thereneverwas | IC Inbox

[ the details don't matter. there's a door, and several important men and women behind it. the two in front, markedly less so. it's been hours,

and hours,

and hours. the young pair outside are a lot of things, not only unimportant. they're certainly only human. ]

And so he says, the act is called: The aristocrats!

Barrow thought he could escape medical attention, but he underestimated Athessa's ability to just tell the healers he needed help. Colin tries the man at his room, his office, any haunts he knows the man may have until he finds him.

At some point during Barrow's week of bed rest, a rap of knuckles and some cheerful exchange of pleasantries arrives at his door, preceded Fitcher's arrival in the room. She's seated now beside the bed, and cannot mean for the visit to be altogether brief for her heels have been hooked up on the very edge of the mattress.

"Now, this one," she is saying, passing over a little pot from the basket she has balanced in her lap. The pot's contents are blood red and smell faintly of both something green and some faint undercurrent of butter. "Is for rubbing on troublesome joints. I find it helpful in the winters."

[When Barrow collects his pay next, he'll find he's received a nominal abomination-killing related bonus.]

Oi, mate. We're partners, now.

Do you still have the soup spoon and glass I gave you? It turns out they are very dangerous...

[ Regardless of how Barrow's morning is going, Sawbones will find him with a wild and distinctly sleepless look in her eye. ]

Can demons posses nonmages.

[With something like anger:] Am I sure about him, Barrow? Really?

[ Some average Spring day or another, when Barrow steps off the ferry and onto the docks in Kirkwall, there's someone waiting.

Someone is not Bastien. Someone is a girl, twelve or thirteen at most, with dark hair and eyes, kicking her heels against the shipping crate she's sitting on until the sight of him makes her straighten up and go still. She stays that way for a few seconds, then takes a visibly deep breath and hops off to approach him. ]

Are you Ser Barrow?

Tell me you survived, darling.

[ The evening after this, after Bastien’s finished work for the day, he walks one whole door down from his own and raps on Barrow’s door. ]

Barrow. [ Through the door. ] I need a drink and you have to come with me.

[A growler of ale has been left outside of Barrow's room - it's probably not the best money can buy, but it has been chosen as Drinkable at least, and Enjoyable at most. There's a little note sealed up and tied to the large bottle.]

I hope that you can find the time to enjoy this and that it may bring you a measure of peace (even if only momentary until you are sober again).

I cannot say anything on behalf of what was said between you and other members of Riftwatch - even with what I've come to understand about the politics and such here, it's not my place to say which party was right or wrong, whether you should feel guilt or be absolved of it, or to hold you accountable for anything. You seem like despite whatever may have been in your past to be a decent sort and so I can only say that I hope you reflect upon and know where your responsibilities and accountability lie. Whether you act upon it and how are none of my concern. Others may expect more of you, and they may be well within that right to do so, but we are practically strangers still and therefore this is all I can ask of you.

I appreciate the time that you took to provide me with guidance, and apologize for any part, however small, that action has contributed to your ordeal.

May you be well,
Allumin

Barrow, was it?

Provided you are not too occupied, at present, I'd like to speak with you.

[ Without preamble or warning: ]

You made a good offer, messere, when you offered to help in training. I expect you do not need to be told it was a good thing, but it was.

That's all.

[It is well after Satinalia that two decent bottles of whiskey finds their way to Barrow. Attached to one is a crisp red ribbon tied around a tag, upon which is written a message in a careful hand:]

Happy Satinalia. I am very sorry this is late in reaching you, but if you think about it, this year's late Satinalia gift is really next year's early Satinalia gift. Which is why there are two.

Enjoy, you've earned it.

[ This evening—Bastien's cajoling invitation to come out to a Lowtown tavern to keep him company, the cheap ale, the pleasant small talk about the weather and work—it is all a trap. A friendly and enjoyable trap, so far as Bastien is concerned, but a trap, all leading up to: ]

Why were you hiding that you were a Templar, before?

[ It has the tone of an idle question, but he's looking at Barrow with evaluative interest. ]

Ser Barrow! Good day.

I need assistance judging the appropriate measure for a dosage of refined lyrium. Will you help me or should I refer my questions to Ser Orlov?

[ Waiting for him, early morning, a summons; ]

Barrow,

After your morning shift, please see me in my office. I wish to speak on matters of internal security.

Marcus
Captain of the Guard

Serrah.

Commander Flint says you're to work shifts in the laundry. For the foreseeable future, he said.

[Very calm and matter-of-fact and not at all gleeful :) :) :) :) ]

[Left in Barrow's box will be a small package containing half the bonus money given to Jude by Flint, along with a small honey cake and a note.]

Here's yours. :)

It's mid-afternoon and the ferry is late.

Potentially the ferryman, still on the Gallows side of the harbkr, had slipped their spyglass from their pocket and, noting only two figures waiting on the Kirkwall docks, had decided against braving the chop. They could wait, whoever they were, until the wind blew out and the way across became slightly less treacherous.

That certainly is the theory Flint has settled on. Stood on the rainy Kirkwall dock ferry slip next to Barrow, he lowers his own glass from his eye and blinks back the gathered raindrops that threaten to slip from his brow and into his eye. It's dumping, and the waxed hooded overcoat he's in only accomplishes so much.

Click, click. The spyglass collapses down and is tucked into his belt.

"We may as well find ourselves a drink," Flint says, turning from the roiling black surface of the harbor.

(A set of good leather working gloves, nicely made and dark-brown. There is a tiny note left inside one of them.)

Sir Barrow,
Please accept my sincerest apologies for the way that I behaved at your trebuchet lessons. My behaviour was unbecoming, and I hope I did not ruin that afternoon's lesson for you and the other students. Should I come back another time to relearn what I missed, once I am feeling better? Let me know.

Love from,
Gela

He's in Barrow's bed.

There's a perfectly good, empty one right around the edge of that screen. Only, no one's dressed it up all nice with clean blankets and tucked corners. It's a little further from the fire. It's clearly not meant for human habitation -

So obviously, he took this one. Boots on and slung over the end, a cat burrowing determinedly into his armpit. He's fast asleep. Honk shoo, mi mi mi.

That kid shit, [ idly, somewhere between the crossroads and orlais ] You know how to fight like that before the Chantry?

( Straightforward, matter-of-fact, definitely with his metaphorical Head Healer hat on today: )

This is Obeisance Barrow, yes? I know we’re not very well-acquainted, but 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. )

one million years ago

post-mission, evening

no subject

a gold star (post-abomination, pretend I'm not late);

crystal.

Crystal

Post Dream Action

no subject