faderift | I can do it with instruments,

Entry tags:

I can do it with instruments,

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.

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A jewel, of course. ( She sounds so indulgent, as if speaking to an insistent child, though it is in jest. That she would have said the same of Val Royeaux, many years ago, however, does bring a certain wryness to her. )

Perhaps one day you should compose a ballad to honour it. I could lend you a lute.

I already have a lute, Leliana.

[ He leans back against the roof, grinning at her, the usual edge gone. She is here, she is well, she is herself. He had worried that perhaps she had changed more than he but...she is Leliana.

She need be nothing more. ]

Perhaps after I have seen it again for myself. It has been too long.

Ah. ( Hold on, she's having a sip of water. ) Mine is better.

( Of course it is. Even if it isn't. That isn't the point, here.

She pauses, at that, turning the comment over carefully, inspecting it, as if it were a river stone with patterns and smooth contours to explore. Perhaps after I have seen it again for myself. It has been too long. )

Such could be said for so much in our lives, no?

It is not.

[ Easy, petty, childish, harmless.

Things no one would ever expect of the Ombra Nera or Sister Nightingale. These are the things they share with no one else. ]

Alas, yes. But until then I have the Jewel of the Inquisition to keep me company.

It is. Sten said so, and Sten never lies.

( How have they been reduced to this?

And a snort, at that. ) For both our sakes, I will assume you speak of someone else. Jewels are far too eye-catching to be any good as spies.

I did not have my lute when Sten was about. This is a new one. Better. Antivan made, therefore it is the best.

[ Better than fiddly, fancy Orlesian things, that is for certain. ]

Mmmm...I meant Josephine. Lovely woman, isn't she?

Oh, I see. ( Said with all the serenity of someone who believes the person they are talking to is just misguided and foolish. There there, Zevran, there there.

( Well. She might, in the past, have been contrary. "So, you are saying I am not a jewel?" with expertly played faux-sadness. Now her eyebrow simply quirks, and she has a knife in her hand, taking off a thin slice of apple, keeping it balanced on the flat of the blade before she speaks. )

That she is. As masterful with words as we are with poisons.

( Zevran's more literal, certainly, than Leliana's. She is a poison to the mind and the heart, if not the very soul. And it would be so easy to say more, but she will give him the benefit of the doubt before immediately warning him away. )

Perhaps she might use them to find us proper cooks for the cause.

[ He rolls over onto his side to peer at her, eyes full of quiet despair. ]

None of them know how to make pasta, Leliana. Not a one. They cannot even manage flatbread.

( so dry. so so dry. so freaking dry, that a desert just spontaneously formed somewhere, in fact. true story. ) I will propose the idea at the first opportunity.

( Everything in her tone and her body language says that she most certainly will not, but... she may actually consider it. Others have expressed that such things as a good meal at the end of a long day can do great things for morale. Food, for her, has been an enjoyable indulgence, but for her the greater pleasures come from other diversions. And perhaps just for Zevran, she will give it more than a passing thought. )

Maker forbid we go without flatbread while fighting to save the world. One of the greatest wartime travesties I have ever heard of.

And this is why you are my favorite redhead.

[ Among other things, but it is the easiest thing to toss out as harmless and meaningless, an aside offered to hide the depth of sincerity behind that statement. Sentiment. He winds around it the longer he stays and he cannot say he minds it. Not truly. ]

It's quicker than baking whole loves, travels well, does not mold half so easily as what was being sent to the scouts in the mire, is cheaply made in bulk, and can be used to hold meat or vegetables rather than relying on bowls and trenchers.

You always have the best compliments, ( she teases, and yet is entirely sincere. A strange balance, though one that she and Zevran seem to walk together with a good deal of practice. Teasing was easy, sincerity was dangerous, combining the two tended to even out rather nicely.

And then she quirks an eyebrow, turning to him a little more, a new slice of apple on her knife, held in place by her thumb. )

Now you're speaking my language. ( A moment, just to think of something: ) When next there is a chance, I'll speak to Josie about whether any of our diplomatic connections can shake free a chef.

( She could try to blackmail or threaten one into joining the Inquisition, but she doesn't really want to be poisoned. )

[ No one that listened in would know that they were actually fond of one another unless they knew them- but Zevran knows Leliana cares. Just as she knows he cares.

More than he should but...he doesn't mind this She can mind herself well enough.

With the apple slice so neatly held and balanced he can't help sneaking a hand out in an attempt to steal it. ]

Well- pasta, also, is rich and exotic: also cheaply made, stores well, dries easily and can be added to rations and boiled on site rather than given out like bread that might mold. It is lighter and takes less space than potatoes as well.

I need no further persuasion.

( Quite how much it will go to persuading the others she can't know, but she'll give it a shot. Numerous shots. She can be remarkably good at whittling people down, especially with some strategic poking and prodding. Some things cannot be overused, but this might be the correct time. Better for the Inquisition and their people. )

Rich and exotic. Sounds like the ideal travelling companion in many ways.

I knew I was your favorite.

[ He snorts a faint laugh, shifting enough to bump their shoulders together. Careful, casual affection that keeps the both of them grounded, that brings her away from being the left hand of the Divine and more to merely (as though there is such a thing) Leliana. ]

( She retaliates with another bump, and a smile that takes away some of the weight that the years have strapped to her shoulders. It has not yet made her cave inwards, just makes her carry on, more determined and more defiant. It is more than some things have to be cut away, to allow the new burdens to be carried. )

Don't tell Alistair. He might never forgive me.

( Sweet Alistair. Of all of them, she still thought of him most like the boy he was when they first met in that tavern in Lothering, though she imagines it does neither of them much credit for her to think in such a way. ) Aside from food then, Zev, is there any other urgent news you think I should relay to the advisors?

You have my word.

[ The bump shifts to a lean, head tipping against her shoulder. A good meal, good company, a bright sun above? Life is good. ]

A recommendation they find the funds for a proper barracks for their people or to start development for some soon. It's only going to get more crowded as we move forward and trust me, so many strong personalities? Fights will spark and that's a headache no one needs.

Good man.

( And she means it, he is good, reliable. )

Food and bunks. Not really my department. ( She hums, content enough to let him lean, even if she did tense for a moment. Proximity is a strange thing for her, these days. There has been no time, and no one who readily approached the Nightingale. ) It sounds more like Cullen or Josephine's sort of game, really. A noble to lend some cooks, an army to build some barracks.

( The smile in her voice betrays her, even if he cannot see it, with their current position. ) Secrets and mysteries are really clever code names for delegation.

Cullen stopped listening to me after the third time I left him erotic Antivan Poetry on his desk, and Josephine is far too busy minding nobles.

[ Still, something for her. Something for her spies. ]

There were murmurs of another House of Assassins in Antiva making a play to branch out in Orlais. I do not know for certain where, but I do have a list of names that might hold your interest.

Don't worry. I can plant the seeds of an idea, and then they can gleefully take the credit for its success.

( A final cut of apple before she sets it down, and Leliana leans back against the warm slate of the roof. )

That will be my first priority when we get down, ( she agrees. Now? For now, at least in this moment, she is content to allow herself the brief indulgence of a close friend's company after too long apart, and relish old stories. It could not last for long, but it could be enough to carry her on through the difficult days ahead. )

Do you remember the time Wynne caught us partway through lining Oghren's helmet with grease?

( Good days, those. And maybe they will have good days, again. )

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I can do it with instruments,

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"i want to go back to antiva," he said. "i haven't heard much of the crows," she said. FOOLS.

foreshadoooooooooooooowing

I wanted to turn "foreshadowing" into a crying pun but I lack the mental skills rn

i don't even know how to do that and i love puns ur good

all is well in the world, save for the impending sobbing

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