faderift | fast enough to get in trouble and not fast enough to get away

WHO: Mobius, whoever has business with him
WHAT: open-y log for mobi during fantasy september (and like late fantasy august too if need be), for various catchup purposes
WHEN: both pre- and post-arlathan forest
WHERE: [makes a general motion to kirkwall] Around
NOTES: warnings will be in subject lines if/when need be!

Before the mission to the forest, Mobius still has plenty to deal with. After the Conclave, the 'secret' of his life being a(n ex-)Templar does not stay quiet for long. It isn't something he ever addresses publicly; he's not taken to speaking on rumors just because they exist. But if someone comes to find him about it directly, he might actually be willing to talk to them about it.

So long as it isn't someone interrogating him under some ridiculous pretense of the good of Riftwatch.

But that isn't the only thing to deal with. Sylvie and Loki are both gone, wherever and however Rifters go. Sylvie takes a little more time to notice, but given her absence on the training grounds and around her usual library haunts where she, catlike, likes to cause him some trouble, it doesn't take too long. Loki--of course he noticed Loki being gone right away. Given they had finally started to see each other, at least sexually, and Mobius trying to get used to the idea of sleeping with someone and staying, in their bed, together, instead of leaving immediately after. Not every night; he was hardly about to move into Loki's-which-was-Alexandrie's place. But often enough.

So when he awoke in Loki's bed one morning to the conspicuous absence of Loki, well. That took a much shorter amount of time to figure out.

It stings.

After the mission to the forest, Mobius returns worse for wear. Like a lot of other people, in fact. He is in various states of burnt and bruised and battered. He'll heal as surely as anything else, with time and patience. But.

He has very apparently lost some kind of use of his hands.

The fingers still bend and curl. His fists can still form. Can still point, can still count on them, or give a thumbs up. But on the training grounds, his sword has a habit of slipping from his grip as though there's no grip at all. When jotting notes down, he's snapped more than a few quills and has taken to putting up with writing with the nubs where the tip remains. Meals have become fraught affairs, where he is slow and careful with utensils--and finger foods don't always fare much better. He can be seen, when not spilling half of a meal, grabbing at bowls or cups that he is warned are too hot to the touch and not minding at all. There's not much yet that seems too cold, but no temperature seems to bother his hands at all.

He tries to eat during off hours, or to take things somewhere a little more private. His training sessions have shifted to earlier in the morning (which, given the habits of nightmares, is not much of an inconvenience) when there are even fewer people. But it isn't as though he can hide the way he sometimes grips things too tight, or too loose to drop. He hasn't yet taken to wearing gloves, so one might be able to catch nicks and cuts and scrapes and a few angry red marks.

He's fine, basically. Definitely fine. Others have had it worse.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It isn't as though he regrets it. Not really. But now there's this embarrassment on top of people giving him the fucking evil eye for his former alliances, topped off with what a mess he was and frankly so little help with all those puzzles...

Hard sometimes to feel like he belongs. Even if he's sure this is where the Maker wants him to be.

It's thankfully not soup. Bit of shepherd's pie. Easy-peasy. He holds the fork well enough for a moment, but it's cutting into it to get a bite on it that's giving him a spot of trouble. Not holding it quite tight enough, slips from his hand, nearly punches his meal for it.

He sighs. And tries again. He'll get there...eventually. It feels slightly less bad with Barrow around, the first friend it feels like he really made here. "How stupid do I look? Be honest."

"You look tired," Barrow supplies gently, rifling for something in one of his belt pouches. He offers out his hand, wordlessly indicating that he wants to see the fork.

"What happened, mate?"

"Word of advice:" started after only a moment of hesitation before handing the utensil over as best he can, managing it even if it's a little loose in his hamfisted grip, "if an elven statue in an ancient temple demands any kind of sacrifice, maybe try to find literally any other way to get around."

Mobius is hardly the only one who came back with difficulties following him.

Barrow takes the fork and begins to wind a thick strip of leather around the handle, increasing the width of it until it reaches, to his eye, a comfortable grip for Mobius.

"Couldn't have sacrificed your hair or something?" he asks amusedly, tying a knot tight enough to hold temporarily and then handing the fork back.

"Well, I was just going to offer up my life instead. Would've been a lot easier. But they're a finicky sort."

Humor is always easier as well. Makes it simpler to drop information like that without it feeling too heavy, even if obviously the heaviness is implied. He takes the utensil back gingerly, sliding into the grip and...it at least doesn't slide back out of his grip. He blinks at what a simple fix that is. It still doesn't help with the fine motor control, but the damn thing is far less likely to simply fall out of his hand.

"So's this. Why didn't I think of that?"

Because most people don't need it, Mobius.

"No need to go playing hero, this place has a short memory for good things." Barrow pats Mobius on the shoulder and goes back to his own shepherd's pie, for which he manages the fork carefully.

"Wish I could take credit for it," he admits, nodding to the fork solution, "I saw some old bastard doing it when I was working as a mercenary. Never thought I'd need it, but time comes for us all." He grimly cracks the knuckles of his free hand in demonstration.

"If only I could blame this on time instead of strange elvish magic. I look old enough for it; people might actually believe me." It's still a bit of a struggle, but nowhere near as much of one to get a bite from the plate to his mouth without losing all of it off the fork. Helps that he's trying to make a point of gripping it harder. Even if it's difficult to know if he's actually doing so or not without wildly overcompensating.

"You could stab me straight through the palm, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't feel it. I could probably wind a lot of bets that way."

"Better not put that one to the test." Barrow briefly occupies himself by taking a leisurely swig from his ale, setting the mug back down with a sigh.

"You know, it almost seems like magic causes a lot of our greatest woes. They really should get someone to do something about that." Spoken with a straight face, but for the humorous glint in his eye.

"What a wild concept that no one has ever thought of before." Droll and dry, but he smirks into his food.

He considers telling Barrow that he was possibly maybe kind of sort of potentially right with his advice. To get the Templar thing out in the open before it got out in front of him instead. He's still not, however, entirely convinced keeping it to himself was the wrong choice. Besides. Neither of them are going to like any kind of 'told you so'. So.

"Might just stay put and turn down any weird missions for now. Seems bad luck for me."

Barrow isn't aware yet that Mobius' secret is out; he's got no ear for gossip, at least unless it can be found in the dive pubs of Lowtown. But the burden is still one they have in common, and he can feel it hanging between them before Mobius speaks again.

"Like un-weird missions fucking exist," he observes grimly, "every day I ask myself why I stick around here." He takes another pull from his drink, sets it down, pauses.
"It's the free food," he concludes.

"Even the truth soup? Free food's free food, but then you've got the shit like that." Just saying. Maker, he's glad he's not attempting soup right now.

"Fuck," Barrow replies, the reality of the truth soup all returning to him at once, "no, never mind. Fuck it, let's get out of here."

And then he takes another bite of his pie, making absolutely no move to leave.

"Can't stay a moment longer. All gonna come crashing down on us." More than it already has. "Flee to the hills and go be a mercenary for a while."

"Mmhmm." Chewing thoughtfully, Barrow narrows his eyes.

"Could probably still make it in Ferelden, they don't expect much."

"Because their boots stick in the mud and the dogs do all the work. Could go back to Antiva. Party all night long so long as you don't get assassinated."

"Now now, you're talking to a Fereldan," Barrow says, feigning incredulity, "...though the boots-in-the-mud thing isn't an exaggeration, I'll grant you that. Any sensible person knows to take higher ground."

"I'm an equal opportunity offender. Be glad you're not Orlesian." Everyone makes fun of them. For good reasons! "Have you ever had a dog, though?"

"I am. Every day."

It's mean to Orlesians, but it's always fair game to dunk on them.

"My family had a dog, growing up. Jack. He and my father were all but surgically joined."

"There were always cats around the Circle," Mobius muses, "but that's as close as I ever got to a pet." Aside from things he was told about his childhood. That doesn't count, he figures.

"Cats are good to have around." Barrow would know, as he is always surrounded by them, at least in his room. "At least when there's mice. ...not when there's fleas."
His stare goes distant.

fast enough to get in trouble and not fast enough to get away

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