at least the dark don't hide it; OTA

[wythersake]

WHO: Isaac + OTA
WHAT: Dream aftermath
WHEN: First day or so after everyone wakes up
WHERE: Gallows
NOTES: Probable vague discussion of torture, will edit as appropriate.

 

Comments

[sulahnan]

She waves the question off. "You know I don't sleep."

(Except when she does.) Many of the nights they've spent talking about this or that and almost all of the instances of her assisting him as bait or as an extra pair of hands have occurred during bouts of insomnia that weren't appeased by a heavy blanket of rootsmoke. But there's no cloud about her now despite the ever present joint behind her knife-like ear.

And Isaac doesn't seem to be taking the out she's offering.

"I hear the Herald fielded questions from everyone. Did you get to ask one?"

(Her question, had she been there and not heading north to try and fist-fight Corypheus herself after rescuing Byerly, would probably have been somewhere along the lines of: "What the fuck is your problem?!")

[wythersake]

Doesn't she? He lets it pass.

"No," Had thought to. "There would have been no true answer to it."

[sulahnan]

"Yeah, fair enough. Who's to say it even was the Herald, right? And even if it wasn't, they did all that to make a point," she steps back, giving him space only as a byproduct of leaning over to look more closely at the map.

"I bet the people who did ask got really cryptic answers, too."

Athessa taps the map with her fingers, tappa-tappa.

"Ya know, people might think you're planning an escape route, Monsieur Suspicious."

[wythersake]

What manner of spirit are you? Hope, perhaps, or something that thought itself Wisdom. A name to stain its warnings against — useless, the name itself canted for its nature.

He never spoke with Evelyn. He does not believe this was her.

"I'd make a poor Fereldan," A private joke. He hesitates: "Athessa —"

Falters.

[sulahnan]

The raises an eyebrow at him, expectant and wry, but her expression softens to something a touch more sympathetic when her attention settles on his face. She could simply wait, allow him the time to recover from that falter, but she thinks maybe it's better to relieve him of the pressure of silence.

"You look better with a whole face."

[wythersake]

What weighs more: A pound of feathers, a pound of lead?

An older riddle — not so easily answered — that softness stings sharper. Something uncoils in the stir of his hand, fingers stirred loose across the table, palm up. An invitation.

He thinks to say, You look better by day. He thinks, You looked brave. He says,

"You look precisely the same."

[sulahnan]

They weigh the same.

"Not even," she protests, but accepts his invitation. "My hair was shorter."