faderift | [CLOSED] You think that all your time is used

[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.]

[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.]

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.

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.]

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?

[~~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?]

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. ]

[ 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. ]

[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.

[ And just like that, the sharpness passes, the smile turning easy and harmless once more. Cheerily, he says - ]

Pity. I like a bit of disrespect.

[ He extends his hand. ]

Byerly Rutyer.

[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?

[A note of hesitancy meets that outstretched hand, sticking itself between them in the form of a conversational lull— instead chased by a stiffened sort of half-bow by way of dipping his head low.

Sorry Byerly, dumb knight stuff dwells here.]

Judge Magister Gabranth, at your service.

[Byerly. The name sounds familiar. But then again, when you've been struck with a deluge of information, some things are bound to sink more than swim when it comes to memory.]

You're welcome to stay if you like, though I'll not remain much longer.

[And just like that, he's back to divvying up his meal as though preparing for war.]

Edited 2021-04-07 20:08 (UTC)

[ A click of his tongue. By seems not to have noticed that last comment of Gabranth's. ]

Judge Magister. I must say, you present a rather different picture than the typical blackhaller. Somewhat spikier. And you certainly look different from a Royan lawyer.

A correct assertion.

My world is of a different breed than this one— though not so vastly that I've not been able to sufficiently acclimate. [His entire presence here, for example, remains a perfect case in point regarding interworldly etiquette and expectation.

Aka: why does no one else live in their armor, or find that to be a perfectly respectable way to go about divorcing oneself from their own humanity in order to act as little more than a weapon of war.]

Trust that it does not deter my desire to aid the cause.

[ Knowingly: ] So I've heard.

[Again, those hands go still. Again, he finds himself taken by surprise.

For a moment he wonders if this man isn't somehow the reincarnation of Vayne Solidor: imperceptible in his cleverness, perpetually capable of making Gabranth feel ever the fool at his side.]

...have you.

[Beneath that helm his vision shifts to one side, attempting to stitch together some thin map of his own potential reputation. Who he'd spoken to, who he's irritated or endeared. Jone, Barrow, Benedict, Laura, Commander Flint— it's pointless of course, and after a moment of thought, Gabranth simply surrenders his internal efforts. There are worse reputations to have than a man willing to both figuratively and literally lie down for a cause not his own.

And besides, it is true.]

I suppose asking from whom would do me little good.

[ From whom? By might laugh aloud. ]

I hope you don't think you cut a subtle figure, Judge Magister. People are going to notice you.

[Ever the fool.

There's a narrow little noise let out inside that helmet, something akin to a mildly amused scoff; he's never claimed to be a sagacious man.]

I suppose there is that.

[A beat, and then, as if coming to some some sort of realization:] Your introduction was intentional, then. You knew already who I was.

Of course.

[ His smile is easy. ]

I make it my business to know everyone - or at least know of everyone. And I take particular interest in do-gooders.

I’m afraid my hands are far too bloodied to be considered that. [No wincing, no whining. As natural a confession as discussing the matter of what tea Byerly drinks, or the color of the sky outside.]

But if there is something I can do for you in order to further your efforts, you need only ask.

[Compensation for that offer goes without mention. True, his pockets are lighter than the payments tailing him— there's no denying that. But if someone within Riftwatch is in need of help, he won’t ask them for coin in return.

For him, allegiances will always run deeper.]

[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.]

[ A little flick upwards of his eyebrow at my hands are too bloodied - kudos on your drama, sir - but he doesn't comment. Instead, he gives a little twirl of his long, elegant fingers, and he says: ]

There is a little something, actually. I don't want to trouble you, of course.

[ 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. ]

[Thank you, he works very hard on it. You should see him when he’s turning it up to 11.]

Speak. I would see it done.

[And in recalling the fact that he'd been sought out— that this man looks (and in particular smells) of richer things than the ruddiness of war— the way Benedict had recoiled in dread of greater things than himself, setting a sort of perceived pattern in play regarding rank and need and all things perilous, there is a moment where that heavy helm twists to focus more fully on the man at his side. Voice lowered, attention fixed.]

...you are not in danger, are you?

[He seems generally untroubled, of course— but wounded animals are often the best at masking their own dismay.]

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. ]

[CLOSED] You think that all your time is used

Byerly;

Derrica;

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this meet-cute

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

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Diana;

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wheeze