and I'm haunted

[fightingale]

WHO: Hercules & Leliana & Ruby & whoever would like a thread with them 8Db
WHAT: a catch all for February-March;
WHEN: the next monthish :|b
WHERE: Skyhold, Emprise, maybe somewhere else.
NOTES:
1. individual starters in el commentos
2. specific themes and warnings will be dropped into subject lines as necessary.
3. if you are threading with Leliana it would be amazing if you could reply to this post re: information she could know about your character.
4. if we have discussed doing a thread but there isn't a starter here, feel free to just barge in and set one up! otherwise prod me and I can add it asap, I have a to-do list but I am also scatterbrained ;u;
5. I'm not doing open prompts this time for Leliana, but if you would like a thread with Leliana, please don't hesitate to get in touch with me! I am just trying to do custom things because she is in a particular state of mind, at present.
6. I am sorry there are so many notes







apparently I am being pretentious this month

Comments

MERRILL. EMPRISE. following her post.

[twelvelabours]

Wars don't stop. They're a relentless, bloody thing, as likely to wear you down as they are to outright kill you. A sword to the gut, or Blight in your veins, an arrow finding your throat or exhaustion and hopelessness taking you. They were all ways a war could get to you, and not even close to a full list. This is a war that they're fighting, and to be honest, he's not sure what role it is the Wardens will play. Are they a liability? Are they fooling themselves? Or are they going to help to save the day and make things right, despite the carnage that's tearing through their ranks?

He doesn't know, but he trusts the Wardens here, even the ones he hasn't met before. They're family, bound by blood and oathes and secrecy, and sometimes by alcohol and cheese wheels, if things get a little out of hand. As long as there's breath in his lungs and a way to filter out the song in his head, he'll keep fighting for the world, and for the Inquisition. Seems like much the same thing, these days.

Still. Not all of them are soldiers, and not all of them have sworn oaths, and he remembers the voices of the woman over the crystal. She didn't sound fragile, exactly, but she sounded like she could use a break. It's not that Herc seeks her out, so much, as he hears her talking (to herself? well, there's stranger things) and lumbers over. It's late afternoon, he's returned from a job, and he's still heated up enough from the trek in armour that now he's down to leather breeches and a shirt that, ordinarily, wouldn't be near warm enough for the snow, though he's still got the gloves that'd normally be covered over by his armour. Sometimes the Blight makes his skin burn too hot after battle or a run, like his blood stirring has made the need to duel the infection fire up something awful.

After eighteen years, you get used to it. Despite his apparently lacking snow-wear, Herc wanders in the woman's direction, leaning against a tree until she's done with whatever it is she's doing exactly. "Merrill, right? I think we spoke on the crystal."

His voice is distinct, at least, his manner friendly and relaxed. They all need a break from the war, sometimes.

[chainlightning]

It's true. She's not a soldier, not even a hunter as far as the Dalish go. Merrill prefers not to fight, if there's a way around it. She prefers peace. But peace isn't always an option, and it isn't an option in regards to Corypheus. Perhaps that's why she finds it so important within the ranks of the Inquisition. Perhaps it's part of why everyone reacted so strongly when accused of something like godlessness.

Merrill has never considered herself to be an expert at people. She's never even thought of herself as being good at people. But what she said had struck a chord with people, at least. There have been good conversations, ideas for distractions and joy and better ways to work out frustrations. The Grey Warden named Hercules had offered all of the above, and she's pleased to see him as she straightens up from where she's gathering herbs, flashing him a bright smile.

"Oh, yes! It's very nice to meet you in person." The herbs are shifted, tucked into a pouch along her belt; they'll keep. "The Grey Warden who wants to throw snow."

[twelvelabours]

Not talking to herself, then. Maybe talking to herbs? He's pretty sure his mum used to talk to her elfroot plant, mind, and it makes his mouth quirk with a grin at the memory. Old times, fond memories, and sometimes it's not a terrible thing to have the past bought up for a fleeting moment. You can't go about feeling like a raw nerve ending all the time, after all. There's lives to live, out there.

"That's me," he agrees with a bit of a laugh. "And you're the peacekeeper who likes griffons. Nice to meet you, too."

Fun fact, if you like griffons, you're almost automatically going to be sort of endearing to a Grey Warden - or, at least to this one.

"You busy with those herbs of yours? Otherwise, I was gonna ask if you wanted to have a go at building one."

BENNY. EMPRISE. some...time???

[twelvelabours]

Red bleedin' templars. Suffice to say, he made it back in one piece and the templars didn't, but he's scooping snow up in his hands and pressing it against his face to cool his skin and wash away the flecks of blood and lingering sweat. There's a small gash on his cheek that stings for a moment with the ice held against it, before it eases just slightly. It'll have to be good enough, and he's washing the back of his neck and letting snow slide down his back as he does away with his armour. He'll go out again, likely, do some hunting (of game or more templars he's not decided) but first he wants to check out a nick on his arm. Not deep, but bleeding.

So there he is, shirtless in the snow, bandaging his own upper arm in what he thinks is good enough for him, but if he saw on someone else he's probably make an unimpressed sound at. One handed wound wrapping is never going to go well.

And it's now, of course, that he spots her. Not when he is in his armour, looking passably useful, but now, and it seems appropriate enough. She'd probably prefer it if it left him off-kilter; she seems like the sort. Unfortunately, he doesn't care all that much.

"Councillor," he starts, with a respectful nod. "How's the Emprise treatin' you today?"

im terrible and late but i love u

[ungovernable]

--he isn't wrong, but Benevenuta would prefer Hercules off-kilter in general simply because she finds him much easier to deal with when she has the upper hand. (This is true of most people; that she's forced to acknowledge it so much is less common.)

"Better than it treats you, Warden," she says, eyebrows raising as she approaches - she looks much as she did the first time he met her, a few extra layers of fur in addition to the grey and embroidered traveling clothes she's made good use of since, her hair in two neat braids half pinned under her furred hat. A bit more sure of herself, though; less hesitant of the terrain, less easily spooked. A bit more of her indoor saunter to the way she carried herself, in aura if not practicality.

"Let me look at it? I am certain I can fix a bandage better with two hands, at least."

luv u moar tho

[twelvelabours]

This is a bit more familiar, isn't it? She's more a traveller, now, and less a politician, or whatever it is a fancy lady like her probably wants to go and call herself. It's all ranks and titles, and much as he understands it, sometimes it just seems like a waste of energy.

Her question makes a smile quirk the corners of his mouth, as he idly rubs his jaw, feeling the harsh rasp of stubble against the palm of his hand and the pads of his fingers, and he chuckles very quietly. "I didn't know politician types still liked to get their hands dirty in the field."

Honestly, it's meant as a compliment. Plenty of people think that once they have some foothold, some power, they don't need to do the hard yards any more, that it's just for the footsoldiers. But she's here instead of in Skyhold, and she could have moved on, but she's offering to help him out, and the way he tilts his head says sure, why not?

BETHANY. EMPRISE. idk timewimey.

[twelvelabours]

Taking a breather is important.

'Course, there are the times that goes too far, and he's suspecting that he's gotten himself into that. Again. Probably his fault, though he'd contend that the Hawkes are so bloody minded that if he could get Bethany to not try and out drink him, then they may as well make him Divine and given him one of them fancy hats. Nugs would fly, dragons would breath butterflies instead of fire or lightning or whatever nightmare you've gotta deal with.

Reality is that, instead, he is sitting in tavern in the middle of nowhere (because that's what this place is just about reduced to) sipping a stein of what Orlesians let pass for ale (not actually bad, but he has to object at least a little, just on principle) while one of the barmaids sets down another in front of each of them. It's Bethany 's that he eyes for a long moment before speaking.

"You sure you need another one?" Fond. Amused, faintly exasperated, but fond. They all need to cut loose, if they wanna survive. Just need to make sure that things don't fall apart in that window, as they tend to.

Re: BETHANY. EMPRISE. idk timewimey.

[sunshinethroughgrey]

It had been a long trip out to Emprise, that was for certain. Snowy paths, minding her horse's footing, and all of that to deliver more warmly knitted socks and to make sure that everyone was all right up her. It was her way, and her fellow Wardens didn't even blink when Bethany went on a sock run. She did enough in the Deep Roads, after all.

She had planned on just turning around and hitting the road again, but she found Hercules standing there with his hand absently petting Max, his gaze distant as he looked off to the mountains. She knew that look - it was the Chuck Look. So she got down to pet Max, and bet Hercules spilling his current feelings on a drinking contest.

Oh ... she knew she wouldn't win (sigh, she never won.) But taking care of her would help Herc with his 'fatherly instincts' right now, so she'd take the hit, and the hangover.

It was common knowledge that Bethany, by Warden standards, was a light-weight. Three ales in and she was already listing to the side a little. She blinked at Herc, slowly, before she beamed happily at him, "Of course I do! It's a ...a drinking contest, not a stop .. .drinking contest. One more, please, of your delicious ales."

That beaming smile was turned to the waitress, who smiled back despite herself, before putting the next mug in front of Bethany. Bethany put on a ... 'trying to be determined face' which fell right into another grin. "These are soooooooo big, Herc. They're like ... the ogres of mugs."

emerges from under the rl swamp yaaay

[twelvelabours]

Herc's got quite a fine collection of socks, courtesy of Bethany. Not always sure about the patterns, but it's not like he could ever sneeze at a good pair. Right now he's wearing one pair layered over another, so his boots are a little too snug, but at least his feet are warm. (Or, one is. The other is soggy from a hole worn in the leather, a problem for a later day and that could be forgotten with this ale.)

"All right." Like he's going to win an argument with drunk Bethany, though his expression is somewhere between fond and concerned.

"Ogres of mugs?" She's won a warm chuckle from him, at least, even if it's quiet. "That'll make for a gruesome hangover, you know," Herc adds, sipping his own ale. "You reckon there's a mug for every darkspawn variety out there? Maybe a genlock, or a shriek."

This could be an interesting or terrible conversation, and when next the barmaid wanders by, he's just discretely asking for a couple of waters. Just to have it to hand.

CLARKE. SKYHOLD. after the rift in skyhold/zevran's return/idk other stuff

[fightingale]

Returning from the Emprise early had not been a great concern for her. It made sense if Cassandra was in the field for the other founder of the Inquisition to be at Skyhold, the Divine's hands monitoring matters and extending their reach. Hearing of the rift opening in the castle was alarming, though she has not found herself overly consumed with concern on that count, since her return. There have simply been so many things: Zevran, Alayre, the gathering hosted by Lady Vivienne, conversations with Morrigan, endless threads that must be grabbed and pulled, allowed to to the work of unravelling themselves. Their resources are not what they could be, or what Leliana would like, and she finds herself overstretched.

She will endure it. She must.

What catches her interest, though, and justifies a descent from her tower, is the news of a young woman arrived to the castle. A mage, one with scars on her palms, if her scout's words are worth anything at all. It is a concern, but Leliana would sooner she approached the young woman than someone else - so many are quick to judge, with mages, fast to condemn. Better to try and understand, first, even if the Nightingale would condone strict, swift action. Not in this - not against mages, simply for suspicion and based on who they are. That the scars can be seen and that she has come to the Inquisition must mean something, and Leliana is not so far gone as to deny people the right to change.

It is a silly contrivance, really, but silly is so disassociated with Sister Nightingale that it seems the best option, for this. Simple, painless, and it never hurts to let her nugs get a little more socialised. She's fairly sure they enjoy the attention.

"Schmooples!" Her oldest nug friend, still as delightful as he was during the Blight, and her most reliable comrade for such exercises as these. The elderly nug is scuttling across the courtyard, beelining for Clarke, with what appears to be little brown parcel held in his mouth. Despite his age he is still speedy with his scurrying, shooting between Clarke's ankles and lurking behind her. "I apologise for the trouble," she exhales, moving to the young woman in long strides, arms crosses as she looks around her to the nug. "He always thinks he can get away with murder if he runs to a new friend."

Her tone is very dry, an accusation directed at the little bunny-pig, and he squeaks uselessly as he drops the parcel. "Don't make that face at me, ser," she retorts, and the creature does not look even a little chastened.

I'm here I'm sorry hiiii.

[levered]

Clarke doesn't appear to be a person who smiles very often; she's only eighteen, and she looks it, but even standing in the courtyard and idly rubbing ashes from the surgeon's fire (for want of ink or paint) into the blank final pages of a spellbook in the vague shape of mountains, her resting expression features a worried line between her eyebrows.

The nug's appearance doesn't erase it. She snaps the book shut out of reflex when he darts between her feet, steps in place like she's worried he might run into her or up her leg, and then looks at his apparent owner with uncomprehending skepticism.

She understands what the woman has said; she understands who the woman is. What she doesn't understand is:

"Schmooples?"

Schmooples. It doesn't make Sister Nightingale a less intimidating person to be approached by, when one is a young blood mage with many regrets, but it does put that concern on hold for a moment.

no apologies are ever necessary with me bruh

[fightingale]

"Yes. We've been together since my first trip down to Orzammar," Leliana explains, bending down to collect the parcel and inspecting it for damage before it disappears into a satchel hooked to her belt. "I have heard not everyone shares my taste in names."

A slight smile is hidden at the corners of her mouth, suggesting just a hint of self-mockery, or maybe a more generous serving of good humour. Perhaps both? It's hard to tell, at times.

"I do not believe we've met. Clarke, isn't it?" Not met, and yet, creepily knowing her name. Sorry about that, tiny mage. "Do you always work with ashes?"

The question is genuine, as she nods to the book, closed as it is. All artists have their preferred medium, and for some, ash would be superior to any other instrument.

LACE HARDING. post rift, post zevran, post EVERYTHING EVER IN THE ENTIRE WORLD??? skyhold.

[fightingale]

The familiar rush and thud of bow strings letting fly and arrows sinking into targets - she wouldn't go so far as to call it music to her ears, but in times like these, it might be about as close as it comes. It's comforting, familiar, and practical enough not to spur guilt.

Harding has become a fine shot, and it seems that she remains that way, keeps her skills honed. Her dedication, her intelligence and the care she takes is the precise reason Leliana thinks her so well suited to scouting new areas as they extend their reach. In part it is Lady Vivienne's party that sparks Leliana seeking Harding out, beyond the context of her visits to the tower and their messages via raven. The Herald had spoken highly of Harding. Leliana is not certain she has ever actually told her that. It seems... remiss, as much as she could throttle herself for being sentimental when there is so much to be done. Sentimentality would not change what happened to Evelyn.

Being Leliana, of course, she is lurking, so she appears to simply materialise out of the shadow of the stairway as she approaches from behind Harding. "A fine shot," she comments, and keeps her gaze focused on the target rather than the woman alongside her. "What do you think of when you shoot?"

Curiosity. She can never quite help that.

but did they save the day

[lacere]

Whilst much of the Inquisition's forces, its scouts, its supply wagons, and its focus had been out in the cold, blizzard struck fjords of Emprise du Lion, and that was where Harding had been. But as days turned to weeks and the Inquisition suceeded in its goals, many of them drew back. Oh, there would be a presence. Scouts were still stationed there, still things that needed to be resolved, still things that would take time and they couldn't turn a blind-eye, but it was enough for Harding to feel comfortable enough to return on one of those supply runs and not chomp at the bit to be back out there straight away.

Skyhold was oddly warmer, in comparison, which was odd, given that it too was surrounded by snow. But it's not as bad as the Emprise, where much of her time not spent scouting or surveying was spent huddled up in a corner of her tent writing reports. It wasn't an ideal place to practice archery. Now, with a free afternoon, she's not going to waste it with frivolity. She could have a drink or two, later. Maybe. After some more reports.

She knows Leliana is there long before she reveals herself. Not that it's Leliana specifically, but you get used to the presence of your boss who is prone to lurking and put the two together. As such, her apperance doesn't make her miss a beat, releasing the arrow true and joining its fellows dead centre of one of the targets. "Thank you," she says with a crooked grin, already reaching to her quiver for another arrow, though she doesn't pull it back, merely twists it round in her fingers, pensive. "It depends. Focus, mostly. Just me, the target, my bow and the arrow... time stands still. Keep an even head, and then it'll go where you want it to. Or," her eyes flicker up towards Leliana as she notches the arrow, "how much worse it would be if I missed."

of COURSE sassy redhead archer spies ftw

[fightingale]

One day Leliana will talk to Harding about the importance of personal time, rest, recovery... all of those good things, basically. One day that could be today, or could get guiltily pressed back, because Leliana wants her scouts to be well and to be safe, but well and safe and happy all feel like perilous indulgences, in a time like this. If she were to insist Lace worked less hard, trained less, took less upon herself, and something went awry, the way so much has seemed to go awry of late, what then? If she commanded her to do less, as she had commanded her scouts back to Haven for their safety, what then? She had cost the Inquisition its Herald through her caution. Perhaps it is better they press themselves, as much as they can.

It is not satisfactory, and she worries for the sake of her agents and scouts, as much as for the Inquisition and for Thedas. What is a nation, a world, if not made up of individuals? What kind of world will it be, if individuals are left to suffer, to push themselves too far? But what world will they have, if they do not do everything in their power?

It is the struggle that drags at her each moment, one of many. For now it is set aside, pressed into the background so she can focus on her lead scout and weigh up her tone, her posture, each word.

"Logical and emotional, in one," Leliana comments, the slightest hint of a smile. Approving, really, and her smile quirks into something more obvious for just a moment. "I once had a potential scout tell me he thought of an ex-lover," she adds, tone rather more dry. "His potential was rather reduced, after that."

DEFINITELY-NOT-ANDERS. post rift/zevran/idk are there other things??? :')

[fightingale]

Following the Rift in Skyhold, the infiltration of wretched Crows into their midst and the taking of not only an Inquisition member and the poisoning of another, but the torture of a dear friend... well. Leliana has had reason to be withdrawn. And she has had even more reason to hunt, to look into every person in their keep, who has come to their fortress and claimed a place among their ranks. Some people have a history that is easily gathered, checked. Others are more secretive, and while inconvenient, it is not a reason for immediate removal, nor eradication.

On this occasion, the person in question has not sparked immediate concern. That will change, when it is Leliana inspecting him and not her harried, desperately working scouts, eager to assure the security of the Inquisition. Desperately so, perhaps. As such, she is not here to interrogate or to question, but to check in on the condition of a Scout, struck with a poisoned arrow on a mission, and the wound allowed to fester too long on the trip back to Skyhold. It was foolishness, and she might have lectured the young man, if he had not been so ill as to near collapse in the Rookery.

"How is he?" Leliana has a habit of appearing out of nowhere, sometimes, and she stands at the entranceway of Detlef's workspace, balancing a respectful distance and a commanding presence with the talent of one well-used to playing games.

[justice_is_blond]

"A moment, please." It's been a while since he'd last needed to be used to superiors coming in to ask after their people. Over a decade, in fact. He's unused to this. But it's something he's going to have to get used to - not stiffening when someone shows up behind him asking questions, maintaining his focus despite how he could be in danger, all of it.

After a couple of moments as he finishes up his initial work, Anders turns to see Leliana there. At least she's here for her scout and not for Anders. That's the only consolation, really.

"He'll live. I need to..." He nods at the table near here and crosses, pulling a few things out of jars and getting to work. "The infection's dealt with, the deeper tear is as well, but the poison's in his bloodstream. He's going to need to take a dose of what I'm making twice daily. And, like most things that are good for you, it will taste awful."

His voice is pitched enough so that the scout can hear him as well. He might as well be efficient with notifying them both of what's going on. "He'll need to be off-duty for at least a week, and I'd like him in here again at the end of that to take another look. Should he start hallucinating, or his leg fall off, bring him in sooner." There's a short beat as he looks up from what he's doing for a moment. "The leg falling off is a joke, his limbs will be fine."

[fightingale]

Of course. She held Wynne in too high an opinion not to respect a healer's space - especially when they work in such challenging conditions such as these. Another thing that needs attention, needs work, but there are only so many hands and so many hours in the day.

Nodding at the information, her mouth tugs into a slight from with the description of the injury, gaze casting towards her scout for a moment in a brief, severe reprimand that does not last more than a moment, before she retrains her gaze on the healer.
"I understand." He will have his medicine, every drop, no matter how he protests the taste.

And at the joke, she doesn't quite smile, there there is a hint of something at the corners of her mouth. Not quite smiling, not quite amused, not quite anything beyond the Nightingale.
"Do not worry. If he does not comply with his rest order," Leliana replies, quite calmly, "there will be no need for his leg fall off." A significant look at her scout, who nods, and the shadow of a smile. Leliana's brand of caring is complex, perhaps, but her people are valuable to her, and she will do everything she can to protect them, to keep them safe - even from their own bull-headedness. This is a scout who returned to Skyhold sooner than seek medical attention. Dedicated, but reckless with his own well-being. Her threads come from a loving place, one could suppose.

"I appreciate your assistance. No doubt Scout Shawling does, as well. Detlef, isn't it?"

KITTY. SKYHOLD. timeywimey???

[fightingale]

There are times when blood becomes an indelible mark upon your being. It washes away, yes, but memory is far more persistent than the moment it springs from. An error in judgment could be some seven, eighteen years past, and the memory as fresh and painful as if it were an action of that day. Compassion could be a curse, Leliana sometimes thought. ‘Compassion' seemed a fine word for a feeling that makes so much of your past and your present nightmarish, when you take each action and follow the thread of it to see what you have done, through decisions you did and did not make. There was never a day when she could fully carve it away, and when just the scarcest portion remained, it could take root again. To be able to view her mistakes, her decisions, her actions with cool logic would be one thing. You were young, she could say, you did not realise the consequences, but even then logic would counter with and yet, you should have. You were a fool.

She cannot afford to be mired in her thoughts and her regrets, and yet, when there are rare quiet moments, it is exactly what occurs.

To her credit, she does not look as exhausted or wrung out as she feels, and she murmurs a quiet prayer under her breath to the Maker as she lights a fresh candle at her shrine in the Rookery, bowing to it respectfully before she turns, sharply, and sets her gaze on the new arrival in her tower.

“Kitty.” Surprised, yes. She had not seriously expected the young woman would seek her out.

[rathercommon]

"Um - yeah."

Kitty feels like she's interrupted something. It's always an awkward thing when you come across someone praying, especially when you're pretending to be Andrastean but you haven't ever actually been to an Andrastean service, and...well, whatever Leliana was praying for, it certainly wasn't a cheerful sort of thing. She looks sorrowful. Unhappy.

Well. Most people would see that and would walk away. But Kitty has never much cared for letting sadness or misery influence your behavior, and she's increasingly getting the sense that sadness and misery are what power Leliana. So instead of asking is this a good time or should I come back later or any of that, she lifts the bottle of wine she's brought with her for inspection.

"I assume you've got time to have some of this with me, since you completely skipped out on me the other day."

[fightingale]

That she is here at all is a surprise. Footsteps and the sense of someone being there normally mean a scout, or official business, but here is a delivery of wine and a smart comment, and it's enough to make her brows raise with a faint and ever so slightly incredulous smile.

"Skipped out?" But her tone is far from angry or accusatory, more bemused. Not all would address the Nightingale so. She finds herself not minding, in this instance. "I suppose I did."

A glance to the sun, dipping low in the sky and brushing orange and yellow across the dark crests of the Frostbacks, and Leliana nods her agreement. A moment, at least, was not unwarranted. All the letters she needed to write are inked and dried and sent. Walking towards her desk, she sweeps aside some blank parchment, and indicates for Kitty to sit before going to retrieve two cups. "How have your shuffles progressed?"

for EMMA SWAN.

[eviscerates]

( evolving from x. )

"Exactly. We'll get through this just fine." Right? Sure, right. Their food hasn't arrived yet, and based on a few glances around at the plates she passed, she's not sure they're going to get anything to write home about. So long as she can get her hands on a bow and arrow, though, she can hunt and then they'll be fine. If they're really lucky they might get together some decent enough skins to get them both cloaks that are a little warmer. (Bearskin, she thinks. There may have been some fisticuffs with a particularly unpleasant bear, earlier. All part of the spice of life, or something.)

A sip of beer, a moment of silence, before she speaks again. Much more gently, Ruby starts, "It looks like we can't get a room, but there's a barn? We can talk there, if you like."

[dreamcatcher]

"I've slept worse places," Emma says, and that's not totally untrue. It'll make her miss her bug, but as long as there's a place to shut her brain off for a little while, she's not going to complain it doesn't come with a bed. She doesn't have a leg to stand on complaining about the food, either. She's not sure that Dark Ones can be affected by food poisoning. Probably not.

She tries her best to be good company as they wait for their food and make their way through it. Emma isn't particularly hungry, either, but she gets through half her plate before she gives up. No stubborn desire to finish it and delay the inevitable seems to be enough, in the end when Ruby is finished she'd rather just make it to the barn and admit the truth. Whatever the consequences will be, it's better to have it over and done with, so she knows where she stands. If she is going to have to get used to relying on herself again instead of hoping for a chance at a partner through all this. She's used to doing things on her own, and she wouldn't blame Ruby for not wanting to keep a Dark One close to her.

When they make it to the barn, it's dark and a little cold. Emma knocks the hood down from over her head and looks around miserably, but if it's all they can find it's better than nothing at all. She's silent for a few paces, trying to figure out the right place to start. "Ruby, when you said that you left after we got our memories back, after the coronation... That's not the last thing I can remember. It's not your fault I'm here, there wasn't any magic bean involved. The last thing I can remember is the darkness escaping from Gold and... " she fades off for a moment, closing her eyes. "And I tethered it back to the dagger to keep it from attacking Storybrooke."

It's saying the truth without actually saying it. It's hard to admit it in straight terms, and yet her expression seems to say it all. I'm the Dark One. I'm a monster. And you should be afraid of me. She's already afraid of herself.

FOR VARRIC TETHRAS.

[eviscerates]

Ruby's window shopping, as well as you can window shop when you're looking at a collection of supply carts that don't have any windows. 'Cart browsing' just isn't as catchy, and when you spent thirty years window shopping, sometimes it's hard to go back to doing everything the ye olde fantasy land way.

What she's looking for is a decent bow. She was able to make something incredibly basic for the sake of getting them to Skyhold and scrambling together some food and keeping them safe without her needing to let the Wolf out, but making bows had never been her specialty. She was better at firing them and assembling arrows, when she needed to. Bows? Not so much, and why spend hours upon hours trying to master the art when she could just buy one?

None of them are really leaving her that inspired, is the problem. Even if she's not been an archer for some thirty odd years, she still remembers what it should feel like, what she preferred, and nothing's doing it for her. Not that big a drama when she needs to save up more coin anyway, she just... feels restless. A glance along the row of carts to someone else makes her brow quirk a little, intrigued, and she moves along in long strides, head canted to the side when she greets him. "Hi."

And a little wave, because she's Ruby, in all her red leather gloves and red brocade cloak and general forest peasant princess glory. "I just wanted to say that looks like an amazing crossbow. I'm more of a bow girl, myself, but I'm pretty sure my Granny would kill a man to get hold of something like that."

[hugeinorlais]

Varric was looking for paper. For all that these merchants wrote him and complained, you'd think their carts would be overflowing with the stuff, but nope, not a scrap to be found and the current "shopkeep" (if one could be called a shopkeep when they neither had a shop nor kept anything) was being about as Orlesian as anyone could dream of being. That was to say, he was being an obstinate, uppity jerk and refused to consider selling Varric any of his personal stash of paper.

He was about a breath away from throwing up his arms and stalking away from the haphazard assortment of carts when, all of a sudden, he was in the presence of tall, dark, and crimson. Her head was tilted off angle but humans occasionally did that when talking to dwarves; you got used to it.

"What can I say? Bianca's always been popular with the ladies--little old ladies included." Varric shrugged and, on reflex, shot Ruby one of his most dashing, roguish smiles. "Varric Tethras, at your service. You looking for a bow, or just picking up a gift for your Grandmother?"

Skyhold was an odd location to shop for gifts, but the Frostbacks weren't exactly overflowing with better options.