WHO: Fitcher, Marcoulf, Bartimaeus (+) & YOU WHAT: Ye Olde Catch'all WHEN: Nowish WHERE: Kirkwall, The Gallows, le Misc. NOTES: Starters in comments; if you want something/someone who isn't here, just hit me up and I'll scrape something together.
a. GALLOWS ARMORY Riftwatch's armory may be more extensive than is even required by the outfit, but all that really means is that there is steel sitting idle and armor going all grotty from lack of attention. Assign a chain shirt to someone and it's there responsiblity to either keep it neat themselves, or find someone to do it for them. Keep it on a rack, and it rots.
Which must be the theory behind why he's been shoved in this dingy old room for the afternoon and currently finds himself scraping and polishing and burnishing. Marcoulf has his feet up on a literal crate of swords and has some scratched old breastplate in his lap. He's either poor company for the poor bastard stuck doing the work with him, or ambivalent about greeting anyone who might stumble across him there.
b. FERRY SLIP "Hold the ferry!"
A man, sprinting, jumps from ten steps up off the stairwell running up from the Kirkwall docks. For a split second, it's a strangely graceful image of near-flight blooming in the dark and muggy lamplight. Then he strikes the paving stones with both feet, stumbles, nearly topples, then trips the rest of the way down the moisture slick quay and all but pitches head first into the last ferry to the Gallows.
Sometimes it's weird to see yourself from the other side because this could be him as Tavin does just that, a flapping of slender hands, an apology half out of his mouth before it catches, turning to a croak.
"Are you-- ah...mmm." His hands are by his face as he says nothing of any sort of use but it feels better to make some sort of noise, kneeling down to check for any bleeding; not his speciality but he can check as he glances to the one in charge of their transport. "A little light if you please!"
Because you know if there's one thing that reliably comes back in panic then it's the surety that you're still Nevarran nobility even out here so do as I say if you please.
"I say, are you well? That was quite the tumble serah, did you knock your head? Anything broken? All pieces intact on you and your person?"
For a baffling moment, he isn't entirely sure where he is or in what state he arrived there. A catalogue of facts is made: his shoulder hurts; his hip will be bruised; his head seems intact by some grace of Andraste; his sword his sprung halfway from its sheath and low lays at some hilarious angle across his lap, and one of his feet is in the ferry's bilge. Someone is speaking to him, and then the lantern is summoned back from its stern hook.
"It's nothing," he says instantly, removing his boot from the bilgewater and sitting up very suddenly out from under examination. And then he actually does pause to take account of himself, patting all his pockets and checking his swordbelt and--
Then he tastes the blood. He presses the back of his hand to his nose and it comes away all red. "Ah."
Head fine; face less so. A subtle but important distinction.
Flapping helps absolutely no one in a situation such as this but it gives the body something to do, that sweet relief of the tight knot in the chest though Tavin does take the lantern just to give at least one hand a job. He's seen people hurt in the field before come up too fast and go down faster, sometimes with vomit on them, blurry vision, slurred speech--
(Is it bad that he will take so many things but not vomit? At least not from a person? He's not a healer there's nothing he can do with that in the end.)
"Steady does it, that's quite the bump you've had, you were near a bird in flight for a moment but alas the Maker did not see fit to grant us wings. I think I've a handkerchief. Or close enough." It's a cloth for cleaning lenses in the field but a cloth is a cloth, it's clean, it'll help as he has a job for the other hand in finding and offering it out. "Well at least you made it in, I've heard all sorts of horror stories about what lurks in the waters of Kirkwall from the locals."
The cloth, whatever it's native purpose, is dimly accepted and applied in a knot against his nose with all its welling blood. Absently, Marcoulf says, "Fish mostly," that dense Orlesian accent gone denser and more aggressively nasal thanks to all of this.
He has blood in his beard and on his hand and Maker forbid any of its dripped down onto his shirt collar. It will have to be soaked and scrubbed with soap and lye and the sun's too poor in Harvestmere to properly leach blood from laundry. It will have to be replaced - the collar ripped out and a new one trimmed and patched in-- Speaking of that horrible water, Marcoulf is leaning now over the ferry's gunwale to rinse his hand. Well. That's one bit sorted.
"Have I got blood on you?" Is not a useful question, but it seems easier to ask that than to collect himself from the bottom of the boat and crawl up onto one of the benches.
"I've not even had the chance to begin studying the fish here but given what's ended up in the water? You have to imagine the aquatic life has been impacted in some way." Would Riftwatch fund that? Riftwatch please accept this proposal about what some of you are probably eating--
On second thoughts maybe after, more important things.
"A little, it's fine believe me I've had far worse from much less. It's not bile or poison. Unless it's going to burn through my skin?"
He's joking. Or is he. People aren't interesting until they suddenly are and if someone had acid for blood then that could be huge. (Not that the Chantry is up for dissection, one day they will have a true forward thinking Divine, probably when Tavin is in the Grand Necropolis and having tea with the family.)
It all gets an alarmed look in response, the man in the bottom of the boat going briefly stiff all over and especially awkward with the cloth pressed up under his nose. "No," he sniffs out, wiping his damp hand haltingly on his front. You look foolish, he tells himself. "No, I don't believe so." And. "I can have the stain out, if there is one. Of your clothes." Not his skin.
Just stop talking, de Ricart.
He listens to that impulse - he often does -, and clamps his mouth shut in favor of planting a tentative free hand on the bench and levering himself free of the damp bilge covers.
"These old things? Oh don't worry about them, I'll wear them 'til the seams finally scream for mercy then I suppose rags for whatever use I have. I don't think I own anything that's not seen better days."
Actually that's a lie but they look so embarrassingly pristine without clawmarks or some chemical spillage, no travel stains or creases no amount of laundering and pressing will ever get out that they're uncomfortable to look at. So he doesn't. They just haunt his wardrobe whenever he has one.
"Was it at least an enjoyable night out for all the haste to get back? Tales to tell and not realising you've left a pot on the boil?" Tavin's done that. Burnt right through. No one was happy with him, it was the last pot they had but how often can you watch wyverns fighting over their territory?
Some small flicker of frustration or embarrassment or combination of the pair slants across his face behind the press of his hand. The handkerchief - or whatever it's meant to be - then. He'll see the blood out of that, the cloth returned in as pristine a condition as can be managed.
"Nothing like that. Working in the Riftwatch stables," he says, pulling the cloth back and touching his nose to see if it's still-- yes, all right. He reapplies it and mumbles: "One of horses has been colicking."
And the task of leading the mare around and around in circles in the darkened stable yard for hours on end until her guts settled had made him sour over the prospect of sleeping in a hayloft when across they water their was a perfectly good bed to be had if he could catch the last ride out to it.
"Will they pull through? I've lost one to that, it was an upsetting way for her to go, poor thing."
And now he'll need to go and be a little kinder to Adalberto even if his horse will 1. not understand why Tavin is giving him treats and will likely still nip his fingers and 2. will still be a complete and utter shit to him anyway because he's looking forward to retirement any way he can get it, such is his way.
"I should apologise if you end up ever dealing with mine; you can coax him past gurguts, he's kicked phoenixes when they've dared get close to camp but if you feed him the wrong thing he'll kick. Or bite. Mostly me." Maybe this is punishment for taking a horse through all of the places where the wild things roam, if Tavin were so inclined to believe such things. Anyway-- "So you're the stablemaster then?"
"No. I'm simply familiar with the work there-- with the horses anyway." The more exotic mounts (and that awful mummified thing lurking in the dark) fall beyond the realm of his expertise. "The mare will be fine."
And if she isn't, if there is some change in her temper between now and the morning, there is a boy sleeping in front of her stall with strict instructions to resume walking her. What else can be done? To ask Andraste that she look after the well being of a sweet horse with a gassy belly? What a silly thing to request. These things are at least in part a matter of luck.
"Yes we've quite the variety - dracolisks! I've been meaning to make more of a study of them and I did hear stories about nuggalopes at one point so being able to see any up close would be a boon for selfish reasons. Scholarly but ultimately selfish." Mostly so he can tell certain lecturers to go suck an egg if they haven't died in the interim since, you know, war and being old and the hazards of the field or the library or a slice of toast.
Also dead horse. Or possibly dead horse. Mortalitasi relatives prepare you for too many things when your mother is reminding you to ask corpse grandma how she likes her tea when you're six and still new to all of it.
But with a sigh that borders on ashamed Tavin answers. "Adalberto. Very tall black horse, too much mane but if I cut it then that would somehow summon my sister who loves to braid it. He...kicks. And screams. Mostly when I ask him to do anything that might hinder him standing and trying to inhale food." He is a Bastard Horse (TM).
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ota;
Riftwatch's armory may be more extensive than is even required by the outfit, but all that really means is that there is steel sitting idle and armor going all grotty from lack of attention. Assign a chain shirt to someone and it's there responsiblity to either keep it neat themselves, or find someone to do it for them. Keep it on a rack, and it rots.
Which must be the theory behind why he's been shoved in this dingy old room for the afternoon and currently finds himself scraping and polishing and burnishing. Marcoulf has his feet up on a literal crate of swords and has some scratched old breastplate in his lap. He's either poor company for the poor bastard stuck doing the work with him, or ambivalent about greeting anyone who might stumble across him there.
b. FERRY SLIP
"Hold the ferry!"
A man, sprinting, jumps from ten steps up off the stairwell running up from the Kirkwall docks. For a split second, it's a strangely graceful image of near-flight blooming in the dark and muggy lamplight. Then he strikes the paving stones with both feet, stumbles, nearly topples, then trips the rest of the way down the moisture slick quay and all but pitches head first into the last ferry to the Gallows.
c. WILDCARD.
+1 weirdo with a sword
b;
"Are you-- ah...mmm." His hands are by his face as he says nothing of any sort of use but it feels better to make some sort of noise, kneeling down to check for any bleeding; not his speciality but he can check as he glances to the one in charge of their transport. "A little light if you please!"
Because you know if there's one thing that reliably comes back in panic then it's the surety that you're still Nevarran nobility even out here so do as I say if you please.
"I say, are you well? That was quite the tumble serah, did you knock your head? Anything broken? All pieces intact on you and your person?"
no subject
"It's nothing," he says instantly, removing his boot from the bilgewater and sitting up very suddenly out from under examination. And then he actually does pause to take account of himself, patting all his pockets and checking his swordbelt and--
Then he tastes the blood. He presses the back of his hand to his nose and it comes away all red. "Ah."
Head fine; face less so. A subtle but important distinction.
no subject
Flapping helps absolutely no one in a situation such as this but it gives the body something to do, that sweet relief of the tight knot in the chest though Tavin does take the lantern just to give at least one hand a job. He's seen people hurt in the field before come up too fast and go down faster, sometimes with vomit on them, blurry vision, slurred speech--
(Is it bad that he will take so many things but not vomit? At least not from a person? He's not a healer there's nothing he can do with that in the end.)
"Steady does it, that's quite the bump you've had, you were near a bird in flight for a moment but alas the Maker did not see fit to grant us wings. I think I've a handkerchief. Or close enough." It's a cloth for cleaning lenses in the field but a cloth is a cloth, it's clean, it'll help as he has a job for the other hand in finding and offering it out. "Well at least you made it in, I've heard all sorts of horror stories about what lurks in the waters of Kirkwall from the locals."
no subject
He has blood in his beard and on his hand and Maker forbid any of its dripped down onto his shirt collar. It will have to be soaked and scrubbed with soap and lye and the sun's too poor in Harvestmere to properly leach blood from laundry. It will have to be replaced - the collar ripped out and a new one trimmed and patched in-- Speaking of that horrible water, Marcoulf is leaning now over the ferry's gunwale to rinse his hand. Well. That's one bit sorted.
"Have I got blood on you?" Is not a useful question, but it seems easier to ask that than to collect himself from the bottom of the boat and crawl up onto one of the benches.
tag graveyard feel free to ignore
On second thoughts maybe after, more important things.
"A little, it's fine believe me I've had far worse from much less. It's not bile or poison. Unless it's going to burn through my skin?"
He's joking. Or is he. People aren't interesting until they suddenly are and if someone had acid for blood then that could be huge. (Not that the Chantry is up for dissection, one day they will have a true forward thinking Divine, probably when Tavin is in the Grand Necropolis and having tea with the family.)
absolutely not
Just stop talking, de Ricart.
He listens to that impulse - he often does -, and clamps his mouth shut in favor of planting a tentative free hand on the bench and levering himself free of the damp bilge covers.
no subject
Actually that's a lie but they look so embarrassingly pristine without clawmarks or some chemical spillage, no travel stains or creases no amount of laundering and pressing will ever get out that they're uncomfortable to look at. So he doesn't. They just haunt his wardrobe whenever he has one.
"Was it at least an enjoyable night out for all the haste to get back? Tales to tell and not realising you've left a pot on the boil?" Tavin's done that. Burnt right through. No one was happy with him, it was the last pot they had but how often can you watch wyverns fighting over their territory?
no subject
"Nothing like that. Working in the Riftwatch stables," he says, pulling the cloth back and touching his nose to see if it's still-- yes, all right. He reapplies it and mumbles: "One of horses has been colicking."
And the task of leading the mare around and around in circles in the darkened stable yard for hours on end until her guts settled had made him sour over the prospect of sleeping in a hayloft when across they water their was a perfectly good bed to be had if he could catch the last ride out to it.
no subject
And now he'll need to go and be a little kinder to Adalberto even if his horse will 1. not understand why Tavin is giving him treats and will likely still nip his fingers and 2. will still be a complete and utter shit to him anyway because he's looking forward to retirement any way he can get it, such is his way.
"I should apologise if you end up ever dealing with mine; you can coax him past gurguts, he's kicked phoenixes when they've dared get close to camp but if you feed him the wrong thing he'll kick. Or bite. Mostly me." Maybe this is punishment for taking a horse through all of the places where the wild things roam, if Tavin were so inclined to believe such things. Anyway-- "So you're the stablemaster then?"
no subject
And if she isn't, if there is some change in her temper between now and the morning, there is a boy sleeping in front of her stall with strict instructions to resume walking her. What else can be done? To ask Andraste that she look after the well being of a sweet horse with a gassy belly? What a silly thing to request. These things are at least in part a matter of luck.
(He did it anyway. But the point stands.)
"Which horse is yours?"
no subject
Also dead horse. Or possibly dead horse. Mortalitasi relatives prepare you for too many things when your mother is reminding you to ask corpse grandma how she likes her tea when you're six and still new to all of it.
But with a sigh that borders on ashamed Tavin answers. "Adalberto. Very tall black horse, too much mane but if I cut it then that would somehow summon my sister who loves to braid it. He...kicks. And screams. Mostly when I ask him to do anything that might hinder him standing and trying to inhale food." He is a Bastard Horse (TM).
no subject
Get it? Because the horrible animal is big and black and likely to take someone's head off.