Simple Gifts [Closed]

[laurenande]

WHO: Galadriel, Thranduil, Solas, Myrobalan, Merrill, Kitty, Lakshmi, Teren, Marcoulf, Jang, Obi-Wan, and Anders
WHAT: A trip to a perfectly normal Chantry in the middle of nowhere.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: The Island of Alamar, Ferelden.
NOTES: Current warnings, to be updated: Graphic Descriptions of Gore

The Abbey on the White Cliff

Travel to the Abbey on the White Cliff is no easy matter. While it stands not far from Amaranthine, the waters between the mainland and the island shores are a wicked confluence of eddies and razor sharp rock. The rain is ever-present here and the wind moves unpredictably at the best of times. Ships of size cannot travel easily to the island of Alamar and small boats are rarely steady through the choppy water. Fortunately, as the Inquisition approaches, the world takes some pity on them and the waters seem to still and calm. The clouds linger but, at the very least, they don't open above them until they have reached the land.

The island is a grey affair, all rocks and scrub and damp. The village, an austere looking outcropping of buildings, is entirely made from the local stone and, were it not for the red clay roofing, would blend into the landscape seamlessly. Very few people have strayed into the rain to greet the Inquisition and, without the voices to echo off the stone, most sound is drowned in the lapping of waves and the heavy fall of rain. As a result of the weather and the lack of citizens, the town has the general quality of a graveyard.

The merchants who work the docks are affable enough and, after unloading their haul and securing it somewhere a bit drier, offer to take the Inquisition up to the Abbey proper. The rain slows before long and the merchants lead the Inquisition to the main roads and, let them on their way. Fortunately, the Island is not terribly large and, even walking, it will take only a few hours to arrive at the far side of it.

As the party leaves the village and the shore, the island landscape opens before them. Sloping moors give way to periodic outcroppings of rock and, against the horizon and the far end of the island, there rests a dark forest of pines. The Abbey on the White Cliff stands at the far side, at the top of the hill and overlooking the waves. The road they travel is an easy one, well worn, and the buildings come into view long before they reach them--they stand several stories tall, made of the same stone as the village. They are moss-covered and have the look of an old building that has been questionably kept--at least, from a distance.

The closer one gets to the buildings, the more obvious the additions and repairs become. Windows that have no business holding glass have had colorful windows inset to them. The doors are heavy, wooden, and new. The ironwork on the walls is polished and unworn by the rain. There are no torches lit but, once the Inquisition members have reached the doors, they open promptly.

They are greeted by a Chantry Sister with a bright smile and rosy cheeks and, without hesitation, the lot of them are welcomed into the Abbey.


OOC:

Hey guys! So I plan on aggressively GMing this one. Basically I want to run this like D&D, or as near as I can manage.

The location threads below are available for single player/two player exploration, I will be tagging you with information based on where you go or what you do, but if you want to do a bigger thread please just use the team threads at the bottom. That way if you all decide you want to check out the [INSERT LOCATION HERE] and it leads you to [DIFFERENT LOCATION] I can move you along without changing threads.

Because of your proficiencies, different characters will have advantages in different areas/while talking to different people, so groups are best. I will also be PMing your character journal periodically with any information that your character may have picked up on that nobody else would.

The NPCs are available for talking to or questioning by any number of people. Their general locations are in their thread headers so you can travel there as a crew or ask me to send them at you, if you so desire.

Feel free to do new top-levels if you guys really want, I am just here to try and make this fun.

Comments

Sister Luca - Found Passing Through

[laurenande]

Sister Luca is a young woman with a long braid of blonde hair that she wears over her shoulder. She has a sharp face and an unforgiving air about her. Her voice is strict, but not unkind, and she moves with purpose. She is often carrying books or papers, or carrying trays of food to and from the building to the north of the Main Hall.

The other Sisters treat her with deference as she passes and, if asked, any one of them will state that Sister Luca is going to be the Reverend Mother soon.

[hello_there]

The very first time Obi-Wan sees Sister Luca, he does not speak to her. Rather he steps back and allows her to pass him by, with a respectful nod in service to the equally deferential attitude of those around her. The second time, later that very same day, he is better prepared.

"Excuse me, you're Sister Luca, is that correct?" Walk-and-talks are a common Jedi mode of operation. There is a time for meditative stillness, and a time for purposeful action; Sister Luca seems like a busy woman, "May I presume we have you to thank, for our kind invitation?"

One does not openly thank individuals for money. That would be crass. In addition, concerns of budget are so far below Obi-Wan's personal concern that they might as well not exist; all the better not to offend with greed.

[laurenande]

Luca almost reels as he moves alongside her, her surprise flashing across her face as he addresses her directly. Her expression shifts, within an instant, to a flicker of irritation and then to a resigned sort of calm. She does not slow and does not shift the papers in her arms. She glances at his hands as she looks back ahead and, as she notes the green glimmer of the rift mark, her resignation spreads and she slows her step somewhat.

"Only if you mean the letter itself," Luca corrects him. Her accent is very thick and from very far south. Her tones are clipped and precise, as though she has tried for some time to be rid of that accent and failed. "The invitation came from Reverend Mother Alvar."

There is a hitch in her response, near the end, and she draws a deep breath. She has clearly been instructed to behave and be kind to the visitors, regardless of how much work she has to accomplish. She takes a moment to center herself and looks at him fully, something she has not yet done.

"The trip is taxing, I do hope you've found our hospitality a balm."

[hello_there]

Obi-Wan is not a politician. Or rather, he is one, but only by necessity, a calling rather than a choice. Still, he'd have to be thirty years younger and blind in the Force not to feel the quiet, polite impatience roiling off Sister Luca's shoulders like mist on the Waking Sea. She had it held down, clenched in both hands and well-tamed, but it was still there, in her hesitation, and the twitch of her face. And the way it changes, when she notices the flash of shard, in his palm.

"A gracious invitation is a gift in its own right, whatever the originating hand," It sounds good, for nonsense, and speaks well enough, "I apologize, I can see that you are quite busy. Perhaps I could lend you a hand."

[laurenande]

"A hand?" she asks and looks almost taken aback until, after a pause, she realizes he is offering assistance. The bit of reluctance in her face doesn't fade immediately and she looks down at the load she carries.

"If...you like," she agrees after a brief pause and, more than anything, seems uncertain of the wisdom of this invitation. They had paused in step for a time, to talk and have her respond properly to him, and now she starts moving again. It takes a few steps for her to regain her momentum.

"I am transporting the Reverend Mother's correspondence to the library for storage. I must bind the pages and shelve them. Can you bind books or sew?"

[hello_there]

"Paper books were always somewhat uncommon, back home," He admits, calmly keeping pace despite his sheepish tone, ever the game and willing soul, "I can sew, though I'll never be a tailor."

Not the least reason for which being that every piece of clothing he owns is sized to fit nearly anyone who fits the category 'human.' Such is the Jedi way.

"No education is ever complete. Lead the way."

[laurenande]

Luca leads Obi-Wan back toward the main hall, toward the doors at the end of the long nave. They are forced to weave through the masses but, when they can, the crowd parts for Luca. Before she reaches the end of the hall, she turns left and travels north. The door at the end of the northern transept is not locked, but it is ill used and the moment she opens it, rain and cold air flood up against them. She holds the papers tight, ushers him through, and follows after as she shuts the door.

Beyond the doorway to the northern transept, the walkway is worn and unkempt. The awning is bowed a bit, the wood is rotting but still stable enough to hold. At the end of the walkway stands a small building with a door that does not quite close on its own. Luca opens it by levering the whole of her against it, digging her shoulder in and shoving.

The building beyond is small and cramped, filled with the assorted furnishings that once resided in the dormitories. It is dry inside, but it is not warm and moving down the hallway is a challenge. They pass a good number of doors as they head toward the end of the darkened hall.

"Mind your steps," she warns absently but firmly.

The door at the end of the hall requires a key, one she pulls from the belt of her robes, and the door unlocks with some ceremony. When she pushes it open, thin golden candlelight spills out over the hallway. They are, at once, standing in an office. There is a single lit candle on a large desk to one side of the room. The other side of the room is filled with bookcases and each case is stuffed with books and spare paper. The room smells heavily of pages and wax and the distant stench of smoke. Unlike the rest of the building, this room is free from obstructive clutter.

This is the library and, while it is no bigger than any small chapel in any other chantry, it is filled with new books.

Sister Luca moves to the desk as she arrives and sets her pages down on it before carefully moving the letters in progress from the surface of the desk. There is a decanter of wine on the table, and a tray set aside. Two glasses stand empty and waiting on the wooden tray. Luca moves the lot of it away and sets them on a low stack of books to make room for Obi-Wan to join her.

[hello_there]

So too Obi-Wan follows, a respectful step behind her, or two. And when Luca pushes on the door, he waits patiently. After all, she neither needs, nor has asked for, his help. And the Library...

It's not the smell, although that is one he is coming to associate with such rooms, with the Inquisition. It's the sound, though not the quality. All libraries, even ones stocked with holocrons and data-chips, have this hush. Perhaps here it's brought on by the physical weight of paper and wood. Knowledge seems to live in the air, only multiplying the oppressive air that's hung over Obi-Wan since he first stepped off the docks.

Two glasses. But for whom? He makes no comment, only joins her at the correct invitation. Another piece of the puzzle, filed away for later.

"I find your abbey very comforting," He lies, after an appropriate pause, and with a smile meant to put her at ease, even if it is a little disingenuous, "I was raised in a monastic temple, myself. It was very different, in many ways, but the sense of peace is familiar. And welcome, compared to Kirkwall."

[laurenande]

Luca pauses as he speaks, freezes in place for a moment before standing tall again. Her expression is a bit cross and there is color on her cheeks as she regards him--her frown is tight as she crosses behind him to retrieve supplies from a chest near the door.

"You may stop lying to me whenever you like," she says, tersely, and shuts the chest a bit more firmly than is strictly necessary. When she returns to the desk she sets the materials down--a brick of wax, bone needles, cotton thread, strips of trimmed linen in various colors--and goes about dragging a chair to the front of the desk. It is a simple seat, without adornment, and she sets it down for him before moving to take the larger seat behind the desk.

"This Abbey is not comforting, not to anyone, least of all those who do not live here," she says and takes a deep breath. Her resignation from before reasserts itself and she tries to calm. She starts sorting the pages before her and continues speaking--her voice is lowered on reflex.

"It is frigid, remote, and barren. Peace is only the absence of voices, not the absence of chaos which we suffer a constant array of. The sea is loud, the wind is louder, and the rain is perpetual. You need not stand on niceties, I've no want of them and they will not change my opinion of you."

[doneisdone]

"Sister Luca?"
The voice is low and brusque, and belongs to a very tall and thin woman who looks like she could kill a person by scowling at them. At her side, the younger but still world-weary blond mage, both clearly visitors from the Inquisition.

"If you've a moment."

[justice_is_blond]

"Or perhaps more than a moment. A few moments."

He wishes he had a cat with him. It would be comforting, he thinks, but at the same time if there's something demonic going on he'd not want either of them here. They can't fight a demon.

[laurenande]

Luca, who had been walking through the walkway that shields the cloister, halts her progress as she is addressed by name, but her expression belies more than a touch of confusion. She looks at the two of them, glances to their hands, and frowns just slightly ...but still, she stops and turns to face them.

"Yes?" she asks and it is not impolite, but it is not a warm greeting by any means. She follows it with: "How may I help you?"

[doneisdone]

The coldness doesn't bother Teren; if anything, they're kindred spirits.

"I was told you were the subject of..." she balks, unsure of how to phrase it, and glances at Anders. Teren is Andrastian, but feels silly saying the word. Nonetheless: "...a miracle, not long ago. A rapid healing back from the verge of death." She raises her eyebrows. "Is this true?"

[justice_is_blond]

"Forgive us for doubting. It's simply that I'm a healer, and I've seen the state of the people in your infirmary and it... It's hard to see the connection." Why are so many dying in there while one woman has been saved, if it's true?

[laurenande]

Luca stiffens as Teren speaks, drawing herself up to a ramrod posture as her expression dips with something that is akin to but not entirely anger. She listens and takes a deep breath, staying her temper as she stares at the other woman. Unconsciously she shifts, drawing the papers tucked under her arm across her torso and holding them there with both arms crossed on top.

"Yes," she replies, at length and looks between the two of them, suspicion and discomfort clear in every line of her. "It is true, I was brought back from--I was injured very badly. I was restored.

"Did you..." she pauses and it is something of a struggle to continue, but she soldiers on. "Did you have a question? Apart from regarding the veracity of the claim? Or are you simply asserting that we are falling behind in our obligations?"

[doneisdone]

When it comes to tact, Anders is the Good Cop in this situation. Teren plows right through. "What happened?" she asks, as curious as anything, not even necessarily incriminating. "How did your injuries come about?"

[justice_is_blond]

He grimaces. They're absolutely not approaching this right, and he's not even the most deft at conversation.

"Unless it's too painful to talk about." He can't deny that maybe there's useful information there, even if it's definitely not a good way to find it out.

sometime on Day 2, later

[faithlikeaseed]

Myr needs to know these people better.

It's obvious to him now why the Maker might've gifted them so richly with miracles: This is how the Chant should be lived, completely and with joy in the face of all adversity, all prejudice, all strife. They've accepted him as he is--elf, mage, blind--without a qualm; accepted their rifters with considerably more than a simple lack of qualms. Everything the abbey has is freely given, freely shared--no one man claiming anything, that the others might have lost--down to those miracles that cost the Revered Mother so dearly.

Thinking of that--has led him to seek out Mother Alvar's successor, in part to calm the little serpent of dread gnawing at his own heart. She hadn't sounded well; it's very likely healing him will take all she's got left and he needs to know--that this strange and precious little oasis will be able to continue what it's about, without her. And so--when once he hears someone address Luca in the halls, hears her reply to know she's there, he makes his approach.

"Sister Luca? I'd walk with you to wherever you're bound next, if you don't mind the company. I've a question or two."

[laurenande]

It was a carpenter who waylaid her, asking after the storage for the wood they were bringing in a few days. It was a blessedly simple question with a straightforward answer, one she gives with some ease and one that leaves her open to Myr's interruption. He waits until she has finished, to his credit, and then approaches her respectfully. She is not expecting him but, when one has an audience to normal conversation, it is not hard to guess what they desire.

She waits for him, she is not impolite, but she does not school her expression to be anything more friendly than a mild scowl. She is in no mood and the questions she has already entertained have burned through what gentleness she had reserved for this day.

"Of course you do," she says blandly and with a bit of bite to it, but she does not let that linger in her tone. "This way," she adds and, recalling his blindfold, continues speaking where normally she would have halted, "I am headed to the library, you are welcome to join me there."

She steps firmly, so that he might hear her, and does not walk with the same speed she had employed before the carpenter stopped her.

"Ask me what you like and I will answer what I can, but I do hope you are not as rude as your fellows. I lack the energy to suffer another interrogation."

[faithlikeaseed]

"Gladly, sister."

It would be a lie to say he's not a little taken aback by her manner, though he'd had some warning--from conversations overheard and questions answered--that she was under a great deal of strain. And he knows what strain can do to a person, how it shows in voice and manner and patience-- But he hadn't quite expected the bite to her tone.

Definitely hadn't expected other members of the Inquisition might be at fault for it, either.

"Maker's breath--who were they?" That--is not a diplomatic question, not an attempt to stand behind the rest of the party as a united front, and for the moment he doesn't particular care about that or what it says about how his loyalties have shifted overnight. (Quite literally.) "No, that--I'm sorry. You must think us spectacularly ungrateful to've responded to your invitation by swarming in to pick your abbey to pieces."

Not that he's not contributing to the effort in his way, but outright rudeness--even if all of them are laboring under the assumption something's very wrong about the place, it didn't extend to the people. They don't deserve that on top of everything else.

Consequently he spends a moment considering his own questions, before heaving a breath out in a quiet sigh. "I'm afraid some of what I'll ask might be tender in nature--and if you'd not speak of it, tell me so and I'll leave off.

"You're the Revered Mother's successor." That's not a question, but the next is: "Is that to her gifts, as well as her worldly authority?"

[laurenande]

They walk as they talk and Luca holds the door to the main hall, and then the northern transept as they pass through them. She is ot a friendly woman but she softens to Myr quickly, his outrage is, if nothing else, encouraging.

"A blond man and a woman with a scar on her face--" she begins tightly and reconsiders her tone. She gentles it with some effort as they continue toward the library "They asked quite a series of questions and were impolite through them all...but it is best to let such things go."

She gives him time to conjure his question, to phrase it as he likes, but she is not prepare for what he asks. It is lucky that they are alone in the walkway to the library because she stops and the expression that comes over her face is both telling and indescribable. She is silent for a long moment as she regards him.

Ultimately, though, his question is not so complex and the answer is even less so.

"Yes."

[faithlikeaseed]

There are only two other blond men Myr knows of among the party--though he knows, also, he's not heard most of the rifters described and hasn't any idea about the Orlesian fellow who'd come with them.

Nevertheless, barring the Provost having a sudden and inexplicable lapse of manners, he's a sinking suspicion of at least one of Luca's interrogators. And worse, a why for the rudeness. He shouldn't be surprised. He shouldn't, but he is, and recrimination wells bitter on the back of his tongue except--it is best to let such things go.

And there wasn't any saying Anders wasn't being--himself--out of an overabundance of worry for the abbey's people. That's an explanation, isn't it? The charitable kind that Myr ought to be embracing?

Damned if that's not a struggle, though, albeit one small part of a larger one--

He stops when Luca does, the expression he turns in her rough direction one of mute concern. He hadn't meant the question to be so arresting--but maybe he should've realized it would be, given what the answer implies. "That," he says at length, voice gentle, "must be a very hard burden to shoulder."

[laurenande]

She draws a tight, shaking breath and her steps resume. The door to the north building is unlocked and she holds it open as she exhales.

"More than you know," she says, in a moment of candor that she should not have indulged in. Her voice has shifted, lost all stern edge and bite and has absorbed, instead, an undercurrent of honest terror and sorrow. She clears her throat in an attempt to banish it.

"Come, unless that was your only question."

[faithlikeaseed]

He's respectful of her emotions--of how little, it seems, she's been showing anyone around her given their report of her. He waits until they're both inside the building with the door safely shut before responding: "I'd heard of the toll it takes. That you'd be willing to face that, young as you are, for the sake of those who come here--"

It's very brave, he almost says, but does not. He's heard that often enough when he's been terrified of something he'd screwed up his determination to do anyway--and never, ever felt brave in the moment, so the accolade always hung hollow. Instead, he presses his hand over his heart and inclines his head to her; it's a gesture more common in the backwaters of the northern Marches, but there's esteem in it still.

Only after a space of reverent silence does he take up the questions again, going carefully as a man probing a tender wound. "How long has your Revered Mother held her position?"

[laurenande]

The Library is warm, it is quiet, and shares much of the same ambiance that the Reverend Mother's apartments do. It is a place of calm, free from the oppressive cold that looms over the Abbey, and though Myr cannot see her, ther eis a shuffle of fabric as Luca wraps her arms very tightly around herself. She draws a calming breath as he speaks, as he refrains from commending her about her age, or her bravery, at least in anything more than implication--

His next question is not unexpected, but it is more direct than she had anticipated. She moves, lifts an arm to wave him to the books that rest against the wall, but recalls his blindfold in the same movement. He cannot read them.

It is very hard to answer this question, it is the very shape of her fear, but he has asked it. Anyone in the Abbey could have answered it for him, could have given him this, but it falls to her.

"Just more than a week," Luca answers and feels hollow for the words as she says them. All pretense of working leaves her as Myr confronts her with her fears, not in a trickle but at once, pulling her under like the tide. She moves and drops her weight into the chair before the desk. It creaks heavily but maintains.

This information was not requested, but why would he seek it? She supplies it unbidden and her hand is shaking as she speaks: "She is no older than I am."