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

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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.

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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.]

[His lips purse slightly, crimson eyes (reflective in the low light of the chapel, and not because some of its candles have been stolen) narrowing in deliberate thought—

Before reaching inside the satchel, pulling out two still vaguely warm candles, and setting them down in Mobius' lap.

...there.

Compromise.]

[Really, right in his lap?

Fine, fine, it's. compromise. Which, good, he was actually bracing for the vampire cat to say no again in a 'what are you gonna do about it' tone. Could he push for more? Maybe. Maybe another time. Maybe he'll take what he can get.]

Thank you. [Tired but appreciative. He picks one up, still a little warm, gives it a cursory examination. Not that he thinks they're tampered with or that they'll have broken in chunks or anything. He's tired. He's just thinking. They'll get put up by the front, then. This place isn't big enough to have much of an effigy of Andraste, but. It's symbolism. And also just nice that people can show up and not be bumping into everything.]

Guess the whole place doesn't need lit up. Just enough to see by.

[His own compromise.]

[It's....odd. Feeling satisfied with the settlement of a middle ground when normally he'd be nothing but bitter over having to concede. Whatever's changed, whether it's a temporary, exhaustion-borne fluke or a truer change of heart, he'll mull over it later.

For now, though:]

My thoughts exactly. [Mild pleasantness threading itself through a tone that is— admittedly— possibly just as tired as his present companion.] And with that detail reasonably settled, let's return to our prior topic of conversation.

You. Sleeping here, of all places.

[It's darling by Astarion's standards....but maybe not so much the Chantry's.]

Hoping for a little mercy in your time of need?

[He shrugs a shoulder, setting the candle back down--just beside him, light clatter on the bench is all. Were these normal times, he would be embarrassed, though laugh it off in the end. Now, he doesn't see a reason to judge anyone for where their eyes decide to close.]

Don't act so surprised. It wasn't intentional. I did a little praying, and...

[Ta. Now they're here.]

Then a dashing elven thief roused me from my blessed slumber.

Exceptionally. [He corrects warmly, slipping lower against the back of that bench.] Exceptionally dashing.

[Which isn't the focus, but Astarion has his priorities regardless.]

....what were you praying for?

Hmmmm... [He seems to consider this for a moment, and then concludes:] Dashing.

[Who's telling the story here?

There is an unusual flash of--something he knows doesn't need to be there. Frustration? Indignation. Folds his hands in his lap and breathes through the impulse to snap something like what do you think or none of your business. Bit rude to ask, he feels like, but not worth snapping.]

Oh, the usual. [So, flippancy it is.] The Maker's blessing, good health, protection from evil, peace in our time. An end to this... [He makes an all-encompassing motion with a sigh before rubbing at his eyes.] This.

[It's been a long month; out of so many possibly present parties, it might be a vampire that knows better than most about feeling the urge to figuratively bite.

His own stare is earnest, though. He's actually listening.

And if the preceeding question was rude, this one is worse— but again, there's obvious candor in it. Veracity. Curiosity.]

Do you really think he hears you?

Edited 2022-07-01 10:03 (UTC)

He doesn't.

[But he frowns, eyes looking ahead, focused but not on the scene before him.] Or rather, He might hear, but He isn't in a position to personally do anything about it. When we pray to the Maker, or call something a blessing of the Maker, call for a miracle and have it granted--there's argument as to whether it's actually the Maker's hand in any of it or not. You could see it from a perspective of it being simple luck, or the efforts of the people themselves. The power of their faith alone, maybe. What's more miraculous than getting the help of someone who isn't there to start with? There's also an argument that it's Andraste who's actually answering prayers, performing miracles.

[He tips his head back, eyes sliding shut. It's tempting, oh so tempting, to just slip off for another few minutes.] How much do you know about the story of the Maker, in general? Or, maybe the real question is how much you care.

[Because he can see it being absurd. Praying to someone who isn't there, who turns His back on His own creations until the day the Chant is sung among all. Who only takes the faithful to His side after death, fuck 'em in life. How much context does Astarion want or need?

And how insane would Mobius sound by suggesting that Andraste, as an embodiment herself of the Maker's will, guides his hand?]

[Sometimes— a lot of times, actually— Astarion is a prick on purpose. It's fun, and so what if someone he doesn't know suffers a little because he's mixed laxatives in with the fête's communal punch bowl? Mayhem is the spice of life, and without a little friction, the world can easily go dull. In a lot of ways, Astarion would argue he's doing them a favor.

In this case, though, he still isn't vying for bleakness or cruelty as he listens with all the obvious perplexion of someone processing an unfamiliar language. Maybe that's the answer as to how much he cares, before working up the start of an answer with one single half-sip of breath.]

It was the Maker that made Spirits first.

Disappointed in them, like any parent regarding their firstborn, and rather than just fixing his designs, he then made people— who, apparently, also disappointed him.

Except for Andraste.

For some reason— despite plenty of mortals living and dying over and over again without him caring— the Maker chose her to be his bride. That, or she was a troubled creature. Deeply traumatized and prone to seeing spirits or visions, depending on the interpretation.

Anyway, she was the one who begged him to return and care for his creations. He agreed, under the frankly prickish rule that everyone in Thedas must reject all other deities and return to worshiping him. And I'm allowed to say that because I'm a creature not of his world; he'd never accept someone like me at his side— and I'll be honest, given his standards, I doubt I'd make the cut even if I was Thedosian.

Bla bla bla, rebellion upsetting the balance of Tevinter, bla bla bla, having an affair with an elf. Burned alive, stabbed with a sword, returned to the Maker's side, and—

Oh. Right. Can't forget: empty Golden City.

[His flippant retelling is quick; in truth, what he wanted to get to was:]

All that to say, I don't think it's impossible. Unlikely, yes. Or perhaps not at all the way it's been retold after years upon years of revision and politicization.

...but if you were to ask me who'd be most likely to actually listen to the voices of those straining for aid. Well.

It'd be her.

[Astarion catches his attention so quick that it's amazing he doesn't get whiplash. The exhaustion will never leave so long as terrible images stalk them in their sleep, but he's suddenly far more awake, watching the elf with a near-astonished gaze.

Sure. Enough time here, you'd pick up on a lot. Most of the human population is of the faith, even if only because of the societal expectations, with the Chantry having so much control. But Astarion has a much more rounded understanding of the story than expected. Has he, perhaps, read it? Or hung around Chantries just waiting for a chance to swipe some goods and absorbed a lot along the way? Was it an attempt to blend in, given his usual insistence to those not in the know that he is definitely a native, certainly not a Rifter?

Astarion makes his conclusion, and Mobius...smiles. An easy and contented thing. The prayers are aimed at the Maker, as though they are all lost spearmaidens all singing for help and attention, but if the Maker's back is turned on all His creation, who exactly are they praying to? He reaches over and straightens out Astarion's artfully ruffled collar.]

I knew you were more than just a pretty face.

[There's a simple snort that comes from it, reaching fingers endured for what they are as his collar's fit roughly back into place. Gone are the days when a high ruff perpetually collared his throat like an extension of Cazador's taste and grip alike: most of his shirts are open now— very open, in fact (at least for somewhere so far south of Tevinter's borders)— and maybe it's meant to be a metaphor for all his newfound freedoms. His general way of life, unrestrained and unfettered, never to be locked inside layer after layer of restrictive finery again.

That, or he just likes it.

(Either way, its all still crafted from undoubtedly expensive silk, so apparently even rebellion has its limits.)]

Try to keep it to yourself.

The last thing I want is anyone in Riftwatch assuming I can do my homework.

You could lead a sermon yourself if you were ever so inclined.

[But like. Please don't.

If his fingers linger a little, it's clearly only because a silken top is foreign to him. It's pretty, not so much practical on the field. He's pretty sure he's never owned anything silk in his life, at least after he struck out on his own. But at last they drop away, back to his own lap.]

I do think someone's listening, at any rate. Actually doing anything with those prayers is another matter altogether. But there's no harm in each of us taking comfort where we can in times like these.

And end up burned for it faster than Andraste herself, no doubt.

[It doesn't take a genius to realize Astarion's heresy would never travel far if he were ever entirely open in baring it.

Still, that pause on Mobius' end is noticed. How very curious.]

Mm. Spirits maybe. Old gods— possibly of the Tevene-favored sort or the elvhen type. Possibly the Maker, too, if he's still alive out there. I've known enough divinity in my time to never rule anything out completely.

But no, I didn't come here to criticize your choice in balms.

[How very genuine he sounds in that, before:]

I came here for the candles.

You came for the candles, but how could you possibly resist bugging a devout servant of the Maker when he's nodded off. I see how it is. [He means well by it. Astarion is not being a bother. At the moment.]

Tell me about the gods and would-be gods you've seen. I'd love to know a little more about that.

It's a little less thrilling than you might hope; they're all disappointing creatures at heart.

[He's not being facetious. Really.]

It's power that defines divinity by most measures. That, and immortality. [Which, admittedly, circles right back around again to power itself.] Demi-gods are a silver a dozen, for example: they can claim their heritage a thousand times over, but they're not really all that different from your average hero or villain. Even a vampire lord— like my master— could fell one if the circumstances were right.

Gods, though. The real ones, that is, you'll find in control of their own Realms.

There might even be an argument for the Maker being one such deity— and that first the Fade and now also Thedas are his Domain. The places where he holds absolute creative sway.

Yet in Toril, where I'm from, one little strand of a planetary blip on a string of such realms, the gods aren't as hands off as one might think. [Compared to Thedas' own deities, that is. He can admit that.] Admittedly I've never seen one for myself directly, but I've seen what they've done. And like swimming in a bay beside a monolithic whale, you don't quite realize what it is that's shadowing the ocean floor. Or you think it is the ocean floor.

Regardless, they do tamper.

And at times I think this world might be kinder. Your maker or Andraste or the Elven gods or their absence, perhaps. [There's a fairness to it, somehow. Neglectful, maybe, given how poorly the world is presently faring— but still:]

Because when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they could so effortlessly pluck you from your pain without even trying, it only hurts that much more when they don't.

[And oh, how Astarion prayed and begged and pleaded for help for so many years, only to be met with absolute, hateful silence.]

Still, though. Like I said before, it's just power. Gods have been usurped. They've been killed. They rot. Take Corypheus for example, he's a sham of a creature, but by the rules of what I've heard happened before in my own world, he could, if he killed or stole the power of any true god, become one himself.

And then there are the occasional oddities like Loki, for example. Or—

[Ah, no. He hadn't asked her if she wanted it known; their conversation was too private.] Well, Loki. Claims he was a god before coming here, but the Fade took it from him just as it took my own strength.

Edited 2022-07-14 13:08 (UTC)

[He listens to each word, taking it in, embedding it somewhere to come back around to later. Some of the perspectives are not new, even if they might be considered unusual. The elf stories of their gods, from what he's come to understand, saw them being much more active in the world. The hurt of wanting a higher power to help and being greeted with silence, apathy, disdain, souring one's perception of gods, that one he's seen happen personally.

The idea that it's all only magnitudes of power that make one a god among others.

But the part he decides to pick up on, to comment on first, is the last. Astarion tries to avoid, nearly says the name, but diverts, and Mobius laughs.]

Or Sylvie, the supposed goddess who might as well be Loki's twin? [He knows. And she's never said anything about keeping it to himself. He isn't about to start saying it to everyone, oh, look at them, they think themselves gods, not to the general populace, but Astarion will know and understand better than most.] I've grilled Loki on what makes a god a god before. Gave me a lot to think about. Is a god still a god if they don't have the powers of one anymore, you think?

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

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