faderift | spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

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spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

WHO: Malcolm "sulky seeker squinty" Reed, friends, you
WHAT: Catch-all of Justinian, also him fretting at his people after the Fade and completely trying to ignore the things that fuck him up mentally
WHEN: all month long unless otherwise noted
WHERE: around Skyhold
NOTES: Fade-related shenanigans discussed or glossed over, a couple of specific starters in the comments

The Fade was...unpleasant. It was unpleasant in the way that a demon masquerading as someone you care(d) deeply for is unpleasant, as facing your deeply embedded fears is unpleasant, which is to say--it was awful. So obviously he'd rather not talk about it and spend a little extra time to himself these days, praying, reflecting, seeking inner consul and finding it occasionally lacking.

Everyone else, on the other hand, would get a little more of him than usual to make up for the introspection, to account for those he's grown fond of, to take stock of the morale of the Inquisition in the wake of the Nightmare. And, apparently, in the wake of Weisshaupt, but details from that are slim at best at first.

Courtyard

Sometimes it seems as though Malcolm wants to do nothing but hone his already fairly honed skills, whether it's sparring with wooden pikes for swords, whacking at dummies with his personal sword and small shield, or trying to see from what distance he can still nail a headshot with his shortbow. Other times, his training involves his curly poodle, making hand motions for orders or barking out a few verbal commands in Orlesian through a makeshift obstacle course, or trying to get a certain battle action just right, or...playing fetch. Hopefully she doesn't bring you a slobbery training sword to throw.

Battlements

The reconstruction and repair of Skyhold has hit a few hiccups recently, from disabling rain torrents and hallucinatory illness, to many of Skyhold's leaders and workers getting sucked into the Fade at Adamant, to...so many little things that go wrong. But still, with enough hands, it's coming along well. Malcolm uses the high perch of the battlements to clear his head, take assessment of the areas of Skyhold that still need more work, and gaze out over the valley at the little tent city forming in the shadow of the castle, always peering at the horizon for smoke or for signs of approaching armies. Also found shooing away people practicing their bloody 'parkour', does this look like a playground, what do you think will happen when your broken body is found down there when you slip and fall.

Great Hall

There are precious few places within the hold that are quiet enough for him, other than the war room, personal private quarters, and the garden (and the small alcove set aside as a small area for Andrastrian prayer). So he's stopped trying to find the quiet and embrace the inevitable, settling in by fires with a meal and drink to look over letters or notes or other papers, sometimes sketched out maps, or reading books borrowed from the library. Sometimes he seems distracted, his gaze up but far far away, a frown worrying at his features.

Wildcard

Hit him up in places that also seem like places he might be. Bump into him sending off a notice in the rookery, heading off to early morning prayer, taking his horse out for a trot, assisting in building/rebuilding projects, throwing something together for himself (or someone else) in the kitchens...

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Lady Thevenet still haunts her usual haunts until it is time to retire to her room, and then Malcolm grows concerned because she is not in her room. Her room in fact is no longer hers. Upon asking around, he learns of her move out of Skyhold to the Grey Warden tents.

She has, apparently, chosen to take up with a strapping Warden. That is...nnnnice? Unexpected, certainly. It seems dangerous to him to so directly consort with Wardens when their reputation is so very on the line (or quite over it, many have decided), and then there's the fact that he knows her manners regarding game pieces, and it would hardly seem fair to get involved with her and perhaps not knowing this about her. He only knows of Ser Hansen through reputation, and while he seems from that an upstanding sort...well, in a way, that almost makes it worse, doesn't it?

He will ignore what that might say about him when he finds her, approaches with ease and a clearing of his throat to announce said approach. "My Lady," Malcolm begins with a respectful nod. "I fear we no longer haunt the same places as we did before to facilitate our talks. A great shame I hope to rectify. Is this a bad time?"

In the wake of all the reminders of the Fade, he can't help but consider the illness, spirits pressing up against the Veil, against periphery. Dreams seeping into the surroundings. He hadn't been terribly forthcoming with Vasran when she had witnessed the vague marching of Templar and Seeker feet, the crushing of mages underneath, but facing down the half-dead visages of what some may call innocent and some may not Rivaini, reaching for him, to pull him down, to inflict their magic on him...

The memories are still fresh, only two years ago, right around the time when everything fell apart for the Seekers, for him. But the Nightmare drew on the fears of everyone, and he tries not to let his own inner pain show. No need to make it about him.

He's not sure where the mage Vasran was during the whole ordeal, if she was even in the Approach much less at the fortress when the rift opened wide. Surely it would have been just as terrible to her if so, and if not, then there's no harm in making sure she has come out of whatever latest project ongoing unharmed. Or at least unaffected by another bout of forcible truth-telling. In fact...

"If I ask you a question," he starts easily enough when he strolls up to her, a quirk of a smirk on his lips, "are you still bound to tell me nothing but the truth, or have we long since passed that point?"

Seekers need to stick together. They are so few now that it some days feels pointless to even identify as one. Three of them now, with all the rest abandoned or unaccounted for? But it makes his connections to Cassandra and Aleron all the stronger.

And he has to swallow down a terrible thought about the kind of things Aleron must have witnessed. There's already been enough tragedy in his life, and the Nightmare could only feed on such a thing.

This time he doesn't start with any words, just has a bowl of thick and meaty stew in each hand, sets one by Al, settles down with his own. Doesn't start to eat yet, merely keeping his hands warm around the bowl, letting out a long breath as his body slowly relaxes.

He's not avoiding anyone per se. It's just that, in the wake of the Fade, he Nightmare, he's found it prudent to try and gather himself back together in what little solitude he can muster. Not much, in the Approach (unless he wanted to wander into the desert alone), but more, thankfully, back at Skyhold. It's difficult to put into words how he'd been shaken down to his roots, the emotional drain more than he'd care to admit.

But of course he is, as he always is, fine, and he must go about his business. They all must. They must carry on. He's always been very, very good at carrying on, a proud Reed trait.

And surely Cassandra also is carrying on. Just fine. Surely she is every bit as fine as he is. Which is to say...fine. Still, his look carries the tenseness of worry, shoulders stiff from carrying invisible weight. "Lady Seeker." The (not quite true) title gives more of that concern away, his informalities forgotten when he is tight.

It's hard as well to figure out just what to say. He isn't here on official business, but to express simple concern seems...well, she isn't sick, so that isn't an excuse now, and she hasn't exactly done anything particularly unusual. But to simply ask if she is all right? That opens up a door wherein she might ask him the same, and then it may be a game of awkward lies to placate one another.

Thank the Maker for privacy.

"Perhaps we could sit and talk for a time, if you are not too busy for it." Sure. That doesn't sound awkward and weirdly social of him or anything.

"I think I've not changed my habits so dramatically," she says, in the terribly mild tone of one who knows precisely what he's getting at and that it is not, in point of fact, whether or not she still visits the library or the tavern.

(Yes, though her patience for the tavern crowd does wear thinner than it once did.)

"But," ever so brightly, closing her book with a snap to give him the unsettlingly direct focus of the whole of her attention, "you know, Seeker, that I am always glad to make time for your company. By all means, do join me."

Funny how blood mages and murderous Templars and demons are no problem, but faced down with Benevenuta, he has an urge to back away slowly as if confronted by a beast. Surely Ser Hansen knows what he's getting into by now...

"Then perhaps it's been a terrible matter of timing as of late," he suggests, taking a seat. "And I have been traveling around the Western Approach until just recently." As another possible explanation. "I do hope you've been spared some of the dreadful occurrences there, between the Venatori and the abandoned dead and the demons. And the sand. It can be terribly difficult to expel all the sand from one's clothes."

"That is not my title, Malcolm."

She may never get him to stop saying it, but she still feels the need to remind him, occasionally. There is no Lord or Lady Seeker, not anymore, and if there were it would hardly be Cassandra.

She takes a moment to study him, one eyebrow raising at the request. Talk? He never comes just to talk. Of course, it's not hard to guess the real reason for his visit. Their time in the Fade had been...trying, but when are their lives not?

Her first impulse is to refuse him. She has no shortage of work to do, as they both well know. But she notes the tension in his shoulders, in his face, and her own expression softens, her answer surprising even her. "...All right."

"Some of them," she says, setting her book aside and - smiling at him. "Some of those experiences I did not mind, but certainly it was..."

Even Benevenuta was not unaffected by a sojourn through the Fade; as ever, Benevenuta is not interested in dissecting the matter in too great detail, a moment of neutrality in her expression the only real, visible concession she makes to wherever it is she goes as she considers what it is that, perhaps, she did mind. Her fingers curl in her lap and she says,

"Quite the occurrence. But I welcomed some heat."

That neutrality in the wake of a smile is enough, the pause in her words. Though mild, there is a dawning realization on his face. He'd hoped--he had hoped that perhaps she had managed to be spared the event, but it just makes his visit all the more appropriate in his mind.

"There were certainly too many there who were terrible at handling the heat and the sun, even with warnings." That is what he says instead of asking are you all right, because he can only imagine the answer. Were she not 'all right', she would likely lie to his face so as to not flash that weakness at him. They are friendly, they are friends, but he isn't that to her. He's not sure anyone is. Perhaps this Warden.

The thought only briefly stings. Would he do any different in her position? How dare he presume that someone should confide in him when he so rarely confides in anyone but the Maker Himself.

"Still, it was good to be out of the chill of the mountains. It's been very long since I'd ever traversed the desert so. And the Inquisition--we--deserve some of the victories gained there." And the Fade was a victory. Important to remember that.

He bows his head in apology and acknowledgement. One day he will actually learn. Maybe. Sometimes the slip is deliberate and other times he's too distracted to make it deliberate.

"I'll try not to take up too much of your time," he says, which should mean getting to the point. There's a moment when he considers being seated, but his anxieties keep him from wanting to sit. To stand is fine. He is not one to pace, but he would be doing so if he were.

He can't start with 'how are you, are you well, does everything you saw in the Fade make you want to crawl into a hole and never see the sun again'. But he can start with: "The Fade researchers must have plenty of work on their hands now, to try and figure out how a rift being so deliberately opened could react in such a way. I pray it never will, but should an issue like the Nightmare arise again, we may have to consider another strategy or another method of drawing it out. That it was defeated on its own ground is nothing short of a blessing."

There. That sounds at least slightly more businesslike, even if it's nothing Cassandra hasn't already considered. ...Damn. That must sound patronizing, then, or perhaps childish? Damn damn damn.

Of course he brings the Fade immediately, and Cassandra stiffens instinctively. But Malcolm is all business, almost...overly so. He sounds like he's delivering a report, or contributing to an ongoing discussion of strategy...except, of course, that he had been assigned no report, and offering unsolicited suggestions on strategy is hardly his place. Her eyes narrow, and she frowns. What is this? Mere social awkwardness? Or does he truly think that nothing he's saying had already occurred to her?

"I have no doubt that the Maker was on our side, but the strength of our soldiers and the others involved was doubtless just as important," she says shortly. "Is that all?"

Cade can barely believe any of them survived, let alone walked out of the Fade, but here they are, back at Skyhold. His inclination is, as always, to keep to himself and stay out of trouble, but on one particular morning he can't help noticing the Seeker's presence at the current construction effort up in the Keep.
He spends hours waffling, second-guessing himself, debating on whether his company would be welcome at all, but then he remembers a certain decision he's made and decides to take the leap.

"Seeker," Cade says quietly, approaching him and giving a proper military bow despite wearing the clothes of a laborer. He's not going to be the first to mention it, but they both know what they saw, what they heard back there in the Fade.

His stance only gets more rigid at the casual dismissal. Of course, he's being...ridiculous and roundabout. And she seems...fine. Of course she seems fine. Of course Lady Cassandra Pentaghast would be fine fighting nightmares in the Fade. "No, ma'am," he says crisply, because damn it all, he might as well get on with it.

Give him a moment to gather his words back up. "After...all that happened in the Fade, I...had thought it might be prudent to...check in with you." No, that's not quite the right phrase. "Check up on you, in fact." That's not weird or overly familiar, is it? Oh Maker, it is, isn't it?

Doing honest labour feels good. It's productive, makes him one of the guys rather than some lofty figure with a fancy nonsense title, and it gets some of the energy pent up out. Keeps him occupied. He doesn't have to consider anything terrible, or if he does, he can do so in a state where he keeps too busy to mope or do something stupid.

Properly addressed, he turns from the board he's been hammering and nearly swallows the nails tucked between his lips. Cade is not someone he had expected to see, and yet now it is twice they've run into each other lately. This time is, however, very deliberate on Cade's part. The man actually approached and spoke to him with nothing on the line to egg him on. Malcolm isn't sure if that's truly an improvement, honestly.

He plucks the nails from his mouth between fingers, gives him a nod. (Casually looks for any handler around Cade, just for a brief moment.) "Ser Harimann. Come to put yourself to work?" No need to bring up anything...awkward.

Don't worry Malcolm, Cade is more afraid of you than you are of him. It's a general rule!
Based on the state of his clothes and the dirt smudged on his hands, it's fairly clear Cade has been putting himself to work since this morning, but he just nods for the sake of small talk. He is, of course, immediately regretting initiating a conversation, and wonders when his self-destruction turned from considering throwing himself off the battlements to the much more subtle but equally effective practice of approaching Seekers who would be happy to push him.
"I..." he begins, and nearly backs off then and there, but he has to try. "...I wanted to... make sure you're all right, ser."

"Check up on me." She raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow in a gesture that would send most people skittering out of her sight.

But Malcolm is not most people, of course. He's not one to be cowed by a frosty glare, even from Cassandra, and she...He knows her better than most. He has seen her, if not at her worst, then certainly not at her best, and he had not judged her for it. More importantly, he had not lost his faith in her or her abilities, even when she had admitted to weakness or doubt.

(and of course the Fade had affected her, how could it not, but that does not mean she wants or needs to talk about it - )

Still. Still. She is hardly incapable, hardly in need of being checked up on, and she sees no reason to collapse into a blubbering mess simply because someone had asked after her. She sighs, a little more weary than normal, perhaps, and leans back in her chair.

"I am fine, Malcolm. I - appreciate the concern, but it is not necessary."

"You..." His face pinches in confusion. Perhaps...this is not unlike when he went to make sure Cassandra was all right. Perhaps this is how she felt. But of all people to ask after him, he didn't expect it to be Cade. "...want to know if I'm all right?"

He is a man that had called for Cade's execution once. This throws him for a loop. "Well." And now the hard part: how honest to be? "I appreciate the concern." So far so good. "I would like to say that I'm all right. Still fit for duty, to be sure, fit for a fight. But all right? I think I'm still figuring that one out." ...That's perhaps more honest than he normally might have been about it, to admit even that much uncertainty about it, but while the man is (was?) dangerous, he is exceedingly earnest.

Good thing he doesn't expect her to collapse into a blubbering mess, then. He considers where to go from there, whether to bow and mumble an awkward 'of course' and slip back out of the room, or to press the issue, or change the topic to something else. He wets his lips out of nervous habit and continues on. "To face ones personal fears and doubts in the heat of battle, in the physical Fade no less, and come out the other side? I believe that speaks volumes about the integrity and strength of the individuals of the Inquisition. To walk where few have walked since the ancient magisters thought to march into the City of the Maker, to face a literal Nightmare and to be besieged by demons."

He draws himself up a little taller, more sure. Feels his point speaks for itself. "I don't find it so unreasonable a thing to ask after a...colleague." Malcolm would not be so presumptuous as to consider himself a friend of famed Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, founder of the new Inquisition, (very distant) royalty.

"A colleague."

She frowns, but on reflection, she supposes it's true enough. Cassandra looks down at the table. She has known Malcolm longer even than she has known Leliana, he understands what it is to be a Seeker, he understands her better than most - but they are not, perhaps, friends. Not when he continues to insist upon calling her by a title she has not even earned, not when he defers to her in everything - and she is well aware that she has not made it easy to do otherwise, that she has taken advantage of the opportunity to treat him like a soldier, like a subordinate, dismissing him at her whim whenever it is convenient for her to do so rather than listen to his opinion or advice or concern for her well-being.

They had held the same rank in the Seeker Order, but the Order is no more. Cassandra had been the Right Hand, and is now, whether she would have chosen it or not, a leader of the Inquisition - an authority figure, separate and removed from the others by necessity.

Alone, more than she would have liked. But that is not so different than the rest of her life, after all.

"I suppose it is not so unreasonable," she says at last, her heart strangely heavy. "But the fact remains. I am fine." She looks up at him, finally, hesitates briefly before daring to ask. "And what of you? Are you - recovering?"

Just shy of are you fit for duty, just this side of pure, impersonal professionalism. She sighs inwardly at herself, quietly miserable.

Is...is even colleague too far? There is a look about her that, while clearly disapproving, he isn't sure how to interpret. Disapproving of what? Uncertain? At the very least, having shared battles and rare smiles and food and company, he could call himself her colleague. They had known each other before the world so drastically changed, though not in a way anyone would consider well, but maybe the distance is greater than he thought.

Is it the other way around? Did she expect something more? Blast and bollocks, he should have just taken her fine and been done with it.

Since apparently it's him that isn't so fine. Even if hers is a lie, she gives off an air of finding this to be...unnecessary. Which, all right, fair enough, but it shouldn't seem so inconvenient to check in on her. He had done so easily enough when they had both fallen in and soldiered on. To ask if he is recovering means she sees he is not fine. And if he were to say as much, she would catch him out in the lie.

Recovering. How does one do as such? The illness is of the heart, of the soul. His discomfort is obvious, and his internal debate ends when he, at last, takes a seat instead of standing there like he's trying to deliver a report.

"The incident has not hampered my ability to perform my duties," he says with a practised military cant. "As to all else... While I have doubts no prayer can properly assuage, in time, I will be fully...recovered. I'm glad to know that you--" can be so calm and pass it off as nothing, as though something doesn't continue to gnaw at your insides, making you question yourself, more frenzied than the feeling has been for some time "--are well in the wake of the unintended and unanticipated journey."

He pauses, about to leave it at that, but that sinking feeling of wanting the ground to open up under him is steadily growing. "I apologize. For disturbing you."

As one might guess, Cade is not especially apt at reading people. He isn't sure whether to take the Seeker's response as mockery, disgust, or something else entirely, but regardless of the fact he's still a superior and Cade is going to let it happen.
He's actually quite surprised by Reed's candor, and this shows in a slight widening of his eyes. He's offered more than a quick dismissal, which is... more than he can generally expect. "...my.. wish is for your swift recovery, then," he says, his voice awkward but sincere. He looks about to turn away, but pauses, unable to go without saying what he came for.
"...you have good reason for all you do," he says, now keeping his eyes fully diverted to the ground, "I have never doubted it, and never will."

Vasran is sitting on a crate out in the courtyard, as she often does, nibbling on a hunk of bread and watching the residents of Skyhold mill past her. At his approach, and his question, quirks a smile back.

"Are you implying I'm not to be trusted, Ser?" They are back to Ser now, but it sounds different these days, a playfulness underneath the formality.

There's that word again, recovery, as if he had taken ill. They are talking about fears and doubts and regrets given form and waltzing through the Fade physically, and he's starting to feel like he's the crazy one for feeling the impacts of that. They are not talking about a case of the sniffles.

But Cade continues, and it's...actually touching. It would seem like a lie if it wasn't for the fact he's not convinced Cade knows how to lie. So is this simply because of status? Sucking up to him somehow? Or is it a genuine interest in his wellbeing?

Malcolm doesn't know quite what to say to that. "Why not?" Perhaps he shouldn't have responded with that, but the question is apt... "You have every reason to doubt me. You have every reason to hate me. Where does your belief in me stem from?"

"You wound me," he says in jest, a dramatic hand to his chest, "to suggest I would think so little of the lady." After a moment, the hand drops, and his smile, however small, is in earnest. "How does she fair these days?"

"No more curses," she confirms with a nod. "Also pleased to be back in a place with clouds. And water."

Her expression takes on a curious tone, then. "You were in the Approach as well, weren't you?"

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spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

Benevenuta

Vasran

Aleron

Cassandra

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Building Projects!

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