𝒛𝒐𝒚𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒛𝒚𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒌𝒚 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
novokribirsk) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2021-04-22 10:10 pm
novokribirsk) wrote in faderift2021-04-22 10:10 pm
Entry tags:
It's not too cold to be wearing this ridiculous dress, the weather overcast and warm, and much too humid. She's reminded of Ketterdam more than Ravka, and that's another reason to hate this situation. Falling out of a so-called rift, fighting off so-called demons, yes, yes — but the humidity making her dress stick to her skin, bringing out the curl to her hair, that she has to brush off her face?
Vile.
(Almost as vile as this smelly cart taking them back to a place promisingly called the Gallows.)
The presence of her king sitting next to her is only another complication, and another set of problems, enough to give her a headache. Almost as bad as —
"If your Saintsforsaken eels touch me one more time, I will throw them and you into a ditch."
Vile.
(Almost as vile as this smelly cart taking them back to a place promisingly called the Gallows.)
The presence of her king sitting next to her is only another complication, and another set of problems, enough to give her a headache. Almost as bad as —
"If your Saintsforsaken eels touch me one more time, I will throw them and you into a ditch."
Edited 2021-04-23 02:34 (UTC)
i
There is a woman of medium height in the training grounds, all long dark waves of hair and striking features, a tell-tale green glimmer set in one her palms. She eschews the weaponry, instead stands in front of a series of training dummies with a faint frown on her face.
She knows, of course, that she can summon. It had been necessary to deal with the demons that greeted them at their arrival, and she is a Grisha whether she's in Ravka, or Novyi Zem, or Thedas. But doubt has gnawed at her heart. What is it to draw on the making at the heart of the world in another world? What is it to use the Small Science in a place where otkazat’sya still tremble and call it magic, where every name she's come to know herself by is meaningless?
It doesn't matter, she reminds herself. In Thedas or Ravka or hell, she is Zoya Nazyalensky, commander of the Second Army, general to her king. And he is here, which means she owes it to her country to keep him — the both of them — safe until she can return him to his throne.
Then she tosses her hair over a shoulder and lifts her arms, silver cuff glittering on one wrist. She gestures, and gusts of wind strike the dummies, one after another, knocking the head off the last.
ii
The baths are something, at least, and even familiar — at least a little bit. They aren't as beautiful as the banya nestled by the Little Palace, nor as luxurious as the baths at the Geldrenner Hotel, but as Zoya eases into the hot water, even she doesn't have much cause to complain. The gleaming, obsidian mass of her hair is piled high on her head, and a dressing gown has been shucked without concern for modesty. The observant may notice a surprising set of jagged scars that stretch across the otherwise smooth skin of her back, eight matching claw marks, puckered and old.
"At least," she observes, without concern for who may hear her, "there's one decent thing in these Gallows."
iii
After her quarantine, Zoya wastes no time to make a series of trips into Kirkwall. She heads into Hightown with her chin held high, wears her Gallows-borrowed clothes with all the dignity of any finery. It's eventually obvious what she's come for — she leaves a tailor one day with a package, a glimpse of blue silk, or maybe silver embroidery, visible through the wrapping. It's easy enough to notice her carrying it on the ferry, or as she makes her way back towards her quarters.
There is a woman of medium height in the training grounds, all long dark waves of hair and striking features, a tell-tale green glimmer set in one her palms. She eschews the weaponry, instead stands in front of a series of training dummies with a faint frown on her face.
She knows, of course, that she can summon. It had been necessary to deal with the demons that greeted them at their arrival, and she is a Grisha whether she's in Ravka, or Novyi Zem, or Thedas. But doubt has gnawed at her heart. What is it to draw on the making at the heart of the world in another world? What is it to use the Small Science in a place where otkazat’sya still tremble and call it magic, where every name she's come to know herself by is meaningless?
It doesn't matter, she reminds herself. In Thedas or Ravka or hell, she is Zoya Nazyalensky, commander of the Second Army, general to her king. And he is here, which means she owes it to her country to keep him — the both of them — safe until she can return him to his throne.
Then she tosses her hair over a shoulder and lifts her arms, silver cuff glittering on one wrist. She gestures, and gusts of wind strike the dummies, one after another, knocking the head off the last.
ii
The baths are something, at least, and even familiar — at least a little bit. They aren't as beautiful as the banya nestled by the Little Palace, nor as luxurious as the baths at the Geldrenner Hotel, but as Zoya eases into the hot water, even she doesn't have much cause to complain. The gleaming, obsidian mass of her hair is piled high on her head, and a dressing gown has been shucked without concern for modesty. The observant may notice a surprising set of jagged scars that stretch across the otherwise smooth skin of her back, eight matching claw marks, puckered and old.
"At least," she observes, without concern for who may hear her, "there's one decent thing in these Gallows."
iii
After her quarantine, Zoya wastes no time to make a series of trips into Kirkwall. She heads into Hightown with her chin held high, wears her Gallows-borrowed clothes with all the dignity of any finery. It's eventually obvious what she's come for — she leaves a tailor one day with a package, a glimpse of blue silk, or maybe silver embroidery, visible through the wrapping. It's easy enough to notice her carrying it on the ferry, or as she makes her way back towards her quarters.
Edited 2021-04-24 15:47 (UTC)
"Zoya," is two-toned, equal parts teasing and scolding as Nikolai flashes a smile to the front of the cart, eyes cutting away from her and back. In light, easy Ravkan, he continues, "It's an accident, you know that. My trunk isn't large enough for the pair of them."
Nevermind that the contents of the trunk are gone. Two trunks should have been a boon, but instead:
Seawater. Eels.
Nothing of use.
"Nevermind the eels," he instructs. "We need to consider what we are going to do about this. Unless you know of how to reverse what just happened?"
Nevermind that the contents of the trunk are gone. Two trunks should have been a boon, but instead:
Seawater. Eels.
Nothing of use.
"Nevermind the eels," he instructs. "We need to consider what we are going to do about this. Unless you know of how to reverse what just happened?"
i.
Here is the thing:ii.
Nikolai is already crushingly bored.
What does one do after spending a significant chunk of their life bent upon one goal, and then being abruptly separated from it?
Apparently, if you're Nikolai Lantsov, the answer is "go out in search of a new problem to apply oneself to."
Being presently limited to the Gallows means his first stop is the library. It's ostensibly the most straightforward way to answer a few questions, but Nikolai approaches it with the bright enthusiasm of someone preparing to win a debate. (Which, he might be. It seems inevitable.)
"Pardon me," comes in a stage whisper. "I'm looking for the histories, if you please."
But of course, the Gallows cannot contain him forever, and inevitably, upon the end of quarantine, he strikes out for Kirkwall.iii.
This is fully a fact-finding mission, meant to get a sense of the lay of the land and ideally to gossip with people outside of the Gallows. Maybe it's not the most accurate way to get information from the front, but it is interesting to hear the impressions of those in the neighboring city.
Almost anywhere in Kirkwall is fair game to run into Nikolai over the next few weeks. Do you spot him admiring the architecture in Hightown? Or maybe you catch a glimpse of him engaged in conversation with several merchants in Lowtown. Or perhaps you find him on the docks, admiring the ships in port? He's more or less determined to map out the city on foot, so whatever your business, it's safe to say you'll catch of a glimpse of him in the process of it.
And, of course, if push comes to shove, he can always be cornered on the ferry.
Wildcard.
Edited 2021-04-28 16:03 (UTC)
Her eyes flash in silent warning: don't patronize me, Your Highness.
Aloud, in Ravkan, she answers, "Yes, I habitually rip holes in the fabric of the universe. How foolish of me to forget."
Aloud, in Ravkan, she answers, "Yes, I habitually rip holes in the fabric of the universe. How foolish of me to forget."
"Not you, but David, perhaps. In his spare time."
Ha. Ha.
He flicks a finger in the water, an affronted eel squirming away from the disturbance. It's outrageously interesting, but their two nervous guides have no answers and Nikolai isn't certain where they'd going will provide any either.
Lapsing out of Ravkan, he calls to the pair of them, "How much longer, if you please?"
As if he's so eager to arrive at the Gallows. The only positive he can think of is that such a place must be equipped to hold him overnight, though that's going to be complicated as well.
"Not long," is a mumbled, nonspecific reply, but it's perhaps all he's going to get. Nikolai turns back to her, eyebrows raising, and relays in Ravkan, "You see? Not long. Then we will have some answers."
Ha. Ha.
He flicks a finger in the water, an affronted eel squirming away from the disturbance. It's outrageously interesting, but their two nervous guides have no answers and Nikolai isn't certain where they'd going will provide any either.
Lapsing out of Ravkan, he calls to the pair of them, "How much longer, if you please?"
As if he's so eager to arrive at the Gallows. The only positive he can think of is that such a place must be equipped to hold him overnight, though that's going to be complicated as well.
"Not long," is a mumbled, nonspecific reply, but it's perhaps all he's going to get. Nikolai turns back to her, eyebrows raising, and relays in Ravkan, "You see? Not long. Then we will have some answers."
"The only thing David would do with power like that is use the new world as a place to store his books."
She manages to sound more fond than cutting, makes up for it by frowning and making no similar concessions to speak anything but Ravkan; she only needs Nikolai to understand her right now. A toss of her hair before she goes on serves to accidentally bring the eye to how close she is to bursting out of this bodice.
"And what are you planning to do when we reach the den of vipers? Charm them to death?"
She manages to sound more fond than cutting, makes up for it by frowning and making no similar concessions to speak anything but Ravkan; she only needs Nikolai to understand her right now. A toss of her hair before she goes on serves to accidentally bring the eye to how close she is to bursting out of this bodice.
"And what are you planning to do when we reach the den of vipers? Charm them to death?"
Edited 2021-04-24 19:40 (UTC)
"Several decent things, madame," replies a rather arch, droll voice from her right. Standing there is a man who is currently clothed, but minimally, only in a dressing-gown - clearly he's come to take a bath.
But he lingers, not disrobing yet; instead, he places a hand over his heart, and executes a very elegant and graceful bow.
"May I join you? I have no desire to begin our acquaintanceship by giving offense to you or your modesty."
But he lingers, not disrobing yet; instead, he places a hand over his heart, and executes a very elegant and graceful bow.
"May I join you? I have no desire to begin our acquaintanceship by giving offense to you or your modesty."
He gets points for the nicety, truthfully, the lack of leering — something that doesn't show in her face but might've if he had offended. Instead she briefly considers the question, an upwards tilt to her chin, and says briskly,
"I've seen it all before."
Past lovers, close quarters in encampments, during the war — she's never had need for modesty.
"I've seen it all before."
Past lovers, close quarters in encampments, during the war — she's never had need for modesty.
"Yes, actually."
Is there another way to approach this?
(He has thought of three things to say about the dress, but none of them can be delivered in the correct manner.)
"I am considering starting with whoever manages the dungeons," he tells her, trusting Zoya to take his meaning immediately. Surely that's their greatest concern. Nikolai might be able to stay away for one night, or two, but he'll have to sleep eventually. They'll need to charm themselves a discreet solution sooner rather than later.
Is there another way to approach this?
(He has thought of three things to say about the dress, but none of them can be delivered in the correct manner.)
"I am considering starting with whoever manages the dungeons," he tells her, trusting Zoya to take his meaning immediately. Surely that's their greatest concern. Nikolai might be able to stay away for one night, or two, but he'll have to sleep eventually. They'll need to charm themselves a discreet solution sooner rather than later.
"Oh, I don't know," he says. "Maybe the people of this world have bright orange feet, or jewels embedded in our belly-buttons, or odd little tentacles. Perhaps there are things to discover here."
The comment is wry, playful, but not flirtatious. For one, flirting with someone who's already naked and who would have trouble extricating themselves from your company is phenomenally rude, and therefore only to be done to the deserving, like Captain Flint, whom Byerly has fond memories of tormenting. Second, the woman is quite young, for all that there's confidence in her bearing. And third, he's a married man with two paramours, which makes him a bit less flirting-prone than he had been at one time.
He shucks off his gown and eases himself into the water. And, with a little sigh - "Ah, yes, that feels good on my vestigial tail."
The comment is wry, playful, but not flirtatious. For one, flirting with someone who's already naked and who would have trouble extricating themselves from your company is phenomenally rude, and therefore only to be done to the deserving, like Captain Flint, whom Byerly has fond memories of tormenting. Second, the woman is quite young, for all that there's confidence in her bearing. And third, he's a married man with two paramours, which makes him a bit less flirting-prone than he had been at one time.
He shucks off his gown and eases himself into the water. And, with a little sigh - "Ah, yes, that feels good on my vestigial tail."
Her blue eyes narrow.
Of course she takes his meaning. His concern is as eminently practical as it is infuriating. Of course he's worried about the demon; she is too. But speaking of it feels too much, already, like giving up.
"Perhaps you should ask after suitable wall hangings, next, since you're planning on making yourself comfortable."
Of course she takes his meaning. His concern is as eminently practical as it is infuriating. Of course he's worried about the demon; she is too. But speaking of it feels too much, already, like giving up.
"Perhaps you should ask after suitable wall hangings, next, since you're planning on making yourself comfortable."
Saints help them all, she thinks, if — or when — this man meets Nikolai. Their senses of humor are entirely too similar, and she's not sure she wants to be present for that level of absurdity.
"As long as you keep your tentacles to yourself," she says, dry, "then I won't even judge you for the horns."
"As long as you keep your tentacles to yourself," she says, dry, "then I won't even judge you for the horns."
He grins, delighted by her playing along. He lifts his hands from the water and places them upon his forehead, fingers curved into the shape of horns.
"Thank you, thank you," he says, wiggling those fingers at her. "You're too kind."
He knows the woman is a new arrival, and knows she is a Rifter. Her name is - Zoya, he thinks? He's not sure enough of that to speak it aloud. Dreadfully embarrassing if he's wrong. But he's sure about her being a Rifter.
"So how are you finding our squalid little home?"
"Thank you, thank you," he says, wiggling those fingers at her. "You're too kind."
He knows the woman is a new arrival, and knows she is a Rifter. Her name is - Zoya, he thinks? He's not sure enough of that to speak it aloud. Dreadfully embarrassing if he's wrong. But he's sure about her being a Rifter.
"So how are you finding our squalid little home?"
It's the head snapping loose that makes Kostos stop walking through the colonnade along one side of the courtyard. It's the woman's face that turns that stop into something more than a pause. He steps level with the stone columns, into the sunlight, so as not to be lurking creepily in the shadows—though he might have been noticeable either way. He's dark and dark-clad, still and a quiet walker, but there's a spot of bright white-blue light drifting near him. It wanders close and far with a mind of its own.
The polite thing to say is hello.
What he says is, "Are you a rifter?"
The polite thing to say is hello.
What he says is, "Are you a rifter?"
"Don't get used to it," she says, less threat than statement of fact. Kind and Zoya aren't words that tend to go together.
Perhaps a case in point: she considers his question only briefly before answering,
"Horrible." Let Nikolai charm and flatter. Blunt honesty is Zoya's way. "I can only assume this place is called the Gallows so people know to expect nothing from it. The incessant smells of the sea are foul, the architecture is atrocious, and the tea is worse than the filth they sell in our smallest peasant towns."
Perhaps a case in point: she considers his question only briefly before answering,
"Horrible." Let Nikolai charm and flatter. Blunt honesty is Zoya's way. "I can only assume this place is called the Gallows so people know to expect nothing from it. The incessant smells of the sea are foul, the architecture is atrocious, and the tea is worse than the filth they sell in our smallest peasant towns."
Good thing neither of them are concerned with politeness.
She notices his approach, as he moves closer, and what might have been a snapped out answer is — tempered. Her eyes catch on the dancing spot of brightness, linger; Sun Summoning is not such a rare sight as it had been, but she hadn't expected to find anything like it here.
"That's what I've been called," she says, sour.
She notices his approach, as he moves closer, and what might have been a snapped out answer is — tempered. Her eyes catch on the dancing spot of brightness, linger; Sun Summoning is not such a rare sight as it had been, but she hadn't expected to find anything like it here.
"That's what I've been called," she says, sour.
Edited (sometimes you forget a whole word) 2021-04-25 22:18 (UTC)
Her voice makes the light change its trajectory and zip toward her, while Kostos nods and gestures toward the dummies.
"We would need staves," he says, "to—don't bother her."
That last part is directed to the spirit wisp, which arrests mid-air a few feet away from her. It's making a quiet shimmering brrr noise, and the noise changes pitch into something almost disappointed. Its brightness dims, too.
Kostos waits a moment to make sure it's going to obey before he continues, "To do something like that, at that distance."
"We would need staves," he says, "to—don't bother her."
That last part is directed to the spirit wisp, which arrests mid-air a few feet away from her. It's making a quiet shimmering brrr noise, and the noise changes pitch into something almost disappointed. Its brightness dims, too.
Kostos waits a moment to make sure it's going to obey before he continues, "To do something like that, at that distance."
His grin broadens when he hears her brutal assessment. Charming. Very charming. Is she always this mean? Maker, he hopes so. He's desperate for some properly rude people around the Gallows, rather than the passive-aggressive rudeness he's generally stuck with.
"Good tea can be found," he says, "if you make friends with the right people." A little tap of his nose gives some hint to who the right people are. "As for the atrocious architecture...The city was built, originally, by our enemies. By Tevinter. So it's actually good to be located here, because we look around us, and see these ugly buildings, and we let it fan the flames of our zeal to defeat the monsters."
"Good tea can be found," he says, "if you make friends with the right people." A little tap of his nose gives some hint to who the right people are. "As for the atrocious architecture...The city was built, originally, by our enemies. By Tevinter. So it's actually good to be located here, because we look around us, and see these ugly buildings, and we let it fan the flames of our zeal to defeat the monsters."
"Defeat Tevinter so they can't conquer your country and fill it with bad taste," she considers aloud, before shrugging. "I've heard worse pitches."
Tevinter, she thinks, then Corypheus. A hopelessly ancient creature of darkness with an interest in rupturing the fabric of the world, in domination and conquest, in using merzost. Abomination.
Typical.
"So how did we come to inhabit one of Tevinter's castoffs?"
Tevinter, she thinks, then Corypheus. A hopelessly ancient creature of darkness with an interest in rupturing the fabric of the world, in domination and conquest, in using merzost. Abomination.
Typical.
"So how did we come to inhabit one of Tevinter's castoffs?"
Not light, then. Alina, the Soldat Sol, can bring light and heat, but only that. No more animate than the winds at Zoya's command, or the water a Tidemaker shapes. Which makes the light some thing of Thedas's so-called magic, which makes her — not uninterested. But there's a shift in her attention from the wisp to Kostos. She's curious, so she refuses to show it.
"The only tool a Grisha might use is an amplifier." A difference, then, between her power and what those here do. "How does a stave help?"
"The only tool a Grisha might use is an amplifier." A difference, then, between her power and what those here do. "How does a stave help?"
"It's a good story," he says, a bit of good humor creeping into his voice. He settles back into the water, setting his shoulders against the bath behind him, clearly moving into a storyteller's pose.
"Once," he says, "this was a city of blood and pain. In the ancient days of the Tevinter Imperium, this was a center of the slave trade. It was known as Emerius then. The City of Chains. A million enslaved, at the height of this place, they said.
"But then a slave named Radun stepped forward. And he said to Tevinter, dear masters, why don't you go screw? Pardon my language," he says to Zoya, even though he'd be quite surprised if she minded. "And they said, we won't. And so Radun nodded, and led a grand rebellion, and murdered all of 'em."
He grins. "It's why I don't mind the architecture too much. It's a remnant of a history that did not turn out well for those with such dreadful taste."
"Once," he says, "this was a city of blood and pain. In the ancient days of the Tevinter Imperium, this was a center of the slave trade. It was known as Emerius then. The City of Chains. A million enslaved, at the height of this place, they said.
"But then a slave named Radun stepped forward. And he said to Tevinter, dear masters, why don't you go screw? Pardon my language," he says to Zoya, even though he'd be quite surprised if she minded. "And they said, we won't. And so Radun nodded, and led a grand rebellion, and murdered all of 'em."
He grins. "It's why I don't mind the architecture too much. It's a remnant of a history that did not turn out well for those with such dreadful taste."
A flick of her fingers, dismissive.
"That sounds like a children's tale."
She can imagine it easily enough: Sankt Radun of the chained city, an illustrated page in the Istorii Sankt’ya alongside the tale of Sankt Petyr or Sankta Anastasia.
"That sounds like a children's tale."
She can imagine it easily enough: Sankt Radun of the chained city, an illustrated page in the Istorii Sankt’ya alongside the tale of Sankt Petyr or Sankta Anastasia.
She scoffs, frowning skeptically. For all of her disbelief, there isn't much heat in it; cynicism, rearing its head.
"There was a slave rebellion against a powerful empire, and they got to live happily ever after?"
Is she going to challenge a Theodosian on his own history? Apparently.
"Maybe I should've said it sounded like a story to tell gullible rifters." A beat, then, "It's good propaganda. I'd do the same thing."
"There was a slave rebellion against a powerful empire, and they got to live happily ever after?"
Is she going to challenge a Theodosian on his own history? Apparently.
"Maybe I should've said it sounded like a story to tell gullible rifters." A beat, then, "It's good propaganda. I'd do the same thing."
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