WHO: Simon, Myr, Kostos, and maybe a special guest WHAT: Collecting some vague number of phylacteries and one stray mage WHEN: Early Cloudreach 9:44 WHERE: Ansburg and the road there NOTES: Cw: sheep
It may be hard to hear when they're speaking, but a shuffling sound begins to emanate from one of the rooms off the hall: there is something alive here, and its bare feet tread quietly on the cold stone floor as it approaches the door.
The party will quickly find itself under investigation by several glowing wisps, which dance around them with a cheerful, absent-minded ease before one floats its way back toward the doorway to meet a skinny lad in a tattered Circle robe. He smiles at it as it returns, his face pallid and thin, his eyes a little bit too blue as he focuses them on the travelers. "Enchanter Kostos?" he whispers, in surprised delight, "...Ser Simon?" He doesn't recognize the third, but he gets an unseen smile anyway. "Is the war over?"
Socks makes Kostos' expression darken further. Socks. He can't believe he lived here, ever, for any length of time. The leniency was practically an insult, like they were nothing to worry about, because they were busy with socks. But at that point it's reached the depths of darkness that it can achieve in the absence of actual aggression, so there's no room for it to get darker yet again when Simon talks about the laundry room.
The wisps, of all things, brighten it—literally, ha ha, but also figuratively—back to his most standard degree of unhappiness. Their cheer is infectious, and they're a sign that this trip might get slightly more interesting than socks. He keeps his arms folded behind his back, watching them without moving his head and trying to get a sense—
Ah. Evrion. He does turn his head, then, and give in to a look of surprise.
"It's been paused," he says in answer to the question, immediately, which might explain—partially—why Myr and Simon's Sensational Singing Show and overall conduct has set his teeth so thoroughly on edge.
He has questions of his own, like what are you doing here and where are your shoes and are you possessed yet, but they can wait a moment.
"Better we check on the phylacteries first," Myr calls after Simon--laughingly, for all that. "As they're more likely to've grown legs over the years."
There's more he'd say--trying his damnedest to keep their little expedition on track with the lightest possible hand on the reins--but everything breaks out in wisps all at once. He hasn't Kostos' ease with the little spirits; he shuts his mouth sharply as the first goes drifting past him, expression briefly one of unease. The Veil hadn't felt thin enough here to permit any leaks but who knew, these days...
--But there's a summoner, who sounds fondly familiar with both his companions, and Myr lets out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding against the possibility of an ambush. Relief and more than a little guilt replace his unease--disturbing as the newcomer's coterie might be, he sounds utterly harmless and the guileless question sends a stab of empathy through Myr's heart. (Kostos' response--is tucked away for later thought.) "Largely," he adds aloud, and: "Hello; you've been here this whole time?"
Maybe "who're you," would've been the cannier question, but he's got the other two to introduce him now that introductions seem in order.
Myr's right, of course, and he's just glad Myr was the one to point it out and not Kostos, but the small mercy there is short-lived. There's no way the sound of those footsteps could be anything but foreboding, nothing that could be lying in wait for them after all this time that could mean them anything but harm--
--but he thinks, in the end, that he might have welcomed a demon more. A demon could be easily dispatched and make him out to be a proper templar, doing his job with the powers the Maker granted him. This puts the lie to that better than anything else could. He can tell himself until his throat runs dry that it didn't count as abandoning his post if he had the Knight-Commander's permission to do it, that he'd done better than most of his comrades in staying as long as he had, but whose responsibility had it been to ensure the tower was safely evacuated if not his? Whose job ought it have been to look after the fragile ones like this poor sod whose name he can't possibly remember, who seems so heartbreakingly happy to see him now? (Perhaps his mind can't supply a name, but it's all too quick to remind him what fate had been in store for the lad. His eyes flick upward to Evrion's forehead, half-expecting a brand.)
He realizes, with abject horror, that his conscience has taken on a tinge of Kostos' accent. He cuts that line of thought immediately off.
"It's over for all intents and purposes," he says, unwilling to let Kostos go unchallenged on that either. "But--yes, are you all right? Have you been here alone, then?"
The boy wanders out the door, and as he stirs all the wisps flee back to him and into a strange twinkling orbit, casting a glow on Evrion even in the shadow of the hall.
"Oh, yes," he replies to Simon and Myr, with a strange distant smile, "I've been here, but not alone. I'm never alone." The smile warms as one of the wisps drifts closer to his face, and he gently waves it away so it doesn't crash.
If they were dealing with anything less distracting and immediate than a barefoot apprentice who, Kostos would say, has at least a seven in ten chance of currently being possessed, he'd give Simon more than a flat and skeptical glance. And it's very tempting to give him another exactly like it at Evrion's question. Because it's a good question. One that doesn't have an answer other than probably—probably, because the mages were backed into a corner when they joined the Inquisition, crippled not by demons and corrupted leadership but by the fact that they were going to lose, that the world wasn't on their side, that they had children and elders and no options save waiting for a siege they couldn't survive in Redcliffe or allying with Tevinter, and there's currently no reason they won't revert to a similar situation as soon as they're no longer needed to stop something people fear more than them. There will continue not to be a reason unless they make one.
But.
Externally, Kostos ignores the question altogether in favor of going closer to look Evrion in his too-blue eyes and reach out to one of the wisps. He can't detect possession, innately, but wisps—however simple they are—know what's going on around them, know what is where in the Fade, and have memories at least a bit longer than a bird's.
While he's probing at it, silently, he says, "Where are your shoes?"
Myr might have to wait forever for that introduction, and Simon for a name, because Kostos' manners really are that atrocious.
There's a sinking premonition in Myr's breast that there's much more to this whole encounter than he's hearing; the tension over Evrion's innocent, loaded question is only the surface of it. (And what a surface-- There's much he could say to the idea of the Circles coming back, much he's thought and argued over the years, much he's agonized over when it comes to what mages owed the world and what the world owed them and how heartbreakingly wide the gap was. But now, perhaps, is not the time.)
Is the Circle coming back? "Not today," Myr says gently, well aware of the heart-hunger that could hide behind that question. "We're only here for the phylacteries. And to bring you back to the Inquisition with us--if you'd like," a mage has a choice now, after all, for as long as that might last.
Where he had leapt in to contradict Kostos mostly just for the sake of doing so, he leaves that question very much to Myr and doesn't dare tread near it himself. He doesn't even know anymore what sort of answer he would prefer to give, but he has none, and so he ventures nothing.
(He wishes, too, that he could answer that second question, when it's on the very edge of his mind and he keeps almost-grasping it like wet soap--Evan? Emory? No, those aren't even elven names, and why can't he remember?)
"There's certainly room for you with the Inquisition, if you fancy a trip to Kirkwall," he says, seizing on that instead. "And you ought to come with us to find the phylacteries as well." Best to keep them all together now, with a cautious eye on the lad.
The wisp in question has no concerns and indicates no danger around Evrion, against all odds.
"Evrion Thatch," he replies to Myr, and, in response to Kostos' question, looks down as though he just realized his shoes were missing. "Oh," he muses, "around." Who wears shoes at home? Charlatans.
Intrigued by mention of the Inquisition, but equally confused, he looks between Myr and Simon. "Kirkwall," he repeats, "isn't that where the war started?" Seems like maybe not the best place to be, for a mage. "What are the phylacteries for?" Despite his questions and hesitance, he steps all the way out of the room and seems intent on walking with them, even if just for now.
For his part, Kostos considers the offers to bring Evrion along superfluous. Obviously he's coming with them. That's why he needs shoes. And it's everyone else's faults for not reading his mind to understand that's why he was asking, so when Kostos releases Evrion's wisp, he first twists to give Simon and Myr a baleful look that only one of them will see—the one he most wants to—before turning his attention back to the boy.
Young man. He's grown a lot. And there's no sign or memory of possession to be found in the wisp's limited consciousness. so Kostos' shoulders relax a small fraction, closer to their usual level of uncomfortable tension.
"Safekeeping," he says. "They are easy to misuse."
And for good cause, Myr silently appends, but doesn't say, picking up without knowing it on that dubious subtext. Not the best place for mages to be at all, though a mage who was bound and determined to make the best of where he'd been placed might ignore that for a time. Better to leave that. "Evrion," he echoes aloud, smile widening to hear it. "Like Our Lady's stepson. It's good to meet you, Evrion--Myrobalan Shivana, of Hasmal."
Not Hasmal Circle. It's a slip Myr doesn't notice now, but might have cause to later. He tips his head in Kostos' direction, sunnily oblivious to the glare, and nods for the other mage's explanation. "The Inquisition's had some trouble with them lately, that we mean to set right."
Sobering stuff. Stuff better not talked about in front of an apprentice who's only got the vaguest idea of the war, the Inquisition, and the Inquisition's troubles--especially when they're such mixed company. Myr continues blithely, "Ser, enchanter--we might do better to search the Circle if we split up."
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The party will quickly find itself under investigation by several glowing wisps, which dance around them with a cheerful, absent-minded ease before one floats its way back toward the doorway to meet a skinny lad in a tattered Circle robe. He smiles at it as it returns, his face pallid and thin, his eyes a little bit too blue as he focuses them on the travelers.
"Enchanter Kostos?" he whispers, in surprised delight, "...Ser Simon?" He doesn't recognize the third, but he gets an unseen smile anyway. "Is the war over?"
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The wisps, of all things, brighten it—literally, ha ha, but also figuratively—back to his most standard degree of unhappiness. Their cheer is infectious, and they're a sign that this trip might get slightly more interesting than socks. He keeps his arms folded behind his back, watching them without moving his head and trying to get a sense—
Ah. Evrion. He does turn his head, then, and give in to a look of surprise.
"It's been paused," he says in answer to the question, immediately, which might explain—partially—why Myr and Simon's Sensational Singing Show and overall conduct has set his teeth so thoroughly on edge.
He has questions of his own, like what are you doing here and where are your shoes and are you possessed yet, but they can wait a moment.
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There's more he'd say--trying his damnedest to keep their little expedition on track with the lightest possible hand on the reins--but everything breaks out in wisps all at once. He hasn't Kostos' ease with the little spirits; he shuts his mouth sharply as the first goes drifting past him, expression briefly one of unease. The Veil hadn't felt thin enough here to permit any leaks but who knew, these days...
--But there's a summoner, who sounds fondly familiar with both his companions, and Myr lets out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding against the possibility of an ambush. Relief and more than a little guilt replace his unease--disturbing as the newcomer's coterie might be, he sounds utterly harmless and the guileless question sends a stab of empathy through Myr's heart. (Kostos' response--is tucked away for later thought.) "Largely," he adds aloud, and: "Hello; you've been here this whole time?"
Maybe "who're you," would've been the cannier question, but he's got the other two to introduce him now that introductions seem in order.
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--but he thinks, in the end, that he might have welcomed a demon more. A demon could be easily dispatched and make him out to be a proper templar, doing his job with the powers the Maker granted him. This puts the lie to that better than anything else could. He can tell himself until his throat runs dry that it didn't count as abandoning his post if he had the Knight-Commander's permission to do it, that he'd done better than most of his comrades in staying as long as he had, but whose responsibility had it been to ensure the tower was safely evacuated if not his? Whose job ought it have been to look after the fragile ones like this poor sod whose name he can't possibly remember, who seems so heartbreakingly happy to see him now? (Perhaps his mind can't supply a name, but it's all too quick to remind him what fate had been in store for the lad. His eyes flick upward to Evrion's forehead, half-expecting a brand.)
He realizes, with abject horror, that his conscience has taken on a tinge of Kostos' accent. He cuts that line of thought immediately off.
"It's over for all intents and purposes," he says, unwilling to let Kostos go unchallenged on that either. "But--yes, are you all right? Have you been here alone, then?"
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"Oh, yes," he replies to Simon and Myr, with a strange distant smile, "I've been here, but not alone. I'm never alone." The smile warms as one of the wisps drifts closer to his face, and he gently waves it away so it doesn't crash.
"Is the Circle coming back?"
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But.
Externally, Kostos ignores the question altogether in favor of going closer to look Evrion in his too-blue eyes and reach out to one of the wisps. He can't detect possession, innately, but wisps—however simple they are—know what's going on around them, know what is where in the Fade, and have memories at least a bit longer than a bird's.
While he's probing at it, silently, he says, "Where are your shoes?"
Myr might have to wait forever for that introduction, and Simon for a name, because Kostos' manners really are that atrocious.
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Is the Circle coming back? "Not today," Myr says gently, well aware of the heart-hunger that could hide behind that question. "We're only here for the phylacteries. And to bring you back to the Inquisition with us--if you'd like," a mage has a choice now, after all, for as long as that might last.
"What's your name?"
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(He wishes, too, that he could answer that second question, when it's on the very edge of his mind and he keeps almost-grasping it like wet soap--Evan? Emory? No, those aren't even elven names, and why can't he remember?)
"There's certainly room for you with the Inquisition, if you fancy a trip to Kirkwall," he says, seizing on that instead. "And you ought to come with us to find the phylacteries as well." Best to keep them all together now, with a cautious eye on the lad.
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"Evrion Thatch," he replies to Myr, and, in response to Kostos' question, looks down as though he just realized his shoes were missing. "Oh," he muses, "around." Who wears shoes at home? Charlatans.
Intrigued by mention of the Inquisition, but equally confused, he looks between Myr and Simon. "Kirkwall," he repeats, "isn't that where the war started?" Seems like maybe not the best place to be, for a mage. "What are the phylacteries for?"
Despite his questions and hesitance, he steps all the way out of the room and seems intent on walking with them, even if just for now.
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Young man. He's grown a lot. And there's no sign or memory of possession to be found in the wisp's limited consciousness. so Kostos' shoulders relax a small fraction, closer to their usual level of uncomfortable tension.
"Safekeeping," he says. "They are easy to misuse."
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And for good cause, Myr silently appends, but doesn't say, picking up without knowing it on that dubious subtext. Not the best place for mages to be at all, though a mage who was bound and determined to make the best of where he'd been placed might ignore that for a time. Better to leave that. "Evrion," he echoes aloud, smile widening to hear it. "Like Our Lady's stepson. It's good to meet you, Evrion--Myrobalan Shivana, of Hasmal."
Not Hasmal Circle. It's a slip Myr doesn't notice now, but might have cause to later. He tips his head in Kostos' direction, sunnily oblivious to the glare, and nods for the other mage's explanation. "The Inquisition's had some trouble with them lately, that we mean to set right."
Sobering stuff. Stuff better not talked about in front of an apprentice who's only got the vaguest idea of the war, the Inquisition, and the Inquisition's troubles--especially when they're such mixed company. Myr continues blithely, "Ser, enchanter--we might do better to search the Circle if we split up."