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[brennvin]

crystals · correspondence · private scenes

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would you like to build a snowman (do a job)

[extortionate]

[ A group of bandits have set up camp around a bridge on one of the roads between Ostwick and Kirkwall. They've been successfully shaking down every merchant caravan that attempts to cross. Agitated with the loss of profit, the merchants have collectively appealed to Riftwatch for help. Clear out the bandits from around the bridge, and keep all these merchants happy. ]


They're not in Forces -

Alright, so Lazar was, and fuck if they don't look the part; and that's gotta be how it came to this: Freezing his nuts off at the end of a bridge, trying to make nice with Danny Five-Fingers as the guy just gets louder and louder.

(Who knew a dwarf could holler like that? Who knew five fingers was worth a title? No accounting for Carta taste.)

"Look - I'm just the messenger," Hands spread, wide from his knife; palms empty. Easy. They're all friends here. "Her and me, we're doing you a solid here. No reason this has to get bloody,"

An arrow whizzes past his face, buries itself in the ravine edge. Lazar looks to Astrid, as if for permission -

- Doesn't wait for an answer before he plants a boot in Danny's chest, and shoves hard. The howl as he crashes down is satisfying. The brush of drawn steel behind them?

"Shit," Lazar murmurs. "You got this, right?"

[brennvin]

The Avvar standing quietly behind Lazar has been watching his back and trying to take her job as armed muscle and backup very seriously, although she’s distracted by her studious ongoing attempt to count Danny’s fingers. She keeps losing track as the dwarf gesticulates wildly in growing affront, as his fingers curl into a fist. Is it an inexplicably normal five fingers per hand, or only five total? Is it, like, a joke or something? An inside joke?

But all of her distraction vanishes at the familiar whistle of an arrow sailing over their heads, the rasp of drawn steel, the tell-tale signs of diplomacy having broken down. (This is why Riftwatch didn’t send the kids from Diplomacy.) She straightens, immediately whipping her own bow up to eye-level.

“Oh, we’re doing this already?” Astrid says, brightening as they hear the distant noooooooo_oo of Danny Five-Fingers vanishing down the ravine, now a mystery never to be solved. But she nocks her weapon, squints down the line, follows the trajectory where that first arrow came from, lets loose—

A few seconds later there’s a yelp, up on one of the rock ledges above the bandits’ camp. Her nose crinkles, drawing another arrow as one of the men marches toward Lazar.

“Really did think you were being polite,” she says to her colleague.

[extortionate]

"Thank you -" Lazar huffs, and throws himself behind carthweels. A stolen pony screeches at the intrusion, kicks an inch past his skull. "- 'S Ostwick, you're supposed to call 'em cunts!"

They're Marchers. That's friendly! He fumbles blade to hand, glancing up just in time to catch Astrid's shot. Right sharp -

- Right distracting. Look back: Lad with the hatchet is closing, too fast to find his feet. Lazar spits some Ander curse (poxes, Darkspawn) and slashes the pony's crude tether. It bolts for the road, knocking axe over teakettle.

"Elf's still got my swords," Donny Six-Pricks or whoever that reedy fuck was, "But he didn't look like much -"

A figure rises: Thin, elegant. Robed. His hands pull open onto lightning.

[brennvin]

The pony goes barreling through the bandits, knocking some over like bowling pins, charging past them to disappear down the road. At the same time, Astrid’s been looking through the group, trying to pick out the elf as a target — the bandits all look equal states of grubby and unwashed and disheveled, although at least the elf would be smaller — but then, well, he makes himself known.

“Oh,” Astrid says, and “Fuck.”

She dives, swiveling to not land on her bow, taking refuge behind the cart with Lazar. It’s stacked high with empty crates, which must have belonged to the bridge’s previous victims: merchants’ goods looted and taken as tithe. Lightning crackles overhead, and she can taste the ozone in the air, her hair rising and turning even more voluminous with static. Ugh.

The Avvar tries to poke her head up to get a view for another shot, but there’s another flash of white-blue light. So she sinks back down, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder with Lazar, trying to cram both of them back here.

“Is this a good time to mention I’ve never fought someone who’s got magic?”

[panulus]

[He is looking for her, after that conversation on the crystal, and while he is not wearing a shirt, he is wearing a cloak and covers his shoulders and most of his torso. So.

He knows that his past makes her unsure, which is to say, he's doing a little bit of extra work to hide some of it. He has a jug of wine with him.]

I brought a gift with me.

[He holds the bottle up, and he looks-

-he's smiling, he looks charming.]

[brennvin]

[ Astrid is hard to pin down, often vanishing out of the Gallows or wandering afield or stashing herself away in out-of-the-way corners, but he does eventually come across her on the ground floor of the Gallows. Her gaze darts to Gannicus’ face, the drape of the cloak, the jug, the man’s smile. ]

Is it Satinalia again already? [ she asks, cheeky, assessing. She’s just recently back from an assignment, her boots muddy and her muscles restless; a break does sound nice. There’s that brand-new unattended tavern in the Gallows just opening up, where they could split the wine. But…

Innocently: ] Been around here much yet? Want a tour?

[panulus]

Only the training yards and Forces. I've been given a uniform-

[He holds out his arms and its clear that his pants are part of that uniform, that he's tucked and rucked up into his boots.]

-and little else.

You look like you would want a bath.

[Which is either an offer to wait or an offer to join, so.]

[brennvin]

Is this your way of telling me I stink? Rude. [ But Astrid doesn’t sound offended. Just amused and playful, as she cocks her head and assesses that offer, measuring the weight and shape of it. She wiggles her sore feet in her boots and considers the appeal of immersing herself in piping-hot water (and, yes, with interesting company).

So, then: she eventually gestures with the tilt of her chin, a bird-like flutter of hand, ]

Alright, come along then,

[ and it feels a bit like gesturing a dog to come in out of the cold, opening a door, letting him in. She turns on her heel and starts heading towards the templar tower and its basement, wending through the halls, down the steps and towards damp stone. ]

This might actually be one of my favourite places in the Gallows. We had some hot springs in the mountains, but more often than not you’re heating a tub and that just takes for-fucking-ever.

crystals; in the hour between minrathous and kirkwall

[extortionate]

Astrid?

[ distracted. not audibly alarmed. ]

Gotta ask a favour.

[ (his accent's out in force) ]

[brennvin]

[ A little muffled, after swallowing a mouthful of food; she’s been raiding the kitchens and nervously snacking after that alert came in. Not like there’s much to be done about what’s happening abroad except twiddle her thumbs and wait, so the message is a welcome distraction— ]

Yeah?

[extortionate]

There's a loose floorboard in my room. Under the desk. Some shit in there -

[ footsteps somewhere down the hall. he cuts off. a few moments later, as though uninterrupted: ]

- Keep the coin if y'want. But there's a ring, got a swan on the band. Anything goes bad here, can you get it to Bastien?

[ fucker owes him. ]

[brennvin]

Oh my gods, Lazar, you can’t just— Don’t fucking jinx it.

[ A queasiness in her stomach. Astrid sets down the rest of her bread, unfinished; she hadn’t realised how allergic she was to In Case I Die instructions until just this moment, that favour settling over her shoulders like an itchy wool mantle. ]

But aye, yeah, I can do that. […] Didn’t know you and Bastien were, like, a thing.

right now; voice

[icasm]

Two questions: are you hunting later this week? And are you camping out with the rest, these days, or holed up elsewhere?

[ ooc: we can suss out how their first co-hunting excursion went or determine that something came up (and then EVERYTHING happened); totally up to you! just lemme know. ]

[brennvin]

Aye; the market’s all fucked and trade’s even pricier than before, so the kitchen would be glad of the extra provisions, I think. Wanna come with?

( It’s been a while since their first excursions; they’d fallen out of the habit since, too busy with the attack and reconstruction, but it might actually be about time to resume. Riftwatch is still rubble but it’s less rubble than before, at least. Hard-won normalcy is starting to descend. )

I’m in a tent in the herb garden. How about you?

[icasm]

I've noticed, with the market. And yes, definitely, Elsy and I wish to join.

[ And how fucked it is, both in terms of debris and the pricing of what remains available for purchase in just about any corner of Kirkwall. ]

Ah, no. I stay in Kirkwall with a woman who used to be directly involved with Riftwatch but is not, as such, any longer. Fortunately, her apartments are still standing.

crystal

[undergrunn]

Astrid? It's Abella.
( There's a pause, where she's going to ask one thing, and pivots to something else. )

How are you?

[brennvin]

What? Oh, fanden, fuck—

( A skittering noise, impact, scrabbling, cursing, the crystal bouncing across the floor and— being batted around by a cat? That is in fact what is happening. Astrid eventually chases it down, retrieves the crystal, and flops back on her bed, sitting cross-legged. )

Abella! Hi. Yes. I’m good, how are you?

[undergrunn]

( She exhales a quiet, amused huff of laughter. It’s strange how even little overlaps in language are so comforting. )

I’m doing better than you, it sounds like. Do you need rescuing?

( Friendly teasing is better than looping to get actual reason for getting in touch. She’ll gladly delay that. )

SECRET SATINA 9:50

[wythersake]

( following this: )

Slipped onto Astrid's desk, among the week's papers, is the torn piece of a map. It seems to be the Gallows, though sketched a bit poorly, and marked with a black X over the library. The paper's of decent quality — must have only been used for this — and the back of it is stamped with two neat moons.

Huh.

It's a big library. Moreso, if you don't read. But chance, dedication, or assistance, turn up a false book tucked among the steamy Avvar romances. The spine of A Noble Register of Town Fools (marked with two moons, and never before appearing in Riftwatch's collection) knocks hollow; pulling it from shelf reveals it to be a simply-disguised box. It opens onto a cheap sheet of polished tin, vaguely reflecting the viewer, and a second piece of the map.

To the dungeons. One of the cells is locked, with two moons painted on its walls. There's a jar of loose junk on an adjacent bench, and somewhere within that there's a key. Of course, there's plenty to pick with, instead. A pungent packet of dried shark — local Orlesians unclear on hákarl — inside holds down the final piece of map.

If followed to the Eyrie, the griffons will descend upon a fishy smell. Distracting them long enough allows one to snatch the new leather case attached to Potato's harness.

It holds a small, collapsible spyglass. Nothing on the quality that a ship might require, and almost certainly secondhand; close inspection of some chipped-away, Tevene marks reveals it for a likely war prize. But turning the glass about the Gallows proves it serviceable enough. If Astrid happens to look to the Smithy she might even spot:

HAPPY SATINALIA

Painted on the roof. Don't ask how he got up there.

post-nessum; hello julie i want more of you in my inbox.

[dirthsal]

He is, Fen'harel'enaste, not the worst off of their little cohort. The Venatori may have worked harder on him because elf, but the Warden gave them more trouble, so she bore the brunt of their more dire tortures. His injuries have been tended to by magic as best Riftwatch was able, with time and his own body left to complete the rest of the job. He walks tall back to his shared room, bearing new scars and bruises and rage but not cowed in the least.

He's missed some check-ins. Fen'harel will be concerned, if not for him personally then for his efforts inside the Riftwatch. Talin will have to get a message to the Wolf, relay what happened. He'd barely gotten settled before that assignment went to shit, he needs to start over. He needs to find something new to work on. He needs...

To sleep, he finds, collapsing into his bed as soon as he's reached the room. It's a fitful rest, made more so by the unfamiliar sounds and the oppressive nature of these stone walls. His mind will not relax enough to fully surrender to the Beyond, and when he hears the door creak open, he's wide awake in an instant, knife in hand and leveled at Astrid's throat.

[brennvin]

She goes completely motionless, spine rigid and limbs locked, like a deer who spooked. Sudden, unexpected adrenaline hammering in her skull.

“Korth’s dick,” Astrid says, but that movement of her jaw presses against the knife, causing it to nick the skin slightly. Her gaze moves upward, from the turn of his wrist gripping the hilt (white-knuckled), to the line of his forearm quivering with exhaustion, up to his bruised face.

Despite the relatively crowded room, packing in three people hasn’t been too much of a problem. Astrid often isn’t there, vanishing to supplement the kitchen’s stores with her hunting, or simply preferring an evening out camping. They’re all in Scouting and none of them are researchers, so they’re often out on a field job (or in Lazar’s case, simply drinking in town and avoiding a job entirely).

It does mean that Talin probably isn’t used to sharing with these strangers yet.

She swallows, slow and careful. Raises a hand to grip his wrist, and shoves it aside.

“You look like shit.”

[dirthsal]

The knife in his hand holds steady even as his vision swims a little, bloodrush and exhaustion taking equal tolls. Still, it doesn't take long for his mind to catch up to his instincts. Astrid is not an enemy; he is in the Gallows, not a Venatori prison; he is as safe as a spy inside enemy territory can be.

His arms lowers, slowly at first, and then he crumples back onto the bed, heaving an exhausted sigh as he goes.

"But in a sexy, rogueish way, right?"

crystals;

[wythersake]

Miss Runasdotten — [ some things just never sound quite right in an orlesian accent ] — Does your Hold ever contract its services?

[brennvin]

Hiya. [ She knows of Enchanter Isaac but doesn’t realise that they have, technically, crossed paths in some form before. She spent fucking days solving that scavenger hunt, and then not even known who to thank for it. ]

And depends, I s’pose. Services for what?

[wythersake]

Goods escort. I've had requests from our partners, but we're too thin of numbers to put our own men to it.