Blood from Stone [AU]

[NPCs]

He gives nem a moment, then sighs. Another hint then. "Indeed. He was initially very resistant to the idea, but we have been discussing the details and minor aspects for several weeks now. After all, such a move is very complicated, especially given the size of his family."

[Helene Dakesh]

"Move?" Ne latches onto that word, eyes widening. "No, no. There is a mistake. We are not moving to Orzimmar."

[NPCs]

Aidseant Dunswithe winces a little, glancing down at the bowl. "I... I think perhaps you should speak with your husband," he says almost gently. "It is... not done, for even a friend to have this conversation with you before your husband has explained everything to you.""

[Helene Dakesh]

"We are not moving to Orzimmar!" Ne repeats, more urgently. "This one has research -- responsibilities -- and Varric is a Light -- Bethany is moving to Coalside -- we simply cannot go!"

[NPCs]

"Seeker Helene, please. Control yourself if you would." Setting his cup down with a sharp clink, Aidseant Dunswithe gives nem a reproving look.

[Helene Dakesh]

Control yourself. The words hit Helene -- normally the pinnacle of control -- like a slap. Ne sits back abruptly, going down a mental checklist: quiet hands, still body, no sound. Quiet, still, controlled. How have I let myself get this bad? ne wonders. And, what else am I overlooking? Perhaps Varric did mention it, but I was hyper focused and did not hear. Perhaps I am hallucinating this. Or hallucinated over the previous conversation. Perhaps there are gaps. I will have to check my sketchbooks.

Ne takes a deep breath, calmer now, silent.

[NPCs]

He watches this carefully, then nods. "Adequately done. Now... shall we finish our lunch?" That was... far more effective than I expected it would be. Evidently their (I refuse to use those words for them) condition is more severe than our reports would suggest. Excellent. 

[GamesMaster]

This wasn't Don's first purge -- that had happened when he was a newborn kit, still too young to be parted from his father's mate. He thought by now the legacy of racial violence was deep in his blood, that he knew exactly what to expect. How to keep himself safe. He thought he had until dark, when the Guard was sure to implement a curfew, when their hardier members would  come on shift.

He was wrong.

They broke a window at Niko's pharmacy just after lunch. Don was there, still sweeping up the mess, when a loose mob formed a few blocks away -- safe in Skins territory, the cowards. He caught snatches of speech-making: "to them, a skin's a skin" and "theives and poisoners"

The number of people with brightly dyed hair dwindled. The customers dried up.

It's all just talk, he told himself. It's easy to talk big. Harder to look us in the eyes. Still, he creeps closer, wanting to see what's going on.

[NPCs]

A trio of guards are stationed nearby- there's so much territory to cover and the guard seems to strangely short staffed that most squads are being broken up- but they seem more worried than stalwart. Which is fairly understandable, given that the crowd of 'skins' number in the upper forties. There are also a dozen catfolk milling around, though most of them are just hurrying about trying to get their errands done. As Don watches, he spots an young woman, merikos oread, carrying a toddler near the rear of the mob. She's moving fast and keeps glancing at the mob with wide eyes. Out of place, but the small bag tucked into her belt with a local apothecary's sigil on it reveals her purpose in the area. A human one, of course, around the side of Cattown.

Before Don can think much more on the matter, he spots a pair of catfolk trodding towards the intersection. He doesn't recognize one of them, the female in front, but the male is Ceant. A few years younger than Don, and a below average pickpocket. Bit thick but generally nice enough, not that Don knows him well or anything. Both of them have conflicted expressions, Ceant pausing twice in the scant fifty or sixty feet to the intersection. Unfortunately, the hesitations and expressions don't get the attention of the guards until the female whips a bottle towards the mob. It hits a young man in the chest, shattering. Smoke rises from the amber fluid that splashes out and screams erupt from him and the people around him. Ceant takes a step back, a bottle in his own hand. The female throws another, face blank now but it hits the ground as people scatter. 

The guards start shouting, weapons being drawn as they rush at the two catfolk. Expression tormented, Ceant takes another step back, then finally throws his own bottle with a wordless shout. The bottle goes flying, well off target for the crowd. And, almost as if guided by some cursed fate, hits the young woman and her toddler. The crowd almost instantly shifts mood, turning from upset and scared to furious and chaotic. 

[GamesMaster]

Don hangs back a moment longer, dangling by one hand from an upper railing, watching to see if the guards can handle this. The dark-skinned male, standing atop a crate to deliver his speech, turns, pointing with his only good arm from atop his box, and shouts, "Look! They're attacking babies now!"

Fuck, fuck! thinks Don, and he drops, sprinting forward. Got to get that baby to safety. Got to prove not all of us are monsters. Dammit, Cea, what were you thinking?!

[NPCs]

Don gets within twenty feet before a pair of overbuilt men notice him. As mobs are wont to do, violence is the only thing on their minds. Despite the repeated shouts about 'baby killers' and 'furry monsters/freaks' not a soul is moving to actually help the injured, not even the toddler. The three guards are raindrops against a blaze- one of them is already down, clutching a broken arm. 

"Furred freak!" Challenge made, the older of the two men comes at Don with a broken bit of wood. No training Don can spot, but at least a few decades of hard manual labour have put layer after layer of muscle on his frame. Not far behind him, the other man hefts a chunk of brick. "Not going to be dining on human baby today!"

[GamesMaster]

Bad move, Don. He hisses, slipping into a warrior's stance on instinct, making a go of dodging to see if he can't get past them. 

[NPCs]

Don isn't a warrior by trade or inclination. On the other hand, he did grow up with Mrri as his not-mother. So he has far more training than these two louts. It's a tense fifteen seconds before he manages to trip one of them into the other, then kicked the nail studded length of wood away. 

It's just a shame that it only took about ten seconds for a half-dozen more rioters to notice Don's actions. He feels something hit him in the back, jarring him forward. Before he can turn, a flicker of movement heralds a blossom of pain across his left arm, along with a soft snapping noise as half of his forearm is shattered by a metal rod. His left leg is next, though that's just a kick. Things get worse from there.

A blur of pain follows, Don falling to the ground as people kick and pummel him. Just before the world fades to dizzying nothing, he can hear the stomp of armoured boots and shouting.

[Helene Dakesh]

Varric still isn't home. 

Helene spreads nir sketchbooks across the floor, throwing nemself into the task, pouring over every page, desperately searching for inconsistencies. Here -- is that too much emotion? This page, ne barely recalls the dream it details. What if it was an important dream? Ne struggles to recall Aklo, nir brain stubbornly refusing to translate the writing in this particular page. And this sketch, and this one, they show evidence of obsession, of far too much attention to detail. The signs are here all along. Ne is slipping, ne is backsliding, ne is --

And that pronoun. Careless, stupid of me. Wasn't 'they' enough? Why did I think I had the right to impose on everyone else more than I already have? Because Varric encouraged me, pushed me to give in to the impulses, told me over and over to let it out instead of keeping everything safely buttoned up and tucked away. Careless. Stupid. No wonder he didn't tell me about Orzimmar -- he was probably afraid of what I'd do, what I'd say. 

So. So. That's the facts, they tell themself as they rest against the wall, head still sore from repeated banging. So the facts are known. Action must be taken. Plans must be made. This one must... change. 

A wide gulf opens inside them, swallowing up the words. Change. Helene has to change, perhaps drastically, if sanity is prized. Helene must seek help, guidance, from one who is less partial, less likely to encourage the current route of action. A sending to Draslina? Help from above? (the image of a child's dress floating on a pool of water, quickly discarded)

[Tethras Clan]

There's another thump, almost a delayed echo of nir banging, then the familiar sound of soft rubber on carpet. Rounding the corner with abnormal haste, Merrill pushes her chair into the living room with a look of worry on her face. She's only wearing a robe, not securely belted even, having clearly been asleep until recently. When did she get in? Perched on the back of her chair is Glimmerwing, also looking agitated and likely the reason why Merrill is awake. "Tuiste?! What's wrong?"