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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.
—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.
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 Darktown escorting 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.
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.
Edited 2020-07-11 18:58 (UTC)
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.
And yet, at least once she is nearly perfectly unobtrusive - seen slipping from the back door of a narrow house in Lowtown at night.
Edited 2020-07-11 19:17 (UTC)
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.
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.
You're using far too much fabric, good fellow.
[ 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.
[ 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.]
[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.]
[For a long second, Flint considers the lintel above the shop's door, unable to bring himself to consider the street beyond it in detail but imagining moving in that general direction with perfect clarity.]
I should think the difference is the position in question. You're most welcome to your dinner tables and back room conversations, Ambassador; mine sometimes requires the use of a sword.
I should think the difference is the position in question. You're most welcome to your dinner tables and back room conversations, Ambassador; mine sometimes requires the use of a sword.
My mistake. I thought we were still on the subject of the scope of our work.
[The tailor has paused again, but interjects now to have Flint turn away to expose the seam along the back of the shoulder toward the better light filtering in from the shop's front. In this at least, Flint is biddable enough.]
[The tailor has paused again, but interjects now to have Flint turn away to expose the seam along the back of the shoulder toward the better light filtering in from the shop's front. In this at least, Flint is biddable enough.]
If I say yes, [That slight turn back toward Byerly is rewarded with a needle poke and an exasperated look from the beleaguered tailor; Flint doesn't attempt it again but does shift slightly, a line of impatience drawn from elbow to shoulder.] do we move on to a different subject or discuss the particulars of the steel?
[His tips his face up, speaking toward the joint where ceiling meets wall. It's a fair halfway point between turning into additional pin stabs or addressing his boots.]
Don't you owe me a drink? I seem to recall promises to that end being made in a jungle once.
Don't you owe me a drink? I seem to recall promises to that end being made in a jungle once.
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.
"Do you ever tire of victory?"
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?"
"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.
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.
"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?"
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.
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.
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