faderift | open; left to the wind and rain

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open; left to the wind and rain

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.

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For the length of a couple of shallow breaths, in and out again, Samson just looks at her. A slow blink finishes up the pause like punctuation.The full shape of his mouth twitches, and something like a laugh quivers through his voice as he says,

"You've got no idea who I am, have you."

Attempting subtlety, the guard now affixes them both with a sidelong stare, moving only his eyes, not his head. He is very adept at appearing only marginally interested.

"Why d'you think I've been asking?" she responds, wrinkling her nose at him. She wonders privately whether it's real notoriety or simple egoism that makes him so sure she ought to know about him. Looking at the expression on the guard's face...it seems like the first.

"I'm not from around here. Rifter and all." She shrugs, and then smiles at him - "So, you know, that means that I haven't got any assumptions or anything like that. No reasons to doubt your stories or to make what you say fit my narrative."

"Your narrative, eh." She doesn't seem to understand, he thinks, the more you try to convince a man he can trust you, the less he's likely to do it—but that's kids for you.

Ah, bugger it. It's not as though he's in a hurry to get back to the embroidery.

"All right, all right. If it'll get you to stop pestering me." Please don't stop pestering him, he's very lonely. "I suppose I can tell you about the last time I lived here. That's before all the," with a gesture to vaguely indicate the guard, and his plain prison issue clothes, "you know. This."

He takes a moment to cough into his hand, clear his throat and so on, then folds his arms on the table and leans over them a bit.

"Back then, before the uprising and the war, the Gallows didn't belong to the Inquisition, it belonged to the Templar Order. The Circle was here, too—where the mages were made to live, for their protection and for ours. Didn't turn out so well for anyone, that... but that's a story you could hear anywhere.

"I was a templar, myself. Still am, deep down, I like to think." Determined not to go down that road for once, he presses on. "Anyway, we all lived in shared accommodations, two or more to a room, much like they do now in those towers. One year, I was paired up with a young templar from Ferelden—an absolute wreck, he was, jumping at every sound, suspicious of every shadow. Had terrible nightmares, too. Would wake up in a panic most nights." Another laugh creeps into his voice, this time softer. "The first time I went over there to shake him out of his dream, he awoke to see my shape there in the dark over his bed and nearly hit the ceiling, and it was so sudden it gave me a fright, and I cursed out loud. There was all kinds of commotion in the barracks... a few men even came running up in their smallclothes with swords drawn. One of them had stopped to put on his helmet. Looked like a right tit."

Smiling crookedly, Samson goes to cup his chin in his palm—but glances into it, instead, and puts it back down where it was. That crease between his eyebrows has just reappeared. "Anyway, poor kid felt like a right tit. He could hardly look anyone in the eye for days. After that, if it seemed he could use some help to escape a dream, I made certain to crouch so he wouldn't think a demon had really come for him in the night."

Oh. She realizes, over the course of his story, exactly why he's here, and why he's under guard. He's one of the red templars. She hadn't really expected that the term would be so literal - that they'd truly have red in their eyes. She'd thought it'd be more metaphorical. But, well, there you were.

Is she horrified, talking to one of them? As he speaks, she takes a brief moment to absently probe her feelings. She knows some things about the red templars: they'd turned to red lyrium to give them particular powers, they'd allied with Corypheus because they'd thought that he'd help them. She's heard rumors that lyrium is beastly addictive. It's hard, therefore, not to feel some pity for a man who'd followed a leader who'd made him promises, who was struggling with a chemical need, who had been used by the people who ought to have been protecting him - No. She doesn't have any hatred or horror for him.

"Poor thing," she says, ostensibly about the templar from Ferelden. It is a sweet story, at the end of the day. Maybe not a happy one, not with all the talk of nightmares and demons, but it's sweet. So there's a little smile that touches her lips as she asks - "Did you become friends, then? The two of you?"

Samson nods at her assertion: yes, indeed, poor little thing. He hadn't any chance to ask if the nightmares still persist today—rather, he had many chances, but none of them seemed ideal. It's a bit hard not to second guess your own judgment when your track record resembles his.
Just a bit.

And oh, that question gives him pause. What's the right way to answer this? Is there one? Finally, he decides, "I suppose you could say that. When I think back on it, I always find myself wishing there'd been more time." He falls silent, then, reflection in the lowering of his eyes and the cant of his head. It's not a silence asking to be filled.

"But," wow, that barely came out. Clearing his throat—there, better. "But, he went on to become Knight-Captain, and now he's the Commander of the Inquisition. That's right." Two smart raps of his knuckle on the tabletop. So there, demons.

"Oh - " Kitty doesn't pay a great deal of attention to the Inquisition hierarchy, especially the ones off in Skyhold, but certain names are unavoidable. So - "Cullen Rutherford? It was him you were friends with?"

That could explain why he's still alive, she supposes. If he had a friend in a high place, that might have been enough to preserve him. That's a slightly troubling thought - it oughtn't work like that, and mercy should be given equally to all - but it would explain a bit.

"When did you...split apart?"

"That's right," he answers, with a nod, satisfied that she guessed correctly—that she, a Rifter, pays attention enough to know the names of advisors. More so that she didn't dismiss it as a fabrication. Why in the world, after all, would someone like the Commander want to know someone like him?

Ah. Another question. His left hand, resting in a fist on the table, squeezes—knuckles stand out through his skin, creamy pale—and then relaxes. Whatever sentiment lives in that gesture does not appear anywhere else, least of all his face, where the full shape of his mouth goes crooked with something approaching fondness.

"Maker's balls, but you're nosy. Anyone ever tell you that?" He goes on, though, not giving her time to protest. "It was years back we went our separate ways. I left the Order, while he stayed on."

The guard, silent with patience until now, snorts aloud, and Samson preempts an interruption from either of them by raising his hand sharply. Stop.

"That'll do, Ser Brice."

Being neither under this traitor's command nor accustomed to taking orders from prisoners, Ser Brice rapidly achieves the ruddy appearance of a man who would love to beat the hell out of another man, but values his job over immediate satisfaction and so instead exercises a heroic degree of self-restraint.

Kitty's eyes flick over to observes Ser Brice's rather stuffed expression. On the one hand, he obviously left the templars to join the red templars, which is a wicked, awful organization. So she oughtn't like him, and she ought to feel sympathy for Ser Brice. But at the same time, Samson's a prisoner and doesn't allow that to cow him - he's just so bold and cheeky.

She lifts a hand to cover her smile, not wanting to frustrate Ser Brice further. A clearing of her throat, and she manages to banish the last traces of laughter from her face.

"Well," she says, because she senses that he's going to start digging in his heels soon enough, and she wants to smooth the path a bit. "Another nosy question. You're cooped up in the castle, right? Is there anything you want that I could get for you? I don't know, chocolate something?"

Ser Brice saw that, Kitty Jones!!! But he will not let his personal feelings direct his duty, and so resolves to stare straight ahead at nothing, like a pissed-off statue, until the prisoner's yard time comes to an end. Then he will have the satisfaction of slamming a door in Samson's face. Soon... soon.

Samson can't help chuckling, himself, and so treats Kitty to a glimpse of his crooked teeth. One of them, crowded among its brethren, rather resembles a fang. They are clean, though, just for the record. More or less. Anyway, it's not the guard's temper that amuses him so, but the offer she's made.

"Chocolate something, eh. Nah... never had much of a sweet tooth, honestly. You needn't trouble yourself." At last he sits up in his chair, looking like he might be ready to leave, but he's only making room to wipe his hand—his right hand—against his buckled prisoner's shirt before offering it to Kitty across the table. "Name's Samson, by the way."

It's a large hand, with long fingers, befitting a man of his stature. Pale and faintly trembling. The fingers are cold.

Even though she does find his appearance still a bit disconcerting, a bit off-putting, she takes his hand without reservation. And then immediately wrinkles her nose.

"Your hands are freezing," she says, and then declares, firmly - "Gloves, then. Good fleece-lined ones. You can't possibly turn that down. And perhaps a hat - it's chilly and getting chillier, after all. And I bet this awful old place gets drafts, doesn't it?"

Being well accustomed to such a reaction, Samson is neither offended nor ashamed, and in fact continues to look entertained as this cheeky little bird decides what's best for him.

"Got some gloves, actually—it's just that I've yet to wear them. Besides," wiggling his fingers briefly, "they're always like that. Comes with the lyrium, I'm afraid. Might be worth remembering for the next time you shake a hand."

"What do you mean?" The lecturing is paused for just a moment as it gives way to curiosity. Her head tilts very slightly to the side. "Lyrium makes you cold?"

Lyrium is, on the whole, a very strange-seeming and mysterious substance, and one she doesn't understand a bit of. Which naturally means that she wants to know everything about it, even though it seems rather horrifying, on the whole.

"That's right. Take it for long enough, it'll put a chill in your hands," he says, "and your feet. Won't be taking my boot off out here, though, so you'll just have to believe me on that one." Hardy har har, and yet, as their conversation fully completes its turn, his conviviality dims. "And that's not the only thing it does. It's addictive, you see. Once they start you on those little blue bottles, you can't stop without pain. Not without unbelievable pain. Suffering like you can't even imagine.

"But the real kicker is, if you keep taking it, it makes you feeble—takes your mind from you, piece by piece, one memory after another, gone, all your wits burned away, until there's barely a shred of you left." Rough voice gone low with gravitas, a spark of passion in his eye. "Every templar you meet, every single man and woman under that flaming sword, will suffer the same fate. Every one of them, Kitty. It's how the Chantry keeps us chained."

She watches him as he speaks. It's not pity in her face, not exactly - but compassion. And concern, too. Concern for him, for the others, for the dreadful cruelty of what happens to them...And she never even realized.

"Then - " She stumbles a little over her speech, unsure what to say, what even to ask. There are so many questions boiling inside her, and so much sorrow for him and his people... "What about...you? Are you still - taking it?"

Pity would be fine, too; he'll take pity over being ignored or discarded any day. Anything to feel as though someone cares what happens to him or his brethren, honestly. (Former brethren, they'd want to emphasize, no doubt. But he never stopped being a templar, not in his heart.)

Bless her little face, though, and the look upon it, for reminding Samson that she is quite young and that perhaps he should check himself before she's genuinely upset by his dumb ass. It's all but impossible to suppress his feelings on this subject, but he can at least try to tone it down a bit.

"I am," he says, attempting to relax. "For now, at least. Just a sip now and then, to stave off the worst of it. Had to trade information for it. Not too proud of myself for that part, but... heh, I suppose that's in keeping with everything else I've done, so..." So, whatever. He releases a heavy sigh, deeply, honestly.

"Not enough to hurt you, I hope," she says. Her hands twist together on the table, fingers anxiously knotting. How utterly - completely - Assuming, of course, that it is true. It's possible that he's overstating the cruelty of it. Demons, back home, would sometimes whimper about the harsh treatment they faced to try to get a rise out of her - but then again, as she'd heard from Bartimaeus, those weren't actually lies, were they.

She bites her lip. She half wants to look up at the guard to try to read his face - but that'd be a sign of doubt, and she doesn't want Samson to think she doubts him. That'd be so dreadfully cruel. So, instead, she keeps her eyes on Samson's face.

"Is it actually even needed for your - abilities? Or is making you subservient all they're after?"

Not enough to hurt you, she says, and Samson shakes his head, judiciously keeping his mouth closed. That damage has already been done, you see. One day, he too will become a hulking aberration of nature, bristling with red crystals, just like all those boys still out on the march. There'll be nothing left of him but violent agony. One day.

Ah, but see how the conversation keeps steadily on its downward spiral—might as well lean into it, then.

"It does make us stronger, gives us a real boost, but is it necessary? That's the real question. You could ask, but the Chantry, they're experts at stepping on—"

Having made up his mind about the situation, the infuriated Ser Brice has just come up behind Samson, and now grips the meat of his shoulder with one big gauntleted hand, though stops short of jerking him completely out of his seat. "That's enough," he snarls. "You may be allowed to wander this fortress, but I won't allow you to pollute this young lady's mind with your foul heresy! Your time's up. Get up!"

"All right, all right..." Samson mutters, and takes his time rising despite the manhandling, collecting his craft hoop and such on the way up. "Take it easy, would you?" An apologetic look to Kitty, then—though not without a bit of a smile. "See?" He winks, even, on his way from the table. "Well, Kitty Jones, it's been a pleasure."

A bit of parting advice from the guard, along with a stern glare: "This one spreads only poison, girl. You'll keep away if you know what's good for you."

"And I'll be waiting for my hat."

"Shut your mouth, traitor!"

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