WHO: Kostos/Alistair/Jehan/Silas & Various Others WHAT: Miscellany WHEN: Kingsway WHERE: Probably Kirkwall NOTES: See comment subject lines! And if you would like to do something feel free to just drop it in here.
If they had more Wardens here, maybe even only if he were more confident Teren could be relied on right now, Alistair might not have taken this to the Inquisition. He might have exploited the grey (ha) area—not sure they're the enemy, not sure they know what they're doing—to keep it firmly in the category of Warden business, which is a synonym for nobody else's business.
But they're spread too thin, those of them that are alive and reliable, between here and Skyhold and the outposts in Orlais, so there's no room for that sort of posturing, and there is room for one of Beleth's new acquisitions to join him on the road to Starkhaven.
On the way it's all business, an explanation of what's been going on with the Free Marches' Wardens—the metaphorical friendly hand they extended, the metaphorical knife that appeared to be hidden behind their backs, their interference with goods shipped to the Wardens in Kirkwall, their contact with the Anders—that's not overly professional, because it's him, but is focused.
But by the time they reach the city and settle into the back corner of the tavern where the focus of this specific excursion was last known to be staying, he's run out of information to provide, and he considers her properly. Yseult. Marcher. That's—that's all he's got. Except for a moment, at a given angle and in a given light, he thinks he recognizes her. His eyes narrow and his mouth opens.
Then the angle and the light shift, and he's certain he doesn't.
Still stuck there with narrowed eyes and an open mouth, though.
He has to do something.
"Has anyone ever told you," he says, "that you have kind eyes?"
All business suits her well enough, and Yseult spends the journey listening as Alistair catches her up on the story so far, interjecting only occasionally, during obvious breaks in his narrative, to ask a few questions that make clear she's paying close attention, targeted to flesh out key details or clarify some nuance of Warden politics. Otherwise she's content to ride in silence.
Content to continue that way once they reach the tavern, too, not much acting required for them to play the parts of road-weary travelers just here for a quiet drink after a long day's ride. She's watching the room with the flat, open gaze of someone bored and lost in thought, though in reality she's keeping a careful eye on the door and the stairs. She turns back slowly at Alistair's question,one brow arching.
"Not that I recall." Her head tilts slightly, and her mouth does too in subtle amusement. "And you?"
“Has anyone told me—oh, sure. All the time,” Alistair says. “That’s how people point me out in a crowd. That one, over there, with the kind eyes.”
It’s not the most outrageous lie he’s ever told. His eyes are as kind as they can be while also being perpetually smirky at the corners. But he isn't drawling the way he usually would, voice pitched lower and quieter than even his fairly quiet usual, because his voice might be more distinctive than his face, and he can't guarantee he's never met this man before. He's met a lot of Wardens.
He has his back to the door for that reason, but he can see vague shapes moving behind him, like spirits, in the cloudy, dented reflection on the side of his mug. Enough that no one is going to walk up behind him—not that anyone would be able to anyway, with Yseult watching the room, but he doesn't trust her with his entire back just yet.
So she can see it, but he can't, when a man in plain clothes who matches the description, down to a distinctive handlebar mustache, comes down the stairs and pauses to have a word with the barkeep on his way toward the door.
"It's because I've never done anything wrong," Alistair is adding in the meantime, "in my entire life."
"That is what all the stories say," Yseult replies, teasing tucked into one corner of her mouth, a crooked little smile.
She's looking past him, though, eyes over his shoulder and then sliding away, focus softened so it's less obvious. "I think this is him leaving," she says as she's raising her own mug, quiet words hidden behind it before she sips, half her face, too, just in case. "Huge dark mustache waxed to a curl, pock-mark scar on his right cheek. He's talking to the barkeep."
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with my little eye: yseult.
But they're spread too thin, those of them that are alive and reliable, between here and Skyhold and the outposts in Orlais, so there's no room for that sort of posturing, and there is room for one of Beleth's new acquisitions to join him on the road to Starkhaven.
On the way it's all business, an explanation of what's been going on with the Free Marches' Wardens—the metaphorical friendly hand they extended, the metaphorical knife that appeared to be hidden behind their backs, their interference with goods shipped to the Wardens in Kirkwall, their contact with the Anders—that's not overly professional, because it's him, but is focused.
But by the time they reach the city and settle into the back corner of the tavern where the focus of this specific excursion was last known to be staying, he's run out of information to provide, and he considers her properly. Yseult. Marcher. That's—that's all he's got. Except for a moment, at a given angle and in a given light, he thinks he recognizes her. His eyes narrow and his mouth opens.
Then the angle and the light shift, and he's certain he doesn't.
Still stuck there with narrowed eyes and an open mouth, though.
He has to do something.
"Has anyone ever told you," he says, "that you have kind eyes?"
no subject
Content to continue that way once they reach the tavern, too, not much acting required for them to play the parts of road-weary travelers just here for a quiet drink after a long day's ride. She's watching the room with the flat, open gaze of someone bored and lost in thought, though in reality she's keeping a careful eye on the door and the stairs. She turns back slowly at Alistair's question,one brow arching.
"Not that I recall." Her head tilts slightly, and her mouth does too in subtle amusement. "And you?"
no subject
It’s not the most outrageous lie he’s ever told. His eyes are as kind as they can be while also being perpetually smirky at the corners. But he isn't drawling the way he usually would, voice pitched lower and quieter than even his fairly quiet usual, because his voice might be more distinctive than his face, and he can't guarantee he's never met this man before. He's met a lot of Wardens.
He has his back to the door for that reason, but he can see vague shapes moving behind him, like spirits, in the cloudy, dented reflection on the side of his mug. Enough that no one is going to walk up behind him—not that anyone would be able to anyway, with Yseult watching the room, but he doesn't trust her with his entire back just yet.
So she can see it, but he can't, when a man in plain clothes who matches the description, down to a distinctive handlebar mustache, comes down the stairs and pauses to have a word with the barkeep on his way toward the door.
"It's because I've never done anything wrong," Alistair is adding in the meantime, "in my entire life."
no subject
She's looking past him, though, eyes over his shoulder and then sliding away, focus softened so it's less obvious. "I think this is him leaving," she says as she's raising her own mug, quiet words hidden behind it before she sips, half her face, too, just in case. "Huge dark mustache waxed to a curl, pock-mark scar on his right cheek. He's talking to the barkeep."