rowancrowned | fade rift ✧ inbox

[ There's a note of acceptance, brief, and if she arrives the next day unarmored — it's only in deference to the location, to thin veneer of courtesy spread across this. To be shown in requires little fanfare; she conducts herself politely, allows them as ever to lead her within. There's no surprise to it, save that, well.

How peculiar, to find oneself looking up to an elf, let alone so literally. If there's no rational basis for objection (What would she have him do? Crouch?) she still finds it faintly disconcerting. As though taking a step to find it missing. ]

Thranduil, [ Her head inclines in faint acknowledgment, posture drawn up broad. ] I thank you your time. It is reassuring to know that Lady Vauquelin will not be without,

[ Without companionship? Mn. Protection? Mn. Without without will have to do. ]

I trust the grounds sufficient for your comfort?

[ Her eyebrows lift faintly in the expectation of agreement. The grounds are sufficient to buy and sell her hometown, and she’d have a deal more to say of that were she less attached to their primary resident. ]

[ he smiles, a slip of an expression, as delicately polite as she. this is not his home, not yet- the inquisition leadership need to know where he is (or, specifically, the shard in his hand) but he has begun sorting what little he owns into trunks, and he walks the land like it is his, no unease in stepping on gwenaëlle's floors, inviting guests into her home. ]

The Veil is thin here, [ he agrees, because that is his number one real estate requirement, thank you. ] And the grounds very lush.

[ MORE TREE is his second favorite, but he has no say in the decoration and the grace to realize he shouldn't. ]

You seem the sort to prefer speaking plainly, Ser Coupe.

[ 'The Veil is thin here', great. Grand. Perfectly reassuring, just what everyone looks for in a new address — ]

One may speak bluntly as a stone, [ Or dryly, as it happens. ] Do it in an accent, and they will search for double meaning.

[ They: for the moment at least, a designation which excludes him. ]

I cannot say whether this is widely-known; I ask you bear with me if the matter repetitious. Have you familiarity with magebane?

[ Her hands don’t move, kept carefully in view. Whether or not he has, the name speaks for itself. She's not about to whip out a sample without warning. ]

[ he catches her gaze, moves like a posed mantis in turning his head. ]

Not repetitious in the least, Ser Coupe. I have read of it, and perhaps passed it, but I cannot claim to have personal familiarity. I suspect the name proves true.

[ he likes her hands where he might see them, appreciates the gesture. ]

Is this a conversation to be had in a hallway, or ought we move into the gardens?

Anywhere reasonably private, I imagine — a matter in which I defer to your judgment.

[ But she doubts he'd have specified without the location in mind, so she inclines her chin: after you. She’s less paranoid of the servants (vetted as thoroughly as they’ll have been) than neighbors that yet remain an unknown. Still, the walls are high and thick, and little reason to suspect those within, save the curiousity the Inquisition’s presence will draw. ]

It proves true. Too true for our purposes, perhaps. It impedes a connection to the Fade. Any connection.

[ She trusts he can make one of his own, from that. ]

You are too kind, [ he demurs, ] and I quite enjoy the Lady's landscaping.

[ he matches the span of his steps to hers, and glances over (and down) at her. ]

Well. [ he can indeed follow that through to a conclusion. ] I suspect the Chantry is fond of it. Is it as restricted as lyrium?

[ either that or they grow it by the bushel. no one in thedas does things by half measure, and it is not difficult for him to consider the solutions as he would have implemented them, were he in charge. he is slow and exacting as he mulls over this new truth. ]

It is built upon it. [ A short gesture — ] So our fondness must be limited. The expense, no?

[ half a dozen other reasons not to make wider use of the stuff, but those didn't rule the spire's vats.

it's not until they're out upon the path, until there's been enough green and air between them and the house to serve that she adds, voice low, ]

The results upon rifted persons are dramatic.

[ the need for discretion is obvious: forget the immediate practicalities of the security that thranduil offers, forget her concerns of gwen's shard; it's a fact to lend ammunition to any still spouting this nonsense of demons. ]

Describe them, [ he bids. he folds his hands at the small of his back and his fingers curl. he has not forgotten his previous weakness; loathes the shackles that thedas imposes upon him. ]

We [ rifters ] are more exposed here in Kirkwall. You do not think...?

[ some things he cannot hide from. ]

I do. [ bluntly. ] It is a matter of time until those with resources make the connection.

I am told magebane's side effects unpleasant; among Thedas' own I have most frequently witnessed nausea, disorientation, fatigue. Upon the Rifted —

[ her mouth twists briefly, so brief ]

I do not know whether you've familiarity with the one who called himself the Outsider. [ a faint and illogical pang at that. probably it's only that she preferred him in her sights. ] A figure of presence under typical circumstances. While drugged he diminished in appearance and manner to that of an ordinary child. A dull one.

[ that last bit would be worrying enough. she shakes the image from her head. ]

All those I have seen under its influence would be considered magi by the Chantry's standard. [ had they used it upon cosima? she doesn't think so, can't quite say — is terribly reluctant to ask. ] But in other times, so would any exhibiting such abilities as these anchors present.

I do not believe we may consider any bearing the marks immune.

[ his expression flickers from concerned seriousness to something a shade lighter. ]

A good deal. [ had counted him among his dearest companions, had lived with him-- had keenly felt his loss when he had returned to their room only to find the outsider not at his usual perch. he plays with a ring on his left hand, a band of dark stone, and laughs, low. the thought is startling. ]

An idiot, then? Or did all his grace and maturity leave him?

[ he rolls the options over in his mind, weighs it against what his knows of his own self, and comes to a conclusion. ]

How high of a dose would be considered safe and yet still produce some of the effects?

[ grace and maturity, not the particular words she'd have chosen. and yet. ]

Distracted. He — [ a glance from the corner of her eye, skimming over the ring and away. she hasn't forgotten certain other revelations of the haven expedition. ] — Sang.

[ the words had been something of their own unpleasant haze. she holds up a hand flat: watch here, as she fishes it into a pocket, withdraws a small, well-stoppered vial (virulently pink) ]

I would typically budget more for your size, [ casually enough, for someone who's very obviously come prepared to drug him if need be. she just thought he'd be like six feet, tops. ] So this may serve for a reduced dose.

[ she offers it out, eyebrows sketching faintly upwards. ]

What did he sing? [ said casually, as he takes the vial from her and uncorks it. he gives it a critical look- gives her a critical look, judging the likelihood that this is is, this is when she murders him- and knocks the whole of it back, grimacing at the taste despite himself.

all is well for the span of several breaths. he even manages to offer the vial back to her, cork and all, before something sweeps over his space. the right side of it flickers, a painting suddenly illuminated by lighting in a dark house, his glamour a stuttering failure, revealing the ruin of the side of his face.

he hunches forward, hand reaching out to the nearest shrub and grasping a handful of leaves, a branch, trying to anchor himself. he fights it. he fights to maintain the connection to the fade, to keep his hold secure, but it is a losing battle, and he is left there panting

(pathetic)

an overestimation of his abilities.

this? this is much worse than he could have thought. at least the templar had knocked him out cold. ]

[ she takes the vial, waits patiently, ]

Some sort of rhyme. The contents were,

[ disturbing. wren cuts herself off, arms at the ready to catch his balance, if need be --

there isn't. her eyes widen, mouth filters open in but a moment's fear before it becomes clear: no new wound.

maker, what manner of illusion had held it at bay? she's not unfamiliar with such extensive scarring, none who have gone against mages are, but to ever guess it upon his own skin?

there's no need to belabour the obvious: i can do this to you, at any time.
they're both aware. the impulse remains, and she might feel the barest shame for it were he not who he is to gwenaelle. who he intends to become to her.

it's a brief business to undo her sash. she stoops, offers it over. it's as much practicality as courtesy: they can't take him past the servants like this. ]

Further into the garden, I think; a few hours. And I will show you how it is most often concealed.

[ the magebane. not his super fucked up face. ]

Edited 2017-10-03 16:07 (UTC)

[ hands shaking, he takes the sash and loosely hoods his face. he manages a knot, one-handed, still holding on to a fistful of leaves that scatter against the garden ground once he releases them, broken and wrinkled. ]

Yes, [ he agrees, inhaling through his nose. ] Yes, we will.

[ he puts one foot in front of the other and keeps close to her for practicalities' sake; he will not hurt himself by falling in gwenaelle's garden and further wounding himself. the humiliation of wren needing to catch him is offset by the thought of gwenaelle's face, of getting a scolding, of her seeing this. he is not ready to tell her about the death of his father, or the last alliance.

when they make it to the bench, he steps past wren to get there first, to plant himself down on it and nearly tear off the sash as fast as he is able. he offers it back to her in a ball, and rests his forearms on his knees. leaning forward, his hair curtains his face and offers some protection. ]

I need a moment more, I- [ he hates this, he will do whatever needs to be done so he is not forced through this again. he can taste copper on his tongue. ] Show me how it is concealed.

[ he can muster concentration. ]

[ She folds it away, takes her time at it — allows him that small measure of privacy before her eyes need turn over him once more. (She's not in the habit of averting them, not about to so begin.) ]

The taste and colouring are too distinctive to be hidden by weaker flavours; if you’ve preference for bitters, I should avoid them hereon.

[ A step back from the bench, what space she might grant, yet shield him if necessary. ]

It is less noticeable in alcohol, in tonics, even when passed as mundane lyrium. [ Though that requires its own degree of unfamiliarity. And, like, a shitload of dye. ] An injection will serve, or any other means of entering the blood; I have known its use upon blades.

There is tell of its inhalation, as a perfume, but this may be a fanciful intrigue, one I've not opportunity to test. Upon a cloth it will dissipate too quickly for much effect.

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