faderift | [open] how sweet is the day, I'm craving a darkness

Entry tags:

[open] how sweet is the day, I'm craving a darkness

WHO: Teren von Skraedder and you! Especially other Wardens!
WHAT: Faffing about Skyhold (and meeting up with Benny)
WHEN: late Guardian
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: come meet your new mom

The Herald's Rest

As she orients herself to Skyhold, Teren spends a lot of her downtime in the Herald's Rest, having a drink and a meal or just sitting quietly and listening to the music and talk of the keep. She's a dour creature, but wears her warden blues to indicate her position and is open enough to friendly (or unfriendly) conversation.

Wherever

She can be anywhere you need her. Bonus if your character is doing something stupid that she can grump at them about.

[Closed to Benevenuta]

At an hour many would consider indecent, Teren knocks against the door she knows to belong to the resident Thevenet. In one spindly hand is concealed a tiny missive, dictating her purpose for being here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"That's beside the point," Teren grumbles, sliding the pages in as a placeholder for later. "Can the Inquisition truly not afford blank parchment, without gutting its existing books?" She turned one, inspecting the spine. "This is a history, you never know what it might contain that could provide assistance."
Taking a step back down a stair, Teren beckons to Scipio. "Come on, get the rest. We're returning these to the library."

"But it was only a title," he tells her, again, in case she has not heard. Has she not heard? Or perhaps she is confused? His accent, it does confuse people, sometimes, or else they fall to admiring it so well that they hardly heed his words. This is probably not her problem. Then again, appearances, they can be so deceiving.

At the word library, all protest in him stills. And so does all else. Pale, he stares at the books.

"I-- can't."

Teren is about to argue again, but she's stopped short by Scipio's sudden refusal.

"...what? Why ever not?"

How to explain this? How to tell it as a story that she will take in the serious way that it must be taken? It is not that Scipio does not like elves. He has no deep feelings on elves, would tend toward a good feeling, if forced to choose, in the same way that he would tend toward a good feeling if forced to choose for anyone. No: it is not that she is an elf that troubles him, it is that she is Her.

Or, perhaps more accurately, HER. There are few things that write themselves in Scipio's brain, largely because he isn't a writer. The HER is written very largely indeed in Scipio's brain.

"I," he starts, and then, "She," and then, "Your, your spirit, the word-- soul. You know what this is, yes? But do you know what it is to have such a soul stared at, cut into these small pieces, and--"

He wiggles the fingers of his hand in the air, in a gesture of someone has put her fingers in my brain and scrambled them around. More coherently explained: "There was a woman there. An elf. I left her there, but only after she accused me of-- being a poison. And flayed my soul open, left it bare, and-- I have seen a flayed man! That is what it felt like. But inside."

Does this make sense? Probably not. His shoulders slump. "I dare not return to that library. What if she is still there? Waiting?"

When Scipio ends his story, he will find that Teren is just... staring at him, fully uncomprehending. Mind control? ...some form of blood magic, perhaps? Elves are more likely to be apostates, it is a possibility. But one who practices blood magic, here, and in plain view? That seems less likely.

"...I'll take care of it," she decides, now wondering if the boy is simply mad and needs someone to humor his delusion. "I'll see that she leaves you alone. Now come along."

"But," he begins to protest, and then stops right in the middle of the introduction to his protest.

Protection. But if SHEis there, she might not be able to protect him. She looks hale and hardy, to be sure, and looks equally as if she could stop dead an onslaught with perhaps only a glare. Except now that he's speaking of Galadriel, Scipio is remembering the horrible narrowed-down feeling of being under the elf's gaze. Like a little cricket, skewered on a stick before being roasted over a fire. It is not the cold that now makes him give a little shiver.

But. It would do, to have a witness, maybe. Rafael says that he believes Scipio, of this elf, but Scipio suspects: he does not. There is a way that Rafael has, of humoring him. But if he had a witness? Ah, then. Rafael would have to believe.

Yet he cannot make it seem as if he surrenders so easily. One more sigh, for show, and he picks up the nearest book as he stands at last, hugs its worn covers to his chest.

"Yes," he agrees, in tones of resignation, "yes, I will."

It is a hard look that Teren turns on Scipio when he begins to protest, but she looks forward again when he acquiesces. "Then let's gather these," she instructs, beginning to take a few herself so he won't think himself ill-treated.
Once all the books are in hand, Teren starts off toward the keep, and quickly realizes she doesn't yet have the lay of the place. "You'll have to show me to the library," she tells him, "I've not been here long."

"Of course," Scipio agrees, and turns their path down a narrow street, running close between two buildings. His compliance should be a little suspect, maybe. If he leads them on a meandering path, perhaps she'll grow too frustrated and tell him to fend for himself. Perhaps she'll leave the books to him. It might be good, of course, to get her witness so he can prove his fear to Rafa, but it might be better if he never has to go at all.

"There have been so many new arrivals, yes?" Making conversation is something he's good at. "It was not very so long ago that I was myself newly arrived, and now I am," but as he looks over at her he finally gets it: the color of her clothing, its significance. "Ah, wait! You are a Grey Warden, yes? Me too!"

Teren strolls after him, but is immediately perplexed when he takes off between two unrelated buildings. She pauses at the start of an alley and clears her throat, watching the young man carefully.

"Is it not in the keep," she reminds him, and points at the large and ominous building directly in the center of the structure. "...I've been there once, but the castle is a big place." Although she is sincerely uncertain of where to go, her eyes seem to bore suspiciously into Scipio. She doesn't believe for an instant that his misdirection was an accident.

"Yes, I am a Warden," she answers after a moment, "how long have you been with us?"

Damn.

But it is a mild thought only, and does not appear on his face in the very least bit. Scipio instead follows her gesture, with blithe innocence, before he narrows his eyes in thought. The abrupt laugh sounds entirely natural, as is his expression of surprise

"Ah, yes! How silly of me--I had forgotten where I was, so committed I was to my task. You are correct. To the keep!"

And he reverses their course by turning on his heel and starting off in that direction instead, quite cheerful. Cheerful, too, is his chatter, conversational and happy and not at all worried about anything.

"I have been a Warden for a year and forty-two days, exactly. Though I suppose it is more of a forty-two and a piece, yes? Since this day has been going on now. I know the number exactly because my very good friend and fellow Warden, Rafael Viteri, keeps a strict count of these days and tells them to me. What of yourself, my friend? How long has it been for you?"

Teren purses her lips as Scipio rushes past her, giving a subtle roll of her eyes and then following him. She's onto his game, but has nowhere to be today, so he remains blessedly un-cuffed about the head.
"That seems a waste," she observes, "of time and mental energy. It's not as though you will ever stop being a warden, once you're a warden." She begins to ascend the steps to the keep. "...and having said that, around ten years. Just after the fifth blight." Missed all the action, she did, not that anyone's complaining.

"That is a long time!" Ten years ago, Scipio was in Antiva City, in the early years of his illustrious life of crime. Ten years ago, the world was an oyster, as they say. It is strange to think of time passing differently for others, that there was, somewhere in Thedas, a ten-years-ago warden, still with her serious face.

It is easier to ponder such things instead of confessing that he and Rafa have thought so hard on how they might stop being wardens. Never have they been so cornered. Never have they been unable to slither out from the bonds of promise and service. So foreign an experience is it that even now, a year and some months and days later, they are still not quite resigned to the fact.

All the same, being a warden for ten long years means many stories. So as he climbs the steps beside her, he must ask: "I suppose you have fought so many, many darkspawn, yes? Among other adventures! Please, you must tell me of these things."

Teren shoots him a look when he exclaims at the timespan-- it's the universal middle-aged 'I'm not that old' look, but she doesn't say more on the subject now that he's onto other things.
Once they're inside the keep, she looks around at the set of doors and tentatively goes to the right. "Oh, most of my adventures have consisted of slogging around in pissing rain and making cleanup runs to various openings to the underground. Killing Darkspawn isn't half as glamorous as you may think." Not that she believes anyone would actually think that, though there are stories about the heroic wardens on their griffins and so forth.

"Not everyone can be the Hero of Ferelden," she quips, as she steps inside the large rotunda which at some point housed a weird bald egg elf. "Ah," she intones, looking up, "found it."

"Perhaps not glamorous," Scipio concedes agreeably, at her correction. Certainly the phrase 'pissing rain' does not inspire visions of glamour. "But killing darkspawn, this is adventurous, yes? There is little denying that."

But their arrival at the library quite neatly murders his zeal for conversation. Scipio peers around them, with the books clutched close to his chest.

"Yes," he says, somewhat nervously, "this-- is it. The library. I will put down these books, just here, safely delivered," as in, right here, right in the entrance, on the floor. A neat stack. He backs away. "And now I must-- attend, to, other matters. That need attending."

"Not so fast," Teren snaps, before he can get too far. "You haven't brought them to the library, boy, you've obstructed a door. Don't be a coward." Although she makes no move toward him, if someone could be touched by an expression, hers would be slapping him. "Failing that, I could always send the librarians after you for an explanation."

"But, other matters," he begins in protest, gesturing over his shoulder, "they need attending." The look she's giving him very much feels like a slap. Scipio gives her a hangdog look in return, one that will (perhaps; somewhat doubtfully) make her feel sorry for the slapping via expression.

All the same, he steps back toward the book, shoulder slumped. "I will only be leaving the stack somewhere else, some other obstruction. There is an order to libraries, yes? One I do not know. This would also anger these librarians."

"They can be attended after the two minutes it will take to bring these books upstairs and put them on a table," Teren insists, her tone getting harsher. "Don't act like a flighty child, it's unbecoming." She continues to stare him down, not about to move-- or let him leave-- until he picks up the books again.

Like a chastened child instead, Scipio stoops to recover his stack of books. Like a child given a task he does not want to do, he is very slow about the stooping, and the recovering, as if hoping she will relent and change her mind or grow distracted and look elsewhere and give him the chance to slip away unimpeded, untasked, untested, un-terrified by what might lurk within the library proper.

She does not look away, and he, eventually, picks up the books. He tries to be slow about that as well but it proves difficult. You can only slowly pick up a heavy thing so slowly, which is to say, barely slowly.

In the library, there are shadows. Anyone might lurk in them. Scipio sticks quite close to Teren, staring around at everything.

"I do not think her here," he reassures himself, aloud. Or maybe he's telling Teren. He's still about a half step behind her.

Teren does not change her mind, and in fact continues to watch him like a hawk, pursing her lips irritably when he drags his feet. She's about to snap at him, but then he has the books, and they're heading upstairs.

She doesn't know where any of these books are meant to be shelved, so she approaches the nearest table to set them down, beckoning to a nearby Tranquil whom she guesses to be a librarian. "I believe you have been missing these," she explains, and turns to look expectantly at Scipio.
The Tranquil looks at him too, her expression considerably less demanding. "Yes," she agrees, "it was helpful of you to return them."

Looking around nervously in each and every corner for a sign of the dreadfully beautiful elf, Scipio continues to edge after Teren as she approaches the table. He's not quite looking when he sets down his stack of books, which means he misses the edge of the table, and for a moment nearly drops his heavy burden--only to nudge it forward, still looking around for threats. Sensing darkspawn is not the same as knowing when a terrifying elf with the beauty of a goddess might step from the shadows and lay bare the mind.

He remembers then to look around at Teren and the librarian, as he becomes aware of their gazes, Teren's like a knife, the librarian's like... Ah. Well.

Carefully, with a smile, Scipio tips the books onto the table. His is a softer charm, disguising his fear. "My apologies. It was a mis-understanding, yes? But they are here now, your books. Safety returned." He gives their spines a gentle pat. "Enjoy them, bella."

The Tranquil, unmoved as one might expect by his charms, just nods and goes to pick up the books he's set down. She has nothing further to say, just work to do.

"Good," Teren says, her expression softening ever so slightly, "go on then, attend to your other matters." Before he's able to run off, however, she leans in with narrowed eyes. "And if I catch you doing this again, it will not end quite so easily."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[open] how sweet is the day, I'm craving a darkness

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject