9:22 Dragon
Her name is Marian, and she's a troublemaker.
Their attendance for weekend Chantry services is erratic. Father explained it to them, when they first arrived at Lothering. Go every week, and then you become part of a community, and then next thing you know it'll be family visits and neighbourly check-ups and surprise parties, the kinds of things apostates generally want to avoid. But don't go at all and then people will begin to ask questions about that secluded, secretive family. So, stagger your attendance, and then people will dismiss you as lazy or inconsistent, the type of person who gets a raised eyebrow and weary headshakes from polite company and nothing more.
Unfortunately, Chantry services are boring. Worse, Bethany always shushes Marian whenever she tries to engage in whisper-conversation while the Revered Mother leads the Chant, while Carver bounces around like a puppy trying to get a Templar to show him their sword. Mother, of course, is a perfectly respectable lady who knows the Chant and sings along perfectly, while Father hums along, completely at ease. Not even the pretty sister was enough to stave off the mindless droning building up in Marian's brain.
So, when Maurevar decided to sneak out from under the pew and go in search of snacks, it was hardly Marian's fault that she found him sniffing around in Allison's skirts, causing her to shriek and leap a good foot in the air. But apparently, because she was laughing and it was her dog, it was her plan all along, and then she had to leave the Chantry clutching a squirming, ten-pound Mabari or risk offending the good townsfolk.
So, on the plus side, Marian is free of the Chantry. On the downside, she is sure to get an earful from Mother later, and now her only company is a dejected Mabari pup and a blinking cow. Sterling companions for conversation, truly.
Thus, Marian finds herself practicing her knifework, balancing carefully on the stones sticking defiantly out of the river running through the village. While Carver had since "outgrown" the dagger when he came into possession of a two-handed greatsword, and Bethany was far more comfortable with the staff shaped by Father, Marian had found something calmingly appealing in her daggers. Smoothly leaping from stone to stone, blades flashing in the morning light, Marian loses herself to the deadly dance, enjoying the smooth transition as she flowed every slash into the next, a never-ending chain of blows that whistled through the air, smooth and streaming like the water just beneath her feet. Marian lashes at an imaginary opponent, then charges forwards, feet skimming over the water's surface as she leapt from rock to rock. She imagines shoulder-charging an enemy to knock them down, then shifts her momentum into a flip. She lands on a rock and slips just for a moment as her boot slides across the water-slicked surface. But she twists with the slip, shifting the momentum into a spinning cartwheel. She slashes at her imaginary foe beneath her, lands on the heel of her right foot, shifts her stance, then springs forward, driving both daggers down into her opponent. Water splashes around her at the impact, and Marian winces as the tip of her left dagger scraped across a rock. Damn. She'll have to check that blade later, make sure it hasn't been chipped.
Her thoughts are broken by the sound of gentle clapping.
Surprised, Marian whips around, unconsciously bringing her daggers to the ready. The pretty Chantry sister raises her hands defensively, the universal sign for "I'm unarmed please don't stab me". Her serene smile, however, is much calmer than one would expect from a Chantry sister with a knife pointed at her nose.
Embarrassed, Marian lowers her daggers.
"Apologies," she says. She checks her daggers, making sure that there isn't any serious damage, before sheathing them with an exaggerated twirl to cover up her embarrassment. Playing cool generally works better than humble head-dipping in her experience. She hops casually off the rocks onto the bank, smoothing back her hair in a (hopefully) suave manner.
"It is no worry," the sister replies, her accent rich with the flowery lilt of Orlais. Marian cocks her head in surprise. The sister smiles knowingly at that. "I was merely on my way to check on the rosebushes when I noticed you at your practice. You're very good."
"Ah, thank you," Marian says, somewhat awkwardly. She curses inwardly at that. She's supposed to be smooth and suave. She doesn't do awkward stuttering. She's supposed to leave pretty girls and handsome boys with their mouths hanging at her stunning charisma and beauty. But something about this particular woman leaves her at a loss. It's an uncomfortable feeling. "I didn't even know the Chantry had a rosebush." Marian manages lamely. "I imagine that this is what it feels like to be Carver."
The sister laughs at that. "It is unlikely you would. Most others in the Chantry have abandoned it. The bush has not bloomed for many years now, and thus there are but a select few who tend to it. Still, if there is a chance of beauty, then we should do our best to coax it to life, no?"
Something about her smile is off-putting for Marian. It's far more knowing and sly than the usual Maker-loving Chantry sisters.
"This is one of those metaphor things, isn't it?" Marian ventures cautiously. "Where you're saying one thing but actually talking about something else?"
The sister smirks at that. "Is it? I wouldn't know."
Marian considers it. She glances back towards the river behind her.
"You're saying that even if other people look at me and see a useless bush, I should keep working at it, staying true to myself. I shouldn't let people tell me what to do. I should grow into myself, and work at myself. And then… I'll be a flower?" Marian scratches at the back of her neck. "Ok, maybe I lost that metaphor towards the end there."
The sister laughs. She has a pretty laugh. Charming, really. "I have seen many men and women try hard to be something they are not, and many others who could be someone but gave up on themselves. I have met women who wanted to be clever and beautiful, and men who wanted to be strong and handsome, but all tried too hard and fell too fast."
"Tell me about it," Marian mutteres, thinking about Carver dropping daggers everywhere.
"But there are those who are more than they appear, those dismissed by others. Those hidden in plain sight, growing something wonderful inside. I think that you are that kind of hidden person."
"So I'm a flower waiting to spring into life like an elven maiden?" Marian jokes.
The sister laughs again. "Do not dismiss so easily. Even the most beautiful rose can have thorns."
"And what kind of person are you?" Marian asks. "You're clearly more knowledgeable than an ordinary Chantry sister."
"Am I? Have you met so many sisters to be able to tell them all apart?" the not-sister counters.
"I know that most Chantry sisters would be telling me to put down the knives and pick up a pitchfork. Autumn is upon us and the birds are starting to fly, every hand is needed to man the fields, bring in the crops, prepare for winter, blah blah blah. Most sisters wouldn't be talking about roses and thorns."
"You are a quick learner with a keen eye," the not-sister compliments with a smile. She brushes a lock of hair out of her face, and Marian is fascinated at how gracefully she manages the action. Definitely a trick to learn for later. "Definitely more than just a fanciful flower with kitchen knives."
"I've been told I have the aptitude for the clever tricks," Marian replies, enjoying this verbal back-and-forth. It's like when she tests blades against her father, the delicate dance, darting and baiting and weaving, vying for the superior position. "And my keen eye tells me that you're much more than a Chantry sister. Any particular reason an Orelsian finds herself in Lothering? A lost ambassador? A spy with terrible sense of direction? A sister with a dark and mysterious past?"
"Goodness, you are a dramatic one," the Orlesian says with a chuckle. "I am merely here to check in on a friend. She has not been in touch for so very long, and I wanted to make sure that she was faring well."
"Sister Leliana, I presume, judging by the accent. Why all the dressing-up and cryptic advice? Don't get me wrong, I love a pretty woman in Chantry robes as much as the next blasphemer, but still seems awfully complicated."
"We were very complicated friends," the not-sister allows, brushing light brown braids out of her eyes. "Life is complicated, as you will find, pretty thing. It is best to let nothing surprise you. Accept that anything is possible, and you'll find that nothing will catch you off-guard ever again."
"Seems like the advice for the paranoid," Marian counters. "Why lie in wait for threats when you could have opportunities?"
"Those are often the same," she replies. "Dragons were thought extinct, and yet here they are once more. It would not be such a surprise if we had prepared for this eventuality. Few things lie dormant for long, I've found."
"The Maker seems to be doing a good job of it," Marian quips, crossing her arms and leaning back in that cocky position Bethany always laughs at. "Personally, I'd love to have a dragon."
"You are truly a special one, aren't you?" the Orlesian says with a light chuckle, shaking her head. "But now it seems service is over, and you have a family with whom to reunite. Before I take my leave, consider what I've said. Always be prepared, pretty thing. Meet the world with smiles and roses… but keep your thorns ready at your sides."
"Might I have a name, to pair with such lovely advice and lovelier face?" Marian asks, quickly, as the townsfolk started bustling out of the Chantry. She sees her father looking around for her, and waves in his direction, and then instantly regrets it when she sees her mother look over with a frown.
The not-sister chuckles at that as she backs away, threatening to be swallowed up by the crowd.
"Names mean little, pretty thing. In this world, one can choose whatever name one wants. It is a title, a mask, a means to hide yourself. Keep your name to yourself, and you can keep you to yourself. Give only what you are prepared to lose."
And with that, she's gone, lost in the swarm of Chantry robes and Templar armour. Marian lets out a low whistle, wondering if she'd ever learn how to vanish like that. She'll have to ask Father. Maybe Mother could help provide some ingredients for a potion.
Speak of the devil…
"I hope you've learnt your lesson, young lady," Mother says in that long-suffering tone which Marian has learnt to associate with herself. "Bringing your dog to the Chantry. We told you it was a bad idea."
"Maurevar's our dog, Mother. He's part of the family. If you're leaving him behind, you might as well leave me behind as well. Actually, can we make that the arrangement from now on?"
"Always with the jests," Mother sighs, shaking her head. "One of these days, you'll find yourself in a situation where your witty tongue can't find a quip, and I swear that I'll be there just to say 'I told you so'."
"Will it be the day sweet Bethany finally says a bad word?" Marian asks, hooking an arm around her sister's waist, prompting giggling from the younger girl. "The day Bethany starts contributing to the swear jar will be the day I'm completely lost for words, I swear it."
"Of course," Marian adds, grabbing Carver and linking arms with him as well to his groan of displeasure. "The day when I will be well and truly stunned will be when our Carver gets married. A woman who willingly binds herself to him for life, now that'll be a real shocker, won't it?"
"Shove off, Marian," Carver complains, trying to untangle his arm from his sister's, while Bethany giggles at her siblings' antics.
"This is your fault," Mother says in an exaggerated tone of anguish. "'Let's raise them with manners,' I said. 'We can teach them to be proper ladies and gentleman'. 'Ridiculous', you said. 'I grew up without parental control, and look how well I turned out'. Now we're both paying for it."
"I stand by what I said," Father says evenly. "I personally think that our children will grow into marvellous, respected members of society, the envy of every royal court in Thedas. Children for generations will be named after Marian the Clever, Carver the Strong, and Bethany the Beautiful."
"Of course they get to be smart and pretty," Carver complains. "Meanwhile, I get the title that makes me sound like an ox."
"Oh, do cheer up, brother," Bethany chides, bumping hips with Marian so that she'd nudge Carver in turn.
"Yes, Carver, cheer up" Marian adds, nudging Carver again of her own accord. "Otherwise we might have to make some other names for you. 'Carver the Complainer'? 'Carver the Dour'? 'Carver Frowny-Face'? Really, the possibilities are endless."
"And what about you, sister? What'll they call you? 'Marian the Manic'? 'Marian the Mouth'? 'Marian the Silly'?"
"I don't care what people call me," Marian says airily, swinging their linked arms energetically, be it willingly (Bethany) or unwillingly (Carver). "I've decided that names have no meaning to my life. I'll make my own name, and then it won't matter what people refer to me by, because I'll know what name is really mine."
"Surprising piece of wisdom there, Marian," Father compliments. Marian grins, Mother smiles while shaking her head, Bethany looks at her with those adoring eyes, and Carver grumbles while shooting angry looks at the village toughs eyeing his sisters.
Her name is Marian, and she is the rose with thorns.