faderift | OTA | isn’t it a pity?

The great thing about rain is that you catch everyone home. The shit thing is that they try to wait you out.

Wren eyes the decorative falcon above the entryway, and tries not to shiver. She’s foregone anything that might rust for this little venture, but they’ve been at it some time now, and everyone’s soaked to the bone. Under her breath,

"Be sure we hear from the servants, too."

That shouldn’t be an issue. She’ll be surprised if any of the neighborhoods’ primary residents actually want to speak, sodden as all of you are. If you’re invited in, it’s likely to be ushered away from any expensive rugs.

You’re here (ostensibly) to gauge the local opinion on additions to the Chantry memorial-turned-forest, and to smooth any ruffled feathers. You were wrangled because you were the closest person without an excuse who looked reputable enough to thrust at polite society.

A small frown. Wren rings the bell a second time —

Edited 2017-08-17 08:11 (UTC)

Of course on top of the south's miserable cold in the mornings and evenings, it would also rain out of season, too. Whoever had the sense to get Myr out of his Hasmal robes with their too-obvious Tevene influence was likewise kind enough to drape the mage in a heavy oiled cloak; it's kept him from freezing to death in this miserable weather, though it hasn't spared him the soaking.

This is really not how he thought his first actual mission with the Inquisition would go.

He pulls the hood of his cloak down a little further as Wren rings the bell again and rucks up his shoulders like a chilled bird erecting its feathers. Precious little good it does him. "I'll see what I can do," he mumbles in return. Even if he's about as far removed from the lives of city elf servants as from his wild Dalish cousins, there's at least a shred of affinity there he might parlay into actionable intelligence.

When the second ring of the bell yields no sound of footsteps beyond the closed door, Myr breathes out a small sigh. "Don't think we'll have any luck here, Ser Coupe. Maybe the next?" Damned if he'll let the rain wash away his optimism.

Edited (added a little more to go on) 2017-08-20 04:07 (UTC)

A nod of agreement — a belated, tired sound of agreement as she recollects who she's here with, —

The creak of hinges announces itself, and a round little face sticks itself out of the crack in the frame. The elf’s wide eyes track from Myr’s blindfold (his staff), to Wren’s coat, and back again with evident caution.

"Y…es?"

She asks, makes no move to edge out or invite them in. This is the service entrance, and they’re not expecting any deliveries. Not from a blind mage and waterlogged templar, at least.

Wren's midway into an explanation of their purpose, the same routine phrases she's tossed at everyone so far, when:

"Arabel, are you trying to flood us?" A human woman emerges behind her, stout and steady-voiced. The smell of flour and char is thick upon her, words little disguised from their obvious Lowtown origins. Her gaze narrows upon them. "Suppose you’d best come inside then,"

She shoos the girl silently back to clear the door. Arabel slips a hand to Myr’s elbow,

"With me then, Serah," She ushers him towards warmth, the smooth stone underfoot giving way to wooden boards. That burning smell is stronger now, accompanies a cloying floral note, and the franker scents of meat and spice. Conversation filters from the hall — Wren seems to be negotiating some audience — grow fainter with the short thump of a door shut behind him. The girl hovers close.

Uncertainly, "I’m going to let go now, Serah — there’s a chair, um. Is that alright?"

Her freckles pinch in along the path of a worried brow.

"This is just, um, this is just the storeroom." A note of something almost apologetic colours the explanation. Embarrassment? Doubt? From her voice, she can’t be far into her teens. "I’ve just got some peeling to finish."

Edited 2017-08-22 00:29 (UTC)

"More than alright; I'm happy to be in out of the damp." Even if it weren't, what use is there in saying so? This is the fate of city elves outside the Circles and it chafes at him--but there's nothing in his limited power to do, here and now, but adapt to what he's given.

He perches lightly on the edge of the offered chair, setting his staff beside him where he can keep contact with it with a toe. "And besides, a storeroom's a better place drip dry than anywhere in the house with carpets." No need for a tacit apology to him on anyone's behalf; he's a quick study and used to the idea now that he's not going to get a better welcome anywhere in Hightown.

"Arabel, was it? I'm sorry to not have introduced myself sooner; I'm Myrobalan. As Ser Coupe said, we're here about the new forest. If it won't distract you too much from your peeling," he graces the words with a smile that says he'll understand if it would, "I'd be interested in hearing from you about it. Have you been to see it?"

It's the first question of a series he's honed through previous interviews, an easy transition into delicate queries about the mood of the invisible parts of the household. What had they heard about the forest? Were there any fears he might allay, any assurances he could give? Had she noticed any unusual unrest in the days following its appearance? Anything troubling and out-of-place?

All carefully fenced around with language to let her avoid what she might not safely say--he'd been too direct the first few times and run smack against the housepride--or fear--that often leashed a servant's tongue.

Edited (figured a little more might work better hooks-wise) 2017-08-26 21:46 (UTC)

The chair's got a wobbly leg, not likely to dump him out, but enough to rattle itself as he sits.

"Ar’abelas," She corrects quietly, "Arabela's just easier to say."

Easier for them. It sounds more human, and Mistress Harlow thinks she’s doing a kindness by it, she knows. She knows better still how quickly shem kindness can sour. It’s not worth making a fuss over; probably it’d be better, even, not to be named for someone’s sorrow.

But it wouldn't be true.

The sound of hard small hands scraping against dirt, the splash of water turned over and over again. At last,

"My sister, she told us not to go near it. Says that the Hahren’s been talking to those barefoots about it," And Dalish never mean anything good. She summons up something (bravery, self-satisfaction, it’s hard to say —) to add: "I took the long way around going home last sevenday. Got close enough to see the treetops, and one of them was there. She was smaller than I thought."

Aren’t they supposed to rove the wilds, growing strong and savage on it? That girl looked half-dead. Like a corpse someone painted on.

"But the rest of it’s so big, isn’t it? Bigger even than — um," A glance back, an interruption in the chatter as she at last recalls Myr’s blindness. More gently now, carefully, "Do you want me to describe it?"

Fiene's brother went blind young, when he had the brain fever. Left him simple, too, but he still likes it when you put shapes in his hands and tell him how it looks. Not a lot of mages came home to the Alienage, after all that happened; plenty of cripples did.

It makes it a little easier. Makes him a little less frightening.

Edited (did you know i used "little" five times in this tag jeez self) 2017-08-26 21:52 (UTC)

"Ar'abelas, then. It's lovely." Twenty-two years removed from the alienage, still he remembers some habits of pronunciation. Hadn't clung to his accent the way Van did--he sounds a thoroughgoing flat-ear, vowels and r's redolent of Hasmal Circle--but he'll do his damnedest to get a kinswoman's name right.

He's content to wait on her answer, listen to the comforting domestic sounds of vegetables being prepared, let the heat of the room creep in through his soaked clothing. Right now he's well-convinced he'll never be warm again, but it's making inroads at least.

One of them was there. She was smaller than I thought. Most likely Sina, then, in her valor, and the thought makes Myr smile faintly--the careful offer makes him smile more. "Please," he replies, gentle in turn. "If you would. I've walked through it but it isn't the same as seeing it; I'd like hearing more of it."

People often get strange around him when they remember his disability; it isn't something he usually begrudges, especially not when it comes with an offer kindly meant.

Footsteps shift the floorboards. Wiry fingers tangle in his, all callous and bone.

"The first thing you know is green," He has to know green. "So much of it. More than you've ever seen, even in the rifts."

"Like the sky forgot where to set itself and hid behind. It's so much green, you'd think it was only one thing until you got close."

Not that she'd gotten very close, in the end. Myr's admission of walking through it seems — well, it's more than she'd even risk, but probably he's got less to lose. People treat mages better when they don't treat them worse, and plenty worse looks to have found him already.

"When you do, that's when you notice the leaves. You'd never notice unless you look separate. Together, they all make something more. Something important. There's creepers all through them, too, and bushes and flowers. They just spring out everywhere: From the bark, from the vines, curled as snailshell."

"It's like looking into a dream," A different breed of sheepishness shows its edges beneath that. This is something more personal. "It's —"

Down the hallway, something clatters. She cuts herself off, her fingers tense. Not Wren's voice, or Harlow's from the door; neither is the soft weeping that follows. Her grip eases once more.

"It's alright," She offers, pats his hand once. "It's just Milla. She does that now."

They'll sack her soon for it, she's sure.

Edited 2017-09-06 05:37 (UTC)

He knows green. Hasmal isn't a place for forests--too hot, too dry--but he's seen storybooks and paintings and the vhenadahl; he's stood inside the wooded hearts of spirit-conjured dreams. The images he cobbles together as she speaks are watercolor on parchment and insubstantial as the Fade; but they are lovely, all the same. His fingers tighten on hers in unspoken thanks.

So much about today has been beyond expectation and this is of a piece with that--except this moment has the unsuspected beauty of a gem in a midden heap. Not everyone who's described something for him knows how to evoke an image so vividly--

The sudden interruption's worth an instant's flash of annoyance (she wasn't done yet) from him, replaced with guilty concern at the sound of muted sobbing. "Is she all right?" he asks, starting like he'd get up from the chair. As if he'd go investigate what's wrong, whether it's something in his limited power to fix (it's likely not). "What--what's happened to her?" She does that now.

Like she didn't used to. Like something's gone wrong. (There is so much wrong here, so much you can't do anything about, Myrobalan. When will you learn to stop trying?)

"Man ran off on her." Not the kind of thing you carry on over, not this long, but Milla's always been a soft touch — and — "Don't know what she'll do when the baby comes. Her sister up and moved the whole family, few months back."

Had an offer on a good job, didn't trust the Inquisition hanging about like a pack of vultures. Not the kind of thing she's about to say to this one, he's been alright. It wouldn't be kind.

Footsteps creak, descending; heavier now (squishing with damp). Wren's tread ought to be familiar, as it disappears towards the source of the crying. Ar'abelas' fixes him with an appraising look, lowers her voice again.

"Listen," Hesitation, uncertainty. "If it ever gets bad out there with all them,"

It trails off. She's heard things about the Gallows. Heard plenty, and felt more of the debris, when it came smashing on down through the lower city. Fixed to choose between some big shems gone mad, and apostates running loose, she'd sooner turn them both out to sea.

But Myr's been alright. And she's heard things.

Pain on pain on pain, repeating-- "Maker's breath. She's got no one else here for her?" They could always use more hands at the Gallows, he thinks. And also: That's not a decision for him to make, even as he's considering and discarding half-formed plans. But he could--

Remain focused on what he came here to do. (Instinct, on some level, to interrupt his own fretting at the sound of a templar striking off to fix the problem. He hopes fix the problem.) The Maker may notice the fall of every sparrow but men's resources are sadly limited and which battles are most worth fighting, Myrobalan?

Listen, and he does, wrenching his attention back to that. He grasps the insinuation immediately and swallows an expression like a pained smile. "If it ever gets bad out there, I'd be too conspicuous to hide, cousin," he says quietly. (He doesn't say that he wouldn't run if it got that bad, ever again.) "But I'll remember that--and thank you.

"If," it ever gets bad in here, "there's anything we can do--anything I can do, for you in turn--" His fingers tighten on hers again. "--the Inquisition's not without resources. We're here to help."

They've been shown in. At the Vauquelin residence, the staff have been obliged to accustom themselves to strange comings and goings, some of which their lady is more pleased about than others - Ser Coupe, being something of a regular visitor to the property, had by her presence legitimized what will later be referred to by that lady as 'this nonsense' and ensured their entry.

They have, indeed, been ushered away from the expensive rugs.

Gwenaëlle's voice is audible from just above the stairs in the foyer, her steward more muted; "Who? And she wants what?"

A quieter exchange, and then one of the footmen gesture--

"My lady will see you," in a tone that suggests he, too, cannot believe he is saying this.

Edited 2017-08-22 09:05 (UTC)

She’s never visited with company.

It’s not as though a blind elven mage is the most peculiar guest housed here, still, Shivana’s not precisely who she’d have chosen for this particular conversation. The storm’s intensity had caught even her by surprise, and after the latest flashes of lightning she’s finally conceded defeat.

(She’s not the tallest thing in Hightown, but why chance it?)

The Vauquelin residence does not promise pleasant conversation; for a warm, temporary refuge, it will more than serve.

"My Lady," Congratulations, there’s company present, no Gwenaëlles in use today — "May I introduce Monsieur Shivana,"

Unlikely as she is to recall that in an hour’s time. At least the girl’s elected to wear a shirt today, lost as that would be on present company. She’s shed her own most rain-soaked layers in a storeroom below, but the smell of damp lingers.

"Lately of Hasmal." Her manner's more casual than it might be, now out of sight of anyone who might give a damn. "I must thank you for the welcome, your neighbours declined to answer the door."

Who could ever guess why?

Edited (in my defense, hamsal would be a way better spelling, because then you could call it ham circle) 2017-08-26 22:14 (UTC)

This is so far outside Myr's experience that his own idiot fearlessness is failing him. He's stuck as close to Wren's side as seems proper (that's to say, not very) throughout their admission to chez Vauquelin, maintaining his silence and keeping his ears open. Being hustled off with the servants is one uncomfortable thing; being passed into the presence of a titled Lady and presented to her as a guest is another, and it makes him acutely aware of how small and damp and bedraggled he must be.

But-- He's a small damp bedraggled thing that's a part of the Inquisition, and all men are the Work of our Maker's hands--, so act like it, Myrobalan. Shoulders square, back straight, head up, no leaning on the staff-- He isn't sure whether he ought to speak or not on his own behalf and so elects for not, though he ducks his head graciously in Gwen's (presumed) direction as he's introduced. Lacking the precise protocol for such an encounter he'll have to fall back on simple politeness, and hope that's enough not to embarrass the Inquisition.

"Imagine that," Gwenaëlle says, dryly, of the neighbours. Her appraising look for Myrobalan will mean little to him, but his effort doesn't go unnoticed - even if mostly in the context of isn't it nice at least some of them will bother trying, where'd she dig this one up, he must be new.

She sits, in a rustle of skirts, and because she dislikes Wren Coupe she does not invite them to do so as well.

"No one wants to hear my opinion on your latest public relations clusterfuck," because neither of them are the sort of person she might modulate her tone for, especially not the fearless (maybe one fear) leader. "If the Chantry's trying philanthropy in Kirkwall, I recommend donating some common sense to whichever apostates clearly haven't got enough to fill a spoon. Osterhaus didn't let you in?"

And her motivation for bothering with this becomes clear.

(Two maids enter, quietly, bearing towels and hot tea. She's not an animal.)

Edited 2017-08-28 12:12 (UTC)

"You've not yet fallen over his wall, then."

Are they doing this in front of the children? Why not. She collects a towel (a quiet note of thanks), passes it out to Myr.

"Cracking your skull is one manner of introduction, but I cannot think it the most effective." She waits until the maids have retreated before adding: "There is a chair to your left, Shivana."

They've temporarily something the girl wants. No reason to make the boy stand. She doesn't move to claim one herself.

"We were not answered. I've still no notion what the man brokers, but Maker knows he's a hand in enough deals. Little doubt one of his has spoken to one of ours." A dismissive gesture: Merchants. "None were sent to welcome you?"

That's unusual, she has to think -- if only on his end. Neither the Inquisition or Orlesian nobility lack for useful contacts; for angles that might be driven beyond present circumstance.

All trade's about information, in the end; who and what you know. There's a great deal upon Osterhaus, but thus far, it's proved a shallow pool.

Edited (Catches a malapropism several hours later) 2017-08-28 20:02 (UTC)

"Thank you, ser," for the towel and the directions alike. He locates the chair and seats himself, securing his staff before setting about to remove as much of the rain from his hair and face as he can. It's a bit of a fraught thing with the blindfold (and not removing it), though he manages as best he can; sodden as he is, there's only so much one towel can do. When it's finally soaked through, he refolds it neatly and lays it aside, then resettles himself with fingers laced before him and forearms on his knees.

He rapidly gets the feeling that only half this conversation is being held aloud, and not in the usual sense all context of mannerism and facial expression are lost on him. This isn't the place for a sheltered Circle mage; he's in well over his head-- But when the waters are closing on you what else can you do but swim?

So, then, he listens (what else are those pointed ears good for?), face turned toward Gwenaëlle in a thoughtful eyeless regard. The underhanded doings of merchants aren't anything he knows much about, but he can surely pick something up from this--find some way to be useful, even if only as a memory aid later.

Gwenaëlle stays what looked like it might've been the beginnings of a roused objection when Coupe fails to herself take a seat; just as well. Fine, Shivana can sit, his most pressing fault being only that he's trailing her least liked Templar. And Yngvi does that, too, damn him--

Nevermind that.

"He welcomed me personally," she says, choosing to ignore everything she doesn't feel like dignifying with a response as is her right as an aristocrat, a young woman, and a royal pain in the arse. "Over-familiarly, if you ask me." No one did, but that's rarely stopped her from offering an opinion regardless.

Now, bearing in mind what she has in almost this very breath said about the Inquisition (her voice itself ought to be memorable enough for one who can't appreciate the unsubtleties of her expressions, touching on the lower register for a woman, youthful, musical, distinctly Orlesian and as distinctly expressive as every other part of her)--

"I didn't care for his tone."

I didn't care for his tone. There's a shock.

"How so?"

Asked with a patience she feels little of, one which she expects will do nothing to fool those present. Not when her tongue's already slipped free.

What does overfamiliarity even mean to a self-styled hermit? (One who'd still bristle, she expects, to be ignored.) It would seem odd to think it a matter of class, when Gwenaelle surrounds herself with such varied company — but all those outside aristocratic norms. A climbing trade might not qualify.

"There has been some talk of late deliveries. Have the staffs spoken?"

Would Gwen even know? She's been involving herself enough in their business lately that the possibility can't be discounted.

"No." Confidently said; in some ways, her disinterest in her lady's maid has served her well.

Ever eager to distinguish herself, Yva is diligent in attending to whatever request is made of her - and Yva is Orlesian, before all else. The games of status she played in the Gallows won't serve her if she doesn't want the kitchen to quiet when she enters it; she has cultivated gratitude and trust, ensuring Mistress Baudin's lessons are learned and taking no credit for it.

The information she's passed to her mistress has been good, and Gwenaëlle trusts it this time as well.

"His household is shut up like a puzzlebox. You hardly see anyone except who he has attend him, and he's as much a social butterfly as I am. But he liked that I was uncomfortable."

A frank, matter of fact assessment. It can't have been blatant; no rumors of sadism dog the man's heels. Gwenaëlle, though - she prefers to be ignored, and has never sat high enough in Orlesian ranks to habitually expect otherwise. She's too familiar with what the attention can mean to wish it, and she's seen that look too many times to mistake it now.

Edited (autofuckingcorrect) 2017-09-03 11:13 (UTC)

The Inquisition’s presence in Kirkwall is far from self-sufficient. The supplies required to keep everyone fed, housed, and in reasonably good humour require extensive contact with local merchants. Those merchants, in turn, require vetting.

The Seneschal can’t handle it all. You’re helping out now from the pure goodness of your heart — or maybe just to get out of doing something worse. Most of the records are the product of large families, human and dwarven. Many are attached to the guilds. What you're looking for are any ties to less savoury organizations (to ensure only the Inquisition's chosen brands of grime collect their cut).

"Here," Wren passes a ledge across the desk, taps a column. "Check those numbers, will you?"

A waxen fish leaps from a scarlet seal at the top of the page. There’s nothing too remarkable about the figures, save an unusual number of well-paid employees, few of whom can claim blood ties. How many people do you even need, to import cloth?

To think she would see the day where she would be doing an investigation at the side of the Knight Lieutenant.

That in and of itself was not so strange, admittedly; the very purpose of a Knight Enchanter was to work alongside Templars in their cause, no matter what it might be. After so much had unfolded, though, it was strange to be here, particularly with this Templar.

"Where lies the boundary between nepotism," she starts, reading over the numbers a second time as her mouth, rather unsurprisingly, tugs into a frown, "and villainy?"

Put all your cousins in the same Circle and perhaps we’d have found out,

A terribly unkind thought, quickly-quashed. She’s grateful for Amsel’s assistance — truly — but the space between them still bristles. It’s crossed her mind more than once: The positions they might be in now, had the Spire held out but a short time longer. Distant, impossibly so, yet nearer to this than anything else has been.

"I imagine that depends upon one's family." Less paperwork involved then. She stretches one hand against the other, knuckles clicking. "But odd, no? For so many, to command such wages at it."

A long, appraising look to Herian. Only one of them was raised to worry of money; still, only the other need worry of it now. The past few years have been hard on everyone — significantly harder on a mage alone.

"Were we to inquire, how would you approach the matter?"

An honest enough question: She knows how she'd pursue this, knows what information she wants, but Amsel’s a knight. Whatever her intentions following the war, the Inquisition requires her wits be sharp now. Best the girl get some practice at it.

Edited (aaah sorry for the double edit, words mean things i guess) 2017-08-26 04:27 (UTC)

She's almost surprised that she is being asked, rather than simply issued orders. Herian examines the list again, scanning for some logical pit trap she might fall into, something obvious that her associate might chastise her for.

I would round them up and cut them down when they were at their most desperate, she might say, if she were in a mood to antagonise a Templar. Her respect for the order does remain, even if it is not intact, even if its crimes weigh heavy on her. Mages are not without blame, the need for checks and control cannot be dismissed without a person's sense also being put sharply into doubt, and judgment is flung all too easily and gleefully.

Herian stares at the paper a moment longer, before setting it down. "Research, first, to avoid a blunder. Ensure an adequate understanding of standard trade practices adopted, so we have some basis for comparison. Were we to approach directly with claims of concerns but without sound knowledge, they might attempt to dismiss our concerns as lacking familiarity with such businesses." It's cautious, but: "They may well dismiss Inquisition forces as a collection of brutes better prepared with our blades than our minds. It could be a matter for some advantage. It was always easier for my fellow apprentices to make mischief when our keepers thought them dense or docile."

This isn’t a fight she’ll have today. This isn’t a fight, Maker, remember your instructions —

"One without the other might signal danger." The dim and powerful were ever abominations waiting to happen. The clever and sedate,

She puts those thoughts aside.

"But one will need to do." Neither of them is about to pass for docile. She considers, "A mage will arouse suspicion. My accent, as much."

Outsiders see only the masks and intrigue; not a nation of the poor and striving. Education will be assumed of them both.

"Some attention might be diverted by playing to the recent conflict. Kirkwall has never known easy relations."

This isn't a fight; it could be made to appear one — some petty tug of war between errand boys. It would aid the appearance of incompetence.

"I can play the part of not being a mage," Herian replies, carefully keeping her voice from sounding too cool. "It is a necessity, for some of us, to conceal what we are for the sake of survival."

She may be a Loyalist (is she, though) but she is a Loyalist (???) carved from salt drawn up from the very deepest of salt mines. If salt were a specialisation, she might be its master.

"Such tactics played their part in my recent mission for the Inquisition. However, if you deem other diversions to be preferable, I will follow your orders."

She lifts a pen, taps it twice, debates the least contentious way to ask --

"Please demonstrate."

-- Herian you talk like a fuckin nerd.

(As though Wren has any room to throw stones.)

"My ability to follow orders, or acting as one other than a mage? We are people as much as anyone else. As far as I know there is not a particular walk that I need master. Unless you sought confirmation of my ability to follow orders?"

Ah, there she goes, letting the edge of her temper start to sneak under the careful control she maintains.

A sharp gesture with the pen, she opens her mouth to reply; reins herself in. Easy.

There is a vocabulary, a diction, common to Circle education, to say little of their own, peculiar cadences — bound tight away by formality, by the strain of shifting language. None of it is useful to tell her; Herian already knows.

There's knowing, and then there's caring. This is still too wrapped up in all else about them. Maker, she needs,

"Why don't we get a drink," Improper to suggest, but an inn's as practical a setting as any to observe. "As people other than ourselves."

If they must both stand out for sore thumbs, best to know how badly.

There is a retort about the propriety of sitting down to have a drink with a Templar that she bites her tongue on. She seems to need to caution herself all too often, of late, as though certain bruises have been pressed upon often enough to spread, and flesh that had been uninjured was now tender to the touch.

You could be a mage, some terrible part of her suggestions, more joke and jest than anything she'd consider giving thought, for even a moment. Instead, Herian compliantly tilts her head to the side, contemplative, before nodding.

"Well enough. Shall we go directly?" Or would the Templar sooner shed her scales?

I mean, armour. Shed her armour.

"I’ve something less conspicuous," She gestures to herself: Black coat picked out conspicuously with the Chantry sun. May as well walk about screaming of lyrium. "Half an hour’s time, by the gate?"

It’ll give her time to recollect her patience.

The Blue Dragon is passably clean, won’t bankrupt them to buy a round — and most importantly, it’s near enough the docks. Wren won’t ever be mistaken for else than soldier or mercenary, but the plainclothes she’s acquired are loose enough to hide some bulk; the recent rains lend cover to the ozone which lingers about her.

"Your mission away," She asks, as they walk. The one that Amsel won’t detail, which Wren won’t press. Not beyond: “Do you intend to take another?"

To volunteer to it, rather. They're both bid by duty.

"By the gate," she agrees. And, predictably, she is two minutes early of their appointed meeting time. Part of it is the desire to keep to a strict schedule, and the other is out of a desire not to allow Coupe any room to criticise her.

She arrives without her staff, with a sword hanging by her side. It's not unfamiliar; it was safer to travel this way, before she came to the Inquisition. Now she wears plainclothes, just as Coupe does, less severe than the dark colours she normally leans to; smokey blue and grey. She's not likely to be mistaken for a warrior, but certainly not a mage, either.

"If that is what my superiors would wish of me. Were it left to my own preference, I'd sooner be present here. I've more reason particular to staying, now." She looks to Coupe, curious. "And you?"

"I've seldom spent so long in place," She admits, knows how it must sound to someone whose life largely confined itself to stone walls and practice yards. But they both saw her absent enough, in the end; she can no more hide fieldwork from the girl than any other aspect of her career. "Still, I cannot claim to miss the southern winters."

Snow and mud made tracking a sight easier — for all sides.

"A particular reason?"

For her reason to be particular.

"Cosima Niehaus. We've something of an attachment."

Isn't it great that she can say that without them being reprimanded, punished, confined or one of them taken to another Circle? It's great. Of course, who knows for sure either way in terms of the reprimand, that could be a bit less clear cut.

"I'd wager Kirkwall is much different to Val Royeaux," she continues, as if what she's said is not a matter that might need to be discussed. For someone who lived there a good portion of her life, she can't really claim to have seen much of it. For once, it isn't a deliberate dig. "Do you miss it?"

We’ve something of an attachment.

Wren keeps walking. It’s a delayed sort of alarm that freezes her features, keeps her pacing ahead. It’s the same step that carried her straight past that equipment room years ago: The faces (titles) within. The hitch of breath from between two throats.

Those aren’t the same now, are they. So little of this is the same — she knows —

"In the summer, the whole city reeks of warm sewer," She begins. Words are their own pathway. "Even the gilded quarters, where the wealthy titter. In the winter, the wind off the harbor cuts your skin to bleeding. The street food will make you sick. Thousands live and work in shadow. She is an excessive sprawling labyrinth, and the world sees only the rings upon her fingers."

"We’ve something of an attachment." An echo, a truth. She misses it. Her eyes cut at last aside: "In what manner did you become acquainted?"

It’s a pointed sort of neutrality. The kind that promises anything but.

"Like so many cities, then. Just more gilded than most."

But the next question, or rather the answering of it, her manner changes a very little. A very slight smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. A little spark, though she keeps it contained enough.

"Cosima was attempting to gather plants for the Inquisition in the valley, near Skyhold. She had not realised some of the more dire effects of rashvine, so I advised her gloves might be appropriate for further gathering." It is a fond recollection - albeit fondness with Herian-level filtering, which leaves it recognisable for what it is, but possibly questionable in terms of its intensity to those unfamiliar. (She was not quite so good at containment, before the annulment.)

She has some suspicion as to what the Knight-Lieutenant's own containment might crumble into. "She thinks of the world differently from so many others of my acquaintance, so we talked a great deal before I was sent on assignment. I was greatly relieved to see she was still hence, on my return."

She's silent a moment, and perhaps that’s answer enough: The creeping tug-of-war between lips and will (quite different from Amsel’s own battle —). To frown would only encourage her, and one more fucking fight for it. If Wren doesn’t see another way out of this, she’s no more eager to speed the collapse.

"I am fond of her myself." The manner need hardly be specified; all else aside, she must have fifteen years on them both. Her voice is too still, "I would not see either of you come to harm."

There it is. There's the frown.

Edited 2017-12-08 05:44 (UTC)

"I am not surprised. Cosima has the type of countenance to win friends wherever she might attend." Such are her charms and wonders. That Coupe is fond of her is hardly shocking. "You imagine me a danger to her."

It's not a question; it does not need to be.

"I assure you, I have no intention of harming her in any manner." Ah, the tavern. She holds the door open for her delightful companion.

"It is not your intentions which give me pause."

Only history. But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? For all her thoughts — feelings — of the matter, for all the blithe indifference of their little enclave here, for all possibilities past three years have opened,

Chantry law existed to reason. There was practical purpose behind the discouragement of relations: To avoid abuse of power, true. To avoid bloodlines, of course. And as with so much else of the Circle, to avoid risk. Waking, sleeping (alone, together).

She presses her own hand to the door, waits in place to catch Herian's eyes, and blocks the frame like a total dick. A passing drunk bumps her elbow and into the other direction without seeming to notice.

"Has there been anyone?"

Since Vipond, she doesn't say —

Not her intention; the nature of her, her being. Mage and disappointment, which she suspected were interchangeable words in the vocabulary of Knight Lieutenant Coupe. Herian's intention weren't the concern, only Herian herself.

"I fail to see how my engagements," a word deliberately chosen for ambiguity, "romantic or otherwise concern you any more."

The nature and degree of the love and the entanglement all rather depended. "Will you move?"

For a moment she looks about to refuse. At last, peels off, within.

There was a suicide here, She almost catches herself speaking — repeating, and the story dies on her tongue in a little smother of doubt.

She's said that already. She's said these things already.

"So be it." It's distracted, where else might it rise to anger. Her frown tips elsewhere, distant. "So be it."

She is surprised that Coupe relents. Moves, at least; has Luwenna Coupe relented a single day in her life? Herian watches her, brow furrowing just faintly, as she tries to assess whether that was a victory or a loss.

No matter. It was done.

OTA | isn’t it a pity?

HIGHTOWN | Do you have a minute to talk about Andraste? | OTA

token elf checking in

ayyyy

yoooo

cw vague ableism etc

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would eat a ham circle for sure

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THE GALLOWS | Desk Duty | OTA

i bought starbucks and also brownies

real talk why doesn't starbucks do a brownie frapp

i feel inspired to make my own but also i would just want to eat the brownies :C a crisis

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an ok place to wrap this maybe?

sounds good to meeee