WHO: sam drake, beth greene, laura kint, & YOU WHAT: open post to try and get back into the groove. starters in comments, hmu for something custom. WHEN: post-modplot, generally in august WHERE: the gallows, kirkwall NOTES: tbd
It's disorienting at first, but he's run rooftops for decades--if a little vertigo was enough to do him in, he wouldn't've made it this far to start with. And like a cliff's edge, once your senses adjust, it's worth the half-second your brain can't keep up. "Jesus Christ."
The point is, the place is beautiful, even if it feels like a hangover bearing down on you in slow motion. Undiscovered paths from long-lost peoples, whole chunks of a world just hanging there in an endless sky. He's going to be coming back here every chance he gets.
In the meanwhile, though, there's a flickering light ahead. He nods toward it. "Got any idea what that is?"
[ around kirkwall. ]
He's spent enough time at the Gallows since he was quarantined, thanks. At this point, Sam's mostly liable to be found there to sleep and eat.
The taverns get more than a little of his time (and more than a little of his coin, as a result). Gotta figure out which ones are worth hanging around at, which aren't. It's not hard to find him at a table or up at the bar, especially if there's a woman there to chat up. (Maybe you're the woman. Who knows.)
Same with the marketplace, where he's chatting with merchants, examining the merchandise, wandering around without a care in the world. And when he haggles, it's with the attitude of someone who mastered the skill long ago, doing it for the love of it. "You sure you can't go any lower? 'Cause I don't mind walking away. See? Here I go."
You might be asking yourself: Hightown? Lowtown? The docks? The alienage? Sam Drake's like a cat, though--he goes where he wants. Even, at least once, Darktown, if only out of curiosity. At one point, he grabs a skinny wrist trying to lift some cash from his jeans pocket. "I wouldn't do that, pal."
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Doki is smarter than pickpocket children. These children, they are very small and very stupid and very easily caught by everyone. Doki does not usually waste her time pulling things out of people's pockets. First of all, there is so little to be found in pockets it is hardly worth the time that it takes. Better to be spending time on big things.
But sometimes it is fun to do little things. That is what Doki has been doing tonight. She is in disguise, mud smeared and face wrapped to hide her tattoos, hands wrapped to hide the shard embedded in the one. And she has been doing well until right now, having fun until right now, when this man grabs her wrist and in the dark of Darktown, she looks up into his face with big round eyes--
"Jesus--!" but his hand only tightens around the kid's wrist. No, not a kid--that's a woman, if a small one. Dirty-faced, willing to kick him in the goddamn shins, staring up at him with big blue eyes that might've worked a little better than the edge of her boot.
It's nothing compared to some of the damage he's taken lately, though - the gunshot that grazed his bicep's still within recent memory - and he stands firm, looking down at her in the dim light of one of the dankest neighborhoods he's ever wandered through. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"
Doki shows him her teeth. They are also dirty, purposefully smeared with mud and chewed-up tobacco. Underneath that paste they are not very good all on their own, but this is Darktown, and so they have to look very bad. The wrappings she'd put over her muddy face to disguise herself have slipped down. Now she looks like a very badly-made Nevarran dead lady.
"I am leaving," and on leaving she twists her wrist and pulls toward the spot in his grip where his thumb and forefinger come together. This is the weakest part of someone trying to hold onto you. She is not weak. Who is this man, with the stupid trousers? She will break free.
He shifts his grip as she tries to break it, pulling up just a little - but his thoughts aren't entirely with her. This is a con he used to run with Nathan, a two-man game that kept them fed for more than one night. First kid shows up, does a terrible job of picking your pocket. While you're giving him what-for and looking around for the authorities, the other kid - Sam, always Sam - gets the whole damn wallet. First kid gets free, and all that's left is counting the cash.
It's gotta be even easier here than it was in Tegucigalpa, down in Darktown. Find the only mark who might have some cash to pocket, and there's no authorities for him to run to. Another time, another place, he would've spent a lot of time down here.
He lifts the woman's wrist, taking away some of her leverage, up just enough that it's awkward, not quite enough to hurt. It's not the kind of shit he normally does, toying with some poor sap who thought he was a rube, but her voice sounds familiar. It's gonna bug him. "What's your name?"
This time, Doki actually hisses at him. She resents the grip on her wrist, how easy it was for him--stupid smart him!--to anticipate the twisting of her arm. He should be stupider. She should be smarter. This is the better way. Now she is trapped and he is asking questions. She will not be trapped.
"My name is not yours to know. Now you will be letting me go. If you do not, you will next find a knife in your bowels."
She does have another hand, after all. Once more she pulls, trying to yank herself free.
Spend enough time in taverns, and one will inevitably run across John Silver.
Tonight: a fish story, after a fashion. (Yanev Duff, captain of a ramshackle ship chasing a sea dragon from Rivain to the Fereldan marshes only to discover there'd been no dragon all along.) It's the kind of story met with roaring laughter, that bends to an audience. (Yanev Duff, hapless navigator, hailing from wherever is most convenient based on tonight's assembly.) The story is good, and when it finishes there is a brief circuit of the room where John checks in with an older man sporting a turtle tattoo, a spate of Rivaini sailors in one corner, and finally—
"What's best tonight?" is directed at the barkeep, as John lands at the narrow, sticky strip of bar along the far wall. It prompts the woman in question to pull her attention from Sam, humming over the query as she ducks to sort through the bottle kept below.
"Apologies," is for Sam, because John isn't blind, knows when he's interrupted, and can express some sympathy for the circumstances.
God damn it, he was close to sealing the deal here.
(Maybe, anyway. New place, new women, new standards - it takes a couple days to know exactly how to charm your way into a free drink or under a skirt. But it felt like he was getting somewhere, and frankly, he could stand to.)
But there's something about a man in his line of business that's easy to spot, after a fashion. Maybe he's a fisherman himself, based on that story, and maybe he's a town crier screwing around - what matters is that the man's a tale-teller, probably a con artist. Maybe a con artist? New place, new criminals - he's still feeling the place out.
Not that it matters, at the moment. Sam's always loved a good story, never cared who spun it up.
"Eh," he says, waving a hand as if to say no problem, and takes a sip of his ale. "You from up there? Rivain?"
(Where Rivain is, he's not entirely sure, but he's aware that it's north of them in some form or fashion. And not a little intriguing - if not for this war business, north is where he'd be tempted to head.)
A brief look, tracking the barkeep, before returning his full attention to Sam. Who has posed a question, and while John hadn't necessarily intended on striking up a full scale conversation—
"I've conducted business there," is not necessarily an answer. John's smile widens just a fraction though, good humored. "Mostly in Llomerryn, but I've spent time on the mainland before. Long enough to pick up a few things."
"'Fraid not." It feels like a good opportunity, so he takes it. "Where do I sound like I'm from?"
His shard's currently pressed up against a tankard, unlikely to be visible. Today, he's decided to try blending in with the local color, so he's got breeches, boots, and a linen shirt that hangs a little loose on his frame. Feels like being a Renaissance fair reject, but it gets less attention than the jeans, so he's giving it an unwilling try.
If this guy's been around the Gallows and seen Sam there, the jig's up, but it's possible this is a chance to figure out a cover story or two. Once he knows where it seems like he's from - assuming Thedas' Boston equivalent is out there at all - he can start researching.
A significant amount of real estate within the Baroness' Hammer is taken up by a raised platform, which is probably why it's patrons tend to end up singing.
Or that's the assumption. It's certainly not a platform made for singers; more likely, it was meant for exclusivity and then was overrun in the course of time. The tables have been more or less permanently shoved towards the back of the platform, though it hasn't stopped patrons from occupying the tables, and then providing loud encouragement to anyone who hobbles up to begin bellowing out a tune.
It makes for a lively atmosphere, to say the least.
With one elbow braced against the edge of the bar, Derrica is covertly pointing at the matronly woman across the room.
"That's Madame Iga," she's saying, voice pitched beneath the caterwauling passing as song. "I've heard she's an Orlesian Baroness who fled south after it was found out she'd arranged the deaths of three of her husbands."
Sam's not sure he's going to bother going to this tavern again in the future - but he'll try just about anything once. (In theory, he's missed spending hours in cantinas, listening to music and drinking beers. In practice, Kirkwall's idea of music doesn't really resemble the little holes-in-the-wall he spent his twenties in.) And eventually, there's some good company to speak of.
They'd talked over his rock-phone about meeting up at a place. And going for it has paid off: she's hot enough to be distracting, and she clearly knows Thedas a hell of a lot better than he does.
"She a big fan of hammering? Or getting hammered?" He's gotta ask, slouching close enough to Derrica to hear her without quite tripping over into creep territory. (By Sam Drake standards, anyway.)
Sam slouches down, Derrica sits up straighter, and they manage to find a point where they can both be heard. Her nose wrinkles slightly, contemplating (maybe the slang is unfamiliar, but the cadence of it is instructive) as she looks across the room at Madame Iga.
Her head shakes.
"If I had to guess, hammering," she tells him. "But if I had to guess, neither. She's very..."
A pause while Derrica visibly flicks through a number of potential descriptors only to land on—
"Self-possessed."
In which self-possessed more or less stands in for terribly intimidating.
how many pickpockets can Sam Drake find this month: 2, apparently
That he knows the man means nothing. That they're allies means even less.
That he likes this strange, rough-edged conman means that when his wrist is snared, the only thing that rises to meet Sam is a flash of overlong teeth— lips twisted into a sheepish, utterly demure grin.
Hello there.
"Oh, thank you for catching me, darling. Lost my footing on those damned stairs and would've fallen right on my face if not for your impressive reflexes."
Turns out everyone has to go here eventually. To map it, to learn more about it--and in Beth's case, to get familiar with what it even is. And it sounds cool, magic and dreams all mixed into one. Go in with a partner, follow the paths.
But her first steps go from fascinated to seasick when she crosses the threshold of the mirror (eluvian, it's called an eluvian), her head swimming. Everything feels slightly off, a little groan escaping her as she tries to find her balance. "Um--is it supposed to--be like this?"
Almost everyone's been in Riftwatch longer than her. She's figuring her partner'll know.
[ around the gallows. ]
The Gallows is pretty nice, by Beth's standards--like the prison she used to live in, but with baths and cooks and solid doors. And after the firefights and sieges and diplomatic missions and everything else from the last month, she's pretty content to hang out there, for the most part.
Her bedroom is frequently closed up and locked tight, but sometimes she leaves the door open. Inside, it's a cozy room, with broadsides and illustrations pasted up on the walls and a small collection of figurines standing on a shelf. She's fussing with her first purchase of any consequence, a round-bellied lute not unlike the one she'd tried out in Bastien's office. Anyone on the fourth floor of the old Templar Tower is probably going to hear it being played like it's actually an acoustic guitar, strummed and plucked at all hours of the day (and some of the night).
More and more, she comes to the training yard, where she doesn't know a lot what she's doing, but she's trying. People have given her things to try, exercises to make her faster with a knife, and there's plenty of practice dummies to use them on.
Sometimes she ends up in a chapel or prayer garden, sitting quietly and staring at...well, not much. Very healthy, very normal. The chapel's a perfect place to hide during a thunderstorm, especially.
And sometimes she's at the tennis court. "You wanna play? You'll...have to tell me what the rules are here."
[ wildcard. ]
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The chapel is indeed a good place to hide during a thunderstorm. It's also a good place to dry off and take a nap during said thunderstorm. Nothing makes Edgard more sleepy than the sound of an oncoming storm.
Lightning flashes and Edgard goes straight to the comfiest pew. (Of course he knows which one is comfiest). He throws himself down on it without looking. It's occupied.
"Agh--!" Before she's thought about it--or anything else, for that matter--she's leapt out from under the body coming at her, pushing it away even as she's backing up toward the wall.
Her breath comes quick as she tries to recover her sense of place and time. It's just someone from Riftwatch, it's nothing. It's nothing. "Y-yeah. What're you--?"
Sometimes--starting around dusk, occasionally continuing right on til dawn--there's a shadow that lurks in corners and crouches on rooftops. It moves through the darkness in silence and waits for danger. And when danger arises, it leaps out and punches.
She keeps her hood up despite the heat, stays out of view, does everything she can to prevent would-be criminals from seeing who's prevented them from whatever they've attempted: theft, assault, something yet worse. But tonight, she's attacked a mugger who attacked right back, and in the fray, her cowl's knocked back from her face. (In return, she knocks him unconscious.)
It wouldn't be a problem--the mugger's victim has already run--if not for the fact that there's another shadow. Someone at the other end of the alleyway has stopped, is looking at her and the thief at her feet. She freezes, her pale face lit by the moons above, hands formed into loose fists as though to anticipate a fight.
[ around. ]
Laura can always be counted upon in a few places. The marketplaces in Kirkwall are a particular favourite, whether she's buying something or not. Her favourite stalls sell spices, jewelry, and little trinkets that exist for reasons beyond usefulness. Find her there, and she might ask your opinion of something, or simply say hello.
The dining hall in the Gallows is a reliable location as well, where she eats a surprising amount and attacks her food with a fork and one of the ghostly claws in her hands. If you haven't seen a girl with blades in her fists before, it might be a bit of a surprise.
(Or later, when the dining's over - and generally very carefully not when Mrs. Fitcher holds her usual games - she might be sat at a table with a deck of cards. Sometimes, there's a cat beside her, licking its paws. "Do you play?")
Her favourite place in the Gallows, though, is the battlements, where she can watch the sea. Did she use the staircase to get up there or climb some walls? Don't worry about it. It's a good place to be, a better place to consider talking.
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Abby is similarly loose but in a far less violent way. She's mapping out Kirkwall for the first time, and there's a lot of land for her to cover, a lot to see, and little people out to interrupt her path through winding streets. Hightown takes most of the afternoon to traverse and her legs are sore when she slips down into Lowtown; she'll sleep well tonight, solidly. That's something she needs right now, to keep from slipping into old habits.
She's taking what she thinks is a shortcut and catches both the start and end of a scuffle. It happens too fast for her to have to jog in but she's still quick enough to catch an instigator, standing starkly in the middle of the alleyway with two fists drawn and ready for her. Abby's adrenaline spikes, and she draws up instantly, but–
"Laura?" The name exhales out of her, the fight dying as soon as it surged.
One of the difficult things about meeting new people is knowing what to do about the moment they learn just who she is. Laura Kint, someone's pet assassin. Laura Kint, who murdered people in their beds. Laura Kint, who-- Eventually, they'll find out - or perhaps they won't and Laura will have to tell them - and that changes things. But knowing that it's happened, or how it's likely to affect her ability to work with others, is still difficult territory for her.
The first inkling that something's going to be altered doesn't normally come in an alleyway. She sucks a breath in at the sound of her name, coming from a girl with a sharp nose and a frame built for brawling.
Her footsteps are silent as she closes the distance between them. The mugger lies prone behind her, halfway forgotten. In a soft, serious voice, she informs Abby, "This is a secret."
Laura moves akin to a shadow. She curls up, out of the darkness and into the space between them, and she's shorter than Abby but she's much sterner. Abby almost wants to take a step back from her, but she holds, both her position and the eye contact.
"Okay." She wants Laura to know she's serious. Abby doesn't know her, they've only just met. Of course she isn't going to fuck up– whatever this is. Interrupted murder attempt, is what she's guessing, as she's just registered that the body lying behind them on the stone is, in fact, breathing.
"Don't worry. I won't say anything." Who would she tell?
The list of potential recipients of this particular bit of intelligence seems long to her. Commander Flint. Anyone in the City Guard. Everyone she counts as friends. Anyone who might want to denounce Riftwatch.
"Thank you." Laura glances back at the body of the mugger, lying prone in the alley. She did nothing to make him more comfortable. People who attack women in dark sidestreets should wake up sore. "We should go. Where are you going?"
This alley couldn't've been Abby's destination. Wherever it is, they can go together, and Laura can blend into the rest of the night.
Look, Abby of all people understands having secret beef, so even though she raises an eyebrow at the body as Laura draws attention to it, she doesn't say anything beyond that.
"It's nothing." Apparently, they're becoming a group. Abby jerks her chin up the alleyway, and starts moving again, wholly expecting Laura to fall into step behind. "I was actually heading back to the Gallows, unless you know a good place to stop around here. Been exploring today."
Its been good. She feels a little more secure in her surroundings, now that she's essentially cased the joint.
Laura considers this as they walk. There are places she likes that are closed by now - most of them, in fact. But she's found a few taverns that appeal to her, and most of those are still serving drinks at this hour.
"Do you want to eat food, or just drink something?" she asks, after thinking through the options.
"I used to get lost," Laura tells her, because this seems like an opportunity to sympathize. They take a right, decidedly not through an alleyway. "If you cannot find your way, go toward the smell of fish. Going back to the Gallows is easier from the docks."
"Thanks." That's really helpful. Abby's going to file that away for later. She's trying to memorise where they're going right now but it's difficult, because this place is like a maze. A lot of it looks the same to her.
Having most certainly used the staircase, Derrica has occupied the space beside Laura, elbows on the stone. There's a storm rolling in slowly from far out at sea, and the air is heavy with the possibility of rain.
With her chin pillowed on one hand, Derrica tips her head and says, "I heard you and Matthias have moved into the same room."
There's a gentle, teasing lilt to her tone. This is good news, surely.
Laura glances over when Derrica joins her, giving her a little smile. Derrica is one of those people with whom she can stand in silence, looking at the waves, and never wonder if she needs to say something. When she's supposed to talk is always clear - if only because Derrica asks a question.
A cheerful one, something that might have startled her in months or years before. Right now, she mostly looks shy. "You noticed."
"It is...nice." She doesn't know how to explain the breadth of it, how their possessions intermingle and the cat sleeps between their legs and he never wakes her. The best she can come up with is, "I sleep better."
At the thought of a gift, Laura's head tilts, curious. "Is that customary?"
"In some places, yes," Derrica answers, though she stalls after, unsure of how exactly to go on. Mages tend not to have tradition in this way; Derrica understands the anomaly of it. What she ways next is a sort of compromise, skirting away from Rivain as she explains, "I've traveled more than most people, and I like the idea of it. Gifts to mark an occasion like this."
To bring luck and good fortune, things Derrica thought Matthias and Laura could use, even though they're safely insulated within Riftwatch. (Mostly. The new-arrived Seeker and the small contingent of templars have not gone unnoticed.) Straightening from her slouch, she asks, "Do you want me to give it to you?"
"I wouldn't refuse a gift." That would be rude, and unnecessarily so; Laura's come to enjoy presents. They're surprises that rarely lead to harm or unhappiness.
And a gift from Derrica is going to be thoughtful and kind. That's who Derrica is.
Derrica smiles wide in answer, pleased, before undoing the latch of her satchel.
"It's not the kind of gift that keeps," she says, a little apologetic, as she draws a jar of honey from her bag and sets it on the stone between them. Her second dive into her satchel retrieves a cloth-wrapped parcel, which is deposited beside the jar. "But it's a sort of tradition when people make a home together to give them things like this."
And as far as Derrica is concerned, that is what Matthias and Laura are doing together. They've come together to build a little home for themselves within the Gallows, and maybe one day, they'll build something else together, somewhere else.
The crime, in this case, was simple burglary at the back entry to an inn -- the prybar he’d swung over her head rattled to a late stop in a puddle, ozone still sharp in the air where tendrils of electricity had seared green from his fingertips. His glove on that side is still smoking, one finger scorched bare through blackened leather, poking like exposed bone.
The witness is a cat, dark, leggy, lean, and familiar, her shadow thrown long down the alley’s throat by the slant of a tavern’s light far behind her. Her eyes are wide and her ears are pinned flat.
The thief is also leggy and lean, laid out still at Laura’s feet in a hooded cloak and thieves' leathers. A scarf tied over his nose obscures his identity, but there is something familiar too about the creep of his particular stink from beneath the gap of his collar, the hole in his glove. Red wine twists acrid on his breath and in his sweat, elfroot smoke baked into the cloth of his tunic and the leather of his armor.
Rarely social outside of the occasional card game, Mister Dickerson has been a fixture of Riftwatch for nearly two years.
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sam drake.
It's disorienting at first, but he's run rooftops for decades--if a little vertigo was enough to do him in, he wouldn't've made it this far to start with. And like a cliff's edge, once your senses adjust, it's worth the half-second your brain can't keep up. "Jesus Christ."
The point is, the place is beautiful, even if it feels like a hangover bearing down on you in slow motion. Undiscovered paths from long-lost peoples, whole chunks of a world just hanging there in an endless sky. He's going to be coming back here every chance he gets.
In the meanwhile, though, there's a flickering light ahead. He nods toward it. "Got any idea what that is?"
[ around kirkwall. ]
He's spent enough time at the Gallows since he was quarantined, thanks. At this point, Sam's mostly liable to be found there to sleep and eat.
The taverns get more than a little of his time (and more than a little of his coin, as a result). Gotta figure out which ones are worth hanging around at, which aren't. It's not hard to find him at a table or up at the bar, especially if there's a woman there to chat up. (Maybe you're the woman. Who knows.)
Same with the marketplace, where he's chatting with merchants, examining the merchandise, wandering around without a care in the world. And when he haggles, it's with the attitude of someone who mastered the skill long ago, doing it for the love of it. "You sure you can't go any lower? 'Cause I don't mind walking away. See? Here I go."
You might be asking yourself: Hightown? Lowtown? The docks? The alienage? Sam Drake's like a cat, though--he goes where he wants. Even, at least once, Darktown, if only out of curiosity. At one point, he grabs a skinny wrist trying to lift some cash from his jeans pocket. "I wouldn't do that, pal."
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around Kirkwall
But sometimes it is fun to do little things. That is what Doki has been doing tonight. She is in disguise, mud smeared and face wrapped to hide her tattoos, hands wrapped to hide the shard embedded in the one. And she has been doing well until right now, having fun until right now, when this man grabs her wrist and in the dark of Darktown, she looks up into his face with big round eyes--
And kicks him in the shin.
no subject
It's nothing compared to some of the damage he's taken lately, though - the gunshot that grazed his bicep's still within recent memory - and he stands firm, looking down at her in the dim light of one of the dankest neighborhoods he's ever wandered through. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"
no subject
"I am leaving," and on leaving she twists her wrist and pulls toward the spot in his grip where his thumb and forefinger come together. This is the weakest part of someone trying to hold onto you. She is not weak. Who is this man, with the stupid trousers? She will break free.
no subject
It's gotta be even easier here than it was in Tegucigalpa, down in Darktown. Find the only mark who might have some cash to pocket, and there's no authorities for him to run to. Another time, another place, he would've spent a lot of time down here.
He lifts the woman's wrist, taking away some of her leverage, up just enough that it's awkward, not quite enough to hurt. It's not the kind of shit he normally does, toying with some poor sap who thought he was a rube, but her voice sounds familiar. It's gonna bug him. "What's your name?"
no subject
"My name is not yours to know. Now you will be letting me go. If you do not, you will next find a knife in your bowels."
She does have another hand, after all. Once more she pulls, trying to yank herself free.
taverns.
Tonight: a fish story, after a fashion. (Yanev Duff, captain of a ramshackle ship chasing a sea dragon from Rivain to the Fereldan marshes only to discover there'd been no dragon all along.) It's the kind of story met with roaring laughter, that bends to an audience. (Yanev Duff, hapless navigator, hailing from wherever is most convenient based on tonight's assembly.) The story is good, and when it finishes there is a brief circuit of the room where John checks in with an older man sporting a turtle tattoo, a spate of Rivaini sailors in one corner, and finally—
"What's best tonight?" is directed at the barkeep, as John lands at the narrow, sticky strip of bar along the far wall. It prompts the woman in question to pull her attention from Sam, humming over the query as she ducks to sort through the bottle kept below.
"Apologies," is for Sam, because John isn't blind, knows when he's interrupted, and can express some sympathy for the circumstances.
no subject
(Maybe, anyway. New place, new women, new standards - it takes a couple days to know exactly how to charm your way into a free drink or under a skirt. But it felt like he was getting somewhere, and frankly, he could stand to.)
But there's something about a man in his line of business that's easy to spot, after a fashion. Maybe he's a fisherman himself, based on that story, and maybe he's a town crier screwing around - what matters is that the man's a tale-teller, probably a con artist. Maybe a con artist? New place, new criminals - he's still feeling the place out.
Not that it matters, at the moment. Sam's always loved a good story, never cared who spun it up.
"Eh," he says, waving a hand as if to say no problem, and takes a sip of his ale. "You from up there? Rivain?"
(Where Rivain is, he's not entirely sure, but he's aware that it's north of them in some form or fashion. And not a little intriguing - if not for this war business, north is where he'd be tempted to head.)
no subject
"I've conducted business there," is not necessarily an answer. John's smile widens just a fraction though, good humored. "Mostly in Llomerryn, but I've spent time on the mainland before. Long enough to pick up a few things."
Stories, and otherwise.
"But you don't sound like you're from Rivain."
no subject
His shard's currently pressed up against a tankard, unlikely to be visible. Today, he's decided to try blending in with the local color, so he's got breeches, boots, and a linen shirt that hangs a little loose on his frame. Feels like being a Renaissance fair reject, but it gets less attention than the jeans, so he's giving it an unwilling try.
If this guy's been around the Gallows and seen Sam there, the jig's up, but it's possible this is a chance to figure out a cover story or two. Once he knows where it seems like he's from - assuming Thedas' Boston equivalent is out there at all - he can start researching.
also taverns.
Or that's the assumption. It's certainly not a platform made for singers; more likely, it was meant for exclusivity and then was overrun in the course of time. The tables have been more or less permanently shoved towards the back of the platform, though it hasn't stopped patrons from occupying the tables, and then providing loud encouragement to anyone who hobbles up to begin bellowing out a tune.
It makes for a lively atmosphere, to say the least.
With one elbow braced against the edge of the bar, Derrica is covertly pointing at the matronly woman across the room.
"That's Madame Iga," she's saying, voice pitched beneath the caterwauling passing as song. "I've heard she's an Orlesian Baroness who fled south after it was found out she'd arranged the deaths of three of her husbands."
no subject
They'd talked over his rock-phone about meeting up at a place. And going for it has paid off: she's hot enough to be distracting, and she clearly knows Thedas a hell of a lot better than he does.
"She a big fan of hammering? Or getting hammered?" He's gotta ask, slouching close enough to Derrica to hear her without quite tripping over into creep territory. (By Sam Drake standards, anyway.)
no subject
Her head shakes.
"If I had to guess, hammering," she tells him. "But if I had to guess, neither. She's very..."
A pause while Derrica visibly flicks through a number of potential descriptors only to land on—
"Self-possessed."
In which self-possessed more or less stands in for terribly intimidating.
how many pickpockets can Sam Drake find this month: 2, apparently
That he likes this strange, rough-edged conman means that when his wrist is snared, the only thing that rises to meet Sam is a flash of overlong teeth— lips twisted into a sheepish, utterly demure grin.
Hello there.
"Oh, thank you for catching me, darling. Lost my footing on those damned stairs and would've fallen right on my face if not for your impressive reflexes."
beth greene.
limit 1
Turns out everyone has to go here eventually. To map it, to learn more about it--and in Beth's case, to get familiar with what it even is. And it sounds cool, magic and dreams all mixed into one. Go in with a partner, follow the paths.
But her first steps go from fascinated to seasick when she crosses the threshold of the mirror (eluvian, it's called an eluvian), her head swimming. Everything feels slightly off, a little groan escaping her as she tries to find her balance. "Um--is it supposed to--be like this?"
Almost everyone's been in Riftwatch longer than her. She's figuring her partner'll know.
[ around the gallows. ]
The Gallows is pretty nice, by Beth's standards--like the prison she used to live in, but with baths and cooks and solid doors. And after the firefights and sieges and diplomatic missions and everything else from the last month, she's pretty content to hang out there, for the most part.
Her bedroom is frequently closed up and locked tight, but sometimes she leaves the door open. Inside, it's a cozy room, with broadsides and illustrations pasted up on the walls and a small collection of figurines standing on a shelf. She's fussing with her first purchase of any consequence, a round-bellied lute not unlike the one she'd tried out in Bastien's office. Anyone on the fourth floor of the old Templar Tower is probably going to hear it being played like it's actually an acoustic guitar, strummed and plucked at all hours of the day (and some of the night).
More and more, she comes to the training yard, where she doesn't know a lot what she's doing, but she's trying. People have given her things to try, exercises to make her faster with a knife, and there's plenty of practice dummies to use them on.
Sometimes she ends up in a chapel or prayer garden, sitting quietly and staring at...well, not much. Very healthy, very normal. The chapel's a perfect place to hide during a thunderstorm, especially.
And sometimes she's at the tennis court. "You wanna play? You'll...have to tell me what the rules are here."
[ wildcard. ]
[ Want to hit me with something unexpected? Go for it. Want a bespoke starter? Grab me on plurk or discord. ]
Chapel
Lightning flashes and Edgard goes straight to the comfiest pew. (Of course he knows which one is comfiest). He throws himself down on it without looking. It's occupied.
"Sorry!" He yelps leaping up. "Beth, right?"
no subject
Her breath comes quick as she tries to recover her sense of place and time. It's just someone from Riftwatch, it's nothing. It's nothing. "Y-yeah. What're you--?"
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"Sometimes I come here to take a nap. Not usually anyone here. 's nice. Didn't see you."
He doesn't move, but tilts his head down a little, concerned. "Alright there?"
laura kint.
limit 1
Sometimes--starting around dusk, occasionally continuing right on til dawn--there's a shadow that lurks in corners and crouches on rooftops. It moves through the darkness in silence and waits for danger. And when danger arises, it leaps out and punches.
She keeps her hood up despite the heat, stays out of view, does everything she can to prevent would-be criminals from seeing who's prevented them from whatever they've attempted: theft, assault, something yet worse. But tonight, she's attacked a mugger who attacked right back, and in the fray, her cowl's knocked back from her face. (In return, she knocks him unconscious.)
It wouldn't be a problem--the mugger's victim has already run--if not for the fact that there's another shadow. Someone at the other end of the alleyway has stopped, is looking at her and the thief at her feet. She freezes, her pale face lit by the moons above, hands formed into loose fists as though to anticipate a fight.
[ around. ]
Laura can always be counted upon in a few places. The marketplaces in Kirkwall are a particular favourite, whether she's buying something or not. Her favourite stalls sell spices, jewelry, and little trinkets that exist for reasons beyond usefulness. Find her there, and she might ask your opinion of something, or simply say hello.
The dining hall in the Gallows is a reliable location as well, where she eats a surprising amount and attacks her food with a fork and one of the ghostly claws in her hands. If you haven't seen a girl with blades in her fists before, it might be a bit of a surprise.
(Or later, when the dining's over - and generally very carefully not when Mrs. Fitcher holds her usual games - she might be sat at a table with a deck of cards. Sometimes, there's a cat beside her, licking its paws. "Do you play?")
Her favourite place in the Gallows, though, is the battlements, where she can watch the sea. Did she use the staircase to get up there or climb some walls? Don't worry about it. It's a good place to be, a better place to consider talking.
wildcard.
[ Want to hit me with something unexpected? Go for it. Want a bespoke starter? Grab me on plurk or discord. ]
alleyway
She's taking what she thinks is a shortcut and catches both the start and end of a scuffle. It happens too fast for her to have to jog in but she's still quick enough to catch an instigator, standing starkly in the middle of the alleyway with two fists drawn and ready for her. Abby's adrenaline spikes, and she draws up instantly, but–
"Laura?" The name exhales out of her, the fight dying as soon as it surged.
no subject
The first inkling that something's going to be altered doesn't normally come in an alleyway. She sucks a breath in at the sound of her name, coming from a girl with a sharp nose and a frame built for brawling.
Her footsteps are silent as she closes the distance between them. The mugger lies prone behind her, halfway forgotten. In a soft, serious voice, she informs Abby, "This is a secret."
no subject
"Okay." She wants Laura to know she's serious. Abby doesn't know her, they've only just met. Of course she isn't going to fuck up– whatever this is. Interrupted murder attempt, is what she's guessing, as she's just registered that the body lying behind them on the stone is, in fact, breathing.
"Don't worry. I won't say anything." Who would she tell?
no subject
"Thank you." Laura glances back at the body of the mugger, lying prone in the alley. She did nothing to make him more comfortable. People who attack women in dark sidestreets should wake up sore. "We should go. Where are you going?"
This alley couldn't've been Abby's destination. Wherever it is, they can go together, and Laura can blend into the rest of the night.
no subject
"It's nothing." Apparently, they're becoming a group. Abby jerks her chin up the alleyway, and starts moving again, wholly expecting Laura to fall into step behind. "I was actually heading back to the Gallows, unless you know a good place to stop around here. Been exploring today."
Its been good. She feels a little more secure in her surroundings, now that she's essentially cased the joint.
no subject
"Do you want to eat food, or just drink something?" she asks, after thinking through the options.
no subject
"... This place is a lot bigger than I thought it was. Kinda thought I'd be back by now, but I got lost a few times."
no subject
no subject
"Where we headed?"
battlements.
With her chin pillowed on one hand, Derrica tips her head and says, "I heard you and Matthias have moved into the same room."
There's a gentle, teasing lilt to her tone. This is good news, surely.
no subject
A cheerful one, something that might have startled her in months or years before. Right now, she mostly looks shy. "You noticed."
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It had been hard to miss Matthias glowing his way through the Gallows. Even if Laura is more reserved, Derrica can see some of that in her too.
"Can I give you a gift? Something for both of you?"
no subject
At the thought of a gift, Laura's head tilts, curious. "Is that customary?"
no subject
To bring luck and good fortune, things Derrica thought Matthias and Laura could use, even though they're safely insulated within Riftwatch. (Mostly. The new-arrived Seeker and the small contingent of templars have not gone unnoticed.) Straightening from her slouch, she asks, "Do you want me to give it to you?"
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And a gift from Derrica is going to be thoughtful and kind. That's who Derrica is.
no subject
"It's not the kind of gift that keeps," she says, a little apologetic, as she draws a jar of honey from her bag and sets it on the stone between them. Her second dive into her satchel retrieves a cloth-wrapped parcel, which is deposited beside the jar. "But it's a sort of tradition when people make a home together to give them things like this."
And as far as Derrica is concerned, that is what Matthias and Laura are doing together. They've come together to build a little home for themselves within the Gallows, and maybe one day, they'll build something else together, somewhere else.
alleyway
The witness is a cat, dark, leggy, lean, and familiar, her shadow thrown long down the alley’s throat by the slant of a tavern’s light far behind her. Her eyes are wide and her ears are pinned flat.
The thief is also leggy and lean, laid out still at Laura’s feet in a hooded cloak and thieves' leathers. A scarf tied over his nose obscures his identity, but there is something familiar too about the creep of his particular stink from beneath the gap of his collar, the hole in his glove. Red wine twists acrid on his breath and in his sweat, elfroot smoke baked into the cloth of his tunic and the leather of his armor.
Rarely social outside of the occasional card game, Mister Dickerson has been a fixture of Riftwatch for nearly two years.