faderift | [ may catchall ]

Cedric sleeps in a tent - pick a tent, any tent. Sleeps too little, and a little too loudly; open-mouthed and prone to mumbling his way through the scant hours before dawn.

a ) Routine’s forestalled to help with repairs, in the Gallows and Kirkwall at large. Cedric marks off points on a crudely-copied map: Impacts and need. Sat at the top of a sweaty roof in the green spring-light, he squints down on the day's work to ask,

"Think we oughta rebuild with something lighter?"

b ) Another moment finds him rifling through reports; hunting after some word or name. Here and there he stalls longer to read: Swimming lessons. Some murderous inn. A dozen other outings,

"Were you in on this?" He may ask a named party.

c ) Commerce doesn't stop for a city-wide catastrophe. It’s a while before he finds the time to find his way to a dockside tavern, but he has - and you have, and so has the brawny young woman who picked his pocket a few minutes ago. Her arms sling about his shoulders as though they’re the very best of friends; Cedric too moon-eyed to notice, halfway through some story about a horse.

"Define in on," Barrow grunts around the mouth of his waterskin before taking a long pull, sitting leant up on a nearby pillar as he takes a break from the hauling and pushing and cleaning of debris that's become his entire job lately.

"I was there," he concedes of the murder inn, "near got an assortment of tiny holes punched into my guts. Rollicking good time."

"Sounds a right party," An authentic grimace: Worse shit in this than a serial. "Maker."

Cedric rocks back on his heels, replacing the file. Not a pretty story, and not the one he's looking for - Granitefell, Ellie had said. His arms prop to his knees. Considers him,

"Anything ever come of it?"

The Pickneys, maybe, the Dalish; Medrod's unknown investors. (Barrow, and all his little punctures.)

“You mean besides the treasured memories and lifelong friendships?” Barrow asks darkly—- it’s a good thing he doesn’t know what Cedric’s actually looking for, or his salinity levels might spoil the proverbial dish.

“Erm… learned not to stay there again, I guess.”

"Reckon the ashes'll do for that," Though he wouldn't camp over them, either. Veil's got to be thin as gauze. "Doesn't sound they would've made it out, without you."

Cold comfort. Would've been colder for this Athessa. A low hum: Riftwatch is small enough to spy the names, and know the rest gone. Cedric eyes Barrow,

"You eat yet?"

Guy looks tired. No one's taking the breaks they ought.

"Ah, well." Barrow's demeanor softens slightly, and so, perhaps, does his exhaustion-induced annoyance at this place and These Fucking People-- people who wouldn't even have a pint with him after the ordeal, so concerned about human this and Templar that--

He shakes his head. He's not himself when he's hungry.

"What's on offer today?" he asks, a weary humor in the look he shoots Cedric, "not dust pudding again, I hope."

"Think it's fish," Decent bet any time in Kirkwall, and don't think too hard on what's been in the water lately. "Saw scales on Frederick, so unless he's sprouting gills -"

Then the cook is probably only skinning them. Cedric digs in a pocket, comes up with a lump of scone in cloth. Passes it over.

(If he was fine to save breakfast, then he’s fine to skip it.)

An intrigued little grunt. Fish! At least it's generally fresh, around here-- but there's a scone instead, which Barrow raises in a thankful gesture, like a toast, before biting into it.

"What're you doing rifling through paperwork, anyway?" he asks amiably, mouth half-full, "you did well against that demon. We could use you in Forces."

A laugh -

"Hardly remember the demon," He remembers dropping his sword, getting taken out by a wall, and then throwing up. "If you're fishing for a pack-mule, I got afternoon shift."

Rebuilding hasn't left much to division lines. Cedric nudges the file box with a boot.

"Diplomacy needs hands. We're all on anyway, when the shit hits."

The demons, the attacks; only look at Jayce. There aren't non-combatants any longer.

"So what if I am," Barrow pleasantly admits, polishing off the scone, "just sort'f funny, that's all. Mobius in Research, you in Diplomacy. We've got a reputation to maintain."

Clearly not, all things considered, but this is friendly teasing.

"I suppose the more people we've got convincing the enemy not to attack us, the fewer we need doing the defending."

"Be nice if it worked like that. Just write the dracolisks - Hey, knock it off -"

A hand flaps, mimes chomping fangs. Cedric slings his thumbs in his belt. He's thrown his lot in for solidarity, but there's no true we here, not the way that Barrow means; that it was up North. Reckon even Keen'd sooner be alone.

He trusts Vanya. Cares for Barrow. Knows Redvers is good for it. But,

"What d'you make of him? Mobius." A shrug for explanation: "Haven't much talked."

A chuckle at the puppet show, and Barrow stretches like he's about to get up, but thinks better of it and resettles, scratching idly at the stubble on his jaw. The food line's probably long right now, and he doesn't feel like being on his feet any longer than he must.

"He's a good sort," he replies, with clear affection, "got some funny opinions sometimes, but there when you need him. He's been through the wringer as much as anyone else."

"Don't doubt it," Hard times all around. Even aristocrats are missing eyes, and librarians are - Well. He doesn't know, exactly, what librarians do when the shit hits. Hasn't caught the man in battle. "What passes for funny 'round here?"

Barrow shrugs, shakes his head with a little laugh-- not so fast, Carsus.

"I'll let you hear it from him," he gently retorts, with a sidelong look, opting as always to remain steadfastly neutral.
"I suppose we've all got 'em, anyway." Funny opinions, that is: ask him how he feels about chickens.

"Like to keep my foot out of my mouth when I can," His mouth crinkles for the glance. That’s as much explanation as the digging needs: "Never know when a man’s gonna develop strong feelings on alphabetization."

(That’s what you do with a lot of books, right?)

"Haven't seen those change for disrespect."

Harden, maybe. Mobius mostly ducked Rutyer back in that crystal mess; smart to skip the argument, the distraction. Strikes Cedric that the tactic might repeat. Shut down, withdraw if he says the wrong thing.

"If he's got them, and you find out the hard way," Barrow muses, letting his head rest back against the stone as he looks out over the remaining wreckage,

"turn your crystal on public, be a sport."

"Uh-huh," He stoops to heft the file-box. "Now you really are trying to get me moved."

His expression sobers a little. A beat, a glance over the broken courtyard, before Cedric adds:

"If you do need a hand, grab me any time. I mean that." Doesn't know shit for siege weapons, but he can carry well as another. Maybe even without throwing his back out - "Be in a world more hurt if we didn't have those bolts."

Barrow's chuckle is deep and resonant, his eyes closing for a moment as he enjoys the joke. His head lolls back to regard Cedric then, his smile fond and sincere.

"Thanks, mate," he agrees, "and you know the same goes the other way." He can be diplomatic. ...when he has to,

"May take you up on that," He doesn't have the letter handy, but he knows it's there. "There's work near the front needs doing. Supply division."

Supply capture, first. That bit may not go so ugly as dicing things up to share. There are others he ought to ask first: Jayce, Strange, Vanya, Viktor, Loxley, Kostos - all named in the prior reports. Novoa, too; the only elf, and the most relevant of it.

"It'll need some cool heads."

(So that's a no, on Kostos.)

"Consider me conscripted," Barrow says with a nod, "anything to get me the fuck out of this mess for a few days."

[ may catchall ]

cedric; open

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ties bow?