Ｃｏｍｍａｎｄｅｒ Ｃｕｌｌｅｎ Ｒｕｔｈｅｒｆｏｒｄ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
morework) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2016-03-09 11:17 am
morework) wrote in entrancelogs2016-03-09 11:17 am
Fawntastic. [CLOSED]
Who: Cullen Rutherford (morework) & [CLOSED to Alistair (fatherlesskind) & Ellie (backpacking)]
Where: The Dining Hall
When: backdated to Sunday, 3/6
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I don't know about always, but since my memory began. Which, after an encounter with the fawn, is not very much to go on for Cullen.
The Story:
He doesn't wear the armor anymore. The Garden is hardly a pressing threat, even spread through the mansion as it is by now. It will recede again, with time, he is sure of it. Sure enough. The wardrobes are more than happy to provide simpler threads, in the meantime. They feel light, bizarrely so, as if his shoulders couldn't remember a day they hadn't been encased in metal. He smiles at that, a bit. Who knows, his track record is hardly the best either.
His stomach-- hurts, actually, needles that did sharper in some moments than others. Impossibly sharp once or twice, perhaps at the third time he ought to visit the clinic about it. For now he still hears a faint growl, which makes him hope that food in his stomach will quiet the worst of it. And drink. Drink, again.
In the dining hall vines are slung around many of the tables, but Cullen finds an empty seat that will suffice. Anything but venison, he thinks, and a bowl appears in front of him. Some stew that smells of fish, and a loaf of fresh bread, still warm when he breaks it apart. Holds it to his lips and-- feels apprehensive? Can't imagine why he would. If the vines grow, he can always move his seat. If the pain gets worse, there are people to speak to.
Cullen shakes his head, and digs into the stew.
morework) & [CLOSED to Alistair (fatherlesskind) & Ellie (backpacking)]Where: The Dining Hall
When: backdated to Sunday, 3/6
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I don't know about always, but since my memory began. Which, after an encounter with the fawn, is not very much to go on for Cullen.
The Story:
He doesn't wear the armor anymore. The Garden is hardly a pressing threat, even spread through the mansion as it is by now. It will recede again, with time, he is sure of it. Sure enough. The wardrobes are more than happy to provide simpler threads, in the meantime. They feel light, bizarrely so, as if his shoulders couldn't remember a day they hadn't been encased in metal. He smiles at that, a bit. Who knows, his track record is hardly the best either.
His stomach-- hurts, actually, needles that did sharper in some moments than others. Impossibly sharp once or twice, perhaps at the third time he ought to visit the clinic about it. For now he still hears a faint growl, which makes him hope that food in his stomach will quiet the worst of it. And drink. Drink, again.
In the dining hall vines are slung around many of the tables, but Cullen finds an empty seat that will suffice. Anything but venison, he thinks, and a bowl appears in front of him. Some stew that smells of fish, and a loaf of fresh bread, still warm when he breaks it apart. Holds it to his lips and-- feels apprehensive? Can't imagine why he would. If the vines grow, he can always move his seat. If the pain gets worse, there are people to speak to.
Cullen shakes his head, and digs into the stew.
no subject
...and lets out little more than a sharp breath. How is he supposed to argue against this? He is not wrong- just as the other man's frustration is clearly that of a man who thinks he is not wrong either. Cullen falters at the thought. Piece by piece he's been told, small impressions of a person he doesn't recognise in himself, and the more he hears, the more he fears himself mistaken - the more he needs to know that he is not.
He takes another breath, so that he can speak this calmly:
"If I let you try- whatever it is you think you need to try-- If I let you try it, and it doesn't work, will you accept that this is where I belong?"
no subject
"Of course you don't-" His mouth snaps shut as the rest of him finally catches up with it. None of them belong here but it's not going to help to say as much. Not with whatever it is Wonderland has done to the other man.
"Fine. If it doesn't work I'll leave you alone." Until he can think of another way to try and fix this. He really can't deal with the idea it could be permanent or something they might all have to worry about. "Just... stay calm, OK?"
With those reassuring words he takes a deep breath to centre himself and as he exhales a wave of light bursts outward from him, that should sweep away any magic in the surrounding area. He just hopes it actually does something. And doesn't just make Cullen think Alistair's the one trying to mess with his mind.
no subject
Something. Should he observe closely? Should he shield his face? Should he relax or stand perfectly still? He should have asked what to expect, that is all. But now the concession is made, and he watches the other man curiously. Calm enough, only his posture tense with some undercurrent of apprehension.
Nothing much happens, at first. And then he takes a startled step back from the blue wave that lashes towards him, only to dig his heel into the floor as he remembers. Calm. Calm. He might not be able to do calm, but he can force himself into rigid. Unmoving. Eyes closed, as something cool washes over him, a slight tingle on his skin, a slight dizziness that tilts the ground underneath his feet. And then it all fades, just as quickly.
He opens his eyes, and finds them both standing just as before. He is well. Cullen is still home, and all is well.
"Was... that it?"
no subject
Just in case it's shock that's keeping Cullen from shouting in outrage or declaring war on Wonderland he asks cautiously, "Do you feel any different? Or maybe know my name now?" He'd take even the smallest hint that the other man was starting to remember where was from and who he was. Even if it was just a return to normal templar cheerlessness.
If there was none of the above then it would be time for Plan B. Which is 'come up with Plan C'.
no subject
"If it was meant to get me to remember something I couldn't possibly know-- But no, I don't feel any different, I don't think your spell worked the way you'd hoped." Cullen shakes his head. "I still don't know your name either, but I did mean to ask."
no subject
"It's Alistair." Since Cullen had all but asked he could be that obliging. He doesn't even add that it's something the man already knows, no matter how much he wants to. Who'd have thought he'd get annoyed by not being recognised by people? Sighing in frustration he arches an eyebrow at Cullen questioningly. "Answer me one more question and I'll leave you in peace, alright?" For now.
no subject
"All right, ask me."
no subject
Hopefully the answer will give him enough of a hint as to what did this to Cullen so he can avoid the same fate. Unless it's something that can just randomly affect people much as the mansion itself can sometimes change around them. In which case he'd best start praying more and hope the Maker is a little more attached to Wardens than to templars.
no subject
He trails off. There. What he was afraid of. A simple question. And yet-- A childhood memory. A memory. Of his early childhood. In Wonderland. The old days of... nothing, where he used to nothing and nothing, with nobody, all day long. Cullen swallows. Tries, desperately, to recall any memory of his years in this world, of recent years, or even months, even weeks, only-- Only nothing.
Grimacing he wants to complain about the incessant questioning, but the words don't come. Stubbornly he wants to make up a memory just to see the man go, but the words don't come. Pleadingly he wants to beg Alistair to just leave, but the words don't come. It's only his silence, draped over a nagging hole of doubt. He does not remember Ferelden, that is out of the question. But Wonderland, the place he is supposed to call his home... why can he recall so little that would make it so?
I let you have your experiment, just leave, and the words almost come. But worse, much worse, Cullen actually has an answer to give, only not the sort he wants to hear himself speak. He hangs his head low, voice quiet to match.
"A few days ago. I must have gone into the forest, I don't remember why. I spoke to the Fawn, but I... lost track of what we talked about. Afterwards I just left..."
no subject
But if Cullen has nothing, if he hasn't been given a life here in Wonderland to recall, then maybe he can finally dismiss that tiny niggling doubt instead just of pretending it doesn't exist.
More encouraging is the answer he gets, for all that the manner of its delivery tugs at him uncomfortably. However unsettled Cullen is by the admission it's only a temporary problem. This has to be fixable. Once the culprit is dead he'll go back to normal. Which is probably a good thing.
"The Fawn? As in a deer?" That's... something. Assuming this... talking deer. Is the culprit. Which. It's a talking deer. He's going to guess it's not just a harmless, possessed bystander. That's good. It's something physical. Something that can be fought. Cautiously, else he might end up wandering around claiming to belong here too, but still vulnerable.
Nodding determinedly to himself Alistair steps away from the table and turns towards the door. Almost immediately he turns back around and points at Cullen. "You should be careful. Don't- Just... try and stay out of trouble, alright?" He feels ridiculous saying it but if there could be trouble wandering around and the man doesn't remember a thing about his life he could be in danger. Although he had been managing for a few days by his own admittance. He should be fine a little longer.
no subject
Should this not be a moment of relief? Alistair turns to leave, a finality to his question at last. An end to this strangeness, an end- an end to a man who could say more about an imagined past, than Cullen could about the truth. He feels rather hollow now, for all his certainty. It will pass, he tells himself as he watches Alistair go. It will pass as things in Wonderland do, and he will be at peace in his home again.
"All right," he says too quietly to a man almost out the door, and sinks back into his seat at the table. The soup in front of him has gone cold. He takes a spoonful without great appetite.