{ open } I left the only home I knew

[spellwisp]

WHO: Alfsigr and you
WHAT: Various activities about Skyhold
WHEN: Throughout Haring
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: If you have something specific you'd like to do not covered by these more vague options, please by all means start a thread. I'm available at andyourbirdcanscene should you desire to hash out details of any sort, but honestly I will roll with anything. Any. thing.

By this point Alfsigr has more or less settled in to life at Skyhold, though she still isn't precisely sure where she fits in the grand scheme of the Inquisition.

She's not quite an academic or scholar, though she spends a good amount of time in the library reading just about anything she can get her hands on. Whether it's an educational text or a work of fiction. (She's read Hard in Hightown half a dozen times at least. Consequently, any time she happens to occupy the same space as the book's author, she gets just a little bit giddy, even if she tries really hard not to let on.)

She's no herbalist, but she helps tend to the various plants in the courtyard all the same. While they don't exactly thrive under her care, she hasn't killed one yet, so that's a plus.

She's certainly no spirit healer, and so far as anyone knows, she's no battlemage. She doesn't even have her own staff, but she makes due with what she can borrow from the stores when it comes time to practice. It isn't that she isn't enthusiastic about her craft, but she seems reserved. Like she might actually be afraid of what she could do, except that isn't quite it either.

She's no drinker, either. Despite all continued efforts at it. She spends a decent amount of time in the tavern - she finds the people terribly interesting, and she enjoys the taste of wine even when it's not great wine. But she doesn't hold that wine well. Half a glass in and she's usually rosy cheeked, slightly drowsy, and definitely giggly. One day she'll giggle in the wrong person's direction.

So, Alfsigr knows all the things she isn't. Surely that should eliminate enough to tell her what she is. No? Well, no matter. Nothing seems to dampen the young woman's spirit as she passes through the various public areas of Skyhold, inquisitive but quiet, seemingly without desire to cause a nuisance of herself, unless spoken to.

Comments

[flamen_turbulentum]

It's at the library that Vergil first notices her, her and her voracity for books. He hasn't seen that in women, not often. This is just a matter of exposure of course. Men tended to dominate clerical positions, a reverse mirror to the Southern way, like so much else. So it strikes him as unusual, if only in his experience. She has the eyes for it, though. Big eyes, wide and receptive.

It took him some time to realize she was a mage at all. It wasn't until he caught a glimpse of her practicing in the courtyard, her talents noteworthy, her power undeniable He hadn't expected that, such power in someone so... understated. To be a mage in Tevinter was never a light one hid under a bushel. But things are different here. He must get used to that.

It's not until the tavern that Vergil approaches her. She may well have been drinking, but so has he. Enough to give him impetus, not enough for him to slur his speech. Never that, not while he needs his words, his best friends, only weapons- the closest thing to magic he'll ever have.

"I must ask- where are you from, you intriguing creature?"

Vergil stands before her, lean and dark, dressed in ring velvet dyed midnight black, well enough worn without having yet started to fade. A wine cup is in his hand, that lately was at his lips, drawing a horizon upon which Alfsigr stood. Now he takes her in at closer quarters, presuming if not looming.

"You're too delicate to be a Fereldan, too modest to be Orlesian. Too bright to be a Navarran, too pure to be an Antivan. And you are much, much too pretty to be an Ander. No one is from Rivain, and I know you're not from home. So wherever could you be from?"

He flashes a wide, bright grin.

"Did you stroll right out of some dream in the Fade?"

A brow arches as he punctuates his words with a drink from his cup.

"I hear that does happen around these parts."

[spellwisp]

It might be somewhat comical the way Alfsigr looks over each shoulder to make sure that there isn't someone else just nearby that the man is addressing, because he surely cannot be speaking to her, can he? She watches him with those wide eyes that caught his attention before, and giggles into the back of her hand.

"Oh, no." She's certainly heard where are you from more times than she can count. The answer is never supposed to be I'm Dalish. Then again, the question usually isn't because the person asking it is trying to pay her a compliment. "I'm not out of the Fade. I'm just a girl from Kinloch Hold."

[flamen_turbulentum]

He's done enough research to know about the Circle Tower; understanding and taking advantage of the civil war is one of the key points on his agenda. But this doesn't seem quite the time or place for politics. His other brow rises to join its sibling, morphing his expression into one of surprise.

"You have just noticeably improved my opinion of Fereldan," Vergil avers.

He steps a little closer, raising a hand to cup his mouth in a gesture of conspiratorial communication. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm a deplorable snob. Comes of living amidst crumbling grandeur. The freshness and youth of Fereldan, it's shocking- one is forced either to scorn or to envy. And envy is hard when you think of yourself as living at the center of the universe. Not that scorn is more than envy's daughter."

The hand drops to offer itself, palm upwards, to take Alfsigr's- should she deign to bestow it.

"Brother Vergil, lately of Asariel. I insist on making your acquaintance."

[spellwisp]

There's a brief moment of realization that displays clearly on her features, but she offers her hand all the same with a shy smile. "Alfsigr." Being elf-blooded was always secondary to being human-blooded, and tertiary to being a mage. It must be nice for someone to say they are recently from somewhere, given choice in the matter somehow.

"It's nice to meet you, Vergil." She gestures to the seat across from her at her small table. "Would you like to sit down?"

[flamen_turbulentum]

Her hand in his, Vergil lifts it to his lips and places a light, courtly kiss upon it. His eyes remain on her as he does so, the motion smooth and well practiced. He's done this before, clearly.

He cocks his head upon Alfsigr's request, as if listening for a telltale bird's call. Not likely, though, in the hubub of the tavern. "The bard is still on ballads," he observes, "so I suppose I can rest my feet." He pulls out the chair opposite, and takes a seat, his motions languid but not clumsy. The wine comes to rest on the table, followed soon after by his elbows as he laces his fingers together, sets his chin upon them, and leans forward. His smile is a study in vulpine slyness.

"When the music calls for dancing, though, the spirit may well move me. When that time comes, I hope to have a partner."

No points for guessing who he means by that.

"Do you miss the Circle? I may be physically farther from home, but I was never cloistered- at least, not as you must have been. Is the wide world still surprising?"

Courtyard

[seesobserves]

The Mire had been a decent enough place to flex his mental muscles. If nothing else, it had allowed him to return to the Inquisition stronghold with a renewed vigor, a desire to actually get to productive work rather than continue shooting shapes into archery targets.

It also helps that the reconstruction of the castle has progressed in his absence, and the garden is actually turning into a useful space. Sherlock has staked a claim on one of the remaining pots, and is currently sat on a bench with the pot at his feet and a smaller vessel in his hand. In his other hand is a pestle, being used to crush up a rather foul-looking concoction.

...foul-smelling, too. He lifts up the pestle to give it an experimental sniff, and wrinkles his nose.

[spellwisp]

Most seem to be giving a wide berth to the man and his... whatever that is he's got going there, but Alfsigr is drawn in by her curiosity. There's a spring in her step as she approaches, her own gardening project abandoned in favor of observing quietly for a moment before she reminds herself that that's weird, and she needs to say something.

She knows that scent, doesn't she? Her large eyes narrow faintly as she also experimentally sniffs the air. "What is that? I can't... place it. But you'd think I could, being as how it's so... uh, distinctive."

[seesobserves]

He glances up before he answers. Not at her — she's close enough to see without looking directly at her — but at the sky. Referencing it.

"Conditions here aren't right for growing Deep Mushrooms. Sometimes nature needs a leg up." Or, to be more specific, a concoction of swamp soil and spider guts. She'll likely be able to catch a bit of spider hair on the pestle when he holds it up again to check the consistency.

[spellwisp]

That draws a smile on the young woman's face. "Oh! That's really smart." She draws in a little closer, careful to stay out of his light, and peers more directly at the paste.

"Is there anything I can help with?" She doesn't mind getting her hands dirty in this most literal sense, repugnant smell or no.

Tavern

[wontforgetyou]

There's a lot of things to be said about the Mire, if you ask Jamie. None of them, right now, are very complimentary - except for the part where he's finally back from his trip out there. That is something he's grateful for. Very much so, at this point, considering he's had to go there twice so far. A third time is something he's hoping very much doesn't have to happen any time soon - or ever.

After taking the time to wash the smell of the bog out of his kilt (again), he retreats to the comfort of the tavern, something he's also more than a bit grateful for. The ale might be watered down some, but it doesn't taste like swampy mud, and while there may be a fair few amount of people found inside, the place is also warm and dry, and he can relax for what feels like the first time in months.

Being giggled at in there isn't something he's expecting to happen, however, and when the slightly rosy-cheeked lass sitting a couple of seats down does just that, it winds up confusing him quite a bit. Enough so that after surreptitiously checking to make sure his buttons are buttoned and he's not got anything in his teeth, he winds up patting at the top of his head before turning towards Alfsigr with a faintly perplexed expression on his face.

"Och, let me guess. I've straw in my hair again, don't I?"

[spellwisp]

Everyone's said she's fortunate to have avoided an excursion into the Fallow Mire, but everything Alfsigr has heard about it has just intrigued her and made her sorry she missed it. All that strange magic! Okay, so there were a lot of dead things to contend with, and that's not the most fun a person can have, but there's trade-offs with everything, right?

Oh. Oh, no. She was giggling again, wasn't she? That's not how you make friends, Alfie! "I'm so sorry. I was just thinking about something funny that I overheard earlier today. I didn't mean to laugh at you. Your hair is lovely." The words come out in a quick stream - Welsh accented to his ears - clearly flustered. "Sorry, sorry." Please don't be mad!

[wontforgetyou]

Normally something like being giggled at would be a sure way to get his mouth tugging off to one side in a rather disgruntled sort of fashion. And for a second it almost appears as though he's going to pull that face, but the lass is so clearly flustered that the expression never quite materializes. Instead, he nods once, seemingly satisfied with that explanation.

"That's alright, then." Rather than turn around and go about his business, though, he tilts his head ever so slightly, a considering sort of look creeping over his face. After a moment, he adds, "You don't need to apologize quite so much, though. I may be one of those rifter sorts, but I did get the idea with the first sorry."

It's not meant unkindly, and he adds in a smile as well, hopefully letting her know that he really isn't angry. Just in case that doesn't work, however, he does have one other plan - although that comes with the smile as well.

"Tell you what, though. You can make it up to me by telling me your name. I'm Jamie."

[spellwisp]

Oh. It's a minor miracle that she manages to stay her tongue before another reflexive sorry can get past. Sorry for saying sorry is sort of what he's suggested she not do.

She's bashful suddenly. Well, not so suddenly. If she continues to babble on, she doesn't have the time to be shy. It's only when she forces herself to be silent for a moment, and think before she speaks, that she lets it all get the better of her. "Alfsigr. It's a real pleasure to meet you." Said with the utmost sincerity.

Tavern » Zevran

[spellwisp]

The handsome elf in the corner strumming his lute, he had said. Well, written. Alfsigr hadn't had the heart to commit it to writing that she's afraid the Antivan will find her horribly disappointing. Not where anyone can see it, anyway. But she'll take any chance she can find to make a friend. Especially one who can tell her about other parts of Thedas.

Her approach is hesitant, but the glass of wine in her hand has bolstered her resolve, and so here she is. "Hello." He is quite handsome.

[ombranera]

Now there is a beauty, one he's more than happy to pause in his strumming and storytelling to greet. He finishes his last refrain with a flourished strum before setting his lute aside. "Mia Bella, Yes?"

[spellwisp]

She giggles at the way the words sound when he speaks them. It's girlish, and not unkind. She's nervous, but excited. "Yes, that's me. My name's Alfsigr." She stops just short of scuffing one bare foot against the floor. Let's not be too girlish. "It's nice to meet you."

[ombranera]

"And a pleasure to meat you as well, Alfsigr." He extends his hand to her, all courtly grace and chivalrous manner. At least up until the point when such things are no longer desired.

Garden » Cyril

[spellwisp]

A chance to really speak with another Dalish, one who got to stay among the people, is a rare opportunity. Not quite so rare these days, here in Skyhold, but not something so present at home in Kinloch Hold.

She has to remind herself that the Circle is no longer her home. It may never be her home again. Claiming Skyhold might be her home feels like trespass somehow. The Inquisition has accepted her with open arms, however, and it's as good a place as any to rest her head and try to find a purpose. The garden is one of her favorite places. The ground is hard beneath her feet, but it feels right. She wants to wiggle her toes in the earth, but refrains. She tries not to track mud into the hold, it just makes more work for someone else. Frolicking is right out, of course, but her excitement is boundless, and she bounces a little restlessly, waiting to catch sight of the Dalish who's agreed to tell her stories.

[samahl]

Cyril isn't entirely certain who he is looking for, but he assumes she'l let herself be known when he comes out in the garden.

He does feel comforted by being in this place. It's strange to see it growing so well up here in the mountains and the fact that it's managed to thrive fills him with a real sense of home.

[spellwisp]

It's not like it's uncommon to see one of the dalish in the gardens, but most of them don't tend to look as if they're looking for someone. It helps Alfsigr spot him. She approaches with a spring in her step and a broad smile.

"Are... you the one I spoke to? Well, wrote to?"

[samahl]

"I believe so. I'm Cyril." He offers her his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

outside somewhere

[dairsmuid]

Elian has no desire to make a nuisance of himself, either, for the most part. He's quiet, contained, distant--but observant. He watches her practicing her magic with brief glances rather than outright stares, ostensibly still reading the book (The Word and Challenge of the Chant) held open in his hands. It isn't until he reaches the end and needs to return it to the library that he stands up, and not until he's already passing near her that he speaks.

"You're not Circle-trained."

[spellwisp]

The words register and startle Alfsigr enough to fumble her staff. She turns sharply, wide eyes open a little wider. "I'm sorry?" No, no, no. What did she do that gave her away? It's been a while since anyone made that observation, and it's always set her on edge.

Especially coming from a Templar. "Yes I am. I'm from Kinloch Hold. You can ask anyone. I'm not an apostate." Sure, there are no Circles right now and every mage is technically an apostate depending upon who you ask, but the point stands that she trained in the Circle. Eventually.

[dairsmuid]

"You're all apostates now," Elian says. They're loaded words, but not particularly accusatory beyond that. It's merely a fact. An unfortunate one. He hadn't had any plan to stay and talk to her beyond that observation, but he stops now, looking her over. "You don't hold yourself like a Circle mage. You hold yourself like an apostate trying to hold herself like a Circle mage."

He knows; he's hunted them. But he works for the Inquisition now, and the Inquisition has accepted all sorts. She isn't in any danger from him.

[spellwisp]

Alfsigr digs the tip of her staff into the ground as if to make it more sturdy for her to lean upon. Her knuckles grow white. "I'm a loyalist," she insists. She'd be perfectly pleased to have the Circles reinstated and find herself a new home within them. Life was simpler there. This? All of this is chaos.

"Does it matter where I started," she asks without sharp edges, "so long as I came to be in the Circle?"