boxofmisfits | Receiving Her Grace

Receiving Her Grace

Proselytizing is slow, but satisfying work.

In each settlement he visited, there was almost always someone intrigued by his worship. Many watched as outsiders. Some approached openly. Others held quiet desire in their hearts. He developed a sense for which were holding themselves back for fear of other's rejection, or their own limitations. He did his best to find some way to address them while seemingly speaking to another, or while praying. To leave them a gift or invitation.

But small settlements and chance encounters on the road were not enough. Despite the risks of walking openly in Andrastean territory, he was drawn toward the cities of the Free Marches. Kirkwall in particular had an... oddly compelling air to it. It was both a cosmopolitan port and a pit of repressive sorrows. And the mages he had met on the road had warned him away, for the Chantry there was particularly dangerous.

But he would not be swayed. A place of great suffering held promise for a follower of Loviatar. There would be those in need of her love, and perhaps, new intricacies of pain to experience.

He walked the streets, heedless of the shocked looks garnered by his appearance. Among the Andrasteans, it was safer to be bold and unashamed... but discreet about the magic that his faith had fostered within him.

And yet the city was overwhelming. There were people in need of ministration everywhere. Where to begin?

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Anders is used to people preaching on the streets of Kirkwall. But usually those preachers are Chantry Sisters and Mothers saying that in order to get into the Golden City, one must give to their castle of a Chantry up in Hightown, or convert from their "heathen" faiths and accept the Maker as the one true god. A man wearing almost nothing at all speaking of a religion Anders had never heard of was a new one. Even Justice had no idea what he was speaking of, and he was old enough to know Faith spirits who had been drawn to pre-Andrastean religions.

Being a curious fellow, Anders approached the almost-naked man. "Are you with one of those religions that demands you followers give you all their money in return for eternal bliss and getting a good deal in the afterlife?"

A skeptical voice from the crowd. This was far from unfamiliar at this point, and took it in stride with a smile. "No, dear one, Loviatar has no need for your soul or coin. Nor do her priests require it." It meant that the city would be more difficult for him than the open road, but he had been given a little money by a grateful penitent, which he was rationing carefully.

"Her gifts are granted to the living, to alleviate suffering and bring peace the likes of which few experience."

"Is that so?" It certainly sounded good on the surface. Better than what the Chantry preached anyway. Helping those who were alive instead of obsessing over getting to sit at the Maker's side. Still, Anders remained skeptical, "So what's the catch?"

Oh, there certainly were some. The careful balance of pain and healing, to apply yourself to your duties with supreme affection, and to restrain oneself without becoming numb to the call of the lash, or the cries of the penitent.

But those were matters for the faithful to discuss amongst each other. The mere fact of worship was of greater concern to the public. "Not everyone is suited to our worship. Pain lies at its heart, a sacred sensation to be respected and administered only with love."

The fervency in Abdirak's voice was absolute. "Pain is so often doled out by the brutish and cruel. It is wielded as a blunt instrument by the ignorant. And in such turbulent times, so many are told that such suffering is noble." His contempt for the Chantry was immense, but it would remain veiled for now.

"But in the hands of the devoted, pain is not a curse to be endured, or a punishment to atone for sin. Pain can bring joy and Our Lady's blessing." And he felt the truth of it, every morning when he prayed, and felt her touch steady his heart. "A supreme triumph of love over hatred. What could be more beautiful than that?"

Anders scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "So you're a religion of sadomasochism? Can't say I've ever heard of that one." Though the man certainly had a point about how the Chantry saw pain, since Anders had seen plenty of that in the Circle. More than one mage had turned to pain as a way to 'atone' for the sin of being born with magic, and it broke his heart.

"But, I suppose I can see the benefit of valuing love though... unconventional means." If they were in Hightown, they probably would have been arrested for being heathens by now. "Are you a sect of Andrasteanism or are you one of the few religions that the Chantry hasn't managed to stamp out yet?"

"Your questions do you credit, dear one." This a man willing to seriously consider the sermon's contents. How wonderful.

"I have met some who synchretize the faith with Andrastean worship, but most of us do not. We follow only Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain." He certainly could not bear the thought. The prophet's teachings were too cruel.

And this man's choice of words--perhaps even his expression as he listened--they made Abdirak wonder. "Should you wish to discuss this further, I would be willing to reconvene in a more private setting." It might be a risk, to reveal more so soon. But coming to Kirkwall was in itself a great risk, one he hoped could ultimately enrich his faith.

"I mean, Andraste was burnt at the stake and then run through with a sword as an act of mercy, so I can see where there would be some confusion with someone known as the Maiden of Pain." Certainly, he could see someone trying to convince this man that that was the case, and that he had gotten his faith confused with that of Andraste worship. Or that it was just a bastardized version of what the Chantry preached.

"This isn't going to turn into a six hour sermon where you don't let me go until I convert, is it?"

Edited 2022-01-17 05:52 (UTC)

"A terrible fate, to be sure." And the most enduring example of pain perverted into martyrdom. His answer was polite, but it was hard to muster his usual earnestness for Her.

The question was therefore a welcome distraction, drawing a laugh out of him. "No, dear one, that would be cruel of me. I would tell you a little more, but if you are not moved, then She does not call to you." For discretion's sake, he would not publicly state why he made the offer. "And in truth, I am newly arrived in Kirkwall. I have met its citizens before, but never walked its streets. You seem far more knowledgeable in its ways than I, and I would like to ask you more about it."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to at least hear you out." If it turned out to be a trap after all, Anders and Justice could handle things. "And I can tell you more about Kirkwall. I'm not from here, but I've lived here long enough to know a thing or two."

Polite but guarded interest. Typical of those willing to learn, but not necessarily practice. Still, he hoped their conversation would prove instructive.

"The native-born may have an instinctive sense for their home, but an outsider must acquire conscious knowledge of it." A convert could often become an excellent teacher.

But, he had been speaking only to this man, and neglecting the others on the street, who listened from a greater remove. He turned to them with a bow. "Children, thank you for your curiosity, but I must end my sermon here." He watched their reactions as he spoke, committing a few faces to memory. "I will return, should you desire more. May you know Her joyous blessing, dear ones."

And with that, he retrieved the bundle of his few possessions from the ground beside him, and turned back to the unknown man. "Please, lead on."

Probably for the best that things were dispersing, lest someone come by and tattle to the Chantry about heathens preaching in the street. They got so bent out of shape it they suspected that they were going to lose followers.

"I have a safe house," Waving his fingers, Anders led him deeper into Lowtown, just past the Hanged Man, the smoke stacks from the foundry within sight. Anders stopped before a boarded up house, and waved his hand to dispel the protective magic he had cast on the door.

Showing the man in, Anders waved around. "Make yourself at home." As best as he could, seeing as there was just a moth-eaten couch, a tiny cot for a bed, and a small kitchen with preserved foods in the cupboards. "I'm Anders, by the way."

A safe house? Interesting. Surprising, in fact. What had he just gotten in to?

Ah! He might have missed the spellwork if he hadn't been looking for it. But his hunch had been correct.

"Your generosity and trust are appreciated, dear one. I must confess, it has been some time since I had the luxury of a moment spent indoors." More important than any furnishings, the place had walls and a ceiling.

"My name is Abdirak." Formal titles were not necessary. Usually he didn't even bother with an introduction, but he would certainly make an exception here. A proper, honest introduction.

"I had not expected to meet a fellow mage so soon. Are you formerly of the Circle, or never claimed?"

"I can't imagine that many are willing to invite in someone who looks like he's been having a rough time and spouting blaspheme in the streets."

Anders was taking a risk in revealing himself like that, but his gut told him that the man wasn't a Templar or Templar-sympathizer. If he was, then he was running a very risky gambit with those sermons in the street.

He got out a small jar of peaches and poured the contents into a pair of bowls, after giving them a quick rinse. Anders brought said jars out and set them on a low table.

"Former Circle. Ran away seven times, and I've been free for about a year now."

"No, not many. But these respites are enough." Those that offered shelter without prompting were often seeking guidance. They wished to pray, or even to share their knowledge. That was what sustained him most--if he'd valued the comfort of civilization more highly, he never would have left the temple.

He watched Anders work, fingers idly tracing over a scar that crossed the back of one hand. "A hard-won victory." Seven attempts to escape the Circle. It was a miracle they'd allowed him to keep his soul. "That is why I suggested we speak alone. It has left its wounds upon you."

Anders plopped himself onto an old chair. "You have no idea. Consider yourself lucky to have never been locked up in one of those prisons, especially with your religious leanings."

He remained standing for the moment, grey eyes glancing away for a moment, staring at nothing. "I was not one of those fortunate souls who were born into the faith." To know from your earliest days that the world did not have to be defined by suffering was... something he still envied.

"The Circles may never have claimed me, but the Chantry's ideals did. Existing in opposition to their so-called natural order can be a great hardship, when their thinking still defines you." Even now, it returned to bring him occasional nightmares, or melancholy days.

But he would not let his own struggles be the focus today. "Liberation of the mind is not always secured with physical freedom." He smiled, touching the symbol of Loviatar's whip on his chest. "Now I practice both through the intricacies of pain, and I can instruct others in achieving its blessings." He had not yet perfected his practice, but he was an eager student, and shared what he had learned.

"Sometimes the trauma from the Circle lasts even after one is out." Anders had some scars from Templar gauntlet knuckles, as well as invisible scars from everything that was said and done to him. To say nothing about what happened to the mages that Templars got too interested in.

"Is this one of those things were you self-flog to get closer to your god? And how is it different from the Chantry preaching that to harm oneself is a kind of repentance?"

"Indeed. The Circle is a dark and terrible thing. It is little wonder that so many bear its scars." He had seen it many times before, from the escaped Circle mages had been among his teachers. Despite their freedom, some of them still refused to leave the temple. It was the only place they felt protected and loved.

"Harm is not our object." Abdirak seemed completely untroubled by the stripes of lash marks on his forearms, or the large bruise on his chest, or the pair of unhealed gashes beneath it. "The pain of the martyr or the remorseful is only an exercise in enduring pain. Loviatar has no interest in such gestures. She is the Willing Whip, delighting only in pain that is intimate and loving."

"So my earlier comment about the sadomasochism isn't entirely wrong." It wasn't exactly a kink that Anders had ever been into. Still, he could tell the difference between the pain the Chantry wanted you to feel and pain as part of consensual kink.

"I've seen mages hurt themselves to repent for the sin of having magic," He added sadly. "There was one girl who hated herself so much that she felt that death at a Templar's sword was the only way to cleanse herself."

"The term is... reductive, but acceptable." A sadist might enjoy the cries of a partner who willingly subjected themselves to pain they did not appreciate. No such unequal arrangement was permitted among Loviatans.

And similar distinctions were very relevant to what Anders spoke of. "They sought pain, but felt no love for it, nor for themselves. I know that act all too well." Approaching this topic was still a delicate matter for him, but... He pointed to a set of scars on the inside of his wrist. They were old, but had not healed as cleanly as the others on his skin.

"A wandering priest found me in my anguish, and gave me peace more profound than I had ever felt. I now do the same for all in need. Including you, should you accept."

Anders leaned in, gazing at the scars. "I might have been able to heal those, had we met at the time." He had seen scars like that on other mages. Sadly, Anders couldn't heal scarred tissue.

"I can't promise that your faith is right for me, but I did agree to hear you out. You seem content, but not in a smug sort of way, or like you feel that everybody else should be pitied because they don't worship your Lady."

"Every Loviatan capable of magic is trained to heal." He brings a hand to the bruise on his chest, fingers digging in hard enough to elicit a sharp intake of breath, before allowing a little magic to flow through the touch. The bruise almost seemed to be drawn into his fingertips. "But even if I could mend them, I would not. To wear these marks without shame is a signal to those that understand them." That he was still here, and he had found meaning.

"And you are refreshingly open-minded, dear one." He knelt beside the low table, unwrapping the bundle of his possessions. There wasn't much--A book and ink, a metal bowl, a bloodstained washcloth, a water skin. But then there were the instruments of worship--a carefully coiled flail with nine cords, a scourge topped with low, dulled blades, a set of needles, and a ritual dagger. Each of them were well-cared for and the metal was recently polished, but dried blood still filled the deepest crevices.

"When we pray, we use any tools that call to us. We may bleed, or bruise, or leave no mark. Pain that echoes for days, or vanishes instantly. Each according to the desire of the one who experiences it."

So he was a healer too. Very interesting.

Anders's eyes widened when the weapons came out. The flail he'd definitely seen at a brothel. The needles and the blades, that was enough to make Anders gasp, "Andraste's flaming knickers. You don't do things by half-measures, do you?"

The reaction brought out another smile. "At the temple, we might consider this a restrained and practical selection." These were implements that traveled well. With good care, they would last for years. "I have studied each extensively, to bring out the intricacies of pain. Magic as well." Even healing could be turned to holy purpose, if one was precise enough.

"To the uninitiated, all are offered. Even empty hands."

"What are your more extreme tools? A Qunari battleaxe?" That ritualistic knife looked downright wicked. He couldn't imagine using something like that on himself for the purposes of pleasure-through-pain.

"Not one so large, no. Although--" Maybe if it weren't swung, but instead--oh. That was a joke.

He made a mental note to think about it later. "We avoid breaking bones and other injuries that could resist the healer's touch, no matter how much self control it might require." A cracked rib was almost to be expected, as a learning experience. He still remembered the sudden shock that arced up his spine... "We take care to be gentle with all, novice or clergy."

"So no pressure to go past any limits? I suppose that's something." He still wasn't jumping to join this religion he only just found out about, but this was the sort of thing the Chantry would never dare let him learn about. It was like he was sampling a piece of forbidden fruit.

"You know, it's said that there are warriors out there who can gain strength through pain. They're called reavers." Anders only had a passing knowledge about them, and only because he'd read about them in a book.

"None. Pain begins and ends as the recipient desires." Limits were pushed, of course. Personal limits were explored as benefited the penitent. Physical limits were only to be extended under appropriate supervision, stretched only so far as the body would allow.

"Yes, though I know only a little of them." The temple library had mentioned them. Dragon-worshipers, largely unapproachable by those who did not share their faith. "Loviatar's blessing also provides for the warrior and the defender. To not only bear the pain, but to snatch its power away from one's attacker." He smiles, eyes returning to the ritual knife. "As I've learned intimately in my travels."

"I got the impression that they're pretty isolationist, so not many have heard of them." Anders still would have preferred to run into them than half the things he saw during his time with the Gray Wardens. If he ever ran into something like The Mother again, he was running off to Rivain.

"And, do you have a stance on blood magic?"

"Unfortunately. I would like to meet them one day. Their techniques would make for a fascinating study." What pain could be felt by a dragon cultist? By those that lived in the shadow of such effortlessly destructive creatures?

Ah, but Anders had shifted the focus to a topic he enjoyed. "It is magic. We do not separate it from other teachings. Its danger lies in the ignorance the Circle enforces, not in the use of blood itself. And personally, I find it to be a beautiful discipline." No two mages were the same, and there were few times when that was more apparent than when blood was drawn. Some could be so graceful, it was a joy to watch.

Which of course led him to the obvious question: "Have you learned the technique?"

Anders scowled. "Certainly not!"

To suggest that he practiced blood magic, in his mind, was to ask if he went around killing people. To him, blood magic only served to prove the Chantry right, and validate everybody who said that mages were inherently dangerous.

"What's so beautiful about using the blood of others for profane magic?"

Ah. Perhaps he should have expected that reaction. Anders hadn't been free of the Circle for long, and Kirkwall... he might be just as ignorant of it, but its reputation was one of brutish cruelty. And both the cruel and their victims assumed that theirs was the way of all things.

Enthusiastic as he was on the subject of blood magic, he would have to choose his words carefully. "The power of blood is to be cherished. Drawn from oneself, a willing partner, or in defense of the sacred. It can bring unriavaled pain, powerful healing, and everything that lies between. I can show you, if you would consent to witness it."

The way he spoke of blood magic still sounded iffy to Anders. Last time he checked, blood mages didn't bother getting permission before using someone's blood, and only used their own for combat purposes.

He tensed for a moment. "I warn you, if you try to use my blood, I can and will hurt you." Well, Justice would probably hurt him first.

"I have more than enough to demonstrate." He took one of the peaches from the table, considering it for a moment. Then he bit down on the tip of his thumb, the blunt edge of his teeth producing a delicious throb of pain as he broke the skin. Blood welled up immediately, but it did not fall from his hand. It floated in a slow, twisting arc, coiling around the peach, piercing the flesh in several places. There was a warm flare of light, and the magic began its work.

He had eagerly studied the use of blood catalysts for spellwork. But despite all the excellent teachers of the temple, the practice was still more art than codified philosophy. For delicate spells like this, he had to feel his way to the correct technique. There was a shape to it, both in the conduits of power that twisted through the air, and the magic that pulsed within it. Inspired greater things from the world.

The peach split open in his hand, a seedling rising from the broken pit within it. The blood sank into its tender roots, disappearing with a flicker of magelight.

"Blood nurtures us. It is only right that it be used for this purpose." A few stray drops of blood still floated in front of him, and his hand still bled freely. He gestured with it, and the blood arced back, boiled for a brief moment, then vanished. His hand was whole again.

He carefully plucked the seedling from the fruit, holding it out to Anders. "Find a place for it to grow, and it will be strong and untwisted. Just as any living thing will, if given love."

Anders admittedly got curious and watched Abdirak and the peach. When he finished, Anders regarded the seed for a second, before carefully plucking it between his fingers and placing it in one of his belt pouches. Perhaps he'd find a place in Lowtown for it.

"Okay, I'll admit, I've never seen blood magic do that before."

That made him laugh. "No, I'm sure it's not what the Circle teaches. So many there learn the technique from spirits who have no notion of the physical. The results tend to be crude. Like a blind man teaching someone how to paint."

And speaking of the physical--he needed to remember to eat. It was only a little blood this time, but keeping the habit was important. He offered one half of the peach to Anders. "In our temples, mages are encouraged to learn from each other, and to consult generations of texts written by the free." Or stolen by those that fled the Circles. Every one of those books ended up with decades of debates written into the margins, giving each a life of their own.

He did miss it. His books only had his own annotations, mostly written when he couldn't sleep. One day, he'd go back.

"Typically the older mages are expected to teach the apprentices," Anders explained. Wynne in particular was always pushing the adult mages to start taking on students, even if the mage in question had no wish to be a teacher. "But, usually they were only allowed to teach Chantry approved curriculum. Spirit healers like myself were even treated with distrust because our magic is so closely tied to the fade and spirits. But, we're too useful to ban the practice outright."

"A spirit healer?" Now that was a surprise. He'd never really met one before. He'd heard stories of those bonded to spirits, met a few 'abominations' in his travels, but never one of the Circle's spirit healers. It wasn't something that seemed to happen to Loviatans. Only their goddess spoke to them.

"I would offer to share what I know, but I'm unsure what more I could teach you that your spirit would not know already." Blood magic, certainly. But that seemed unlikely to spark much interest.

"Well, he's not exactly all-knowing," He felt a small bit of offense from Justice, to which he thought back well you aren't.

"Tell me, have you ever heard of a mage who took a spirit into themselves, but the host had a lot of anger within them, and it led to the spirit being corrupted?" Again, he felt offense from Justice at the very idea, but it was something that had been eating at Anders ever since they joined together.

That sounded less like a question and more like a personal concern. And certainly, someone steeped in the Chantry's worldview would have worries about spirits. As one who had lived outside of their walls for so long, he might be able to help. And he truly wished to--Anders had been so open and understanding, it was the least he could do.

He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. More than that, he had to try and guess the history behind the question itself. Anders had escaped from the Circle, and was willing to take in other mages, and his initial reaction to the mention of blood magic had shown disgust for the idea of hurting others to gain power.

Perhaps that was enough to go on. "Spirits do not live as we do, and find purity of purpose more easily than us, but they are still thinking beings. Capable of making their own decisions, and mistakes." Yes, they were different, but the Chantry's way of dividing the world into good and evil was poisonous. Though he supposed it might appeal to some spirits, if they behaved as the Chantry said they did.

It wasn't easy to give advice on a topic he was actively thinking through as he spoke, but he felt compelled to try. "Anger can be a manifestation of good yet to be done, but if it burns without moderation, it can become a form of suffering. Tempting suffering, but it is without purpose."

He had to speak to both of them, but he didn't know who was listening. What sort of spirit inhabited Anders? Hope? Faith? Justice? "If one truly wishes to right the world's wrongs, then one has to acknowledge that inflicting such unloved suffering upon yourself does not help your cause."

Edited (I can't decide on words apparently) 2022-05-31 16:33 (UTC)

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Receiving Her Grace

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