Inbox - Fade Rift

[bignasty]

Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.

Comments

sometime after the "sparring"

[thereneverwas]

Given that they're both occupied in training recruits during the day, when quitting time rolls around, Barrow is largely on the same schedule as Dumas. It's at one such time that Barrow hastens his step to walk beside him, then falls into an easy stroll as they make their way across the courtyard.

"Look, mate," he says in a low, easy voice, "I think we got off on the wrong foot. You got ganged up on, and that wasn't fair.
'We're working together almost every day, I'd like if we got along, so..." He puts his hands up. "For what it's worth, sorry for the part I played in that."

[bignasty]

It’s easy to keep pace with Dumas, who has very long legs but is rarely in a rush to be anywhere. As he often is on this field, he’s bristled rough and scuzzy with sweat, rolling one shoulder stiff in its socket as he pulls his canteen from his belt.

“Noble of you,” he says, working the cap, “being the bigger man.”

He takes a long swig, and dumps the rest over his head and down the back of his neck, likely splashing nearly as much onto Barrow as he does onto himself.

“Don’t fret over it, I don’t give a shit.”

[thereneverwas]

The initial comment merits a snort, but Barrow doesn't harp on it-- what's done may as well be done.

"Glad to hear it," he says easily, returning to a more jovial attitude, "how're your bunch looking? A good third of mine still spook at their own shadow."

[bignasty]

“Emboldened, after yesterday’s events.” Funny he should ask -- Sylvester gives Barrow a Look down and aside, like who could’ve seen that coming. “Broke a wooden sword over one’s ass and the rest snapped into line.” Easy as that, apparently -- Dumas looks forward again, canteen hitched back to belt.

It is wholly impossible to tell if he’s serious, but there’s a very genuine sense of impatience about him over the waste of said sword.

“I’ve managed with worse.”

[thereneverwas]

Barrow responds to the Look with a helpless shrug, still smiling-- oh, are we still mad about that? Pity.

Rather than be especially shocked by Dumas' methods, Barrow gives a single laugh of surprise. "That'll do it," he muses, "I hope he didn't need a healer."

[bignasty]

“If he did, he waited until he was out of my sight to whinge about it.”

Dumas sets to unbuckling leaves of practice plate from his jacket, deft by way of muscle memory in spite of rough calluses and blunt nails. Something about Barrow’s laugh has him looking over again, the way he might look at an engine making an odd noise.

“How long did you say you’ve been here?”

[thereneverwas]

"Mm? Ah... dunno." Barrow scratches his hairline as he thinks back. "A year? Something like that. Why?"

[bignasty]

“Right, right. A year.”

Like they’ve already had this conversation once before, and Barrow is refreshing his memory. Sylvester files shed plate away under his far arm. He’s kept one eye on Barrow as they walk.

“And before that?”

[thereneverwas]

"Merc business, mostly 'round northern Ferelden and the southern Marches." He's walking at an easy pace, and doesn't seem to mind the quiz.

"And you, city watch, right?"

[bignasty]

It’s an answer that passes muster. Plenty of weirdo sellswords making a new purpose for themselves in Riftwatch. Sylvester sniffs, and nods, approval in the jut of his jaw a glance away across the field ahead. Heat off, easy as that.

“City guard, yeah.” Last sheet of armor peeled off and tucked away, he flexes his hand against stiffness setting in at the joints.

“Took a break and did time with a couple of bands ‘round the same area before the blight.”

[thereneverwas]

“Oh? Get out,” Barrow intones—- not that he’d have actually been in the same area during or before the Blight, but it’s easier to go with the notion that they might’ve met already.

“Glad we didn’t kill each other.”

action; vague timing

[extortionate]

Look, not like Lazar's the biggest guy around. But you get used to it, making assumptions. Assumptions like: I'm pretty big, or I've got some time to kill, and No one else takes this shift.

"Fucking hell," Dumas is a shadow to blot out the lantern. Lazar crumples pages away in a hurry. There's still ink abandoned on the table, and the tower's logbook still neatly shut away. "How'd you get up here that quiet?"

[bignasty]

“Well it’s tough to hear anything at all with your head buried in your ass, isn’t it?”

Dumas, who has somehow wall clipped onto the scene near silently in full armor plate and with a sword on his hip, looks Lazar up and down after the source of all that crumpling. Performing a sort of ocular patdown.

But there is at least one more direct means to demystifying a mystery.

“What are you doing?”

[extortionate]

"Shit-all," He replies, and does his best impression of a shiftless layabout. Well: The particular breed that doesn’t have ink-stained fingers, and a packet of parchment tucked under one armpit. "Reckon that’s why ’s so dark out?"

What with burying heads in asses. The chopper at Lazar’s side isn’t exactly regulation, but little in the armory is since Riftwatch split. There’s a tin eye clipped to his chest, had to be nicked off Inquisition leftovers, but little other obvious sign he’s meant to be here — in a guard tower — at all.

[bignasty]

How much weight can this table hold?

It’s probably been here for centuries -- of good, solid make and rich grain, leeched through deep with whatever foul magic took root here back when the courtyard ran slippery with the blood and shit of fresh done slaves.

Dumas decides to test it, perching lady-like on the corner, with one great paw braced back near the ink, and his hair crested silver with sweat. Looks like he’s been out in the heat making rounds on the wall. Smells that way, also. He pushes that back hand all the way over to retrieve the logbook.

The table gives an ominous creak.

“What’s that, ah...” he trails off a beat, train of thought set adrift while he flips the book open on his knee for a skim, “what’s that you have there under your arm?”

an invitation;

[heirring]

[Appearing in his post box (if his was fortunate enough to escape being destroyed by the abomination), or with other mail destined for him, or simply slipped under the door of whatever room he might be call his own, is a cream colored envelope with a simple pale pink seal. The paper inside is rather fine, and the handwriting exceptional. It reads—]

Captain,

I am writing to extend my unalloyed best wishes for the fall season to you and yours, and to cordially issue an invitation to join myself and a few other select members of Riftwatch for an evening of dinner, dancing, and entertainment at the close of Kingsway.

This event has been arranged as a means to raise funds for the benefit of Riftwatch. Though a member of the Research Division and acting Assistant to the Seneschal, I have organized this benefit purely independently in the hopes of soliciting the good will of individuals who may, for whatever reason, typically not feel disposed to offer contributions to the organization. Nonetheless, I would be most grateful for your participation and engagement in this endeavor; indeed, your presence is vital to the evening's success.

If you are bold enough to accept this invitation, you will be rewarded handsomely with an excellent meal and very fine company shared in the setting of one of Kirkwall's finest estates, and will be required to perform no work more taxing than pleasant conversation (to whatever degree you find most appealing).

Please respond at your earliest convenience. Festivities will begin promptly at sundown on the selected date. All guests are encouraged to dress to their best advantage.

With Thanks,
Miss Wysteria A. Poppell
Research Division
Assistant to the Seneschal
Project Felandaris

a reply.

[bignasty]

[ inked in large print across the bottom of this same letter, crammed roughly back into Wysteria’s box the next morning: ]


HELLO POPPELL,

BULLET POINTS PLEASE AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE.

YOURS MOST IMPORTANTLY,
CAPTAIN DUMAS

[heirring]

[The reply is written on a different, rather less quality sheet of paper. The handwriting is still perfectly pleasant however.]

Captain Dumas,

I am hosting a charity benefit to raise funds for Riftwatch's benefit.

I would be honored if you would attend.

Please wear your best shirt.

Best Wishes,
Miss Wysteria A. Poppell
Research Division
Project Felandaris
Assistant to the Seneschal

[bignasty]

[ returned to sender exactly as before: ]


ALRIGHT.

YOURS IN GOOD FAITH,
SERRAH SYLVESTER DUMAS
CAPTAIN OF THE GALLOWS WATCH
9:46 DRAGON

[heirring]

[A perfectly cheerful note, though it comes with no envelope.]

Captain,

I cannot sufficiently express my pleasure over your agreement! Please provide me with a very brief biography and I will note you down for the evening.

Warm Regards,
Miss Wysteria A. Poppell
Research Division
Project Felandaris
Assistant to the Seneschal

[bignasty]

[ and again: ]


POPPELL,

I WOULD PREFER NOT TO.

GLAD YOU ARE PLEASED,
CAPTAIN DUMAS

[heirring]

[Hmm.]

Captain,

If you do not have the time to write your own, then I will be honored to pen something on your behalf.

Best Wishes,
Miss Wysteria A. Poppell
Research Division
Project Felandaris
Assistant to the Seneschal

[bignasty]

HONORARY WATCH CAPTAIN POPPELL,

GOOD THINKING, THAT WILL BE JUST FINE.

PLEASE DON'T ASK ME FOR MONEY,
CAPTAIN DUMAS

[heirring]

['Honorary Watch Captain.' How charming. Yes, all right; she can see why the 'Enormous Marcher' made the cut now.]

Captain,

Happily, as Assistant to the Seneschal, I am familiar with the state of our coffers and posted pay rates and so am unlikely to make that mistake. Your money is quite safe.

Best Wishes,
Miss Wysteria A. Poppell
Research Division
Project Felandaris
Assistant to the Seneschal