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trant_book_n_curioA History of Lies - A Broken Compass: 5 & 6
Dragon Age, Cullen & various chantry brother OCs, SFW
Cullen begins his story of Kirkwall
.
A HISTORY OF LIES: A BROKEN COMPASS
5.
When given the option, I prefer to tell the truth. I don’t care for pretense and I have never understood the lengths that the nobility go to when playing politics like a grand game of charades. Even peasants mimic the highborn’s behavior when they posture during petty village squabbles.
I think this is why I found refuge in the Chantry. We were an order of scholars even though some of us were trained as soldiers. We were supposed to put our lives above the petty politics of individual cities and states. The Chantry encouraged us to question fleeting ideas that were currently in fashion. Instead, we were expected to uphold universal truths. At least, this is what we were taught.
6.
When I arrived in Kirkwall on a blustery winter day in 9:31 Dragon, I committed myself to following three rules: attend a private counseling session every day immediately after the noontide chant, embrace the Templar Order’s rules without question, and stop thinking about what happened in Ferelden. The first rule proved more difficult than I expected and, over time, it interfered with both the second and the third.
As a condition of my transfer to Kirkwall’s circle, I was required to attend a daily meeting with a Chantry brother. The man’s name was Brother Paschal. During the first week of meetings I had with him, the man appeared wholly uninterested in anything I told him.
Our meetings began with him asking me what I felt he should know. At that time, nightmares plagued my sleep. Frightening horrors haunted me. In the middle of each night I jolted awake, suffocated by images far too vivid for normal dreams. No matter how I tried to brush these images away, they haunted me. Unlike normal dreams that faded minutes after waking, these nightmares remained. They hung over me as I went about my daily business. I was able to recall these nightmares in exacting detail, so I took my time while describing them to Brother Paschal.
The man silently sat in his chair, looking at his steepled fingers until I stopped talking. Then he would rise and asked me to follow him. Each of those seven days we ended up in one of the Chantry’s many storerooms. For the remainder of my hour with Brother Paschal, we inventoried dried goods or medicinal herbs or blankets or food or clothing.
By the end of my first week I had begun doubting whether it was worth my time to meet daily with Brother Paschal. During our eighth meeting, it appeared he had come to the same conclusion. I had hardly begun to describe the disturbances I battled during my prior night’s attempt at sleep when Paschal stood up and shrugged.
I lunged for the man and grabbed his arm. “How can you turn your back on me? Isn’t this what the Chantry is for?”
Brother Paschal’s face filled with sorrow but I wanted none of the man’s pity. I refused to be singled out again for another gift of obligatory compassion.
Just once I wanted someone — anyone — to hear me out. My voice cracked as I begged him to listen.
When I realized how hard I had gripped this man’s arm, shaking him almost on the edge of violence, I let go. I apologized. Paschal leaned back against the wall. He looked me in the eye as I sobbed out a series of disconnected sentences.
.:.
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Dragon Age, Cullen & various chantry brother OCs, SFW
Cullen begins his story of Kirkwall
.
A HISTORY OF LIES: A BROKEN COMPASS
5.
When given the option, I prefer to tell the truth. I don’t care for pretense and I have never understood the lengths that the nobility go to when playing politics like a grand game of charades. Even peasants mimic the highborn’s behavior when they posture during petty village squabbles.
I think this is why I found refuge in the Chantry. We were an order of scholars even though some of us were trained as soldiers. We were supposed to put our lives above the petty politics of individual cities and states. The Chantry encouraged us to question fleeting ideas that were currently in fashion. Instead, we were expected to uphold universal truths. At least, this is what we were taught.
6.
When I arrived in Kirkwall on a blustery winter day in 9:31 Dragon, I committed myself to following three rules: attend a private counseling session every day immediately after the noontide chant, embrace the Templar Order’s rules without question, and stop thinking about what happened in Ferelden. The first rule proved more difficult than I expected and, over time, it interfered with both the second and the third.
As a condition of my transfer to Kirkwall’s circle, I was required to attend a daily meeting with a Chantry brother. The man’s name was Brother Paschal. During the first week of meetings I had with him, the man appeared wholly uninterested in anything I told him.
Our meetings began with him asking me what I felt he should know. At that time, nightmares plagued my sleep. Frightening horrors haunted me. In the middle of each night I jolted awake, suffocated by images far too vivid for normal dreams. No matter how I tried to brush these images away, they haunted me. Unlike normal dreams that faded minutes after waking, these nightmares remained. They hung over me as I went about my daily business. I was able to recall these nightmares in exacting detail, so I took my time while describing them to Brother Paschal.
The man silently sat in his chair, looking at his steepled fingers until I stopped talking. Then he would rise and asked me to follow him. Each of those seven days we ended up in one of the Chantry’s many storerooms. For the remainder of my hour with Brother Paschal, we inventoried dried goods or medicinal herbs or blankets or food or clothing.
By the end of my first week I had begun doubting whether it was worth my time to meet daily with Brother Paschal. During our eighth meeting, it appeared he had come to the same conclusion. I had hardly begun to describe the disturbances I battled during my prior night’s attempt at sleep when Paschal stood up and shrugged.
I lunged for the man and grabbed his arm. “How can you turn your back on me? Isn’t this what the Chantry is for?”
Brother Paschal’s face filled with sorrow but I wanted none of the man’s pity. I refused to be singled out again for another gift of obligatory compassion.
Just once I wanted someone — anyone — to hear me out. My voice cracked as I begged him to listen.
When I realized how hard I had gripped this man’s arm, shaking him almost on the edge of violence, I let go. I apologized. Paschal leaned back against the wall. He looked me in the eye as I sobbed out a series of disconnected sentences.
.:.
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