FRAGMENTS

He hated it here. He felt it, the way it wormed through a crook in his belly. The bloodshot eyes, red around the edges that sleep could not cure. Skin, tight and sunken, sick-pale. Maybe the smell of mildew was stronger here, or maybe it was this miserable heap of a man he used to know a lifetime and a half ago.

It was like looking headlong at disappointment. Or a mirror.

“…As it were, she would have me put you to use,” Cullen continued.

His voice carried hollow in the room. What had Dagna said? He doesn’t do anything… He’s kind of broken. Cullen set a small set of reports down, and when he looked at Samson, not wanting to, but having to, something complicated crossed his face. "Perhaps she sees something worth saving in you — something you’ve forgotten,” he said. “I might not have done the same.”

The nights here are colder than Kirkwall; lacking the chokedamp and humidity that seems to bloom with the ebb and flow of tides. The other prisoners might not find blessings in that. Those ravaged by the red lyrium, however, find some small measures of peace in the cold. It helps stem the worst of the pain, the rage and anger that seems to burn in the veins. He always sent the worst-off to Emprise du Lion because of it. 

Whatever load of good that did for them all, in the end. 

“Hah. Put me to use. Just like the Chantry, eh Commander?” He doesn’t bother standing. Not for Cullen. Not for anyone, anymore. They’d rather see the man broken and befelled by the Herald of Andraste. He’ll let them have whatever pretty picture they insist. He’s already a dead man. “Never were subtle on your opinions, you. Always know just what thoughts you hold. Might as well out with what you want, Cullen. Maker knows you haven’t all day.”

“Perhaps I do. Is it my height?” The corner of her lip curls back in a grin, bright-eyed gaze falling to Khaliya. The sun begins to set into the horizon, basking them in fading orange light. “Oh, yes, of course. Curiosity killed the cat… but satisfaction brings it back. People always forget the second part, though.”

Shepard finds a breath in her lungs that she’s been holding, but why she’s holding it she’s unsure. Maybe it’s because she’s been Kolyat. Maybe it’s because she’s been Thane, too. Currently, actually. A lifetime of regrets that it would be nice to make up for. Thane is right, though. She supposes he has had more time and experience to introspect than she has. After all, she’s still relatively new at it.

She nods though, slowly, and as her head bobs does she find the certainty behind the gesture. She’s not sure how family is meant to work, but it doesn’t supersede personal boundaries. No doubt Thane has a lot to think on as well, just as much as Kolyat does. For different reasons, but the point still stands. She just hopes he won’t hold it against himself.

“It’s nothing,” there’s no reason to thank her for any of this, “Really. I’m happy to help. They say family is a precious thing.” It’s by now that she’s come to the conclusion that there’s no way to offer her next words without gentleness, so she just does it, “If either of you need anything… I’ve been where he is, so… I sort of get it. Maybe. That also may be entirely presumptuous.”

There’s a slow blink in response to the admission from Shepard. He processes the information quickly, even as he feels the tug of old memories wanting to drag him back in. Salt and brine and raging seas; the storm hangs overhead as heavy as old regrets; his lungs rattle, the early onset of an impending death knell. Kolyat turns, rips himself away, closing himself off to the grief and loss.

“Forgive me, Shepard, if I cross any boundaries. May I ask what happened in your situation?” He reads her with careful consideration; the hesitance in sharing something so personal, and in offering her support. Kolyat hurts, and blames him for his actions, for his absences. It is a blame that Thane shares for himself; past mistakes being so costly towards innocent lives. That Shepard had once shared that same pain, and chooses not to judge him for it is a curiosity -- and perhaps, a relief.

Bloth was about to disagree at first — a proud huntress had no reason to hide trivial secrets, but then decided not to. turning their head to the side, they watch the reflections as they pass. “ no, i suppose you’re right. ” it wasn’t in them to question what she wished to keep hidden, but there was a line between being polite and gullible. fully trusting andrade would be one lofty goal.

    a certain humble subtle swagger in their stride was present as they tail her ( it was always there, but maybe a bit more than usual ), glossy visor following loba’s gaze to the entrance of the emporium. “ hm. expensive fémunir… ” the thought escapes under their breath, though the voice modulator doesn’t point to any audible scorn or admiration; just open observation. greed did little to tempt, but there was a curious wonder for the experience alone.

    this wasn’t their usual routine, after all.

    “ do you expect me to really partake in your shopping? or are we simply here to browse? ”

Survival is predicated on secrecy, as Loba has learned. Firsthand, it would seem; face and hands wrung with blood, a young heart burning with the rage of loss. Time had brought perspective. One must never show or reveal too much, and always keep another card up their sleeve. Just in case someone is tracking your trail, as they did her parents.

Besides. She has a feeling that if she did tell Bloth of her plans, they may balk or leave. And Loba would be left, holding the bag, and not a step closer to her aims. 

“When in Olympus, do as the Olympians do.” She rebuts in that unphased charm so characteristic of her. She even holds the door open for them, further tempting them in. “Perhaps I’d like to see you in a new outfit. Perhaps a finely tailored suit, yes?” 

Perhaps a mystery is better. But it couldn’t hurt to have a little fun, at least. 

“If my advice offends you so then may I suggest–” he snaps, words overlapping with Sera’s and dying with them. The end of his sentence catches between his teeth, pushed by his tongue up to the roof of his mouth. Ears prick forward, listening desperately for any hint of what might approach. It walks upright, gait too casual for him to guess it knows they are here.

And then it– he– emerges, swallowed by an overlarge cloak. Chill draws colour to his cheeks, nose pink and dripping from the encroaching winter. He has the look of a straggler bound for a refugee camp, or…

Solas’ mind returns to the phylactery burning in the chest. A rebel mage? An apostate?

A noise of protest escapes Solas as he stumbles forward, years of drawing bowstring had made Sera’s arms deceptively strong. There’s no chance to voice his opposition, the boy’s eyes snap in his direction, wide and gripped by panic. He sees a watery reflection of himself reflected in them. “Who are you?!” he squawks, voice cracking with youth.

Solas holds his hands open before him, a gesture that sends the stranger leaping back as though he lurched at him. “Do not be alarmed,” he speaks in a low tone, “we mean no harm.”

“That doesn’t answer my question!”

“Of course,” he inclines his head, never once moving his eyes from him, “you are right. My name is Solas and this–” He gestures behind him, towards the shadows where Sera had left him. “This is Sera.”

The boy’s eyes swivel between Solas and Sera rapidly, small hand clutching his coat to himself to the point that knuckles pale against his skin. He sniffs, before scrubbing at his nose with the heel of his hand, wiping excess away on the soot-stained linens of his clothes. Slowly, Sera peels herself away from the wall, offering a small wave and even a smile. She knows what it’s like, to be this small, to feel like you’re on a razor’s edge.

“I’m Brynon.” He answers, croaking. His lips are chapped, throat dry, voice so small.  

“Don’t mind baldy.” Sera chimes in. The arrows are nocked back into the quiver, and her bow’s lowered to show she means no harm. Still, he backs up a step as she makes her way down from where she previously hid at the ready. The boy glances at Solas, drifting upwards momentarily. 

“We’re with the Inquisition.” This far away from the city, she’s unsure about him knowing about the Jennies. But hopefully the Inqusition’s name is enough to reassure, with everything that’s happening, been happening. “The Herald of Andraste’s here, helping the people -- we can help you too, if you like.” 

          ❛  𝐍𝐎 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄,  𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋.  𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐘 the same to you.  ❜ they lightly dance around her attempt at sweet talk.  most people would fall for the hook,  line,  and sinker tactic,  but it was easier to resist by keeping loba at an arm’s length.

     the two legends stand in a small side-street of what seems to be zaldana’s market corner,  wrapping around tall skyscrapers and skyline towers with rows of expensive stores.  people bustle by wearing fancy garments of just about every cloth,  and bloodhound can’t help but take a moment to absorb the new environment.  it wasn’t ENTIRELY out of their scope of knowledge – they’ve seen and interacted with cities plenty of times before,  but this one was larger than most.  thick trees of metal twisting into the clouds…  fascinating in its own right.

     ❛  i do not mind doing some exploration to sate my curiosity.  i understand however that you mentioned a hunt of sorts…  would you care to further elaborate?  ❜ it’s a rhetorical question,  the tracker knows andrade’s goals and desires are different from their own.  a lack of incentive on bloodhound’s part,  but loba most likely kept the transmission vague for those same reasons.

“Amid so many prying eyes and listening ears?” The humored curve in her tone paints an unvoiced laughter. Throngs of crowds, of life and heat all swimming around them. It would be foolish to say anything now -- and more foolish to bring Bloth into her plans just yet. Accomplished though they may be, she suspects they’ll suit her better in this moment of ignorance. 

In time, they will learn. And in time, she’ll see how they adapt to this type of hunt. 

Loba turns on her heel, walking backwards and eyeing Bloth with a practiced smile and sly stare; corners of her mouth upturned. A pause, just long enough for them to close the distance before she adds, “Besides. I’d like to keep this secret close, and between only you and I.” 

But a secret isn’t as fun without a clue, and so she’ll give them one: tilting her chin to the building beside them both. Polished marble columns hold a gilded sign up for the shop; the scent of spiced perfume lingering warmly at the entrance bedecked with all manners of finery; suits and dresses; jewelry and fine china. In the heart of this store lies her prize, something hidden among the thrush of mercantile goods. 

“A good question.” Thane mulls to himself with a low hum that reverberates in the throat. A disappointing finding, one that may not sit well with their Commander to be sure. Surface appearances painted his cooperation with Garrus to be straightforward, optimal since both hold firsthand knowledge and experience with conducting operations on the Citadel; a former C-Sec officer that knows the inner workings and procedures of other officers; an assassin familiarized with subsequently avoiding those officers’ attentions and staying a step ahead.

How ironic, that it appears someone else was one step ahead of them. Thane follows an invisible thread of clues through the carnage, the bodies ( vacant of breath, of life, but still warm ) stepping with deliberate consideration as hands clasp behind his back. 

Her chin lifts, crown adorned in darkened vallaslin and cheekbones vaulted; it’s a regal picture in face of the challenge, if a Dalish could ever be considered in such a light. 

She allows herself for only one moment to lament the lack of a mind control chip. It was there, waiting. Right on her desk. It was there until the base blew up. They have a mission to attend to that’s far more important than winning a verbal game of slap fight.

“Durable yes, intelligent, too.” She’s smart enough to know what he’s trying to do. She can pretend that it isn’t working. She does so in keeping her eyes ahead and focused on what they’re meant to do. Recklessness is to be expected, but the very fact the Commander went through the trouble at all just for a gun was strange. Perhaps she should have said thank you. Oh well, too late now.

As the door swings open Miranda gets into position, behind some cover in the newly revealed room, “This Quarian – are you sure she won’t go back on her word?”

The corner of his mouth tugs into a sidelong smile; he doesn’t miss the veiled dig in her response, but also doesn’t mind it. An artist spending years on their work would obviously feel a measure of protectiveness, in wanting to ensure that time and commitment spent doesn’t go to waste. 

At the same time, he never was one that enjoyed being treated like fine china. But they have a mission on hand, and so, it proves a welcome distraction.

“She won’t.” Mason answers; tension rolling in his jaws until they lock in place. Could be all the Alliance and N7 training, but when it comes to working with his comrades in arms, trust needs to be absolute. Even after battle.

Or in his case, even after death.

He’s so very curious. She can’t say that about his character, because she knows nothing about him, but she finds him so very curious. Whatever he’s come from has been a long and arduous journey. It’s one that is decidedly more interesting than the same thing day in and day out in tents filled with dying soldiers.

“Dinner sounds swell. C’mon. I’ll fill Kemp in and we can get something in the mess hall. No need to apologize, either,” Dorothy reassures him gently. She’s looking forward to it, actually. The opportunity for her to get to learn more about this courier is a fascinating prospect. She isn’t keen on bringing attention to the way he mixes up words. Maybe she reads him wrong, but she’d rather err on the side of discretion as not to embarass him, though… just to be safe, “¿Habla español? Would that be easier?” Maybe his lack of finding the right words comes from English not being his main tongue.

Places like these, most don’t smile. But she does, and it’s not the kind that sends an alarm in the back of his head that he only gets from the kinds of smiles he learns are mean, are vicious; memories of a lying fox that wears the furs of slain animals; the smell of burnt flesh and rubber and lottery tickets all disintegrating away on the pyre. 

“Thanks.” Is all he can muster as he watches her turn and walk. Different than watching -- who was it? Vulpes? -- turn and walk. Less guilt, less regret, but they’re still leaving bodies behind here in this humid tent as they do it, so shouldn’t he feel bad?