closed | for want of wit, to memory now i can't recall,

[murderbaby]

WHO: Mhav, Jone, Amos, and some others.
WHAT: This is a catch-all post for some starters I owe.
WHEN: Post-dream, Mid-Guardian.
WHERE: Gallows, Kirkwall generally.
NOTES: I will keep you informed if something horrible happens.

Comments

FOR FLINT.

[murderbaby]

The very few times in his life that Mhavos has relied on luck, he has been lucky. Accordingly, he tries to push his luck as little as possible, saving it for when he will most be in need of it. Inevitably, it fails now.

Darkness is a very nice thing, especially when it allows you to use shortcuts you wouldn't usually. Coming back from a long discussion with Gwenaëlle means getting back as unnoticed as he left. There are cuts, in the rafters of the Gallows, and a lucky thing, then, that almost no one ever looks up. Luckier still that it is dark, even as a storm kicks in. Flashes of brightness would give away his slow climb through an office, down a corridor, above the stairs. Yet, so far, he has been lucky.

And then he is not.

Lightening crashes from the harbor, and one of many nooks and corners of the Gallows is bathed breifly in pale light. For the quick or clever, it illuminates Mhavos' quiet climb through a passageway between rooms, up high in the rafters. And how terribly lucky would Mhavos be, if he wasn't sure Commander Flint-- carrying some books from some place to another, reports, he was hardly paying attention-- had his eyes just in the right place to destroy Mhavos' vaunted stealth.

FOR TONY.

[innerharbor]

The pachinko machine... isn't finished. It's pretty close, though. Tony's scrap supply has been a big help, even if it's not a big enough help to compensate for the constant stream of chaotic bullshit that seems to creep in every corner of the Gallows. Not even your fucking dreams are safe.

Amos is not a painter, but he is exact. Carefully taping off sections so he can paint a clear, straight arrow through a sea of (soon to come) nails and pins to hinder the ball is nice, quiet work. Or it would be, if Tony wasn't the chatty type.

Luckily, the shit he says mostly isn't completely useless. Amos listens passively. "Pass me that brush," has been his major contribution in the last twenty minutes.

[propulsion]

The brush is passed over.

"And I'm like," he is saying, "Isn't that a little on the nose? I mean, bad enough he's gonna horn in on my whole deal, but you're gonna show up in a red and blue robot suit and call yourself Iron Patriot? It's just a lot, don't you think. And War Machine, I mean, slap that on a lunchbox. Done."

It is possible that Tony has not completely outlined that he is, in fact, a rocket robot superhero himself, and so is his best friend, sort of, but here we are.

He is kicked back in his seat, sanding down some wooden spinny things for the board.

"Anyway. What was I saying. Oh, yeah—we're tossing it around, the airship concept. Something thermal-based is gonna be a son of a bitch to maneuver, and not to mention I think the enemy's got a pet dragon or two. But strictly transport? I mean, why not? Can't be slower than literally any other mode we have right now, including the bird-lions."

[innerharbor]

Amos knows how to tune out the parts he doesn't find interesting (or can't make sense of), or he'd be dead of boredom by now. He hums along, making a vague affirmative when he feels he's supposed to, and paints red in the swooping lines of the pachinko machine.

When it's worth talking, he talks. "Can you figure a way to drop altitude fast? That'd fucking help maneuvers."

It's not quite a flip and burn, but let him dream.

FOR FUCKING WONDER WOMAN.

[poleaxed]

Jone is at the training yard. She is all the time, it's kind of her job, or about as close to one as she gets. Impossible to miss, she's the six-foot redhead with a poleaxe.

She doesn't make it a point to welcome all the new recruits-- who can keep track? But she does keep an eye on the unusual. A woman nearly as tall as her is something to keep eyes on. "You avvar?" First words out of her mouth, naturally.

[truthtied]

They both stand out and admittedly, Diana had hoped for a chance to talk to the woman. Not the least because every inch of her screamed warrior in a way that was comfortingly familiar.

"Themysciran," she corrects automatically, then smiles, "Or Rifter, for intents and purposes. Though I prefer to be called Diana."

[poleaxed]

"Yeah, I'll be sticking with that last one, it has an amount of syllables I can reckon with."

Warrior is fine, though the general sense people tend to get from Jone is gobshite.

"How'd they fight, in... wherever the fuck you said you was from?"

[truthtied]

"Themyscira," she says helpfully, "All of us were trained in sword and shield work and hand to hand. I never quite mastered weaponry with a longer range." She indicates Jone's poleaxe. "Why do you ask?"

[poleaxed]

"'Cos birds're in short supply on the field, 'specially the tall sort, so most of us end up coming to our own styles to suit." She picks up her poleaxe, balances the heft in her hand from memory more than reason. "Swords'n shields're just everybody with the right number of arms, though."

FOR GIDEON.

[innerharbor]

A few days, but not many, after the Rifter with the grav injuries in her came in, Amos pokes his head in the infirmary. Naomi nearly died, but intervention in the form of fucking magic prevailed somehow. Broken bones, an over-stressed heart, low muscle density, low bone density, how the fuck do you survive that when your society hasn't invented steroids yet, much less Osteo X and ten different kinds of medi-gel.

He questions the first person he finds- "hey," he says to the... elf, apparently. "You were here when the belter came in? The, uh, lady, tall but skinny as an elf? ...No offense."

He's real subtle.

[venenifer]

Gideon looks up with a peeved quirk of his eyebrows to be addressed such, but the initial offense doesn't prevent him answering.

"Yes, I was here. I oversaw some of her care."

[innerharbor]

Hey, that was easier than he figured it would be. "So, how'd you do it?"

[venenifer]

The corner of his mouth twitches upward along with one eyebrow-- it's not an unamusing conclusion to be drawn.

"I oversaw some of it. I'm no mage-- I imagine they took care of the more..."

A long pause,

"...dire symptoms."

FOR DERRICA.

[innerharbor]

Maybe the healer Amos knows best worked on Naomi, but when Amos thinks of Sawbones, he thinks doctor, and when Amos thinks of the people who probably saved Naomi's life, he thinks miracle worker. Healer is probably the catch-all term. Wandering through the infirmary, Amos looks for someone who might fit the description, and he remembers Derrica. There are worse places to start.

"Hey," he says, waving Derrica down. She doesn't look like she's doing anything too urgent, but if she is, he trusts her to let him know. "You work on a gal named Naomi Nagata?"

Derrica just seems like the sort of person who would know patient's names and remember them. Don't ask him why; it just is.

[tender]

Good instincts, Amos.

Derrica's arms are filled with strips of cloth when she turns at his call. There's no urgency in preparing bandages. The infirmary is quiet for the moment, though his question sparks a little ripple of concern on her face.

"Yes. Is she alright?" is potentially a predictable first question. But even though Amos' question had no particular sign of disaster behind it, the first thing Derrica thinks is that something's gone wrong.

[innerharbor]

Amos watches a moment, seeing what she's doing with cloth and gets a picture pretty clear. He's a fast learner, and he's not gonna sit around with his thumb up his ass, bothering a medic. He reaches over to prepare some bandages for her, hoping the work goes faster. God knows he's good at tearing shit apart. Doing it to make long thin strips is new, but not hard.

"Yeah, for now," Amos says, eyes on the work. "Keeping it that way's kinda my question."

[tender]

There's a beat of hesitation while Derrica considers how best to answer him.

"I don't know," is the honest answer, likely not what he wants to hear no matter how gently Derrica says it. "I don't know if she can...get stronger. We can heal what hurts her, but the rest..."

Derrica trails off, tearing a long strip of fabric free then plucking at a loose thread.

"I'm more worried about her pushing herself too hard, too fast."

A tendency she's sure Amos has an idea of.

FOR EDGARD.

[murderbaby]

If someone is alone in the library, suddenly they aren't.

It's not entirely clear how Mhavos got there, but suddenly he is, clearing his throat almost daintily. Next to Edgard, unwashed as he is, Mhavos looks as though the color has been drained from him. His clothes are pale and his skin is sallow, eyes downcast.

"May I speak with you, Edgard?"

[muckspout]

Edgard starts a little at the sudden appearance of Mhavos. He smiles widely at him, but his eyes wrinkle a little in the corners at his demeanor. He sits in a chair and holds his hand out to another, inviting Mhavos to sit.

"Of course, my friend, are you alright?"

[murderbaby]

"Always," Mhavos says, almost droll. He does sit, because despite everything, he does like Edgard. Or perhaps he just likes the potential he sees in him. How intolerable a thing to think, and yet, here Mhavos is.

"I've a favor to ask," Mhavos says, "if you don't mind."

[muckspout]

Edgard nods eagerly, holding his hand out

"Of course, what is the favor?" Generally, Edgard would ask what the favor was first, but he trusts Mhavos and has done favors for him before. How bad can it be?

Mhavos

[untiltheyarent]

Fifi's feet are as quiet as they are turned-out as she steps through the library, eyes roving over the shelves and shelves of books and scrolls. They're all equally inscrutable to her, but she does pause in front of one: a wolf's paw is embellished into its leather spine, and she carefully runs her finger over it, wondering.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos tries not to pry in his own library, but he does notice when people come and go. For the most part-- the overwhelming majority-- he keeps his head down. But he knows Fifi cannot read, so when she stops by a shelf, Mhavos looks up quietly, calmly, and tries to ask as inobtrusively as possible- "Bonjour, Fifi. Do you need help with that?"

[untiltheyarent]

Fifi's beginning to pull the book out when Mhavos' greeting startles her, and she glances around first before her eyes land on him at his desk. Her expression warms.

"Bonjour," she replies, "I... think I will need it, yes. But only if you aren't busy."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos hurriedly finishes what he was writing, and shoves the paper aside. "What a merry coincidence, I am no longer busy."