faderift | the shape of things that never come

Kostos isn't really sure how he got to this point.

Not the point of being surrounded by donated animal bodies and carefully stitching up a dead dog while the possessed corpse of his great great et cetera aunt stalks angrily in a dungeon cell behind him. That part makes sense. But the point where the Grey Warden mage who blew up Kirkwall's chantry and the oddest rifter he's yet encountered, which is saying something, are both watching him do it—that point he isn't sure about. He isn't sure he likes it, either.

He hasn't said anything to either of them in a while. When Audra enters he looks up from the last stitches on the dog to gesture one-handed to the two observers, a jerky motion accompanied by a sort of aggressively confused expression, altogether an attempt to silently convey there are people here and it is not my fault. Even though it sort of is.

Luana is still getting a hold of this place.

She's been here - Jesus Christ, has it almost been a month? It absolutely has - but for some reason this place is harder to get to understand than any favela, even the City of God, and it's making her cranky. She spends hours watching people, going from place to place, wandering around the damned city, and most of the time she's lost. There are no signposts in favelas, she should be used to this.

She is not.

It's even worse inside the building, because the smells of this place are overwhelming. The magic, well. That's even worse. She thinks she's got a handle on it, which is why she's standing outside what she thinks is where the mages do their magic.

Whether or not that's true has yet to be seen. It might also be a fancy bathroom. Or a library? Hard to tell. Or the entry to a dungeon.

She is biting her thumb absently when she hears someone coming, and straightens up a bit. Looking at people here it's hard to tell if they're magic or not; she has never been good at this particular act of shifter talent. Instead it's an attractive-ish guy. She bites her thumb a little more. "Hey."

It's a good start.

"Hey," she repeats. "I think I'm lost."

The Broken Chain is one of Kirkwall's newer establishments, built up out of a section of rubble from the Chantry explosion that lingered for years until the Inquisition's arrival more recently began boosting the local economy, but it's not one of its nicer ones. A month in business and the sharp scent of cut wood and stone from its construction has almost entirely faded under sweat, smoke, and stale bodily fluids. It's more metaphorical new-tavern smell is still fresh, though, and the floor is packed with people still here for the novelty of somewhere new to go.

Kostos doesn't care about novelty, but he does care about places where the barkeeper isn't yet wary of his unpaid tab or tendency to cause trouble, which is why he's braving the crush of bodies around the bar. He turns away from the counter with a metal tankard in each hand—both for him, so he doesn't have to come back anytime soon, but maybe that's negotiable—and right into a face that's familiar.

(Not familiar enough.)

He doesn't smile, and he doesn't apologize, but the sharp interest on his face isn't hostile. After a second, he offers one of his mugs.

Edited 2018-09-11 04:22 (UTC)

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.

If they had more Wardens here, maybe even only if he were more confident Teren could be relied on right now, Alistair might not have taken this to the Inquisition. He might have exploited the grey (ha) area—not sure they're the enemy, not sure they know what they're doing—to keep it firmly in the category of Warden business, which is a synonym for nobody else's business.

But they're spread too thin, those of them that are alive and reliable, between here and Skyhold and the outposts in Orlais, so there's no room for that sort of posturing, and there is room for one of Beleth's new acquisitions to join him on the road to Starkhaven.

On the way it's all business, an explanation of what's been going on with the Free Marches' Wardens—the metaphorical friendly hand they extended, the metaphorical knife that appeared to be hidden behind their backs, their interference with goods shipped to the Wardens in Kirkwall, their contact with the Anders—that's not overly professional, because it's him, but is focused.

But by the time they reach the city and settle into the back corner of the tavern where the focus of this specific excursion was last known to be staying, he's run out of information to provide, and he considers her properly. Yseult. Marcher. That's—that's all he's got. Except for a moment, at a given angle and in a given light, he thinks he recognizes her. His eyes narrow and his mouth opens.

Then the angle and the light shift, and he's certain he doesn't.

Still stuck there with narrowed eyes and an open mouth, though.

He has to do something.

"Has anyone ever told you," he says, "that you have kind eyes?"

necromancy: audra & an audience. (cw animal & human cadavers/zombies)

magic is for losers

bad decisions: luca & isaac.

no subject

with my little eye: yseult.