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faderift2021-01-29 06:26 pm
wythersake) wrote in faderift2021-01-29 06:26 pm
Entry tags:
The bedroom lock turns easily, by force or key. Isaac doesn't return the first evening, or the next. His things remain, amid smaller signs of habitation. Anything worth hiding is already gone.
INFIRMARY
It's night. He's quiet.
Each drawer of Isaac's desk has been pulled in turn, its typical sprawl defoliated into neat lines. A box of bandage, a line of empty vials: What can stay, what will go. He isn't dressed to travel. No cloak, no pack. He wears a certain grim attention all the same — those entering will not catch him unaware.
"You're awake."
A joke. Not a funny one.
ACQUISITIONS OFFICE
The door is propped open.
Barely — a sliver of light that knifes into the hall beyond. Enough to catch the shadow of a footfall: Spare warning for the man dozing inside. Isaac's head nods over the staked page of a map, Ferelden, the northeast reaches (soil hardly worth the plough). An abandoned cup of coffee leaks a slow brown ring into the Waking Sea.
(So this is where his coat went.)
WILDCARD
[ Go ahead with whatever, and I'll roll with it. HMU on plurk or discord (shambolism #8807) if you want a custom starter. ]
She blinks and pauses, eyebrows raising at the figure. Even if it's dark, she can see him clearly.
"Can't say sleep appeals much at the moment," she says, walking in the rest of the way, "Surprised the rest aren't in here." The rest of the infirmary staff. Not necessarily close knit, but people she'd come to rely on.
"Can't say sleep appeals much at the moment," she says, walking in the rest of the way, "Surprised the rest aren't in here." The rest of the infirmary staff. Not necessarily close knit, but people she'd come to rely on.
"Give it time," The appeal. Their colleagues. "Some of them don't sleep alone."
He hefts a box.
"Was this your first dream?"
He hefts a box.
"Was this your first dream?"
She hums idly and sits herself down on a stool. If that stool happens to be in the way of the door... Well. She's not actually expecting to stop him.
"My second," she says, "The first happened last year. Reckon I was lucky this time around. Had a nice little dream about delivering babies in an Orlesian village before I found myself on the road to Skyhaven." She's refusing to recall the name out of spite at this point.
"My second," she says, "The first happened last year. Reckon I was lucky this time around. Had a nice little dream about delivering babies in an Orlesian village before I found myself on the road to Skyhaven." She's refusing to recall the name out of spite at this point.
"Can't say that I envy you," Bottles rattle. He slips the crate into an empty square of shelf: Common supplies. "Orlesian children are loud. Always with the oui, oui, oui,"
"I can't recall the motion."
One elbow props upon cabinet edge. It's casual enough. It disguises the ready brace of his hand (ten fingers, clever and whole).
"I will be leaving Mme Smythe my alchemical stock — you should speak with her regarding antidotes. The rest may be more broadly distributed."
One elbow props upon cabinet edge. It's casual enough. It disguises the ready brace of his hand (ten fingers, clever and whole).
"I will be leaving Mme Smythe my alchemical stock — you should speak with her regarding antidotes. The rest may be more broadly distributed."
Edited (joselyn is old) 2021-01-30 04:31 (UTC)
"It seems a poor time to climb out the window."
An incriminating one, at least.
An incriminating one, at least.
"I'm well, Sara." A rare thing — she has always been Sister. "A full night's rest."
He looks as ever: A little tired, a little bald. She is a little thing herself, and perhaps that's why he doesn't step away; uncoils each knuckle slow.
He looks as ever: A little tired, a little bald. She is a little thing herself, and perhaps that's why he doesn't step away; uncoils each knuckle slow.
She scowls and looks him over the best she can from where she is, hands on her hips.
"No aches or pains that might have carried over from the dream? Vision all right?" Her frown deepens, "I ought to make you take off your shoes. It was so blasted cold on that stupid mountain, I'm surprised we didn't all wake up with frostbite. Even if it was a dream."
"No aches or pains that might have carried over from the dream? Vision all right?" Her frown deepens, "I ought to make you take off your shoes. It was so blasted cold on that stupid mountain, I'm surprised we didn't all wake up with frostbite. Even if it was a dream."
That sliver of light spreads into a wedge as the door opens further, swinging slowly after one slight nudge. Bare feet make little noise padding across the stone floor, skirting the edges of the table on which the map sits so that deft fingers might pluck the cup of coffee off of the map and replace it with a clean cloth.
What does he think, that maps grow on trees?
Athessa glances over the familiar sight of northern Ferelden and sets the cup somewhere that won't be ruined by coffee rings, then puts a hand on Isaac's shoulder and speaks softly to rouse him from his doze.
"Isaac."
What does he think, that maps grow on trees?
Athessa glances over the familiar sight of northern Ferelden and sets the cup somewhere that won't be ruined by coffee rings, then puts a hand on Isaac's shoulder and speaks softly to rouse him from his doze.
"Isaac."
"You'd be surprised," A flourish: A pair of shears, dropped inelegant into the box before him. "I knew a man who could recite the Chant in his sleep."
(There hasn't been time to organize a response. They would have sent a templar. There won't be a response — not a public one, they can't afford it,)
"Are you looking for the Sister?"
(There hasn't been time to organize a response. They would have sent a templar. There won't be a response — not a public one, they can't afford it,)
"Are you looking for the Sister?"
"No, I--" He shakes his head, bewildered. Who is this man?
"--I couldn't sleep. I came to drive myself to torpor with busywork."
A twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and he comes forwad.
"...Brother Gideon. I'm the new healer. Not a mage. Sister Sawbones is my colleague, but I don't answer to her."
"--I couldn't sleep. I came to drive myself to torpor with busywork."
A twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and he comes forwad.
"...Brother Gideon. I'm the new healer. Not a mage. Sister Sawbones is my colleague, but I don't answer to her."
"I bid you the swiftest fortune in telling her so." In exchange: "Isaac."
This is not a day that he cares to advertise Enchanter.
"Have they set you up with a station yet?"
This is not a day that he cares to advertise Enchanter.
"Have they set you up with a station yet?"
Edited (fuckin language names that are also common nouns) 2021-01-30 08:17 (UTC)
He is dreaming of a path. There's a monster in every labyrinth, if you wind the string long enough; through the deep places and high tower halls. A palm to his shoulder, a whisper. Isaac's head lurches up. He recoils as if struck.
His hand finds his chest, presses, reflex beating down a heart. It's a long moment — is it very long at all? — before he finds the words:
"Fuck." Swipes his palm up, over a scratchy chin.
His hand finds his chest, presses, reflex beating down a heart. It's a long moment — is it very long at all? — before he finds the words:
"Fuck." Swipes his palm up, over a scratchy chin.
A small chuckle follows-- he's already met Sawbones, and the joke isn't lost on him.
"I didn't realize there were stations specific to individuals. Personally, I'm an apothecary and physician, and have already found no shortage of work to be done."
"I didn't realize there were stations specific to individuals. Personally, I'm an apothecary and physician, and have already found no shortage of work to be done."
"There are five men on regular duty — I suppose that will make you the sixth —" Seventh, for perhaps an hour longer. "— If you've nothing pressing, we might clear this out for you tonight."
Isaac slings the box beneath an arm.
Isaac slings the box beneath an arm.
"Relax," she says, and takes her hand away. "It's only me."
Which, in retrospect, is probably not as reassuring as she'd like it to be. Over the course of that dream — a night, a month, five years — it was simultaneously something she desperately wanted to be a given and something she despised.
There's a fine line between a reassurance and a dismissal. It's only me, versus it's only Athessa.
"I was on my way up to Bastien's office to see if he had any sweets hidden in his desk and I saw the light from the hall. Working late?"
Which, in retrospect, is probably not as reassuring as she'd like it to be. Over the course of that dream — a night, a month, five years — it was simultaneously something she desperately wanted to be a given and something she despised.
There's a fine line between a reassurance and a dismissal. It's only me, versus it's only Athessa.
"I was on my way up to Bastien's office to see if he had any sweets hidden in his desk and I saw the light from the hall. Working late?"
It wrinkles in his nose. Drifts down to cheek, to slackening jaw, before some final nerve connects. His chin jolts up.
The alarm that he fixes upon Byerly can't be more than instinct: Stairs go up. He might have shut the door. A foggy moment. At last,
"Amend it," Isaac reaches to lift his cup the same, blots page onto sleeve. "Ships have a way of wrecking."
The Leonilda, the Uccello, must have held some coffee in their stores. Kirkwall has gossip, Riftwatch has ships; Isaac has suspicions. But it's little more than buying time now, a chance to steady his gaze. He finds it difficult to hold.
The alarm that he fixes upon Byerly can't be more than instinct: Stairs go up. He might have shut the door. A foggy moment. At last,
"Amend it," Isaac reaches to lift his cup the same, blots page onto sleeve. "Ships have a way of wrecking."
The Leonilda, the Uccello, must have held some coffee in their stores. Kirkwall has gossip, Riftwatch has ships; Isaac has suspicions. But it's little more than buying time now, a chance to steady his gaze. He finds it difficult to hold.
realizing multiple tags in that you mixed up east and west. *northwEST
wythersake
2021-01-30 08:40 pm (UTC)(link)
His fingers tighten on the handle. The stain skates a halo about the illustration of a great serpent: Grotesque, and gone runny (some sea monster, to balk at a bit of damp —)
But closer, blue shores break onto the Storm Coast, an assortment of marks sketched in lead. They spiral south into crag, a few days' ride past the highway.
"An old one, I think." Not a reef at all. "I'd offer you a cup, but it's gone sour."
But closer, blue shores break onto the Storm Coast, an assortment of marks sketched in lead. They spiral south into crag, a few days' ride past the highway.
"An old one, I think." Not a reef at all. "I'd offer you a cup, but it's gone sour."
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