faderift | [OPEN] You were my direction and my roots.

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[OPEN] You were my direction and my roots.

WHO: (open) Myr and everyone; (closed) Myr, Vandelin, and Kit
WHAT: Some days in the life of a busy blind mage as he settles in.
WHEN: First part of August
WHERE: All around the Gallows.
NOTES: no one here but us elves

i.

Myrobalan had hardly put his request in to Casoferrazza before the harried seneschal had given him his approval and chased him off again. The man's haste to get the mage out of his hair had been a little alarming, but Myr isn't about to question what small blessings the Maker dealt out to him.

He places the first of his glyphs on the door to his double room and builds outward, weaving a network of sound and magic he can follow like a spider does the strands of its web. One glyph by every room he needs to know, a matching pair at the end of every major hallway. They're only active when he's close, glowing green and chiming softly in an assortment of different tones; otherwise, they fade to near-transparency and fall silent.

Still, they're a fairly obvious indicator of where he's been and where he hasn't in the three days it takes him to map the length and breadth of the Gallows, measuring his steps and marking what he needs to find again.

[OOC: Myr will be everywhere but the inside of the templar quarters and the upper levels of the mage quarters; feel free to encounter him anywhere but the dungeon.]

ii.

It's been no more than two weeks since the Hasmal contingent arrived and Myr's already out of sync with the waking life of the Gallows.

It isn't something that troubles him much any longer. His gutted Circle had grown used to him being awake all hours of the night and asleep much of the day, or elsewise--he contributed as much as they all did to their survival, so what of it?--so there had been little reason try and repair his schedule.

Besides, it's afforded him certain opportunities for peace and quiet he couldn't have otherwise. He'd marked how some of the more dedicated templars (and at least one knight-enchanter) were up well before dawn to attend to their own conditioning in the courtyard; how it rang with blades or hurried activity at all other hours of the day and into the torchlit evening.

The second hour after midnight, however, sees it standing empty, and Myr slips out into the darkness as gladly as a man going to meet a lover. He takes a moment to stand without the door of the mage tower, muting the glyph there so he can enjoy the velvet silence of the night. Then he begins to pace the courtyard in a regular grid, marking obstructions as he finds them. It isn't so hard like that to locate the space others have cleared for their own practice and bound it in his mind.

Only once he's sure it will be large enough for his own needs does he strip to the waist, folding up his light robe and laying it aside outside one corner of the practice area. Then he retreats back across cleared space, staff in-hand, counting his steps to the center where he stops and crisply salutes an imaginary opponent. The ritual gesture flows easily into the first of the forms, the patterns of attack graven into his muscle-memory.

Out here, unwatched, in the predawn darkness, he becomes for a little while the creature he was meant to be.

iii. (closed)

While they're harder to notice when Myr's not nearby, the locator glyphs aren't invisible at rest. They won't be so hard to follow back to their source at his room in the mage tower, where the glyph on the door gleams faintly in mute indication of the mage's presence.

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To say that Korrin doesn't like the Gallows is a vast understatement. It may be purged of red lyrium and Veil tears at least, but its past still makes her skin crawl. Even without the slave statues and murals, she can't bring herself to stomach the site of such abuse for very long. The only reason she enters is for official business, or to use the communal baths.

The latter is what draws her to the Gallows this evening, as she's been missing the hot springs under Skyhold something fierce. Since hot water's available for only a few hours in the evening, she makes the best of it after a long shift. Soaking for a while is just she she needs to unwind, and it works, at least until she's ready to haul herself out. She's still robed and drying off her hair when the chiming reaches her ears.

Frowning in confusion, she lifts her head. "...the hell?" She hasn't heard that noise before or realizes what it means, so she stands to her full height and glances around for it.

The lure of hot water is a potent one, especially for a northerner who's been missing his chances at it owing to an erratic sleep schedule. Myr's meticulously clean by nature--he'd been sure to mark the way to baths early on the first day of his project--but for the past few days that's meant cold baths at odd hours when no one's likely to be there. Now that he's awake at the right time, for once, a long hot soak seems a suitable celebration for completing all the glyphs.

Speaking of: The one Korrin's looking for is right inside the door to the baths, at roughly shoulder-height for a particularly short elf. Who, conveniently, happens to be available for comparison purposes as he makes his careful way toward the baths, staff tick-ticking against the stone. He hauls up short at the sound of a voice from within, weighing his options--he was hoping to not run into anyone, though he knew that hope largely futile--before shrugging his shoulders in resignation. A much-needed opportunity to warm up completely trumps his reservations.

"Hello?" he calls, reaching out to mute the glyph with a tap once he's inside the door. That'll get annoying quickly otherwise.

Korrin has to bend down to get a good look at said glyph, rather far from her usual line of sight. Not that the placement itself is that unusual; she's used to everything being suited for smaller races. The glyph itself is unfamiliar, though, and she lingers by it with a soft frown until the noise of the staff gets her attention. When the elf taps said glyph, her curiosity grows.

"...uh, hi. That's your doing, I take it?"

"It is," Myr affirms. "I use them to get around, and warn everyone of my dread presence so they can flee before me." His tone is perfectly conversational throughout, even if there's a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth at his own ridiculousness.

"Because if I catch them I'm going to question them to death. On that note, we haven't met before, have we?" He's certain not; he'd remember somebody who sounded like she was speaking that far above his head.

That gets a soft chuckle out of her. "Usually it's the other way around; the dread presence and the fleeing, not the questions." Well, usually not. She can be inquisitive, but tries to save that for friends. "I don't think we have, no. I'm Korrin Ataash, the Inquisition's resident Vashoth mage...or it seems like that, anyway. Haven't heard of any others in the area.

Myr can't eye her up and down, of course, but he can certainly give the impression that's what he's doing. It's made slightly ridiculous by the fact he's not totally sure exactly where the top of her head is, but he tries. "You're at least the second most dread individual I've encountered here," he assesses at last with a grin. "Though the third and fourth were also worth fleeing. The thought of running all over the Gallows to avoid you all, though, is exhausting."

Vashoth is a term he hasn't heard often, and he puzzles over it a moment until it clicks. "Oh, you're--" Don't say an ox, don't say an ox. "--with the horns!" And, also, apparently, an apostate, since he's fairly sure Vashoth don't end up pulled into the Circles. He's not sure which of those is more alarming, though it's an alarm he compartmentalizes for later.

"--It's a pleasure to meet you, though. Myrobalan Shivana, lately of Hasmal Circle."

His hesitance to avoid that particular slur gets Korrin to laugh again, pleased that at least some people have manners. "It's alright, you can say 'qunari'. Not the most accurate term, and one I try to avoid using in Kirkwall since that people still remember the whole Qunari horde mess that happened a decade ago. Not that I had anything at all to do with that, but you know...." Yeah, Kirkwall's a fun and comfortable place for her, as with many others.

"Hasmal...I've been there a few times. I'm a Marcher myself, more or less from Wycome." 'More or less' because that's the closest thing that counts to a hometown in a life on the road. "Wait, who are the others on your list? I gotta know."

"I am, if anything, a stickler for accuracy," Myr says, tongue partway in cheek. "So--Vashoth, you said? Suppose if I'm talking to someone who doesn't know the term themselves I'll resort to the other, but--I know." What can you do when the world's already made up its mind on who you are from what you look like? Ignore them and keep moving.

He raises an eyebrow at the mention of Wycome, still grinning. "Obviously I didn't make it out to Wycome myself, but from the stories I've heard I'll want to visit before I die." Definite bucket list item, now...that it's an option.

"Van Elris has the top spot. Don't know if you've met him but he's shorter than me and you can't miss the eyes." There is nothing whatsoever in his tone to betray that's his cousin he's talking about. "Then after you is that fellow calling himself the Dragon," because really, who except a very dreadful person does that?, "and then the Venatori down in the dungeons, since they come as a package deal." Right now, anyway.

And saying it that way lets him lightly gloss over the fact he only finds one of them legitimately unnerving, rather than jokingly so.

"Vashoth, yep. Tal-Vashoth are the ones that left the Qun; Vashoth are the ones born outside it, but we get used to the Tal-Vashoth label, too." But the fact that Myr seems to be making an effort to keep that knowledge straight pleases her. She hasn't met many people who even attempt that. "Wycome is awesome, but you'd better have a lot of stamina. The good times never really end there.

Van Elris...don't know him. New, right?" Then she snorts and crosses her arms. "'The Dragon'...with a name like that, he'd better have horns, too. So many qunari/Tal-Vashoth names out there are some variation of 'dragon'. We're a bit obsessed like that, for some damn reason." And then a hardness creeps into her voice, her jaw working and eyes narrowed. "Venatori...I've seen their work, what their kind does to shardbearers. It's nothing I'd wish on anyone. If I saw them, I don't know if I could stop myself from punching them into paste. They'd better stay in that dungeon and rot."

"...Right. Maybe that's the last thing on my list to do before I die." Myr's tone is the kind that would properly go along with a certain twinkle in the eye--but, well. "Go out with a proper bang." And not the kind mages are normally known for expiring in.

"Think so. He was here when we arrived from Hasmal--" Here he's got to pause and count, ticking dates off on his fingers across days broken up by his erratic sleep schedule. "--two weeks ago. Likely been haunting the library." Or destroying it and getting banned, as the case may be, but Myr hasn't heard about that.

"And I've been assured," here his tone takes a turn for the mock-annoyed, and even the way he leans on his staff looks irritated, "that Messere the Dragon doesn't have any dragon-like qualities whatsoever, at least as his anatomy goes. But he's certainly pricklish to get along with."

Which is a far cry from the level of destruction a real dragon can cause, so there's that, at least. And, thinking of destruction--Myr sobers quickly at the thought of their unwilling guests. "I hadn't heard," he says, quietly--maybe a little apologetically, for the joke. "About that. Maybe there's room for turning them into paste after we've gotten useful work out of them."

Though he doubts it; pleasant as it is to speculate on enacting retribution against their prisoners for what the rest of the Venatori were up to, word had been given, and it weakens the Inquisition to go back on its promises.

A wistful sigh at that lovely thought. Korrin tends to savor her grudges and the Venatori have gone out of their way to ensure they're on her shit list for all time. "One can only hope. I'm not about to trust they'll be that useful, honestly. All they care about is restoring Tevinter's 'lost glory'; you know, the glory that came at the expense of everyone else. Besides, anyone who'd trust an ancient darkspawn magister to do that for them is already pretty far gone." She huffs and holds back from further ranting because really, she could do on much longer if she ignores restraint.

"Ah, that explains it. I try not to spend time at the Gallows unless it's for work or...well, this. It makes me miss Skyhold's hot springs, those were much more convenient. I didn't need to take a boat ride for a heated bath." She reaches up to check her drying hair, then reaches for a towel to pad it and prevent it from dripping. "If this Dragon is a Reaver, that could explain it. I've heard stories about them getting more dragonish as time goes on. Or a Reaver wannabe, that happens too. There was a qunari one called the Iron Bull that joined the Inquisition for a while, but at least he had the horns to go with it."

At the mention of Tevinter's lost glory, Myr looks briefly ill; that's unpleasant to contemplate. "Their kind have done worse for power," he says. The usual humor's drained entirely from his tone. "He did worse for power. You've almost got to pity them for riding his coattails rather than taking his initiative."

He's as happy to drop the subject when she does, feeling almost like he shouldn't have joked about it in the first place. There are things that ought not be treated lightly and this--this may be one of them.

The mention of permanent hot springs at Skyhold makes him sigh wistfully. "Why'd you ever move away from those? That sounds lovely." He'd contrive a way to set himself up near them and never leave. It's too cold in the south.

"He's a rifter mage, actually--about the first thing we talked about was how his magic doesn't work right here and how much it'd inconvenienced him." One corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile. "I'm expecting to hear that from all of them, honestly, once I get around to talking to them--it's enlightening.

"But--what is a Reaver, exactly? They're the blood-drinkers, aren't they?" Where is that even from--some cultural study? But on whom? It sounds like an Avvar thing...

"Yep, they imbibe dragon's blood...or wyvern's blood, I hear that works just as well. It's a ritual, never seen it myself but I had an Avvar friend who was a Reaver. You'd never want to be on the business end of his ax, trust me." There's a fond though melancholic huff at that, as Korrin realizes it's been nearly a year since his death.

"It was lovely, I'll give you that. But being stuck on a mountain in the ass-end of nowhere wasn't very convenient, so the leadership moved some of us here we could be in the thick of things. Nevermind that there was a shit-ton of red lyrium and veil-tears all over this damn place to fix before we could really move in. They're all gone now, but still...." She shudders, glad to take her chances at the docks.

"Ah, another rifter mage? If you want to seek out more, I'd recommend Hermione. She calls herself a witch, but she's a lot more like a Circle mage than a hedge mage, in our terms. She's pretty damn intelligent and if she hasn't read every book in the Gallows library, I'm sure she's getting around to that."

"...That's...volatile stuff, isn't it?" What he'd read on Reavers is slowly coming back to him and painting quite the (overwrought?) picture. But an exciting one, certainly. "I'd--oh. Had. I take it he's not around to meet any longer."

So goes the world, of course, especially recently, but it's never pleasant to be reminded.

...Veil tears and red lyrium. He matches Korrin's shudder in unconscious sympathy. "Glad I wasn't here for that; I don't envy you any of it. No wonder you stay away." The thought of any of that coming back all of a sudden is enough to make him consider, maybe, a little, other housing options.

Buuut that would put him rather far from the majority of the people he's interested in meeting and require learning the city, besides, and somehow he doesn't think the people of Kirkwall would be quite so calm about a mage putting glyphs everywhere to find his way back home.

"--And she's more like a Circle mage, you say?" That sounds... absolutely opportune; neither Petrana nor Sarkan had seemed particularly academic in their focus, though they clearly knew what they were about with magic. Having a rifter who came to spellwork after the fashion of the Circles presents so many opportunities for comparison studies. "Right. I'll haunt the library until I find her, then. Maybe let her know I'm looking for her if you see her before I do." (~~Not that he'd ever see her, but shh.~~)

"Although on that note, I wouldn't mind sitting down and talking magic with you, either, sometime. What've you focused on?" If he thinks of it as an academic problem, her being apostate is manageable. So he'll keep it framed that way and not panic.

Korrin almost responds sarcastically, then remembers he doesn't know her well and could take it all at face value. Better to be direct now; there's always room for sarcasm later. "Well, I've a gift for lightning magic and battle magic in general. I'm a mercenary, so anything that helps me out on the battlefield is a boon. I even got Vivienne to teach me Knight-Enchanter magic, after making my own spirit blade. Best decision I ever made, honestly." If she sounds a little smug...well, she is. That was no easy feat, either the training or gaining Vivienne's permission as an apostate.

"I'll pass on word. And when I say she's more like a Circle mage, I mean she grew up in a school where she was taught how to use her magic. The magic itself can be pretty different from ours, but she can tell you more about that."

Korrin shrugs, placing the towel in a bin when she's done with it. "Those are just some of the reasons why I stay away. Even without all that, or those grotesque slave statues that used to be here, this place has a terrible history. There's no escaping that, anywhere you turn. That doesn't bother you?"

Edited 2017-08-17 13:16 (UTC)

A strange expression flits across Myr's face at the mention of knight-enchanter magic--a look both sick and longing that's there for a moment and gone just as quickly. Whatever it was, it doesn't color his tone: "I'll say. Not a lot out there that can stop a knight-enchanter once she's set her mind on something."

He makes a silent note of this information on Hermione--and the insinuation behind it. "I'll be glad of her perspective." Even--or especially--if the school she was raised in isn't much like the Circles.

Does the sordid history of the Gallows bother him? "Oh, I imagine it will, once I run out of things to exhaust myself with before sleep." His reply is soft and rueful, the usual humor bled out of his voice. "But I'm most familiar with a mage's quarters," familiarity is everything when you can't see to navigate, "and there's people here I can't afford to leave right now."

He straightens up from leaning on his staff, and adds, "Being so close to the baths is nice, too. Speaking of which--while it's been a pleasure meeting you, Serah Ataash, I'll have to beg your pardon and take my leave; I'd been meaning to get in here while they still have hot water left."

With a polite nod in her direction, he makes to depart.

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[OPEN] You were my direction and my roots.

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