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WHO: Anders and You*! (*unless you are someone who will turn him in. ONE DAY THERE WILL BE CR. /reaches sadly)
WHAT: Detlef going about his days, helping out, being argumentative, everything
WHEN: Mid-Wintermarch
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Probably nothing? I'll edit if that changes

Healing tents

Anders is found in these most often during the day. Everything's easier when he works, really, when he and Justice can both be on the same page. They're doing good. They're furthering the cause of mage freedom. And more importantly, no one is being hurt. Are you a patient? He's probably checking you over before getting to work. Co-worker? Hand him the elfroot salve, please? Or just drop by and find him where he's most willing to be chatty as he works.

Garden

There's nothing like seeing a mage seemingly talking to a tree. Considering previous events, it's probably a little worrying. But upon closer approach one can see that there's a terrified cat clinging to a very small branch that's just barely supporting its weight, and they can hear the mage trying to talk the cat down as if the cat can understand anything that's being said.

"You can do it. Just step... Come on. A little lower. Please?"

Just outside Skyhold

There's a garden inside the walls. It has plenty of things growing in it, including basically everything Anders is looking for. It's hard for him to stay inside the walls for too long, though. He needs to be outside, to wander some, to remind himself that the walls aren't keeping him in. While it isn't the healthiest method of coping, there are certainly worse ways to go about it.

Anyone running into him out here gets a look that's a mix of surprised and bashful - the latter due to him not really having any way to explain why he's out here with a handful of easy-to-get herbs in hand.

Library

He's seated in the Library, head buried in a book the way it never was when he was at the Circle, with a pair of large tomes next to him. They're probably not that surprising for a spirit healer, treatises on spirits and their nature, but he doesn't look pleased. And he isn't. He's not finding anything that will help with his situation, and Anders is aware that he might not have a lot of time left for the looking.

Approaches from strangers get a glance up and a nod, before he'll ask if they need to get to something past him. Known people get asked a little absently how their day is going before he turns another page.

[Or] Alternately, he's curled up off to the side, on the ground, paging through a book on obscure magic that talks about various rumored spells that the author doubts really exist. His attention is primarily on the shapeshifting portion, and he looks a little wistful. Anyone approaching who glances at the book get a half-smile and asked if it wouldn't be fun, being able to transform into animals.

Wildcard

[Hit him up wherever? He grabs food in the kitchens on the go, sometimes is at the tavern in a corner near the back, sits on the walls and looks out sometimes, surreptitiously feeds the stray cats around skyhold (and scolds any dogs that try to take the food,) and may, every now and then, see if he can zap armor in just the right way so straw and fabric and all sorts of things stick to it.]

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Maker. The debt he owes to her... It will never be paid. He will never make up this lie to her, and he will never be able to pay her back for her kindness. The fact that he likely wouldn't have this if he'd been honest doesn't change anything. He is what he is, who he is, and thus undeserving of her words and actions to begin with. He sorely wants to admit everything right now, but he knows that if he tries Justice will stop him. Anders will not be allowed to get distracted from the cause by someone else again.

"You are the perfect fit for Compassion." Yes, the spirit lends itself to healing often, but no one has mirrored the virtue as well as this in his experience. As wholly as this. To take advantage of it makes him feel sick and want to pull away, but he's been so starved of people caring that he can't move.

"If it gets too difficult, if things come up, I'll not hold you to your word, Adelaide. There are so many things that could go wrong. But that you've offered it means the world to me. ...And that you're still calling me by nickname."

She sees him, not just a possessed mage. Few have, few ever will. And he will hurt her.

"Well. I'll trade you. You can have a life of running in fear and apostasy, I'll hang out in the land of dogs and mud." There's no venom in the words, just mild amusement. No one would really want to trade.

"If I could have visited cities with time for sight-seeing and appreciation, I would have. And see? I'm appreciating now. But I find it's very difficult to appreciate things when one's looking over their shoulder in fear."

Maybe he'll get to see a place or two and simply look around, before he's caught and executed. That would be nice. ...Which means it probably won't happen.

"Never?" Had she only just discovered her magic as an adult? But he shook his head a moment after asking the question. It didn't matter. If she'd been avoiding detection by not using a staff she'd been smart, frankly.

"Never mind. I can help, yes. I've borne more than a few in my time." Some quite cheap, ones scrounged up on the run to help him try to stay free, others with heritage and great craftmanship that he'd been sad to leave behind.

"...Actually, I can help so long as it's not attuned to entropy. If it is, I'll be of no help at all." Yes, he could still use the staff, but any flaws or issues would likely arise from that direction and he'd have no idea. "Which sort is it?"

There's a reason he's not saying his name is Detlef, only to call him that. He also is certain she knows that's not his name. ...There's even a chance she knows Anders isn't, but he doesn't know how far her sensing can go.

"River. I'm glad to meet you." She's not entirely stable, but he is glad to meet her. He spends so much time fearing that people will discover who he is that being around someone who already knows is a great relief.

"Do you like helping in the tents?"

"Oh." It was a quiet, accidental noise as he reached for the cat and took her in his arms. He couldn't keep holding the cat for long, there was work to do and getting her used to him holding her could only backfire, but for now... For now Anders was very, very distracted by shushing her and petting her and trying to convince her that this was the best place for her to be.

The Dalish's words didn't register at first, even, he was that focused on the cat. "Hm? Oh. Yes. I do too. I've always been good at annoying people who wear heavy armor and don't like people like me. That's a part of the reason I wanted to help her down."

There was a pause as he nuzzled the cat, his forehead to hers, and she finally started purring. A moment later he remembered he had intelligent company too, and the Dalish got a sheepish smile. "Ah, sorry. Thank you. She's not, she's not mine, but she shouldn't be left up there, alone and scared."

Cyril is, admittedly, very charmed at the way that Anders nuzzles the cat and tends to it while holding it. Even more if it's not his. He smiles at the sight. "Even if not, she seems to enjoy your company."

And then, after a moment, he changes subjects a bit. "She's not the only one who would enjoy more of your company." He flirts because this man is beautiful, with eyes that are striking and a nose that would be fun to kiss, but also because he's kind and thoughtful. It wouldn't be just any mage who was willing to climb up a tree for a cat.

His agreeing to help was a great relief. She thought little of extended the unfinished weapon toward him. Unfortunately, as he stated his caveat, she came up short and shot the staff a long look.

In Arda she could sense a great many things, subtleties that evaded all others who were not fea given form--even then, her insight often outstripped their own. She could feel the shadows of the past, the pull of the future, the burn of corruption and malice, even the rippling of time was not beyond her; in Arda there was precious little she could not suss out given time. In Thedas...she was not quite so capable.

As she peered at the staff in hand, the only thing she was able to sense, with absolute clarity, was that it was made of wood.

"Honestly, I've no idea," Galadriel admitted easily. She even sounded amused at the shortcoming. It was inconvenient, and possibly dangerous, but she'd not been so at a loss for many thousands of years. "I had only ever seen others wield them before. It had not occurred to me to ask what sort it might be."

There was something about the staff that was distinctly more than a simple stick. It was not entirely dissimilar from enchanting as she knew it, but it was blunter, more overt, and unfamiliar. She couldn't have placed the result of the spell, even it if she tried.

"I expect it is neither exceptional nor strong, given how reluctant they were to create it for me, but anything else...I cannot say."

"Det-lef," Sina repeats with a smile. What a strange name. She too is fixated on the cat, speaking slowly and quietly so as not to startle her. "Nahariel and I came from the Free Marches. Close to Nevarra. ...I never know exactly where the borders are." She's Dalish, she doesn't care. The world is her house. "And yourself?"

"I do not know about that." Compassion cares more than any mortal is capable of caring- and some of their urgency is pressed across the veil. Adelaide... she does what she can. On occasion what she must. To be a healer is, in theory, to be compassionate but she has not been overly accused of patience, kindness, or compassion in the past two years. She hadn't the mind for it. The words are kind and sincerely meant-

Even if she does not feel worthy of them.

"What did I tell you?" Feeling bold- she slips her hand from the side of his face to his hair, tugging him close enough to rest their foreheads together. An affectionate headbump. Something like forgiveness, something like benediction. This close she can all but feel Justice humming in his skin, a strong and exacting refrain against the comfortable, fluid, flexible notes of Compassion. "LeBlancs keep their word."

She pulls back before she does or says something they might regret, her hand slipping to his shoulder. A respectable distance. "And I mean to keep mine- as you are my friend. I do not have so many that I would abandon you."

"You know it," he says, stoic for all that Anders barely needs magic to feel Martel's discomfort when his shoulder is touched. For all that it's the sucking chest-wound that killed him (and the rift to Thedas that raised him up again), it's Sparhawk repeatedly clapping him on his bad shoulder that he remembers with irritation. That had been petty, where killing him had simply been the right thing to do. "I'd not have lasted the walk to Skyhold, if not for my lady Leblanc."

For all that it's a formal address, there's familiarity in the way he turns a title into something that's shades of an endearment.

"I imagine there was some function of the rift as made her job a little easier. I shouldn't have been able to stand in the first place." He hadn't been able, in Zemoch.

"Everyone is motivated to get something. If you truly need bribery, she seems a bit wrapped up in learning Dalish lore and such. Though I guess that's more up my alley, isn't it? In any case, if my words are not enough, I'll wish you luck instead."

A small laugh escapes him. "Busy. Well, I imagine so. Apostates usually are, for one reason or another."

In response to his question, Twisted Fate pulls his book out from under his arm and holds it up. It's very clearly a romance novel of questionable quality.

"Just some reading of my own. Not much to find here, but I'll take what I can get. Can't all be Tethras winners, I suppose. But if you've any recommendations, I'm all ears."

[He's just going to ignore that first part, okay? Okay. Good. Glad we're all in agreement.]

Its hard to blame them for what they think. [Between Corypheus and the Breach and the Abomination attack? Its easy to see why they would be so wary and hesitant about mages and magic. Not that it applies to everybody - and of course not everyone feels that way, but still. It would be a lie if Bruce said he didn't understand their scrutiny and fear.

But the important thing was to not return that fear with hatred, their scrutiny with anger. That would only make things worse for all parties involved.]

Returning anger with anger won't help anybody, [He says with a nod himself.] As long as you keep showing that you're here to help, I'm sure they will come around and understand you eventually.

[Perhaps it sounds far fetched for now, but perhaps one day - that idea might turn to reality.]

He looks up from the cat, smirking a little. The Dalish looks young... but not too young. And definitely pretty. Flirting would be harmless.

"Is that the case? She's making quite the happy noise, after all. I'm not certain anyone else sounds quite that pleased." Anders scratches under the cat's chin, eyes on the other man. "Perhaps you should tell me the name of this other one who likes my company. I'd not want to miss out, after all."

At first, his brazen invitation makes her raise her eyebrows in surprise, but that doesn't last long, as her expression shifts into a playful smirk.

"That so? Too bad I missed that," she laughs, getting up and pulling out a chest. Opening it, yes, there is a fantastic assortment of hats inside. On her own head, she places an Orlesian-style bicorn, trimmed with ribbons and lace and feathers, and then she comes over to him, and plops a bi-forcated tricorn on his head.

"Now, this isn't the whole collection, of course," she says, "But it's a good start." She loosens the laces on her bodice as she sits beside him, her hip nudging up against his. "You sure your friend doesn't mind this?"

Which is just as well, because arguing over who possessed the keystone over something as subjective as a feeling could not have been more trivial nor a greater waste of time. Loneliness took many forms, there was a kind of loneliness that came from hiding what you were, there was the kind of loneliness that came from living in a cold and craggy environment. There was the kind of loneliness one presented while in a room with so many, he'd seen it in the Empress. A feeling wasn't exclusive.

"One could only hope to be so fortunate," and so far Michel had yet to cross paths with the Dragons in Emprise du Lion, well aware of at least three and one of them in particular was quite powerful. They kept to their particular region, but Michel was convinced that was only temporary. They seemed to be circling out further and further.

"You must surround yourself with interesting people, Monsieur," Michel kept the remark offhanded, he honestly did not understand who came up with the rules that determined such things, but if the mage felt his was the authority in constructing them he saw no point in arguing it.

Instead he carefully scooped up the cat once she was close enough and upon noting that hopeful look on the other man's face he was equal parts careful in handing her down to him along with the mint for which she seemed so fond of, "do you intend to give madame a name?"

"Then let's see what I see. And I can help you figure it out for the future, as well." Telling her will be good. Teaching her will mean that she can do it on her own in the future.

Anders took the staff, carefully beginning to cast and seek flaws or strengths in the wood. It was definitely a hasty job - he can feel that it's aiding, but it's not as smooth as something well-made.

"They're not experts. ...Or they didn't feel like putting a great deal of effort into it. It'll help. It's not going to help as much as careful craftsmanship does. Can you feel what I'm doing? The way magic is flowing through it? This is how you check for flaws. And now..."

He added fire to the mix, and there's no real change. "If you can feel the change in what I'm casting, the fire, and the lack of any response from the staff, that's how you see if it's attuned to fire magic. And it's not. Are you following, so far?" There wasn't any rush. He was outside the walls, and he could teach her about staves.

He closes his eyes, breath catching at the touch of their foreheads. The moment she's pulled back he misses the closeness, but he's already had a dangerous amount as it is. Wanting for more, asking for more, is to go too far. Any longer and there might have been a kiss. That's a line he can't cross.

"I don't have so many either," he replies quietly. And before long, he'll have even fewer. Is it so wrong to want to be someone else, to fake an identity and do better? Maybe it wouldn't be if he could fully change, if he was free of Justice and no one from his past recognized him. As it is, there will be no becoming Detlef. He's Anders. There's no changing that.

"You're a true friend, Adelaide, even if you can't accept that that you're compassionate. It's easy to see in you." And despite what he wishes, Justice is part and parcel of him now. "...Should I take my leave for a time? I know this is a lot to put on someone."

"Nahariel. I don't believe I've met them." Gently he pets the cat's head with his free hand, coaxing her into being all right with him. It's working, and he gives her a small smile.

"I'm from the Anderfels, originally. A place that's much warmer than here." The cat's leaning into his touch, now, and Anders finally risks taking hold of her and lowering her into his arms. She's tense at first before starting to relax when he scratches behind her ears. Clearly she's used to people.

"The Free Marches can be a good area, in parts. I've been through some of the areas." And Starkhaven is among the worst parts.

Alayre shakes his head. "It's not simply that. I swear I've made more mistakes than progress as of late." He admits while letting out a sigh. "I'm unused to the role I play now but you give me confidence, Detlef." The Templar says with true gratitude.

There's no way in hell that the Rite of Annulment would've been an option for Alayre. The man honestly banished such a practice from the New Order and will condemn anyone who dares brings that up. While Alayre tries his best to be agreeable and fair, he will not allow for the slaughter of innocents. He's had enough of such barbaric practices. If the Order wants to be seen beyond murderous, they must put away their fondness for violence over diplomacy.

"Ah? Is that the--it is!" Alayre takes the journal with great excitement. He truly thought he had lost it for good. "In here is years worth of wisdom that I will use throughout my time here as Chairman. These notes give me an insight of what needs to be changed for the sake of our Order." Alayre says as he flips through the pages idly.

"Not every apostate is an enemy of the Order and not every mage needs to be affiliated with us. These glided cages that we've built throughout the ages would do better as institutions of learning rather than jails." It seems that Alayre has plenty of ideas and many of them good.

"Though, I believe some of these towers should be made into monuments for those who perished."

"True enough."

And it's hard not to feel sympathy. It's no life to be lead, and from what she hears of the Circles it's little wonder they flee. "Does Skyhold offer some relief from that, at least?" she murmurs, and there's a small measure of concern there she can't quite help.

Anyone who just wants to spend their days healing people ought to be left in peace. However dangerous mages might be, this man obviously poses no threat to anyone.

Which was a reminder of the herbs they were neglecting. Nodding, River started to grind once more, the rasping sound returning to a more rhythmic pace.

"Sometimes. Sometimes they're too loud. They hurt, regret things they didn't do. Sometimes they don't get up."

Not as often, now. The casualties had been far greater when they first arrived, but now and then one slips through the cracks and she feels that pull, the snap before they fade away. It pulls at her skin. She wants them to get back up again.

Galadriel's expression was fixed into a look of polite interest as he examined the staff. It was habit, mostly, to hide the full extent of her interest, but he was the focus of all of her attention. Without the rest of Skyhold nearby, or the threat of demons and rifts, he was the only thing affecting the--was if the Fade or the Veil? The distinction had not been made entirely clear to her, but his was the only force acting upon this place.

It was a strange and removed sensation, the pull of magic. It didn't behave like the power to which she was accustomed, nor did it, she noticed, behave as the powers of the Istari did. Their staves were more tether than weapon, an anchor to the world; the pull of power through this staff was the opposite, as if it were a siphon made of spun silk. The feel of its function and lightness were irritating in a mild but deeply unnerving way.

When he directed his focus, set his mind to fire, she felt the shift.

The outward change was negligible, the staff neither repulsed nor embraced his efforts, but she was able to label the feel of it. It was a sensation that traveled along her bones in a quiet way, spilling like sand, or the echo of sand over her arms and hands. This magic was drawn up from somewhere deep and distant, it skated across the world but didn't infuse it as her own was wont. She disliked the creep of the veil intensely, she would have preferred to stop but knowing that this was how "fire" felt was invaluable.

"I believe so," Galadriel replied evenly. Her stare was far too intense for her mild expression, but there was little to be done about that. "Does the quality of the staff hinge upon the resilience of it, or the severity of its reaction, should you find how it is attuned?"

It seemed too delicate to be of use, as though she would level her will upon it and it would shatter. It was unlike the mark in her hand, it was fragile in a way that the power of the rifts were not, but it was equally bizarre. Perhaps this was why there were so many staves available in Skyhold, why every mage regarded them as a simple possession and not something truly dangerous, truly powerful?

"And is there not the possibility that it could be attuned to something you do not know how to cast? I presume its alignment must also be by design, else it is the materials that dictate it?"

"You underestimate me," she says, knowing she's more like Adelaide than he realizes. "I would drag you out by your ear for smearing anything on me." Being a healer means getting bodily fluids on you comes with the territory, but patients can't help that. Others deliberately messing up her clothes -- of which she has very few -- would not find themselves treated to a friendly potion slinging fight. They would be subject to a stern lecture.

"Spindleweed. But you would be hard pressed to find any outside of the garden pots, if you wish for a long walk."

"Some, aye. Don't know as I know all of them but I know what elfroot and blood lotus look like, and that spindleweed stuff. I've heard of something called crys...crystal grace, too. Can't say as I've seen that one yet, though."

Whether or not that was good enough when it came to sorting, he wasn't sure. But as long as there wasn't anything too rare in the shipments - or if Detlef was willing to help out with the odd description when it came to something he didn't recognize - likely he'd get by alright. It was up to Detlef, though, and he gave the other man a small shrug while waiting to see if that would work for him or not. In the meantime, he figured he might as well answer the rest of it, even if he wasn't sure why he was being asked about that.

"Don't know why you'd need to know the rest of it but...alright. If you must know, she's teaching me to read. Er, how to read what you use for writing here, anyway. It looks a bit different back in my world."

She doesn't appreciate being accused of being played, not least of being played by Varric Tethras, and it shows in the glower on her face. Even so, she's far too invested to just walk away.

"The pirate -" she begins, nearly speaking right over him. Yes, of course she'd suspected the pirate at first, anyone would, but -

"You are reading into things that are not there," she says, her voice cold. "That bruise -" She can feel her cheeks starting to burn. Oh, why had he put those images in her head? "That bruise could be from anything. It could have been caused by the shaft of an arrow, or an errant spell. You -" Frustrated and unable to explain herself, she lunges forward, snatching the book out of his hands. "You do not deserve this!"

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