WHO: Gilia St. Low & YOU! WHAT: One Girls Quest To Be Absolutely Unnoticable: The Beginning. WHEN: From [gestures] to [gestures further along] WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall NOTES: None forseen, save for social anxiety and occasional eldritch horror.
The Father-Sea wasn't talking to her. His dreams had not come in so long. In the first few days, it was a relief to not have not him speak in her mind, calling and beating and bleeding inside of her head. He was the Father-Sea, she reasoned, He loved all his half-him children. She could take it with the understanding he was giving her peace in a new land.
But now? Now she worried. It was difficult to know his will. Had she upset him? There was always that. She had never heard of it happening, and nor had the bond broken. It was still possible for her to shadow-step and end back up in his embrace. Perhaps... Perhaps it was that she was so far lost. Perhaps it was hard to reach her. Perhaps she had to reach for him back.
The Medicine Seller's words echoed in her mind. That they did not like spirits here, called them all foul things. She could not blame them, and if only she could see how he cared for her family, perhaps they might feel differently. More than that, she knew the Father-Sea would help if she asked Him. He was not unmovable, nor pitiless, for had he himself not saved St. Loe? But to do that, she must reach him again, and the usual means, the Medicine Seller said, could be troublesome for her. So dancing would not do.
No, she takes the route far more excusable. There are reeds plenty that people made baskets out of, and with the steadily building collection of coins she doesn't know what else to do with, she purchases herself some, some dry dies, also, and enough flowers by the stem to make a handful. At the end of the dock, she sets herself, feet dangling over the edge out of the way, she begins to weave the reeds and flower together. Twining and braiding in equal measure to weave around and around and around, to make a wreath. When the first one is done, she rubs in the dry pigments, against the sun-bleached dry reeds, and begins to colour them.
Who said eldritch abominations of the deep didn't like flower crowns?
The boat's come across from the mainland, Anders returning from his Clinic in his more worn robes, blues and blacks that are a little stained, a little faded. Blood and various other fluids take their toll no matter how much laundry he does, and there's a reason he chooses these to wear down there.
He leans on his staff as he looks at the small wreath she's working on, some hair loose from his long ponytail and a few streaks of dirt at temples where he's brushed hair back. A cat, a large, ginger, fluffy tomcat, twines through his feet and watches curiously.
"You've a lot of supplies; how many are you making?" There's something about her that he can't quite set definition to yet, a feeling that's almost familiar. That she's a Rifter isn't in doubt, but what it is about her that he's sensing he doesn't know and Anders is always curious, much like his cats.
She holds it up to him, glad for his inspection. Letting him see it as she turns it this way and that. Then lifting it up to set it atop her head. How well it places there, a top so much hair. Like it had perhaps, just grown out of her head itself.
"Until I run out I suspect. But I hoped to make one for each of my Fathers, my Mother. And all my brothers and sisters." She thinks it through, eyeing her pile, wondering about it.
At least until the cat catches her eye, and with it, she lifts her fingers to it, to see if it would come close to her.
It fits her perfectly, which speaks of a lot of practice. Then again, twining together sticks to make something pretty speaks of practice in itself.
"Are they here?" he asks, and promptly feels stupid about the asking. She's a Rifter. The answer to that is almost definitely a sad 'no.' Anders grimaces. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Most have no family here. I certainly have none."
The cat feels no guilt or stupidity, on the other hand. He inches forward to sniff her hand and promptly starts licking the offered fingers.
"His name's Lord Pawdric. He'll lick nearly anything held out, up to and including books." But at least now Anders' voice is fond rather than apologetic. After a beat, he stops leaning on his staff and takes a seat next to her. Looming is annoying to the loomed-over. He knows, because he's often the shorter one getting loomed at.
"That is alright, that is why I am making them. So I could send these to them through the sea. But it is a good thing they are not, there is so many of them, they would take up a whole wing for them."
She shakes her head, breezily. Easy with it, far be it for her to put her misery on another - that went against almost everything she had been raised too.
"He is quite welcome too, whenever he wishes." After all, even if she doesn't think it's notable, that way that her family all is, that extra salt often made them especially appealing for animals to want to lick their skin. Indulgent to the cat completely, she lowers her head, leaning down for him to lick her cheeks if he wanted, nose curling up at the sensation.
"It is nice to meet you, Lord Pawdric." She offers in response to the approval. But with the company she shuffles to give him space on the end of the jetty. "Would you like to make one, sir?"
Pawdric is never one to turn down an invitation, and he eagerly moves forward to headbutt her cheek before licking that too. Anders keeps an eye on the cat, but he's not worried.
"He'd wish a lot. He's used to getting a lot of attention and has come to expect it." As a cat should, really. But the human forgot a certain 'should' and only had introduced his cat. "I'm Anders, by the way. Sorry. Definitely not sir. Only my cats have titles. And yes, now that you ask. I'd like to make one."
He's short on people to give them to, but he has a head and likes pretty things. As he eyes the reeds, what he's feeling finally comes to him. He's feeling a spirit, but the way he'd felt them when he was possessed. For a moment his heart stops in fear, and then it resumes. He's not possessed. He'd know, and Mercy is lingering nearby rather than pushed away or inside him. He's fine. But the woman with him...
"Oh. I am Gilia, Gilia St. Loe." Her words are smooth, that tone that curves the letters. Sinlew, "First-Daughter, Second-Child." Now. Thinks, but does not say - but she knew, now at least, that such words would mean nothing to him. More out of habit than anything else that she moves through the introduction.
Rather, extracting herself from the cat, she reaches for another of the reeds, Sliding it between her fingers, and looking up at his head, briefly. A question, when she lifts her hands so that she could measure his head. "May I?" Waiting, of course, for him to say yes.
But his question - that makes her hands, watching him so slightly confused. "... I... do not think I quite rightly what they are."
"Gilia," he echoes, nodding. "You may." Her introduction says a great deal, a place within a family and a family name that sounds like it holds weight if they're using saint names. Letting her see the size of his head gives him a few moments to actually think. She doesn't have to be a mage to have a spirit lingering near her. That's the situation he's most used to feeling that in, but Rifters are part of the Fade themselves. Maybe something especially curious had attached itself to her. Or maybe she's pure spirit herself, he's sensing her instead of another, but that's not what he thinks he feels. This is like... like when he realized Bruce was a functioning abomination.
"I'm a mage," Anders finally says. He doesn't have enough information to go off of, and one of the last things he wants to do is set off a panic about a Rifter. He holds out a hand to the side and pulls up creation magic, letting it glow green-blue around his hand, warm and bright. "A healer, specifically. I asked because I got a sense of something from you, something I'd felt off another mage before."
That should be safe enough, gentle enough. He doesn't want her to feel threatened - his cat is right here.
She leans across - and she is for her dedicated task of not seeming very big, quite tall, and it brings her even to him. Gently wrapping the reed around the crown of his head, pulling it a little tighter. The eye of someone who knows how to measure very well for her task, as she pinches a mark into the dry material to mark it for herself. Then brings it back down to her lap, and starts taking more reeds, to begin weaving them into a wreath.
Though his hands, she eyes curiously. Blinking in surprise as the light illuminates his fingers, - she hadn't seen it, herself. The thing everyone called here magic. That seemed to cause so much of a problem. That - she took, not as something you are born, but simply, a choice you made, and one that only made things better.
But to that - "Oh, no, I cannot do anything like that. Is that what the spirits here give you? Is that why people are so - " and at least she has the sense to look around, and lower her head, cautious of what the Medicine Seller had said to her, about not speaking too freely of such matters. " - so fearful of them?"
He lets the magic go, shaking his head. There'd been a Templar recruit, a few of them, possessed and holding human shape for a short time, but that had taken work and blood magic and hiding away. He doesn't think it's something that could be done to a Rifter in Kirkwall. There's few enough of them they'd be noticed missing.
"No. Magic doesn't come from the spirits. ...Rather, most magic doesn't." His voice isn't loud, it won't carry, but it's not altogether quiet. Everyone around would know what it means when a person is in robes and carrying a staff, after all, and they're close enough to the Inquisition forces he feels not too alone.
"Mages are born with a connection to the Fade, where the spirits live. I've a boost, additional strength in healing, thanks to a spirit I work with. Mercy. But a majority of mages don't partner with spirits. There's a risk of going too far. Of letting one in. When that happens it's a disaster for all involved. But spirits on their own aren't beings to be fearful of."
Has she been treated with fear? He doesn't think people outside those in Kirkwall and in command of the Inquisition know about Rifters being somewhat akin to spirits, but when even a few dozen know a secret there will be leaks.
"Have you been threatened, Gilia?" That's the priority, if someone is threatening Rifters. Then he can try to carefully figure out more of what he's feeling.
He is saying things - things that make sense and don't, that are so against almost everything she has learned. Everything she knew about the world. Everything she held as sacred. Everything she was. Her hands slow in their work, for once something crossing her gaze that is not that pleasant and perfected mildness. Eyes going a little bit wide.
"Why on earth would a spirit ever do such a thing?" As for fearful - "No, no one has ever treated me unkindly. They have been good and respectful. I want for nothing." But there is one fatal flaw to that statement, even if someone was, she was not the sort of young woman to ever admit a problem.
At least she's not being threatened, but the wideness of her eyes says she's not comfortable.
"Some spirits want more. Most don't." Maybe that will allay some of her fears. "You're not a mage, and I've heard no cases of Rifters being possessed, so it's not likely to happen to you."
There's a short beat as he considers where to go from here. "You've... a sense of a spirit to you, so you may be even more protected." Or already possessed.
That at least finally makes sense to her. She presses her lips together. Eyes bright as she slides over to him, then back out to the ocean, grey and troubled, that hugs the Gallows. In many ways, that alone reminds her of her home. For the sea there was often the same grey frothed with white.
To that, there is a simple response. "Oh - perhaps you feel my Father-Sea?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
(open.) but the sea, it listens
no subject
The boat's come across from the mainland, Anders returning from his Clinic in his more worn robes, blues and blacks that are a little stained, a little faded. Blood and various other fluids take their toll no matter how much laundry he does, and there's a reason he chooses these to wear down there.
He leans on his staff as he looks at the small wreath she's working on, some hair loose from his long ponytail and a few streaks of dirt at temples where he's brushed hair back. A cat, a large, ginger, fluffy tomcat, twines through his feet and watches curiously.
"You've a lot of supplies; how many are you making?" There's something about her that he can't quite set definition to yet, a feeling that's almost familiar. That she's a Rifter isn't in doubt, but what it is about her that he's sensing he doesn't know and Anders is always curious, much like his cats.
no subject
"Until I run out I suspect. But I hoped to make one for each of my Fathers, my Mother. And all my brothers and sisters." She thinks it through, eyeing her pile, wondering about it.
At least until the cat catches her eye, and with it, she lifts her fingers to it, to see if it would come close to her.
no subject
"Are they here?" he asks, and promptly feels stupid about the asking. She's a Rifter. The answer to that is almost definitely a sad 'no.' Anders grimaces. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Most have no family here. I certainly have none."
The cat feels no guilt or stupidity, on the other hand. He inches forward to sniff her hand and promptly starts licking the offered fingers.
"His name's Lord Pawdric. He'll lick nearly anything held out, up to and including books." But at least now Anders' voice is fond rather than apologetic. After a beat, he stops leaning on his staff and takes a seat next to her. Looming is annoying to the loomed-over. He knows, because he's often the shorter one getting loomed at.
no subject
She shakes her head, breezily. Easy with it, far be it for her to put her misery on another - that went against almost everything she had been raised too.
"He is quite welcome too, whenever he wishes." After all, even if she doesn't think it's notable, that way that her family all is, that extra salt often made them especially appealing for animals to want to lick their skin. Indulgent to the cat completely, she lowers her head, leaning down for him to lick her cheeks if he wanted, nose curling up at the sensation.
"It is nice to meet you, Lord Pawdric." She offers in response to the approval. But with the company she shuffles to give him space on the end of the jetty. "Would you like to make one, sir?"
no subject
"He'd wish a lot. He's used to getting a lot of attention and has come to expect it." As a cat should, really. But the human forgot a certain 'should' and only had introduced his cat. "I'm Anders, by the way. Sorry. Definitely not sir. Only my cats have titles. And yes, now that you ask. I'd like to make one."
He's short on people to give them to, but he has a head and likes pretty things. As he eyes the reeds, what he's feeling finally comes to him. He's feeling a spirit, but the way he'd felt them when he was possessed. For a moment his heart stops in fear, and then it resumes. He's not possessed. He'd know, and Mercy is lingering nearby rather than pushed away or inside him. He's fine. But the woman with him...
"Do you... Are you a mage?"
no subject
Rather, extracting herself from the cat, she reaches for another of the reeds, Sliding it between her fingers, and looking up at his head, briefly. A question, when she lifts her hands so that she could measure his head. "May I?" Waiting, of course, for him to say yes.
But his question - that makes her hands, watching him so slightly confused. "... I... do not think I quite rightly what they are."
no subject
"I'm a mage," Anders finally says. He doesn't have enough information to go off of, and one of the last things he wants to do is set off a panic about a Rifter. He holds out a hand to the side and pulls up creation magic, letting it glow green-blue around his hand, warm and bright. "A healer, specifically. I asked because I got a sense of something from you, something I'd felt off another mage before."
That should be safe enough, gentle enough. He doesn't want her to feel threatened - his cat is right here.
no subject
Though his hands, she eyes curiously. Blinking in surprise as the light illuminates his fingers, - she hadn't seen it, herself. The thing everyone called here magic. That seemed to cause so much of a problem. That - she took, not as something you are born, but simply, a choice you made, and one that only made things better.
But to that - "Oh, no, I cannot do anything like that. Is that what the spirits here give you? Is that why people are so - " and at least she has the sense to look around, and lower her head, cautious of what the Medicine Seller had said to her, about not speaking too freely of such matters. " - so fearful of them?"
no subject
"No. Magic doesn't come from the spirits. ...Rather, most magic doesn't." His voice isn't loud, it won't carry, but it's not altogether quiet. Everyone around would know what it means when a person is in robes and carrying a staff, after all, and they're close enough to the Inquisition forces he feels not too alone.
"Mages are born with a connection to the Fade, where the spirits live. I've a boost, additional strength in healing, thanks to a spirit I work with. Mercy. But a majority of mages don't partner with spirits. There's a risk of going too far. Of letting one in. When that happens it's a disaster for all involved. But spirits on their own aren't beings to be fearful of."
Has she been treated with fear? He doesn't think people outside those in Kirkwall and in command of the Inquisition know about Rifters being somewhat akin to spirits, but when even a few dozen know a secret there will be leaks.
"Have you been threatened, Gilia?" That's the priority, if someone is threatening Rifters. Then he can try to carefully figure out more of what he's feeling.
no subject
"Why on earth would a spirit ever do such a thing?" As for fearful - "No, no one has ever treated me unkindly. They have been good and respectful. I want for nothing." But there is one fatal flaw to that statement, even if someone was, she was not the sort of young woman to ever admit a problem.
no subject
"Some spirits want more. Most don't." Maybe that will allay some of her fears. "You're not a mage, and I've heard no cases of Rifters being possessed, so it's not likely to happen to you."
There's a short beat as he considers where to go from here. "You've... a sense of a spirit to you, so you may be even more protected." Or already possessed.
no subject
To that, there is a simple response. "Oh - perhaps you feel my Father-Sea?"