of bread, his massive black ears relaxed, yellow eyes half-closed. He is a lean, long-faced beast who is wary of strangers.

The healer himself is looking a little tired, hair sloppily braided back in a half-ponytail, sleeves rolled up as he works minerals and herbs into medicine. New to some is the tattoo of a saffron flower on his left arm. New to everyone is the piercing in the lobe of his right ear, a simple steel stud that complements the ever-present hoop in the cartilage of the same ear. Both tattoo and piercing are symptomatic of an itch under his skin, a sense that he does not own himself. He had once thought the Inquisition a refuge. Now, he knows it for a war from. Now, he has lost a friend in this war, though there is no certainty of Gareth's death. Yet.

II: BATHS - TEMPLAR TOWER

This is not the tower where Colin lives, but he needs hot water tonight. He maneuvers into a long linen shirt without exposing an inch of skin--pulling the shirt on, undressing from underneath, and finally putting his arms through the sleeves. He tugs his hair free and walks into the bath, white fabric pooling around him as he goes deeper, till it soaks through and sinks around his calves.

Once settled, he lathers soap over top of the shift and lets it rinse. The same soap is used for shaving and washing his hair. When everything is done, he sinks back into the water, looking up at the ceiling while his dark hair fans out around his head. His ears are underwater, but this is a public bath. He will try not to be surprised by your arrival.

III: KITCHEN - MAGE TOWER

Cooking has always been Colin's chief coping tool, and it is sort of nice now not to have to get up before dawn to be off to the market on days he wants to cook. Of course he still does, so he can get the freshest ingredients. But because his hours are flexible now, he can change things up. Today, he can make breakfast. Breakfast is, in his opinion, the best meal of the day. There's the comfort of breakfast food, how the hunger at the first meal makes everything taste better, and how a good breakfast really sets a person up for the rest of the day.

Breakfast today is hot, crusty bread, a potato omelet made with fresh eggs, and ripe peaches in cream. Most of the ingredients were already on-hand, either from his stores or the Inquisition's, so the out-of-pocket cost was minimal. But unlike most of Colin's meals, this one is free. Come on in and grab a plate.

IV: GREY WARDEN OFFICE

Everything is stupid.

Nathaniel has been staring at these maps all day and nothing has changed. Jonas saved the world, married the fair lady, and died thinking the very worst he would have to worry about was curing the darkspawn taint and having babies with Anora. Now, it's up to his bastard sidekick and rejected not-quite-cousin to save the same world all over again, and Nathaniel is finally, truly shaken in his belief that he can do it. He won't do it. He did the best he could and then the Anderfels invaded two countries. On his watch.

He is so stupid.

There was never a Jonas-level hero waiting to pick up the slack. And as much as he wanted to be, he is not that hero either. The heroes are all dead. All that's left are the people they saved. It can't be enough. He has done and redone the math and it will not be enough. Human effort cannot be enough every time. One of those times, it has to fail. And all it takes is one time.

V: TEMPLAR TOWER EXTERIOR

This is not a chore he has done very often.

Nathaniel Howe, once the heir of Amaranthine, is halfway out a fifth-story window, dangling a rug. A small amount of debris falls below--dust, bits of ash, things tracked in on their boots. Then, he starts banging the rug against the outside wall. A much more moderate amount of debris falls. Hopefully passers by know to walk around before they get sprinkled.

Then the entire damn rug falls on the head of whoever is below.

"Sorry!" Nathaniel calls from above, ducking back inside so he can dash down the stairs and reclaim his wayward property. But really, this is on you. You should have been paying better attention.

VI: COURTYARD

One. Bull's eye. Summer has been kind to Nathaniel's rheumatism, so he has been shooting as much as possible these days. Occasionally he swaps the family longbow out for a shortbow, and finds it a peculiar fit after so long with the heavier draw weight.

Two. Slightly off the bull's eye. He's still on borrowed time. It won't be long before it would be irresponsible for him to go into combat. With or without the looming threat of--no, he's not going to let his mind go there.

Three. Bull's eye. He should be practicing more with the shield. That will be in his future very soon.

Four. Two inches off the bull's eye. Now he stops to go collect his arrows. He needs a break.

VII: WILDCARD

Comments

[keenly]

“Let me see.” Colin isn’t dressed like a mage or an herbalist, wearing his preferred earthy red tunic over normal trousers. He looks more like a merchant than a healer. Robes are a lot of additional fabric, so they are expensive as well as a symbol of the oppression he endured. He is done with all of that. He approaches Marcoulf without particular concern or particular lack of it, merely assessing. But he does not reach out to unwrap the bandage himself, only waits for the patient to do it himself.

[esquive]

Merchant is definitely preferable to a mage ensemble in any case. One might bring to mind traders met on the road selling palm oil from their saddlebags and calling them curatives, but the other-- well. No matter. It's not why he's here.

Neither is unwrapping his hand, come to think of it. Honestly he'd much rather just take his salve and be on his way, but come to think of it maybe the Inquisition has a policy for those sorts of things. Anyone would come in with a rag wrapped around their finger or temple and beg off a little something to put on a pretend cut or scrape. So: fair enough. Marcoulf wrinkles his nose, fights briefly with the tuck of the bandage end, and unravels the cloth.

The skin on the back of the hand shines strangely, small cracks forming across otherwise too-smooth flesh. It's not the worst burn in the world, but it's clearly sat for a few days under wraps and is trending closer toward going strange than healing right.

"The joints are getting stiff," he explains, as if to justify his place here.

[keenly]

Colin examines without touching. He is still a new healer, and has not seen everything there is to see. But it is important to see, so he can deduce what the problem is and how best to help it.

"I'll get you elfroot with a bit of thyme in there as well," he agrees, moving to begin crushing herbs. "That will heal it faster and make your joints better. It'll all be mixed up with honey, so make sure to keep it wrapped so it doesn't get sticky as you go about the day. Change the dressing once a day and wrap it in a clean cloth and you'll be right as rain in a few days."

[esquive]

He carefully folds the cloth over, ginger about the lines of his fingers and the flex of skin across his knuckles, but doesn't stray more than a step or two deeper into the room. "Keep it wrapped, change the dressing once a day. Clean cloth," he repeats, an easy litany to show he's paying attention even as his eye roves around the infirmary.

"The honey won't stick to the wrapping?" It's an absent question. He smooths the bundle of cloth and tucks it into his pocket. It probably doesn't meet the definition of clean any more.