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Beth's not sure she'll ever be used to the Frostback Mountains, where the snow falls heavy long before winter hits anywhere else. They were supposed to beat the icy winds across to Ferelden. A package too large for ravens too carry, too sensitive to entrust to couriers from outside Riftwatch, and a bann at the end of their journey in need of charming--inevitably, you'll need a diplomat, and you'll need someone to protect her.
Not that she needs a lot of protecting, but it'd suck a lot worse to be out here alone. And there's a familiarity to the travel, if not the way the weather makes it harder: They go as far as they can, and then they rest, all so they can do the same thing when the sun rises again. Beth digs out enough snow to make a pit and builds a fire of whatever she can find, then puts up a tent, secures their wagon, and makes sure their horse is as comfortable as horses get in weather like this. Gabranth tries to hunt--sometimes successful, sometimes not. And then they eat, either roasted meat or a share of the rations they brought with them.
It feels like home, even if she's freezing instead of sticky with sweat, curling up into the smallest ball she can manage. (Maybe it'd be easier if she'd ever seen real snow before, but she's not convinced that anything prepares you for cold like this.) And one night, after they've eaten a nug and tossed its bones out past the circle of firelight, she asks, "Did you ever do stuff like this? Where you're from."
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Not that she needs a lot of protecting, but it'd suck a lot worse to be out here alone. And there's a familiarity to the travel, if not the way the weather makes it harder: They go as far as they can, and then they rest, all so they can do the same thing when the sun rises again. Beth digs out enough snow to make a pit and builds a fire of whatever she can find, then puts up a tent, secures their wagon, and makes sure their horse is as comfortable as horses get in weather like this. Gabranth tries to hunt--sometimes successful, sometimes not. And then they eat, either roasted meat or a share of the rations they brought with them.
It feels like home, even if she's freezing instead of sticky with sweat, curling up into the smallest ball she can manage. (Maybe it'd be easier if she'd ever seen real snow before, but she's not convinced that anything prepares you for cold like this.) And one night, after they've eaten a nug and tossed its bones out past the circle of firelight, she asks, "Did you ever do stuff like this? Where you're from."
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Edited 2021-05-15 19:50 (UTC)
The attestation is, of course, that she comes from nowhere. Some mudsnake country, lost outside of recent memory's clutches, or perhaps a town wiped from the map by an unsteady cartographer. Her accent grants no clues, even within the enhanced echoes of a metal helm.
Black steel curves back over her head in imitation of some goat's horns, no demons or insects. Frippery is otherwise wasted on her costume; sleek lines speak of an appreciation for battle's quickness, not its grandeur.
The one point of largess is carefully designed. Anyone striking at the glittering scales of a fish that pass across one shoulder will find their weapon intractably jammed in a great black pauldron, bearing the angry visage of a goat's head, snarling.
Once, in a place by the ocean, they had called it the capricorn. Now, it's a nameless beast, and Judge Jone bears it for the mystique. She is quiet, at proceedings, thoughtful, or perhaps just intractably behind. It is hard to tell, when her expression is hidden in dark blackness.
When asked her opinion, however, she offers it willingly. "A hunger strike met with violence will only embolden the rebels, who have already made clear their willingness to lay down their lives for this petty cause."
A pause, and then, "put an embargo on the importation of fresh foods, if retribution is what you seek. I doubt the common man will be so pleased to join their strike, against his will and judgement."
Black steel curves back over her head in imitation of some goat's horns, no demons or insects. Frippery is otherwise wasted on her costume; sleek lines speak of an appreciation for battle's quickness, not its grandeur.
The one point of largess is carefully designed. Anyone striking at the glittering scales of a fish that pass across one shoulder will find their weapon intractably jammed in a great black pauldron, bearing the angry visage of a goat's head, snarling.
Once, in a place by the ocean, they had called it the capricorn. Now, it's a nameless beast, and Judge Jone bears it for the mystique. She is quiet, at proceedings, thoughtful, or perhaps just intractably behind. It is hard to tell, when her expression is hidden in dark blackness.
When asked her opinion, however, she offers it willingly. "A hunger strike met with violence will only embolden the rebels, who have already made clear their willingness to lay down their lives for this petty cause."
A pause, and then, "put an embargo on the importation of fresh foods, if retribution is what you seek. I doubt the common man will be so pleased to join their strike, against his will and judgement."
For that singular despairing origin, she is lesser than him— or is he lesser than her? No matter. Favor is their only fortune, these two without kin or country to speak of, and it is earned with every fulfilled promise made in Archadia's name.
Still. Here, now, they disagree on approach. And he’ll not bear the sting of her failure, should it come to that.
“Embargos will do nothing to cow their efforts,” he counters, leaning forward to rest his weight more fully at a proud incline. “A starving dog bites twice as severely, for it knows its days are at an end.”
“And it is not the show of force his Majesty so often favors.” If Gabranth knows anything of Emperor Gramis, he remains ever certain that much remains true, peripheral stare fixed on Jone where she stands opposite to him.
In the end, after a short time spent in deliberation, they are granted leave of both strategies, and make their exit in quiet isolation down long corridors.
“You speak too freely.” He breathes after a moment’s pause: certain now they’ll not be overheard.
Still. Here, now, they disagree on approach. And he’ll not bear the sting of her failure, should it come to that.
“Embargos will do nothing to cow their efforts,” he counters, leaning forward to rest his weight more fully at a proud incline. “A starving dog bites twice as severely, for it knows its days are at an end.”
“And it is not the show of force his Majesty so often favors.” If Gabranth knows anything of Emperor Gramis, he remains ever certain that much remains true, peripheral stare fixed on Jone where she stands opposite to him.
In the end, after a short time spent in deliberation, they are granted leave of both strategies, and make their exit in quiet isolation down long corridors.
“You speak too freely.” He breathes after a moment’s pause: certain now they’ll not be overheard.
The meeting, a tiring thing, is adjured, and Jone is left to reflect on her own failings. She has done much of that, of late. Having no other companions, she summons the ghosts of her past, interrogates them, and weathers their imagined disappointment. They always want more, or less, or something she cannot give.
If she could give them what they wanted, after all, they wouldn't be dead.
Hearing a voice in criticism from a live body is a strange and heady relief. She does not turn her head-- she no longer needs to. The single line of vision her visor presents her with is enough. More metal, more horns. A judge not well respected, but most certainly feared. Unsurprising, and she cannot suffer the energy for disappointment.
"Then naught has changed since these horns were donned," she says without humor. Had I the option to die talking, it would have been taken.
If she could give them what they wanted, after all, they wouldn't be dead.
Hearing a voice in criticism from a live body is a strange and heady relief. She does not turn her head-- she no longer needs to. The single line of vision her visor presents her with is enough. More metal, more horns. A judge not well respected, but most certainly feared. Unsurprising, and she cannot suffer the energy for disappointment.
"Then naught has changed since these horns were donned," she says without humor. Had I the option to die talking, it would have been taken.
Her accent remains so much her own, and he finds he pities her for it in some ways. There would be less tension among the Magistrate proper if she would simply conform herself and keep her head tucked low, as he so often does. Yet he cannot force her to adapt more than she already has, and he isn’t a man given to open mercies.
She will do as she must, and he the same.
“Tell me,” it’s quiet, the slow start to his own earnest inquiry: unlike the others, he isn’t inclined to pass judgment on his own kind.
“Do you pity them, these rebels?”
She will do as she must, and he the same.
“Tell me,” it’s quiet, the slow start to his own earnest inquiry: unlike the others, he isn’t inclined to pass judgment on his own kind.
“Do you pity them, these rebels?”
Her accent remains the same, backwater vowels clipped into short and choppy words, but her diction has been learned, painstakingly. The effect (she has heard, in echoing hallways) is not unlike a dog with fine vocabulary. But it is her own. She will keep it.
"Principle precludes me from clutching pearls for the sake of doomed men," Jone says, "or honoring them on the field of battle, if such can be avoided. They say death is better than their lot in life; I ask only that they follow through with such commitments."
"Principle precludes me from clutching pearls for the sake of doomed men," Jone says, "or honoring them on the field of battle, if such can be avoided. They say death is better than their lot in life; I ask only that they follow through with such commitments."
“As do we all.”
The sooner this upstart insurrection is put to sword, the less in life it will cost overall— and though Gabranth had indeed been the one to advocate for violence, he does not thirst perpetually for innocent bloodshed.
“Should your resolve come into question, I will back you— yet you must endeavor to bear no mercies in the coming days ahead. Be cruel, Judge Magister. It will spare you trial under watchful gaze.”
Where Emperor Gramis has waned in his fury, Vayne Solidor is kindled ever more. His ambitions troubling to an aging monarch upon shadowed throne, and Gabranth, for all his efforts, is uncertain just how keen his own observations in the matter truly are.
Should something overturn, whether in regards to senate or imperial stature, there are more obvious targets for ire amongst allies.
The sooner this upstart insurrection is put to sword, the less in life it will cost overall— and though Gabranth had indeed been the one to advocate for violence, he does not thirst perpetually for innocent bloodshed.
“Should your resolve come into question, I will back you— yet you must endeavor to bear no mercies in the coming days ahead. Be cruel, Judge Magister. It will spare you trial under watchful gaze.”
Where Emperor Gramis has waned in his fury, Vayne Solidor is kindled ever more. His ambitions troubling to an aging monarch upon shadowed throne, and Gabranth, for all his efforts, is uncertain just how keen his own observations in the matter truly are.
Should something overturn, whether in regards to senate or imperial stature, there are more obvious targets for ire amongst allies.
She had been expecting to be used as a weapon-- indeed, that had been the appeal. A field of blood was to be her home, an realm where she could rest in its warm fury. Simple, direct, payment for all her disillusioned disappointments.
And yet, there is this.
"You seek to aid me," she murmurs. "What need have you in return?"
She will give it. Tools of war do not need gifts, though bargains, allies, are still within their metal grasp.
And yet, there is this.
"You seek to aid me," she murmurs. "What need have you in return?"
She will give it. Tools of war do not need gifts, though bargains, allies, are still within their metal grasp.
“Only that you do not turn trust to betrayal.” It isn’t a gift, he would argue that much without hesitation or subtlety on his part.
“Our genesis is far more alike in nature than its own difference."
Drace had been the one to tolerate him, the one to speak reason and see the simplicity of service, rather than the gilt glory imperial prosperity provides. In many ways, he follows in her footsteps— though with far less grace to spare.
“Our genesis is far more alike in nature than its own difference."
Drace had been the one to tolerate him, the one to speak reason and see the simplicity of service, rather than the gilt glory imperial prosperity provides. In many ways, he follows in her footsteps— though with far less grace to spare.
"I will aid you," she says, and her words are robbed of their quiet tone by the echoes of her helm. It gives her boldness. More boldness. "If you prove wise. Thus far, you've proven yourself foolish in choice of partnership."
This, then, is what wry sounds like inside her armor. Her first awful joke. She doesn't expect it to be caught. The Imperial Judges, the senate, all are dour people and she has done her utmost to reset all the broken bones of her exit from Fedlhelm in that image. She will become a severe woman of perpetual mourning for a land she hated and a family she feared.
But it is pretty fucking funny anyone would look at her and see trustworthy. "If we've similar beginnings, you are as keen a betrayer as I."
This, then, is what wry sounds like inside her armor. Her first awful joke. She doesn't expect it to be caught. The Imperial Judges, the senate, all are dour people and she has done her utmost to reset all the broken bones of her exit from Fedlhelm in that image. She will become a severe woman of perpetual mourning for a land she hated and a family she feared.
But it is pretty fucking funny anyone would look at her and see trustworthy. "If we've similar beginnings, you are as keen a betrayer as I."
"Mind yourself." Her words insult the Emperor's own judgment, and he's quick to clip the mildness of their conversation for it, lest he be seen as supportive in his role at her side.
Still, however, it bleeds away in the next breath.
"I am indeed. For there are dead who would demand I serve them, rather than the Empire that carried their lives to a short end."
That he makes no concessions for them goes unsaid. It need not be. He is here.
Still, however, it bleeds away in the next breath.
"I am indeed. For there are dead who would demand I serve them, rather than the Empire that carried their lives to a short end."
That he makes no concessions for them goes unsaid. It need not be. He is here.
"That, I can trust." The strength of her words surprises her. Show her an honorable man, and she will only see his temptations. But faithless hounds are remarkably consistent. "I would not weigh anyone down with my alliance were their conscience clean."
“You speak as though you are burdensome in your presence.”
The idea tugs against the grain of his mouth where it’s set in a hard line, dragging it upwards by degrees. Here, at least, he feels a little more comfortable in his own bleak sense of humor— perhaps a byproduct of all his time spent tucked away in these empty corridors at Drace’s side.
A safe harbor, mostly.
“I am neither aristocrat nor senator. Nothing of you interests me beyond your loyalty, and the edge of your blades.”
The idea tugs against the grain of his mouth where it’s set in a hard line, dragging it upwards by degrees. Here, at least, he feels a little more comfortable in his own bleak sense of humor— perhaps a byproduct of all his time spent tucked away in these empty corridors at Drace’s side.
A safe harbor, mostly.
“I am neither aristocrat nor senator. Nothing of you interests me beyond your loyalty, and the edge of your blades.”
"I do not know your burdens," Jone says, and with face hidden only her curved voice reveals the smile within, "I'd not dream of claiming enough burden for you to notice."
But, of course, she is uninteresting. A forgotten thing. And isn't that better? She joined this outfit to escape what she was, to hone the only parts of her that mattered. "My loyalty, you can judge for yourself. All else is impeccable."
Yet, that joking tone remains. They're talking about her, aren't they? What isn't there to laugh about?
But, of course, she is uninteresting. A forgotten thing. And isn't that better? She joined this outfit to escape what she was, to hone the only parts of her that mattered. "My loyalty, you can judge for yourself. All else is impeccable."
Yet, that joking tone remains. They're talking about her, aren't they? What isn't there to laugh about?
The Fade is a strange and terrible place. Once, it brought Astarion to Thedas. Now, it has brought Fenris and Astarion to a place called the Forgotten Realms, whatever that means. The important thing is, this is Astarion's home. They travel together, slow and halting as it is. Everything is terribly unfamiliar, but Fenris does not allow himself to complain overmuch.
This is what Astarion must have felt, after all. And now he is renewed, for all the good and ill it brings him-- both, it seems, in equal measure.
As night draws its curtains on the second day, Fenris asks a question he has been puzzling over for the last handful of hours. "You need blood to survive, don't you?"
This is what Astarion must have felt, after all. And now he is renewed, for all the good and ill it brings him-- both, it seems, in equal measure.
As night draws its curtains on the second day, Fenris asks a question he has been puzzling over for the last handful of hours. "You need blood to survive, don't you?"
It’s strange to need it once more. He resents it, really, it’s like feeling his old master’s hands bearing down across his shoulders when he’d been— for all the good and ill it brought him— so free of it in Thedas. Oh, that’s not to say he’ll refuse, he’s no saint, not even in the company of a dear friend, but. Well. He’s allowed to dislike the reasons for this little gift.
In firelight his red eyes slide over to consider Fenris more fully. His lips pursing slightly in thought.
“I’m quite capable of feeding on vermin for supper, you know. It doesn’t have to be you.”
It doesn’t have to be, he says. Not no.
In firelight his red eyes slide over to consider Fenris more fully. His lips pursing slightly in thought.
“I’m quite capable of feeding on vermin for supper, you know. It doesn’t have to be you.”
It doesn’t have to be, he says. Not no.
Fenris laughs in that quiet way he does, a single huff barely audible and living comfortably in his throat. "They would call elves that, in Tevinter. Vermes. Rattus."
But enough nostalgia. Fenris turns to look at Astarion, green eyes glittering in the dark. "Would that be healthy, for you? I do not know how this... vampirism works."
But enough nostalgia. Fenris turns to look at Astarion, green eyes glittering in the dark. "Would that be healthy, for you? I do not know how this... vampirism works."
“Mm. Well.” he doesn’t relish that tidbit of trivia. Impossible to guess why. “There is a difference, when it comes to quality. Nutrition, as it were.”
No boar or beast is going to cut it for very long, Fenris is right about that.
“Here’s the thing, darling. It’s been a very long time since I’ve done this.” They're on day two of their sure to be miserable adventures in not-Thedas. Day two of him remembering what it feels like to have to bleed something dry for his own sake. Small numbers in regards to forays into self-control are never good. “If I lose control of myself? It could leave you weak. Or worse. Dead.
And I know we haven’t talked about it, but—
Your former master is dead. And believe me I was very happy to hear about it when you let loose the floodgates, really.” There’s good news and then there’s happy news— and then there’s news that encompasses both in its details. It had been that at the time. “...but mine is not. So I’d like you to keep in mind how much he’d like nothing more than to have me back, and that a lovely creature such as yourself— one that I’m particularly weak to— would only make a nice plus one to that.”
“If I weaken you now, if a hunter or two should find us right then and there, why, I don’t think my poor heart could live with the guilt.”
No boar or beast is going to cut it for very long, Fenris is right about that.
“Here’s the thing, darling. It’s been a very long time since I’ve done this.” They're on day two of their sure to be miserable adventures in not-Thedas. Day two of him remembering what it feels like to have to bleed something dry for his own sake. Small numbers in regards to forays into self-control are never good. “If I lose control of myself? It could leave you weak. Or worse. Dead.
And I know we haven’t talked about it, but—
Your former master is dead. And believe me I was very happy to hear about it when you let loose the floodgates, really.” There’s good news and then there’s happy news— and then there’s news that encompasses both in its details. It had been that at the time. “...but mine is not. So I’d like you to keep in mind how much he’d like nothing more than to have me back, and that a lovely creature such as yourself— one that I’m particularly weak to— would only make a nice plus one to that.”
“If I weaken you now, if a hunter or two should find us right then and there, why, I don’t think my poor heart could live with the guilt.”
Fenris listens, accustomed to waiting and wading through the useless sentences for the words that matter. It fills him with a spike of anger. "Your master- do you know where he lives?"
For that moment, the world is but a pinhole, and only this information matters.
For that moment, the world is but a pinhole, and only this information matters.
"Ah ah ah. Don't." Do not start with the righteous vengeance, Fenris. That's a train he knows he's not going to be able to keep tethered to the tracks once it gets going, and so his hand lifts, reflecting the glow of the fire at their side.
"Of course I know where he lives. How could I possibly forget?"
He can't imagine anything's changed, not even if they were away fighting darkspawn for a thousand years: Cazador was nothing if not consistent.
"That, however, is none of your business, and you're going to sit here nicely in camp with me and have a lovely little conversation about something— anything— else."
"Of course I know where he lives. How could I possibly forget?"
He can't imagine anything's changed, not even if they were away fighting darkspawn for a thousand years: Cazador was nothing if not consistent.
"That, however, is none of your business, and you're going to sit here nicely in camp with me and have a lovely little conversation about something— anything— else."
Fenris takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose (a clearly practiced feat, with his gauntlets still on) and lets it go. It's Astarion's life. He must live it on his own terms.
Perhaps it is better, not to be consumed by rage and blood-lust as he was. As he still is, at the faceless and nameless who allowed it to happen.
"I trust you," Fenris says, switching the subject back to his own blood. "I do not wish you to suffer on my account. I have never given blood freely before."
And he thinks it would be a powerful thing, to do so for the sake of a friend, and not at the behest of an owner.
Perhaps it is better, not to be consumed by rage and blood-lust as he was. As he still is, at the faceless and nameless who allowed it to happen.
"I trust you," Fenris says, switching the subject back to his own blood. "I do not wish you to suffer on my account. I have never given blood freely before."
And he thinks it would be a powerful thing, to do so for the sake of a friend, and not at the behest of an owner.
"Sometimes I wonder if I would like it better if you did not trust me so much, you know." It's said far too softly, that, lashes fitted halfway across his eyes so that he looks miserably contemplative.
There's a tired little sigh that chases it all. Damn. Why did the Fade have to bring them both back here? Why couldn't it have just been him alone?
But then, would he really have been happy with that...?
"Oh fine. Come on, scoot in close." He lifts his arm as if playing at petulant demand, but it's Astarion that moves in halfway, settled just across his knees in the dirt like some gallant figure in a play. "Your neck, if you please. Just for a moment."
There's a tired little sigh that chases it all. Damn. Why did the Fade have to bring them both back here? Why couldn't it have just been him alone?
But then, would he really have been happy with that...?
"Oh fine. Come on, scoot in close." He lifts his arm as if playing at petulant demand, but it's Astarion that moves in halfway, settled just across his knees in the dirt like some gallant figure in a play. "Your neck, if you please. Just for a moment."
"You wouldn't," Fenris assures Astarion in that same dully confident tone as before. But he does move himself closer, trying to prepare himself for whatever this will be. Painful, most likely. "Avoid the markings. They may poison you."
Painful, yes. No one truly likes the sensation of being bitten— at least not in terms of having their skin punctured by human-sized fangs. He has to catch that narrow jaw between his fingertips to manage it, the pad of his thumb surprisingly soft as he guides Fenris’ throat a little closer, stretching it long in the light. It’d certainly be gentle, if not for how he strikes a moment later, precise and serpentine: it must feel like glass beneath skin. Like something as frigid and sharp as jagged ice, melting away into comforting warmth and numbness.
A pale shadow curled across him in dark places.
A pale shadow curled across him in dark places.
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