faderift | But the Stars are not gods, they say

Early; docks
When Kirkwall is still mostly asleep, Araceli hasn't quite gone to bed yet because the habits of a lifetime are hard to break, and sailors are up in these small hours either watching the ships or offloading goods. Willing to talk for the most if there's news to be passed on which is the advantage of Kirkwall; there's a harbour, there are ships, the news hasn't had to come up a mountain first.

Plus it's good for people watching too this early before the Chantry folk start to make their way down, and that's where Araceli is, wandering around, sometimes being roped into lending a hand because nothing is ever free and she'd rather help tie a mooring line for the gossip than pay hard-earned coin for it.

Evening; Gallows
Work behind her, the finer clothes left back in the Naval Presence office for the rest of the evening until it's time to go to the baths, Araceli slips out in plain clothes with her rapiers at either hip, dagger tucked up her sleeve, and far too many knives tucked elsewhere because apparently this is the trend for young ladies, to be at least one third knives. Which is handy since she's practicing against the training dummies unless there's a sparring partner available to make sure she doesn't lose her edge, light and quick on her feet with any of the three main blades she swaps between.

Until she goes up to scramble about the Gallows, climbing with ease and confidence up and down, leaping around and running simply for the sheer joy of it. With the curfew for rifters there's not the chance to do this down at the docks at night without breaking it and causing a fuss but being up here until she makes her way back down once her training's done? One of the very best feelings in the world.

Wildcard;
Pick your poison and I'll roll with it

After sudden absence sanctioned by the Inquisition, Korrin's ship finally arrives back in port. She had thought to contact Araceli before disembarking, but sometimes surprises are too good to resist. Given that their place is so close by, of course she checks there first...only to find it empty. That's a bit of a disappointment, but she soon remembers Araceli's schedule and where she's likely to be at this time. So, quickly disposing her goods minus a bottle of Antivan wine and some treats for Lux, she takes a boat over to the Gallows.

When the Vashoth woman arrives, she heads toward the central tower with Araceli's office in mind. More likely than not, she'll still be there...and if not, then she'll look out the window and try to see if she can spot her love from above. Or, possibly, eye-level. It's time to see who will spot who first.

Edited 2018-03-27 01:04 (UTC)

Watching Korrin from his giant glass bowl is the very small black kraken, a little model ship grasped in several arms as he hauls himself up to squirt a jet of water at her. Another arm waves with a wet slapping at the glass.

The lady is not in her office, dress hanging up, shoes tucked in. Lux is absent too. But if Korrin can spy the courtyard then there's a sweatier Araceli with a lot of blades. Some of which might have been decorative pins holding her hair up before she went for the dummy with a flourish.

"Yeah, yeah. Hello to you, too." Korrin takes the water-squirting in stride, even dropping in some food from wherever Araceli keeps it nearby. But now that she's spotted her favorite human, that's about as much quality time as the kraken is going to get for the time being.

Taking her goods back downstairs -even if she were as limber as Araceli, Korrin's not about to parkour down and risk destroying them- she thunders down the stairs and out the tower once more. Humming an Antivan shanty under her breath, she strides toward the training area and once she's close enough, just pausing to enjoy the view. Her own fighting style is swift, efficient, brutal when need be. It doesn't have the grace Araceli's own possesses, and those fluid movements always catch her eye when it's not mid-battle and she's required to focus on something else. A warm, broad smile forms as she leans against the wall.

"And here I was half-expecting you would drop down on me from above, kadan. It's not often I get to find you first."

Pay him tribute he is lord of all he surveys. He doesn't even notice Korrin leaving, too busy snaffling at the food then as far into his ship as he can to eat in peace.

Outside Araceli is still in the midst of her drills, a strike aimed high to come up under where two sections of armour would meet on an opponent. Her hair is roughly pinned back but coming loose, plastered to her face and neck in places as she pirouettes sharply as if a blade is being thrust her direction--

Someone is speaking, her trailing arm up in a block because she's still in the moment but she knows that voice, blades dropping as the delighted smile crosses her face. "Sirena! You're back," as if she hadn't been keeping track of the damned ships. "Perhaps I wanted to let you have the win when you're just home, come here."

Mmm yes come let your sweaty girlfriend pounce. With her knives.

Korrin lives for that smile, and all at once the past several days away seem entirely too long, for all that she could focus when there was a mission that needed doing. That she should discuss it with Araceli on a professional level isn't forgotten, but...it can wait. Slavers and pirate queens and whatnot will still be waiting after their reunion.

"Well, I have to say I did appreciate the chase...and the view. As you wish, kadan." Neither the sweatiness (Korrin would call it a 'glow' at least for Araceli if not herself) nor the knives bother the Vashoth woman in the least and she laughs, setting down that bottle and the treats. Stepping forward, she holds out her hands to help her up, because Araceli can't be held fast enough.

Stepping back just enough to allow herself a little run up, Araceli jumps so it's the best sort of reunion hug, blades still out because she is small and alarming what of it? One is sheathed still when she pounces, the arm swung wide around Korrin's neck with the blade angled in such a way that Korrin isn't in danger unless Araceli happens to be dropped at all. So she might want to take care. Hold tight.

Because that's very sharp, very cold stiletto steel in the other hand at Korrin's back as Araceli holds herself upright so she can kiss Korrin senseless for as long as she can until she can't because she's breathless and smiling.

"I missed you," she says, rests her forehead in the crook of Korrin's neck for the first time in days. Who cares if there's an audience for this? Sometimes she's twenty-two, swept up in her girlfriend coming back, in being very public about it all when she gets to be because so often she can't and fuck them if they don't like it today. Korrin's home. Korrin's home and Araceli can have her all to herself until work calls again. "Are you well? I didn't hear from you but that's never a guarantee one way or the other? Was it smooth sailing? Have you even had time to sit down and eat?"

Araceli is never in danger of being dropped by Korrin, of course. She weighs practically nothing in the Vashoth's eyes, and said Vashoth is well accustomed to these antics by now. If she couldn't catch and hold onto her, would she truly be worthy of being her sirena? And cold steel is a small price to pay for that enthusiastic welcome, which she echoes.

Likewise breathless and grinning, she holds Araceli close afterward, her fingers gently combing through those beautiful curls. The scent of her hair oils brings forth another reminder of what she'd missed (which was everything). Anything or anyone else is nowhere on her mind right now.

"I missed you, too, kadan. Sorry I went dark when we disembarked, but practically from the moment we did, we were working. I grabbed what I could, here and there, but there just wasn't time for a leisurely meal." A true tragedy, when northern cuisine was in such abundance. "I did bring back what I could, though; wine, spices, oils...anything that would keep, so we could enjoy it together. If you're worked up an appetite, I'll join you. Then you can see for yourself that I'm not wasting away, fair enough?"

This late in the evening, all Araceli has left to do around the Gallows normally involve a bath that she can probably get away with swapping for a swim or covering with perfumes and oils tomorrow if she just wants to go now. The idea of taking home anything to study from tonight falls into the whole commendable but laughable, and leaving her dress where it is for the night won't do it any harm.

So she hops down, weapons stowed away safely as she shakes out her hair again now it's not sticking to her quite so much - Kirkwall's cold even now, or cold to her, as soon as she stops moving she doesn't feel as flushed - and tips her head to the side considering. "All I need to do is run up to lock the office if we want to eat at home or we could have a bath here, lock up, then go home. You know I can always eat, it's rude to refuse the opportunity or invitation."

Someone that runs around as much as Araceli does tends to eat plenty, at least when it's their sort of cooking and she's been doing the cooking for one thing which isn't her preferred sort of cooking at all. But it's Korrin's choice seeing as she's just home.

Decisions, decisions. Food is definitely going to happen whatever the order, she'd grown so tired of the stores they had at sea that her stomach is begging for something, anything else. But the thought of washing off the long voyage, and curling up with Araceli in steaming water is far, far too tempting for her to pass up.

"A bath sounds heavenly, not gonna lie. Your little friend tried to give me one, but that's not the same as a good soak. We could start there, and that invitation will still be standing afterward, promise." Always choose a partner with a healthy appetite who enjoys food; Korrin's never failed to follow Tama's sound advice.

It's a thought at some point when the whole lifeboats thing is further along to maybe actually set up something to do with fishing even if it's for fun. Harder out at sea to get the hang of it but if people learn how to do it then it'd be less relying on dried rations that get more and more stale by the day, or more questionable in the case of the fruit and vegetables that don't get pickled first. Something to add to the list after the bath and before bed.

"Fernando doesn't like to be ignored," Araceli says with a little shrug as if that explains everything. It's not his fault he's a very small kraken who has no idea of his own size, perhaps in his own mind he's a very large being, master of all that he surveys imposing his will upon those who dare to enter his inner sanctum, she can't claim to know his mind. "There's Llomerryn red I can heat," or close enough to marinara that it makes little difference when she's throwing things together, "I'll run up to the office and grab my things."

"That sounds perfect. I'll meet you there, kadan. Say hi to Fernando for me." Korrin brushes her lips against Araceli's once more before heading to the heated baths. Some mages might avoid the templar's former tower out of principle, but no hot water is a dealbreaker for the Vashoth woman from further north.

Arriving there, she's pleased to find the area quiet. The general rush must have been earlier, which means she gets her pick of spots. It isn't long before Korrin is sinking into the steaming water with her eyes half-closed, waves of white hair drifting down and about.

"Fernando Florencio Eduard Mariano." Surnames not included but sometimes she must give him his whole name so he doesn't somehow feel he's being made to feel small when her own is apparently a mouthful. A short trip back to the office finds the actual bathing supplies kept there since the baths are in the Gallows so it's easier to keep them on site and deal with cleaning them there, a change of clothes for after and going home so she can just wash the dirty ones at the flat and a look on her face that must give off an air of being in no mood for conversation now.

Boots slipped off, little basket of supplies nestled to the side, Korrin probably hears the rustling of Araceli setting all her things down neatly before she slides in with a little hiss when the warm water finds sore spots from earlier scrambling around and training, head tipped back. She submerges completely, holds her breath a long time then pops up, curls tossed back over her shoulder. "Hi."

Groping behind her she passes over a comb to Korrin in case she wants one, starts finding one of her oils to just get clean a little quicker tonight than usual.

"Hi, kadan. Perfect, isn't it? I'm feeling miles better already." Stretching a little, she opens her eyes and takes the offered comb. "If you turn away from me, I'll help get the back." She trusts Araceli to do the same for herself, after all. Granted, her own -straighter- hair tends to require a less delicate touch, but she's taken the time to learn just how to help with Araceli's own grooming process. Those curls must be treated with proper respect, and her kadan deserves no less.

"I don't miss much about Skyhold most of the time," Araceli says as she turns with the quiet slosh of water, "but I do miss the hot springs, and that they were so close to the rooms instead of having to take a boat to and from wherever I bathe unless I want to heat up that much water in front of a fire at home."

And yes, she knows that they're in the lucky position of being able to have something to bathe in at home if pressed but it has to be in the kitchen, it needs to be heated up slowly, and Araceli barely fits so she knows Korrin doesn't. At all.

"I was visiting with Señora Vauquelin recently and I forgot how jealous being in a Hightown home makes me. Where we live isn't too different to my home away but Hightown is more like the palace than the Gallows, I very much miss that at times. But," she resists the urge to shake her head since Korrin's dealing with her hair after all, "tell me what you're allowed to tell me of Antiva, the gossip is firsthand for once!"

There's a sigh and nod in response as Korrin herself pines for the one aspect of Skyhold that she truly misses. Everything else is admittedly easier and more abundant, but the longer distance between their bed and a spacious heated bath can be brutal at times. "Maker, same...not that I want to pick up and move here to the Gallows, that wouldn't even make sense since the docks are so convenient for what we do. But what I wouldn't give for there to be a decent bathhouse on our side."

It could be suggested, sure, but somehow she's certain such things are low on the Inquisition's list of priorities. Oh, well.

Carefully working away, Korrin smiles as she savors what is instead of focusing on what can't be. "I didn't have much time for anything not mission-related, but we heard about a pirate vessel stealing a large amount of gold from a ship in Rialto Bay. Except what the actually stole were a buttload of false coins instead; a merchant prince -Velevasquaz- was going to use them for trade lessons for his sons and place a huge bounty for the return of the ships cargo. The coins might already be in circulation, though. So, if you get gold coins from Antiva, better check to see they're legitimate.

As for the mission itself, we busted a slaver den and emerged mostly intact for it, but it's only one link in what could be a long chain. There's another important member; Viliana Malafronte, a pirate captain. We couldn't find her on our own, since she was at sea when all that went down...but as I mentioned in my report, teaming up with the Naval Presence project might help us find her. I hope we can get to that sooner than later, and find out where she's taking her cargo to or from. More links to bust, but if it means freeing slaves from that shit, it'll be well worth the time."

Edited 2018-04-09 15:12 (UTC)

Well there's always Araceli managing to forge suitably convincing documents to pass herself off as genuine nobility to get hold of an estate or marrying some doddering fool that'll die soon so she can inherit without the demonic rifter worries. Which she won't. Because it leaves them with the same issue of being away from the docks but still closer to the Gallows for a warm bath and with the chance for a better bath of their own that they don't have to share because she's a spoiled girl who loves a bath. "They don't need that down at the docks though, it's not where most people are going to be bathing that way," at all because honestly most people aren't actually that clean, "or when there's water right there that they can have a dip in. That's what mot of them do at sea if they're so ripe they can't stand it. They're not wasting anything just for a bath."

Doing her best not to nod, Araceli takes a note of the name in case she might try running it past Lady Vivas if the Antivan woman is inclined to speak with her in friendly terms now that the cat's out of the bag regarding what Araceli happens to be. A little groan escapes her because what a headache. "That's just what everyone needs, especially if too much of it gets traded about by Inquisition folk.

Lady Vivas might be a good person to ask for information, she's Antivan, and when I spoke with her before she did speak about the Merchant Princes and how things were going in Antiva. It's not as if we can easily send word to Llomerryn and find out how things are going there." And that's really just for Tevinter or Qunari movements, the likelihood of Captain Valdez informing them of another pirate and their habits are slim. "You know I'll support that, I have plans for a few things we should all be doing together or in little groups, maybe able to bring in some people from outside to let them see what we do too but everyone catching up wouldn't be so terrible."

"Oh, I know they won't bother. It's a pleasant fantasy, that's all. Besides, it's a hassle but I'll take it over not having any access at all. Fuck, all this settled life is making me spoiled." Life on the road was often full of hardships, but it's instilled a certain adaptability in Korrin that she's not eager to lose. Hence, signing up for missions either with Araceli or without. She can't afford to lose that edge.

"It's still weird to hear of any mage using a title unless they're a vint, but yeah, she'd likely have the needed connections. Whatever she gives us, it's more than we have right now." Yeah, she's not counting on Valdez ratting out another pirate, either. That's different from the threat the Venatori pose the waters of northeastern Thedas. "And I'll help with those plans however I can; wherever I'm most effective, you'll have me there." She lowers her hands to rest them on Araceli's shoulders while dropping a kiss on the back of her head.

"Korrin," and Araceli has to turn to stare semi-incredulously, "I just said I missed living in a palace. Being settled isn't spoiled, it's a good thing because you have a place to come back to. Getting to shut the door, hang up your clothes, relax where no one else is? No one else deciding what you'll eat? It's a good thing. Having odds and ends cluttering the place up." Not that she'd imply that people without somewhere settled didn't have a place to fight for but for her it's always made it real to know that she has her home, her neighbours, her little life amidst whatever she's doing that might be changed by whatever action she takes.

"Lady Thevenet had a title too, she's Nevarran. No one knows what might happen, if mages one day here gain back more rights and with those the titles they lost. That she continues to go by it for us can be an advantage we can use, and it does speak to confidence and ambition." Things they can't afford not to have when sometimes appearance is all that you have to speak of. "It's your turn now, come on."

Korrin turns as directed, though not before flashing a smile. "It is a good thing, better than I thought it could be. Don't get me wrong, kadan, I love our life together. That apartment with a view of the water, walls thick enough that we don't hear other people and they don't hear us, the kitchen that's just ours and no one else's? All those things are awesome. I just have to keep enough of the mercenary with me so that when I'm on the road I'm not grumbling constantly for the lack of them."

Leaving behind the world's most comfortable bed for a bedroll in a tent...that's harder than it used to be.

"And Nevarrans have always been unique like that. They somehow kept a little of the respect for mages that everyone else outside Tevinter squashed down...at least for the Mortalitasi and those who might become them. Antiva's different...or it was, but if that can help us in any way, I'm not complaining." She knows better than to think non-humans will gain any titles to go with those rights, but whatever. It's the not being shoved back into a Circle that's the important part, for the rebel mages of the present.

Groping behind her with one hand until she finds one of the combs she'd brought down with her, Araceli slowly works it through Korrin's hair until she's sure she'll be able to get her fingers through without snagging, sweeping some from Korrin's shoulder to press a kiss there. "Living at the Gallows at the start was-- I know I slept wherever I could at first at Skyhold, I can do that but we all had more space, it was a little too communal after time on the ships for people not used to it."

Or people used to it who'd started to become accustomed to something of a more comfortable life of not having to share just as much space constantly.

"I'll complain next time we have to camp. I hate it. I hate camping," Korrin won't be able to see Araceli's satisfied little smirk since she's busy working away on her hair but it feels good to say it. Yes, she can do any sort of ship life swinging away in hammocks or curled up even on piles of rigging to sleep but camping? No. "There's no part of it that's good, I go because I know I have to go but every time we don't need to do the sleeping on the ground in the middle of nowhere in all weathers I'm happier."

(She is a spoiled baby who grew up in a warm brothel all her life, who had a flat that was still small and cosy, who went on a ship where she always found a nice little nook to sleep in. Then had a palace bed. There was always a bed. Not glorified ground.)

"Whatever comes of the king and the Merchant Princes whenever it comes, it'll be an indicator. The Merchant Princes will want whatever's best for business. Mages could be good for that." Mages could be more easily argued to be good for business if casting a lot, but there's more to look at, depending how the wind blows, if people have sense in their heads and all that. "At least there aren't the Crows now, it must've made it easier to know you wouldn't have to look over your shoulders for any sort of involvement from them in any fashion."

Closing her eyes while savoring Araceli's attentive touch, Korrin lets out a content sigh. "I promise you that loving camping will never be a requirement of our relationship, kadan. It is what it is and I'm used to it, but I won't pretend I love too-thin tent walls, among other shit." Sometimes literal; someone has to dig the latrines.

"It's strange to think of the Crows as a non-factor. They were a ruthless bunch, but they kept invaders at bay because no one wanted to deal with them. I don't think the Merchant Princes scare outsiders nearly as much."

"I should've gone to Nevarra. The one time we had an inn." A real inn. Beds. Of course they both know why but what are the chances of it being repeated in a hurry when they went to uncharted frozen wastes last time?

Nodding, she runs the hair oil through - she'll need to pick up more soon - Korrin's hair before following it through with the comb, rising up on her toes to rinse it out. "Remember what they did to Zevran. How many others have there been? If the princes get things sorted, they'd have a stronger base; don't doubt tariffs and treaties for control and keeping the peace."

"I'm not sure I'd expect a repeat trip to Nevarra anytime soon, or at least the capital." She wasn't there for the Grand Necropolis fight, but she sure had to hear about it afterward. What a mess. "That said, I'll look for more assignments that involve beds than tents. That shouldn't be too steep a standard, right?"

Her voice is increasingly more relaxed, as the hair oil and comb are putting her perfectly at ease. She has to remind herself that this is a public bath and they'll have to get out sooner or later. Though what a way to drift off, if it could happen. "It also helps that we've a common enemy to keep everyone distracted...two, if you count people worried about the Qunari from the north. They're always good boogeymen."

"There are always ways things have to be smoothed over; Zimevur and Castileos are far from friends, they blame us for all that happened from a war they instigated throughout the rest of our world yet we still go there for diplomatic missions as needed, to do what might be done to maintain peace. That's without anything like this." All of it only brings to mind that first discussion with Lady Vivas, her mouth pulling into a frown she knows twists the same as her mother's might. "Yet Nevarra is connected to elsewhere, and close to Tevinter. How many noble families from one nation to another? Cast a stone into the water, you never know how far the ripples travel, what they touch."

Araceli's sure she's said that before, and here in the baths only illustrates the point better as she rises up on her knees to rinse Korrin's hair entirely, to check for any sign of injury that might be lingering that she hadn't spotted already but it bears repeating. Because it's true. Because they don't know. They never know. It's what makes the Inquisition so damned dangerous at times.

"The Qun...I can understand why people are afraid of the Qun." No matter how carefully she says it, it still sounds the way it sounds: I am afraid of the Qun, a thing I can't negotiate with that will take and reshape until there is nothing left. "If they could all be set at each other...but that's why there's a project to look into them and what they're doing. And we should get going, I don't know if you have your ring." Leaning forward, she tilts Korrin's face towards her so she can kiss her before she reluctantly climbs out, wrapping a towel round herself then holding out another.

Afternoon; Lowtown/Darktown
The thing about getting back into the world proper and all is that it pretty much requires getting back out into the world. Winter was a handy excuse because most people were frozen wherever they were, and even if you were out and about it was so cold that the layers hid you away. Not so much now, and Yngvi feels it whenever he steps into Lowtown with just a little more coin than he needs, hoping the smile looks good, looks ready. That the swagger is confident and bow-legged as a man who's been kicked in the bollocks by life more than he'd like. Stallholders aren't too bad, and Lowtown is-- well people fight in Lowtown because the guards aren't really around anyway, and there are always thieves, and it's Kirkwall, but trading is easy enough. People are chatty.

Sliding down into Darktown for work stuff though is less pleasant. The cold and the damp taking him by a hand at each side, something else he doesn't want to put a name to seizing him by the scruff of the neck as the familiar stink that calls itself home catches in the back of his throat. Even less friendly than Darktown used to be and that? That's saying something. He's jumpy when he goes. The confidence is up there in the sun waiting. All he's waiting for is a mugging at best or a crippling punch to the kidneys before the family might show up just to see how you're getting on boyo.

Evening; Gallows
Sometimes Yngvi takes the long route back to the Gallows from the things that keep him out most of the day - anyone watching him (don't spy, it's rude, it's very Orlesian of you) - might notice it's a Hightown pattern, through a tradesman's entrance. Got a key and everything so there you go. But anyway, there's dinner then finding a quiet place via the kitchens for the strongest tea that'd strip red lyrium right off the bone to work because the so-called rooms the Gallows has aren't big enough to really work in, no, when you're an artificer and you're working you want some prime real estate.

Preferably not your own prime real estate that you might walk about in barefoot later because there are sharp things spread out that get away from you. So congratulations, until the late hours there's a dwarf bent over many traps and components, working away with a focus perhaps underheard of for something born from a gutter who might've just asked you to pass him that or to watch where you're stepping if you're a fan of all your toes. (Are you? I mean that little toe, it's just an unsightly nub, surely you won't miss that one.)

Wildcard;
Pick your poison and I'll roll with it

Morning; Sundermount
Sundermount isn't the place most would actively choose to live if they had much of a choice in the matter but when the other option is Kirkwall after too long in the Orlesian Court, Morrigan can still count herself as having made the right decision whenever she wakes to peer out in the dark at a mountain where her mother took flight once again. The garden about her modest dwelling is beginning to grow again at least after the ravages of winter, and it's the first thing she takes care of if any others are about in the still cool air. A small blanket of mushrooms, strange dark twisting things, and oddly delicate blooms all gathered from her travels and made to thrive wherever she's required them.

And then again to patrol. To see if the horrors that lurk without rest have shambled forth from the ground once more before having to be sent back. Sundermount does not remember that the war has long since ended.

Afternoon; Gallows
Morrigan misses Skyhold even now close to a year later. Misses the relative peace, misses that it wasn't a former prison where misery; Skyhold's stone drank deep of power, the Gallows knows misery, blood, and now corruption, enough that the few nights Kieran slept within the walls after arrival he woke screaming. It's how she feels sometimes, writing letters back and forth to Skyhold to check that both eluvians are safe. As safe as they might hope to be.

Most days are still the same research as ever, going over what they have, what they've found, checking notes. Pushing the Tirashan away for the moment since she doesn't wish to speak of it if it can be helped. Eventually the notes she does have on her mother will have to be given to someone when they've been pieced together though what anyone will do with them is beyond her guess. Given to an archivist. An archivist to lose the requests for anything more that might be found but…

There's always a map, not the map certain project members all saw though she still has a copy of that made and tucked away but her own of sites, symbols. The Dragonbone Wastes marked out as well as an estate in the Dales, a stack of reports and an increasingly frazzled and upset runner as the days go on.

Wildcard;
Pick your poison and I'll roll with it

It's a long hike to Sundermount, one that she's seldom inclined or available to make. But one does what one must, and some things are better said outside city walls. At length she finds the time, takes the day.

(Fresh air, a stale constitution. There are excuses to be made.)

With a raven sent ahead, all that's left is the precarious business of picking her way up the slopes. There's less caution to it than might be wise: So many of the Inquisition's eccentrics have self-exiled to this enormous fucking hill, it's a wonder that no enterprising soul's opened a tavern.

Morrigan, she thinks, is more like to grant the place its due. Stories ring loudest when one's lived them. At last,

"And to think," Alright, so at last comes after a little heavy breathing. It had been a long illness — "I complained once of Hightown."

She presses hands to her back to stretch, observes a twine of fungus from the waking earth. Unarmored, now, but with blade still at hand; there are limits to anyone's foolishness.

Edited 2018-03-11 03:39 (UTC)

Most ravens sent out here stay longer than they might elsewhere - would any accuse Morrigan of indulging them? A long flight, perhaps even a dangerous one, if they find a place they enjoy roosting before the noise and stink of a city then she could hardly blame them for that. Wild things remember they were wild, and ravens bite.

The dead rise here, the wind howls mournful in the mouths of caves half-collapsed, furious through the trees. The mountain watches, waits, takes no pity on the foolish. Morrigan has no neighbours near her so she hears Wren, is waiting with a smile.

"Hightown has half of what you left behind with ugly masonry." Good enough to keep a boy safe. "Squabbling neighbours and guards on patrol at all hours."

"And your own so silent," Wry, an eye to the hills and birds beyond. How is a raven like a baronet? Fat and apt to squawk. "You wished to speak of time."

They may as well save their own:

"The affair at Haven, last winter." She straightens, tips her chin towards the house. There's no particular purpose to moving this indoors (they aren't getting any more alone) but when hospitality might entail getting off one's knees for a bit — "Of how much are you aware?"

Pieces, at least, or they'd not be discussing it now.

"I cannot always be my own messenger." More, this was ever her company. Nostalgia is dangerous, she knows better than to trust it but birds have a sense of things, if the birds are flapping, something is amiss, and that's enough to draw her attention. But it's to be straight to business which is a reason she does like Coupe far more than any other Templar she's met.

Alistair doesn't count, he's a Warden. The only good one. The only bloody worthy one out of the festering lot.

"Little and less." A reluctant sort of admission but there are things Morrigan isn't told because she's Morrigan, and as much as she's Inquisition and has been since she arrived, she's on the edge of too many things. She knows too much about uncomfortable subjects. "The edge of rumours were enough to trouble me."

(Or I tried very hard to find threads and I can't remember I'm sorry enjoy the vague witchspeak.)

Morning; outside Kirkwall
Prayers out of the way, bow on her back and Brónach is gone from the city as early as she can get away. Sometimes when she might catch Galatea to say she'll be back since she can't just leave a note after all, and she hasn't gotten around to showing her shadowmarks yet, but out. Away. Where there's some sort of game to put arrows in. Or to hear the Thu'um crack through the air where no one else can hear it. Learning all the paths and trails crouched low in the grass, near-silent the whole way.

Brónach knows hunger. Knows fasting but it hadn't been a lie when she'd been told how little meat there is to be eaten at meals, and if she's to survive here, it needs to be off her own back. Even if the game here is pitiful. An arrow flies out, hits some small nug that dies with a shriek as a passing scout jumps and-- her eyes are hungry. Unsettling. Same as the smirk as she starts slinking over to retrieve it.

Afternoon; Gallows
At least having a smithy in the Gallows takes away from having to look for work in a place where they call her names until the look at the bow that glows or the knife that glows or the way her smile is a little too sharp when she grins right back at them. It's as dull as it was in Skyrim whenever she stopped to work at it unless there was something special to be made. The heat that has her armour sticking to her skin, her hair matted to her forehead, the taste of iron in the air that by the end of the day has her coughing but someone traded her well enough for special work.

It burns to make bows out of bone, to ply them just right until they're supple but on and off one is taking shape amidst the other work, the tedious things everyone makes although at least forging glass breaks that up too so it's not all iron and steel. For someone that tends to speak in riddles whenever she's tried, this is when Brónach settles into herself calmly until the hours fall away without her. That said, probably best to announce yourself before approaching.

Wildcard;
Pick your poison and I'll roll with it

There are things that are long overdue that can't ever really be helped but bringing good rum hopefully eases the way when Araceli arrives at the Vauquelin estate, one of her finer dresses, enough jewellery to not look too plain, the left hand tucked at her side the whole way; she passes better this way to make her way inside, polite to the staff but there was an understanding about more than a few things before.

Hopefully there still is, the tightness in her smile there for Gwenaëlle to see alone.

"Señora Vauquelin, I hope all is well since we last spoke? Nothing that required attention? I've had to put everything back to rights I was trying to work on when ill, and catch up on the nonsense." You know, mutual friend Herian Amsel's nonsense who worries too much about people who wouldn't give her consideration even if she broke her back bending over to compromise for them causing problems in the first place.

Gwenaëlle loops her arm through Araceli's as if it's been only moments since the last they saw each other and not weeks; around them the house is bustling, servants unpacking and uncovering and airing out rooms that have languished unused (mostly—Gwenaëlle had taken her keys with her to the Asgards' soiree, had been very persuasive and promised there'd be something they could make a fire with if Thranduil would slip back here with her after).

“Someone's been through my desk,” she says, though she waits until they have at least the appearance of solitude in the hall to do it; she knows better than to think it was any of her household, doesn't want rumors slipping below-stairs that she might. “Get shot of the Gallows and immediately, something the fuck else to deal with.”

If they'd have found anything, she'd be more concerned than she sounds, but even before there was a likelihood of anyone being interested she's always been cautious—any writings that might have interested other eyes were with her in the Gallows, safely shut away.

“But you could mean anything, there's not a shortage of nonsense in Kirkwall, is there? You've just had a fever, you know, you shouldn't be given headaches, it's probably bad for you.”

Moments such as this and another world imposes itself on top for a moment; a different woman, a palace not an estate, but the rhythm of it familiar enough that it all comes bleeding through but Araceli remembers herself, falls into step so easily (when doesn't she, do people ever notice that unless called for that she matches them) as she glances sideways.

"They're bold, whoever they are. If you want a former professional opinion on entrances and exits…" There aren't many secrets about what she was, what would be the point when playing that hand has done her so well but the timing of it, that it's happened to someone connected to the Inquisition and nobility? Unwelcome. "Does Thedas have a saying about something wicked making work for idle hands? Not everyone was busy when some of us were losing our wits, others were healing, some taking up the slack."

Araceli laughs though, short, a little bitter bite to it not normally heard outside very certain compay. "As if certain parties care beyond their own interests, they'd twist any headaches they caused back to how much it was hurting them, how it wasn't their fault you know?"

“I would like that very much,” she says, of the professional opinion, pleased—a sideways glance, a smile, ushering Araceli upstairs into the privacy of the sitting room that sits between two bedrooms. One locked, not yet aired out, low on the household priorities when its occupant is more often in the Gallows, and the other the master bedroom, for the mistress of the house. Gwenaëlle's own, this sitting room, and Thranduil's bedroom connected; opening onto a pretty balcony that overlooks the enclosed gardens.

There are still some furs on the floor in front of the fire, and she lets go Araceli to gather them up and out of the way as they talk—a maid will bring refreshment in not too long, having seen them depart.

“And I know just what you mean. It's only,” in a mockery of earnestness, “it's only that they simply can't bear to hear such things. You understand, don't you.”

"I might need to change to do that, dresses and climbing I can do but only when I have to." Generally if she can avoid it, she wouldn't, not in a dress she likes this much and it would cause a scene too. The plain clothes in her office, slinking past guards same old, same old; easily done to figure it out unless magic is involved but she's getting ahead of herself, glancing out the corner of her eye to get a better lay of the room.

(As much as Araceli might love simply having a home of her own, a home that isn't unlike her little flat back in Castileos by the harbour, this makes her miss the palace. Having the room she'd grown accustomed to. Somewhere with more solid walls. Where she didn't hear the neighbours.) She sits comfortably, wonders if the furs are similar to those back in her home--

"Sometimes I wish I didn't because I could argue until I'm blue in the face - something I'm not keen to test so soon - and they would blink at me, or say I cannot possibly understand. As if a person can't consider things from more than one angle when it's clear they only do when it suits them to do it. When it benefits them. And when they haven't bothered to actually look ahead as far as they think they have." Unkind of her to say, but thieves and pirates and queensguard function on having plans, having back-ups, having back-ups of those, alternates, laying a thing flat to pick it over, to consider all the ways it could fall apart before them. "It'd be simpler if there were gagging orders. Or people were held to some actual account for their actions."

(At least one of the furs has the face of a bear. That bear has seen things.)

“So much changes, so much doesn't.” Gwenaëlle toes her shoes off, regarding the fireplace moodily for a moment—she's so far from Orlais and she's still hiding around corners, listening for people she doesn't trust, frustrated by inertia. By long silences broken by voices she grows tired of hearing. “Gagging orders, that'd be something. At least,”

with a very deep sigh, unwinding her hair from its pinned braids down one shoulder, grimacing,

“at least the crystals aren't public. Can you imagine.”

She rather expects Araceli can.

"It might do some of them some good to gain some perspective. The Inqusition isn't the entire world, and neither is whatever some of them have come from. Of course then we'd have to endure the weeping and wailing about how terribly hard they have it, how no one could possibly understand what they've been through in their lives when we have about as much of that as I can stand." There's a reason Araceli has her public crystal persona which is a far more flighty girl to be taken as any person finds her until she sets the connection to private where it's very much as she wishes to be heard. It's the principle of it. "We've been in Kirkwall near a year and still people behave as if their actions don't have weight. We aren't in Skyhold where the news has to travel down a mountain. People are right there to see it, we're the ones chasing after it like tits so we don't embarrass ourselves, and we all know how Nevarra went."

And the fucking forest that they're still going round in circles about too.

Araceli slackens the lacing of her gown so she can take a deeper breath, shoulders inching down as she lets that angry knot out.

"Just...if they could keep their heads down, not cause scenes, let the work get done. It's not so much to ask, is it?"

Is it Gwenaëlle?

Edited 2018-03-19 21:28 (UTC)

“Of reasonable people, no,” Gwenaëlle says, with unbecoming cynicism—there's a reason these two have become such fast friends, bonded in their mutual disappointment in being constantly surrounded by such idiocy. “Though occasionally they need a thump, as well, Herian is going to fall on her own sword one day just because she wasn't looking to see it was there—”

a bit more despairing. She is fond of Herian, in spite of the antipathy between her and Thranduil, thinks highly of her; wishes she'd get out of her own way.

"You know, on her birthday a discussion came up about work. On her birthday. For people who'll just thumb their nose at her every chance they get because she cares about compromise and sparing pain when that's already out the window. We all make hard choices, or we should. Compromises. It shouldn't have to take shaking people 'til their teeth rattle to get the message across."

Herian too, because everyone is struggling together if they're Inquisition and no one is making life any easier by creating more work for others or discounting the intentions or contributions parties are making, Anders.

Her smile appears suddenly along with a short laugh that startles Araceli herself. "All the shit you can't say to people because it'd offend or wouldn't be just the right way at the right time."

“And if you do say it,” picking up the thread easily, toes aimed towards the fireplace and a little grimace on her face, “you have to say it nicely and apologetically, I'm so very sorry to have to point out, only I think you might have not noticed, and it's only that I do so wish for you to do your very best—”

The gesture that Gwenaëlle punctuates this with is not one she learned in Orlesian salons.

“Even Herian isn't immune to that. I think they all bring it out in each other. These people do remember they work for a military organisation, don't they? Why are we hand-holding fuckwits all the live-long day?”

"The number of screams I've swallowed here. Some of them are so ignorant it beggars belief they're still breathing. Get out of the damned way let me do my job to make this better for more than just you. When someone is cold or hungry they don't give a damn about your particular petty politics unless it put them there."

Honestly this is after a shift. The queensguard piled in one room with a list of complaints in one hand, whetstones or boot polish in the other.

"No one wants to remember what it takes to get the work done. That you have to swallow your pride, stow your blessings, grit your teeth and just do what needs to be done without stopping to see if everyone is comfortable. Ask it later. Of yourself. But nothing will get done if we're stopping to see if the children need to piss before they wet themselves."

You know some of them would just to be problems, everyone has a list.

With her hair slowly unwinding in her fingers, she lifts one of them enough to point—

“Nothing is getting done. Or that's what it feels like,” a little bit despairing, pulling a face. Probably, she allows, some things are getting done. She spends enough time around the division head offices to know the comings and goings and of the runners, the piles of paperwork, the long hours. It seems unlikely that this is all the work that happens in the Gallows, however uncharitable she wishes to be; people are trying.

And outside the walls (and inside them), people are dying. And there is inertia born of no perfect solution meaning no solution at all, and it's terrifying to think on.

“We're all going to fucking die,” she sighs.

"Would you like a hand?" A gesture to her hair, one to her own since she knows how to deal with getting out braids, getting rid of the ache after wearing them or pins or updos too tight or too long or any combination. It's been a while since she's been able to relax with someone else, hopefully the offer doesn't sound too forward or too familiar.

Her sigh is quiet but no less pained. "Trying to put together some sort of navy with the funds that we have is-- it's not a tall order, it's pissing into the wind. And after picking up the arrivals on that island with the damage we sustained even if it granted us some allies and information, it still doesn't account for the fact that ships are expensive. That we have four divisions, nine projects. Everything has to be divided. Things overlap. Things still fall through the cracks. We don't have allies, not really."

What happened to her so recently? Realised a fear and truth that Thranduil had spoken to her of that she didn't want to that now she's trying to make plans for as she wonders what really happened to those who came here. Why she remembers them. If they just disappeared instead which they must have. Too many questions.

"What did I get in Llomerryn? A pirate captain who'll tell us about Qunari and Venatori movements, and you know what? I felt grateful for it. I felt like I'd earned something that night. It's still going to take time for news to get here if that news comes, Qunari ships would move faster, I don't know about Tevinter ships but that's how it is. Skyhold we had a mountain but here when we see them coming, we see them and that's it."

The view from the harbour will be fantastic when they're all crammed into whatever boats they can get as it burns down around them.

The offer briefly requires some math—Gwenaëlle's tendency to tactile friendships, Thranduil's particular ... quirks ... about hair—but she says, “Yes, please, actually,” and sits forward so she isn't inconveniently leaned against the nearest settee.

Managing something like an intimate friendship with a girl in shouting distance of her own age is not to be sniffed at, she thinks, it's different to carelessness. The value of a connection between two people who can sit around in their stockingfeet agitating against the powers that be while braiding one another's hair, well: how could she possibly not have always wanted that? Intelligent conversation and an ease that feels earned.

It's not that she takes her other friendships for granted—indeed, she takes none for granted, precious things made moreso for their rarity before the Inquisition, by the unusual honesty in most of them—but they're different than this, and having all of them is sometimes, she thinks, worth every time she reads something and says are you fucking kidding me to the ceiling. If that rift hadn't derailed her life, where would she be?

Safer, maybe, but probably not. Angry at different things, but not less angry. Less happy.

She tries not to be glad about the war. What a chilling indictment of a life, to even for a moment not wish for peace—

“I think that Antivan with the boats will stay,” she muses, offering Araceli her comb. “I think she'll complain about it as loudly as I do, and less discreetly than you, but I don't know that she'd be able to stand not having a hand in matters.”

Gwenaëlle is inclined to approve of that, being an interfering so-and-so herself.

As casual with her touch as Araceli tends to be; a hand resting on a shoulder, a friendly nudge, arms linked with someone she knows well enough when they walk, this is-- Outside of Korrin or when she was too hurt to move one hand to do it herself, it's a thing rarely offered or done.

Going from so many people that she could share this with and her fingers almost itch with it, settling more comfortably to find the end of a braid, working carefully. A thief's fingers. A gambler's fingers. A sailor's fingers. Calluses no amount of careful tending will do away with but no less gentle for it.

It's a very fine comb. (And speaking of Herian, what a tale to tell one day: Gwenaëlle did you know I first met Herian naked in the bath where I combed and oiled her hair because she was so honourable and it was a snarled tangle? Somehow she doesn't imagine Gwenaëlle would be surprised.)

"Lady Vivas? You know she mistook me for a native, that's out the fucking window now." Thanks to what happened since there wasn't any chance for it to be discreet, because it affected all of them and people just open their mouths anyway to let things fall out. But it was nice for a little while to have that complete control. "That she has strong opinions she's inclined to share, as well as news we might do something with. She's part of Naval Presence so even if something takes the ships away, I can still bend her ear when she has to report to me.

"She agrees about the rifter collective identity...movement?" Her hands still a moment to think better on how she'd like to phrase that, if it's quite a movement or just a spectacularly poor lapse in judgement shared by too many minds. "About the idiocy of it, there were other words but let's be blunt about what it is. She's a mage with a title for all that mages don't get to have their titles mean anything outside of Tevinter. And she does listen. Even to things she might not like, she doesn't go spoiling for the fight, it makes a change. Or I've spoken to too many men."

“You've been speaking with too many men,” Gwenaëlle says, critically, tilting her head back with the pull of the comb and looking up to nothing in particular on the ceiling, its elaborate molding. Free of braids, her hair is heavy curls to her waist and soft, well-tended. Clean, spoiled thing fond of her baths that she is. Black ribbon unravels from it, a simple adornment. “I never understood the idea of rifters banding together. Remind everyone how different you are and stand in a group where its easier to aim. And just imagine someone like Thranduil with some of the other rifters, for that matter—”

She met Church, the once, that's probably who she's thinking of.

“It's even less smart, now. After what happened.”

How easily they could all have been forgotten. It's a lesson she's taken quite to heart.

"A hazard of the job." How much better life is now that both her superiors are women but it's the way men seem so entitled to the last word that she can't stand. How many of them there are about. Maybe she's so used to being surrounded by women, she thinks, where she'd spend so much time being able to have just this sort of conversation while they were getting ready for the day, or for bed, or going somewhere else.

"There was a time very early on when things in Skyhold were," what's the best word for it that she can grasp, "reactionary to say the least that the idea of at least having some common ground was there. I was younger. Things changed. I saw where I needed to be and what was being asked, that this Inquisition has to succeed and that it's selfish for me to stand separate from it, to not give my all."

Her hands slow. It's-- there's not an exact word for how she feels about what happened to her, to any of them, she hasn't talked about it to Korrin and doesn't imagine that she ever will unless it erupts one day from wherever she's hidden it. The agreeable noise doesn't quite come however, even as she resumes combing through one section.

"I forgot. Before. I already forgot things, not the same way, not enough that others forgot me but I forgot everything about this place once."

But the Stars are not gods, they say

Araceli Bonaventura

Evening; Gallows (slightly backdated)

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timeskip to the baths?

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Yngvi

Morrigan

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Brónach

closed to Gwenaëlle

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