#samson001

For whatever reason, Ralf had wanted to go to the Omega thing. Sawyer cannot think of a single thing worse than that sort of crowd right now, so has happily offered to look after the shop. He’s under a car working away on it, quietly content, when he hears someone arrive. “Hang on, with ya in a minute!” he calls, tightening up some important car related thing before rolling out from under it and grabbing a cloth to wipe the engine oil from his hands.

“Stop.” Leo swings her sword around in a neat arc; her hand remembers the weight of it, and the balance, though it’s been a little while since she practiced. More of her time is spent helping the young students through therapy; combat has taken something of a backseat. It can never be truly forgotten, though, because occurrences like this are always a risk.

She doesn’t recognise the figure, but she knows that he’s a threat. Beyond that, she’s not really interested in asking questions. The nice thing about being as old as Leo is, is that she’s lived through so many disasters. So much war and death, endless suffering and cruelty. These days, she’s pretty unflappable. She’s concerned for the young students hidden away in nearby rooms, but in herself Leo is calm. “You can still leave.”

The bag broke. Of course it broke. Thank god the little carton of milk hadn’t spilled when it hit the floor, or she’d have been in real trouble. With a heavy sigh, Tiffany knelt on the cold corridor floor and started gathering the rogue groceries in a pile on top of the split paper bag. She’s not going to cry, but her face is set in a watery frown as she scoops up a few loose rolling clementines. She can so rarely afford fresh fruit, and she was looking forward to them. At least, she supposes, they’re wrapped up in their friendly orange skins so that they won’t be dirty when she eats them.

She had a way of making herself at home there even if her presence is not entirely welcome though perhaps her wallet still was. Sentiment was something that Fleur tried to give no credit to and yet the smell of freshly baked goods takes her back home to France with one of the few enjoyable things that had marked her presence there. Smell was a powerful sense and triggered memories with ease, human or vampire alike. In one way, she’s an old soul: nothing is ever as good as home. Paris might not have actually been her home in the humans years of her life but no one could tell from the way that she acted.

“Mon chouchou, no need for despair. I promise I will not scare off your other customers.” Whether or not her promise was to be trusted, well, was quite difficult to say. It depended on her mood and that tended to be quite fickle more often than not. The only thing predictable about her mood was that it was unpredictable. A smile pulled across the curves of her lips, hands on the counter and leaning forward. “Tell me you missed me.”

Graves’ jerks upright, his eyes wide but he doesn’t see Delilah, doesn’t see anything that happens for the next few seconds. He rips the keyring from her hand, it flings off his finger, sliding along the floor. Delilah lets out a sharp wail, small balled up fists wailing at Graves’ knees and beginning to cry. Even that doesn’t stir him. Eyes wide, he blinks away the fog over his vision. It’s something like a dream. He leans back against the pillar behind him, looking past Delilah, far into the distance where the station’s entrance sits. 

Dread washes over him. 

Anders doesn’t know what it is that brings him to Samson - maybe it’s the way the supposedly changed former Knight-Captain babysits them. Maybe it’s a memory of years ago of bags under eyes, of words of how the Chantry uses and then discards, or of the trial. Maybe it’s loneliness.

He doesn’t know and he doesn’t really care.

He doesn’t even realise he’s going there until he’s there, lips pursed. He didn’t go to the Well of Sorrows, didn’t see him, didn’t fight him, which gives him the room to say, “Raleigh Samson, as I live and breathe.

“Maker, but do you look awful.” Anders doesn’t look any better. He’s less gaunt, with someone usually making sure he’s fed enough to not die, but it’s clear the years have not been kind. His hair and eyes are dull, nails bitten ragged and fingers scabbed. His light brown eyes stay focused on him - his staff is on his back, still, a show of weakness, of vulnerability. He could never reach it before Samson reached him, as they both well know, never draw magic fast enough to repel him.