[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

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?"

[sulahnan]

She could say no. The pause that is currently stretching out for entire seconds says as much: she could very well say no.

But Athessa's a nice person so she gives one brusque shrug and says, "Yeah, fine," before moving to relieve Wysteria of roughly half of her haul.

"There's some kinda irony here that your shoes are worse on ice than mine."

[heirring]

"I left my field boots in Hightown. I'm on my way there now," Wysteria is very brisk to explain, just the faintest tinge of defensiveness lingering at the edges as she shuffles a number of parcels into Athessa's arms. "I think you'll find that those are far more well equipped to deal with these conditions. Now, this way if you please. Thank you."

With her overwhelming collection of packages divided by half, Wysteria begins picking her way carefully up the icy stairwell.

[sulahnan]

"Yep," Athessa pauses to adjust her hold on the packages just long enough for Wysteria to get a two-step lead on her, and the elf has to just live with trailing along after because to hurry to catch up would mean potentially eating shit on these stairs after calling attention to her nice Antivan leather boots.

"What is all this stuff? You moving house?"

Advisable, considering how deeply haunted Wysteria's estate is.

[heirring]

"What? No." She laughs. What a ridiculous suggestion. "No, quite the opposite. These are all little things I have placed orders for in order to improve the place."

Well, and various custom made components for certain under the table research projects. But that's neither here nor there, and Athessa hardly needs to know the details.

"For example, I believe one of those parcels in your possession contain a new set of hinges for the side gate. Oh, but you mustn't say anything on that subject to anyone so it won't get back to Mister Ellis before I present them to him. They are meant to be a surprise."

[sulahnan]

"Wow," Athessa intones dryly. "Hinges. Romantic."

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.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley follows in after with nimble steps, rucksack of supplies slung over a shoulder as he goes, a flap of coat hem.

When Wysteria settles, she'll find herself opposite the qunari who settles his things between his ankles, and doesn't seem to too much mind the fall of cold misting rain that slicks his hair to his brow. They might embark on a less-than-pleasant boat ride in civil silence, but alternatively—

"I suppose we ought to be thankful," Loxley says, eye catching the departing shape of Rutyer on the shoreline, "that the ferryman didn't throw himself overboard on the way over. I might have."

[heirring]

From her place on the bench seat, with her capelet drawn about her and her felted hat pulled very low, Wysteria scoffs. It's an automatic and largely involuntary noise—cut short either because she realizes she's doing it and has experienced some momentary instant of mortification or simply by habit.

Her pause afterward is very narrow, consisting of the briefest glance back over her shoulder toward the outline of the man in question. Her second scoff as she turns back to the qunari is much more intentional and significantly more well-rounded as a result.

So not a matter of mortification, then.

"Thankful? Not at all. A cold winter bath might shock some sense into the gentleman."

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.

[muckspout]

Edgard looks from Wysteria to the Appraiser and then back to Wysteria with an eyebrow raised. Wysteria with stolen items is a surprise. He covers his astonishment by folding his arms over his chest and coughing.

"So, they aren't for sale?" He asks gruffly to the space in between, unsure which person he should ask.

[heirring]

"They are not yet for sale," Wysteria clarifies. "I have tasked this gentleman with telling me what price could be had for them were I to choose to sell. However, it seems I may need to look elsewhere for that as well."

With a definitive click of the little case's hinges, Wysteria shuts the set sample away.

"I don't suppose you know of a more reliable contact in the trade, do you serrah?" This to Edgard. To the Offended Appraiser, she says, "I mean no offense, but under the circumstances even you must admit that the question is legitimate."

[muckspout]

He watches the case close, stares for a moment at the place it rested and then flicks his eyes up to Wysteria.

"Edgard." Edgard says pointedly. He takes a sidelong glance at the Appraiser, gives him a pained close lipped smile. He edges slightly in, closing the man off from the conversation.

"I do, as a matter of fact. But, uh, I have a question or two about the merchandise. Maybe I can take you to him?" He jerks his head to the left, indicating that she follow him.

[heirring]

There is a clear moment of measurement in which Wysteria glances between both Edgard and the Appraiser. For a moment, it seems like she might insist on lingering—it would benefit her argument, you see. Hike up the price with this gentleman here. But then, with a great sigh and a farewell to the Kirkwall merchantman, she dredges the closed case from the table and tucks it resolutely under her arm.

She turns to Edgard.

"Very well. Lead on, serah."

[muckspout]

"Edgard." He corrects again and walks away from the appraiser.

After they are a fair distance away, near a stand selling some sort of sausages, he turns to Wysteria, face thoughtful and worried, "Wysteria, where did you get the silverware?"

He says it measuredly. He will watch her face carefully as she responds.

[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."

[radicans]

"I haven't," Maud says when Wysteria pauses to breathe, "But she seemed very friendly on the crystals. I'd always imagined Seekers being very stern. More than Templars. And older. I suppose they can't always be, it's just that the only Templars I knew were boys in training. Ah there, you can see more of Silentir now-- you see the horn, and then the arm?"

She points again, before reaching for her own mug of coffee while flipping through the book back to the appropriate diagram. The pages catch on gloved fingers and slip away, and she pauses for a moment, fingers pressed to the page. She lifts her head, squares her shoulders toward Wysteria, opens her mouth, and then instead asks: "How goes your work?"

[heirring]

Her attention has lifted again, fixed on the field of stars against their inky black backdrop in pursuit of the various limbs of the constellation in question. And so her answer comes without properly looking round to her companion.

"Oh, well enough. Enchanter Smythe and I are studying synthesizing a poison from Fade-touched fungi. I believe it would be quite useful in the field, and is unlikely to respond to the common antidotes given its the nature of its...mutations, I suppose. And then of course there is the work with Felandaris, and the re-organizing of the Seneschal's filing though I hardly have to explain the latter to you seeing as you are a fellow victim of the work. It is well," she decides is a fine summary. "Quite busy, but that is hardly a poor thing. Oh Maud, you might come with us the next time we locate a rift for study if you like. There is always need of another anchor bearer or two, and I should dearly like to have another lady along. Not that Misters Stark and Ellis and Fitz are unenjoyable company, of course. But it's not at all the same as having a woman about. Between them and the dreadful Monsieur de Foncé, I feel as if I do nothing but manage the temperaments of men all day long and should like some relief from it. Oh! There. I've spotted it now."

This exclamation is in regard for Silentir's arm, reappearing now from behind a gauzy mask of black cloud.

thanks notifs

[radicans]

The reprieve feels like a sign, at least for the few seconds it takes Wysteria to skip blithely through her summary before she careens unwittingly back around into the subject again. That feels like a sign, too. If Maud pales a shade the moonlight disguises it, but easy as it would be to let Wysteria divert the conversation once again, she determines to hide from it no longer. Again she turns, closing the book in her lap and setting a hand on her companion's arm.

"Wysteria." She removes the hand once its work is done, back to clasp tightly over the other on the chair's arm. "There is something I must show you. And I will understand if you are angry and wish to discontinue our acquaintance, but I wish you to know that I have not deceived you except so much as I felt it necessary to deceive everyone for a time."

Having ensured she cannot possibly turn back this time, she tugs off her gloves and holds out her hand. Seen up close and steady rather than glimpsed through cloth or peeking out the edge of leather, the green glow of the anchor in her palm isn't quite right. It's emitting a faint light of very nearly the right shade, but looks, on near inspection, like some sort of paint. "You see, I cannot assist with your anchor work."

outrageous, dw

[heirring]

There are, on occasion, instances in which Wysteria makes a perfectly captive audience. They are not often the times she ought to be paying perfection attention, like say during a conversation with important visitors to the Gallows or while being taught how to fire an arrow from a bow, but the sharing of secrets is almost certainly the sort of instance where her attention may be reliably fixed.

And so her attention lowers and remains very keen indeed, and she herself is very happy to be remain steadfastly mute all through poor Maud's most grievous confession. It is only once the hand has been revealed in full, the smear of paint-like substance identified that she cries out--

"Oh, how excellent!" nearly over top of this very tail end of the other young woman's admission. She promptly takes Maud's hand in both of hers so as to better inspect the state of her palm.

"This is truly very clever! You should alert the Division Heads to this; I think it should be very advantageous if we were to all wear such things in the field. That way it would be so much harder to pick out the real anchors from the rest. Tevinter is fascinated by anchors, I believe, and it would be good to complicate any attempt they might make at capturing them."

Is her first thought, said all at once it one great breath with Maud's hand still firmly in her possession. And then (still without freeing her hand), Wysteria looks directly to her. "But why have you bothered with the deceit at all?! It is hardly as if Riftwatch is so selective, and an educated lady alchemist such as yourself is surely among one of its more qualified recruits!"