faderift | closed/open || i'm in the business of living

"I have a few lines of inquiry," Tiffany says in answer to the question that's just been asked.

This is after the introductions have been made and the pleasantries have been said and the tea has been poured. It's a chilly day outside, and the slate sky seems to press against the glass of the window. But the fire has been built up, and there is a carpet on the floor and hangings on the walls and--if they weren't in an office in the Gallows--one might be tempted to call the room cozy.

Tiffany's posture has always been good, partly breeding, partly trained into her by drills. She sits straight in the chair in the Scoutmaster's office, her legs folded neatly and her hands folded on her knees. She isn't wearing her armor, of course--dressed simply, in soft brown breeches and a wine-red tunic that tellingly bears the symbol of the Seekers--but she carries something of her armor with her even when she isn't wearing it.

Her small smile, meanwhile, is both pleasant and unguarded. "To be plain, I was sent here to investigate the mage who transformed into an abomination last year, and was killed. His connection to Riftwatch, what has been learned of him through whatever internal investigation was conducted--with an intention to find out how his transformation and death came to be. I have also been asked, more recently and in an internal capacity, to look into your Head of Diplomacy. Whichever you'd prefer to begin with, please."

In the chair opposite, Yseult sits with similarly tidy posture, ankles crossed beneath the smooth fall of navy skirt and a saucer settled on her knee. The finger that rests beneath its edge is more for show than need of security. She matches the pleasant smile.

"We've uncovered little more about the mage than what you've no doubt heard already, but I would be happy to share the few relevant records. By whom were you asked to look into Ambassador Rutyer?"

"I'd appreciate whatever you have. I have a hard time believing in things unless they're written down. That's why I spent so many hours in childhood memorizing the Chant. Well, and because it was required of me."

It's mostly a joke, the quiet and not uproariously funny sort that you make while taking tea with a leader of an organization. Usually best when in the company of someone who takes the Chant seriously-but-not-too-seriously. Tiffany tucks her hair behind one ear.

"As to the second investigation--someone called Flint. I understand that to be the surname of the leader of the Forces Division here as well, but thought it might be coincidence. Where I'm from, there are fifteen families known as Miller."

Yseult smiles for the joke, in the polite-but-not-insincere way that small jokes over tea with new colleagues merit. And as Tiffany goes on, her expression shifts into one of mild surprise, though that too is interrupted briefly by a quick smile for the fifteen Millers. She takes a sip of tea, then settles it back in the saucer and shoots the cuffs of her dove grey blouse before re-folding hands her lap.

"I'm not aware of any other Flint in the organization. What was it about the Ambassador that he asked you to investigate?"

"It comes down to," and Tiffany pauses a moment, in order to select the right word, which brings her to, "bullying," and she winces a little at that eventual choice and makes a gesture of deferral.

"I realize that sounds childish, but I can't think of a better way to describe the sense that I got. Intimidation, or an extended period of hazing? There was a great deal of trepidation, I certainly got that sense."

Yseult doesn't laugh. That would be rude. But she does take a moment to let that sink in, and also to rewind and make absolutely certain she got the right names in the right order the first time through. Then her head tips, angled forward like they're sharing a secret and she smiles, a little crooked, eyes narrowed.

"I'm afraid, Lady Seeker, that you've been made the victim of a joke." Apologetic, but not too much. Not a big deal, all in good fun. "When you meet Commander Flint, you'll see he could not have made that request. Am I correct that this conversation occurred over the crystals? They're very useful, but do allow for a certain amount of mischief."

When it comes to controlling emotions, Tiffany isn't quite as good as Yseult. She is poised, practiced, has learned composure from childhood, but still: when she gets this news, the fact that her stomach does that drop of shame does manage to telegraph on her face. The faint blush that comes to her cheeks lingers longer than she would like it to.

"It did occur over the crystals, yes. You're--" Well. She sighs, and leans back in her chair a little. "I want to ask if you're quite sure, but I can't imagine you'd be having me on. I did say that I did not want to be hazed. I imagine that was taken as a bit of a challenge."

"I'm quite sure." Yseult's smile sticks, just scrunching slightly in sympathy. "Don't worry, I won't tell. But you may want to think back over anything else you were told on arrival, to be safe. More tea?"

She offers the pot, simple but pretty blue-grey stoneware, and pours if desired. "Am I correct in thinking you're from Ferelden originally?"

"Thank you, yes--" Tiffany holds her cup out gratefully, steady of hand as Yseult pours out. "And it's very kind of you to keep my secret. I am Fereldan, yes--my family's holdings are in the Ruswold. I was taken for training when I was quite young but I was allowed home often enough that I kept the accent. And the traditions. And," her mouth twists in a wry little smile, "perhaps more of the backwards country rube sensibilities than I'd like to think. I should be more discerning in who and what I take to heart."

Her wry smile is met with a brighter flare of one from Yseult and a shake of her head. "Don't be too hard on yourself. There's no shame in having given them the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully they'll prove more worthy of it in the future."

She nudges the tray with cream and sugar nearer, and tops up her own cup before sitting back again. "Is investigating the abomination the sole purpose of your visit?"

"I hope so too. And thank you," as she leans forward to take the cream, "not just for the tea, of course, but for your kindness. As to my purpose here, I'll confess, the investigation is the start of things for me, but not the end. The Seekers of Truth have an interest in the important work that Riftwatch is doing, and have asked for me to join as a liaison and contact. It's far too open to be actual spying on their behalf. Everything will be above the board and in the open. That's my preferred way to work, anyways. Of course you know our history with the Inquisition--or rather, the Inquisition's history with us. The hope is that my presence here will be the start of a similar relationship."

She nods toward the door as she lifts her cup to her lips. "And I brought a donation with me. Small, but hopefully helpful to Riftwatch's cause. Our cause."

It's after training that Matthias--sweaty, somewhat breathless still and breathing so hard his breath clouds on the air--looks over at Nell. Knight-Enchanter Voss. He can't let go of her title. Nor can he--despite training with her and talking with her and dreaming that he was close enough to be her bloody brother (a lofty dream indeed)--let go of his awe when it comes to her. Sometimes he'll forget who she is and what he's heard of her. Then he'll blink and it will come back to him and causes him to nearly drop his staff.

They've been doing the spirit blade today. It's coming easier for Matthias, a firmer shape. When he'd first started it was barely a spit of shape. Now it forms into a proper blade each time, holds its form, and only toward the end does it begin to look wibbly at the edges.

Keeping the blade formed leaves him spent for the rest of the day, watery in the knees and shaky in the arms, just as if he'd fought a whole sodding battle on his own. Nell is better, of course--that goes without saying--so it's only Matthias that is crouched on the hard-packed frozen dirt of the training yard, gulping in great gasps of air and trying to slow his rabbity heart rate.

"Can I ask you something?" he manages, after a bit, then--shit--winces at himself and turns his gaze down to the frost-crusted dirt. "Something besides 'can I ask you something'."

Nell leans casually on her staff, the spirit blade vanished from the butt that's now planted in the dirt. She's catching her breath, too, but decades of training this hard have their benefit, and she's not to the point yet where it's so many decades it comes back around to being a problem. So her free arm may be draped over the top of her head, but she's also got an ankle jauntily crossed, and plenty of breath to laugh.

"Yeah, alright. We'll call that one free."

He pulls a face at himself, hunches his shoulders a little, but relaxes quickly enough. She might be laughing at him, but she's not laughing at him. It's a key distinction to Matthias.

His arms are hanging down, leaving his hands to trail on the frozen ground. Restlessly, he pushes at it, melting that top layer of frost.

"D'you think you could do blood magic for good? Not you-you," he adds, quickly, "the general you."

There aren't many mages who you might ask something like that. Blood magic, as practice, as problem, it's a heavy and loaded subject. Matthias' list of possible sources for trusted opinions is very short. Knight-Enchanter Voss won't turn him over to anyone else for asking, and might even answer. Or that's what Matthias hopes, at least.

Nell's first reaction is to slide a glance around them, a casual look back over her shoulder like she's stretching a kink out of her neck. Seeing no one within earshot, she turns her attention back to Matthias. The turn is just as casual as the one that came before, but there's nothing casual in the way she's looking at Matthias--not in judgment but like she's trying to read the question's motivation written across his face.

"The only times blood magic is even worth considering," she says, matter-of-fact but serious, as the subject merits, "are when you're in a fight and you've been magebaned or Silenced and can't wait it out. Or if you've lost your staff and can't get by without it long enough to get away or get another. And I mean the kind of blood magic where you just use your own for power. The kind that means mind control or making people puppets? That's magister shit that does no mage any good."

Edited 2021-02-28 23:00 (UTC)

Serious in turn, Matthias nods. He'd looked up as she'd begun her response, which means his face is open to her: grave, anxious, interested, eager to hear what it is she's got to say. In his head, he's already picking apart and filing away everything that she said, committing the words to hard truths just as sure as if he were chiseling them into rock.

"Right. All right. Only it was that sort, the-- controlling sort, if it was that or get killed." For all that it happened in a dream, only a dream, he's more or less telling on himself, but Knight-Enchanter Voss is someone that he trusts. The fact that she'd answered, genuinely, has only made that trust stronger. "You'd let yourself get killed? Or let someone else get killed?"

Nell's frown is aimed into the middle-distance, clearly meant for the hypothetical, not its asking: "I can't think why that'd ever be your only choice. If you can do magic at all, you can do something else."

"Right, yeah. But if it was like, you were across the room, and you were Silenced. And someone was going to be killed. And you couldn't get there to like, physically stop it from happening, or anything, but you could do that and you could stop it, so--then, if you did."

Well. Matthias frowns, too, and looks back down at the ground. He drags his fingers back the other way, recreating the furrows in the frost that he'd drawn.

Nell shrugs, head shaking. "If you can reach them with that then you can use your blood to power some other spell instead. Even if you come up with some situation where mind control's the only type of spell that could save someone, it's so rare it's not worth what it'd cost to train for. That kind of magic takes practice just like any other. It's not like you can just do it out of the blue that once, you've got to spend hours sticking your fingers in other people's minds to learn it first."

"Oh. Yeah. Okay."

Matthias presses his fingertips onto the frozen ground, committing some of his weight to them. The pressure whitens his knuckles; turns his fingertips red. He lets out a breath.

"It was in the dream," he says without looking at her. "That's all." He keeps his head down, his voice pitched low, keeping this between them. Even this is a major confession. If they were in a Circle, Matthias' admission would spell serious trouble. Even outside a Circle, he knows he's as good as stepping on a glyph to say it aloud. I dreamed I did blood magic, the worst sort. But he has to say it.

"I can't stop thinking about it. If I did it, then, I might do it. It was easy. I just--pulled on him and he stopped. He was this Vint. It was a dream, and I knew it was a dream, which-- I dunno if that's better, or if it's worse. I did think someone might get killed. Laura. My girlfriend. Sorry," and he leans back, takes the pressure off his finger tips, scrubs one hand over his face. "You didn't sign up for this, I know, I just don't-- I don't know."

Nell straightens up, stretching one arm out across her chest and then the other, staff propped balanced against a shoulder.

"So long as you didn't make a deal with a demon, a dream's just a dream," she says when he's done, skimming past the bits she's less comfortable engaging to the blood magic, "I've done all sorts of shit in dreams. In real life it's not a thing you can just do on a whim or by accident. You'd have to choose. You'd get to choose. But I'd strongly advise you choose not to if you want to be able to use a spirit blade, blood magic fucks your connection to the Fade."

"Yeah."

Just a dream, is what Matthias is hanging on to. He drops his gaze back to the dirt, pushes his fingertips against it again.

"I don't want anything to cock that up. The spirit blade, I mean. That's-- that's important, to me. I mean, so's living a long time, if I can manage it. D'you think everyone thinks about this? Every mage, I mean. In the Circle I remember them saying never to do it, and I still think that's right, if you can manage it. If is the word, innit. 'Cause then you hear about, y'know--things happening. Times when the choice wasn't easy. That's what I think about. All the time."

closed/open || i'm in the business of living

closed to Yseult

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yseult taking time to make sure she gets the right names in the right order, unlike me

you're an inspiration

gosh

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closed to Nell

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