faderift | [OPEN] and anyway, I told the truth

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[OPEN] and anyway, I told the truth

WHO: Loghain Mac Tir, Alistair Theirin + OPEN
WHAT: Loghain settles into life in Kirkwall.
WHEN: Throughout early September, and right after Loghain and Alistair's sending crystal conversation.
WHERE: The stables; the Gallows library at night, the dining hall.
NOTES: The thread between Loghain and Alistair is open to everyone! Feel free to witness and contribute to what goes down. Aside from the first prompt, you can assume that the others happen on multiple different occasions throughout the month.

I. THE STABLES (ALISTAIR)

He reaches the stables towards the end of the day, with the last of the sun's warmth beginning to wane and some slight cloud cover rolling in from the west. It's cold, but his reception from Alistair is guaranteed to be downright frosty.

Loghain steps into the stables, and checks the impulse to detour past Sooty's stall. Best not to put this off. "Alistair?"

II. THE LIBRARY

Through trial and error, Loghain has determined that the best time to make use of the Inquisitions' research facilities is in the dead of night, for what normal person would choose to sit at a desk and squint at centuries' old books by candlelight? Doing this means it's a bit slower going for him to track down what he needs, but it at least also means that there are no scowling faces nearby to draw his focus away from his work.

There are, regretfully, few resources at his disposal here for research into red lyrium or Corypheus's history, but what few books and papers he has been able to dig up are currently spread out before him on a library table. Rather than sitting at a chair to work, Loghain instead paces slowly behind it, alternating between sipping from a cooling mug of black tea, leaning over to make pencil notations on a map, and flipping through pages of notes, searching for connections.

It's possible he's been at this for a few hours.

III. THE DINING HALL

In general, he prefers to take his meals in private, but suspects that over the long run, this will only make his situation in Kirkwall more difficult, and make the untenable aspects of it persist for even longer. So while he continues his routine of having breakfast alone, he makes it a point to join the rest of the Inquisition's personnel in one of the dining halls each day for both lunch and dinner. So far, most people have left him alone.

He's seated at one of those long tables now, idly stirring a spoon in a bowl of stew until it cools. The other hand holds open the pages of a book, which he reads from in silence.

IV. THE STABLES--ON A DIFFERENT DAY

The stables undoubtedly have grooms and stablehands to see to this sort of work, but Loghain has spent the last several months trekking across Thedas with only his horse for company. It still seems odd to leave her care in the hands of strangers.

Dressed in clothes he doesn't mind getting a bit dirty, he is at work in Sooty's stall brushing her coat down after an invigorating run through the surrounding, stark hills. He talks to her quietly under his breath as he does so, smiling, and feeds her bits of vegetable out of a pouch on his belt every so often.

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There's a loud thump as Kaisa flops into the chair across from him--at least there's plenty of space available--and a softer thump as she sets her drink down on the table. For a few moments, silence follows--no cheerful introduction, or even erupting into immediate chatter, both of which are far more usual for her.

Instead, she just stares contemplatively at Loghain, sharp yellow eyes scanning him for...something. It's unclear what she's looking for, or if she's found it, once she breaks off to take a sip from her mug.

"So, you're Loghain." It's not condemnation, just observational. Then, after another pause: "I thought you were supposed to be, like. Old as dirt."

Edited 2017-09-01 19:28 (UTC)

"I thought you were supposed to be, like. Old as dirt."

A snort. "I am old as dirt." Loghain turns the page in his book just long enough to finish reading the last sentence of what looks to be a novel of some kind, then closes it to squint across at his visitor. "Did you need something in particular, or did you just drop by to interrogate me about my age?"

"You don't look old as dirt." She comments calmly, rocking back in her chair. "You look like you can still hold a sword, at least. So I guess you're not completely geriatric." Charming.

"Maybe I am interrogating you about your age. Maybe I'm the official Inquisition age interrogator." She's stalling, because it's hard for her to explain exactly what she's here for--she's not entirely sure herself. Maybe she was hoping that she'd take a look at him and be able to instantly discern whether he was a mustache twirling villain, or a misunderstood hero.

Well, he doesn't have a mustache. But that's about all she can make out.

"Or, maybe I just wanted to meet you myself." She thinks for a moment, then holds out her hand. "Senior Warden Kaisa Daesun." A wry smile. "I'm kind of a big deal around here."

She's peculiar, but the Wardens have a way of acquiring the peculiar, don't they? Loghain doesn't quite return the smile, but he does reach out to clasp hands with Kaisa, giving hers a shake.

"Senior Warden Kaisa Daesun. I'm kind of a big deal around here."

"Yes, I recognize your voice now," he replies dryly, but this time the shadow of a wry smile is more evident on his weathered features. "You're the one who had a go at me about my horse's name, unless my memory is beginning to go in my 'dotage.'" yeah he heard that quip about him being almost geriatric.

Alistair hears him, but there are a good ten seconds of silence. Relative silence, anyway: there are animal sounds, hooves occasionally knocked against wood, snorts and heavy breathing, and beyond that the sounds of the dock workers, distant wind and water. That's why Alistair is out here in the first place. It's soothing. They're all the sounds he used to hear falling asleep in Redcliffe Castle's stables. His mood is about five percent better than it would be if he were somewhere else, which is why it's only ten seconds of silence instead of twenty.

"Here," he says finally, grudgingly, while he releases the hoof he'd been trimming. He pats the horse on the shoulder—she's not his, he doesn't know whose she is, but her hooves needed work so here he is—and leans out over the stall door to look for Loghain. His face might as well have been carved out of stone. Angry stone.

Sooty's stall is a few down from the one where Alistair works now, and Loghain spots her head peering down at him as soon as she hears his voice. She's got her ears perked, expecting apples or some other treat.

She'll have to wait. Loghain grimaces and comes to stand several paces back from the door to the strange horse's stall. "Are you ready to talk?"

Alistair, thirty-three years old and a paragon of maturity, says, "You're the one who wanted to."

He was fine with publicly asking angry questions that danced around The Issue. The Issue is how much he would still like to kill Loghain. Answer: quite a lot, but not so much he will actually do it. He doesn't even have a sword here. And it might upset the horses.

The one he's in the stall with nudges his shoulder with her nose, and he puts a hand on her neck in acknowledgment. He has no plans of leaving the stall. Loghain can talk over the door.

"You're the one who wanted to."

It's true, and yet now that he's here, he's not sure what should be said, or what needs to be said--only that something must be.

He exhales and lifts a hand to rub at his brow line. "What did you expect to accomplish with your bold query today? That I would simply pack up and leave Kirkwall?"

"I expected I'd talk to some of my friends," Alistair says, pronouncing the word slowly, as if he isn't sure Loghain has heard it before, "about my feelings."

He leans forward, elbows on the stall door—casual posture as a sign of contempt, again, and I'm so unafraid of you I'll give you the height advantage.

"I don't really give a damn what you do."

"Sooty." Kaisa murmurs under her breath, mostly to confirm that yes, that's her, in the flesh. But nothing more is said about the poor maligned horse. Instead, Kaisa cocks her head thoughtfully at Loghain. "Didn't realize it was you. Suppose I understand why you didn't mention it, though--I remember the bullshit that went down when Anders got found out. Watch out for elves, man."

Her hands speak as much as her voice, gesturing about her as she continues. "They're little and cute, but they can hold a grudge and throw a punch. Not a hard punch, mind you, but a punch nevertheless." And then you have to sit on them until they stop trying to bite you. But that's probably a special case. Hopefully.

"Speaking of which," And it's back to seriousness, Kaisa's expression sombering. "What brings you here now, all of a sudden? The Wardens haven't had any worrying incidents or attempted blood sacrifices in, like. At least a month."

Edited 2017-09-03 22:03 (UTC)

"I don't really give a damn what you do."

"Is that so?"

His patience, already frayed at the edges, at last has the beginnings of a solid tear in it. He knows there's nothing to be gained by letting his frustration find an outlet in his voice here. Alistair won't be won over by him; that he knew before he even set foot on the grounds. Still: "So you don't give a damn that I intend to remain with the Inquisition--with the Grey Wardens here in Kirkwall--until Corypheus is destroyed? You don't give a damn that you and I must work together, here in this place and out in the field, to bring down our enemy? That one day, you may find yourself relying on the strength of my sword arm at your back?

"You may claim not to give a damn what I do--you can pretend all you like, but you aren't an idiot, and neither am I." He bites down on his tongue to still himself from saying words he knows he will regret; the words he does speak, when he says them, are carefully measured. "You think I don't know how much you want me dead?"

"No," Alistair says, "no, I think I've been pretty clear about that."

How much he wants him dead: enough to do it himself, in front of an audience, and not lose any sleep over it. Also how much he wants him dead: not enough to do it without a reason that isn't a decade old. If he were going to go rogue for revenge he'd have done it back then. He'd have made Riordan drag him off the body with blood on his hands instead of making Riordan drag him back into the Wardens by the scruff when he tried to leave.

"I understand why they spared you. They thought you'd be useful. You probably are. And after Clarel, you're now the Warden whose gotten the second largest number of my brothers killed, so that's... good for your health, if nothing else." She's still alive, too. Not free, and once she's no longer useful the alive part might be up for negotiation, but for now— "I've seen what happens to people who rely on you to have their backs, though, so that won't be happening."

"It's a fine name," is his grudging continuation of their argument, but that aside, he lets it go.

Her commentary doesn't roll off his shoulders, exactly, but, short of a slight grimace, he keeps his thoughts on the matter to himself. Possibly he accepted a long time ago that these kinds of outcomes were going to be an inevitable part of his life going forward; possibly he's just accepted that he deserves the malice flung at him. Either way, he's not going to begrudge the hostility the elves of the Inquisition feel towards him.

"What brings you here now, all of a sudden? The Wardens haven't had any worrying incidents or attempted blood sacrifices in, like. At least a month."

"I imagine I'd have been here sooner, if Warden-Commander Clarel's agents hadn't been hounding me across the Western Approach," he replies sourly. Mention of blood magic rituals causes him to shake his head, but he doesn't comment on it; nothing to be said about it that hasn't already been said more eloquently by many others. "As soon as I caught wind of what transpired at Weisshaupt, it seemed logical to track down the last remaining Wardens who haven't taken complete leave of their senses. I've been en route to Kirkwall since the coup."

"I've seen what happens to people who rely on you to have their backs, though, so what won't be happening."

"Best pray to the Maker that you have a choice in the matter," Loghain shoots back laconically; if he had hackles, they'd be up, but he knows a pointless fight when he sees one. Picks one, rather. This was a waste of his time, and Alistair's.

Maybe it would have been a demonstration of good manners to make some kind of farewell to him before taking his leave, but Loghain doesn't bother with it. He just walks off--not out of the stables, but down towards where Sooty still has her head sticking out of her paddock waiting for him.

Leaving Alistair without a satisfying resolution to their argument is one thing, but he can't slight the horse.

Loghain has a shadow, though he may not realize it. He probably assumes so on some level just being who he is, but Teren is pro at being shady, and it's been a while since she got to stretch these muscles.
It's easy enough to be near enough to hear and see him when they're both doing Warden things, and though she always keeps one ear open, Teren's real priority is anytime Loghain is interacting with the others, Alistair in particular.

One can hear a lot while sewing. Or brushing Boots. Or just, you know, existing in someone's general vicinity. Subtly.

This is not the first time Loghain notices her--he's too perceptive for that--but this is the first time he acknowledges that yes, she has been shadowing his steps. Truth be told, it's been a bit like a game for him to determine when her presence in his periphery is simply a matter of coincidence--they're both Wardens, after all, and called to the same fight--and when it seems too intentional to be anything but an accident.

He pauses in his slow, relentless pacing behind his work station in the library, collects up a candle stick, and moves quietly to stand near the end of a row of books. Peering around to the other side, he spots her; there's no surprise in his expression.

"If you're going to follow me around," he says, "you might as well come sit at the table and have a cup of tea while you're at it."

He's here because the cats come here. It's warm with straw and plenty of mice, and there are a few chubby cats that he likes to visit. The muttering he hears from one of the stalls doesn't seem threatening, so Anders pets the five cats that swarm him for bits of fish and finds the stress of the day fading away bit by bit.

Until one of the cats dashes into a stall.

"Serah Purrah!" It's a startled exclamation as he darts after it; there are a few people who hate the fact that cats gather here and he doesn't want the large pile of orange fluff to get hurt."

There's no surprise in hers either, though there is caution. Teren's eyes move before the rest of her, flitting up from whatever book she was holding and meeting Loghain's squarely, before she claps the book shut and puts it back. Striding toward him, she tilts her head, expression level but not completely unfriendly.
"Suits me fine," she decides, taking a seat. "You've settled in well."

Alistair watches him go until it would require turning his head, which he refuses to do, and then turns back to the horse to mouth, best pray to the Maker that you have a choice in the matter, with a mockingly sour expression—because he is still, at his core, someone who was so insolent and ill-behaved in the face of somber authority that the Templars were worried he'd go off and embarrass them if they ever let him leave.

The horse bites him.

It's lucky the cat chose Sooty's stall, rather than the one belonging to a particularly temperamental stallion paddocked at the other end of the barn. Sooty, rather engrossed with her brush-down after her ride, only perks up her ears at the orange cat who comes trotting over to her long, rangy legs, and stands rather still. Possibly this isn't the first time she's received a feline visitor. Curious, she dips her head to whuffle at the cat's ears with her soft, velvety nose.

"It's fine," Loghain calls out to Anders, recognizing his voice, and eases himself down into a crouch--the old joints aren't what they used to be--holding a hand out towards the cat. "Come here, fellow."

In the dark of the library at night, Loghain has set up enough illumination around his work station to allow him to read and take notes without difficulty. There's only one chair here available for sitting in; the other holds holds a stack of reference material instead. Loghain isn't inclined to sit anyway, and seems to work best on his feet.

"You've settled in well."

He makes a noise halfway between a snort and a grudging laugh. "I've found work that needs doing, and am doing it," he replies a bit dryly, reclaims his mug of tea, and sips from it while examining the maps and papers laid open in front of him. A few seconds of grim silence, then a small shake of his head. "I doubt I will ever be 'settled' here." There's no bitterness or sadness there; just the frank reality that his time in Kirkwall is going to be hard, and he's accepted the fact.

"Sorry," he says as he opens the stall and leans in the doorway. "He's friendly, but not that smart. It's gotten him kicked a few times. By horses... and people." The last is said with no little judgment. What sort of person kicks a cat? Not any that he wants to be associated with.

For a few moments Anders is quiet, watching the cat slowly decide whether or not to trust Loghain. Once Serah Purrah relaxes, Anders does as well.

"So." He's pretty sure he already knows the answer to the question on his mind, but he'll ask it anyway. "How is fitting in going? And would you like a cat? He doesn't have an owner."

"So. How is fitting in going? And would you like a cat? He doesn't have an owner."

"I'm more of a dog person." Still, Loghain is willing enough to give Serah Purrah a few fond scratches beneath his chin, and a stroke from head to tail, before standing again. He comes to the stall door and opens it to let the little fellow escape, should he choose to.

As for the rest of Anders' question? He lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug. "Well I haven't been outright attacked by anyone--not physically, in any case." He doesn't feel the need to bring up Alistair's sending crystal debacle from the other day.

He sighs heavily, teasingly. "Fereldans. None of you know the superior animal. If I didn't already have my hands full with teaching one Fereldan cat appreciation I'd offer to help. And as far as the other goes..."

Anders shrugs. "Better than I did. I got a fist to the face the very next day by someone who should have understood better than anyone what had happened, and then another a few days later, and a third a few days after that. Thankfully I've had worse. They'd no idea at how weak their efforts were to do whatever they thought they were doing."

It's delivered casually and calmly, like being beaten was a regular thing. For a few years, it had been.

Teren likely hasn't been here long, but she did enter a while ago after dark had fallen, seeming to be making rounds. That said, she's very much awake, and even seems a little sharper.
"What sort of work? Fancy writing?" The question has a mocking edge, and the corner of her mouth twitches upward.

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[OPEN] and anyway, I told the truth

III

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e v e r y w h e r e

the liiiiiibrary

IV

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