faderift | there ain't language for the things i've seen

A. WILDERNESS SURVIVAL CLASS | Outside the keep.

The days are short now, and the lesson’s drawn late.

They’ve been practicing snow shelters, but it’s more or less devolved into an excuse for everyone to collapse ice onto each other’s heads. Laughter and the occasional shriek ring out beneath the keep’s lengthening shadow.

Alan watches with bland cheer, occasionally turning his good hand over to clumsily dry the ice from a student’s gloves.

It’s distracting enough that he might not notice a snowball or two until it’s too late.

B. STAFF & THANGS | Near the Chapel.

Being under orders to sit still is — well, it’s been a lot easier to follow the spirit of it than the letter.

What’s not at all easy is carving off-handed, branch braced against his leg, but it’s enough of a distraction to hold his interest for a while. The sound of the Chant filters around the side of the wall, allows him to sink into its reverie. Sometimes the words they use are different, at others, entire passages.

But there's a peace in the words that lingers. Something soothing in it, if he allows. Halamshiral’s given him much to think of, as exciting as it's been unkind.

The little pile of sticks before him grows quickly into curls of bark and splinter. There's no artistry to their stark, gouged shapes: This is the sort of work you do before the real work can begin.

C. WILDCARD | have at it bruh

Edited 2017-01-23 23:23 (UTC)

It's not that Alan entirely disapproves of killing dragons. Neither does he entirely disapprove of killing men. But it never sits easily with him, the enthusiasm with which others go about it.

Perhaps the classes help a little; he can't say. For some it must only whet their bloodlust, but for others — frightened people make violent choices, and Skyhold's classes are a simple step towards easing that fear. He's content for the time being to let Kain handle it: Questions of confrontation are inevitable. Best that they know what the task entails. To end a thing without understanding it is to reject the Maker's hand in its creation.

The last student shuffles out, an excitable young scout who doodles wyverns on the backs of her reports. They're alone.

"How close have you to been to a high dragon?" He surprises himself to ask, if only because he hasn’t thought to before. "In the flesh."

Edited 2017-01-23 23:33 (UTC)

The newcomers — Rifters, a peculiar sort of word, one that still trips irregularly from his tongue — are by some marks familiar. Elven (of the enormous, shiny breed), human (of a sort). All transfigured into objects of curiousity by the marks they bear.

Or in this case, the swords they try to talk to. This one's small, almost Dalish by appearance, though certainly not dress. A peculiar word that's found its match.

There are some benefits to hanging about the kitchens like a scrawny shadow. The best of these is a ready excuse to bug anyone who looks remotely interesting. Alan slips down the steps into the courtyard, a basket of crusty rolls in hand.

“I thought you might be hungry,” A shrug. “The cooks say you can have them.”

One of them did the sign against evil over her chest as she said it, but Alan’s figured out by now not to repeat quite everything that they tell him. Perhaps one day he’ll even apologize to Cade about that.

…Nah.

Edited 2017-01-23 23:42 (UTC)

Someone's been hiding things about the castle.

Usually they're not much to look at: Odds and ends of ribbon, bones boiled clean, an abalone button or a well-shined spoon. But since the Inquisition's return from the Winter Palace, the prospects have improved considerably.

There's a string of pearls tucked into the hole in the wall, the one behind those dusty, outdated atlases that no one's bothered to move. Stuffed between crumbled stone and a number of small snarled sketches (figures covered in crag, an angry scrawl of lines), they glint with a rich natural luster — a pale flash just visible from the corner of an eye.

Edited 2017-01-23 23:50 (UTC)

Alan keeps clear of the stables, most days. There's too much wolf smell to him, it sets the harts ill at ease, leaves the horses (at least the living ones) shy. And the nuggalopes —

— Well, who can ever tell what they're thinking?

So it's a bit of a surprise, here and now, to find a dracolisk trotting its scaly way in and out of the healing tents. He stares in surprise for a blank, stupid moment, before approaching slowly, hands raised and a peculiar clicking sound in his teeth.

Do they respond to the sound, the same way drake hatchlings do? He can't say, has never been around the creatures closely enough to tell. What he is pretty sure of is that they probably doesn't belong near the injured, infirm, and easily-startled. Not with spines like those.

Edited 2017-01-24 00:01 (UTC)

The battlements are a peaceful place to walk, most afternoons. There's the steely pace of guards back and forth, snatches of conversation caught beneath the rushing wind, no singular noise so loud or unique that it cannot blend.

And then something — A particularly reedy hart? A warbler with impressive range and volume? — starts up on the far wall. He's running before he knows it because for all he knows that's the sound rifts make when they open, when,

Alan stops short, skidding against the stones. It's. Just that guy, that one from the Ball. The one whose name and, well, everything are a little fuzzy now. He's breathing into some kind of strange organ. A device? Alan hadn't pegged him for a mage.

But that wailing.

"Are you alright?" He calls, breathless.

Edited 2017-01-24 00:07 (UTC)

It's been really good for him to be involved in these classes. Not only for the fact that he can spend days talking about dragons and showing others the best defenses against them. It's a way to connect with people here in a different way than he's done so far... and a way to connect with his past. A little. There's always a respect in his tone, even when he speaks of best practices for battle with dragons.

"Many glimpses from afar. And I've gotten quite close to the ones out in the Western Approach and the Hissing Wastes. Particularly the former one while I was seeking out some of the lesser varieties. Though I wasn't quite prepared at the time..." Not even he's foolish enough to get into battle with one of them alone. That's one thing he likes to impart on the students... recklessness has no place when dealing with dragons. Part of him isn't sure he wanted to fight it, at the time, just observe. "They're magnificent to behold, though, aren't they? Have you seen many yourself?"

The guards tend to leave him alone. Most people tend to leave him alone, as a matter of fact, which he'd like to think is out of kindness but he suspects is more out of a desire to stay as far away from the bagpipes as possible.

Having someone running towards him is almost unheard of - and enough of a surprise, as a matter of fact, that he stops mid note, the pipes making an almost unholy sound that he ignores in favor of giving Alan a fairly startled look. He remembers Alan from the Ball well enough, but still, he hadn't quite expected that reaction. It's enough to get his eyebrows to arch up, high enough that they wind up disappearing under his bangs in short order.

"Aye, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

The Medicine Seller had a nice spread of his wares out in the courtyard. They were bright and colourful, offsetting the dull greys of late winter in the mountains. Despite being relatively out of the way, without even a proper stall to call his own (he'd made do with a wooden bench missing its leg), the Medicine Seller's little display of eclectic wares was difficult to miss.

Most who stopped merely browsed, but he'd sold a few packets of powder for headaches and colds, and creams for dry skin that came with the cold winter air. He hadn't expected someone to bring him food. That was something he could appreciate.

"Oh?" His eyes fell to the rolls, curious. "All of a sudden they've become gracious."

He couldn't smell any poison on them either - quite the miracle, after the way that one elderly cook had wielded a broom to shoo him out the kitchen.

"My thanks."

He looked directly at Alan, fully aware of who his benefactor really was. His own food supplies were dwindling, and living off of katsuobushi and plain rice had lost its charm a few centuries ago.

"If you require a medicine for any ailment, I would be glad to provide it. ...No charge, of course."

The dracolisk's attention is indeed caught at the sound; it pauses and turns its head in the direction of where said sound is coming from, and once it figures that out it starts to approach the source - in this case, Alan.

It trots forward until its close enough to the human, where then it pauses and proceeds to simply stare at him with its bright yellow eyes.

Alan reaches out, slowly, carefully for it to sniff. Perhaps it's not the wisest thing to put his hands so close to such a set of jaws, but frankly he's transfixed. His free fingers dip back down to a pocket, fish out half a stale roll he'd been saving.

"Where'd you come from?" He pauses in the clicking to wonder to himself. "Come on, you want this?"

He waves the roll, just out of reach.

Alan doesn't blink to watch him.

There's no threat in it: Just a mannerism, one that by now Kain will know well. Remembering the small gestures of humanity is a task which at times slips like water through Alan's hands.

"A handful. The hills are thick with them." He turns, picks at the bandage around his fingers, considering how much to offer. "There are means by which to draw close, if they sense no threat in you."

"We live in a blessed age," Not how most would describe a series of Blights, civil unrest, and Corypheus' return, but — "To see the skies so full."

It's fishing. A comment to be spun innocuously enough, should Kain refuse to bite.

Edited 2017-01-25 05:38 (UTC)

"I heard screaming." A bewildered glance to the bagpipes. Could there be a spirit or similar, trapped inside? He lifts a bandaged hand in tentative question. "I thought, perhaps — a Rift —"

But clearly not.

"— What are you doing?" He finally bursts out.

"It's no trouble. If you go up near dark, you can pay for food. And if you sign on to help, they'll feed you." This last bit is phrased like a clever secret, one he's letting the Medicine Seller in on. "This is medicine?"

He crouches, peering over the spread as he sets the rolls down. The sooner they're out of hand, the sooner he can prod at a — whatever that one is. Without asking, Alan lifts a packet to sniff. Not any herbs he knows. He sets it aside, scratching at his bandaged fingers.

"What's it all do?"

The rarer high dragons are definitely worth beholding to Kain, who always takes his time to watch them, even a distant sighting is enough to really strike him. He'll never get over the power they have, the way they own the skies...

He finds himself daydreaming a little, something he rarely does, but he snaps out of it soon enough and looks at Alan, an enigmatic look on his face. He's careful about his talk of dragons, always keeping things from getting too weird. But he can't help but share that sense of wonder toward them. "Their numbers do appear to be growing steadily. Every time I return back to my favored locations, I've noticed the signs. Every time I witness one of them, I'm in awe. It's utterly fascinating. Blessed indeed."

Clearly not, but that comment gets his eyebrows to arch up even higher than before - not that it's possibly all that easy to tell, since they're well and truly hidden under his hair by this point.

"Och, rifts don't sound a thing like the pipes. Besides-"

He shifts one hand off the pipes so Alan can see the mark. It's quiet, for the moment, only its usual faint glow coming off of it.

"I'd know if there was one nearby. It'll react to that. All I was doing was getting a wee bit of playing in while I had some time to do so."

He finds the pearls first, lifting them out from behind the atlases that he had thought to peruse. The books are forgotten for a moment while he examines his find. These pearls are minuscule compared to the pearls he used to own, but still they speak of the sea. He lifts them into the light and smiles softly, letting them dangle from his long fingers.

"What other treasures are hidden so cleverly, I wonder?"

The dracolisk brings its snout closer to that extended hand, pausing for another moment before it begins to sniff at his fingers. It continues to do that until the roll comes out, and instantly its attention is redirected to the promise of food. When Alan waves the roll it moves closer towards the offered food, letting out a low grunting sound while its nostrils flare and its tail flicks just once.

Cade prays a lot. Like, a lot a lot. In the early morning before he goes to his tasks, around lunchtime, in the evening before dinner, again before he goes to bed, and that's just what takes place in the chapel. He prays like a man with a guilt complex, which is of course ridiculous.
On one such evening he's stepping out into the cloistered garden, still limping a little from the injury he sustained at the Winter Palace, and he sees That Guy sitting there. Cade freezes; he's not sure he wants to invite Alan's attention, because he's weird and says uncomfortable things.

Living in the middle of the woods can teach you a lot of things. Social graces are seldom chief among these, but a certain awareness of one's surroundings often becomes second nature.

Which is to say: Sorry Cade. You've been Noticed.

Alan doesn't look up (knife safety is temporarily being prioritized over his commitment to weirdness), but he pauses humming along to regard Cade from out the corners of his eyes,

"It's nice weather,"

He offers. It's nothing of the sort: The usual frigidity of the winter months has settled deeply into Skyhold. But that's the sort of thing that you say (or so he's learned) when you're beginning a polite conversation. In some vague sense, he's aware that Cade's owed that. Alan isn't given to apologies, but that doesn't mean he enjoyed upsetting the man.

"It didn't really move as much, in the West." Orlais has fewer howling winds, it's true. "Sort of stifling."

He's no idea whether Cade attended or not. After what Alan's seen of the Templars there, he rather hopes he didn't. If he doesn't enjoy upsetting Cade, he really didn't enjoy upsetting a Horror.

Edited 2017-01-29 01:31 (UTC)

"I see. Silly me."

The trick was buying food at night and not day. Perhaps the nightshift was more easy-going about such things. Either way, it was useful information.

"It is medicine," he affirmed. "And it does what medicine is supposed to do."

It was a broad answer to a broad question.

"...To treat illness."

Alan takes a long step back, attempting to lead the thing away.

Were the path clear, perhaps this would work. Perhaps it wouldn't. Either way, he'd be a whole lot less likely to trip over the edge of a tent stake, and (brief attempts to balance thwarted by the sudden spasm of his healing side) go crashing into the cloth, bringing the front entrance down abruptly.

The roll's still in hand — which is to say, it's on the ground tangled in a mass of hangings and rope and snow, attached to a desperately scrabbling young man.

His eyes flicker between the bagpipes, Jamie's hand, and back again. His mouth opens, then shuts. It's clear he doesn't know which to ask about first.

Alan eases forward slowly now, in the mincing manner of a bird; head tipped with wary curiousity.

"It's an instrument?" Or a game, but that seems less likely, with the sound. "Is it meant to sound like that?"

No offense, and all that.

"You wouldn't think, with all the fighting. It's a scavenger's time."

That lack of prey, it's enough to explain why they'd range farther from their nests, take on prey so dicey as giants. But even so — enough of them are living, thriving, in spite of the disruption. Perhaps it's only that reverence which draws him to the idea of something greater, some more mysterious factor to their return.

Perhaps, and yet,

"Difficult to keep numbers on them, in these times. But I have to wonder how their cousins fare." He's had few dealings with wyverns, they're never so thick on the ground as they are in Orlais. "Whether some connection might be drawn."

It's half a proposal.

Under most circumstances — say, perhaps in Denerim, or a farmer's larder — Alan would take lucky bit of warning he's been granted here and use it to get out of dodge.

But this is Skyhold, and he's come to think of it as near enough to his own territory. There are few areas of the fortress he hasn't explored, on four legs or two, hasn't marked with his own small signs of passage. The library is a special wonder, with its wealth of pages, and it's here that he's reserved the special treasures.

It doesn't bother him that someone might find them, take them for their own. But he certainly wants to know who's doing it.

So he stops fiddling about with a ladder, and leans down to look, doing his best fidgeting impression of innocence. It's a dubious act. He's preening a little. It's nice to be called clever — something of a rarity, really, when you have as little common sense as he does.

"What'd you find?" He asks, peering over. Another elf, one of the big shining ones, but he's gotten enough of Thranduil to measure it less strange.

Edited 2017-01-29 02:11 (UTC)

there ain't language for the things i've seen

OTA | Outside, inside, side-to-side.

KAIN

MEDICINE SELLER

THINGOL

BRUCE

JAIME

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B

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