WHO: Coupe + Gervais, Yseult, Lakshmi, Teren WHAT: Back 2 Kirkwall WHEN: Now-ish, some prompts backdated WHERE: Kirkwall/Vaguely Orlais NOTES: HMU on plurk if you want something.
Usually the nature of their quiet nighttime rendezvous is different, but Teren understands how things have changed, and makes no mention of it. There's still drink and sullen conversation, which is all she expects or has ever wanted from Coupe. It's nice. At least, until that question comes about, and then it's not.
Teren doesn't like to think about it, hasn't fully acknowledged it yet: there's a flicker of reserve over her hard face, of longing, even of sadness. Little by little, her people have trickled down to almost none. If they're all gone, what does that make her? The sole champion of yet another lost cause, one for which she didn't even volunteer?
"Would we could afford you time to breathe," As though that were the source of her regret; polite eyes turned out to darkness, and not the vulnerability of a moment (of travel back across hard country). Would we’d time to mourn. "I cannot keep track of who knows what any longer."
A glance back, then. Stop me if you've not heard this.
"If red lyrium is taken with Blight, we will have little luck against it without Warden aid." The wave of a hand. "Delacroix is able enough, but it is my understanding there are — personal grievances in play."
"I would not see this overlooked for ego. We've an enormous fucking dragon, and Darkspawn on the field. This requires cooperation."
It is something she's heard, but never has Teren been expected to care. And though she's a spite-fueled anarchist with seemingly nothing to gain by playing nursemaid to an organized militia, it's... actually more difficult not to care, these days.
"Then I imagine you shall have it," she replies, in a low and joyless tone. A pause, then, "...forgive me if I'm ignorant of military protocol. My experience is." She clears her throat, almost awkwardly. "...somewhat less refined."
If she had her way, all the Wardens would be tree-climbing experts, and they'd know all the best places to stick a knife. One might say such arts are wasted on Darkspawn.
The look she turns over wrinkles briefly bizarre, as though Teren's begun speaking in some foreign tongue. A moment to catch up, to consider the reservation more seriously,
Still. What the shit.
"Our refined allies," Antiva, sure. But mostly Orlais, and 'allies' is a more politic word than her patriotism will lately allow, but Teren's just apologized — "Are dying en masse."
"Fuck refinement." She shakes her head. "We’ve too much to see done."
That finally yields a smirk, and Teren feels a little more at home. If there's one thing she's good at, it's not dying, and to a lesser degree not letting the people around her die either.
"In that case," she muses, and stops, thinking silently for several long moments. When she speaks again, her tone is a testing one. "The prisoner, Samson. An expert on red lyrium, isn't he?"
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WHAT
It's nice. At least, until that question comes about, and then it's not.
Teren doesn't like to think about it, hasn't fully acknowledged it yet: there's a flicker of reserve over her hard face, of longing, even of sadness. Little by little, her people have trickled down to almost none. If they're all gone, what does that make her? The sole champion of yet another lost cause, one for which she didn't even volunteer?
"Me," she says wearily, "it's me now."
call your mom
A glance back, then. Stop me if you've not heard this.
"If red lyrium is taken with Blight, we will have little luck against it without Warden aid." The wave of a hand. "Delacroix is able enough, but it is my understanding there are — personal grievances in play."
"I would not see this overlooked for ego. We've an enormous fucking dragon, and Darkspawn on the field. This requires cooperation."
shes fine
"Then I imagine you shall have it," she replies, in a low and joyless tone.
A pause, then, "...forgive me if I'm ignorant of military protocol. My experience is." She clears her throat, almost awkwardly. "...somewhat less refined."
If she had her way, all the Wardens would be tree-climbing experts, and they'd know all the best places to stick a knife. One might say such arts are wasted on Darkspawn.
hey-o
Still. What the shit.
"Our refined allies," Antiva, sure. But mostly Orlais, and 'allies' is a more politic word than her patriotism will lately allow, but Teren's just apologized — "Are dying en masse."
"Fuck refinement." She shakes her head. "We’ve too much to see done."
into the sea
"In that case," she muses, and stops, thinking silently for several long moments. When she speaks again, her tone is a testing one. "The prisoner, Samson. An expert on red lyrium, isn't he?"
no subject
no subject
"I'm off," she announces, clapping Wren on the back (hopefully not making her choke), "got things to do."