The process of folding lyrium into existing metal was a complex thing, one that required an abnormal degree of concentration and focus, as well as the ability to ignore distractions. This, Rilien suspected, was the real reason that Tranquil were generally so much better at it than anyone else. Other suspected it was their innate severance from magic, but if that was true, then dwarves would all have the same proficiency, and they clearly did not. But it was his Tranquility that gave him this singleminded determinationāthough he had once been an intense person, heād also been a flighty one, to some degree, and things held his attention only as long as it took him to grow bored with them. It was often said that in most cases, it was intelligent people who were most easily bored. Perhaps it was easy to guess that heād never lingered on one thing very long until his magic was taken from him.
The dagger in his hand was currently heated until the blade was golden, and he handled even the hilt with thick blacksmithās gloves, scraping a groove into the side of the steel, and pouring liquid lyrium in with his other hand. What happened next was difficult to explain, but back into the fire went the blade, and the lyrium itself seeped into every imperfection in the metal, which all yielded to the large one-handed hammer he applied to it with force. Striking it was actually a measured actionāRilien was listening for a specific tone. When he struck upon it, quite literally, the entire blade thrummed in his hand, and he doused it in the trough of water next to him, steam curling from the contact of burning and liquid. It was not a one-time process, but this was the last time this particular dagger needed it, and so he set it carefully on the weapon rack standing next to the trough, removing his thick padded glove and returning it to the hook on the wall made to hold it.
Padding on silent feet across the workshop, he mounted the steps to his quarters above and gathered a few items for lunch from his small kitchen. Bread, cheese, a few vegetables. Rilien ate for nutrition, not enjoyment, though this was not to say he was entirely without culinary knowledge. He knew how to recognize finer things among less-quality ones, and that was simply part of who he was. Heād been learning the distinctions since he was merely a child. Raised under such a rigid hierarchy as the Orlesian one, it was very important to know who was accorded what, and who denied which things. But while he understood the point of finer clothes and the like, he had no need of fine foods when alone. They were not more nutritive for tasting better.
Returning downstairs, he took one of the stools at the round table on the far side of his counter and settled down to take his meal, not at all unnerved by the quiet of the shop on this particular day.
Most of the day since their return to Kirkwall, Lucien had spent putting everything back in order, checking in with his mercenaries, and things of this nature, not to mention resting. It wasnāt until the second day, therefore, that he decided to make his social calls, and the first one of those was one he was only too happy to be making. With an official envelope in the inside pocket of his jerkin and a most unexpected weapon at his back, he headed for Hightown, to see a certain enchanter friend of his.
The journey up was quick, perhaps because heād grown so used to the route, but also because he could not deny that thereād been a certain verve in his step and pace recently, for more than one reason. His life was good, he could not deny that, and though things around him could always be betterāand indeed, he would always strive to make them soāthat did not preclude him from enjoying them as they were, either.
His knock on the door of the shop was more courtesy than necessity, and he found Rilien seated at the small table Lucien himself usually occupied when he came by to visit, apparently taking his afternoon meal. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the sealed envelope and tossed it so that it landed gently at his friendās elbow. āFor you,ā was all he said, taking his own seat across from the Tranquil.
Rilien finished chewing before he acknowledged the presence of the envelope by his elbow, and even when he did, he chose not to open it until Lucien had sat down, turning the object over in his hands. It was made of thick vellum, the very same near-instinctive sense for quality he had informing him that it was especially-quality stock, of the kinds used by nobles for official communiquĆ©s. It was therefore rather heavy, but the outside envelope was unmarked, save for the wax seal in deep purple that held it together. It was stamped, of all things, with the Empressās sigil.
With a quick flick of his fingers, he broke the seal. The paper inside was excessively official, lined with fine silvery leaf around the edges. It was, however, the words, written in his native tongue in an elegant hand, that caught his attention. It would seem that Rilien Falavel, elf and ex-Bard, had been granted formal pardon by the Empress herself for his crimes. He was at any time permitted to return to the place of his birth with no fear of official reprisal. Unofficial reprisal was, as it had always been, another matter entirely. But even soā¦ the way back was no longer barred to him. In truth, he had never suspected that even Lucien would be able to achieve something like this. For what reason could any Orlesian noble have to bother exonerating him? Getting any of them to do something without a self-interested reason was basically impossibleāit seemed to be a law of human psychology.
And yetā¦ here was the evidence to the contrary. Rilienās brow furrowed just slightly, and he folded the paper back into the envelope and set it down carefully. Lifting his eyes, he studied Lucien for a moment. "Thank you, Ser Lucien.ā Perhaps this would never make any difference in his lifeāhe was comfortable here, as he was and doing as he didābut all the same, it was not lost on him the effort that Lucien had been willing to put forth just to give him the option.
Tilting his head to the side, he observed the new armament his friend was carrying with some interest. "Is that Everburn?ā
He wasnāt surprised at Rilienās perceptiveness, though actually, the reaction heād gotten for the missive was substantially more than heād been expecting. Lucien smiled slightly, then nodded, unbuckling the leather strap that kept the blade affixed to his back. The sword was a mighty thing, and clearly very old, from the designs on the hilt and at the base of the blade. They werenāt Orlesian, but rather in Old Tevene, the language of the Tevinter Imperium before the advent of the Chantry. The blade itself, however, appeared to have suffered not at all for its age, probably attributable in part to the fact that his family had taken a great deal of care with it since it came into their hands. It had belonged most famously to the man for whom his house was named, the first Emperor of Orlais, but it had surely known other hands before that.
Still, for all the maintenance it was given, it was still a sword, and swords were meant to be used in battle, soā¦ that was what they did with it. Leave it to his family to have such a practical heirloom, he supposed. His father had given it to him, before he leftāin some ways, he supposed, to make sure heād return. Despite that, the importance of the gesture was not lost on Lucien, and it had humbled him even if there were ulterior motives involved. He had not held a sword in his hands in years, feeling his honor lost to him while he was still an exile from his homeland. Butā¦ now, perhaps, he could carry one again, use one again, for he was a knight again, and no more an exile.
āIt is,ā he acknowledged, laying the blade on the table between them. It was sized for a Drakonāapparently, few of them had ever been small people, though he heard that his great-grandmother had used it quite effectively from a height of about five-and-eight, though he imagined that would have been difficult. It was quite heavy as well, even for something of its size, something he attributed to whatever strange metal it was made out of. It had a sheen like silverite, but it was different, of that much he was certain. āI was hoping you might do me a favor, actually, Ril. The enchantment on it is really quite oldā¦ and my father hasnāt actually used it on a battlefield in more than a decade.ā It wasnāt exactly the kind of weapon one practiced with, given its properties. āWould you mind taking a look, making sure that everythingās still in order?ā
By the standards of a martial culture, this probably counted as quite the honor. This sword was among the most historically significant objects in Orlais, if one went in for that sort of thing. To Rilien, a weapon was a weapon, and he knew that in some respects, Lucien was the same, but all the same this was probably quite the honor. Tilting his head to the side, Rilien examined the blade, flicking his fingers against it, which produced a similar metallic ring to steel, but with a better tone to it. "You wish me toā¦ maintain the enchantment on this?ā He could not understand his own doubtāhe should not be feeling it.
Rilien knew, from a purely logical perspective, that he was the best enchanter in Kirkwall. Though he did not know all of them personally and thus could not say for sure, he may well be more skilled than any enchanter in Orlais, as well. This was his craft, and he was exceptional at it. It made perfect sense that if the enchantment needed to be inspected or possibly restored, then Lucien would ask him to do it. Even soā¦ Rilien felt something, and it was entirely illogical, and he remembered that the name of it was something like doubt. Something like being humbled. It was not especially pleasant, that flicker against the solidity of his Tranquility. Unsettled, was the word, and a tiny sign of it passed over his face, almost too quickly smoothed back into his usual expression.
"Very well.ā He glanced up from the sword to Lucien, blinking citrine-colored eyes slowly, his equilibrium to all appearances intact. "If you will consent to leaving it here for a day or two, I will make the required assessments.ā It was not something he would do in his current state.
Lucien couldnāt help but notice a slight irregularity in Rilienās demeanorāwhen a person gave everyone else so little to work with, small changes were perhaps more easily perceptible, after all. And there was of course no question that it meant something important that it had occurred at all, but Lucien didnāt press, because he sensed it was a bit more distressing than anything, and if Rilien wanted him to know, heād tell him. So instead he nodded, perfectly sanguine, when the Tranquil asked him to leave the sword behind for a few days. He certainly didnāt have any issue doing so. If there was anyone he trusted with it, it would be Ril.
āOf course; take as long as you need to.ā He paused slightly, eyeing his friend for a moment. āAnd Rilā¦ if you ever need to talk about anything, wellā¦ Iāve said it before, but Iām here for you.ā He didnāt push it any further than that, however, just settled further into his seat with the intent of updating him on the goings-on in Orlais.
The dagger in his hand was currently heated until the blade was golden, and he handled even the hilt with thick blacksmithās gloves, scraping a groove into the side of the steel, and pouring liquid lyrium in with his other hand. What happened next was difficult to explain, but back into the fire went the blade, and the lyrium itself seeped into every imperfection in the metal, which all yielded to the large one-handed hammer he applied to it with force. Striking it was actually a measured actionāRilien was listening for a specific tone. When he struck upon it, quite literally, the entire blade thrummed in his hand, and he doused it in the trough of water next to him, steam curling from the contact of burning and liquid. It was not a one-time process, but this was the last time this particular dagger needed it, and so he set it carefully on the weapon rack standing next to the trough, removing his thick padded glove and returning it to the hook on the wall made to hold it.
Padding on silent feet across the workshop, he mounted the steps to his quarters above and gathered a few items for lunch from his small kitchen. Bread, cheese, a few vegetables. Rilien ate for nutrition, not enjoyment, though this was not to say he was entirely without culinary knowledge. He knew how to recognize finer things among less-quality ones, and that was simply part of who he was. Heād been learning the distinctions since he was merely a child. Raised under such a rigid hierarchy as the Orlesian one, it was very important to know who was accorded what, and who denied which things. But while he understood the point of finer clothes and the like, he had no need of fine foods when alone. They were not more nutritive for tasting better.
Returning downstairs, he took one of the stools at the round table on the far side of his counter and settled down to take his meal, not at all unnerved by the quiet of the shop on this particular day.
Most of the day since their return to Kirkwall, Lucien had spent putting everything back in order, checking in with his mercenaries, and things of this nature, not to mention resting. It wasnāt until the second day, therefore, that he decided to make his social calls, and the first one of those was one he was only too happy to be making. With an official envelope in the inside pocket of his jerkin and a most unexpected weapon at his back, he headed for Hightown, to see a certain enchanter friend of his.
The journey up was quick, perhaps because heād grown so used to the route, but also because he could not deny that thereād been a certain verve in his step and pace recently, for more than one reason. His life was good, he could not deny that, and though things around him could always be betterāand indeed, he would always strive to make them soāthat did not preclude him from enjoying them as they were, either.
His knock on the door of the shop was more courtesy than necessity, and he found Rilien seated at the small table Lucien himself usually occupied when he came by to visit, apparently taking his afternoon meal. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the sealed envelope and tossed it so that it landed gently at his friendās elbow. āFor you,ā was all he said, taking his own seat across from the Tranquil.
Rilien finished chewing before he acknowledged the presence of the envelope by his elbow, and even when he did, he chose not to open it until Lucien had sat down, turning the object over in his hands. It was made of thick vellum, the very same near-instinctive sense for quality he had informing him that it was especially-quality stock, of the kinds used by nobles for official communiquĆ©s. It was therefore rather heavy, but the outside envelope was unmarked, save for the wax seal in deep purple that held it together. It was stamped, of all things, with the Empressās sigil.
With a quick flick of his fingers, he broke the seal. The paper inside was excessively official, lined with fine silvery leaf around the edges. It was, however, the words, written in his native tongue in an elegant hand, that caught his attention. It would seem that Rilien Falavel, elf and ex-Bard, had been granted formal pardon by the Empress herself for his crimes. He was at any time permitted to return to the place of his birth with no fear of official reprisal. Unofficial reprisal was, as it had always been, another matter entirely. But even soā¦ the way back was no longer barred to him. In truth, he had never suspected that even Lucien would be able to achieve something like this. For what reason could any Orlesian noble have to bother exonerating him? Getting any of them to do something without a self-interested reason was basically impossibleāit seemed to be a law of human psychology.
And yetā¦ here was the evidence to the contrary. Rilienās brow furrowed just slightly, and he folded the paper back into the envelope and set it down carefully. Lifting his eyes, he studied Lucien for a moment. "Thank you, Ser Lucien.ā Perhaps this would never make any difference in his lifeāhe was comfortable here, as he was and doing as he didābut all the same, it was not lost on him the effort that Lucien had been willing to put forth just to give him the option.
Tilting his head to the side, he observed the new armament his friend was carrying with some interest. "Is that Everburn?ā
He wasnāt surprised at Rilienās perceptiveness, though actually, the reaction heād gotten for the missive was substantially more than heād been expecting. Lucien smiled slightly, then nodded, unbuckling the leather strap that kept the blade affixed to his back. The sword was a mighty thing, and clearly very old, from the designs on the hilt and at the base of the blade. They werenāt Orlesian, but rather in Old Tevene, the language of the Tevinter Imperium before the advent of the Chantry. The blade itself, however, appeared to have suffered not at all for its age, probably attributable in part to the fact that his family had taken a great deal of care with it since it came into their hands. It had belonged most famously to the man for whom his house was named, the first Emperor of Orlais, but it had surely known other hands before that.
Still, for all the maintenance it was given, it was still a sword, and swords were meant to be used in battle, soā¦ that was what they did with it. Leave it to his family to have such a practical heirloom, he supposed. His father had given it to him, before he leftāin some ways, he supposed, to make sure heād return. Despite that, the importance of the gesture was not lost on Lucien, and it had humbled him even if there were ulterior motives involved. He had not held a sword in his hands in years, feeling his honor lost to him while he was still an exile from his homeland. Butā¦ now, perhaps, he could carry one again, use one again, for he was a knight again, and no more an exile.
āIt is,ā he acknowledged, laying the blade on the table between them. It was sized for a Drakonāapparently, few of them had ever been small people, though he heard that his great-grandmother had used it quite effectively from a height of about five-and-eight, though he imagined that would have been difficult. It was quite heavy as well, even for something of its size, something he attributed to whatever strange metal it was made out of. It had a sheen like silverite, but it was different, of that much he was certain. āI was hoping you might do me a favor, actually, Ril. The enchantment on it is really quite oldā¦ and my father hasnāt actually used it on a battlefield in more than a decade.ā It wasnāt exactly the kind of weapon one practiced with, given its properties. āWould you mind taking a look, making sure that everythingās still in order?ā
By the standards of a martial culture, this probably counted as quite the honor. This sword was among the most historically significant objects in Orlais, if one went in for that sort of thing. To Rilien, a weapon was a weapon, and he knew that in some respects, Lucien was the same, but all the same this was probably quite the honor. Tilting his head to the side, Rilien examined the blade, flicking his fingers against it, which produced a similar metallic ring to steel, but with a better tone to it. "You wish me toā¦ maintain the enchantment on this?ā He could not understand his own doubtāhe should not be feeling it.
Rilien knew, from a purely logical perspective, that he was the best enchanter in Kirkwall. Though he did not know all of them personally and thus could not say for sure, he may well be more skilled than any enchanter in Orlais, as well. This was his craft, and he was exceptional at it. It made perfect sense that if the enchantment needed to be inspected or possibly restored, then Lucien would ask him to do it. Even soā¦ Rilien felt something, and it was entirely illogical, and he remembered that the name of it was something like doubt. Something like being humbled. It was not especially pleasant, that flicker against the solidity of his Tranquility. Unsettled, was the word, and a tiny sign of it passed over his face, almost too quickly smoothed back into his usual expression.
"Very well.ā He glanced up from the sword to Lucien, blinking citrine-colored eyes slowly, his equilibrium to all appearances intact. "If you will consent to leaving it here for a day or two, I will make the required assessments.ā It was not something he would do in his current state.
Lucien couldnāt help but notice a slight irregularity in Rilienās demeanorāwhen a person gave everyone else so little to work with, small changes were perhaps more easily perceptible, after all. And there was of course no question that it meant something important that it had occurred at all, but Lucien didnāt press, because he sensed it was a bit more distressing than anything, and if Rilien wanted him to know, heād tell him. So instead he nodded, perfectly sanguine, when the Tranquil asked him to leave the sword behind for a few days. He certainly didnāt have any issue doing so. If there was anyone he trusted with it, it would be Ril.
āOf course; take as long as you need to.ā He paused slightly, eyeing his friend for a moment. āAnd Rilā¦ if you ever need to talk about anything, wellā¦ Iāve said it before, but Iām here for you.ā He didnāt push it any further than that, however, just settled further into his seat with the intent of updating him on the goings-on in Orlais.