𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑.

You. Nero doesn't know many people who'd call him a tiger - he's gotten loads of other comparisons: vicious like viper, ready to throw down like a kangaroo protecting its young, a bull on a rampage, but never a tiger - and it catches him a touch off guard. For a long moment, he simply stares at the other man, as if he could figure him out if he just looks hard enough. Of course he can't, and with that brief silence passed, he huffs a laugh and shifts his weight to one foot so he can tap the toes of his other on the ground, only to switch sides. Again, again, in a steady rhythm he doesn't mean to keep, but his body moves to it regardless.

"You're a strange guy, V," he says, but it's amused, dipped in the fondness one gets when they've uncovered a facet of someone a little bit clearer. He hasn't known him for long, and they're polar fucking opposites in so many ways, but maybe that's the draw. Someone else just like Nero might be too much, but V is a temperament to Nero's energy, and maybe there's some kind of balance there. His power's nothing to scoff at, either, though he thinks he still hasn't seen more than a fraction of it. That's the kind of dude V is: the calm surface disguises the raging depths, and you'd be damned lucky not to find out. Or to survive finding out. Nero wants to see what he's capable of, but not to be on the receiving end of it.

𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, V’s head tilts idly as Nero shifts his weight and taps his toes to a rhythm he can’t quite discern. A melody he’s yet to learn, perhaps. Regardless, it draws his attention from the tip-tapping of the toes and up to the piercing blue gaze that’s still staring at him. There is the most minute flicker of V’s own lashes, a swift, silent withdrawal that’s barely able to be seen aside from the most attuned of senses -- or, just maybe, by someone that is staring at him with the sharpest eyes he's presently encountered. He swallows, lips parting on a breath before he watches as that same gaze seems to soften. Or, at least, seemingly so by the admittance of Nero’s next words.

You’re a strange guy, V.

He hums, if not in agreement than in acknowledgement; though his brow quirks at the sentiment. But he’s no fool — or so he’d like to think — and neither is Shadow, as evidenced by the way the rumble of her purr gets louder. The tone of Nero’s voice is complimentary enough, according to her purring approval. Not enough to distract from his persistent discomfort, but that was another matter to attend to; and so he lets out another breath, slower, sighing, and rises from the pew. Tapping the side of his cane against the wood, the sound echoes in a sense of hollow from the high marble ceilings that can’t quite be replicated elsewhere. Shadow jolts and rolls lazily over onto all four paws on the floor, tail swishing back and forth, low. “On the contrary," he starts, "this might be one of the safest places to rest for the night.” His tone is mild, nonjudgmental. “But I doubt you’d get much rest, given your current… well.” Stepping forward, he lightly taps the side of his cane against the leg currently tapping Nero’s toes away.

an opinion that savvas is not surprised by. he can't say it isn't entirely by design, while savvas has always been quiet, choosing to observe and save lectures for when they are needed, some of how he presents himself is on purpose. like anyone that wants to survive, his choice of how he acts is based on the present company.

he helps run letters, seeks out others by the spy-master's word, finding his place amongst the nest in the rookery. he has let the curious ask their questions, though may have exaggerated his answers to some particularly nosy individuals— or on one particular occasion stared in silence at such an invasive query till that soldier left uncomfortable.

some here remind him of the young in clan lavellan, who used to look to him for guidance, wishing for advice to sharpen their skills. in others, he sees a look, eyes that reminded him of the humans in the free marches, looking with a familiarity that rang as 'this one is different, docile'; a hunter and a trader, a teacher and an elf. the inquisition is filled with strangers, and his patience and kindness are not without their limit.

"you're not the first to say so." savvas brings his eyes to emrys, momentarily setting aside his carving knife and wood. while he does find humor in it, he is slightly apologetic in this case, if only because of the inquisitor's dalish roots. skyhold is filled with expectations. while many do not lay with savvas, he can only assume, from the whispers and the gossip, the overheard conversations of staff and visiting dignitaries, just what they expected of emrys. their inquisitor, their herald.

herald. it sours something in savvas. a single title that displeases him immensely. there is a person beyond that title.

He’d run — yes, with footsteps light and quick and voices calling behind him — up to the rookery seeking a certain redhead only to find his kin. Violet eyes watch the wood peelings fall from Savvas’ careful draw of the knife. Woodcarving is a skill he’d never had patience for, but at least half of his memories of his father are watching much the same: wood peelings floating down as feathers might. He’s momentarily so distracted by it that he nearly misses Savvas’ last words — fake spiders…?

A crow squawks overhead, loud and abrasive as if to punctuate and drive home the point — and shake the inquisitor out of his ridiculous reverie. Emrys blinks. “Spiders?” Tone set adrift, the notion completely lost on him. This is what happens, he thinks, when he’s been away at the Storm Coast so long the roar of the waves still rolls between his ears. Ears that slowly lower to the shaved sides of his head as a furrow draws his brow, head tilting ever so slightly to one side. He’d made the comment because he couldn’t quite puzzle out why Savvas was up here entirely alone. Instead, he’s landed somewhere else entirely.

𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐏 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒,  the wintry wind of the mountain easy to seep in under the crack under the door ––– to seek to sully the ambient warmth of skyhold’s rotunda’s candlelight ;  and, to a degree, the elvhen mage inside it. sleeves rolled carefully to catch and settle at the crook of his elbows, solas stands among leather skins unfolded at his feet ;  a spread of brushes and oils of varying color, with one such paintbrush tucked safely behind his ear as he stands, grey eyes surveying his most recent work documenting their journey for some future generation.

folly, perhaps, to seek to govern what would be remembered, and what would inevitably be forgotten. the truth, he knew, was often mired by the need for fantastic sentimentality. the mural would turn to dust not unlike the ash in his mouth that the thought left in its wake: cold, collecting cobwebs. a furrow knit solas’ brow, drawn tight in an effort to stave off the bile that roils in his stomach. emrys would become–––

footsteps crash into his present awareness ;  the commander a welcome distraction, though the way solas’ ear twitches in his previous irritation may not betray such a sentiment. it was, however, indicative of the fact that he was listening, even as he was slow to turn toward the man himself. chill indeed ;  and he wiggled his toes, wrapped feet recalling the icy bite of the rain that had pelted them for nearly a fortnight. arms folding, he flexes his grip on his biceps, nails lightly scratching over the weave of the folds of his sweater as he turns his gaze on the commander, one brow rising in its arch.    ❛ it is the chill of the mountains that plagues me presently. ❜    voice lilting, his eyes flicker to the door behind the other man, perceptive in their minutely narrowed gaze, before flickering back.    ❛ but ––– at least i am dry. ❜    cullen’s inquiry, however, strikes solas as more than a little… strange. he gives half a thought to the notion that cullen had come to the rotunda seeking someone else out entirely, and now sought only to make polite, idle chatter. grey gaze glancing momentarily back to the painted stone wall, solas decides he can indulge the commander. at least this once.    ❛ was the inquisitor’s briefing so unsatisfactory ? ❜    if only a little.

-

   The commander rolled his shoulders, willing the stiffness to dissipate though Solas was correct, the chill of the mountain was a plague, one he’d scarcely gotten used to. There was a reason he dressed as he did, avoiding the cold was just one measure. He noted the wrappings over Solas’ feet, the state of dress he was in. He didn’t understand it in the slightest. Why not invest in a pair of sturdy boots, something supple yet warm to keep out the damp and the chill. Solas was odd, in many ways, if he were being honest. He’d never voice such sentiments though. “Dry, and preoccupied,” Cullen noted, ducking his chin ever so slightly in apology for interrupting his work. This, at least, Cullen thought he understood. It wasn’t an endeavor he wished to undertake himself, but it was something he admired all the same. 

A furrow knits a quizzical brow. Grey eyes watching, closely; he sees the subtlest of sways, weight shifting in a way that might not be concerning were it not for the circles under the commander's eyes. Strange to think he'd come here, regardless. Gaze thread with green dulled by the flickering firelight all around the room, he forgets the paintbrush safely tucked behind his right ear for a moment, bringing his stained hand up to his lips and simply watching more than he is admittedly listening. Or, rather, listening in the same way one listens to Dorian's groaning rants in the Wastes; as a static background noise where words seep through one's awareness on occasion.

Thorough and enlightening.

so, i’m rereading visions of v. this means that, naturally, my monkey brain demands that i write little metas as i come across things in this current read. i’m aiming for this to be (fairly) brief commentary, as this will be an ongoing series. my goal is to write one meta per volume, there being the existing five total volumes — but we’ll see if i end up with more (or less)! i should iterate the disclaimer: i do not adhere to the interpretation that v = vergil. i’ll write a little meta on that in and of itself one day, but the long and short of it is: while v is borne of vergil’s actions and vergil’s being, one of the most significant things about v’s narrative is the concept and development of personhood. it’s evident through the canon (especially through visions of v) that the two characters are not interchangeable. that being said, v is a terribly fascinating vehicle through which we can analyze vergil due to his very nature — ie: being the host of vergil’s nightmares, etc. — and that is the perspective from which these metas are going to dig into the material. also to note, usually when i go about these things i insert little links to direct folks’ attention to particular caps / scenes — and i will do that, as always — but for sake of ease, these might end up having some caps alongside the text itself. apologies if this makes things a wee bit messy! all that being addressed, let’s get into it.

as referenced above, it’s worth stating more clearly that this meta is going to be a more in depth look at the introduction of “the nightmare” — v’s most powerful familiar — in volume 01 of visions of v. there’s a lot going on in just these three short chapters in terms of how the narrative of v’s introduction to and interaction with “the nightmare” reflects on vergil’s trauma. which, of course, is one of my favorite things to poke at. so, really, how could i resist?