faderift | OPEN | coldest comfort, safety glass

She meets the look, carefully impassive, but her posture shifts itself back into formality. The reflex of a soldier caught out, but not quite willing to admit anything.

The victim or the perpetrator? An immaterial question, so far as she's concerned — they hang madmen every day, across every nation. Norrington knows well how most possessions are handled. To make a distinction now would only put other spirit healers at risk, underscore the potential dangers of their path.

To one end or another, suffering can't be allowed to become the point. It only breeds more of itself.

"It speaks well to the Wardens that they would reclaim him," For all it's done to complicate their position. On the topic of ancient, military Orders that Corypheus has knocked in the shitter... "It would speak better to us had we eyes on him. I will talk with the Sisters. Perhaps some might be persuaded of the benefits of proximity."

Or because it's the right thing to do.

"...Provided," She allows. "They can be convinced not to engage. On that count, I believe my own presence likely to agitate him. However, I would be honoured to fill any absences, where I might. I have convalesced before, such hours are best not spent alone."

Edited (how many times can i fit "speak" in the same tag) 2017-02-18 00:37 (UTC)

His gaze goes out to the soldiers once more, holding his tongue as they run past in a thundering sound of iron scraping against iron, and back around the courtyard again. After a moment, he speaks. "I was a templar in Ostwick for all my life. I went out and hunted blood mages, abominations, and the like, and of course stood in my fair number of Harrowings. But the First Enchanter -- well. She taught her students that magic was a gift of the Maker first, and thus it should be used in His name."

He is quiet for a long moment, "The Wardens ... too a risk. I am not entirely certain they know how large, but all things considered, they have risked much to regain their own honor. Considering our own situation - I respect their willingness to reform a ... contrite prisoner."

He glances sideways, before he nodded his head, "It may help the mages as well, to see the Chantry Sisters working amongst them in full. Rebuilding bridges, so to speak. Templars, as well."

Wren doesn’t need the Maker to know magic’s capacity to good or ill. But this isn't the moment for an argument with a technical superior, and it's not as though either of them can touch a hair of Anders' head. No. That's not the point of it: There’s a weight in his words absent from earlier anecdotes. He's offering her something, a glimpse.

She circles around it, gives herself a moment or two to figure out how much to return. Trust for trust.

"History has had us two sides of the same coin," Inseparably close, and inherently distant. She's spent more of her life around mages than common men, can guess a little of the affection the First Enchanter might have bred. "We have all lost too much to sacrifice those bonds."

Wren bows her head a moment.

"The tempered soul is everlasting. These times — and that which they have claimed — it shall be remembered."

A blessing or a curse, she supposes.

Edited 2017-02-21 22:04 (UTC)

He looks over at her for a long moment in silence. Weighing her words, the touch of her sympathy and her wisdom. She is right, they have always been two sides of the same coin. Perhaps they had all simply forgotten to live in a world where mages and templars worked together, and not against. It is another moment still, before he nods his head and quotes in turn,

"Look upon the light, so you may lead others through the darkness, Blade of the Faith." He tips his head for a moment, "We must remember, so we can bring our fellows back to the light."

A great man, Drakon — not a good one. What she's studied of his legacy is as much ruthless pragmatism as it is the fever of belief. But mercy and humility never did hold a nation together, did they?

This is a business of blades, and not lanterns.

"Aye," The Chant used to feel like hypocrisy in her mouth, but that was only vestigial guilt, pushed away with its god. The words remain a common language, rubbed smooth. "It is on this count I must turn to the matter of Halamshiral's reinforcements."

A breath, a short pace apart; a small, conscious attempt to divide the discussion.

"From intelligence recovered of previous strikes, we have established a tentative list of names. Those suspected to be among Corypheus' ranks, matched against those unaccounted for in official record. Such methods remain imprecise."

Edited 2017-02-23 02:45 (UTC)

Alas, they did not. If they had, then Alistair Therrin would be King of Fereldan. He does not know if that would make things worse -- or in fact better in the long run.

Now, his eyebrows raise in surprise. Of all the things he expected to come of this, the Chantry asking his help to find -- desserters was not one of them. His expression became narrowed with dryness.

"So, you wish to have full lists of whom we have here?" He stated simply, "Or are you asking me to ferry out the rest of the 'lost ones'?"

"Neither." It's easier to retain a neutral mask for this than it is upon the topic of Anders. She's had more practice. "Your time is limited."

And if time isn't money to them, it remains capital. She might just write the damn thing herself, it'd be as reliable. They already know of those taking fake names to serve. The business of checking those stories will be tedious; a project to be reserved for quieter days.

"But if you are aware of any witnesses to the event — yourself, your men, others who may be able to place names to faces," Provided there was enough face left to judge. She's seen the grotesqueries of late-stage red lyrium exposure. "I am aware the odds are slim, but even one identification could be of potential value in tracking their movements. Determining when their forces might have made contact with the Freemen."

She tips her head in faint watchfulness. If there's a topic they're going to diverge seriously upon, she suspects this may be it.

"And in informing their kin."

He nodded his head once - that in itself is the truth. He has very little time to hunt down every red templar deserter - even those colluding with the Freemen of the Dales.

The further she goes on, though, his gaze goes from amused to thoughtful. He nodded his head slowly, before he glances over at her, "I would be willing to assist, as I am sure my people would be."

There is a pause. A long pause.

"...a cruel thing, for any family to hear." Is his simple statement, "But they do deserve to know what has happened." That - that much he knows. Now, however, his expression tightens.

"There ... there is another resource. That would further your cause, much faster. I am loathe to suggest it."

She nods, good. The easier this can be, the better.

"Doubt is its own form of cruelty." It is with Bergier, with Gervais; with all those little lost apprentices, swallowed by a ghost. "We needn't give much detail. The — standard notices might be modified. They will remember the Order more kindly that we granted their blood humanity in death."

His face tenses, and she resists the urge to lift an eyebrow. Norrington’s bloody reputation grapples thus far with a sentimental streak. What’s stirring the waters?

"I would not be loathe to hear of it. The sooner that connections might be drawn, the better."

If she’s right about Bergier's brother, then Reed’s right about what a leak could mean. Quick confirmation will be key.

He sighs, pressing his gloved hands together, as if he is praying right there for guidance from the Maker himself. Considering his expression, he might be. After a moment, he speaks tightly, "We have an ... individual in the dungeons. He would be able to identify the men more easily than any of us."

He gives her a grim look, "However, I am not sure how far his word could be trusted. He is not precisely the trustworthy sort."

So I shouldn't buy that bridge in the Mire he's selling?

"An individual," A conscious gentility to the words, prodding. Out with it. "Might tell us much through the omission of fact."

Maferath’s balls, what’s pushed the boy so far? Venatori, or a captured officer — they seem the only likely possibilities. Perhaps they’ve taken a captain off one of the mines. If Reed is any indication, the Inquisition would not preserve the rank and file.

She must not, certainly. It's probably tainted with red lyrium and ancient darkspawn.

He pressed his lips together once more, his teeth grinding together before he stated, "He might do it for his men. A commander would want to see that his people got the proper return to their families."

He gave her a meaningful look, "And he does know all of his men, Ser Coupe." Every last one of them, if James was to take a guess. Samson seemed to be that kind of leader, damn him to the Black City.

Oh, fuck.

Her eyes press shut, arms shifting out at a hard angle to — well, she reigns it in, plants them on her hips instead. If her hands grind the plate, at least they're not balled into fists.

She’ll grant herself a moment to recenter, before looking up again.

"How long has he been in Inquisition custody?" Slowly. If she chooses the words carefully enough, perhaps she can avoid losing her temper aloud. It’s not as though Norrington has a damn thing to do with it. She likes this sort of surprise as little as he must like keeping his greasy red mirror in the cells. "The men taken during his capture, what was done with their remains?"

Wren can't think that Samson was unguarded. If Norrington's judgment rings true, he may want to know what became of his soldiers. The disposal of the dead is permissible intelligence, where the fates of the living cannot be revealed.

OPEN | coldest comfort, safety glass

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