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.
Maybe there’d been, once — all kids love a story: Unicorns in the marsh grass, an axe from the river. Some good and righteous king. But stories are only ever that, and if there’s less shit at the top of the heap, it’s because so often it falls straight down.
No. She doesn’t really give a fuck about Cailan, but something in her bristles at Loghain’s tight focus, eyes fixed dead as a statue's ahead. They’re moving land and void for a dead man, and she don’t mind that much. Isn’t so thick as to not see the need. But,
Where were you for his son? Didn’t the rest of us matter for nothing?
Freddie speaks, and it’s not a mistake she feels like correcting. She and the crone are gearing up to go at it, and Melys ought be enjoying the show. But the line her mouth’s flattened into doesn’t shift.
She digs her heels into the donkey’s side, and it brays, slows itself for stubbornness. That’s fine; she lets them fall back in the ranks. Some asses are better company.
It seems the game is already petering out, with people answering in statements, so Teren decides it's not worth pursuing. "I stick your horse with a pin, it bucks you off, your pretty fancy face gets covered in mud, and we all go on our merry way," she replies, avoiding the deeper implications of Freddie's question.
Loghain's long fuse has not quite reached its end, but his patience for keeping company with Freddie has. With a quiet word to Sooty and gentle pressure to her sides with his legs, he trots ahead of the group to put some distance between himself and trouble.
(At another time, in another place, he'll have to offer some words of gratitude to Teren.)
The funny thing is, Freddie didn't even mean Loghain. She menat 'what do you think Maric has been doing all this time', but needling people is fun, too, especially when it's thin-skinned Fereldans crying about their precious Theirins. More fun than bothering to try to correct the misunderstanding.
As for Teren, she laughs, delighted. "If you like, madame. A spooked horse and some mud is not about to ruin my journey. I think you assume because I am Orlesian and a lady I've no experience with either, perhaps?"
Teren sighs to see how that plays out, and casts an irritable glance toward Freddie. "Don't quite give a toss either way," she mumbles, her mind already shifting elsewhere. She's come to recognize that this is one of those three who show up on the sending crystals sometimes and are insufferably Orlesian at everyone, and she doesn't have much more patience for it now than she does on those occasions. "Just letting you know what happens." If she doesn't piss off, that is, which was the initial question. She reins her horse in, falling back behind the rest a bit, the game apparently over and therefore no reason for to be in this particular cluster.
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Her tone has taken on more of a bite.
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WRONG ACCOUNT
Maybe there’d been, once — all kids love a story: Unicorns in the marsh grass, an axe from the river. Some good and righteous king. But stories are only ever that, and if there’s less shit at the top of the heap, it’s because so often it falls straight down.
No. She doesn’t really give a fuck about Cailan, but something in her bristles at Loghain’s tight focus, eyes fixed dead as a statue's ahead. They’re moving land and void for a dead man, and she don’t mind that much. Isn’t so thick as to not see the need. But,
Where were you for his son? Didn’t the rest of us matter for nothing?
Freddie speaks, and it’s not a mistake she feels like correcting. She and the crone are gearing up to go at it, and Melys ought be enjoying the show. But the line her mouth’s flattened into doesn’t shift.
She digs her heels into the donkey’s side, and it brays, slows itself for stubbornness. That’s fine; she lets them fall back in the ranks. Some asses are better company.
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"I stick your horse with a pin, it bucks you off, your pretty fancy face gets covered in mud, and we all go on our merry way," she replies, avoiding the deeper implications of Freddie's question.
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(At another time, in another place, he'll have to offer some words of gratitude to Teren.)
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As for Teren, she laughs, delighted. "If you like, madame. A spooked horse and some mud is not about to ruin my journey. I think you assume because I am Orlesian and a lady I've no experience with either, perhaps?"
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"Just letting you know what happens." If she doesn't piss off, that is, which was the initial question. She reins her horse in, falling back behind the rest a bit, the game apparently over and therefore no reason for to be in this particular cluster.