...Obviously, there's a list, everyone signed their names on it. But she's not a complete tit — alright, not a complete tit around unwelcome reminders of her adolescence — so she comes around at a reasonable hour of the day, and knocks like a reasonable person. Even waits for him to open the door.
(The sacrifices that one makes.)
If she's shed her good coat, it isn't for this so much as for leaving it in the guest quarters of the Minrathous Palace, where no doubt it's been repurposed for a particularly dour pair of drapes. There'll be another. But for the moment, at least, a pretense towards simplicity.
"Brother Deacon," Who else. "I hoped we might speak."
Does she require another introduction? A familiar, Orlesian voice. A familiar, ozone tang. No; not likely. Her hands fold behind her back.
Much of the room has been stripped. Bed with but a single blanket and pillow. Desk and chair. One shelf mostly devoid of books. A small dresser. Who knows where all the rest went (the pillows to Brother Jehan, the excuse that his leg is bad not any other reason Deacon might find for charity).
No shirt because he'd been knelt in prayer or meditation when it opens, the careful incline of his head that doesn't hide the genuine smile that she survived.
They've few Templars here. Few enough not lost to their own ends or the red madness that they can afford to lose none of them.
"Ser Coupe, it gladdens the heart to see you returned from Minrathous alive." The door shut behind her, the one seat indicated while he finds his shirt to tug that back on. "Of course, I'd hoped we might when you got back."
He might have had a list of all he'd dealt with but she came to him and she outranks him, is his guest so he'll listen first.
"Thank you," She says, because she ought to. And then: "A corpse is little for conversation."
Because she's hardly missed those scars.
She’s spent enough years at attention to take in the room from glances: Simple, spare enough to inspire some distant guilt. If her quarters aren’t Thranduil's expanse of silk and heirlooms, she's acutely aware of the silver that twists beneath her gloves.
"I regret to interrupt your devotions," She sits (it's his domain, his small bit of power to play, and perhaps she ought to view kindness some other way than that), gestures loose. Their introduction to this point has hardly been formal. "I cannot say I hoped to excuse myself by dragon, but such is the Age. I trust that you have been acquainted with Brother Jehan; he has been our principal source of guidance this year past."
A faint inclination of her head. Yeah, yeah. She knows. She doesn't say, though —
"The Nevarrans would beg to differ on that account but they've always had a funny way of looking at the Chant. One hand clapped over the eye in the dark." And too much lyrium in the mouth, within spitting distance of Tevinter.
Not that you go saying that.
"I have time, you're interrupting little." More's the pity-- there's little to do, he expected more busywork to run him off his feet, Maker knows he had the candle burning both ends, slept scant hours, swayed through his prayers more often than not (how many more years do you keep doing this, how many before someone gets the better of you at last?) but it's a sad indictment of it all: there's work to be done, certainly, though who agrees on the work? Who sets the lesson plans, gets the arses at the desks?
(Amsel, he will have to put himself before Amsel. It's a bitter draught to swallow there.)
"If a Magister of Tevinter large as all their sins inflicted upon this world isn't enough to buy leeway then nothing else would be. And where do you think my pillows got to? If Jehan will insist on the company he keeps, he has more want of them than I." The edge of fondness there at the corners of his mouth; Jehan is younger (foolish boy, foolish friends, Orlesian) but in the way something keeps going about and doesn't complain (even if his head is likely full of fripperies and whatever those tiny cakes are called the way Orlesian heads so often are) then Deacon won't say why he passed on the pillows.
Wren can guess.
"He's not lived in his skin long enough for it, d'you reckon he could guide himself out of tavern brawl from what I've heard of that one with names enough for a hamlet?"
Within the Chantry, outside of it; the world is full of work: All the progress to be made for a world worth Making. If she's interrupting little, that's a complaint of sorts, to be remedied. It isn't like a brother to be idle (those of their age, perhaps, but not their breed). Jehan may be callow, indulgent, possessed of remarkably loquacious friends — but she can't recall him ever sitting still.
A task would be acceptable for a younger man, or a better-known ally. You seem indenture yourself to someone, they invest themselves in you. But he's not a child, and if he wished he might invent his own. That he does not wish to?
It will take some thought, to frame it more carefully. To examine the source of the problem.
(She knows the problem. She takes breakfast with one problem, spars with another, avoids the third's bloody dragon —)
"Were it not for Brother Jehan's presence, I imagine Mssr. de Fonce would find himself lost in more." Tavern brawls. "We've collected enough nobility of late that his history may settle them. But I admit there remains a divide between those who have witnessed the works of the Chantry, and those who imagine her only the province of wealth."
"There's the Chantry," heavy on the emphasis, the pull of his mouth as if someone slapped him around the face then threw up on his feet, "and there's the chantry," warmer, fonder, every inch a Brother.
And there's a whole world of difference between those things that's a bastard to elaborate even when you've lived your whole life here because they'll squabble over the margins, over the agendas, over old bones and scraps and not the work to be done from dawn til dusk. Far removed is Val Royeaux from everything but the royal backside is a phrase that doesn't warrant repeating outside any sort of company but that which you're utterly sure of.
He could tell her here and now what happened while she was away and almost dying, but Deacon is kinder now in his older day than he was: that one accused the people of Thedas of having no sense and that she wanted everyone to be afraid of her, and that he was more afraid himself than angry. That another called the Maker a little god. Going out into the world and speaking so casually--
"I imagine there are enough here who believed they've endured all the cruelties or heard of them that they'd say my mind is addled by it if I told them I'd be dead without the Chantry. That Magda's flock would be mostly dead without it. How many we took in when Kirkwall went up in flames. When the mages were warring with themselves. Or when they're cold and hungry or there's a babe on the step no one'll mind. What do you do with ears that will not listen and eyes that will not open for all that you speak and all that you show?" He's here, he's willing (grudgingly, he'd say as much to her) but this is for the good of the people, the good of the chantry, he can suffer through much for that.
"You are patient," Easier said than done; the snarl of her orders from Minrathous may say as much. You are patient, but there are limits. You are patient when you can force yourself to be — when you can breathe, and count, and keep from boxing the ears you can't afford to bruise. "And you take them in hand."
"It is the nature of vision that ours must be limited: A man dies in the street, another in his home. Which is seen? Which ought to be?" When you neglect to do the good you might, you look it in the face. There are always decisions and consequence. "Upon your arrival here, did you not first note that which is amiss?"
"There is truth of feeling in them. I have had to shout down well-intentioned charity every month of my tenure. But they do not see that you might breathe, or that I might read, or that the walls around them are safe and warm. They see that others do not, that others still might."
"There is opportunity in this, if it may be managed."
A girl bursts into the prayer garden, the basket on her arm laden with herb clippings and a folding knife. Her fingernails have dirt under them the ribbon of her broad brimmed hat is coming undone as she rushes across the garden to him where he's doing-- well, whatever a Chantry brother does in the middle of the day in a prayer garden.
"Excuse me-- Excuse me, Brother. Do you have a moment?"
Wysteria's harried, red faced over running from the herb garden yet all but glowing with excitement. She shoves some trailing elfroot back into the basket on her arm.
Advanced angry yoga with a ten mile stare into the distance with the suggetion that he very much knows and has weighed all of your sins, yes, even that one, go pray immediately. That's Deacon's Chantry garden time since his room doesn't quite have the space for it and the courtyard invites more of an audience than he's accustomed to as if this is the sort of sight that should attract the gaze.
"Serah Poppell--" On the incline, breath huffed out through his nose nothing to do with meditations interrupted.
(The Gallows has something of an elfroot problem, he's taken note of that.)
She pauses, light on her feet and clearly trying to decide whether to put her basket down or not or if she ought to sit so she might speak more easily to him as her presence clearly doesn't warrant interruption in his-- whatever this is. But in the end Wysteria settles for shifting from foot to foot as he goes through his exercises, eagerly trotting about him should he need to turn so she might always be speaking to him from the front.
"As it happens I thought I might ask you a few more questions about Markham. Or perhaps if you had any correspondence in need of being carried there. It seems I'll be getting to see the university you spoke so highly of much sooner than expected."
Contemplation on who needs Andraste like a fist to the face is what this is but the Inquisition isn't Markham and won't see it that way. So. There's this.
And an exhale that is a choke that is a laugh that's a wheezing choke where he has to fold himself down into what might've been a graceful lotus position at the idea of anyone handling his letters, thumping hard on his chest to clear whatever that is right out. It could be a genuine offer asked in sincerity by a young woman who is a demon wearing clothes she's come by somehow (he hasn't asked that, some things you don't wish to) who has a sharp mind and a quick wit without the barbed tongue thus far, but his letters--
"It's a kind offer Serah Poppell," coughed out to buy himself time, legs crossed in a way that maybe looks painful, feet flexed, "I take it you're off on Inquisition business already then?"
(Out in the world, so newly arrived and she knows so little. Are we so desperate? To send them when they might open their mouths and say anything? Deacon's thoughts aren't always so charitable, his vows make up for it. Instead he tips his head up to look at her, swallows carefully. Thankfully the shadow of the bruise one one cheek is faded enough to be a trick of the light mostly.)
"Ask away, I'm always happy to speak of Markham if it'll keep you and whoever else you're off with out of harm's way."
If she's put out by being laughed at - and it can hardly be mistaken as anything but -, she certainly doesn't show it. That's fine. There is a particular type and age of man who Wysteria fulls expects to be found hilarious by and there's simply nothing to be done about it. She charges onward:
"In a manner of speaking. There's a conference, I suppose, being held regarding the nature of Rifters such as myself." She wiggles her hand for emphasis, the low glinting glow of the shard winking from where it's buried in her palm. "I suppose the Inquisition is of the mind to send a display piece. So I'm meant to sit and behave myself and I assume be poked by sharp sticks while more knowledgeable members of the delegation find something reasonable to say. It feels somehow wrong to say that's me doing Inquisition business when all I really have to do is not do anything truly terrible."
"A conference in Markham. Only the scholars or will the Chantry have a presence there too?" Maker have mercy if Magda shows herself at it, she'll not have the patience to feign politeness for the sake of it, age having shortened her temper more than Deacon's. Perhaps he might send a fast raven or a courier to Abigal, have her go. Things are too early here for Magda's interventions.
(He doesn't flinch at her palm, though it's a near thing. Unnatural. Uncomfortable. That she would be so blatant about it troubles him.)
"The roads are lawless places these days, I might suggest you'd travel light or cover any valuables or anything that might draw the eye to start. I came in roughspun and still had onlookers here and there. If you've nobility or those who aspire to it that might be a tougher sell." A lopsided smile; there were bodies on the road, picked clean by all kinds of scavengers, and some of it brought upon themselves he'd imagine as the price of foolishness. "You'll be poked more by bony fingers than sticks, I imagine you've a passing knowledge of the sort? That or elbows. We're more cultured than Ansburg but find out if anyone from Ansburg is there or you'll not hear the end of it, and agriculture isn't--
"Well it's farming but it's more than just that. It's all the business of it. The planting, the plants themselves, the equipment, the fields, the animals, it takes many minds to do it better to feed the hungry mouths, and the university isn't only for that despite what any Orlesians will say regarding their own. It teaches many other things. They can't understand how we work without one ruler to guide us all."
(Get wrecked Celene and your games we're doing just fine here in the Marches except Kirkwall and it barely qualifies let's be real.)
"I believe it's mostly meant to be scholars, though I wouldn't be certain. It is almost certainly in defiance of the Chantry's decision that we - Rifters, I mean - aren't demons and fussing back and forth over the semantics of what can be decided without the Divine." Clearly, she's parroting something she read or overheard. "It might be a better question for Master Solas or Enchantress Delacroix who I believe are meant to be doing all the serious talking." As to whether either of them could be convinced to travel as paupers, that much she cannot say either. Particularly as it sounds dreadful to her own ear. She hopes desperately that they will go in a sensible sprung cart or something like it and so avoid all trouble that may come their direction by outrunning it.
But really, she cares less about all of that than she does the matter of the university, so the turn his conversation takes is a welcome one.
"I'm looking forward to it. I don't know that I've ever heard of a school that taught such things - oh business and the like, certainly. But every farm I've ever known has been handled by gentlemen who grew to the trade rather than being taught it. Is there farmland about Markham itself? I expect there must be, if the classes are to be at all practical. What places would you recommend seeing while I'm there? I promise to do so quietly so as not to alarm anyone," --outside the Gallows she is very mindful, thank you-- "but I'd like very much to see what is worth seeing while I have the opportunity."
Accept that you're demons and cast yourself into the flame. It's the only right that can come of any of it, to accept the pyre, to accept a blade of mercy should it come, true nature that will reveal itself with the fire as it does each and every time. (There is a test, there is always a test, it burns no matter the outcome, leaves you scarred.)
"Have you an idea what project or division it's organised by?" There are stories of that elven mage, unnatural ones if he's the way the Inquisition track rifts and he won't consort with elven apostates unnecessarily, bad enough the rifter one sought him out, and the less said of mages better belonging to their towers the better, a lapse in judgement to give them this taste of power they'll not soon be parted from when all is said and done. Are they Tevinter shedding it's skin? Remaking itself as the shadow of the past looms?
He rises for want of something to do, beckoning to the nearest bench where he sits heavily, stretching, considering. Easy tactic. He can't remember who taught him this anymore.
"Much of Thedas has farmland about it; Ferelden has the bannorn, Orlais has plenty of farms to go with vineyards and hunting estates, even up in the Anders they've farms of a fashion. Kirkwall is something if an outlier. Built as it was but it's a port, easy for it to bring in foods. Most farms still have families looking after them but daughters just as likely to look after them." Perhaps more than some with it showing on his face, Deacon struggles with that notion of women not leading, not holding the strings of all things in life. It goes against all of him. "The Chantry, Revered Mother Magda welcomes all, our doors are ever open, and Sister Abigail enjoys hearing tales of elsewhere since she's less chance to travel these days while so much is up in the air. There's a few good taverns owned by the same families for a few generations. Might be a few places showing art still before they pack up for winter. If you've a fondness for books you can share it there but I had no coin to spend I'm not sure what captures the interest of young ladies or where you might find things like a spyglass."
Thirty plus years of poverty versus what he's presuming is bright scholarly lady intrigued with the world, she'll find more places than he'll remember from the past shitshow decade.
"Research division, I believe. Which I've put my name in for somewhat officially. You speak now to a legitimate member of the Inquisition, sir." She seems pleased by it, as a small bird chirping enthusiastically while she follows him to the bench. She takes a seat there beside him, minding her skirts and setting her basket across her knees. She begins to sort the elf root as he speaks, stripping the wilted leaves from the stalks and flicking them quietly to one side of the basket's bottom.
"I will have to take a look at your Chantry, then. I think I would like to see it as much as the art. I'm sure they're lovely paintings, but I'm afraid I'm not very educated and my eye is quite poor." Revered Mother Madga and Sister Abigail. She will have to remember both and she is she can't find the time to tell the latter something of her Brother's work here. Were someone visiting her home, she would hope they'd bring a kind word or two about her to her family or friends.
Wysteria strips a few more extraneous bits from the roots. They'd need to be cut and dried and then delivered to the infirmary and little clinics--
"I'll see what I can find, then. And let you know when I return if I make any surprising discoveries, shall I?"
"Reporting to Thranduil then. My congratulations at making yourself part of this." Abigail would've chosen research over diplomacy even if diplomacy aligns closer to the Chantry, unable to resist the chance to learn, to go poking at things. "We've an alarming abundance of that in the Gallows."
The elfroot. All well and good for healing but even so who needs as much of it as they seem to grow here? Surely it can't all be destined for potions, salves or poultices or the healers would be run off their feet keeping a handle on it.
"What is it that you did where you came from? You had a spyglass when we met - did that come with you?" If she's not interested in paintings (too many young ladies who speak as ladies are though he'll probably write a list of the paintings related to the Chantry, find some poor skinny child to take it to her, the kind who want accept coin unless there's an errand attached to it) then there has to be something else to occupy a mind as keen.
"I'd appreciate it. They're probably still gossiping about the end of the tourney, it takes time for that ruckus to die down, at least until the stench of the manure passes." And this time the Inquisition came so of course everyone had a story and it ended how it ended so it might be one that lasts to First Day.
"There is quite a lot of it, isn't there? I suspect it must be for smoking. The book I have only references the roots, but--" She waggles a limp leaf. Well, she's seen quite a few drying bundles of the stuff.
"--oh, but no. I was only borrowing the glass. I'm afraid I brought very little with me actually. It's the queerest thing actually; when I arrived here, the contents of my traveling case had all been changed into birds. Which I'm sure I don't have to explain how frustrating it is to suddenly own only one pair of clothes. Not that they'd fit here anyway."
Right. There was another question in there. "I was studying a trade at home, much to the disappointment of my mother. Making little useful things, mostly, but I evidently have some skill for-- well, for unmaking things and cataloguing what they're for and how they're meant to be used and how they were made, I suppose. It's a little like taking a machine to pieces. Or like repairing clocks. --Though only just the basics of it. I only started my apprenticeship very recently. You might call me something of a late bloomer."
"There are terrible habits that people develop when no one is there to mind them better or have them recall that what heals can hurt." Which is to say yes, they're smoking it, even some of the guards on rotation are partial to it when their shifts are long, and Deacon grew up in a Chantry with too many boys and girls where it was passed around as a form of currency when you had nothing else.
There's a long moment where he looks utterly disturbed. Birds. Who is it that cares for birds and skies and backwards omens? The folk in the mountains maybe, it's been a while since he had any reason to go poking into that particular history as much as he might enjoy Genitivi's writings but that-- "Even for Thedas that is a form of magic I've never heard of and I've fifty years under my belt." In a Chantry. With Revered Mothers and Sisters and Templars, the odd Seeker or Grand Cleric come to visit when duty dictated. "You've received charity here? You should receive something as a member of the Inquisition, enough to buy your own things but they should still see fit to furnish you with a change of clothes at the very least."
In some part of Deacon, the part that knows where he came from cracked same as cold aged steps, there are some values that go deeper than many other things he might speak of no matter the tone. Too many down to threads, rotted shoes (no shoes), the bread half-sawdust, glassy eyes-- There's his own stipend he doles out. Wysteria needn't know should she require basic clothing when the winter comes down upon them, she'll need a warm cloak and decent boots at the very least. Charity is charity, they do need rifters to close rifts and how far will she walk if she loses her toes to frostbite if Kirkwall's winter is as terrible as the last?
"Your mother was disappointed in you studying a trade? I can't think of many mothers who'd be anything but proud unless it took their children away from something they deemed more essential." A farm. An estate. A marriage if they put the studies before it but even so most would be proud of their child going on to work hard, to excel themselves and dedicate their mind to some discipline and the confusion only grows with her explanation, brow furrowing. And with his big balding and shaven head that's a lot of furrow. "Clockworks are dwarven, they've skills far beyond others though that comes from their veneration of their ancestors. Have you considered looking into becoming an artificer? The skills might well be the same."
"Oh yes, not to worry. The ladies in the laundry have given me two dresses and things to accompany them with. I think everyone would rather I not wear the things I came dressed in - they'd make me stick out like a sore thumb, wouldn't they? No, what you see before you is almost entirely new. Well. New to me. Minus the hat and shoes. And the gloves in my belt here."
She clacks the toes of her boots together to emphasize the point. They're sturdy, but absolutely not meant for all the walking she'd been doing in them or the wet or cold or--
"My mother would much rather I had found myself a proper husband than pursue such a...specialized education. Or to show some interest in my father's business. I think that might still be her ambition, actually. The marrying part, but-- Well, I suppose it doesn't matter much today, does it? So far as I'm aware, I'm the only Poppell in Thedas."
Which is fine. Really, it is. Brighter:
"Is there much education involved in becoming an artificer?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i'm not caught up on my backtags, but also consider: shh; action
...Obviously, there's a list, everyone signed their names on it. But she's not a complete tit — alright, not a complete tit around unwelcome reminders of her adolescence — so she comes around at a reasonable hour of the day, and knocks like a reasonable person. Even waits for him to open the door.
(The sacrifices that one makes.)
If she's shed her good coat, it isn't for this so much as for leaving it in the guest quarters of the Minrathous Palace, where no doubt it's been repurposed for a particularly dour pair of drapes. There'll be another. But for the moment, at least, a pretense towards simplicity.
"Brother Deacon," Who else. "I hoped we might speak."
Does she require another introduction? A familiar, Orlesian voice. A familiar, ozone tang. No; not likely. Her hands fold behind her back.
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No shirt because he'd been knelt in prayer or meditation when it opens, the careful incline of his head that doesn't hide the genuine smile that she survived.
They've few Templars here. Few enough not lost to their own ends or the red madness that they can afford to lose none of them.
"Ser Coupe, it gladdens the heart to see you returned from Minrathous alive." The door shut behind her, the one seat indicated while he finds his shirt to tug that back on. "Of course, I'd hoped we might when you got back."
He might have had a list of all he'd dealt with but she came to him and she outranks him, is his guest so he'll listen first.
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Because she's hardly missed those scars.
She’s spent enough years at attention to take in the room from glances: Simple, spare enough to inspire some distant guilt. If her quarters aren’t Thranduil's expanse of silk and heirlooms, she's acutely aware of the silver that twists beneath her gloves.
"I regret to interrupt your devotions," She sits (it's his domain, his small bit of power to play, and perhaps she ought to view kindness some other way than that), gestures loose. Their introduction to this point has hardly been formal. "I cannot say I hoped to excuse myself by dragon, but such is the Age. I trust that you have been acquainted with Brother Jehan; he has been our principal source of guidance this year past."
A faint inclination of her head. Yeah, yeah. She knows. She doesn't say, though —
Watches, instead. An invitation to opinion.
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Not that you go saying that.
"I have time, you're interrupting little." More's the pity-- there's little to do, he expected more busywork to run him off his feet, Maker knows he had the candle burning both ends, slept scant hours, swayed through his prayers more often than not (how many more years do you keep doing this, how many before someone gets the better of you at last?) but it's a sad indictment of it all: there's work to be done, certainly, though who agrees on the work? Who sets the lesson plans, gets the arses at the desks?
(Amsel, he will have to put himself before Amsel. It's a bitter draught to swallow there.)
"If a Magister of Tevinter large as all their sins inflicted upon this world isn't enough to buy leeway then nothing else would be. And where do you think my pillows got to? If Jehan will insist on the company he keeps, he has more want of them than I." The edge of fondness there at the corners of his mouth; Jehan is younger (foolish boy, foolish friends, Orlesian) but in the way something keeps going about and doesn't complain (even if his head is likely full of fripperies and whatever those tiny cakes are called the way Orlesian heads so often are) then Deacon won't say why he passed on the pillows.
Wren can guess.
"He's not lived in his skin long enough for it, d'you reckon he could guide himself out of tavern brawl from what I've heard of that one with names enough for a hamlet?"
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Within the Chantry, outside of it; the world is full of work: All the progress to be made for a world worth Making. If she's interrupting little, that's a complaint of sorts, to be remedied. It isn't like a brother to be idle (those of their age, perhaps, but not their breed). Jehan may be callow, indulgent, possessed of remarkably loquacious friends — but she can't recall him ever sitting still.
A task would be acceptable for a younger man, or a better-known ally. You seem indenture yourself to someone, they invest themselves in you. But he's not a child, and if he wished he might invent his own. That he does not wish to?
It will take some thought, to frame it more carefully. To examine the source of the problem.
(She knows the problem. She takes breakfast with one problem, spars with another, avoids the third's bloody dragon —)
"Were it not for Brother Jehan's presence, I imagine Mssr. de Fonce would find himself lost in more." Tavern brawls. "We've collected enough nobility of late that his history may settle them. But I admit there remains a divide between those who have witnessed the works of the Chantry, and those who imagine her only the province of wealth."
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And there's a whole world of difference between those things that's a bastard to elaborate even when you've lived your whole life here because they'll squabble over the margins, over the agendas, over old bones and scraps and not the work to be done from dawn til dusk. Far removed is Val Royeaux from everything but the royal backside is a phrase that doesn't warrant repeating outside any sort of company but that which you're utterly sure of.
He could tell her here and now what happened while she was away and almost dying, but Deacon is kinder now in his older day than he was: that one accused the people of Thedas of having no sense and that she wanted everyone to be afraid of her, and that he was more afraid himself than angry. That another called the Maker a little god. Going out into the world and speaking so casually--
"I imagine there are enough here who believed they've endured all the cruelties or heard of them that they'd say my mind is addled by it if I told them I'd be dead without the Chantry. That Magda's flock would be mostly dead without it. How many we took in when Kirkwall went up in flames. When the mages were warring with themselves. Or when they're cold and hungry or there's a babe on the step no one'll mind. What do you do with ears that will not listen and eyes that will not open for all that you speak and all that you show?" He's here, he's willing (grudgingly, he'd say as much to her) but this is for the good of the people, the good of the chantry, he can suffer through much for that.
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"It is the nature of vision that ours must be limited: A man dies in the street, another in his home. Which is seen? Which ought to be?" When you neglect to do the good you might, you look it in the face. There are always decisions and consequence. "Upon your arrival here, did you not first note that which is amiss?"
"There is truth of feeling in them. I have had to shout down well-intentioned charity every month of my tenure. But they do not see that you might breathe, or that I might read, or that the walls around them are safe and warm. They see that others do not, that others still might."
"There is opportunity in this, if it may be managed."
action;
"Excuse me-- Excuse me, Brother. Do you have a moment?"
Wysteria's harried, red faced over running from the herb garden yet all but glowing with excitement. She shoves some trailing elfroot back into the basket on her arm.
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"Serah Poppell--" On the incline, breath huffed out through his nose nothing to do with meditations interrupted.
(The Gallows has something of an elfroot problem, he's taken note of that.)
"What might I do for you this day?"
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"As it happens I thought I might ask you a few more questions about Markham. Or perhaps if you had any correspondence in need of being carried there. It seems I'll be getting to see the university you spoke so highly of much sooner than expected."
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And an exhale that is a choke that is a laugh that's a wheezing choke where he has to fold himself down into what might've been a graceful lotus position at the idea of anyone handling his letters, thumping hard on his chest to clear whatever that is right out. It could be a genuine offer asked in sincerity by a young woman who is a demon wearing clothes she's come by somehow (he hasn't asked that, some things you don't wish to) who has a sharp mind and a quick wit without the barbed tongue thus far, but his letters--
"It's a kind offer Serah Poppell," coughed out to buy himself time, legs crossed in a way that maybe looks painful, feet flexed, "I take it you're off on Inquisition business already then?"
(Out in the world, so newly arrived and she knows so little. Are we so desperate? To send them when they might open their mouths and say anything? Deacon's thoughts aren't always so charitable, his vows make up for it. Instead he tips his head up to look at her, swallows carefully. Thankfully the shadow of the bruise one one cheek is faded enough to be a trick of the light mostly.)
"Ask away, I'm always happy to speak of Markham if it'll keep you and whoever else you're off with out of harm's way."
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"In a manner of speaking. There's a conference, I suppose, being held regarding the nature of Rifters such as myself." She wiggles her hand for emphasis, the low glinting glow of the shard winking from where it's buried in her palm. "I suppose the Inquisition is of the mind to send a display piece. So I'm meant to sit and behave myself and I assume be poked by sharp sticks while more knowledgeable members of the delegation find something reasonable to say. It feels somehow wrong to say that's me doing Inquisition business when all I really have to do is not do anything truly terrible."
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(He doesn't flinch at her palm, though it's a near thing. Unnatural. Uncomfortable. That she would be so blatant about it troubles him.)
"The roads are lawless places these days, I might suggest you'd travel light or cover any valuables or anything that might draw the eye to start. I came in roughspun and still had onlookers here and there. If you've nobility or those who aspire to it that might be a tougher sell." A lopsided smile; there were bodies on the road, picked clean by all kinds of scavengers, and some of it brought upon themselves he'd imagine as the price of foolishness. "You'll be poked more by bony fingers than sticks, I imagine you've a passing knowledge of the sort? That or elbows. We're more cultured than Ansburg but find out if anyone from Ansburg is there or you'll not hear the end of it, and agriculture isn't--
"Well it's farming but it's more than just that. It's all the business of it. The planting, the plants themselves, the equipment, the fields, the animals, it takes many minds to do it better to feed the hungry mouths, and the university isn't only for that despite what any Orlesians will say regarding their own. It teaches many other things. They can't understand how we work without one ruler to guide us all."
(Get wrecked Celene and your games we're doing just fine here in the Marches except Kirkwall and it barely qualifies let's be real.)
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But really, she cares less about all of that than she does the matter of the university, so the turn his conversation takes is a welcome one.
"I'm looking forward to it. I don't know that I've ever heard of a school that taught such things - oh business and the like, certainly. But every farm I've ever known has been handled by gentlemen who grew to the trade rather than being taught it. Is there farmland about Markham itself? I expect there must be, if the classes are to be at all practical. What places would you recommend seeing while I'm there? I promise to do so quietly so as not to alarm anyone," --outside the Gallows she is very mindful, thank you-- "but I'd like very much to see what is worth seeing while I have the opportunity."
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"Have you an idea what project or division it's organised by?" There are stories of that elven mage, unnatural ones if he's the way the Inquisition track rifts and he won't consort with elven apostates unnecessarily, bad enough the rifter one sought him out, and the less said of mages better belonging to their towers the better, a lapse in judgement to give them this taste of power they'll not soon be parted from when all is said and done. Are they Tevinter shedding it's skin? Remaking itself as the shadow of the past looms?
He rises for want of something to do, beckoning to the nearest bench where he sits heavily, stretching, considering. Easy tactic. He can't remember who taught him this anymore.
"Much of Thedas has farmland about it; Ferelden has the bannorn, Orlais has plenty of farms to go with vineyards and hunting estates, even up in the Anders they've farms of a fashion. Kirkwall is something if an outlier. Built as it was but it's a port, easy for it to bring in foods. Most farms still have families looking after them but daughters just as likely to look after them." Perhaps more than some with it showing on his face, Deacon struggles with that notion of women not leading, not holding the strings of all things in life. It goes against all of him. "The Chantry, Revered Mother Magda welcomes all, our doors are ever open, and Sister Abigail enjoys hearing tales of elsewhere since she's less chance to travel these days while so much is up in the air. There's a few good taverns owned by the same families for a few generations. Might be a few places showing art still before they pack up for winter. If you've a fondness for books you can share it there but I had no coin to spend I'm not sure what captures the interest of young ladies or where you might find things like a spyglass."
Thirty plus years of poverty versus what he's presuming is bright scholarly lady intrigued with the world, she'll find more places than he'll remember from the past shitshow decade.
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"I will have to take a look at your Chantry, then. I think I would like to see it as much as the art. I'm sure they're lovely paintings, but I'm afraid I'm not very educated and my eye is quite poor." Revered Mother Madga and Sister Abigail. She will have to remember both and she is she can't find the time to tell the latter something of her Brother's work here. Were someone visiting her home, she would hope they'd bring a kind word or two about her to her family or friends.
Wysteria strips a few more extraneous bits from the roots. They'd need to be cut and dried and then delivered to the infirmary and little clinics--
"I'll see what I can find, then. And let you know when I return if I make any surprising discoveries, shall I?"
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The elfroot. All well and good for healing but even so who needs as much of it as they seem to grow here? Surely it can't all be destined for potions, salves or poultices or the healers would be run off their feet keeping a handle on it.
"What is it that you did where you came from? You had a spyglass when we met - did that come with you?" If she's not interested in paintings (too many young ladies who speak as ladies are though he'll probably write a list of the paintings related to the Chantry, find some poor skinny child to take it to her, the kind who want accept coin unless there's an errand attached to it) then there has to be something else to occupy a mind as keen.
"I'd appreciate it. They're probably still gossiping about the end of the tourney, it takes time for that ruckus to die down, at least until the stench of the manure passes." And this time the Inquisition came so of course everyone had a story and it ended how it ended so it might be one that lasts to First Day.
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"--oh, but no. I was only borrowing the glass. I'm afraid I brought very little with me actually. It's the queerest thing actually; when I arrived here, the contents of my traveling case had all been changed into birds. Which I'm sure I don't have to explain how frustrating it is to suddenly own only one pair of clothes. Not that they'd fit here anyway."
Right. There was another question in there. "I was studying a trade at home, much to the disappointment of my mother. Making little useful things, mostly, but I evidently have some skill for-- well, for unmaking things and cataloguing what they're for and how they're meant to be used and how they were made, I suppose. It's a little like taking a machine to pieces. Or like repairing clocks. --Though only just the basics of it. I only started my apprenticeship very recently. You might call me something of a late bloomer."
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There's a long moment where he looks utterly disturbed. Birds. Who is it that cares for birds and skies and backwards omens? The folk in the mountains maybe, it's been a while since he had any reason to go poking into that particular history as much as he might enjoy Genitivi's writings but that-- "Even for Thedas that is a form of magic I've never heard of and I've fifty years under my belt." In a Chantry. With Revered Mothers and Sisters and Templars, the odd Seeker or Grand Cleric come to visit when duty dictated. "You've received charity here? You should receive something as a member of the Inquisition, enough to buy your own things but they should still see fit to furnish you with a change of clothes at the very least."
In some part of Deacon, the part that knows where he came from cracked same as cold aged steps, there are some values that go deeper than many other things he might speak of no matter the tone. Too many down to threads, rotted shoes (no shoes), the bread half-sawdust, glassy eyes-- There's his own stipend he doles out. Wysteria needn't know should she require basic clothing when the winter comes down upon them, she'll need a warm cloak and decent boots at the very least. Charity is charity, they do need rifters to close rifts and how far will she walk if she loses her toes to frostbite if Kirkwall's winter is as terrible as the last?
"Your mother was disappointed in you studying a trade? I can't think of many mothers who'd be anything but proud unless it took their children away from something they deemed more essential." A farm. An estate. A marriage if they put the studies before it but even so most would be proud of their child going on to work hard, to excel themselves and dedicate their mind to some discipline and the confusion only grows with her explanation, brow furrowing. And with his big balding and shaven head that's a lot of furrow. "Clockworks are dwarven, they've skills far beyond others though that comes from their veneration of their ancestors. Have you considered looking into becoming an artificer? The skills might well be the same."
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She clacks the toes of her boots together to emphasize the point. They're sturdy, but absolutely not meant for all the walking she'd been doing in them or the wet or cold or--
"My mother would much rather I had found myself a proper husband than pursue such a...specialized education. Or to show some interest in my father's business. I think that might still be her ambition, actually. The marrying part, but-- Well, I suppose it doesn't matter much today, does it? So far as I'm aware, I'm the only Poppell in Thedas."
Which is fine. Really, it is. Brighter:
"Is there much education involved in becoming an artificer?"