[open + closed]

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Barrow, Benedict, Brother Gideon, Bfifi, Bmado, you??
WHAT: June catch-all
WHEN: Justinianish
WHERE: around and about the Gallows
NOTES: Individual character starters below, hit me up if you want something specific.

Comments

Barrow

[thereneverwas]

I. Summer is all about finding unique and comfy places to fall asleep, especially on hot days when there's a perfect patch of shade to keep the sun from one's eyes.
Having completed the morning's training, Barrow has taken up reisdence on a rickety wooden chair slightly elevated above the training yard, placed thus so he can give his poor aching joints a rest on days when activity is high or the weather is bad.
The rag in his hand and the pile of wooden weapons beside him, accompanied by a barrel of polished ones, seems to indicate what he was doing when he dozed off. A cigarette burnt down to a nub hangs from his mouth, perilously close to sprinkling smoldering ash onto either himself or the wooden axe held loosely in one hand.

II. He could just as well play solitaire up in his quarters, but the chances of encountering and having to interact with Lazar are too high. So Barrow is down at one of the tables in the mostly-deserted dining hall, a mug of ale to one side of him as he methodically flips cards.
Upon closer inspection, the number of cats also draped over him and curled in his lap seem to multiply each time one looks at him. Lord Fluffy Tumington, his boon companion, occupies the stretch of his broad shoulders.

III. Wildcard

[Prowling Lowtown, sparring, hanging out in the Gallows? Anything works!]

Brother Gideon

[venenifer]

I. In the wee hours of the morning, a flickering light from beneath the infirmary door indicates that despite the current lack of inpatients, someone is still up and about.
Startled by someone's entrance, it's apparent enough that Gideon was simply concentrating on the concoction in process before him on the table. Several of the reagents have been brought down from the potion rack and set immaculately about his workspace, one of which he is still holding with a pair of wooden tongs as he turns to look over his shoulder.
"Hello."
He does not sound happy to see whomever has disturbed him, but that's hardly out of the ordinary.

II. Occasionally, when most people are at table or asleep, Brother Gideon can be found pacing the hall outside the infirmary and muttering to himself. On closer inspection, he is holding scraps of parchment that contain his own handwriting-- and on closer listening, it would seem he's practicing a sermon, feverishly reading and rereading the lines, occasionally pausing to press the parchment against the wall and scratch something out or write in the margins.

Public speaking doesn't come naturally to everyone.

III. For at least one meal a day, the Brother makes himself available by sitting alone at a table with his notes. Though he's hardly got the friendliest face, he at least makes the effort to communicate that he is here for interaction by occasionally glancing up to meet eyes with passersby.
Theology, morality, herbalism, the weather: any discussion is open, as long as it's conducted respectfully.

IV. Wildcard

I

[nonvenomous]

“Good morning.”

The light aside, Richard Dickerson looks surprised to see someone in here working at this hour, with no sign of Sawbones and no patients, besides.

But he pauses only briefly in the doorframe, and leaves it open behind him in silent signal that he doesn’t intend to stay. Hard to say if he’s been awake all night or has only just roused from slumber: he looks tired either way, scruffy and loose-dressed in an unlaced tunic and rolled trousers and bare feet. His interest in what Gideon is up to is sidelong and distinct on his way to a corner cabinet, where seed husks and oils and various other digestive aids are kept.

He drops his open satchel on a table once he gets there, and sets to rifling.

[venenifer]

Not everything in the cabinets belongs to Gideon, but he does catalogue them carefully, and there's a small spike of anxiety when someone-- he knows his name, but can't immediately recall it-- begins to rifle through them.

"Is there something I can help you find?"

There's an intensity behind the question that takes it beyond helpful. Don't touch that.

[nonvenomous]

Having drawn down a jar or pot or satchel of grainy husks, Dick Dickerson pauses with it in his hands, his eyes cool in their consideration of Brother Gideon in the lamplight. He is already touching it, this strange balding man in the wee hours, rifling through the infirmary stores like a particularly bold raccoon.

“No.”

There’s a soft thunk when he places it down on the same surface, his far hand already well on its way to shaking an empty pouch out of his satchel.

[venenifer]

If Dick is a raccoon, Gideon is an opossum, an equally odd little creature of the night who goes similarly still and meets his gaze squarely.

"Mark down what you're taking, please," he says quietly, too politely, his eyes never leaving Richard's.

ii

[fairforce]

"What are you working on?"

Lady Seeker Theophania Hart is dressed comfortably, a soft loose tunic and linen trousers, and leather shoes that are quieter than the boots she usually favors. She is happiest when she's industrious. Right now she's bearing an armload of towels, an easy burden to manage while she stops for a conversation.

She gives Brother Gideon a friendly smile to make up for her lack of greeting.

[venenifer]

He turns quickly, pinning Tiffany with a gaze that's torn between surprise and outrage-- and then it relaxes, but only in such a way that the harshness is dulled. There's still little warmth to be found.

"...preparing for our Darktown endeavor," he mutters, looking down at his notes and then quickly stuffing them into the front pocket of his robe, "I have reason to understand they will be a harder sell than the Lowtowners."

[fairforce]

Undeterred by either gaze, Tiffany maintains both her friendliness and her slight smile. The topic at least manages to diminish her smile just a touch, as a contemplative air comes over her

"I'm sure they will be. Darktown is a difficult place. What sort of approach are you thinking?"

[venenifer]

"Careful."

It's met with a faint, humorless smirk as he shakes his head to the floor, "I admit I've never been. I will likely ask Sister Sawbones to accompany me again, as she seems to have an ease in such places."

Mado

[lumelume]

I. It's mid-afternoon, when most of the training groups are taking a break, and there's a strange man in the courtyard. He's a man most have likely seen around, who dresses in a manner both colorful and shabby, with a mop of curly hair and a face both bright and earnest as he hurls himself repeatedly from atop a construction of stacked benches.

He usually lands with a modicum of grace, slipping into a roll at the last minute or at least landing on his feet, but occasionally he does not. There's a strangeness to the way he jumps, as well, with his arms out as though he expects to take off into the air, carried by the same heartfelt enthusiasm each time until the last moment before it's clear he's going to fall.

Rarely, but often enough that at least one or two will have glimpsed it, he briefly becomes a dog before crashing to the ground.

II. In the evening hours, Mado can frequently be found sitting on the steps of the main tower with a lute or a tambourine, serenading the people of Riftwatch. If he knows them, or even if they just make eye contact, the song quickly changes course to be about whomever is walking by.
Never unfavorably, at least. And he does have a lovely voice.

III. Wildcard

II, naturally

[illithidnapped]

“Bravo,” urges Astarion, who’s already been well-stopped and quite contently positioned at the base of those stairs for some time now, shamelessly enjoying the attention. The limelight, so to speak.

His clap is delicate, fingertips patting just against his palm. “Encore.”

[lumelume]

"An encore?"

Mado's smile widens, his posture straightening as he poses his hands over his lute in anticipation of playing again.

"On the topic of your choosing, signore!"

[illithidnapped]

"Why, what else?" he asks, spreading his arms just so: a half-measure rather than anything overly dramatic, fingertips artfully arched. A divine portrait. A carefully carved statue.

—an asshole, fawning over himself in public.

"Myself, darling."

[lumelume]

One cannot observe such form and not pay tribute to it.

"Ohhhh one morning in Justinian, down by some rolling river,
A handsome chap I came upon whose visage made me quiver!
He carelessly along did stray, a-picking of the daisies gay;
And sweetly sang his roundelay, just as the tide was flowing!"

He plays an instrumental verse, waggling his eyebrows and, likely, taking stock of the strangers features for the next verse. ...it's made to order.

"Ohhhhhhhh, his hair it was so white as milk, and velvet did adorn him!
His voice was as the finest silk, just as a winter's morn, him!
His cheeks were pale, his eyes were red, his hair a crown upon his head;
He'd a lovely brow, without a frown, just as the tide was flowing!"

I

[muckspout]

Edgard is passing through a courtyard to get to work when he sees first Mado and then a dog plummeting to the ground. He rushes over to him.

"Mado!" He yelps at the dog. "Are you alright?"

[lumelume]

Though he rapidly changes back to a person, Mado is flat on his back and looking up at Edgard with a dazed little smile.

"Did it work?" he asks hopefully.

[muckspout]

Edgard blinks a moment. It seems that Mado is alright, but he can't be too sure.

"Did what work?" He looks up into the sky. "Are you running from someone?"

Fifi

[untiltheyarent]

I. Closed to Basterlex

Thanks to Bastien, Byerly and Alexandrie (and himself, of course) have received a little slip of parchment which reads:

You are cordially invited to a small gathering hosted by Madame Mariette in honor of her birthday.

The details point the guests to a hole-in-the-wall Lowtown cabaret, known for its music and dancing, and upon arrival, they will find a table held for them.
But Fifi isn't there. She still has not appeared to sit with them when the curtain is drawn, the crowd hushing for the imminent performance.

II.

It's a warm, gloomy night in Lowtown, and the usual weekend revelry is in full effect. But as someone identifiably Riftwatch rounds the corner onto a quieter street, they are quickly accosted by a short elven woman in the clothing of a servant, who loops her arm into theirs with a flirtatious ease that only barely masks the tension in her thin fingers.
"Cherie," Fifi whispers to you, her eyes darting back behind her at the large and imposing shadow that pauses, previously trailing her, uncertain whether or not to proceed.

III. Wildcard

i

[cozen]

"Standing us up," Bastien says, in Orlesian and in hushed tones appropriate for the hushed room, "on her birthday."

There's a part of him that suspects the fun kind of subterfuge. It is Fifi. But there are also parts of him that suspect an unforeseen maid emergency in the Gallows, a wandering ferryman leaving her stranded, accusations of theft by someone who lost their purse in the market and picked out the first elf they saw to blame, a twisted ankle, some sort of miscommunication that caused him to get the time or the place wrong despite asking for both twice, kidnapping—

He's sensitive, possibly, about the safety of his favorite elven women, with the way Athessa has fallen silent in Val Royeaux.

But at least catastrophizing—and pretending to be doing no such thing—is distracting him from feeling awkward about being here with Byerly and Alexandrie. He has wine; he's barely touched it. He still drags the unattended glass meant for Fifi (and probably paid for by someone other than him) to sit next to his own.

"Dibs."

[bouchonne]

"I think her birthday is the best time to stand us up," says Byerly. "It's like a present to herself. Knowing she's leaving us here, stewing, thinking about nothing but her? Maker, I love standing people up." He presses a hand to his chest. "There's no better way to make someone obsessed with you."

He waves a hand, allowing Bastien's dibs (though since these two dreadful, horrible men allowed the lady to buy the first round, it really is Alexandrie's call).

[coquettish_trees]

The aforementioned generous lady is frowning theatrically as she reaches to gently tap Bastien's hand with the tip of her fan in a motion cleverly exaggerated such that an onlooker might think she'd thwapped him.

"You cannot dibs Fifi's wine," she whispers loudly into the lulling sound of the crowd. "She will believe I did not think to provide her a glass!"

After a pause, into the near silence presumably just before the performer steps out, she finishes with a wildly scandalized exhortation: "On her birthday!"

II, I just couldn't resist

[muckspout]

Edgard instinctively flinches away and gives her a stern look. Then his eyes trail behind them. It is not subtle and quickly realizes his mistake.

He opens his arms wide and gasps, bringing her close.

"Ma chérie, c'est toi! Je ne t'ai pas reconnu dans le noir!"

He tightens his arm around her and drags her along around a corner.

[untiltheyarent]

Fifi's eyes are pleading when Edgard pulls away, but that glimmer in them quickly turns to one of fear when he seizes her. Suddenly as afraid of her savior as she is of her pursuer, her first instinct apart from an initial shriek of alarm is to aim a kick at Edgard's shins while attempting to wrest herself out of his grip.

[muckspout]

Edgard shrieks back and quickly lets go of Fifi holding his arms up in surrender. He steps back, his shin throbbing.

"I'm sorry!" He whisper screams in Orlesian. "I thought that was what you wanted!"