open.

[heorte]

WHO: Ellis + OTA
WHAT: Dream aftermath and other miscellany.
WHEN: Post-dream, Wintermarch/Kingsway-ish.
WHERE: Gallows, etc.
NOTES: A handful of opportunities to bump into/corner Ellis post-dream. If you want something in particular, hit me up for a starter or just go ham in the comments.

GALLOWS

Normally, Ellis lays out his mending across Wysteria's kitchen table, well away from open flame or acid-based chemicals, but close enough to participate in the rise and fall of conversation between Wysteria and Tony and sometimes Fitz. It had become a comfortable routine.

But the dream rattled something loose, enough so that Ellis has instead taken up space close to the fire with a small pile of items set on a stool to be repaired. Noose has made an appearance, claimed Ellis' booted foot as resting place for a lazy nap. Intermittent twitches and small yips punctuate the work.

He'd been whistling softly, but the song tapers to a halt at the approach of a third party. There's a beat of quiet, Ellis' eyebrows raising in silent question. There is a second chair, but surely Noose is the bigger draw between them.

"Aye?" comes slowly, prompting, as Noose slits open one eye to assess the newcomer before yawning almost comedically loudly in punctuation.

FIELD WORK

In his experience, Tantervale is almost always muddier than it should be. The passing snowfall has turned the roads to chilly slush, and the spatter of it has streaked horse and rider thoroughly long before they've made their way to the spot marked on the map and discovered the ruins in question are set further beyond the scrubby, barren spate of trees. One crumbling tower is visible from the road, the only sufficient marker guiding them forward.

So far, no one has been obliged to dismount. And once off the road, the chance of mud splatter is greatly reduced. Small blessings.

"Are we certain there's anything of value to be found?" Ellis questions mildly. It's a little late to abandon the venture, regardless of mud, snow drifts and dubiously accurate maps. But exactly what they're recovering could stand to be clearer. "Long lost valuables from the Viscount Aravind's forefather's collections" isn't as helpful as Viscount Aravind might have considered when lodging his request with Riftwatch.

WILDCARD.

( do literally whatever you want, i'm not the boss of you. )

Comments

gallows.

[poleaxed]

Jone had a suspicion-- she's heard that voice before, can connect it vaguely to the shape of a face, and yet... she isn't entirely sure until he opens his mouth. Then, ah, it is her target.

She does not sit in the chair aside from... Eli? Elias? It doesn't matter. She has a point to make. It's a stupid one, and she knows it, but people pick scabs regardless of age and temperament.

She does not sit in the chair next to him. She stands, leaning forward, her elbows on the back of an empty chair.

"Oi, lad," she says, voice heavy with an accent that says Fereldan and city and poor for those with ears to hear it. She raises a hand to point at his work. "Dangerous stuff, that."

field work

[lumelume]

"Well," comes a cheerful voice at Ellis' side, the little rusty-haired man shivering in his saddle under bundles of warm clothes, "do we know what the valuable items were made of?"

He smiles hopefully.

[heorte]

It's not an unfamiliar accent. Only a few shades off from Ellis, a variation that says farmland still even after he's ranged years away from where he was brought up.

"I've survived worse," Ellis counters, as Noose readjusts position over his boot. He'd paused in his work, and now gently tugs the last stitch tight before lancing the needle through a pinched fold of cloth. His attention redirects to her, hands falling still over the tunic in his lap.

"You can sit, if you need."

If it's that kind of conversation.

tony.

[heorte]

Most days, Ellis wakes early. It's habit. He prefers to be the first to rise, on his feet and about his business before the rest of the Gallows has mobilized. Most of the time, it's just that long-ingrained habit that brings him to consciousness at the break of dawn. However, this particular morning—

It's a short span of time between jolting awake in his own bed with the weight of an eerily real dream in his head to scrambling for his boots. The door to his room bangs behind him. The urge is potential irrational. Ellis knows that even as it propels him all the way to the next tower to the door of Tony's room, where he proceeds to hammer at the frame with increasing intensity.

Can Ellis break down a door? This may be the morning we find out.

[propulsion]

(Shivering so much it hurts. As if the ability to retain heat is the last strength to leave him. He thinks he took something for the pain but as if through a deep fog, muscle spasms still send lightning jags of agony though his system. Is it possible, to dream in a dream? Strange deliriums tug at the ragged edges of consciousness. Walls made of raw stone, skies made of churning, writhing creatures of light and void.

But not completely. There is a part where he remembers how to untwist the reactor from the centre of his chest. Its weight and odd warmth in his palm, pulsing, before—)

BANG BANG BANG.

Tony sits up as if powered by springs, hands poised. Sits there for longer, absorbing the familiar dimensions of his own Gallows room, the room he has in the Gallows, which is in Kirkwall, while banging rattles the door to his Gallows room in Kirkwall, adrenaline doing some kind of weird hiccuping spike that compels him to throw off the covers, grab a shirt, throw that over his head and struggle through it as he stumbles for the door. "What. Don't, you're gonna—"

He twists key in lock and flings the door wide, wildly disheveled and still sleep-stupid but conscious. "What kinda time do you call this?"

[heorte]

Similarly disheveled, Ellis has drawn one fist up against his chest as if it's belatedly occurred to him that hammering with that much force causes pain. His hand is throbbing, but the sensation is so far off that it barely registers as a concern. He's flushed from running up four flights of stairs, breathing hard.

The extreme dissonance of both knowing without question that he saw Tony yesterday and he looked much the same, and that he also witnessed Tony die not so long ago stalls Ellis for a moment. He hesitates over the threshold, eyes wide. His heart is beating very hard.

"I just—I thought—"

You died.

Ellis doesn't say it. The absurdity is catching up to him, even as the intensity of relief at realizing it had only been a dream nearly takes him out at the knees. Ellis puts a hand on the doorframe, exhaling hard.

[propulsion]

Tony's expression changes. Accusatory confusion drains away, leaving shock behind.

Because: oh.

Oh snap.

He stands in the doorway, processing in silence while Ellis catches his breath or fails to, gathering the wild kaleidoscope of dream-memory and shoving it into the context of this moment. "You too, huh," he says, and then his hands go out and rest on Ellis' shoulders. The guy's looking a little swoony, like maybe he went from a horizontal hours long sleep to running up four flights of stairs. That's a lot to ask of your blood pressure. "Hey. We're good. You're okay."

Read: he's okay, but there is something to all of this he doesn't quite wanna touch with his fingers yet.

[poleaxed]

It occurs to Jone that, for all her bluster, she doesn't really know how to deal with peaceful negotiation. He's far too kind to flirt with-- she'd feel dead awful. He's not snapping back at her, which in retrospect seems a bit daft, considering how strongly non-confrontational he'd been before. It's a lucky thing, Jone thinks, she's too much of an arse to feel like one anymore.

She sighs, stretches her hands out, leans on the upholstery and doesn't sit down. "I'll have you know," she says, head lolling to one side as she cracks a vertebra in her neck, "the little elf ginge packs a strong wallop. Nothing broken, but I had it all stitched up 'cos I couldn't stand the thought of disappointing your quite lofty ideas about me wellbeing."

It's a lot of words for a 'fuck you' and 'I don't know what to say'. There's a connection between them now, the worst kind, because Jone suspects it exists only in her head. Kind boys with sad smiles from Ferelden are a dying breed, and there's a reason for that.

"Oh, bugger it, gimme a sock to darn before I break down." She moves foward enough to finally sit down, sidestepping the dog easily (she's seen plenty of dogs! She's not that much a stereotype, Maker Almighty.)

[heorte]

A no catches in his throat, Ellis shaking his head slowly.

But this time, that particular truth doesn't slip away from him.

"I woke you up," he says instead, embarrassment creeping in around the edges of this reunion. Tony's hands are warm and his face has color in it and he is upright without swaying or grimacing. It is both miraculous and absolutely unworthy of marveling over. Already the stretch of time has grown hazy, though certain things remain fixed in his head. "I'm sorry, I...I had to be sure."

holden.

[heorte]

The presence of a new horse in the stable registers almost before Holden does. Ellis has saddlebags slung over one shoulder, which he leaves propped over the partition as he crosses towards Holden and the latest arrival.

"Yours?" comes the question, in lieu of greeting. Noose comes skittering around the corner, blowing past Ellis' legs to snuffle at Holden's ankles. The horse in question doesn't register as worthy of inspection, apparently.

[heorte]

For once, in spite of everything bearing down on him at the present moment, the recitation draws a real grin onto Ellis' face. Maybe part of it is the straightforward ease that comes from some shared origin, underscoring the unexpected recitation. He'd half-expected her to brush off the entire conversation they'd had.

"I'd been wondering how it went. Didn't see any larger than usual blood smears in the training yard, and took it as a hopeful sign."

As he speaks, he hooks a foot into the rung of the stool to drag it between them, putting it within her reach. There's tunics, trousers with torn knees, and a few socks, all there for the choosing.

"Sabine, aye? Masses of curls?" he questions, lifting the tunic from his lap as he leans back in his chair. "She looked the type to knock a few teeth loose, if she landed a punch."

[poleaxed]

When the Warden Elliott smiles, Jone stops for a minute. He's not that handsome, it's not about that (and if he's Fereldan and ginger, there's a not small chance of incest, so really). She just remembers when she used to care about people smiling, being happy, and how that used to be worth something.

It's not that far off of a memory. It's from roughly a week ago.

Fuck this dreaming nonsense. Has she really been that angry? Maker, what a twat she is. Jone takes her sock in angry penance; she knows how to darn, fuck, she's a grown woman.

"That one, or something like." She's fairly sure the bird's name was Sabrina. "Solid hook, too bad I had to lean down for it."

Is that the truth? Well, it is now.

[heorte]

"The Viscount was light on detail," Ellis answers, polite over his own quiet exasperation with Hightown's whims. "I expect if there's anything, it'll be in a chest of some kind."

Something they'll haul back and witness a dramatic opening of, perhaps. That kind of diplomatic turn is rarely Ellis' business. Dragging something out of snow and mud, that's exactly the kind of thing he's good for.

Theoretically. Normally there's a bit more instruction.

[heorte]

"I'll keep it in mind, in case I come up against her in the training yard myself."

And he thinks sometimes that he might ask Sabine if she ever gets letters from Alistair, whether or not he's well. (Whatever that means for a Warden, even a Warden like Alistair.) But he'd never known her, and can't think of how to pose the question without coming of as a gossip.

"Did you get what you wanted out of it?" is a thornier question. Maybe one Ellis doesn't have a right to. But there is some curiosity in it. Did it help, to court that kind of pain?

[poleaxed]

It occurs to Jone that were she better with stitchwork, she could darn a swear into Ellis' socks. But then, that'd be an undignified way to die, wouldn't it? You never know.

"Alternatively," she says, "you could just wear big enough boots."

She's not making fun of elves for being small. She's making fun of Sabine for being small. It's completely different (arguable).

"People keep asking me crooked questions about that stunt," and it was a stunt. "Almost as if nobody thinks I'm just that thick. Insulting really. How's a fighter like meself supposed to balance getting their bell wrung by demons on top of this fashion for moral philosophy?"

But to keep him from asking, "and I did, thank you kindly."

[acreage]

Holden will have to be forgiven if he answers Noose first, crouching down with a smile and a hand ready to give the dog some good headpats.

"Apparently," he adds, looking up. The horse is all dappled grey, dark-maned, and thankfully sweet-tempered. She tolerates this distraction from the brushing she'd been getting with only a nicker and a watchful eye on the interlopers. "I was told she needed someone to look after her."

[lumelume]

There's an obvious offer to be made here, save for the hesitation that comes with it: if he knows at least roughly what he's looking for, Mado can shift into a dog, sniff out the target, dig it out of the ground, and they can be back inside by suppertime.

But it's not a thing one just does willy-nilly, especially when it's been a secret for this long. Ellis doesn't seem like the tattling sort-- he's got a genuine air about him, a serious man with little time for gossip, but there's always a chance of instincts being misled.

"I don't suppose you brought a shovel," Mado says with well-maintained cheer.

[propulsion]

"Don't be sorry," Tony says. "I was having the craziest dream. And it sucked balls."

And then he smiles, suddenly and toothy, a moment of laughter detaching itself from him, borne of a place of delayed relief. He shakes Ellis a little along with it, like maybe he can transmit this sudden sensation into him through his hands. "Hey! We did it. Or—you did it, you guys, everyone, fought the minotaur in the labyrinth or whatever the hell. You wanna—"

He gestures behind him. "Or we can get coffee downstairs." He does not look like a man, all of a sudden, who strictly needs coffee.

[heorte]

Tony's relief is catching, even if the way it manifests in Ellis is far more muted. Tony's shake rattles a small smile out of him. He'd woken with the loss of Tony looming so large in his head that it had crowded out nearly everything else. Watching him laugh and gesture, Ellis feels the tight clutch of fear that had been bearing down on him loosen and dissipate. (He refuses to stall over the minor correction, you guys standing in for we.)

Rather than agree, Ellis breathes out a low chuckle. Yes, it had been a terrible dream. And whatever it had been, the only thing Ellis was interested in is being sure it was a fluke, not a certainty.

"Olyvia and Varg have usually started breakfast by now," Ellis says, slow around the idea but not necessarily opposed. He straightens by degrees, pats down his front over undone laces, untucked tunic. "If you wouldn't rather go back to bed."

Though speaking only for himself, Ellis is fairly sure this isn't going to do anything for his own sleeping troubles.

[heorte]

Trading one finished tunic for the next, Ellis pauses to push fingers through the tear at the side to reassess the length of it before unspooling thread from the bobbin. He sets it on the arm of the chair, within Jone's reach, without comment.

"I don't think big boots are going to make up the difference between us," Elis says, which is a truth. Ellis might be taller than Sabine, but Jone is taller than them both. There's a few beats of silence as he sorts the thread, turns the tunic in his lap to his satisfaction.

"I'm guessing you'd rather I didn't ask you anymore questions about that stunt, then?"

[heorte]

"If we have to start digging, that's a whole other assignment."

If they have to start digging for some generations-lost mystery object, it's verging on the edge of a goose chase. Ellis hadn't said as much, because he doesn't necessarily mind riding out to have a look, but—

And that's not considering what the chances might be of someone else having come through and rooted out whatever was worth taking in the ruins.

"We might get lucky. Whether or not we find it, the effort might be enough to satisfy."

[poleaxed]

Jone keeps working on what she's given, generally slower than Ellis. She's just not as fastidious, though there have been times when she hadn't the money to just buy new clothing, when she had to mend everything she owned. A motivation to take better contracts.

No luck for it now.

"You Riftwatch lot are the worst sort, Andraste Almighty. No half-bright fool makes a stunt like that and isn't ready for questions."

[heorte]

Noose accepts all pats as his due. Ellis would say the dog is spoiled, but who could begrudge him the attention?

Ellis watches the dog lean his full weight into Holden before shaking violently and trotting further into the stable. He thinks to whistle him back, but leaves the dog be. Noose would come back if he were inclined. He's been sticking close to Ellis, but Ellis know from experience that Noose only enjoys company for so long.

"You're the right person for it," Ellis says, one hand resting on the warm leather of the saddlebags as he examines the horse in question. "She's handsome. What is she called?"

[heorte]

After this long among them, it shouldn't twinge against his attention to be included in the midst of Riftwatch's number, and yet.

"I'd understand if you weren't interested in talking about it beyond what's already been said."

Which might say more about him than anything else.

"Part of me thinks it's about as good a way to deal with that dream as can be."

When the baseline is the Ambassador's insinuating questions, it's not a hard bar to clear in Ellis' eyes.

[poleaxed]

"Who knows, you may be the first to ask a question that isn't a barely bloody hidden insult."

Not that her pride is on the line, it never is.

"I meant to show this lot how stupid a grudge would be. I hope, if some twat decides to hold that sourness in his heart, he'd remember he's making himself a bigger fool than me. And that's dead embarrassing."