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[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

[chainlightning]

People pass by or through, from time to time. Samson's staring isn't unusual, nor unnoticed - except Merrill doesn't realize it's him, the first time. She knows only that she is apparently some sort of spectacle for those newer to the Inquisition and to Kirkwall, those who aren't yet adjusted to her quirks. She ignores the quiet staring because she is tired, because most who know her or are friendly will approach, and those who are not friendly- will also approach, and be dealt with differently.

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.

[redinside]

Oh.

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.

[chainlightning]

I heard you'd all come back.

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?"