i’ve been waiting on the fault line | OTA

[limier]

WHO: Wren Coupe, Melys, Casimir Lyov, Finch Wicker + YOU
WHAT: Catchall for the month
WHEN: Mid- whatever this month is i give up
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Will edit as appropriate

 

Editing these in as I go, if you’d like a specific starter please hmu on plurk or discord (oeste#8807). ♥

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wren coupe | open

[limier]

She keeps a brisk pace about her work.

That's nothing worthy of notice, but soon enough it grows — strange. Taut. The tension about the Gallows frays at sharp ends; if restlessness isn't foreign to her step, if a certain intensity of regard may be expected, the smiles certainly can't.

1. Days pass, it escalates. From an easy manner to pacing, to eyes shot wide. Shadows collect, and her breathing grows ragged. Inattention sees old injuries remind, unchecked (and how many times a day must one really run about the ramparts?)

2. There's a tune carried on hoarse tongue, whenever she seems alone. There's a stack of papers on her desk, littered with an array of marks, corrections, minutiae. Perhaps your report's among these, or that library book you need's been defaced by a familiar hand, or,

3. Why is she looking for you, exactly?

When fever comes, it only urges her on: To be aware of everything that's happening, of everyone.

3

[doneisdone]

A back of the hand to feel her forehead, and Teren's talons grip Wren's shoulders to spin her and march her back the way she came, toward the Templar dormitories and to her stupid bed. It wast just happenstance that they ran into each other, but she knew immediately by the sight of the prattling woman that something was amiss, and the fever confirms it.
"You've caught what the bloody Rifters have," she mutters, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so thin, "and if I catch it too because you're out acting a fool, you'll be sorry."

[limier]

It’s a strong grip. But when you’re roughly the size of a runty qunari, and ready to vibrate out of your own skin, strong gets relative.

"For pity's sake,"

She pauses to allow the hand, the hovering (one ought to be good to one's elders). She’s spun. She’s marched — a step, two — and that's long enough to realize what Teren’s trying to do. Wren sighs, turns to haul her up over a shoulder with fluid ease.

She’s being a problem. Problems get moved.

3

[circleprodigy]

"...Wren!" Inessa stands up abruptly from her office desk, eyes widening as she takes in the woman's state. As she maneuvers around the desk to approach her, Garahel gets up from his spot on the floor and pads over to offer Wren some support, whining softly.

As she reaches up to feel Wren's skin, her lips form a thin line. Just as she thought, the woman is burning up. "We're going to the infirmary. You're in no fit state to be walking around." Gaharel grunts in agreement, looking up at their taller friend with soulful eyes.

[limier]

The dog. Always with the dog, and — Maker, where is Preudame? It's been... a while, since she can last recall seeing the beast.

The thought's as fleeting as any other at present, as easily-dismissed. Mabari are half as smart as bloody children, she'll not starve for a few days' inattention. Not with Yngvi and Gwenaelle about.

"I am hardly walking around," Pacing in circles, limping, certainly (that knee has not quite recovered of the week's exertions). She swipes a dripping streak of ink from her jaw; only succeeds in smearing it more broadly into the muddle of sweat. "No. There is much to be done here, and I'll not tax them further. We need focus."

She punctuates this in the sharp stab of finger upon desk, upon pile after pile of neatly arranged documents, all scrawled into illegibility.

1

[tactical_alert]

It isn't as though they'd been on the best of terms, ever since the incident with Cade. But Wren had always struck him as an implacable stone in the midst of chaos. Not changing, ever stalwart, and the sight of her wide-eyed and smiling as she passes by brings a cold chill down his spine.

"Ser Coupe--" A hand on her arm, to give pause. "Are you feeling quite well?"

[limier]

How many people make a habit of touching her lately. A liberty to be taken of public gatherings, of anywhere one need make a civilian showing —

But the Gallows doesn't qualify, and upon any other day it would rankle enough to rebuff. Instead, it's only peculiar: A thing grown infrequent for years and distance. There's no camaraderie of Reed, little trust.

He's no brother.

She watches his hand a moment before glancing up. If awareness of the situation hasn't left her, anger won't summon itself to place. It's just a hand, just an arm. Small things.

"Do you know," Her fingers peel up to cover his own, squeeze briefly, release. It's fine. "Better than in some time."

2

[faithlikeaseed]

Or it could be lunch has arrived, Myr guiltily picking up the threads of ritual severed by his own anger at the matter of the phylactery. It’s as good an excuse as any to look in on her—to check whether whatever had afflicted Simon and Cade might be playing merry havoc with all the Inquisition’s templars.

He leans his staff against his shoulder, knocks on the frame of the open door with the hand not holding the basket. “Set Coupe?” Pitcher a little louder than his wont to be heard over the humming. “Have you had lunch yet?”

[limier]

A wordless tune, the silvery shape of ozone. It buzzes in her teeth, draws back only to glance up, to find him standing there.

His silhouette's grown infrequent of late; she needn't search hard to guess why. But his silence has held, and to that end, there's been no value in pressing. If authority hadn't been enough to soothe shaken sensibilities then, to push her presence upon him further would be to risk alienation.

Resources need be managed. Particularly when fond.

"Shivana," It's pleasantly surprised, for all its evident distraction. "Do not let me keep you from it, here, I fear the desk is somewhat occupied."

She glances between the stacks of papers — no, she can hardly move those, not when they're (finally) where they ought to be. The rush of steps, the grind of wood on stone as she drags a low shelf closer. It'll do.

anders | closed

[limier]

As he enters, a low murmuring abruptly stops.

"Warden," Distracted, hoarse. She doesn’t look up from the map staked onto the desk, just looms with pen and ink in hand, marking down some sort of notation, addition — and is she supposed to be writing on this? It can’t have been cheap. "What is it?"

[justice_is_blond]

That's more civil than the usual. What it might mean, he's not sure, but he'll take it.

"Benedict," Anders starts, before seeing what she's doing and frowning. Far be it from him to know what a Templar sees important, but the map looks a little expensive. Maybe there's something urgent going on and that's the reason for her distraction. "He's still got guards when Atticus doesn't, and I'd like him to have mage guards rather than Templars. There are spells that can be learned to negate magic, and I'm quite certain he can't be a blood mage since he's still alive."

There's a short pause, and then, because he can't help himself: "...do you mean to be marking the map?" She probably does. It's probably a very stupid question. But stupid questions are a part of his life.

2

[rowancrowned]

Here is what they know: something is odd. There is an illness, or something, and several of them are acting odd. He sees no pattern—he has scoffed at the suggestion of an illness, elves do not get ill, and he will excuse himself to Ser Coupe, always reasonable, rock-steady, and they will talk, and develop a plan to handle this, and then he can return to his work, and to his lady, and—

He knocks on her door, rap-rap-rap, and because it is unlocked, he walks in, making sure it closes behind him. She is singing, and he listens for as long as he has before it cuts off, jumping in with his own news.

“She thinks I am ill. You need to help me dissuade her.”

He is energetic, yes, but his office was just recently destroyed and he was putting it in order, and his enthusiasm is the mark of a new husband—

[limier]

Who? That's a stupid question. Between half the population of the Gallows, there's only one she they ever much speak of.

"It is affecting all the Rifted," Distracted. Her temples, jaw, sleeves streak with ink (red-black-blue — and is it only the ink to shade blue?). Wren paces from behind the desk, the arrangement of papers, to better regard him. "If you have not taken with it, that is as much a worry."

He hasn't, by looks alone, and her chin tips aside, fingers twist up to find her cheekbones, to leave new spatters of red in place.

"Have you checked beneath the spell?"

melys | open

[aforethought]

It's a right strange mood lately, and Melys intends to take advantage.

Maybe it's ugly weather that's got everyone so riled — you don't know stir-crazy until you spend a few months iced into your own damn fort — or maybe it's just Rifters being themselves. No more skin off her back than it ever is: Wear a good glove, and keep yourself mean, and it matters less what you get mistaken for.

But the Gallows is distracted enough to up and buzz, so when she starts swiping, she doesn't much bother with discretion. A few rolls here, a pot of ink there. It's never anything worth fencing, but neither's any of it free.

1. Could be that you caught her at it, could be it's even your things she's nicked.

2. Else you might find her later on, dumped flat on her back by a furious, screaming griffin; some kind of strange harness (a pack?) all tangled about its head. The fall sounds a dull thud, she doesn't move.

For the best. It's tossing around talons like scythes.

finch wicker | open

[justnice]

Finch Wicker has ruined his entire life.

At least he's pretty sure. If he doesn't know any of the afflicted, he's no less on edge for it; wrapped in a tangle of thought that refuses to come unwound.

There's nothing to do, but to do the best he can. Running home with his tail between his legs, that's not an option. Not for his pride, and not for Fern. It doesn't — shouldn't — matter what else they are. What else she is.

She's still family.

Family that he's doing his level best to avoid, and being assigned to servant work has helped with that. So he runs messages, and sweeps floors, and scrubs walls, and it could be a lot worse. It's good experience, it's good pay.

1. But he'll still look glum as can be to knock upon your door, or bum a pull from your flask.

2. Or instead, to stare over the gardens, and: "Can I ask you a question?"

[untiltheyarent]

Another new servant is here to teach him the ropes, at least as well as she's learned them. Fifi is no stranger to young men, least of all the lovelorn type, and though patient with him for much of their work, she seems to know exactly when to wave a hand in front of his face and suggest he get back to work.

"You followed a girl here," she says at last one morning, her accent thick Orlesian, "she is not reacting well?" It's conversation for conversation's sake. Maybe the poor little bastard just needs to let it out.

[justnice]

It's easy to fall into old habits, even inside a new routine. Easier, for having another elf about, and this one near enough Robin's age — kinder for it —

"We're engaged," Maybe he shouldn't be talking about this, the way that Fern doesn't seem to. Maybe that's just what they're doing now: Not talking, acting like it's nothing for anyone to know. It feels wrong, but so does the alternative. "I am, at least."

It's got to be alright, here and now. Fifi probably doesn't even know Fern, why would she? The whole point of taking work indoors was to give her some space.

"It's not like I can just up and run off —" His voice cracks a little, and shame-faced, he turns to tug a sheet into place. It's not the sort of thing he wants to be angry about. And then what? Plant turnips this year, beets next year? "— It doesn't matter."

But he's still talking. Because of course he is.

"She’s got one of those things in her hands, a shard.” She's got far more than that, but that’s really not his to share. "We can’t go home anyway."

1

[wheretheferngrows]

It is Fern's door that he knocks on, whether he realizes it or not. When she answers it's a few moments later, the distracted look on her face quickly gives way to wide-eyed surprised. Then, pressing her lips into a thin line, she looks over her shoulder once as though to verify that her roommate is still out, then looks uncertainly back to her... to Finch.

"...I thought you might've gone home," she ventures a little sullenly. He must've done a very good job of avoiding her, after all that.

[justnice]

He hadn't meant to be here. Might not be, if anyone had bothered to tell him who sleeps where — but they haven't, and he's here, and his gaze drops to the floor as he sucks in a breath.

And then what?

Finch twists the handles of the linen basket between his palms, and sets it down.

"I'm staying," He says, at last, and it's only saying it now that he knows how long it's really been decided for. What's there to go home to? "Can I come in? I've got,"

He nudges the basket with his foot.

"They're hangings. For the walls."

Some rich, shem, castle thing.

1

[justice_is_blond]

The elf requesting the drink is clearly young, but he'd been young when his own problems started. Anders shrugs and holds out his flask.

"Have you tried petting a cat? I've always found that makes my day better."

casimir lyov | open

[aestivation]

If Casimir's noticed anything odd, he gives little sign.

That's to be expected. Routine continues until disrupted by acts of man or Maker, and there's been nothing yet so dire. He re-catalogues the research archives, draws smoke from those pages he's able, sets aside those he cannot (bound for a place of their own, as distasteful, useful things —)

He takes meals alone, when possible. Avoids large gatherings, crowds, the places he's come to expect his presence will disconcert. But alone and calm amid the growing chaos, it's not so difficult to find him now,

1. Hunched over a workbench, pulling delicate threads of lyrium across etched stone. What sort is that, again?

2. At the chess set in the library, mulling between moves. He seems to be moving both sides.

3. Waiting for escort into the city. Congratulations, you drew the short straw on today's shift.

two.

[elegiaque]

( Gwenaëlle settles into the seat opposite him, regarding the chess board with some interest. She doesn't immediately speak, contemplating how to approach the subject—what she's noticed. How to address what she's noticed without, per se, addressing what she's noticed, and more to the point, how.

Based on her extremely limited knowledge of the Tranquil, he seems like her best bet because he seems the least likely to take much of an interest in what her interest, precisely, might be. After a short time, without raising her eyes from observing his chess match against himself; )

May I interrupt? Briefly.

1

[misdirection_hex]

For all they'd have gone quite a bit hungrier in Hasmal without the Formari and their unique talents, Vandelin still doesn't really know more than the bare details of what they do. Neither does he care in more than a vague, academically-curious sense, but it's something for his eyes to focus on when he needs it, and that's what matters.

"I meant to ask," he says eventually, "how you've been." In...whatever way that now matters to Casimir. It seems the sort of question one is always told not to ask of the Tranquil, but how one would rearrange one's speech to express interest in someone's well-being in any other way, he still doesn't know.

He means, at least, to make an effort. It wouldn't do to appear as irrationally resentful as he feels.

3 - CW for depression in big ways, probably

[dashing]

No duty is a short straw, scrublord, all duties are important and necessary.

Herian and Casimir have not interacted extensively in person, largely because Herian only interacts extensively with people through work and necessity, or because they specifically seek her out. Social butterflies might gift her with their presence (that is not sarcasm, she is sincerely fond and grateful to Cosima and Saoirse and Araceli in different ways) but she could not be counted amongst their number.

"Casimir," she says, and her voice is steady in ways that she does not feel. Some call Tranquil unsettling, but for her there is the wonder if he has made the right choice, and if it is a choice she should echo. Perhaps that is the root of what was unsettling, for some, for those whose discomfort did not come from the opposite end of the spectrum. "My apologies for keeping you waiting. How do you fare, today?"

2

[justice_is_blond]

He watches for several minutes from a bit of a distance, sitting at the table where he has a stack of books that he's been going through, trying to find any sort of previously reported illnesses where magic hadn't been helpful. Nothing is turning up and Anders isn't entirely surprised. Records like that would be hard to find.

Eventually, he comes over to Casimir. "How do you decide which side should win? Surely with controlling both sides it eventually comes down to preference." Or maybe he wants it to require preference so much he can only consider that possibility, at this point. He's not certain how much his bias is in play here.