open.

[soulrot]

WHO: Wolfram & You
WHAT: Fresh meat, slightly tainted.
WHEN: Drakonis!
WHERE: The Gallows.
NOTES: be nice im new

i. research workroom

He's an unobtrusive arrival—no rifts, no bear announcements. Overnight a desk in the Research workrooms that was previously unoccupied becomes occupied, first only by ink and blank paper and other small signs of life, and then, intermittently, by 6'4" of leanly muscled human, usually slightly damp. He spends most of his time there reading. Getting up to speed. He says hello and excuse me and, if asked, Ram Tjäder. Maybe Senior Warden if pressed. Enough syllables for an Ander accent to be obvious, at least.

It's only several days after he first appeared that he drops his current set of documents on his desk, abruptly, and asks whoever is there to be asked, "Do you know anything about Soldier's Peak? I heard that you went there. Some of you. A long time ago."

ii. the walls

There's no thunder, so he can't be out here hoping to be struck by anything. There are only sheets of rain and enough wind to slant them, all lit with the luminous grey that means the sun is up there behind the clouds somewhere. And Wolfram is dripping wet, facing out over the water toward the city, and trying to catch raindrops in the mouth of his flask.

Footsteps, or movement—either way, he's not cool enough or mesmerized enough not to startle. But he recovers from it smoothly enough, without dropping his flask over the side of the wall onto the rocks and waves below. And since he has someone to ask: "Do the mountains turn green?"

He would think so, with all of this rain. But he's heard, too, that Kirkwall is black and grey year round.

Comments

ii.

[heorte]

Movement in the form of a massive mabari, unbothered by the heavy patter of rainfall. Ellis is only a few steps behind, similarly drenched: curls sodden, scarf stuffed in one pocket, scars peeking from beneath the collar of his jacket.

Ruadh continues onward, even as Ellis draws to a stop. Outside of arms reach, where he might make a study. Consider this familiar face, and try to tie him to any specific moment in time beyond the obvious hum of recognition.

"Aye."

Mild. A glance to the flask.

"There is drinking water inside."

i.

[heirring]

It is either a chance bit of very good luck, or very bad luck that on this particular dar, in this particular hour, that whoever is there happens to be a young lady who rarely spends much time at all at her personal desk. Why should she, when there is the whole Felandaris office overflowing and unmanaged acting as the ideal bolthole for a great majority of her papers and jars of flesh eating beetles and so on? But today, pressed by the weather, she has at last remembered where she last left her parasol.

Which is why, when Wysteria straightens out from under her desk at the question, she has a sword in one hand.

"What—oh, pardon." The sword is set aside with a clatter. The other half of the umbrella meant to conceal the weapon portion of the handle is wrenched out from where it's stuck.

"No, I don't recall it. Did the report say who was included in the assignment?"

ii

[fairforce]

"And flowers grow."

Tiffany's waxed cloak repels the worst of the rain, and the hood is large enough that it can be pulled down over her brow to keep her face from getting too wet. There is still rainwater on her cheeks which might look like tears if it wasn't raining in sheets and if she wasn't smiling so pleasantly besides.

She looks out over the parapet. Rain makes a curtain around the Gallows but there are other forms lurking out there that can be made out, if you are really looking--Kirkwall behind them, the mountains before them. Lacking in the twinkling lights of Kirkwall, the Vinmarks look more like slumbering behemoths. Isn't there some legend about that?

"It's pretty, really. I should think they'll start to turn any day now--one morning you'll wake up and they'll be wrapped in cloaks of springtime."