thranduil oropherion (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rowancrowned) wrote2015-03-22 06:02 pm
rowancrowned) wrote2015-03-22 06:02 pm
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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We [ rifters ] are more exposed here in Kirkwall. You do not think...?
[ some things he cannot hide from. ]
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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.
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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?
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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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
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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. ]
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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.