now she's all silence

Independent, selective RP blog for Lady Silence from AMC's The Terror.

[all-silences-blog]

Oh, Silence understands perfectly well what it is Hickey wants her to do. She just doesn’t understand why he thinks she’ll do it at all.

But she has nothing else to do, and a touch of morbid curiosity has her wondering has her wondering just where this little encounter of theirs will go. So she settles down in the door of her little space with the end of the rope and begins picking at the cording. It’s a pleasantly thoughtless task, suitable enough for passing the time while thinking about other things. Like how she wishes she was still in the other wooden house instead of this one, because she has no desire to be near the white men who kidnapped her from her snow home; because she had grown used to the white men in the other house, learned to tell them apart, learned how predictable they were in their habits, and she does not know the white men here. At least Harry Goodsir came with her. She still has one friendly face.

When Hickey turns around to gauge her process, she merely looks at him with as blank an expression as she can muster, then resumes her work with the rope.

[all-silences-blog]

The smile is a nice response. It’s... non-threatening. Friendly. It makes her feel like less of a thing, a curiosity, and more like a person again. (This is not something she has ever had to contemplate before. She and her father tended to live apart from the rest of the Netsilik, but it never affected her sense of identity. But encountering these white men, who treat her as if she is somehow lesser, for no apparent reason... it has been an education, in many ways.)

It also makes her want to smile in return, as a reassurance. She appreciates the kindness. But Harry isn’t looking at her now, so she doesn’t. Instead, she swallows more of the tea.

Then, she says “Qujanaqqutit” again, quietly. Maybe repetition, in the same sort of circumstances, will help cement for him what it means.

[all-silences-blog]

Silence has decided that she doesn’t mind it so much when Harry Goodsir talks, even though she can’t understand him. It’s because he talks to her, rather than at her, as if she is a person worthy of respect. Even more than that -- as if she is a person, period. Unlike some of the other white men who live inside this large wooden house. They don’t meet her eyes, or they ignore her; they talk about her as if she isn’t even there (she knows when she’s the topic of discussion), feeling secure in the knowledge that she doesn’t speak their language. They can say whatever they like. She won’t know.

Harry Goodsir, however, always seems to be choosing his words carefully. He looks her in the eyes. His face is kind, instead of cold and blank.

It makes her feel less alone. 

She watches him over the rim of her cup as he wraps his fingers around the handle on his, and moves to imitate him. (That is better. It might be nice to hold if it were colder here inside the wooden house, but as it is the heat seeping through the mug is a bit too warm to be entirely comfortable beneath her palms.) Then she takes another sip of the tea. It’s... interesting. Silence isn’t entirely certain that she likes it, but it isn’t altogether terrible.

Catching Harry’s eye again, she gives him another slight nod.

[all-silences-blog]

Silence has never seen a wink before, and doesn’t know what it is supposed to mean; but she does decide she doesn’t like it. (In all fairness, however, she is predisposed to dislike anything Cornelius Hickey does.)

Her eyes narrow when the rope lands with a thump just outside her small space -- now what is he doing? First mocking her, then sharing his name, now... what. Asking her to assist him? What makes him think she would agree? Or that she would even want to? Nevertheless, after a moment she shifts to move closer to the door, and picks up the end of the rope to inspect it. Why is he unraveling it, she wonders.

[all-silences-blog]

It does the job well enough; Silence does understand that Harry definitely wants her to keep the strip of meat. She just doesn’t understand why. Is it a peace offering? He’s already made her one of those, with the first meal he brought her. Another gesture aimed towards further endearing himself to her? Perhaps. He doesn’t need to share his food to do that, though. But if he intends it as a gift, she won’t refuse. That would be rude.

So after a moment of looking back at him, just to be certain, she nods and sets the meat back down on her tray, and returns her attention to the tea. Harry seemed to be indicating that she could drink it now, if she wished. She remembers that his tea bag is no longer in his own mug; after two aborted attempts, Silence manages to fish hers out of the hot water. Then she carefully wraps her hands around the mug and very carefully takes an exploratory sip of the stuff.

Unlike the soup from the first night, or today’s oatmeal, she doesn’t immediately spit it back out. But a curious expression does cross her face as she blinks a few times.

[all-silences-blog]

Is he really sharing his name with her now, as if they are allies, or friends; as if they even respect each other at all? Silence is under no illusions here. She respects the sharp-eyed man as a threat, but she does not respect him as a person. He respects nothing about her. He is nothing like Harry Goodsir. (Who, as it turns out, she has spoken in English to, and shared her real name with to boot. Because Harry Goodsir earned her respect and her trust. This man -- Cornelius Hickey -- will never have either from her.)

He really didn’t understand precisely what she was saying ‘good’ about. It’s almost amusing. Almost.

I do not care, she thinks, what your name is. Just as you do not care what mine is.

Is there a point to this, she wonders. If he wants her to feel sympathetic towards him, he might as well not try. If he wants to be on her good side, it will never happen. If he wants to earn her favor, in the misguided notion that it will spare him from Tuunbaq... well, that isn’t up to her. And if it was, she wouldn’t spare him anyway.

So she just nods, equally dismissive, as if he’s just told her that there is snow outside.

[all-silences-blog]

Again, Silence recognizes a few of the words the sharp-eyed man is using: their name for her, both of their leader’s names. Part of Harry Goodsir’s name. But that is all. She isn’t entirely certain why he is showing her the wounds on his back, but they are quite obviously recent ones. Judging from the look of them, they were incurred after she was taken from her snow home; the sharp-eyed man would not have been able to move as freely as he did with them.

The man who called himself aglooka had been very angry then. The wounds must have been inflicted as punishment.

Silence does not feel sorry at all for the sharp-eyed man. If that is his intent in showing her what was done to him, then he has not succeeded in the least.

“Good,” she says, in English. Except not in the way he’s probably expecting her to mean it, and she doesn’t care.

[all-silences-blog]

For a handful of moments, Silence merely watches the little bag of tea settling in -- observing how the water begins to change color, as tiny wisps of... something... leach away from the bag. She knows of nothing comparable in the diet of her people; they drink water, and fresh blood. Therefore she has no expectations for what this concoction will taste like. But there is a small amount of fascination to be had in watching it steep.

She didn’t get a look at how dark Harry’s drink was, which is slightly disappointing. It might have been helpful in judging when to remove the bag, as he has done.

While she waits, she picks up one of the strips of meat on her tray and takes a bite, chewing slowly. It’s not like the meat she is accustomed to eating, but at least it is recognizable as meat. And far more easy to stomach than the oatmeal. She’s also noted that she has two pieces, while Harry has none, today. It makes her slightly uncomfortable -- food is meant to shared equally among the community. Why would he give her his portion? Does he think she needs it more than him?

Curious, she swallows her bite, picks up the untouched strip of meat, and offers it to him.

[all-silences-blog]

If it is possible to transition into a full-on glare without actually changing one’s expression... then Silence has just done so.

As if she needed further proof that the sharp-eyed man holds no respect for her. He’s mocking her. It’s obvious. He thinks her dumb, hardly more than an animal. And for what, because he does not understand her language? She does not understand his, yet dumb is the last word she would ascribe to him. There is too much intelligence in his eyes. But there’s also a... meanness of spirit about him, despite his pretenses of civility. He is someone to be wary of. (Not afraid. Cautious.)

This time, she says nothing, merely stares at him with a defiant lift to her chin.

[all-silences-blog]

Better, this time. It’s a little comparable to listening to the three white men who live in the other wooden house, speaking a version of her language that she is not familiar with; the word is only half recognizable, but it’s preferable to not being recognizable at all.

The corners of Silence’s mouth twitch in the faintest of smiles. She gives Harry another nod, and returns to her oatmeal.

She manages to finish most of it before it regains the consistency of thick mud, and washes the unpleasant texture down with a swallow of water. Then she regards what’s left of the hot water. She has noted the tea bag in Harry’s own cup, and that she has a corresponding bag on her tray, but isn’t certain what to do with it. Does one simply place it in the water and leave it there? Must anything else be done before it is fit to drink?

Carefully, she picks up the bag, and just as carefully lowers it into the hot water, watching it intently.

[alessiapelonzi]

“This place is beautiful to me, even now." 

Portrait of Paul Ready as Henry Goodsir in The Terror. 

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[m-shoots]

Lady Silence sketch

[all-silences-blog]

Of course she has been watching him, now that she is on his ship. She does not trust him. Especially not when he is alone. Dangerous animals are even more so on their own.

When her catches her, Silence does not look away, as she did when she arrived. Instead, she returns his gaze steadily. She understands very little of what he says to her -- lady, she knows as part of the name the white men have given her, ship is the word for their large wooden houses, some of the other sounds are familiar from Harry Goodsir’s visits -- but his tone of voice is quite clear. It’s the opposite of Harry Goodsir’s. His voice is all sincerity. The sharp-eyed man’s voice is not.

“Iqhigiřaa,” she says at length, very quietly and mostly to herself, without breaking eye contact -- if for no other reason that she knows he is afraid of her, and she can accuse him of it without his even knowing.

[all-silences-blog]

Oh. Oh. He’s trying to make a record of what she’s saying.

Studying her, much the way she has studied seals, perhaps, learning how to hunt them. Harry isn’t trying to hunt her; Silence can see that much. But she isn’t at all certain how she feels about being studied. She doesn’t want to study the white men in return. She only wants them to leave. The balance of the land will not be restored until they do. So why bother making the effort?

Because if what she fears is true, the white men will not be leaving for a long time. And she is doubly afraid of doing what she knows she must do, eventually, as her father’s daughter. It will be a lonely existence if she has no one to talk to.

(Though she suspects Harry Goodsir would continue to visit, and talk to her, with or without the ability to understand her language.)

He mangles the word, of course. But the effort is sincere.

“Qujanaqqutit,” Silence says again, at a slower pace, emphasizing the pronunciation. 

[moraldoctor]

all-silences:

It’s definitely palpable. Silence can practically see the excitement radiating outward from his body, and feel it in the air like the prickling of gooseflesh. (But she has always been sensitive to such things. It runs in her blood.)

“Qujanaqqutit,” she repeats, just as slowly, while trying to think of a way to communicate what she means. Looking down at the tray of food, back to Harry, back to the food, back to him. Then, after a moment, she nods once. “Qujanaqqutit.”

Harry reaches into another pocket and pulls out a small notebook and pencil, never breaking eye contact with her and moves closer. “Could…could you repeat that just once more, please?”  He assumes she’s saying “food” or “thank you” but isn’t sure of the two yet, although he’s never heard a language in which “food” is such a long word.  In that case… “You are welcome.” His guess is good enough for the moment and he wishes to acknowledge her either way.

[all-silences-blog]

Silence holds that eye contact until Harry finishes speaking, then looks to the items he’s just removed from his clothing. She hasn’t the faintest idea what they are, just as she still hasn’t the faintest idea of what he’s saying. (Only that it is non-confrontational, polite, and inquisitive.) She also isn’t certain if she managed to successfully communicate her thanks. His reaction strikes her as a little ambiguous in that regard.

Again, she gives her tray of food a significant glance, nods at both it and her companion, then says, “Qujanaqqutit.”

[deepseamortician]

The Terror Roleplay Masterlist

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Francis Crozier

jestersmuses

Henry Goodsir

moraldoctor

Lady Silence

all-silences

Tuunbaq

abominablesnowbear

[all-silences-blog]

It’s definitely palpable. Silence can practically see the excitement radiating outward from his body, and feel it in the air like the prickling of gooseflesh. (But she has always been sensitive to such things. It runs in her blood.)

“Qujanaqqutit,” she repeats, just as slowly, while trying to think of a way to communicate what she means. Looking down at the tray of food, back to Harry, back to the food, back to him. Then, after a moment, she nods once. “Qujanaqqutit.”