faderift | i should've been a cowboy

WHO: Merrill, open
WHAT: Horses
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: Stables, outside Kirkwall
NOTES: Canon-typical talk of war, probably

i. the stables
Living in the alienage instead of the Gallows, Merrill is one of the more common sights at the stables than some of the other Inquisition members. She likes to spend time with each of the mounts, from the mundane to the exotic. The griffons aren't here, of course, but each of the creatures deserves a kind touch and some treats, when she can get away with giving them. Her own war horse, Honeysuckle, gets special pampering on the days when Merrill has time. She sits near his stall mending his blankets or adding embroidery. She gives him full brush-downs and braids his mane, and despite his ill-temper toward some of the random stablehands, he's always a sweetheart with her.

Maybe it's whatever sweet nothings she whispers to him in Elvhen, but it could also be the treats that she offers him during their time together.

ii. riding
An elf on a horse is still a strange sight in Thedas. Elves in the 'wild' have halla. Elves in the country have a goat or a cow, if they're lucky. But Merrill, in the Inquisition, has learned to ride with her back straight and her head tall. The tack on Honeysuckle is clearly Orlesian in make, though it's not any sort of fancy style. It's functional, and it has the Inquisition's symbol on it... and a few Dalish tweaks.

For as much as Merrill is also a mage and a Griffon Rider, there are times that she knows she'll have to partake in combat on horseback. Getting out on Honeysuckle to let him roam is fun for them both, and when they're far enough out along the Wounded Coast or up on Sundermount, she can let him run. She can twirl her staff from the saddle too, can make sure Honeysuckle is used to the feeling of magic coursing from his back, the sizzle of lightning and the movements of her staff in his peripheral.

Every once in a while, they disturb a flock of birds and Merrill lets out a whoop of exhilaration.

iii. wildcard
[ come at me bro ]

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There's ample work to be done in the inquistion's stables, almost all of it somehow boiling down to some kind of cleaning or mending. Marcoulf is occupied with the latter today: sitting aside some upturned bucket with one of the countless saddles set pommel down between his knees. He's scrubbing at it with some water thinned oil, working the fat deep into the leather with small, steady circles of a well stained cloth.

There's an easy rhythm to it, a cyclic repetition that makes it easy for the mind to wander elsewhere - past the dingy courtyard and the salt heavy air of Kirkwall's docks, past the city itself even. He works with his head bowed, one hand sure at the work and the other simply bracing the saddle by its seat. It's good enough for that much, he thinks. He thinks too about saddling the mare - about fetching her out of the city and away - about the multitude of roads and footpaths winding through the Free Marches that he could be on even now.

The click of one of the stable door's latches draws his attention. And for a moment, Marcoulf blinks blearily through the dusty half light of the barn. The figure at the stall door resolves itself into a familiar shape.

Merrill.

His hand pauses. Marcoulf clears his throat.

"I'd be careful with that one. He's a temper."

Her focus on all the horses and other beasts, Merrill had completely missed Marcoulf. His voice makes her jump slightly, but then she laughs, turning to look at him. She lets the door open behind her, and the great grey stallion within takes a step forward. He dwarfs her, and Merrill doesn't so much as budge.

"Only sometimes," she laughs, and now she tilts her head back, looking up at the horse - who, in turn, snorts and sniffs her hair. "Mercoulf, meet Honeysuckle. Honeysuckle, Marcoulf."

Honeysuckle, of course, doesn't actually seem that interested; he's busy lipping the strands of Merrill's hair instead.

A pause, characterized by the stillness of his hand over the saddle as much as it is by any shift in his expression. Then Marcoulf snorts. It's a sharp little noise - something very near to a laugh. "Andraste's grace, what do you even do with such a monstrous thing?"

Not the kindest words, but said with enough good humor to temper it as he resumes working the dirt out of the saddle's creases.

"He pulls my aravel," Merrill replies simply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. She giggles a moment later though, turning to wrap her arms around Honeysuckle's neck and scratch along his mane. "He's also good to ride."

Despite the fact that Merrill looks like she needs to climb a ladder to mount him. He's certainly much larger than a halla, at any rate.

'What in Andraste's name is an aravel,' seems like a sensible follow up question, but he neglects to ask it. He's never much cared from horse drawn things - wagons or carriages or whatever Merrill is referring to -, and so cannot rouse any interest in it now. The horse though--

"I didn't know Dalish were much for riding. Where did you learn?"

"We don't tend to have horses," Merrill agrees, still scratching the line of thick hair. Honeysuckle seems pleased enough with it, shifting his head to help direct Merrill to more itchy spots. "But we ride halla, at times. Not as much, these days, but sometimes."

There's a little giggle as Honeysuckle snorts and Merrill presses a kiss to his neck. "Mal helped me fill in the gaps. Halla don't wear saddles or bridles, for starters."

i should've been a cowboy

i.

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guess who drafted this tag 600 years ago and then FORGOT TO POST IT

WHOOPS

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