WHO: Coupe + Gervais, Yseult, Lakshmi, Teren WHAT: Back 2 Kirkwall WHEN: Now-ish, some prompts backdated WHERE: Kirkwall/Vaguely Orlais NOTES: HMU on plurk if you want something.
There are words, lists, names. Loss at such scale that it begins to inure, numb as tumbled white stone.
Losing. But she's known that longer than some.
Can't say whether she expects Yseult among them. An assessment of their odds is not some mad vision, must yield similar score. But there are optimists even in the pit. Wren dips the pen again, frowns as ink spatters loose across parchment. She didn't frown so often last week. There was more medicine then.
"I thought that must be its name, it was all that my father shouted." Halfway through some inane little story. Not the first, not the last. She signs the bottom of the letter (Maker knows if the family can read), "Ratbastard."
Call it fortune, to be left behind as so many were routed north. Call it a fucking headache, more favours to repay, but they haven't been tossed into the snow yet and Yseult at least has proven pleasant company.
Yseult's laugh is half a soft snort, not just because anything more would strain the still-healing gash in her gut.
She has a letter of her own, similar to Wren's, but neater, for all she's not left-handed. She hasn't been here long enough for many to learn her name, but there are too many for four-to-eight people to write themselves and she's good at strewing just enough detail among the vague platitudes to make a quickly-composed condolence letter seem genuine.
"I had an uncle like that," she tells Coupe, tapping the tip of her pen carefully against the inkwell. She leaves it there, hovering for a moment. "He had this odd curse I've never heard anyone else use. It was--" her head tilts, willing the memory to tip off its shelf and out. "Saddlegoose. He said it so often I thought it was my aunt's name."
i pinky promise 2 actually boomerang this now whenever we're both around
Pleased for a roof. [ walls. ] It is — different, I think, for the young. The land changes, and they change with it. To be something, still but an act of will.
[ amsel. shivana. voss, averesch, all those spun about the point of a year (of five). and the two of them, words heated, still paralyzed of action.
[ they. she hardly marks it; it would more feel strange to be included in 'the young', for all she's of an age with those Coupe calls to mind. maybe it's that she's spent decades longer in the world. ]
At least they have that. Opportunity for change might be created with will enough, but there's no forcing a man to take it.
What else would you have them be? [ a look takes in the room, the rows of beds like their own ] It's a time for swords. We've too few properly forged as it is.
[ that fatal flaw, the crack of fade that lets in something — else. ]
We give all we have to this, because we must. But they play into blunt hands. It is how the world wishes to know them: Not a man, a child, but a spit for one’s enemies.
[ intolerable when turned inward. a gesture, ]
The Ambassador, you know. It was such an argument, her training.
[ she’s talking too much; that's half yseult's purpose. but she’s tired. but this is hardly a secret. but she can’t speak of it elsewhere without counting the seconds to talk of slavery ]
[ then temper it are the words on her lips throw it in the fire and beat it until the weakness is gone, until it can hold the shape you need, until it can take an edge. but that's not what she's said before, is it. not everyone can do what they've done. those that can't shouldn't have to just to survive, or else what's the good in being a sword at all?
and too late she realizes the commander's only talking about mages, anyway. ]
She was thought weak?
[ brittle, maybe. steel worked too long will crack before it bends. ]
[ she says after a moment, a thoughtful pause that will not seem unusual the more they speak like this ]
to know and care for right and wrong but also see the spectrum in between, the strange forms they can take. To admit to nothing but black and white is childish, but so is claiming all is equally grey. I don't know which does more harm.
The Ambassador has lasted this long. Luck, or has she learned?
[ which is more than she's generally wiling to credit herian where it might be repeated (stories their own reluctant endorsement). luck, that she'd a sword to learn by.
wren presses a crease into the page. a pause, eyes slipping shut. doesn't yet reach for the next. idly, ]
You must have few lessons left.
[ yseult's been lucky enough to — by the looks of it — get hit with every hammer on the field. ]
[ a huff of a laugh, dry. she is too old for this shit. ]
I was certain I'd learned this one already.
[ magic may smooth away any scars that might someday cause a mark to grow suspicious, but you don't last this long in her business without earning a handful, or without minding their teachings all the same. still, there are things they don't cover: ]
Though I can't say I've ever been in a pitched battle like that before.
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YSEULT | backdated vaguely orlais ??
Losing. But she's known that longer than some.
Can't say whether she expects Yseult among them. An assessment of their odds is not some mad vision, must yield similar score. But there are optimists even in the pit. Wren dips the pen again, frowns as ink spatters loose across parchment. She didn't frown so often last week. There was more medicine then.
"I thought that must be its name, it was all that my father shouted." Halfway through some inane little story. Not the first, not the last. She signs the bottom of the letter (Maker knows if the family can read), "Ratbastard."
Call it fortune, to be left behind as so many were routed north. Call it a fucking headache, more favours to repay, but they haven't been tossed into the snow yet and Yseult at least has proven pleasant company.
time and space are both flat circles??
She has a letter of her own, similar to Wren's, but neater, for all she's not left-handed. She hasn't been here long enough for many to learn her name, but there are too many for four-to-eight people to write themselves and she's good at strewing just enough detail among the vague platitudes to make a quickly-composed condolence letter seem genuine.
"I had an uncle like that," she tells Coupe, tapping the tip of her pen carefully against the inkwell. She leaves it there, hovering for a moment. "He had this odd curse I've never heard anyone else use. It was--" her head tilts, willing the memory to tip off its shelf and out. "Saddlegoose. He said it so often I thought it was my aunt's name."
i pinky promise 2 actually boomerang this now whenever we're both around
[ that it was a plausible name. saddlegander? ]
no subject
Balázs. But there was also an uncle Hopper, if that helps.
no subject
[ good-natured. the marches continue to elude. ]
One-legged fellow?
no subject
[ She'd shrug, but that's tough with several shattered bones in one shoulder. The tip of her head suggests it instead. ]
The ginger fellow who hovers occasionally. I haven't caught his name.
no subject
[ there's a tasteless joke or two about that. she doesn't make them. shakes her head (ginger, itself) to glance down again, cross a 't'. ]
If you caught his name I should be impressed. [ deciphering code is one thing; the stammer's not slight. ] Ah, Vauquelin.
no subject
[ whatever. vauquelin is more interesting. ]
He doesn't much resemble the provost's wife.
no subject
no subject
Have you been married long?
no subject
I imagine that depends upon one's definition, [ a pause: ] Would yours match Mssr. Darras'?
no subject
I imagine so. It's not a complicated formula--a chantry, vows, rings. But you might have to ask him; we agree on very little.
no subject
[ possibly of just knowing darras ]
no subject
He hasn't been quite himself. The Inquisition is...not his preferred environment.
no subject
Environments may be shifted.
[ they've no shortage of tasks afield of authority. skill's not the question. interest? ]
no subject
What does your Vauquelin think of the shift in environment? Or do the Gallows carry enough familiarity?
no subject
the tip of her chin. ]
Pleased for a roof. [ walls. ] It is — different, I think, for the young. The land changes, and they change with it. To be something, still but an act of will.
[ amsel. shivana. voss, averesch, all those spun about the point of a year (of five). and the two of them, words heated, still paralyzed of action.
to abstain from a war isn't to avoid sides. ]
no subject
At least they have that. Opportunity for change might be created with will enough, but there's no forcing a man to take it.
no subject
I do not know that we should. [ force them? take it? ] Melted down for steel, so pleased to find themselves a sword.
no subject
no subject
[ that fatal flaw, the crack of fade that lets in something — else. ]
We give all we have to this, because we must. But they play into blunt hands. It is how the world wishes to know them: Not a man, a child, but a spit for one’s enemies.
[ intolerable when turned inward. a gesture, ]
The Ambassador, you know. It was such an argument, her training.
[ she’s talking too much; that's half yseult's purpose. but she’s tired. but this is hardly a secret. but she can’t speak of it elsewhere without counting the seconds to talk of slavery ]
no subject
and too late she realizes the commander's only talking about mages, anyway. ]
She was thought weak?
[ brittle, maybe. steel worked too long will crack before it bends. ]
no subject
The honourable knight, given simple decisions. Good and wrong. Day and night. It is what many are told. But when it is taken --
[ crumples to a fist ]
The consequences, yes? To allow in anger, grief. Untested, but they wanted to give her a blade.
no subject
[ she says after a moment, a thoughtful pause that will not seem unusual the more they speak like this ]
to know and care for right and wrong but also see the spectrum in between, the strange forms they can take. To admit to nothing but black and white is childish, but so is claiming all is equally grey. I don't know which does more harm.
The Ambassador has lasted this long. Luck, or has she learned?
no subject
[ which is more than she's generally wiling to credit herian where it might be repeated (stories their own reluctant endorsement). luck, that she'd a sword to learn by.
wren presses a crease into the page. a pause, eyes slipping shut. doesn't yet reach for the next. idly, ]
You must have few lessons left.
[ yseult's been lucky enough to — by the looks of it — get hit with every hammer on the field. ]
no subject
I was certain I'd learned this one already.
[ magic may smooth away any scars that might someday cause a mark to grow suspicious, but you don't last this long in her business without earning a handful, or without minding their teachings all the same. still, there are things they don't cover: ]
Though I can't say I've ever been in a pitched battle like that before.