open. you believe what you want to believe.

[justashotaway]

WHO: Aenor Din'adhal, Laura Kint
WHAT: Catchall with open and some closed starters
WHEN: Immediately post-dream through the end of Guardian
WHERE: The Gallows and Kirkwall proper
NOTES: If you'd like me to write you up something particular, please PM justashotaway or dinadhal, PP , or disco dove#9906. Starters in comments.

Comments

laura kint.

[justashotaway]

[ Grab me OOC if you'd like a bespoke starter! ]

closed. matthias.

[justashotaway]

When Laura wakes from the dream, she doesn't want to get up--not with her cat asleep on her chest and the air outside her bed cold and her head still churning with images that seem too fantastical to be real. Black gates to a city that should not be. A life that hasn't happened. And magic, more magic than she's ever wanted.

She takes an assignment from the board and does it, staying in Kirkwall but finding as much reason to be out of the Gallows as possible. And then she does more. Patrols. Standing watch outside a Hightown party. Helping a Chantry sister fold blankets. Whatever she can find to occupy herself, keeping her hands busy and her mind focused on small objectives.

It fills the better part of four days, while the nights are given over to thinking about things she hadn't planned to wonder about. What it might take to marry a man in Kirkwall; what to do on the occasion that such a man might use magic to make servants out of others' bodies; whether this means the Fitcher in her dreams was right. Answers don't come, only more questions, until her next mission is clear. (Well, save one mission in between, finding out from Commander Flint what requirements there are for marriage. But that's easily accomplished by comparison.)

On the fifth morning, she goes to the room Matthias sleeps in and pokes her head in, trying to determine if he's still asleep without rousing anyone else who might be asleep in the other bunks. The only way she'll know what she thinks is to talk to him.

[inkindled]

He's been busy as well, Matthias, though perhaps not as busy as Laura. He wouldn't know. It's not precisely been an avoiding, but the fact that they've not run into each other in days has been all right, because Matthias isn't certain of how running into each other will be.

Much of the dream has become hazy. There are parts that endure. And every time that Matthias has reached for his magic in the last few days, he has thought first of how easy it had been in the dream, how much power he had just buzzing under his skin. And then second he had thought of the Vint with his throat torn open.

On the fifth morning after the dream, Matthias is awake. Sleeping in is either an indulgence or a mistake, and not easy to manage in shared quarters no matter how heavy of a sleeper you are. Matthias is still wearing the shirt and quilted trousers he'd slept in. He is seated cross-legged on his bed, bent with furious concentration over his other shirt. There is a rather large tear in its sleeve and he is working to mend it. This is not a skill at which he excels, as someone nearly too impatient to be able successfully thread a needle.

A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye snags his attention and he looks up and sees Laura. And now that she's here, he realizes that he's missed her. Seeing her peering around the door frame puts a drop of dread in him, but there's relief, too, and he shoves the needle clumsily through the shirt to keep his place, and sets it aside.

"Hi." Not an auspicious start. But he has to say something. "All right?"

[justashotaway]

It only occurs to Laura now, looking at Matthias looking at her, that he nearly always smiles at her when he sees her. Seeing him discombobulated--guarded?--has an aberrant quality to it, like a portrait with the wrong nose painted onto its subject's face.

"Yes." She pauses, reconsidering. "Maybe."

Matthias asks all right? where other people ask how are you?, but he means the question more sincerely. And Laura uncertain she's all right. She's spent the better part of a week avoiding him; even as she slips into his room and shuts the door behind her, she's not sure she wants to be here. Standing with her arms behind her, the fingertips of one hand pressing hard into her wrist, she feels formal even by her own standards.

"Are you?"

[inkindled]

"Yeah," he says, "maybe."

All at once, he shoves the shirt onto the floor, and scoots back so that the end of the bed is free and clear. He makes a quick gesture toward it.

"You can sit, if you like. Or on any of the other beds as well. No one's about, it's just us. Erm, I--" He swallows, drops his eyes to the folds of the blanket. "I was thinking that we ought to talk, so I'm glad you came round. I'm-- I'm glad to see you. You are here on purpose, aren't you? You meant to come and see me? This isn't some mistake. Sorry, I sound like an idiot, it's just," and now he frowns at the blanket, "I did want to see you. I just didn't go and find you. That was stupid. Sorry."

aenor dinadhal.

[dinadhal]

[ Grab me OOC if you'd like a bespoke starter! ]

open. winter is very wet, isn't it?

[dinadhal]

Aside from the dream they all shared, she settles in fairly easily. There are endless questions to ask others, of course--"How is it I go to--" or "What is this, our dinner tonight?" and so on--and she's not sure she plans to remain in the Gallows. But Riftwatch itself is surprisingly enjoyable.

(And the food is much better than what she'd have been eating on the high desert alone.)

The first time it snows, Aenor's agog, standing in the courtyard wrapped up in a heavy cloak and staring up at the grey sky as though she's never seen it before. The snowflakes carpet her dark hair and the fur collar at her neck. Do you do anything else with snow besides look at it? All she can think to do is stare, trying to figure out where in the thick cloud cover it actually comes from.

Of course, then it gets far more wintry, a blizzard with winds that blow too hard to stand around in. At that point, she sits near any fire with space, a hot drink held in both her hands, possibly seasoned with its fair share of liquor. Coming to sit by her opens one up to being badgered with questions, if warmly and politely. And the first one might be the easiest: "Ah--who are you?"

After that point, she admires it as a sort of loyal opposition--a mood brought on by her first real experience with ice. Out she's going toward the ferry, and then a footfall lands, slips, and sends her flying with a shout of surprise.

[ Or toss me a wildcard! Aenor is in Scouting, and she's a very short Dalish elf from the Anderfels, often seen in the company of a lanky human who towers over her. Brackets are fine if you prefer them. ]

The Big Slip

[thereneverwas]

"Oh--!"

Before she can hit the ground too hard, she's caught from behind by two large hands on her shoulders, which easily help her upright again.

"Sorry, ma'am." Should she turn to see her savior, she will also have to look rather upwards, at the wall of person that is Barrow, who smiles easily down at her. "That could've got ugly, eh?"

[dinadhal]

Her first instinct is to twist out of that grip--but she doesn't trust herself to take more steps away. Once she's upright, though, she turns and takes a (much more cautious) step back. It won't do much as far as putting space between them, but a little is something.

"Ah--it might have." How very tall he is. "Who are you?"

[thereneverwas]

He releases her quickly anyway, holding up his hands when the elf steps away, demonstrating that he has no intention of touching her again.

"Barrow," he says with the same easy warmth, and tentatively extends one hand, in case she wants to shake it.
"I train up infantry types for Riftwatch. Swords and shields, two-handed weapons, all that."

[truthtied]

Even properly clothed, the severity of the winter chill is something she's not entierly used to herself and there is a point where ignoring it becomes less determination and more foolishness. Diana seats herself near the small elven woman without much fanfare, a little surprised when she's addressed first.

"Diana," she says with a ready smile. She huddles a little closer to the fire and holds her hands out to warm them. The rift shard flashes, which perhaps goes farther in explaining who she is, but she adds, "I'm a Rifter. Recently arrived and I can't say I'm enjoying the weather very much."

[dinadhal]

"No," she agrees, though she's cheerful enough about it. "This weather, it is wet."

Both fascinating and a little vexing to her, finding herself constantly with wet socks, cold hands, damp hair--while endless dryness isn't better by any means, she knows better what to do with it. After a sip of her mulled cider, she adds, "Aenor is my name. Not a Rifter. Where is it you're from?"

[truthtied]

"Themyscira," she says, because she misses it, because saying the name invokes some warmth still. The absence of her mother and sisters is a familiar ache. "It's an island, a very long way from anywhere. We didn't quite get weather like this, it's taken quite some adjustment." And the cold of the outside world had never bothered her the way Thedas' did. But never mind that. "And you? Where are you from?"

fireside.

[hornswoggle]

"And where's your son on this fine evening?"

Fine being generosity on John's part. The ice and snow make life more difficult for him, and he has yet to acclimate to the cold, even after a handful of winters in Kirkwall. The chair opposite Aenor is nudged closer to the fire with a quiet scrape before John settles into it, mug balanced on the arm of the chair, and stretches out his leg towards the warmth.

"Braving the cold to explore Kirkwall?"

[dinadhal]

"Who can say?" She scoots her own chair a little closer, partly in solidarity and partly because there's no reason not to be as near the fire as possible. "This cold, I think, is worse than we have in the Anderfels. It stays with you. But my dear son, he is hardier than he looks."

Some amusement in that last comment--Caric's a thin man, tall but not entirely without an elf's frame. Or perhaps that's simply maternal bias. "Where is your captain? Him, I remember from our dream."

[hornswoggle]

That prompts a smile, held for a moment before John sips from his mug. That's not such a surprising thing to hear. Maybe impressions built on a dream are not inherently reliable, but Aenor has struck him as unflappable even in the face of trying circumstance. Nothing he's seen so far has dispelled that, and it stands to reason her son follows along after.

"In the Forces office, buried in reports," John answers. "You'd be surprised the amount of paperwork generated by this endeavor."

And whether or not John intends to find his way up to that office at some later point does not follow.

"How are you finding it? Riftwatch?" he asks instead. "I would hope we make a better impression outside of a swamp."

[pittance]

[ The enemy is funding and directing a group of bandits harassing travelers through the northern Marches. Switch the list of targets the bandit leader is to receive with a revised list prepared by Riftwatch. ]

The storm lingers. Crouched in a cave bluff, they might reach out and touch it: Wind gusts in powdery spirals, gutters the little fire at its mouth. At least no one'll be looking for them in this weather.

"Shoulda gone with Jimmy," He waggles the stick, "More familiar."

[dinadhal]

Aenor laughs, taking the stick from his hands so she can poke at the branches on their sad little fire. "Ah, you see--familiarity, this is the problem. Jimmy would be an insult."

[pittance]

"You sure it's insulting?" The stick gives up easy. He rocks back, leaned over a knee. "Could be you scare him."

What a terrifying figure she cuts. Not what he means.

(1) predinner elf

[rowancrowned]

It wasn’t practical to hold the dinner in the grand dining room. With winter still in full force, a smaller room with a large fire made more sense, and one of the smaller rooms in the wing where they slept suited well enough. Thranduil had adapted quickly to living somewhere that wasn’t the Gallows; was pleased Gwenaëlle was around family; was delighted to have a chef again.

He sat by the fire, rose to his feet when she entered, escorted by one of the duke's footmen. The book he had been reading was left behind in the armchair, second fiddle to Aenor and her company.

"I regret not sending a carriage, or one of the staff, but I trust you had no trouble?" He did not wait for her hand, as he would have, but neither did he presume upon a Dalish greeting. His hands stayed by his sides, where she could see them. "My wife will join us in a while."

[dinadhal]

Whether it's the finest room in the house used for meals or not, it's more than grand enough for Aenor, most used to drafty fortresses and worn tents and old memories of aravels. A home in which everything is kept neat, where the decor is filigreed and scrolled and otherwise given every possible bit of prettiness, is impressive.

(It feels wasteful, too--she can only imagine Caric's commentary, and he wouldn't be wrong--but after the poor weather she walked through to get here, she'll take the warmth of a roaring fire and a well-insulated room. The peasant rebellions of her son's dreams can come tomorrow, after she's supped.)

"Ah, no." Her cape has already been spirited off to some closet or other, leaving her in the layered linens and wool she'd made use of in the Anderfels. There's no such thing as dressed up in her life, though she's at least chosen the least obviously mended clothing she owns. Similarly, she's happy enough to meet without any particular greeting--it's familiar, to come straight to the point. "The ice and I, we have an understanding now. I step carefully, and it lets me pass. No carriage needed."

[rowancrowned]

He gestured to the chair across from his own, remaining standing until she took her seat. Settled again, his hands rested on the arms of the chair. He enjoyed his comforts, his routines, the warm fire on a cold day.

"I meant the men, though I am glad to hear the weather means you no harm. I do not mean to imply Hightown is dangerous, moreso that Kirkwall is." Large and terrible and built on the bones of other cities, a blood magic engine- but that was hardly good dinner conversation. He crossed his legs, and leaned back into the chair.

"Is this your first time in the city?"

(1) post-dinner wife.

[elegiaque]

Dinner is—fine, probably. Gwenaëlle is not known for her skills as a sparkling hostess, and accordingly none are on display for it; she appears slightly before they are seated at the table to be served, hints of curl beginning in her dampened hairline suggesting she had only minutes previous washed her face, dressed fine enough to look perfectly at home in her surroundings. Too at home, arguably, for receiving guests at dinner; she has not dressed for dinner, guessing that either Thranduil's elven guest won't care and therefore won't perceive it as a slight or that if she does think it is then that's a personal problem Gwenaëlle isn't going to exert herself to avoid.

She wouldn't have dressed differently if Aenor weren't a Thedosian elf. It will either not matter or she'll learn enough about Gwenaëlle afterwards that she'll realise as much, whether it matters or not. The point is,

she is herself, during dinner. Dryly acerbic and not unfriendly but not making an especial effort to include herself in the conversation or to make Aenor feel especially welcome; she is not charming, particularly, besides her pretty little face. Her mood seems—tolerant, mainly. Her husband is doing something again, and it neither appears to harm nor concern her, so she isn't particularly concerned. He does this.

When they are left alone—

“You're not very awed by him,” is an observation. A frank one, although it's hard to tell if she means anything by it besides that.

[dinadhal]

"Should I be?"

By Aenor's measure, this was a pleasant dinner: possibly the best food she's ever eaten, and in a warm room. If Thranduil's wife comes to dinner dressed casually, she's still dressed; the details hardly matter, and she's put more effort into her appearance than most of the Grey Wardens Aenor's known. If she's quiet, she still manages to make Aenor laugh at least once. With no internal sense of what a dinner in such a household should proceed, she takes what she's given and deems it acceptable.

(It is, however, good, she suspects, that her son didn't accompany her on this evening. Caric is a good boy, but in this setting, he might have sparked an argument.)

"His height, it impressed me," Aenor adds, after a moment or two of consideration. "But that shock, I think, ended before I met you."

[elegiaque]

Should I be? makes her laugh—not unkindly, and it seems like it would be easy for her sharp edges to be unkind. Not patronizing, either, just: Aenor has said something hilarious and it is therefore appropriate to laugh, because: “Fuck no, you've met him.”

Obviously. They just had dinner with him, it was a whole thing.

The height is substantial—she remembers, with a pang, greeting Asher Hardie I've met someone taller than you now and it's a fucking elf—and probably enough to startle most people, but it's also not precisely what she's thinking of. She remembers the way that Thranduil had attracted (mostly Dalish) elves to himself in Skyhold, and for a time in Kirkwall. An elf's elf. The concept of elf, but with all the dignity still intact, distilled.

She is not unaware that her own fine self has a fair amount to do with how that doesn't really happen any more. The ancient dignity of a forest god somewhat humbled by skirtchasing a wealthy human girl younger than his son; some of his influence there knowingly given up, in embracing the part of himself that likes fine wine and fine things and his sharp-tongued fine wife. It's interesting that she doesn't know yet if Aenor would have reacted differently to him, a few years ago, or if she always would have seemed to take him about as seriously as Gwenaëlle always has, which she would judiciously describe as only when appropriate.

He might dispute her definition of appropriate. It keeps their marriage interesting, it's fine.

“He used to attract a certain kind of elven attention,” she settles on. “My mother didn't seem to set much store by it, either. Or maybe disapproved, I don't know. I think she thought he was going to get himself killed the second he stepped foot in Orlais.”