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open | i thought i found it
WHO: Alistair, Bastien, Kostos, and whoever wants to deal with them.
WHAT: Open/catch-all.
WHEN: Justinian
WHERE: Mostly Kirkwall
NOTES: hmu @![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
circuitry if you need to talk about something or want to plan something that doesn’t fit here! or just wildcard me without warning. and brackets are aces if that’s your preference.
WHAT: Open/catch-all.
WHEN: Justinian
WHERE: Mostly Kirkwall
NOTES: hmu @
–ALISTAIR→
i. project sashamiri offices
He hasn’t been gone all that long, in the scheme of things, but there are still reports to catch up on before Alistair can confidently spot himself into the reorganized effort to Make Corypheus Cut It Out.
He hates sitting and reading. It’s one of his least favorite things. Walking and reading is better. Sitting and not reading is fine. But this? Disgusting. The fact that he’s doing it anyway is proof that he cares a whole, whole lot about saving the world, even if he says things like, “Do you think it’s too late to make everyone call him Sethius instead? I think that would be better for morale.” He mimes a crier. “Orlais menaced by Seth.”
ii. eyrie
“Well, who cares what you think?” Alistair is asking one of the griffons—one that’s taken his offered strip of meat and retreated, leaving him alone with his arms crossed. He wouldn’t be fussing if he didn’t think he was alone with them, but their tussling and occasional screeches mask approaching footsteps. “You’re just an enormous bird. You eat hair.”
But he still wants one of them to like him. Just one. It doesn’t matter which.
i. project sashamiri offices
He hasn’t been gone all that long, in the scheme of things, but there are still reports to catch up on before Alistair can confidently spot himself into the reorganized effort to Make Corypheus Cut It Out.
He hates sitting and reading. It’s one of his least favorite things. Walking and reading is better. Sitting and not reading is fine. But this? Disgusting. The fact that he’s doing it anyway is proof that he cares a whole, whole lot about saving the world, even if he says things like, “Do you think it’s too late to make everyone call him Sethius instead? I think that would be better for morale.” He mimes a crier. “Orlais menaced by Seth.”
ii. eyrie
“Well, who cares what you think?” Alistair is asking one of the griffons—one that’s taken his offered strip of meat and retreated, leaving him alone with his arms crossed. He wouldn’t be fussing if he didn’t think he was alone with them, but their tussling and occasional screeches mask approaching footsteps. “You’re just an enormous bird. You eat hair.”
But he still wants one of them to like him. Just one. It doesn’t matter which.
–BASTIEN→
i. mage tower dining hall
Only the kitchen in the Templar Tower has a staff and food to serve, which is probably why Bastien has never seen anyone actually eat in the dining hall in the Mage Tower, and why he feels justified in completely rearranging it without asking anybody else what they think.
Or, he did feel justified, before it gave way to feeling tired. He’s moved all of the chairs but only about a third of the heavy wooden tables to the edges of the room, and turned most of the relocated onto their sides. But that was all his relatively meager muscle mass could handle. The tables have won. The tables were always fated to win.
Now he’s lying on his back on one of them, legs dangling, staring at the ceiling, with his lute held loose on his chest while he plucks out a messy sketch of a melody, able to be gracious in defeat if it means he doesn’t have to move for a while.
ii. practice range
Depending on how much someone knows about this and that, a couple things might be apparent.
The first is that Bastien has done this before. Good form—comfortably textbook, learned from someone who knew what they were doing—though he seems to be reminding himself of before each shot, like a child straining to recite a poem accurately.
The second is that he probably used to be better at it: he regards the arrows that land in the mid- and inner rings with the subdued satisfaction of a man whose expectations have just barely been met, not one who’s thrilled to have discovered how to hit the target at all, and when one arcs wild he drops his bow arm to his side and gives his eyes a frustrated, accusatory rub, like they’re to blame.
i. mage tower dining hall
Only the kitchen in the Templar Tower has a staff and food to serve, which is probably why Bastien has never seen anyone actually eat in the dining hall in the Mage Tower, and why he feels justified in completely rearranging it without asking anybody else what they think.
Or, he did feel justified, before it gave way to feeling tired. He’s moved all of the chairs but only about a third of the heavy wooden tables to the edges of the room, and turned most of the relocated onto their sides. But that was all his relatively meager muscle mass could handle. The tables have won. The tables were always fated to win.
Now he’s lying on his back on one of them, legs dangling, staring at the ceiling, with his lute held loose on his chest while he plucks out a messy sketch of a melody, able to be gracious in defeat if it means he doesn’t have to move for a while.
ii. practice range
Depending on how much someone knows about this and that, a couple things might be apparent.
The first is that Bastien has done this before. Good form—comfortably textbook, learned from someone who knew what they were doing—though he seems to be reminding himself of before each shot, like a child straining to recite a poem accurately.
The second is that he probably used to be better at it: he regards the arrows that land in the mid- and inner rings with the subdued satisfaction of a man whose expectations have just barely been met, not one who’s thrilled to have discovered how to hit the target at all, and when one arcs wild he drops his bow arm to his side and gives his eyes a frustrated, accusatory rub, like they’re to blame.
–KOSTOS→
i. wounded coast
If there were suspicious men along the coast, speaking a language that was definitely Tevinter (the Kirkwall guard who reported them had never heard Tevinter spoken before) and doing something that was definitely blood magic (she also couldn’t say what blood magic looked like, other than bloody), they’re gone by now, and the only signs of their potential existence are identical to the signs of standard-grade travelers stopping to butcher and cook a tusket.
That might have been fine. Better to be sure, and better that they be the ones making sure instead of a wet-eared local guard, and Kostos—crouching to poke around the campsite with a stick—is keeping the tusks, for his trouble.
Might have been fine, again, but for the storm clouds that have blustered in like they were late for a meeting. The first rain drops make him lift his head just in time for a lightning strike, not more than a few miles away, and a snarl of thunder.
“Fucking—” he says, suddenly reminded why he hates nature, and as the rain picks up he shrinks into his shoulders like a harassed cat. It doesn’t help.
ii. training grounds
The training dummy doesn’t deserve to die. But Kostos has been having a bad month/year/life, and trying to knock the shit out of the dummy with a staff has mainly served to highlight how much less useful and interesting that is than having the shit knocked out of him by Nell. Which brings him around to the important point of fuck Nell.
So that’s why, if someone wanders in, he’s standing there shirtless and a little sweaty, leaning on a training staff, and watching with dispassionate interest as four wisps circle wildly around the dummy—they’re having fun—and pelt it with ice and fire. It’s slow going, each pair counteracting the efforts of the other. The winners get a field trip and the losers go back to the Fade, however, so they’re putting their tiny wisp backs into it.
iii. lowtown
His month/year/life gets worse.
Down an alley most people know better than to traverse, with people most people know better than to bother, Kostos is currently sitting on the ground. He’s at an odd angle, because one of the dwarves flanking him is standing heavily on his right hand. The other has a handful of his shirt at the shoulder, and a third has a knife angled against his clavicle.
He doesn’t intend to lose any digits or eyes or ear lobes here. He let his nose be bloodied. And his lip. And his wrenched shoulder, fine, they could have that one too. But if it comes to genuine maiming, he’ll resort to magic—maybe. If he’s quick enough. Currently he’s attempting to call a bluff, and if he were a good gambler, he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.
“What do you think we could get if we sell him for parts?” Knife Dwarf asks, and Stomp Dwarf says, “Less than he owes, but more than nothing.”
Witty one-liners aren’t really Kostos’ thing, but neither is pleading, so he just grits his teeth.
i. wounded coast
If there were suspicious men along the coast, speaking a language that was definitely Tevinter (the Kirkwall guard who reported them had never heard Tevinter spoken before) and doing something that was definitely blood magic (she also couldn’t say what blood magic looked like, other than bloody), they’re gone by now, and the only signs of their potential existence are identical to the signs of standard-grade travelers stopping to butcher and cook a tusket.
That might have been fine. Better to be sure, and better that they be the ones making sure instead of a wet-eared local guard, and Kostos—crouching to poke around the campsite with a stick—is keeping the tusks, for his trouble.
Might have been fine, again, but for the storm clouds that have blustered in like they were late for a meeting. The first rain drops make him lift his head just in time for a lightning strike, not more than a few miles away, and a snarl of thunder.
“Fucking—” he says, suddenly reminded why he hates nature, and as the rain picks up he shrinks into his shoulders like a harassed cat. It doesn’t help.
ii. training grounds
The training dummy doesn’t deserve to die. But Kostos has been having a bad month/year/life, and trying to knock the shit out of the dummy with a staff has mainly served to highlight how much less useful and interesting that is than having the shit knocked out of him by Nell. Which brings him around to the important point of fuck Nell.
So that’s why, if someone wanders in, he’s standing there shirtless and a little sweaty, leaning on a training staff, and watching with dispassionate interest as four wisps circle wildly around the dummy—they’re having fun—and pelt it with ice and fire. It’s slow going, each pair counteracting the efforts of the other. The winners get a field trip and the losers go back to the Fade, however, so they’re putting their tiny wisp backs into it.
iii. lowtown
His month/year/life gets worse.
Down an alley most people know better than to traverse, with people most people know better than to bother, Kostos is currently sitting on the ground. He’s at an odd angle, because one of the dwarves flanking him is standing heavily on his right hand. The other has a handful of his shirt at the shoulder, and a third has a knife angled against his clavicle.
He doesn’t intend to lose any digits or eyes or ear lobes here. He let his nose be bloodied. And his lip. And his wrenched shoulder, fine, they could have that one too. But if it comes to genuine maiming, he’ll resort to magic—maybe. If he’s quick enough. Currently he’s attempting to call a bluff, and if he were a good gambler, he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.
“What do you think we could get if we sell him for parts?” Knife Dwarf asks, and Stomp Dwarf says, “Less than he owes, but more than nothing.”
Witty one-liners aren’t really Kostos’ thing, but neither is pleading, so he just grits his teeth.
no subject
Nikos does want his brother to shut the fuck up. And he's achieved that, and he's blind to everything else, deaf to reason or appeals, to the stupid futile push of Kostos' hand, that attempt to knee him--yes, it's too far, yes, but let him suffer a little longer, like maybe then he will learn, he will know better--so that, next time, Kostos will think twice, he won't talk such a big fucking game, he won't pretend to understand, to have some obligation to correct his younger fuck-up of a brother, to come and find Nikos and try to punish him for doing what needed to be done.
When Caspar's hand falls on his shoulder, his reaction is delayed. All that thrumming anger like a keratinous armor, insulting him against influence. Two seconds, three; then he feels the hand, then he hears his name and thinks, first, fuck off (deaf, he's deaf, even to the voice he loves best), before his next heartbeat, next breath, a moment of clarity like dunking his head in cold water and coming up. That is the moment that he realizes, here is Caspar--and then he sees Kostos, his own stupid face, his first mirror, his fucking brother, and the moment telescopes out from there. Self-revulsion twists in his gut, untwisting half his hatred and anger, an opposite motion that makes him feel weak and sick and, still, yes, angry.
He shoves away, all at once. Knocks Caspar's hand off his shoulder, steps back, so Caspar is sort of between him and Kostos. His face feels bloodless--the tingling in his mouth, behind his eyes, the heavy thudding of his heart in his chest.]
He knows.
[--Still looking at Kostos, though he's addressing Caspar, and his voice is thick and choked and he's still so angry he feels weak with it--]
He thinks he fucking knows. His fucking ginger Ander told. And he thinks he knows.
no subject
Nikos wishing violence on his brother isn't exactly an event or some great mystery. That's reserved for the specific strength of it, the focus that kept his weight heavy on Kostos's neck a few seconds longer. Caspar could make more than one educated guess, but Nikos beats him to that, too — and it's the one he'd hope for last, given the choice.
There's a procedure for this, a rhythm set off by a simple look that leads to more slit throats and secrets. But that's for strangers, or acquaintances, or stupid revolutionaries who can be used but never trusted, stumbling their way into information that's over their heads.
It isn't for Nikos's brother. Caspar's watching him as he speaks, expression level, and there's only a slight pause before his focus shifts to Kostos. ]
What do you intend to do with it?
[ What he knows, or thinks he knows. He's not sure whether that's a real assessment or a petty one, but he'd guess the latter; either way, the nuance won't make it any less damning. ]
no subject
[ A spat directive, not an answer, while he’s curled over against the wall and sucking down air with ragged force.
It would be nice if he could let everyone lie awake at night wondering, waiting for the sword to fall. It would be nice to have a sword. To be able to swing it specifically at Perakis, and maybe graze Nikos in the process, and probably miss Nell—who isn’t his anything, especially not now, but also don’t talk about her like that—
But he just decided, less than a minute ago, to not be suicidal. So he coughs, and wipes blood off his mouth with his wrist, and doesn’t look at Nikos. A familiar old habit. They just need a long table in a dim tower and their awkwardly determined parents. ]
I’ve known for a month. [ He could be more specific, but he doesn’t feel like doing Nell the favor of blaming magical compulsion. And he’s too busy giving Perakis a look that leaves no ambiguity as to which person he’d most want to hang. ] And none of you are dead yet, so—
[ So. He straightens up, but he stays against the wall, pinned there by the echo of Nikos’ forearm on his neck and the exhausting enormity of what they’ve done, of what it means, of all the things he won’t do about it. ]
—so just fuck off.