#part of her dies with her i suppose. shes the champion of kirkwall and its a death sentence bc shes a mage so she decides | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

5lazarus · 4 years

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Hurt / Comfort prompt list: 6 and/or 17, please!

so you and Verdi inspired an entire story! these prompts provoke catharsis, and I was thinking of DA characters who desperately need that emotional catharsis, so here we go. Might make more sense if you read these two first, but I think it stands alone. Basically, after escaping Kirkwall, Hawke and friends are stuck in a cave, waiting for a storm to pass. Now they have to figure out how to weather each other. I put it up on AO3, titled Catabasis.

6. “I can’t breathe.” Isabela says, “Can you all fucking chill? I can’t breathe with this shit.” She throws her cards down. “Anyway, I win.” She pulls at her necklace anxiously. Everyone is on edge. Hawke bites back a response. Arguing with Isabela is never worth it, somehow she always wins, just out of pure intransigence. “We’re playing Go Fish,” Varric says, “not Wicked Grace. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Rivaini. You haven’t won shit.” Hawke is surprised at his vehemence. “Don’t give me that look, Hawke. You know how much I hate caves.” He drops another card. “So we’ve literally blown up our lives. Blondie’s in a fucking coma. Aveline’s finally lost her job, and I’ve wasted all the money I spent bribing the guards to keep the only woman with principles on payroll. Which, in light of the whole city being burned down and invaded by our favorite choir boy, doesn’t seem the worst of my losses. We’re all pissed off. So? What are we going to do about it?” “We could talk,” Hawke says petulantly, sitting down cross legged. Varric hands them a few random cards. Hawke blinks at them. They aren’t quite sure if they are playing Go Fish, or Wicked Grace, or some unholy game Isabela and Varric have concocted just to mess with Bethany. They’ve done that before, made up a card game and rules on the fly. “What’s there to talk about?” Isabela says. She puts two cards down. “Hit me.” Varric slaps her hand and moves one of the cards sideways. They are definitely making up the rules as they go along. “We’re all pissed off. We’re on the run. Again. And I’ve lost my ship. Yet again. But what does it matter? Just pieces.” “What’s that?” Hawke asks. “Qunari philosophy. My mother was viddathari, you know this.” Isabela puts down another card. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like the Qun, that’s obvious. But it has its moments.” Merrill slinks out of the shadows and curls around Hawke. They put their arm around her and plant a kiss at the edge of her hairline, right above her ear. Merrill shivers, in a good way. Isabela smirks at them. “Anyway, it’s just--none of this shit matters, in the end. You just have to keep moving. Let the waves take you where they will. So Kirkwall’s behind us. Well, at least we know where we’re going. When the rain clears up, we’ll head to Wycombe. I’ve got some friends in the Rivaini merchant community there. We have options. Llomerryn isn’t that awful. Rainy, but smells better than Lowtown, at least. And we’re different about magic, about--well--elves. We won’t be turned away from taverns anymore, I’ll tell you that. If you want to stay with me.” They all fall quiet at that. Hawke wants everyone to stay together, but to what end? What’s the point where they’re falling apart like this? Take them out of the Hanged Man, without a common enemy, and immediately they are all at each other’s throats. Hawke catches Bethany’s eye. They want to try, but they are tired of trying and failing. They stay silent. Fenris says, “The Qunari don’t like magic, and you’re a fool to think Rivain can stay neutral when Tevinter inevitably drags Orlais into their war. And you’re a fool to think the Chantry won’t try to punish the Circles, for what Kirkwall did. You remember what Leliana said. The mages are stuck in a war for their own survival. We will find peace nowhere.” “Always a ray of sunshine,” Varric remarks. He throws his hand into the air, and the cards rain down like confetti. Merrill giggles. He says the unthinkable: “What if we split up?” “Don’t say that,” Hawke says immediately. “We stay together.” They cannot lose them and Kirkwall both. They’ve lost Carver and Leandra and Lothering, that awful mansion, their uncle and cousin too. Kirkwall will never welcome its champion home, not with Starkhaven’s army occupying it, not with the Divine’s Seekers crawling through Darktown tunnels for any hint of rebellion. Hawke has lost their home. They cannot lost their friends too. Bethany and Merrill are not enough. They look helplessly at Isabela, who smiles sadly. Isabela, who has never had much at all: she puts a stop to that though. Isabela fans her cards out in front of her lap. She taps a queen, then looks at Hawke. “We’ll have to keep running, for a long time. Especially if the Divine is after us.” She does not need to say it: I will follow you. She came back even after the Arishok killed the Viscount. She will not abandon them now. Hawke smiles, heartened. They know where they will go, now: Wycombe, then Llomerryn, and onward. “How much further ‘til Wycombe?” they ask. “Fenris? You’ve clearly been there before. What are our next steps?” Fenris says, “We don’t move on until Anders can move. It would be safer to split, but I am reluctant to risk missing a rendezvous.” There it is again, unspoken: I followed you from Kirkwall, and Anders too, and I will not leave me now. Do not leave me now. Fenris takes Anders’ hand into his own and his face twists. Hawke shifts, uncomfortable. Everyone has their tragedy, but it is harder to synthesize and react when the stage itself has been removed. Kirkwall is gone. What is the next act? Varric says testily, “We can’t live on the run forever.” Bethany snorts. They have, from the Marches where their parents met, to Denerim and the Hinterlands back out to Lothering, across the Waking Sea and Kirkwall again. The Hawke siblings can. Varric, though, hates moving. He is as solid as the Stone that birthed him, though he would never admit it. Kirkwall is their home, but for Varric, it is part of him. Hawke feels guilty. They cannot ask him to leave. They cannot ask him to go. Bethany, though, is irritated. “We can. I can. I don’t like it, but it’s better than letting the templars make me Tranquil.” She picks up the cards they have put out and shuffles them anxiously, fans them out, then shuffles them again. “We all have had to run, Varric. All of us except you.” Varric is taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean, Sunshine?” His tone is less testy and more surprised. Bethany gets bitter, Hawke knows that better than all of them except maybe Anders, but she tends to keep that anger to herself. Merrill murmurs, “Oh, don’t start.” “Maybe I should,” Bethany says. “Maybe we need to be honest about what the next week is going to look like.” She turns around. “Aveline! Come back here. We all need to talk.” Isabela says, “I think you and I define ‘need’ differently, sweetling. Is there really anything more that needs to be said?” Aveline stalks over. She stares at Fenris warily, but pushes herself between Merrill and Varric. It’s weird to see her without her armor, her hair unkempt, and tired. Even after they buried Wesley, Aveline kept herself clean. “What?” she says. “What now?” Bethany says, “We need to decide now if we’re going to split up.” “No,” Hawke says immediately. “Hawke,” Aveline starts, but Hawke’s heart is pounding in their chest, and they feel like their sister has punched them in the stomach. They cannot think to lose them all. Merrill and Bethany aren’t enough, not after fleeing Kirkwall. They need more. They want their friends around them like a bulwark against the storm. The rain picks up outside, thunder shaking the woods, and Hawke feels momentarily reassured. They cannot split up just yet. “Ma vhenan,” Merrill says, “calm down. We’re here, right now.” Hawke looks at her. She looks so weary, so deeply sad. She left Clan Sabrae behind, or they left her, and who knows what they will face, with Sebastian occupying the city? Andrastians don’t like the Dalish, however hands-off and kind Sebastian’s missionary approach is. “Bethany, go on.” Bethany’s eyes flick to Hawke, then to Varric, and then to Avelien. Staring at Aveline, Bethany says, “We’re three mages, two elves, a dwarf, a pirate, and the Champion of Kirkwall. Aveline, you’re the only one of us who can move relatively...unmolested. And together we stick out. When we’d have to pack up, we were able to pass because we were a family, and Andrastian, and Mother was always good at talking to guards and templars. But everyone knows who the Champion is. Everyone knows they travel with a Dalish elf and the apostate who set the mages alight.” Hawke says, “When did you become a poet? Is that what they teach you in the Circle? And here I thought it was just blood magic.” Bethany scowls. “You know I’m right. Stop deflecting. You always do that, since Father died. I wish you wouldn’t. You can’t laugh this off this time. Our house has been destroyed. Our parents are dead. And there’s a warrant for your head, and mine too. And I don’t think that dragon lady is going to save us this time.” Hawke pushes Merrill off and stands up abruptly. “Then what do you suggest, Bethany?” they snap. “I got us out of Lothering, I got us into Kirkwall, I got us fucking out! With the help of a few miracles. So what do you think? Can you conjure something up?” “Hawke, sit down,” Aveline says. “Oh, come off it, Aveline,” Hawke says, exasperated. “You had your tantrum earlier, it’s my turn now.” They laugh at the sour face Aveline pulls. It is all utterly ridiculous, and they rejoice viciously as they make it all worse. “Stop joking? We’re a bad joke. A pirate, two apostates, and the Champion of Kirkwall get stuck in a cave. Got a punchline?” Aveline pulls herself up, and Hawke laughs again. “What? What are you going to do? Hit me? I thought you delegated that to your subordinates. Anybody know what happened to those elves who killed that guard who raped their sister? Aveline? Any guesses?” They step closer, staring right up in Aveline’s face. “Come on, it’s a helluva punchline!” And then Anders croaks, “Enough.” He paws at the collar of his robe. “I can’t breathe.” Fenris hurriedly unbuttons it for him, and Anders smiles at him. Fenris caresses the edge of his jaw, and Anders grabs his arm to level himself upright. Hawke deflates, relieved that he has woken up, and that it is him staring sternly at the lot of them, not Justice. Perhaps they can make it through this after all. “Well,” Aveline says, smiling despite herself. “The revolutionary himself. And not possessed. For once.” Anders grimaces, and gestures. Bethany gets up and pours him a glass of water. He downs it and clears his throat. “Din’mean to interrupt a good screaming match. But.” He rubs at his chest, over his heart, where the templar raised his Smite. “Hi?” He smiles awkwardly. None of them have planned this far. None of this saw this coming, except, perhaps, Anders--and Hawke knows for a fact he was hoping he was going to die in the battle, that fucking fool. Hawke swallows hard, tears springing to the edge of their eyes. These fucking fools: they all thought they were going to die before they got this far, didn’t they? “Don’t be cute,” Hawke says, voice breaking. “I’m mad at you. You were going to fucking let them kill you, you asshole.” They wipe at their eyes, cursing themselves. Bethany is looking at them in shock. Hawke musters a smile, casts about for a joke. “None of us planned this far, did we? None of us thought we were going to survive what Kirkwall was going to throw at us. But we did. And I for one think it’s more a miracle than that dragon dropping out of the sky to save us from the Blight. That we made it out alive. So let’s not throw that away. I don’t want us to separate.” They look at them all, their friends. “You lot are all I have left. All I want. And I don’t want to leave you behind.” Isabela bites her lip anxiously. “Aw, Hawke! And here I was going to sell you all to the Blind Men.” “Shut up and stop ruining the moment, Isabela,” Aveline says wearily. “Can we salvage this?” Varric offers, “Group hug?” Fenris says flatly, “No.” 17. “Hey, don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.” With that, the tension dissolves, and Hawke begins to laugh. They throw themself down next to Fenris and pull him into a hug, messing his hair. “Gimme a hug!” they say. “I deserve it, I saved your sorry ass.” Fenris says, “Ugh.” He scowls but does not pull away. Aveline huffs and moves to Varric. Hawke can feel Varric glaring at them. They purposefully turn away from the two of them, grinning a tad maniacally at their other friends. The fissures are obvious. Hawke thinks, maybe it’s like the Fade, and they’ll go away if I don’t look at them. Merrill gets up and begins moving around the shelter, pulling together a meal. Bethany follows. Isabela creeps closer to Hawke, Fenris, and Anders, watching the others fondly. “Damn, Anders,” Isabela says. “I didn’t think you were going to be there when you woke up.” Anders winces. “I wasn’t so sure either,” he says quietly. Fenris tightens his grasp on his hand. Hawke worries that he is hurting him. They aren’t quite sure about the two of them, though they had almost felt themself falling off the precipice into love with both men. They have that intensity, that fervor, that adoration that feels akin to worship--but Merrill’s love is calm like the surf lapping at the shore at low tide, and Hawke is not yet another ship to wreck in the storm. Anders and Fenris seem tender, anyway--desperate, but tender. Hawke says, “So. Still alive then?” It comes out more sour than they intend. “Despite your best efforts.” Anders looks guilty. “I didn’t want to die,” he claims. Fenris looks away sharply, hair hiding his face. Anders bites his lip. “It wasn’t--well, I made it. You got me through. The wardens always said I’d go out with a bang.” Hawke starts to laugh, which is better than crying. “Wait until they hear about what you did in Kirkwall!” “Which was not a suicide attempt,” Fenris says meditatively. “So you say.” “It wasn’t. Fenris, you know it wasn’t.” “I do not want to discuss your propensity to self-destruction right now,” Fenris says, voice strained. “But we will.” Anders looks irritated. “It’s not self-destruction, it was basic self-preservation and you know I had no other option--” “Maybe I should leave you two alone,” Hawke suggests. “Somehow. Because we’re stuck in this cave until the rain lets out. And it’s the sort of situation where we need to rappel down, so we’d need to do it together.” “No,” Fenris says. “Hawke, back me up in this.” Hawke really does not want to get involved in this, but they have never been able to tell their friends when to learn some emotional continence. They sigh. “You let us know you were planning something. You told me we needed to prepare to flee. You did not tell me you were planning to blow up the Chantry!” Hawke shrugs. “To be fair, it was a little obvious, with the sela petrae.” Fenris gives them a dirty look. Hawke spreads out their hands. “What? Come on. Sela petrae, drakestones, all those dark murmurings in the sewers--I just thought it was more than a one-man show.” Anders smiles slightly. “Well, you know me. I like to hog the stage. I didn’t want to bring anyone down with me.” “Don’t I know it!” Isabela snorts. “And you were only three drinks in, too….” One day Hawke will have the bravery to ask exactly how the two met, and what they did. Today is not that day. They love their friends, truly, but they are so much, and today is too much, and they do not want to know. Fenris says, “I take exception to that.” He is very still. “‘Bring anyone down with you’--who do you think we are, then? Mere incidental acquaintances?” Isabela bumps Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke blinks. That means she wants them to make a joke. “Acquiantances to murder, you mean,” they try. “Uh. Accessories.” Isabela rolls her eyes. Everyone’s a critic, especially when your friend has tried to kill himself. Anger lights itself in the pit of their stomach. They swallow it, it isn’t productive, but testily, they say, “I helped you find the materials to make the bomb. You should have just told me, instead of trying to be a martyr. You’re my friend. I care about you. If we hadn’t done anything to stop Meredith, Bethany would’ve been made Tranquil too. I thought I made it obvious I supported you, we could’ve worked in tandem with the last of the Viscount’s family--it didn’t have to end like this. There could’ve been another way.” “No there couldn’t!” Anders stands up suddenly, eyes flashing blue. Merrill and Bethany turn around simultaneously from the mouth of the cave, and everyone’s attention is glued to him. Hawke notices Aveline’s hand drift to the handle of her sword, Varric fingers a bottle of knock-out powder he keeps at his waist, even Isabela already has a dagger in her hand. Anders wrestles Justice back. “There wasn’t,” he repeats. “I tried all other ways. Orsino too. Endlessly. When the Left Hand of the Divine came, I knew it was over. The Chantry would rather kill us than let us go. And I wasn’t going to sit down and let them brand me--” “I’m not disagreeing with that!” Hawke snaps. “I just--I’m your friend, Anders. We all are. I’ve known you for almost a decade. You did not have to do that alone. We’re just as implicated as you were ever going to be.” “Leliana used to be better,” Isabela says. “Before the Chantry got its claws in her again. But--we’re here now, aren’t we? Together?” She looks at them all pleadingly. “So do we have to fight? The decision was already made, why talk about it now?” Anders’ eyes flash again, but Fenris grabs his arm in a bruising grip, and Hawke winces. Isabela tends to agree with them, she hates anything that restricts herself and has enough empathy to hate prisons for other people--but Isabela hates conflict, and hates being trapped into defending a position. Anders and Fenris both need clear lines. Hawke puts their head in their hands, frustrated. Varric shakes his head angrily. “Because some of us didn’t want to be driven out of town,” he says. “Because some of us think killing a grand cleric is a fucking stupid way to try to convince people you’re not an evil abomination. Because some of us believe in using our words.” Hawke thinks, well that’s not where I wanted the conversation to go. They open their mouth to disagree, to defend, to protest, but Merrill gets there first. “Varric, please,” Merrill says. She is vibrating with tension. Hawke reaches for her, but Merrill brushes them off. “If it wasn’t going to be Anders, it was going to be me. Or Feynriel. My clan. That lyrium. Or even Hawke, you know Meredith was trying to push them out since they killed the Arishok. Varric, don’t do this. Please.” Varric’s face twists. Hawke is terrified again. He comes across as easy-going, but he disagrees with Anders on most things. Hawke had been afraid Varric and Aveline wouldn’t have fought with them against Meredith; both of them knew she was crazy, but neither of them like risks. They love Kirkwall and its structures, oppressive or not. But both of them are the reason why Hawke has made it thus far, from Lothering to a hole in the wall in the Free Marches, as it pours outside. Aveline got them to Kirkwall, Varric got them out of Lowtown. They’ve only made it this far because of them, and they don’t want to know how far they can go without them. “The pillow,” Varric says. “The fucking pillow.” He laughs shortly. “That’s what gets me, every time. You gave me it. And why? Because you didn’t want to deal with the fucking consequences. Your little revolution, your fucking lover, your clinic--you were ready to give it all away. Because you were done. You wanted your blaze of glory--and now we have to deal with it. Kirkwall, Kirkwall’s gone. The Hanged Man? Probably burnt to the ground. I know they went for your clinic. And Blighted Prince Charming’s seized all our assets and is tracking us like a bloodhound. Because you were pissed at the grand cleric. At the Chantry. So you decided to burn it all down, and leave us in the ashes.” Hawke says, slightly impressed, “Damn.” It is slightly better than what they were expecting, and at this point they are just relieved no one has hit anyone yet. Next to them Merrill relaxes slightly, and she slides her hand into theirs and squeezes it comfortingly. They are upset Anders prepared to die. They are upset he treated his revolution like suicide. They are so utterly relieved Varric is angry about that too, and not that he is still alive. Anders closes his eyes and sags visibly. He hugs himself, nails digging into his arms. Fenris says, “Don’t do that, you’re hurting yourself.” Anders gives him a wretched look. “Isn’t that all I do?” he murmurs. “No,” Varric says. “It isn’t, you asshole. You hang out with me, and that was a good choice. And I suppose Broody was a good idea too. How old are you know? Past the fucking age to know that when you hurt yourself, you hurt the people around you. Us. And I might not agree with you, I might really want to hit you right now--” “Varric,” Fenris says warningly, and Varric puts his hands up. “I didn’t say I was going to do it,” he says. Hawke shoots him an amused look: while Fenris is around, they finish silently. “But, anyway--I don’t actually want you to hurt. Else I wouldn’t have sunk so much cash into keeping the Carta off your back. Especially when you helped out with the strike. You owe me your fucking life. Live it.” Anders says, “I didn’t know you cared.” Varric says, “Fuck you. Hawke, I have terrible taste in friends.” “Don’t look at me,” Hawke says mildly. “I’m terrible too. I’m the one who went digging around in shit to get the explosives for him.” “So what now?” Isabela says. “Are we all good? Because the rain’s stopped, and we should get moving. Anders? You’re not going to blow yourself up? And Fenris, you’re not going to tear out Aveline’s throat? And Bethany--” “What?” Bethany calls from deep in the storeroom, where she is packing their bags with Aveline. “I’m staying out of this!” “You do that, carry on,” Isabela says. “Keep doing that.” They pack up, Fenris and Merrill fretting quietly over exactly how to write the apology in Elvhen and what wall on which to pin it up. Fenris speaks the dialect the clan whose storeroom they borrowed uses, but doesn’t know how to use their alphabet, and while Merrill knows the characters, she puzzles over the words. Hawke has managed to pick up over the years that Elvhen and its dialects are based on intent, and change according to the context. The two of them can’t seem to decide on how to convey the context of the situation, and disagree on what they are enmeshed in anyway. As the others bustle about packing, Varric walks to Hawke and gestures at the two arguing elves. “If I write about this,” he says, “I’m skipping over this part. Because I have completely lost the plot.” Hawke heaves their pack onto their back and whistles for their mabari to join them. “We’re all fucking pissed at each other, but we know that’ll pass. We’re not separating.” They smile. “We’re getting through this together, somehow.” Varric says, “I hope you’re right, Hawke. Because I’m not so sure anything is resolved.”

#ellie-effie #catabasis #prompt #hawke #da2 #varric #anders #fenris #merrill #bethany #aveline #isabela #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #fanfic

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mocharoll · 4 years

Text

Dragon Age: Inquisition character alignments

Cassandra Pentaghast: Neutral Good

-I do nothing that is not worth doing with all my heart.

-One day, they may write about me as a traitor, a madwoman, a fool. And they may be right.

-The Circle of Magi has its place, but needs reform. Let the mages govern themselves, with our help. Let the templars stand not as the jailors of mages, but as protectors of the innocent. We must be vigilant, but we must also be compassionate to all peoples of Thedas, human or no. (...) If we are to spread the Maker's word across the world, we must do so with open hearts and open hands.(...)That is what I would change.

Varric Tethras: True Neutral (barely missing Neutral Good)

-To be honest with you, she’s just a better spymaster. The truly great ones can keep their distance. They don’t get attached to their people. Me, I always wind up babysitting my informants and worrying about their families. We’re in better hands with her.

-(If it was that bad, why did you stay? Cassandra said you were free to go.) I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this… Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there’s a hole in the sky. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.

-Heroes are everywhere. I've seen that. But a hole in the sky? That's beyond heroes. We're going to need a miracle.

-(You knew where Hawke was all along!) You’re damned right I did!

-You know what I think? If Hawke had been at the temple, s/he'd be dead too. You people have done enough to her/him.

Vivienne de Fer: Lawful Evil

- The Divine must set the example for all Thedas. She must seem to be the embodiment of the Maker to the faithful. She needs the authority of the Maker and the charisma of Andraste.

-I never worry, darling. A leash can be pulled from either end.

-Your failing-- among many-- is that you presume I desire approval. Power does not require that I be "liked.”

-Act first and teach them to fear us.

The Iron Bull: Lawful Neutral (Slides towards True Neutral if Tal-Vashoth)

-Dragons are the embodiment of raw power. But it's all uncontrolled, savage... So they need to be destroyed. Taming the wild. Order out of chaos.

-It's like being a block of stone with a sculptor working on you. One day, the last of the crap gets knocked off, and you can see your real shape, what you're supposed to be.

-My people don't pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions... and live with the consequences.

Sera: Chaotic Good

-Someone little always hates someone big. And unless you don't eat, sleep, or piss, you're never far from someone little.

-Bad things should happen to bad people. We find someone not so bad, maybe he’ll end up not so dead.

-Watch out, yeah? The hole in the sky didn't start their war. Stupid people did that.

-Blah, blah, blah! Obey me! Arrow in my face!

Dorian Pavus: True Neutral

-In the south you have alienages, slums both human and elven. The desperate have no way out. Back home, a poor man can sell himself. As a slave he can have a position of respect, comfort, and could even support a family. Some slaves are treated poorly it's true, but do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?

-If I truly believed my homeland was beyond all hope, I wouldn't miss it so much.

-Living a lie... it festers inside you, like poison. You have to fight for what's in your heart.

-I'm here to set things right. Also? To look dashing. That part's less difficult.

Solas: True Neutral

-Sometimes to achieve the world one desires, one must take regrettable measures.

-War breeds fear. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right or wrong. Chains of command.

-One moment, I see heroic Grey Wardens lighting the fire and a power-mad villain sneering as he lets King Cailan fall. The next, I see an army overwhelmed and a veteran commander refusing to let more soldiers die in a lost cause.

Blackwall: Neutral Good (During Inquisition)

-“You are who you choose to follow.” Someone told me that once. Took me years to understand what he meant.

-At the heart of it, all a Warden is, is a promise. To protect others... even at the cost of your own life.

-(What can one Grey Warden do?) "Save the fucking world if pressed.

Cole: Neutral Good

-It is dangerous when too many men in the same armor think they're right.

-It doesn't matter that they won't remember me. What matters is I helped.

-(What of Magister Erimond? Do you sense a secret pain in him?) No. Erimond is an asshole.

Leliana: Neutral Good (if unhardened), True Neutral (if hardened)

The Chantry has committed many injustices. If we're going to change it, why not change the whole thing?

I've known mages. Some of them were better people than me. And yet I'm free and they're not. It's not right.

No one is without worth. Whoever you are, whatever your mistakes, you are loved. Unconditionally.

Josephine: Neutral Good

- We face a dark time, Your Grace. Divine Justinia would not want her passing to divide us. She would, in fact, trust us to forge new alliances to the benefit of all, no matter how strange they might seem.

-(I can only imagine the bloodshed if it escalates further.) I’m afraid history holds many examples of what will happen if it does.

-But it was such a waste, Inquisitor! When I took of his mask I knew him. We’d attended parties together. If I’d stopped to reason, if I’d used my voice instead of scuffling like a common thug...

Cullen Rutherford: Neutral Good (even more so if kept off of Lyrium. Lawful Good if he takes Lyrium)

-The templars should have restored order, but red lyrium had driven Knight-Commander Meredith mad. She threatened to kill Kirkwall’s Champion, turned on her own men. I’m not sure how far she would have gone. Too far.

-(Why did you join the Order?) I could think of no better calling than to protect those in need.

-(I doubt the Commander believes there’s anything worthy left in me.) You’re not wrong. But you served something greater than yourself once. Perhaps you can be made to remember that.

-Shouldn’t they be arguing over who’s going to become Divine?

Morrigan: True Neutral

-No son of mine would be raised in a marsh, bereft of contact with the outside world. His future will be difficult enough without my adding to his burden.

-The magic of old must be preserved. No matter how feared.

-What I fear, what all should fear, is not that Corypheus believes he can succeed; ‘tis that he actually may.

-Mankind blunders through the world, crushing what it does not understand; elves, dragons, magic...the list is endless. We must stem the tide, or be left with nothing more than the mundane. This I know to be true.

Corypheus: Neutral Evil

Know me. Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One. The will that is Corypheus. You will kneel.

-I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this Blighted world. Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.

The Nightmare: Chaotic Evil

The Divine: It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror.

-Are you afraid, Cole? I can help you forget. Just like you help other people. We're so very much alike, you and I.

Cole: No.

-You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fear is me.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cassandra pentaghast #cullen rutherford #solas #leliana #dorian pavus #varric tethras #iron bull #cole #josephine montilyet #morrigan #vivienne #blackwall #sera

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maiden-of-wolves · 6 years

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Ariel & Fox - Persistance

“Meeting” Scene

Part 1

More writing with Fox & Ariel. This time Ariel screws up and gets (figuratively) scalped.

“I’d cite cleverness for finding you, but this one would protest regardless,” Fox said as he came up behind Ariel. He had a basket in hand with a kitten poking its head out. It meowed loudly when she looked at it.

Ariel scrambled, usually not so off in her own mind that she could hear anyone approaching, and took out her earbud, stuffing the phone into her bag after clicking power button. She was still in a fairly good mood, so despite her previous irritation with him she chuckled. Plus, he’d brought a kitten, and how could she be mad at that?

She carefully picked it up from the basket and sat it down on her lap. As her legs were crossed that gave the little cat a lot of room to wander. Instead, after a few long strokes along its back, it found a perfect place to lie down: the center of her lap. She couldn’t blame it, that’d certainly be the warmest place to go, but it was a little awkward. Ariel took to gently petting around its chin and by its ears, which earned her pleased purrs. The sound made her smile, though the gesture only moved her lips. True teeth smiles were rare.

“So,” she finally said, glancing over at Fox for the first time since he offered the kitten. “Is this a check up? Or just an investigation to sate your curiosity?” A tiny part of her felt a bit disheartened that if she told him everything, he’d just leave. The rest thought it a brilliant idea. For the time being, she just waited for him to answer.

“Some of both. With the Breach, there is a great deal of ambient magic that may have adverse effects on you.” He planted the butt of his staff in the packed snow and looked out over the ridge. “I must admit it’s a bit of a damper to realize you’re not important enough to warrant inclusion in prophetic visions.”

“Okay, you’ve lost me already,” Ariel admitted, quirking a brow as she looked up at him. “You mean what I know about this place?” That confusion partially rectified, she turned her gaze to watch the goings on in camp again, idly petting the kitten’s head. “Look, it’s… weird. I doubt I could explain it to you even if I tried. And they’re not ‘prophetic visions’. Stuff like that doesn’t happen at home. Mages don’t exist and ‘magic’ is just sleight of hand.”

Fox stood silently, then turn his head towards her. “Perhaps it would be easier if you explained the situation as you understand it, as I can’t see any way knowing people you’ve never met before isn’t magic. Well, I’m assuming it’s not letters and portraits.”

At that, Ariel actually laughed, the movement startling the kitten enough for it to give a tiny murrp chirp. “Well, in a way it kind of is,” she admitted, carefully stroking the kitten a few times to help it settle down.. This was going to be a hell of a task; explaining video games to a person that’s never seen a pictograph? “It’s an illustrated story. Interactive, as well. You can talk to everyone and make decisions that affect their lives, as well as Thedas. It’s supposed to be just a story, a complete fiction…” she paused, gesturing widely to the area. “And yet, here I am.”

“Hmm.” Fox turned to look back over the ridge and leaned into his staff. “So someone else was a prophet and made this story to tell their prophecy and you, after reading it, arrived here to tell it.”

Ariel watched him with increasing skepticism and bewilderment. What can I possibly say to get him off this prophecy kick?? “It’s not a prophecy. I’m not a ‘chosen one’ don’t start with that shit,” she finally managed. She tried again to explain. “It’s… imagine that you got dropped into the world of Swords and Shields. It’s like that, but with no magic and tech you wouldn’t know the first thing to do with.”

“It wouldn’t make me the chosen one, no, but it would make me the prophet for the Chosen One. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that novel, so I can’t make a proper analogy, but simply because it is a fiction to you does not mean our cuts do not bleed.” He paused. “Nor yours, it would seem.”

So apparently not everyone in Thedas had read Master Tethras’s novels. Good to know. Though it hadn’t helped her in the current situation. “Oh, believe you me, I learned that real quick…” she quipped back. The idea that she seemed callous to their plight came into her head and she quickly added, “I’ve been making sure to offer whatever I know when Venna needs help. I... she wants me to be a part of the war table, but the rest of the advisors are against it. I don’t know how I feel about it, honestly, so I won’t push for it. She just comes and talks to me when she can’t make a decision.”

“Why not simply tell her what she will choose?” Fox asked.

“Because I don’t know that,” Ariel answered. “That was who you played. The character you were interacting with Thedas through. First it was the Hero of Ferelden, then the Champion of Kirkwall, and finally the Herald. You want to call anyone the ‘chosen one’, it’s Venna. I can just tell her what the general effects of her actions will be in the future and she can weigh which ones she wants to pursue based on that.”

Fox’s lips moved as he muttered silently. “Are you saying that this prophecy of yours accounted for different choices by these heroes?”

“It’s not a prophecy…” Ariel grumbled.

“If it has given you knowledge of the possible future, how is it not a prophecy?”

“It’s an interactive story,” she sighed. “But I guess it doesn’t really matter to you all. It’s your future. But, to answer your earlier question— yes. It does. The Warden could come from several different backgrounds, as can the Herald. That alone has a small bearing on the plot and how you interact with the world. Elves have to work much harder to garner respect; a kossith would be even less respected. Dwarves are just kind of seen as oddities, despite there being a ton on the surface now.” She paused, pursing her lips as she weighed the point of actually continuing the examples. In the end, she just shrugged and barrelled forward. “The Warden could have died if they hadn’t assisted Morrigan in a ritual to keep them from being destroyed by the escaping Archdemon’s soul as they killed it. The Champion could have sided with the Templars and culled the entire Kirkwall circle, becoming a rallying cry for Templar aggression. The Herald can chose to bring the broken Templar order to heel and rebuild it properly under the Inquisition or ally with the ‘free’ mages in Redcliffe and have a hand in creating the College of Enchanters, which attempts to rival the circles as a place for mages to study.” She looked over at him with a tired chuckle. “Lots of things can change.”

“I would rather you stopped thinking of our lives as a fiction or a story, simply because it is easier for you.” Fox’s tone had none of the warmth and lightness it usually did. “How the prophecy was presented to you doesn’t matter in the scheme of things. We are real. That is what matters.”

“Oh,” was the only thing that Ariel could think to say for a moment. Oops, being the main thing that echoed in her brain. Well, here you are again, royally fucking shit up. At least apologize! Came the internal chastisement. “Right. I’m sorry. I didn’t… it wasn’t meant to … make it seem like I didn’t care. I do. I’m not some heartless bitch.” She chuckled again, though the sound was mirthless and blinked away the sheen in her eyes that had developed from the panic. “Sorry…” she murmured again, though apparently this time to the kitten as she returned her attention to it.

He didn’t acknowledge her apology. “I’ve heard Rutherford speak quite a bit about recruiting the Templars. Does that lead to a more favorable outcome, then?”

“It’s up to interpretation,” Ariel admitted, taking a few heavy breaths as she continued to try and calm herself. In the back of her mind she was running over how furious she’d probably be if she was talked about like a fictional character when she was standing right there. The idea of Fox being that mad at her made her want to quake in trepidation. The only thing keeping her grounded and not in tears was the kitten in her lap. It wouldn’t like having a salt water bath. “But I think so. And when Venna has asked me, I encourage her to go to the Templars. But not to ally with them. Their leadership is in shambles. They need a place to rebuild and be under watchful eyes. And Cullen is—” she cut herself off, brows furrowing as she weighed the reasons to tell him the full reason why it would probably be particularly helpful with them. Eventually, she shook her head. “He is doing something different. And they could all benefit from the change.”

“And your prophecy told you nothing of me, is that correct?” Fox asked, still not looking at her.

“Nothing,” she answered quickly, suddenly getting the feeling that her habit of talking too much might be dangerous.

“Did it tell you what became of those children from these Southern Circles? Because I can assure you, Redcliffe Castle is not home to even most of them.”

Ariel swallowed and slowly shook her head even though he probably wasn’t going to see the latter. “No, it didn’t even really talk about that,” she replied. After a moment, she looked over at him, concern finally overtaking her panic enough to show on her face. “Do you know something about them? Venna could help. If you just tell her. Haven could keep them safe.” In the back of her mind she knew that was partially a lie, considering they were going to be attacked, but in the event there’s no way that they wouldn’t have put the children first in the tunnel during the escape. The journey to Skyhold would be hard, but they could make it and they’d be safe there.

“Haven is completely indefensible. A tactical nightmare. It is no fortress and Commander Rutherford would know better if he were suited for any kind of command and you’re mad if you think I’d bring any child back into the view of a Templar, former or conscripted by Inquisition.” Lightning magic crackled across his shoulders before reaching his staff and fizzling out on the enchantments.

Okay. Back to panic. She held on to her outward veneer just enough to not cry. As an adult, one couldn’t do that just to destress. Especially not in a place as dangerous as Thedas and a furious mage standing next to her. She took several long, slow breaths and gently pulled the kitten closer to her just in case a stray bolt hit them it would hit her instead. “The Inquisition will have a fortress,” she said slowly. “Skyhold.” She purposefully left the last portion unanswered. She’d rather not have to deal with absorbing any more magic than necessary and certainly didn’t want to find out how much more powerful Fox was than Venna.

“It may be that the College of Enchanters as they call themselves cannot help the Herald seal the Breach, but I hardly feel favorable to them when they left scores of children twice orphaned. I came South to help. I did not expect the need to be so dire.” He shook his head and his shoulders relaxed. “It would be best if you told me who the Inquisition needs alive. I may not be able to stay my hand, otherwise.”

“Well, Commander Rutherford would be a good start to that list,” Ariel offered, offering a breathless chuckle as she finally felt the hairs at the back of her neck settle as he stopped interacting with his magic. “Venna is really the only one that has to be alive, honestly. She has the anchor and as far as I’ve ever seen one needs to be alive to use it. To actually deal with the one that ripped the veil open she’ll need just about anyone she can get. That’s not to say you won’t have plenty of people to steer your rage towards. The Inquisition will have many, many enemies. I’d just… like to see you live long enough to really help those kids.”

Fox chuckled, but it wasn’t cold and damning; he was back to his casual warmth. “I am much hardier than you would expect. Don’t worry. I only enter battles I plan to win.”

“You’ll find that I worry about people I care about,” Ariel said, not realizing what she said until it had already passed her lips. She quickly scrambled to correct herself.“I mean, I worry. It’s just something I do.” She offered a nervous laugh and stood up, pulling up the kitten with her and placing it on his shoulder. “I probably don’t deserve whatever else you brought me, so I’ll… I should go.” A tiny smile was all she could produce before turning around and grasping her back, making a quick check over it to be sure everything was inside and the zippers were pulled. “Thanks for the kitten time,” she said before heading off down the rocks. She needed to be alone. Time to test the wards that Solas had begrudgingly given her. She’d had more than enough of dealing with any people for the day. At least she wasn’t sick on top of it.

#my writing #co-authored #tk-duveraun #Fox #OC: Ariel Grace #MGIT

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elatedwarcry · 7 years

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[19:45:44] Fëanáro: Elvis would probably just kick away his boots, sit down a second at the entrance of the village and look up at Mathin [19:46:03] Fëanáro: comment that he looks pretty committed with regard to this helping strangers business [19:46:56] Fëanáro: and something like "you might have done a good job, in my place" [19:47:05] Fëanáro: with a sort of an evaluating expression [19:48:08] crow: Mathin just shakes his head. “No. For all my efforts, Kirkwall still ended in flames. They cursed my name, who was supposed to have protected them. It is good, that the Seeker could not find me.”

[19:49:14] Fëanáro: Elvis stares and blinks. "Then maybe not. At least, not with that attitude."

[19:51:00] crow: “You will understand, with time. I started out much like you.” Mathin smiles a little, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “But I am here now, and I cannot deny anyone who is in need. I never could."

[19:54:22] Fëanáro: He stands up, grabs his boots and walks, very slowly, towards the houses. "Like me? How did I start out, Champion?" He's not smiling, too busy grimacing for his calluses, constrained in in wet and hard footwear.

[19:56:52] crow: Mathin laughs shortly. “Forgive me, perhaps I misunderstood. Given your judgement of my ‘attitude’ I assumed you to be a particular type of man.” He starts to follow Elvis into the village, with Varric and Dorian and idk who else you pick trailing behind them. “I, of course, do not know you.”

[20:04:40] Fëanáro: "An assumption for an assumption, it's a fair trade." Elvis turns and smiles a little. "You might not deserve your bad reputation. But again, I don't know you either."

[20:06:45] crow: “My mistakes are my own. I live with them, as best I might.” A nod of the chin, acknowledgement. “Varric has chosen to follow you. You are working to put things right. I do not know you, but perhaps I know enough.” [20:20:15] Fëanáro: "You do not believe that I come armed by Andraste's will?" He looks at the few faces that start showing up in the village, very gaunt, damp, everything is terribly damp. He probably thinks that an aravel would have a hard time with all that mud, and so do merchant carts.

[20:24:38] crow: Mathin gives him a suspicious glance. “Armed” by Andraste’s will? Is that meant to be a pun? Probably not. “I believe your arrival… precisely what was needed, at precisely the time it was needed… is interesting timing.” He thinks of Sebastian for a moment, of the grief on the man’s face as he stared at the smoke over Kirkwall and the fury as he stared at Anders. “But I have come to be… wary… of piety.”

[20:32:41 | Modificato 20:36:44] Fëanáro: a man who decides to help a pious organisation founded on religious grounds, literally and metaphorically, and led by someone who openly accepted and embraced the title of Herald of Andraste, is wary of piety. If Elvis weren't who he is, that is, an elf who openly accepted and embraced the title of Herald of Andraste, he'd call Mathin a hypocrite. "So you're wary of me, Champion? Isn't the interesting timing exacly how" (your) "divinity works? It wasn't a case, and if it was, I made the best of it. It seems a textbook case of Andraste working her mysterious ways." [20:32:58] Fëanáro: literally textbook. He read that stuff over and over with Mother Giselle.

[20:38:20] crow: Mathin gives Elvis a loooong look, ignoring the rain dripping uncomfortably down the back of his neck and under his armor, ignoring the prickling pangs of hunger in his stomach, ignoring the growing desire to take off his armor and sit somewhere warm and dry. “Yes, I’m wary of you. Don’t take it too personally; I’m wary of most people, these days, no matter how long I’ve known them.” The name ‘Anders’ isn’t said, but hangs between them a moment, all the same. “I don’t know how the Maker works, or Andraste. I’ve never seen their hand, to know it. It seems rather presumptuous of me to make declarations about them, in any case.” There’s another pause. “I’ve seen faith work both good and ill, depending on how it’s wielded.”

[20:51:31] Fëanáro: Elvis wears a gauntlet, of course. But he raises his left hand anyway, palm up. The green glow doesn't shine through it, not now that there aren't any rifts nearby. "You've seen it now." He doesn't say anything else on the matter, because they are in the middle of the village and people look at them with a little of the same wariness Mathin mentions, and some awe too, some curiosity. "But it's understandable and I appreciate the honesty." To an extent. He sits down again, on a small rock wall, moss-covered, aware that he can't really enter the mayor's house without boots and with muddy feet. He stares at the boots though. Would these people really care? They all seem as wet to the bone as the land is.

[20:56:15] crow: Mathin smiles a little. He wears a gauntlet, too, though the fingers are left exposed for magical workings. Turning his hand palm-up, a tiny ball of pure bright magic collects and hovers there a moment, then winks out when he closes his hand around it. “I have seen many things,” is all he says. And he has. He has seen very old magic, very strange mysteries. He has seen things he has no explanations for. Elvis is just one more of those, until proven otherwise, in other words. “I sing the Chant. The Chantry itself?” He shrugs one shoulder, watching as Elvis regards his own feet a moment. “Leave them off.”

[21:07:01] Fëanáro: Elvis looks at him, then at Cassandra, and back at Mathin. He won't comment on that Chantry remark, let the Seeker pick her own battles if she wants to. I'm something more and something better than the Chantry, he thinks. They'll sing my own chant. But people don't very much like pride (especially not the Champion with his very own glowy hand), and maybe once neither did he, so he tries to remember that and doesn't say that either. He looks at his own dirty feet instead. "That would make me look like what I am." He whiffles and stands up. Whatever. Cleaning both boots and feet is too much effort now. "Let's go inside, the mayor must be waiting."

[21:14:50] crow: Mathin looks at Elvis a moment, wondering to himself ‘and just what are you, really?’ A Dalish elf who professes himself the Herald, who argues for it, in fact. Mathin has read the New Cumberland Chant, he’s read the Dissonant Verses contained in it. He knows about Shartan, and how history has almost literally docked his ears. An elf as a figure in Andrastian belief is no new idea to him. But this elf? He’s not sure. And maybe it doesn’t matter, anyway, as long as they have the same goals. If those goals diverge… he’ll reconsider, then. He straightens a little and shakes off the mood, breathing in deeply enough that his ribs creak. “All those people,” he says quietly, thinking of the bodies of the drowned. “Someone must answer for it.”

[21:25:04] Fëanáro: "Someone will." And he approaches the mayor's house. Only of course it wasn't going to be that easy. There are those two men in front of the wooden door, mentioning how the man has left. Elvis frowns considerably, clutching his armoured boots. "Now. The mayor has left now ."

[21:30:54] crow: Varric pipes up. “Yeah, all right. Because that’s not suspicious at all.” Mathin’s expression grows grim as his suspicions mount. He doesn’t want to believe it, but he’s seen far worse things already. It wouldn’t surprise him, which is almost the worst part of all. He strides ahead of Elvis and pushes open the door with more force than is strictly necessary, staring around the empty rooms.

[21:43:36] Fëanáro: Elvis marches in right after Mathin, taking a deep breath, inhaling the mossy scent of the house. It isn't a bad scent, though it also smells of rot. "Interesting timing indeed", he murmurs in answer to Varric. He pulls off a gauntlet and looks around, not knowing exactly what he is looking for. And yet, what is he looking for lies in plain sight, on the desk, open between bound stacks of paper. The ink is dry, but the letter isn't old and though Elvis fails to understand some words, the meaning is overall rather clear. He holds it up. "He confessed."

[21:49:30] crow: Mathin’s lips press together tightly and he summons a witchlight to brighten the horrid little room. It smells like mildew and regret. Darkness and fear. The mayor, he is somehow certain, was a very sad little man, to live in a house like this one. He is minded, in fact, of Gamlen’s hovel. A bit peremptorily, he plucks the letter out of Elvis’s fingers and reads it over quickly. His jaw clenches and he very carefully sets the letter back down, instead of clenching his fist around it or anything more overt than that. “He will be found.” It isn’t a question.

[21:58:55 | Modificato 21:58:54] Fëanáro: "The Inquisition's forces can do that." It's funny, he thinks, how the Champion of Kirkwall, with his reputation and his history is a man who cares so much about justice. how righteous he is. And how he oversteps his authority on the matter too, as if any of the people here answered to him. Elvis is still frowning when he picks up the letter again; the two men outside are peeping in but Cassandra is quick to fill the frame of the threshold with her presence and then close the door entirely. " You ", Elvis continues, "have someone else entirely to find, or help us find, in any case." He sits down where the mayor would have sat while writing that letter, on the wooden chair before the old, humid table. "I wonder if I should tell these people what exactly happened and what is going on now."

[22:05:45] crow: Mathin draws himself up, wanting to protest, and then swallows it. He’s not the Champion anymore, not really. And it’s not his place, even if this entire situation throws him back to the fall of Lothering, all the deaths of the people he once knew and cared about. And he fled it, left the Blight behind, instead of living with its legacy as the people of Crestwood still do. And his sister died, anyway. “I know where to find him,” he says, only a little shortly. “The sooner, the better.” He strides to the hearth and tosses fire at it, wanting to heat and dry this horrid little place. Maker, he wants to be dry. But there’s no chance yet to rest. “They won’t thank you, either way.”

[22:22:53] Fëanáro: "I don't know that. They have much to thank me for already. But maybe you're right, and maybe they don't even want to know." If his Keeper had done anything so dismal to save half of the clan, he wouldn't want to know about it. His followers, the Inquisition's soldiers, also wouldn't want to know if he ever sacrificed a part of them to save the rest. He looks at the traces of his feet on the floor, then glances at the flames, almost out of place in the damp house; like wanting to keep a fire alive in the undergrowth of a wood just after a storm. At least the dripping of rain outside is diminishing. He can still smell the dregs of the lake though: algae, putrid wood, something fresh, lichens. "Why bother with the hearth?" [22:30:55] crow: “They don’t want to know,” Mathin agrees. He also is in a very good place to know that no matter what you do for people, they’ll only be upset that you didn’t do more, or didn’t do it differently. It’s better just to do what you do because it’s right that you do it, and not for the accolades. Those fade, all too quickly, and memories are short. The Inquisitor will learn that, eventually, the same way Mathin did. From experience. He stands and stares into the hearth a moment. “One thing I learned. Never pass up a chance for even a moment of comfort. You never know when the next will come.” Straightening, he turns back to Elvis a second and smiles. “And this place was too dark.”

[22:34:51] Fëanáro: Elvis smiles a little too and slightly raises the hand that holds the letter. "True. It was." A small place for a lonely man to live with his guilt. "Our contact will not flee again, will he?"

[22:36:39] crow: Mathin crosses his arms over his chest and considers. “Only if forced to. Those Wardens we saw… he is being hunted. He’ll not risk being taken. We ought not delay, especially now that the rifts have been dealt with. The region is calmer, which increases his chances of being found.”

[22:44:25] Fëanáro: Elvis folds the letter and tucks it under his serpentstone armour, as the only and final proof of the mayor's responsibility. "I'll dry my feet, then, and then we move ahead." He sighs and passes his hand through his wet hair. "This is taking longer than catching a golden halla."

[22:49:47] crow: Mathin shakes his head and droplets of water spray off his hair. The fur on his armor — the Champion armor still, after all these years, though so much more worn and faded, and he’s tempted sometimes to read a metaphor into that — smells like wet animal. Or maybe that’s him. Or maybe that’s the entire crappy little house. The rain is slowing up, but the clouds are still dark and grey. This house isn’t better than being outside, though, and he rolls his shoulders under his armor. “I’ve never tried to catch a golden halla, but I’d imagine so. I thought halla were white, from what Merrill told me.”

[22:55:57] Fëanáro: Elvis quickly drags the chair by the hearth, dropping his boots near the flames. He stretches his legs and brushing a foot against the other one to rub off the greater part of the mud. When someone knocks at the door, probably the two villagers, he turns towards his companions. "Do you mind talking with them? I imagine they need some news." He turns again towards the fire. "They are shy little things, with a... a sheen to their mantle. Hard to find and hard to catch. It's a saying."

[23:01:58] crow: “Ah. I understand,” Mathin says, and falls silent, enjoying the radiant warmth, nearly basking in it. “I do not know you,” he says again after a moment, apropos of little. “And in a very practical way, it doesn’t matter. But I dislike relying on someone I do not know, though you’re clearly a capable warrior and leader.” Another pause. “I will not insult you by asking if you really believe all those things you said earlier, about Andraste’s will. But I will ask you this.” He turns, and looks down at the seated elf. “I have a friend, a close one, who left the Dalish for reasons of her own, and they were good ones, from her logic of them. What are yours, for staying among people not your own?”

[23:12:00] Fëanáro: Elvis looks up, with an arched brow and an inquisitive glance, as he slowly puts the gauntlet back on. "And would answering that give you any more insight?"

[23:13:54] crow: “Perhaps.” His expression is neither grim no grave, but it is not light, either. Then he barks a laugh. “Perhaps not. My own life, after all, is an open book.” With a jerk of his chin in the direction of Varric. “Literally.”

[23:35:22] Fëanáro: Elvis snorts a little now. He hasn't read that book, if he has to be honest, but he never says it. He doesn't know whether Varric would be offended or not. "What can I tell you, Champion? I couldn't leave even if I wanted to. I alone can do this, so I must. But that's not the point, right?" He shrugs. "I don't want to leave", he admits, almost candidly. It's been frightening, at the beginning. Thinking about what it meant for his clan back in the Marches, if he, an elf, was thought responsible for Justinia's death; thinking about how he would adapt, how he would survive, how he would learn. But the leadership of these people had been put into his hands and he had never, not for a moment, thought about letting it slip away. Andraste had existed and had marched with the People. Whether the human Maker, or Mythal, or Elgar'nan, or all the Creators together had put her banner his hand, it didn't matter at all. "There was a void of power, after the explosion at the conclave, and it had to be filled. I don't know what you expected of me, Champion. Maybe I should hide in a grove or in a hole in the earth and wait for the storm to pass, hoping that something will have withstood it when I resurface? I won't die like that. In fact, I am quite tired of all of that. You think these people aren't my own, but they are, and the more I say it, the more they'll believe it too. Maybe I don't belong to them but... but they belong to me. You don't know how rare it is to be able to say that for one like me."

[23:43:07] crow: Mathin watches him in silence during the whole speech, and in silence for a few moments afterward. The answer is a better one than he’d feared, even if part of him does feel the “void of power which needed to be filled” as a rebuke. Cassandra had wanted him for this role, after all, and he’d refused it without her ever knowing. He’d just… hidden. Not quite in a grove or a hole in the earth, but hidden, all the same. He’d been busy with his own tasks, and he had justified it that way. He also, to be fair, hadn’t known exactly why the Seeker wanted to find him, only that she had, and that she’d roughly interrogated his best friend to do it. It hadn’t disposed him to trust her, or to give her anything she’d wanted. “Many people would have hidden,” is all he says aloud. “Or tried to. Many people… my father used to say that his magic would serve what was best in him, not what was most base.” He leans a shoulder on the fireplace, letting the heat soak into him. “Merely because you’re the only one who can do this? To some people, that wouldn’t mean a damn thing. To you it does.” He nods once, with something almost like respect. And there’s respect, too, for being an outsider who nevertheless has laid claim to the people around him. Mathin was that, once. A Fereldan in Kirkwall. He wasn’t theirs, but they were his. “And yes, I have some idea.” He straightens and claps his hands together in front of him, once. “Shall we, then?" [23:54:31] Fëanáro: "Some idea, maybe." But one of them is an elf and the other is not. Elvis straightens his back and once again rubs his feet together and against the leather of his gauntlet, cleaning them of the mostly dried mud as best as he can. He grabs his boots and wears them, though the bottom of them is still uncomfortably humid. He stands up, nevertheless looking at Mathin with a certain understanding, supposing that, maybe, his answer pleased him enough to nod his approval. "Yes, time to go. Your contact has waited enough."

#archive.

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