faderift | open + closed | mistakes have been made

A wry, tired smile at Mobius, and Barrow takes the hint: stop bitching, figure out what to do.
His ale arrives and he swigs it, pauses to look thoughtfully down into the mug.

"Gotta go off the blue, I think."

"You think?" Mobius orders something light and plain and piss to start with, so he can spike it with the good shit. His brows furrow. "If you need contacts to keep a supply up, I know a couple people."

Holding out his mug for a bit of The Good Shit, Barrow shrugs.

"I'm covered there," he sighs, "'less they get shut down, which... y'know. They might. Just seems like the right thing to do, at this point. Sever the leash."

Good Shit delivered. Have at. And he doesn't even have to pay for it.

It's never been an easy thing to talk about, at any point, even with another Templar. It was never something to talk about, except in broad metaphor. But it's an extremely open secret, and after everything Stephen's been trying with him--

Mobius takes a breath, steadying. "The doctor's been trying to convince me to get off it for a while. I keep arguing--among a couple arguments, really--that what it lets us do is useful. Fighting off Venatori gets a lot easier when you can help nullify the thing that gives them their power. If we all gave it up, that's one less real effective defense against a powerful enemy." He shakes his head. "Maybe I just never saw it as a leash."

"It is that."

Useful. A lot of Barrow's combat prowess stems from the lyrium in his blood, and he'd be a fool to deny it. He rubs at his temple, thinking on Mobius' words.

"I s'pose I just," he murmurs pensively, "...I've seen it used against us too many times. Philosophically, and also physically. You get stuck without it, even for a short time, you're fucked. And people know that.

's like being unable to fight without one specific sword, and you're helpless if it's lost or taken away." Feels bad.

"It's like any..." He rolls a hand around, really wanting to avoid just straight up saying the word addiction, especially in a public setting. "Need or craving." Close enough? "It can be used against you, and it can be used to cripple you. It's just balancing the risks and the rewards."

His right hand, gloved as ever, taps on the bartop. He can't feel it in his hand, but he can feel the solid sensation through his arm, and that's good enough. He can 'feel' the presence of the anchor shard in his hand, but has never been able to determine if it's really an actual physical sensation or not. "Doc's also been trying to tell me that since my recent acquisition," which isn't so recent, actually, "makes up for anything I'd lose if I gave it up. And I can still swing a sword, put up my shield, just not quite as good as I used to, with my hands. Not really the same thing, though, is it?"

Sensing Mobius' hesitance, Barrow nudges his head in the direction of a table that's just opened up and begins to shoulder his way through the crowd to it. He goes unchallenged, in part because nobody really wants to start anything with a man his size, especially one who looks so frayed at the edges.

"'s not the same thing," he agrees, slumping into a chair and beginning to rub his temple with his free hand, "maybe I should go get an anchor." haa

There are positives to being as big as Barrow, for sure. Mobius has always preferred being overlooked and less noticed, but it doesn't always suit the needs.

"Yeah, definitely throw yourself at every rift you can find and pray you get struck." That's sarcasm. But also...unless...

"We're no spring chickens. I figure for me, it's a race as to what kills me first, and the fact that I'm still standing every year is a pleasant surprise. I don't know...if it's cynical to not be too worried about the effects of long-term use kicking in if I might not last long enough for it to matter." He huffs out a small breath. "Does scare the shit out of me, though. If my mind starts to go."

"'s not fair," Barrow remarks, "already got killed once, look where it's got me." He's trying to make light of it, but there's still a grimness to his expression as he looks into his drink, "...wouldn't mind lasting a bit longer, to be honest. With my mind. Such as it is."

Mobius will let that making light of death settle where it intends to land. It's not something he wants to let his mind slip back to, and his mouth twitches a there-and-gone smile under the bristle of his moustache.

"If you want to..."

Stephen keeps whittling at him. But, Maker above, if they keep losing Templars and their abilities, Mobius might have to keep on it just to make sure there's still someone who can. That doesn't even feel like a nudge from Andraste. Just simple logistics.

He sighs and rubs at his face gingerly with a hand, making sure not to flex any digits to inadvertently poke himself in the eye with. "I can give you reasons to stay on, and I can give you reasons to get off, and at the end of the day, it's a matter of choice. If you decide that's what you want, I'll support you. Of course I will."

Because Barrow without his mind is something nobody should have to bear witness to. Least of all Barrow.

"But if it's a choice you want to make cuz the idea of the Order coming out swinging for your head scares you enough that you think going off will get them off your back, I'd say think about it a little longer until you've got some less jumpy reasons."

Glancing at Mobius over the rim of his mug, Barrow sees that he's flustered, conflicted-- feels a little guilty about it, ultimately, but the voiced support causes that to abate somewhat. His smile is weak, sad.

"It's," he thinks a moment, to ensure he isn't lying, "...it's not that. I mean, that's a factor, but it's just. An excuse."

With a heavy sigh, he seems to melt back into his chair, and stares at his mug to evade the vulnerability of meeting Mobius' eyes.
"Only thing I've ever really wanted," he murmurs, in a moment of tired, raw honesty, "'s to live free."

Edited 2025-01-07 21:39 (UTC)

"Then you picked a hell of a life going to the Templars," Mobius says with a wry smile. Picks his mug up in a cheers and downs some. To live free.

What a thought.

"Okay. Freedom it is, then. You're gonna get your ass off the blue, and anyone that comes at you for it, you're still gonna have the rest of us and the rest of Riftwatch at your back." And that's that about that, as far as he's concerned. "You're gonna go to Strange and figure this out. Have you gone without for a while before?" Like, he's just gonna go out on a limb and think yeah, of course, but still. "It's not going to be fun."

It could be a hell of a lot worse than no fun.

Barrow's returning smile is sad, pensive-- to the son of a devoutly Andrastian farmer, going off to join soldiers looked enough like freedom. Freedom from shoveling cow shit the rest of his life, at least, but in hindsight there's a gnawing thought that if he'd known what it really was, what it really meant, he'd never have left the farm.

"Couple days without," he confirms softly, "I know."

open + closed | mistakes have been made

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