faderift | and you understand black implies white

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and you understand black implies white

WHO: Gareth and a bunch of people, and also YOU??
WHAT: Meeting new people and making friends (with varying degrees of success)
WHEN: Now
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: If you'd like your own prompt, just let me know!

[Anders]

When Gareth enters the infirmary, he's visibly nervous. His eyes dart around, take in anyone lying around in the cots, and he relaxes by a hair when he's gotten a good inventory of who's here. The Templars aren't always in uniform, Kostos had said, but if they're in here, they're too busy being sick or injured to worry about him.

"Hello?" For a moment, he thinks about making a joke, Hello, yes, I cut my hand off after all, can I get a baggie for it?, but apparently no one here appreciates his cutting wit. And he doesn't want to piss off the healers, when he needs something from them. "I haven't cut off my hands, for the record."

Close enough.

[Myr + Fern]

Gareth isn't dumb enough to try experimental magic on the actual garden proper, not when so many people have put so much work into it. So he finds a patch of earth that hasn't anything but some grass and weeds, and asks Fern and Myr to meet him there. A few stomps on the ground confirms that it's hard and compacted, like most ground this time of year.

"So, what I was thinking--Stonefist is a spell that gathers a bunch of rocks and sort of...shoots them up through the ground at your target." He demonstrates with his hands as he speaks, expression contemplative. "Usually, you just kind of...shove the rocks back down when you're done with them. But I was thinking, I can probably alter the spell so the rocks just land on the topsoil. That should remove any rocks from the ground, and break up the earth enough for planting."

He glances at the two of them, looking excitedly eager. How long had it been since he'd had a chance to do this? Experiment with magic just for the sheer wonder of it, just to see if it could be done.

[Thranduil]

Ah, the fancy offices, for the fancy people. He remembers these. They're a little less daunting this time around, though he's still wary as he approaches Thranduil's office. The new boss is either a rifter or a Dalish, apparently, and either way, Gareth is as curious as he is cautious. Arriving at the door, he gives the door frame a quick knock, staying outside until invited in.

"Hello--Ah. I'm Gareth, Ser." He bobs his head polite. "I've just joined the research division, and I thought it'd be good to meet you, if you'd like." Look at him, all polite and accommodating. This isn't so hard.

[Open]

Plenty has changed since the last time Gareth was here, and he takes his time trying to get reacquainted with the Gallows. He wanders the library, examining the titles and thumbing through books that look interesting. In the practice yard, he doesn't actually participate, but sits off to the side and studies everyone practicing. He's careful never to stare too long at one person, and has a bag of dried fruit that he digs into whenever anyone bothers to look over at him.

And sometimes, he just hangs out in the courtyard with a book, enjoying the sunlight while it's here.

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He recognizes the voice, and the follow-up comment cements it. Anders gives the man a wry smile as he waves him in. The robes of the day are a dark blue that's almost black and make it pretty clear he's no Templar, though the staff in the corner that currently has a sleeping cat wrapped around its base help that as well.

"Good, I'd hate to wash that particular mess up today. What can I do for you, Not-Kostos?" The guy hadn't given his name... but neither had Anders. Now he has to, which has the smile fading a little. "I'm Anders, the current spirit healer on duty. If you've objections to me treating you, I'm obliged to tell you that there are two others, or there are regular healers as well."

Gareth has a smile on his face, and is just about to make some joke about being Not-Kostos, when Anders introduces himself. The smile turns strained, frozen on his face like a grimace, while Gareth processes the information. Anders. Gareth wasn't dumb enough to think that Anders started the mage war, or that Anders was even wholly responsible for what happened with Meredith.

But he'd still been the catalyst. He'd planned and executed a move that he knew would end in bloodshed. Bloodshed that had included people Gareth knew, had cared about. But...Nell had said that there were a lot of Loyalist mages here. Those other two could be among them. At least he knows where Anders stands, more or less.

"Gareth." He says, voice as tense as his expression, but he hasn't stormed out, or swung at Anders yet, at least. Then, not wanting Anders to think he was some loser Loyalist or something dumb, he adds: "...The Gallows was my Circle. Before everything." That, he's pretty sure, is as good of an explanation as anything.

He takes a breath and nods.

"So there's mixed feelings? Or...?" The Templars in the Gallows had been bragging about how the Rite of Annulment was sent for, it was clear where Meredith was escalating to, and the abuse in the Gallows had been out of hand. All the same, while fewer mages died that night than otherwise would have, plenty still died from his doing.

Whatever Gareth is feeling, though, there's been no yelling or attack. It means Anders is still a little nervous, but he's not actively worried.

"And would you like someone else to see you?" There are many times he wishes he was better at reading people and knowing what they'd prefer.

"I don't care about the Chantry." He gets that out of the way first, and the rest is...difficult. Talking about that entire time period seriously, not just making flippant and morbid jokes, is a struggle. There's a whole clusterfuck of feelings, memories, and pain that he's tugging at. "And I know that it probably would've happened eventually. But--you knew what Meredith would do."

He shifts around, uncomfortable with this entire line of conversation, but he wants to get it out. He wants to say the thoughts that have been jumbled around in that clusterfuck for years, and maybe, voicing them will make those particular ghosts leave him be.

"You--You should've warned us." There, that's the crux of the issue, isn't it? His voice as he speaks is a low hiss, fists clenched--though he maintains a distance from Anders, even now not wanting to appear as a physical threat. "I don't care about the rest. Elthina can rot in the void, and everyone who was in the Gallows knows that Meredith was a Maker-damned maniac. It was only a matter of time before things came to a head. But you should've told us. We could have been ready. Get those who couldn't defend themselves somewhere safe, and prepare to fight."

He looks down. Gareth has a point, but there are just as many reasons why it hadn't happened.

"If..." Anders shakes his head and takes a breath. "Yes. I should have. But I had no means to. The Templars slaughtered my network the week before, everyone I trusted to get in and out of the Gallows, and I'd no way of knowing what mages in there would fight... and which ones would instead run to the Templars in vain hope of protecting themselves."

Also uncertain is whether or not Justice would have allowed him to give warning, but as he'd not tried it's not a point to bring up.

He hadn't known about the network. He knew more mages in the Gallows had died, but at that point, that was just another Tuesday. They weren't told why, and few wanted to ask.

"If you were more worried that the mages would tell, then you prioritized your goal over our lives." Despite his bitter words, his tone doesn't have quite the bite it did before. There's more of a tired resignation--he's not entirely sure what to think, now.

He can mull it over later. For now, he just wants to get to what he was here for in the first place, before he'd been surprised with this whole...thing. "If you still want to help me, I just need some kind of salve or poultice. Something that'll make scars fade." He doesn't elaborate further than that, and at the very least, he's sure that Anders of all people will understand well enough. Maybe not the exact reasons, but. Close enough.

"And lost any opportunity to do anything at all?" The question is mild. "To even give a chance to fight back?"

The goal had been vengeance, yes, but also justice and also a chance. Someone revealing the plan would have spelled absolute disaster for all of the mages in the Gallows, he feels, even the one who told.

As he speaks, he's going through what he has and selecting the two salves. They get held out. "The one on the right is better for newer wounds that may scar over. There'll be a terrible sting if any of the wounds are open. The one on the left helps with older scars. But they've limits. Spirit healing may have less limits depending on the wounds themselves, if you'd prefer."

While Gareth is normally always up for arguing--loudly--this is...different. It's something he needs to think about. He's not happy, and he's not suddenly forgiving, but he's willing to consider this new information, and how it fits into his thoughts. And he also just sort of wants that part of the conversation to be over.

Salves are much easier to deal with, and Gareth inspects the two that Anders presents to him. The one for old wounds is accepted without pause, but he lingers over the one for newer wounds. He shouldn't be getting any, he's been trying so hard to avoid it--but things always come up, don't they? It would be naive to think that he'll be able to go without using it ever again, not when he's gotten himself attached to another army with another war.

So he accepts the other one as well, but shakes his head when talk of a spirit healer comes up. Even if the spirit healer did manage to effect him (and that's up for debate), they'd have to see his arms. And his scars. "Thank you for the salves, but I don't need to see a spirit healer. This'll be just fine." He hesitates--is he allowed to just take them? Does he have to pay for them? Are they put on some tab that gets deducted from his pay? But Anders hadn't mentioned a price, so. He was probably safe.

"...Thank you for helping. Even after I yelled at you." He's not going to apologize for yelling, mind, but he does appreciate that it didn't get him booted out the door.

He nods as the offer for spirit healing is turned down even as the salve for newer wounds is taken. From a non-mage it wouldn't be entirely new or surprising, but from a mage? It brings questions to his mind that he can ponder over later.

"You didn't swing and you didn't call names. You're better than a good three-fourths of this place." And he can't exactly be choosy, he reflects as he glances away. Alistair had been rather clear when reminding him of that. It still stings sometimes. "If something does happen and you change your mind about being healed, I'm easy to reach."

There's a hesitation in the air, like Gareth might want to be gone or might have questions he doesn't want to ask, so Anders leaves the verbal opening to allow the other mage to go if he'd like. "Or if anything else comes up."

"Yeah, well. What'd you expect from a place with this many Templars and Loyalists?" Not that Gareth can really talk, because here he is, also in a place with this many Templars and Loyalists. Though, at least he can pretend to be someone they don't want to kill off.

And then...he waits, but Anders doesn't indicate that he needs to do anything else. The salves are just...his. Nice. He relaxes a little at that, and gives another nod.

"I'll let you know. Thank you." And with that, he turns and heads off. He's got things to think over.

With earthmoving the order of the day, Myr's dressed down in a heavy borrowed jacket and trousers--robes didn't seem like the best idea, however practical they otherwise are. He can't see the look shot his way, where he leans on his staff at the edge of Gareth's chosen patch of ground, but he's experienced enough by now to infer it.

"Seems reasonable to me," he replies, after a moment's thought about Gareth's proposal. "So long's you keep in mind that terminal bit of most spells--putting the rocks back, in this case--has a lot of mana tied up in it." Cast accordingly--but even despite the mild warning, he's got an eager smile on his face.

"Though I don't know much from farming--Fern, what d'you think of it?"

Practical clothes are more or less all Fern's got to work with; she's in her worn leggings and tunic, no staff to be seen, and has braided her hair back from her face to keep the flyaway bits out of her face while they work.

She looks a little uncertain as she peers between the two other mages; they've both got all the trappings of fellows who know a fair bit more about spellcasting than she does. Fidgeting with the end of her braid, she suggests, "It--might be less tiring if I warm the soil up a bit first? Here, I'll show you," she says again, and goes to kneel on the patch of cold, hard dirt, pushing the sleeves of her tunic up past her elbows. Then she reaches out a hand and quickly sketches a glyph into the dirt, which seems to warm instantly, glowing a gentle yellow. It's a fairly rough-looking thing, created from years of practice in gardens rather than acquired through any formal book learning in a Circle.

Gareth isn't wearing robes, either--he doesn't do that much, anymore. The clothes that he does wear are old and worn, perfect for their current task. He watches Fern sketch a rune onto the ground, and part of him thinks that his old teachers would've had a fit if they'd seen it. It functions, but if she just made a few adjustments--should he comment? Would it be rude? Does it really matter, if it works?

But she's young, and the Circles are gone. Who else will teach her, if not the mages around her? So he kneels next to her, and in as gentle of a voice as he can, "That's pretty good, and it works, but it'll be more effective if you straighten up the lines here..." He makes a few adjustments with his finger, "...And make this bend a little deeper--there." That finished, he inspects it, then nods, and shoots Fern an encouraging smile. "You're doing good, though. And I mean, this is dirt, and all."

At that, he jumps up, rolling up his sleeves. "Speaking of which, let's get this dirt moving. Everyone, step back."

Once he's sure they've all backed up enough, he puts his hands out, concentrating...and then there's a slight tremor, and the ground under the rune erupts in a cascade of dirt, as a collection of small rocks burst out of the ground, forming a pillar. Gareth frowns, and with another motion, the pillar dissolves, the rocks falling to the ground.

"...Well." He starts, looking at the dirt that has been violently thrown around them, and then slowly beginning to brush some of it off of himself. "We've proved that it's theoretically possible. That's the first step!"

"I'd still like you to walk me through one of your glyphs some day," Myr remarks, not moving--yet--from his spot as Gareth steps in to offer instruction. "They don't feel like the cut-down fire glyphs I'm used to using to the same ends; I'd love to know how you came up with them." ...Likewise, it sounds as if he'll need to pick Gareth's brain over the finer bits of glyphcraft, but that can wait for later.

He's quick to get out of the way at the warning, backing off by several feet and starting to sketch a barrier out of the Fade-- But too late.

Definitely a good thing he wasn't in robes. "Augh," he says, eloquently, scrubs at his mouth with the back of one gloved hand. "Next time I'll be quicker with the barrier." It's in his clothes, it's--he drags his hand down his face and sighs--behind his blindfold, but that'll have to be dealt with later in private. Uuugh.

But he's not one to let a minor discomfort ruin his mood. He rakes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head to dislodge yet more dirt, then feels his way over to Gareth's pile of stones with his staff (and a good thing he does, too--spares him from turning an ankle when the softened dirt's a little looser than he was expecting). "Right, and the next one's not getting the topsoil everywhere," he picks up, cheerily. "How much--many--" What're plurals, "of the rocks did you end up getting, also? Is that all of them or just the biggish ones that'd be good for hitting people with?"

Primal's not his school, he doesn't know about all this yanking rocks out of the ground.

Like any slightly moody teenager, she doesn't look especially pleased to have her handiwork tampered with... but the glyph does seem to function better, after a bit of altering, so whatever complaints she had prepared more or less fall apart.

"I didn't come up with them," she answers Myr distractedly, "my aunt taught them to me back on the farm. You just--use what works." A little shrug; possibly she's self-conscious over having two, learned Circle mages around her, and expects criticism.

When the rocks come lurching upward out of the ground, she jumps backwards with a little yelp and widened eyes--but yes, it definitely works, doesn't it? "Well we can't use that around the perennials," is her helpful contribution, but she does lean in a bit to admire Gareth's handiwork.

"You're an apostate--? Well. Were one, I guess. We're all apostates, now." Gareth doesn't seem to mind, his eyebrows raised, and his usual smile still fixed. More than anything, he seems curious. "I couldn't even tell, though. Good on you, bucking the system like that. I'd be interested to hear what kind of magic you do on farms, sometime."

He meanders over to where Myr is, and starts to haphazardly nudge the rocks into a pile with his foot. "Myr, you'd be interested too, right? That sounds right up your alley. As for the rest of the stones..." He walks over to the violently turned dirt, and peers down at it. "It's not like I have some sort of stone reading ability. I mean." Now he's thinking again, rubbing his chin as he contemplates.

"It'd be tricky, but if I could try it again, and try to control it with fine enough precision that they don't actually bust out of the ground, I could...try feeling it?" He rubs the back of his head thoughtfully--managing to brush dirt off of it at the same time. "But, I mean, how many big rocks can there be in one section of dirt? I can't say much for the smaller ones, the spell only grabs ones bigger than a fist. Those should be easy to remove, though." At this, he glances at Fern, who is now the apparent expert at rocks and their numbers within gardens.

It's another day in the Gallows, and Cade has his usual business around and about it, all of which consists of avoiding the Templars and keeping himself to himself. He's bringing a stack of books from the library to wherever he's meeting Myr when he nearly runs into someone, apologizes quickly, and steps aside. It's only when he raises his eyes again that he realizes he recognizes the person, and a split-second after that, he remembers from where.
Quickly averting his gaze again, Cade continues forward. Perhaps he won't be recognized as a Templar, since he's not wearing the insignia anywhere. Maybe he's just a guy who looks like one Gareth used to know. It's probably better not to tempt fate.

Thranduil looks up from his papers briefly to beckon Gareth into his office, and then to gesture to the empty chair in front of his desk. Whatever he’s working on takes a moment more—some report he’s reading, apparently not classified enough to bother hiding it from view too zealously—but soon enough he’s done and putting it, writing down, to the side.

“Good afternoon,” he says, and then, “Welcome, Gareth. Thank you for taking the time to come. May I offer you something to drink? Tea?”

Gareth stiffly moves across the room, and takes the seat offered. He hadn't realized that the research leader would be so...tall. And dignified. Well, this definitely wasn't the Dalish, so that meant he was a rifter. That doesn't relax him any (would he more relaxed around a Dalish? Doubtful).

He tries not to shift too much, ignores the feeling of suddenly being an apprentice again, caught been in some mischief or another. He's an adult, now, and the rifter--he was given a name, one that was awkward on his tongue, but he tries to remember it--surely would treat him as one.

"Thank you, Ser. Tea would be fine. Please." He is totally nailing this. Maker. "It's no trouble to come. I'm always happy to be of service." He pauses, then winces. That sounded fake, even to his ears. "Okay, that's a lie. I'm not always happy to do it. But! I'll still do it. Which is pretty close, I think."

There's a kettle by the fire on a hook, removed easily enough with a rag wrapped around the handle and poured into sturdy ceramic cups. It's an herbal blend, something vaguely floral, and does about as much to distract from his elveness as the tapestry of the Inquisition symbol on his wall done up in embroidered leaves and vines.

"As long as the work is done well and on-time, I can hardly fault you for a lack of enthusiasm," Thranduil notes. "I am far from unreasonable."

He sits back in his chair, mug balanced on his knee.

"Do you have any questions?"

He is very elfy, and while Gareth doesn't really have much of a problem with elves, he is--very elfy. And tall. What kind of world goes around letting elves tower over everyone else? Are their qunari all up to your nose in exchange?

Gareth has a host of questions he wants to ask Thranduil--That was his name. Why is he so tall? Does he hit his head on the doorframe? How does he feel about blood magic? What is his opinion on mage dominion? But he doesn't ask any of them.

"Do you assign research, or is there a list to pick from, or do we just get to choose...whatever we want? Within reason." Yes, he'd like to study the affects of a diet of meat on nugs and see if he can turn them into carnivores. Or, you know. Not. "And how do you monitor our progress? Do we send you weekly reports?"

“I assign,” he has the final word, at least, though he hasn’t said no yet, most of the division having been in place when he arrived and beyond his approval. “—voiced as suggestions, naturally. I would loathe for someone to find themselves in a position they were wholly unsuited for.”

He shrugs his shoulders, and makes it look elegant.

“As long as it furthers the mission of the Inquisition. And—it depends upon the person. What did you have in mind?”

It's hard not to feel underdressed, around this man. He imagines he would even if he were wearing clothes that hadn't seen years of hard wear. As it is, he's starting to feel a bit like an urchin that wandered in.

Which. Isn't far from the truth.

"Well, I've been working a bit with Myrobalan on how to utilize magic for practical daily life." It's probably not what Gareth would research if he had free, unrestrained reign over the topic, but he can always look at the sketchier things in his free time. "It's a good way to make people less afraid of mages. And for us to prove that we're invaluable."

He hesitates, wonders--and decides that it won't be out of line to state the most basic of his beliefs, things that he has already openly stated. His eyes turn to Thranduil's, sharp and intense, despite his shifting in his seat. "It's the best way to make sure that they don't want to lock us up again, after everything is said and done."

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