faderift | { open } I left the only home I knew

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.

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To be fair, she's made a habit of hiding those ears of hers. There's less she can do about the almost too-wide eyes and the shape of her nose, but there's a lot a person can rationalize away. People have a funny tendency to see only what they wish to.

"Do you?" Her eyes sparkle for a moment, then she reminds herself that this is all just a silly fantasy, and some of that delight is tempered. Though not entirely extinguished. "Are you always this charming?"

Rose coloring is the least of distortions when seeing the world through a lens of wine and desire. It doesn't help - or in another sense, it helps a great deal - that wide eyes and elfin nose are comely features. Nothing is more readily aestheticized than otherness, after all.

"I try always to be gracious," Vergil says, invitation still suspended in the air between them - he is persistent, if nothing else.

"But for you I'll confess to exceptional effort."

What can he possibly see in her? Alfsigr contemplates this as she takes a drink from her cup, her eyes staring into their muted and claret-tinted reflection. Would it be so terrible to entertain this notion? She could afford the fantasy for a night, couldn't she?

An insidious thought creeps into her mind: Are these the same thoughts that had gone through her mother's head?

"I'm nobody, sir," she murmurs demurely. "Hardly worth your effort, let alone the amount of time you've spent on me so far."

"Nobody? Preposterous."

Vergil does not truly see the struggle going on within Alfsigr. He is blind to it, just as he is blind to her mixed blood, despite the signs that can plainly be seen- her hesitation and self-deprecation as clear to the eye as her elfin features. But these, too, provide no disincentive to Vergil. If anything, they serve as encouragement. Debate is, after all, one of his specialities.

"I assure you, my dear, you do have a body One that youth and good fortune have been so good as to grace with two strong legs, and fine feet to match."

Vergil steps closer, letting his voice drop low enough to make the address as private as it can be managed in the hubbub. It is as if he is imparting some sort of secret, though what he says is a poet's formula likely older than the Chant of Light itself.

"Why waste those gifts? We have them for so little a time."

{ open } I left the only home I knew

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