OPEN + starters | nothing is what it seems

[faithlikeaseed]

WHO: Myr & YOU; starter for Simon (and more by request)
WHAT: Divine Election nonsense + an elf/mage doing elf/mage things
WHEN: All through Drakonis
WHERE: The Gallows & Kirkwall
NOTES: hit me up if we've discussed something for this month & you would like a starter for it!

i. extended office hours - Chantry Relations office
With the Divine's election in the offing, there's much for Chantry Relations to do, both officially and not. Above the board there's letters to be sent on Inquisition policy, research to be done on the various candidates' intentions for the organization, requests to answer for their agents as guards or troubleshooters at Chantry functions, good will on all fronts to curry and maintain. That by itself would be enough to keep Myr in the office most working days of the week--

But there was also the matter of Skyhold's unofficial suggestion that Grand Cleric Clorentine ought to be discouraged in her ambitions. After much deliberation (and thought, and prayer), he had agreed to go along with it--and so there is all that much more deniable work to sort through as well, often later in the evenings when he's alone.

So: If anyone's looking for him they would find him in the office from shortly after breakfast to not long before dinner (and sometimes well after it), with or without Cade present; the door's usually open in invitation, a kettle of hot water for tea and a plate of treats on a side table to share with anyone who stops by with a concern or a report.

In the new-minted Inquisition tradition, he's also left a box outside for anyone who'd prefer to bring their comments, complaints, or other communications through writing.

ii. cash me outside - the gallows & kirkwall
Despite the workload, keeping at it seven days a week through the whole month would be a recipe for disaster and cruel to Cade, besides. Myr can afford to set aside a day to tend to body and soul, whether that means spending time in the library with some light reading (Hard in Hightown for the umpteenth time) or mucking around in the garden with the Comtesse on hand to dispose of grubs or dead plants with all a nug's voracity.

Sometimes you might catch him practicing spells in a disused corner of the courtyard, tweaking the Fade in volatile ways that are prone to backfiring (though mercifully without much effect on anyone but him).

On good days he'll make the trip out to Kirkwall and the Chantry memorial garden there, to pray at Andraste's feet or simply sit on a bench and absorb the early spring sunshine.

Comments

@ii I'm telling myself it doesn't have to be perfect because I LOVE THIS & just. need to write more!

[faithlikeaseed]

It is--a part of the joy of talking to Galadriel that Myr can't ever anticipate her answers, that they're drawn from some place deeper in time and experience than anyone he's every known; drawn from a world where to be an elf is something noble and fair and within touching distance of Deity, so unlike the lot Thedas offers the elvhen. It isn't envy in him, exactly; it isn't regret for what he is or the scaffolding the Maker's handed him to build his life upon, only--only he does long to conduct himself so well, with such grace, to prove out as beautifully as often.

(Of course he knows that she's not perfect, that Thranduil and Fingon aren't perfect; he isn't such a sentimentalist he doesn't remember who went to kill whom in that meeting with Alvar, or how lightly the Provost carries all his secrets.

But it's still easy to be overcome by the brightness of them.)

Because I know what could be without it. You bore the cost because the alternatives were too awful to think, and knowing the cost--Myr shudders, even here in the clear light of the rising morning, to imagine what would be so awful that the fate of the wraiths paled before it. Thedas may be a world of sorrows and horrors but even the abstract notion of a Blight doesn't seem as horrible as that. Even whatever Corypheus intended for the world--which would in all likelihood end in its annihilation-- "Who would make such things? Who could?"

[laurenande]

"No one who lives knows the whole truth of how it came to pass...but I know much of it," she starts and it is an oddly soft beginning for this tale. She knows this tale will become very dark and she cannot tolerate the thought of Myrobalan judging them too harshly, not if it can be mitigated. Unconsciously she closes the hand that wears Nenya and tucks it into the other, resting them in the cradle of her lap.

"Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die," she repeats. It is a nursery rhyme, a warning for young elves, for young men, but in its simplicity there is a certain weight. Myrobalan has known her long enough to know she does not speak in verse.

"One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne."

Galadriel takes pause again, for words have power, and these are uneasily spoken in all languages. They were not scribed upon the One because Sauron had a penchant for poetry, after all.

"One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and...in the darkness bind them. In the land of Mordor...where the Shadows lie."

Her hands shift in her lap, tense and uncomfortable, and she waits a long moment after she has spoken before she continues.

"The rings were not all made by the Sauron, but most of them were, and all of them can be bent to his will. Those who wear them can be made to serve him, they can and will be twisted with the force of the shadow and the weight of his power.

"Not all rings behave as mine does, not all rings grant power in this way...but mine was not made by Sauron."

"When Sauron first sought to consolidate his power, to take such staggering control, he did it cleverly. He came to us as--Maiar, you do not have Maiar, do you?"

Her story pauses and her brow dips on frustration as she looks at him. She is not so familiar with Thedas that she can say, without doubt, it has nothing that parallels the Maiar. That she has not encountered any is hardly proof, after all.

"Men called the last of them Wizards, in a land where the arts and magic was not so separate as it is here. They were beings of power, like spirits, but bound to the world and to bodies that were mortal...in practice if nothing else.

"They were not...the gods. But they were not as removed from them as I am, or as Men are."