[CLOSED] This is not my beautiful house

[katabasis]

WHO: Pariahs, Scoundrels, and Heretics
WHAT: A catch-all log for Riftwatch's satellite office in Kirkwall for the duration of Mother Pleasance's visit.
WHEN: Fantasy!March
WHERE: Hightown, the de Foncé haunted mansion
NOTES: Related to Mother May I; additional IC Assignments/OOC info.

Is the timing of this remote Riftwatch installation in Kirkwall perhaps too conveniently in step with a Chantry Mother's visit to the Gallows? And are the particular individuals assigned to temporarily work out of the gloomy Hightown mansion more or less the exact roster that someone might wish to avoid having engaged in prolonged conversation with the aforementioned woman?

No. And if anyone were to suggest such a conspiracy theory, there would be more than a half dozen perfectly reasonable points with which to counter such a paranoid claim.

As far as anyone need know, this posting is derived entirely out of a sense of prudent caution; with Tevinter's forces comfortably ensconced in the recently captured city of Starkhaven, it is only sensible to make any potential assault on Kirkwall by that same force less straightforward than the Venatori might expect.

The de Foncé Mansion

The mansion crammed into the corner of an otherwise reasonably respectable, albeit small, square of Kirkwall's Hightown has long been considered a nuisance and an eyesore by its neighbors. Long before Wysteria de Foncé started blowing things up in the mansion's basement and her companions began to curate a barnyard in its little garden, the house was held in the possession of a particularly curmudgeonly old man whose sole ambition in the years prior to his death seems to have been to stuff as much hideous old furniture, moldy books, and ominous paintings in the house as possible in addition to harassing his neighbors with threats of baseless litigation.

Suffice to say, this particular square in Hightown is well acquainted with this corner mansion being a source of what might be delicately referred to as 'some bullshit.'

Despite the outfitting done to make the place function as a secondary office for Riftwatch (much to Madame de Foncé's extreme distress; this is an infringement on her third amendment rights! Which she knows about because maybe she read the constitution while visiting New York, 20xx!!) and Wysteria's own efforts to renovate on a Riftwatch stipend, the house remains in a state of extreme dreariness. While a majority of the rooms have been organized and scrubbed down to their battered floorboards and peeling wallpaper, still others have been piled full to bursting with the hoard of ephemera left in the house by its previous owner with their doors shut tight and narrow windows shuttered, but otherwise surrendered to a thick collection of dust. The few rooms that have been fully refurbished have a faint air of desperation to them—gay wallpaper in bright Antivan styles, the best of the house's old furniture made to look slightly less shabby and so on.

It's a shame the weather is so miserable. The side garden—which must be very charming in spring and summer—might offer up a welcome relief from the morose interior. Alas, the grim forecast has managed to flood most of the planting beds and cast even that space in hues of drab grey.

Anyone who finds themselves quartering in the de Foncé house will be fortunate enough to have their very own gloomy bedroom which may either be nearly bare of furniture or so cramped with it that it's difficult to navigate. At least all the bedding has been brought over from the Gallows, so no one is sleeping on some dead guy's old sheets, and the expansive servant's kitchen has been stocked appropriately for cooking in. Just don't go down into Wysteria's cellar; she's growing something nefarious down there. With Wysteria's maid quitting on the spot when faced with the prospect of attending to all these guests, everyone will be fending for themselves when it comes to cooking and cleaning.

In addition to suspect fungal experiments, those living and working in the mansion will find themselves companion to: six chickens, an Avvar goat who lives indoors, a large brown dog who resembles a mop (who takes her job safeguarding the house very seriously), a small white dog resembling a nuisance, and an alarmingly large dog-sized Donark ant who may or may not be poisonous (it's fine! she's never bitten a person!), and a sullen poltergeist who takes exception to visitors. Luckily most of the breakable objects it enjoys flinging at people have previously been flung, so while ducking may be at a bare minimum there's no telling when a door will lock shut or a painting will attempt to fall off the wall onto someone while they pass.

The Work

Two of the least miserable rooms in the mansion have been converted into temporary working space for the duration of Riftwatch's quartering there. The library has been converted into a shared office space, containing a few worktables and chairs, a desk for Flint's use, and so on. What is likely meant to have been some kind of dining room is currently acting as a temporary armory.

For the duration of the time that this secondary Riftwatch office exists, those assigned to it will be expected to quarter within Kirkwall (be it in the mansion or otherwise) and report to these offices rather than traveling to the Gallows. Anyone who doesn't already frequent the mansion is barred from it. While those assigned to report to it may still attend to work in Kirkwall and beyond with their colleagues still living out of the Gallows, they are similarly barred from actually traveling to the fortress.

In the mean time, the work everyone will be turned to typically involves coordinating with the Kirkwall Guard to assist in reviewing, repairing, and bolstering the city's defenses should any attack occur. There are also refugees to herd, Tevinter supply lines in the Marches to disturb, and rifts still in need of closing. More than likely, those working out of the division will personally receive their orders directly from Flint rather than having them dispensed in any other fashion.

Everyone is very busy, and the house is very drab, and there should be little reason to think much at all about the Chantry Mother visiting the Gallows.

Comments

assignment-o-matic

[katabasis]

[ooc: Want a bespoke, low-stakes assignment for the month of fantasy!March? Comment here and I'll generate a job assignment for you to play with. Can either be a handwaved interaction (in which case, please just drop an ooc note in your comment that you want an assignment), or an actual thread (in which case, just kick over a tiny starter and I'll fill in the gaps).]

[luaithre]

[ ooc ; opens hands for assignment!! ]

[katabasis]

[Not written, because that would be a waste of paper in this economy, but delivered to Marcus' face is a directive to accompany a merchant caravan into the Vinmark foothills and see them safely through a particular passage which has recently proven to be lousy with opportunistic bandits, one of which may or may not be a mage. In exchange for safe passage through the region, this particular merchant has agreed to alter the caravan's route to deliver goods to some of Starkhaven's refugees.

Marcus can take a +1 with him, but if you'd rather handwave the side quest and just use it as thread gossip fodder then feel free to assume he has backup from the caravan's own somewhat threadbare security detail. The exact identities of the bandits is unimportant—maybe they're Venatori scouts who got bored or have been forced to fend for themselves, maybe they're just some random people knocking over wagons—so feel free to flesh out the details regarding them/the character of the merchant/etc at you leisure.]

wysteria;

[heirring]

Wysteria is not on the roster for reassignment, but seeing as the dreary Hightown mansion is quite literally her home there can be no real keeping her from it. Never mind that she still maintains a room in the Gallows as well. She has a vested interest here, and must see about the careful order of the house while any number of people traipse about it!

What that looks like—

i. EARLY.
Is fussing at everyone's heels in much the same fashion that a small white dog chases after her own. She frets about scratches being scored into the already scratched and stained floor. She bemoans the use of the kitchen, which is so very near to her private workroom. She flusters over the presence of the house goat, which no one is meant to have seen on the basis that it is mortifying to have such an animal living indoors. Look at all this mud tracked in from the garden! No, you must not use the front entrance, and no it has no reason at all to do with preserving the secrecy of this effort and entirely to do with the fact that it disturbs the spirit in the house! Oh no, you cannot sleep in that room, or move that chair, or use that cup.

When in the midst of the chaos, the house's maid tenders her resignation, Wysteria does the entirely sensible thing of bursting into tears. She stomps up the stairs to lock herself in her bedroom where she may cry furiously into her pillow. No one has ever been as poorly used in the whole history of the world as she has! That's simply the cold, cruel fact of the matter. Should anyone come after her to comfort her (and they should; it would be only fair and right), they will likely be greeted by slightly more distinct wailing and other dulcet sounds of acute misery through the door.

ii. LATE.
Or, given a few weeks to acclimate to the indignity of sharing her home and for her bruised defense of her privacy to recover, Wysteria may eventually once more be found attending to what must be a very typical order of business. She rises very early, and knows something about putting together a fire in the kitchen's expansive hearth so she may set an egg or two to boiling. She descends into one of the house's two gloomy cellars (the latter evidently being a devoted entirely to a habitat for the giant ant in residence) and spends a number of hours fussing over projects too personal to host in the Gallows. She disappears for a great stretch of time—most likely to attend to her actual work as a Riftwatch agent—and when she returns it is evening. She has further sheafs of parchment in tow, and they end up joining the sprawling collection already papering the kitchen's broad table.

And so on and so forth.

At some point, she may be found sitting on the bottom step of the stairwell with the small white dog on her feet, one of the fat brown hens from the chicken coop in the rainy garden in her lap, and an impressive heap of correspondence on the step beside her. She is opening one envelope after another with a curved letter opener. The hour is too late for work and not so late for sleeping, and the house is almost quiet save for a series of sulky thump thump thumps like heavy footsteps from the floor above.

iii. WILDCARD
[You know what to do; hmu if you want a bespoke starter.]

for ellis;

[heirring]

A further bout of rain sheets down into the back garden. It turns the paving stones a sullen black, and stripes the high retaining wall. It floods the planter boxes, dark earth spilling out between the seams of stacks stones and fanning out over the garden courtyard. There, on the far side of the little garden, the chicken coop is painted in glum grey colors—more hazy outline than real object. And here, in the familiar kitchen overflowing with the various detritus of Wysteria's un-filed paperwork—

Wysteria bursts up the stairs from her little mad science lab, a look of extreme distress painted on her face. Drawn up, no doubt, by the sound of little Tabouret's incessant barking, it would be expected that she might derive some relief in finding the commotion caused by Ellis and Ruadh there on the threshold. Nevermind that somewhere else in the house, faithful Déranger has begun to bow-whoof-whoof-whoof in protest; this is an perfectly ordinary form of trespassing regardless of what either of the house's dogs may think. And yet:

"Oh! Oh Mister Ellis!" Wysteria cries, despairing. "You must come at once!"

After which she instantly whirls on her heel and clatters back down the stairs into the lamp lit cellar.

[heorte]

Having made his way through the side-gate to quietly gather eggs from the cozily huddled chickens in their coop, Ellis had clearly not expected such an immediate greeting. (Such as it is.)

They make for a absurd tableau, even unacknowledged. In this exact moment, he is dripping rainwater all over the floor. Ruadh, paw raised, may well have intended to bat Tabouret like stuffed toy had he not paused for Wysteria's arrival. Ellis is holding a wicker basket, gussied up with a now-bedraggled bow, filled with eggs. Ruadh has looked up to him expectantly, and Ellis takes the moment to toe Tabouret out of the way (shrill yaps turning aggrieved) and whistle the massive beast on ahead.

So it is Ruadh who pads down the steps directly with a relieved bof of sound heralding his going. Ellis is only a few moments behind, having stowed the eggs out of sight of their many, many visitors.

"It's not a chemical fire?" comes his voice, mid-way down the steps. "I'll have to fetch the bucket if it is."

late

[favoriteanalyst]

What an inconvenient place to be sat with letters.

He is trying not to be annoyed by her--everything, her presence. This is, after all, her home. As strange and unsettling as it is, whether by offer or by order, she has allowed them access to her residence, and he tries to be a pleasant an unobtrusive guest so long as Flint will have him (hostage--no, on loan, much like a book).

"Would you like to do that at the table?" Any table. Literally anywhere else but Directly In The Way. "I'd be happy to help you move all that over." Or scoop a chicken from her lap if that's what's keeping her, or usher a dog up.

[heirring]

At this interruption, Wysteria's attention rises briefly—flicks over him—, and then winds back down to the letter on her hand. The rasp of the letter opener through the parchment makes for an annoying hiss in the otherwise mostly quiet stairwell.

"Oh no," is quite bright, cheerfully conversational as if she is oblivious to the irritation she is presently inflicting. "I'm perfectly satisfied here for the time being, thank you. But I appreciate the thought, but I've entirely surrendered to the state of affairs. Perhaps if you had the opportunity, you might tell Enchanter Rowntree to be more mindful of my papers on the kitchen table."

Because obviously the possibility that she might feel ill used and alienated from her own work space is clearly the concern here. How considerate of Serah Mobius to think of her!

flint;

[katabasis]

i. ON THE CLOCK
With the mansion's moldering library converted into a temporary field office composed of a number of worktables and a desk cramped between an assortment of chairs they evidently weren't permitted to move on account of some fucking superstition or another, Flint finds himself in the unhappy position of being generally far more accessible to at least this small ancillary branch of Riftwatch than is usual. 

Six flights of stairs and a heavy door make for remarkable deterrents. And where interruption in the Gallows' division office had been exception and not the rule, the reverse is true here. Subsequently, he spends a great deal of his time behind his desk with his brow propped in the crook of his hand between thumb and forefinger as if the simple act of shielding the rest of the room from view might help to hurry him through whatever might be living under his pen—the writing of orders, the response to various teams correspondence, the various dull semantics that come standard with the management of any assembly by they on land or at sea—with minimal interruption.

(The effectiveness of the strategy? Undetermined. Best to continue testing it.)

But when he isn't aggressively ignoring whatever distractions might come traipsing through the room—

It isn't all paperwork, for one. Occasionally, someone passing through the library may find themselves the target of an ambush—either demanded to make a report on their latest work rather than writing it down (writing reports? In this economy??), or by being forcibly drawn into a conversation already in progress over a series of fragmentary maps spread out on the room's largest worktable with a brusque, "Come and take a look at this," as the invitation.

Or, most perilous of all, Flint is occasionally found shrugging into his heavy coat and may fix whatever unlucky passerby happens to be closet. "You," has the tenor of an order. "Come with me," he says, before sweeping from the room with the clear expectation that he'll be followed.

ii. OFF THE CLOCK
It is raining, and the daylight that manages to filter in through the house's narrow windows is so anemic that sitting in the flooded back garden under the protection of the eaves is practically a matter of fiscal responsibility. There is only so much room in the Riftwatch budget for candles and lamp oil, and very little latitude for spending any of that on hobbies like 'reading for pleasure for a handful of minutes in the mid-afternoon.' And while he'd brought more than just the book and the chair out with him, the pulp print pamphlets from Val Rouyeaux and Antiva City have already been relegated to acting as bookmarks in the slim volume of ecclesiastical essays.

If someone happens to join him there under the narrow shelter, it is unlikely he will be moved to divorce much of his attention from the book unless specifically spurred to. But stranger things have happened.

Such as: some other afternoon, the point at which the temperature finally drops enough that the rain turns to icy sleet and then finally wet, miserable snow. It's not long after the flakes have begun to stick does Flint comes shouldering into whatever room has room has become the de-facto common area of the house like some big cat sullen with the dimensions of its enclosure.

"Get your coat. We're getting a drink."

Never mind what assignments have already been passed out or what rota work there is to do. Boss says take a half day to go crash one of the grimy harbor front sailor's pubs? You take a half day to go crash one of the grimy harbor front sailor's pubs.

iii. WILDCARD
[You know what to do.]

for mobius;

[katabasis]

On the table: a report from Riftwatch's own Research department regarding the sample of blighted lyrium recovered from the Marches; a selection from the back catalog of Research's files which had seemed most immediately relevant; a stack of charts detailing various excerpts of the Blasted Hills on the Anderfel-Orlais border; and lastly, a stack of correspondence intercepted by one of their (painfully) rare contacts north of Churneau. The letters had been bound for the occupied city of Perendale before they'd been caught and re-directed here, and the story they tell is just frustratingly vague enough to demand long hours pouring over those aforementioned charts and various exceedingly dry geological texts judiciously borrowed from the Gallows library.

Were they different people, it might make for exceedingly dull work. As it is, there is something in shifting through the various accounts in an effort to make some educated guesses as to the location of the lyrium mine in question that is very like attempting to solve a large, elaborate puzzle. Is the fantasy string board sprawled over the table starting to look a little unhinged at this point? Yes, definitely. But with a pot of tea ready at hand, it is almost more work to peel away from the effort than it is to continue.

That's true for Flint, anyway. The hour is growing exceedingly late and it's entirely possible that Flint is thoughtlessly holding Mobius captive while he reviews a page from Augustus Naevius' letter once more for some niggling detail that ought to be accounted for in the rough navigational calculations he's presently scratching out into the margins of a piece of well-used notation paper.

He turns the page of the letter over. Considers for the umpteenth time today the Venatori's signature—

"I think this man is a liberati."

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius has to wonder if he's here for a reason. Rather: yes, of course, he is here, working with Flint, for a reason. He wonders if it is him for a reason. The idea of there being tainted lyrium floating around out there, potentially fucking up their own supplies, is genuinely terrifying.

(The image never too far from mind of Astarion's master, blending effortlessly with a hulking and red-encrusted Knight, voices blending and mocking and beckoning-)

And the idea of mucking up enemy supply lines is always a plus. But he feels like most anyone could be doing this. Anyone who has the time and patience and countenance to go through the books and reports and letters and pages and pages and pages, sure, and anyone who has a particular enjoyment of puzzles.

And the work is a puzzle. Involving lots of reading, rereading, educated guesses, referencing and crossreferencing, arguing a few finer points about shifting borders. Plucking details from seemingly thin air, if only one knows where to look and how to look. It's dry, yes, even Mobius has to admit it, but the closer they get to nailing down the specific location, the easier their scouts and teams sent will find it without tripping over themselves or over their numerous enemies. Alright. Maybe he, with a vested interest in lyrium, with an agreeable countenance to the work, was chosen for a perfectly valid reason. It's certainly a good distraction from the malaise he'd foolishly allowed himself to sink into.

Mobius shakes the pot, hearing how low the water is, before pouring and resolving to make another refill momentarily. They'll keep at it all night if they must, though one of them really ought to be more sensible and suggest calling it for sanity's sake. And it probably should be him. But this has been all a necessary distraction as well as necessary work.

Makes him feel useful, anyway. Even if his own eyes are starting to cross. Even he has to pause for a moment, hands still and carefully tight on the pot, to let the words catch up. "How can you even tell?" A little shake of his head as he fills his mug as high as it'll go. "More than that, it's hard to know how to take information from a liberati, isn't it? Either they're feeling out the world with their newfound semi-freedom and don't know a griffon from an ass, or they're using their former master's knowledge and could be chock full of fun secrets and intel."

And furthermore than that: "You're gonna wear that page out at this rate." For as much as Flint's been handling it, scrutinizing. He's pretty sure they've gone over everything at least a dozen or more times on that letter alone, but it could be that there is some detail. Somewhere.

Knowing where and how to look.

for silver;

[katabasis]

Between the room down the hall so cramped with unused furniture that accessing the curtains to allow some light in through the narrow would have constitutes as an obstacle course and this one with the hideous painting of a domineering old woman hung directly opposite of the bed to glare menacingly down at its occupant, the painting had seemed like a natural winner. These things can be wrenched off walls, he'd reasoned, and the dimensions of the room would afford the acquisition of a very small writing desk if this little sojourn proved to be longer than either comfortable or convenient. Indeed, he has been making a great deal of very rational, well reasoned decisions these past few days.

Hence:

Atdter a not inconsiderable effort to peel the hideous thing off its mounting, Flint withdraws his hands from either side of the painting's frame. To consider the predicament of the glowering old woman, he takes only a half step back rather than a full one in an effort to avoid tripping over the detritus presently scattered about the room in a half unpacked state: his own sea chest, a thick stack of clean bedding for dressing the dusty mattress with, a collection of tubes stuffed with scrolls of maps and Maker knows what else, an solid stack of papers, a cross bow and all of its bolts, one good sword and one for hacking, and so on—

(Isn't in incredible how disorganized and confused a move becomes when the distant to shift shit is only a harbor and a few city stairwells? They could decamp halfway across Thedas and see it done more tidily than the chaotic state they've presently reduced this house to.)

"I think they've nailed this to the wall."

guffaw

[hornswoggle]

"Presumably to keep it from wandering the house," is only half a joke.

In all his travels, even with the basement of the Gallows included, John has hardly ever inhabited a place so likely to be host to cursed objects. Every second item seems likely to radiate some form of miserable magic.

The eyes of the painting seem to follow Flint's efforts. John, sat atop his own chest with his back to the wall, weighs the options at hand and wonders if this is truly the best possibility available. Is the clutter worse, or the room that seems to belong to a territorial goat presently resisting eviction? (Still, if the faint sound of shouting and bleating is any measure.) There had been a south-facing room filled with pieces of what might have been a statue, one could assume a bed might be found beneath them—

"You might take a set of drapes from one of the other rooms to nail over it, rather than make another go of prying it loose."

ii

[inkindled]

Matthias had decamped to the back garden before he'd realized that Commander Flint was already occupying it, and once he'd realized it, it was too late to go back into the house without looking like an idiot. The door's hinges have a screech so loud there might as well be trumpet fanfare announcing the comings and goings of the house. He can't suffer that a second time.

So he'd give a nod to Commander Flint--something brisk, brief, non-committal. If the Commander had acknowledged him at all, he'd not seen it, because it was just then that a raindrop had hit him in the eye and he'd had to duck his head to blink it out, with fervent prayers to the Maker-or-Whoever that Flint hadn't seen this indignity.

Once his eye was cleared, he'd located a short stack of paving stones a safe distance away and sat himself there, with the hood of his cloak pulled up and his back to the Commander. This was safe for a short while, and Matthias had rolled up his sleeves and begun to practice calling little sparks to his fingertips, a trick that had seemed ill-advised to do in someone's Hightown manor home. Then the rain had begun to clatter down in earnest, and Matthias had been forced to flee to share the shelter with Flint

This is where he is now, on the very edge of the shelter. It is more than a bit like sharing quarters with a jungle cat (or so Matthias imagines, never having done it personally). Of course he sits outside of Flint's office every day, speaks with the man regularly, runs errands and does paperwork and all manner of things. But there's usually a wall separating them. The wall represents safety. There is no wall here. He really, really ought to go back into the house and put at least one wall--if not two, or three--between himself and the Commander. The back garden has by now turned into a great mud pit, so to get to the screeching door he'd have to dash across it, and if he slipped and fell he'd never forgive himself.

Matthias takes a breath. Steadies himself. He has no choice. He turns to look over at Flint.

"Commander?"

--Interrupting Flint, who is more committed to reading than anyone Matthias has ever seen. Well done, twat. But it's too late to take it back, he's already done it, might as well just bull onward.

"Can I ask you something?"

[ALSO i want an assignment pls if it feels natural we can fold it in here thnx]

yseult + tony, late nunpocalypse;

[katabasis]

The roar of outrage and stamping of heels that follows the race official waving her red flag shakes the riser.

Evidently, this particular section of the warehouse in which Lowtown's less than prestigious goat races are run had almost universally put their coin on the losing side of the nose to nose finish between the orange goat with floppy ears now being conveyed to the winner's circle amongst a parade of booing, cheers, and a shower of celebratory turnip greens from the creature's supporters, and the shaggy white animal now being led in disgrace from the racing lane. Including, it would seem, James Flint.

Sat beside Yseult in one of the half circle booths built into the long room's elevated perimeter lit by the disreputable half-light of a slightly too distant hanging lamp, he shreds his losing betting chit into two equal halves. His nod to Tony is a silent request that the bottle presently living closest to the Provost's elbow be passed over.

Anyway.

"The issue," resumes a conversation previously interrupted by the starting bell. "Is that Rutyer has a stubborn habit of underestimating, if not fully discounting, his influence over the company. How do we see that addressed?"

marcus rowntree. downtime, ota.

[luaithre]

There's one hazy grey mid-afternoon where the back entrance door slams open—by accident, anyway, knocking it with his elbow a little too hard—and, moments later, Marcus enters the kitchen. Wet, muddy, boot prints follow him in from the garden. Clean hands (the gloves he'd worn discarded elsewhere for later handling) are quick to become dirty as he places the woven basket he's carrying down on the kitchen table and starts offloading its contents. Potatoes, parsnips, turnips, radishes, hardy leafy green things, all caked in black soil.

It is maybe a lot, maybe more than the usual winter harvest from the garden when it houses only a few, but there are a lot of boisterous men present, all of a sudden, and so it seems a reasonably sized cornucopia to Marcus, who is visibly self-satisfied with this achievement of having dug up half the garden.

That he stops and seems to pause over what to do with it all is neither here nor there.

There is the rare bout of reading that takes place in the sunniest commonroom of the house, which is for but a couple of hours sometime in the afternoon, where the overcast state of the weather means that Marcus has to have a lantern on anyway. This occurs perhaps once every few days, a book taken out of the library rather than something he's brought with him, pages spotted and yellow at the edges.

He spends a lot of time on each page, several lingering minutes, and gets through it with the focus of someone solving a complex sum as opposed to only absorbing the semi-dense text of magical theory. There is tea and a smoldering cigarette at his elbow, his cigarette case opened with the lid standing in as an ashtray. He angles the book to catch as much struggling sunlight as possible, and is easy disturbed from this practice, looking up the moment anyone enters the room.

One restless evening involves a game of cards, and Marcus is not coy about attracting players. After dinner, he roams around the house, announcing intention that there's wine and a deck of cards in the common room to whoever he passes by, and going so far as to rap his knuckles against the closed doors of bedrooms to report this fact, and moving on without waiting for reply.

Templars may or may not humour him, but Marcus doesn't exclude them either. Fuck it, you know? This is a numbers game.

The room is lit with a myriad of candles, enough to see by, lit with a wave of his hand. Two bottles of red are opened, and cigarette smoke already wreaths the air. The game is, of course, Wicked Grace, and the conversation can be whatever anyone makes it.

kitchen;

[heirring]

This moment of indecision is smashed by Wysteria's sudden entrance from the opposite end of the room, bursting into the kitchen with a hard clip of the door against the plaster wall behind it. From the stormy look in her eye, she has come with some sharp word prepared for whoever she might find there for some reason or another.

This resolutely threatening air about her is somewhat undermined by the little white dog at her heels, and the Avvar goat behind that. Spotting the open kitchen door, they both shove past her and make instantly for it with a clatter of hooves and paw pads, the goat bullishly butting Wysteria in the the hip with its great rack of horns as it goes.

Wysteria stumbles off the impact, makes to catch herself on the edge of the expansive hearth's mantle, and instantly sends a series of dishes dominoing directly off it and onto the floor where they smash into a great spray of cheap china. As this would make complaining about slammed doors (and mud on her floors! And dirt on her table! And on the papers which nearly fully line the table!) somewhat hysterical, Wysteria finds herself briefly paralyzed without a ready substitute.

From the main house, the large mop-shaped fawn colored dog makes an appearance there in the doorway. She seems for a moment to consider the tableau before her, and then very politely withdraws back the way she'd come.

it's not delivery, it's a semi-wildcard

[atonally]

It's too late for lunchtime when Redvers tromps back into one of the disastrous kitchen of this disastrous house with several so-called pizzas. That's one possible explanation for why he isn't announcing their presence to the house's other occupants. Another is that he's irritated by his confinement here with them and wants them to suffer. A third is that he's walked up the endless stairs to Hightown alone with the scent of it and has been left not in a mood to share more than the leftovers.

Evidence for the last: he doesn't set the pizzas down on the table, where the kitchen's other occupant might feel invited to them. He balances them on one hand while he peels up a piece to eat with the other. He considers Marcus and his collection of vegetables as he chews.

"Soup?"

More skepticism than suggestion.

reading rainbow

[favoriteanalyst]

They are, he suspects, at something of a standstill.

Not necessarily by choice. By happenstance, really. Mobius had not intended to seek him out when they shared time as wolves of differing temperaments, but being touched by a gift that Jude had explained to him, he had found Marcus nonetheless. And it hadn't been bad. Hadn't recognized each other, at first, though with time and space shared--furry and not--it had become a clearer picture.

It doesn't make them friends, by any means. And were Mobius in a less kind mood, he might suggest that the mage is unconcerned at best with the concept of friends. But. He doesn't actually know. The man probably has friends, many of them. And Mobius might be in a strange place, here by request, around people he is not too familiar with or less than friendly with, but he is not prone to being less kind for it.

So there's no snide remarks at or around Marcus. And certainly not now, even as he catches the near-startled attention of the Captain of the Guard. (Temporarily no longer that. This visit from on high certainly has many knickers in tight bunches.)

"Don't mind me," he eventually says. "I'm not here to disturb you." Deliberately, anyway. Though it niggles, a comment he recalls, from earlier. There's reading. An attempt? Hadn't he said that he'd lost the ability, or the knowledge? A furrowed brow. "Going well?"

ellis. (is only here on a technicality.)

[heorte]

While Ellis had certainly been handed an assignment having nothing to do with relocation to Kirkwall, it is undeniable that for the better part of his time with Riftwatch Ellis had maintained a specific routine when he hasn't been dispatched into the field. Maybe it shifts to accommodate an early guard shift at the warehouses, or some other duty set to him in the course of the day, but he does reliably arrive at Wysteria's house to attend to the animals, the garden and the house itself, usually in that order.

So of course it is no different, regardless of how disorienting it may be to find the house itself so full.

And so it is reasonable to expect to find Ellis at some point throughout the course of the day, whether he is emerging from the garden with a goat trotting along beside him with a basket full of eggs, or balanced on a sturdy wooden stool in one of the hallways, inspecting a newly-appeared hole high in the wall which may or may not house some sort of scurrying creature. Or otherwise emerging from the basement, slightly harried but easily intercepted, sometimes descending from the upper levels of the house, carrying an armful of books or hauling a piece of furniture.

Sometimes accompanied by a massive mabari, in which case he will be reliably pursued by tiny, persistently yapping nuisance, or sometimes in the company of the large brown mop suspiciously overseeing his work. Always endeavoring to be brisk and unobtrusive as he moves through the space, but between many animals, poltergeist and general clutter, that is not always possible. He's preemptively sorry for the intrusion.

sticks a foot in here also on a technicality

[degenere]

One day, while Ellis is ascending the stairs from the basement, descending to the basement of the de Foncé mansion is Valentine de Foncé, with an air best described as, as if he owns the place.

This is just Val's natural air. He moves about as if he owns every place. He does not own the place. And if someone were to suggest this to him, he would vehemently protest. Him, own this place? This? No. It is very small, and very shabby, and very outdated, and it is in Kirkwall--quelle horreur!--and only has a half-decent library because of his own contributions--which does not mean that he owns the place. No, it is the property of the Madame.

He is reading from a slim red volume as he descends to the basement. Déranger is dogging his steps. She marks Ellis first, and stops on a step to challenge him--or greet him--with a bark.

Val lifts the book and stares down at Ellis. His nose wrinkles.

"Oh," he says, "it is you."

clarisse. (NOT at the house.)

[heorte]

The Commander informs them briskly at the tail-end of the meeting itself: they are on loan, to tote whatever Diplomacy may need wherever Diplomacy may need it.

Ellis had expected luggage, whenever the guest in question arrived. But it turns out the day's work is crates. Crates, stacked along the backend of the ferry. The surly ferryman has slouched to the opposite end of the vessel, ostensibly leaving them pair of them to it.

"Shall I pass them up to you?" Ellis offers, eyeing the stack of crates. If they can get them off the ferry, and onto the dock, they'll at least be free of the ferryman's irritated scrutiny.

john silver (is also here on a technicality.)

[hornswoggle]

The day's work takes John out of the house more often than not, so he is not privy to whatever chaos arises throughout the day. If he returns to an ant underfoot or some minor flooding, it is more or less taken in stride. Why wouldn't there be a goat roaming the ground floor? Why wouldn't a ghost fling any unattended book at the nearest convenient target?

There are days in which John returns exceedingly late, well after dark.

But there are days too when he returns at a more reasonable hour. Sits out in the front room among rattling vases and bookshelves and the pouf that shudders a few inches forward and then back every few minutes, looking over correspondence and notes. Or he flips through any of the dusty books stacked here or there, crutch propped across one thigh as he stretches his leg out in front of him.

Join him, won't you?

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle is, by the look of her, on her way out— retiring to the much less cursed, haunted or generally overrun de Coucy mansion, substantially more agreeable a place to be spending her nights and early mornings. In doing so she's mostly missed John Silver here and there, their schedules not necessarily aligning to cross paths in the de Foncé residence, so it does seem natural to stop and linger on this odd occasion where they might.

She doesn't immediately remove her coat, heavy skirts whispering against the wood as she slows to stop in the doorway, leaning there, her hat in her hands. A sort of compromise between her habitual dress in Hightown and the attire she wears out on this mission or that; she can easily discard the skirts, if she needs to, and knives glint in the long tails of her coat, but she would look — while intimidating — not terribly out of place in one of Hightown's finer establishments.

Probably she's been in one, even recently. Getting Wysteria's sticky hands all over some costly fabric had surely bought everyone, including Wysteria, at least a bit of reprieve.

“Is that anything interesting?”

[inkindled]

"This can't not bother you."

This being the pouf in the front room, which has jolted a pace or two closer to the hearth. It bothers Matthias, obviously--because he asked, so it must, but also the look on his face could be cast in plaster and used to create a series of masks that look bothered.

He puts his foot against the pouf and pushes it back. He has a quill stuck behind his ear, with a smear of ink on his cheek. It can't be carried because Matthias' arms are full of books and ledgers and papers, and the ink pot to go with the quill, and three slightly stale buns wrapped in a napkin. It's late in the afternoon which means it's time to retire to the front room to finish up his work for the day. This room gets a bit more sunlight at this hour and if the fire stays lit, the chill of the coming evening is kept at least a little at bay.

He's not surprised to find Silver here. Having been Forces assistant long enough, he's used to seeing the man around. Flint is here; Silver is bound to be round eventually, intermittently and perhaps at a weird hour.

The pouf shudders defiantly forward again. Matthias gives it a scowl.

"This whole place is dodgy. Gives me the bloody creeps."