open.

[luaithre]

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: Late night evacuation drill
WHEN: Early Harvestmere, don't think about it too hard
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: See OOC note below.

Lashes of rain batter at unyielding fortress walls. It is dark, quiet, and peaceful save for all the rolling thunder summoned from over the sea. It is a good evening to be warm in bed.

Until it isn't a couple of those things.

Wherever you are sleeping (or working) late at night in the Gallows, you will hear it: an incessant and noisy bell ringing, handheld, clanging and clanging loud and obnoxious from the top of each tower and downwards, lingering in the key residential halls until there is sign of people emerging from their rooms. Gwenaëlle has been assigned to harass the Central Tower, while Abby takes the Mage Tower and Matthias is assigned the Templar Tower. Even if you happen not to be in either of these places, the muffled cacophony of bells is liable to still reach you.

It may take a second to realise what's happening, and how real this emergency is, but in the past week, all will have received some suspiciously timed updates as to evacuation procedures, including the protocols surrounding what to do when the instruction is to shelter in place (because they do, after all, live in a fortress).

The first step is moving without hesitation when the warning bells ring out loud. The next is to descend the towers, down dim stairwells lit by lyrium glow, in as orderly a fashion as possible. From there, it's a matter off finding the correct subterranean chamber (tonight, indicated with lamplight) and waiting it out.

At least, this route does not take them outside.

In the basement chamber will be Edgard and Marcus, the former equipped with a medieval clipboard and the latter marking the time in his head as people enter, while semi-supervising the other man's work and guarding the exit. The space is large enough to comfortably fit the whole company, although it is also cold, dripping, and musty. There are places to sit, chairs and tables both, and a few blankets if you find yourself underdressed.

And if you attempt to leave too early, you'll be bid to wait it out a little longer to accommodate and cause no disruption or confusion to late comers.

To encourage this, there are a few bottles of wine set aside along with some lukewarm tea. Stay a while.

[ ooc ; feel free to top level at any part of this interaction! I will handwave the cooperation of anyone who doesn't tag in or assume they are out of the Gallows, so don't feel like you have to, but there is also a comment below for anyone who deliberately wants to be on the naughty list of no-shows. ]

Comments

flint + silver.

[hornswoggle]

The Stairwell.

Perhaps other members of Riftwatch are compelled to some kind of urgency by the combined power of sonorous bell-ringing above and below, and the cacophonous barks of an Anderfels shepherd. It is certainly a combination meant to motivate. How quickly can one descend from their respective sleeping quarters down to the specified meeting place?

Of course, all provided motivation doesn't account for obstructions on the third floor landing.

Here, if one isn't careful rounding their corners, they might trample straight into a pair of dawdling individuals. (At one's own peril, surely.)

John Silver has set his shoulders back against the curved wall, crutch pinned between elbow and ribs so as to afford him two hands with which to tip and point a finger onto an item on the slightly crumpled sheet of parchment so as to more clearly display a name to Commander Flint who is currently attempting to both lean close enough to read the page and not to block the glow of the nearest lyrium light.

"Here, you see? We marked it off as a possibility at the time, but I think she'd be more interested in at least a discussion considering the developments in Antiva—"

No, neither of them seem inclined to move aside. Yes, it's a small hallway, and yes, they are taking up a fair portion of it, but the look interlopers receive for their inconvenience carries a clear message: go around

Party Dungeon.

They're late.

To be fair, one of them is among Riftwatch's most senior members and the other is a man with one leg and there are a considerable number of stairs between the Division offices and this soggy basement room, though that probably wouldn't pass muster in a real emergency. Presumably it puts both Silver and Flint on Marcus's naughty list.

Minor misbehavior aside, the two of them promptly set themselves up in a vacant corner (if there are no such corners, Flint creates one with a stormy look). A half occupied table is robbed of its spare chairs, a half empty bottle of cheap wine is commandeered, and the last clean cup to be had is forced to do double duty between them. There, the two of them fall back into some previous conversation in progress. Under the surly carping of all of Riftwatch's company pressed into a single dreary basement room, snatches of the exchange may very well be overhead or interrupted:

"If Bassadoar hasn't managed to hire anyone else to do the job before now, I have my doubts that us miraculously locating and managing to return the boy will produce anything of real value in return."

Or—

"It's beneficial for the account, of course, but the discontent has stretched on long enough that I don't imagine it'll be soothed by illicitly-traded goods. The complaints are old, and I've heard variations on all of them since we've been here, but the combination of refugees arriving near-daily and the cost of basic goods are only exacerbating them."

Or—

"Let us assume what Rutyer says is possible is. My question then becomes, for how long? The hand ruling Ferelden may be contingent on the continued approval of its Banns, but it would be foolish to think that Anora's choice of consort won't hold some sway in the matter."

party dungeon.

[cozen]

From a nearby table, head pillowed on his folded arms, Bastien lifts his hand to wave in their direction. He’s both too floppy and too polite to snap his fingers or point, so a doodly sort of hand wiggle will have to serve as signal of intent to interject, as soon as he’s emerged from the fog of his half-nap.

Quarter-nap, really, at best. Shallow enough for Rutyer (of course) to have cut right through the other conversations he's been following. He doesn't sleep in crowds. If he needed to he could be wide awake in a second or two. But in the absence of need: sleepy.

He turns his head so as to be audible before he says, “If I do my job, we might have a say. In the consort.” As he yawns, an adjustment of the fingers on his raised hand to illustrate, “A little one.”

He hasn’t opened his eyes, and he folds his arm back beneath his head. He would be perfectly content with that being his only contribution.

[katabasis]

If there is a look cut in Silver's direction, it's reflexive—barely there at all, and impossible to parse if what motivates it is some shred of annoyance at being made to have this conversation where someone might interrupt it if he wishes to continue it at all, or whether he's satisfied with having hooked a fish on some baited hook.

Regardless, some subtle but notable shift in the angle of Flint's shoulder follows. It suggests: fine. Apparently room can be made for an outside opinion.

"Has there been any sign that the field of prospects is narrowing?"

[hornswoggle]

In response, John has realigned his position on the chair so he might stretch his leg out, ease whatever tense ache has set into the muscle. If it opens the angle of his body to follow the shift of Flint's shoulder, it is just as well, for John follows—

"And are any of the prospects worth a word?"

One must be, or else the task would be less about putting in a say and more about inserting someone they might want to speak on behalf of into the running.