[ which does not sound sarcastic so much as faintly entertained, underneath surface-level seriousness, as if he were happily indulging a child in a game of pretend.
This indulgence extends to actually showing up, later this same day. Plainclothes—he doesn't swagger around the Gallows in plate, routinely, and wearing the robes without it has always made him feel like a tool. His shoulders do not fill up the doorway as much as they could have. ]
[ has the tone of an unspoken why not. They're being kept reasonably busy, at the Hightown base ("base"), but when he is spending so much time simply walking down the stairs with bundles of messages, then turning around to walk right back up them—why not. So:
He turns up, after fulfilling his most recent thrilling errand. Plainclothes. Drinking from a waterskin with one hand while he knocks on the door, guzzle broken off just time as he sticks his head in.
There is a pot of tea, warm, on the corner of her desk. One of the heavy green mugs has been turned toward the seat, slanted at an angle towards the desk itself where Derrica stands. Her braids have been looped and pinned up higher, escaping tendrils curling at her neck, around her ears. Several layers have been discarded, shawls and woolen sweater over the back of her high chair to leave her in just her tunic, braided rope belt cinched around her waist. Informal. Easy to disguise as otherwise when she must descend to collect Mother Pleasance for dinner.
“Sit, please,” she invites. “I don’t mean to keep you long. It’s only that I have a project I would like to attempt, and I think you might be able to assist.”
Not right now, in the midst of so much upheaval. But later—
It is her habit to come around the desk, usually. She maintains her position behind it now, stood over a scattering of papers, a heavy collection of essays on the Chant open to some middle page. Her palm lifts, tipping open to the mug. His to take, if he would prefer something other than the contents of his water skin.
It has been eight months but I am just now seeing this. I am not sure how I missed it/forgot/etc. but I am going to blame its proximity to my move. I am so sorry for not replying!
If you even remember what this is about and still want to do it then I am happy to now but given the eight months thing that does seem a little unlikely. Let me know though.
I think this was probably from when Barrow and Jude were competing to see who could get more people to move/clean the ballistae for Flint. Jude is gone now so Barrow won by default. Praise be to Andraste.
It's quick to hear who the Templars are. Were, and Maker, but this place collects past-tense - almost enough to make him reconsider; grab an axe and hope there's still room for a one-handed soldier,
Almost.
"Ser Keen," Familiarity over formality, this isn't the field. Cedric slides into the bench opposite. "Hope you don't mind."
"If I don't eat slow," He blows on his bowl between words. "Sister Heiss'll rise up to haunt me."
Edited (we built this city (typo city)) 2024-02-05 07:04 (UTC)
Ser is more formality than Redvers is used to with this lot, and never mind that he'll tell anyone to call him Redvers (or Keen) once the moment arises. Every now and then it's nice not to have it assumed. The default look on his face—friendly-enough amusement—is tempered with a little appreciation.
He knows this face. The name—starts with a C, doesn't it? Or an S?
It'll come to him. Maybe.
In the meantime, he grins over his spoon and has mostly swallowed before he says, "It'd be nice to have a Sister around in any form."
[ Conversely, not stiff and stilted at all, and sounding like maybe he rolled over out of a light nap to pick up the crystal from his nightstand. Because he did. ]
Uveamomuh.
[ A clearing of the throat. An inaudible jaw wiggle. ]
Sorry. I've a moment now. Strange?
[ Just checking. Only so good at telling people he doesn't know well apart by voice alone. The accent helps narrow the field considerably, though. ]
Yep, sorry. Strange here. ( With Stark gone, they’re one down re: Middle-Aged American Men With Marvel Mouth cadence. He takes a deep breath, then, levelly: )
So, I know this might be between you and the Chantry, but I’d like to speak with you about lyrium. I was wondering if you could tell me what sort of dosage and frequency you’re on. While you must stay with Riftwatch out of necessity, we want to make sure we have what you need— that if supplies become hard to obtain, or if, say, you’re incapacitated and unable to administer it yourself, as Head Healer, I want to ensure that you’re still able to get what you need. To do that, I need to know how much and how often.
( —and to be trusted to administer it, but let’s try this first question first. )
[ He's not surprised. Just obliged to register at least that much protest, in a tone that suggests he's also a little flattered. Just a little. ]
My memory isn't what it used to be, but I sent a few. Mother Leonarda was one. She's living in Ostwick now, [ with Starkhaven gone. ] I think the others all went to the front.
We review the destination of most outgoing correspondence.
[ Is a lie, but delivered with a note of mild, dry exasperation, as if this is a thing she's had to explain many times before and suspects this will not be the last. Anyway. Good enough. ]
Have you any concerns about your fellow Templars' identity, or means to verify it?
[ Does he want to have this conversation? Nope. But Vanya's uniquely unqualified, and Barrow wouldn’t get it, and he's got the uncomfortable suspicion this is maybe round three. Could use some advice. ]
D'you ever, [ He's shuffling the cards longer than needful. ] You ever had someone — mage, I mean — get th'wrong idea?
Well, I intend to say a lot of words. But the danger is presently hypothetical.
The Venatori anchors. I think it a matter of time until certain of them, mn. Evolve. The shields and rays some of our own exhibit. We need to know if those may be disrupted.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
crystal.
[ Hi. ]
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[ Hi?? ]
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Yes, ser,
[ which does not sound sarcastic so much as faintly entertained, underneath surface-level seriousness, as if he were happily indulging a child in a game of pretend.
This indulgence extends to actually showing up, later this same day. Plainclothes—he doesn't swagger around the Gallows in plate, routinely, and wearing the robes without it has always made him feel like a tool. His shoulders do not fill up the doorway as much as they could have. ]
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tail end of march.
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[ has the tone of an unspoken why not. They're being kept reasonably busy, at the Hightown base ("base"), but when he is spending so much time simply walking down the stairs with bundles of messages, then turning around to walk right back up them—why not. So:
He turns up, after fulfilling his most recent thrilling errand. Plainclothes. Drinking from a waterskin with one hand while he knocks on the door, guzzle broken off just time as he sticks his head in.
As requested.
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“Sit, please,” she invites. “I don’t mean to keep you long. It’s only that I have a project I would like to attempt, and I think you might be able to assist.”
Not right now, in the midst of so much upheaval. But later—
It is her habit to come around the desk, usually. She maintains her position behind it now, stood over a scattering of papers, a heavy collection of essays on the Chant open to some middle page. Her palm lifts, tipping open to the mug. His to take, if he would prefer something other than the contents of his water skin.
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crystal
Afternoon, Redvers.
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It has been eight months but I am just now seeing this. I am not sure how I missed it/forgot/etc. but I am going to blame its proximity to my move. I am so sorry for not replying!
If you even remember what this is about and still want to do it then I am happy to now but given the eight months thing that does seem a little unlikely. Let me know though.
xoxox,
MJ
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I think this was probably from when Barrow and Jude were competing to see who could get more people to move/clean the ballistae for Flint. Jude is gone now so Barrow won by default. Praise be to Andraste.
Love,
Cami
action;
Almost.
"Ser Keen," Familiarity over formality, this isn't the field. Cedric slides into the bench opposite. "Hope you don't mind."
"If I don't eat slow," He blows on his bowl between words. "Sister Heiss'll rise up to haunt me."
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He knows this face. The name—starts with a C, doesn't it? Or an S?
It'll come to him. Maybe.
In the meantime, he grins over his spoon and has mostly swallowed before he says, "It'd be nice to have a Sister around in any form."
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The Honoured Dead kept penned in a cellar - he's still not sure whether the Ferryman was pulling his leg. Wasn't anything there when he looked.
"Cedric," He offers, drops the spoon long enough to stick out a hand. "Wallace said you were holding down the fort out here."
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crystal.
Keen. I’ve a matter to discuss whenever you have a moment. Somewhat delicate and medical in nature.
( The opening message is a little stiff and stilted. )
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Uveamomuh.
[ A clearing of the throat. An inaudible jaw wiggle. ]
Sorry. I've a moment now. Strange?
[ Just checking. Only so good at telling people he doesn't know well apart by voice alone. The accent helps narrow the field considerably, though. ]
this is a convo about fantasy drugs sry
So, I know this might be between you and the Chantry, but I’d like to speak with you about lyrium. I was wondering if you could tell me what sort of dosage and frequency you’re on. While you must stay with Riftwatch out of necessity, we want to make sure we have what you need— that if supplies become hard to obtain, or if, say, you’re incapacitated and unable to administer it yourself, as Head Healer, I want to ensure that you’re still able to get what you need. To do that, I need to know how much and how often.
( —and to be trusted to administer it, but let’s try this first question first. )
ableism cw?? obliquely
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crystal
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[ He's not surprised. Just obliged to register at least that much protest, in a tone that suggests he's also a little flattered. Just a little. ]
My memory isn't what it used to be, but I sent a few. Mother Leonarda was one. She's living in Ostwick now, [ with Starkhaven gone. ] I think the others all went to the front.
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[ Is a lie, but delivered with a note of mild, dry exasperation, as if this is a thing she's had to explain many times before and suspects this will not be the last. Anyway. Good enough. ]
Have you any concerns about your fellow Templars' identity, or means to verify it?
actionspam, emphasis on spam
D'you ever, [ He's shuffling the cards longer than needful. ] You ever had someone — mage, I mean — get th'wrong idea?
delicious
Now and then. I used to be handsome,
[ has the unbothered air of a joke, an unspoken if you can believe it, whippersnapper. No underlying self esteem issue. He knows what he looks like. ]
Why?
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'S been a couple times now. Dunno if I oughta just ignore it, [ Finally deals. Glances a bad hand, ] Or try and say something.
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holla at me if any of this gets into content u want to avoid
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crystals;
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The Venatori anchors. I think it a matter of time until certain of them, mn. Evolve. The shields and rays some of our own exhibit. We need to know if those may be disrupted.