(1311-08-06) Why don't you leave?
Summary: A young guardsman brings a Skald to take a look at the prisoner. Both foreigners bond by briefly discussing the situation of their existance in the Terre d'Ange.
RL Date: Tue Aug 06, 1311
Related: All logs of the Plot - Incident at the Palace
gal tancred kalisha 


Dark, without any windows of note, only the tiny slits in the upper part of the wall that allow some air to drift into the cells, to lessen the stench with the salty scent of the sea close by. Torches at the walls offer flickering lighting, and each cell offers little protection of privacy, with a front of bars through which water and food will be passed when it is time for the daily meal.%r%rA sturdy door, when unlocked with the required key, opens to the stairway that leads up to the citadel proper.

This morning's breakfast delivery is slightly delayed. Not that Kalisha has a clock or anything, and it's not so far delayed that the sun creeping across the further wall from that tiny slot of a window could give it away. It's just long enough for Gal to slip behind the mess where he'd stashed his early morning market purchases and replace the rather grotesque suet-fortified gruel with a honey and butter enriched oatmeal, the days' old slices of bread with a few fresh-this-morning, still-warm-from-the-oven rolls, and the water with… well, water, but at Gal is sure there's nothing unsavory that's been hidden in it. He even slices up a pear and leaves the slices over top of the oatmeal so that it will fit in the tray slot… and also keep the oatmeal warm, as an added bonus. Coming back out from behind the mess, nothing looks awry with the tray and he steals it down into the dungeons, crouching down to slide it under the bars, as before, and the water through the bars and onto the tray.

Kalisha reaches for the tray. She carries it to the back of the cell. She takes a look at the meal prepared. A smile flashes in her features. It's a very brief thing which soon just simply turns her face back to a completely neutral. "Thank you. It's very kind of you. All this. I still have no idea why are you risking for me so much…" Instead of taking a bite, she comes back to the bars and looks Gal over.

"Dunno what you mean," Gal answers, maybe a little pointedly, but he tips a corner of a smile up at her when she approaches. He rises from his crouch and takes a step back from the bars, out of arm's reach. Protocol, and all. "I saw a couple of people about your pendant… one of them wants to come pay you a visit, if you don't mind. He's a Skald, so… he should be able to figure out if you're one, too. Look at your, uh— artwork, and everything. If you don't mind."

"You asked around?" Kalisha seems mildly surprised. "Did you do it because you wanted to or did you do it because this other man told you so? The one with a funny name. Jacquit or something like that?" She gives just a brief second for Gal to answer before continuing. "I do not mind meeting one of my people. Well, if they are one of my people. But I am quite surprised that you found some here! I thought that they are not allowed to set a foot on the ground of this place!"

"No. I mean— I've been keeping the Sarge up to date on what I've found, but I'm looking into your pendant because you asked me to… and because it could be useful," Gal answers quietly, backing off another step and looking to his side, nodding to a fellow-soldier when Kalisha is amenable to meeting the Skald. "There aren't lots, but there are some. A lot of different people live here in Marsilikos."

One of Gal's comrades goes to fetch the particular Skaldi waiting outside. He comes back with Tancred in tow, trusted enough to be allowed to carry arms within the dungeon's confines. Not that it makes him look any more comfortable; the massive foreigner seems ill-at-ease in the cramped, smelly confines. "I have been summoned," he says lowly in d'Angeline. "Good morning." Hanging his gloves from his belt, he joins Gal's side, having to stoop to get much of a look at the prisoner behind bars.

"Interesting fellow," Kalisha states in a fluent Skaldi language, when she sees another foreigner coming closer. A young woman who stands behind bars looks to be seventeen summers old or so. She wears old leather and fur sleeveless clothes. Black and blue ink circles her arms. Same ink seems to have strict forms on her chest as well but it is impossible to say what kind of symbols the lines are forming since they hide under clothes. It's hard to say if a blue ink which covers her eyes as a band actually extends to her forehead as well or not, because she is wearing an old leather belt-like decoration which rests on her head almost like a crown and holds long dreadlocks away from falling over her face. "He doesn't look like me." She adds in Skaldi.

"Morning," Gal returns the greeting, along with the standard instructions, "Just don't approach the bars, try to give the prisoner anything or take anything from the prisoner— and thanks for coming," he adds, rather more heartfelt, with a smile that only fades when Kalisha speaks in Skaldi again. "I know you'll want to check out any… dialectical stuff? But, please, keep in d'Angeline when you can."

"Hello." Tancred repeats his greeting in a different flavor of Skaldic. "Good morning. What's your name?" Warned not to approach the bars, he opts instead to support himself on the near wall, a little pained from his height being an impairment down here. "You speak the language, but you do not have the look of the tribes I know. To which gods do you pay worship?"

Ignoring the request of Gal to keep everything in his native tongue, a young woman continues speaking in Skaldi. It seems to be much easier to her. "Kalisha. That I know for sure. I remember little. They say that I hit my head and they found me on shores. I remember a ship, though. I have been travelling. I was on a duty. Something very big has been waiting for me." Kalisha leans her shoulder against the bars but holds her attention on the stranger. Now that she remembers Gal's request and since he was so kind to her, the prisoner decides to use his language. "I also remember the battle. Hundreds of the dead people under my feet. Friends and enemies. I remember the smell of iron and piss. I remember a rain on my cheeks and my mother's dying body… Also, the… Well, that doesn't matter." She turns her dark blue ocean gaze to Gal briefly before finding Tancred's eyes again. "No. Not you. It's different."

".. It is likely as she says," Tancred surmises in d'Angeline after an especially lengthy pause of him meeting Kalisha's eyes with his, brilliant blue in contrast. His doubt has his brow crease, though his beard ages him, hiding the fact that he's barely older than either. "She speaks the language, but not in a way most of our tribes would. Perhaps she is from further north." He stands up straight, which cuts off part of his head from sight when viewed from within the cell. "I do not recognize this battle, though it is no skirmish. Yet wars, piss, rust and rot are ever present." He clears his throat, then tries a new angle. "Kalisha. Do you understand this?" Now he speaks harsh Vralian.

Kalisha listens unmoving. One could even think that she does not breath. However, when an unfamiliar language is spoken, she leans her head to the side. A young woman pushes herself away from the bars and takes a step backwards. She lingers there for a moment and then starts rambling. The words which leave her throat are harsh. Thick. Seem to be cut off and then spoken for a minute or so. Can one word be so long? Her language seems to have only consonants and come from somewhere deep in her throat. Her eyes shift to the sides and for a moment she speaks simply glaring at the wall. When finally she looks back at Tancred her pups look to be much larger, just bordered by a thin line of blue. But it might be the shadows which fill the room when the sun is hidden under a thick cloud. She springs formas wrapping her fingers around bars and eyes the man with a touch of madness, whispering some more of those strange words. Then, she grows silent. Whatever she has said, it's not Vralian, not d'Angeline or Skaldi. Doesn't even sound southern, unless… very far southern. Who knows?

Tancred once more stoops to watch, intrigued, and then makes his first remark, offhand and seizing upon what may be easily determined: "That is no sound of any of the Imperial languages, nor is it from my region. Far east, far north, or the new world across the Great Ocean." He strokes his beard in thought, then starts to pull his gloves on. "Or it is mere madness. Witchcraft. What it is, I cannot say. I am of little other use here." He pauses, then adds, "The tattoos are not an unknown practice among our people, but it is not my expertise."

"Man," Kalisha addresses the visitor before he leaves. "Why are you here? These people are ready to kill you the moment you take a step in a way they dislike. Why to be here? Why to serve them? How did you end up here?" The prisoner asks in Skladi once again. "I did not commit a crime. They offend me. They attacked me. I defended myself and now they will execute me. They hope that they killed my mother. The called me an animal, vernim and dog. They do not want to seek for evidence of the crime or hear both sides. They hope to have a chance to execute me because I am Skaldi. But you are Skaldi. They are disgusted by you. Why don't you leave?"

"I am seen as traitor to my own people, and uncouth and underfoot by this one. Here at least I am fed and clothed. Those of blue-blood have taken me for a guard and pet under their wing." Tancred remains bent in order to converse, minding not Gal's earlier request and speaking entirely in Skaldic, though the nature of conversation appears personal. "I miss home, but here there are lovely women who desire me and strong walls to sleep behind. Once, I lived alone and off mouldy black bread and meagre gruel, praying for the mercy of my next taskmaster, but no longer." His gaze dips for a second. "I do not know if you killed your mother. What is your crime in their eyes? What have you done?"

Kalisha leans in closer as well. She lowers her voice into a Skaldi whisper. Though, she does not try to actually hide their conversation from Gal. He still may hear what she says and her body language doesn't suggest any secretive topics to be discussed. "You miss your home." She repeats. "Don't you mis syour gods? Your traditions? Everything what is you? These people look strange. They are so different. Also, so weak. Their ladies are white handed. They have seen no hard work and no battles and yet they shout and curse worse than some of the soldiers. But they have no balls. Just pretty dresses, you know!" Kalisha rolls her eyes. "An old lady threatened to cut me through like a vernim. She draw a sword and challenged me. I draw my own sword to protect myself. She attacked me. I naturally dodged and stabbed. I hurt her. I hear she is in recovery. She will be alright. But they say I am Skaldi and I spilled their blood. I must die they say. I am not afraid of dying, though."

"They are not weak. If they were weak, we would have destroyed them long ago. No, they are decadent, but their strength lies underneath their velvet, embedded in their unity." Tancred folds his arms in front of his mailed chest bearing a surcoat in the colors of a noble house, and never mind the ache from stooping down. "I wish to go home, in due time. Maybe when there is peace. Or I will sail away with a strong wife and never see this land again. There is plenty of space in the New World." He shakes his head just slightly, as if recalling himself after being lost in the distance. "Who is the lady, pray? I would have done the same were I attacked, but I am not surprised at their outcome."

Kalisha shrugs. "I do not know who the woman is. Perhaps Gal can tell you," She offers the last sentence in the Skaldi language and then goes back to the tongue more familiar to the guard. "I shall go back to my breakfast. I wish you to go back to your home when the time comes. Everyone needs their home. Living a life of a foreigner is not easy. They will never take you in as one of their own. But thank you. For the visit."

"I will head to my duties, myself." With the seed of an idea, or of longing, planted back inside his head, Tancred fits his gloves back on, bids a, "Farewell," and makes his departure, escorted out by another guardsman.

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