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

Threaded | Flat

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

Edited 2016-02-15 12:50 (UTC)

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.

( 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."

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."

Threaded | Flat

MERRILL. EMPRISE. following her post.

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

BETHANY. EMPRISE. idk timewimey.

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

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

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

KITTY. SKYHOLD. timeywimey???

for EMMA SWAN.

FOR VARRIC TETHRAS.