heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

"Either would be quite manageable. I have been writing Enchanter Averesch, and he has been helpful enough to suggest a few methods to mollify restless spirits." Writing, she says, as if the man in question is not fully in residence at the Gallows. But they get along so much better on paper than they do on person—

Wysteria, standing in the shade of the overgrown wall into which the gate is set, folds the papers over and stows them in full to bursting satchel at her side. She is dressed very sensibly, as far as Wysteria ever is: her robust, worn field boots and skirts which fall not quite to their ankles. She has a knife in her boot and another in her belt, and that round shield from Satinalias past paints an almost comic circle behind her silhouette where it's been strapped to her back. There is no bow or collection of arrows, the strength of the anchor in her hand negating its use somewhat (her aim, too, is better with her own hand), but by and large she very nearly has the appearance of a young lady well acquainted with field work if not strictly adventure.

"I suppose we might have asked a few more questions down in the village, but there is so much daylight left that I would prefer not to waste it. We can always do interviews when we return there this evening. Why, from the state of this wall, it's possible we will spend all of it looking for a way in and hardly have a chance to explore before the light fails us. Which directions would you care to try in first," she asks, attention shifting brightly to him from the barricade in question. "I'm sure we will find a place where the masonry has begun to fail, and then we might simply climb over."

Since the altercation with the bandits, Ellis has had a passing notion about a breastplate. Perhaps if it were accordingly embellished, Wysteria would take to it. Ellis has seen intricate designs worked into metal, it would just be a matter of cost—

But the shield will have to suffice for today. Ellis puts it aside, crossing as she speaks to grasp the rusted bars of the gate and give them a short, testing pull.

"I'd like the front gate clear, even if we go in around the side," he says, thoughtfully. "It might be the most direct way out."

Which can be mistaken as convenience, but it's largely about Ellis thinking about the idea of retreating and the possibility of being able to simply run out the front door to the horses rather than something less straightforward. When he puts his full weight against the bars, they give a grating creak, shift a little, then stop. Ellis glances back to her.

"Come here. I think we might be able to break it loose."

"Well, if we are committed to destroying a fine example of Steel Age craftsmanship—" she says lightly, untroubled by the prospect as she moves to join him at the gate. "Apply force once more if you please, Mister Ellis."

Presuming that he does, and assuming that her study of the gate and its sturdy old settings into the wall goes on relatively uninterrupted, Wysteria at once produces the knife from her belt and goes clattering off into the trees.

"Hold for a moment," she calls cheerfully from amidst the shimmering grey-green foliage, and in relatively short order she returns huffing and puffing in possession of a sturdy stick hacked from one of the birch trees hunkered in about them.

"Here. Help me apply this to where the gate connects to the end of the wall. The leverage may force free the connection."

What Ellis had envisioned: putting all their weight against the door until something breaks.

But it's hardly a surprise that Wysteria considers some alternate method almost instantly, and without adding her weight to his where Ellis had braced a shoulder against the rusted metal. As she vanished into brush, Ellis' efforts had waned to the point of a near-slouch, only straightening at Wysteria's re-appearance.

"Clever," Ellis tells her, even allowing for the potential of the branch snapping in the course of her work. "I wouldn't have thought of it."

There may be a more economical way to go about the placing of branch, but Ellis chooses to set his hands over hers, leaning in close as he circles her with his arms to begin the work of bearing down on the makeshift lever Wysteria has fetched.

Is it a distraction from the actual work to be set in so close to her? Maybe. But surely their combined effort is enough to pop open the gate.

"Warden Adrasteia and I applied a similar principle during some work not too long ago. It worked rather nicely then as well."

Whether the distinct pleasure in her voice is in relation to her own cleverness, or to the repeat value of the trick, or for the less than strictly practical purpose of Ellis' arms about her and the sturdiness of his presence at her back, or some combination of all three is a mystery. Regardless, with the branch placed Wysteria is perfectly happy to lean her weight against it in tandem with him.

The effects on the gate are less than immediate. There is some groaning and general complaint from the metal work, but for a series of minutes the fastening seems like it is sunk very tight indeed and that the stonework about it will remain stubbornly in possession of the pin. And then, at last, there begins a trickle of mortar and occurs the smallest shift—

"Have you ever observed a stone mason at work, Mister Ellis? They do a clever thing with a series of chisels and a hammer to encourage stone to split along the line of their choosing."

"Aye," comes first, as his hands shift over the branch to cover hers. The branch is holding, even in the face of the stubbornly immobile gate. Ellis adjusts, driving the branch just a little further, seeking better leverage in spite of Wysteria's proposal.

"Do you have a chisel hidden in your bag?" Ellis questions, chin hooked onto the outer edge of her shoulder.

"Sadly no. But perhaps we out to consider carrying a set. A good sturdy rock might always be used in place of a hammer, but there is very little than can replace a few stock bars of iron for the sort of work we might use them for now. And I cannot imagine they would be so heavy as to be impossibly inconvenient," Wysteria chatters along, heels dug into the stony earth underfoot. She rocks back against him under the hook of his chin then throws her weight stubbornly forward against the braced branch. The gate in its place whines a little in protest.

"I suppose we might also try tying the horses to it to see whether they could pull it free, or—"

All at once she pauses, stilling. And then laughs, a bright sound which rings over the moss covered stone gate posts and is stolen away by the density of the pressed close foliage.

"Oh, we're very stupid."

"Are we?"

Ellis' hands shift over Wysteria's, as if anticipating a third attempt at leveraging the branch against the gate. He'd turned very slightly to glance at the horses, though that minor movement is reversed, realigned back to her.

"Tell me in what way we're stupid."

Something easier to believe of himself than Wysteria, a protest that is more or less on the heels of the solicitation.

With only a little shifting, she frees her left hand out from under his. In a matter of seconds, she has caught one of the light leather gloves' fingertips between her teeth and extracted her hand from it. That lurching green glow of the anchor is very bright in her exposed palm as she turns it over and submits it to his inspection.

"We must not include this in our report," she says between her teeth and around the gloves. "Mister Stark would never allow me to forget it."

What good is an anchor that can throw things if not to knock a rusted old gate from its hinges?

Leaned in against her as closely as he is, the pull of tension through Ellis' body is clear. He stays bent there, examining her palm, before he straightens.

"We shouldn't keep things from Tony," is not a no.

He thinks to ask her: Will it hurt?

But he holds that question in check. One hand settles between her shoulder blades as he steps to her side, all the better to see her face.

"But if you think it's worth trying, we might as well see if you can flatten a rusted gate."

"Oh please, Mister Ellis," she says, the bit of leather still between her teeth. It is only after this little scoff that she removes the glove and tucks it into one of the expansive pockets of her skirts. "You look as if I've just told you that you ought to try throwing me over the sharpest spike. It is nothing at all. Furthermore, by all means we will include how I dashingly destroyed the thing with my anchor in the report. But I refuse to admit that it took this long to occur to me that we might try it. Imagine, the two of us laboring along like fools while I've a miniature battering ram attached to the end of my arm. There would be no dignity in writing it down."

Evidently decided, she bats his arm cheerfully aside and moves to position herself before the rusted shut edifice entrance. She shakes her anchor hand out, flexing fingers and tightening it into a fist by turns as if by stretching out the joints she might more easily activate the thing.

"Remove the branch for me. I shouldn't want it to be thrown about if this is very dramatic.."

Nothing at all isn't how Ellis would describe the use of her shard, but he doesn't argue the point. He does catch and squeeze her elbow before lifting the branch away.

"Stand further back," is apparently the only guideline Ellis can settle on. "You don't want to be hit by any stray rock or metal."

He'd pull her back himself, but that feels like an counterproductive urge. Branch over one shoulder, he crosses back to her and then retreats a short distance further. Surely coincidental that he positions himself directly behind her, just in case.

"If I stand further back, it might weaken the concussive force of the thing," she chirps back at him, though as far as rebellion goes it is a very minor demonstration and Wysteria make no concentrated effort to stand her ground on the subject (figuratively or literally). Still working out her hand, she obediently draws a few paces further back from the towering ironwork.

"And don't think that it hasn't occurred to me that no one is ever very concerned when either Mister Stark or Madame Baudin does this trick either," is the last thing she says before she raises her hand and levels the slash of the anchor shard at the gate.

It is, in a way, a little like any magic. It isn't a matter of concentration or construction, but it is absolutely one of intent. Of will. Of wanting something. And what, at its very core, is any magic if not the manifestation of that? And it does—hurt. The jagged piercing sensation of it wrenches up the length of her arm in reverse motion to the great outward crack! of force. But that too is a little like any magician's work. All things have cost.

And besides, there is hardly any reason to linger long in study over the shooting pain in her hand. Not when the blast wrenches the gate free of one of its supports with a great shriek of stone and metal. Back where they are picketed, the horses pull nervously as the gate flops gracelessly backward. It is not a full separation. One side of the structure is still attached to its gate post. But there is enough of a gap in the sagging barrier so as to afford them safe passage around or under it.

The horses, after months of being dragged from one rift to another, have seemingly grown used to the noise of it to the point where they won't attempt to bolt.

It's impressive, Ellis will admit. But it makes him uneasy to watch Wysteria summon great cracks of energy from her palm, just as it makes him uneasy when Tony makes too much use of his own shard. If it weren't so obviously effective, then maybe he'd be able to argue more convincingly that they needn't resort to using them, but—

But the gate is blown sufficiently open. Ellis' desired easy access point is achieved. He flings their makeshift lever towards the brush before crossing to her, reaching for her shard-struck palm to reel her in towards him.

"Well done," said to the same cadence as Are you alright?

The spitting crackle of the magic is already faded by the time Ellis reaches her. The jolting pain which had come in concert with it has dwindled to an easily dismissed ache too, and so by all accounts and measurements she is easily reeled.

Wysteria's smile sprawls wide and quite self satisfied. She retrieves the glove from her pocket.

"As I promised. Very dashing."

"I'm very impressed."

Impressed is close enough to truth, or it's part of the truth. It sounds better than to say, I'm worried. It would dim her smile, and Ellis is so very fond of seeing her smile. Especially this kind of smile, the one she wears when she's pleased with herself, when something's gone right.

His opposite hand closes over the glove in her fingers as he draws her palm up then bends to put a kiss there, just beneath the pulsing gleam of the shard.

"You hardly need me along at all," is said with a smile, Ellis' mouth pressed against her fingers before he straightens enough for her to see his face again.

"That is hardly true," she scoffs, all good tempered prevarication.

Ellis rises, and Wysteria's nominally captured hand insists on rising with him so she might stroke his bearded chin between her thumb and forefinger.

"I can hardly be expected to carry all my own things, Mister Ellis."

Ha ha ha.

Is this what job security looks like in Thedas? Maybe.

But he chuckles anyway. There is a momentary, easy sway of his body in towards her, coaxed by her fingers. When his grip loosens around her opposite hand, it's to draw the spare glove away as he breaks contact.

"Aye, that's true," he agrees. "I do excel at that."

His hand finds her hip, spans her waist.

"Remind me what you would like to carry through that gate with us?"

For a moment, her consideration of him up close and with his chin held in her hand—the flickering of the acidic green light glinting in the bristle of his facial hair—is very sly indeed. Then Wysteria turns her hand to pinch his cheek.

"The thaumoscope for one," she informs him. "And I've my little traveling desk in the same case with it for if we need to stop to take any records. I can carry one or the other, but surely not both. Not if I wish to be a reliable ally to you against whatever dreadful things we might find waiting inside for us. Now, kiss my cheek and tell me how clever I am and then we ought to be on our way. We have wasted quite enough daylight as it is."

Smiling, she lifts her face and expectantly bears her cheek to his attentions.

The instruction is very clear. Ellis considers her before his hands raise, cup her face, soft leather glove still held in one hand.

There is work to be done. If they lose the light, Ellis will certainly regret it. But still—

First, a soft kiss to her cheek as request. Then, a second, stolen kiss set at the corner of her mouth, and then, before objection can be raised, a third, brief kiss to her lips.

"You are very clever," he tells her, straightening just far enough to look at her. His thumbs stroke her cheeks. "And are you certain you don't want to bring the set of bottles for collecting samples as well?"

"You are a scoundrel and an opportunist," she tells him first from between the tender shape of his palms, so instant that she speaks over half the question. Nevermind that she is clearly pleased or how her hand has fallen from his cheek to his broad shoulder, fingertips all gentle at the lay of Ellis' collar.

"But yes, now that you mention them, the bottles may as well come along too. I packed only the slim set, so don't bother to look for the other. And I will carry the pack of glowstones and the lantern."

Plucking her face from out of his hands, she steals back her glove and gives his side a teasing poke for good measure. Off with you.

And so Ellis collects the requested items from the cart. By now, he has mastered the art of balancing several bulky pieces of cargo at once, so it's no hardship to gather what's needed. (It helps that over time straps and slings have been added, without any ceremony, for the ease of transportation.) With the horses content to graze along the end of their tether and the gate broken open, there's nothing left for them to begin their work.

The courtyard is beautiful, even ruined and covered in the famed moss. If the letter hadn't begged otherwise, Ellis might have tried to remove some to get a better sense of the crumbling statues lining the walkway up to the rotted wood doors leading into the structure.

"You can push the right one in," Ellis directs Wysteria, hands momentarily occupied with baggage. "By the looks of it, it would have rotted to nothing within a few months whether or not we came along."

There's no sign of trouble just yet, but the courtyard is filled with sunlight and welcoming enough. Surely the problem either manifests in the dark, or is mostly contained behind these doors.

They aren't exactly a stealthy duo, the soles of boots and the various clink and clack of tools either in hand or swaying from belts rather like a series of chimes announcing their presence. But it's hardly as if it would make such a different to the spirits or demons or whatever is most likely to be lurking in the great old place. They might be as quiet as two Chantry mice and still draw attention from that lot.

As promised, the right hand door comes open under her hand with little more than a just judicious shoves to clear past the detritus of growing things on the other side. Beyond it lies the great entrance of the older castle: a broad space with two matching staircases, the upper levels of the room flanked by gallery balconies. Sunlight dapples the hall, burnishing the overgrowth in yellows and golds through the empty sockets of windows from which glass or shutters have long been absent.

Wysteria promptly sets down the bulkiest items of her kit and from the satchel at her hip produces a little booklet.

"Let us set the majority of our things here. We should aim to cover as much ground as possible while we still have light to map the castle by. We can make a second sweep to take up any samples or retrieve any notable objects, but I think it silly to trundle about with the whole world in our pockets to begin with. Agreed?"

She has already produced her pen and from the booklet has unfolded an illogically large piece of paper onto which to begin jotting down notes regarding the castle's layout.

By all accounts (and seven pages of the letter Tony had grumbled over) this had once been a magnificent castle. After having deposited his cargo in order of sturdiest to most fragile beneath a row of empty windows, Ellis gives himself a moment to take in the room itself.

And after that, a moment to eye the nooks and crannies, the ivy-draped corners that could hide trouble from view.

But there's nothing immediately visible that needs attention, so he's free to cross back to Wysteria.

"Aye, the holes in the ceiling are a benefit," he points out, mostly because it seems that they aren't in danger of the roof collapsing in on them. "We'd best start at the upper levels and work down."

In the course of the proposition, Ellis had freed his mace from where it had been secured at his belt. Taking care not to disturb her note-taking, he sets his free hand at the small of her back as he asks, "Left or right side?"

The stairs bend and meet at the top landing, stonework mirroring the curving ascent. Ellis asks Wysteria this the way he'd have asked her which table she'd like at a tavern or which type of flower she'd like for the garden, just to hear her opinion rather than out of concern for the choice itself.

Standing there in the center of that great entry hall, Wysteria seems to give the question real consideration. It is as if there is some sort of right answer, and if she studies the lay of the staircases and the balconies about them and the various empty doorways which lead off from them that the correct answer will reasonably come along.

Though she pauses only for a few seconds, and is perfectly decisive when she declares, "The left, I think."

She jots a note down, then folds then paper back into the booklet. The booklet is pocketed; the pen is...put wherever the pen usually goes; and with a brief touch of her hand to his elbow, she and her remaining collection of gear is moving for the left hand staircase.

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i just saw how many comments are in this post

we're very industrious

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