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
The sigh as he shuts the door behind him is for the sound much as anything; pitched so as to not startle.
"You know," Easing himself down upon the screen opposite. One of the buckets lurks about the edge, near enough for him to spy. He dips an idle pinky inside. "Marguerite would have poured this for you."
Maybe. If she looked appropriately pathetic — Riftwatch's staff are few between and busy, but they're paid enough for it.
"I thought I could do it," she says, voice pitiful and small and hoarse. It is perhaps less that she thought she could do it, and more that she wanted to do it herself. Didn't want to rely on anyone for it.
"No," It's true. No one in the Infirmary tells him what to do — or at least, no one who isn't presently leaking their own blood. "Frankly, I'm surprised to find you alone."
A thin tail of steam begins to rise from his finger. Isaac submerges his hand.
"I don't know," Does she want to be alone? Not really. But does she want yet another person to see her cry? Absolutely not. Her head hurts from all the damn crying, and from fighting her tears, and probably from not drinking enough water and drinking too much brandy the night before.
A frown tugs at her features. That makes her head hurt, too.
"I don't know if it's occurred to you that you're universally beloved," Asterisk: Among Riftwatch. "But I imagine you'd have a difficult time counting friends on your hands."
The bucket begins to bubble and boil. He waits a moment before removing his hand, and swiping one soggy palm over his shirt. It's perfectly useless — he just reaches for the next bucket.
"I suppose that you might always schedule it. Parcel a bit of time out each day for our allotted fussing."
"Then tell me where your rags are, because I've slopped out half of this." A gesture. He's exaggerating, but there's definitely a puddle. "What do you think useful would be doing?"
As if she has dedicated rags. She just has clothes that are too tattered to keep wearing. (There's probably rags that are left by the cleaning staff but who knows where those end up.)
"Taking care of herself," she hazards, shrugging one shoulder. It'd almost be preferable to have brought home another scar, rather than deal with the longer healing time of a subtler injury. (But she made that wager, a promise, in the belly of the Walrus.) Her light scoff is little more than a huff of breath.
"Can you imagine what a terror I'd be if I slept more?"
A hum of agreement, because saying yes or I did feels hollow. False. She took care of herself by ignoring everything she didn't want to acknowledge, whether it was her past, her future, her own feelings or someone else's.
Gods but things were a lot easier before she decided to stay in one place. Before everything caught up to her.
"Doesn't that hurt?" He's bringing water to a boil with his hand in it, how's that work?
Well. She certainly looks appropriately pathetic, doesn't she? Maybe beyond the point where sobbing and wailing and having a complete meltdown is warranted, but the quiet aftermath of such things is just as pitiable. That's what she'd be embarrassed about, more than being seen naked. Being seen naked and sad? Perish the thought.
"That makes sense," she says, words dampened by resting her chin on her knees. "I think."
When in doubt, hedge your bets isn't a saying. But it could be.
Well, bucket two — and three, and four, and at last enough time has passed in silence (in the rush of water) for him to stoop soggily down once more, propped on the side of the tub to ask:
Closing her eyes for a moment, she lets the hot water take away some of the tension in aching muscles, though it doesn't quite smooth out the raw feeling of having her metaphorical guts scooped out like a pumpkin. Hollow. Bereft. Maybe it'll be better the longer she soaks.
But lest she fall asleep there, she wills her eyes open again and aims them past Isaac at the fire in the hearth. Watches it dance.
"When we closed the rift in Ostwick, Lady Pickney told us her son had gone missing, and wanted us to find him. Talk about town was he'd gone and married a Dalish, so it seemed pretty obvious he'd just run off with her," Not that it made them take the request less seriously, of course. What's a little more guilt on the pile? "On our way back, we got caught up in a storm and had to hole up at a roadside inn for the night, but—
"—I woke up on a rack. Barrow in an iron maiden. We'd been drugged and moved under the inn to some kind of fucked up maze, and...well. We found what was left of Lady Pickney's son. And his bride. And four other Dalish, preserved. Stuffed. Like hunting trophies."
Tears flow from her eyes, but she's too tired to do anything about them. No scrunching of her face to try and stop them, no contorted expression of anguish. Just tears. Just a dazed, far-off look in her eyes.
"The whole place was rigged with traps. It's a wonder none of us got decapitated."
"F-five total," she corrects, remembering their faces. Dispassionate details. "Four in a room with a bunch of books. The bride was...turned into a puppet. She was in the room where we found Richard and that new Rifter, Holden.
"We met up with the others that had escaped, everyone but Mhavos and Leander. Me and Vanadi and Edgard went to find the Innkeeper while Sister Sara and the others stayed put, made sure nobody bled out before we could escape."
And once they did escape, they buried the elves. Burned the inn and everything beneath it to oblivion. (She hopes.) And they rode the rest of the way back to Kirkwall, reeling from the ordeal.
A secondary concern — they returned in poor enough shape that he much doubts they stopped to chat.
(Peculiar to target elves, yet take the others. A vagabond or two might go missing — but seven men, with recent meetings and an expected destination? Desperation, perhaps: Coincidence taken for the closing of hounds.
As though there's any purpose in divining a madman's. He's no more interest in that game.)
There's also the matter of finding out which clan those elves belonged to so she can tell the Keeper about their loss, tell them where they were buried. Assure them that she killed the man responsible.
He thinks, and does not say, that it would be kinder for a human to do it. Grief lashes for a target (A vagabond or two might go missing; four indicates a certain blindness of eye.)
Instead,
"Mhavos will know how to put it." A clerk in a rich man's house. He'll know which details to omit — one hopes: most. At last, "I'm sorry."
To the Honorable Lady Elsed Pickney, On behalf of Riftwatch, please allow me to extend my most heartfelt condolences. Your son, Gawen, and his wife, whose name is as yet unknown to us, were found slain along the road from Ostwick to Kirkwall. Rest assured the man responsible has been brought to justice.
Or something like that. Athessa lets out a breath and wipes at her face with her good arm, which is then used to point out the soap on a nearby vanity. (Of sorts. It's just a table with a drawer that sits behind the privacy screen.)
"I can't decide whether or not it's worse that the man was...just a man. Not a maleficar, not Venatori, just...an old man."
"Be better if he didn't do it at all," she asserts, a bit more quickly than she feels she should've. Too snappish, when she doesn't mean to be short with Isaac. (She can't help it height-wise, but she can try to keep her head.)
"Worse...if he hadn't been a stranger. If he was someone we knew and thought we could trust."
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"You know," Easing himself down upon the screen opposite. One of the buckets lurks about the edge, near enough for him to spy. He dips an idle pinky inside. "Marguerite would have poured this for you."
Maybe. If she looked appropriately pathetic — Riftwatch's staff are few between and busy, but they're paid enough for it.
(Are they? He's never thought to ask.)
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"Did someone tell you to check on me?"
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A thin tail of steam begins to rise from his finger. Isaac submerges his hand.
"Would you like to be?"
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A frown tugs at her features. That makes her head hurt, too.
"Why is that surprising?"
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The bucket begins to bubble and boil. He waits a moment before removing his hand, and swiping one soggy palm over his shirt. It's perfectly useless — he just reaches for the next bucket.
"I suppose that you might always schedule it. Parcel a bit of time out each day for our allotted fussing."
Did he just say they're friends? Maybe.
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"I don't like being fussed over," she says. "Makes me feel...helpless. Useless. Like a burden."
Everyone has enough going on — the world has enough going on without then needing to take care of some silly girl with too many feelings.
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"Taking care of herself," she hazards, shrugging one shoulder. It'd almost be preferable to have brought home another scar, rather than deal with the longer healing time of a subtler injury. (But she made that wager, a promise, in the belly of the Walrus.) Her light scoff is little more than a huff of breath.
"Can you imagine what a terror I'd be if I slept more?"
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But he doesn't sound as though he means it. Another bucket heats: More water spills. Fuck —
"You took care of yourself, yes? Before you came to Riftwatch."
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Gods but things were a lot easier before she decided to stay in one place. Before everything caught up to her.
"Doesn't that hurt?" He's bringing water to a boil with his hand in it, how's that work?
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Does he? Isaac doesn't exactly loathe attention, consideration; that halo shine about someone thinking of him.
"Well," Alright. "I suppose that's not quite it."
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She'd much rather hear him talk about himself right now than revisit everything she might have to cry over.
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Isaac taps the screen (warning), steps about the side to pour.
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"That makes sense," she says, words dampened by resting her chin on her knees. "I think."
When in doubt, hedge your bets isn't a saying. But it could be.
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Well, bucket two — and three, and four, and at last enough time has passed in silence (in the rush of water) for him to stoop soggily down once more, propped on the side of the tub to ask:
"What happened, Athessa?"
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But lest she fall asleep there, she wills her eyes open again and aims them past Isaac at the fire in the hearth. Watches it dance.
"When we closed the rift in Ostwick, Lady Pickney told us her son had gone missing, and wanted us to find him. Talk about town was he'd gone and married a Dalish, so it seemed pretty obvious he'd just run off with her," Not that it made them take the request less seriously, of course. What's a little more guilt on the pile? "On our way back, we got caught up in a storm and had to hole up at a roadside inn for the night, but—
"—I woke up on a rack. Barrow in an iron maiden. We'd been drugged and moved under the inn to some kind of fucked up maze, and...well. We found what was left of Lady Pickney's son. And his bride. And four other Dalish, preserved. Stuffed. Like hunting trophies."
Tears flow from her eyes, but she's too tired to do anything about them. No scrunching of her face to try and stop them, no contorted expression of anguish. Just tears. Just a dazed, far-off look in her eyes.
"The whole place was rigged with traps. It's a wonder none of us got decapitated."
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Satinalia, He thinks, in brief, stupid disbelief. Was last week.
And then she's crying, and sometimes one need let that carry on; and then she's staring altogether distant, and that itself familiar.
(Gareth had looked like that once, a long time ago. Gareth must be dead by now.)
"Five other Dalish?"
He doesn't reel back in. Not yet. Let her talk, until the talking's done.
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"We met up with the others that had escaped, everyone but Mhavos and Leander. Me and Vanadi and Edgard went to find the Innkeeper while Sister Sara and the others stayed put, made sure nobody bled out before we could escape."
And once they did escape, they buried the elves. Burned the inn and everything beneath it to oblivion. (She hopes.) And they rode the rest of the way back to Kirkwall, reeling from the ordeal.
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A secondary concern — they returned in poor enough shape that he much doubts they stopped to chat.
(Peculiar to target elves, yet take the others. A vagabond or two might go missing — but seven men, with recent meetings and an expected destination? Desperation, perhaps: Coincidence taken for the closing of hounds.
As though there's any purpose in divining a madman's. He's no more interest in that game.)
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"Not yet. I'll take care of it."
There's also the matter of finding out which clan those elves belonged to so she can tell the Keeper about their loss, tell them where they were buried. Assure them that she killed the man responsible.
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Instead,
"Mhavos will know how to put it." A clerk in a rich man's house. He'll know which details to omit — one hopes: most. At last, "I'm sorry."
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To the Honorable Lady Elsed Pickney, On behalf of Riftwatch, please allow me to extend my most heartfelt condolences. Your son, Gawen, and his wife, whose name is as yet unknown to us, were found slain along the road from Ostwick to Kirkwall. Rest assured the man responsible has been brought to justice.
Or something like that. Athessa lets out a breath and wipes at her face with her good arm, which is then used to point out the soap on a nearby vanity. (Of sorts. It's just a table with a drawer that sits behind the privacy screen.)
"I can't decide whether or not it's worse that the man was...just a man. Not a maleficar, not Venatori, just...an old man."
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The mathematics of these things seldom add up.
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"Worse...if he hadn't been a stranger. If he was someone we knew and thought we could trust."
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(The trouble with gallows humour is its capacity to strangle.)
"Yes," It would be better if he hadn't done it. It would be worse to have trusted. "Do you think you know anyone like that?"
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