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

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

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

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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.

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.

"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."

"No. As a contingency, it makes sense."

It doesn't put his mind at ease, but then, he doesn't have to like it to see the wisdom there.

The crutch gives one soft tap as he reseats it, shifting his weight.

"Have you... seen many battles, yourself?" Survived was the first word that came to mind, but given recent events—

A little nod, a flash of something in Barrow's face that he quickly schools back into an amiable neutral, and he looks at Viktor again.

"A fair number with Riftwatch alone," he considers, "and, well. Things were chaotic before that, even if I didn't see the worst of them in the Hinterlands, with the mages. And there's no Fereldan alive who didn't see the Fifth Blight in some capacity."

A sigh through his nose, and for a moment it looks like he might let his mind wander, but he drags it back.
"Have you?"

This is an unexpected question, says his expression in turn. He doesn't mind it. Given Barrow's experience, perhaps he's imagining Viktor was once fit for the field, only to be made frail by an injury—and it would make sense to think so. His own undercity was an unforgiving place, but had he been born here in Thedas, his odds of survival would have been much worse.

With a shake of his head, he answers quietly,

"Not as a soldier. And nothing close to the scope of this war."

Barrow's experience has taught him not to imagine anything of anyone-- violence can come to the small and pacifistic as easily as it can to the strong and outfitted.

He gives a little chuckle, but it's of the sympathetic sort rather than bearing any genuine amusement: "sorry this is where you ended up. Not fair, is it."

Whatever it is about Thedas that's pulling all these unlikely people to its shores, they hardly deserve to be embroiled in a war that, until recently, has had nothing to do with them.

The restless sideways cut of Viktor's gaze had might as well be a physical step around his answer—but it needn't be spoken aloud, anyway. That he can respect a nudge of bleak humour may be credited for keeping his eyebrows at bay for the moment.

At length, still looking away, he opts for a fragment of admission: "It still doesn't feel real, sometimes."

It's a look with which Barrow is well familiar, and he doesn't press. This isn't an easy subject at the best of times.

"Can't imagine," he remarks, with a little sigh, "but all the same. Glad you're here to help."
Bringing his cigarette to his mouth once again, a little jolt of his hand nearly drops it-- he transfers it to his left and squeezes his right into a slow fist, wincing.

Receiving gratitude for one of the worst things that's ever happened to him—the worst, arguably, as the other thing has only ever been a threat—it's an odd experience. What should he say? That he's happy to help? He isn't.

No—he is. He would simply prefer not to be helping here, in this place which has stolen so much from him. It seems to him a very selfish thing to feel, so when Barrow's hand becomes a sudden distraction, he leaps upon it by way of another unspoken thing: a question in his eyes, in the little furrow on his brow, as he looks up at him.

Barrow is often the sort who doesn't mind lapses in conversation, but some people are granted exceptions to the rule: generally, they're the type of person he's afraid of offending by virtue of existing, or by saying something stupid, or obliviously stomping all over their sensibilities with his big dumb feet. Mages, for instance. And rich people. And smart people, which means Viktor's resulting silence causes him a little discomfort, and he seems relieved to disrupt it with a sheepish grin, wiggling his fingers stiffly.

"Rheumatism," he explains, "my fault for being caught out by the wrong people." A pause. "...and, you know. Getting old."

"Ah. Happens to the best of us."

A grim sentiment coming from Viktor in particular, perhaps, given his lesser age and greater infirmity, but he doesn't intend to make Barrow any more uncomfortable—it suggests good humour, even, despite being a mechanical response. It's the kind of thing you might safely say to anyone. What he's really thinking is, this weather is unkind to him, too—and that's not a place he cares to dwell.

So, after a moment's pause, he switches tracks:

"I'm not sure offhand how much time the Research division has dedicated to the Gallows' defences, historically speaking, or whether you've raised the issue before... but if you have concerns, it might be worth flagging the matter officially."

"I admit I hadn't given it much thought," Barrow muses, "but you're right. If there's one thing our rogues' gallery has to its advantage, it's the breadth of technical knowledge."

He falls silent a moment, mulling it over, then nods to himself as if coming to an agreement with some invisible party. "Who's the best brain to pick, you think? All of you in a room together get my head spinning." (affectionate)

That invisible party must really get around; Viktor has availed himself of its counsel many a time.

"Well, were I in your shoes, I would begin by submitting a written request to the division. It needn't be a detailed proposal—an appeal should do. You need only get one small wheel turning to encourage the rest to move. However, ehh... a major project is about to move into full production," he adds, "so you may not see immediate results."

"Oh, that right?" Barrow's eyebrows climb as he momentarily shuffles the idea of More Paperwork out of mind-- he'll get to it, he'll get to it.

"What're you lot working on?"

"Something very grand," Viktor says, and despite how tired and cold he looks—and he looks that way at least half the time, generally—it brings a gleam to his eye. He could almost certainly just say what it is, since it's not as though security is all that tight, but this way is more fun—

"Something no one else has."

That gleam isn't lost on Barrow, and perhaps it's only because he's spent too much time around Wysteria, but he knows far better than to dismiss it.

"Oh yeah?" Color him intrigued.

Viktor nods, just the once. "We'll be announcing it in the new year."

He hadn't come out here with the specific intent to redirect Barrow's attention from weaponry to defence, but it pleases him to have done so, if only until the next tutorial group arrives. You need only get one wheel turning, and so on...

The way he gathers his posture around his crutch now suggests he's preparing to move, and indeed that is so: "Speaking of which, I should be on my way—there's still plenty of work to be done."

Barrow knows when he's being teased, but his rapport with Viktor is not such that he can call it out, amiably or otherwise. These Research types; he'll have to just wait and see.

"'Course," he replies, affably waving Viktor away, "thanks for coming out." He means it, too.

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

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emerges groaning from the christmas mire

https://grindset.dreamwidth.org/file/23090.jpg

it belongs in a museum

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