[open/intro] gimme shelter.

[justashotaway]

WHO: Laura Kint + YOU
WHAT: Laura shows up for...work? Kind of work. She shows up to stab things and eat food and maybe frown at ghost costumes.
WHEN: The first week(ish) of August
WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall
NOTES: Please consider filling out Laura's permissions if you haven't already. CW TBD.

all souls.

Laura has never celebrated All Soul's Day before, which makes her first night in Kirkwall...unusual. People dressed as ghosts, bonfires everywhere, the smell of sweets masking some of the city's riper odors. Tomorrow, she'll go to the Gallows and demand entry, payment, protection--whatever it is she can expect from them at this point. That Riftwatch is no longer the Inquisition hadn't been carried as rumor to her corner of Cumberland (or if it had, she hadn't noticed), but it sounds as though they no longer have the same kind of favor they once did. It is a concern.

But a concern of unknown quantities, and that means it is for tomorrow. Tonight, she is in Kirkwall, where everyone around her seems to be pretending to be dead.

"Is it always like this?" she asks in slightly accented Trade, frowning at a huge pile branches about to be set afire.

eyrie.

She's never seen griffons before, either, and she's not sure she quite believes her eyes. Laura smells them first and follows the scent--an animal, clearly, but one she doesn't recognize, feathers and fur all at once--up and up stone steps until she's at the top of a tower, in the middle of a doorway.

One of the creatures looks at her, and she looks back levelly, her tentative fascination nowhere close to her face. It's like something out of a fairy tale, stopping her in her tracks. Hope you weren't planning to get through: she's going to be rooted to the spot for a bit, wary of getting too close to the beasts but evidently fascinated by them.

dinner.

She has, however, eaten before. And around other people, no less, though she gives approximately no care toward others' sensibilities when she's presented with food. It doesn't matter what it is, only that it's there and she hasn't had to do anything to get it except promise to fight for Riftwatch.

Coming to Kirkwall was a long walk through endless forests, one she's still hungry from. While she'd eaten reasonably well at times--nugs, mostly--it wasn't quite enough by the time she'd actually arrived at the Gallows.

At every meal for the first few days, she eats with determined speed. The claw over her right forefinger comes out, ghostly and terribly dangerous all at once, every time she needs to slice something or jab a morsel off a serving tray.

sparring.

It's no surprise that she ends up at the armory complex--someone probably told her to go there, for one thing, and for another, fighting's one of the things she knows intimately. And she stays in that area for some time, watching sparring matches with grim fascination, as if she's memorizing each move.

Ask her if she needs a weapon, and she'll shake her head. One hand goes up, two not-quite-there claws shimmer from between her knuckles.

Ask her if she wants to try a round, and that will get a nod. Having replaced (possibly by stealing) her worn, ill-fitting skirt for pair of black breeches, she's even more ready for a fight than usual.

around.

Laura's a small, human woman around sixteen or seventeen, who dresses entirely in black and skulks around the Gallows like she's still not sure she belongs there. She spends a good deal of time at the tops of towers, near windows, climbing things that probably shouldn't be climbed, and lurking in dark corners. She might enter your room to investigate it, without thinking about the fact that it's yours. Or she might stare a little too long, like she's trying to understand something or decide something. Maybe you're the person she took a pair of breeches from, or a pair of boots. It's not so hard to find her in the library, near the herb gardens, or perched on windowsills. When she's actively trying to conceal herself, she's more difficult to pick out from the rafters.

If you want to plot something specific, please reach out! Let's make your dreams come true.

Comments

dinner!

[inkindled]

Matthias eats as often as he can get away with--which is to say he's nearly always in the hall at mealtimes. First in the door, comes back for seconds--thirds and fourths, too, if they're easy to fold into a napkin and pack away to be eaten later. He's hungry always, could stand to gain some weight--gangly, skinny, with his wrists and ankles always peeking out from the hems of shirts and trousers. That's not a fault with the food, or even the fault of Riftwatch's kits. There's nothing that fits a sixteen year old of Matthias' frame. Too tall in some places, too short in others, all mismatched and not quite grown together yet.

He's seen Laura about by now. It's still too familiar, the way he bangs his plate down near to her and settles in to eat this phase of his dinner, which is peas porridge ladled over a thick trencher of bread, and chunks of ham. Not so close that she'll feel obligated to talk with him, close enough that he can start talking with her without it being weird.

Which--after a few minutes of sidelong observation--he does.

"What is that?" Not very polite, maybe. But she's the one with a bloody ghostly claw, right. There's still a little color in his ears after he's blurted it out, and Matthias washes down the question with a big gulp of ale. Then, for context, he raises one hand and points to his fingers, which do not sport any ghostly spirit claws. "The, uh. This. I've not seen it before on anyone."

[justashotaway]

Laura's too intent on cutting down one of her pieces of ham--if they're all small, there'll be meat in every bite--to pay attention to his sitting down next to her. She knows him, by smell and sight especially: he always moves a little too much, a little awkwardly, and his clothes pull around his limbs.

(He's not unkind. She knows that much.)

At first, she's not sure he's talking to her, mostly because she's only halfway paying attention to him, but he gestures with his hand, and it becomes clear. This.

"This?" She holds up her hand, a chunk of ham dribbling porridge down towards her hand. It's a misty thing, smelling faintly of lyrium, there between them. For a moment, her eyes meet his. "A claw."

Obviously. She returns to her dinner.

[inkindled]

"Right, but how does it--"

No, try again. Matthias screws up one eye in concentration. The effort tugs up at the corner of his mouth, and there's his teeth. Average teeth. The Circle was good for health, anyways, better than he would have had as a backwater Free Marcher.

"I mean, what is it. It's shaped like a claw. But it's not a proper claw. Animals have got proper claws. And they aren't foggy like that is. I'm not asking 'cause-- I dunno, 'cause I want to offend you or anything. I think it's brilliant. Can you do more than one? Double, like?"

He makes fists of his hands and holds them up close to his chin. If he had claws, he'd be stabbing himself in the face.

[justashotaway]

By the time Matthias is finished asking his question--question, explanation, more question--Laura's moved on to actually eating. Which means that claw's disappeared into the air, and her hand's a little busy with a spoon.

But the other one's free, and that's the one she lifts up for him to see. Two claws manifest, as though pulling the air into something slightly more solid, from a loose fist. He's right that they aren't much like animal claws: they're too long, too sharp, more like blades than anything that comes from a wolf's paw. But that's what they are.

Somewhere at another table, someone's staring with a look of confusion, or maybe disgust. Laura doesn't notice. She's mostly focused on eating.

all souls!

[cozen]

“Is what always like what?”

There’s nothing light about the accent that answers her. It’s Orlesian—Royan, more specifically—to a degree that eliminates any possibility of extensive time outside of Val Royeaux, let alone outside of Orlais.

Before now, obviously. Now Bastien is sitting in Kirkwall, watching them carry on with their fascinating Northern display on a low wall that leaves him close to eye level with the young woman he’s answering. Or not answering. Questioning. But he does it with a smile, because is what always like what isn’t meant to be intentionally difficult, or an indication he thinks that the question is stupid, or anything like that.

[justashotaway]

"This." She raises a hand, gestures at the mountain of sticks in front of them. There are others closer to it, humans and elves and a few dwarves, and several of them are wrapped up in pyre shrouds, their faces chalked. It's nothing she remembers seeing before. "Do you always have bonfires?"

You being relative. He sounds Orlesian, though she only knows the language, not the country; she can't place his accent any more closely than I know those vowel sounds. But he seems at home here, or at least less out of place than she. It might be his city as much as anyone's.

[cozen]

“For All Soul’s Day,” Bastien says, “yes—to commemorate the death of Andraste. Do they not have fires in—” A moment of hesitation before he commits to placing her accent. “—Nevarra?”

He sounds surprised. He is surprised. The costumes are what are strange to him. Or at least new, if not strange. Perhaps it is because northerners are so adverse to costume and theater the remainder of the year that they have to find excuses for it on holidays. But Nevarra, at least, has its ancestral pageants and dragon dances. He’d have assumed they were as much into the drama of it all as anyone else.

[justashotaway]

"There are fires everywhere," she points out, and if it's meant to be sarcastic, it isn't said like it is. There's a furrow between her eyebrows as she tries to remember. Do they do this in Nevarra?

She hadn't learned the holidays at the estate, or anything about Andraste beyond the occasional curse. And in Cumberland...holidays happened, she knows that much. Inevitably, she listened to them through windows and doors; people always wanted to spend money when something special was happening.

There is a pause, a too-long one that she doesn't know quite how to fill. She watches him instead of trying, green eyes intent.

sparring.

[tender]

Derrica's breath catches, watching Laura's hands.

She's had her go in the ring, emerged sweaty and pleased with herself. She'd traded her staff for a light wooden stave; she won't need magic for this type of sparring. Having lost a partner, she'd drawn to the side to wait for someone new to present themselves, but this girl's hands—

Laura had been watching. Derrica might have introduced herself properly at some point, but she has questions now. It takes her a moment before she draws a few steps closer, eyes flicking up to Laura's face.

"I'd like to go another few rounds today, if you'd like a partner."

It's likely rude to lead off with immediate questions about how this young woman acquired those possibly-claws. Not everyone encourages curiosity. That's one of the first things Derrica had learned when she'd been driven out of Dairsmuid.

[justashotaway]

Laura's claws disappear into air as she turns her attention towards the woman approaching. The question of weapons is not relevant for the moment, and the man who'd asked her about them is walking away--she doesn't need them out anymore.

Silently, she glances over her potential sparring partner. Potentially already tired but clearly strong, from the look of her upper body. Worthy as an opponent.

"Yes," she decides, nodding curtly. "Do you want a weapon?"

[tender]

"That depends," Derrica answers, hesitating a moment before continuing, "Are you going to use those?"

She nods at Laura's hands. The shimmer of claws are gone, as if they had never been.

There's no real objection to them in Derrica's voice. She's holding down her own questions, certainly, but there's more interest than anything else. Derrica's tutelage had come to such an abrupt halt that there are many spells and ways to utilize magic that she doesn't know of. If this is a spell, she'd like to know more of it. If it isn't—

Well, what else could it be? It's beyond Derrica to theorize.

[justashotaway]

Laura glances down at her hands, then shrugs. "Maybe."

It does not matter to her whether she fights with hands and claws or picks up some kind of weapon. She's comfortable either way--itching, in fact, to be doing something active. Life at the Gallows has not been sedentary, exactly, but she misses working her body hard and seeing just what it can take.

all souls

[toujoursdroit]

"Usually this chaotic, though not always actually on fire." The answer comes in a bone-dry Orlesian accent; the man who spoke is dressed finely, though it would take a second look to notice just how finely. His mask doesn't cover his mouth, though the rest of his face is hidden.

"I take it you aren't here expressly for the festivities?" he adds. He hadn't planned to venture out himself, but it had occurred to him that it might be useful to keep an ear to the ground since he's decided to linger in Kirkwall. He's judged it safer for his grandchildren than Orlais, but if that judgment is wrong... well. (And where better to hear loose tongues than at this sort of party.)

[justashotaway]

Laura glances over at the old man, too Orlesian for his surroundings. She shakes her head.

"No. I am here for the Inquisition." Saying as much gives away too little to seem worthy of concern--it is not a small group, from what she understands. And he does not look like a threat. After a moment, she corrects herself, "Or Riftwatch."

For whatever it is this Riftwatch is worth.

[toujoursdroit]

"Mm. I still haven't determined who, precisely, settled on the new name. Very... descriptive." He shrugs, lightly, as if to say oh well, what can one do?.

He moves slightly closer, not to invade her personal space, but simply as a concession to the volume level of the festivities around them.

"I do not mean it as an insult when I observe that it seems the volunteers are getting younger. Though in my experience, the organization is unlikely to turn much of anyone away, so I suppose that's not entirely surprising. The Inqusition was once the same—though I suppose I should ask. You didn't try Skyhold first to have them turn you away?"

[justashotaway]

She's silent as he moves closer. While she does not step away, she's cognizant of the space between them, ready to adjust it if necessary. (That might mean leaving, or it might mean fighting. An old man, she can take. That much, she is sure of.)

"No," she says immediately. Traveling to the mountain fortress a man had described to her--so high up it'd poke the Maker in the arse if he hadn't left--had seemed impossible from Cumberland. Just leaving Nevarra had felt like a monumental feat, up until she'd had no choice. "I came from Nevarra."

Not a lie, but imprecise enough that she hopes it will not cause trouble in the future. Nevarra is large, from everything she knows; she could be from anywhere within it.

eyrie;

[aforethought]

Monster lowers her head; heavy, hooked beak tilting like a clock about Laura's slight frame. She chuffs, ears flattening back, stalks a pace aside. White wings lift, uncertain, lower again. Straw gusts about the broken stone.

Then she spies the glint of something — perhaps a shirtbutton, or the glint of metal — and screams.

Melys rockets up from behind a hay bale, sleep-muddled to shout back,

"Oh, give it a rest!"

[justashotaway]

Too late. Laura's already backed into a fighting stance, claws glowing in the dim light of the eyrie. She growls, staring up at the creature's heavy beak and trying to guess just how much damage it can cause a person.

The sound of someone else's voice is only a peripheral consideration at this point, something to take edging steps toward. If the beast attempts to strike, two on one will be better odds.

[aforethought]

The griffon hisses back, eyes widening for the gleam of lyrium. Its neck lifts --

Is caught, abruptly, in a headlock.

"I said, give it a," There's a woman hanging off the end of that bird, now pacing back to try and shake her. "Fucking,"

Melys finally notices Laura.

"Put those away." Has not, exactly, clocked what Those are. "Wants the bloody things."

[justashotaway]

Laura hears and ignores the woman, her knees bending like she's considering launching herself forward, claws-first. While the creature is threatening her, she is not going to make herself vulnerable--that's a fool's errand.

The only response she gives is another growl, louder this time. Back down, beaked thing.

Around

[reshapes]

He's on a mission.

Well, no. That's not actually true at all. Mission implies a certain level of official, non-personal business which he has been pressed into doing. It suggests a general baseline of bickering and complaining with someone has gone into the preparation of the work, and it infers that should he fail in Charge that the tenderest parts of his loosely defined anatomy may learn to regret it. No, this is more like a personal project. What that implies, Bartimaeus doesn't much feel like putting sustained consideration into. The fact that it's necessary is troubling enough in the first place.

He's spent the morning beetling about the lower dungeons and workshops and the courtyards in the guise of Kitty Jones. He'd spent the afternoon making his way through the baths and the towers and the libraries in the same. And here, in the falling dusk, he'd at last taken the aerial approach.

Which is more or less how he'd spotted her - a slim black shape on some eave where slim black shapes aren't meant to belong -, and why there is now a great big owl with sickly green rift light flashing between its talons coming to rest on the parapet above her. For all that the bird flies on silent wings, it isn't subtle. It leans out from its perch, head twisting around nearly 180-degrees to peer at her with its glittering saucer sized black eyes.

And then the owl says, "Don't tell me you're up here getting ready to assassinate someone. There are easier ways to go about it."

[justashotaway]

At first, she ignores the bird. It is large, and it has an odd greenish tinge, but it is not relevant beyond the fact that it exists. (It is also one of the first creatures she's seen in Kirkwall besides rats and fish.)

But the bird does not let her ignore it. Swooping down, stretching out, turning its head--Laura catches it from the corner of her eye. She only shifts when it speaks.

That is when she whips around, still crouching. When her claws appear, hands and feet both, and a low growl comes out of her throat. She hasn't pounced yet, but her legs are bending further, threatening to spring up towards the parapet, to kill whatever demon came from the Fade to torment her.

[reshapes]

Which is a funny trick, but it's not like this is is his first rooftop assassin with a plethora of knives at their disposal. "The between the toes thing is new though," says the owl from its perch. "That's almost impressive. Your feet must be very dexterous."

Not impressive to send him flapping, though. No offense.

[justashotaway]

That doesn't endear the demon to her--and she's certain now that it's some kind of demon, because birds only speak in stories. That limits her options: she can run, which is cowardly and puts the Gallows at risk, or she can fight.

Launching herself up at it, she slices her not-quite-knife claws out at the bird's broad breast.

→ flint

[justashotaway]

Laura asks for work, and she receives it. This seems important--very important, having some value to Riftwatch to justify her continued presence--though the actual assignment is nothing of note. Go to Lowtown. Glower at people who have drunk too much. Stop the ones who don't take a glower seriously.

Do not kill.

She does not even need claws to complete the assignment, just a climb to the highest point she can find afterward. Lowtown stinks of beer and unwashed bodies and filth in the streets; she is not unused to cities and their stenches, but the smell is stronger, somehow, in Kirkwall.

After she completes her shift--ten hours prowling public houses--and gets a few lungfuls of fresher air, she returns to the office. No one is there, so early in the morning, so she waits. And, several hours later, when she hears footsteps approaching the door, she straightens up from her crouch into a mast-straight stance: a small figure, ill-dressed for military work in her torn tunic and hose and unbound hair, but apparently unaware that she's anything but ready for war.

"I fulfilled my objective." Saying so, she was informed, is required to consider the mission officially closed.