entrancelogs | 'Tis rather inconvenient like this. +

Entry tags:

'Tis rather inconvenient like this. +

Who: You! !oot ,uoy dnA
Where: Wonderland, both Real and Mirror side
When: June 3 to June 10
Rating: PG-13, will vary by thread, warnings for higher ratings appreciated
Summary: A catch-all log for Mirrors and Reals during the reverse espionage event. Anything from Mirrors leading their daily lives, over Reals reacting to the show, to Reals and Mirrors exchanging messages goes here. Just label your locations and sides accordingly!
The Story:

Your own medicine is worth twice the sweetness in the bush, that is what they say! Here is my plan, now make sure you listen well, or you get it wrong, and then I would need to pair you all up, for only two even wrongs set my head back on right, and we've no time for such things, no time at all, do we?

As mighty as the sharpest blade, as stout as the hardest shield, a spool of thread woven from hearts of gold. It must exist, and I must have it! She'll do worse to my head if I search, but you'll help, won't you? I will let you see, and you will be my eyes! All good things come tomorrow - then I'll let you see, and you'll be my eyes, and when it's all done you'll use your own mouths to tell my personal ears all you know, won't you?

All of Wonderland's mirrors are suddenly working in reverse. The Real side can see everything, and the Mirror side is left with nothing but their own reflections. Details of the event can be found here.

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[The question drags his attention back to her, a flicker of surprise briefly lighting his eyes. What does he do when there's no task to occupy him and he's not being questioned by people who by appearances should be long dead? ...Staring at a wall is honestly not too far off. It's no different from remembered guard shifts and he snorts, nearly amused by the guess.]

Something like that.

[Yet he can understand restlessness. He does feel the same sometimes. When it's a particularly dull day on the other side or his Real is off in the forest where he can't be seen. Templar discipline comes in handy then, when there's nothing to do but wait. Even it has it's limits though. Sometimes he thinks of screaming just to disrupt the quiet and make something happen but he knows better than to indulge such childishness.]

Training to serve the Maker teaches you lots of ways to deal with restlessness. [Standing staring at the wall is just one of the exciting ways the Chantry teaches you to entertain yourself. He can practically hear the idiot speaking, prompting an irritated frown that he's even thinking it.]

Sword forms, chores. Prayer. [Less from faith than routine but it passed the time. And when that thrilling list runs out there's always the secret indulgence of books. Stories of adventure and excitement. The sort of thing that happens to other people. Not them.] Don't tell me you spend all your time trying to appeal to an unhearing Maker?

And are you serving the Maker here? [ She asks promptly, as if she'd expected a mention of their absent god. ] You just said that He can't hear us. How can you serve Him if you think this place beyond his power?

[ Don't get her wrong, though; Robyn's Mirror has no faith or hope in anything left. She certainly doesn't think that the Maker will hear anything that they have to say here. Still, his mentioning of it has her curious. The desire to needle at him nags her on, because it's something to do. Because, maybe, she's curious to see if any of the parts of him that her Real seems to like are here, too.

Not that it matters. ]

Chores? [ She reacts, frowning, looking judgmentally at him. ] What could you possibly have to do here where our food and clothing appear for us?

[ She doesn't mention twice that he's just said "prayer" again after decrying their Maker. ]

No, I don't. [ She mutters. ] I try and stay out of trouble, for one. There isn't much at all to do, here, and the only people who talk to me are trouble.

[ Like the Red Commander. Robyn looks accusingly at Alistair, as if suggesting that he, too, falls under this demographic. ]

I don't want any trouble.

[And there she goes, jumping on the obvious flaw in his answer. The templar frowns in irritation.]

No, of course I'm not. [If she's trying to needle him then it's working, his arms folding over his chest with a scrape of metal. Even the irritation is a dull thing though, lacking any real spark and fades quickly into a disinterested mutter.] I serve the Queen, same as you.

[A far easier power to serve. One that can be seen and whose wrath is obvious when it is roused. Better than an unseen, unheard Maker but old habits, or the memory of them, die hard. As do certain other habits, no matter how hard they tried.

Perfectly deadpan Ser Alistair says-] I polish the mirrors.

[Given some of their compatriots it might be necessary even with Wonderland's ability to look after itself. He hasn't bothered to check, given what the individuals who'd cause such a mess tend to be like.]

I'm not interested in trouble either. [Fittingly it tends to be too much trouble for him. It's better to keep his head down and obey. Don't draw attention, do as you're told. It's easier that way. Something they can both agree on. His arms drop to hang loose by his sides, meeting her accusation with a disinterested stare.] If you don't try and start any neither will I.

[ Ser Alistair is... something. Certainly less energetic and large a personality as some of the others who bully her and taunt her. Robyn's Mirror thinks of the Real Cullen, who only appears to have slightly more personality, and wonders if all templars are like them.

At least they're not mean to her. She takes a step closer, peering up at him. His armor is shiny, too, like the mirrors he polishes, though she doesn't try and see herself in them. ]

I never cause trouble. [ She mutters. I usually just hide. Then, abruptly: ] Do we have a chapel on our side? The Commander said they have one on theirs. I want a copy of the Chant. To remember.

[ To remember. To forget. ]

Do you ever watch them? [ Robyn prompts. ] On the other side?

[ If he polishes the mirrors, he must see their Reals every so often. She wonders distantly what he thinks of his own double. Of hers. ]

[If his Real were asked he'd have something to say about how all templars get their personality driven out through rigorous training and self-flagellation but the Mirror himself... would almost agree. On personality being discouraged anyway.

He leans back slightly as she moves closer, watching her uncertainly. She says she's not after trouble and he's not intimidated by a woman who should by rights be dead - unnerved by her appearance maybe and struggling not to react to it as he gets a closer look at her but not concerned about himself. Unless she could spread the same corruption that killed - is killing? - her to him. Even then, the Queen would surely restore him as he is. He's a loyal, obedient subject. No reason not to.]

A chapel? How should I know? [That he hadn't expected, given the earlier talk about the Maker's inability to hear them. Especially not when she says why she wants to see this chapel.] I watch them, same as everyone but- [But he tries not to get too invested in the other side. They're always going to be separate and there's always the chance that one day he'll be called upon to dispatch one of the Reals. A task that's always easier if he can see the target as less than real themselves.

And yet now that he's thinking about it-] There might be one. But I doubt it has the Chant there.

[He could offer to write it out for her, true. But that's too much trouble for someone he barely knows and who is only speaking to him because he's there. No matter how much free time he has.]

You do know. [ She confirms, very nearly smug, like a child with a secret. ] Have you polished mirrors there, Ser Alistair?

[ More likely, he's just passed it. He wouldn't have suggested the possibility of it existing unless he'd seen it, or so she guesses. Robyn's Mirror peers up at him, looking for signs of disgust and revulsion, the usual mix of emotions seen when someone sees her face, her skin. She imagines his Real must have looked at her that way.

He seems indifferent at best and wary at worst. Maybe he won't be quite so bad as the others. ]

The other Cullen Rutherford said you could find it somewhere. [ She insists. It's almost as if she's forgotten about their conversation in which they'd decided prayer was useless and that the Maker didn't exist at all for them. ] He spoke some of the words for me.

[ Her tone is a little urgent, almost hungry, as if she's looking for those words again, as if she needs to hear them. ]

Please. [ She persists, nearly-milky eyes wide and childlike. ] Templars help people. I just need to hear a little of it.

[ Why? Maybe it makes her feel more real. Maybe it makes her forget her situation, however fruitless its words and message are in the end. ]

I don't really- [What's the point? It hadn't been a very funny joke to start with. He didn't even know why he'd bothered. But she's right in that he has seen such a place once, while following his Real around.

Glancing away uncomfortably he frowns again, willing to ignore the contradiction of looking for a copy of the Chant - he can appreciate the comfort of the familiar, even if the Maker isn't listening - but less willing to ignore the source of her information.]

And you believed him? [He hasn't seen much of the Knight-Commander on either side of Wonderland but what he has has been enough to make him avoid the man entirely. More surprising than her trust in the Knight-Commander is her opinion of the order itself.] You believe that?

[He shouldn't sound quite so incredulous. At one point he'd thought or hoped the same, that the order existed to protect all people. Another childish notion the Chantry had done away with. With a sigh he looks back down at her, taking in the pleading air and wide eyes and despite his better instincts he caves.] Fine. Follow me.

[He turns and marches off abruptly, not bothering to check that she's keeping up as he heads up to where he remembers seeing this chapel.]

He isn't like the red one. [ She insists, though more quietly. ] The real one is... softer. Kind.

[ Maybe he would still lie to her, though, trying to offer a comfort that doesn't exist. Better that than the outright viciousness and disgust of most others. ]

Really? [ Despite herself, she's surprised when he agrees. Not many people spare her the time of day, let alone try and help with something. Robyn's Mirror stays where she is for a moment, wary of his intentions, wondering if he actually means to hurt her, but then she follows after, trailing him. ]

Are you happy being a templar, rather than a Grey Warden? [ Robyn asks curiously, now walking at his side. ] You have a strict life, but not a thankless one. I think I would rather be a templar.

[ Not only because she's half-dead, either. ]

[Alistair grunts noncommittally. Kindness had often seemed secondary to obedience within the order. Which wasn't to say she was wrong about the other side's Knight-Commander or that it didn't exist within the order at all. But it often wasn't worth the trouble that came with it.

Such as now. Even as he continues to guide them up towards the tenth floor he shoots the not-quite-a-Warden an irritated look.]

What does it matter? I'm a templar not a Warden. Wishing to be something else doesn't make it happen.

[It would be more important to her. Trying to become a Grey Warden had put her in the position she was. He had dreamed of being a Warden once, during a tournament held in their honour but that had been some time ago and he'd learned better since then. The reminder chafes and he turns that irritation outwards instead.]

Are you happy being half-darkspawn?

No, but it--... I was only making conversation. [ She withdraws a little, becoming increasingly more surly as his response goes on. ] Don't they teach manners in the order?

[ He's stoic, not polite. ... Still, it's preferable to animosity and flat-out ignoring her. As such, she keeps up with him again.

His next question has her flinch, recoiling visibly, with spots of color rising into her ghostly cheeks. ]

Of course not. [ She says sharply, but quietly. ] The Grey Wardens did this to me; I didn't choose it. Do you think anyone would want to go from a life of nobility, living happily with their family, to-- to this?

[ The Mirror almost vibrates with the injury of it all, eyes blazing. She actually reaches out to snatch his arm, turning it over, crossing her own over top for comparison. Her forearm is chalk white, but crisscrossed with inky black veins. ]

I'm not happy. [ She snaps, gripping him tightly as she makes her point. ] But neither are you.

[ She doesn't have all the fight and passion of her Real, though, and so she eventually deflates, mellowing out as she releases his arm and looks away again. ]

They wouldn't. [ She answers herself, mumbling darkly. ] No one would want that. I didn't, but it happened anyway.

[There's the tiniest prickle of guilt when she recoils from him. He'd wanted to upset her, to hurt her to distract from his own frustration, but now that he has he doesn't feel any better. It just adds to the unpleasant feeling bubbling away in his belly. Not an unfamiliar position for him. He's perfectly capable of doing whatever is required of him but enjoying it is a lot harder.

Yet it's still easier to continue to push his ill-temper onto her rather than admit to his guilt. His voice is cold when answers, staring ahead and refusing to look at her.] They held you down and made you become one of them, did they?

[Who knows, maybe they did. He knows little enough about the Wardens and what exactly they did to the former Lady Cousland. He certainly doesn't care to know more, when he gets a good look at the corruption crawling through her veins.

Ser Alistair yanks his arm back when he's released and continues up the stairs, seemingly having abandoned the conversation. He finally speaks again when they arrive on the tenth floor, still resolutely not looking at the woman beside him.]

So neither of us got what we wanted and neither of us is pleased with our lot. [Tellingly it comes out more resigned than angry but he's hardly revealing any great secret there.] It still doesn't change anything.

[Stopping he nods at a door.] There's your chapel.

[ Either he doesn't know the secrets that the order holds so dear or he does and he's needling her anyway. Either way, the corrupted young woman glares up at him, milky stare hard and accusatory. ]

They force you to drink darkspawn blood. [ She says, low and dire. ] I saw another recruit killed by the Warden-Commander just because he didn't want to risk death from the drinking. He just wanted to go back to his family and the man slaughtered him. I had no choice.

[ Duncan would have killed her too, surely. But, wouldn't a death like that have been easier than this? Than the corruption?

None of this matters, says a small voice. ]

No, [ she agrees, dully, ] it doesn't change anything at all.

[ She's still alone. Bitter, tragic, and alone. Still, the fact that he'd brought her to the chapel at all is surprising, and she can't help but feel curiosity as he stops and gestures to it. The Mirror approaches tentatively, pushing it open and stepping inside.

It's not like chapels she 'remembers,' bearing no signs of Andraste, but it's enough. It's gray and simple and maybe spending some time here will make her feel better. ]

You did know about it. [ She says, turning slowly. ] You said you weren't sure, but you did. [ Robyn watches him, still feeling anger and indignant at how he'd addressed her, but: ] Thank you.

[ Maybe she can be alone here without any of the others bothering her. ]

[Oh. The startled look he shoots her should be proof enough that he hadn't known what the Wardens did to their new recruits. A choice between drinking darkspawn blood or being killed directly isn't much of a choice at all. Perhaps he should be grateful he never had a say in his future. And yet he's heard talk of what becomes of old templars after years of taking lyrium and he can't say that appeals any more than dying of the darkspawn taint.

Staring at the floor rather than Robyn he mumbles-] I didn't know.

[It's as close as he's getting to an apology. And one wouldn't change what happened to her anyway.

He looks up to watch her examine the chapel, not sure if it's absurd or tragic that it seems to mean something to her. Either way, seeing it again he's doubly sure it won't yield anything to do with the Chant of Light but he's done what was asked of him.

Shrugging off the gratitude he hesitates, unsure how to respond.] It's fine.

[Another moment where he's caught between bowing and saluting and ends up just nodding curtly before turning and marching off again to... do something. And put the whole encounter out of his mind.]

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'Tis rather inconvenient like this. +

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