faderift | [open + closed]

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!]

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

Edited 2021-06-08 19:41 (UTC)

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

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

Edited 2021-06-08 20:10 (UTC)

“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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

Edited 2021-06-08 23:25 (UTC)

"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).

"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.

He pauses again, a prickle of tension coiled taut up the spring of his spine.

...

“Of course.”

He flops the pouch open, busies himself with scooping from pot to pouch, careful not to spill. He cinches the pouch closed before moving on to a bottle of oil and a vial, tipped lip to lip. For someone rarely seen here since Gideon’s arrival, he seems well-acquainted with what lies where.

“Where would you like me to make my mark?”

It's at least slightly reassuring, knowing nothing will be spilled or wasted. It would be, at least, if Brother Gideon were the type to be reassured.
Remaining very still all the while, he turns to slide a leatherbound book from one end of the worktable to the other, which he then flips open to the appropriate page. Eyes flitting from Dick's chosen reagents to their entries, he points wordlessly at one line and then the other.

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."

Vial corked, pouch tucked away and sources replaced in their cabinet, Richard produces a pencil from his satchel and moves in to comply as directed.

On the first line indicated, he sketches the approximate weight of husks taken in tidy print.

On the second, he writes, Get fucked, measures Brother Gideon a little too directly next to him, and adds, Mage Tower, F4 RA. He closes the book himself, sharply, that same hand left flat over the cover while he shoulders his satchel to depart.

“Thank you for your assistance.”

Sliding the book back toward where it came from, Gideon puts it away. Then, when Richard has left the room, he slides it back in front of himself again and opens it to look at the entry.

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!"

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?"

The lights dim, the music starts up, and a master of ceremonies emerges to begin the show. He introduces himself, the musicians, and now, with a grand gesture, the moment everyone has been waiting for: the girls, with a dance certain to drop jaws and tighten trousers, all the way from Val Royeaux!

The kickline enters, colorful ruffled skirts swirling in perfect unison. They cross the stage in a line, then converge, weaving in and out of one another, a red-painted smile on every half-masked face. The crowd, comprised of regulars and newcomers alike, is losing its mind.

To the astute eye, the elf danceuse in emerald green has a familiar frame, her sausage-curled russet hair bouncing joyfully (as the rest of her is a bit too thin to do so) as she sweeps to the center for her brief introductory solo and performs an energetic triple pirouette in two-inch heels.
The air is electric, her grin contagious as she prances to the side and makes way for the next soloist.

Edited 2021-06-11 05:27 (UTC)

“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.”

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.

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?"

"She will not think anything if she does not come," Bastien whispers loudly back in defense of his claim, despite the man introducing the act. "If she comes before I start drinking it, then she can have it back and I will tell her I am a thief, but if—"

This is where the fellow says Val Royeaux and thus actually manages to capture Bastien's attention. He may be immune to jaw-dropping and trouser-tightening, but he's a sucker for his city. (Yes, his.) Still, his interest stays mild until he recognizes Fifi—by her spinning ankles first, then by her hair and her chin—and it turns rapt and grinning instead.

Alexandrie's interest is far less quiet, the intent to continue quarrelling over the wine evaporating the moment the emerald green dress catches her eye over Bastien's shoulder and is immediately confirmed to be the unmistakable presence of La Vulpesse. She nearly chokes on her own gasp of delight as it changes direction and turns into an impressive shriek of delight halfway through.

The sound will, perhaps, be as recognizable to Fifi as Fifi was to Alexandrie.

She quickly checks on the two men. Bastien is grinning in earnest: he knows. Her head whips around to see whether or not the same might be said for Byerly.

"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."

[open + closed]

Barrow

Brother Gideon

Mado

Fifi

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II, naturally

II, I just couldn't resist

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