i. (hospital) [ The nurses and doctors don't seem to want to let her leave yet, bleating soothingly about recovery and her memories and needing time to set up her housing. Cosette Amell is very good at playing along, settling back in her bed, looking tired, letting her eyes fall closed as if it's simply too much effort to keep them open.
As soon as the room is empty, however, she leaves without hesitation. Perhaps other people may resort to sneaking out of the hospital in nothing but a flimsy gown and the skin they were born in, but Cosette is inclined to neither sit around and wait for permission nor embarrass herself by acting like a shifty criminal.
No, she steals a set of nurse's scrubs and walks out the front door, the hospital gown still tucked under her arm, to offer as... proof, maybe, of having really been a patient, or to elicit sympathy if necessary. There's very little she understands about this situation, which is why she's preparing for every possibility she can think of, but she lets none of her confusion show on her face. She does remember doing something similar not too long ago though, passing through a set of doors she didn't think she'd ever see the other side of, head held high and heart soaring with the knowledge that she would finally be... be...?
The very nature of her uncertainty flashes a suspicion through her, that if this is not real then that makes it only one possible thing — the Fade. Is this what nonmages experience when they dream, this lack of conviction, this muted grasp on their own mind? Not being able to see past the seams of the construction?
The thought tries to flit away, but she seizes upon it fiercely, like a dog with its jaws around elusive prey. The Fade. Malleable dreams and immutable reality. If this is not real, she must find the thread that will unravel it.
An accident, they say? Maybe — the enormous array of scars along her arms and over her body certainly suggest she's no stranger to physical trauma — but something feels off about the smiling, reassuring faces that greeted her when she woke up. Of course she's been knocked out before, that much she can tell is true, but it isn't nurses that should have been at her bedside. It should have been her healers, should have been... should have been...?
Names flicker through her, and faces, though she struggles to piece them together in a way that connects. Red hair, a vibrant accent, a crooked smile, a cat, a frown. Morrigan. Anders. Alistair? ... No matter. She'll find them. Whoever they are.
Hence her approaching every passing person with an expression of battle-worthy determination, searching each face intently and dismissing them when they fail to elicit a response. Despite her clear confidence, it's perhaps very obvious she is not, at least as far as she knows, from around here. ]
iii. (picnic) [ With the absentmindedness of someone clearly accustomed to eating anything put in front of her, Cosette grazes along the various tables and barbecue pits, keeping her lemonade cold in one frost-flaked hand and her brats hot in the other, glowing with warmth and faintly smoking. For the most part, she spends the afternoon snacking, half-certain that everything is her favorite but equally sure that she's never eaten most of this stuff in her life.
By now, she's realized that this isn't the Fade — too well-structured, too consistent, and not a single spirit around to poke — but it still clashes so poorly with her memories of a world that warns of false images and projections that she has no intention of trusting it.
... That doesn't mean she can't have a little fun, though. When night falls and the fireworks go up, Cosette watches them for a while with a critical eye before deciding that they're simply not exciting enough. With a sharp gesture and a ribbon of concentration, Cosette sends up an electric-purple flare of lightning into the air along with the fireworks, the burst of it eclipsing the fizzling red, white, and blue sparks, and treats anyone who glances over at her with a smile both smug and playful. You're welcome, Wayward Pines. ]
warden-commander amell / dragon age
[ The nurses and doctors don't seem to want to let her leave yet, bleating soothingly about recovery and her memories and needing time to set up her housing. Cosette Amell is very good at playing along, settling back in her bed, looking tired, letting her eyes fall closed as if it's simply too much effort to keep them open.
As soon as the room is empty, however, she leaves without hesitation. Perhaps other people may resort to sneaking out of the hospital in nothing but a flimsy gown and the skin they were born in, but Cosette is inclined to neither sit around and wait for permission nor embarrass herself by acting like a shifty criminal.
No, she steals a set of nurse's scrubs and walks out the front door, the hospital gown still tucked under her arm, to offer as... proof, maybe, of having really been a patient, or to elicit sympathy if necessary. There's very little she understands about this situation, which is why she's preparing for every possibility she can think of, but she lets none of her confusion show on her face. She does remember doing something similar not too long ago though, passing through a set of doors she didn't think she'd ever see the other side of, head held high and heart soaring with the knowledge that she would finally be... be...?
The very nature of her uncertainty flashes a suspicion through her, that if this is not real then that makes it only one possible thing — the Fade. Is this what nonmages experience when they dream, this lack of conviction, this muted grasp on their own mind? Not being able to see past the seams of the construction?
The thought tries to flit away, but she seizes upon it fiercely, like a dog with its jaws around elusive prey. The Fade. Malleable dreams and immutable reality. If this is not real, she must find the thread that will unravel it.
An accident, they say? Maybe — the enormous array of scars along her arms and over her body certainly suggest she's no stranger to physical trauma — but something feels off about the smiling, reassuring faces that greeted her when she woke up. Of course she's been knocked out before, that much she can tell is true, but it isn't nurses that should have been at her bedside. It should have been her healers, should have been... should have been...?
Names flicker through her, and faces, though she struggles to piece them together in a way that connects. Red hair, a vibrant accent, a crooked smile, a cat, a frown. Morrigan. Anders. Alistair? ... No matter. She'll find them. Whoever they are.
Hence her approaching every passing person with an expression of battle-worthy determination, searching each face intently and dismissing them when they fail to elicit a response. Despite her clear confidence, it's perhaps very obvious she is not, at least as far as she knows, from around here. ]
iii. (picnic)
[ With the absentmindedness of someone clearly accustomed to eating anything put in front of her, Cosette grazes along the various tables and barbecue pits, keeping her lemonade cold in one frost-flaked hand and her brats hot in the other, glowing with warmth and faintly smoking. For the most part, she spends the afternoon snacking, half-certain that everything is her favorite but equally sure that she's never eaten most of this stuff in her life.
By now, she's realized that this isn't the Fade — too well-structured, too consistent, and not a single spirit around to poke — but it still clashes so poorly with her memories of a world that warns of false images and projections that she has no intention of trusting it.
... That doesn't mean she can't have a little fun, though. When night falls and the fireworks go up, Cosette watches them for a while with a critical eye before deciding that they're simply not exciting enough. With a sharp gesture and a ribbon of concentration, Cosette sends up an electric-purple flare of lightning into the air along with the fireworks, the burst of it eclipsing the fizzling red, white, and blue sparks, and treats anyone who glances over at her with a smile both smug and playful. You're welcome, Wayward Pines. ]
wildcard. (surprise her)