Not sure a lotta us are that neighborly. [Sweeney hates it when random people show up at his door.] But if ya give me yer cabin number, I'll come knock.
[Sounds easy enough. Probably even if he's drunk at the time. Not that he is now, but it's statistically likely at some point in the 30 days.]
Be there in ten.
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Which he is, prompt as ever.
Huh. Round door. Definitely delivering on the description. The frame is a little low, but Sweeney supposes that makes some sense with the fellow's stature. He raps on the wood three times.
When Sam opens the door, he's standing on mossy stepping stones, a tidily kept herb patch behind him. He looks up at Sweeney, and looks dubiously at his own door. "I'm happy t'have you in, but I think we might as want to stay in the garden here."
The sight makes Sweeney's eyes go wide, and there's a long moment while he's just staring at everything in wonder, crouched halfway through the door.
"Sweet fuck. You got an outside." The Warden's cabins he's been in have been amazing; multi-roomed spaces, but they are still that. Rooms. This is...something different. This alone would be worth graduating.
He steps back and gives him more space. It's not large, the garden he's got here, but it's comfortable, fragrant and cool with a breeze that whispers of distant trees. "It's the dooryard, for Bag End back home." And on the other side is the Hill, with another round door set into it. This one's worn and blue, where the one from the corridor is green. "Or it's a copy, any road." Sam tilts his head at the lathe fence, just holding back climbing bushes. "I'd never let those grow so tall, but they aren't there. The fence is a wall, right enough, and so's the Hill. They just don't look it."
Sweeney crosses the threshold and straightens, still in clear delight at where he's found himself. His eyes dance over the various flora. He steps closer to them, but doesn't touch anything.
"These real? Or they...well, whate'er the Enclosure makes shit outta?" The potential is inspiring.
"S'pose they're real." Sam snips off a sprig of thyme with his thumbnail, offers it to Sweeney. "I've been cooking with them and all." Which reminds him. "Oh, have you a seat there," he says, nodding to the bench by the fence, between two twining rosemary plants. "And I'll bring the tea out here."
He does his best to minimize his look of fascination, but it doesn't do much to help. Sweeney takes the herb delicately, unable to look away from it as he moves to sit where directed. But then there's rosemary, too (which he has more experience growing). A quick peek up to confirm that Sam's inside, and he rubs a leaf of it between his thumb and forefinger without actually plucking it.
Sweeney lifts his hand to smell the oils. Real thing, almost certainly.
There are perhaps a dozen different herbs, planted by patches, with the tall spikes of garlic scattered throughout; hyssop and savoury, more kinds of rosemary, common sage and lemon balm, basil and spikenard. The daisy-like flowers of chamomile float above a patch of sitherwood, and mint and lavender crowd the windowboxes together.
Sam's back in a few moments, bringing a tray. What a hobbit calls tea, anyone else would call a hearty lunch, even considering the difference in scale. He sets it on the end of the bench, happy to sit on the mossy ground himself. "Help yourself, there's another pie if we do for this one," he says, pouring his own cup.
There's no way the Admiral is going to show enough mercy to assign Sam as his proper Warden; it would be too kind.
His eyes dance over the offerings. He's confident he could clean all of this on his own, but the fact there's so much, both in amount and diversity, is wonderful. But he knows better. He laments not being prepared or he would have brought nicer food. He'll have to make due.
Sweeney reaches into his jacket and pulls out two apples tucked in his large hand, and sets them on the bench next to the tray. His hand back in, he produces a wheel of cheese, wrapped loosely in a tea towel; it's missing a chunk, but it's what's on hand. Lastly, a small satchel filled with odd candies from Flotilla. Sweeney's found that candy is generally well met for trade here.
Sam's brows go up, pleased at the apples. He hadn't any, and the ones in the greenhouse seemed to have... claws. The cheese and sweets are likewise welcome. "You didn't have to bring anything, but that's right kind."
Okay, they have food, they have tea, they've talked about the garden, and there's no weather. So it must be time to talk business.
Sam's shoulders ease, with a bit of a chuckle. "Wardening. Been making my old Gaffer's tea since I can remember, though my Rosie says it's a wonder I haven't starved him. But where I'm from, the only wardens I know of is those elves in Lórien, who keep folk out of their wood. Though maybe it's not so different, since they're the ones who know all the paths and where's safe and all. Guides, to folks as need it."
"Guessin' we don't run in the same circle of elves. Ones I know are a bit more likely ta see folk pulled off the path." He wets his lip as he glances back down to the food, trying to figure out what to start with.
"As far as I can tell, there inn't a universal way ta warden. More 'bout bein' yerself or some shit." One shoulder shrugs.
"'specially while yer tempin', seems ta be mostly a 'make sure they have what they need an' stay outta trouble gig. Punish them if they misbehave." Sweeney peeks back up.
"Though I've ne'er seen a proper list of rules, much less the assigned punishments fer that shit. Only one I'm sure on is 'no killin''." He rolls his eyes. "E'eryone seems ta agree on that one." Which Sweeney thinks is kind of dumb, given the 'not staying dead' bit, but whatever.
"You got any specific questions yet? Or ya still workin' on dealin' with the general level of bullshit?"
"Do you have what you need?" he asks, looking at him over his tea. The delicate cup looks a little silly in Sam's work-worn hands, and will look like a toy in Sweeney's.
As wee as things are, Sweeney has no complaints. He's not a big tea drinker, but he certainly doesn't mind it for the sake of being social. The question earns a shrug of his head.
"I do a'right." He slowly exhales while he plucks up a biscuit.
"Shit I need is too 'xpensive ta ask fer." Sweeney sucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I ain't got that kinda capital. Just lookin' ta earn it." His head tips, weighing another point.
"Course, I've been with temps fer nearly two years. So yer likely ta run inta folk with more pressin' needs as shit goes on."
"There's a Lucky Coin. My Luck; all wrapped up in it." His jaw flexes slightly, and he keeps his focus low, on the food.
"My Luck's fer shit 'til I have it back, but right now it's in Dead Wife's chest, keepin' her up an' movin'." It's clearly tied to a good chunk of self-loathing.
"Adm'ral's got my magic tamped down. Need that back, but without my Coin, I'm a walkin' disaster." Sweeney rolls his eyes at himself.
"An' I gotta curse." That has a far deeper shame. "Where the Mad comes from." His hand lifts enough to imply 'in my head'. He's managed so well to keep free of the moniker, but he knows it's on the roster and his ledger page, so Sam clearly already knows it.
The Luck doesn't make sense to Sam until Sweeney says magic, and then his expression clears. Magic accounts for all manner of oddness and strange goings on, plainly.
"I've seen madness," he says, after a moment to get past 'Dead Wife.' "The sort as makes a fellow a stranger to himself, or if not a stranger, certainly no friend. Like that?"
"Not a stranger." Sweeney's lips press. It's not a favorite topic. He swallows and licks his lips to part them.
"I weren't always a Leprechaun." A slow sigh escapes through his nose. "Been lots'a things, lots'a lives. They...stack. Bleed. I...get lost in myself. Memories." Sins. He hopes that makes some level of sense to the stranger.
Sweeney tips his head, as if weighing the suggestion.
"I got someone that helps me. Can't stop me from gettin' lost, but helps me get back ta the present as quick as I'm able." He's grateful for her every day. Sweeney can't imagine how he'd manage without her.
He swallows, a clear hesitancy catching him in the question. After a breath too long, he shakes his head, trying to shrug it off casually.
"Nah. She f'gures it out. 'pparently, I ain't a hard read." Even at a distance. She's private, and he doesn't want to complicate anything by burdening her with the worries of others. She'll find him, he's certain.
"Normally, I just hole up in my cabin an' let shit blows o'ver."
Sweeney accepts the offer without protest, though he doesn't know if he'd take Sam up on it. There's a level of intimacy there that he just hasn't found with many people. Realistically, only Tiffany and Swamp Rat. They let him be naked enough to be fucked up.
"'ppreciate it." His gaze wanders over the space. "Sure is hell'uva lot nicer than my fuckin' motel room."
When he gets to the dining all, Sam is working on the floor. The burnmarks have to go, they can't stay there and be a reminder. He has a rough cloth and vinegar in hot water, and is diligently working at the black stain.
Kiryu shows up with a few scrub brushes and his tool box. He'll walk up to Samwise and, after a nod, roll up his sleeves and start in to scrubbing as well.
"Sandpaper?" The name's pretty self-explanatory, but Sam's never seen it before. He pushes himself back to his feet, and goes to poke around in Kiryu's toolbox. "D'you have a good oil? None of the oils back there look dark enough t'match."
Sam slept two full days after Hilbert got him the good drugs. When he finally wakes, he's quiet and loggy, his face so lined he looks like he's aged a few years since the cave-in. But he's alert. And all too soon, he's fretting about missed hours. And what this treatment will cost.
The worrying is almost as bad as the wound. By the time anyone else is actually around, he's already trying to get himself out of bed, teetering around his room with a pair of crutches he really shouldn't have yet.
Harry should absolutely not be back already. If anything he should be back in Cybele, making his appeal to his uncle as to why he shouldn't be punished for disappearing for multiple days, but. There was still more to do, here.
Which is why he ends up at the mines early in the morning, to see what he can do to help; and why he finds Samwise struggling to get his crutches under him.
"Sam!" His own lingering exhaustion is immediately forgotten as he goes to try and help the miners sit back down. "You shouldn't be up yet!"
"You can't walk if you go to work," he protests right back, and he's going to keep a hand on Sam's shoulder to try and hold him in place. "If you go out like this, you're just gonna get hurt even worse."
Harry has better than two feet of height on Sam, and only one of them is still on a lot of painkillers. It's not hard to keep him from getting back up, despite Sam's huff of frustration.
"I can't 'fford to be down for long. They'll give my spot away, I'll be back on the breakline."
"I can pay." The words come out too quickly, eagerly to the point of almost sounding desperate. He can't do anything useful, he was barely helpful during the actual cave-in Harry this is patently false and he was so shaken afterwards that he had nightmares all night, but money he can help with. "I-I can-- what do you need? I can see what we can get imported down here for you, to help you heal better."
He stares at the kid, and scrubs his bandaged hand hard across his eyes, shaking his head. "No, y'can't. I owe more money then I've ever 'ad, more'n my old Gaffer's hydro-farm was worth. Been chippin' away at it for years, working up to the tunnel crews, and I 'ad my eye on supervisor next, if I kept workin' hard, but now..."
He gives Sam a determined look, but it's still tempered by how haunted he looks.
"I'm Harrison Wittebane. I can-- I can get my uncle to cancel your debt," he says, sharper than he means. "O-or I'll pay it off myself, out of my own bank."
"Yes!" He says it so gleefully, like he's just glad Sam gets it. Not that the miner is scared of the fact. "I can help! I just- let me know what you need, I can get it!"
But seeing Sam before him, halfway to recoiling because he knows who Harry is, the sudden deference, makes him feel nauseous. Is this really how people see him, when they know who he is?
"You- you don't deserve this," he says weakly, gesturing to Sam. As he doubles over to pick up the crutch, and hand it back.
"What's deserve got t'do with it?" Sam frowns, anxiety bright behind his eyes. But he goes on anyway. "I'm still payin' off my trip here. Haven't even touched what I owe fer room n'board the years I've been here. An' this-" He gestures with his head to the hospital bed. "I'll be payin' this too."
I'd like to ask you a favour. Once Kikimora is feeling a bit better, I'd like her to make up for what she did. Would you be willing to teach her the job you do to prepare the buffet she wrecked? Let her help you for a few days?
[Samwise makes a soft sound, considering in his throat.] That'd be very fine, I think. An' I'm prob'ly the best person she could work in th'kitchen with - it ain't designed for either of us, but I'm in the habit of makin' do.
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Audio
After several minutes of fumbling.
Re: After several minutes of fumbling.
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One hundred and thirteen. The round door.
Spam
Be there in ten.
----------
Which he is, prompt as ever.
Huh. Round door. Definitely delivering on the description. The frame is a little low, but Sweeney supposes that makes some sense with the fellow's stature. He raps on the wood three times.
Re: Spam
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"Sweet fuck. You got an outside." The Warden's cabins he's been in have been amazing; multi-roomed spaces, but they are still that. Rooms. This is...something different. This alone would be worth graduating.
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"These real? Or they...well, whate'er the Enclosure makes shit outta?" The potential is inspiring.
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Sweeney lifts his hand to smell the oils. Real thing, almost certainly.
Why can't he just fucking graduate?
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Sam's back in a few moments, bringing a tray. What a hobbit calls tea, anyone else would call a hearty lunch, even considering the difference in scale. He sets it on the end of the bench, happy to sit on the mossy ground himself. "Help yourself, there's another pie if we do for this one," he says, pouring his own cup.
Re: Spam
There's no way the Admiral is going to show enough mercy to assign Sam as his proper Warden; it would be too kind.
His eyes dance over the offerings. He's confident he could clean all of this on his own, but the fact there's so much, both in amount and diversity, is wonderful. But he knows better. He laments not being prepared or he would have brought nicer food. He'll have to make due.
Sweeney reaches into his jacket and pulls out two apples tucked in his large hand, and sets them on the bench next to the tray. His hand back in, he produces a wheel of cheese, wrapped loosely in a tea towel; it's missing a chunk, but it's what's on hand. Lastly, a small satchel filled with odd candies from Flotilla. Sweeney's found that candy is generally well met for trade here.
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Okay, they have food, they have tea, they've talked about the garden, and there's no weather. So it must be time to talk business.
"You know I 'aven't done this before."
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"Then you've got me fooled. Don't think I e'er been served so nice a tea." Then something else comes to him, and he tilts his head in question.
"Or ya talkin' 'bout the Wardenin' thing?" Because of course he hasn't.
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"As far as I can tell, there inn't a universal way ta warden. More 'bout bein' yerself or some shit." One shoulder shrugs.
"'specially while yer tempin', seems ta be mostly a 'make sure they have what they need an' stay outta trouble gig. Punish them if they misbehave." Sweeney peeks back up.
"Though I've ne'er seen a proper list of rules, much less the assigned punishments fer that shit. Only one I'm sure on is 'no killin''." He rolls his eyes. "E'eryone seems ta agree on that one." Which Sweeney thinks is kind of dumb, given the 'not staying dead' bit, but whatever.
"You got any specific questions yet? Or ya still workin' on dealin' with the general level of bullshit?"
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"I do a'right." He slowly exhales while he plucks up a biscuit.
"Shit I need is too 'xpensive ta ask fer." Sweeney sucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I ain't got that kinda capital. Just lookin' ta earn it." His head tips, weighing another point.
"Course, I've been with temps fer nearly two years. So yer likely ta run inta folk with more pressin' needs as shit goes on."
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"My Luck's fer shit 'til I have it back, but right now it's in Dead Wife's chest, keepin' her up an' movin'." It's clearly tied to a good chunk of self-loathing.
"Adm'ral's got my magic tamped down. Need that back, but without my Coin, I'm a walkin' disaster." Sweeney rolls his eyes at himself.
"An' I gotta curse." That has a far deeper shame. "Where the Mad comes from." His hand lifts enough to imply 'in my head'. He's managed so well to keep free of the moniker, but he knows it's on the roster and his ledger page, so Sam clearly already knows it.
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"I've seen madness," he says, after a moment to get past 'Dead Wife.' "The sort as makes a fellow a stranger to himself, or if not a stranger, certainly no friend. Like that?"
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"I weren't always a Leprechaun." A slow sigh escapes through his nose. "Been lots'a things, lots'a lives. They...stack. Bleed. I...get lost in myself. Memories." Sins. He hopes that makes some level of sense to the stranger.
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Briefly, he pats the pocket of his vest, but he's left his pipe inside. Ah well. He just wanted it for something to do with his hands.
"Is it the getting lost as is the curse? Or all the folk you've been?"
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"The other folk are part of the package." Which now that he thinks about it, certainly don't help. Maybe it is the curse. Or at least some of it.
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"I don't see as how it'd be expensive to ask other folk to help you not get lost, so I'm guessing it needs more'n talk and company."
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"I got someone that helps me. Can't stop me from gettin' lost, but helps me get back ta the present as quick as I'm able." He's grateful for her every day. Sweeney can't imagine how he'd manage without her.
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"That's as good. Should I know who it is, so's I can get her if you need?"
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"Nah. She f'gures it out. 'pparently, I ain't a hard read." Even at a distance. She's private, and he doesn't want to complicate anything by burdening her with the worries of others. She'll find him, he's certain.
"Normally, I just hole up in my cabin an' let shit blows o'ver."
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"You can come by here, too, if you need." Because he saw the way he looked at the garden.
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"'ppreciate it." His gaze wanders over the space. "Sure is hell'uva lot nicer than my fuckin' motel room."
after the incident
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Really could use it, if it's no trouble. Looks like an orc camp, and Mister Hands gone off to have his leg taken care of.
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"Can't let any a'those see the burns. That boy or Miss Maggie or the other miss."
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"I have sandpaper in the box. We can sand the worst of it off."
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"I built the booths to match what was there. And I still had supplies. I brought that."
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Sam turns the sandpaper over in his hands, and finds the block to wrap it around. "Like a holystone, then. Just what this needs."
Re: after the incident
He'll keep working on the spots to prep them for when Sam gets to them with the sandpaper. Four hands are better than two, after all.
Bang! Breach: For Hunter
The worrying is almost as bad as the wound. By the time anyone else is actually around, he's already trying to get himself out of bed, teetering around his room with a pair of crutches he really shouldn't have yet.
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Which is why he ends up at the mines early in the morning, to see what he can do to help; and why he finds Samwise struggling to get his crutches under him.
"Sam!" His own lingering exhaustion is immediately forgotten as he goes to try and help the miners sit back down. "You shouldn't be up yet!"
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"No, I've got to be walking," he protests, holding tightly to one of the crutches. "I can't work if I don't walk."
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"I can't 'fford to be down for long. They'll give my spot away, I'll be back on the breakline."
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Harry this is patently falseand he was so shaken afterwards that he had nightmares all night, but money he can help with. "I-I can-- what do you need? I can see what we can get imported down here for you, to help you heal better."no subject
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"I'm Harrison Wittebane. I can-- I can get my uncle to cancel your debt," he says, sharper than he means. "O-or I'll pay it off myself, out of my own bank."
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"Wittebane," he says, voice a little choked.
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"Your uncle is... him as owns the mines," he says, the words coming out with an effort. "Sir... who do you think I owe?"
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"I-- I know that, but..."
But seeing Sam before him, halfway to recoiling because he knows who Harry is, the sudden deference, makes him feel nauseous. Is this really how people see him, when they know who he is?
"You- you don't deserve this," he says weakly, gesturing to Sam. As he doubles over to pick up the crutch, and hand it back.
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From One Visit to the Next
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On the back of the clearly hand-drawn card, he has printed the date (Dec 28) and time, as well as the location - the Enclosure.