faderift | [open + closed]

"Oof," Astarion muses, finally drawing himself up those steps to sit beside Mado for the sake of conversation. To his crueler mind, this does indeed feel as though he's attempting to teach a rock about being a rock.

"A child of nature, dear boy."

A strange look overtakes Mado's face, his eyes seeming to grow larger as the words sink in: a child of nature he is, but had never thought it obvious.

"They're called Dalish," he says, loudly enough for only Astarion to hear, as one hand moves to rub the back of his neck. "I am... not welcome among them."

"Not welcome?" He asks, seemingly perplexed by the very idea. Why, every treehumping, rabbit-eared, wolf-snouted, flea-ridden druid he's ever met has always taken a shine to their own above all else.

"Whatever did you do, my dear boy? Piss on their sacred idol? Accidentally make a snack of another shapeshifter?"

Mado laughs gamely, but the tension around his eyes suggests something other than humor; rarely are the Dalish spoken of so directly, although it's fair enough that an elf should be doing the questioning. Even if he isn't of this world, by the looks of him.

"Well," he stalls, scrambling mentally for some less offensive way of spinning the truth, "...well I was born into them, you see." He grins disarmingly, as if that explains everything.

“And?” Astarion asks pointedly, his head shaking as he makes it clear enough that this explanation means nothing to him.

“If every story started and ended with ‘I was born’ I daresay there wouldn’t be any literature worth reading. Go on.”

Maker, some people are impatient. It is actually a bit funny, and Mado's smile becomes, however briefly, genuinely amused at Astarion's response.

"Not much for sagas, are you," he amiably remarks, and shakes his head. "--anyway, you may have noticed I'm not an elf. I'm what happens when an elf and a human have a child."

He gestures to his ears, which are as rounded as any typical human's.

"But the Dalish, or at least the clan that bore me, are rather particular about preserving the culture of the elvhen. This includes propagating the race, which has had a shit time of it ever since humans, the shem'len, came along and subjugated them for centuries."

Affecting the voice of an impassive storyteller, he motions now to Astarion's ear.

"You may have noticed that those who look like you are fewer in number. You'll find most of them in Kirkwall's alienage, in servile positions, or living free in the wilderness. Riftwatch is unusual for its equal treatment of elves."

He does, despite all his fussing about Gwenaëlle's storytelling prowess, remember that particular peculiar fact about this world: Half-elves— Cha'Tel'Quessir— in this world look entirely human. Indistinguishable, in fact. And where Astarion would think that'd make a world like this all the more favorable to them, it seems only to have made it all the more harsh.

"And thank goodness for that, I mean. I can imagine my arrival going quite differently if I'd wound up in someone else's care." Not that it would matter. He's adaptable. Capable. He wouldn't suffer arrogant fools.

"So they kicked you out, I take it?"

Mado's smile is wry-- thank goodness for that, indeed, as he can't imagine anyone would have fared well trying to put Astarion in any place other than the one he chooses.

"When I was old enough, the clan sent me on my way," he replies, softening the blow somewhat for his own sake, even if the elf has the truth of it.

"Utter pricks," he scoffs airily, turning his nose to the air in a milder show of distaste. "You see this is why I never had any sort of affinity for druids: it's always closed circles this, nature that— utter bollocks if you ask me. They're cowards."

Cowards, says Astarion. The man that would shed his own skin to save it.

"But you could always have found a different...what do they call themselves. Tribes? Enclaves? Nuisances? It's possible another set of them wouldn't have been such cocks to one of their own."

"Perhaps."

The grin returns, Mado endeared by Astarion's strong feelings on the matter.

"In a way, I did! The streets of Rialto aren't easily survived alone, especially for a boy from the forest. I had a second chance to prove myself worthy, and. Well."

He smiles fondly down at his lute. "I did all right, I think."

"Well you can't pick pockets, dear boy. That remains a point against you."

Astarion, after all, dislikes cheerful mirth. Sincere sweetness. It grates so much on a creature designed to be, at its core, wicked. But he's already given his opinion in regards to the Dalish and their frivolous traditions, so there's only so much bite left to give.

In the end, that's his only true criticism; the man does carry a fair tune.

At that, Mado laughs, any tension broken.

"I never said I couldn't, amico," he replies with a cheerful clap to Astarion's shoulder, "I'm just better at being the diversion."

"Astarion," he corrects primly, delicately lifting those fingertips from his shoulder and setting them to one side. It isn't a rough gesture, equivalent to taking off a scarf, but it's deliberate all the same.

"My name is Astarion, darling."

Accepting the gesture, Mado lifts his hand away and wiggles his fingers as if to say 'yes, it's going away', then folds it in his lap.

"Astarion," he repeats pleasantly, "a name like that, it's quite noble sounding. I hope I haven't offended you."

“Oh. Noble.”

There, as simple as a wound string, Astarion’s demeanor slithers back into something warm. Pleasant. If it wasn’t obvious before (it was), flattery is the key to keeping him tame.

...probably.

“No, no. Not offended at all. But I won’t know what to call you unless you tell me your name in turn.”

A little gasp, and Mado beams.

"Amador," he replies, extending his hand for a proper shake, "or Felasil, my name by birth. But I prefer the other one."

Seeing as they were talking about it, it seems right to be upfront.

"Amador it is, then." He concedes, tipping his chin just so.

The other name? He'll reserve that one should he come to despise the man. Never hurts to keep a thorn in hand for darker days.

"A pleasure. For now."

"A pleasure in kind!"

Mado curls his fingers back to retract his hand, opting instead for a cheerful little two-fingered salute from his forehead.

If he takes the rejection personally, he doesn't show it.

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