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.
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
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."