[open] we ask that life be kind

[eolasemah]

WHO: Sina, the greater Kirkwall populace (including you)
WHAT: dealing with the magic forest backlash
WHEN: early August
WHERE: the steps of the former Chantry
NOTES: with regard to this fiasco

It's early morning, but past sunrise, so many people are still on their way to their daily occupations when a small Dalish elf takes up residence on the steps of what used to be the Chantry and is now a very condensed forest. She's brought with her supplies to see her through the day: a few snacks and plenty to work on, mainly grinding herbs and creating poultices and tea blends, unremarkable and nonmagical activities to put people at ease.
Sina has paid little mind to the guards around the garden's perimeter, apart from offering each of them a bit of dried fruit for their trouble, and she has more of the same for anyone who comes to talk to her. To each, the message is the same: it was me, I did this for you, and there is no reason to be afraid.

Of course, there is a reasonable contingent of those who prefer to shout and carry on, some simply grieving over their chantry and their lack of control in repurposing it, some insisting this is Dalish trickery that should be punished. To both, she listens and says little, with apologies to the former group and polite deflections to the latter.

Over the course of the day she finds herself joined by an assortment of people from the street, who come and go in their efforts to make coin or simply occupy themselves: the occasional musician, bored children, beggars. Sometimes they interact with Sina and sometimes they don't, but regardless, she hold her vigil and, to a degree, actually enjoys it.

Perhaps it doesn't help at all. But whatever the case, the people of Kirkwall who care to look will find a face and a voice connected to the sudden forest, as well as a pointed listening ear and a giving hand.

[Feel free to approach sometime during the day, or we can arrange an interaction after!]

Comments

[eolasemah]

Sina blinks, more from the suddenness of the words than the accusation itself. Blood is, after all, not uncommon in some Dalish rituals, including the applying of sacred lines to their faces. Blood magic is a delicate matter among Sina's inner circle, not to be used in abundance, but certainly a tool like any other. She doesn't say as much, estimating that it wouldn't be well-received.

"I..." Sina begins, about to argue that she won't lie, that there's nothing to fear, but even she can see the wisdom of it. Mages, elves, or both could suffer greatly for it. "...will."
She seems to deflate a little, looking around with a new weariness. The blood was as symbolic as it was a focus, a secret hope that some part of her may continue to live and to create life even after...
Well. This.

"I'm trying, Ser Coupe," she says softly, in a near-whisper, her tone an almost complete reversal from the strong certainty of before. "Will it matter, that I'm sorry? That I robbed the people of something meaningful in my desire to give them something meaningful?" There's no bitterness here, no sarcasm. The awfulness of it has been eating at her, along with certain other things, and she abruptly realizes how drained she's become.

not sure how shitty sina's looking so if this is too much of a leap just lmk and i'll edit :V

[limier]

It would be a lie to say it's easy to forget Sina's youth. It's not: The girl's practically a parody of it, all eyes and certainty and fire. But fire eats, and doubt creeps in,

(She looks so poorly now. Had it been this obvious before?)

Wren lifts a hand at last to one of the branches, lets the leaves shake over her skin in the slight breeze.

"Perhaps." It's not a good answer, not a kind one; it would be more of an unkindness to lie now. "Your intentions will matter to some. Others will not wish to hear them,"

But Sina knows that already, has heard it all morning — that's not what this is really about. She looks down at last, back over to her. Will it matter that I was ever here?

"How long do you have?"

she ain't looking great, it's fine!

[eolasemah]

SIna blinks, and when her eyes open again, there are tears in them. She rests back against the trunk of a tree, one hand pressing against its rough bark, savoring it. She turns her gaze from Wren, looking instead into the middle distance.
"I don't know," she whispers, her voice trembling, "I feel it in me like... frost. Creeping over soil. Stifling one small root at a time." A tear falls. "But it won't thaw." She shakes her head, her composure slipping, her voice becoming higher and more strained like a child's. "No one can make it thaw."

[limier]

Tears. Oh, shit.

Where do the Dalish go? Back to their gods, back to the ground? She's sent enough away that she ought to know, but the survivors have never exactly been inclined to share details. You plant a tree over the body — this much, she’s seen. Perhaps that's what this is, however premature, however disproportionate. A memorial garden.

Wren crouches low, to draw fingers through the dirt, to force some of the tension from her shoulders, her skull. This city bruises the nerves; no time for that now.

"Come to me," A small bidding. She beckons down to the soil, the stones. "Look to this."

A worm crawls sluggish between her hands. Warm earth, soft. Unfrozen.

"What do you feel in it?"

[eolasemah]

Wiping her sleeve across her eyes, Sina steels herself before crouching next to Wren, oddly comforted by the summoning. It's a tone not unlike what Keeper Thalia would use to redirect her attention as a younger child, and Sina finds she's able to focus, at least for the moment. Her own slender fingers push into the soil, her concentration interrupted only by the occasional wet sniff.
"Everything," she whispers, curling her fingers slightly. "The making of the world."

[limier]

The instinct to calm a panicked mage isn't particularly selfless, no matter how the girl’s hurt tugs at something more familiar.

"How did they build it? The People,"

Not hers; ashes taint the ground you bury them in. But stories are ever a means to speak of that which one might not.

[eolasemah]

"Build what?" Sina asks, lifting her gaze, her eyes still shining with tears despite the small smile that threatens to twitch onto her lips. "The world?" It occurs to her that this is a question for Nari, if that is indeed what Wren is asking.

[limier]

Something tugs at the edge of her mouth,

(The wetness of her eyes, it's uncomfortable. The girl looks so young when she doesn't look half a corpse,)

"You tend to it, no? How did they?"

[eolasemah]

Taking Wren's meaning, Sina nods and drops her gaze to think.
"In much the same way," she decides, "gardens aren't often useful to us, when we move too often to cultivate them well. But what we do grow, we maintain by..." She pauses. "...just... allowing it to live. Returning to it periodically, to harvest, and also allowing the forest to use it, feeding its creatures and spreading its seeds."
Straightening, Sina begins to walk again, a thoughtful stroll as she continues. "The word 'build' confused me. We build very little, apart from the aravels we use to travel. ...if anything, we're what's built." She laughs mildly, casting a furtive glance at Wren, hoping she's taking the trip with her.
"But sometimes this sort of thing is necessary." She gestures to the forest around them. "My clan spent several months on the run from a band of mercenaries sent by a village. We took refuge in a burnt-out patch of forest, and wouldn't have lived if we hadn't been able to speed up the growth process of new life. For those who know these magics, choosing when and why is an important responsibility."