howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

Normally by this time of year there's been at least one storm coming in from the Waking Sea that breaks the humidity -- but no, Kirkwall is unseasonably humid. Because of course it is.

At any rate, that's why Cullen isn't wearing as much plate as he ought. That, and he's in the yard, out of sight of any civilians.

It helps him be faster, he tells himself. Mostly it's just miserable, and he's quite looking forward to plunging his head in a nearby rain barrel.

(It doesn't help that Cullen is currently losing handily. Though if truth be told -- and he'd never admit it -- it feels good to lose like this, winded as he is, muscles burning as they are.)

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"I would imagine not."

It's obvious he doesn't want to talk about his family, and thinking of Anthony, she cannot help but understand.

"I suppose there were not many here in the city who wished to occupy where they had been, either."

"No, for a wonder." That's wry, as they turn left, down toward the quay where the Gallows ferry waits. "You'd think any number of enterprising businessmen would want the space for some other horrible warehouse that's a thin cover for smuggling and organized crime. But they might well believe the space is cursed."

(A passing longshoreman looks quite sad at the aspersions Cullen is casting.)

"I'm afraid I don't know much about Nevarra."

"Unless you were fascinated with death or dragons, that is not surprising."

She sounds more than a little sour.

"Death, no," Cullen says, perhaps more cheerfully than he ought. "And I don't know about being fascinated with dragons. Interested, perhaps."

Running around pretending to be one as an excuse to pull his sisters' hair? Possibly.

"The Pentaghast clan has long been proud of its dragon hunters," Cassandra tells him. "For ages they have led great hunts to try to eliminate dragons as a danger to Thedas."

Cullen... blinks.

"They missed a few," he says, mild.

"Yes," she agrees, dryly. "They did."

The ferry's approaching from a run around the harbor.

"It could be worse," Cullen says, pragmatically. "At least they're interested in killing them. Not like Tevinter."

She snorts.

"Tevinter is a ... difficult place. To say the least."

"...have you been?" Cullen asks, with some interest. "I'm afraid I haven't traveled much, and of course you know what they say about Tevinter -- is it true?"

"It depends," Cassandra replies. "Much of it is inflated in the telling of rumor and whispers of fear."

Her expression hardens.

"But much of it - yes, much of it is true."

"Wonderful," Cullen says, a little sour, as the ferry pulls up to the quay. "Anything you'd like to do before we...?"

"Indeed. And no; I have seen enough here, for now. We should continue."

Once they're well out onto the water:

"Quick work back there," Cassandra observes, her gaze intent on the giant statues guarding the entrance to the harbor.

She does not, however, sound surprised.

If Cullen never sees another statue of a despondent slave, he will manage to persevere somehow. Especially the giant ones.

"It was that or let him get away," Cullen says, mild.

"...does that happen to you often?"

"More than I would like."

She looks rather as though she's bitten into some sour fruit.

It's Cullen's turn to look out at the water. "Should we be taking any additional precautions?"

"No."

Her response comes automatically before she stops herself. Cassandra frowns, considering.

"... at least, I do not think so. It is more likely to be something that occurred in the nature of opportunity, than any new and concerted effort."

Cullen nods.

The Gallows looms larger and larger. How many times has Cullen made this crossing? If he never makes it again, he'll be grateful.

No one waits for them on the quay. No one is there at all. Cullen can't say he's too upset by that.

She steps carefully onto the land, and looks around before moving a single step further.

"I suppose there are not many who come here now, after everything."

"The red stuff is everywhere."

He's already anticipating the headache he'll get tonight.

"Under the circumstances, it seemed wise to move everyone to the keep. No one ought to have legitimate business in the Gallows until it's cleared of it all."

His face, voice, are expressionless.

"Somehow."

"Since I have heard that it causes madness - or perhaps worsens it instead, I suppose no one can yet say for certain - I would agree."

Her hand rests on the hilt of her sword. Cassandra glares at the Gallows as though it has personally offended her, then gives a single sharp nod.

"Well. There is no point in delaying."

Grass grows through the cracks of the flagstones, much taller than it ever got when people lived here. Cullen ascends the stairs, rounds the corners, proceeds down the hallways. The centuries-old Tevinter statues and carved metal reliefs haven't gone anywhere: weeping slaves, pleading slaves, slaves in coffles bent nearly double as they stand in line.

In the courtyard, it's worse. Bits and pieces of huge statues -- larger slaves, as well as armored guardians -- are flung all over, some of them clearly having dropped heavily enough to crack the stone under them. Under a stone overhang it's clear that the brownish-red stains there aren't rust, and that no rain will wash it away. A pile of bones leans against a ragged crate here; a mound of rubble blocks linear passage there.

All around, stalagmites of red lyrium -- some quite tall -- pierce the ground, the walls. Cullen's aware of it, as always; it's late enough in the day that he is beginning to feel restless as his ever-smaller daily dose of regular lyrium begins to wane. His eyes feel too big for his head. He could walk up to one of the outgrowths, and --

But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion
Should they set themselves against me.

He oughtn't to be using the Chant of Light as a sigil to ward off the cravings. Cullen knows that, knows that if Cassandra knew she'd chide him for it, maybe even give up this fool's errand of trying to make him into someone fit to help lead an Inquisition. It's in this pleasant state of mind that Cullen approaches the remains of Knight-Commander Meredith.

On her knees, leaning back, mouth open in a silent scream, Meredith Stannard is no longer what she once was. Instead, she, too, is solid red lyrium, armor and all.

Cassandra wanted to see. Cullen brought her. He tries not to breathe too much, or get too close to any of the stuff. Tries not to snap at Cassandra, or say anything at all.

He can endure. He exists to serve. No more.

"A miserable place."

She approaches from behind him, her booted steps clear on the cracked stone.

"I suppose that was only to be expected."

Cassandra stops beside him, studying the statue-Stannard.

"Maker."

Cullen makes himself breathe through his nose.

Steady:

"None of the surviving mages could provide insight about... how. Or why."

"Are they still trying? To study... this?"

A wave of her hand encompasses the whole yard.