faderift | 04 | CLOSED

"A question I am certain Mme. Bai to answer,"

Hello, Teren. Goodbye, convenient exit: there's an oversized person in it. Oversized, and armed — a rarity within the Gallows, but cryptic messages from the recently-confined being what they are —

The door shuts again. A glance to the others (Iorveth is one of the last she wants present upon a sensitive matter, but there's no pretending he wouldn't hear).

"With urgency."

If it's clipped, they're all on a schedule. Her eyes sketch briefly over Lakshmi's hands; a ripple of false memory, the flash of a furious crone. Resents the blur, the way the Fade ever fucks with sense; resents the veils now, their own bright echoes of Salzklippe.

Edited 2018-10-31 08:17 (UTC)

It's rather too tempting to bite back on that look - debate is no doubt up whether she's ever been truly polite or friendly. But now, there under her fingers as they touch against each other is the rough grain wood that she has cut back, yet to be sanded. Her eyes sliding behind her veils from Wren as she moves in, Araceli who enters afterwards. Her voice withering, low. Flicking her up and down from behind it with a short sharp gaze.

"Commander, is that all for me?" It's not a good joke, to anyone who knows the truth of it, but oh how she finds it amusing. But whilst she is having this grand entertainment on her own behalf: "As long as you don't make me repeat myself, I am sure we can be quite quick." She laughs, shoulders hunching, body twisting over it. A laugh that turns to a wretched, hacking cough but a moment later. Sick, she must be catching something - of course she would be. As if this could be more unpleasant. No wonder Galahad looked the way he had, and she had not even borne his torture. Every wound seemed intent on repeating itself for the time it was denied, it felt like.

"Well, then," Thranduil says, pleasantly. "What is it?"

She has a bent for the theatrical like he does, giving situations a certain weight by staging and arrangement, not that he'd ever admit it outside his own thoughts.

He looks to Coupe, cocks a brow; whatever this is, they'll be having a conversation about it, after.

Herian has been watching with silence, standing and facing the corner, though she turns as the others continue to speak. Her gaze flickers between the Commander and the Provost, before settling on her fellow diplomat. Urgency rarely accompanied good news, and the group here is eclectic to say the least.

There seems little necessity in urging her on further, with multiple prompts already in place. She simply stands, posture rigidly correct, countenance equal parts inscrutable and severe.

With them settled, she rises, the steps slow, shuffling as she goes to the door. Not that she did not trust them - but that she did not trust anyone. Each step shuffling on the slow limp of her steps. Her feet bare in her rooms, as always. That faint chime of anklets that pronounce the off timing to it.

The lock slides heavy, the heavy thunk of metal against wood. She presses fingertips against it for balance. Taking the slow breath in, in, in, the shot, the bite, the pained out. Easy, now, it's been a while, and at least there was no mirror to look at herself for it.

Do mages cast spells to silence rooms so others could not hear within it? It would be the first thing she learned to do if she had their abilities, and was stuck in their predicament. No matter, no matter. Shuffling back, she takes up her seat on the edge of the bed once more. Smoothing her hands out against her legs, dusting herself neat unnecessarily. "I would prefer to show you, first - you can ask me your questions after."

Which, it doesn't matter, it's what she's doing. She fishes the edge of her veil, and with the one movement lifts it to lay it across the crown of her head, settling against the flat gold disc and chain on her brow and in her hair. Her, certainly, below it, but, well, old. The long black hair streaked with grey from the temples down. The fall of skin as only time does to human bodies. The dig and weathering of sun and cold and war wounds. Scars that sit raised on the skin, white lines that pull, lines that dug in deeply. Her body twisted with its own weight and actions. She perhaps isn't even that old at all, but it is the life she has lived that carves her skin, her bones, her body hollowed out. Finally, finally, those eyes sit in the face they're supposed to.

Gives the one minute to take it in, old and tired and exhaustedly so. Her hand lifts to her belt knife, tucked in at her side, unsheathing it in a quick flick. Before there is a single thing to be said about it, her head tilts back, the blade rises and: she slits her own throat open in an upwards diagonal with an unerring accuracy. Not deep, but enough to make the point she wants. ( No - Wren, you are not rid of her just yet. )

The little silver phial, that was etched too purposefully to merely be decoration, of a snake that twists around itself to eat its own tail ( never taken off, always beneath her clothes ) is drawn out by the chain. The pause only in how her hand shakes faintly in tremors. The flick of the cap off with her thumb is too familiar to be anything else that she does often before she puts it to her lip. One harsh swig - and the effect is immediate. The cut begins to heal, and her body - to loses its age. Falling away, pulling back, her years retreating. It isn't painless, for why shouldn't be? It wasn't painless becoming this, after all. Though she makes no noise, her eyes scrunched tightly shut, her breathing coming quick, high, sharp. As her body healed itself, took back the time like it never happened at all.

Until, like a half-mad dream it might never have happened at all, almost, except for the very faint, white line left behind on her neck. Young, not more than mid-twenties, exactly as she'd first arrived. Clearing her voice with a sharp gasp of the breath she was holding, she settles back. Absently touching her fingers to her throat to pat the blood away. Smudging it between her fingers. Turning her face away briefly as she tucks the silver phial back below her neckline.

Lets that sit, taking the time to get her breath back from the pain of it until she's as settled as she ever will be before she goes on to speak. The explanation is broken down to its parts, what mattered to them, here and now. But, brief as it is, when her gaze meets Kitty's and determinedly flicks it back up. "We call it the blackwater. They say it was... a holy liquid, from God. Brought back by Knights on a holy crusade to save mankind. It is nothing, so I understand, to many of the things you have in this place. Nor do I possess any particular magic beyond this, before you worry on that account. I am no mage." And no doubt, they all could breathe a sigh of relief over that. "The reason it matters to you is that I may when I wish to, share how it is done and make anyone in this room the same. So, no doubt, could this Corypheus if he was ever to find out about it. I am sure I don't need to elaborate what Corypheus might do with turning his men to nigh on immortal soldiers that can heal near to fatal wounds in seconds that never age, how long he could make this war. Or what a... particularly thoughtful... blood mage, is it? Might do with myself should I be captured."

There. Laid out. The rest was - "I kept it from you as I found no reason to trust most of this place until I was absolutely sure what I should do." And her first plan, obvious by her sitting here in this state, had not worked. "For those who drink the blackwater, it is a duty, one we are bound to until death seems fit to take us, to protect those against impossible forces. But..." Well, she's trapped here, isn't she? And she is selfish, short-sighted, too hopeful, determined in her silence and unable to ask for help when she should, but not that sort of idiot. She wouldn't damn them just for her pride.

Rather, she takes up her blade - the long fine flat metal whip. Magni's work, fine as anything, carefully held. Placing it between her hands as she strides, right up to the middle of Wren, Thranduil and Herian, meeting each of their eyes, equally, bluntly. "... It is not for me to decide that fate, and even if I might become clouded to all else, I know my duty and I swear it to you. This is your homes, your fight. I submit myself to that. If my life is what you'd ask in order to protect that, I will give it gladly. You need only say the word. But you also have my assurance that should capture come to me, I will gladly strike myself down. To know I protect others, I would meet my own fate a thousand times. That is the oath I took."

No, she would give no apology like that - she holds so little value to them, save when they mean everything. But... Too many cowards had tainted that too long ago. Too much blood, too much pain. What good was it to something as solid as an action? She had already done one thing that could not be taken back, the only payment could be another.

And with it all said and done, carefully, she places the weapon - so very particularly - at Wren's feet, touches the ground in front of her, the once by the brush of fingertips, then up to her own brow. A reverence to the motion that could not be mistaken, and too much herself to be false humility. Her and her loyalty, all of it given over to right now. With it done, she steps back, raises herself up, back straight and proud to it. The rest - the rest was for them to ask, them to decide. Whatever else followed, she had said all that mattered right now.

Solas did not know what to expect from this. He did not know what to imagine, being invited here, especially as a member of the Inquisition. He had been something of an advisor, once, an ally, a friend, almost, but now - now he is just another mage in the eyes of most, someone who, perhaps, knows too much and says too much to go with it. Wisdom is not always accepted by most, he thinks, and there's an intensity about the situation that he struggles to wrap his mind around.

He stands close to Thranduil, careful, a frown settled on his features.

It's true that the discovery blackwater makes him uncomfortable. It reminds him too much of the world of Arlathvhen, of the promises of immortality that the Dalish cling to now, desperate and hoping for something to reunite them with their past. If the Dalish heard speak of this... No, she is correct. If Corypheus had learned of this then it would bring them more danger than he can begin to express, and his brow creases in frustration, in confusion, in ire. He is already immortal enough, Solas himself had learned that when his Foci had slipped from him, but...

None of this is for him to decide, of course. He is not here to be a ruler, to be a leader. That is the position the division heads must take upon their shoulders. This is not something that should be shared with anyone, he thinks, and he's sure his opinion is written on his brow as surely as anything might be. No, Lakshmi should not share this secret with Thedas. There is danger enough with magic and spirits and Corypheus' power, the spread of the Venatori. The world may not last as long as others might hope - and Solas will bite his tongue on that forever - but...

It is too great a risk.

His eyes turn to Thranduil, full of meaning, a frown curving on his lips. No, he thinks. No matter what holy magic Lakshmi brings, the Inquisition must not use it. It will damn them, it will cause them strife, and it will lead them to ruin. That he believes, above all else.

Standing silent and still with her back against the door, despite having made the decidedly correct observation that this is not about her crimes at all, Teren has watched transfixed as Lakshmi has given her display. There is no universe in which Teren could have possibly predicted what was about to be revealed, and, as one might expect, she is full of questions.
She saves most of them, however, instead breaking the sincere and fraught silence with an incredulous "what?"

Herian draws in a sharp breath. Aside from that, she is entirely still, controlled, watching Lakshmi with a vicious sort of intensity. Blood magic, some part of her offers. Unnatural, dangerous. Years of Circle education simmering under her skin, pushing at her mind. The instinct to contain and, if necessary, destroy is not easily shaken.

(And then there are the memories of Salzklippe, of the veiled figure that twisted and warped into that monstrosity.)

Her heart is beating too fast, and there is a steadying voice in her head: justice, truth and action, tempered by compassion. She holds up one hand at Teren's brief outburst, requesting silence from the others present.

"You bear a heavy burden, Lakshmi Bai." That much is plainly true. "But I hope that I speak for all present when I say that to bring such abilities to others of the Inquisition or Thedas would be a dangerous and corrupting thing. If such should fall to our enemies, even worse."

"It is a tool, for one purpose, to help protect and defend. I offer it, and my life, as it was given to me."

Which is to say, she isn't here for the pity of her position. She had made her bed, and she had done it in the same way she had jumped straight into that rift: feet first and without looking back.

She'd all but patterned that for the way she elected to live most of her life.

"But time is a price, and those who have not felt it drag on too long seldom understand it's cost, or at least that is what the man who gave it to me said. I would have that remembered for whatever verdict you elect for me and it."

Herian watches her for a long moment. All these words of protecting others, of oaths, of honour. Some part of her wishes to believe it, and yet—

"And this man who gave it to you - one of the knights you spoke of?"

"Sir Bors de Ganis." She supplies it smoothly, evenly, without blinking. A fixedness to everything she says, open, without hesitation to it anymore. "A knight, once of King Arthur's court." Would Kitty know his name, at least?

Easy to remember him, clear as a pool of water in her mind, his pale blue eyes that looked almost milky white, hair gone silver and that he looked so old he might fall over under his own weight, let alone the broadsword he carried. The rasp of his voice like ash on stone. Scratching soft. What would you do for your people, Rani? Will you die for them, this day? Or give them something else?

He was a son of the sword and shield.

There wasn't much that the blackwater could do when a cannonball blasted your arms clean off at the elbow. She blinks, clears her gaze and refocuses back on Herian. "He once served an Order... like your Wardens, perhaps. People bound to one single purpose." She nods to Teren, briefly. "The last line of defence against that which... people can never withstand alone."

Thranduil has a brief, wondrous hope. It is potential in a bottle, possibility beyond what he has been constrained to by the machinations and faults of Thedas. He covets it. He lusts for what he might do with such a thing, the taste of everything he might restore on his tongue.

Placidly, he says, "Time is a burden on those unsuited for it, in nature and in circumstance."

The fable of the orb itself weighs on him in eventual counterpoint to his considerations, and he gestures to the bottle.

"How often do you need to drink from it to keep your youth and vitality?"

He's heard the rumor of Xenon, of age without youth, and any discussion considering destroying the thing must also consider the rate at which Lakshmi might decay. How much water can one flask contain?

Her head tilts, looking at him a moment before she speaks - though it has little to do with him or his rather private wants. The particulars of its making, consumption, is one thing she would rather keep to herself in lieu of anyone in this room getting tortured at any point.

"Once a day, and as immediately as you are injured. As you saw, the years and injuries you have incurred rapidly catch up with you. The last... person I saw it happen too, was almost dead at the end of two weeks."

All this for me?

Before she can move, a throat's been split; the hiss of breath from her own, harsh and involuntary. Wren’s eyes slip shut — allows herself that, the brief ignorance to threat, contrary beside its waking, breathing presence. Amsel is capable. Thranduil is capable.

She mislikes that. What all here might be capable of.

Words wash, bells chime; the soft thump of something heavy at her feet, and she’s no further from an answer than before. The answer that has always been there, a parody of history and duty: Blood magic. Obvious, unrepentant blood magic. Maybe some day she’ll stop paying for this, for the mistakes of survival. Maybe.

But she doesn't think so. The huffs of strained breath are too familiar (Thranduil is capable, Thranduil is here). The tremors might be, if she bothered to look. She doesn’t. I am no mage —

It’s not as simple as that. Wren lifts a hand in gesture: Everyone. Shut up for a second.

"There is no saying that it could be done." Much shifts between dream and waking. "And it will not be."

Slips a glance open at last, skates over the whip, ignores the offer of a life. The promise is worthless, a foreign oath from a liar's tongue. There’s no true regard for their purpose, and no trust to be found in this; only the calculus of inevitable discovery.

Her eyes find Thranduil’s, narrow. This is poor company for secrets.

"You chose an audience for this."

Backed them into a corner, demanded an immediate decision. It's not what she'd classify good faith.

She doesn't even bother to deny it when her gaze flicks back towards Wren and fixes her there in an even stare. "Yes, I did. I can go over my reasoning for each one if you like. Though what remains to me, the most important:"

Her smile kicks, "I will not damn others any more than I already have by mistakes - " something that doesn't need to be repeated right now to a room of people either present or aware of it, or it wasn't their business. " - for that and the danger I inflicted, nothing but my service will atone for it." If it comes easier or difficult to admit to her own mistakes, it doesn't show. She simply does as she always had, and gets on with it.

"Do so."

The reasoning. We're all here, bitch.

Oh, it's on, Coupe.

Her brow lifts, and - fine. "As you wish," she clears her throat, looking about the room. "I picked you all for your positions, or as near to them as I know it, and what I have seen of your skills. You, Commander, Knight-Enchanter Amsel, Provost, are the one who must know this first and foremost, so you can correctly place me in the field. To you, I owe everything, first and foremost. As well as you are a mage, Enchanter Amsel, and you, a Templar, Commander Coupe? Or was I mistaken in my misunderstanding? With both of your strengths present, if I truly presented a threat that I am unaware of, I know you both to be of sound body and mind to make that assessment."

Then her hand lifts, her head turning, to gesture to Ioverth, beside Thranduil. "Ioverth is intimate with Madamoselle Gwenaelle, whatever that means to Provost Thranduil, who I assume knows, given how freely she spoke of it. As they're married soon, it is the nature of couples to share everything as it stands, so pretending he wouldn't know is tiring. Besides, I wanted to give assurance that since I must truly be killed by first-blow, someone who can do it easily seemed pertinent and would know to do it even if the future. Especially so you understand how seriously I mean that I will gladly submit." This is what you wanted, right? So she goes on. Her hand lifts next to indicate to Solas. "Master Solas is both an elf native to these lands, and a mage of considerable knowledge who seems very well versed in spirits and has proven to be discrete. I thought to make sure to submit myself to any testing he might have so you could make absolutely sure I am not a mage. Additionally, if you would like further proof of my lack of corruption, I believe you know... Madam Galadriel? At least when we were all on that wretched island together. But, that aside, the wondrous properties of her cloth. To that, you ought to know what it means when I say it does not burn me."

A sigh stops her words, lets that first bit sink it. "Warden Teren I have served with, as I presently do not know any other high ranking members of her order, she was the only one I could vouch for the character of as someone who could mind her own words both now and later, who has a healthy amount of paranoia to not be swayed by anything I have to say if she thought it wrong." Expletives and dry sarcastic commentary aside. "I have promised my service to Captain Vane and Captain Flint," well, not Flint right now, but Flint soon, whether anyone liked it or not. "For when they need an experienced fighter on deck, in the future. So it seemed important that in time, I tell them in case the worst should happen, but that I had best go to their commander, Araceli - " a nod to the woman's direction. "- first."

And her eyes drop, at long last, at the end of her list, something fixed unhappily behind her mouth, to Kitty. If there has been anything at all to any of these explanations, it is - "And Miss Kitty, who I promised the truth to, and... she deserves the truth from me, more than anyone." But that - that wasn't really for this room, or these people, or anything else that matters. But more than anything, it was what mattered to her especially.

With it all finished, she turns her eyes back. Waiting, perhaps even patiently for her. There, anything else you needed her to explain?

"You have put us in a corner, lady, by equalizing the burden of our knowledge. Not only across organizations," a nod to Teren, "but also across the hierarchy of the Inquisition itself."

Kitty, Iorveth, Solas, even Araceli. Three of four division heads.

And she's issued what he's taken as a threat, by spilling his own private matters into the public sphere along similar passages. He doesn't look at Coupe, though he's felt her presence during the conversation. He'll take the tongue-thrashing she'll give him later, find out how Lakshmi came to know of Iorveth (the Fade? more than likely, they've been careful otherwise) and handle it.

"Obviously," calmly, calmly, about to hold out his hands and see if she will, at least, hand it over peacefully, but thinking perhaps it best to fall to Coupe or Herian. "You can no longer keep it on your person, let alone take it into the field."

They're too aware of how precious it is now, how easy to lose.

Kitty has been quiet. Troubled by all of it, to be sure. Immortality like this seems a dreadful thing, a thing to hide from anyone and everyone - because how easy would it be to exploit this? To turn it into a wicked weapon, a terrible thing used to just deepen all the inequalities and injustices of life? If the magicians of her world knew of this immortality, they'd use it to extend their rule a thousand years - which is a hideous thought, considering that progress gets made only as each magician dies. Corypheus, here, would do the same.

It's Lakshmi's direct address that brings her out of her brooding. She doesn't understand, entirely, why she deserves the truth more than any other, but like hell she's going to question Lakshmi's logic. Because this is something that she does want to know, because it's something to safeguard and protect and keep from getting into the wrong hands. As for these others, though...The logic for sharing it with them sounds a lot less sound. Sharing something with someone because they're a mage is basically insanity, to her ears.

Well. It's Lakshmi's judgment, isn't it. So - "Why can't she?" Kitty asks, voice clear and steady. "She's protected it this far. And it's not like telling us about this makes her less capable of protecting it."

"I agree that putting us in this position was not well considered," Herian replies, evenly, voice soft and measured. "However Provost, I respectfully disagree that Lakshmi Bai should not be the custodian of this item. Having worked with her in the field, I would say that a resource that grants her the ability to carry on is something that should stay in her hands. It being away from her person would undermine its effectiveness and, from what we have seen, it's purpose in healing. I would suggest that instead the blackwater remain on her person at all times, and we consider matters further for when she is in the field."

Her gaze moves back to Lakshmi.

"As for promising your service to others, I would remind that you have joined the Inquisition, and that there are times when our decisions on where you might be placed, as you say, that may conflict with promises you have made." Her tone is cautioning, faintly reprimanding, and she looks back to Coupe and Thranduil both. "Best we have a meeting with Lakshmi Bai in private, for confirming details and discussing different possibilities, and then we can look to consulting with relevant experts as we see fit."

Edited 2018-11-15 21:16 (UTC)

"Having worked with her in the field," A glance to Kitty at that: The Fade is why. This meeting is why. The fact she's still on bloody confinement, "I must side with the Provost."

Yes, they're going to talk about this. Thranduil too. How is it so difficult to keep confidential intelligence from the people you're fucking? A pity to have spent that report upon Petra. A pity, if it would even go anywhere (wouldn't: there's been no disaster yet, only its looming shadow). If his wrinkled cock continues to interfere with —

"Word of this will spread."

She's sent it to eight people in this room alone, and intends to tell the mercenaries to already have near mutinied. Bai's all but guaranteed that this won't be kept. Her state of mind, her evident disdain of their purpose, is the least of it. If she ever falls upon the field? If any of the numerous wagging tongues present take it to mind?

"You claim this requires security. Yours will not be enough to guard it." Before anything else, any argument can be raised: "Ashara will be informed."

Should have been from the beginning of this farce.

Edited 2018-11-15 21:45 (UTC)

Herian watches Coupe intently, and nods her understanding. For all their differences, she does trust Coupe, more then most.
Beleth should have been made aware of this from the beginning; it is beyond unfortunate that she was not, and doubtless that and the audience would to little to endear any cause Lakshmi might hope to champion to the Scoutmaster.

“You have spoken of your experience in diplomacy, in ruling, and in this capacity I have trusted you with a role within my Division. This meeting and your secrecy has rendered your judgment in jeopardy, and may have compromised your honour, no matter what good intentions you harboured.”

A pause, and she looks at Lakshmi with disappointment. “As a ruler, what would you do? To ensure the silence of those here? To hold you accountable for your deceptions and your actions?”

"Her honour?" Kitty ought to let Lakshmi talk for herself, but that's just a bit too much. Her voice gets sharper. "What, it's dishonourable not to immediately trust everyone you meet immediately upon meeting them, now? Don't you think the fact that she wasn't babbling about it to any old person she came across means her judgment's good?"

She cuts herself off, shaking her head.

Teren has been silent all this time, taking a moment only to look mildly rankled by the suggestion that she is paranoid. First of all, how dare you, second of all, is it really paranoia if it's true?

But there are more pressing things at hand, namely, some ridiculous strain of cockamamie new-world magic bollocks that she can't even begin to fathom, and everyone here is talking about it like they've just found a pretty but potentially useful new kind of rock.

"What??" she says again, clawing her hands out on both sides.

Her hand lifts - thank you, Kitty. But - "It's alright. This is their choice. I heed them."

She rises, fishing for the silver chain and bows her head as she takes it off. Rolling it around in her palm. It was old, and yet, it had not aged a day. The silver markings, the snake eating its own tail. Different to the one Galahad bore. A design from a different century, a different place.

What had she done? Her thumb brushes against the coat of arms embossed on the back. What had she done with Sir Bors de Ganis? He had been such an old man, his bones looked so frail inside his skin for all his strength. Does she look like that, to them? Probably not, just old and a fool and stubborn.

"I understood him, that after the odd nine hundred years he had lived, you no longer see the world that way. I saw him no differently than the bandits that out of fear of starving took whatever food they could. If I accepted them into my army, why not understand him, also? People, time, take something from you seldom can get back. I took his guilt as genuine, I understood him, and I took him into my court." Her nails scratches against a bump, an old scratch. Gunfire, it looked like. That way of smooth and rough. "And for my trust, he died for me. I understand him, better now I think. I understood how hard it is to trust anyone at all when you know the wickedness or fear in their hearts. As for secrets - it wasn't one. Everyone knows of the blackwater drinkers, where it is kept, who wields it. They form a branch of a foreign government that defends the people."

Standing in front of Coupe, once more, she doesn't pass it to any of them. But she slides it, drops it so it hangs a moment from the chain, pendulum-like. Swinging like a clock count. "If this is your decision: I have given my word. But, as such, it means my duty as I swore it, has ended. If the Queen of Jhansi was the mantel I took up as a warrior for my people, and if I am no longer needed as one? Then - "

Forgive her Byerly, she meant to keep those words. But horrifyingly enough, she doesn't sound morbid, miserable. There is maybe a relief to this. "Self-immolation is what I would prefer since I cannot die in battle. I have set up what is required for it, but I would like another day so I may prepare my mind."

Edited 2018-11-15 23:58 (UTC)

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