[open] I'm not invincible, I'm not afraid

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Barrow & you
WHAT: catch-all! it's been a while
WHEN: Kirkwall/the Gallows
NOTES: prob some mention of Having Died and other violence-related discussion

I. so let me be solid, and let me be sure

The posted times have come, and Barrow is there by the trebuchet he's chosen for practice at each of them, with his sleeves rolled up and a cigarette in his mouth. He starts each session by explaining each part of the machine: what it does, how it can go wrong, and how to fix it, temporarily or otherwise. The lessons then move on to operation, in which each congregated group is tasked with mock-firing the thing (no ammo is provided, ESPECIALLY not people, CHILDREN), rotating until each person has performed every involved task at least once.
Finally, they are shown how to properly clean and maintain the trebuchet.

The tone of these sessions is fairly informal, as Barrow is capable of little else, but there's an air of uncharacteristic seriousness as he runs through the information, and he allows for little goofing off or side chatter. This is important.


II. and let me be honest, and let me be pure

Not that Barrow has ever been one to seek the center of attention, but he's been a little more aloof since they were all brought back: a little sparser in the public areas of the Gallows, more likely to be found tucked away in the library of all places, or disappeared off to anonymously drink an ale or six in one of Lowtown's many dives. The latter isn't especially unusual, but the frequency of it is, and the way he tends to sit and stare at nothing for what seems like hours, taking sips of ale with an oblivious, automatic motion.

He has an uneasy way of looking at people he knows when they should enter his sanctum, and though he smiles, it would appear there's something he's nervous they're going to do, or say, or notice.


III. and if I can't be those things, let me be stubborn and doubt

[wildcard]

Comments

i.

[cozen]

Barrow hears no complaints out of Bastien, who has been made aware that he has little room left for looking anything less than completely dedicated.

He loads imaginary ammo. He loads counterweights—maybe also imaginary? He turns the crankshaft—and afterwards, when the rest of the class has been dismissed and filtered away, he presses his back against it, digging wood and metal into the muscle along his spine, between his shoulder blades.

When he has Barrow's attention, or at least some of it, he claps, too. Three times, quietly. It isn't sarcastic.

"Very well taught, monsieur."

[thereneverwas]

Crates and such are used as mock ammunition and counterweights for the time being, so everyone has the opportunity to feel what it'll be like-- not that anything weighted is actually launched at the unsuspecting denizens of Kirkwall, since that reflect somewhat poorly on the overall Riftwatch image.
It certainly doesn't help that each group is significantly smaller than is necessary to successfully work any of the trebuchets, but they're doing they're best. They're always doing their best.

Barrow maintains his veneer of jocularity until the participants are mostly gone, then stands silent for a moment, gazing contemplatively out over the harbor. He hasn't noticed Bastien, and doesn't until he claps; this yields a quick turn, a smile jumping back onto his face, somewhat self-effacing for his obliviousness.
"Thanks, mate." He leans against the trebuchet himself, resting on his shoulder, thumbs hooked in his belt.

I.

[sprent]

Gela makes good on her promise. She dutifully tacks herself onto the end of a larger group of people there to learn all about the trebuchets, hoping that nobody will really notice that she's there. Hopefully she won't be made to do anything, but she'll have enough of a presence that if Barrow if asks after her later...

She is keeping to herself, listening carefully as Barrow talks. During a pause in the conversation, she finds herself asking a question, going against her plan.

"But what are you launching with them, exactly?"

[thereneverwas]

Of course she is noticed, and of course she is made to do things: that's the entire point of this, as Barrow would be glad to explain if asked, but he's nothing but friendly to Gela and the rest of her group as he goes through the procedures.

To her question, he smiles a bit sheepishly: they're obviously not using real ammunition for this.
"Large stones. Fire barrels. Pieces of our own fortress, if they've come off. ...dead cows." He shrugs one large shoulder. "Nothing we don't mind losing, and crushing someone under."

It's a joke, but there's an unease to it, a tension in the corners of his eyes. This isn't so hypothetical as he'd like.

[sprent]

Dead cows. That's terrible! Gela regrets asking. She feels a little off-center, still navigating her way through the unfairness of having to be here at all and imposter syndrome marching up the back of her neck on prickly legs.

She says, trying, "But it's just a threat, isn't it?"

She imagines that if she were on the other side, and saw a bit of the fortress crammed into the trebuchet, ready to be fired, she would immediately stop doing whatever she was doing just to avoid it.

[thereneverwas]

"Is it?"

He raises his eyebrows at her, but he isn't entirely joking.

"A bronto pawing at the ground and bobbing its head is a threat, but you'd still better not let it catch up to you."

[sprent]

"But—"

Squishing somebody? Like that? Gela can't being to imagine what something like that would feel like; of course her mind goes right to Granitefell and all the bodies there, the state that some of them were in. "But how is anybody supposed to retrieve them, when they're stuck underneath of the... the large stone?" This part feels especially cruel.

[thereneverwas]

For a moment Barrow just sort of stares at her. How can he work with this.

"...perhaps they should have thought of that," he replies patiently, "before laying a siege?"

[sprent]

"Y-Yes," Gela stammers, painfully aware that all eyes are on her. Several people have disapproving looks on their faces; this is deeply embarrassing now. This is what she meant when she said she has little experience and isn't the right person to be operating a trebuchet, but did anybody listen to her? No they did not. "Probably. You're right."

It's both the unfairness and horrible nature of the trebuchet that makes her start to cry.

[thereneverwas]

Unwittingly, Gela has stumbled upon the quickest way to incapacitate Barrow: for a moment he looks like a startled hare, frozen in place with eyes wide, mind clearly trying to catch up with what's happening.
Then he steps toward her, hand out consolingly, angled to steer her away from the group so as not to unsettle them or embarrass her. He pats her shoulder lightly, keeping his mouth shut for the time being, as it has a way of betraying him in moments like this.

i;

[grindset]

Uncharacteristic seriousness, meet characteristic seriousness in an uncharacteristic context: though he's made no indication that he would, Viktor has shown up today. He arrives early to the earliest of the posted times, pale and unsmiling, his gaunt body jacketed and scarved against the chilly morning spit, a pair of fingerless gloves on his hands. He comes alone, and seems neither surprised nor disappointed that no group gathers after him—one may correctly surmise that he aimed for this hour, on this day, in this weather, on purpose.

Should Barrow voice any doubt at the commencement of the lesson with so few bodies present, he is encouraged to continue, tersely but not unkindly. If Viktor frowns through the preamble, it doesn't seem personal—that's just his face today—and if he coughs, he does so whether Barrow keeps his cigarette or not. While it goes without saying that he needs an explanation for none of this machinery, he is nonetheless grimly attentive.

As they reach the point where Barrow would ordinarily direct the setting of the mechanism, Viktor deadpans,

"We may be short a pair of hands."

But just the one pair, obviously.

[thereneverwas]

"Don't suppose you'd, ah... be willing to come back later."

This as they stand looking at the un-fired trebuchet, their breath puffing in little visible clouds of vapor in the morning haze. Barrow has gone through the rest of the lesson easily enough, but this is an obvious sticking point.

"Just, you know. To see it." He angles his head to look down at the frail man, his eyes sympathetic: they both know full well Viktor won't be doing any loading or pushing or wheel-turning anyway, which only enhances his appreciation that the man showed up at all.

[grindset]

Just to see.

Viktor looks up the length of the machine's arm—and this is a machine, in the purest sense of the word—to the sling, waiting to be filled, and thus fulfill its horrible purpose.

"I've seen it. From the battlements."

On turning his attention back to Barrow, he's steeled against that very look. His voice remains gentle as ever.

"Were you ordered to conduct these lessons?"

[thereneverwas]

Barrow's eyebrows climb at that question, and his first reaction is a little laugh, but he quickly schools it into something more serious when it's clear Viktor isn't joking.

"No," he says, with a shrug of one large shoulder, "just thought it was important."

[grindset]

The shift is appreciated, though not required, as he hasn't come to impose his mood on the situation—not that anyone could guess it by looking at his face, even taking that crumb of dry levity into account. Still, it is nice to be taken seriously when one is feeling serious, especially when one is standing next to someone who makes him look very small. That he's wearing a little hat probably doesn't help.

This is, indeed, important.

"Even for those who don't wish to fight?"

[thereneverwas]

The little hat is charming, even if Barrow would never say so. More people should wear little hats.

He nods.

"Those who don't wish to fight might not have a choice," he says quietly, angling his gaze out over the harbor, as if it'll soften the blow. "If the fight comes to us, and likely it will, we'll need every hand available to us."

A little twitch in his eyebrow, as he adds, "the only other option is to let them kill us." Again.

[grindset]

Viktor looks to the water, too, but it isn't long before his attention moves back to the war machine.

"So this is your last resort?"

That he can see ways to improve its function, almost against his own will, is offensive—if only he could turn it off.

[thereneverwas]

"Like to think so."

Spoken with a bit more levity, but it's an honest sort: tired, a bit anxious, hopeful.

"I can hardly ask you lot to go dragging them off to every battle we stumble upon, but it doesn't seem too much to ask that if they're here, we know how to use them."

II

[muckspout]

Edgard finds Barrow in the library and throws himself to the floor and takes a breath. Then he gently speads out a cotton handkerchief on a chair. He starts pulling out items: a bottle of Barrow's favorite ale, a rock, several left over items from dinners: an entire roll, some chicken legs, a entire slightly rumpled piece of cake.

He looks up, motions to the spread and sniffs loudly.

"Don't know why you're mad at me, but this is to say sorry for whatever I did!"

Whatever is the reason for Barrow's aloofness, Edgard is certain it's his fault.

[thereneverwas]

A long and awkward pause follows as Barrow looks down at Edgard, his face inscrutable as he makes an effort to reroute his thoughts from whatever they’d been to whatever the fuck is happening here.

When he finds he can’t think of anything that will make the scenario less absurd, he picks up the roll and chucks it wordlessly at Edgard’s head. Then he starts eating a chicken leg.

[muckspout]

Edgard lets the roll hit him and then turns to walk away.

"Understood." He whispers.

It just wasn't enough.

[thereneverwas]

"Oh, get back here," Barrow grumps at him, still eating the chicken leg-- which is cold, but he doesn't mind-- and furrows his brow at Edgard.

"Fuck're you on about?"

[muckspout]

Edgard's brow furrows and he turns back around.

"Barely talking to me. Avoiding me. Sometimes just walk past me when I say something."

Edgard shrugs. What else could this mean, but anger?

[thereneverwas]

At first Barrow looks like he's bracing himself for a prank, but Edgard's response quells all thoughts of such things. Fixing him with a strange expression, Barrow knits his brow, hunching forward in a sympathetic, self-conscious posture.

"...sorry, mate," he sighs, "didn't realize." He takes another bite of the chicken, remembering it's there, "...I didn't mean to."

[muckspout]

This throws Edgard off completely. He sits down on the ground.

"What do you mean you didn't MEAN to?"

Barrow has deliberately been avoiding him. Barrow has been hiding. Right??

"You're in the library! Why would you be in the library?"