heaven, a gateway, a hope

[byblow]

WHO: Grey Wardens & You
WHAT: A daring and not at all ragtag group of Grey Wardens has walked all the way across Orlais to inform the Inquisition--just in case it hadn't already realized on its own--that everything is terrible.
WHEN: Harvestmere 22
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: This post has: (1) A single group "we just got here, we're freezing, who is in charge, what do you mean you haven't decided yet" starter that we'd like to keep to one chronological thread. (2) Open starters for individual Wardens set later in the day/week.

OOC Note: Regarding the first starter--threadjack away! Anyone is welcome to wander onto the scene to see what's going on and wander back out at their leisure, to fall silent for a while, etc. No tagging order. But let slower taggers get a word in edgewise!

Comments

[paperwing]

Sabriel can appreciate the sentiment of knowing too much getting you unknowingly into trouble - it's part of the reason why she's here, in Skyhold, rather than shackled to some demon somewhere in Orlais. "A great many from every corner of Thedas?" Not that she's too surprised, because she's heard his songs, bits and pieces here and there, but never a full story. A man who spins those into believing what he wants would make a great storyteller, wouldn't he?

"The marchers had their own stories. Wherever we went, someone had something to say... as did the merchants. Tales of Orzammar if they remembered it, Deep Roads and Wardens. They often told me of the Wardens in particular, what with my father. But I learnt a great deal more than I should have when I entered the Circle." She half smiles. The Templars were never harsh, and nor were the Enchanters, but her worldliness caught them off guard, especially as she was also a noble. What noble travels with merchants for seven years? The one brought here by a Warden, apparently. "Perhaps I will tell you of them, some time. Nevarra and otherwise."

She's still skirting around the story he's after, though.

[bunko]

"Tales from every corner, and even some nooks. Tales from low places and high places. Every one and every thing washes up in Antiva City sooner or later. We might even know some of the same tales." His voice is pitched with excitement at that, as if they need more than just the bonds of their Warden status to relate to one another.

This is no false interest: Scipio loves tales. But besides that, patience is key. Scipio can be flighty and whiny and tends toward quick abandonment, but he can have his interest captured, too. And has. He smiles over at Sabriel, an earnest expression.

"I once took an oath to hear every tale in the world, you know. So you must help me. I hardly know any tales of Wardens, only a scant few. And if your father was so well known, that merchants knew him--" But Grey Wardens often do not have children, isn't that so? Another tale, one he skates by, for now. There might be sadness there, and sadness can tie up a tongue. "--then you must have good tales to tell. We can make an exchange. All the tales that you know, for all the tales that I know. And we'll drink to the ones that are the same. But of course they won't be exactly the same. A tale changes every time a man tells it."

[paperwing]

"They would be better heard from others. I am not that great of a teller. A listener and reader, but the telling..." Telling requires a lot of things. There is the knowledge to impart, to be certain, which she does get across - but it's also reading the audience, and the judging of the mood for a tale that is just for leisure. Lessons are different and more formal, the format she is used to; someone equal, just for the sake of sharing? That's different. "-but I will try, Scipio. I most certainly will try. It would be wrong of me to hear what you have to tell without something in exchange."

She's smiling, a little. It could be that his is catching, or she's appeased by the thought of knowledge, or pleasantly surprised that there's more to him than sock theft and cold complaining.

[bunko]

He waves off her try, with a dismissive little snort. "It wouldn't be wrong. If you would only listen, you may. But you must know, I have met many people, met them often enough to know things. And I have found that people are terrible judges of their own characters, and their own abilities. If you know tales, then you can tell tales. It's as simple as that. And if they are your tales, then I want to hear them."

What might sound like flattery in someone else's mouth rings sincere in Scipio's. See how much more there is to him? His sincerity is bolstered by the fact that he is honestly sincere. The little touch of stress, on you--you, specifically, Sabriel, fellow Warden, patient traveling companion, kindly maker of warm fire--that is only a little embellishment. Charm tucked in heartfelt confession.

He ruins it slightly by adding, thoughtfully, "Of course, you might not be as good as me at the telling. But I have had more practice."

[paperwing]

"I was always taught to never take without giving in return," she says, slowly. In whatever instance, you should always offer something up, if someone is giving you something - whether that be assistance or a story that may or may not be true. And the fact that he wants to hear her tell them? That's a boon to confidence, if she needed one.

It heartens her that he saw her through all that time they spent marching here. It's not something she's used to, and- alright, yes, she was charmed, not that she would ever admit it aside from the endeared smile.

"But you are right." About whether he is a better story teller, or that she is able to tell them? The world will never know, but she doesn't rebuke the fact that he probably is better. No, she'll let him have that one - she has other things she's good at. "And if not, I'll find some other way. Socks or food, perhaps. New boots?"

[bunko]

"What's wrong with my boots?"

A little put-out, he shifts his balance onto one foot and holds out the other between them, so she can see his boots. Good sturdy soles, supple black leather--a little faded, a little worn from all that walking they just did--but still very fine, and all the stitching picked out in green cord and thread. All his extra socks make his leg look a little swollen and bulky, but that's not the fault of the boots, and Scipio points his toes at her for emphasis. His balance stays perfect, unwavering, even on the cold stones of the parapet.

"They're lovely boots. I don't think you're prepared to spend on boots the way I spent for these. I think you'd better tell me a story instead. Or buy me a drink. Or--"

Neatly, he switches feet, setting down the left and hopping up from the right. A gymnast's trick, and he points his right foot at her instead, with a grin.

"Socks. I'll never say no to socks. Are there magic socks, Sabriel?"

[paperwing]

Yes, yes, they are very lovely boots, quite robust, and his balance is also very good (and quite impressive) but they have one setback. "Their resistance to the cold seems to be quite low. And no, there are no magic socks, but perhaps there could be magic boots."

Surely some enchanter or tranquil somewhere has come up with placing an enchantment on boots to keep feet warm and prevent sock thievery everywhere. If she can warm stone through her fingers, surely it could be done. Even if stone is less likely to be set on fire than a pair of boots.

"Maybe just socks, in the meantime."

[bunko]

Any indignant protest or minor insult he might interpret from her comment gets squashed immediately by the suggestion of magic boots. Magic boots. Scipio puts both feet back on the flagstones and stares down at his toes, delighted at the suggestion. There are people who fear mages, and perhaps rightly so. Scipio has never been counted among that number, and will never be. His tolerance and his fearlessness are both an ironclad defense against such prejudices, even if fearlessness would be better defined as willful ignorance to threats.

But magic boots are magic boots, and the promise of warm feet is the best promise he's heard in months. Months and months and maybe even years.

"Just socks," he agrees, because he can be patient and undemanding. Not very patient, however, and he follows up eagerly, "But you could do it. Couldn't you? Magic boots. Rafael would be jealous-- Maker, everyone would be jealous! Just think, I would be the only person in Skyhold with magic boots. Magic boots could be a tale all their own. The Gift of Sabriel."

[paperwing]

There is no insult intended, but as Scipio stares at his feet, she quietly smiles, bemused at his reaction. Never in her life would she have dreamed of suggesting magic boots, nor the process in trying to enchant such a thing, but Circles didn't have much need for magic boots. Nor Wardens who buckled down without complaint, an idle thought rather than an active one - one in which she would help someone else instead.

She holds up a hand, hesitating. "I don't know if I--" wait, he's still talking. Excitedly. Spirits, that's even more distracting than just the smile and the face. Is that how she wants to be remembered, for magic boots? There are worse legacies. On second thought, no. Helping is a better one.

"It would take time. And a lot of research. I'm not an enchanter of things, that's for the tranquil, but would it even require lyrium?" Maybe? Maybe not. The library would have something that could help, wouldn't it? "I don't know how right now, but I could find out."

[bunko]

"I can be patient." Proof: he draws himself up, lifts his shoulders out of their usual genial slope, squares himself up. Mouth pinched in a firm line, eyes slightly hooded. The very portrait of solemnity and composure, him. He has no answers to her questions, knows precious little of magics or lyrium beyond what the tales might say--but look. He can be patient. "I can be as patient as the sands, for magic boots."

Eagerness tints those last two words, curling the ends, and a little smirk sneaks through before he claps his mask back on, marshals his features, clasps his hands behind his back and draws himself up once more.

"I would be," in a deep, serious tone now, "forever indebted to you, Sabriel, and at your disposal--for stories, and for other charms, and distractions." And so on. The twinkle in his eye might give him away a little. In case she needs extra convincing, he adds, still quite serious, "And we have an awful lot of time now. You might welcome the distraction just as much as I will welcome the results."

Magic boots. Just wait till he tells Rafa.