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[Of course, the problem with sending a note via courier is one never knows when the note will actually arrive.
Myr starts awake with a snort, grabbing for the sending crystal where it's lying beside him on the table in the library carrel he's borrowing.]
'f they don't, we're going somewhere else. Not bothering with lunch at any "Hasmali" place that hasn't got dormice.
[Yawn.]
Hi, also.
Myr starts awake with a snort, grabbing for the sending crystal where it's lying beside him on the table in the library carrel he's borrowing.]
'f they don't, we're going somewhere else. Not bothering with lunch at any "Hasmali" place that hasn't got dormice.
[Yawn.]
Hi, also.
[Someday, he will realize that Myr tends to be asleep in the afternoons. Today is not that day. Still--it's well within acceptable lunch hours right now, isn't it? Unless Myr hadn't meant specifically today. Van takes a brief, silent moment to berate himself for his own embarrassing eagerness to bury the hatchet.]
Still sounds like our best shot at finding some, though. I remain optimistic.
Hi. [It all sounds above-board, so far.] Anyway. Did you want to meet somewhere, or plan for later in the week?
Still sounds like our best shot at finding some, though. I remain optimistic.
Hi. [It all sounds above-board, so far.] Anyway. Did you want to meet somewhere, or plan for later in the week?
Worse comes to worst we can always try looking for Tevene food. [Dormice are dormice, after all.]
Uhm--later in the week, was my thought. Have to finish this piece of spellwork I've got going right now. [And his nap. Also that.]
What's convenient for you?
Uhm--later in the week, was my thought. Have to finish this piece of spellwork I've got going right now. [And his nap. Also that.]
What's convenient for you?
[He scolds himself, yet again, for the little pang of disappointment at delaying lunch for a few days. He hadn't even planned to have anything to do with Myr at all, after that last conversation. Why should he be so desperate for his cousin's company now as soon as the prospect is dangled in front of him? He needs to get a grip. He's not that lonely.]
Sure. Uh, let me think. [He doesn't have anything going on that he couldn't reschedule--hoarding library books on the Veil and sweet-talking his way into Lord Baerendorf's operation can always be put on hold for the length of a lunch, after all--but he'll pretend he needs to consider it for a moment.] Thursday?
Tevinter food's going to be even harder to come by, if we're disappointed. You can't even get liquamen around here. It's a port city where they don't make fish sauce.
Sure. Uh, let me think. [He doesn't have anything going on that he couldn't reschedule--hoarding library books on the Veil and sweet-talking his way into Lord Baerendorf's operation can always be put on hold for the length of a lunch, after all--but he'll pretend he needs to consider it for a moment.] Thursday?
Tevinter food's going to be even harder to come by, if we're disappointed. You can't even get liquamen around here. It's a port city where they don't make fish sauce.
[The slightly surreal cast to all of this is probably because Myr just woke up, and not because Van's being strangely agreeable when Myr'd been certain his note was a fruitless gesture.]
You can't? What'n the hell do they even do with the guts, then, leave them out to rot? [Not that...that's not how fish sauce is made, but there's edible rotting and then there's waste.]
...Thursday's fine. One request, though.
You can't? What'n the hell do they even do with the guts, then, leave them out to rot? [Not that...that's not how fish sauce is made, but there's edible rotting and then there's waste.]
...Thursday's fine. One request, though.
I don't know! It's a travesty. If nobody else in this city knows what to do with fish innards, I'm just going to have to ferment them myself.
[Ah. There, perhaps, is the trap he was half-expecting. He pauses.] What request?
[Ah. There, perhaps, is the trap he was half-expecting. He pauses.] What request?
No politics.
[It feels like cowardice to say so, when nothing's been off-limits between them since they were kids. But he can't foresee things improving any if they don't stop opening each other's old wounds or give things time to heal.]
Anything else is fair game. Including how we can take up a collection to get some proper fish sauce.
[It feels like cowardice to say so, when nothing's been off-limits between them since they were kids. But he can't foresee things improving any if they don't stop opening each other's old wounds or give things time to heal.]
Anything else is fair game. Including how we can take up a collection to get some proper fish sauce.
[He'd expected worse. The details of the 'worse' had been left unspecified in his mind, but whatever they would have been, Myr's actual request doesn't qualify. He's quiet a moment, considering. He feels a little as if he ought to protest, on principle, but...no. It's not a bad request. It's for the best, so long as he can remember it and rein himself in.]
All right.
I'm sure there must be something else we can find to talk about.
All right.
I'm sure there must be something else we can find to talk about.
[He doesn't quite sigh with relief, but some tension's bled out of his voice when he replies.]
There's always whatever you're researching with all that Callistus.
And--have you spoken much to any of the rifter mages yet?
There's always whatever you're researching with all that Callistus.
And--have you spoken much to any of the rifter mages yet?
How do you know I'm the one who has all the Callistus? [He's not wrong, of course. Van can't keep a hint of a smile from creeping into his voice.]
I haven't really, no. I keep trying to read up on the rifts, but there's so little written yet. Obviously it would be better to talk to the ones with the shards firsthand.
[There's a wary part of him that wants to save the rest of this conversation for when they actually get to lunch, lest they run out of safe things to talk about. He's never had to worry about running out of things to talk about with Myr before--but he's also never in his life been trying to avoid a fight before.]
I haven't really, no. I keep trying to read up on the rifts, but there's so little written yet. Obviously it would be better to talk to the ones with the shards firsthand.
[There's a wary part of him that wants to save the rest of this conversation for when they actually get to lunch, lest they run out of safe things to talk about. He's never had to worry about running out of things to talk about with Myr before--but he's also never in his life been trying to avoid a fight before.]
[Myr's own smile is likewise audible.] The bookshelf Ser Coupe helped you demolish was apparently home to the library's collection of it. I got an earful of how it's all gone missing between being reshelved and someone hoarding it all.
--Oh. You know, that's a good idea. I've just been talking to them about their magic, not...the shards.
That's-- [He surprises himself with a yawn.] Uhm. Something we can talk about at lunch, though. Later.
--Oh. You know, that's a good idea. I've just been talking to them about their magic, not...the shards.
That's-- [He surprises himself with a yawn.] Uhm. Something we can talk about at lunch, though. Later.
That's what happened to the rest of it. I knew there had to be volumes I was missing. It's not my fault if they don't know how to put things back.
[The very idea of the shards has fascinated him, and he opens his mouth on pure instinct to tell Myr everything he's learned about them so far, before he's cut off by that yawn. Right, yes--save it for later.]
Sure. I'll meet you here then, if you like.
[The very idea of the shards has fascinated him, and he opens his mouth on pure instinct to tell Myr everything he's learned about them so far, before he's cut off by that yawn. Right, yes--save it for later.]
Sure. I'll meet you here then, if you like.
[He snorts at the idea it's not Van's fault, but declines to comment. He's being good. They can end this on a positive note.]
Sounds good.
[A moment's hesitation.] You take care of yourself in the meantime.
[It's the closest he'll come to worrying over what happened between Van and Kit. For now.]
Sounds good.
[A moment's hesitation.] You take care of yourself in the meantime.
[It's the closest he'll come to worrying over what happened between Van and Kit. For now.]
All right. This is not the moment for a brave last stand, unless he happens to be crushed by a falling chunk of mortar. But that would be such an ignominious way to go out, even in a dream. Vandelin can muster up a better death than that, if it's inevitable.
But it's not, yet. He can make it down the stairs if he bolts, and if the tower is laid out like he remembers, the courtyard won't be far, and maybe a barrier will be enough to shield him from falling rock if he runs fast enough as he maintains it--
The heavy tread behind him catches his ear from just far enough off that he isn't blindsided. He doesn't have even time to process the nauseating state of the thing's body--it's not a templar, surely it's not a templar; he can't imagine that it ever was--before it advances on him faster than anything so deformed and weighted-down should ever be able to run.
The remnants of that aborted death-hex still linger, half-thought, still present in the raw Fade the way sugar sits longer in cold water before dissolving. He grabs for every pluripotent thread he can, changes the intent behind them, and twists them around to wrench the templar's sightline sideways at as sharp an angle as he can. Intangible tendrils of leeching fatigue wind around its legs for good measure, but Vandelin's last thought, a nauseating misgiving, is how can a hex blind a thing without eyes?
But it's not, yet. He can make it down the stairs if he bolts, and if the tower is laid out like he remembers, the courtyard won't be far, and maybe a barrier will be enough to shield him from falling rock if he runs fast enough as he maintains it--
The heavy tread behind him catches his ear from just far enough off that he isn't blindsided. He doesn't have even time to process the nauseating state of the thing's body--it's not a templar, surely it's not a templar; he can't imagine that it ever was--before it advances on him faster than anything so deformed and weighted-down should ever be able to run.
The remnants of that aborted death-hex still linger, half-thought, still present in the raw Fade the way sugar sits longer in cold water before dissolving. He grabs for every pluripotent thread he can, changes the intent behind them, and twists them around to wrench the templar's sightline sideways at as sharp an angle as he can. Intangible tendrils of leeching fatigue wind around its legs for good measure, but Vandelin's last thought, a nauseating misgiving, is how can a hex blind a thing without eyes?
Edited 2017-08-26 22:47 (UTC)
It can, if one considers that blindness is only a means of dulling a sense. The shade of the red templar lurches sideways and away from Vandelin suddenly, letting loose an animalistic roar as it charges a phantom opponent that doesn't exist. An effective way to leverage his surroundings, Atticus decides, and wills a chunk of the crumbling tower to crash down atop the templar, bringing its suffering to a grisly end.
The doorway behind Vandelin remains open, waiting for him to flee through it; to coax him along, the ground beneath his feet begins to give way next.
The doorway behind Vandelin remains open, waiting for him to flee through it; to coax him along, the ground beneath his feet begins to give way next.
He won't flinch at the templar's death, won't let himself look back, won't picture the gore spreading slowly outward from that mess of shattered crystal. There's no time for squeamishness, even before the floor begins to cave in.
There's no one left alive to hear him cry out, or so he thinks, and he doesn't choke back that hoarse and high-pitched yelp of terror as he scrambles back from the brink, turning and bolting for the stairwell with his own heartbeat dizzy in his ears. He can hold steady a barrier just strong enough to dampen the force a little if a rock should fall on him, and he can feel debris raining down through it already, eating through his defenses granule by granule. There's nothing for it. He shields and runs, shields and runs, and Maker help him if there are more templars out there in the dark.
There's no one left alive to hear him cry out, or so he thinks, and he doesn't choke back that hoarse and high-pitched yelp of terror as he scrambles back from the brink, turning and bolting for the stairwell with his own heartbeat dizzy in his ears. He can hold steady a barrier just strong enough to dampen the force a little if a rock should fall on him, and he can feel debris raining down through it already, eating through his defenses granule by granule. There's nothing for it. He shields and runs, shields and runs, and Maker help him if there are more templars out there in the dark.
There are no more templars--just the crumbling tower as it comes down, brick by shattering brick, around Vandelin as he makes his flight down the stairs. When at last he reaches the door and bursts through it--
--the dreamscape changes abruptly.
Gone is the rumbling, roaring sound of stone grating against stone as it collapses in on itself. Instead, Vandelin will find himself stumbling into the middle of Witchwood in the Hinterlands, the sun low in the sky and the distant sound of a raging battle just beyond a copse of burning, bloodied trees. The templars and the rebels are in the heat of combat now, but no one has noticed Vandelin's presence in the woods yet.
Masked and shrouded, that is when Atticus chooses to step into the dream, to stand beside Vandelin with his hidden eyes turned towards the fighting. "They all want you dead," he tells him almost conversationally, then turns to fix his gaze on him. "How will you make sure they die first?"
--the dreamscape changes abruptly.
Gone is the rumbling, roaring sound of stone grating against stone as it collapses in on itself. Instead, Vandelin will find himself stumbling into the middle of Witchwood in the Hinterlands, the sun low in the sky and the distant sound of a raging battle just beyond a copse of burning, bloodied trees. The templars and the rebels are in the heat of combat now, but no one has noticed Vandelin's presence in the woods yet.
Masked and shrouded, that is when Atticus chooses to step into the dream, to stand beside Vandelin with his hidden eyes turned towards the fighting. "They all want you dead," he tells him almost conversationally, then turns to fix his gaze on him. "How will you make sure they die first?"
Atticus' appearance seems as natural as any other dream logic. That's not what makes Vandelin bat an eye. He gazes out over the carnage with sick, sinking deja vu. He's never been here before, not specifically here, with its frost-rimed trees and broken barricades of ice, but the rest of it is so nauseatingly familiar that he may as well have.
"They don't want us dead," he says, rounding sharply on Atticus with an argument he's made so often and so desperately that doing it in his literal sleep is second-nature. The 'us,' too, is reflexive, because it was always an 'us' until it wasn't. "What are we even fighting for, if there's never going to be anyone we can trust? You want to stay out here robbing farmers and sleeping in the dirt until they finally put us down? That's what we left the Circle for?"
"They don't want us dead," he says, rounding sharply on Atticus with an argument he's made so often and so desperately that doing it in his literal sleep is second-nature. The 'us,' too, is reflexive, because it was always an 'us' until it wasn't. "What are we even fighting for, if there's never going to be anyone we can trust? You want to stay out here robbing farmers and sleeping in the dirt until they finally put us down? That's what we left the Circle for?"
In curiosity, he lifts one of his hands, and discovers that the guise he wears now is not one he recognizes. Vandelin's mind has turned him into someone else entirely--a confidante, a friend?
"What are we even fighting for, if there's never going to be anyone we can trust? You want to stay out here robbing farmers and sleeping in the dirt until they finally put us down? That's what we left the Circle for?"
Ah. An idealist. Atticus frowns with some disappointment.
Well, he can work with it, regardless. The quickest way to challenge an idealist is to attack their ideals--with spells and swords, if necessary. Besides, Atticus doesn't particularly care about why Vandelin wields his magic in combat: he just wants to see how he does it. When he has no choice but to raise his staff and cast a spell, what does he choose?
In an eyeblink, he's gone from Vandelin's line of sight, but the transition feels seamless within the dream, as dream things do. So, too, does the sudden surge of the battle in Vandelin's direction through the trees. The templars and rebels are stumbling in clumsy, violent rage towards him--though Atticus has allowed him enough time to seek cover, or higher ground. The dream is his battleground; how will he use it?
"What are we even fighting for, if there's never going to be anyone we can trust? You want to stay out here robbing farmers and sleeping in the dirt until they finally put us down? That's what we left the Circle for?"
Ah. An idealist. Atticus frowns with some disappointment.
Well, he can work with it, regardless. The quickest way to challenge an idealist is to attack their ideals--with spells and swords, if necessary. Besides, Atticus doesn't particularly care about why Vandelin wields his magic in combat: he just wants to see how he does it. When he has no choice but to raise his staff and cast a spell, what does he choose?
In an eyeblink, he's gone from Vandelin's line of sight, but the transition feels seamless within the dream, as dream things do. So, too, does the sudden surge of the battle in Vandelin's direction through the trees. The templars and rebels are stumbling in clumsy, violent rage towards him--though Atticus has allowed him enough time to seek cover, or higher ground. The dream is his battleground; how will he use it?
(OOC: Continued from here!)
Kit's house is, as described... more or less a hole in the wall, halfway between Lowtown and Darktown, and by the time they get there, it's definitely dark enough outside that no sensible person would dare be out on the streets in this neighbourhood unless they were sure they could handle themselves in an armed conflict. Which Kit is, naturally. (Someone attempts to mug them; Kit gives the guy a warning punch to the gut and sends him on his way.)
"Well here we are," he says after that harrowing adventure, stopping outside his hovel. "Home sweet--hang on." He approaches the door, gives it a shove, and then sighs when it smacks into someone's leg. "...nnngh--"
"Chuck, not again."
Kit's house is, as described... more or less a hole in the wall, halfway between Lowtown and Darktown, and by the time they get there, it's definitely dark enough outside that no sensible person would dare be out on the streets in this neighbourhood unless they were sure they could handle themselves in an armed conflict. Which Kit is, naturally. (Someone attempts to mug them; Kit gives the guy a warning punch to the gut and sends him on his way.)
"Well here we are," he says after that harrowing adventure, stopping outside his hovel. "Home sweet--hang on." He approaches the door, gives it a shove, and then sighs when it smacks into someone's leg. "...nnngh--"
"Chuck, not again."
It is fortunate indeed for their would-be mugger that Kit manages to drive him off before Vandelin can finish working up the hex he's practiced for just such occasions, and probably fortunate as well for their evening plans--it would be a shame to put a damper on them, and Van has to concede to himself after the fact that gleefully fucking someone up with magic probably would. He does not always think of these things when he should.
Even if Kit's place is a dilapidated little hobbit hole, Van is rather enchanted by it. There's something that feels incredibly aspirational about it--having one's own house, an entire house, a sovereign kingdom that one really and truly owns and can't be forced to share with anyone else--
--well. In theory, anyway. He raises an eyebrow at the muffled groan from behind the door. "You've got company already?" he teases, lips quirking in spite of himself.
Even if Kit's place is a dilapidated little hobbit hole, Van is rather enchanted by it. There's something that feels incredibly aspirational about it--having one's own house, an entire house, a sovereign kingdom that one really and truly owns and can't be forced to share with anyone else--
--well. In theory, anyway. He raises an eyebrow at the muffled groan from behind the door. "You've got company already?" he teases, lips quirking in spite of himself.
From the inside of the hovel comes a slurred groan of, "wh'time izzit?"
"Yeah," Kit tells Vandelin, offering him a sheepish grin over his shoulder, but he's already bending to the task of helping a bearded, blear-eyed fellow up to his feet, dusting him off in a kindly fashion. "C'mon, Chuck, you need a hand getting home?"
There's a bit of grouchy banter--at least on the vagrant's end--but Kit, endlessly patient and good-natured, responds to the drunkard's grumpy barbs with good humour. Once they're both outside the hovel, he claps the guy gently on the shoulder and points down the lane. "That one's yours--remember?" He probably won't, and they'll definitely do this again tomorrow night, but, well. He did kind of sign up for this.
He walks the older guy most of the way back to his pad, makes sure he gets in all right. When he comes back to Vandelin, he looks sheepish, apologetic. "Um," he says, shifting, and thumbs back at his front door. "I'd say I need to get the locks changed, except I'm not rightly sure I've even got locks yet."
"Yeah," Kit tells Vandelin, offering him a sheepish grin over his shoulder, but he's already bending to the task of helping a bearded, blear-eyed fellow up to his feet, dusting him off in a kindly fashion. "C'mon, Chuck, you need a hand getting home?"
There's a bit of grouchy banter--at least on the vagrant's end--but Kit, endlessly patient and good-natured, responds to the drunkard's grumpy barbs with good humour. Once they're both outside the hovel, he claps the guy gently on the shoulder and points down the lane. "That one's yours--remember?" He probably won't, and they'll definitely do this again tomorrow night, but, well. He did kind of sign up for this.
He walks the older guy most of the way back to his pad, makes sure he gets in all right. When he comes back to Vandelin, he looks sheepish, apologetic. "Um," he says, shifting, and thumbs back at his front door. "I'd say I need to get the locks changed, except I'm not rightly sure I've even got locks yet."
Vandelin watches him leave with undisguised fondness (though it's only the fact that nobody's looking that allows him to leave it undisguised.) It remains a mystery to him how Kit can possibly do it, maintain that endless gentle patience day in and day out under the most trying of circumstances, escort Chuck kindly back to his own house for what must be at least the fourth or fifth time when Vandelin would have been lining all the doors and windows with booby-trap glyphs after the first.
He takes stock of the small spartan room while Kit is gone, envisioning comforts he could procure for it, things Kit doesn't have and should--things Vandelin finds himself in the curious and unfamiliar position of wishing that Kit had, for no other reason than that he wants to imagine Kit being content and comfortable when he's here alone. When the door opens, Van reaches out to him, his smile serene.
"We'll fix that. This place has all kinds of potential, you know."
He takes stock of the small spartan room while Kit is gone, envisioning comforts he could procure for it, things Kit doesn't have and should--things Vandelin finds himself in the curious and unfamiliar position of wishing that Kit had, for no other reason than that he wants to imagine Kit being content and comfortable when he's here alone. When the door opens, Van reaches out to him, his smile serene.
"We'll fix that. This place has all kinds of potential, you know."
"You think?" he asks, smiling crookedly, and steps forward to first take Vandelin's hand, then draw him close for a soft kiss. A thrill runs the length of him at their closeness here in this place; this isn't an inn room, they could stay here together all night, and all of tomorrow, if they wanted to, because it's his, and he can do with it what he wants. He chuckles some, breaking the kiss to warn Vandelin, "Don't get too many ideas about dressing it up nice--we're halfway to Darktown, it'll just get pinched while I'm out."
There's a narrow, rickety staircase in one corner of the sparse room leading to a small upstairs chamber that doubles as both storage attic and bedroom. Leading Vandelin there, Kit fumbles in the darkness for a book of matches and a candlestick, which he lights. When illuminated, the room possesses a musty kind of coziness; the bed is clean, if uncomfortable looking, and what few personal possessions Kit has that he feels comfortable leaving out are sitting on top of a rudimentary dresser on the far wall. He doesn't have much. He's never needed much.
"You, um, want anything to drink?" he thinks to offer. "I've got a crap kettle downstairs, could make you some tea. Got a little left-over liquor, if you need something stronger." Another hesitant smile; he's doing an admirable job of keeping it under control, but it's impossible to miss how nervous he is, how worried he is about doing something wrong.
There's a narrow, rickety staircase in one corner of the sparse room leading to a small upstairs chamber that doubles as both storage attic and bedroom. Leading Vandelin there, Kit fumbles in the darkness for a book of matches and a candlestick, which he lights. When illuminated, the room possesses a musty kind of coziness; the bed is clean, if uncomfortable looking, and what few personal possessions Kit has that he feels comfortable leaving out are sitting on top of a rudimentary dresser on the far wall. He doesn't have much. He's never needed much.
"You, um, want anything to drink?" he thinks to offer. "I've got a crap kettle downstairs, could make you some tea. Got a little left-over liquor, if you need something stronger." Another hesitant smile; he's doing an admirable job of keeping it under control, but it's impossible to miss how nervous he is, how worried he is about doing something wrong.
The idea that furnishing the place nicely would make Kit a target for robbery is not one that would have occurred to Vandelin on his own, one more thing that the Circle has left him unprepared for, but he keeps his chagrin about that to himself. Surely, he thinks, there must be other ways to make the house more comfortable. And if there aren't, he'll invent them. He follows Kit up to the bedroom, still just a little giddy about the privacy himself.
"If I need something stronger?" he echoes, teasing gently in the face of that anxiety. "You think I need to be liquored-up to enjoy your company? If that were the case, I wouldn't have come and found you again."
He gives himself the credit for that; if there's any way Vandelin can phrase a statement so that all the agency in it is on his part, he invariably will. But the underlying sentiment is no less sincere for that, and he reaches out to encircle Kit's broadly muscled waist with an arm, pulling him close and flush and nuzzling into his jawline in the way he's been talking himself out of craving for weeks.
"If I need something stronger?" he echoes, teasing gently in the face of that anxiety. "You think I need to be liquored-up to enjoy your company? If that were the case, I wouldn't have come and found you again."
He gives himself the credit for that; if there's any way Vandelin can phrase a statement so that all the agency in it is on his part, he invariably will. But the underlying sentiment is no less sincere for that, and he reaches out to encircle Kit's broadly muscled waist with an arm, pulling him close and flush and nuzzling into his jawline in the way he's been talking himself out of craving for weeks.
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