Open Catch-All | If my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy

[keenly]

WHO: Colin & you
WHAT: Catch-all for March/Drakonis
WHEN: Entire month
WHERE: Kirkwall, Val Royeaux
NOTES: Content warnings, OOC notes, links to other relevant posts, etc.

Sidony and Alexandrie

Since the Veil tore in this tower, Colin has had his hands full with melancholia patients. Some just need a little care and nurturing; others require alcohol infused with senna and any number of herbal teas for anxiety. He is in the process of stuffing leaves into a bottle when the door opens. He does not look up.

"Can I help you?" he asks distractedly, coming out of the haze of thought he always falls into when performing menial tasks.

Anders

There's a knock on Anders' door, and it is followed by Colin's muted smile as he holds up a bottle of wine.

"I'm, um. It's stupid, but I'm moving out. Officially. Just got permission this morning. Celebratory drink, for another mage getting out of the Gallows?"

Bartimaeus

To say it's a shock to see Bartimaeus casually in the hallway would be both correct and misleading, as if he would merely freeze in place instead of swearing and starting backwards, dropping everything he was holding. Also, he's not near any doors, which is. Fun. But it has occurred to him that this may simply be a weird rifter and not a demon, especially given the shard on his hand. Doesn't make him want to be in this hallway, but it does make him look embarrassed at his alarm as he gives a sheepish wave.

"Sorry," he says even though it was his own crap he dropped, which he stoops to pick up. "Hello, um. Again. How are you?"

Because their last encounter totally ended well.

Wildcard

Comments

[reshapes]

It's a funny thing, isn't it? He's heard all kinds of chatter about the Rifter who went to the dungeon since he's been out, but very few people seem to realize the individual in question might very well be the Rifter they're sitting right next to as they gossip. There's a kind of cool security in that sort of anonymity; it means he really only has to be on the lookout about being on his best behavior in front of a few select persons. That chap who's the head of Research, for example.

This one, he thinks, doesn't really qualify.

Which is good, because he doesn't have this pocketful of raw eggs for nothing. He'd hate for them to go to waste.

--But more on that later. Right this second, the boy raises his hand in a mirroring wave. His is rather more enthusiastic. He smiles and it is the fundamental opposite of benign, but who's counting?

"Oh, just grand. I seem to have gotten lost on my way deeper into the dungeons, but wouldn't you know it? I don't really mind."

[keenly]

A squint. But there's no questioning what he just said, because either the kid is a criminal counting on his statement to be outrageous enough to be taken as humor, or he really is just joking. Either way, doesn't require immediate combative behavior from Colin, as Colin has a very healthy sense of self-preservation by his own estimation. He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it as the smell comes over him. Sweet Mother, the smell. He raises a finger, trying to breathe as little as possible.

"About that. Come with me?"

He can keep an eye on the whatever-he-is, but more importantly, fetch him a bar of soap.

[reshapes]

Something in the boy's expression closes slightly. His eyes narrow. His good temper slips by a few degrees as he regards that raised finger suspiciously. He's not quite leaning back on his heels, but it's a very near thing.

"Why? Where are we going?"

And here he'd been about to unleash some unspeakable horrors on the poor lad.

[keenly]

"Um." He gets how the wrong impression might have come across, but the truth is that the right impression isn't all that much better.

"To get you some basic necessities," he decides is how he will put it. "Rifters typically don't arrive here with much. Bowl and spoon, comb, towel, soap, that sort of thing would be good for you to have."

[reshapes]

Look, he might believe it if it was coming from someone who hadn't spooked and bolted so fast from the dungeon that he'd left an outline of his own body in dust behind him. As it is, this sounds rather like being invited to stick his hand in a bear trap. Oh no, Batimaeus. Don't be silly, Bartimaeus. I'm only trying to help you. I'm definitely not planning to put you on the Essence Rack or lock you in iron lined room the moment your back is turned. Well, fat chance. You'll not catch Bartimaeus of Uruk unprepared today, bucko.

That doesn't answer the matter of Why though, and to be honest - he's getting a little sick of endless mystery. But at least there's an easy enough way to go about solving this one. He plays along.

"Oh? That's very kind of you. Here I was under the impression that I'd have to slurp my morning coffee out of my cupped hands, but a bowl! And a whole spoon all for myself! What marvelous luxury. Lead on, friend."

[keenly]

The why is because he smells. He smells really bad. It's a cliché about people in poverty, but soap is cheap and so is water.

"Don't make jokes," he says flatly. "My family had exactly one bowl and spoon each, and we were lucky."

[reshapes]

"Who's joking? I said luxury, didn't I?" He says, tone all breathless faux offense. "You people aren't very good at recognizing genuine sentiment, do you know that? I could shed a real tear and someone would appear around a corner to say 'Oh tosh, he's obviously faking it.' Cynics, as far as the eye can see."

[keenly]

"You're not wrong," Colin admits with a shy smile. Is he reading that right? It's like Byerly all over again. He pushes open a door and goes into his old room, which he's still moving things out of. Starts picking through things, some of which are left over from his old store. Bowl and spoon. Towel. Soap. He can't find a comb, so he wraps everything else up in the towel and turns to pass them over.

"The kitchens and baths are both downstairs. You know how to get there?"

[reshapes]

Bartimaeus follows, but very specifically doesn't cross the threshold into the room beyond. Thanks, but no thanks. The towel wrapped bundle is accepted with all the caution of being presented a live bomb.

"Obviously. What about them?"

[keenly]

"You...might want to try. The baths. They're really lovely, but do use the ones in the Templar tower because they're hot."

A faint, apologetic wince.

[reshapes]

The dark boy's suspicious expression narrows still further. The bundle is held more or less at arm's length.

When he speaks, it's very deliberate indeed: "Are you trying to imply that I smell?"

[keenly]

A glance away. A glance back, eyes narrowing, the apology wearing off altogether as he meets the demon's eyes.

"Li'l bit."

[reshapes]

The boy draws himself to his full height. It's not a very impressive one, really; in fact standing as near to eachother as they are, it's very clear that the boy is well over a full hand shorter than Colin is. But his back has gone ramrod straight and his dark eyes are flashing.

"How dare you. Do you know who I am? If you're smelling something, it's either done on purpose or your nose is broken. No self-respecting spiri--no respectable person"-- ugh, what a distasteful thing to call himself. But he is meant to be playing at being one-- "In their right mind would go around smelling like unwashed..."

He trails off. Somewhere in there, his nostrils flared in rage and he took a deep inhale in preparation for a long-winded diatribe. The result was getting a strong whiff of the undeniably sour air about them.

Bartimaeus drops the bundle and regards his own stick thin arms with a noise of revulsion.

[keenly]

"Want me to show you the way?"

[reshapes]

That warrants a sharp look, his upper lip curling back from his teeth like it suddenly isn't interested in being very close to the rest of the boy's body either. "I know how to get there," Bartimaeus spits.

And he isn't interested. Not that he's morally opposed to a bath - no, as far as pleasures of the physical planes go, that one's not half bad. And on a hot day in Alexandria, he wouldn't turn his nose up as taking a plunge in some of the fancier lily pools or swan-diving (literally, while wearing the guise of a swan) off the great lighthouse and into the Mediterranean Sea.

But this isn't about comfort, this is about dust and grime and the scent of other people and oil and soap and dirty air and smoke clinging to his guise like a film, made somehow real and immutable by the same properties keeping him so attached to this shape in the first place. It's gruesome. He's purpling with a mixture of horror and disgust. Literally. For one instant, the boy's face goes a strange shade of red, neck swelling like a toad's about to croak might as his Essence recoils from his own, ugh, flesh.

Then all at once, it's smoothed away. His dark skin clears. His thatch of hair smooths. The dirt under his nails seems to recede and even the stench of his body is peeled back and replaced by some scent of sandalwood oil and the tang of some distant, foreign spice.

On some upper plane, he can see how the rift shard in his hand pulses like a well-fed animal for all his effort.