Who

Sammael, Adrian

What

Adrian meets 62119.

When

It is afternoon of the tenth day of the first month of the third turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Barrier Hold

OOC Date

 

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Main Hall

| Main Hall |
|----------------|
| Before entering this space, the atrium at the entrance of the hold would |
| seem unable to be topped in magnificence — but the main hall does well |
| to dispel the primacy of the entrance's opulence. Here there is wood |
| instead of stone, and all the same arching space: what's more, here is |
| warmth, steam piped from the springs beyond. A warm and inviting |
| environment, this crossroads of the hold, with tracks well-worn into the |
| polished wood of the floor. There, the dining hall; there, the damp |
| doorway into the hot springs. A tiny door exits westward, while the cold |
| atrium beckons through a curtain of heavy hide. |


Endless: the days are endless here, formed of nothing but eating, sleeping and working with very little to entertain the mind than what imagination can bring to the table. This summer's day, in the window between breakfast and lunch, finds a mass of convicts spread all over the main hall, smoothing out the stony walls to a shimmering smoothness. It is hard work, and some have to climb atop high scaffolding to reach the upper curves of the walls, where one accident would likely end a man's life. They are convicts, however, a virtually never-ending renewable resource. They aren't people! Sammael is one of these convicts, though blessedly he's crouched on the ground, forced to his hands and knees. Grit digs into the the knees and palms, cutting through even the grey coveralls with the word 'C O N V I C T' stitched on the back. The shoulder-length blond hair swings in his face, more ash-colored from grime and dirt than the true straw it is. He's dirt and sweat and every so often a grunt escapes as muscles pull and shift beneath the uniform to ply the sanding tool to rock. His face and beard are covered in fine rock dust, as is the front of his arms and chest. Every so often, a break is allowed and it is to this time that Sammael leans back on his heels and wipes the sweat-soaked brow with the back of his head, blue eyes intent upon nothing. The ragefire chasm is momentarily dimmed with the exertion of the task at hand.

Here to stick out like a sore thumb, Adrian has been observing this labor for the past few minutes, standing off to one side while someone, a Hold representative or something, talks in his ear about what exactly the convicts are all about. It must be boring, or the delivery is poor, because he isn't paying attention. While they force that rock to smoothness he stands there with arms folded and one-handed rubs the backs of his fingers under his chin. When one of them takes that pause he moves, walking towards the group and leaving his companion behind to watch with worry. Is this okay? Should this be happening? Adrian walks slowly up and down the hall, almost casual about it, until finally he comes to stop at Sammael. "Excuse me, hi. What's your name?"

It will take countless candlemarks to get this main hall worn to the butter-soft smoothness that the Miner Master demands, and Sammael's portion is but a tiny part of an overall major project that ecapsulates nothing short of what will come to be a grand cathedral of an entranceway. However, that being not of the here-and-now, the convict is focused on his tiny patch. The ripples of the rock are slowly losing their sharp edges, worn into a waved ripple that heralds the beginning of truly being smoothed. That is until his mini rest is broken by the arrival of another human being. The intensity of eyes rage a blue fire as a keenly-intelligent gaze snaps to Adrian's face, the young man taking in all that Adrian has to offer visually, his lips curling in a half-smile that doesn't reach the eyes. The eyes that barely constrain the rage that roils within. "What's it to you?" Convicts are not notoriously friendly, see. Humor — dark and glinting — swims within, for the audacity of this man, though a careful look is given over his shoulder to the Hold guards that patrol. Just in case. Don't want to get in trouble.

When given that sharp look, Adrian tilts his head as if he's just discovered something very interesting here in this unfinished hall amongst the brute squad. In the face of all of that anger he's all calm confidence, maybe it's that he knows the guards have his back or maybe it's an inherent trait. His answer to that question, rhetorical or not, comes to be, "Your name." Which he says as if it's the most obvious thing. He casts a backwards glance at the man he left standing back there, a questioning look, but receives nothing more than a warning shake of the head. Dismissing that with a wave of his hand, Adrian presses on. "You don't have to tell me, it helps but I get it."

Sammael is a suspicious man by nature, and given his anarchist's heart, he's not one to trust men that seem to be standing there calmly in positions of authority. One sandy brow lifts upwards, a long, insolently sullen gaze is cast from the top of Adrian's head to the tip of Adrian's shoes. Lips press together, managing to only partially suppress the smirk. "Again, I ask why. You got my records?" Heated, rageful eyes settle unblinkingly back to meet Adrian's. "Get it from there. Want my number? It's six-two-one-one-nine." His eyes slide away from Adrian to find the man he left behind, a dark look stealing over features that have thus far held a sullen affability to them. "What's your game, Harper?" A knot reader, at least.

Adrian stands there under the weight of that once-over, knowing full well what he looks like and totally unapologetic about it. It isn't until records are brought up that he shows the first real hint of a reaction, eyebrows pinching together; it's telling that he's more concerned about that than he is about how close he is to potential danger. But it's only potential, and even then only because people say it's there. "I see. So you're okay with just being a number." When that other guy gets that dark look he shifts uneasily, something like recognition of a situation happening in his expression. Adrian sidesteps to get between him and said look and also supplies an answer, all in one. "For now? I wanna know more about what's going on here. And I figured why not start with the most pissed off looking person in the room." He smiles then, and his is a bright smile where Sammael's is not, but like the convict's it stops somewhere before getting to his eyes.

It is not Adrian's looks that Sammael assess, but something far more subtle. Is it telling? Sammael's life revolves around hard work and eating and staying alive. He only shuffles a faintly amused look Adrian's way, not giving an inch on bowing to authority. "That's rich," the texture baritone is ground out through the mortar of humor and the pestle of sarcasm poisoned by bitter's blade. "I am a number. My desires are as fleeting as a fart in the wind." Coarse is the graveyard humor that surfaces, though truth mirth still does not appear behind the eyes. The sudden explosion of motion, of throwing his arms out wide is followed by the booming shout of, "We're grinding down the walls, mate. What the fuck does it look like?" Oh yes. Adrian did well picking out the surliest man in the room. On a quieter note, the convict leans forward with the wolfish danger of too many teeth to that smile. Still, Sammael is partially curious and partially interested in bringing down the system. "What do you want to know? You another stylus-necked suit that wants to help us convicts?" Is Adrian a bleeding heart liberal??

That outburst gets more of a reaction from at least one of the guards than it does from Adrian, who turns at the sound of boots to see who's coming and, upon seeing said guard, holds up one hand. "No thanks," is all he says, which does result in a cessation of forward progress but it's reluctantly so. With that taken care of, the Harper comes back to Sammael with furrowed brow and his chin tilted down. "First off, a fart in the wind can be more powerful than you'd think. I happen to know a Master with a particular problem in that area. And thanks for enlightening me. I kind of meant in a less specific sense than what's going no here in this room, but." After a deep breath that he lets out sharply he shrugs and pockets his hands. "I dunno. Do you wanna be helped?"

The guard coming isn't shied away from, if anything it causes the expansion of chest and the drop of chin in subtle threat as if he relishes finally having a reason to push against his captors. However, Sammael is prevented from further agitating his incarceration by Adrian and to whom the heated rage of his gaze now sits. "Helped? How are you going to help me? What do I get out of it? This isn't a freebie game of the sad convict hands over all of the information on some nebulous hope of 'help'." The smirk that plays is dark and edged in the sharp blade of bitter. "So. Whatcha offering, harper?" Offering up freebies? Not so much Sammy's style. Bargaining? Much more Sammy's style.

That posturing leads Adrian to looking back at the guard, then back at Sammael. The intention there isn't lost on him. When questioned his eyebrows lift and he gives another shrug, withholding from commitment for the moment. "You won't even tell me your name, how am I supposed to know how to help you. I don't have a lot to go on and I can tell you one thing for sure, I can't do anything if I don't know anything." He sniffs, purses his lips and lets his gaze drift away. "For what it's worth I never took you for the sad type. Mostly just angry and hostile."

"You wanna broker in information, I'm your man. Gotta gimme something first, though." Sammael's crafy intelligence is feral at it's base: the sleek alley cat that's learned to live in the darkness of the scum of its ilk. The toothy smile that follows, pulling the downy blond beard into a parody of an affable smile, is nothing short of menacing, "You first, thouh. You first." Amusement plays in the sandbox of his expression as well, eyes sliding to watch the guard and the man that still lingers off to the side. The one that came with Adrian. The other convicts surrounding them are slowly starting to take note, the watchful eyes of chained predators. "Look at you. Got some brain in that overlearned noggin. I ain't sad." Angry, so angry.

"Yeah you keep saying that." But it must be working, Adrian narrows his eyes appraisingly, his mouth pushed out while he thinks this over. "Okay," he decides at length, and the man behind him rolls his eyes and turns his back on them, leaving the guard looking confused. What? "But let's not make this weird. You tell me what it is I could do to help and we'll go from there. Otherwise I'm just drawing straws." Adrian stands against the better advice of many talking to Sammael in the middle of the convicts working hard at smoothing the walls of the hall. Behind the Harper stands a man of average everything whose better advice is currently being ignored, and a guard who's come a little closer just in case. Everything's probably fine though.

Sammael's stare doesn't leave Adrian, brows ticking upwards again as some private humor finally reaches those rageful blue eyes of his. "Sure. I'd like a weapon. That'd help me real well." A quick glance over to the other convicts, the look set upon bearded features anything but nice. "Barring that, I could take some time in the baths as a form of payment. A virgin? No? Too soon?" Sharp, crude humor here. "Or some fineries like tea. I hear tea's a real good one to barter about for other favors." The smile curves, nasty and pointed. "You could always just let me go. Free me into the wind." An impossible dream that, for Sammael is not innocent of his crimes. "Feed me a really good meal. All of these things — you see our life. It's shit. Get me some free time and some relaxation and a bath, and perhaps we can talk." He falls silent, calculatingly so. "I need to see you come up to scratch, first though." That's right, you first Adrian!

Fenrir has just gotten off shift. She's dusty and tired, and moves into the hall flexing both arms above her head in a perpetual stretch to work out the kinks of a morning spent hacking away at mine walls. The dust that films her is of a sparkly nature, a testament to the vein they uncovered. Fenrir's expression is standoffish, but her stride is paused when Sammael is registered. The guards nearby are given a quick glance, Adrian in particular as she moves forward, for all the world walking as if nothing were amiss, though the tension in her sudden muscles is palpable for those who know how to look. The 'weapon' muttered is overheard and one sardonic brow raises upward as he step slows and she fixes Adrian with a pointed stare. You better not be entertaining that thought, buddy.

Whatever thoughts Adrian entertains are inside and behind a face that doesn't betray anything and black eyes that somehow just don't. That's demonstrated now, when his reaction to talk of weapons is a small, indulgent smile that never goes further than the little quirk of his lips. He'll hear the rest as well, baths and virgins included, and if the latter idea bothers him he doesn't let on. His hands remain as they are, tucked into the pockets of his tailored pants. "I hear you. Let's start simple, work our way up from there." He turns to the man he abandoned a moment ago, seeing Fenrir on the way. He glances from her to Sammael and back, seems to consider something and turns back to the convict. "When will you be taking your bath, good sir?"

Adrian's lack of reaction does little to affect Sammael, who's not really seeking any particular reaction. The induglent smile is returned with a cutting one. Sandy brows lift, but not towards the harper but for the entering girl. Remembrance filters into his features, the wolfish smile tugging one side of his mouth while features seemingly hold to affability, though nothing quite reaches the rageful eyes. "My bath?" Dark humor, ill-intented humor, fills those blue eyes that draw from a ragefire chasm held at the core of this man. "We're supposed to get a fairly regular bath, but hey, sometimes it doesn't happen. Maybe next sevenday, how's that? Or possibly tomorrow. We don't get to decide. Ask him." He juts his chin towards one of the guards. "He'd know."

Fenrir smiles thinly in response to the convict's recognition, though Adrian and the other guard hold her attention presently. The wildling adjusts one of her dirtier top layers, sharp bob pulled back between grubby fingers as she stops a few feet from the little cluster, expression expectant. "Baths?" She repeats, looking full innocent, despite her less than open expression. "Are you sending this crew that way? If so I'll push back my own wash. After all, this lot looks rowdy, if you take my meaning." Eyes dart towards Sammael where the lead behind her words is intended to leak, though she only glances for a moment, her expression blank as she turns back to Adrian and stretches once more, eliciting a little pop from one shoulder. "Have you been trying to catch the mad man attacking everyone? Word in the mines is he's most active at night, in the wastes, stabbing and killing and… well…" Fenrir looks as upset as she can manage, "…if all these convicts are chained up, how could it be one of them? Unless some guard isn't being super vigilant, right? Helping out, maybe when he shouldn't?" Tone goes from bubbly gossip to icy silk as two-toned eyes settle on Adrian and her right hand gives the popped shoulder a little rub. "Something to think about." And she begins walking anew.

Ask him? Adrian pivots at the waist to look at the 'him' indicated by that chin jut without actually turning away to do so. Fenrir's input earns her a strange look, his eyebrows pulled down. "Not the crew, just him," he answers, though there's something about the way he watches her that implies he's thinking about what she's just said. "The wastes, you don't say." As for the convicts? He regards them all, or as much of them as he can see just now, with renewed interest. "I never suspected one of you. I feel like why one single guy in the night when there's enough of you to take this place over if you wanted." He says that so casually, not like he's maybe trying to plant a seed, no not at all. Back to Sammael, "One bath comin' up with the works. Bubbles, champagne, you name it. Then we talk. How's that."

Fenrir is eyed thoughtfully, though not unwarily. Adrian's seed planting is given only the most indulgent of smiles, as this man could care less whether the Hold folds or not. "Sounds like a fantastic plan," and there'd be a 'Stan' here but suddenly, he's being pulled away from this little interlude. Or rather, the guard has finally lost his patience and come over to nudge the convict back on his hands and knees. That Sammael has something to say regarding the current events is so very evident in the man's eyes, but he's being forced back to work. Sanding the Main Hall down. It's shitty work, but hey, they aren't people! They're a renewable source of free labor! Exit; stage wall.

"Good. Swell." And then the guard interferes, and there's something in the way Adrian eyes him as he approaches, something that's almost… wary? But he's there for Sammael and it becomes painfully obvious where he is, suddenly. As the convicts all resume their work he watches them intently, specifically the one he was just talking to, for maybe a minute before turning away finally with his hands in his pockets to walk off and right past that man who's been waiting on him, forcing him to have to catch up. And that man might not be a guard, but there's certainly something to say for how close he sticks to the Harper.

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