faderift | [OPEN] Talk philosophy to me...

WHO: YOU and Anduin Wrynn.
WHAT: Priestly kinglet adjusting to life in Thedas.
WHEN: Kingsway.
WHERE: The Gallows (chapel, garden, etc.).
NOTES: Fine time(s) to meet him, or catch up if you haven't seen him in awhile. I am on the Discords, and DMs are fine if you want to suggest something else.

i. THE CHAPEL

Anduin had picked up just enough Common to get by, more or less. In this case, less; he managed to switch around some adverbs and arrived just as services were letting out at the central chapel. He makes a mental note to revise these little words, so easily tripped over, once he gets back to his room.

As he turns to leave, he notices many of the congregants returning small books to a case nearby. As they file out casually, Anduin walks over and thumbs through one. He smiles ruefully to himself. At least this time he's sure that the book is upright. A pensive expression settles on him as he encounters more and more unfamiliar words.

ii. THE GARDEN

As soon as Anduin wanders into the herb garden he knows he will be spending a lot of his time here. For the first time, he feels the tug of the familiar and contentment seems to draw close. The tidy parterres are arranged in perfect symmetry while the trees, well cared for, curve gracefully in contrast to the harsh edges of the neat rows below. He hunts around for somewhere to linger, a bench perhaps, even a patch of grass will do.

iii. WILDCARD.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Fresh from her time in the dungeons (asked for, requested, and not so fresh from it beyond the way a person scrubs themselves until the skin prickles, head in a bucket until the roaring in the ears gets too much) Brónach is restless. Sundermount or the Wounded Coast aren't so far away that she couldn't take her bow but released from cooling her heels in the dungeons only to flee off into the wilds? This isn't Skyrim. There's no sway she might carry here.

And if it's being around Herian and the Commander that brings her to the chapel, or if it's that this is what she might have done in Skyrim anyway when lost, she doesn't know. But her feet are silent, she's got her hood down, there's no bow or quiver on her back. An unremarkable looking elven woman save the height if he's met the natives, the left hand, the sleepless air about her.

"It's dry reading until you go questioning them or between the lines." Unprompted, out of nowhere and an inch away from being too close really. This is what happens when most of your life is spent in the wilds alone: you forget how to do people skills half the time.

"Oh," his brows bob in mild surprise at seeing someone address him, so suddenly and so close. "It's... uh... a bit slow going. Would be less so if I didn't have to skip over every other word," he smiles self-deprecatingly. It's really not that bad but it feels like it.

He stops to regard the woman properly. Is she an elf? He has met some native Thedan- Thedosian- elves but his mind seems to slide off the new information he takes in. They don't look that much like Azerothian elves at all.

Humans are-- well they would protest, viciously, for hours, for days, were she to say that generally a human is a human is a human. Unremarkable beyond their irritating traits. Lorkhan who lurks in each and every one of them. Doom Drum beating with every damned thump of their hearts.

"They wrote their prayer in verse." She lifts a copy of her own, not with the reverent hand of the faithful but the careful touch of the fence, lightly does it. Her mouth curls up. "Better to have a true story to pass on where it lasts or carve it on the walls. What parts are you struggling with?"

If she'd had to learn another language here she might've gone mad. The customs are enough.

There are a lot of little gaps in comprehension, running from page to page, but he is certain that he could work those out next time he's in the library. He really should see about getting his own copy of this 'Chant' so he could make notes.

But there is one passage in particular, one that was pointed out to him soon after his arrival, which has been pressing him. He promptly turns to it.

"For example, in... Transfigurations.

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.
Uhm... and corrupt are they
Who have taken His gift
And turned it against His children.
They shall be named 'Maleficar?' accursed ones.
They shall find no rest in this world
Or beyond."

He reads smoothly, but slowly. "What exactly is a maleficar? I don't have a word for such a thing in my own language."

If there is one constant in Simon's schedule, one thing he makes time for above all else, it's attendance at Chantry service--unless he's too ill to attend, or being held on death row in a hostile foreign country, or other such particular inconveniences.

He isn't often sent to retrieve new rifters, doesn't know exactly which unfamiliar faces are native and which are fresh out of the Fade, but he knows he hasn't seen this young man here before--and his eyes immediately flick to Anduin's hands, scanning them for a shard.

"What'd you think of the service?" he asks. It wouldn't do, he knows, to sound too eager at the prospect of a rifter's soul being won to the Maker and his Bride, but nonetheless, he hopes.

Anduin looks up as he's addressed, closing the book gently. "To speak truly, I missed the service. It is a pity, as I've heard much about the Chantry and am eager to witness its rites personally." Most of what Anduin has heard has left him confused and conflicted, aware as he is that it would be unwise to assume that anything functioned similarly to the Church he knows, even if its elements and names are similar.

There are few things like a garden that have the power to soothe Myr's heart when it's sore; being among green and growing things--the smell of the soil, the feel of healthy plants--reminds him of the glory of the Maker's creation and just how small their larger concerns are.

Or--should be.

Larger concerns he's got a-plenty since returning from the Abbey of the White Cliffs; they ride heavy on his shoulders, crushing and unsettled. It's almost enough that he simply walks into the garden and heads for his usual spot, unseeing because he doesn't need sight to find his favorite bench. But a spray of particularly bright embrium catches his eye and he looks up to take it in--and then the whole rest of the garden, with a kind of sudden surprised delight that's naked on his face.

Notes, also, there's another visitor here. He opens his mouth to ask, Are you new? and realizes--he wouldn't know if this is someone he's met before, without hearing the other man's voice. What...a strange feeling that is. So instead: "Lovely, aren't they?" The herbs, the trees, the--all of it.

Anduin is admiring one of the white-barked trees, its smooth branches dipping gently on the autumn breeze. A few leaves break free and glide down to the grass below. He listens to the murmurings of the garden, the creaking stems, rustling leaves- all of it.

Soon, he hears a voice. He opens his eyes, realizing he had been slipping into meditation even while standing there, and grins quietly to himself. It has been a long time since he had spontaneously entered a vision. He must be adapting to his new circumstances.

"Oh Yes!" he says brightly, sincerely to the newcomer. "I honestly did not expect to find such a place in Kirkwall- it seems a very grim city."

Edited 2018-10-04 14:46 (UTC)

Oof. Chalk it up to distraction and a lack of practice seeing things that he hadn't noticed the other young man was preoccupied. Had Myr a thought between his pointed ears under all that dandelion fluff that serves him for hair-- But that's uncharitable to himself and he cuts it off. "Sorry," he says immediately, abashed. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

At least this isn't someone he knows--yet--from the sound of his voice. Which might make the other fellow a rifter; the comment to Kirkwall's nature doesn't quite confirm it but leans Myr just a little more that way. His usual smile widens and becomes more troubled by a measure. "It is that. I don't know but anywhere the V--Tevinter used to sell slaves could be aught but grim. But parts of it," a nod to the garden around them, "have their charm.

"You're new here?"

Edited 2018-10-07 07:41 (UTC)

"By no means, I would welcome the company just now," the 'just now' slips in a little awkwardly. It's true that he much prefers his time alone, in blessed solitude, or with the company of a dear friend. But he is in the mood for making new ones in this strange new world of Thedas.

"Yes, I'm what they call a 'rifter," he says readily. "My home is another world, called Azeroth. As far as I know, there's... no known way to return," the statement curls up into a question even though he's aware that it's hardly likely the stranger would unburden him of his worries.

Myr doesn't miss that hint of awkwardness, keen as he's become to nuances of tone, but doesn't wonder too much at it either; he knows what it is to smile and say just now and mean it in the future if not the moment.

"Welcome to Thedas, in that case," and there is warmth and welcome in Myr's tone; where another man might make it sarcastic, it's wholly earnest from him. "And I'm afraid--we don't know of any way for you to return."

He pauses a moment, studying Anduin's face, weighing what he knows of rifters and what he knows the Inquisition's been briefing them with. "Though if it's some consolation," he ventures after that moment, perhaps sensing something of the other's worries, "we've reason to believe you--haven't gone missing from your home."

[OPEN] Talk philosophy to me...

i; chapel

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I -- Chapel

Re: I -- Chapel

ii;

Re: ii;

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climbs out of a pit of research