HEROINE, A GRIN MADE FOR WAR AND EYES FLECKED WITH ASH

independent multimuse rp blog main blog to feitletrad and iskapi

[vivi-kibou]

Random person: Why do you like height difference ships so much?

Me: *imagines them doing this.*

Me: No reason.

[alltstjornu]

atonings:

—✕ █ ▌Her hand seems to CURL into a tiny fist, all but giving Brook the kind of punch only a worried little sister could give. The tears of frustration bloom at the edge of her eyes; it is enough to bring an ACHING sensation to the muscles of Loghain’s heart. ❝It MAKES SENSE —- there might be more Wardens alive, but …❞ His words fall flat as the sensation of INTRUSION sinks in. Everything’s happening so quickly.

He looks away as Isla holds her sister, from the young Warden a choked sob. A HAPPY REUNION, this could not be, not with demons lurking beneath every crevasse and crack of the tower. He shudders to think of what may have happened to Isla’s sister if they arrived just a second later; his mind is already BURNED at the sight of demons and death.

❝Greagoir’s office … Got it …❞ Loghain mutters underneath his breath, fingers fiddling with the map of the tower. Why someone would make a mess of MAPPING OUT a prison? He doesn’t know. Glances flicker back towards the pair of sisters, his expression clouded by WORRY over their wellbeing.

Isla, meanwhile is SWALLOWED by this. She rests in fear that her dear sister would fall away at any second, even more afraid and ON EDGE than Loghain appears to be. She notices nothing else —- not the way the old general pores over his map, or the way Alistair and Lancel ( her war hound, naturally ) guard the entrances, or certainly not how Wynne takes this moment to settle a healing shroud over their party.

Fingers twitch around Brook’s backside, as Loghain reaches the point of action, Isla just wants to keep one hand CONNECTED to her sister at all times. Eyes flicker towards the sleeve of Brook’s robe, to the fearful hunger in a stormy gaze. She finally separates herself from the other Amell, only after offering another QUICK hug.

« How’s … » Her voice DIES in her throat at the thought of the friends they both keep, the Templar who had a crush on Isla ( whom she secretly fancied back ) and Brook’s paramour and the young elf Isla sometimes hung out with. But she halts: this isn’t the time or the place. She’ll just have to settle with Brook’s BOTTLING for a little while. « We’ll talk … later, okay? »

The party packs up to leave and Loghain walks towards Isla to confer with her about the PROPER ROUTE forwards. Yet, he’s halted, head tilted towards Brook. ❝I’ll accept your apology when you buy me a drink,❞ he jokes wearily. ❝I probably DESERVED that, anyway.❞

"I've missed you too, Is," Brook murmurs at her sister's choked sob. She can't believe how true that sentiment is - though she and Isla have bickered like only siblings can in the past, Isla's appearance could only have been outdone by the appearance of Andraste herself coming to release them from the hellscape the Tower had become.

Isla questions her, but Brook can only shrug. "Ain't seen many friendly folk. Haven't really been able to move about the tower much without runnin' into demons and the like." She can stand up in a fight with a demon or abomination, but Brook isn't so stupid as to think she can make any distance. She doesn't have the stamina or mana to last a full on assault by herself, not to mention her stomach is clawing with hunger and she hasn't slept more than a couple of hours uninterrupted.

They move on, and she falls in step with the group.

She gives Loghain a wry grin. "Sure. If I get out of here, first drink's on me. I'll probably have to borrow from you to buy it, though." Now she's absorbed he's real, she feels a little starstruck. How many hopeless nights had she spent bent over the books about the Orlesian occupation and their ousting, dreaming of leading her own rebellion one day? How many times had she played make-believe, masking her own feelings as pretending to be King Maric and his trusted friend?

Her face blooms suddenly at the thought of how much Isla might have told Loghain about her childhood games and fantasies.

She violently changes the subject of her own thoughts. "Did I see you with a map of the tower? Aint sure how much use it's gonna be. There's lots of barricades and debris between here an' the offices upstairs."

[atonings]

@alltstjornu - “i’m your friend. of course i care.” - gascoigne      ↪ meme || not accepting

—✕ █ ▌It still comes across as an alien thought to Loghain. He’s not had a DISCUSSION of ill repute shared with Gascoigne; despite his problems, he’s been welcomed by the other Warden far more readily than he thought would be the case. Instead of being REBUKED, he’s seen Gascoigne to be a kind man, patient and understanding – A FRIEND.

❝My friend,❞ he murmurs in a voice of quiet DISBELIEF, eyes lifting to meet the stare of his fellow Warden. ❝Is that truly the case?❞

As Loghain speaks, he truly can’t believe it, as if he’s FORGOTTEN in a moment months of patience and open hearts. His posture uncurls just slightly, from before a hunched over mess, to a SEMBLANCE of a man, Loghain’s eyes flickering down and then up again in a quick pattern as if someone else is here —

❝I - ah, THANK YOU …❞

[alltstjornu]

"How oft have you witnessed me choosing to spend my spare eves with other Wardens?" Gascoigne muses. "How oft have I offered them wine, tidbits, my company, or glimpses of my daughter's letters?"

Gascoigne was not known for being forthcoming within the Warden ranks - he was generally regarded as being secretive and lonesome. It wasn't entirely by choice. Gascoigne was just a man with little in common with the whelps further down the ranks, and with little in common with Clarel, who's leadership he'd clashed with many times. Loghain, on the other hand - another old man with a perchance for booziness, children far off who were women in their own rights, a past littered with mistakes and missteps? Well, how could Gasgoine deign to push a rare find away?

"I am your friend, Loghain. Now speak your troubles to me. I may not have answers, but it never hurts to relieve the mind."

[hcartliines]

   💗    ▎❝  BROOK AMELL  ❞ @alltstjornu

【RYLLIS AEDUCAN】─ STILL TOO EARLY IT IS FOR anyone to discern who the real leader of the two is, simply that the answer is ‘ Not Alistair. ’ She rolled her eyes at his first insistence that he’s not the leader — — despite all protocol saying he SHOULD BE — — and only refrained from protesting because this sort of thing is what she was born to do —- most literally. She doesn’t want to crowd Brook, assert herself too much, though she’s made it known to listen to the advice of both Alistair and ( to Alistair’s disgust ) Morrigan. So far Brook seems to be so much the same, though perhaps it is merely that she’s UNUSED to so much fresh air.

❝SO, YOU’RE QUITE THE FAN OF trousers, mm?❞ She’s holding her head at quite the angle, eyes twinkling as Brook seems … positively ecstatic at being able to move more freely. Being a dwarf, she never UNDERSTOOD why mages didn’t just wear light armour — it isn’t as if Brook is that much weaker than Daveth was.

AT THE THOUGHT OF DAVETH SHE sighs and clutches her Joining pendant without much of a thought. She didn’t know him or Jory long enough to be TRULY SAD, and yet —- their deaths reminded her of what it means to be a Warden.

❝DID YOU NEVER WEAR THEM BEFORE?❞

[alltstjornu]

"You have no idea," Brook agrees, wryly. Buckskin feels so much better against her skin than the silk robes that, in retrospect, seemed designed specifically to dis-empower her. They got  heavy when wet, the skirts got caught around her legs, the sleeves flared, and Maker's breath, she wasn't missing the heavy weight of the belt required to cinch the damn thing around her waist. There's no frog-loop on the back of the shirt and vest she'd also bought to attach her staff, so she just leans against it. Stolen from the repository, little more than a stick, it blends in with the rest of the crowd much better than the standard staves given to mages of the Circle, looking more like a walking staff than a magical one.

Brook has never felt or looked more like a regular person rather than an abomination, and she's ecstatic about that.

"Not that I can remember," she replies to Ryllis' question. "Even the Templars back home wear skirts. It's like the entire circle has an allergy to buckskin."

[buffonias]

[alltstjornu]

I wanna write but my wrists hate me why is this

[alltstjornu]

@hcartliines  || alistair theirin

The only reason she even signed up to this job in the first place was because of pressure from Conrad to pony up coin, but from the first moment she arrived on site, she regretted yielding. The boss was unpleasantly gruff, and she instinctively hated his lording. Little did she know that the simple job - mostly involving guarding a shipment through a dangerous territory beyond Kirkwall's walls - would get much more complicated than she'd bargained for.

"Just so you're aware, you're not the only merc I've hired," the boss told her. She was under the impression he might have been the boss, but certainly wasn't responsible for the job at hand. He struck her as some sort of middle-man - in charge, but not invested.

"I don't care," Brook muttered, already itching for her hip flask. "Really, I don't. I'll do the job and I'll do it well and that's all either of us should care about."

The boss nodded, cleared his throat and gestured for her to follow. They passed under a ginnel and crossed some sort of courtyard to where the others he had hired were gathering, preparing for the job ahead. She counted among them a dwarf, an elf, two humans that looked Chasind, and at the end of group....

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. Fuck. That was the last person in the whole of Thedas she wanted to see.

"... well ... shit," she breathed as their gazes crossed, her eyes fixed on him like a deer under a hunter's bow.

[atonings]

@alltstjornu - “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m like this.” (brook)      ↪ meme || not accepting

—✕ █ ▌Loghain could say the same about himself, TRUTH BE TOLD. He feels his hands shake no matter how much he tries to still them. They curl and uncurl from this state in equal measures, posture frozen in place in every other inch of his body. He blinks back COOLNESS in his eyes, and slowly, so slowly, a hand raises to brush shaking fingers through her tangled mess of hair.

Truth be told, he can’t understand her, NOT INTIMATELY. In broad strokes, he thinks he feels her pain and every time she raises a bottle to her lips he screams for a taste of his own. He knows she chases away her fears with liquor poison for he’s the EXACT same way. Loghain sighs, nose curling up and a curve of his lips following.

❝Don’t … Don’t, okay? We both know I’m MESSED UP too.❞ He strums up courage, presses lips to her forehead. ❝I’m SORRY too.❞

[alltstjornu]

She feels terrible, and for once, it’s not because of the alcoholic burn in her throat and belly. It’s rare drink gets her into this state - she’s usually passed out or given up long before she’s so belligerently drunk she’s uncontrollably emotional, but Maker’s breath, tonight, she’s managed it. She doesn’t even remember what she lost her temper at Loghain about - only that she’d screamed at him and maybe thrown a bottle at something? Or did she make that up? She forgets.

Loghain’s hand cards through her hair, and she has to stop herself from trembling at it’s tenderness. She doesn’t deserve the fatherly attention he pays her. A traitorous part of her wishes he’d wise up and go away. A selfish part of her refuses to let go.

“Sorry I yelled at you,” she mutters after feeling the dry rasp of lips against her forehead, refusing to look at him, refusing to make the heat in her face worse. Despite herself, her traitorous eyes mist and then clear again, dropping hot tears onto her hand. Stop it, she thinks, unsuccessful. Stop crying. It’s pathetic. Stop. She rubs the back against her cheek and tries stubbornly to ignore it, but she’s already fighting back hiccups.

[atonings]

@alltstjornu - “When this is all over, I’ll still be here, and so will you.” (brook)      ↪ meme || not accepting

—✕ █ ▌It doesn’t feel as if it is the case. Her words have voiced aloud how clear it is that it is his mind she needs most. Not at all an altruistic effort to hold the archdemon at bay, but a PRACTICAL one. Despite his initial venom, it is a decision he respects even if he’s grown to feel WARMTH at her words, at concerns that rise from within her chest whether she believes herself or not.

He glances at the map between his fingers, ASSURED that when the moment comes, he’ll be dead and she will LIVE. His lip wavers as he observes the passage of roads, a part of him wishing he were a mere traveler through his beloved nation, but a stronger urge ITCHES for him to drown in the Darkspawn poison she passed on to him.

❝Is that a PROMISE?❞ The words aren’t hopeful, yet laced with THIN DESPAIR, sharp blue gaze dotted with tears quickly blinked back. He can’t bear to look at her, hands shaking as the shove her gift into his belt. ❝You shouldn’t make promises like that. You shouldn’t talk as if this is a CERTAINTY.❞

[alltstjornu]

She can’t read maps. She’s tried, but the lines and sworls on the paper never made much sense to her, and she finds she doesn’t really need them once she’s familiar with a place anyway. They seemed almost useless until now.

She can’t quite read Loghain’s mood - he almost permanently looks like she just shot his dog, and it’s taking longer than she expected to figure out the subtlety of his expressions. But she’s almost certain he seems upset, so she gifts him the map on Anora’s recommendation, knowing he likes them.

It doesn’t quite seem to work. He just looks more melancholy. He tucks her gift away and shrugs off her attempt at comfort, seeing right through that it’s something of a hollow promise on her part. She opens her mouth and closes it again, holding back the joking response leaping to her tongue. Sure! If I say it often enough, we’ll both believe it. That’s how it works, yeah? But, she doesn’t think that will go down quite how she intends, with all the humour of a man on the gallows. Instead, she finds her reply more earnest than she perhaps intends. “Closer to a prayer, I think. Or maybe a threat. Can prayers be threats? Anyway, if I meet the Maker, I’m wringin’ his neck first chance I get. An’ if he gets the both of us, I expect you to help.”

Not that she’s entirely decided whether she even intends to survive herself. But she doesn’t tell Loghain that. He doesn’t need to hear her own demons right now.

[atonings]

—✕ █ ▌❝At least she was not so stubborn as to think we’d believe she holds no feelings for you. Girl is an OPEN BOOK about her affection … ❞ Perhaps it is the man’s fatherly instincts sinking in that he’s noticed how much she cares about Jack, or perhaps she truly is OBVIOUS.

The pin drops before he could joke any longer, his lips curling downwards as the realisation slams into him. ❝ — Can it be?❞ He murmurs mostly to himself. The fate that lies ahead of all Wardens hangs IN THE BALANCE so suddenly between them. It is but a hunch that she spoke of the fate she shares with Loghain, and yet – ❝You are AWARE of … our short lifespans … Yes?❞ He asks carefully.

He knows not what to gain and to learn of Brook’s FEARS, but his suspicions would never leave him if he did not pluck at them like the strings of a harp. He leans forward, expression as DEADLY SERIOUS as it was when he all but threatened Jack with death if he so much as harmed Loghain’s surrogate daughter.

❝That must be what it is that worries her, the INEVITABILITY of what it means to be a Warden. At least that is what I feel —- Oh, Maker, I’d much rather the two of you be sickening lovebirds.❞

[alltstjornu]

“I know, right?” Jack chuckled. He’d caught glimpses of Brook staring at him, gaze unusually soft for for the intense blue colour and dark lashes. When she realised she’d been caught, she’d turn away and pretend she wasn’t staring, but it would be too late, and she’d know it. Her face would flush bright pink, like fresh roses were blooming under her skin. It was adorable.

“I... what? ... do you mean Warden lifespans?” Shortened lifespans? Is that why Brook was so convinced she was dying? She made it sound far worse than that, like something creeping closer by the day. “I thought she had a deadly lump or - or that sickness that makes you lose control of everything. I wasn’t aware it was tied to her being a Warden.”

Something clicked in his mind then, a pair of puzzle pieces slotting together to show a larger picture painted on their surface. “Is Brook’s conviction she’s about to die tied to the other Warden’s strange behaviour? She seems to think it’s imminent, not just a side effect of her job,” he ventures carefully. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? The timing was right. She indicated it was something she’d learned about not long before they’d met, and they’d met at the Conclave, when everything went to hell. “Is it something I can use to convince her she’s being a fool?”

[atonings]

—✕ █ ▌Eyes blink in an OWLISH manner, Loghain’s gaze falling from the man — Gideon — to Brook. He wants to PROTECT the girl still, an irrational thought when she can handle herself well, and this Gideon seems to be not a foe. He nearly reaches out to hold her hand, but it falls flat at his hip instead.

❝If her past actions have caused you to feel unsafe, wait till you hear about mine,❞ Loghain mutters with a curl of his lip. Despite this, he remains quiet for a few moments, polite enough to allow BANTER to slide between the two mages. He is also overwhelmed with the feeling of being left out, as if he doesn’t belong in the world of mages.

Upon being INTRODUCED, he shakes Gideon’s hand, firm but not bone crushing. He’s glad for once to reach the stage of introductions; it means he can PUSH HIMSELF into the limelight, even if it is in but a small manner. ❝PLEASED to meet you, Gideon.❞ If he is surprised to be meeting the girl’s other father figure, he expresses it none. ❝I’ll try not to be a bother to you.❞

Brisk, business-like, anything he can pull off to remove himself of UNPLEASANT vulnerabilities; Loghain would rather not delve into interpersonal family reunions, if only because feeling like a third wheel is NOT SIMPLY something he handles well. ❝We’re looking for ANSWERS, and what is the best place for knowledge than a library? There’s no need to hide any mages ripe for recruiting.❞

[alltstjornu]

"You have not advocated for the genocide of this Circle," Gideon replies, even-toned, but Brook has the integrity to look completely ashamed by his accusation.

"I thought it was for the best," she mutters hollowly, finally summoning the spine to lift her eyes and meet Gideon's cold gaze. He's not my father, he's not even my senior any more. He's nothing. He has no power over me. She still feels like she wants to escape her own skin, but shame has turned into fury, and without Loghain's guidance, she would have turned on him already. Instead, it comes out in an irrefutable hardened tone; "Besides, I ain't that woman anymore."

Gideon passes over her fury, disbelievingly, disarming Brook with his refusal to engage her. Instead he focuses on Loghain. "I see no reason to refuse you both, though I have to ask precisely what it is you think you'll find here. Most tomes here are fundamental magical texts."

"Actually," Brook says, knowing she's about to blindside both Loghain and Gideon, but feeling the old rebellious streak inside her rearing it’s head in response to. "I thought ‘bout that. I think we'll do better with the malificarum's stash. I'm guessin' it got locked back in the repository?"

Gideon looks wide-eyed at Loghain, pleading with him to explain.

[sotick]

By  Seanmundy

[moonletgarden]

Sinking 

[atonings]

—✕ █ ▌Killing BETTER men than me? That’s not hard to do, the sarcastic, well believed thought crosses his mind, yet does not pass through lips. Despite the way he obeys her every step, there’s feigned pride dripping from the way his head hangs high. Still, there’s an ALMOST SMUGNESS that she needs him, an emotion born from the need to survive — something of which is at war with the CORE of his being.

Yet, before he could process such feelings the two Wardens bounce back and forth —- battle plans; a throne he can sit upon comfortably and PROUDLY. His mind may toss and turn with itself all he wants, as long as he can spend the last of his days hunched over a map with plans laid out.

❝Well, TELL them,❞ he murmurs distractedly, first and foremost curious about what forces those three could muster — Templars are certainly weakened, but the elves and dwarves? There’s some OPTIMISM left. Eyes lift as he nods to every word she says. ❝I SUPPOSE you are right about the Templars, though this means that what you say of the elves may not be SO if …❞ If she chose her kind? He shakes his head; what ifs are not meant for a man with REGRET on his shoulders. ❝I am certain that a letter from the Queen could sway Greagoir’s opinion. I’d rather not have prejudices fly WILD with pressing matters at hand —-❞

Eyes glance up and they are tired, as if begging her to cease this charade and be done with him when the first opportunity arises. The look FADES in a moment, scraps of paper transferred and he reads and reads in slow careful motions as if he’s still learning how. He hates being in charge of money; unlike leading soldiers, it is UNFAMILIAR territory — and unlike leading soldiers the cost is not so dire in the face of failure … usually.

❝You and me both, Commander. But we have a fine quartermaster here who can do the work instead — ❞ A name is scribbled out in the corner of the nearest parchment page. ❝Hope they’re ready to send now; we CANNOT WASTE any time.❞

He wills this to END; sooner rather than later, he prays for the battle to begin and for HIS DEATH to arrive. He expresses it well, shoulders slumping forward as if he’s been depleted of his vital organs, shriveling up in the end. The threat of Orlais still feels real to him, and despite what he says to his Commander, he freezes up, UNABLE TO SPEAK of the future that might just open up between them.

❝Do you REALISE,❞ he begins, voice slow and steady and with fear well concealed. ❝What may happen if Orlais CHOOSES still to help?❞ What if we are barely enough? His unasked question hanging in the air. Still STUBBORN despite permission offered, it is almost as if he needs assurances of something. That he’s not crazy for his prior suspicions? That the threat of the Masked Empire is not one to disappear so easily? He massages his temple with a worn hand.

He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of moving messengers, nervous breathing in his surroundings, and his own rumbling stomach. It ONLY NOW sinks in how long it has been since he last ate, only now sinks in how much time he’s spent lately running on pure adrenaline. He sighs, and it cuts through the air like a knife.

[alltstjornu]

Commander. Maker's balls, she thinks. I'm not ready for this. Not for the first time, she feels the desire to bolt, to hide, to run for the hills and never look back. She's not a commander. Loghain has it in him to be a Commander, but not her. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. She tries to swallow down the thick bubble of anxiety rising from her stomach, but it's stuck there, burning and acidic.

"I'll go send 'em once we're done here," she replies, trying to focus. "Maker knows I'd have preferred mages on my side, but..." she keeps the horror story to herself. She barely has it in her to relive those few days storming Kinloch, never mind recounting it to another man. "It just ain't possible. Greagoir will have to listen."

She zones out, until Loghain brings up the spectre of Orlesian invasion, consumed with panic, staring at papers that seemed undecipherable as etchings in the elvhen ruins, even though she wrote them. "I know." Her reply is thick with worry, knowledge that Ferelden has been beaten down in the past year and that admitting they need help was leaving an opening that Orlais could strike. They might currently be awkward allies, and before, enemies, but Brook grew up admiring and consuming every scrap of knowledge about Loghain and Maric's war with Orlais, when war and their players seemed almost romantic. She's not blind to what the empire could do. She has to bite back a hysterical laugh, fearing it would descend into madness. How much of her youth has this damned war taken from her?

"We've not the numbers to try again if we fail." She knows that well enough. "Askin' Orlais might be the only way to survive, no matter what they're gonna do after that. I'm not sayin' it's ideal. I'm sayin' we might not survive to try again without support."

She leans her elbows on the table and rubs her eyes, Loghain's display of weariness making it difficult to continue her own charade of wellness. Now they're acting civil, the rush of the fight was seeping out of her bones and leaving them achingly tired, like she hasn't slept in months (and she certainly hasn't slept well in months, that's for sure).

"Is there anythin' else we can do before we get messages back from the others?"

[atonings]

—✕ █ ▌« But didn’t you HEAR about Wardens surviving? » She gestures to Alistair’s just now recovering figure, hands WILD in their worry. « Just two of us, but — but I FIGURED that — well – » She clearly never expected this much of a mess.

Yet she hovers, and Alistair and Wynne too, all kept at a RESPECTABLE distance as if a forcefield has opened up around this Brook. Loghain being too close for comfort merely grumbles his response, WARY eyes flickering to each of his traveling companions.

❝USELESS Chantry,❞ Loghain mutters. ❝Leave it to the Templars to exist ONLY to bully the weak and defenceless. Even Alistair would have done better.❞

« Hey! »

Alistair’s wounded voice ECHOES across the chamber, but dies, the last word spoken for quite some time. Loghain doesn’t dare attack Brook, neither does the insulted Warden, and Wynne seems to glance between the two girls in a matronly fashion. It all CHANGES the moment Brook moves.

« Brook! » Isla doesn’t hesitate to throw her arms around her sister, physically affectionate as Loghain has QUICKLY learned. The old man edges away from the sisters; would be just my luck if she accidentally impaled me with her staff. « We need to talk about our next course of action. ALL OF US. »

Loghain pulls himself to his feet and stretches, Alistair stepping aside to keep watch. The old man meets the GAZE of the young mage in charge of his life, and Maker, she’s trying. Trying so hard — He breathes out through his nose, resting his shoulder against a half toppled pillar. ❝So the Templars WON’T help us, then? That’s … great.❞ His voice is a dull, deadpan thing, seemingly UNAWARE of the family reunion in place — or perhaps merely feeling too much like an outsider.

[alltstjornu]

"Nah, I just thought I'd threaten you an' accuse you of being dead for the fun of it," Brook replied, completely deadpan. "I was down in solitary for helpin' Jowan. I didn't hear nothin' after they told me about Ostagar. Greagoir thought I should know you'd- died. Then some malificar an' abominations came down lookin' for weapons and artefacts an' came across me in my cell. It must have happened before anyone could tell me you might be alive."

She shudders at the memory despite her attempt to suppress it. She'd never forget the creeping chill that went down her spine when she realised they intended to try and turn her too, when she realised something had gone horribly wrong. Had she not had played along long enough to make it to the repository and arm herself, had she not done the things she'd done, she shuddered to think how Isla would have found her.

She tugged her sleeve down to hide the healing scars on her arm instinctively.

Isla's arms closing around her made her flinch at first, the shock of pleasant human contact making her body recoil in fright. But when she calmed down enough to realise Isla didn't want to hurt her, she folded around her sister and buried her face into her shoulder, fighting back the urge to sob with relief right there. Tears could come later, when they were safe, she told herself. She ignored the rebellious dull sting in her eyes.

"I, um. I was tryin' to get up to Greagoir’s office when you arrived," she said, pulling out of the hug, offering tidbits she could to help them plan. "I heard some other mages were tryin' to find something Owain had, but I didn't hear nothin' else. There were some Templars upstairs, but - most of 'em - they're -"

Turned. Captured. Dead. She closed her eyes and forced down the second unpleasant memory in as many minutes, the image of her paramour, accusing her of being an abomination, with a desire demon wearing her face clinging to his back. She actually prayed to the Maker Isla didn't question her about him. She didn't have the time or energy to grieve.

Brook decided to force the memory away by turning to her companions, Loghain specifically. "I'm sorry I hit you," she said, sheepish.

[atonings]

—✕ █ ▌❝I don’t think she’d MIND taking turns in pummeling you to a pulp,❞ he jokes in response, arms crossed tight. It REMAINS to be seen if she’d notice the wrongdoing in question; Morrigan needed her and she didn’t know until she dragged Loghain into the same room as the witch.

❝There’s a difference between pushing and being a doormat. I assume you two have considered this together, then?❞ The suspicion is back, if only slight, eyes thinning as if to GAUGE whether Jack’s words is like throwing a wolf off the scent of his prey. ❝Good, not pushy — I’ll give you that.❞

It sounds better in his thoughts than on his tongue, but Loghain speaks anyway, leaning in as if this is some grand secret: ❝EVERYONE DIES, Jack — Wardens particularly. I’d hope that a smart lad like yourself is aware of our short life expectancy,❞ he murmurs in a dry and BITTER tone, all too well of how Wardens keep too many secrets.

[alltstjornu]

He nods.

"Of course I questioned her decision. It's not like she denied she wanted us to be together too, and I couldn't fathom why she'd say no. But she was dead-set on us remaining apart. She said she 'didn't want to hurt me when 'it' came', whatever ‘it’ is, and that was that. You know what Brook is like. Stubborn as a mule and twice as hard-headed." He'd seen that hard-headedness force its way out of the slimmest odds imaginable, heard the tales of how Brook used it to unite a fractious land. He knows once she's made up her mind, he'd need a miracle to change it.

He doesn't like being on the other end of that stubbornness, but he doesn't see how he can get around it without being duplicitous or forcing her into something she doesn't want, and he's not that sort of man. And he's no miracle-worker, either. So either Brook came around on her own - or they'd remain apart.

He makes an unhappy noise in his throat at that line of thinking and shakes himself out of it, noting to himself that he was sounding uncharacteristically fatalistic. "I don't think I'm the one in this predicament that needs to hear that death doesn't mean we can't enjoy life."

[atonings]

—✕ █ ▌Loghain is FIRM as he meets her, head still swimming but he’s powerful, a rough grip on reality seizing him as he stares into her eyes. It is like a HEAVY STORM swirling between the two. He has faith in a girl he’s never met, faith in someone who has thwarted him time and time again. It opens his eyes wide, both his inner eye and his outward ones, the REALITY that she is using him as a bloody crutch sinking in. How idiotic of her to think him capable of anything GOOD in this moment.

❝You were TOO COWARDLY to kill me, I see that now. Why else would you speak to me like this?❞ A lie? A truth? Guilting her? He doesn’t care anymore about what he says, just that he has his own plans for what could almost be called an assisted suicide. He mutters those words under his breath, all but spitting in her face as she SNAPS at him. He thought it would bring him joy to hear that she doesn’t want him dead and yet, all it does is make him yearn for death even more. He wants to provoke her, wants to distance himself from her. ‘ What, you think you’re alive now ‘cause I’ve got a soft spot for you? After you tried to kill me - on multiple occasions? ’ He almost laughs in a strange SICK FORM of satisfaction.

Still he DOESN’T fight her further; any efforts she may make to snap back at him would be SHATTERED by a stony look from him. Surroundings are observed with a cool eye, as if he truly is intending to escape this new life. The survival instincts kick in, of course, that he’s fighting to live against his own BLOODY WISHES. She’s lucky that he understands the need to keep battling, that more arguments will surely follow on the road.

He’s RELIEVED and perhaps a bit impressed that she carries logs of her journey; if anything solidifies that she is serious about this, it is the recordings she’s made. The notebook flutters in his hands, eyes TAKING IN THE SIGHT of tender sketchings and tales of another time. He hastily flips through, barely witnessing the proof that this firebrand was once a little girl.

❝Can you offer up more DETAILED numbers before the assault? This is serviceable for the earliest preparations, but I want to ensure that we are able to supply our troops –❞ he continues to read, distractedly sitting down at her desk, scrawling out a few hasty notes of himself. ❝No mages? SHAME, I so do love a good fireball spell,❞ he mutters, more to himself than to her. ❝We should keep our men and women mixed; tell me, have any of the factions you’ve conscripted shown any signs of DISAGREEING with each other?❞ He lifts his eyes to look straight into hers once again, an inky brow rising in a silent challenge, a means of bringing her discussion to the table. ❝And what supplies do we have on ourselves? Is there something in particular that you have sent for? Do we need to resort to rationing during the march?❞ Some of these questions, he has an INKLING of an answer towards, but he wants to — he needs to hear her answer.

❝If I’m willing to MAKE THAT WORK?? You’re the bloody leader — do whatever the hell you want. You’ve done plenty to contradict my wishes. WHY STOP NOW?❞ He snaps her book shut, turning away from her. He makes it ABUNDANTLY CLEAR: this is no matter he could approve of, but if she truly finds it appropriate, she should DO IT.

[alltstjornu]

"I've killed better men than you; don't mistake me for a coward," she growls back, cowed by his stoniness from snapping at him but certainly not willing to ler him walk over her, refusing to look back at him in case the urge comes over her to punch him. She's certainly in a black mood to give someone a black eye, but since she's soliciting his help, she digs her nails deep into the flesh of her thumb so hard it draws blood and bites her lip. No. It's not a fight worth picking, she tries to tell herself.

She paces as she waits for Loghain to analyse the writings in her journal, cheeks tinged pink as he flicks through the drawings and scribblings from her youth to get to the page bookmarked with a red ribbon.

"I told Greagoir, Bhelen an' Lanaya that I needed 'em to be able to respond to messenger pigeons at a moment's notice. I can tell 'em to muster their forces and send back word of their numbers within a day or so," she replies, breathing out in relief when Loghain drops some of his hostility for the professionalism she'd expect out of a seasoned commander. She continues to talk, bouncing from one topic to another and hoping Loghain keeps pace. "I've no idea what Ferelden can provide. The mages are... caught up in a situation that'll make 'em unfit for combat. Templars are a better option, anyway. Darkspawn magic is evil an' we'd do better to surpress it than fight back with our own. Though, it might be a problem when it comes to the Dalish. They ain't one to give up mages to the Chantry an' their Keepers have to be magically inclined. Greagoir might be willin' to look the other way, for Ferelden, but it'll take more than my word alone. He still thinks I'm six."

She digs through the papers scattered about until she can find the manifests for Bodahn's stock, the stock Levi has stashed at Soldier's Peak, and the inventory for the Grey Warden cache. Her habit of keeping hold of every little bit of paper in case it became useful was finally paying off. "Stuff marked with red, I asked 'em to hold onto an' send. Anythin' else, we'll have to ask for specially. Don't know if we'll have to ration, but I ain't a quartermaster. I've never had to figure this shit out." She's clearly sunk a great deal of the money and resources she's gathered over the past year back into this war, and it's clear in tally of money she's forked over to each merchant in up front payments. If Loghain can trust anything of Brook, it's that she's clearly spent hours and days pouring over the information at hand. But her youth and inexperience has hobbled her and put obstacles in her path too tall for her to climb alone.

"Then I'll ask Anora to send a message to the Orlesians an' see if they'll send some men. Not holdin' my breath, but..." she trails off, thinking it'd be just like them to turn up their nose after being shut out of Ferelden so firmly before. Fucking Orlais. Still, the message coming from the monarch and not her might encourage them to act.