[She doesn't answer, but the cutoff on her crystal's end isn't immediate. It seems she considers for a moment before doing so, perhaps because she can think of nothing to say.]
[A brief message in a spidery but well-practiced hand has found its way into the hands of everyone in the newly-rechristened Hostile Powers project. None of this newfangled magical book business.]
In light of recent events abroad, their ongoing implications, and the necessary narrowing of our focus as a project, your input is requested at a project-wide conference that will be held via crystal at eight o'clock Tuesday evening.
Please let me know if you are unable to listen in. Minutes will be made available to those who cannot.
Having completed her chores for the day, Teren makes a stop by Lakshmi's quarters on her way to her own. It's been some time since the woman's bizarre confession, but however strange it was, Teren couldn't help but find it unexpectedly endearing. Frankly, she'd do the same thing, given the option.
A quick rap on Lakshmi's door announces her presence.
The door swings open - and like most evenings, her clothes have been traded in for the saree she prefers to sleep in. The white light linen that hung loosely about her. But young, though scarred, but still young. For once that long black hair not pinned to her head, but hanging all the way down her back in a loose braid like a great and thick rope. Swaying faintly where it's flicked over her shoulder like a pendulum.
"Come in," she gestures with her free hand, leaning her weight into the door as she steps out of the way.
Once Teren is through, she closes it behind her. "Wine, tea? Something else your preference?"
Teren is a little surprised to see Lakshmi so... comparatively undressed, but chalks it up to Rifter customs being different-- that, and she herself tends toward modesty beyond what's considered usual. Accepting the invitation, she wanders in, giving her customary check around the room to ensure there's nothing trap-like or spy-housing about it (thirty-plus years of habit won't stop for one social call).
"Wine," she opts after doing so, "what is it you wanted to discuss?"
Moving around her though - she stalls on the question at least for the first moment. Her eyes sliding down to Teren's feet and, well, the odd rifter customs aren't about to stop. Because a look around this room reveals one thing in particular. It is neat. Meticulously so. Everything arranged precisely, neatly. Boots by the door, swords placed above her bed in a bracer. ( No doubt more knives are hidden elsewhere - ). Clothes for tomorrow laid out clean and folded. Armour on the small stand set out for it. That faint smell of armour polish and weapon oil that says to how well they're cared for. And with all that in mind: "Please, take off your boots."
Tossed over her shoulder as she goes to her desk, briefly gesturing to the set of chairs for them to sit and talk at. Did as much business here as anywhere else for it not to be useful. But she bends over to shuffle in the cupboard looking for the clean cups and bottle of wine opened for another guest - recent enough to still be fresh.
Teren's room isn't much different, mainly resulting from having so few non-blade possessions that it's not worth the trouble to clutter, but Lakshmi's request gives her pause. "...I'd prefer to keep them on," she says, curtly by default but also a bit uncertain. Taking one's boots off means it's time to get comfortable, and that kind of comfort is only attainable in her own room, alone, with no chance of anyone coming in.
She grimaces for it, briefly, clearly displeased that she doesn't want to take them off - more so for the dirt that is inevitably going to be walked over her nice clean floor but... well, what else was she going to do about it, really?
So she shrugs it off, and instead to set down the cups, and uncorks the bottle. There is a certain comfort to the fact Teren knows who she is, what she is, human and not. That she doesn't bother to hide the strength in doing so. In just tugging it free and not bothering to pretend it takes any sort of effort on her behalf.
As she pours the wine, she finally begins to speak. "I wanted to ask you about the Wardens."
Teren has a way of sullying every space she's in, if only by being so overtly shady-- Lakshmi's dismay doesn't bother her. She at least doesn't tread all over every inch of the floor, instead taking a seat near Lakshmi, since it would appear she's going to be here longer than anticipated. The topic, however, makes her snicker. "Oh, I can only imagine," she replies with a tired smirk. "There's not a lot on the matter I can tell you, but you're welcome to ask."
"If I wanted to ask just anyone, I would. But I assume you haven't told all your compatriots about my circumstance?"
Not so much that she talks of it delicately, when did she ever approach anything but the most direct, blunt force way? With the deftness of a blade striking down. But just there was no need to go on about her little secret.
"Simply put, I want to know whether my skills would suit that sort of life."
Lakshmi's tone wipes the smirk of Teren's face, and she raises an eyebrow, lapsing into silence to let the woman speak. Taking a drink of wine, she shakes her head to the question of whether or not she's told anyone of Lakshmi's secret: what, does she look like a bloody snitch?
"That might not be relevant," she says with a shrug, "I daresay one whose blood is already poisoned is rather more at risk than the average initiate."
That's what she thought. Which is to say that she raises her eyebrows right back at her. I didn't think so.
( But it doesn't bare thinking about the real answer which is - you never know. Too many betrayals for that bit of naivety ).
Even so, the answer makes her pause. Her brow still lifts, her head turning to look at Teren directly as she takes a seat across from her. "Poisoned is the word for it, I suppose. Is that really what you think of what I am?" Is this another... Thedas thing about magic.
Teren's eyebrows raise, almost as if in challenge, as she lifts the glass to her mouth again. "If it is, you're nothing special," she remarks, "Wardens are Blighted, it's the way of things." A pause, and she looks into the wine. "...be nice if we had some of your benefits, but one can't account for the world being as it is."
"The agelessness, you mean? The healing the wounds so you cannot die as quickly?"
Her gaze drops, sliding away from her face to the wall behind her, the cup dangling between her fingers loosely. One knee lifts to cross the other, leaning forward to shift her weight onto her elbow and sit forward. The white material bunching, falling, loosely draping over her comfortably. "I don't fight men, particularly, you see. In my... lands. I fight monsters. Werewolves, Vampires. Or the half-breeds, as we call them. They are... great creatures. Huge, twice my strength and I could lift you up by one hand." She sighs, terribly exhausted with it all. "I was not just looking to appear grand in front of them, I truly did take this up in duty, not hunger for eternal life. It is why I thought, the wardens... " They fought the Darkspawn. They too were bound were a great duty. Not so different from the knights, and it would be a laughing thing if she did become something similar.
"Aye," Teren replies easily, and falls silent again to listen. She's silent for a time, perhaps missing the point as she pipes up again: "oh, we've got them too, werewolves. Never seen one myself, but there was a big to-do about a pack of them down in Ferelden during the Fifth Blight." Sipping her wine, she doesn't seem to grasp the big deal yet.
"The Wardens are a gaggle of eager children dreaming stupidly of glory, and pathetic sods thrust into their ranks with no choice in the matter. Darkspawn are ours to fight, it's true-- horrid stinking creatures they, but not so very relevant to Rifters, or the Inquisition at large." Although she's brusque, and her phrasing is harsh, Teren has a pleasant enough look on her face, leaning forward slightly to clasp her cup between both bony hands.
"If you're in a hurry to kill yourself, by all means. But I expect there are better ways to spend your time. Join the bloody Templars." The corner of her mouth twitches up in a snide smile-- somewhere, Anders just gasped in outrage and doesn't know why.
"A pack would be a mercy. Try... try armies." It's bitter, laughed ugly but then - neither of them are here for pleasantries. Because Teren talked straight as an arrow's flight.
There was a comfort to that, after all these years.
She blinks - Templars? Her head tilts back, and she straight begins to laugh. It's a deep, rich sound, and she's more herself. It crinkles around the corner of her eyes, lighting them up, bright and sharp and gold. "Me? A Templar? I don't know who would hate it more, Commander Wren or every other person stuck in the room with me as I burned the damn tower down."
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