faderift | [OPEN] Align my heart, my body, my mind

Entry tags:

[OPEN] Align my heart, my body, my mind

WHO: Corvo and you!
WHAT: Corvo is starting to settle into Skyhold, and goes to a job interview.
WHEN: Early Harvestmire
WHERE: Around Skyhold
NOTES: Probably gonna be talk about death, killing, etc.

Library

Corvo would not necessarily consider himself a bookish man, but he acknowledges the well of information that can be found within them, and he detests ignorance--in himself, most of all. Slowly, he has begun accepting that whatever drew him to this world does not intend for him to leave any time soon, and thus it would befit him to try to understand more of this Thedas. It's been slow going, at first, because Thedas is so utterly alien to him, completely different from anything he's known before. But he perseveres.

He can be found sitting in the library, hunched over in a corner of the room, a book on his lap, and a piece of parchment next to him. As he reads, he occasionally pauses to jot down a quick note on the paper--questions, phrases, things that he doesn't understand yet, that he will have to find out more about later on.

Feel free to approach him, or if you're close enough and don't look too unwelcoming, he might ask you about one of the things that he doesn't understand.

Training yard

He doesn't just spend his time reading, however. He spends plenty of time in the training area, practicing with his sword and crossbow. While this place is unusual, there's one perk about it--he has a chance to practice his magic without worrying about anyone seeing. Having had several people confirm that no one will be tossing him on a pyre for using his mark, he feels comfortable enough to do it in the open.

While practicing on a dummy with his sword, he holds his hand out, and then there's a sudden blur, and he's behind the dummy, and promptly sticks his sword right in its cloth neck. Practicing with his crossbow, he takes a potato out of a stack of them he had acquired, and throws it in the air. Then he raises his hand up, and a great gust of wind blows up past him, hurtling the potato far into the air. Once the target is an appropriate distance away, he raises his crossbow and sends a bolt into the unfortunate potato.

He doesn't quite smile, but he does look rather satisfied.

Kestrel House

And now, he feels rather nervous. He's never exactly had a good relationship with other assassins, people who killed as a job more than because some people simply had to be killed.

But at the end of the day, killing people was one of his greater skills. The ability to do it quietly, slipping in and out without being seen. The job that he had spent most of his life doing, guarding another's life with steadfast dedication--no. There was a little girl he had already promised to serve. He would not take that job here, not in this strange land with strange people. So assassin, it was. Everyone needs to have a job, after all.

And so it was that he lurked outside of the Kestrel house, hands stiffly held behind his back, as he waited for the man in charge of the guild.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Cassandra, too, spends plenty of time in the training yard, which means she has plenty of time to observe the others there. For the most part, she merely quietly evaluates their skills, making a note of those who might prove especially helpful in the upcoming battle against Corypheus, or those who might benefit from individual instruction.

And then there's this guy.

She doesn't even bother to hide the fact that she's watching him, standing with her arms crossed over her chest and a thoughtful frown on her face. He is a rifter; she might have guessed that even without the telltale green glow of his palm. Only once he lowers his crossbow does she approach him, making sure to let him see her coming well in advance. This is not a man to catch unawares.

"Very impressive," she congratulates him. "Is such magic common in your world?"

'And then there's this guy' is one of the most accurate summaries of Corvo to date, to be honest.

He's aware of her watching--anyone would be able to feel that sharp gaze on their back. What he isn't aware of is why she's watching. He's fairly sure that he's not a particularly remarkable fighter, no more so than many of the others who are here. He's wary as she approaches, but polite nevertheless, nodding to her as she comes up to him.

Cassandra's question only makes him more alert--perhaps it was a mistake to show his magic in a public setting after all? Maybe there was something about it that wasn't as openly welcomed as he had thought. Perhaps there are nuances that no one thought to tell him, and that he had just shattered--Or, he reminds himself, he's just being a bit paranoid.

"No," He replies, glancing down at the mark on his hand. "It's quite rare. I've only known one--two--other people to have it." It wouldn't have occurred to him to count the Outsider originally, but here they are.

She glances down when he does, frowning when she notices the mark. Tattoos are not uncommon in Thedas, but they are rarer among humans, and she has never seen the strange symbol before.

What he says about his magic, though, is at once far more interesting.

"Oh?" She looks up, curious, if wary. "How lucky we are to have you, then."

Maybe. Assuming he remains on their side. Assuming he is able to control his magic, and does so in a way that helps the Inquisition and not their allies.

If Corvo weren't quite as reticent, he might have laughed at that. Lucky to have him. Lucky that he was taken from his world and his daughter, and stuck here. At least someone has some luck from this situation that he's been stuck in.

But he doesn't say that. Instead, he stares at her passively for a few moments. Then he shrugs.

"I am at the Inquisition's command, as long as they are willing to have me." That statement is more loaded than Cassandra might guess--after all, he's not unfamiliar with organizations deciding that they are not willing to have him around any longer, and attempting to kill him. While it's different here--a lot more people that'd have to be killed, for one, he's becoming more and more aware that the opinions on rifters are...varied.

"Though I'm sure that the Inquisition could manage without me, there's a multitude of magic-users at your command." And none of them were trying to kill each other, which from Corvo's experience, was new. Heck off, Granny Rags.

Cassandra looks impassively back, and if she's unnerved by his too-long staring, she doesn't let it show.

"We do," she allows. "And I am sure that we could, if we had to." Or if he mysteriously disappears again, as a few of the Rifters had. "But we would be fools to turn down help so graciously offered."

She's not so deaf to the true implications behind his words as he might think, though she couldn't begin to guess his history. What she does know is that loyalty to the Inquisition, from anyone, is not guaranteed - and neither is the Inquisition's good favor guaranteed to anyone who might cross them.

"It must be very novel to you, being around so many of...your own kind."

"No." Corvo says it without even stopping to think. They are not his kind, he would not even count the few like him in his own world as his kind--and he's sure Daud and Granny Rags would feel no differently. He only stops to think after he has spoken, and realizes that some sort of explanation may be necessary. One, he'd prefer, without sharing too much of his past.

"Those who use magic in my world...many of them see it as a power to use over others. They become corrupted with it. They did terrible things. The only one that I know who wields the magic and hasn't committed atrocities is already here." The Outsider, for better or worse, has done no particular ills with his magic that Corvo knew of--unless giving his abilities to those who had done horrible things with them counted.

He turns to look at Cassandra, face impassive. "I hope that the magic-wielders of your world are better controlled."

Cassandra's eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the no, although his explanation, when he offers it, is all too familiar. Her lips twist into an ironic smile, really more of a grimace.

"They were, at one time," she says, "or at least, so we liked to tell ourselves. In practice, it is not so easy. And those granted power and tasked with protection sometimes prove to be more dangerous than those those they are meant to control." Already, she's wondering who this other mage from his world is, and whether she's already met them. Certainly she has not seen any other rifter use magic in quite the same way Corvo does. But all that can be discovered later.

"Were there no attempts to stop those who became corrupted in your world?" she adds, with a gentle if somewhat tacked-on reminder that buttercup hasn't played the dlc yet so reply without spoilers if possible pls.

He nods as Cassandra recounts what happened to mages--or what used to, really. He knows the vague outline of it, but few of the sources he'd read about mentioned any of the negatives. Cassandra doesn't gloss over them, and he's unsurprised by what she reveals. It's not so different from the Isles, really. Maybe controlling mages is just something that can't be done without a certain cost to it.

"There are attempts. The Abbey--the religious organization of the Isles--disavowed all forms of magic, and persecuted those who used it. Brutally." He glances to the side, lips twisting. It's a conflicting issue, one that perhaps he should spend more time thinking on, to advise Emily. "People suspected of witchcraft are taken by the Overseers, and, ah. Interrogated." He glances meaningfully at Cassandra, a grimace flitting across his face.

"Those found guilty are burned at the stake. But. People with my abilities find the Overseers more of a nuisance than a threat. They are far more of a menace to ordinary citizens, who at best dabble. Trinkets and whatnot." He waves his hand, not expounding on that. Pulling out the bone charms and trying to explain them seemed...a poor idea. "The effectiveness is debatable."

"Disavowed? They would try to bar mages from doing magic at all?" She shakes her head brusquely. "Of course that would not work. Magic is as natural as any other talent. Its use should be controlled, of course, but not forbidden."

Her face changes as he continues, expression going from disapproval to outright horror.

"Burned at the stake..." It's not an expression she's familiar with, but it's all to easy to guess what it might mean. "You cannot mean - burned alive?"

Natural? He stares at Cassandra for a moment, confused. Then he remembers--it's different here. Mages are born, not given their magic as a literal gift. And while it's not like the Outsider really asked if he wanted that gift, there is still a marked difference between the two. And he hesitates, unsure if he should correct her, or not. Would it be wise, to explain the difference? Would they be harsher on him?

It smacks of politics, something that he had little care for within his own world, let alone a world that he barely understood. He'll have to ask advice from...other sources.

In the meantime, talking about burning people alive is an excellent distraction, and Corvo nods in response to her question. "Yes. If they were dead, it wouldn't make quite the spectacle. And that's what they want. It's a warning to everyone else who would dare stray from the path of the Abbey. 'This could be you'. The Overseers are, ah. Not known for being subtle."

"Ruling through fear," Cassandra says, frowning. "It is far too common here too, I am afraid." But at least the Chantry never went so far as that, even at its most corrupt. She shakes her head. "I am sorry to hear of your troubles."

Inessa's typically present in the library late in the morning or early in the afternoon, after a typically thorough workout for Garahel. With enough games of fetch and a sizable lunch, the mabari is often content to nap while the Grey Warden mage indulges herself with tomes of all kinds. This day is no different, though she glances over from placing back various books in order to acquire new ones, the slight elven woman notices a new face.

There's a moment where she hesitates, but it can't to make herself available to newer folk. "You seem confused." Her tone invites questions, as her mabari snores lightly in the background.

Corvo already spent a few moments studying the dog at her feet. An odd-looking thing, with a blunted head, and a thicker build than he's used to. And it's not attempting to bite him, which is also unusual, but a welcome change from the Overseers' wolfhounds. He supposes that it makes sense that dogs are different here, bred for different purposes.

When she asks, his eyes flick up, and he clears his throat, glancing to the side for a moment, before looking back at her. There are a few questions he has, but most importantly...

"What manner of hound is yours? What were they bred for?" Besides snoring, obviously.

Inessa's eyebrows raise, not quite expecting that to begin his line of questioning. However, she has no problem at all with discussing Garahel and his breed. Glancing back to the snoozing hound, she smiles.

"Garahel is a mabari, a highly prized breed in Ferelden. Thus feral mabari are unheard of. A kennel master once told me that mabari were bred by a mage to be intelligent enough to understand and perform complex commands, and to fight in battle. He has more than proven himself in both areas. At times, however, that intelligence can be less than a boon. He understands when bath time is coming and will flee or put up a fuss if he doesn't want it. Which, to be honest, is nearly always."

Different than the Overseer's wolfhounds, then, but also similar--another breed built for fighting, but more for the battlefield than the streets of Dunwall. He can see it, if he studies Garahel. The muscles, the rounded shape of the body--Not that he is exactly an expert on dogs. The idea of combining magic in their making to make them more intelligent is fascinating, though he's quite sure that he could never manage it.

The Outsider could, maybe, but--no. He didn't even want to think about it.

"I see. That sounds useful, indeed. Do mages do that regularly, then? Use magic in the breeding of animals?"

"Mages have many uses, but it's true that at least in Ferelden, such practices exist. I cannot speak to the experience personally, however. I had not been a full-fledged mage for long before leaving the Circle, and Garahel imprinted on me later."

The war hound, hearing his name, rouses from his sleep with a large yawn and bout of stretching, opening his eyes and staring drowsily at them as though he can't decide whether to continue napping or seek attention. Such a hard life, with such difficult choices.

"The Circle." He repeats. He's not ignorant of what that is, just what happened to mages in this world was one of the greatest things of interest to him when he first arrived. "You're a mage, then? I had questions about the Circle as well." He hesitates, because...where would you even start, with such a thing?

As he thinks, he holds his hand down to Garahel--his right hand, no need to shove hands with strange tattoos and shards at the poor dog.

"Do you feel like the Circle was effective at teaching mages control? At keeping them from using their magic to hurt other people?" That seems like an important one to start out with--if not particularly easy, maybe.

Standing up, the mabari stretches and yawns before padding over, sniffing intently at the hand before licking it. His tail wags, always happy to make new friends. Inessa nods encouragingly at mention of questions. She'll make it clear if she can't answer some, but will do her best to provide. Those questions have Inessa raising her eyebrows before taking a moment, choosing her words carefully.

"In a basic sense, yes. It's important for mages to learn control, and that's best done among their own kind. The Circle's education is what allowed me to achieve this; my mentors were dedicated and thorough. Provided an apprentice heeds warnings and other advice, they stand a chance of becoming a competent mage.

However, that isn't to say that the Circle wasn't in need of great reform on many fronts. Unless one was noble and thus had influence to circumvent the rules, contact with families was forbidden. Nor were they free to create their own families; children born in the Circle were given to the Chantry to raise. It is only recently that there has even been a chance to alter this status quo."

Corvo takes the rather slobbery affection in stride, rubbing his damp hand on the dog's side. See how you like it, Garahel. But even as he does so, he listens carefully to what Inessa has to say. It's interesting, in the way things are when they have little effect on you personally.

"Better than being burned at the stake, but not perfect," Is his pronouncement, leaning back into his seat. "I wonder if any world has figured out a solid balance." Maybe there's no right answer to that at all, but he doesn't mention that. No need to be such a downer to someone effected by it more heavily than he is.

"This change, the mage uprising. Has there ever been anything like it before? I've seen no mention of it."

Garahel likes it just fine, but then he likes rolling around in mud just fine, too. Intelligent though they are, no one said mabari have refined tastes. Magically-bred or not, they're still dogs.

Inessa raises an eyebrow at mention of being burned at the stake, but it's rude to ask her own questions before attempting to answer his own. "No, not quite. My Circle tower faced a rebellion of sorts, during the Fifth Blight, but it was quickly ended and not widespread. And it was nothing to be commended or imitated." Her lips form a thin line and her eyes darken briefly, not especially fond of that moment in time. "Before the Mage-Templar War, mages desiring freedom strove to escape, but not all together. Sometimes, it probably worked. But more often than not, Templars tracked the mage down and brought them back or killed them, if they provided resistance. They take a bit of blood from every mage who enters the Circle, making into a phylactery. With this, they can track down any mages who escaped. I'm told that during the rebellion at the White Spire, a great deal of senior mages' phylacteries were destroyed and that it what encouraged their bit for freedom.

...burned at the stake, truly? That was the fate of all mages in your world?"

Corvo listens as Inessa speaks, hands folded together, staring at her with a quiet intensity. A phylactery sounded...dangerous. Though of little use within his world--once the Overseers got their hands on someone, they weren't worried about the person escaping. Still, though. While the Circles were a step up from being killed, they also sounded...inhibiting. He shakes his head with a sigh. Little point to fretting over an opinion on something that holds no sway over him.

"Yes," He said, in response to Inessa's question. "those of us the Overseers could catch, at least. Unfortunately, it was more common for them to catch ordinary civilians who merely dabbled. Made charms, and whatnot. That was just as illegal as true magic, and those with the gift are a great deal harder to catch than someone who just wanted to make a charm to protect themselves from sickness." He shrugs.

"I'm relieved that I don't have to hide it here. Though, it's...still nerve wracking, on occasion." It's hard to lose that wariness, once acquired.

"I think I understand. Mages are not well-loved, though I must say the Inquisition is more tolerant than anywhere I've seen outside Nevarra or the Grey Wardens. Perhaps it is a sign of things to come, if mages are seen as aiding in Corypheus' defeat." Her tone is one of cautious optimism, wanting to hope for that but not willing to lose sight of a more realistic outcome.

"Why are mages killed? Are they susceptible to possession as well? What about their powers makes them so feared?" Not that such is a good excuse for wasting the Maker's gift, in her mind, but Inessa knows it's not beyond the thought of some.

It was basically impossible to miss him as he approached given his size but he didn't even bother to try. Instead, he just walked right on up to where the man was with a smile on his face, watching that final move with the potato. Letting out a laugh, he went to fetch their poor fallen vegetable companion so he could pull the bolt free from it and give it back to the man who'd performed the feat.

"Impressive! You have the makings of a talented Assassin if you are not one already, my friend." He'd seen plenty of them in his time and knew how the class operated. Be fast. Get behind the target when possible. Quick and clean kills to avoid less attention.

"You are a rifter as well, yes?" Iskandar asked, noting the glow on his hand.

To overlook Iskandar would be akin to failing to notice a mountain suddenly strolling up to you and reclaiming your bolt. Corvo has never quite felt so dwarfed by a man before, and it takes a moment to adjust, silently taking back his bolt and, after checking to make sure it wasn't blunted, filing it away. He coughs, a little, at the mention of being a talented assassin--it's not the first time people have spoken about the profession so bluntly here, and he has to restrain the reflex to assure his visitor that he would never stoop to such a thing.

"Thank you," Is what he says instead. "I hope that enough training will pull me out of simply possessing the makings of one." That's a little joke, right there. He nods at the question, glancing at his hand, now bearing the anchor shard, as well as the mark of the Outsider. "Yes. It's all...very surprising, is it not? I don't think I could imagine this, not ever."

"Well with the level you have I imagine you might be one already." He laughed a bit then rested one hand on his hip as the other tossed the potato up and down. "But you are right. It is rather a surprise. I certainly was not expecting to ride toward the end of one battle and crawl out of the waters into the mouth of another."

Apparently he was rolling with it though. Which was just his way of living life. Iskandar had lived his life embracing new ideas and such, even going so far as to change his name to match the new lands he'd conquered. The very armor he wore now came from there as well. It would only make sense that he would embrace this new life as well like it was just taking another breath.

"There are some changes I'm still adjusting too but as a whole it's not the worst I suppose."

"I suppose I might," Corvo replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. Not a particularly emotive person by nature, it was nevertheless hard not to be amused. Maybe it was because Iskandar was simply so much, as outgoing as Corvo was taciturn, that it was hard not to have some of that effect him in turn. "I won't make any claims to skill until I know where I compare with those of this world."

He certainly had to admire Iskandar's cheerful attitude about all of this. Corvo's no stranger to his world being upended, but this time he can't help but feel like he's floundering. There's always been a path, however difficult, even impossible-sounding. Go here, kill this person, kidnap that one, save Emily, a set list that if accomplished, can return his life to some normalcy. There's no path, here. No one knows how to get home.

"It could be worse," He agrees, because if he knows anything, it's that it could always be worse. "I wouldn't mind as much, but--" And he hesitates, because he hasn't said much about this to anyone who didn't already know. "--It's not me that I'm worried about. I have...family, back home." He rubs his shoulder, frowning down at the ground. "Family I'm supposed to be protecting. Who will protect her, if I'm not there?"

"That is a fair question." He nodded slowly when the man asked about who would protect his family. In all honesty he was noticing rifters had been pulled from moments that they could go back to. Moments they would probably live through. Iskandar didn't mind that when he returned it would likely mean continuing to ride to his own death for that was the path that he had chosen. However, he could understand the feelings of others in different positions than his own.

"Does she really have no one but you to protect her when you are not there?"

That was really what he wanted to know. What sort of situation was this poor girl or woman in that there was literally only one who could save her? "I'm not sure what the state of time is in the places we are pulled from honestly whatever the case is. I do like to think it would politely wait for our return though. That would be good of it, yes?"

That last comment was followed by a warm smile.

Corvo doesn't hesitate, when he's asked if there's no one he trusts to protect her. He shakes his head, a worried look coming over his face. "No, no one." He's trusted before, trusted various people, and had been betrayed in return. Callista had proven her loyalty, but she hadn't the ability to protect her from any real threat.

"She's only ten..." He muttered, rubbing his shoulder. But there was little he could do right now, other than fret.

"That would be nice," He admits, though from his own experience, his life rarely tended towards what was nice. But it was a cheerful thought, one made in an effort to keep him from being too dour, and Corvo gives the other man a small smile in return. "I suppose all that I can do is hope."

Iskandar nodded and listened a bit. He didn't know the situation of the man's world but if she was unable to be safe then there was certainly trouble. There was little he could do but pray to the gods that they would keep her safe and yet he'd already decided he would do that for this man.

Every person was a friend of his until they proved otherwise. That was his way of going through life.

"Hope might not be the easiest thing but if you hope with others you'll find it less of a burden." He smiled at him then. "So I will hope with you for that is what I can do to help you get to her soon in this exact moment."

Corvo leans more on the opposite side of things--people can't be trusted until they prove otherwise, and even then. They might just try to kill you anyway. But...despite his usual paranoia, it was impressively difficult to not feel some manner of goodwill for the other man. Perhaps it was just because Iskandar acted with such natural camaraderie?

He can't help but give a quiet laugh, glancing sidelong at Iskandar with an amused look. "Are you so optimistic about everything? Still--I thank you. I've had to work with nothing but hope before. It'll be good to not do it alone."

"Someone needs to be optimistic! I've taken it upon myself to be that man." He listened to that laugh before he nodded to what he'd been doing before. It was impressive to say the least but he couldn't help but to be curious about it. It was not often one got to see an assassin train.

"Might I watch you? Or I suppose I could spar with you. I'm not assassin but I am rather good in a fight."

Close enough? Too close. Unwelcoming? Not at all! Depending entirely on perspective, of course. Mac has always had issues with first impressions, boundaries, manners - socializing in general. Seeing a new face (to his memory, not necessarily anyone else's) gets him excited as usual and he lurks through the shelves, watching the man between aisles, stalking from every angle even as he pulls scrolls and novels for his own perusal. Eventually he decides Corvo is unlikely to stab, burn or otherwise maim him during introductions, so he creeps over until he's close enough to pop his head down mere inches from the other man.

"Yo! Whatcha got there?" he asks cheerily, voice notably low in tone and volume. Sudden and direct, but at least not terribly impolite, particularly to others using the space. His bright green eyes flick down to the notes, then back up, focusing perhaps too solidly on unbroken contact, lips curled into an open-mouthed smile. He's certainly trying to be warm and inviting, but it usually comes off as awkward and a little unstable at first. Invasion of personal space 101, don't get close enough to handshake with your nose.

"Anything good?" he follows up one question with the next, standing up and putting a little more space between them as he hovers, gloved fingers drumming on the cover of a large tome clutched to his chest. He cocks his head, purple hair flopping smoothly against the curves of his gold-plated horns. He's clearly a Kossith, though a bit short, but whether Qunari or some manner of Vashoth is Corvo's guess. Either way, the upbeat invader simply stands there, looking to be in a perpetually good mood and brimming with transparent curiosity.

Knowing your surroundings, even when you're occupied by a book, is a skill that's been essential to Corvo's life for a long time. As a bodyguard, as an assassin--even as a poor child in the streets of Karnaca, he couldn't afford carelessness. So he's well aware that he has a fan watching him read. This awareness is, really, a good thing for Mac, because if Corvo had been surprised by the way that he popped up on him, the qunari (that's what they were called, he was pretty sure) might have had to revise his decision regarding maiming.

As it stood, Corvo is not surprised, and no maiming occurs. Instead, his eyes slide up from the book and to the strange man that had been scoping him out. If he's a threat, then he's one that's a remarkably good actor. Trust isn't something Corvo has to spare, but considering his current situation, it's decided that it can't hurt to treat the man with the assumption that he's as harmless as he appears, and the book is lowered. Then, in the interest of acquiring a little more elbow room, Corvo subtly shifts away. Not far enough to be rude, but just enough to have some...personal space.

"It's interesting." He turns to look at the book that he had just lowered, which had on one page a splendid drawing of a woman in white and red robes. "It's a book about the Chantry. The main religion of this land, from what I can gather. It's engaging, at least, to see how it got started, how it became such a cornerstone of the land." And it's horribly biased, Corvo suspects, but what book isn't, really? What author can write about a subject they've devoted their life to, without bias?

"HA! Yeah. Anything about religion is always pretty biased. And like playing a game of--" he pauses, squinting for a moment as he tries to find a word other than telephone, since hardly anyone around knew what half the things he said even meant. "Um...middle-man messages..." he mumbles, training off a bit and finding that a rather terrible change. Alas, there weren't too many ways to explain so he did his usual and opted to change tracks.

"Too many different opinions on it for me to understand, personally. I can't find a completely accurate account despite the fairly recent relevance of Andraste. I mean in terms of centuries, I honestly think we have more thorough accounts back home that go back even longer. Seems odd. Not even just biased as much as it feels like everything was lost or erased and then re-written. Entirely too suspicious for me," the man grunts, snorting softly before shifting the books in his arms enough to reach with his left hand, holding it out to Corvo.

"Mac Journey, at your service. I regularly haunt the library, of late. Trying to cram my head as full of local blahbiddyblah as possible. You from around here?" he asks, shifting his weight a bit and completely ignoring - or oblivious to - the fact that he was interrupting someone's personal study time. He simply assumed that because he enjoyed having occasional distractions, other people must as well. Harmless, if a bit unintentionally selfish.

Corvo would not, indeed, know what a telephone was. Not that they didn't have something similar in the Isles--and he understood the intent behind Mac's metaphor. He nods, glancing back down to the book and flipping through a few pages.

"This religion is different from the one where I hail from, but I can see the relevance of it--people find comfort in religion, in having reasons for things, and order to their life." The thing that the Chantry had, and the Abbey didn't, were actual people. The Maker and Andraste, figures that tried to help you. Slightly more comforting, he supposed, than the idea that there was nothing but chaos. "The people who wrote these books certainly seem to have found solace in it. I suppose attempting to find the facts in it is..." He waved his hand dismissively.

He sets the book aside for now, shifting to take Mac's hand and give it a firm shake. "Corvo Attano. I'm not from here, but I'm also trying to, ah. Take in the local knowledge." He waves his free hand back to the book. "If we must be stuck here, ignorance would only hurt ourselves."

"Wooo, you sound like my boss-lady from back home. She's all about hittin' the books," Mac mumbles, returning the shake in a firm albeit relaxed manner. No real guile there, no ulterior motives past being a bit nosy; curious like some small animal with no regard for etiquette.

"History is the very foundation of...something something," the man raises a fist, starting off well with a low, stern voice before trailing off and wrinkling his nose, likely at the very idea of being authoritative in any manner. "Always about the books. Granted it isn't as if I don't enjoy learning, myself, but being told what to learn is a chore. This stuff? Whole other world." Quite literally, in fact. Roaming his pale eyes over the immediate area, Mac gestures vaguely.

"I'm fairly certain the whole idea of religion is based on the principle that there's nothing that can be proven or disproved. Faith is it's own definition. Very uncomfortable business with an entirely sketchy purpose. Mm, I don't know if I really like the idea of taking comfort in something that in all likelihood isn't real. Well...back home, anyways. I dunno about this deifying formerly living people deal. That's not quite as bad. Kind of like Buddhism or something...I guess," he hummed to himself, fidgeting a bit and picking at one of his heavy gloves.

"What do people think where you come from?" he asked with a cocked brow, moving to lean against a shelf, boots crossed at his ankle.

"Oi!"

(Can you hear the 'mate' that just sort of gets tacked on at the end, like punctuation, bit like a glottal stop, just sort of happens really.)

What the stranger is doing is fancy, no doubt about it but look what he's using. Shocking. This will not stand. Do you know what you could do with those potatoes? They were begging to be chips and Yngvi Congealedinagutterson has something to say about this from where he's sitting, explaining to four nugs (his regular entourage now the other sixteen have buggered off to better and less exciting lives, only Rump Roast, Nug Wellington, Stroganugg and Truffles remain, and the latter is a gift he's just training up a bit to be worthy of their future station) the finer points of traps as he watches a potato get assassinated.

"That is an outrageous waste of a good potato!"

Corvo blinks as he turns to look at--ah. One of the small people, dwarves were the names that they preferred, he believed. It had taken a little bit for him to realize that like the people with pointy ears, they weren't just humans with abnormalities, but an entirely separate race of people. The qunari were easier to believe--large horned grey people were painfully obviously not human.

And now the dwarf seemed rather upset about the...potato? Corvo turns to look at the fallen spud, and slowly picks it up, plucking the bolt out of it and tucking it away. He examines the potato for a moment, as if he needed to ascertain for himself whether or not the potato were truly good, before turning back to the indignant dwarf.

"I needed something to practice with." He explained calmly, then rolls it over in his hand again. "And it's not ruined. Just a little...worse for wear." And dirty, but potatoes came out of the dirt, so it's not like that's exactly a stunning turn of events.

Look, potatoes are incredibly important when you happen to grow up with basically nothing. Because they're filling. And cheap. And pretty much a huge chunk of what you'll feed small dwarven children and they will still be stupendously attached to them after all these years because that's what they shoved at you to shut you up when you were whining about how hungry you were. Or how cold you were. Sometimes how ill. Generally it was feeding you.

"Go find a doglord, could do with a few less of them knocking about, or some of the Orlesians. Happen to know of sixteen off the top of my head no one would miss if they just suddenly were missing their heads." Actually that number is closer to six but you just sort of exaggerate it with Orlesians before he looks thoughtfully (mournfully) at the potato. "Or missing an eye I s'pose. Can't make a chip with a hole in it, unless you're into some weird things. Like Orlesians."

Also to be noted: Yngvi is dirtier than that potato. That potato has probably seen a wash once this year. Yngvi has been rained and snowed on, that's all.

Corvo can feel his eyebrow raising higher and higher as the dwarf spoke. He had thought the Outsider was eccentric, but--well. He supposed that each world needed their own handful of that sort of people. He slowly walks over to the sack that he had procured, and pulls a perfectly unpunctured potato out of it, holding it out to the dwarf.

"I've been informed that it's generally frowned upon in the Inquisition to use people for target practice." He explains airily, as if this were something that could not be generally assumed. "In the meantime, I need to practice on something that the bolts will be able to penetrate, without destroying the item, so I can gauge how successful the hit is. If you have suggestions that wouldn't land me in the dungeon, I'm welcome to hear them."

As if that potato is his mother (or one of the six dwarves Yngvi remembers calling a mother instead of an aunt, a subtle but crucial difference that'd be lost on some random scrubs meaning everyone that wasn't Carta in all honesty) he snatches it off Corvo and cradles it close. Humans. No respect. Always taking food out of a mouth but last time they at least had the decency to be putting it in their own mouths and not disrespecting the food itself.

He'll tell the Tal-Vachefs on this one. And that grumpy human one. Show him.

"And? They're doglords and Orlesians, no one that important'll care, believe me. You'd be doing the world a service getting rid of some of them. I know. But if you want a challenge, s'pose you could go for a halla. Them white deers roaming about? Shitting everywhere? I know a good recipe for them I'd smoke up over the fire if you could put a bolt through them. Hide fetches a good bit, same with the antlers."

Corvo is not exactly the most intelligent man out there, and he's still quite new to Thedas. But even he realizes when he's being given especially terrible advice. He's not exactly sure, however, how he's supposed to respond to this terrible advice. It seemed ludicrous to try arguing with the man, because he was either trying to pull Corvo's leg, or actually believed in what he was saying. Corvo wasn't sure which was worse, but he was quite sure that attempting to debate on the subject in either case was pointless.

"I'll take it into consideration." That seemed neutral enough. Deciding that crossbow practice was over for now, Corvo slides it away, and takes out his sword instead. He glances at Yngvi, and then jerks his head towards where the practice dummies were. "I trust you have no objections to someone poking holes into one of those? They would be a poor meal."

With grace and aplomb. Or something. Someone read that to Yngvi once, or maybe Yngvi read that himself one of the few times he read a thing that wasn't strictly for reasons to do with work or mischief. A fine line has to be walked with Yngvi, one that takes years to navigate, only it's a rope, perilously taut, slung over a chasm with a steep drop into an abyss full of hungry things with sharp teeth and shrieking laughter.

"I've eaten sawdust." A careful examination of his thumbnail is underway because you know some people might not believe that. "Know people that can make bread and cakes with stuff like that when they need to, usually when humans are about. You lot are always greedy, you grow too much."

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[OPEN] Align my heart, my body, my mind

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