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WHO: Eirlys and OPEN
WHAT: A day in the life of a city elf who is way out of her depth
WHEN: A couple of days before leaving for the Mire
WHERE: Around Skyhold
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a) Courtyard
Technically weapons were forbidden in the alienage, but Eirlys had slept with a knife hidden under her pillow for as long as she could remember. She'd been unarmed on the road though, knowing that Wellow would surely have found it travelling in such close quarters -- though she knew that it wouldn't have made any difference when faced with the demons, that she would have panicked in exactly the same way.

She'd been a little surprised that she'd been allowed weapons here, still feeling very much an elvish outsider in a human run organisation, but the only odd looks she'd got when she'd taken them from the stores were the sheer amount and variety that she carried. Now she's got them laid out on the ground in front of her - a couple of swords and axes of various sizes and weights, a bow and arrows, a dagger only slightly bigger than the one she'd got back home, a spiked mace that scares her a little looking at it - picking them up in turn and swinging them around, trying to get used to the feel of them and see which one worked best for her. If she was going to help the Inquisition, after all, first she'd better know how to defend herself.

b) Medical tents
Things were relatively quiet, the influx of wounded having slowed to a steady trickle. Eirlys spends most of the afternoon as more of a first aider than healer, inspecting days old wounds for signs of infection, changing bandages and poultices, giving advice to far less severe cases - a man with a bad rash; a couple of cases of food poisoning; checking up on a pregnant woman. It's the sort of work she likes, providing a definite solution and feeling like she's making a difference, but without the same weight of the world that she'd felt with the pressure of the seriously wounded from Haven or the epidemics she'd helped treat in the alienage.

She's about to leave and find some dinner when a group of young men, barely more than teenagers, saunter up to the tents. One of them is limping badly, his arms around the shoulders of the other two, who are holding him up. A sparring injury, most likely. Eirlys stands as they approach, offering a smile that's far more confident than any she's given here so far-- then jumps back, startled, as one of the men spits at the ground in front of her, barely missing her feet. "Forget it," the wounded man says. "Don't want any knife-ear looking at it. Take me inside and get me an ale, I'll wait for one of the human healers."

The newfound spring in her step has disappeared as she makes her way back to the kitchens, and she walks with her shoulders hunched over, gaze fixed on the floor, her confidence having fled entirely.

c) Kitchen
She'd taken her supplies back with her, intending to distract herself by grinding up the necessary herbs for poultices, hoping that the mind-numbing work would help her forget and make the bitterness brewing in her disappear. Placing the vials of ingredients in the corner she's claimed, she turns her back for just a moment to see if there's any food left over when a cat comes bounding through, a huge chicken leg in its mouth, being chased by one of the cooks. As it evades the broom she's wielding it comes clattering through Eirlys' corner, the vials spilling over and the herbs scattering over the floor.

With a resigned sigh, she bends down and begins to clean up, sweeping up the elfroot leaves into one vial, embrium petals into another, and so on. However a keen eyed observer would notice that the neatly written labels on the vials don't match the ingredients she's pouring into them whatsoever. The spindleweed is tidied into a bottle reading blood lotus, the blood lotus in the elfroot jar, and so on.

She can't read. She's managed to conceal it so far -- although only to her detriment, as so much of the goings on at Skyhold have been communicated through the bulletin board, which she's entirely unable to make head nor tail of. But anyone walking through would be able to get the picture fast enough, even though Eirlys is oblivious that she's doing anything wrong.

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Cyril had arrived at the tents to get some basic supplies. He overhears that comment and stops, glaring at the man. He has a desire to pay him back right there, but instead he memorizes his face. He'll bring it up with his brother later and they'll think of something worthy to do to him.

For now, he's much more concerned about her. She might not have vallaslin but she's still an elf. So he follows her, carefully. He doesn't want to spook her.

"I'm thinking of what to do to repay that stupid shem for his words," he says when they are beyond earshot of humans. "Spiders in his bedroll? Spit in his stew? What do you think?"

Eirlys slows her pace a little now that they're a safe distance away from humans, trying to offer a grateful smile to Cyril for making sure she's all right, one that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"As tempting as that sounds, we'd just be showing that we can sink to their level, and proving their point."

He doesn't like that the smile doesn't quite make itself all the way through her face, so he cautiously comes closer.

"As you wish, though we could work to make sure they don't know it's us," he offers, though it's clear he won't push if she is still uncomfortable with the idea. Though he might still talk to Merrick about doing something without her.

"You sound as though you have some experience with this." She's a little intrigued, despite herself. She wonders how much mischief he's already gotten into around Skyhold, antagonising the various human authorities trying to assert themselves.

After spending hours upon the battlements gazing out into the bleak wilderness, Alayre finds him slowly marching back to his quarters. Everything that could've gone wrong has and the Knight-Commander is at a loss what to do. As much as he wants to pretend he can shoulder all of his burdens alone, Alayre knows he cannot. The disappearance of his brother-in-arms has left him vexed. It's truly difficult to walk this path of redemption without the other and Alayre isn't too certain if he can. His heart is heavy with worries and doubts. Skyhold is still a mess and everything else is just as worse off. Abandoned in his fate and utterly alone within it, Alayre almost didn't noticed the little elven woman if it hadn't been for her wide array of weaponry spread out before her.

A look of surprise linger in his grey eyes once he spots the mace. That's a particularly nasty looking weapon that looks as if has seen it's fair share of battle. He peers at the weapon curiously as he takes a few steps forward. Still dressed very much like a Templar but with the finery of a Knight-Commander and a long red cloak, Alayre must've looked a tad imposing to the elf maid.

"If I may ask--" His tone is gentle despite his frightening armor. The Templar have a terrible history amongst their Order, a history that cannot be ignored. "Where did you...find that one?" The man's Orlesian, so he might sound a tad odd to her. The accent gives away his foreign origins easily.

His tone may be gentle, but the combination of the armor and the Orlesian accent makes her shrink back - as well as sounding a little odd to her, most of what she knows of Orlais is how conditions in the alienages are even worse than in Ferelden. She abruptly drops the sword she'd been testing out, the blade narrowly missing her feet as it sinks into the grass.

"I borrowed it from the storage where the practise weapons are kept, the same as the rest of them. I didn't steal it, ser, I swear."

The elf's abruptness caught Alayre by surprise. "Wait! Be careful--" Thank the Maker that the sharp edge of that sword missed her foot.

The Knight-Commander let's out a mild sigh as he reaches down for the hilt. "Of course you didn't steal it. I'm not accusing you of that." Alayre replies once he picks up the sword. He eyes it curiously for a moment before offering the hilt of it to the startled elf.

"Alas, I forget myself at times. I didn't mean to frighten you." He says with a slight smile. "Here. This belongs to you."

She resists laughing at the irony of someone like him offering weapons to an alienage elf. She reaches for the sword tentatively, part of her assuming that he's going to snatch it away from her, and grasps the hilt awkwardly, shifting herself to regain her balance with the heavy weapon weighing down one side.

"Thank you. I'm not sure it suits me too well, though."

The irony of it all isn't lost on him, especially since in Orlais most elves are nothing more than humble servants and rarely anything else. The elves across Thedas have been justly persecuted by the humans and thus forced indentured servitude. Alayre never quite liked this aspect about society and never reaped the benefits of it. The servants at Pharos were usual humans except one or two elves that used to work there.

"You own a sword yet you cannot wield it?" He scoffs a little. "What good are these weapons if you cannot master them? Surely you could practice or seek apprenticeship." The Knight-Commander definitely disapproves with this predicament.

"Mayhaps I could show you."

"I-- I don't own it. I was allowed to borrow it from the stores with the others." She bristles a little as he scoffs at her, but shies away from responding in kind, having seen what happens to those who speak out against human authorities all too often. "We've never been allowed weapons in the alienage. I still have a little trouble believing I'm allowed one here."

She softens a little at his offer. "If you truly wouldn't mind. And if it wouldn't detract from your duties. I don't want to be any trouble."

Having a sudden craving for hearth cakes after spending past few hours training and then patrolling outside Skyhold, Korrin feels she's earned a break and a reward. She's at least changed out of her armor and made herself somewhat presentable, after complaints from kitchen staff who weren't pleased at what her boots dragged in last time. Never upset those who prepare the food is a lesson Korrin learned early and has taken to heart.

She enters as Eirlys is cleaning up, temporarily putting aside her own reason for coming to the area. Bending down, she scoops up some elfroot before it can be trampled and heads over to offer it. "Here, this almost--" She pauses upon noting the jars, and their contents. That said contents don't match is evident after a moment to check and though normally she would spare someone's pride, healing ingredients are too vital to be incorrectly placed.

"...ah, the elfroot is in the wrong vial. As are the others. Unless you were simply trying to get them off the floor first." Which might be the case? She doesn't know Eirlys that well, yet.

Eirlys looks a little confused as Korrin says that they're in the wrong vials, and holds up the elfroot close to her, frowning as she squints at it, trying to work out what she's done. Then it occurs to her and she feels instantly mortified, not quite being able to meet Korrin's eyes as she replies. "I didn't know. I thought-- that is, I can't--" She could count on one hand the number of elves she'd met that could read, and while she'd always dreamed of being able to, she'd never thought it would be essential for her.

"Ah, I see." Korrin shakes her head, not about to lay blame for something beyond what Eirlys could help. "I can help put them where they ought to be, if you'd like. I didn't want to put you on the spot, but it's better fix that before they're needed, just in case." Her tone is casual and matter of fact, not wanting to embarrass the elf woman further.

"I know, if someone needed to use them and didn't know which was which..." It could potentially be catastrophic. She stares at the strange squiggles on the labels almost resentfully, seeing only yet another barrier put in her way by privileged humans determined to keep her on the lowest rungs of society.

It's difficult for her to ask for help, especially with something like this, but she knew that there really wasn't any other option. She just had to swallow her pride and get it over with, glad that at least it was Korrin who'd found her, someone who wasn't going to belittle her for it. "If you wouldn't mind. It would be a great help to me."

"I don't mind at all." Korrin starts, not as efficient as one who's focus is such things, but she's more intent on doing it right than doing it fast. Her initial plan for entering the kitchen is currently forgotten, but that doesn't bother her in the least.

"Perhaps there should be drawings on the labels, in case it happens again. Or if you end up with the spare time, I can do my part to help make them intelligible to you." She's never taught anyone other than in matters of how to hold a staff and use battle magic. Reading is another issue, but since she already knows how, couldn't she find a way?

[In the end, Bruce had been the one to treat the wounds of the injured man. Though if anybody noticed that he wasn't as nice as he usually would be, well, its not as if those particular patients knew anyway.

Plus he made sure they got the terrible-smelling poultice.

Once that was all done Bruce made his way towards the kitchens where he had seen her go to. The door is strangely left open when he arrives there, and he worries for a moment before he sees that she is inside there - most likely somebody forgot to close the door or something.

He goes inside and closes the door behind him, making sure she knows of his presence before he speaks.] Didn't think I would be seeing you here.

[Bruce had been kind to her and she felt solidarity with him as a fellow healer, and that just managed to outweigh her current ill feeling toward humans. She glances up from where she's sweeping up her herbs back into their containers, attempting a smile but knowing that she still looks more wary than anything.]

I've sort of been living here. Beds are in short supply, and I wanted to make sure that those who need them get them.

[She's slept on the kitchen floor for enough of her life, having been a live-in servant, that it doesn't matter too much to her.]

[Bruce makes it a point to maintain a safe distance from her, having sensed her wariness and not wanting to make it worse. It must be incredibly hard, having to deal with all of that - at least he himself had the benefit of still being human, in a matter of speaking.

When she tells him that she's been sleeping here though he blinks in surprise, and then frowns in concern.] Oh--you could have told me. I would have gladly let you use my tent.

[He himself is used to being out in the open anyway, what with his life before this. He'd rather let somebody else use it than take it for himself.]

Oh, I couldn't impose like that. [The idea of turning someone out of their berth was unthinkable to her, especially when space was limited.] It's all right. I've slept on the kitchen floor most of my life.

That doesn't mean you should keep doing that. [Bruce tries his best not to make a face here - it always gets to him when people are treated so unfairly just because of what they are. It hits a bit too close to home for him.] And it's not an imposition at all. You deserve a proper place to rest just like everyone else.

[Rationally, she knows that he's right. It's just difficult to get it through her head that she really is an equal here, that the comments and discrimination were the exception rather than the rule.]

If you really wouldn't mind. And if it wouldn't inconvenience you at all. I wouldn't dream of turning you out of your own berth.

It's hardly an inconvenience at all.

[He's had to make do with worse conditions and places before. Having a tent of his own? A place? It is appreciated, but even having those feels excessive for him, honestly speaking.]

There's no reason why you shouldn't have your own place as well, given how you've been helping out so much. I'll try to see if I can ask somebody to secure a proper place for you tomorrow.

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Medical Tents

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Courtyard

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Kitchen

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Medical Tents -> Kitchens

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