[It's not long after her arrival through the Rift and subsequent journey to the Gallows that Ness is approached by a tall, slender young man with a board and parchment. He inclines his head in greeting, offering a polite smile:]
[ ness was told to wait in the central tower for a mssr. artemaeus to meet her and explain her new situation more fully, and—well, she would have waited, but the hustle and bustle of the gallows clean-up and rebuilding is vastly more interesting to watch than the interior walls and hallways of the tower. she didn't go far, at least, she's near the entrance to the central tower when benedict comes to meet her, and she turns to greet him with a somewhat guilty smile of her own. ]
Hi, yes, that's me! Ness, if Ennaris is too much of a mouthful, it's a pleasure to meet you Messere Artemaeus.
[ 'messere' doesn't sound quite natural on her lips yet, but she's been listening, she knows that's the polite address in this area of the world. ...at least, she's pretty certain it is. ]
[He doesn't seem bothered at all by the shift in location, in part because this one was on the way-- and knowing all the faces of his colleagues means identifying a new one is instant.]
Ness, [he repeats, making a note of it,] and you can call me Benedict. Or Artemaeus, whichever you prefer.
[ people pleaser instincts don't like choices why have you done this to her— ]
Yes, thank you! I've been trying to familiarize myself with the layout of everything, and I think there's a library I want to look at? I want to study the history here, it seems like a good place to start.
[ gotta figure out which nations hate each other and why so she doesn't put her foot in her mouth at any point, ey. ]
[He gives a little smile at her enthusiasm, straightening.]
The library is upstairs of the centr-- the tower, [oops,] and we've gathered quite a few resources over the years. If you can't find what you're looking for, you may be able to just ask someone. Just,
[there's a strange, frenetic look in his eyes-- don't fuck it up--]
be mindful of what you say on the network. Elves in particular have a complicated history, and I... would advise against calling anything a fairy tale.
[ fairy tale? elves have a complicated history? what?? many confused faces. although that does bring up, since ness by now has had an opportunity to notice she has experienced some, uh, changes— ]
Ah, on the subject of elves—I won't say anything about fairy tales, I swear—I... Well, this is going to sound ridiculous, but I seem to have... lost my ears?
[ she tucks her hair behind her very much existent ears, showing them off—them and their very rounded, blunt, human tips. ]
My father where I'm from is an elf, and my mother is a half-elf. This isn't the normal shape of my ears, [ and she is being very, very cool about it, she thinks, ] and I was wondering, does that... happen often?
[He looks at her ears, then at her face, like he isn't quite sure what to say. Usually elves rift in as elves-- what an insane thing to think, how many different kinds of elves can there be-- never mind,]
I'm, [he hedges,] not sure. [He tosses his shiny hair, perhaps a grounding motion.]
I do know that people with mixed elf and human blood generally don't have the, ah, [he makes a pinching gesture,] points.
[ my dude half-elves are a whole ass thing, they've got the points, they've got the magic, what on the great fucking wheel are you talking about. ]
Perhaps that is a difference between your plane and mine, [ she allows eventually, rather than call this polite but nervous-seeming man an idiot to his face. ] It's, I mean, I'm not injured in any way, and it's not as though the points serve any, any function.
[ other than mark a physical marker of her ancestry and past and hoo boy we're not getting bogged down in being capital a Alone in an unfamiliar plane, nope. blowing right past that emotional turmoil, onto something that surely can't be worse! ]
[He opens his mouth as if to answer her next question, and, realizing where he's put himself, has a full thought process first. Then:]
One of... significant loss, and subjugation. I'm not really the right person to tell you about it. [on account of not being an elf, mostly, but there are Other Reasons]
--I'd be glad to introduce you to someone who could do a better job of it, though.
[ what the hells kind of topsy turvy world is this, even, elves subjugated?? much reading and research to be done, goodness. ]
I would be very glad for the introduction, then. So, we've covered elves and fairy tales—is there anything else I need to know with immediacy, to avoid making an arse of myself?
we were recently attacked. As you may have noticed by our facilities being in some state of... disrepair. It's fair to say we're all still rather sore about that.
[FAIR]
You don't seem the type to joke lightly about misfortunes, so I imagine you'll be all right.
Not intentionally. Rifters arrive out of sorts, in a new place, grasping for some kind of familiarity. People say things without thinking first, on both sides.
[such is life]
But I don't imagine that'll be a problem on your end. Do you have any other questions to get you settled in?
Many, [ questions, ] but they can probably all wait, I'm sure you have more important things to do than answer a few hundred questions about your home. I can fend for myself otherwise.
[ she gives what is hopefully a reassuring and grateful smile, but then, a thought: ]
Oh, for sleeping arrangements, is there... I've seen tents, do I get one?
[Cedric makes the introduction which, inevitably, feels a bit like a hand-off. Enchanter Julius, when he arrives is a tall man in his 40s, his initial expression concerned but sympathetic. (The air of a teacher, as promised.) He's dressed in trousers and a tunic, rather than robes, but he's brought his staff. He also has a a small bag of supplies slung over one shoulder.
After Cedric promises to stay close and excuses himself, Julius leans the staff close enough he can reach it, but out of the way as he settles next to her.]
Alright. So I've had a little bit, but if you feel up to it, why don't you tell me what's been happening? I think the more I know, the more helpful I can probably be.
[His tone is kind, quiet. There will be a lot to deal with in the morning, but right now, he can't help but be affected by a young woman in magical distress.]
[OOC: Happy to adjust if you want to approach this another way, just lmk.]
[ some of the ease cedric had hard-fought to win out of her leaves with the hand-off, but not as much as could have: ness is accustomed to professorial types, and the presence of a familiar mien is calming, even if she's still nervous. it's difficult to begin, but it always would have been, no matter the circumstances or who she was explaining it to. ]
I didn't have magic before I came here, [ she starts, finding the threads of the story as she speaks. ] I was entirely average. Extremely so. The only interesting thing about me is my father's drow—a dark elf.
[ her fingers reach up, admirably still unless you look closely, and finger the point of an ear that isn't there anymore, replaced with the rounded cartilage of a human. lips purse, chin wobbles—she presses on. ]
Before I woke up here, I was... kidnapped. Taken. There are these things, [ she shudders, ] mindflayers. They infect you with their parasite and seven days later you die, and something that isn't at all you anymore takes your place. They meant that for me, but there was
[ a breath, eyes closed, don't linger, ]
a disturbance. I avoided the parasite, but got a faceful of its brine. Now, here, I—I do things, entirely on accident.
[ that is very important, on that she opens her eyes and seeks julius' gaze, earnest and pleading. ]
I haven't hurt anyone. I don't want to. It's all out of my control and I didn't know what to do but I didn't want to die, I read so many things—
All rifters have a lot to cope with when they arrive, but it sounds as if you've more than your share. [He doesn't have to feign the sympathy in his voice.] It's not something exactly like I've run across before, I confess. I know that some rifters have different abilities here than they do where they come from, but in general they had some sort of magical ability. Other than the powers that come from the anchor shards themselves, most rifters who didn't do magic before don't do any in Thedas. But let's walk before we try to run.
I take it that one of the things you've read about is how the Templar Order and the Circles dealt with mages who couldn't control their magic. Is that right?
It's not unheard of, where I'm from, [ in explanation, still a little miserable about it. ] Contact with magical energies can give one magic, in certain circumstances. It may be that I acquired my magic there, but there was no opportunity to discover it before I woke here.
[ seeing as she died there minutes after she might have acquired her magic—but we're not thinking about that. done is done, no use crying over spilt blood. ]
Yes. [ whispered, somewhat ashamed for reasons she can't quite articulate. ] Death or, ah, the other thing. Tranquility?
That's right. I won't tell you that there's no danger in the larger world; I grew up in a Circle myself. But I can assure you that Riftwatch isn't in the habit of putting anyone to death or forcing Tranquility on them. We may need to take some steps to keep you or others safe. But within Riftwatch itself, you're not in danger of those particular steps.
[He's not technically a Division head, to promise such a thing. On the other hand, they've been dealing with arguably worse rifter problems for a while now.]
Can you describe to me what you've experienced, since you've come here? Don't worry about any technical terms, just how to feels and appears to you.
[ hearing is not believing, and ness' expression doesn't quite clear up, even with the enchanter's assurances. she wants to believe him, she really does, but wanting is exactly why it feels so hard to trust—it would be so easy to tell her exactly what she wants to hear, and then turn around and betray her as soon as she let down her guard. that's what all the smart villains do, and even the well-meaning heroes who don't know who they're working for.
still, the conversation goes nowhere if she doesn't take him at his word, at least for now. so ness nods her acceptance of his promise and stares at her hands, considering. ]
It begins in my stomach, [ she says slowly, hushed, ] a squirming feeling, like I have to vomit. It gets more intense, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but it feels less like illness and more like... like there's something inside of me writhing to get out. It presses at, at the walls of me, so much that I think there must be some distention in my skin but there never is. It travels up my body and to my anchor and when it frees itself it's these... I don't know how to describe them.
[ she inhales a shaky breath and flexes the fingers on her anchor hand, unable to look julius in the eye anymore. it sounds bad. it sounds really bad. she knows. ]
Whips, maybe. Vines, or... tentacles. Tendrils of some kind of concentrated darkness that reach to beat at anything near me. They don't last long, but they can be destructive, even so. The writhing stops as soon as they're free. It doesn't feel like anything, after that.
ty for your patience (I say as I'm about to go on a trip)
[It's not not concerning, and he doesn't try to gloss over that. But on the other hand, he's not recoiling. He seems to want to understand.]
I'll be honest. It sounds more like a curse than any sort of magecraft, sanctioned or unsanctioned by the Chantry. Something happening to you, rather than something you're doing.
[Which is not wonderful news, in that curses can be complicated to break. On the other hand, it seems unlikely that she's possessed. Possible — rifters complicate things — but it doesn't seem like the way that sort of thing usually manifests.]
To make sure I understand: The tendrils are destructive while they last, but regardless of whether they reach a target, they dissipate on their own. How long, approximately, do they last? Just a best guess is fine.
[ a curse... does that feel right? ness frowns, but considers the idea carefully. she certainly isn't trying to do any of this, but neither has she encountered anyone who could or would have cursed her, recently. the mindflayers wanted her for their parasite, so they'd have had no reason to do anything like that to her, and the githyanki were too keen on murder to bother with anything protracted.
still, an actual enchanter would know better than she would. it's as good a theory as she's got for now. ]
It feels like an eternity, [ in the way the worst things always do, ] but it can't be more than a few seconds. No more than ten, if that.
Alright. That's obviously still distressing, but I think it's manageable.
[He doesn't say we've had worse, but possibly he does think it. Regardless.]
I've brought a substance called magebane, if you'd like to try it while we're working on a more permanent solution. I'm not going to insist, partly because it sounds like you have at least a bit of warning to get away from bystanders, and partly because I'm not entirely sure how it would affect you, as a rifter. For native mages like me, it dampens the ability to use magic temporarily. If your condition is drawn from a connection to the Fade in some way, it's possible the magebane could give you a bit of a reprieve. But if it's not something you want to risk without knowing how it works, that's understandable.
[ distressing, but manageable. despite herself, despite her difficulty trusting his word just a moment ago... ness can't help the way her shoulders lighten and her breath comes a little easier. she doesn't know the enchanter at all, certainly not enough to trust his word just like that, but it's such a relief to have someone who knows more than she does look at her and say "we can work with this".
this isn't the worst case scenario. she's not beyond help. the professional in the room isn't panicking—hell, he hardly looks flustered. she's going to be okay.
she's going to be okay.
relief very nearly turns into incoherent blubbering, but ness pulls herself together by her fingernails, scraping up the last dregs of her composure with a gulping deep breath and the determined expression of one about to attempt a marathon for the first time. ]
Thank you, [she says, without a single falter, ] I think I'd like to try the magebane, at least to see. Could it be, maybe, could I take it just when I can feel the squirming start? I could try it now, to see what happens, if you'd prefer to be around the first time.
I think that's a place to begin. We'll need to experiment a bit, probably, to see how fast you need it to act, but I think "when you first feel the sensation" is a reasonable starting place.
[He retrieve a small flask from the bag he's brought with him. The glass is semi-transparent, hinting at a liquid with a reddish hue and a slightly viscous consistency behind the cork stopper.]
This was originally developed to poison weapons used against mages, so unfortunately it was not developed with taste in mind. [Translation: It's fairly vile.] If you have the time, I might dilute a bit of it in advance. It should be stable in water, and I've heard it's easier to swig a large mouthful with a milder taste than manage a small sip with a stronger bite to it. But that's just for ease of use. In an emergency, you can take a small sip directly.
Certainly, [ agreeing, immediately, to whatever julius suggests—experimentation, of course, look how biddable she is, so easy to work with. she accepts the vial, examining its contents as best she can in the low light.
for a poison, it looks fairly innocuous—no sickly green hue, like in illustrations, nor any sort of... palpable malevolence. for something called magebane, it's not very frightening. ]
I see, [she says, closing her first around the vial and holding it close to her chest. ] And small sips should do it, then, no need to drink the whole thing? How long do its effects last? Do we have an abundant supply, or should I be rationing?
[ hang on, actually, more importantly— ]
What would happen if I were to take too much? If I did, could that be counteracted in some way? Is there a maximum amount I should ingest within a certain period?
[ rip ness you would have loved to be a medicinal research chemist. ]
I'm not a healer, [caveat, talk to your doctor] but my understanding is that to a point, dose correlates to duration. That is, if you take more, the effects last longer. You certainly shouldn't need to drink the whole flask at once, assuming it works for you as I expect.
That said, I might need to direct you to another source for full information on ... Taking a flask's worth at once might be unpleasant, but shouldn't do you long-term ill. [He's heard of Templars forcing than much on a mage at a time, though that observation feels better unspoken.] An even larger dose might have ill effects; I'm not sure. Enchanter Isaac would be a likely source of information, though you may need to explain your condition to him, and I can understand that prospect giving you some pause.
Hmm. It wouldn't be terribly insensitive, would it, asking the Enchanter about this?
you don't have to be a genius to realize an enchanter with extensive experience with a poison directed specifically at mages might not have gotten that experience in an enjoyable or academic manner. ]
I'll think about asking him, at least, it may be irresponsible not to... But, oh—
[ her eyes focus on julian again and she smiles, a little watery and wan, but no less genuine for it. ]
Thank you. I've been so afraid, and I didn't want to hurt anyone—it was eating me up. Between you and Cedric I feel like I'm taking my first deep breath in weeks. It means so much, really.
We've used magebane within the organization before, [Julius assures her.] I think a simple "I need some time while I get a new effect cured or under control" should suffice. You're not the first rifter who got an unwanted gift from the Fade, even if this particular one is new to me.
[A small exhale with a faint smile.]
I suppose it keeps us on our toes. But I'm sorry you're having to deal with it. I think I would be ... cautious about how many people you speak to, before we've learned more. As Carsus may have indicated, there are a lot of native Thedosians who have a strong distrust for magic, especially uncontrolled magic. But I'd say any of the Division Heads are trustworthy. Madame de Cedoux. Stephen Strange, our head healer.
[ confirming, ] I've done some research. [ she knows the shape of the native reaction to magic, even if she hasn't experienced the whole of it for herself yet—that's half the reason she was so panicked and terrified before tonight, to the point of attempting to isolate herself completely. ] That's why I didn't plan to tell any one I didn'need to about my... condition. I imagine there's no way you leave here and don't immediately tell the Division Heads what happened.
[ it's not a question, because ness has no doubt: after tonight, the division heads will know exactly what she can do, and how unstable it is. it's only right, too—for safety reasons, the people in charge of the organization should know when someone might pose a threat to the rest of the group!
it just sucks to be the one posing a threat, is all. ]
Petrana de Cedoux and Stephen Strange... I'll remember those names. They're natives?
Both rifters, actually, [even if that's not specifically why he recommended them.] Both of them are mages, though, or close enough to be a distinction without a difference. Dr. Strange is our head healer, which may give him a professional interest in your condition, [adopting her word]. And Mme de Cedoux has been navigating the intersection of her world's magic and Thedosian magic for many years now. Beyond being trustworthy, she has a unique perspective.
[And Julius is going to tell her about this anyway, more than likely, but he'd recommend her even if that wasn't true.]
Your instinct for discretion is a wise one, I think. But you've landed in a place with more than its share of people who've faced judgment. Most people in Riftwatch prioritize defeating Corypheus. As long as we can ensure you're no danger to yourself or others here in the Gallows, everything else can be managed.
[ it may not be fair, but ness absolutely perks up at both petrana and stephen being rifters. natives just... she's gotten lucky, between cedric and julius both being willing to help her instead of reaching immediately for pitchforks. pushing her luck seems inadvisable, that's all. it's healthy, reasonable caution, not irrational fear. really. ]
I'll remember both of them, thank you.
[ she really will, as soon as she gets back to her things she'll be writing notes on this whole experience.
there's part of that second bit that catches her ear, though—most, emphasized, but that means... ]
Is there anyone in particular I should be cautious with? People less sympathetic than the rest, here?
[He takes his time to consider this question. (Not because it hasn't occurred to him previously.)]
Redvers Keen may not have sufficient trust in the organization's leadership to not feel he needs to take matters into his own hands. You should be especially cautious there. And while I doubt Lazar would be personally outraged, he is forever looking to turn a profit; he might see your distress as a business opportunity first and foremost.
Broadly, I might keep the number of people who know small until the Division Heads have had a chance to weigh in. But I think that is less a function of avoiding individual agents finding out and more a matter of giving them leeway to handle it as they think best.
[ more names to remember, petrana de... sehdoo? (probably not, she'll have to ferret out proper spelling), stephen strange, redvers keen, lazar... ness mouths each name to herself, making different small gestures with each name to reinforce the memory. ]
I didn't plan to tell anyone, [ confirming, and also, you know, she'd assumed he would, but maybe julius can confirm informing the division heads? she'd prefer only to interact with authority figures when she has good news, is the thing.
another deep breath, and ness can feel exhaustion creeping in, now that adrenaline has worn off. ]
Okay, this has been... quite a bit to take in. I—if there's anything else, might it wait? I just want to make sure I can remember everything properly before I take in anything more.
[ please, her past couple weeks have been so much, she's doing her best but she needs time— ]
Go on. Try to get some sleep, if you can. And if you need me for anything with the magebane, or ... I expect I'll be in my office for a few hours yet. But things tend to look better in the morning, even if daylight doesn't actually solve them.
[He's not entirely unworried about letting her go again, but the Division heads will know and his instinct tells him she doesn't mean any active harm. The night will probably be quiet enough.]
Sorcerer, [ Strange corrects automatically, a kneejerk instinct; the verbiage doesn’t even really matter anymore, but he stands on the principle of getting it right. Naming things as they are. And the terminology might matter for a particular rifter universe, because he still remembers Wysteria being precise about the definitions between magicians, sorcerers, wizards, witches.
Seated beside this young woman, he peers over to look a little closer at the titles she’d selected to read, thinking: Oghma, the god of knowledge. He doesn’t much truck with gods, but if there’s one to follow, that sounds better than most. ]
It might be the same thing at the end of the day, however, and similar to what they call a mage here. Someone who’s studied and practiced magic and is capable of harnessing its powers to cast spells, yes?
[ she opens her mouth to argue the point immediately, then closes it again just as quickly, rethinking her strategy. they're in a completely different plane, each from different worlds: perhaps sorcerer means something different to him than it does to her.
that in mind, she begins again, less immediately confrontational this time. ] Yes, though on my plane they're different. Those who have to learn their magic [ she nods at him, at the books in front of her—not magical tomes, but just to indicate the kind of study required, ] are called wizards, they have no innate magical talent and learn their spells by rote. Sorcerers, whether through birth or contact with intense magical energies later in life, are innately magical, they don't need to learn anything.
As you say, though, [ leaning back in her seat and smiling up at him, ] at the end of the day, the differences matter little here. A sorcerer is a wizard is a mage, whatever we called them in our previous lives.
[ It’s a surprisingly interesting etymological difference, as far as Strange is concerned. So there’s a sharp attentiveness as he listens: it might not matter as such, but he’s meticulously filing that away regardless in the part of the mental rolodex now titled Ennaris and her world. ]
So it sounds, [ he muses, ] as if all mages here would be considered sorcerers by your definition. Either they’re born with the capacity or they’re not, is that right?
Where I’m from, [ a gesture of a hand, a tap of his scarred fingertips on her stack of books, illustrative, ] studious application will get you to magic. People might have a predilection for it or a familial lines particularly gifted with it, but strictly speaking, anyone can learn it. Fairly democratic, that way.
[ It’s evident by the warmth in his voice: he likes that about sorcery. The personal control, the direct cause and consequence. If you pour enough time and effort into a thing, you can master it. Ten years of medical school, and you can become a doctor. Most of a year of frenzied effort and reckless study and lack of sleep, and you can become a sorcerer. ]
[ as it becomes clear that stephen's actually listened to her, not just heard but listened, ness' smile grows. it's not that she's not used to an adult who actually pays attention or anything like that—she's just a consummate teacher's pet, and she loves an opportunity for a one-on-one with an educator who gives a shit. ]
That's right, [ of all mages here being sorcerers to her. ] And where I'm from, you and all the other sorcerers of your world would be considered wizards. I've never thought of wizardry that way, [ musing, a little taken with his clear affection for the practice, ] democratic. It's a somewhat prohibitive field to get into, in Faerûn, even if open to everyone in theory.
[prohibitive, and not a field she'd ever given much mind to, as she'd shown only the barest of aptitudes for it and never wanted to bother anyone questioning about it. if she'd shown an interest, there would have been no shortage of those in candlekeep who could have taught her, but without initiative of her own, no one was going to take time out of their schedules to force her.
kind of a shame now in hindsight, given the givens. ]
How did you come to its study? If you don't mind the question, I don't mean to pry.
It’s a long story, [ Strange says after a short beat.
But it’s one he’s had to explain often enough in Thedas that the sting’s gone out of it. Back home people generally wouldn’t pry for the Sorcerer Supreme’s history, but here he’s simply another member of Riftwatch, and a study in contradictions: the doctor who became a mage. The mage who became Head Healer, but who still can’t stitch up a cut. The real question is how much does he dump on this poor young girl’s head, when he winces uncomfortably away from anything which might seem like a traumadump.
For now, he settles on: the harmless basics. ]
Magic is democratic once you get there, but it’s also not widely known of; back home, its existence is more myth and rumour and speculation. I had some injuries which science and traditional medicine couldn’t heal, so I sought a magical cure. I found that monastery, and [ this choice of word is purposeful ] wizardry instead, and became voracious about it. It’s fascinating, going your whole life thinking reality functioned under certain limitations only to discover there’s always been doors you never even knew existed.
[ "some injuries", he says, and ness immediately, unsubtly looks down at his scarred hands. if he's worried about insensitive questions, though, none seem to be forthcoming—she just looks back up to listen as stephen finishes his explanation, her lips part in precursor to a comment, or perhaps a question—
and then she shudders forward, wincing. the insistent squirming that precedes a magical outburst has started in her stomach, and this time it's not waiting around— she can feel it already climbing up her trunk, lashing toward her anchor hand: it's been moving quicker ever since the magebane. like it knows that she can cut it off now, and it doesn't want to give her the opportunity. ]
Sorry, [ she gasps, ] one second!
[ there's a vial of magebane in a pouch on her belt, but it's hard to call up the dexterity for clasps and flaps with her off-hand while simultaneously trying to stave off a tentacled maelstrom in the other. ness fumbles at the pouch, holding her breath like somehow that might keep the outburst from manifesting. ]
[ An eyebrow raised, Strange leans slightly away but watches the girl fumble and reach for her pouch, professional concern crinkling his brow. He can’t tell what Ennaris is scrambling for, but it has the slightly familiar frantic rush that he’d associate with grabbing medication to avert a seizure, or an allergic reaction. It has that look to it. ]
[ she gets into the pouch, finally, and grips the magebane tightly. usually she likes to mix this with a bit of water, per julius' advice, but there is absolutely not time for that right now. ness screws her face up and takes a deep breath. ]
If I throw up on you, I'm really sorry.
[ and with that, she pops the cork on the magebane and takes a swig.
julius wasn't kidding, the taste is not pleasant, but almost worse is knowing what comes after. ]
[ There’s the distinctive scent in the air as she opens the vial, sharp and astringent, and Strange knows his potions besides: it’s magebane. Magebane, the same as what Tav’s dosing himself with in an attempt to hold his unfortunate condition at bay. ]
Don’t worry, I’ve experienced worse, [ he says, still nonchalant. He’s a doctor. Sometimes patients shit themselves. But more to the point, as he watches her: ]
You’re not going to be possessed by a murderous spirit, by chance? Just checking.
[ the poison settles, heavy and thick, in her stomach, and ness gags, just a little, nose wrinkled and eyes scrunched close in distaste— ]
What? [ she says, less because she really needs the repetition and more because she's struggling to process all the stimuli she's experiencing at once. the magebane is disgusting and thick and heavy, but the squirming stops with one final wriggle somewhere around her elbow. she breathes, and realizes she knows what stephen said. ] Oh, no, I...
[ a sigh, and she corks the magebane again and slips it back into the pouch at her belt. she doesn't avoid stephen's eyes, because that looks suspicious, but she's not particularly enthusiastic about meeting them. ]
I shouldn't have magic. I didn't, before I arrived in Thedas—I could summon lights, but that was all, nothing useful. Here, I... It comes upon me suddenly, and is destructive. That's all. Nothing murderous.
[ Part of her attention keeps drifting in quick fleeting glimpses to her elbow, and Strange glances down, but there’s nothing there as far as he can tell. Nothing out of the ordinary; the magebane has done its job, whatever the job was. Instead, he meets Ennaris’ trepidatious eye, his own expression steady and level.
It comes upon me suddenly, and is destructive. Why are there so many rifters like this— ]
What sort of ‘coming upon you’?
[ It pings some distant concern, a recollection, a faint unease in his gut. This, too, familiar. Wanda wrestling with new unmanageable powers outside of her control— He needs to ask. ]
[ it's an entirely fair question, and it deserves an answer... but ness doesn't have to like giving it. she pouts a little, taps her nails against the desk, huffs... and takes a deep breath. ]
There are these... tendrils. Like tentacles, but they don't have suckers or anything. They come out of my anchor and try to batter at everything around me within reach. It doesn't last very long, but you can imagine, if there's anything precious around, it's a problem.
[ she shrugs a little, and looks at stephen out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his response. ]
[ She’s tiptoeing over eggshells waiting to see what the man’s reaction will be, but what comes out is perhaps decidedly unexpected and unfazed: ]
Oh, is that all? Tentacles?
[ Not dismissive, but at ease; Strange’s shoulders loosen as he leans back in his chair again, body language relaxing. He had tensed up a little without even realising it. ]
I used to have a few spells which would summon… well, yeah, tendrils. Beasts. Serpents. The Vipers of Valtorr spawning out of my arms and multiplying as they’re cut down.
If this particular development is new to you and you’re unaccustomed to its use, you should practice. [ An offer, off-hand: ] We could practice.
[ well that's certainly not the reaction ness was expecting. there's a part of her that considers being angry about it, and her brow furrows in anticipation of the annoyance that she thinks she should feel, but isn't it better for him not to consider it a problem? she purses her lips, considers...
and lets herself smile, instead. ]
Well, it sounds much less dire when you say it. Nothing multiplies, so I suppose I have that going for me.
[ practice. does she want to practice? ness actually thinks about it, chewing her lip a little, scrunching her nose. ]
I don't think I'm ready for that, [ she admits. ] I have so much to learn still about Thedas, a whole life to start building from scratch... I don't think I can dedicate myself properly to any of my pursuits if I spread myself too thin.
[ it's not a lie, is the thing, not even close. she really does believe that it's better for her to get acquainted with thedas first, if she has a choice in the two. it helps, also, that magic is scary and weird and she'd rather pretend she can avoid it for as long as possible. ]
When I'm ready, though, if the offer is still good, I can come to you? If that'd be alright?
[ At first, he almost pushes. This is a man who has pushed at every obstacle placed in front of him, who had very much pushed himself far too hard when he was first learning magic, and nine times out of ten would bite off more than he can actually chew,
but faced with a little more restraint, he tips a shoulder into a half-shrug. It’s no skin off his back if Ennaris doesn’t want to jumpstart some lessons just yet; it’s less work for him, in fact. ]
Of course. At your leisure, [ Strange says warmly. She’ll come around if-when she needs to. ] I don’t have Enchanter in my title, but my door’s open regardless.
[ that he doesn't push means ness will actually seek him out eventually. her smile brightens, and she nods. ]
I appreciate that, Doctor, sincerely. As soon as I have my feet under me, you'll find me at your door.
[ and with that, she pulls her books closer again, ready to get back to studying history and geopolitics and privately railing against the various propaganda machines of thedas. ]
[ —oh... given the out and she didn't even take it?? that's fine, ness isn't feeling any particular type of way about that. certainly not touched in any weird way. ]
Oh, Abby, I saw your name in the assignments! I'm a recent arrival, yes. But I promise I'm not going to be an idiot about it, I've already done a lot of research and I'm working on getting my feet under me in Diplomacy, I won't be a bother!
(This makes Abby huff slightly, maybe a precursor to laughing.) Okay. You can be an idiot about it if you want, though. I said some really dumb stuff when I first got here and I was still figuring everything out.
[ a small pause as ness thinks of something to say—i'd prefer to give people as few reasons to roll their eyes at me as possible—and then adjusts, because perhaps that is unkind to newly-arrived abby, who may have had quite a few eyes rolled at her. ]
I'm sure I'll say something dumb eventually, no amount of research could forestall that forever. I'd just prefer it be later than soon!
[ she tries not to sound excited, because no matter what abby says it doesn't seem right to be excited about someone being rent from their previous home and stranded somewhere for three entire years with no sign of ever being able to return. for anyone not in ness' position, that's a hard pill to swallow. ]
That's such a number of years, and in a time of conflict such as this—you truly enjoy it? I had hoped to be able to make a home here myself, but liking it I had assumed would have to come after the war ended.
(Abby hadn't ever thought that before until she said it out loud just now — there's a pause before she pushes through to ask,) Where did you come here from?
Oh, somewhere not all that different from here, really. Faerûn wasn't currently at war with a megalomaniacal lich god-king when I was snatched up, but it wouldn't have been unheard of. Truthfully, it hasn't been that difficult an adjustment period in most ways.
Faerûn, (she says under her breath, frowning. Sounds... oddly familiar? But she can't put a finger on why that is. Weird.
Anyway,) That's good. This place is really different to where I came from, so it took me a while to get used to everything. If you ever have any questions about stuff, you can always ask me.
From what I understand, most rifters come from places much dissimilar to Thedas. I count myself lucky to have had such an easy transition, I can't imagine how difficult it would be for me to have to adapt to... I've vaguely heard of something called a car, but I have no idea what that is. Sounds terrifying, anyway.
I appreciate the offer, anyway, and will definitely be taking you up on that. Natives can be... a little prickly about some things, I've noticed. Not without cause, [ hastily, Just In Case, ] but sometimes it's easier to ask someone at a bit of a remove, I think.
I'd offer the same in return, but unless you're interested in the cataloguing methods of a library from another world, I don't think I have any information you'd be interested in, honestly.
(A slight chuckle.) Do you wanna know what a car is? I could try and explain. (You know, in the way that somebody might explain a car, having never really thought about how one works or how you would describe it to somebody who has never seen one before, because doesn't everybody know what a car is?
But anyway,) I — actually am really interested in that.
(She says it quick, a bit embarrassed.) I like reading and I'm assisting in the library here. Re-shelving, mostly. We had this thing called the Dewey Decimal System back home, but I think it required having computers, so obviously it doesn't work here. We're organising by genre and then author. Non-fiction is by subject and then author. We have a log book.
Oh, [ what a pleasant surprise!! ] well, how about you explain to me what a car is, and I'll explain to you how we sort the catalogues in Candlekeep, then?
[ book nerds book nerds BOOK NERDS!!! ]
Candlekeep is so much larger than the archives here, I don't know that it would be particularly useful to look to it as an example of how to sort a library without a "computer"... But nothing is ever improved by making assumptions. There might be something we could think of and present to the Archivist, if we put our heads together.
[tapping her chin, thinking out loud: ] Genre, or subject, and author is all well and good when each of those is clear-cut, but what about books written by more than one person? Or works that blend genres? Hm. There has to be a better way to sort this...
But Ennaris is going first, so maybe they'll get really into her thing. Abby already has comments for her; they could be here a while.)
I get what you mean, but I'd probably go with whoever is listed first on the book for what name to file under. Same with genre, I guess. Like if it was a... I dunno, a mystery-thriller, I'd go with the bigger theme.
(It's not perfect, but oh well.) And then you note somewhere that it has two genres, so you can always refer to the notes.
That works well for a smaller archive like ours, [ she concedes easily, ] but as our collection grows, so will the number of exceptions, and the number of notes. Such a list could eventually become too complicated for easy use.
Not to mention, what about books with no known title, or author? How do we distinguish between Ancient Alammari Scroll #1 and Ancient Alammari Scroll #57? Just for example, I mean, I don't even know if the ancient Alammari tribes had writing.
This must sound like I'm overcomplicating things, [ so at least she's self-aware? ] but I think they're problems worth thinking about! We want to minimize the work we'll have to do in the future.
[ "we", because obviously, if she's suggesting any work be done, she'll be assisting with doing it, even if it's not actually her job. ]
[ Belatedly: after ending this conversation presumably more politely than falling completely silent out of nowhere (sorry), Bastien eventually gets around to leaving a bundle of papers in Ness' pigeonhole in the dining hall.
Most of it is an accumulation of pamphlets and clips from broadsheets and quarterlies from the last few years that he already had on hand, ranging from staid essays on the benefits of unifying behind the new Divine to furious screeds on the way the wealthy and powerful are using the prolonged threat of Corypheus as an excuse to tighten their fists around the common people. The contents trend toward the anti-monarchist, communitarian, anarchist, or otherwise revolutionary, because that's what he's naturally collected for himself. But there's certainly an attempt to provide a broader spectrum of opinions. Even the bootlicking ones.
On top are a few things he gathered specifically for the request, including a less imbalanced array of recent publications and a thin, saddle-stitched volume titled Common Knowledge: The World According to the Unlettered, by Aubertin Ménétries. It's something of an anthropological survey, reporting on common folks' accounts of the workings of government and the natural world and so on—but exceedingly condescending, clearly cultivated to mock its subjects.
The only note is in the cover of the book. It says,
Do not think I paid money for this. I would never. —Bastien ]
But he's a young man. There is time for him to see the error of his ways. I knew his mother once, you know, and I cannot see how she would not teach him better. It might be some form of rebellion.
[ ness is not not thinking about arranging some kind of visit to the gallows for aubertin—perhaps his mother has been induced to make a donation to riftwatch, and wants to see her money is put to good use—where either he is forced to sit through a long lecture or he ends up with a broken finger. he seems like the type to approach a griffon without thinking it through, it'd be easy to arrange— ]
The bitch of it all is he isn't even a bad writer. He could be putting these talents to such use as a satirist!
Oh, well... I assume so? Not where I was raised, we—they—were all a bunch of academics, in essence, they understood the value of different perspectives. Candlekeep kept high magical texts passed down from the greatest wizards of the ages, but we kept the journals of farmers, too.
But, outside of Candlekeep—people are people. Whatever people think here, someone probably thought in Faerûn, too.
Curiosity. I like to know where people are coming from.
And it's interesting, isn't it? All of these varied worlds full of new magic and new gods and new technology, but none of them I have heard about yet have figured out how to avoid having underclasses. I can't decide if it's depressing that no one has a solution or reassuring we are not uniquely awful here. But it's interesting either way.
A pessimist would call it humanoid nature, I suppose—everyone wants to be better than someone. But then, everyone would also like to imagine that they are not at fault for their foibles, and that injustice is beyond their grasp to correct, so that they don't have to inconvenience themselves making the attempt.
As a matter of philosophy, it is interesting, but I admit I am no philosopher.
[ if, when ness speaks up, she sounds like someone who has only just been startled into wakefulness, who slept in an uncomfortable position, whose hair is in complete disarray and whose faculties have not entirely returned to her from the fade—well. ]
Yes, I can help, [ is the immediate response, before cedric's full sentence has processed. ] Supply question? What do you need?
[ the first stupid thing he does is check the time. it's not everyone on dawn hours, and he'd be a right ass to forget. but an eye out the window finds the sun high overhead: noon. paper rustles. ]
It can wait, didn't mean t'wake you. [ takes a moment to find it, the roster of who's on this week. wycome. ] You just get back in?
Ah, yes, that is, just a day or so ago, I've been—researching—
[ said through a yawn and a stretch, ooh, she's getting too old to fall asleep hunched over a desk. at least this time it's her desk in the quartermaster's office, which means she's not drawing looks in the library, or late to work. plus, she knows herself—she opens a drawer and pulls out a hairbrush, and gets to work detangling the mess she's made. ]
Sorry, oof. I'm awake, I'm ready, what do you need?
[ distracted. she's on her way to skipping lunch, too. ]
Figured out one of the, uh, suggestions we got. Sjoklat, think 's meant t'be chocolate. Know cocoa comes dear right now. But if we can find something tastes near, maybe for Satinalia –
Skipped, [ would imply a purposeful decision, ] yes! Watching my figure, or something.
[ ness has never been skinnier in her life than she is now—on rations, recently running around trying not to die in wycome, and now skipping meals to research until she physically can't keep her eyes open. it's a kind of diet, surely— ]
Substitutes, subs... I think, I was looking into rifter recipes, that Jude Adjei left one for cookies, they're supposed to have chocolate but I think he noted carob might do in a pinch? Do we have carob, in Thedas? What is carob, actually...
[ she has an encyclopedia in here somewhere, actually, maybe she can look it up. ]
[ thing is, he's not thick. mightn't have the first clue what carob is, but got a notion or two on what keeps someone up; away from routine. she's rambling. he's decided: ]
How 'bout I bring some up.
[ that's not really a question. he's moving. she can turn him aside if she pleases, but someone ought to make sure there's no reason to call strange, julius, again. else —
[ distractedly, distantly, left her crystal on her desk and has moved to her bookshelves— ] Do you have carob? That'd be convenient...
When Cedric arrives at the quartermaster's office, Ness isn't visible at first. It's only when he actually comes inside, glances around, that he'll find her—hidden away in a shadowy corner of the office, standing at a bookcase with an open book in hand while she peers in consternation at another on the shelf.
From this distance, at least, she doesn't look hideous. She's not skin and bones now, nor got the darkest of circles under her eyes, nor has her hair become some kind of nest. Her clothes are neat and clean, she's bathed, she's brushed, she's as pale as she's ever been but no paler. By all appearances, she's absolutely fine.
There's a vacancy to her expression, though. A faint sway as she should be standing still, breaths a shade too shallow for health.
"I could have sworn I had an actual encyclopedia in here somewhere. Have I gone blind? I may have gone blind. Oh, knots—"
The door creaks. He stumps it open, backing into the room with hands full of tray. A list tucks just out his pocket: Dandelion root, dates, acorn flour, linden,
"I'll beg one off Mobius."
Good for the old man to keep busy. Another time, maybe that'd do for this too. Chantry's no stranger to the comfort in a task. But Cedric's dug enough ditches to know that's got limits, to work a shovel six feet over your head. She's clean, she's tidy, and she's about to step out her own skin. Busy's not the problem.
He takes his time laying out mug, napkin, spoon. Clean. Tidy. He lets her fuss. Tries to think what Barrow’s done for him, only that thinking on that makes him think why Barrow had to, and that don't bear thinking at all. Eventually, stone scuffs under foot, slow and steady and purposefully loud. A palm at her elbow, gentle,
She blinks at Cedric, closer than she expected him to be, uncomprehending for a full second before the smell of food catches her attention. Her stomach, reminded of its needs, clenches painfully around nothing, and she winces audibly in surprise, snapping the book in her hand shut with the shock of it. Knees buckle, and she grips his wrist, leans harder to keep steady.
He's very warm. Or maybe she's very cold? He's solid, anyway, takes the weight of her like it's nothing,
"Sorry," she says to her shoes after the hunger pang subsides, less because she knows what she's apologizing for than feeling like she should apologize for something. Her whole existence, maybe.
gomen for all the delays on this ive been a mess this month
He's cold so often. The tips of his fingers, the crack of joints on morning air; he knows what does it, sure as he knows that the winters only get longer. Broward's hands were like ice by the end. That's what he'd say, anyway,
Couldn't tell.
She's warm on his arm, and he's young; and it's another evening gone before Cedric will notice the chill.
"'S alright," He says, instead of there's nothing to apologize for. Sometimes a word is just something you say; she's not ready to hear things. "Sit down, yeah?"
Bracing her, and that's nearly Broward too. Eggs and toast at the plate, some mystery Marcher meat, cut in a wedge. Fresh pear. The tea is –
Well, you boil any leaf long enough, you can call it tea. His hand closes around the book to ease her down, try and slip it from her grasp; eye to the title. He doesn't pull very hard.
(Candlekeep, she's said before: A library. He's not about to lose his own hand if she decides it's staying with her.)
The book parts from her grasp easily—something on Cuisine in the North, unimportant to her in general except that Cedric needed her help. She's led, eminently biddable, to the desk and the plate, and when she sits and looks at it... She could not be further from hunger.
The pang hurt, yes; she needs to eat, yes; but to actually do it— She looks at the plate and feels not desire but a faint disgust. It's a new experience, an unfamiliar sensation: sometimes you get so hungry, you circle right back around to not hungry at all.
She makes a face, picks up the fork, eats dutifully in silence, sips her tea with all the jolly enthusiasm of a recruit mucking out latrines. At the corner of the desk sits a pile of books, the top a collection of Dalish myths and legends, various treatises on the nature and origins of darkspawn below, a chantry brother's history of the Deep Roads on the bottom. Each book already has numerous scraps sticking out of the pages, markers for interesting information and passages to return to.
Ness has been returned from Sarrux's Pass for less than a week.
Plate cleared, she wipes her mouth with a handkerchief and looks over to Cedric. Her eyes can't linger on him long, gaze glancing off his face, shoulders curled in.
"Thank you for the meal. I didn't realize how hungry I was."
Cedric thunks into the chair opposite, pages the book slow. Place to put his eyes, other than dead on her, not the way she's jumping for it. And anyway, he'd like to know what kind of monster kebab don't take meat –
"Sure," He sets the book aside, leans out over his elbows. Clock the rest of the stack and its disparate subjects: Darkspawn, Dalish. Wycome, "Gets like that, sometimes."
His eyes finally find her face again. He isn't asking about hunger when he asks,
"Oh, no, I was well-fed in Candlekeep," comes brightly, conversational—not deflection, whatever else he may be referring to has passed entirely over her head. "I've simply been— well. There's a lot about Sarrux's Pass that I didn't understand, and then there's all the work I have to catch up on. Eating hasn't seemed all that... important, I suppose."
Her brow furrows, something about that sentence catching her ear. Sometimes you say things in complete earnest, so sure of their rationality, and then you hear them out loud and they sound so much worse than you thought they would. It's strange, and uncomfortable, and not something she has the time or, frankly, the desire to interrogate right now.
So she smiles at Cedric, meeting his gaze finally.
"I apologize for the diversion—we were talking about chocolate, weren't we? Looking into substitutes?"
(Delivered to her desk (only a day late): a leather-bound copy of Aveline, Knight of Orlais by Lord Francois Maigny, an embellished version of the life and adventures of an Orlesian woman, raised by Dalish elves, who disguises herself as a man to enter a Knight's tournament. The ending is sad.
Abby has tied a beautiful purple ribbon around it. A small scrap of paper on top contains a cramped note:) Lemme know what you think when you're done. I'd love to talk about it. Happy Satinalia. — Abby A.
i am so sorry, this hit right in the middle of the veilguard fugue 😭
[ absolutely not late at all, certainly not this late, abby comes back to their room to find a sheaf of loose, handmade paper bound in a leather cord on her pillow. there is no indication who it's from, but atop hermione's bed sits a similar sheaf, while there's none on ness's bed.
a week after abby's gift to ness finds its way to her desk, another gift appears, this one in abby's nightstand (so as not to make hermione jealous): a handmade, handstitched collection of stories from faerûn, as best as ness could remember them, from myths to fairytales to epics. since she only had a week, they're all relatively brief, but the note on top of the collection reads: ]
Let me know which ones you like best, and I'll write them in more detail. I look forward to discussing them, and Aveline, with you!
[ a considering beat, weighing what to reveal and with what words. ]
Its efficacy waned the longer it was used. Higher doses, more often, were needed to achieve a fully dampening effect. Whether that is a personal quirk or indicative of something else, I couldn't say.
We need assume they will, in time, manifest similar abilities to those among our own. Shields, projectiles, perhaps more. It would do for us to have a means of non-lethal containment. I am exploring our options. And as we don't know whether they're native —
We need know whether magebane works to stunt an anchor, and I hope to avoid poisoning volunteers, or inadvertantly doing them a worse ill. Hence: Your health.
I'll assume you'll let me know if you ever plan to hold me to the offer. Is there anything else, Enchanter? The headache makes speaking at length a hardship.
[ She has a relatively good reason for it! Just watch, ]
I've been recommended to 'wait it out' and been given a nail file for the claws, which was nice of them, I suppose. I wanted to see if your voice had gone, with the whole...
Well, what happened to you was quite horrible, Ennaris. I am here if you want to talk, or write, or...think?
[ there's a slight pause before ness's response, while she plays out a few different replies and the conversations that would follow, to see which she thinks has the best shot of landing well.
which is a very normal and chill way to approach friendship, she thinks!]
My mouth is returned to normal, and I seem to have kept my voice. For all I can tell, it seems as though all my mutations have fully reverted, I'm sorry that yours haven't yet. You know, what happened to you was horrible as well. Do you want to talk?
[ the vehemence of hermione's answer startles ness into a laugh, but she stifles it quickly, careful not to appear as though she's laughing at hermione. her own enchanted book gets set to the side and she adjusts her seat to more fully face hermione, hands clasped in her lap, expression dutifully open. ]
You have the floor, Messere Granger, please. Unburden yourself.
[ She sets her magical book to the side on the bed, shifting to face Ness, and cross her legs to hold onto her ankles for a moment, unwittingly trying to not gesticulate too much so that she doesn't startle her roommate. (Hermione can be a lot, she's aware.) ]
I wouldn't call it a burden to shed at all, but - I was going to say that bit of telepathic connection we could have, that was... [ A little pause, her excited little smile slipping through. ] Well, exciting! I don't know how common the practice is in your world but a remarkably limited number of wizards can actually practice that in mine. And it's not even close to what you did - I could hear you! As though you spoke to me in my mind - mostly Legilimency is a lot of mind-reading, but not connection.
[ After which, the glow on her face and the sparkle in her eyes dim a bit, into seriousness. ]
Which is not to say that I don't think you shouldn't have been scared. Your mouth - of course you're well within your rights, you know, just... [ Somewhat softer now, ] You did not frighten me when you spoke directly into my mind.
Oh, this... wasn't where Ness expected this talk to go. Her smile falls, slowly, her apprehension ratcheting up as soon as it becomes clear what Hermione is talking about—
and then she blinks, utterly nonplussed, as Hermione's excitement becomes clear. It's not the first time someone's had a positive reaction to her telepathy—Stephen wasnt quite so effusive, but he clearly didn't consider it a bad thing for her to be capable of—but it's so far from the norm that she doesn't know how to respond at first. Suspicion, fear, anger: she's prepared for all of those. She has no script in place for excitement.
Even more slowly than it fell, her smile returns, hesitant and unsure.
"It's not common in Faerûn either, actually. There are some Aberrations that can speak like this, through mental connection, but the magic that's available to most people is to do with mind reading, like your Legilimancy."
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes at Hermione, still bemused—but with growing excitement.
"You really don't mind? You're not worried I read your thoughts, violated your privacy? I didn't, for the record, and I can't, but—you wouldn't have been angry if I had?"
If she has learned anything in her years (Merlin, years!) on the road, accompanied by people with different magical abilities and skills, it's that not everything has to be exactly the same as hers to be good.
She is trying to be reasonable here, because Ness is her friend. And Ness was faced with desperate times calling for desperate measures.
"I think I would've, because I would prefer to simply talk things out, if you have any questions for me. But when it happened, when we were down there - honestly, given the circumstances, I wasn't mad at all. More than anything, relieved that you could find a way to communicate with me."
It occurs to her to worry that Hermione could have been angry with her—but perhaps the excitement that she's not is cushioning the habitual anxiety somewhat, because Ness dismisses the thought as soon as it forms. She asked, Hermione answered, Ness didn't and now won't do the thing that would have made her angry, that's all that matters.
"I'm so glad you feel that way," she says, "and I promise—"
She cuts herself off, getting up from her bed to come sit on the edge of Hermione's, looking earnestly into her eyes.
"I promise I won't use it on you without your permission outside of extenuating circumstances. You have my word."
Ness smiles, in what she hopes is a way that says she's trustworthy without trying so hard it comes right back around to suspicious—and then blinks.
Fortunately for Ness, Hermione decided on first meeting the woman that she was trustworthy and genuine. And when she offered her friendship, she didn't do it out of nostalgia and because Ness reminds her a little of Luna, but because of how Ness is.
Smart, kind, curious, interesting. Would Hermione go to war for Ennaris Tavene? Yes, probably - but more importantly, she'd try to resolve conflict without war, for Ness.
Once Ness is sat on the edge of her bed, Hermione scoots to make her space, nodding at the request for clarification. "Oh, yes. Your magic skills are very impressive. I keep wanting to ask you to teach me, though I know it'll be futile because we're using different sources, but it's - I think you're very capable. Some of the things I've seen you do, a skilled wizard would struggle with. From my home, I mean - not from Faerun."
He waits until she's released, the Infirmary has enough hovering eyes. It's more difficult than he'd like to find time alone. She doesn't leave the library long enough, and when it isn't her in the offices, it's the Orlesian.
He doesn't want to talk to the Orlesian.
At last, she's carting some tray back up the stair. He rises from the nearest table — staked-out to purpose — without a meal, which makes it easier to slip a hand about her own and take the weight.
"Serah Tavane," Soft-spoken, a contrast to the snarling voice over the crystals. "Senior Warden Strand. We need to speak privately."
Soft-spoken or not, Ness wanders through the Gallows with her mind only half-devoted to her physical surroundings at the best of times—she still startles for the Warden's appearance at her side. Her tray very nearly goes tumbling out of both their hands, but she lets it go in her surprise and he compensates, and that leaves her free to press her hand over her chest.
"Knots," she snaps, "where did you come from—"
It takes a moment for her to recover from the fright, not to mention process what he actually said. The resulting annoyance may be somewhat unfair, but, really,
"There is the Archivist's office, Messere, you could make an appointment."
— And if that doesn't explain why a shared office won't do, he's willing to press the point. Strand balances the tray, picks a tumbled grain of rice from his sleeve. Eyes her plain.
(When she'd startled, he'd spied it as if in slow-motion. He moves slowly these days to match.)
"There's a storeroom with thick walls," Out of earshot of the dozen other busybodies in Riftwatch's leadership. "Or we can discuss it here and now."
The name does give her pause, and she eyes the Warden with an expression a step between alarm and suspicion for a long moment before beginning to move again.
"The events of the Pass were reported on in detail by Messere Porthmeus. As far as I know, his report is open to access by any member of the organization. It's unlikely that I will be able to elucidate the matter any further for you."
Unlikely, but not impossible, depending on what precisely he wants to know—she's not refusing to answer any questions, just making clear she may not provide anything he couldn't get elsewhere. As they walk, they pass the storeroom Strand spoke of, and Ness's steps don't so much as slow. There is one office guaranteed to be empty at the moment, which will be a mite more comfortable than a storeroom.
"Is an archive one account?" Rhetorical. "Warden Siorus also gave a report,"
Under the brush of new eyelids, translucent and horizontal and better at home on a frog.
"Which is why I've traveled such a distance for yours." They're past the room he'd staked, and he marks it; and he follows. "Indulge me the repetition."
Porthmeus had wanted expertise, and Strand was nearest to hand. But he isn't a scholar, he doesn't own a library, or a breadth of connections; anything but sour blood and a dead man's notes. Porthmeus wanted the Wardens' expertise. The Wardens want theirs.
Despite her determination to appear cool, unflappable, professional, especially in front of new recruits... Ness can't help a twitch of her eye and a sharp, then measured inhale at the Warden's blatant appeal to her vocation. The implication that she should want to talk about this to him, that if she doesn't she isn't really devoted to her principles—
She doesn't say anything. She leads Strand to the Quartermaster's office and shuts the door behind them. The bookshelves, now empty, stand against the wall. The dark, heavy desk which floats in the middle of the room still holds a handful of paperwork, ledgers and logs strewn haphazardly over the surface. Against the rear wall, various trunks and crates crowd each other next to an over-full shelf of linens and uniforms. Even devoid an occupant, there is much for one to look at in the Quartermaster's office.
Ness's eyes are drawn unerringly to a faintly-visible stain on the floor, where no one was able to scrub her blood from the flagging. She crosses to it and crouches, presses her hand to the stone and whispers a spell.
When she straightens, the stone beneath her palm sparkles incongruently clean on the dirt-strewn and scuffed floor.
"What, precisely, would you like me to say, Messere?"
She smears at the blood, and he's busy at the work he'd hoped to avoid, seeing that no one else on the crowded floor will overhear. But whatever she gets out of this place, the decision itself will do.
"You came upon a pool of corrupted lyrium," Brine, grey, a jog to memory. "How did the Darkspawn behave around it?"
That much was absent from the written account. Assured of the door, he does up one sleeve. Another: The veins gnarl black up his wrists, branches wired about a tight line of scar.
She flicks her eyes over his arms, thinks of ceremorphosis—but makes no comment, betrays no hint of trepidation.
"I regret to disappoint you, Warden, but there was hardly an opportunity to observe their behaviour before the melée began. I can't offer any more insight on the topic than Warden Siorus might have."
She may sound dry as the Hissing Wastes and resentful of his insistence on the topic at all—but she's considering, too, because not being able to answer the exact question he asked doesn't mean she has no information to offer at all. Ness hums, mind on the treasure-seeker's diary, the state of the village, the children trapped in their cellar, how it all culminated in the Deep Roads. There is a story that can be spun by putting each piece of the whole together, a puzzle of Darkspawn and lyrium—but it requires so much conjecture, assumption, inference.
"It's hard to say anything about the events of the Pass before we arrived there with any certainty," she says eventually, sighing, "but what we saw did suggest a Darkspawn raid was what finally left the village abandoned, and that the Darkspawn who conducted the raid were mutated by the lyrium in the same manner as we would discover native Thedosians could be.
"But they left no bodies, Warden," she says quietly, "I don't think they killed a single person. We fought mutated humans below the Deep Roads right beside the Darkspawn."
Strand settles on a crate. Watches her think. There's a familiar wind-up to these things, the way that a riddle's spun and unspun. Pleasure in seeing a thing done well: When you need an expert, you seek one.
"Unusual," As she'll have read enough to know. The Wardens keep their secrets, but the waste laid by Darkspawn is written across book and battlefield. Half this city was once Ferelden. "Even the old, the young?"
Even the men, he does not ask. Some things can be kept within the Order.
"The Taint —" Forearm extended, he taps fingers over black. "— Runs through every Darkspawn. It's how they communicate, it's how Corypheus moves them. And if you're correct, something else has found a way to interfere."
"The old, the young," the siblings, fused into a single being, monstrous and wailing and confused, "everyone."
It's a conclusion which has occurred to her before—there was something different about these Darkspawn, priorities which did not match what she'd read of those of an Archdemon or Corypheus himself, but far as she is from an expert Ness has been unwilling to linger on them. Instincts validated, she unspools that thread again, considers its implications, supporting evidence, possible conclusions, pacing the floor.
"The men we hired to bring us to the Pass," she says, "the brothers—they were not visibly Tainted, nor were they mutated. But when we came to the nest, they were clearly affected by it. They attempted... well. It's in the report, what happened there."
No reason to rehash it—to possibly tell the Warden more than he is meant to know—she will have to reread the report, to see what story they have committed to posterity.
"They weren't Tainted. But they were maddened, terrified, and driven to a goal. Something had a will in that room, and it bent both a nest of Darkspawn and a village of humans to its ends."
mea culpa for long delays, blanket it's ok to drop etc
"If it was buriable, there are limits to its influence. A radius."
There's one for the sense that pushes at his own, for any Blighted place, for Corypheus; greater again, an archdemon. This isn't only Taint, but if it works within it, they might set a perimeter. His knuckles fold.
"When you first met them, how certain are you the brothers were themselves?"
Back in Tallo, the fish would drift up sometimes, dangling a light before their jaws. A guide into the dark.
Ness is back in the infirmary, but not due to any horrendous medical peril this time: it’s a regularly-scheduled appointment, for ongoing aftercare and to check in on her stump. She’s in a chair with her elbow resting on its arm, while Stephen pulls up another chair to sit sideways to her.
They’ve been waiting for the wound to finish healing over fully; it takes time, always more time than one expects, and the infection had set them back. There will be bandages to unravel and replace with clean ones, and tightly-wound fabric compressing her limb to pull loose.
“How has it been feeling?” he asks, cutting straight to that professional demeanour; the mask that Ness well-recognises by now as him being in Doctor Strange mode, not Stephen, her friend.
It’s been a strange time, no pun intended. He’s a little more stilted around her than usual, oddly stinging from his perceived failure. In the aftermath of the amputation and her infection, he had been sterner about ensuring the girl stayed in the infirmary to rest; even after she was discharged, he hasn’t been plying her with quite as much work as before. More coddling than usual.
He doesn’t really know what to do with that feeling, either.
Focused as Ness is on Stephen, important as his friendship is to her, she has not missed the change in his treatment of her. He was never quite permissive, always exacting, a man of high standards who expected as much of her as himself—but he has not been strict with her either, has always been willing to indulge cleverness over blind adherence to rule or convention. Despite never being her boss in any real sense, Stephen has always had some kind of work for her, questions for her to ponder over to encourage critical thinking, curiosity, ingenuity. He's been a teacher and a friend to her as much as a colleague.
Now Ness sits next to her doctor, neither friend nor teacher, and she knows the demotion is nothing but her own fault. His medicine is not faulty, his mind could never fail them, so she must have been the one to ruin her own recovery. She was a bad patient, she made him look foolish, made him rely on magic over science. He resents her for it, and who can blame him?
Certainly not Ness.
"It's sore," she reports, dutiful, determined. She'll earn it back, she'll convince him to trust her again, "tender where it was stitched together.
"I've kept notes," in a small book which she offers him now, precious paper converted from an Oghman's Book of Remembrance to a collection of notes on her residual limb and its state since their last appointment—tenderness to touch, color, scarring, soreness of the bone and whether she's experienced phantom sensation. Detailed, deliberate, down to the minute notes.
Stephen glances down at the offered book, and then tilts his head to the nearby table, gesturing for her to set it down there within reach. Because he focuses on finishing his current task first: unwinding the outer fabric they’ve been using for compression, and soon enough there’s the sensation of pinched skin and muscle finally getting to breathe, the pressure easing, tingling with sudden absence.
Beneath it are the other bandages, the ones in direct contact with the wound and which he’ll be changing; but now he swivels to pick up the book and read through the notes before proceeding. He cracks it open, blue-green gaze tracking through each line of slightly-wobbly offhand writing, not rushing his study.
“Hm. Good chronicling,” he notes while partway through, still taking it in.
Residual limb freed, skin bared to breathe, Ness carefully flexes her bicep, gently rolls out her shoulder and lifts her arm. She has to be careful not to tense them too much, not to stretch too far—she's still liable to set her healing back weeks if she overexerts herself—but it feels good to move, even this little. As Stephen reads, she does the few stretches he's allowed her, then begins gently massaging the skin near the end of her stump.
"I know every little thing matters," she says, eyes on her work, "even if it seems irrelevant to me. I tried very hard not to fall into that trap, you know, like you warned me. The body is an interconnected system."
Anything significant enough that affects one part could have seemingly-unrelated effects elsewhere. There's referred pain, and the effects of an overtaxed immune system, and so many other things she doesn't fully understand, but Stephen warned her, and she listened.
"Is there anything you'd like to see the next time we do this? I tried to catch everything I could think of."
Everything except her emotional state. That couldn't be important, certainly, who cares how she feels about the thing she did to herself, or the stress of everyone's opinions on it, whether anyone believed the lie, the friendships she may have lost—that's all for her to worry about, irrelevant to her physical recovery.
And he’s not strictly speaking the best person to assess this particular element: Stephen always defaults to the bare logistics, physical symptoms and measurable effects.
But he’s been around here long enough to think, Riftwatch probably needs a therapist. Just, y’know, not for him. So he hesitates, a crooked finger pressed to the page to save his spot in the middle of the the meticulous documentation of everything except her emotional state.
“And how are you feeling?” he asks, hammering right on it. Because he remembers the bleak statistics: “Over thirty percent of amputees experience depression. It’s a common after-effect.”
then closes it again. Her hand stills in its massage, and she frowns, unfocused, at the floor. It's a question she hadn't anticipated, and didn't prepare for. What comes out of her mouth, then, is unrehearsed, and truer for it.
"I'm alright. Not depressed, anyway. It was—by itself, it's a choice I'm happy to have made. That you trusted me enough to let me make it, and... to have some measure of ownership over my body, my appearance, again. I didn't choose my ears or my eyes or my skin, but I chose this."
It hasn't been easy to adjust to her new state, certainly, but she's had practice accepting changes to her appearance ever since arriving in Thedas. In some ways, it's easier to look in a mirror now than it has ever been in the months since her arrival: this body is hers, now, not a loan or a figment or something done to her. She chose it, and she molded it into the form she wanted. The round ears are hers, the peachy hue is hers, the blue eyes are hers—just as much as the stump of her arm is.
No choice happens in a vacuum, of course. There's more to her feelings than that. But it is true, and she looks up to catches Stephen's eyes and smile, to share it with him.
He listens and nods, a little reassured. It was the same sort of reasoning he’d propped up alongside this whole affair. Everyone ought to have the choice to do what they wanted with their own body; unless it was every single shard-bearer in Riftwatch, in which case, they shouldn’t.
Complicated. The whole thing was complicated.
But Ness smiles at him, and therefore Stephen manages to muster up a faint matching smile in turn, glad of it.
“Good,” he says. “It’s… I mean, the physical recovery is important, of course, and your notes are exhaustive on that point, I can’t think of any room for improvement there. But your psychological state does matter too. This was a large, permanent decision and I’m aware it didn’t go exactly the way we planned.”
"I—yes, I know," she averts her eyes again, chagrined, "and I'm sorry for it, Doctor. I'm trying very hard to make sure I don't fail you again. I'm following all your rules and instructions this time—which I was already doing, I wasn't being lax, I swear—"
Hang on, deep breath. She's talking too much, it's making her look worse. Ness sighs and reins herself in.
"I'm being very careful now, Doctor. I don't know what I did that ruined everything before, but it won't happen again. I'm sorry I let you down."
He arches an eyebrow, surprised, setting the notebook down against his knee. There were still other things needing doing with the arm, checklists to mark off, but this question is suddenly more important as he catches on her words —
“’Ruined’? You didn’t ruin anything, Ennaris. These things happen.”
"Well, yes," because it's not as though she thinks Stephen is infallible, obviously, he's the smartest person she knows and the most competent but he's still only human, but, "but this is done regularly where you're from, isn't it? And it goes well more often than it doesn't. And you know what you're doing. So if it failed, it was something I did."
Obviously. Stephen couldn't have done anything wrong, this is his area of expertise. This is what he does. Not the amputation itself, of course, but the medicine, knowing how to keep wounds clean and safe from infection. He couldn't have fucked it up.
"I feel—I really feel awful I made you turn to magic, truly. I'm sorry, Doctor. I know I'm apologizing a lot. I'm sorry for that too."
There’s so much to address and tackle here that it takes him a moment, arranging all his thoughts in order before he responds, methodical and point-by-point as they tend to.
“I turned to magic about five years ago, Ennaris,” Stephen says, cracking into a faint smile, an attempt at assurance. “I’m not some anti-mage bigot; it’s hardly a thing I’m opposed to. I love magic. Like, famously.”
(Did it sting with envy, however, that it had been Isaac wielding the surgical precision of his healing abilities to carve the infection out of his patient? Yes. Always. Still—)
“This is done regularly where I’m from because modern-day first-world Earth has more sterile hospital conditions, better antibiotics to fight infection, better tools to handle the surgical procedure to begin with,” he says, patiently. “The fact that this went badly reflects more on the world that we’re in, rather than anything else.”
And, the thing that he doesn’t speak aloud: his own lenience in letting them do it this particular way, perhaps. A traumatic amputation over crushed bone was so much riskier than a clean, straight amputation on a healthy limb. (He thought he would be able to handle it. Too arrogant as ever, Doctor.)
Turning to magic from choice is different to being forced into it by circumstance and they both know it—I'd take preference for the doctor, she'd said, and then she'd put him in a position to swallow his pride and ask for help with the thing that should be his area of expertise. Of all his talents and interests, medicine has seemed the thing in Thedas most truly his, the thing Stephen alone could provide insight and expertise on, and she'd forced him into a corner: relinquish his table or lose an agent.
Ness narrows her eyes, head tilted consideringly to the side. The face she wears is familiar to Stephen by now: it's her rolling for insight face.
"You don't believe that any more than I do," she says after a moment, "not really. It's just the right thing to say when someone's failed this badly."
It's the kind thing, the thing a friend would do—but ever since the operation Stephen has been her doctor, not her friend. Playing the role he doesn't want to fill anymore because she cost him something valuable, something vital. Wouldn't she hate it, were she in his shoes? Wouldn't she disdain the person who wounded her identity that much?
Ness huffs, tossing her hair away from her face and looking Stephen in the eye. Her hand balls into a fist on her lap, anxiously crushing a handful of her apron.
"I don't need coddling. I did this wrong. It almost failed, and it was my fault. I would prefer we acknowledged that than this... distance." What started as a firm admonishment tapers into a self-conscious murmur, her eyes turning from flinty and determined to searching— "I miss my friend."
Stephen hesitates. He’s still holding some of the clean new bandages, not even having gotten far enough to the point of re-wrapping, trapped in this part of the conversation instead. This was supposed to have been a quick methodical checkup, in-and-out —
And perhaps that’s all part of it, the way he instinctively retreats into his professional shell, a common defense mechanism. It hadn’t been a conscious choice for him to withdraw and pull away from her — the man occasionally had blind sides the size of Nebraska — but it’s there nonetheless, Ness pressing squarely on that wound and calling it as it is.
“What if we compromise,” he says softly, that faint smile still there at half-mast, “and agree that it is both our faults?”
She holds his eyes still, searching, lips softly pursed. It feels no more true than saying it's all his fault—but she'd allow him the lie if it brought him back close enough for them to actually talk.
"If I say yes, can I pass time in your office again? Can we re-start our lessons?"
“If,” Stephen says, as stubborn as a dog with a bone, “you can also admit that you didn’t ruin anything. These things happen. I’m… alright, yes, I’m feeling sore that I failed you, but it’s not about the turn to magic. Magic’s great. We need more magical healers, honestly. But it’s that I, personally, did not have the skills nor the magic to save you when I needed to.”
Dryly, “And for someone with a saviour complex, that rankles. But it is not your fault. And— well.”
He folds his hands around the roll of clean bandage. Admitting it feels like peeling his skin off, but he forces himself to do it, words pressed through a breath, a sigh: “Besides, I miss having you in my office, too.”
They're just as stubborn as each other, a match for pig-headedness as much as curiosity and intellect—but whatever objection she might have to his demand is cut off by the one-two punch of the dryness on saviour complex and his unexpectedly sincere admission. She blinks, once, twice, eyes wide on his, and her lip wobbles for a moment—
Ness looks down, breathes deeply through her nose.
"Alright. I didn't ruin anything."
Harder to believe than to say, but saying it is the first step, or so she's read. She raises her stump to him for wrapping, heroically avoiding sniffling or hugging him or anything that could possibly make this any harder for him.
The work is a welcome distraction, a chance to catch their breath and let him focus on the task. Stephen unravels the bandages around her stump, sets the fabric aside, and then carefully examines the elbow-turned-stump; more meticulous than usual, more on edge about any signs of this going wrong again. He looks for any inflammation or thready red veins. Tests some of her sensitivity, a gentle touch against the skin to feel if it’s hot to the touch.
He delays a moment to let Ness examine her own wound (with a strict warning to not press too hard, remembering experiments with a particular cuff), letting her indulge whatever clinical curiosity she has, getting to map the progress of the healing.
Once they’re both satisfied, he starts to replace it with clean bandages, concluding, “It’s looking good. No signs of infection, and healing well.”
"Am I still on track to be able to wear a prosthetic in a few months?"
Ness looks at her elbow-stump, craning her neck to try to see the skin more clearly. It's easier to poke and prod and learn about it that way than to try to see it, but that's not stopping her—and hey, you know what—
"Can I—" she wiggles her fingers at Stephen, and gives his mind a polite little psychic knock. She can't see her stump clearly, but he can!
He hesitates a little too long. Reading his mind and what he broadly chooses to think on the surface, it’s a different game entirely from letting her use his actual physical senses, peering out through his eyes like a mask. A more thorough puppeteering. A surrendering of control.
But they’re trying to get back to normal, back to these psychic exercises and the trust they imply, and so Stephen eventually nods, and Ness feels the metaphorical door open.
He hesitates, and so she hesitates too, her smile slowly slipping as she realizes she's overstepped. Even after he nods and opens the door for her, it takes a moment for her to decide what to do. When Ness finally does slip into his thoughts, it's more gentle than usual, a polite and unobtrusive slink into the back of the room.
She's not puppeteering him—though she could, maybe, for a few minutes at least. There's a lot she could do, she thinks, levers she could pull and switches she could press—but that's not what she's here for. Seeing through Stephen's eyes isn't quite the right way to describe it—she's not hijacking his senses, more seeing what he sees like it's a moving portrait, filtered by his thoughts and impressions and focus.
Her stump through his eyes is... well, it's about as unsightly as it had seemed from her less than ideal vantage point. The scar is only just starting to settle in, raised and intense as the skin knits back together—not inflamed, though, not swollen or miscoloured. As far as she can interpret, it looks as healthy as they could hope for, and Stephen doesn't seem to see anything he didn't expect.
"Can you," she speaks out loud, it seeming more polite, then pauses, pulling her thoughts together. "Can you think more... purposefully? About what you see, from your professional perspective."
“You’re sure you don’t just want me to say it aloud? Seems like it’d be easier,” Stephen says, bemused, but then gamely swivels in his chair and focuses more on the stump rather than her face. Directs all his attention back to it, thinking more purposefully, a conscious internal narration rather than vague background murmur.
A lot of the train of thought defaults back to clean, clinical medical jargon, dense and impenetrable; but seen through his mind, she can glimpse the real meaning of it. It’s healing well. Scarification and wound sealing and limb shrinkage all within normal parameters. Still not ready for the prosthetic, but on track —
(and most importantly, not plummeting her straight to death’s doorstep anymore)
It makes sense to assume a verbal explanation would be easier to follow, and Ness doesn't know how to explain to Stephen that it's not, necessarily. Yes, the medical jargon is opaque, and it's strange to see herself as a collection of medical data and not a person–but seeing it through the filter of his thoughts and understanding offers comprehension she's never had the education to attain for herself. He thinks the words and she knows what they mean because he knows, which is fascinating and cool and Ness doesn't want to retreat–
But the spell only lasts so long before she'd have to cast it again, and Stephen was hesitant enough to allow her in to begin with; she won't overstay her welcome. Her eyes re-focus as their violet glow fades, and she offers an excited smile.
"That was fascinating–I understood it all when I was reading your thoughts, but now that I'm out I only know as much as I did before, I just know that you thought it looked alright. The implications–"
Hang on–Ness trails off, smile fading as she thinks better of the commentary. Perhaps by reading his mind she could help with procedures, treatments where Stephen could use a third hand... but perhaps also it could be strange to have his knowledge co-opted so completely in that way. Besides, her remaining hand won't be much more effective than his own, no matter how adept she's forced to get with it.
So. A different topic, then.
"What happened to me?" It's no less fraught a subject, but in light of what he thought about death's door, it's the one that's most top-of-mind. "That is, I know that the site became infected. Was it that? An infection that grew out of control? I can't remember much after I first returned to the infirmary."
It’s nice seeing her smile again, bright and excitable. It makes his own expression soften, in both fondness and relief.
Stephen scoots back a little so he’s not quite so close, no longer all up in her business for the examination. “It was, yes,” he says. “If only Volante had finished his experiments, the penicilin would have helped a great deal. But without any actual antibiotics yet… we’ve nothing to combat an infection effectively.”
He hesitates over the next point. He doesn’t want her to feel to blame any more than she already does.
“I suspect your bones being crushed by the bookcase also complicated matters. It wasn’t as clean of an amputation as it could’ve been otherwise, in a fully-controlled environment. Your body was worn out, undertaking the recovery and regrowing tissue and fighting the infection alike. Sometimes it’s just too much.”
Any further blame she feels compelled to ascribe to herself is locked away behind pursed lips, furrowed brow—she'd thought it an elegant solution to concerns about inspiring others to follow in her footsteps, but maybe it was unnecessary, after all. If Stephen had pushed back even slightly—
But he didn't, and they can't change anything about how it went now. Whatever regrets either of them might have, they'll have to live with them.
"Was he—I hope he didn't feel... responsible, in any way. He's no more at fault than either of us," if Stephen is insistent that she shouldn't blame herself, and she insists that Stephen shouldn't blame himself, certainly Volante is even less a part of that conversation than they are. More quietly, an aside to herself, "I'll have to check in with him."
She tries to think to what she does remember of that long, hazy period: snippets and snatches of conversation, fogged apparitions and a heavy blanket of confusion over all. What did she say? Nothing coherent, likely, and she has no secrets that she's afraid of having divulged, but—
"I, we, conversed sometimes, didn't we? I remember that I spoke to you, I can't imagine it was anything that could be described as lucid, but—"
“We did. At the start you were fine, mostly wanting work to keep yourself busy, but towards the end I can’t say it was very coherent. You weren’t always aware where you were; I think you were mixed up with Candlekeep a few times. Your magic went a little haywire, but nothing serious; not beyond what any other rifter might do when trying to grasp their powers.”
All of it is delivered like a brisk after-action report, because he, too, would have wanted to know what he did when he was out of it. But then Stephen hesitates. “You called me… Osu, I believe. Is that someone you knew back home?”
The unfamiliar word had sounded significant: a proper noun, perhaps someone’s name.
Ennaris has no secrets—but that does not mean there's nothing she could be embarrassed by.
"I called you—what?"
She stares at Stephen, wide-eyed, embarrassment rising red-hot in her cheeks. She's barely called Vazeiros osu, he never liked it when she did, it's not a normal part of her vocabulary. This is unbelievable, ridiculous—a hideous betrayal of her subconscious, even if she was hallucinating—
Not important. He asked for an explanation—but gods, how could she? She's supposed to look Stephen in the eyes and tell him— This is so mortifying.
"It... is someone i knew in Faerûn, yes," she hedges at first, not meeting his eyes, but sighs after a moment and looks at Stephen full-on, rueful. "It means father, but affectionate. Like papa, or dad."
Which certainly says some things about how her subconscious sees Stephen, doesn't it. It's not such a surprise, of course, she knows herself enough to understand what she gets out of their relationship and why his approval means so much to her. But that it's so concrete, such a formed feeling...
"I must have been hallucinating Vazeiros. That happens with fevers, doesn't it?"
(with a constitution score of 16, she's never been sick enough before to find out firsthand.)
The awkwardness is reciprocated, and she can see it in the suddenly sheepish way that Stephen averts his gaze for a moment, glancing off to the side as if there’s something terrifically interesting on the wall of the infirmary (oh, look at that poster, is it a little askew? does he need to straighten it?). He’s an arrogant man, confident and self-assured, but there’s something about this topic in particular which strikes him off-balance, fueled further by her own embarrassment.
He’d very specifically said to Gwenaëlle that he didn’t want kids. It had been a whole conversation. Funny, how he winds up here anyway—
“It does happen,” Stephen says slowly, cagily. It’s a handy excuse, but he’s also seen Vazeiros — or at least a dreamed-up version of him — and knows that they don’t look much alike, between the purple skin and white hair and height.
So eventually, he adds: “Freudian slips— that is, slips of the tongue happen. It’s fine. I mean, frankly I’m surprised I haven’t accidentally called you America yet.”
This isn't fair, her inner teenager whines, to lose him to awkwardness in the same conversation in which she'd just won him back. How can she possibly explain that whatever she, in her deepest and most self-indulgent of thoughts, may want, she knows what the boundaries of their relationship are? She'd never ask for more, she's lucky enough to have what she does, he doesn't need to give her any more—
"America?" She pounces eagerly on the change in focus, happy not to linger on her unknowing mistake. "That's where you lived before this, isn't it?"
He's mentioned his former country in passing, sometimes, explained the basics of it, its name and the major cities he's made reference to. Her curiosity has induced him, even, to explain if there is a New York, is there an Old York? But that doesn't explain how a slip of the tongue could have had him calling her—oh!
"Wait, America Chavez was one of the witches from that dream! You..."
are using her to get a re-do on mistakes made with America and Wanda. Right.
Ness slumps in her seat a little, disheartened at the reminder, but she doesn't allow herself to mope.
"Are we very alike? America and I, I mean."
Edited (it's not perfect but IT'S DONE) 2025-08-19 18:40 (UTC)
“No,” is the automatic answer, without even having to stop to think about it, almost smiling in the response. Stephen hasn’t mentioned the girl much to anyone in detail, besides marvelling at America’s abilities and their implications, what it might mean to be able to open your own personal rifts in Thedas or be able to go home, but— there’s still a fondness in his voice when he speaks of her.
“Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, the two of you don’t look at all alike. And in personality, she’s… well, ruder. Impatient. Punchy, literally and figuratively. But in other ways…”
He trails off, trying to figure out what drew the line between them besides the fact that they’re his mentees. There had to be something else which didn’t have anything to do with him.
In the end, he settles on: “She was initially afraid of her powers, too. And she’s curious and determined and independent. So, in some ways, I suppose you’re alike.”
Rude, impatient, punchy–Stephen is right, Ness certainly isn't any of those things. It occurs to her to ask which he prefers, to offer to be more "punchy", if he would like that better–
She closes her mouth before the question is even fully formed in her own mind.
"You're nothing like Vazeiros," she offers in return, "physically, of course, but also..."
Ness trails off, brow furrowed and gaze turned inward, considering. She's never described her father to anyone in any sort of depth; either the Avowed in Candlekeep knew him and thus required no description, or a stranger wasn't interested in what kind of person he was. It's difficult to put words to the observations she made over a decade and a half, the traits and preferences she noted in an effort to make sense of the man who made her, and it takes her a moment to find a place to begin.
"He has no taste for excess," she tests the sentence–and immediately shakes her head, no, that's not quite it– "No, not excess–not material excess. Waste."
That she lets sit a moment, then nods.
"He can see the straight line from action to result, and will always choose the most economic route between the two. Energy and effort are finite resources, which must not be expended beyond what is required; to do otherwise would be wasteful. And the result is what matters, all other considerations are tertiary."
If the calculus is beautiful, that is irrelevant. It is.
"It's how he survived Menzoberranzan," she concludes, "but it made him cold. Have you missed America?"
When Ness initially asks him to show her a place he loves in Thedas, Vanya is at first stymied — not by any reluctance to fulfill the request, but out of true uncertainty where he might show her. The Nevarra City of his childhood has been torn by undead and civil war, and has only just begun to rebuild. The Cumberland circle, still standing and gilded and grand, is complicated for reasons she already knows. Antosha's cabin, if it still exists at all, is either long abandoned or has been taken over by some new inhabitant. Skyhold is an active military base.
It is when he finally has the thought that his most uncomplicated, pleasant memories are of traveling that he lands on the answer. He consults with another griffon rider or two about his ideas for securing a rider with only one arm behind him, refining the choice and placement of knots until he's satisfied. Finally, he tells Ness he's ready to show her his answer, when they can find an afternoon they are both at liberty. (He also sacrifices part of the surprise by ensuring she has no fear of heights and asking her to meet him in the Gallows eyrie.)
[ty for your patience, lmk if you need any adjustments!]
She told Vanya she planned to ask everyone she knows to show her their favourite places in Thedas, and that is true... but it's no coincidence that she started with him.
When she meets him in the Eyrie, Ennaris is in her standard-issue Riftwatch uniform, rather than her usual floor-length dress with its impractical skirts. Her hair is up in a neat and tidy bun, fringe pinned back away from her eyes. The forearm of the right sleeve of her uniform jacket is pinned up at her shoulder, to prevent its flapping about while they're airborne.
—not that she has any expectations about what they'll be doing today. Though if she did, she might also have smuggled a couple bits of dried meat in her pocket, in hopes of making a good impression.
"I haven't spent much time up here since I first arrived," she admits, watching the griffons with obvious affection, fascination—at a healthy, respectable distance. "The last time I was in the Eyrie, Artichoke tried to eat my hair."
So hopefully he's not the griffon Vanya intends them to ride today—though again, she's not making any assumptions! Ahem.
"Luckily, Pamplemousse's weakness is toys rather than snacks, so your hair is likely safe," he says with a smile. When Ennaris arrives, he's been saddling the griffon in question, a light gray female who tilts her head curiously at Ennaris's approach. Her demeanor is perhaps a bit unexpectedly mischievous, given the man she bonded to, but the griffon stays put, behaving for now.
"I am, however, realizing that I absolutely should have checked whether you dislike heights, so if you do I can make us a new plan immediately. Otherwise." He retrieves a neatly coiled pile of ropes and harness parts, which he'd set to one side on a bench. "I think I've worked out, with some help, a way for you to securely ride behind me. If you're game. Pamplemousse has had two riders before, that part is fine, I just... I don't want you to worry about your balance."
From the complexity of the gear, it seems likely she could reuse it, if she wants to go flying a second time (and the first flight goes well). He's attentive to her reaction, trying to gauge if he's miscalculated or misstepped in time to pivot if need be.
More than discomfort or fear, Ness' demeanor is thoughtful, considering—is she afraid of heights? It hadn't even occurred to her to think about it before now, it hadn't seemed relevant. She'd asked Vanya to show her his favourite place in Thedas, and this was his answer. Whether she would like it too wasn't part of the question.
"I don't think I'll be afraid," she concludes, after a moment of diligent consideration. "Though I haven't flown before, so I suppose I can't say for certain. The prospect doesn't fill me with dread, at least!"
Not least of all because of all the thought Vanya has clearly put into making this safe for her—the harness is hardly some last-minute construct, jury-rigged makeshift with the belated remembrance of her new defect. He went through no small effort to put this together, and Ness has to purse her lips to hide the pleased smile that threatens to overtake her at the idea of all that thoughtful diligence focused on her, at least for a little while.
"Besides," she says, confident, as she approaches Pamplemousse with one hand out for introductions, "I know you'll keep me safe. What could be frightening with you around?"
Pamplemoussse nudges Ness's hand with her beak, clearly curious. The griffon's eyes are sharp and attentive, but her overall demeanor is relaxed here in the eyrie with Vanya close by.
"Well," Vanya says with a little smile, "we'll attempt not to answer that question. But since this is just a pleasure flight, if you feel uneasy or unsettled, just let me know and we'll come back. There's no need to grit your teeth and bear it. I understand flight doesn't agree with everyone." He'd been lucky enough to enjoy it from the first lesson, but he doesn't chalk that up to anything about himself in particular. (Right or wrong.)
He comes to Pamplemousse's other side and puts a hand on the griffon's neck, though he doesn't stroke or scritch her feathers, just leaving the gentle pressure there. "It's something of a team effort, griffon flight," he adds, clearly fond of his flying partner. "She enjoys a game, but she's gotten old enough that she's unlikely to do a roll without being invited anymore. I think she can probably manage a relaxed introduction to the air, can't you girl?" Pamplemousse's response is a gentle trill, a sound familiar from both cats and birds but not quite either one.
"Of course," Ness agrees to his insistence easily, with no intention whatsoever of actually voicing any such disquiet, should she feel it. She can manage a small dose of fear, if the trade-off is getting to spend time with her friend, doing something he enjoys. She's fought animated marble, darkspawn, grotesque mutants—she's died, before she ever did any of that. By comparison, flight is nothing.
She will make it nothing.
With the approving forward pressure of Pamplemousse's beak against her hand, Ness smiles, and goes for a scritch at the ears—which the griffon quickly ducks away from, not unkind but very clearly indicating her distaste for the practice. Ness pulls back immediately, palm up in placation.
"No petting, Serah 'Mousse, I understand. My apologies for the offense."
Pamplemousse seems to accept the apology—at least, she relaxes and trills again, and Ness smiles at her.
"Well," she says, turning her attention to the harness, examining its mechanisms, "I'm very curious what this will be like, shall we—oh."
Something visibly occurs to her, eyes lighting with a new question, and she looks to Vanya, unsure for the first time.
"Will we be able to hear each other, up there? Does all the," she waves her hand about between them, mimicking gusts of wind, "the wind get loud? And the wings?"
It might be prudent to establish how he feels about telepathy before such a situation arises, rather than be taken by surprise and suddenly muscle into his thoughts without so much as a by-your-leave.
Vanya smiles at the by-play, as much at how much Pamplemousse has learned to politely express her preferences as at Ness's equally polite apology. He files away the suggestion that Ness might like to watch their more ground-centric training, now and then, if this goes well.
In the meantime he nods at her question, even if he doesn't immediately follow her thought the step beyond it. "It can be a bit loud. Louder if we go very fast, though I don't plan to. But you'll be at my back, so leaning forward you'll be quite close to my ear." Vanya considers. "I suppose it might make sense to have some sort of signal that's more reliant on touch than sound, if you need to get my attention. Just to be safe. I've carried passengers before but Captain Baudin was mostly concerned with shooting Venatori." Also, her voice carries.
Well, if he's not bringing up telepathy as a possibility, that says enough on its own—whether he's simply not thinking about it, or neglecting it deliberately, it's not something he's inviting, and so she must avoid it unless she absolutely cannot. It's a surprise to realize that's something of a disappointment—that she has come to sincerely enjoy the intimacy of it, and would like to share that with Vanya in particular, the same way she does with Stephen—but it's not worth dwelling on. There are more practical concerns to consider, in absence of his acceptance of the potential intrusion.
"Well, that does seem to be something of a pressing issue," the Venatori; if they're in a position to be shooting at them from griffon-back presumably there wasn't much time to deliberate on codes or signals, "but for our purposes... tapping, perhaps?"
She reaches out (and up, because he's so much taller than her, and she has no feelings about that whatsoever,) and taps his shoulder in a deliberate rhythm.
"I think that should do just fine," he confirms. "This is very much not a combat outing," knock on wood, "so you may be able to get my attention without it, but I'll be on the lookout for a tap even so. Oh, that does remind me..."
In addition to the harness, he retrieve a small pair of goggles. "These are optional, but I tend to wear some eye protection in the air. For the speed. We've got some modified for things we won't need, like seeing better at night, so it's just for comfort, really." Still, he'd thought it through in advance, methodically going through the tack a passenger might need for a non-combat ride. "I think otherwise you shouldn't need any extra kit, we're going sight-seeing."
"You really did think of everything," said with distinct fondness, because that's one of her favourite traits of his—how thoughtful he is, how conscientious. Ness takes the goggles, spreads the straps with the fingers of her one hand, and immediately encounters a problem she hadn't thought to consider when deciding to lop off her arm: anything with straps going around a part of her body she can't see is a recipe for disaster.
She frowns at the goggles, trying to puzzle through how to put them on by herself, moving her fingers through the motions she thinks she'd need to take to make it work.
"Would you like me to help you?" he asks, instead of just reaching to do so. He's still not entirely sure how to thread the needle: giving her the time to work out an approach without making her feel as if she has to manage on her own.
"I'd been thinking of asking," she says, still frowning at the goggles, "but it does sort of seem like something I should work out on my own?"
She could figure it out if she had the time, she's sure—she worked out styling her hair, tying laces, found a system for dressing and writing and reading and is working doggedly on returning to sewing... but Vanya is standing there, and he and Pamplemousse are both waiting on her to be ready. Ness sighs, not terribly upset, and holds the goggles back out to him.
"I'll work on it later, for when we do this again."
He seems to assume they will too, at least from the lack of any correction or objection. Instead, he comes to take the googles from her. "Perhaps we could leave them fastened and work out a slightly longer tie of some sort. A way for you to loosen or tighten them without undoing them entirely?" he suggested.
(She's not the first person he's ever known without two working hands, but he would admit if pressed that flight is a new enough addition to his life that he's still working that part out as they go.)
"There's no rush to get it perfect in the first try," he adds as he settles them on her forehead, "as long as you're comfortable for the outing. We can make a variety of adjustments once we know what does and doesn't work." He considers. "Do you think you can pull them down or push them up, or does leaving it loose enough for that feel too insecure?"
No rush to get it perfect—Ness makes a distinctly disbelieving face, and ensures Vanya sees it, too. Of course it's got to be perfect first try, he's seen her in their Nevarran lessons. He knows what she's like, faced with a new skill or tool; if they're not aiming for perfection what is the point?
Her expression smooths as he settles the goggles on her head, and she pulls them down to her neck, then back up to her eyes. She turns her head, rolls her neck—stops short of jumping around because that would just look silly—trying to imagine how it will feel up in the sky, wheeling around on a giant bird-cat.
"I think that would be too insecure," she says finally, tests completed, "but a longer tie seems like a good idea. It's hard to—I can manage bows and buckles so long as I can see them. I hadn't thought about anything like this, I haven't practiced for it."
Her disbelieving face makes him smile, rueful and with an air of yes, I should have seen that coming. Pamplemousse, for her part, watches with a attention but resists any potential impulse to make the item they've passed between them a toy.
Off Ness's suggestion, Vanya says, "If you find you enjoy flying, it might make sense to have something custom made. Fastening in front wouldn't be practical, but maybe a set that fastens at the side, near your ear?" But that is, probably, getting ahead of themselves when they don't even know if she's afraid of heights yet.
He checks the fit and seems satisfied. He goes to retrieve the tack for riding, and at that, Pamplemousse perks up noticeably. One ear flicks forward, anticipatory. "I didn't know if I'd be afraid of flying before I tried it," he adds. "I knew I was fine with heights in ... being on ramparts or on top of towers. But it's a different thing."
Ness hums her agreement, the side could work, but a small part of her wonders at suggesting that she just not fly without him. The thought is discarded almost as soon as it occurs, though; too blatant, too impractical.
"It does seem rather different to standing at the top of a tower," she says, watching him ready Pamplemousse with no small interest. This bit of kit goes here, that strap is tightened only so much, watch the shoulder blade there—she's committing it all to memory, in case she has to do it alone someday. "I've sat cliffside over the Sea of Swords with sharp rocks and crashing surf hundreds of feet below me, but at least then I was in control of when and if I moved."
Oh, but perhaps it sounds like she's convincing herself to be afraid—Ness smiles, to offset it, and lets her genuine enthusiasm colour her voice when she says "This will be a very educational flight. Do you get on first or should I?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action
Ennaris Tavane? I'm Benedict Artemaeus, Personnel Officer.
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[ ness was told to wait in the central tower for a mssr. artemaeus to meet her and explain her new situation more fully, and—well, she would have waited, but the hustle and bustle of the gallows clean-up and rebuilding is vastly more interesting to watch than the interior walls and hallways of the tower. she didn't go far, at least, she's near the entrance to the central tower when benedict comes to meet her, and she turns to greet him with a somewhat guilty smile of her own. ]
Hi, yes, that's me! Ness, if Ennaris is too much of a mouthful, it's a pleasure to meet you Messere Artemaeus.
[ 'messere' doesn't sound quite natural on her lips yet, but she's been listening, she knows that's the polite address in this area of the world. ...at least, she's pretty certain it is. ]
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Ness, [he repeats, making a note of it,] and you can call me Benedict. Or Artemaeus, whichever you prefer.
How are you finding it here? Settling in?
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[ people pleaser instincts don't like choices why have you done this to her— ]
Yes, thank you! I've been trying to familiarize myself with the layout of everything, and I think there's a library I want to look at? I want to study the history here, it seems like a good place to start.
[ gotta figure out which nations hate each other and why so she doesn't put her foot in her mouth at any point, ey. ]
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The library is upstairs of the centr-- the tower, [oops,] and we've gathered quite a few resources over the years. If you can't find what you're looking for, you may be able to just ask someone. Just,
[there's a strange, frenetic look in his eyes-- don't fuck it up--]
be mindful of what you say on the network. Elves in particular have a complicated history, and I... would advise against calling anything a fairy tale.
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[ fairy tale? elves have a complicated history? what?? many confused faces. although that does bring up, since ness by now has had an opportunity to notice she has experienced some, uh, changes— ]
Ah, on the subject of elves—I won't say anything about fairy tales, I swear—I... Well, this is going to sound ridiculous, but I seem to have... lost my ears?
[ she tucks her hair behind her very much existent ears, showing them off—them and their very rounded, blunt, human tips. ]
My father where I'm from is an elf, and my mother is a half-elf. This isn't the normal shape of my ears, [ and she is being very, very cool about it, she thinks, ] and I was wondering, does that... happen often?
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[He looks at her ears, then at her face, like he isn't quite sure what to say. Usually elves rift in as elves-- what an insane thing to think, how many different kinds of elves can there be-- never mind,]
I'm, [he hedges,] not sure. [He tosses his shiny hair, perhaps a grounding motion.]
I do know that people with mixed elf and human blood generally don't have the, ah, [he makes a pinching gesture,] points.
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[ um. ] I... wasn't aware that was the case.
[ my dude half-elves are a whole ass thing, they've got the points, they've got the magic, what on the great fucking wheel are you talking about. ]
Perhaps that is a difference between your plane and mine, [ she allows eventually, rather than call this polite but nervous-seeming man an idiot to his face. ] It's, I mean, I'm not injured in any way, and it's not as though the points serve any, any function.
[ other than mark a physical marker of her ancestry and past and hoo boy we're not getting bogged down in being capital a Alone in an unfamiliar plane, nope. blowing right past that emotional turmoil, onto something that surely can't be worse! ]
A, erm. A complicated history, you said?
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Perhaps, [he says weakly, quickly adding,] I'm glad you're not injured.
[He opens his mouth as if to answer her next question, and, realizing where he's put himself, has a full thought process first. Then:]
One of... significant loss, and subjugation. I'm not really the right person to tell you about it. [on account of not being an elf, mostly, but there are Other Reasons]
--I'd be glad to introduce you to someone who could do a better job of it, though.
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[ what the hells kind of topsy turvy world is this, even, elves subjugated?? much reading and research to be done, goodness. ]
I would be very glad for the introduction, then. So, we've covered elves and fairy tales—is there anything else I need to know with immediacy, to avoid making an arse of myself?
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[he thinks,]
we were recently attacked. As you may have noticed by our facilities being in some state of... disrepair. It's fair to say we're all still rather sore about that.
[FAIR]
You don't seem the type to joke lightly about misfortunes, so I imagine you'll be all right.
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—ah. [ taken aback, ] No, I didn't plan on making light of your collective tragedy.
[ she might have wondered if this was a purposeful aesthetic, but she wouldn't have asked.
probably. ]
Have people done that? Made light of the destruction of your home?
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[such is life]
But I don't imagine that'll be a problem on your end. Do you have any other questions to get you settled in?
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Many, [ questions, ] but they can probably all wait, I'm sure you have more important things to do than answer a few hundred questions about your home. I can fend for myself otherwise.
[ she gives what is hopefully a reassuring and grateful smile, but then, a thought: ]
Oh, for sleeping arrangements, is there... I've seen tents, do I get one?
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[Her question about the tents gives him pause, and he falls silent a moment, thinking it over.]
You'll probably be placed in an empty spot, since we haven't got enough for everyone to be alone. You might... want to ask if anyone's got space.
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[ hmm. she's not averse outright to bunking with a stranger, but... perhaps before that she can see what other options she has.
regardless, she aims a smile and a little wave at benedict, happy to free him to get back to wherever else he must be needed. ]
I'll look into that. Thank you for the welcome, Messere Benedict.
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[a little wave back,]
Good luck settling in. Shout if you need anything.
action;
[Cedric makes the introduction which, inevitably, feels a bit like a hand-off. Enchanter Julius, when he arrives is a tall man in his 40s, his initial expression concerned but sympathetic. (The air of a teacher, as promised.) He's dressed in trousers and a tunic, rather than robes, but he's brought his staff. He also has a a small bag of supplies slung over one shoulder.
After Cedric promises to stay close and excuses himself, Julius leans the staff close enough he can reach it, but out of the way as he settles next to her.]
Alright. So I've had a little bit, but if you feel up to it, why don't you tell me what's been happening? I think the more I know, the more helpful I can probably be.
[His tone is kind, quiet. There will be a lot to deal with in the morning, but right now, he can't help but be affected by a young woman in magical distress.]
[OOC: Happy to adjust if you want to approach this another way, just lmk.]
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[ some of the ease cedric had hard-fought to win out of her leaves with the hand-off, but not as much as could have: ness is accustomed to professorial types, and the presence of a familiar mien is calming, even if she's still nervous. it's difficult to begin, but it always would have been, no matter the circumstances or who she was explaining it to. ]
I didn't have magic before I came here, [ she starts, finding the threads of the story as she speaks. ] I was entirely average. Extremely so. The only interesting thing about me is my father's drow—a dark elf.
[ her fingers reach up, admirably still unless you look closely, and finger the point of an ear that isn't there anymore, replaced with the rounded cartilage of a human. lips purse, chin wobbles—she presses on. ]
Before I woke up here, I was... kidnapped. Taken. There are these things, [ she shudders, ] mindflayers. They infect you with their parasite and seven days later you die, and something that isn't at all you anymore takes your place. They meant that for me, but there was
[ a breath, eyes closed, don't linger, ]
a disturbance. I avoided the parasite, but got a faceful of its brine. Now, here, I—I do things, entirely on accident.
[ that is very important, on that she opens her eyes and seeks julius' gaze, earnest and pleading. ]
I haven't hurt anyone. I don't want to. It's all out of my control and I didn't know what to do but I didn't want to die, I read so many things—
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I take it that one of the things you've read about is how the Templar Order and the Circles dealt with mages who couldn't control their magic. Is that right?
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It's not unheard of, where I'm from, [ in explanation, still a little miserable about it. ] Contact with magical energies can give one magic, in certain circumstances. It may be that I acquired my magic there, but there was no opportunity to discover it before I woke here.
[ seeing as she died there minutes after she might have acquired her magic—but we're not thinking about that. done is done, no use crying over spilt blood. ]
Yes. [ whispered, somewhat ashamed for reasons she can't quite articulate. ] Death or, ah, the other thing. Tranquility?
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[He's not technically a Division head, to promise such a thing. On the other hand, they've been dealing with arguably worse rifter problems for a while now.]
Can you describe to me what you've experienced, since you've come here? Don't worry about any technical terms, just how to feels and appears to you.
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[ hearing is not believing, and ness' expression doesn't quite clear up, even with the enchanter's assurances. she wants to believe him, she really does, but wanting is exactly why it feels so hard to trust—it would be so easy to tell her exactly what she wants to hear, and then turn around and betray her as soon as she let down her guard. that's what all the smart villains do, and even the well-meaning heroes who don't know who they're working for.
still, the conversation goes nowhere if she doesn't take him at his word, at least for now. so ness nods her acceptance of his promise and stares at her hands, considering. ]
It begins in my stomach, [ she says slowly, hushed, ] a squirming feeling, like I have to vomit. It gets more intense, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but it feels less like illness and more like... like there's something inside of me writhing to get out. It presses at, at the walls of me, so much that I think there must be some distention in my skin but there never is. It travels up my body and to my anchor and when it frees itself it's these... I don't know how to describe them.
[ she inhales a shaky breath and flexes the fingers on her anchor hand, unable to look julius in the eye anymore. it sounds bad. it sounds really bad. she knows. ]
Whips, maybe. Vines, or... tentacles. Tendrils of some kind of concentrated darkness that reach to beat at anything near me. They don't last long, but they can be destructive, even so. The writhing stops as soon as they're free. It doesn't feel like anything, after that.
ty for your patience (I say as I'm about to go on a trip)
I'll be honest. It sounds more like a curse than any sort of magecraft, sanctioned or unsanctioned by the Chantry. Something happening to you, rather than something you're doing.
[Which is not wonderful news, in that curses can be complicated to break. On the other hand, it seems unlikely that she's possessed. Possible — rifters complicate things — but it doesn't seem like the way that sort of thing usually manifests.]
To make sure I understand: The tendrils are destructive while they last, but regardless of whether they reach a target, they dissipate on their own. How long, approximately, do they last? Just a best guess is fine.
np!!
[ a curse... does that feel right? ness frowns, but considers the idea carefully. she certainly isn't trying to do any of this, but neither has she encountered anyone who could or would have cursed her, recently. the mindflayers wanted her for their parasite, so they'd have had no reason to do anything like that to her, and the githyanki were too keen on murder to bother with anything protracted.
still, an actual enchanter would know better than she would. it's as good a theory as she's got for now. ]
It feels like an eternity, [ in the way the worst things always do, ] but it can't be more than a few seconds. No more than ten, if that.
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[He doesn't say we've had worse, but possibly he does think it. Regardless.]
I've brought a substance called magebane, if you'd like to try it while we're working on a more permanent solution. I'm not going to insist, partly because it sounds like you have at least a bit of warning to get away from bystanders, and partly because I'm not entirely sure how it would affect you, as a rifter. For native mages like me, it dampens the ability to use magic temporarily. If your condition is drawn from a connection to the Fade in some way, it's possible the magebane could give you a bit of a reprieve. But if it's not something you want to risk without knowing how it works, that's understandable.
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[ distressing, but manageable. despite herself, despite her difficulty trusting his word just a moment ago... ness can't help the way her shoulders lighten and her breath comes a little easier. she doesn't know the enchanter at all, certainly not enough to trust his word just like that, but it's such a relief to have someone who knows more than she does look at her and say "we can work with this".
this isn't the worst case scenario. she's not beyond help. the professional in the room isn't panicking—hell, he hardly looks flustered. she's going to be okay.
she's going to be okay.
relief very nearly turns into incoherent blubbering, but ness pulls herself together by her fingernails, scraping up the last dregs of her composure with a gulping deep breath and the determined expression of one about to attempt a marathon for the first time. ]
Thank you, [she says, without a single falter, ] I think I'd like to try the magebane, at least to see. Could it be, maybe, could I take it just when I can feel the squirming start? I could try it now, to see what happens, if you'd prefer to be around the first time.
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[He retrieve a small flask from the bag he's brought with him. The glass is semi-transparent, hinting at a liquid with a reddish hue and a slightly viscous consistency behind the cork stopper.]
This was originally developed to poison weapons used against mages, so unfortunately it was not developed with taste in mind. [Translation: It's fairly vile.] If you have the time, I might dilute a bit of it in advance. It should be stable in water, and I've heard it's easier to swig a large mouthful with a milder taste than manage a small sip with a stronger bite to it. But that's just for ease of use. In an emergency, you can take a small sip directly.
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Certainly, [ agreeing, immediately, to whatever julius suggests—experimentation, of course, look how biddable she is, so easy to work with. she accepts the vial, examining its contents as best she can in the low light.
for a poison, it looks fairly innocuous—no sickly green hue, like in illustrations, nor any sort of... palpable malevolence. for something called magebane, it's not very frightening. ]
I see, [she says, closing her first around the vial and holding it close to her chest. ] And small sips should do it, then, no need to drink the whole thing? How long do its effects last? Do we have an abundant supply, or should I be rationing?
[ hang on, actually, more importantly— ]
What would happen if I were to take too much? If I did, could that be counteracted in some way? Is there a maximum amount I should ingest within a certain period?
[ rip ness you would have loved to be a medicinal research chemist. ]
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That said, I might need to direct you to another source for full information on ... Taking a flask's worth at once might be unpleasant, but shouldn't do you long-term ill. [He's heard of Templars forcing than much on a mage at a time, though that observation feels better unspoken.] An even larger dose might have ill effects; I'm not sure. Enchanter Isaac would be a likely source of information, though you may need to explain your condition to him, and I can understand that prospect giving you some pause.
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Hmm. It wouldn't be terribly insensitive, would it, asking the Enchanter about this?
you don't have to be a genius to realize an enchanter with extensive experience with a poison directed specifically at mages might not have gotten that experience in an enjoyable or academic manner. ]
I'll think about asking him, at least, it may be irresponsible not to... But, oh—
[ her eyes focus on julian again and she smiles, a little watery and wan, but no less genuine for it. ]
Thank you. I've been so afraid, and I didn't want to hurt anyone—it was eating me up. Between you and Cedric I feel like I'm taking my first deep breath in weeks. It means so much, really.
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[A small exhale with a faint smile.]
I suppose it keeps us on our toes. But I'm sorry you're having to deal with it. I think I would be ... cautious about how many people you speak to, before we've learned more. As Carsus may have indicated, there are a lot of native Thedosians who have a strong distrust for magic, especially uncontrolled magic. But I'd say any of the Division Heads are trustworthy. Madame de Cedoux. Stephen Strange, our head healer.
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[ confirming, ] I've done some research. [ she knows the shape of the native reaction to magic, even if she hasn't experienced the whole of it for herself yet—that's half the reason she was so panicked and terrified before tonight, to the point of attempting to isolate herself completely. ] That's why I didn't plan to tell any one I didn'need to about my... condition. I imagine there's no way you leave here and don't immediately tell the Division Heads what happened.
[ it's not a question, because ness has no doubt: after tonight, the division heads will know exactly what she can do, and how unstable it is. it's only right, too—for safety reasons, the people in charge of the organization should know when someone might pose a threat to the rest of the group!
it just sucks to be the one posing a threat, is all. ]
Petrana de Cedoux and Stephen Strange... I'll remember those names. They're natives?
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[And Julius is going to tell her about this anyway, more than likely, but he'd recommend her even if that wasn't true.]
Your instinct for discretion is a wise one, I think. But you've landed in a place with more than its share of people who've faced judgment. Most people in Riftwatch prioritize defeating Corypheus. As long as we can ensure you're no danger to yourself or others here in the Gallows, everything else can be managed.
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[ it may not be fair, but ness absolutely perks up at both petrana and stephen being rifters. natives just... she's gotten lucky, between cedric and julius both being willing to help her instead of reaching immediately for pitchforks. pushing her luck seems inadvisable, that's all. it's healthy, reasonable caution, not irrational fear. really. ]
I'll remember both of them, thank you.
[ she really will, as soon as she gets back to her things she'll be writing notes on this whole experience.
there's part of that second bit that catches her ear, though—most, emphasized, but that means... ]
Is there anyone in particular I should be cautious with? People less sympathetic than the rest, here?
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Redvers Keen may not have sufficient trust in the organization's leadership to not feel he needs to take matters into his own hands. You should be especially cautious there. And while I doubt Lazar would be personally outraged, he is forever looking to turn a profit; he might see your distress as a business opportunity first and foremost.
Broadly, I might keep the number of people who know small until the Division Heads have had a chance to weigh in. But I think that is less a function of avoiding individual agents finding out and more a matter of giving them leeway to handle it as they think best.
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[ more names to remember, petrana de... sehdoo? (probably not, she'll have to ferret out proper spelling), stephen strange, redvers keen, lazar... ness mouths each name to herself, making different small gestures with each name to reinforce the memory. ]
I didn't plan to tell anyone, [ confirming, and also, you know, she'd assumed he would, but maybe julius can confirm informing the division heads? she'd prefer only to interact with authority figures when she has good news, is the thing.
another deep breath, and ness can feel exhaustion creeping in, now that adrenaline has worn off. ]
Okay, this has been... quite a bit to take in. I—if there's anything else, might it wait? I just want to make sure I can remember everything properly before I take in anything more.
[ please, her past couple weeks have been so much, she's doing her best but she needs time— ]
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Go on. Try to get some sleep, if you can. And if you need me for anything with the magebane, or ... I expect I'll be in my office for a few hours yet. But things tend to look better in the morning, even if daylight doesn't actually solve them.
[He's not entirely unworried about letting her go again, but the Division heads will know and his instinct tells him she doesn't mean any active harm. The night will probably be quiet enough.]
action.
continued from.
Sorcerer, [ Strange corrects automatically, a kneejerk instinct; the verbiage doesn’t even really matter anymore, but he stands on the principle of getting it right. Naming things as they are. And the terminology might matter for a particular rifter universe, because he still remembers Wysteria being precise about the definitions between magicians, sorcerers, wizards, witches.
Seated beside this young woman, he peers over to look a little closer at the titles she’d selected to read, thinking: Oghma, the god of knowledge. He doesn’t much truck with gods, but if there’s one to follow, that sounds better than most. ]
It might be the same thing at the end of the day, however, and similar to what they call a mage here. Someone who’s studied and practiced magic and is capable of harnessing its powers to cast spells, yes?
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[ she opens her mouth to argue the point immediately, then closes it again just as quickly, rethinking her strategy. they're in a completely different plane, each from different worlds: perhaps sorcerer means something different to him than it does to her.
that in mind, she begins again, less immediately confrontational this time. ] Yes, though on my plane they're different. Those who have to learn their magic [ she nods at him, at the books in front of her—not magical tomes, but just to indicate the kind of study required, ] are called wizards, they have no innate magical talent and learn their spells by rote. Sorcerers, whether through birth or contact with intense magical energies later in life, are innately magical, they don't need to learn anything.
As you say, though, [ leaning back in her seat and smiling up at him, ] at the end of the day, the differences matter little here. A sorcerer is a wizard is a mage, whatever we called them in our previous lives.
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So it sounds, [ he muses, ] as if all mages here would be considered sorcerers by your definition. Either they’re born with the capacity or they’re not, is that right?
Where I’m from, [ a gesture of a hand, a tap of his scarred fingertips on her stack of books, illustrative, ] studious application will get you to magic. People might have a predilection for it or a familial lines particularly gifted with it, but strictly speaking, anyone can learn it. Fairly democratic, that way.
[ It’s evident by the warmth in his voice: he likes that about sorcery. The personal control, the direct cause and consequence. If you pour enough time and effort into a thing, you can master it. Ten years of medical school, and you can become a doctor. Most of a year of frenzied effort and reckless study and lack of sleep, and you can become a sorcerer. ]
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[ as it becomes clear that stephen's actually listened to her, not just heard but listened, ness' smile grows. it's not that she's not used to an adult who actually pays attention or anything like that—she's just a consummate teacher's pet, and she loves an opportunity for a one-on-one with an educator who gives a shit. ]
That's right, [ of all mages here being sorcerers to her. ] And where I'm from, you and all the other sorcerers of your world would be considered wizards. I've never thought of wizardry that way, [ musing, a little taken with his clear affection for the practice, ] democratic. It's a somewhat prohibitive field to get into, in Faerûn, even if open to everyone in theory.
[prohibitive, and not a field she'd ever given much mind to, as she'd shown only the barest of aptitudes for it and never wanted to bother anyone questioning about it. if she'd shown an interest, there would have been no shortage of those in candlekeep who could have taught her, but without initiative of her own, no one was going to take time out of their schedules to force her.
kind of a shame now in hindsight, given the givens. ]
How did you come to its study? If you don't mind the question, I don't mean to pry.
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But it’s one he’s had to explain often enough in Thedas that the sting’s gone out of it. Back home people generally wouldn’t pry for the Sorcerer Supreme’s history, but here he’s simply another member of Riftwatch, and a study in contradictions: the doctor who became a mage. The mage who became Head Healer, but who still can’t stitch up a cut. The real question is how much does he dump on this poor young girl’s head, when he winces uncomfortably away from anything which might seem like a traumadump.
For now, he settles on: the harmless basics. ]
Magic is democratic once you get there, but it’s also not widely known of; back home, its existence is more myth and rumour and speculation. I had some injuries which science and traditional medicine couldn’t heal, so I sought a magical cure. I found that monastery, and [ this choice of word is purposeful ] wizardry instead, and became voracious about it. It’s fascinating, going your whole life thinking reality functioned under certain limitations only to discover there’s always been doors you never even knew existed.
[ Of course he’d wanted to open all of them. ]
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[ "some injuries", he says, and ness immediately, unsubtly looks down at his scarred hands. if he's worried about insensitive questions, though, none seem to be forthcoming—she just looks back up to listen as stephen finishes his explanation, her lips part in precursor to a comment, or perhaps a question—
and then she shudders forward, wincing. the insistent squirming that precedes a magical outburst has started in her stomach, and this time it's not waiting around— she can feel it already climbing up her trunk, lashing toward her anchor hand: it's been moving quicker ever since the magebane. like it knows that she can cut it off now, and it doesn't want to give her the opportunity. ]
Sorry, [ she gasps, ] one second!
[ there's a vial of magebane in a pouch on her belt, but it's hard to call up the dexterity for clasps and flaps with her off-hand while simultaneously trying to stave off a tentacled maelstrom in the other. ness fumbles at the pouch, holding her breath like somehow that might keep the outburst from manifesting. ]
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Are you alright?
[ He is, after all, the Head Healer— ]
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[ breathlessly, ] Yes, just fine, I just need—ah!
[ she gets into the pouch, finally, and grips the magebane tightly. usually she likes to mix this with a bit of water, per julius' advice, but there is absolutely not time for that right now. ness screws her face up and takes a deep breath. ]
If I throw up on you, I'm really sorry.
[ and with that, she pops the cork on the magebane and takes a swig.
julius wasn't kidding, the taste is not pleasant, but almost worse is knowing what comes after. ]
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Don’t worry, I’ve experienced worse, [ he says, still nonchalant. He’s a doctor. Sometimes patients shit themselves. But more to the point, as he watches her: ]
You’re not going to be possessed by a murderous spirit, by chance? Just checking.
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[ the poison settles, heavy and thick, in her stomach, and ness gags, just a little, nose wrinkled and eyes scrunched close in distaste— ]
What? [ she says, less because she really needs the repetition and more because she's struggling to process all the stimuli she's experiencing at once. the magebane is disgusting and thick and heavy, but the squirming stops with one final wriggle somewhere around her elbow. she breathes, and realizes she knows what stephen said. ] Oh, no, I...
[ a sigh, and she corks the magebane again and slips it back into the pouch at her belt. she doesn't avoid stephen's eyes, because that looks suspicious, but she's not particularly enthusiastic about meeting them. ]
I shouldn't have magic. I didn't, before I arrived in Thedas—I could summon lights, but that was all, nothing useful. Here, I... It comes upon me suddenly, and is destructive. That's all. Nothing murderous.
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It comes upon me suddenly, and is destructive. Why are there so many rifters like this— ]
What sort of ‘coming upon you’?
[ It pings some distant concern, a recollection, a faint unease in his gut. This, too, familiar. Wanda wrestling with new unmanageable powers outside of her control— He needs to ask. ]
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[ it's an entirely fair question, and it deserves an answer... but ness doesn't have to like giving it. she pouts a little, taps her nails against the desk, huffs... and takes a deep breath. ]
There are these... tendrils. Like tentacles, but they don't have suckers or anything. They come out of my anchor and try to batter at everything around me within reach. It doesn't last very long, but you can imagine, if there's anything precious around, it's a problem.
[ she shrugs a little, and looks at stephen out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his response. ]
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Oh, is that all? Tentacles?
[ Not dismissive, but at ease; Strange’s shoulders loosen as he leans back in his chair again, body language relaxing. He had tensed up a little without even realising it. ]
I used to have a few spells which would summon… well, yeah, tendrils. Beasts. Serpents. The Vipers of Valtorr spawning out of my arms and multiplying as they’re cut down.
If this particular development is new to you and you’re unaccustomed to its use, you should practice. [ An offer, off-hand: ] We could practice.
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[ well that's certainly not the reaction ness was expecting. there's a part of her that considers being angry about it, and her brow furrows in anticipation of the annoyance that she thinks she should feel, but isn't it better for him not to consider it a problem? she purses her lips, considers...
and lets herself smile, instead. ]
Well, it sounds much less dire when you say it. Nothing multiplies, so I suppose I have that going for me.
[ practice. does she want to practice? ness actually thinks about it, chewing her lip a little, scrunching her nose. ]
I don't think I'm ready for that, [ she admits. ] I have so much to learn still about Thedas, a whole life to start building from scratch... I don't think I can dedicate myself properly to any of my pursuits if I spread myself too thin.
[ it's not a lie, is the thing, not even close. she really does believe that it's better for her to get acquainted with thedas first, if she has a choice in the two. it helps, also, that magic is scary and weird and she'd rather pretend she can avoid it for as long as possible. ]
When I'm ready, though, if the offer is still good, I can come to you? If that'd be alright?
potential wrap or yrs to wrap?
but faced with a little more restraint, he tips a shoulder into a half-shrug. It’s no skin off his back if Ennaris doesn’t want to jumpstart some lessons just yet; it’s less work for him, in fact. ]
Of course. At your leisure, [ Strange says warmly. She’ll come around if-when she needs to. ] I don’t have Enchanter in my title, but my door’s open regardless.
🎀!
[ that he doesn't push means ness will actually seek him out eventually. her smile brightens, and she nods. ]
I appreciate that, Doctor, sincerely. As soon as I have my feet under me, you'll find me at your door.
[ and with that, she pulls her books closer again, ready to get back to studying history and geopolitics and privately railing against the various propaganda machines of thedas. ]
crystal
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Ehn-ahr-iss, yes, hello! Ness is fine if Ennaris is a mouthful, I don't mind.
[ she does, a little, but that's an old wound, not abby's fault. the effort was made, at least. ]
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I'm Abby. We're rooming together. You just got here, right?
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[ —oh... given the out and she didn't even take it?? that's fine, ness isn't feeling any particular type of way about that. certainly not touched in any weird way. ]
Oh, Abby, I saw your name in the assignments! I'm a recent arrival, yes. But I promise I'm not going to be an idiot about it, I've already done a lot of research and I'm working on getting my feet under me in Diplomacy, I won't be a bother!
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[ a small pause as ness thinks of something to say—i'd prefer to give people as few reasons to roll their eyes at me as possible—and then adjusts, because perhaps that is unkind to newly-arrived abby, who may have had quite a few eyes rolled at her. ]
I'm sure I'll say something dumb eventually, no amount of research could forestall that forever. I'd just prefer it be later than soon!
Have you been here long?
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(It's never fun being the person who says one dumb thing and gets jumped on, but it's kind of like a right of passage too.)
Yeah, about... three years, I think. (Wow. When you say it like that...) I like it.
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Three years!
[ she tries not to sound excited, because no matter what abby says it doesn't seem right to be excited about someone being rent from their previous home and stranded somewhere for three entire years with no sign of ever being able to return. for anyone not in ness' position, that's a hard pill to swallow. ]
That's such a number of years, and in a time of conflict such as this—you truly enjoy it? I had hoped to be able to make a home here myself, but liking it I had assumed would have to come after the war ended.
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And extenuating circumstances also help:) The place I came here from was worse off, a lot worse off. Here's better.
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Worse off, [ quietly, more to herself than expecting abby to answer. ]
Well, I'm... glad for you, then. To have found somewhere better.
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(Abby hadn't ever thought that before until she said it out loud just now — there's a pause before she pushes through to ask,) Where did you come here from?
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Oh, somewhere not all that different from here, really. Faerûn wasn't currently at war with a megalomaniacal lich god-king when I was snatched up, but it wouldn't have been unheard of. Truthfully, it hasn't been that difficult an adjustment period in most ways.
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Anyway,) That's good. This place is really different to where I came from, so it took me a while to get used to everything. If you ever have any questions about stuff, you can always ask me.
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From what I understand, most rifters come from places much dissimilar to Thedas. I count myself lucky to have had such an easy transition, I can't imagine how difficult it would be for me to have to adapt to... I've vaguely heard of something called a car, but I have no idea what that is. Sounds terrifying, anyway.
I appreciate the offer, anyway, and will definitely be taking you up on that. Natives can be... a little prickly about some things, I've noticed. Not without cause, [ hastily, Just In Case, ] but sometimes it's easier to ask someone at a bit of a remove, I think.
I'd offer the same in return, but unless you're interested in the cataloguing methods of a library from another world, I don't think I have any information you'd be interested in, honestly.
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But anyway,) I — actually am really interested in that.
(She says it quick, a bit embarrassed.) I like reading and I'm assisting in the library here. Re-shelving, mostly. We had this thing called the Dewey Decimal System back home, but I think it required having computers, so obviously it doesn't work here. We're organising by genre and then author. Non-fiction is by subject and then author. We have a log book.
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Oh, [ what a pleasant surprise!! ] well, how about you explain to me what a car is, and I'll explain to you how we sort the catalogues in Candlekeep, then?
[ book nerds book nerds BOOK NERDS!!! ]
Candlekeep is so much larger than the archives here, I don't know that it would be particularly useful to look to it as an example of how to sort a library without a "computer"... But nothing is ever improved by making assumptions. There might be something we could think of and present to the Archivist, if we put our heads together.
[tapping her chin, thinking out loud: ] Genre, or subject, and author is all well and good when each of those is clear-cut, but what about books written by more than one person? Or works that blend genres? Hm. There has to be a better way to sort this...
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But Ennaris is going first, so maybe they'll get really into her thing. Abby already has comments for her; they could be here a while.)
I get what you mean, but I'd probably go with whoever is listed first on the book for what name to file under. Same with genre, I guess. Like if it was a... I dunno, a mystery-thriller, I'd go with the bigger theme.
(It's not perfect, but oh well.) And then you note somewhere that it has two genres, so you can always refer to the notes.
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That works well for a smaller archive like ours, [ she concedes easily, ] but as our collection grows, so will the number of exceptions, and the number of notes. Such a list could eventually become too complicated for easy use.
Not to mention, what about books with no known title, or author? How do we distinguish between Ancient Alammari Scroll #1 and Ancient Alammari Scroll #57? Just for example, I mean, I don't even know if the ancient Alammari tribes had writing.
This must sound like I'm overcomplicating things, [ so at least she's self-aware? ] but I think they're problems worth thinking about! We want to minimize the work we'll have to do in the future.
[ "we", because obviously, if she's suggesting any work be done, she'll be assisting with doing it, even if it's not actually her job. ]
delivery.
Most of it is an accumulation of pamphlets and clips from broadsheets and quarterlies from the last few years that he already had on hand, ranging from staid essays on the benefits of unifying behind the new Divine to furious screeds on the way the wealthy and powerful are using the prolonged threat of Corypheus as an excuse to tighten their fists around the common people. The contents trend toward the anti-monarchist, communitarian, anarchist, or otherwise revolutionary, because that's what he's naturally collected for himself. But there's certainly an attempt to provide a broader spectrum of opinions. Even the bootlicking ones.
On top are a few things he gathered specifically for the request, including a less imbalanced array of recent publications and a thin, saddle-stitched volume titled Common Knowledge: The World According to the Unlettered, by Aubertin Ménétries. It's something of an anthropological survey, reporting on common folks' accounts of the workings of government and the natural world and so on—but exceedingly condescending, clearly cultivated to mock its subjects.
The only note is in the cover of the book. It says,
Do not think I paid money for this. I would never. —Bastien ]
➛ crystal;
[ hello, how are you, thank you so much for the delivery— ]
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[ The smile is audible. Good reaction. ]
But he's a young man. There is time for him to see the error of his ways. I knew his mother once, you know, and I cannot see how she would not teach him better. It might be some form of rebellion.
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[ ness is not not thinking about arranging some kind of visit to the gallows for aubertin—perhaps his mother has been induced to make a donation to riftwatch, and wants to see her money is put to good use—where either he is forced to sit through a long lecture or he ends up with a broken finger. he seems like the type to approach a griffon without thinking it through, it'd be easy to arrange— ]
The bitch of it all is he isn't even a bad writer. He could be putting these talents to such use as a satirist!
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Did you have this sort of attitude toward people where you come from? Not you, I mean—but did other people?
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But, outside of Candlekeep—people are people. Whatever people think here, someone probably thought in Faerûn, too.
Why?
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And it's interesting, isn't it? All of these varied worlds full of new magic and new gods and new technology, but none of them I have heard about yet have figured out how to avoid having underclasses. I can't decide if it's depressing that no one has a solution or reassuring we are not uniquely awful here. But it's interesting either way.
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As a matter of philosophy, it is interesting, but I admit I am no philosopher.
crystals; whatever point in time
let's go post-horrors, for funsies
Yes, I can help, [ is the immediate response, before cedric's full sentence has processed. ] Supply question? What do you need?
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It can wait, didn't mean t'wake you. [ takes a moment to find it, the roster of who's on this week. wycome. ] You just get back in?
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[ said through a yawn and a stretch, ooh, she's getting too old to fall asleep hunched over a desk. at least this time it's her desk in the quartermaster's office, which means she's not drawing looks in the library, or late to work. plus, she knows herself—she opens a drawer and pulls out a hairbrush, and gets to work detangling the mess she's made. ]
Sorry, oof. I'm awake, I'm ready, what do you need?
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[ distracted. she's on her way to skipping lunch, too. ]
Figured out one of the, uh, suggestions we got. Sjoklat, think 's meant t'be chocolate. Know cocoa comes dear right now. But if we can find something tastes near, maybe for Satinalia –
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[ ness has never been skinnier in her life than she is now—on rations, recently running around trying not to die in wycome, and now skipping meals to research until she physically can't keep her eyes open. it's a kind of diet, surely— ]
Substitutes, subs... I think, I was looking into rifter recipes, that Jude Adjei left one for cookies, they're supposed to have chocolate but I think he noted carob might do in a pinch? Do we have carob, in Thedas? What is carob, actually...
[ she has an encyclopedia in here somewhere, actually, maybe she can look it up. ]
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How 'bout I bring some up.
[ that's not really a question. he's moving. she can turn him aside if she pleases, but someone ought to make sure there's no reason to call strange, julius, again. else —
a friend. he's decided. ]
➛ action;
When Cedric arrives at the quartermaster's office, Ness isn't visible at first. It's only when he actually comes inside, glances around, that he'll find her—hidden away in a shadowy corner of the office, standing at a bookcase with an open book in hand while she peers in consternation at another on the shelf.
From this distance, at least, she doesn't look hideous. She's not skin and bones now, nor got the darkest of circles under her eyes, nor has her hair become some kind of nest. Her clothes are neat and clean, she's bathed, she's brushed, she's as pale as she's ever been but no paler. By all appearances, she's absolutely fine.
There's a vacancy to her expression, though. A faint sway as she should be standing still, breaths a shade too shallow for health.
"I could have sworn I had an actual encyclopedia in here somewhere. Have I gone blind? I may have gone blind. Oh, knots—"
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"I'll beg one off Mobius."
Good for the old man to keep busy. Another time, maybe that'd do for this too. Chantry's no stranger to the comfort in a task. But Cedric's dug enough ditches to know that's got limits, to work a shovel six feet over your head. She's clean, she's tidy, and she's about to step out her own skin. Busy's not the problem.
He takes his time laying out mug, napkin, spoon. Clean. Tidy. He lets her fuss. Tries to think what Barrow’s done for him, only that thinking on that makes him think why Barrow had to, and that don't bear thinking at all. Eventually, stone scuffs under foot, slow and steady and purposefully loud. A palm at her elbow, gentle,
"C'mon. It'll get cold."
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She blinks at Cedric, closer than she expected him to be, uncomprehending for a full second before the smell of food catches her attention. Her stomach, reminded of its needs, clenches painfully around nothing, and she winces audibly in surprise, snapping the book in her hand shut with the shock of it. Knees buckle, and she grips his wrist, leans harder to keep steady.
He's very warm. Or maybe she's very cold? He's solid, anyway, takes the weight of her like it's nothing,
"Sorry," she says to her shoes after the hunger pang subsides, less because she knows what she's apologizing for than feeling like she should apologize for something. Her whole existence, maybe.
gomen for all the delays on this ive been a mess this month
Couldn't tell.
She's warm on his arm, and he's young; and it's another evening gone before Cedric will notice the chill.
"'S alright," He says, instead of there's nothing to apologize for. Sometimes a word is just something you say; she's not ready to hear things. "Sit down, yeah?"
Bracing her, and that's nearly Broward too. Eggs and toast at the plate, some mystery Marcher meat, cut in a wedge. Fresh pear. The tea is –
Well, you boil any leaf long enough, you can call it tea. His hand closes around the book to ease her down, try and slip it from her grasp; eye to the title. He doesn't pull very hard.
(Candlekeep, she's said before: A library. He's not about to lose his own hand if she decides it's staying with her.)
same, no worries!!
The pang hurt, yes; she needs to eat, yes; but to actually do it— She looks at the plate and feels not desire but a faint disgust. It's a new experience, an unfamiliar sensation: sometimes you get so hungry, you circle right back around to not hungry at all.
She makes a face, picks up the fork, eats dutifully in silence, sips her tea with all the jolly enthusiasm of a recruit mucking out latrines. At the corner of the desk sits a pile of books, the top a collection of Dalish myths and legends, various treatises on the nature and origins of darkspawn below, a chantry brother's history of the Deep Roads on the bottom. Each book already has numerous scraps sticking out of the pages, markers for interesting information and passages to return to.
Ness has been returned from Sarrux's Pass for less than a week.
Plate cleared, she wipes her mouth with a handkerchief and looks over to Cedric. Her eyes can't linger on him long, gaze glancing off his face, shoulders curled in.
"Thank you for the meal. I didn't realize how hungry I was."
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"Sure," He sets the book aside, leans out over his elbows. Clock the rest of the stack and its disparate subjects: Darkspawn, Dalish. Wycome, "Gets like that, sometimes."
His eyes finally find her face again. He isn't asking about hunger when he asks,
"It get like that before?"
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Her brow furrows, something about that sentence catching her ear. Sometimes you say things in complete earnest, so sure of their rationality, and then you hear them out loud and they sound so much worse than you thought they would. It's strange, and uncomfortable, and not something she has the time or, frankly, the desire to interrogate right now.
So she smiles at Cedric, meeting his gaze finally.
"I apologize for the diversion—we were talking about chocolate, weren't we? Looking into substitutes?"
*bells jingling*
Abby has tied a beautiful purple ribbon around it. A small scrap of paper on top contains a cramped note:) Lemme know what you think when you're done. I'd love to talk about it. Happy Satinalia. — Abby A.
i am so sorry, this hit right in the middle of the veilguard fugue 😭
a week after abby's gift to ness finds its way to her desk, another gift appears, this one in abby's nightstand (so as not to make hermione jealous): a handmade, handstitched collection of stories from faerûn, as best as ness could remember them, from myths to fairytales to epics. since she only had a week, they're all relatively brief, but the note on top of the collection reads: ]
Let me know which ones you like best, and I'll write them in more detail. I look forward to discussing them, and Aveline, with you!
—E. Tavane, Quartermaster
crystals;
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I would be happy to assist, Enchanter, go on.
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[ presumably past-tense. she's offered to vanish vomit ]
Did you find it to interfere with the function of anything else than your magic? The anchor, physical side effects, etcetera?
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[ a considering beat, weighing what to reveal and with what words. ]
Its efficacy waned the longer it was used. Higher doses, more often, were needed to achieve a fully dampening effect. Whether that is a personal quirk or indicative of something else, I couldn't say.
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[ he wasn't the one measuring it. but: ]
I'm certain you've had word of the Venatori anchors.
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[ dry. ]
We need know whether magebane works to stunt an anchor, and I hope to avoid poisoning volunteers, or inadvertantly doing them a worse ill. Hence: Your health.
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[ a loooong pause. a deep sigh. ]
I'm willing to take it again to see how it affects the anchor, should I find myself in front of a rift.
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[ quartermasters. the demons are fucking everywhere ]
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[ isn't this what we have the stabby ones for? ]
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is what she would say if she were not herself. ]
I'll assume you'll let me know if you ever plan to hold me to the offer. Is there anything else, Enchanter? The headache makes speaking at length a hardship.
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[ the crystals don't click when they shut off. but like, spiritually. ]
book (backdated to after sarrux pass, like...v soon after)
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[ they could literally just be talking to each other in their room, why are they both like this.]
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I've been recommended to 'wait it out' and been given a nail file for the claws, which was nice of them, I suppose. I wanted to see if your voice had gone, with the whole...
Well, what happened to you was quite horrible, Ennaris. I am here if you want to talk, or write, or...think?
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which is a very normal and chill way to approach friendship, she thinks!]
My mouth is returned to normal, and I seem to have kept my voice. For all I can tell, it seems as though all my mutations have fully reverted, I'm sorry that yours haven't yet. You know, what happened to you was horrible as well. Do you want to talk?
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Desperately so.
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You have the floor, Messere Granger, please. Unburden yourself.
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I wouldn't call it a burden to shed at all, but - I was going to say that bit of telepathic connection we could have, that was... [ A little pause, her excited little smile slipping through. ] Well, exciting! I don't know how common the practice is in your world but a remarkably limited number of wizards can actually practice that in mine. And it's not even close to what you did - I could hear you! As though you spoke to me in my mind - mostly Legilimency is a lot of mind-reading, but not connection.
[ After which, the glow on her face and the sparkle in her eyes dim a bit, into seriousness. ]
Which is not to say that I don't think you shouldn't have been scared. Your mouth - of course you're well within your rights, you know, just... [ Somewhat softer now, ] You did not frighten me when you spoke directly into my mind.
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and then she blinks, utterly nonplussed, as Hermione's excitement becomes clear. It's not the first time someone's had a positive reaction to her telepathy—Stephen wasnt quite so effusive, but he clearly didn't consider it a bad thing for her to be capable of—but it's so far from the norm that she doesn't know how to respond at first. Suspicion, fear, anger: she's prepared for all of those. She has no script in place for excitement.
Even more slowly than it fell, her smile returns, hesitant and unsure.
"It's not common in Faerûn either, actually. There are some Aberrations that can speak like this, through mental connection, but the magic that's available to most people is to do with mind reading, like your Legilimancy."
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes at Hermione, still bemused—but with growing excitement.
"You really don't mind? You're not worried I read your thoughts, violated your privacy? I didn't, for the record, and I can't, but—you wouldn't have been angry if I had?"
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She is trying to be reasonable here, because Ness is her friend. And Ness was faced with desperate times calling for desperate measures.
"I think I would've, because I would prefer to simply talk things out, if you have any questions for me. But when it happened, when we were down there - honestly, given the circumstances, I wasn't mad at all. More than anything, relieved that you could find a way to communicate with me."
A beat. "And more than a little impressed."
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"I'm so glad you feel that way," she says, "and I promise—"
She cuts herself off, getting up from her bed to come sit on the edge of Hermione's, looking earnestly into her eyes.
"I promise I won't use it on you without your permission outside of extenuating circumstances. You have my word."
Ness smiles, in what she hopes is a way that says she's trustworthy without trying so hard it comes right back around to suspicious—and then blinks.
"Impressed?"
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Smart, kind, curious, interesting. Would Hermione go to war for Ennaris Tavene? Yes, probably - but more importantly, she'd try to resolve conflict without war, for Ness.
Once Ness is sat on the edge of her bed, Hermione scoots to make her space, nodding at the request for clarification. "Oh, yes. Your magic skills are very impressive. I keep wanting to ask you to teach me, though I know it'll be futile because we're using different sources, but it's - I think you're very capable. Some of the things I've seen you do, a skilled wizard would struggle with. From my home, I mean - not from Faerun."
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He doesn't want to talk to the Orlesian.
At last, she's carting some tray back up the stair. He rises from the nearest table — staked-out to purpose — without a meal, which makes it easier to slip a hand about her own and take the weight.
"Serah Tavane," Soft-spoken, a contrast to the snarling voice over the crystals. "Senior Warden Strand. We need to speak privately."
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"Knots," she snaps, "where did you come from—"
It takes a moment for her to recover from the fright, not to mention process what he actually said. The resulting annoyance may be somewhat unfair, but, really,
"There is the Archivist's office, Messere, you could make an appointment."
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— And if that doesn't explain why a shared office won't do, he's willing to press the point. Strand balances the tray, picks a tumbled grain of rice from his sleeve. Eyes her plain.
(When she'd startled, he'd spied it as if in slow-motion. He moves slowly these days to match.)
"There's a storeroom with thick walls," Out of earshot of the dozen other busybodies in Riftwatch's leadership. "Or we can discuss it here and now."
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"The events of the Pass were reported on in detail by Messere Porthmeus. As far as I know, his report is open to access by any member of the organization. It's unlikely that I will be able to elucidate the matter any further for you."
Unlikely, but not impossible, depending on what precisely he wants to know—she's not refusing to answer any questions, just making clear she may not provide anything he couldn't get elsewhere. As they walk, they pass the storeroom Strand spoke of, and Ness's steps don't so much as slow. There is one office guaranteed to be empty at the moment, which will be a mite more comfortable than a storeroom.
For him, anyway.
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Under the brush of new eyelids, translucent and horizontal and better at home on a frog.
"Which is why I've traveled such a distance for yours." They're past the room he'd staked, and he marks it; and he follows. "Indulge me the repetition."
Porthmeus had wanted expertise, and Strand was nearest to hand. But he isn't a scholar, he doesn't own a library, or a breadth of connections; anything but sour blood and a dead man's notes. Porthmeus wanted the Wardens' expertise. The Wardens want theirs.
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She doesn't say anything. She leads Strand to the Quartermaster's office and shuts the door behind them. The bookshelves, now empty, stand against the wall. The dark, heavy desk which floats in the middle of the room still holds a handful of paperwork, ledgers and logs strewn haphazardly over the surface. Against the rear wall, various trunks and crates crowd each other next to an over-full shelf of linens and uniforms. Even devoid an occupant, there is much for one to look at in the Quartermaster's office.
Ness's eyes are drawn unerringly to a faintly-visible stain on the floor, where no one was able to scrub her blood from the flagging. She crosses to it and crouches, presses her hand to the stone and whispers a spell.
When she straightens, the stone beneath her palm sparkles incongruently clean on the dirt-strewn and scuffed floor.
"What, precisely, would you like me to say, Messere?"
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"You came upon a pool of corrupted lyrium," Brine, grey, a jog to memory. "How did the Darkspawn behave around it?"
That much was absent from the written account. Assured of the door, he does up one sleeve. Another: The veins gnarl black up his wrists, branches wired about a tight line of scar.
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"I regret to disappoint you, Warden, but there was hardly an opportunity to observe their behaviour before the melée began. I can't offer any more insight on the topic than Warden Siorus might have."
She may sound dry as the Hissing Wastes and resentful of his insistence on the topic at all—but she's considering, too, because not being able to answer the exact question he asked doesn't mean she has no information to offer at all. Ness hums, mind on the treasure-seeker's diary, the state of the village, the children trapped in their cellar, how it all culminated in the Deep Roads. There is a story that can be spun by putting each piece of the whole together, a puzzle of Darkspawn and lyrium—but it requires so much conjecture, assumption, inference.
"It's hard to say anything about the events of the Pass before we arrived there with any certainty," she says eventually, sighing, "but what we saw did suggest a Darkspawn raid was what finally left the village abandoned, and that the Darkspawn who conducted the raid were mutated by the lyrium in the same manner as we would discover native Thedosians could be.
"But they left no bodies, Warden," she says quietly, "I don't think they killed a single person. We fought mutated humans below the Deep Roads right beside the Darkspawn."
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"Unusual," As she'll have read enough to know. The Wardens keep their secrets, but the waste laid by Darkspawn is written across book and battlefield. Half this city was once Ferelden. "Even the old, the young?"
Even the men, he does not ask. Some things can be kept within the Order.
"The Taint —" Forearm extended, he taps fingers over black. "— Runs through every Darkspawn. It's how they communicate, it's how Corypheus moves them. And if you're correct, something else has found a way to interfere."
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It's a conclusion which has occurred to her before—there was something different about these Darkspawn, priorities which did not match what she'd read of those of an Archdemon or Corypheus himself, but far as she is from an expert Ness has been unwilling to linger on them. Instincts validated, she unspools that thread again, considers its implications, supporting evidence, possible conclusions, pacing the floor.
"The men we hired to bring us to the Pass," she says, "the brothers—they were not visibly Tainted, nor were they mutated. But when we came to the nest, they were clearly affected by it. They attempted... well. It's in the report, what happened there."
No reason to rehash it—to possibly tell the Warden more than he is meant to know—she will have to reread the report, to see what story they have committed to posterity.
"They weren't Tainted. But they were maddened, terrified, and driven to a goal. Something had a will in that room, and it bent both a nest of Darkspawn and a village of humans to its ends."
mea culpa for long delays, blanket it's ok to drop etc
There's one for the sense that pushes at his own, for any Blighted place, for Corypheus; greater again, an archdemon. This isn't only Taint, but if it works within it, they might set a perimeter. His knuckles fold.
"When you first met them, how certain are you the brothers were themselves?"
Back in Tallo, the fish would drift up sometimes, dangling a light before their jaws. A guide into the dark.
a regularly-scheduled checkup.
They’ve been waiting for the wound to finish healing over fully; it takes time, always more time than one expects, and the infection had set them back. There will be bandages to unravel and replace with clean ones, and tightly-wound fabric compressing her limb to pull loose.
“How has it been feeling?” he asks, cutting straight to that professional demeanour; the mask that Ness well-recognises by now as him being in Doctor Strange mode, not Stephen, her friend.
It’s been a strange time, no pun intended. He’s a little more stilted around her than usual, oddly stinging from his perceived failure. In the aftermath of the amputation and her infection, he had been sterner about ensuring the girl stayed in the infirmary to rest; even after she was discharged, he hasn’t been plying her with quite as much work as before. More coddling than usual.
He doesn’t really know what to do with that feeling, either.
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Now Ness sits next to her doctor, neither friend nor teacher, and she knows the demotion is nothing but her own fault. His medicine is not faulty, his mind could never fail them, so she must have been the one to ruin her own recovery. She was a bad patient, she made him look foolish, made him rely on magic over science. He resents her for it, and who can blame him?
Certainly not Ness.
"It's sore," she reports, dutiful, determined. She'll earn it back, she'll convince him to trust her again, "tender where it was stitched together.
"I've kept notes," in a small book which she offers him now, precious paper converted from an Oghman's Book of Remembrance to a collection of notes on her residual limb and its state since their last appointment—tenderness to touch, color, scarring, soreness of the bone and whether she's experienced phantom sensation. Detailed, deliberate, down to the minute notes.
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Beneath it are the other bandages, the ones in direct contact with the wound and which he’ll be changing; but now he swivels to pick up the book and read through the notes before proceeding. He cracks it open, blue-green gaze tracking through each line of slightly-wobbly offhand writing, not rushing his study.
“Hm. Good chronicling,” he notes while partway through, still taking it in.
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"I know every little thing matters," she says, eyes on her work, "even if it seems irrelevant to me. I tried very hard not to fall into that trap, you know, like you warned me. The body is an interconnected system."
Anything significant enough that affects one part could have seemingly-unrelated effects elsewhere. There's referred pain, and the effects of an overtaxed immune system, and so many other things she doesn't fully understand, but Stephen warned her, and she listened.
"Is there anything you'd like to see the next time we do this? I tried to catch everything I could think of."
Everything except her emotional state. That couldn't be important, certainly, who cares how she feels about the thing she did to herself, or the stress of everyone's opinions on it, whether anyone believed the lie, the friendships she may have lost—that's all for her to worry about, irrelevant to her physical recovery.
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But he’s been around here long enough to think, Riftwatch probably needs a therapist. Just, y’know, not for him. So he hesitates, a crooked finger pressed to the page to save his spot in the middle of the the meticulous documentation of everything except her emotional state.
“And how are you feeling?” he asks, hammering right on it. Because he remembers the bleak statistics: “Over thirty percent of amputees experience depression. It’s a common after-effect.”
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then closes it again. Her hand stills in its massage, and she frowns, unfocused, at the floor. It's a question she hadn't anticipated, and didn't prepare for. What comes out of her mouth, then, is unrehearsed, and truer for it.
"I'm alright. Not depressed, anyway. It was—by itself, it's a choice I'm happy to have made. That you trusted me enough to let me make it, and... to have some measure of ownership over my body, my appearance, again. I didn't choose my ears or my eyes or my skin, but I chose this."
It hasn't been easy to adjust to her new state, certainly, but she's had practice accepting changes to her appearance ever since arriving in Thedas. In some ways, it's easier to look in a mirror now than it has ever been in the months since her arrival: this body is hers, now, not a loan or a figment or something done to her. She chose it, and she molded it into the form she wanted. The round ears are hers, the peachy hue is hers, the blue eyes are hers—just as much as the stump of her arm is.
No choice happens in a vacuum, of course. There's more to her feelings than that. But it is true, and she looks up to catches Stephen's eyes and smile, to share it with him.
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Complicated. The whole thing was complicated.
But Ness smiles at him, and therefore Stephen manages to muster up a faint matching smile in turn, glad of it.
“Good,” he says. “It’s… I mean, the physical recovery is important, of course, and your notes are exhaustive on that point, I can’t think of any room for improvement there. But your psychological state does matter too. This was a large, permanent decision and I’m aware it didn’t go exactly the way we planned.”
So.
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Hang on, deep breath. She's talking too much, it's making her look worse. Ness sighs and reins herself in.
"I'm being very careful now, Doctor. I don't know what I did that ruined everything before, but it won't happen again. I'm sorry I let you down."
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“’Ruined’? You didn’t ruin anything, Ennaris. These things happen.”
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Obviously. Stephen couldn't have done anything wrong, this is his area of expertise. This is what he does. Not the amputation itself, of course, but the medicine, knowing how to keep wounds clean and safe from infection. He couldn't have fucked it up.
"I feel—I really feel awful I made you turn to magic, truly. I'm sorry, Doctor. I know I'm apologizing a lot. I'm sorry for that too."
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“I turned to magic about five years ago, Ennaris,” Stephen says, cracking into a faint smile, an attempt at assurance. “I’m not some anti-mage bigot; it’s hardly a thing I’m opposed to. I love magic. Like, famously.”
(Did it sting with envy, however, that it had been Isaac wielding the surgical precision of his healing abilities to carve the infection out of his patient? Yes. Always. Still—)
“This is done regularly where I’m from because modern-day first-world Earth has more sterile hospital conditions, better antibiotics to fight infection, better tools to handle the surgical procedure to begin with,” he says, patiently. “The fact that this went badly reflects more on the world that we’re in, rather than anything else.”
And, the thing that he doesn’t speak aloud: his own lenience in letting them do it this particular way, perhaps. A traumatic amputation over crushed bone was so much riskier than a clean, straight amputation on a healthy limb. (He thought he would be able to handle it. Too arrogant as ever, Doctor.)
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Ness narrows her eyes, head tilted consideringly to the side. The face she wears is familiar to Stephen by now: it's her rolling for insight face.
"You don't believe that any more than I do," she says after a moment, "not really. It's just the right thing to say when someone's failed this badly."
It's the kind thing, the thing a friend would do—but ever since the operation Stephen has been her doctor, not her friend. Playing the role he doesn't want to fill anymore because she cost him something valuable, something vital. Wouldn't she hate it, were she in his shoes? Wouldn't she disdain the person who wounded her identity that much?
Ness huffs, tossing her hair away from her face and looking Stephen in the eye. Her hand balls into a fist on her lap, anxiously crushing a handful of her apron.
"I don't need coddling. I did this wrong. It almost failed, and it was my fault. I would prefer we acknowledged that than this... distance." What started as a firm admonishment tapers into a self-conscious murmur, her eyes turning from flinty and determined to searching— "I miss my friend."
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And perhaps that’s all part of it, the way he instinctively retreats into his professional shell, a common defense mechanism. It hadn’t been a conscious choice for him to withdraw and pull away from her — the man occasionally had blind sides the size of Nebraska — but it’s there nonetheless, Ness pressing squarely on that wound and calling it as it is.
“What if we compromise,” he says softly, that faint smile still there at half-mast, “and agree that it is both our faults?”
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"If I say yes, can I pass time in your office again? Can we re-start our lessons?"
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Dryly, “And for someone with a saviour complex, that rankles. But it is not your fault. And— well.”
He folds his hands around the roll of clean bandage. Admitting it feels like peeling his skin off, but he forces himself to do it, words pressed through a breath, a sigh: “Besides, I miss having you in my office, too.”
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Ness looks down, breathes deeply through her nose.
"Alright. I didn't ruin anything."
Harder to believe than to say, but saying it is the first step, or so she's read. She raises her stump to him for wrapping, heroically avoiding sniffling or hugging him or anything that could possibly make this any harder for him.
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He delays a moment to let Ness examine her own wound (with a strict warning to not press too hard, remembering experiments with a particular cuff), letting her indulge whatever clinical curiosity she has, getting to map the progress of the healing.
Once they’re both satisfied, he starts to replace it with clean bandages, concluding, “It’s looking good. No signs of infection, and healing well.”
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Ness looks at her elbow-stump, craning her neck to try to see the skin more clearly. It's easier to poke and prod and learn about it that way than to try to see it, but that's not stopping her—and hey, you know what—
"Can I—" she wiggles her fingers at Stephen, and gives his mind a polite little psychic knock. She can't see her stump clearly, but he can!
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But they’re trying to get back to normal, back to these psychic exercises and the trust they imply, and so Stephen eventually nods, and Ness feels the metaphorical door open.
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She's not puppeteering him—though she could, maybe, for a few minutes at least. There's a lot she could do, she thinks, levers she could pull and switches she could press—but that's not what she's here for. Seeing through Stephen's eyes isn't quite the right way to describe it—she's not hijacking his senses, more seeing what he sees like it's a moving portrait, filtered by his thoughts and impressions and focus.
Her stump through his eyes is... well, it's about as unsightly as it had seemed from her less than ideal vantage point. The scar is only just starting to settle in, raised and intense as the skin knits back together—not inflamed, though, not swollen or miscoloured. As far as she can interpret, it looks as healthy as they could hope for, and Stephen doesn't seem to see anything he didn't expect.
"Can you," she speaks out loud, it seeming more polite, then pauses, pulling her thoughts together. "Can you think more... purposefully? About what you see, from your professional perspective."
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A lot of the train of thought defaults back to clean, clinical medical jargon, dense and impenetrable; but seen through his mind, she can glimpse the real meaning of it. It’s healing well. Scarification and wound sealing and limb shrinkage all within normal parameters. Still not ready for the prosthetic, but on track —
(and most importantly, not plummeting her straight to death’s doorstep anymore)
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But the spell only lasts so long before she'd have to cast it again, and Stephen was hesitant enough to allow her in to begin with; she won't overstay her welcome. Her eyes re-focus as their violet glow fades, and she offers an excited smile.
"That was fascinating–I understood it all when I was reading your thoughts, but now that I'm out I only know as much as I did before, I just know that you thought it looked alright. The implications–"
Hang on–Ness trails off, smile fading as she thinks better of the commentary. Perhaps by reading his mind she could help with procedures, treatments where Stephen could use a third hand... but perhaps also it could be strange to have his knowledge co-opted so completely in that way. Besides, her remaining hand won't be much more effective than his own, no matter how adept she's forced to get with it.
So. A different topic, then.
"What happened to me?" It's no less fraught a subject, but in light of what he thought about death's door, it's the one that's most top-of-mind. "That is, I know that the site became infected. Was it that? An infection that grew out of control? I can't remember much after I first returned to the infirmary."
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Stephen scoots back a little so he’s not quite so close, no longer all up in her business for the examination. “It was, yes,” he says. “If only Volante had finished his experiments, the penicilin would have helped a great deal. But without any actual antibiotics yet… we’ve nothing to combat an infection effectively.”
He hesitates over the next point. He doesn’t want her to feel to blame any more than she already does.
“I suspect your bones being crushed by the bookcase also complicated matters. It wasn’t as clean of an amputation as it could’ve been otherwise, in a fully-controlled environment. Your body was worn out, undertaking the recovery and regrowing tissue and fighting the infection alike. Sometimes it’s just too much.”
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But he didn't, and they can't change anything about how it went now. Whatever regrets either of them might have, they'll have to live with them.
"Was he—I hope he didn't feel... responsible, in any way. He's no more at fault than either of us," if Stephen is insistent that she shouldn't blame herself, and she insists that Stephen shouldn't blame himself, certainly Volante is even less a part of that conversation than they are. More quietly, an aside to herself, "I'll have to check in with him."
She tries to think to what she does remember of that long, hazy period: snippets and snatches of conversation, fogged apparitions and a heavy blanket of confusion over all. What did she say? Nothing coherent, likely, and she has no secrets that she's afraid of having divulged, but—
"I, we, conversed sometimes, didn't we? I remember that I spoke to you, I can't imagine it was anything that could be described as lucid, but—"
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All of it is delivered like a brisk after-action report, because he, too, would have wanted to know what he did when he was out of it. But then Stephen hesitates. “You called me… Osu, I believe. Is that someone you knew back home?”
The unfamiliar word had sounded significant: a proper noun, perhaps someone’s name.
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"I called you—what?"
She stares at Stephen, wide-eyed, embarrassment rising red-hot in her cheeks. She's barely called Vazeiros osu, he never liked it when she did, it's not a normal part of her vocabulary. This is unbelievable, ridiculous—a hideous betrayal of her subconscious, even if she was hallucinating—
Not important. He asked for an explanation—but gods, how could she? She's supposed to look Stephen in the eyes and tell him— This is so mortifying.
"It... is someone i knew in Faerûn, yes," she hedges at first, not meeting his eyes, but sighs after a moment and looks at Stephen full-on, rueful. "It means father, but affectionate. Like papa, or dad."
Which certainly says some things about how her subconscious sees Stephen, doesn't it. It's not such a surprise, of course, she knows herself enough to understand what she gets out of their relationship and why his approval means so much to her. But that it's so concrete, such a formed feeling...
"I must have been hallucinating Vazeiros. That happens with fevers, doesn't it?"
(with a constitution score of 16, she's never been sick enough before to find out firsthand.)
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He’d very specifically said to Gwenaëlle that he didn’t want kids. It had been a whole conversation. Funny, how he winds up here anyway—
“It does happen,” Stephen says slowly, cagily. It’s a handy excuse, but he’s also seen Vazeiros — or at least a dreamed-up version of him — and knows that they don’t look much alike, between the purple skin and white hair and height.
So eventually, he adds: “Freudian slips— that is, slips of the tongue happen. It’s fine. I mean, frankly I’m surprised I haven’t accidentally called you America yet.”
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"America?" She pounces eagerly on the change in focus, happy not to linger on her unknowing mistake. "That's where you lived before this, isn't it?"
He's mentioned his former country in passing, sometimes, explained the basics of it, its name and the major cities he's made reference to. Her curiosity has induced him, even, to explain if there is a New York, is there an Old York? But that doesn't explain how a slip of the tongue could have had him calling her—oh!
"Wait, America Chavez was one of the witches from that dream! You..."
are using her to get a re-do on mistakes made with America and Wanda. Right.
Ness slumps in her seat a little, disheartened at the reminder, but she doesn't allow herself to mope.
"Are we very alike? America and I, I mean."
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“Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, the two of you don’t look at all alike. And in personality, she’s… well, ruder. Impatient. Punchy, literally and figuratively. But in other ways…”
He trails off, trying to figure out what drew the line between them besides the fact that they’re his mentees. There had to be something else which didn’t have anything to do with him.
In the end, he settles on: “She was initially afraid of her powers, too. And she’s curious and determined and independent. So, in some ways, I suppose you’re alike.”
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She closes her mouth before the question is even fully formed in her own mind.
"You're nothing like Vazeiros," she offers in return, "physically, of course, but also..."
Ness trails off, brow furrowed and gaze turned inward, considering. She's never described her father to anyone in any sort of depth; either the Avowed in Candlekeep knew him and thus required no description, or a stranger wasn't interested in what kind of person he was. It's difficult to put words to the observations she made over a decade and a half, the traits and preferences she noted in an effort to make sense of the man who made her, and it takes her a moment to find a place to begin.
"He has no taste for excess," she tests the sentence–and immediately shakes her head, no, that's not quite it– "No, not excess–not material excess. Waste."
That she lets sit a moment, then nods.
"He can see the straight line from action to result, and will always choose the most economic route between the two. Energy and effort are finite resources, which must not be expended beyond what is required; to do otherwise would be wasteful. And the result is what matters, all other considerations are tertiary."
If the calculus is beautiful, that is irrelevant. It is.
"It's how he survived Menzoberranzan," she concludes, "but it made him cold. Have you missed America?"
action
It is when he finally has the thought that his most uncomplicated, pleasant memories are of traveling that he lands on the answer. He consults with another griffon rider or two about his ideas for securing a rider with only one arm behind him, refining the choice and placement of knots until he's satisfied. Finally, he tells Ness he's ready to show her his answer, when they can find an afternoon they are both at liberty. (He also sacrifices part of the surprise by ensuring she has no fear of heights and asking her to meet him in the Gallows eyrie.)
[ty for your patience, lmk if you need any adjustments!]
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When she meets him in the Eyrie, Ennaris is in her standard-issue Riftwatch uniform, rather than her usual floor-length dress with its impractical skirts. Her hair is up in a neat and tidy bun, fringe pinned back away from her eyes. The forearm of the right sleeve of her uniform jacket is pinned up at her shoulder, to prevent its flapping about while they're airborne.
—not that she has any expectations about what they'll be doing today. Though if she did, she might also have smuggled a couple bits of dried meat in her pocket, in hopes of making a good impression.
"I haven't spent much time up here since I first arrived," she admits, watching the griffons with obvious affection, fascination—at a healthy, respectable distance. "The last time I was in the Eyrie, Artichoke tried to eat my hair."
So hopefully he's not the griffon Vanya intends them to ride today—though again, she's not making any assumptions! Ahem.
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"I am, however, realizing that I absolutely should have checked whether you dislike heights, so if you do I can make us a new plan immediately. Otherwise." He retrieves a neatly coiled pile of ropes and harness parts, which he'd set to one side on a bench. "I think I've worked out, with some help, a way for you to securely ride behind me. If you're game. Pamplemousse has had two riders before, that part is fine, I just... I don't want you to worry about your balance."
From the complexity of the gear, it seems likely she could reuse it, if she wants to go flying a second time (and the first flight goes well). He's attentive to her reaction, trying to gauge if he's miscalculated or misstepped in time to pivot if need be.
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"I don't think I'll be afraid," she concludes, after a moment of diligent consideration. "Though I haven't flown before, so I suppose I can't say for certain. The prospect doesn't fill me with dread, at least!"
Not least of all because of all the thought Vanya has clearly put into making this safe for her—the harness is hardly some last-minute construct, jury-rigged makeshift with the belated remembrance of her new defect. He went through no small effort to put this together, and Ness has to purse her lips to hide the pleased smile that threatens to overtake her at the idea of all that thoughtful diligence focused on her, at least for a little while.
"Besides," she says, confident, as she approaches Pamplemousse with one hand out for introductions, "I know you'll keep me safe. What could be frightening with you around?"
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"Well," Vanya says with a little smile, "we'll attempt not to answer that question. But since this is just a pleasure flight, if you feel uneasy or unsettled, just let me know and we'll come back. There's no need to grit your teeth and bear it. I understand flight doesn't agree with everyone." He'd been lucky enough to enjoy it from the first lesson, but he doesn't chalk that up to anything about himself in particular. (Right or wrong.)
He comes to Pamplemousse's other side and puts a hand on the griffon's neck, though he doesn't stroke or scritch her feathers, just leaving the gentle pressure there. "It's something of a team effort, griffon flight," he adds, clearly fond of his flying partner. "She enjoys a game, but she's gotten old enough that she's unlikely to do a roll without being invited anymore. I think she can probably manage a relaxed introduction to the air, can't you girl?" Pamplemousse's response is a gentle trill, a sound familiar from both cats and birds but not quite either one.
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She will make it nothing.
With the approving forward pressure of Pamplemousse's beak against her hand, Ness smiles, and goes for a scritch at the ears—which the griffon quickly ducks away from, not unkind but very clearly indicating her distaste for the practice. Ness pulls back immediately, palm up in placation.
"No petting, Serah 'Mousse, I understand. My apologies for the offense."
Pamplemousse seems to accept the apology—at least, she relaxes and trills again, and Ness smiles at her.
"Well," she says, turning her attention to the harness, examining its mechanisms, "I'm very curious what this will be like, shall we—oh."
Something visibly occurs to her, eyes lighting with a new question, and she looks to Vanya, unsure for the first time.
"Will we be able to hear each other, up there? Does all the," she waves her hand about between them, mimicking gusts of wind, "the wind get loud? And the wings?"
It might be prudent to establish how he feels about telepathy before such a situation arises, rather than be taken by surprise and suddenly muscle into his thoughts without so much as a by-your-leave.
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In the meantime he nods at her question, even if he doesn't immediately follow her thought the step beyond it. "It can be a bit loud. Louder if we go very fast, though I don't plan to. But you'll be at my back, so leaning forward you'll be quite close to my ear." Vanya considers. "I suppose it might make sense to have some sort of signal that's more reliant on touch than sound, if you need to get my attention. Just to be safe. I've carried passengers before but Captain Baudin was mostly concerned with shooting Venatori." Also, her voice carries.
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"Well, that does seem to be something of a pressing issue," the Venatori; if they're in a position to be shooting at them from griffon-back presumably there wasn't much time to deliberate on codes or signals, "but for our purposes... tapping, perhaps?"
She reaches out (and up, because he's so much taller than her, and she has no feelings about that whatsoever,) and taps his shoulder in a deliberate rhythm.
"Something like that?"
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In addition to the harness, he retrieve a small pair of goggles. "These are optional, but I tend to wear some eye protection in the air. For the speed. We've got some modified for things we won't need, like seeing better at night, so it's just for comfort, really." Still, he'd thought it through in advance, methodically going through the tack a passenger might need for a non-combat ride. "I think otherwise you shouldn't need any extra kit, we're going sight-seeing."
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She frowns at the goggles, trying to puzzle through how to put them on by herself, moving her fingers through the motions she thinks she'd need to take to make it work.
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It's early days.
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She could figure it out if she had the time, she's sure—she worked out styling her hair, tying laces, found a system for dressing and writing and reading and is working doggedly on returning to sewing... but Vanya is standing there, and he and Pamplemousse are both waiting on her to be ready. Ness sighs, not terribly upset, and holds the goggles back out to him.
"I'll work on it later, for when we do this again."
Which they will.
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(She's not the first person he's ever known without two working hands, but he would admit if pressed that flight is a new enough addition to his life that he's still working that part out as they go.)
"There's no rush to get it perfect in the first try," he adds as he settles them on her forehead, "as long as you're comfortable for the outing. We can make a variety of adjustments once we know what does and doesn't work." He considers. "Do you think you can pull them down or push them up, or does leaving it loose enough for that feel too insecure?"
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Her expression smooths as he settles the goggles on her head, and she pulls them down to her neck, then back up to her eyes. She turns her head, rolls her neck—stops short of jumping around because that would just look silly—trying to imagine how it will feel up in the sky, wheeling around on a giant bird-cat.
"I think that would be too insecure," she says finally, tests completed, "but a longer tie seems like a good idea. It's hard to—I can manage bows and buckles so long as I can see them. I hadn't thought about anything like this, I haven't practiced for it."
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Off Ness's suggestion, Vanya says, "If you find you enjoy flying, it might make sense to have something custom made. Fastening in front wouldn't be practical, but maybe a set that fastens at the side, near your ear?" But that is, probably, getting ahead of themselves when they don't even know if she's afraid of heights yet.
He checks the fit and seems satisfied. He goes to retrieve the tack for riding, and at that, Pamplemousse perks up noticeably. One ear flicks forward, anticipatory. "I didn't know if I'd be afraid of flying before I tried it," he adds. "I knew I was fine with heights in ... being on ramparts or on top of towers. But it's a different thing."
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"It does seem rather different to standing at the top of a tower," she says, watching him ready Pamplemousse with no small interest. This bit of kit goes here, that strap is tightened only so much, watch the shoulder blade there—she's committing it all to memory, in case she has to do it alone someday. "I've sat cliffside over the Sea of Swords with sharp rocks and crashing surf hundreds of feet below me, but at least then I was in control of when and if I moved."
Oh, but perhaps it sounds like she's convincing herself to be afraid—Ness smiles, to offset it, and lets her genuine enthusiasm colour her voice when she says "This will be a very educational flight. Do you get on first or should I?"