[open]

[unshut]

WHO: Fitcher + You
WHAT: a new face
WHEN: early Solace
WHERE: the gallows
NOTES: n/a, will add if necessary

i. A STAIRWELL (closed to whoever gets there first)
Climb a particular back staircase of the Gallows at a particular hour of the too-sweltering afternoon and there, as if waiting, is a woman in a mottled blueish cloak tossed over her shoulder and a pipe tucked behind her ear. She is in the company of - indeed, is sitting on - a great dark trunk bound shut with two heavy leather straps, however it can't be very good company as she seems relieved when someone appears above or below her.

"And here I was beginning to think it was hopeless." She's an older woman with a voice that sounds like a rich, dark wine - low and earthy, accompanied by some bursting ripe red fruit. "I don't suppose I could tempt you into helping me carry this the rest of the way, do you?"

Thump. The woman gives the dark trunk a sturdy pat and her new assistant an encouraging smile.

ii. THE FERRY
"Had you been to Kirkwall before your time with Riftwatch, or was it the Inquisition which first brought you here?"

It's small talk of the highest order, made as the ferry creeps across the chopping water of the harbor toward the city proper rising in ugly multicolored steppes above them. Fitcher, seated with one ankle hooked across her knee, isn't actually looking at it. She has her hand raised to shield her eyes and her face, discolored by a faint sheen of sweat from the dense heat, is turned low.

"You must forgive my curiosity," she confesses from the shadow of her hand. "It's this or focusing on my stomach, I'm afraid."

She does seem slightly green about the gills.

iii. WICKED GRACE (single thread please, no tagging order)
Night draws in. Every other lamp and candle is extinguished to save the oil and wicks, and what few fires are required to burn in Gallows hearths during summer are
stoked up in turn. It's a grim and grimy place by day, hollowed and painted with shadow at night. The dining hall is no exception; it is far too large for the sparse smattering of people in it, and would seem somehow both claustrophobic and intolerably cavernous if not for the evening's entertainment:

It's Fitcher's turn to deal. She does so with good cheer, flicking cards deftly toward their respective players around half eaten plates of cheese and bread nicked from the larder, the discarded skin of a cut apple, a bottle of wine (or two) and a series of cups, well attended or otherwise.

"Tell me it isn't always this quiet. I'll be disappointed if we don't live up to the rumors."

iv. WILDCARD
You know the drill.

Comments

[unshut]

Yes, well. She absorbs the flutter of his eyelashes into that crooked smile, and doesn't drive him along with the trunk before her (though in theory, the option is there on the table if she weren't presently ever so grateful).

"I didn't think I'd find many of those here. But it's somehow reassuring to know the type exists everywhere, don't you think? One should never turn up their nose at job security."

[bouchonne]

"Oh, you'd be surprised," he responds cheerily. "I could scorch your diligent ears with tales of shirking. Don't be fooled by the reputation we have for courage and bravery - we're a sorry lot, in truth."

He shoots her a wink.

"So what did you come here to do, fair madame?"

[unshut]

"To put my feet up, apparently. I thought I might join the Inquisition proper; imagine my surprise to arrive and find its arm in Kirkwall having lopped itself off. But there again is another lucky turn. I suspect your old friends will soon find themselves living in tents on battlefields and I don't much care for sleeping on the ground. --It's this one."

A tip of the head, gesturing to the doorway off the landing they've just wound themselves up to.

"And yourself?"

[bouchonne]

"To get myself behind an army," he answers easily. "I'm part of the diplomatic corps here - such as they are - ah, here we are - " He thumps his heel backwards to swing the door inwards, then scoots inside to set the trunk down. "And diplomats are, gloriously, defended. Quite helpful for my coward's heart."

He dusts off his hands, and sighs, and adds, "Besides which, it's a living. Most certainly better than sleeping on the ground."

[unshut]

"How very prudent of you."

She straightens from her side of the trunk and takes a moment with her hands at her hips to survey the shared room. Whatever she sees must satisfy her, for she fetches the trunk up again and dredges it to one of the empty beds and begins to undo the its heavy closures.

"Please, take a seat. My home is as yours, my noble hero. I'll be just a moment with your prize."

[bouchonne]

"How kind you are," he says, and sits, and wonders if she'll poison him. It seems like a dreadful lot of effort to go through - sneaking into the Gallows, feigning to be a new recruit, having a poisoned bottle on the off-chance that her helper would take wine - but it's not impossible. Lesser crimes have been committed to strike at the enemy's leadership.

"What's your name, fine lady?"

[unshut]

"Fitcher."

It's a fine name, she thinks, and lifts the lid on the trunk. The contents are packed neatly: squares of fabric which must be shirts and light trousers and fair undergarments; a thick stack of leatherbound notebooks bound with bits of twine, and a big square wooden box inlaid with paler wood in the shape of animals and leaves; a big ugly knife strapped to the underside of the trunk's lid; and a series of slim bottles with glass so dark that the contents of most must remain a mystery.

But not this one. One she draws free, pops the cork, and sniffs. She takes a swig for herself, then holds it out to him. It smells like dark and fruit, a somber winter wine.

"And yours, sir?"

[bouchonne]

She wouldn't kill herself to get to him, belike. He takes the bottle and drinks it, and hums thoughtfully. A fine bottle. A little sweeter than is his usual dry preference, but still, quite a pleasing vintage.

"Rutyer," he answers, and then - so as to not slime himself with the brush that might be applied to the fouler members of his family - "Byerly Rutyer. You're a lady of Antiva, if my ear does not deceive me?"

Her possessions give no clue as to her profession. They give some clue as to her character, he fancies; it's not many women who would let a strange man catch a glimpse of her underthings.

[unshut]

A pause. She tips her face to him, and her expression is warm - pleased, maybe, to be recognized. "You have a good ear, Messr Rutyer. Have you spent any time there?"

[bouchonne]

"I had a dreadful lover from Antiva," he answers cheerily. "A monster of a woman. And there are a few - hm - well, Nevarrans-Antivans here. Plus there was this play I adored back home, about an assassin who fell in love with the Merchant-Princess he'd been sent to murder...I fear that the Anteevan accents soundeeeed rather laik deeees, but still, one does sometimes recognize the cant of the speech, no?"

Another slug from the bottle, and then he offers it back to her.

[unshut]

She takes the bottle back by its slim neck and clucks her tongue. "You've seen none of the best parts, then. When this is all over and you have no more need to hide behind an army, you must go to Afsaana. You can spend your whole day in the public house varandas above the spice markets and the Rialto is as clear as a sapphire there. You'll forget all about your terrible lover. I swear it."

She takes a pull from the bottle, then turns it back to him in favor of rummaging through the top layers of the trunk's clothing. A stocking is draped across her shoulder.

"I should warn you, however. You may never care to return to Ferelden after."

[bouchonne]

"Ah, Ferelden," he says with a wrinkle of his nose, and trusts that communicates...well, precisely what it is useful to communicate. Whatever the woman wants to read into it. Contempt, most likely, and dismissal, and none of the very complicated emotions he feels in truth.

"Would you show me, madame?" he asks, resting his hip against her table and leaning his weight upon it. "Would you be my guide?"

[unshut]

"It would be my pleasure, Messr Rutyer." It's an easy, immediate answer - not dismissive, but too casual to be serious. She shoots him a sly sidelong glance and shrugs. "I'll keep my fingers crossed for us."

Ah, here is what she was looking for. Fitcher produces a little square of yellow fabric, bright as tumeric, from the trunk. She holds it out to him.

"My token.'

[bouchonne]

"Ah," he says, eyes glittering, voice mirthful. He takes it, and bows over it - somehow, a gesture simultaneously mocking and graceful.

"Your token. May I be your champion, then, madame?"

[unshut]

She laughs then, and it's a pleasantly low sound in the old stone room. A good sense of humor should be appreciated.

"Tell me, how long have you been with-- well, however you would refer to it?"

The stocking is stuffed back into the trunk; the box and bound journals are removed and set aside. She doesn't bother to pull the lid shut again.