“Cyrus?” The soft clinking of metal and wood accompanied the bid for his attention as Livia gathered together his dishes, mostly clean of the food they’d held earlier in the afternoon. He’d come out of his singleminded concentration upon her entrance at noon, to realize that he hadn’t eaten much any of the last four times she’d been by, and decided to rectify that. He suspected she reported to Stellulam, so it served him to occasionally do such things when she could observe.
He flicked his eyes up from the work they rested on, arching a brow, inviting elaboration, which followed presently. “When was the last time you left this room?”
Cyrus frowned. “Why does it matter?”
Livia half-smiled, an expression familiar to him, because there was something indulgent about it. He’d seen it many times, on many people, and never been especially fond of it. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Of course I do.” He didn’t, and refused to speculate, in case his guess should be provably incorrect.
She hummed a note in the back of her throat, and he could tell she didn’t believe him. This personal concern and audaciousness in expressing it was, he supposed, his comeuppance. He generally detested being feared by people like her, and so he’d been irritated when she called him milord, her tone still meek as those she had previously served likely preferred it. But that was ridiculous, and wrong for here, and so he’d more or less demanded that she use his actual name. And eventually that she cease stopping herself from asking when she had a question, and now she clearly had it in her head that she was permitted to worry about him, and make her own demands in turn.
How troublesome.
“You ought to, you know. Go outside. Talk to people besides your sister and I.” Oh, she was definitely reporting to Estella. If she weren’t, she’d have called her the Inquisitor or something equally as straightjacketed and stuffy. He scoffed.
“And which one of you insists?” The words emerged testily, but that seemed to faze her not at all, and her smile grew just a little, giving her eyes a glint.
“I would never presume to do something like that, of course.” And now she was giving him cheek. He sighed, admittedly with some exaggeration, and waved a hand as if to shoo a pest.
“Fine, I’m going. You may report to her worship that I have indulged in fresh air and sunshine.” He was at least as good as his word, and though Livia left first, he followed shortly after, descending the winding staircase that put him out of his tower and onto Skyhold’s grounds. Electing to avoid the noisier and more active parts of the castle, he instead headed for the interior, where the gardens lay.
They were not yet much improved from their initial condition, but all the dead things had been cleared away, and there was evidence of several efforts towards horticulture taking place. He supposed the commander might be responsible for at least some of them. Aesthetically, it could use some work—the practical necessities had taken precedence over the more visually pleasing plants, for now at least. No doubt Lady Marceline would eventually oversee some improvements, that it might be a better location for diplomatic guests to enjoy themselves.
Standing out from the bland colors of the not-yet restored gardens was Vesryn, in a light blue tunic unbuttoned to halfway down his chest, as was usual for the elf while it was still warm enough. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms crossed as he peered down at the remains of what was once a statue. The piece of stonework was situated along one of the garden pathways, the square base still solid, but the body of the statue had been hewn off just below the waist, leaving only a pair of legs behind. They were adorned with an intriguingly cut long skirt, one smooth leg and little foot emerging from a slit.
Vesryn continued to study the leg as Cyrus came within a comfortable conversing range. "I wonder who she was," he mused, thoughtfully, "and where the rest of her is now." Indeed, the missing upper half of the statue was nowhere to be seen in the garden.
Cyrus tilted his head, considering the stonework. The castle itself was ancient, and he knew more about it already than he’d originally intended to, though some of its deeper mysteries continued to elude him, even when he searched actively through its lingering memories. “Evidently a fair maiden, carried off by a dragon or some equally-unsavory creature to faraway places.” He wasn’t even a little bit serious, and chose to make it obvious. “Some people have all the luck.”
"Not a very strong dragon, though," Vesryn replied wryly. He smiled slightly to himself, before turning to face Cyrus in full.
"So, looking for me, or just visiting the garden? I imagine that's something Tevinter mages do, right? Visit fancy gardens while they whisper and scheme with one another?" There was certainly a small degree of venom to the elf's tone, but in all likelihood it was directed at the idea of the stereotypical plotting magister, and not at Cyrus himself.
“But of course. You forgot the trysting and backstabbing and finger-foods, though. All are vital additions to any Imperial party. They get incredibly dry if no one dies, really.” He waved a hand in an inarticulate gesture, then crossed it loosely with the other over his chest.
“I admit I am here for the purpose of assuaging dear Stellulam’s ever-present concern for my health, but…” His brows descended over his eyes, creating a crease between them. “If you are not immediately pressed to be elsewhere, I could use a moment of your time.”
Rather than simply taking the moment, Cyrus caught himself and stilled his tongue, properly waiting for the answer with a neutral expression.
Vesryn exhaled sharply, a poorly-contained laugh at the comment regarding Stellulam, but then nodded, uncrossing his arms. "Certainly. How can I help?" There was a glimmer of interest in his eyes, no doubt curiosity, and perhaps still a bit of wariness, as to what exactly Cyrus wanted with him.
Yes, well… that was the difficult part. Cyrus, by some combination of position, cultural understanding, and choice—mostly the last—did not often find himself in such situations. Shifting his weight, he pulled in a breath and then sighed with it. “It has… come to my attention,” he hedged, though context would likely make it obvious enough just how that came about, “that I was not… at my best, when we first actually spoke.” An understatement, but it would do, he thought.
“I was abrupt because I was interested. It’s a… trait, of mine, which may on occasion be a flaw. If I had stopped to think about the social ramifications in more detail, it might have occurred to me that my abruptness could easily be interpreted as threat.” He grimaced. Of course it would look that way—he was visibly and unashamedly an Imperial mage, and Vesryn was an elf with a secret he’d probably been protecting for a large portion of his life, one that suddenly the same Imperial mage knew about.
“But I didn’t, and I… apologize, for that. It seems that I am at pains to distinguish myself from others of my ilk whilst simultaneously playing into every expectation of them. It is… more complicated than I expected, and I erred.” The words were halting rather than smooth, and tasted strange on his tongue, but that was a function of the admission, not the person he was making it to.
Vesryn took quite a while to respond, probably mulling over the words in his mind. He didn't look amused for once, clearly not wanting to muddy the waters with any hint or potential for sarcasm or false cheer. "Curiosity and interest are nothing to apologize for," he said finally. "My circumstances are quite unique. I probably would've been more alarmed had you restrained your interest for the social ramifications." He exhaled, hooking a thumb under his belt.
"Truth be told, I think I cornered myself into my initial judgement of you. Couldn't quite come around to the idea that a mage from Tevinter would have anything other than sinister intentions. I interpreted it as threat, but you've done nothing threatening so far." He paused, his eyes wavering away from Cyrus in that way they sometimes did. Focusing or feeling inward, perhaps, to better read the thought of the one trapped inside.
"We could undoubtedly be of use to each other. Maybe together we could come to understand how my situation is able to exist, and what the future of it may be."
Ah, now here was a language Cyrus could speak. “I would not mind lending my expertise to that. There is a startling lack of interesting magical phenomena to examine now, considering that the Breach is dealt with.” There were, of course, still the marks on Estella’s and Romulus’s hands, and this business about a suspicious orb, but Cyrus had a feeling he knew where to go for answers about the latter. The trick would be getting there.
In the meantime, consciousness transferal was still a rather tantalizing conundrum.
“If at some point in the future you are so inclined, you’re welcome to visit my workshop. It would, after all, be rather prudent not to discuss such matters in the garden. Wouldn’t want to run afoul of any scheming, whispering sorts, would we?”
Vesryn smiled, more easily this time, most of the tension of his own explanation leaving him. "Yes, that would be for the best, I think. I'll be sure to visit sooner rather than later. I get the sense the Inquisition will not remain in such a resting state for much longer."
“Indeed not.” Cyrus dipped his chin, then stepped sideways, moving himself back out onto the garden path to continue his walk.
Perhaps he should get out a little more often.
He flicked his eyes up from the work they rested on, arching a brow, inviting elaboration, which followed presently. “When was the last time you left this room?”
Cyrus frowned. “Why does it matter?”
Livia half-smiled, an expression familiar to him, because there was something indulgent about it. He’d seen it many times, on many people, and never been especially fond of it. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Of course I do.” He didn’t, and refused to speculate, in case his guess should be provably incorrect.
She hummed a note in the back of her throat, and he could tell she didn’t believe him. This personal concern and audaciousness in expressing it was, he supposed, his comeuppance. He generally detested being feared by people like her, and so he’d been irritated when she called him milord, her tone still meek as those she had previously served likely preferred it. But that was ridiculous, and wrong for here, and so he’d more or less demanded that she use his actual name. And eventually that she cease stopping herself from asking when she had a question, and now she clearly had it in her head that she was permitted to worry about him, and make her own demands in turn.
How troublesome.
“You ought to, you know. Go outside. Talk to people besides your sister and I.” Oh, she was definitely reporting to Estella. If she weren’t, she’d have called her the Inquisitor or something equally as straightjacketed and stuffy. He scoffed.
“And which one of you insists?” The words emerged testily, but that seemed to faze her not at all, and her smile grew just a little, giving her eyes a glint.
“I would never presume to do something like that, of course.” And now she was giving him cheek. He sighed, admittedly with some exaggeration, and waved a hand as if to shoo a pest.
“Fine, I’m going. You may report to her worship that I have indulged in fresh air and sunshine.” He was at least as good as his word, and though Livia left first, he followed shortly after, descending the winding staircase that put him out of his tower and onto Skyhold’s grounds. Electing to avoid the noisier and more active parts of the castle, he instead headed for the interior, where the gardens lay.
They were not yet much improved from their initial condition, but all the dead things had been cleared away, and there was evidence of several efforts towards horticulture taking place. He supposed the commander might be responsible for at least some of them. Aesthetically, it could use some work—the practical necessities had taken precedence over the more visually pleasing plants, for now at least. No doubt Lady Marceline would eventually oversee some improvements, that it might be a better location for diplomatic guests to enjoy themselves.
Standing out from the bland colors of the not-yet restored gardens was Vesryn, in a light blue tunic unbuttoned to halfway down his chest, as was usual for the elf while it was still warm enough. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms crossed as he peered down at the remains of what was once a statue. The piece of stonework was situated along one of the garden pathways, the square base still solid, but the body of the statue had been hewn off just below the waist, leaving only a pair of legs behind. They were adorned with an intriguingly cut long skirt, one smooth leg and little foot emerging from a slit.
Vesryn continued to study the leg as Cyrus came within a comfortable conversing range. "I wonder who she was," he mused, thoughtfully, "and where the rest of her is now." Indeed, the missing upper half of the statue was nowhere to be seen in the garden.
Cyrus tilted his head, considering the stonework. The castle itself was ancient, and he knew more about it already than he’d originally intended to, though some of its deeper mysteries continued to elude him, even when he searched actively through its lingering memories. “Evidently a fair maiden, carried off by a dragon or some equally-unsavory creature to faraway places.” He wasn’t even a little bit serious, and chose to make it obvious. “Some people have all the luck.”
"Not a very strong dragon, though," Vesryn replied wryly. He smiled slightly to himself, before turning to face Cyrus in full.
"So, looking for me, or just visiting the garden? I imagine that's something Tevinter mages do, right? Visit fancy gardens while they whisper and scheme with one another?" There was certainly a small degree of venom to the elf's tone, but in all likelihood it was directed at the idea of the stereotypical plotting magister, and not at Cyrus himself.
“But of course. You forgot the trysting and backstabbing and finger-foods, though. All are vital additions to any Imperial party. They get incredibly dry if no one dies, really.” He waved a hand in an inarticulate gesture, then crossed it loosely with the other over his chest.
“I admit I am here for the purpose of assuaging dear Stellulam’s ever-present concern for my health, but…” His brows descended over his eyes, creating a crease between them. “If you are not immediately pressed to be elsewhere, I could use a moment of your time.”
Rather than simply taking the moment, Cyrus caught himself and stilled his tongue, properly waiting for the answer with a neutral expression.
Vesryn exhaled sharply, a poorly-contained laugh at the comment regarding Stellulam, but then nodded, uncrossing his arms. "Certainly. How can I help?" There was a glimmer of interest in his eyes, no doubt curiosity, and perhaps still a bit of wariness, as to what exactly Cyrus wanted with him.
Yes, well… that was the difficult part. Cyrus, by some combination of position, cultural understanding, and choice—mostly the last—did not often find himself in such situations. Shifting his weight, he pulled in a breath and then sighed with it. “It has… come to my attention,” he hedged, though context would likely make it obvious enough just how that came about, “that I was not… at my best, when we first actually spoke.” An understatement, but it would do, he thought.
“I was abrupt because I was interested. It’s a… trait, of mine, which may on occasion be a flaw. If I had stopped to think about the social ramifications in more detail, it might have occurred to me that my abruptness could easily be interpreted as threat.” He grimaced. Of course it would look that way—he was visibly and unashamedly an Imperial mage, and Vesryn was an elf with a secret he’d probably been protecting for a large portion of his life, one that suddenly the same Imperial mage knew about.
“But I didn’t, and I… apologize, for that. It seems that I am at pains to distinguish myself from others of my ilk whilst simultaneously playing into every expectation of them. It is… more complicated than I expected, and I erred.” The words were halting rather than smooth, and tasted strange on his tongue, but that was a function of the admission, not the person he was making it to.
Vesryn took quite a while to respond, probably mulling over the words in his mind. He didn't look amused for once, clearly not wanting to muddy the waters with any hint or potential for sarcasm or false cheer. "Curiosity and interest are nothing to apologize for," he said finally. "My circumstances are quite unique. I probably would've been more alarmed had you restrained your interest for the social ramifications." He exhaled, hooking a thumb under his belt.
"Truth be told, I think I cornered myself into my initial judgement of you. Couldn't quite come around to the idea that a mage from Tevinter would have anything other than sinister intentions. I interpreted it as threat, but you've done nothing threatening so far." He paused, his eyes wavering away from Cyrus in that way they sometimes did. Focusing or feeling inward, perhaps, to better read the thought of the one trapped inside.
"We could undoubtedly be of use to each other. Maybe together we could come to understand how my situation is able to exist, and what the future of it may be."
Ah, now here was a language Cyrus could speak. “I would not mind lending my expertise to that. There is a startling lack of interesting magical phenomena to examine now, considering that the Breach is dealt with.” There were, of course, still the marks on Estella’s and Romulus’s hands, and this business about a suspicious orb, but Cyrus had a feeling he knew where to go for answers about the latter. The trick would be getting there.
In the meantime, consciousness transferal was still a rather tantalizing conundrum.
“If at some point in the future you are so inclined, you’re welcome to visit my workshop. It would, after all, be rather prudent not to discuss such matters in the garden. Wouldn’t want to run afoul of any scheming, whispering sorts, would we?”
Vesryn smiled, more easily this time, most of the tension of his own explanation leaving him. "Yes, that would be for the best, I think. I'll be sure to visit sooner rather than later. I get the sense the Inquisition will not remain in such a resting state for much longer."
“Indeed not.” Cyrus dipped his chin, then stepped sideways, moving himself back out onto the garden path to continue his walk.
Perhaps he should get out a little more often.