faderift | All we do is play it safe [Open]

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All we do is play it safe [Open]

WHO: Vanya, assorted visitors
WHAT: Vanya has a Bad Time getting off lyrium
WHEN: Various points during Kingsway (feel free to handwave relative to mod plot if you'd like your character to be there for a certain portion)
WHERE: Various points in the Gallows
NOTES: Content warning for themes related to (fantasy) drug use and withdrawal. Medical stuff possible but definitely not required, especially in the infirmary starter; if you want to hit that one but not have anything medical in it beyond what's mentioned in the starter itself, just let me know oocly and I can avoid it.

I. The Infirmary

Permission obtained from Commander Flint, Vanya approaches the infirmary staff with his intentions. He intends to burden anyone else as little as possible, and part of that is making sure the relevant staff know of his plans and have input (within reason) as to his approach. The upshot of this is that, despite his protestations, the early days of the process are spent in the infirmary, under supervision.

It's best that they insist. The cravings and the thirst would be hard enough to endure without the disorientation that accompanies them. Depending on which day Vanya gets a visitor or a colleague in the infirmary for their own reasons, he may or may not recognize them. But he does his best to talk to anyone who engages them, regardless of how lucid he is or isn't.

II. Former Templar Tower — Vanya's Room or Communal Lounge

Eventually, the confusion ebbs. He's still thirsty and tired, and his head is splitting more often than it's not, meaning he's not yet fit to resume his exercises in the training yard, much less his duties. But he's not bed-ridden. He can fetch his own food and move about the Gallows as long as he gives himself enough time and doesn't push himself.

Mostly, though, he sticks to his quarters or nearby. His instinct is to hide, but he doesn't fully give into it; if nothing else, the infirmary staff checks on him often enough that it feels only polite to leave his door ajar in case he falls into a doze.

He wonders, more than once, if someone would give him lyrium at this point if he said he'd changed his mind after all.

He doesn't ask. That said, he gives the impression of a man who would be grateful for a distraction. At night, his neighbors may be unavoidably aware that he's having nightmares, though that's not as rare in the Gallows as it might be.

III. Aftermath

One day he reappears, resuming his usual routine as if nothing had happened. Someone has cleared him, presumably, but he seems to be going through the motions in part by pure force of will. He seems a bit gray and peaky, but he reports for training, duty, meals, all as usual.

Occasionally, though, he finds himself staring into the middle distance, unsure why he walked into the room or how long it's been since the person sitting next to him at dinner last said something.

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On his way to the baths one evening, Barrow passes a familiar face which has become decidedly less familiar, if still belonging to the same individual. It's enough to make him pause in the hallway, watching the back of Vanya's head shuffling toward the communal lounge.

"You ah... all right, mate?" Barrow asks hesitantly. They're hardly bosom companions, but one never likes to see a fellow Templar (or ex-Templar) looking like that.

He turns, and the hand motion he makes is more acknowledgement that he heard the question than an answer, sort of an aimless circle. After a moment, he gathers himself enough to say, "I was in the infirmary," true, "but I'm better now." Given how he looks, only true if you strictly define better as "relatively to actively being in the infirmary."

"...thank you," belatedly. The delay is also a bit unusual for a man who is so meticulously polite.

Like most aspects of Riftwatch, the infirmary doesn't have the manpower that would be ideal. Given that most of those it does have are some flavor of mage —

Gwenaëlle has sat at sickbeds a hundred times before. The bleak joke, “Hopefully you'll fare better in the long term than they did,” is not not funny, but her qualifications in this particular role mostly involving what could be described as end of life care is, well. It is what it is, and the main thing that it is right now is an extra pair of hands to offer relief from a task that those obligated to do it might find understandably distasteful.

She can watch over him; assist, where magical intervention is not explicitly required. Her bedside manner is brisk — efficient, neither kind nor unkind — and she doesn't flinch at much, isn't squeamish. Points out where in the infirmary she once made Abby hold a light for her so she could sew her own injury, tells of learning how to do so in Halamshiral, because her father would never hear of a physician when he'd been drinking and she'd learned the servants' remedies and done her best.

Her sewing keeps her hands busy and her mind free, when he needs nothing but someone there in case he needs something.

Marcus does not visit in on Vanya while he is laid up in the infirmary. There would be absolutely no reason to, being no kind of healer and no kind of friend. But there's one instance, where Marcus goes to the infirmary for some salves and bandaging to restock his own personal supply, where his shadow falls near the door of the room in which Vanya's been stored. He knows a kind of terrible curiousity that comes close to having him cross that threshold and see better for himself what this looks like.

He doesn't.

It is the only deliberate choice he makes to stay out of Orlov's path, otherwise preoccupied—training, griffon patrols, ancient temple exploration, all those things that would normally put them in proximity and that Orlov is only slowly returning to.

It's when he spies Vanya on the training field that he thinks of him again, and this time, doesn't deny his own curiousity. Marcus approaches and then stands at the edge of the pitch, arms folded and battlestaff slung across his back, wearing simple garments, leather armor pieces. Evaluates, taking in and assessing the other man's appearance, health, stamina, not a dissimilar kind of watchfulness that an apprentice being put through their paces might have been subjected to, back when.

He won't say anything immediately, but doesn't disguise his interest.

"Better," Barrow repeats, with a bit of a sympathetic smirk-- if this is 'better', he hates to think what the poor bastard looked like before.

The absent-mindedness, the pallor, it all tracks with what he knows of lyrium withdrawl; he's been through it only once, against his will, but he knows it when he sees it.
"You got everything you need?" It's an open-ended question, but its intent is fairly clear.

Vanya has spoken to her on multiple occasions, but it's not been evident whether he's fully registered who she is for any of them. He's more lost than agitated, as if he's become somewhat unstuck in his own timeline. It's clear, sometimes, that he thinks he's in Cumberland and is confused about the decor. Other times, it's not obvious where he thinks he is. But he's never loud and he's always polite, even if it's obvious that he's unsettled and unwell. When she tells him things, he listens attentively, asks questions that are very logical, but also gives no real sign as to whether those questions have any tie to memories of other times they've spoken.

Eventually, as she's sewing, he says, "I told the Commander it was partly your idea, you know." It's quiet, and a bit raw. He's so thirsty all the time, and he has no idea if it's because his throat is actually dry or if that, too, is purely in his mind. He doesn't suppose he's going to do himself any mischief drinking more water than he technically needs.

Vanya's movements are deliberate. This is not a radical change; his training is usually deliberate, and often solitary. But he is moving through his exercises at a slower pace than is his custom, repeating a move here or there when he isn't satisfied with his form. Part of him wants to push, to know where his new limits are. But he's been a soldier for too many years to ignore the common sense compelling him to build back up slowly after a period of bed rest. He doesn't want to land himself immediately back in the infirmary.

He can feel eyes on him, but he finishes his set of movements. While his color leaves something to be desired, he can still lift his sword, and he is determined to be of use as soon as he practically can be. When he finishes, however, he turns. The surprise is faint, though not invisible.

"...Captain Rowntree," he says, respectful but mildly wary. "Did you need something?" It's a genuine question, not a comment on his choice to observe.

Before this conversation, he might have said it would be easier, talking to another Templar about it. Someone with a frame of reference, at least. But the reality of it makes him feel exposed and raw, as if Barrow can get too close a look at him. He wonders, not for the first time, if he'd have been better off quitting and going into the woods to do this alone, and returning if he made it.

(He knows that's not how any of this works, but it's an appealing fantasy.)

"No way out but through," he suggests, subdued, his Nevarran accent perhaps a bit more marked in the face of his fatigue. "I will recover." Two statements, neither a direct answer to the question, though the first one is close.

Gwenaëlle is patient, when he is— absent. She explains the same things as often as he needs her to; she judges, sometimes, that it is better to say we had to move you to another room, don't worry about it than agitate him further when he doesn't understand why the infirmary looks the way it does. She isn't sure if it's right, but she isn't sure if he'll remember it later to critique her, anyway.

She wonders what it was like for Cullen, and who sat with him. They've long since fallen out of touch, another little guilt to add to the collection. How unhappy she had been to be sent off to Kirkwall, petulant and sullen and letting fall the connections she'd built amongst the advisors, and how small and stupid the grievance seems now.

When Vanya speaks, he interrupts her thoughts but not her sewing as she glances up, saying, “Is that so,” first, which isn't a question. He's not in the habit of saying things just for the sake of having said them, in her limited experience of the man. He's barely in the habit of saying things. “You don't want to be the only one on the hook for this decision, then?”

She doesn't sound particularly concerned she's going to be in any trouble for it.

'Respectful but mildly wary' is truly the platonic ideal of how Marcus might prefer a Templar, former or otherwise, to regard him. At least, in civil situations.

Not that this shows. Marcus shakes his head, once, taking that question at face value and therefore, he's slow to justify his presence and his focus. He splits his focus from the other man, taking in their surroundings, those present—Riftwatch is a small organisation and the Gallows are immense, but these hubs of interest can sometimes get crowded. They aren't strictly alone, just ignored.

If there's a calculation made there, it only betrays itself in the momentary pause before he asks, "Do you want a training partner?"

And his tone is locked down, inscrutable. Maybe he means throwing fireballs at the man for his own amusement. Maybe he'll go pick a sword from the rack and go easy.

There is, of course, the option to turn him down. Easily done.

And there it is, the missing puzzle piece: there's really only one thing that statement could mean, and Barrow winces as clarity dawns.

"Got balls on you," he remarks, ducking his head in a humble nod of acknowledgment, "wishing you the best. Speedy recovery, and all that."

Involuntarily, Vanya exhales a quiet and mirthless laugh at Barrow's assessment of his courage. "Yes, well. Considering the situation, I think it was overdue. But thank you for the good wishes all the same." He can, at least, muster the energy to be gracious about that; he has no doubt they're sincerely meant.

If he'd been feeling better, he might have hurried to correct her. As it is, he pauses a moment, and then says deliberately, "It was important to me that I not take credit for something I don't deserve to be credited for. I have no doubt I'll take the full portion of the blame if it turns out to have been a mistake, regardless."

He's tempted to try to sit up, but he knows that's probably a bad idea, so he stays where he is, half propped up with a bolster and some pillows so people can help him get water and broth down periodically.

"I hope I haven't been too bad of a patient."

For all it's a bit of a loaded question under the circumstances, the fact that Vanya takes a moment seems to merely reflect actual consideration rather than any sort of offense.

"I am not averse, if you are offering," he says, meeting Marcus's gaze. "I do not imagine I will present you a very challenging prospect, just at present. But if you are inclined, it would be good practice for me."

He doesn't know if it's a trap or not, but he's made the decision to treat the offer on face value and see where it goes. It seems to him the best he can do, at present.

Marcus considers Vanya for just a moment longer before he reaches back to take his staff in hand, tugging it free and bringing it around with a more elegant and swift swoop of movement than a weapon like this should probably be entitled to. Dark wood, iron, a bladed attachment, and runic engravings that glow passively once the weapon is in hand.

He steps onto the field, foregoing the more familiar duelling distance to instead come within melee range. A flash of magic, empty hand casting to draw bright white-blue glyphs on the ground beneath their feet to sheath them both in harmless, defensive magic as the Barrier spell pulses and enchants.

A little bit of insurance. Assurance.

"You attack," Marcus suggests. "I'll defend."

"The situation?" Hopefully Vanya just means 'Riftwatch' or 'mages being tetchy', but it seems worth digging a little, just in case.

Flint hardly needs the reminder that Gwenaëlle is an over-confident busy-body,

the problem with being ill-suited to stillness, and surrounded by things that need doing is that she is going to try and do a good half of them, regardless of whether or not she should. And here they are, but she doesn't think this one is so much her doing as he says. At any rate, she's certainly not doing the hardest part.

“I've had worse. How are you feeling?”

Vanya nods; his expression is much as it's always been in Marcus's presence, business neutral, though the touch of illness and fatigue this time is an involuntary addition. He backs up just a step or two and meets Marcus's gaze to ensure the other man is ready.

When he attacks, some of his form is unsurprising. Regional variations aside, Templars all receive much the same martial training. The foundation that's been drilled into Vanya is one Marcus likely know the shape of well, even if Vanya isn't reaching for any way to disrupt magic now. But it is perhaps a bit more surprising that there's a more unconventional layer on top. He's taken some practice and trouble, clearly long before the past weeks alone, to acquire some skills and approaches that are more chaotic that his demeanor might suggest. Nothing in this fight is a cheat or playing dirty, though it's suddenly easier to imagine him employing those tactics in a match with higher stakes. But there's more feinting than Marcus might have guessed ahead of time, and more flexibility to the way he meets his opponent's moves.

All that said. Vanya is still far from his physical best. (And, too, to some degree he must be fighting decades of instinct to face a mage opponent and not even gesture toward reaching for the powers he no longer has access to.)

"Like I've been dragged by horses over several leagues of bad road," he said, frank. "But on the other hand, I'm aware that I am in the Gallows infirmary as a member of Riftwatch, and I know who you are, so I believe that counts as a good day, under the circumstances."

A brief pause, and then he adds, "I could use some more water, whenever someone has a moment." He's drained his again.

He'd mainly meant the situation where he resigned from the Templars years ago, that feels uncomfortable to spell out. Instead, he punts: "Given the state of Riftwatch's relationship with the Chantry, the risk of being cut off from lyrium without warning a not an insignificant one, these days."

Also true, much less personal.

"Ah. ...true."

The thought of which makes Barrow's blood run cold, though he tries not to show it. A strained smile and a nod follows.

"Smart man. I'll... leave you to it."

Circle mages are not educated in how to fend off attack from a sword, save for those uniquely charged in martial experience for whatever purposes a Circle may have for them. Marcus is no Knight-Enchanter, anyway, and moves with instinct and an absence of fear that is probably at least half the battle, when it comes to what he might lack in lifelong training.

But he's done this before, certainly.

Enough so that he can spare some of his mind towards making a study of Vanya, noting all those similarities, those differences, and any instinct to reach for magic-cancelling disruption—or the lack thereof.

Marcus never learned if Templars can themselves sense it, when a mage pulls from the Fade, but he is watchful in the moment he does. It's a subtle thing, a sudden swooping up of a defensive strike to Vanya's raised sword where the bladed end of his staff would normally block his blow—but this time there is a flash of coppery light that glances off his iron blade and propels Vanya backwards as though he had struck him at full force rather than simply stopping.

He takes a step back to match that distance, a gesture of pause in the way he lowers his staff. Watching, taking measure.

"Thank you." For the sympathy, if nothing else. Before Barrow goes, he says, "I'm expected to make it." It's a bit anemic, but it is a joke. Whistling in the dark.

Whether or not he was capable of sensing magic being pulled from the Fade at one time, he evidently can't now. The light that glances off his sword lands like a blow to the solar plexus. Vanya stumbles as he's pushed back, and though he manages to keep his feet, it would have made a useful opening, had Marcus pressed his advantage instead of waiting.

As it is, it's clear when Vanya meets his eyes that he's aware of that hole and how easily Marcus could have used it. (He has the grimly funny thought, I suppose this is why people don't fight mages, usually, but it doesn't touch his expression.)

When he asks "Are we keeping a score?", it seems to be a genuine question. He's taken a defensive stance, waiting to see what next.

Templar or no, Vanya is in the infirmary. Derrica doesn't intend to shirk her duty here, has never parceled out her care differently depending on the person. (Perhaps she is cooler, more perfunctory when it comes to templars, but their injuries are tended to as thoroughly as any other.) She attends her shifts, just as she always has. She attends Vanya, just as she would any other inhabitant of the infirmary.

She comes today with a pitcher of cool water to set at his bedside, alongside the shallow ceramic basic and clean cloths that have been placed there already.

"How are you feeling?" is perhaps the fastest way to discern whether or not Vanya is lucid in this moment.

Well, there's no fear there.

So that's interesting.

Not that a Templar would express or even feel fear in this specific setting, but maybe it's possible of one who no longer had his resources available to him. No anger, either, or irritation, or offense, or if any of those things, kept shuttered up behind a defensive stance and a sense of assessment.

Marcus taps the end of his staff to the ground, another flare of magic that re-establishes the diminished Barrier protecting them both from one another, before swooping his weapon back into both hands, pressing forwards with a step, the intention to take the offensive. "Would you prefer we did?"

Edited 2022-10-14 10:20 (UTC)

He shifts as if to prop himself up a bit, and it takes him longer than he expects. Partway through, he ruefully thinks he shouldn't have bothered, but the easiest way out is through and he resettles slightly more sat up.

"...less disoriented, not much stronger." The second one is probably self-evident. "I've been told before that I am too impatient, expecting to heal faster than is normal, even with mundane injuries." It's been difficult not to think of the last time he was laid up on bedrest at length, but he's been doing his best, to the extent it's in his control.

"I don't feel any need on my own behalf," is a careful answer, but a truthful one. He moves back, watching Marcus carefully as he advances, his own guard up.

It's still something he's working out; usually, his training would tell him to get close, that distance only favored the mage in this sort of combat. Now he's not sure the degree to which that training holds, and it gives him the air of a man doing quick calculations, even as decades of drills take care of his footwork without his mind's conscious input.

"Another time."

And then he moves.

It is not the murderous energy of a true fight, nothing like the wild, careless swings he'd employed against the last Templars he'd matched against just recently—not that he'd enjoyed a victory then, anyway. Perhaps if there'd been only one other, like this, he'd have stood a better chance. Regardless, in spite of a somewhat impolite show of strength a moment before, Marcus treats this as it is—practice and sparring.

He does not make accommodations for Vanya's condition, however. The blunt end of his staff batters a raised shield, the bladed end matches raised sword, and he aims for strikes past Vanya's defenses with the comfortable knowledge that his own magic will keep them both from harm.

More aggression as he tires, but no flashes of arcane light. Less grace, also, than most mages.

Vanya is briefly glad for that lack of accommodation. He doesn't want his hand held; he'd rather know how far there is to go ahead of him. And while it's possibly less than he was braced for, it is still a considerable way.

It's obvious to them both that he tires sooner than he's expecting to, and there finally is a hint of frustration, though it's clearly pointed inward rather than at Marcus. He doesn't call for them to stop immediately , but he's slower, and it leaves him open to more of Marcus's attacks even as the other man tires as well. It's evident that if it were a matter of will and effort alone, Vanya would be well-served, but finally he says, "I suspect I cannot offer you any more useful time today as a sparring opponent." He probably should have said it 10 minutes sooner, but he holds steady on his feet.

To his credit, Marcus stepping back when time is called sees him catching his breath. He bears a heavy weapon and there is not a lot of opportunity to match his skills against someone who fights as a Templar is trained to.

In fact, there is no opportunity. None he has so far been willing to pursue, until now.

He nods, seemingly satisfied with—something, perhaps simply the sparring session. Maybe this is where more amenable opponents would go get a drink, either water from the nearest supply or a tavern across the water, but this thing doesn't cross Marcus' mind at all as he lowers his staff.

But he does say, "Another time?" in unconscious echo of the last thing he said mid-sparring, only poised as a question.

Barrow turns back and grins at the remark, giving a little nod of acknowledgment.

"Then I suppose you'd better."

"Don't try to sit up," she instructs, though this is familiar. It is not even particular to Vanya, really. He attempts to regain some measure of—

Not control, not really. Normalcy, maybe. It is polite to make oneself presentable, in whatever way is available to them.

A gentle touch to his shoulder is meant to steady him. He might as well remain where he is, because yes, he is meant to be resting.

"I'll have Mister Dickerson look you over," though Richard will likely have no more promising news. "But I think you'll have to give yourself more time to reacclimate."

Vanya is charged with the care of the bowl. Derrica plunks it onto his stomach, held there expectantly until his hands come up to either side of it.

Vanya nods, still unsure what exactly is going on, but not unwilling to engage. "I am here most days, around this time." He doesn't offer the drink together either, of what it's worth, but the information is an invitation in its own way. "I do not expect I will be assigned field work unless it is an emergency for another few weeks, at least."

His hands still tremble visibly, but it's mild enough that they can steady a bowl resting on his stomach. He's not sure he's up to working the spoon yet, though given his temperament, she can guess he'll try without complaint whenever he's prompted.

"The last time I was on long bedrest," he says, watching the bowl to make sure he doesn't spill it, "I was also told I was expecting too much too soon. I think it may be a flaw in my temperament." It was, in its way, strangely comforting. That this, at least, wasn't the lyrium; it was just Vanya, an obedient but fundamentally impatient man when faced with recuperation.

Marcus nods.

Not all of his curiousity is assuaged. Just some. But extracting the information he wants out of Vanya would take more finesse, he thinks, than he currently has available to him. So instead he takes Vanya's information as both acceptance and opportunity for dismissal, moving off out of his space without further comment, in search of water and shade.

"You're in good company."

Vanya is hardly the only member of Riftwatch eager to return to his duties, despite what his body might need.

She thinks briefly of Holden. Turns that thought aside.

"Do you know how long it should take? Until the lyrium out of your system?"

He pauses to consider the question. "For obvious reasons, it's not much discussed. The process of breaking away from lyrium. I'm mainly basing the guess on the rumors I heard about Commander Cullen, but ... I think probably a week or so, to get the last dose I took out. I expect the cravings to go on for some time longer."

Or maybe he'd get lucky, but he's not counting on that.

After a moment, because he thinks it might matter: "Commander Flint agreed that it was better to handle at a time of my choosing, rather than risk the Chantry cutting off ex-Templars who won't come back into the fold." The Exalted March is going to need more men sooner than later; even if Riftwatch specifically doesn't burn their bridges with the Chantry, he expects the patience for former Templars is likely to run thin sooner rather than later.

Her gaze sharpens slightly as these words land.

What is this concern rooted in? Had Vanya heard something? If there is some looming potential for such a threat to be not only made, but enacted—

But even so, it means something that he has taken this step. Even if he has done it under threat.

"It speaks well of you," Derrica tells him, a little tightly. "To break away."

To give up power. All the templars among them, claiming to have broken ties while grasping the power afforded to them regardless. Vanya Orlov will be just another man. And he choose that.

Marcus Rowntree hauling him into his office had been a clue. That said, he doesn't know Derrica well enough to anticipate her worry and so doesn't think to answer it.

"It would have spoken better of me if I'd done it sooner, I do realize," he says instead. "But ... I came here to be of use against Corypheus. And I am not so arrogant that I can't admit I was wrong about there being only one thing I could do." If nothing else, he'll still be able to ride a griffon, when he recovers. He's a literate man with a good head for figures; he could work for the seneschal. He's had time to think about options, lying here.

After a moment, he adds quietly, "I am sorry. If my presence has made you feel unsafe, until now."

It's a very kind gesture.

Derrica still tenses up upon hearing it, conflicted in the face of this transparent sincerity. It is more than she's ever been given. More consideration than she's ever known a templar to give.

Former templar. With Vanya, that label can truly be applied.

"Thank you," is the simplest answer, less weighted down by all the complicated, difficult emotion that's come rushing to the surface. She twists the sodden cloth between her hands.

Has she felt unsafe? When she considers it, Vanya has comported himself with the least malice here.

So when Derrica says, "You never lied," it isn't absolution, or forgiveness. But there is some give to the words, a lessening of tension by a few scant degrees.

The expression that briefly twists his mouth gives the impression of chewing something tough. (Perhaps the words what a low bar I've set, which he doesn't say.)

Instead, he takes the thanks as graciously as he can. It may have been more than he expected, for all Derrica's never hesitated to treat him in any visible way. "We're all colleagues, here," he says, "and I have tried to ... once the war against Corypheus is over, I will have to think about restitution, but until then, I have tried at least not to do further harm." It's not her to broadly forgive him, and he knows it. But he can at least offer an explanation, if she is open to hearing it.

Restitution.

What would that look like? It certainly isn't within Vanya Orlov's power to give, or at least, not for him to give to her. There may be mages somewhere in Thedas who would welcome apology, would know what he could do for them that would ease some of the damage done. But Derrica is not one of them, and what she wants is so much bigger than both of them.

"I know you're trying."

He's already done more than most.

"Do you intend to fight against the Chantry, if there's a need when Corypheus has been dealt with?"

He pauses, not because the question is one he's never thought of, but just because it's one he's never had to articulate to anyone else before.

Finally, he says, "If it comes to that. Though I have to wonder if I'd do more harm than good, if those I fought beside never trusted me fully. If they spent some part of their attention on whether I'd betray them." It would be the same problem as Riftwatch, writ much larger, in a worst-case scenario.

A stretch of quiet follows after this answer, while Derrica weighs it. Tests the edges for sincerity, rather than excuse.

Watches his face as she questions, "Would you?"

Under the circumstances, the question doesn't not sting, but he can't blame her for needing to ask. Still, this is an easier one to answer than some of the others.

"I know we don't know one another well. But while I have many faults, going back on my word is not among them. If I am with an ally, or an organization, I feel I can no longer fight beside, I will tell them so outright and take my leave. I have no stomach for betrayal, and I never have." He exhales. "I grant you. Not everyone defines betrayal the same way." He knew what bonds he was breaking, when he left the Templars. To a lesser extent, when he left the Inquisition. "But I hope my actions continue to demonstrate that no one need worry that my loyalties are not what I say they are."

Thus, in fact, the withdrawal he is currently experiencing.

"You're very candid about all of this."

Apart from Redvers, who made no secret of himself and his opinion. Vanya Orlov distinguishes himself only in demonstrating some understanding of injustice, and his role in perpetuating it.

That quality, Derrica holds in high esteem. Honesty matters. It doesn't move her to forgiveness, but it softens her slightly. Makes it easier to look at him.

"And I'd rather have your actions than pretty words," she tells him, gently, lifting the basin as she rises to her feet. "I hope you are well soon."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

All we do is play it safe [Open]

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the infirmary.

iii.

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i / the infirmary. (this is real late, pls forgive/disregard as needed)

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you're golden

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arrives late to offer a bow to this