faderift | i was left to my own devices

WHO: Merrill, open
WHAT: Keeping oneself busy with an aravel.
WHEN: During all this Tevinter nonsense.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Decorating.

How Merrill had convinced the ferrymen to allow her aravel onto the boat and across to the Gallows was uncertain; if asked, Merrill would insist that she had just asked, while the ferryman would turn a bit red and mumble something about eyelashes. Either way, it was certainly there - drawn by a horse instead of halla and with a mutt of a dog inside of it instead of other elves, but an aravel nonetheless. Merrill had directed both her horse - a massive thing, clearly some sort of war horse that a tiny Dalish mage had no business riding but did anyway - and the aravel itself to the stables, parking it outside.

Travel had taken its toll on the aravel. Obvious repairs had been made, but they were travel repairs; patched sails and different pieces of wood. Now that she had a relatively safe place to settle and access to all sorts of supplies, Merrill could repair it a bit more properly. The elf could be seen at all hours of the day working on new knots, fetching bits of wood, or looking over cloth for new sails. She had things to trade, too; herbs and stone found in her travels, skins of deer and rabbits, and trinkets that had most likely been taken out of the pockets of bandits unlucky enough to target her. The back and forth was near constant, but Merrill treated each trip and trade with a smile. She even hummed as she did her work.

No aravel, in Merrill's mind, was complete without decoration. Pieces of wood were delicately cradled as she carved images of the wilds, of bears and halla and flowers. She was not as skilled with the sails, but that didn't stop her from trying to thread bits of color into them, green chief among them. Perhaps the most striking, however, were the feathers. Feathers of songbirds, bright red and yellow and blue; feathers of eagles, patterned and large; and feathers of the griffon, white and striking and Merrill's favorite. They were braided into the ropes, tied to the wood. Merrill would trade the feathers she didn't want or need, would go and groom the griffon that allowed her to ride him and bring back what fell.

She was busy, and it was good, and it didn't at all make her worry any less about those in Tevinter.

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It's not often that Fifi makes her way to the Gallows these days, unless it's to check in with Beleth over something or another, but she's here today with her basket when she sees something she doesn't expect.
She's heard of aravels, the things that Dalish use to travel, but never seen one up close: there were some in the distance in Orlais' war-ravaged countryside, but none that she'd dared approach.

So she finds herself staring, not only at the industrious elf who looks so very Dalish (as opposed to Beleth in her scoutmaster gear, and the others who at least often have the sense to wear boots), but at the strange contraption subject to so much attention. It's quite rude, and if Fifi caught herself, she'd be mortified. But it's fascinating.

Ever-vigilant, save for all the times he isn't, it's Barkley that notices Fifi first. The short-legged dog comes snuffling over, ridiculously fluffy tail wagging as he sniffs at Fifi's feet and up her legs. Hello, new friend! He barks once, as if saying as much, and that's when Merrill glances over.

"Oh, Barkley- I'm sorry, he's really very nice! Barkley, don't bother her!"

Elves and dogs, she knows, have not always historically gotten along. At least Barkley isn't a mabari.

Some elves, perhaps, but this one is familiar enough with dogs to recognize when one is being friendly and curious. She stoops to offer her hand for Barkley to sniff, and is briefly captivated by the budding friendship before the other elf calls to her.

"Oh-- I'm not bothered," Fifi says sheepishly, straightening and brushing out her skirts, though her hands still wander toward Barkley's head to pet his face and scratch his ears if in range.

Friends! Barkley wiggles happily - both his tail and his entire body - and happily butts his head up into Fifi's hand. Whether he's actually in range or not doesn't matter; he will make himself be in range.

Merrill can't help but giggle. "Well that's good, because he likes you!" Not that Barkley doesn't like most people, but he hasn't gotten to see many people for a while. It's good to watch him make new friends.

He becomes in range when Fifi kneels to give him more attention, speaking quietly to him and wuffling his ears: "Oooouh le bon chienchien, oh que c'est un bon chienchien ça!"
This girl Likes Dogs.

Neither Merrill not Barkley speak Orlesian, but the meaning seems clear enough - something about how cute he is, probably. In any case, Barkley is eating it up, and Merrill giggles in delight.

"We've been away from people for a while; he'll be more than happy to do this for ages."

"Oh," Fifi exclaims, and seems a bit ashamed to have been caught out thus (but not too ashamed). "I would be happy to indulge him," she replies, but is genteel enough to stand and incline her head slightly. "Josephine Mariette," she says in way of introduction, "head of staff for Thor of House Asgard. Currently." It's a job.

"Merrill," she chirps in response, ducking down to ruffle Barkley's ears for a moment herself. "And this is Barkley!"

The massive grey horse who has been dozing near them gets a gentle pat; he twitches an ear, but otherwise doesn't move. "And this is Honeysuckle, who thinks that carting about an aravel is awful work when compared to being a war horse, the great silly thing."

"Barkley," Fifi repeats, her accent making the 'r' sound a little funny, "lovely to meet you." She approaches Honeysuckle next, a bit warily, and smiles at him- she's used to seeing horses, naturally, but not interacting with them. They're large, at times flighty beasts whose body language she doesn't always understand, and she finds it best to keep her distance when in doubt.

"An aravel," she says, glancing to the contraption, "that's what this is called?"

i was left to my own devices

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