#freedcmscall

[eritvita]

continued from x ;

@freedcmscall

His clothing is in tatters, soaked in blood and seamfully torn at the stomach and at the back of one of Roland's knees: the Templar, that silvered Sword what hast clamored of apostasy and heresy and that bursting vein of a run-away, and a trail of seeping blood is left to dry o'er that crusting line to the front of the Darktown's Clinic's forever-open door.

He lies in repose, sodden and sullen as he stares in wincing, furrowed pain to the splintered ceiling; smelling the smells of his own wounds and the cacophony of potions and settled sawdust, wet hay, mold upon clothes and the creaking corners saddled so close to the edge of the Waking Sea, breezing its salty air through those opened balconies. Bits of slices and broken dust and stone cleave to Roland's loosened hair, his fleeing panic having undone that softened braid, and, with the deepest marks within his gut and knee, those razor-thin cuts to his face begin to be blessedly borne undone, healing slowly.

"That is a relief," breathes Roland, as he attempts, too soon, to rise upon his elbows. He winces fantastically and pitches a smothered whine, and lays back down again 'pon that comforting, shoddy cot.

Friendly persuasion hast him to answer promptly; trauma induces him to pause.

But, yea: thus is magick, and the Healer is a mage, forsooth. "Templars," says Roland simply, and opens his palms at his side to say: ah, well. "Illegality hast its swiftness of Foot, as were I borne for that sacred Ground what keeps mine forever bare." And he snorts, and touches gingerly at the pinkening skin of his covered, tunic-torn abdomen.

"Hast thou been Healer long, prithee?"

[scriptorxfabularum]

@freedcmscall

     SHE HAD BEEN SO SURE that she had traveled far enough to the east that there was NO POSSIBILITY of running into anyone that could know her. Most mages at the Tower weren’t allowed to travel this far, and those who were would not be looking for her themselves. The templars might have been looking for her if they didn’t still think she was with the Warden. And her parents didn’t LIKE traveling this far. So she had felt at least somewhat safe.

     So when she had stepped into the local brothel - she had learned one very valuable survival skill from someone she had encountered on the road, and that was to stay in a brothel if you have a choice, for the people who stayed there knew the value of discretion - she had frozen in place as her gaze had slowly moved across the faces of those already there and had fallen onto one familiar.

     The moment of panic and the urge to turn and run passed fairly quickly though, when she realized this person was MOST DEFINITELY not a pursuer. In fact, she was FAIRLY CERTAIN that this person was in the exact same boat as she was; attempting to stay ahead of the Chantry and their Templars.

     Still moving carefully, eyes flitting left and right to make sure that there wasn’t anyone else who WOULD want to drag her back kicking and screaming, she walked up to the man. “Anders?” Her voice was low, attempting not to draw any attention to herself and the other mage. “Is that really you?”

[savingthrcw]

@freedcmscall continuing from this

"Hey, could've been worse. You could've been the idiot who supported the Circle and the Templars like Yours Truly here did." Served them well that she had become so influential after severing her bond with them.

But she was glad she could always have a laugh with Anders - after walking away from most of her friends, after losing her magic, Neria had been distant. Her actions were, of course, still always aimed to help, and she was there for others if they needed a hand, but she wasn't as ready to have conversations, or let them be there for her. Her only explanation for not having magic had been 'I lost it, it's gone' and then having a few drinks with Oghren to deal. And then there was Anders. Anders, and moments like this, that made her want to leave her shell for a little.

"Okay... I'm so sorry for what's about to happen, Anders, truly, but... I'm going to have to be serious with you for a minute, no jokes, no evading. And I suck at it, so let's try to make this quick and painless, alright? I'll just say the thing and move on."

She took a deep breath, and then actually put a hand over Anders' shoulder to face him and let him see that she meant her words: "I am going to find your phylactery, and I'm going to destroy it. But before that happens, and after that happens... you are a Warden. So you are never, ever, going back to the Circle. We are not going to betray our own. And when I die, Alistair will be the one in charge, and he feels the exact same way. If they try to take you by force they know damn well it will mean war with the Grey Wardens, but considering that I helped everyone I met ever since I left the Circle, and people know this, and hundreds have watched me kill an Archdemon and still hail me when I walk into any Ferelden city... I don't think they can afford that anymore. Now, feel free to insult the Chantry and this whole stupid system as much as you want... but I want to hear it from me, at least once, that I am never going to give you up and you don't need to be afraid you'll actually go back. You are one of us, you are not a Circle mage anymore. And they can choke on that." Had they not been so busy running around over this new threat, she'd have already pulled a Duncan and walked into the Circle Tower to demand the blood. "Understood?"

[justwanderingmuses]

did the thing. promo to be posted once i make it lmao. also blog to be finished later also. but yeah. freedcmscall

[scriptorxfabularum]

Update on threads

// I am just going to list all my threads here, tag all my partners and y'all let me know if something needs to change here. Please let me know if there's a thread on here you'd like to drop. And also if there's a thread on here that I dropped that you would like to keep.

If there is a thread missing, that's not listed under any of the three headings, let me know. I might have forgotten to add it to my tracker.

Up first, threads that will be dropped off my tracker. They are not deleted, just archived. So if you'd prefer to keep the thread, let me know, and I'll just move it back.

Dropped:

@colorscanvas: [x] [x] [x] [x]

@boywebbed: [x] [x]

@higheverlost: [x]

@tymptir: [x] [x]

@heroiisms: [x]

@xradiant: [x]

@camerasutra: [x] [x]

@mostlylows: [x]

@hopeslastchxnce: [x]

@qceensofkings: [x] [x] [x] [x] [x]

@pcraspcra: [x] [x] [x]

@imprvdente: [x]

My turn:

@imprvdente: [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x]

@hvbris: [x]

@ofthclight: [x]

@imafirefly: [x]

@fatedtragedie: [x] [x]

@caracarnn: [x] [x]

@hrhenryfox: [x]

@freedcmscall: [x]

My partner's turn:

@ofthclight: [x] [x]

@imafirefly: [x]

@starscaping: [x]

@seesgood: [x]

@imprvdente: [x] [x] [x] [x]

@hvbris: [x]

@altuspavus: [x]

[savingthrcw]

Archetypes Quiz - Neria

42% Rebel

The Rebel is comfortable throwing caution to the wind—and bucking the system—if that means getting their point across.

32% Advocate

The Advocate is the one everyone wants on their side. In the name of justice, they are not afraid to challenge authority or speak up for others.

26% Caregiver

Friendly, sincere, and compassionate, the Caregiver finds their reward in helping others. No one could ask for a better best friend.

stolen from @freedcmscall

tagging: anyone who wants to do this!

[eritvita]

And his eyes snap up in righteous Attention for the clarity of a Mage Bill. "Terribly am I tempted to ask thee for a copy," says Roland, blushing from this awesome passion: a manifesto, writ by a cryptid of the Apostate Path!

He places the two potions down within his lap as to tarry close his leather'd satchel, and thus: offers each in both palms, riddled with scars both olde and benign, and thus of that gorgeous Crawl of climbing trees and scaling sum of stone, and with the illegal scaling of walls.

And yet Roland's expression dost borne careful, that delicate dip betwixt his brows to empathize that woe and fear for his friends and his kin of the Spirit. "Is there a rumor of a Templar to lead a rite onto a sweep of mage consciousness," says Roland, perfect in its wide, opened Meaning. And his throat dost nervously bob.

"That Harrowed Mages art to become Turned. Blank. In recurrence of a Purge 'twards paranoid bemusement. I only wish 'tis rumor, but art my friends concerned, and I–" And his mouth twists, and darkened shame underlines his handsome features. "... I am too a'feared to wander again upon those iron-scented stones." And fear, for Roland hast never undergone that trial before Metaphorical Blueflame; his phylactery was never gilded, never passed on himself as a Harrowed Mage. "I am passed the Word to thee, Anders."

A soft sigh graces Anders' lips at Roland's searching. Truly, some people would never understand that all the work he does, he does for free, of free will, and as an expression of his own freedom. Requesting pay, whether that be of coin or of items otherwise, would be unjust. He never will force people not to donate, but Anders' wants and needs are so oft buried beneath all of the importance of his work that he can never want for it any longer.

"I do write. It…. it's not poetry, it's about the injustices done to mages. A manifesto, I've come to fondly call it." And a soft chuckle accompanies his voice with the explanation. "I'm on draft 'I've lost count', and I haven't a clue if it'll ever be fully complete. I still write it, knowing that." Bits and pieces have been disseminated by Anders already, encoded messages explaining how to free oneself and other mages from their bonds to the Underground, tales of the suffering mages suffer under Circles to the general populace. Anonymously shared and authored, most often, with Anders even employing a secondary style of writing when he is awake enough to do so.

"I…. yes," falters the Healer briefly, "I always fear to hear the worst. But - hearing of it means we can take action against it. In a way, knowing, however horrible it may be, is better than not knowing. Any knowledge of what goes on inside leads to our own abilities to better combat the heinous actions and crimes committed against mages for the mere crime of being born." He takes a steadying breath, ensuring he stays in control of himself, does not get too wrapped up in the torrent of emotions constantly swirling about inside.

[eritvita]

And Roland squints to him: unbelieving for free advice and granted grafts of newish skin, but hypocritical for that Want of offering Trade. He flips to his satchel, setting down his mostly-empty cup, and flips the flap of that leather-bound bag, which is always upon Roland's person, to rummage for something poignant and darling amidst the clattering of clinking bottles and the shuffle of branded and bound parchments inside.

"Art thou a writer? A Poet?" offers he, as he sifts through little baggies and dallies with a short, confided safety of potions all brewed and corked. He brings out two: one glowing with bluish serenity, icy and divine, and one of that milky pink, borne of healing and ancient whispers for the health of inner tissue.

"Some of the most important information hast I gleaned is not fine," warns Roland, eyes lifting from his bag as thus to gentle the solemnity of his words. "And worrisome for the Tranquil of the Courtyard. 'Twere my Friends a'fore that 'yard that dost I gather with amongst the Underground. They didst mention thee; thou art truly infamous, and fantastic in thine own devotion, Anders."

Oh how those words bring a surge of joyous warmth to Anders' chest. As secretive and careful as they must be about such things, as long as he has been involved with the Underground, it never fails to lighten his mood to hear of their successes, they a necessary foil to the failures which eternally torment him. And yet he is also filled with a longing — he knows all too well that his own phylactery is still out there, somewhere, an eternal homing beacon with which Templars shall always be able to find him. One day his too shall lie shattered upon cobbles.

"Certainly not the noblest," he retorts, never one to give in to exorbitant pride. Even still, he takes the compliments to heart. From a man such as Roland, though they have only just met, it is made clear to Anders how much the words mean. "I like to think that anyone, given an opporutnity like mine, would do the same." Even as he speaks such words, he knows them to be untrue. He's seen too much of the world to believe most as selfless as he. Moreover, he knows as well that he was not 'given an opporutnity,' but rather fought for it tooth and nail, that it is an opoprtunity he is constantly on the brink of losing, with threats pressing in on all sides.

"I ask nothing of you, Roland." His word is final, certain. Anders knows how much he wants for, but knows better that he considers himself above relying on charity from his patients, of all people. Between his own gathering when out with Hawke and the small amount of coin he is able to scrounge together, he keeps the clinic afloat. Anything for personal consumption is a bonus that he, likewise, funds only from his own purse. "Hobbies? Mage freedom, of course." And oh, had this been years ago, he would have had so many more hobbies of which to speak, but time and Justice have not afforded him the chance to continue pursuing such things. "Should you truly insist, I would ask only of you for any information you have brought with you from the inside, for the Underground and the greater Cause."

[savingthrcw]

Neria snickered as he reacted to her suggestion of potential death, but then made a disgusted face, "If a human shows up to kill you, I'll kill them first. I'm getting the hang of this whole sword-only thing anyway. You wouldn't even know I was a mage. Am. Was?" Putting aside the fact that one could very much tell she hadn't spent her life training in sword fighting - although she had wielded an enchanted sword during the entire year spent fighting the Blight, so she wasn't entirely inexperienced and had taken at it like Ser Pounce-A-Lot had to catnip, Neria found herself unsure of what to call herself now, in private, when speaking to a friend who knew she had lost her magic. "Should I even be considered a mage at this point?" she wondered, giving him a questioning look.

She found herself snickering again at his depiction of the public; thinking about it, he had a point. "Well, damn, call me an average farmer then, 'cause that sounds like an ideal time to me too." Which was probably why did she get along so well with regular people, as long as they didn't get weird about magic or elves.

Giving a fake gasp at his words, she brought a hand to her heart, happy to play along. But Alistair fleetingly crossed her mind, and her smile turned more genuine, if nostalgic. "You know, I think I might... how stupid is that?" she replied, before giving another chuckle and shaking her head to clear her mind; he was gone and who knew when they'd meet again, "And also, give me a break, I brought the cat into this team, it may not be my direct... protegee but I have grandma privileges. He will not claw his grandmother's eyes."

Anders grumbled to himself, shaking his head. 'Slipped getting out of bed and died,' his arse. If anything, tripping over a cat was more likely. "A human can kill me if he'd like," he shrugged, "Long as they aren't a Templar or otherwise Chantry-affiliated. I'd rather burn everything down than have my life ended by one of them." A hint of anger crept its way into Anders' speech without intent, but given the situation they had just dealt with, surely it was understandable at the very least.

He was glad, then, for the distraction that the continued focus on the speech provided. Anything to get off of more serious topics. If you asked Anders, those were best suited for moments before perceived death, to be brushed off as dramatics should they survive and to be heroic last words otherwise. No reason not to enjoy life to its fullest whenever possible. He knew it was very likely he wouldn't think such a way had he not had his freedom and life stripped away when he was only 12 years old, but there was no way to change the past, so instead he made efforts to accept even the worst parts of himself. "To me, it sounds like you know the way to the public's heart better than most nobles. Drinks and humour — what more does the average Fereldan farmer want?" He managed a laugh at that, knowing how right he was. Most of his better experiences in life involved one or both.

"Terribly sorry you have to learn this way, but I don't believe in 'love at first sight'." Even with Karl, it had been a slow move from friendship to love. And his heart still ached at the thought of Karl, surely suffering alone, if not dead by then. No, Karl was strong, he surely wasn't dead. Anders shook his head to clear himself of such morbid thoughts, better suited to his bed when he was stricken with insomnia. "You will not touch Ser Pounce. Besides, I've trained him in battle. If you take him from me, I'm sure he'll eat your eyeballs."

[eritvita]

"Dost I," confirms he, as still he leans with that acute need for privacy involved. "The Underground– that serpentine Movement beneath the Stone– is what art I preambled to in safety with mine compatriots. Present upon those cousins and kin from that great shattering of the chilled features of our blood." And Roland's eyebrows dost lift, firstly in deliberate Meaning: those phylacteries within the Walls, along with his, that didst he destroy, brilliant in Finality.

And he barks laughter in a great guffaw for that morbid sense of humor. "The Anders," cheers he, shifting to hang his legs off the edge of that helpful cot. "Noblest Mage what aides for all Needy, for the Downtrodden, exemplary Person of the highest kindness for our kinfolk and cats abound," rattles he, and Roland's flirting is fantastic, second Nature in his own breathing.

"Am I wondr'usly blessed to meet thee in person, Anders," says Roland seriously, and 'tis solemn in this Vow; this awesome vision that the myth, a shining beacon for Hope of mages in Kirkwall, is sat here, talking with him; having saved him, verily a'fore that nasty reality that Roland's death were indeed a possibility.

"Thou hast spake of 'no fee', but, yea, I wilt confer with the twist-side of that Concept: I wilt offer something in Trade, whether by brook or of a trinket by Crook," says he. "And all in abundance of thine personal Favor. What art thine hobbies?" asks he, as he cups his cup and drinks from it to wet at his mouth.

It brings great joy to Anders to see his patient able to sit, as much effort as it had clearly extended him. Never did he truly doubt his own abilities to return people from even the brink of death, but never still did he tire of the sight of his successes, however minute. Even still, the other man's insistence on thanking him, and complimenting him moreover, brings a light pink hue to the healer's cheeks. "Truly, you flatter me," is all he is able to produce from his own tongue in turn, finding himself stricken with a rare moment when he cannot even bable or stammer out more words than necessary.

"The Gallows, then?" A shudder passes through him at the thought of the horrors his fellow mage must have endured. What many others are still enduring — for not the first time that night, he has to take a steadying, deep breath, remind himself of himself and remain in control. Anger, however righteous and just, would not help anyone at this moment.

Anders catches sight of the flash of wetness in the other's eyes, but, noting how he quickly acts to hide such emotion away, does not touch upon the subject. "I should hope you have found somewhere to lay low in those few months," he offers instead, still a potential source of comfort for the other; Anders knows hiding places, safe places for mages to stay, better than most, and can provide, if need be.

"Roland, a pleasure to have helped you, to have had the chance to rather than stumble upon your cooling body somewhere, your blood on the swords of monsters," he responds in kind, another smile gracing his face. Though small, it still crinkles the corners of his eyes, proving itself to be true and of camaraderie. "Yes, I'm, in fact, 'The Anders'," he places laughing emphasis on the corruption of his name into a title, of sorts, "Dreaded apostate, horrible, terrible man. Offering up my healing services to anyone, no questions asked, no fees demanded. As you surely can tell from how I've assisted you, I'm simply the most terrible mage in Thedas." All words he has heard before, rarely in passing, frequently spat in his face. All words he has decided are healthiest to corrupt into jokes. "I've been here…. oh Maker, I've never been good at keeping track of time passing ever since…. ah, never mind that. I've been here a fair while." He shakes his head, glad to have caught his tongue before it could over-share something ridiculous. Fellow free mage as this man may be, Anders still knows better than to spill his guts to strangers.

[savingthrcw]

"You strike me as a 'slipped getting out of bed and died' type, but yeah, a cliff works too. I'm Darkspawn type or alternatively eaten by Mabaris..." Neria wrinkled her nose, "All are acceptable but the noble one. No human is going to kill me, ask Loghain." There was still some poison in her voice when she mentioned him, though it was nothing compared to Jowan. Damned Jowan. But that was nothing Anders would know about and she shouldn't sout her mood thinking about him.

"I did," she retorted while he spoke, after he told her she didn't have to give him that talk, but her expression turned into one of disgust and long-suffering as he kept going about the speech. "No, actually I started with 'so, anything interesting happened lately?' and they thought it was funny, so I went for the comedy route. Shockingly, I didn't want to have a heartfelt talk with a thousand strangers. And I didn't want to promise peace and happiness nor talk about the fact that we still had to go after all the Darkspawn that was still infesting Ferelden, so in the end I mostly invited them to celebrate and kept cracking jokes, which makes me rethink my career choices, I should've done drunk stand-up comedy... Now, the damn Landsmeet was the shitshow. Loghain was a backstabbing ass, and I had literally walked into torture chambers for those people earlier, and rescued a bunch, let alone all the work I had been doing all over Ferelden, and after my arguments they were still going to arrest me. Good thing they still let me duel with him or I would have set the place on fire..." truthfully there was no real bite in her words there, unlike when speaking of Loghain himself, because what did they know.

"What do you mean solely to avoid Templars, are you telling me it wasn't my charm and love at first sight that made you join me? I thought we had something, you are going to wound me like this? I'm taking the cat back."

Anders was grateful that Neria, for the most part, let the topic drop. Or at least didn't push on him after he told her not to promise such things. While he cared greatly for his friend, certain things just didn't need to be spoken of; there had been a few times he had referenced his escapes from the Circles, but never details thereof. He knew the Circle, the Chantry as a whole, would not give up recapturing him, Grey Warden or otherwise. Anders wouldn't be surprised if they sought out his corpse after he finally died so that they could burn it within Circle walls, or something equally morbid.

"Or if the Darkspawn finally get one over on us, or if some noble somewhere decides they don't like you anymore, or if we trip and fall off a cliff, or if I suddenly forget how to breathe alltogether," he rambled, laughing. There were plenty of risks that they took, every day. As a Healer, and as a Circle mage, Anders had seen his fair share of deaths, increased now since becoming a Warden. Death no longer truly frightened him, nor did he see it as an escape; death was simply a reality that would get them all in the end.

"You didn't have to, you know. Could've just left it." He shrugged. "So what was your great dead Archdemon Denerim speech, then? You can't tell me they wanted one, you're bad at speeches, and then not tell me how terrible it was!" They were friends, and if there was one thing Anders knew, it was that friends shared embarrassing stories with each other so they could tease each other at later dates. "You really think that the apostate who became a Warden solely to avoid Templar recapture is a good face for the cause? Really?" He'd let her sit on that one herself.

[eritvita]

His knee already begins to ache, those special tendons beside the delicate bone grown soft and newish, and the Reason for whining and groaning and weeping inside himself is Roland's first bastion, but, thus: he smiles and matches that beautifying warmth passed so kindly to him, and tries he again for that second bout of gaining traction.

He rises again to his elbows, and then, to sit upward, slumped but happily fine if naught so spiritually bruised. He accepts the cup of water with a murmured, heartfelt tone. "I thank thee, thrice o'er, Goodly Healer. Thou art a boon to many attributes of worried knees and broken toes, and wonderfully Made 'pon thine bedside manner." And Roland's handsome brows dost bounce in thrice.

And yet that animal Sound, that frenetic Worry, to look to every door and creaking window what sounds of metallic cracks; that stink of lyrium, raw from the dripping bottle; the caustic bellow of something from the throat, that stilted Note of religious Authority. Roland breathes deeply, and leans he forward with similar friendship.

"A few months," shares he, borne to low hums. He protectively places his palm to his newly-healed stomach. "Gone from across the Docks in swift righteousness. Poetically? Were I borne to that noble career since the birth of my Beginning. I still remember the grass and the wet scent of the Wood beneath my feet, and the taste of home-baked bread in a wood-borne Home." And tears threat suddenly to spring up into Roland's eyes, and clears he his throat roughly and so busies himself with that cool, offered drink.

"Kin art we in that soulful approach to the wonders of magick and all that pertains to the dreamlike State," chirps he, and snorts exhausted and dry and smiles to hide and to force 'way that naked pain. "Hast ... thou resound here for long? I am Roland," introduces he, freely, and opens he his palm for Gesture. "Art thou Anders?"

Anders' tongue has made its way betwixt his lips in his exertion and focus; though the other man has suffered from no mortal internal wounds, deep wounds still require a greater effort than those shallow ones he has yet to tend to on the man's face. Soon enough, once torn skin is fully mended together, all indications of the gash done away with bar the slight colour difference. That too would fade soon enough, as Anders knows well, but it is still new flesh, still acclimating itself to its own existence.

The injury to the knee is likewise dealt with in turn, blessedly simpler. The man would likely need to be careful setting weight on that leg for a day at most, but it would heal without lasting damage; the man would again be enabled to walk and run without limp.

As the man attempts to rise too soon, Anders' hand settles on his shoulder to encourage him back prone, touch without weight behind it, that of a healer and helper and not of one who would force another. One more gentle wave of healing magic is sent out into the world to settle into the minor cuts upon his patient's face, the flesh and skin knitting back together without a hint of scarring left behind. A breath escapes Anders, slightly louder than intended, as he can allow himself to relax a moment, no longer using up pitiful mana reserves within.

"Templars," the healer echoes, his eyes narrowing at the thought. For only one moment, his eyes flash with the barest hint of bright blue light, gone as quickly as one might blink. "It's good you got out alive." His voice is a soft, hushed whisper, one used to the risks lurking about every corner in Darktown.

As the man investigates his newly-healed flesh, Anders gets up, searching through his highly-organised stash to locate a cup, a cup quickly filled with ice, ice quickly melted to fresh water after a last furtive glance about the clinic. The cup is offered to his patient upon Anders' return to his side. "I've been a Healer my whole life, just about. As much my whole life as matters, at least," he chuckles with a warm smile. While Anders loves magic, his mastery of spirit healing is something that brings him an exceptional level of joy.

Voice dropping to a hushed whisper yet again, he dares to ask, "How long have you been an apostate?" While it is a slight presumption, based upon the injuries he has just treated, injuries delivered by Templars, it is hardly a large leap in thought.

[savingthrcw]

Which one should be a promise I can't keep? She didn't know if she should ask because, frankly, she didn't think she had said anything especially crazy. After all, between her titles, surely she could strong-arm the chantry over another Grey Warden's phylactery, it wasn't as if they could claim him back at the Circle anymore. So her expression was genuinely perplexed when he looked back at her.

"To be fair... 'til death isn't gonna be that long if I don't find a cure for the Blight, kinda shortened our life spans with the Joining..." she pointed out with perhaps a lightness she shouldn't have felt, considering they did have shorter life expectancies now. But in her heart Neria felt that if someone was going to find a cure, it was her, if only because nobody had bothered to search too hard since Grey Wardens felt so loyal to the cause once they had risked their lives just to join it that they accepted the Callings and their fate. It wasn't too different from how mages were raised to believe in the Circle-system, and Neria was never going to be a blind follower again. The fact that most of the old guard had died did help a little. She groaned, turning to walk again, "I'm sorry I had to do it. This is why I let Alistair give the talks, he's the one who rallied up the troops every time we went to battle... did you know that after the Archdemon one, people of Denerim were actually expecting some kinda of speech from me? I can't even do that one on one! They still expect me to be the guest of honor in places, it's so disturbing. It's nice to mess with all the racist and mage-phobic jerks, but..." she shrugged with another unhappy noise close to a grunt, slowly moving away from the topic since he clearly didn't want to dwell on it. The important thing was that he had heard it and knew how she felt. "Hey, you are blond and pretty, wanna give the speeches at Vigil's Keep instead?"

Anders had offered up a shrug at Neria's first comment. While he had plenty of thoughts on that, it was hardly the time. Bleeding heart that he was, he could never truly fault anyone for falling for Chantry brainwashing either, as much as he may hate it. Any remaining laughter dried up in his throat, the smile dropping off his face at her next comment, however.

Opening a statement with an apology had never boded well in his experience. It usually either meant something terrible was about to be forced upon him — perhaps he was about to be told to leave after all of that. She had agreed to help him track down his phylactery, but perhaps the difficulty they had encountered had turned out to be the last straw. It wouldn't be the first time Anders was too much trouble for someone. Nor did he expect it to have been the last. Best to tear off the bandage quickly, then, and he steeled himself for whatever was to come next.

He allowed himself to be turned towards her, though he couldn't bring himself to meet Neria's gaze. Anders stared at a point just past her shoulder, gaze fixed so hard on it that, had a look alone been enough to ignite a flame, the entire wall would have gone up in flames. Her words startled him, though, being something he had not prepared for. "Don't make promises you can't keep." His voice was a whisper, against his will, blast it all.

Anders cleared his throat before continuing, trying to quell any shake in his voice before allowing it to escape his mouth again. "I know how they work. Better to enjoy my freedom now rather than believe in grandiose ideals of perpetual freedom 'til death." Another chuckle left Anders' throat, this time tinged with sorrow, and he shook his head. "Anyway, you've said, as you called it, 'the thing'. Now we move on." His eyes finally darted over to Neria's face, still not meeting her gaze, but trying to gauge her expression. He hadn't even said that he understood; this was all a can of worms he had no interest in opening and dwelling upon.