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

[fightingale]

I suspect your passion for the past has rather more depth than mine.

( Undercutting herself, that. She who loves songs and history and stories, who always reached to them for insight and guidance, who adored the characters as dearly as though she knew them herself - but that side of Leliana is better extinguished. There is not time for such indulgence, here. Morrigan’s investment in the past could give them so much, but what are stories, if not her own childishness being allowed too much freedom?

And she exhales a little, stopping by some lavender and plucking a stem from in, idly rolling the stalk between her fingers. ) Exclusive sounds better.

( Though it isn’t said as jokingly as it should be. And as for the questions about the bug? Leliana shakes her head. ) There is no time for stories. If she is so intrigued, I am afraid she will have to learn to read.

( The comments on Flemeth are less easy to consider a response to, and she frowns, ceasing rolling the lavender. The crushed stalk has left aromatic oil on the fingers of her glove, their scent rising in the air. )

I doubt her mother was so toxic, ( Is what she finally allows. On that front, she is sure Morrigan deserves some seriousness.

And perhaps she thinks too long on Morrigan’s question. Morrigan’s love for the boy is commendable, and the familiarity in it is painful. The familiarity, and the absence it acknowledges, and it would shame her for her callous comments about Morrigan in years past if she did not already carry so much shame over her past, her naiveté, her determination to prove she could and would show everyone how to be happy and free. Her were the hands of destruction, now, and Morrigan was the one who nurtured, who cared. In the eyes of the Maker it was probably fitting, to be so punished for her pride. )

That you remember and ask yourself that question is, I think, a very good start. Not enough people interrogate their own actions. They simply do, with no consideration of the repercussions and the human cost.

( She exhales, lets the sprig of lavender fall to the grown, and retrains her focus entirely on Morrigan. )

Sounds like a diplomatic problem, ( Dry. False dryness. ) I do not have time to attend such things, but I am sure Josie can handle whoever gets in the wine, more than ably.

( This would be an excellent window to make a quip on how low cuts are actually very important, but she has not the taste for it in the present moment. And for one who finds the Game engaging, interesting, she has moved beyond it. For a time it was her entire life, but then, so had Marjolaine been. )

It was intended as such. Try not to faint.

[arcaneadvisor]

This coming from you of all people, you who spoke of the Chasind legends - and what bard would know the details of such a tale off the top of their head I cannot say - as if I were not present too?

[Genuine surprise is a rare thing but it’s always unwelcome though this time for a different reason; even if it was part of her job, there was passion whenever Leliana told a sorry or sang a song, something that had Morrigan paying attention even if she refused to turn her head. At least there already exists much to share, and Leliana would return her belongings to her.

No one else gets to take Morrigan’s volumes out of her direct line of sight.]

That’s very Orlesian of you.

[And that would be Morrigan’s way of laughing without laughing. The arguments over how to phrase things in Orlais and no wonder they were expanding the borders prior to that, they’ve clearly gone too long looking ever inward to have Gaspard and Celene throwing troops at one another.

Tis no small feat to walk out of the shadow. The shadow can move just as easily as if it has stitched itself to your heel. Were there other daughters Morrigan never knew that got away? Is each tale true of the wild lands and one witch carving her own life free of a mother who would do with them just as she pleased, all for her own sake. In some ways that’s not so different to how some Orlesians treat their children only lacking actual possession; she knows well enough to worry, and to know that there are times when Kieran would be better off raised by other hands. That a day might come before she would wish it where she has to part from him before any temptation grows, weeds choking out the flowers, but not yet, not now, not if she is aware.

Not everyone has ever had reason to be so aware, as you or I. I wonder, should they be envied for that or is it best to go through life with eyes open lest you stumble blindly?

[For once there’s no answer. For her son she would chose ignorance if she could so long as she is there but they both know the damage it does.

This time she gives in, a hand on the arm to stop them both.] If I attend you are most assuredly attending too, your absence would be noted, there are many who would take advantage without your fearsome reputation present.

[Or she’ll drag Leliana down with her, maybe to thumb her nose at certain folks but to see if she can, to see how much convincing it would take.

Still…]

You flatter yourself.

[But you know +5 approval]

[fightingale]

And, as I recall, you thought it rather presumptuous of me. Arrogant, even. And when history is penned by those who hold victories, or who simply pen a tale when another does not... I have no interest in lies. ( It comes out too harsh and too bitter. It feels as though everything is poisoned, some days, as if some slow and insidious toxin has been eating through the tissue and bone of their world from the first. In those days she was too naive to see it. ) "History" was defined so often by those who reviled mages, who saw elven culture burned to the ground, as best they could.

( No. She is not sure she wants to read those history books, any more, nor their more romantic variations. Not if she holds a shred of integrity, and not when there is so much work to be done.
Her tone has more lightness than the rest of her, tension pulled tight across her back, when she replies. ) Of course. Another Orlesian quality, no? As is my plan to have a series of excellent locks to prevent you from getting me.

( As if locks could truly befuddle a mage. Then again, it was she or Zevran who picked locks, and never Morrigan and Wynne who blasted them with magic... perhaps for the sake of their egos. Who really knows?

Quick, this is very quickly carrying the risk of involving an emotion, or something. Leliana looks up to the tower, and see the flickering light of a lit candle. One of the scouts has returned, then. Thank the Maker. )

I am afraid I must go, Morrigan. Duty calls. ( She moves swiftly and silently, too much a habit to allow herself any other kind of motion, but stops herself before she has drawn too far away, even if she does not wait for goodbyes. ) Keep me abreast of developments with your project.

( It is not quite it was good to see you, but perhaps it carries the tone of it. Perhaps. )