gather jewels from graveyards | closed

[wythersake]

WHO: Isaac + Lexie, Leander
WHAT: Threads 4 the month
WHEN: Now-ish
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: just hmu on plurk if you want a starter

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[coquettish_trees]

"Might we?" She returns, her brows lifting.

It's something she's missed, this. Having a conversation that might be about anything from the plight of Mages in the south, to the Inquisition being bound by honor and humanity in combat in a way Corypheus and his troops certainly weren't, to the actual sport being discussed. The game in attempting to see whether or not, by the end of the conversation, you could be having the same one.

"I shall answer both at once. Men who make sport of fettered beasts that should be stronger than them unfettered in order to boast themselves as great and powerful as that which they have caught and bound are, I think, made the smaller for it."

No such thing seen in the Tourney's creatures. Fabricated though the circumstances had been, Geneviève had earned her victory.

[wythersake]

"Ah, then wits are no great power —" Kirkwall descends, one great slope to the ocean. He cuts their path aside before it can dip too far (no one loves a fishmarket). "— Or wealth."

To supply the iron, to craft and place it. Whether there’s honour in Orlais is a matter of contention, but it wasn’t Gaspard's strength of arm that brought him so near to the throne.

[coquettish_trees]

"Think you that wits and wealth are shackles on those who have none rather than wings on those who do?" Alexandrie asks, her eyebrows lofting gracefully.

[wythersake]

"Consider the falcon," A self-effacing gesture, the quirk of a mouth, "If you'll permit a bit of zoological meandering."

Too much metaphor, and they'll both sink into some ridiculous guessing game. Well. More ridiculous.

"Shackled and winged alike — a bird of uncommon cleverness, and finely-kept for it," If it isn't about mages (about Tevinter), it may as well be. But there are other confines than a tower: If less politically important, more presently relevant. "Kept, the same."

Hooded, blind; talons fettered to another's purpose. He does recall whose walls he scorched.

His glance finds hers: A moment, two, and then they round the corner. There's a sign at the end of the street, the Grizzly Arms. It hangs before a set of steps, themselves vanishing underground. A heavily-tattooed woman loiters outside the entrance.

"Of course it's a sight when they get loose. Whether after the hare," He's heard about the wedding. Merrill, a particularly scandalous choice if one needs to piss on the memory of a would-be Magister. "Or one's eyes."

There are more direct means than scandal. It's lightly-said, might be a joke. Might be.

[coquettish_trees]

"An odd relationship, to be sure. One likes to imagine that the falcon respects its falconer as well as its falconer respects it," or as well as its falconer ought to, "but if it is to be a truly effective hunter it must be as wild as it is tame. I have sometime thought jesses crueler than chains for the brief illusion of freedom the bird enjoys for a few wingbeats."

About the bird, about its 'master'. Little for the hare; it irks her to be thought prey, despite making herself an attractive target.

"It is a rare bird who would fly to the glove a-purpose, rather than being born to it or caught. I should simultaneous cherish it and wonder always why it came. Why it stays."

The woman's tattoos are rather lovely.