[A week or so after their conversation (he was waiting to get paid), a book is delivered to Fitcher's rooms. It's titled The Holdfast: A Collection of Poems by Callum Nettling. On the inside cover, the following note:]
[To debasement and vice. Best on 104. -MD]
[Rather ironic, as many of the poems themselves are of religious devotion. The poem on page 104 is already earmarked.]
[The cards return to Mrs. Fitcher by way of the space under her pillow. It smells like her, ergo it is hers, ergo the cards should be safely hidden beneath it, where no one will see and take them. They are tied together with a thin string, a flat, drying elfroot leaf tucked in on top.
Exactly one card, the Song of Mercy, has received a new mark on its back, tiny and precise.]
[ Ashey is generally a very sedate, pleasant sort of roommate. Busy in her work and thus often gone, but keeping practical hours and a tidy space. Tonight however, she is very fidgety. ]
Mrs. Fitcher... I wonder if- Would you happen to know a qunari gentleman by the name of Loxely?
[ Her distracted nerves and the relative comfort of the relative privacy have her speaking with her native Teven accenting her words. ]
[Mrs. Fitcher is, as Mrs. Fitcher is prone to in the early evenings like this one when she is not out and about, sitting at the edge of her bed and working a brush through her long dark hair. Days spent in the grippe ward have done a number on her complexion, and she still seems quite pale, but her hands are firm and she is cheerfully robust when it comes to tackling the tangles in her hair after the day spent slogging through all this wretched weather. Her legs are stretched before her, ankles crossed.]
The charming Rifter? Not well. I don't believe we've spoken directly, though I've heard him over the crystal. Why do you ask?
[ By is still a little short of breath, and still a little paler than usual. But he's bounced back from the grippe nicely, his mood clearly quite good. He's smiling broadly when he comes into sit beside her. ]
You seem much improved, Messere, [is her cheerful greeting, made from her bower of pillows. The enchanted book is still open on her lap, crystal glowing pale in its spine, and she has ever appearance of only just now having set down her pen.
The bad news is that she is still ill at all - it has done her complexion a rather poor turn, left her eyes quite bright and dark in the harder angles of her face -, but the good news is that she is clearly mending: quite chipper, and ready with a curling smile for him as Byerly takes the chair at her bedside.
She closes the book and removes the crystal from it.]
They've known each other long enough that Barrow has an idea of Fitcher's schedule, and he's hanging around the quay as he's done the last few nights when he sees her approaching. Stepping out into her view, still far enough away that she can keep walking if she wants, he bows deeply.
"My lady, I wondered if I might steal a bit of your time," he says, rising to reveal the freshly-picked flowers he's had behind his back.
She is dressed for an evening in the city - something fetching under a plain dark coat designed to minimize the chance of being mugged, and a sturdy knife in her thick belt. As she comes down the stairs to the quay, she is still picking some lint out of the hat she must mean to don in a moment and so Barrow gets quite a bit closer than he might if all her faculties were keen on observing her surroundings rather than her fashion choices.
When he speaks, she draws up, takes a full slightly flustered beat to assess him there with the fistful of flowers, and then shoots a glance past him toward the quay where the ferry has yet to arrive.
"You have until the ferry arrives, serah."
The hat is set at a rakish angle atop her head, and then she continues on her way toward the landing with the clear expectation that he (and his flowers) will follow.
[ It is unlikely that Fitcher has spoken to the person who enters the office today, although she's likely to have come across some of his reports. They are notably unartful, detailed to a fault, normally punctually delivered. Marcus is not carrying a report, however, when he steps into the office.
It's a slip of folded paper, and at his back, an unnecessarily sharp-edged, iron-wrought staff harnessed in place. He is dressed nicely, cleanly.
A quick scan of the room puts Fitcher in his line of sight, followed by a pause as he considers her. He nods a greeting, and asks; ] Fitcher, is it?
[She glances up upon his entrance, but has already shifted her attention back to the work before her by the time he closes the distance between her and the doorway. So much for the certainty that he must be looking for someone else.
With her pen hovering lightly over the page before her, Fitcher looks first to his staff and then to the man in question. Her smile is a cordial thing, eyebrows raised slightly higher than is strictly in good humor—]
So they tell me, yes. [The pen's feather is set idly against her mouth, turning this way and that apparently without consideration.] Enchanter Rowntree, I believe?
[It's been a long day, all the important things are already being discussed, and most people are sleepy and winding down from the previous night's festivities. But there's one fleeting moment therein that Barrow can't seem to shake from his mind.]
[Some time has passed since the dreams-- a few days, a week, enough time that it's not at the forefront of most minds anymore. It's a perfectly normal evening in Lowtown, the usual hustle and bustle disrupted only briefly by the weaving of a familiar little spotted dog through the crowded street.
He stops to sniff at a dropped, half-eaten sausage in a bun, but rather unlike a dog, leaves it there and continues toward an alley.]
[She is en route to the ferry, carefully navigating a series of ice slick stairs leading down into yet another labyrinthine Lowtown neighborhood between here and there when, from that high vantage point, the flash of white passing bright under the light of some hanging lantern catches her attention.
On her perch, Fitcher pauses. And when the dog goes, she does too—picking her way curiously after it.]
[ In her mail cubby, or somewhere else not particularly invasive: one small stuffed toy bear, clearly made from and stuffed with a sheet, with wooden button eyes and a metal button nose. He's so simple and flat and slightly lopsided in construction that he was clearly made by someone who does not make toys for a living and who did not put in so much effort into this one that giving him away or discarding him after the punchline would be tragic.
The note pinned to his back says, Found him for you. ]
[Placed either in his mail cubby or benignly on his desk in the project office, a card. The cardstock is pleasantly heavy; her handwriting is spidering to the point that it's nearly illegible, and the decorative border hand drawn around the card is charming but not especially skilled.
It reads, Your services are much appreciated and, as I trust this writing clearly indicates, much needed.
[ Left via postbox in a pocket of soft cloth to protect the polish: a palm-sized, perfectly round cast bronze mirror featuring a pair of full naked dwarves dancing on the back. The note reads: ]
[Dashed off in pencil on the back of a bit of of her own mail (which looks to be the receipt from a cordwainer; Fitcher apparently has a new pair of boots) and stuffed into his postbox—]
Happy luck for me. I prefer four legs to eight in most circumstances.
[ Not even the proximate invasion can stop Les Chats. But the most recent production in Kirkwall, put on by a traveling troupe from here and there, is less faithful than the others. It's missing several songs, with one added in Antivan; it employs shadow puppets behind the performers. For some reason one of them is dressed as a bird. In the end they all die. ]
That was,
[ Bastien says afterwards, at Fitcher's side on the way back toward the docks. It's cool enough now that his breath hangs in the air, when he exhales heavily to indicate his lack of words, but the puff of fog and his speechlessness only last about the same second and a half. ]
I liked it, but if we are all to die soon, I think that was our omen.
[The late autumn air is crisp enough to bring up some color into Fitcher's cheeks, and to have prompted her to shift the edge of her knit muffler a bit higher about her throat. The latter doesn't present much of an obstacle to her laugh which is as full as it is low.]
There are worse options as far as signs go, I think. Better something appropriately dramatic than a dull option like dreaming of an owl or a flower blooming out of season.
sighs @ myself immediately above this, but also hello
[ An ominous beginning, with friend hemmed in by the fact that he still calls her Madame.
But it’s true. He’s doing this at all—unsubtly and privately, while they’re behind a closed door and on a joint hunt through Scouting Division records for something pertaining to one Merchant Prince or another—because she is a hemmed-in friend. ]
So I hope you will forgive me for asking what you think I might find, if I go looking for Serafine Tokar.
[This friend pauses over the stack of records she's currently sorting through. It's not a particularly weighty hesitation. More rueful, rather. It has the energy of—
Fitcher drumming her fingers once across the top of the file under her hand. She grants Bastien a sidelong look>]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[To debasement and vice. Best on 104. -MD]
[Rather ironic, as many of the poems themselves are of religious devotion. The poem on page 104 is already earmarked.]
no subject
Exactly one card, the Song of Mercy, has received a new mark on its back, tiny and precise.]
...at some point.....
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
no subject
[Her handwriting is rather difficult.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Their Room
Mrs. Fitcher... I wonder if- Would you happen to know a qunari gentleman by the name of Loxely?
[ Her distracted nerves and the relative comfort of the relative privacy have her speaking with her native Teven accenting her words. ]
no subject
The charming Rifter? Not well. I don't believe we've spoken directly, though I've heard him over the crystal. Why do you ask?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
no subject
Hello, my dear lady.
no subject
The bad news is that she is still ill at all - it has done her complexion a rather poor turn, left her eyes quite bright and dark in the harder angles of her face -, but the good news is that she is clearly mending: quite chipper, and ready with a curling smile for him as Byerly takes the chair at her bedside.
She closes the book and removes the crystal from it.]
Set these on the bedside table for me, won't you?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
one evening in the Gallows
Stepping out into her view, still far enough away that she can keep walking if she wants, he bows deeply.
"My lady, I wondered if I might steal a bit of your time," he says, rising to reveal the freshly-picked flowers he's had behind his back.
no subject
When he speaks, she draws up, takes a full slightly flustered beat to assess him there with the fistful of flowers, and then shoots a glance past him toward the quay where the ferry has yet to arrive.
"You have until the ferry arrives, serah."
The hat is set at a rakish angle atop her head, and then she continues on her way toward the landing with the clear expectation that he (and his flowers) will follow.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
crystal.
[ A play. Undoubtedly very thrilling. ]
And you can choose your own company, of course, but if it were my choice, you would take Byerly.
no subject
[Her affectation of an Orlesian accent is, even for one word, terrible.]
Do we think the man capable of sitting through an entire show without heckling the players?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
crystal
Evening, love. Have you got a moment?
no subject
Anything to escape filing this stack of reports. Go on, regale me.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
switching to prose because f doing html on my phone
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
crystal, post-satinalia
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
My dear madame.
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
crystal, satinalia, late
no subject
The side close enough to get a good look and singed eyebrows if I'd cared to. And you?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
records. probably a little backdated tbh.
It's a slip of folded paper, and at his back, an unnecessarily sharp-edged, iron-wrought staff harnessed in place. He is dressed nicely, cleanly.
A quick scan of the room puts Fitcher in his line of sight, followed by a pause as he considers her. He nods a greeting, and asks; ] Fitcher, is it?
no subject
With her pen hovering lightly over the page before her, Fitcher looks first to his staff and then to the man in question. Her smile is a cordial thing, eyebrows raised slightly higher than is strictly in good humor—]
So they tell me, yes. [The pen's feather is set idly against her mouth, turning this way and that apparently without consideration.] Enchanter Rowntree, I believe?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
crystal, the evening after the Dream
Evening, love,
[cheerful enough,]
can we, ah... can we talk about the crossbow?
no subject
Oh, that old thing?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
crystal, a day or so post-dream
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
action
He stops to sniff at a dropped, half-eaten sausage in a bun, but rather unlike a dog, leaves it there and continues toward an alley.]
no subject
On her perch, Fitcher pauses. And when the dog goes, she does too—picking her way curiously after it.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
delivery.
The note pinned to his back says, Found him for you. ]
no subject
It reads, Your services are much appreciated and, as I trust this writing clearly indicates, much needed.
I shall take the very best care of him.
Cheers,
-F.]
no subject
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
backdated to whenever this happened
Evening, love!
...you haven't seen Enchanter Leander about, have you?
no subject
Now that you say so, no. I don't believe I have.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Book
Have you ever been to Orzammar?
no subject
Never. What souvenir will you be bringing me?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Post
They were out of spiders.
shorturl.at/kzPY2
Happy luck for me. I prefer four legs to eight in most circumstances.
crystal
Wrote to my sister.
no subject
How old would she be now?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
https://thumbs.gfycat.com/CalculatingCheerfulBrownbutterfly-max-1mb.gif
That was,
[ Bastien says afterwards, at Fitcher's side on the way back toward the docks. It's cool enough now that his breath hangs in the air, when he exhales heavily to indicate his lack of words, but the puff of fog and his speechlessness only last about the same second and a half. ]
I liked it, but if we are all to die soon, I think that was our omen.
pretend this is happening RIGHT NOW
There are worse options as far as signs go, I think. Better something appropriately dramatic than a dull option like dreaming of an owl or a flower blooming out of season.
sighs @ myself immediately above this, but also hello
[ An ominous beginning, with friend hemmed in by the fact that he still calls her Madame.
But it’s true. He’s doing this at all—unsubtly and privately, while they’re behind a closed door and on a joint hunt through Scouting Division records for something pertaining to one Merchant Prince or another—because she is a hemmed-in friend. ]
So I hope you will forgive me for asking what you think I might find, if I go looking for Serafine Tokar.
what a treat
Fitcher drumming her fingers once across the top of the file under her hand. She grants Bastien a sidelong look>]
My, someone's been snooping about.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...