[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]

There's no worry there. Her attention is firmly fixed to a point between their feet in the bottom of the boat. "No. Can you imagine?"

There is water sloshing around in the bilge under the foot boards, tilting back and forth with every slap of water against the ferry's side. She promptly lifts her eyes to him, hand still used as a shield to block out as much of the harbor as is possible.

(Why an island fort of all places?)

"I've been to Kirkwall. Just once - as a girl. I was thinking of how strange it looked without the Chantry."

[libratus]

"Ah." —might, under other circumstances, be all Ilias has to say about that subject. This is not his city, and the rebellion hardly his war to speak of, one way or another. But these aren't other circumstances; this is a woman trying desperately not to vomit on his shoes, and it seems cruel to pass up the opportunity for distraction. Not when one is waiting at the tip of his tongue, beside the memory of a certain sharp smile.

"There is a garden now, in its place. Rows of flowers that must be blooming themselves into dust in this heat, and a grove of shade trees at the center. A smooth stone wall at one end, to carry the names of the dead."

"It is— not beautiful." Sheepish, "Forgive me, I do not think there is a word in Trade, for the sort of clarity that comes from time spent amongst the dead. It seems an important place for reflection, I suppose, even if that takes another form now."

[unshut]

"Ah. I suppose that's one way to make do. Flowers though - in this heat! The Viscount must pay a small army of gardeners to fetch water day and night to mind them."

Which, in turn, might be all she would say on the matter herself were it not for the rise and fall of the boat about them. Or is it the sea doing the wobbling? The horizon, maybe? Don't think too hard on the subject; it's unpleasant in every direction.

"Do you find you have more appreciation for such places than most? Being Nevarran."

[libratus]

"Being one of the Mortalitasi, perhaps. I suppose there is a professional interest." Apologetic, again, for getting his death nerdery all over her terrible ferry trip. "I don't imagine being Nevarran makes anyone appreciate death any more than Antivan, wine. Or sailing, for that matter."

Which they're not talking about.

"--Sorry. Have you come to meet with someone, or are you join us? At Riftwatch."

No one vomits on the ferry for a diplomatic visit, surely.

[unshut]

"Joining up, I'm afraid. I don't suppose anyone would be amenable to moving the whole thing to the mainland, would they?"

A thin joke - one which she moves away from with all the grace the rest of her present state is lacking. She's pointedly refused to touch the little boat's combing to steady herself. Sitting on the ferry's bench is bad enough - planting a hand to feel the rise and fall seems somehow disastrous.

"Does Riftwatch have much need for a man of your profession? I was unaware of any demand in the Marches for it."

No offense.

[libratus]

"Not as such, no." The quirk of his mouth is wry; he's had far worse offenses, since coming to Kirkwall. "But we have need of researchers, and combat mages, and— I suppose diplomats, now. I assist in liaising with the Chantry."

Which ought give an idea how understaffed they are. At least he seems in good humor about it.

"Have you an idea which division might suit you?"

[unshut]

Liaising with-- she laughs, a low bark of good (and blatantly bewildered) humor. Yes, that does put things into perspective, doesn't it?

"I wasn't aware that I'd have a choice in the matter, to tell you the truth. I don't suppose you might have any recommendations? Naturally, my preference is not to toil away under a tyrant if it can be at all avoided."