Samwise Gamgee (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
harthad_uluithiad) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2015-11-27 11:56 am
harthad_uluithiad) wrote in faderift2015-11-27 11:56 am
[open] concerning hobbits
WHO: Samwise Gamgee and EVERYONE HE CAN FIND
WHAT: Sam's arrived at Skyhold and is exploring! Also asking questions. All the questions.
WHEN: After arriving from the Fallow Mire
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Feel free to meet Sam in any part of Skyhold! He'll be all over.
WHAT: Sam's arrived at Skyhold and is exploring! Also asking questions. All the questions.
WHEN: After arriving from the Fallow Mire
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Feel free to meet Sam in any part of Skyhold! He'll be all over.
He'd tried to stick close to who he'd already started privately thinking of as his new friends - the other Sam and the wizard Twisted Fate. He'd even glimpsed, once or twice, the Man who'd pulled him out of the Mire in the first place, and saved him from being drownded. But the road from the Fallow Mire had been long, and Sam had spent much of it on his own, tucked away in small corners of wagons or sitting astride horses alongside dwarves, being too short to walk and have a hope of keeping up.
And when they'd arrived at last, he'd found himself suddenly left completely to his own devices.
Skyhold. He rolls the word around in his mind, staring up, up at the battlements and the clouds beyond. It's a good enough name for the place, he supposes, being up in the mountains as it is. And there's something in it that appeals to him - it's not quite Elvish, not quite Rivendell or Lothlórien, but it's a bit more fanciful than Hobbiton or Bywater, he thinks. As for the place itself, he finds himself a bit overwhelmed - not only with the size (which is enormous in its own right, apart from everything in it being built proportionate to Big People), but with the ceaseless activity and the seemingly endless places to explore and get lost in.
He finds the kitchen first, hobbit-senses guiding him true, but after he's snacked his fill he finds himself wanting to explore more, and he steps carefully down the stairs into the yard. There are folk of all shapes and sizes everywhere (though nobody he recognizes), and he takes a deep breath before walking forward, not quite sure where he's going.
There are Elves here; he knows that much. If nothing else, perhaps the Elves will know more about what's happened and why he's come here. Perhaps they'll at least know Gandalf's name.
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"Sam." She repeats it with a nod. "May I ask you a question, Sam? Are you - Where exactly do you hail from? And where--" It was then that she caught the sight of the green sliver in his palm - her eyes tracing down to that hint of light, the heckles raising on her neck. It was unnatural, and disturbing.
And suddenly she knew what he was.
"... You're one of those that have come through the rifts. Aren't you."
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"The Shire, Number Three Bagshot Row, if you're wanting exactly," he answers, somehow feeling that it would be safest to answer all her questions as truthfully as possible, even though he feels certain that the word Shire won't mean any more to her than it had anyone else. "And I am - though I'm not one of those demons, if that's what you're thinking."
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"With you, I'm inclined to believe it. What demon would think to take the form of a creature that does not exist, from a place that sounds impossible?" Because what even was a Bagshot Row, "Or be able to bear the symbol of the Herald of Andraste?"
She frowned as she looked him over, but now she was the mildly nervous one.
"I meant no insult, Sam. These are strange times, and I - I admit I do not understand them."
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But he nods warily, accepting her not-quite apology. "I don't think anyone much does," he allows. "I don't understand any of this at all. But I'm not going around telling people they don't exist, all the same," he adds under his breath, unfortunately still just loud enough to hear.
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She can't help but smile weakly - after all, it is her fault he is out of sorts, and having decided that he's probably not a demon, she's liable to stick to that.
"No, I am by far the rude one in this scenario," She agrees, looking slightly shamed. "Will you - tell me of Bag End? Do you have mages, there? Magic?"
Not that she was at all invested in making sure he wasn't a mage. No, of course not.
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"No, there's no magic no more," he says sadly. "Not of the sort that - that does anyone any good, anyhow." He sighs heavily, full of a sudden, weighty grief, and bows his head. "There'll be no magic, and no wizards, at Bag End ever again."
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The pure relief is hard to keep from her face, but she hopes it comes off as sympathy. She does not lecture him, or dismiss his sorrow. The grief is too obvious, and she does not know what has caused it. But he is no mage, and that lets her relax. That is the important information, and it is enough. He is no mage, so she has nothing to fear from him, and he has nothing to fear from her.
She wonders, vaguely, if there could be places where magic is only good, only holy. She dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes.
"I am sorry," She says, more because it is what one says, to grief, than because she is truly sorry for it. That, and she was the one who reminded him of it. "I have managed to engage you only in the worst of conversation, I fear. Is there some way I can make it up to you?"
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"'S not your fault," he says sorrowfully. "You couldn't have known." He looks up, rubbing his eyes. "Did you say you were a - a templar?" He pronounces the unfamiliar word carefully, brow furrowed in confusion.
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She nodded as he asked, the relief gone from her expression - replaced with the usual blank stoicness that was set into her features. She would never be described as cheerful, but that didn't matter to her.
"A Templar, yes. We are - well, soldiers, for want of a better word. Trained to dispel and block magic, and protect the world from the disastrous effects that magic can have. We are meant to be the Chantry's shields."
no subject