dee_aisli (dee_aisli) wrote in thedas, @ 2009-12-15 09:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, & 9:45 (4) eluviesta, @ deidre aisli |
Character Narrative: What Dreams May Come
Wooo! Looks like I go first! <3
Who: Deidre "Dee" Aisli, Simon Coibran (NPC), Sister Justine (NPC)
Where: The Chantry's Complex at Denerim, Capital City of Ferelden
When: 9:45 Dragon; Eluviesta (Mid-Spring)
Summary: Someone is late for a meeting! A templar friend wakes a fitfully dreaming Deidre to meet Sister Justine before making a scholastic presentation to the Revered Mother. Looks like someone partied just a bit too hard after coming home from from her latest trip.
Rating: PG-13
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To die, to sleep-- To sleep, perchance to dream... |
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The world was wreathed in flame, bright flashes of light mingling with the spill of dark blood splashing onto the ground. The air was heavy with smoke, the smell of rust and decay distinct. The loud sounds of metal against metal rang into the night, the screams of the dying and the shrieks of otherworldly creatures blending together in painful cacophony. All these greeted her when she tore through the stinging, gray mist in a desperate attempt to reach the Chantry doors. It can't be too late to retrieve them. They were too important. "Dee!" She heard Sister Justine's voice somewhere in the distance, terrified. "No! It's too dangerous!" The yards between them only served to drown out the rest of her words as the world continued to burn. "I have to get them." Deidre wasn't all too aware that she said the words out loud, her small body rushing past familiar avenues that led to Denerim's Market District. What used to be a center of commerce was now in ruins, gone were the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, the scent of flowers and perfumes from the stand of the Orlesian woman whose name she could never remember. To an eight year old's mind, all adults were the same after all. She didn't have to worry about their names until she got older... if she lived that long. If she lived through this. The Chantry dominated her vision, and the sight of it encouraged her child's legs to run faster. She practically threw herself through the remains of the shattered door -- what used to be a sanctuary was little more than an empty shell of its former self. She hurdled over the debris, skittered through nooks and crannies that were too small for an adult to pass. She crawled under the archway several shattered and fallen bookcases have made, and all the while she was coughing. Tears streamed down her face as dust and the dreary fog of war burned at her eyes. She nearly cried when she saw the archives, and the room that used to house the Chantry's relics collection. She stumbled through the doorway, shaking fingers rooting through the detritus of their hasty evacuation and carelessly discarded chests. When she found them at last, she grabbed them and hugged them to her chest as she huddled under a table; three scrollcases, sealed to protect the delicate and antiquated sheets of parchment housed inside. The ground shook. Bits of masonry fell from the ceiling at the shockwave that suddenly rocked the building's foundations, crashing into wrecked furniture and obliterating them. It was then that she prayed, whispering words she had been taught in her first year under the care of Andraste's faithful... exultations to an absent god that she had memorized, but did not believe in. But she had to move. It was too dangerous to linger. She crawled out from under the table and ran. Light and heat beckoned at her from the ruined double-doors as she rocketed herself forward, and hoped she could find the people she needed to amidst all the chaos. She didn't know what she would do if she came across one of the invading Darkspawn, she wasn't confident in her ability to outrun them, but she didn't think about it and concentrated on her current situation. A strange sound enveloped the battle-torn world outside. Deidre stopped in her tracks despite all intentions to keep running, and looked up. A large, all-encompassing shadow swooped over the heart of the city. Its abyssal reflection splashed on the decimated ground underneath it. The shriek was loud, and deafening. The little girl couldn't help but stare, and watch light reflect off black and violet scales. Urthemiel twisted upwards, rallying its forces with that loud, keening cry. Everything about it embodied the destruction it promised to unleash upon Ferelden, the large wings merciless in their abuse of surrounding gale winds. Its tail lashed, its mouth opened to reveal rows of teeth, baring them down to horrified onlookers on the ground. Thankfully, it didn't choose to land. Instead, it turned its body and continued flying past. It was her first glimpse of a tainted god face to face without the veil of childhood nightmares. Beautiful, and terrible. Stunned by the sight, she wasn't aware of things toppling above her. The earlier wave that had shaken the ground managed to crack and ruin the adjacent building's supports. It started to fall, a threatening shadow cast over the child and all she could do was look up to her death. She didn't even have the time to scream. Deidre would have been crushed, if it wasn't for the timely appearance of the templar. He broke through thick war-fog, his face grimy and streaked with soot. His pale, blond hair hung over his head in sweaty clumps. Blood spattered his armor, and he held his sword and shield on one hand each. At the sight of her and her predicament, however, he was forced to throw the latter aside, and hooked his arm over her torso and bodily spirited her away before chunks of the building could fall on her. Without his helm, she recognized him, and she clung onto his arm in relief, her legs hanging above the ground as she was carried to safety. "Andy!" she shouted joyously. For the first time since the attack started, she smiled. "Maker's Breath, Dee!" Andreus exclaimed. "What are you doing away from the others?! You could have been killed!" "I had to go back!" she replied. "The scrolls... the ones the Warden gave her... Sister Justine would weep if we lost them!" "You mad girl!" he groaned. "She would weep harder if she lost you!" The templar continued to run, his free arm closed over the child with him. Without looking back, the two vanished into the chaos.... |
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For in that sleep of death where dreams may come... |
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It took a while, but she slowly became aware of it, the harsh pounding at her door while a liquor-induced cloud blanketed over fevered dreams of the past. The moment she opened her eyes, the very second they fell on the shafts of light streaming down her window, she squeezed them shut as a blinding headache blazed over her brain and rattled her sleepy senses. She groaned, lifting her head up from the ground, finding herself entangled on sheets and bed linens. Her bones felt achy and weary. While it took a moment, she realized in a few minutes that she had fallen off the mattress at some point in the night, and didn't even feel the impact when she hit the floor. I'm never drinking again, she thought. The irony of lying to herself, for a change, was not lost on her. Someone hammered at the door again. Deidre groaned some more, rolling on her back to focus on the ceiling swimming dizzily above her. "WHAT?!" she called out, irritated, digging the heel of her palm over her tortured eyes. "Dee, it's Simon! Open up! You're wanted!" By Andraste's perky titties! It's too early for this crap, she groused mentally as she struggled to extricate herself from her pile of knotted blankets. "I'm up! Hold on a minute!" She threw the covers off her, crawling over the floor and hoisting herself up the chair. Like most of the rooms in the Chantry's dormitories at Denerim, her room was spartan at best if one did not count the walls. There was a desk full to bursting with papers, catalouged in a perpetual state of organized clutter. A single, small bed had been pushed away from the window, to make room for a full-lengthed mirror and a closet. What would have been portraits of loved ones or dreamy scenery in any other woman's room were non-existent in her space. Maps, instead, adorned the walls, as well as a variety of rough sketches -- all wrought not out of a genuine interest in art, but rather for the purposes of recording what she had seen in her travels. And judging by the array of pins strewn across the map of Ferelden, and smaller, sparser dots in surrounding countries, it appeared that the young woman had done that quite a bit. Other articles were stashed on the side of the room, clearly unable to fit in the closet. There were lengths of rope, a box or two of tools, and several climbing hooks. A rolled up canvas tent was propped up against the wall, as well as cleaned and scrubbed cooking utensils. There was also a broken lamp, though the pieces of glass from it had been carefully thrown away. A small compass had managed to roll off her desk, and found itself tilted against one of her bursting, small bookshelves. Deidre stared at herself in the mirror and groaned, managing to extricate her brush out of her papers and started trying to work the stiff bristles through her cascade of dark-chocolate hair -- a tangled mass of waves, tinged occasionally with the gold that the summers tended to coax from them. She bit her lip through the pain at removing the knots out of them, hating the way her hazel eyes looked so exhausted and bloodshot in the mirror. Perhaps that impromptu celebration had not been the best idea after a long sojourn out west, a thought which she dismissed outright. It may not have been the best idea, but it had certainly been a fun one, and all work and no play made Dee Aisli a very cranky girl. She splashed cold water on her face from the nearby basin, shaking out her hair and dragged a towel over her face. She changed quickly -- a forest-green tunic and a pair of black breeches. After rolling thick socks on her feet, she stuffed them in her pair of favorite boots, squishing her toes in the comfortable lining within. There was nothing she could do about her hair, not at the moment, and after looping a few lengths of ribbon on it, she secured it at the back of her neck, grabbed her satchel and threw the door open. The exasperated expression of the young templar standing outside waiting for her was the very first thing she saw. Simon peered at her suspiciously, and then balked. "Oh, Maker's Breath!" he exclaimed, falling silent as Deidre moved quickly to clap her hand over his mouth and hiss at him to be quiet. When she let go of him, he continued, his voice lower. "Have you been drinking?!" he whispered. "How late were you out last night? You snuck out again, didn't you? Don't tell me you went out to see those hoodlums at the docks again. And..." He squinted at her face intently, and groaned some more. "Are you seriously going to see the Revered Mother with a hangover?" He made a very good point. The young woman shrugged. "Eh, she's rapped my knuckles and occasionally my backside for worse," Deidre replied breezily, waving a hand to the side as if she could physically dismiss his fretting. "Why, is she the one who needed me?" "Yes," the templar grunted, a hand pulling through his short-shorn hair. "But Sister Justine wants to see you first at the archives. Something about finishing a few things before presenting your findings to the Revered Mother." A more curious expression fell over his features at that, looking left and right, and then leaned in to murmur. "The others have been wondering what you found this time,." he said quietly. "What is it? Another artifact? Treasure? Is it shiny?" The brunette groaned, turning to walk down the hall and prompting the templar to hurry and catch up. "You know the rules, Simon," she told him, tossing him a sideways glance. "I can't talk about what I bring back until the more senior experts examine and authenticate it." "I know," Simon replied, his face taking on a more boyish cast. "But...there's a pool going on and... you know. Was wondering if you'd help a poor bloke a little." She gasped. It wasn't a real one, certainly. It wasn't sincere in any way, but she managed to make it sound convincing, planting the most scandalized look on her features and letting her hand fly over her heart. "Simon! Are you...are you asking a would-be sister of the Faithful to help you cheat? Say it isn't so!" He colored at that, crimson flaring over his fair-complexioned cheeks. "No!" he protested adamantly, shifting from rose to purple in short order. "I mean... I was just wondering... you're not going to tell anyone, are you?" Deidre grinned, teeth flashing from behind dew-clung lips. She reached over, a light fingertip pressing gently on the center of Simon's forehead, and tapped it gently. "Tell you what. If the Revered Mother is satisfied with the documentation, you'll be the first to know," she said with a sage nod, turning around a corner. Her gaze caught sight of the archway leading into the Chantry's archives, and she stopped at the perimeter. Simon looked relieved. "Well, here you are. I need to head back to the yards now that I've managed to fetch you." "Alright. Well, I'll see you later then, Simon." "You too. And Dee?" She looked over her shoulder, stopping before she entered the archway completely. She threw him a puzzled, inquiring look. The templar smirked. "Whenever you take your vows," he began, spinning on his heel and moving to the other side of the hall. "You'll probably make the worst cleric ever." He tossed her a wink. "I'm not really so certain about everyone else, but I don't know whether I ought to place the fate of my immortal soul in your reckless, cave-diving, mountain-climbing, tomb-raiding adventurer's hands." Deidre stuck her tongue out at him. "Oh, keep walking," she groused good-naturedly. She watched him disappear around the bend, and once he had gone, she rubbed her hand against a pale cheek. The veneer of cheerfulness faded, replaced by something much more unreadable and faintly resigned. "Whenever I take my vows," she repeated under her breath, turning around and continuing on towards the archives. Right... I suppose I ought to be thinking about that. The room was just as simple as the other chambers within the building, a rectangular space filled with a mass of bookshelves, scroll-holders, and chests. Long tables for the purposes of artifact preservation had been pushed towards the back end. The smell of must, dust, ink and antiquated varnish filled her nose as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her and letting her eyes wander. She had been in this same room many times as a young girl, and it never failed to fascinate her. The signs of charred wood and the scent of death were nowhere to be detected, lost like ghosts and accessible only in the deeper recesses of her memories. Sister Justine remained at the back, sorting through a few papers and examining an object carefully with her gloved hands. Deidre smiled when she saw her and quickened her pace. Despite her current preoccupation, the older woman looked up and returned the cheerful expression warmly. "There you are," she remarked, and frowned when the young woman moved closer. "You look tired." "Long night." Deidre set her satchel on the ground. A dark brow raised at her skeptically. The older woman tilted her head at the brunette as she dropped on a nearby chair. "Uh-huh," she said, setting the artifact down and crossing her arms over her chest. "And I'm assuming that this late night had nothing to do with the fact that you snuck out again? Should I pray that it was just your sleeplessness regarding the petition?" "Uhhhhh..." The young woman's eyes shifted at the corners. "Well... if I said both, would you chastise me less?" she asked hopefully. Sister Justine sighed. "Deidre." The girl in question lifted her hands, an unconscious gesture -- as if she could hold off the guilt trip that she knew what was about to fall over her head by physical movements. "It's just that I haven't seen Jimmy and the others in a while, is all," she said, putting on the most pathetic face she could. "I know they're not the most...reputable bunch, but they're my friends. You know...from my orphanage days. You know I don't have many of those." "I just wish you found some way to meet them in the daylight hours as opposed to staying out all night," Justine replied exasperatedly. "Especially when you have a very important appointment today. You're twenty-three, Dee. You're not a little girl anymore." "I completely agree!" Deidre said with a broad smile, finding the opening and exploiting it instantly. "Which is why I'm exercising my adulthood by being able to come home safely no matter the hour." The priestess narrowed her eyes at her. The look was ineffably displeased. She sighed, lowering her head as she was forced to give the only other answer that would please the Chantry's artifact caretaker. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "But I can take care of myself. I know you worry, but I'm not made of glass. I've been on dozens of expeditions across Ferelden and beyond...since I was fourteen. I have to handle rough terrain, counterfeiters, and traps at a very frequent basis. I'm certain I can handle one little party at the docks." She looked up at that. "Besides, if I'm going to become a full-fledged sister, shouldn't I be trying to get to know the denizens of the city so I'd know just how to convince them to follow Andraste's example?" "Yes. But not carousing with them all night especially when you have a very important person expecting to see you fit as a fiddle the next morning." Justine sniffed at that, though at seeing the look on Deidre's face, her expression softened -- fond, yet frustrated. "...but that was a very good argument." Her hand came down, tousling the girl's ponytail gently. "You're getting rather good at it, I have to say. I almost bought it." "Almost? Damn." Deidre snapped her fingers. Though the moment the epithet left her lips, she backtracked as quickly as she could. "I mean...uh..... ooops." "Language, dear." "I know." Justine returned her attention to the metallic artifact on the table. "And you know you'll have to change before you see the Revered Mother. You can't come to her wearing the things you would when traveling. Here in the Chantry, you're supposed to be wearing the robes. Credibility is important here, Dee. You're not going to be able to get those who hold the authority to listen to you if you keep breaking even the simplest of rules. I know you're young, and you might not understand that until later in life, but I hope that just this once you'll trust me and do what I tell you." She angled a glance to Deidre from over the rims of her spectacles. "Does this mean you decided then?" she wondered. "That you'll be taking your vows soon to become a full Cleric?" Deidre fidgeted on her seat. "I'm...not certain, exactly," she told the Sister, and while a talented liar, the woman had the ability to render her perpetually honest in her presence. "I know I owe my life to the Chantry, I'm just not sure... I mean, really, Justine, could you actually see me do all that an ordained priestess is required to do? Simon just told me a few minutes ago he wouldn't trust me with his soul! I don't exactly inspire confidence in the meek and the salt of the earth." "Time has been invested in cultivating your talents here," Justine replied, though her voice was very mild. Despite her words, a sympathetic expression reigned over her visage. "The upper echelons will be expecting you to serve. After all that you've done and acquired, you know they'll do their best to keep you. Especially if this find proves to be as spectacular as I think it will be." She lifted up the item in her hand. "The inscriptions are wonderfully preserved. You've done it again, my dear." "My best estimate is it dates back to the days of the old Exalted Marches," Deidre replied, her apprehensions on the earlier discussions fading away in lieu of discussing something much more important to her. "During the Black Age. I wouldn't have been able to find it if you didn't help me decrypt the passages we found in last year's expedition. You're still better at ciphers than me." Justine chuckled at the compliment. "You'll surpass me eventually," she replied. "But probably not while I'm alive." The Sister winked cheekily at her charge, who grinned broadly in response to the quip. She settled the object in a yard of velvet, folding the deep-blue cloth carefully over it and setting it in a wooden box. "You'll want to take a look at the last minutes notes I made on it," she said, nodding to the sheets of parchment stacked neatly on the side. They were covered in Deidre's own handwriting save for few, precise passages clearly written by another, more practiced hand. "But the rest of it looks solid. Very thorough and detailed work as always." Deidre stood up, moving to the table to collect the sheets, her hazel eyes poring through the added notes. Her brows lifted at a few of them, but she did not comment on them as she digested the relevant conclusions. "I hope the panel thinks the same," she said, looking up -- to say she looked somewhat frustrated would be an understatement. "This is the third year I've been putting forward the same petition to join it. I don't know how much more rejection I could take. If I were a lesser woman, I'd be sobbing ceaselessly and getting fat while eating every single pastry I could find." She rolled her head back, exhaling her sigh to the ceiling. "They keep saying I'm too young to be an expert in anything!" The older woman looked amused, locking the box securely and handing it to her. "I suppose they're not even counting your general expertise in juvenile delinquency?" she jabbed teasingly. "Haaaah hah hah," the girl stated flatly, retrieving the artifact and tucking it under her arm. "I still say they're going about this all wrong," Deidre continued. "If they only accept wizened individuals in Queen Anora's Blight research collective, how would they know if what they're studying is even true? They're all too decrepit to look for answers in the locations I find myself in most of the time. Not everything is written down on parchment and I know that better than anyone. By the time I get there, by the time I've aged enough to their liking, my best years would be far behind me. I'm not a mage... I can't just magically prolong my life." "You need to learn to be patient," the priestess replied, squeezing Deidre's shoulder. "Nothing happens without a reason. Besides... you've not been rejected yet this year, have you? Far be it for me to be egregiously cliched, but have a little faith." She lifted both hands, cupping the younger woman's cheeks, her smile turning into something woefully matronly. "Now, go get dressed," Justine suggested. "And meet the Revered Mother as she expects. If you dazzle her well enough, and you will, she might even overlook the fact that you're a little late." After a single expulsion of heavy breath, Deidre nodded her acquiescence. Despite all the chastising, she couldn't help but smile ruefully. "I'll make you proud," she promised. The Sister pecked delicately on her forehead. "You already do. Now get out of here." The young woman turned, trotting towards the door. Once she disappeared through it, the priestess turned back to her papers. |
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