[open] together we can see what we will find

[onlyhymns]

WHO: Cade, his smarmy brother Callum, you!!
WHAT: Cade's life has been turned inside out and upside down. His brother has chosen a terrible time to visit, but has resolved to make the most of it. Come be part of the trainwreck.
WHEN: late Solace
WHERE: mostly around Lowtown
NOTES: There's gonna be a lot of drunken debauchery, and both brothers are going to do things likely both stupid and offensive, so if that's not your bag then you might want to steer clear.

It all began when a blond man strode into the barracks in the Gallows, whistling to himself as he perused the numbers on the doors and finally knocked on one. There, Simon was treated to the sight of someone very familiar and yet not: he resembled Cade, but taller, healthier, and significantly more charming. His name was Callum, and he had come to find his little brother, whom he knew to have just returned to Kirkwall.

Thus they went from the Gallows to Lowtown, where the little brother in question was found in the inn where he'd begun to take up residence not a full day previous. An exceedingly awkward greeting was had, a brotherly razzing that might have been less menacing if they had seen each other at any point over the last twenty-seven years, and the decision to celebrate Callum's visit with a night on the town.

Cade, being who he is, was unable to say no-- and, in his current state, thought a sustained poisoning via alcohol might just be what the doctor ordered.
And the rest... is not yet history, but it's about to be.

I. The First Night

The brothers Harimann and Simon have begun their night of carousing with a visit to the Hanged Man, where Callum diligently ensures that no one wants for a drink or a laugh. They're at a table towards the front, the older brother chatting effusively to Simon and the younger staring into his mug. Callum is quick enough to smile and greet anyone who should come their way, with an offer to join them.

Anyone remaining in the tavern long enough to see them leave might note that Cade can barely stand on his own, but at least it can be inferred that he gets home safely.

II. The Second Night

a. Back in the Hanged Man for another session, tonight is all about catching up. Callum, however, quickly grows bored with Cade's reticence and total unwillingness to pick up girls, and not-so-subtly ditches him at their table in favor of chatting up any locals pretty enough to catch his eye.

b. This ultimately resolves in Callum disappearing into one of the upstairs room with a few ladies, where he remains indefinitely. Cade remains at their table, idly spinning a coin with his head resting on his hand. Either he has total faith that his brother is coming back, or he's too drunk to stand.

III. The Third Night

It starts the same as the others, then Callum starts talking some shit. Any Fereldans in the pub are the subject of his mockery, and it isn't long before things escalate. [I would like this to be one thread, even if multiple people join!]

IV. The Following Morning

A badly-bruised and aching Cade awakens in a cell with no sign of Callum or memory of how he got there. He is, at least, relieved to find that this is not the dungeon of the Gallows, but the drunk tank of the City Guard.

a. Perhaps someone comes to collect him and pay his bail, either in a timely fashion or ...not. [one thread only please, first come first serve]

b. The rest of the day is spent nursing a hangover and trying to come to terms with what's been going on. Callum is nowhere to be found, which is cause for some concern.

V. Special prompts

If you'd like a character-specific scene that isn't covered above, hit me up!

Comments

[limier]

"Thank you." Silence folds, "I am sorry too."

It stings that he should need to know this so well. You lose people, in this line of work. Even then, before things got bad — truly bad — you lost people. In isolation, a tragedy. In sum? Numbers, as they've all been reduced to these past years. Numbers upon either side of a war; upon either side of an old pain.

At length, she looks back to him.

"It is a monstrous Age we live in," Aptly-named, for it. "But Ages end. Years turn. However we might bid them otherwise,"

A beat. Lower, now,

"You needn't call me Ser."

[onlyhymns]

Nodding, Cade rubs the bridge of his nose. He's calmed a little, reassured by the minor shift in balance, even if most of the shift exists because he's no longer a part of her power structure.
"Sorry," he murmurs without thinking, but at least doesn't add 'ser' to it. Staring for several moments into the basin of water, he sighs, takes a deep breath, and tugs off his filthy shirt, still keeping his upper body hunched as though afraid any bare skin is too indecent to be seen by another human being. Still folding it nicely before setting it down, he keeps his eyes low as he moves to the pile of clothes on the bed, keeping himself at an awkward angle such that his back is never to Wren.

[limier]

She finds herself winded. But there’s work to be done.

Wren stands, takes the discarded shirt aside. Folded or not, it’ll need to be laundered; someone in the inn might at least work out the stink, if not the stains. The motion catches her, the lingering of thoughts does: it’s a moment before she observes the peculiarities of his posture. Cade moves to protect his chest, even as he won’t turn his back. Both vulnerabilities, and yet,

She wets another rag to hand out.

"There is salve, for the impact —" For anywhere it might have broken the skin. "— How is your breathing?"

Nothing punctured or fractured, or they’d surely know by now. A deeper bruise might still require monitoring.

[onlyhymns]

He's a piece of work, to be certain. Cade has bruises and small cuts all around his ribs and midsection, his arms, most likely his lower half as well, though he's not so daring as to go that far with Wren here. He nods with a mouthed 'thank you' to the floor as he accepts the new rag and starts going about the miserable process of wiping the dried blood from each small cut, none of which are unlikely to heal normally, but all of which are a nuisance anyway.
Cade is staring into the middle distance when he finds he can't reach over his left shoulder, his right arm too swollen and sore to make the bend. Resigned, he squeezes the rag and lowers it. He has no idea how his back is looking-- well, he has some idea, but no idea how the fight affected it-- and part of him knows what has to be done next. He just needs to take a moment to pretend it doesn't.

[limier]

It's not an answer; rather, it's not the one she'd asked for. She allows him to linger a moment, to prepare, but it's still short work to slip about his side,

To stop and stare, despite herself. She's abruptly grateful he's not watching her face, the reflex she can't quite hide.

She's seen the like, but never to this degree. If Val Royeaux little went in for this breed of discipline, some of the outlying abbeys had left marks enough upon their recruits. Others, nursing more private sins —

— They used to joke of it (was there anything they hadn't?), she and Arnault. Used to make their small remarks of those whose piety was screwed in so tightly to pain. Young and untested and certain in themselves, they hadn't understood to look upon it: half self-loathing, half insane competition. Who's the sorriest son of a bitch?

Holding her hands over a flame every night, Arnault on his knees until they gave out. Both of them struggling to reach, to prove, to force the unseen into flesh. No, she hadn't understood it then; she doubts she does now. She doesn't understand, but she knows the burn of her lungs each morning, the way that it flares to swallow conscious thought. She knows a little of what it is, to rend oneself.

This is on another level.

(Some of it so recent — must have been while he'd still been rooming with Ashlock —)

"Here," She tries hard to hold her voice still, isn't sure whether she's succeeded. A hand out for the rag. "Stretch your arm. Do not let the blood pool."

Give him a distraction. Give her one, Maker.

[onlyhymns]

Cade can feel her consternation as easily as if he were just looking at her face, and he stares at the floor rather than engage with Wren. He holds his arm out as bidden, suddenly more tired than he's ever felt. This is a part of his life he's never wanted to share with anyone, and now 200% more people know about it.
"It's fine," he says quietly, unable to bear the awkwardness of the moment, "I don't let it get infected." Any pain that isn't self-inflicted is the Maker's will, but there's no need to be an idiot about it.

[limier]

It's not fine. It's acutely not fine, but there's still work that needs doing. A distraction,

"I am going to wash them," An obvious statement, one she wouldn't bother with if he weren't so cagey about the business. Water, herbs — it'll sting, and that's worth her own quiet frown. "Who else knows?"

This must have gone years unchecked. Let him at least be seeing a healer, speaking with a Mother, something.

(A brother. Fuck.)

[onlyhymns]

"I'll do it," Cade says immediately, straightening. Being treated like an invalid will only make this worse-- a stupid invalid, at that. He nearly misses Wren's question in his haste, and it takes some of the wind out of his sails. "...Simon."

[limier]

"You cannot reach them," She points out, with a calm she doesn't feel. That shoulder swelling’s not going down any time soon. "It will be quick. Tell me what you told him."

If he's had to explain this before, it's some reference of what to give.

(It's some reference for how badly she needs to chew out Ashlock.)

[onlyhymns]

Well. That's a. ....good point.

Cade sighs irritably and relaxes back on his heels with a scowl. It takes work to be a one-man island, and he's doing a shit job at present.
"...I just feel better after," he mumbles, the reddening of his face compelling him to duck his head and hide it from view. "Penance." That's the word Simon used, and it fits well enough.

[limier]

"Penance for what?"

For feeling? She's brisk enough about it, hands practiced about similar work (nothing so similar as this). In better circumstances, it'd be worth dragging a healer into this, to ensure there's been no deeper damage of the scarring. Better circumstances are awfully distant from these. She doesn't even know who she'd trust to the work, let alone who Cade might.

[onlyhymns]

He's so sore all over that Cade can't believe he still flinches at Wren's contact with the welts on his back, but there it is. Such a big man getting himself all roughed up.
He tries not to hiss, gritting his teeth and waiting until it passes before he answers. "Bad choices," he mutters, "...bad thoughts." He grimaces, either from the pain or the conversation. "Wrongness. Stupid mistakes." Otherwise known as most of his life, at least as he sees it.

[limier]

"Is there sin in a mistake?"

Neutrally. Bad choices, bad thoughts; difficult to argue against what those might invite when they’ve both seen them manifested. But wrongness? Mistakes? So terribly vague.

[onlyhymns]

Cade considers this for a moment, clenching his jaw. Maker, everything hurts.
"If you repeat it," he says, his voice hard.

[limier]

"That is not a mistake," At last the rag peels away. "That is a choice."

"Why do you believe you made that choice?"

[onlyhymns]

Shuddering with the rag's removal, Cade shakes his head. "Because I-..." he begins, and seems to bristle, as though someone just insulted him. "...because I'm not good." He lowers his head again, radiating anger, all of it directed inward. "

[limier]

"No one is." She doesn't move far to collect the shirt, which I honestly can't remember what we did with so whatever, and passes it out. It'll do for now. Nothing deep enough to spend bandage upon. "Not entirely."

"There is good and bad, in each man. Andraste was the greatest of us all — and trials still plagued her."

"To only see the ill we do is to walk blindly. Without knowing ourselves, how will we know the righteous path?"

[onlyhymns]

"We won't," Cade confirms, and seems to have crumpled slightly since Wren stood up, his hand over his face. He knows how futile it would be to try and convince her of his worthlessness, since at the very least Simon has taught him that that's irritating and nobody wants to hear it. "We-- I won't know. Or-- I do. But I can't. I try."
Grimly, he wonders why she's even wasting her time here, when even he can't articulate the wrongness inside. It's a part of him as much as his arms or his lungs, a hazy darkness that has shadowed his life as long as he can remember.

[limier]

"You cannot see it?" She prods, "The good in yourself?"

Another matter for confirmation.

[onlyhymns]

Cade lowers his hand and shakes his head. Any goodness he had was determined by what he could contribute to the Chantry and the Order, and at the moment, that's nothing.
He told them that, he told them he was nothing. They cut him loose anyway and proved it.

[limier]

"I see a man who cares."

Quietly. She's busy about it now: Tidying the tray, packing jars back into place. Best to leave it up here — he may have need later, if he can bring himself to use it.

"About doing the right thing. About seeing that those around him do." The clink of glass on wood. "I see responsibility. Effort. Commitment."

"The sky does not vanish for shingles. We do not see the stars, but they hold their place."

[onlyhymns]

Squeezing his eyes shut in a grimace (at least as well as he can, with the swelling), Cade feels the words wash over him like poison. Perhaps it sounds nice, but all it does is drive the infection deeper.
"And what has that mattered," he snaps, slowly getting to his feet and folding his arms over his chest, "even if it were there. What good has it done, what point is there to it? It was wrong. Commitment," he breathes, his voice breaking on the word, "commitment to an Order that I could never satisfy, that I--"
Suddenly feeling weak, Cade takes a step to sink onto the bed, pressing his face into his hands in what is now an all-too-familiar gesture. "--I never will. I never will."

[limier]

She's put it out there, honesty so rarely-spoken of her people (a jinx upon them to say it aloud), and it's a child's impulse now that wants to curl back snappish.

She smothers it; still, best not to linger much longer.

"No. You will not." Not by fighting his way behind bars, at least. She sets down the last jar — clunk — to look upon him again; chin tips out. "But goodness does not begin and end with the bloody Order."

"You are not better than this, but this — it is not all you are."

"Stretch thoroughly, before you sleep. I will be by before the week is out; I expect not to find you in a cell."

[onlyhymns]

At the very least, Cade reasons, he's not about to burst into tears in front of her. That would be too much for the tattered remains of his dignity to take, stitched together as weakly as they are. Instead he's just angry, in that desperate, hopeless way of someone who knows he's expressing it inappropriately but can't even conceive of what appropriate means anymore.

He glares at Wren as she has her final say, too exhausted and impotently enraged to retort or even nod. Maybe she'll see him, maybe he'll have found a way to get killed by then. It hardly makes a difference.

Perhaps goodness doesn't begin and end with the Order, but Cade's life certainly has, as he sees it.