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]

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.