faderift | (no subject)

WHO: Raylan Givens and YOU!
WHAT: Raylan's getting used to Skyhold. Slowly.
WHEN: Mid-late Justinian, maybe into early Solace
WHERE: All around Skyhold
NOTES: Feel free to tag in whether we've discussed CR or not, and pp me on

shockvaluecola if you want a closed starter or you have an idea that doesn't fit a starter here.

kitchens
Raylan narrowly avoided getting snapped with the towel the cook was brandishing at him, chasing him away from the door.

"I wasn't doing anything, I swear!" he protested. "I ain't hardly had a vegetable in months, I'm just trying not to die of scurvy. You trying to make me die of scurvy?"

The cook's response was uncomplimentary in the extreme, and Raylan almost got actually offended, until he remembered the cook might come at him with a frying pan next time. She shouted something to the effect of "and stay out!" then slammed the door. Raylan sighed, perching his hands on his skinny hips, and debated the merits of scratching at the door and whining like a puppy.

battlements
This man is definitely a little old to be climbing on battlements, but here he is. He might be found sitting on one of the high parts of the wall, feet dangling as he faces into the castle, or down in a crenellation, looking out. The lofts of towers with broken roofs aren't safe either, though for the faint of heart, he might just be walking along. Regardless, he'll call out to you as you pass.

"Hey! Yeah, come here a second, look at this."

library
Raylan was not impressed with this library at all.

Yes, it had plenty of books and very nice chairs and everything, but the organizational system, as far as he could tell, was completely insane. History and battle tactics shelved together? Chantry scholarship and spellbooks? Who on Thedas had thought of that, and why hadn't anyone else slapped them in the head? Raylan could be found muttering as he rifled through a shelf trying to find something, having some choice things to say about the brains of whoever had set up these shelves.

courtyard
Raylan had found a block of scrap wood and a sturdy knife somewhere, and set to work. He'd been on a stool in some tucked-away corner of the courtyard for a few hours now, and he was holding a little wooden dragon in his hands. She wasn't particularly detailed, but the broad strokes were there, like for a child's toy. Her wings were spread and her head forward, like she was flying. Raylan was focusing on trying to get her to actually take flight now. He frowned with intense concentration at his wooden creation, willing her to move. The problem was, Raylan had definitely made his creations move and come to life, but he wasn't completely sure how, so his ability to reproduce it on command was sporadic at best.

If someone was very lucky, they might be there when her wings began to flap, lifting her up and away from Raylan's hand.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well. That explained the cat.

Raylan stopped mid-chew as several complicated emotions hit his brain all at once. Slowly, he started to chew again as he sorted through them one by one. Elation; finally, someone he knew! Someone he recognized and had known as a young man, even if they were never close. It was comforting. Rage; so this was the man who'd blown up a motherfucking Chantry. Disbelief; Anders was still alive? And with the fucking Inquisition? The Inquisition had accepted this terrorist into their ranks? And Raylan had joined them too and now they were both in the Inquisition, together? Finally, and this was a very small and minor ingredient, sadness; what had happened to this ballsy, charismatic kid that had ended in him blowing up a Chantry?

"Well," he said finally. He sniffed once, directing his attention to the bread in his hand, breaking off a small chunk. "Thought you were dead," he said. "Does she eat bread?" he asked, gesturing to the cat with the small chunk.

He blinked, and then blinked again. That wasn't how reactions generally went. Anders' head catches up with what's going on and he remembers that things going better than expected is actually a good thing.

"Um. It depends on her mood. Often, yes. She'll eat just about anything if I'm with her." Otherwise it tended to get deposited in his boot. He hadn't figured out the why of that quite yet. Purrelden noses the air, leaning toward his fingers curiously. "She might nip a little trying to get it, but she's careful and usually just uses her tongue."

There hadn't been anything cruel in his memories of Raylan, and the chunk is small, but Anders is watching anyway. It's hard to stop being protective of those he cares about.

"So you've... joined the Inquisition now?"

This was not by any means "going well." Raylan was just still processing the information, and he wasn't going to blame the cat for her owner being a thrice-damned terrorist.

He offered the bread to the cat, getting a nip to the fingers for his trouble but not minding it. He stepped back, giving Anders a once-over. His expression before had been neutral and maybe edging into friendly, but his whole face had changed. He'd shut down into cold assessment.

"I have," he agreed. "And I'm surprised they didn't execute you. Thought someone would've by now."

"And I'm surprised you're actually outside your room."

Cold is more like he'd expected. "I'm not sorry for being alive, and I'm likely to continue being that way for some time, also not sorry. Are you going to launch into some sort of rant now about how your precious cage was taken away and you liked that cage, or walk away, or have a conversation? Just so I know if I'm wasting my time standing here."

Thankfully he's not that invested in Raylan again just yet.

Raylan thought about it. He wasn't going to have a conversation with Anders, that was for sure, and he'd kinda taken the wind out of any sails a rant might have had with that comment. But walking away? The thought galled the shit out of him.

Raylan pulled back his fist, but instead of connecting with flesh, he slammed it straight down into the table. He felt something crack, but he didn't care, gritting his teeth tightly. A murdering terrorist was standing in front of him and not even fucking sorry and Raylan was going to walk away. It was desperately tempting to at least throw something at Anders, spit on him, something, but he knew that if he gave his anger that much room, it would grow beyond what he could control.

So he walked away, heading right for the dungeons and his claimed laboratory, dropping the bread on the stone floor at Anders' feet.

One day he'll find someone brave enough to discuss matters and actually talk rather than judging on a book and some hearsay. But why risk their self-righteous, full-of-themselves anger? Why risk being wrong?

Until Raylan gets his head out of his ass, Anders hope the cracking noise was something in Raylan's hand. Void, Raylan maybe never will. For now Anders can be concerned with feeding Purrelden and ignoring the curious looks.