[open-ish] I'd ride in your pocket all day

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Fitcher, Barrow, and anyone else in the area
WHAT: SCORN
WHEN: return from jungle times
WHERE: the Gallows docks
NOTES: this is more of an open now. I told you I was a wildcard

They're back from the jungle, it has been a Time. Barrow is substantially thinner (and beardier) than he was when they left, and the one thing keeping him going as he trundles off the boat into the Gallows is the promise of a hot bath, a shave, and a proper meal.

But before he can get there, something else catches his eye. He deliberates for a moment, then approaches Mrs. Fitcher with a tired, sheepish smile.

Comments

[unshut]

Let us be frank: Madame Fitcher cuts a fine figure on any day. But today on this stairwell leading up into the Gallows courtyards, she seems especially well appointed - light summer layers swirling faintly about her in the breeze, a nearly translucent veil picked with delicate embroidery in the Antivan style draped over her dark hair and about the shoulders. Perhaps the loveliness is in part due to the nature of deprivation: fruit tastes sweeter when one has gone without; the sun is brighter when it is preceded by days of unrelenting rain; any clean, well dressed woman would seem handsome after weeks in the jungle and [mod imposed indeterminate length of time] at sea.

She is not, for the record, waiting here for him. But let no one say that she is the type to pass over an opportunity when it presents itself so willingly to her. Her smile is perfectly pleasant as he climbs the stairs to meet her.

"How dreadful you look, my dear," she says, the very image of conciliatory. Her untroubled demeanor is hardly altered by slapping him, though the crack of it is quite loud in the stairwell.

[bouchonne]

(From nearby, an appreciative ooh.)

[thereneverwas]

The force of the blow is enough to turn his head, especially with the much taller Barrow still being a few steps below her.
He pauses, lips pursed, to let it sink in, then slowly returns his gaze to meet Fitcher's: there's no rancor in his expression, and in fact it's possible he agrees that he deserved that, but for the moment he says nothing. And just waits.
Are we finished?

[unshut]

"If you have so little to say for yourself, then you may as well be on your way. I expect there must be a bath and fresh clothes awaiting you," is her most untroubled assessment, long hands reaching up to make some minor correction to the fabric draped about her dark hair.

He may, of course, do what and as he pleases.

[thereneverwas]

“I’m sorry,” Barrow replies in a low voice, with more sarcasm than apology, “I must have missed the conversation that left me so beholden to you.”
It’s mean, and he knows it’s mean; the truth is, he’d be so gladly. But to have the expectation held over him this, at such a time, in such a mood, his wit gets the better of him.

[unshut]

The tip of her head is all invulnerable ingénue, her face quite open.

"Beholden? Certainly not. The thought had never crossed my mind." It is a casual kind of cruelty, in line with how she reaches down to him again and plucks at the grimy collar of his shirt and then taps the underside of Barrow's chin. Her smile is all pleasantness. "This is merely a condemnation of your taste, serah."

[thereneverwas]

His face knots into an angry frown, his heart giving a lurch in spite of himself. Barrow isn’t one for melodramatics, but even he knows when he’s being toyed with.

“You’re right,” he snaps, and steps up to pass her on the stairs, “I need a bath.”
And unless she stops him, he skulks away, the storm cloud all but visible on his face.

[unshut]

He is most welcome to his storm clouds and sulking retreat. For her part, Fitcher flicks her veil cheerfully over one shoulder and descends the stairs to greet some other member of the returning party. One assumes there is less slapping involved in the affair.

after The Slap

[thereneverwas]

I.

With a few exceptions (Skull), no one in Riftwatch has ever seen Barrow angry. The size of him and the intensity of his brow lend a fearsome edge to his temper, despite the lack of any solid indicators that he's going to do or say anything frightening; he just has a sort of Get Out Of My Way air about him as he stalks toward the baths, and it doesn't really recede until he's in the water and finally scrubbing himself clean.

He stays there for a good long while, the energy of his brooding slowly being siphoned away by the comfort of the hot water and the steam, his gaze distant and his breathing slowed.


II.

The next stop, after a nap, is obviously the pub; as long as he's in the doghouse for one thing, might as well go get drunk. Usually spotted playing cards or chatting with a friend in the Hanged Man, tonight Barrow seems especially intent on drowning his sorrows.
Of course, a huge meal was among the first things on the docket upon their return from the jungle, so it's not going as quickly as he'd like, but at least the drinks are cheap.

i. I'm imagining the baths as a bunch of adjacent sunken pools nobody correct me

[sulahnan]

Athessa is also letting the hot water soak away some frustration, a lot less successfully. Folded up, crossed forearms resting on bent knees. Maybe the soak would work if she stretched out a bit.

But she doesn't. She gets so lost in thought that she barely registers someone settle into an adjacent pool, and several minutes pass before she turns to see who's there.

"Oh, hey," she says, and turns fully so those crossed forearms can rest on the lip of the sunken tub. She rests her chin on the back of her hand. "YA know, I'm kinda surprised more people didn't come down here to scrub off the jungle residue."

that's how I imagine it too so I won't

[thereneverwas]

Raising his eyebrows, Barrow angles his head toward her and relaxes a bit. He knows the girl, and doesn't recall that she was especially chatty or irritating.

"They've got other priorities, I s'pose," he muses, scratching his stubbly cheek, "though I can't imagine what they'd be."

[sulahnan]

There are plenty that would disagree with Barrow about Athessa being irritating, but she has indeed been getting progressively less chatty. She nods.

"Right? You'd think there was a war on or something," Her huff, a single breath of a laugh to say that's a joke as if it weren't clear, echoes weirdly in the bath chamber. Something about the water and the stone bouncing it around and warping it. "Least I can rule them all out, pretty much. You been to your room yet?"

If that seems like a sudden and odd line of questioning, it's just because it is.

[thereneverwas]

He smirks and nods, catching the barb, but recognizing it for what it is. He lets his gaze fall to the surface of the water for a moment or two as he considers that there is in fact a war on, but he's easily enough distracted by Athessa's question.

"Just long enough to get a change of clothes." The 'why' is implicit.

[sulahnan]

"So you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary?" Maybe the pilfering was limited to only a couple rooms. Maybe she should map the rooms and find out if there's a commonality between them, like if it was just the rooms on one floor or something. "Nothin' moved or missing?"

[thereneverwas]

He raises his eyebrows in mild alarm.

"Not, erm... that I know of," he replies, but is now trying to think back on whether anything was odd or out of place.

"I haven't got much to steal, truth be told. Someone get into your things?"

[sulahnan]

Athessa nods. "Yeah. Took some of the bath oils I got from Lakshmi, and moved some other stuff around. But not just took the bottles, right, I mean like they emptied the bottles out and then put 'em back."

Honestly, she cares less about the oil than the trinket the thieves propped on her pillow. Like she's being taunted.

"You might wanna have another look around just to make sure."

[thereneverwas]

"Huh."

He turns his face forward again, looking back into the water.

"Maybe I will."

That's the last thing they need.

"...you going to be all right?"

ii

[bignasty]

Sylvester drops down onto the opposite bench like a felled ogre, massive, dead weight in a gambeson, with ale in hand. Just needs to sit for a moment, and he’ll be fine.

“Maker,” he stifles back a belch over his mug -- barely -- tousled, ale-stinking and scruffed, “what’s the matter with you?”

[thereneverwas]

The disturbance barely registers-- Barrow is very deep in his own head-- but as the other man comes into focus, he realizes he doesn't know him.

"Whass' matter with any of us," he grunts, "fucking life. Women. Jungles." He drains his tankard.

[bignasty]

Life, women and jungles, yeah, alright.

“I’ll drink to that.” And Dumas does, tankard tipped back and planted too-forcefully aside when he’s done.

He’s older than Barrow, silver-haired, and still breathing deep with the exertion of whatever he was doing prior to finding a place to sit. His collar is turned and tucked in like someone might’ve grabbed him by it. Some buried, inspection-conscious instinct sees him reaching to flip it back up again.

“All three at the same time or is this more of an amalgamate crisis?”

[thereneverwas]

Barrow's cup thunks back to the table and he falls still for a moment, considering the question, his eyes tired and distant.

"All three," he decides, "...same time."

[bignasty]

“Same time?”

Evidently Sylvester’d been joking when he’d suggested it as a possibility, now at an incredulous squint, teeth bared out, neither grimace or grin. Maybe this man is fucking with him.

But the look on his face is quite serious, isn’t it?

Sylvester sobers, slowly, with immense effort and a deep intake of breath.

“Sorry, mate. Wasn’t cockworms was it?”

[thereneverwas]

There's no trace of humor on Barrow's face, though he wishes there were. He raises a hand to the barkeep, requesting a refill.

He at least scoffs amusedly at the guess, and shakes his head. "Cockworms," he grunts, "why does everyone always assume it's cockworms? There's no such thing." The smirk fades from his lips.
"I hope."

[bignasty]

“‘Course there is.” Still serious, sans the air of brotherly understanding, Sylvester scoffs right back at him.

“You can get worms anywhere. On my tab,” he adds for the barkeep, gesturing to cover Barrow’s refill as well as his own. Then back to Barrow, not quite able to quash the starting huff of chuckle into a cough: “I could check for you if it’ll ease your mind.”

[thereneverwas]

"Well... thanks, mate," comes the genuine reply, and a little smile which is quickly replaced by another affronted scowl.
"What-- no!!" he barks, though his offense isn't enough to stop him picking up his mug again once it's refilled, "...I don't even know you!"

Maybe, were the situation dire enough, a bosom pal could have permission to conduct that particular inspection. But this is just some random man off the street. ...who bought him a drink.