open. you believe what you want to believe.

[justashotaway]

WHO: Aenor Din'adhal, Laura Kint
WHAT: Catchall with open and some closed starters
WHEN: Immediately post-dream through the end of Guardian
WHERE: The Gallows and Kirkwall proper
NOTES: If you'd like me to write you up something particular, please PM justashotaway or dinadhal, PP , or disco dove#9906. Starters in comments.

Comments

[dinadhal]

Aenor doesn't hesitate to laugh at this, hands clapping together. She might not know Thranduil well, but they've just eaten dinner together--and before that, she has the long, strange dream-trip spent in the presence of a man who seemed certain he knew what was best for both of them. The tilt of Gwenaëlle's head becomes unmistakeable.

"A thousand years old," she repeats. After an age roaming the earth, any man might be so delighted by a woman with such a direct wit. "This, he didn't mention. And you, how old are you?"

If there's judgment in there, it's hidden well by a warm curiosity that says tell me more about yourself.

[elegiaque]

“Twenty-seven,” she says, promptly; old enough to raise fewer eyebrows than it might, but they've clearly been entwined long enough that that almost certainly wasn't always the case. “He's older than that, I think,” than a thousand years, “but when the numbers get that ridiculous, who's still counting.”

Thranduil, quite possibly, but the point is he's old as dirt.

“His son was some absurd age, too, though he seemed more like my own, and when there were still other elves from the same place, they were all—”

She makes a gesture. Like that.

(It seems more habitual than pointed, that she diverts automatically away from that curiosity; that the things she shares are things she assumes to be common knowledge and that she's more at ease discussing someone else.)

[dinadhal]

It's fascinating, to hear of this entire coterie of ancient, enormous elves from beyond the known world. Less because they're elves, more because they're elves made strange: stretched-out, sun-bleached, occasionally condescending in their kindness. (That last quality, perhaps less strange.)

The human rifters she's met have all been much more recognizable as human, by comparison. One wouldn't be able to pick them out in a crowd.

"These stories, they didn't travel to the Anderfels." Which is to say please continue. Specifically: "And you, how did you come to Riftwatch? Not by falling from a rift, I think."

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle grimaces—

“We're too sober for that story,” she says, but it is not accompanied by anything like getting more alcohol for it, just shaking it off like a wet dog.

(Hardie, sleeping in front of the fireplace, is perfectly dry. And probably not completely asleep, never far from forgetting that he is first and foremost a guard dog.)

She says, instead, “They weren't the only strange elves you wouldn't have heard about in the Anderfels—well, they're not, apparently that one Vanadi ages like the old elves supposedly did, too, but there was Iorveth who came through the rifts from a different place entirely. Not as tall but tall for a human, even. He'd probably menace my mouth with soap for making the comparison. He taught me a little bit of his old tongue, but I know about as much of that as has survived of elvhen.”

Roughly dick all, then. She could recognise elder speech if she heard it again, but she has a few phrases, not a fluency in the tongue.

[dinadhal]

Lacking alcohol, they'll talk of elves from other lands. Aenor's unperturbed--she has stories she'd rather not bring out at dinner parties, either, or after. To run into one of her host's tender spots isn't ideal, but moving past is the easiest way to soothe any touched nerves. Gwenaëlle may set the tone of the conversation for now, and she'll follow.

"We missed much, I think." Tall elves, elves whose elvhen is ancient and unintelligible, elves with names like Iorveth. (It sounds suitable for plenty of the human Wardens she's known, or the dwarves, but less so for the elves of the Anderfels, to her ear.) "These strange elves of yours--ah! Too bad they've gone."

The name Vanadi, she tucks away; it means nothing to her, but Gwenaëlle speaks of the elf it belongs to in the present tense. Someone to be aware of, surely. "The Rifters, they have been many friends of yours. And the Thedosians?"

[elegiaque]

“Oh, I've given you the wrong impression entirely,” comes with a laugh, but doesn't seem like a joke. In that she's not joking when she says: “I couldn't fucking stand most of them. Still true,” thoughtfully, of rifters and Thedosians.

Most, not all; she's only spoken to Vanadi all of once and hasn't much of an opinion, but Iorveth must have inspired some warmth in order to be close enough to her to have both wanted to teach her any of his tongue and to have succeeded.

She makes a wobbly gesture with her hand— “Personally, most rifters aren't nearly grateful enough for being housed, fed, and not killed on sight when they get farted out of a demon hole with no obligations on their part. Who else in Thedas can say that? Obviously it'd be wrong to force them to work, but taking advantage of that and whining about it is intolerable.”

A little shrug.

“People who make an effort are interesting. Doesn't particularly matter where they came from.”