Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

[questionablewit]

Want to tag someone? Tag someone. Put the character you want in the subject line.
Leave a starter, or leave a prompt and I'll start.
Brilliant ideas and clueless flailing all welcome.
AUs and cross-canon, drama and comedy and shipping.
Just throw stuff at me. It's all good.

Comments

MOM

[redtailedhawke]

i just laughed for 15 minutes straight pic.twitter.com/zAMgWglksE

— madison meyers (@madmeyers) September 17, 2017

book letters for Faramir

[importuned]

[Really, the last thing Ophelia wants in the world is to see another letter.

But it would be far worse, she suspects, to venture out of the safety of her room in an attempt to get to the Library. More than that, it would be far worse to have to hold her head up and insist that nothing was wrong long enough to find a quiet alcove to be alone.

The scratch of her quill across the paper doesn't quite drown out the echoes in her mind--"I loved you once." "I loved you not." "We are arrant knaves, all. Believe none of us."]

Elskede--

I had hoped to tell you that I should soon return to see you, but now I fear it may be some time afore we shall meet again. Do not fret for my absence; I assure you I am quite hale and safe.

[But not 'well.' Not 'happy.' Not all the number of things that might normally fill in that little spot of assurance to Faramir when some little inconvenience prevented her from joining him.]

My lord the Prince of Denmark [Not 'Hamlet,' not now. The title aches enough without the name.] remains unwell. My lady the Queen hopes that friendly faces will bring him to himself again.

I do not know how friendly he finds mine, but perhaps it will ease her suffering.

[And what a hell it would be, to be thrust back into Hamlet's life by her father. What new hole would he rip into her heart when she was forced to see him again? What would he do if they were ever left alone again?]

Know that I miss you more than my heart can bear. You remain daily in my thoughts and nightly in my prayers, and I remain, as ever,

your Ophelia

Melda = beloved, he'll tell her that sometime in the other thread

[whattheydefend]

[Faramir has never known how to reach the Library. He goes to sleep and wakes there, or steps through a doorway and finds himself somewhere entirely different from where he meant to be. By now he accepts it as a thing entirely out of his control, for all that he mislikes the fact, and rarely more than now. Bad enough that he cannot go to her; worse that he cannot even go to the place where they might meet. It is as though they are seperated by two worlds, as if one were not enough.]

Melda--

While I am ever glad to know you are safe and whole, I think there is much you have not said, and that worries me much. Can you not tell me what has happened to upset you so? It must have been extraordinary to disturb a heart as valiant as yours.

[Faramir is skilled at reading between the lines. The Prince is called by full title, not by name, and it is no great jump of logic to know that he is the heart of whatever ails her. Hamlet has not been spoken of between them in great depth, for Faramir could well perceive the tangle of complicated, unresolved emotions there, and judged himself not impartial enough to aid Ophelia in untangling them. And even before they met she was distincing herself from Hamlet, by her father's wishes, and seemed...not entirely unhappy to be doing so, if saddened by the necessity.]

I am returned to Ithilien, and much on the move. I think there will not often be leisure for conversations such as we have sometimes managed in this book. But I will look for your letters every day, and think of you every minute. As I already do.

I would we were together in the garden, surrounded by nasturtiums. Whenever I close my eyes, the calm of that place and your presence enfolds me. Victory in battle--they were too late to help my brother, but I hope they will aid us, in the various battle we wage, I on the field and you in the court. But the only complete victory would be to be reunited with you.

Take utmost care, Ophelia, and do not neglect yourself even as you try to ease those around you. And know that I am ever and always,

your Faramir

big brother

[warden_enchanter]

cousin

[warden_enchanter]

THE BABE WITH THE POWER

[redtailedhawke]

baby sister

[redtailedhawke]

[leandrahawke]

[ooc: All right babe do you want flashbacks or Fade pain]

dear god I pick *all of these*, forgive the rusty af voice, I default to circle mage Beth

[circlesister]

Bethany has not seen her sister for three years, not since That Night--it always has capital letters in her head, and for good reason. For so many good reasons. Keeping in touch has been almost impossible. Marian's had to stay on the move, especially given her company. And Bethany has laid low, not that anything is new there. Varric always knows where they both are, and can be trusted to send updates, to tell them both the other is all right, for some value of "all right". But Bethany hasn't sent any letters. She doesn't know what to say that wouldn't hurt.

Then Varric was taken from Kirkwall--if not exactly by force, not really peaceably either--and now he's somewhere up in the Frostbacks. It actually makes it easier for Bethany to keep in touch with him, since she's in Amaranthine. It's a good place for an apostate, the Templars gone but still an armed force of Grey Wardens around, more than willing to turn a blind eye to magic that does no harm. Her cousin is the Arlessa here, but Bethany has never seen her, though curiosity was part of why she came.

She lives quietly, helps other mages when she can, when she finds any. She practices her own skills, learns all the things she was never able to learn while being so closely guarded by...by everyone, truthfully, it wasn't just her sister. Just, mostly her sister. She works a lot with children. She goes to the Chantry every week, though her beliefs have changed since she was younger. There are a few particular sisters there who she's befriended and talks to, ones who are safe to discuss more unorthodox ideas with. No one's looking for her here. No one's even really looking for apostates, not with so much chaos going on and a great rip in the sky.

And then Varric sends word, so very secretly, that Marian will be coming through Amranthine on her way to Skyhold to meet with the Inquisitor.

So of course Bethany is waiting when her sister's ship docks. That was never in question. She has no idea if Marian is expecting her, but she's there waiting when the gangplank is lowered.

anniversary shenanigans for Faramir

[freo]

Ithilien is beautiful. Vastly different from Rohan, with its forests, streams and wild green loveliness. Faramir had promised Éowyn a garden in the Houses of Healing; at times, to her, it feels like this whole land is their garden, so verdant and lush it still appears to her, even after a year of marriage. It had taken her a while to get used to her new home, certainly. She was born a child of vast, open plains, and not being able to see the horizon in all directions had been very strange to her at first-- perhaps even a little intimidating, at times.

But now, she can no longer imagine leaving this place, nor the home they have made together with Faramir; a symbol of their union, equal parts of them both. She cannot picture anything more perfect, still wondering at times just how did she ever get so fortunate as to have all this. That garden, always evolving and taking up more space, is not the only thing that has flourished this past year-- Éowyn herself has taken the role of the Lady of Ithilien and Emyn Arnen, along with that of a healer, and made it her own with aplomb, more contented and happy with her situation than ever before. That is not to say she has abandoned her sword entirely. The Lady Wraithslayer is still an opponent not to be underestimated.

All that their bliss together is missing still is a child, but perhaps it is better that had not come to pass before, Éowyn thinks. Even after a year, there is still work left to be done, and a babe in the midst of the construction and development may have been an additional strain. In addition, the land had long been neglected and overrun with evil creatures and outlaws; cleansing it had been no simple feat, and efforts are still ongoing to a degree. But matters are more stable now-- and perhaps soon they would be blessed with an addition to their family. They certainly did their best to make it so, their passion for each other hardly lessened much since their wedding night...

For their first anniversary, they had stolen some time together, away from the demands of being the Lord and Lady for a while. They had once discovered a pretty glade hidden in the woodlands, with a idyllic pond big enough to swim in; that is where their travels have lead them even now.

And here she now stands, at the shallow end of the pond wearing naught but her shift, arms crossed as she surveys the water with deep suspicion written across every inch of her face. Éowyn does not know how to swim. Swimming was not a pastime one engaged in back in the Mark. There was only Snowbourn, and none attempted swimming in its oft frigid, rushing waters where it would have been deep enough. Faramir on the other had is a natural in the water, and had for a while now attempted to persuade her to allow him to teach her this skill-- useful in Ithilien. She has resisted his efforts just as long, the thought of going into deep water wholly unsettling to her.

But last night, caught up in the exhilaration of stealing away with Faramir for a while (and perhaps due to one glass too many of wine) she had finally agreed to give it a try. She actively regrets it now, faced with the reality of the pond before her. The water is clear enough, but she cannot see to the bottom in the deeper end of it.

"Is the bottom muddy? Are there fish or critters in there?" Both things apparently distasteful and undesirable to her; the mighty slayer of the Witch-king.

The picture was irresistible and I'm so happy about it.

[whattheydefend]

It has been two years since the war ended, and Faramir still wakes every morning wondering if he dreams. Not wholly, for if all were but a dream he would not need to deal with paperwork, nor conniving council members who think more of their own good than of Gondor's needs, and there would not still be skirmishes with the Haradim and the remainders of Dark Lord's forces.

But even taking all those imperfections into account life is good beyond all his dearest wishes and hopes. The White Tree flowers and a king reigns from the throne, ruling with both wisdom and justice. He himself is given Ithilien to rebuild, and already it reclaims itself from the long years of harm done by war and darkness. Only two years since the war's end, but already Gondor heals, and Faramir with it.

As for his more private life, that is a joy greater yet, a blessing he sometimes feels is beyond his deserving and strives never to take for granted. For a year he and Éowyn have been wed, free to love one other by night and wake by each other's sides in the morning, sharing their lives and work. If the past year has healed him, it has transformed Éowyn, who has taken all her mixed roles and skills and woven them together into a seamless, unique whole in a way that's been a wonder and a privilege to watch.

Which is not to say that his most adored, most beloved wife is entirely without some quirks of character...

"A little muddy, aye," Faramir says, working very, very hard to restrain his amusement as his otherwise fearless wife glowers at the clear water as though expecting it to bite her. "And there will be fish, but only deeper down and much further out; only small ones will come this near the shore. Tiny minnows, barely noticeable. And they eat plants, not feet, I promise you."

He coaxes her with as much care as he ever used to entreat reluctant horse or wild beast. He himself is not standing so far out, only up to his knees, a few feet away from her, hand outstretched.

[importuned]

[Of course, even worlds apart, Faramir knows when her heart is aching. Of course, even when she's forced her hand to be smooth and even, he's guessed at the turmoil in her heart.

For a long while, Ophelia simply scans over the familiar scrawl newly covering the pages. What a strange relief it is, to feel affection after this recent shattering.]

Elskede--

I would far rather you think of the nasturtiums than worry after my troubles, but I expect your heart is too kind not to fret--and in truth, I would not cure you of your gentleness for all the world.

It is but a little thing, in the end. My lord the Prince has used me more harshly than he was wont to. [She has to pause there for a long moment, free hand pressed to her lips and eyes squeezed shut against the sharpness of each word cutting into her heart.] I had hoped speaking with him again would ease both our minds, but it seems all I was good for was stoking his hurts.

But do not think of me here and unhappy. Think of me as you saw me last, in the true surfeit of happiness that comes with your nearness. What aches me now is nothing you cannot soothe.

I do truly remain,

your Ophelia

i love this already

[freo]

A little muddy. Éowyn's nose wrinkles in aversion at the thought of cool, squishy mud between her toes, a tiny noise of distaste at her throat. Her glower intensifies just a little at Faramir's well-meat, patient assurances, aimed at her beloved husband now rather than the glossy surface of the water. It is good he does not compare this out loud to coaxing a wild beast... a good thing indeed that he is far wiser than that.

"I know you are trying not to laugh," she says a little grumpily, harrumphing. She knows she is being rather silly and that her fears seem irrational to folk more used to living near such suitable bodies of water. Knowing that hardly makes this any easier-- perhaps just the opposite. But it is not Faramir's fault. And she did promise him. Still looking thoroughly unconvinced, Éowyn finally lifts one leg to dip in her toes; ever so slowly letting her foot submerge, leaning forward and grasping Faramir's outstretched hand in hers as tightly as if it were a lifeline-- not all that far from the truth.

"You said little...!" she protests with mild disgust when she's standing on one foot, ankle-deep in the water, the floor of the pond yielding under the weight of her and causing her foot to sink slightly into the soft silt and, yes-- mud.

Whoohoo!

[whattheydefend]

Faramir says nothing as she accuses him of trying not to laugh, but tries harder to control his facial expressions. That should not be so difficult, he has years of practice after dealing with his father...and yet facing down Denethor's sternness is altogether a different thing to facing down Éowyn, wearing nothing but her shift and a disgruntled expression, poking suspiciously at the water with her toes. And how well being dressed in naught but a shift suits her, he notes, watching the water lap at her ankles...

Until she yelps, and fails to hold back a chuckle, stepping forward so that he may reach her. "This is but a little! I have seen you covered in far more of it on the training fields, or when riding during the spring rains."

Her fears are not foolish to him--anyone may be afraid or uncertain, and far be it from him to look down on one who acknowledges and faces their dislike. But it is hard not to be bemused by the Lady of the Shield-arm, so dauntless in all other things, being so wary of a quiet, clear lake, of all things.

His eyes soften a little, and he squeezes her fingers, as much as he can given that she has a death grip on his hand. "Come, trust me. Would I lead you astray?"

[freo]

"That is... different," she insists, a bit of a gleam in her eyes and a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth though she tries to banish it-- the first outward sign of her own amusement over her silliness. "It does not get in between my toes then!"

It is slimy. With a bit of lingering disgruntlement, she brings her other foot into the water, resigning herself to muddy toes even as she dares to slacken her grip on Faramir's hand a little upon realizing just how tightly she's holding on. A surge of curious, affection-laden frustration wells within her at his question, and she huffs lightly; how unfair, as it only has but one answer imaginable.

"Of course not," she murmurs, silent in acknowledgement of the forever fact for a beat before rallying, "That is not to say I have decided this is a particularly good idea..."

[whattheydefend]

"That depends on how much of it is in your boots!" Faramir retorts wryly, speaking from his extensive experience as a Ranger. Though it is true that Rohan is a dryer land than Gondor, and particularly more than Ithilien.

His eyes sparkle at her. "But if you dislike the mud so, my shieldmaiden--" He steps a little closer, then swiftly bends and collects her up in his arms in a bridal carry. "--would you prefer I carry you into the water?"

It is an offer rather than a threat, as evidenced by the fact that he is not moving, for all that he's lifted her. And the lift is obviously at least as much an excuse to get his arms around her as anything else, particularly as neither of them is wearing much. He's clad only in a pair of linen braies, and his chest is warm against her skin, and his grin is downright wicked. It often is, these past few days, and laughter is never far off.

[freo]

Any retort on the tip of her tongue gets exchanged for another yelp, of surprise this time, when Faramir scoops her up in his arms. Droplets fall from her wet feet, and her arms wrap tightly about his neck; maybe a little tighter than usually, that spooked expression flickering across her face for a moment as she glances out at the still waters. She's still uncertain, but Faramir has never steered her wrong and would never let her down. She looks back at him, at that smile and the warmth in his eyes... feeling the warmth of his skin against hers is nothing to turn her nose up at either.

Her tone is coy -- as if she doesn't already know -- and her lips curve into the tiniest of smiles. "And you promise not to drop me?"

[whattheydefend]

He raises his eyebrow a little and bends his head to kiss her, his tongue tracing the line of her mouth until it opens for him, sweet with promise.

"Why would l do something so foolish?" he murmurs, pulling away and smirking a little. "When any excuse to hold you is a welcome one? I certainly promise that."

He walks slowly, taking a little care with his footing given the circumstances. But it is a good lake, despite Éowyn's misgivings. The bottom is silty but uniform, largely free of rocks, and the water is not brackish in the least. When he gets to nearly waist deep on himself he halts, still holding her above the water. "All well so far?"

[freo]

He needn't quest for long, her lips parting for him almost immediately to draw him into a sweet kiss, soft and lingering; comforting and familiar by now, but never unexciting. Kissing Faramir always feels as exhilarating as it did the first time they kissed properly up on the walls of the Houses of Healing, as sentimental as that sounds.

She's smiling when the kiss breaks, tipping her head a little to give him a look, fondly knowing and almost a little chiding; but also in affection. Even after all this time, she is still not entirely used to him showering her with such praises and open declarations of affection, for all that they cause warmth to well up within her heart. But at least she has stopped playfully protesting them. Indeed, at times she'll even add her own opinion on Faramir and his qualities when they are alone, which inevitably leads into showing him. She was always better with actions than words, after all...

"Aye," she confirms, if a little slowly, eyeing the water before them and biting her lip briefly-- an unconscious sign of uncertainty. "Are we going deeper still?"

[whattheydefend]

He smiles back at her, reaching after to bump his nose against hers affectionately. A year of marriage has not made either of them a whit less loving, or less passionate. And it gladdens his heart that she accepts such statements with more ease than she was wont to do, not least as he cannot help uttering them. They are true, after all, and he is a truthful man. And it is so very, very pleasing when she returns the favor by showing how she feels in return...

"That was the idea, yes," he says, teasing just a little. "Can you not think of it as an exceptionally large bathtub? You've certainly enjoyed the few times we've shared one of those." Which times inevitably resulted in a lot of water on the floor.

[freo]

"The fear of drowning is significantly less in a bathtub, my dear husband. And as I recall, my enjoyment of those times had more to do with the company-- to say nothing of what we got up to doing in the tub," Éowyn snickers-- such times certainly had not been all that conducive to getting clean... She goes on with laughter still cling to her tone, "And do not tease so! There is no swimming in the Mark! Touched in the head we would deem anyone willingly wading into so much water."

I'm a terrible person who's just going to boomerang back at you.

[whattheydefend]

"There are those who have said I am touched in the head," he says musingly. "Including yourself." His grin this time teases himself more than her. "But I will not drown, and nor will you. We will not even go so very deep, I promise; you will still be able to stand. In fact--"

As he says it he starts to bend down, to lower them both in the water. It's cool but not too cold, not given the warmth of the weather. If she struggles or protests, he will stop--but at least here she cannot complain about the depth.

one quick tag back before bed!!

[freo]

"That does not sound like me at all, I am most mild-mannered." Even she cannot keep a straight face at the end of that claim, a little snort of laughter escaping and eyes gleaming with mirth.

But then Faramir is lowering them down, and though Éowyn does not protest or struggle, she does cling to him a little tighter and makes a face as the water envelops her legs and backside -- an unpleasant sensation! Luckily it lasts but a moment -- and all the way up to her waist, her sodden shift sticking to her like a second skin. Also a mildly unpleasant sensation... Lips pinched, she makes a tiny noise from her throat, a tight hum; like she can't decide whether she likes this or not. But at least she is not fleeing wildly, so this could be counted as progress?

yay! and I hope I've got their positioning right but whatever, run with it

[whattheydefend]

He laughs too, but then they are distracted, for she holds him even harder--not an unpleasant sensation, though if she continues too much in this vein he is at risk of being throttled. He manages not to laugh at the face she makes.

"There," he says quietly, once he's kneeling in the water, and shifts her so she's more or less sitting on his lap, though their arms are still around each other. Situated thus he is in up to his collarbone, and her to below her chest. "You can stand easily here, if you wish. Of if you prefer to cling to me, I am not at all minded to object."

In fact his hand wanders a little under her, groping at her arse, more as a distraction than with serious intent. After that he glides his palm up her leg. The lack of friction in the water makes the sensation altogether different than usual, and there is the contrast between the cool water and the warmth of his hand. It's a soothing gesture rather than anything else, and his other arm is still firmly wrapped around her back.

Action should probably happen to her first rather than to him. Or shall they meet for fencing?

[whattheydefend]

[His heart aches as he reads her missive. That she is much more wounded and unhappy than she lets on is clear, and unsurprising; he knows how deep Ophelia's emotions run, however quietly she reveals them on the surface. And he can guess too how much power Hamlet has to injure her.

There is a quiet, restrained anger that burns in him when he thinks of Hamlet. He should feel pity, and does, and yet...and yet. Perhaps it would be different if he might meet the man, but as it is...

As it is, he wishes Ophelia were away from Elsinore.

He sits for a while, calming himself before answering her letter, and when he addresses her it is deliberate that he uses her term of endearment rather than one of his own.]

Elskede--

Do not dismiss your own hurt, Ophelia, in seeking to ease my worry. I do not doubt that whatever harshness you received was unwarranted, and I grieve for the pain you must feel as a result of it. I would I could give you advice, but knowing so little of Hamlet's mind, there seems nothing to be done but to hope you may avoid him, and thus spare yourself--and him, it seems--further pain.

I wish it were otherwise. I know it grieves you to see him hurting.

[He hesitates. What he feels is not envy, not exactly--though it would self-deception to not admit a degree of that, however slight. It is more anger mixed with a cool suspicion. There was a time when Hamlet recognized Ophelia's worth, when--Faramir suspects--the prince even loved her, or seemed to. What madness or necessity now makes him cruel?

There is too much unknown, and he likes it not at all.]

You tell me not to think of you unhappy, but I could not abandon you thus; what friend could do so? So I will worry, and hope the days to come are more kind to you and yours, and wish I were there in truth to soothe away any hurts you have.

But be assured I do remember you happy as well, the light of your smile and the warmth of your fingers. And your kisses, sweeter than honey.

Tye-meláne, Ophelia. I pray you keep safe.

Ever yours,
Faramir