(no subject)

[panulus]

WHO: Gannicus and whoever should encounter him
WHAT: A former slave walks into town
WHEN: Covering a span of a few days, as he settles in
WHERE: Here, there, a little bit everywhere. Cheap taverns, cheaper inns, ditches, also the pier and around the ferry
NOTES: I am down for keeping TDM threads or using them as starters, or starting over if that is what you prefer! I will also match format, if you're not down with brackets.

drinking, taverning, etc

[ This is a man who has spent time on the road.

It's clear from the way he moves, the fact that the cloak around his shoulders is battered and dirty, the way that the mud clings to his very high boots. His pack that he totes around is weathered but dry, treated with wax that surely was put there months ago.

To catch him at a tavern involves watching him drink, and perhaps watching him fumble with coins as though he's not entirely sure of their current value. However he's not a fool with his money, and anyone who tries to pickpocket him will find themselves suddenly gain a few broken fingers.

He fumbles a bit but he also settles, takes a drink of wine. Considers it. Raises his eyebrows. ]

Maker knows I've had worse.

[ He says that aloud to whoever is next to him. ]

Pier

[ It's very early in the morning and he's already there, but it's not particularly clear if he's waiting for the ferry or if he's just sitting and watching the water. He has both of his swords on his lap as he sits, cross-legged, looking vaguely ruffled, a bit like a cat who didn't expect to be forced to come out so early.

He looks up as someone approaches; he has his cloak wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl, but his hair is a wild mess around his head. ]

Do you know how to do a proper braid?

[ He raises his eyebrows, like it's an invitation. ]

Comments

taverning

[altusimperius]

[Across the room, a table in the corner hosts a pair whose activity, should one look closely, is borderline obscene: a rough-looking dockworker is all but devouring the neck of another, thinner man, whose shiny black hair and rumpled but clearly well-cared-for clothing is terribly out of place in a joint like this.

The second man lolls his head to one side, meeting Gannicus' eyes by chance. There's a dull spark of recognition in his dark gaze, bloodshot and bleary from Maker knows what substance; by his lazy half-smirk, he is also incredibly drunk, but dimly acknowledges the oddly-dressed fellow as someone he's seen before.

A third man, more unsavory than the first, sits on Benedict's other side, close enough that the latter is continuously bumping his shoulder. When his companion looks up for a moment, they exchange a glance and a nod. It's not clear entirely what they're agreeing on, only that the odd man out is the inebriated one between them.]

[panulus]

[ Normally, Gannicus does not care what is happening in what corner of what room. People are messy. He's messy. He respects that.

But he spots a familiar pair of eyes, and he sees what's going on. A drunk man, a rich man, probably one stupid enough to not take any precautions about where he is. And two other men who spot that.

Gannicus gets up with a careful grace, and eases himself over. If had not met the Altus a few days previous, he wouldn't even bother. He would just let him get rolled and then tossed into the gutter.

But.

But.

He pulls the man kissing him back. There's a moment of recognition - not of Gannicus himself, but of an interfering party. Fuck off, is the comment he gets.]

Time to go.

[There's a swing from the kissing man, and his friend is pulling a blade, and Gannicus is already spinning to pin them against each other.]

You. Most high. How drunk are you?

[That he aims towards the altus.]

[altusimperius]

[There’s a deep grunt of impact as the blade punches into the wrong man’s abdomen, and both assailants separate at once, the knife-wielder stepping back in horror as his comrade collapses, clutching his middle.
It’s clear by the ghostly white of his face that murder had never been their intention, least of all that of each other—- not that intention plays into it at all anymore now that the first assailant is on the floor, coughing blood.

Benedict is shitfaced, but it’d be truly impressive to miss all this. He wavers where he sits, watching it transpire in mute bewilderment. He looks up at Gannicus when addressed, uncomprehending.]

[panulus]

[Maker help him.

Gannicus looks incredibly unimpressed at this development; not at Benedict's dumbstruck face, but at the stabbing and the groaning. They're going to attract an audience in .2 seconds, so Gannicus leans down, grabs the man's shirt, and packs it into the wound, then reaches for his friend.]

Hold.

[He presses the other man's hands against the wound.]

Find a healer.

[He says that out loud to someone else, someone nearby, and then he grabs Benedict by the back of his shirt and reels him out of the tavern.]

I thought you dim but not so stupid.

cw for drugging stuff

[altusimperius]

[It’s not the first time Benedict has been conveyed thus, and he’s as agreeable as a kitten (the alternative, to struggle, would be much worse) as Gannicus hauls him out.]

‘m not, [he argues without much heat: he’s drunker than he thought, drunker than he intended to be, and categorically So Stupid as a result. He can barely stand on his own, and has the faraway thought that there may have been something in his wine.]

pier

[brennvin]

[ The woman who comes meandering along the bank at this early hour is following the line of the water, pacing a narrow strip of stone wall just for fun, without losing her balance falling into the harbour. She’s rumpled, a little disheveled — the look of someone who missed the late-night ferry because they’re not very good at telling time at all — but upon being hailed, she drifts over toward Gannicus and scrutinises him. She seems sober, alert; not hungover, just tired.

There’s a tattoo on her right temple, and a fur cloak slung over her slightly ill-fitting Riftwatch uniform. Despite her mild disarray, her long unruly dirty-blonde hair is in a relatively tidy braid. ]

Depends what you mean by ‘proper’. But guaranteed it’d be something better than that fucked-up mess currently on your head, mate.

[ Her accent is all southern: Ferelden to some ears, but actually Avvar to others who know better. ]

[panulus]

[ He does not know betters in fact some might say he knows worse. He’s not ignorant, entirely, having known gladiators from all corners of Thedas; still he only knows generalities.

So he glances up at her, at her braided hair.]

I offer honeyed wine, if I could be put to rights.

[His smile is open, guileless. He’s been traveling and he has some personal, small stock of things like honey and sugar, knowing they would be valuable.]

[brennvin]

[ With a spark of audible delight: ] Like mead? Oh, well, that’s more than worth a few minutes of my time —

[ She glances at the cold water, the wind coming off the sea. She hasn’t memorised the ferry schedule at all yet, but it’s not visibly pulling up at this exact moment, so they’ve probably got time. That old man’s slow with his boat.

So the woman seems to make a quick decision, considering they seem to be headed to the same niche organisation. She joins the stranger by his side, and then simply folds her legs and crumples into a comfortable cross-legged position behind him, sitting and sizing up the extent of the problem first, peering at the back of his head. ]

I’m Astrid. Did a seagull attack your hair or something?

[panulus]

Mulsum.

[He corrects, gently.]

I've no tongue for it, most days.

[Not having any desire to drink mulsum saved his life, once, but the value of it as trade is high, even here. Like now. He takes a wineskin from the bag on his lap and a small tin cup, battered and beaten, and pours a generous amount for her, and then sets it next to her.

He also fishes out an extremely unlikely comb that's missing a few teeth, made of sturdy wood.]

A seagull would have been kinder than rock slept upon.

[brennvin]

[ There’s a strange, antiquated touch to his phrasing which makes Astrid briefly squint, but she knows so very little of other languages, other regions. And this is perhaps an odd arrangement and trade to make with a complete stranger, but bartering comes easily to her. One hand scratches the other’s back: you help your neighbour. So she takes an introductory swig of the mulsum, then accepts the comb and gets to work, cheerfully chatty: ]

Ohh, did you miss the ferry too? I slept in a tree last night. Snuck up to Hightown and set up my hammock in an out-of-the-way park. Had to wake up early when they sent the dawn patrols around, though, so they chased me out. Probably won’t do it again if I can avoid it.

[ Her hands are gentle, separating the man’s hair into parts, and then working on combing out each tangled mass.

Somewhere, once upon a time, she used to do this for her little brother. ]

You must be headed to Riftwatch, yeah? Nobody else takes this ferry. Haven’t seen you round there before, but then again, I don’t know everyone yet.

Pier

[amaizing]

[Lia recognizes Gannicus, smiles, and seats herself next to him.]

Of course. [She says simply.]

But I don't think it would suit you at all. People might think you a gentleman.

[Her eyes sparkle to indicate that she's teasing him.]

[panulus]

[He remembers her, and his smile shows it.]

You may explain misguided notion.

[He says in that strange, archaic manner he has. But he moves just a little to make sure that she knows that he welcomes her company.]

Gratitude.

[He says that part softly as he pulls hair ties from the pack at his waist.]

[amaizing]

[Lia starts by combing his hair lightly downward with her fingers. She's surprisingly gentle and when she hits a knot, she takes care to go slowly, so it doesn't pull.]

The misguided notion that you're not a gentleman? or that having your hair plaited makes you gentlemanly?

If it's the first, gentlemen do not brawl. They are much too dull for it, unlike yourself. If it's the second, gentlemen are very tidy and fastidious.

[panulus]

You think me bright?

[He says it with a lift of his eyebrows as he smiles, and it's clearly a flirt, now.]

I know no gentlemen. The man who named himself my master would think himself one, but I imagine no gentleman pleased to own the life of another man.

[amaizing]

[Lia giggles in response to Gannicus' flirt.]

As a new coin. But more exciting. Lightning perhaps?

I do not know this man you speak of, but I agree, not a gentleman. But for him that is not a compliment, whereas to you it was.

pier.

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle is waiting for the ferry, cloak drawn tight around her frame, the sound of the carriage she'd stepped down out of fading into distant rattling as it makes its way back towards the freight elevator that'll deliver it to hightown in lieu of all those fucking stairs. the question catches her off-guard,

an unexpected reminder. not a totally unwelcome one, just one she wasn't immediately braced for. the pause is long enough to be awkward — or rude — until she finally says, )

If you can wait until we get across the water, then yes.

( she tips her head towards the blot on the gallows horizon: a darkly painted and eccentrically built houseboat, tied up to a slip only feet from where the ferry will land on the gallows island. )

I can get a comb and oil from La Souveraineté. Is someone expecting you?

( professional first impression? social call? limited amount of time to sort out his situation? )

[panulus]

[He did not see her descend from the carriage but he sees it rumble away, and he files that information for later. A noblewoman, he guesses. The kind of woman who would, had she been in Tevinter, paid good coin to watch him kill on the sands.

He looks over at the houseboat, and then back at her.]

Yours?

[He isn't going to wait, really. He finger combs his hair, and just starts tugging it back into a workaday queue.]

No. I am but recently come to Kirkwall.

[His accent is distinct, and his speech patterns are odd. It would take someone who knows the history of Tevene to know that it's an archaic way of speaking, translated into the Trade tongue almost directly.]

[elegiaque]

( ten years ago, he'd have been onto something. today—

well, he visibly isn't waiting, so she doesn't press. scrutinises him — makes up in observation what she distinctly lacks in depth perception, one eye gold and blank — and though she's heard more than the average orlesian's share of tevene accents, his isn't identifiable as other than one she's not heard before.

interesting choice for someone new to kirkwall, but not so odd for a vint. limited options around here, sounding like that. and it'd be particularly bold to just arrive, if he'd mischief in mind, but it wouldn't exactly be the first time. )

The boat, I won off a gent at the docks in cards. The Gallows, you'll want someone to expect you if you want to get past whoever I'm about to relieve at the gate. We're cautious these days.

( granitefell still lingers in her mind, in the tension between her shoulders and the way she still hates the feeling of open space behind her back. she doubts she's the only one, for all it's nothing she voluntarily brings up. )

[panulus]

You live and work in the gallows and spend days in port?

[He doesn't say it with judgement but just with the soft question of: what are you doing in town, then? He is a man who never really went anywhere save the arena, and home, and back. There was no trust in a gladiator.

So.]

What entertainments abound in Kirkwall?

[He is not going to answer her question. She is not on duty yet, and he is not keen to talk about work while not there.]

[elegiaque]

( that measuring look lingers — were she on duty and were it therefore her arse, the conversation would look different, but she has an hour at least once she's across the water to change her clothes and tie up her hair and for such things to become her more pressing problem. this moment immediately, she isn't the one who'll get a dressing down from rowntree if the stranger becomes more work than he needed to be.

enough to get his measure in conversation, and worry about anything more when she needs to. to wit, the wry curl of amiable-enough amusement: )

I don't know if we go in for the same sort of entertainments.

( nor, in fairness, was that what she was doing in kirkwall. then again— book club. after a moment, )

Taverns, plenty. I don't venture far from the docks for those, I assume you can draw your own conclusions— ( just because she can protect herself doesn't mean she's somehow forgotten what she looks like— she's little and pretty and smells like her daddy's got money. no need to court more trouble than her mouth routinely finds her in regardless. ) I've family up the hill. One of the other shard-bearers here is was an actor in Orlais, so I go to see him perform when he talks his way into something in Kirkwall,

( she tilts her hand, briefly, so he can see the sick-green gleam in it, refracted by the gem in the palm of the gauntlet she's wearing. other. )

Most of Kirkwall's attractions involve too many people for my liking, so I might not be your best for recommends.

Pier

[armd]

(Abby looks at him.

She just got here, is half-awake, and would not have come at all if she hadn't been ordered to do so the day before. Presumably this stranger has noticed her hair, and is making fun of her. Her french braid is draped limply over her shoulder, the end of it wetly curling from having been washed recently, and not entirely dried beforehand. It has left a damp spot on her tunic. She usually looks better put-together than this, but don't point that out.

So:) Fuck off.

[panulus]

[There is a long, long moment. A pause, if you will, as he looks up at her, squints through the bare darkness, and takes her in. So.]

Come here. If you set mine, I'll set yours.

[He really doesn't mean this as an insult; he has a little wooden comb that looks like it's seen better days, and the general air of someone who is really not judging.

Mostly because he looks like a ruffled Maine Coon that's been brushed the wrong way.]

[armd]

(He does look dreadful; Abby is cranky-tired more than actually angry. She doesn't exactly relax at this offer (the guy looking like that is not touching her hair), but she does say:) Give it.

(Meaning the comb.)

... What happened, exactly?

(This is a little more dire than 'got up on the wrong side of the bed'.)

[panulus]

[He hands over the comb, settles a bit, lets her work.]

Near a year alone, sleeping on hard rock, poor weather-

[He shrugs, but doesn't seem all that bothered by it.]

I'd had no one who cared for my appearance.

[armd]

(Abby doesn't seem that moved by it. It's quite hard to know where to begin with this absolute mane: she starts with a section at the top, attempting to untangle as she moves down his head.)

Not even yourself, huh.

(Honestly? Been there.)

You new? (He's gotta be on this side of the ferry this early for a reason.)