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

[favoriteanalyst]

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.

Comments

[favoriteanalyst]

[Mobius might simultaneously be a great person to talk it through with and one of the worst. He knows his particular flavor of belief, the one he keeps tucked inside, is not...well-received by other true believers. And there might be some actual honest-to-Maker scholars that know more than he does around. But.

He takes the question in with stride, not offended. Smiles. Doesn't hesitate to take the hand.

The stories he had heard did involve Fenris the elf, formerly enslaved, ruthless in battle, hater of mages, and that--well. Serah Tethras wrote a whole book, sure, but Mobius has never actually tracked down a copy and read for himself. The stories did, however, include a description of unusual markings that are tattoos but are also...not tattoos. He's never heard of anyone who wears lyrium on their skin, before or since, and frankly he was never sure that such a story was true. Probably just embellishment.

Holy Spear-made of Alamarr, though, it's true. If Mobius seems a touch awe-struck, well...sorry.]

Mobius. It's a pleasure. I don't mind the questions, really.

[Might pepper Fenris with some later. All's fair.]

More than most, not enough to sing it for two weeks, even if you leave out the stricken canticles. You should see my first copy of the Chant. I've still got it after decades; it's so beat up. The new one, with the dissonants, I'm sure that'll go the same way, but it's only been almost a decade for that one. Still got miles to go.

[But there's a difference, he knows, between listening to Sisters all day with daily prayer and getting all the good bits memorized, and actively reading it so often that the rest of it sinks into memory. Does that make him seem like a zealot?]

I've done a lot of research in my spare time, too. When you get to a point where you're reading texts that want to interrogate each line from new perspectives, you probably start remembering more than others would. Do you...want a copy? Of the new edition, so you can read it for yourself?

[doggish]

[His mouth twitches in something like pleased amusement, faint but noticeable, for that comment about his worn-out first copy. It's pleasing bit of quiet sentiment, and he does not linger on it, not when that offer takes him by clear surprise.]

. . . I— yes. If you happen to have a spare copy, I would appreciate it. Thank you.

[It's been a fair bit of time since he read any part of it, and while religion is, mm, complicated sometimes, it wouldn't hurt to skim the dissonants, anyway. But ah, it won't due to linger; he's awkward in gratitude, and so quickly moves on before he makes a fool of himself.]

So?

[He tips his head.]

What new perspectives have you discovered? Surely there must have been some intriguing theory. Or at least a particularly bizarre one.

[favoriteanalyst]

I'll rustle one up for you. Even bookmark the canticle for you. [Which he feels is the least he can do when someone is interested in the Chant in some form and doesn't have access to it. There are probably a couple copies floating around the library; maybe he could pilfer one of those...

But, the question is a fair one, and an entertaining one. He leans back, thinking on it for a moment. Could go serious and talk about some of the deeper philosophical discussions. Or:]

The Maker's a being from another world who abducted Andraste as an experiment.

[C'mon. You know someone out there is the aliens guy. Of course it's aliens.]

Drakon was high as tits when he supposedly had his vision for Exaltations. Or, that he suffered from an ailment of the mind where his visions came from. Shartan is elven propaganda that only got put in the Chant originally because a human with elf blood in him wrote it out. Andraste's disciples were her harem, and a lot of free love went on there.

[So. Those are some of the wilder ones, apparently. He shrugs.] As much absolute horseshit gets put to parchment as anything thoughtful and legitimate. But that's bound to happen with a document that could easily be read as the Maker's honest truth as it happened or just a bunch of allegorical stories strung together into a semi-coherent narrative.

[doggish]

[Oh, and here comes the result of such an insane theory: Fenris laughs.

Not a lot. He isn't inclined to laughter on the best of days, but a bark of it escapes him anyway, amused most of all by the theory of trans-dimensional abduction. The Shartan bits aren't quite so funny, but the harem bit is, and a grin flashes over his face, there and gone.

But oh, that's interesting, that last bit, and he regards Mobius with clear interest.]

I did not expect such an opinion from someone devout enough to pray in public.

[It's not a criticism. Just an observation, idle and quiet.]

You think that they are allegories, then? Not true fact? Or is that merely a theory you've heard?

[favoriteanalyst]

[He doesn't know enough to know that this is unusual, but it's still warming that reciting some purely bonkers shit that real people really wrote and really published for people to really read gets a laugh. And there is, as ever, no offense taken to the reaction to the rest. This is all better than mumbling verses and prayers under his breath.]

It's not the most common opinion, but I think you'd be surprised how common it actually is. The thing is that there's no reason it can't be both. There are things that we know are true, that are provable--the mere existence of the Fade, for instance, or the existence and wars of the various clans of men from the past whose relics we have found and whose histories have been documented in some form or another. There are things that we can reasonably assume to be fact from there being so many stories relating to similar events from across disparate groups of people, that it would be unreasonable to assume they all independently came up with the same story. Andraste's story, basically, even if the more...mystical parts of the tale are unable to be proven as fact.

These are also still stories that we can use as allegory at the same time, or, the details, embellishments, additions, and parts that we cannot prove, those can be worked in to be allegory. What are the first several verses of Transfigurations other than a guideline on how one should act? [Maybe less allegorical and more straightforward, but still not some kind of factual story.] What is Threnodies than an attempt to consolidate a bunch of similar tales explaining how certain things, like magic, like the Blight, came to be, as a warning? Exaltations depends entirely on if you believe Drakon actually was given a vision from beyond instead of just really wanting his name in the book for eternity.

There is a lot of wiggle room for personal interpretation. Even if the Chantry doesn't always necessarily care for that fact.