faderift | War Table: Soothe Ruffled Feathers

Entry tags:

{ malcolm reed }

War Table: Soothe Ruffled Feathers

WHO: Malcolm Reed, Logan, NPCs abounds
WHAT: A Seeker and a Rifter go to Orlais to talk to a really loud Revered Mother to try and get her to stop shittalking the Inquisition
WHEN: Early Kingsway
WHERE: Val Fontaine
NOTES: TBD

Malcolm is all too happy to go talk to someone so deeply entrenched in the Chantry about the Inquisition, a noble representative of how their needs really align instead of conflict, to talk diplomacy and sense and bring a little peace to a little part of the world that might otherwise keep talking against the Inquisition and possibly make their efforts more difficult.

He's less happy about Logan coming along. The man seemed unstable at best, and he's not sure bringing a Rifter along is a good idea in the first place. He waits, at least, until they're on the road to Val Fontaine to say anything about it, although his expression while packing items and setting up his horse is hard, if inscrutable.

Thankfully, Malcolm knows his way around Orlais for the most part, knows where they're going, and can speak the language if need be. They shouldn't be gone for long, not to trot there and have a chat, probably make a few promises, and it should all be...fine. If they don't convince her to quiet down, well, it'll sting, but not for long. It's Logan he's concerned about more than their minor mission.

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The place they were going wasn't too terribly far away. Logan had been dreading the possibility of weeks of riding, but it wasn't to be so. They'd get there tomorrow afternoon, and probably be able to see the chantry woman right away.

That did mean they were stopping and camping overnight, though, Logan and Malcolm and the few accompanying them sitting around a fire and eating the creature someone had cooked. Logan had finished his and tossed the remains away, sitting and watching the fire burn. It was too warm and his eyes were dazzled by it, but he didn't mind. It was better than the alternative. His left hand was moving, clenching and flexing mindlessly.

Obviously if they were going to talk about anything, now was a pretty good time to do it. Still moderately disgruntled by not only having a Rifter along, but one he did not have a good first meeting with, he moved closer to the man. Not too close, not within potential striking distance. Watched his hand. It was said that the mark of the rift was painful.

"If there's anything you need for me to catch you up on, before we meet with the Mother, don't hesitate to ask." Could this man possibly understand the Chant, and the stances of the Chantry, and Orlesians? Did he truly understand what they were doing? But he didn't ask that.

"I believe I've grasped the basics," Logan said. "And most people respond reasonably if one doesn't try to pretend to more knowledge than they have." He knew Malcolm was a little leery of him, and he knew he had good reason. He'd seen Logan lose control of himself. However, that had been when he was already tired and in pain. The risks were much lower during this meeting.

His hand clenched into a fist and held for a moment, then, with visible effort, relaxed into a natural position. "I'll keep this under control during the meeting." Malcolm had obviously noticed it, there was no point in pretending it wasn't there, or that it wasn't strange. He flexed again, stretching it out, then laced his hands together.

"I should do most of the talking. I've knowledge of how the Chantry works, and I'll understand where most of her concerns she's spreading around like a wildfire stem from. Whether we can convince her of the good the Inquisition is doing and can do, that will be another matter." She may not like Logan. And his hand.

"Is it the shard that bothers you so? I believe our healers have a balm that might at least help for a short time. I suggest not showing it off or trying anything with it, unless we run into rifts that need closing." And with only one Rifter, chances were not good of closing any of them right now.

"The shard? No. No, it's..."

How to explain this without sounding insane? "I...may owe you an explanation for my behavior upon our first meeting." Logan had never told anyone during the last four hellish years, he'd kept this secret as close to his chest as he could. He'd thought those he might tell would presume him mad and dethrone him. But he had no throne to lose now, and having done such a fantastical thing as fall through a hole in his dreams, he suspected the people might be a little more credulous than the people of Albion.

"You may." It's a little cold, the response, but only because Malcolm felt he was owed an explanation if there was one. "You were rather concerning. And if you are going to be concerning on this trip, you ought to turn around right now rather than risk it, even if it is a small matter of mere diplomacy."

"There was...an entity," Logan began, speaking slowly. "In my world. It calls itself the Crawler." He took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. "It's a being of pure...darkness. Darkness and malice and hatred. Light, warmth, life, it finds these things offensive."

Now that he'd sprung a leak, Logan found it difficult not to tumble forth with the whole story at once. He'd never been a man particularly inclined to sharing, but maybe he'd been waiting a long time for this.

"I had an encounter with it that changed me. For the worse."

"It sounds like a demon." A most foul and corrupted spirit, not unlike what they fight from the rifts each time one opens. "Has it...tainted you, somehow?"

"Yes," Logan said, nodding. "I hear its voice. Sometimes it overwhelms me and I lose control of myself, find myself making decisions I would never make, in my right mind." He took a deep breath and looked up at Malcolm. "But it's much less, since I came through the rift. I assume it can't get to me as easily. It seems I must give it an opening if it's to do more than talk."

His hand had gotten going again with the clenching, and he nodded to it. "This is just a...a tic I have now. A fidget. It seems my hand hasn't quite forgotten its grip on my sword, when the Crawler came for me."

"That is...distressing." That's about the mildest way he can put it. The man isn't an abomination, though the way he talks does sounds as though he might be possessed, or that something is trying to possess him. That its grip has lessened upon arriving in Thedas is helpful, but that's if Logan is to be believed.

"We might want to talk to a few of the mage scholars, see if they've heard anything like this before. If there is a way to sever this link entirely." It's his diplomatic answer, though he's itching to make sure Logan never has the opportunity to be a threat.

Logan's hand closed into a fist again, and he closed his eyes. "I hope there is," he said, and looked into the fire again. "I shouldn't be a threat during this mission." The emotion with which he'd told the tale -- subtle, but enough that he was obviously genuine -- was gone, leaving a flat tone as he locked it all away.

"I'm learning what gives it an opening and what does not. If I avoid certain thoughts and actions during the meeting, it will have no opportunities." Logan was weak and exhausted from long battle with the Crawler's influence, but he was still fighting. Building that wall against it was fighting.

"It would make me more comfortable if you had spent more time learning what gives it an opening instead of coming along on diplomatic missions. A Revered Mother is not to be taken lightly, nor the concerns that she so vehemently spreads to her followers and to anyone who will listen." It could be that he might be able to use Logan to show how harmless the Rifters are, but that would require Logan and his influence to be harmless. "See that you give it no openings; I have no doubts she will have a few Templars nearby who will not hesitate to remove the...issue."

"I can hardly hide away in a castle forever when there are things to be done," Logan said, a distinctly cool tone in his voice. In Albion, Logan's power had lain in ruling, in making laws and collecting taxes and putting down rebellion. Here, his hands and his presence were all he had. He may be questionably stable, but etiquette and diplomacy were some of the only things he'd ever been good for. And he had, after all, been living with it for four years; this wasn't some unknown and untested thing. He knew what he was dealing with.

"I suppose that is the attitude I wish more people in the Inquisition would take," he admits. Still, it's a troubling thing to admit. But admit Logan did. That does get points in his favour.

"What did you do, where you are from, that you are so eager to be out here?"

That actually made the corner of Logan's mouth tug upward, toward a smile. "I was king."

The king. Ruler of Albion, inherited from his mother the queen. He usually introduced himself that way, but Malcolm was already wary of him. He hadn't wanted to give the impression that he thought he had any sovereignty or authority here, although he couldn't hide that he was highborn. That had presumably been obvious in his general manner since early in their acquaintance.

Certainly of nobility, but one could hardly be certain when it came to Rifters. Malcolm's eyebrows shoot practically into his hairline. "You were king of your land, and you had this...parasite in you?"

There's a joke to be made about how kings normally do nothing but hide in castles and not do anything, but he won't say it. Logan is willing and able to contribute, despite the short time he's been here, despite what's trying to get him in its grasp, despite his upbringing and his former status.

"This must be quite a far cry from what you're used to."

"Yes," Logan said, and the small smile on his face was bitter and cold. "So you can imagine what exactly the consequences were to losing control of myself."

So many people dead. So many people hurting. But it was the only way.

"It is," he agreed. "I'm rather trying not to be an imposition. Everything it occurs to me to ask for, I wonder if it's normal or too much."

"I'm sure the good people of Skyhold will tell you if what you ask for is too much. Mind you that many are wary and distrustful of Rifters." Can't imagine why. "Still, I suppose I understand the diplomatic aspect, then. You've had to deal with your fair share of tedious negotiation and lip service paid."

"I have. I was raised with the art of diplomacy by my mother, the Queen before me. I daresay I can think of no sort of diplomacy I'm not experienced in. I've certainly had to smooth ruffled feathers before." It had been such a long time since he'd done certain things, but soothing short-tempered nobles was a near-daily occurrence for him. Someday, when he didn't fear poisoning those memories, he'd look back fondly on the days when 'diplomacy' meant a drink with a foreign army's men and a tumble with their women. He'd had some time for adventuring, once.

"I haven't so much experience as a king would, though I know I've a much calmer tongue than many." Than Cassandra, he wants to say, but Logan might not know her yet, and he hardly wants to badmouth his superior either way, even if it's true. Aleron is the calmest of them all, of course, but almost to an extreme point. Sometimes in diplomacy one must show emotion to sway another.

"Whatever you may hear about the Seekers, know that we will attempt to keep the peace however possible, be it with words or with the sword. Those of us who are left." Not everyone cares for Seekers, but there are only three of their number now in Skyhold. Maker only knows what happened to the rest--dead or followed a blind leader to some as of yet undiscovered fate.

Logan nodded at what Malcolm said of the Seekers. "I haven't heard much of them," he said. "But that is good to know." Peace being a primary goal was a noble one; unfortunately, it hadn't been an option for him for a long time.

When they finally approach the city, it is filled with typical Orlesian grandeur, but despite its size manages to seem quaint and homey nevertheless. The river keeps trade flowing and temperatures down. The people...well, they aren't all appreciative of the Inquisition's presence, even if it's small. Many ignore the troupe and go about their business, but more than a few times they are given a wary glance. Probably the Revered Mother's influence.

And speaking of, the templars standing at the entrance of the chantry allow them in with a gruff motion, following the representatives behind closely. Despite the time of day, there are still several devoted and lingering followers, praying or singing their quiet parts of the Chant or simply basking in the glory of the Maker and Andraste.

Revered Mother Beatrice sits patiently among them, waiting. She looks young for her position and yet doesn't seem terribly lively--frail, pale, bony. Her chest occasionally heaves, or her body shakes with coughs, but she looks calm and determined nonetheless.

Malcolm gives her a bow from the waist, not quite parallel to the floor but deeply respectful all the same. "Revered Mother Beatrice, we have arrived from the Inquisition stronghold in the Frostbacks to--"

"I know why you are here," she says with a voice that yet seems louder than someone of her frailty should be able to produce. "You fear my disrespect of your organization will turn away those who might seek to help you."

He straightens, keeping his expression neutral. "In so many words, Revered Mother. We wish to bridge the gap and become allies, if you would so will it, if only we could understand your dissatisfaction with the Divine Justinia's approved Inquisition."

Logan accorded her the same bow as Malcolm, figuring he probably couldn't go wrong by imitating. He took a small step forward when Malcolm was done speaking.

"Revered Mother Beatrice, please allow me to introduce myself," he said, his manners cordial, but firm and strong. A perfect king's manners. "My name is Logan. I recently joined the Inquisition after falling through a rift." He paused to let that sink in. "I am no worse for wear, but for the shard the rift left in my hand, and I am most certainly not a demon. My hope is that by talking with you, I might persuade you that we rifters are not to be feared. At worst, we are simply foreigners, trying to find a way home."

Some of the guards were looking wary and even paranoid, but this was calculated -- being up front with the valid information was much, much more likely to go over well than allowing her to talk to him believing he was one thing, only to reveal himself to be something else.

For her part, Beatrice doesn't so much as bat an eye at Logan's admittance, but the Templars on either side of her tense visibly. She levels a stare at Logan, considering him with a tilt of her head. Perhaps she likes the idea of having power over them (or the Inquisition), perhaps reveling in it just a little. "You would come to me yourself, a demon in man's guise?" Her gaze drifts back to Malcolm. "Or perhaps those in the Inquisition who should know better have been taken in by a sad story and some rantings of madness." That hangs in the air for what would be a dramatic moment had she not had a bout of horrid coughing.

The truth is something that is close to Malcolm's heart in several ways. But he's not sure it would do much good to admit that, despite their conversation on the road, he can't be certain of Rifters. Much less the one accompanying him. Omit that detail, perhaps. "You call these people who have fallen out of the rifts mad, you call them demons, but when the time comes to close the rifts that spit out demons on our lands, including Orlais, who will close them? Not you, not I, but those with the mark of the rift on their hands."

At least the idea of closing rifts seems to get her attention, more than it is already gotten.

"I've witnessed Rifters using this ability myself, to their own pain and detriment. Were they demons, why would they choose to do that?"

She looked at Malcolm as he spoke, then fixed her steely gaze on Logan again. It was obvious that that had gotten her attention in a serious way. Were there rifts near Val Fontaine, Logan wondered? That might be a way into her good graces.

"Is that true? You can close rifts?" she asked, squinting at him.

"Yes," Logan said with a nod. "I helped to close the rift I fell out of."

She looks between them steadily. "This is the sort of magic you let run wild in your Inquisition?"

Ah, the Chantry and mages. Good times. "The very Herald of Andraste herself could close rifts and the breach," he reminds gently. "Would you call her mad, or a demon? No, it is simply a power granted by the Fade, in one way or another. Perhaps even by Andraste."

"Do not presume to lecture me on Andraste, Seeker. You ranks have fallen as the Templars have. Save," she continues, making a small gesture to one of the armored figures beside her, "those who have remained loyal to the Chantry." Malcolm looks like he's about to argue further, either about Templars, or the Seeker Order, or on the heavy implication of her grudging that the Inquisition forces are not aligned with the Chantry's, but the same hand of gesture makes a slicing motion through the air, cutting him off. "I wish to see a rift closed, if what you say of your rifters is true. Can you do this for me, rifter Logan?"

Logan glanced at Malcolm. He felt it had nearly taken his hand off to close the one rift he'd closed, and that had been with many others doing the same. He didn't want to try it on his own, but he didn't want to appear to be a liar, either. He certainly didn't want to lose whatever goodwill he'd earned from the Mother.

"Given a few days to prepare, yes," Logan said, looking back at her. "A week at the most. We would need to send for reinforcements before we could take on a rift. Of course, we would remain here in the meantime and offer any assistance we can." They had a healer with them, no one particularly impressive but a competent enough medic. Someone ought to see to that cough.

Thank the Maker. His frame hadn't tensed up any farther than it already was, but he'd been worried that Logan would run his mouth off and straight up agree to take on a rift himself. "A week?"

"Indeed, Revered Mother. You must understand, the Herald held much power in her hand, but the shards that appear now are like smaller pieces of a whole." That's his theory on the matter, anyway. That it is, as far as he's aware, unconfirmed doesn't matter much. "It takes more than just one person to close a rift. We frequently take groups of three or more just to go close them, and Logan is the only one with a shard we have brought." She looks unhappy about the delay, to be sure, but she doesn't immediately argue. So before she can, he picks up on another topic. "In the meantime, yes, we will stay and assist with what we can. We've still much to discuss, such as the Templars."

"The Templars--" Though he has yet to suggest they fetch their healer to see to her cough, this latest interruption of her lungs makes it seem more prudent to do so. "The Templars and the mages are both accepted into your ranks. You seek not to punish either side in this war, nor do you confine your mages to a circle. Do you understand," she rasps, "the damage and pain this rebellion has caused? We need Chantry-loyal Templars to bring in apostates, and we need circles for the safety of both mage and non-mage. We need people who know their place and do as they are told, not run off to burn down villages and abandon their posts."

Malcolm thought of Cade and his unwavering stances on being a Templar. "This is a second chance for both sides, to find escape from the rebellion, to start again. They have put their differences and histories aside to serve a greater good. Should they come to harm one another under our banner, they will be punished, but until then, there is no picking sides to this. We need unification, totally."

"There is always more strength in unity than division," Logan offered, but mostly kept his mouth shut. He still didn't really understand the mages and templars thing -- neither of those really existed in the same way, where he was from. And neither did any broadly-followed organized religion, actually, so even the chantry was new to him. He was here to help with the rifter thing.

"Perhaps, Mother Beatrice, we should cut to the chase. We all three know why this meeting is taking place. Given time for travel, we shall bring enough people to close a rift before your eyes. We will close any rift threatening Val Fontaine, and given notice, we will always come to close any rift threatening Val Fontaine should more appear. Your demons will be slain. Among our number, we shall see to it that one of our healers takes time to look you over. If the fact that we have taken in these Rifters, and mages, and Templars alike so troubles you, then perhaps you and your loyal Templars will find it better to take care of your rifts yourself?"

It's a bold move, to ever so politely suggest that if she doesn't like it, she can burn. But he isn't finished. "Ser Logan is correct; in these dire times, unity means more than lines drawn on a map or differing opinions on what should be done with mages. We will fall if we are not united, and while we may not all yet sing the Chant, that is surely a step closer to what we hope for someday. The Inquisition takes in everyone, helps everyone should they allow us to. When the world is no longer on the edge of destruction, then we may return to our ways of bickering and internal dispute."

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War Table: Soothe Ruffled Feathers

on the road

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val fontaine

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