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faderift2018-01-05 06:38 pm
Open log for Wintermarch
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.
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.
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."
You know the drill
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"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."
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"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.)
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"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."
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"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."
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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.