for notes, letters, and other exchanges
- the door to Samson's room is guarded by an armed man; open-door visitors may come and go during appointed hours; private visits may be held with permission from the appropriate authority (or by bypassing the guard somehow, if you're so determined)
- paper messages may be exchanged; all contents will be skimmed by an officer unless delivered surreptitiously
- he has no sending crystal nor any message book at this time
|
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
letters;
Dear Samson,
Hello! It's Merrill. I'm back in Kirkwall, for the moment, though I think I might leave for a while. The Inquisition can handle things without me, but there are many others who aren't so lucky. We have traveled through many places as the Inquisition, but I worry about the other elves I've met. The letters will get to me, though, so don't let that stop you from writing back!
I worry about you, too. I hope you're not being treated too poorly. Have they fixed the part that fell off the mountain? Is it very cold?
Your friend,
Merrill
no subject
Merrill,
My treatment remains the same as it was before the Inquisition sent the lot of you off to the Marches, but now, with scarcely any visitors, the time passes more slowly. I listen to my fellow prisoners, few that they are, talk amongst themselves – I'll join them sometimes, but there's a lot of effort in talking. So more often I listen. I listen to the wind – there's plenty of that. Whispering at all hours, day and night.
If the hole is fixed, the griffons won't be able to fly off and back again. Is that why the beasts have gone? I listen for them too, out there croaking and beating their wings about, but there's been no sign for weeks.
I spend much of my time sleeping, or trying to. I am always cold.
How's the north coast been treating you? It's best not to tell me where exactly you've been – whoever's tasked with examining my letters will just stroke it out anyway. Can't blame them for that, can you?
[A thick scribble, just one or two words long; rather than third-party censorship, it looks like the author changed his mind.]
Samson
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Dear Samson,
Do they talk about anything interesting? Have you made any friends with them? I'm sorry that the days pass more slowly, now; I'll try and keep writing to make sure you at least have something to do.
The griffons came to Kirkwall. I don't know which they prefer; I'd think the mountains. I know I did. Kirkwall is a maze, as always; I've left to clear my head. I'm outside Sundermount for now, where [ and there there is a blotch of ink, as if she rested the tip of her quill on the paper, thinking ] my clan used to be. Sometimes I think I can still hear them, but my dog chases any ghosts away, if they linger in the camp.
His name is Barkley; a mutt who was given to me when he was a puppy. He and Honeysuckle, my horse, are the only companions with me now other than my thoughts. It's strange, going from living in a clan to being by yourself. I suppose it's similar to you; you were used to the barracks and then the crowded streets of the lower parts of Kirkwall. Now both of us have too much space and feel cramped for it.
Perhaps they'll let one of the mages cast a sleeping spell on you, to help - and perhaps more blankets, also. You should ask. Or whoever is reading this first, if you could do that, it'd be very nice of you.
Your friend,
Merill
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Merrill,
—
[Quill down again, and he leans back with the elf's letter held against his mouth and chin, the paper's natural edge grazing the underside of his nose. Eyes closed, breathing softly.]
What you said about space – how it can be too little and too much all at once – has stuck with me since I first read it. Keeps turning over and over in my mind. Ponder that long enough, it makes you wonder if any of what you're seeing is real.
Blankets can't help – this chill comes from the inside. There's nothing for it but what they won't give me. But I'll not beg this time.
[Tap, tap, tap, blot.]
That's all I've got this time. The rest isn't
[The rest of that line is scratched out, the thought left abandoned; he's clearly struggling to finish the letter properly.]
Please write again soon.
Samson
no subject
Dear Samson,
I hope what I said about space hasn't kept you up. I suppose being asleep is less dangerous for you than it is for me, and hopefully it is comfortable, but I also don't know; I have never known dreams where I wasn't aware of the Fade. I was gone from my parents at an early age because of it, but not in the way most mages you're familiar with are. Another clan needed mages and so I went with them and was raised by the Keeper. They became my clan, my family, until I left.
My clan and I did not always get along, but I miss them. I miss Hawke and the others from Kirkwall, too.
Maybe I will leave the Marches soon. I am tired of seeing ghosts.
Where is one place you haven't traveled that you have always wanted to see?
Your friend,
Merrill
no subject
These are only conversational thoughts, but they'd be taken as attempts to gain intelligence; he might even be made to rewrite the letter. So he thinks for a long time before he lays down any ink.
Same trembling strokes, same paper, same musty traces in the fibres.]
Merrill,
If you'd asked me years ago, I might have answered Minrathous. The capital of a nation ruled by mages – always wondered what such a place might look like. But I've since lost all desire to see it.
One of the other prisoners (a Warden) described a place near Weisshaupt that boasts a huge statue of Andraste, hewn right into the mountain – it may be the largest in the world. They call it "Our Lady of the Anderfels". Odds are I'll never see her with my own eyes, so I'll have to be content with imagining.
Often I've wondered, too, what it must be like to live as a mage. Not the most obvious parts, being in a Circle and what-else – saw plenty of that firsthand – but everyday things we take for granted, like dreaming, as you mentioned. What's it like to be conscious while you sleep? Do you find any rest at all?
On the other hand, I know just how you feel about your family. Mine are long gone, but even if they weren't, I wouldn't want to see them again. Wouldn't want to spoil whatever memories they might've had.
The Chantry teaches its children that ghosts aren't real; but we know better, don't we?
Samson
[Almost as an afterthought, squeezed in at the bottom of the page, is the small outline of a rat. It's a bit lumpy, but what do you want, he's not an artist.]
no subject
Dear Samson,
I have spent most of my life traveling and yet it seems like I have seen very little. I haven't; I could tell you about beautiful trees and hidden pools and where vines wrap around stone so well that you can climb up using them. But cities? Statues that are not of elven make? I know next to nothing about them. I've been to the Anderfels, though. It was [ another slight blotch of ink; thinking happened, here ] eventful.
It depends on the night. Some are worse than others. Sometimes you wake up feeling as if you've been in a great battle. Sometimes it's because you were.
They say that the People, the elves, used to be immortal. Instead of dying of old age, they went in uthenera - the long sleep, the endless dream. When they were weary of the waking world, they slept. Sometimes they would wake up and tell us of what they found in their wanderings. Sometimes they would truly die, wasting away. I have often wondered if it was less dangerous to dream then, that our elders would willingly do it.
There are always ghosts. Some are just more literal than others.
A friend of mine used to feed the rats in the prison. I wonder if anyone else does, now.
Your friend,
Merrill
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It's gloomy down here today: there's been rain and the damp is everywhere. The only body not curled up beneath a blanket is the guard's, and I bet she wishes she had one too.
I had a dream about those things you mentioned – the secret pools, the climbing vines, the trees. Our Lady of the Anderfels was there, her feet tangled in ivy. Water poured down like thunder from the eternal flame in her hand. Soaking the wasteland with life. And not a ghost to be found. Like one of your elders, I wouldn't have minded staying there forever.
I should thank you for the letters. They've helped make everything a little more bearable. Even the damp. I thought these months gone by would be my last, but there they've gone and here I still am. I might even be gaining some weight back.
Getting fat on your words...
Samson
[While looking over this completed letter, he feels suddenly foolish and nearly succumbs to the urge to crumple and tear it apart—but instead he lies down on his flat bed on the floor and frowns and stews in thoughts that feel like bruises until sleep comes. Upon awakening, he adds a hastily drawn cheese, captioned for the rats, then folds the page and pesters the guard into to taking it before he can change his mind.]
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It's gloomy here, too; all muddy and wet. Barkley has snuggled under the blankets and furs with me at night, and hogs them all while we're traveling during the day. Honeysuckle and I sit outside while we travel in our own blankets; he's quite cross whenever we have to cross water, since it's so cold. I was able to get some sugar from a trader, though, which makes him more willing to do it.
I hope you continue to have good dreams - and I'm glad that my letters have helped! There may be times when I'm not able to send them, but know that I will when I get a chance. I hope you're able to save them and can reread them; I save all of yours.
I realized I don't know how you came to the Marches. Were you born there? I like knowing about people, especially those I care about.
Your friend,
Merrill
[ There's a doodle of a grumpy-looking horse. There's a slightly more intricate drawing of flowers, trees, a waterfall, and the sun, as well, along with a scribbled "I'm not very good at drawing Andraste" next to the sun. ]
no subject
Dear Merrill,
Your last letter filled me nearly to bursting – and just like that, I remembered everything, and the dream came crashing down around me. And I just sat and hid under the rubble like a coward. That's why you've had to wait this long for a reply.
Merrill, I'm afraid we have drifted too far from the reality of things.
You must have noticed the difference in my handwriting by now. The tremor has nearly gone... at least for a few hours after my dose. It's still not enough, but now I can sleep again. All it took was a trade.
I bartered the safety of my men for lyrium, Merrill. I tried not to give away too much, but that little bit I let slip could be enough to do some real harm. I might as well have gone out and killed them myself. My own men. That's who you've come to care about.
For your own sake: don't forget who I am and what I've done.
Samson
[No doodles this time.]
no subject
Dear Samson,
Your men were already not safe. I've studied the red lyrium. I was there in Kirkwall, after all. I met Corypheus when he drew Hawke to him. Your men have a better chance with the Inquisition, even as prisoners, of surviving. Just as you do.
But if that doesn't soothe, then let me tell you of what I've done.
I left my clan because they believed I would harm them, because I was attempting to cleanse an ancient artifact of the Blight. My mere presence caused members of my clan to run away and straight into traps, straight into their deaths. Years later, my Keeper let herself be possessed because she thought that I would be possessed instead. After I had to kill what she became, I had to kill my entire clan - because they would not listen when I said that the Keeper had become an abomination, because they attacked me for killing her.
I killed my clan, my people, my family. I will never get that blood off my hands. I will never be welcome among the People again.
You are not the only one who has done things they regret.
Merrill
no subject
Most of what I want to say concerns the war and would be blocked out on review. That might be for the best, since none of it's very nice.
There is no comfort in knowing that you understand what it means to be an outcast – to be soaked in blood. The specifics of your story offer even less, if we are to be honest. Should it still matter to me, after what I've become? I don't know that it should, but in that place not yet dead, deep inside my worthless guts, it does matter.
Don't forget who I am and what I've done.
I'm sorry it had to be your family.
Samson
no subject
Dear Samson,
People are suspicious, wary. They do not always question authority. They did not question my Keeper. I imagine you have had plenty of instances without questioning authority yourself, on both ends of the spectrum. Hawke used to tell me that what happened to my Keeper and my clan wasn't truly my fault; that they made their own choices. Sometimes, I even let myself believe it.
I may not be able to write for a while. I'm going somewhere without much in the way of mail service. If you will have the guards send any letters you may write to Ellana Ashara, I will be able to pick them up from her. I'm in Skyhold as I write this; I wanted to visit, but I wasn't sure if you would want to see me. I thought it best not to risk it.
If you don't wish to hear from me any longer, I understand.
Still your friend,
Merrill
no subject
He's squeezed inside by a cold fist when his thoughts drift to Merrill, or their friendship, or the mess he fears he'd have made of it—just like he makes a mess of everything—so he does his best not to. He throws himself into what little work he's given. He nearly tears the head off of anyone who attempts to ask him about the letters or why they've stopped.
And then, the move...]
post-satinalia;
Not that Marcoulf's looking. It just occurs to him as he's leaning in the shadow of one of the garden's high stone walls, attention fixed blandly on the Inquisition's charge as he takes his air, that he should be mindful of it. What good would a discarded mask or forgotten lady's handkerchief do the razor wire man who is meant to be the old red Templar general himself? He's no idea. But maybe he'd rather not find out. Someone must already be angry with him if he's done something to land this work; best to not make it worse by being slack over letting a prisoner pull whatever he likes out of bushes, hm?
It'd be easier, he thinks, were the man simply put in a cell as he ought to be. None of this walking about nonsense or keeping eyes on who he speaks to and what they hand to him. No worry for a discarded towel finding its way to hand and then into somewhere soft. No following him about like a shadow. No implicit encouragement toward conversation.
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When this newest beleaguered babysitter came to collect him, Samson seemed in a sour mood; he's hardly spoken since they came down and out of the tower. So Marcoulf has been tasked with watching the prisoner's back, apparently, and may as well have memorized the shape of him by now: broad shoulders, narrow hips, long limbs, big hands and feet. He'd have cut an impressive figure in his prime. Now, though... now he looks in transition, either succumbing to or recovering from an illness.
Presently, the prisoner's silhouette twists, and so is the visual silence disrupted by a crooked grin, showing just a sliver of teeth, cast over his shoulder. A coltish twinkle in that weird reddish eye of his.
"Quite the party, eh?"
Just like that, friendly as you please, like he hasn't been ignoring the man until now. The sunlight's done him well.
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(Funny joke - that's most of what Forces does when there isn't anything explicitly waiting around to be stabbed, isn't it?)
"It was," Marcoulf says from the shade, one eye closed against the glare of the sun off the damp paving stones currently being scrubbed. Even those two words are enough to pick the Orlesian accent out, though by now they won't be surprising. He'd said a half dozen words between here and when he'd acquired Samson's company. None of them have been unkind, but they've all been like these two are now - flat, bland, purposefully mild either by habit or trade. Even these, just this side of shitheel, at least sound like they've been cut from a similar cloth: "I take it you missed out on the dancing, ser."
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But we're not with those two, we are here with these two, who are notably exercising their supervision skills rather than helping out. They're probably getting the side-eye for it. Samson gets the side-eye for everything, so he doesn't care.
Ser, Marcoulf calls him, and his mouth stays crooked about it as he turns to face the man properly.
"Nah," he says, gamely carrying on in the face of such merciless deadpan sass. "It was enough to watch them all have their fun—got a decent view of the square from my window." He's got a window now. It's pretty great. "Even had half a bottle of wine to go with it. How's that for prison hospitality?"
* worth it
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"I don't have much experience with it. But wine and a window sounds very fine indeed."
What are they using you for that they would keep you so nicely, hmm? would be a good thought to occur to him. And it does, in some unimportant way. Mostly though it doesn't much matter to him, now does it? Be glad he hadn't thrown the bottle out the window to smash someone's head in and be done with it.
(It's what he might have done, cooped up and armed so.)
(No it isn't.)
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That shadow's begun to look appealing, too, and so Samson invites himself to wander into it. There isn't enough shadow to leave a lot of space between the two of them, and, much like the opinion of the post-festivity cleanup crew, this doesn't appear to bother him. In a moment he's got his arms folded over his chest, his back against the familiar texture of a Gallows wall, and his head turned to look down into the face of the armed babysitter by his side.
"So what's your story, then... Mark, was it?" He knows the name wasn't Mark, he just can't remember how to pronounce the damn thing. Bloody Orlesians.
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"Marcoulf." There's an inclination to not have corrected him. Mark could be fine. But if he's stuck here, he'll at least do himself the dignity of not being called some wrong name. Fingers flexing, he rolls hos palm absently on the sword's pommel.
And, after a moment, because it does no harm: "Soldiering," he says. Cocks his head faintly and looks at Samson's shoulder more than his face. The eyes in them are troubling, he's decided. "But not your kind, I don't think."
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He snorts, and the amused curl of his lip lingers for a time. "If it were, you wouldn't need to think, you'd know." And you'd be incapable of coherent thought, with a brain full of red crystals, or at least on your way there. Is what he does not say. But perhaps it is implied. "That little twig of a sword wouldn't do you much good, either."
(He did notice that ever-so-casual shuffling, by the way. Good man.)
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Templar or Guard he isn't, but neither is he dumb. If his dagger were on the near side of his belt, he might set his spare hand idly overtop that one too. Would it make much sense for the man beside him to go snatching for it in full view of the half dozen strong clean up crew with no easy way from the Gallows? Not especially, but who's to say what's growing in places that might make a man insensible. Better sure than stabbed.
But the dagger is on his other hip between him and the wall, so nevermind any of it.
"You might be surprised, ser." With how much good it does him; obviously not the other thing.
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"Hmmm," he answers, lifting his chin to look down the aquiline length of his nose at some woman or other while she passes by at a distance, sparing nary a glance for either of them. "Won't argue with that. I could, mind you. But I won't."
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He lapses into silence then, quiet and mostly still except for where his spare hand is fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. Maker, he'd prefer the man out ahead of him by a few paces. Does he say this much to Brice; is it better to keep his mouth shut? Should he shoo him back out into the sun? Tell him that if he's done with being outdoors, he'll happily return him to being shut up in his room.
He opts for: none of the above.
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Well, then, he'll soon have to deal with a decision being made for him, and it comes in the form of a boot. Just a brief tap, mind you, just a toe, soft on the side of one of Marcoulf's own boots. Familiar, like, as if they're old buddies that stand around together like this on the regular. Oi, the tap says. Wake up. The old general wants attention.
In the next second Samson's leaning toward him, shoulder first, one hand raised just enough to point at something across the yard without being obvious about it. "Take a gander over there," he says, his rough Marcher's voice hushed smooth, "those two by the cart. They've not looked one another in the eye once this whole time. See? Look how hard they're ignoring each other. They're in an affair, I'll bet."
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But Marcoulf does look, shifting faintly forward to peer about the corner and study the pair in question. The girl he doesn't know; from a distance, she looks-- short tempered as she assists some third hand in flinging hay bales into their shared hand cart. The tall slim lad with the long nose, though - that one he knows. Almost always on patrol rotation along the Inquisition's docks in afternoons. Jace? Jarris? Something J-sounding.
"No. No, I don't think so." Rolling back, he gently rearranges the hook of his ankle. Waggles his heel. Drums his fingers at the rapier's pommel. None of your business why. Think whatever you like. But-- a shrug. He tips his head and raises his spare hand to his mouth, nipping at a stray hangnail. "Wrong kind for him. As far as messing about goes anyway."
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"No?" Samson glances at Marcoulf's face, his mouth a crooked smile, then slides his attention back to the folks in question. In contrast to the twitching and nibbling happening by his side, he looks as relaxed as a cat in the sun. "What about her, then—what's her kind? As far's messing about goes."
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"Not one that dumb, I think."
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Without looking at him, "So, then. Marcoulf." Aside from the interference of his Marcher's accent, he doesn't even butcher the name. "You've done some soldiering, you said—but not my kind. So what kind was it, then?"
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"The more usual kind," he says, mild and unbothered. The kind that doesn't have much to do with mages or Circles or the end of the world and so much poisonous lyrium (allegedly). "Fought in Orlais. With Gaspard's people."
That too comes easy and off the cuff. Sides only matter to people of import once you leave the battlefield.
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"Is that so." Benign, and yet, "Last I heard," he should be nice, and yet, "the Grand Duke's big feathered head went on holiday while the rest of him stayed at home. Were you still around during that bit of business, or had you cut out by then?"
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"I didn't see it personally. But yes," he's all off the cuff too. Marcoulf's head tips like a shrug. "I've heard the same."
He'd liked Gaspard. He'd seen him twice from a distance, once fighting and once talking. He'd seemed straight forward and the idea of what he'd be clear as a reflection in a glass. It's more, he thinks, than he can say about the Empress and about Orlais in her hands. If he were given to worry about what comes after all this - Corypheus and the Inquisition and what may pass with the world -, he might have cause to be concerned for his future prospects. As it is--
Well. Maybe their luck's already soured. Maybe Gaspard losing his head was some early confirmation. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It's none of his business.
"I don't suppose you hear much from your men." He can be mild about it too. "Not the kind to write many letters."
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At length, he draws a deep breath and shifts his weight against the wall.
"I deserved that," he says. His voice comes low—not by any desire for secrecy, but for patience. "For what I just said about Gaspard. I'll let you have that one."
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He makes a low noise, split somewhere between clearing his throat and a hum. Across the courtyard, the bulk of the straw bales have been loaded into their respective hand carts.
"All right." Then-- with a further tilt of the head, attention retiring from the pretense of the courtyard to Samson entirely. It's a hard break of a kind. "Are we finished with standing here?"
Technically he could just say they are. Marcoulf could decide he's tired of the sun, that it bothers his post satinalia-sensitive senses even from this shady vantage point. He could simply drive the man back up into his tower directly. But fair's fair.
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Eyes on him, now. He turns his head to meet them with the full attention of his own (once a perfectly ordinary hazel, now limned in a monster's blood). Much of the good humour has left the lines of his unusual face, and a weariness remains in its place. His mouth twitches into a momentary—not quite a smile, but the pretense of one, pushed just beyond a grimace.
Unhurried, his body leaves the wall, steps half into the light.
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He lingers in the shadow with his shoulder still planted against the stone. Squinting, chin nearly set to his collar bone, Marcoulf regards Samson's dark lines against the drab sunlight. The man's a scraggly old fuck to be certain, drawn thin like a weary thread, but he's tall and there's no imagining him as being so brittle as all that--
The others might know a thing or two about beating men and steering captives around, but Marcoulf can't say he's a dab hand at it. As in every other situation imaginable, best to simply avoid any instance that might cause the old General to dig his heels in.
That, he knows just fine.
Once Samson is outside arm's reach, Marcoulf sways from the wall and out into the sunlight after him.
backdated a lil;
Perhaps that's how Samson got stranded here today, counting numbers with the names beside blacked out. His cooperation doesn't seem entirely necessary: Missteps are corrected silently, automatically. Tedium drags. There's nothing sensitive in this office — nothing that can't be chanced upon an open door and a guard. As corners of the Gallows go, this is secure as any other.
He returns to the desk, and the fearling in the glass shifts upon itself. Freed once more from observation, it begins to pull the shape of Samson's dread. Casimir doesn't look.
When he speaks it's for the first time in half an hour,
"How long did you serve the Gallows?"
There's a purpose to asking. Must be, or he wouldn't have bothered.
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Not while a Tranquil's been made responsible for him. He wouldn't dare.
As for the fearling, the poor thing's got its work cut out for it, as the truest shape of Samson's dread is not so easy to take. A big black centipede, though, that's straightforward enough, and it does succeed in stopping him working. Stops him doing much of anything, actually—he's sitting there frozen, staring sideways at the glass. Leaning away from it, even. A drop of ink soaking into the paper beneath the point of the quill in his hand.
He's still wearing a sneer of disgusted alarm when he turns his head toward the sound of Casimir's voice. "Huh? Oh, err... a long time. Lived there since my teenage years, training and all that. Was sworn in under Knight-Commander Guylian. Handed my shield to me personally," he can't help adding, though the pride doesn't quite surface this time. Not while that bug's there. "It was a little over a year before the Champion came along that Meredith kicked me out." Where was he, now—ah, there. Grumbling, "Got what she deserved in the end. Nasty bitch."
in the gardens;
Merrill has work to do that she cannot do in the alienage, and so the garden is her break spot, the best place to rest when she cannot bear to look at red lyrium or puzzle over the history of her people a second longer. It's harder lately, and Merrill has been taking more breaks in the cold. Her burn is healing, but she still wears shirts that have had the front cut down so that the fabric won't rub against the new, pink flesh. Her arm is healing as well, the scar from a magic lightning strike running down it like a tree. It still twitches without her control, sometimes; Merrill holds it tight to her side, keeps her work with her staff and her knife to the other hand when she can. Neither are out at the moment, of course; instead she is leaning back on a bench, eyes half-shut. Her feet are in boots, but the laces are untied, and there's a scarf balled up under the back of her head. It looks a bit like she's planning on taking a nap, as if people taking naps on benches in the garden during winter was perfectly normal.
Then again, it's Merrill; perhaps it is completely normal.
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Samson can only see a bit of her face from where he stands, and none of her afflictions, so he can only guess what she looks like: she must be dozing, because were she awake, she'd be doing something, if only fidgeting in her lap or moving her feet to keep time with her thoughts. And why shouldn't she rest here? She's surrounded by the things she loves. And the wild elves always bare their feet, besides, so what should she care about a chill? She's wearing boots, yes, but that must be a sign of wisdom, since the streets of Kirkwall aren't friendly to anyone's soles. Or souls, really.
After a time, he leaves the garden entranceway, quietly as he came.
When he returns, holding a flat book-sized something in his hands, he crosses the threshold properly and makes a point of skimming one of his boots over the grit to warn her deliberately of his presence. She probably already knew he was there, being an elf and all—elves have good hearing, don't they, otherwise what are those ears even for—but it's the gesture itself that's important, he figures. And it's less expectant than clearing one's throat. He is almost certainly overthinking this. He can feel how awkward he looks, how big and stupid and clumsy he is, how ugly and sick-looking, compared to the delicate little woman on the bench.
Please be awake.
(Please be all right.)
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The skim of the boots, though. That's movement, closer movement, coming to her. She shifts, wincing slightly as she moved her newly scarred arm, and blinks her eyes open.
She's not expecting to see him. The surprise leaves her momentarily speechless, eyes and mouth both rounding into circles, a quiet gasp replacing her hiss of pain.
(Not ugly at all, in her opinion. In contrast, Merrill is acutely aware of the scarring on her chest, the points where heat met metal and it touched her flesh - and the fact that it's bared for all to see. Her arm twitches, a spasm of electricity - from the spell still or from her brain, she isn't sure - and she wonders if she can tattoo along that scar, make it a tree. Would that be pretty?)
"Samson," she manages, and while the surprise is evident - she sounds pleased to see him.
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Make no mistake, the sound of her voice is heartening—it's not easy to imagine Merrill addressing anyone with disgust, but he's persevered—it's just the sight of her that fetches him up. Beneath a deeply frowning brow, his eyes dart about in assessment of every part of her but her face.
He'd rather not confront her gaze directly. Not yet.
"I, er..."
Well, there have been worse starts. Perhaps a step or two closer will bolster him. (It doesn't, but at least he's closer now.)
"I heard you'd all come back." From the battle, in the war ongoing. As a front line veteran he's seen much worse—he's seen worse even as a regular old templar, having tied up not a few failed Harrowings in his time—and he should know better. He does know better. But he's staring anyway, having been drawn and snagged by the movement of her limb.
He is wearing a hat. It's a winter hat, knit in blue-green, with flaps to cover his ears and a sort of yarn tuft on top. It is ridiculous.
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Not all, and Merrill's gaze flicks away for a moment; down, toward the untied laces of her boots, toward the remnants of mud and blood that no longer cling to them (she had scrubbed) but that she remembers.
Samson doesn't mean anything rude by it, she reasons; he is glad that she, at least, has come back. At least, she thinks he's happy about it. He's the one who approached her, after all.
Creators, people were difficult.
"Mostly," she manages, with a sad sort of smile. Her gaze travels up from her boots to Samson's, up and up until she sees his hat and her smile turns more genuine, if a bit bemused. Her fingers twitch; whether it's the electricity in her system or something else is hard to determine, even for her.
"Did you make your hat?"