ombranera | Open RP Post

Once Zevran says it aloud, Cade realizes it's the answer he's looking for. He nods suddenly, looking at the elf as though this is a completely mind-blowing revelation.
"Like... parts of the Chant of Light," he supplies, "they tell us how to be virtuous, and... how to help one another, but not... just... everyday things." His eyes go distant with concentration as pieces begin to click together.
"...I've never not been in the Order. I don't know how to..." He is still a Templar in name only, but without the drills and the weapons practice and, of course, the combat; without people telling him when to eat and sleep and bathe, he has no context for his life.
"...do anything else," he concludes, pursing his lips and hunching his shoulders self-consciously.

"Would having someone to hold you accountable for keeping the rules in mind help as well?" Of course it would- but simply saying that outright, delving out orders without a thorough discussion...this was not how he did such things.

There had to be understanding and ease on both ends.

"I know the feeling, somewhat. When I was no longer a part of the Crows it took me a long while to not think as someone that did not need to live as they did. Even now I still have some trouble with the idea. It is not the same as being a templar, I know, but..."

The question merits a hesitant nod from Cade, but also a nervous glance back at Zevran-- he's not a fool, and he has a feeling he knows where this is going, but he isn't sure this... notoriously promiscuous elf assassin is someone he can completely trust. Even if he is here, right now, being trustworthy.

"I'm still a Templar," he says, almost too defensively, and immediately looks away again. He can't help but wonder if they allowed him to keep his title just to keep him quiet, to prevent him going further off the deep end.
"...yes, I think that would help," he murmurs a moment later, with a tired, vaguely sulky face often reserved for when he's mentally berating himself. Stupid. Pathetic. Useless.

"One without the usual duties. But there are many things a Templar might do, yes?" It is not so strict as 'kill this target or die trying'. There are degrees. Zevran finds he can work with that. But here? A breakthrough of sorts, a small one.

Zev smooths his fingers through Cade's hair in a gentle reward. It is not much but- for someone that seems to have so little? It could be weighty enough. "What is it you like to do that would still fulfill your duties?"

The motion in his hair surprises Cade again-- it probably will every time for a while-- and he gives a small start, but it's less than a flinch.
He lapses into silence for a while, considering the question. "I still... work for Seeker Aleron," he muses, "...and I still pray. Often." He purses his lips, beginning to get that self-dragging look on his face again. "...but I'm not allowed near mages anymore. Or anything to do with combat, but... handling mages is what we do. It's the reason the Order exists." He doesn't say 'protecting' or 'working with' for a reason; to him, mages are still the nameless antagonists he knew in Kirkwall and the rebellion afterwards. Even before the tragedy with the Chantry, he knew better than to grow too attached.

"Is there no room for research? Nothing academic that holds your interest? Service to the Templars and to the Chantry can be managed with more than handling the Mages." What, exactly, that might be? He can't say. Perhaps it is simpler to break this down a little more. "What do you enjoy doing? What gives you purpose? Fills the void."

Oh no. It's this question again. Nerva asked him once, and had to ultimately drop it because he just had no answer.
"...patrolling," he says lamely, the same thing Nerva said wasn't a hobby. "...and I... like to read, sometimes." Full stop. That's it.
"Any purpose I need, the Chantry gives me," he adds, hoping that's an acceptable answer. Sometimes he actually envies the Tranquil. ...more than sometimes.

"Keeping a solid perimeter is important." He nods to himself, continuing to comb his fingers through Cade's hair, attempting to gradually work the tension out of him. "Any manner of books in particular? We can work with these things. Give you structure."

It's a bit more detailed than he'd expect but- he can work with this.

Without noticing, Cade is becoming more and more accepting of Zevran's hand in his hair. He chews his lip, thinking.
"I suppose the... well I like all of them," he assures him, as though he'll be judged for his choice, "but I.. the ones I like the most are just..." He tenses for a moment, as though this is another awful secret that he's about to spill. "...the frivolous ones. ...you know. Made-up stories."

"Things to take your mind off where you are and help you imagine a different life- without any of the real weight or anxiety that attempting to have one would bring." Zevran knows this well. Enough that his hand drops from Cade's hair to the nape of his neck, gently massaging at the tension there. His voice remains warm and easy- nonjudgmental. Soothing, even. "What were you reading just now, before I came in?"

Cade almost jolts away with a gasp when Zevran's hand migrates, but he makes himself stay, albeit leaning forward a little.
"It's, um... the Adventures of the Black Fox," he murmurs, and reaches down to unearth it from under the blanket. After a moment's consideration, he adds, "...you'd probably like it." Zevran seems the type, as far as he can tell.

He keeps the touch light for the moment, gauging comfort, letting Cade choose how much or how little he feels. IF the discomfort lingers? His hand slips back up into his hair- safer territory. "Tell me about it."

It takes Cade a moment to answer, his attention pinpointed on the hand on his neck-- he's still very tense, but weathering it, at least for now.

"Well it's... he was this Orlesian thief sort who wanted to tear down the tyrannical ruler," he explains, beginning to blush a bit for no obvious reason, "he did... all sorts of things. Against the law. Though nobody's really sure which ones are true and which ones aren't. I suppose I don't really care."
He flips through it idly, then offers Zevran a bashful, apologetic smile. "...I don't... really think there's anything romantic or exciting about being a criminal." You know, just in case anyone is listening in to judge him for enjoying fiction.
"...you traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, didn't you? And Alistair." Translation: you might be a Sketchy Sort, but if the Hero of Ferelden trusted you, clearly you can't be too terrible.

"It depends on the author, I think. I have read similar tales where such criminals are painted in the worst possible light- more often than not they are penned by the nobility. Others exalt them as heroes for the impoverished- and those are written by the destitute." Zevran shrugs. "Perspective is a wonderful and occasionally terrible thing."

In so many, many ways.

"The Warden? Yes, I did. He spared my life and took me in when I had nowhere to turn. Alistair likewise was terribly kind once I convinced him I didn't mean to kill them in their sleep."

Cade listens thoughtfully as Zevran points out the differences between authorship, and he even seems to be made a bit uncomfortable by it-- although he's not necessarily wealthy anymore, he has never been poor, and has lived a comparatively privileged existence.
"...I suppose so," he concedes.

On the subject of Alistair, he smiles, but sadly. "He is," he agrees in a quiet voice, "...or... was. I'm not sure." His chest pangs unhappily as he thinks about it. "...it may just be me."

"He is." Said with all the certainty of one that knows, and knows well, how kind Alistair can be. On occasion it could be infuriating but- the kindness is there none the less. "You knew him before?"

Alistair has not mentioned Cade- not for a lack of caring but rather for a lack of interest on Zevran's part.

All things considered, it's probably better that way. He wouldn't have many good things to say these days.

Cade nods. "As children," he says softly, "we were in the same abbey. Classmates." The corner of his mouth quirks up in what's almost a smile, but it dwindles again.

"The abbey where he would go somewhere quiet and scream until the sisters came to find him?" A beat. "Did he actually do that or was he having us on? Because I truly can imagine him doing such a thing but sometimes I cannot tell when he is being a shit and when he is being honest."

The small smile returns, but this time it stays. "...he did," Cade confirms, in a low and almost conspiratorial voice, "he was constantly in trouble. And... occasionally I was too, by association." His shoulders twitch in what almost becomes a laugh, but remains instead a fond, melancholy smile. "He didn't fit in well, the others didn't like him much. But he and I spent quite a bit of time together." A hesitant glance is cast up at Zevran-- this is actually the first time he's ever spoken about this.
"...I wasn't very outgoing, or... interesting at all, so I think he hung around me to get away from the others."

Zevran crackles a low laugh in Cade's stead, just as he had when he'd heard the story the first time. That Alistair was always in trouble at the time comes as no surprise. He does not do well without attention. "Too noble for the common boys, not noble enough for the actual noble children- or so he said. To befriend someone that did not care about such things? Probably did him a world of good."

Cade's smile grows a little at Zevran's laughter-- it is kind of funny, now that he thinks about it-- although there is an inaccuracy in the elf's interpretation.
"I mean, I.. did," he confesses, his face reddening abashedly, "...at least at first. But I wasn't popular myself, so... it was easier to not fit in together than it would have been to do it alone." His smile grows melancholy, almost bitter. "..teacher's pet," he mumbles. If only any of them had known. If only he had known better, at the time.

"Not your fault." He gives the barest tug of a blond curl. "None of that."

Cade gives a start and blinks at Zevran in surprise, but quickly gleans why that happened. He looks down again after a moment, mulling over his memories.
"..he got to leave, anyway," he continues absently, "when the Grey Warden came, I wanted... so badly to be chosen. I was ready to drop everything I'd learned, and I fought hard for it. But he was chosen instead." The melancholy smile returns. "...of course, we barely spoke anymore, at that point. I couldn't... for years, I..." He trails off, chewing the inside of his cheek. "...I didn't want him to know. He couldn't keep his mouth shut, and... I knew he'd look at me differently. ...think less of me." A familiar weariness creeps into Cade's expression.

"...anyway, he went off to the Grey Wardens, and I was sent to Kirkwall." He hesitates, then adds, with quiet conviction, "I tried to turn my back on the Maker, and He has punished me ever since."

Zevran does not quite roll his eyes at the last- but he does tug on that curl again. "None of that either. Can one truly turn one's back on a god that has left us? I do not know what the chantry teaches in the south but the Maker has left us. All of us. He cannot be gone and be so intent as to punish us as well for attempting to move on with our lives. You sought another means of service."

That is all. "To be a Grey Warden is to stop the Blight, to stop the Blight is to protect the rest of creation and strike down that which corrupted the golden city. How is this not something noble and devout in it's own way? Life can be shit. It is not the Maker punishing you. It is other people being awful, which makes the problem simpler. Gods cannot be so easily challenged. Shitty people? Can be killed. Or at least driven off so they no longer bother you- so long as they are deserving."

"Ow," Cade grunts, clapping his hand against his head to block Zevran from pulling his hair again. He's very briefly indignant, but that quickly melts back into the usual melancholy uncertainty.
It's easy to take his cues from a stronger personality, but more difficult when it comes to something he has so firmly believed for more or less his entire life. Perhaps the Maker is gone, but someday He may come back-- and would he be pleased with what he sees?

"...maybe," he concedes, finding that this isn't a topic he wants to argue about. He doesn't trust himself to hold his own, and to fail in that would only shame him further.

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