[open]

[heirring]

WHO: Flint, Wysteria, Miriam, Cassius & You
WHAT: Catch-All
WHEN: Post-dreams, nebulously Guardian-ish
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Warnings (if any) in subject lines.

((OOC NOTE: Anything in bold is closed to one thread, though group threads a-okay.
Feel free to turn this into action brackets if The Spirit Moves You.
Wildcards welcome, bespoke starters available upon request.))

Comments

flint;

[katabasis]

BUSINESS

Time is short. This much is a constant.

And so while it isn't impossible to find Flint at work in the division office, for inevitably that is a function of his role, it is rare to be at one's leisure there. The door is locked due to some previously scheduled meeting. Or he is away for the afternoon and the office has been left in Matthias' care. Or he is in the middle of some pressing work, and the greeting he gives is nearer to 'State your business' than it is a cordial welcome and an invitation to sit in the spare chair before the heavy walnut desk.

But luck (or a particular brand of industry) may catch him leaving early one afternoon. Flint pauses, grudgingly puts his arm the rest of the way into his coat, then pulls and locks the office shut behind him.

"You have from here to the ferry."

For there is work removed from the island to tend to as well.

One of the mercantile ships under Riftwatch's command has been anchored in close at the end of the Kirkwall quay, and is in the agonizing process of being heeled over to scrape and re-tar her hull. It's a touchy thing, this business of tipping the great big ship onto its side without ruining the dockyard or the ship or both. And while there's a master of works in the yard shouting orders in regimented rhythm to guide the hands through the ship's cranking over, Flint too is there at the fringe overseeing the work with some uncharacteristic pinch of anxiety stark in his face.

Which is a different entirely breed of misery from the flat expression he adopts when discovered in the study of a certain Hightown estate. Oskar Lorenz may be a well to do tradesman, but he certainly throws Wintersend parties like a lord. Is it any wonder that someone with a notoriously reserved disposition might desire some respite from the music and conversation?

from here to the ferry

[venenifer]

"I wanted to introduce myself, Commander," says the elf who approaches from the side, all but scurrying to keep up despite his straight posture and serious expression.
"Brother Gideon. I work in the infirmary, and as a field medic, which puts me in your division."

He doesn't expect a handshake, and doesn't offer.

[katabasis]

Which is for the best, given that his expectations appear likely to be fulfilled. Flint doesn't slow and he certainly doesn't pivot toward the healer hurrying along beside him. Instead, he secures the ledger under his arm slightly higher. There is no break in his stride.

"All right."

What a promising welcome.

In the Study

[truthtied]

Really, it's not so different from any number of functions she attended over the years as Ambassador. Be gracious, be graceful. Be firm when someone with more presumption than sense tries to push boundaries. It does all become a bit much after a point, even for her and she excuses herself to take a bit of air.

It's a little disappointing to find she's not alone. She defaults to deference, the hierarchy of the place still a bit slippery, "Pardon me, Ser. I hadn't realized this room was occupied."

[katabasis]

The man in the study is built all broad, square and solid in the way that a certain age of aging men as sometimes prone to. With the shaved close crop of his hair and the weather beaten quality of his face, the exceptionally dark coat and the half unbuttoned mismatched waistcoat beneath it, the black shirt with what from a distance resembles some delicate pale floral pattern at the collar and up close resolves into a series of embroidered skulls, he cuts a strangely rakish and almost surreally easily stereotyped figure there in the muffled study of Lorenz' Hightown estate. It is rather like walking through a door in a nice house and being surprised by a thief dressed all in black. Or like walking through a door in a nice house and discovering a storybook pirate.

(It's the second on. It's amazing what jumped up Kirkwall elite will allow any figure with a little romance to get away with; he's been allowed to keep his sword and belt knife.)

"Think nothing of it."

He closes the book in his hands and places it back up onto the shelf.

on the way to the ferry

[staysail]

"Privateering," is what Darras offers instead of a word of greeting.

He doesn't easily slot into the role of a subordinate. That's the trouble with joining up with a structured organization after years of captaining on your own, to say nothing of a lifetime spent disdaining organizations. And while Flint can't want (nor should he expect) a bootlicker, there remains a process to all of this, one that does not allow Darras to sail away without saying a word to anyone.

He tends to walk at a slower pace, and to keep up this afternoon he has to quicken his step--which Darras manages to do casually, with a little smile to himself.

"I never did get a final word on Riftwatch's position on it, as a practice. But here I'm thinking, if someone were to come by some information that would lead to a great deal of gold making their way into the coffers, surely that could only be looked upon as a kindness."

puts thumb over timestamp......... but no pressure either

[katabasis]

"Riftwatch's position is the one shared by every civilized nation on the continent. Which is to say, I believe it requires the Viscount's signature on a piece of paper saying what you can and can't haul back to Riftwatch's coffers in an effort to see that the man in question receives his due without embarrassment."

Given the spontaneity of the subject, it is a remarkably ready answer. Flint doesn't even have to shorten his stride to give it much less fix Darras with something so maladroit as a sidelong glance. But afterward, before they have fully traversed the length of the corridor and passed beyond it into the stairwell--

Well, afterward he does turn his head to look.

"How much and where from?"

wysteria;

[heirring]

BUSINESS

Is there a single soul in Riftwatch as ubiquitous as Wysteria Poppell? She frequently takes her meals in the dining hall. She spends a not insignificant number of hours in the office of the Seneschal, organizing (and reorganizing) the state of the Gallows' correspondence, and personnel files, and receipts and expenses, and battering the poor Seneschal into a state of either coma or panic with the force of her conversation. And then of course there are the (explosive? Please, that was two months ago; she is on to poisons) experiments in the Research workrooms. Or she is elbow deep in the old records of Project Felandaris (though she is not a part of the project; she is merely consulting at Mister Stark's behest).

Most troubling of all is that this phenomena isn't relegated to the Gallows itself. Kirkwall is no safe haven either. Lowtown? There is Wysteria, briskly arguing with an disreputable looking appraiser at the fringe of the market district over the value of a remarkably fine if badly tarnished set of silverware. Hightown? She is struggling up a series of icy stairs, burdened by a great number of extremely anonymous packages wrapped in plain paper and secured with twine and is perfectly content to call out, "Oh! I'm so relieved to meet you here!" at the recognition of a friendly face who she might mercilessly press into her service.

PLEASURE

Indeed, one is at risk even at leisure. Not even mid-grade gambling houses are safe, for from one the balcony tables rises a faint commotion and a very recognizable voice objecting that, "Really sir. If you're going to levy such a serious accusation, you had best be prepared to provide proof of said cheating."

hightown;

[sulahnan]

So relieved to meet her here?? Athessa was on her way down the stairs when Wysteria skated into view with that opening line. It's not that she and Wysteria don't get on, but they're not so close that Athessa doesn't turn to look behind her just in case Wysteria isn't actually talking to her.

"Why's that, then?"

[heirring]

Wysteria, arms cinched tight around those mysterious parcels, begins to answer only for one boot to slide perilously. She promptly freezes in place, as if the motion of her jaw required for speaking was the thing which precipitated the threatening skate across the ice.

Eventually, through her smiling teeth—

"You wouldn't happen to have a moment to assist me, would you?"

wildcard;

[charmoffensive]

Loxley has been an infrequent sight around the Gallows for the better part of a month, but occasionally, he slinks in—to drop off a report, to restock on the odd healing potion, or even just to reap the benefits of a free meal.

The satchel at his feet has the spoils of charming some foodstuffs out of the kitchen staff that should also see him through the week, and he waits at the Gallows pier, finishing off an apple and keeping his own company as he awaits the ferry. He is a tall creature dressed in light leathers with colourful flourishes like the patterned purple shirt beneath earth-toned leather coat, as if to off-set the grey of his skin and curling horns, soot-black nails that make dents in apple flesh. The boots he wears are more interesting, metal embellishments catching the light in odd ways, runic etchings in supple leather.

When the ferry arrives, and its passengers disembark, he tosses the remains of his apple into the water, and hops down.

And then waits as a minor delay winches around where Byerly Rutyer is still occupied in conversation with the ferryman, seemingly without mind that it's beginning to sleet, that people are waiting, and that, in Loxley's opinion, he isn't nearly so charming or funny as all that. He stares into the middle distance as he waits for the good Ambassador to finish disembarking, before moving into place.

Spying another in the process of boarding—a lady, at that—Loxley shares a glance that communicates quite clearly can you believe that guy, as he gestures out with his hand to indicate she might board first.

[heirring]

If she stares very hard in their direction, Wysteria likes to imagine she can see every little facet of the jagged cliff faces across the harbor. Never mind that the weather is so grey and overcast and no sunlight at all shines on them. Nevermind that in the drizzle-turning-to-sleet, they are really little more than smudged grey marks zigzagging up behind the Kirkwall dockyards. If she tries, really tries, the details will reveal themselves to her. And if they don't, then at least she will have effectively blocked out the most insufferable parts of whatever conversation Rutyer is carrying on.

Her fixation on the landscape does not, however, stop her from shooting a poisonous look at the Ambassador's back when he does finally move on and it is in the process of pivoting her attention back toward the ferry afterward that she catches the Qunari's eye.

And sympathetically eye rolls so hard that it's a miracle she doesn't pull anything as she navigates down into the ferry.

Lowtown

[muckspout]

Edgard has taken to combing the market every week or so, looking for familiar items ever since an item he stole ended up there. As he's casting his eyes over the wares, he hears before he sees Wysteria, arguing with the seller.

He sidles up to the pair and waits a moment until there is a break for air.
"It's not worth what you're asking," He says to the merchant. "but I'll pay a penny more than she will." He grins at Wysteria, all innocence.

[heirring]

With identical slow turns, both Wysteria and the appraiser pivot their attention to him. The appraiser scoffs; in Wysteria's eye, a mercenary spark gleans. Before the skeptical merchant has a chance to recover, she has swiveled her attention back and moved in for the kill.

"Well, well. How strange, Messere. I seem to recall a moment ago you were insisting there was no market for these."

Wysteria begins to shut the case containing the silverware, much to the apparent chagrin of the tradesman. Evidently of the three of them, she's not the one looking to buy.

[radicans]

A rare clear evening at the end of the month sees an unusual party setting up camp in the further foothills of the Vinmarks, only an hour or two's ride outside the city but far enough to be firmly in the countryside. A goat herd's hut has been loaned for the evening, swept clean and stocked with portable comforts and a blazing fire, but once darkness has fallen in earnest it's out on the high hillside itself that a small camp may be found. A patch of snow has been cleared and packed just large enough for chairs and blanket, and a brazier carefully shaded with clay cover provides some additional assistance against the cold.

Maud, refusing to admit any reluctance to venture back into the snow after her journey to the frozen south, is wrapped in blankets and furs with a smart headband covering brow and ears. Thin leather gloves allow her to flip the pages of a book, before she leans over to show Wysteria the page, other arm outstretched to point toward the stars. "You can just see Visus there now, though the stars of the upper lashes are quite faint. You'll recognize the design from the Inquisition insignia; it's said to represent the Maker's eye. Though I've often wondered why, as it ought to then be closed."

[heirring]

Bundled up in her own mass of blankets and furs with a felted cap pulled very low, Wysteria's own hands are busy folded about a tin mug. It's contents, hot chicory coffee, are steaming prodigiously in the bitter cold of the evening; she is halfway through a sip of the slightly bitter stuff as she turns her attention upward to follow the line of Maud's arm.

"It also belongs to the Seekers, yes? And Judex to the Templar Order." She regards the open page in the book, then the sky above them, then the book again. Rather than punctuate her squinting with various hemming and hawwing, Wysteria fills her study the usual way: by chattering.

"Do you suppose the Divine will rearrange the whole insignia now that the Order has been recalled and reformed? Perhaps new heraldry would help to reinvigorate the whole affair. Have you met any of the new ex-Templars in the company yet? Or!" Wysteria gasps, though her attention remains fixed upwards. "The Lady Seeker. How fantastically mysterious."

miriam;

[revise]

BUSINESS

In this season, the pale breath fogging and bitter cold clinging pre-morning is anathema to most who would usually take their exercise early. Unless your preference is to go bouncing down iced over stairs or do the splits across treacherous slick paving stones during mock swordplay, it would be far more prudent to either wait for some rare glimpse of sunlight to defrost the training yard or see to moving the work indoors.

But these are perfection conditions for the right kind of elemental magic. And in the crisp grey barely-light, Miriam is making the most of it.

CRACK, says the base of the hammer-ended staff as it strikes stone. With an ozone tang pulse, great sheets of overnight ice peel upward from the courtyard. They fracture and condense, a million glinting mirror shards arranging themselves at the behest of the small, wiry woman conducting them from the training yard's edge.

In theory, it's to everyone's benefit that she stretches these muscles early; the thaw will act more quickly this way. Which is probably also the theory behind assigning Miriam post-blizzard storm clean-up duty in Kirkwall. Having her along makes unearthing blocked doors and clearing various bits of snowed in infrastructure approachable, if not strictly simple work.

PLEASURE

At the end of a long days spent re-arranging snow banks, the serious looking mage with the severe bangs turns and says in that no-nonsense tempo of hers--

"I could go for a drink."

Snowed out Kirkwall

[noonrodeon]

It's not any particular assignment that sends Noon down into Kirkwall. He's tall, he's strong and he knows too many people to not do his share of moving snow from doorways and reaching up to knock it off roofs. He still takes some time to watch the tiny mage work.

"Now that's impressive," he says cheerfully, "I thought all that tower magic was for fancy stuff and fightin'."

[revise]

She is tiny, isn't she? All the wiry muscle, the most serious expression in the world, and the aggressive shape of the hammer ended mage staff can't successfully detract from that fact. Not up close, anyway.

"I wouldn't go revising your opinion just yet," Miriam says, all dour. The air tastes like something sharp, all the hanging wet air gone crisp as the snow slouched against a series of row houses peels back toward the center of the icy roadway. It's a little like folding back a series of stacked blankets. Under the thick sheepskin lining of her coat, sweat is beginning to prickle at the back of her neck.

"I do birthday parties too."

pleasure - lmk if you'd like any adjustments, though!

[wearyallalone]

Vanya has mainly spent his early assignments doing his best to be useful and otherwise staying out of the way. He left behind his seniority when he decided to walk away from the Inquisition, and his title when he decided to walk away from the Templars. Now he's quiet and uncomplaining about the grunt work of helping clear paths for Kirkwall residents, even if his approach is a bit more mundane. He's quiet not out of annoyance but habit.

Even so, it's clear that he's mildly surprised to be spoken to at the end of the day, at least in something that could be reasonably interpreted as an invitation. His mild and marked Nevarran accent is just as deliberate in person as over sending crystal: "That sounds pleasant. Did you have a place in mind?" He's half expecting for her to say she was actually speaking to someone just over his shoulder, not him, but the manners are also habit.

pins gold star to you

[revise]

It's a fair assumption. For the bulk of their day's work, she has been either quiet or briskly no-nonsense in discussion on how best to tackle the clean-up work. Focused might be a good word. Taciturn might be another.

(Or Shy, but there is no such thing as a timid war-tested battlemage.)

And yet--

Rather than give him a sidelong 'Not you, the person behind you' look, Miriam merely relaxes the grip on her staff. The heavy hammer end of the thing is allowed to dip down and strike the uneven paving stone of the mud and slush slaked street with a dull thunk.

"I marked a place a few streets that way that looked like it still had chimneys clear and a fire going when we passed. Didn't catch the name. Do you think they'll let us in without it?"

She sounds exactly as she had over the crystals as well--dispassionate tone made even flatter by that broad Marcher accent. At least in person it's punctuated by the kind of slow sidelong look which suggests a sense of humor might be lurking...somewhere.

cassius;

[satinet]

PLEASURE

--But thank fuck not everyone in the Gallows is so damned industrious, because all of that sounds exhausting.

Which is exactly what Cassius' official opinion on the subject would be were anyone foolish enough to inquire. Some people, it turns out, are simply not built for exposure to bitter winter winds or for wading through two miserable feet of snow. And the best of those people - the ones who are either very clever or very lucky (or, Maker willing, some fortunate combination of both) - make it a point not to be caught dead out of doors under such conditions. No, but thank you. He will instead retire to whatever pockets of warmth might be found in the Gallows and rebuff utterly any effort to make him feel guilty for doing so.

And so, in no particular order:

Cassius, comfortably ensconced near the great big hearth at the end of the dining hall with back to the fire while he peruses a selection of correspondence over a modest breakfast; Cassius, sunk as close to chin deep in the heated waters as a Riftwatch bath will allow; and Cassius, making his way down a winding series of stairs with a burning brazier literally following in his very footsteps--it floats a few inches off the ground, drifting after him as if tied by an invisible string.

bathtime.

[tender]

Finding someone else there already isn't necessarily a moodkiller on it's own. It's a communal space, after all. Derrica isn't so worried. But this is someone she recognizes as newly arrived, and still more or less a mystery to her. And that more than anything else shifts the ease of her expression, draws up a guarded, polite air as she crosses the room.

"Hello," is the first thing said, in the same breath as Derrica lowers herself to sit at the edge of the bath with her feet in the water. The small box in her hands is revealed to contain bath oils, which Derrica lines up one by one by one at the edge to contemplate.

In the course of humming over the bottles, she offers, "I'm Derrica," with the prompting up-tilt of tone that begs an introduction in return.

brazier

[altusimperius]

It's easy enough to pass one person down the winding stairs when one is in a hurry, but a person and a currently-on-fire brazier is another thing entirely with the constant turning.

Arms full of scrolls, Benedict has been suffering behind him for about a minute now, but his patience begins to run out as he kicks it by accident for the third time.

"Can you not just hold a torch like a civilized person?" he snaps, cursing under his breath as one of the scrolls tips off the pile and falls to roll dangerously near the flame.

breakfast;

[pittance]

Look, he's sharing. Obviously: You don't just drag in a bunch of your own cheese and keep it for yourself.

"Me, I don't know," Halfway into an explanation of twin Young Woman with Nugs, "Guess I don't see the point. If they both look the same —"