[And indeed, she seems quite genuine. A particular bright gleam has settled in the young woman's staring eyes, and the next note she makes in the survey's margins (still without looking down) seems particularly urgent.]
Are you yourself a god? Or did you come to that place by one of those rifts?
[A god, she says, and for a moment Gabranth finds himself so utterly dumbstruck by the suggestion that he needs a momentary pause to reset. It makes sense, of course, he'll not deny that, but— ] Neither.
I was summoned by the gods in order to serve as executioner in their endless war. I refused... and was unremittingly punished for my insolence.
[He doesn't flinch for that admission; it is a simple statement of fact, nothing more.]
Yet I could not escape the bounds of that realm. Not until this world sought to pull me from it.
So you are native to another plane, and then were pulled there.
[This is spoken half to herself, likely narration of the note she is making on his survey.] I see. Do the gods of your world often exercise such demands on...what shall we call you? Certainly not a follower. On their devotees? Or do you believe you were a particular case?
Pawn would suffice. We had no say. And those who were ill suited to serve would have their memories erased to ensure loyalty.
They cared for strength, not devotion. [Like Devas, like Asuras. Destined to kill one another for as long as time stretches on— and it does stretch on.]
I was the exception only in my rebellion.
[A slight pause, before:]
...but I suspect this knowledge does not aid your research.
Perhaps not, [is the most mild form of agreement, only slight chagrined to be called on her nosiness. Her hand is still taking notes all over the survey.] Unless of course your gods share similarities with the ancient darkspawn like Corypheus and his fellows. There are more than one, you know. We faced off with a second and third in Nevarra City only a little over a year ago.
But as you say. [She laughs, a bright dismissive sound like the way of a hand.] It is likely irrelevant to the exact bounds of this particular survey. So tell me, Ser Gabranth. Do you grow facial hair?
I would doubt it. [Unless they can alter the very fabric of this world itself and its people on a whim, which— he now supposes he has no idea, in fact, whether or not that holds true.
But then of course she moves on, to decidedly more— ] I...
[She nods curtly, unphased by that momentary beat of uncertainty.]
And tell me in the place you were before where you suffered repeated resurrection. Did you age there between your deaths, or was your life held always in suspension?
Perhaps it would save time if I were to show you the end result of an eternity of war.
[She holds position here, even if only middling— and it would hardly be the first time that research takes precedent over all matters of rank and formality. He dislikes it, besides. Answering questions about himself beyond the limits of duty or purpose, or even experience. Memories are an easy thing to cut down into simple words, divorced from tangible aches, provided none run too closely to exposed nerves.
Noah fon Ronsenburg, as he is without the rest of his regalia, is nothing but an exposed nerve.
So his fingertips rise, thumbs catching beneath adamantine plate where they hook in, pulling that helm free without any fuss over buckling or fasteners. He cannot know what she expects to find, of course, but what remains once all barriers are removed is a man with clear, sharp eyes set harsh beneath a perpetually tightened brow— his skin unmarked, his features just as sternly cut as the angle he keeps his mouth tightly drawn to, all framed by a feathered tangle of blond hair that tucks itself in close to his own high collar.]
[Across the little desk, all piled with papers and the detritus of a spirit quite happy to do six things at once even should it mean none of them be accomplished within any reasonable measure of time, her writing hand pauses. The tip of her pen comes up so as not to blot the page. As the helmet is removed, her attention hones to a sharp point--
And so there is his face. For a beat or two, she is flagrant about her study of it: skimming from hairline to chin and back again. Then:]
Not at all. Perhaps you are a very long lived sort of people, Ser. But no, I suppose the implication is that you are not and that your apparent youth ought to be seen as strange. But not to worry! It is a very charming face, so you should not be too concerned at all about your presentation to the world. I doubt anyone at all would suspect.
No, I suppose my question is, have you had cause to shave your face since you arrived? You are very blond of course, so perhaps it has not yet become a question. I ask only as I wonder whether you will remain in your arrested state, or if your passage through the Fade and into Thedas has seen fit to reminded your body of the passage of time.
[Wysteria please, he’s very old and very tired let him rest.]
As of yet, there is no difference. [He suspects none will arrive, given how he feels the same as he had upon first waking in the aftermath of his own death. But it has been so long ago now, would he truly remember anything else? Or is that just his own imagination?]
Should that change, I shall take care to notify you.
[For what must feel like the very first time since they began speaking, Wysteria takes a real moment to pause and deliberate. She reviews the contents of the survey, and the sum of all her notes, and then finally after a very long beat declares:]
No, I suppose that is all. But please do inform me should you find any gray hairs or anything of the like. I am dreadfully curious. And simultaneously very pleased for you, of course! I hope for however long you are here that the time may be spent more pleasantly than endlessly chopping off heads or the like. It imagine even that must have eventually become quite dull.
[joke’s on you wysteria he’s into that shit But preference aside he's also lived too long mired in his own old habits. Branching out at this point would only be less of a comfort and more of a dread. To that extent...
It’s relief that sees him fit his helmet back into place, the sound of some narrow beat of tension diffusing for it.]
I would appreciate it if you would speak nothing of my appearance, Lady Poppell.
[He decides a single second later that it isn’t worth the trouble, correcting that belief: instead moving to offer her one last deep, formal bow. So long as she’s willing to keep matters to herself, he’s not one to complain regardless. ]
Deeply appreciated, Lady Poppell.
Call upon me should anything further arise where my services or experiences might prove beneficial. I would be remiss if I did not lend my aid to those who now stand as allies in this war.
[Shoving his survey to one side, she offers him a bright smile. Overly serious men have such a funny charm about them.]
The thought is of course entirely reciprocal, Ser. Should you have any questions or require my assistance, you are most welcome to call on me. —Oh, but Miss Poppell is quite all right. I assure you I am no Lady, in Thedas or otherwise.
I would disagree, but I concede to your request all the same.
[Said as his head lingers at that humbled angle for just a moment longer— and then he rights himself without any further ceremony. His departure as simple as the matter of his arrival, leaving her to finish seeing to her duties in peace.]
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no subject
[And indeed, she seems quite genuine. A particular bright gleam has settled in the young woman's staring eyes, and the next note she makes in the survey's margins (still without looking down) seems particularly urgent.]
Are you yourself a god? Or did you come to that place by one of those rifts?
no subject
I was summoned by the gods in order to serve as executioner in their endless war. I refused... and was unremittingly punished for my insolence.
[He doesn't flinch for that admission; it is a simple statement of fact, nothing more.]
Yet I could not escape the bounds of that realm. Not until this world sought to pull me from it.
no subject
[This is spoken half to herself, likely narration of the note she is making on his survey.] I see. Do the gods of your world often exercise such demands on...what shall we call you? Certainly not a follower. On their devotees? Or do you believe you were a particular case?
no subject
They cared for strength, not devotion. [Like Devas, like Asuras. Destined to kill one another for as long as time stretches on— and it does stretch on.]
I was the exception only in my rebellion.
[A slight pause, before:]
...but I suspect this knowledge does not aid your research.
no subject
But as you say. [She laughs, a bright dismissive sound like the way of a hand.] It is likely irrelevant to the exact bounds of this particular survey. So tell me, Ser Gabranth. Do you grow facial hair?
no subject
But then of course she moves on, to decidedly more— ] I...
[Wysteria???]
Yes.
no subject
And tell me in the place you were before where you suffered repeated resurrection. Did you age there between your deaths, or was your life held always in suspension?
no subject
[She holds position here, even if only middling— and it would hardly be the first time that research takes precedent over all matters of rank and formality. He dislikes it, besides. Answering questions about himself beyond the limits of duty or purpose, or even experience. Memories are an easy thing to cut down into simple words, divorced from tangible aches, provided none run too closely to exposed nerves.
Noah fon Ronsenburg, as he is without the rest of his regalia, is nothing but an exposed nerve.
So his fingertips rise, thumbs catching beneath adamantine plate where they hook in, pulling that helm free without any fuss over buckling or fasteners. He cannot know what she expects to find, of course, but what remains once all barriers are removed is a man with clear, sharp eyes set harsh beneath a perpetually tightened brow— his skin unmarked, his features just as sternly cut as the angle he keeps his mouth tightly drawn to, all framed by a feathered tangle of blond hair that tucks itself in close to his own high collar.]
Does this answer your question, Lady Poppell?
no subject
And so there is his face. For a beat or two, she is flagrant about her study of it: skimming from hairline to chin and back again. Then:]
Not at all. Perhaps you are a very long lived sort of people, Ser. But no, I suppose the implication is that you are not and that your apparent youth ought to be seen as strange. But not to worry! It is a very charming face, so you should not be too concerned at all about your presentation to the world. I doubt anyone at all would suspect.
No, I suppose my question is, have you had cause to shave your face since you arrived? You are very blond of course, so perhaps it has not yet become a question. I ask only as I wonder whether you will remain in your arrested state, or if your passage through the Fade and into Thedas has seen fit to reminded your body of the passage of time.
no subject
As of yet, there is no difference. [He suspects none will arrive, given how he feels the same as he had upon first waking in the aftermath of his own death. But it has been so long ago now, would he truly remember anything else? Or is that just his own imagination?]
Should that change, I shall take care to notify you.
Is there anything else?
no subject
No, I suppose that is all. But please do inform me should you find any gray hairs or anything of the like. I am dreadfully curious. And simultaneously very pleased for you, of course! I hope for however long you are here that the time may be spent more pleasantly than endlessly chopping off heads or the like. It imagine even that must have eventually become quite dull.
no subject
joke’s on you wysteria he’s into that shitBut preference aside he's also lived too long mired in his own old habits. Branching out at this point would only be less of a comfort and more of a dread. To that extent...It’s relief that sees him fit his helmet back into place, the sound of some narrow beat of tension diffusing for it.]
I would appreciate it if you would speak nothing of my appearance, Lady Poppell.
no subject
Quite right. The secret of your youthful complexion is quite safe with me, Ser Knight.
no subject
[He decides a single second later that it isn’t worth the trouble, correcting that belief: instead moving to offer her one last deep, formal bow. So long as she’s willing to keep matters to herself, he’s not one to complain regardless. ]
Deeply appreciated, Lady Poppell.
Call upon me should anything further arise where my services or experiences might prove beneficial. I would be remiss if I did not lend my aid to those who now stand as allies in this war.
no subject
The thought is of course entirely reciprocal, Ser. Should you have any questions or require my assistance, you are most welcome to call on me. —Oh, but Miss Poppell is quite all right. I assure you I am no Lady, in Thedas or otherwise.
no subject
[Said as his head lingers at that humbled angle for just a moment longer— and then he rights himself without any further ceremony. His departure as simple as the matter of his arrival, leaving her to finish seeing to her duties in peace.]