OPEN: Kirkwail

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Ghosts
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC post. More content warnings than you can shake a stick at, probably, including allusions to slavery and violence in the body of the log post. Please use appropriate warnings in the subject lines for your own threads.

The storm sweeps in like an assassin: unexpected, in the dark, and throwing sharp pricks of sleet at exposed eyes and noses with expert aim and enough force to almost draw blood if the angle is right. Half an hour after the clouds crest the cliffs is all it takes for the city to retract indoors and huddle around fireplaces, settling in for a long night that will, unforeseen, turn into a long two days.

The Gallows, too, is pelted with ice; the walls of the cliffs and the fortress protect much of it from the worst of the wind, but when it can find a path over or through the walls, it slams through windows or doors to scatter papers and snuff out fires.

In the dark, in the rain, hurrying between towers or already accustomed to jumping firelight casting strange shadows and the wind howling like a wounded animal, people might be forgiven if they don't notice at first. But there's a hanging in the courtyard, a dozen translucent wisps of bodies dangling from the idea of nooses, and there's a girl's voice in the basement of the templar tower screaming for her mother, and there's a ghostly man in the library holding the blade of a knife to his palm and whispering this is it, this is it—or maybe there isn't, actually, when you lift your head to pay closer attention.

But as the night wears on they multiply, and they brighten, and even if you haven't noticed them, they begin to notice you.

Comments

[swordproof]

Six herself doesn't seem to be present, at least not initially. The room doesn't change, but the figure int he middle moves as the girl, barely into her teens by the age and size of her, wanders here and there. She doesn't do anything to the bleeding of her lip for a moment, almost at a standstill and shocked by what is happening, but she manages a breath, finally, pushing herself back to her feet. Even at this awkward, ungainly age she's almost as tall as her father is himself, taking from her human rather rather than her elven grandparents.

Hearing someone say something - is it a name? It doesn't seem to register as one - she shakes her head, lifting her fingers to shush the stranger. There's blood staining her finger as she steps forward to the kettle, pouring a cup of coffee and reaching with shaking fingers to place it in front of the man, who doesn't lift his eyes to look at her. He's intent on a book in front of him, flicking some of the pages here and there - something about sailing, manifests, something along the likes, enough to show where Six's inspiration for joining the crew might have come from.

Might. He raises his hand to take his drink and she visibly flinches.

"Stop being a child," he scolds, waving his hand at her. Six moves closer, glancing at John, and when her eyes flick she can see the figure turn to look at him. He looks terrifyingly like Isaac, if John knows the man, but with some differences; wider eyes, shaped, elven ears, a hunch in his shoulders and some light scarring over his eyes. Some tattoos colour the upper muscle of his arm, and Six wilts, moving around to rest her hands on him, fingers shaking.

"I'll get rid of him, father, just - please. Enjoy your breakfast." Six seems even more pale, shaking, panicked, and her eyes flicker for a moment, wide but refusing to shed tears.

[hornswoggle]

It's strange, looking into the past. This moment is an opportunity to lift the curtain and view something that's never been meant for him. He hesitates in the doorway, assessing the shades performing before him. It's an old habit for John, taking a moment to decide upon his role before proceeding any further into a tense situation.

He could turn and walk away. It would cost nothing. All of this has happened before, long ago. What can he do besides bear witness? There seems very little chance of him creating a meaningful disruption.

"If you need me to leave, I'll leave," he says at last, though the look on this child's face twists like a knife in his stomach.

He thinks: Can I dispel this?

John remembers the words. He remembers the crack of small bones into an iron bowl and the blue flame that joined them to sanctify the air and drive any lingering shadows back beyond the veil. But still, he stalls. The idea of performing even unobtrusive, makeshift spell work seems like borrowing trouble. The stakes within the Inquisition are higher than any he has ever experienced in his life. There will be consequences for him and for Nascere (Madi) if he's found out.

[swordproof]

The man leans down, over his books, and dismisses Six as if she doesn't mean anything to him whatsoever. She's nervous as she steps around him, moving behind his body - fearing that he might lash out, clearly, that her busted lip might not be all she's given today. He turns the page and she breathes out sharply, her steps a little more hurried now as she makes her way over to where John is.

She's gangly, as if she's not grown into her body yet. The hair is the same, at least, straw coloured and tucked behind her head, not quite her six foot height but pushing there. It's as if puberty hasn't hit her properly, but less because of her age but because she has not eaten well, slept well, grown well. Her situation has stifled her. There are, however, some defined muscles, some shape to her arms, a clear sign of the training she had begged from town guards.

When she reaches John she can barely look at him, her eyes flicking over his face, nervous and panicked before she breathes out. It's as if she puts on a mask, trying to stand taller despite her bruising, trying to seem bigger than she is.

"What do you want? Why are you here?"

Pursed lips, dark eyes, gazing at him as if defending the man behind her, but the flex of her fingers and the uncertainty she feels - she is afraid.

[hornswoggle]

"I could ask the same of you. And him."

But what more can be said? What use is speaking to a ghost? This fragment of the past, shaken loose from behind the Veil, John can be of no use at all to them. He cannot take this younger, smaller iteration of Six away from her. He cannot dispel her captor from this place, or disentangle these interwoven fates.

"Has he hurt you?" John asks, very quietly. "You don't have to answer, just...before I go, I'd like to know you aren't going to suffer because I opened the wrong door."

The door that John knows he will have to walk back out and allow these shades of the past to continue uninterrupted. And this reassurance will come to nothing in the end. He doesn't stop thinking of that, even as he asks, even as his eyes search this girl's face.

[swordproof]

"I live here."

Voice soft, intent. She narrows her eyes as she gazes at him, not sure what best to say, not sure what to do, but she turns and glances back at the image of her father behind her. Now that she has stepped away it seems as though the focus of the memory is less sure, more shaken; he flickers, spirit-like and dangerous, hands flicking pages. Six swallows, rubbing her palm flat against her bruised lip, pushing the blood away from her skin.

No one has asked before. Everyone knows, of course they do, but no one has asked. They all ignore the colour of her bruises and the scars she gathers, the marks of a doorknob or a ring cutting through her face, her shoulder, her wrist. It's not their business and perhaps they think she deserves it, the awkward, wayward lump that is his daughter.

Shaking her head, she frowns, looking anywhere but John's open face.

"I won't suffer more than I would anyway, sir." Short, to the point. "I woke him late. I didn't have the tea ready. It - It will be fine. All will be well."

[hornswoggle]

You don't have to live here, John wants to tell her.

But that wisdom, what use is it?

"That's not very convincing," John says instead. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to know this about you."

Because he has trespassed. This is good to know, as all details about the members of his crew are good to know, but he knows the delicacy of this knowledge.

"What would you have me do?"

He suspects he knows the answer. She'd have him leave. She'd have him out the door and allow the punishment to befall her. John also knows he can't stall that indefinitely. Whatever could be done about this, the time passed long ago.

[swordproof]

It doesn't seem to her that she has any option - it seems obvious to her that this is the only place for her to stay.

Looking back at the man behind her, Six hesitates before she shakes her head. Arms cross over her chest and she tries, once more, to make herself seem bigger. Stronger. Able. The things she wishes she was but hasn't quite managed to become yet.

"You didn't ask to come here, sir." Like she's meant to know who he is, why the intrusion would be such a problem for the two of them. She clearly has no idea who he is, what she might come to mean to him and his crew, no matter how liked she might be or not be.

Bowing her head, she breathes out.

"Go. Please do not speak to anyone of this. It is not their place - it is mine."

[hornswoggle]

"I won't."

Though she can't really understand the promise she's extracting from him. He'll keep this secret. He may never even mention it to Six herself when next he sees her. If she isn't aware, then what use is there in forcing her to revisit and explain her past to him?

John certainly has no intentions to return that favor in kind.

"Be well," is all he manages at last, a poor parting shot. What comfort will that give her? But all the same, he vanishes out the door and into the night, leaving these shades to play themselves out and vanish.