This is what you give me to work with, well honey, I've seen worse

[foolsmakeitcolder]

WHO: Recipients of the Matchmaker's Invitations
WHAT: Intrigue. Scandal. Outrage. Budding friendships. Mostly shenanigans.
WHEN: 5 Cloudreach 9:49, Sundown
WHERE: Various Locales
NOTES:

Find your location header below and post your starter. Your destiny will find you.



To each location in the Gallows, a basket is delivered: each will contain fresh-baked bread from the Gallows kitchens, a pot of honey butter and something to spread it with. For outside locations, there are always adjacent comfortable indoor areas to escape to; nobody's meant to stand outside in bad weather.

To the one encounter outside of the Gallows: guests will be informed upon being seated that the tab has two rounds of drinks paid for, or it can be used for the equivalent of bar food instead. Additional orders will start a new tab.

To all locations: a small assortment of cards labeled: "Icebreakers". Each card contains a question for one person to ask another, both serious and funny. Players are encouraged to make up their own. Think "What's something about you that I would never guess?" and "would you rather fight 50 duck-sized bears or one bear-sized duck?"

Your destiny awaits. The Matchmaker sends their regards.

Comments

The Hanged Man

[foolsmakeitcolder]

[heirring]

Wysteria has already finished her second drink, and has ordered a third despite the piss poor quality of the ale and the blank look she'd been given up on asking whether there might be anything else she might have instead. This swift downing of booze, watery though it is, has successfully mitigated some of her anxieties to allow her to drop the toes of her boots from the height at which they'd been elevated over the sticky floor. The effort to save the length of her sole the indignity of this place has been a more or less untenable thought from the get go, and yet the impulse—

Well, surely her sturdiest field boots have seen worse than the floor of the Hanged Man. And her sturdiest, most no-no sense frock has no doubt seen worse than this chair. And her sturdiest, highest collared shirt has taken on worse smells than the permeating smoke of pipes and fat candles that hangs here in this room. Indeed, she is entirely prepared to weather this entire situation. Whatever it is.

Hence the recycled scrap of parchment (once a receipt for some delivery to the Research workrooms) on the table before her, and the pen in her hand with which she is currently scratching out a long list of names.

[delphian]

When Tsenka arrives — when she'd seen where the invitation was for, she'd considered passing on it, and she's in no great hurry to get there — catching sight of Wysteria, her mouth twists in wry amusement and she lingers at a distance for a moment to fully appreciate the situation.

Oh, okay. This was someone's idea of a joke.

Shouldering through the crowd, she doesn't bother sitting or taking off her cloak — tilts her head towards the door, says, “Calling anything in the Hanged Man 'carnal' seems like an invitation to a really awful conversation with a healer,” conversationally. “I'm going to get out of here. You want a strictly business dinner someplace less riddled?”

[heirring]

Wysteria straightens all the way up from her pinched forward slouch over her list. Which, depending on how well Tsenka can read upside down, does reach rather like a conspiracy theory hit list—Byerly Rutyer, Kostos Averesch, O Bearhold, and—

She tucks her pen somewhere behind her ear and folds the paper smartly over once. Clears her throat. Her third drink hasn't arrived yet, but they'd only be wasting the money of their unknown, quote unquote, benefactor were she to leave it and whatever else remains in the tab. So, emphatically—

"Yes, a strictly business dinner. Absolutely."

Wysteria hadn't removed her red capelet from about her neck, but she does draw it forward back across her shoulders as she scrapes up from the table.

[delphian]

Seems best.

“Medicinal tea room a block or two from my place,” she says, casting a curious look at the list without managing a clear one and reserving her right to ask later, “where 'medicinal' mostly means 'alcoholic', far as I see. The little old women running it have a deal with the bakery I live above.”

It's not the sort of place that she might have frequented in another life, but in this one, after everything else, there's a real appeal in losing at Wicked Grace to a coterie of heavily accented immigrant grandmothers drinking hard tea and gossiping about their neighbours. She's on nodding terms with a few of the other regulars, enough to occasionally get invited into those card games when they're short one, bored, or feeling charitable.

“Nevarran owned, might be? I think.”

The Library - East Wing

[foolsmakeitcolder]

[nonvenomous]

There was a time when Mr. Dickerson might have arrived here fashionably late and in his finest vest, wire taut, wary.

Today he is:

Early.

In an old brocade vest nearly as tattered as the rest of him.

Already eating a piece of bread.

He is also smoking in the library, the stub of his joint spindling oily elfroot fumes from the tin he’s rested it in while he rolls a massive wad of bread in his jaw. There are icebreaker cards for him to read to himself while he waits, front and back.

At the entrance, a lithe black cat sits in the coil of her own tail. Her eyes are overlarge in her skull, green, goggling.

She watches the door.

[grindset]

There's hardly any need to watch. Richard ought to know this sound well enough: it's the tap... tap... of spring-cushioned metal softly meeting stone. The third foot in a distinctive gait.

Not at all an unusual thing to encounter here in the library. From time to time this same tapping will pass an entryway or move along an adjacent aisle, ignoring signs of presence and hoping to remain ignored in turn. This time, at this entryway,

it stops,

and in leans Viktor, with cantilevered neck and drawn brow, whereupon he meets two verdant lamp-eyes more or less involuntarily. After an acute application of willpower:

"Tell me you didn't bring props."

[nonvenomous]

It makes sense, in the way it would for someone who makes a hobby of matchmaking. Two bony nerds, both alike in dignity.

Dick is not unkind: he pinches up one last drag and snuffs the joint out after the third tap. A haze about the ceiling and odeur de skunk are all that remains by the time Thot chatters her surprise at eye contact, ekekek.

Eventually she’ll put it together.

“The props were provided.”

With no indication that he’s been cheating, Richard takes his time reading the current card before he taps it back into the deck.

“I hope you like bread.”

The Library - West Wing

[foolsmakeitcolder]

[altusimperius]

Benedict has learned a thing or two in his years with Riftwatch, and he's not about to get publicly played for a fool.

But he does desperately want to see what this is about, which is why he saunters his way to the library's West Wing-- far ahead of the appointed time, so as to dodge any suspicion-- and proceeds to browse a row of scrolls there with a view of the meeting place in his periphery.
It's part of his duties as Byerly's assistant, you see. Maps and things. Very official.

ty for your patience

[wearyallalone]

Though they've not had much work in common, it is possible Benedict knows Vanya Orlov by reputation (reliable member of Forces, temporary seneschal, the ex-Templar who gave up lyrium a few months back). It is also possible that he doesn't. Either way, Vanya does not give the impression of a man especially likely to play a joke on anyone. If anything, the man in his 40s with a serious expression and a soldier's bearing looks more like the sort of man to need a joke explained to him.

He approaches the table directly and almost precisely on time. If he's nervous, it doesn't show, though there's a small expression of surprise at the basket on the table. When he sits, however, he doesn't immediately reach for the bread, instead picking up the small pile of cards and idly flipping through them while he waits.

no problemo!

[altusimperius]

It's fair to say Benedict knows who most people in Riftwatch are, even if he hasn't formally met them; it all comes with the territory of working for the Ambassador, having a roster of the organization's personnel accompanied by blurbs about them, which is how he at least knows that the man sitting before him was a Templar.

They're different in Tevinter, of course. But having had little occasion to interact with many after coming south, his caution is only magnified by Vanya's presence.
Perhaps he's just being paranoid. But paranoia suits mages around here.

He watches the man for definitely longer than is polite, and once having established that he is very much just sitting there looking at the cards, reveals himself by coming around the side of the bookshelf and clearing his throat.

"The... invitation," he says in his quiet, aloof way, watching Vanya from down his nose.

The Prayer Garden

[foolsmakeitcolder]

[favoriteanalyst]

Well, whoever gave him a friendly invitation, mysterious as the summons were, they certainly picked a good spot. He already frequents the prayer garden, though usually when it's a little more in bloom and a little less sad. Were he a paranoid sort, he might think this some kind of terrible ambush.

But he's willing to play the game. A party, perhaps? Though he hadn't gotten any whiff of any plans. That there's a basket of fresh bread fit for--a very small number of people, two or three at the most...hm. Well. Not so much a party then. A tête-à-tête, then.

From a matchmaker.

Look, he can at least find the humor in the situation. Might as well help himself to some goods before the bread sits too long.

[fairforce]

It was the invitation's use of her title that put Tiffany on her guard. It isn't as if she's made a secret of who and what she is, and from where and who she's come from--and it isn't as if she's ashamed. Honesty is her preference over the glib concealment of fact. It isn't as if she is stupid and knows nothing of how some might see her. In fact this is what she is thinking of particularly: Brother Gideon, and the quiet violence when he had looked at her, really looked at her, finally and properly, with all pretense dropped.

She does not come heavily armed. The dagger at her belt is practically ornamental for a Fereldan. She does not come visibly armored. The thick quilting might be for style and warmth as much as it is for protecting. She braids her hair to keep it from her face and when she walks into the prayer garden, there is a wariness to her expression that does soften, quickly, when she sees Mobius is there, just... eating bread.

"This isn't half as bad as I thought it might be."

Though, in retrospect, maybe she should have been more suspect of the matchmaking part of the invitation.

[favoriteanalyst]

She's certainly not the worst person who could've showed up, presumably at the Matchmaker's invite. Mobius wipes a few crumbs from his mouth, and then from his shirt, almost embarrassed to be caught out with his mouth full and already snacking. (But hey, it's there for them!)

"Well," with amusement in his voice, "I was aiming for no bad at all, but I get it's a sliding scale."

He motions to the seat opposite him. "Apparently someone thought it'd be either funny or cute to set us up. Can't say I've got any complaints." Not really, no. Tiffany has only ever been pleasant, kind, thoughtful, funny, in the times they've interacted. Competent but not frightening, in spite of her status. "Hungry?"

The Herb Garden

[foolsmakeitcolder]

[biggame]

Xiomara is like twenty thousand different things, if not punctual, but for this she's on time. Maybe even early. She's dressed for spring—which really only means the same trousers and boots as always, the same colorful and clinky embroidered sash with coins and trinkets sewn on in garlands or dangling from the hem, but now with a green shirt with a neckline low enough to show off some of her tattooing instead of high enough to protect against the cold. She only smells a little bit like bear.

Nippiness will set in once the sun has been down longer. But for now she's fine. She's leaving her arms bare and tossing her cloak onto a garden bench, considering the contents of the basket, thinking of what her mother would say if she started eating before her company arrived, and considering instead a nearby tree, stunted by its circumstances but still sturdy enough to climb.

She's considering it.

[sprent]

How does one have a carnal encounter in a herb garden? Gela supposes she will find out.

Her and Xiomara have a similar way of dressing: Gela comes by wearing a long-sleeved, off-white blouse tucked into a skirt of many different colours, patch-worked here and there to extend the life of it. She runs slightly late, and arrives with not a thought in mind as to how this will go exactly, but feeling gamely curious about it all the same.

The sweet awkwardness of the situation does nothing to rattle her smile.

She has seen Xiomara about the place and not spoken to her directly, not yet. She remembers a bear though, and mention of a curse, which may or may not have come from her. Her eyes go, as perhaps they were supposed to, toward the tattoo stretched over her collarbones.

"Hello," she says approvingly, her hands in one another, fingers plucking against a copper ring on one of them, "You're here for this matchmaker thing too, then? You look nice."

[biggame]

Hello, someone says, and Xio pivots neatly on her feet to face her, one fist still on her hip from her considering a tree climb pose. Maybe it is now a considering a human climb pose, if the joke still works when said human is not that much taller than she is.

"Thank you," she says. "So do you."

Is it narcissism, to like a woman with curls? Either way—

She tips her head toward the basket of bread and the ice breaker cards. Which could be anything, as far as she knows; her glance was not long or focused enough for her to decode them. "I was half expecting a bed roll and candles, with that invitation," which she had poor Evelyn read to her, out of habit, "but instead we have bread."

The Sparring Grounds

[foolsmakeitcolder]

[portalling]

A friendly invitation is extended to Dr. Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme. Your presence is requested at the sparring grounds at sundown.

Which is, all things told, one of the more ominous invitations he’s ever received in his life. Strange had examined the invite from all angles — had missed his ability to scry, to press fingertips against heavy cardstock and suss out something about its origin — but his resources are more limited here, and so he finds himself weighing the options and probabilities for a long while. Is someone calling him out? Challenging him to a duel? ‘Friendly’ is the operative word here, and it’s doing a lot of heavy lifting.

So.

He makes sure he has an axe strapped to his hip (he’s started training with physical weapons recently), and tests his connection to the Fade, ready to seize some defensive magic if necessary. Ponders if he ought to tap someone as a second in case this is an attempted murder — sundown seems a particularly appropriate time to be murdered — but in the end, he simply encodes an explanatory crystal recording like a voice memo, because the sorcerer is tidy and precise, and he hates to leave a mess behind. For better or worse, he prefers to handle a situation himself.

And so he’s there a little early, standing in the middle of the sparring grounds with his hands folded into his cloak, as the sunset bleeds out of the sky, waiting to see who’ll arrive.

[armd]

Abby has not interpreted the invitation the same way.

When she looked at the thing for the first time the word matchmaker was what jumped out at her, and gossiping about it to Clarisse didn't help sway her initial assumption: somebody is trying to set her up on a date. For some reason. Abby keeps going back and forth between taking the thing seriously and thinking of it as a prank, cuz maybe whoever sent it is going to show up at the same time just to laugh at her for coming.

... Unless,

It influences what she's wearing out to the training yards (another point to prank, cuz who would go on a date down there? ... Her. She would. Another point to real). If it actually is a date she doesn't want to show up with dirt on her tunic, but she also doesn't want to look like she tried, either. This internal back and forth results in Abby showing up a little past the designated time, looking niceish.

Wearing clothes that don't have any holes in them does mean she put some effort in, okay.

She's a little nervous about the whole thing, and trying not to look it. There is very obviously somebody there and waiting, cloaked so as to throw a mysterious silhouette out across the yard.

Her fists are jammed into pockets. The person turns.

"Oh," Abby says, eyebrows lifting. A rush of realisation. Relief, indicative in the flat tone of her voice, nothing put on, "It's you."

[portalling]

The sorcerer’s own eyebrows arch up practically into his hairline,

and somewhere a part of him withers away from sheer mortification, mentally sinking through the soles of his feet and into the dirt. His grip had tightened on the hilt of the axe as the other more muscled figure approached, his own shoulders going tight with tension and ready for a fight, ready to swing. All that strain now vanishes abruptly like a balloon pricked and deflating, leaving him feeling oddly off-center and askew and discombobulated. He probably shouldn’t swing an axe at Abby.

“Did you… ask someone to send me to the training yards?” There’s a crease in the middle of his forehead, perplexed. The sheaf of heavy paper is folded in his pocket; he’s memorised the phrasing of the invitation, and none of it particularly stands out as Abby-like.

And Strange is a fashion-conscious man; he has, indeed, noticed that she’s a little less scruffy and threadbare today.

(The mortification and confusion grows a little bit more.)