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

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{ jamie mccrimmon }

{ 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

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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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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."

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."

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."

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?"

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?"

Color creeps into Alfsigr's cheeks - even more than the rosy glow brought on by her glass of mulled wine - as his lips graze the back of her hand. When she draws her hand back, she tucks her arm against her chest, rubbing her opposite palm over the top. The motion may be awkward, but it isn't to be mistaken for distaste.

First he makes it clear he intends to ask her to dance if the music presents the opportunity, but then he asks her about the Circle. That saves her from having to stammer some response about the original topic. Home is easier. "I do," miss the Circle. "I didn't spend my whole life there. I still remember what it was like to travel from place to place, so the transition has been a bit easier for me than some others, I think. But... it was my home. The people were nice there." If a little oppressive. But the place had been beset by demons and abominations. Of course they'd be a little harder on the charges there.

If Alfsigr's reaction to the kiss wounds Vergil, he doesn't betray any pain. His expression conveys only intent interest, as if the crowd of revelers around them did not exist, as if Alfsigr were the only person in the whole world.

"A surprisingly complimentary attitude. Then you aren't a whole-hearted supported of the Southern mages' bid for self-determination? The Circle system- it makes some sense to you?"

He follows the question with an apologetic frown.

"I'm sorry to talk politics, my dear, I realize it's uncouth, but I'm still a stranger in a strange land. And you're the loveliest, friendliest face I've yet to encounter."

"I... I don't know what to believe. Some of the Circles were awful - I've heard stories." They all have. By now it's fairly obvious why everything went to shit. Alfsigr fidgets, clasping her hands in front of her and pressing her fingers against each other in a nervous gesture. "But it's all right. I don't mind talking about it. I just... nobody usually asks my opinion is all."

The young woman sighs and shrugs a little helplessly. "I didn't hate it. The system worked for me. My family abandoned me when it was decided my magic was more of a burden than a gift. The Circle took me in when I had nowhere else to turn."

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.

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."

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?"

Vergil restrains a smile as he perceives Alfsigr's nerves, hears her attest to her own ancillary status. So demure, so unassuming- he never would have imagined it from someone touched by the Fade.

"Really? It seems to me that yours is the opinion that matters most." Vergil leans forward, again aiming to create a sense of confidence, of privacy within the crowd. And to convey that he is really listening. "The Maker gave you a remarkable gift. If he hadn't wanted you to decide how it should be used, he wouldn't have granted it."

His hands descend from their position as prop, folding on the middle of the table between them.

"So would you have it all back the way it was? At least the good things? What would have you changed, if you had the authority?"

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.

The idea of being proud or boastful of her magic seems detrimental to her health, honestly. Standing atop Skyhold's ramparts and screaming for the Templars to pay attention to her could have a very similar effect.

"The--" Alfsigr's eyes widen just a little, catching herself in some verbal stumble before it becomes something she doesn't want to divulge. "I don't always feel blessed by the Maker, I admit. But I do think there is a plan. I'm not certain where I fit in to it, but I'm sure I'll find my way someday."

Even if she believes it is the Creators that will guide her.

"I was safe in the Circle. People fear us, and inside of those walls I was safe. I miss that. If I could change something, I'd prefer to have more opportunities to travel to different parts of the world. At least to other Circles."

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.

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!

That gets him to look at her — while leaning ever-so-slightly away, like a cat that's afraid it's about to be touched. It also gives him just that much of a better angle to examine her from, to look for signs that she might have some knowledge or experience that could be of use here.

Has he seen her before? She may have been one of the ones on the road from the Storm Coast. Or not. The faces blur together after a point.

"Sorry?"

All the commotion in this place means the faces sort of blur together for her as well. Either she knew them from the tower, or she didn't. Whatever fell during her exodus to Skyhold has mostly been blocked out for the sake of not having to think too hard about anything.

"Oh." The young woman shrinks back. "I'm bothering you, aren't I? I'm sorry. I just thought that what you're doing looked interesting, and thought maybe I could help somehow." She retreats a step, giving him back the space she encroached on, and poising her to flee if the embarrassment of her own social awkwardness proves too much.

Edited (Punctuation is important.) 2015-12-11 16:30 (UTC)

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."

"You should visit the Circles in Tevinter," Vergil says, "given the chance. I've never feared mages. Many of my Chantry brothers were mages."

This is not strictly true - the stuff about fear, that is; it is difficult not to find dread in the prospect of someone who can set you afire with one thought, then freeze you solid with the next. But he draws a line between this practical fear and the superstitious terror he imagines is more typical of a southerner.

"That's not to say Tevinter doesn't have its woes. Not to say that some things there won't shock you. But you have the gift- you will be treated with respect. And I believe that the South has a great deal to learn from the North, and vice versa."

This really is true, and to make that as clear as it can be, Vergil adopts a guileless expression, hands spreading before him in a wide gesture of harmlessness. He's just said a lot, just owned directly to his origin and role. He might as well own to his purpose.

"That is why I am here."

The notion of a place where mages aren't feared is alien to Alfsigr, and she is slightly dubious of the idea that Tevinter would be different. Aren't Tevinter's magisters held up as an example to all for why magic is to be feared? Not that she hasn't heard people say that such depictions are all just Chantry dogma, lies meant to keep the mages of the South sequestered from the rest of the world.

"I'm not certain that I would be treated as you say." She's also heard stories of how elves are treated in the North. "Do you hope to learn from us here? If you hope to teach us something, I think you'll find we're very stubborn as a people. Change isn't something that comes easily." This horribly uncivil war is a bleak example of that very thing.

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.

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.

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.

"If you were a guest of my family," Vergil assures her, "you would receive every honor that was your due."

Again, this not quite equal to the truth. Being laetans, Vergil's house has some legal and social standing, but they are hardly the inviolable, not when the altus families do indeed hold every seat in the Magisterium. To be fair, it is less fear than simmering resentment and the occasional out and out quarrel. But Vergil is not sober enough to untangle this skein in a way that is safe for a first encounter. And anyways, the promise of a trip to distant Tevinter is not actionable, not yet, not by a long shot. It is no more than a fantasy he wishes to draw her into.

"You speak of an unwillingness to change to someone from the oldest nation in Thedas," Vergil says, grin going crooked, "if anything, I hope to find a much greater flexibility here. I am banking on a willingness to change." Albeit in the face of crisis. "The trouble with a glorious past is that it lures people into imagining there is some way of returning to it. But the river only ever flows one way, unless the Maker deems otherwise. The South must always look to the future. That is what I hope to win. A future."

But this is much too serious a point of discussion. Fine to broach, fine to let her see his enthusiasm, his progressive outlook, his appreciation for her heritage (a heritage the full scope of which he does not yet recognize or understand). But to linger on lofty matters? Bad for a first encounter with a pretty girl.

"I am also hoping to learn a few new dance steps," Vergil says, by way of turning the page, "I'll confess, I've been hoping to hear the bard play something I recognize, so I could take you in hand with confidence, but I suspect that when the time comes you may have to take the lead."

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{ open } I left the only home I knew

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