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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.
c. WILDCARD.
+1 weirdo with a sword
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
a. CARDS
There is a standing card game in the Gallows' long hall; it is nominally by invitation only, but invitations are easy to come by, and there is never any set game. Certainly there are usual faces - players who find their way to the particular table more regularly than others -, but as with much of Riftwatch, this too has very little in the way of expectation. Some nights, the players are thin. Tonight, it's just Fitcher.
She has a spread of cards laid before her, but has evidently lost interest in the game in the lonely game in favor of scowling over a series of missives alongside it. At some point, she retrieves her pipe and absently begins to pack it. Here follows a moment or two where she feels one set of pockets, then another, before giving up and turning to whatever company is closest: "Have you a light on you?"
A match, a reed to light from the fire. Whatever.
b. THE EYRIE
The griffon eyrie is dusty with bits of hay, a strange combination of both humid and draft depending on where one stands, and it reeks of marrow and molted feathers and the sweat of lumbering animals. Fitcher is, for the record, not a fan. But she's also not the type to sulk out from under the obligation of orders, and so here she is feeding little scraps of fatty meat to whatever griffon will tolerate her presence.
c. WILDCARD
+1 charming associate
There is a standing card game in the Gallows' long hall; it is nominally by invitation only, but invitations are easy to come by, and there is never any set game. Certainly there are usual faces - players who find their way to the particular table more regularly than others -, but as with much of Riftwatch, this too has very little in the way of expectation. Some nights, the players are thin. Tonight, it's just Fitcher.
She has a spread of cards laid before her, but has evidently lost interest in the game in the lonely game in favor of scowling over a series of missives alongside it. At some point, she retrieves her pipe and absently begins to pack it. Here follows a moment or two where she feels one set of pockets, then another, before giving up and turning to whatever company is closest: "Have you a light on you?"
A match, a reed to light from the fire. Whatever.
b. THE EYRIE
The griffon eyrie is dusty with bits of hay, a strange combination of both humid and draft depending on where one stands, and it reeks of marrow and molted feathers and the sweat of lumbering animals. Fitcher is, for the record, not a fan. But she's also not the type to sulk out from under the obligation of orders, and so here she is feeding little scraps of fatty meat to whatever griffon will tolerate her presence.
c. WILDCARD
+1 charming associate
There is a dark haired woman at the edge of the training yard, her face obscured by smoke curling from a short stemmed pipe gone pale with the wear of being held. Her identity is hardly a mystery, but the timing of her arrival is. She's somehow slipped in and taken her post there heretofore unnoticed, content to observe the work being done in the interim.
It appears you have an audience, Serrah.
It appears you have an audience, Serrah.
It isn't until they reach the Hightown gambling house that Fitcher finally sheds the mottled blue cloak. Though it is perfectly respectable wear for an evening traipsing through the city and for shielding finer things from itching fingers as they'd made their way from the Gallows slip and through Lowtown, it's hardly suitable for the work she plans to apply herself to this evening. Charming rich men and women visiting from Antiva - in the business of formalizing some new agreement with Kirkwall's Merchant Guild, and the exact sort of friends Riftwatch could stand to make - is better served by the fine tailoring and high collars with flashes of brilliant red embroidery. There is the smallest coined sized circle at the base of her throat made visible by the cut and clasp of the collar, but otherwise only her face and long hands are visible.
For the record: it suits her.
Fitcher touches Byerly's elbow as they wind their way from the door into the belly of the betting house. "Well Messere Diplomat, is there any last advice you'd care to impart before we begin?"
For the record: it suits her.
Fitcher touches Byerly's elbow as they wind their way from the door into the belly of the betting house. "Well Messere Diplomat, is there any last advice you'd care to impart before we begin?"
Eshal is trying to see if she can win a staring contest with a Griffon. She can't, but mostly because the beasts refuse to play by the rules. The idea of riding one seems simply fantastic, but the idea of battle shakes something in her still. It's an uneasy feeling she's tried more than once, and is now trying again, to overcome.
Fitcher is a welcome distraction.
Her grin curves. "Odds five to one," she says, "and look at us, not dead."
Fitcher is a welcome distraction.
Her grin curves. "Odds five to one," she says, "and look at us, not dead."
Mhavos does not smoke, but he's considering taking up the hobby, just so that staying indoors for the coming winter will become more tolerable. And yet, here he is, fiddling with a deck of cards instead of working or smoking.
He looks up with a curious eye, sees the speaker, and his expression softens. "Alas, no." He looks over to the fireplace. "I could set something alight and bring it do you, but I'm not sure how much good that would do."
He looks up with a curious eye, sees the speaker, and his expression softens. "Alas, no." He looks over to the fireplace. "I could set something alight and bring it do you, but I'm not sure how much good that would do."
If there is a look typical of gamblers who find themselves in potentially unpleasant company whom they may or may not owe considerable sums of money to, Fitcher does a remarkably good job of not wearing it as she pauses just there inside the eyrie.
She smiles at Eshal while unstringing the soggy little packet of waxed paper in her possession.
"You are certainly not." One of the older griffons has begun to perk up at the stench of raw meat. "But you must know that the odds lean farther out of your favor the closer we get to the, if you'll pardon the phrasing, deadline."
She smiles at Eshal while unstringing the soggy little packet of waxed paper in her possession.
"You are certainly not." One of the older griffons has begun to perk up at the stench of raw meat. "But you must know that the odds lean farther out of your favor the closer we get to the, if you'll pardon the phrasing, deadline."
Maker, but does it suit her. He hadn't seen her without the cloak yet, and so the flash of color and pattern comes as a surprise; he cannot help but be captivated by the sight of her for just a moment. Oh, certainly, he looks fine enough himself - doublet and jerkin well-tailored and well-embroidered, hair well-trimmed, cheek clean, teeth gleaming - but the beauty of a dapper man rarely has the power to make your heart skip the way the beauty of a well-dressed woman can. By, being an ardent appreciator of both, feels he is within his rights to assert this.
Well. A smoothing-down of his front, a sly smile in her direction, and then he answers. "They are your people, madame," he replies. "I shouldn't be so arrogant as to instruct you. Just rest assured that if you find it advantageous to lose more than you win tonight, Riftwatch's coffers will lovingly make you whole tomorrow."
Well. A smoothing-down of his front, a sly smile in her direction, and then he answers. "They are your people, madame," he replies. "I shouldn't be so arrogant as to instruct you. Just rest assured that if you find it advantageous to lose more than you win tonight, Riftwatch's coffers will lovingly make you whole tomorrow."
"A shame. And we have such a good track record with setting things just the right amount of on fire."
(He'd tossed a letter into that self same fireplace, and she'd watched the edge of it catch before fishing it out against with an iron poker. She likes to think it was charming.)
Strange, how a second examination of her pockets yields a tinderbox after all.
"I read your book, by the way. Or your poet's book, rather."
(He'd tossed a letter into that self same fireplace, and she'd watched the edge of it catch before fishing it out against with an iron poker. She likes to think it was charming.)
Strange, how a second examination of her pockets yields a tinderbox after all.
"I read your book, by the way. Or your poet's book, rather."
"Is the Seneschal aware of this promise, or is it entirely your own personal guarantee? I ask only as I've been on a losing streak, and I'd hate to either bankrupt us or find myself in a difficult position."
She's sticking close - not on his arm, lovely though it is, but near enough that for a moment the possibility lingers there between them regardless.
She's sticking close - not on his arm, lovely though it is, but near enough that for a moment the possibility lingers there between them regardless.
"I've got a bit of flint," Ellis offers, digging into his pocket.
Not that Ellis necessarily needs to be carrying around these items, but after so long on the road, certain things are just habit to keep on his person. As he pulls it out, he tips his head at the papers.
"Business troubles?"
Not that Ellis necessarily needs to be carrying around these items, but after so long on the road, certain things are just habit to keep on his person. As he pulls it out, he tips his head at the papers.
"Business troubles?"
"I knew I liked the look of you."
A corner is torn from one of the reports (don't tell anyone, says her sidelong long), and pinched against the edge of the flint. It's all rather economical, this - drawing her little belt knife, the pipe stuck between her teeth and the rapid strike, strike, strike of metal on stone until some ember finds the paper edge.
"Trouble is something of an overstatement," she says around the pipe stem. "Let's call it instead a warning sign, and be happy that it's of a personal nature and nothing to do with our fine company here."
A corner is torn from one of the reports (don't tell anyone, says her sidelong long), and pinched against the edge of the flint. It's all rather economical, this - drawing her little belt knife, the pipe stuck between her teeth and the rapid strike, strike, strike of metal on stone until some ember finds the paper edge.
"Trouble is something of an overstatement," she says around the pipe stem. "Let's call it instead a warning sign, and be happy that it's of a personal nature and nothing to do with our fine company here."
Hammers have always seemed too crass for the likes of the Templars (unless one counts the red ones, but who does), which means that having access to hammers and pointedly not being a Templar makes this the perfect excuse to learn the proper use of one.
Barrow's hand is still wrapped and healing, but able to keep a grip as he swings at a practice dummy, working up a sheen of sweat over the course of about half an hour.
It's when he takes a break, and swings it to rest over his shoulder (so pleasantly!) that he sees his audience, and raises his injured hand in an amiable wave.
Barrow's hand is still wrapped and healing, but able to keep a grip as he swings at a practice dummy, working up a sheen of sweat over the course of about half an hour.
It's when he takes a break, and swings it to rest over his shoulder (so pleasantly!) that he sees his audience, and raises his injured hand in an amiable wave.
She raises her hand in return, a jaunty little gesture made it time to the idle swing of her leg where she has one crossed cheerfully over the other. Don't let her interrupt.
Unless, of course, he happens to be done with the work to hand and interested in a proposal.
Unless, of course, he happens to be done with the work to hand and interested in a proposal.
"How charming." Her smile is very cool indeed. "I do so enjoy it when a man is willing to throw his weight around on my behalf."
Ah, and there are their Antivan friends. Fitcher shoots him a sidelong look, then separates from him in favor of sliding into some standing gap available about the table.
Ah, and there are their Antivan friends. Fitcher shoots him a sidelong look, then separates from him in favor of sliding into some standing gap available about the table.
Athessa, lit roll hanging loosely from her lips, barely looks up before answering.
"Nope, sorry." If she really thinks about it, the elf can just about remember climbing onto a chair to light the joint on a torch. Feels a little bit like deja vu.
Ah, but she does remember the joint. She points to the smoldering tip. "Can you light it with this?"
"Nope, sorry." If she really thinks about it, the elf can just about remember climbing onto a chair to light the joint on a torch. Feels a little bit like deja vu.
Ah, but she does remember the joint. She points to the smoldering tip. "Can you light it with this?"
"I don't see why not."
Fitcher presses another thumb of tobacco into the well of the pipe, then closes the little tin case with a soft clack. There are sweet little leaves beaten into the tin, the rough shape of a fat bird at its center. Well loved, long held. It returns to a coat pocket.
She sets the pipe between her teeth and extends her hand to accept the roll.
Fitcher presses another thumb of tobacco into the well of the pipe, then closes the little tin case with a soft clack. There are sweet little leaves beaten into the tin, the rough shape of a fat bird at its center. Well loved, long held. It returns to a coat pocket.
She sets the pipe between her teeth and extends her hand to accept the roll.
Taking a drag for good measure--though she'll gladly take credit for breathing life into the ember to better light Fitcher's pipe--she hands it over between two fingers and sits back. When the pipe is lit, and the joint passed back, she gestures with it to the cards in front of Fitcher.
"Didn't know there were card games you could play alone." She has the forethought to angle the cloud surrounding her words away from the older woman.
"Didn't know there were card games you could play alone." She has the forethought to angle the cloud surrounding her words away from the older woman.
It's a thoughtful sentiment - one which, so long as they're both to be smoking, Fitcher doesn't bother with. With a few encouraging pulls at the pipe's infant ember and an exhale through the nose, the pair of them are well on their way to a pleasant little smokers haze here in this dim corner.
"Very much so. This one's called pyramid." She nods dismissively to the card array on the table, then fetches her attention back to the stack of reports. "I can't say that they're my favorite, but so it goes."
"Very much so. This one's called pyramid." She nods dismissively to the card array on the table, then fetches her attention back to the stack of reports. "I can't say that they're my favorite, but so it goes."
There's a pause, long enough to seem as though Athessa might not have a response beyond a slow nod and a slower pull on the joint. She's looking at the cards like they're a puzzle to be solved.
"What's your favorite, then?" She asks.
She won't know any that Fitcher might list, other than Wicked Grace or that other one people are always playing in taverns. Not even that one, truly. She can't even remember the name so how would she recognize it?
"What's your favorite, then?" She asks.
She won't know any that Fitcher might list, other than Wicked Grace or that other one people are always playing in taverns. Not even that one, truly. She can't even remember the name so how would she recognize it?
"Euchre. Or Hen's Hand, if you're Ferelden." This too is said absently around the pipe stem as she turns the page on the top of the stack.
"But it demands four to six, and a good partner." Fitcher shoots Athessa a look over the line of her hand. Her mouth isn't visible, but the arch of her eyebrow suggests one of those sly smiles older women sometimes excel at. "High asks anywhere, unfortunately."
"But it demands four to six, and a good partner." Fitcher shoots Athessa a look over the line of her hand. Her mouth isn't visible, but the arch of her eyebrow suggests one of those sly smiles older women sometimes excel at. "High asks anywhere, unfortunately."
The discolored string goes into her pocket and Fitcher's smile goes coy and coquettish, so clearly a ploy that it becomes a joke all on its own. "Lets not discuss money; it's so crass. Are you enjoying your new position, serah?"
There's a heavy FHWUMP as the elder griffon finally deigns to drops from the rafters of the eyrie. It shakes itself off, all dust and floating feather down.
There's a heavy FHWUMP as the elder griffon finally deigns to drops from the rafters of the eyrie. It shakes itself off, all dust and floating feather down.
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