Athénaïs brought little with her back to Nevarra, and is taking away less— easy enough, as ever, for her to up sticks and move on. This is, nevertheless, a longer leave-taking than usual and a more complicated one for the lingering ties that bind; she’s agreeable enough when it’s suggested to her that she might coordinate herself with Professor Volkarin, likewise expected to return to Kirkwall with the recently-arrived Riftwatch.
If she harbours private suspicions that Athaliah just wants her to get her shit out of her sister’s quarters, that’s no one’s business.
A firm knock on the door to what she’s been assured are Volkarin’s private quarters, and she waits, in no great rush.
"I suppose we should only take one of the compendiums," Emmrich's saying as he heads toward the door. "Surely Kirkwall has something of a library?"
There's a loud hiss of agreement and he opens the door, smiling and blinking at the woman outside. She looks vaguely familiar, a face he's seen a few times in the Necropolis, but he's lacking in a name to put to it.
"Ah, hello. How can I help you, madame?" Another hiss sounds behind him and he half-turns before shaking his head. "No, no, the Free Marches are colder than here. The warmer slippers, please, Manfred. And my apologies, madame. My assistant and I are packing, and--oh! You must be Miss Tavarys?"
He knows her sister, knows he's traveling with her, so a short elf woman turning up to his door right now could logically be her.
"I'm Emmrich, Emmrich Volkarin. Please, come in." He steps out of the way, giving her a view of Manfred packing a bag next two two fully-packed ones. "We're just finishing up, and this is Manfred."
half the address (but Watcher Tavarys means Athaliah to most people in the Necropolis these days, and her present status with the order is more of a question mark), half the pleasant courtesy of it (having recently spent a not insignificant amount of time aggressively not answering to HEY, YOU). Neither stops her in her tracks longer than a fleeting pause, as she adjusts the weight of Nuggalope’s carrying case and draws her one trunk along behind her.
Well, someone’s trunk. It’s a lend, although it was reasonably clear she’s not expected to trot back up here and give it back any time soon; she sort of suspects Athaliah hadn’t wanted her to look quite so transient alongside Volkarin when she’d insisted upon it.
“Athénaïs,” she says, both confirmation of her not difficult to discern identity and invitation to first name basis. “Hi, Manfred. This is Nuggalope,” lifting the case, “more of a get packed than help packing kind of companion. Thought we’d stop by and coordinate a bit.”
"Not to worry, we're nearly done," he said, leaning down a little to see what looks like a preserved cat in the carrier. It wasn't a rare practice in Nevarra, though it wasn't something that held appeal for him.
"Nuggalope, the cat?" He might as well ask for clarity's sake. "Feel free to take a seat. Would you like anything to drink? I can offer water or tea at the moment."
At 'tea' Manfred perked up, looking between the two of them. As his assistant was going to be distracted until there was an answer, Emmrich gathered up the writing set he'd be bringing by himself and quickly tucked it into the bag.
“Tea’d be great,” she says, clocking that perked interest and favouring Manfred with an easy smile. As for Nuggalope— she plonks his case beside her on top of her trunk where she sits, finding herself a seat that looks out of the way of immediate packing chaos, patting the top,
“And, yeah, mostly. It was tricky to put my hands on all the pieces I’d need — generally the folks preserving animal skeletons want to hang onto them, you know — so there was a good amount of raccoon from the start, and I’ve had to get creative with repairs a few times. But you’re mostly cat, aren’t you, you little bruiser?”
A horrendous grinding sound emerges from the case. Nuggalope is purring.
The few moments between her saying her name and answering his question have given his brain the time it needed to make the connections required to recognize, generally, who she is. That Taverys to some, 'if only' Taverys to others.
Manfred hisses happily and scampers off to make tea in the meantime, and Emmrich's smile stays in place. Gossip can be useful enough for background information, but he prefers to get to know people himself and make his own judgements.
"...mostly cat?" That, despite the gossip, catches him a little off guard. He looks back at the case, incredibly curious. Pets are not his thing. But an amalgamated functioning skeleton of an animal is indeed rare. He picks up two journals, tucks them into the pack, and steps closer to the cage.
"Is that a growl, or something friendlier? If you were to bring Nuggalope out of the cage, would... it, he, she? stay put in your arms, or would Nuggalope attempt to break free?"
“That’s a purr,” she assures him, with the air of a woman who has probably had to explain this before. “I’m not totally sure how he’s doing it, either, but he heard a cat once and— now he does that. It’s not hostile,” with a slap to the case like this baby can contain so much friendliness.
“The case is really so he doesn’t fuck off while I’m trying to get us between a and b; he’s not the spirit of impulse control, if you get me.”
More or less the direct opposite of that, in fact.
“If we keep the door shut, I can let him out. He gets bored in there, bless, but with everything—”
A shrug. She hadn’t been sure how fast they might end up moving.
"Much like there's no truly logical explanation for how Manfred communicates with me," he says quietly, thoughtfully, considering the case. A wry smile crosses his face at her mention of impulse control. No, this would not be that.
"As we're about to have tea, please, by all means." Emmrich can't help it, he's curious. The kettle calls from the kitchenette, followed by a delighted hiss. Now he just had to hope Manfred poured the water instead of setting another kettle on to watch the steam pour out.
He straightens then, looking around the place. That's everything, he's fairly certain. Emmrich hasn't packed light, but he thinks what he's bringing is reasonable enough. Efficiently he fastens all the straps on the bags as Manfred thankfully brings out a tray with the steeping tea in a pot and two cups.
Athénaïs is more than pleased to produce Nuggalope from his temporary confines; she busies herself with the case’s closures while Emmrich settles with his suitcases and his skeleton, with tea. She makes a ss-ss-ss sound to summon the spirit-bound creature that hardly seems necessary given the readiness with which it slinks out, interested—
it is immediately obvious that this is, if not quite the labor of love that Emmrich had initially assumed, a labor of love. The varied shades of the bones and the different patches of old, leathery skin make plain that many sources must have contributed to the final result, even aside from the fact a keen eye will certainly recognise that these bones definitely did not all come from cats.
(Raccoon seems to be the main secondary source, but there are a few pieces that look suspiciously human.)
Though there remain jeweled eyes — vibrantly purple sapphires — with the exception of a few remaining amethysts set where claws should be, further decoration has clearly been removed, adjustments made so the removals aren’t too obvious except to someone familiar with Mortalitasi practises and habits. Theft, presumably, became a concern; the way Nuggalope immediately begins bumping into things to investigate them suggests another.
As she accepts her tea, she says, “He’s got good about waiting in the case. Not everywhere south of us is enthusiastic.”
The creation is instantly fascinating. Its parts so clearly have many different origins, and yet Nuggalope moves without any obvious impairment. At least, Emmrich is guessing that the bumping is deliberate. It seems in keeping with what he knows of cats.
"I'm a little concerned about that myself," Emmrich admits, taking his own tea. "I'm not leaving Manfred here, so taking him south has required some consideration."
The skeleton puts down the empty tray and goes to the umbrella and cloak rack by the door, pulling off a smaller cloak and wrapping it around himself. He hisses happily.
"Exactly. Disguise will be the name of the game, and paying a great deal of attention to the mood of various people and places. But he'd be at a loss without me, as would I without him, and there's no one here who can attend to his growth the way he requires. Leaving him is simply not an option. Excellent work, though, on your companion. I'm curious as to what the initial inspiration to make him was, and if you're still swapping parts out?"
Manfred’s cloak acquisition is met with enthusiasm from Athénaïs and vigorous investigation from Nuggalope, who immediately attempts to snag a loose end of the tailing fabric.
“As you can see,” she says, wryly affectionate, “he likes to get his teeth in things. I find occasion to replace more than I’d necessarily prefer, but he’s good about coming to me promptly when he’s broken something. You can see—”
there’s a moment where she considers drawing the little skeletal beast over, and then decides against interrupting the attempted playtime in favour of just pointing,
“— where the grave gold would’ve been, but that I just removed. Practical, down here.” Draw less attention from (other) thieves, for one; for another, some of it she’d simply sold of necessity. “The inspiration, originally, was pure competition. I didn’t think to keep him, but, you know.”
Obviously Emmrich knows. He’s clearly very attached to his skeleton.
Emmrich watches the cat and Manfred, ready to intervene if his companion gets overwhelmed or confused. The spirit hasn't been much exposed to animals, living or otherwise. Manfred twists and turns, seemingly entertained by the cat chasing the cloak and keeping it just out of reach.
"Pure competition?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. He fully understands getting attached to company, though he feels like Manfred is quite a bit more than a pet.
He finishes his cup and puts it back on the tray, glancing back over at where now Manfred is climbing on the desk, followed by the cat skeleton.
"Careful, Manfred." The spirit didn't have others to play with a majority of the time, and Emmrich wonders if that's something he should work on. The crafted cat might be a good introduction to a great many activities. It's worth consideration. "We don't want to delay our meeting-up with Rift Watch because we need repairs. Speaking of, if you're done with your tea I'll wash up and we can set out?"
“I might’ve talked a bit of shit about someone’s pet project,” pun intended, “until simply the only thing left to do was put my money where my mouth was and do better.”
It scarcely even needs asked if she had done. Just look at her pride and joy over there, raccoon bones and human vertebrae and all, gleefully snagging the edge of Manfred’s cloak with a soaring pounce— only to go scrabbling across the table with a hideous grinding sound of delight, halfway between a graveyard groan and a cat’s chirrup.
“Attaboy,” loyally, even as she begins to rise at Emmrich’s prompting. She offers him her mostly emptied cup, but, “Here to me,” must be for Nuggalope, who rights himself and hurries to harry her ankles, stretching up on his hind legs against her calf in an effort to be picked up instead of put back in his box.
Once he’s ensconced amongst the peacock feathers that edge the remarkable lapels of her jacket — impressive for how they’ve not displayed more of her than they already do — she says, “My sister’s admired your work for years,” conversationally. “Athaliah Tavarys.”
Her work is respectable, quiet, consistent; she’s earned her own reputation for excellence, even if it’s more often than not overshadowed by her older sister’s bigger swings (the better and the worse). If Athaliah were the only Tavarys, she’d probably experience her time in the Mourn Watch differently than she does as the younger of two.
“I’m looking forward to getting the opportunity to pick your brain, myself.”
If he was more familiar with her, he might have rolled his eyes or groaned at the 'pet project' pun. As it is he acts like he hadn't noticed it and simply nods - she clearly had done well with this creation. Despite its desperate parts, it functions like one whole. Not only that, it behaves, more or less. Nuggalope is an impressive creation.
Emmrich quickly washes up and puts things away.
"Athaliah," he repeats, cheerfully. "I'm familiar with her work as well. She's quite competent." Which is, for him, a high compliment. "I would be more familiar with the younger members of the Mourn Watch as well, but I have been distracted of late."
He steps out of the kitchen alcove and takes one last look around as Manfred slowly layers on the clothing that will make him look like he's just a child about with his father at first glance, at least.
Everything is in order. It's time. Emmrich is suddenly nervous; this has been his home for the whole of his adult life, and leaving it, if only for a temporary assignment, feels momentous. His expression flickers through the many things he's feeling -- nerves, anticipation, guilt, excitement -- and then settles back into cheerful.
"I look forward to the picking, Athénaïs, and likely will be picking yours in return. I haven't spent a great deal of time outside Nevarra." Emmrich pulls on his jacket as he talks, puts on his backpack, and nods before holding out an arm for her to take if she wants. "Manfred?"
The skeleton hisses happily and puts both suitcases on a dolly. They're ready to depart.
At some point during Emmrich's first few weeks in the Gallows, he's approached by a well-dressed and shiny-haired young man carrying a writing board.
"Professor Volkarin?" Benedict greets, with an arch of his eyebrows-- that is you, isn't it-- "I'm Benedict Artemaeus, Personnel Officer. I just wanted to see how you were settling in."
He inclines his head toward the young man. "Officer Artemaeus. There's Tevene to your accent, is there not? And I believe things are going well enough. Unless... There haven't been any complaints about Manfred, have there?"
That's his big concern, really. He knows his assistant will cause a stir down here in the South, but he really can't bear to part from him. Nor does he think Manfred could manage by himself in a healthy way if left alone back in the Necropolis.
At least there aren't complaints. It rankles some to keep restricting Manfred as the spirit wishes to explore and learn and is harmless, but there's a significant lack of understanding or acceptance of beings considered abnormal outside of Nevarra.
"Do you think that's something likely to happen, getting used to his presence?" This is not a city-state known for adapting.
This is not a question Benedict ever thought he'd need to answer, and if one squints, one can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to devise a diplomatic response.
"...if," he says weakly, "...he's... witnessed enough in the right light?" Manfred needs positive PR.
Witnessed enough in the right light. Emmrich mulls that over, glancing to the side where Manfred would have been, if this had been Nevarra. The absence, the way he often has to leave Manfred in their room, feels tangible.
"Assisting publicly, then? Are there public-facing projects the Riftwatch takes on?" He expects to have a very full schedule, which means this might be difficult, but it's for Manfred. He'll do a great deal for Manfred.
"Keep-- keep him in the Gallows for now, maybe," Benedict stammers, realizing in the moment that this is, perhaps, over his pay grade. He pauses, takes a breath, writes a note.
"Let me look into it." A polite little smile, slightly apologetic, up at Emmrich.
There's a flicker of disappointment over his features before he's quickly covered that up. The prejudice against those not alive is deep-rooted outside of Nevarra and while it is unfair, much of life is.
"Thank you, Officer Artemaeus. Is there anything else that we should go over?" Onboarding had been quite casual thus far. He didn't know if it meant Riftwatch was verging on desperate, or if it was simply rather accepting, or both.
Recognizing the concern, Benedict gives a little toss of his head in the negative. "No, it's-- some new arrivals don't have combat experience. Especially Rifters. But no one's sent into the field without the equipment they need."
He smiles pleasantly, tapping his board with the quill, "that's why we ask."
Emmrich relaxes, nodding. "Good. Quite good. I am still learning how Riftwatch is organized." Or not, depending. But someone meeting him with an entire agenda to go through to make sure he's fitting in here is promising.
"Cheeses and fruits," he answers, surprised and a little delighted by being asked. "I don't eat meat, but otherwise I'm not generally picky. What of you?"
He has no official reason to ask, but he can be friendly.
Benedict's eyebrows lift in mild surprise as he writes: doesn't eat meat. It's not unheard of, naturally, but still he's glad he asked.
"Oh-- pastries, probably. North Tevinter. It's hard to lose your taste for them." He smiles, a bit sheepishly. "--anyway, we'll make sure you're decently provisioned on missions and the like."
Basement. 'Bout a year ago, me and Serah Arany went after a doll. Figured it was possessed, only before we could deal with it the Gallows got smashed to — [ shit almost leaves his mouth. recalling company: ] — Got all smashed up. So it's been lost.
[ the distant, rhymthic thump of something against wood. ]
[He hears the pause and is briefly tempted to mention he taught young adults and heard a great deal of profanity, but decides it's a bit of harmless fun to let it go on.]
A possessed doll.
[Less fun. Much less.]
I'm on my way.
[Sure enough, several minutes later Emmrich is there, glove on, staff in hand. He'd ask 'where' in the basement but the thumping is easy to locate.]
Do you know any of the specifics? The method by which it was possessed, or the nature of what possesses it?
The day, or days, have been hard: magic has only ever made Teren uncomfortable, and in particular being subjected to it, and between having her own memories laid bare and witnessing others, she’s had quite enough. There’s a slump in her shoulders as she plods along with the returning group, a furtive glance to the resident necromancer. He had parlayed with the spirit, talked it down. She and the young Templar had watched his back in the meantime, a triad of Nevarrans more disparate than one would think possible.
She doesn’t trust what Emmrich does, but he seems to do it well. Perhaps it’s the weakness of age— or the fact that his is the closest to hers that she’s met in the company of Riftwatchers— but it’s difficult not to be curious about all of it. It’s possible she doesn’t even are if he catches her looking at him.
The trip back is incredibly quiet, but that seems only reasonable considering how exposed everyone must feel. Emmrich gives people room. He too needs a little time to process, and doesn't want to intrude. For that reason he doesn't meet Teren's gaze the first time she glances at him. He'd already seen her reaction to walking into a solid surface. Emmrich can't imagine she'd be any happier to know he'd seen her grief.
The second time she looks his way, she stays looking. It feels like an invitation. Emmrich meets her gaze and moves through the small group to walk beside her.
"Warden Teren," he says, an acknowledgement that's meant to also serve as an invitation in return.
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corpsestuff) wrote2025-01-19 08:22 pm
action. the grand necropolis.
If she harbours private suspicions that Athaliah just wants her to get her shit out of her sister’s quarters, that’s no one’s business.
A firm knock on the door to what she’s been assured are Volkarin’s private quarters, and she waits, in no great rush.
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There's a loud hiss of agreement and he opens the door, smiling and blinking at the woman outside. She looks vaguely familiar, a face he's seen a few times in the Necropolis, but he's lacking in a name to put to it.
"Ah, hello. How can I help you, madame?" Another hiss sounds behind him and he half-turns before shaking his head. "No, no, the Free Marches are colder than here. The warmer slippers, please, Manfred. And my apologies, madame. My assistant and I are packing, and--oh! You must be Miss Tavarys?"
He knows her sister, knows he's traveling with her, so a short elf woman turning up to his door right now could logically be her.
"I'm Emmrich, Emmrich Volkarin. Please, come in." He steps out of the way, giving her a view of Manfred packing a bag next two two fully-packed ones. "We're just finishing up, and this is Manfred."
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half the address (but Watcher Tavarys means Athaliah to most people in the Necropolis these days, and her present status with the order is more of a question mark), half the pleasant courtesy of it (having recently spent a not insignificant amount of time aggressively not answering to HEY, YOU). Neither stops her in her tracks longer than a fleeting pause, as she adjusts the weight of Nuggalope’s carrying case and draws her one trunk along behind her.
Well, someone’s trunk. It’s a lend, although it was reasonably clear she’s not expected to trot back up here and give it back any time soon; she sort of suspects Athaliah hadn’t wanted her to look quite so transient alongside Volkarin when she’d insisted upon it.
“Athénaïs,” she says, both confirmation of her not difficult to discern identity and invitation to first name basis. “Hi, Manfred. This is Nuggalope,” lifting the case, “more of a get packed than help packing kind of companion. Thought we’d stop by and coordinate a bit.”
For the novelty of it, even.
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"Nuggalope, the cat?" He might as well ask for clarity's sake. "Feel free to take a seat. Would you like anything to drink? I can offer water or tea at the moment."
At 'tea' Manfred perked up, looking between the two of them. As his assistant was going to be distracted until there was an answer, Emmrich gathered up the writing set he'd be bringing by himself and quickly tucked it into the bag.
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“And, yeah, mostly. It was tricky to put my hands on all the pieces I’d need — generally the folks preserving animal skeletons want to hang onto them, you know — so there was a good amount of raccoon from the start, and I’ve had to get creative with repairs a few times. But you’re mostly cat, aren’t you, you little bruiser?”
A horrendous grinding sound emerges from the case. Nuggalope is purring.
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Manfred hisses happily and scampers off to make tea in the meantime, and Emmrich's smile stays in place. Gossip can be useful enough for background information, but he prefers to get to know people himself and make his own judgements.
"...mostly cat?" That, despite the gossip, catches him a little off guard. He looks back at the case, incredibly curious. Pets are not his thing. But an amalgamated functioning skeleton of an animal is indeed rare. He picks up two journals, tucks them into the pack, and steps closer to the cage.
"Is that a growl, or something friendlier? If you were to bring Nuggalope out of the cage, would... it, he, she? stay put in your arms, or would Nuggalope attempt to break free?"
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“The case is really so he doesn’t fuck off while I’m trying to get us between a and b; he’s not the spirit of impulse control, if you get me.”
More or less the direct opposite of that, in fact.
“If we keep the door shut, I can let him out. He gets bored in there, bless, but with everything—”
A shrug. She hadn’t been sure how fast they might end up moving.
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"As we're about to have tea, please, by all means." Emmrich can't help it, he's curious. The kettle calls from the kitchenette, followed by a delighted hiss. Now he just had to hope Manfred poured the water instead of setting another kettle on to watch the steam pour out.
He straightens then, looking around the place. That's everything, he's fairly certain. Emmrich hasn't packed light, but he thinks what he's bringing is reasonable enough. Efficiently he fastens all the straps on the bags as Manfred thankfully brings out a tray with the steeping tea in a pot and two cups.
"Well done, Manfred."
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it is immediately obvious that this is, if not quite the labor of love that Emmrich had initially assumed, a labor of love. The varied shades of the bones and the different patches of old, leathery skin make plain that many sources must have contributed to the final result, even aside from the fact a keen eye will certainly recognise that these bones definitely did not all come from cats.
(Raccoon seems to be the main secondary source, but there are a few pieces that look suspiciously human.)
Though there remain jeweled eyes — vibrantly purple sapphires — with the exception of a few remaining amethysts set where claws should be, further decoration has clearly been removed, adjustments made so the removals aren’t too obvious except to someone familiar with Mortalitasi practises and habits. Theft, presumably, became a concern; the way Nuggalope immediately begins bumping into things to investigate them suggests another.
As she accepts her tea, she says, “He’s got good about waiting in the case. Not everywhere south of us is enthusiastic.”
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"I'm a little concerned about that myself," Emmrich admits, taking his own tea. "I'm not leaving Manfred here, so taking him south has required some consideration."
The skeleton puts down the empty tray and goes to the umbrella and cloak rack by the door, pulling off a smaller cloak and wrapping it around himself. He hisses happily.
"Exactly. Disguise will be the name of the game, and paying a great deal of attention to the mood of various people and places. But he'd be at a loss without me, as would I without him, and there's no one here who can attend to his growth the way he requires. Leaving him is simply not an option. Excellent work, though, on your companion. I'm curious as to what the initial inspiration to make him was, and if you're still swapping parts out?"
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“As you can see,” she says, wryly affectionate, “he likes to get his teeth in things. I find occasion to replace more than I’d necessarily prefer, but he’s good about coming to me promptly when he’s broken something. You can see—”
there’s a moment where she considers drawing the little skeletal beast over, and then decides against interrupting the attempted playtime in favour of just pointing,
“— where the grave gold would’ve been, but that I just removed. Practical, down here.” Draw less attention from (other) thieves, for one; for another, some of it she’d simply sold of necessity. “The inspiration, originally, was pure competition. I didn’t think to keep him, but, you know.”
Obviously Emmrich knows. He’s clearly very attached to his skeleton.
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"Pure competition?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. He fully understands getting attached to company, though he feels like Manfred is quite a bit more than a pet.
He finishes his cup and puts it back on the tray, glancing back over at where now Manfred is climbing on the desk, followed by the cat skeleton.
"Careful, Manfred." The spirit didn't have others to play with a majority of the time, and Emmrich wonders if that's something he should work on. The crafted cat might be a good introduction to a great many activities. It's worth consideration. "We don't want to delay our meeting-up with Rift Watch because we need repairs. Speaking of, if you're done with your tea I'll wash up and we can set out?"
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It scarcely even needs asked if she had done. Just look at her pride and joy over there, raccoon bones and human vertebrae and all, gleefully snagging the edge of Manfred’s cloak with a soaring pounce— only to go scrabbling across the table with a hideous grinding sound of delight, halfway between a graveyard groan and a cat’s chirrup.
“Attaboy,” loyally, even as she begins to rise at Emmrich’s prompting. She offers him her mostly emptied cup, but, “Here to me,” must be for Nuggalope, who rights himself and hurries to harry her ankles, stretching up on his hind legs against her calf in an effort to be picked up instead of put back in his box.
Once he’s ensconced amongst the peacock feathers that edge the remarkable lapels of her jacket — impressive for how they’ve not displayed more of her than they already do — she says, “My sister’s admired your work for years,” conversationally. “Athaliah Tavarys.”
Her work is respectable, quiet, consistent; she’s earned her own reputation for excellence, even if it’s more often than not overshadowed by her older sister’s bigger swings (the better and the worse). If Athaliah were the only Tavarys, she’d probably experience her time in the Mourn Watch differently than she does as the younger of two.
“I’m looking forward to getting the opportunity to pick your brain, myself.”
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Emmrich quickly washes up and puts things away.
"Athaliah," he repeats, cheerfully. "I'm familiar with her work as well. She's quite competent." Which is, for him, a high compliment. "I would be more familiar with the younger members of the Mourn Watch as well, but I have been distracted of late."
He steps out of the kitchen alcove and takes one last look around as Manfred slowly layers on the clothing that will make him look like he's just a child about with his father at first glance, at least.
Everything is in order. It's time. Emmrich is suddenly nervous; this has been his home for the whole of his adult life, and leaving it, if only for a temporary assignment, feels momentous. His expression flickers through the many things he's feeling -- nerves, anticipation, guilt, excitement -- and then settles back into cheerful.
"I look forward to the picking, Athénaïs, and likely will be picking yours in return. I haven't spent a great deal of time outside Nevarra." Emmrich pulls on his jacket as he talks, puts on his backpack, and nods before holding out an arm for her to take if she wants. "Manfred?"
The skeleton hisses happily and puts both suitcases on a dolly. They're ready to depart.
kicks your door down (action)
"Professor Volkarin?" Benedict greets, with an arch of his eyebrows-- that is you, isn't it-- "I'm Benedict Artemaeus, Personnel Officer. I just wanted to see how you were settling in."
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That's his big concern, really. He knows his assistant will cause a stir down here in the South, but he really can't bear to part from him. Nor does he think Manfred could manage by himself in a healthy way if left alone back in the Necropolis.
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Manfred. There's the tension, and though Benedict continues to smile, there's a tautness at the corners of his eyes.
"None that I've heard," he admits, "though I think he will be something of," a long pause, "an acquired..." Taste? He's a skeleton.
"...you may want to limit his range to the Gallows until civilians have had a chance to get used to his presence."
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"Do you think that's something likely to happen, getting used to his presence?" This is not a city-state known for adapting.
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"...if," he says weakly, "...he's... witnessed enough in the right light?" Manfred needs positive PR.
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"Assisting publicly, then? Are there public-facing projects the Riftwatch takes on?" He expects to have a very full schedule, which means this might be difficult, but it's for Manfred. He'll do a great deal for Manfred.
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"Let me look into it." A polite little smile, slightly apologetic, up at Emmrich.
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"Thank you, Officer Artemaeus. Is there anything else that we should go over?" Onboarding had been quite casual thus far. He didn't know if it meant Riftwatch was verging on desperate, or if it was simply rather accepting, or both.
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"Do you have everything you need? Supplies, living necessities, armor that fits?"
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"Are there some without armor that fits? Are they being sent into danger without it?"
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"No, it's-- some new arrivals don't have combat experience. Especially Rifters. But no one's sent into the field without the equipment they need."
He smiles pleasantly, tapping his board with the quill, "that's why we ask."
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"What else can I answer for you?"
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"favorite foods?"
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He has no official reason to ask, but he can be friendly.
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"Oh-- pastries, probably. North Tevinter. It's hard to lose your taste for them." He smiles, a bit sheepishly. "--anyway, we'll make sure you're decently provisioned on missions and the like."
crystals; pre-yvoire
Watcher? When you got a moment, got a problem could use your eyes.
no subject
Of course. Where are you?
no subject
[ the distant, rhymthic thump of something against wood. ]
Reckon I found it.
no subject
A possessed doll.
[Less fun. Much less.]
I'm on my way.
[Sure enough, several minutes later Emmrich is there, glove on, staff in hand. He'd ask 'where' in the basement but the thumping is easy to locate.]
Do you know any of the specifics? The method by which it was possessed, or the nature of what possesses it?
action, homecoming from the dwarven outpost
She doesn’t trust what Emmrich does, but he seems to do it well. Perhaps it’s the weakness of age— or the fact that his is the closest to hers that she’s met in the company of Riftwatchers— but it’s difficult not to be curious about all of it. It’s possible she doesn’t even are if he catches her looking at him.
no subject
The second time she looks his way, she stays looking. It feels like an invitation. Emmrich meets her gaze and moves through the small group to walk beside her.
"Warden Teren," he says, an acknowledgement that's meant to also serve as an invitation in return.