WHO: Adalia, Alistair, Freddie, Herian, Loghain, Medicine Seller, Melys, Nathaniel, Notas, Teren. WHAT: Rescuing a king, maybe. WHEN: Early Wintermarch WHERE: An island off Seheron, the Fade NOTES: Violence, disturbing imagery.
Teren has never been a hoverer, but the time to hover has, perhaps, come. Wherever Alistair is at whatever point, she's nearby, if not interacting with him directly then keeping him in her periphery, scouting out possible problems, noting his mood. She's known him long enough to understand the importance of this mission, and how, even with him being ten years older and all the wiser (which she'll never admit to him), he can still fall victim to his own sensitivity. He's almost died for her, and she for him, and she'd do it again. But she won't smother him. He has much to think about.
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Prickly and serious as ever, Teren is nonetheless not entirely unfriendly and can be engaged while making camp, cooking, and so forth. She's nice to have along on journeys like this for her capable survival skills, and though not much of a conversationalist, she does her best to make everyone comfortable.
Whatever he has or doesn't have to think about it, Alistair seems fairly determined not to think about it. Instead he thinks about making sure everyone has somewhere sort of comfortable to sleep, or tending to the fire so it doesn't burn out prematurely, or checking the horses' hooves. Important work. Way more important than trying to decide what to say to Maric, if they find him alive, or wondering whether or not he's going to get any of these people killed in pursuit of a monarch who should have died twenty years ago.
"Hey Teren," he says one night, putting a bowl of mushy stew into her hands—"an Orlesian, a Marcher, and a Fereldan walk into a bar."
Teren lets him busy himself with such things, though she chafes a bit at his assistance, since it often means some tasks are done twice. But she'll give him a break, just this time.
She's staring into the fire and nursing a cup of tea when The Joke begins, and Teren's eyelids flutter as she dies a little inside. She accepts the stew and sniffs it, watching Alistair cautiously, waiting for whatever horrible punchline he's devised. Just get it over with.
Blissfully unaware that Teren thinks she's letting him do anything on his own quest, Alistair continues cheerfully: "They each order an ale, and they each find a fly in their drinks. The Orlesian says, Créateur béni! and faints onto the floor. The Marcher scoops the fly out with a spoon and drinks his ale. And the Fereldan lifts the fly out by the wings and says, Spit it out! Spit it out!"
She'll always let him do things, he's her favorite. Don't tell the others. Still wary as Alistair tells the joke, Teren finds it's not as bad as she thought it would be, and even smirks a little. "And what does a Nevarran do, I wonder," she muses, "reanimate the fly?"
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Teren has never been a hoverer, but the time to hover has, perhaps, come. Wherever Alistair is at whatever point, she's nearby, if not interacting with him directly then keeping him in her periphery, scouting out possible problems, noting his mood. She's known him long enough to understand the importance of this mission, and how, even with him being ten years older and all the wiser (which she'll never admit to him), he can still fall victim to his own sensitivity.
He's almost died for her, and she for him, and she'd do it again. But she won't smother him. He has much to think about.
open
Prickly and serious as ever, Teren is nonetheless not entirely unfriendly and can be engaged while making camp, cooking, and so forth. She's nice to have along on journeys like this for her capable survival skills, and though not much of a conversationalist, she does her best to make everyone comfortable.
no subject
"Hey Teren," he says one night, putting a bowl of mushy stew into her hands—"an Orlesian, a Marcher, and a Fereldan walk into a bar."
no subject
She's staring into the fire and nursing a cup of tea when The Joke begins, and Teren's eyelids flutter as she dies a little inside. She accepts the stew and sniffs it, watching Alistair cautiously, waiting for whatever horrible punchline he's devised. Just get it over with.
no subject
no subject
Still wary as Alistair tells the joke, Teren finds it's not as bad as she thought it would be, and even smirks a little. "And what does a Nevarran do, I wonder," she muses, "reanimate the fly?"
no subject
no subject