Nocta Oren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
twocomplex) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2015-04-07 07:56 pm
twocomplex) wrote in driftfleet2015-04-07 07:56 pm
Entry tags:
- !mingle,
- aang,
- aaron,
- allen walker,
- anders,
- asteffiel,
- aziraphale,
- belthazar spellscry,
- beverly crusher,
- chris halliwell,
- coil lenn,
- cole,
- cole turner,
- cullen rutherford,
- dorian pavus,
- elize lutus,
- felix harrowgate,
- garrett hawke,
- hiro hamada,
- jennifer keller,
- joel,
- jove lavellan,
- krista kingsley,
- ladon ceto,
- lea (axel),
- lioriley,
- lloyd irving,
- mattias larnaca,
- megaman.exe,
- nelkeila tarid,
- nocta oren,
- o'danya mitnu,
- robin redbreast,
- sheena fujibayashi,
- shirley fennes,
- simon tam,
- sokka,
- solas,
- stanley raymond kowalski,
- stephanie amell,
- stephanie brown,
- syeira,
- tay barnam,
- tekhetsio,
- varric tethras,
- yamanaka ino,
- zhas
Waystation Mingle Log!
Who: GAME-WIDE MINGLE aka everyone
Broadcast: If you want
Action: The Stations!
When: From 04/05 through the month of April.
[Well, that all sure happened. But at least you have the waystations! Whether you want to stock up on supplies, work, trade, or visit the very fancy Virtual Reality Dome, it's bound to be a nice break from the attacks of the 5th.
Make your own prompts, set up your own Virtual Realities, etc! For reference, the OOC post with info is over here!]
Broadcast: If you want
Action: The Stations!
When: From 04/05 through the month of April.
[Well, that all sure happened. But at least you have the waystations! Whether you want to stock up on supplies, work, trade, or visit the very fancy Virtual Reality Dome, it's bound to be a nice break from the attacks of the 5th.
Make your own prompts, set up your own Virtual Realities, etc! For reference, the OOC post with info is over here!]
no subject
Please, I told you this was a one-chicken town. A cow would have been far too decadent. I did like the chicken, though! Her name was Susan.
[ They can see most of the village proper from where they're standing; though the simulation can't approximate a specific day or time, the air has a certain intangible summery quality to it, the sky just beginning to suggest sunset. It's trite, and it's silly, and a thousand kinds of mundane for someone who's led such an extraordinary life, but there was a moment years ago when 'I don't think we had it that bad, for a while' meant here. Maybe unconsciously he likes the idea of Anders meeting this Hawke, not the Champion of the City of Chains.
Meanwhile, more on topic and less woolgathering, there is a small pause, then: ]
She was delicious.
[ Of course. Mercifully, he goes on: ]
We could skip right to where the cats are. Although I despair of holding your attention a moment longer after that.
no subject
[His hand twitches slightly where their fingers are laced together, but he doesn't pull away, or otherwise seem to consider it. It's not something he's done often in the past, the hand holding thing, but in practice he can hardly say he minds. The tragic account of Susan's untimely demise doesn't deter him any, at least, especially given the flash of an amused grin that opens up in his expression.
Hawke is right, though; there might not be much recovering him from any amount of kittens once contact has been made.]
Let's do it this way: for every stop you don't show me a cat, you have to tell me at least one embarrassing story. There we are, fun for everyone.
no subject
He decides quickly, whatever it is, mouth a red ribbon pretending to resignation but obviously laughing. It feels almost impossibly good to spend this much time smiling; his mouth never forgets what they feel like when his smiles are armor and shield and sword all at the same time; the difference is that these feel effortless, if not weightless. ]
That's what's different--no cat. I thought you'd done something to your hair.
[ Shamelessly reaching for the very lowest hanging fruit: the ability tree Hawke had mastered by about age five. ]
Since we are on this little outing for your benefit, I happen to be able to provide both in one go. But just the once! Know going into this that it's all downhill from here.
[ They can walk and talk (...both of them can probably do anything else and talk, as recent activities attest), so Hawke directs them past what is made most obviously a Chantry by the board out in front of it; otherwise it's small and plain enough to be mistaken for a variety of other more or less municipal buildings. No Templars lurk on its periphery for instance, since that's basically equivalent to asking for one's favorite meal but with a handful of rusty nails mixed in, please.
He notices the odd smoothness of a fence that should be rough-hewn and splintery, the too-perfect symmetrical row of tiny houses; while it's not exact it's close enough to show Anders, who doesn't know Lothering from a hole in the ground. They skip what can be nothing other than the sub par tavern Hawke mentioned, the open door in fading warm light spilling chatter and bright noise out into the atmosphere, where just beyond can be seen a low wooden outbuilding.
A couple at the entirely other end of town does in fact have a handful of very fat and happy cows, but this one grew grain, so that's what the building smells of: the exact midpoint between sweet and cloying. Which is very pleasant, and yet not the reason for the trip! No, that becomes clear as a clowder (or a pounce, if you will, and you should) of tiny, absurdly chatty kittens tumble out of virtually every possible warm hidden hollow in the stacks of grain and beeline for all four feet available to them. Four! That is so many! They must roll all over them at once, and immediately begin trying to climb legs. ]
You can pet them,
[ Hawke warns - Anders probably started doing this five minutes ago - ]
but they will show their love by drawing lots and lots of your blood. Carnivorous little monsters that they are.
[ Right, he promised an embarrassing story, didn't he. He will tell this leaning by one shoulder on the sliding door. ] I used to bring my brother and sister out here - Maker, all right - when our mother reached boiling point. She had this look that could stop us in place like a pin through a butterfly. You know, the sort that says 'I may love you more than my own life, but I'm more than ready to kill you with this broom.
[ The 'all right' there was scooping up a little brown tabby particularly insistent about inhabiting his trouser leg, incidentally. He's not sure he would recognize specific kittens even if the VRD were capable of that, so these are sort of ...uberkittens. ]
no subject
He's too busy being absolutely delighted by a high-pitched calico with claws like tiny daggers currently making short-work of his trouser leg. He hoists her around the middle, and sets her gently down with the rest of her little entourage.]
Now, now, there's no need for that! Plenty of me to go around. Here, I'll make it easier for you. [He crouches, elbows on his knees, and makes an equally valiant effort to pet all the kittens at once.] Who's the prettiest one of all? Is it you? Or is it you? [He bops each kitten on the head as he goes.] Surprise! It's all of you.
[Right, there are still words being said in his general direction. He lifts his head to demonstrate active (or at least activeish) listening, though the cats at the moment have the bulk of his attention. He asked for embarrassing stories, he intends to hear them so that he can repeat them back later in a silly voice if he feels so inclined.]
You should have brought your mother here. In my experience, there's nothing quite like a whole gaggle of kittens to really work out murderous-but-the-love-kind urges people get sometimes. I mean, look at them. They'd slice you up for a scrap of chicken, but they'd look so cute doing it.
no subject
[ Hawke deadpans. About which aspect of his mother is unclear, so possibly all of them. He finds a suitably heighted bale of whatever to sit on and watches Anders with the kittens, the experience of which is definitely worth at least one embarrassing story. Though not before he realizes his expression is doing something idiotically fond and scales it back to more neutral amusement. Anders has kittens to play with, he...probably missed that.
The tabby kitten appears to be triplets, since as soon as Hawke is sitting two more identical little long legged round bellied little gremlins struggle up the side of the hay bale and circle him determinedly, walking all over his lap and hands, tiny razor claws like many tiny adorable sets of spinning blades.
Yes, go on, bleed me dry. You wouldn't be the first to take a bizarre interest.
[ This sardonaffectionately to the tabbies. ]
Right. This was when I was about ten and Carver and Bethany were five. As you can observe for yourself these little things are one part voicebox, one part big eyes, and 99 parts tiny, tiny needles. The last part you don't notice when you're a kid, not until you get home hours later positively festooned with scratches. Mother's solution to this was this terrible concoction of elfroot, blood lotus, and some other ingredient - I don't think it even needed this, she just added it to make us think twice - but whatever it was it stung like blazes.
And being ten there was no greater injury in the world than to my pride, so I stuck it out without saying a word, so the twins did the same thing, aaaaand so it when it turned out to be a bad batch, all three of us woke up the next morning looking like we'd rolled around facedown in a nettle patch. That was a glorious few weeks, let me tell you.
no subject
He ends up with an armful of squirming, meowing, prickling kittens, but even with the monumental distraction he manages to turn his attention away. He is listening now, actively and completely, petting each of their little heads in a slow rotation. His smile spreads across his face in a slow, fluid movement, growing broader the longer Hawke talks.
By the end, it is lopsided and amused and terribly, painfully charmed.]
Oh, it's more than I ever could have hoped for. I might cry. [He flicks a fake tear away from his eye, and one of the kittens swats at his finger like it's a wayward insect.] I hope absolutely none of you learned your lesson. Your mother included.
no subject
[ Anders is not the only one terribly, painfully charmed; given the things that come out of his mouth ...frequently, it's no great departure of character that Hawke finds appealing how little he seems to care how the populace at large sees him. He can recognize the strategy, having done more than his own share of joking about the dangers of magic, how mages can't be trusted because at any moment they could morph into easily killable enemies with strange body piercings*, and so knows it comes from a not entirely comfortable place, but--it's still nice see someone else in the same armor, wearing the same weight. Not something he'd ever think to mention, but maybe the point of that recognition is not having to.
The summation of which is that Anders covered in bloodthirsty little kittens does complicated things under his ribcage. He swallows, occupies himself for a second with the kitten trying to climb inside his shirt. ]
Still want the walking tour? I can share just as well from here the time I set Carver on fire.**
*u no, abominations
*how serious is he
no subject
Off you go, little devils, I haven't anything to give you. Really, I swear, your time would be much better spent being cute at someone else.
[He manages to struggle his way to standing, though it's an endeavor in the truest sense of the word. To say nothing of the fact that the kittens keep clawing at his trousers; he keeps encouraging them by bending over to give them just one more goodbye scratch.]
Your brother the Grey Warden? [See, he listens.] I was going to say it would be hard to top this little venture, but now I think I could be persuaded.
[He doesn't hate the Grey Wardens, but he does find it endlessly entertaining when they're put into silly and undignified situations. Anything to do away with the cloud of doom and responsibility that hangs over them all the time. He finally detaches himself from his purring, mewling entourage enough to step closer to Hawke, and therefore the kitten trying to hitch a ride with them.]
Though if we get stuck here, it won't be my fault.
[It's adorable, is what he means, Hawke and the stowaway kitten.]
no subject
[ The confirmation sticks somewhere between proud and exasperated; both will easily and always define Hawke's relationship with Carver. Remembering as he does how Carver became a Warden, he wants strongly to relay that to Anders, but they haven't talked about the time that both links and separates them since the first day, and that seems to be working. It's easy, still, to see them as the same person, but in Hawke's view they drift apart in some places and slide back together in others. So he keeps the story to himself, at least for now.
And really, the fact that he looks at Anders - looks at Anders looking at him and One Very Determined Kitten, really - with an expression just as complex has almost nothing to do with the fact that some day he'll save Carver's life. Mostly's just that he's never brought anyone here before. What passes over his eyes when he realizes this skews a little heated and a little soft, but mostly undefinable. A look given something beautiful turning up in an unexpected place.
He lets his eyes drop to the kitten. Yes, the one in his shirt. ]
Right. Down with you, then.
[ The kitten heartily disagrees, puncturing all ear drums within a thousand yards via protest mews, as well as ...puncturing Hawke's flesh a little, just for fun. He sets her down on the hay bale anyway, where she's immediately distracted by one of her brother-cousins having feet.
Hawke sucks the webbing between thumb and forefinger into his mouth, wincing exaggeratedly. ]
Should I bleed real blood from virtual kitten scratches? That seems unfair in light of the non-alcoholic alcohol.
[ But it's time to move on. Although he actually took Anders' hand before this time he just extends his, like a question; their next 'stop' is only a few minutes walk anyway, into what was probably a planted field at some point before something considerably more mundane than the Blight made the ground unsuitable. Hawke is, as they cross the barren patch of earth, counting his steps under his breath; he stops and casts around amidst scraggly patches of grass just starting to grow at the edge, eyes intent.
And sure enough, there are oddly shaped scorch marks burned into both the ground and grass. It's here because Hawke put it here, of course, not just because he remembers it, but it serves the same purpose. ]
The crops aren't my fault, before you ask.
[ Surely Anders was going to ask. ]
I've no idea what killed those.
So! [ He announces, free hand making a magician's flourish. ] This is where I set Carver on fire. He'd be about thirty now ...I'm quite sure he still hasn't forgiven me.
no subject
He clasps Hawke's hand when he straightens anyway, stubbornness more than anything else. He isn't a child, it isn't as if there's an imaginary line that's crossed if you hold hands during the same time frame that you hold— other things. An offered hand isn't a contract, it is what it is: an offer. He can let go whenever he likes, walk away when he decides to.
But he keeps on watching Hawke as they go, walking from the barn out into this scraggly excuse of a field. The intentness of his expression, every careful counted step, like he's showing Anders a memory that's been meticulously etched and re-etched in his mind to keep it perfectly preserved. Virtual Lothering's virtual nonspecific-but-vaguely-summery breezes pick up over the flat, barren land of the field; they pick and toss messily at Hawke's curls, and Anders feels like something's been wedged just beneath his sternum.
When Hawke pauses to search the field more closely, Anders slips his hand out of his grip, quiet and careful. He makes as if to help look in the opposite direction, and turns back only when Hawke makes it clear that he found what he was looking for.
As it happens, he doesn't ask.]
Well, that seems unfair. [He smiles broadly, spreading his hands to indicate where the scorch marks are especially jagged.] Just look at the crafstmanship! He should be glad to have been involved. It's not every day things scorch that precisely.
no subject
[ Whoops, a bunch of the grass around their feet just dried up and died. (No, it didn't.)
Hmmm, how to demonstrate. He repeats his casting around motion except this time from side to side, then up up into the few trees on the edge of the field, chin tipping back until he can see what he wants up in the low canopy. Nothing amazing, just a dead branch, which he indicates with a mischievous half smile and pointed forefinger. Give him a second, he's going t--yes, jump straight up, shirt tugging out of its belt and a little way up his midsection, feet dangling in capacity that toes almost still touch the dirt, but not quite.
His head is mostly invisible, to the tune of some rustling and then an 'ahha' noise before he drops back into sight, a little flushed, mostly exhilarated, generally a mess. ]
Needed a prop. That just seemed faster.
[ Than ...what, one wanders. Never mind, he's just showing off. But now! Prop in hand he actually goes to stand in the scorch marks, feet planted about a shoulder width apart, tree branch clutched in both hands and carried precisely at the mid point of his thigh, to the side, the image of which once he bends his knees a bit becomes absolutely perfect: it's .....two-handed weapon stance. That's how precisely the plume of flame actually shot. ]
I was supposed to be looking after him, you see. I don't know if you've ever had a herd of ducklings follow you around, but that must have been what it was like for my father between Bethany, Carver, and me. Two mages and a tag-a-long.
[ Elaborate shrug; he sets the branch gently down and walks out of the scorch marks, hands in his pockets. ]
So! On this day Father is teaching Bethany freezey things - [ he waggles his fingers for demonstration, which frost up and melt clean again ] - and I had Carver. Father was letting me have a staff with a pointy end by then, I must have been 15 or so. Sit?
[ Interrupting himself in the middle of the story to perch on what's left of a tumbled down stone fence on the side of the field. He plunks down himself, regardless, and loops wet hands together loosely. (That's a lie, too, or at least omission gone opaque; he know exactly how old he was. He remembers every mistake he made with the twins, and every success. Every small, stupid thing he can hang on to, he does. ]
We were practicing that trick...what do you call it when one of you has a big pointy thing and the other is unarmed? Sparring, that's it. Sparring. So we're doing that, and to my credit I am good at keeping out of the way if I have to, it's just so often easier not to. Much easier to get on a thing's unguarded side if that thing is thinking about stabbing you.
[ ...just. Anders may not have heard about that particular tactic before. Hawke doesn't notice. ] Carver really wasn't, though, at least not permanently or anything, I hope. And I'm about to say that's it, time to pack it in for the day, he ought to resign himself to never hitting me, when he absolutely does, complete little shite that he is. Just flips his great bloody sword round in midair and--
[ He makes a 'clonk' noise with his tongue, taps his cheekbone hard with a forefinger. ]
Right there, with the pommel. If you've never taken one of those to the face I don't suggest starting now. In case you're curious. Now, that's no fun for anyone--well, for Carver, probably. For a minute.
[ As per usual he's talking with his hands, his whole body, all animated gesture and expressive face pulled in the current of the past. ]
The problem was, Father had taught us so well...so well I didn't so much as stop to think--I was lucky I didn't pass out, probably...but wasn't a second after that that fwoosh-- [ a noise he also actually makes, with his mouth, along with hand gestures that helpfully spark just a few tiny jets of flame ]--up like a tumbleweed. Sword and all. Father put him out instantly, of course, he was never further away than screaming distance, but that ...is that! That is the story of why we could never put candles on any of Carver's name day cakes after that.
[ A moment. ]
Just kidding. We were peasants, we didn't have cake.
[ There have been small pauses at the appropriate intervals here, places where Anders can become part of the absurd, fanciful tale-telling if he likes, or just part of Hawke's equally fanciful sphere of presence. He's had enough time around Anders to notice, when taken alongside with Ander-his-friend, that small things - an offered hand, for instance - are pulled inside, rather than exhibited outward. Anders rolls the idea around like sand inside an oyster until he can expel it again, until he knows what he wants it to be. Hawke, without knowing precisely when this happened, wants that badly enough to wait. It might have been years, once. He'd have pulled on patience like a cowl and waited out those, too. ]
no subject
He does not quite sit when asked, but he does lean against the ruined edge of the wall beside Hawke, hands and shoulders close enough for them to share warmth when the sun shifts behind a cloud and a breeze skips past them. Still not quite sitting together, which is a difference without a distinction, maybe.
This story does not get as much laughter out of him during the telling as the first one probably did. This isn't necessarily a bad sign— he listens, rapt, the entire time, his expression open in something like an amused half-smile. He actually interrupts only very rarely (with such gems as Is that for me? in reference to Hawke's impromptu sword stand-in, and Maker, Hawke in regards to the fighting strategy of choice, if it can be called that).
The sting of jealousy is still there, a petty, miserable twist in his chest. It's unlikely to ever go away completely, but this time it's at least muted by the animation in how Hawke tells his story, how easy it is to picture him shorter and skinnier and roughhousing with younger siblings, magic and all.
(Anders chooses to imagine Carver as much stouter than his brother, in this particular retelling. Carver would probably be appalled.)
It sounds... lovely, silly in an endearing way, like a foolish dream he had when he was 13 about running back to his mother's skirts and teaching magic to himself. The Circle would have gutted this story, maybe gutted the person Hawke eventually grew up to be. For all that Anders wishes he could have had the same thing, he's still privately, silently relieved that the templars' reach didn't reach everywhere.
At the end, he clucks his tongue disapprovingly.]
A family of apostates, acting just like any other family! I'm appalled. What would the Revered Mother have said? [Plenty, probably. Even small towns like Lothering can't escape the droning voice of their Chantries.] It's nearly picturesque! Aside from the fire. And the pommel to the face, I suppose. But some might argue that gives the picture character.
[This is actually mostly true— there isn't really a way to describe how nice it sounds to him, learning magic in the open air from someone you love and trust, with family causing a ruckus in the background.]
no subject
I'd say we were lucky, but ...[ He lifts a shoulder, leaning down to find a much smaller branch to strip of (virtual) leaves between his fingers. ] Luck is not my family's strong suit.
[ A not exactly sour note wends below the cheerfulness there, just the sort of humor that exists to keep other things from getting in. Doublejointedness runs in the family, or baldness. Not a penchant for early death. He leans back into the (....virtual) sunlight, position a little precarious on the fence except the wedge Anders' shoulder makes; if he moved Hawke would probably topple. Then again that doesn't sound so bad, even if the grass and the trees and the scorch marks are all essentially all pulled loose from the weave of his imagination. What warmth or green or ash means separated from a mind is a much bigger question than they came here for. ]
Character, now that we are exceedingly good at. [ No one would ever have guess from meeting Hawke! Haha! He has his eyes closed, face tilted up; he only opens the one with the errant brown slots on the iris to contemplate Anders. ]
I used to think if I made it to 30 I'd probably better sign up, the idea keeps following me around so. Between Carver, my cousin, my father, the Inquisition's whole ....wardeny thing, attractive apostates I keep running into ...wardens everywhere. But here we are, I'm 34. Looks like I missed my window.
[ A pause. He'd be a terrible Warden. ]
Carver ...do you remember that story I didn't tell you? With all the darkspawn and Deep Roads and everything? This is a different one to that, imagine! I've been accused of having an inexplicable need to revisit them every few years, which is nothing but unkind. The Deep Roads just keep happening to me. Rather like headlice.
[ An actual hint of sobriety crosses his face, seeps into his voice. ] He hasn't always been a Warden, of course. Contracting the Blight because you're foolish enough to try for some mad dwarf's idea of treasure in the Deep Roads - running, as Carver so likes to remind me, from My Bloody Templars - not exactly a hero's journey, is it. We were a week below the surface, you know. He'd have died.
D'you want to know the rest? It's not exactly kittens and accidental immolation. Happy ending though, I promise. Happy as any in my family anyway.
[ Accompanied by an entirely real smile; he's only ever bitter when he is, and right now he isn't. ]
no subject
They say that the only cure for the Blight is to become a Grey Warden, but any Grey Warden knows that's not really true. Anders has been present for Joinings other than his own. He knows that some recruits take the revelation better than others.
He sighs, smiling.]
That's all right. I'm not sure any Warden's recruitment is really pleasant enough to count as a party story. [beat] Except maybe for Ogrhen's. Did I tell you, I think he did it on a dare?
[Or got drunk and made a bet, or stifled and isolated in his life on the surface after the Blight, one of those.]
You must have run into them somewhere. [The Wardens, he means, glancing back over his shoulder to indicate that Hawke should keep telling the story.] Accidentally cross paths? Wacky coincidence? Encouraged together by overly friendly darkspawn?
no subject
[ As Hawke is incapable of not performing at any given time, he could be conveying this more somberly. Then again this time he stays seated, hands dangling between parted knees when they're not doing half the talking for him, so: he could be more absurd, too. He hadn't even imagined sharing that part of his history when they got here, today was meant to be--well, kittens and accidental (uh, curable) sibling immolation. Incongruous summer in space.
Yet if it's taken this turn that's at least in part because Hawke is letting it; he could probably still pull things in another direction with minimum snag, but a singular thought, one solid conviction, stops him. ]
We were only down there in the first place because we had the same kind of maps Wardens use. And the Warden who'd provided them. [ An oddity in itself already, a Warden on what sounds (accurately) like a fortune hunter's expedition. ] Former warden, anyway, if that's possible. [ One of his eyebrows cuts brightly upwards. ] You'd know better than me, though I suppose I could ask Carver's thoughts on the subject if I wanted to hear about it for the next hundred years.
[ He ...doesn't, except that there's little he wouldn't do to hear Carver bitch at him about anything, one last time. If that's visible it's there and buried under the upward hitch of one crooked corner of his mouth. ]
He was the one who found the Wardens for us, and believe me, in his shoes I can't say I'd have done the same thing. Carver spent the whole time we were in Kirkwall hating everything--most things, if I'm honest. Magic, mages, anyone with the temerity to speak to me, everything I did...if this Warden--
[ Making the central figure of this story a Mysterious Someone Else might be brilliant rhetoric, but Hawke lets it drop along with the thoroughly shredded flora between his hands. ]
We're talking about you here, if I haven't made it obvious. You helped us. Nothing--I don't know, nothing that rewrote the face of Kirkwall or has its own poorly-rhymed ballad, but the reason I'm not the only Hawke left standing all the same. And you didn't have to, Maker knows--I know a little. About what you were running from.
[ If there's one thing in any of this he can understand it's that: when the idea that home will drag you back is worse than having to leave it in the first place. ]
It's that just you...when you say that isn't who you want to be, or you who can be, I just think you ought to have that to take into account.
[ Hawke's singular conviction remains, of course, the firm rejection of the idea that Anders needs to become the person who would risk recapture for the sake of a near-stranger who'd never been anything but hostile toward him. He was already that person five minutes ago. Yesterday. Before they met. Or remet, or whatever it is that's happening. ]
I wouldn't have let them, you know. Not ten years ago, not now.
[ This uttered with absolutely no bravado, just certainty. Anders had always thought, their entire association, that his time was borrowed only barely because it inevitably ended in the Calling. Mostly it was that between the Templars and the Wardens there was no way he'd live the rest of his life without anyone else's hooks in him. Hawke decided at some point - probably there, watching black ooze through his brother's veins and knowing there was nothing he could do to so much as slow it down - that that was an arrangement that needed to change.
He's uh, never mentioned it before, however. What time is right if not now! ]
no subject
[He'd known at former Warden where the story was headed. Maybe he knew earlier than that. It's almost as difficult to listen to this as it had been to listen to all the anger and vitriol sent his way by the others; it's always easier to hate something abstract, to set it aside and never look too closely at it. He knows that very well.
This, though. This he isn't sure what to do with. It's simple, of course— faced with someone suffering the Blight and an opportunity available to help them, what point is there in leaving them to suffer the kind of end the corruption calls for? That isn't self-preservation, that's cruelty.
But then, perhaps he only feels that way because he doesn't have a clear idea of what he'd be running from in the Wardens. For all that Varric had been eager to share his apparent philosophical turnaround on the subject, Anders had never actually heard a reason why he'd felt the need to run. Other than the obvious, that is. If there were templars standing between him and getting Hawke's brother to the Wardens, he isn't sure that he'd make the same choice this other Anders did.
(He would, but that's beside the point.)
Still, he'd always known that the Wardens were just a slightly larger, slightly more gilded cage than the Circle. (Which is, incidentally, saying something, calling the Wardens gilded.) The idea that someone else might be willing to stand between him and the closing mouth of a trap, templars or Wardens or anything else, makes him feel... vaguely nauseous.
In a good way or a bad way, he isn't sure. Maybe both.]
The Commander saved my life when she conscripted me. [Conscripted, not recruited. He isn't looking at anything in particular when he says it.] Not that all Wardens would share that sentiment if they heard the story, I'm sure. Some of them would probably tell you she killed me just as surely as the templars would have.
[He doesn't agree, obviously. He might not ever agree with a perspective like that, even after he becomes disillusioned with the institution as a whole. Right now, he watches himself bend the stalk of a dandelion with the toe of one boot.]
If I— [It's a slip. He swallows.] If he brought your brother to them, he must have known that it wasn't exactly a gift he was giving him. Or you.
[Here he does lift his head, finally, just enough to watch Hawke out of the corner of his eye.]
Not that dying is much of an alternative. I mean, look at me. [It's a weak joke.] It does sound like it worked out for your brother, in any case. That's— good.
[The rest is too much to address directly so soon. It's a slow constructing image, this picture of himself years down the line, but it is forming.]
no subject
[ Whether this is truly thoughtful or utterly facetious can be seen from so many angles as to be indistinguishable. Hawke's smiling, at least; that's enough for most people. ]
Though whether or not that's a boon depends on who you ask. Carver hates being happy. So much less to complain about that way.
[ Given all those people previously mentioned, Hawke probably knows as much about the Wardens as anyone who isn't, so he's been well apprised there's very little actual glory in the task aside from surprise moments like managing to route a Blight, for instance. Carver's poured so much of his identity into the mantle of the Grey without criticism Hawke can't help but roll his eyes, and yet ...let him have that. He probably won't ever understand why his brother needs it, not really, but that matters not nearly as much.
In some ways that's as important as having 'saved' Carver's life. Hawke doesn't belabour the point by saying it aloud. ]
For what it's worth I am glad you piqued my cousin's interest. [ Like, duh, but of course he must be flippant about it, to match. ] Who else could I have dragged all the way out here? No one who would have appreciated a passel of bloodthirsty kittens quite so much, I can tell you that.
[ In other words even though it's been a little trickier than anticipated he's still glad they did this. ]
no subject
[This little excursion has been more than he expected in a slew of different ways, but he can't say he's upset to have done it, either. He feels a little hollow and unsteady in the wake of that revelation, like wind might whistle straight through him, but that will pass. Or, at least, there are memories enough from today to fill the space.
The (virtual) sun is still warm, and the smile that unfolds on his face is not at all fake.]
Anyway, it sounds to me like your brother is the perfect fit. Taint this and doom that. I can't keep up with the level of bemoaning the Wardens require on a regular basis, most days. It's a wonder they haven't kicked me out on the grounds of being too sunny.
[A beat. His jaw works, like what he says next needs preparation before it can come out.]
Still. It isn't all terrible, the Wardens. For some people, it— fits. [A final, skittering attempt at eye contact.] If he had to do it, I'm glad it happened the way it did.
[Unclear whether "he" here refers to Carver or to the Anders who suddenly feels a step less distant.]
no subject
His eye contact doesn't flinch, but it doesn't insist on much of anything, either. ]
He's good at it. The doom bits and the taint bits, but the whole silly saving the world thing, too.
[ Probably he's talking about Carver. At least mostly. ]
Right! Had enough psuedo-Thedas for the day, do you think? Though there are always the many, many places my teenage virtue and I parted ways.
no subject
[His fingers twitch slightly on Hawke's shoulder, but he doesn't pull his hand away; not immediately, anyway. He feels vaguely warm and the sun has that just enough cast of red to it, and Anders has the inexplicable urge to kiss him, which he knows would be a colossally stupid idea. Instead he slants the feeling sideways, turns it into something more agreeable:]
Besides, I'm much more interested in making sure you didn't accidentally pick up any of your virtue during this little adventure.
no subject
[ Does the Chantry have like, re-purification ceremonies. Important considerations. Hawke, as amenable to being agreeable as ever, hauls himself upright via hands on his knees. He tries not to think about whether or not he misses being who he was here; that's another thing sloughed off and more or less permanent, so the fact is that although he is, as noted, glad they made the trip, he doesn't feel obliged to keep looking for reasons to stay, either. ]
Although if you wanted to check I don't suppose I could fault your reasoning. Looking out for my welfare and all.
no subject
[His fingers drop, no longer having the excuse, and he uses the moment instead to look back out, not at the village itself, but across the fields to where the simulation peters out into vague forest at the edges. The waystations are almost as grey as the ships are, and even in a simulation like this he can take a moment to pretend he might be free.]
Still. It's a nice little place, isn't it? For having just the one chicken, I mean. [The closest he'll come to thanking Hawke for the opportunity to see it. He drifts slightly, a few steps backwards towards where the dome had left the controls.] Shall we?
no subject
Formerly just the one chicken. She was delicious, remember?