Player Plot: I will call you home

[arlathvhen]

WHO: Beleth, Cyril, Merrick, and Ellana Ashara, Thranduil, Sina Dahlasanor, Metaari, Sam Gareth, Kallian Endris, Alistair and Ruby i think??? whoever wants to go
WHAT: Keeping Up With The Asharas, the reality tv show
WHEN: Backdatedish, around mid-kingsway
WHERE: The Heartlands of Orlais
NOTES: OOC post

Tel'enfenim, da'len Irassal ma ghilas Ma garas mir renan Ara ma'athlan vhenas Ara ma'athlan vhenas	Never fear, little one, Wherever you shall go. Follow my voice-- I will call you home. I will call you home.

Clan Ashara currently resides in a small valley nestled into the mountains, that seems idyllic for a Dalish clan. A stream runs through the valley, descending into a waterfall with the steep cliffs on one side, and sheer mountain walls going straight up on two other sides. The only way in and out is through a gap big enough to lead several aravels through. It's a defensible position, safe from any threats. Except the fade rift that has opened up just a little ways from the gap. The hunters can handle the demons spewing from it well enough, and there are always a couple stationed there to pick off whatever appears. But it's too dangerous to lead the aravels and noncombatants through, and thus, they are forced to wait. To compound the issue, there's a village close to where they're currently staying, and while both sides have kept to themselves, neither are pleased with the current situation. They've helped get a message to the Inquisition in hopes that someone will come take care of the problem, and now both are tensely waiting for something to happen to change the situation, for better or worse. And so the members of Clan Ashara, with their friends in tow, return back to their clan.

Comments

[samahl]

It's one of the nights that they've camped and Cyril is sitting by the fire. To someone who doesn't know him, they'd see him casually lying back and enjoying the warmth of the fire, but those who are closer to him in this journey will see the angle of his limbs, the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

He has a lot of mixed feelings about going back home.

[rowancrowned]

"You look troubled, Cyril." Thranduil folds himself into sitting beside the younger elf, hands wrapped around a tin cup filled with hot tea. It's getting chilly, these nights, and soon there will be snow. For now, it's simply comfortable, though perhaps they might need to share tents on the return trip.

He offers the cup- which has totally been fortified with some dubious clear alcohol, and uses his now free hand to sweep his hair over one shoulder. "Unburden yourself. You seem as though you need someone to listen."

[samahl]

It's probably for the best the idea of sharing a tent with Thranduil wasn't spoken aloud, as it would likely distract Cyril for the remainder of the trip.

Cyril takes the offered cup but when he smells the alcohol he doesn't drink. He hopes that won't be considered offensive for now. He hates the idea of disappointing the elves from their world. "Oh me? I'm about to return to my family. I'm happier than a nug in a sweater."

There's something to his tone that shows that it's fake, perhaps the way he forces it to sound off handed and casual.

[rowancrowned]

He smiles, reaches for the cup and settles it back between his hands, letting it warm his palms and leave his fingers near tingling from the warmth.

"The Orlesians dress their nugs in clothing. I have not yet met a nug who was happier once freed." Gently chiding, because that tone is impossible to miss and he does care, truly. He raises his eyes from the cup to meet Cyril's gaze and hold it, lips softly turned in a smile.

[samahl]

For a moment, Cyril allows himself feel distracted by that smile and the way it plays on Thranduil's face. He's so beautiful that he makes Cyril's chest ache in a way that is both familiar and so strange.

"You're right, I'll have to think of a different analogy," he says. He offers Thranduil a small smile. "Why wouldn't I be fine? I'm about to see my elders again. I was raised by the Clan, you know. Many of us were because our parents died from illness. This is like seeing my parents once more."

[rowancrowned]

He isn't particularly fond of using little stories or parables to make his point, but it seems to be happening more and more often. He's better off embracing it. Thranduil's hands tighten around the cup as he shifts over, makes room for Cyril to come closer. The affection Cyril so obviously feels is sweet, not unwelcome. It's different from mortal lust, which he's used to his advantage. It hasn't been difficult to watch him a little closer, remember what he said on the crystal after what had amounted to a love story, and decide how to handle it.

Gently, and with grace, done so slowly over months that Cyril won't realize until the end that Thranduil's painted himself as utterly lacking all sensuality and suitability as someone to be desired. If only there were more Quendi here, he mourns, both for comfort and for the hope that some of them might find spouses among the elvhen. It would be a neater and tighter bind than his own plans.

Come closer, the newly emptied space and Thranduil's carefully angled body says.

"My son often was late for supper when he thought he might have done something to anger me."

[samahl]

Cyril already feels like every elf from Thranduil's world are untouchable in that way, but it has less to do with anything about them so much as this deep sense of them being so far out of his league that the mere thought is impossible. He had experienced that even when it was just Galadriel with all of her grace, beauty, and power. Though with her there hadn't been the weird ache or the deep sense of longing.

In truth, it has a lot less to do with them so much as everything they represent. Even Cyril knows that, which is why he tries so hard not to say stupid things around them. He doesn't want them to think that he overlooks their personhood in favor of the pedestal it's so easy to put them all on.

Cyril still takes the offer for closeness, because it's such a tender gift that he couldn't dream of turning it down. He settles there carefully and then offers a smile of gentle amusement at how easily that analogy hits the issue.

"I suppose that your wrath must be frightening. Most men who care as deeply as you do would feel that deeply as well."

[rowancrowned]

"He is my son." Is, is, even though Legolas is not here, is far from him, is- must be in Valinor by now, safe and happy. It's easier to speak of, now, without actually acknowledging verbally that Legolas ever was here or the manner by which he had left. He smiles, the barest expression, banishes the sadness from it- it is a glamour, always, he may do with it what he likes. "He never suffered more than perhaps a loss of the chance to go to market with his hunting group."

Of course, Legolas had never done anything worse than breaking a bow during an instance of drink-fueled rowdiness. None of them ever had. They were his elves. They understood what was expected of them. A death in a patrol group was its own punishment. He didn't need to tell them to train harder for the next time the spiders would be upon them. They already knew.

(Tauriel's betrayal still left a sour taste in his mouth.)

"Do you truly believe your clan will be angry with you?" His advice would be poor and useless if these feeling were more than anxiety. And then perhaps he would have cause to feel-- well, not wrath, but annoyance.

[samahl]

"No. Not angry. Disappointed," Cyril responded after a moment. He frowned a bit as he thought about it. He wasn't sure he could really fully explain this without seem ungrateful for all his Clan had done for him.

"That's probably much worse."

[rowancrowned]

"Disappointed? In you?" He sounds a tad incredulous- just a tad, a raised brow, concern. Cyril is- well, he hasn't done anything that would make Thranduil disappointed, but Cyril isn't his son, and he's yet to wholly decode the entirety of Dalish culture.

[samahl]

Despite himself, that expression and tone of voice makes Cyril smile. The thought that he was something the elves from Thranduil's world would be proud of made his chest feel warm and comfortable.

That didn't stop him from having the face the elves in Thedas, though, and the feeling faded quickly as he thought of it. "Yes," he says. "In me."

Then, after a moment, he opens up and begins to explain "You know, what we've lost here. You've been told the stories of Arlathan by now. I'd imagine those sound much more like home to you then what we have today."

He frowns a bit at the thought of it. Of how strange it must be for Thranduil and Galadriel to be in a world with elves who are barely shadows their own people. "We are a broken people, limping towards an uncertain future with only fragments of who we once were. If we ever wish to return to that - if we ever will be able to restore ourselves, that means future generations. That means children."

[rowancrowned]

"Not wholly." They had elements of what ought to be- the long life, the art, the connection to the land. But other pieces disgusted him. His expression stays light, polite, his hands still around the cup. He's moved beyond the problem of how they wed so freely and frequently, but the violence, the cruelty, the kinslaying- that sticks, and makes him think that perhaps what was ought to be released. A better future can be built.

"Which you have no interest in begetting." Ah. This makes it much more simple. He sets the cup down, off to the side, and takes Cyril's hand in his own, warm from the heat of the cup. "And they have this same... attitude towards an elf who might have been injured in some way and is also unable to beget children?"

[samahl]

Cyril raised his brow a bit. "You mean pity?" he asked. "It's not that I have no interest in children, it's that I have no interest in women. Many in the Clan have been accepting of that, as long as I eventually settle down and continue the blood line."

[el_tybs]

He's worn out from the trip and about to turn in for the night when he notices Cyril by the fire, noting the stiffness in his body. For a time Sam just watches before he slowly walks over and settles himself down in the dirt next to the elf.

"A copper for your thoughts?"

[samahl]

Cyril moves closer to Sam and then leans against him. "With you around, my thoughts are all naughty."

[el_tybs]

"Oh? How do you get anything done then?" Once Cyril has settled against him, Sam stretches out his legs as he wraps an arm around Cyril's shoulders. "I was coming along to see your clan and offer support, but it sounds like I'm being a distraction instead."

[samahl]

"A good kind of distraction though, my favorite kind," he teases a bit. Honestly, he wouldn't be as nervous if Sam was with him all of the time.

[el_tybs]

"Ah, so am I doing a good job then?" Well he could certainly try to be around as much as he could, but he isn't sure how things will be once they get to the clan. There was a lot of people he was sure Cyril wanted to catch up with. "Who were we talking about that I should meet if I ever visited the clan?"

[samahl]

"You always do," Cyril reassures. His opinion of Sam is pretty biased. Then, after a moment, "The Crafter always liked me. She can seem a little hard though so don't expect warmth. She lost her daughter in the plague that killed my mother..." He pauses for a moment, frowning a bit in thought. "We'll all be greeted by the Keeper and the First. The First is Beleth's twin brother, Sorrel. He's..." There's a pause, as he considers how to word things. "He's lovely. He has these eyes that you could get lost in and his own unique sense of humor. If he hadn't have been the Keeper's son, I probably would have tried to lose my virginity to him..." As always, Cyril is almost too open when it comes to sex.

"Then there's Kali. She lost both of her parents in the plague when she was but an infant. She grew up with me and Merrick. If she hadn't stayed behind, Merrick probably would have. She's one of the only people he trusts with the safety of the Clan. She fights almost the exact same way that he does because he taught her."

[el_tybs]

Sam frowns lightly when he hears about the plague, more so about Cyril's mother. Even though they talked that hadn't been a subject they really touched upon. Still not talking about considering how Cyril completely turned the conversation on its head - some times Sam just couldn't keep up.

Letting out a long sigh and running a hand through his hair before resting his head in his palm, the mage raises a brow. He mentioned a lot of people, but now he's stuck on this twin. "Is this you saying you're going to be spending the time at the clan ogling him, or that I should try getting charmed by this Sorrel?"

[samahl]

Cyril chuckles a bit. "I might ogle a little, but he's basically untouchable." He glances towards the direction he knows Beleth is, somewhere else in this came. "Have you seen his sister work with weapons? I don't want to be on the wrong side of that."

[el_tybs]

"A little bit." Back during the Fallow Mire, but he hasn't seen Beleth's work since then much. "Well you know if anyone comes after you I will have to step in. Just saying. I would appreciate that you don't get on Beleth's bad side since I don't want to see her weapons first hand."

[samahl]

"No way I would want to do that just for my own sanity, let alone your safety." He chuckles a bit. "Plus Merrick would be really irritated. Not that he isn't all the time already."

[el_tybs]

"Yeaaaah... I would appreciate not having Merrick coming after me either. I can only handle so many elves." Honestly he's not sure where he stands with Merrick at the moment. "Well Sorrel sounds the most interesting to talk to - such a high recommendation."

[samahl]

Cyril grins a bit. "Yeah. I think him and Kali, though knowing her, she'll be busy helping to fight demons." Then, after a moment, "Just... be careful with the Keeper, all right? She can be a little intense."