Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faderifting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2019-11-26 10:12 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2019-11-26 10:12 pmEntry tags:
faderifting) wrote in faderift2019-11-26 10:12 pm
OTA
The busy, crowded streets of Denerim grow more crowded around one of the many street food stalls, located in the Market District within sight of the gate to the Alienage. At the stall is a dark-skinned woman with silky black hair and a strong Antivan accent. At her elbow is her son, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp face as he struggles to keep up with the demand. At age twenty-six, he still hasn't been trusted by his mother to do the actual cooking, although he knows he is ready. It's about control, with her. She won't trust anyone else, and she won't become irrelevant. So he puts ingredients together in a bowl to give to her to cook fresh for the customers. In-between orders, he uses an apron to wipe at his face, head reeling at the fact that he's exactly where he dreamed of being yet he would rather be almost anywhere else. The apron comes down, and his eyes are glazed over, at once incredibly busy and incredibly bored.
"Colin!" Adessa says sharply, and he goes back to assembling.
II. While the world is full of troubles
cw: child violence/harm
Crack!
The sickening, meaty sound is all an eleven-year-old boy can hear, as the crowd has gone dead silent in the streets of the Denerim market district. His mother's customers are scattered around him, some fallen to the ground, but the one who was threatening her is upwards of twenty feet away, splayed awkwardly, his head at an impossible angle to the rest of him. His breath catches. He takes two steps back before a hand on his shoulder stops him. It's his mother, and her face has a black expression on it. She's not looking at him, though. She's looking at the dead man.
He doesn't understand. He's never seen this part before. By this time, a Templar had already dragged him far away, but not now.
Someone screams. Someone else is shouting, "He's dead! He's dead!" And then there are hands on the boy, people pulling him in different directions, someone taking him by the hair and yanking, and eventually someone supporting him while someone else kicks him in the stomach.
"Mage! It's a mage! A mage killed him!"
"Mamma!" he cries out when he has breath, but she is leaning against her cart, tears in her eyes, shaking her head. She still won't look at him as the blows keep coming.
II. Prepare to make it double
Which is when someone grabs Colin's arm and wrenches him free of his captor's fumbling grasp.
"Hey! What the--" the man exclaims, but his surprise is interrupted with a knee to the stomach, making him double over. It buys Athessa enough time to drag the mage boy away, out of the smoke and far enough that the din is just white noise in the distance.
"I think we're safe for a minute," she says, letting go of Colin to jog back a few steps and make sure they weren't followed. They weren't. Good. They can catch their breath, now. "Are you ok?"
She's small for 13, scrawny, but dressed in clothes that clearly cost more than an urchin could afford. Her wild hair is tied back, one of her knife-like ears pierced through with a hoop, and curl-toed shoes adorning her feet. She does not look like a denizen of Denerim.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Byerly
The One Where Byerly Is The Bann of Dragonmount
Well, if they don't like him as a Bann, he doesn't care for himself in this job, either. When hearing petitions and appeals, he looks bored more often than not. So if you are a petitioner, he'll hear you, but his attention will wander quite quickly, attracted by some motion in the crowd or some other conversation going on. So talk fast.
He's more approachable during a feast, not least because he's surrounded by people he clearly likes and who clearly like him. Most prominent of these is a young woman who is very obviously his sister - one might mistake them for twins, so close is their resemblance and so intimate is their chatter. Given how utterly focused they are on one another, it's easy to understand the rumors that follow the two of them around, even if you don't believe them. But who cares about bad reputations; this Byerly is lively and laughing, in his natural element. ]
feast
(no subject)
(no subject)
Petitioner
feast
Kitty
The One That's a High School AU
Here is, by the way, a grammar school located in the greater London area. And here you are, a grammar school student, sorted into one of the school's four Houses - or maybe a teacher, or a groundskeeper, or - Oh, hell with it, you know how this works; it's a high school AU.
Kitty Jones is an energetic, bright-eyed student who hasn't been appointed House Captain because she's just a little too difficult and defiant but who's been in the running. She likes history, politics, journalism, and making her teachers' lives a living hell. ]
[ note: if you want to tag amongst yourselves in this thread so you have an excuse to play a high school AU please feel free to do so, don't feel obligated to involve Kitty in all high school threads ]
Athessa
Break Your Chains (Closed to Laura) CW: Self harm, sexual assault mention, murder, etc.
So she runs. They laugh and she runs until she hits a door, and they laugh more and she fumbles with the handle until finally she escapes into the cold air outside. Wisps of breath hang in the air as Athessa tries to calm herself. What had Ciara told her? Something about counting. Breathe in, count to four. Breathe out, count to four. It works only twice before she lurches for the nearest potted plant and spills her guts into it. Damn them. She shouldn't be here.
When she doesn't feel like she's going to lose any more of herself into this caged soil, she wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve, taking some of the tears on her cheeks with it. She hadn't even noticed she was crying. Dread wolf take the lot of them.
She stands, walks to the railing of the balcony, stares out into nothing for a moment, then turns. Freezes. There's another girl out here?
"What are you--hey. Hey! Stop that!" Athessa rushes to where the girl is crouched, grabbing at her arms to stop her efforts to carve into her own flesh with...claws.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Carnage Begets Catharsis (Closed to Colin) CW: rape, murder, possible suicidal ideation
Once she concludes her customary three-minute stare-at-the-spire-in-wonder, the elf navigates her way to the barracks.
"Well, if it isn't Devigny's little carrier pigeon," a man in armor jokes, stopping Athessa from entering through the door with one hand on the jamb. She could duck under his arm, of course, but that would put her in a perfect position to get grabbed, so she stands still, eyes cast downward. "Got anything for me there, pigeon?"
Athessa lifts her chin and stares straight ahead, knowing she should be demure, polite, submissive, but unable to stop that little shred of haughty defiance from showing through. "And you are?"
The guard moves fast, but she doesn't flinch, not even when his fingers close tightly around her jaw.
"What did you just say to me, you little bitch?" He growls, turning her face to make her look at him, but she won't make eye contact. "You know damn well who I am--"
"Kaeso, let her go," Another guard appears from within the barracks, apparently far more even-keeled than his brother-in-arms. "You know how Devigny gets when you damage his stuff."
Kaeso looks incredulously at the other guard, then back to Athessa, only to find that now she's staring him dead in the eye.
"Yeah, Kaeso," she says, his name a bitter poison on her tongue but nowhere near as sickening as the next words out of her mouth. "Hands off the merchandise."
Athessa pushes past the guard and delivers the missives to their respective recipients, ignoring the ensuing conversation between Kaeso and the other one. Or trying to. It's something about pigeons, mice, and rabbits, and the reason that Orlesians refer to elves as the latter. With her master's bribes delivered, she takes her leave of Viscount's Keep, walking tall until she gets one alley away from the market quarter. There, she ducks into the alley and presses her back to the wall, breathing heavy despite the leisurely pace that carried her here.
That was stupid. That was so stupid. Three years of Devigny threatening her with confinement to the estate or resale to the highest bidding brothel if she so much as steps a toe out of line, and she goes and pisses off one of his dogs. There's no way she won't be made to pay for it. Heedless of the people passing the mouth of the alley, she screws her eyes shut and thuds her head back against the wall, pleading with whatever deity might be listening to take pity, and willing her heart to stop pounding in her chest.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Something Awry in Rivain (Closed to Deimos)
Benedict
The One Where He's A Magister
But it's been this way for a long time, hasn't it? Since he defected, stayed in Minrathous, did his little chores and followed his mother's every word until she and her husband were executed, collateral damage in the war against the Inquisition. Which they won, and it's hard to remember what the fight was even about.
He rolls out of his canopy bed and reaches up to push back his hair, still remaining in its full growth but shorter now, his years of youthful foppery long behind him (except when it isn't, but he's hardly invited to parties anymore). Still gathering his bearings, he looks at the little pullstring by his nightstand and tugs on it, knowing instinctively that with its use comes whatever happens next.
Does he have company today? He'll have to look presentable. Slippers on, he goes to the wardrobe to find an assortment of robes and tunics befitting a Magister, all of which will be far grander than the person wearing them.
The One Where She's A Slave
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
The One Where They're Circle Apprentices
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
closed to thranduil and gwen.
He has walked many dreams, but he has never felt one quite like this. It feels as though he is trying to peer at the world through a fog; something he imagines others feel when they walk the Fade, but something altogether unfamiliar to him. He has to almost force himself to open his eyes, force himself to breathe, to understand what is happening, and when he does he feels as though the life itself has been stolen from him.
The world before him is one he knows well, a deep, personal, intimate reimagining of Arlathan before the fall of the Elvhen people, the destruction that was coloured by his own hands. The scaling, beautiful cities cross around in front of him, a scape of miracle and marble that he had never dared imagine seeing again. The faces of the people around him are almost meaningless, the face that he can feel resting under his fingertips a mere trifle in the knowledge of being home again, homesickness that has haunted him for centuries ebbing away as he relishes in the familiarity. It feels true, it feels right, and although a part of Solas is well aware that it cannot be so - the Veil remains strong and the People remain dead - there is no part of him that fights to deny it.
Not now, not when something stronger coerces him, caresses the beating, broken part of his heart and allows it to flourish.
The Solas that opens his eyes once more is not the one that had first emerged, his fingers pressed, thumb flat, into the cheekbones of the woman in front of him. Beneath his touch tattoos flourish, vallaslin echoing under his magic, a blushing blue that has something proud and deadly thrum in his chest. He leans down, dropping to one knee, and he can feel hair brush against his shoulders, his neck, plaited and thick, baffling the quiet part of him that thinks no, not quite, this cannot be so -
"Beautiful." His voice is the same, at least, the echo of it familiar. Around him, as he moves, the people bow as well, dropping to both knees in true worship, their tattoos a match of the one just blessed. There is a hush, no one daring to move, to whisper, as laughter seems to echo around them. Around his shoulders lie thick furs, a crown of sorts around his dead, decorated with offerings and proof of his station, his position - a General, a Leader, one of them, something dark and almost dangerous curling his smile into a smirk, teeth bared. A wolf that has not yet been bred, coerced into something novel and different.
"You are one of us now, da'len. A beautiful member of a devoted household. I hope it does not hurt."
no subject
The words come before her eyes open; her face tilted up to where his fingertips had rested against her cheekbones, sat back on her heels before him, her hair spilled loose down her back and the small points of her ears emerging from between tendrils of curl. Her awareness blurs at the edges, discarding details that she doesn't need, gently reinforcing things that might not make enough sense if she examined them too closely—how did she come to be so far into the past, from Orlais? Through a rift? Is that what rifts do? Sure. Sure, who knows where rifts might lead?
(Into the fade—shhh, shh. What might someone find in the fade? Who can say when one might emerge?)
She came here. From Halamshiral, where she had never been anything except Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, and she had never met anyone like Solas, and never stretched her wings quite the way she's allowed to here. Never experienced anything that might allow her to meet this new experience with anything but curiosity and gratitude and the giddiness of proximity to power; the intoxicating effect of his full attention focused upon her. She can stretch her hands so far, now, that she cannot feel the chains.
When she does open her eyes, for just a moment she frowns.
Something about him doesn't look right. It was fine, before. It's fine. She can't put her finger on it; she dismisses it.
“It doesn't matter,” she says, meaning pain or the way her head tilts like she's trying to figure him out, allowing her smile to warm again, raising her hands to his. “Nothing worth having doesn't have a cost.”
And if there's another reason she might not mind the pain, it isn't one for an audience.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
sidony venaras. ota.
like a friend.
Her first instinct is to glance behind her, but she'd have heard it if someone else was there. No, it's a question directed at her, Maker knows why.]
A few. [Her voice is low and rough as she lets herself glance past the mage, up at the dark sky. She doesn't talk like a Nevarran born.] That there, that's the Voyager.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
The One Where Sawbones Plays the Game Badly
The Winter Palace is resplendent at all times, but there is a certain elegance to it in the winter months. The grounds are draped in a soft blanket of crystalline snow. The gardens, kept thriving and sumptuous by the whatever mage the court is favoring, are filled with the heady scent of roses (deep red for the season, of course) and crystal grace. It drifts through the halls of the palace.
The Reverend Mother, emerging from the palace's chapel, is an echo of the refinery in miniature. Her robes are heavy with gold embroidery, the red flashing in the cold winter sunlight. She stands for a moment in the sunlight, face upturned and eyes closed. She cuts a striking image next to the enchanted roses and snowbanks, the harsh brand on her cheek adding to the pious beauty of the moment. Finally the spell breaks and her eyes open as a thought occurs.
What the entire nug shitting fuck.
She turns sharply at the sound of footsteps and pointing at whoever it happens to be. "You. What day is it?"
2. Mother May I
Days pass, or minutes. Or possibly no time at all, instead everything just moves slightly to the left. Either way, Sawbones is at a ball. Which is, admittedly, enough of a novelty that she's having a look around before getting down to the business of figuring out what the Stone is going on. Laysisters and new initiates didn't get invited to balls, even the shiny new Dwarven convert all the gentry was buzzing about. Maybe a dinner. Maybe a fete, though specifically the sort where clothes stayed on.
But she's not a laysister or an initiate, she's a Reverend Mother. And one favored highly by the Orlesian court at that. The thought is very fixed in her mind. There's even memories attached to it, of the power and wealth she was able to seize with both hands because she decided to play the topsiders' little Game. Letting Sawbones die in the Deep Roads with the Legion and emerging onto the surface as Sister Sara, a true convert who hungered for the power the Chantry could give her.
Sawbones nearly chokes on her wine trying to stifle the laugh. Fucking pit, what a ridiculous notion. She glances around the swirl of finery, stopping when she recognizes someone. More voice than face. She sets down her wine glass and steps toward them immediately.
" 'scuse me." And somewhere in the back of her mind, there's something telling her she's not speaking right, she's not holding herself right. She tips her head up and scrutinizes the person, "Mind if we have a word?"
3. WILDCARD AU
[ DO YOU WANT A GRUMPY DWARF IN YOUR AU??? In general, she's going to be aware that Something Is Amiss, even if she can't put her finger on what specifically. Because what the fuck is the Fade what do you mean this is all a dream. ]
2 2 2 2 2 2
Almost.
Sawbones’ voice at his elbow is a welcome distraction, irritation tight at the corners of his eyes dialed back into more critical confusion (and recognition) when he turns down to look her over. He’s in dark colors himself, tailored finely enough to fit the scene in a high collar and long sleeves without obvious affiliation.
"Of course," he says, and trails off, flipping through the pages of his brain for just a shade too long. "...Your Reverence.”" There’s a question mark without any lilt to raise it. ‘Your Reverence,’ definitely.
He’s forgotten the glass in his hand, and also the face of whoever he was previously speaking to, to go with their name.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Salvio Pizzicagnolo || OTA
a dream of an office
There's no one sitting behind the desk. Or rather, there's Salvio, but no one will recognize him as Salvio. He'd had to shift a stack of files and papers off of the chair so that he could sit in it, but as no one pays the office any attention, and no one is paying him any attention, he'd managed it without trouble.
He picks up one of the piece of paper from the top of the desk and looks at it. Sets it aside. Picks up the next. Sets it aside. And so on, even if someone walks in, since they won't be looking for a seneschal who doesn't exist.
Salvio the Real Mage AU || closed to the Skull
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
anne bonny / ask for a starter
a woman of independent means / flint.
It's not something she can live with, so she decides not to. The only ship that'll take her on is full of hard, violent men, but that's nothing new. She sails with them, knocks in heads where she has to, and makes just enough money that she's got coin to burn when they make port.
And somehow, it all leads to sitting at a splintery table on one of the shit little islands off the coast of Tevinter, the ones that wish they were Nascere for Maker-damned reasons, with Flint on the other side. Anne takes the rum he's set before her and swigs directly from the bottle, one eye on him, the other behind the dipped brim of her hat. "What's it you want."
(no subject)
(no subject)
laura kinney / ask for a starter
an assassin / matthias.
The house is more of a hovel, she discovers, a squat wooden thing with probably a single room inside and a thatched roof atop it. The lock on the door is primitive enough that it hardly needs forcing, and inside, the room smells like cooked food and sweat and earth. And on a straw pallet in one corner, raised from the ground by a rough-hewn bedstead, a single form lies.
In a few silent steps, she's beside him, staring down at his form--and man hardly describes the face half-smashed into the straw tick. He couldn't be older than X-23 herself, a boy whose face looks unbearably soft in sleep, not a line to it. For a moment, she stares, uncertain why the sight of him gives her pause; she has killed younger people than this before.
She's been told to make it look like an accident if at all possible, or like he simply fell asleep and never woke. No claws. So she reaches for his throat, hands closing around it, and begins to squeeze.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
petrana de cedoux / her grace, empress consort petrana solene / open.
petrana cannot know, so she dreams of her daughter the way she remembers her: a little girl only now beginning to walk upon the grass of the palace's cultivated lawn, a pretty fountain of light and not water playing colours that she chases across the pale blanket spread out for them, petrana's skirts against it a stark contrast in royal purple and her crown weighted for all its delicate design. guardsmen stand at a short distance away, and petrana's own ladies a flutter of paler, pastel shades beneath the summer sun. an attendant holds a shade, and a nursemaid waits with her hands folded to be summoned to the care of a thing that some years ago would have been unheard of: a crown princess and her father's heir presumptive no matter the sex of any subsequent siblings.
not, petrana thinks, that it is very likely thaïs will have any subsequent siblings.
she has not run. she has not fought. she is a pretty thing with which marius's court is decorated, and little more; his frustration and impatience with the business of ruling that which he has conquered does not extend so far, now, to allowing petrana the reign to do it herself. he consults her and ignores her counsel, and she is left to spend pretty summer afternoons watching their daughter with unfair dissatisfaction. she thinks herself a most unnatural woman for the dispassion with which she observes her younger daughter's joy—now she is walking, and soon speaking, and soon asked not to speak.
once she had feared being set aside without an heir to protect her, and now it is difficult to summon the love for her second-born that had come so naturally with her first. thaïs feels more marius's child than her own, and it isn't fair— )
Well done, ( she hears herself saying, warmly. ) How clever you are! Can you bring it to me, now? Yes, darling.
( thaïs holds the light from the fountain between her hands, her little face deep in concentration, and petrana holds her hands out in welcome, ignoring the slight unease of her attendants at the de lamorraine's encouragement of magic in their child from such a young age. one day this will be commonplace, and then all of this will have been worth it.
one day, all that came before will have been worth it. )
no subject
All mages are expert dreamers.
Her Imperial Majesty will see a man approach. Hair brushed and tied back, face scarred on one side from eye to chin, neatly dressed without embellishment. Not an unfamiliar man either, tugging at strings of recognition that instantly lead to the fictitious impression of a courtier, a foreigner, a magic practitioner. This likely doesn't prevent the slight strangeness of the way he moves through the invisible boundaries of protocol like one might wave through the gossamer barriers of webs, disturbing the spiders. Or, in this case, the attendants, although the ripple of unease is a subtle one.
Marcus pauses once near enough, at least in part so as not to interrupt. Assessing the sight of Madame de Cedoux, who he also now knows as Her Grace, and then inevitably, his attention tracks to the child, the glimmer of strange light hovered between little hands. In Thedas, the sight of such a small child wielding magic would seem like a tragedy waiting to happen.
His smile is subtle, manifesting more at the outer corners of his eyes. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
darras rivain
closed to yseult || this very domestic post-retirement au
The waves at the bottom of the sea cliff toss themselves tirelessly against the shore, and even from their high cliff, they can hear the noise, as regular as a heartbeat. It runs under the whole of their life, day in and day out, just as it did when they were here together only now and then, when it was just the two of them and the cottage was smaller, and emptier. The third time Darras had come home from sea and found Yseult at the table in the cottage, reading a book by lamplight, and she'd looked up almost absently and told him that she was staying, and Darras--consumed with loving her, with what that promise meant, with the little smile on her lips--had dropped his things on the floor and pushed her onto the table to kiss her, to take her, with the book dropped to the floor and the lamp pushed dangerous close to the edge.
Summers and winters and springtimes and harvests. And each time Darras closed the door behind him and took the path to the village wharf, it got harder, and harder, until he gave it up as well. And then there were more summers, and with them came Sarra, dark and mischievous with Yseult's eyes, and then Lir, a wild tumble of hair the color of Yseult's, and Darras' dark eyes. Two souls that are entirely their own, their faces and spirits all touched with bits of Darras and more bits of Yseult, which Darras loves.
Together at night they sit, always, on the bench beside the wall of the extra room. Darras had built it himself, nearly six years ago now, when Yseult told him she was pregnant. A room on the first floor, for them, and a loft above for the children when they were larger and could be trusted up and down a ladder. The glass in the little window over their bed is blue and green, precious and expensive and a pointless luxury. Yseult likes it, and that's good enough for him.
The bench faces the edge of the cliff, where the thin scrubby grass goes all the way to the rocky edge. In the dark, the sky is gray. When it's summer they can see the thin line of the sunlight on the horizon. In the winter, the sun sets too early, and they come outside to find the full velvet cloak of darkness around them.
It's too cold to be out here long. Darras takes his pipe from his mouth, and hands it over to Yseult, as he lets a stream of smoke out from between his lips.
"Looks like snow," he says, and gives a nod toward the sky.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
ellis | ota.
Their faces are hard to make out, blurred and shadowed by the fire. There is a sense of shifting impressions, transience. Look twice at the same man and the smudged shadow his face gives way to someone else's. The one constant is Ellis, with blood on his face and smears of it across his mace. As he works at cleaning it, there is a clatter and promising ring of metal as a sack is turned out to shower ill-gotten goods onto a threadbare blanket spread across the ground.
It is only across the fire, but Ellis feels it as if from far off. Everything is slightly muted. He watches a brass goblet topple into the grass and nudges it with his foot.
"Divide it equally," he find himself saying, the old, instinctive refrain. "That's the deal."
The make up of this group of fucking thieves and bandits might change, but that one tenet at least has stayed the same. Muted conversation follows in the wake of that stipulation as Ellis sits back, cracks his neck, and tosses the bloodied rag into the fire.
"If there's something you want, you should take it now," he advises the approaching footsteps, without turning to look at their face. The quiet feeling that something is amiss doesn't prevent him from offering the same instruction he always does to those who come late to the fireside after a day's work.
no subject
The scene she walks into is... less helpful.
"You dumb nug shitting idiot, what the pit are you doing sitting there covered in blood?!" Which is probably not the tone one ought to take when walking into a group of apparent ne'er do wells, but even in this strange disconnected world, Sawbones is still Sawbones.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
derrica | ota.
Derrica stands in the midst of them, assessing, before bringing her staff around in a graceful arc to knock gently against one student's patchy offering. It dissipates at contact, and she shakes her head.
"Try again," she encourages. "Focus on the way your magic feels. Make it as dense and heavy as a templar's armor."
The words ring with nostalgia. They're borrowed. Derrica remembers someone saying nearly the same thing to her. She draws in a breath as she looks over her students and smiles, watching the barriers flare between them.
"You're late," she says, though she stutters over the words as she catches sight of who has approached. Not a student. But familiar...?
no subject
Other times, she simply... finds herself somewhere she's not supposed to be. Like now. With the obnoxious sting of what should be a headache, but somehow isn't. At least she's greeted with a familiar face this time.
"Blast if I can tell what time it is," she answers, looking around to try and gain her bearings before looking at Derrica, "Right, where are we?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Julius, open
Julius Selwyn is not -- exactly -- waiting for his father to die. That would be a simple thing to assume, and indeed, many banns and other Ferelden nobles have assumed precisely as much. But nothing about the Selwyn household has been simple for a long time.
Yes, it is true that ever since the bann's eldest son and presumed heir died in the Fifth Blight, there has been tension between him and his second-born. It is true that Lady Selwyn has shifted between the two of them, while their youngest, a quiet scholar, remains her pet. And it is true that Julius Selwyn has been bold enough to build alliances and make political moves without his father's permission or blessing, though they have turned out so well that Bann Selwyn cannot protest after the fact without looking the fool.
Still, Julius does not hate his father. He is trying to make his father see that all was not lost when his older brother was sent to the Maker prematurely. And that is why it is Julius here to meet an Inquisition delegation, thoughtful but open to the idea of making yet another move to advance his family. It is for them, and they would eventually see.
The one where he's "not a mage"
Julius had used a variety of false names since fleeing, and hadn't intended to use Cian's very long. He wondered if, under different circumstances, his lost friend would have eventually become his enemy; he wondered whether Cian would disapprove of Julius cloaking himself in sentimentality as it was. But Cian was dead, and didn't need his name, so Julius had lifted it. And now he'd been using it long enough that answering to it was natural, something he could do without pause.
Similarly, he hadn't meant to stay so long in this boarding house in Antiva City, but his copying work had led to more as clients talked about his efficiency and neat penmanship. Eventually, he took on translations, too, which paid better. No one had asked him, but he'd gathered that most of his fellow boarders assumed he was a scholar fallen on hard times. He'd even become friendly with a few of the other long-term guests. It wasn't home, and he was never quite unaware of the danger he was in. But he fell into a rhythm.
"Cian" didn't seek out any news of the mages he'd known, or the templars either. He did his best to ignore first the war, and then the fallout of the Conclave. Thedas didn't want its mages free, and no mage could currently avoid apostasy regardless of his inclinations. So he wouldn't be a mage; he'd be a translator, and he would be very, very careful, and no one need ever know as long as he could avoid anyone looking at him too closely.
Wildcard
[Hit me up if you want something that won't fit either of the above.]
nikos averesch || ota and l-l-lattttte (airhorn noises)
This is a ball, and Nikos Averesch is drunk.
That's to be expected. The ball is being thrown by of the innumerable Averesch third cousins, in their large mansion in Cumberland, and Nikos, named heir, was invited as a guest of honor. Dressed well, drinking expensive wine, and looking at a bookshelf in one of the side parlors, with great disdain.
"This fucking horseshit bad taste," he says, to no one in particular. He doesn't have to direct his words to anyone. People tend to listen when he talks. To someone in the know, he looks even more like Kostos than usual--trimmer, better groomed, like actually gives a shit. Finer clothes than he ever wears. And a big signet ring, which he taps idly against his glass of wine before he takes a measured sip--then turns to look over with idle amusement at whoever is stood nearest to him. Gestures, expectantly, toward the bookshelf.
"Do you see it?"
He doesn't get better, or kinder, as the ball progresses. When the night is growing long, and shadows closing in outside, and everyone has had enough wine that this sounds fun: one of the attendees suggests they all go out to the garden and play tamburello, that charming Antivan game. Nikos actually laughs at that, loudly, and waves off any looks that he gets, with less-than-heartfelt apologies. As soon as the attention is off of him, he turns to the nearest servant, finishes off his cup of wine, and holds the empty out to be collected.
"Do you want to play?" he asks the servant, with a suddenly guileless smile. "We can make a team of it. You, and me, and--"
A good soul would intervene here. Either help the servant, or the asshole. Your choice.
2 - sister au.
Keto Averesch, morale officer for the Inquisition, bangs her plate down on the table opposite of you and sits down with a heavy sigh. Short, slender, and pretty, in kind of a mismatched way--something about how her eyes are uncannily light in color, which gives her squarish face an intensity--and then there's the liver-colored scar the the shape of a skeletal tree, splotched up her left arm and spilled out over her chest, little tendrils that just show at the neckline of her dress. There's real warmth in her smile, which she turns on you now as she picks up her spoon.
"I'm thinking of Wintersend next year," she announces, and lifts a bite of her lunch to her mouth. Fish stew, which she's told everyone is her favorite. Her voice is lower than one might think, with a rich melodious quality to it. She chews, with one hand held lady-like over her mouth, so she can keep talking with her mouth a little full. "I was reading all about these ancient traditions and it made me want to try some of them out. And then there's all the traditional plays, of course. We've nearly a year to plan for that, and organize costumes and setpieces and all. if we start now, it will be really good. But I want to do more than that."
Only the dreamers will see the shape of the ghost at her elbow, sat beside her on the bench. The ghost looks very alike to her--something in the shape of the face, for all that Keto looks alive and cheerful and pink-cheeked as she chats away.
sonia barra | ota
Her uncle Verus had never coveted for a daughter, content with the two sons quickly forming themselves in his image, and Sonia was ill-suited for his cool brand of fatherhood. His favorite thing, it seemed, was to remind her that she was fortunate to have any family at all; that without him, she would have fallen to distant relatives, or worse, into destitution. Sonia was not the obedient, graceful foster daughter he would have preferred, and she only resented him for every attempt at controlling her, only found new and creative ways to push back. Her two cousins, much older, rarely if ever bothered to intervene on her behalf, instead turning a blind eye when Verus’s frustration erupted into rage.
Bann Verus found himself a tidy and clever solution by the time Sonia was of age. A certain politician in want of a wife might well do business with a lord with an unwanted daughter. Had he consulted Sonia on it before arranging a betrothal, the ensuing fallout might not have been so fraught and explosive—but by the end of it, Sonia found herself disinherited and exiled from her childhood home. So she ran to Denerim, to the few connections she had there, the people she thought she could rely on. Few proved true—others, a lover or two among them, no better than her uncle or cousins. It wasn’t long before she was thoroughly disabused of any notions of the charity and good will of so-called friends, noble or otherwise. It wasn’t long before she understood the principles of survival.
So now she does what she's always done best: make trouble. Once a childhood pastime for the pure fun of riling up her siblings, Sonia's ability to weave and unravel rumors as she passes through them is now her greatest asset. Others are paid to resolve scandals, solutions from the shadows. Sonia, more often than not, is paid to create them; the more intricate, the better, and so much more entertaining for it. Her reputation is far from clean, but beauty and charm and a track record for (more or less) finishing what she started get her just far along enough. She lives, of course, well beyond her means, but she's careful not to show it, and the sale of the occasional forged painting helps her make ends meet. It had been a cold blow to young Sonia to discover that none of her work was considered particularly interesting or skillful enough for anyone worth anything to want to buy it. Forgeries, on the other hand, are apparently much more in demand by a certain cadre of art dealers, and where Sonia lacked in originality, she has learned to make up for in careful technique.
These days, it's not hard to find Sonia Barra, if one knows where to look and wants to do business. High-end bars, taverns without too seedy of a reputation—anywhere she can smile and pout her way into—she's always at a corner table somewhere, a bottle of wine perpetually at her elbow. Please, step into her office. Want Sonia to sow social discord that can't be traced back to you? Or perhaps there's someone whose reputation you want a little tarnished? For a modest fee, she'll change the world just a little. If it's art you've come looking to buy, however, you'll need to jump through a few more hoops before she'll open that gallery. Or perhaps you're not looking for her at all; just a chance meeting with a dark-eyed woman who beckons you for oh, just one drink, won't you come sit? You look interesting enough.
no subject
He sits down across from her, long legs crossed, head tilted rakishly, and commands her - ]
Pour me a glass, cuz.
[ And he presents that glass, mostly empty from his prior round. It's white wine lingering at the bottom of this cup, and she's pouring red - but it's swill regardless, so what does it matter? ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
bastien | open
“Sorry about your head,” he says. He looks like he means it, because he does. He also looks different. Leaner. No mustache. More stubble. “I did not mean to hit you so hard. You sort of, ah, stepped back into it at the wrong moment—not that you could have known. It is not your fault. I just…”
What do you say to someone you’re about to turn over to their enemy, probably to be tortured? It isn’t something he has much experience with. He smiles a little, in a strained, apologetic way.
“I did not mean to hit you so hard.”
no subject
Wincing repeatedly from the pain of her throbbing head, Teren is watching Bastien like a cornered cat, her eyes a little too bright, her body a little too still. Spindly fingers are already working into the cuffs of her sleeves and the tiny blades she'll find there, if he hasn't removed them.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
closed to anna
There is work to be done. Why question such things?
no subject
The torch keeps the weaker of the mobs at bay, cringing in the alleyways, but there are hooded eyes peering at them from every window and rooftop. Angry, frightened. You can taste that in the heavy air too.
She points silently towards the church that leads down into the sewers. Something new has holed up down there, something that drips off its own bones and has been screaming in the night. The church really must stop simply flushing their failed experiments out into the lower wards.
(no subject)