"When are you going to make an honest elf of him?" Alistair repeats with more careful enunciation, as if there's any possibility that that's what she meant. And as if he's serious. "I suppose that's a trick question. He'll never let anyone make him honest. But as a figure of speech—thank you, Lucci."
The baby's returned with the doll. Alistair holds it long enough for Lucci to start looking perplexed and unhappy that the game might be over, then makes a show of fumbling it about like it's trying to escape of its own accord and tosses it to the base of a nearby statue. A little further away this time, so there's a longer break for him to grin sideways at Mia.
He's not serious. Or: he's not so serious that he can't claim not to have meant any of it if pressed.
"Since his parents aren't about, I suppose you'll have to ask my permission, when you reach that point."
Her lips have settled into a tight, tilted smirk as she shakes her head, her eyes following Lucci as he shuffles off after the toy. "Family is such a strange thing, isn't it? Still, I'm grateful he has you. And his son. I think it's done wonders for him."
Ever since the attack, the kidnapping, that fragile moment on the ramparts where he seemed to have considered terrible options for himself, it's been of utmost importance to her that he understand he is not untethered. That there are people with ties to him, who care about him, and who he can continue to fight for.
One hand reaches to tuck a blond curl behind her ear.
Does she see? Does she? He looks sideways at her a bit longer, still smiling but sharp-eyed in a way that makes it fairly obvious he's trying to figure her out. He doesn't manage to, but he does look away after a moment, because not looking away would be creepy.
"Mostly his son," he says, in an aw shucks tone, though he does mean it, and his voice evens out as he goes on: "and being in one place for a while, I think."
And her and Taas. But that would be serious and sincere, if he said it, so he doesn't. An abrupt and transparent subject change sounds better.
"So! You're Commander Cullen's sister, so you must be from Honnleath."
Mia nods at that. "Born and raised there, along with our younger sister and brother. They came with me when we relocated to South Reach."
'Relocated.' Such a nice term for 'shove everything they own into a wagon and haul ass across Darkspawn-infested countryside praying not to be set upon by bandits, or worse.' But they're having such a nice chat, it seems a shame to spoil it.
"You know Cullen well, then?" There's a faint crook of curiosity in her brow now. It would be nice if he had managed to find some friends, after everything that had happened.
It's a small miracle that Alistair doesn't laugh. Not even a heh. That's the only miracle that's likely to occur for the rest of the conversation.
"Ah—no," he says, and rubs his mouth with the side of a curled fist while he tries to think of something nice to say. Lucci's return gives him a short, noisy break from the effort. "He's a busy man, isn't he? I met him once when—well. During the Blight."
While he was imprisoned and recently tortured and calling for blood probably isn't the sort of thing he should get into. Maybe Cullen never told his family about that.
"I'm very close to your old town golem, though." Sort of. "She remembered him."
"Ah. Well we were all very busy during that time, weren't we?"
It's as gracious a response as she has in her. A fleeing refugee, a Grey Warden, and an imprisoned templar, all in the midst of a Blight, surely would have been very busy for any number of reasons. None of which are worth speaking of right now.
So. The golem.
"I'd heard about it...her," she quickly corrects. "Maker knows I never thought much of her as a child, outside of being a decorative sort of piece during the festival season." She pauses, brow furrowing. "I never did anything to her myself, outside of making flower crowns for her as a young girl. Branson, on the other hand...perhaps it's best to avoid a heartwarming reunion."
Alistair slowly turns his head--not with renewed interest, because he's been interested this whole time, but definitely more delighted interest.
"You made her flower crowns," he repeats. Whatever indignities Branson (whoever that is) visited on the golem pale, he... cares, probably, but not currently half as much as he cares about the image of Shale in a flower crown. "What color?"
His sudden interest prompts a laugh. How can it not?
"Oh goodness, if I can even remember...this was many years ago, you understand." But she does think back to those times, happier times. When Honnleath had been more than just a collection of nightmares and bad memories. When there had been life, simple but honest, and Rosalie had toddled out into the fields to help collect flowers only to wind up with most of them stuck in her own curly blonde hair.
"Blue, I think. There were flowers that grew in the mountain hills, Crystal Grace, and they made for such lovely garlands."
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no subject
The baby's returned with the doll. Alistair holds it long enough for Lucci to start looking perplexed and unhappy that the game might be over, then makes a show of fumbling it about like it's trying to escape of its own accord and tosses it to the base of a nearby statue. A little further away this time, so there's a longer break for him to grin sideways at Mia.
He's not serious. Or: he's not so serious that he can't claim not to have meant any of it if pressed.
"Since his parents aren't about, I suppose you'll have to ask my permission, when you reach that point."
no subject
Her lips have settled into a tight, tilted smirk as she shakes her head, her eyes following Lucci as he shuffles off after the toy. "Family is such a strange thing, isn't it? Still, I'm grateful he has you. And his son. I think it's done wonders for him."
Ever since the attack, the kidnapping, that fragile moment on the ramparts where he seemed to have considered terrible options for himself, it's been of utmost importance to her that he understand he is not untethered. That there are people with ties to him, who care about him, and who he can continue to fight for.
One hand reaches to tuck a blond curl behind her ear.
no subject
"Mostly his son," he says, in an aw shucks tone, though he does mean it, and his voice evens out as he goes on: "and being in one place for a while, I think."
And her and Taas. But that would be serious and sincere, if he said it, so he doesn't. An abrupt and transparent subject change sounds better.
"So! You're Commander Cullen's sister, so you must be from Honnleath."
no subject
'Relocated.' Such a nice term for 'shove everything they own into a wagon and haul ass across Darkspawn-infested countryside praying not to be set upon by bandits, or worse.' But they're having such a nice chat, it seems a shame to spoil it.
"You know Cullen well, then?" There's a faint crook of curiosity in her brow now. It would be nice if he had managed to find some friends, after everything that had happened.
no subject
"Ah—no," he says, and rubs his mouth with the side of a curled fist while he tries to think of something nice to say. Lucci's return gives him a short, noisy break from the effort. "He's a busy man, isn't he? I met him once when—well. During the Blight."
While he was imprisoned and recently tortured and calling for blood probably isn't the sort of thing he should get into. Maybe Cullen never told his family about that.
"I'm very close to your old town golem, though." Sort of. "She remembered him."
no subject
It's as gracious a response as she has in her. A fleeing refugee, a Grey Warden, and an imprisoned templar, all in the midst of a Blight, surely would have been very busy for any number of reasons. None of which are worth speaking of right now.
So. The golem.
"I'd heard about it...her," she quickly corrects. "Maker knows I never thought much of her as a child, outside of being a decorative sort of piece during the festival season." She pauses, brow furrowing. "I never did anything to her myself, outside of making flower crowns for her as a young girl. Branson, on the other hand...perhaps it's best to avoid a heartwarming reunion."
no subject
"You made her flower crowns," he repeats. Whatever indignities Branson (whoever that is) visited on the golem pale, he... cares, probably, but not currently half as much as he cares about the image of Shale in a flower crown. "What color?"
no subject
"Oh goodness, if I can even remember...this was many years ago, you understand." But she does think back to those times, happier times. When Honnleath had been more than just a collection of nightmares and bad memories. When there had been life, simple but honest, and Rosalie had toddled out into the fields to help collect flowers only to wind up with most of them stuck in her own curly blonde hair.
"Blue, I think. There were flowers that grew in the mountain hills, Crystal Grace, and they made for such lovely garlands."