WHO: Wysteria, Fitcher, Flint, Marcoulf & You WHAT: Thread Catch-all WHEN: Solace WHERE: You know. Around. NOTES: Will update if necessary. Feel free to grab me if you want a specific starter/wildcard me, baby.
Summer in Kirkwall is bright and dusty and, the minute the wind stops blowing, too hot in every direction. The instinct to become something of an inert slug in cool darkened rooms for as much of the day is is possible infects even the most habitually overeager, hence Wysteria's abandonment of the Gallows workshops in favor of sitting in the library—
—where she is tackling the organization of a large collection of personal papers and books. This process must eventually work out into cataloging and filing, but at present most closely resembles a young lady perusing the quarterlies where she sits among the multitude of crates and voraciously devours every gossipy bit of correspondence (occasional loud gasps over scandalous details included)—
—or in the nearly windowless office of the Seneschal where her improbably good handwriting might be put to use copying various requisition requests into a legible format for review, the updating and filing of personnel records, and the general catch up work required when one leaves their desk for a month in favor of being kidnapped and trudging through the jungle.
When not in the Gallows, she might be found in one of the Lowtown markets either talking at such a clip at a grain agent she is bargaining with has begun to let his eyes glaze over, or fussing over two bolts of equally cheap cloth as if trying to decide which appears less cheap when draped. And just once, she might be discovered in the shadow of the Viscount's Keep, red faced with frustration as she tries to gather a series of papers up from where they've spilled out of her possession and into the street.
Such is the intensity of her study of the two bolts of cloth that she doesn't entirely tear her attention from comparing the two even as he melts forward out of the press and shuffle of the market's foot traffic. Though she at first brightens perceptively at the sight of him, it's short lived given this most serious matter weighing on her thoughts.
"It is indeed for a dress, Captain Silver. I find myself in want of a new garment and would like something made up in time for the Fall." She is rubbing the red linen between her fingers, inspecting the weave with a rather critical eye, and when she speaks again she has lowered her voice considerably. If the glance she fires toward the stall's keeper is any indication, it is to keep from offending anyone she might soon have to barter with. "My concern for the red is that the color will run. There is nothing as uniquely terrible as beginning a season in a red dress and ending it in a pink one."
A dilemma which makes sense to John theoretically, but certainly not something that's ever factored into his own decision making. He darts a conspiratorial look at the stall keeper as well as he reaches over to pinch a fold of the fabric and draw it towards himself, examining the fall of cloth.
"And what is your concern with the green? The same?"
And far be it for John to advise her that she could have them both if she were willing to do something underhanded. It's hard to divine exactly what will catch Wysteria's attention. For all their long slogs across Thedas in the wake of kidnappings, John doesn't have the best read on what Wysteria does in her day to day when their lives aren't at stake.
Sonia is poring over a book with a glass of rich red wine, as has become her custom. Even before the kidnapping and subsequent jungle adventure, she had always been known to have a bottle ready to hand (much like her cousin, only she makes it classy) but lately it's seemed a little more omnipresent than usual. She refuses to chalk this or the fact that she seems to need a glass of wine to sleep every night now up to anything serious or significant, except perhaps that she really missed drinking while they were stranded in the jungle.
But today she is really struggling with paying attention to or caring about the very dry text she tasked herself with studying, and cannot help but notice that whatever Wysteria is doing on the next table seems infinitely more interesting than her reading. Those little gasps are enticing, even.
"Dear Wysteria," Sonia says brightly, crossing the distance between them with a waltzing step, and there is a distinctively curious look to her. She likes Wysteria, finds her company quite pleasant, but has discovered a bit more in the way of respect for her since their mutual plight. Wysteria had certainly handled it far better than Sonia, at any rate. "What is it you're reading? It sounds quite exciting."
"Oh, Lady Barra!" She starts, half folding the letter currently in her possession. "My apologies. I didn't mean to be disturb to your studies. I will endeavor to be more reserved in my review of the Lady Katherine Lamonia's collection."
And my, what a collection it is. In addition to the crates stacked up near to hand, the table itself is papered inches thick with all manner of diaries bound in delicate (but aged) silk, and with letters bearing a menagerie of different handwriting styles, and notes and file folios and--
"Are you familiar with the Lady in question? Evidently she was once quite popular."
Chances are that if someone is being tasked with carrying a sword (or a mace or a big stick or anything that might be plied in the name of the Forces division), they'll eventually cross paths with a particularly narrow Orlesian. Guard duty overseeing the Riftwatch ends of the Kirkwall docks is only as dull or exciting as the surrounding city deems it, but there is business in Darktownescorting a Chantry Sister which at least promises the anxieties of overseeing the safety of a gregarious Antivan woman intent on ferreting out the grimmest corners of the under city.
Other pressing occupations include work in the stables, including an effort to keep one of the more exotic mounts from escaping the old qunari compound where it make stretch it legs by running through the crowded city streets beyond, and time spent in the griffon eyrie where one of the larger animals seems intent on trying to run Marcoulf in circles rather than allow him to tighten the straps on her harness.
And once, so early that is must be an hour picked with the purpose of avoiding crossing paths with anyone, he might be found working alone in the training yard with his rapier drawn - practicing a particular series of footwork over and over and over and-- frowning at the quavering line of the sword through it, then resetting.
In most things, Fitcher's appearance somehow manages to be something of an event. She does not appear quietly at the once weekly card games held in the Gallows' main dining hall, whether she be arriving in the company of a fine bottle of liquor or simply announcing, "Now, what's the business for the day?" with the expectation that she be caught up on all the gossip she's missed by being trapped behind a desk as any clerk working for Riftwatch's scouting division must expect to be. Somehow she manages to be conspicuous even in the baths, whether she be soaking neck deep in one of the basins or perched on a thin stool, freshly scrubbed and working a faintly scented oil in her dark hair with a large toothed comb.
And yet, at least once she is nearly perfectly unobtrusive - seen slipping from the back door of a narrow house in Lowtown at night.
Eventually, there's a lull. Earlier than most nights: Duty calls, or a pretty face, or taking a piss —
Only the two of them left. Isaac tosses his cards on the table. It was a bad hand, but it always is. He's kept a steady streak of losses going across the season; never bets too much. Pocket change here, some interesting little treasure there. Tonight a long tropical feather, no doubt torn from the jungle.
"If I did, I'd be over in one of the Kirkwall gambling halls right now rather than running you round in Circles," she says, spreading her hand out accordingly.
The feather, she thinks, will be quite fetching if placed in a hat's band. For now it is tucked jauntily behind her ear, the bright coloring a shock against her dark hair and bobbing this way and that as she sets about gathering their spent hands, the discards, and reshuffling.
"Do you ever tire of losing, or am I simply good enough company to make up for it?"
It's early evening and though the heat of the day lingers in the heavy stones of the Gallows many courtyards and exterior staircases, the slight breeze stirring through the fortress makes being outdoors in the failing light a more pleasant possibility than continued institution inside some dreary office. So on one of these staircases accompanied by lantern from reading by, Fitcher has availed herself of the topmost stair as a seat. She has a pipe clenched between her teeth and an open record of files on her lap, one thumb judiciously applied to keep any pages from wandering off as she reviews them.
The puffing on the pipe is an afterthought to the paperwork. That doesn't stop her from exhaling the occasional ring of smoke above the work, nebulous 'o's drifting in the lamplight and evaporating at the first finger of the salt smelling night breeze.
Athessa sees the smoke before she sees the fire, and when she peeks around the corner of the staircase her eyes glint in the low-light. It's either spooky or comical, or both.
"Oh hey, Fitcher," she greets, straightening and walking up a few steps like a normal person instead of some kind of weird shiny-eyed cryptid. "Nice evening, huh?"
Alas, near-perfection is ruined by the vagaries of luck: just a heartbeat behind her, a man exits from a different back door, light and noise trailing him out into the alleyway. Long legs and quick strides soon overtake her, and he looks to be head past on his way when--bad luck again--a sideways glance at just the wrong moment catches a glimpse of torchlit profile reflected in a back window.
He turns and slows to a backpedal. "I hate to seem to accost a lady in a darkened alley," he says, smile self-deprecating and accent lightly Orlesian, "but I couldn't help but recognize you from the Gallows. I'm heading to the ferry myself, if you'd permit an escort?"
There is a moment where her attention is fixed resolutely elsewhere - half tipped away, studying where the end of this narrow backstreet meets the broader road beyond it as if measuring the distance for which she must suffer the attentions of a stranger -, but at the mention of the Gallows her eye line slides around to him and the line of her mouth flexes in the vague direction of a smile. And then she warms by a number of additional degrees, the line of her chin tipping slightly upward and the flicker of what must reasonably be tension over accosted in a darkened alley draining fully free of her as they continue on their way, unhurried.
"Ah, if it isn't the Lord Mercier." Her broadening smile is slightly and pleasantly crooked. "I would be most happy for your company."
As likely as it is for the Forces Commander to be in the division office, one window jammed open an a desperate attempt to keep air circulating through the room in the upper towers and the man in question in the midst of paperwork, he isn't an entirely foreign figure in the library and can be discovered assessing volumes of Antivan trade accounts and slim books of Orlesian poetry (in translation) with an identically critical eye.
In a series of increasingly unlikely turns, however:
Flint appears coming down the stairs in some rowdy sailors public house along the Kirkwall docks having by all appearances just resolved some kind of meeting with a trio of merchant captains, each more dubious in appearance than the last. Or he is making his way up a narrow side street at such a late hour that he must be headed for one of the inns along the harbor which makes business of catering to Riftwatch members who have missed the last ferry to the Gallows, a set of road-dusted saddlebags slung over one shoulder. Or, in some Lowtown tailor shop, he is subject to the sharp ends of slightly too many pins while being fit for what must be a new coat to lower his arm and escape conversation.
[ Was Flint followed by Byerly? Is there some business in the offing, some low (or high) plot to be discussed outside of the Gallows? Is Flint's weaselly comrade here to propose - or apply - some blackmail to him?
In truth: no. Byerly is just here to get a new shirt himself, but found (to his great joy) that Flint was here as well. And like he won't take the opportunity to torment him a little.
And so By continues speaking to the tailor: ]
It is both a waste and an aesthetic mistake. The coat should be tight around the bicep. Tight. [ And then, to Flint: ] It's the fashion nowadays, you see.
I find it convenient to occasionally reach objects above my head, but thank you for the suggestion.
[is drawled back, though in the immediate aftermath he takes notice of where the tailor has hesitated in the application of an additional pin. A sharp look is administered in the man's direction to get his hands moving again.]
"Oh, Captain!" The exclamation would be easy to miss in such a lively public house (utterly delightful, she must come again), but Poesia is not an especially easy person to overlook. Particularly not when she's abandoned the friendly arms of a sailor (lovely fellow, wonderfully enthusiastic) to meet Flint at the bottom of the stairs, pretty and only slightly rumpled. Her smile is all light and loveliness as she looks at him, "I didn't know you were here too."
Poesia spares a glance and a far milder smile to his companions, doing little more than note their presence, before addressing her Captain again, "May I join you?"
What he's doing and whether he's through with it is entierly irrelevant, of course. Her Captain is here and therefore she renders her services as needed.
He doesn't quite fully stop on the stairs, but it's close - a full beat of hesitation, the lines of his face going all sharp and closed as he takes her in there at the bottom of the steps. From the way he strictly does not glance back across his shoulder at the men behind him suggests either a strong disinclination to reopen a closed conversation with any of them, or simply an aversion to the concept of having to make introductions between the parties in question.
"On my next errand," is brusque, no nonsense. Finally, Flint does glance back just long enough for a crisp, 'Good day,' and then he has reached the bottom of the stairs.
Unfortunately, at least one of the merchant captains - a Marcher with elaborately waxed mustachios, styled in Antivan clothes - is quite keen on saying hello. He all but reaches across Flint to take Poesia by the hand. "Now who is this lovely creature?"
There is a particular line upon which John balances each night, in each tavern. A man must be just so entertaining, must drink just enough so as to keep up but not so much that—
Well, it serves him not at all to be drunk to the point of intoxication. Emlyn would let him sleep it off, certainly, but the damage would be done, so it must never be. (There are some men with the luxury of drowning their troubles in drink, but John is not one of them.) But it's tiring in and of itself, minding himself in the midst of a crowd. The long performance each day requires stretching into the evening, ending in John finally maneuvering out of a tavern as the candles inside are extinguished, one by one.
It's potentially by chance that he comes across someone familiar, walking briskly with the same trajectory in mind. John maybe cannot catch him, but he calls out anyway.
How many chance meetings have they really had in their long acquaintance? Or rather, how many chance meetings have they had without swords or imminent danger nipping at their heels? There's some faint amusement in that novelty for John.
"Business gone well?" in lieu of a better greeting.
In the wan lamplight, that familiar figure in the street pauses. The half turn he makes to follow the sound comes with the suggestion of shifting coattails, the shifting line of the sword at his belt as his hand sways down and away from it.
"Well enough."
He'd left early in the morning, fetching out with a member of Research with a decent hand and a series of decade old charts badly in need of updating to make an examination of number of Eastern inlets along the coast. If there are ships running down for Orlais who ought not to be, it would benefit them to have some signalman posted and a reliable account of the area. Unnecessary work for a Division Head to attend to, but there is a saying about what must be done if you want a thing done right.
"How goes your trade here?"
Standing in that interval between low burning lanterns, Flint waits for him to come alongside.
[He arrives with one of those broad, heavy map books meant more for lying out on tables and less for carrying in one arm and the intent to go about this thing with some sense of decency. He hardly expected the flimsy repairs granted by one conversation on a ship in the dark to hold long, but if Kitty Jones intends to avoid him now that they have returned to the Gallows and have some real woork ahead of them which involves fewer of either daring prison breaks or pits of jungle quick sand then she has another thing coming to her.
It's in the heat of the day. At this hour, the Research offices are quiet as any other.]
With my son, ( he says, easy, arrogant, legs crossed at the knee and leaning back in his chair, a report resting on his thigh. ) - that is to say, gone.
( the office is in slight disorder- slight- more reports on the desk, a few books absent from the shelves, but not slovenly. thranduil is clearly in a mood, tense despite the pose, every other glance a look at his wife, as if to reassure himself that she has not decamped for parts unknown.
that she might in fact fear that of him is clearly beyond his imagining. )
Did you loan something to her? Fear she might have vanished while still having it in her possession?
[Summer's high tide isn't quite high enough to reach the Qunari dreadnought at her ignoble resting place - the rocky terminus of a hook shaked inlet surrounded by the Planasene Forest - where she'd been dredged a year prior. Out of the water and with the make-do repairs gone to seed from exposure to the elements, the damage done to the hull is shocking enough that it seems almost unbelievable that the dreadnought managed to be towed so far rather than plunging straight to the bottom of the sea the moment it was peeled from the rocks it'd been dashed on.
It's work for a carpenter, not a ship's captain or a mage. But here they are.
With a fantastic series of thunk, thunk, thunks, the hook Flint has pitched up onto the deck above their heads finds something to bite into. He tests the rope, then passes it to Nell.]
[ Nell gives him some skeptical eyebrows, but she scampers up the rope quickly enough, brushing off hands as she tests the soundness of the decking and looks around. ]
I'm assuming you didn't bring me out here to talk about this wreck since I don't know shit about ships or qunari. So what's so secret we had to hike a mile from anything for you to whisper it?
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wysteria;
—where she is tackling the organization of a large collection of personal papers and books. This process must eventually work out into cataloging and filing, but at present most closely resembles a young lady perusing the quarterlies where she sits among the multitude of crates and voraciously devours every gossipy bit of correspondence (occasional loud gasps over scandalous details included)—
—or in the nearly windowless office of the Seneschal where her improbably good handwriting might be put to use copying various requisition requests into a legible format for review, the updating and filing of personnel records, and the general catch up work required when one leaves their desk for a month in favor of being kidnapped and trudging through the jungle.
When not in the Gallows, she might be found in one of the Lowtown markets either talking at such a clip at a grain agent she is bargaining with has begun to let his eyes glaze over, or fussing over two bolts of equally cheap cloth as if trying to decide which appears less cheap when draped. And just once, she might be discovered in the shadow of the Viscount's Keep, red faced with frustration as she tries to gather a series of papers up from where they've spilled out of her possession and into the street.
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"Though honestly, I'm sure you'll look fetching in either. This is for a dress, I assume?"
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"It is indeed for a dress, Captain Silver. I find myself in want of a new garment and would like something made up in time for the Fall." She is rubbing the red linen between her fingers, inspecting the weave with a rather critical eye, and when she speaks again she has lowered her voice considerably. If the glance she fires toward the stall's keeper is any indication, it is to keep from offending anyone she might soon have to barter with. "My concern for the red is that the color will run. There is nothing as uniquely terrible as beginning a season in a red dress and ending it in a pink one."
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A dilemma which makes sense to John theoretically, but certainly not something that's ever factored into his own decision making. He darts a conspiratorial look at the stall keeper as well as he reaches over to pinch a fold of the fabric and draw it towards himself, examining the fall of cloth.
"And what is your concern with the green? The same?"
And far be it for John to advise her that she could have them both if she were willing to do something underhanded. It's hard to divine exactly what will catch Wysteria's attention. For all their long slogs across Thedas in the wake of kidnappings, John doesn't have the best read on what Wysteria does in her day to day when their lives aren't at stake.
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slaps a bow onto this one i think
a thousand years late but here
But today she is really struggling with paying attention to or caring about the very dry text she tasked herself with studying, and cannot help but notice that whatever Wysteria is doing on the next table seems infinitely more interesting than her reading. Those little gasps are enticing, even.
"Dear Wysteria," Sonia says brightly, crossing the distance between them with a waltzing step, and there is a distinctively curious look to her. She likes Wysteria, finds her company quite pleasant, but has discovered a bit more in the way of respect for her since their mutual plight. Wysteria had certainly handled it far better than Sonia, at any rate. "What is it you're reading? It sounds quite exciting."
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And my, what a collection it is. In addition to the crates stacked up near to hand, the table itself is papered inches thick with all manner of diaries bound in delicate (but aged) silk, and with letters bearing a menagerie of different handwriting styles, and notes and file folios and--
"Are you familiar with the Lady in question? Evidently she was once quite popular."
marcoulf;
Other pressing occupations include work in the stables, including an effort to keep one of the more exotic mounts from escaping the old qunari compound where it make stretch it legs by running through the crowded city streets beyond, and time spent in the griffon eyrie where one of the larger animals seems intent on trying to run Marcoulf in circles rather than allow him to tighten the straps on her harness.
And once, so early that is must be an hour picked with the purpose of avoiding crossing paths with anyone, he might be found working alone in the training yard with his rapier drawn - practicing a particular series of footwork over and over and over and-- frowning at the quavering line of the sword through it, then resetting.
fitcher;
And yet, at least once she is nearly perfectly unobtrusive - seen slipping from the back door of a narrow house in Lowtown at night.
card game
Only the two of them left. Isaac tosses his cards on the table. It was a bad hand, but it always is. He's kept a steady streak of losses going across the season; never bets too much. Pocket change here, some interesting little treasure there. Tonight a long tropical feather, no doubt torn from the jungle.
"Do you ever tire of victory?"
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The feather, she thinks, will be quite fetching if placed in a hat's band. For now it is tucked jauntily behind her ear, the bright coloring a shock against her dark hair and bobbing this way and that as she sets about gathering their spent hands, the discards, and reshuffling.
"Do you ever tire of losing, or am I simply good enough company to make up for it?"
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athessa;
The puffing on the pipe is an afterthought to the paperwork. That doesn't stop her from exhaling the occasional ring of smoke above the work, nebulous 'o's drifting in the lamplight and evaporating at the first finger of the salt smelling night breeze.
eyegleam
"Oh hey, Fitcher," she greets, straightening and walking up a few steps like a normal person instead of some kind of weird shiny-eyed cryptid. "Nice evening, huh?"
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Lowtown
He turns and slows to a backpedal. "I hate to seem to accost a lady in a darkened alley," he says, smile self-deprecating and accent lightly Orlesian, "but I couldn't help but recognize you from the Gallows. I'm heading to the ferry myself, if you'd permit an escort?"
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"Ah, if it isn't the Lord Mercier." Her broadening smile is slightly and pleasantly crooked. "I would be most happy for your company."
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flint;
In a series of increasingly unlikely turns, however:
Flint appears coming down the stairs in some rowdy sailors public house along the Kirkwall docks having by all appearances just resolved some kind of meeting with a trio of merchant captains, each more dubious in appearance than the last. Or he is making his way up a narrow side street at such a late hour that he must be headed for one of the inns along the harbor which makes business of catering to Riftwatch members who have missed the last ferry to the Gallows, a set of road-dusted saddlebags slung over one shoulder. Or, in some Lowtown tailor shop, he is subject to the sharp ends of slightly too many pins while being fit for what must be a new coat to lower his arm and escape conversation.
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[ Was Flint followed by Byerly? Is there some business in the offing, some low (or high) plot to be discussed outside of the Gallows? Is Flint's weaselly comrade here to propose - or apply - some blackmail to him?
In truth: no. Byerly is just here to get a new shirt himself, but found (to his great joy) that Flint was here as well. And like he won't take the opportunity to torment him a little.
And so By continues speaking to the tailor: ]
It is both a waste and an aesthetic mistake. The coat should be tight around the bicep. Tight. [ And then, to Flint: ] It's the fashion nowadays, you see.
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[is drawled back, though in the immediate aftermath he takes notice of where the tailor has hesitated in the application of an additional pin. A sharp look is administered in the man's direction to get his hands moving again.]
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Poesia spares a glance and a far milder smile to his companions, doing little more than note their presence, before addressing her Captain again, "May I join you?"
What he's doing and whether he's through with it is entierly irrelevant, of course. Her Captain is here and therefore she renders her services as needed.
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"On my next errand," is brusque, no nonsense. Finally, Flint does glance back just long enough for a crisp, 'Good day,' and then he has reached the bottom of the stairs.
Unfortunately, at least one of the merchant captains - a Marcher with elaborately waxed mustachios, styled in Antivan clothes - is quite keen on saying hello. He all but reaches across Flint to take Poesia by the hand. "Now who is this lovely creature?"
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Well, it serves him not at all to be drunk to the point of intoxication. Emlyn would let him sleep it off, certainly, but the damage would be done, so it must never be. (There are some men with the luxury of drowning their troubles in drink, but John is not one of them.) But it's tiring in and of itself, minding himself in the midst of a crowd. The long performance each day requires stretching into the evening, ending in John finally maneuvering out of a tavern as the candles inside are extinguished, one by one.
It's potentially by chance that he comes across someone familiar, walking briskly with the same trajectory in mind. John maybe cannot catch him, but he calls out anyway.
How many chance meetings have they really had in their long acquaintance? Or rather, how many chance meetings have they had without swords or imminent danger nipping at their heels? There's some faint amusement in that novelty for John.
"Business gone well?" in lieu of a better greeting.
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"Well enough."
He'd left early in the morning, fetching out with a member of Research with a decent hand and a series of decade old charts badly in need of updating to make an examination of number of Eastern inlets along the coast. If there are ships running down for Orlais who ought not to be, it would benefit them to have some signalman posted and a reliable account of the area. Unnecessary work for a Division Head to attend to, but there is a saying about what must be done if you want a thing done right.
"How goes your trade here?"
Standing in that interval between low burning lanterns, Flint waits for him to come alongside.
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go to JAIL
youll never take me alive
https://i.ibb.co/Hqgz2BR/72429049.jpg
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gwen + thranduil; mid-month?
It's in the heat of the day. At this hour, the Research offices are quiet as any other.]
Where is your assistant?
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( the office is in slight disorder- slight- more reports on the desk, a few books absent from the shelves, but not slovenly. thranduil is clearly in a mood, tense despite the pose, every other glance a look at his wife, as if to reassure himself that she has not decamped for parts unknown.
that she might in fact fear that of him is clearly beyond his imagining. )
Did you loan something to her? Fear she might have vanished while still having it in her possession?
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nelly;
It's work for a carpenter, not a ship's captain or a mage. But here they are.
With a fantastic series of thunk, thunk, thunks, the hook Flint has pitched up onto the deck above their heads finds something to bite into. He tests the rope, then passes it to Nell.]
Ladies first.
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I'm assuming you didn't bring me out here to talk about this wreck since I don't know shit about ships or qunari. So what's so secret we had to hike a mile from anything for you to whisper it?
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