inbox

[redinside]

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

Comments

backdated a lil;

[aestivation]

The mirror's empty whenever Casimir glances past. Nothing but his own reflection, clear and still and badly in need of a shave. Ghislain's called their forces away, left behind a skeleton crew of adjusted schedules and neglected routines.

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.

[redinside]

Samson reckons there's a purpose to all of this: the questions, the busywork, the sliver of magic embedded in his hand. Maker only knows what that last one's for. The rest, though, it's easy enough to assume this is some kind of strategy to keep him occupied while the Inquisition's eye is aimed away from Kirkwall. Now would be a good time to launch an escape—as if there's any good time to escape the Gallows. But he could try. The notion of trying even flits through his thoughts now and then. But he won't, and the reason he won't has just come back to the desk, wearing the whiskers of an exhausted man.

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."