[SEMI-OPEN]

[acreage]

WHO: Amos Burton, James Holden, Wysteria, Ellis, and YOU
WHAT: Two spacemen fall out of a rift, later explore scenic Kirkwall
WHEN: Nnnnowish? Waves hands
WHERE: The Wounded Coast, then Kirkwall
NOTES: A closed arrival thread, plus open individual threads for meeting Amos and/or Jim after their quarantine period.

Comments

JIM, LATER

[acreage]

JIMOTHY.

[innerharbor]

Amos is lucky, in his way. He can understand how other people think. A surprisingly small amount of people can. Of course, he can't understand it like you can understand refitting a fuselage. Once you get it, you can do it. Amos can't ever quite make that transition with other people, being able to see the sign of worry and feeling it himself.

That's alright, though. He made his peace with that a long time ago.

They're in Quarantine. Makes about as much sense as anything, here. He can guess, without really having to stretch himself, what the Cap's feeling.

Amos reclines on his cot. Quiet, not quite a whisper, he says, "ain't gonna be like Eros."

[acreage]

There's a window in the room, and he looks out with arms folded on the sill. Palms down means he doesn't have to see the crystalline glint in his hand; instead, he's watching a courtyard, more walls and turrets of the Gallows. He doesn't acknowledge what Amos said, but he does close his eyes briefly, breathe out.

(There are a lot of worst case scenarios he can imagine, but -- keeping a pulse on them is the captain's job.)

Admitted, "I want to be sure of that, before we leave."

Of course they're going to leave; but this planet is getting its hooks in him already, tugging at his conscience.

[innerharbor]

Amos speaks the truth, because it might not be what's best for anybody, but around the Cap? It's all he can do. He sits back and watches Holden run through a thousand things in his mind, only to come up twitching with dissatisfaction.

"We ain't never gonna be completely sure," he says. "Just how it is."

[acreage]

He opens his eyes, frowns at the small figures going about their lives below.

He wouldn't be James Holden, probably, if he didn't say, "We can try."

A beat, then he waves a hand at nothing in particular:

"What do you think?"

Not, actually, about trying; about the people they've met so far, the story they're being fed, the situation.

LOWTOWN, OPEN

[acreage]

A) THE COFFEE PROMPT

There's a twinge of memory driving him to the markets today. He'll be looking for (1) a cup of a coffee, and (2) a lemon. Maybe you run into him on his search, and he asks for help finding one or the other (or both). Or maybe you're around when he tries slicing the lemon in half, which feels -- ridiculously indulgent, truthfully. This entire venture is. Inexpertly, he squeezes juice into the cup (and some seeds, whoops), and gives it a swirl.

"The perfect cup of coffee," he says to no one in particular, then lifts the cup as if giving a toast, before giving it a taste.

B) THE ONE ABOUT BOOKS

Later, he pauses by a book shop -- maybe just for the novelty of it, unable to stop himself. Unsurprisingly, absolutely none of the literature or authors are familiar to him; but there's something nostalgic, nevertheless, about the heft of a paper book in his hands. One of those luxuries that he hadn't known was one, until after the fact.

He'll glance towards anyone around with a faint half-smile and a shrug. "Any suggestions?"

B

[noonrodeon]

Going to a shop specifically for books is its own indulgence for Noon. All the books he's ever had (never more than one or two at any given time) were traded or bought off junk peddlers. A few memorably came from dead bodies on battle fields. Waste not, want not and all that.

Being one of the first to open a book and feel the resistance in the spine is a rare treat. Being asked about books is another.

A giant bear of a man, he smiles with easy cheer down at the stranger, "Well now. That depends on what you're lookin' for, friend."

[acreage]

That casual warmth is easy to reciprocate, and he smiles as he shrugs.

"There aren't many bookstores where I come from," he admits. "Hard to know where to start."

Though he is, currently, situated near some geographies, histories, looking to learn more about this world.

[noonrodeon]

Noon laughs, a deep rolling sound, "Know the feeling. Thought I was dreamin' the first time I came into a town and saw a whole shop full of books."

He crosses over and lets a sharp eye sweep over the shelves around them, "You're a learnin' type reader or just learnin' about where you are right now?"

b / not sorry for the double tap

[hornswoggle]

"I could have asked the same of you," returns John, who has lifted a heavier volume from the table to hold noncommittally. Just testing the feel of it in the hand, as if that gives him some idea whether or not it's the correct thing to purchase. "But I suppose it depends on what you're trying to find. For yourself, I assume?"

There's some other, polite questions John hasn't gotten around to yet, most notably: You're new in town, aren't you?

never be sorry

[acreage]

He chuckles, admits, "You could, but I wouldn't be much help."

Which probably goes a way towards answering the unasked question. If there seemed to be a good reason to hide being a newcomer, he'd — at least try, but James Holden can hardly help being overly honest.

"Yeah, just for me." Wryly, as he picks up what promises to be a history of Ferelden, "Looking for some light reading."

[hornswoggle]

A light, thoughtful hum in response, as John watches Holden's selection.

"Getting acclimated?"

A shrewd guess.

"I'm not the best read man in Kirkwall," ha. "But if you're interested in countries, Orlais might be a good place to start. Or if you're curious about our enemies, Tevinter. Assuming there's a worthwhile history compiled somewhere in this shop."

A

[sulahnan]

"You don't want to get coffee here," Athessa warns, standing off to one side. She has a bag of coffee beans in hand, clearly not from this establishment.

[acreage]

He pauses, turns to look at Athessa, and raises an eyebrow.

"That bad?"

[sulahnan]

She nods. "Yeah. Unless you like drinking dirt."

The affronted commentary from regulars within earshot suggests that these people actually do like drinking dirt, but some of the others glance around, wondering if they shouldn't abandon the line themselves. Athessa points up the road, literally up the slope of it, towards a bakery.

"If you're just looking for a cup, the bakery's your best bet. If you want this, though—" The bag in her hand. "—You'll wanna flatter the spice merchant."

a.

[justashotaway]

Laura watches with the little frown that passes for open curiosity in her world. It's early morning yet, the markets nowhere near as crowded as they are around midday, and there's a tall man squeezing lemon into his coffee.

"Does that taste good?" Does it taste better than coffee alone? She doesn't mind the flavor--sharp and bitter and usually hot--but the addition of fruit is intriguing.

[acreage]

He looks up at the interruption, but isn't bothered by it. He sets down the squeezed lemon half next to the whole one where it's situated beside him.

"That's what I'm hoping to find out. It comes highly recommended."

[justashotaway]

She waits where she is, silent and expectant. This is an answer that doesn't require a response, only observation, as far as Laura's concerned.

A

[muckspout]

Edgard watches this man concoct some kind of potion: Lemon, seeds. He watches transfixed as this man drinks it. Edgard, perpetually unshaven and unbathed, knows someone who consumes strange things is someone he needs to know.

"What are you drinking?" He asks. "Can I have some?"

[acreage]

The coffee both is and isn't an adjustment; it's not exactly the Martian-grade stuff he's been spoiled on the last few years, but he's had worse cheap stuff on Pallas, even on the Cant.

The tart lemon flavor is something else, though. Much stronger and brighter than he'd expected, hits the coffee's notes in ways he'd never expected. Ways he doubts Ade would've imagined, either, and that's a familiar dull ache by now.

But Edgard's presence is more than striking enough to get his attention, and his eyebrows shoot straight up as he lowers his cup.

To his credit, he only hesitates momentarily.

"It's coffee." But he's shrugging and handing the cup over. He's got more lemon, incredibly, and fairly easy access to more of both. "Sure, tell me what you think."

[muckspout]

Edgard nods and takes the cup gently in his hands and holds it up to his face. He takes a deep dramatic sniff of the drink and decides it smells pleasant.

He takes a very long pull from the cup taking several gulps. There's only a little bit in the bottom left when he hands it back. He smacks his lips thoughtfully and pauses before saying,

"It is good. I would like it better without the lemon. What else did you put in there?"

At this moment, it occurs to him that he's taken a drink of something unknown from a stranger.

"Poison, maybe?"

LOWTOWN, OPEN, BAR FIGHT

[acreage]

He'd just wanted to get a drink.

And he's nursing one, when raised voices from behind catch his attention. He probably should leave it alone, but of course he doesn't; leaves his cup to try to mediate, placatingly.

Instead, he gets punched in the face.

[tender]

There are certain taverns that can be relied on for a fight or two before the end of the evening. Derrica had clocked the impending argument and been in the process of deciding whether to intervene or to simply migrate to the bar and wait out the brawl to patch up the instigators in the aftermath. It seemed like she wouldn't have to do much of anything, when another man wades into the midst of the argument.

But then—

The force of the blow sends him staggering, knocking into Derrica and slopping half the ale from her cup onto her chest and arm. One hand braces against Holden's back.

"Are you okay?" is the immediate, reflexive question even as a few steps behind them the actual fight kicks into high gear.

[acreage]

Well, that was fucking undignified. He registers the sounds of the fight — his involvement having delayed the inevitable by approximately 0.5 seconds at best — even as he's turning to face Derrica with a hand over his face.

Muffled, "Aside from my pride?"

Nothing's broken, at least.

[tender]

In the midst of the muffled response, Derrica's hooked her arm through his to tow him a few steps to the side. The other patrons are swarming closer to hoot encouragement, and there's more than enough to hold their attention, but there's no reason to stick close enough to risk eyes shifting back to the man who'd provided the warm up, so to speak.

"It was a nice try," Derrica tells him soothingly. "But at a certain time of night it's almost expected for there to be one or two fights."

And if the attempt cost her most of her drink, well, she isn't too upset about it. There's some charm in someone trying to play peace-maker in a rowdy bar.

"If you sit down with me at the bar I'll take a loot and see if we can't stop your face from bruising up."