I always unfold

[daturameloxia]

WHO: Wylan and you!
WHAT: Wylan arrives in Kirkwall
WHEN: Just before All Mortals Shall Know - I
WHERE: Gallows and the Mess
NOTES: Possible mentions of verbal abuse

I. Arrival

It's been a long road to Kirkwall. He feels as if every inch of him must be caked in mud as he crosses the final distance to the down to the Gallows. Exhaustion weighs him down, but he knows he won't be safe until he's behind the walls of the Riftwatch. The agent that took the two firebombs off his hands told him he'd have a lodging and food, so long as he worked.

It sounds like a miracle. And he can figure out some work that doesn't involve needing to read.

Or, at least, something he can fake until he can make his way.

He's so tired he doesn't notice the person in front of him until he collides with them.

"O-oh, I'm sorry," he tries to duck away. "Sorry. I was looking for the Gallows."



II. Food

Wylan quickly learns there's a place to eat, a free place and after setting his pack in his new room, he makes his way to mess for a meal. He still looks quite covered in mud, his hair wild and distressed, but he needs food more than a shower in this instance. Of course, he collects a few odd looks, so he finds a corner to sit in to chow down. He looks like he needs it, too; he's far too skinny for his height, but that could be from the journey he took to arrive at the Riftwatch.

Either way, he looks up when someone joins his table, a mouth full of food before he can properly greet them.



III. Gallows - Parapets

After eating his fill of food, Wylan heads back to the Gallows to do some more walking about. He eventually finds himself up on the parapets, overlooking what others have told him is the Waking Sea. The waves crash upon the rocks below him as the sun disappears beneath the horizon, painting everything in a warm tangerine light. Wylan can hardly believe he made it to the Riftwatch, or that they accepted him.

Still he has the lurking worry that his father is only a few leagues away, eager to find him and try again to eliminate his useless heir.

Wylan remains so focused on worrying about his father that when he hears foosteps, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

Only once he registers that this guest is not his father nor the two men who tried to kill him, Wylan offers a sheepish smile.

“Apologies, I was focused on looking out at the ocean,” he replies. “I’ve never seen an ocean like this before.

Comments

arrival!

[atonally]

"Just about found them," Redvers says.

He's a large man—over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, muscles mostly persevering as he ages. There's grey in his beard. The laid-back skepticism of his gaze isn't personal; it's been his default expression since he was twelve years old, slouching on his bench in his Chantry history lessons.

He nods his head behind him. Immediately in that direction are docks, stretching out like fingers pointing at the rocky island in the center of the harbor. The water around it is dotted with jagged rocks and a few anchored ships. The only way there—short of flying or swimming—is the rowboat currently making its way steadily toward the city.

Redvers doesn't identify himself as a Riftwatch member, but the faint green light on his right hand might give him away.

"What's your business there?"

[daturameloxia]

Wylan gives the smallest sighs of relief that he's close. However, the thought of crossing on a rowboat sends a slight shudder through his body. The tight buttoned-up collar presses against the bruising against his throat, but thankfully hides the mottled skin for now. The question has him raising an eyebrow before he answers.

"I met a man who said he was a Riftwatch agent after I told him I make explosives and poisons," he replies, swallowing. "He said to seek out Kirkwall and the Gallows."

He pauses to set down his bag and pulls out a piece of paper, signed by (NPC Riftwatch Agent). Not that Wylan can read it, but he hopes it says what he thinks it does.

[atonally]

Redvers scans it and responds with a long exhale through his nose.

It's probably not personal. Maybe he just doesn't like (NPC Riftwatch Agent) very much.

"Fair enough. You'll want to speak to the person at the gate, then probably the head of Research? Unless you also plant the explosives and administer the poisons."

tw: insects

[daturameloxia]

Wylan continues to look up at Redvers and breathes a sigh of relief that the notice does indeed say what it’s meant to say. All he can ever see on the page are a series of reticulating insect legs twitching and leaping around.

“No, I’ve no experience administering them outside of an experimental sense,” Wylan explains.

food;

[panulus]

The food here isn't good, but it is, well. It is better than it was back in Tevinter, and Gannicus is one to eat heartily and not worry about the flavor, as long as he has good wine.

He sits next to a boy who looks like he just crawled out of the nursery, and his nursery was half in a pigsty. He sits, stares at him a minute, and then pours some wine from his jug into the cup near the boy's plate. "You need this."

[daturameloxia]

Wylan tries to chew as fast as he can to clear his mouth of his stew. He can’t remember the last time he had a proper meal, but he also doesn’t want to be rude.

There’s something poured into his cup and if there’s a label, Wylan can’t read it. (Nevermind the fact he was never privy to such niceties as wine when he might sour the barrel with his existence.

“What is it?” Wylan asks, wiping his mouth.

[panulus]

Gannicus takes a swig from the jug, wipes his mouth, and raises both eyebrows. There is a laughing mien to his face, but he's not laughing at Wylan like this is comedy. Instead, it looks more like he's just half-pleased. "It's wine," he says in confirmation. "It's not strong," he adds.

Well.

It's not strong if you're used to wine.

[daturameloxia]

Oh. That’s. Wylan tries not to stare as his new company drinks directly from the jug. He’s never quite seen such a thing, not even in his journey across the Free Marches.

At least it reassures Wylan that the wine is not poisoned.

“Wine,” Wylan repeats, bringing the cup to his nose to sniff and then to his lips to taste.

For someone who has never tasted any alcohol, the weak wine results in a brief coughing fit from Wylan.

“That’s…” he coughs out. “That’s weak?”

[panulus]

Gannicus puts down the jug so that if he bursts out laughing, he doesn't drop any wine, because frankly, this is pure comedy. "Never had any before?" he asks, even though the answer is obvious. "Take another drink, hold it in your mouth, and then swallow."

Once he's done as commanded: "Are you old enough to be here?"

[daturameloxia]

“No,” Wylan replies between coughs.

He presses a hand to his chest before looking down into the cup again. This sounds like a bad idea, but he takes a smaller sip and holds it in his mouth before he swallows.

How does anyone drink this?

“I am,” Wylan tries to reassure, not willing to risk being thrown out. “I was recruited.”

[panulus]

"Recruited?" He squints a little. "Was it by a blonde with a small white dog?" he asks, because he genuinely cannot imagine this boy is in Forces, but, well.

Not even a little.

[daturameloxia]

“No, it was by (NPC Riftwatch Agent),” Wylan’s nerves continue to build.

What if he gets thrown out here and now? Where else will he go? He remembers one of his tutors mentioning a position in war departments in Orlais.

“I’m an artificer,” he tries to force confidence behind his words.

But there’s a shake beneath his voice, a desperation that undermines him.

[panulus]

Gannicus hasn't been here that long, and he was basically in seclusion for longer, so he's learned to ask what that means. "You make weapons?" he clarifies, because.

Well, he doesn't look much like any smith that Gannicus has ever met, but he supposes even smiths have to be born and start somewhere.

[daturameloxia]

“Grenades and poisons,” Wylan clarifies, taking a breath he’d been holding when it seems his guest isn’t about to throw him out.

“For the forces division,” he continues, swallowing.

[panulus]

Hm.

He takes a drink of his wine, again, from the jug. "I'm in Forces. Don't know much about grenades. Or poisons," he adds, and he leans in. "I care about swords. I'm better with sword than spear, but-" he shrugs. "What talent does grenade take?"

[daturameloxia]

“You have to know the recipe and then make it,” Wylan explains, his nerves easing. “I’ve memorized every recipe known to the Free Marches.”

He pauses, hoping that this new information doesn’t set off his new friend(?).

“I can provide forces with grenades to use in battle,” he continues. “Which is why I was recruited.”

[panulus]

"Not to make one," he says, because he's not likely to be that person, ever. He can barely hone his own weapons. "To use."

A pause.

"You do know to use one? How?"

[daturameloxia]

“You throw it at a target and it’s meant to explode like a spell,” Wylan explains with a small smile. “They’re meant to give non-mages a benefit in battle.”

He perks up, nerves temporarily soothed.

[panulus]

He perks up, too, because he wants forty. He will protect this nervous gerbil child if it means that he gets things that explode at people if he throws them during battle. "I am Gannicus," he says, which has had a fifty fifty chance of getting recognized as that former Tevene gladiator who won his freedom a few months ago.

"And I should like some grenades."

[daturameloxia]

“Wylan,” he perks up further with a small smile.

He quietly sits up straight and nods.

“I’ll make some for you,” he continues with a grin.

[panulus]

"And you. What do you desire?" he asks, because, well.

He was a slave, so he's still not quite sure how to manage exchanges around here.

[daturameloxia]

That’s. Rather direct.

Wylan supposes things must be different here in the South, in a port, but for a moment he simply stares, trying to wrap his mind around how to answer. Should he be just as direct? His new friend seems strong enough to kill him— fingers curled around his throat— that perhaps he should lean on that.

He’s already in the Riftwatch, but he needs more than simple shelter.

“I need to learn how to fight,” Wylan answers.

“For the Riftwatch,” he tags on later, trying to make his words more reasonable.

[panulus]

He nods, once, thinking, looking him over. "Come to training, and I'll teach you," he says. Gannicus hasn't really been involved in teaching anyone before, but training has been a part of his life since he was a child, and he knows how to teach someone to fight just from knowing how he learned.

A pause. "How old are you?"

[daturameloxia]

Wylan nods firmly, partially dislodging the scarf he’d tied around his neck to hide what now peeks up over the fabric: ugly, mottled bruising along the column of his throat, fingerprints in purples and blues. Just as he realizes it’s loosed, he tucks it up more firmly.

He sets his jaw more firmly, more resolutely, “Eighteen.”

Which he will be in a few months, but no one needs to know the difference.

[panulus]

He sees that, but he doesn't say anything for a long moment, and instead just nods his head. He doesn't look like he's 18, but honestly? Gannicus does not give a single solitary shit about it. "Come to training," he repeats, and he stands up, picking up his food and nodding again.

[daturameloxia]

Wylan stands, unsure if he’s meant to follow now and begin his training immediately. First thing he does is tighten the scarf back around his neck, folding it neatly back in place.