[OPEN] I know dark clouds gonna gather 'round me

[mactears]

WHO: Loghain + OPEN
WHAT: A catch-all for Loghain for November.
WHEN: Throughout the month of November.
WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall, Sundermount.
NOTES: None yet, will update as needed. Starters for specific characters under the cut.

I. SUNDERMOUNT (OPEN + MORRIGAN)


The woodsman who had placed the cabin up for let likely hadn't expected for Loghain Mac Tir, the Traitor Teyrn of Gwaren and father to the Queen of Ferelden, to become his tenant, but there it was. He paid well for this private retreat in the wilderness, and with a promise to make some modest improvements to the property, one can scarcely suggest that the land owner himself is coming away at a loss.

There's a single-paddock stable attached to the cabin, which is where Sooty now rests eating from her feed back, while Loghain chops wood for the wood stove. Lying on the ground some distance away from him is a peculiar-looking dog--clearly part mabari, but with the unmistakeable ruff of a wolf around the face and hackles, too. Every so often, she rises up from where she rests in the grass observing Loghain's work with intelligent topaz eyes, and trots off into the undergrowth, only to come back sometime later to find another place in the sun to rest.

When he isn't in Kirkwall, this is where he spends a great deal of his time:  fixing up this run-down cabin, and trying to befriend the strange dog that now hangs out around the property.



II.  WARDEN OFFICES (ALISTAIR + NATHANIEL)


Alistair and Nathaniel Howe wish to speak with him.

In Loghain's experience, this can go one of two ways:  he's being ousted, or he's being murdered.

Nevertheless, at the appointed time he arrives outside the Wardens' office and knocks once to announce himself. "It's Loghain," he calls, then rests his hand on the latch without pressing it yet.



III. THE LIBRARY AT NIGHT (TEREN)


While much of the drama surrounding his initial appearance at the Gallows has died down during the intervening months, the easiest time for Loghain to conduct any research in the library is still after dark, when the rest of the researchers and students have long gone to bed and there's no one but himself present to peruse the shelves.

He'd laid out his old notes from Maric's initial disappearance across his chosen work station, along with maps of northern Tevinter and some other assorted reference books, and paces behind his desk, as is his wont, while considering them. The wolf-dog that rests beneath the table dozes, but every so often opens her lambent gold eyes, ears pricked and alert.



VI.  DARKTOWN (ANDERS)


It is some time after the company's return from Blackmarsh that Loghain makes his way into the streets of Darktown, dressed in a set of unremarkable brown and grey work clothes so that he won't be so easily noticed or identified. The dog isn't with him; she's well enough--and independent enough--to be left to her own devices on Sundermount during the daylight hours.

Reaching the clinic, he steps over the threshold and searches out Anders in a glance. Not wanting to disturb him from his patients, however, he hands back, patient.



V.  LOWTOWN (CARVER + OPEN)


Loghain isn't much of a drinker, but the only place to do that around Kirkwall appears to be the Hanged Man--which is where he is now, seated alone at a seat in front of the hearthfire, gaze alternating between resting on the fire and examining the occupants of the tavern. A few people have, over the past several months, identified him, and even given him some trouble, but generally not at this hour early in the evening, before the city has time to get drunk enough to make its worst decisions.

So here he sits with a tankard of ale, unwinding, and making himself available for conversation to whomever happens to come along.

Comments

II

[pinprick]

Nathaniel opens the door looking fairly nonchalant. His feelings on Loghain have been coming toward a center lately, and the result of that is that he has suggested this course of action to Alistair. He wordlessly lets Loghain come in before shutting the door and coming to stand by Alistair.

"Senior Warden," he begins. "Now that you've had some time to adjust here in Kirkwall, and we have had time to consider, we have a proposition for you."

[mactears]

"...All right," comes his hesitant, fairly nondescript response. Loghain shifts his eyes from Nate to Alistair, watching him guardedly.

[byblow]

If it’s any comfort for Loghain, whatever the proposition is has Alistair looking like a man who’s about to do something supremely unpleasant, like searching a darkspawn corpse or wading through a bog—not something he would actually enjoy, like shoving Loghain off a cliff. He’s sitting, arms crossed, and that doesn’t change when Loghain enters. But he does do something with his face. It’s sort of a greeting nod. Almost—not, but almost—a greeting smile. He twists his mouth in an obvious attempt that doesn’t reach his eyes and therefore looks more like a wince.

But he’s agreed to this, and if he sulks in his chair and doesn’t cooperate now Nathaniel will probably make a half-dozen digs about being the one who does all the real leading regardless of anything else Alistair does in the meantime, so after a moment he does drag himself up onto his feet.

“We want you to help us,” he says, glancing at Nathaniel, who is seven tenths of that we, and also gesturing around the office to demonstrate what it is he means. There are no titles, no Commanders and Constables, but they are in charge.

[mactears]

“We want you to help us.”

Loghain's response, at first, is complete silence. He stands in front of them expressionlessly, eyes shifting back to Nate, and then to Alistair again. He takes in the modest office space around them, which Alistair has gestured to, and says slowly, "I'm not sure I understand," because it sound suspiciously like they're asking him to lead the remaining Grey Wardens with them, and that can't possibly be right.

[pinprick]

"We're at war." Nathaniel is being patient, for him, because he knows Loghain has no reason to fully understand the request they are making, considering...Loghain, and also considering them. "Maybe we can't fight Corypheus or the Venatori, but we are fighting. We've kept our heads above water thus far, but we need to do better than that. We need to win. And there's no one with a better chance at getting us there than you. Alistair can handle administrative duties, and I have my scouts, but you are the best general the Wardens have. You need to be the one deciding our strategy and leading the war effort."

V

[unshadowing]

Carver's heard the rumor. Murmurs of a name that's not well liked amongst the remaining Fereldan residents of Kirkwall. It's been mentioned amongst the Wardens as well, but Carver's yet to have seen the man himself. Until tonight.

Surprisingly, he doesn't recognize him right away. Just a casual glance in his direction at first as he goes up to the counter to order a drink. But the face nags at him, that pulling familiarity coupled with the frustration of not being able to recall quite where that familiarity comes from. Carver mulls over it for a time, even after his drink arrives. It's not until after he takes his first sips that it clicks.

And honestly, there's a moment where he wants to take that drink and hurl it at his head. But he knows he can't, and he won't.

His following instinct is to just ignore the man. But even that might be troublesome. Whatever his feelings towards Loghain, they're both Wardens. Sooner or later, they're going to wind up working together. Maybe he could try and shove it to the side, pretend like everything's fine, but knowing him, sooner or later it'll come out. Might as well grab the druffalo by the horns and deal with it now.

Carver takes his drink and meanders over to Loghain, leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. "So, about how many drinks and or punches have been thrown at you since you showed up?"

[mactears]

Whether Carver recognizes him or not, Loghain recognizes him immediately--not merely as a Warden, but a face from the fields of Ostagar. (Age and wisdom may have taken the edge off some of his fiery temper, but his head for names and faces remains sharp as ever.)

"So," the young man begins, "about how many drinks and or punches have been thrown at you since you showed up?"

Wryly, "None. I suspect most believe I'm too old to be the Traitor Teyrn."

Loghain takes a drink from his tankard and gestures to one of the empty seats at the modest table; an invitation to sit, should Carver choose to accept it.

[unshadowing]

That Loghain's credit, that manages to get a snort out of Carver. "Too old? You're not exactly young looking. They must think you an ancient crone or something." But it wouldn't be Carver if there wasn't some embedded insult. Then again, he's not really trying to be nice here, or even just less insulting.

The invitation's surprising, to say the least, but perhaps even more surprising, Carver takes it. Sure, he could be a brat and keep standing, but he's not the young man he was when Loghain last saw him in Ostagar. He takes a studied drink from his glass before setting it down.

"Do you know who I am?" Not usually a question he asks these days, but here it's worth asking.

[mactears]

He bears the insults without comment, drinking from his mug, and is silent until Carver joins him at the table. That question isn’t entirely unexpected; many survivors from the killing fields had come to him with that question, over the years. Loghain’s memory isn’t infallible, but it takes very little at all to help jog the details back into clarity where the sands of time might have worn away the edges a bit.

Still, he remembers Carver; a soldier in his army, and now a Warden, too.

“Carver Hawke,” he replies, and looks more as though he’s speaking into the contents of his drink. “Third company,” he goes on, “under Captain Varel. Yes, I remember you.”

III

[doneisdone]

Anders gave Teren a draught that will help her with her insomnia, but it doesn't always work, and... well, she doesn't always want it to. Sometimes it's important to be awake at night. At least that's what she tells herself.
She's wandering the halls of the various Gallows buildings when her eye catches the candlelight emanating from the library. Peering in, her good eye squinted, she sees a familiar silhouette pacing within.

Rather than speak and startle him, she steps inside, her gaze immediately moving to look over the contents of his desk. Call her a suspicious old bat, but... well, one can never be too careful.

[mactears]

Her footsteps announce her approach anyway, and from underneath the desk, the wolf-dog lifts her head from her paws, snuffing the air once to get Teren’s measure. Loghain glances up towards her expressionlessly for a moment, so caught up in his thoughts that he appears to look through her for a moment.

Then, “Evening,” he offers her in greeting.

He doesn’t bother to hide his notes; doubtless his interest in Maric Theirin should go without question to anyone with even a passing familiarity with his history. He reaches for the cup of tea that he’s left to cool on the desktop and sips from it. “I’ve been preparing my notes for delivery to Alistair,” he explains, tone grave and pensive. “He requested them some time ago.”

[doneisdone]

Meeting Loghain's gaze squarely, Teren gives a nod of greeting and an uneasy glance to what appears to be a wolf. There are many times and places in which she would have expressed concern about its presence, but having spent a year or so with the Inquisition, she's come to know better.
Also, she has a pet druffalo. A wolf seems normal by comparison.

"He's speaking to you then," she observes, inwardly relieved and surprised by the realization she was worried about it.

[mactears]

"He's speaking to you then."

At that, he grimaces wryly and meets her eyes. "When he must," he allows, considers the shadows just beyond Teren's shoulders, then her face again. He gives a vague gesture with one hand. "It is more than I'd come to expect. I'll make no complaints about it."

He notes the uneasy look she sends towards the wolf-dog under the table, and angles his head to glance down at her. "I came by her in Amaranthine," he explains. Sourly, he adds, "I didn't think dogfighting was a sport anyone in Ferelden would tolerate; a naive assumption on my part, I expect. I've named her Primrose."

i;

[arcaneadvisor]

Sundermount is large enough to go days without seeing a single soul; Morrigan who had once craved the world beyond the Wilds now seeking solitude again when the other prospect is her work in Kirkwall, with all of it having to be conducted in the Gallows of all places.

Kieran is with her though somewhere ahead, racing about with his new and improved practice sword courtesy of his favourite lady that he lives with, enjoying the freedom of the wilds when Morrigan--

Well, a new neighbour. For a given value of neighbour at least. With a curious hound likely to draw the attention of her son once he's done vanquishing whatever foes his he's found out here. (Spiders leave well enough alone, perhaps they recognise their two-legged brother.)

"Your hound fits the tales I heard returning to the Wilds," she calls out as she approaches, staff in the crook of her elbow since one can't be too careful in some parts of Sundermount. "Mabari lost from Ostagar who bred with the wolves in the swamps. A fitting companion for out here."

[mactears]

The axe falls one more time, cleaving a wood block in two, and Loghain straightens his back to turn towards his visitor as she approaches through the trees. He recognizes her, of course; touched by time though she might be, her voice is as unmistakable as her silhouette.

(It’s almost reassuring to learn that she still goes for the jugular. Ostagar. Of course.)

He says, “We are still taking each other’s measure, I suspect,” and looks to where the mabari mix has now risen to her feet to regard Morrigan with learned caution, her topaz eyes demonstrably curious. It’s the appearance of the boy at her side that seems to ease the tension out of the hound’s muscles; her ears and tail relax, and inquisitively, she pads across the soil to greet him, head low and her tail wagging disarmingly.

Now that Loghain has seen the boy, however, he cannot look away from him--nor can he speak.

[arcaneadvisor]

The barb for once hadn't quite been intended; a visit home when the seed had been planted, a long trying meeting that sees her grinding her teeth whenever she thinks of it.

Yet this is how she knows the world: as a raven, as a spider, as a wolf.

"You shan't lack for time here, there are but few who venture so far as Sundermount and then not often do they come. Many a-night of Dane and the Werewolf by the hearth." A jest because ten years is enough for the claws to be softened as Kieran comes clattering over with all the awkward grace of a boy growing into himself, gaze flitting between Loghain, the hound, his mother.

(Alistair and Zevran's influence but a nod from her, a weary fond smile as he holds out his hand for her to sniff--)

"My son," she explains as if the explanation is needed, "Kieran. Kieran, this is Loghain Mac Tir."

[mactears]

The hound ducks her head at that first overture, then, slowly sniffs his fingers, and gives them an affectionate lick.

"Kieran," Loghain says out loud, coming back to himself as the shock abates. He leaves the axe where it is, buried in the stump of a tree, and comes forward to get a better look at the boy as he gets better acquainted with the hound. His eyes are old, but still quite keen, and it was no trick of the light that made him recognize the nose--

"I'm very glad to meet you," he tells Kieran, and then looks from him to Morrigan again. There's a question in his eyes, one he can't quite seem to work into words, but it's there.

V

[faithlikeaseed]

“Is this seat taken?”

Myr’d been told—more than once—that he ought to keep out of Lowtown alone. It’s advice he’s taken the letter of and not the spirit; when the Hanged Man is so much a center of the Inquisition’s social life, it’s hard to stay away from. So of evenings he’s awake, he’s become accustomed to tagging along with any group headed to the tavern from the Gallows—to spend an evening with them. Or—increasingly—by himself, because he hasn’t much felt himself since the Blackmarsh and the thought of company beyond background noise had begun to pale against the lure of the hearth and solitude. (He tells himself it’s because winter’s coming on, without real conviction.)

So: Here he is with a tankard of something warm and mulled, fixing a hopeful look in Loghain’s direction with not the faintest idea who it is he’s walked up on. Only that there’s someone near his usual spot and perhaps talking to that someone might not be so bad an idea.

[mactears]

"Not at all." Loghain's particular manner of speaking is somewhat memorable, harsh and brusque-sounding even when the words themselves, the intent behind them, is not. "There's a chair in front of you, if you wish to sit."

He'd seen the young man make his entrance into the tavern and had recognized him--not a particularly impressive intellectual accomplishment, but he remembers as well Myr's paralysis during their journey through Blackmarsh. (It's not a subject he'll raise without prompting. The boy deserves his dignity.)

[faithlikeaseed]

He does remember that voice--and it gives him a moment's pause to hear it, the first faint sluggish flicker of shame chewing at the back of his thoughts. That moment out there in that dismal southern swamp hasn't been so easy to set aside, not least because there'd been so many witnesses to it. Yet-- "Thank you, Warden--I would." --he's told himself he won't keep running from it, or anything that reminds him of it, even if he hasn't been doing so well at the last.

But every chance life hands you is a chance at improvement. He settles into the offered seat with his staff near at hand, cradling his drink between his hands as he leans in toward the fire. "How has your new friend been finding Kirkwall?"

If there's one thing he's learned thus far about Fereldans, it's always safe to start with the dogs.

[mactears]

The look on Myr's face just then is one Loghain well recognizes; he's seen it on the faces of other soldiers come home from battle, hale but not whole. He won't wound the young man's pride with asking after his health.

But Myr is certainly right: it's always safer to start with dogs.

"How has your new friend been finding Kirkwall?"

He chuckles some and reaches for his tankard, picking it up. "Not well at all," he admits, takes a drink, then sets it down again. "I've taken up residence on Sundermount for the season, to give her some respite from the city, and from other people. She'll come into Kirkwall with me, time to time, but I suspect the wilds are more to her liking. She's only partly tame."

VI

[justice_is_blond]

He sees Loghain come in, keeping an eye on the door is a habit that he's not about to stop, but it's several minutes before he's free to come over. Once two patients are treated Anders washes his hands and grabs a towel on his way to greet the man.

"What brings you down here? I'm glad to see you're upright and not dripping blood all over the place."

[mactears]

Any conversation is a pleasant change for him, a friendly face that reserves judgment, even if he doesn't withhold it entirely. Loghain's lips tug into a wry sort of smirk. "To deliver you this," he replies, and holds out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "A belated Satinalia gift." A pause, before he frowns and adds, "I hope I didn't overstep."

[justice_is_blond]

He blinks in surprise before smiling and taking the package.

"Thank you. I trust the gloves found their way to you?" He'd included his name with it, something he'd not done with the socks he'd given out. After a moment, he's got the parcel open. The initials make his smile both widen and soften. A.H. He has a family name now, and it's on a very nice scabbard. "It's perfect, Loghain. You didn't overstep in the least. Thank you."

He glances down before shrugging and bending, pulling a dagger in a poor sheath out of his boot. "It'll make carrying this easier, too."

[mactears]

"I trust the gloves found their way to you?"

"They did," Loghain confirms with a slight nod, and watches with some restrained pleasure as Anders delights over the scabbard. It had been a simple gift to acquire and modify, and there are more than enough skilled leatherworkers in Kirkwall. Still, he had wanted the gift to have some significance; Anders is clearly not young enough to be his son, but it's difficult not to take a paternal interest in someone whose circumstances so closely reflect his own.

"I've been assured its of excellent quality," he adds. "I hope it will serve you well."