we smash like glass

[fightingale]

WHO: Herian Amsel, Leliana, Ruby Lucas & others.
WHAT: amusing comment about catch alls here
WHEN: throughout September
WHERE: various.
NOTES: closed threads for the month of September, please don't hesitate to make me if you'd like something with Ruby, Leliana or Herian.

Comments

( closed ) for Dorian — gently backdated to the end of August.

[eviscerates]

It was all kind of sweet, actually, the kind of sweetness that Ruby wasn't really accustomed to. Sweetness was not meant for her - not in her own world, and certainly not in one that wasn't. She has a blue ribbon braided into her hair, perhaps recognisable as the same pale blue Adelaide had wrapped around her wrist for a few days. And instead, when she'd left, Adelaide had worn a woven bracelet, not so different from a few that roll down the long of Ruby's forearm, a thread of red cloth woven in with the soft black leather. And if that were not clue enough, if that weren't quite enough to make a man like Dorian raise his eyebrows, there was the parting kiss Adelaide pressed to Ruby's knuckles before she went, a casual thing done in the courtyard that might seem ridiculous to everyone else, but left Ruby with warmth twisting in her gut.

Sweet things were not usually for her, but she treasures the ones she has been given.

Right now the ribbon is being used to keep her hair back as she goes through inventory, carefully inspecting jars of herbs and bundles that are still drying, murmuring to herself as she frowns, checking against the list and the supplies of seeds and making notes.

It is the scent that catches her attention, first, as it so often does - and she glances up to see a man, one who she recognises as Adelaide's friend but that she doesn't know personally. "Hi. I'm really sorry, Councillor LeBlanc's actually on an assignment right now. Can I help you, somehow? Or take a message?" The offer is made with a smile, and the perfect lack of awareness of a smudge of ink on her cheek.

[liberalum]

"By Councillor LeBlanc, you of course mean Adelaide," Dorian corrects, and because Ruby's apology has in itself no tangible force, he continues his way inside the chambers with his usual assumptive swagger. "We are, after all, her close friends. No need for formality."

His scent is a complicated muddle of the wine he's had to drink, the fancy he soaps he cleans with, the scented hair oil, the burning of incense, the faint trace of ozone of latent electric power ever at his fingertips, and whatever salt-and-earth smell only a sensitive wolf nose can detect beneath it all. It allows him to fill the room in more ways than just the projection of his voice.

"But we've not been properly introduced. My name is Dorian, and you're, I believe, Ruby the Rifter."

[eviscerates]

"That I do," Ruby agrees, leaning against the desk as she observes this spectacular peacock of a human being. It's not a bad thing, peacocks are kind of impressive, but he doesn't have a certain degree of dramatic presence. Mostly, in her experience, it's usually the villainy sorts that have that much swagger, but he's not getting an Evil Queen vibe from him.

Also, he smells really good. It could verge on too much for the sensitive Wolf nose, but no, he just smells really good. His Storybrooke self would probably have his own line of cologne.

"Dorian. Oh! Yes." She wasn't by any means unfriendly before, but her smile brightens with the recognition. "Just 'Ruby' is fine, though I am a Rifter. Or Red, whichever." Holding up her shard hand, clipboard tucked against her body with her other arm, she does a one-handed sort of jazzhands sort of wave. Them being her close friends doesn't necessarily make it any clearer why he's here. "I'm probably meant to guard Adelaide's wine supplies even from her dearest friends," she jokes, faux-conspiratorially.

( closed ) for Gwen — also gently backdated to the end of August?

[dashing]

People who have seen her fight have called her a whirlwind, in the past. She could not be certain if they meant to honour or deride her, whether a force of nature in battle was a sign of her strength, or an indication of the destruction she might bring with her. Herian had decided long ago to take these things in stride, as best she could. There was no need to look for offence in every intonation and choice of words, when there was quite enough flung brazenly.

The words of one Gwenaëlle Vauquelin has seemed insulting, she thought. Insulting or uneducated, and there were a grim sense of dread that burned in her gut at the thought of the Dalish being considered any more softly than they already were. It was—

It was a wound still raw even one and twenty years after its infliction.

She wanders to where she has learned the author can be found, loosely but carefully holding the editorial she has read, and waiting until the person she waits on looks up before addressing her, with a slight bow. "Lady Vauquelin. I wondered if I might trouble you for your time."

Starkhaven lingers in each word, tone as calm as as measured as it ever is. No mage staff hangs at her back, and the sword that hangs at her side is standard Inquisition issue, but she moves with the controlled uprightness that belongs to knights and chevaliers.

[elegiaque]

Well, this is -

This ought to be interesting, at any rate. It's somewhat unpredictable in Skyhold as to who will bother to remember she's supposed to be treated with at least a modicum of respect, so Herian has already stepped above much of the crowd; still, it's with some skepticism that Gwenaëlle allows herself to be drawn out of what she's reading, sat out in the clear air of the battlements.

"Of course," she says, after only a slight pause. "You have the advantage of me, I'm sorry...?"

[dashing]

"Knight-Enchanter Herian Amsel, of the White Spire." Technically it might be that she could introduce herself as Councillor, but that hardly seems appropriate when she is so freshly joined to the mage council. "I am only newly joined to the Inquisition. My teacher from the Spire, Councillor LeBlanc, mentioned you to me."

A friend of her younger brother, Adelaide had said. A friend to Adelaide's family, but Adelaide's family where nobility, Orlesian nobility, where Adelaide was a mage of the Circle. She was different, even if their blood ran the same, she was closer to something Herian understood, and removed from what it was to be noble.

Lady Vauquelin had no such redeeming qualities to be automatically granted her.

( closed ) for Cassandra — during stolen shardbearer plot.

[fightingale]

Interrupting Cassandra was unwise, though that had never been sufficient to dissuade Leliana from the task. That said, she could say with some degree of confidence that interrupting Cassandra, interrupting Cassandra while she was battering a training post into submission, and interrupting Cassandra during acts of demolition while she was very obvious unhappy were escalating risks.

She does it anyway.

"Cassandra." Just her name, as crisp and precise as Leliana always is, watching her intently.

[stabsbooks]

There is no acknowledgement that she had been heard, at first. Just another vicious swing of her sword, then another, and finally Cassandra rears back and, with a terrible cry, puts the full force of her body behind her blade. It shears through the training dummy, taking its head off with a snap of the dowel, and Cassandra stops at last, turning her head to fix her customary glare upon Leliana.

"What is it now." She is tired of being interrupted, of being constantly dragged away for a million pointless, exasperating tasks - all while being barred from the most important task of all. Martel is missing, perhaps dead, and Cassandra cannot even go after him.

[fightingale]

Leliana resists the urge to look to the sky; it would only serve to aggravate, and beyond that?

Beyond that it would be cruel, to be so impatient with one who has been a friend for many years, even if more recent months has seen that strained. Never before have they had so many calamity happen one after the other, no space to breathe, no room to remember that even with their differences they have always stood side by side, that Justinia no doubt selected them for those very differences - that Leliana was part of the reason Cassandra had remained the Right Hand.

Instead of reacting, an urge she has gotten very good at suppressing, Leliana waits a moment, pausing before responding. "I have an update regarding the progress of the party we sent out to investigate what happened near Craintellier."

[thecookery]

Avery isn't one to ask for favors.

When she has a problem, she takes care of it herself instead of relying on anyone else. Because relying on other people has never been a very reliable solution to much of anything in her experience. So it's the way she is, and it's the way she's likely to always be. But sometimes things just aren't that simple, and... well, through some sequence of events even she can't explain properly, Avery is now somehow in a position to just approach one of the most powerful people in the Inquisition (and therefor debatably all of Thedas?) with a request or two and at the very least have them be heard.

Still, that doesn't mean she isn't feeling super weird about it when she cautiously enters the rookery and looks around to see if Leliana is actually present.

[fightingale]

Leliana, for her part, is doing an excellent job of lurking in the shadows. Not on purpose, mind, it just so happens that when Avery arrives she is in one of the more shadowy areas of the rookery. Even without intending it so, it makes her stepping from them rather dramatic, somehow seeming taller than she is. (And, in truth, she does intend it at least a little bit. She cannot be the Nightingale, be the legend that observes Thedas from her tower, if she does not have a certain flair.)

"Avery." Her voice sounds dangerous, even as it is neutrally friendly. "I did not expect you."

[thecookery]

"Fucking w--"

Avery nearly jumps out of her skin, already pretty much convinced there's no one up here at all by the time Leliana makes her appearance, and it takes a few seconds for her to get herself back under control. If that had been nearly anybody else, there would have been SUCH a tirade in response.

Instead, there are only a couple of long breaths, followed by a nod and a clipped, "Yeah. Sorry about that, ma'am. I just had a few quick questions. Thought I'd see if you weren't too busy."

( closed ) for Lex — 10th-ish?

[dashing]

Herian, much as the new might shock those who know her, is not terribly adept at making friends. There are few who think of her fondly, and fewer still who coax her to rare smiles. Not many extend acts of kindness to her, and those who she might think of honourable? Difficult to find.

She had no place on the mission to retrieve those who had gone missing, but it gnawed at her. Araceli had shown kindness to a perfect stranger, Cosima made laughter a less foreign concept than it had been. Both seemed to her noble spirits, concerned with the fate of this world even though it was not their own. She was glad to give Sabine her horse, and offer prayers and light candles and hope, but it did not ease the tension in her. Adelaide was family, of a strange and distant sort, and she too had disappeared into Orlais and Nevarra to seek out the missing members of the Inquisition.

Herian is not well suited to waiting, and training eats up her days even more than it would normally. When she does not train she finds other things to do, and that eventually leads her to inspecting her armour and sighing at the damage accumulated and the obvious faults in it from the clashes with Red Templars. She carries it in her hands as she knocks, and then pushes her way into the undercroft, studying the glow of the forge and the work of the man before it.

"Good day to you," she starts, feeling aware (not for the first time) that her armour is the most basic, that her sword is standard issue, and thankful that at least her staff is an impressive one as it hangs from her back.

( closed ) for Korrin — more gentle backdating to the end of August.

[eviscerates]

The downside of her time in Halamshiral (aside from, you know, seeing all the devastating things, and the personal sense of pain and confusion, and all the other serious downsides) was that it had kept her from her brewing project. For some things that didn't matter so much, they needed the time anyway. For other stuff? For other stuff it certainly hadn't done harm, but just leaving it there wasn't very satisfactory.

Ruby's sitting on the floor in her little slide of cellar, candles lit to counter the complete lack of natural light, and going over some of the notes she made and making amendments as she hums a tune, quiet but upbeat, breaking the humming only rarely to change into words before slipping back into a hum.

On the plus side: nothing had exploded, things seemed to be progressing, and it meant that if anyone needed to find her then they pretty much knew where to look.

[gatheringstorm]

Finally back from Honey Badger Hold, Korrin is able to resume her duties with a clearer head. The grief is still there, of course, but it's not a sharp and all-consuming as before. She'll take comfort in the fact that there's still plenty to be accomplished with the Inquisition, and when the time comes, she'll give Corypheus an extra kick in the balls for Asher's sake.

There's also another bright spot this month, in the form of unexpected news from Adelaide. A love confession, about a certain rifter. Korrin had to laugh a little about her history repeating itself through a friend, and though she'd tried to hold back from prodding until Adelaide has the time to tell all, eventually her curiosity has her seeking out Ruby instead. That upbeat humming is a good sign and hearing the actual words make her grin. She pauses and leans against a wall, observing.

"Someone's cheerful lately."

[eviscerates]

"I," Ruby starts, looking up from her notes with a quick smile, "am always cheerful." She stays sitting on her little crate, though she rolls her shoulders a little and makes a tiny face at the crackle that rolls up her spine. Right now she is doing her posture no favours.

"How are you? Also cheerful, I hope."

( closed ) for Sabine — cw: nudity & reference to scarring and past torture.

[dashing]

It is good to be back at Skyhold. Her people are here, seemingly safe and contented, and this is where Adelaide and Sabine are based, and it allows her to better call on Lady Cosima and be certain she is well. She is not much familiar with Skyhold generally, but she is familiar with the hot spring. Perhaps moreso than familiarising herself with the home of two so dear to her heart, she was looking forward to sinking into the hot water and letting it ease her muscles.

Her hair is dusty from travel, muscles battered and strained from training and fighting and the journey, and Herian stretches her neck with a slow crackle as her robes slip from her shoulders. For all her time in the sun, Herian's skin remains stubbornly pale, and it makes the shadows cast by the scars across her skin stand out all the more markedly. Burns roll down her back and her ribs from her right shoulder, and countless seeming bursts of scar tissue mark her legs, testament to punctures and blossoming infections that made the healing all the messier. They are more than a mere constellation; it seemed as though an entire galaxy had been gouged into her skin.

They are not the only scars, but they are the most obvious; another tugs at the corner of her mouth when she smiles, and her arms and legs and torso carry rare slashes from enemy blades. Some of those are new, since last Sabine saw her like this.

Different from all of these are the marks she chose for herself, starting a little below her hips on either side of her spine and ascending her back, spanning her shoulders and stretching down the back of her arms to stop at her wrists, two lines of filigree and spider webs, an abstract pattern of leaves and flowers and lace done entirely in black lines. These are new as well, and her muscles shift and roll beneath then as she stretches upward to let her spine crackle before moving to the bath and finally lowering herself in, hissing a little with the pleasing heat.

And then her head falls back and she allows herself the faintest expression of irritation. "I forgot the soap."

[glandival]

Sabine slips into the hot water after Herian, her back long and pale and the most unmarked part of her. There's a gathering of freckles high on her chest that delineate some lines left there since the Western Approach where the desert sun had managed to infuse some pigment besides pink into her flesh. That she has no sordid collection of scars herself says more for the way she deals with conflict -- in the shadows, or from above -- than it does her lifestyle.

Of course, there is one thing. On the back of her wrist is a seam of glowing green where the shard had struck her and embedded. In the lower lights, it's made more plain, diffusing when she sinks her limbs beneath the clear water.

"I did not," she says, hand breaking the surface to retrieve the little cake of scent and tallow. She glides a little closer, the ends of red curls trailing along the water, adopting their darker russet with damp. "Come here."

[dashing]

The look she casts Sabine is sidelong. The shard is still a strange, worrying thing. Another reason, she thinks, to make the effort to study the rifts. Lady Cosima's dilemma, that need to be returned home rather than trapped in a world not her own, might have been reason enough; seeing such an infection of light and magic and the Fade forced into the flesh of one of the rare friend's she has only hammers that urgency heavier upon her shoulders.

It is not the shard, however, that casts her expression with a quiet caution, suspicion. "Fool me once," she says, tone cautious enough that it sounds melodramatic on her. On most people it would just sound like genuine concern. Most people, arguably, wouldn't be aware of the difference.

She obliges, moving closer while watching Sabine very closely, only betraying the jest with a faint quirk of her brow before she turns, pulling her hair forward over one shoulder; the burn marks down her right side are raised, cobwebbed things.

( closed ) for Benevenuta — beginning of September.

[eviscerates]

When Adelaide said she thought Ruby could sell some of the schnapps she'd rather whimsically designed for the snow fight, she'd not necessarily given it a whole lot of thought after. Or, she had, but she'd also thought maybe Adelaide was just sort of being extra enthusiastic because she was her friend, rather than giving it the full force of her critical assessment.

As it turned out, she had been totally serious, and that meant with Halamshiral and Orlais and stuff, Ruby was a little behind on getting batches brewing. She's trying to compensate by carrying way too much at a time— by human standards. Ruby is a whole lot stronger and a whole lot faster than most people, and as such she's carting a hefty box of vanilla beans and violet extract and blueberries through Skyhold. (She doesn't want to think about how much Adelaide probably arranged to be paid for this stuff in advance. It was bad enough buying vanilla in Storybrooke, let alone ye olde ye olde.)

Ultimately, she's quite the sight - cut off leather shorts and braided leather bangles, daisies and clover trailing behind her where she walks, and carrying a crate that should probably require two people, as she stops abruptly when she realises she is about to risk walking into someone. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry. I didn't hit you, right?"

She didn't. She's like, 99.67% sure, but even almost hitting someone was kind of terrible.

[ungovernable]

There's a slight pause - mostly due to Benevenuta not having been hit, which had necessitated ducking swiftly out of the way and, carefully, not flattening to the nearest wall like a startled cat. The maintenance of one's dignity is important. She is smiling. All is well.

"No, of course," she assures her, taking in the - curious attire, and presuming a rifter. Her own is traveling clothes, a dusty cloak wrapped around fitted grey trousers and a well-laced bodice of the same shade; a brief stop back in Skyhold, collecting a few things that might do well in Halamshiral as she does her best to acquaint herself with the locals. It won't be a long visit - she doesn't intend to be here long enough to necessitate changing her clothes other than to sleep before leaving in the morning - but long enough, apparently, to get sidetracked.

"It's quite all right."

In the Yard - for Herian

[judgemewhole]

Somewhere between the ... many, many missions James has these days, he does still run the new Inquisition recruits through demon fighting training. When he is done with these, he works on his own forms, both with his abilities and without. One is never certain if one is going to be without one's lyrium, or in fact, without the ability to do anything but fight with a sword.

So there he is, moving around the practice dummy, longsword held in one hand, shield in the other, as he practiced slamming his pommel into the dummy, then twisting it around to strike with the shield, following up with a few quick jabs as he protected himself with said sword.

Beat them down, confound them, then go in for the kill, The spectrum of any great sword and shield warrior, to be honest.

ahhh thank you so much for setting this up! apologies for the delay

[dashing]

"Knight Commander Norrington."

She waits for a pause in his drills before addressing him, so as not to interrupt, to cause any disturbance, and bows her head respectfully once his attention is won. Starkhaven touches each word, woven into her voice, inescapable. "I am Knight-Enchanter Herian Amsel, of the White Spire. If it would be no disturbance to you, I'd be eager to beg a spar with you. My bladework is in dire need of improvement."

She trains for hours, daily, wakes before most in Skyhold even stir, battering training dummies before the sun is risen. A pause, and she straightens her back, as if her posture had not been impeccably upright already.

( closed ) for Anders — after abomination, before lyrium nightmare.

[eviscerates]

Okay, so, Ruby isn't a huge fan of secrets. In worst case scenarios they can lead to people being hurt, people dying. Even if that's not how most secrets go, it left scars enough on her that she isn't really a huge fan of secrets. In the best case scenario? Well, in the best case scenario a secret can be part of something as awesome as a surprise cake, but thinking that every secret ended in marzipan butterflies was more than a little naive.

Knowing secrets were bad and not wanting to hurt someone unfortunately didn't make the approaching and being honest and open thing any easier. Maybe that was why some secrets just kept festering and getting more destructive over time - because exposing them was just as scary and far more inevitable to simply letting them be.

Still, Anders is a friend, and she gets the feeling that both of them are in a position were losing even a single friend would leave them reeling, so she exhales and wanders down to the healing tents, waiting for a time when things seem quiet.

"Hey." Just do it, just commit to it, don't back out, don't find an excuse— "Is now a good time to talk?"

Probably not, she figures, but that doesn't mean she can wander off.

[justice_is_blond]

He looks up from a stack of notes and gives her a slightly wry smile. "How do you define good?" That's never a good question, really. Something always follows it... but there's never avoiding what follows it either. It just gets more complicated.

"Come in, take a seat. Let me switch to something I can do while talking." There's plenty of tasks like that. Sure enough, there's a request for more antivenom potions for a certain kind of snakebite, and Anders pulls the ingredients off the shelf and starts laying them out.

"There. I'm set. So. Did you make bracelets, and try them on someone, and their hand is about to fall off?"