costofmagic | Open Post

Dinner that evening saw everyone around the table in relatively good spirits, foregoing planning and current events for a round of exchanged stories -- specifically folk tales. All of them being from different corners of Thedas, it was fascinating to see which ones seemed universal and how they changed with time and location. There was always a commoner who was unusually valiant -- sometimes the occupation changed but more than one person at the table had heard of a brave little seamstress. Trickster spirits that might be likened to the Dread Wolf in Elvish tales, a demon in Tevinter, a Fox spirit in parts of Orlais. Occasionally even the fish or the halla that granted wishes to avoid losing their life to a hunter or fisherman.

While everyone took part and listened, by the end of the evening, when everyone dispersed, Rook was the only one that had not offered a tale in exchange. He wasn't being especially avoidant; no one had been asked, each just volunteered in turn. The man had just never taken one, though he was just as involved and attentive as everyone else.

It was the evening when everyone finally emerged, the Fade's echo of a daytime sky giving way to an Aurora of colors bolting across darkness, the sort of display that made one all the more mindful of where they stepped, when some parts of the stairs had nothing holding them up underneath. Bellara and Taash remained behind with Lucanis to clean up, the others splitting off to their various residences on the compound. Varric, to Rook's recollection, had been the first to retire, but much of the atmosphere felt so much like him that it did not even feel like he had gone at all. But emerging now, the lantern floating just outside the dining hall door casting his visage white against the cool blue of the dark, his absence felt more pronounced. A certainty that he must be asleep by now.

Still recovering, he thinks. Stronger. And it wouldn't be long before --

Something.

Assan played chase with a few wisps in his nook. The Wolf Statue ahead, its back to the dining hall, was a looming shadow over the courtyard beyond.

The mage sighed.

Edited 2025-02-13 22:23 (UTC)

It had been quite the entertaining evening, especially for someone like Emmrich who was absolutely fascinated with cultures and practices outside of Nevarra. He'd spent so much of his life studying their funerary practices that it had almost slipped his mind, in a way, to look into the stories of the living.

He'd shared his own stories, of course. Tales his mother had told him when he was a child, a few spooky stories from around the Necropolis. But towards the end of the evening, he'd noticed that Rook had chosen to listen more than add anything to the conversation. Which is... fine, he supposes. But curious.

There's something a bit off about Rook that Emmrich hasn't quite been able to put his finger on. Not bad or wrong, necessarily, just... different. An odd sort of energy about him. It intrigues Emmrich, but he hasn't wanted to press.

Either way, it's nice to have someone at least moderately closer to his age around. It makes him feel slightly less ancient, next to all these very young people.

He leans against his staff, coming to a stop next to Rook. Looking out at the darkened Fade dotted by wisps. "It is lovely at night here, don't you think? Quite peaceful, in a way."

At the sound of a voice not his own, the smaller man jumps as though startled, sidling away from the entrance on the off-chance that he might have been in the way. A second for sense to right him, and his breath comes out a little laugh at himself. "Oh, Professor."

It was not long after they met at the Necropolis that Emmerich Volkarin had corrected him with a request to simply call him Emmerich. But it has not quite taken. Not with an energy of disrespect; Rook if nothing else does seem to be trying not to overstep, might be invited again to address him by name, and he might agree, briefly, before reverting back. A safe, carefully distanced place where no liberties are being taken.

Names are not to be treated lightly. Or given away to relative strangers. But titles, chosen monikers? Those are easy, safe. And usually that was his way. Sers and serrahs. (Though sometimes 'mister' and 'miss' slipped out, and people appeared to wonder if they misheard him.) Family names. But he had begun to defer to given names with some. Most of their team, actually.

No, the Necromancer had become the only one. ...It was the only instance where it felt like overstepping otherwise. He felt a push to be more open and friendly. Or at least try. For them. To help everyone work together more smoothly. Except here, where suddenly, he worried he might try too hard.

Where he found himself worrying about whether he was liked. Or looked foolish. That was when he knew he had to step back a little. Careful distance means fewer mistakes.

It is one of the few times here where even when left to be the leader, he does not find himself wondering what Varric would do in his place. As though even that question and feeling is putting its hands up and bowing out, not wanting to interfere.

"It is," Rook finally concedes, gaze canting to the ground at their feet before climbing back to what looms above. Strange to go from stars that look alien and out of place to him, to none at all. But still something quite lovely, even dream-like.

But then, it is the Fade. That makes sense.

"What did you make of tonight's discussion?"

It hadn't gone unnoticed, this... hesitance, perhaps, to use his first name. Even though he's shifted to the use of first names with most of the rest of the team, he seems steadfast in his insistence on referring to Emmrich as Professor. It feels so oddly formal, especially when Rook himself insists on using what Emmrich understands to be a nickname.

Still, he's not one to push. Everyone has their preferences and habits, and who is he to judge?

"Oh! I found it most entertaining. And educational. I truly do enjoy hearing about everyone's culture and country, how they grew up. Stories and fairytales can tell us so much about the traditions of a country or city. Perhaps next time you'll share some more of your own?" he adds, at the end. A gentle suggestion. Never pressing, but being gently curious.

"It's...difficult to decide where to begin," he admits. "I am so accustomed to home being different enough that it would be better for me to try to come up with similar or equivalent concepts, so I am not having to stop every five seconds to explain something new. So coming up with everything from that framework? Bit harder to do off the cuff. And then which to start with?"

The truth was he sort of already knew where he wanted to begin. Once or twice he had told Varric things about himself, in the form of fairy tales, never outright saying that was what he was doing, but he gave him a sign or two over time that he understood.

But that feels different.

"Perhaps this is the scholar in me, but I personally love being challenged by new information!" he enthuses, reaching out to rest his fingers lightly against Rook's arm as he talks. An old habit of his, but one that he finds hard to break, especially if there's some sort of comradery between himself and the person he's speaking with. A casual touch to the arm, or the shoulder. Perhaps to underline a point, or simply for the joy of contact.

"If you decide to share your stories with me, I promise to keep all my very tedious questions til the end, so as not to interrupt you."

It gives him some pause, when the necromancer's hand touches him. Not short enough to be an accident, too simple to register alarm. It is neutral, bordering on affection, and -- well, warm. And maybe that is enough to make him foolish, at least for a moment.

"I am curious to know if there are stories like some of them, that I just haven't heard yet. I think in some circles that I am already familiar with, there is one -- the Miller's Daughter? Does that sound familiar at all?"

"My dear Rook," he says, his tone teasing but warm, those fingers pressing perhaps a little more firmly against his arm. "As though Nevarra wouldn't have tales of turning things into gold?

Though of course I would very much enjoy hearing your version of it. In ours, she's an alchemyst's daughter, though I know that isn't the case across all the stories. My mother told me the version she grew up with, which was a miller's daughter, as you said."

That surprises and impresses, all on its own. It feels like some sign that -- well, he can exist here. Really exist. In some form.

"I imagine then that when her mysterious savior appeared the first and second time, it was her funeral gold she offered as payment?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

It seems the most likely for a Nevarran tale.

"You're exactly right! As you say, our grave gold is deeply personal and incredibly important to us. So giving away pieces of it in payment would be seen as an act of great sacrifice and desperation, especially if you have little to begin with.

You see?" he smiles, giving Rook a pat on the shoulder. "There will always be commonalities, if you look for them."

A short nod. Makes perfect sense. "In some versions of the tale I had heard, they were the last pieces of jewelry remaining of her mother, who had passed. A ring and a necklace, most commonly."

A breath. The harder question, then:

"And her benefactor with the mysterious name -- which is different and harder to spell in every version," Rook hedges. "What are they, in the Nevarran tale?"

"Ah!" Emmrich looks a little embarrassed at the question. "That actually varies depending on who is telling the story. But due to Nevarrans being a tad on the insular side, for the most part, I've mostly heard names that are meant to sound like words in languages other than Common. Typically Orlesian, if memory serves. The longer and more complicated the name the storyteller invents, the more impressive sounding the tale."

A small smile.

"I should have been more specific, excuse me. I meant the nature of the beast itself, not the name."

"Oh forgive me, yes!" Emmrich laughs at his mistake, touching Rook's shoulder lightly in apology. "I've heard demon used, I believe the version my mother told used demon. But because of our spirit work in the Necropolis, I more often heard just creature. Something of unknown origins.

When one is raised around spirits, it doesn't do well to insult them, does it?"

The color that finds his cheeks is momentary, and hopefully missed as Emmrich offers his answer. Not just the touch, Rook realizing the moment caught him -- the easy laugh, the way the lights in the sky dance across the man's features.

Maybe something that feels like a vote of optimism for the many-faced subject of the story.

"Demon means...something very different back home. Devil. Imp. Fae." None of which he has ever really heard uttered on this plane. "All terms I have seen used to describe him before in different versions. Sometimes it's kept ambiguous. The only thing that ever remains the same is that he spins straw into gold, and in nearly as many, that the last thing he demanded for his aid was the woman's firstborn child."

"Oh how interesting! Not very common words, I don't know that I've heard fae at all. But as I said, Nevarra tends to keep to itself, culturally speaking, so that doesn't surprise me. Perhaps I'll learn more in my travels."

He ruminates for a moment, before gently bumping his shoulder against Rook's with a small, encouraging small. "Maybe next time we're trading stories, you can share that one."

The expression that mirrors back is equally small, untried. That is such a simple, casual gesture, but still internally, something significant. It's normal -- not necessarily human, but a piece of being a person. Sometimes, he forgets he's those things, too.

"I'll consider it, and try to think of others."

There is not going to be an expected incident. After finding Hazenkoss at Blackthorn Manor, she had effectively disappeared into nothing. Some word had been sent that there were whispers of a reappearance up and coming, under the guise of a soiree for the upper crust. Not likely to be a positive thing, given the state they had found things, just a promise of more souls, living and dead, in danger.

While the Watch could not get their hands on an invitation, they were able to target a likely invitee: a former academic rival, due to hold an event of their own. The celebration of a past major family event that Grier did not understand the word for. Of course they would only be too happy to have a colleague of Emmrich Volkarin's prestige in attendance.

Underhanded, but if they could not be convinced to reveal the location, someone could steal away and find the documentation themselves if necessary.

Grier makes no assumptions about his place in this. While work is to be done, it will be about who is best suited for the work, and he imagines he might be either staying behind or coordinating from a distance on this one.

Neve might be a good choice to send on this one, he thinks, reviewing the dossier she brought to the meditation room for him to go over. She's refined and witty, knows how to code switch in a number of social situations and knows how to be charming.

Perhaps not Lucanis; Nevarrans are much more refined in their treatment of all spirits, but if someone there became aware of Spite, there was too strong a chance of that drawing too much attention simply because so many might find him a novelty. It wasn't something Grier wanted to intentionally expose him to without warning.

Depending on the assemblage, there were few in their coterie that couldn't potentially draw interest.

He frowns, standing up from the sofa and beginning to pace.

Things have been... interesting, with Grier. Intriguing, might be the better word for it. Emmrich finds himself thinking about his... his what. His friend? Certainly, or at least he hopes so. Companion? Perhaps. Language is so finicky, especially when it comes to emotions.

But there is something there. At least there is for him. Which is why he's standing in front of Grier's door, holding a carefully wrapped and tied brown paper package in his hands. Hesitating to knock. He'd seen Grier looking at the coat during their last trip to the market. Floor length, soft material, in a cool toned brown that suited his colouring. A little more formal, perhaps, than the Warden typically wore, but certainly in his style. He'd ended up passing it by, but Emmrich kept thinking of it.

So now here he is, coat in hand, trying to think of the right words to accompany the gift, as well as his invitation. With a deep breath, he finally gets up his courage and knocks.

Grier stops in the middle of one of now an uncounted amount of revolutions around the chamber, just in front of the tank where a group of fish has begun following him in unison whenever he passes, deciding that for the moment he is now part of their school. Of course his sanctuary as it is? Is hardly off limits, just where he can be found if there is business to attend to.

"Come?"

There is no mess to really concern himself with. If it were dire they would not have even knocked, he imagines, but either way an interruption will jog his thinking and help him return to the task at hand with more focus afterward.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he says, announcing himself as he slips into the room. The fish and their accompanying wisp get a friendly nod and a polite greeting as well. How interesting, he thinks, that this wisp has chosen to befriend a fish. Perhaps it sees a bit of itself in the sea creature? So curious.

Emmrich does his best not to fidget with his parcel as he moves further in, his expression a little shy, almost. More reserved than normal. "I wanted to speak with you about preparations for this party. If you have a spare moment?"

"Of course." His first notion is to beeline for the notes he left on the sofa, but expecting Emmrich has points to make first, he doesn't want to trample all over that. "I was just going over some of the intel," he offers.

He has an idea that there are few who would be unsuited to joining him on the floor of course, and who else might be helpful to have along if someone needs to slip away.

And while it is all business, it's also time for the professor to be home, out. A little calm that can be had before the hunt is on again.

"Ready to help however you need, of course."

"Oh wonderful! Wonderful. Ideal, really." Maker, he has butterflies in his stomach. He feels like he did when he was a young apprentice, asking his first little crush to join him for an autopsy. How silly of him, at this age.

"I was wondering, actually -- I mean, if you had other ideas of where you wanted to place yourself, of course, I understand. But I thought, perhaps, if it would be agreeable to you, that you might be the one to join me, that night?" He speaks all in a rush, so unlike his usual composed self. Once his mind catches up to whatever his mouth is doing, he tries to clarify -- "It might be wise, I think. Tactically speaking. And I know that I would feel quite secure, with you at my side."

"Oh." A blessing at least, in the moment, that Grier is not completely oblivious. The quicker patter. The way his gaze wanders, picking out little things to focus on to keep his line of thinking on track. Always circling back, especially when perpetuating a point. Sort of impossible to mistake because gods if he didn't do a lot of that himself, when there was occasion to.

But still, a little surprise. A bit of lightness that rises in his chest as there often was in these interludes of discussion they had now and again, moreso when they were more stolen and private. Wish for longer moments, more words even if things to say had run short.

But as always better to assume that is one-sided and the sort of thing he can survive on his own lest his blundering kill further interactions entirely. He fully believed the Necromancer might find the whole experience more bracing with someone else.

And of course, in terms of tactics.

"I --" a breath. "I would be delighted of course. ...Though I cannot say I know much about formal Nevarran affairs."

"Would you really?" He can't quite help the look of hopeful surprise that flashes across his face before he manages to school his expression. Grier is reserved, somewhat skittish at times. Keeping close to himself, and Emmrich has been working on coaxing him out a little. He doesn't want to appear overeager and send him running again.

"Well I'd be happy to teach you a little, rather then let you go in completely blind. I wouldn't want you to feel lost in an unfamiliar situation."

"And I'd hardly wish to reflect poorly on you in front of a colleague." He can blend in to an unfamiliar situation if he must, but he very much doubts he will be any help convincing someone to talk if he's seen as embarrassing, distracting, or distasteful. And it is just for business, but there's a good deal he likes about Emmrich Volkarin, and there is some potential in seeing how he interacts in a more native environment, perhaps around more people like him.

There will be no rush at the event itself. This person would not be throwing a party if they were imminently expected at another. There will be time to breathe, and then to prepare.

...That part just now involves a number of other factors he had yet to consider.

"Oh please, I find you perfectly charming." His fingers clutch a little tighter at the paper wrapped parcel to keep from reaching out to touch Grier's arm or chest while saying so, though the urge is there. Strongly.

It isn't just that Emmrich talks with his hands more or less constantly, because he does. Or just that he sometimes touches his conversational partner to underline a point, because that's true as well. It's because he wants, specifically, to touch Grier right now. To reassure him that he is lovely company, and that Emmrich would be happy to have him by his side at a party.

So he distracts himself with the other matter at hand. "We were in the markets in Treviso the other day, and I saw you at one of the clothing stalls." Emmrich, you fool, he knows that. He was there too. Obviously.

He carries on -- "There was a coat that caught your attention and, well. It was a little formal for our normal adventuring, I think. But I also thought that it would be quite well suited for this particular adventure. And so -- " With a smile and a slight bow, he holds it out. Hoping he hasn't overstepped. "Please, with my compliments. I think it would look so well on you."

"Oh."

He's just a fountain of new and exciting words tonight.

Clearly.

He takes the package carefully, a little breathless at first.

"...I didn't think anyone noticed."

He didn't glance at many, something of just a private fancy, perhaps remembering when he took a liking for such things, in another time and place, even before the Wardens. And it was all right to admire even if there was not time to indulge, and there were no craftsmen in the marketplace that did not ply their trade with skill and pride.

He opens the parcel delicately, and seeing the bundle unfold he barely contains a gasp. There were several he appraised, but this had been the one that he might have lingered on a moment or two more.

Well-stitched, the coat was beautifully structured, flaring just slightly at the hip and feeling full like a cope, with a fur-lined collar and a glimmer of subtle (but still gold) embellishments.

The sort of piece he might have once traded a magical favor for, really.

He knew even looking it over then that it would fit near, if not perfectly, requiring very little additional work.

"I don't believe I have ever received a finer gift." He handles it carefully, folding it over one arm to stop its ends touching the floor. "You must let me know what you will be selecting, so I can plan the rest of my ensemble accordingly. ...Try to match the level of formality, I mean."

Because it's not like he's trying to match outfits or anything. That would be weird.

He stops, aware he has missed a step before he circles back to it mentally. "...Thank you, Professor. Truly."

Edited 2025-04-27 02:07 (UTC)

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