"It is a gift," he says quietly. "It's no curse. Others make it so, act like it is, cause it to be. But it could do so much, help so much, if people let it."
The ale understands. Or at least the ale doesn't judge what he is and what he can say, and so he takes another drink.
"And I can always say 'generations to come. It's a gift from my... former company. Oppression, too." He's not serious. Which means Kostos might miss the joke, and Anders isn't sure if that's funny or not.
They'll have to agree to disagree about magic, for now, because Kostos doesn't argue, only pulls a face that's subtle enough not to quite demand commentary and returns, too, to pulling at the splinter on the table. The joke, meanwhile, flies right over his head—not because he can't recognize a joke, but because he's only vaguely and barely aware that Anders might have been possessed at some point and, given the dearth of cases of mages coming back from possession, even less aware of former possession leaving any sort of imprint, which if true would have incredibly alarming implications for the viability of depossession as a solution in the future—
—all of which is a mental tangent he doesn't go on, because he doesn't get it. He assumes Anders' former company were rebel mages. Which also makes sense, and is also almost a joke, he supposes, enough to warrant twitching one side of his mouth in acknowledgment.
And then to just sort of sit there. He doesn't know what else to say.
At least he got a mouth twitch. Maybe Kostos has a tiny sense of humor after all? He's really not sure. Anders takes a breath and rests his elbows on the table, resting his head in a palm.
"I wish there was some path forward, some clear way to make progress. But we've never, we've never had a group get better rights or freedoms in Thedas. Other worlds have stories of it but not the steps, no guide, nothing, and even if we get somewhere we could have it all fall apart like the Dalish did with their promised lands and betrayal. I... I don't know what will help."
Anders sighs heavily before motioning the waiter over for more drinks, because he's truly not drunk enough.
Kostos doesn't know what would help, either, but he says, "There was Andraste and—everyone." Everyone who no longer lives under the Imperium. Surely that counts for something.
He's quiet as the waiter brings two tankards over, nodding after to one of them.
"Take one. Please. Because it's clear you want a drink but you're not for some reason and after you've maybe just implied what we need is a martyr who has a lot of writings I think you need it too."
There was a time when he would have accepted the role of martyr. Now he has too much to live for, and doesn't really feel like sacrificing any mages. ...Except Vivienne, but that would hardly be sacrifice or helpful.
"We didn't lose our war, but we didn't win it either. I don't know that we would have won. No offense to those of you who were on the front lines, because you deserve a great deal of credit. But we weren't organized. Now? The battlefield is public opinion and I still don't think we're organized enough for that."
Kostos takes the drink without comment, which is probably for the best, because if he did comment it would be to say maybe Anders should have tried harder to die during the Kirkwall Rebellion.
It's also for the best that he's give a drink at all, because it leaves him feeling appreciative enough that he doesn't bristle too badly—some, but not a lot—at the comment about organization, doesn't snap back. He just takes a very long drink, and then speaks slowly, choosing words not out of care for anyone's feelings, but because he is really not very good at talking.
"It has always been a battlefield of public opinion," he says. "People gave quarter to the Templars as they would never give to us. We could not stay where we were not wanted or take supplies we were not offered, because then we would be what they fear we could become. Redcliffe is the only place we were ever offered shelter. Even the children."
Perhaps if the Templars traveled with eight-year-olds they had to consider as well as grown men, or elderly Templars who could hardly life a sword—perhaps if locking Templars in a house and setting it on fire wouldn't have been regarded by the people as an atrocity beyond forgiveness—
"The Grand Enchanter could not have been a commander and a caretaker at once," Kostos finishes. "It is too much to ask. And as long as it is a war between people who are chosen and trained, and people who are born, there is no evening those odds."
"Fiona did the best she could with the situation," he agrees quietly. The reminder of children is unfortunately sobering. People can't find it in their hearts to feel for mage children. They have such a climb ahead of them.
Anders rests his forehead in a hand and stares at his mug.
"We need," he starts slowly, "a few leaders at the top. Two, three. More than one, no more than five or decision making gets dragged out too much. This way we can have a commander, we can have a caretaker, we can have a quartermaster, and a diplomat." That makes four. An odd number would be easier for coming to decisions, but they need to keep things streamlined too. He'd like to be caretaker, he could be quartermaster, but he knows he's not suited for the other two roles.
"And we need a clear idea of what we're trying to make, a unified idea. What our end goal is. Something to inspire mages and maybe somehow ease a portion of the fears of the non-mages. Somehow."
That word deserves an echo because he doesn't know how to achieve that. He's been in over his head for years now.
They should be afraid, Kostos could say, but they've been having such a bizarrely nice time. He doesn't. He also doesn't offer up the ideas he has—because, however terrible he is at dealing with people in the moment, he's somewhat better at understanding them from a distance—because this is starting to feel uncomfortably like a planning session instead of a complaining session. Instead he swirls his ale and stares down into the whirlpool that results, and he says, "Sounds like a problem for Libertarians."
He's joking, a little, but also not joking at all. Call it self-aware seriousness. He knows he's being somewhat irrational.
He lifts tired eyes up to look at Kostos, but he doesn't really have a retort to whatever that is. It's a problem for all. So few will approach it, though, that it becomes a bigger problem for those who will. Finally he exhales and half-slumps, doodling in the condensation pools on the table.
"It's our future," he mutters. "One way or another. Either we find something, or the Chantry takes all of you back in, in chains, and it's not going to show mercy."
“I wasn’t planning to ask for any,” Kostos says—flippantly, in his own dark style, nearly a joke—but underneath that he’s thinking of Nell and Gareth and their bright red blood, and dead Templars climbing back to their feet, and the smell of burned hair and skin, and the dazed look on someone’s face when they’ve been struck by lightning but haven’t quite realized that their heart’s no longer beating.
He downs most of what’s left in his tankard in one go.
He reaches into his belt pouch and starts fumbling around, looking, before drawing out a deck held together by hair tie.
"I'm bad at card games. Horrible at them. So don't expect anything competitive, or betting." The only thing he'd bet on is him losing, and it's his fingers that finally give away him being a little tipsy as he clumsily gets the hair tie off the cards and offers the deck out.
There is nothing remotely clumsy about the way Kostos takes the cards and shuffles them, finishing with a perfunctory bridge that's barely qualified as a flourish. He's only half Antivan. That's as fancy as he gets.
But he is, like half-an-Antivan, very good at cards.
"No betting," he agrees. "You already bought me a drink."
He watches, half-hypnotized, by how smoothly the cards get shuffled. It's a pretty show of dexterity and if Anders was single he'd be tempted to make an offer to see those hands elsewhere.
"I see you're good with your hands," he offers instead. "I'd bet on you making plenty of people happy instead of betting on cards."
It's not the safest bet when he doesn't know much about Kostos' Circle. Anything sexual might have been shut down there faster than at Kinloch Hold. But the thought amuses him enough that he'll risk it.
“People are happy about anything that makes me stop trying to talk,” Kostos says, attention primarily on dealing out five cards apiece with the same efficient ease, but once he’s accomplished that and set the deck down between them, he raises his head and looks, possibly for the first time all evening, like he genuinely thinks something is funny.
He takes the cards and catches the look. Is that... It might be the closest to happy Anders has ever seen Kostos. Or at least the closest to not annoyed. That feels like a good reason to keep on the topic, especially when Anders sees his hand. He discards one lousy card and draws another, equally lousy card.
"Perhaps they're simply appreciative about how you use your mouth for other matters. It could be a compliment."
Kostos probably shouldn't be surprised that a man who blew up the Chantry at the highest fuck-off point in the center of an enormous city to make a point isn't particularly lighthanded, but it still makes him laugh, sort of, in a short and silent huffy sort of way, while he discards a song and draws a serpent.
"It's possible," he agrees. "Is this idle curiosity or are you aiming to see for yourself?"
Was that a chuckle. Was that actually, seriously, a chuckle? He doesn't stare just in case it was.
"Idle curiosity," he admits as he gets a card that's at least not as bad this draw, but still lousy for what he has in his hand. "I'm happily married. Had you caught me, mm, a year and a half ago, I'd be asking with intention."
A wry smile plays on his lips. "Someone who wasn't a Templar decided they wanted to keep me around, surprising everyone."
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The ale understands. Or at least the ale doesn't judge what he is and what he can say, and so he takes another drink.
"And I can always say 'generations to come. It's a gift from my... former company. Oppression, too." He's not serious. Which means Kostos might miss the joke, and Anders isn't sure if that's funny or not.
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—all of which is a mental tangent he doesn't go on, because he doesn't get it. He assumes Anders' former company were rebel mages. Which also makes sense, and is also almost a joke, he supposes, enough to warrant twitching one side of his mouth in acknowledgment.
And then to just sort of sit there. He doesn't know what else to say.
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"I wish there was some path forward, some clear way to make progress. But we've never, we've never had a group get better rights or freedoms in Thedas. Other worlds have stories of it but not the steps, no guide, nothing, and even if we get somewhere we could have it all fall apart like the Dalish did with their promised lands and betrayal. I... I don't know what will help."
Anders sighs heavily before motioning the waiter over for more drinks, because he's truly not drunk enough.
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"Take one. Please. Because it's clear you want a drink but you're not for some reason and after you've maybe just implied what we need is a martyr who has a lot of writings I think you need it too."
There was a time when he would have accepted the role of martyr. Now he has too much to live for, and doesn't really feel like sacrificing any mages. ...Except Vivienne, but that would hardly be sacrifice or helpful.
"We didn't lose our war, but we didn't win it either. I don't know that we would have won. No offense to those of you who were on the front lines, because you deserve a great deal of credit. But we weren't organized. Now? The battlefield is public opinion and I still don't think we're organized enough for that."
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It's also for the best that he's give a drink at all, because it leaves him feeling appreciative enough that he doesn't bristle too badly—some, but not a lot—at the comment about organization, doesn't snap back. He just takes a very long drink, and then speaks slowly, choosing words not out of care for anyone's feelings, but because he is really not very good at talking.
"It has always been a battlefield of public opinion," he says. "People gave quarter to the Templars as they would never give to us. We could not stay where we were not wanted or take supplies we were not offered, because then we would be what they fear we could become. Redcliffe is the only place we were ever offered shelter. Even the children."
Perhaps if the Templars traveled with eight-year-olds they had to consider as well as grown men, or elderly Templars who could hardly life a sword—perhaps if locking Templars in a house and setting it on fire wouldn't have been regarded by the people as an atrocity beyond forgiveness—
"The Grand Enchanter could not have been a commander and a caretaker at once," Kostos finishes. "It is too much to ask. And as long as it is a war between people who are chosen and trained, and people who are born, there is no evening those odds."
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Anders rests his forehead in a hand and stares at his mug.
"We need," he starts slowly, "a few leaders at the top. Two, three. More than one, no more than five or decision making gets dragged out too much. This way we can have a commander, we can have a caretaker, we can have a quartermaster, and a diplomat." That makes four. An odd number would be easier for coming to decisions, but they need to keep things streamlined too. He'd like to be caretaker, he could be quartermaster, but he knows he's not suited for the other two roles.
"And we need a clear idea of what we're trying to make, a unified idea. What our end goal is. Something to inspire mages and maybe somehow ease a portion of the fears of the non-mages. Somehow."
That word deserves an echo because he doesn't know how to achieve that. He's been in over his head for years now.
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He's joking, a little, but also not joking at all. Call it self-aware seriousness. He knows he's being somewhat irrational.
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"It's our future," he mutters. "One way or another. Either we find something, or the Chantry takes all of you back in, in chains, and it's not going to show mercy."
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He downs most of what’s left in his tankard in one go.
“Do you have any playing cards?”
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"I'm bad at card games. Horrible at them. So don't expect anything competitive, or betting." The only thing he'd bet on is him losing, and it's his fingers that finally give away him being a little tipsy as he clumsily gets the hair tie off the cards and offers the deck out.
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But he is, like half-an-Antivan, very good at cards.
"No betting," he agrees. "You already bought me a drink."
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"I see you're good with your hands," he offers instead. "I'd bet on you making plenty of people happy instead of betting on cards."
It's not the safest bet when he doesn't know much about Kostos' Circle. Anything sexual might have been shut down there faster than at Kinloch Hold. But the thought amuses him enough that he'll risk it.
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"Perhaps they're simply appreciative about how you use your mouth for other matters. It could be a compliment."
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"It's possible," he agrees. "Is this idle curiosity or are you aiming to see for yourself?"
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"Idle curiosity," he admits as he gets a card that's at least not as bad this draw, but still lousy for what he has in his hand. "I'm happily married. Had you caught me, mm, a year and a half ago, I'd be asking with intention."
A wry smile plays on his lips. "Someone who wasn't a Templar decided they wanted to keep me around, surprising everyone."