faderift | [ may catchall ]

[ Teryn Everett Cornelius of Ostwick is holding a banquet and hunting party at his country estate. Traditionally, he awards a sizeable sack of gold coins as a prize to the hunter who lands the largest beast. Riftwatch can enter two agents into the contest. The only goal: either land the biggest prize, or land a decent prize and sabotage all the other entrants to ensure victory. ]

There’s an early rash of sickness at the banquet. Nerves, perhaps, or an under-roasted tusket —

( Prized for their virility, An enthusiastic young man explained, his spectacles fogging with breath. )

— And very little to do with Isaac, a devoted professional who’s gracefully volunteered his services to those taken ill. Clarisse was warned on the long ride to Ostwick to exercise caution at the dinner table; they aren’t the only ones with an eye for tomorrow’s prize.

Though the field has narrowed, contenders remain:

Dame Lire, a Chevalier in from Serault. She's taken a strict fast of water and bread; so to court Andraste’s favor. Regrettably, she is not so pious that the Exalted March could not spare her leave for the good Teryn’s feast.

'Hammer' Tomas, the Nevarran dragon-hunter, has shown no such temperance - or any symptoms. He pushes wine on everyone, and can't be so drunk as he pretends.

Rebeca Maria Galleria Naia Onala Mia de Toledor, a Lord of Fortune whose gown clatters with the sewn-in coins of previous triumphs. She pries and flatters, in search of an alliance with Clarisse; or at least, information on their competitors.

When Isaac finally returns to the room, it’s with a number of unpleasant stains across his sleeves. He’s already searching for a cigarette, pockets patted in the brainless fumble of someone who went through their stores two days prior.

"Kaiten’s out," The Fighting Kite tripped down some stairs in a drinking contest. "Poor man’s quite disoriented. Did you eat?"

Edited 2024-05-03 23:09 (UTC)

It’s a small place, it’s smaller with half the fortress collapsed. He’s easy to spy: An Orlesian of middle age, whose clothes now sport a few too many rips and stains to pass for fine. Asleep days in the library, awake nights on any manner of errand -

a ) Often enough, to the Infirmary, assisting the long business of reorganization; shuffling supplies between tent and tower. The Central building was least affected. That doesn’t quite name it sound. The look he throws the ceiling every time they step inside may say enough of it.

b ) One evening breaks from routine to find him surrounded by an expensive crumble of pages. Paper comes dear of late, to be used and re-used for every scrap scribble; nothing to be done of an inked-out word or three. Not these, balled fists of black. Isaac leans over the latest draft, head between his hands as though force of will might compress thought into place.

c ) Another morning, propped over a mirror in some corner of the courtyard, razor wicking in a soapy cup. Riftwatch’s shaving facilities are presently limited.

"Did you need a turn?" Still frowning over a bit of skin, stretched between fingers. "I’m suffering indecision."

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.

Riftwatch’s focus turning to reconstruction means that some regular work has been on hold for a bit, and Astrid hasn’t minded much, pouring her energy into working on the Gallows. Everything’s been thrown into disarray besides: she doesn’t know where everyone’s staying anymore, the tents keep relocating, sometimes people move from the courtyard to Kirkwall proper or to bunk on a mattress in the central tower, and out of everyone, it seems like Lazar is even slipperier and harder to find than usual.

Which means Astrid searching him out this afternoon, eventually spotting what looks like a particularly tall and bearded figure relaxing atop a particularly tall and structurally unsound pile of rubble. She starts climbing the rock and crumbled walls, doggedly headed in his direction. When he spots the movement obviously coming for him, he turns to flee, and:

“Oi, it’s just me,” she calls out. Just as she almost reaches the top, a piece of loose stone moves under her boot, and her arms windmill wildly, on the verge of tumbling right-the-fuck-backwards off the rocky pile. “Shit—”

Edited 2024-05-04 21:12 (UTC)

"On what?"

Benedict, clean-shaven as ever (he has the advantage of a house to stay in for as long as his hosts will have him), is perhaps only just now realizing that Isaac is back.
He's still in the process of gaining back some of his baseline mass, his clothes hanging off him a little too loosely, but he's up and about and walking the Gallows to, it would seem, pitch in where he can. Including shaving assistance.

"You've already gone too far for mutton chops."

"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."

"Pity. There's such a monopoly upon mustaches," Does he know where Benedict's been? No. But Rutyer has long kept him close. "You might consider it, you know. Neither of us is getting younger."

Baby face only plays so long. A loopy gesture with the razor:

"Sit, I've a true question of you."

And a knife. So, you know.

"I'd rather die," says Benedict breezily; he's only just recently had far more hair on his face than he's ever wanted, and one might rest assured it's never coming back.

Intrigued by the invitation, he picks his way to a the most cushioned seat he can find (is it Isaac's bedroll? if that's what's available) and folds his legs primly.

"A true question," he intones, a touch playfully. What could be truer than facial aesthetics?

"Your education,"

However abruptly interrupted. If he's never much regarded Benedict's spellwork, well, the man's not possessed. Under his circumstance, that's a victory.

"What form did it take?" Isaac's considered it some years, had asked Kostos then: What have you heard of Tevene abominations - "Prior to your apprenticeship, during."

“Oh.”
How boring, says the initial twitch of his eyebrows, but a briefly apologetic duck of the head suggests there’s some maturity to be found here after all.

“Private tutelage,” he says with a little shrug, “my mother wanted particular control over my education.”

"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.)

"What did she hope for you?"

Nothing, he trusts, that's not been thoroughly dashed. Isaac's familiar with the woman's shadow, the absurd impression of their shared nightmare. Fear, then. Fear and control. Not so different (not so useful).

Belated, explains:

"There was substantial variation between Southern Circles. Method, aims; to each its own little kingdom - but I'm aware the Imperium more different still."

In method, in aims.

Since the attack, he's tried a half-dozen places to sleep, and it's starting to run thin. City's full of new widows, but it'll be months before those ripen; and the usual suspects got less room than usual.

In the end, it's the Gallows, or huffing fumes in whatever part of Darktown's least crushed to shit. Easy pick. That doesn't mean he's any keener to start hauling for a packhorse -

"Aw, hell," Lazar's eyeing a jump (can reach a bit of leftover tower from here, if you don't know the meaning of structural integrity) when her voice picks out. Goes sprinting in an awkward one-two-wobble to haul an arm down around hers. "There's a flat bit up here."

Wide enough for two, if one hasn't showed up with work orders.

“What you’d expect of a Magister to be. As skilled in politics and intrigue as he is in Entropic magic, or. Well. Blood magic, I supposed I would have learned eventually.”

His posture tightens: this isn’t his favorite topic, but he endures it for the sake of transparency.

“I blew it all off. A privilege not afforded to most southern Circle mages, as I understand it.”

“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.”

His arm catches hers and she grasps for his sleeve to steady herself, hauling herself up that last distance until she’s teetering beside him. And her hands are empty: no work orders, so Lazar won’t have to discreetly shove her off the pile and escape with plausible deniability.

Astrid cranes her head, looking further up to the little outcropping he’d indicated. It had been an intact wall partway up the tower, once. She tests the stability of the scree underfoot; like climbing trees, she tells herself, the way you suss out the branches that’ll hold your weight. Like walking across ice.

She jumps, scrambles, more fleet-footed than her initial approach implied, and eventually plants herself on that flat broken-down wall, her legs swinging.

“Not punching you this time,” she says, for clarification’s sake. Y’know, in case he was worried.

"No," He agrees, though he's met mages enough without ambition, interest. A pang for Joselyn - but even Joselyn had been Harrowed. "I doubt we'd have held on this long, were it so."

An old hunch, that. Strange that the South has been able to match Tevinter at all. From a certain, numerical view, perhaps mages wasted of an early death are even trade for mages of discipline. The Circles are the Chantry's to direct, only until they are a nation's.

"Does it ever trouble you? That lack."

"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.

A nod, shifting toward somber: one couldn't be as close to Colin as he was without knowing to a startling degree just exactly how things have gone for Southern mages. A younger, stupid version of him might have made a crack about it, but this version has seen what happens, has gone to war.

"All the time," he admits, darting his eyes to Isaac's in sheepish admission before he averts them again, carefully tucking a strand of sleek black hair behind his ear. "I suppose I thought I'd never really need it. Wasn't interested in it. It's..."

His mouth twists awkwardly with the admission, "...it's hard to find a willing sparring partner, if you're going to learn it correctly." Not that willingness was ever really considered, where he came up.

"--but yes, I regret not paying attention." His brow knits prettily-- perhaps he's doubting the wisdom of showing such candor-- but it's too late now, as it's too late for many things. "If I've learned anything from living down south, it's that an unskilled mage might as well be a dead one."

"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."

"Then you aren’t unskilled," Untrained, unpracticed, certainly. Not dead. Raw enough in talent. Isaac debates a moment, finally working soap into skin. The razor glints. "You know that I’ve some facility with the school."

He does not, precisely, advertise this. That Benedict has seen him cast is inconvenient, and easily blamed upon the peculiarities of dream. But,

"It would require focus," (But he’s a sap. But he’s thinking of his girl.) "And a degree of trust that I’ll grant has never precisely blossomed between us."

Blade scrapes cheek. Isaac finds his eyes in the mirror: The offer stands plain - if coated in absurd, white suds.

Edited 2024-05-07 06:45 (UTC)

Whatever Vlast's many failings, he is well-educated. He has read descriptions of people losing the war to paper work many, many times. He'd never understood it, of course. What frail creature could lose to paper...? ...Maybe a Skritt...? But they were not exactly what one would consider readers.

Seeing Isaac hunched over pages with ink-stained hands gripping his head, the metaphor finally clicks. He does, indeed, look like a man defeated.

"If you squeeze any tighter, it's not your thoughts that will come out."

A twinge of surprise as Benedict blinks at him, glances away, glances back. He had no expectation of the conversation going this route, but it's not completely unwelcome, considering what he's just revealed.

He draws himself up a little, straightening his back-- he's not a petulant schoolboy anymore.

"I'd be a fool to turn you down," he admits with just a touch of unease, but meets Isaac's eyes again with a nod. He himself had argued with Byerly about the implications of the dream, had insisted that this or that betrayal wasn't written in stone.

"Where would we practice?"

Clarisse is up, pacing the room. She's not nervous about tomorrow, but she's feeling a certain amount of restless energy and nowhere to throw it yet. She used to get like this the night before capture the flag, too. And basketball games.

Though there was a little less sabotage involved in those competitions than this one. (Sometimes. Capture the flag could get pretty nasty.)

When Isaac starts patting his pockets, she reaches into her pack and offers him a rolled elfroot joint. It's not a cigarette, but close enough. If he doesn't want it, she might smoke some herself.

"Not the tusket," she says, her lip curling in amusement. "You?"

Doesn't look like it, from the state of his clothes.

"The matter’s grey enough to serve."

Not really. Death’s written in black - but words run thin of late. Isaac stoops up, folding the page upon itself; a flash briefly visible: Enchanter Sm -

(May well squeeze out his brains, at least the gore would theme.)

He pushes out a breath, vanishes letter into pocket.

"Making any friends out there?"

Edited 2024-05-09 05:51 (UTC)

[ may catchall ]

clarisse; closed

isaac; open

cedric; open

lazar; wild🃏

c

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cohen brothers intensifies

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b;

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