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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He's at the point where he was just going to accept the inevitable rather than be upset about it. We're there, today. This Might As Well Happen mood.

So that Abby is there to mitigate most of the damage is a relief, actually. He sets his own remaining tomes beside Abby's stack. "I should've known better." He's got good balance and strength after decades of being a holy soldier, so in better condition, he would've been fine (unless Sylvie or Astarion tripped him up like cats). "Thanks."

Does no good to be angry with himself about it when literally everyone else in Kirkwall is suffering this blight (little b), so he only sighs when he bends to pick up the couple that weren't saved from the ravages of a tumble to the floor. (They're fine, everything's fine, just momentarily noisy is all.) "Looking for something specific then?"

Abby shrugs. "Not really." She just likes libraries, she always has. They're usually warm, and most importantly, quiet, good for gathering thoughts and getting away from everything else. You can't worry about what's going on in your life if you've got your nose in a book.

Besides, she's amassed a stack beside her bed and she really should finish those ones first before she picks up anything else... doesn't stop her from tilting her head to look at the spines of the stack she's saved.

"... D'you run this place?" The library, she means. He's always in here, reshelving. She's noticed him almost every time she's been in.

He laughs a little, quiet and tired but there. "I'd say that falls under the category of 'sort of not really but kind of yeah'." He supposes...that he does, for the most part. Not the only one, but seems like it, mostly. "Took one look here and hired myself. Nobody's kicked me out yet, and I'd say this place hasn't looked so organized in an Age."

Might be a little proud. Was it rude of him, presumptuous? Yeah. Yeah, he can cop to that. But someone in research might as well help run the place with a lot of research material, right? "The Cir--" Stops himself for a second. Almost says The Circle I'm From. And Abby might be a Rifter, shouldn't(?) be concerned with things like mages and Templars. But. He could've been saying anything. Circumstances. Sir Someone Or Other. Service. He blinks and hesitates and shakes his head.

"Sorry, lost my thought there." Haha. Brain fog. You know how it is!!! "I used to live somewhere with an enormous library. I've always been a bookworm, so it was a safe haven to me."

She chuckles. "You can definitely say that. It's actually tidy."

Books in their proper places. If you read one from a series you can find the other ones from where you found the first. Little things like that, so important, things that Abby has found herself appreciating as of late. She waits for him to go on but he doesn't, worrying that dropped thought as the awkward silence stretches out between them.

Just as she's about to say something about the books to break it, he picks up the slack.

"Yeah?" An enormous library... maybe like that fancy one in Hightown where Riftwatch attended some party, god, was that- a year ago now? She thinks it was. Huh. "We had a library back in the place I used to live. It wasn't very big though, and nobody took care of it, it was just- a communal thing."

"I miss it," he says wistfully. He misses a lot about Ostwick. And had specifically, deliberately avoided it on his journey to Kirkwall. He still has the memories now, and he wouldn't want to have any of it tainted by showing his face back there lest he be recognized.

"Sometimes, when I knew I wanted to read something but didn't know what, I used to let fate decide. Grab some dice, assign sections or letters or topics to each number and give it a roll to figure out what I would grab." He shakes his head, laughing at himself. Arrogant little prick thought he could learn everything. Sounds like Abby never had the choice enough for that.

"Had anything in particular you liked to read?"

She grins a little, amused, "Yeah? Never thought of doing that before." It sounds like fun, actually. Maybe she'll start doing that with the books here if she ever runs out of epic fantasies to reach, which seems... highly unlikely.

"I was really into the classics," she says, knowing full well he has no context for what constitutes a classic novel from her world, "Old, famous books. Big adventures. And thrillers, I like those. Mysteries, mythology..."

A casual shrug, "Bit of romance, too." The trashier the better. "You?"

He takes in the list, humming thoughtfully as he perches himself on the edge of the table, fingers drumming along it. "You ever into something in particular, make a request, and I'll squirrel something away for you." He already makes a point of nabbing the trashiest for Adrasteia. "But I can see what kind of adventures and thrills I can dig up, too."

Though the idea of narrowing down what he likes to read seems impossible, he's come to realize that he will never know everything about everything and should maybe stick to a couple topics. Never really actually sticks, though.

"As far as fiction goes, I'll read anything that's got a good review." Reviews tend to come from other publications (he'll leave anything the Randy Dowager says between himself and Adrasteia, ahem) or word of mouth alone. No goodreads here. "I'll try anything once, and maybe that's the problem. The nonfiction is really what gets me, because when I was younger and could blast through a book between a couple of shifts, I wanted to know everything. If it was dry, I'd still read it. How much I've retained, well, that's a different question, and now I try to be more discerning. But if there's a topic that really catches me..."

He turns it over in his head. He's going to sound like a boring Chantry brother, some dusty old scribe in a corner. But no harm in being honest. "I like researching the Chant, actually. Now, I'm not exactly a scholar, not in any way formally or officially, but I've done a lot of my own research. Helps me feel...closer to my faith, I guess. Helps me understand the world better."

Abby can't help a little grin at that. He would have been reading a lot, if he'd been at the stadium. Good book series went around like wild fire once enough people got into them. You couldn't linger hopefully around the library hoping somebody would drop off The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, you had to surreptitiously ask around to find out who had it and go bully them directly for it.

"Cool," is what she has to say about his reading habits. And she means it, too. "I... still don't really know anything about the Chant."

But religion was never her thing. And she knew enough about God and Heaven to know none of that would be waiting for her when she died, anyway. Not that she wanted to die in the service of any faith, "What do you like about it?"

"The thought is that the Maker will return to make the world a paradise when everyone sings the Chant. I don't think that should apply to Rifters." He's not going to proselytize. That's not his job. But if there's curiosity, he'll gladly talk for hours on the topic.

So she asks. And he drums his fingers on the tabletop, focused on her. "What do I like about the studying, or what do I like about my faith?" Arguably, one in the same, so he goes on. "Everyone, everything sapient, with the ability to be cognizant about itself and their place in the cosmos, has had some of the same thoughts. Where did I come from? Why am I here? How does this wacky place work, and how did it come to be? I was raised in the faith, and I find the stories have answers. Because they aren't all just stories. The Chant can be taken as literally or as allegorically as you want. Some of the basic stories have been around longer than Andraste, just...the same kind of themes and arcs again and again until they morph and become something more coherent to a greater tale."

The Chantry, appropriating the tales of other cultures? Gasp. Shock. Awe. Such slander. Wow. "But there are things in the Chant that are demonstrably true, or the next best thing to true with the information people had at the time. We can't prove the Maker exists, but we can prove the Old Gods do, and the Fade is as real as the seats we sit in. And for some people, that might be enough. But it's never really been enough for me. I like reading where all the tales come from, all the interpretations of canticles, looking at it all from different perspectives. Because that also tells me about the world. It tells me about people. It tells me people have been people with the same needs and desires for as long as there have been people, and I find that comforting. It tells me that one straight, stringent, pure way of reading a story is not the only way. I..."

He chews his lip for a moment. Tries to grasp the words before they slip him by. "I have, since I can remember, always seen the Chant...a little differently than others. And knowing that there are plenty of other interpretations, even if they aren't endorsed by the Chantry itself, that makes me feel better. About myself, about other people. It gives me a framework," he says with some sudden inspiration, hands forming a square as though to encompass a house. "A foundation. And then I can build myself and my own understand of everything around me from that point."

... Everyone everyone? That's impossible. The whole world would never cooperate like that on a global scale but Abby opts to keep her pessimism to herself. She's the one who asked, so she keeps silent as Mobius starts to speak.

Mmmaybe it was a bad idea to ask in the first place. She's too skeptical for a conversation like this, and naturally wants to counter some of the things that he's saying or crack a joke. Or do something really nuts like tell him all about the Big Bang theory, and the dinosaurs and–

Wait. That all took place here too, right? Dragons are dinosaurs, sorta. They're extra dangerous ones, what with the fire breathing. At least she's got a very convincing look of contemplation going on while he continues to talk, because she's trying to figure out whether she believes that Thedas is a planet in the same universe as Earth, or that it's another dimension, like Ellie said, whatever that means.

Ururghghh, mind fuck. She drops it with a sigh, and looks at Mobius.

"I think that stuff only exists because people always need something to blame." Blunt, but there you go. Her true feelings. "And some reassurance, that it won't all be for nothing. It makes sense."

He can't tell if she's genuinely interested or if he's losing her, with that look she gets in the midst of it. Which doesn't keep him from talking so long as he isn't interrupted. That she sighs, has a blunt (and frankly very Abby) response to it all, says that maybe it's the latter.

"What else is religion for?" he says, an agreement. Just because he believes doesn't mean what she says isn't also true. "The elves have theirs. The dwaves have theirs, though they don't call it a religion, I think. The Qunari have the Qun, which...I don't know enough to know what exactly it is, though it seems to be a set of rules they highly value. Whether you want to call that a religion or not is up for debate."

He opens his mouth to say more, thinks better, shakes his head, closes again. He shouldn't go rambling on. She didn't sign up for a lecture. Tries again after a breath: "Sorry that I'm intense about it. I promise I won't be offended too badly if you tell me to shut up."

"You're really not that intense about it." Abby, casting her mind back toward the Scars– Seraphites. Whatever– makes a face, "Trust me."

She might be uninterested in his faith but she's certain he won't string her up by the neck and gut her in tribute for that. And hey, she's pretty sure the actual fucking Prophet wouldn't have found that so hot either, if she could have somehow known it was happening in her name!!!

... Anyways.

"And I'm not gonna tell you to shut up about something you love." Cuz that's... kind of an asshole move, but she'll still explain herself. "It's not my thing, that's all. I shouldn't have asked." Maybe she was just being polite, who knows. "M' glad you get a lot out of it though. Seriously."

It's a lot more polite than he's heard in the past. There are those who are unafraid to say a sharp and unkind word when someone starts going off like that.

"Can I ask, then," he says with more curiosity than carefulness, "what do you believe? What do you put faith in? Doesn't have to be spiritual."

Abby screws up her face, thinking.

"Dunno." Not an exciting answer, but truthful. At the end of the day, she doesn't pay belief much mind either. "Myself." For whatever that's worth, "And people."

Lev. She believed in Lev, but. Yeah. A shrug. What was it he said to her? "True strength," she mutters, feeling stupid. "Only when weak do I carry true strength." Something like that.

"Yourself and people are excellent options to place your faith in," he decides. Because it's true. What better to believe in than other people? Even if other people disappoint.

But then she mumbles something that sounds something like a mantra. And he tries to parse it for a long moment.

"True strength being...the will to carry on even when weak?"

She rubs her arm, thinking. Frowning while she does. "Yeah. And recognising the good parts to fear." Like a rush of adrenaline, and your instincts getting sharper so you can keep yourself safe, that kind of thing. Fear isn't always bad.

Hang on, she should explain.

"Back home a lot of people worshipped this woman called the Prophet. She said all sorts of dumb shit they quoted constantly, but I... kinda like that one."

He opens his mouth, closes his mouth. Hhhhhuh. That kind of says a lot right there, doesn't it?

"We Andrastians probably drive you right up a wall, huh."

"Fuck," Abby says, awkwardly, realising far too late what that must have sounded like, "I didn't mean–"

Gesturing, "It's not the same as your thing. The Prophet back home was some woman who got 'told by god' she was sent to stop the fucking pandemic, so she started a creepy death cult and told everybody to go live in the mud and stop using electricity and carve lines in their fucking faces just to be closer to the earth, or whatever the fuck. Even the kids."

It's bad. And weird and creepy and she doesn't get it.

"So like a false prophet, cultist kind of situation." Like, he doesn't know, there's every possibility that there was a Prophet lady who heard commandments from her god. But it's also way way more likely just an unhinged person on a power trip forming a cult. "We get those, too. Less the carving their faces and living in the mud kind, but they can't all be the fun hedonist orgy kind of cults."

"Yeah." Like that, not like- his religion that he cares very much about. Shit. Does she have to be such an asshole all the time. Abby, looking conflicted, promptly changes the subject to something else entirely to be safe.

"The whole reason I was asking you about the library was because I wanted to know if you need help."

It's kinda awkward, but sincere. "An assistant? Or something. I could do all the boring stuff you don't wanna do."

He'll graciously allow her the refocusing of the topic at hand without any further comment. It's kind of funny, really.

"Do I need help--well, some days are busier than others. And I don't really find much of it boring. But. I would absolutely take a hand doing this, sure. More hands means more time to do literally anything else." He chuckles. "I guess I've basically taken on librarian officially. Nobody ever told me to knock it off."

Well, Abby doubts there's anybody who cares enough about the library to tell him to knock it off when the whole system is trust-based. Might be that he's the first official librarian the place has had in a while.

"Okay. How about you give me a bell if you need a hand with anything."

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

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