faderift | [CLOSED] someone needs to be rescued

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[CLOSED] someone needs to be rescued

WHO: Fern Doirnáin + Nell Voss
WHAT: Summary of content
WHEN: A few days after the island crew return from their misadventure.
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Some anti-elf racism from a shem NPC.

At some point between the docks and the Chantry forest, Fern takes a wrong turn.

It's not a premeditated decision to veer from her normal route, but she doesn't often see the Lowtown markets so full to bursting with hats and scarves and other trinkets, things that look so nice, that remind her of her mother, and Aunt Lorna, and her brothers. She's derailed from her destination entirely in her effort to pick up a few presents to send home; surely gifts will be enough to offset her family's anger at her for leaving home without a word.

The street vendor she approaches with her small collection of parcels is eyeing her with undisguised disdain, his eyes fixed on her ears more than her face (though there is an occasional scowl sent towards her staff, too). "You'd better have the coin for all that."

"'Course I've got the coin," Fern shoots back at him defensively and reaches for her pocketbook--only to encounter a loose clasp where the little bit of leather normally hangs. "Wait--"

No, it's definitely not there. "No--" she blurts out and drops to the ground to pat around in the dirt in search of her coin purse, but no, if she'd dropped it, she hadn't done so here. "No, no, no--"

"Oi!" The vendor comes around the other side of his stall, red-faced and furious, "What you think you're doing dropping my wares in the dirt like that, you little knife-eared wretch!"

The slur hits Fern like a slap in the face, and she stays crouched on the ground, paralyzed from sudden anxiety. The vendor is a big man, muscled and hard-faced; he could hurt her. She shakes her head quickly, already gathering the parcels up into her arms from where she'd dropped them. "I'm--I'm sorry, I think--"

"You think what?" The fellow wears an ugly sneer on his face. The crowd of market-goers has parted around them swiftly, and even the few city elves in the crowd seem keener to turn away than step in; they know well what happens to elves who intervene in shem business outside the alienage, here. The vendor remains unperturbed by the look of wide-eyed fear on Fern's face. "You think you can just get away with nicking my goods and not face some consequences for it? Your kind--you never bloody learn--" He makes to grab for her until Fern, crying out in fright, snatches up her staff, and he stops short.

"S-stay back!" she blurts out.

This is escalating quickly.

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"You're welcome," Nell says before the wine arrives. It's nnnnnnot great, by any stretch of the imagination, but it's not vinegar and the cups look passably clean, so as far as Lowtown taverns go this one's not half-bad. Nell drinks without thought, the familiar burn down the back of her throat doing nothing to pull her attention away from the discreet focus on Fern as she picks up and files away all these little details of expression and accent, all of it coming together into a pretty clear picture.

She takes a couple swigs before she sets the cup down and shakes her head.

"No. I was once, but not anymore. What sort of training have you had? Someone told you how to hold a staff, but I'm guessing not much more. I don't mean that to be rude, it's not your fault if you've had no one to teach you to do more than survive without accidentally hurting someone."

It's an odd experience to have oneself be that swiftly (and accurately) assessed by a complete stranger. Fern balks in the face of it, staring across at Nell with wide blue eyes that betray a great deal of both shock and, perhaps, a bit of fear, too, even at the pains the woman takes to offer her reassurances. Fern darts her gaze nervously down to her wine goblet and twists it in her grip, fidgeting.

"Um," she begins intelligently, "none, really. My aunt taught me some things--about demons and spirits and the like, and how to cast spells to help the plants grow and keep the animals warm and calm. I was a shepherd," she adds, as if to make that peculiar assortment of skills make some sort of sense. She sneaks a shy glance across the table at Nell, feeling suddenly beyond inadequate.

"Really?" Nell doesn't sound incredulous, she sounds pleasantly surprised. "I've never heard of anyone using magic with animals like that. That's interesting. Everyone thinks mages are best kept in towers and labs doing endless research on maker-knows-what," she says, and it has the sound of an old complaint, an argument she's been having for years. "But see? There are so many things that can be done with magic besides research. We can even be shepherds, if we want."

But Fern's not here for a lecture on mage freedom, not yet, anyway. Nell's putting a couple carts before the horse right now. "Do you want to learn more than that? What brings you to Kirkwall?"

"Do you want to learn more than that?"

Her face falls, and she looks down. "I don't, um," she begins, flushing from embarrassment, "I don't have much book learning. I can make my letters and numbers, well enough," she adds, preemptively defensive, but seems to realize quickly how unnecessary that is.

As for the rest, it's clearly something of a sore subject. "I was coming here to join the Grey Wardens," she mumbles, her tone alone enough to indicate that that dream didn't come to fruition. Then she winces. "But this happened on my way from Ansburg--" And, with a furtive glance around the interior of the shady tavern, she tugs up the end of her left glove just enough to give Nell a glimpse of the green anchor glowing in her palm. Quickly she tugs the fabric back down again, self-conscious about it.

Edited (can't decide on an icon) 2017-10-10 20:20 (UTC)

Nell shrugs, plainly unconcerned by limited book learning, but talk of wardens distracts her, and then Fern's literally flashing her a peek at her hand. Gingery brows rise sharply, but she also catches sight of that self-consciousness and takes a long drink rather than press for a better look at the anchor.

"So instead of the Wardens you're with the Inquisition," she assumes, setting her cup back down to be turned slowly between the tips of her fingers. "You don't need much book learning to learn magic, or at least not all kinds. It depends what you'd like to know. But if you wanted to be a Warden, then I'm guessing you'd like to know how to fight."

She doesn't phrase it as a question, but she pauses and fixes a look at Fern that adds the punctuation for her.

"But if you wanted to be a Warden, then I'm guessing you'd like to know how to fight."

The statement--question? invitation?--leaves Fern momentarily gobsmacked. This is the most frank conversation about combat that anyone has ever ventured to have with her, short of Alistair's perfunctory inquiry during her failed bid to convince him to recruit her. Fern sits very still across from Nell suddenly, looking back at her like she's still waiting for the other shoe to drop, some indication from this strange woman who has just swept into her life that this is all some sort of trick, that she's going to yank the rug out from beneath her boots at any moment.

When it doesn't come (at least, not yet), Fern gives her head a tiny but vigorous little nod, her eyes fixed on Nell's and hoping, desperately, that she isn't about to have her dreams dashed again. "Yes," she blurts out, her eagerness completely at odds with how she struggles to keep her voice down.

Edited 2017-10-10 20:55 (UTC)

That shock combined with the eagerness tugs a real whole smile out of Nell, one corner of her mouth hitching up until it hauls the rest along into something bright and wide.

"Good," she says, "Every mage should know how to defend themselves if they need to. We're much more dangerous to ourselves and others if we don't know how. That's when people panic and nothing good comes of a panicking mage." Nell pours herself another glassful of wine and leans forward into her forearms, and while the effect is definitely to intensify her focus, the table is broad enough that she's still not shoving into Fern's space or looming over her. Plus, she's still smiling a little. That probably helps.

"I could teach you, if you want. But first I've a couple questions. If I hadn't come along and stepped in back there, what would you have done?"

Fern finds herself nodding along to Nell's words the more she speaks, sitting up a little straighter in her seat when Nell leans forward; it's hard not to be compelled by her charismatic confidence, especially when the only other mages who have offered to teach Fern anything have been so shy and deferential about the whole process. It's a little intimidating to chat with someone so self-assured... but flattering on some level, too. Vindicating, even.

The Grey Wardens might not have wanted her, but this mage does--she can't wait to rub their noses in it--

"If I hadn't come along and stepped in back there, what would you have done?"

"What?" The question cuts off Fern's train of thought, reining in her active imagination. The look of wild enchantment seems to fade from her face as she forces herself to reckon with the very real possibility that, had Nell not shown up, she might be in big trouble right now. Frowning, she chews at the corner of her lip and absently toys with the end of her hair. "I--I don't know," she admits and can't quite keep the edge of frustration out of her voice. "My aunt taught me how to make a fireball, but I'm--I'm not very good at it, and I can't cast that in the middle of the bloody market..." She trails off, uncertain.

Nell's smile is whip-quick, cracking wide and then gone again.

"No, you can't cast that in the middle of the market. Not unless you mean it. Lesson number one," and she lets her wineglass dangle from three fingertips as she holds up her index finger. First, it implies, of many. "Don't ever start a fight, especially with magic, if you're not prepared to finish it. Lesson two," and for a second her cup dangles precariously as she holds up another finger, "Know your limits. So you're doing rather well so far, that's two passed."

Nell grins again, humor in it but the kind that's shared, not meant to be at Fern's expense. She props one elbow on the table and her chin on her palm. "What would you do differently if you had that all to do over again?"

Edited (rethinking wording) 2017-10-14 15:44 (UTC)

Fern certainly isn't expecting to receive praise for what she perceives to be her own short-comings--but Nell manages to take her weaknesses and find the strength in them. That brings another small smile to her face.

"What would you do differently if you had that all to do over again?"

For that, she has an instantaneous answer. "Not get pick-pocketed, for sure," he mutters, feeling shame drape itself over her like a wet blanket, and sighs, once more patting at her belt where her change purse normally sits. Nope. Still gone. "I guess I could try steering clear of shems--err--" A hasty, awkward glance at Nell, who is most definitely a shemlen, before she corrects herself with, "humans, I mean. The ones outside the Inquisition..." She trails off into uncomfortable silence, well aware that that is neither a practical nor plausible solution to her given problem.

At last, she sighs out again and says, "I don't know. He was angry, and bigger than me, and it didn't matter what I said, did it? He'd've called the guards on me if you hadn't shown up when you did." This last she says with clear gratitude in her large, expressive blue eyes.

Nell smiles, and the shift of her eyebrows and jerk of her head to one side agree: not getting pick-pocketed would be a good start. She doesn't react as visibly to the bit about avoiding humans, but finally, at Fern's sigh, she shrugs.

"He probably would have," she agrees, "Some people are just going to hate you and treat you badly no matter what you do. I'm surprised it was your ears he took issue with and not your staff; mages aren't especially popular here, for obvious reasons, and to be honest with you, you look like an easy target.

"That's probably the quickest solution," she decides, drumming her fingertips on her jaw as she studies Fern for a moment, "Right now, it just provokes them. Seeing it reminds them you're a mage and makes them hate you, but you don't look like you know what to do with it, so they don't fear you. And if someone's going to hate you, you want to make sure they fear you, too. If you carry yourself like you know what you're doing, they won't dare to push you to a point where you choose to draw your staff. The fight will never start because they'll already know they can't win."

A rather ruthless assessment of her shortcomings--but Fern can't find fault with anything she hears. That doesn't make it any easier to hear; she drops her eyes to her wine and takes a tiny, consoling sip from her glass.

Then Nell keeps speaking: "And if someone's going to hate you, you want to make sure they fear you, too. If you carry yourself like you know what you're doing, they won't dare to push you to a point where you choose to draw your staff. The fight will never start because they'll already know they can't win."

Make sure they fear you, too. Those words make Fern look up in shock. "Fear me?" she repeats, her eyebrows drawing together. It wouldn't be right to characterize her reaction as timid or shy--baffled, maybe, and a little doubtful, like it has never occurred to her to consider herself frightening to anyone, except maybe the occasional stubborn ram or opportunistic wolf. She frowns at her wine again, then looks up at Nell with a surprisingly thoughtful look on her face. Like she's considering what she's heard, and maybe, some part of her likes the idea.

"...what would I have to do?" she asks at last, lifting her chin a little, "to do that? To," her eyes dart nervously to the side, to a table of shems nearby who are deep into their cups and a card game, then back to Nell again, "make them afraid?" To make them leave her alone.

Nell follows Fern's gaze across the room to that table, and she watches them herself for a long moment. They are indeed deep into their cups and their card game, and paying not a hint of attention to the women across the way. The look Nell turns back on Fern this time is appraising, again, but a little sharper, not at all aggressive but searching more carefully.

Instead of answering, she says, "You're not Dalish and if you were a shepherd then you're not from an alienage. You must have lived around humans before. Did something happen, or are you just skittish because you've always been taught to fear us?"

That question startles her; it's probably the most direct anyone has ever been with her about her instinctive mistrust of humans. Hearing it from a human, no less, puts her on edge for a moment, her eyes a little afraid, until she reminds herself that this woman had saved her... and has, frankly, treated her more like an adult than anyone else she's encountered in Kirkwall so far.

"My mother is from the Denerim alienage," she says quietly, though not meekly. She fiddles with the stem of her wine glass. "I had aunts and uncles who were..." There, she gives Nell a meaningful sort of look. "..you know. Sold. During the purging of the alienage, and all."

Nell nods slowly in response to that meaningful look. "Taking people from their homes and families and taking away their freedom is terrible," she says gravely, sympathetic but also unavoidably thinking about mages at least as much as elves. She picks her head up out of her palm and drinks, draining the rest of the wine in her cup, letting a moment stretch out before diving back in as she pours herself a refill.

"It's understandable to be afraid of people you think hate you and want to hurt you. But it's important to remember that at the end of the day most of them really don't give a shit. Acting like you think everyone's constantly about to hit you kind of just reminds them that hitting you is an option. I'm not--" she sets the bottle of wine down but doesn't lift her cup to drink again yet, "I'm not saying none of them are awful, like that man today. Plenty are. But plenty aren't. Being constantly wary is smart, but being constantly afraid is a waste of energy and just makes you a target. So, alright, before I just keep talking your ear off here's what I'm offering if you're interested:

"I'll teach you to defend yourself. With magic, maybe a little without, how to present yourself so people take you seriously. Any other kind of magic you want to learn I can't really help with; I know how to fight and that's about it. It'll take a lot of work on your part, and extra practice aside from when we meet. And some studying, but the practical side is more important than the library side. And you'll have to fit it all around whatever your duties are for the Inquisition."

Sitting thoughtfully across the table from Nell, Fern isn't sure she believes everything she says... however:

"I'll do it--I want to learn." She doesn't hesitate, and why should she? A competent, confident mage has just offered to teach her everything about magic that she has longed to learn, but never could in the past because her aunt had neither the skills nor the willingness to try. Opportunities like this normally happen to other people in adventure stories--never before to her. Leaning forward earnestly, she says, "Please, teach me, I promise I won't be lazy or a bore, I'll show up to all my lessons on time--"

She hasn't quite sorted out how she'll deal with the studying in the library part yet, considering she can barely read, but, well. Cross (or burn) that bridge when she gets to it.

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[CLOSED] someone needs to be rescued

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