WHO: Kostos/Alistair/Jehan/Silas & Various Others WHAT: Miscellany WHEN: Kingsway WHERE: Probably Kirkwall NOTES: See comment subject lines! And if you would like to do something feel free to just drop it in here.
The house is quieter than it might normally be. One single servant opens the door for Kostos, eyes him for a long moment, and using her better judgment decides to let him in. She is not one normally on the door. In fact, Kostos might recognise the older elf woman as one who has served the Vivas family for many years. He might even be aware of the five knives hidden on her person, if he notices that sort of thing, although none of them are in danger of being pulled on one of the mistress' dear ones. The servant - Corzon, that might be her name - leads Kostos through the atrium, her paces long and even, and she is still the only member of staff that seems to be present.
When they are not far from the entrance to the sitting room, crashing can be heard. Corazon does not flinch or seem especially surprised, but lets Kostos approach the entranceway alone, with a bow of deference.
Welcome to the Vivas estate! Nothing says my home is your home like a vase smashing on the doorframe one is walking through.
Kostos was braced before he stepped through the entrance, but not entirely prepared for this specific scenario. His head ducks down, his forearm darts up to shield his face and eyes. He's been at war too long for a barrier not to go up along with it, so when the pottery has finished falling around him and he looks for Marisol, the look of bewildered offense on his face is also shimmering blue-white.
The room is in disarray. Items swept off bookshelves, a houseplant slumped over the floor with earth spilled around it, a glass decanter and what one can only assume to be a horrendously expensive liquor pooled across the floor. She exhales, and her lips are faintly blue, breath misting strangely.
It takes her a moment to register that someone is there (unusual) and another to assume Kostos, from the barrier that is risen. One of her hands rests against her abdomen, and she is not at all composed.
"Are you hurt?" Concerned, though without the gentleness that normally comes naturally when she speaks to family.
“No,” he says, without any hint of reassurance, the syllable lobbed like a vase of his own, or a rock, or at least a dirt clod. No, he isn’t hurt, but that doesn’t mean this general situation is acceptable—
and he’s horrifically hypocritical, he knows; their tempers might spring from the same bloodline, for all the punches he’s thrown, the fights he’s been dragged out of by the hair, the days he’s spent cooling his heels in Circle cells. But it’s also flashfire. There and then doused by fifteen years of heavily supervised self-control. Or covered, at least, and left to simmer.
He brushes pottery off one shoulder and surveys the wreckage.
Businesslike, she steps over a smashed bottle on the floor, skirts skilfully avoiding the streaks and puddles of wine and the shattered glass, and she collects intact glasses.
Her tone is light in a way that is overtly deceptive and false. "Oh, yes. My aim would be better, if not for the Circles."
She isn't even sure she wants a drink, but she holds one of the glasses up as she looks to Kostos with a silent question. Drink?
Less silently: "It has been— as though foundations have been pulled away from us."
Kostos answers her silent question by coming closer, within drink-handing distance, without so much as a nod. He doesn't try to avoid crunching glass and pottery beneath his soles on the way.
He asks, "What foundations?" and it's both a genuine question and arid pessimism: when have any of them ever had solid ground beneath their feet?
"I thought—" An exhale, exasperated with herself, and tired. "I thought that Tevinter might hold some kernel of hope for us. A place where mages might retreat and not suffer, if things should begin to slip back to what they were before."
Marisol shakes her head, and holds out the glass in offering. "It was naive."
"Yes," Kostos says, without any softening or sympathy. It was naive.
But he'll take the wine, and take a long drink, because the thought of somewhere they could retreat is. Not pleasant, exactly. More like nostalgia, only for something that they can never have at all instead of something they had but can never have back.
"If we ever tolerated Tevinter, Marisol, we would be what everyone believes we are." He looks down and pushes a piece of ceramic with his foot, absently, toward nothing. "And do not say we would improve it. We would be indentured for years before we could even begin to have a say."
Very, very naive. She pours herself a glass, and swears under her breath before draining the whole thing, and refilling. Will refill for Kostos, as well, if he makes any indication of needing it.
"I know." Which makes it more galling, almost. She knows, she knew, she understood. Even marrying into Tevinter would keep her shackled, because that is what this sort of thing always means. Another sip of wine, but at least now she isn't throwing things, and her hands are steady.
"I hate that we are... monsters. And the only place where we are not seen as monsters, we become them."
That’s better. Depressing, of course, as always, but she’s steady, and he rewards it by clinking the edge of his glass against hers. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a hint of levity in the corners of his mouth.
“Monsters,” he echoes—with more underlying agreement than she might want, when there are several days each week he thinks it’s what they are, not only how they’re seen—“but very good looking.”
That gets a smile from. Not that it's ever hard to get a smile out of Marisol, but they came at differing magnitudes. This was— slight, a little sharp, but fond. "I'll drink to that."
If they have nothing else, they are very dashing. She sips from her glass, exhales a slow breath, and takes a moment to remaster her composure. It is probably less convincing when in a sea of chaos of her own making. She picks up a book that had tipped over, straightening it on the shelf.
"Sometimes I think I should hate my magic, but I never can. It'd be like hating my heart for beating. Too vain for my own good, maybe."
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no subject
When they are not far from the entrance to the sitting room, crashing can be heard. Corazon does not flinch or seem especially surprised, but lets Kostos approach the entranceway alone, with a bow of deference.
Welcome to the Vivas estate! Nothing says my home is your home like a vase smashing on the doorframe one is walking through.
no subject
"What the fuck, Marisol," he says.
no subject
It takes her a moment to register that someone is there (unusual) and another to assume Kostos, from the barrier that is risen. One of her hands rests against her abdomen, and she is not at all composed.
"Are you hurt?" Concerned, though without the gentleness that normally comes naturally when she speaks to family.
no subject
and he’s horrifically hypocritical, he knows; their tempers might spring from the same bloodline, for all the punches he’s thrown, the fights he’s been dragged out of by the hair, the days he’s spent cooling his heels in Circle cells. But it’s also flashfire. There and then doused by fifteen years of heavily supervised self-control. Or covered, at least, and left to simmer.
He brushes pottery off one shoulder and surveys the wreckage.
“Is this what they teach in Antiva?”
no subject
Her tone is light in a way that is overtly deceptive and false. "Oh, yes. My aim would be better, if not for the Circles."
She isn't even sure she wants a drink, but she holds one of the glasses up as she looks to Kostos with a silent question. Drink?
Less silently: "It has been— as though foundations have been pulled away from us."
no subject
He asks, "What foundations?" and it's both a genuine question and arid pessimism: when have any of them ever had solid ground beneath their feet?
no subject
"I thought—" An exhale, exasperated with herself, and tired. "I thought that Tevinter might hold some kernel of hope for us. A place where mages might retreat and not suffer, if things should begin to slip back to what they were before."
Marisol shakes her head, and holds out the glass in offering. "It was naive."
no subject
But he'll take the wine, and take a long drink, because the thought of somewhere they could retreat is. Not pleasant, exactly. More like nostalgia, only for something that they can never have at all instead of something they had but can never have back.
"If we ever tolerated Tevinter, Marisol, we would be what everyone believes we are." He looks down and pushes a piece of ceramic with his foot, absently, toward nothing. "And do not say we would improve it. We would be indentured for years before we could even begin to have a say."
no subject
"I know." Which makes it more galling, almost. She knows, she knew, she understood. Even marrying into Tevinter would keep her shackled, because that is what this sort of thing always means. Another sip of wine, but at least now she isn't throwing things, and her hands are steady.
"I hate that we are... monsters. And the only place where we are not seen as monsters, we become them."
no subject
“Monsters,” he echoes—with more underlying agreement than she might want, when there are several days each week he thinks it’s what they are, not only how they’re seen—“but very good looking.”
no subject
If they have nothing else, they are very dashing. She sips from her glass, exhales a slow breath, and takes a moment to remaster her composure. It is probably less convincing when in a sea of chaos of her own making. She picks up a book that had tipped over, straightening it on the shelf.
"Sometimes I think I should hate my magic, but I never can. It'd be like hating my heart for beating. Too vain for my own good, maybe."