faderift | [OPEN] Seeking faith, and speaking words I never thought I'd say..

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[OPEN] Seeking faith, and speaking words I never thought I'd say..

WHO: Bethany Hawke, and You
WHAT: Bethany Hawke spending time spreading a little of what Marian had on tap; hope.
WHEN: Second Week of Guardian
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Pick your poison time

1. In the Courtyards/Gardens

Since the rift opening in the middle of the courtyard, Bethany had been helping by moving some of the heavier rubble with her magic, to assist with the rebuilding efforts. She wanted to help, in some small way, and she also wanted to make sure people saw magic being used to help them instead of hurt them. The mages here had gotten a lot of graff for things that were frankly in Bethany's opinion, out of their control.

So why not do something kind, that was in their control?

She could also be seen walking perhaps the ugliest black and white dog you have ever seen, who she fondly calls Gamlen, through the garden and in the open Skyhold Courtyard.

2. In the Library/Out in the practice ranges

As a Grey Warden, one really never stopped training. There were still endless darkspawn both above and below the earth. Yet while here, Bethany had found, at first, no reason to be training as vigorously. She found her mistake there when the rift opened in the middle of the courtyard, so now she put in a few hours every day in the library, working on learning more magic.

She... may have found a few volumes on griffons, and snuck in some reading when she could.

Out on the training ranges though - she went through the motions of different spells without actually casting them, her eyes closed and her movements smooth and even. She had learned this from her father - a way to help meditate and focus - creating more personal mana for herself and helping her pinpoint her spells even more directly. Sometimes she practiced with her staff, but more often than not, without.

Did she worry about Templars? Absolutely not. She was a Warden, and the Circles were no more. She had no more fear of them than she would anyone with a sword that she did not know personally.

3. The Herald's Rest

Bethany's evenings were spent in the Herald's Rest, sitting with a mug of mead and her balls of yarn, peacefully knitting. She would always welcome anyone to her table with a warm smile, and will chat with just about anyone about anything - except she did keep it silent on just why there were so many Wardens appearing.

She would also sit in on Wicked Grace and lose on a regular basis, sometimes horribly, but it was universally acknowledged that she didn't have a good poker face. Or a face that could easily lie, either.

Mostly though, she stayed aside and observed quietly, knitting needles clacking away as she soaked in everyone around her. A habit she picked up when traveling with Marian, and one that was doing her quite well here.

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Bethany was leaning her cheek against her palm, as she studiously read one page after another, occasionally turning to the parchment next to her, write a few tightly written but delicately simple notes. She feels the other's presence just as his shadow falls over her book, before she tipped her chin up at him.

"I might be. Then again, I might have more a direct interest than anyone else." She said, quirking one dimple at him. "And if you want to borrow them - you can feel free to ask?"

"Ah- whereas I am a dilettante who merely wishes to admire some fine illustrations of a vanished wonder," Vergil says, "no wonder you got to them first. The Maker was well aware that they belonged in your capable hands."

Closer to her now than he's ever been, he surveys Bethany's profile, taking in her dark hair and fine features, a youthful energy underwritten by something deeper and darker. Something Vergil cannot quite put his finger on. His curiosity, already naturally rambunctious, is piqued.

"Far be it from me to get between an expert and her work," he says, with a short huff of a laugh, "that said- which volume has had the most gorgeously illuminated pages?"

He bows his head, a perfectly clerical gesture of humility, and one quite at odds with the slyness of his smile.

"For a spiritual man, I confess to a certain weakness for the delights of the eye. Beauty... affects me."

"I would never call a scholar who is curious about mythical wonders a dilettante. If I did that, I would have to rename most of my best friends that." She grinned a little more deeply, "That would just be rude."

So, this is now a familiar face, now that she has a chance to look at it. A Chantry brother, if she recalled, and someone who seemed to ... argue with other Chantry brothers and sisters quite a bit. Or rather, he smiled at them and they argued more.

"That would be this particular volume." She said, pushed that particular book towards him, before her dimples flashed at that sly smile.

"I would have to say that a Chantry brother is also allowed to be moved by beautiful things."

Her emphasis does not go unnoticed, and a gleam in Vergil's eyes betrays his appreciation. He's not just dealing with a scholar, nor even just a mage, but a wit! And a wit with such dimples...

"Ah! but I'm called to contemplate the eternal, while beauty is so often ephemeral," Vergil opines. "Spring flowers and summer fruits, like youth, pass into sombre autumn. Though of course, that only makes one want to treasure the beauty one finds all the more-"

Nimble fingers, obviously more accustomed to books than to blades or staves, open up the offered volume, thumb carefully riffling through vellum sheets until he sees a telltale flash of pigment. He opens to the page, ostensibly to admire the handiwork within. It is a fine thing, and probably quite valuable, with a dark blue tint and gold leaf decorating making for a vivid night sky that is still but a backdrop for a striking rendition of a griffon eyrie, its feathered inhabitants rendered in proud profile that, while almost certainly not to scale, makes for a far more striking rendition. It's rightfully eye-catching, but it competes with Bethany, who is proving all the more fascinating upon close.

"-while one has the chance."

Color her absolutely amused, at this gentleman and of course, at herself. Who does she get flirted with? A Chantry brother.

"Can you not find beauty in the eternal majesty that is Andraste's gifts to the world? Even if they are fleeting, they are something to behold. Even if they pass their prime all too quickly." She smiles again, before she looks down to the page that he paused at. A wistful look passes her face.

To see such creatures again, to find something the world has lost ...

"I always hope to see something new and beautiful, every day. Most days, I am fortunate enough to be blessed."

At a library, no less. Is nothing sacred?

"I'm sure there a great deal of the world for you to catch up on, after being so long cooped up in a Circle."

This is a bald-faced assumption on his part, that she is a Circle mage, but not the wildest one could make. She is free to correct him, if he's wrong. Also free to remain silent and let him assume. He personally doesn't care if she's an apostate or not. She's a mage- that is quite enough for him.

"I suppose that is one backhanded benefit to a long captivity. It makes the outside world that much more wonderful. Worldliness comes at the price of a certain wide-eyed delight."

He turns the page, revealing dense columns of text and small, intricate illuminations: diagrams of nests in various stages of construction. It is magnificent, as much art as it is scholarship, made with love as well as skill.

"Might I ask your name, or shall I carry on thinking of you as the griffon girl?"

Considering it is a Chantry Brother flirting with her? Apparently not.

"Mmmm, I would say at least six months of the world to catch up on, or nine? I can safely say that as a Warden Mage, I have seen a bit more of the world than just what is outside a Circle Tower window." Yes, she's going to make sure that's corrected straight away.

She sighed softly. "Still, coming off two or three months down in the Deep Roads, clearing out darkspawn infestations or doing research -- coming back up to the fresh air again? It does seem like you are being released from a prison."

She puts her attention on the book, playing with a dark curl. Those dimples flash again at his question.

"I do rather like Griffon Girl ... but you should know whom you are speaking with, Brother. Warden Bethany Hawke." She batted her eyelashes, dimples deep. "A surprised pleasure."

A surprise is right; he was ready for apostasy, but he never saw this twist coming. A Warden- she? Vergil's alarm is evident for a passing moment, brows rising on his forehead, the wheels within wheels within his mind spinning into quick, compensatory action. This could change everything, more than he yet knows; he's as familiar with Wardens as any educated person, but that still means much of what they are remains draped in mystery. Does he really want to go forward, knowing that he has no idea what he's getting into?

But dark curls and dimples, long eyelashes and - on top of all that - erudition? These are persuasive arguments all their own. And what sort of cad would he be to turn tail and run already? An ineffective cad, a cad without followthrough. Not the kind of cad he aspires to be.

"Brother Vergil," he says, more suggesting a bow than making one, letting his remastered expression communicate his sincere interest now that his confusion has been temporary suppressed, "lately of Asariel. The pleasure is mostly mine, I assure you."

He studies her profile with redoubled interest, as if the correct angle of perception could reveal some tell as to her nature, some quality of her shadow or some aspect of her complexion which could have let him know just who he is dealing with. But his untrained senses find nothing but beauty and life and talent- the things that drew him to her in the first place.

"I regret saying something I've no doubt you've grown tired of hearing before- but you don't strike me as a Warden," he confesses, "I didn't think one could emerge from the Deep Roads looking so bright and comely."

She nearly laughed at the look on his face - honestly that had to be one of the best reactions she had ever seen to someone flirting with her suddenly realizing she was a Warden, and ye gods! What if he got the Blight from being near her! Gasp!

It didn't happen often, but enough that she was prepared for him to make some fumbling excuses and leave. So when he sketched his not-bow, along with his name, she arched an eyebrow. When he stated where he was from, both of them went up, and it was her turn to be surprised, "Asariel? That's ... that's in Tevinter, is it not?"

Which meant - well - she wasn't sure what kind of Brothers there were within the Tevinter Chantry, or what they were, or were not allowed to do. There was the Black Divine, who was a man, and well. They had no place for Andraste.

She quirked up one corner of her mouth, as she turned to face him with curious brown eyes, "Well, you don't strike me as a Chantry brother, with your smooth talk and charming smile -- so I suppose we're both at something of a loss." She flashed those dimples again, "Would it help if I told you I have always been comely but for some time I was not so bright when I began?"

It's not that he's become cagey, but he is still a little put off-guard. His easy manners are habit enough to persist, and his tone is nothing short of cordial. But he is retaking her measure.

"It is indeed. Not so far from the crumbling glory of Minrathous."

In truth, her admission of her peculiar and to his mind improbable allegiance spurred him to mention his own controversial place of origin. Better she hear it from him first; he sees little point in seeming to hide the fact. He's not ashamed of his birthplace, though he is wary of its reputation abroad.

"You're too kind," Vergil says, dipping his head as if under the weight of the compliments, before looking back up and arching a brow. "Though perhaps unfair to my brothers."

He smiles, as she has confessed to finding it charming, and adds: "Language is the only magic I have, you see, whereas my sister can ignite one's hair with a spiteful thought. You could say I've learn to play to my strengths."

He turns a few more pages, searching for the next intricate illumination. It does not disappoint. The image is of a griffon, barded and bridled, with an armored figure mounted atop it. The griffon's wings are spread, the figure's shield and sword brandished and gleaming in gold leaf, as a gilded sun shines high in the sky they share.

"You're quite certain you are a Warden? Of the Grey variety?" His skepticism is playful, and mostly insincere - she wouldn't lie, after all, unless she were a capricious trickster on top of everything else. "You must admit, the only evidence I have is your enthusiasm for griffons."

She looks impressed, before she states simply, "We've just acquired a young man from that area - Minrathous, I mean. I've never been there myself."

She's heard enough of it from Fenris to be cautious, but a Chantry Brother probably didn't have much to do with the slave trade.

One corner of her mouth lifted, "Now how precisely do you figure I am being unkind to your brothers?"

She nodded after a moment, her lips quirking wryly, "Yes, I believe my brother Carver very much mastered that ability himself."

She watched him quietly flip through pages, before she laughed at his comment, "I am a Warden, of the Blue though. And if you like, I can show you my membership card."

"It is worth seeing. Minrathous is the oldest, grandest city beneath the Maker's sky. Not all that once it was, but still a wonder of the world."

A native might wax poetic at greater length, but Virgil possesses the chipped shoulder proper to someone who grew up in the shadow of Minrathous. As a citizen of the Imperium, he is proud of their mighty capital. As an Asariel man, born and bred, he possesses his share of regional resentment.

"I'm sure my family would be happy to give you the use of their properties there, should you decide to visit. A Warden, and a mage? They'd be honored."

His head tilts as she clarifies her specific hue. "The... Blue?" Vergil hasn't heard of this, though he is a stranger in a stranger land, so perhaps that is only to be expected. Still, his suspicion that he is being pranked increases, though he'd wouldn't dare call Bethany out directly.

"I don't wish to take a lady at less than their word-" no, never! "-but I am curious as to these credentials."

"Huh, it sounds like Kirkwall. Still glittering, but dirty around the edges." Despite all that, she sounds quite fond of her adopted home. "Although honestly, I've always preferred open fields and open sky." For all that, she was still a girl from Lothering.

A dimpled smile at that, "Well, if Tevinter is finding itself with a heavy population of darkspawn? We'll be happy to assist." And perhaps, ahem, free some slaves on the side, but she wouldn't bring that part up.

She smiles, and turns towards him fully, brown eyes bright as she explains, "In Fereldan, the Wardens typically wear grey on grey armor - for we are the Grey Wardens, naturally. However, our colors are azure, and grey, so the Wardens of Orlais typically have azure armor. I went through my ... initiation in the Free Marches by Orlesian Wardens, so my battlemage armor is azure. So we jokingly call ourselves Wardens of the Blue instead."

She dimpled again, before she shifted to show off the Grey Warden pin fixed to her robes. "And they do not give these out at every corner street market, my friend."

Vergil suppresses a wry smile at this comparison. His feelings are complex, since Kirkwall is definitionally provincial, a place expressly meant for the funneling of sentient chattel, the lowest rungs and humblest foundations of Tevinter's glory. To stack it up next to the ancient and revered capital of the Imperium is farcical to someone like Vergil, but he's clever enough to figure that the last thing someone with first-hand experience of the erstwhile 'city of chains' wants to hear is Tevinter snobbery. To sneer at a city whose every aesthetic is inflected by Tevinter oppression would be the height of poor taste.

"Much as I would delight in the occasion of your visit," Vergil says, wrinkling his nose, "I'm not going to wish for another Blight just so I can have the pleasure. Perhaps sometime you can take me along on an expedition that will take us across open fields, and have us camp beneath a wide starry sky." He speaks with near-poetic cadence, his words mundane yet incantatory; he aims to cast a kind of conjuration with his words, to will - through imagining - what he describes.

"I've no skill with spell or sword," he confesses, "but I'm a fair shake at translation. I also have a voluminous knowledge of drinking songs."

His eyes are also brown, but dark, concealing craft beneath their sincerity. Not that he aims to deceive her, but he does bely himself, in both meanings of the word, veiling and unveiling. Thus the furrow of his brow as he peruses her pin, and examines her garb in light of her explanation. Intrigued, yes, but also a little wary. Orlesian influences make a Chantry brother like himself edgy.

...still, those dimples would set anyone at ease.

"I realize this is a stunningly personal question, and it is one I would not dare ask were I not entirely taken with you, but..." he cocks his head, "how is it a young, bright, magically-gifted woman such as yourself comes to make so... final a decision? It's heroic, of course, as all the tales I know of Wardens are, but they are also almost always tragic."

Edited 2016-02-29 19:56 (UTC)

Not only the height of poor taste, but to garner something from Bethany that could only be schooled in polite sarcasm, which she had become rather well versed in over the years. As it was, Tevinter was a far off place that seemed exotic enough outside of the, oh, massive blood mage population and slavery besides. Which she was tactfully going to avoid bringing up as well, thank you and good day.

Dimples flashed again, because how rare would it be for that sort of expedition? Unbelievably so. Still ... "Well, I am certain I could use a scholar of your aptitude in a search for more Grey Warden tomes. As long as you are fine with the occasional darkspawn, and a group of Wardens who might eat like five year old children."

A laugh sparked at the drinking songs, "Well my brothers and sisters will enjoy them, before she went back to studying his gaze. He was clearly perplexed, and she couldn't figure out why.

Until of course, he asked his stunningly personal question, which outright baffles her. She tips her head for a moment, before realization clicks in. "You've ... never read 'The Tale Of The Champion', have you? By Varric Tethras?"

"The same Tethras who wrote 'Hard in Hightown'?"

Skepticism is subtly etched into his tone. Vergil knows the works by reputation, though he's done little more than flip through them, skimming and just as quickly dismissing what he perceived to be little more than purple prose on cheap paper. But he has pretended to approve of far more troublesome things so as to keep conversing with a fetching woman.

"I confess, I've yet to have the occasion," he continues, doing his best (which is, to be fair, quite good) to expunge any further hint of dubiousness from his voice. In its place he sets up polite interest, one which is by no means wholly illusory. He is, indeed, polite. And he is most definitely interested to see what on earth a popular fiction writer's improbable bit of true history has to do with the dimpled enigma before him.

"Ought I to, then, if I am to understand you?"

Edited 2016-03-02 14:45 (UTC)

"The very same."

Amusement flashes over her face at his dubious expression, for several reasons. First one being - the only man she had ever met who outright had no reason to compare her to her sister? And he was a Chantry brother from Tevinter. A handsome, well spoken one, but still a Chantry brother.

Second one, this was perhaps one of the few times she could tell her tale without any comparisons to Varric's, so she should relish the opportunity to tell the tale without any of the dramatic flourishes.

Well, maybe one or two.

"It would give you a better idea of my family's history ... but it's not necessary for this tale." She finally stated, before she folded her hands together, "About ten years ago, my sister, brother and I were partners in a Deep Roads expedition, funded by Varric's brother Bertrand. We killed some darkspawn, cleared some tunnels, for a full half share of the profits. While we were there - Varric's brother betrayed us and locked us in an old dwarven vault. We had to fight our way out. It wasn't until later that I realized I had contracted the Blight."

She folded her fingers together, "During that time, we had made the acquaintance of Anders, a former Grey Warden mage. Before I died from the Blight's exposure, he used his knowledge of the Grey Warden maps to lead us to a group of Grey Wardens. There, he begged them to take me, and try to save my life. It wasn't something I chose - my sister chose for me - but it saved me and ... well. I could not imagine my life now, without being a Warden. It has granted me a much larger perspective and scope of the world."

Vergil is less amused than he is confused. Chantry brother though he may be, his interest in Bethany is sincere - pursuing a mage is, for him, a perfectly legitimate avenue of social advancement - yet it has turned out that she is not simply lovely and gifted, but also marked with a darkness wholly belied by the warmth and brightness of her presence. Still, this only serves to render her more fascinating, for all that Vergil isn't quite sure what it is he's getting into.

If only he knew who she was, her proximity to events that have reverberated across Thedas. Yet he remains oblivious, certain that Bethany is the protagonist in her own tale, and her family simply bit players. And why shouldn't she be?

Vergil listens well, eyes widening and brows furrowing at all the right places. In the end, he takes a moment, trying to regain his bearing. What is it he feels- what is he supposed to feel? A worker in words, a silver-tongued courtier and cleric, he is not used to being enchanted so quickly by someone else's story.

Then again, he has never met anyone like Bethany.

"Such a dark tale," he says, at length, "a dark road, marked with dark deeds. Yet you managed somehow to make your way back to the Light. Do you have some magical gift to transmute misfortune into favor? Or did the Maker simply bless you with a particularly beautiful soul?"

If Varric's tales had proven anything, you were the protagonist of your own tale, and not who wrote it for you. Bethany's life may have begun, and would probably end, tied to Marian and Carver's, but she knew her own place in the world. It was more than most, and her duty to the Wardens let her become a hero in her own right.

She dimples at his statement, before she shook her head slightly, "No -- I had a sister who loved me beyond all reason, a twin who would do anything for me, a mother who sought for me a better future, and a father who taught me how to be a better mage. Everything I am now, is because I was loved, and ... love the world in kind."

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[OPEN] Seeking faith, and speaking words I never thought I'd say..

Re: In the Library

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(apologies for the delay - life intrudes! - glad to be back)

Re: (apologies for the delay - life intrudes! - glad to be back)

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