faderift | there cannot be any sign of LIVING in this house!

Mother Pleasance establishes a routine very quickly upon arrival.

Mother Pleasance is chilly company. She is clearly given to humble, spartan tastes and eschews any offerings that strike her as too lavish. It is very easy to clock her as pious and rigid in her beliefs, with very little wiggle room as to what is and isn't in line with Andraste's teaching and the will of the Maker. While she strikes a somewhat imposing figure on first impression, she does seem genuinely curious as to the workings of Riftwatch and engaged in hearing the things they share with her.

Rising at dawn, she spends two hours in the Gallows Chantry, praying. Company is always welcomed, though they will be obligated to walk with her to the Gallows dining hall and engage in conversation while doing so.

Outside of meals, she occupies herself with exploring the Gallows and initiating conversation with anyone she meets. While she won't stray anywhere that gives the impression of being explicitly off-limits, she will inquire as to any areas that seem confidential. She seems intent on examining every inch of the Gallows, and familiarizing herself with these spaces by proxy if she can't physically look herself.

She ends her evenings with another hour in the Chantry, and then quiet reading in her room with a pot of tea. Lights out at a reasonable hour, door locked once she's ready to turn out the lamp.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Edited 2023-03-14 03:52 (UTC)

Jude's up before dawn, in the kitchens. It's useful to Riftwatch, sure- but it's also his personal time for contemplation and emotional offloading. Back home with the pack the kitchen was always his favorite place to be. Teaching the pups, re-teaching the surly teenagers. Stealing cookies and trading jokes and putting out fires.

The kitchen has always been one of the basic building blocks of pack life, and it's comforting to have something he loves so well translate across worlds.

Plus, kneading bread is a type of therapy all on its own.

So Jude, deputized impromptu commander of the Forces division, when asked what his daily routine entails, has invited Mother Pleasance along. Provided she takes him up on it early in the morning before her prayers, it will be before sunrise. If she declines, he'll find a time later in the day. Either way, when she enters the kitchens, Jude is just finishing up mixing up a batch of bread dough.

"Might be a silly question," Jude warns her, as he tips out the wet dough onto a floured board between them, then divides it with a blade, passing the Chantry Mother one half of it.

"But have you done this before?"

When Gela thinks of what part of the Gallows are nice the first thing that comes to mind is their large herb garden, currently swelling with smells as spring begins in earnest. Therefore she has invited Mother Pleasance out to sit in it, and take afternoon tea with her, and talk.

Gela provides the tea. She actually went and borrowed a lovely set, and carries it on a tray out to meet her guest. Under strict instruction, she is wearing her nicest clothes (not a patch in sight, you're welcome), and her warmest smile.

"Afternoon," she calls, spying her company on the path. She won't bother forcing her usual, peculiar accent for this: her true voice is fuller, unmistakably Nevarran, her register slightly lower. "That's good timing, isn't it? Was hoping I might run into you here so I could give you a little tour."

Having initially introduced herself as Mother Pleasance's chambermaid for the duration of her stay, Josephine has largely acted true to her position and kept out of the way: neither a tour guide nor a diplomat, she's here to change the linens.
It's in coming to collect the Mother's used tea things that she offers out, in the mildest of tones, "are you enjoying your visit, Madame?"

If the hour troubles Mother Pleasance, she gives no sign of it. Yes, it is early. She has risen earlier, when duty calls.

And yes, this is her duty. Making bread alongside a man with green glinting from his palm.

Well, for a given definition of a man. A Fade-made being, resembling a man.

"There are no silly questions," she counters, dusting her floury palms. Moments ago, she had tied a borrowed apron over her robes in brisk, economical movements. "I was not always a revered Mother."

The movements do come to her, slow but sure.

"Is this how you spend your mornings here?"

A tour.

Mother Pleasance is not inclined to turn down the offer. Every time she is guided through the Gallows, she gleans something new about it. And about its people, whether it is the person guiding her or the people they pass on the stairs.

"How very kind of you," is carries some mild approval. Noting the accent, as well as the scars, the absence of shard anywhere on her person. "Shall we have the tea first?"

There are little stone benches, chilly in this weather but suitable for their purposes. For conversation.

"Enjoyment of the visit itself is not the point of this excursion," she says, having risen to her feet. Her papers have been gathered, tucked neatly into a folder. At this moment, Mother Pleasance is winding the leather ties back round the folio. "But it had been some time since I'd last visited Kirkwall. I have been interested in seeing all that's changed."

In which interested is the mildest expression of opinion she might have offered as an answer.

This is a damned bother, is what it is. How exactly is she meant to pursue her projects—practically none of which she has even been permitted to mention—, and be certain that no harm is befalling her poor house in Hightown, and entertain a Chantry Mother? There are truly only so many hours in the day!

And yet here Wysteria is, glumly leading Mother Pleasance through a long explanation of the most dull fraction of Research's work. Having already touted the genius of her bicycle, she had turned at last to unrolling various schematics for the ARRIVED system out of the work room's largest table so as to bore the woman with great host of fiddly details regarding the purpose and near constant maintenance of the networked devices.

"It is all very simple once you get right down to it. We've identified the hallmarks or warning signs, so to speak, which herald—if you'll excuse the pun; it was entirely unintentional, I assure you—the opening of a rift in an area likely to, er, enhance the possibility of a Rifter's appearance. Then it's only a matter of flagging those signs when they appear, and dashing off quickly enough to rescue whomever may have fallen through. We shouldn't want any Rifter to be killed or to fall into the wrong hands, of course. —And all of this to say nothing of Riftwatch's ordinary rift monitoring, naturally."

Naturally. The little white dog sitting under the edge of Wysteria's skirts barks for apparent emphasis.

Her expression ever pleasant, Fifi nods; the folio is kept in her periphery, and she knows better than to look directly at it.

"It's changed much, I expect," she offers politely, setting aside the tray to wipe down the table, now that the Mother has risen from it. "I wouldn't know-- I never saw it before Riftwatch."

A hmm of acknowledgement, perhaps agreement. Yes, the Gallows is much changed. Her opinion on that change has yet to be determined.

"How long have you spent in service to those housed here?" is the more relevant question.

Having spent the past however many minutes listening politely, Mother Pleasance has made several notes on the paper in her little folio. It's all very simple feels to be an overstatement, when one considers the length of several other explanations Madame de Foncé has recited at various points in their tour through examples of Research's work.

But lo, a point where one might get a word in edgewise.

"And the Provost works closely with you on the development of all projects, or simply this...arrival system?"

Note the lack of capitals.

"In a sense, I suppose," Wysrteria says without much consideration for she is thinking how best to explain how the system utilizes the differing refraction points of copper and silverite to someone who may not even know what that is much less that there is a difference between them.

"The Provost is generally understanding of the various fields of expertise to be found within his division. Given how he is a Rifter,"—is not so much a purposeful attempt to mislead but a forgetful one; without her left arm and the anchor embedded into the palm of her hand, what of Madame de Foncé is left to indicate that she's the same?—"There are limits to his knowledge here, for example. To say nothing of the fact that most Rifters purport to come from all sorts of different places, and so even that doesn't afford as much technical overlap as one might wish for if one was very particular about being overly strict about knowing everything, everywhere, at all times. But yes, he does invite and review the work."

With a great flap of parchment, Wysteria flips the schematic page over to its backside where they may observe a more detailed series of drawings of the alarm's casement box and its complicated guts. "If we'd still had one of the boxes here, we might look at it in person. That would be easier, I think. But we do most repairs in the field at present."

Jude, who finds things to care about in nearly everyone he meets, warms at the suggestion. So many things in him are wired to appreciate a teacher, a mentor, especially one who has not forgotten humble roots.

"Some people feel more comfortable forgetting whatever they were. Never saw the use in that myself."

Clear approval.

Jude moves easily, but lets himself warm up naturally, not straining himself by trying for speed. Instead he lets himself lean into the kneading, using his upper body.

"Yup," he says back, a concise nod. "A good start for my muscles, nice little bit of relaxation for my brain. Like a personal ritual."

He nods to her.

"Wouldn't compare it to praying. But meditation, maybe."

"Yes," Gela says, drawing slightly ahead, "Before it cools."

It's normal tea. She got hastily talked out of providing one of her own odd blends for the drinking, and given something 'nicer' to steep instead, some lovely little Satinalia gift somebody hadn't used for themself. The stone benches are roomy enough that she can set the little tray down between them.

The garden is still coming back to life after winter, shaking off the frost. Green shoots are everywhere, reaching for the sun; elfroot is making a good home out of the brick closest to them, winding steadily up and up and up it.

Gela pours the tea without any preamble.

"This is one of my favourite places in the Gallows," is not sucking up. It is true.

Byerly doesn't show up for the full two hours of prayer - that would be unsubtle to the point of being gauche (and also he's having a hard enough time waking up before noon, never mind at dawn) - but he is there for the last forty-five minutes. And, perhaps to his credit in the Mother's eyes, he does know his Chant; whenever the prayers are chanted aloud, he's there speaking them as well.

His smile when he joins her for the walk back to the dining hall is easy and charming.

"How are you finding it here, Mother? Any surprises yet?"

"We find the Maker in all aspects of our lives," she posits. "Even in the preparation of our daily meals."

Is there some space for prayer in this work? For Mother Pleasance, there certainly is. And yes, the meditative quality of the work lends itself well to the concept. Were she working alone, she may find some connectivity here.

But she is not alone, and her work is never far from her mind.

"What would you compare to prayer, as you know it? Or have found it, since you manifested here?"

The Gallows Chantry is clean, tidy and pleasantly arranged. It is clear that it has been maintained. (Or prepared for her arrival. She is not blind to that prospect.) But she wonders how many of these Rifters find their way to it. Who here has shown them the way to it?

"I can see why."

The garden itself is charming. It would be lovely in full bloom, though she is some weeks too early for that. (And loathe to stay longer, though she must resign herself to the possibility her work will keep her here that long whatever she may wish otherwise.)

"Do you maintain it here, as part of your duties?"

The elfroot must have practical use. And later, she must look over the other sprouts, consider what else may be growing in the soil here and how it may supplant Riftwatch's work.

"It is a virtue in a leader to be able to work harmoniously with those beneath him," Mother Pleasance comments, as she adjusts her spectacles to better examine the blueprints displayed to her. Is she fully aware of what she is examining? No, certainly not. But it has been offered, and so shall it be read in as full a manner as she can muster.

"Do he review all your work? Even the," a pause, for the very unfamiliar naming of: "Bicycle?"

A question swiftly followed by, "I assume he expects some manner of explanation for those projects which draw on knowledge beyond his experience?"

"The Maker gifts us each day imbued with the unexpected," is dryly stated that it may be a joke, it may not be.

Mother Pleasance is inscrutable, even only a few hours past dawn. She has tucked her hands into the wide sleeves of her robe, warding against the chill in the air.

"What did you take from the day's service?" she asks, direct in her prompting.

He takes a breath and hums thoughtfully. He, in turn, tucks his hands into his pockets.

"That although Andraste's crusade was literally against Tevinter, in a truer way it was against corruption of all sorts. That in times of war, it is easy to accept evil in the name of expedience, and to do wrong and think it is just. But the most important battle is against ourselves, and the cruelties and wickedness we might be tempted to."

It's a sincere answer. Both inasmuch as it sounds plausible, and inasmuch as it is truly what he took away from it.

"You?"

"Yes, of course. To both items. Everything is recorded quite extensively as a general rule. Not just for the Provost's benefit, but in an effort to preserve the work. Given that we're fighting a war and no one knows when someone will go missing, that seems only wise. —Now here, you see that grasshopper shaped pin I made reference to earlier. See how it is built to control the timing of this wheel."

She nudges the schematic a little closer to Mother Pleasance for her benefit, forefinger tapping the relevant parts of the drawing.

"But surely you must be familiar with the general practice of scholarship. The Chantry is home to some of Thedas' foremost historians and essayists and inventors."

"It isn't part of my duties," Gela admits, "But I don't think any of us have it as a duty. We do it in our spare time; it's communal."

She likes it that way much more, to do something because you want to rather than having to do it, or being given a deadline. And it's fun to come to the garden to see what other people have put in it or tidied up. "You garden, Mother Pleasance?"

"About five years with Riftwatch, madame," is Fifi's deferential reply, "one or two of those spent in the personal household of several of its agents, on the mainland. They moved on, and I was offered a position in the Gallows." Straightforward enough; one recommendation leads to another, in her line of work.

Jude listens; interested, curious. The Revered Mother may not think that he's a person, exactly, but she's treated him as one so far. Makes it much easier to give her the same courtesy.

"Wouldn't know, except the guessing," he says easily, working at rolling the dough. A steady, comforting process, something do by rote so often that he doesn't have to pay much attention.

"Prayer looks like meditation to me. Reflection. Peace. Gotta expect that for a true believer, it must feel like a conversation with a loved one. Or at least a letter to them. Good way to unburden your mind, talk out whatever's messing around in there."

A slight pursuing of the lips.

Not necessarily offense; this is a spirit, after all. She is not unaware of the strangeness they may purport as custom.

"I will not deny I find it an odd approach. I wouldn't presume to trouble the Maker with the minutia of my thoughts," is the result of a moment's thought, several stretching digs of her palm into her allotment of dough. "We may beseech Andraste to intervene on our behalf, should we be so troubled."

A conversation implies a response, and the Maker is not given to rejoinders and replies.

"But I have often found it does bring peace."

there cannot be any sign of LIVING in this house!

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