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VII. CLOSED.
WHO: Alistair and Sabine
WHAT: Puppy killing in disgrace.
WHEN: At a point in Kingsway.
WHERE: Orlesian wilds!!!
NOTES: No actual killing of puppies, probably.
WHAT: Puppy killing in disgrace.
WHEN: At a point in Kingsway.
WHERE: Orlesian wilds!!!
NOTES: No actual killing of puppies, probably.
[ They'd asked her where she got such a handsome wolf-skin cloak, and she'd told them the truth; that she slew one, mad with red lyrium, in Emprise du Lion. That's how they wind up here.
In woodlands turning golden with the changing of the season. Dry leaves crackle underfoot. There aren't any spikes of red lyrium pushing out from the earth, nor are there any rifts that haven't already been closed, but the presence of overly aggressive, Fade-touched wolves have been reported by numerous travellers. Sabine had taken the task for promise of gold, and she might have even mentioned this reward to Alistair when she recruited his help.
It's becoming cooler as the afternoon begins its retirement. Her cloak staves it off, wearing light leathers beneath, and while she is cautious, and attempting to track the signs of the forest around her, she isn't moving in the way she would if she were hunting prey animals. Likely, there's little point in trying to sneak up on a wolf.
Eventually, Alistair will hear; ]
Alistair.
[ --in such an understated and quiet voice that it's probably like that for a reason.
And he will see her belly down on the forest floor, peering into the open hollow of a fallen log. Without waiting for him to look too or lend advice, she is reaching a gloved hand inside, and when she pulls it back out, she has a fistful of the scruff of a squirming wolf puppy, one that squeaks weakly, dangling and feeble. ]
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It would be a fiercer smile without a puppy paw planted against her cheek.
Both puppies hefted in her arms, Sabine stands, although she is quick to renegotiate one of them into Alistair's. Back the way they came, then, not precisely empty handed, but probably the opposite of what they had set out to do. ]
Kind of you, [ she says, ] to give me such an easy joke. But I have seen enough of Ferelden to know that there people are not actually raised by their dogs.
[ She tips her wolf puppy a little to concede-- ]
Perhaps educated by them.
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I, [ Alistair begins with loftiness that suggests she may not be wrong about other Fereldans, ] was educated by the Chantry. [ A beat, during which he hitches up a cub where it's slipping sideways against his shoulder. ] But I would have rather stayed with the dogs. They let me eat with my hands. They were very proud, in fact--your puppies know seven commands, but ours has opposable thumbs.
[ His mimicry of his imaginary dog-parent's voice comes complete with barky gruffness. That might be too much. Once it's out of his mouth he glances sideways to check for impatience, reflexively, but he's also reflexively opposed to being caught trying to read an audience, so it's too quick and furtive a glance to actually register her expression.
His own verdict is that he should clear his throat, between crunching footsteps, and try talking like a normal person. ]
It's not the most outrageous thing, though, is it? In Orlais children are raised and educated by Orlesians.
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[ It may or may not be to his credit that talking in a gruff dog voice is around what she expects out of him. In his quick glance, he doesn't see the raised eyebrow, the subtle shake of her hair that barely disrupts her curls, but he will feel the back of her knuckles bounce off his arm in a customary backhanded gesture in the midst of her admonishment. ]
Are we? [ is the kind of sarcasm that isn't trying very hard to disguise itself, unlike the sarcasm in her initial quip back. ] I thought we were born this way, along with our masks and our petticoats. Just ask the Inquisition.
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Heretics, [ he says dismissively, of the Inquisition. There are several things he could say, such as expounding on how messy that sounds, based on his limited knowledge of childbirth. Fortunately he swerves another way, with a longer sideways look that straddles the line between smirky and sincere. ] If you were all born this way I'd give up Ferelden altogether. Amél-io-rer mon accent.
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Ah well, [ she says, ] then I would have to find ways to ensure you do not regret your treachery.
[ But perhaps that hedges too closely to-- something. Whatever it is she finds herself only joking about when Alistair is right there and digging in her heels about when he is not. She takes the opportunity to speed up a step so as to climb up over a felled log first, going carefully with the animal in her hands. ]
Like fucking, [ she says, over a shoulder, just in case anyone ever accuses her of coy. ]
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Sabine is their only hope. And what well-placed hope it is.
His open mouth stays open for a moment while all the air he'd been planning to make words instead escapes in a soundless stream of vapor. But he doesn't drop the cubs to their deaths! And he doesn't fall down and crush them, also to their deaths. And he doesn't give into the urge to cover the cubs' innocent ears with his hands, so. Fuck you, he's doing great. ]
Well.
[ Probably he should keep walking. Probably he should not permit or encourage Sabine to leave him behind in the cold with puppies and never speak to him again. He stalls a moment by considering the log, then gracefully follows after her by sitting down on it and swinging his legs around for minimal puppy-crushing risk.
Then, still flat-voweled but otherwise improved over his usual awkwardly-careful faltering, and very far from the intentional butchering he inflicts on Orlesians he doesn't want to ever see naked, he adds: ]
Si tel est le cas.