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WHO: Nathaniel Howe and YOU
WHAT: Open post for August
WHEN: Present, with one backdated thread
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Take a peek, see if you're someone he sent a message to about Jonas Cousland.

I. Alistair | backdated to immediately after the mission to find Jonas Cousland

Nathaniel returns to Kirkwall on a cloud of exhaustion and numbness, and the first place he goes is Alistair's office.

He knocks. He rarely ever knocks when it's just the two of them, but he feels he has to give the audible warning of bad news. If it's not the knock, it's the wearied expression on his face as he slithers into the room.

"We're back," he announces unnecessarily, and pauses to make sure Alistair knows he's bringing bad news.

II. Letters to Morrigan, Velanna, and Oghren

I am sorry.

Jonas Cousland was found in the Deep Roads, barely alive and badly mauled by darkspawn. He passed away a few minutes after he was found. He was among friends, in as little pain as possible, and held in the arms of someone who knew him since he was a baby.

You traveled with him and knew him. You were friend to him. So was I. He was a man of great talent and charisma. He will be remembered for uniting a country at war with itself and leading it against the Blight. He carries no shame with him to the grave.

Queen Anora has been written of his passing, as has his brother, Teyrn Fergus. I leave you with no obligation except to deal with your own grief.

Your obedient servant,
Nathaniel Howe

III. Hightown Shops

Nathaniel needs a new pair of boots. Which is a pain.

Shoes are easier to buy than boots. Shoes are less expensive and have less material that has to be fitted correctly. But after this last excursion in the Deep Roads, he needs a new pair entirely. Too much wear, too much Blight, which comes in big black patches in those parts of the Deep Roads. Too many porous surfaces for Blight to seep into. A uniform is standard, but boots don't have to be standard-issue for Wardens. Boots can be purchased at Hightown, and Hightown is where a discerning individual like Nathaniel Howe would go for them.

Once he has found a pair, however, he finds himself browsing other wares at other shops. Fabrics, accessories, pretty little knick-knacks for the home. He can be found waffling about a purchase at whatever shop you happen to be near.

IV. Wildcard

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Petra looks well, today.

Not that she makes a habit of being poorly put together, but for once she looks well-rested, has taken the time to set her hair prettily, has for this outing taken down from the wall where it hangs her deep violet riding habit, clean of travel dust and lovely in velvet. She has made an effort and she looks like a lady, not a proud charity case -

She's saved and saved and saved, and she's not going to look like someone who a merchant can take advantage of, not going to feel awkward standing here in the simpler clothes she's adopted since her arrival. She doesn't see Nate at first, haggling down the price of the soft fabric she's selected -

"And this sewing box," she adds, setting it down. Her face doesn't fall at the price named, but her determination to get it within her range solidifies. And she's not a bad haggler.

That is a beautiful fabric Petra has selected, and Nathaniel slides in beside her, fascinated by how she manages this. Nathaniel is a wretched haggler, always self-conscious and thinking of the seller as more important or needy than he is, but it fascinates him how other people manage it. That look in her eyes is special, that gleam of determination when she hears the price.

Once she reaches a decision with the seller, he gives her a beaming smile. They step away, having concluded business.

"How would you feel about getting something to eat? There's a place nearby with an exquisite seafood spread, fresh every morning. I could treat."

Riding the high of success, clutching her packages to her chest as if she isn't entirely sure a mistake wasn't made and someone might take them - she beams back up at him, delighted to have run into a friendly face, one she can be pleased to see in a most uncomplicated way.

"I'd like that very much," she says, tucking her hand at his elbow in long habit. Gentlemen are gentlemen are gentlemen, even if few enough of them have any capacity for gentleness. "I've spent so much time in port cities, I should be in real trouble if I hadn't developed a palate for seafood."

He immediately relaxes. He wonders if she is his first friend outside the Wardens in a long time, and does not dwell on it after they've steered into the restaurant.

"They make an excellent black pepper crab here, if you like a little heat to your food. If not, the prawns are the size of your head and the lobster is as big as I am."

There is a whiff of tobacco as they pass inside, sweet and smoky and pure, adding a mellow overtone to the smells of the food.

Her laugh is delighted-- "Oh, I have adored lobster," with a ready enthusiasm that, in its way, underscores the cautious steadiness with which she'd approached her earliest days in Thedas. Some of the stilted, wary way that she engaged with the world then has eased; more natural, more comfortable.

It's fair to say that she's not ventured far from the Gallows, often - her disastrous first mission (mercifully not so disastrous as it might have been, but how woefully unsuited she'd been to the situation--) having left her somewhat reluctant to do so at all - but Melys's invitation and her determination to make the best of her situation have served her well enough. She sleeps easier, nightmares sequestered and a golden city built around her dreams to protect her, and when she wakes sometimes the world looks beautiful, still.

There is much work to be done, of course, but still there is beauty to be found, and hope of achieving the work such as she'd not truly known she lacked until she had it.

Kirkwall is not, perhaps, the most charming example of Thedosian cities. Nevertheless, she is charmed by this, and happy enough to be seated when they are - "You must help me to eat it, it will be far too much for me. What brought you so far from your work today?"

The knock is useful not only as a sign that something is amiss, but as an alarm; Alistair jolts up from where he'd fallen asleep over a thick, incredibly dull book, and knocks a jar of ink over in the process. He's set it right by the time Nathaniel opens the door, but even still a little muzzy from his accidental nap, he can read the man's face well enough that he doesn't bother cleaning up the puddle of ink left behind before he stands up.

"Did we lose someone?"

That is the lot of, well, most types of military organizations but especially Grey Wardens. That is the first question when you walk through the door. He makes sure the door is closed tightly behind him before he proceeds, stepping toward Alistair's desk.

"Jonas," he says gravely. "He was dying when we found him. He...died in my arms. He was apparently looking for a cure for the taint. You don't have to worry about writing letters, I will write to the queen and Fergus Cousland, but I wanted you to be the first to know once we came back. It seemed he'd heard the Calling already. What we found from his notes was..."

He trails off and winds up sitting before the desk, weary and perpetually questioning everything they'd found.

"There was a brooch, apparently something used to help cure Warden Fiona of the taint. We followed his maps to this...place, Alistair. Blackened by the Blight everywhere around it, but completely clean itself. Some place where a dragon was encased in stone, as if the dragon itself had burned clean a place completely corrupted."

Most of those words don't register. Alistair is stuck on Jonas and dead, staring at Nathaniel—past him, really, right through him.

People die all the time. People he's known for years longer than he knew Cousland, people who he didn't last speak to a decade ago while he was being politely thrown out of his homeland, probably people who are nicer and better-looking and even more competent. But no one who seemed so indestructible. Maybe he's said he's probably dead, but he didn't believe it. He never genuinely felt, in his bones, that he wouldn't turn up, when they truly needed him, and set things right.

"What?" he says at the end, snapping out of it enough to blink, rub his eyes with one hand, and replay the words that just flew past his head. Letters, notes, brooch, Fiona, maps. Dragons. Cousland is dead.

Alistair doesn't sit down, because that would require moving, and he isn't going to let his knees wobble in front of Nathaniel Howe. His gaze sharpens, after a moment, and he shakes his head, like he doesn't agree, even though there's nothing to disagree with. They found what they found. He just can't make sense of it, and Cousland is dead.

"Dragons are corrupted," he says after a moment, still processing, "all the time. Or not all the time, but—"

Archdemons.

"It was a dragon." Nathaniel wasn't there for the archdemon, but he saw what he saw. "Maybe there is something, between all the strange things we know, some commonality. Archdemon blood is different from darkspawn blood. Warden blood is different from human. When darkspawn and humans drink one anothers' blood, we become more similar to each other. Perhaps a dragon cannot be corrupted by normal means, and the darkspawn do something we do not yet understand. But the flesh of a dragon burns away the Blight. What do you suppose the blood of a dragon do, if mere touch purifies?"

Alistair shakes his head again—thinking not only of Archdemons, but of the dozens of high dragons scattered across Thedas now, the dozens or hundreds more from the last few ages. It can't have been that simple. Someone in the last nine hundred years would have noticed. He's thinking that, and he's also thinking Cousland is dead, and he rubs his eyes with one hand. Nathaniel is near the bottom of the list of people he's willing to show weakness in front of, but he is still on it—which isn't an honor or anything, it's very long, Alistair is only really determined to hide fear in front of people who want to kill him or something—and there's nothing doing for it now anyway.

"Just... give me a moment," he says.

A moment—maybe half a minute—for him to keep his hand over his eyes and be sure he isn't going to start crying, not so much out of personal loss as out of exhaustion, like a toddler who wants to sleep but can't, at one more thing going as wrong as it possibly could go.

Then he drops his hand, inhales more steadily, and reverses that head shake with a nod. All right. Dragons. "Did you bring anything of the dragon back? Was there anything to bring?"

Nathaniel gives Alistair a moment, frowning and internally wincing at his insensitivity. Truthfully, he'd thought Alistair sort of hated Jonas. He hadn't thought he'd take Jonas' death this way. But these things are complicated. He gives the man a respectful nod when he speaks again.

"Anders might have something for you to look at. The, ah, the trouble with bringing samples was that most of the--" He interrupts himself and looks faintly cross. "It had to be a dragon. But it was no archdemon, and it...it was so huge, torchlight didn't even reach the other side of it. I've not seen many dragons, but I've seen a high dragon. This made it look like a cat."

"Right, well, that's comforting," Alistair says, returning to form. It's no secret that he doesn't care for dragons. Everyone who likes to coo about their majesty or the exhilaration of taking one on can go talk to farmers who have lost their livelihood or people who have lost their children, then talk about the loss of wonder and mystery in Thedas, Morrigan. "You're full of good news today. Got any more? An undead army we didn't know about, maybe? Impending Qunari invasion?"

Edited (comma) 2017-08-29 15:01 (UTC)

Nathaniel looks cross. Or, more cross than he usually looks. But Alistair is grieving. So is Nathaniel. Both of them are short on patience right now and this is not the time to start an argument.

"No," he replies simply.

"Thank the Maker."

But it's less fun—less distracting from the sudden weight he's feeling, not just on his shoulders, everywhere—if Nathaniel isn't going to rise to it. Alistair looks at the desk, the mound of likely futile work, instead

"I can send ravens to Valeska's Watch and Griffon Wing Keep." The little Wardens. They ought to know. Some of them might have served under him.

Cousland.

Who's dead.

Alistair shakes off that thought, or tries, and focuses back on the dragon, the taint, what he apparently died for.

"I'm sure I won't be able to figure out anything that Anders can't, as long as he has something," he says. Clever man. Stupid choices, but clever man. All of this taint cure business still doesn't sit right with them, not when it's so often framed as saving the Wardens instead of the rest of the world, but he can hardly complain about that to Nathaniel, knowing what they both know. He fishes around his thoughts for something to offer instead, and comes up with, "Maric Theirin was with Fiona when she met the Architect and—everything happened. If I find him alive I'll try to see if he knows anything before Ferelden takes him back."

The search for the cure is only Nathaniel's battle because Anders will drive himself mad looking on his own, while Nathaniel swiftly runs out of time, and at some point they will look up and realize that they spent the best years of their lives apart from each other. So Nathaniel aids in the search.

His brow furrows, the cross look shifting into sympathy. So much of this is so very personal for Alistair.

"Do you need my help?"

Edited 2017-08-30 15:58 (UTC)

Now it's his turn: "No," he says shortly, but then, since Nathaniel was trying to be helpful rather than a pain, he adds, "Thank you. If I do later I'll let you know."

He sits back down, finally, in a tense way, perched on the edge of the chair. He's never been good at sitting down.

"I'm glad you were with him." Jonas. It's a bit like a first crush—however it ends, there's really no getting fully over it. He pushes a book aside aimlessly to see what's beneath it, just to move his hands. "That's the best end we can get."

Warden Howe,

What reason did he have to be in the Deep Roads? A true Calling or false? Or is this a thing that cannot be committed to letter?

Morrigan

[This almost feels like a mockery when she just got back from the Korcari Wilds where she and her damned mother nursed him and Alistair back to health after Ostagar, so for once, a note from Morrigan is brief and to the damned point.]

Lady Morrigan,

A true Calling, I fear. The Blight had already begun to show on his body. If there is anything I can do for you in the wake of this tragedy, you have but to name it.

Your Obedient Nathaniel Howe

[You are going to get strangled with those courtesies, please check in with Alistair about how to conduct your dealings with Morrigan appropriately outside of a meeting.]

Warden,

He is dead, our time together was ten years ago, I do not know how either of us would have spoken had we met again since. At least he is spared the pantomime of being called back to this as so many of us are and perhaps might at least escape the ignominy plaguing near all the rest of your number.

Morrigan

Lady Morrigan,

You're welcome.

Your Obedient Nathaniel Howe

It's quite unusual to find Teren in Hightown, both because she finds it a loathsome place in general, and because most of her business dealings as quartermaster take place in the shops of Lowtown or around the docks where the prices are more... negotiable. She certainly doesn't look like she belongs here, dressed in unimpressive clothing that is well-made but designed to blend into the background, not overtly Warden-y or otherwise remarkable. She's not an idiot, she knows how people feel about Wardens.

It's at a potion stall that she can be found, clearly aggravated and, quite characteristically, attempting to browbeat the shopkeeper into a proper haggle over what appears to be a single bottle.
He's no proper Lowtown merchant, that's for certain. He's visibly cowed by her, but standing obstinate all the same, having not yet learned that the most painless way to bargain with Teren is to shoot straight and pray to the Maker for deliverance.

Nathaniel has to stand back and watch this like a spectator sport. After she has finished, he ducks in and peers at her purchase.

"Pleased to see you left him alive after that, Teren. What did you terrorize him out of?"

She visibly jumps when Nathaniel suddenly appears in her line of sight, and nearly drops the bottle. It's clear Teren wasn't expecting to see anyone familiar here, and perhaps got so caught up in her negotiations that she didn't even think to look for anyone.
"Oh--" she begins, and pauses to clear her throat and straighten her posture. "Never you mind." The bottle is quickly stuffed into her bag, and, against all expectations, her face actually tints a little red. Whatever this is, she's probably not going to use it to kill someone, but she's being stubborn about it anyway.

"How did the shopping trip go?" He'd had a few too many patients in urgent need to go with, unfortunately. It would have been fun to try to help dress up Nate.

"One day we'll get you absolutely gorgeous boots, and maybe a whole outfit. You look fantastic in Warden blue and silver, but I'd love to see you in a deep green." He's beaming as he finishes the sentence he'd been writing in his notes and gets up, coming over to the door where Purrelden is already trying to make a break for it. Lady, of course, is behaving herself and is as interested in Nate's return as Anders rather than the outside.

He scoops up his cat and leans in for a kiss on Nate's face as he waits to see what his husband picked up.

Nathaniel returns the kiss and pulls the boots out of the bag.

"Slightly plain for your tastes," he says warmly, "but the quality is magnificent. It was a nice afternoon. And if you want to see me in green," his voice goes low, "we can hike outside the city and take off all our clothes."

"I have utterly corrupted you, haven't I," he says. It's not a complaint. "Tight-laced, proper Warden Nathaniel Howe, worried about people talking after we'd kissed."

His voice is warm honey, all affectionate teasing as closes the door and sets his cat down before looping his arms around Nate's waist. "As much as I'd love to lay you down in a field of green, I'm the spirit healer on call tonight if one of us is urgently needed. But," he shifts up to stand on his toes to kiss the tip of Nate's nose, "I'd gladly hear about your day or make out with you here. Or both."

"Mm." Nathaniel hadn't been suggesting immediate sex, but it's good to know Anders is open to the hike. "Let's sit and have wine and we'll talk. I brought back a very nice sherry, if you're interested."

"Of course I'm interested." He is never not interested in sipping something with Nate. One more kiss gets placed on Nate's chin before Anders frees him to go through his shopping.

He steps over to the table and moves the books over so there's room for anything Nate wants to set out. "One day I'll get around to getting a good Anders cider imported. I've never had it, but I'd like to try some and we can share the tasting."

Nathaniel sets out the sherry as well as a bit of soft cheese--local, not Orlesian, Nathaniel is only one-quarter Orlesian and that is not Orlesian enough for a Fereldan to betray his country for. There is also a branch of grapes to go with it. He settles beside his husband and cuddles for a moment before he starts pouring the sherry.

"They might have some here. Quite a lot goes through this port, and it changes day-to-day. Except local goods, of course. I don't know how much chance you had to experience the food here, when you lived here with Justice. Petra and I had exquisite fresh crab today."

"Food was, mm." He shrugs, taking a moment to pop a grape into his mouth. "I can't say I really did get that chance. Leandra, Leandra Hawke, would every now and then invite all of us up to the mansion for a meal, but there was often something Justice and I needed to see to urgently."

And when they'd made it up there on that rare occasion, Orana had often been the cook. She was an excellent one, but luxury food items weren't exactly among the things she had known how to make.

"It still feels a little selfish, sometimes, to be eating nice things. There's... echoes. I know what he would think of it, and I know what everyone who was genuinely hurt by my actions would think of it." Nate gets another shrug. "I am getting better at it, though. And it's not like I'm missing meals. ...Or not missing too many."

To prove that he's getting better, Anders takes a fingerful of the soft cheese and eats it, nodding approvingly.

Nathaniel doesn't nag him about that. He knows that it would only make the guilt worse. So he places a kiss on his temple and hands him his glass.

"I was only ever in Kirkwall for special occasions, really. And most of the time I was working for Ser Rodolphe. So I had to make the times I had to myself really count. I wanted to experience everything I could in the little time I had. And it's not so bad, patronizing some very worthy and very lower-middle-class vendors who would otherwise have nothing. Cheers, darling."

He raises his glass to Anders' before drinking.

He clinks the glass back, grateful for the lack of judgement.

"Cheers, my love." His smile takes on a slightly mischievous edge. "Special occasions like getting lost in the Deep Roads?" He'd helped save Nate, and later Nate had helped save him. Having a balance makes him happy.

"I'll have to try fresh crab sometime. We'll be here for some time, more likely than not. And I'm glad you're keeping company with Petra. I like her. ...I like a lot of the Rifters, actually. Just don't go thinking you can trade your blond mage in for a younger one." There is no seriousness in his tone. "You're mine, my handsome husband, and I'll not lend you out."

Nathaniel hadn't realized Petra was a mage. He hadn't really known rifters came in the mage variety. Well, now he can't mention without it sounding weird and awkward, so he plows on.

"I like having a friend who isn't a Warden," Nathaniel admits after sipping sherry. "I've not been very good at making those. Everything has always been about work, so this is nice. I mean before Petra there was...Zevran, sort of, though not in the same way. And there was that hazy part where you weren't exactly a Warden and we were only friends. I forgot it's good to have people on the outside. It helps with perspective. And it's just refreshing to get a whiff of untainted blood."

He nearly chokes on his sherry at the last, laughter in his throat as he manages to swallow the liquid after all. "A whiff of untainted blood. Things you can safely say and I cannot, Maker."

Anders reaches over and squeezes Nate's hand, shaking his head. Talk of blood from a mage, even a mage healer, is dangerous territory even at the best of times.

"But I'll be the first to admit having friends helps with perspective. She's offered to... advise me, more or less, the next time I feel the need to speak with most people with crystals. She's training in diplomacy and such, and I'm lacking in it."

Intellectually, Myr knows that to be an elf on Thedas is to be considered beneath the regard of most humans.

Emotionally, he was completely unaware of what that actually meant until he elected to go shopping in Hightown like any other member of the Inquisition might.

It's been a singularly frustrating morning trying, first, to find someone who does basketry, and second, explain to that same worthy--no, check that, that same worthy's lowest apprentice, who isn't much interested in his master's trade and inclined to wander in his attentions, and has a miserable snotty noisy cold besides-- (Breathe, and remember they're all the Maker's children, all the same.) --Anyway, explaining a bee skep to someone he can't draw it for, who's got the attention span of a gnat and an obvious sneering disdain for elves that even a blind one can sense has been a treat.

Even Myr's patience has its limits and the obstructionism drives him to them and back out into the street to stand there with a hand covering his face as he struggles to rein in his anger. Maker grant him patience but this infuriating.

He gave Nathaniel some time to grieve after their return. However, Iskandar knew that he had to have a conversation with the man which was very important and couldn't wait forever. So at some point he went to where he was sure he would be working and gave a knock on the door, ducking down and poking his head through the door.

"Ah you are here. Have you some free time? I have a matter to discuss with you."

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OPEN

hightown.

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letter + a sigh nate can hear + feel wherever he is

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III

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III.5

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III

Oh the backdate on this one...