WHO: Alexandrie, Athessa, Bastien, Barrow, Derrica, Nell, and Poesia WHAT: A Very Riftwatch Summer Vacation WHEN: Late Solace WHERE: Churneau, Occupied Orlais NOTES: Violence cw etc. Bunch of details here.
Alexandrie hums her acknowledgement. "I suppose I never think of family, when I think of love. Certainly not Geneviève. It is..." A slight frown, for the empty space of language, "is there a word, for something more?" She gestures small helplessness with the bundle. "Her hands are my hands, yes? Her heart, my heart."
A pause, and then: "I cannot see, sometimes. How we should be made of the very same parts and yet have ended up so far from each other." She sighs—heavy, like she's breathing it all out—and wanders after Athessa. "You are Dalish, then? I did not know."
"Most don't," she confirms. She can tie the bundle of elfroot together with a piece of the cord she used to tie the coneys together by the feet, but she doesn't have enough to also tie the wood together. At least it frees up one hand, and the tubers can go in pockets and balance on the branches. "I lost my family when I was young. Twelve, thirteen, somewhere around then. Too young to receive the vallaslin. Kirkwall was the closest city to where we'd been, so I lived on the streets there until. Well."
Until Devigny "bought" her at a fake auction, staged by his footman to fulfill some sinister fetish. But enough about that.
"These roots and tubers were probably planted by Dalish, originally. It's lucky we managed to find them."
“I do not think, often, about what came before the Alamarri here. I imagine most humans do not, so focused are we on ourselves and the world we wrought.” She steps carefully, mindful of the roots that twist to the surface.
“I cannot say I was any different, when I came to the Inquisition. I had an even smaller world—there was nothing for me but the court and the currents of its power. I could have lived and died there and known nothing of anything but beauty and cruelty.” She pauses, and then adds “And hats.” The sun is slanting through the trees into her eyes to make her squint here, and Alexandrie misses hats with every fibre of her being. “How can there no plants here with exceptionally broad leaves,” she complains, only half facetiously, “Perhaps I shall return and plant some for posterity.”
She looks at the tubers. The elfroot. Thinks of someone placing them in the earth, and speaks with a little more quietude. “I am sorry, Athessa. For your losses. I hope you have found a finer world here as well.”
The idea of Alexandrie planting anything here gets a chuckle out of Athessa. Imagine, the dresses and fancy hats, and the pale skin of her delicate hands protected from the dirt by lace gloves as she wields a trowel of all things.
Her memory of nomadic harvests isn't crystal clear; she remembers more the songs that would guide her clan to familiar places, the feeling of dew shaken off of the leaves onto cold hands in the early morning. A few steps away the ground is lush with creeping thyme, which one might be forgiven for seeing only as a patch of pretty purple flowers. Athessa gathers up a handful and offers it to Lexie.
"Here, smell this," she stands and brushes her hand against her trouser leg. There's a distinct bittersweet sadness about finding these hidden plots, wild and overgrown. They've not been tended to, but they're flourishing. It's unlikely that the same can be said of the elves who planted them. "I don't think a finer world is something to find. We have to make it."
"Got it in one," she smiles in return, and brings the herb to her nose to inhale the aroma herself. "Ought to help bring a little more comfort to rabbit stew, right?"
"I know only because of Colin," she says, straightening. Her eyes sparkle with mirth. "And because for the success of our mission I was forced to become the finest chef in Orlais."
Alexandrie opens her mouth to suggest they head back to camp, but then looks at the ancient garden left for them. Thinks of what Athessa had said; that they must make a better world.
She puts down her tinder, the big branch that is her hard-won prize, and dusts her hands. “Shall we tend this a little?” She inclines her head at the thyme, the elfroot, the tubers, whatever else there may be yet undiscovered in the underbrush. “For whomever comes next.”
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A pause, and then: "I cannot see, sometimes. How we should be made of the very same parts and yet have ended up so far from each other." She sighs—heavy, like she's breathing it all out—and wanders after Athessa. "You are Dalish, then? I did not know."
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Until Devigny "bought" her at a fake auction, staged by his footman to fulfill some sinister fetish. But enough about that.
"These roots and tubers were probably planted by Dalish, originally. It's lucky we managed to find them."
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“I cannot say I was any different, when I came to the Inquisition. I had an even smaller world—there was nothing for me but the court and the currents of its power. I could have lived and died there and known nothing of anything but beauty and cruelty.” She pauses, and then adds “And hats.” The sun is slanting through the trees into her eyes to make her squint here, and Alexandrie misses hats with every fibre of her being. “How can there no plants here with exceptionally broad leaves,” she complains, only half facetiously, “Perhaps I shall return and plant some for posterity.”
She looks at the tubers. The elfroot. Thinks of someone placing them in the earth, and speaks with a little more quietude. “I am sorry, Athessa. For your losses. I hope you have found a finer world here as well.”
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Her memory of nomadic harvests isn't crystal clear; she remembers more the songs that would guide her clan to familiar places, the feeling of dew shaken off of the leaves onto cold hands in the early morning. A few steps away the ground is lush with creeping thyme, which one might be forgiven for seeing only as a patch of pretty purple flowers. Athessa gathers up a handful and offers it to Lexie.
"Here, smell this," she stands and brushes her hand against her trouser leg. There's a distinct bittersweet sadness about finding these hidden plots, wild and overgrown. They've not been tended to, but they're flourishing. It's unlikely that the same can be said of the elves who planted them. "I don't think a finer world is something to find. We have to make it."
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"Ah! Is it thyme?"
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Cheeky. As if the servants would be fed the same food as their masters.
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"Oh, I see, she is trying to get me to cook the rabbit stew."
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“Your weeping and begging moves me to mercy,” and then she is laughing. “But you must skin and clean them, I shall never again, if I can help it.”
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Instead, she gives a tiny curtsy and bows her head, smiling as wide as she comfortably can.
"Oui, chef. We have an accord."
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She puts down her tinder, the big branch that is her hard-won prize, and dusts her hands. “Shall we tend this a little?” She inclines her head at the thyme, the elfroot, the tubers, whatever else there may be yet undiscovered in the underbrush. “For whomever comes next.”
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But she looks at the remnants of nomadic agriculture, back to Lexie, and nods.