A FOOL'S ERRAND | Closed.

[limier]

WHO: Wren Coupe + Malcolm Reed, Ioane, Inessa Serra, Simon Ashlock, Cade Harriman, Anders + NPCs
WHAT: The Inquisition has word that a handful of Red Templars may have broken from Corypheus' control. A team has been sent to investigate, and decide upon a course of action.
WHEN: Forward-dated to the end of the month.
WHERE: The Free Marches
NOTES: OOC Post; Violence, body horror, language. Will edit if stuff comes up.

Pieces will be edited in as we go!

Contents;

• Arrival
• Confronting Ser Hayes
•  

Previous Conversations;

• Taashaath
• Malcolm - 1, 2, 3
• Norrington - 1, 2
• Samson
• Anders

 

Comments

[justice_is_blond]

Honestly, he's tempted to let her keep avoiding him. She's a Templar, has no little charisma, and it's clear she looks down on him rather than fearing him. Her injury doesn't bother him and actually could be a little comfort... except for the poking from Mercy. He's supposed to be doing better and giving Templars chances. Reaching out. Showing them, well, mercy. And so after one particularly hard bout of coughing, Anders comes over.

"Right. You're hurt. Tell me to leave you alone and I will. Otherwise, I should likely see to that." Maybe her pride will let him walk away.

[limier]

She straightens (grimaces), conscious of the way she’s allowed herself to slump — and her arm comes away dark with blood. Wren regards it a silent moment, throat working to swallow whatever venom she so clearly wishes to spit back.

Or maybe that’s just. You know. The blood.

"Your chest," She finally settles upon a response. The words are dull, wheezing; breath quick. "Cleansed?"

He’d been at tending it long enough, contamination's all that she can guess. Even with their stores of lyrium, he’s got to be exhausted; they all will be. She’d rather they needn't camp here tonight, but there may not be a way around it. Not with work still to be done.

(Torch the place. Scour the grounds. Isn’t it lucky after all, that they’d brought an expert in Chantry-burning?)

[justice_is_blond]

He nods.

"There was red lyrium in it, due to the weapons, no doubt, but it's gone now. The more recent the introduction, the easier it is to eliminate it." In other words, the longer she takes to let him see to her, the harder it will be to set matters right. Her pride, surprise surprise, is her enemy here much the same as Templar pride is the enemy to progress.

"Do you want to test how long it takes for you to transform into a Samson or a Meredith? There's no healer who has my experience with fighting red lyrium. But you can take your chances."

He's made the offer. His obligation to her is done, if even he truly had one, especially considering the work he's done already. Her lyrium has been needed.

[limier]

"I did not lecture you,"

She murmurs distantly, at last stows the knife aside. Pride be damned, this operation was a fucking mess; she doesn't look forward to hearing his opinions on it.

But the ache in her chest keeps seizing, a little too literal to be ignored with the rest — and she can hardly shirk Anders forever, not when she's the one who brought him.

With some effort, Wren concedes and eases down, fails to disguise the nausea that ripples across her face.

"What do you require?"

At least she's already fumbled off her mail.

[justice_is_blond]

"Says the one who told me to be dispassionate. And who then asked my help while telling me she does not condone me."

His voice is ice. They're really not going to get into an argument, he figures. They're both too tired for that. But he's not letting Templar barbs slip past. She wants him dead but she'll use him, the same way the Chantry truly wants the mages gone but uses and abuses them. While she talks with him, unlike others, he sees little difference between her and most of the hypocrites who judged him but thought their own hands clean of murder.

"What I need is what you've done. You sat and essentially have given consent." Consent enough.

Anders gets down to his knees, face a mask to hide the strain that getting down takes at this point. Getting up will be even worse, and he already does not look forward to that. For now, he casts. And finds damage that could be life threatening if he left it, but that's little surprise considering her state.

After contemplating lecturing and discarding the idea, Anders closes his eyes and works on healing her lung and dispersing the build up of fluids. Along with the warm itching that healing normally brings, she likely will find it easier to breathe. There's still pain, though. He's not working on the bone just yet.

[limier]

Let us not pretend you condone me, either,

Breath comes easier. That doesn’t mean she’s itching to spend it on another pointless, circuitous little bout. If she’s itching at anything, it’s too damn deep to do aught about. Wren only knows one way to scratch a lung.

"Thank you," Ragged. She waits for a pause in the working, cautious not to disrupt, tries to find a way to say it. To say what? It doesn’t need to be said. These aren’t the ears to listen; not a tongue with anything worth speaking.

"Passion," Another breath, shuddering. "Would that I could give you mine."

Her head lolls. She doesn’t want it to — can’t help it. There's something wet in her voice now, and it isn't just the blood.

"I promised you could take something back."

[justice_is_blond]

He nods in response to the thanks as he lowers his hands, raising an eyebrow at the passion comment.

"I can hardly take your passion," he says, wary. It's a shielding attempt at a joke because he doesn't know what is coming next. "I've already got someone else's and that's all I need."

Nate, he means, but he's not being crude about it this time. "You're not fully healed, by the by. The bone is still damaged, but not in a way that's going to snap. I'm saving the bone work until after I've had a chance to rest. Don't charge into somewhere swinging your sword and you'll be fine for now."

Her and Inessa both will have to wait until he's rested a little. There's so much work yet to do.

[limier]

"I wish you would." Softly. "It has never done me a bit of good."

But she nods loose, acknowledgment of her own: I’ll be careful, I understand. We’ve all a long night ahead. The silence muddles behind her teeth, presses, until —

"How do you imagine this shall end?"

The Inquisition, the Rebellion, this whole bloody state of affairs. She drags a hand up to shield her eyes,

(It’s the sunset, only the sunset, that makes them sting.)

[justice_is_blond]

It's an odd comment, followed by an odd question. Or odd coming from a Templar, at least. He considers her for several moments. The chances of her wanting to hear what he has to say are slim to none, quite frankly, but what does he have to lose from honesty rather than deflection?

"I imagine several different endings," he says after that study, sinking down to sit near her (not next to her exactly, she probably wouldn't like that and he can't say he needs Templar company, of course) to open his canteen and take a long drink of water.

"That the infighting between countries continues and our efforts don't matter; Corypheus destroys us one group at a time until the world is darkspawn and thralls. That we defeat Corypheus, but we're so weakened that the qunari ride in and crush us, and then it's the Imperium versus the qunari and no one wins there. That somehow we defeat Corypheus and the qunari and Tevene are so busy fighting each other we can rebuild, but the Chantry builds up first and once more mages are enslaved, Dalish are hunted, and the Rifters are likely slaughtered or enslaved. Or, maybe, out of all the outcomes that will set us back and destroy and devalue everything that's been done in Skyhold and now here, there's a future where more prosper than are destroyed. Where Corypheus is defeated, the qunari and Imperium weaken each other so much that the enslaved can be set free, that schools run by mages and Templars jointly spread so there's lasting freedom and less fear, that the Chantry decides to keep its hands to itself and worry about helping rather than abusing and dominating and power, and there's a time of peace and healing."

He exhales. "The last is the least likely. Frankly, I think we'll defeat Corypheus and wind up enslaved by the qunari or Tevinter. But I'm not going to stop simply because defeat is probable."