WHO: Two Geckos + an assortment of guest stars WHAT: Summary of content WHEN: Late Bloomingtide WHERE: The Gallows, misc. Kirkwall haunts. NOTES: Will update as needed.
Two weeks isn't much in the grand scheme of things, but it gets old fast.
Worse, for the creeping sense of being enclosed, trapped somewhere he can't slip from. It's on an island. The construction on the windows can't dispel the claustrophobic effect of the building's architecture.
But two weeks. He can do two weeks, and then they can really get to work.
In the meantime, one can come across Seth occupying himself by—
● Sweet-talking his way into the kitchen, and into possession of a jug of wine ● Swinging a sword loosely around the training yard, scoffing at a practice dummy. ● Parked at the top of the stairs, observing the coming and going of the ferry.
KIRKWALL.
A con man walks into a Ren Faire—
No, the joke's on Seth.
But look hard enough, familiar bullshit present itself. Here, a card game. Seth doesn't completely grasp the rules, but a strong bluff gets a man anywhere and everywhere. Elbow on the table, glint of green pressed down against the sticky tabletop, Seth eyes the growing assortment of gold, trinkets and chits in the center of the table before leaning back to the vaguely recognizable face alongside him to mutter—
"These the type of guys who take it personal if they lose big?"
Not that it'll change the outcome, but its the kind of thing that's good to know.
The last ferry of the night rolls in, and someone exits with a weary but dogged tread. Probably not looking forward to climbing all those stairs.
It's been raining, so Ellie has her hood pulled up, hasn't bothered to pull it down yet, and by the mud and soot-smeared look of her she's fresh back from a trip. She looks like she belongs in this world, even down to the dull gleam of Fade-touched crystal worked into the body of the bow slung across her back.
"Fuuuuck me," she whispers to herself as she starts up, but doesn't pause, even when she catches sight of Seth at the top of the stairs.
New guy.
She pauses for a second, considering, and reaches up to push her hood down.
"Waiting for somebody?" she asks, and without waiting for an answer, gestures out at the retreating ferry. "That's the last one."
Something to remember: last ferry at whatever the fuck o'clock.
Seth's counted up the circuits that boatman's been making, and it's imprecise, but better than nothing. Still makes him want to break something for want of a watch.
"Just killing time," Seth tells her, tipping the tankard in his hand back over his shoulder as he takes her in. Marks the bow. The cloak. Figures: local. "Not much happening on this rock after dock."
And there is, of course, the calculation Seth has been making frequently: who the fuck is going to stop him from getting on that boat?
But pushing the envelope just for the sake of it is a bonehead move. Seth comes to that conclusion time and again, despite the gnawing boredom that builds with every day sent rattling around the Gallows. (Nevermind worrying for Richie, how long he can hold out until his next meal.)
Ellie gives him a knowing nod, glancing from the ferry back up to the man perched on the stone steps above her like he wants to take off. She can feel the trapped-animal energy of him from here.
Ellie's carried that feeling into every single place FEDRA put her since her memories began, into Jackson as a far too self-reliant kid, into the cellar beneath a bar where she had nothing but a hospital gown and a stolen dart from the game board upstairs.
She understands it, though that sort of thing doesn't always tip good when gravity pulls them down.
"Ellie," she says back, without the smartass comments she could make about him not offering his name first. God, she misses Lance. He'd know what to do for the new people who fall through the Rifts. She always feels worse than useless, but he'd say that the fact that she feels that she had to do anything at all is more than most people.
She trudges her way up, stops just across the landing from him and leans against the handrail, giving him the up and down. Nothing sexual about it, though he's a good looking guy, if she's going by aesthetics.
"Scouting," she adds, and holds up her left hand. The fingerless gloves do a good job of covering the anchor shard, so she tugs back the edge, giving him that flash of green.
It's scrutiny repaid in kind. Seth sizes her up, doesn't bother hiding it just like he doesn't hide the examination of her hand, since she's offering.
Nevermind when he arrived, how long has she been here? What's the run time on looking like a Lord of the Rings character, milling around like this is business as usual? But he already got an answer for free, and word probably travels fast in a place like this, so—
"A week, give or take a day," he tells her, tankard shifting hands so he can turn one palm up, mirror her tell. Green shit, gouged in a big slash from the center down to the heel of his palm. "They didn't do a great job of selling the place to us on the way in, and two weeks cooling my heels didn't improve the outlook."
Seth doesn't do well in confinement. Maybe this isn't that, technically, but it feels close.
Like seeing like, even if she has no idea what he comes from, or what he can do. She can spot trapped and angry. She nods at his anchor, drops down to sit at the top of the stairs, one leg pulled up -- still about two people's space between them, well out of range.
He doesn't dismiss her based on her looks, and that's both a point in his favor and a mark of someone having been through some shit.
She muffles a yawn, nods an answer to his question.
"A couple weeks, yeah. They've had fucking- reincarnations of destroyers of worlds come in through the Rifts before. Can't blame them for being careful about letting that shit loose."
Ellie shrugs slightly.
"He didn't turn out to be the worst guy. He's got a few pets now." A beat, as she rocks her head from side to side, because that's her fucking "normal" now.
She pauses, maybe for too long, looking out at the water.
Uninvited company, but hey, how much can Seth really complain about it?
He and Richie both knew there were limits on what they could find out on their own. At some point, they'd have to start asking questions, having conversations. So if Ellie's volunteering, who is Seth to turn down the opportunity?
"You stow away on that barge, or snorkle your way over?" He asks, balancing the tankard on one knee. "Between you and me, it doesn't seem like the security here is all that focused."
As in, if he left, who would notice?
Delicately side-stepping the entirety of reincarnation, destroyer of worlds namedrop. Seth's just shucked off one of those. He doesn't need to tangle with another any time soon.
"Stowaway," she says with a shrug, which is more impressive than it might seem at first. It's a ferry, not a ship, and the places to hide are rather limited.
"And yeah- they officially put the quarantine in place 'cause somebody came in sick, once. I don't know all the details, but given that you guys are allowed to talk to us, and we're allow to go out, my guess is that they care a lot more about making sure they can trace problems than anything."
She pauses.
"It wouldn't surprise me if Yseult knew." At the time she thought she'd gotten away with it, but now she's not so sure. "Scoutmaster."
Ellie purses her lips in thought. "I've been places where quarantine meant a bunker underground, and not being allowed to carry weapons."
She snuck out of that one too, but she vastly prefers this.
Scoutmaster Yseult. A name to file away for further inspection. Someone to watch out for, probably. Richie's dinner plans are going to require finesse.
"Doomsday prep bullshit?" he prompts, though the weapons rule doesn't quite fit. What's a prepper without an ammo stockpile?
Something to chew on while Seth considers what she's imparting about quarantine. What it says about tracing problems. That's not a great sign either, considering the Geckos track record of creating problems.
A practice dummy is barely any fun. Perhaps the new kid on the block would like a moving target, one lingering on the fringes of the training yard, in the process of stretching her quads. They're the only two people out here; the easy, loping swings of the stranger cut into the silence of the afternoon. She watches him swing, a few more times, then calls out.
"Oi."
She's in a leather vest that leaves her arms free but for the thin, training gambeson underneath. They're like that so she can swing her mace all the wilder (not that she's going to be using it against this guy, cuz. What an intro, right). "Wanna spar?"
"Fair." She drops it, leaning the handle up against one post of the fence that skirts the training yard. Sparring with somebody else (somebody new) will always be more useful to Abby than her usual routines; now she's warmed up, limber, and interested in him.
She adds as she approaches, "You can keep the sword. If you want."
A bit cheeky, but- well. Maybe it's in his best interest.
But maybe she's bigger than him, Seth still pegs her as younger. Not a kid, but close enough that even casual banter precludes the idea of bringing a sword into this.
"They really stuck in the dark ages around here? Not a single piece in that whole shack."
And his own is inoperable. Seth needs to submit a bill to someone for the inconvenience of it.
Dryly, "They just invented muskets," if you could call whatever Wysteria has been pouring over in her workshop when she isn't out losing arms a musket, "So don't hold your breath."
She cracks her knuckles. "S'that how you usually fight?" With a gun, instead of his hands? So she has an idea of how this is going to go, of course.
A pulled face in return, carrying the silent acknowledgement: Wow, muskets.
Richie would probably be interested, and it's not that Seth doesn't recognize at least the potential. It's just, what is he supposed to do with a fucking musket? Even if he can pry it away from it's mad scientist keeper.
But that's not the question.
"Hey, not a lot of people arguing with a shotgun in their face," is the first, aggrieved protest. "But for your information, I've done just fine with two fists and a ring."
Tiffany can regularly be found in the yard. Riftwatch life is life without a schedule--which she's mostly grown used to, now, or at least as she used to it as she's ever likely to be. Still, training makes for a good set of markers to the day, like waypoints on a map.
She's been working at it for some time. Sweat stands on her brow and small bits of her hair have escaped her once-tight plait. She flicks the length of it over her shoulder and gives a little smile. One elbow keeps her sword upright, with the point of it planted in the soil of the yard.
"They can't have any limbs lopped off accidentally, which is quite a large plus when you're training with live steel."
The aimless looping swings come to a halt. Seth hitches the sword up to rest the flat of the blade on one shoulder.
"Thanks for the pointer."
Only a little dry over the words. Seth assumes every single thing he's done since showing up in this spot has telegraphed how little he knows what he's doing. Medieval weapons, not really his wheelhouse.
"Any other hints I need to know? Hands off the sharp spot, aim for the head, all that good shit."
"Hands off the sharp spot, don't drop the sword, aim for the head, end it quickly." It's sunny already, and Tiffany takes the chance to step backwards into the shadow cast by the wall. That gives some relief. She smiles.
"My master of arms always told us to act with education and with confidence. Learn, and then, once you know what you're doing, don't be weak in doing it. Commit to each blow. I've always thought that was good advice even off of the field of battle."
Master of arms? The closest Seth ever had to that was Uncle Eddie, whose enduring advice—
Well, nothing as inspirational as what's being imparted here.
"What'd your master of arms have to tell someone who'd never held a sword in their life?"
Or at least, never held one properly. Richie can probably download a cheat sheet for this, but Seth was going to be stuck figuring this out the old fashioned way: from scratch.
It's a joke. Ser Beechworth was never so negative. Harsh, but a believer. Tiffany gives the newcomer a smile to take any sting out of her sarcasm. A little shrug to take some of the rest.
"But if that's not an option, he would suggest to get a good tutor. I'm one of those, if you're interested. There's a few others with Riftwatch, if it turns out we don't suit one another."
She hefts her sword, light and expert, gives a neat little twist of her wrist. The blade flashes in the sunlight. It looks pretty and cool and like she knows what she's doing, because she very much does.
But also because so far there's nothing objectionable. She's here, she's holding a sword. Why waste time finding a new person to embarrass himself in front of.
"What's step one?"
No attempt yet to mimic the twist of her wrist, but he does adopt the position of her hand on the hilt of his own sword. Step one, probably a hand position thing, if Uncle Eddie's firearms training has any crossover.
Tony's been watching the game, and the case of beginner's luck or bullshitter's fortune that seems to be happening. Got to the end of his tankard and took over an empty chair when one presented itself.
Why not? You need to lose money to lose money.
"Nah," he says, as he flags down a server for a refill, tone quiet but tempo up. Adjacent accents. "Everyone's just having fun here, in the criminal poverty-stricken underbelly of Camelot. Why, you planning on winning, now?"
"Please. What're you gonna spend it on, ale? Wenches? They don't even have cocaine yet."
Less critical of Seth's choices, more critical of Kirkwall's ability to actually give someone a good time. At least, by Tony's standards of a decade ago, but still.
He taps his hand against the table, fanning his cards, doing the math as a matter of habit. All card games are fundamentally the same, at a certain point.
What shitty prospects. It's not that Seth wasn't aware of the limitations, but hearing them laid out still manages to be depressing. No prospects and no exit. What a fucking hand they've been dealt.
"Opportunity will present itself," is what Seth settles on. But the bigger question: "You a tourist on this immersive Renaissance Faire ride too?"
The cadence says as much, just a few beats off from the local flavor, even if the invocation of cocaine didn't. It's not "out of town," it's "out of world." If Seth had to gamble on it, that's what he'd lay his money down on.
Which, speaking of—
Two more coins, nudged into the pot. Confident in what's coming to him, at least.
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seth / ota.
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It's been raining, so Ellie has her hood pulled up, hasn't bothered to pull it down yet, and by the mud and soot-smeared look of her she's fresh back from a trip. She looks like she belongs in this world, even down to the dull gleam of Fade-touched crystal worked into the body of the bow slung across her back.
"Fuuuuck me," she whispers to herself as she starts up, but doesn't pause, even when she catches sight of Seth at the top of the stairs.
New guy.
She pauses for a second, considering, and reaches up to push her hood down.
"Waiting for somebody?" she asks, and without waiting for an answer, gestures out at the retreating ferry. "That's the last one."
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Seth's counted up the circuits that boatman's been making, and it's imprecise, but better than nothing. Still makes him want to break something for want of a watch.
"Just killing time," Seth tells her, tipping the tankard in his hand back over his shoulder as he takes her in. Marks the bow. The cloak. Figures: local. "Not much happening on this rock after dock."
And there is, of course, the calculation Seth has been making frequently: who the fuck is going to stop him from getting on that boat?
But pushing the envelope just for the sake of it is a bonehead move. Seth comes to that conclusion time and again, despite the gnawing boredom that builds with every day sent rattling around the Gallows. (Nevermind worrying for Richie, how long he can hold out until his next meal.)
"Got a name?"
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Ellie's carried that feeling into every single place FEDRA put her since her memories began, into Jackson as a far too self-reliant kid, into the cellar beneath a bar where she had nothing but a hospital gown and a stolen dart from the game board upstairs.
She understands it, though that sort of thing doesn't always tip good when gravity pulls them down.
"Ellie," she says back, without the smartass comments she could make about him not offering his name first. God, she misses Lance. He'd know what to do for the new people who fall through the Rifts. She always feels worse than useless, but he'd say that the fact that she feels that she had to do anything at all is more than most people.
She trudges her way up, stops just across the landing from him and leans against the handrail, giving him the up and down. Nothing sexual about it, though he's a good looking guy, if she's going by aesthetics.
"Scouting," she adds, and holds up her left hand. The fingerless gloves do a good job of covering the anchor shard, so she tugs back the edge, giving him that flash of green.
"When'd you drop through?"
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Nevermind when he arrived, how long has she been here? What's the run time on looking like a Lord of the Rings character, milling around like this is business as usual? But he already got an answer for free, and word probably travels fast in a place like this, so—
"A week, give or take a day," he tells her, tankard shifting hands so he can turn one palm up, mirror her tell. Green shit, gouged in a big slash from the center down to the heel of his palm. "They didn't do a great job of selling the place to us on the way in, and two weeks cooling my heels didn't improve the outlook."
Seth doesn't do well in confinement. Maybe this isn't that, technically, but it feels close.
"They do the same for you?"
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He doesn't dismiss her based on her looks, and that's both a point in his favor and a mark of someone having been through some shit.
She muffles a yawn, nods an answer to his question.
"A couple weeks, yeah. They've had fucking- reincarnations of destroyers of worlds come in through the Rifts before. Can't blame them for being careful about letting that shit loose."
Ellie shrugs slightly.
"He didn't turn out to be the worst guy. He's got a few pets now." A beat, as she rocks her head from side to side, because that's her fucking "normal" now.
She pauses, maybe for too long, looking out at the water.
"I snuck out," she confesses. "A couple times."
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He and Richie both knew there were limits on what they could find out on their own. At some point, they'd have to start asking questions, having conversations. So if Ellie's volunteering, who is Seth to turn down the opportunity?
"You stow away on that barge, or snorkle your way over?" He asks, balancing the tankard on one knee. "Between you and me, it doesn't seem like the security here is all that focused."
As in, if he left, who would notice?
Delicately side-stepping the entirety of reincarnation, destroyer of worlds namedrop. Seth's just shucked off one of those. He doesn't need to tangle with another any time soon.
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"And yeah- they officially put the quarantine in place 'cause somebody came in sick, once. I don't know all the details, but given that you guys are allowed to talk to us, and we're allow to go out, my guess is that they care a lot more about making sure they can trace problems than anything."
She pauses.
"It wouldn't surprise me if Yseult knew." At the time she thought she'd gotten away with it, but now she's not so sure. "Scoutmaster."
Ellie purses her lips in thought. "I've been places where quarantine meant a bunker underground, and not being allowed to carry weapons."
She snuck out of that one too, but she vastly prefers this.
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"Doomsday prep bullshit?" he prompts, though the weapons rule doesn't quite fit. What's a prepper without an ammo stockpile?
Something to chew on while Seth considers what she's imparting about quarantine. What it says about tracing problems. That's not a great sign either, considering the Geckos track record of creating problems.
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"Oi."
She's in a leather vest that leaves her arms free but for the thin, training gambeson underneath. They're like that so she can swing her mace all the wilder (not that she's going to be using it against this guy, cuz. What an intro, right). "Wanna spar?"
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An unnecessary stipulation, probably. It can be assumed they are on the same team, after all. But still.
One last swing before Seth brings the sword around in a lazy arch to meet the training dummy's side with a loud thock. The blade sinks in, and sticks.
Hold that.
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She adds as she approaches, "You can keep the sword. If you want."
A bit cheeky, but- well. Maybe it's in his best interest.
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If this wasn't a friendly fight, he might have.
But maybe she's bigger than him, Seth still pegs her as younger. Not a kid, but close enough that even casual banter precludes the idea of bringing a sword into this.
"They really stuck in the dark ages around here? Not a single piece in that whole shack."
And his own is inoperable. Seth needs to submit a bill to someone for the inconvenience of it.
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She cracks her knuckles. "S'that how you usually fight?" With a gun, instead of his hands? So she has an idea of how this is going to go, of course.
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Richie would probably be interested, and it's not that Seth doesn't recognize at least the potential. It's just, what is he supposed to do with a fucking musket? Even if he can pry it away from it's mad scientist keeper.
But that's not the question.
"Hey, not a lot of people arguing with a shotgun in their face," is the first, aggrieved protest. "But for your information, I've done just fine with two fists and a ring."
More or less.
"I'm not delicate, so don't worry about that."
quarantine - the training yard.
Tiffany can regularly be found in the yard. Riftwatch life is life without a schedule--which she's mostly grown used to, now, or at least as she used to it as she's ever likely to be. Still, training makes for a good set of markers to the day, like waypoints on a map.
She's been working at it for some time. Sweat stands on her brow and small bits of her hair have escaped her once-tight plait. She flicks the length of it over her shoulder and gives a little smile. One elbow keeps her sword upright, with the point of it planted in the soil of the yard.
"They can't have any limbs lopped off accidentally, which is quite a large plus when you're training with live steel."
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The aimless looping swings come to a halt. Seth hitches the sword up to rest the flat of the blade on one shoulder.
"Thanks for the pointer."
Only a little dry over the words. Seth assumes every single thing he's done since showing up in this spot has telegraphed how little he knows what he's doing. Medieval weapons, not really his wheelhouse.
"Any other hints I need to know? Hands off the sharp spot, aim for the head, all that good shit."
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"My master of arms always told us to act with education and with confidence. Learn, and then, once you know what you're doing, don't be weak in doing it. Commit to each blow. I've always thought that was good advice even off of the field of battle."
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Master of arms? The closest Seth ever had to that was Uncle Eddie, whose enduring advice—
Well, nothing as inspirational as what's being imparted here.
"What'd your master of arms have to tell someone who'd never held a sword in their life?"
Or at least, never held one properly. Richie can probably download a cheat sheet for this, but Seth was going to be stuck figuring this out the old fashioned way: from scratch.
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It's a joke. Ser Beechworth was never so negative. Harsh, but a believer. Tiffany gives the newcomer a smile to take any sting out of her sarcasm. A little shrug to take some of the rest.
"But if that's not an option, he would suggest to get a good tutor. I'm one of those, if you're interested. There's a few others with Riftwatch, if it turns out we don't suit one another."
She hefts her sword, light and expert, gives a neat little twist of her wrist. The blade flashes in the sunlight. It looks pretty and cool and like she knows what she's doing, because she very much does.
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Just a passing observation: she's pretty.
But also because so far there's nothing objectionable. She's here, she's holding a sword. Why waste time finding a new person to embarrass himself in front of.
"What's step one?"
No attempt yet to mimic the twist of her wrist, but he does adopt the position of her hand on the hilt of his own sword. Step one, probably a hand position thing, if Uncle Eddie's firearms training has any crossover.
deal me in.
Why not? You need to lose money to lose money.
"Nah," he says, as he flags down a server for a refill, tone quiet but tempo up. Adjacent accents. "Everyone's just having fun here, in the criminal poverty-stricken underbelly of Camelot. Why, you planning on winning, now?"
welcome.
Though an equal draw: anyone with a vernacular that feels familiar, and not straight out of Beowulf.
"And this stipend's only going to stretch so far without a little help, so."
A gloved hand tipping cards up, the black and gray pattern on the back on display. Gambling. Because what, was Seth going to get a real job?
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Less critical of Seth's choices, more critical of Kirkwall's ability to actually give someone a good time. At least, by Tony's standards of a decade ago, but still.
He taps his hand against the table, fanning his cards, doing the math as a matter of habit. All card games are fundamentally the same, at a certain point.
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"Opportunity will present itself," is what Seth settles on. But the bigger question: "You a tourist on this immersive Renaissance Faire ride too?"
The cadence says as much, just a few beats off from the local flavor, even if the invocation of cocaine didn't. It's not "out of town," it's "out of world." If Seth had to gamble on it, that's what he'd lay his money down on.
Which, speaking of—
Two more coins, nudged into the pot. Confident in what's coming to him, at least.