WHO: Adrasteia, Erik, other folks. WHAT: It's an open log WHEN: Mid to late Guardian WHERE: Kirkwall, &c. NOTES: Erik curses. That's about it. Open starters in threads.
Adrasteia wakes with the dawn, and in the wintertime, a little earlier than that. This is how the morning unfolds: opening the curtains, putting on heavy robes, and making her way to the nearest unoccupied communal room to deal with wetting and detangling her hair. If there's no water available, however, she'll have to make her way down six floors and into the basement to the unheated bathing pools to bring some up.
When she starts this process there's humming. By the time she reaches the bottom of the tower, it's singing sotto-voce. Once she's climbed the stairs back to the sixth floor carrying the largest container of water she possibly can (which, well, she's strong but not even five feet tall), it's gone to full-throated singing.
Her voice isn't bad. However, one imagines that not everyone would be thrilled with being serenaded at this hour, more often in the last month than not.
Amador has a way of simply appearing wherever he wants to be, and this is no exception: nobody knows where he sleeps or spends the night, but at the sound of singing, he has materialized at the bottom of the stairwell.
"Cantora!" he calls up in his own musical tenor, "what fair maiden fills the halls with such sweetness?"
Anyone angry with her will now have to be angry with both of them.
"To bring water to the sixth floor, and wash my hair, for the start of the day." Another laugh; this is quite fun, actually, though it's also a stretch for her vocal chords and lung capacity. "To whom do I owe the pleasure of a new song?"
A Chantry Sister visiting from Antiva has insisted on being charitable and compassionate in Darktown. Make sure no one takes more than their fair share of the handouts and that the Sister returns safe and sound so she can tell the Revered Mother in Rialto about how charming Riftwatch's agents are.
There's room for at least one more helper in this quest, but either way, Andrasteia is here with the Chantry Sister, hanging back a little as the becloaked woman makes her way through Darktown, stepping in when necessary. She doesn't wear her Warden's armor for this, dressed instead in a dress and a heavy cloak meant to keep her from being too cold in the snow. Boots, scarf, gloves, accompany the look. Her hair is up, her staff at her back, and she makes polite but no less pleasant chitchat with the Sister from time to time as they walk.
Considering the snowed-in state of some of the roofs of the houses here, the Sister spends time discussing the Chant of Light and how it uplifts souls and Adrasteia and some other volunteers unearth dilapidated houses. If she uses a little magic to melt the rest of the snow away, well. She's careful at it, for one thing.
"Neat trick," Vance plants an elbow against stone to blow on his hands. Call it a breather, he's been digging, and good gloves still soak. The Sister is temporarily distracted — some girl with a doll — "Should come back later, finish it up."
Makes sense to send a dwarf to Darktown, where slick tunnels open onto street. Would've done better to send a different dwarf, which may say a piece on why Vance has stayed tight-lipped through this little excursion.
"Once the Sister is safely within Riftwatch's walls," Adrasteia says, careful not to allow her voice to carry too far or too loudly, "that's the plan."
There's too much to be done just for this sort of surreptitious work. She'd rather be a mage and a Warden and proudly both than heating the supports of the house with a touch and a glancing over her shoulder, but. Well. Not every situation calls for that, and she doesn't want the Sister up in arms or having to explain a situation that she's not directly involved in.
Seems like good politics, that.
The house she's warming gives a threatening groan and Adrasteia steps back, peering at the roof. It doesn't give way, thank the Maker for small miracles, and she turns back to Vance with her hands open.
"How's your gloves?" Hers are warm, but she can share the wealth, as it were.
Leave it there and you’ll lose a finger. But his manner’s easy as he passes palms into hers. They've got somewhere to go back to. Which —
"Gives us a chance to load up," Bandages or breadrolls or whatever this week’s charity project; Riftwatch is always arms-deep in Darktown’s business. His voice stays low, "Think she likes you?"
She's friendly, and Adra, Adra seems to know the words. Seems a little like she believes.
It takes some work to be able to heat through something damp without causing it to burn to a crisp, but Adrasteia is good at that sort of thing. She focuses on the left first, and then the right, warming his gloves through her own as she turns over his question in her head.
Does the Chantry Sister like her?
"I don't know," is what she settles on eventually, also keeping her voice low. "She could just be being polite about it."
[ feel free to poke me at spacewitchery#9221 if you'd like a bespoke starter! otherwise adrasteia can be found just about anywhere in the gallows or kirkwall, with specific focuses on the griffon's roost (where she's trying to find a teacher for riding), the stables to meet the horses, and checking in on people in the infirmary. she also trains with a spirit sword and focuses on lightning-based magic. craft your own starter here! ]
Edited 2021-02-13 02:08 (UTC)
no church in the wild; the vinmark mountains outside of kirkwall, erik, open
Erik was told about the missing shipments in the mountains and has decided to put his riding training with Athessa to good use. So he takes a horse, a shield, and a sword up with him into the mountains to see what's what.
Of course, this means going into various caves and such to see if one can find the missing shipments or even just a mark of their previous existence; going into caves, however, means that one might run afoul of ghasts, which are the ugliest motherfuckers Erik has seen in a minute and he's not shy about saying it.
Feel free to join him on his excursion, or to run into him at the stables putting the poor horse away, or spot him in the infirmary, getting that cut on his arm looked at.
Edgard is eager to get out of Kirkwall and leans forward ready to kick his sleek bay gelding into gear. He glances at Erik eyebrows raised and motions with his head in front of them.
"Or are we going to take our time? At this pace, it'll only take, I don't know, 5 or 6 hours."
"Shit, you kidding me?" Erik still rides with the hesitance of someone new to all this horseriding shit (because he is) and having a few excursions under his belt has only made him more aware of how easily one could fall from the saddle and break their skull open all over everything.
But Edgard has a point. He doesn't want to spend hours upon hours just getting there.
"'Aight. You set the pace, and I'll do my best to keep up and keep my ass in the saddle." Gotta do Athessa proud, or something.
"Can you blame me?" Fucking horses, seriously. One with a bad mood and less interest in being ridden, or one that's been spooked? Dangerous. Granted, the horse he's riding is none of these things but still.
Hesitant.
Either way, he's taking a breath and then urging his horse onward, following Edgard before he manages to edge just past him. "Ha!"
There's still the matter of the post-dream survey he and Wisteria put together to deal with, so Erik can occasionally be found with a thin stack of papers, transcribing notes into a notebook in some corner of the library late in the evening.
He's also decided to start discussing the eventual built of a weapon with the blacksmith, so there's even more reading on that subject. Sketches of weapons and diagrams join his other writings, though these aren't always taken in the library but sometimes in the forge itself, or in the herb garden.
Not to forget, there's always the communal baths, mealtimes, or Erik going through drills in the courtyard as opportunities to run into him.
Even in libraries, different types of creatures come crawling at night.
Dick Dickerson is one such creature: spindly-legged in a great, black-furred cloak, secreting in with an armload of overdue books and a lantern to return them by. He pauses after he enters -- at the sight of another light, or at the scuff of ink on paper -- but proceeds undeterred.
The books are too heavy and stacked too messily to carry all the way back. He deposits them on a table in a slanting cascade, swearing (quietly) in a language familiar only to the snake who slides out of the mix like an eel out of a crab trap.
Oh hey. It's that guy, is what Erik thinks once he places the posture and the body language. It does take him a moment, though, mostly because the books are in the way until they're haphazardly set down on the table over there.
Though the books threatening to hit the floor get Erik to his feet quickly, double-taking at the little snake that appears but still managing to grab several books with his arms before using his body to steady the rest of the pile back onto the table.
"Damn, man." How many books did he borrow at a time to come up with a pile like this? "Your cat and your snake get along?"
Recognition reflected back in equal measure gives Richard a beat’s pause -- his nod comes a little too late for to pass for casual acknowledgement.
He looks quite a bit healthier than he did on the floor of that shack in the swamp, orderly, in spite of the rugged heap of his cloak, and clean. Still poorly-rested, but the damage here isn’t written in as deep -- the difference between a fresh-captured street cur and a terrier who’s spent a few days outside unexpectedly.
He also stinks like he’s been drinking.
“Mister Stevens.”
...Isn’t an answer. He tops off the pile with the one book he’d managed to catch on his own, exchanging it for the snake in question.
"Mister Silas. Since we're mister-ing, I guess." Erik gives a haphazard sort of shrug. He notices the smell, and the general look about the man. Someone is not having a good time of things, he thinks.
Well. A lot of people aren't, by his measure, and most of them didn't even fill out the survey he and Wisteria worked on. "If you told me your real last name it got lost in the shuffle, sorry."
"What are you working on?" comes quietly, heralding Derrica's arrival before she sets her plate down across from him. The weighted bottom of her mug thunks softly down aside it, though a flicker of hesitation has settled in her expression.
All the diagrams are difficult for her to parse at a glance, but they seem like something complex. Erik might very well ask her to leave him be; she hadn't fully taken in the papers he was looking over before she'd invited herself into his space, but they seem the type to require undivided attention.
"Uh, this is the surveys Wisteria and I asked folks to fill out." He gestures at a pile to his left. "Trying to pool the useful information from them ain't impossible but it ain't easy either, especially since a lot of folks still ain't done the thing." He gives a little shrug. It's not like he can blame them, exactly, but it's not the most helpful tack to take in light of... everything. "The rest," he gestures to what's in front of him, "is for a sword. Maybe a pair of 'em. I haven't decided. But I want a weapon specific to me."
He lifts his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of another shrug. "What's got you up so late?" Also is she gonna share her food because he's eyeing it.
The plate is turned towards him, silent invitation to the contents extended. It's a mish-mash of what can be begged from the kitchen at this hour: hearth cakes smeared with jam, slices of cheese and cuts of ham, a few pieces of slightly scorched toast.
"Don't tell Mhavos I brought food in here," is the condition, even though Derrica isn't sure whether or not it's officially banned or just strongly implied. She curls her fingers around the sides of the mug, looking again at the diagrams. "Is that what you used at home? A sword?"
Though considering the lingering unease left in the wake of the dream, it isn't any wonder people are moving to do...anything that might be of use. To Derrica, the sword might be a better investment than a survey, but she isn't a scientist, or a martial fighter. Her consideration is limited.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
it's early morning here; the gallows, adrasteia, open (will match format for all threads)
When she starts this process there's humming. By the time she reaches the bottom of the tower, it's singing sotto-voce. Once she's climbed the stairs back to the sixth floor carrying the largest container of water she possibly can (which, well, she's strong but not even five feet tall), it's gone to full-throated singing.
Her voice isn't bad. However, one imagines that not everyone would be thrilled with being serenaded at this hour, more often in the last month than not.
no subject
"Cantora!" he calls up in his own musical tenor, "what fair maiden fills the halls with such sweetness?"
Anyone angry with her will now have to be angry with both of them.
no subject
"Adrasteia!" She sings in reply, "Belabored with water, so I cannot stay!~"
That was definitely someone slamming a door for emphasis, wasn't it?
no subject
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
iodine sky; kirkwall, adrasteia, open
There's room for at least one more helper in this quest, but either way, Andrasteia is here with the Chantry Sister, hanging back a little as the becloaked woman makes her way through Darktown, stepping in when necessary. She doesn't wear her Warden's armor for this, dressed instead in a dress and a heavy cloak meant to keep her from being too cold in the snow. Boots, scarf, gloves, accompany the look. Her hair is up, her staff at her back, and she makes polite but no less pleasant chitchat with the Sister from time to time as they walk.
Considering the snowed-in state of some of the roofs of the houses here, the Sister spends time discussing the Chant of Light and how it uplifts souls and Adrasteia and some other volunteers unearth dilapidated houses. If she uses a little magic to melt the rest of the snow away, well. She's careful at it, for one thing.
open to more folks
Makes sense to send a dwarf to Darktown, where slick tunnels open onto street. Would've done better to send a different dwarf, which may say a piece on why Vance has stayed tight-lipped through this little excursion.
no subject
There's too much to be done just for this sort of surreptitious work. She'd rather be a mage and a Warden and proudly both than heating the supports of the house with a touch and a glancing over her shoulder, but. Well. Not every situation calls for that, and she doesn't want the Sister up in arms or having to explain a situation that she's not directly involved in.
Seems like good politics, that.
The house she's warming gives a threatening groan and Adrasteia steps back, peering at the roof. It doesn't give way, thank the Maker for small miracles, and she turns back to Vance with her hands open.
"How's your gloves?" Hers are warm, but she can share the wealth, as it were.
no subject
Leave it there and you’ll lose a finger. But his manner’s easy as he passes palms into hers. They've got somewhere to go back to. Which —
"Gives us a chance to load up," Bandages or breadrolls or whatever this week’s charity project; Riftwatch is always arms-deep in Darktown’s business. His voice stays low, "Think she likes you?"
She's friendly, and Adra, Adra seems to know the words. Seems a little like she believes.
no subject
Does the Chantry Sister like her?
"I don't know," is what she settles on eventually, also keeping her voice low. "She could just be being polite about it."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
move in the right direction; wildcard, adrasteia, open
no church in the wild; the vinmark mountains outside of kirkwall, erik, open
Of course, this means going into various caves and such to see if one can find the missing shipments or even just a mark of their previous existence; going into caves, however, means that one might run afoul of ghasts, which are the ugliest motherfuckers Erik has seen in a minute and he's not shy about saying it.
Feel free to join him on his excursion, or to run into him at the stables putting the poor horse away, or spot him in the infirmary, getting that cut on his arm looked at.
horse cave adventure? hell yeah
Edgard is eager to get out of Kirkwall and leans forward ready to kick his sleek bay gelding into gear. He glances at Erik eyebrows raised and motions with his head in front of them.
"Or are we going to take our time? At this pace, it'll only take, I don't know, 5 or 6 hours."
no subject
But Edgard has a point. He doesn't want to spend hours upon hours just getting there.
"'Aight. You set the pace, and I'll do my best to keep up and keep my ass in the saddle." Gotta do Athessa proud, or something.
no subject
"That's not really a race, that's just following me."
He waves his hand. "I won't go too fast. If you lose your balance, sit back and deep in the saddle first and then tell me. Alright?"
He doesn't wait for Erik's response and urges his horse into a canter, light in his seat. Off they go!
no subject
Hesitant.
Either way, he's taking a breath and then urging his horse onward, following Edgard before he manages to edge just past him. "Ha!"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
somewhere there was information on this mission but I've since lost the plot as it were
aaah this got lost in my inbox
no worries!
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
made up of future foe scenarios; the gallows, erik, open
He's also decided to start discussing the eventual built of a weapon with the blacksmith, so there's even more reading on that subject. Sketches of weapons and diagrams join his other writings, though these aren't always taken in the library but sometimes in the forge itself, or in the herb garden.
Not to forget, there's always the communal baths, mealtimes, or Erik going through drills in the courtyard as opportunities to run into him.
no subject
Dick Dickerson is one such creature: spindly-legged in a great, black-furred cloak, secreting in with an armload of overdue books and a lantern to return them by. He pauses after he enters -- at the sight of another light, or at the scuff of ink on paper -- but proceeds undeterred.
The books are too heavy and stacked too messily to carry all the way back. He deposits them on a table in a slanting cascade, swearing (quietly) in a language familiar only to the snake who slides out of the mix like an eel out of a crab trap.
no subject
Though the books threatening to hit the floor get Erik to his feet quickly, double-taking at the little snake that appears but still managing to grab several books with his arms before using his body to steady the rest of the pile back onto the table.
"Damn, man." How many books did he borrow at a time to come up with a pile like this? "Your cat and your snake get along?"
no subject
He looks quite a bit healthier than he did on the floor of that shack in the swamp, orderly, in spite of the rugged heap of his cloak, and clean. Still poorly-rested, but the damage here isn’t written in as deep -- the difference between a fresh-captured street cur and a terrier who’s spent a few days outside unexpectedly.
He also stinks like he’s been drinking.
“Mister Stevens.”
...Isn’t an answer. He tops off the pile with the one book he’d managed to catch on his own, exchanging it for the snake in question.
“They haven’t met.”
no subject
Well. A lot of people aren't, by his measure, and most of them didn't even fill out the survey he and Wisteria worked on. "If you told me your real last name it got lost in the shuffle, sorry."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
All the diagrams are difficult for her to parse at a glance, but they seem like something complex. Erik might very well ask her to leave him be; she hadn't fully taken in the papers he was looking over before she'd invited herself into his space, but they seem the type to require undivided attention.
no subject
He lifts his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of another shrug. "What's got you up so late?" Also is she gonna share her food because he's eyeing it.
no subject
"Don't tell Mhavos I brought food in here," is the condition, even though Derrica isn't sure whether or not it's officially banned or just strongly implied. She curls her fingers around the sides of the mug, looking again at the diagrams. "Is that what you used at home? A sword?"
Though considering the lingering unease left in the wake of the dream, it isn't any wonder people are moving to do...anything that might be of use. To Derrica, the sword might be a better investment than a survey, but she isn't a scientist, or a martial fighter. Her consideration is limited.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
by any means I will fight; wildcard, erik, open