open; left to the wind and rain

[redinside]

WHO: Raleigh Samson + a star-studded cast
WHAT: a prisoner is brought from Skyhold to Kirkwall
WHEN: first half of Harvestmere, some early evening
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: General warnings TBD, if any.
Inquisition authority figures: I am a slave to your whims; summon this character to meetings etc as you see fit.
Everyone: got an idea not hinted at in this post? Hit me up.

Right, then. Here he is. The one place he was sure he'd never see again, except maybe on its way to ruin, smouldering, the Reds marching through. But that's Kirkwall for you: the rest of the world could be in flames and through the smoke you'd still see the shape of the Gallows. That horrible, wonderful silhouette, getting bigger as the boat bears you across the bay. Your heart thumping you from the inside to remind you, as if you need any reminding, that this is where you belong.

This is where I'll die, Samson thinks, as his feet finally alight on the wood of the dock. It's where I was always meant to die.

While he's being hauled along under a serious guard of five armed templar soldiers, for once it's done without the hood of his prison togs buckled around his head, nor with a heavy hand pushing forward the back of his neck to alter his silhouette. Propelled by giddy dread, he keeps up with them easily despite the chains. He's not smiling or anything so foolish, nor does he particularly feel like smiling, but all the same, he probably doesn't look as penitent as he should...
Oh well.

The group travels up the docks to the stronghold entrance, through forbidding gates and guarded archways to the cobbled yard of Templar Hall, up those long stairs, and inside, no doubt on some official business. From there the prisoner—still under heavy guard—is escorted to the Mage Tower, through the common areas of the lower floor, up to the main residences above, and beyond them.

The group moves efficiently, but not at a hurried pace. Should they pass anyone who wishes to address the prisoner, the retinue will tolerate verbal exchanges—get too close, however, and gloves will reach for sword-belts in warning. These particular templars are not fooling around.

The ultimate destination is a floor occupied by no one else: there Samson will be allowed to dwell, in a room of his own, without black bars, without vermin, where he may easily walk to a window and look through it and see the sky. There, with both fists clutching at the bedding—of modest quality, but immeasurably more comfortable than where he was—he cries himself to sleep like a child.

Comments

[redinside]

Guards are always at the door, that's an old fact by now, but this is the first time that door has been and stayed closed after a guest has come in—and just look who it is, too, paying the first confidential visit. The prisoner is standing by his bed, his hair still damp from a bath, barefoot and half-dressed and quick in the process of correcting it on short notice. He greets Coupe with a pinched smile, like he's fondly revisiting the memory of an old injury.

"I might've," he answers, the momentary flash of his pale belly gone as he finishes pulling the buckled garment down over his waist. It's the usual prison garb; he dare not press for anything more civilian. "The thought never crossed my mind. As it is, I've been fortunate to've kept all my pieces intact. Anyone else tried it with theirs?"

Like this is just another common visit, like they do this all the time. Only, his back's straighter than she'll have ever seen it, and his feet square up as he faces her properly—evidence of the Commander's discipline, no doubt.

[limier]

She doesn't look away: they're feeding him more, he looks less a corpse.

"Talk only," Her chin tips, expression stays. There's no flask in her pocket today, no sad little story, and gone is any trace of the country in her speech. "Thus far. Maker knows when one will get the balls."

It's a matter of time until selfishness and a torniquet align. But none among the Inquisition's rank have been so thoroughly fucked by their decision to stay as Samson must be (would be, if not for Rutherford). Claim what they might, the guards had lost him, and any dog in a trap will go for its paws.

Unless the trap is a lesser chance. He must have some expectation of how the Venatori would receive him — of how his own troops might. There's no story today; not yet.

"Have the terms been made clear?"

[redinside]

Coupe's choice of words gets a token grunt of amusement out of him, and that's all. No smirking, no sidelong leering glances. There is, though, a faint impression of—maybe not fondness, but something adjacent to it. He's not unhappy to see her, anyway.

Ah, yes. The terms.

"They have. More or less." To complete the formality, to make sure they're all reading from the same script, he recites, "I'm to be put to work as the Inquisition's officers here in Kirkwall deem fit—or to any other official use, scientific or for research or what-else. Within reason." No pieces removed, thank you very much. "I'm not to leave the Gallows, except on official duty and under guard. If I fail to cooperate, I'm to be punished as the officers deem fit. And," he adds, with a certain glint in his eye, "my ration's not to be adjusted without the Commander's approval."

Standing there firm-backed, arms still by his sides, no shuffling his weight around, like he's become used to it again. His left hand rests in a relaxed fist; occasionally it squeezes.

[limier]

My ration.

That must do as much for the mass of him. It's impossible not to fall into habit — to gauge size and stance, friend or foe — she'd imagine all of them must do it, if she stopped to imagine an alternative.

Behind her back, a palm curls shut in mirror.

"I understand you have been working with him closely."

It's leading. Obviously. The older she gets, the greater a personal interest seems to move everyone; she can't pretend to barest exemption. Even so: Does Rutherford imagine a future in this? It's not one of pleasant shape.

"Was that an official duty?"

Attention can be turned in any direction. He must have some expectation of how the Venatori would receive him — he must have had some expectation of how the Gallows would.

[redinside]

True, Samson's mass has increased favourably in the last year. Never again will he attain the imposing level of fitness of his younger years, but not for lack of diligence, and as he sees it—as the man in charge decided, no doubt—being put to work will only improve his condition. Not only of the body, but of the mind. If such a thing is possible.

The movement of her hand in the mirror snags his attention briefly, and her question brings it back—brings those devil eyes back to bore into her. Subtle tightening of the skin around them. He is slow to respond. Careful.

"What else would it be?"

[limier]

"Not one assigned to the others."

From Radonis' chambers to the most rotten cell, no one's been taken out on walks. Vedici traded dearly his privileges. Instead:

"I cannot think the Commander to spare such attention did he not deem the matter important." The tilt of her forehead, slightly more intent. Fingers loosen, splay in gesture. "Unusual that he would not specify its continuance, no?"

That he would risk transferring his — what? Friend? Thorn? At all. Might have been pressured into it, by Kirkwall's breakthroughs, or eyes over his shoulder. But there are eyes here, too. Sewn into all the bloody clothes. Painted on the walls. Black upon red.

[redinside]

Woof, Coupe really is a hunter, isn't she. How quickly and directly she's come at him with this—it's impressive, he thinks, even as the insinuation begins to nettle him with pricks of doubt.

"That's what this was meant to be, I thought. A continuation of service." His left hand squeezes again around the twinge in his palm, longer now, not to relieve it, but to feel it more clearly. A sliver to dull the thorns. "If you've no use for me here, then send me back. It makes no difference to me." Yes it does. Yes it does. It's everything. He needs to be here, he needs it to mean something, this is where he belongs, this is where he's meant to die.

Samson tries very hard to keep his tone neutral when he adds, staring her right in the eyes, "Ser."