faderift | PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

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PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

WHO: Ennaris Tavane, Julius, Bastien, Viktor, Clarisse La Rue + OTA
WHAT: Strangers arrive at the Gallows.
WHEN: A week in Haring.
WHERE: The Gallows / elsewhere
NOTES: Check out this OOC Post for details.

This is a catchall post for threads with or about the forgotten characters plot. Feel free to thread about it elsewhere as well!

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Barrow's off for the day, and it's been a weird fucking day, which means it's time to seek refuge across the harbor in pub food and shit whiskey.
The nod he gets from the unfamiliar girl yields a smirk of gentle confusion, and he looks back at her.

"You joining up?" he asks easily, "or you one a' them?" Them, obviously, being the insistent bunch who claim to live here already. He doesn't really mind either way.

"One a' them," she says dully, mimicking his voice but without any bite to it. "Don't worry. I'm done trying to convince people to remember me right now, so we can skip all that shit."

Even though it's sooo tempting to ask who did those stitches. She's gonna resist.

"Works for me." He smiles and turns forward again, just as the ferry begins to dock.
"Where're you off to?" She's obviously not trying to break into the Gallows, on account of she's leaving it, so there's that sorted.

"Kirkwall." The sarcastic obviously isn't spoke out loud, but definitely implied. "Figure I can at least get wasted."

A pause, and then she adds, "Unless they decide not to serve me." The way this week has been going, anything's possible.

"That's the spirit," Barrow laughs, stepping aside to let Clarisse on the ferry first, "let me buy you a round, then. They'll have to serve you."
Refusing service to Barrow would be like a feed store turning away the region's only cattle farmer: it'd tank the economy in a single night.

Clarisse steps onto the ferry and plants her elbows on the rail, thinking. She might as well take him up on it, right? A free round, start her night off on a little bit of a better note than the day preceding it...

"Sure. Why not."

Trundling on after her, Barrow leans his back on the railing and stretches his arms out in front of him like a big cat, releasing some of the day's tension.

"What's your name, then?" he asks, relaxing back into himself and fishing a cigarette out of the box in his belt pouch.

At least Barrow seems relatively unbothered by all of this. That makes one of them.

"Clarisse." She bites the inside of her cheek. "I know yours already."

"Yeah?"

He lights the cigarette with his runestone, looking off over the water. "What's that?"

Clarisse gives him a sidelong look. "Barrow, of course." As for his first name, jury's out.

"Easy." He smiles, impish, "coulda picked that up anywhere."

He might just be trying to give her a hard time-- or an easy one, for that matter-- but either way, it doesn't seem to bother him.

"So where're you from? Rifter? Or just unlucky?" He nods to her hand.

Ah, right, that thing.

"I'm a rifter. From earth. It's not like Thedas." Though she figures he knows that, having been around that time they all visited Dream New York and Nightmare Seattle. "And I'm from Arizona. Big desert, crazy hot all the time."

"Right, right, I know Earth," Barrow nods, getting into it-- he was a doorman for a while (and a bear?)-- "bet you're having a good time in Kirkwall then. You warm enough?"

"Abby stole my coat."

It's fine, she's just going to wear her gross old one from now on! She doesn't even care about the sick camo jacket Gwen made for her and doesn't remember making for her anymore! She's not mad!

For some reason-- maybe it's just her tone, maybe it's the mental image-- this elicits a laugh, which Barrow stifles quickly in favor of taking a drag off his cigarette.

"That's not nice," he remarks, in an avuncular, staying-out-of-it way. As the ferry approaches the dock, he grips the railing to brace against the bump of impact.

Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, old man.

"Not nice isn't the way I'd put it." But Clarisse decides she'd rather not vent about Abby right now. The hurt is still too fresh for it to feel satisfying.

As the ferry docks, she looks over at Barrow again. "Were you being serious about buying me a drink, or were you just saying that?"

“If you know my name,” Barrow reasons, gesturing for her to disembark ahead of him, “then you ought to know I’d never lie about something so serious.”

His smile is cheerful, smug even, though it diminishes slightly as something strikes him—-
“no affiliation with the Chantry, I assume?”

"The Chantry?" she repeats incredulously. "No."

But then again, it's not like Barrow knows anything about her anymore. It's a valid question, probably.

"Not into the whole religious thing?"

ok whew,

“Err…” he stalls, finds no way to gracefully answer that, and finally decides on, “don’t worry about it.”

He leads the way to one of the many dive bars around the docks, opening the door for her once he’s satisfied by the one that smells the least worst.

“What’ll you have?”

O...kay. Interesting. She's putting that away for now, to be brought up at some later date, hopefully, if Barrow ever remembers her.

"Whatever you're having." Might that be hazardous to her health? Oh well. Whatever, she's a demigod, she can handle her alcohol.

"Whiskey," he decides for the both of them-- and while whiskey in and of itself might not be a hazard, this whiskey might. All the drinks from a certain part of town come with a calculated risk of catching someone's STD, or at least would be if STDs were a thing anyone knew about in Thedas.

Leaning one side against the bar, Barrow sends an affable smile Clarisse's way. "So. What'dyou do? Fight?"

No risk, no reward.

"Um," Clarisse snorts, "yeah." She almost adds that she's in Forces, but she doesn't feel like pushing her luck even if Barrow doesn't seem bothered by her.

"My father is a god of war," she says instead, like that's the more believable bit of trivia.

"No shit!"

His eyebrows arch, but it's impossible to tell whether or not he actually believes her-- if nothing else, he does for The Bit, because he wants to know more.

"What's that like?"

Maybe it's because Barrow doesn't even remember her, or maybe it's just because she's tired, but Clarisse answers him honestly.

"It's okay. There are things about it that are really great and things about it that really suck. And no one even knows who he is, here, so it's not like anyone respects me for it."

"Ah, well."

He throws back a gulp of whiskey, sets his cup down with a tap: more, please.

"Nobody knows who mine is either." His smile down to her is amused, but kind.

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