therookery | crystal

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crystal

( Behold, a new voice on the crystals. Soft, good-humoured, with an accent that sounds Scandinavian / relative equivalent. The crystal catches a quiet breath of laughter before she speaks. )

I don’t know if you’re really lucky to have an engineer turn up, or if I’m really unlucky that I need to figure out the machinery.

I mean, learning about the infrastructure of a city in a whole different world isn’t even a “once in a lifetime” kind of opportunity, and pretending I’m some sort of genius at kinetic motion just because I know some mechanisms from home would be pretty fun, but…

Wow.

( Maybe that sounds a little weightier than her first "wow.")

Oh, I'm Abella. Riftwatch, you’re gonna have to have a lot more ramps by the time I’m done with you. Somewhere has to accommodate wheelchair users, even if it’s some kind of fairy tale world.

( Hmmm. )

Wait, can you just make them float, here? (More softly, ) Flying wheelchairs would explain the lack of ramps. I mean, this crystal thing is remarkable, so... let me know if I don't need to think about the ramps.

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( confusedsquint.jpg

there is

A Pause )

Since we just talked about me needing to learn more about this place and not making assumptions, could you tell me what you’re thinking of when I say “wheelchair”?

( no, she's still mad about the fairy tale world crack—

fine. )

I'm thinking you'd best be a better engineer than you are a communicator, because you keep repeating that like it should mean something to me.

Edited 2024-07-14 06:22 (UTC)

( She lets it go, despite the brief temptation to point out that asking the question will help with the communication. Abella is the new kid in an extreme way, she’s the one that has to do the work. )

Okay, so when I say “wheelchair,” I’m talking about a mobility device. It’s so that people whose legs don’t work the way most people’s do can get around more easily and independently. The chair might be wood or metal with fabric and cushions, and they usually have four wheels, the two front ones are smaller, and the back ones are larger and are how the user steers and accelerates.

That was why I mentioned all this being relevant to a place fighting a big war and injured soldiers, because they might wind up losing their legs, or there might be people working for Riftwatch who have a medical condition that means their legs don’t work. Being able to get around more easily is good for day to day running of a place, but if there’s an emergency or the elevator is broken, having ramps would mean they aren’t stranded, and aren’t struck relying on other people for help.

Ramps alongside staircases, providing alternatives to ladders, that’s more wheelchair focused, but ramps can be useful for other purposes as well, if you’re strategic about it.

Does that… does that make me talking about it make more sense?

In a sense, ( is measured, and doesn't sound like she's any more convinced of its relevance than she was a moment ago. )

If you want to concern yourself with 'wheeled chairs' for people, that's a personal project for your own time and using their resources. If a ramp has a meaningful use beyond that, then certainly, propose it. Inventing a thing and then declaring we have to accommodate the thing you've made up as if it's as pressing as the actual needs of our people is not the compelling argument you think it is.

Balancing tight resources and getting the job done is something I am painfully familiar with.

( Said in good humour, laughing at herself. )

I know I put my foot in my mouth and I feel like the reasons that make sense to me aren’t really of interest. Can I at least make a peace offering so I don’t have nightmares about how I’ve publicly made an ass of myself?

My office is in the central tower, captain of the watch. I'm usually there.

( and if she weren't still a little sore about that fairy tale world thing, she might have suggested the less oh, cool, that's where I put my foot option of her houseboat, but that's what you get. )

Do you smoke tobacco, Captain?

( more often elfroot, in truth, but: )

From time to time.

( It doesn't take long, all things considered, for the Captain of the Guard to hear a knock on the door. If it's already open, she leans in just far enough as necessary to catch sight of the office resident, but if not, she'll wait patiently.

She's tall and muscular, although given the physical work and combat training so many here have to do, maybe she won't stick out like so much of a sore thumb. There's a plain, sleeveless shirt beneath her overalls, which have a couple of patch ups where they've worn through from use. With the heavy boots it screams practicality and work, but they're as clean as she's been able to get them since arriving in the Gallows.

Once the door opens or she has the person's attention, she smiles warmly. )

Hello. I'm Abella, I'm looking for the Captain of the Guard? I didn't catch the name.

( the office is clearly meant to be shared, but equally obvious is that there is for the time being but one occupant, and from how extremely clean everything smells, probably a relatively new appointment— the shelves on the captain's side not yet properly filled, the desk still looking reasonably clear. some of that is probably just gwenaëlle's fastidious tidiness, but not all. as for the woman herself,

she's standing, a map of kirkwall spread out over the vice admiral's desk that she's been annotating, so it's immediately obvious that she is not tall. petite, and not at a glance what one might be expecting in a tightly laced dress of dark burgundy, hitched out of her way with skirt-hikes, a set of reading glasses on the end of her nose. the other most striking thing about her, at once, is that only one eye looks back at abella, impassive and measuring. the other is no twin to it, blank and golden, and it's worth noting that her blind side is not nearest the door. it's not the only visible scar, either, the beginnings of a rage demon's claws swiping at her emerging at the low neckline of her dress.

the voice, of course, when she says, )

Gwenaëlle Baudin, ( to supply that name, is distinctly recognisable. ) Come in.

( The NLU taught her not to make assumptions based on appearances. Termina added on a few lessons. Still, it all adds up to the Captain being an imposing figure, even if Abella technically takes up more space.

She obliges, moving across the space. Her overalls are all practicality, have seen years of hard work, and while she feels less shy when she is wearing them, when she is working, right now it's hard not to be aware of the disparity between them and the sharp, elegant practicality of the Captain. The flicker of discomfort doesn't make it to her expression. )

Thank you for letting me come by on such short notice. It looks like you have a lot you're doing, so I can drop these off and get out of your hair, if you aren't due for a break.

( Abella holds out a box, patterned in blue and white and a little dented. )

I don't know if people here smoke cigarettes or use pipes or a different method, but it's a full pack. I'm sorry I got carried away.

( at the best of times, gwenaëlle can be prickly; even when she retracts her claws, it can be difficult to completely walk back from the ledge she used to live for throwing herself over, clutching knives to plunge into someone else's soft parts, the best defense a good offense—

and it doesn't help that there's something about a particular kind of softness that sets her teeth on edge. a half-feral thing at heart, even after all this time and all of the hands reached out to her, it remains second nature to regard such overtures with suspicion, worn now as measured dispassion. so it's to abella's benefit that the little box in her hands sparks, despite gwenaëlle's best efforts, instant curiosity. a moment ago she had resolved to be crushingly gracious in dismissal,

a thing she can sometimes manage, when her ire has cooled enough,

but her head tilts and she straightens to accept the box, turning it in her hands. despite her closeness to many rifters over the years, she's not exactly known for her interest in the places that they come from or the things that they have there; it's not not a little annoying to her to find herself sort of taken by the package. )

Pipes are common, ( she says, after a moment, opening the packet and tapping the bottom of it to study one of the tailor-mades within, ) or a rolled cigarette, but they don't look like this.

( hand rolled, you see, but there's no necessity to differentiate when it's not as if there's an alternative to that—

her mouth presses to one corner, and she regards abella thoughtfully. finally, she taps a second out, tipping her hip in such a way as to reveal the chatelaine in the folds of her skirt where a small pouch attached contains the riftwatch-issued pocket rune to light them. )

You put your foot in your mouth, ( she says, ) and the world hasn't ended. Don't feel you have to keep apologising.

( she sets both cigarettes in the corner of her mouth, lights them with the rune, and offers the second to abella. )

There's worse things, ja,

( she agrees, intrigued by the rune and for the love of Alll-Mer doing her best to ignore it right now because it's not the priority. As curious as she is, focusing on Gwenaëlle's genuinely more important to her, in the moment.

She accepts the cigarette, glad to take a drag on it. Alas, she's not quite from the era of filters being added to cigarettes, but they're a considerable improvement on hand-wrapping. )

These were made in the Eastern Union. We have different brands, in my home country.

( Abella holds the smoke in her chest a moment before exhaling through her nose. Claiming she didn't need this would be a lie, even without the oppressive, draining atmosphere that cloaked Prehevil. )

I don't like doing harm where I can avoid it. ( Nothing weighty or significant to the statement, more like a verbal shrug to acknowledge herself. She can dunk on herself a little. ) My parents teased me for it when I was younger, because I'd cry if I trod on a grasshopper or found a dead rat, that sort of thing. "No more children born in September, this Soul type is too much."

( Shakes her head, clearly thinking it's all - especially herself - pretty silly. ) Do you have those, here?

Children?

( —is a joke, lilted in her low, musical voice with a quirk of her eyebrows. heavens no, they're so sticky and there's all of these war crimes. she doesn't sit but rests against her desk, her ankles crossed, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. thank god abella isn't from one of those places that thinks its uncouth or unhealthy to smoke indoors. )

We have the idea of a soul, ( she offers, moving a marble tray toward the edge of her desk so that they can both use it, ) and I've heard of things, from other rifters, about — the ways that someone's soul might be. Communicated, I suppose.

( she is thinking of jude, now, and the things the shades of his people recognised in her, and she is trying not to linger on it, )

But the phrase as you use it, no, I've not heard that.

( Evident as it is that Abella is inclined to smiles and light-heartedness, that might be first proper joke she's heard today. The thread of tension that survived the first drag of her cigarette eases with her quiet laughter. )

Mm. We have, um-- a tradition, I suppose? I always thought it was harmless fun, make-believe, like so many old stories.

( And then. She hopes that isn't too obvious, doesn't want to bring down the mood. I always believed is easier to brush over than, I used to. )

Each month has two types of souls under it. Some have more, for solstices, and the like. When you are born dictates what kind of soul you have, and the belief is that... ( she waves her hand vaguely, trying to find the right words for summing up astrology without being particularly clued into it. ) The forces of the universe influence you in particular ways, your personality, your fate, maybe? But it's not like everyone born with a particular soul is identical. There's so many, Changeling, Suffocated, Radiant.

( Decrepit, a memory presses forward unbidden, unwanted, and Abella is glad that a drag of the cigarette keeps her hand from shaking. )

( gwenaëlle makes a little huh sound, more thoughtful than the dismissive that she might have been if her guard weren't already lowered, at least a bit. radiant sounds like a nice sort of soul type to be told you have; suffocated, not so much. it snags on something in her mind, a thought only half-formed, and she keeps turning it over, and— )

Harmless traditions, ( she echoes. thinks, unwillingly, of the dalish. of everything they have learned about ancient elvhenan. about her fucking eye.

she flicks ash into the tray, and settles on, )

I've always been interested, ( after a moment, ) in the stories that a people tell about themselves. They're revealing, traditions.

( beyond just what they mean. but including that. even if there's truth to it. especially if there's truth to it. )

( They're revealing, traditions. Ourselves, our history, and she thinks of Marina. All-Mer, please be safe.

There's no time for that worry to be entirely too apparent, cut off by an odd, skittering clatter. tap-tap-tap-tap, slow at first, and then speeding up. Abella looks puzzled, glancing at Gwenaëlle with her brow furrowed before leaning out into the hall.

It is then that a tradition reveals itself, sliding into the office. A pinecone with sticks for legs. Or, at least, something alarmingly similar to a pinecone with sticks for legs, and Abella stares at it, baffled. )

Pinecone pig?

( A look to her new acquaintance - are they friends, yet? - then back to the creature, and back to Gwenaëlle, before she's staring at the new arrival because, well, who wouldn't. )

It's-- my pinecone pig is alive? Or-- animated?

( What is happening.

Pinecone pig twirls, more akin to a puppy than, well, a pinecone, and rears up to rest its stick forelegs on Abella's boot. Again, a puppy eager for pats - its body language suggests a wagging tail, even without the tail. )

Edited 2024-07-18 01:34 (UTC)

Oh— ( gwenaëlle nearly asks is it not meant to be? because as fucked up as that thing looks — affectionately — pinecone pig sounds, you know, like an animal. it sort of moves like a nug, and she leans forward to study the ... thing? the skirt hikes mean it's easy to hitch the remainder of her hem out of her way and kneel down, curiously.

if she didn't bring it with her, then— )

Hello, little thing, haven't you had a big adventure, ( is simply the friendliest that abella has heard this woman's voice sound, orlesian accent thickening as she coos to it. ) Did you come all the way from the rift by yourself?

( when she draws its attention, she reaches a hand out to tentatively stroke it, studying the little creature to see if it has. a face? the body language does suggest which end is which but it's sort of hard to tell.

glancing up at abella, she says, )

Don't let it unsupervised into the infirmary, ( sounds like it's going to be a normal thing to say, except: ) Isaac's nasty teapot will fuck it up.

( she still sounds affectionate. she sort of loves that horrorshow of scuttling and tempestuousness. )

( Seeing the Captain of the Guard coo at a pinecone pig takes her rather more off-balance than if it were, say, a cat or dog. )

It-- I just kept it with my other things. I didn't realise it was-- alive.

( Pinecone pig is wiggling around, and its odd that the pinecone torso can wiggle. The legs aren't so rigid as sticks should be, but the limbs are certainly very strange and awkward. She crouches down, fascinated. )

Children in Oldegård make them. A forest friend, of pinecones, sticks and love.

( Oh!!! With Abella crouching down, the pinecone pig is smooshes against her hands, before squiggling back to Gwen, and just continuing the loop to try and get as much attention as possible. )

Isaac has a nasty teapot?

( Does she know who Isaac is? No. )

( gwenaëlle loves isaac's nasty teapot, which she has been actively trying to befriend when they're in the infirmary together. )

Like if a teapot were a spider, ( is definitely the most horrifying thing she could have said, but she sounds off-hand and pleased by it, her attention more immediately taken by the little pinecone pig, scampering between them to try and maximise how many hands it has available to it. given the cigarettes, about half as many as seems entirely fair, probably.

made of sticks and love is a phrase that will stick in her mind, but in the moment she doesn't examine the way it strikes her. surely that doesn't need to be looked at particularly. )

Working in the infirmary gives him the best access to put salt in people's wounds if he's bored, ( sounds like it's probably a joke, albeit a rude one about how isaac has a shitty personality. abella can draw her own conclusions when she meets him about its accuracy. ) We work together sometimes, I assist the head healer when I'm free.

There are so many ways to visualise that.

( Probably everything that's popped to mind is far more horrifying than the reality. She hopes so, at any rate. She's Seen Some Things.

It's easy to let her focus slip back to the little creature, the sort of thing she taught her younger siblings to make. Learning magic is real should explain it, and yet she's looking for any sign of a mechanism as she scritches the ridges of the pine cone. The way it moves don't seem at all mechanical. )

Do you help with applying the salt, or...?

Isaac isn't the head healer, ( she clarifies, ) or in need of any assistance to be a cunt.

( honestly, doing smashing work solo. really knocking it out of the park. you have to admire, etcetera. gwenaëlle's sideways glance betrays this for the joke it is, too: ) I let Dr Strange tell me what to do at work so he doesn't feel badly that I pay for everything at home.

( it doesn't matter that he isn't here to hear her make that crack; she knows what his face would have done if he heard it, and it's still funny. more seriously, ) I have a history with medicine, a little, so mostly it's alchemy, inventory, rolling bandages. Doing the sort of work any hands can do so that the hands we need for specialist work can focus. But sometimes—

( a shrug. )

Stephen — Strange — and I have done battlefield surgery, his knowledge of the work and my steady hands, I know how to clean and stitch and care for wounds, I can manage a dislocation with a second set of hands. I've overseen lyrium detox, now, though I doubt it's going to come up again soon.

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