open; strike up the tinderbox

[sarcophage]

WHO: Leander + a cast of thousands
WHAT: various things
WHEN: Wintermarch
WHERE: the Gallows and also not the Gallows
NOTES: none yet

open i;

"Do you like it here?"

A question he's bound to ask more than once, of more than one person, should they share with him the relative quiet of the ramparts or the baths, or the library, or happen to walk alongside him in a staircase or corridor, going the same way. All will be at some late hour, when most are asleep.

---

open ii;

In the twilight hours he may be found on a path in the Gallows medicinal garden, surrounded by the husks of useful things, frozen reed stalks and little stems curled like match heads, just

staring

like he's seeing through the world and into the space beyond it. Like he's listening to a voice from far away. Across the allotment are some evergreen plants, juniper berries and such things happy to carry on through the unfriendly island winter. Eventually, he walks across to meet them.

---

open iii;

Or, late some afternoons one may discover him in the stable, leaning on a door in the back in the fashion of a boy, bent with his head resting on his arm while his other hand hangs inside the stall. Murmuring low, either to himself or to the horse inside—the reanimated corpse thereof. No precious paper or wooden sketching slab today, only himself, touching the beast while it appears to doze, grazing the shoulder or neck, curling his hand around an ear and rubbing the dead fur inside.

---

open iv;

For those who tend, like most, to sleep during the night and conduct their business during the day, it may seem like Leander has abandoned his office, for he's been keeping nocturnal hours for over a month—but now, apropos of nothing made public, that's changed, and things have gone back to normal. Catch him coming after breakfast or going before dinner, unlocking or locking his office door.

It's likely he will try to brush most people off with a bland smile and polite good morning or good night, but should they both happen to be headed in the same direction... or perhaps one might share with him an intentionally well-timed walk to the ferry, to minimize waiting...

---

open v;

Or chance upon him while he stands there at street's edge, passively observing a two-man brawl outside a tavern not very far from the Kirkwall docks, the participants looking about ready to escalate beyond fists...

---

etc;

...anything can happen.

Comments

i

[doneisdone]

A fellow nightwalker, Teren stops short when someone addresses her. The voice is familiar enough, she's certain she's heard it, even if she can't place it with a face until Leander is more visible in the lamplight.

"What?" is all she asks, with a brusqueness brought on by surprise.

[sarcophage]

Leander is excellent at suppressing his own incidental pleasure into invisibility, and having caught this particular woman off guard makes it necessary now. He slows near her, angled not directly at her but to pass her by, and doesn't smile.

"Living here. Working with Riftwatch. How do you find it?"

[doneisdone]

What an odd question for a dark hallway in the middle of the night. Teren's expression conveys as much.

"Better than rotting in a Western Approach ravine with my throat slit," she muses.

[sarcophage]

Likewise, an unusual response, although his own expression conveys nothing in particular to that effect. He's not in the mood to feign a smile.

"Was that a concern of yours?"

[doneisdone]

"Oh, yes," she answers, not seeming to see the issue. She pauses to rest lightly against a railing, taking some of the weight off her walking stick.
"I take it you're unaware of what the Inquisition encountered at Adamant."

ii

[okayimin]

Sawbones is already among the pine, specifically in the lower boughs of a one. Even in the twilight, the red of her Chantry habit blazes brilliant red among the green of the trees. She's busily inspecting branches and choosing sprays of needles to cut. A half filled basket lies at the base of her tree.

The movement catches her attention and the vague quality of his walk earns him more than a glance.

"All right down there?" she calls down from her perch, which frankly is significantly less distance for him than for her.

[sarcophage]

"More or less," blandly delivered, though not for lack of interest now that he's found focus on her bustling shape clambering around like a stout bird in one of the conifer trees. Their presence on this island is frankly remarkable—someone must have worked long to grow these few to such a size, through they're hardly as large as they could've grown elsewhere.

"Sister Sara. What're you doing, there?"

It's obvious enough, he just wants to hear her explain it.

[okayimin]

She leans down enough from her perch to give him a mild frown and a considering look.

"What's it look like." She holds out a spray of pine needles, freshly clipped. "Pine needles. Excellent treatment for an abundance of phlegm. Easy to come by in the winter too."

[sarcophage]

"Ah. Like the berries, then," gesturing to the nearby juniper, with its endearingly scruffy shape, still busy producing more tiny fruits to make up for the last harvest. Must be why she's gone up there to rustle around, like a little bear in a habit. "I suppose you're after the more tender ones."

iii

[taxonomy]

A chance to study up close and personal the menagerie that Riftwatch has about itself is part and parcel of why Tavin finally decided to sign up in the end and well they've nuggalopes, things he's not seen kept in close quarters before, not outside say the Avvar, and dracolisks--

Something more fitting too for some young Nevarrans who might come up with their own heraldry if given the chance as his quillback lurks. About as much as something that size can. Bristling. Maybe. But he's doing his best and Tavin is keeping him in the line of sight as he passes a hand over a nuggalope, taking more measurements because captivity tends to ruin some beasts and how much fatter can a nuggalope possibly get? (Orlesian gourmets would likely love to know but he'll not pass that along.)

"Hope I, well, we," an arm waves roughly to where Cedric damned well ought to be if he wants to be rewarded for good behaviour, "aren't disturbing you. Most seem to avoid your...friend. I wasn't quite sure of their condition and none of the stablehands ever seemed inclined to answer my questions."

[sarcophage]

You are, he nearly says, but opts instead to straighten up—not only his posture, but the hang of his jacket, by way of a few casual tugs—and comport himself more courteously. The usual smile is absent, fair neutrality in its place.

"They wouldn't've known the answers."

The nuggalope goes overlooked, categorized as something like ambulatory furniture. The quillback, on the other hand, commands most of his attention for as long as it exists within his field of view.

"What were they? Your questions."

[taxonomy]

"I don't like to overlook them, more often than not they've known more about rare breeds for all the time they spend with them than the riders who might only take them out a time or two a month." There's a small attempt to keep his voice neutral at the start but that disappears fairly soon; why bother having a wonderful mount only to have it and know nothing about it yourself? He's never going to understand that if he lives to be old and grey himself.

Still, he looks over to the reanimated horse and the young man probably has a point because even some of the younger Mortalitasi might hesitate around it. At least regarding the sword. Which brings him to his question as Cedric slinks closer, scenting the air, mouth hanging open.

"The first was about the demeanour - most things that die with any sort of weapon about tend to have, shall we say, proclivities? And horses have their reasons for spooking and tempers but this one...I've not heard anything I'd expect to. Especially for them being with Riftwatch."

[sarcophage]

"It wasn't a weapon that killed him. It was magic." A form of magic yet unnamed—that will never be named, if its bearer has his way. But not only that. "A shot of ice," he adds, and turns to cluck his tongue at the creature in the stall. The head raises, milky eyes unblinking. He points, just short of touching. "Here, through the brain."

His hand finds the plane of a big forehead, mummified but conditioned soft, rubs gently between the eyes. (Alas, this one wears no sword, even when its rider is up.)

"And it was magic that brought her back. If anything, he ought to be afraid of arrows—there was a sniper on the trail. But I doubt he'll flinch at a full volley now. Will you, darling?" Of course not. His maker's skill is greater than that.

ii

[keenly]

Not all things in the garden are dead, some magic being on the ground to keep it alive. But it is the juniper berries Colin is harvesting at sunup. It is the time of year for winter fever and the grippe, and the berries help to expel excess phlegm from the body. When someone arrives, he gives a quick glance before hurriedly pretending he is alone in the garden.

[sarcophage]

It's rude not to say hello, he thinks, aware of the hypocrisy, having done the same many times himself, especially throughout the last few months. Have patience, be merciful: these are his mantras of late. Necessary reminders to himself in the thickening gloom. It's not Colin's fault, after all, that the year mark has nearly come. He is annoying, certainly, but not responsible for the passage of time.

And so Leander stops not too close by, at a shrub still bearing rose hips, and speaks mildly. "Good harvest?"

[keenly]

In some other version of this conversation, somewhere in the Fade, Athessa is flying in to remove some of Leander's teeth. It is a fact that gives Colin some comfort. Good harvest, indeed. Usually Colin is better about keeping his mouth shut, but Leander brings it out in him.

"Does messing with peoples' heads get you off sexually," he asks nonchalantly, without looking up from his work, "or do you just find it funny?"

[sarcophage]

That he's surprised by the immediate hostility is itself a surprise; he ponders this while it curdles. The long thoughts that can occur in an instant. The numbing calm that he knows to be an early forewarning of anger, the rarest threat to his self-control, in this case kindled by frustration and not a little self-pity. He is aware. He smothers it gently.

"I'm only saying hello."

i

[ho_hum]

At this late hour, Henry is in the garden, which he's spent most of the afternoon weeding and tidying, trimming dead limbs off of a plant here, a plant there, uprooting and transplanting another elsewhere, and frowning at the plants that never stood a chance. Now, though, the hard work is behind him and he's about to get to the fun part when Leander asks a question meant for someone else, surely.

The lumbering old man, noting that there isn't anyone else the boy could be talking to, simply grunts and keeps going about his business.

[sarcophage]

It's answer enough, being all but ignored. Someone else might take it for the brick-wall message it seems to be and leave the brick-wall-sized man alone to do his business—but then, Leander is curious, and this fellow's got a new face, and there are plenty of other questions he can ask in order to circle back around to the first one.

He keeps coming, stands not very far away, arms folded. Supervisory, like.

"I never thought there'd be much gardening to do in the dead of winter. Doesn't the soil freeze?"

[ho_hum]

He sighs and affords Leander a glance.

"It doesn't have to," His voice is gruff, accent thickly Ferelden and very, very rural. Rather than explain himself, he continues working. Earlier in the day, he laid down mulch to insulate the soil, protected the bases of the trees with burlap, all to ward off the harsher affects of the frost without doing anything too drastic. Now, however, he's nestling small crystals around the bases of any plants he deems at risk.

[sarcophage]

There's an accent he hasn't heard in a while. A little taste of home. How lovely.

Now, Leander would be the first to admit his gardening experience is limited, especially in comparison to those with a focus on herbalism—though he can make his way around a garden without ruining everything, which is key to the practice. That is to say: he is intrigued enough to linger.

"How long have you been here? On the island, I mean, not in the dirt."

v.

[cozen]

Drawn away from watching two old sailors' dice game by a familiar figure closer to the commotion, Bastien slides into the space beside Leander just in time to see a tooth fly. Winces, appropriately, but then offers: "Two silvers on the short one." His tone is balanced cleanly on the line between trying to make light despite genuine concern and seriously, though, two silvers on the short one.

[sarcophage]

The arrival of a familiar moustache, he meets with a glance and a smile so brief it may resemble a tic.

"Sure." There's no line, or if there is, it has worn smooth. His posture, likewise unremarkable: amenable, relaxed, yet aloof. His body is here, warm as any other body, his eyes are alert on the men; he is somewhere else.

One puts the other in a headlock. Feet scuff and slide. Both centers of gravity sink closer to the ground. Flashes of bloody mouth and nose.

"I missed the start. No idea why they're at each other. What do you think?"

[cozen]

A thoughtful hum, while he considers first the scuffle, then briefly the mage.

"They were lovers at sea," he ventures, while someone nearer to the center of the scene has to scramble out of their way, cursing over the jeers as he goes. "When they returned to shore, it was like coming out of a dream. One of them has a child on the way. The other owes a debt and has to sail again soon. Neither wants to be the first to say that they miss their dark corner of the hold. Both are angry the other does not. And they are running out of time."

He flicks ash and shrugs.

"Or it is money."

[sarcophage]

Like coming out of a dream— neither wants to be the first to say—

Leander stares at the brawlers. Silently wills one to draw a knife. Neither of them do; one escapes the hold by the slick of his own blood and drops to hands and knees, coughing, the other staggers for the loss of balance and doesn't regain his footing.

And they are running out of time.

Both men, exhausted, recovering in slow motion. A few bodies leave the perimeter crowd to see to one or the other, to varied levels of acceptance. At length, Leander looks to Bastien.

"What's the child's name?"