highgate | open / gen.

open / gen.

G E N E R A L .

— pick a character of mine, drop a comment. alternatively, comment and don't pick a character if ya ain't particularly fussed. all formats welcome; prose, action, prompts, text, e-mail, whatever you want.

— pls link images if they seem to be straying into nsfw territory of some sort (on a gen. post, i know).

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[ they text a lot. it's inevitable, given that they are often mismatched, geographically speaking, and neck deep in troubling levels of affection for each other. whoever said that absence made the heart grow fonder was quite right in this respect, but had neglected to mention that it also caused a dull and continuous ache, the kind that thudded along diligently to every heartbeat. though sasha was neither a particularly social nor lonely individual, he had come to realise that once you established that you enjoyed having someone in your life, it became entirely more troubling not to have them around all the time.

at a casual glance, their correspondence might seem idle. vague chattering, exchanges of the things they each saw, in their own particular corners of the world (though jens was never the most forthcoming about his exact location, a matter sasha did not think to push or question). what a casual glance would not tell, however, was the ease with which they talked about anything and everything. there wasn't a thought that jens imparted that sasha didn't find interesting in some capacity. he hoped as much was true for jens; at least, it surely had to be. they wouldn't spend so much time still talking if it wasn't.

if you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?

wherever you are.

sasha agonises over sending the text for hours. it's probably the longest they go without speaking, time-zones permitting. he worries that it gives too much away. as if he doesn't give it all away each time they meet again, the way his entire body relaxes and his expression blooms, how pleased the flush of colour in his cheeks looks.

jens doesn't reply; he simply turns up.

on a reasonable level, sasha supposes most people would find it irritating, to have someone show up without so much as the slightest warning, whenever they can, but he doesn't. the surprise of it never ceases to delight him, catching him off guard in all the best ways. an oppressively humid autumn day in madrid slowly eases into evening rain as he trots idly back to his building, but the weight of the outside air seems to lift immediately when he spots the familiar face lingering outside. if anything is going to give him away, it's the way sasha flings his entire body forcibly at jens, the arms thrown around his neck, the ferociously quick but ardent press of their lips as he forgets for a moment about the rest of the world, his neighbours, everything. none of it particularly matters, not when something infinitely better than all of these things is right in front of him.

when the rain ends, sasha drags jens out onto his small, damp terrace. the air is lighter, heavy with the scent of water and bites a little at the skin in a way that sasha has been craving all day, waiting for the humidity to remove its oppressive self from the city. around them, the day's constant buzz has softened to a hum, but it never truly ends. there's always noise, cars drifting down the street, laughter, voices, distant and close, whispers of life that are not contained by waking hours or daylight. they stand side by side, hands on the wet railings, close — close enough to touch, but sasha resists. ]

How long can you stay?

[ it's always a question he tries to avoid, but one he has to eventually ask. it gnaws at him until he does, because he doesn't want to know the answer, but he does. because he'll count down the hours, but try to make the best of them that he can. he needs to know, so he can process the knowledge, slowly but surely, rather than it drop down on him like a tonne of bricks at the moment that jens leaving again has to become true. ]

[ in truth, there are many things that lliorel lavellan did not take particular interest in before she reached this point in her life. chief amongst these, the politics of humans, wine, and the wider world outside of her clan. she was not so naive to think that the matters troubling humans did not affect elves, or dwarves, or qunari, but preferred to live a little more comfortably situated in her own head. that she would have to start paying closer attention would surely be inevitable, but she had thought — well, perhaps it was a little further down the line.

she had never much cared for wine, but the orlesians did it much better than they did ales and ciders. the lack of marcher alcohol pained lliorel a little, but she had grown accustomed to the soft, fruity reds that skyhold had in abundance, and the earthier fereldan variations that occasionally cropped up. not that lliorel particularly understands anything about wine, still. their various names still mean very little to her, she simply knows that a goblet of any of these rarely went amiss on the occasion she found a minute to herself in the late, late evenings.

as for the wider world... well, she couldn't imagine a life where it didn't somehow make a nuisance of itself right on her proverbial doorstep, not anymore. not unless she disappeared into the deep roads or perhaps built herself a flimsy and draughty shack to live in the lesser explored parts of the frostback basin. there was no more avoiding it, and though lliorel sometimes wished she could, she simultaneously knew that she never would again. duty is a strange thing, when it starts to ingrain itself deep in parts of yourself that you were never so sure existed. lliorel had never been selfish, but she had been... contained within herself, and content to remain like that. that's no longer an option, of course, but lliorel is not so sure these days if she misses that.

she doesn't lead quite as naturally as she wishes she could, but she leads. boldly, without apologies. ]

I'd offer you some kind of choice in drink, only I don't know well enough the differences in what I'd be offering to bother. [ it's not exactly intended to be an interrogation, as such, but surely all sharp edged are convivially dulled by the presence of wine, a cup of which she holds out to him. ] I think it's Fereldan. In your honour, of course.

[ said with the sharpish grin of someone who actually means "it was the first thing i snagged from the cellars".

lliorel has no desire to be excessively blunt in her questioning of aedan cousland — or at least, the man believed very strongly by one or two people to be aedan cousland — but curiosity bubbles like a broth beneath her skin. somewhat out of politeness, she invited him to her own quarters rather than attempting to bother him about this in the tavern, which had been her first consideration. if the invitation seemed a little abruptly forward, lliorel didn't care. she just had no use for anyone listening in to conversations like this. either way, she hoped it would be appreciated. ]

[ The series of choices that have brought Aedan to this exact moment in time have each been more questionable than the last, but that's a statement that can be largely applied to most of his life. Slowly climbing the stairs to the Inquisitor's chambers, the Hero of Ferelden can't help but wish he had a do-over on some of them.

He's never felt comfortable surrounded by brick and stone, especially when that brick and stone sits on top of a mountain as high as this one. Even at Vigil's Keep, technically his home thanks to yet more questionable decisions, Aedan could never sleep what with being so surrounded by deep granite walls. The mighty slabs that make up Skyhold's ramparts are each thicker and wider than Aedan can reach his arms across and the thought of being trapped by them makes him more homesick for the deep forests of Ferelden than ever before. Give him ancient oakwoods and the black-dense heart of the Brecilian forest any day; here, standing in the stone fortress of the Inquisitor herself, Aedan feels quite nervous.

Not that it shows, not for a second. Aedan is as grinning and confident as ever, accepting the Inquisitor's brimming goblet of ruby red wine with a feigned easy pleasure. The smell of it is heady and rich, reminding him of long nights of feasting in his father's hall at Highever when he was still a young man. He can remember those days with brighter fondness now, ten years removed from the vicious slaughter at the hand of Lord Howe that had robbed him and his brother of so much. ]

My honour isn't worth drinking to much these days, [ he jokes lightly. Honour was something largely forgotten, a distant quality of courtly lords and ladies. It doesn't really apply to the half-wild Warden Commander who slept in a ditch last night. It was no wonder that nobody believed who he was until Leliana arrived to yell at him and hug him with equal force. He'd had twigs in his hair. The Warden Commander of Ferelden shouldn't have twigs in his hair.

Now, verified as the real thing, he lifts the glass in one dirt-lined hand, tilting his head as he considers a toast. ]

To the Inquisition, [ he proclaims after a moment of thought, finishing with a smirk: ] Thank the Maker it's you leading it and not me.

[ aedan's not alone in wanting do-overs. there's a small voice that lliorel tries to ignore, one that constantly mutters to her that it wishes she'd wormed her way out of attending the conclave. it had been an option. the kind of option that would have been met with tired disappointment from her elders and fellows, because it made sense for her to attend, even under surreptitious circumstances. she was the clan's first. for her not to take the responsibility would look... she's hesitant to think of the word "cowardly", but it's the first to spring to mind.

she'd always tried so hard to keep herself as neutral as she could, in her clan. to never seem too keen to interact with shems, but similarly to keep away from being too driven by the thought of elves' former glory. lliorel had just wanted to thrive, to find her purpose. never in a thousand years would she have expected to find it here.

more often than not she finds herself troubled with self-conscious anxiety, when she thinks too hard about how often others steal glances at the tips of her ears, the lines of her vallaslin, how it feels so often that people are talking down to her, physically and metaphorically, small as she was. that they look upon her youth and add it to the list of her perceived shortcomings. worries she had never previously had, because for all that she was to her clan, she had never quite stepped into any sort of central focus. there was always something bigger to be concerned with, to think about, and gods, there still is — but lliorel is right in the middle of it, this time. ]

I can think of plenty who'd disagree with that, [ she says, coolly raising her brows. ] Myself included.

[ and despite how calm she plays it, lliorel is honestly a little awed to be in his presence. the blight may not have reached the free marches, but its stories did. lliorel's teens were littered with tales of the hero of ferelden, and took on such a mythic reverence sometimes that she couldn't quite grasp the fact that she was speaking to him. not that her clan was particularly fascinated by matters of the blight, or what humans were doing that was so great and that, but lliorel's youthful imagination had been a little more than captivated all the same.

she laughs, a short, quick noise. ]

Why, thank you. [ she tips her glass towards him also, lips pursed but smiling. ] I'm still waiting for the morning I wake up and realise this was all a mad, feverish dream, and that I don't have the fate of Thedas resting precariously on my rather little shoulders.

[ The Inquisitor tilts her glass of wine in his direction and Aedan delicately clinks his own against it with a resounding chime of glass on glass. ]

You're quite welcome.

[ Standing on no further ceremony Aedan takes a swift mouthful of his wine, savouring the heavy sweetness. It is a particularly good Fereldan variety, the kind he hasn't had a chance to taste in years and his head swims giddily at the richness of it. Clearly the Inquisition is doing well for itself if it's alcohol is anything to go by.

But at the mention of dreams Aedan echoes her laugh with one of his own, albeit a weary one, and wipes at his mouth with his hand. ]

Like the whole sorry mess might just be the result of one bad cask of dwarven ale from the night before? Yeah...

[ He grins ruefully. Aedan remembers that feeling well. ]

Bad luck. I think you might be stuck with it.

[ Jerking his head out towards the window and the sweeping vista of the Frostbacks and the encamped soldiers in the valley, he adds: ]

At least you have an army to help shoulder the load. That's got to come in handy, right?

[ while lliorel does an excellent job of hiding it, she's often in awe. of the people that stand alongside her, the breadth of the inquisition, the resources it succeeds in bringing in. she's in awe of the will that thedas has in trying to overcome the evils that keep raining down upon it. the inquisition's opponents, its naysayers, they impress lliorel a lot less; it's a lot easier to complain and wail that something is wrong and not good enough without ever trying to raise a finger of your own. she's never been capable of listening to those that try to tell her what she can and cannot do, what she should and should not do. it made her a frustrating, obstinate child, and even more frustrating as she grew into an adult — but she can't say it hasn't served her well thus far, no matter the nerves that constantly bubble away in the pit of her stomach.

she takes a more careful sip of her own wine, preferring to drink in tiny gulps of full-bodied flavour. anything more in her mouth and the flavour became a little too overpowering for her simpler tastes, but she'd be damned if she hadn't made her efforts in learning to love the more refined things in life. ]

I think you might be right. [ her gaze also shifts to the window, and her smile softens. not unlike a parent looking out over children that she is proud of. ] I'm absolutely stuck with it, but I couldn't be stuck with better people.

[ a brief, short laugh. ]

What a relief, that the Inquisition has succeeded in bringing out the best in so many, and that the worst aren't within our walls.

[ For a moment Aedan is struck by the pure confidence and warmth that the Inquisitor seems to bear for her people - it's the kind of impassioned optimism that Aedan hasn't seen (or felt) in a long while. Too many years of roving the western wilds, divorced of company and civilisation and left to dwell on the bitterer sides of his experience, has robbed Aedan of that idealism.

Give it time, he wants to say. The bastards in your ranks will surface eventually. Then the real war will begin.

That's how it had felt when Morrigan left with his child. That's how it had been at Ostagar. Anora too, later (because treachery must run in the blood, or something poetic like that). His smile is wry and a little bit amused as he observes: ]

Yeah. They look pretty... shiny.

[ The shine will come off, eventually. The Inquisition army might be mostly decent but he doesn't believe for a second that all of Lavellan's people are he best of humanity. Wars make bastards out of good people, nine times out of ten. But shattering that illusion is a bit like kicking a puppy, so Aedan at least tries to rain in the worst of his cynicism. ]

Look - I know you haven't asked me for any advice yet but would you like to hear some anyway?

[ it would not surprise lliorel, necessarily, that after all this time and everything that he has been through, aedan has come out of it with bitterness. but even if it would not necessarily surprise, she hasn't thought about it either. her idealism is her youth, her relative inexperience. rationally, she can understand it. still, idealistically, she wants her own experiences to go differently. she wants to prove herself right — though she's never entirely sure that that's possible.

the pause gives lliorel cause to look back at him, her brows crinkling a little with thoughtful curiosity. there's a part of her that would not like any advice. it's not an arrogant part, more a very worried part. a part that is worried to look on the inquisition with different eyes, because she likes what she's seen of it so far. she cares for it, deeply. she's frightened that its less beautiful sides will be revealed to her, even though she knows that she has to see them. she's no inquisitor without the entire picture, from every angle.

there is no hesitation, however, as she nods. ]

Go on. I'd be a fool to refuse your wisdom, given your own experience.

[ her nerves are faintly evident in the way she goes on to hide her mouth beyond her goblet, taking another furtive sip of wine. ]

[ Impressed by the readiness the Inquisitor shows to hear him out, Aedan lifts his chalice to his lips to take one large mouthful. A good wine such as this shouldn't be gulped, but Aedan would quite like the mental fortitude that comes with a bracing dose of liquid courage. The wine burns, richness turning a little overwhelming, before he swallows and holds up a finger to proclaim: ]

Don't set yourself on fire trying to brighten the world.

[ They're old and familiar words to Aedan, who heard them not too long ago and decided they were the kind of words he'd like to give to someone one day - especially seeing as it's the kind of advice he knows he can't follow himself. The very concept of a Warden is built so intrinsically upon giving up your life for the world that it would be impossible to take the advice to heart.

It's the kind of advice he'd give to Kieran if only Morrigan would let him.

Setting the now empty glass aside he turns to gesture out beyond the stained glass of the window towards the world beyond the Inquisition's army. ]

Thedas loves a martyr but getting yourself killed doesn't help anyone...

[ He pauses - grimaces. Aedan knows all about sacrificing one's life for a cause - with the oaths he's taken, he knows he would throw himself in to the abyss if another Blight were to descend upon the world. It doesn't mean that it's a good idea, but he'd still do it. ]

Unless you're a Warden. But that's different.

[ if there's anything that lliorel is particularly adept in, it's leaping into conversations and situations with far more external confidence than what she feels inside. she'd have thought, or at least hoped, that by now she might have actually acquired a more solid sense of internal confidence too, but... nope, not yet. either way, it doesn't stop her from keeping on in this vein. good on him for exacting such an effective pause. lliorel can't tell whether it's intended or accidental, the product of his needing to finish the wine first, but she feels her heart hammer a little bit harder in her chest for it.

she stays quite still and thoughtfully silent for a moment. mulling over the words, forcing herself to think about things that she has so far managed to sidestep in her own head. ]

Sometimes I can't help but wonder if that's not what the world needs, [ she begins softly, as though making a terrible admission ] But I know that it isn't. That I wouldn't make the world any better than what it is by doing so. I've not intention of martyring myself for this cause; I want to see it through to its end, whatever that end may be. I've never felt something like this before, something that desperately makes me want to live, survive and fight.

[ her expression twists, somewhere between cringing and flinching. ]

I suppose I must sound naive, but I can't help that. Until something gives me cause to feel differently about it... that's how I'll feel. [ she gives aedan a long, long look. ] Though I don't believe for a moment that it wouldn't have broken many hearts and hopes if you had not survived the Blight. I know that isn't quite what you meant, but all the same.

Well, what can I say... Thedas wasn't ready to let go of me just yet.

[ He says this with a bleak smile, edged with resignation and dry humour. Precedence had demanded that a Warden should give their life to end the Blight but through Morrigan's deepest, darkest magic neither Aedan nor Alistair had needed to sacrifice their lives. Apparently the Maker had another path for him that didn't involve dying with the Archdemon. Survival had meant Alistair's fate had led him to finally take up the crown of Ferelden but what did Aedan have? Ten years of fruitlessly searching for a cure for the Taint with nothing to show for it. Yet.

But this conversation isn't about his successes and failures - it's about the Inquisitor and everything she stands for. Aedan can't help but marvel at her now, listening to her thoughts on sacrifice for a cause that could very easily take her young life from her at any moment.

His heart breaks right there for a moment - people like Lliorel shouldn't have to throw themselves on the Maker's mercy, not when they have their whole lives ahead of them. To hear her promise to fight, to fiercely survive in the face of it all, transforms his smile in to one of genuine pleasure. ]

Yeah. Tell death to go to hell, that's what I'm saying, [ He agrees as he reaches for the bottle and steadily tops up his goblet. ]

Oh, and don't play Leliana at cards. That's my other advice.

Good.

[ still, his successes embolden her. they give her at least the hope that there's a chance of surviving this, of beating it. if he could do the unthinkable, defeating and kicking back the blight without dying in the process, then maybe she could defeat corypheus too. even more hopefully, perhaps without losing her self in the process. because if she loses that, well, she might as well have lost the whole fight.

the way lliorel would see it, maybe — yes, she has an entire life that's worth living stretching out ahead of her. a life that would have been very different if corypheus wasn't descending upon thedas, but there's the point, isn't it? that option has been scattered to the wind. it's gone, and if lliorel hadn't stepped up to become the inquisitor, then who would have in her place? someone else, young and naive and inexperienced, but just as frightfully lucky as she was thus far? any life could have been the one at the helm. she'll do right by the cards she's been dealt. she's determined to. ]

It certainly can. And if it comes knocking, I'll tell it some things from home that I won't let your delicate human ears hear, and scare it back to where it came from.

[ she grins, a little wolfishly, behind her goblet again, taking a bolder gulp this time and vaguely regretting it, though she hides it well. there goes any intention of keeping up with aedan in terms of speed, but she thinks she has the stomach to keep up with the volume. probably. ]

Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. I value my dignity as well as my life, I'll have you know.

[ Having helped himself to the Inquisitor's bottle of finest Fereldan wine Aedan can't help but top up his goblet a little too generously - it's good stuff and their conversation is warm enough to encourage him to be a little familiar. He points the neck of the bottle her way, silently offering to top her glass up for her just as generously as he has his own. ]

Oh, Maker. Dignity. [ He laughs, shaking his head in rueful apology. ] Say goodbye to dignity, I'm afraid. You're a hero now, heroes don't get to have dignity...

[ Not when there are a hundred and one bards out there across Thedas champing at the bit to write the bawdiest ballad about whose bed their hero du jour ends up in at any given time - Aedan should know, he's been the subject of too many over the years. He's even sung a few himself. ]

There's bound to be a trashy novel about you already, [ He points out with a grin. ] Several, probably. Fame in Thedas spreads pretty damn quickly...

[ although her own wine is only just past half empty, lliorel extends it to aedan after a moment's consideration. a full goblet is a happy goblet, is it not? or, something. either way, the cellars aren't lacking for their many vintages, so she isn't even remotely concerned with the speed that aedan ploughs through it. so long as he can handle it and doesn't end up nakedly swinging on a rope made of her bed sheets from the the balcony, singing the songs detailing his apparent bawdy exploits. which she doesn't think he will.

she laughs, a short, sharp sound, her face lit with some kind of incredulous, morbid curiosity. ]

And so long as I've not seen a word of it, my blissfully ignorant dignity can remain in tact! [ she pauses, thoughtfully swirling her wine around her goblet a few times before she glances back at aedan from beneath crinkled brows. that she is trying not to continue laughing is fairly obvious. ] I can't decide if I would wish to read it. I'd imagine in some areas it'll be entirely more interesting that my actual life.

[ ... ] I'm sure Varric could find me one.

[ He doesn't set the bottle down until Lliorel's glass is practically brimming; he knows he's being cheeky again with how much he's pouring but the Inquisitor could probably do with a drink. Aedan nods thoughtfully at the idea of blissful ignorance protecting one's dignity - it never worked for him, but that could say something more about his propensity for reading trashy novels and singing bawdy songs than anything else. ]

Well, if you do find any just don't take them too seriously, that's all, [ Aedan confides - more advice from one Thedosian hero to another as he takes another mouthful of rich wine.

The name - Varric - is one that Aedan finds vaguely familiar - not that he knows many of the Inquisitor's circle except for Cullen and Leliana - and he tilts his head curiously. ]

Varric? Why do I know that name?

[ she pulls a face at the fullness of her glass, and doubts that aedan will pay it any attention. taking care not to spill it all over herself, she lifts it back to her lips to drink as much as she can, as quickly as she can, before her hands betray her and spill it over her fine clothing. and it is fine clothing. lliorel has never known a mage's coat to be made so well, except for perhaps amongst some of the better off clans, the ones that made the best deals with orlesian cloth merchants. she has thicker skin than she would give herself credit for, in any case — her dignity would withstand the knock of a trashy novel, whether she knew about it or not.

just about, in any case.

though lliorel is herself excellent at remembering both names and faces (at times somewhat alarming to inquisition soldiers that she addresses by name, who have never even happened to see her own face to know it is the inquisitor), she forgets that people like aedan have not been spending all their time learning the ins and outs of the inquisition's constantly expanding roster. she blinks once, daftly, before remembering this very fact. ]

Varric Tethras — the infamous hand behind The Tale of the Champion and Hard in Hightown, to name just a few. The few that I remember, anyway, he has something of an extensive bibliography to his name. He's amongst our company, here.

[ and very comforting company he makes; he is by far the person lliorel is least worried to speak to about whatever's going on in her head, as much as she genuinely trusts in her various companions already. ]

[ Aedan snaps a finger in sudden realisation; yes, of course he's heard of the name Varric Tethras, how could he possibly have forgotten? Hard in Hightown's infamy had spread across Thedas, even reaching so far as the edges of the Tirashan where Aedan had been conducting his years long mission. He'd spotted a cheap copy with poor binding and crude illustrations from a wandering trader, the type Aedan always seems to meet on the roads of Thedas, and bartered away a few stolen daggers in exchange for the curious book. It had made him miss home, tragically enough, despite the high drama and dubious plot twists. ]

That guy? He's with the Inquisition? [ The idea is a bit ludicrous as Aedan makes clear in his expression. What a best-selling author is doing within the ranks of the Chantry's army (or whoever's army it is now) is a anyone's guess. ]

So is he writing or fighting? I guess they do say the pen is mightier than the sword but I didn't think anyone meant that, y'know, literally.

He's been a part of it since the very start, so long as you consider the start to be when I woke up underneath Haven's Chantry. He helped us close the Breach.

[ there's a fondness in the way lliorel speaks of him, like she's talking about a favourite relative almost. lliorel speaks of most of her companions with warmth, even those she has struggled to see to eye to eye with. she appreciates their efforts wholeheartedly, regardless of their differences. ]

Both, I would imagine, though it's fighting that I've seen the most of. He's quite the shot with his crossbow.

[ He laughs at that, both impressed and delighted by the fact that the Inquisition has a celebrity author within its ranks. Surely that must make the Inquisitor herself only the second most famous person in Skyhold, after Tethras. Aedan is sure there's something witty to be said about heroes creating their own narratives but he keeps that little thought to himself. ]

A crossbow? Maker, that's brilliant. [ Aedan takes another mouthful of wine as he contemplates the merits of a crossbow-wielding author. It's a wonder that Tethras has any bad reviews of his books at all if he's that good a shot. ]

You have got to introduce me. You don't have a choice in the matter, I'm afraid...

[ only the second most popular in skyhold, certainly, and anywhere else. being both an elf and a mage, on top of the inquisition's reputation remaining questionable in some circles — well, lliorel wouldn't be surprised if she ranked third or fourth, even. not that she has ever expected any kind of universal adoration, or even respect. you take your lot, and you work to change the minds and hearts of those who are willing to listen, to learn. but not everyone is. that's a burden everyone bears, no matter their background, their race. as for the narrative, gods! if lliorel was able to follow her own, it would have been a relief. that's for varric, and varric only to deal with. ]

Isn't it? It's quite the impressive piece of work. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to demonstrate her capabilities to you.

[ she smiles a little broader, put at ease by how delighted aedan seems to be by this information. either way, she's beginning to see him now as more of a man than a figure, held up by mythic stories. it's less intimidating, this way. it calms her. ]

As if I didn't intend to! I think you'd get on wonderfully.

[ well, he's more or less entirely what she expected.

perhaps even a little worse. everything he owns reeks of expense and a silver spoon background, down to the woody cologne he wore the first time they met. this doesn't bother elena; he's paying for most of this, with both his money and his ego. you don't always get far in this job on limited budgets, and no matter her verve and unshakeable determination, there's always an executive somewhere that doesn't buy it. rafe would be impressive, she thought, if he kept his mouth shut. his clothes and gear are top quality, expensive, but understated. neutral, few brand names, a limited colour palette masquerading as a sense of fashion. not that she knows anything about that, herself. she dresses for utility, and nothing else. who cares if it's got sweat stains and holes along the hem if it's comfortable, mobile and still in one piece?

but he opens his mouth. a lot.

smarmy doesn't quite cover it, because his confidence is almost as fervent as elena's determination. sometimes she can't tell if it's so genuine that it still toes the line without crossing into arrogance, but then he flashes her a smirk and she knows it does. she doesn't hate him. not yet. she can't even say for certain she even dislikes him, if only because he had something, on camera. he commands something. even if her eyes are becoming more than a little too accustomed to rolling aggressively, anywhere up to fifty times a day.

still, she can't quite read him. he doesn't exactly hide much of himself, per se, but it's enough for elena to put up her own barrier, just in case. and god knows, she doesn't trust him, but she's curious. they have a habit of observing each other; she wonders if he thinks the same about her.

the site is quieter now, the day's filming winding down and the sun dipping down towards the horizon, casting longer shadows and amber tones along the columns. the crew is packing the equipment back into the vans, without any rush, satisfied by their progress. elena and rafe hang back, elena to take some photos for herself, and rafe &emdash; she doesn't know what he's still doing here. the sun catches occasionally on the face of his watch, casting a dancing oval across the stone, distracting her.

there's a temptation to capture him in a photograph, illuminated by the evening light, staring out at the dusty landscape around them. hair still perfectly slicked back, not a thread out of place, a picture of modernity contrastes against this ancient place. elena doesn't give in to the temptation, and lowers the camera instead. ]

At the risk of jinxing us, this is going pretty smoothly so far. [ without looking at him, speaking mostly to break the ethereal quiet as elena goes back through the pictures she's taken. ] We might even get ahead of schedule at this rate.

[ testing the waters, wanting his opinion without directly asking for it. she likes to make statements instead, to see his reactions. ]

[ It's a compromise.

That's the word Maureen used even as his lip curled to hear it, then smoothed out into placid indifference when her impatience snapped back at him. He almost considered bristling back, digging in his heels, but this is why he'd hired her for an assistant in the first place— Her bluntness and practicality match his own and she's got the fearless will to wield both when faced with Rafe's moments of ego. So he exhaled sharply through the nose, leaned back in his chair, and told the ceiling to make the damn arrangements.

Rafe still thinks it unnecessary, yet another annoyance added to the list of everything he'll have to manage out in the field, because the results should be all that matter to anybody. Of course "should be" and "actually" were two very different things and (as Maureen had exasperatedly pointed out for the millionth time) results were one thing, optics another and the latter could make or break the former along with god knew how much else. So too could a board of directors and self-absorbed stockholders unless placated with some decent publicity instead of quiet donations to museums.

So he swallows the bitter pill, packs his bags for Beruni, and plasters a bland smirk on his face for the journos. A camera in his face is nothing new and he deals with it flawlessly, all practiced poise and oil-slick talk, but...he'd gotten accustomed to being something less of his image and something more of himself out here. Where he can do his real work. That this small sanctuary has been intruded on by goddamn paparazzi grates, shoulders a taut line that only coil tighter as the days trudge on.

This one is finally coming to a close and Rafe's fingers itch, one tapping idle at his thigh as he eyes the nearer column. He wants to get his hands dirty, wants to take a running jump and climb for a better view of everything from the top. But like hell he wants that shared with anyone else, much less with a camera. Elena is good for what she does, better than Rafe would've expected, with standards near as exacting as his own and he can admit being wrong on that point — but end of this or any other day, she's still the camera, still the media, still another set of eyes searching out for whatever chink in his armor she can find. ]

I run a tight ship. And your crew haven't gotten as nearly in the way as they might've. Guess I shouldn't have padded out the timetable so much.

[ That smirk makes another appearance, it and the backhanded compliment aimed unerringly even as Rafe's eyes never leave the steady packing up of bodies and equipment for a new day of sifting through sand. ]

Your reputation's well-earned.

[ this has to benefit rafe in some way, or at least benefit someone lurking over his shoulder. there are certain questions elena isn't above ignoring, because honestly, she kind of doesn't care. so long as there's nothing grimly nefarious going on beneath or behind the scenes, then she's happy to take a cheque. it's not the most stable of jobs, and it's certainly not the best paid either. living paycheck to precarious paycheck in this cruel capitalist system is no joke, and can sometimes give your morals a light kicking.

but i digress.

the point is, rafe hasn't done anything to earn elena's digust. yet. ]

Better safe than sorry. [ a slight pause. ] 'Cause things can go wrong, no matter how tight your ship is. Or mine, for that matter.

[ almost everyone on her crew is hand-picked, to a degree, even if her bosses would never admit it. she was practically religious in slipping names, CVs and portfolios to the HR team, driving home the point that she knew her business, that she wasn't going to cut corners in case there was a chance to slim down the overall costs of the show. she wanted experts, names that she trusted. still, that much is more information that rafe needs, or would care about. elena is no fool; she knows she wants to prove something to rafe, but she'll be meticulous in how she goes about it. ]

Thanks. [ so is yours, she thinks, and does not say. mostly because his reputation, from a handful of accounts she's heard, is that rafe is a rich bitch, and sharp as about a hundred tacks being stabbed into you at once. the savage determination he radiates is impressive, but leaves her slightly unnerved too. she'd rather stab one of those thumb tacks in her eye than let him know that, mind you. he's terrifyingly capable, money or no. ] I'm gonna need a drink tonight.

[ the last comment is off hand, and probably tireder sounding than she should admit to around him. the footage reviews, double checking and obsessively rewriting chunks of scripts days, or even hours, before shooting, is catching up with her. she works at full pelt all the time, either until the shoots are done, or she runs out of steam. and she's too stubborn to run out of steam, most of the time. ]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

open / gen.

anyone!

sasha

☾ for lavellan

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question: are we pre or post adamant?

whatever suits you best!

half a year later, i have decided we are pre-adamant cOUGHS

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lights— camera— bastard

LAAAAAAUGHS

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