fire made flesh

                  “So by saying you think I’m like a kitten, you think I’m a hard one to win over?” He isn’t entirely wrong if that’s the reasoning behind it. She was certainly more naive about these sorts of things when she first started working at the Hanged Man, taking every compliment and honeyed bit of talk as the truth; well - intentioned and completely honest. Gotten her into trouble once or twice too. But she’d learned over the years to turn those sorts of things to her advantage, of course. If trading a bit of sugar was what it took to get a piece of information, she would grin and bear it ( and save the cringing for later ).

The tray she’d been cradling since the start of the conversation was set down on the table in front of her, elbows quickly pinning one piece of wood against the other while her chin settled against the backs of her hands. The smirk she’d been wearing since before spreading just a little bit more now. “How do you think you’ve been doing so far, then?” As if it wasn’t obvious enough that she’d decided to join the table —- she could have easily come up with one of her usual thousands of excuses to leave ( or Corff could have made that face he always did when she lingered too long on one set of customers ).

     "I’ve heard quite a bit about your clinic, you know. Never had to go myself for anything,“ the table got a quick series of knocks before she settled her chin back, "but you know, I have most of my mornings free. I’m not expected here until just after noon to start setting things up for the evenings. If you ever needed an extra set of hands down there to make things a little less hairy, you know where to find me.”

"Well that, and it’s about the best compliment I can come up with that isn’t just a line,” Anders said. He adored cats, and he’d certainly never try to compliment a pretty girl by comparing her to such a slobbery, ridiculous thing as a puppy. “I don’t think I’d do too terribly well with you if I’d gone with my first impulse.” A beat, perfectly timed for comedy. “Punning on your name, of course.”

It was even true; he had considered it. But the memory of Nate’s scowling face had been just enough of a self preservation instinct to prevent it. After all, while it had been fun to poke the bear -- Nate was always so bloody serious all the time, he really did need to lighten up! -- that wasn’t precisely the desired effect here.

Even if he had come up with a few pretty good puns, not one of which was about slamming. Anders was many things, but crude wasn’t generally one of them.

“But that said, I’d wager I’m doing fairly well after all,” he answered. The chorus of jeers from down the table had thinned out and all but stopped; that was another sign he was pulling this one off, though he was pretty sure he’d hear about it later. Worse things to be teased about than flirting -- successfully!! -- with a pretty girl, anyway.

               "It’s entirely possible that’s what they had in mind when they came up with it. Makes sense I suppose.“ There were certainly enough candidates she could think of that fit the bill."But not you, though, hm? You’re not another boar.”

She fluttered her lashes a few times at his assessment, touching her chin to her shoulder with a highly amused smirk. “Adorable? I don’t think I’ve been called that since I was knee - high at least. You’re going to make me turn all sorts of red standing here.” Perhaps her response was a bit over - the - top ( but honestly, hadn’t the compliment and wounded reaction been equally so? How else was she supposed to keep up with him? )

      “A cat? Did you really? I thought most Fereldens had an affinity for dogs.” At least based on what she’d seen personally; this, of course, came from someone who’d never set foot out of the Free Marches before in her life. Most of what she knew about Ferelden came from the influx of refugees settling in Lowtown. But if cats were more his fancy, she’d have a pleasant surprise waiting for him next time hanging about the back door of the Tavern. “Come now. Are you saying you aren’t brave enough?” She clicked her tongue at him and finally sat down across from him after a quick glance over at the bar confirmed her boss to be otherwise occupied. “I find that hard to believe. Especially considering some of the things you must see in that clinic of yours.”

Mention of his clinic was sobering, but only briefly so, overthrown by a certain triumph that the pretty servingmaid had actually joined him. Anders couldn’t help tossing a slightly smug glance down the table at his companions, but he quickly returned his attention to pretty Door, who deserved something better than boors. Or boars. Or bears. Maker, he was tangling himself up in his words, and had best get a solid grip before he did slip up and make an ass of himself, after doing so well thus far!

“Definitely adorable,” he said, turning his gaze back on her, taking the opportunity offered by the conversation to give her a long, appreciate, assessing sort of look. It could never be called a leer; but it might have been a leer’s far better dressed and more charming cousin. “Cats are far superior to dogs, in any case.” He very studiously ignored Hawke’s affronted commentary at that one. “It’s true!” he insisted. “Dogs like everyone. But cats are much harder to win over; they have definite opinions about people, and it’s a genuine honor when a cat likes you. Dogs are so... so indiscriminate.”

    No doubt, there were those who DISAGREED with the Herald’s choice. Regardless of her actions, or even the rationale behind each step and turn she took, an effort to please every eye looking her way was fruitless. Cullen understood beyond a level of sympathy; how DAUNTING it truly was to be forced into making decisions garnering results that affected more than just the individual. Something she had hardly ASKED for, and yet here she stood.

    Sat, more accurately.

    Strong. Unfaltering in her conviction even through what hardships had befallen her. He found himself IMPRESSED, and that which only had partly to do with just what her decision had ended up being. A surprise to many, that a mage would be found at the Templars’ doorstep inquiring for an alliance. Demonstrative of the relationship that should exist and yet never came to be. Tensions had been yanked far too TAUT for any such fantasy to become a reality in a future within sight.

    But perhaps that single willing heart was all it took to change a few minds–once the initial upturned noses and whispered disbelief faded away.

    He found her gaze levelly upon the Chantry’s mention, temporarily struck by the resolute tone that held her words steady. His brows crinkling ever so slightly, Cullen again peered down at his hands in front of him, contemplative of the claim she had been quick to make. “You may be right, as many of the clerics that will NIP at your ankles for daring to go so far. Best not to rile them up too much until we’ve proven we can be taken seriously.”

    A pause. “The Templars will help.” To convince her or HIMSELF, he struggled to differentiate. So dear was his order to him, sifting through what flaws still remained that they’d no escape from-forever TAINTED by corruption that steadily became a THEME in the ranks. They’d have their chance again to atone.

    In a way, HE would.

    He went for his own drink when her voice became quieter. And the ending stammer had him pause within reach of his lips. The light in his gaze softened a degree, nearly ASHAMED for having dived so hastily into matters of business with little regard of the real HORROR she had suffered–and buried for the sake of convenience.

    The delicate thunk of his hands finding the table again mingled with his own gentler tone. “I’ve… no doubts of that–much less the imagination to do any justice.” Cullen peered at her, lips thinning into a small frown. “To have a demon–” But he trailed off. Far too well did he EMPATHIZE with that. “I am relieved to have you return alive and… well, considering the circumstances.”

    He reckoned “well” was far too generous a word, however. 

Berúthiel sighed and held herself more tightly, under the guise of the chill air, the shawl over and around her shoulders an excuse and a sort of shield together. She dislikes showing any hint of vulnerability, even to a man who has shown himself as kind -- though often brusque, militant -- as Cullen has. He was still a Templar, after all, despite how he has vocally rejected his membership in that order and his titles held in it. She didn’t quite know how he might see her, even now.

After all, she was technically an apostate. She had never been in a Circle, southern or otherwise. A wry amusement colored the thought; a Nevarran apostate, former wife of a Tevinter magister, now sitting among those leading a southern Chantry organization. The fact that she had dared, a moment ago, to speak of her decision to recruit the Templars as a responsibility of the Inquisition as a legitimate arm of the Chantry -- it amused her, in an obscure way, even as she still believed it quite firmly.

She had seen the destruction wrought by those Templars who’d gone rogue in the Hinterlands of Ferelden, after all. While those among the Inquisition’s troops now were, by and large, a more disciplined and moderate and reasonable lot than their turncoat fellows, there was no saying what would have become of them had the Inquisition not stepped in when it had. She could not have allowed a highly trained, highly equipped, and highly dangerous military force to go leaderless and unwatched, could she?

For a moment, glancing at Cullen, she remembered the other Cullen, the one worn and puppeted by Envy when it had tried to force its way into her head and take her over. That Cullen had been a dark thing, cruel and overbearing -- a shiver gripped her again. Far too like Berúthiel’s former husband, in some ways; had Envy taken that memory to use against her, or had it been only coincidence, a glancing resemblance all cruel men might share? 

“Thank you, Commander,” she said finally, flicking her gaze up to meet his whiskey-colored eyes. She found a smile somewhere, and if it was a slightly brave smile more so than a genuine one, perhaps she could be forgiven that also. “I am as well as can be expected, perhaps.” She was not possessed; she wondered if he wondered that. If any of them did. Were they all watching her, waiting for the demon which had taken her to burst forth into full Abomination?

A sigh. “Envy had taken the place of the Lord Seeker,” she said. “Some time ago, in fact. Barris informs me that because Envy demons are only rarely encountered, the Templars are not, by and large, trained in handling them. But I do wonder how the alterations in the man’s temperament could not have been noticed... understood as what they were.”

« That you were », Radonis confirmed. He smiled, too, that slight smile full of poise that is proper of politicians and monarchs (and the two qualities did not always meet each other in connubial harmony within the same person.) He didn’t quite bother to offer excuses or explanations on behalf of Magister Anodatus — the man ought to explain his own absence, once recovered from the latest of his feasts. The lady’s bearing, he thought, was at least enough to not make her look out of place at the court of Tevinter. « Allow me to welcome you to the Imperium in his stead. »

Wynne tilted her chin, looking at the poised man in his finery with neither liking nor distaste. He all but radiated power, both a strength of magic she could feel with her own mage’s sense and a strength far more temporal but no less real and dangerous. Here in this antechamber of the ancient building which housed the Magisterium, he was quite clearly in his element indeed, part and parcel of the place, a keystone fitted into an arch. She could not say she felt any desire to do as he might command, but she could understand how he did command such an empire.

She had been close to power before; it did not daunt her. She was a power in her own right, in any case. They had offered her First Enchanter of Kinloch and she had not accepted. Instead, she had accepted the rarely-used title of Archmage, which was both of and outside of the Circle hierarchy -- as Wynne herself was both of and outside of the Circles, now.

                    “I told you they were boorish.” Luckily for her, it was more the sort that came and went; those only in Kirkwall for a short time because they were tethered to a commercial sailing vessel. Most of the regular faces were more or less respectful. ( And when they weren’t, she was more than happy to handle the matter herself. ) “Do you see now why I didn’t want you having to hear them?” Perhaps not for the reason she had initially been wary of sharing; worrying that he would try his hand at them as well — but that he might consider it a challenge now. He’d already proven himself to be clever enough.

She lets her nose crinkle again, pairing it this time with a slight twitch back and forth for good measure. “Is it? So I don’t look formidable or imposing?” Apparently, it made her look more like a cat being deprived a ball of string —- but it didn’t sound like an overall bad thing to resemble, did it? “Now I’ve never seen a proper bear before,” the stuffed and mounted one she’d seen in the Black Emporium excluded, of course —– that one also had an extra head if she recalled correctly, “but I don’t think I like the idea of you poking one. For fun or not.”

“Absolutely boorish,” Anders agreed. A thoughtful pause. “Though not bearish; despite his humorlessness, Nate would never have perpetrated such a horror on anyone, certainly not such a pretty girl as yourself.” Another pause. “Do you think the word boorish is related to boars? Because men like that are such nasty little pigs, wallowing in mud?” A low cheer from Hawke punctuated this sally; it was rather like Hawke’s own brand of humor, come to think. (Massive Head-Trauma Bay? Honestly.)

                 It was hard to keep a straight face ( the tray helped a little; she could hide behind it at least ), what with the absolutely on point chorus of grumbles that made their way from the other end of the table —— clearly this wasn’t the first time he’d decided to go ahead and wax poetic about life in front of the group. Is this always how it ends up?

The enthusiasm when she suggested the possibilities with her name —– now she was in for it, wasn’t she? “Keys, locks, the whole bit.” It was her turn to groan this time; trying not to think about how many times someone had suggested something akin to those. “Slamming, knocking —- and they always think they’re the first to come up with it.” Although —- the ’closes a window, opens a Door’ line was a new one; not that she planned on giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gone and done something slightly original —- he’s already looking rather pleased with himself as it is.

          “Howe? That’s almost too easy, isn’t it?” Their audience got a wink from her in an attempt to apologise for the fact she was all - out encouraging him now, knowing that whatever bravado he was going to get out of this was going to be theirs to endure long after their bill was paid. “A crinkle? What, you mean like this?” She tried to furrow her brow as best she could considering —- usually it came a bit easier for her. “Was that your warning to back off? Or keep going right along?”

“Slamming?” Anders asked with... not quite incredulity, but a certain species of it, all the same. “Oh, no, no. Far too crude. There’s no artistry there, no invention! Certainly, there’s a pun in it, but at what cost?” He grinned. It was rather nice to simply banter with a pretty girl, just like normal folks might. He tried to ignore entirely the gnawing guilt that seized at him, to one degree or another, whenever his focus was on something purely for pleasure like this; he knew that was only Justice’s influence, the single-minded thing!

“Commander?” Berúthiel hailed the man, making a note to ask just where he’d acquired that fur; Haven was far too cold for her liking. “I wanted to ask... have there been any issues integrating the Templars into our forces? There are mages among the Inquisition and I’d imagine there might be... frictions.” An understatement, in light of the bloody conflict which had torn the countryside apart, but a diplomatic one.

“Look, where’d you even learn Diamondback?” Anders asked. It had been fun enough, the game at Donnic’s the other night -- even though the winner had been Hawke’s dog, of all things; the foul creature wagged its tail for good hands and bad -- with Varric as a sort of jovial buffer between Anders’ diatribes and Fenris’s... moodiness. “Your grasp of the rules is a little erratic.”

“It is all too easy to not see what you do not wish to see.” He wondered how many days, weeks, months of freedom it had bought them, ignoring subtler spells that could be mistaken as coincidences. Perhaps it was for the best, but it was little wonder magic was feared, if first spells were so often born from negative emotions.

Solas crossed one leg over the other, pressing his toes into the floor. His ears perked forward, listening intently. At the mere mention of Joy his lips split into a slow smile, chin ducking towards his chest.

“That sounds familiar. My first true experience with Dreaming the first thing I found was a spirit of Joy waiting me outside the border of my dreams, as if it had been expecting me all that time, knowing my potential. This spirit, though, were you able to keep in contact?”

Berúthiel paused, and then nodded softly. “All my life,” she confided. “Furaha has stayed with me.” Recrossing her legs and hugging a pillow to her stomach, she sighed. She knew that even now, if she was to reach her mage’s senses outward, she would likely feel the spirit waiting there, never too far away. It had always given her great comfort, to know that.

                   “And just how many times have you gone through this particular process?” Not that she expected him to answer truthfully ——- even if he did offer up a number she was certain it was either going to be rounded up or down depending on what he thought would sound more impressive. “You just like being thorough, don’t you?” At least this one appears harmless enough, charm aside. If his intentions were anything else, she’s sure there would have been an intervention from the far side of the table already. 

His reaction got a laugh out of her, his groan very similar to the one she’d had to bottle up on the spot the first time she’d heard it. “Something like that, yes. Though the way he put it was a little cruder.” But alright, he’s got her. It’s not the worst thing that’s ever been said to her while she’s working. “The ones where they try to do something with my name are worse.”

Speaking of the worst —— “You mean the one who likes to talk about heart - worms and apple flesh? No, no. I try to keep far away from him. I ————- don’t think he realises how he sounds.”

“Life,” Anders declared portentously, and perhaps a little drunkenly “is a neverending experiment!” The chorus of groans from the other end of the table swelled to a crescendo at that one, and he wrapped his dignity around him like the tattered feathers of his armor and ignored it even more aggressively than before. It wasn’t like any of them had much luck in love -- except Isabela, but what she practiced hardly deserved the name. He’d been rather proud of how his statement evaded her question’s specifics, anyhow -- though the thorough comment had seemed like she’d offered him an out, anyway.