[open]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria & YOU
WHAT: Anchor-related adventures and/or drama in fantasy September.
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Some anchor and rift-related peril; open stuff is in the comments, but may use this as a catch-all. If an open prompt doesn't suit you, feel free to wildcard me or hit me up and I can write something bespoke. Prose or brackets is a-okay.

Comments

KIRKWALL. (open)

[heirring]

If there are rumors of a certain young lady having dramatically collapsed during last month's tourney, they have assuredly been greatly exaggerated. It must have been due to the heat, or to the excitement of the day, or from having had one too many cups of wine to drink. For here is the young lady herself, hiking to every corner of Kirkwall in an effort to find a great assortment of equipment which the Gallows (or its Seneschal) has either refused to provide on the basis of a lack of necessity or has only grudgingly offered to compensate her for once acquired.

In the Hightown Markets, Wysteria may be discovered studiously rifling through a great selection of poultices, creams, and various herbal remedies. She is smartly dressed and not at all out of place there in bright blues and yellows, well protected from the sun with a broad brimmed hat and thin camel colored nughide gloves. From the way she consults a sheaf of paper in her possession against each vial or pot, it is both clear that she is shopping for something most particular and that her list, such as it is, is rather extensive.

In Lowtown, the shrill sound of her voice somehow manages to carry above the ting-ting-CLANG! of an outdoor smithy, the hawking shouts of merchants, and the bleating of various animals penned here in the craft-trade streets of the lower city where they await the dark fate of either the butcher's knife or the tannery yard. Here, her bright clothes are rather less in sync with the surroundings; however, for all that Wysteria might visually stand out like an especially sore thumb in Lowtown, she gives no indication of being conscious of that fact herself. Or she is too bust lecturing the beleaguered tradesman before her—

"That is an outrageous price for an ordinary thing, sir! And I refuse to be so blatantly extorted! Half that would be closer to fair, and even that begins to stretch credibility."

Indeed if there is any sign that all is not precisely well, it is most easily viewed on the Kirkwall docks while waiting for the ferry to finish its slow creep across the harbor. It's late in the day and the humidity is heavy and wearing. Wysteria stands with a paper wrapped parcel clutched against herself, holding it with both hands so firmly that it's as if the package is illogically somehow responsible for her staying upright. She has her chin balanced on the top of the parcel too, her focus entirely reserved from the quay as it lies just past the toes of her boots. It is a poor idea to close one's eyes while in Kirkwall, but this is something adjacent to that.

Under the broad brim of her hat, she is a little pale.

[bouchonne]

A thing Byerly Rutyer cannot abide: the sight of a young woman looking frail and unwell.

Another thing Byerly Rutyer cannot abide: Wysteria Poppell.

He stands, torn, at war with himself, for perhaps a good minute. Because - not talking to her is such an appealing notion. Leaving her be. Letting her plunge into the water and - It takes the girl swaying slightly to the side for him to act; he steps up beside her and offers, stiffly -

"It would please me to carry your parcels, if it would please you to be unburdened."

[heirring]

The upward jerk of her chin as she is firmly pulled back to the present tense from out of her wandering awareness makes her teeth clack together in her skull. When Wysteria stiffens where she stands, it as much to remind herself of where exactly her feet are beneath her as it is in response to—

"Oh. Good afternoon Ambassador."

Or is it evening? No, it is still light out enough that the word would seem poorly applied. Despite the faintly waxy quality of her pallor, Wysteria is quickly donning that habitually turned up nose look which she has so often adopted rewarded him with in the past.

"No, it is hardly so heavy as all that. Though I thank you for the consideration."

[bouchonne]

And what, is he going to fight her on that? When she's taken on a look like he's a pile of manure gently wafting odors at her? Absolutely not. Every time he has endeavored to help Wysteria, every time he has tried to engage with her in any meaningful way, she has rewarded him only with contempt and biting judgment. He will be on his way.

"You look poorly."

[heirring]

"How kind of you to say."

That is contempt. It is indeed biting judgement. It also comes while she visibly attempts not to set her chin back onto the crinkling paper of the wrapped parcel's topmost edge. Is there anything so terrible in the whole wide world as being forced to be pleasant to a person who finds you so very unpleasant when you are feeling just adjacent to being under the weather? Surely not. Truly this must be the sharpest kind of mundane cruelty imaginable.

(Thank the Gods she hadn't closed her eyes. She would prefer to be damned than to know Byerly Rutyer had witnessed her being so foolish on the quay.)

"One day I hope I shall have the opportunity to return the favor."

[bouchonne]

"Unlikely," By returns, which is such an easy retort that now he is deeply worried. Usually the girl's tongue is so disagreeable that he has to put some small effort into coming up with a response. This was far too obvious.

"Sit down. I'll hold the ferry till you've a chance to climb on board." And - "Have you been to see my wife?"

[heirring]

"Much as I admire your wife's abilities, I don't believe it an ill which can be cut off."

Surely that is marginally more respectful of Lady Rutyer's chosen profession than to call her a butcher to her husband's face. That would be quite rude and she had decided many weeks ago that she was finished with all this unpleasant business. But there are better circumstances under which to not be a barb in someone's side.

She doesn't need to sit down. She is quite steady on her feet, thank you.

"How is Lady Rutyer? Very much engaged with relief efforts and the refugees, I imagine."

Kirkwall Docks

[helpinghidinghaunting]

It's very suddenly that Wysteria may feel a presence beside her - a soft one, a quiet one, belonging to an incredibly ratty and thin young man in torn leathers. His pale face is shaded deep beneath the brim of an overlarge hat, sleepless eyes cast downward. Cole can hear that she is unwell, feel the reeling, the rending, the roiling of the Rift...and he had just happened to be heading back from a day in the markets when he noticed her.

When she wasn't looking, he had dropped his invisibility, choosing instead to approach her plainly...but he doesn't stare. Mustn't stare.

Clutched in one hand is a waterskin, glistening around the cork as if it has been freshly filled. He's holding it out to her, awkwardly, his voice tiny when he finally finds it.

"...You need this." Not accusatory, no hint of derision - simple, like a child might sound.

[heirring]

She jumps.

It's a very reasonable thing for a young lady waiting alone in the young and tumble atmosphere of the dockyard to do when all her attention has drifted elsewhere and she is suddenly addressed by a stranger who she didn't clock approaching. The first thing she does is automatically thrust a hand into the expansive pocket of her skirt to be certain that everything which ought to be there still is. She is only halfway through mentally cataloging the contents—her purse, which is strung also to her belt; the Riftwatch issue light; a small pamphlet; a little notebook; a series of spare hair pins turned to forgotten hair pins thanks to the longevity of their stay at the pocket's bottom, and so on—by the time she recalculates enough to mark the waterskin she is being offered.

And then there is the boy himself, drab and sleepless looking and—

(Strange, she might think if she weren't currently chasing off a little hint of illness. Like rifts are strange, like Thedas magic glows on her mind's eye, like sensation which follows the thing which lurks quietly in the Hightown house. But she is a little ill, and so it's remarkably simple to dismiss the remarkable.)

"Oh, no. I'm quite all right. But thank you; it's very kind of you to offer."

[helpinghidinghaunting]

It isn't easy to offend Cole. He is, for the most part, blissfully unaware of how he appears to people...and so he thinks nothing of her looking over her things, checking her pockets, her purse. This place is rough, and he's stopped his share of cutpurses himself anyway.

But at her refusal, he lifts his gaze to her, oh-so-timidly, still holding the water out to her. He doesn't move closer, doesn't physically push in any way, trying to help while making sure to respect her agency.

"But. You do need this," he repeats. "You're dazed, dizzy, drowsy. This will help."

[heirring]

Under the broad brim of her hat, she sharpens a little in response. It's a relatively subtle thing, this flicker of irritation. What does she look like? Someone silly enough to take any stranger up on his sympathies? No, thank you. She has been carted off in the care of scoundrels one time too many to be quite that dim.

(Or maybe that little flicker of offense is for dazed. She is clearly perfectly alert.)

"Do you make for the Gallows?" she asks, veering sharply away from this subject of the waterskin and its contents and her alleged need. "This is the slip for the ferry which leads in that direction, you know. I don't recall having seen you there before and I am ordinarily quite well informed on such news."

[helpinghidinghaunting]

The sharper glance gets her a confused tilt of the head in response, brows knitting together a little. He turns his gaze back down towards the water, turning it over in his hands as if inspecting it for what could be wrong. He had just filled it when he felt her from a distance. But people don't always accept what they need.

"Yes," he finally answers in his tiny voice. "I am...new there. Finding my footing, feeling where I fit."

He struggles to work out how to put it best - if she's well-connected, it makes sense that she is suspicious.

"I think I have...only been a rumor, to most. I am trying."

[heirring]

"A rumor," she repeats back. It has the faintest interrogative air to it, flickering skepticism (and plainly: a poor sense of humor thanks to the heat of the day and her general misery) warring with the impulse to ask any new (alleged!) member of Riftwatch an even dozen questions.

Mentally, Wisteria wills the ferry to hurry along. If it makes it landing quickly, she might press the oarsman with questions regarding the boy's identity which would almost certainly provide tangible results. After all, he could hardly make his way to the Gallows in any other fashion.

Failing that, she will simply have to conduct her own research.

"Which is your division? Who have you spoken to?"

it's docks all the way down

[illithidnapped]

It isn’t the humidity that’s doing her in. At least— not if she’d been telling the truth the last time they’d spoken, and if that’s the case, then it undoubtedly begs the question of what in the Hells is she doing here now.

His eyes roll in passing, he takes one step— two— and then slinks back over to her side with all the directness of an animal reluctantly sniffing out a less than appetizing meal.

“Chin up, darling. Unless you want to get robbed.”

[heirring]

She stands a little straighter just by instinct. It's only in the moment directly following, the one in which she marks the familiarity of the voice and determines instantly its owner, that she frowns and stubbornly returns her chin to the top of the parcel she is carrying against herself. She goes so far now as to close her eyes as well. If another member of Riftwatch is present, it seems very unlikely that anyone would date to pick her pockets.

"Your concern is most touching, Mister Astarion. But I assure you that I know perfectly well how to conduct myself on the Kirkwall docks. I have been doing so these many years, thank you."

Some people know a thing or two about Thedas, you know.

[illithidnapped]

Yes, well, maybe he hadn’t intended to stand sentry. Maybe, in fact, he’s still inclined to leave, now that she’s made it abundantly clear she’s perfectly fine.

Only she isn’t perfectly fine. Because Astarion isn’t possessed of all his old vampiric senses, but it doesn’t take a monster to notice her pallor. The slouch in her stance.

“Why in the Hells did you even bother coming out all this way anyway? You said so yourself: you’re unwell. Not that I care if you go working yourself to death, but it hardly seems like a good way for Riftwatch to lose yet another moderately useful asset.”

[heirring]

"I was perfectly fit this morning, thank you," she says, speaking over him before he has even gotten to— "Moderately useful. I will have you know that I am a highly valued member of this company."

Citation needed.

[illithidnapped]

Astarion leans to one side, effectively tilting himself nearer with all the grace of a child slumping against a wall.

"Like this, I could replace you with a sack of flour and no one would know the difference."

[heirring]

Despite all resemblance she currently bears to either a wilting plant or an especially clammy fish belly, Wisteria's scoff of outrage manages to be remarkably powerful. It all but drives up rigidly upright, the package clutched more tightly to herself, and a frown creasing her expression so hard that it's somewhat miraculous that no permanent wrinkles are left in its wake.

"I should slap you for being so outrageously impolite. Is this how you treat all young women where you come from, Mister Astarion? Or only the ones which are feeling poorly? It is a very poor show and not at all in the slightest bit gentlemanly."

Lowtown

[thereneverwas]

Alarmed at first by that familiar screech, Barrow pauses mid-step to turn back the other way, elbowing through the crowd of shoppers and irritated onlookers until he can properly catch sight of Wysteria.

It occurs to him only after he's pushed his way through that she doesn't seem to be especially imperiled, rather the opposite; with the way the merchant is cowering in her wake, perhaps this is best left alone.

Unfortunately, Barrow has already made himself known. He glances at Wysteria, then gives a furtive little point in the direction of the merchant-- everything all right? the gesture says, as much as he'd like to turn around and leave.

[heirring]

"—And here is my partner himself! And if you didn't believe my expertise on the subject, then you will certainly take him at this word isn't that right, Warden?"

Leaving will evidently be out of the question. Without breaking stride in her monologue, Wysteria beckons him closer.

"You will please tell this man that we have thoroughly done our research on the subject, and that we refuse to have an expedition into the Deep Roads as important as this one put at risk by someone who seems to believe that I have no idea what proper sets of climbing gear ought to cost. For I have explained to him the market rate and what I am willing to pay today and how he shall have the remaining sum with interest upon our return. It is an entirely reasonable offer, particularly when we are being accompanied by a Warden and all but assured of a safe return. Isn't that right, Warden?"

You're a Warden now Barrow, says her piercing look.

[thereneverwas]

"What," Barrow amiably intones, pinned by Wysteria's gaze and abruptly wondering why he ever came here: to this circle of people, to Kirkwall, to Riftwatch, etc.

Nonetheless, he's in it now, and bluffing is an important part of the many games he plays. So Barrow shuffles nearer to Wysteria, suddenly looking quite confident and serious.

"Yes," he decides, "that's right."

[heirring]

The flush of relief is palpable in her face. Luckily, the tradesman in question has little motivation to detect an obvious lie so much as he clearly simply desires to escape this whole conversation. He is glancing off in some direction which holds neither of them, searching the metaphorical horizon for some motivation to extract himself with.

Evidently only one person in this conversation is very eager to have it. Happily, she is ready to fill the void where anyone else might speak all on her own.

"And so you see, we will agree on the value and terms as presented and I will return next week to review and receive what you have acquired on my behalf. I am willing to even put this partial payment up right away, which is considerably more than I ought to do. Imagine! Paying to receive nothing at all in return for a whole week or more. It indicates a great deal of faith in you as a businessman, sir."

Finally, the beleaguered merchant turns his attention over Wysteria's head to Barrow. In the key of pure misery, he asks, "Are you really a Warden?"

[thereneverwas]

Barrow knows that look well, on account of nearly wearing it himself. But the question is clear: whether to worsen the day of a stranger, to whom he'll likely never have to prove himself again, or to aggravate Wysteria in her mission, which he will no doubt hear about for the rest of his life and possibly longer.
It's really no choice at all.

"Like the lady says," he replies brusquely, casting her a sidelong look as if to say: I better get an expensive drink out of this.

[heirring]

He is almost certainly not a Warden, says the merchant's expression, but as they say: any port in a storm. So after a moment, the man slowly extends his hand to Wysteria. She eagerly delivers her sheaf of papers into it, and then follows it with a simple cloth purse clinking and clanking with coin.

"Very good. Now, if you will supply me with a stamped letter of intent so that I may return here and collect in a week's time then I will be on my way."

And thus, with a miserable grunt, the trader retreats to his place in the shade. In this short interim, Wysteria flashes Barrow a very wide smile. And then back comes her merchant with a bit of parchment. It's thrust into her hands and promptly squirreled away somewhere on her person.

"Thank you and good day sir. Now come along Warden, we have much to discuss!"

Heel, turn, etc. She mercilessly links arms with Barrow and makes to dredge him along with her.