faderift | It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep

Entry tags:

It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep

WHO: Mobius and open to the lot of you
WHAT: General existing, excuses to have shenanigans with people, dealing with bad sleep, your general open log
WHEN: Through Justinian
WHERE: Mostly in the Gallows, occasionally around Kirkwall
NOTES: Nothing in the body of the post, will warn if hinky shit comes up in the comments

Being in Antiva, assassination attempt aside, was actually very good overall. Parties had, shit investigated, minds changed. The political and economic ramifications are yet to truly be felt, but anything to help the war effort.

He'd forgotten about the dreams while there. At first, he wonders if they only feel worse because it had been some time. But it becomes clear that they are, in fact, steadily getting worse.

But that doesn't mean the work ends. So if nothing else, he'll get back to doing what he does best.

Most often, naturally, he's found in the library, its self-appointed librarian and custodian. For those whose tastes he's come to learn, he puts aside some books at a table where he does most of his work (reading, cataloguing, where he can be found to lend some assistance). Sometimes he's there far into the night, candles melting down to nubs (though thankfully there's still light into the evening these days) while he goes over some Research records or takes notes on the state of the tomes or whatever passes his fancy when sleep doesn't come easy. In the daytime, he tries to stay as alert and helpful as ever. Though as the days pass and the situation gets worse, he too gets worse. Fumbles a stack he was carrying, dropping things, taking longer than usual to direct anyone to the proper area, getting short with people when they give him some attitude.

Training is something he makes a point of keeping up with. While he'd still gotten plenty of exercise in his years away from duty and still wields a sword and shield like extensions of his body, he's wanted to get back into practice so his skills resharpen. He's done well, diligently, back into a blessed routine. Routines are easy. Routines bring focus. He's there in the mornings before the heat and humidity start getting too bad, but when sleep feels impossible, sometimes he's out there at the crack of dawn, chipping away at some poor dummy who did nothing to deserve the abuse. Attempts other weapons, two-handers and axes, to varying degrees of success. Sometimes it's more about working out some stress by swinging something big more than actually learning a weapon. In sparring, he's slipping, but the good(?) part is that his partner probably also is as well, so it all evens out.

He's probably gonna accidentally hurt himself. And he won't be happy about it.

At some point he more or less stops sleeping in the barracks altogether. This whole thing is an easy enough fix if it's just one person suffering, but when everyone is tossing, turning, waking up, sweating, panting, yelping, falling about? In that kind of space? No thanks. You might be able to catch him taking catnaps where he can. Or even where he doesn't want to but happened to nod off. In the library under a table or against a wall between shelves. On a small pile of hay by the stables. In the chapel. Right into his lunch only to jerk back upright with food plastered to his face. Standing up. (It's an acquired skill.) Spends a few nights in Kirkwall trying to seek some better sleep. Spoilers: doesn't work.

He loses track of days. He has to mark them very carefully so he knows when he last took lyrium. Wonders if he should go back to taking it daily, dip into the available stores more. It's there, for use. Why not? But the thought makes him itchy. Sure, he's tired, exhausted, with images at night that make him jumpy. Doesn't mean he's finally losing his wits. Isn't losing his mind. He doesn't need to make that day come any faster by increasing his intake. Just...needs to keep track. Days that turn into nights that turn back into days. Mark it down.

Prayer is something he does every day. Like training. Routine. But it gets...more, during the month. Goes to the chapel earlier, stays longer, goes there multiple times a day. If this is something demonic, then surely, surely the grace of Andraste and the will of the Maker will help them. Does he believe this? Well. It won't hurt, that's for sure. But that doesn't seem enough some days. What if it's the location, what if it's cursed for the atrocities conducted? He makes his way to the garden where the Kirkwall Chantry once stood, conducts his prayers there. He's not, apparently, the only one trying to take solace in a holy ground.

Occasionally, a fight breaks out. Occasionally, the racism and fear of the Other gets worse, becomes the worst. He tries to step in when he can do so safely, but sometimes a solid left hook is the only solution when words fail. Everyone's jittery, anxious, tired. He wants to help; Maker he wants to, but there's no soothing this, no balm he can give. He can only recite the words of the Chant and hope it digs into hearts.

By the end of the month, he's usually talking to himself, muttering under his breath. How long has he been reciting the Chant? It's not in order, doesn't have the whole thing memorized front to back, but there are whole strings of verses, occasionally a whole canticle. Sometimes plucks out relevant verses, repeats them to himself in the middle of whatever he's doing. If there are parts that seem unfamiliar, there might be dissonant verses in there, too.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The Gallows is a big island fortress until it is not a big island fortress. It becomes very obvious very quickly when, say, one's personal habits mirror someone else's entirely by coincidence. Laurentius can no more be blind to the man who catalogues and manages the library for long hours of the day than Mobius can be to the gloomy man who had taken to lurking there for similarly protracted lengths of time, working methodically through Riftwatch's collection of southern Chantry texts as if he too is making a sort of catalog—a mental one of the titles and contents and arguments therein, copying great swathes of essays down and then secreting those copied pages away to whatever rabbit hole of a room he occupies elsewhere on the island. And again, in the Gallows chapel—the dour looking Tevinter man leaving as Mobius arrives, or vice versa.

And, funnily enough (though the circumstances are less so than the serendipity), here in Kirkwall's Lowtown markets:

It's unclear where the problem began. What is instantly obvious is that the tall man with two books tucked protectively against his chest, who is so, so painfully Tevene in both the cut of his clothes and his accent as he attempts to patiently insist, "—Just allow me to pay for them and I'll be on my way," to the used book dealer

is outnumbered.

Neighboring vendors have started to look toward the argument as the book dealer's voice rises in reply. Heads are turning slowly round. A trio of young men loitering between stalls have sniffed the altercation, and cocked their attention in its direction like coursing dogs bending toward the scent of a rabbit.

Of course Mobius has noticed. Impossible not to. And the fellow looks like he works so hard, that even if he takes an interest in the subject matter, he isn't necessarily looking to interrupt said work. They really should. Hadn't they had a conversation on the matter at some point?

But, all of this going on now that everyone is back in Kirkwall means that maybe now isn't a good time to get into a rousing debate regarding the (Southern) Chantry. Not a good time to bother anyone about their prayers. Not a good time for anything, as it seems to be increasingly clear. If it's so location-based, should there be something implemented of sending groups of people out for a day or a few days at a time for proper sleep? Has anyone measured just how far it goes--out of the city, out to sea at some point? Or only within the city bounds?

He might be deep in this train of thought with half a mind to take some scouts and figure it out themselves (if only to also get some uninterrupted shuteye themselves) when there are raised voices. And that gloomy, learned fellow. Looking terribly outnumbered and outclassed and outmatched over, what, the price of some books?

It isn't a fight yet. It doesn't have to turn into one. But tensions in the city are starting to boil over with little provocation. Mobius sets down a fine jacket and sighs, much to the disgruntlement of the lady at her stall. But she can stuff it unless she's also about to start something. Mobius makes his way over, casually as can be. Might particularly be giving those young ruffians a look. It might not be intimidating, outright, but he knows his way around a fight. Do they?

"He'll pay for the books and go," Mobius reiterates to the vendor, dark in the face from the arguing over Maker knows what. "Better yet, I'll pay for the books, and we'll go, how about that? Same money, different hands."

(Please don't be expensive.)

Edgard is less concerned with a person talking to himself, (what else is new around here?), but hearing the Chant causes him to stop on his way out the door. He wants to ask if he's alright, but instead--

"Are you--very religious?"

It's Threnodies right now. "Immutable, as the substance of the earth," he says just loud enough to hear, "with souls made of dream and idea, hope and- hm?" Mobius blinks a little blearily and looks up at Edgard. Smiles, even if it's tired.

"Me? Yeah. Devout's a good way to describe me. Are you not?" Plenty who aren't, or who kind of sort of are but only passingly.

[Astarion has to do a double take when he passes through the chapel proper, spotting the resident (secretive) once-Templar dozing in one of the tucked-away seating alcoves. Possibly on purpose.

Possibly not.

It's not a hard guess as to why, given the dark circles equally gracing Astarion's own eyes, but truth be told, he's not exactly merciful enough to let sleeping dogs lie— even if they do look precious snoozing away in sputtering sips.

He sits down gracelessly, plunking down hard enough on the bench beside Mobius that it shakes slightly. Hello.]

Good morning, beautiful.

Very diligent of you, worshiping the Maker even in your sleep.

[He jerks awake with an immediately guilty look as though he'd just been caught shirking his duties, and he's about to come up with some very lame excuse or a thorough apology.

But he's not. Shirking, that is. That he's aware of. And Astarion is not his commanding officer by any means. Is it morning? Must be morning. He goes in the morning. Unless it's afternoon now. Did he sleep that long? When did he get here, was it afternoon when he got here? Losing track, losing time, it's going to all start slipping away-

No. No, he doesn't seem to immediately recall any dreams. Must not have been terribly deep, then. Dozing. Just...nodded off. That's all.

(Maybe someday he'll call Astarion out on all the little times he implies that he has a fondness for Mobius' appearance. That is not today.)]

More efficient that way, [said with a voice still sleepily thick, and he doesn't stifle a yawn that stretches out of him. Somehow he's still got enough in him to snark right back. Superpower.]

What're you even doing here? Come around, seen the light, decided to convert?

Oh. No.

[The thought's laughable, but cute. He reaches for the satchel slung against his side, smiling (it's a confident smile, important to note: the sort that says he knows no one's going to stop him) when he opens its buckled span to show off a small collection of half-burned prizes:] Stealing candles.

War's made everything bloody expensive, and fear's made it almost impossible for even the most charming— and unspeakably handsome— of elves to buy them for anything less than a fortune.

If at all.

[Never mind that he can see in the dark; people can sleep on the floor and survive, but you don't see anyone choosing that for themselves if there's the decency of a bed and a blanket within reach.]

Needs must.

Which is why I'm guessing you're sleeping here, nodding off under Andraste's watchful eyes.

[So there are several things to note going on. Even under a haze of exhaustion, he's still got some wits about him. Astarion swiping used candles seems like an incredibly petty thing to be doing for someone with exceptionally good vision in the dark. He's doing it proudly and openly, both for doing so in the daytime and for showing someone who is, y'know, deeply religious in a house of worship that's being actively stolen from. He thinks that it doesn't matter. And then he turns it around and tries to make it about Mobius instead.

So he's not having just about any of that. He blinks, a glance at the satchel, back up to Astarion's 'unspeakably handsome' face. The sleepiness might still be there, but he musters up his Librarian Voice:]

Put them back.

What?

[If he sounds offended when he scoffs out that remark, it's because he is, actually. Mad as it might be to not weigh the full consequences of showing a pure-as-the-driven-snow (by relative comparison) Templar his own spoils when swiping from Andraste's pockets, he'd actually thought Mobius would be on his side. Supportive via camaraderie.

Friendship, even.

Maybe it's because of those last two details that he stares back at his companion with the flickering (measuring) stare of a cat weighing whether or not it's going to knock a glass from a sill. And then, very much in that same testing vein, pulling his satchel away before mildly countering with:]

—no.

[Astarion is very much a cat, for good and for ill. Mobius hasn't had a pet that he can recall, though the Circle certainly kept cats around for hunting the mice. Fickle creatures that could rub up against your ankles (inadvertently tripping you) out of affection one moment, hopping about knocking everything over the next.

So it's not unfamiliar, the way he's being looked at. He's not sure whether Astarion really thought he might approve or simply find it funny. Maybe at another time, with more sleep under his belt, he might have rolled his eyes about it first (but still told him to put them back). Right now, he scrubs his face with a hand and wonders how worth it it is to pick a fight about this.]

Put some of them back.

[Compromise.]

fight, fight, fight

no subject

Talking to himself

no subject

le Kirkwall chapel

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

library

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

talking to himself;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Late into event

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject