faderift | [semi-open] a friendly query

WHO: Cassandra and rifters/shardbearers
WHAT: Rifter interrogations
WHEN: Following Cassandra's log with Galadriel and the advisors' conversation
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: For planned rifter/shardbearer interrogation threads with Cassandra! If we haven't discussed your character's thread, please drop me a note here or hit me up on Plurk for general (this can be very general) setup/discussion of what you hope the outcome to be. She'll be most interested in talking to rifter mages, but we can swing her interrogating anyone with a shard.

With or without your support, she had said to the Spymaster, and she had meant it. She would have preferred that Leliana understand her position, the necessity of action - but she does not, and dwelling on it will do nothing to change that now. Whether anyone else sees it or not, Cassandra at least recognizes the risk that the shardbearers pose. If nothing else, they must understand who the rifters are, what they are capable of - and what they may do.

There are still plenty who agree with her, who are not as idealistic in this matter as Leliana, and it's not difficult to find soldiers willing to find those of interest and bring them to her, one at a time. She waits until each is seated before she turns to face them, and always begins the same way, whether she recognizes them or not.

"I am Cassandra Pentaghast, and I represent the Inquisition. State your name, and where you come from."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There are, naturally, avenues for anyone wishing to join the Inquisition to do so, and most of them do not go through Cassandra. Evelyn herself had recruited many agents out in the field, often without consulting the advisors at all. Even so, it had not occurred to her that any of the rifters might have taken that option.

"I am certain there is," she says neutrally. She plans on examining the records personally, later, but for now she's satisfied to take him at his word. "Tell me, why did you choose to become an agent? You could as easily have not done so, and received food and shelter just the same."

"Indeed, had that been my goal, I would've had no reason to do so," he agrees, polite. If, for instance, he had wished to go home and viewed his time here as temporary, as is so common to those who arrived the way he did. "This is the world that I live in, however, and food and shelter do not a life make."

He considers how to put it, and then says, matter of fact, "I have the same thing in common with those who arrived here as I did that you do, Seeker; my life has been interrupted and threatened by these rifts." And that's the only thing they have in common, but he doesn't feel an urgent need to dwell on it. He's illustrating a point, and his distance from the other rifters isn't really the point. "This thing in my hand has one use to it, and that is putting me in a position to contribute to the efforts to make sure there's a world to have a life in where that's not true. It's not in my nature to sit back and expect that others will do all the work while I simply enjoy the benefit later on."

He also doesn't delegate well. It's something he'd have had to work on, were he still on track to become Lord Preceptor of the Pandion Order, but as he's not, he totally hasn't.

She thinks of how Nerva had come to her in the Emprise du Lion, swearing her allegiance, seeking a purpose to her life that the Templar Order could no longer offer. She thinks of the Herald, of Evelyn, and how she had gone from hating and fearing the mark on her hand to recognizing its use - and the responsibility it granted her. A responsibility that she had died to fulfill. Needing a purpose, needing a duty, is something Cassandra can understand well. And yet, her doubts and fears linger. She must be certain.

She frowns, thoughtful rather than disapproving. "You speak of Thedas almost as if it is your home," she says, carefully. "Are you content to create a life here, in a world of strangers? Do you not wish to return to your own land?"

"Forgive me," by way of preface-- presumably for the fact that the first thing he does in answer is to begin unbuttoning his shirt.

(It's not like that.)

He doesn't open it all the way; he doesn't need to. When he gets roughly to the bottom of his sternum, he brushes aside the medallion he wears (and an odd pendant beneath it, briefly glimpsed) and bares to her the grotesque scarring that is what happens when a man survives a fatal blow by a greatsword through his chest. There isn't a lot of room for ambiguity in it; Cassandra is a warrior. She's seen what a man can live through -

And what he can't.

"I would have died," he says, quietly matter of fact. There's no self-pity in it. If he has an emotional response to the thought, and surely he must, he doesn't share it with his audience. "I bled into my own lungs and I was given my last blessing. I could not have stood - I would never have lived long enough to see a physician, who could've done nothing for me. To all intents and purposes, my life in Eosia is over and I am a memory, there."

Adjusting his shirt back into place, "If not for the magic of the rift, whatever it was, I would've been too far gone for my lady Leblanc to save. Thedas is the only home I have, Seeker. I owe it a great debt."

Cassandra starts all the same, eyes widening in shock and mouth dropping open to protest - but before she can even think what to say, Martel has stopped undoing his shirt and reached up to pull it open, exposing his chest and the obvious scar.

She hesitates briefly, and then moves forward, peering curiously. It is impossible not to notice the broadness of the man's chest, or the definition of muscles under his skin - but she forces herself not to focus on them, and instead to study the sweeping scar across his chest. The scar of a wound no one could have survived.

Finally, she lifts her eyes back up to his face, meeting his own. "I am...sorry," she says, quiet and sincere. Even if he could find a way back, even if it was possible...what hope would he have to reclaim his old life? After months, years perhaps of apparent death? She shakes her head. He has lost a world, in a way she cannot fathom.

"Perhaps...perhaps it is the Maker's will that brought you here," she suggests, as much to herself as to him. "Perhaps it was He that sent you to us, and in so doing, saved you from death."

It is a greater loss than Martel is capable of admitting in so many words, but he doesn't dispute what she says. He might tell himself it's because it isn't in his best interests to do so (and it isn't) - she's right, though, and he acknowledges it with a stoic nod.

"I cannot consider myself anything but abandoned by my own gods," he says, after a moment, as he tucks his medallion back beneath fabric. He should part with it, he thinks, he shouldn't cling to it as he does, but the thought of doing so always clenches his hands and he never takes it off. "If it is the will of your Maker, I am both grateful and honoured. I mean this to be my home - I will do whatever I must to be worthy of that."

And he means it. For everything else there is in him - he means that.

Cassandra nods soberly, head bowed. She wonders if he is right. Has he truly been abandoned? Did his own gods ever really exist? Perhaps...perhaps they do, and this is their will, as well as that of the Maker. She shares none of these thoughts aloud, unsure of how he might take them - unsure even of her own beliefs.

"I do not claim to know for certain," she admits. The Herald - the Herald had been touched by Andraste, or so some had said. Martel could make no such claim. "But I would like to believe it." To hope that the Maker still watches over them, that he may care for them so...it is a powerful thought.

"But however you came here, your loyalty is admirable, and the Inquisition welcomes your assistance."

If any of the gods he has variously called his own might have had a hand in his coming here, it would be the capricious child goddess to whom his heart still, ultimately, belongs; the part of him that might be comforted by the thought still shies away from having it. He isn't ready to examine how much he has lost in coming here, how much of him was so ready to die -

"I'm glad," he says, with a sparse smile that isn't false. "I mean to give it for so long as I'm able."

"Then I thank you." She lifts her chin to look at him, and though she does not return the smile, her eyes track him carefully, curiously, as she nods to dismiss him. "Let us both hope you remain able for a long time."

[semi-open] a friendly query

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