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WHO: Ashey Pelt and the various inhabitants.
WHAT: The new maid makes herself at home and is moderately suspicious in the process.
WHEN: Time Isn't Real
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: If your character is good with languages or accents, feel free to have them recognize the underpinnings of Tevinter in Ashey Pelt's accent. Even if your character is not good at any of those things, please feel free to have them recognize that Ashey Pelt's accent is terrible and fake.

i. The Fine Art Of Line Placement

Ashey generally tries not to think ill of people, but there is something very frustrating about a poorly selected drying spot. Naturally, the concerns of employers not having to acknowledge that the laundry did not simply clean itself by magic were to be taken into account. And the temperamental weather of the season, where one could very easily lose hours of work or be left with perpetually damp fabrics.

Both were entierly out of the question, particularly during a grippe outbreak when clean bedclothes would be needed in surplus.

Her course chosen, Ashey immediately sets out. The person she ends up approaching does not seem to be one of the residing lords or ladies, so she doesn't hesitate to call out.

"I beg your pardon," she says, in what she hopes is a reasonable approximation of a Marcher accent, but manages to sound strangely Antivan, "Would you happen to know where I might find a compass?"

ii. Perfectly Reasonable Responses to Deep Seated Trauma

Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted more than anything to become a mage to please her family. However as her birthdays came and went and her magic powers failed to appear, the family began to take increasingly drastic measures in an attempt to prompt the girl's powers to manifest. One day her step mother locked the girl in a room with three giant cave spiders. The girl survived, but despite her step mother's best intentions, her power still did not manifest. Instead, she developed acute arachnophobia.

Which is why Ashey in the library in the early hours of the morning, grim faced and pale, her dusting cloth clutched in her hand as she stares at a (huge, massive, one could very nearly see each individual leg) spider on the wall.

iii. Obligatory Second Person Prompt

The trouble with fortresses that span the length and width of an island is they are very large and have many rooms. So it's perhaps not entierly surprising when a new comer gets hopelessly lost. It's perhaps a little surprising when the door to the room you're in suddenly opens and a woman in a maid uniform steps through, takes a look around and then addresses you with refined gravitas punctuated by an absurd accent.

"I haven't a clue where I am."

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Lucky for her, there is already a woman in a maid uniform present, resting a kettle on the fire and preparing the office for its occupant.

"The office of Madame Alexandrie d'Asgard," comes the easy, even gentle reply in a thick Orlesian accent. "Where did you mean to be?"

Ashey relaxes minutely when she sees the other maid. They've only exchanged a passing greeting before now, but if one must make a mistake, far better to do it in front of another maid than one of their employers (such as they were).

"Oh drat." Ashey rubs her forehead with a soot stained knuckle. She dislikes making mistakes regardless of who's there to see it. "I'm meant to be fetching the bed linens from the Provost and his lady wife's room."

This causes a curious tilt of Fifi's head, and she pauses to rest with one hand on her hip.

"The Provost and his wife live in Hightown," she explains, "...unless perhaps you were to fetch something from his office?" It's entirely possible the new girl was given bad instructions.

She does fairly well at keeping her composure, considering she's doing an excellent job of making a wild fool of herself in front of her fellow maid.

"Not unless he keeps filthy bed linens in his office," she says, lightly, "Do many of Riftwatch's agents live in Hightown?" It might be worthwhile to know, considering nobility tended to be fussier about their laundry.

The elf doesn't seem bothered one way or the other-- the Gallows is a big complex, after all, and the last thing she's going to do is lash out at someone in a position similar to hers.

"A fair few," she muses, thinking on it, "though luckily they'll tend to have their own staff back at home. I wouldn't worry about it." A gentle smile as she tilts her head at the woman.

"You're new?"

"It would simplify things enormously if there are fewer nobles to cater to," she says, thoughtfully, reshuffling her expectations of the laundry. She blinks and returns the smile, nodding politely, "I am, yes. Have you been on staff for long?"

"That it would," Fifi sighs, with a subtle roll of her eyes, and nods.

"Josephine Mariette," she says with a little curtsy, "call me Fifi, if you like. I've been here for several years now, and am the personal maid of Lady Alexandrie d'Asgard."

"Ashey Pelt." She returns the curtsy with practiced ease. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Mariette. I hope I won't inconvenience you too much while I get used to all of." She gestures a little to encompass the whole island. "This."

Fifi shakes her head stubbornly. "It takes time," she insists, "and you will not be left defenseless. Shall I give you the tour?"

It's not like Madame d'Asgard will mind.

"That would be lovely," she says, smiling, but glances around at the office, "As long as it won't get you in any trouble with Madame?"

Probably not a residing lord or lady, no. Also not another hardworking maid, given that she's caught him in the middle of a cat nap. He's sitting at the edge of the gardens with his back against the cool stone wall, but he's awake enough to hear her coming; he's regarding her coolly before she speaks up.

That doesn't change after she speaks. Finally, after a small delay:

"Yes."

No elaboration.

She waits patiently for him to elaborate. When that fails to happen, she tries a more direct route:

"Will you tell me where I might find one?"

She's hoping his answer won't be as supremely unhelpful as his first. It's an unseasonably sunny day with the lingering clouds of winter only just threatening them on the horizon. Time is of the essence.

Sahren takes a very serious moment to consider whether it's worth being helpful or not, then he twists slightly to look over the ground beside him. After a few seconds of that and no answer, he reaches for a long stick, picks it up and tosses it in her direction. It's a light throw, too low to catch and landing just short of her feet.

This is arguably the single most mystifying thing anyone has ever done to her. She looks at him. And then down at the stick. Then back to him. And once more at the stick.

When answers to her many questions do not readily present themselves, she kneels down to pick up the stick. She looks at him a third time and says, with an unfortunately crisp Teven accent soaked in confusion with a valiant effort at politeness, "This is a stick."

By the third look he's smiling slightly, almost definitely at her expense. It fades a bit when the accent hits his ears. He could just leave her standing there like an idiot holding a stick — and seriously debates it for a second — but in the end he sighs and leans forward, elbows loosely on knees.

"Yes, it is. Well done." He gestures to the patch of empty dirt path between them.

"Stick it in the ground, straight up. Make sure it's in the sun."

The moment after she speaks and his smile dims, she realizes what she's done. But if he's not going to say anything about it, she isn't going to say anything about it. Aside from cursing herself thoroughly for such a careless slip.

"Sir, it's rude to tease people," she says, overcompensating wildly and somehow ending up between Nevarran and Orlesian. Still. She finds a sunny spot in the dirt path and kneels down to dig a little hole to stick the stick in. She plants it firmly, so that it stands nice and tall, casting it's fine little shadow. She looks at the planted stick and back to him, suspecting there is something at play here that she doesn't quite understand.

The accent's very bad, but it isn't altogether strange. He can imagine plenty of reasons for trying to pass for something other than a Vint. Plenty of mundane ones, even. And if it isn't mundane — a spy, maybe? — then Riftwatch will hardly need his assistance to catch her.

"Not teasing. Teaching. Now get a rock and place it there," he points, vaguely and not particularly helpfully, without bothering to get up. "Right at the tip of the shadow."

Ashey fetches a rock, not entierly convinced he isn't making fun of her. Perhaps he's Dalish and this is some sort of ancient Dalish method? He doesn't particularly look Dalish, but then she's also never actually met a Dalish elf.

That strikes her as something that would deplorably rude to ask, so instead she says, in her not-Nevarran accent, "I don't quite grasp the meaning behind it." She places the stone at the top of the stick's shadow, contemplating it, "It shows where the sun is shining?"

"That's not surprising," he says in response to her admission, tone patronizingly agreeable. "And yes, the direction it's shining. Now be quiet and wait."

There is, if she's sensitive to it, a hint of unnecessary bite to the last bit. But he seems to be completely serious about it, and he also seems comfortable with the prospect of sitting here in silence. In case there's any doubt: he leans back against the wall, loosely crosses his arms, and closes his eyes to continue his nap.

The patronizing bite in his tone is certainly noted (she had been raised with the expectation of entering Teveinter's high society after all), but she doesn't respond to it. There are entierly more pressing things to address, like the basket of linens that will start mouldering if left sitting damp for too long.

"I haven't time to wait!" she says, interrupting his nap once more, "It's very important I find the correct Northernly position as soon as possible." Waiting was for after the laundry had been hung out, not before.

For all he knows, it is very urgent. As in actually urgent, as in much more important than drying laundry. But considering the restraint she's shown thus far, it seems safe enough to assume it isn't life or death.

Sahren opens his eyes, watching her for a beat. He doesn't move otherwise. Eventually:

"What's the accent about?"

Whatever odd truce she'd lucked into has, apparently, been crossed.

“I have a speech disorder,” she says without missing a beat and also in the not-Nevarran accent which has taken on an almost Antivan tang. It’s not the first time she’s been asked that. “Sir, please. It’s very important. I’ve only a little time before the sheets begin to smell stale.”

"Is that what they're calling Tevene these days?"

That said, it's not a bad excuse for the mutating accent she's sporting otherwise. It's genuinely bad enough to be plausible. His tone hasn't reached friendly at any point in this exchange, but it's on the friendlier end of the scale now — not hostile, anyway.

"Relax. You'll have your compass in a few minutes."

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, sir,” she says to the first with all of the decorum of a debutant who’s had an embarrassing flaw pointed out. A part of her is curious enough as to what this stick compass business is about. Running a quick calculation in her head to allot for the time she can afford to spend, she turns her attention to the elf of a questionably helpful nature.

Particularly the state of his clothes. “If I may be bold as to ask, who launders your shirts?”

The state of his clothes is: not bad, actually. More leather than cloth and well-made, though they've clearly seen a few seasons. The style doesn't exactly scream "Ferelden city fashion", but it'd take some familiarity to call it Dalish.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. "Are you offering to launder my shirts?"

The style is naturally only important when the situation calls for it and he doesn't strike her as one where the situation calls very often. Still, she studies the garment, noting where the threading has begun to wear and where the leather is thinning.

The question breaks her professional concentration and she blinks at him. That seems like a bold question to ask a man (even an elf) she doesn't know, much less answer outright, but. "Well... Yes. I am."

"I know how to launder my own shirts."

The delivery's mild, no offense taken. The gesture feels more unnecessary than presumptuous, and laundry's clearly her thing. As for whether the evidence supports his statement: sort of. Anyone who's ever gone camping knows that being outdoors 24/7 sets a very different standard for "clean."

Sahren shifts his weight and sits up straighter against the wall, a subtle shifting in gears; giving up on the nap act and paying attention to her, properly.

"Is that all you do here? Clean up after other people's mess?"

It's not that his shirts are in a poor state... She just knows that they could be better and thus longer lasting and more comfortable. But on the other hand, considering her regular work load, she needn't go courting more.

So instead of arguing, she merely tips her head in acknowledgement. His question pulls a bemused smile from her.

"Of course. I'm a maid and a laundress, I can't imagine why else anyone would hire me if not for my ability to clean up messes."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Doing laundry, cleaning up messes. It isn't a completely rhetorical question. Some people do, or they convince themselves they do for the sake of their pride. All the same, there's a distinct lack of honest curiosity in the delivery.

It's the lack of honest curiosity that gets him a direct and honest answer:

"Not especially," she says, "I take pride in my work and I usually enjoy the company I'm in while I do my work, but it's not the work itself. I can't think of anyone who would be ecstatic about having to remove vomit stains from silk."

Henry always rises early, force of habit for a farmer and he likes to take a morning constitutional for his health before tending to the garden.

It's during this constitutional that he passes the library and sees the stricken look on Ashey's face. He lumbers over, following her gaze to the spider and making a soft hm in his throat. His daughter is similarly scared of spiders, so he's used to this.

"Come now, little miss," he says, but not to the maid. To the spider. Compared to the size of his hands, the arachnid is quite small, and he coaxes the little critter onto his palm with a couple of gentle taps. Once in hand, he curls his fingers loosely around the spider so as to contain her but not crush her, and carries her off to the window.

"There y'go, darlin'." Again, talking to the spider as he releases it outside the window.

She doesn't move until the spider has been removed to her appropriate place of residence (not anywhere near Ashey) and then she lets out a gusty breath.

"Thank you very much for your assistance, sir," she says, in an accent that's barely cobbled together Nevarran that sounds suspiciously Tevene, "I wasn't aware they grew such large spiders here." She's shocks he was able to touch the horror to begin with.

"S'about as big as they get on their own," Henry says, his own accent deeply rural, deeply Fereldan, and with a bit of an impediment. "Anyfin' bigger in't what the Maker intended, I reckon."

"I can not imagine the Maker had much to do with their inception to begin with," she says, eyeing the general area the spider had appeared, to ensure there were no more.

"'Course He did. He's the Maker. Who else'd make 'em?"

"I don't know. Darkspawn mayhap. Malificars. Some malevolent being from the Fade."

All equally possible.

"Naw," Henry shakes his head. "Those'uns ruin things, they don't make nothin'."

She's still fairly sure that one or two might have had a hand in spiders, but she won't argue.

"I suppose," she says instead and then turns to him and drops a slight curtsy, "But I do beg your pardon, sir. My name is Ashey Pelt, I'm the new maid and laundress."

He meets the curtsy with a somewhat awkward nod of his head. He's no-one she needs to scrape over, etc.

"Henry. I mostly tend the gardens."

It's less scraping and more a habit so ingrained she can't unlearn it.

"I imagine you have your work cut out for you, Kirkwall's weather being what it is," she says conversationally, even as she begins to go back to her dusting. "I shan't keep you, but may I ask, do you suppose it would be possible to grow citrus fruit here?"

Citrus? He thinks about it, tipping his head in a weighing motion. Would it grow here naturally? No, not a chance. Could it grow here with some encouragement?

"Maybe. Would take some doing."

She doesn't visibly brighten, but she does pause her dusting for a moment. Maybe isn't a yes after all. She considers it, then shelves her small desire.

"Well, I shan't trouble you with it." No reason to give anyone else more work for a treat she wants for herself, "I'm looking forward to seeing the garden once everything is growing again."

Henry makes some non-committal throaty sound and nods his farewell. What else is there to say? Nothin'.

But not more than a few seconds after he leaves the library, he pokes his head back in.

"What kind of citrus?"

"Oh!" She blinks, having shuffled the small desire to the farther reaches of her mental organisation and pulled up her daily task list instead. "Ah... Clementines. I'm very fond of them."

He thinks on that for a second, then nods and leaves again.

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sorry my head has been miles away lately RIP

samsies

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THIS IS VERY OLD SORRY please just yell if you want to handwave instead

time is a construct

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