WHO: John Silver, Derrica, Ellis WHAT: Ye Olde Catch-All WHEN: Guardian WHERE: Gallows and Beyond. NOTES: Open starter for each character, wildcards welcome.
There are a number of taverns dotting the harbor, near enough to the dock to court any and all disembarking from their journey. Sailors and Riftwatchers alike are welcomed in; drink specials are broadly marketed, and gold is gold, after all.
Anyone who disembarks midday, tempted by the thought of a cheap meal, might be drawn into the Bow and Bone. It's clientele skews sailor (or pirate, but who can say for certain which is which?) but a number of Kirkwall's artisans and traders are circulating in and out. A guild meeting has taken up a number of seats in the balcony, and the echo of overlapping conversation carries down to reach those crammed into the tables below.
At one of those tables is John Silver, and a rolled scroll of parchment, pinned down by a little jar of uncorked ink. Seeking a seat in this busy space? Look no further. John sweeps a hand towards the unoccupied seats around him, easy invitation for a familiar face hoping to set themselves down.
The Bow and Bone is many things. What it is not, generally, is host to pin neat young ladies in their walking skirts and buff field boots, their red caplets with bright embroidering. And yet here Wysteria de Foncé is, come down either from the heights of the Research workrooms or from her own studies in Hightown proper. A number of heads turn. Various pickpockets salivate.
She cuts a bee line in John Silver's direction—a somewhat miraculous achievement given the crowded quality of the public room's ground floor.
"Captain!" she declares when near enijfb to do so. Various pickpockets wilt in disappointment; best not to mess with lightening the purse of one of John Silver's associates. "I had heard I might find you in this place."
On the fifth floor, a door stands open. Swung wide, it reveals an emptying room. Boxes, items tossed into them. A bed stripped.
Above, several floors up, the Diplomacy offices stand open. Empty assistant's desk, empty Ambassador's office. A trio of boxes, open, set upon the desk. A quartet of heavy green mugs occupying a desk corner.
Beyond that, an open door. A room in which the sound of rummaging can be heard, a series of soft thuds. The rattle of shutters being thrown open.
If you've been looking for Derrica, congratulations. She's just a few steps away.
Stephen’s never really delved into the other divisions before, but today he stops by like some visitor from another land, an envoy trekking from his office on the sixth floor up to the eighth. He glances up and down the hall, eventually locates the Diplomacy section, and weaves through the foyer of the assistant’s office towards the inner sanctum for the division head.
He’s typically worked with Derrica down in the infirmary, hours spent together, particularly as he settled into the shape of his new role — and now it’s his turn to stand on the threshold, peering in at her new territory. He raps his knuckles against the doorframe; he’s carrying a bottle of Antivan red in the crook of his other elbow.
“Well, this is a different atmosphere from the Research offices. Much fewer lyrium engines liable to blow up in your face,” he remarks. (A faint sting at that thought, missing Tony: he notes it absently, cataloguing it away like an ache from a twisted ankle, learning to put weight on it.)
“And congratulations, by the way. I don’t have an appointment.”
Cedric spends most of the climb fussing with his hair, straightening his sleeves, wishing for anything more formal than Chantry-issue knit; darned in the elbows by inexpert hands and smelling perpetually of damp wool, of cheap soap, of ozone.
But he's not about to lug plate up eight flights of stairs. Not to inteview for writing letters and making nice.
"Ambassador Rutyer -" He steps around the edge of the doorframe, cautious of the boxes, the thumps. The girl pulling at shutters - "Ah, sorry. Need a hand with that?"
Cosima fully intends to move her belongings up to her new apartment. She definitely will, sometime soon, but she hasn't moved much up yet besides a few odds and ends it's easy to have in reach during the day. (Her iPhone faintly issues drums into the corridor sometimes, when no one is having a meeting.)
The thuds attract her attention at a moment she truly could use a break anyway, and she takes the short walk down the hall. She knocks on the door frame in the office, not venturing into to the living space uninvited. "Hey. Need a hand with anything in there?"
Jone had set up this tennis court. Years ago now, he had come upon her struggling with the net.
But Jone is years gone, and Ellis is the one who has remained. (Against all odds.)
And so here is Ellis, a rare sight within the Gallows these days. He has been gone more often than he has been present, far afield. Missives have come back in his stead, delivered into the Forces office.
But today he is here, untangling a net to string between two posts on the tennis court that has stood more or less empty. The wind is unforgiving, has reddened his cheeks and whipped his curls up wildly. He has continued on in spite of it, bare hands doing up delicate ties at one end of the court to secure the net.
Spring will come. It's better to have this readied now, while he's present to do it. Who can say where he will be in a month's time?
Abby watches him from a distance to see if something funny will happen while he's putting it up. The wind could catch the edge of the net and wrap Ellis up like a fish; then he'd have to be freed, so she waits. It doesn't happen. She goes down to talk to him as he's doing one set of little ties, wondering why he'd bother in this weather, cuz it kinda seems like whoever stands into the wind would be at an insane disadvantage. Nobody will play right now.
"When you go—wherever it is that you go," is her greeting to him once she's close enough to be heard over the force of the weather, "Do you bring anything back? Like souvenirs?"
The tennis court has never been a particular interest or occupation of Gwenaëlle's, though she knows the game well enough from an upbringing that was occasionally a bit sporty— riding and swimming and running and hanging from trees. She'd had so much energy to expend, and there's not no nostalgia there, even if it's hard for her to say: yes, this memory is good.
Most of the memories are too tangled up in the else of it all to be simple that way. It hadn't been enough to motivate her to find someone to play tennis with now — do a lot of people call you Gigi? and she'd had to say no, which is just true so it shouldn't have felt the way that it did — so she can't recall that she's ever done more than note it upon walking past,
but it seems polite to pause, when she sees Ellis, to offer: “Do you need a second pair of hands at that?”
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JOHN SILVER.
ota.
Anyone who disembarks midday, tempted by the thought of a cheap meal, might be drawn into the Bow and Bone. It's clientele skews sailor (or pirate, but who can say for certain which is which?) but a number of Kirkwall's artisans and traders are circulating in and out. A guild meeting has taken up a number of seats in the balcony, and the echo of overlapping conversation carries down to reach those crammed into the tables below.
At one of those tables is John Silver, and a rolled scroll of parchment, pinned down by a little jar of uncorked ink. Seeking a seat in this busy space? Look no further. John sweeps a hand towards the unoccupied seats around him, easy invitation for a familiar face hoping to set themselves down.
no subject
She cuts a bee line in John Silver's direction—a somewhat miraculous achievement given the crowded quality of the public room's ground floor.
"Captain!" she declares when near enijfb to do so. Various pickpockets wilt in disappointment; best not to mess with lightening the purse of one of John Silver's associates. "I had heard I might find you in this place."
DERRICA.
ota.
Above, several floors up, the Diplomacy offices stand open. Empty assistant's desk, empty Ambassador's office. A trio of boxes, open, set upon the desk. A quartet of heavy green mugs occupying a desk corner.
Beyond that, an open door. A room in which the sound of rummaging can be heard, a series of soft thuds. The rattle of shutters being thrown open.
If you've been looking for Derrica, congratulations. She's just a few steps away.
no subject
He’s typically worked with Derrica down in the infirmary, hours spent together, particularly as he settled into the shape of his new role — and now it’s his turn to stand on the threshold, peering in at her new territory. He raps his knuckles against the doorframe; he’s carrying a bottle of Antivan red in the crook of his other elbow.
“Well, this is a different atmosphere from the Research offices. Much fewer lyrium engines liable to blow up in your face,” he remarks. (A faint sting at that thought, missing Tony: he notes it absently, cataloguing it away like an ache from a twisted ankle, learning to put weight on it.)
“And congratulations, by the way. I don’t have an appointment.”
diplo offices;
But he's not about to lug plate up eight flights of stairs. Not to inteview for writing letters and making nice.
"Ambassador Rutyer -" He steps around the edge of the doorframe, cautious of the boxes, the thumps. The girl pulling at shutters - "Ah, sorry. Need a hand with that?"
ask and ye shall receive
The thuds attract her attention at a moment she truly could use a break anyway, and she takes the short walk down the hall. She knocks on the door frame in the office, not venturing into to the living space uninvited. "Hey. Need a hand with anything in there?"
LOXLEY.
ELLIS.
ota.
But Jone is years gone, and Ellis is the one who has remained. (Against all odds.)
And so here is Ellis, a rare sight within the Gallows these days. He has been gone more often than he has been present, far afield. Missives have come back in his stead, delivered into the Forces office.
But today he is here, untangling a net to string between two posts on the tennis court that has stood more or less empty. The wind is unforgiving, has reddened his cheeks and whipped his curls up wildly. He has continued on in spite of it, bare hands doing up delicate ties at one end of the court to secure the net.
Spring will come. It's better to have this readied now, while he's present to do it. Who can say where he will be in a month's time?
no subject
Abby watches him from a distance to see if something funny will happen while he's putting it up. The wind could catch the edge of the net and wrap Ellis up like a fish; then he'd have to be freed, so she waits. It doesn't happen. She goes down to talk to him as he's doing one set of little ties, wondering why he'd bother in this weather, cuz it kinda seems like whoever stands into the wind would be at an insane disadvantage. Nobody will play right now.
"When you go—wherever it is that you go," is her greeting to him once she's close enough to be heard over the force of the weather, "Do you bring anything back? Like souvenirs?"
no subject
Most of the memories are too tangled up in the else of it all to be simple that way. It hadn't been enough to motivate her to find someone to play tennis with now — do a lot of people call you Gigi? and she'd had to say no, which is just true so it shouldn't have felt the way that it did — so she can't recall that she's ever done more than note it upon walking past,
but it seems polite to pause, when she sees Ellis, to offer: “Do you need a second pair of hands at that?”