faderift | Return to the Blackmarsh

He is, honestly, a little worried about Myrobalan and Melys. He is also aware of the fact that neither of them likely want him to be worried about them and that leaves him dithering a little when he sees Myr seated at what's got to be the warmest table in the place, over by the fire. Eventually though he buys a pitcher of cheap ale, takes two glasses, and brings it all over.

"Would you mind it if another Northerner sought so soak up warmth over here? I've brought tribute in the form of ale that's not technically awful."

He's made some progress as the night wore on, gone from nursing his ale in weary silence to doodling on the tabletop with the condensation from the mug. It's an activity he doesn't raise his head from as Anders approaches and speaks; instead, he gestures mutely to the seat across from him.

Anything he'd say in this situation would be wrong for both of them and I don't mind would be a lie. He's just enough left in him to manage a simulacrum of decency without words.

Edited (word choice) 2017-10-27 04:16 (UTC)

When it comes to this mage, he'll take it. Anders plops the vessels down before plopping himself down. For a few moments he stays silent, enjoying the warmth. Then he's uselessly gesturing at Myrobalan's doodles due to lack of things to say and a general dislike for silence.

"Glyph patterns? Or something else? I used to draw cats in the margins of Circle books." Granted, the cats were great cats, and they were generally eating Templars, but details, details.

Small talk.

The man wants small talk.

It's so far and away from what Myr expected at the end of this hellish day that he makes a noise a little like a laugh, raising his head to fix Anders' direction with an expression of weary incredulity. "Glyph patterns," he affirms, tone even despite the unvoiced what do you want? behind it.

The look and the way the response is an answer but nothing else suggest Myr really doesn't want to chat about nothing. Anders is quiet for a few moments. It's hard to approach people who don't like him, and sometimes he thinks he should just stop trying and steer clear. But it's not his way and as there are a few things he's still not sure are his way or Justice's way, he'd like to keep doing the things that he knows are him.

Maybe it's time to do what he does best and blurt stuff out.

"I... I don't know what it's like to face an ambush and be unable to see them. But I know what it's like to be new to that sort of thing, and surprised by it, and I thought that maybe, maybe you'd like company. Or something. Like another drink."

By best, it's really worst.

He could, he thinks, find a graceful way out of all this if the aftermath of panic hadn't left his mind so dull and cobwebbed. As it is the best he can do is keep his face turned toward Anders in what would be a stare from someone with eyes, and listen.

And listen, as he's handed a fine excuse for what happened out there, a plausible story he could submit to and then he wouldn't have to explain to anyone-- But it wouldn't be true, and the idea he's some novice to take fright at an ambush stings, besides. (Leave aside the comment about not being able to see.) He's not craven. He isn't.

"We were ambushed more than once on our way to Kirkwall." The words are quiet and precise. "It fell to me to deal with anything that got past our templars.

"I don't want anything--but thank you for your consideration." At the very least he can put a crumb of sincerity in the words. Kindness is kindness, no matter the source, no matter how undesired.

Edited (call me niantic because i've got even more minor text fixes) 2017-10-27 22:45 (UTC)

So there was something else going on, not inexperience, not surprise. And he doesn't want prying. Sometimes Anders can't tell when someone is trying not to talk, but this time he's clued in enough to feel awkward. He takes a breath, stalling and failing at knowing what else to say.

All right. Maybe fully direct is better than blurting?

"So what is it? What's causing you to freeze up when you've dealt with other hazards on the roads? Is it the blight aspect of it? Are you truly scared by the lack of Templars?" He doesn't think the last question is touching on the truth of the matter, but who knows. Loyalists are very odd sorts. Maybe their captors brought them some sort of feeling of security, despite how unthinkable that is in the light of day.

"So what is it?"

Oh, no--no, no, no-- Cornered and caught on his back foot, Myr knows he can't very well lie his way out of admitting what had happened, but the litany of questions has the panic clawing its way up the back of his throat again, his pulse beating faster, fingers white-knuckled where he clutches at the edge of the table--

It gives way so easily to anger at the last; only his implicit promise to Petra keeps him from snarling out a 'fuck you,' quitting the table and storming off (that and he'll be damned if he gives ground here, to this shem in particular).

"Do you really think so little of us, Warden?" Despite his emotions, he can keep his voice in check--he can still do that much.

He's quiet for several moments, seeing the visible signs of distress in Myr, and seeing the easy route out that the other mage takes. Anders exhales. He'll get no answer here... but maybe they can discuss something else.

"So little of the people who are so afraid of the outside world that they'll cage everyone? Of the Loyalists who killed other mages, struck them down, as they escaped? Of those who won't allow for choice for the rest of us and insist that the Circles must come back for all mages? Yes. I can't fathom it. I can't fathom how you hear of the pain and suffering of so many others and yet hold that we need Circles and we need Templars."

There's earnestness to his voice. He's listening this time, asking the question. Will Myr answer or get fed up? All other Loyalists have gotten fed up, continuing to lower them in his estimations.

"I do not understand seeing abusers as protectors."

The conversational turn is so whiplash-quick it leaves Myr gaping across the table at the other mage. Surely it's something that needs to be discussed--surely it's the opportunity he'd been waiting for--

...He can't do this.

Not now, not when the horror of the marsh is still on him--the creeping reminder that he'd broken, that he'd failed, and it's only by the Maker's grace that he didn't get any of them killed. (Not when he has someone across from him saying, in not so many words, that he'd deserved what had happened to him. Loyalist traitors will burn with the Chantry.)

Silently, Myr puts his face in his hands, bites his tongue.

Maker (and Petra) forgive him, he can't do this.

This is worse than useless. Maker's breath. How are the Loyalists even winning when they're... No, he knows how. Because the Chantry wants them to win, and all of the people who profit off caging mages want them to win. Even if the rebels all wind up being more able to do anything than Myrobalan has proven in swamp and at table, they're still woefully outnumbered and the Loyalists still have Vivienne.

"Fine. I've something else to do anyway." He takes his drink and gets up, leaving Myrobalan and wondering how much is wrong with the elf that he can't even talk.

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