[open + closed]

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict, Barrow, Teren, Fifi, whoever
WHAT: general catch all
WHEN: gestures vaguely
WHERE: gestures vaguely again
NOTES: hmu if you want something bespoke or honestly just throw something at me, I trust you

*~* starters in comments *~*

Comments

Benedict

[altusimperius]

for Clarisse; baths

[altusimperius]

"Oh-- no! No, Clarisse! No!!"

From a few feet away and, thankfully, be-toweled, Benedict advances on Clarisse to snatch the bottle of offending hair product out of her hand.

[laruetheday]

Clarisse, also be-toweled, has no idea what's going on. All she knows is that she was minding her own damn business and suddenly Benedict is both shouting at her and reaching for the bottle of shampoo in her hand. Like something is wrong with it. Like it's about to explode or full of poison.

Acting entirely on instinct, she whirls around and chucks it at the wall at top speed, where it explodes into a million little shards of glass.

Only after that's done does she turn back to Benedict and yell, "What is your problem!"

1/2

[altusimperius]

2/2

[altusimperius]

“That’s,” he says quietly, carefully,

“That’s for. Curly hair.”

for Strange; infirmary

[altusimperius]

There was a mishap in the kitchens: a pot of boiling water, knocked askew, splashed onto the unsuspecting Benedict, who was in the process of making coffee and dissociating. Bravely refraining from shouting at any of the staff, he wrapped his scalded arm in a tea towel and made his way to the infirmary, where he has made an awkward request for first aid.

It'd be easily enough resolved by magic, but since none of the mages are in, he sits on a cot and tries to glyph the towel so it'll get cold. Ice magic, why is it always ice magic,

[portalling]

Riftwatch is small enough that there isn’t always someone immediately present in the infirmary to take care of your everyday ailments: sometimes it’s down to that duty roster pinned to the door, letting you know who on the island you should crystal for assistance.

And Stephen comes bustling obediently along a few minutes later. A mage, yes, but not the right sort to snap his fingers and make this problem instantly go away, so he looks a little bemused at the other man.

“You said it’s a burn?”

[altusimperius]

Benedict nods, slowly unpeeling the towel with a wince to demonstrate: the skin is red and angry, beginning to blister. It's a bit embarrassing to have such a mundane problem in an organization where people can be literally magicked back from the dead, but. There it is.

"Hot water," he sighs, "I wasn't sure if I should just use a potion for it, or if we ought to be rationing those."

for Basterly; post Nessum Prison Blues

[altusimperius]

There's a light knock on the door, but its source doesn't wait long to be admitted-- and judging by the way Whiskey's baying and Rat Red's fearsome yapping turn into happy whimpers of greeting, the intruder hasn't come to do any harm.
Not intentionally, at least.

Stepping softly, carrying a basket under one arm and the smaller dog in the crook of the other, Benedict peers into the sitting area to assess the consciousness and general state of the house's occupants.

[cozen]

The sitting room is empty and silent and in the same amount of cluttered, comfortable disarray as it usually is, save for an extra-large collection of unwashed cups and bowls on the tables. Two bowls have made it onto the floor, licked clean (for a certain definition of the word) by the dogs in the absence of better supervision.

But they're not here alone. The house feels occupied, the way houses sometimes do, and aside from that, Benedict's crystal swiftly lights up.

"Is that you downstairs?" comes Bastien's voice, wide awake despite the fact he's asking from bed. Benedict has the dubious honor of being the only other person with a key. If he doesn't answer—well. That's why there are knives in the nightstand.

[altusimperius]

For one thing, the dogs would be much more distraught if they'd been alone, and for the other--

"yes," Benedict primly answers, "I brought you some things."

Barrow

[thereneverwas]

ota; belägringsvapen by ikea

[thereneverwas]

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and it's an unseasonably warm autumn day in the Gallows courtyard. Barrow is sweaty and shirtless, and by the looks of things, also kind of grumpy: his forearms, chest, and at least one spot on his face are peppered by bruises, but his opponent in this fistfight is not whom one might expect.

He's been working on one of the trebuchets all morning, reassembling it with a shipment of new timber which, while it may be easier than trying to hack together old pieces, is still not exactly the one-person job he intended. He gets one beam in place and begins to tighten it, only for another to fall, collapsing the opposite half of the frame.

"Shit," he snaps, in an uncharacteristic display of temper. He throws down his wrench with a clatter, only to immediately wipe a hand over his mouth, sheepish-- he casts a glance around in hopes that the outburst wasn't witnessed.

[boeric]

Unfortunately,

Sennara slips down from the nearby wall, where she's been perched cross-legged for - a while. Don't worry about it. She stoops for the wrench, turned over in quick, calloused hands. Clever fingers. Small ones, she won't be much help lifting beams.

"Sit," It's not a request. There's a hand at his arm, the one that hasn't pocketed that wrench (leverage is for more than buildings). "You will beat it to death."

[thereneverwas]

Barrow's shudder is as much embarrassment as surprise when he turns to see a stranger, and he sighs through his nose as the full weight of his frustration begins to dissipate.

"Would that be so bad," he wonders with a weary smirk, and though he doesn't sit, he doesn't seem averse to assistance.

"No offense, madam, but I'm not sure your luck will be any better."

for Astrid; the Loose Noose

[thereneverwas]

Another day fucking about the Crossroads, another evening back in the Gallows, decompressing and reflecting on how insane the world has become that this is normal life now.

Barrow is nursing an ale and playing Solitaire at a corner table, as is one of his frequent evening pastimes, but he glances up in time to see Astrid enter the pub. He raises his mug in greeting, invitation to sit.

[brennvin]

There is this silver lining to the new Crossroads setup: it’s easier to come-and-go, wandering far across Thedas and seeing new different sights before stepping through a mirror and finding yourself back home. Astrid returns sunburned, her cheeks a little blistered, her lips chapped, and she hares straight to the Loose Noose to slake that thirst.

She waves at Barrow as she enters, then doesn’t even bother stepping behind the bar; she just steps on tiptoe and leans half-over the counter itself, arm reaching behind it to pull the tap and pour herself a cup. A large cup. She’ll donate more moonshine later, it’s fine.

“Whatcha playing?” she asks as she slides into a seat at his table, only spilling some of her ale.

[thereneverwas]

"Got some sun, I see," Barrow remarks with a grin, "--nothing exciting. Wicked Grace?" He prepares to collapse the cards back into the deck should she give the word.

shows up five weeks late with starbucks

[undergrunn]

As intriguing as the possibility of mirror-portals were, they brushed too closely on some less-than-pleasant memories for her to be excited about utilising them to the utmost. The responsibility of needed restoration and approaching winter was a perfect refuge.

Working on accurate models of the keep as a whole, of each of the levels, was a process. However, it was one that would be immensely valuable in short and long-term planning. She's securing a strategic benefit.

That's less easy to remember as they descend past dungeons, dropping into the very guts of the Gallows with measuring equipment, existing maps, their own papers and markers. Identifying foundational damage, areas for repair to be returned to and addressed.

"This could go either way. If we've got people coming down to do works then it's probably worth taking care of this at the same time." Abella raises her lantern, and glances back to Barrow. There's a crack in the wall, bigger than others they've seen.
"What do you think?"

did you bring enough for the class

[thereneverwas]

Arthritis keeps Barrow from doing much writing these days, but he's happy to be the tall bearer of a lantern with a keen eye.

"Aye," he agrees, "last thing we want is for another attack to collapse the rest of the damn thing. What's--"

He reaches forward to feel the edges of the crack, furrowing his brow. "Shit."

will u accept a gift card

[undergrunn]

While Barrow inspects, Abella gets the map they've been making and marking as they go, bracing her foot against the wall so her thigh can serve as a flat-ish surface. Her capacity for juggling rulers, protractors and pencils in cramped quarters without dropping anything would probably be more impressive in a world without magic.

"From everything we've gone over so far, it's not a weight-bearing wall." At a certain point everything contributes to stability, especially deep down, but hopefully he gets her meaning. It's not dire, is the main thing.

"If we get measurements on it, we can monitor any changes over time, including after repair work. From what I've heard about the Gallows, this could have been here for decades without changing more than a few milimetres, and without anyone knowing."

Given how old this place is, how busy things have been. She glances up at Barrow, all the same; she's been doing her job for long enough to know that there's always people who know more and that experience is worth more than study.

"Want it flagged as a priority job?"

Teren

[doneisdone]

paging doctow stwange u_u

[doneisdone]

Upon returning from the mission in Nessum, Teren's injuries were dire but of the easily treated persuasion: broken bones here and there, the kind of internal bleeding that takes a long time to kill a person before it's truly too late, and the like. Frankly, she's had the same or worse before, and probably will again.

What's really laid her out is a fever: one or two of the numerous wounds went and got infected, making Teren all but useless in the escape and little more than a rambling bag of bones on their return. She's spent several days in an infirmary bed, muttering in her sleep to people who aren't here.

It's on the third day that her eyes (both functioning, thank you, even if one is squinty) open and she sits up quickly, only to give an angry growl and sink back down.
"Anders," she says, clear as day, demanding; a thin hand presses over her eyes, which are suddenly bothered by the light in the room. "Fuck."

[portalling]

“No, sorry, I’m a New Yorker—”

Is the fairly nonsensical yet amiable reply from the Head Healer sauntering over, sipping from a cup of coffee as he takes up station by her bedside. He’s fairly certain that if Teren hadn’t been literally unconscious, she would’ve been trying to walk through the Gallows of her own volition and claiming she didn’t need care. He knows the type. (He’s one of them.)

“I’ve heard the Anderfels are shit for tourism, though. Not many people sending back loving postcards from the Blasted Hills.”

He knows who she actually means; he’s heard both his unsavoury history within the city they live, and Gwenaëlle’s own passing experience with Anders the healer.

Still. Starting with a joke is easier.

“How are you feeling?”

Fifi

[untiltheyarent]