We have been at two. [ wars. ] This is a temporary peace, and the Inquisition all that held it. I will vet the guards; they will not put all their eggs in one basket.
Inessa Serra and I were speaking last time I was on the crystal asking of dragons, if they liked the world-- Some of it became heated. [You're allowed to feign surprise. Or not. She's aware of herself but this is an excited sounding Bosmer sharing something that troubles her still.]
I don't know if she meant to tell me what she told me, how common the knowledge is. Archdemons are dragons, I know that, but she told me they have an immortality only Wardens can overcome. Without that, their death is temporary. They rise again after death. The will endures. The taint endures. Now, the dragons here are different in all other ways to the dragons I have fought before; Thedas has them breeding, hatching, they are flesh and blood to be slain, to age, to die, except for these.
These-- [a breath, she steadies herself as if waiting for a great thing to come down, as if the rift will appear and time will snap his jaws down over her throat as he tried to once but managed to close only on his own ending] are closer to those I know. Dragons were and are. Eternal. Immortal. Unyielding. Unchanging.
[ he likes the thrumming behind her words, the potential. ]
Yes, [ he says, agreeing. ] But less 'are' and greater 'were'. Wretched things, a particular foulness given form. No children, for that would be the power of creation and they were too incapable of original thought to do as much. Violent, pestilence made flesh enough to be slain by the exceptional.
I have faced one in war. I did not come away whole.
[ contemplative: ] So what is in this taint that it makes their dragons alike in endurance to our dragons?
[ he watches her eviscerate her pie, eyes up and down with the fork. ]
Is that what this is? 'Faffing'?
[ she cares. he appreciates that. does not appreciate her dragon, but that particular discussion needs to wait. ]
I am afraid I cannot. We—are like unto swans, if you would prefer an elegant comparison. We have one and one only the whole of our lives. I am incapable of having another, and in truth, it would be—difficult. We do not consider our adults to be as much until the hundredth year of their life. I doubt I would find any Dalish of that age who would not break my heart within a few years of committing.
We cannot put them on the street, but we can remind them that certain things are a privilege, not a right.
[ an agitated hiss of breath. ]
Skyhold must not yield. Else this will be the solution to every little complaint going forward. Beleth's brother, do you know if he is with them or with us?
[ a beat that might well be read for what brother, a huff that he’ll associate with the punctuation of gesture, ]
Whether any given apostate gives half a shit is a matter, I imagine, of individuals. The Dalish have no particular reason to fear the Circle,
[ problem dalish just get dead ]
But distaste may be enough. I expect more difficulty of the Rifters, and between them, we might be out near two-thirds our personnel. Skyhold must give ground, or our projects here cannot continue; there is no budget for long charity.
[ that doesn't mean he's wrong. this is a fuck of a precedent. ]
We need begin restricting information now. I will draft a letter to Montilyet regarding our Ambassador; I count upon your support.
[ and will bully beleth into it, if necessary. it'd be a waste of the leverage she holds —
Sorrelean Ashara. A mage. She could well be persuaded by him, [ he explains. ] Enough, I think, to say one thing in private and another in public.
[ up the stairs, thankful their tower is so large for so few a number. where is she- either her office or off wandering, he will enquire until he finds her. ]
Give ground and lose the war. [ firmly. ] You have my absolute support. The communications crystals are technically Inquisition property. I suggest their confiscation. It is a shame we possess no way to monitor them.
She is well persuaded, too, by those who would think well of her. [ thranduil ] Better you approach it than I.
I concur upon the matter of the crystals — we can little afford their spread to the enemy. The matter of surveillance might be considered in future; Skyhold does not lack for loyalists at the work. At present we've not the security, even if we'd the manpower.
We must assume for the time being that our secrets will not keep. Protect those we have before breeding more.
They are all children of Akatosh, specially attuned to the flow of time, him being the dragon god of time. The concept of time. I-- I am not wholly myself. To be Dragonborn is to have the soul of a dragon, I learn from their souls taken into myself to understand. Their death sticks when someone like me kills them but otherwise? The soul stays with the bones. Another dov comes. Says their name. They rise.
This I have seen with the World-Eater, Alduin Firstborn. I watched Thranduil. I've felt their breath, their teeth, their claws. I have the scars from them too but--
A violent shout is to take in violence. [Arngeir's near-anger with her. Almost disappointment until it was clear Paarthurnax had agreed.
She is laying the pieces out as bare bones beneath the sun, excited to say, to say that hear is a secret rich as hearts blood, as marrow, forbidden knowledge Herma-Mora would blind for.]
Oh, like dilly dallying—[ That's probably not helpful. ]—pointlessly running around, wasting my time. I’d have to quit my job if I wanted to devote myself to chasing after every elf who wishes to join with a human. [ She's not sure why, they aren't that special. ]
I understand the concept of being with one person for life. With a life as long as yours, I can see how that would create...complications. [ She studies her fork thoughtfully for a moment. ] How old is Lady Vauquelin, if I may ask?
no sweat on time do ur finals fight them in the face i'll just forget otherwise; action
[ it's two days into the strike before casimir seems, at last, to notice.
he has, of course. but there's a divide between observation and action, one made wider by the abrupt addition of responsibilities. the strike's a surprise — less of one, for nell's questions — but you wouldn't know it from his face or his work. the pace adjusts. he says little, abandons the performance of reaction, and finally,
there's a lull. a knock on thranduil's door, a figure in the doorway. ]
Provost. Do you have a moment?
no rush on this, just slapping it down while i have it on my mind /o/
[ The first task Iorveth takes to when arriving in the Gallows is to explore - map the area as well as the people. He's ever made it a point to know every winding path, every cliff, every cave, and every stream in the forests his Scoia'tael took shelter in. Vantage points, escape routes, difficult terrain and paths to resources. The Gallows is the same in his mind, except much uglier. As for the people, they're all unknown elements to him, a thought Iorveth loathes.
He's never been much of a conversationalist, so he wanders, listens closely to voices around him, inspects who associates with who, and the dynamics there. Once making it to the tower holding offices of the division leads, he's looking for empty room to snoop through. Left out documents, maps, correspondence.
Iorveth happens on Thranduil's while the division head is away (or at least appearing to be), and pads quietly in. Iorveth's barely glanced over the desk top when his eyes are caught by the glinting metal of elegant twin blades displayed on a wall. The design of them is so familiar, and it feels ancient under his eyes. Like drawings and stories he'd heard of when his people were proud and prosperous, craftsmanship rivaled by none, art in all that their hands touched.
He'll be utterly lost in awe of the blades for a good while, likely missing it entirely should Thranduil return to his office in the meantime. ]
I think you better suited to handle the confiscation than I. And better it be one person than several, no need for force. Perhaps requiring they be turned it at supper or else no supper?
It could be your new job, [ he suggests, cutting a small bite with the side of his fork and bringing it to his lips before pausing. ] But you and your brother are the last Asharas here, are you not?
[ he takes the bite, chews, considers, tines nearly resting against his mouth. ]
Do you know, [ he comments, the answer as elusive to him as corypheus' orb to the inquisition. ] I have not asked.
[ he has withdrawn from beleth, whom he loves as a child of his heart, not his flesh, and for much less than laying claim to the soul of a dragon within her own. he must take a side-step past that, to grasp what she is saying, and then to understand.
music. she means music. the absolute command of a thing by speaking its true nature in the way that elves are able to alter the world around them by calling to it as eru once had, when it was nothing and then something, and then the whole of creation. ]
To speak nothing of violence...
You could command the whole of the world with that tongue.
[ thranduil is both mourning his lack of power and very much appreciating what he does had. there have been a few tasks utterly eliminated for lack of manpower, but the remaining few are running smoothly, if so terribly interwoven that any other upset will have the apple cart less 'spilled' and more 'utterly annihilated', but given his stances as of late, it is clear who he will blame.
certainly not casimir, whom he beckons in, and gestures to the chair of before his desk. he shan't stand on ceremony with casimir of all people. ]
For you? Yes. What is it?
[ casimir wouldn't trouble him with- anything. casimir only asks for something when he is in need of it. ]
[ there has been a recent surge of people simply walking into his office as though they belong there. gwenaëlle, he understands, and then she began bringing friends, and inevitably coupe will try it again as well, hopefully without axe in hand this time.
leviathan returns to the room before him, all nug-hand-feet and cheerful good nug nature, wuffling into the room like he owns it, before he makes for the desk and the person by it. he sniffs excitedly at boots that do not smell like gallows rug or gallows floor, squeaks, and then tumbles under the desk.
thranduil, holding a small sack of provisions in one hand and the door open in the other. he takes in iorveth, spares a moment to be thankful that the most incriminating paper on the table is the recent report on lost settlements and reordered maps, and lets the door close behind him. ]
I did not take you for a swordsman. Would you like to hold them?
[ Iorveth, too awe-struck and taken by the swords, doesn't notice anything going on until the nug starts squeaking, and from that point, it's just his head whipping around, hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of a dagger, until the familiar voice that'd come through the crystal some days ago rings out. The comments are innocent enough, and surprisingly not a shout for guards, but what takes him more than that is Thranduil himself.
That is... an Elf. Not just the pitiful city elves scurrying around trying to keep out from underfoot of the humans that shove past them, or the ragged, battle-worn and scarred Scoia'tael in stolen clothing, wielding stolen weapons, save for their bows. But the elf standing in the doorway looks much like the blades do - something from an ancient, forgotten time, from histories that seemed like fairy tales when he'd been young. The memory of Enid an Gleanna in the fields of what would later be Dol Blathanna surface in his mind's eye, and despite what loathing he has for her now, Thranduil holds the same kind of ancient grace to him as she had. Not something he'd expected to see again - ever. But here we are. ]
As much as I am an archer. Especially in recent days. [ Given the assumed lack of a second eye, empty, burned out socket covered by his headscarf at the moment, though the scar running down to his lips is always clear enough. ] May I?
[ If given permission, Iorveth will carefully pick up one of the blades, examining it in his hands like it's much more delicate than steel ought to be. It's expertly, beautiful crafted, and feels like he's holding eons in his hands. ] Blades like this no longer exist in my homeland, nor the master smiths that used to make them.
My son is an archer, [ thranduil says, and if he were closer he would have lifted down the blades and placed them into iorveth's hands, but he is not, so he only makes an elegant little gesture with his own that means 'as you like' and smiles as iorveth admires them. ]
No? Melted down or put in secret places for safe keeping, and then forgotten? [ one of the two, he thinks. he treats the sword with such care. thranduil, ever biased and generous as well, thinks he will call on maedhros; he has need of a blade for this one, something able to handle abuse. his clothes are too much a patchwork to suggest anything but rough living, and for that he will be in need of something that can travel and handle having an edge put on with a cheap or scavenged whetstone.
he comes to his desk with measured steps, and bends with his hair draped about his face to reach into a drawer. his back is to iorveth, his spine and all the weak points along it exposed, as well as his neck, but he makes no fuss about it and retrieves something in a sheath.]
This, too, arrived with me, [ he says. it is a wicked little thing, with a barb but a beautiful inlaid mother-of-pearl blade. this too he offers for iorveth's inspection, handle-first. ]
You must be proud. Did he come through the rifts with you? [ My son. A distant, hollow part of Iorveth feels a momentary pang of an ache, memories of his early years when a father was still around to teach him how to shoot a bow. Ages ago, now. Whole Aen Seidhe families are so few and far between, these days, and it's endearing to hear an elf speak of family in the present tense, even from a foreign realm. ]
Something to that effect, yes. The humans that sacked the cities saw little appeal in Aen Seidhe crafts. There maybe be one or two remaining in some lord or king's museum, perhaps, but none left to elven hands. [ Their history wasn't kept in tomes, but recorded in art, in song, in craft, given most elvens lived long enough to simply remember relevant past events. They hadn't seen the humans and their savagery coming. ] Some may still lie in old burial grounds, but none I've set eyes on. The dwarves and gnomes make fine, sturdy weapons, but nothing like what we know of from drawings, murals and stories. The techniques and designs for forging them were lost to us.
[ the twin blades at his hip are more of a slender, slightly curved design that most elves carry on the Continent, not as bulky as human or dwarven things, but nothing particularly special to them. just blades, sharp and efficient, but plain. More force of habit than anything calculated, he watches Thranduil turn his back to him, mentally counts vertebrae and the seconds it would take to sink in a knife, because it's what Iorveth does when he looks at a person, and it's clear this man is either foolishly trusting, or astonishingly confident to turn his back on a stranger that broke into his office.
The dagger Iorveth takes with the same kind of reverie and care, setting the sword back onto its display for the moment. His hands trace over the elegant lines, turning the piece over and over, like trying to memorize the details. ]
I never thought I'd see blades like this in the flesh. Are these weapons common in your realm?
[Inside her, in her green-knotted bones where she is treesap young in the way they aren't here there is the knowledge to unmake her shape. To slough off this skin, to become another form the way they were in the chaos times.
How much easier to speak with one who understands the shape of her words. To hold out a truth in the cold light for what it is and hear someone understand.]
Once there was war. To the dovah, power is truth so when they ruled men their power over them was absolute. Not to be disputed. It's my will too that I have to fight same as a starved hound, beating it down before it tears at me.
They did it with shouts. With a voice. And then other voices taught the way of it to Men to banish him through time and I cannot trust the Wardens when I know. When I am.
He did, [ thranduil allows. what he does not allow is his heart to grow too full with the thoughts of missing his son. these he cuts out while still tender shoots. ] But he has returned, and I will be proud of the work he is doing in our lands instead.
[ (to hope for him to return would be to invite, with arms wide, the pain of losing him again.)
he scoffs, and it does not sound pedestrian. 'little appeal'. what can men learn when they are only able to learn the art of smithing for a decade or four before their strength begins to fail them, and they can swing a hammer no more. all elven craft is perfection, and then beyond that, all is art. beauty in all things.
confidence. it is confidence, seeped into his marrow and well earned. whatever iorveth hides under that bandanna, the extent of that hinted puckered scar line, well. thranduil's lived with his own far longer.
this one has so much to learn, his heart aches with it.
(he really does need to stop picking up strays.)
he smiles as iorveth turns the blade over in his hand. ]
The handle was an addition of my wife, but the blade itself is carried by most of the Watch. It is as useful for skinning a kill as making that kill, and the edge will hold for several months of feral living before it needs to be sharpened.
Ah. [ He starts, not needing Thranduil to sink into that longing to understand the sting of it. Family given briefly before taken away. It's cruel, even if a parent is accustom to watching their children leave for their own path.
From their prior conversation, it seems clear the this elf isn't one to linger on unnecessarily painful memories, so he leaves it at that alone, as he had 'The Enemy'.
Their cultures had been the same in that pursuit of art, beauty, and perfection in all things, at least, in what the Aen Seidhe had been before they'd been decimated. Even now, they tend to approach their work, be it mixing herbs for tonics, archer, or smithing, with a natural striving for the pinnacle of their abilities.
when they'd been a peaceful, undisturbed people, it was easy for them to spend time on such things. now, it's just about seeing the next day, for you and your family.
Iorveth realizes he's being watched, that it isn't a normal kind of reaction for a man to find an invader in his office then offer him heirlooms to play with. For the moment, he doesn't think on it much more than that. ]
The craftsmanship is incredible - unparalleled. [ At some point, he'd taken off a glove to touch bare fingertips along the metal of the blade, trying to imagine the material it came from, how it had been forged, as if he'd be able to take the knowledge back home with him. Which, of course, is absurd, Iorveth letting out a short scoff at the thought, as he shakes his head. ] What I wouldn't give to see an Elven kingdom still in such heights of prosperity. Just to walk the streets for a day.
[ Would it heal something in him? Satisfy the ache in him that mourns something long lost? Ancestors in his blood that cry out for justice, or just to be remembered by a world that passed them by. Maybe just to live a dream, for a small few hours. ]
[ the smile remains. how could it not? it is such an earnest wish, the same as the dalish make, and what he would not give to fulfill it. he is not alone here, not as he still occasionally despairs. there will be help when the time comes and he finds himself in need of it. ]
Would that I could give you that comfort. [ he leaves iorveth there, and makes instead for the small side cabinet next to the window. the bundle he brought up from the kitchens has a heel of bread in it alongside a rind of cheese and the last of the winter apples. they are poor offerings, but he dislikes the taste of salt pork and their stores will not be refreshed for a few weeks yet. food is not what he spends his privilege on, and the wine he has is his own.
speaking of which, he uncorks a bottle and pours a measure into a half-filled ceramic pitcher. better watered-down wine than weak ales. ]
Will you eat with me? [ he asks. ] Speaking over the crystals is convenient enough, but I think we could come to understand one another, and I would nurture that.
Page 19 of 50