faderift | OPEN | so much to learn, so little time

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OPEN | so much to learn, so little time

WHO: Finel and YOU
WHAT: February catch-all
WHEN: Beginning a few days after Kirkwail
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Finel has lots of people still to meet - starters available on request or hit me with anything and I'll roll with it

I. The Library

The library has quickly become his favorite place in the Gallows, and as such he finds a reason to be there nearly every day for several hours. Some times, he's bent over a large volume at a table, a small leather bound notebook open to the side with pen and ink as he takes notes on different magical techniques - mostly healing magics, but also digging into the histories of Thedas, and on occasion some more esoteric volumes on the Fade.

Other times he just wanders through the rows, marveling at titles and enjoying the relative quiet. Even though the room is densely filled and surrounded by stone, he feels settled and safe, here.

On one occasion, he happens to have overstayed himself. Head pillowed on one arm, arm resting against the open book, Finel appears fast asleep at the table.

II. The Wounded Coast

The stone of the Gallows and the bustle of Kirkwall at times feel like all too much. Unused to the constant closeness of a city, he seeks a more open place when he feels overwhelmed and has the time to get away. He's only been on a ship a handful of times, but there's something about the rhythm of the waves, the endless expanse of the horizon that can erase his thoughts and worries, if only briefly.

He's settled on a piece of driftwood washed up on the beach, staff leaning by his side as he takes up a smaller branch, drawing idle words and shapes in the sand. Before long he sets that aside too, and begins practicing some small spells, pulling and shaping the Fade with his hands, forming ice and fire, calling a stone on the ground towards his hand and dropping it again. The anchor shard is dull and numb just below his thumb on his left hand, and he frowns a little as he looks at it.

III. Wildcard!

Request a starter or start your own - feel free to go with any other time you might have run into him in the Library.

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Finel doesn't notice him at first, beyond noting the presence of someone walking by. He has a few scraps of paper strewn about with some notes, a few stuck in different parts of the book to mark different spots he means to come back to, and every now and then writes something in a small journal to the side.

The voice over him causes him to look up, taking in the young man's appearance for just a moment before an apologetic smile comes to his face.

"Ah, are you looking for this one? I'm just about done with this section here, if you don't mind waiting a little while."

Now there's a novel thought. Benedict looks at Finel, and then the book, with a strange expression, before shaking his head and giving a shrug. (They can read?)
He walks to the window instead, hands behind his back. "Studying the Fade?" he asks idly.

Benedict's expression makes Finel quirk an eyebrow of his own, wondering if perhaps the young man is so put off at him having the book in question. His own face remains patient and pleasant, however, as his gaze follows the young man to the window.

"After what happened, I thought it might be good to try to understand it better."

He pauses, smiling amiably. "It seems we must have the same idea."

"More or less." There's doubt in the answer; what could he possibly have in common with a Dalish? At the same time, Benedict doesn't see a need to be suspicious or call attention to the fact: it's not his problem. After all, there's Beleth, and she's behaved herself decently enough.

"It seems willing to let its power be manipulated," he observes to the window, "as much as 'it' is an entity." Can the Fade think, or will anyone to do anything? That's the big question.

It's an intriguing thought. Finel perks up a bit, curious to hear another's thoughts.
He takes up his pen and turns to a fresh sheet from amidst the small pile already there.

"You think the Fade has a will of its own? Rather than just being manipulated by mages or spirits?"

"I don't know." It's an honest answer. "Would that be so surprising? It giveth and it taketh away, and who can say what is or isn't the Maker's will?"

It's a somewhat strange idea to him, that the Veil - the Beyond - could be a construction of the Maker. But he's familiarized himself with the Chantry teachings a little if only to understand better the majority of the other texts. Very few have alluded to any other possibilities for its creation, with fewer of those still outright commenting on Dalish beliefs.

Even so, Finel doesn't particularly feel the need to fight about that point, but he's curious to explore the idea Benedict has suggested.

"So then do you think it's possible the Veil opens on its own with the rifts? Perhaps that it consciously brings people here from other realms?"

This is not at all the direction Benedict saw this conversation going, but he can't say he hates it. It's certainly a topic he's thought about, perhaps more than he's been aware.

"Well," he says measuredly, turning back from the window and furrowing his brow, "not conscious in the way people are, maybe. But spirits aren't people, or... living, even, they're magic manifested, and they still make choices and act freely." He chews his lower lip, wheels turning behind his dark eyes.
"Maybe it doesn't think the way think, or maybe it's... the Maker's will, but I think maybe it has other reasons for acting like it does. ...like weather. Or the sea."

Finel smiles, thinking a bit wistfully for a moment of the sea itself.

"So like a force of nature, that can change when we least expect it. Perhaps it should follow that there are things we could observe about the Fade that might make some part of it more predictable, some signs that could indicate a change is coming."

"Right." A small nod as Benedict considers, and then agrees. "We at least know what's about to happen when a Rift opens in the sky, even if we can't predict when they will. ...at least." He pauses.
"I don't think we can."

"Hm..." Finel muses thoughtfully, quiet for a moment. "Without having observed many myself, I cannot say I have noticed anything in particular, but if we could go back to a few places where we know rifts opened and asked people there if they had noticed anything beforehand, we could determine if there was anything they all happened to notice before a rift opened.

But then again, we might not find anything."

Benedict pauses, eyeing the elf with suspicious consideration. The last time he went to a rift, it didn't go so well for him. He's not sure he'd go again so soon, even to study one.

"...be my guest," he says after a moment, with an air of avoidance, "let us know how it goes." There's a touch of sarcasm in there as well, though the reason isn't clear.

Finel smiles despite the look and Benedict's tone, a little abashed at his own suggestion. "It would be rather foolish to go to a still active one, wouldn't it? Perhaps the safest bet is to start with places where they've already been closed."

He takes a moment to write a few brief notes, including the page number and volume of the tome that had begun their conversation before he closes the book gently and offers it to the younger mage with a warm expression.

"I'm Finel, by the way."

Foolish indeed. Benedict's gloved left hand flinches, and he tucks it into his robe. Glad for the lapse in conversation, he takes to looking out the window once more, turning back only once the book is offered out to him.

"Mm," he grunts, perhaps in lieu of thanks, taking it and beginning to idly flip through its pages. "Benedict," he says in a mumble, "of House Artemaeus."
There was a time when the words would have held more pride, but times have changed, and so has he.

Finel's own mark is easily seen, open and bare just below his thumb as he hands Benedict the book. He doesn't seem particularly bothered by the fact that Benedict didn't manage even a short 'thank you,'. The distinction of the name is entirely lost on him, and he hasn't quite learned enough to be able to guess with any accuracy where humans tend to be from based on their name, but truth be told, it doesn't really make much difference to Finel.

The 'house' part sounds noble, but that's about all that he can glean.

"Pleased to meet you," Finel responds genuinely, folding his hands on the table.

"How long have you been with the Inquisition?"

Offering thanks is still a bit out of Bene's wheelhouse, even if his manners have gotten better on the whole. ...at least, one hopes. He grunts in response to the formality, focusing on a page and pursing his lips.
He's lost in the book for several long moments before realizing he's been asked something else, and looks up with mild surprise. "Oh. Um. Little over a year."

He hardly feels jilted by the lack of response in the moment, watching Benedict become immersed in the book. It's something he can well understand, as he has been fascinated by the same text not so long before.

Finel smiles. "Has the time gone by very quickly?"

The question gives Benedict pause, and he cuts a glance to the elf, thinking, before returning his gaze to the book. Then, he shakes his head.
"It goes faster when you want to be here," he remarks, after a moment. That's one way to say it.

It's certainly not the answer he had been expecting, but it's vague enough that Finel can't quite catch the exact meaning. The Keeper had ordered him here, a veritable exile, but already he has come to be happy about the opportunity to experience new things and meet new people. It wouldn't, of course, be true for everyone in that kid of situation.

He tilts his head a little, brows knitting together in half concern and half confusion.

"You were brought here against your will?"

He hadn't meant to say it so plainly. The question clearly isn't what Benedict expected, but now that it's out, he may as well be honest about it. Shrugging one shoulder, he tosses his hair.
"A misunderstanding," he answers simply. Nothing that an elf should know, or-- at least no one outside a certain realm of influence. Too many people knowing is bad for his image.

The answer earns him a quirked eyebrow, but it's clear it isn't something Benedict is keen to discuss further. Of course, he's curious, but there's no point in prying out details.

"In that case I hope you'll be able to return to your home someday."

A pause, in which a furtive glance is cast over Bene's shoulder. Then, tucking the book under his arm, he goes to take his leave.
"Thank you," comes the mumbled reply, nonetheless, before he goes out the door.

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OPEN | so much to learn, so little time

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