y'all a bunch of nerds

[tactical_alert]

WHO: Malcolm Reed, Leonard Church, all y'all
WHAT: Monthly catchall things
WHEN: Over the month
WHERE: Around Kirkwall
NOTES: n/a for now

Church has moved in with Christine, and it's...kind of weird. Not bad weird, mind; he rather likes the domesticity in ways he hadn't expected. A sure bed every single night that is also actually a bed. Living with a little yappy dog that wouldn't even qualify for a football. He's used to coming home to the same place every day, had done so in the Gulch, had done so outside of it. Still...it's...odd.

So he can be found, when not on duty, around Lowtown on occasion, at the cheap shops set up. He hasn't had a whole lot of reason to spend his money until now, for the little things. Bits of cobbled together furniture, or a few plates, or a heavier blanket. Winter's on its way, even if they're not in the mountains.

He can also be seen studying, a few books in his arms, some from the Inquisition, some spied or asked about from town. Even taking notes. He doesn't think he'll break any new ground on the rifts or the shards, but better to dig in himself. If they don't have any non-Venatori experts on the subject, then they'll just have to make themselves experts. (The pros of dating a healer: any time he finds the ache in his hand to be more than a little distracting, the pain can be soothed back down to a tolerable level.)

(It's getting slowly worse over time.)

(He hasn't said as much to Christine.)

Though the excitement over the impromptu duel at the docks with Christine's would-be suitor has dropped significantly, he's still a known figure to those who were present for it. He's gotten passably proficient with a sword, but a rapier? Well, it can't hurt to learn more than one way to injure someone, right? So when he isn't practicing with his sword--god forbid he ever give the crossbow another try in a much more crowded area--then he's borrowed a rapier to try and teach himself the basics.


Malcolm has been in something of a sour mood, though to those who know him less than well, it's hard to tell he's any different from normal. As a Seeker, he's more than used to being the stern bearer of bad news, to grit his teeth and take on weight. Between Jonas, Cade, the perversion of the memorial garden, the Venatori mage that got away for the sake of saving others, not to mention whatever correspondence he finds himself in charge of, as well as more, he's found that he's been more on the downswing than he's been in quite some time. He doesn't believe in luck, but he does feel he's due for a turnaround here.

Still, he spends time while in the city where he needs and on occasion where he isn't needed. The stables and kennels are a normal haunt for him, taking Charles out for a trot outside the bounds of street and wall, or making sure Milady gets her training and play and socialization in. If he isn't caring for his horse and making sure the stable hands they've hired are taking their job with the utmost seriousness, then he's softened around his poodle companion, a little grooming, a little fetching.

There are several evenings as the sun goes down that he spends by the docks, taking in the sea breeze and the squawk of seagulls while he signs off on some shipments, chats with a few scouts that seek him out specifically to report on how people in the city are reacting, or even brings documents with him to peruse while seated on a crate or barrel. Never too close to the water's edge, though.

In the very early mornings, he tries to keep as regimented a schedule as possible, every single day. Pray, first thing. A light nibble, usually plain, something simple like oatmeal. A workout to hone and strengthen the muscles, the senses, and then training on dummies or sparring with another early riser. He doesn't like being interrupted with other duties at this hour, but if it's something he must attend to himself, he will. And then a quick wash up before he finally attends to the day proper as the city rouses itself. It's a very familiar pattern to anyone who had seen him keep such a schedule in Skyhold.

(And occasionally finds him shirtless and glistening, for those who might care to notice such a thing.)

Comments

study time with that space marine dude

[aceso]

Kirkwall is far from Christine's dream home, but this is where they are for the time being and she's reached a point where she's decided to make the best of it. She's far less melancholy about their location and has adopted a can do attitude regarding making it a home. The process is ongoing, but -- inspired by the beautiful bird suncatcher Inessa gave her for her birthday -- Christine is decorating their place in shades of blue and white. She is quite sure Church will have no complaints about that. Today she returns from her shopping trip with her basket laden with purchases. They're mostly linens, and she got a good price by purchasing them cut to size, but not hemmed. She can do that herself, planning to make some kitchen cloths with a loop of fabric sewn on to hang from hooks. Nice and tidy; it's how she likes things.

Entering their place, she sees Church at the table with books surrounding him. Ponce jumps up and begins prancing in front of her, hopping on his back legs and barely able to contain his excitement.

"Oh, good, you are home," she says to Church. "Has he been out lately?" She sets her basket on the floor to attend to later and approaches the table, eyes moving over the books, but not focusing on reading anything just yet. "What is all this?"

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Hmm? Yeah, I let the little shit out for a little shit when I got here." He leans back in his seat, smiling at his girlfriend that apparently he's now comfortable with calling his girlfriend, at least when it comes to hoisting her up in front of everyone to share how great she is. The domestic life. With a dog. And shopping. It's not exactly what he planned for in his life, and the day someone invents modern plumbing he'll straight up cry, but it's...it sure is something.

"A little light reading," he jokes, reaching for one of her hands so he can casually kiss it. "Apparently one of the captive Venatori offered up studying the shards and the rifts ostensibly to help us under supervision and all. We don't really have anyone who's an expert on this stuff, and some of us objected to the idea of letting someone like that get his hands on anything that might help him. Dunno what'll happen in the end, but...I suggested we start making ourselves experts in the field."

He'd say he's not much of a researcher himself, but how many hours had he spent in Skyhold's library, studying the maps of the world, peeking into the basics of magical theory, attempting to understand the place he's stranded in? Once he'd sought to leave, to find whatever's beyond the edges of the map. Now he can't imagine being anywhere else.

"What's all that?" he then asks with a nod to the basket.

[aceso]

There is a brief hum sound at his little joke about Ponce. Really, she shouldn't find some of the things he says to be so funny. It's simple vulgarity, and yet it always gets a chuckle out of her. Settling in with Church has been so easy and natural, and it's because she's completely herself around him. She laughs at his jokes and appreciates his kisses pressed to her hand and everything in between.

Her face grows pensive as he goes on to explain the Venatori's offer, and she's quick to nod her head in agreement with him. "I do not like the idea of him learning more. There is always a chance he could send word back." And anything concerning the rifts that helps Corypheus hurts their cause and could especially hurt rifters. Christine leans into Church from where she stands, slipping her arm around him. "So you are taking charge? I am proud of you." It hasn't escaped her notice that Thedas is really, really backwards in his eyes and that must be frustrating for him, and so she hopes he finds things he can escape into that satisfy him. This work seems like it could be one of those things.

His question has her gaze shifting to the basket, which Ponce is sniffing because these are smells from the outside world.

"Oh, cloths I must sew. Face cloths, kitchen cloths; things we needed." But she moves over to the basket, shooing Ponce away to pick it up and set it on a clear spot on the table. "I was thinking of getting you new shirts, but I was not sure what you wanted. I suppose I would need you to come with me next time." She starts removing folded up pieces of fabric with raw edges that need sewn up. Most are white, but some have bands of blue running across too. At the bottom of the basket is something else, and her smile is a bit sheepish as she lifts it out.

"I know it was a frivolous purchase, but I could not resist. It is jade." She shows him the smooth gem that fits in the palm of her hand. "It reminded me of your eyes," she adds, fully aware that she had a moment of sentimentality at the shop. "I suppose you could use it as a paperweight?" Christine sets it on the page of one of his open books. "There. I should start hemming these."

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Well...yeah, I guess that's what I'm doing, kind of. It's something that has a direct impact on me, so...I like the idea of taking charge of my own destiny, or anything like that. I know research isn't really my thing like throwing up a shield or swinging a sword or looking moderately imposing, but the more we collectively understand about any of this..." He shrugs. "Maybe my stupid ape brain will make a connection someone else hasn't yet."

But that aside, because he's pretty sure if he reads one more not super founded theory on the Fade and connections to it, he might tear something up, he listens to her go on about the duties she's given herself. The little things you don't really think about needing until you move somewhere, and then, shit, you don't have enough pots, why didn't you even think about getting a trash can before trash bags, how do you have three bluray players and not a single one of them is capable of being hooked up to the tv, where the hell are we going to put the tp?

And then the jade. He grins at her, wide and adoring. There will never be a day, he thinks, that he won't feel this about her in some way. Never regret it. He leaves the books behind, will clean it up later, and wraps his arms around her in a bear hug.

"Yeah. Next time get me to go shopping with you. Maybe I'll just have to make a frivolous purchase myself to match how stupid pretty you are."

When Ponce gives a few yaps, Church reaches down to scoop him up with an arm. "You might be pretty, too, but on a waaaaay different level. You get pampered enough as it is."

[aceso]

It's those little things that Templars like to brag that mages know nothing about when they're taken care of in the Circle, as if keeping mages as helpless as possible is a good thing. When Christine and the others fled to Andoral's Reach, they were running for their lives and survival was at the front of everyone's mind. But when they arrived there and regrouped, the Loyalists among them brought up the fact that mages have no idea how to take care of themselves. And that's when the in-fighting began. If only they had stopped shouting and listened to reason. They could take care of themselves because it was necessary to do so. In Christine's case, it helps that she's extremely practical. She sees a problem that needs a solution, and she finds it. She doesn't rush off whining to people to do things for her. Even if she was that type, her pride wouldn't let her.

And this house is perfect for them. It's not too big and doesn't have a lot of space that needs filled up. It just needs the particulars. A few more dishes, cookware, chairs, and homey touches, and they'll be ready to entertain one or two guests for dinner.

Christine laughs when he hugs her, hands flattened to his chest. "Church!" she says, in that pseudo-protesting tone that he knows full well to ignore. It's simply her way to put on a little show, pretending he's expressing too much when they both know she adores it just as much as he does. "I take it stupid pretty is a compliment, yes?" Her lips quirk in a smirk, because she would never tolerate being called stupid if he was using that word in its original form.

She scritches Ponce under the chin with her fingernails, and the scene of perfect domesticity is almost overwhelming. Christine is so incredibly happy right now. Now matter what the future holds, she will remember this moment forever.

"I like to think I have broken him of the pampered expectations he had from my mother, but I am afraid I only instilled new ones in him. But look at this face." Look at it, Church. How could you look at it and not want to snuggle him forever?

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Stupid pretty, like, stupidly pretty, like you're so pretty it's ridiculous how pretty you are. Yeah. It's a compliment." One of these days he'll really start making some modern slang catch on, and then Thedas will be a much more annoying place.

"See, you say to look at that face, but there's not a whole lot of face. It's mostly ear." He blows on Ponce's ears, making them flick. "I'd say a solid third of him is ear. First storm this place gets, he'll blow away because he's got big ol' sails on his head."

[aceso]

Her face lights up, because what woman doesn't want to hear she's pretty from the lips of the man she... well, she definitely cares about him more than anything she can think of. It's a bit scary to think of applying the L word to this, though. The two of them do so much better taking baby steps.

"Noooo, we shall hold on to him tightly." She runs her hand over Ponce's head and scratches his ear, while he gives a disgruntled look to Church for blowing on him like that. Cease your wind, human!

"And I will hold on to you tightly too," she adds, slipping an arm around Church's back. Call it paranoia, but the idea of him studying the rifts has her worried he'll accidentally open a way for him to go back too. Not that he would wish to go, right? They both know how that would end for him, but what if he gets pulled back through against his will?

mal

[aforethought]

She’s inclined to notice.

Feels a bit like deja vu — ain’t that the Orlesian for it? — feels a bit like she’s been here before. But the world’s full of work and often as not that means it’s full of bare-chested dumbasses out braving the morning dew.

(Who gets up earlier than they got to? Plenty enough in this life who want to move you, not worth shifting to give them the satisfaction without a little compensation of your own.)

Melys slips the stem of her pipe out between fingers, folds two in her mouth to whistle around. It doesn’t really count as pre-dawn rising when you’ve been out all night. Got a day off or two, how else are you supposed to use it, but a getting on a good bender and heckling the local stiffs?

"Y’know, you’re prettier when you smile." She jerks a pinky up to the heavens. "Maker’s honest truth."

bless melys

[tactical_alert]

Malcolm is not the kind inclined to forget a face. Names, yes, those tend to slip through his fingers more often than he'd like, but once recollection sets in? Yes, this feels very familiar. The whistle gets his attention much like a dog pricking up its ears.

Though he's more of an archer, he certainly needs to keep sharp with a blade as well. He spins the practice sword around his hand once, twice, before setting the tip to the ground and leaning on the hilt. Not the worst excuse to catch his breath. "It could be argued that most people are," he suggests with a raise of his eyebrows. Perhaps deliberately not giving a smile.

"Couldn't sleep?"

[aforethought]

"Piss, no. You ever see a dragon smile?"

But the smirk's friendly enough for it; she sprawls against one of the benches, languid in the ease of a lingering buzz.

"'S better during the day," Sleeping is. "Barracks're quieter."

That's not better at all, not really — but leaves'll be turning down south soon, in the places where leaves still grow. The bad season's coming around again, and no way the thirteenth one won't be shit. It's better during the day; less chance anyone will hear you weep.

She's been keeping an eye to the lists, waiting for a space in one of the double rooms to open up. Until then,

"What's your excuse?" She stifles a yawn. "Little early to be twirling, ain't it?"

[tactical_alert]

She's been up all night. Hm. Partying? Not much to party about lately, but that's never stopped anyone before. "So long as you haven't any duties in the middle of the day," he says rather neutrally. Different story if she's slacking off somewhere.

"My excuse happens to be a rigorous schedule. And the 'twirling' is to keep me sharp in the event of going on a mission that requires a little less talking and more fighting. Better when most are still asleep than later in the evening, I feel. And I'd never have the time or inclination to do it midday unless I somehow have nothing better to be doing." Or if he needs to clear his head. Or if he's training someone. It's happened, but this? This is schedule, plain and simple.

"You're welcome to join me if you think you can manage to stand without toppling over."

[aforethought]

She ignores the mention of her duties.

Difficult to say what those are at any given time — not for lack of options, of commitments, but from a somewhat-concerted effort to play them against each other. Got travel to escort, got a hand left to study. Got horses to groom, and a dog to entertain, and an undergroom to pass all that off on when she's needed for the Inquisition.

It's a fine little racket; it sure as shit won't last. You make the most until then.

"Set your own schedule, solve that right quick." Everyone has that luxury, sort of, if you squint hard enough. Someone tells you when to jump, you don't have to listen. Can stop your ears up and wait for the void to rain down in consequence.

Which is why it's a choice, and not an order or a dare or stung pride (shut up) that brings her swinging back to her feet with a sigh. Melys dusts some earth from her sleeve; it's a hot morning already, but she makes no move to shed her own layers.

"Gonna have t'go easy on me," She warns, scoops up a practice steel with a restless, incautious sweep. Never was a swordsman, but infantry blades all work out more or less the same — and you avoid dying long enough, you pick up a thing or two. Like what's the end you hold, and don't run with it pointed at your own eyes. "Didn't get no flash officer training."

She assumes that's what he is, some breed or another. Talks like he's had an education.

[tactical_alert]

Education befitting his father's station, fine enough Templar training in his youth--incidents aside--then scooped up for the Seekers, and the rest is quite a bit of history. It isn't just his title that sets people on edge, sets him in fact apart from many. He's not rich by any means, but he doesn't speak like some ruffian doglord. He is, perhaps, something Else.

Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn't.

But he doesn't let the comment get to him; in fact, he does in fact give a smile, bringing up his practice sword again. "I'll try to hold back. But I'll attempt to get your blood pumping nevertheless." Malcolm is not without humour by any means. He gives a flourish of a mock of a bow before returning to a ready position. "I'll even let the lady go first."

did someone say studying?

[youwonscience]

Cosima has made studying the rifts and the Fade her day job, more or less; throwing her lot in with the Inquisition seems fair after all she's seen, and it gets her a small allowance and access to resources she didn't have before.

...that said, she's sure there are things that don't get told to rifters, either because of lingering distrust or because it wouldn't occur to natives that rifters don't know them. So even when she's "off duty," she's usually reading, experimenting, taking notes.

(She's sure she wants the anchor shard out of her hand. She's pretty sure she still wants to go home, though a small part of her points out that Thedas has its advantages in the way of 'proven treatment for her disease' and 'no one out to get her specifically.')

When she sees Church, she can't help a smile; she hasn't seen him around as much as she had once, but it's never unpleasant to run into him. "Tell me none of those books are about fried tavern food."

[motherfucking_ghost]

"God, I fucking wish." He flashes Cosima a quick if melancholic smile. He hasn't put much thought into the whole idea of a rifter-run establishment since the move. Too much chaos, already so many places to get drink or food, all the setting up, the adjustment to jobs in a more proper sense...

It's a damn shame is what it is. So he'll have to remember to put that back on the backburner. Ruby's boozy adventures cannot be for naught, or Adelaide's adventures in modern comfort food.

"I don't like the idea of these Venatori shitheads doing research into this. Us." He flexes his hand, leaning back in his seat. "If we need magic on our side, we have mages. If they need to work outside the box, we got those willing to do that, too. But let the bad guys take a look? Nah. We teach ourselves, we figure our own shit out."

[youwonscience]

"Can't argue that." She leans against the table next to him. "I'm working on it too, but I'll be honest, it does seem a little unfair finding out that this world has a cure for one thing that could eventually kill me only to saddle me with something else that could eventually kill me. It's ironic, and not in the Alanis Morisette way. ...do you still know Alanis in your time?"

Important, hard-hitting questions.

"I can't even figure out if it's a good sign or a bad one that nothing shoots out of mine."

[motherfucking_ghost]

"Wait...the fuck does a backwards medieval world like this have a cure for that the modern world doesn't?!" This is news to him. Actually, her slowly dying of something incurable is also news to him. It's a lot to take in all of a sudden.

[youwonscience]

"Oh!" She hasn't been keeping it a secret, exactly, so it hadn't occurred to her he didn't know. After all, Herian carried her through a lot of Skyhold semi-conscious months ago, and enough different people have treated her that keeping it truly secret would be impractical even if she wanted to.

...that said, it's not something she brings up much unprompted. She flushes a little, embarrassed now at having been so glib.

"The short answer is 'they've got spirit healing, however the hell that works.'" So. "I don't mind telling you about it, but it's sort of a long story. I don't know if I'd be interrupting."

[motherfucking_ghost]

"My dude." He gestures to the books and paper first, then starts shoving it aside to make some room. "I am like the king of long stories, and I would almost pay for a distraction from all this right now, cuz if I read one more pretentious overdramatic sentence about the Maker's unknowable plans for the beyond and between that is the Fade or whatever, I'm liable to scream."

Needless to say, it doesn't matter how interesting the research might be if he feels like it's not getting him anywhere. Listen, nobody has ever called Leonard Church a paragon of patience.

early birds

[paladingus]

Simon is the 'early to bed, early to rise' type as a general rule, though his schedule has been a little out of whack as of late. He's still adjusting to sleeping in an empty room for the first time in his life, now that poor unfortunate Cade can't bring himself to set foot in the templar barracks anymore.

Today is one of those days when Simon's hauled himself out of bed at his usual hour and opted to start out in the training yard, the Order's recent shakeups far from his mind--until he happens to notice one of their chief architects, or so he sees it. He's never been displeased to see Malcolm at his customary workout before, when their schedules had overlapped; he's always been in the habit of greeting the Seeker with a smile at the very least. This is not, however, an occasion for smiling.

Jaw set, he spares Malcolm a stony look before striding past him to grab a sword from a weapon rack. "Seeker."

[tactical_alert]

Likewise, he's found Simon's company to be agreeable. He's found himself with a few of them as allies in one way or another since joining the Inquisition, and it's an unusual position to be in. Most tend to be rather indifferent or cold toward Seekers, he's found--

--rather like how Simon is being now. Ah. Well then.

"Ser Ashlock." If they're going to stand on slightly more formal circumstance.

He's content to let the man brood and work his own frustrations out, silent save for the grunts of effort for what stretches on for quite some time. But on the other hand...far be it for him to find himself minus a friend without knowing quite what the offense is.

"I hope your schedule hasn't been too much disrupted; I haven't seen you out here as regularly as usual."

There. That's an icebreaker. If Aleron were here, he might have positively emoted at the fact that Malcolm even bothered. But if there's a problem, early on before most have even stirred from their cots is the time to air it out.

[paladingus]

That chilly exchange would have been the end of it, had Malcolm not pressed. Do not show outrage around the Seekers, Wren had ordered him, and speak cautiously around Reed.

The outrage has long cooled, at this point, but the caution remains. He'd been naive, he thinks, to believe there can be any room for comfort around a man who has the power to strip away your livelihood with no recourse.

A completely honest answer--yes, it has been disrupted, thank you--would be inadvisable. But he's hardly churlish enough to ignore the question.

"Well, there have been some noteworthy changes here in the barracks," he says. "But we're trying to return to normal."

[tactical_alert]

He purses his lips and gives one of the training dummies a few more whacks. This is about Cade, certainly. There's no issue with him being seen as the bad guy; he just wishes that they'd stripped Cade of his title back when the issue had first presented itself instead of doing this stretched out song and dance.

"I've every confidence that you'll adjust to the changes with flying colours." The loss of one doesn't diminish the whole by that much. Especially when the one lost is unstable and unsuited for any combat where he's expected to make it out alive.

[paladingus]

It is and isn't about Cade, at the same time. Simon's seen firsthand what it's done to Cade, losing everything about the only life he's ever known, but his newfound wariness is about principle more than individual. If the Seekers have the unilateral power of life and death over any templar in the Order--if merely stripping Cade of his knighthood is a show of mercy, compared to what they could have done on a whim--what's to keep them from exercising that power on any other templar who displeases them?

Best, then, to avoid them altogether. And yet here Simon is, starting shit anyway. His sense of self-preservation is sporadic.

"I suppose we'd better, hadn't we." His attention is focused on the edge of his practice blade, examining its wear and tear. "We serve solely at your pleasure, after all."

[tactical_alert]

"You serve at the pleasure of the Chantry." Malcolm's reprimand comes quick and sharp. "As do the Seekers. If you would care to lodge a complaint you have with me or mine, you needn't look far to find me."