tarot of the drowning world [PAST]

Were she younger, were she anyone else, Merrill would be running helter-skelter through Hightown, bare feet barely touching the ground -- that's her, an elf, fleet-footed and graceful, according to anyone who's never met her. 

But Merrill is not so young, and she has never been the kind of person who can throw a fit in public for whatever reason, so instead she walks down streets with her head high and an air of purpose. It's held together with spit and twine, but it's there all the same. The past hour is still thrumming in her veins, temples pounding. Who would even think -- what is Varric doing -- but not now, not now. 

Hightown has changed a fair bit, since she first saw it, what with everything that's happened, but she still beats out the path to Fenris' door with nary a thought. She knocks hard, her knuckles stinging and red from the force of it, but then Hightown doors are not made to be knocked on. You're meant to have servants to watch and open and shut them, which is a real joke when it comes to Fenris.

She dusts the bottom of her foot off against her leg and frets. Maybe he's not home. Oh, that would be typical. What if he's out on a job? Should she have tried the Hanged Man straight away? (But then, Varric might retire to the Hanged Man soon, and she doesn't want to see him until she's sorted her head out.)

Merrill decides to call out. Fenris? Yoohoo, it's me. Merrill, in case you couldn't tell. Are you home? It's rather urgent. Dire, actually.

A pounding at the door downstairs dragged his attention away from the dog-eared book that balanced precariously in his lap. Fenris had been enjoying a rare moment of peace. With the way the city had been lately, with news of the chaos trickling in from the lands beyond, it was all but unheard of that he had an hour to relax - and now, in true Kirkwall fashion, it was ruined.

Letting his eyes drift away from the firelit pages, he instead turned to glare in the general direction of the front door, as though he might drive away whoever stood beyond it by the sheer pressure of his glare alone. Alas, he was not so lucky. Merrill's muffled voice reached his ears with urgent clarity. Fenris remained still for a moment, and then two, debating whether the blood mage was worth bestirring himself for - and then almost before he knew it, he was up, walking towards the entrance to the mansion with his sword in hand.

He swung the door open without preamble. It was unlocked, of course; anyone foolish enough to trespass would have earned whatever death his sword meted out. Still, he'd made no secret of his desire for privacy - he supposed he ought to be thankful that Merrill remembered to knock. He scowled down at the smaller elf, using the moment to scan her for blood or injury, anything to explain the 'dire' circumstances she'd noted through the door. Seeing nothing, his eyes snapped back up to the dalish mage's face. Fluster, panic, worry...but no pain, no real fear.

He relaxed muscles that he did not remember having tensed. "What do you want, witch?" His tone was more droll than venomous - but then, they'd known each other for several years at this point. He wouldn't say that he was comfortable with Merrill - or any mage, let alone one who resorted to blood magicks - but much of the edge of his vitriol towards the girl had been worn away by time.

He opens the door, and Merrill starts to answer -- and then blinks. Oh, look at you all cozy and comfortable, she coos, momentarily moved. Should I get you some pajamas for the New Year? That'd be a nice gift, wouldn't it?

But then she thinks: I'm sure the Viscount's coffers are full enough to buy new pajamas every day, for the rest of eternity, and has to swallow a bubble of hysteria. Merrill coughs, and dusts the bottom of her bare foot against her calf.

Um, anyways. Can I come in? I just got out of a meeting with Varric and Sebastian, and. Well. You'd never just say something because it's what I want to hear, would you Fenris?

The smaller elf blinked up at him, as if surprised he had opened the door. But then...no. She was only surprised that he wasn't wearing his armor. Fenris glanced down at the base layers he wore, and then his eyes snapped back up to the dalish mage. He raised a single, white brow. "Oh yes, I'm especially fond of the kind with the attached feet," he quipped, his voice dark and droll.

Ah. No. Probably not the best idea. The witch would take him seriously. He shook his head, leaning his sword against the wall now that he knew there was no immediate threat. "No. Gifts are unnecessary. Especially ones that take the form of pajamas."

Merrill seemed no less nervous the longer she stood in his doorway. But her question - if he would say something just because it was what she wanted to hear - made him scowl. "If you think that's the sort of person I am, then you're an even bigger fool than I thought." What had the dwarf and the priest said to her to cause this degree of indecisiveness? He stepped back out of the doorway without another word, gesturing her impatiently inside. Once she stepped into the foyer, he shut the door behind her, still frowning. "Alright, out with it. What's going on?"

Merrill steps over the threshold and immediately has to fight the urge to start pacing, or to bring her fingernails to her mouth. Wretched habit, that. The Keeper used to make her dip her fingers in astringent spindleweed oil to make her stop, but all it did was give Merrill bleeding canker sores along her bottom lip and gums, on top of ragged fingernails.

Fenris would be so angry in footy pajamas, she thinks. She pictures him walking about awkwardly, falling over himself. Like a cat wearing socks. It's enough to make her laugh, something short and nervy.

Of course I know you wouldn't, I'm not really a fool. I'm just nervous. And angry. She rubs her eyes, and looks at Fenris with a pleading expression. You know how I was doing work in the alienage? The community fund, the meetings in Hightown about building permits and such. I thought it was nothing worth writing home about, that I was just making myself useful.

Now she does start to bite at her thumbnail. Varric is stepping down as Viscount. Fenris is clever, he'll understand the subtext. She hopes. If she says it out loud, she'll have to hear herself say the words, and she'll go insane.

Fenris raised a single, white brow, giving the shorter elf a sardonic look as she fretted in his entryway. When she asked if he knew about her work in the alienage, he only crossed his arms, waiting for her to go on. Her question about the alienage was a rhetorical one, of course. He'd been by the alienage more than a handful of times, and he'd seen how it had improved over the years.

It was still a filthy, rotten shithole, of course. This was Kirkwall, after all.

Still, hearing the bloodmage say that she was angry was...new. She was usually much more of the butterflies and rainbows type. When she wasn't cutting herself and bathing in her own blood, presumably.

He realized he had gotten distracted when Merrill started to bite at her thumb, and in the next moment - 'Varric is stepping down as Viscount.' The words came out rushed, almost panicked. Fenris blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Tapped his fingers against his thigh, a swift staccato that punctuated his suddenly scarce thoughts. "And the dwarf put you forward to take his place, I presume? You wouldn't be this flustered otherwise." A pause, a small frown, as he looked down at the black-haired elf. And then he shrugged. "Alright. Well enough, I suppose. So what did you come here for?"