(OPEN) you've been feeling smaller, take a different number

[sprent]

WHO: Gela & YOU
WHAT: Arriving, in a rush
WHEN: Early Solace
WHERE: Gallows
NOTES: No warnings so far, will update as needed!


ARRIVAL

The night she arrives is weatherish and especially dark, what with the moon concealed away behind a thick measure of cloud. The spell might have passed but Gela's coat has long since given up pretending to be waterproof; while it isn't particularly cold out, waterlogged socks are ruining her boots. It's not the worst night she's ever walked through by far but, well. It's up there.

And the Gallows, to her, look... closed.

Oh, no. That can't be right.

There is an hatched iron gate across the entrance, and Gela curls her hands around the metal, squinting through the rain and gloom for anybody on the other side. A quick glance over her shoulder confirms: the ferry has already turned around to complete its last leg for the night. There should be somebody there, if a watch is aware of the schedule...

"Helloooo?" She calls, loud as she can. Hopefully somebody nearby is on post, or near enough to it.

GALLOWS

Despite trying her level best to blend in with her new surroundings, there are, inevitably, moments she sticks out like a sore thumb.

The dining hall early in the morning is mostly empty and it's where Gela chooses to eat her breakfast like a starving person, shoveling spoonfuls. The mug of hot water beside her could be mistaken for a vase as she's shoved in various kinds of leaves still on the twig; she alternates between inhaling her food and taking ample time to surreptitiously watch every single person who passes through the dining hall on their way elsewhere.

And oh, aren't communal baths a sight. Gela thinks this might become her favourite place in time, and spends her first evening visit either up to her neck in the warm, or sitting on the edge of the baths with her bare legs making slow kicks under the surface. She's away by miles with eyes half-lidded, contemplative. When her hair is gathered and tied back, the jagged notch missing out of her ear is visible, as is the deep trench of a scar across her neck.

And no matter how 'with it' you try to appear, in a place so big, it can be hard to know where to start. Such a moment has befallen Gela, shamefully reduced to catching the attention of somebody passing through the courtyard to ask, "Pardon, 'scuse me, a moment– could you point me in the right direction? I'm lookin' for the diplomacy office. Can't work out which tower to be in."

Her smile is wide-eyed; she's out of breath. She may have been up one of the towers already.

NETWORK

A voice curls over the crystals in the early hours of morning, soft and sleepless. "Any charms available for a wretched night?"

Comments

arrival.

[luaithre]

The Gallows are big. The manpower spared towards a consistent watch is small, but they make do. It does mean that being in charge of its management does not exclude Marcus from participating, but he has never truly minded, taking as many nightly shifts as any other member of Forces. There is a meditative quality to roaming its high walls, and something assuring about seeing with his own eyes that all is safe and well.

Anyway. It's raining. A voice calls out from the iron gate.

She will hear footfalls, boots against smooth stone, unhurried from the other side of the gate. The swing and flare of a hooded lantern, and a cloaked figure approaching, hefting what appears to be a very menacing bladed staff strapped behind his shoulder.

[sprent]

At first the only answer is the echo of Gela's own voice bouncing back at her off stone; second, the fall of the rain. She is waiting and listening hard when the footfalls make themselves known.

Smoothing out her tired expression into something friendly takes seconds.

"Hello," she says again, relieved. She wipes her face off on her wet forearm, "You must be the welcomin' committee I was told to wait for."

[luaithre]

The welcomin' committee stops just out of arm's range of the gate, a frank assessment delivered up and down her. There is nothing very friendly or, indeed, welcoming, dour in the rain, cold-eyed with tracks of scarring like forked rivers on his face. Assessing her, and her relief.

"We aren't expecting anyone new," Marcus tells her, in case she's considering trying to convince him otherwise. The accent is a lilting Starkhaven brogue. "Who are you?"

[sprent]

Gela's heart skips a beat. She pushes through the little shock, the low swoop in her stomach. To answer the first question, "I didn't tell anyone I was comin'."

Surprise!; her would-be saviour is not impressed. Okay. She glances down at herself briefly and wishes she hadn't, because sodden clothes and hood plastered to her head don't make for the best first impression.

Drawing herself up straighter, she stick a cold hand through one of the gaps in the iron gate and says, "Gela. Heard in Kirkwall you're lookin' for numbers. Well- here I am." Her accent is, deceptively, Nevarran, even underneath of a harder r than usual, and a odd lilt to her sentences. Cobbled together from a bit of everything: that's Gela.

[luaithre]

There's an evaluating silence that follows, unmindful of the rain, her expectant hand jarred through the gate. Marcus skims a look past her, in case there are any shadows further back to pick out, and when there are none, he moves closer. The lantern is lifted, golden firelight spilling across her face so he can get a better look.

Lowered, then, and the jangle of keys follows as he fishes them from somewhere under the drape of his cloak.

"We are," he confirms, as he unlocks the hatch, rather than shake her hand. "We provide food, board, and a stipend in exchange of service in the war against Corypheus." The look he tips to her is skeptical in his assessment, but he opens the door. "There are certainly less demanding places in Kirkwall you could get the same, for less."

[sprent]

Gela doesn't mind a bit so long as he keeps unlocking that hatch for her. In the event of nobody coming along she would have had to make a miserable camp up against the wall and wait for somebody to notice her there. This way in is less embarrassing. Her cold, unshook hand retracts, and goes promptly back inside of her wet layers, tucking underneath an armpit to coax the fingers back to life. Her smile is currently the warmest part of her.

"Ah, but I'd wager not every place in Kirkwall is doin' half as much about Corypheus as you all are." ... Not every place in Kirkwall is contained by a tall stone enceinte, either.

Gela thinks it looks perfect.

[luaithre]

The hatch creaks open, and the look Marcus casts her—isn't doubtful, exactly, no clear question evident, but pointed. The look a tutor may give a student who purports to love homework. We'll see.

Once she's through, Marcus silently locks the gate again before picking up the lantern. He tips his head, instruction to follow.

"This way."

And not far. There is a heavy wooden door nearby that he ducks into, leading her inside one of the smaller stone structures adjacent to the larger towers. If she is hoping he will lead her to a barracks or some other sort of temporary accommodations arrangement, she will be disappointed when greeted with a stone hallway (lit in lyrium insets, glowing around their feet), another door, and then some kind of office that smells clean, a little smokey, and most importantly, dry.

He sets the lantern down on a small desk, one of a few, sets about taking off his dripping cloak.

dining hall

[thereneverwas]

"Well don't inhale it," comes a gently chiding voice from the bench behind her, its owner having risen to his full (considerable) height in the process of bussing his now-empty tray.

"I know how to stop a person choking, but it's not something one likes to do first thing in the morning," he continues amiably, the smile in his eyes and the ease of his stance indicating he's not in the business of seriously lecturing anyone.

[sprent]

Gela pauses with her spoon halfway to her mouth, her eyes round– oh, he's teasing.

A pause in which she finishes chewing. The smile she flashes him is, thankfully, devoid of oatmeal. "Hard not to when it's good." And when she's all too used to going without and splitting food into halves and half again and half again, sometimes, when things are very skint.

An eye falls upon his empty tray. "Can you go back for more?"

[thereneverwas]

There's a brief moment in which Barrow looks concerned that he's misstepped-- but then she smiles, and he smiles back, easy and friendly.

"Sure, if you need it," he replies with a shrug of one shoulder, "knock yourself out."

[sprent]

Gela looks, briefly, surprised. And then pleased.

She says, "An' I've barely done anythin' yet," half to herself, half to her spoon, which she puts into her mouth so she can free up her hand. She holds it out to Barrow. "M' Gela."

[thereneverwas]

Her hand is cheerfully received with a grip that is, perhaps, a bit less strong than the size of his hand would have it seem.

"Barrow. You're new?"

[sprent]

"Very new." She shakes, and smiles, and tucks stray hair back behind her ear. It immediately curls free again. "Got here the other night in the rain; weather was rotted. Almost got locked out."

courtyard.

[cozen]

When the bait is an unfamiliar face, Bastien's attention is very easy to catch. He stops as soon as she says pardon; he might have stopped even if she hadn't, to find out who she is.

"They do all look the same, ouais," he says. His head bends back to look up, where the towers tower, appropriately, over the grey walls that box in the every courtyard and corridor. Everything Riftwatch has done to tidy up and plant greenery and remove the most obvious signs of the Gallows' slave-prison history can't stop it from being a bit claustrophobic.

At least the sky isn't grey too, at the moment. He shifts the books and papers in his arms to one side so he can point up.

"The offices are in the tallest one, in the center. I am headed that way myself, if you want a guide."

[sprent]

"Oh," Gela breathes, and cranes her neck around to look. She points, "I went up the other." Because it was not as tall and she was hoping, but never mind, never mind. She's been saved, and by an Orlesian with a rolling accent, the sound of which she's always liked. Gela has been to Orlais, but only once.

"Please. In fact," she decides, holding out her empty hands out to indicate she'll take some of his books and papers, "Gladly trade you."

[cozen]

"Oh, Maker, thank you." He happily unloads half of them into her arms. They're not heavy so much as unwieldy. "I could have taken two trips, but the stairs, you know? So many."

He starts walking at a slow pace that encourages her to keep even with him.

"I'm Bastien, and you are?"

[sprent]

"Gela. Well met." She means that, especially after he immediately handed over the books and neatly matched his pace to hers. Being included never fails to make her smile, ear to ear.

"You don't work up there, do you? I've just been assigned." Her own accent is identifiably Nevarran, if one parses through the little oddities in it first. "Got here a day before."

[cozen]

"Oh, very fresh meat," Bastien says, smiling back. Maybe he's biased, but in his opinion not nearly enough people here are friendly. "I do work up there. In diplomacy, even, so we will work together."

He leads the way out of the courtyard, into one of the high-walled outdoor walkways. Their footsteps echo. The echoes echo.

"What sort of work do you do?"

[sprent]

"Nothin' so far," she quips, "But I just got a gig carryin' books, so things are on the up and up."

... She's got new person jitters. The jokes get better when she's comfortable, promise. Awkwardly, "By that I mean I'm still findin' my place. M' well travelled and good at talkin' to all sorts of folk. Think I could do a good job for you."

Network

[muckspout]

[grumbled sleepily]

Might be less wretched if you were quieter.

[sprent]

Sorry, were you sleepin'? How'd you do it?

(Share your secrets!)

[muckspout]

With my eyes closed and my mouth shut. Sometimes there are blankets. And then I go [Makes loud snoring noises.]

[sprent]

(Snicker,) Tried that already. Wasn't workin' so good for me.

You're up, now. Do you want to talk?

[muckspout]

[Long suffering sigh. But fair enough.]

About what? Why unknown voices in the night are keeping me from sleep?

[sprent]

No, (unperturbed,) about this place. 'M new. You were new once too, weren't you? Got any tips for me?