(closedish openish) keep you like an oath

[byblow]

WHO: Alistair & Others
WHAT: Some sulking, some snark.
WHEN: Third week of Haring + bonus first week of Wintermarch.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: No open starters, but if you want something PM me or hit me up on Plurk! Or drop a starter of your own on me and I'll roll with it.

Comments

Sabine!

[byblow]

Many things are wrong with the world right now. It probably doesn't say anything good about Alistair's character or priorities that Morrigan and her son's presence in Skyhold ranks anywhere on his list of ills, even if it is near the bottom. Yet here we are. He's brooding about several things all at once, to be fair; some of them are not ridiculous. But he's doing it on the walkway above the gardens, leant against the stone barrier to watch a red-headed boy wander below.

It's guilt, not suspicion, that makes his attention snap away when someone else comes up the stairs. He turns around to lean back against the stone rather than over it. He isn't dressed like a guard--he isn't dressed like anything at all--and his watchfulness is immediately friendly and sheepish, not wary or entitled to staring, with a proffered half-smile once he's sure he doesn't know her. He considers looking back the other way, but.

She has a terrible lot of terribly red hair.

[glandival]

It's a good vantage point for eyes. Not so good for ears, although occasionally, snippets of conversation does tend to travel upwards, words carried by the wind. But it's possible that Alistair is getting more in the way of sneaky spywork than Sabine, up here.

In contrast to his more moderate appraisal, Sabine's assessment is more frank, as if she'd caught the tail end of his turn out of his own lean. Terribly red hair aside, she is dressed innocuously; the woollen skirt of simple weave and cut marks her as someone fit for serving, and indeed, there's a dusting of flour discolouring foresty green. The pouch she carries in her hands, however, is more personalised, with fringe and beads and buckles.

Only after a second of uncertainty and studying the particular configurations of his expression, she continues down the walkway, her steps clipping neat beneath the swing of her skirt. Past him. Hello goodbye.

But then she pauses, looking past her shoulder and down the garden proper.

"It's better here, than on the ground," she says, voice markedly Orlesian. She twists further, just enough to look back at him. "They won't look up for the sun."

[byblow]

"What?" Alistair is good at looking clueless. It's his face's natural resting position, no acting required. What's a sun? Who's they? He doesn't even know what a ground is, never seen one in his life—"I'm not—"

He's less good at lying—this kind of lying, the needs-to-be-convincing kind, rather than the cheerful extravagant stories kind. Two words into the attempt and his convincingness is already cracking, headed inevitably toward a shatter. He glances back over his own shoulder without turning his head, which means he mostly looks at his own shoulder rather than anything beyond it.

"I was just," he adds, rather than quitting while he's not completely tragically behind.

Fortunately ("fortunately"), from higher on the battlements, someone screams.

[glandival]

Sabine's eyebrows raise, waiting. Just say it, Alistair. You were looking at someone's rack. It's fine, it happens to the best of us.

Really, she is unsuspicious -- there's nothing wrong with people watching, but as he stumbles and stammers about, she finds herself waiting to see where it this goes, still poised as if to continue down the walkway. Her attention peels off him, then, to re-evaluate the garden below, to see if anything obvious jumps out at her.

Nothing does, or at least, nothing does before a scream stirs the peace. Sabine turns sharp, dismissing the Other Ginger in favour of finding the source, immediately alert.

Benny!

[byblow]

The books in Skyhold's library have probably not personally wronged Alistair, but if one judges solely by his expression and not by likelihood, it isn't an unfair assumption to make. He glares at one shelf for a longer time than most people would bother. Shifts some titles around like perhaps they're hiding their friends. Waves away help from the archivist. He can't very well tell people that he's trying to will forbidden books on blood magic that an Andrastian organization definitely would not display into existence.

He does give up eventually. (Eventually is not actually more than a couple of minutes.) And when he turns around and steps out from his selected nook, he nearly runs Benevenuta over.

It takes a moment for his surprise and lingering frustration to give way to a smile, and neither vanishes entirely behind it.

"You look very sober today, Lady Thevenet."

[ungovernable]

She had approached him with purpose, which means she's obliged to very quickly backstep not to slam face-first into his chest - and there is so much of it. True effort is involved. This salient fact is what clears the blank incomprehension with which she meets his astute observation; yes, she does remember these biceps, now that she takes a better look at them. And the man to whom they are attached, presently engaged in looking at her books as if they have personally affronted him.

(They are not her books. And if someone were to point that out, she would readily agree that she has no desire to take ownership of such a poor library. Still - it had been a slightly territorial prowl with which she approached.)

"And you very literate," she says, smiling, insinuating herself between him and the shelf as if he can't be entirely trusted with it. "You are making a mess of my inventory, however, so I must press my help on you."

As an alternative to her tiny fist. Stop moving things like a thing-mover-that-isn't-helpful.

[byblow]

Hopefully Benevenuta is more sober than Alistair is literate, or he'll have to be concerned about the frequency of her early day drinking. But he raises his hands in surrender and looks back at the shelf, which—yes. It's probably not in the same state in which he found it.

"I don't think there's any helping me," he says, because he cannot tell even a Northern mage that he's digging after blood magic. There's a degree of utilitarian tolerance for it among Wardens; their Joining is blood magic, their elaborate talking-darkspawn-magister prisons are locked with it. But people don't want to hear those parts of the stories. Mostly they want to hear the parts with griffons.

He steps back toward the shelf, half-turned to keep her at a conversational angle while he plucks one off the shelf.

"This one was—here?"

He slots it into approximately the correct place, but not the correct place. This may be intentional.

[ungovernable]

The look she gives him is very long, and spans the length of time it takes for her to lift the book from the shelf again and replace it where it ought to be. That she can do so as confidently while never breaking eye contact is probably some sort of mage thing.

(No, it's a 'leave the library more often, Benevenuta' thing.)

Very critically, "You are far less charming with your shirt on, Ser Alistair."

Adelaide!

[byblow]

There's blood dripping off his fingers. How it got there is a simple, stupid story that is probably fully conveyed by the sword hanging sheathed at his side, the absence of any armor, and the fact that he's wrapped his forearm with the same brown cloth used to make the Inquisition's practice dummies on the training field. It's soaked through now. Thus the dripping.

If Alistair hesitates before approaching Lady LeBlanc outside her tent, it isn't because he doesn't like her. He doesn't, for the record. But it's a friendly dislike. Not one that extends to mistrusting her or doubting her skills. He hesitates because last time he tried to talk to her, it was weird. Like stepping off an embankment without realizing there wasn't any ground (he's done that) or drawing a weapon on someone who only stared at him like he was a foolish child (and that).

But: he's bleeding. She's a healer. He steps forward and grins, sort of--it's abashed, closer to a bared-teeth grimace than a smile, but above it his eyes aren't unkind or particularly pained. He'll probably feel it more when he has to peel the cloth off.

"If I let you make me suffer a bit first, will you do it for free?"

Both parts of that are a joke. Mostly.

[fleurdesel]

Compassion's prickling at her while Alistair hesitates. While he dithers for some reason or another outside her tent. True she is currently preoccupied with measuring out what looks to be a fairly complicated series of powders and liquids in phials with a cauldron bubbling off to one side, but the lantern she uses to signify she is available for those that need her is lit, up, and her tent is otherwise empty. Though if she does take a moment to think back to their last exchange, a friendly barb tossed by he and an frigid, formal remark from she- perhaps it is not so strange that he had lost his footing.

It'd been something she would do to someone she truly disliked. Not that she likes him at all- but it is a tolerable dislike. A mildly annoyed dislike that comes less from loathing him as a person and more with finding him insufferable and nowhere near charming enough to make up for it.

He steps forward, she doesn't bother looking up from where she's grating a hard nut into her pestle.

"That depends- how much are you suffering right now? 'Someone called me a mean name' or 'Someone poured molten lyrium on my genitals?' One of those I'm happy to let linger." Which it is she'll leave to him.

[byblow]

It's just as well she isn't looking at him. If she were he would have to try to hide the way he brightens--to the extent he's able to brighten without actually smiling, and also while being a little paler than normal--when she sounds like herself. Her horrible, haughty, impatient self. "Those are my only two options?" he asks. "Not 'one of the recruits got overzealous and sliced my arm open'? That would round it out, I think. Some middle ground."

He wiggles his fingers, experimentally, and shakes some drops loose into the grass. Four hundred years of royal breeding, an ancient mouthful of a great dragon's magic, neutered taint and a pinch of archdemon, but it's still only blood, the same color as anyone's.

"I can't actually feel it," he decides, honestly, and goes on with less honesty and more delighted sarcasm: "It doesn't sting nearly as much as your disdain."

[fleurdesel]

"...You can't feel it, so how is it you are suffering?" That is enough to warrant her head swinging around, eyes narrowing on the wrapped and injured arm. Sliced open, bleeding quite a bit- training accident. The details file together into a conclusive whole along with the possible treatments flittering through the back of her mind before she ever bothers glancing up to his face. He seems...pleased.

Which only serves to have her scowl all the harder. He shouldn't be pleased to stand before her while bleeding and offering his injured arm much as a child with a favored muddy stick or creature fresh from the bog.

She sighs. Flicks her fingers to the chair next to her. "Sit. Do not bleed on anything or I will charge you double." Of nothing, which is nothing, but they're mutually ignoring that.

I don't think you can stop me

[rathercommon]

[ In theory, Kitty is good at this. But she finds that some days, she's better at throwing knives, and some days she's far far worse. Today is, for whatever reason, every single blade she throws seems to end up smacking hilt-first into the bales of hay and clattering uselessly to the ground, and every single failure puts her in a fouler and fouler mood. How the hell is she supposed to defend herself if she can't even hit a dummy ten meters away? Because it's only going to be so long before there's another attack - an abomination, an act of sabotage, the entire army marching up to the gates of Skyhold - and she's not going to be helpless and useless. She's going to help defend this place and these people.

But she might as well do so by pelting them with pebbles, for all that she's accomplishing here. She holds another throwing knife between thumb and forefinger, and breathes out, and throws - and it travels the intervening distance and hits the bale of hay while oriented vertically. It clatters uselessly to the dirt.

Kitty had picked a corner of the training field well away from anyone else, because she prefers not to be caught being competent with weapons, and so she lets out a heedless (and very vile) curse at full volume. Of course, she's been here for about half an hour, and during that time the field has filled in quite a lot more, but she's so absorbed in her failure that she doesn't even register that and so doesn't modulate the volume of her foulness. ]

I'd never want to

[byblow]

[ The outburst resonates in the very depths of Alistair frustrated, tired, tainted heart before he even locates the source. Maybe he should curse a few times and see if it helps--or maybe he should continue trying to smile and evade too much notice. That sounds good. He'd been leaning on the wall nearest the training grounds, watching soldiers spar, and is just as easy to slip away from them to stand behind the dwarf instead.]

That's not very ladylike.

[ He's known enough well-armed, foul-mouthed women that he doesn't really expect that to be a deterrent.]

[rathercommon]

[ She jumps. She squeaks. She wheels around and looks at him. Here's the difference, though, between someone like Kitty and a real warrior: she doesn't raise her weapons to prepare to defend herself. She doesn't have that killer instinct. Instead, she just gawps at him a few seconds, and then she abruptly flushes. ]

I didn't think...anyone was nearby.

[ She tucks her throwing knives into her belt and casts her eyes over at the training field - which has plenty of nearby people. ]

Sorry about that. You shouldn't have had to hear it.

[byblow]

My poor unsullied ears.

[ She's adorable; he's grinning, which isn't something he's been doing as much of lately. And now that she isn't actively wielding knives, he steps alongside her instead of behind her to survey the damage to her target. Or lack of it. ]

I don't know how to throw knives, or I'd offer you some pointers. [ A pause. ] Heh. Pointers.

Ellana!

[byblow]

"Just who I was looking for," Alistair says to Ellana.

It isn't a lie. He has a bottle of brandy--formerly a bottle of wine, he's reusing--that he's only taken a mouthful from, and he holds it out for Ellana to take while he leans against the battlement wall beside her. Out in the courtyard below, the troops are training, this time without Cullen, who is busy making important decisions.

Alistair could drink alone, but he's pretty sure that's a bad idea. He doesn't want to be Oghren. Or Owen. And there are way too many people here who would notice and judge him and/or intervene. But the Inquisition's advisors are holed up reviewing reports and making plans that may save the Wardens from themselves or may not--and it's perfectly understandable that Alistair isn't invited. It isn't his Inquisition. He would probably yell. But it's hard not to think about, just like the Calling is hard to ignore, and drinking not-alone sounds like a good idea.

He passed by several other people he knows to find Ellana, whom he owes one. If she objects to drinking spirits before lunch, too bad. Maybe. He won't actually make her. But he does smile. It's an attempt at a charming, winning smile, one that would be hard to say no to, but it doesn't quite mask the fact that he's tired and worried and sad. Who knows, though. Maybe that makes it even harder.

[serannas]

Usually Ellana stands up on the battlements to watch the soldiers train, and though her eyes are looking down in that direction, they aren't really focused on any of them. There have been a lot of weighty things on her mind lately, and she's going over them all in her head. So when Alistair addresses her, there's a brief moment where her heart practically jumps into her throat, startled from her thoughts. But she gives him a smile and accepts the bottle, taking a cautious sniff first.

"Me? Really?" She takes a sip, involuntarily makes a face, and hands it back. She'll drink liquor; it's just she's more used to wine or ale. "I hope it's not for a thrilling conversation about socks."

But then she catches his look and thinks she can read it. The worried and sad bits? Oh, they've definitely been gracing her own face lately too. She hasn't been overly tired, but those bags under his eyes tell her everything she needs to know. She scoots a bit closer, crossing her arms on the stone wall.

"What's the matter?" It's asked gently, her voice concerned.

[byblow]

Alistair grins at the face she makes, and keeps grinning at socks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he doesn't say anything. He tries to; he experiments with those are the only thrilling conversations I'm capable of and is there a Dalish word for 'socks' or was one never required. Neither sounds right enough to make it to his mouth. And she changes the subject before he can think of anything better.

"You know, the usual," he says, still smiling. The usual being: "Everything."

He takes another drink.

"Say--don't hit me. But say the Dalish started doing everything people think they do. Raided human settlements naked and painted with the blood of infants and all of that--". Please don't hit him. "--and you couldn't make them stop." The smile has vanished by now. He eyes the bottle, considering, but trying to pace himself at least a little. "We're not far off from that, the Wardens."

Bruce!

[byblow]

Alistair isn't much of a singer. To stay in-tune he has to keep his voice quiet and low, and it isn't even really singing, by the time he does that, so much as singsong talking. So he waits until Bruce is already close, walking past him in the courtyard, to hold up a hand to stop him and say-sing:

"Bruce is a noble surgeon of the Inquisition,
quiet, unassuming, never an imposition.
If your ribs are cracking or your innards have come loose,
you can do no better than to go and ask for Bruce."

At the end he raises his eyebrows, like eh? He's tired, stressed, and concerned, but it takes more than that to stamp out his good humor. Anyway, he promised. Sort of.

"We're still working on it," he adds, "but I like it so far."

[amygdalae]

It's common enough that people stop him in the middle of the courtyard since there usually would be a person here or there who wanted to find him for something or other. What is uncommon, though, is that the fact that its Alistair, and that he was... singing? At least it sounded like singing.

The lyrics take a bit for him to comprehend, but once it does Bruce tries his best to not make a face, although he's sure the disbelief is going to be particularly hard to hide.

"I'm not too sure about the part about the innards," he returns, voice just a touch wry. "Maybe something nicer sounding would suffice."

I forgot you like brackets! We can totally switch if you want.

[byblow]

"That's as nice as it gets, I'm afraid," Alistair says. "The first suggestion was bowels."

snow butterflies.

[chainlightning]

[ It's cold out, of course, but Merrill has lived far more outside of the city than in it. She knows how to deal with the cold, both practically and magically. Now that they're out of Kirkwall and have reached Skyhold, it seems as though there's once again more time to relax. Honestly, it makes Merrill feel a little useless -- so far, she isn't sure what to do. She's read, met new faces, looked after those elves that came with her from Kirkwall, all of it -- but she doesn't really know what else to do. Going for a walk seems as good an option as any, staff in hand. Getting lost doesn't seem like too much of a concern -- there are her tracks to follow, and even where there are a great deal of tracks, the majority of them lead to Skyhold. Skyhold itself is also rather difficult to miss, as opposed to a small door in Kirkwall.

Eventually she finds a clearing among a group of trees and stretches, arms and staff above her head. The snow is thick, deep, and Merrill simply lets herself fall backward into it with a slight 'oof' as she hits the snow. It's a bit cold, which makes her laugh a little, and then she shifts -- arms and legs, back and forth -- and then she laughs again, louder and clear, bright in the otherwise still snow. ]

collapses onto you, belatedly

[byblow]

[ The laugh stops Alistair in his tracks.

In context, and given his mood, it's sort of a creepy laugh, caught and carried by wind that occasionally whistles or howls. He'd thought he was alone; he wanted to be alone. His presence out in the valley now is an empty threat to walk across Orlais by himself if he has to, witnessed by no one and thus not doing much to make him feel better. So out here in the emptiness, piercing through his dour mood, the laugh is creepy.

He walks toward it all the same. He's brave that way.

He's a noisy walker, more so in the snow, and makes no attempt to sneak up on her or to get too close. He stops as soon as he can see what she is—nothing ghostly or demonic, only an elf. A familiar one. His wary, sullen expression softens, just a little, into something more baffled and reluctantly amused. ]

You're going to freeze solid.

licks your face

[chainlightning]

[ 'Creepy' has been used to describe her before, of course. She is a blood mage. But she doesn't know Alistair's thoughts, hears the crunch of the snow and reluctantly sits up to see who (or what) is approaching. It's no bear or darkspawn or other enemy, she can tell that much before he gets closer. When Merrill realizes he's someone familiar, however, she laughs again and waves a hand at him. ]

Oh, not for a while yet! It's quite fun, actually, and warmer than you think if you're under the snow.

[ She flops back down, making some of the snow fluff up around her, and reaches backward for her staff. This time she stands entirely, using the base of the staff in a separate section of snow as balance before carefully leaping out of her own imprint. ]

And much more fun than just leaving normal tracks to follow back.