Most Riftwatch assignments come by way of orders delivered to the dining hall's pigeonholes, or the standing Division and Project meetings, or—rarely—by summons to some central tower office. This one had come by way of Flint manifesting abruptly at the end of a dining hall table during the lunch hour and plainly informing its occupants that their next week had been accounted for, and that they were to report to Riftwatch's ferry landing at daybreak the following morning.
In under twenty-four hours, Kirkwall has been swallowed entirely by the horizon and the low hanging gloom of the autumn sky as the Tevinter-styled brigantine ship in Riftwatch's employ races east. In keeping with the requirements of Riftwatch's service—wherein every mission away from the Gallows must have some element of inconvenience, even work stealthily in pursuit of little more than a good night's sleep—, the weather has quickly proven to be less than cooperative. With every hour, the direction of the wind alters by degrees, and the sea grows more choppy, and the sky more gloomy, and the ship's deck slants farther until the spray breaks so regularly across the rail that it doubles as a convincing understudy for the rain that has yet to begin dumping out the sky.
For anyone prone to motion sickness, it's pure misery. For anyone well-accustomed to life aboard a ship who has instead spent a majority of the last years cooped up in the Gallows or, worse, working farther inland, it's ideal.
It does, however, make the effort involved in any evening meal downright comical. No fire can be induced to stay lit in the galley stove long enough to make anything hot; and while the sway of the mess table hung from the wardroom's overhead deck beams might discourage tin dishware and mugs from being instantly upset over every wave, the trade off is that the tables themselves are constantly threatening to knock anyone attempting to sit at them off their seats.
On the plus side, the practiced antidote for cold meals and wet weather seems to come out of a cask and is commonly served out of a tankard.
misc. mingle
In under twenty-four hours, Kirkwall has been swallowed entirely by the horizon and the low hanging gloom of the autumn sky as the Tevinter-styled brigantine ship in Riftwatch's employ races east. In keeping with the requirements of Riftwatch's service—wherein every mission away from the Gallows must have some element of inconvenience, even work stealthily in pursuit of little more than a good night's sleep—, the weather has quickly proven to be less than cooperative. With every hour, the direction of the wind alters by degrees, and the sea grows more choppy, and the sky more gloomy, and the ship's deck slants farther until the spray breaks so regularly across the rail that it doubles as a convincing understudy for the rain that has yet to begin dumping out the sky.
For anyone prone to motion sickness, it's pure misery. For anyone well-accustomed to life aboard a ship who has instead spent a majority of the last years cooped up in the Gallows or, worse, working farther inland, it's ideal.
It does, however, make the effort involved in any evening meal downright comical. No fire can be induced to stay lit in the galley stove long enough to make anything hot; and while the sway of the mess table hung from the wardroom's overhead deck beams might discourage tin dishware and mugs from being instantly upset over every wave, the trade off is that the tables themselves are constantly threatening to knock anyone attempting to sit at them off their seats.
On the plus side, the practiced antidote for cold meals and wet weather seems to come out of a cask and is commonly served out of a tankard.