Now that everyone is—for the most part—present and accounted for, the Gallows has turned en masse to coordination, each division in their own ways: Research by poring over Cosima's notes on red lyrium, Diplomacy by reaching out to contacts across Thedas, Scouting and Forces by preparing for Corypheus' inevitable reprisal. Everyone is helping the displaced citizens of Lavendel settle in and find work. There's plenty of work to be getting on with; enough that whatever losses they did take, there is little time to linger on them.
Much as one might want to.
von Skraedder was—more than anything, it was horrific. That's what Ness heard, anyway, she wasn't in the Cauldron herself. She's glad of that, truthfully; curious as she is, she can't see anything to gain from watching a comrade explode. Teren... Well. Hopefully she wasn't aware there at the end. Hopefully the last thing she knew was that they'd won, and she'd redeemed her fellow Wardens.
Vanya...
No one knows what happened to Vanya, and Ness has asked everyone. No one saw him fall, or be taken by the enemy, or run. All they know is he didn't come through the eluvian with them, and he's not in the Gallows now. Pamplemousse didn't return, either. It's been over a week since Riftwatch returned from the Anderfels.
Ness has been so busy these past days, reaching out to the Inquisition and her University contacts, chronicling the events of the Cauldron for the Archives, cobbling together supplies enough for the citizens of Lavendel. More often than not she ends her days long after sundown, curled on the chaise in the office, only to wake a handful of hours later to begin again. There's precious little time for personal pursuits, personal grief. More often than not, she doesn't have even a second to think about—it.
But there are... moments. Brief lulls between tasks, when her mind has just enough time to wander and her chest to ache and her eyes to prickle and she
moves on to the next thing. There's no time to spend on grieving, what-ifs, wishes. Too much to do to allow herself to fall into mourning.
Tonight, it's well past sundown, and Ness sits back in her seat, rubbing her eyes to relieve a dull ache. She's been writing for hours in the dim, unnatural violet light of her father's magic, and elfblood eyes aren't meant for this—not to mention her hand, cramped and throbbing from hours of use without a break.
A soft sigh, and she concedes to her body. A reprieve, just a small one, would not go amiss.
She rises from her seat and stretches, elongating her back and spreading her shoulders, flexing her arm, her wrist. Only now can she feel the dull pain in the small of her back, the tight tension in her arm, her shoulders: everything hurts. This must be what getting old feels like, she'll have to express her sympathies to Vanya and Stephen—
Ness stops mid-stretch. Her breath hitches, quite suddenly, and her shoulders tremble, and before she can stop herself she's crying, quiet weeping that begins to rise in volume the longer she fails to master herself. She presses her hand to her mouth to stifle the sounds. Curls forward, protective, around the horrid feeling in her stomach.
The drowlight hovering above her desk flickers, then winks out, leaving the office in darkness.
@wearyallalone; he is just himself, and i miss him and miss him and miss him.
Much as one might want to.
von Skraedder was—more than anything, it was horrific. That's what Ness heard, anyway, she wasn't in the Cauldron herself. She's glad of that, truthfully; curious as she is, she can't see anything to gain from watching a comrade explode. Teren... Well. Hopefully she wasn't aware there at the end. Hopefully the last thing she knew was that they'd won, and she'd redeemed her fellow Wardens.
Vanya...
No one knows what happened to Vanya, and Ness has asked everyone. No one saw him fall, or be taken by the enemy, or run. All they know is he didn't come through the eluvian with them, and he's not in the Gallows now. Pamplemousse didn't return, either. It's been over a week since Riftwatch returned from the Anderfels.
Ness has been so busy these past days, reaching out to the Inquisition and her University contacts, chronicling the events of the Cauldron for the Archives, cobbling together supplies enough for the citizens of Lavendel. More often than not she ends her days long after sundown, curled on the chaise in the office, only to wake a handful of hours later to begin again. There's precious little time for personal pursuits, personal grief. More often than not, she doesn't have even a second to think about—it.
But there are... moments. Brief lulls between tasks, when her mind has just enough time to wander and her chest to ache and her eyes to prickle and she
moves on to the next thing. There's no time to spend on grieving, what-ifs, wishes. Too much to do to allow herself to fall into mourning.
Tonight, it's well past sundown, and Ness sits back in her seat, rubbing her eyes to relieve a dull ache. She's been writing for hours in the dim, unnatural violet light of her father's magic, and elfblood eyes aren't meant for this—not to mention her hand, cramped and throbbing from hours of use without a break.
A soft sigh, and she concedes to her body. A reprieve, just a small one, would not go amiss.
She rises from her seat and stretches, elongating her back and spreading her shoulders, flexing her arm, her wrist. Only now can she feel the dull pain in the small of her back, the tight tension in her arm, her shoulders: everything hurts. This must be what getting old feels like, she'll have to express her sympathies to Vanya and Stephen—
Ness stops mid-stretch. Her breath hitches, quite suddenly, and her shoulders tremble, and before she can stop herself she's crying, quiet weeping that begins to rise in volume the longer she fails to master herself. She presses her hand to her mouth to stifle the sounds. Curls forward, protective, around the horrid feeling in her stomach.
The drowlight hovering above her desk flickers, then winks out, leaving the office in darkness.