faderift | OPEN | Dreams are more precious than gold

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OPEN | Dreams are more precious than gold

WHO: Pel, Nathaniel, and Colin
WHAT: Open log for the month of December/Haring
WHEN: All month
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Some warning for grief and loss, anxiety disorders, chronic pain, and Rendon Howe.

Pel

I: The Alienage

Pel is bundled up, with coarse fennec pelts strapped around her boots for traction. Little Sina is similarly bundled and peering curiously at this new white world. Before leaving the Gallows, Pel stops to take the time to introduce the little girl to snow for the first time, letting her touch it to test the coldness, and showing her the intricacies of a single flake against the dark contrast of one glove. Then she hoists the baby up into a harness on her back and sets out.

The alienage has a great need right now, being in such a poor state of repair generally. Pel's aid there is less magic and more elbow grease, hauling a bag of sand gathered from the shore and scattering it over the ice. The only magic used for it is the magic she directs inward to increase her own strength.

Inside houses it's a little different. People are desperately cold. Some see that there are mages given to other parts of town and request magical aid, desperate not to freeze themselves and their children to death. Pel seldom suggests magic herself if there is any other way, but finds herself making quite a few glyphs--on stones, for putting at the foot of a bed, in the fireplace, even stitched discreetly into one man's gloves and stockings because he works at the docks and is in danger of frostbite. Sina observes all of this, and Pel somehow feels like this is just as important for her daughter as for anyone. At seven months old, she is already being exposed to the value of hard work.

Saoirse

A grateful elf has made hot stew for the Inquisition workers. Pel sits by Saoirse and hands her a bowl.

"Eat up while it's hot, lethallan."

II: Ice Skating

Pel is quite literally in her element in this weather. In the center of the courtyard, without asking anyone, she creates an ice sculpture of a roaring dragon unfolding its wings. And almost immediately after, she takes a pair of skates, straps them on, and introduces Little Sina to a new form of movement, holding her tightly in her arms so she can watch her daughter's face.

The first slide is gentle, slow, and the little girl looks at once baffled and intrigued. The second slide is quicker, and an open smile flashes across her face. By the third, she is laughing, and so is Pel. Faster and faster they go, making turns, sometimes going backwards. Soon, Sina is shrieking with laughter.

It's the first time since the older Sina's death that Pel has had laughter in her life.

Sorrel

"Here." Pel skates up to him to pass the baby to him, breathless and grinning. "Your turn."

Herian

Pel is now taking up her sword practice indoors, where it is not likely she will slip and break her neck. In a wide-open room, she goes through the stances while Sina lies belly-down on a blanket, trying to push herself up to hands and knees. Herian walks in, and Pel stops to give her a wave.

"Grab a sword and spar with me."

Nathaniel

I: Closed to Loghain

As Nathaniel is terribly formal, he leaves Loghain a note to join him for dinner in his quarters. As he is terribly polite, he cooks the meal himself. As he is terribly nervous, he fusses over table setting and almost calls off the entire thing because is it really doing to do him any good to have this conversation?

But he has to know.

He hears the knock. "Come in," he calls.

II: Warden Office

Most days, especially with the cold and snow, Nathaniel is drawn and pale. His ribs are nearly healed from the most recent break, but his rheumatism is worse than ever, and he can feel every shift in barometric pressure. He has gone all out with the fire glyphs and buried himself in paperwork, including a new sign (paper) on the door.

WARDENS--

Enquire here for work assignments. For relief effort requisitions, please speak with Senior Warden Teren.

--Ser Nathaniel

Ciri

A message comes over Ciri's crystal:

"Warden, please meet me in the office at your earliest convenience."

Bethany

Since there are relief efforts underway, Bethany and Nathaniel have been hard at work. Their donation funds are not going back to the public, of course--the Wardens need the charity. But they are finding an increase in donations the more legwork their people put into relief efforts. After Bethany delivers her daily report, Nathaniel stands, supporting himself against his desk.

"With that," he groans, "I'm done. If anyone else needs anything, Alistair or Loghain can handle it."

Colin

I: Closed to Gareth

It's bizarre, the effect any shift plays on Colin. He doesn't like the open, shared room he is in. He wants somewhere small and safe. But outside the room is less safe. He is paralyzed by a peculiar mix of complacency and fear, ready to simply tuck himself away until the snow melts because who would go outside in the snow? Isn't it a good excuse not to see or talk to anyone?

But he has to work. He has to help the city, too. These are orders, not options.

He calls Gareth over the crystals. He should probably talk to someone who already knows why he cowers like this, but Gareth feels safer.

"Gareth? Could you...could you come to my room?"

It's humiliating. He feels weak and pathetic. But he needs help leaving his room.

II: All Over Kirkwall

During lunchtime, Colin closes the shop and starts making his rounds in the city. He rolls a cart with a rich, hearty pork bone soup with fresh bread on the side, all kept piping hot by a couple of runestones. All the hardworking people need to do is bring a cup to get fed. In Lowtown and the alienage, quite a few citizens also come, and he feeds them without question.

Anders

After lunch is passed out, Colin sits on a step, sipping on a mug of soup and occasionally dipping bread into it. When he sees Anders, he grins and waves.

"Did you get food?"

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He's been summoned, and so here he is, still sporting ice clinging to the outsides of his work clothes and parts of his hair. As he steps in, it becomes clear that he hasn't arrived alone--but when Loghain turns to the wolf-dog, Primrose, and instructs her quietly but firmly, "Wait," she obediently lays herself down outside the door and doesn't follow him inside.

"Apologies for bringing her," Loghain says as he steps into Natheniel's quarters. He wipes some damp hair out of his face and pulls off his gloves. "It would be our preference for her to remain on Sundermount, but with the weather taking a foul turn I thought it best to bring her back to the Gallows with me, for a time."

The table is set with a salted meat and winter squash savory pie, boiled potatoes, wine, and a bottle of good Fereldan peat whisky. Nathaniel has prepared for a fairly strenuous evening. He looks...uncomfortable, and not in the way that indicates all that much physical pain. He shakes his head.

"It's fine. If you want, I have a bone Lady hasn't already chewed. She can come in and have it, if you like. Lady is very friendly with other dogs."

He hasn't had much of an opportunity to check in with Nathaniel since the fighting in the Necropolis, but he does so now--discreetly, in a way that could be easily missed. His discomfort is noted, but not commented upon, just yet.

"Lady is very friendly with other dogs."

Loghain grimaces and glances towards the door. "I fear Primrose is not," he says after a pause. "I found her in Amaranthine; some dockworkers had been using her as a pit fighter. It's best if she keeps her distance, for now." At the very least, Primrose seems obedient to her master; her mabari blood and intelligence likely have much to do with that.

He looks next to the spread of food across the table, his eyebrows lifting. A moment later, he appears almost chagrined. "I hope you did not trouble yourself so much on my account," he says, taking a step towards the table.

Nathaniel grimaces and gives a dismissive wave. "I can't bend enough to cook. It came from the market. Have a seat."

He does so himself, slowly and carefully, keeping his back straight. He dishes everything out for Loghain first, pours the wine, and begins to eat in silence. He's not actually sure whether this subject should be broached before they've switched to the whisky.

At Nathaniel's gesture, he holds his peace and sits.

Whatever his reason for inviting Loghain over for a meal, it does not appear to be borne out of any desire to engage in small talk or make overtures towards friendliness, and so Loghain follows his lead and eats in silence. The food is fine, hardy, and satisfying given the bitter cold; it's been ages since he last enjoyed whisky, but since his host hasn't opened that bottle yet, he's not about to reach over and do it himself.

Absently chewing, he nods his head once in thought. "Our relief efforts in the city appear to be going well," he says slowly at length, rather than let the silence drag on interminably.

"Yes," Nathaniel says lamely, perking up slightly at the break in awkward silence. Then it's awkward silence again, because he's not sure what else to say about that. Okay. Bringing up the actual subject may be less painful than the silence. Maybe Loghain has nothing new to say to him. Maybe he does. He takes a deep breath.

"I, erm. I wanted to ask you about my father. Your...association, in the last year or so of his life."

...ah.

"Very well." It isn't, but denying Nathaniel this conversation would be an unnecessary cruelty, and Loghain won't visit that upon him. He chafes a hand slowly over his chin and jaw, grey eyes gone distant; dredging up memories, no doubt. "What would you like to know?"

Nathaniel notes the look on Loghain's face, and his brow furrows. This is not going to be a happy conversation. He fortifies himself with a gulp of wine, sets down his glass, and steeples his fingers before him on the table.

"I wanted to know...how much of what happened was him, and how much was you. The murder of the Couslands. The poisoning of Eamon. The hunting of the Wardens. The Tevinter slavers."

She outdoors going through morning routines with Kelpie when Natheniel's voice comes alive over her crystal. Breathing out a puff of cold air, Ciri fishes for her crystal and eyes it carefully before speaking: "Loud and clear, be there soon as I finish up at the stables."

Which included more than just her usual routines with her horse. As its begun to grow colder, she has been working to make sure that the stables are in good condition and the mounts have enough protection from the winter weather. She doubts it'll get as cold here as it does back home but she worries more for the wind off the bay and whatever might come down from the mountains.

A short time later, still dressed in her work clothes and a protective muffler wrapper around the lower half of her face, does she approach the office and knock.

While Nathaniel speaks, Loghain caves and opens the whisky. He finds his host's glass first and fills it with two fingers' worth, then his own. Then, when Nathaniel has finished speaking, he brings the glass up to take a swallow from it.

"What good would it do you," he begins quietly, staring at the whisky in the tumbler, "to hear me disclaim responsibility for those things? Your father was my confederate. His crimes were mine as well."

Nathaniel's gaze drops. He has asked himself, Anders has asked him the exact same question. What is the good in stirring these ghosts, in reopening these wounds?

Maybe, if he extracts the splinter left behind, the old wound will heal. That is what the good is. He must be kind enough to himself to understand what reality is. He must be informed enough to draw a line between himself and his evil father. And maybe he will never truly understand how much lives in him that came from his father. But he must know which of his memories are lies. He must put this ghost to rest.

"It's not about your responsibility," he answers quietly. "Mine, maybe. His, absolutely. I need...I need the picture. I need to know who he was. Who I am. I need to stop blaming you for who I am."

Saoirse has been busily helping the alienage as she has since the weather began to turn colder. Preparing homes for the winter was most important along with making sure that the people had proper clothing and that food was put up for each family. Currently she knitting, putting the finishing touches on a pair of much needed gloves and humming as she works.

When Pel sits down beside her, she looks up with a grateful smile and takes the bowl.

"Oh! This looks yummy, thank you." And then remembering her gift from Pel, she has a thought and peeks at her friend. "In Elven... how would say 'thank you'?"

Edited 2017-12-15 20:14 (UTC)

Nathaniel is alone in the office, for the moment. He sits stiffly in his chair and looks grumpier than usual.

"I dropped my pen." Which is true. There is a pen lying on the floor. He cannot work without a pen. "Will you please pick it up for me?"

She blinks once and then twice, standing in the doorway before glancing around. Was... was this a trap? Was someone going to jump down from the ceiling and throw her out the window when she bent over? Was she being ridiculous?

Probably not, maybe and definitely.

"Uh, aye... sure." Ciri says slowly as she moves into the room, closing the door behind her and picking the pen up from the floor to set it back on his desk. With a chuckle, she grins. "I hope this wasn't a test of some sort."

Nathaniel takes the pen, face flushing with embarrassment. "I had a few ribs break recently and I can't bend. But I did call you here for another reason. Sit down."

Shit. She's definitely going out of a window at some point.

"Right," she says with a careful look at him before finding a nearby chair. Ciri, usually quite the talker, remains silent as she ponders over what this might be about. Can't very much throw her out of the Grey Warden, windows aside, so she has that much going for her.

"Senior Warden?"
The words come from the doorway, where Teren leans with an arched eyebrow, looking unbearably smug. "I'm Senior Warden again, am I? What have I done to get back in His Lordship's good graces?"
It's curiosity more than antagonism, but she's not about to let Nate slip this by, and going easy on him would be a violation of their mutual understanding. ...whatever it is.

The more Nathaniel speaks, the deeper the furrow in Loghain's brow grows. He shifts in his seat and looks at his whisky again; there's no answers to be found in it, and he would know, having reached the bottom of a glass on his own in the past.

A heavy silence follows and settles between them. Then, "I had no part in the murder of the Couslands," he starts, quiet and introspective. But the rest cannot be so neatly bisected in the way that Nathaniel seems to require, because it was never a question of Howe's will or Loghain's. How many orders had he given, presumably to safeguard Anora's throne, at Howe's behest? It was impossible to know truthfully where his ideas ended and Howe's began.

He gives his head a small shake, gaze distant again. "...whatever the full picture is, Nathaniel, I'm in no position to grant it to you." The words come reluctantly, but there's a hard grain of truth running the length of them. "And whatever standard you choose to compare yourself against, I can't give you your father's true measure during that time, or my own. I can tell you that he dispensed cruelty with a casual, practiced hand, and that he coveted the Couslands' power and influence. I can tell you that at the time, I believed I made my every decision, my every mistake, for the good of Ferelden, and for Anora's throne. You know what that dedication wrought in Redcliffe, and in the Denerim alienage. Is that the full picture?"

It's perhaps the most candid he has been about his past with anyone since his arrival in Kirkwall, and likely not a conversation he'll be willing to revisit for some time. Loghain brings the tumbler up to drain the last of its contents in one go.

Nathaniel looks like he just bit into a lemon. It's shorthand for you caused the deaths and disgrace of my father and brother; you don't get the mercy of a short conversation. It's the same nonsense repeated to him by people who are either guessing or trying to spare him the hard answers. At least there is an answer about the Couslands--that was all Howe. And buried in all the rest, tiny nuggets of truth hidden like nuts in a cake.

"To whom did he dispense cruelty?" he asks, moving to refill Loghain's glass with another finger of whisky. "Oghren told me he slept next to his torture chamber, but I assumed it was a coincidence."

If the truth is hidden from Nathaniel here, it is by instinct, by circumstance, and not Loghain's conscious choice. It is not in his nature to shirk blame, even when the full weight of it should not be his to bear. Howe is no longer alive to carry this burden, nor to do any penance for it. Loghain is. It is, in some ways, that simple.

In some ways, it isn't.

"Oghren told me he slept next to his torture chamber, but I assumed it was a coincidence."

"It was attached to his bedchamber." The response comes after a pause; Loghain's expression is unreadable in the intervening silence. "I saw it only the one time, after the Landsmeet."

Ah. Herian hesitates for a moment, though there's not particular reason for the hesitation. She's in something of a daze, it feels like, has been ever since the Necropolis. Sometimes it is so hard to focus on the present moment that someone speaking to her directly and catching her attention takes just a fraction longer than it should.

"Of course." As controlled as ever, though flat might be a better word for it than even. As she moves to the rack of practice weapons she asks, "Wooden blades, or standard?"

Nathaniel shifts uncomfortably. He does not actually know how Ciri will feel about this, but...

"How would you feel about working in this office a couple days a week? Chiefly drudgery, filing paperwork, picking up my pen if I drop it. The experience wouldn't be particularly hands-on, but you could learn a lot."

He's not going to say what he wants her to learn because these sorts of office positions have long held the purpose of grooming juniors for command. This would be a very low-key sort of grooming, giving her the freedom to get the more hands-on experience that would give her a clear perspective later on. But with his Calling on its way in the next few years--supposedly--and his sustained injuries, he needs to start looking ahead.

"Oh," she says as if that gives all of the answers to his question. "Are you sure you want to ask me?"

Ciri was good at a lot of things. Horseback riding, sword fighting, alchemic mixtures and breaking locks but office work? It was the sort of thing that people tended to look over her for in the long run. It wasn't the sort of thing that she was 'cut out for' as they'd say.

"Most folk ask me to go out and punch or stab things, not help them in more... official settings."

Nathaniel has the self-control not to swear, or blurt out that he forgot he demoted Teren. He rubs a temple. Well. Time to pretend he did it on purpose.

"You've executed your duties as quartermaster admirably--mostly--with no incident since the one you were demoted for. So long as you avoid the abuse of power that got you in trouble in the first place, I can see no reason to hold you back."

He is going to have to get quick retroactive forgiveness/permission from Loghain. Probably not from Alistair, though, Alistair Nathaniel is positive would approve this. But he'll still have a chat with him, of course.

"A person doesn't need training who is already good at the job," Nathaniel points out. "You would get to observe things, here. See how it's done at this level. Which might be useful, should your ambitions...call you to this level, eventually."

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OPEN | Dreams are more precious than gold

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Nathaniel II

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