faderift | [CLOSED] we make every little thing so hard

He doesn't want to look around too obviously to check their surroundings; he's learned the hard way in his time here that people need only the barest pretense, if that, to assume an elf is acting suspicious and react accordingly. But he can keep his voice down, speaking just above a murmur.

"More than that, just gone without a trace? Andraste's c--" He cuts himself off before the vulgarity that would have become, remembering who he's talking to.

"I know I'm not great at things that aren't...agitating openly, but what can I do? Who do I talk to about this?"

He has to smile--an unhappy thread-thin thing--at Van's assessment of himself. Not great at things that aren't agitating openly, well, that's one way to put it. (If not the whole truth.)

"I don't know," a third time. "Sina's heard something of it, and there's others doing what they can--but nothing organized. Not yet." He's fidgeting with his staff, twisting it in his hands until he realizes what he's doing and locks his fingers together around it. Still. Calm.

Admitting the depths of his own ignorance on something this important has a way of making him damned unhappy, though. "Just--keep listening, where you can. Ser Coupe's got business up in Hightown she's asked for help with, too, if you need another reason to be up there. And--"

There's no way he can see that they're drawing stares, but he's nevertheless still got that instinct, that between-the-shoulders prickle that says you're being watched. He lifts his head as if he'd look around them, before continues in a more normal voice: "--we can talk about the details of that later." Elsewhere. In private.

That's as self-deprecating as Vandelin ever gets, and then only ever in front of his cousin, and there are still layers of truth to it that he won't acknowledge or admit. He's not about to let Myr dredge any of them up now, though, and he won't acknowledge that expression in turn. They haven't even gotten to the restaurant yet.

He feels out of his depth at the mention of all these connections he doesn't quite have, and a combination of indignant and despairing at the one he does. "If I have to depend on Ser Coupe's goodwill--" For anything less serious than this, he'd finish that sentence with a flippant forget it, but not now. He'll find a way.

But he won't jeopardize it with too-open discussion, either. He nods in agreement at Myr's delay, remembers that he can't see it, and shepherds him onto the ferry instead as it docks. "Sure. I'll call you about it later."

Now that they're away from one set of prying eyes and ears and in the company of another entirely, he casts about for a subject change. Nothing political. That's...a taller order than he'd expected.

"You were saying you would tell me more about the rifters you met?" he says, finally. "Wasn't there some kind of comparative magic study you were doing?"

He's glad of the pause in discussion, and not only because keeping his footing on the ferry without a visual frame of reference can be a little challenging. Better if he squeezes himself up against something solid to hang on to, though, and it helps him ignore his inner ear yammering at him about the world going suddenly wrong. (At least he didn't have much in the way of breakfast.)

It also buys him time to pack his worry over the missing elves away, do his best to put it where it can rest for now. He needs the anxious energy he's got spooled up in it for other things. "--Mmh? Oh. Right. Wouldn't say it's so far along as a study, yet," pause, swallow hard as they hit a rough patch in the water, "but I've been asking the rifter mages about what they do that we can't, and how. 'm thinking, if we get the--principles behind it, 's an avenue for research. Might not amount to anything in the end but it's worth a try."

He's far from being Hasmal's premier spell researcher--he lacked rigor, as Enchanter Belén was fond of saying in her half-fond, half-exasperated way--but if no one else is interested in taking up this green-field opportunity, he'll make it his own.

The ferry is another reason why Vandelin keeps to the Gallows while he can and tells himself it has nothing to do with fear. It seems sturdy enough, sure, but what if it capsizes? What if he tips off the deck? He has too many visions of being forcibly submerged in Kirkwall's filthy water until he drowns. It's the closest thing he has to a real phobia, and it was certainly never an issue anywhere near Hasmal. But he's determined to at least fake being the pulled-together one here.

"It doesn't have to amount to anything," he says, glad enough for the distraction of the conversation to keep him from looking overboard into the channel. "That's just good to find out for the fun of it. Knowledge for its own sake, you know? I don't think I've even met a rifter yet. Or if I have, I didn't notice. Do they--"

Do they look like everyone else? he'd been about to ask, and he could fucking kick himself for still not remembering any better than to say things like that. He doesn't want Myr to know where that was going. He can still see the looks his cousin gives him when he does. He won't fucking let this be a thing, damn it, he won't.

"--seem willing to cooperate, mostly? They're nice enough?" It's a smooth enough transition that there's only the barest hiccup of a pause there.

At least when he can't see the water, Myr's got a harder time of linking it to the echoing nightmares of drowning (~~"--you Southern mages got what you deserved--"~~) he's been having. The faint edge of nausea helps, too, burying miseries more abstract beneath the immediate one. He shifts more of his weight to his staff uncomfortably.

"True. Good way to get to know them, too; you learn a lot about how differently a world can be put together. There's one where they've got ways to fix things--like falling sickness, d'you know? And that without any magic to speak of." The very idea seems like a miracle to him; how much good could something like that do back at home in the alienage?

He's distracted enough he doesn't notice Van's brief hesitation. "Most of the ones I've met've been altogether decent. There's one calling himself 'the Dragon' who comes off as--mm, prickly. Around the edges. Not bad, but not good with people."

"...How do you fix that without magic? You can't even fix that with magic." He's no healer, but there are some illnesses he knows are just intrinsic parts of a person from birth, without anything to be done about them. He doesn't even quite pick up on the further implications of Myr's phrasing--that worlds exist where there is no magic. That would boggle the mind still further.

He has to snort with laughter at Myr's description. "That's better than I'd expect for a guy who actually has the stones to call himself 'The Dragon.' Delusions of grandeur aren't a good look." As if Van's really one to talk.

The ferry docks, the journey mercifully short, and he considers--just for a moment--touching Myr's shoulder to help steer him ashore. Remembering their last ill-fated conversation, he doesn't. He would hate nothing more than for anyone to think he needed help like that, and if Myr wants it, he can reach for it.

"Don't know yet, but I aim to find out." Once he's had the opportunity to take Cosima up on that offer of a drink and some explanations; it's been sitting in the back of his mind for nearly a month but there's been so many other things to do...

Including a little (unintentional) work on magical interactions with that same prickly rifter mage. "'S the name they gave him back home, actually; can't even lay that one at his feet." Humorous as the idea of Sarkan naming himself was, Myr's not the kind to let that sort of mischaracterization stand. Especially not given the thread of decency the fellow has to him. "But it suits, all the same. Armor-scaled and fire-breathing."

Myr's sigh of relief is audible as they come to a stop at last. "...Wonder if that's more tolerable for people who know how to swim if it goes down," he mumbles, half to himself, straightening from his near-hunch on his staff.

He's not too proud to ask for help--not when the consequences of a misstep might mean a tumble into the cold fetid water surrounding them--but he waits patiently for the ferry's other passengers to file off before asking: "Mind lending me your eyes, Van?"

"I guess that's different," he concedes, never having met the Dragon and having no reason to be uncharitable. "And at least he'll have an icebreaker at parties for as long as he's here. You can't not ask, with an introduction like that."

How common an occurrence parties are likely to be around here, though, particularly parties to which mages are invited, he does not know. But it's amusing to imagine nonetheless.

He does not want to think about the ferry going down, even if it had been just an aside, and he suppresses a shudder. "I wouldn't know," he mutters back. He has no inclination to learn how to swim, either. No matter how practical the knowledge would be now that they're living near the sea.

Alone on the ferry now, he glances back at his cousin, oddly touched by the request for assistance. Myr knows damn well that he would be too proud to ask, were their situations reversed. "Yep," he says, as if it's as mundane a question as 'could you pass the salt,' and rests his hand lightly on Myr's upper arm to keep him close at his side as they step gingerly off the boat.

"Yep."

It's surprising how little it can take to ease the pain of an argument unforgiven--a word, a touch, a moment's help. Myr favors Van with an unguarded smile once they're both safely on the docks. "Thanks," he says, quiet and earnest as ever.

So far, so good.

---
As might be expected for a place trying to attract Hightown clientele, the restaurant's about as far from the docks as can be managed, set in one of Lowtown's nicer neighborhoods not far from the stairs ascending to the heights.

The walk there is largely uneventful. It's a foggy, drizzly afternoon and that cuts down somewhat on the pickpocket population; the remainder of the daylight criminals seem disinclined to assault a pair of Inquisition mages at so early an hour. Myr's even confident enough in their safety to try and engage Van in describing the streets to him as they walk.

It isn't that no one has before, but he always likes a second (and third, and fourth) opinion. Everyone's got a different perspective, and he wouldn't mind a few more details to fill in his imaginings of the way to their lunch destination.

A taste "of" the North, the sign proclaims it; the punctuation's dubious but the scents of garlic and cardamom emanating from the place aren't. Somewhat more than a hole in the wall, its Hasmali decor is only slightly shabby, and it sports a neat fenced-in terrace out front that's replete with potted desert plants. (Most of which are sadly overwatered and yellow in the Kirkwall humidity.) The humans and smattering of dwarves seated for lunch are dressed the gamut from Lowtown merchant to Hightown fop--and there are no elves in evidence who aren't waiting tables.

"So are there dormice on the menu?" Myr inquires, once he's taken a deep appreciative breath of the scents roiling out of the kitchen. It certainly smells like home. That's promising.

Edited (killed some repeated words; adjusted for plot reasons) 2017-09-12 19:22 (UTC)

Once Vandelin gets into the swing of it, he describes the Lowtown sights in high and acerbic detail, from the overflowing trash barrels on every corner to the rusted spikes lining every wall and stairwell. But the bare, sandy stone of the houses and courtyards is strangely reminiscent of the baked clay that had made up everything around their childhood home in the desert, and after a moment's pause, he mentions that too.

"It's the same color," he muses. "Everything around here seems to be all one dingy color, but it looks almost like Hasmal."

So too does the restaurant, in its own way. Van hasn't laid eyes on anything even remotely reminiscent of his home in years, far less recently than Myr has. It's a shoddy attempt at recreating the atmosphere, but it's something, and he's not prepared for the pang of homesickness that ensues--all the worse, too, when those spices from inside hit him square in the face.

"I don't know," he says, after a moment's self-collection, "but I smell honey and poppyseed, so that's promising..." Only then does he catch sight of the sign, and promptly presses his fist to his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a laugh. It's only the fact that Myr can't see it that makes him want to hold it back, knowing it wouldn't be so funny if he had to explain it--that there would have been a time when Myr would have been the one to point it out to him, even if his remark on it would have been more charitable than anything Van would say about it, and they could have laughed about it at the same time.

They wouldn't have had to seek out a restaurant promising a taste "of" the North if they'd both stayed there to begin with. But had they not left, they'd never have had the chance to set foot in any kind of restaurant at all.

"C'mon. Let's see if they'll let us in."

"What's funny?"

Here, Myr'd been expecting a description of the restaurant itself, and instead Van's found something humorous to distract him. He could be miffed at that, but it's honestly a blessing to hear his cousin laugh openly. So instead, Van's direction gets a look of mute, eyebrow-raised appeal; you've gotta let him in on the joke, here. (Though he's not himself unaware of the idea a joke that's got to be explained loses some of its power, and if Van declines on those grounds...well. He can hardly protest it.)

He won't wait long on any explanation, though, because there's food near at hand and if he'd thought he was ravenous nearly an hour ago in his rooms, well. Now that the nausea of the ferry trip's worn off, he is definitely ready for lunch. "Of course--" they'll let us in, he wants to say and checks his own naive optimism. He can't see what's missing from the place's clientele, but after a few weeks in Kirkwall, Lowtown and High-, he can infer. "--mmh. Right. Well, we are with the Inquisition."

That's got to carry some cachet. He keeps hoping that it does, that it's sufficient to wipe out that mark of prejudice against him as an elf.

He hasn't been right so far.

But he's got to keep trying anyway.

Edited 2017-09-13 16:41 (UTC)

"No, it's just--" He lets that reflexive little ripple of defensiveness wash over him and fade fully away before he responds, knowing that Myr isn't actually annoyed, or accusing, or any of the things Van could choose to read into the situation. He's not yet at the point where he can accept any blame for Myr's inability to read that sign. "The name of the place is fine, but the punctuation on the sign is, uh, creative. I've never seen anyone try to use quotation marks as decoration before."

Surely a place where signage like that is acceptable would make room for a couple of Inquisition agents, pointy-eared or no. Van ensures that his insignia badge is prominently displayed on his robes, checks that Myr's is visible as well, and strides through the gate as if on his way to announce himself as the new owner of the premises.

"Table for two, please," he says, loudly enough that the hostess who has been studiously not looking at them can't possibly pretend not to have heard.

She smiles thinly. "There's quite a wait."

"For a small table?" Van looks around, his gaze lingering pointedly on an empty one that fits the description perfectly. "It's a shame. We'd heard the service here was impressive. My cousin here was saying how he's been meaning to make time to catch up with Knight-Commander Norrington over lunch, but it's fine. There are plenty of establishments nearer the Gallows."

Van has never met Norrington, probably never will, does not particularly care to, and has no idea whether or not Myr actually knows him either (though he has banked before on his cousin's immediate familiarity with every templar in a ten-mile radius wherever they happen to be, and would be entirely unsurprised if Myr were more than passingly acquainted with the man.) But the namedropping has the intended effect, whether because of the title or because the hostess has come to the conclusion that their Inquisition badges are not just for show, and they find themselves seated in short order--at a table near the kitchens, not out front, but a table nonetheless.

Edited 2017-09-18 06:41 (UTC)

It's not a tactic that would've occurred to Myr, and he's uncomfortably silent as Van pulls it off--but he is silent, not protesting when his cousin puts words in his mouth that he never said. He maintains that silence as they're shown to their table and the hostess--at least--deigns to indicate his chair's location to him before hustling away. (He understands that where they've been seated is an implicit slight, but it's about as effective at hurting his feelings as pitching a tusket into a swamp is at getting rid of the tusket. He's far happier with this than a table outside; it's warmer here and it smells heavenly.)

"I would never," he says at length, when he's sure there's no one close enough to hear him over the sounds of the kitchen. "I mean--he's personable enough but I got the feeling, the once we met, that inviting him out to lunch might give him the wrong idea."

Having said that, he clears his throat a little uncomfortably and adds, "That was smooth of you." He's still not easy with it and wouldn't do it himself. But there's no trace of sarcasm in the compliment, for all Myr's discomfort; it was an effective ploy and he's got to admire that.

Edited (minor text fixes) 2017-09-19 07:48 (UTC)

Vandelin truly would not have been surprised to discover that Myr actually was on a lunch-having first-name basis with a high-ranking templar, but this is beyond even his expectations. Had they been served anything yet, he might have choked on it.

"You've been here a matter of weeks, and you already have the Knight-Commander trying to finagle his way into your robes? That's downright impressive even for you, coz." It's been a long time since that once-common endearment snuck into their conversation, even when they were accustomed to seeing each other on a daily basis--even when they could both see.

He knew the instant the words left his mouth he'd be in for a hard time, and Van does not disappoint. But that's not a bad thing, in its way, and there's something of laughter in the way Myr groans helplessly and hides his face in his hands.

"I don't know that's what he wants," he replies, muffled. "But he was so weirdly solicitous about my glyphs I wasn't sure what else to think. Acting like I was the Maker's gift to Thedas for working out such--what did he call it, 'amazingly complex' magic. By modifying a marker glyph."

Sheer bafflement colors the words; he is so confused, Van. Please help.

"I want to think there's another explanation, but--" Maker help him, he can't keep from laughing now either. "Don't think I'm insulting your glyphwork, because of course it's good, but you make it sound like he thought you were rewriting the fucking Litany of Adralla. How would he even know how complex a spell was? It's not like he's ever cast one."

The very idea of a knight-commander praising a mage's spellwork to any degree is beyond absurd to Vandelin, like trying to envision a singing dog or a man walking on the ceiling. He's at no less of a loss than Myr is.

"There's no First Enchanter here; maybe now he'll think you're promotion material." He's mostly kidding.

"Maybe they haven't--hadn't--any creation mages at Ostwick. At least not any who went into glyphs." Rather than using it as a stepping-stone into spirit healing because what else would you study creation for than the praise and accolades due a healer?

"But--hell if I know how he's judging complex. Might be he proctored exams now and again like Ser Clarimond and saw people sweating over those weird fucking curves on Neutralization." He drags a hand through the air in idle illustration of that bane of many an aspiring glyphworker. "Hard to draw, complex magic, same thing."

Not that his marker glyphs where anywhere near as unintuitive, thanks, but-- He gives a sputtering laugh at the thought of himself as First Enchanter. "And maybe nugs'll grow wings and fly north in the winter; he's got to be more politically apt than that. He'd promote that qunari apostate that sweet-talked First Enchanter Vivienne into making her a knight-enchanter." There's only the slightest thread of bitterness behind that. He's gotten over it. Mostly.

"If I ever run into anyone else from Ostwick, I'll ask. I'm sure they'd know. You know what they say about creation mages." It is a well-worn joke in Hasmal, thanks in large part to Vandelin and his entropy cohort, and Myr will be intimately familiar with it, but Van finishes it anyway. "How do you know when you've met one? Don't worry, they'll tell you." Myr can perhaps picture the old delighted smirk that accompanies this, too.

It persists throughout Myr's benefit-of-the-doubt explanation, complete with sympathetic hum at the memory of trying and failing and trying and failing to master that absurd-looking set of lines, but this last is too much, and he nearly sputters at the idea. "You're shitting me. This never happened. It can't possibly have." He laughs again, trailing off into total incredulity. "Of all the people in all of Thedas who would never allow that..."

"'Don't worry, they'll tell you,'" he chimes in on the punchline, because--of course, and he's as guilty of it as any other creation mage. (Maybe, once, the joke had stung a little; now it's comforting to hear and to imagine the smirk that goes with it.)

Just as comforting is how Van's response to the idea of Vivienne unbending that much runs parallel to Myr's own. "It's what she said. I mean, there's no saying she was telling the truth about it; I couldn't see if she had a hilt on her and wasn't about to challenge her to a duel in front of the baths to verify it." Though it would be of a piece with his newfound reputation for picking (mock-)fights with people twice his size.

"But--" A helpless shrug. "We're living in strange times, Van."

"Stranger compromises have been made, I guess." He's here, isn't he? And promising not to talk politics, at that. Call the revered mothers; it's a verified miracle. He still doesn't believe it of the notorious Madame de Fer, the bogeyman of any mage who refused to join the loyalists and even some who gave in, but he's never actually met the woman. He wouldn't know.

"I am glad that they're not strange enough to have you sparring with qunari, though. I like you better in one piece."

Oh, that's sufficient insult to Myr's pretended pride to make him puff up like an angry chickadee. "What," he mock-demands, "you think I couldn't take one just because they're three times my size? I'll have you know I could absolutely survive that fight in one piece."

Not win. He can't lie to himself that much any longer, even in jest. But he could make it through.

"She headbutts you, it's all over. Nobody else can say that, no matter how big they are. The horns would be the dealbreaker for me."

He hasn't asked what's become of Myr's ambitions to knight-enchanterhood. Vandelin knew Philomela as well as any other mage in the tower did. He can guess quite accurately at how it went. His stomach clenches, becomes suddenly inhospitable to the idea of food, and of course it's at that moment that the waiter finally deigns to come and take their order--

"The honeyed dormouse, please." He won't admit to that wave of guilty nausea or its cause. He'll fight it down, and by the time their food arrives, he'll be just fine.

"Most of 'em are rear-curving, aren't they?" Myr retorts. He's never seen a qunari in the flesh--never will, now--but he remembers pictures. "I mean, they're bony, but it's not as if I'll get gored unless she comes at me from a weird angle."

He breaks off at the sound of the waiter's approach, utterly oblivious to his cousin's discomfort. "The same for me," since it's what they're here for and he's hardly got an option to look at a menu, besides. "And bread salad if you've got it--thanks."

Only once their server's safely away does he return to the previous topic of conversation with: "A dealbreaker, though. You'd never thought about finding a friendly one of them who doesn't follow the Qun and just--grabbing on to those?" ...All right so that's really not a question he should've asked his cousin of all people, but now that they're free of the Circle and it's actually a remote possibility it has been ratcheting around in his head.

Edited 2017-10-04 03:48 (UTC)

He's opened his mouth to argue that the horns don't have to be pointy to cause serious damage, but even if he can't see to swing a spirit blade, Myr's still better with a barrier than any mage Vandelin knows besides Philomela herself. Fortunately, the waiter's arrival interrupts the debate he was in the process of losing, and he's all the more nostalgic for the simple cuisine of their childhood now that he has the unexpected chance to share it with his cousin again.

Myr, it seems, has other ideas about what ought to be shared between cousins, and Vandelin stops cold with his drink halfway to his mouth, eyebrows disappearing into his hair.

"Well," he says at length, "now I have." Another moment's pause, as he considers this in far more detail. If there is any small blessing here, it's that Myr can't see the look on his face, though he would chase that thought instantly away if it made itself clearer.

"I've never met one of their men, though. I can assume they're even bigger and musclier and...hornier than the women, but just imagining it doesn't do it enough justice. I'd have to see one of these giant friendly Qun-heretics in person before I could render a judgment."

He uses that moment of silence to feel out his own drink and cage it between his hands, ducking his head in a spasm of mortified amusement. At least if he's saying things to Van he ought not, they can just be embarrassing, rather than the kind of thing that'll provoke an argument and leave them not speaking to each other again.

"They looked it from the--ah--illustrations I'd seen," Myr admits, lifting his head from contemplation of the table now that he's got control of his expression. "Bigger and broader in all the right dimensions. You'll have to--" tell me all about it, he'd been about to say, but the words stick in his throat for so many reasons. "--let me know if one does put on an appearance. For academic reasons; got to check the veracity of the texts and all that."

Exactly how he plans to do that without being able to see them--well, he'll come up with something. "If nothing else, the conversation'll be interesting, if he's really walked away from the Qun. Always wanted a little more insight into what breaks them out of it."

[CLOSED] we make every little thing so hard

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