faderift | (no subject)

(no subject)

WHO: Cyril and Mac
WHAT: Cyril meets another Qunari
WHEN: Evening
WHERE: Tavern
NOTES: None yet.

Cyril had had a mostly successful day at his stall. He had sold enough traps to have a good amount of gold. He was planning to save some of it, of course, but there was some of it that could be spent in the tavern. He found himself there towards the end of the day.

He scanned over the room and took in any familiar faces. He found one that belonged to another Qunari that he had seen around but hadn't spoken to yet. Which was a real shame, because Mac was beautiful and deserved to be admired.

After a moment, he went over to the stranger and smiled up at him. "You look like you could use a drink. My treat?"

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"Sh...should you really be just...suggesting things like that of total strangers? Don't you worry about anything?" he asked, fretting a bit. He didn't flinch away from the hand on his back, but then again, Mac's feelings about things were largely more innocent than most people's. He didn't think all that deeply about more mature matters; they hadn't ever applied to him.

"It's not that I'm not interested. That isn't to say I am!" he hurried to amend, hunching a bit more, cheeks coloring and ears burning. How was he supposed to have a sensible conversation under the circumstances?

"What am I even suppose to say?" he complained to himself, fretting visibly. What did you say to be honest and polite without leading a person on? Was it his responsibility or Cyril's if there was a misunderstanding? What was there to misunderstand?

"Y-you're very lovely - I mean, I adore elves especially - b-but I don't even know you? Buying a drink...that's not some kind of sign I mixed up, is it? I'll pay you back..."

Every moment that Mac spoke, Cyril just felt himself all the more charmed. There was something so unique about seeing a Qunari be so innocent and awkward.

"You don't have to pay me back," Cyril said calmly. "And you don't have to be so worried, my friend. I'm used to making my intentions clear upfront so there is no miscommunication. If the other party isn't interested then I know right away that friendship is the best path with them."

A sigh of relief passed full lips with a soft whistle as Mac leaned back a bit and counted his blessings. The idea of paying anything back actually distressed him more than the rest. What little money he did have wasn't anything he wanted to part with. Financially savvy he was not.

"That doesn't seem like a very good system," he remarked after a moment of calming silence, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Nope, not at all. Because maybe the other party would be interested if you gave 'em a little time, but because you just....wham, come in with a wallop, they get all discombobulated and can't make a decision. Or what if they don't know about....that kinda stuff. Like they don't know if it's okay to talk to another guy like that. Or they don't know about flirting and all in general, huh? You're kinda wrecking a chance before you even got it, right?" Mac asked, opening one eye to look pointedly at Cyril, closing it again for an expression of serenity.

So enlightened, that one.

"Of course I'm not surprised. I'm totally hot, it'd mess anyone up. BUT! First impressions are key," the Guardian tsked softly.

"You should have been more flattering. Mhm. Commented on my fantastic hair. Oooh, look at his eyes, so dazzling!" he chimed happily, easily distracting himself from his earlier nervousness with his own dialogue.

Cyril leans forward a bit. "Your eyes are dazzling," he responds with a small smile.

"You know that is a rather good point. It's never happened before, but I enjoy the input. I'll put it to mind." He still seems pretty charmed by Mac.

"You know, it's not just your looks that make you gorgeous though. In just this time we've been talking you've prove to be a very unique and interesting individual."

"Everyone is unique and interesting, that's not saying much," Mac retorted with a sidelong glance before grinning happily at the compliments, regardless. The Guardian spent a lot of time flattering himself where others wouldn't back home; it was nice being a novelty in Thedas where his looks were considered fairly domestic back home.

"So are we just going to sit here and comment on each other's more outstanding features? Should I extol the many virtues of handsome young elf? Wax poetic about how the delicate curves of an elf's ears are like looking upon God's work in a seashell's taper?" he drawled batting his lashes and puckering his lips in a deliberately overdramatic manner, making a few noisy kissing sounds.

"Mmm, muah muah. The willowy frame and delicate curvature of Thedas' most graceful living thing; lo, but I am to be struck blind by nature's finest works of art," he sighed, turning in his seat and posing against the bar as though fainting, only to open one eye and smile at Cyril before propping his head in one hand and winking.

"Looks aren't everything. If they were, I'd already be royalty back home," he snorted softly, brushing invisible debris from his tunic.

"What do you do, aside from flattering weird horned strangers in bars? Bit of a bookworm? More adventurous? Outside of the sheets, I mean."

Every time that Mac speaks Cyril just seems more and more charmed. He rests his chin against a hand and watches him with a smile on his face that shows that he is genuinely enjoying this conversation and being in Mac's presence. He also likes the compliments, even if Mac might be saying them to make a point.

"I do a few things," Cyril answers. "I make and sell traps and other trinkets during the day, scout when needed, and work as the liaison for the Dalish who find themselves here in Skyhold."

He glances around a bit. "And you aren't 'weird'," he points out. "There's enough Qunari and Tal-Vashoth around to make people used to the sight of you." Though, again, few were as 'pretty' as Mac was, they all were massive and extremely distracting.

"Traps and trinkets," he mumbled to himself, eyes sliding off to the side briefly before he perked, sitting up a little straighter and pointing happily. "You're like a Hunter! I mean, not like a hunter-hunter. It means a little different where I'm from than it does here. That's really neat, though! Very impressive, mhm," the Guardian chimed without an ounce of mocking in his tone. He genuinely believed what he said.

"Oh, I'm weird. I'm the only one around here that can sing all the popular songs from forty years of my ancient history. I'm also the only one that I know of that can dance the Running Man, or Moonwalk. And I've been to space, and spontaneously fused a helmet to my cranium so now everything thinks I'm a Qunari or reasonable facsimile!" Mac laughed, likely making very little sense, though he was clearly quite secure with himself and his retelling.

"Unless you qualify weird entirely different from everyone I've ever met. Or maybe the word doesn't even mean anything to you. You kinda seem like someone that just breezes over all the odds and ends and kinda...I dunno," he gestured vaguely, wiggling the fingers of one hand in the air. "We call it laissez faire, back home. Letting things occur as they will without direction or interference. Just taking their course. Carefree."

Cyril's eyes widen a bit as Mac talks. "You mean you're a Rifter? You're a Rifter from space?" He nudges a little closer now, even more interested than he was before.

He can't believe he could have been asking all sorts of questions about space and star ships and travel between planets and wasted it all with flirting - not that he ever really considered flirting a total waste.

"Why don't you tell me about it? I might not understand some of what you say, but I'm sure I can ask questions. For example, what do you mean a helmet fused to you?"

"I am indeed a Rifter from space!" Mac laughed, cocking his head to the side and smirking in his amusement. It never got old, being a novelty here where his ilk was fairly commonplace back home.

"Ahh, that. Yes, well, it didn't actually fuse to my head," he amends a bit sheepishly, gesturing vaguely to his horns. "I don't actually have horns where I'm from. I'm, uh, more streamlined. Just imagine me as I am sans horns and that's me back home. But I had a helmet on with these very same horns prior to my arrival and it looks like the magic couldn't make heads or tails of me and spit me out in one solid piece or something. Not that I'm complaining, really. They get in the way of everything and make it bloody hard to lay on my side, but past that, they're friggin' awesome," the Guardian grinned, reaching up and smacking the coiled sides of his gold-coated horns.

"I'm pretty eager to headbutt someone, not gonna lie."

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