faderift | (closedish openish) keep you like an oath

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.

Edited 2015-12-25 06:03 (UTC)

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."

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.

[ 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. ]

"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.

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."

[ 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. ]

Sabine!

Benny!

Adelaide!

I don't think you can stop me

Ellana!

Bruce!

snow butterflies.