open. “Please tell a story about a girl who gets away.”

[delphian]

WHO: Tsenka Abendroth + YOU?
WHAT: Tsenka takes a bath. A lot.
WHEN: After the skeleton wars.
WHERE: The heated baths in the former Templar tower.
NOTES: Nudity, discussion of trauma, the uzh.

Against all of the odds stacked heavily out of her favour, Tsenka Abendroth is alive. She has survived her first, unlikely rescue; she has endured time in the infirmary, ensuring that having made it to the Gallows she wouldn't simply collapse with all of the foundations of her taken away. She has survived, again, the attack on the Gallows itself by what Riftwatch left behind in Nevarra City—it feels like a thread pulling tight, somehow, her Nevarran name buying her freedom and the Nevarran dead coming to take it away from her again—

she is alive. She is with Riftwatch because she has chosen to be, and not for any other reason. If she decided the choice didn't suit her any longer, she could leave. She has been released from the infirmary under her own power, and she can choose any unused room she wishes,

but right now, she has decided to choose the baths. Tsenka is not, typically, given to overindulgence in luxurious hygiene, but it's been actual years since she's had the leisure to do or not do at her own inclination. Bathing, during captivity, had been...nonexistent, if one were not to stretch the definition to include the occasional bucket of cold water thrown on her if she seemed like she might be sleeping easy. There had certainly not been any soap involved. At liberty to do as she pleases until she can commit to doing something useful to anyone else, it pleases her to set up camp in a corner of the heated baths with a clean robe and towels, a platter of food she'd gathered from mealtimes and the occasional application of large, sad eyes. A bottle of cheap wine, easier to drink from directly with hot, wet hands than fuss about with cups or glasses—some incense that she'd found, and had set up to burn where the ash would fall directly into the water, making it much easier to clean up after.

A few books, though she hasn't figured out the best way to read them without getting them wet, yet. Her crystal. Scissors, because even wet it's obvious that about half her hair is a good several inches different from the rest.

She will be here for some time.

Comments

[acreage]

The first surprise is the funny collection of things — open bottle of wine, the food and books, the unexpected smell of incense. The second is the face surrounded by uneven hair, unfamiliar. New arrivals aren't altogether rare around the Gallows, and a part of him wonders whether she's another who got spat out of a rift, or a local to Thedas. Hard to say without seeing her hands.

His own are in gloves despite the location. It's cold out, though, and he's had to dress for the walk as much as bring bathing implements, a clean change of clothes.

"Enjoying yourself?"

— is asked with a kind of indulgent amusement, not unkind. He's not sure how amenable she really is to interruption, and so it's a sort of quick question asked before he goes to undress, himself, and probably take up (briefer) residence at another pool of warm water.

[poleaxed]

The baths are good, because everyone generally minds their own business. Even Jone, generally outgoing to a literal fault, can appreciate some quiet. She just prefers to be alone in company. A form of rolling muscle, old scars and red hair makes its way into the bathing area, and Jone sits calmly, expression stoney.

She's usually not prone to such stoicism, but the clearly new scar through her upper lip inspires something like calm, lest she pop a stitch and make it worse. She is trying not to focus too much on vanity-- she isn't pretty enough to be vain-- and think instead on the fact that if this doesn't heal right, she won't be able to talk right.

Fucking pain in the mouth, aye?

She makes a coughing sound, catching a laugh at her own stupid joke before it can escape.

She notices the elf, because she's a fighter and it befuckinghooves her to notice everyone else in a room she enters. The elf doesn't really register-- most don't-- until she sees the scissors, and Jone is a woman who has cut her own hair several times. It's always a kick in the dick.

She holds up one too-large, utterly human hand and gestures to the shears. Her words are slow and careful, spoken around the sutures holding the upper half of her fucking mouth together. "Need a trim?"

Say what you will about Jone's looks (and many have), but her hair is always neat and orderly.

[overharrowed]

Someone setting up camp in the bathrooms is unusual, but not unheard of, especially as it gets colder outside. What gives Julius pause, instead, is that the woman who has done so looks familiar. He can't immediately place why, but the familiarity is still a tug that's hard to ignore.

Instead of just guessing, he decides to take the risk and simply ask. He comes over, robed and likely coming to rather than from a bath (or, at least, his hair is dry). "I'm so sorry to bother you. Have we met before?"

[luaithre]

Marcus remembers distinctly, the question: is it safe.

And he had affirmed that it was, and then, in short order, it wasn't. This isn't anything he is concerning himself with too terribly—he still believes in the Gallows as a haven, a fortress, a place worthy of guarding and protecting—but it's worth acknowledging that safe is not correct, even before the invasion of red lyrium riddled skeletons. He'd already drafted up procedures around evacuating and defense by the time Tsenka had reached for him, the lines on the maps are shifting closer, and it's worth saying out loud: they're at active war.

But. They, too, have skewed perceptions of safety. Was there ever a time they were in the Gallows, back then, that they weren't simply waiting for the next bad thing? That, at least for Marcus, feels a world away, especially now as they sit in the bath house, the air warm and damp from the latest rise of hot water. He has brought down some things for her, a robe to retain her warmth and soak up excess water. He is dressed informally, himself, shoes and coat left at the door.

And the comfortable silence is puncture with the snk of scissors as he painstakingly evens out sections of her hair, trying to remember if it had been her own sawing blade that had made this mess, or his own.

"There are places even in Lowtown," he's saying, instead of about dragons or skeletons or army movements, "that will clean you up well for only a few silver."

There is, actually, quite a lot to say that he hasn't, but not out of avoidance. Simply, it seems vital to also recommend her to salons, and speak of her wages, and ensure she has good boots and clean linens and knows who to ask for more food, if she's hungry, and on and on.

arrives very late.

[tender]

"I'll help you with those, if you'll share the wine," Derrica offers, in lieu of greeting.

It comes as she sits along the edge of the bath, easing into the water. Feet first, then calves as she settles. Her hair is damp already, but she hasn't yet shrugged out of her robe.

What to say to this woman? In all the chaos of collecting her, Derrica still knows precious little of her. Marcus cares deeply about her. That is clear beyond question. But whatever else—

Derrica could ask Marcus. But Tsenka is here, and she looks contented enough, and Derrica thinks there are worse places to get familiar with someone.