faderift | and I'm haunted

Entry tags:

and I'm haunted

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

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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.

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."

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."

Everything needs some company. Even herbs. That's why there are so many patches of grass and why trees grow in forests. Merrill likes to find who or what needs that company and offer it -- because she knows what it's like to be without.

"The herbs will keep. They're not for anything too important anyway, just- side projects." Reclaiming some of her lost heritage, more like; Merrill has never been a healer as far as magic goes, but the Dalish know a great deal of forgotten properties when it comes to plants and other natural resources. She'd like to try and remember, herself.

But for now -- snow griffons. Merrill beams up at Herc, lacing her fingers together behind her back as she rocks on the balls of her feet. "Lead the way, then! I've never built a snow griffon before."

"Good. I'd hate to see your work gone to waste." Everything counts, doesn't it? And this place hardly seems like the easiest place to be collecting them. Snow might help some of them keep, anyway. Works out well for everyone.

Herc chuckles, at that. "Can't say I'm an expert in it," he admits, wandering down the gentle hill with long, easy strides. "Haven't done one in... more than a decade, probably."

Since before Chuck was too grown up for that kinda nonsense, old man. Maker, he'd hated being called that. What he wouldn't give now, though, for his son being a right pain in the arse. He's not leading them too far off, onto a decent flat stretch with a good bit of powder, before he turns back to Merrill, bending as he does so to scoop up some some snow. "What pose you want it to be in. Standing or rearing up might be a bit of a challenge."

Just, you know. So she doesn't raise her expectations of his skills too high, here.

Everything counts, and there are uses beyond the conventional. Merrill pats her little satchel of herbs again on a forward rock, squaring her feet. "Oh, they have uses even if I accidentally leave them in my pocket and they dry out, too."

And the same could be said for old Wardens, if those dark thoughts ever fill your head, Hercules.

Following him down, stride a bit more like a playful, trotting halla than the stride of a searching wildcat, Merrill kicks up some of the snow at the edge of the open area. Definitely a fantastic spot, and she bends to scoop snow with him, sighing happily.

"Sitting, perhaps? Or lying down, or curled up around a nest of eggs, or..."

You may want to interject, Herc.

She's just the cheeriest, isn't she? Nice kid, he thinks, though to be honest he's got no idea how old she is. Elves seem to be like that.

"Sitting," Herc suggests. "Don't want to make it too easy on ourselves, do we? Just gotta make sure we angle it so the head don't fall off." Maybe they can chuck in a couple of eggs at the end, if they're feeling good about it. Maybe.

He chuckles a little bit at the thought of Merrill's face if the head did fall off, before reminding himself that would be bad. "All right. You done much snow sculpture before? This is serious stuff. Gotta make sure we've got the right equipment."

As such, he is pulling a spare set of gloves out of his pocket, before stopping himself short. "I know Dalish aren't that excited about shoes. Dunno if that goes for gloves too, but it'll keep 'em from goin' numb."

Eggs may be easier than the rest of the griffin. Maybe. Depends on their artistic skills in general, really, and the elves do tend to lean away from realism.

Then again, Merrill uses a ball of twine to get around major cities. She's probably not the best example. And while yes, the Dalish tend to not be overly fond of shoes, she is wearing a pair of boots. She's not necessarily enjoying it, but it's cold, and Anders will scold her terribly ig she ends up with frostbite. The gloves are, therefore, happily accepted.

"Oh, thank you! I don't mind, really; I know a healer who'd have been terribly cross if I refused. Of course, he tended to be terribly cross a lot." At least when it came to her, Templars, injustice, Tranquil, mage rights, anything Fenris said...

"And- it's been a while, admittedly. Sometimes I'd help the children in the alienage, but as the fighting in Kirkwall got worse, we tended not to go outside so much."

"Healers can be a cranky lot," he agrees. And, conspiratorially, "can't imagine why they go into healing, if they get so mad about people giving 'em work."

Very much a joke, and maybe his smile gives him away as much as his tone. Mostly he's just glad she accepted the gloves, and he circles around a generous bit of snow, thick and layered up from not being disturbed too much from Inquisition folks stomping about in it. He's almost wading in it, which is probably why it's gone so long undisturbed.

Still, he stops short, looking at her for a moment with a more serious expression, halfway to scooping up some snow. "You were there for the Rebellion?"

He's heard stories of course, heard a fair bit from Bethany, but he's got a lot of things on his mind. Doesn't immediately make all the connections. After a moment's pause, he adds, "Must've been rough."

The joke makes her laugh as she pulls on the gloves, the too-large cuffs rolled up to help keep them on and the snow out. (They will almost definitely come unrolled within the hour.) She doesn't follow him directly into the snow, instead adjusting the legs of her pants and tucking them into her boots a bit further. If it's up to Hercules' waist, it's likely going to go further on her.

"Yes," she responds, simply, even as she fusses with the heavy fabric of her winter gear. "It- well. Knight-Commander Meredith and the Templars that believed in her way needed to be stopped. Obviously killing people wasn't the best answer, though. But... I knew something was coming. I didn't know what, but I knew it would be some sort of end."

Now she sighs, looking up. "I just didn't realize that friendships would end with it." Not necessarily her friendships, but Anders' actions had certainly splintered the group, her makeshift clan.

There's a pause and then, a bit more lightly- "Or that Meredith would turn into a statue. That was a bit weird."

That's something to consider. Herc looks her way for a moment, and starts digging a bit of a part with his hands, heaping the snow in on direction before realising that it's probably going to be a waste of time. All the more to work with, sure, but he might need to wade a bit to find a spot where he isn't so likely to lose a Dalish under the snow, and so they can start actually making their griffon before the sun sets. He moves a little further along, effectively creating a bit of a path for Merrill to join him, as he goes. Knee-deep... better, probably. (Hopefully.)

"Ends happen all the time," Herc starts, after a bit of a pause, trying to figure what might be worth saying. "Life's full of 'em. My experience, though, is that they normally bring some kinda beginning along with 'em."

Not that it's necessarily the beginning of anything you want, but there's no need to tell her that, is there?

"Yeah, I can imagine. Not the kind of thing you see every day." And though he doesn't laugh, there's a whole lot of amusement in the look he gives her.

Don't worry, Herc. If Merrill gets buried, she'll pop out of the snow like- well, like a daisy, honestly. The path is appreciated, though, and she is careful to try and stay in his footsteps where they pack the snow down further. It isn't too terribly difficult, with snow keeping his strides from being as long as they might otherwise be.

"That's true. But they hadn't always felt so... prominent before they happened. At least, not for me."

But Merrill never could have guessed what would happen, even when she'd known something was going to.

She does laugh, though, shaking her head as she reaches down to scoop up some snow.

"We always did seem to find ourselves in weird situations. We even went to the Black Emporium!"

"No." No, they don't always feel like that, and he exhales quietly, stopping finally and starting to gather up some snow, to start heaping it in one place. He's not exactly an artist, all right, this griffon probably is going to be a bit more like a potato with wings if left to his supervision. "They won't always feel like that, either, though. Some stuff takes a lot of time to get a handle on, but... eventually it'll be less like a pothole that could take the wheel off a cart, and more like a little bump."

He's not sure the comparison even makes all that much sense, but he's not exactly a wordsmith.

"You? Getting into weird situations?" A moment of pause, brows raising. "I don't believe it."

Potatos must also dream of flying, or something. But at least Merrill has some level of artistic talent; they'll get it to look passable, if nothing else. A meowing potato with wings, perhaps?

Another laugh and she flicks a bit of snow at him, not anywhere near enough to actually hit Herc but enough to get the teasing point across. "I think it was more Hawke than me, at the time. But now... well, here I am."

Hawke, again. Not a surprise, friends were like that. Herc doesn't really know what kinda man he'd be, without certain friends having shaped him along the way, and who he shaped right back.

"Here you are," he agrees, good natured and flicking some snow right back. His aim is more accurate, unfortunately, though not on purpose - more just habit. "Official Snow Ambassador to the Inquisition."

Hawke was so important to all of them -- Merrill honestly still isn't sure how she functions without her. She feels diminished, somehow, as if Hawke had made her more than herself and now she's just Merrill. Not healthy, perhaps, but true nonetheless.

"Official, hm? I've never had a title past 'First to the Keeper' before, and that didn't matter to anyone outside the Dalish. And I think I'm less likely to give this position up." It's not a flick of snow toward Herc this time but a small handful, Merrill grinning. You've got a new friend now, Hercules Hansen.

"Hey, careful now," Herc objects, laughing as the snow splatters against his stomach. "It's all fun and games until a snow fight gets serious."

Very sagely said, as he pats a a couple of handfuls of snow into a solid snowball, holding it up. He considers it for a long moment, before looking back to Merrill, and tossing it in her direction. Not full force, but if it hits its target, she might just get a shoulder splattered with snow.

It hits and Merrill laughs, almost shrieking with it. A brief moment of consideration has her decide that yes, they absolutely have time for a snowball fight before making their snow griffin, and so she forms a real snowball and lightly tosses it between her hands.

"Afraid to take on a mage in the snow?" It's all a tease -- for one thing, she's not going to use magic to make balls of ice and then pelt them at him -- followed by a toss of the snowball toward his chest.

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and I'm haunted

MERRILL. EMPRISE. following her post.

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i need an inspirational cross stitch of "potatoes must also dream of flying"

if i did cross stitch i would make you one

maybe I will learn just for this

if i ever need a new personal username it should be 'flyingpotato'