faderift | your pose as the dust settled around us

Entry tags:

your pose as the dust settled around us

WHO: HERIAN and some others.
WHAT: some open stuff, some closed stuff; basically a belated catch all.
WHEN: through September
WHERE: various, I think all Kirkwall
NOTES: some of the open stuff will have caps for how many tag-ins I'll be able to handle, just for variety's sake
WARNINGS: Nothing as yet, but I have an opt-out over here for particular topics with Herian (or just CR with her generally) as there is potential for themes of PTSD, torture, and generally terrible things.

OPEN: in the alienage
OPEN: in hightown

More to be added! If you'd like a specific set up then get in touch and we can plot up a storm.

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Mannerly. A much nicer way of putting it. There were those that called her rigid and cold, those who had accused her of being more statue than person. (Not a statue, she hopes. Never a statue, because that was woven in with inaction, and that was a dangerous, insidious sort of crime. To not act, not speak, to look away, to silently condone with one's own stillness.)

"Well met, Myrobalan. I am Herian Amsel." Her words almost seem to falter. She feels less certain of how to introduce herself than she once did. "I fear that to omit would be as cruel as to lie." He is not free to see her and to judge, as other's might. A blessing for her, perhaps, and yet - she cannot be false, not in this, and not in this place, before the vhenadahl. "I am of the Starkhaven alienage, but I am human, elven-blooded though I am. I understand if you would sooner not be witnessed associating so."

She does not know this alienage well, yet; she does not know if there are repercussions for speaking with a human, elven-blooded or otherwise, with those of less-truthworthy stock. Herian has no desire to hide who she is, whether it be her elven or human heritage, or being a mage. All are true, though that latter seems less relevant, in this moment.

He's always had a knack for finding the positive in any situation, in any person. She may be exact and cool in her wording, but the researcher in him admires that for precision and dispassion. It might not endear her to the masses, but it's a useful thing to have learned all the same.

The part of Herian's lineage that catches Myr's attention is not the part she's most concerned about. He brightens as she gives her full name, recognizing a part of it, though he doesn't leap in over the top of her words to ask the question that's on the tip of his tongue. (The sobriety does her in good stead there, giving weight enough to what she's saying to make him pay attention and be courteous.) That look of eagerness on his face only dims faintly at her revelation, clouded over by a kind of puzzled concern. "I don't know why I would be concerned to be seen with you," he replies. "You're still my kinswoman."

He knows the issue's more fraught than that, that there are currents of resentment and prejudice that run deep on the subject of halfbreeds both within the alienage and without it. But he knows all that intellectually; emotionally, it's exactly as he says: She's as good as another elf, to him. "And," there's a wry smile on his face now, "it's not that I've got a reputation to ruin here besides; I'm from Hasmal Circle, myself.

"Speaking of--you're not related to Cerys Amsel, are you?"

If there is a single thing that might have surprised her more, she cannot think of it. Herian just stares for a moment, dumbfounded, before she finds her voice. "An aunt of my father's, I believe. I cannot remember the exact nature," and her voice sounds a little distant, from confusion more than coldness, now. "When the Starkhaven alienage burned I was sent to the Spire, to Orlais, because there were relatives of mine already inhabiting the Circles of the Free Marches. I— I hardly imagined that—"

That— what? That people would know them? Speak of them? Aunt Cerys was a woman barely known even to her relatives, taken to the alienage when she was very young, and understood as little as a legend almost more than as a person.

"You know her?" Knew her? Hasmal had suffered as much as any Circle, and perhaps more. There is an earnestness in her voice rarely heard by those who have not known her considerably longer than Myrobalan has.

Almost any other thread of their conversation is forgotten, for the time being. She will return to them later, consider them, and be grateful, more than likely. Right now, alas, her attention has been effectively stolen to one focus, one concern.

Another mage, then, as well as elfblooded--and she is related to Cerys. There's enough of pain in what Herian reveals that Myr can't quite grin openly the way he'd like to--it would seem too much like mockery--but he's glad to realize he's closer kin even than he'd thought, if not by blood than by sentiment.

"She may as well be the grandmother of the whole Circle," he affirms. A crazy, demons-may-care, prankster grandmother, which is really the best kind of grandmother to be. "Of course she was closest to her own students in primal magic, but she was kind to all of us--around all the pranks--and she'd dote on anyone who could master a greasefire to her satisfaction." There's a wistfulness that creeps into his tone there; she'd been so pleased when he'd gotten it down that she immediately declared a trip to the testing area to "practice" destroying broken furniture.

"I'm only sorry she didn't come with us to join the Inquisition so you could meet her. But she wanted the opportunity to travel and not even Knight-Commander Brycen would argue with her over it, after--everything was said and done."

"She specialises in primal magic?" There's a kind of hunger sparked by this, one that she's not truly sure how to process, how to acknowledge. She is learning about her family from someone who is, really, a perfect stranger. It is not as though the types of magic are limitless; her aunt had been a Spirit Healer, but her great (great?) aunt worked with primal magic? Something they had in common, even if there is little else. Herian is not quite speechless, but there is something awestruck in her tone. Grandmother of the whole Circle - kind, then, she assumes. Grandmother implied fondness, more than severity.

Cerys Amsel was last seen alive, and defying the orders of a Knight-Commander. Perhaps she could not fault her that.

But— "Pranks? Really?" That was not, perhaps, in keeping with the sort of sage wisdom one might expect of a woman in her later decades. Herian isn't sure if she's intrigued or just concerned.

"She does--and there weren't many better for teaching it. She never wanted for apprentices, before she retired from instruction."

They'd been family, in Hasmal, and Myr's always happy to brag on family. Perhaps happier than he would be for most when it comes to Enchanter Cerys--but then they all were. The First Enchanter and Knight-Commander were the heads of a Circle but there'd been a heart to it, too, and Herian's great-aunt was a part of it.

He can't help the smile to hear her incredulity; it's a fond thing, memory-softened. "Really, pranks. No one was immune--I saw the First Enchanter leave her office soaking wet, once. She's--" He shrugs, helplessly; he isn't usually at a loss for words but there aren't any in Trade that adequately describe the elder Amsel. "--She takes so much joy in life. It's contagious."

Joy. That, as she understood, what a privilege elves were rarely afforded in the Starkhaven alienage. There was so often a shadow that hung over things. Joy was not pure joy that came with a blade swinging over one's neck, uncertain whether it would clear the flesh, rasp painfully, or simply slice through in one swoop.

"I never had the pleasure of meeting her,"

which is perhaps a statement so obvious that she need not ever state it, "but my father had a penchant for... pranks, I suppose you could say."

It had limited opportunities to manifest to the level of his imagination, she rather suspected, which was perhaps a blessing for her mother, the people of the alienage. Pranks too big or elaborate could catch attention; cleverness and knowing how to play tricks, that allowed stealth.

Perhaps Cerys Amsel was safer outside the Circle than most mages would be. Herian smiles, very slightly. "Thank you. Did she— do you think she was happy, in Hasmal?"

"As much as anyone can be, I think." Within or without the Circles, the world is full of sorrows; happiness is no guarantee. Truly, there were griefs unique to the Chantry's kept mages--but was losing a childhood friend to a Harrowing any worse than losing one to an illness or starvation or slavers? Yet-- "Hasmal is--was," Myr catches himself; someday, he'll place it properly in the past, "kinder than most Circles. We weren't allowed as much freedom as some would've liked, but we were never abused."

It made for a very different perspective on the value of the things, to have been rescued from alienage life and given to a place he could call home, with people he could call family--though they'd never erase his love for his own flesh and blood.

He's tempted to tease, to ask her if pranks ran in the family and what she got up to in her spare time, but it feels somehow wrong with someone who wears her sobriety like a cloak the way Herian does. Instead, kindly: "It's not much likely with the state of the world and how adamant she was about being let go, but our knight-commander might be able to send a message on. If you'd like to let her know she's got family here in the Inquisition." It's what he'd want to do.

“I had thought much the same of the Spire and Starkhaven. I never… I did not know the suffering others endures or… perhaps I did not listen when such information crossed my path. The thoughts have been so much turned over that I can scarce remember what is truth and what is my own doubt and dread, or where I might have blinkered myself.”

Her voice is calm and soft, but there is an inescapable weight in it, even so. At times her own thoughts are as weights bound to a drowning man’s ankles. “The Circles gave me so much that I never imagined they truly took from anyone.”
Was it blind loyalty? Foolish faith? Were all who loved the Chantry celebrating something false? She hardly knows, and cannot bear to give it voice.

“Is your Knight-Commander here?”

To hear the thoughts of one's own heart--the doubts, the recriminations, the blackness of those idle months in the infirmary asking why--articulated in another's voice is always a shock. It leaves Myr briefly speechless; for all the time he's spent thinking about that very topic, for all the arguments he'd formulated on why the Circles were worth saving and not just because of his own peculiar experience, he's yet to find any answers that felt satisfying. (Let alone ones that might be exculpatory for all he'd overlooked--)

Maybe there isn't a perfect answer. And maybe he's done himself a disservice, over the years, in searching for one. "That's something I know too well myself," he says at length, the words nearly a sigh. "And I've yet to come up with any answers for what I might have done otherwise. Only--we pass on the good that's been given us, when we can."

And keep moving forward, keep striving, to stay out of despair's grasp. "I'm afraid to say not--he's gone on to Skyhold with the rest of our contingent. But it shouldn't be too hard to contact him, if you'd like..."

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your pose as the dust settled around us

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I hope I'm not running away too far with your NPC here ahaha

NO this is perfect also i know this is super light so no pressure to reply

neveeeer I love this even if we're both literal snails

GLORIOUS

local snail crawls over finish line, immediately expires