entrancelogs | + Where Do Your Loyalties Lie? +

Entry tags:

+ Where Do Your Loyalties Lie? +

Who: Everyone
Where: The party
When: 7/21-7/23
Rating: PG-13 (warn if you go higher)
Summary:
The Story:
Orlais' current ruler, Lacie, has invited anyone of name, fame, and influence to The Winter Palace for three days of extravagant festivities surrounding the peace talks between her and Tillie, whose grasp for the throne has plunged beautiful Orlais into a dreadful civil war. Unbeknownst to both a third player, Elsie, has worked tirelessly behind the scenes to obtain her own share of power over the land.

Get ready for three days of fancy food, fine drink, good music, good entertainment, and just a little bit of murder, maybe? Your character has secured an invitation, and will join the illustrious crowd, become privy to the latest scandals and gossip, and observe as the struggle for Orlais' throne reaches its final chapter.

[OOC: This is an open mingle log for the Dragon Age event. The plotting post can be found here and event details can be found on the Bulletin Board.]

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Human? Well, yes, obviously enough. He's certainly not not human. But the rest is...his name wouldn't be something passed around. People don't know his name. People snap their fingers at him and he hastens to obey so he can listen at the keyholes and the corners.

But there's no reason that some...some Vashoth would have any idea who he is. Or that they would care. He's nobody.

"Who told you that?"

"You did, when I kept calling you 'Tim the Human' and you became a little insulted, as there is more than one Human Tim in the world, and it was not quite as, uh, polite as I may have felt."

I mean, he is a Vashoth. Who knows what they think is polite. Horns, probably.

"You know. Before we found ourselves in Orlais."

He's still talking like they know each other. Like there's this whole inferred history. Tim rocks back on one heel, subtly trying to just...ease himself away from the unfamiliar silhouette that's spewing words he doesn't understand and isn't sure he wants to.

But willful ignorance doesn't contribute to anything. Much as he'd like to, he...can't, in good faith, simply turn away.

"I've always been here."

Maybe he's testing the waters. Knows the lies Tim hisses through his teeth, the stories he had to spin to end up here, the cracks he had to slip through - and this is the warning that he's willing to exploit them.

The Vashoth looks down, and furrows his brows in concern.

"No... you have not always been here. Tim, sometimes you... have problems... with your memory. Yes? Do you remember this? There are, uh, occasional... amnesia moments. Are you having... difficulty remembering things from a few days ago? Or experiencing other... gaps?" He's a bit hesitant, as it seems somewhat inappropriate to press a person on his mental problems, but Asgore is at a loss for what else to say.

That hits him like a mule-kick to the guts. A sharp intake of breath, and several more quiet, deliberate steps back.

No one should know that. No one should know that he has a patchwork history, that he's been pulled in through the gaps in the chantry and that he's not really better not truly better he's just learned to dismiss the low moments when they come because they do come and they have never stopped.

"No." But it's too clipped, too sharp; one mention of a past that he's certain should not exist in the public eye, and he's already losing his footing. "No. You - who told you that?"

Perhaps he's making things worse. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. But he's already gone and said it and, as Asgore knows all too well, you can't unring a bell once struck, or unspeak a word once said. There's nowhere to go but forward.

"You did, Tim. Before we came here, before this event began. Please know that I mean you no harm. I... We are friends. Do you have your medicine?" There are no closets to pull things from -- at least, whatever closets there are appear to just be closets. Maybe he came here without his medication.

Event? He must mean Orlais, surely. But he's never spoken to this particular Vashoth before, and he's certain he'd remember if he had, and -

The headaches are starting to return. Panging, echoing, aching like a struck gong lodged in his temples. He remembers them, remembers the way they made him scream through the nights.

"You're mistaken," says Tim, shortly. He can feel his careful facade shattering underfoot, with each passing second. "There's nothing wrong with me."

He's made this worse. He's gone and made it worse and, there's really nothing he can to do resolve it.

Asgore folds up on the inside. One more on the wall of bad attempts.

"You are right. I am mistaken. It is all... a mistake. You must not be... who I think you are. But, I wish you to know that I truly do wish you no harm. If... in the next few days you find yourself in trouble... know that I would be glad to help. Even if... you are not my friend."

Contrary to what Asgore may be hoping for, Tim actually blanches at that. If in the next few days he what, now? Given the bloodthirsty nature of the rate of exchange here, it's not unheard of that things might get messy.

Not for some low-level, nameless nobody. Not usually.

"Is that...are you threatening me?" he whispers.

"I... what?" You did it! You got him out of his funk. You snapped him out of it because of all the reactions you possibly could have given him, accusing him of threatening you was nowhere near the top of the list. It was way off at the bottom, somewhere on page four. The back of page four.

"No? Why? Why would I threaten you?" He's just gobsmacked. Utterly gobsmacked. "I... no?"

This Vashoth is just radiating incredulity.

"If in the next few days I find myself in trouble?"

I'm not stupid, he wants to say. But he is, according to all sources. He's stupid, stupid and empty and thoughtless and reliably so, and that's the important part of his facade, of his sense of pretend. That's what he is.

"What are you implying?"

"You know how Events go... sometimes they sour after a few days. It's not that anyone wants them to, it's just that this place seems to delight in enacting trauma out on all of us."

"No. I don't know how events go. What are you - ?"

Play dumb, that's his rule. Play dumb, but don't actually be it. Except now he's supposed to respond to something he doesn't have any conceptualization for, with someone who's speaking as though he should understand what's being said.

"...I don't know what you're talking about."

This... does not make sense to Asgore. Maybe Tim has had a selective blackout, but a blackout of... everything? All of it? Why would Asgore retain his memories but Tim not? What difference was there? They were both randomly dumped into this world...

"You know, Tim, the Events... Wonderland, the White Queen, the Red Queen, the Queen of Hearts, Mirrors breaking in and stealing things, every two weeks some fresh nonsense rolls in and we all get introduced to some strange set of rules based off of someone's memories and..."

In the hallway where they are having the world's most awkward conversation, the shadow of a helmeted guard who one would swear was not there a moment ago appears, followed very swiftly by the attached soldier.

And a mailed glove reaches up behind Asgore and clasps him on his shoulder -- this guard is surprisingly tall! Maybe he's one of those Vashoth who file off their horns to look extra badass -- which results in Asgore's speech breaking off.

"You don't know what you're talking about," says the owner of the mailed glove from behind Asgore.

This is going swimmingly.

Never before has Tim been relieved for this kind of intrusion. His gaze flicks, beseeching, to the armored silhouette, before his gaze drops to the floor. Finally, at last, the world is making some semblance of sense again.

"He just started talking to me," Tim mumbles, apologetic, mostly to the floor - the very picture of nervous, confused innocence. "I don't know why..."

Please, get this confusing creature away from me is the part he is saying in all parts but the verbal.

Asgore turns around to see the strangely nondescript guard. He has a face that's very... human. It's a very human guard. Exceedingly humanly. The most average of faces.

"Have I... said something... I shouldn't have?" Asgore asks the world's most average tall human man.

"Your spurious claims are upsetting. This constitutes your only warning. If you do not play The Game nicely, you will not be allowed to keep playing."

"Yes, but if I..."

"You are a member of the Inquisition; you are not presenting yourself as a respectable member of your organization with your uncalled for harangues. The next one will result in your removal from the Winter Palace. Do you understand?"

"I, uh, yes."

The guard nods once, then marches off.

"You know, uh, big grey horn guys..." -- oh god he doesn't even know what he is yet -- "we're always... saying crazy things. Sorry."

All the while, Tim keeps his gaze downcast, his demeanor restrained. Nothing about him is noteworthy; nothing about him is worth addressing. It's ultimately a wasted effort; the guard doesn't seem to care much about Tim at all.

Thankfully.

"As you say," says Tim, trying for humbly cowed. It's a facade maybe too at odds with the savvy paranoia he was bristling with not a few minutes earlier, but then again, no one's eyes seem to have been on him over his inconsistent behavior. Just this Vashoth's...odd words.

"I'm sorry for...taking up your time."

"Yes, well, I'm sure that, uh, there's no need for apologies from you. I have, uh, been the one doing the majority of the imposing."

Well, this is just seven different flavors of awkward.

"So, uh, have a good day, and, uh, have a blessed afternoon."

"You...too." It's hesitant, low, wary. Plainly he's expecting some kind of threat all the same, now that the guard has departed. When nothing seems forthcoming, Tim takes the opportunity to start to back away, slowly.

He doesn't take his eyes off of the strange Vashoth the entire time.

He smiles and waves at you as you leave.

Like he's a dad sending his son off to school.

Your large, grey, horned step-dad.

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+ Where Do Your Loyalties Lie? +

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