faderift | You can't wake up, this is not a dream [OPEN]

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You can't wake up, this is not a dream [OPEN]

WHO: Logan and YOU!
WHAT: Open log for August and Kingsway, Logan settling into Skyhold.
WHEN: August and Kingsway
WHERE: All over Skyhold
NOTES: mild to moderate horror in introspection, probably nothing else

1.you are not a human being
Some person of seemingly minor importance was being entertained in Skyhold. Logan stood against a wall in his whole uniform except for breastplate and shoulder pads, finely-made clothing that marked him out. He had his arms crossed, hiding the marked left hand, observing quietly as someone he hadn't met yet made a formal welcome to this visitor. He was learning the etiquette and social requirements of this place, so he might be somewhat prepared whenever he had to meet someone important.

2.low on self-esteem so you run on gasoline
Logan had been offered a bed in a tent, at least for now, down in the valley below the castle. It was cold and terribly public and not at all what he was used to, but he told himself it was temporary and accepted it without complaint. He was not a king here, and had no right to demand things of the organization that had taken him in. The distance of several worlds from the Crawler seemed to make him more able to take such things rationally. Some small blessing.

It didn't stop the nightmares, though.

Some nights, he could control it enough to stay in his bed until dawn. Other nights, it drove him up and out of the tent, gasping and staggering behind it to vomit and just praying he didn't hit anything important. He stood there in his trousers with no shoes or shirt, hands on his knees, shaking, left hand clenched tightly. He was covered in sweat, despite the cold night air.

3.are you insane like me
Most of the soldiers didn't want to spar with Logan, which was fine. He was left-handed, which made a spar awkward, and he didn't know what would happen inside his head if he injured someone. The Crawler's influence was lessened, but not gone.

His preferred style of sword seemed rather uncommon, so he had a plain, common longsword, and he was learning on a training dummy what movements might work and what didn't. He paused, thinking he might get a drink of water, but his attention was caught by the light when he let go of the sword. The ache was radiating up his arm -- he'd overworked it, and that was making it worse. He stared into the light, wondering if he might see through it.

Cut it off, hissed the Crawler's sibilant voice. It won't hurt anymore, and it is no use to you. You don't need to fight. You're tainted, broken. Let the blade fall, let all of the blades fall...

He clenched his hand tight, then picked up the sword again and began swinging almost frantically. The water was forgotten.

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Marilaine wasn't familiar with combat drills or the use of swords. Sure she'd seen the guards at the Comte's estate drilling out on the ground a time or two. But she didn't know the difference using a different hand made. She did notice however his sudden frenetic attack against the training dummy. It looked almost painful, which prompted her to draw closer to the yard until she was leaning against the fence.

She waited until his wild swings subsided some, "There are other ways of destroying that dummy that are faster and less painful if that is what you are going for."

She'd be waiting several minutes while Logan tried to exhaust himself enough not to hear his own thoughts. It wasn't working, and he was shaking a little by the time he stopped, eyes almost black with the Crawler's taint surging inside him. He dropped the sword and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath around his tightening throat.

"It's not," he said shortly. Destroy her instead, whispered the voice. Think of her bones cracking under your hands. Logan shook his head almost violently, like he could physically shake the thoughts away.

Despite her desire to not be seen as a servant, old habits die hard, and she approaches him with a ladle of water, ready to offer it up. "Then might I ask what it is you are going for? Certainly, you cannot desire a sore arm?"

He struck her as some noble, though his accent was not Orlesian. It was something in his fighting style perhaps, or the manner of his bearing.

'Minor importance' does not warrant quite the same amount of effort as went into the soiree that Gwenaëlle had missed by mere days in her initial arrival to Skyhold, but nevertheless there is a bit of music playing and in the space nearest the musicians, a few game souls turning about the floor. Boredom, restlessness and the vague notion there might be something worth noting had been enough to have Guenievre dress her hair and dig out a gown she hasn't worn yet; besides that the musicians aren't completely terrible, it has thus far proved an immense waste of time.

She hasn't been introduced. If she can avoid it, she thinks, she might escape quicker and then if she fails to write anything at all it was obviously because she was called away too soon and nothing that can be complained about, probably -

for such a little thing, with such a sunny smile below those hard, dark eyes, there is somehow just not the opportunity for Logan to not go with her when she decides, abruptly, that he'll do.

"I can make it look as if you're leading," she informs him in an undertone, "until you've picked up the steps." He looks as if he'll pick them up. She's going to be so annoyed if she picked the one noble-looking-yet-conveniently-irrelevant man in the room who can't damn well dance.

Get it together, he told himself, doing his best to ignore the Crawler's voice telling him he was tainted and broken and useless. The Crawler's voice was quieter in this place, so it was easier than it might have been. He could hold on to rationality almost all of the time.

He took a few deep breaths, composing himself, then straightened up. "Thank you," he said, accepting the ladle. He took a few grateful swallows before he tried to speak, and his voice was steadier now. "I simply got carried away. Thank you for your concern." This was the 'courteous politician' voice, low and authoritative, but more simply confident than commanding.

Logan was not used to being suddenly co-opted into dances. He didn't dance much these days -- he couldn't remember the last ball or party he had thrown or attended, and even if he could, probably no one would have wanted to dance with him. Certainly, no one would have dared drag their king onto the floor, instead of a complex sequence of messages sent through servants until it was Jasper whispering in his ear that perhaps he should go ask that lady over there for a dance.

It was terribly dull, and there was something almost freeing about just being told that he was going to dance now.

"Fair enough," Logan agreed, placing one hand on Gwen's waist and taking the other in his. Conveniently, the marked hand was against her waist, and still hidden as long as they danced. He'd been watching the dancers, but not close enough to figure out the steps. It didn't seem terribly complex, at least.

She hasn't come to terms with being here yet, often finding herself switching between believing this was her reality and laughing at herself for believing it. But at night, her mind grew tired and a part of part was finally giving into accepting her new predicament. But the sense of dread was clear in the way she walked, her eyes, and everything about her. Her need to go back wasn't due to fondness, but a sense of duty. There she had a purpose, and most importantly, power, enough power to protect the ones she loved. Here she was useless.

So there she was again this night, restless and gazing up at night sky. She was leaning against a tree not too far from the tents, a cigarette lit in one hand and her other securing a blanket around herself. It wasn't keeping her that warm though, it was thin but thick enough to keep her from shivering. She took comfort in her occasional smokes, they gave her a sense of normalcy, knowing far too well they'll soon be spent, much like her sanity at this point.

Her break was cut short abruptly by the rather undressed man, promptly flicking the cigarette to the floor and stepping on it. She took a moment to observe him, noticed the sweat then cautiously made her way near him, gently placing the blanket on him.

"Are you sick?" her voice was hushed, as to not frighten the man.

Besides a sufficiently adventurous couple inserting a spinning dip into the piece, it is a simple enough dance; elegant footwork turning them through the space, and Gwenaëlle directs him through the start with the minutest gestures and shifts, leading as invisibly as promised. ('Lady Vauquelin teaches a rifter to dance' is liable to draw a bit more attention, she thinks, than 'Lady Vauquelin happens to dance with someone, what else is new'. She might've learned to cushion delicate male egos, but that's not the purpose - and it would've been defeated immediately if it were by the fact she told him she was going to.)

"I don't think we've met," she says, when she judges that interrupting his observation is not going to get her feet stepped on. "Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin."

A local, albeit not local to Ferelden, but bearing (and less discreetly, held up in his hand) the same anchor-shard that comes from the rifts; an immediate and obvious explanation for why an otherwise finely dressed thing (unfashionably dark by Orlesian standards, but she makes a pretty complement to Logan's uniform) wears no rings.

Edited 2016-08-17 03:10 (UTC)

Shino's nightmares were of his own making; remnants from Murasame that echoes where his voice no longer flowed. He couldn't sleep through most any night, had taken to moving between castle and valley depending on where he could better listen and learn from the natives without opening his mouth too often to shove his own foot in. Keeping moving meant he didn't give himself the chance. He figured Sousuke might have been proud.

Logan wasn't the first person he'd come across vomiting for whatever reason. Usually it'd been an excess of drink, with the telltale stench clinging to them as they slowly regained their feet and were dragged off by friends either berating them or laughing, as drunk as they were. Logan was perhaps the first to look simply ill, covered as he was in sweat. Shino wrinkled his nose, though he couldn't smell anything more than the scents of the camp as a whole. Even the acidic tang of bile was beyond him until the breeze shifted. With Murasame gone, he felt as if half his senses had died.

He deliberated saying nothing, moving past, but it wasn't really in him to do that in the end. Not to a stranger, before knowing if he really didn't give a damn. Shino moved closer, making sure his footsteps announced his progress. His smile came readily enough, the concern in his eyes not feigned but genuine in the moment that he patted the water flask at his right side. His sword hung by his left hip.

"Water?" For rinsing his mouth or drinking, or hell, washing off. He left the fingers of his right hand touching the side of the water flask, bandage around his palm to help disguise the light of the shard embedded in his palm.

He gave a humorless laugh, and wasn't sure if the hollow sound in it was from his wrecked throat or because he was going to cry. Both seemed plausible.

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose," he said, straightening up and taking hold of the blanket so it wouldn't fall, pulling it around himself. "Thank you, and I apologize." He was holding the blanket with his right hand, left still clenched tight. He pulled it under the blanket without drawing attention to it.

He noticed the flicker of green from her hand. "I see we're in similar situations," he commented.

A turn came, and he managed to guide her through it somewhat smoothly. He was picking up the steps quickly -- he'd learned a fair few dances as a child, after all, his mother knowing he would one day have to socialize with the elite, and at a certain point, they were all rather the same. This wasn't too dissimilar from one that was common in his world.

"King Logan of Albion," he introduced, once she was back properly in his arms. "A title that's become more or less meaningless, in recent days." He didn't want to introduce himself without the title, particularly because he had no surname to speak of, but it seemed important to acknowledge that he had no sovereignty here, lest anyone get the wrong impression.

Logan nodded and took the proffered flask, straightening up as he uncapped it with one hand, his left still clenched white-knuckle tight. He let it hang at his side, not drawing attention to it as he swished, spat, then took a real drink.

It was soothing to his throat, burned raw with bile, though he could feel the cold of it settle in his stomach. There was an insidious whisper in his head, but Logan was just frazzled enough to not quite hear it.

"Thank you," he said, and took another sip before handing it back. "And my apologies."

That tone was one she knew well. A small part of her might have bristled at it out on principle, but the sense that he was struggling with something kept her from frowning as she held out a hand to take the ladle back off him.

"You fight with determination, I will say that." And also desperation if a few of the wilder swings were any indication. "I will admit that I know little about swordplay beyond which end is pointy." Most people frowned at elves receiving combat training. After a moment's hesitation, Marilaine tilted her head slightly, speaking slowly at first as if testing the waters, "If it is not too impolite for me to say, I think your sword arm could do with some rest. At least for a few minutes."

Oh, a King.

What a strange thing it is, all of these people from their different worlds; how strange it would be, she imagines, to be somewhere that Lady Vauquelin meant even less than the little it means here. She considers, for a moment, that dragging him bodily to dance with her (however skillfully it had not looked like dragging) could have gone much more poorly, and she must suppose that he adapts well and quickly to that distinct lack of sovereignty.

Comte's daughters do not typically presume quite that far with royal persons.

There's no one here who'll scold her for it, though, when - well, who's to say it isn't entirely invented? No one from Thedas can refute any claims he cares to make about his own past, where it was and what he did; he's quite obviously high-born, and the simplest answer is probably the truest, that he says he was a King because he was, but ... it's as he says. More or less meaningless.

"You're very new, then. I thought so." She isn't acquainted with everyone, but she is ever-present in Skyhold and very curious; most interesting faces she has at least seen. "Is it very different to where you're from? To your Albion."

Edited 2016-08-17 11:56 (UTC)

Logan's left hand was working, clenching and flexing on nothing as he stood there. "I will rest when I'm tired," he said, some small twist in his tone making it sound like he was agreeing. He picked up the sword again, and there was a brief moment where he seemed confused about what to do with it, looking between it and his hand. He shook his head a little and took hold of the sword in his left hand, holding it tightly. "I appreciate your concern," he said again, bowing his head to her just slightly.

Really, his reaction to the lack of sovereignty had a lot to do with how tired he was. He didn't want to be the vicious tyrant anymore. He wanted the Crawler to be someone else's problem. Now it was.

"There are differences. And similarities." Confident that he had the steps as they began the next sequence, Logan began leading. Maybe not the most skillful lead that Gwen had ever had, but competent. Really, ninety percent of one's success in these things was down to confidence, and Logan didn't think it mattered much if he had a foot three inches out of place (so long as it wasn't on one of his partner's).

"The people seem similar," Logan said. "Fickle and easily influenced, but set in their ways. Only wanting to get by. I can see my world having been like this one in the past, perhaps. A hundred or two hundred years ago." Thedas was further away than that from the Industrial Revolution, but Logan had only a loose grasp on the factors involved. "But I haven't seen much in the way of factories, steam ships, clockwork."

"Ser..."

Among the dummies and trainees is Malcolm, worn from his own bout of practice, though not as worn as the troubled look on his face. He keeps a 'safe' distance back, bow in one hand though all arrows in its quiver for the moment. "Are you quite all right? You looked to be in pain." And now he's crazily chopping away at a dummy. It's a little unsettling.

Imagine how it feels to live it.

"Fine," Logan said, without slowing. He was out of breath from the effort, but that was fine, he was just pushing himself. "Don't concern yourself." Given long enough, he'd tire himself out and have to stop, but who knew how long that might take, and what damage he might do to himself in the meantime?

It had been one of those nights. They seemed to come alone more rarely of late, but now and then they sprung up for reasons he couldn't quite fathom. The nights when the dark and twisted things came out of the shadows of his mind. He slid out of bed, avoiding waking his companion, and made his way into the night to run-walk, to get his blood bumping and his muscles burning.

He had long since learned the layout of Skyhold in the darker hours of the night by now, but it was that which made it easier to spot someone else up at this hour, looking somewhat distressed. He knew the hunched over look of vomiting, and as he drew closer he caught the sour smell of it.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked as he walked up, making sure to make plenty of noise as he did so.

He surreptitiously wiped the mouth of the flask, flashing a brief smile at Logan. The apology was unnecessary. Still, there was no point in refuting it once it was given. "You're welcome."

He slung the flask back over his shoulder, left hand resting over the hilt of his sword. "Rough night?"

The best way to get someone to get concerned: tell them they shouldn't be concerned. "Ser," he repeats, stronger, though not yet a bark of an order, "you're going to drop. I suggest you stand down, take a seat, drink some water, and deal with whatever demons you think you're fighting somehow else."

She wasn't sure if he was trying to dismiss her or not with his polite phrased appreciation, but she knew better than to pick a fight with someone who was used to authority--and he certainly seemed to carry some authority with him.

"It is if you say you are ser. I'll not trouble you further." Shrugging lightly, she moved back to the water bucket and dropped the ladle into it. Then glancing back over him one last time, she looked as if to say something, then shook her head, muttering under her breath: "Nobles."

Logan spat on the ground, still bent over. "I'm fine," he said, voice steadier than he expected it to be.

You're not fine, whispered the voice. You're broken. You should have let yourself fall from that cliff. You could end your suffering, end your pain. It wasn't worth the effort expended in saving you.

He let out a frustrated growl, pressing the heel of his right hand to his forehead. Why wouldn't it just shut up?

"Something like that." Idly, he started rubbing at the clenched left hand, massaging the heel to try to work it open. "It seems there are more of those than the other kind, in this place, does it not?" He gave a grimace that might have been trying to be a smile. It was true, but left out so much. Logan's condition was actually greatly improved in this place.

Logan stopped, and he was shaking. Whether from exhaustion or some other source wasn't clear. He turned a glare on Malcolm. "You do not command me, and I suggest that you stand down, before you are taught a lesson you won't soon forget."

There was something cold and inhuman in his gaze. Logan had forgotten, briefly, where he was and that he was in no position to be teaching lessons. He had these incidents less, since falling through the rift; he didn't often lose his grip on reality here. But they clearly hadn't left him entirely.

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You can't wake up, this is not a dream [OPEN]

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one ; at least a week after the return from asher's funeral.

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