faderift | [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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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.

[CLOSED] someone needs to be rescued

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