I flinched.
[ Apropos of nothing, this is just a message Ellis gets one evening. It sounds a little like Tony is answering a question no one asked. ]
[ Apropos of nothing, this is just a message Ellis gets one evening. It sounds a little like Tony is answering a question no one asked. ]
[The yard is all slate gray and miserable in the early mornings, and the chill is sharp enough to keep most otherwise willing hands tucked up in their beds for as long as possible. It leaves the pair of them plenty of room in which to work.
--Of which they've done plenty of already this morning, moving through simple forms of the parrying dagger at fourth and half speed. de Ricart is quite nimble with his left hand, producing the ugly blade from his belt with the deft flick of a wrist. Here is a block, here is how to twist the wrist to lock an opponents blade with the quillion. Here is how to redirect its momentum to turn a strike or twist the weapon away from your enemy's hand.
Its simple, and requires very little in the way of conversation except for sometimes:]
Let your shoulder fall more easily. Again.
--Of which they've done plenty of already this morning, moving through simple forms of the parrying dagger at fourth and half speed. de Ricart is quite nimble with his left hand, producing the ugly blade from his belt with the deft flick of a wrist. Here is a block, here is how to twist the wrist to lock an opponents blade with the quillion. Here is how to redirect its momentum to turn a strike or twist the weapon away from your enemy's hand.
Its simple, and requires very little in the way of conversation except for sometimes:]
Let your shoulder fall more easily. Again.
[ He has been very lucky to stumble into Marcoulf's tutelage. It becomes clear within the first few minutes of their exchange that Marcoulf de Ricart knows exactly what he's doing and Ellis should be grateful a chance scribble on in his book attracted his attention.
As suspected, this is not an easy art for him to learn. It's a different way of using his body, and it relies on the poorly-healed, clumsy fingers of his left hand. There are moments when he would be free to ask for reprieve, but he never does. This momentary break, clash of blades giving way to instruction allow for Ellis to step back, take a deep breath and shift his grip on the hilt of borrowed dagger as he absorbs the direction. ]
I'd have thought the issue lay in my fumbling over getting the dagger out, long before my shoulder was ever involved.
[ Marcoulf is faster. Logic says a beginner cannot hope to match their teacher so quickly, but Ellis is still very aware of the failing. ]
As suspected, this is not an easy art for him to learn. It's a different way of using his body, and it relies on the poorly-healed, clumsy fingers of his left hand. There are moments when he would be free to ask for reprieve, but he never does. This momentary break, clash of blades giving way to instruction allow for Ellis to step back, take a deep breath and shift his grip on the hilt of borrowed dagger as he absorbs the direction. ]
I'd have thought the issue lay in my fumbling over getting the dagger out, long before my shoulder was ever involved.
[ Marcoulf is faster. Logic says a beginner cannot hope to match their teacher so quickly, but Ellis is still very aware of the failing. ]
[Where is Ellis? It doesn't matter. Because wherever it is, at whatever time, there manifests a red faced figure rapidly closing on his position.
Wysteria is not running. That would be fundamentally ridiculous. But her stride is very determined, and her expression fit only for the description of in pique.]
There you are! I have been looking all over for you, Mr. Ellis. Really, you need not be so hard to locate. It makes it incredibly inconvenient to consult you on anything serious whatsoever. Imagine if someone were dying!
[And then she bursts into furious tears.]
Wysteria is not running. That would be fundamentally ridiculous. But her stride is very determined, and her expression fit only for the description of in pique.]
There you are! I have been looking all over for you, Mr. Ellis. Really, you need not be so hard to locate. It makes it incredibly inconvenient to consult you on anything serious whatsoever. Imagine if someone were dying!
[And then she bursts into furious tears.]
[ To his credit, between the conflicting reactions of "someone probably isn't dying" and "someone might be in danger," the latter wins out.
Followed closely by an awareness that he doesn't have a handkerchief to offer her, which hasn't been something he's concerned himself with in at least ten years but he senses it would have been a comfort to Wysteria in this exact moment. ]
I'm sorry, [ rather than protest that he'd only been in the library. He gently takes her by the elbow, steering her out of the walkway. ] Are you hurt? Has someone hurt you?
[ The progression of questions is probably revealing; Ellis' course of action is crystallizing as they speak.
Followed closely by an awareness that he doesn't have a handkerchief to offer her, which hasn't been something he's concerned himself with in at least ten years but he senses it would have been a comfort to Wysteria in this exact moment. ]
I'm sorry, [ rather than protest that he'd only been in the library. He gently takes her by the elbow, steering her out of the walkway. ] Are you hurt? Has someone hurt you?
[ The progression of questions is probably revealing; Ellis' course of action is crystallizing as they speak.
Ricart claims you an expert in knives.
[ marcoulf claims no such thing. hi ellis he's bored ]
[ marcoulf claims no such thing. hi ellis he's bored ]
When exactly the little paper booklet was slipped into his satchel is likely a mystery; the Club's kitchen has been outfitted with a series of hooks and miscellaneous pegs near the backdoor for the hanging of bags and coats and weather wet cloaks and so on which would have made the smuggling of such a thing fall well within her abilities. Perhaps it is secreted there when Fitz and Ellis are working in one of the countless rooms upstairs, or when she leaves him to his gardening in favor of escaping the heat.
Regardless, at some point he will discover Madame Seifrida Brugiere's Illustrated Guide of Court Dances in this Summer the year of 9:46, as translated by Gwenant Caddell - more pamphlet than book, though its papers are saddle stitched to imitate the latter - in among his things. The note scrawled directly inside the cover reads thus:
Regardless, at some point he will discover Madame Seifrida Brugiere's Illustrated Guide of Court Dances in this Summer the year of 9:46, as translated by Gwenant Caddell - more pamphlet than book, though its papers are saddle stitched to imitate the latter - in among his things. The note scrawled directly inside the cover reads thus:
Mr. Ellis,
I would like to attempt one of these Orlesian dances during Satinalia and have plans to bribe Monsieur Bastien to see it come to pass (whether he will be playing whatever party must occur is immaterial; he has the air of a person willing to go to great lengths for the sake of a young lady's whims so long as they are rather harmless and silly). Would you be up to the task of learning one? Otherwise I will be forced to find an alternative partner and I dread to think who in Riftwatch would even begin to qualify.
Sincerely,
W.A. Poppell
Upon discovery, Ellis takes a full ten minutes to flip through the pamphlet and try to decide whether or not he should try to come up a decent excuse.
But he already knew the answer. So his reply comes in the form of a piece of parchment clipped to a pamphlet from the market. Ellis has circled a few items (a replacement shovel, two rakes, a set of gloves) and marked cramped little notes in the margins on which seller to purchase from. The attached letter, however—
But he already knew the answer. So his reply comes in the form of a piece of parchment clipped to a pamphlet from the market. Ellis has circled a few items (a replacement shovel, two rakes, a set of gloves) and marked cramped little notes in the margins on which seller to purchase from. The attached letter, however—
Wysteria,
I promised you two dances, so it's only fair I should learn the style of your choice. I'll learn the dances. If there's one you're most fond of, mark down the name for me so I pay it enough attention.
There's some coin on the counter beside the lantern. If you have the time, can you order the tools I circled so I can finish breaking ground for the flower beds?
— Ellis
It's early yet - a few days before the thing proper, and therefore far too early to be giving away gifts. But between Base Operations overseeing both a delayed provisioning request and a surprise donation of second hand armor and sabers willed by some eccentric old salle master in Ostwick, and a concentrated effort of the Research department to catalog a number of archival artifacts before year's end, and the brokering of the import of a particular cut of Orlesian walnut wood for the eventual stock of The Rifle, it promises to be a busy week indeed. If the thing is to be done, it had best be done promptly before she is too tangled in some other task to see the matter properly conducted.
Or she is just impatient. What difference does it make really? The sum of the thing is all the same: one brisk morning, between one steel clatter and the next, Wysteria simply appears on some convenient seat (an overturned bucket, a bale of old straw, or whatever have you) at the edge of the training yard as the morning drills are coming to a close.
She is waiting patiently, slightly pink in the face thanks to the chill of the fall air and wrapped in her bright red and elaborately embroidered half cloak against it. There is a largeish, roughly square, and only slightly lumpy package wrapped in brown paper then tied with twine balanced in her lap. What is perhaps most evident of all is that she hasn't come to practice her archery.
Or she is just impatient. What difference does it make really? The sum of the thing is all the same: one brisk morning, between one steel clatter and the next, Wysteria simply appears on some convenient seat (an overturned bucket, a bale of old straw, or whatever have you) at the edge of the training yard as the morning drills are coming to a close.
She is waiting patiently, slightly pink in the face thanks to the chill of the fall air and wrapped in her bright red and elaborately embroidered half cloak against it. There is a largeish, roughly square, and only slightly lumpy package wrapped in brown paper then tied with twine balanced in her lap. What is perhaps most evident of all is that she hasn't come to practice her archery.
Tillie points Wysteria out, nudging at Ellis' elbow as the drills wind down and the mix of guards begins to scatter. There's some bright, teasing implication in her expression that Ellis shakes his head at as he breaks off. He's a little sweaty, over-warm from exertion, and he has a small, bright smile for her as he approaches with his coat over one arm and his mace swinging at his hip.
"Did I forget we were practicing today?" he questions first, uncertain of what else brings her here. "It's a little early for you to have stopped at the market."
Though in the back of his head, he considers the possibility of Wysteria having some urgent project that needs his attention.
"Did I forget we were practicing today?" he questions first, uncertain of what else brings her here. "It's a little early for you to have stopped at the market."
Though in the back of his head, he considers the possibility of Wysteria having some urgent project that needs his attention.
...Is Ellis your first name, your last name, or your only name?
The university in Markham petitions Riftwatch for assistance in the transfer and ordering of a collection of newly-recovered sketches and unfinished works of a Marcher artist Ellis has never heard of. It's a straightforward task: collect the works from Ostwick, and accompany them to Markham to assist in the unpacking. There is to be a showing, some event where Markham society gathers to admire and perhaps donate for the privilege of viewing the works before anyone else has a chance.
Between them, Leander is here to deal with the material. Ellis is here to be of assistance in the event Leander and the artwork is attacked on the road. Or perhaps to do the heavy lifting. He certainly isn't here because of any expertise, other than a few quiet expressions of admiration during the loading of the cart.
"Is the work any good?" Ellis asks, as they jolt along the road. It's bitingly cold, though Ellis seems largely unbothered by it apart from the red of his cheeks and fingers where they hold the reins.
Between them, Leander is here to deal with the material. Ellis is here to be of assistance in the event Leander and the artwork is attacked on the road. Or perhaps to do the heavy lifting. He certainly isn't here because of any expertise, other than a few quiet expressions of admiration during the loading of the cart.
"Is the work any good?" Ellis asks, as they jolt along the road. It's bitingly cold, though Ellis seems largely unbothered by it apart from the red of his cheeks and fingers where they hold the reins.
Leander is likewise pinkened and unbothered in equal measure.
An ostensible chance to use his expertise (such as it is, dearth of formal training aside), a long trip along the road, the risk of trouble, uncommon company in relative solitude: all these ingredients ought to please him. And they do. But there is something else, some rivulet of disquiet, icy liquid carving a path through his entrails, lingering. Always lingering, of late.
(Is this what it means to doubt? How can anyone stand it?)
"That we've been hired as custodians speaks to its value, one way or another." An ambiguous answer, peaceably spoken, shortly followed by a glance back to the canvas-covered carriage behind them. "As to my own preference, I couldn't say. It merits a longer look."
An ostensible chance to use his expertise (such as it is, dearth of formal training aside), a long trip along the road, the risk of trouble, uncommon company in relative solitude: all these ingredients ought to please him. And they do. But there is something else, some rivulet of disquiet, icy liquid carving a path through his entrails, lingering. Always lingering, of late.
(Is this what it means to doubt? How can anyone stand it?)
"That we've been hired as custodians speaks to its value, one way or another." An ambiguous answer, peaceably spoken, shortly followed by a glance back to the canvas-covered carriage behind them. "As to my own preference, I couldn't say. It merits a longer look."
[At some point in the days which following the dream, a blank copy of the dreaded survey is shoved under his door in the Gallows. The brief note pinned to it reads—]
I would encourage you to submit a record. There is no telling what may be useful to future members of Riftwatch who may have need of the material. If you would like to reference my own account for your writings, I will provide you with a copy.
Best Wishes,
W.
Edited 2021-02-12 18:47 (UTC)
][ shortly after ellis chimes in with this. ]
What exactly is stopping Corypheus's people from monitoring the Gallows and Kirkwall, or coming in and taking people from here?
[ probably self-evident why he didn't opt to ask this in a public forum. also: after dreams, probably self-evident why this really fucking bothers him. ]
What exactly is stopping Corypheus's people from monitoring the Gallows and Kirkwall, or coming in and taking people from here?
[ probably self-evident why he didn't opt to ask this in a public forum. also: after dreams, probably self-evident why this really fucking bothers him. ]
Because we would kill them.
[ blunt and unwavering. a beat of silence follows in the wake of it, the way the sound of a blow against armor clangs afterwards. ]
They could try. The Gallows is a very defensible position. I like our chances. I don't think it's worth it for them, when their attention is focused on holding what they've already invaded.
[ blunt and unwavering. a beat of silence follows in the wake of it, the way the sound of a blow against armor clangs afterwards. ]
They could try. The Gallows is a very defensible position. I like our chances. I don't think it's worth it for them, when their attention is focused on holding what they've already invaded.
Good choice, is what Bastien said when Ellis picked three, for the record; not too big and not too small. And then Ellis was rescued from further conversation by some commotion elsewhere in the dining hall. Rescued from the explanation, too, which is really very dull. There are six books Bastien might name as favorites currently in his possession. One he’ll never let anyone borrow. The remaining five are arranged on a single shelf in his room, separate from the revolving stacks he reads and returns to libraries or sells back at book stalls. It’s the one in the center he plucks out for Ellis.
The title is The Life of Katrin Lindner, after the protagonist, who begins life as the clever, bored, spoiled teenage orphan charge of an aging aunt who frequently misplaces her in Cumberland. But Katrin is the subject of hardly a tenth of the words. The remaining nine-tenths meander through the folkloric history of this or that landmark she passes, the history of the neighborhood she’s lost in, and the pasts and passions of the various characters she encounters, and several stories-within-the-story told by an old beggar. All of it is related in loving, exhaustive detail.
Interspersed with all of that meandering, there is a hint of a plot, a sense of building toward something, a crossed-dagger symbol mentioned on the person of several different characters, a blind washerwoman who drops her washboard at the sound of Katrin’s name. At its pace, and with its hints that the story will not be resolved until Katrin is grown and married and looking back on all of this from a safe distance and comfortable chaise, the novel might be expected to reach a conclusion about all of this several thousand pages in.
Instead, it stops after two hundred and twenty, just as Katrin is sneaking away from her aunt. She slips out a window, determined to go see an elephant purportedly on display outside the city. Then there is a single page of the now-defunct Le mélange de Marie, in which the publisher apologizes for the lack of new installments of the serial and promises more will be forthcoming as soon as possible. Then there is a note from the publisher of the collected chapters, noting no further installments were ever published.
The book is handed off to Ellis without more comment than hello and here, in passing in the corridors. It’s tied up with the book and pamphlet Ellis passed along to Bastien before—each now several times more read than they had been before, but no worse for the wear. Also included is a short book of folktales, recently scrounged up in the market, illustrating the Orlesian adoration (at least in some corners) of a vague Jean hero to whom nothing ever happens entirely by accident.
The title is The Life of Katrin Lindner, after the protagonist, who begins life as the clever, bored, spoiled teenage orphan charge of an aging aunt who frequently misplaces her in Cumberland. But Katrin is the subject of hardly a tenth of the words. The remaining nine-tenths meander through the folkloric history of this or that landmark she passes, the history of the neighborhood she’s lost in, and the pasts and passions of the various characters she encounters, and several stories-within-the-story told by an old beggar. All of it is related in loving, exhaustive detail.
Interspersed with all of that meandering, there is a hint of a plot, a sense of building toward something, a crossed-dagger symbol mentioned on the person of several different characters, a blind washerwoman who drops her washboard at the sound of Katrin’s name. At its pace, and with its hints that the story will not be resolved until Katrin is grown and married and looking back on all of this from a safe distance and comfortable chaise, the novel might be expected to reach a conclusion about all of this several thousand pages in.
Instead, it stops after two hundred and twenty, just as Katrin is sneaking away from her aunt. She slips out a window, determined to go see an elephant purportedly on display outside the city. Then there is a single page of the now-defunct Le mélange de Marie, in which the publisher apologizes for the lack of new installments of the serial and promises more will be forthcoming as soon as possible. Then there is a note from the publisher of the collected chapters, noting no further installments were ever published.
The book is handed off to Ellis without more comment than hello and here, in passing in the corridors. It’s tied up with the book and pamphlet Ellis passed along to Bastien before—each now several times more read than they had been before, but no worse for the wear. Also included is a short book of folktales, recently scrounged up in the market, illustrating the Orlesian adoration (at least in some corners) of a vague Jean hero to whom nothing ever happens entirely by accident.
[ In Orlais, the traditional and polite question to ask a fellow you’ve given dance lessons specifically so he could please a woman who’s since announced her engagement to someone else is: ]
Monsieur Warden, you must forgive me for stereotyping you—but do you know much about horses?
Monsieur Warden, you must forgive me for stereotyping you—but do you know much about horses?
[ There's a knock at Ellis' door. When he answers is there is no one in the hall, but there is a letter (addressed to Warden Ellis) and a bottle of... something. Wine? Probably. The label is missing and the bottle is slightly cracked on the surface, but it's remained sealed and the crack is more cosmetic, it would seem, than anything else.
If he uncorks it, he'll find the wine to be Orlesian, red, and strong. There are herbs in it as well.
The note reads: ]
Since you didn't come to the party, the party (in its own way) has come to you. Enjoy. It tastes well heated — like a mulled wine, I suppose.
Vance has suggested we speak with the Spymistress (which I will do) and W. Poppel and T. Stark regarding closing the rift at the Temple. Do you mind speaking with the others? Let me know.
I hope all is well,
Adrasteia
If he uncorks it, he'll find the wine to be Orlesian, red, and strong. There are herbs in it as well.
The note reads: ]
Since you didn't come to the party, the party (in its own way) has come to you. Enjoy. It tastes well heated — like a mulled wine, I suppose.
Vance has suggested we speak with the Spymistress (which I will do) and W. Poppel and T. Stark regarding closing the rift at the Temple. Do you mind speaking with the others? Let me know.
I hope all is well,
Adrasteia
Edited 2021-05-06 01:18 (UTC)
Hey. So on a scale of one to ten, about how stealthy would you say you are?
Please let me know when you are available to speak.
crystal sometime after his own limping return to Kirkwall; set it whenever you like
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
illithidnapped
2021-08-16 11:33 pm (UTC)(link)
Darling.
[In that oh-so-typical tone of we should talk.]
[In that oh-so-typical tone of we should talk.]
“She understands simple commands,” Silas is saying,
A fat little finch bobs on his outstretched palm, obsidian feathers fluffed under just a hint of a metallic green sheen in the dawn light making its way across the yard. Her eyes are a pale sage, slitted pupils twitched wide under a flick of her crest. The wedge of her beak is built for cracking nuts and a venomous blue on the inside: soon seen, as Silas pushes the entire length of his sending crystal down her craw by way of demonstration.
Given givens, she probably isn’t surprised.
The open hang of her gape is more a matter of working the crystal down, of setting her beak back into alignment the way a snake would after swallowing an egg.
“You can ask her to scout ahead or keep a watch, provided you’re patient with the limits of her discretion.”
A fat little finch bobs on his outstretched palm, obsidian feathers fluffed under just a hint of a metallic green sheen in the dawn light making its way across the yard. Her eyes are a pale sage, slitted pupils twitched wide under a flick of her crest. The wedge of her beak is built for cracking nuts and a venomous blue on the inside: soon seen, as Silas pushes the entire length of his sending crystal down her craw by way of demonstration.
Given givens, she probably isn’t surprised.
The open hang of her gape is more a matter of working the crystal down, of setting her beak back into alignment the way a snake would after swallowing an egg.
“You can ask her to scout ahead or keep a watch, provided you’re patient with the limits of her discretion.”
The indignities Thot suffers.
Ellis doesn't seem to be enjoying the demonstration anymore than Thot does, but it is necessary information. Ellis watches Thot for a moment before shifting his attention back to Silas.
"Does she tell you things?"
Ellis doesn't seem to be enjoying the demonstration anymore than Thot does, but it is necessary information. Ellis watches Thot for a moment before shifting his attention back to Silas.
"Does she tell you things?"
Edited (words) 2021-11-07 06:49 (UTC)
[ Noisy clearing of throat before— ]
Hey, do me a favour and give a heads up if you're actually a Corypheus deep undercover agent before you eat your crystal or whatever. I could make it worth your while.
Hey, do me a favour and give a heads up if you're actually a Corypheus deep undercover agent before you eat your crystal or whatever. I could make it worth your while.
[ The answer is slow in coming.
But Tony's message is there, long after dark, when Ellis is standing atop one of the highest points at the outer wall and coaxes his crystal up out of Thot's belly. Listens to the message. Breathes out as Thot hops on his shoulder before directing her: Tell me if someone is coming.
And after all that, he activates the crystal, and speaks. ]
I'm here.
[ No confirmation on Corypheus deep cover agent either way. ]
But Tony's message is there, long after dark, when Ellis is standing atop one of the highest points at the outer wall and coaxes his crystal up out of Thot's belly. Listens to the message. Breathes out as Thot hops on his shoulder before directing her: Tell me if someone is coming.
And after all that, he activates the crystal, and speaks. ]
I'm here.
[ No confirmation on Corypheus deep cover agent either way. ]
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