faderift | Open | not very prim and proper

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Open | not very prim and proper

WHO: Sawbones and Whoever.
WHAT: Sawbones has been confined to the Gallows for the duration of a month, so she immediately involves herself in everyone else's business and then catches a cold.
WHEN: Time is fake, post-Snow Mission
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES:

1. Winter Preparedness

While it was probably not the intention for her to monitor the comings and goings of Riftwatch agent, the barracks that had been re-purposed to house a number of her regular Lowtown patients cut a path right near the docks. So it was more happenstance than an intentional exercise that Sawbones started casting a glance at the comings and goings as she herself came and went. Which means she notices certain things.

"Hey!" she calls out, path diverting suddenly when she spots someone heading for the ferry, "Where the fuck is your scarf?!"

2. Wardrobe Adjustments

Of course, there are far more worrying things than some Duster heading in to a freezing city in the grips of an outbreak without a scarf. Like the Riftwatch members who refuse to wear shoes. It's unacceptable. She's not able to address the problem as quickly as she would like, but she still does. She walks up with an unmistakable air of triumph, armed with a pair of Rivanni sandals and thick knitted socks.

"Here, try these on."

3. Tea Service

The practical thing to do would be to keep a low profile around Riftwatch's authorities. She was, after all, being punished and one ought to give those in power the impression of respectful penance for one's own safety if nothing else. The problem was that they had their second official case of grippe. And now that her presence in the Gallows was being enforced, she was fully aware of the hours and habits of its residents.

Like any Duster, Sawbones had a perfectly reasonable disregard for authority, subservience enacted purely in the interest of one's survival rather than any sense of loyalty. And the very real potential of any of these powerful individuals in charge of the daily running of the fortress catching ill was a pressing concern. And so, Sawbones added another routine to her modified rounds. She finished attending her patients in the barracks and checking in with their two grippe cases by noon. The perfect time to slip down to the kitchens and round up a tea service with a strong herbal brew.

She is entierly too short to loom, but she does all the same, slipping into offices and marching up to occupied desks with a brisk step and a determined scowl, wielding a cup of hot tea.

4. Sick Day

a. The Well Runs Dry (one thread)
The grippe takes her right at the end of her confinement. Because of course it does. She lasts about three days, just enough time to make the necessary arrangements for her Kirkwall patients still present in the Barracks and make up a cot for herself in the Chapel's sick room. And then it hits with a vengeance, taking her out at the knees.

She'll be found propped up against a wall, feverish and eating a bowl of porridge with the grim face of one facing the hangman's noose.

b. Book Return

Being ill is tedious. Relying on others is likewise tedious. Sawbones is perfectly aware of all of these things, it's what drives her to be as efficient and effective as possible when tending to her own patients. It's what makes being ill herself all the more insufferable. Because there is a point where the only thing anyone can do is rest.

It's intolerable.

So it ought not be a surprise that the fever hasn't even properly broken before Sawbones can be found shuffling down the halls, dressed in a plain dress rather than her habit, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and head where her wimple ought to be. Her main objective is ferrying books back and froth from the library to the Chapel sickroom. She is very determined to complete the objective, entierly undaunted by the number of walls and shins she bumps into.

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"Socks first," she answers briskly, picking up one sock in each hand and holding them out to Athessa, "They should fit well enough."

The implication clearly being Do it now.

She heaves a put-upon sigh, though it's hard to do so while combatting a sheepish smile.

"I don't like not being able to feel the ground," Athessa mutters, but she takes the socks and, sitting down, pulls the socks on.

"If you get frostbite, you won't be able to feel the ground either," she says, supervising the sock putting on, "This is the lesser of two evils, believe me."

The sandals are held out next.

Grumbling, the sandals are put on next, and what's worse: they're actually comfortable. And the socks are warm. And she hates them both.

"There. Better?"

"Significantly, thank you." She is enormously pleased with herself. "The sandals fit well?"

Athessa gets back to her feet and makes a face as she moves her toes around, rocks on the balls of her feet, on her heels... just generally getting a feel for them.

"I guess," She then tries kicking her leg a bit, but the sandal on that foot stays put.

That's rather satisfying. Like getting a fussy toddler to take a hated medicine without too much struggle.

"When the weathers warmer, I imagine you can wear them without socks," she says, helpfully.

They will come in handy in the towns where there are minefields of horse shit everywhere.

"Sometimes, maybe," she says. Then, begrudgingly: "Thanks. Did you just guess what size I'd need?"

She'll take it. Sometimes, maybe is distinctly better than shan't ever.

"Of course. The inventory records weren't terribly helpful since you seem to have a distinct aversion to shoes."

Athessa shrugs. "Dalish," she offers by way of explanation. Only city elves wear shoes the way shems do.

"I haven't the faintest idea what that means." Chantry based educations have their drawbacks.

"It means I'm Dalish? You know," She rolls her eyes. "A wild elf? Only elves from alienages wear shoes."

There's clearly some sort of cultural context she's missing. Sawbones ponders that a moment.

"Is Dalish your Caste?" She'd assumed surfacers didn't have Castes per say, but as far as she knew that could just be the humans. Who frankly acted as though they had Castes all the same.

"I dunno what a Caste is," Athessa shakes her head and starts to walk again, slowly so Sawbones doesn't have to hustle to keep up. "Dalish elves have clans, little family groups, and they live off the land and travel around in covered wagons and keep halla. City elves are Chantry-taught and kept in alienages and are kinda like humans, except treated worse. Kinda surprised you haven't heard rumors about the Dalish, there are loads of 'em."

Rumors, that is. Not many Dalish anymore.

She follows, head cocked and listening attentively.

"There's rumors that I was allowed to join the Chantry because a Revered Mother had a very specific fetish," she says, waving that off, "To be honest, I thought city elves were like me when I first came to the surface. Dust Town's a bit like an alienage."

"A place to keep people you don't want, but have to keep anyway?" She ventures.

"We aren't people to them," she says, in the calm tone of one who's had to keep that particular lesson in mind too long to forget it, "But yes, more or less. City elves can do a few more jobs than Dusters, but Ozammar birthrates have been far too low for too long for them to try and purge us whenever it pleases them."

Seems dwarves and elves have a lot more in common than previously thought.

"Way I heard it Alienages get purged whenever-the-fuck it pleases whoever-the-fuck is in charge. But I dunno, I've never been in one. It was something to do with the Exalted March, wiping out a bunch of the old elves and then forcing the survivors to become shemlen or live out in the woods. But my last elvish history lesson was...eighteen-ish years ago?"

She might've forgotten some details here or there.

"The Second Exalted March," Sawbones says with a grim nod, "The ultimate work of the Divine, Her Holiness Renata I. Along with the creation of alienages, she ruled that all depictions of Sharatan and elvish contribution to Andraste's work be struck from records and declared heresy." She does not spit when she says the name. She does snarl soft and venomous, "Blighted revisionist sow."

"Right? Anyway, all that to say that I'm one of the rumored-to-be-raised-by-wolves elves and not one of the assimilate-so-we-can-pretend-to-be-magnanimous sort. Usually you can tell by our tattoos but I never got mine."

She nods, "Information regarding the Dalish is rather heavily censored and obviously biased. It was one of the things that always frustrated me about Chantry libraries. I assume Dalish tattoos are not like Casteless brands."

She gestures to the large brand on her cheek.

Well, she called it a brand, so-

"Nah, not really. We get ours as rites of passage when we come of age. The design signifies one of the old elven gods and meant to kind of...imbue you with their purpose or signify that you hold allegiance to that one specifically. Like...hunters get the vallaslin of Andruil, goddess of the hunt, and our halla-keepers get the mark of Ghilan'nain." No point in going into all the gods, that'd take ages. "It's only considered a brand to outsiders who don't know what it means beyond you're Dalish."

"I'm familiar with that," she says with a grimace that's almost a smile. It was difficult to explain to her fellow initiates the draw the alienages and slums had for her, both so similar and yet so different. "Do the Dalish have castes? Humans claim they don't, but it's obviously not true."

Athessa looks like she's about to answer based on her best guess of what a caste is for a moment, then decides against it.

"How d'you define a caste?"

For a straightforward and reasonable question, it hits a bit strange. Sawbones frowns deeply down at the ground before them, going over the question in her mind.

"To be entierly frank, I haven't a clue. I'm Casteless. My family, whoever they were, had shamed the Stone or done some other crime or perhaps were never considered worthy of a Caste at all. I suppose the best I could say is it determines your path in life."

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sulahnan - 2020-02-22 03:32 (UTC) - Expand

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