open | full circle pt 2

[exequy]

WHO: Many people, mostly mages and rifters and Templars/Seekers
WHAT: Stop that Circle!
WHEN: Late Solace
WHERE: The College of Magi, Cumberland, Nevarra
NOTES: OOC post! Please note we are not doing the points game part yet. But we will later and your tags will still count then.

I. THE JOURNEY

After the meeting, there's time to talk, pack (lightly), and get a full night's sleep. But after an early breakfast the next morning, everyone heads up to the eyrie at the top of the Gallows' central tower to load onto griffons.

They do it with the sanction of the Division Heads, accompanied by some rules, like no violence, and some mandatory company. A few Templars (and a Seeker) are sent along with them, in Riftwatch uniform rather than their more traditional and more inflammatory armor. Mages and rifters and interested others have the choice of donning their uniforms or not.

The trip to Cumberland is short an uneventful. Trained griffon riders and the animals they've bonded with lead the flock, but other griffons follow cooperatively behind, each carrying one or two riders and their effects. The group lands once or twice in the Planascene Forest to stretch their legs, have a meal, etc., while the griffons help themselves to a buffet of wildlife. A few of those without bonded riders might need some extra persuasion to get back in line, when it's time to go, but nothing goes significantly wrong.

II. THE COLLEGE OF MAGI

It's late and dark when they swoop down on the city, but the College of Magi is easy to spot, because it's a palace with a hammered-gold dome roof that shines in the moonlight. The griffons land and consent to being tethered in an enclosed courtyard that, after years of neglect, is no worse off if they trample the greenery a bit. The doors inside are guarded not by Templars, but by Cumberland city guards assigned to keep looters out of the palace in the mages' absences. Once they've taken in the presence of the griffons and uniforms, they put up no resistance to Riftwatch's entrance.

Inside, the halls are quiet and opulent: in addition to the famous collection of sandstone busts of every Grand Enchanter from the last 600 years lining the entrance hall, there are marble pillars, bright frescoes, vases, art, gilded vines crawling the walls. Everything shines and glitters in the light from the braziers on the walls.

The mage who comes scuttling down the hall to give them a bewildered greeting, robes flapping and a basket of bread on his arm, is Senior Enchanter Erfried Neumayer, noted Loyalist, formerly of Hossberg. He is well into his nineties, spry but mostly blind, and very friendly. He explains, eventually and in pieces, that they have not even started the conclave, unaware they might have needed to rush, and the others are currently having a late dinner and an idle chat in the dining hall. Thus the bread.

The rest of the mages are not glad to see them, albeit mostly in a polite and/or passive-aggressive way. They make a fuss about not being prepared to house or feed any additional participants, but in the end do show everyone to one of the bunk bed-filled rooms that used to house apprentices.

The first night and every night afterwards, Riftwatch has overnight watches—not to watch for danger, but to make sure the other mages don't sneak around and convene while they're asleep. (A few of them might be caught trying to organize exactly that.) The beds are musty from years of disuse but otherwise fine. Food is grudgingly provided.

Before, after, and between sessions on the floor, there's time to explore the palace. Said to have been donated by a Duchess to keep her mage child in the comfort she was accustomed to, the College is an arguably over-the-top display of wealth and comfort, dusty from disuse but still overflowing with gilding and cushions, baths and kettles enchanted to heat and cups enchanted to cool and dozens of other magical novelties that make life a little more comfortable, art and a badminton field and a massive library. The Harrowing Chamber looks like a place where someone would be honored to complete a rite of passage; the dungeon exists but is small, clean, and devoid of spooky skeletons. It's exactly the sort of place that could serve as evidence that living in a Circle was great, actually.

III. THE CONCLAVE

The conclave, such as it is, begins the next morning, in a room whose domed mahogany ceiling has had it dubbed the Red Auditorium. It's designed to hold a few hundred attendees at a time, so the fifty or so Loyalists (and Aequitarians and Lucrosians) and dozen-plus Riftwatchers have plenty of elbow room.

At least in a parliamentary sense, Senior Enchanter Erfried is in charge—to Riftwatch's benefit. The Loyalist Contingent leads with an attempt to ignore Riftwatch's presence and ram their proposal through with no further discussion or procedure on numbers alone, but Erfried is a stickler for the rules. The name of the game is delay, distract, divert.

Fortunately, the mages prove delayable, distractible, and divertable. Creating a record of attendees and participants devolves into a series of short debates about who counts as a Circle Enchanter anymore and whether rifters have any right to be there, which easily take up half a day. From there, arguments about whether the Conclave has met all the finicky requirements to actually count as a Conclave swallow a few hours as well. Unfortunately, two witnesses profess a messenger was sent to alert the Grand Enchanter, and there's no evidence she did not reach it, so Erfried allows things to continue. In theory. Having spent so much of the day on procedural matters, there's no time to get into substance before adjourning for the evening.

Breakfast the next morning is interrupted by the arrival of the small team Riftwatch sent to alert the rebel mages at the front—and by Grand Enchanter Fiona herself, riding behind Ellie on Artichoke. She's only one mage, but she's an angry and important one. And others are coming. She makes a show of being concerned about whether it will be enough people to counteract the fifty-odd Loyalists, to avoid inspiring them to work too hard, but within Riftwatch, word gets around that they'll definitely have the numbers. All they have to do is stall.

The Loyalists do make every effort to resume the proceedings and make progress toward voting on their proposal. How unfortunate that circumstances prevent it. (Invent your own circumstances. Filibustering, general chaos, and minor property damage are all fair game.)

IV. THE CALVARY & THE DEBATE

The Grand Enchanter's people arrive only a few hours later than expected. There are easily a hundred of them—enough to doom the proposal, certainly. There's a sense of doom among the Loyalists when the proceedings resume. A few leave early in defeat. But the rest stick around, as they finally, finally proceed into discussing and voting on the substance of the proposal, and make fairly impassioned arguments on its behalf.

They evoke the history of the Circles: a compromise that saved them from being hunted by the early Inquisition and from being confined in Chantries to do nothing with their gifts but keep the fires lit. The hundreds of years of peace (they say) compared to what's come before and what will come after.

They say there was a mage child in the Nahashin Marshes, turned out by his illiterate and reclusive family, who appears to have lived alone for several years before recently reappearing, warped from possession, to slaughter his entire village. A town in Antiva realized a few of its new residents were mages and burned their house down, killing one and leaving the others with nowhere to go. A young fellow who'd wandered away from the Inquisition's camps once he came of age was caught picking pockets in Ferelden's West Hill and, in his attempts to flee, froze all of the tavern's occupants solid. Several didn't survive the thawing. They report—with no actual statistics, but a few anecdotes—that incidents of (child abuse cw) suspicious child drownings are on the rise. They ask, rhetorically, whether rifters think they will be left in peace by their neighbors when Riftwatch is gone.

And they go on for quite some time about their responsibility to Thedas. The risk of mages amassing power and establishing dynasties—a hundred years stand between that and a new Tevinter, optimistically. The risk of kings and emperors seizing control of the mages within their own borders, if mages are beholden to them rather than to the Chantry, and wielding them against their own people or their neighbors.

They have a reason for every item in the proposal. It's all very depressing and very sincere. A sizable number of the rebel mages from the front are moved by the presentation of the problem, if not convinced that their solution is correct.

But in addition to talking (and talking and talking), they also listen. They don't really have a choice, now that they're outnumbered. While only Circle Enchanters are technically permitted to vote in the College, Erfried will give anyone the floor for at least a few minutes. And between impassioned speeches, there are regular recesses when the Red Auditorium dissolves into more private conversations. Some are quiet, some are loud—but most mages have years of training in keeping their composure, so only a couple get worse than half-raised voices.

V. CUMBERLAND

With the mages from the front, the pressure on Riftwatch lets up somewhat. There's no longer a need for every Riftwatcher to be on-site at all hours of the day to prevent the Loyalist contingent from voting, so there's time to slip out into the city, whether for business—posting messages, buying supplies, running Riftwatch errands unrelated to mages and Circles—or just a break.

VI. THE RESOLUTION

In the end, not much happens. The proposal is voted down. It is not replaced by anything. But a date is set, three months in the future, to reconvene in a more orderly and less underhanded way to consider other options for mages' (and rifters') future. The Grand Enchanter also consents, in good spirits, to this future gathering deciding whether she stays in charge.

Riftwatch is invited. They have until then to do whatever maneuvering and advocacy they can.

It counts as a victory.

---

NPC NOTES

• You can do threads with NPC'd mages, or you can thread around their presence: discuss strategy, complain about a conversation with an NPC that happened off screen, take a break from the speeches outside, etc.
  
• Feel extremely free to make up NPC mages of your own! For natives this can include mages they already know or have history with. If you make up an NPC who you'd like kept in mind in the future, you can put them on the wiki page for this plot.
  
• The Loyalist camp consists mainly of Loyalists, but also some Aequitarians and Lucrosians. They're a mix of mages who sat out the war, Loyalists who fought with Madame de Fer against the rebels, and mages who fought with the rebellion but have since come around to wanting some kind of system back.
  
• The rebel mages who arrive on scene are mainly Libertarians, but also have some of every other fraternity—Aequitarians, Resolutionists, Isolationists, Lucrosians, and a few Loyalists along for the ride. They're all mages who fought with the rebellion and then joined the Inquisition.
  
• Grand Enchanter Fiona is present! If you want your character to have a significant conversation with her, either to get info or try to convince her of anything, do an info request—since she's so important and influential on her own, deciding what she would say or do is a mod call.
  
• You can invent friends/future contacts from either camp for your character to keep in touch with on their own. I don't have any info beyond the scope of this plot to hand out right now, either as a player or as a mod, but for the belated Part III in a few months I will try to gather folks whose characters have Done Work in the interim to distribute influence/information accordingly.

Comments

john silver / ota.

[hornswoggle]

THE COLLEGE OF MAGI

It isn't that John is looking for anything in particular when he sets out. The College itself is vast, and there is much to see in the course of his circuit around the darkened hallways. (A few times, a door opening, and then hastily closing upon hearing his footsteps. So an attempt at something has been diverted, at least.)

But eventually, chance winds all the way to the Harrowing Chamber in it's shining beauty. He lingers in the doorway, taking in the arching ceiling, the high-set windows (too high, too narrow, designed still to keep things in rather than permit one to see out) the designs inset upon the walls. All very lovely.

There is such a chamber in the Gallows. John imagines it looks very different.

As if the carefully engineered beauty makes any difference. John imagines that a fair amount of blood has been swabbed up off these fine marbled floors.

You've lived this long without letting a demon in, Isaac had observed once, delicate over the implications.

John breathes out, hand coming to rest at the doorframe. Might have lingered a few moments more, feeling the weight of the place, if not obliged to turn towards the sound of approaching footsteps.

THE CONCLAVE

What need is there to hear the words of a northern pirate?

None.

And so, John is not here to speak before the assembly. He is here to listen, observe, and take advantage of the opportunity to circulate along the edges of the auditorium. The amount of people to speak with here—

Well, no need to limit himself to only one connection within this College. Anyone observing would likely notice the clusters of mages John speaks with, which conversations continue and which lapse as the groups dissolve. It's rare to see him entirely on his own, but there are stretches where he finds a seat to simply listen, rather than join any gathered Enchanters to insinuate himself into their conversation.

Or, even more rarely but likely during a recess, John can be found alone in passing, so be prepared to keep up if the goal is to initiate conversation.

THE CITY

But of course, as the immediate danger ebbs and the situation winds to an inevitable conclusion, John steals some late hours to slip into Cumberland proper.

If you happen by the Diamond Lass, it should be no surprise that John is speaking from some elevated point on exploits that may or may not sound familiar. The rotation of material at John's disposal has gradually split between the men of the Walrus and the exploits of Riftwatch, but it all serves the same point: rallying the attendees in support of the war.

Maybe there are other conversations afterwards, quieter over rune-embossed tankards. Don't worry about it.

WILDCARD

For all your camping, exploring, city-slicking needs.

harrowing chamber

[armd]

Abby didn't wake up specifically to take watch but she's been fairly sleepless thanks to the collective, anxious mood permeating Riftwatch. Aching to explore off on her own, she sets out around the darkened college, and finds John on his own in a large, decorated chamber.

She makes her footsteps loud so he won't be surprised by her, tilting her head back to see all the way to the ceiling. For a wild moment she has the urge to yell out at the top of her lungs, because the echo would probably be incredible.

But as beautiful as the place is... there's something about it Abby can't quite put her finger on. Something to put her on edge.

She says (quietly), "It's creepy in here." Not entirely a question, but not just an observation.

[hornswoggle]

"Yes," John agrees, shifting his stance in the doorway. Abby can pass through if she wishes, but John has no desire to tread further into this room.

It is drenched in a decades-old veneer of suffering. John feels it, attuned to the old, old history here. A room that has been soaked in blood and death and suffering, over and over.

John doesn't imagine that even those who survived their Harrowings had a very pleasant time of it.

"Do you know what this room is?" is a kinder question, though it doesn't promise happier conversation.

[armd]

She wanted to explore but the way he holds back is a silent warning. Tuning in just in time, she doesn't move an inch, but does place her palm on the arch of the doorway, rubbing at the old stone. Looking her fill of the ceiling still.

"No," is the honest if reluctant answer, because it's pretty easy to tell that something terrible happened in here. Abby used to get the same feeling with old buildings full of infected, when you set one foot inside and you just fucking know. "What is it?"

[hornswoggle]

"A room where they brought young mages to test them."

He is thinking of Isaac's face, the tone his voice had taken on when they'd come glancing past the subject.

"I never heard the exact details," is not entirely untrue. "But I gathered it was unpleasant. And potentially fatal, if the mage in question couldn't perform to standard."

It's a beautiful room. Prettier than it's equivalent in the Gallows. But John imagines it's seen just as much blood, if not more.

[armd]

Abby's gaze jumps from the ceiling to him immediately, and she frowns. Digesting the words. Eventually she asks, "... Test them for what?" Sounding like she doesn't really want to know the answer to that. But she should, right? It's important to know.

She looks at the room again. The shine has rubbed off it, knowing this (he said young mages, and she can't help but think about Lev and Yara). Abby sets her jaw. She folds her arms across her chest, briefly hugging herself. "Didn't anybody try to stop them?"

[hornswoggle]

The look John gives her, accompanied by a slight shrug, says Ask a mage.

Perhaps not Kostos Averesch, but there are others one hand who might explain the intricacies of a Harrowing. Mages here who were Harrowed and survived, and had seen mages be Harrowed and fail.

But it's her latter question that draws John's full attention, as he asks, "Who?"

Which is as good as an answer. Who would stop the Chantry and its templars from enacting their will upon a flock of apprentices?

[armd]

True, but what if she doesn't wanna

The answer he gives makes her sigh in reluctant acceptance of the truth. Worse yet, she thinks of Isaac hauling rogue Seraphites to the bowels of the stadium for questioning, and torturing, to be bled until they ran dry out of stubbornness. She didn't try to stop that from happening, not even once. All Abby ever did was try not to think about it.

Swallowing uncomfortably, she folds her arms across her chest. Runs her tongue over her teeth. "It just seems fucked up," she says eventually, "That they're holding the conclave here. Isn't exactly neutral ground."

More of a fresh reminder. A warning.

the conclave.

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle had refrained from elbowing her way into the mages' meeting at Riftwatch beyond dropping information at Marcus Rowntree's feet like a cat with a dead bird, but it's evident she feels less compunction about attending this once it's clear that more than only mages will be permitted — she doesn't wear her uniform, still dressed as a sexy Satinalia version of Flint in miniature as usual, with her Forces pin at her collar. Identifiably with Riftwatch, in any case, as absent a staff as he is.

She does wonder if anyone here knew her uncle, but though there are those who had passed through the White Spire and did not remain there, in all likelihood there's only slightly more chance of a White Spire mage than a Dairsmuid one, and for similar reason. Better not to chance asking around, given that she doubts she's going to add anything useful to speaking with most of these people, so—

if she's honest, it's as much for a lack of better options as it is because of the particular friendliness of his face that she sits down beside John Silver when she does, catching him in a rare moment alone. She'd nearly caught him in a different one, earlier, but had been disinclined herself to linger there and it's that thought (and others, percolating around the way that Derrica had spoken of Dairsmuid) that leads to,

“You know, Gervais Vauquelin isn't the only mage in my family. The Charniers don't much speak of her, but my lady mother and Uncle Auréle had an older sister. She failed her harrowing. It was before I was born.”

[hornswoggle]

Lacking pin, staff, and any other sign of tangible allegiance, John exists comfortably as an anomaly within this space.

At least until he begins speaking, at which point clarity as to his entanglements and allegiances becomes obvious. The points he makes follow along with certain other members of Riftwatch; John isn't seeking to hide that.

Having taken a seat on one of the plush velvet chaises scattered opposite the more opulent paintings, John had been contemplating his next conversational partner. Gwen is, in some ways, a very welcome alternative to the dry-looking cluster of tight-faced mages by the gold faun statues. His gaze shifts from them to Gwen as she begins to speak, giving her due attention as she unspools this piece of family history.

His thoughts stray back to the Harrowing Chamber, glistening and silent.

"I'm sorry," John says, around the consideration of the concept of family history. Knowing such things.

There are questions, but John holds them in check. Leaves space for what might come next, what else Gwen might say on the subject.

[elegiaque]

“I didn't know her,” is true enough, and comes with a shrug, but it isn't dismissive. It's thoughtful, more, something she's turning over in her hands— that she never knew her aunt is a loss, too. That for so many years she had no expectation of ever knowing her uncle, and that he is absent now, too, out of her reach because the little life he is leading at the end of Luwenna Coupe's needs must be out of anyone else's reach, too.

Gwenaëlle doesn't know what made Cecile Charnier an abomination. She will never know the woman in her own words, only in the shape of the ghastly absence she's left behind— the careful ways that Aurele can sometimes be drawn on his sisters, if he's caught off-guard enough, and the way that her grandfather is simply never caught off-guard.

She's never heard him speak of her. Her mother had, a little, and now she, too, is long since gone.

“I always thought if I'd have been a mage, I'd have chosen Tranquility.”

Gwenaëlle wonders how much knowing Cecile Charnier's fate had coloured that thinking. How both of her siblings have spoken of her; passionate, clever, volatile. If some part of her had only thought, is there a monster in my heart, too?

[hornswoggle]

Back in Antiva, in their shared room in the palazzo, Flint had asked "Does it worry you still?"

John had answered: Yes.

The echo of that comes back to him now, stirred up in the wake of this admission. The idea of choosing Tranquility—

All the ways John hated the magic melded into his bones, it had never occurred to him that he might strip away every part of himself to excise it.

The question had turned his head. John watches her for a long moment before saying, "I wouldn't have expected that of you."

Though maybe he should. Gwenaëlle does nothing by half-measure.

[elegiaque]

“No,” she acknowledges, unsurprised, “I don't think I know anyone who'd say otherwise.”

Casimir Lyov, perhaps, who knows because she told him. But Gwenaëlle burns so brightly—

isn't it exhausting, being her? People have wondered that, she knows. And she has wanted to claw herself out of her own skin screaming yes, yes, yes, and she has always been able to understand the appeal of pouring cool water over the parts of her that cannot ever seem to stop and making them be still.

But this, too: that she had never believed that if she wielded magic, she'd be strong enough to stay whole. That she had always believed it would eat her, if she had it; her own volatility always her weakness, always her mother's disappointment, always feeling like the ghost of the aunt she never knew, dogging her heels like an inevitability. A demon will not come for her, she will only have to destroy herself.

(And hasn't she come close to it.)

“It just struck me, I can't imagine anyone thinking that in Dairsmuid, as it was spoken of.” As Derrica spoke of it. “I wondered if she'd still be alive, Cecile Charnier, if there'd been a Dairsmuid for her. If she'd have had something to say about it.” A bleak bit of humour: “Of course, I don't know if being raised by my grandfather would have done her so much good, I have met everyone else he took in hand.”

She loves him very much.

[hornswoggle]

A flicker of humor for that passing contemplation. John doesn't need it labored upon. Nobility, regardless of who and how familiar they are to him, have never given the impression of being a good arrangement for raising a child.

But that spark of amusement fades quickly.

"I don't think mages are meant for southern Thedas," John tells her.

Who would know better than him? He who had inhabited the north so thoroughly.

"All the worst aspects of the way those without magic view those who do seem to have been seeded and taken root across the southern countries. And I can't say it strikes me as an accident."

All these places, so beholden to the Chantry. It was no wonder the fear and hatred of mages wasn't far behind.

the conclave.

[luaithre]

Rolf Vander is a gregarious personality who had spent much of the debate glowering silently across the room at the gathered total of Loyalists and their respective allies, who'd muttered to those around him at a volume that could only generously be called a whisper, who had barked something insulting during one of the Loyalist's speeches when a whisper of disapproval for the rebellion had shadowed their words.

He had seemed, then, to be a bad tempered man, and now he is not. He'd greeted Marcus with shoulder-clapping friendliness, demanded to be introduced to those he would call friends in Riftwatch, and eventually is sicced upon John Silver.

And he does not strike John or anyone as very Circle-like, despite hailing from Ansberg, and his story is easily rattled loose: he was taken in at the age of twenty-seven, and has been branded apostate longer than he has mage.

If there is some discreet or hidden purpose to this meeting, it isn't anything Marcus comments on. There is no indication that Vander has been told of Silver's status, no implication that Marcus has spoken of the Van Markhams, of anything very specific besides that there are those in Riftwatch who share their sympathies, even pirates from the north. Vander is friendly, full of war stories and gratitude to Riftwatch. His hands and his throat are tattooed, markings that are faded and old. He attended the Conclave in leathers, not robes.

And when he moves on, Marcus stays behind rather than rejoin the rebels, hands in his coat pockets and watching the formation of groups and conversations around them.

"I did all in my power to convince him not to throw in with the Inquisition, back then," Marcus says, after a moment. "But he's a better man than that."

[hornswoggle]

John had some expectation that when Vander on, Marcus would follow. It has been interesting, and illuminating, to see how warmly he is welcomed among the groups that had come along with Fiona.

Something to bear in mind.

But as Marcus remains, John observes Vander's departure. Watches Fiona's contingent mix and mingle, before his attention returns fully to Marcus. (How much intention is there in selecting this man, who'd lived so long as an apostate, to introduce to John now?) Thinks back to the route that carried Marcus to them.

"What kept you from joining him?" is a question asked only to hear Marcus articulate the answer.

[luaithre]

It's a predictable question, based off what he just said, but Marcus pauses over it, focus still trained on where Vander gravitates back to his faction. The other people he recognises there. There are certainly days in Riftwatch when he contemplates how much easier of a thing it would be, to be in their number.

"The Inquisition's partnership with the Order," he says. "The sense that being drawn into its fold would be the end of the rebellion, and in a way, it was. That all Fiona was doing was finding us a new master. And I had people to look after."

He shakes his head. "We didn't know all we do now, but I saw even less. I was angry."

And maybe that last thing is the most pertinent of the reasons presented.

[hornswoggle]

I was angry.

A dangerous thing for a mage to be. Even John, with his haphazard education, knows that much.

But John doesn't fear Marus Rowntree's self-control. If the man had managed an abduction at the hands of templars without melting into molten flame—

"Do you believe you were wrong then?" has the air of setting a finger against something delicate. A heated surface. The flame of a candle. Something to be handled very gingerly, contact applied for a seconds at a time.

[luaithre]

There is no flare of anger when Marcus says, "No," which is only delivered quietly, simply. Stubbornly, maybe, in the subtle lift of his chin as he considers the room around them.

Maybe with most others, he'd leave his answer there. Maybe he should, with John Silver. But he adds, "Fiona did what was in the interest of hundreds, and I didn't envy her. I did what was in the interest of a few. Because no matter what they might say, the rebels as a whole had no choice in the matter. Agree to join, or refuse and be conscripted by force."

It's a murky history, but he sounds certain as to his interpretation of events. The stakes of it. "And I believed that we didn't fight the war we fought to be servants, or slaves, no matter how noble the cause of our masters. I still believe it."

[hornswoggle]

Vander has been more or less absorbed by the milling swirl of mages within these halls. John had heard the burst of his laughter, one last sign of him before John's attention leaves him entirely in favor of Marcus.

Who is outlining a sentiment that falls familiar on John's ears.

"Has Petrana told you what brought us south?"

Us. John. Flint. The entirety of the Walrus crew and their battered ship.

wildcard, by crystal.

[ipseite]

“John— my companions and I have decided to take rooms in Cumberland for the rest of this visit. I presume you've found yourself any number of interesting places already; shall we breakfast tomorrow, and discuss developments? I will gladly take your recommendation of where we might meet.”

Somewhere less guaranteed to be full of nooks and crannies inconvenient Loyalists might be listening to them, for instance.

best friends club commence

[hornswoggle]

The meaning, of course, is taken.

The return message comes promptly, where he advises—

"We might convene at the Golden Egg. The proprietor is accommodating, and should cede us the use of their private room so we might enjoy a quiet meal."

Which, of course the proprietor grants John's request for the private room with it's view overlooking the whole of the port. John has already settled by the time Petrana arrives, leg stretched out alongside the table as is his habit.

"Are we expecting any others?"

It wouldn't be surprising, were Petrana escorted today by aforementioned companions.

[ipseite]

“Not this morning,” she demurs as she joins him, pressing his shoulder lightly before she takes her seat, taking a moment in doing so to appreciate the view he's secured them. How pleasant; Cumberland itself is greatly preferable to its Circle, however opulent.

She is not unfamiliar with the concept of an opulent prison. A portrait lingers in the back of her mind, and how foolish it had felt to be distressed by it in James Flint's company, and how much bitterness still rises when she thinks of its clear blue sky, absent the tower.

“Only you and I, I thought. I'm most interested to know how you've found the conclave.”

Useful, to still wear the guise of an outsider, in this.

[hornswoggle]

Useful, as John had intended all that time ago when he had discussed the matter of how he might move forward in this state. A secret stretched beyond himself, but not quite dragged into the open.

"Ghoulish," is the first thing that comes to mind. Not quite what Petrana was after.

John amends this, as he slides the pitcher of cool water across the table to her.

"There are those among them that might be moved, if we can provide a compelling alternative," is something she surely realizes, as is: "Obviously one in which they can see themselves attaining the level of comfort they've grown accustomed to."

Except comfort means different things. Not only power and influence. There are those who feel safer locked away.

John understands that, though he doesn't volunteer this.

"And then there are others who I think chafe under the idea of returning to the old system, and just haven't fully admitted it to themselves. We would need more than a few days to reach them, but it's not impossible. Only slow-going."

[ipseite]

“I wonder how much thought they've allowed themselves to devote, before now, to what such a return would mean for them,” is akin to that thought, pouring from the pitcher into a cup and considering both the matter between them and the prospect of breakfast, which is all the more pleasant for not being had within a Circle this morning.

The Gallows had been a Circle, once, and it is difficult to forget. Cumberland, too, makes it difficult to forget—

but she cannot help but wonder, too, what sympathy the mages in their number might have enjoyed or not within Riftwatch's ranks if they had been sent to Nevarra and not Kirkwall, if they had set up camp in Cumberland and not the Gallows.

She and John both know well how much weight has perception.

“There are young men and women grown who were children when the rebellion broke out. Mages, even loyalists, have been forced to make lives for themselves in this state of limbo. The question of Circles has become a question, a debate, often raised and never resolved— I am forced to wonder now, among them, how real it feels.”