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.
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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"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."
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“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.”
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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."