WHO: Athessa, Madi, Lucien, Skull, and YOU!! WHAT: catch-all WHEN: mostly Satinalia and later WHERE: Kirkwall and The Gallows NOTES: post-murderhaus h/c is gonna go here
It's the first place the lot of them go upon their return, but Athessa waits until those who've sustained worse than a dislocated shoulder have been tended to before offering herself up for healing. If she hadn't used her arm so much fighting and carrying dead bodies and digging graves, she might not have exacerbated the injury.
If.
ii. bedroom
The first night back is also the first night that Athessa notices that someone fixed her bedroom door while they were away. It strikes her as less comforting in a way than having to forcibly dislodge the door from the jamb, because now someone might enter without being heard. She hadn't heard the murderer, Medrod, when he arranged her unconscious form on the rack.
She may not sleep this night.
iii. bath
Athessa has used the bathtub in her room perhaps once before, for the novelty of it. Getting enough water to bathe in up to the fourth floor is hard work, and then that water has to be heated in the fireplace and hauled across the room, hefted, and poured.
Even though the ligaments were healed, Athessa's shoulder still aches from overuse. She can barely lift a water bucket a few inches off the floor, nowhere near high enough to fill the tub.
She sits in the empty tub, knees hugged to her chest, and stares off at nothing until her eyes go blurry with tears.
iv. baths
Since using the tub in her room by herself is out of the picture, Athessa instead takes to the heated baths below the tower.
The heat helps with some of the pain and stiffness, but she's still a few days out from being able to comfortably wash her back. The bruises on her shoulder, her back and her stomach will fade a bit more slowly.
v. outside
The Gallows may have been home for nearly two years at this point but the fact that the island used to be a prison is inescapable. Cold stone walls and brutalist architecture, grim statuary and chains everywhere.
It's enough to make Athessa want to run away, sometimes. She copes with the urge by wandering about, through the halls and gardens to the battlements and beyond. Tonight, she sits on the ground staring out over the sea and shivering. She didn't bring a jacket, and the blanket of smoke settling around her is hardly a source of warmth.
vi. wildcard
[ come at me, doesn't have to be h/c but who doesn't like a little-a h/c, as a treat? ]
It's not the shoulder Colin notices first--the swelling, the way she holds it, the little signs of pain. It's the look in her eyes. It's that look. He sees too much of it these days, and seeing it on her cuts to the quick.
He wears his profession like a suit of armor into this war, approaching her and checking her over for other injuries first. There's a soft little glance at her face just before he speaks.
She shakes her head slightly, as if at a loss. What did happen? Brows furrowed, eyes shut, concentrating very hard on sorting out the answer, Athessa starts with the obvious:
"Dislocated my shoulder trying to get off a rack, talked Barrow through popping the bone back into place. Couldn't really...afford not to use my arm, though. Got kicked in the stomach, but I think it was too low to break any ribs," she sniffs, scrubs the back of her hand across her nose, notices the blood under her fingernails. "Pretty sure none of this is my blood."
There'll be a point, sometime after they arrive there and he's settled in a bed, where she's maybe near enough that he can reach out to gently touch the elbow of her good arm.
"Make sure you get that shoulder looked at."
And whatever else; that's just the most obvious, but it's not like they ever took a tally of injuries, with everything going on.
Athessa starts slightly at the touch, but doesn't move away. She rolls her eyes and scoffs and says:
"You sound just like Derrica, laying there perforated and worrying after me." It's wry, more fond than annoyed, but the veneer of good humor is thin. The disquiet sits in the furrow drawn between her brows and the way her forced smiles don't quite light her eyes.
Perhaps to hide the way hers still shakes, she clasps his reaching hand and squeezes it gently. Reassuring, she hopes.
"I'll be fine. Our healers are the best, both at what they do and as people."
Mhavos is outside. He's always hated rest, healing. Which poet compared sleep to death? Too many, and all his favorites. Every time he's taken for himself, he is owing instead of gaining.
He walks with a cane, which he can't quite make dignified because it's not readily obvious how quickly he could turn it into a weapon.
The air is brisk. Athessa is alone. Mhavos puts his coat on her shoulders, a faded thing that's seen more years than it ought, but warm nonetheless. He doesn't want to talk about Ostwick. He assumes she doesn't, either. It sits between them like a dead thing, rotten.
She doesn't quite flinch at the coat falling upon her shoulders, senses dulled and heightened by the haze of root smoke, but she turns her head to look at Mhavos.
And slowly, his words filter in and her numb expression gives way to some shade of relief.
So she's not an idiot and has actually been pretty aware that some bad shit went down for a group that went out. It just like extra fucking sucks that her friend was part of that group. So yeah, when she catches sight of the tiny figure out on the Gallows' kinda shitty excuse for a beach, Jenny Lou goes and gets some things.
And then she saunters down to where Athessa is, plopping down in the sand next to her and offering the open bottle of brandy. She has blankets and food too, but booze first. "Weather's friggin' shit, huh."
Athessa turns when Jenny Lou approaches, watching through the glaze of being high until the bottle of brandy comes into focus. She scoffs out some smoke and trades bottle for blunt.
"Is this the part where I say could be worse?" Wry. Far be it from her to invoke a thunderstorm by saying at least it's not raining.
The only sign she makes that she's even heard Isaac's announcement is a slight turn of her head, listening for the open and close of the door. A lot quieter, now that it's been fixed.
The privacy screen blocking the bathtub from view is sheer, so he can likely see her silhouette thanks to the light cast by the fire, but she can't see much of him at all. Just as well. Her eyes are blurry on their own right now anyway.
Vanadi, most definitely not sleeping tonight, has decided he may as well not sleep in someone else's company. It seems like a better use of his time. He leaves his untouched and un-lived in room in the small hours of the morning to arrive at Athessa's door as a weary figure huddled in heavy and voluminous cloak. The door is fixed, he realizes, as he knocks quietly. So much for Athessa's laziness-based extra security.
After a while, the sound of toenails clicking on stone heralds the dog's appearance as he strides purposefully over to Athessa and plops down next to her. A fuzzy chin rests on her upturned knee, a brown-and-white tail giving a few little thumps. Hello, he's here, and he won't talk her ear off. Not like this.
Word travels quickly: people on a mission returning bloodied, violently so. It is concerning, especially once the names are mentioned.
When Laura gets to the infirmary, she finds herself coming to Athessa's bed first--Mhavos is sleeping, his face drawn and pale, and the others are mostly irrelevant to her, near-strangers who will only be crowded by her presence. She stands an arm's length away, staring worriedly. You know, like people do.
Matthias sees Athessa, a lonely shape, on his way back to the Forces office. He stops walking to observe her--but only for a moment. It takes him no time at all to decide to redirect his path. He tugs at the brooch that fastens his cloak, so by the time he's reached her, he has it free.
"Hi."
He drops the cloak around her shoulders. It's unlined but made of heavy wool, rust-red. And it smells vaguely like a fire, which likely comes of little surprise. Matthias crouches down next to her, wrinkling his nose just a little as he settles into the cloud of smoke that surrounds her.
"I'm hungry," he announces, though no one asked. "Thought about going to the kitchens to see what's about."
The message had gone unanswered. Set against Isaac's insinuations, as yet unresolved in her mind as to how she wanted to proceed. She doesn't have a clear idea of it yet, but the weight of what had happened on this particular mission forces her hand in some ways. It's hard to keep her distance long enough to make up her mind when she has Holden's truncated report of events weighing on her.
As she approaches, she unwinds her shawl. It's the first thing she holds out, almost in lieu of a proper greeting.
"Sister Sara would insist," she says softly. "The cold is going to put an ache in that shoulder."
Seeking her out, in this large and largely empty fortress, or perhaps in the city as a whole, is a tall order. Bastien's trying anyway. But he's also a practical man, at least when it comes to solving problems, so while he's between one likely place and another, his voice floats out of her sending crystal, wherever it is. Hopefully it is in the same place as her.
[ Lexie and Athessa are seated by a fireplace somewhere, playing cards in lieu of more active Bard training or music lessons because it takes two hands to play the instrument Lexie and Bastien forced upon Athessa for Satinalia. So: cards. With Athessa's right arm in a sling it makes for a rather silly sight, her holding her cards fanned out and unable to move them forward to look at them, so she has to peer down her nose at them whenever she needs to check her suits.
Anyway, a Bard must know how to play Wicked Grace, right? ]
The Riftwatch stables, quite fortuitously, did not suffer much for the blaze that burned on the night of Satinalia. The structure is sound, the animals are safe — including a few that didn't belong there in the first place, but who can tell a dog and a cat who happen to be best friends to shove off?
Anyway, though the animals are safe, Athessa has taken to giving them all a fair bit of TLC whenever she can to ease any stress that may be lingering.
Currently she's singing softly and brushing down Stief, the great red elk that has served as her steed of late. Where did he come from? How did she get him? Don't worry about it. It's not important.
Somehow, Kostos manages to make even a question about fruit not sound not sweet. More like he's asking how old the hart is, or whether he's the source of a particularly bad odor.
But he has an apple in hand, standing outside the door to the stall, and his expression is as placid as it ever gets.
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athessa.
post-murderhaus
ii. bedroom
iii. bath
iv. baths
v. outside
vi. wildcard
i
He wears his profession like a suit of armor into this war, approaching her and checking her over for other injuries first. There's a soft little glance at her face just before he speaks.
"What happened?" he asks quietly.
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"Dislocated my shoulder trying to get off a rack, talked Barrow through popping the bone back into place. Couldn't really...afford not to use my arm, though. Got kicked in the stomach, but I think it was too low to break any ribs," she sniffs, scrubs the back of her hand across her nose, notices the blood under her fingernails. "Pretty sure none of this is my blood."
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i
"Make sure you get that shoulder looked at."
And whatever else; that's just the most obvious, but it's not like they ever took a tally of injuries, with everything going on.
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"You sound just like Derrica, laying there perforated and worrying after me." It's wry, more fond than annoyed, but the veneer of good humor is thin. The disquiet sits in the furrow drawn between her brows and the way her forced smiles don't quite light her eyes.
Perhaps to hide the way hers still shakes, she clasps his reaching hand and squeezes it gently. Reassuring, she hopes.
"I'll be fine. Our healers are the best, both at what they do and as people."
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v.
Mhavos is outside. He's always hated rest, healing. Which poet compared sleep to death? Too many, and all his favorites. Every time he's taken for himself, he is owing instead of gaining.
He walks with a cane, which he can't quite make dignified because it's not readily obvious how quickly he could turn it into a weapon.
The air is brisk. Athessa is alone. Mhavos puts his coat on her shoulders, a faded thing that's seen more years than it ought, but warm nonetheless. He doesn't want to talk about Ostwick. He assumes she doesn't, either. It sits between them like a dead thing, rotten.
"I found the song."
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And slowly, his words filter in and her numb expression gives way to some shade of relief.
"Did you? Which one was it?"
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v
And then she saunters down to where Athessa is, plopping down in the sand next to her and offering the open bottle of brandy. She has blankets and food too, but booze first. "Weather's friggin' shit, huh."
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"Is this the part where I say could be worse?" Wry. Far be it from her to invoke a thunderstorm by saying at least it's not raining.
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iii
"Athessa," It's not exasperated, it's not exactly pitying. "I'm coming in."
But he does pause for any sound of objection.
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The privacy screen blocking the bathtub from view is sheer, so he can likely see her silhouette thanks to the light cast by the fire, but she can't see much of him at all. Just as well. Her eyes are blurry on their own right now anyway.
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ii
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v
A fuzzy chin rests on her upturned knee, a brown-and-white tail giving a few little thumps. Hello, he's here, and he won't talk her ear off. Not like this.
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monologues at a dog
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i.
When Laura gets to the infirmary, she finds herself coming to Athessa's bed first--Mhavos is sleeping, his face drawn and pale, and the others are mostly irrelevant to her, near-strangers who will only be crowded by her presence. She stands an arm's length away, staring worriedly. You know, like people do.
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v.
"Hi."
He drops the cloak around her shoulders. It's unlined but made of heavy wool, rust-red. And it smells vaguely like a fire, which likely comes of little surprise. Matthias crouches down next to her, wrinkling his nose just a little as he settles into the cloud of smoke that surrounds her.
"I'm hungry," he announces, though no one asked. "Thought about going to the kitchens to see what's about."
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v.
As she approaches, she unwinds her shawl. It's the first thing she holds out, almost in lieu of a proper greeting.
"Sister Sara would insist," she says softly. "The cold is going to put an ache in that shoulder."
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vi.
"Fauvette, ma chérie. Are you busy?"
Re: vi.
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byerly + lexie, in media res
Anyway, a Bard must know how to play Wicked Grace, right? ]
I...don't think I've quite got the hang of this.
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[ Alexandrie has raised her eyes from her own hand to look at Athessa, a little smile tugging at her lips. ]
Remember it. You shall want to be able to call upon it, once you can play.
[ She is calling upon a mien of her own, her worry for the other woman tucked under a teacher's calm and a gentle sisterly affection. ]
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kostos.
Anyway, though the animals are safe, Athessa has taken to giving them all a fair bit of TLC whenever she can to ease any stress that may be lingering.
Currently she's singing softly and brushing down Stief, the great red elk that has served as her steed of late. Where did he come from? How did she get him? Don't worry about it. It's not important.
Also she's no longer sporting a sling, yay.
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Somehow, Kostos manages to make even a question about fruit not sound not sweet. More like he's asking how old the hart is, or whether he's the source of a particularly bad odor.
But he has an apple in hand, standing outside the door to the stall, and his expression is as placid as it ever gets.
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madi.
lucien.
skull.