open | baby come back

[cozen]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Failed attempts to hire a new head for the Diplomacy Division
WHEN: Late Solace
WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall
NOTES: OOC post! IC announcement also to follow shortly. This log will contain some top-level starters for some of the NPCs (but not all of them, just the ones me, Cee, and Hope feel like, thanks), open to anyone who wants to tag them!

Players who signed up for scaring off specific NPCs are also welcome to set up logs here for that, open or otherwise, if they want to play it out.

The Diplomacy Head's office is really too nice to be so empty for so long—and someone to handle public relations would be, you know, not a bad idea—so it's time for proactivity and a small parade's worth of potential ambassadors on Riftwatch's behalf. The candidates arrive in twos and threes to be interviewed, shown around, and, ideally, convinced that taking on the diplomatic efforts of an organization this weird wouldn't be the worst career move they've ever made.

Comments

Auffroy Gaudreau

[bombedtheinterview]

"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?"

[unshut]

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."

[bombedtheinterview]

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.

[unshut]

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

[thereneverwas]

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

[unshut]

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

[thereneverwas]

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

[unshut]

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

[thereneverwas]

"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."

[unshut]

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."