After fighting the Red Templars together in late summer, Christine hasn't had much occasion to speak with Aleron concerning their research with red lyrium. Now that Samson has been captured, it has been encouraging Christine to work harder, especially since the leader of the Red Templars wasn't going to divulge any secrets to her. Still, it's slow going trying to find answers as to exactly how and why red lyrium works the way it does, so when Aleron contacts her asking to speak in private about this very topic, she's more than happy to set a time and place. Up on the battlements, guards walk a rotation or stand looking out, but there are spaces clear of any people and it's on one such stretch of wall that she waits to meet with the Seeker to see what he has to say.
This situation with Church was never something Christine could have ever prepared herself to tackle. His world was too strange and different for her to ever conceive of people being created artifically and then tearing pieces of their own mind away. But that's who Church is, and she's spent long enough away from him trying to understand it all. Funnily enough, it was while she was in the Sunless Lands of southern Orlais, trudging through heavy snow that she came to the realization that she didn't want anything to happen to her before she had the chance to apologize to him. After all he'd done for her, she had pulled away when he needed her the most. It wasn't right of her, and she is now determined to be there for Church no matter what.
It takes some time to track him down, but she finally does down in the valley as the snow is gently falling on the mountainside. She approaches slowly, as if he's a wild animal whom she might startle away. Wearing a cloak of blue lined with gray fur, she's easy to pick out against the bright, white snow. She pauses a few feet away from him.
Out in the valley, chopping wood, like a real man. Like a manly man who needs to pull his weight in the Inquisition and therefore got relegated to wood chopping duty for today, which is boring, but, it works his arms in a way that will be conducive to sword swinging, so maybe he'll become a buff mountain man. Fucking Paul Bunyan up in this shit.
He notices her coming--hard not to, since she makes the wise choice of not sneaking up behind him, with her blue cloak standing out. He doesn't chop any harder, but if he could, he would. Couldn't entirely blame her for her reaction; after all, what he said scared himself, too, and he was even from that world. But it would've been easier if he'd just made something the hell up. He's not supposed to talk about who or what he is. It makes people antsy and upset and sword-to-the-throat-y.
Church takes to regulated and appropriate emotions like a cat to water. As much as he likes seeing her, the hurt and vindictive side of himself wants to rear up and say something really unfortunate. Instead, he whacks one more lump of wood in two before thunking the axe into the chopping block. He hopes it looks really cool and woodsman-y and thematically appropriate. Spares her a look, his mouth a grim line, and looks back down at himself, brushing off some of the snow collecting on him despite his exertion. "I'm listening."
Were this any other time, Christine would be happy to admire his wood chopping skills. She would never pass up the opportunity to see a handsome man exert himself while building up muscle at the same time. But this isn't the time to get lost in lustful thoughts. She's here to apologize and even has a whole speech prepared. That's what Christine does. She wants things to be perfect and she overplans for everything. The wording of her speech has been turned over in her head again and again until she thinks it's as good as it can possible get, and now she just has to get it all out.
Clearing her throat, she takes a few steps closer until she's on the opposite side of the chopping block. If she wasn't so focused on her words, she'd probably note that there's some sort of metaphor here, like she's laying herself out on the chopping block to see if she'll be spared or not.
"Church," she begins, clasping her hands together in front of herself. "The last time we were together, you confided in me, and I did not react well. It was wrong of me to not give you as much support as you needed, and I deeply regret it. I am sorry that I treated you the way I did. I value you and I should have been a better friend to you." There. Did she remember the whole speech? Of course she did; she's Christine.
Well, that's sure...a thing that's happening right now. His eyebrows creep up. "How long'd it take you to memorize that one?" Because it definitely comes out too practiced for an off the cuff apology. Means she's been ruminating on this a while.
Church runs a hand through his hair, ruffing it up--a plus to not cutting it short? Warmth. Sighs and tries not to be angry about it, but still, the anger is burning. Not as much at her as at the entire situation. "Look, I dunno, what kind of support you could've given. It's not like it's a normal and fully understood thing even where I'm from. I'm an affront to nature as you know it and an abomination to your god. Whatever."
Her lips purse because he's caught her. She was hoping it sounded natural and not like a recitation, but unfortunately it hadn't turned out that way. And his dismissive behavior leaves her fumbling for a way to reassure him. She has no more speeches; all she can do is speak from the heart.
"You are not! I-- I do not even know if I believe in the Maker anymore." Such feelings have been growing in her over this past year, but they aren't ones she'd dare speak aloud to any in the Inquisition who are originally from Thedas. Meeting the Avvar spirits that they call their gods has only left her with more doubts.
Moving around the chopping block, she comes right up to Church, face pensive.
"You are different than anyone I know, but that does not make you an affront. I was in shock before. I was trying to understand. But now I realize that you are the same man you have always shown me. You held this secret for good reason and I am sorry I did not comfort you the way I should have done." Slowly, she brushes her fingertips along the back of his hand, imploring him to forgive her.
"You are a person. You are. One I do not wish to lose. Please believe me?"
There are things Church has picked up on either through his own studies or from simply existing in this world for--a year, just about. Must be about a year now. Sure, there are examples of whole swaths of people who don't believe in the Maker--a lot of elves, basically every qunari, dwarves have a tendency not to, and even a fair enough number of humans, but the fact that Christine Delacroix, mage of Orlais, admits that her faith in something so fundamental is wavering? He pays attention. It's a little shocking, and he's also kind of flattered she admits it to him.
In a way, this is how apologies should be. Awkward, rushed, off the top of the head. He's pretty miserable at them himself (what a surprise). And yet she's still a lot more eloquent than anyone else would normally be. It's stupidly endearing, and the addition of her touch only makes it the more emotional. Damn it, he is a manly woodsman! Manly men do not get emotional!
And yet here he is, trying pretty hard not to look it. It's just cold out here, that's all. "All that stuff I said, all that crazy bullshit about my life, where I'm from, what...what I am, you're okay with that?" As 'okay' as anyone can be with information like that, to be fair, which is not so much okay as...willing to look past it.
He turns his hand over, her hand resting in his. "I shouldn't have said. I knew it would...I knew something like this would happen, just--I-I mean it doesn't really change, what I said, it doesn't change who I am to you, right? Cuz, just, I'm not any fucking different from how I always damn well was. It's just...this...this extra information that's...it's really hard to deal with. So I don't. I don't have to here. I can just...be. Alive and human."
Christine Delacroix, mage of Orlais, who has been told her entire life that she must have been sinful to be punished with magic. That maybe if she prays hard enough, the Maker will forgive her and take her magic away. That it would just be better for everyone if she was dead or Tranquil because then she wouldn't turn into an abomination. Maybe if she wasn't a mage, she wouldn't have all these doubts. But being one and having doubts is what led the spirit of Faith to her, and she wouldn't wish things any other way.
She nods her head at his question, releasing a relieved breath as he takes her hand. This is what she's been hoping for. One more chance to make things right.
"At first I thought it must change everything, but then I really examined it and no, nothing has changed. I look at you and knowing how things were before you arrived, I think this must be a gift." Her other hand lifts to cup his cheek, her fingertips cold but gentle. "Whether it is the Maker, spirits, or something else, you were given this body because you were meant to live in it, yes? And so you shall."
Of all the things he thought of the situation, a gift is not really one of them. Sure, being alive is really special. Having a body where before he had...not really one? Also awesome. Gift? Well.
"I'm not sure that my god or your god like me enough to pluck me out of certain death, stuff me in a meatsuit, push my through a demon portal, and say hey, have fun in a time probably a thousand years behind you technologically--but on the other hand, that sounds just weird and dickish enough to happen to me." Yeah, no, honestly that feels about par for the course. Why is he even surprised?
Church turns his head just enough to kiss the palm of her hand. "I like living pretty well, though. I think most people would agree, living's pretty good. It's got its perks."
The thing about having such a dear friend as Sam was that it was easy to take the friendship for granted. He would always be there, she would always be there, and the two could always put off talking until neither were truly busy. But it shouldn't be so. Christine had traveled far into the south of Orlais amidst feet and feet of snow to track Red Templars, and the perilous journey caused her to realize she shouldn't be putting things off for another day in case she never got the chance. On her return to Skyhold, she resumed her work as a healer, but was quick to seek out Sam and request a night for just the two of them where they could talk.
"You can pick the location and whatever we do," she had said. "But I would love to catch up with you." And so the time had arrived when they were to meet.
With them being healers and being on missions, it probably should have been more apparent that they take the time to put aside moments that they could relax and enjoy each others' company. They certainly did that before, but as of late both of them had been busy. So when Christine returns and says that they should do just that, Sam eagerly agrees.
When the time comes Christine meets him in the kitchens, ingredients and everything already pulled out and set on the table by the time she arrives - as well as a bottle of alcohol. "Figured we could make a pie or something. Like old times," he says with a grin. Christine wanted to catch up, and this seemed like a more fun idea then just going to the tavern, and much warmer then going for a walk.
"Now there is an idea," she muses, before taking up the bottle of alcohol to see just what it is. Priorities. But she's quick to give him a smile in return before setting down the bottle and slipping an arm around his waist.
"I have missed you." Their lives have been kept busy as the Inquisition furthers its influence in the world and they each have duties and projects to keep them preoccupied. "I nearly froze my toes off in the Sunless Lands, and I am very glad to be back again."
"Missed you as well, glad to have you back," he says, returning the hug by putting his arm around Christine's shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. "Frozen toes you say? Sounds like you need to get some warmer socks."
After a time he looks down, brows raised. "Besides that, everything going alright?"
"I was dressed in as many warm clothes as I was able to move in," she protests lightly, giving him a gentle thwack on the stomach. But his question has her nodding and looking rather pleased with herself.
"Things are going well. I am coming along with my Knight-Enchanter specialization, practicing with blade and staff together. And I am not nearly as terrified of falling from a horse's back as I once was. What of yourself?"
Though the slap to his stomach is barely something to wince at, Sam still gives a bit of a groan, pouting lightly while he rubs the spot. The usual playful pretending.
"Oh yeah? Maybe one of these days we should have a match." Her spirit blade to his magic sword. "Sounds like you've been quite busy. Glad you were able to make time for this then." What about himself? Sam hums lightly at that, recalling what has happened since the last time they were together.
"Let's see. Conan is eating my shirt less. I'm getting pretty good at turning into a bear..." He trails off for a bit trying to think if there was anything else. Nothing really came to mind, and he didn't think Christine was inquiring about more private parts of life. "Meeting the new Rifters and all. Nothing too exciting."
"Oh, I am not sure we should do that," she says with a solemn shake of her head. "I would hate to embarrass you by besting you so quickly!" And now she can no longer stay serious as a broad smile spreads across her lips. There is little chance of her bringing him to the ground with so little experience under her belt.
"A bear? A shame Asher could not be here to see it." The loss of the man hurts less so many months on from it, but there is still a lingering sadness that tempers her smile into something more dim.
The smile brings one of his own, though a little lopsided in his case, since he was trying not to smirk at Christine's statement. "Oh? Well that certainly sounds like a challenge. Perhaps the next time we're free." He's joking as well, at least a little bit. It would do her some good to get some practice in.
"Hm," he hums lightly in agreement, having thought the same the first time he had turned into a bear and every time since. "I'm sure he would've been more then amused about that. Probably make me wrestle with him."
Christine hasn't been avoiding Yngvi, but he's a dwarf a person must take in small doses if they want to preserve their sanity, and she's been so busy this last month anyway. He would be a good source to obtain information from the hold, but on the other hand, he's likely to gloss over the things she'd want to know and spend an hour raving about the time he dropped an Avvar war axe on his foot and was told the gods were punishing him for taking what wasn't his. Or something. Christine is just going to write to Gjurd instead and ask him directly how the hold does. For now, she's out at one of the training spots within Skyhold. It's empty save her this time of day, which is good because she doesn't need an audience watch her try to swing a spirit blade. Her wrist is bandaged as a preventative measure against spraining it, and she uses the sword in tandem with her spells in order to keep a barrier over herself at all times. She's tired and sore, and probably should take a break. With one last slash at the training dummy, she steps back and blows out a breath, not knowing that she's being watched.
So Yngvi is actually busying himself with more than the usual business of being a nuisance (and haunting around Gwenaelle, teaching her dog how to dog, appearing whenever he thinks someone might be too close to Lex which is generally sort of always because how dare you) because he has to go down this mountain then back up...several mountain-ish bits. No stop at the Hardie Holdings because he's not invited solo and since Aura decided she wasn't coming back down, sending the Boneflayers for her things?
There's a big fancy phrase for it he's sure.
But packing is tiring, and wrangling nugs is a pain in the arse, and there are too many letters from Kirkwall finding him now without Asher to present them to. Things an Yngvi doesn't really want to think about really.
"Psst. Madame with the big stick. C'mere," he sidles over while he's chasing a trap component that's gone rolling and tumbling out of his hands, one hand clumsy because said component took a chunk out of the thumb and he just bandaged it and left it, because dirt heals y'know. "Got some news for you."
The Madame with the big stick takes to leaning on it a little, exhausted by her intense practice. Christine just isn't Christine if she isn't throwing herself completely into her work, whatever it may be. She's breathing hard, but straightens to ask, "Yes?" Her eyes narrow slightly, because this is Yngvi and what might be news to him would not be considered newsworthy to her. But she's willing to hear him out. She's due a break anyway.
"That's a shiny thing, bet it's worth a bob or two." Once, Gjurd thought that Yngvi and Gunnar were part magpie. Said it'd explain a great many things. Then they tried catching some and almost broke their necks so who won? He doesn't know. But he's sure he recalls that shiny piece.
Tossing the trap component up, he opens his pocket and ta-da there it goes, hidden away. Look at that, children and ladies would applaud. Incredible. But that's not why he's here, or well, not the main reason he's here because you know what the world is his stage or so he was taught. "Remember how you asked me a question 'bout dirty doglords? Got answers. Thought you'd like me to report. Because this is a legitimate organisation and all that shite."
"Sam made it for me," she says, drawing her fingers across the hilt on her belt and knowing who to question first if the spirit blade ends up missing. She's learning that it's not necessarily a good thing when Yngvi takes interest in something.
Her eyes follow the piece until it disappears into his pocket and she has to admit, he has good aim. If she mentioned it, he'd probably launch into a tale about Kirkwall and how he saved the day with his well timed aim, but he continues on and she suddenly smiles because, oh yes, she did ask him to collect information, didn't she?
"Do I need to be concerned?" Yngvi replies on the double because look he's seeing a very distinct pattern here. Sam is a dog. Barely because dogs shouldn't be more fluff than dog parts but he is, indeed, a dog, as Yngvi can attest from up close and personal things. And Christine has a dog. And she was around Asher plenty. And Asher was always around Bronson. Asher had a bit of doglord in him. More doglord than Avvar but the Avvar bit won the day same as how the Carta wins through before anything else in Yngvi.
Yngvi notices. S'how he ain't dead yet.
Anyway, best to get the obvious out of the way. "Bunch of them got right offended, like I said I'd shagged their mother and their father, some people honestly." Why are you like this, he hears in the familiar fond exasperation of Melisende's Halamshiral tones. "But depended on the state of the dog, the state of themselves. Orlesians were more likely to eat dog. People seemed to think I'd get m'self killed." D'you hear the 'as if', Christine?
He definitely needs to be concerned, though Christine would deny she was turning into a dog person until she was blue in the face. It's just not Orlesian! And yet slowly but surely these dog-lords have been stealthily making their way into her life and her heart. And now she has a little rat dog to curl up under the bear slanket with her and keep her warm. How did it come to this?
"Concerned about Sam? Why?" Sam is one of the best people she knows, despite the unfortunate location of his birth. But no matter. Yngvi's reasoning can't be very good, right?
"Ah, yes. Naturally if you offend a Fereldan's dog, death is the only possible retribution." She rolls her eyes, because honestly, Fereldans are just mad at times. "But the state of the dog, you say? I thought they would burn their deceased dog on Andraste's pyre while women wailed."
You could have an Yngvi. He comes with bear traps and several nugs, is that better or worse than a dog? But maybe you'd need to be good with how he'd combat roll at the thought of people getting too close to Gwenaelle or Lex because he just has an eighth sense for that. (Sixth is for Carta, seventh is for Boneflayers, if you were wondering at all. Bet you were. When Yngvi ever says that it makes noses twitch.)
"Literally a dog. And a dog lord." It takes him a minute to shuffle his features appropriately into the correct sort of raised brows, 'oh child' type of smile best suited to someone with the visage of a grizzled old prune rather than his youthful complexion but he manages, that he does. "You're in danger, because Sam isn't honest as certain other sorts are and tries to be all bashful 'bout things. Watch yourself. Also he's fluffy and I have seen girls, like, a certain sort of girl and it's watching the patisserie windows on a hot midsummer's day, you get all melty and gooey around a fluffy thing so it might be the trade-off of stinky dirty dog with oh look how fluffy that dog is. I repeat: you're in danger."
Rolling his eyes, he slides down to take a seat because packing is tiring, he doesn't want to pack, he only likes packing when he's in charge of inventory for everyone and he gets to go through their personal bits. "Well that'll be the next thing I ask: funeral dirges for the dogs, and no Andraste's Mabari. Did you know that Asher give Melisende ears to make a necklace every single time we went to a tavern and people heard that, she hated it so much? But, that's really wasteful, they like to think that Orlesians are the wasteful ones. I think people would rather eat you though. Not personally. I am true to my word, not even a breath of your name was mentioned."
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{ aleron }
After fighting the Red Templars together in late summer, Christine hasn't had much occasion to speak with Aleron concerning their research with red lyrium. Now that Samson has been captured, it has been encouraging Christine to work harder, especially since the leader of the Red Templars wasn't going to divulge any secrets to her. Still, it's slow going trying to find answers as to exactly how and why red lyrium works the way it does, so when Aleron contacts her asking to speak in private about this very topic, she's more than happy to set a time and place. Up on the battlements, guards walk a rotation or stand looking out, but there are spaces clear of any people and it's on one such stretch of wall that she waits to meet with the Seeker to see what he has to say.
{ church }
This situation with Church was never something Christine could have ever prepared herself to tackle. His world was too strange and different for her to ever conceive of people being created artifically and then tearing pieces of their own mind away. But that's who Church is, and she's spent long enough away from him trying to understand it all. Funnily enough, it was while she was in the Sunless Lands of southern Orlais, trudging through heavy snow that she came to the realization that she didn't want anything to happen to her before she had the chance to apologize to him. After all he'd done for her, she had pulled away when he needed her the most. It wasn't right of her, and she is now determined to be there for Church no matter what.
It takes some time to track him down, but she finally does down in the valley as the snow is gently falling on the mountainside. She approaches slowly, as if he's a wild animal whom she might startle away. Wearing a cloak of blue lined with gray fur, she's easy to pick out against the bright, white snow. She pauses a few feet away from him.
"Church," she begins. "May we speak?"
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He notices her coming--hard not to, since she makes the wise choice of not sneaking up behind him, with her blue cloak standing out. He doesn't chop any harder, but if he could, he would. Couldn't entirely blame her for her reaction; after all, what he said scared himself, too, and he was even from that world. But it would've been easier if he'd just made something the hell up. He's not supposed to talk about who or what he is. It makes people antsy and upset and sword-to-the-throat-y.
Church takes to regulated and appropriate emotions like a cat to water. As much as he likes seeing her, the hurt and vindictive side of himself wants to rear up and say something really unfortunate. Instead, he whacks one more lump of wood in two before thunking the axe into the chopping block. He hopes it looks really cool and woodsman-y and thematically appropriate. Spares her a look, his mouth a grim line, and looks back down at himself, brushing off some of the snow collecting on him despite his exertion. "I'm listening."
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Clearing her throat, she takes a few steps closer until she's on the opposite side of the chopping block. If she wasn't so focused on her words, she'd probably note that there's some sort of metaphor here, like she's laying herself out on the chopping block to see if she'll be spared or not.
"Church," she begins, clasping her hands together in front of herself. "The last time we were together, you confided in me, and I did not react well. It was wrong of me to not give you as much support as you needed, and I deeply regret it. I am sorry that I treated you the way I did. I value you and I should have been a better friend to you." There. Did she remember the whole speech? Of course she did; she's Christine.
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Church runs a hand through his hair, ruffing it up--a plus to not cutting it short? Warmth. Sighs and tries not to be angry about it, but still, the anger is burning. Not as much at her as at the entire situation. "Look, I dunno, what kind of support you could've given. It's not like it's a normal and fully understood thing even where I'm from. I'm an affront to nature as you know it and an abomination to your god. Whatever."
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"You are not! I-- I do not even know if I believe in the Maker anymore." Such feelings have been growing in her over this past year, but they aren't ones she'd dare speak aloud to any in the Inquisition who are originally from Thedas. Meeting the Avvar spirits that they call their gods has only left her with more doubts.
Moving around the chopping block, she comes right up to Church, face pensive.
"You are different than anyone I know, but that does not make you an affront. I was in shock before. I was trying to understand. But now I realize that you are the same man you have always shown me. You held this secret for good reason and I am sorry I did not comfort you the way I should have done." Slowly, she brushes her fingertips along the back of his hand, imploring him to forgive her.
"You are a person. You are. One I do not wish to lose. Please believe me?"
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In a way, this is how apologies should be. Awkward, rushed, off the top of the head. He's pretty miserable at them himself (what a surprise). And yet she's still a lot more eloquent than anyone else would normally be. It's stupidly endearing, and the addition of her touch only makes it the more emotional. Damn it, he is a manly woodsman! Manly men do not get emotional!
And yet here he is, trying pretty hard not to look it. It's just cold out here, that's all. "All that stuff I said, all that crazy bullshit about my life, where I'm from, what...what I am, you're okay with that?" As 'okay' as anyone can be with information like that, to be fair, which is not so much okay as...willing to look past it.
He turns his hand over, her hand resting in his. "I shouldn't have said. I knew it would...I knew something like this would happen, just--I-I mean it doesn't really change, what I said, it doesn't change who I am to you, right? Cuz, just, I'm not any fucking different from how I always damn well was. It's just...this...this extra information that's...it's really hard to deal with. So I don't. I don't have to here. I can just...be. Alive and human."
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She nods her head at his question, releasing a relieved breath as he takes her hand. This is what she's been hoping for. One more chance to make things right.
"At first I thought it must change everything, but then I really examined it and no, nothing has changed. I look at you and knowing how things were before you arrived, I think this must be a gift." Her other hand lifts to cup his cheek, her fingertips cold but gentle. "Whether it is the Maker, spirits, or something else, you were given this body because you were meant to live in it, yes? And so you shall."
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"I'm not sure that my god or your god like me enough to pluck me out of certain death, stuff me in a meatsuit, push my through a demon portal, and say hey, have fun in a time probably a thousand years behind you technologically--but on the other hand, that sounds just weird and dickish enough to happen to me." Yeah, no, honestly that feels about par for the course. Why is he even surprised?
Church turns his head just enough to kiss the palm of her hand. "I like living pretty well, though. I think most people would agree, living's pretty good. It's got its perks."
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{ sam }
The thing about having such a dear friend as Sam was that it was easy to take the friendship for granted. He would always be there, she would always be there, and the two could always put off talking until neither were truly busy. But it shouldn't be so. Christine had traveled far into the south of Orlais amidst feet and feet of snow to track Red Templars, and the perilous journey caused her to realize she shouldn't be putting things off for another day in case she never got the chance. On her return to Skyhold, she resumed her work as a healer, but was quick to seek out Sam and request a night for just the two of them where they could talk.
"You can pick the location and whatever we do," she had said. "But I would love to catch up with you." And so the time had arrived when they were to meet.
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When the time comes Christine meets him in the kitchens, ingredients and everything already pulled out and set on the table by the time she arrives - as well as a bottle of alcohol. "Figured we could make a pie or something. Like old times," he says with a grin. Christine wanted to catch up, and this seemed like a more fun idea then just going to the tavern, and much warmer then going for a walk.
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"I have missed you." Their lives have been kept busy as the Inquisition furthers its influence in the world and they each have duties and projects to keep them preoccupied. "I nearly froze my toes off in the Sunless Lands, and I am very glad to be back again."
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After a time he looks down, brows raised. "Besides that, everything going alright?"
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"Things are going well. I am coming along with my Knight-Enchanter specialization, practicing with blade and staff together. And I am not nearly as terrified of falling from a horse's back as I once was. What of yourself?"
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"Oh yeah? Maybe one of these days we should have a match." Her spirit blade to his magic sword. "Sounds like you've been quite busy. Glad you were able to make time for this then." What about himself? Sam hums lightly at that, recalling what has happened since the last time they were together.
"Let's see. Conan is eating my shirt less. I'm getting pretty good at turning into a bear..." He trails off for a bit trying to think if there was anything else. Nothing really came to mind, and he didn't think Christine was inquiring about more private parts of life. "Meeting the new Rifters and all. Nothing too exciting."
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"A bear? A shame Asher could not be here to see it." The loss of the man hurts less so many months on from it, but there is still a lingering sadness that tempers her smile into something more dim.
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"Hm," he hums lightly in agreement, having thought the same the first time he had turned into a bear and every time since. "I'm sure he would've been more then amused about that. Probably make me wrestle with him."
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{ yngvi }
Christine hasn't been avoiding Yngvi, but he's a dwarf a person must take in small doses if they want to preserve their sanity, and she's been so busy this last month anyway. He would be a good source to obtain information from the hold, but on the other hand, he's likely to gloss over the things she'd want to know and spend an hour raving about the time he dropped an Avvar war axe on his foot and was told the gods were punishing him for taking what wasn't his. Or something. Christine is just going to write to Gjurd instead and ask him directly how the hold does. For now, she's out at one of the training spots within Skyhold. It's empty save her this time of day, which is good because she doesn't need an audience watch her try to swing a spirit blade. Her wrist is bandaged as a preventative measure against spraining it, and she uses the sword in tandem with her spells in order to keep a barrier over herself at all times. She's tired and sore, and probably should take a break. With one last slash at the training dummy, she steps back and blows out a breath, not knowing that she's being watched.
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There's a big fancy phrase for it he's sure.
But packing is tiring, and wrangling nugs is a pain in the arse, and there are too many letters from Kirkwall finding him now without Asher to present them to. Things an Yngvi doesn't really want to think about really.
"Psst. Madame with the big stick. C'mere," he sidles over while he's chasing a trap component that's gone rolling and tumbling out of his hands, one hand clumsy because said component took a chunk out of the thumb and he just bandaged it and left it, because dirt heals y'know. "Got some news for you."
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Tossing the trap component up, he opens his pocket and ta-da there it goes, hidden away. Look at that, children and ladies would applaud. Incredible. But that's not why he's here, or well, not the main reason he's here because you know what the world is his stage or so he was taught. "Remember how you asked me a question 'bout dirty doglords? Got answers. Thought you'd like me to report. Because this is a legitimate organisation and all that shite."
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Her eyes follow the piece until it disappears into his pocket and she has to admit, he has good aim. If she mentioned it, he'd probably launch into a tale about Kirkwall and how he saved the day with his well timed aim, but he continues on and she suddenly smiles because, oh yes, she did ask him to collect information, didn't she?
"Well let's hear your report, then."
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Yngvi notices. S'how he ain't dead yet.
Anyway, best to get the obvious out of the way. "Bunch of them got right offended, like I said I'd shagged their mother and their father, some people honestly." Why are you like this, he hears in the familiar fond exasperation of Melisende's Halamshiral tones. "But depended on the state of the dog, the state of themselves. Orlesians were more likely to eat dog. People seemed to think I'd get m'self killed." D'you hear the 'as if', Christine?
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"Concerned about Sam? Why?" Sam is one of the best people she knows, despite the unfortunate location of his birth. But no matter. Yngvi's reasoning can't be very good, right?
"Ah, yes. Naturally if you offend a Fereldan's dog, death is the only possible retribution." She rolls her eyes, because honestly, Fereldans are just mad at times. "But the state of the dog, you say? I thought they would burn their deceased dog on Andraste's pyre while women wailed."
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"Literally a dog. And a dog lord." It takes him a minute to shuffle his features appropriately into the correct sort of raised brows, 'oh child' type of smile best suited to someone with the visage of a grizzled old prune rather than his youthful complexion but he manages, that he does. "You're in danger, because Sam isn't honest as certain other sorts are and tries to be all bashful 'bout things. Watch yourself. Also he's fluffy and I have seen girls, like, a certain sort of girl and it's watching the patisserie windows on a hot midsummer's day, you get all melty and gooey around a fluffy thing so it might be the trade-off of stinky dirty dog with oh look how fluffy that dog is. I repeat: you're in danger."
Rolling his eyes, he slides down to take a seat because packing is tiring, he doesn't want to pack, he only likes packing when he's in charge of inventory for everyone and he gets to go through their personal bits. "Well that'll be the next thing I ask: funeral dirges for the dogs, and no Andraste's Mabari. Did you know that Asher give Melisende ears to make a necklace every single time we went to a tavern and people heard that, she hated it so much? But, that's really wasteful, they like to think that Orlesians are the wasteful ones. I think people would rather eat you though. Not personally. I am true to my word, not even a breath of your name was mentioned."
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