faderift | [OPEN] I will need to face what I've done

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[OPEN] I will need to face what I've done

WHO: Loghain, various starters + OPEN
WHAT: Loghain has been granted a temporary reprieve from his exile in order to attend King Maric's funeral in Denerim. Once he returns, various other situations require his attention.
WHEN: Early April-ish.
WHERE: Throughout Kirkwall, and outside Denerim in Ferelden.
NOTES: Prompts 1 and 2 take place in Ferelden and predate all the Kirkwall prompts.

I. A rural inn outside Denerim; the night before the funeral (closed to Teren and Anders)

Loghain was advised by the Crown (also known as his daughter) that his presence in the city of Denerim was likely to cause a stir, stoking the fires of arguments left dormant for nearly a decade after the blight and the civil war. It was not an explicit instruction for him to make his entrance into the capitol as discreet and quiet as possible, but that is how Loghain has chosen to interpret it. This is explanation enough for why he's opted for his small travel party to stay at a nondescript roadside in a few miles away from the city gates; he'll ride in on his own tomorrow, dressed as simply as possible, and make a nondescript entrance into the palace through a prearranged meeting with one of Anora's confidantes.

It all feels unnecessarily cloak-and-dagger for his tastes, but the indisputable fact of the matter is there are a number of people in this country that would see his head on a spike if left to their own devices. This is the safest, least politically incendiary route for him to take, while still getting to say his final farewells to his king.

The inn has a small common area near a lit hearthfire; aside from them, and the innkeeper who is keeping to herself, they don't seem to have much other company. To keep himself occupied, Loghain has taken to polishing his boots.

II. The inn; after the funeral, in the evening (closed to Teren)

The funeral is over, and so is Loghain's business in Ferelden. Whatever feeling he had expected on the heels of completing this journey, this isn't it.

After passing some time at the palace with Anora, Loghain arrives back at the inn late enough at night that he fully expects both Teren and Anders to be asleep so that they can be well rested for their journey back to Kirkwall in the morning. Rather than rousing the stablehand to see to Sooty's needs, Loghain leads his tired mare into the stables himself and takes the time to feed and water her while removing her tack. He brushes her down while she grazes, speaking softly to her under his breath. Outside the stall, Primrose dozes with her chin on her paws.

III. The Gallows library; at night (closed to Vandelin)

Once he has returned to Kirkwall, Loghain does not need very long to revert to his usual habit of staying up late into the night pouring over maps and tomes related to the blight and darkspawn, though admittedly some of his work is almost of a penitent nature; reviewing the old routes he took during the years he devoted to searching for Maric, wondering whether the present might look very different for Ferelden had he simply made this choice, rather than that one. It's a completely unproductive use of his time, yet it is difficult for his thoughts not to tend in that direction.

More often than not, these nightly visits to the library are solitary. This night in particular, however, when he steps into the library, he discovers there is already a lamp lit on one of the tables.

"Someone else is here burning the midnight oil, I see," he greets the enchanter with a smile that could easily be mistaken for a grimace.

IV. Wildcard scenarios (OPEN)

(OOC: Loghain can be found working in the Warden offices, on the training grounds delivering basic combat and self defence training to those who require it, in the stables seeing to his horse Sooty, or wandering around Sundermount with his wolf-dog Primrose! Feel free to set up a scenario of your own choosing if you prefer.)

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Dog's getting on in age, but the old mabari still needs his walks and romps out in the wilderness. Graying fur and slight arthritis in his joints does little to slow him down as he chases after a squirrel. Admittedly, though, the chase lasts not quite as long as it once might have. Dog tuckers out after a few minutes and comes back at the call of Carver's whistle.

Along the way, though, he stops when he catches whiff of another animal and human pairing. Off in the distance, he spots Loghain and Primrose. Curious, he trots off after them, ignoring Carver's second whistle and beckoning call. Rather, he approaches the other pair, woofing gently in greeting.

At Dog's approach, Primrose slows from her relaxed trot to a stop, wolfish ears perked at his approach. Old instinct has her lowering her head defensively, but Loghain's hand against her hackles has them smoothing before they can rise.

"Easy," he tells her soothingly, then looks up towards the mabari and, more distantly, Carver. He recognizes the young man's gait, and lifts a hand towards him in acknowledgment, and greeting. (Truthfully, he does not expect much back, but he makes the gesture anyway.)

It doesn't take long for Carver to close in, spotting Loghain and the wolfhound. He nods to Loghain, though he's a bit more concerned about the other animal at the moment. Dog's old, and he could easily be bested by another, younger canine if it came to a fight. "C'mere boy. What'd I tell you about trotting up to strangers, you attention hog?"

Dog woofs in mild offense at that comment, but does as told, trotting back to Carver.

Primrose's posture, for the record, is decidedly more defensive than aggressive, though a cornered wolf can be at its most dangerous in those circumstances. Loghain keeps a calming hand on her, and his presence seems to reassure her of her safety.

"He seems a friendly fellow," Loghain calls out to Carver, then glances down to his own companion. A grimace creases his expression some. "I acquired her in Amaranthine some months back. She'd been used as a pit fighter; I think she still carries some of that old wariness of other dogs in her still."

Carver's not sure what to do for a moment. He hardly wants to be all cordial and friendly with Loghain, but the man hasn't done anything antagonistic. It irks Carver to admit it, but if it weren't for the past, he'd probably like Loghain fine enough.

"He's Marian's dog. Like master, like dog." Outgoing and foolish, but somehow hardy. He glances at Primrose, a frown settling in. Never saw a dog fight in his life, not one like that. "That's a hard habit to break from when it kept you alive."

Loghain's past, and his actions, cast a long, broad shadow. He's aware of this; it's why he doesn't push the edges of friendliness when he encounters them.

"Yes," he agrees with Carver's assessment of Primrose's circumstances, glancing down at her to gauge her temperament again. She is calm, though wary, and continues to regard Dog as though anticipating a vicious turn in him. "But she's done well, unlearning most of it," he adds, and drops a hand to affably scratch the wolf-dog behind her ears. "A bit of patience goes a long way with them. I had a mabari as a boy, myself."

He pauses, looking back to Carver again, as though considering saying something else. He does not.

Dog, for his part, flops on Carver's feet, essentially rendering the man immobile for the moment. Carver huffs and shoots the animal a mild look. Good thing he has boots and armor on, or his poor feet would be squished. Perhaps Dog'd just feeling old and lazy, but it might also be to help Primrose relax. The mabari surely picks up on her uneasiness, and Dog, despite being a warhound, hardly likes setting people - or other animals - on edge.

As the mabari happily makes a bed out of Carver's feet and wags his little stump of a tail, Carver looks up, waiting for Loghain to finish. He caught the look and expected more. But when nothing comes, he tries to come up with something to stay (it's not like he's going anywhere anytime soon). "You had one? During the rebellion?"

His more passive display seems to put Primrose at ease. When Dog settles, she does as well, emitting a low whine before turning her nose to chase after some scent on the air. Her relaxation puts Loghain at ease.

"You had one? During the rebellion?"

"As a boy, yes." For he was a boy during that time, as well as a man, and recalling those years puts a bitter twist at the corner of Loghain's mouth. "Her name was Adalla--as good a companion as a boy could ever wish for." He drops his hand down to give Primrose's ears a pensive scratch. "A chevalier as good killed her."

Loghain's from another time. To hear him refer to himself as a boy ages him in a way. But it also tugs at something in Carver's heart. The man in front of him wasn't always the Hero of the River Dane, or the Traitor Teyrn. Once he was just a dumb kid with a sword, too. Not unlike Carver, once upon a time.

He's making it very hard to hate him. And he makes it harder still when he tells Carver about Adalla.

Dog whines in sorrow at the story. Even Carver feels a lump form in his throat. "Fucking Orlesians." Carver's not one to curse overly much - at least not so crassly so - but it feels fitting here. "Was it out of retaliation for your part in the rebellion?"

All the cloak and dagger business has suited Teren fine, and though she doesn't care for funerals, she has been a quiet but steadfast presence at Loghain's side since their arrival.
Expecting her to be asleep at this time of night is misguided; as a rule, Teren doesn't get a good night's sleep. She's embroidering by candlelight at her window when she sees someone enter the stables, and having come to know that specific gait-- and horse-- she makes her way down, giving Primrose an idle scratch behind the ears as she goes by.
Rather than disturb Loghain, she stands in the doorway, arms folded, thoughtful. She doesn't mean to sneak up on him, but sometimes it just happens.

Primrose gives her tail a friendly swish from side to side at that scratch and lifts her chin from her paws to watch after Teren a moment as she passes by. But she is a trusted and familiar presence, and so shortly thereafter, the wolf-dog relaxes again.

It takes Loghain a moment or two to notice the presence behind him, focused as he is on caring for Sooty. When he does, he turns just quickly enough that the mare snorts her displeasure into her feed bag, but not enough to truly spook her. Then, "Teren," he exclaims with some quiet surprise, relief coupled with confusion plain on his face (and another unnameable feeling that always creeps in when he sees her).

He dusts off his hands and slips them into his pockets, taking a small step towards the stall door. "I rather expected you'd both be asleep," he admits.

"Did you," Teren replies, eyebrows raised sardonically-- as if she ever falls asleep before it's nearly dawn, and doesn't usually just wander the halls or the camp or wherever the Wardens are positioned. There's no official night watch among them, but Teren might as well be.

"I suppose you've had things to think about," she adds, chancing a small, uncertain smirk.

At the pointed look she gives him, Loghain quirks a small smirk of agreement and doesn't bother responding. Yes, she has always kept peculiar hours; he's noticed that. He's had time to notice plenty about Teren.

"I suppose you've had things to think about."

"A few things, yes," he agrees, meeting her eyes. There's no drink to reach for (or spill everywhere) this time, and no intoxicated junior Warden to come staggering into their table to interrupt them, and so the brief silence that follows feels heavy, weighted with meaning. Loghain allows himself a small smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes a bit, before he looks back to Sooty and absently smooths a hand across her broad neck. "What about you?" he asks--to Teren, of course, not the horse.

What about her. Normally Teren would dodge the question, say something flippant and get it over with, but there actually have been developments. She's scared to death to confront them, of course, and that shows in a subtle change on her face when she looks away from Loghain, pursing her lips even as she leans against the doorway. Her thin hands run up and down her arms once or twice, warding off cold or perhaps just nerves.
"If I told you," she says in a quiet voice, "that what you saw in the Fade was real-- as, I expect, what I saw was-- how much would you want to know?" It's as much an invitation as anyone has ever received, to be given the truth by Teren about some aspect of her life. She's not even entirely controlling the subject. It's a huge deal, and by how stolidly she looks anywhere but at Loghain, this much should be clear.

"...how much would you want to know?"

Her body language communicates her vulnerability just as clearly as her words do, if not moreso, and Loghain pauses as she speaks, listening in silence. The question deserves serious consideration and not a haphazard and ill-thought out promise to never never wonder to himself about what he had seen, to never ask Teren any questions for fear of tripping a wire and ensnaring her in something she can't escape. And to turn the situation on his head, how much of what she'd seen in the Fade had been true for him, too?

He smooths his hand one more time over Sooty's neck, then slips his hands into his pockets and takes a few quiet steps towards where Teren leans against the door. "I would know whatever you might wish to tell me," he replies quietly at last, looking to her eyes even if she cannot look into his, "whenever you might choose to share it." A pause, before he offers, "And I would give you the same, for what you saw."

Teren fights the urge to snap that she doesn't wish to tell him anything, that this is his opportunity to wrest transparency from her tightly clasped fingers-- but that's no way to converse with someone who has otherwise been so forgiving, so...
...comfortable, in his way.

She's silent for a time, jaw clenched and arms folded as she stares hard at the floor. How much does he need to know? Perhaps, as a start, just the things that would send a person running, either to the hills or to the guard.
"Fifteen years," she finally grunts, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear, "or thereabouts. I was in that room because I killed someone."

"...I was in that room because I killed someone."

It is not an answer that Loghain finds especially shocking or difficult to accept. There is much about Teren that he does not know, though that lack of knowledge doesn't hinder his understanding. Her demons, the blood on her hands, hound her as much as they do him. He doesn't need to know the details to grasp the deeper intangible truth of what those experiences did to her.

He frowns in thought, not in judgment. "Did they deserve it?" he asks quietly.

"Who's to say?"
Teren shrugs one shoulder, shifting her eyes grimly back to meet Loghain's. "We were both doing what was expected of us. And both gave up our lives as a result." There's a great weariness behind her words, and her arms are still folded, still closed off.
"I still remember his face. Quite clearly."

"I still remember his face. Quite clearly."

Loghain makes a pensive sound of agreement in response, but little else for a time. He empathizes, but she knows that already; anyone who knows the name Loghain Mac Tir knows that he has the blood of hundreds on his hands, but perhaps only a handful--present company included--know enough of him to know how those deaths preoccupy him. And this isn't about his understanding, anyway. It's about her, and her willingness to expose a vulnerability to him, trusting that it won't be exploited.

"Teren," he starts again just as quietly, "that changes nothing for me." After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out to rest a hand against her arm, his touch light, easy to withdraw from should she choose that.

"Perhaps it should," Teren says, some of the prickle returning to her voice despite how she tries to rein it in; she's so bad at this, emotional honesty or whatever you want to call it. Why bother when shutting everyone out has worked so well for so long?
She lets Loghain touch her arm without pulling away, however, and she looks down at his hand, pensive. "You'll find I'm not what you're bargaining for," she says, her voice quiet and not entirely combative, "but I suppose the choice is yours."

Betraying an order, and Alistair, and leading a whole country nearly to its doom? Rather more to complain about than killing one person, sabotaging one noble house. But some things are done out of a desire for honor, and some are done out of intrinsic treachery, and Teren suspects she knows where both she and Loghain stand on that spectrum.

Honour, and too much loyalty. Those qualities when combined can force a man to commit untold atrocities.

"I bargain for nothing--that's not what this is." It would be easy under other circumstances for Loghain to allow himself to woolgather over his past mistakes, but the pair of them are on the cusp of something together and he suspects a misstep, or inattentiveness, could throw it into jeopardy. When she doesn't push his hand away, he lets his hand settle there warmly, a calloused thumb stroking her arm through the fabric of her shirt.

"And," he adds quietly, "it's not only my choice, is it?"

She continues to look at his hand a moment longer, watches how fondly it rests there, in a way she thought she'd never see again-- and perhaps it wasn't even real the first time. It seems alien now, but not unwelcome, and Teren is frustrated by how she wants to lean into it.
"...we're all food for worms," she says under her breath, unsure why the thought came aloud, but it seems appropriate. How many years does she have left, how many does Loghain? Looking up into his eyes, she watches him, torn, a part of her hoping he'll take the initiative, make the decision for her. That's never been a thing she's wanted before.

Possibly he reads something of Teren's hope and fear in her eyes when she looks up to him, because for a moment his lips twist into a wistful grimace. She isn't alone in these feelings, or in her awareness of how fleeting the time they have left is--but if Maric's death in Seheron served no other purpose, it at least forced Loghain to recognize the importance of seizing those moments of genuine connection while he still could. Life comes with no guarantees, except for an end to it, one day. (And taxes.)

"...we're all food for worms."

He quirks a small smile. "But not today," he replies just as quietly. Then he lifts his hand from her arm to cup her cheek, and leans in to kiss her gently on the mouth.

Sucker, Teren hasn't paid taxes her whole life and isn't going to start anytime soon. Inevitabilities are for other people.
Except this one, apparently: she's a little surprised by the action, but not averse to it, and meets Loghain's kiss. There's no tearing at clothing or shoving tongues in mouths, at least not on her part; really, it's telling as is that Teren's demeanor is calm, even pleasant.

There's probably not going to be any tearing of clothes or tongues being shoved anywhere, since they're still in the barn and Sooty is, like, right there. So the kiss remains a gentle one, warm with affection, until Loghain lets it end. When he draws back his hand remains at her face, thumb stroking the ridge of her cheekbone.

"I care for you. Whatever sort of life an old traitor of a Warden can have with the Calling," this said with a touch of grim humour, clearly referring to himself, "I'd share that with you, Teren."

Not to mention Boots. There are children present.
She looks into his eyes as his thumb moves over her cheekbone, and finds that she likes the feeling. It's familiar, in a long lost way, and Teren is a bit ashamed that she wants to chase it.
"Very well then," she replies, prim and dignified, but with the slightest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

The Gallows are a common place for Six these days; she spends more time there than she does in her room, swinging her blade and practicing how to fight without the powers she had been accustomed to in her own world. The loss of Sarenrae was still affecting her deeply and she was pushing herself harder and harder each day - to prove herself, to find what strength she needed to bridge the gap, to try and ignore the hurt in her chest. Whatever she could do to keep herself going was important.

She waits until Loghain is done with the people he's been training before she approaches, her sword swung over her back and her hair tied up and out of her face. She would bow, but she's not entirely sure of the proper protocol in this world compared to her own.

"Sir. You train people here?"

A bow would almost certainly not be well received by Loghain Mac Tir, the Traitor Teyrn.

The training grounds have mostly cleared out by the time Six makes her approach, and Loghain is in the process of putting away some of the equipment when he hears the voice behind him. He glances over his shoulder, and then has to consider Six a little more closely.

"Sir. You train people here?"

The resemblance is uncanny, he decides, but perhaps it is just a coincidence--

"In the event they require it, yes," he replies, his tone naturally gruffer than he intends for it to be. He turns to face the young woman properly; it's easy enough to discern at a glance that training is not something she requires from him--at least, not the basics. "Can I help you with something?"

There is, at least, some vague resemblance to Adalia - almost as if they have the same nose, the same shape of face, but what is different between them is most obvious. Six is taller, peaking over six feet tall, with ears that look far more human than her elven heritage might suggest. The greatsword strapped across her shoulders betray her as a warrior before she has any inkling of introducing herself, and the tilt of her head and the way her eyes flick over Loghain show her as someone who prepares for a fight even if there might never be one.

She's cagey, unsure, not as trusting as she might be, but at least she approached first. There's more important things than her own dislike of this place and distrust in strangers.

"I would like to help." She's not offended by his tone, considering that hers is likely something similar when she's caught off guard. She tilts her head up, just a little, crossing her arms over her chest. "I know how to use a blade and there are many who do not. It seems best to make sure that anyone unprepared is given some means of protecting themselves."

"...It seems best to make sure that anyone unprepared is given some means of protecting themselves."

Whatever similarities to Adalia Loghain notices in this young woman's appearance, he sets them aside for now. Instead he considers the offer she's brought to him--a magnanimous one which seems to run counter to her instincts. It's not a critical observation; on the contrary, he finds it admirable.

"On that, you and I are in agreement," he tells her with the beginnings of a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. He surveys the training grounds around them, then gestures towards where the practice swords have been placed. "I would like to see a demonstration of your skills, if you don't mind."

Six nods her head, shifting and tilting herself up to stand as tall as she can manage. She matches most men in height and towers over others, looking more than a little intimidating when her arms are crossed and her attention is focussed entirely on the man before her. She doesn't expect him to be put off, not given the fact that she's here to train with him and help others, but anyone who might be watching... They're a different story.

"I'm glad to hear it." Looking around, she takes in the people filtering in and out before she nods herself, moving over and putting her actual sword to one side. While her greatsword is the weapon she's most comfortable with, all martial weapons are familiar to her now; picking up a simple longsword is easy enough, and she turns back to Loghain with a nod of her head before she walks over.

"Rules?"

Edited 2018-04-05 12:17 (UTC)

Loghain is not a man easily intimidated in any regard. But Six's posture is formidable, and he makes note enough of that; something to discuss with Ser Coupe in the future, perhaps.

"Rules?"

A pragmatic inquiry. Loghain reaches for one of the sheathed practice swords as well, hefting it into his right hand before he turns to face her again. He carries the weapon with the ease and familiarity of a veteran. "Let us aim to disarm each other, for now," he suggests to her. Maintaining one objective will better enable him to take her measure--and vice versa.

He adopts a ready stance, and taps the foil of the practice blade against hers. "When you are ready."

The practice blade is almost as heavy as a real one but nothing compared to the weight of a true greatsword in her hand; she twists it, judging the shape of it, how she might move, how her reactions are going to be changed with a new weapon and a new target. Clearly, Loghain is a man familiar with combat - this isn't going to be an easy fight.

It reminds her, sharply, of the taste of iron in her mouth, the laughter ringing in her ears, the sing of a blade and the twist of her body. It echoes with the sound of dice being rolled and the prayers, a glowing touch around her hands, and she has to force herself to focus, to bring herself back to the present with a sharp intensity.

"Until we are disarmed, then." Six is prepared for a good bout, no matter who's going to be the victor, and she watches as Loghain settles his weight and prepares himself, ready to move. She's going to have to try to use speed, she thinks, rather than attempting to overpower him - for all that she knows she is strong and powerful she's also well aware that he may well outmatch her.

Moving forward, Six grips the blade in her hand and darts to the side, aiming a swift cut up that'll sting just along his elbow, up towards the underside of his arm, unless he moves.

What time it is, Vandelin neither knows nor cares. He's been reading the same sentence for twenty minutes, but it doesn't occur to him to think of it as a sign that he should go to bed. Bed, now, is a series of naps during the day whenever he doesn't need to be in the office, when it's light enough outside to keep the mental image of Kit's broken and bleeding body from splashing itself across the inside of his eyelids and seeping into the Fade to feed the demons. His bed has spent months empty but for him, but that doesn't keep it from feeling, somehow, even emptier now.

He blinks up at the approaching stranger, eyes gleaming opaque in the dim flickering light of the lamp he's nearly burnt out. The company is unexpected, but he would be too weary for visible surprise even if he were inclined to display it.

"Oh, you know how it is," he says dully. "Never enough hours in the day."

The sound Loghain makes in response isn't quite a scoff or a chuckle, but somewhere in between. "Indeed," he agrees quietly instead, but considers Vandelin a moment longer before he sets his things down at the table. There is a certain shadowed gravity to the young man's expression that he recognizes, perhaps only too well.

Another pause, before he offers, "If you would prefer privacy, there is plenty room in the library for me to work somewhere else. I wouldn't wish to intrude." It is at once a careful acknowledgement of what he observes in Vandelin's expression and posture, and outright stating that he's willing to mind his own business.

Vandelin would have wanted the privacy, had this grim-looking human with his noble accent not offered it. He would have found some casual excuse, oh would you look at the time or actually I was just finishing up, a tidy way to avoid interaction when he feels anything less than fully in control of his emotions, if this stranger hadn't made it clear that that much was already obvious. Now, it becomes a matter of pride. His back straightens, expression smoothing into neutrality.

"No, please, by all means." He gestures magnanimously to the chair across from him. "I could always use the company. And new company, at that. I don't cross paths with many Wardens besides Anders." He knows that much by sight, if almost nothing else.

He comes over to join Loghain at the table, Pawdric lounged in his arms and belly-up. Anders opens his mouth to talk and for once thinks better of it, choosing to be quiet for several moments as he pets his cat. Silence can be companionable. For a time. Eventually, though, Pawdric's purring isn't enough and Anders can't be quiet any longer.

"Does it feel like coming home, if even for a short time?"

He appreciates the quiet, but if the vague half-smile that Loghain shares with Anders is any indication, a bit of conversation wouldn't go amiss, either.

"Does it feel like coming home, if even for a short time?"

He exhales some and leans back, giving his shoulders a bit of a roll, then turns his gaze to the fireplace, considering. "It puts me in mind of this truism I used to hear my father say from time to time when I was a lad. 'We can never go home again.'" A short spell of silence, before he snorts some and raises his eyebrows. "I've never been one for wallowing in my melancholy, Anders, but in this respect I think he was right."

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[OPEN] I will need to face what I've done

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