faderift | openish ☓ i see god in birds and satan in long words

"When the forest burned, only the statue survived."

The statue — a wood carving of Andraste at the center of the gardens — is a bit unorthodox. Markedly less than a forest and miniature logging camp in the middle of Hightown, though, and the smattering of flowers and unlit candles at its base speaks to a local affection.

"Or so they say. I've never been entirely clear why there was a forest to begin with."

He glances to Ilias, the shadow of something wry in his mouth. They've met no hassle, but this is yet a place for the contemplative and devout, to... contemplate and devote themselves. Or something. Isaac can't say he's ever been accused of either quality.

A little respect doesn't go amiss — particularly with one of them yet in foreign robes.

Edited 2018-11-04 02:57 (UTC)

Ilias had considered wearing something subtler, truly. He owns at least one shirt. But those are clothes for when he needs to be someone else; here, he is still a Speaker paying his respects to the dead, even if these dead are not his to care for. Even if the living may not see past the strangeness of his robes.

"Touch me with fire that I might be cleansed," is recited, quiet, as his gaze travels up the statue. One possible explanation.

Devotion, it seems, is only a question for one of them. But the look he gives Isaac in return is warm in the eyes, unoffended.

"You are not one for miracles?"

"The intercession of the Maker?" Or Andraste, or the Herald, or any other benign lingering legend — "In the sense of earthly kindness, I suppose."

He isn't a particular believer in that, either. If inherent goodness could be relied upon, there'd have been no reason for a god to ever turn away; for Ages spent trying to shout him back. (There'd be no reason for other, pettier ills.)

But if the Chant echoes in silence, that's more comfortable than the alternative. The fashionable atheism of certain Circle sects has never sat entirely well upon his shoulders. Wears less easily than cosmic inattention, the knowledge that some things may pass unseen.

"It's that which built all this." Tore it down in the first place, but. "Kirkwall's been a dozen things. A slave port, a battlefield."

He stoops to smear wax from the plinth.

"Is a miracle proof we can do better?"

Edited 2018-11-04 05:03 (UTC)

"I do not know about proof."

The problem with believing in an absent god, for Ilias, has never been believing in the existence or absence; it's believing he'll ever return. That there is a point to getting up in the morning if he doesn't. Proof seems too certain a thing, in a world like that. Maybe they can't do better. Maybe they never will.

"Hope, though. Inspiration. An excuse to try. I think a miracle can be that." A fire and a statue, no matter where they come from, still bring a community together. "I am not certain it needs to be more."

It's not an argument —

"Facts do weigh it down." — If it's not the most positive spin, either. The demon's in the details. Earthly kindnesses breed earthly enemies: A pair of hands carved this, cut the wood, perhaps even saw it saved from flame. But people have hands; people have faces and words that seldom agree. "Still."

He rises again, fingers extended and fresh with wax.

"Someone made this. Another bought it, brought it here. Lit the wick," Small things, little sacrifices. Another choice that might go unwitnessed, save that here they are, witnesses. "There's inspiration, and there's action."

"And you," Because it is Isaac he's watching now, not Andraste, soft shoes skimming the dirt in idle semi-circle behind him, "You would not overlook the latter for sake of the former."

An absent god, but not absent people. Decisions. Complexity. Not just result.

"That is a more complicated sort of hope. Most people prefer their faith to be simpler -- here, I imagine, as much as in Nevarra. Easier not to be reminded it requires anyone to act."

“Easier, maybe, to know what to do.”

But that’s speaking, and not listening: The tedious guilt that forty years has more or less faded to drone, crawling its way out of his mouth again, uninvited. A sacrifice can be made in any direction. A choice can. A glance up, the brush of fingers clean; he watches back.

Ilias circles like — well, Isaac’s never seen a shark outside the market, but he knows the picture. Discards it, too sinister by half. It’s difficult to accord the Mortalitasi any particular dramatic weight when you’ve stuck out a decade among certain of their cast-offs.

Perhaps a sparrow would be the better choice, or some other restless metaphor. What are you looking at?

The wrong question. Revised, What are you looking for?

“And your miracles?”

How does he take them (save that he seems to —)? Medium rare, sunny side up?

[[ inappropriate default icon email tags etc ]]

"Mine?" Steps pause. He doesn't look away from Isaac, but there's something studying in it now. Considering how honest to be. Wondering what happens if he is.

"I should tell you I believe the simple answer. The will of the Maker in all things." It's what he would tell his fellows. Most of their patrons, too. A lie for those who needed it, himself included from time to time. "I can't say the idea does not appeal, but—" a hook-mouthed exhale, "Nothing true is ever simple, is it?"

Sometimes truth is a knife in the gut, and he would have that too.

But maybe that's a bit much for so early in the evening. Instead, he turns to sweep a palm toward the rest of the garden. "Even this. It is not only the site of a miracle."

There must have been ashes aplenty, before there was a forest to burn.

Should? There's a curious admission — if it's an admission at all. It takes a good liar, to seem like a bad one. I should tell you,

And there's that breath.

"Can't call it miraculous, if something hasn't gone terribly wrong." Isaac steps past, glances to see he's been followed. Out, past the little copse of trees and toward a wide white wall, etched with names. No, not only the site of a miracle. But no miracles without it. "Seven years, now."

Or is it eight? Finds himself counting back on Gareth's fingers, numbering these strangers that he ought to feel something greater for; can't. A tragedy written in abstraction, in the coolness of stone. Suppose that's what they all are, eventually. A name in a record, and the great lingering question of who exactly would name their daughter Crystal Raven.

The moment stretches before he decides to ask:

"Why should you lie about it?"

"I don't like to worry people."

--Is certainly not a worrying answer. He grimaces a touch, chagrined, as he steps into place alongside Isaac. "What I mean is that, there is a certain image that is kinder to uphold, in my line of work."

But this isn't work. The grieving rarely need his doubts, his colleagues and family certainly don't, but-- now, apparently, Isaac is something else. And Ilias is doing that thing again, where his eyes keep drifting to catch the contours of a face instead of the lines of carved marble that ought to have his full attention.

And it does, in a sense. This isn't a place or an event he expects to understand in an afternoon stroll; it's something to let sink in, to filter through the lens of other people. (Other people, and not him.)

"What happened here--" A tragedy. A tipping point. An end. A beginning. "May I ask what it meant for you?"

He keeps from quite lifting a skeptical brow to worry,

"It was a time before I had the news." Trading favours had gotten abruptly more difficult. "Which I suppose was its own signal. I just imagined it was personal."

"We talked louder, or we stopped altogether. But when we spoke?" Something less kind than nostalgia slips his teeth; a brief flash of missing molar. "This wall seemed very far away.”

Stone will do that. What does it mean? Sympathy that refuses to unwind itself about those responsible, that won't settle any more readily upon the shoulders of the dead.

"I wish I could say that it was something more than an object lesson. What do I know of them, of what their lives meant? Save the danger," A gesture that might include himself, might only implicate the garden. "In choosing not to know."

They don't think we're people has always been a common refrain, and it’s true enough. But how many of the dead were people to us?

He doesn’t like to think of it: The letter to a friend, the pocket worry stone. The greater good is a pretty line. So he doesn't think of it. Instead,

"You don’t want," He observes. Has observed, too, the manner in which glances linger. "Simple comforts."

The way Isaac tells it, in volumes and distances, blurs as many details as it invokes, unbidden, into their place. Ilias's own raised voices echo against sandstone walls, in closed chambers, where They don't think we're people had been met with a stretch of silence for the unasked question, What if we aren't? The scratch of a quill returned to paper. The whip of air from slamming door.

There is danger for all of them, in choosing not to know. (Does he belong here beside another mage now, or on this wall, with the rest of the blind?) His throat feels wet with it, grief threatening to seep through seams he doesn't want breached.

Grateful, then, to focus instead on the weight of a pause. To consider the shape of it on his tongue, the potential in it, compared cautiously to an array of others as if the absence of language was a language of its own, before he speaks. No, not simple comforts, but--

"Honest ones." A breathed smile, "If I haven't drawn enough of that from you for one afternoon."

"Not so short a supply."

It is. Don't worry about it. The brush of shoulder to shoulder might be accidental if it weren't so obviously intended, the slight crunch of winter grass beneath heel accompanying an exit toward the gate.

Here, the solemnity of the garden breaks open onto life: The guards again — still there, still bored — the bustle of Hightown in the hours before dusk. Well-kept streets, high windows on the houses, and,

The steps down, because Isaac can't afford all that.

"Did you ever manage the tools you needed?"

It has been a little while since he's done this. Walking. Smiling at the conspicuous brush of a shoulder. Enjoying a moment with another living person that isn't measured in the number of steps it takes to cross a tavern. Three years? Longer? It feels a little like cracking the rust off his bones to fall into step with Isaac, but he does.

Below, Kirkwall's less well-kept streets make for an odd fit. Ilias is all clean lines, tidy angles cast against mismatched cobblestones and stray cats. But there are fewer eyes on a set of foreign robes down here, and that seems to suit him fine.

"Not all of them. Why, are we shopping?"

How charmingly normal.

Cheerfully:

"I’ve heard a great deal about that —"

As though he hasn’t been out of the Circle four years. As though there weren’t outings to the market, with Montsimmard less tense (as though he’d any money then either).

"— We might consider it a hunt. See where the trail leads us."

Past this guy here, hawking figurines of the Champion; another, taking the dictation of letters. Smoke and fish, a stray chicken,

And two rushing children, small and caked to the knees in dirt, one shoving in front of the other with hands extended up, a length of brightly-coloured wrapping cord within.

"Messere," To Ilias, already reaching for his wrist. "Help me show something to my brother."

Isaac looks about to open his mouth; stops.

(( feel free to use this as a launching point to start your own threads amongst yourselves too, if you like! ))

nikos + group??;

[ With an observer, is the magnanimous extent of the permission Kostos had given him.

The room he and Sidony have to set up would more accurately be called a dungeon — dank cells, an incessant drip from somewhere hopelessly inaccessible, and a few long wooden tables that have been brought in for their purposes. One, Ilias is smoothing a black cloth overtop. Another, he offers to Sidony for her tools, on the off chance she’ll feel like accepting anything he offers her today.

It’s been nearly a year since the Inquisition was invited to Nevarra, offered a rare tour of the Grand Necropolis, and caused the biggest disaster those sacred halls had seen for some time. Ilias mostly remembers reattaching a lot of limbs, afterward. Blame placed. Doors locked. Questions discouraged. But here in the Gallows is a piece of the puzzle that has not been swept so neatly out of reach. Whether it should have been is a question for another time; for the moment, it is another angle to be explored, and Ilias is qualified to explore it — but not, apparently, trusted to do so without a babysitter.

Or two. Berenike welcomes the last of their party with a teeth-rattling bang, leathery limbs hurled peevishly at the bars. The menagerie of small animals in the next cell over follow with tilted heads and too-bright eyes. Ilias just looks– puzzled, for a snatch of a second, before he returns tight-jawed to his preparations. ]

I had no idea you intended to oversee us personally.

[ What an honor. ]

caspar;

[ It’s not a quick process. At least, not if done with proper care, and Ilias is nothing if not careful with Berenike’s remains. Even if the spirit itself has been temporarily re-homed, the body, too, is something to be treated with respect. His cuts are precise, his touch gentle, his examination meticulous. Whatever caused this spirit to become aggressive, that was not respectful, and if it is something that can be stopped, Ilias would like to.

But what sections he can give to Sidony to examine, he does. There are two pairs of them, after all, one to examine and one to oversee. And Ilias seems to work easier with just one stranger looking over his shoulder, like he is demonstrating for a friend instead of performing for an audience. ]

I will admit, I did not expect to find so many Nevarrans. The Inquisition, it is not so popular at home, despite the importance of its mission.

[ So, why are you here? ]

The Inquisition and I have that in common.

[ A casual remark as he steps around to the opposite side of the makeshift table, giving Ilias space to work. It sounds light, amicable; almost like an inside joke, though his tone remains appropriately solemn.

He's seen plenty of corpses, in all sorts of states. This is different. While he hardly understands the academic interest or shares in it, he can at least approach it with a civil respect. And, perhaps ahead of all of that — this is one of Nikos' relatives. He draws his gaze away from the remains, giving Ilias a curious look. ]

But you're here, as well— was it an assignment or a choice?

[ An answer that raises more questions. Curious. Not uncharming, though. Ilias spares a glance up, bright eyed, but decides not to pry just yet. ]

A little of both. With the king's ill health, things are-- unsteady for my family, politically speaking. [ To put it mildly. ] My grandmother, she is worried about assassins.

[ Said with a little flourish of his scalpel. Ridiculous, right? ]

She would prefer me out of the country, and I would prefer to be somewhere I might be of use. So, a compromise.

Ah, well— perhaps your grandmother is right to worry.

[ Were it not for the slight smile, it'd be difficult to read as a joke; but he is smiling, which does something to undermine the straightforward, thoughtful delivery. Not that assassinations are joke material, or anything. ]

Though it is curious that she believes assassins to be restricted by borders. Still, you've clearly made yourself of use, so at least your journey has served some purpose.

[ His attention drops back towards the table, brow furrowing slightly as he considers the (respectfully) mutilated remains. ]

What is it you're hoping to find?

Disinterest, is more what I suspect she is counting on. [ A lone Fabria far from Nevarra makes for a less attractive target than one entrenched in its political heart. Or: he's not interesting enough to wade through the Inquisition to kill. At least, he doesn't think so.

But he's not unhappy to be here, all told. As for what he's looking for— ]

I am not sure what it will be. The spirit is... [ presently rattling around in its temporary animal corpse like a wasp in a jar? He winces, an amiable flash of teeth. ] Well. It is not supposed to be doing that.

Kostos believes something in the body has distressed it, but Berenike was mummified, mn, perhaps decades ago? If something was done to her, it would be more recent. Perhaps disguised beneath a repair, like this, [ Turning the withered shin in his hand to show the neat row of stitches he's removing, along the split side of a patella. Mummies bump their knees, too. ] Or showing itself in subtler ways, if the source is not so tangible.

[Having been apart from his twin for most of his life and thus spared a bulk of the mistakes that near-identical resemblance might cause, the implication of Fabria's words are slow to dawn on Nikos.

Then his blank look curdles into one he spares for dogshit found on the sole of his boot.]

Yes, well. I realized that I have nothing better to do with my time except pretend that I know what I'm doing, run up bar tabs, and fuck impulsively-- [A gesture, extravagantly sarcastic.] --so why not. Can we get this over with.

[He sulks into the room to go and lean up against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. All good intentions soured at being mistaken for his brother, he ignores his cousin and especially ignores Caspar, and instead says, offhand, to the seething mummy:] Hello, Aunt Berenike. Is everyone being kind to you?

[ The mummy presses what's left of its face between the bars with a long, dry, vaguely menacing exhale, so. Maybe that's a yes?

Of the room's more living occupants, however, Ilias takes a moment to cycle through a range of eyebrow movements before arriving at Ah. Well. There are a number of excuses he could offer — it's been ten years, they've spoken once since, Kostos didn't mention — but it seems he's already stuck his foot in it well enough. Fantastic. ]

You forgot making petty omissions, [ is what he adds to the list of Kostos's hobbies instead, neat as cake. Brother and twin are, as it happens, rather different descriptors. ] It's Nikos, yes?

If you would not mind helping keep her attention, please, [ A gesture toward the mummy, moving that way himself. ] We might relocate the spirit while Sidony finishes setting up.

This time, he doesn't send men to her door. No, it is early evening and Flint makes his way there personally. He is empty handed - a rarity, it feels like; for every meeting in the Gallows' various and sundry offices and private rooms, he has had something in tow. A bottle, a stack of confidential papers, a sword.

Tonight it's just him, even his festering suspicion having been set down on some shelf by the time he raps on Max's door. One, two. He's a dark shape in the lamp light of the corridor, turned slightly from the door and ready to be on his way should she not be there to answer.

Luckily or unlucky for Flint, the door does crack open, but only just beyond the width of a round face to start. Yellow light catches on the twist of a brow, on bright eyes that neatly assess his presence alongside a series of conspicuous absences — a Walrus man, a sword, John.

Easing, then, to let light frame the more comfortable width of her shoulders.

"Captain." It's not overflowing with welcome, but the particular balance of her hand on door handle speaks to potential. Neutral enough not to forgo pleasantries, at least, nor tinge those pleasantries with anything less. "To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She has guesses, of course; hopes. But she's never been one to ride on those.

No overtures are made, no introductions, but periodically Ilias will find himself under the watchful eye of a tall, scarred, hawkish woman who always seems to be deliberating on just how dead to make someone. Whether or not he finds her familiar, she certainly seems to have some reason to know who he is, and can be caught casting the periodic glance his way at mealtimes or when passing in the hall.

Ilias isn't prone to paranoia, exactly -- has never been in regular enough danger perhaps, nor cared enough for his own safety to develop an instinct for it, but he doesn't love attracting attention. Seems to go out of his way to avoid it, at times, his presence in the Gallows a quiet and out-of-the-way sort. The robes stand out enough; the man himself need not add to it.

So it takes him longer to notice than it might some. (That he isn't as familiar a face in the Nevarran court as his cousins may be part just good sense, on someone's part.) But he does notice eventually, pausing midway through the courtyard on some errand or other to approach her.

"My apologies, my lady. Have we met?" Her face is familiar, but -- brows knit -- he can't place her.

"A Fabria, by your colors," Teren replies levelly, "no, we've never met." She doesn't seem all that surprised or upset to be approached, likely having been expecting it.

"What brings a mortalitasi to Kirkwall?" The question is not a friendly one.

Ilias nods assent. He has the impression of being sized up, measured and fit in a way he seldom is these days outside his family, and his expression chills for it, but only a touch, stubborn in his courtesy.

A broad gesture. "The Inquisition has need of extra hands, does it not?" Why shouldn't he be here?

Courtesy is always their shield... until it isn't. But Teren won't push him that far, not today, there's no reason to-- she's got bigger fish to fry, but that doesn't mean the catch can't be laid out and organized.

"I'd imagine a fair share of extra hands need the Inquisition more," she replies, arching an eyebrow. "But play coy all you like."

"Then it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement." And no harm to anyone. (Or, you know, the opposite, but at least he seems more cautious than ill-intentioned, even if his grandmother is another matter altogether.)

"Ilias," he offers her, along with a hand. Courtesy can be a lever, too. "And yourself?"

Teren takes his hand, her grip like a hawk's talons. "Warden von Skraedder," she says gruffly, not bothering to offer her first name; no one ever really cared to know it, but one can't be too cautious. As far as Ilias is concerned, she's always been a Warden.

She withdraws her hand after a moment. "Here's hoping the benefits outweigh the risks, for all involved." Still as humorless as before, prepared to see through any pleasantries.

Ilias nods, not pressing for more. If she is her titles first, that's her choice. He'd rather be more than a family name, himself. His handshake is firmer than he looks, if not exactly talons.

There's a pause, wherein he considers leaving it at that; certainly remaining opaque is the smarter move politically, but-- "I don't believe I do pose a threat to the Inquisition, if that's what concerns you." Himself, his family's reputation, maybe, but not that. "My grandmother's machinations are not mine."

A pause, then a slight quirk at the corner of her mouth: a threat to the Inquisition, yes, that's the concern. Let him think that all he wants.
"Isn't that always the way," Teren replies, neither accepting nor refuting his assertion. "I'll see you around, Ilias."

That sounds less friendly than perhaps it normally would. She turns to go.

With a curt nod and a gesture, Ilias makes no move to waylay her.

Well. At least he has a name to go with the face he seems to have offended, if very little else.

openish ☓ i see god in birds and satan in long words

you're getting generic icons for a while

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

mummy time: nikos, caspar, sidony;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

idk pre-satinalia??

no subject

Nevarran Intrigue Bullshit

slides in here late, if you're still up for this we could set it post-ghislain if that's easier??

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject