faderift | open | baby come back

"So let's say - "

This candidate, Ghito Acordolo, is well-dressed. He's handsome. He's impressively coiffed. He's also an elf, and yet somehow he does not seem to show the least sign of shame or apology for it. Which, bravo, but at the same time, it seems a little odd that an elf in diplomacy seems so utterly unaware of the effect that his race would have on others. Perhaps that's part of his technique? Just wowing them with self-confidence?

"Let's say," Acordolo goes on, "you've just said something to offend me. Right. Let's say that. You've said something to offend me - " At this, he stands up, dramatically, so suddenly that his chair tips over and clatters to the ground behind him - "And so I say to you, I say, I say, then you can take your offer, and you can shove it down Corypheus' throat. And then I do this - "

With a broad, sweeping gesture, Acordolo knocks his glass from the dinner table so that it smashes on the ground. And then he puffs out his chest, as though expecting applause.

"And how's that for diplomacy, huh?"

Thranduil is feeling—something. He cannot quite put a name on the emotion, but it falls somewhere between ‘flattered’ and ‘threatened’, and he is struggling with this new circumstance on a most profound level.

He leans back in his chair, and takes a drink from his unbroken glass, crossing his legs with ankle resting upon the knee of the other.

With the hand holding the glass, he gestures, elaborates— “A young Orlesian lady has just made a disparaging comment regarding your height. There are no other witnesses. What do you do?”

One of the candidates for diplomacy head somehow manages to break away from his guides. He ends up, somehow, in some room in some corner of the Gallows, up in the mage tower, crouched down, wringing a handkerchief between his hands.

"Oh," he's saying to himself, "oh, no, no, no, no, no..."

When he hears a noise at the door, he wheels towards its source, hurling himself backwards so that his back is braced against the wall. He stares, protuberant eyes very very wide, and then whispers as he swabs his handkerchief across his forehead, "Can you feel it? Can you feel it in here?"

"Yeah." Melys agrees, without consideration, or particular interest. She seems to be looking for something just beyond Herbertus — "All over the place, ain't it?"

Everything before now has gone well, with Calandris, who has surveyed the Gallows like someone looking at a mess she intends to clean up, rather than one that disgusts or exasperates her. Pointed questions. An occasional finger checking for dust, whether literal and metaphorical, and finding nothing so filthy she wouldn't be able to handle it.

But now:

"I'm leaving now," she says, crisp as ever, as she returns from her short unsupervised journey from the dining hall to a privy and back during dinner. "Do I need an escort to accompany me to collect my bag?"

Unfortunately, the person who looks up from his papers at that question is John.

"Do you?" he asks. It's a sincere question, if not necessarily the most diplomatic of queries. "You seem as if you could handle whatever this charming little city threw at you."

A beat.

"Of course, not that I mean to imply there's anything to fear within the city walls."

"Look," Gaudreau says.

He has the sort of muscles that compel people to do what he says. Maybe that could be useful. Maybe the undercut and the tattoos curling around his enormous biceps will catch people off guard, when they come looking to be diplomacied. Maybe the fact that he answered his interview questions with a squint, like he thought each one was a little unnecessary, is a negotiation tactic. Maybe he's carrying around that dulcimer for... a reason. Any reason.

"Look," he says again, in a deep voice from his deep chest, "this has been something, but does anyone want to actually hear me play?"

From the margins in which a number of people are trying and failing to be subtle about eavesdropping on their latest candidate's performance: a bark of uncontained good humor.

Fitcher raises her hand to claim it. "I would."

Gaudreau raises a hand to point to her (rude? but, again, perhaps a tactic?) with an expression like, see? Someone who knows what's what.

The dulcimer does not require much arrangement to be ready, and then it all but disappears beneath his hands. He is proportioned like a human—or maybe more like a Qunari—who's simply had height removed, without a bit of broadness lost in the process, and if cooked his hands could feed a family of four and probably would taste faintly of metal, but from beneath them emerges a song that's light, even sprightly.

It goes on for quite some time. His eyes are closed, impervious to any confusion or impatience.

Fitcher leans in to her nearest neighbor, pitching her voice quite low to remark, "I rather like him. Quite good with his hands."

"Sure, he plays a decent harp, what's not to like," comes a feigned sarcastic remark. "Why don't you just marry him."

All faux scandalized: "Why Serah Barrow, I've only just met the man."

"Marriages have been based on less. Besides, he'll keep you entertained, if not always attended to."

"I would thank you to hold your tongue. That's my husband to be you're casting aspersions on."

"I'm casting no such thing." He folds his hands behind his head.
"Besides, if he's so great, maybe I'll just marry him."

She gives him a sharp look, quite appalled indeed, and then raises her hand again. Calling out to her fiance: "Messere? Pardon me, Messere? This gentleman would like to know if you can sing as well as you play."

"Oh."

It's more of a sigh, really. Luisa De Hermita stands in the doorway to the room with her clasped hands held under her chin. Her dark eyes take in the sight of what is to come.

It's... well, it's a room.

"I can just picture it." She leaves her fingers interlaced, save for her index fingers, which she uses to point forward. There. "A tower, for them to rest upon. I had it built specially to fit my office at my previous appointment, but I can have it redone. Or commission a new one. How is your carpenter? Of course, they prefer a knit. But I would supply the knit, of course."

Was Yngvi invited? No, probably not. Were all twenty of Yngvi's nugs invited? Certainly not but they're trotting after him at a leisurely clip for nugs as he nods as if he has any clue what she's talking about. Yngvi is, in fact, pretty damn good at this or he'd never have been allowed up from Darktown at all to ever eventually join what is now Riftwatch.

"Depends what carpenter, d'you object to elves at all?" Which is a mild statement but you know and also this isn't addressing the actual issue here is it as he frowns up at her. "Who's they?"

Stroganugg would also like to know from where they're peeping out of his pocket.

The actual issue here is kind of obfuscated by the intake of breath that Luisa gives. Sudden, loud, muffled at the end when she claps one hand over her mouth.

"Who?" she demands through her fingers, and points with her free hand at the nug in Yngvi's pocket. Then she sees the other nugs, and again puts both hands over her mouth, as if to keep from screaming.

"All right there?"

When you're as short as he is compared to some there's no subtle way to sniff your pits but Yngvi gives it his best shot, does a good business casual 'oh the portrait artist was just standing there' pose in the doorway and no. Not that. No worse than the average person on the street really, maybe a bit more horse on him, can't be helped.

Anyway, she's pointing to Stroganugg so clearly that means an introduction is in order as Truffles, Rump Roast, and Nug Wellington trot inside ahead of the rest who take up the entire doorway. A squeaking pink herd. "This is Stroganugg," Yngvi says as sincerely as one would introduce the Divine. More, honestly. This is a nug of the highest calibre. "D'you want to shake hands, they've got them, not like dogs and everyone wants to shake with the dogs."

Luisa has eyes only for Stroganugg, so she misses the entirety of the sniffing and posing routine. Her eyes widen as the rest of the nugs make their entrance, as if she hopes to somehow take in more of the sight of them. If she could pop her eyes out of her head and hold them aloft so she could take in more of the scene spread before her, she would.

"I," she says, breathless and through her fingers, "would love to."

There are actual tears standing in her eyes as she drops to her knees and holds out her arms to the herd of nugs. Her hands are shaking with anticipating.

Where are the adults he so desperately needs in this moment? Where is his lady? (Not that he thinks that she'd help necessarily but more so he could hold out his hands and say that he, an Yngvi, did nothing personally.) Or Thranduil. Or Coupe. Where are they why did he walk in here this was not how his usual Gallows jaunt goes and he is no closer to solving his actual mystery of what she was on about in the first place and that'll niggle at him like a loose tooth.

But dutifully because Yngvi's nugs are as pedigreed as he is which is good and proper thanks very much, he manhandles (gently, because what is a nug even made of?) Stroganugg so he's in handshaking mode. A model gentlenug.

The rest, sensing the chance to be fussed over swarm without any sense of shame. They're nugs after all. They roll in their own filth given the chance and can be found in Orzammar what shame could they possibly have?

"Shame you missed being here a while back, some fancy prick got a box he was going to send to the kitchens but me being a good upstanding citizen what I am convinced him they'd be better companions."

Mid-handshake with Stroganugg, Luisa turns her great dark eyes up to stare in horror at Yngvi. "To the kitchens? Oh, no, no, no--barbaric, no--" And now she's just addressing the nugs that are gathered around her, "No, that would not do--not for you, widdle snicky baby--you, yes, you--"

It's impossible to pet every nug at once. Luisa is certainly trying, rubbing their little ears, their little nosies--scratching at their necks, their haunches--entirely enamored by the cavalcade around her.

"Your papa should get a medal for rescuing you--yes, he should, don't you think--"

One of the nugs squeaks, and Luisa gives a delighted squeak in answer.

"And this is the way everyone returns their armor to the armory?"

The scratching of Estiene's pencil has been a second companion during this interview. She'd stopped writing long enough to greet everyone, and she's been polite, certainly--if a bit overeager--but as she's also been writing since the first hail and well met, she's not had time to say or do anything really offensive. So. There's that.

The scratching pauses for half a heartbeat as she looks up. A grin comes swiftly to her face. It's very charming, this grin. The sort of grin you want to talk to.

"I'm curious. My mother said, it'd be the death of me, but I said, mother, it will be the life of me. After all, asking questions, it's the best way to learn. So--" And she raises her pencil again, poses it over the page. "The armor? Who would you say is the worst offender of returning borrowed pieces all stinky and manky and leaving them for someone else to sort out?"

It is a very charming grin. Jenin's been studying the angle of it, the flash of teeth, quick and unself-conscious. A plucky sort of smile. Determined. She'll practice it in a mirror tonight.

For the moment she only laughs, and palms a hand upon the page (hasn't gotten close enough yet to squint a line),

"Of course, it is only roses here," And sweat. And brine. And griffon shit. "But the quality — it is perhaps — well."

She wavers, head turned in second thought.

"Perhaps," Estiene repeats, as she writes this down. "And well. I'm going to quote you."

In what? Her notes? But she's so friendly and charming, and so is the Riftwatch representative she's speaking to. Two charming young ladies, having a chat. That's them. Estine's pencil scratches away, unbothered by any scrutiny, subtle or otherwise. Something else she knows that her mother never taught her: if you want a pass, you take it. If you want people to assume you know what you're doing, act like it.

"And the bit about roses, as well. Who's the rosiest?"

She darts a glance around, a woman overlooking a flowerbed.

"You?"

"P-Please, no-- please, do not-- trouble yourself, I--"

Sagging against the wall, De Sonseca is waving off worried onlookers with a red lace handkerchief he has clutched in one hand. His face is wet with tears, which stream freely from his large dark eyes. There is so much pain in these eyes, and he raises them to the ceiling as he mouths a prayer.

No. It is not enough. With a howl, he doubles over, and stuffs his handkerchief over his mouth. This contains his sobbing for a little while, at least--but very presently he turns to the nearest body and throws his arms around their shoulder, draping himself over them, pitiful, miserable, bereft.

"Please! Remove me from this area! I can still smell the smoke--oh, the Maker, the smoke-- no, I must smoke, for-- for my nerves--please--"

Fifi stands watching him, arms at her sides, eyes slightly glazed over.

"I can show you out, Messere," she says placidly, "but I'm afraid you will have to walk."

"Walk, y-yes, yes--"

Guyomar dabs at his eyes with the handkerchief first, then takes a shaking breath in and grasps at Fifi's arm. His hand is trembling and his eyes, when he turns his gaze on her, are still very wet with tears. And very large, andvery dark. Twin pools of sorrow.

"Forgive me, please, I-- I am not usually so overcome, it is only-- the sight of it! I cannot--"

And he sags against her, as weakness overtakes him once more.

It startles her when Guyomar grabs her arm, but she allows it, leaning away with a look of careful dismay. Fifi grew used to men pawing at her at one point in her life, but at least he's sticking to her arm, and--

when he sags against her, she steps back, letting him crumple to the floor. Then, gaze fixed ahead, she steps daintily over him to walk away.

Her exit is interrupted, at the door, by Bastien’s arrival.

He’s looking a little harried. Generally he is a difficult person to harry, and an even more difficult person to make appear harried if he doesn’t want to appear harried, but at the moment he doesn’t care how he looks, because no one likes anyone who’s too unharried all the time anyway, and also he’s harried. It’s been a week. Or it is being a week, presently.

“What is—hello, Fifi,” he says, and then gestures behind her toward Guyomar as politely as he can while making a what in the void is going on sort of face. “Did you do something to him?”

Not a serious question.

She glances back over her shoulder, then at Bastien, and gives a single, silent shake of her head. She's not having it even in jest today, apparently-- but Bastien's overall bearing signals that something is amiss.

"Are you all right?" she asks, suddenly transforming into someone who might conceivably give a shit.

Guyomar had remained where he'd been abandoned by Fifi a puddle of misery and black clothing. At the sound of her voice, he raises his head to look at her--and then at Bastien, standing just behind her. Tears roll down on his cheeks; more tears stand in his great dark eyes, waiting their turn to fall. He sniffles, and tries to sit up a little.

"Please," he says, "my-- my apologies, please, I must beg your pardon. I-- I was-- struck, by a sudden memory. That is all. A-- trauma, that haunts my," and his voice breaks, "my every waking hour, oh--"

He begins again to dab at his eyes with the red lace handkerchief. It is entirely too delicate for the work it is being asked to do.

The collision outside one of the Inquisition's larders is sharp and painful. One minute, you're walking along the corridor, minding your own business, and the next--

"Apologies."

Norbert offers a hand up with a smile. It's friendly, and seems almost to extend, unnaturally, on the left side. That's thanks to a wicked scar, obvious, for all that it's gone white with age. His hand is the rough hand of a man who has worked, and his grip is strong and sure. Perfect for helping someone climb to their feet.

"Must have gotten turned around. Looking for the uh, templar tower. I think that's where. Any chance of you helping me out with that one?"

Ignore the jar of preserved fruit he kicks behind him. It rolls back into the larder, fleeing the scene, or just returning to its place. Probably the latter. There's too much honesty in these eyes to think otherwise.

She brushes the hand away, before hauling herself up. Nothing to do with the hand itself — that looks perfectly serviceable. The sort that's lifted more than a book. Coupe heaves a breath.

"Many of those in pantries?"

Towers. The enormous, pointy stone things. Still. Friendly enough. And though she doesn't recognize Lewishon's face, it's hardly out of place. The smile's more remarkable than the scar.

"Jars full."

He bears the refusal of aid with congenial grace, and a smaller version of his grin. Cool, that's him. Can take a joke. Not worried about being found in a pantry, as he's got a great reason for being in there.

"More I was thinkin'--stairs, usually found behind doors if they're not kept obvious in the open. Stairs that might lead to a tower. I saw the peaks of them when I came in on that lovely ferry-boat, but now that I'm inside, it's like they don't exist. Only pantries. Like a nightmare."

"Un mirage."

She suggests. An eye to the larder, dismissed on the shake of a head. It can wait. The ferryman will make it a morning without tea, and there's clearly absolutely no other reason to investigate. They could do with a few more like this —

Stranger. Hm. Newly-arrived, without the load for a fresh recruit. A deliveryman, maybe, and with little reason to bear into their residences. He's gotten this far. He must be expected,

"Who are you to meet with?"

Un mirage. Amused, he makes a deferential sort of gesture, somewhere between a forelock tug and the flourish that might follow a bow. The jar is out of sight entirely now, rolled around the corner and out of memory.

"Here by invitation of Riftwatch, by letter sent from the seneschal, for an interview. I'm Lewisohn, incidentally. Happen to know anything about the last head of diplomacy that served here?"

"Coupe,"

The introduction sobers her, if only briefly — Amsel does. Lewisohn is so little alike as to disarm; absurd to imagine them paired.

"The Knight Enchanter and I were familiar," Is a word for it. "But the Seneschal is for the Central Tower. As Mme. Yseult, and the Provost."

Who's Flint, never heard of him.

"I will accompany you."

It isn't exactly an offer.

"At least to the door," Norbert agrees, without batting an eye. "Can't expect a man to go into an interview with an escort, they'll think I'm less-than-self-sufficient. I appreciate the help."

Certainly it sounds sincere, and there is nothing about him that would suggest otherwise. This next gesture is inviting--lead on, and so forth--though he'll fall into step beside Coupe, rather than trailing after her like a wayward dog.

"Once I get my feet under me, I'll be able to find any of these towers on my own, provided they see fit to offer me the position, and I've got need to be finding them. What was it that caused the previous head to depart the post? If," and he smiles, and raises his hands, almost in a surrender, "you don't mind telling me. And if you do, tell me to butt out. I'm no gossip. Professional and curious, or so they say, but not a gossip."

Julius is familiar with the head of Diplomacy's office; he was a frequent guest when it was Petrana's, and had been in for work after transferring to the department under Herian. Even if he'd been less familiar, though, his air of ease meeting a candidate there would likely have been the same. It's his way.

Before he was in Diplomacy, Julius had been in Research, and he'd certainly done what homework he could on the candidates who would be visiting. The young woman before him now was not the only one on which he had formed opinions, but she was one he felt strongly enough about that he'd volunteered for this. (Faintly amused, he notes that whoever had said the thing about her freckles being charming had not, in fairness, been wrong.)

"So, Lady Marin -- is that right? I'm afraid I'm still studying all the correct modes of address in Orlais. You've a lot of them to keep track of." His smile is faint but warm, and is a test of its own: Will she trust it? "I hope your journey to Kirkwall wasn't too arduous."

There are so many people in the Gallows right now, all of whom have just shown up to get a position. It's cheap. They haven't put in any legwork, but now they're here trying to take over an empty spot and Anders is willing to put money on many of them being agents of the Chantry. But that doesn't mean he has to be rude. Yet.

The particular newcomer he's eyeing is putting a plate together in the kitchens, which was also Anders' intention so he joins.

"Welcome to Riftwatch? Or at least I assume it's welcome; I've not seen you around before." His robes say mage in a language that everyone outside of Kirkwall can read, his bracers have the Grey Warden crest on them - the man might be able to make an informed guess about his identity or might not. Anders would like to see.

"I am a good sport." Tereysa De Palencia's Trade is accented only lightly with the brightness of Antiva--but it is accent enough to add some shine to even the simplest of statements. And to back that up, even in the dim, she is smiling--but it's a smile that is starting to show a few small signs of strain.

Maybe that strain is easy to miss, in the dim. Because it is dim, the closer they get to Darktown. Not that De Palencia knows where Darktown is. Knows what it is? Oh, yes. Legends. And she knows a bad neighborhood when she sees one--she wasn't born in a bad neighborhood, but she was warned about them--and she is a good sport, but--

"But I am starting to think we're lost, serah. You would tell me if we are lost, I hope? Who is that?"

She's distracted quite suddenly by the sight of a very tall man, who steps out from a dark doorway. He is very pale, and seems to be wearing only a leather apron, streaked in something dark--it might even be blood--and he is smoking a blunt cigar. The light from its embered end illuminates his face from below, casting it into sharp relief. Far from afraid, De Palencia crowds close to Barrow so she can pull at his sleeve.

"You must introduce me," she says, in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the menacing figure. The man continues to smoke, wordless, watching them with a scary kind of calm.

No one is looking at the open manhole that is positioned, treacherously, in the future. O, Fate.

"I don't doubt it," comes the jovial reply, only for the girl to follow up with the rest-- lost, schmost. He's only been Kirkwall for a few weeks now, but one doesn't have to know every way around in order to have a good feel for the place.

"You're never lost if you keep moving," he adds, diverting his pleasant smile to the pale aproned man. The smile... drops.

"Good Lady de Palencia, may I introduce you to... probably a murderer," he says, gesturing to the man. Then, to him, "...got a light?"

Probably A Murderer observes them, with all the impassivity of a cat observing a rodent. Not threatened, barely interested--at least on the outside. He takes a pull on his cigar. In the quiet between the three of them, the flare of the end is just perceptible, a slight crackling sound.

When he pulls the cigar out of his mouth, he holds it out in their direction. Here.

"Oh," Tereysa murmurs. "Serah."

Still half-behind him, she pushes a little at Barrow's arm, clearly intending for him to step forward and take the cigar from the man's pale meaty hand.

Well who can resist a siren call like that one? ...perhaps a wiser person, but Barrow puts on a brave face when offered the cigar, accepting it with a wink and taking a pull.

"Thanks mate," he says, and hands it back good-naturedly, "though I rather hoped you might have a match."

open | baby come back

Ghito Acordolo

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Herbertus Gachet

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Meka Calandris

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Auffroy Gaudreau

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Luisa De Hermita

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Estiene Magnier

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Guyomar De Sonseca

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Norbert Lewisohn

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(In Which Julius Terrifies) Marchionne Marin

Franco Calderara (is ruined by Anders' existence), come join

Tereysa De Palencia - CLOSED to Barrow

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