faderift | Open log for Wintermarch

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Open log for Wintermarch

Well. Nevarra sucked. He's not entirely surprised with how things turned out, but it's still frustrating. At least they're back in Kirkwall now.

A. Not exactly a scholar

Oh yes, this is a rare sight. Carver Hawke, in the library. Reading. Well, attempting to anyway. The rather tall man is almost dwarfed by the stack of books around him; clearly he's been here for awhile, judging by the stacks and the empty plate next to him. His brow's creased in a perpetual frown as he pages through the book in front of him. Occasionally, he'll jot down something in a little piece of parchment next to him. But often he'll just cross it out later. Whatever he's trying to discern, it's not going well.

After awhile, he shoves the book away from him, blowing out a frustrated breath. Calloused hands run over his face, scrubbing at it. "I'm not cut out for this," he mutters.

B. Gotta keep in shape

Now this is much more his style. Despite the cold weather, Carver's still outside, practicing his sword form. He whet his blade plenty on the undead that swarmed them in the Grand Necropolis, but that doesn't mean he gets to slack off. And really, it's more something to just keep his mind occupied and feel somewhat productive. For now, he's practicing on one of the dummies set up... somewhere. Someone probably propped up a few somewhere, right? Right.

Of course, a real partner that can react and swing back would be ideal. But Carver's never been much of one to ask for a sparring partner; too used to doing it on his own and all. Still, he won't say no if someone offers. If he knows you, he'll wave in greeting. If not, he'll either likely ignore you or just nod. Or if you're REALLY lucky and he likes you, you might just get a smile.

Or just don't let him know you're there and ogle him from a distance. He's getting warm from the movements, so he's ditched the coat. Now he's just rocking a threadbare shirt and pants, so.

C. Griffons are better than people

Because fuck people, honestly. Griffons don't care about politics or image or whatever. They just want food and head scratches. And after the Grand Necropolis debacle, Carver's happy to spend time up there with the beasts, giving them bits of food and learning about them. They're used to him enough now that they're not quite as rambunctious and screechy when he comes up, though that might have more to do with the fact that he always comes with food.

Carver's also wisened up; most of the shiny things on him are hidden or just entirely absent. Still, it doesn't stop one from trying to pick at a button on his shirt. Carver gently whaps its beak. "Don't you try it. Beth will give me that look and chide me, and I can't sew for shit." A protesting squawk. "Look, I'll bring you something big and shiny to play with next time. Knowing our luck, you'd swallow this thing and choke on it."

He gets perturbed look.

"I'm right and you know it."

D. Wildcard

You know the drill

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He has, in fact, heard of an eluvian. Merrill's broken mirror, which she dedicated her time to trying to repair. What ever happened to it? Next time he sees her - if he does - he'll have to remember to ask.

"Probably a better - or at least easier - area to switch to, given how much the Chantry loves to stomp on magic and elves." Which means a lot of burned and destroyed tomes that would have lent Morrigan more answers. And after so long, how much is really left? "Aren't a good chunk of the constellation names from Tevinter or somesuch?" Look, just be impressed the country bumpkin even knows that much.

There's something of a scowl on his face at her remark about the Wardens and their lack of caring for things. Whatever treaties she's talking about, there's likely a good reason they got left behind or forgotten. Of course, if he knew how the griffons truly became (almost) extinct in the first place he'd probably feel a bit differently, and it's not like the Wardens as a whole have much to brag about at the moment. "

Well, well, well guess who got asked to see to it being housed safely along with her own. What harms comes of two eluvians locked in a room together, warded, up a mountain with magic in the very stones? Nothing to worry about at all. Fate has never been tempted by such things.

"Near all that I have looked to thus far come from Tevene or Ancient Tevene," Morrigan agrees which at the very least does give her something to go on when searching since Tevinter gave them that. "When one people sweep through and conquer so much, they name all that they see in whatever image they know as they wish, but there are people older than Tevinter. People who record their tales and knowledge less in books but passed from one generation to the next through a long line of elders to apprentice. The Chasind." Something in his accent is Ferelden, he must know of the Chasind after all since there are so many not from there that know them. "Visus is the Watchful Eye that the Inquisition takes for its symbol yet they would say that long ago 'twas the Lady of the Skies who opened one eye, and from that eye her people were lead safely from the Frostbacks by the light of her gaze.

"When the armies of Andraste marched against Tevinter? Then did it become the Maker's gaze. The watchful eye. The sword did not belong to the constellation at first. So you see how it changes? How much can be lost from even the skies?" This when so often people might be looking up expecting demons or for it to split wider, and wider again, for it to blaze with sickly green light. But Morrigan is strangely comforted by the knowledge that even in the smallest, most remote pockets of the world that maps scarce record that there are records of what once was, carefully handed down, never being put to rest.

...goddamn it, Morrigan. This is how we get ~~ants~~ demons!

Also, how did he get sucked into a history lesson? That's what he gets for opening his mouth, he supposes, rather than just keeping his head down and ignoring people who want to chit chat in a library. Damn it, Carver, you're going soft. "Right. I used to hear the Chasind who went through Lothering talk about the Lady and whatnot. Would have been Andraste's belief, once upon a time." Before she discovered the Maker or whatever. Had she made that change herself, taking the eye and making it the Maker's gaze, or had it just sort of happened over the decades following her death? ...eh, who knows. Maybe this woman does, but Carver's not inclined to ask.

"Anyway, I take it you're here to do more scouring yourself?"

Schrödinger's demons. Nobody open the door of the room to find out and everything in Skyhold is perfectly fine.

"Lothering?" Now that stirs memories long tucked away in her mind; Sten, Leliana, a girl given a feather before a long journey. "Did you leave before the Blight or..." More than ten years now, her a sour bitter thing needling at a grieving young man, following one with leadership thrust upon him, and a dog. What a sight they must have been then.

"Searching for anything more I might find on the history of Sundermount if there's anything that might be found though that I fear is a long lost cause, texts on ancient Tevinter and the Alamarri peoples, again to find anything overlooked with where they overlapped. With names. Tales I might know or that have been changed by one or the other." The things a woman does to find out where her mother has gotten to these days, how much more convenient if they happened to have the decency to simply stay dead when killed.

...he's said too much. He suppresses a sigh. Maybe he'll get away with bare bone details and she won't press. "During it, technically. We ran from the darkspawn and fled from Ferelden." Like the countless other refugees that poured into the Free Marches during that time. Once upon a time, Carver considered perhaps returning to Ferelden, provided that his family would survive in Kirkwall without him first. But that dream shattered the moment he took a blow from a hurlock in the Deep Roads, a wound that became infected with the taint.

"So... you aim to drive yourself to madness. A worthy goal." Said dryly, but seriously Morrigan, that kind of sounds like a nightmare.

"I was there. After Ostagar, before it hit. Strange," her head tips to the side, her voice settling somewhere distant as if it too could drift back all those years to when her skin fit her ill, when the world once again stood on the precipice of darkness and sought to fight it but at least was willing to look it in the eye then. "How many I have met who felt the Blight press upon them since coming here when so many in the world forget, and so few are willing to move themselves to action."

There had been treaties, true. But there had still been an army gathered, bodies willing to do more than senselessly bicker over this and that as rot ate the ground with the bodies piling up.

"If you knew my mother, you'd know that this is indeed a thing that runs in the family." A jest but her smile is humourless.

He brow lifts at the admission. She was in Lothering? Why would someone be there after Ostagar, especially when everyone knew the darkspawn were coming? "You were traveling? Or fleeing from the incoming horde?" Now he's a bit more curious about who she is. So few know about Lothering outside of Ferelden, let alone have been there.

"I don't know. Who's your mother? Ten to one I don't, though."

"When I had to lead Cousland and Alistair from the Wilds after Ostagar, where else might I have taken them?" It feels longer now. Longer than those years when she's been back to an untouched hut, to her mother's home left vacant where she was woman and dragon both; her gaze drifts then comes back to the library sharply.

"My mother is Flemeth of the legends."

....well, that's two pieces of surprising developments. Carver's brow raises higher and higher which each revelation. "So you traveled with the Hero of Ferelden and Alistair? I heard there were two mages, a Circle bound one and an apostate." He's gonna guess she's the apostate. Call it a hunch.

"And look at that, I do, in fact, know your mother. Or I've met her, at least. Years ago."

More than a few have told her parts of the tale that happens to be her own life, and each time it's a little different in the telling. The mouth it comes from, the life they've lived. Morrigan nods, hands set out with half-smile for how much smaller it sounds in his telling, how much simpler. "Wynne was the Circle mage, I met both Wardens first time they set foot in the Wilds before one was ever a Warden."

Four then two. But that's the way of things, she'd had little enough time for Alistair let alone the two other lackwits.

"Carver...you were there. In the book the dwarf wrote." It clicks into place, flash of recognition. "Tell me, how much of what he wrote of her was truth?"

Surprise, his hunch was right. And yes, now it's making sense. He's heard parts of the tale, of how the Hero and Alistair both met a witch in the wilds that saved them. Flemeth had mentioned them back when they were fleeing Lothering, but nothing more than that. And now her daughter stands before her.

"I've been discovered." He's used to it by now, as much as he hates it sometimes. "Well, it's Varric. There's always embellishments and exaggerations. But the basic events unfolded as he told it."

Better this than when the Winter Palace is more than a little in fire because that's the only time Morrigan met Bethany before she left to go help fellow shapeshifting apostates.

"I see." Neither happy nor sad, too good to give away shock to a stranger regarding this (Merrill, again if only she were here), but Morrigan's mouth tightens to a line, arms folded across her chest as if she might guard herself better that way. Against-- disappointment? Certainly she's been faced with so uch of that these days she'd hardly be surprised to find more of it. Near everyone has a tale to tell of Flemeth but the tale has come from a tale. The legend. The Fifth Blight. The Tale of the Champion. The few who met her mother with her were of course with her, this is a chance to ask again from someone who met her after. "What did you make of her? My mother. I read the parts that spoke of her, I went to where the dwarf said she took to the skies again - tell me, as one saved as so few have been, do you believe 'tis her place to come find her way back to all this again?"

(Griffons have returned. Why not Flemeth a third time as Morrigan pokes and prods and hunts.)

It's hard to read Morrigan here, but Carver's not particularly worried about it. He might have some answers that Morrigan needs, so why not? As he looks at her, he recognizes the eyes. Right, he should have known. The same yellow, narrow eyes as her mother.

"She was... well, cryptic and a tad infuriating, but Marian kept up with her well enough." Both clever tongued women. They suited each other, in a way. "She got us out of Ferelden, and Merrill... said some words in elven over the amulet and, poof. There she was. 'A bit of security, should the inevitable occur, and if I know my Morrigan, it already has.' I don't know what you did, but she was anticipating it." The witch thought ahead, he could give her that much credit. Whether or not that bode well for anyone remains to be seen. "So she's around somewhere, I reckon. If and when she pops back up, well, it'll be on her own terms and on her own time."

"And yet who benefited most?" No one has produced the Champion and if Jonas is gone after all he made it through, Morrigan feels confident in assuming the Champion has gone the same way. Both her siblings ending up Wardens but Flemeth...ah Flemeth restored despite what Morrigan had done.

"Her Morrigan, how very like mother. She was dead last I knew of it, a dragon slain as dragons are but 'tis not nearly so simple with her." Yet the timing...there are things she needs to check, and her chair scrapes over the floor, a discordant screech to match the shadow passing over Morrigan's face, paler now. "Thank you, Carver, I shall leave you in peace to your studies."

"We needed to get out of Ferelden, and she got us out. At the time, we weren't terribly concerned about what she got out of it." That may very well come to bite them in the ass, but Carver can't regret that they did what they had to in order to survive.

Hard to imagine someone slaying Flemeth in dragon form. She'd ripped through the darkspawn like a child knocking over his toys. They'd never stood a chance. "Sure. Good luck with whatever it is you need to do now." Clearly what he told her about Flemeth prompted something to have to be done on Morrigan's end. She thought her mother had died, and it seemed she had preferred that.

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Open log for Wintermarch

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