[OPEN]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria, Marcoulf, Flint, and/or Fitcher & YOU
WHAT: Open log for Wintermarch
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Mix of open and closed prompts; some threads closed to first come first serve and/or contain a few different prompts. Want something specific but don't see it here? Hit me up on discord/plurk/PM/the astral plane, and we can figure something out (or just toss me a wildcard starter if that suits your fancy; I'm pretty flexible). Action brackets aokay if you prefer it over prose.

[see comments below for character specific starters]

Comments

wysteria

[heirring]

I. base operations

The (Unofficial) Official Assistant to the Seneschal is determined to be a proper, useful assistant and thus Wysteria has made it her business to stick her nose into everyone else's. Perhaps you've been assigned a menial task - carrying important boxes up ten flights of stairs, draining and scrubbing the baths - in desperate need of being overseen, or there is very important shopping to be done on Riftwatch's behalf which requires Miss Poppell's most discerning eye.

Just don't try to file your latest expense report or acquisitions request with her. There's a growing pile - tower? mountain? - of paperwork in her little corner of the world, and it's almost certainly to be stuffed somewhere around the base of it.

II. research division (closed to whoever gets here first)

From the far side of the workroom comes a fantastic BANG!, followed by a mortified squawk and the sudden smell of burning: paper turning rapidly to ash and singed hair and the strangely musky smell of scorched leather. Wysteria, in her heavy leather work gloves and apron, staggers backward from the plume of smoke billowing from the metal bowl riveted to the table before her. She is coughing and spluttering and only slightly on fire at her very edges.

There's a bucket of water beside the bench, but she pauses briefly to smother her burning sleeve prior to dumping it all over the detritus of the work table. And then whatever was in the bowl BANGS! again, tongues of fire leaping from up through the column of smoke.

"Ack!"

And then the fire (or some burning bit of ash) leaps to the bundle of paper at the edge of the table.

"ACK!"

III. wildcard

i

[badbeliever]

There were endless rotas in the Chantry and war (wars plural) did little to change that. Or swapping yours out if you, say, another Sister or a Brother both happened to have something the other disliked and would rather have so you know, shopping was better. Shopping was out and about, meeting the people, speaking to them, hearing their worries and finding out what might be done.

This is a first here without Revered Mother Liliane watchful gaze or Sister Ariane's - loving, well-meant - hectoring.

Which leaves Iris not-marching (purposeful striding, something Ser Gauvain taught at length) with her list and a smile, all thick Orlesian fresh from Val Royeaux-- "Excuse me? If you could check this over, I was told you were the right lady to speak with and given how supplies have been then I'd have it checked if you could."

[heirring]

On some days, there is a real and palpable satisfaction with being stopped on the way to or from somewhere to review something, or to be asked some little question. Imagine if the Wysteria from Kalvad could see her now! What joy, that girl might have thought, to have some inkling of responsibility - to be trusted and relied upon by strangers simply because of one's reputation or title. On some days as she's getting ready for bed and slipping into her nightshirt, she talks to Ralston's little finger ring to say I told you so.

And then other days, such as this one, she is so dreadfully late for an appointment from someone she knows will never stop talking about it, that she actually freezes when addressed. Once that instant failure of fight or flight unwinds, she is left regarding the sister with the sick look of someone on the verge of drowning, and promptly snatches the list.

"This is all right. It's fine." A cursory examination, ending promptly. Wysteria folds the list over and is about to shove it straight back into Sister Whatever's hands, then turns it back around and unfolds it for a second look. "No, no. We will need twice that in molasses for our visitors from Antiva. Did the kitchens sign off on this? Of course they didn't. And I don't see soap on here at all. And has anyone told you to avoid that wretched master Gartel in Lowtown? We've stopped doing any business with him."

[badbeliever]

Oh. Oh where is-- is there anything for her to grab hold of? (Five Sisters if she included herself all bustling about their business and this is Ariane and Gaëlle, maybe a shade of Clara, not now, not now.) Iris swallows, fixes her smile in place. She left before. She was the one who said yes to going away where the fighting had been - still was sometimes, pockets of violence erupting without rhyme or reason - but this is more land and water than a few days on her feet or a horse, letters that might never reach either family.

People who have their own cares and petty squabbles to attend to that she isn't party to.

"The kitchens are far too busy feeding the place to go looking at papers, put on an apron or go." It had more bite with a Free Marcher accent instead of her thick Orlesian but the undercurrent of irritation creeps in because now more time is being wasted and people are going to be fed the wrong thing or not at all if it's not done right. "We have we stopped doing business with master Gartel? What's so wretched about him?"

[heirring]

"Well the kitchens can hardly expect to get what they need if they can't be bothered to ask for it properly." This said absently as Wysteria produces a pen from somewhere in the twist of her hair so she can mark up the list properly.

"As for Master Gartel, he shorted us terribly on our last two orders and has yet to make up the difference. He may insist that it was the warehouse responsible for all the sawdust, but we hardly have the time to inspect every ibdividual bag of flour as it's delivered. So best to avoid his business. The extra trouble isn't worth what seems like such a reasonable price. No, I would discuss the matter with— well, whomever his immediate competition is if you can locate them. Perhaps you can play them off one another for a proper bargain."

[badbeliever]

"Have you worked in many kitchens?" It almost comes out as any, sharper than she means it to because no she's not in Orlais, she's not in any of her homes. She's supposed to remember that, isn't she, around all these people who have all their own little squabbles to be getting on with.

A little sigh follows with a nod because yes, this she knows, this she remembers from being stood on empty crates to peek up over counters before the Chantry took her and even after because it's Orlais and no one is given to charity even if they should be. "Has anyone investigated this matter then? I realise that Riftwatch has many other matters to attend to but if he does it to Riftwatch who have duties such as," a gesture in place of words she's not ready to say, "Doesn't it stand to reason he'd do it to others as well who aren't in any position to argue with a man such as that? Who can't go bargaining?"

[heirring]

The first, she ignores in favor of making a few more notes in the margins of the list. It hardly matters where she's worked or in what capacity.

"I have no idea. It was made clear to the gentleman that until he settled the difference with us, Riftwatch would do no further business with him. That is really all I know. I believe it very likely that the rogue was relying on the fact that we take in such a large quantity all at once to hide his sins."

[badbeliever]

"And if I were to finish my errands and speak to him, that wouldn't be a problem? Kirkwall's Sisters have been, how do I say this politely--" Meaning how does she say it to someone who isn't part of the Chantry's inner workings because there's plenty she could say to Sister Sara for instance on the standards of the faith in Kirkwall but not to a stranger. "Absent in their duties without the guiding hand of a Revered Mother or Grand Cleric; so much chaos spread from here that the lack of it must still be keenly felt."

But you know. Reset the bone or cut that limb off. Move on with your life the way everyone else has to even if your mouth is full of blood and regrets. Though shoddy standards always seemed to be the Kirkwall way and that's going by the memory of a child raised on overheard stories about the place.

"Is there anyone who gives us good prices that I should be looking for? Anyone who might be encouraged to be charitable to the faith or less charitable? It's difficult to predict how someone reacts to the colour of your skirts now."

[heirring]

"I'm not aware of any particular preference, sympathetic or otherwise, to the faith among our typical circle of vendors. Though I can't say that it's ever come up, or that I've ever considered to ask." Wysteria pauses in her annotation to flash a rote, but bright, smile in her direction. "I'm sure you'll do quite well though. Not to worry, dear. But see that you refer to Madame Bailey for any question of fish or eels. I see here there is a dinner being planned that includes them, and she will give you a good price. Evidently we did her son some little favor some time back and she still feels warm to us."

With a slashing motion, Wysteria scratches one item from the list entirely and then surrenders it back to Iris.

"As for the other thing - you may of course do whatever you like with your free time. I can hardly stop you. But if you do fine yourself in conversation with the man, I would appreciate it if you would find some subtle way of telling him to get bent."

ii.

[dirth]

The bang does not surprise Solas as it might others - he is far too accustomed to the sound of magic in practice and people making events of themselves - but the smell of burning grabs his attention and he notes that he might wish to get involved. He's quick to push himself up and begin to make a move, slipping through the research base to track down the source of the problem.

His hand is raised, ready to offer some rather icy assistance (literally), considering it seems as though she does not have this well in hand, so to speak.

Maigc in his hand, he tilts his head, letting the frost sprinkle across the table in front of him, hopefully soothing some of the fire leaping to and fro.

"I hope you do not mind. I thought that you might like some help."

[heirring]

If there is any relief to be found in the smothering of the spreading fire, it certainly doesn't show in Wysteria's face. Instead, she hisses and hops from foot to foot, and promptly yanks her leather apron off to toss it promptly over the whole bench - soggy papers, bowl hissing smoke, ash, and all.

Wysteria slaps it all over, adding just smothering the mess to Solas' rather more elegant efforts.

"The fumes," she explains, as if that is any kind of explanation at all.

[dirth]

There's a moment - a tick of a handful of seconds - where it seems as though Solas isn't entirely sure what to do with himself. He's never seen someone react quite like this, but he finds a sort of devilish glee in it, something that makes a smile twitch onto his lips. Ah, he thinks to himself; Rifters. They are a marvel, are they not?

He leans on his staff, sparks of electricity above him prickling. He can almost hear the laughter.

"Yes, so I see." Head tilted, he does little else for a moment before - "Is there something more I can do to help you? What were you attempting?"