I can do it with instruments,

[fightingale]

WHO: Leliana & open;
WHAT: the many adventures of Sister Nightingale - open prompts and some custom made.
WHEN: Some prompts can be backdated, if you like! Otherwise, spanning the end of fantasy land January.
WHERE: various!
NOTES:brackets or prose are fine, I'll match whatever you prefer :Db feel free to pp me on @swoons on plurk, or pm me if you'd like a custom starter! I'm more than happy to whip one up.

( herald's rest. )

( and there goes someone slinking out of the tavern, and they may just have knocked into your character on their way. they have lost a fine dagger and a bag of coin to a woman sitting in the corner, who is presently shuffling cards with a slight, pleased smile. it was foolish to let skills atrophy, whether it is the wielding of blades and arrows, or the brutal delivery of a winning hand. she has finished her wine, and is waiting for the man at the bar to deliver more. )

( gardens. )

( In the past she would spend more time in their little improvised Chantry, have lit candles and murmured prayers. She finds herself lacking the inclination, today. The Chantry has been a comfort to her for so many years, now, but she has always existed at odds with others. The brothers and sisters in Lothering had doubted her, and there had been part of her that relished the attention, even as she was appalled by their self-centered obsession that the Maker's love must make you unique. The memory makes a sharp, unpleasant smile tug at the corners of her mouth as she wanders the garden. It has become something of habit, letting the sun's descent and the pulling away of the yellows and oranges pooled across the sky and the inky blue and black of the night sky truly falls. Perhaps it is dramatic of her, but she would like to allow herself the indulgence.

Perhaps she hears the approach, and it breaks her from her reverie, or perhaps it is one of the rare occasions where she chooses to make the approach. )

It is beautiful, no?

( wildcard. )

I'm lazy, hit me with whatever idea grabs you :]b Rookery? Nug adventures? idk ANYTHING

( alistair. )

( Most people give their friends some warning before visiting.
Most people, however, are not Leliana, and so it is that she is standing at the entrance of Alistair's chambers just as he is leaving to go somewhere, a squeaking nug following at her ankles. She cannot loom over Alistair (it's not like she can physically loom over most people, actually) but she still has something of a presence, and she sometimes forgets not to loom in social settings. Or maybe she just wants to see the look on his face, because Alistair is so terribly expressive. She can't imagine a worse spy, but that's an endearing quality in a friend. ) Did I catch you at a bad time?

( That smile suggests that she isn't overly concerned about it, actually. )

( maria hill. )

( There were not many templars she held in esteem. Or, perhaps, there were not many templars that she deemed worthy of their rank and responsibility-- no. Leliana frowns, discontent with her own thoughts. The Chantry was a flawed thing, a thing that needed gutting and reworking in its entirety, as much as she suspects the very mention of such thoughts would make some amongst her frequent company less than easy. The Maker was a being of love, of acceptance - and he made mages, and granted them their gift. Why, then, was it the Maker's will that they be torn from their families, treated as if they were abominations before a demon could so much have dreamed of tempting them. Their gifts were shackled, and their wills, and all the while murderers and thieves like Leliana herself could walk free. It was not right, and the thoughts of Chantry corruption, of templar abuses of power and the suffering that those who claimed to do the Maker's bidding brought was insufferable. It could not endure.

Leliana paces, one hand balled into a tight fist as she walks the ramparts, eager to gain some air away from the rookery. And perhaps these thoughts leave her a hypocrite, because what is she, if not a bringer of death? She could bring men to their knees with a threat and a whisper, and cut their throats for the sake of certainty. She was no better, that she knows, but it is not for herself that she Chantry must be reformed. No, she knows the darkness within, and it is only one so well-versed that could dream of cutting away such a foul infection with the surgical precision required.

Perhaps the Maker has a sense of humour, that she looks away from the stretch of blue skies and mountains, only to be met with... a templar, and a cooperative one, at that. The hand that was so tightly clenched relaxes, and Leliana eases her posture, leaning against the ivy-strewn wall. ) Maria. I trust all is well?

( zevran. )

( Luncheon between assassins. It was laughable, in a way. Still, she has put off catching up with her old friend for far too long, and of all people, Zevran is one of few she has the most tolerance for. It is not that she is impatient, and she can play parts well, it is simply... Zevran knows her well, better than most, and so there are those who wish to make an impression on Sister Nightingale, on the advisor and the spymaster, or they are afraid of what she knows and what she can do. Neither particularly bothers her, but sometimes it is pleasant to be in the company of those who do carry the same expectations. Perhaps being in the company of one who remembers the earnest bard come lay-sister is a relief, as well, who has seen her evolution.

Leliana is sitting on a rooftop, eyes closed and inhaling deeply, relishing the way the mountain air stings her lungs on the deep breath, and has something of a picnic - if such a term can be used, in these circumstances - laid out. Eyes still closed, she smiles ever so slightly. He may move silently, stalk with the best, but she is Sister Nightingale, and detection is something she has known for decades, now. )

You made it.

Comments

[ombranera]

'Come join me for lunch' you say, 'it is a lovely day for it' you say.

[ Pointless griping that is indeed pointless, the climb is one he's made before- while half drunk at that, and with far less cause. Silent as he might be she hears him approach and for that she has his affection. It is a rare thing for him to be caught out. But she has never been cruel over it; efficient as Leliana might be? As cold as she must be to perform her function? He has never known her to be cruel.

Zevran settles at her side, lounging without a great many of the masks. No lothario, no Ombra Nera, no 'hero zevran', simply himself. An elf making his way as best he is able. ]

You mentioned a free lunch. However can I pass such a thing up?

[fightingale]

You complain over my invitations, and yet.

( free lunch or no, she is fairly sure he could charm free food from their most alarming of kitchen hands. Still, she is pleased he joined her (did she doubt? Perhaps, just briefly) and slides a plate of assorted sandwiches in his direction, and idly waves her hand at the rest of the spread. Simple food, easily served cold, nothing too lavish, but still better than some of their meals on the road in the old days. They hardly needed to revisit all the horrors of the past, hmm? )

Perhaps if it were cooked by Alistair?

garden!

[amygdalae]

[The sun is setting and with that Bruce decides to call it a day with his work at the garden. It's mostly just himself today since the others are busy with their own things, but the silence and familiarity of working alone is something that Bruce can appreciate. Its just nice to sometimes not think about anything else and focus on the work. Bruce knew better than anybody else how much he needed that.

As he steps out of the garden wiping the sweat off his forehead, his attention is drawn to the setting sun in the distance. Snow from the distant mountains glisten off the rays of the sun, and the colours splash with the darkening skies, painting everything into an ethereal twilight before night fully takes over.

Perhaps it is only here in Skyhold that he can see such a sight.

Bruce stares at the sky for a while before a voice brings him out from his reverie, and he turns to see who else but the Left Hand of the Divine herself. Not exactly something he had expected to see out here.]

Ah--yes. [He returns, even if he's not truly sure that she's talking to him.] Being up here does give us the chance to see such sights more commonly than we're used to.

[fightingale]

Especially in times such as these.

( A war that has Templars and mages cutting each other down, with little concern for who or what else might be torn apart in the process, rifts that break the air and spill demons from the Fade. There was much that made taking a breath, a moment, to appreciate that which was good in their world seem an impossibility.

She turns to face the healer more properly, gaze critical and assessing. A healer, she recalls, one around whom certain gossip circulates, and she wonders if it would be cruel to set him on the back foot in their first technical meeting. )

Are you planning on meeting Scout Harding? I can leave you to it, should you wish for privacy. ( Well, it was a little too entertaining to resist, when she has spent what feels like months so focused on their work. Her tone is quiet, teasing, and maybe there is the hint that she knows how ridiculous the teasing is -- but perhaps Bruce just imagined it. )

At the Tavern

[sunshinethroughgrey]

" - well excuse you as well!" Bethany muttered, as she eyed the man who had shoved past her. Honestly, you wear a staff and people think you're just going to cower. She would have put on her Stern face and gave him a lecture on manners -- except she was fairly certain he had a dagger on him.

Or, did. And wasn't there a coin purse that hit her hip? She turned around to see if they had dropped on the floor and saw a woman twirling the dagger. Her eyes widened, before she looked to the man, then back to the woman.

"...Let me guess, you have friends who are mages?"

[fightingale]

"I have many friends, and some of them are mages," she allows, nodding to the barkeep as more wine appears at the table, and then glancing to the woman who addressed her. "Although this entirely the work of my own hands, and no magic."

A Grey Warden, and from her recollection they had a small number arrive recently. Good, that, for Alistair's sake as much as the Inquisition's. As for the young woman herself, Leliana recognises her from her time at the Lothering Chantry - Bethany Hawke, probably the more agreeable Hawke sibling in general - and it sparks a smile. She, at least, had appreciated stories. Her hand signals to the server to pause, just a moment.

"Would you care to join me?"

gardens;

[arcaneadvisor]

[At least things have improved since she arrived, after the Abomination decimated the garden because when used to sitting out in the wilds or prowling them from youth, being outdoors is better than being indoors. Especially Skyhold what with all the noise.

Spotting Leliana is not how she expected her day to go, en route to the library to see if there are more books she might need to send for, and Kieran is quickly sent scurrying on his way.

Meeting Zevran went well, but seeing as Alistair's only watched them both from afar? She's not going to do this in front of him when he could be off eating with his little friends instead.]

There are matters far more important than beauty, one would think that you of all people...

[Hello Leliana, have you missed her particularly special way of looking at the world and her poor people skills?]

[fightingale]

( Ah, it is as if nothing has changed at all. She is not certain if that is a comfort or not, but it summons a slight smile, regardless. The last time she spoke with Morrigan of beauty, that she can recall, it had involved her commenting on Morrigan's own, only to be met with utter self assurance. It was admirable, in a way. )

What do we fight for, if not the sake of beauty? We neither of us would want to live in a world that was a mere smouldering ruin, and I doubt you would wish it for your boy.

( She has yet to actually turn to Morrigan, and her cowl keeps her expression a little more obscured. Simply because she is no longer a being that belongs to such spheres does not mean she cannot take a moment to appreciate beauty, from time to time. Long ago did she accept that she does terrible, vicious things in the name of preserving beauty for others, for fighting this desperate cause and the Divine's before it. )

The interplay between those who have care of one another, history and myth - they all of them have a beauty, no?

garden;

[wickedchase]

[Twisted Fate is a far cry from Andrastian, or much of many things. He's agnostic about his relationship with the Creators, and uncertain of what path he particularly follows in regard to that, but he can still respect and appreciate a level of faith. The sisters may not always appreciate that a Dalish elf decided he wanted a room next to the gardens, but he's indifferent.

He likes them, and he isn't alone in that.

When Leliana turns around and describes the garden, Fate holds still. He knows who she is. It's hard not to, as part of the Inquisition. There are few people that make him wary or hesitate, but he would admit that she is one of them. He's a man who hoards secrets, and she unravels them if she needs to.

Not good for business, really.

But he plays up a smile, nodding his head kindly to her.]

That they are, madame. I'm sorry if I was interrupting.

[fightingale]

( Twisted Fate, yes, she's seen him. Nothing says mystery like a refusal to use something more closely resembling an actual name. It makes her think of the code names of her scouts, marking him as easily as if he'd run through the courtyard waving a torch.

Fortunately, she has many matters to attend to, but a mystery resting within the Inquisition can be a dangerous thing, and she will not see the cause Justinia was so dedicated to fall to ruin.

Her smile is friendly, and that should be the first warning sign. ) Not at all. I had hoped to make your acquaintance. Twisted Fate, yes?

( She Definitely did not plan to be here around the same time as hime. Definitely. Not. Nope. )

Another garden thread

[eolasemah]

[Sina is on her knees, wrist-deep in soil, when she spots Sister Nightingale. She's seen her before, acknowledged her with a nod once or twice, and although she isn't personally familiar with the more high-up members of the Inquisition, Sina can tell just by her presence that this is someone important.

She sits up to retrieve one of the small potted herbs, which she removes from its pot and sets carefully in the hole she'd been clearing. Leliana receives a timid smile of welcome, though Sina doesn't address her. She'd hate to bother her.]

[fightingale]

( Sometimes silence can be an evasion, and an evasion is worth following up on. Whether it is a simple matter of shyness, timidity, or whether there is some other purpose in it. Secrets, plotting, so many things that would make any number of people roll their eyes. They are not, as a general rules, master players of the Game.

Leliana approaches, and with a quiet snuffle and squeak, a nug approaches from around the corner and comes scurrying after her. She shakes her head at the creature as it scuttles over to Sina, ever inquisitive. Typical Nugistair, alas. )

Please forgive the intrusion, ( the Spymaster murmurs, as the nug snuffles around where Sina is working. ) He is a friendly beast.

[byblow]

Maker.

[ He takes a backward step and bumps his shoulder into the door frame; his expression, since she wanted to see it, is a wide-eyed, startled why this sort of thing that quickly turns into affectionate, squinty smirking. Hoods and shadows and ravens, whatever. He's not afraid of her. Not as long as he isn't doing anything to jeopardize the Inquisition or hurt the Chantry. If he ever does, then he'll be afraid of her. ]

No, [ he says, to answer her question, and steps back out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him. His chambers are actually Zevran's chambers, because Zevran is a ridiculous elf who likes to use him as a heater and, for some reason, objects to him sleeping with dogs—so Alistair is careful about locking the door. A lot of poison inside. ] There are no bad times. Not like I have anything to do.

[ There's a mild bitter note there. He doesn't blame Leliana personally for the Inquisition's failure to rush to the Wardens' aid, but it does, you know. Suck. In his opinion.

But there's nothing to be done about it now, and, meanwhile, there's a nug. ]

Who's this?

[fightingale]

( Ah, there it is, and that familiar life no expression is enough to win a quiet chuckle from her. Rare, these days, and not so free as her laughter may have once been (especially if dwarven ale were involved. Damn Oghren and that ale.)

The motion to pull the door shut just makes her curious, makes her wonder if there is something her brothers would dare to conceal from her, tricks and secrets, but these are the thoughts of Sister Nightingale, and they are gently pressed back when it comes to Alistair. Perhaps it is a folly, on her part, to trust the two of them so freely and so easily now, but friendship and love have always been things treasured. Her trust may not be so easily won, these days, but neither is trust well won and deserved like to be cast aside.

And his bitterness. Of course Alistair would wish that they run to the aid of the Wardens. Some matters are, however, out of her hands. She is but one voice in four, and beyond that, she will not favour a cause simply because it is... personal. It is a softness, an indulgence, that they can no longer afford. Until their resources are heightened, she will not be swayed. (And she may feel guilt for it, may regret that feeling of letting down a friend, but one thing is certain: Thedas must come first, even if it means dooming the Grey Wardens. She exhales a harsh breath ("harsh" really just means "slightly more audible than usual") and wonders what has sparked that bitterness, now, debating asking him about it before she instead decides to glance down at the bunny-pig snuffling about Alistair's feet. )

One of my newest charges, in fact. Rather haplessly endearing, is he not? ( A moment to smile at the nug, and then look to her friend, entirely serene. ) He is Nugistair.

( :D )

herald's rest!!!

[rathercommon]

[ It's not a man who brings the wine, though. No: this time, the wine is brought by a small dwarva girl, a girl with a friendly smile and watchful eyes over it. She could bring it and leave it, but instead she lingers a bit, glancing at the cards. Then she sets the wine down in front of Leliana and asks: ]

What did you win from him?

[fightingale]

( She would hardly be a spy worth her salt if she were not aware of the girl's watchful presence, wine carrier or no. People can take on many guises when they are working in espionage, and it is second nature to catalogue the behaviour of everyone in the room. Is an unconscious drunk truly unconscious? Are the wait staff even in the employ of the Inquisition? Does each item smell and taste as it should? She thinks, and double-thinks, and people wonder why she keeps so much to the rookery.

The question suggests a more innocent curiosity - perhaps. Leliana sets down the knife. )

It is nothing extraordinary, ( she comments, gesturing to the blade, ) But it is of Antivan design. He claimed to have purchased it from a smith in Val Royeaux, but none exists by the name he told me.

( She did him the service of letting him gamble away what he had stolen from others, rather than simply picking his pockets. It had been an amusing diversion. Then - and only then - does she look to the girl directly. ) We have not met.

[nofury]

['Well' was a very relative term, and Maria's slight, sardonic smile reflects that fact. But of all people in the world, the Left Hand knew that fact well enough. There was no point in detailing the thousand things little and grand going wrong in the Inquisition and Thedas to the other woman. She knew them all, and a great deal more than Maria herself did. But she takes the greeting as an invitation to join the other woman by the wall, taking in the expansive view of the Frostback mountains herself.]

For the moment. The near future is another question all together.

[fightingale]

True. That we are not certain of some immediate catastrophe, however, remains a matter to be thankful for.

( Haven cannot, will not be forgotten. Nor the Conclave, nor any manner of calamity that has befallen them. ) So long as we have that, the fight continues.

( It is not exactly the most inspirational or uplifting or statements, but Leliana is not necessarily the person you go to for pep talks. That, generally, falls to Josephine. )

[arlathvhen]

[ Beleth stiffens when the Nightingale hears her approach and actually turns to speak to her. She feels a little guilty, like a child caught eavesdropping--She hadn't quite meant to, but she was curious about the woman who wasn't just her boss, but the boss of her boss. The one who coordinated all the scouts and spies of the Inquisition. A shadowy figure in her tower, weaving a web of information. The mental image fits well against this cloaked woman roaming the gardens at sunset, shadows cast down on the flora.

All in all, it's rather intimidating, and Beleth has to resist muttering some apologies and slinking away to let the woman have the garden to herself. She's never going to a very impressive spy if she can't even speak to the spymaster. What would Zevran say?

Besides. She's talking about flowers. Stop freaking out, Beleth. ]

It is. It's come a long way from when we first got here and everything was brush and weeds. I think that any noble house would be hard put to put a nicer garden in their own holds.

But I might be biased.

I am so sorry it's taken me inexcusably long to reply, I've been moving house and super scattered

[fightingale]

( Beleth; of course she has heard the name. It would be remiss if she had not, although she must admit that one of the very reasons she has descended from the tower, has made herself a little more... visible, present these past few days is that she would wish to know the people of the Inquisition better. Perspective, she had told Morrigan, and it had not been a lie. Leliana cannot say it was entirely honest, if only because in her more dramatic moments she wonders just how much capacity for total honesty (and the goodness that she thinks must surely go with such a dangerous thing) she has. Certainly she is not in the business of transparency.

Her present company's response does not win a smile, but she does huff something that could almost make for a laugh. Or just a touch of amusement? Who really knows. Leliana cannot be certain herself, half the time, and that is part of what troubles her; they must act with certainty, with swiftness, and pray to the Maker that their action reflect his will and guidance (though she wonders, sometimes, whether what the Maker would wish is truly what the world should endure, when so much death seems tethered to Him.)

But the young woman has made a response, and here is Leliana, pausing perhaps a little too long before replying. ) Certainly there is more to be appreciated in that which you have spent long hours working on.

( She turns to Beleth more fully. ) And the transformation is an impressive one.

( Even with the damage incurred by the abomination, even with the limited resources they have, fine work has been done. ) I do not believe we have met, formally.

( Seeing people around Skyhold and in the company of those you already know, perhaps even speaking in their presence without addressing them... that can hardly pass for a meeting. She has had other concerns. )

the ROOKERY

[theproperglove]

( Josephine is as much a fixture of the Ambassador's office as its furniture, which is why its rare to see her outside it. Yet here she is, climbing the stairs to her old friend's haunt, without much of the grace she reserves for other people. As she approaches Leliana, Josephine's nose is clearly wrinkled, as though she's being subjected to some manner of unpleasant stench: which, in fact, is exactly what's happening. )

I do not know how you stand the smell.

( Her tone is light, conversational; a troll could probably tell that there's something else on her mind. Someone with Leliana's sense of perception could see Josephine in a heartbeat, or less. As though to make matters worse, Josephine shifts her weight from foot to foot. )

AYYYY GURL

[fightingale]

It keeps away those who desire casual conversation, ( she replies, and very dryly at that. Leliana's reputation, the constant movement of agents and scouts reporting, and the general aura of impending death likely is more repellent than the smell of Varric Feathras, Marian Squawke and all their fellows.

Leliana has not looked up for the letter she is composing, allowing it just a moment to dry before rolling it up and attaching it to Ser Quillby's leg. These are quick, practiced motions, and the bird is out the window in a matter of moments. A breath, and finally she turns to her friend, body language just fractionally more open than what she'd offer most people. )

I trust you aren't here with recommendations of potpourri?

for shale.

[fightingale]

( She has neglected an old friend overlong, an unhappy truth which reflects much of her life since the Blight. Since Marjolaine, really, the only consistent correspondence and presence for all thoae years was Dorothea, and then Justinia when she ascended to Divine. Oh, Leliana answers letters, but the Nightingale's responses are always so much more urgent. At least in the case of Shale there is the solace that her stone sister probably cannot weild a quill, and that a messenger bird would probably cause offence - and that was the best case scenario, particularly for the poor thing.

Regardless of all that, taking days (no, a week? Longer?) to greet Shale to the Inwuisition was unpardonable, and Leliana moves down the stairwell with light steps. Thankfully, Shale is never hard to fnd. )

Stone Sister, ( she starts, from behind the golem. ) I owe you an apology for my lateness.

[dwarfing]

[The golem standing in the courtyard turns smolwly when they hear Leliana's voice, glowing eyes glancing down at the redhead. She was... different from when Shale saw her last. A little sharper, perhaps. A little less squishy.]

It has finally left its tower of evil fiends. [Shale isn't personally affronted by that choice of occupation, not at all.]

The Sister can be late if it wants. I have been told it is very busy.

for isabela.

[fightingale]

Leliana is in the Rookery. This is hardly a revelation. She is almost always in the Rookery, Sister Nightingale overseeing the lives and deaths of the people of Thedas from her great tower. In reality, the tower is not so grand. Cages must be cleaned, letters must be written. As of this moment, candles must be lit, Leliana standing at her impromptu shrine to the Maker and Andraste, lightning two fresh candles and nodding to the icon in the alcove as the flames dance in the draught from the window.

It seems that it was a great folly, her brief stint away from Skyhold. Leliana was barely parted from here a few days, and yet it feels like the costs for that-- that whimy, that indulgence, will be great indeed. Crows had been in Skyhold, had infiltrated their numbers, and a dear friend was taken. Was that the cost of her adventuring beyond the keep?

More vigilance was necessary. More careful scheming, monitoring, taking every element, every person within the Inquisition and examining them exhaustively, until she could be satisfied their intent was pure.

"Maker, preserve us," she murmurs very quietly.

[easternseaqueen]

"The Maker can shove it. Nothing that goes on around here involves him," scoffs a familiar voice over the sound of leather boots across the floor.

Isabela drifts by the cages, gloved fingers running along the bars.
"All right, little ravens. Who feels like visiting the shore today?" she coos.