[CLOSED] You think that all your time is used

[archademode]

WHO: Gabranth, Byerly, Derrica, Diana, Barrow, potentially tba
WHAT: local man has bills to pay, time to take on 100 low level quests
WHEN: catch-all, consider it fairly current with a little give
WHERE: Gallows, Lowtown, tbd
NOTES: catch-all for threads involving (1) millenial judge magister in need of jobs + bonus horsegirl chapter + old men fights

Comments

Byerly;

[archademode]

[He does not take his meals in public. Rather— he takes them, separates them out into rations and packages them for later, so the matter can be resolved in private.

And while most would argue it’s an unnecessary (and absurd) measure, Gabranth thinks only of the benefit that comes from being nameless, faceless. The wariness it affords, the distance it grants him from those who would otherwise seek to complicate matters. In fact as of late, the greatest benefit is the fact that there's always work to be had for a man without a face around Kirkwall proper: hardly comparable to notoriety, true, but a benefit nonetheless when someone needs a thief sniffed out or a bully rocked back onto their heels.

Or, at times, a few letters delivered. A stray pup found.

...coin remains coin for a man with debts to pay, and no resources to his name.

So, for the spare number of minutes it takes for him to package and set aside his meal between one miserably paid task and the next, he is there in the dining hall: seated at the farthest end, setting the most amount of distance between himself and bustling members of Riftwatch.]

[bouchonne]

Do you take it off in private?

[ The fellow who slouches onto the bench beside Gabranth is - a little ridiculous. Long-limbed and lanky, dressed in a doublet striped in vivid green and violet, smelling of perfume, with a cheekily sardonic little smile that looks like it never leaves his lips. He tips an elbow onto the tabletop, lifts a cup of tea to his lips with his free hand. ]

I worry about chafing.

[archademode]

It can be managed.

[There’s something incredibly dry about the voice inside that helmet. Enough that it’s clear his response is hardly serious.

And also that he’s not keen on curious visitation.

Gloved hands work their way across folded cloth, securing it in place before tucking another section of bread and cheese and— whatever meat is on offer here, for he still cannot pinpoint the flavor as anything familiar. A simple rhythm, uninterrupted by the weight of someone else taking a seat beside him]

There is space enough elsewhere to be considered.

[Gabranth, this man is your boss.]

[bouchonne]

How rude.

[ By lifts his eyebrows and widens his eyes with an exaggerated sort of offense. No one would mistake him for being genuinely hurt, but it's close enough to real that it can't quite be ignored. ]

Do you always speak this way to a friendly stranger?

[archademode]

[Yes.]

Friendliness most often works itself in as a shield for less desirable motivations. [Which isn't to say Byerly is the sort, despite Gabranth's own dour tone— he hardly knows the man enough to judge— but so far his stay here has been marked by willful intrusions wearing cheerful smiles, and he's a tired man in his own right.

Not just because of the work.] And I've little time to spare, I'm afraid.

Much less the sort of company worth keeping for a man of your distinction. [It's the doublet, really. And the cup of tea. And also the perfume— who let you out of Hightown, come to think of it?]

[bouchonne]

A man of my distinction, and my clear sinister intent. Is that it?

[ His smile turns just a bit sharper. The man is a fop, true enough, but there's a clear edge to him under the silliness. ]

[archademode]

[Hearing the undercurrent of his own wording laid out cuts Gabranth short in a single, visible instant. He's never been good for much in the way of conversation, and the thought that he's somehow directly insulted a man of potentially higher standing— no, certaintly higher, considering appearances—

His hands still in their movement, his helmet fixed where darkened sockets seem determined to bore a hole through the table beneath him.]

My apologies. [Even without a face to offer any amount of expression, his voice does the job of conveying regret well enough.]

My words were careless, I meant no disrespect by them.

Derrica;

[archademode]

[Each and every second. When not sleeping, when not bathing, when not eating— he works.

It is a matter of necessity, and to a lesser extent, pride: whatever damage his magic caused, he will repair and repay, down to the last coin. If that means dealing in muck work, shaking down thieves and pickpockets, or setting out fliers for the nearest tavern advertising their latest set (with handwriting so poor Gabranth can hardly make out which end ought to be upright), then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Which is, coincidentally, exactly what he is doing currently in Lowtown— fliers in one hand, a packet of previously stolen parcels in the other, and—

He doesn’t see her at all when he rounds that narrow sidestreet corner, pace quick enough to be disastrous on impact.]

this meet-cute

[tender]

[ It's not entirely disastrous on impact, but it's a near thing. It's not pleasant for anyone moving at a brisk pace to collide with another person, and add the plate armor into the mix—

Well, there will be some bruising. But she hasn't toppled, and only a small number of the assorted scrolls in her hands have toppled to the ground. (The ones in her arms might now be slightly crunched from the instinctive tightening on impact, who can say at this early juncture?) The initial strangled gasp on impact resolves into a muted groan of dismay for the dropped scrolls, which Derrica glances at before she considers who she's knocked into. ]

I didn't see you, [ she says, apologetic and honest, even if this is a hard man to miss. ] Are you okay?

[ Ha. ]

meet-suit, get it? because of the armo— yeah, ok no

[archademode]

[Are you okay she asks, in regards to the fully armored man left still standing and utterly otherwise unruffled— albeit now without any of the paperwork or packages he'd been dutifully keeping tucked against his side. Still, between the two of them, he's no doubt fared better than she in this exchange, and there's an instantaneous air of remorse present when he kneels low to begin the long process of snatching up scattered scrolls.

Hers before his own. He owes her that much.]

It was my own mistake, and for that you have my deepest apologies. [His helmet hardly has much in the way of peripheral vision, but even as his fingertips close around yet another dislodged scroll he can see— quite plainly— a number of his own given papers floating right off into the southern wind.

Ah well.

More coin owed, he supposes.]

Are you unharmed?

wheeze

[tender]

Nothing that I can't tend to, [ Derrica promises. The exact points that made contact with the suit of armor are all making themselves known; bruises, at the worst, and easily fixed, so she doesn't think it's worth mentioning. ] And I don't think Mhavos is going to be too concerned with the state of the scrolls.

[ Maybe. ]

Have you lost anything?

[ As she just now begins to take in full consideration of the crash area. In fairness, he's very big and very armored and it's a lot to take in all at once. ]

please don't laugh at my bad jokes I don't deserve to be rewarded

[archademode]

Nothing that cannot be replaced. [He counters in turn, unwilling to surrender the full depth of his own losses. A few more moments of diligent gathering, and he’s able to set the last of her scrolls (that he can see) firmly into her hands.

From there, well, there’s the matter of his own mess: scattered around them in bits and pieces, a package here, a few paper fliers there, a bit of jewelry or an odd fine quill tumbled from its wrapping.

In his defense, he was carrying a lot.]

Be sure it’s all accounted for. [Her belongings, he means. Or maybe Mhavos’— he can’t be certain, considering his own status as little more than catalyst and catastrophe rolled all into one.]

it's too late i've been laughing for days now

[tender]

[ A beat of scrutiny, but there's nothing at all to be gleaned from the shining metal of his helmet. Derrica had initially thought he'd at least put up the visor, and yet— ]

I think so. I can get more, if one rolled out of sight.

[ Maybe. She isn't wholly certain about that, but it feels like the right reassurance to make in this moment. ]

Can I help you? It looks like you have a lot more than I do.

[ Or maybe it's just the chaotic nature of what he's carrying. Not just one type of thing, but an assortment. Less easily stacked and toted along. ]

Diana;

[archademode]

[She is there when he arrives— or rather, someone is there: tall in height and sound in her own build, tending to creatures which (by the standards of his own world) hardly would qualify as horses. Their hides unmarked by clotted smoke, their teeth surprisingly dull, only visible when their lips pull back in search of food or something to chew on in idle passivity.]

Lady Diana, I assume?

[It is a lie. In truth he expects to be incorrect, as one can hardly claim every knight attending the training grounds is Judge Magister Gabranth, or every panicked nobleman is Benedict Artemaeus, or everyone taken with knocking about skulls in the midst of a fight is Jone of Denerim.

But there is no better place to start than failure, as some would say, and when you’re fully encased in a grimly wrought suit of armor, it’s always better to make a milder impression while off duty.]

[truthtied]

[ She notices him long before he calls to her. It is rather impossible to miss the very large suit of armor clanking up to the stables. She thinks Ares for one sharp, disorienting moment before he speaks. And then her expression quirks with a gentle sort of bemusement. ]

I am. And please, only Diana.

[ Even if her bearing screams royalty, she can't carry her titles in this world. She won't say so now, will not begrudge the man his. They each cling to what they need to weather this world. And, of course: ] You would be Judge Magister Gabranth.

[ The Riftwatch stables are private enough, their only company at present the horses. ]

[archademode]

[Her refusal of his offered title is— well, he imagines it must be as difficult for her to be called by it as it is for him to say nothing of it.

Small compromises on both their parts. The little differences between worlds and wants.]

Indeed.

[He likes to think Jone hasn’t said too much about him to influence opinion, but with the daughter of Denerim risk is ever in play.]

I must admit, I am surprised to see you so at ease here. Are you not also a new acquisition?

[He keeps his distance for now, unwilling to draw nearer to either person or animal without any sort of expressed segue; the fact remains that this is, at its heart, a matter of acclimation and trust.]

[truthtied]

[ Her eyebrows raise at the choice of words. ]

I am a new arrival, yes. [ A softer reproof than some of her sisters would offer to the implication of acquisition. The bracelets at her wrists do not have the same shine in this world, but their weight is the same. ]

You might say this isn't my first time. My people were isolated for centuries before we were compelled to rejoin the wider world. I won the right to represent them as Ambassador and so off I went. [ She leans against a stable door, rubbing the nose of the dapple horse that pokes his head out. ] At least this time we all appear to have a common language.

wow thank you for hiding this notif DW

[archademode]

I might argue that this world is less inclined to grant leave than the one you left behind.

[It's dry, his commentary, but not unkind; Gabranth is, after all, ever capable of setting himself to coarser communication when the mood strikes— or when goaded into it. She, on the other hand, makes for far more pleasant companionship.

Even if they are surrounded by what his own world would see as no more than predatory creatures.

A single step closer, his helmet nodding towards the creature she's taken to comforting.] Strange, to see that they lack fangs.

[truthtied]

No world is gentle to outsiders.

[ Even Themyscira, despite her ideals, could be harsh. The horse pricks his ears forward, giving the large armored person a considering side eye. Diana only smiles. ]

And these creatures are not the sort that need fangs, they eat grass mostly. You can come closer. Fredrick is a particularly calm horse.

Barrow;

[archademode]

[He owns little. Brings even less: his armor, a few rations and a single herb-soaked cloth for the sake of travel. A simple kit for sharpening his swords. Duties fulfilled, debts temporarily forestalled (where could an armored man sworn to Riftwatch run to without being thoroughly tracked, anyway?), the whole of his efforts to pack take little more than a few minutes, leaving the span of an entire evening to spend as he pleases

And he has no hobbies.

Well— none save for one. But the truer issue lies in who would spar with him so late in the evening, when so many are preparing to depart?

—--

He appears much like a bad dream. Unwanted and unwarranted, broad and shadowed as ever, looming however close to Barrow's own position he can physically manage, without a care for whatever the man is currently up to.]

Was it true, what Jone of Denerim said about you?

[thereneverwas]

[Barrow is playing Solitaire and smoking at one of the tables in the dining hall, blissfully unaware of any designs anyone might have upon his person.
He glances up at Gabranth with a cheeky little smirk.]

That depends entirely on what she said about me.

[He can't be bothered to remember these things.]

[archademode]

That you knew how to fight. [With sword or by hand, he hadn't asked at the time— but he imagines either would be sufficient enough distraction for what few hours yet remain.

The unspoken expectation of course, clinging entirely to Gabranth's own widened posture, is that Barrow will naturally agree to fight. Like, right now, in fact.]

[thereneverwas]

Oh. Well, yes, I should hope so.

[He flips a card, exhaling a puff of smoke as he places it.]

[archademode]

Then let us be off.

[There's a moment where he steps in— not to Barrow's immediate side as though acting in the interest of making a formal threat, but instead just diagonally— lingering at the edges of Barrow's peripheral vision, only enough to make his (incredibly demanding) request known.]

[thereneverwas]

[Barrow doesn’t move, aside from flipping another card.]

Pardon?