SUNBLIND | Open.

[alankazam]

WHO: Alan Fane, Wren Coupe, Melys + YOU
WHAT: Catchall for my dudes this month.
WHEN: Throughout Justinian.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: Probably language.

[  hit me up on plurk or discord (oeste #8807) if you'd like a specific starter/need anything ❤  ]

Comments

ALAN | OTA | Gallows/Kirkwall.

[alankazam]

There's a lot of ground to cover. Kirkwall's asking more of each of them, and if he doesn't struggle keep up — it's sometimes a struggle to care to.

But he's learned quickly enough that his directions don't translate. The maps he draws mean little to anyone else, and his misadventure on the coast has proven that for a bad plan.

I. So he pores through atlases, notes amendments. All the while: Parroting an eerie array of accents and phrases. It's an uncanny bit of mimickry, though none of the scraps has anything in common with the others. Your voice might even be among them.

II. Kirkwall can still be a dangerous city. The wrong parts of town are dicey by day — and everywhere's at least a little wrong by night. It's night now, and he's being tailed at increasingly short distance. Maybe he could use a little help with that.

[ OR — Wildcard me, bro. ]

MARGAUX | Closed.

[alankazam]

"Who are you painting?"

How he's been roped into this, Alan isn't entirely clear. But it's too interesting a prospect to quibble — people see things differently in cities. So many people, so many pairs of eyes,

Not like painting in Skyhold, down its disused passages and caved-in crannies: all those small, hidden places where the Ages hadn't left a mark. Kirkwall is a teeming mass of life, writes itself into every hunk of blasted stone, every footprint across a path.

(And still, so much goes unseen. There's more than one way to look, he's begun to realize, the longer that they're here. The highest views hide much below.)

He shifts, adjusts his shoulders. Margaux's light, and he's always been stronger than he looks; it's still a little more than he's precisely used to.

hi i totally didn't notice til now you'd put up the starter

[indocile]

Above him, Margaux displays rather more familiarity at navigating the world from someone else's shoulders; her legs over them, then tucked beneath his arms, bare feet curling behind and against his back to anchor her if and when he moves unexpectedly. Her paint pot is securely tied to her waist, where she can dip into it at her leisure, and she's only dripped a little bit of black into his hair, it's fine, honestly -

"Marquise Briala," she says, as ever scrupulous in using the title her hero has so recently been raised to. "I - well, I don't know what her face looks like. But this is her mask. And a crown, you see?"

Yes, and her two middle fingers pointed out at the city.

DIWANIYA | Closed.

[alankazam]

He’s an infrequent presence in the infirmary of late.

Still, his face may not be completely unfamiliar. If Alan picks odd hours to drop by, there's at least usually something needs doing — preparing supplies, sitting with the ill. Rarely does it involve his slow skill at mending.

Today's different. Some accident by the docks, moving equipment, and somehow or another he's ended up the one to handle it.

To say it's a bit beyond his usual scope is an understatement, but he's moved into action readily enough, and set to work on the unconscious man. It progresses little differently from other procedures Diwaniya might have observed, save the evident difficulty he's having at it. Face drawn, he pushes up a sleeve, reaches for a knife,

(A glance into the room, cursory and distracted, but all seems clear,)

And draws a sharp line down the length of his own arm. There's a slight pull, an almost imperceptible tug at the senses. Blood lifts from the cut in a hazy mist, collects, dissipates as cleanly.

Beneath his palm, flesh slowly begins to knit.

[sans_harmony]

If there's one magical discipline the Shapers guard almost as jealously as they do the creation of life, it's the preservation of it. They'll allow the lesser mages to learn the craft of manipulating fire, ice, lightning, crude and basic elemental forces--but healing craft, they keep for themselves. It's too inextricably tied to the Shaping art to risk teaching it to the uninitiated.

But it doesn't work the same way here, because nothing does. The elements still answer him, sluggishly but reliably, slightly distorted as if coming from somewhere unfamiliar--but real magic, the kind that draws on his own body, the kind that uses life to power life and makes both beings the stronger for it, has proven impossible no matter how he tries. (And tries, and tries.)

He's come to the infirmary to see if there's any worthwhile substitute here at all, or if Thedosian healing really is nothing but bandages and roots. The concept of spirit healing has been explained to him, but he doesn't understand it, nor especially want to--what good is a healer whose craft is dependent on the favor of nebulous beings from some other, ill-defined realm? (Never mind that Diwaniya is a being from some other ill-defined realm, now.) He has no use for sorcerers who can't supply their own power.

His tread is quiet as he opens the door, finding the room occupied and opting to watch for a moment rather than announce his presence. Diwaniya still isn't in the habit of excusing himself, or asking permission to insinuate himself into activities. As he observes, transfixed, he's incredibly grateful he hadn't interrupted.

It's clearly blood that the man is using, not essence, but the visual is nonetheless so familiar it stabs at him like a nostalgic scalpel through the chest. How often has he done the same thing, drawing tendrils of essence from his own reserves to heal an acid burn, or repair a guardman's limp, or save a wounded creation? How has nobody told him this was possible here?

"What are you doing?" he asks, stepping into the room and closing the door halfway behind him, just ajar enough not to look to an outside observer like he's trying to hide anything. His tone is anything but disapproving. He looks as though he's been given an unexpected gift.

COSIMA | Closed.

[alankazam]

Time for a word problem:

You've seven places to deliver twenty-nine pastries. Six of the pastries are an Orlesian recipe, twelve Marcher, and an unfortunate eleven Ferelden in origin. At least one of said pastries contains chopped walnuts, which in at least one location will be considered an obscure, unexplained insult. Another is shaped, by no malice of its own and no force other than the natural whims of dough, more than a little like a dick. There are several additional factors at play, all explained to you in decidedly harried manner by a brisk young woman with a wooden spoon. It's your job to deliver them. Hop to it.

Which goes to who? Alan considers the spread before him, the baskets, with a look somewhere between faintly puzzled and faintly pained, but undoubtedly faint for it.

"Ah,"

He scratches his chin, turns to Cosima.

"Do you think we should write it down?"

[youwonscience]

"Man, next time something falls out of a rift, it should be several reams of paper," she says, which is not actually answering the question at all, but so many things would still be easier if she had cheap, no-one-will-yell-at-you-if-you-use-it paper. Or sticky notes, imagine the joy of sticky notes!

"Okay, so what do you remember for sure? Let's start there." And, because she is a helper, she resists making a mental list of who should get the dick pastry. Or at least sharing that list aloud.

BELETH | Closed.

[alankazam]

There's always been something going on since their arrival here; little chance to speak. Little chance before that, either —

— If Alan feels a touch guilty for the way they left it, he's not the sort to shirk it forever. Beleth's stuck her neck out for him on more than one occasion, and if he'd readily do the same, that perhaps doesn't mean quite as much as being there in the moment.

(He's always been better at one than the other,)

So distracted as he is, he slips into the scouting office during some mid-afternoon lull, raps twice on the side of the door as he's seen others do,

"Congratulations,"

Another bit of study. Not a phrase he's had much call to use before.

[arlathvhen]

Guilt is one of Beleth's oldest friends, and she knows it as well as her own name (ha ha). It nags at her about Alan, if she'd done enough, if Alan was just being polite in accepting her apology. But she had that guilt had a different relationship since she's arrived in the Free Marches. There's more to do here, more ways to stay focused and useful, and the busyness helps.

But it also keeps her from doing things to actually alleviate her worries, or much else (she still had to get Pel her baby present, write a letter to Val, check in on some people, etc etc). So it's a relieved smile that greets Alan's knock, after Beleth looks up from the paperwork at her desk. He sought her out on her own--that's good. She hasn't done anything unforgivable. Yet.

She immediately stands, shoving the papers to the side and into a pile, one of many that cover Beleth's desk in a haphazardly organized fasion. "Thank you, Alan. It's--It's really something, isn't it?" Not wanting to feel like an Important Boss Guy while trying to talk to him, she slips around to the front of the desk, resting against it as she continues. "I can hardly believe it. Proof that my goals are actually within reach, as long as I apply myself."

It's a rare moment of self-appreciation for Beleth, temporarily basking in her achievement. The soft smile on her lips turns to something wryer as she glances to the side, then at Alan. "I think Kolgrim appreciates the promotion even more than me, though. If just for the extra space I have, now. I think that's a good reason to take responsibility for an entire division, yeah?"

PETRA | Closed.

[alankazam]

It's deep in the stacks she'll find him, set up at a little table and poring over a richly-illustrated volume. Elabourate woodcuts, their details hand-coloured, sprawl across blocks of tight, rigidly-organized text. Someone’s put a great deal of care into the work — nothing of the sort can be said for the young man paging through them. Alan’s not someone in the habit of making himself presentable.

His expression is no more animated than his voice, but he lifts it to each passerby in turn, assessing: Is that her? Or this one? That small, hairy dwarven man, perhaps?

His chin tips quizzically, eyes fall upon her at last.

"Hello," A cautious offering.

[ipseite]

"Hello."

Yes, that's her, the low lilt of her voice distinctive - pleasant, even, a woman who has by contrast made coordinated effort to make herself agreeable to the world. To her world, before, and to this world, now. She dresses modestly from what the Inquisition can afford to spare, handwashing nightly her softer undergarments to keep coarser fabrics from her skin and promising herself nicer things, one day.

She has to be patient. She is patient. Everything will be all right. She makes herself smile, and joins him, touching her fingertips terribly lightly to the illustration upon the page he's not yet turned. "Alan, yes?"

ANDERS | Closed.

[alankazam]

"Emilia in the kitchen said you had a dragon,"

Hello Anders. Don’t mind Alan as he cranes his head about the door, hunting for any remaining trace of the beast.

"But I suppose that was a while ago."

He slips the rest of the way inside, without asking.

[justice_is_blond]

"Not too long ago."

Anders looks up from his notes with a small smile before tilting his head toward another door in the room, one with a sign that sas 'Blight In Here; Be Cautious.'

"I've got ice runes in there which makes it uncomfortable to work in, but it's kept a few parts still preserved. Head, heart, liver, a wing, kidneys, two sacs that its body made to contain the Blight, a couple of others. What are you interested in seeing?"

Research is the name of the game here, and you never know what bits might be important in the future.

II

[eolasemah]

Sina's shard keeps her awake sometimes. It's for this reason she's up and about now, staying mostly within the safety of the compound that sits just off the docks, but the sound of quick footsteps catches her attention.
She doesn't even see who Alan is before she crouches to press her hands to the ground, spurring a rapidly-climbing barrier of roots and branches that overtake the mouth of the alley almost instantly. It's then that she looks up to see who he is, and blinks in mild surprise, as if to say 'what are you doing up?'

[alankazam]

There are a number of helpful things that Alan could do in this situation. Stopping short and gawking probably isn't one of them.

To be fair, the display's pretty impressive. He lingers a moment, eyes wide, opens his mouth to explain —

— And is promptly slammed over the head with an oversized fist. He drops like a stone, and the pair of would-be muggers moves in swiftly, only to in turn,

Stop. And gawk.

"What in fucking shit," The first hisses, a small, sharp-faced elven woman. "Get rid of it,"

More brusquely, an order, to the meaty human man beside her. He steps back, clearly reluctant to tangle with. Whatever. This is.

WREN | OTA | Gallows/Kirkwall.

[limier]

She moves through the days at a quiet remove. Whether at drill, at rest, poring over some report or dictating another — she’s distant: Voice soft, attention shuffled discreetly elsewhere.

I. There’s always something to do now, and anyone showing up unannounced is likely to be roped into assisting some menial task. Get your fetch quests here. The real loot is building character.

Time wears on, and her patience shrinks, focus grows difficult to hold. She’s an unpleasant presence, words sharp; skin clammy, pupils shot wide.

II. It begins with a missed appointment, then two. She doesn’t answer the crystals. She doesn’t attend to her routine. If anyone comes looking, they’ll find her door unlocked, and Wren curled in a ball between bed and desk.

[ OR — Wildcard me, bro. ]

GWEN | Closed.

[limier]

Cursing her name must be working: Wren looks like tepid shit.

She’s been muscling her way through their routine (the knife, the mark, basic exercises) without the usual barrage of questions. But Gwen can’t escape them forever.

"Why disappear?"

[elegiaque]

If she doesn't bristle, probably it's only because her hackles are already, by default, up; neither of them are enjoying this ongoing experience, neither of them are surprised by it.

"Why not?"

It's rhetorical - it's not rhetorical.

"Where's the great benefit I'd be missing, exactly? The compelling argument against it?"

II

[circleprodigy]

Inessa's left a couple of messages by now, mainly about if Wren would be interested in those weekly excursions or seeing the griffons. She wants to make good on her promise, after all. When all that goes unanswered, the Warden mage makes her way over when she has spare time, Garahel naturally alongside her. Pausing before the door, she knocks. Garahel whines in anticipation, tail wagging.

[limier]

The sounds of some brief scrabbling, and — a heavy clattering slam, hoarse curses,

When Wren pries the door open at last, it’s before a trailing path of destruction: the newly-toppled desk spilling a stack of books across the floor, the lantern smashed (mercifully unlit).

With effort, she lifts her head to glance blearily over the pair, doesn’t shift her weight from where it’s staggered against the door.

"Warden," She rasps. "May I...?"

Help you? Probably not. The bags beneath her eyes pool heavy; bands of scar bared by a stale undershirt.

ii

[inagutterson]

Technically (not actually technically, there are real papers and names and signatures, this isn't some abstract concept it's a real thing) Yngvi does report to a person. More than one. But Yngvi would rather not of late given recent-recentness so instead he does his usual routine around the Gallows because one dwarf looks much like another dwarf and thus a dwarf is easily overlooked after all.

Another jaunt into Darktown to see the family because people really don't want the family coming to see him, they really don't--

"Where you been," he says as he swings himself in all casual and misses by not a country mile but a city boy's yard and covers with some shuffling of his coat. As if he hasn't just resurfaced himself.

[limier]

She peels her face from her hands to stare up at him, still folded out over her knees on the floor. Wren cuts a picture of solemn dignity — or, well. Solemn dignity's deadbeat cousin. Speaking of deadbeats, or at least those who might be mistaken so by the unwary:

"Yngvi," Something at the back of her brain finally supplies, connects dwarf to filth to friend, "Ah. This... this Chantry business."

She flaps a hand, more boneless than dismissive. There's a stack of papers on the desk: Files, and letters, and a terribly official seal. None of them look to have been touched.

(After this. Just a short break, she just needs to sit a while. It can all run on without her for a few hours — for — however long it is now,)

But he ought to know about that, shouldn’t he? He’s been gone too; she’d looked for him, upon their return, had been troubled for his absence. Had assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that someone would tell her if he’d been fished from the docks.

By the time that absence began to stretch, she’d rather lost track of it.

A stab of guilt. But he’s alive, and at first glance whole, and that’s a relief. Wren moves to stand, braces herself against the table, sends its contents wobbling. Her face is doing something; it's tough to say what.

"Let me have a look at you," Briskly, for someone who looks about ready to melt into the gutter herself. "Still have all your fingers? Toes?"

MELYS | OTA | Gallows/Kirkwall.

[aforethought]

The Inquisition's damn comfortable this go. Warm and dry, with always folks around to watch your back. Throw in enough coin to be flush — and enough honest idiots around that it won't all be nicked — she could almost get used to it. Almost be happy at this.

She's not happy.

I. The mark aches and shivers with light of its own. Pain's nothing she can't handle, but this is something else. The strangeness of it lights on her nerves like a spark in dry weather, always the same reminder: Some mistakes stick.

In public, she brushes off or basks in the wariness it breeds. But she's swanning her way through the mess when something in it pulls, sends the bowl leaping from her fingers.

"Mother dick —"

III. You can get a lot out of offal, but at the end of the day, some scraps just won’t reduce any farther. That’s when you give back. Charity, right?

She’s tossing bits of who-knows-what to the teeming fish just beyond the edge of the rocks, expression drawn. Here and there, a heavier shape, the blunt form of small, circling sharks. It’s not a bad way to unwind, provided you don’t slip in.

[ OR — Wildcard me, bro. ]

DIWANIYA | Closed.

[aforethought]

The downsides to admitting you can read: Getting pinched to limp along the asshole who can’t.

They've been going through known rift sites — map by map, list by list — and so far no one's thrown a punch. Maybe that's the good grace of the Inquisition's purpose rubbing off on them both. Maybe it's just laziness.

Melys still won't put her back to him, watches sharp every time he moves. And,

"West Hill." She stabs the point of finger down on the page with a touch extra ferocity. This time, she doesn't check the list. "Month or two back."

ANDERS | Closed.

[aforethought]

She still doesn't trust this.

It isn't that this fucker's a mage, or apparently a warden, or even that he's talking up a species long-dead —

— It's all of that, and it's that he'd be bothering to show her. She doesn't trust this. There's no reason to.

But if he's fucking around, he'll learn quick not to try it twice. Her little run-in with Diwaniya might've reminded Melys of the perils of picking fights with a mage, but there weren't witnesses then. Beating a retreat, that didn't own much consequence.

Plenty of people listening on the crystals, though. She's got a reputation to uphold.

Hand shoved in a pocket, she waits, face hard, jaw set square: The picture of disinterest, or at least, the kind that someone's interested enough to arrange in the first place.