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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'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?

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?

Delivered by raven to the courtyard where I was training excitable young rogues.

[ Oh how startled they'd been, how impressed at his managing the lovely thing. Some muttered something about 'he was a crow of COURSE he can talk to them' which will be an amusing rumor to pass along for awhile. Still. Wine, sandwiches, Leliana and a lovely view. Ten years ago this may have been a common enough occurrence and he would take it for granted.

Now?

He shifts enough to nudge her boot with his to catch her attention. To reveal his hand, his sentiment, with a small, sincere grin. He has missed her keenly. ]

Well then I would leave you to endure it by yourself, of course.

At some someone appreciates artistry. ( Some people, however, have deeply flawed taste. ) Perhaps next time I can send a message via Nugistair. I think he has quite some promise as a carrier-nug.

( But she pauses, actually looking towards him, and exhaling a quiet breath of laughter. )

The most effective poison of all, I suspect. ( And she shakes her head. It is as if she reins herself in, and the smile fades. This is an indulgence, as are so many things. It feels strange to be removed from her network, even for just a little while, to be enjoying the bright light of noon. ) How are they coming along, your "excitable" rogues?

...you actually named him Nugistair. Leliana I-

That is-

[ He cracks. He shatters. He doubles over, laughing bright and loud and rolling in ways his husky, teasing, sultry chuckles never capture. It is not graceful nor particularly charming, a rough bark followed by snickers muffled behind his hand. A giddy snort at his imagining Alistair's face upon being told the nug's name. Oh Maker, that is good. ]

Ah- haha, some, some show promise. Some are terrible but try very, very hard and it is...something of a challenge for me, the teaching. I think 'how was I trained' and realize that I cannot, will not do that to anyone. So I must think of ways to get the same results with less blood and death. Hence the colored powder. I apologize if some of that ended up on your raven, it became curious while I was reloading the wires.

Of course. Nugistair and Morrinug. I didn't want to chance confusion by naming them after our dear friends more precisely. ( she is, to her credit, keeping a straight face as Zevran cracks up, her expression one of gentle concern. ) It would compromise the Advisor's reputation, surely, if people thought she was begging for treats in the kitchen or snuffling about in the straw.

( a beat, and she shrugs. ) Though neither are strictly implausible.

( Still, an air of amusement was present, and it softens off as Zevran addresses his training, and she hums quietly. ) Better, that. We both of us turned on our masters, although... Marjolaine and the Crows are so different from each other that it hardly seems appropriate to mention them in the same sentence.

( Leliana had loved Marjolaine, until the moment her blade found her gut. And even then, the week in that dungeon had been all the worst for the love she had still held for her. She and Zevran might be the same in many ways, but their experiences were not. )

I would rather those who take up arms for us love us, and that it be deserved.

Morrinug-

[ Give him a moment. Give him several moments because breathing is going to take awhile. That is the most adorable, most ridiculous, singularly mischievous thing he has ever heard and of course it is what Leliana would name her nugs. Of course it is what she would do- anyone that thought Sister Nightengale wasn't the worst sort of troll did not know her well. There is a reason she is as dear to Zevran as his own heart; beyond what they have in common, their shared scars, their shared experiences-

That humor. That joy of life. That is why she is his. ]

Ahh. Alistair would. Morrigan's boy might, but Morrigan herself? Never.

[ He wipes at his eyes, smoothing the damp away. ]

I do not know about love, but I will take respect over fear and resentment. They are learning well- though the longer I work with them the more I realize I have not been targeted or threatened since I arrived here. Surely word has gotten out. Have you heard anything of them stirring about in the South? My own resources have come up empty.

Don't ruin all my fun, or I'll name one after you. ( and the smile widens, just a little, as she carefully plucks a sandwich from the plate. ) I thought of teaching Keiran the arts of subterfuge. Perhaps lock picking.

( but she sighs, pausing before taking a bite of her sandwich, as if she has made a great sacrifice. ) I think it would be equipping him to deal with the dangers of the Game, but I suspect his mother may not appreciate the thought.

( She prefers less tactful approaches, like turning into a giant spider. Then again, it's not like she has been on the field with Morrigan in some time, perhaps she has learned a little more nuance. )

Not immediately. But protecting people, nurturing them, doing the very best we can... when the world is in such a state as it is, perhaps they might see us as more than some-- movement they have aligned themselves with. ( A quiet scoff, and she takes a bite of her sandwich, finally, chewing slowly. ) But I fear that is a foolish idealism.

( She frowns at his words. ) Nothing pertinent. Some whispers of a contract moving towards the Tevinter borders, but no hint of movements hence.

Nugran? Zevnug?

[ Snickering again, faint and pleased. ]

He is a charming lad- it is strange to see Alistair in him and know Alistair himself wants nothing to do with him; though I think it less 'does not want' and more 'does not know how' to involve himself in the boy's life. I have taken it upon myself to spoil him outrageously. [ Figurines, sweets, carvings- other such things. ] As one does with young boys, yes?

[ It is not as though he knows himself what is done. ]

Give him a few years more of being a boy. Morrigan has fought hard for him to have a better life than the one she knew. When he is twelve, or thirteen- just. A little longer like this, where he need not fear such things.

[ Let him be young and protected as they were not. ]

Not so terribly foolish as, say, a vision from the Maker. And even that was proven true, was it not? For all that I teased you over it.

Zevnug, ( agreeing, with a pleased not. ) Zevnug, the first of many Antivnugs.

Alistair just needs time. It is no small thing, to be suddenly faced with a child you had not anticipated spending any kind of time with. And he and Morrigan were never... ( she tries to think of a word here that won't be potentially insulting to both or either party. ) Bickering would be a hard point of parenting to bond over, I suspect.
( It is an oddly uncomfortable subject. And then something in his words needles at her, and her gaze narrows. ) Childhood indulgences make no guarantee of a softer life.

( She had been spoiled, by some standards. Lessons in singing, in playing, in the many arts that had made her so dangerous as a bard. She had been treated kindly, primed for the thrills of the game, and yet Marjolaine had sharpened her quite easily. ) It would be a fool child indeed, that did not fear in the world as it is. He houses an ancient soul.

( No, she is not so easily convinced. Ten years ago it might have been different. Jonas had endeavoured to soften her, but it was only a delaying of the inevitable. )

It proved true, but we need considerably more roses, I fear.

Edited 2016-01-25 11:57 (UTC)

I cannot imagine him as a parent, truly. [ That was a lie. He could. Alistair would make a wonderful father if he allowed himself that much- just as Morrigan probably made for a decent mother. The two of them together, however...

wouldn't work. Nor would it work now; but having some place in the boy's life was only fitting. Even if as an uncle or friend of his mothers. ]

Better, Leliana, not softer. There is a difference. [ Morrigan is not a woman made for soft living, nor would her son be. His voice is gentle, nonjudgemental as he has always been. ] He is a but a boy. Old soul or not- he laughs. He plays games with the other children, delights in playing with mabari. He has strange dreams but- he is a boy. There is so much darkness and death in this world, Leliana. Can we not let one thing be bright for awhile longer before we expose him to shadow?

[ He ached for what he never had. What Morrigan never had- what Leliana was given in the form of lessons rather than sincere dotage. ]

I'll have some planted in the garden for you. One bush for each cell of Crows I have evaded, mm? Perhaps they find the Inquisition too intimidating a prospect to bother infiltrating. Especially with the formidable Sister Nightengale as it's spymaster. Who would dare?

[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.

" - 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?"

[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?]

( 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?

"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?"

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. )

( Her eyebrow quirks, and Leliana studies him for a moment. ) Perhaps not.
( Not so much a lie as a neutral comment. She can see Alistair as a parent, and it surprises her that Zevran might make a statement to the contrary, but she is not going to press him on the matter. At least not immediately. Under different circumstances she might suggest he would be better suited to puppies than children... such a jest seems in ill-taste, in the present moment.

And perhaps it is simply Leliana who is harsher. It has been a necessity, and she does not regret it. )

Better, ( she can concede. But better is not always realistic, and the boy was dragged into their sphere of shadows by the very dark ritual that sparked his conception. It would seem they have had their roles reversed; was it not Zevran who teased her for her idealism? And now it is she who wonders if he is not a whimsical dreamer, trapped in the skin of an assassin. ) So long as 'better' does not see someone fall victim to that darkness through lack of preparation. There are any number of opportunists and dangers, and not all would see fit to dance to a tune of our devising. Such things keep their own schedule.

( She does not regret the words, but she does wonder if this is perhaps too pragmatic and brutal a conversation topic for lunch, as she finishes her sandwich and lets her hand fall to trace the tiles of the rooftop. )

I suspect the healers might object to the occupation of space that might be better occupied by herbs, ( although she is hardly going to object. She has a fondness for roses. Still, her next hum is less musical and more pondering and concerned. )

Who, indeed? ( Her reputation precedes her in whispers, but it does not set her at ease. ) But the Crows are known for their daring. It would be folly to expect them cowed by one of those you travelled with. It might only stoke their ire.

[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.

[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.]

[Rolling her eyes, she steps closer and wonders if it's simply meeting old faces again in a time of crisis that prompts her to remember her mother's lessons or if it's motherhood itself, refusing to make the same mistakes.]

We fight for survival, as we did a decade ago - I trust you remember that? Why must it be beauty we fight for as if this all is some noble daughter with chevaliers asking after her hand? There are those who would remake the world as it was directly prior to this, those who want a new world, a better world. Others because that is all they know. I would give my son the tools to survive, beauty comes after.

[If they had been closer, she would pull that hood down but Zevran was ever the easiest to speak with and she would dare only with him right away, but oh how she has had enough of hidden faces after all that time in Orlais.]

Being a mother has not rotted the wits out of my head. I will concede that the chance to discover that which we thought irretrievable might come close, though I have never seen through such a lens.

[One of them was raised in a swamp by a mother who taught her only that which was practical, a girl who saw her own tears in a shattered mirror, who sees her own childhood sharper as she tries to puzzle out raising a son on her own without ever leaving him the legacy Flemeth left her.]

Noble daughters and chevaliers are a little over-done, I fear.
( I trust you remember that, says she, and Leliana would be hard pressed to say she missed the condescension, even if she would fight someone to the death before letting harm before any one of her companions. Brutality has its place; intention is, she feels, very important. Unlike Morrigan, Leliana is entirely capable of resisting the urge to roll her eyes, just casting a look to the moon in what could be a pensive or distinctly grant me patience sort of way. It's hard to tell, sometimes, but where the courtiers of Orlais adopt literal masks, Leliana's have become more subtle.

Subtle, of course, until she exhales a quiet breath of laughter. Bluntly; ) This world is rotten. At least, so much of the power in it is, and with power comes the sculpting hand.
( There is something colder in her voice than what might have been there so many years ago, less earnest, but a fire that still burns regardless. ) But for all that I feel it should be remade, there is some good that might be preserved - the very reason it should be remade, at all. I can fight for the most radical reforms, and still believe in beauty.

( And finally she turns to face her old - acquaintance? friend? who knows, honestly - back straight and hands held behind her, head canted just slightly as she sweeps an assessing gaze over Morrigan. After a moment's pause, )

You know, most people start a conversation with a greeting.

"Well, then they are lucky to have you." Bethany said with a smile, before she stepped back to let the bartender through, "Very nice work there, though. As a friend of mine likes to say, you could work Hightown."

Her eyebrows rose at the invitation, but as she had told Korrin? "I never turn down a free drink." She slipped her staff from her belt, leaning against the wall, before taking a seat. "But I will insist on getting the next round - "

She finally caught sight of the face under the hood, and blinked with surprise, "... Sister Leliana?"

[Really, Bruce shouldn't be surprised at Harding's boss knowing about that particular turn of the rumor mill, but he's also pretty sure she knows the real truth, being who she was. The thought of possibly getting the shovel talk from the Left Hand of the Divine was not something Bruce would ever want to entertain for too long.]

Unfortunately, she's too busy tonight. [He replies with a small, wry quirk at the corner of his lips. The rumors about them probably only got worse since that time Harding came to his tent on her birthday and spent quite a bit of time there, but--well. As long as all relevant parties were aware, keeping it going wasn't too much of a hardship.] Maybe if she had less paperwork to handle, she might have had the time.

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?

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I can do it with instruments,

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garden!

At the Tavern

gardens;

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garden;

Another garden thread

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