The Rhetoric of Wolves (open)

Posted 2 years, 9 months ago (Edited 2 years, 9 months ago) by Lasair (Anathema) GoId

Witchfinder Miriam had too much power for Lasair’s liking.

It was all too easy for a politician to use a small portion of the population as a scapegoat for all of the nation’s problems, regardless of how that portion risked their lives to stop the Hagia disaster. Mages were the problem to Miriam, best locked away and watched over with flintlocks in case they showed even the slightest hint of corruption.

It felt as though Miriam’s entire platform was founded on ignoring the fact that it would doubtless spark a civil war and leave the nation defenseless for the next monster attack. It was ideology based on blind faith that the rules would save them all, and any rule-breaker would be the cause of their downfall instead of the reckless leadership that caused it. No tactician worth her salt relied on a single plan to prevent disaster, and Lasair would not stand for it.

The event in the center of Faline had been nearly riotous in blame and accusations, and it hadn’t nearly been enough to take Miriam down from her self-righteous pedestal. To Lasair, anyone would be a better option than a witchfinder who would rather have her imprisoned.

To that effort, Lasair spared no expense hosting a pleasant summer soiree on the large Andraste lawns as an open invitation to discuss the current political environment, no matter the class or creed. Beautiful white pavilions stood by a lovely lily-covered pond and willow trees for cool shade, games were available to the children brought along, and refreshments and small gifts wrapped in white and gold were offered freely for the attendants.

Most notably, invitations were sent to both Prince Sabora and Enchanter Guro, though she wondered if they had the time in their campaign to arrive and speak. She certainly hoped they would come – most of the driving force behind Miriam were nonmages, and to have the Andrastes on their side was no small measure.

Miriam’s accusations and rhetoric worried her more than she cared to admit. She would make it a personal goal to avoid the woman as best as she could, fearing the possibility of Miriam damning her to the Order.

She would not step foot in Namarast again. Not on her life.

With a sigh, she leaned on her fiancé’s chest, relying on him more and more often these days. Before she could say something, to thank him for his support, voices raised nearby caught her attention.

She drifted towards it, sporting a new lace parasol as she came towards a circle of individuals listening to two distinct voices – one that sounded rough and begged for a cigarette, and another that sounded irritatingly prim and proper.

Oh, for the love of - what was Lady Cornelia doing here? Had it been too much to expect for her to understand Lasair’s position against Miriam, or did the woman’s natural greed demand she take advantage of another’s hospitality? She held back a grimace at the thought.

"Cornelia, my dear, I don't think Madam Miriam will arrive today," She interjected politely with a glass of lemonade and her parasol tucked at her side. "There's no need to ply for her attention."

She intentionally held this party for those against Miriam, but at the very least, Cornelia and her erstwhile companion might serve as a conversation starter to rally interest.

Lasair sabotages Witchfinder Miriam. (524)

felinequine

Oh how Cornelia loved parties... The fanfare, the decorations, the absolute lavishness of it all. This was more of her scene, although she much preferred to be the host dressed in her finest - ushering those of depravity to relish in each other's company within the belly of her manor. The sun was out however, and she had to represent her good House.

Oh well, she sighed to herself. The real fun will come later.

She knew she wasn't invited to this gathering but it would be quite rude of her to not show up, despite her political differences with that silly little Andraste girl. They were of two noble houses, surely they could set aside each other's differences for one night and engage like proper Ivratians, no?

For once, Cornelia didn't place her bets on it. It was rather unfortunate that her little brat of a stepdaughter couldn't come and sway the hostess in her favor with a few sweet notes, but Naia had insisted on staying behind for the sake of paperwork.

Still, she arrived in her usual style, donned with one of her best summer fashions. Pearls and shells, a clear sign of her House's allegiance to the sea. White flowing fabrics draped against her body stood stark against her graying coat, feigning purity where otherwise she'd be stained with red. A fan was held daintily in her telekinetic grip, waving gently at her face to cool her brow from the summer heat.

The Andraste girl spotted her first, interjecting the conversation she was having as her polite little bell-like voice drifted across the lawn. Cornelia smiled at her, keeping her lips pressed tightly together. She was no harm, no threat. Just a simple guest.

"Ah, I wasn't expecting to see her here anyways," she responded breezily, taking in the presence of the little cervine. She assumed Lasair was about Naia's age, maybe younger by how outspoken she was when addressing Miriam. Surely such a sweet thing couldn't have much sway when it came to politics?

"Quite a lovely little get-together you've hosted, Lady Andraste, it would be such a shame to ruin it with foul tempers." Cornelia's voice was smooth, soft and alluring where her eyes held nothing but a sharp pin, looking for somewhere to stab. Sometimes she wished that she had her old friend Genevieve's way with words, wondering if she tried hard enough, she could convince this girl to be on her side... But that was a bygone past. Now, she could only play the polite and unassuming noble.

(425)

zombee

(cw for blood and death)

His voice was not only begging for a cigarette, but it was sucking it dry. Ash crumbled from the tip of the cig, smoke billowing from his nostrils with each rasping breath. He wasted not a single crumb of tobacco, his voice hoarse from the burning insult to his lungs, the woman beside him sporting a song that was a stark contrast to his own.

He had never been one for politics. Or parties. Or anything that required more than himself and his blade, but times were changing. Faline was changing. And the piercing ache in his back leg only reminded him of what he had endured; what the corruption of Archmage Hagia had forced him and many others to suffer through. He could still see it, too, forever burned in the back of his mind.

The trembling calf lying in a pool of his own blood.
Rubble crushing his chest and his legs.
His eyes wide with fear, breath ragged, only one wish on his gasping lips.
There was no help for him, and the boy knew it.

"Kill me. Kill me please."

A shot rang out that startled the scavenging birds, and he hadn't looked at his flintlock since.

Oh, but he still could not forget, the aching in his joints from his stumble in the rubble as he hurried to leave was a sharp reminder. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried. Not since Maura, he was sure, but that night, there was blood in his tears. Blood from the calf, the monster, the citizens of Faline as they tried to save themselves. Even from himself, if he could admit it.

So when word of the little party - a get-together against the one candidate that would put an end to the suffering caused by mages - was announced, there was no way in hell he was missing it. He did not care about the looks, for he was terribly out of place with his smokes and his limp and his scruffy pelt. No, he only cared for that boy and the many others who had suffered with him.

His honey gaze was a sharp glare as it darted to a young deer that approached, and he could feel the tension between the women as they quipped back and forth at each other with lovely words laced with venom. It had always been hilarious to him how the nobles spoke.

"We don't need her fuckin' attention, but it would do ya a service to shut your pretty mouth and listen to her once or twice." He said, low and grumbling with the voice of a man who had seen far too much. He remembered this one from the meeting held in the center of town, and he wanted absolutely nothing to do with her twisted words of wisdom. He took another drag from his cigarette, allowing it to puff in the little cervine's face.

"Sorry, sweetheart, forgot to check my temper at the door." He said to Cornelia, though his gaze did not leave the host as he tapped ash from the butt of his cigarette and let it fall to his hooves.

526

Lasair (Anathema) GoId

Joy.

Lasair’s tongue curled in her cheek as Cornelia gave shallow compliments to the party and as the man beside her spoke, his rough choice of words grating in such a delicate setting.

What, did he expect her to flinch like a meek little thing? More’s the pity for him; she enjoyed the smell of smoke, and easily managed to keep her expression of civility without batting an eye.

“Listen to what, exactly?” She replied, taking a deep breath in just to drive home how little his agitating gesture meant. “Listen to Miriam’s complete lack of a plan for when the next attack comes? I’d rather not. You heard her as well as I did – she wishes to rely on rules and imprisonment and leave us completely unprepared when the next disaster appears.

We can hardly expect every last man and woman of Ivras to follow the rules, now can we? There are always outliers, always rule-breakers.” She eyed the dark stallion pointedly, knowing his type well enough to address such a concept at him. “All it takes is one mage corrupting in secret sooner or later, and under Miriam we’d have no way to stop it.”

She smiled prettily, her gaze holding a keen edge. “But that point of discourse is the reason why we’re here, is it not? The matter of who takes on the position of Archmage concerns us all, and I’d be more than happy to open up the discussion to all those who want to offer their piece.”

Finally she broke the point of eye contact by watching his cigarette fall, and she caught it with her telekinesis before it fell to the grass to smolder and catch. “My, but do mind yourself while you’re here, won’t you? Trash is hardly welcome here, I’m afraid.” She smoothly said as she gave the stub to a bowing servant who took it away.

(316)