[ has the tone of an unspoken why not. They're being kept reasonably busy, at the Hightown base ("base"), but when he is spending so much time simply walking down the stairs with bundles of messages, then turning around to walk right back up them—why not. So:
He turns up, after fulfilling his most recent thrilling errand. Plainclothes. Drinking from a waterskin with one hand while he knocks on the door, guzzle broken off just time as he sticks his head in.
There is a pot of tea, warm, on the corner of her desk. One of the heavy green mugs has been turned toward the seat, slanted at an angle towards the desk itself where Derrica stands. Her braids have been looped and pinned up higher, escaping tendrils curling at her neck, around her ears. Several layers have been discarded, shawls and woolen sweater over the back of her high chair to leave her in just her tunic, braided rope belt cinched around her waist. Informal. Easy to disguise as otherwise when she must descend to collect Mother Pleasance for dinner.
“Sit, please,” she invites. “I don’t mean to keep you long. It’s only that I have a project I would like to attempt, and I think you might be able to assist.”
Not right now, in the midst of so much upheaval. But later—
It is her habit to come around the desk, usually. She maintains her position behind it now, stood over a scattering of papers, a heavy collection of essays on the Chant open to some middle page. Her palm lifts, tipping open to the mug. His to take, if he would prefer something other than the contents of his water skin.
The rest of the way into the room, into the chair—and he would prefer tea. He takes it without hesitation and a mug-tipping gesture of thanks. Maybe there are people in this fortress who'd like to poison him, or maybe not. But if they haven't already done it, they aren't going to start while there's a Chantry Mother about.
His hand glows green against the mug. He is too tall and brawny to look entirely comfortable in any chair that isn't oversized, but once he crosses one leg over his knee he comes close.
"I love assisting," he says. The words could have been smarmy, but he says them with the slightly awkward, question-lilted air of someone who just does not know what to say. Certainly not yes, before finding out what it is.
Always, for nearly ten years now, when in a room with a templar Derrica has always felt the kneejerk, panicky flutter of fear high in her throat. The calculation of proximity to a dangerous thing, someone who could do harm to her if they cared to.
Emerging from the far side of the desk to occupy the seat across from him is as much in defiance of that fear as it is about making a clear choice to meet him where he sits. To leave whatever small fragment of leverage the desk affords her to the side.
"I wanted to ask you about lyrium. We needn't speak of you in particular, but I want to try to understand what it is to a templar, before I propose something to you and see if you think it would be something worth pursuing."
As she approaches he shifts in his seat. Little things. One shoulder slouching further, a one-inch twist to face her better, his free arm folding across his chest. The twist and his crossed-over leg put tension into his knee that he'll feel later, if he holds them too long, because aging is terrible.
She is glancingly familiar. Vanya Orlov's long recovery had been instructive, in that lyrium was not something picked up and put down without some effort.
"If there is one," allows for some denial.
He doesn't have to speak of this to her. He may well leave. She has prepared herself for that possibility.
Confirmation taken in stride, along the way to this question put to him again:
"Can you explain it to me? As much as you feel comfortable speaking of?"
What she has is the knowledge of what weaning off lyrium looked like. But what is it to continue using it? What had Vanya Orlov avoided, in the process of laying down the power it gave him?
"Well, it's expensive," is not what she means. He knows it's not what she means. But nonetheless. "If you aren't getting it from the Chantry."
Novel, that getting it from the Chantry or not is even a question. But even if they go to the dwarves for it themselves, the dwarves are hardly giving it away cheap.
"And eventually you lose your memories and all the other parts of your mind. You mix things up—the past and the present. What you've dreamed and what you've seen. Dementia. Same stuff mostly can happen to anyone, you get old enough, but for us it's certain. And sooner."
Stating facts. He doesn't sound frightened or regretful.
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no subject
[ has the tone of an unspoken why not. They're being kept reasonably busy, at the Hightown base ("base"), but when he is spending so much time simply walking down the stairs with bundles of messages, then turning around to walk right back up them—why not. So:
He turns up, after fulfilling his most recent thrilling errand. Plainclothes. Drinking from a waterskin with one hand while he knocks on the door, guzzle broken off just time as he sticks his head in.
As requested.
no subject
“Sit, please,” she invites. “I don’t mean to keep you long. It’s only that I have a project I would like to attempt, and I think you might be able to assist.”
Not right now, in the midst of so much upheaval. But later—
It is her habit to come around the desk, usually. She maintains her position behind it now, stood over a scattering of papers, a heavy collection of essays on the Chant open to some middle page. Her palm lifts, tipping open to the mug. His to take, if he would prefer something other than the contents of his water skin.
no subject
His hand glows green against the mug. He is too tall and brawny to look entirely comfortable in any chair that isn't oversized, but once he crosses one leg over his knee he comes close.
"I love assisting," he says. The words could have been smarmy, but he says them with the slightly awkward, question-lilted air of someone who just does not know what to say. Certainly not yes, before finding out what it is.
no subject
Emerging from the far side of the desk to occupy the seat across from him is as much in defiance of that fear as it is about making a clear choice to meet him where he sits. To leave whatever small fragment of leverage the desk affords her to the side.
"I wanted to ask you about lyrium. We needn't speak of you in particular, but I want to try to understand what it is to a templar, before I propose something to you and see if you think it would be something worth pursuing."
no subject
With curious confusion: "What it is?"
no subject
She is glancingly familiar. Vanya Orlov's long recovery had been instructive, in that lyrium was not something picked up and put down without some effort.
"If there is one," allows for some denial.
He doesn't have to speak of this to her. He may well leave. She has prepared herself for that possibility.
no subject
"Of course there is," he says. "Otherwise everyone would use it."
no subject
"Can you explain it to me? As much as you feel comfortable speaking of?"
What she has is the knowledge of what weaning off lyrium looked like. But what is it to continue using it? What had Vanya Orlov avoided, in the process of laying down the power it gave him?
no subject
Novel, that getting it from the Chantry or not is even a question. But even if they go to the dwarves for it themselves, the dwarves are hardly giving it away cheap.
"And eventually you lose your memories and all the other parts of your mind. You mix things up—the past and the present. What you've dreamed and what you've seen. Dementia. Same stuff mostly can happen to anyone, you get old enough, but for us it's certain. And sooner."
Stating facts. He doesn't sound frightened or regretful.