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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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.

[faithlikeaseed]

He can't see the room, to notice what shape she's left it in, and her tone is-- Ambiguous. Maybe there's a chance it hadn't gotten her yet, or wouldn't, though the humming is strange enough as it is. That she's dragging the shelves around a little stranger still, but he'd like to hold out hope.

"Thank you--though I'd not intrude if you're preoccupied," though even having said he'll make his way toward the sound, reaching to feel where he might set the basket down. Easy enough to arrange it there, leaving his hand free to fidget at his staff. (A binding coming loose near the top; something he should fix before he destroys something in his preoccupation.) "I'm sorry I've not been by more regularly."

Not forgiveness, quite, for what he'd been talked into, but he was sulking and he knows as much about himself to admit it with a certain grace.

"I trust you've been well."

[limier]

"It is no matter. We have all been busy,"

But she knows it's more than no matter. This gesture she's asked him half a dozen times to stop spending his pay upon, grown absent. Affection wounded for a sense of use.

It's not as though she's unfamiliar with the sensation — from any end of it. To give one's service to a cause is to see it taken, by turns; necessities are seldom pleasant, or they wouldn't name them so.

So she forces herself to pause, and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. Brief, tight.

More familiar than she'd typically allow.

"I hope you are not running yourself ragged about this business of the Rifters."