faderift | when you've gone about things all wrong,

Entry tags:

when you've gone about things all wrong,

WHO: Myr + YOU! (With starters for Herian, Vandelin, and Newt.)
WHAT: Bees, glyphs, knight-enchanting, just plain Chant(ing), and other things relevant to Myr's interests
WHEN: Early to mid-Solace
WHERE: All around the Gallows & Kirkwall
NOTES: Will be added as needed!

i. when the day begins to break // the Gallows courtyard

With the height of Kirkwall's summer cresting hot and muggy, Myr's made even more effort to confine his conditioning to the early morning hours. He's up and out before dawn to run laps of the prayer garden (much smaller than the courtyard, but fewer people there and the obstacles don't change day to day); after that, staff-sparring or grappling with whoever might be about, or barring a live opponent, a session with one of the dummies.

Then, magic: Today, he bends all his focus to a knight-enchanter's disruption field, throwing a rippling bubble of slowed time over a secluded corner of the courtyard. A footstep overheard, a voice--at the sound of someone approaching he'll toss a sunny smile their way, and a request: "If you've got a moment, d'you mind stepping inside there? Promise it's harmless; you'll just slow down a bit."

ii. in the things & the way they could have been // the library

Thursday evening, Chant discussion group. In light of recent concerns over the rifters, Myr'd opened the floor to talk of spirits--something he'd never have done on his own, uncomfortable as he is on the subject, if it hadn't felt like an inspired necessity. Tonight's discussion lingered long over Senior Enchanter Baden's treatise, with particular attention to how mankind's darkest desires intertwined with with the spirits' needs to lead them both into destruction. Not an easy topic to cover, not by a long shot, but--there was no true acrimony behind any of the arguing and no one had stomped off in a huff this time, so it went well enough.

Thus it's with a quiet sense of relief that he lingers as the rest of the group files out; he's usually the last to go, since it's his pledge to the archivists that gets them the study room every week and they expect the door locked when it's not in use. But today especially he needs a little bit of extra time to process what's been said and tuck it away--

Though he'll not be averse to anyone who wants to talk a little more privately on anything that came up in discussion.

iii. don't forget son when he's out on his own // Kirkwall alienage

Like many city elves born to the alienages, Myr's no precise idea when his nameday falls in the year. "Mid-Solace" is the closest he remembered from the little celebrations his father and Ben threw for him; he'd chosen the fifteenth himself much later out of a love of symmetry. (That it happened to coincide with the nameday of the comely Imayn--whose eye he'd been striving to catch at the time--was a nice bonus.) It had since stuck there, celebrated informally in Hasmal's Circle right up to the year of the rebellion.

After that--

After that he hadn't felt much like celebrating another year's survival, nor had anyone else. It still feels a little wrong to do so, even though the Inquisition's been a boon in other ways--but it is his thirtieth and that requires something to mark it.

He brings honeycomb and wildflowers to offer at the vhenadahl, that little bit of paganry even his father embraced. (The Maker, Iolan had said, had made the People as they were and given them to the lives they now led; He would not begrudge them their traditions, so long as it drew their hearts back to Him in the end.) He kneels at the foot of the great tree to make his gift of them; remains there, after, in quiet prayer to the Maker and His Bride, asking guidance for the coming year.

And then, as quietly: "I hope you can hear me, Dad. I know the Chantry says otherwise--but you'd always believed the Maker kinder than that, and I want to, too."

iv. wildcard

(Surprise me! Or hit me up on Plurk or Discord if you'd like a specific starter.)

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They'd been talking on and off about writing home, exploring the idea in careful steps together now that they could. Not that it had been forbidden, precisely, back in the Circle--but it was no secret all correspondence between mages and their families was read. And after one letter in particular had given the Circle's leadership ammunition to keep the two of them in line--

Or maybe it was collective heartbreak over Iolan's death, and having no one else to write to who wasn't solidly under Vardren's thumb, but either way it had come about they'd stopped sending their letters home. Hadn't stopped writing them, though, not for a long time, which is why the stack of yellowing folded parchment Myr's brought with him to Vandelin's door is so thick; it's not only his own unsent letters, but everything he could rescue from his cousin's quarters as well before they were taken apart by the rest of Hasmal's loyalists. (Would that he could have saved more, though his own anger wouldn't let him at the time.)

He knocks on Van's door--listens a moment--then lets himself into his cousin's quarters. "I hope," he says cheerily, "you really did get snacks because I expect we'll be a while about this. Here," he digs the packet of correspondence out of his satchel and offers it Van's direction, "this is for you to go through, first."

Owing to safety concerns--for the bees as well as the Gallows' residents--Myr'd planned to move his hives from the Gallows gardens come spring. And he had, with a little help from his Inquisition friends, relocating them to a "safe" bit of Sundermount within sight of Kirkwall's walls. With the addition of another swarm captured shortly after the move, there's three hives now, content and prosperous and buzzing busily away at the business of honeymaking.

It's Myr's practice to visit them every few days, to check their health and assess the honey stores; so he's out today, humming to himself as he removes the top of the Orlesian-style hive to get at the frames. A murmured word sets into motion a spell to keep the bees calm with all the goings-on, while another two call up magic to detect moths or--worse--robber bees (which would be a poor omen for the season indeed). Not that he expects his own hives to have gotten so out of parity with each other, but there'd been rumors of late-season swarms about, and one of them might've settled nearby...

A swarm in Solace might not be worth a horse's ass, as the old rhyme goes, but he makes a note to himself anyhow to investigate the possibility once he's done with his current task.

"I could use a bit of a slow down, honestly," comes Nari's reply. For all that she sounds as sunny as Myr looks, there's a tinge of weariness in it that suggests that despite the early hour she's already been up and about at work for a while. "Is this anything like the field Ambassador Amsel threw up when we were— wait, you weren't there. Give me just a second."

The noise of something— perhaps a stack of somethings, given the weight of the sound— being put down, then the soft pad of her feet on the stones. Apparently she's gone back to being barefoot.

"...Am I in it?" she asks, the query dragging slowly. So, yes.

"Uhm. Excuse me, Enchanter Shivana?"

The voice will come from a height, surprisingly enough, lower than Myr's. There's the sound of a finger twisting around hair, and the speaker, female, did knock beforehand before sticking her head around his office door.

"I'm not sure if you recognize my voice, Enchanter, but I am Mal Draco, of the Ostwick Circle?" The soft click-clack of boot-heels on stone. "I... sent you a message, some time ago, about using the crystals as beacons for our Inquisition agents? So we wouldn't have to use phylacteries."

The way she says 'phylacteries' sounds like she is tasting something disgusting.

"You never got back so I'm just seeing ... is it all right? To go forward? Or not?" Nevarran, curls around the words like a whisper.

Herian was, perhaps, the only other soul outside of Thranduil the discussion might have been trusted with, and even then stepping around it. A suggestion raised privately away from most other ears that still weighs on her because-- she knows. She's said it. She can't go taking it back even as she keeps it far from Korrin because how do you tell the person you love that you're not what you thought you were, not really, not entirely?

Evening would usually find Araceli training or scaling the walls of the Gallows, but instead her hair is a damp pile atop her head from the bath, and the library beckons the way it did earlier because there's too much to do, not enough hours in the day, and she can't just take things with her the way she would in Skyhold. (Could, she more than has the skill for it but she wouldn't.) The discussion at the edge of her hearing as she worked, and not one to interrupt something she wasn't part of when she doesn't have the time for all of it but after, after with her own notes, a volume of her own that's less specific (negotiations demand brushing up on the basics too, to be ready for whatever comes) that she stops just short, hand outstretched.

"Mage Shivana?" Again there's a hesitation in Araceli's voice at not having a precise title for him, and despite a mission she wouldn't go so far as to use his given name. "If you have the time, there was a matter I would run by you, perhaps we might sit to speak of it though, it requires discretion. Nothing scandalous, no more than we've encountered already."

Lightly said, a smile he cannot see but there in the warmth of her voice as she continues, the soft worn fabric of shirt and trousers settling as her body relaxes, weight shifting from one hip to the other. Hopefully she's judged him correctly to bounce this whole idea off.

"Given you were out before I was, I'd say you deserve a rest," he retorts, still smiling. "When you were--was that the incident with Beleth?"

It's the one thing that pops to his mind that Nari and Herian were together on, where Herian might've needed to throw something like the field around; he's otherwise too preoccupied with maintaining the spell to dig back that far through his memory. "--But, likely. It's one of the better surprises in our kit."

He can't help the way his smile turns into a grin of startled delight at her voice slowing down. He's not had the occasion to use it on anything that could talk back to him, yet, and that's--if not totally novel--something he's not encountered much before. "You're in. You may notice, uh--"

Fingers flex as they drag through the Fade, catch on the worldlines, a haptic focus for the alteration he's making to the field on the fly. There's a way to alter it so time curdles around the intruding target, their own motions thickening it to solidity until they're frozen; he isn't quite solid on the details yet but he's got an idea-- "--that you're getting slower the further you go, if you'd just keep walking--"

(Though whether or not she'll be able to hear that request as anything intelligible...)

Oh, she does, albeit higher pitched and faster, which makes her snort with laughter and wonder what she sounds like. Deep and slow?

"It's me, Myrobalan. The Maker." She pitches herself purposefully deeper still, "You've been doing excellent work."

Laughter again, and then she continues walking forward. She doesn't feel slower, precisely, or at least she isn't thinking slower. Probably? It's getting more difficult to move the farther in she steps, though.

It's a rare day where he'd dismissed Cade early, being out of things that needed scribing or reading--so Myr's alone in the office with Mal arrives, but for the nug curled up asleep in the chair beside him. If it weren't for the fact he'd told people his hours long in advance he'd be gone himself--but it was convenient for people to know where to find him when he wanted to be findable, because it kept them from looking when he didn't, and so here he is.

He lifts his head at the sound of someone at the door, expression instantly one of contrition as he recognizes her voice.

"Serah Draco--Maker's breath, your note; I'd forgotten entirely about it. --Please, come in, sit down; and Myr's fine, or Serah Shivana, if you prefer; I never made Enchanter." A gesture in the rough direction of a chair opposite him; good enough.

"Forgive me; yes, it's absolutely all right to go forward on it now that we've got the Provost's permission. D'you have an idea in mind of what you'd like to try first?" She sounds young enough--and hesitant enough--that giving her the encouragement to lead a little more on the project might be a boon to her self esteem.

...Oops.

Undoubtedly, once Myr's practiced this more, he won't have to concentrate so hard as he is on the spell--won't be so vulnerable to chance interruptions. But for now-- He makes a startled, choked noise at Nari's Maker impression; it bubbles rapidly into full-fledged laughter as hers does. The field outlasts Myr's concentration an impressive ten seconds before unraveling around Nari, vanished back into the Fade.

"Well," he says, and, "well--" once he's caught his breath. "Thank you, o Creating Glory. And may I say I'm unsurprised how much you sound like my friend Nari, given how industrious she is at all times." A top-notch avatar of the Maker if ever there were one, though surely someone'd quibble about the vallaslin.

Which maaaaybe puts that on the side of sacrilege, but, well. Myr clears his throat and shakes his head to chase the thought away, smile taking a turn for the abashed. "So did it work? That is--were you getting slower near the end there?"

Mal pressed her lips together, but it all comes out with a sigh of tired acceptance. "It's all right, Serah Shivana. I'm ... kind of used to it."

She closed the door behind herself, and walked over to the chair. Putting herself in it, the creaks told Myr that she was sitting ramrod straight in his chair.

"Well, I had some ideas. The crystal itself is what is enchanted, right? So if we have the notes of the arcanist, we could probably start on a crystal from scratch and change the enchantments themselves. Of course, this is the sort of thing that is going to require time, and delicacy, and the right kind of runic knowledge. Plus, whether or not the arcanist is willing to give UP said notes."

The information he wants to find in the library isn't here. He knows it's not, had known even when he came up here, but Anders had needed to give it a try anyway. A few scattered comments have reached his ears as he's searched, comments he'd comment on in return... if it wasn't this particular group. There's no room for him in a Chant discussion group. Whether that's a gain or a loss for him or for them he hasn't managed to figure out so he doesn't dwell on it, simply keeps searching until after most have filed out. Myr's left, though. Lingering, it seems. Maybe going over what's been said, or maybe thinking about other things.

After a few moments Anders clears his throat to make sure the elf knows he's there. Then, "There are times I've thought it was less jealousy that drew the spirits to check out the living and more curiosity. Compassion, Justice, Cole, Mercy, they've all had curiosity running through them."

"I was, I think," Nari replies, still half-chuckling and ultimately rather glad he'd laughed. She knows how seriously Myr takes his faith, but they'd gotten close enough over the last few months that she's pretty sure he knows she'd never make true fun. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself. Do you want to try again?"

Newt very much enjoys whenever he can escape the city of Kirkwall proper. He's grateful for Sundermount nearby, as well as the various beaches and mountains. He'll take whatever bit of nature he can, wherever he can find it.

And Thedas is filled with so many very interesting bits of nature.

He's out today after a morning spent working with a staff. Or attempting to, anyway; the various bruises all across his face tell the story of just how that particular training session went, as does the way he walks with a slight limp from hitting himself one too many times in the ankle.

He's meandering just outside of the city when he happens across a familiar face tending to what appear to be bees. He brightens considerably, making his way right over without a thought to the pain in his ankle or his face.

"Myr!" He calls out, coming up next to the man. "Are these your bees?"

Kylo had come to the meeting on a whim, still curious about the Chant and some of the things he's learned about it so far. So, he found himself sitting in on the discussion in stony silence. He struck an imposing figure, clad from head to toe in black. He was careful to keep his ideas more close to chest as the discussion went on but by the end he found himself alone with Myr.

"I found your lecture interesting." He turns over his own words, trying to think of how best to explain his feelings. "It was the part about the Maker's creations that interested me. No matter what he did they didn't seem to work in his favor. They deviated from his wishes."

Ignis has been directed Myr's way by a couple of different people. Usually, it came up in discussions about bringing more accessibility to Thedas and the person he was speaking with would mention the elf as someone else who might benefit from the ideas he had.

Ignis, though, has never been one to come up with solutions for problems without understanding them from all angles. You can't just burst into a community and insist you know what is best for them, so he finally is going to speak with Myr.

The whole thing is vaguely uncomfortable though. How does one start a conversation like this? 'Hello, I'm blind too! Let's talk about that!' seemed so crass. He supposed he could start with introductions.

He had to ask a couple of people to direct him to Myr but once he was there he cleared his throat and spoke gently. "Myrobalan?" he asked. He doesn't know where Myr's placement in the room is exactly so he waits for a response to be able to fill in his mental picture of this conversation.

Myr doesn't miss the sound of someone--someone with a limp?--approaching, though he does shunt it to the back of his mind in favor of his focus on the bees. In the usual run of things, would-be visitors stay back while he's carrying out an inspection, so he's accustomed--a little to his shame--to ignoring them until he's buttoned up the hive once more. That Newt approaches--

Well, that's a little surprising, but you get used to throttling your surprise working around bees. They can sense that. (The hum of the colonies ticks up a notch as another person draws near.) "Newt!" he responds to the greeting, tone bright and warm for all it's a little distracted. "These are my bees--you've caught me at a tricky moment, I'm afraid."

Though as he's not pulled any of the frames out yet--he sets the top of the box back in place, ginger and careful of any wandering bees so as not to crush them. "Here--if you'd like to talk, we can step back a ways so they're not too bothered by us--or did you want to help with the inspection?"

The offer's spontaneous but it feels right; Newt's fond of creatures and careful with them besides, so why not? They'd both get something out of the activity.

"Then I've got that much right." There's a touch of excitement to Myr's tone; this is concrete progress! "And I'd only expect an apology if you weren't funny about it; and even then I could use the practice handling distractions." After all, he's hardly going to get the luxury of uninterrupted quiet on the battlefield.

Accordingly, he brightens at her offer. "Yes, please! This time let's see if you freeze up." Which is what it should do if he's got the spell right, but no telling.

...Come to think, that sounds awfully ominous when he says it that way, but that's magic for you. He draws another breath in slowly, then straightens and begins gesturing with hand and staff to invoke the field once more; it pops back into being a bare foot from Nari, shimmering and innocent-seeming in the early morning light.

It would be instinct to simply take the words at face value--at "all right"--and continue blithely onward with their conversation now that they're past that hurdle of awkwardness. It would be instinct, it would be easy, and--Myr doesn't do easy. "It's a damned shame you've had to get used to it and I'm sorry to have contributed, Serah Draco. You deserve better of the world."

Especially given how tumultuous it's been lately, to say nothing of exactly how--fraught--it was to be a professed Loyalist in the Inquisition. They need to be better to each other.

Myr settles back in his own chair as Mal seats herself, steepling his hands before him and giving her words due consideration. "Right, though I'm afraid we haven't access to the arcanist or the notes; the Inquisition discovered all the crystals we've got in Skyhold, without any creator in sight. Which doesn't mean we couldn't recreate one from scratch--but that might not be the best use of our time."

Their last mission together hadn't afforded so much time that Myr could really say he knows Araceli, either, though Van's had enough good to say about her that he'd been glad to know she'd be coming along with them. (And her conduct through the whole thing had more than borne it out and impressed him besides--the things she knew weren't things one learned in Circles, and some had the cachet of the forbidden about them, which is more than enough to attract Myr's boundless curiosity. ...If, that is, he'd felt he knew her well enough to ask--but he didn't, quite yet.) That whole favorable gestalt's remained firmly in place, is enough to bring a hint of a smile instantly to his lips as she calls his name, for all it's a little melancholy and distracted with thought.

To say nothing of the idea of something more he must be discrete about, though he doesn't hesitate to answer: "Serah Bonaventure--it's good to hear your voice again. I've time, and we've got a room to sit in, if you'd like; I know no one uses it after us."

He pushes the door he's standing beside open by way of invitation; it's a heavy enough thing that they can talk without whispering and not be overheard, once it's closed.

There were those in the group who certainly wouldn't appreciate Anders' company, but--were anyone to ask Myr, he'd surprise even himself to say the infamous mage would be welcome to sit in on the proceedings and even talk of them, if he'd follow the rules everyone else did. No one has asked him and so that little bit of tolerance might never be put to the test, but there it was nevertheless.

He raises his head from his internal rumination at the sound of someone nearby, unable to place the noise with a person until Anders speaks up. The look that flickers across his face when the other mage does is--complicated, but melts into something like a smile (albeit a sad one) after a moment. "Given wisps," he says, slowly, "that theory doesn't surprise me so much; all they want to do is look at everything here in the world of opposition. Who's Cole?"

If Myr were able to sense the glowering presence sitting in on the group, he'd certainly given no indication of being disturbed by it. (Some of the other participants had maybe a little less sangfroid; a hulking rifter in all black was unusual and anything unusual was a cause for worry to some minds, but...no one had objected, since Kylo was quiet.) He's not any more bothered now as Kylo speaks up, instead favoring the other man's rough direction with a smile that's a little abashed around the edges.

"I hope it wasn't too much of a lecture," he replies, warmly enough. "Though it's a trickier topic to discuss." And so he'd had to fill in holes in the conversation, goes unsaid.

It's tempting to reply to the rest of Kylo's comment with one of the theologian's usual lines about free will; it's easy to hear it as an implicit attack on the Maker's divinity--but something in the phrase catches Myr's attention and halts his tongue until he's given it better consideration. "That they did, and to disastrous effect in every case. Does it surprise you that it should be so?"

Myr, in turn, had heard a little about Ignis--both from the Inquisition grapevine and sources altogether more terrifying and unlikely--and had it tucked away in his mind that he wasn't the organization's only blind agent. It firmed his own resolve to continue working on those little conveniences he'd come up with for himself, to turn them into something that could be shared with others in similar straits. No way he could replicate his own sense of magic and thus the utility the glyphs offer in marking and navigation--but he'd ample thoughts on how they could be tuned for someone who could only hear them, and that was only his first idea...

He's at work on one of his other ideas when Ignis finds him in his usual corner of the library, a spot he'd chosen not just for its isolation--so he's not tripped over constantly--but also for the clear echoes and placement away from the sound-deadening stacks. The rock walls catch the sound of a startled breath and someone sitting up straighter in his chair (a rustle of cloth, a faint creak of wood) at Ignis' approach and question, sending the noise back out into the room. "Can I help you, serah?" comes the return question, warm as ever with a smile around the words. Beneath them, something gives a quiet ping, as of a glass struck by the flick of a nail.

Ignis appreciates the corner as well, as he it's easier for him to form his mental image of what is around him. It's comforting, and it helps him realize he hadn't made a mistake and turned the wrong direction somewhere along the way.

"My name is Ignis Scientia. I am a Rifter who arrived in Thedas several months ago. During my time here, I've spoken to several people about my situation and a couple have suggested I speak with you." A pause. "They mentioned we might have something in common."

Walking into magic on purpose. What a world.

"Right, I'm headed in. I'm going to keep talking so that—" here Nari begins to walk through, attempting to keep her speaking to a regular tempo "—you can hear if there's any change in my speed from the outside, and I can let you know as I slow down, which I am, and Creators it's like walk i n g—" her narration stops, and there's only the sounds of the early morning Gallows.

Curiosity killed the cat, as they like to say. Not that he thinks this is going to kill him, but it is going to do SOMETHING to him.

Prompto had just been stepping over to see what Myr was doing, but he should have known better than to think he could sneak up on him. And now he's gonna play test subject. Oh boy. "Uh, sure...?" Whatever magic this is, Saoirse doesn't practice it, so he has no idea what it might be. But nothing ventured, nothing gained? Not that he's gonna gain anything from this, but, anything to help a bud out...

So with a bit of hesitation, Prompto steps into the field. Immediately his limbs begin to drag; the whole world's slowed to a crawl, or so it feels like. "This is really weird."

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when you've gone about things all wrong,

i write you in this letter that states scratched through // Vandelin

in graver mistakes // Newt

i

And now for something completely different ...

ii; pre-rifter negotiations

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ii-ish

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ii. /waltzes in late with starbucks

iv.

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pfff three days is barely late

\o/

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i