"It would do our respectability as healers little favor for a patient to come in and find you here," he clarifies, in his low, quiet way, "they will think something wrong with the beds."
She snorts, a slip of genuine humor breaking up her usual stern expression. "They won't be thinking about the beds at all, Brother. They'll be thinking whatever it was you were thinking when you interrupted my nap."
She rolls out from under the cot and onto her feet in a neat little motion and stretches.
It wasn't much of a question to start with. "I can be more careful about where I do things if it's fussiness." She's done enough communal living with surfacers to know some are just fussy and there's no helping that. She continues, "But if this is about who we are-" She indicates his ears and her brand with a small gesture, "I'd prefer to know."
Finally, he catches her meaning. It dawns slowly on his face, first as confusion, then mild affront, finally tempering down to quiet incredulity.
"Where we come from is meaningless in the eyes of the Maker," he says slowly, "our actions define us. As people of the cloth, I want us to be worthy of respect and trust."
"In the eyes of the Maker, that's true," she says, "But it's not only the Maker who watches us. Those eyes can watch all they want. I don't have time for people who're too worried about the cleanliness of the clothe to get down in the mud and do the work that needs doing to take care of people."
That earns him an indignant little huff and a prim "You know that's not what I meant."
But she softens in turn at the offer, shaking her head.
"Tried that a few times. Tends to make things worse." Which is about as much vulnerability as she's willing to show, "And anyway, the sleep I'm getting is perfectly fine. It's only the matter of these blasted spirits who seem inclined to drag us all into those dreams every winter or so, that'll disturb anyone's sleep."
"How should I know? Spirits and dreams and all that nonsense is surfacer business," she says, retrieving the blanket and pillow from under the cot. "But of the two dreams I've had, I was in a bed for both. I've never had one sleeping on the floor."
This is clearly a very sound rational that she's deeply satisfied with.
This finally does elicit a smile, and even a quiet laugh-- the Sister's insistence on being affected by nothing and yet actually being affected by everything is endearing, in its way.
"It doesn't sound like it's surfacer business," he points out, the ghost of a smirk still on his face, "but if it pleases you, sleep wherever you like. Just. Please. ...not in here."
She scowls at him, only catching the tail end of his smirk once she's turned around with the folded blanket.
"If it will stop you fussing, very well," she says, "Speaking of, do you have any connections to the Sisters and Brothers who stayed in Hightown?" If he's going to be here anyway, she might as well see if he's useful.
"Well, private chapels and that sort." And yes, there is judgement in both her heart and tone. "Reckon it'd make things a little easier if we had someone they liked to convince 'em to be more active outside of Hightown."
"I would, yes. Some of them anyhow," she says, "They aren't all bad, but the ones that are do a real good job of it. Bad enough we don't have a proper Chantry to centralize things and that so called Mother spends most of her time in Tantervale."
She sighs and rubs a hand over her face, "I reckon you didn't come for Kirkwall specifically. But we're here and half of what ought to be done isn't. The best the Chantry's done of late is sending a crew of fuckin' recruiters for the march."
By the look on his face, it's not going to take much convincing-- in fact, there's a glimmer of interest in his eyes at the prospect of such an undertaking, even if it's inconvenient.
"I'll ensure a healthy amount of my time is spent there," he decides, "it won't do if the citizens of Kirkwall think the Chantry nothing but a vessel for war propaganda."
That's encouraging. She might not be entierly sure about this Gideon duster, but if he's moved by the prospect of actually helping people, that's something.
"That is the sentiment through most of Lowtown." Might be an exaggeration, but also she had to patch up more than a few loud idiots during the scuffles that had broken out. "The people of Kirkwall have been through plenty without getting the sense that the Chantry only sees them as cannon fodder."
Sawbones makes a humming noise and says instead, "If you're going to Lowtown, I have something for Sister Agatha. She assists one of the local midwives and was asking after some of my notes for a recent birth. She's been looking into alternatives to wet nurses."
She retrieves them from the pocket of her habit and holds them out expectantly.
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"I'm asking you."
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"And I gave you my answer," she says.
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She rolls out from under the cot and onto her feet in a neat little motion and stretches.
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"Thank you," he says quietly, stepping back to allow her the space.
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"Are you the fussy type."
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"Where we come from is meaningless in the eyes of the Maker," he says slowly, "our actions define us. As people of the cloth, I want us to be worthy of respect and trust."
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"In the eyes of the Maker, that's true," she says, "But it's not only the Maker who watches us. Those eyes can watch all they want. I don't have time for people who're too worried about the cleanliness of the clothe to get down in the mud and do the work that needs doing to take care of people."
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That's one way to put it.
"I hardly think of sleeping on the floor as getting down in the mud. Your efforts will be better bolstered by comfortable sleep, Sister."
There may be a touch of compassion involved here, but he'd hate for anyone to make note of it.
"Shall I mix you a draught?"
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But she softens in turn at the offer, shaking her head.
"Tried that a few times. Tends to make things worse." Which is about as much vulnerability as she's willing to show, "And anyway, the sleep I'm getting is perfectly fine. It's only the matter of these blasted spirits who seem inclined to drag us all into those dreams every winter or so, that'll disturb anyone's sleep."
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"Will the spirits not find you on the floor as easily as they would in a bed?" He turns away from her now to begin putting on a kettle for tea.
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This is clearly a very sound rational that she's deeply satisfied with.
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"It doesn't sound like it's surfacer business," he points out, the ghost of a smirk still on his face, "but if it pleases you, sleep wherever you like. Just. Please. ...not in here."
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"If it will stop you fussing, very well," she says, "Speaking of, do you have any connections to the Sisters and Brothers who stayed in Hightown?" If he's going to be here anyway, she might as well see if he's useful.
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"I don't. I wasn't aware of any-- what about them?"
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"You'd have me speak to them?"
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She sighs and rubs a hand over her face, "I reckon you didn't come for Kirkwall specifically. But we're here and half of what ought to be done isn't. The best the Chantry's done of late is sending a crew of fuckin' recruiters for the march."
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By the look on his face, it's not going to take much convincing-- in fact, there's a glimmer of interest in his eyes at the prospect of such an undertaking, even if it's inconvenient.
"I'll ensure a healthy amount of my time is spent there," he decides, "it won't do if the citizens of Kirkwall think the Chantry nothing but a vessel for war propaganda."
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"That is the sentiment through most of Lowtown." Might be an exaggeration, but also she had to patch up more than a few loud idiots during the scuffles that had broken out. "The people of Kirkwall have been through plenty without getting the sense that the Chantry only sees them as cannon fodder."
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"I'll pay a visit to Lowtown tomorrow. In the meantime, Sister, I'll let you rest."
This is, perhaps, code for 'that means you go away and rest'.
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She retrieves them from the pocket of her habit and holds them out expectantly.
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Might as well.