Revas Tabris (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
allyorfoe) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-07-22 05:08 pm
allyorfoe) wrote in thecapitol2015-07-22 05:08 pm
Love of mine, some day you will die.
Who| Tabris and Shepard, Tabris and YOU.
What| Alistair's gone. Tabris copes. Kind of. Not really.
Where| Open prompts in the training center and d10 suites, closed for Shepard in some shitty club.
When| After the crowning
Warnings/Notes| Death, depression, alcohol use, drug use discussion, basically Tabris being a depressed piece of shit.
Training center - Open
It's not the first time that it's happened to someone. It happens with a strange regularity, and later on she'll wonder if the others reacted with quite such a spectacular breakdown. But it had always been others, it'd been her flipping through Celebrus and sympathetically tutting at the gossip column. But this was different, because it was her, because it was him. Because it was her husband, because it was someone she had poured so much of her love and so much of herself into that without him she felt like some hollowed out shell animated by some twisted pleasure in her own pain.
For the first day, she acts just like that--Wandering like a ghost, without a purpose or note about the world around her. Any attempts to speak with her are ignored, brushed past as she continues to walk, as if searching for something she'll never find. Eventually she winds up at the training room, because if there's anything that Tabris can do in any situation, it's hit something. She takes the heaviest sword she can find, and walks to a dummy. For a few moments, she just stares at it. But it doesn't take long for her to raise the sword, and swing it down. It's a solid connection, and the dummy swings back.
It's something. For a little bit, she settles into a soothing rhythm. The sword against the dummy, the thump of the dummy taking the impact. But she slowly starts to speed up her hits, imperceptibly at first. But once the ball gets rolling, it recklessly dashed out of control, as she poured more and more of herself into the strokes. She tried to push all of herself out, let everything inside slide down her fingers and disappear into the sword, to meet the dummy again and again.
Maker's breath, but you are beautiful. I am a lucky man. It wasn't fair. Being near you makes me crazy. But I can't imagine being without you. Not ever. He hadn't even died a Warden's death--Hadn't even sacrificed for a real cause. Have I told you that I love you? I did? Well, it won't kill you to hear it again, will it? He died in a game--a Maker-damned game for the entertainment of a city of sociopaths.
It's only a matter of time before the trained strokes become frenzied swings, rhyme and reason thrown out. Anyone who's seen her fight in the arena can recognize the fighting screams as she slips into that quiet berserker place where she steps back and lets the rage take over. It's been a while since she's let control go so thoroughly, and she empties herself into that rage, slashing at the dummy with a wild abandon. But without being able to tap into the actual powers that she had gotten in Thedas with her rages, the strain is too much to take for long. She sinks to the ground, breathing heavily, and all the fight in her vanishes.
She's left staring at the unfortunate and utterly massacred dummy.
Club - Shepard
It's only a matter of time, really, before copious amounts of alcohol is chosen to deal with the problem. She has no idea what club or bar or whatever this is, she just knows that it serves alcohol and that passes her high standards. She didn't even need to worry about buying it--Capitolites love a good tragedy, and her romance with Alistair is vastly more interesting to them with him dead. She isn't a very good guest, quietly staring out as they hurl questions at her, but they shove shots and mixes and everything the club serves into her hands, and she drinks everything they give her. They tut and shake their heads and make appropriately apologetic faces--Just like she'd done when it happened to other people.
She doesn't even feel happy, feel anything from the alcohol, and it's not long before they're handing her other things.
None of this is going to help, and she knows that. She's not an idiot. And Maker knew that she's done enough drinking to know that none of this is going to make anything better. But that's okay. She doesn't want to feel better. She wants to feel worse. She wants to hurt herself, feel that bitter pain and regret. In this, she excels, at least. She can't make anything better, she can't bring him back. But she can punish herself. She make things so much worse that it doesn't even matter.
So she takes what they give her, drink what they give her.
As a certain person approaches, Tabris is staring blandly at a tablet in her hand, while the indigo-skinned man across from her demonstrates how to let it dissolve on your tongue. Her only thought is that this is a lot easier for a guy who appears to have had his tongue cut in half.
District 10 suites - Open
When all else fails, there's always giving up.
Sleep is some kind of reprieve, and so as the days pass she spends more and more time indulging in it, or simply laying in bed with the covers pulled up over her head. At this point, all she really feels like doing is wallowing in her own misery. She's pretty sure that the other people who've had loved ones died haven't reacted quite so badly. But she doesn't care. She's miserable and pathetic and a sad excuse for a Warden and she doesn't care.
It's a good thing she did manage to make some kills that last arena. One of the only times she's seen out of her room is as she shuffles out into the kitchen with a cup of instant ramen, pours the water in, and pops it in the microwave. Once it finishes, she takes the ramen and goes back to her room. Rinse and repeat.
The room itself isn't locked, and anyone who particularly wants to go in will find a large stack of said ramen in one corner. It's thanks to the avoxes that her room probably isn't a total pile of trash, but as it stands, there's usually at least one trash can shoved in another corner with a few empty Styrofoam cups and other assorted trash that hasn't been cleaned out quite yet. The room smells stale, with all the lights off, and just generally looks like a big depressing mess, which suits her just fine.
You can burst in there, or try to catch her during her food shuffling.
What| Alistair's gone. Tabris copes. Kind of. Not really.
Where| Open prompts in the training center and d10 suites, closed for Shepard in some shitty club.
When| After the crowning
Warnings/Notes| Death, depression, alcohol use, drug use discussion, basically Tabris being a depressed piece of shit.
Training center - Open
It's not the first time that it's happened to someone. It happens with a strange regularity, and later on she'll wonder if the others reacted with quite such a spectacular breakdown. But it had always been others, it'd been her flipping through Celebrus and sympathetically tutting at the gossip column. But this was different, because it was her, because it was him. Because it was her husband, because it was someone she had poured so much of her love and so much of herself into that without him she felt like some hollowed out shell animated by some twisted pleasure in her own pain.
For the first day, she acts just like that--Wandering like a ghost, without a purpose or note about the world around her. Any attempts to speak with her are ignored, brushed past as she continues to walk, as if searching for something she'll never find. Eventually she winds up at the training room, because if there's anything that Tabris can do in any situation, it's hit something. She takes the heaviest sword she can find, and walks to a dummy. For a few moments, she just stares at it. But it doesn't take long for her to raise the sword, and swing it down. It's a solid connection, and the dummy swings back.
It's something. For a little bit, she settles into a soothing rhythm. The sword against the dummy, the thump of the dummy taking the impact. But she slowly starts to speed up her hits, imperceptibly at first. But once the ball gets rolling, it recklessly dashed out of control, as she poured more and more of herself into the strokes. She tried to push all of herself out, let everything inside slide down her fingers and disappear into the sword, to meet the dummy again and again.
Maker's breath, but you are beautiful. I am a lucky man. It wasn't fair. Being near you makes me crazy. But I can't imagine being without you. Not ever. He hadn't even died a Warden's death--Hadn't even sacrificed for a real cause. Have I told you that I love you? I did? Well, it won't kill you to hear it again, will it? He died in a game--a Maker-damned game for the entertainment of a city of sociopaths.
It's only a matter of time before the trained strokes become frenzied swings, rhyme and reason thrown out. Anyone who's seen her fight in the arena can recognize the fighting screams as she slips into that quiet berserker place where she steps back and lets the rage take over. It's been a while since she's let control go so thoroughly, and she empties herself into that rage, slashing at the dummy with a wild abandon. But without being able to tap into the actual powers that she had gotten in Thedas with her rages, the strain is too much to take for long. She sinks to the ground, breathing heavily, and all the fight in her vanishes.
She's left staring at the unfortunate and utterly massacred dummy.
Club - Shepard
It's only a matter of time, really, before copious amounts of alcohol is chosen to deal with the problem. She has no idea what club or bar or whatever this is, she just knows that it serves alcohol and that passes her high standards. She didn't even need to worry about buying it--Capitolites love a good tragedy, and her romance with Alistair is vastly more interesting to them with him dead. She isn't a very good guest, quietly staring out as they hurl questions at her, but they shove shots and mixes and everything the club serves into her hands, and she drinks everything they give her. They tut and shake their heads and make appropriately apologetic faces--Just like she'd done when it happened to other people.
She doesn't even feel happy, feel anything from the alcohol, and it's not long before they're handing her other things.
None of this is going to help, and she knows that. She's not an idiot. And Maker knew that she's done enough drinking to know that none of this is going to make anything better. But that's okay. She doesn't want to feel better. She wants to feel worse. She wants to hurt herself, feel that bitter pain and regret. In this, she excels, at least. She can't make anything better, she can't bring him back. But she can punish herself. She make things so much worse that it doesn't even matter.
So she takes what they give her, drink what they give her.
As a certain person approaches, Tabris is staring blandly at a tablet in her hand, while the indigo-skinned man across from her demonstrates how to let it dissolve on your tongue. Her only thought is that this is a lot easier for a guy who appears to have had his tongue cut in half.
District 10 suites - Open
When all else fails, there's always giving up.
Sleep is some kind of reprieve, and so as the days pass she spends more and more time indulging in it, or simply laying in bed with the covers pulled up over her head. At this point, all she really feels like doing is wallowing in her own misery. She's pretty sure that the other people who've had loved ones died haven't reacted quite so badly. But she doesn't care. She's miserable and pathetic and a sad excuse for a Warden and she doesn't care.
It's a good thing she did manage to make some kills that last arena. One of the only times she's seen out of her room is as she shuffles out into the kitchen with a cup of instant ramen, pours the water in, and pops it in the microwave. Once it finishes, she takes the ramen and goes back to her room. Rinse and repeat.
The room itself isn't locked, and anyone who particularly wants to go in will find a large stack of said ramen in one corner. It's thanks to the avoxes that her room probably isn't a total pile of trash, but as it stands, there's usually at least one trash can shoved in another corner with a few empty Styrofoam cups and other assorted trash that hasn't been cleaned out quite yet. The room smells stale, with all the lights off, and just generally looks like a big depressing mess, which suits her just fine.
You can burst in there, or try to catch her during her food shuffling.
no subject
He pats at the edge of the bed so he'll join her, if not for an embrace then at least for the comfort of someone by her side, some body heat to try and puff up the sad and withdrawn woman that he sees before him. Suddenly, Tabris looks her size, where previously her personality seemed to exist outside the lines of her skin and frame, like a watercolor placed sloppily over a pen sketch.
"Where I'm from, we just call the Maker the Lord, or God. I reckon he's there now, along with a many great people taken from us soon. That's what my Granny says and she ain't ever given me a reason to doubt her." Every word is slow and deliberate and kind, delivered with an almost surgical gentleness that comes to Bayard naturally.
no subject
"I don't know if I'll join him." She continued, rubbing the side of her face. "I deserve it, all I've done for the Maker's children and all that. But he's not one to judge on works over your heart. Maybe I should start getting religious." A quiet snort followed that. Tabris' religious views were murky at best, when once she had been angry, furious that the Chantry would claim she was loved by a divine being who would let her people be treated so, time and Alistair's own quiet faith had worn her into something more muted. The Maker, perhaps, she could accept, if not his organization.
no subject
"Only if it'd help you any." Bayard sighs a bit and looks at the wall. "I wish I'd had time to know Alistair a bit better. It seems I missed out while you've still got memories to hold close. I wouldn't want to be grieving so but it seems I could have learned a lot from him about being an honorable m- person."
Women can be honorable in the same ways as men, Bayard's learning.
no subject
Tabris' history with Thedas was contentious. Just like her faith, it wavered, tempered by the knowledge that the individuals within were usually better than the thing as a whole. There were problems that seemed insurmountable, and it was endlessly frustrating. It would be easy to just tell Thedas to fuck off. And more importantly--It lacked Alistair, if he has truly died. How could she go back to Thedas and live without him? Hell, how could she explain his disappearance?
"Did you know that Alistair was of noble blood?" She's told a few people now--It was hardly a secret, really, when most people knew Alistair as king. She'd been quiet out of respect to Alistair, knowing what a contentious subject it was for him. "His father was the King of Ferelden. I asked Alistair once, if he wanted to be king, too." She gave a dry laugh. "But he didn't. I wasn't surprised, really. He was my senior Warden, but he still let me boss him around. Besides, kings can't be with elves. Though...that's more selfish of a reason, I suppose."
no subject
It's not true, of course, but somehow he's managed to stay above the fray of the Games, the trauma and the gutting misery. Maybe it's delusion. Maybe he's just lucky and so beloved by so many people here, Tabris included.
"I didn't know." He thinks, sucking at his lower lip a bit, because conversations of this nature deserve not platitudes but honest consideration. "I reckon to be with someone you ain't supposed to be with...There's a bravery to that, I think. Going against what you been told for love."