(open-ish) out of the slumbers of my head

[fightingale]

WHO: Leliana & open-ish - see notes
WHAT: FREEDOM. talks about freedom/the Chantry/wherever it takes us.
WHEN: throughout late-late-late Drakonis and early/mid Cloudreach, can be after hearing some rumours.
WHERE: Default setting will be the Rookery, others possible on request.
NOTES:
1. Likely referral to imprisonment and torture in narrative, others to be added if they come up.
2. It's not exactly open-open because I'd like to be able to keep the different threads unique and avoid burn out on the topic, but if you are interested then just shoot me a pm or talk to me on plurk and we can figure it out!
tldr I am flexible with who/when/where and such, but hammering out some info first would be greatly appreciated.
3. Prose or brackets are totally fine, I'll match style :]b

Too long has she stayed her hand. First it was her ignorance that silenced her, and then it was loyalty, the belief that Justinia wished to make the world better, stronger. A more just world, where all would benefit rather than a rare few. As time has passed, though, and as the Inquisition grows, Leliana has realised more and more that Justinia's peace and her vision for the Chantry were not enough. For all that Justinia had once been a worldly woman she had not fought in the Blight, had not fought side by side with mage and elf alike. She had moved as a player of the Grand Game must, small moves, small changes, and stability had always been her first thought. It was Justinia who had threatened to deny aid to Celene in the settling of mage and Templar if Celene did not cease the elf rebellion simmering in Orlais before the burning of Halamshiral. Justinia was a good woman, a good friend and teacher and mother, and she had great vision. Even so she had been blinkered by the prejudices that ran rife throughout Thedas, the small mindedness that seemed to define each country in different ways. No one should be enslaved or punished simply for being; no one's personhood should be compromised by the simple facts and circumstances of their birth.

Most often she is in the Rookery and must be sort out between scouts and ravens bringing reports, or meetings with the other Advisors. The tower is cold, and candles flicker from a shrine to Andraste and make shadows dance. (And, if visitors come late in Drakonis and early in Cloudreach, they may find evidence of Dorian's prank, for which there will be dire consequences.)

Comments

[fightingale]

Ah, Jonas. The man who had been there through so much for each of them. She is silent a moment, and only nods.

There is not really time to relish in the moment of Morrigan accepting the grape. It has Nugistair trotting over to her, squeaking and snuffling and blinking his little eyes at her, snout and neck extending in a line to reach up as much as he can. It's adorable, really, and Leliana wishes there was a way to capture such a moment. Proof, perhaps, or simply for the sake of her own memories. Her expression is a little softer, but she holds up a hand, placating. "Your secret is safe with me."

And what a secret it is. A tragedy, honestly, that some things were condemned to silence. There is little chance to dwell on humour, though, in a conversation such as this.

"My actions were born of the need to see her orders done. Whatever was necessary, and whatever she needed. She understood that my methods could not be what a Divine would wish for." It is a cold way of looking at it, but she has learned to be cold. That coldness cannot entirely reconcile itself to the fire that burns in her, constant, and what she says next is... it is presumptuous. Arrogant, perhaps, and radical without question. Above these words Leliana favours visionary and necessary. If people cannot see it, it is because they blinded themselves, and they have none to blame for that but themselves.
"My version. That would be enough. One where freedom need not be a distant goal, but an immediate one. Where the innocent do not have to wait to appease those who so gleefully inflict suffering upon them."

She opens her mouth to speak further, when a knock comes at the door. Enter, she calls out, and a scout opens the door, stepping in to stand just inside the door and looking at Leliana, a message clasped in one of their hands. The Nightingale nods, before looking to Morrigan. "I am afraid I must cut this short."

I am sorry I cannot speak to you longer is what she means, because Morrigan speaking of her mother is not something easily won or coaxed, and to have be done without it coming slung with spite and vitriol is a marvel in and of itself.