A small, shabby fishing village not far from du Farron's manor, it's a wonder anyone has managed to come out of Pike uninhibited by at least one disease. The streets are muck, most people are missing most teeth, the smell of fish and offal and despair permeates the air, and there's hardly a scrap of color in the whole place. This town has been razed and rebuilt so many times in the constant skirmishes between Tevinter, Nevarra, and Orlais that it's barely worth looking after, let alone taking pride in.
Teren keeps her head low as she leads the solemn march into town, and even so, she's unable to completely escape notice. The women in particular seem especially dismayed by her presence, and whispers of "unmensch" and "verwachsen" follow the party with suspicious glances sent to the other Wardens and Benevenuta. The fishermen seem less concerned, though there's at least one bark of recognition laughter followed by unpleasantly-colored spittle smacking against Teren's face that heralds her return.
Her shoulders are hunched miserably as they reach a nondescript shamble of a structure, and she knocks. The door is opened by a very small elf, white-haired and dark-skinned, easily in her seventies and bearing a striking resemblance to the much-taller woman in front of her. Though she has clearly been ravaged by time, poverty, and no doubt disease, and her eyes are fogged over by cataracts, she reaches up to clasp her daughter's face between her hands (Teren has to bend down significantly), turning it from side to side in an inspection much like that which Teren has given the others in recent memory.
"Wo bist du gewesen?" she demands, and pulls her in, squinting at the small entourage. "Einkommen," she demands of them, shaking her head and clicking her tongue as she beckons them forward and immediately goes to where something is boiling on the fireplace.
Pike
Teren keeps her head low as she leads the solemn march into town, and even so, she's unable to completely escape notice. The women in particular seem especially dismayed by her presence, and whispers of "unmensch" and "verwachsen" follow the party with suspicious glances sent to the other Wardens and Benevenuta. The fishermen seem less concerned, though there's at least one bark of recognition laughter followed by unpleasantly-colored spittle smacking against Teren's face that heralds her return.
Her shoulders are hunched miserably as they reach a nondescript shamble of a structure, and she knocks. The door is opened by a very small elf, white-haired and dark-skinned, easily in her seventies and bearing a striking resemblance to the much-taller woman in front of her. Though she has clearly been ravaged by time, poverty, and no doubt disease, and her eyes are fogged over by cataracts, she reaches up to clasp her daughter's face between her hands (Teren has to bend down significantly), turning it from side to side in an inspection much like that which Teren has given the others in recent memory.
"Wo bist du gewesen?" she demands, and pulls her in, squinting at the small entourage. "Einkommen," she demands of them, shaking her head and clicking her tongue as she beckons them forward and immediately goes to where something is boiling on the fireplace.