tactical_alert | fade rift contact

Seeker Reed,

During the recent expedition to Haven, we came across intelligence of potential import to your Order. It may already be known to the Seekers, but the matter is not one which I will chance to assumption.

At your earliest convenience, I should appreciate the opportunity to speak in confidence.

[ She's not super inclined to look Aleron in the eye at the moment, and Skyhold — blessedly — does not overflow with Seekers. ]

An aside: Bergier’s brother has been located.

As his employers, and considering the potential implications of any contact he may have established, an Inquisition representative should attend the discussion. Do you wish to be present?

Respectfully,
— Ser Coupe

Ser Coupe,

Same place as before. [It provided enough confidence for them at the time, certainly.] I've business to finish up, but should it suit you, I will be there by sunset.

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I would like to be present, although I imagine you will lead any questioning given the importance to your quest. [A side-quest, if you will! A character quest? A...loyalty mission?]

Welcome back.

Regards,
Seeker Reed

[ Psh. What is this? A Bioware franchise? ]

She’s the one to wait this time, arms folded behind her, back to a wall, jaw gritted against itself — as plainly agitated as she is plainly attempting to smother it. A marked contrast to the composure of their last encounter, but again there's no uniform. This, too, isn't a business which she cares to advertise.

Through the little window, the light dies green and ochre, casts the room in dim warmth. Someone’s lit a lantern on the table, a token gesture to the coming night.

"Seeker," Acknowledgement, a slight bow of the head; the words are steady where the rest of her isn’t. If she blinks, she imagines she can still see it behind his eyes: an ugly migraine of a colour. So she doesn’t.

"Thank you for coming. I am aware your schedule taxed of late."

Oh boy, is she real fucking thrilled about the reasons for that.

Her agitation is loud and clear compared to her placidity that had garnered even the remotest modicum of trust. But then, if she found information on Seekers, it's likely not the best news.

Of course, the entire outing, the mission gone sideways, helped even less, he's sure. At least he chooses not to comment on either one--her agitation or the mission--for now.

"Better to have a full plate than whittle the hours away with nothing better to do." He draws himself up to his shorter height, hands clasped behind his back. "What have you got for me?"

"Red lyrium."

Her face twists briefly sardonic. What else does she bring him? Certainly not good news.

"The Seeker immunity —" Whatever it is that lets them set the song ablaze. "— Does not extend to it."

"I observed a degree of resistance. But with prolonged exposure," Evenly, intent. This is only a report. She will not allow herself to pause and startle through it. She has delivered far worse without slipping. "Lucidity becomes intermittent. The extent of that influence is difficult to confirm. Other variables were in play."

Years of torture and isolation, etcetera.

"Physical symptoms were evident, but lessened; I witnessed none of the growths of late-stage templars." Harriman had looked half a monster coming down that hall, half a shell. Fists curl behind her back. "It appears the body gives out before this point."

Malcolm's expression tightens at the initial report. Every word makes it worse. There's a silence that blankets the room, unsure he can trust himself to speak at first.

"Even fighting the Templars, despite resistance, is still a risk." There. Get that out of the way first. It's not prolonged exposure, but it's still a risk, same as having Cade fight them at the Palace.

He licks his lips, knowing he shouldn't ask, decides to ask anyway, but phrased to give her a way out. "Do I want to know how you observed this?"

Wren watches him, in matching silence. An answer of itself.

"Battle is always a risk."

She knows what he means, knows how it tips the assessment: Those constant, silent little calculations of cost. She's aware that her own math may be skewed — may have been for some time. Wren deliberates, before offering,

"I am told the Lady Seeker died in combat." A small comfort, but she knows what it means to people like them. "As did you."

Eventually. He won’t miss the holes in that. But it’s his life, and his death to pry at if he chooses. She will not press details upon the unready.

"There is danger in this, but there is opportunity too." She has to believe that. "It reveals another difference of the red. It could lead Inquisition research closer to an understanding of its corruption."

But,

"It is not my decision to make."

Hence the privacy. Word of this getting out could be bad. Very bad. The last thing they need is to encourage the Venatori to begin experimenting in the first place.

Edited 2017-03-21 23:42 (UTC)

Died in combat, as any of their order might expect. Anticipate. Hope for, even. But that's not the same--it's nothing to do with the red. It's just a nugget of information that she should not even have...which makes him worry that it was more than battle that did them in.

There may be more Seekers discovered, in time, but if not...if not, then it's one of their trio, or all of them, in contact enough, prolonged enough, regularly enough that it took its hold on them. He opens his mouth to ask what of Aleron? but thinks better of it. Does he really want to know? (Yes.) Does he have a right to know it? (Absolutely not.)

Instead: "I won't raise the alarm, but if we ever find ourselves battling corrupted Seekers on the field, we're going to be in a lot more trouble."

Nobody's heard from any of them, seen any of them. That he hopes he, Cassandra, and Aleron are the last left feels like a betrayal, but the possibilities otherwise are not good ones. He curses under his breath and leans his hands on the table. "All right. I will take it under advisement. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. And not spreading it around."

A lot more trouble.

To put it lightly. Darton had been a force to reckon with, even half-mad and shut away in the dark. But a willing member of Corypheus’ flock, even only a turned one? Armed, and armored, and gorged on allies?

A short nod as he swears, she sucks in a breath at last.

"We cannot discount the possibility." And fuck if there’s anything she can really do about it. There are too many secrets that she isn’t party to, too few options available to her in the field. "It may behoove you to consider counter-strategies."

"You have my discretion. The other travelers will be aware, however, I am uncertain how much they have put together." Inessa and Malcolm are going insane from red lyrium, Ellana had ever-so-helpfully announced. But Inessa and Malcolm. As though it were any other affliction, he any other man.

The Seekers do not precisely advertise themselves. What she knows of their capabilities, she knows firsthand.

"They were given no cause to find it unusual — I think it likely they shall forget."

The Doctor could be a problem, but no one's going to listen to the Doctor. He's done well to ensure that on his own. Wren finally steps away, paces a short distance towards the window to stare. She'd like to wear a tread through the damn floor, but one admission of motion (of weakness) is enough to set them even. Match for match.

Quietly: "Kirkwall, then."

There's so much sitting in the space between them. He's heard as much as he's been allowed to hear of the harrowing trip, the temporal magic that people really need to stop trying to make happen, the disaster that is the future. It was not any of their faults, but to peer into the future, see the unknowable? Surely that's against the will of the Maker.

But the idea that things get dire, he can't help but wonder if it's destined to be that way, or if those on the mission are in fact extremely important to changing their destiny. Or that by knowing, they can avert it? He wants to ask what precisely she saw. Every minute detail. But can he know that? And if he can, would it make a difference if he does?

Malcolm is starting to get the feeling that their conversations will always be thus. Just enough said between them to get the messages across, enough to read between the lines. But a chasm of so much more standing in the way.

(Of course he's already trying to construct counter-strategies in his head. He leaves that, too, unspoken, and latches onto the new topic while still struggling with the idea that even Seekers can be so corrupted, that they are not nearly as safe as they seem.)

"It would not have been my first choice. But if we can make it work, it could be the kind of foothold that the Inquisition's been aching for. We've more and more people arriving by the day, and while Skyhold's perfectly defensible, it's too remote and out of the way to keep this up."

He straightens back up, rubbing his chin. "And if we get there before Corypheus can turn it into a bloody prison camp, all the better for our future."

How many times have they done this already, how many times will they yet? Different faces, different pieces, all scrambling towards their own ends. A worry too madly paranoid to voice, and yet,

If you might change it — who would ever stop?

"I cannot disagree," Wryly. "The decor left something to be desired."

Get it. It’s funny because she’s Orlesian, and because of the horrible implications. Wow. She’s hilarious today.

"We need a stronger northern presence." We. This is no longer only the Inquisition’s fight. She will not allow it to be. "The location is ideal. But it will be an ugly transition."

Turning it into a prison camp is perhaps not the most politic phrasing — she can hear the libertarians shrieking that it always was — but a restored Gallows is a useful symbol to all sides. Wren glances back over,

"To which I must ask your assessment of relations between my brothers, and the Inquisition’s mages."

A form of armor, to speak as they do; relying upon implication, avoiding commitment, it’s safe. It’s comfortable. Perhaps a day will come when she must test it, when they'll need to speak outside that shell. But not yet.

"Here, the relations are...surprisingly fine. The Templars here are here because they want an end to all this as much as anyone else. They're not here to pick a fight. The mages are looking for someplace they will be protected. We all want the same thing at the end of the day, and I've heard of surprisingly few incidents since arriving here."

Which is all well and good. However.

"Kirkwall will be a different story. I don't imagine either side will be welcomed with open arms. And Kirkwall is not a city that forgets, much less forgives."

There is, of course, one very major hiccup in the entire plan. "The mage Anders absolutely cannot be allowed to set foot in that city."

"No," She agrees. "But if the wardens are relocated,"

Their position is already tenuous, and Anders will go wherever that shield extends. He could disappear along the journey, of course — a long trip, a rough sea, who can say what might be lost within it?

Distant from the public view, there would be plausible deniability.

But that’s only wishful thinking. Judgment has already been visited: She cannot make a move upon him, and it would be foolishness to try. There are few enough skilled healers at the Inquisition's beck and call.

Wren lifts a hand only to let it fall again, empty. There’s no easy solution. Perhaps if we dyed his hair and called him Detlef,

"He is working with a spirit once more," A terrible idea. Naturally, she’s already thrown herself into its path. If you can't dispose of danger, then keep your eyes to it. "I have concerns enough of the thinned Veil."

Without adding another possession to his score.

Before this last venture, she'd never been north of Cumberland. Reed's reach will have extended farther.

"When did you last visit?"

Edited 2017-03-23 09:12 (UTC)

"Would that judgement not have passed in his favour, that would be one less problem to work with. If he must come along, he might yet be welcome in Darktown." Just because they can hold a conversation without it turning sour doesn't mean he has a great care for the mage. Or that he is forgiven for what he helped start.

"I haven't been since Cassandra's search for the Champion began there. I might hope to take up the cause once more, but if Hawke hasn't been found now, if Bethany has heard nothing, then it might end up the wild goose chase it was before." After all, half the reason he's been around so wide and far is because of his search. "Doesn't mean we can't use the Champion of Kirkwall or the Hero of Ferelden."

The corner of her mouth twists, briefly, a bitter little sketch of amusement.

Jonas Cousland is very likely dead: Wardens are not known for their life expectancy. Perhaps a blessing in disguise for the nation — neither are they known for producing heirs.

And Marian Hawke?

"I fear we may have used up our stock of saviours," The Herald only the latest among them. In practicality, Wren must admit she's been of more use to them dead; a ready martyr for the cause, stripped of all her more troublesome interests and obligations, of the rigidity of a noblewoman's history. This is not a war that will be won in isolation. "But should they stroll by tomorrow, I shall be grateful."

An even look,

"Do you propose that we leverage the association?" They've Bethany Hawke, they've a few veterans of the Fifth Blight in pocket. Perhaps it is not so difficult to imply approval from their absence.

(If he searches, she will aid it as she may — if he will have the help. The idiocy of an errand hasn't precluded his own offered assistance.)

"There's no reason why we shouldn't," he says with innocently raised brows. They might stretch the truth somewhat, but it wouldn't be much of a lie. Even if it were, it would be one in their favour, so there's no reason not to. A few implications by associations--get some of Cousland's friends to say a few words, and Bethany's mere appearance should be enough before her wedding. He's not sure if speaking of the Herald will do much good; the atmosphere of Kirkwall is at times unpredictable. They might not take to her. Maybe introduce that part last.

"We need every foothold and scrap of advantage we can get. We've the likes of Cassandra Pentaghast and Warden Alistair on our side, the blessing of the Divine, the metaphorical spirit of the Herald of Andraste guiding our way. We've Templars and mages working side by side without exploding into a pillar of light. The associations practically write themselves."

Her brows raise in return, as close as she'll come to come to an open smile at that.

"Propaganda has done well of the South." Until Halamshiral, at least. As privately as she might cheer Gwen's little fuck-you screed, it's been less than helpful. "The Lady Seeker's face will continue to carry us far."

Nevarran or not, no one quickly forgets the Hero of Orlais, a Dragonslayer, the Right Hand of the Divine. Especially when she looks like that.

"We must tread more carefully with the Wardens. The Hawkes' ties buy them some goodwill, and the refugees shall love them. But the locals ..."

Twelve years on, several catastrophes in, and it's difficult to say how one might define a true Marcher. Wren knows only that there are those who will try. The question is one of numbers: Of how much xenophobia has been absorbed by a shared economy, by a mutual tragedy.

"... Well. They'll love the damn gryphons, at any rate. I shall see what can be done among my contacts."

Thorn's coterie are already pressuring preachers, may as well forward talking points. A sole point of worry, at that, memories of that other Herald —

— If they do this, they need to be certain. Wren glances away once more, eyes close just a beat too long. Just one: It's gone again. She breathes out.

"Bergier."

Who's changing the subject? Certainly no one in this room.

Edited 2017-03-27 08:13 (UTC)

Malcolm makes a sound of acknowledgement about the Warden concerns. Like with Templars and mages, opinions on them could go either way. They have, as a group, done a lot of damage.

But that's all he offers. All they can do is try and put a good spin on everything once they're there. The rest is in the Maker's hands. Malcolm perhaps is staring too hard at her, his eyes squinting just a hint at her. He's noticed, but he does her the favour of not asking. She'll notice that he's noticed, and that in itself is enough.

They are both subtle people when they want to be. And apparently they both want to be most of the time.

"You said you found his brother. Has he said anything of particular note yet?"

Do they teach them the squinting? Or is it part of recruitment procedure?

Courwin used to manage that same sharpness, the small rebuke of scrutiny — but that was when he had two inches and twenty years on her. Abstracted of its context, it’s almost funny: this tidy little man wearing the face of her old lieutenant.

(Lambert, Lucius. It's not.)

"He was frightened enough to desert," Young men do all manner of stupid things. With so many voices in Skyhold that mistake their orders for a pleasant suggestion, is it any wonder some might decide to up and leave?

But he’s not hers to advocate for. What obligation she owns is to fact. And the facts:

"They were in contact."

Treason. Had he known all along, what he'd been doing? Or did he only look up one day, to realize how deep the waters over his head?

"Then he may well be willing to part with whatever he knows without any coercion at all." If they were in contact and he deserted. "He might want to end his brother's misery. Or beg us to save him. Could even recruit him, if things go well."

They won't, of course; they both know that. He's not an optimist, he just voices the opinions of one when none of the usual suspects are around to do so. (Charles, Andraste protect him, had been so exceedingly optimistic in the face of near certain doom; maybe some of it just barely rubbed off on him. He'd been right about rescue, after all.)

"Have you recruited anyone else into this hunt of yours?"

"No." The others haven’t asked details, haven’t pressed her purpose. No point in spreading those where unnecessary. "Ser Norrington is aware of my broad interests in identifying troops. I was referred to the prisoner Samson upon that count."

"I gave him four names, Bergier among them. My questions were vague and personal in nature — those of a grieving officer." A small shrug. "He may guess ulterior motive, but lacks detail of our suspicions."

The man’s clever. He’s also deeply ill, and has proven somewhat distractible.

Reed’s position within the Inquisition will serve them more finely than this token optimism. He’s already a witness. Sketched in the right light, he might be made to seem an advocate. Reassurance for the foolish.

"If you’ve volunteers you would suggest," Shaking down a scared teenager, they can handle themselves. But red templars run in packs. If they’ve any luck of this, they’ll need to bring others in on the next stage. "This is unlikely a task for two."

Edited 2017-04-07 06:19 (UTC)

His expression shows his clear distaste for anyone referring anyone else to Samson of all people. "I wouldn't take anything the prison has to say for anything other than bluster. He's got little left to lose, and honestly, killing him would be a mercy at this point."

If anyone gives a command, he doubts he'd even be the first in line to do the job, but he'll damn well race anyone there. And yet mercy is not exactly what he deserves. He barely deserves a pot to piss in. Maker knows what will happen to him, if he stays in Skyhold or somehow makes the move to Kirkwall. Maybe someone can lose him overboard in a tragic accident.

"I could give you some names, let you see for yourself if you care to bring them in. It's your operation," he reminds, though knows he doesn't need to. "More Templars would be sympathetic to the job, but we might see about others slightly less susceptible to the corruption and temptation from their tainted brothers."

No one, of course, is immune. They know this now. Not even dwarves, at least so far as the storyteller Tethras says, at least not fully. Foolish, he suspects, to think himself and his own ilk to be so far above the rest. The Maker has granted them many gifts, but this is a step too far.

"We'll talk to the brother, send a few scouts if we can spare them depending on what information we get. We can start asking about fellows to assist once Kirkwall is more set up; it's going to take a lot of energy and concentration as it is."

The convenient thing about Reed is that as often as he's competent, dutiful, decent; he's also, unflinchingly, an asshole.

Others less susceptible to temptation. As though he might understand it. As though he'll ever know what it is that her boys chose, what it is to make that choice, each day over.

(This hurts you, A dead man tells her, as though she’d somehow overlooked the pain.)

He's an asshole. It makes him easier to deal with — birds of a feather, as it were — and she's aware that it comes from a place of concern. However pragmatic its nature, however detached its interests.

As it should be. If you don't keep a layer between yourself and the work, well.

They both know how that goes.

"Very well. When your schedule allows. If there is nothing else, Seeker?"

fade rift contact

quietly pulls the trigger on this since i'm assuming he'll know about TTT anyway w/e w/e

wibbly wobbly etc etc

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