faderift | [open] concerning hobbits

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[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.

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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He was relieved to hear that he wouln't be conscripted, but Sam's expression turned thoughtful as the Elf spoke. He'd volunteered to go with Frodo, after all, and even when the road had been hard and he'd longed for the comfort and safety of home, he'd never really considered turning back.

"I suppose that's true enough," he allowed, but shook his head. "Anyhow I doubt I'd be much use on any excursion - not if it means fighting demons. I could go along if the soldiers needed someone to rescue, perhaps; but I don't see how I'd be of much use otherwise."

"Well...you are small and quite deft, are you not? Perhaps if we need someone to sneak and see what there is that needs seeing without being noticed? The scouts have a great need of such people. Were you older I would recommend that. As it is? Remaining here where it is safe is likely your best bet." The young do not belong out in the wilds, after all. And Sam strikes him as terribly young.

It's true enough that he can move along quietly without being noticed, and he's beginning to actually consider the possibility when Zevran dismisses him as too young, and the offense shows clear on Sam's face.

"If I were older?" he repeats, indignant. He sits up a little straighter, trying to look as tall and mature as possible (to little effect). "You don't need to worry about that. Why it's been five years now since I left my tweens!"

"Well, yes." He is but a young, little dwarf is he not? Of course then he states his age and that does not fit. "...I have never seen a dwarf in his twenties that did not have a beard save Varric, and he makes up for it in other ways."

Mmmm...chest hair.

The elf is making less and less sense, but when he says the word dwarf that explains a lot. Sam huffs in quiet indignation, then shakes his head, resigned to explaining yet again.

"I haven't been in my twenties for a long time; thirty-eight this past April," he specifies. "But more importantly I'm not a dwarf neither. I'm a hobbit, and we haven't got beards, any of us." He sticks out his feet, as if to offer additional proof.

"...You are thirty eight." But he has a baby face. He seems so young, so naive- perhaps he came from a world without quite so much war? Zevran leans forward a bit to peer at the feet before jerking back. They were too large for so short a frame- they were bare, and they were hairy. "Hobbit. What is a hobbit?"

"I'm a hobbit," Sam says, with the strained patience of someone who's had to say the same thing many times before, and expects to have to say it many times more in the future. He pulls his feet back with a scowl. "Thirty-eight and a half, last October."

"...But you look so- and you are so-" Naivete on this level is utterly foreign to Zevran. No wonder he found him quite so young- there is no one of that age in all of Thedas that still seemed quite so earnest. Not a one. Not even Alistair. "Fine. You are a hobbit and you are not too young for scouting. I apologize."

Sam peers at him for a moment more, and then begrudgingly nods his head, accepting the apology. "Not that I'm offering to go off sneaking and spying right now, mind," he says quickly, not wanting to accidentally agree to anything without realizing it. But he could go, if he wanted to. That's what matters.

"It is poor weather for scouting. Too cold, too wet, snow drifts taller than even myself hidden amongst the trees. I would not recommend it." He honestly doesn't know how Harding hasn't lost herself or some of her scouts in all this horrible snow. "I would suggest that should you ever wish to scout, you be paired with someone taller."

It sounds awful, like Caradhras all over again, and Sam shivers, in no hurry to relive that experience. "Perhaps...perhaps they'll need scouts somewhere a bit warmer," he says doubtfully, and thinks of the Mire. "And drier."

He looks up at Zeveran questioningly. Having someone else to watch out for him out in the wild doesn't sound like a bad idea at all, especially someone a bit taller. If only Strider were here! But this is the first he's heard of scouting in Thedas, or excursions for the Inquisition at all. And seeing as the elf seems to be something of an expert on the subject, it only makes sense to ask. "Are you a scout?"

"Mm? Ah, no. I am an assassin- but I work with the scouts when they have need of me." As easy as saying he is a baker, he is an elf, he is a lover. It is simply his occupation, the edge to which he has been honed all his life. The difference between before and now is simply who gets to hold the hilt- before? It was the Crows. Now? It is his own hand that guides his blade.

The elf's easy tone does nothing to reassure Sam, or take the danger from his words. "An assassin!" he cries out in alarm, drawing back at once. He stares up at Zevran with sudden fear. He had not seemed dangerous - in fact he had seemed very kind - but what reason would an assassin have to be kind, if not to trick his victims and catch them off their guard? "Have you come to murder me?"

"Well, no." He frowns a little at the exclamation. "Is anyone going to pay me to? I think not. Even then you are not the sort of mark I would take; you've done nothing to deserve dying."

The fact that he has that standard at all is something of a miracle; or at least something that speaks well of the company he kept during the Fifth Blight.

As reassurances go, that isn't a very good one. Sam remains wary, keeping a doubtful eye on Zevran at all times. He could be lying, after all, waiting until Sam turns his back to put a knife into it.

"I don't know if anyone would pay or not; I hope they wouldn't," he says. Without the Black Riders here, he doesn't think anyone here has it in for him; but then, he hadn't been worried about assassins neither, and look how that had turned out. "But how would you know if I deserved dying or not? You didn't even know what I was, until I told you just now!"

"You are no corrupt prince, politician, nor an assassin yourself." For the first time Zevran's smirk drops and he looks to Sam seriously, his eyes not quite cold- but hard. Somber. "You have the air of one determined about you, true, but you are no killer. You do not delight in the torment of others. If anything I should think you have not taken a life before- or if you have it haunts you greatly. A killer knows a killer when they see one. You are not."

The hobbit's distrustful expression remains for a few moments, but he can't deny the truth of Zevran's words, nor would he want to. He shifts his eyes away at last, thinking of the orc he had felled in Moria and wondering if the Elf would count it. Haunted isn't the word he would use, perhaps, but he had not enjoyed fighting Orcs, and he knew he would never forget the one he had killed.

"And you are," he says, and looks up at Zevran again, trying to understand. He had seemed so kind - an Elf who cared for his friends, and one willing to share and speak of food, no less - but with that one word everything Sam thought he knew about him had changed. "What about you, then? Do you - delight in the torment of others, as you put it?"

"I am what I was made to be." It is not something he would have chosen, had he ever been given a choice. Were he one to think on such things he might wonder if he couldn't have made a merchant of himself, a bard, or a prostitute like the other elven boys in the brothel. But that is not Zevran's way- it never has been.

He takes another bite of his bread, chewing thoughtfully while he mulled over his answer.

"No. To be an assassin is to hunt and to kill- and when the time comes for the kill? It is done quickly, cleanly. Death is death. Torture? I was trained in it but I do not care for it." He is what he is; but he is not the Crow they may have wished him to be. Otherwise he'd not have operated quite so well on his own for so long.

He shivers at the elf's cold words. Torture or no, he's still talking of killing, and Sam finds he's not nearly so happy and comfortable as he had been a few minutes ago.

"Well, that's good," he says lamely, and after a few seconds of silence, brushes his hands on his pants smartly and moves as if to get up. "How late it's gotten! I suppose I should be going. Thank you for the bread."

Now there's a familiar expression. Zevran's smile returns, warm and without any hint of his earlier edge. "Look at it indeed. Take care that you do not fall into any drifts of snow, yes?"

Watching him scurry away would be quite fun indeed. He hasn't had anyone so blatantly afraid of him in some time.

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