WHO: John Silver, Derrica, Ellis WHAT: Ye Olde Catch-All WHEN: Guardian WHERE: Gallows and Beyond. NOTES: Open starter for each character, wildcards welcome.
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?"
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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.