open

[acreage]

WHO: James Holden and YOU
WHAT: Catch-all for April
WHEN: Fantasy April
WHERE: The Gallows and Kirkwall, mostly, but around
NOTES: Starters in the comments, lmk if you'd like something bespoke or feel free to drop in a wildcard.

Comments

ota

[acreage]

the baths

Maybe he's stripping down in anticipation of a hot bath, or maybe he's getting dressed after one. Or maybe he's in the warm water. Regardless: congrats, you've caught him shirtless. There's a bluish glow at his upper arm, a fading scar on his belly, but mostly, he looks up with some surprise upon hearing footsteps, had been apparently lost in thought.

"I didn't hear you come in."

jobs

Did they volunteer, were they voluntold, or did they just get slapped together for this particular job? Regardless, they're together now, perhaps heading towards their destination, perhaps waiting out a particularly dull moment, or in the middle of working.

"I seem to remember you saying this would be quick," is said not without humor.

the crossroads

Well, here we are. What surprises may they find as they make their way to their destination? Perhaps they run into wild goose spirits, or traverse a way that demands they tell the truth, or stumble upon some other danger.

thirst prompt, just 4 u

[dinadhal]

Sorry, Jim, you've been happened upon. Aenor's still dressed, but her hair is coming unpinned, a few locks falling down around her ears, and there's a towel over one arm. She's definitely not just passing through.

"Ah! James." She'd know that rumpled dark head anywhere, even when it's attached to a surprisingly limp-looking set of shoulders jutting out of the hot water. What a pleasant surprise to find him here--the baths are otherwise not terribly crowded at this hour. "Here to wash or to rest?"

[acreage]

There's a sideways smile that tugs at his mouth, wry and with humor, as he looks up at her. He might've moved to cover up more if she'd seemed uncomfortable, but truthfully, it's hard to imagine anything rattling Aenor.

"Can it be both?"

[dinadhal]

There are things that might shake her confidence, but someone as harmless as James Holden isn't on the list, even when he's undressed. She takes a seat on a nearby bench, pulling pins from her hair one by one and dropping them into some unseen pocket.

"Mmm," she says, considering, a little smile to match his own. "Yes, I think so. But a man washing, he may not want company. A man relaxing, he might."

[acreage]

"I'd enjoy the company," he says easily. Then, "How are you finding Riftwatch?"

She's still here, of course, along with her son; so he imagines he has an idea of her answer.

Honk, Honk, Motherfucker

[muckspout]

"So, I said to her, they're both thieves and raccoons! And she said--"

HONK! The grass rustles. Edgard turns to Holden in confusion.

"No, she said--"

HONK!

Edgard's eyes widen and he grabs Holden's arm.

"What was that?"

HONK!HONK!HONK!HONK!HONK!

i'm so happy

[acreage]

He'd been listening attentively enough, a smile tugging at his mouth and nodding every so often, when — you know, this. He turns to see

uh, a goose. Glowing green softly in the way of spirits, but definitely a goose.

"Since when can spirits be geese?"

SINCE ALWAYS HONKHONK

[muckspout]

Edgard shakes his head from side to side repeatedly. He quietly positions himself behind Holden and then whispers urgently in his ear.

"No sudden movements. I do not trust geese."

I CAN HEAR YOU! HONKHONK!

Edgard jumps dramatically backward in surprise, breaking his own request.

[acreage]

"What do you want?" He asks, an edge of annoyance creeping into his tone. He could be more alarmed by the spectral figure of a noisy goose, but also, this might as well fucking happen.

DANGER! DARKNESS AND DEATH.

"Yeah, that's specific."

Jobs - lmk if you want any adjustment, I'm easy

[youwonscience]

"In my defense, it would have been quick if this guy's handwriting were actually legible without having to guess at every third letter," Cosima says. "Seriously, what do you think that is?" She hands him the notebook, her finger indicating a word that mainly looks like a flourish.

She too had expected them to have progressed past note-deciphering to actually trying to recreate the basic experiment by this point. Still, rushing a job even tangentially related to Fade-touched materials seems like a good way to cause an accident, so she's resisting the urge to start tinkering with the materials laid out on her lab table.

all good!

[acreage]

He looks at the notebook, eyebrows raised, and...his face scrunches up as he tries to make sense of that word.

"'Fold'?" he suggests, sounding none too sure about it. "It's either that or 'always.'" Or, you know, every other damn thing the word could possibly be. Times like this, he misses computers. "I thought scientists were supposed to have good handwriting."

[youwonscience]

"You'd think. Ugh, my kingdom for someone to invent even like ... a typewriter." Computers would be great, but she'll take standardized type if it's all she can get. "What about ... could it be 'full'? That sort of makes sense in context."

She sits back. "Or I guess we could just throw the notes out and design an experiment from scratch, but that seems like a waste. I don't know, man, I'm sorry this has been such a waste of time."

[acreage]

"God," he responds immediately, "what are the odds we could invent a typewriter?"

Even James Holden, who grew up in a home with the rarity of paper books, has never seen one. Only sort of knows of it academically, from books, from histories. But like, he's absolutely willing to try to reverse engineer one if it means getting some typed documents around here.

"Here," he says, reaching for the paper, "let me look at it again."

His tone is conciliatory, writ with an it's not your fault that goes unsaid. Even on a second try, though, he has to sigh before long.

"Wanting to use these notes was a good idea." But also, "Are you sure these weren't written in code?"

a dirty job

[nonvenomous]

“Yes, well,” grits Silas, who is well past wrist-deep down the throat of the piebald nug struggling in Holden’s grasp, “the strength of the pharyngeal sphincter is a surprise.”

And neither of them is carrying pliers.

He’s already extracted one bloody, rusted twist of bale wire from the idiot creature’s gullet: it’s marinating in a pool of digestive sick on a crate at his side. Two other nugs look on horrified through a slot in their own crate, the call of seabirds faint through the warehouse roof far overhead.

[acreage]

He swears under his breath as the goddamn thing tries to wriggle out of his hands yet again, rearranging his fingers to get a better grip on its slippery skin without actually hurting it. Never mind that the thing is definitely traumatized, and probably so are its fellows, by the rough handling; though if it'd been smart enough to not try eating wire, they wouldn't be in this situation. Also: not that he's unappreciative of Silas being the one to thrust his arm down the pharynx of an ugly little creature.

"Well, I'm sure she'll," as the nug in queston gives a determined wiggle, "thank you later."

[nonvenomous]

“I think I have it,” is all he can say in return, still straining, stretching long fingers, carefully, carefully --

Further back, she’s champing furiously on his forearm, leaving big doofy teethmarks with jaws that lack the leverage to break skin, gagged open as they are. Behind him, there’s a heavy thump, the sound of naked hide scuffling over the edge of the open crate --

Dick risks a glance in the nick of time to see an albino nug butt tumbling rosy pink over the side. Nug #3 rises up on her haunches to peer out after it.

“This is an unmitigated disaster.”

[acreage]

There's a moment as he turns and watches the pale little nug plummet to the ground with an affronted squeak, where James Holden, champion of those in need, seriously considers letting it escape. Then he imagines the creature running into a seagull, or a small dog, or an overweight rat. And sighs.

"It could be worse," he says contemplatively, as the third nug starts scrabbling up the side of the crate. It loses its footing, falls noisily within. "Just get this thing out and we can worry about the other two."

thirst thirst thirst

[revise]

"No trouble. There are better places to go looking for conversation if that's what I were after."

It's painfully direct, but the dry delivery and the lack of pointed follow up look strips some of the rude potential from it. Brisk, but brusque--as straightforward as the way in which the diminutive woman sets her kit down at the edge of the pool and begins to strip out of her robes.

If he were allergic to company, he wouldn't be in the communal baths.

thirST

[acreage]

And if she were allergic to company — or conversation, for that matter — she wouldn't be here either. When he answers, it's not exactly an invitation for a fuller conversation, but it is a good-humored,

"If I'm being honest, I'm mostly here for the hot water."

spoken in conspiratorial tones. A warm bath isn't impossible in his room, of course, but some days the desire for convenience wins out.

[revise]

"Then you're in luck. There seems to be plenty."

She folds her things neatly, tucking them sensibly back from the bath's edge, and then navigates smoothly down into the water--a collection of myriad scars made incidental by the briefness of their display. Evidently not planning a leisurely soak, she promptly sets to wrapping her wedge of soap into a bit of cloth.

"What's in your arm?"

She asks without looking up, twisting the hand cloth shut.

[acreage]

Maybe it's just because of what she said when she first arrived, but he hadn't expected any further conversation, let alone the question. His attention had drifted, but he looks back to her, hesitating briefly. He's been in Thedas long enough to think twice about discussing otherworldly technology. Still, she's obviously a member of Riftwatch even if they haven't spoken before, and there's not much point to pretending he isn't a rifter when the anchor glimmers greenly in his palm.

"Apparently, a shitton of lyrium," is what he says first — hence the glow — before shrugging and adding, "At home, I used it to take medicine that I need. I never figured out how it works here."

wildcard in Kirkwall, we'll say somewhere in lowtown;

[archademode]

He has debts to pay.

Accrued in full thanks to his own carelessly incensed temper, he’ll not have the Daughter of Denerim paying for the repair of her own armor, no matter how she might protest.

Even so, it has been an eternity since he last set foot in a world even remotely similar to this one: he isn’t overwhelmed by it— there’s no hesitancy or concern about milling through a crowd as he is (particularly when armor alone affords him a wide berth amongst any populace), but the map in hand is poorly done, and the writing itself...

There is a tense exhale for it, something that echoes faintly in the hollows of his heavy helmet, standing at a deadened stop in the middle of an otherwise bustling marketplace. One faint green glint occasionally sparking against the dark shadow of his gauntlet where he holds limp parchment.

He is a Judge Magister of Archadia. A man so painted by the harshness of his duties and cast silhouette that few would feel comfortable enduring the brunt of his presence.

And he is, without a doubt, utterly lost.

👍

[acreage]

Cue a tall man carrying the Thedas version of a to-go cup of steaming coffee. He's dressed like a local — it's been half a year, more than long enough to give into that — with leather gloves to ward against the cold. And, of course, hide his own anchor shard. He'd needed to come into the city on some business, bought himself a drink for the trip back, hadn't been paying much attention to the crowd.

But it's hard to not notice the large man in armor. And, once he looks, the signs of someone who has no idea where he is are clear: the pause, the closely-consulted paper, the faint glimmer of green. So Holden approaches, offers,

"Where are you trying to go?"

[archademode]

I’ve no idea is the first response that comes to mind, his lip curling somewhere beneath the helm in irritation, though his newly found companion is hardly privy to the sight of it. In fact, from the outside in its entirety, that metal suit of armor seems wholly unaffected: mask only tipping up or down— left or right— in order to divide his attention between the paper in hand and the man at his side.

He holds up the drawing as a granted offer for potentially keener eyes.

“Here.” Murmured without inflection. The paper (somewhat waterlogged across key points, ink smudged with blunted prints) looks as though it says ‘lhotown, upper meerkatte', and lastly— 'abhjejj fendis’.

Or maybe that’s 'abrhidg pandics'.

No, that can’t be right...

[acreage]

He takes the offered paper with his free hand, eyebrows furrowing as he reads the notes.

Tries to read the notes.

"Is this your handwriting?"

Doubtful, but he doesn't really want to risk insulting this newcomer's writing to....you know, his face.