[Open] Hello, my name is Elder Sara

[okayimin]

WHO: Sister Sara Sawbones and YOU
WHAT: The Chantry meant to send a nun to check up on all you sinners, but accidentally sent a doctor instead.
WHEN: Late Harvestmere, before Satinalia
WHERE: All over Kirkwall
NOTES: may or may not add leech hunting as a prompt at some point

i. Kirkwall Docks

Sawbones has largely managed to avoid boats since coming to the surface. Boats and large bodies of water. Two equally unnatural things that topsiders aren't even a little bothered over. She almost misses the Deep Roads.

Almost.

Currently, she's more concerned with avoiding the bustle of sailors and merchants while coping with how inexplicably different the ground feels once one gets off a ship. The clean white and bright red of the Chantry habit at least makes her clearly visible to anyone glancing around, but she's also about half the height of everyone else and can't seem to manage a straight line of movement.

"Pardon," she says with a grim set to her decidedly green face, not especially paying attention to whose knees she's run into so much as staying on her feet and moving forward.

ii. The Gallows

a. Library
Of course there's another boat. Because topsiders are obsessive with living on every surface that stays still long enough to build a foundation. But the Gallows are less depressing than the name implies and it has the most important thing any building could have: a library. Sawbones does the perfectly reasonable thing and heads straight there with a single minded sort of purpose. This is the first time she's had access to a library that isn't Chantry controlled and she means to get an idea of what volumes they have.

Which is why there's quite suddenly a tiny Chantry sister in full regalia standing on a stool that's been set on a table and pushed up to one of the taller bookcases. Don't worry about it.

b. the Gallows' Chapel
It is entierly possible the whole reason Sawbones was chosen to act as a more visible representative of the Chantry within Rift Watch is simply because the scattered members of the Kirkwall Chantry didn't want to keep staffing the Gallows' little chapel.

Their loss. It's a tidy little space and Sawbones likes it more for the amount of exposed stonework on the walls. The pews are the perfect height and width for when she's too sleep fogged to recall how to get back to the group quarters with the added bonus of not having a Reverend Mother showing up to yell at her.

She doesn't actually know how many faithful are in Rift Watch and how many of that number bother going to the little chapel at all, but it feels like a more secure spot than accidentally dozing off at a Dining Hall table.

iii. A Case of the Rattles

Unsurprisingly, the chill damp of dawn and dusk bring sickness. Particularly to those without the means to stay properly warm and dry. An excess of phlegm followed by a rattling cough in the chests of those with particularly weak constitutions is more than enough reason for to worry. It leaves those who practice a nonmagical form of medicine feeling the war time scarcities more keenly than ever. Sawbones in particular is especially bad tempered with anyone who's not a patient as she makes her rounds to and from High Town and Low Town.

a. High Town

Almost in spite of the chill weather, the gardens of High Town are still immaculately maintained. A few especially are having particular good luck with their roses. Sawbones has been making special visits to those gardens and has given up any pretense of subtlety. It is amazing what the Chantry habit and an air of knowing what's best can allow one to get away with, even if one isn't an especially accomplished liar.

For instance: "My, what lovely roses, Sister Eloise will love them." delivered in an almost monotone to no one in particular, as Sister Sara fits on a pair of gloves and immediately starts to snip off lengths of blooms and leaves with a pair of shears she pulled from her habit.

b. Low Town markets

Honey is another problem all together. "You're absolutely mad," Sister Sara says, with a significant pause that suggest she's trying very hard not to call the merchant worse, "It's honey, not liquid gold. We need it for medicine."

"Times are hard, Sister," the merchant says with an enormous amount of sympathy for someone selling tiny jars of honey at three times the markup, "There's a high demand for all manner of goods. I've got a family to feed, you know."

Anyone close at hand will see the incredibly novel sight of a dwarven Chantry Sister clearly contemplating acts of violence against the honey seller.

iv. Kirkwall Taverns

On any given night, there's a brawl. And on any given night, she can be found wading through the aftermath. She's tending a group of dwarves tonight, stitching closed the ugly gash on one's arm while he drinks liberally from a bottle. They all share the same snake like brand on their left cheeks.

"This would take half the time if you nug fucked dust heads would just go and see a fucking mage," she says, wiping away pooling blood so she can see her work more clearly.

"Mages is freaks, Sawbones," slurs one of the dwarves cheerfully, shaking a jar full of water and glistening black sludge.

"Mages don't need leeches. Now put those down before I decided to let them have a go at that shiner of yours." She is entierly ungentle when she finishes the stitches and starts wrapping the injury before turning her attention to whoever made the mistake of wandering to close, "Right, what do you need?"

WILDCARD

Comments

[nonvenomous]

Richard settles back by a matter of degrees, caught off guard enough by her candor that it’s all he can do to stifle a laugh into a scoff. It’s clear in immediacy that he isn’t quite sure what to think.

There’s no doubt (or judgment) in the way he hoods his brow at her, but his assessment sharpens into something less formal, pretense shed naturally after the frameshift.

“I take it the cost of heresy isn’t especially severe.”

Or something about his showing up here at this hour with a BAC over .05 tipped her off to his own lack of piety.

“I was a cleric, back at home.”

[okayimin]

There's so much subtlety in his expression and gestures, catching is surprise isn't difficult. It is a little gratifying. Sawbones' smile is more along the lines of a friendly grimace.

"I'm not upfront with my superiors about my feelings about the Maker, if that's what you mean." She rolls her shoulders in a shrug.

And then his confession draws her full attention, curious, "Oh? Your lord and savior then? Are they anything like the Maker?"

[nonvenomous]

“Mm,” says Richard, concise in his approval -- discretion certainly seems prudent, under the circumstances -- and also: “No.” His certainty is absolute, bordering upon reassurance.

No.

“Oghma is a god of knowledge, and learning. I don’t believe he’d look kindly upon systematic subjugation. Granted,” he pauses to allow, “temple structure and worship are streamlined, with less room for creative interpretation by middle management.

“Do you drink?” He intends to, already leaning to hoist his bag up onto the bench with them.

[okayimin]

Sawbones' attention is immediately caught by the knowledge and learning "I like the sound of your Oghma already."

She nods at his question, giving it only half a mind. Since they're already well into heretical discussion, there's no reason not to say: "Turns out an absent god makes for a lot of variation on what the Duster wants to start with. The Chantry only likes to paint itself as all encompassing, it's hardly the truth. You've the Qun to the farthest East and the Stone below. The elves have their own business, but they're the ones the Chantry has their stranglehold over."

[nonvenomous]

“He seems forgiving. Or at least tolerant, if easily disappointed.”

Maybe Oghma could stand to take on a more practical perspective with regard to some matters, he means, without elaborating. Instead he draws a bottle out of his bag, and offers it to her first. It’s wine. Cheap. The cork is loose, easily twisted free.

If they were on earth it would be in a box.

“I like the Qunari,” he says. “The horns are interesting. I wasn’t a human myself until very recently.”

[okayimin]

She takes the bottle and a drink of the wine, grimacing a little. It's not quite vinegar, but still better than some she's had. She hands it backs.

"Hang on, how's that work?" Sawbones tips her head and studies him, "Is this an elf thing?"

[nonvenomous]

“I’m not sure. My friend was a tiefling before we arrived here -- a horned humanoid creature similar to your Qunari,” he takes the wine bottle back, and also drinks, jaw grit harsh against the taste. “More colorful. He was gold, before.”

He tells her casually, and as if he expects she has no reason to care -- aware without embarrassment or apology.

“He also had a tail -- but no. I’ve never been an elf. I’m sorry. You were saying that they have their own ‘business.’”

[okayimin]

"They do," she says with a nod, "What were you before you were human? Did you have a tail?"

Since he's not going to answer the implied question, she asks it directly. It's more interesting to her than the discussion of Thedas' various theologies at the moment.

[nonvenomous]

“Gods no.” Dick is quick to hood his brow, not quite derisive in scoff for tail-bearers and the challenges they face in day to day in tasks like wearing pants. It’s the idea more than it is Sawbones’ suggestion -- he includes her in the joke, rather than leave her at the butt of it, bottle in hand. “Can you imagine?”

A tail. Ridiculous.

“My ancestors performed profane rituals that mingled their essence with the blood of snakes,” he explains, matter-of-fact, as he offers the bottle back to her. It’s really very straightforward.

“I haven’t actually told anyone I know.” For obvious reasons.

[okayimin]

She takes her turn with the bottle, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Profane acts aren't too popular with anybody unless they're the ones doing them," she says, in a rare moment of philosophy, "Anyway, snakes have tails, don't they."

Sawbones thinks having a tail in general is ridiculous, but she thinks Qunari horns are a bit silly too. How're you supposed to walk around without banging your head into things?

[nonvenomous]

“I suppose that’s true, on both counts,” says Richard. “Also important to consider that humans were the ones who originally thought it would be a clever way to get ahead.”

He watches her drink, glancing nose to toes over the absence of whatever horror or recoil he might have anticipated was a possibility, here. There’s no surprise in him. Maybe a cool sliver of relief in a slower breath, brushed aside soon after it escapes immediate relevance.

“Your humans might be of sturdier, more responsible stock, but somehow I doubt it. Is ‘Sawbones’ a family name?”

He asks very politely.

[okayimin]

"Don't think that's a trait exclusive to humans," she offers. Profane acts with snakes is still less weird than topsidders just being okay with the fact there's a big emptiness above them that changes steadily and sometimes without warning.

She hesitates a moment as she passes the bottle back, eyeing him. Well. The wine is bad enough, he'd had to have gone to one of the establishments the Carta thugs frequent. She shakes her head, "No. It's what I am, what I do." She taps the brand on her left cheek, "I'm Casteless. Not supposed to have an occupation that a Casted dwarf can do. But Casted dwarves don't like doctoring for Casteless, so."

See a need, fill a need.

[nonvenomous]

“It isn’t,” Richard agrees, all too readily. All humanoid races are terrible. It’s just that humans are the worst.

He fits his hand around the passed bottle’s neck without acknowledging any hesitation that might have preceded it, natural patience coupled with a plain disregard for what might constitute uncomfortable conversation. His eyes check to the brand as it’s tapped, and back again, while he keeps the bottle hung between his knees.

“What sort of occupations can’t a Casted dwarf do?”

[okayimin]

It's strange to be talking about it. It was a necessary secret for her whole life, first Old Sawbones then hers. And talking about Ozammar is always just. Strange.

It almost helps that Richard is one of the blandest Dusters Sawbones has met in a while. Mild manners laid over some kind of watchfulness. She wonders if that's the snake bit. Either way his question gets a snort.

"Suppose any job they don't want to. Casted dwarves usually stick to their Caste, but Houses intermarry. Children inherit the Caste of their parent, son to father and the like."

[nonvenomous]

“Mm.”

Reflection takes that watchfulness briefly out of focus. He is elsewhere for the bleary beat it takes him to recall the weight of the bottle in his hand, and slow to smudge himself out of it, loose shoulders drawn back out of a gradual slouch -- pulling himself back up into a tidier coil.

“I’m something of a healer myself. Should you ever require assistance.” He doesn’t get the sense that she’d need it to get things done.

But you never know.

He offers the bottle out at a tilt. Last call.

“Does being a part of the chantry protect you from their scrutiny?”

[okayimin]

"I'll take what I can get." An answer to the offer and maybe whatever questions he hasn't asked. A Duster way of living that Chantry living hadn't erased.

She cocks a brow at him, taking the bottle for a last drink.

"Did being a cleric protect you?"

[nonvenomous]

“From my people?” That’s probably what she meant. “No, I don’t think so. They worship other -- ‘entities.’” The word plays strangely even after he’s gone through the effort of searching for one to fit, distant from his own retelling. “”””””Entities.””””””

“But it was useful,” he says, “for deferring suspicion from everyone else.”

The fact that he stands out in a crowd about the same as a broom in a closet hasn’t hurt either. He thumbs the flap of his bag over, and turns the latch.

“I’m sorry -- I’ll let you get back to your evening. I didn’t expect to like you.” Flat, to the point, he cocks a brow back at her, his apology honest in a direct kind of way, if not especially sincere. She can understand, surely, the temptation to harass unsuspecting clergy. “I’m Richard. I’m with the Scouts.”

[okayimin]

Sawbones doesn't laugh very often. She does now, a surprised yelp of laughter that trickles off into a barely contained snicker. But the directness is a pleasant change from the amount of Orlesian orating she's dealt with over the past few years.

"You're an odd one," she says, direct in her own way, "Suppose that makes sense, since you're not from the world. And call me Sister Sara."

[nonvenomous]

“Yes,” says Richard, “that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.”

Bag latched, he hitches it onto his shoulder and stands. He is as medium in height as he is in most things, and he crooks half a smile back at her as he tips his chin in farewell.

“I’m sure I’ll see you later, Sister Sara.”