Gela takes the napkin and splutters into it, but even the coughing cannot cover up what they are actually saying to each other. The hair stands up on the nape of her neck. Sitting here and saying nothing would be very strange, wouldn't it, when they've clearly come to sit here with her. Leaving would look just as bad. Wait — why did they choose her table, there are many other tables, with occupancies, people sitting and eating, they didn't have to come here to talk about this.
Do they...
Gela feels very sweaty.
She says hoarsely, "Are you talking about fairytales?"
"No, no," Barrow waves off Gela's question, "werewolves, not shapeshifted dogs. Stand on their hind legs like but have terrible wolf heads, that's what I heard. Some kind of Dalish curse."
He takes a long, resolute drink from his mug. Don't presume to tell him what's happened in Ferelden.
"No," Gela says quickly, desperately clinging to Lazar's side of the argument. "My mother used to tell us tales about werewolves when my brothers and I were young just to scare us into being good — that's all they are."
He tries to think of a comparison. Can't. He's still thinking of the tattoo.
(A mermaid, with the tail all twisted around his thumb. Couldn't ever get a look if it was there under fur -)
"Exactly," He points between them with the fork. There's a little blood in the eggs this morning. Maybe it was in the shell, or someone in the kitchens slipped a thumb too near sharp. "Bet you and your brothers were the real monsters."
"Didn't have any brothers," Barrow loftily replies, "though to be honest, if I had to choose between a pack of werewolves and my sister having it out for me, I'd pick the wolves any day."
"What about -" Hm. "- One sister-sized dragon, or four brother-sized wolves? Me, I'd take the dragon. Some fire and you're done, be dead before it ate you. Wolves'll go at you alive."
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Do they...
Gela feels very sweaty.
She says hoarsely, "Are you talking about fairytales?"
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He takes a long, resolute drink from his mug. Don't presume to tell him what's happened in Ferelden.
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"What, like Les Chats?" He hooks a thumb at Barrow, rolls his eyes to Gela. "You ever hear a more Ferelden breed of nonsense? And poodle was Dalish -"
He pauses. Considers:
"Well, he had a tattoo."
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Tales. Stories!!
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...hm."
He falls silent as he tries to come up with a more apt comparison.
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(A mermaid, with the tail all twisted around his thumb. Couldn't ever get a look if it was there under fur -)
"Exactly," He points between them with the fork. There's a little blood in the eggs this morning. Maybe it was in the shell, or someone in the kitchens slipped a thumb too near sharp. "Bet you and your brothers were the real monsters."
He winks:
"Kids run in packs."
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Gela feels faint. She is avoiding any eye contact all of a sudden.
"I would pick a dragon over having to try to corral my brothers into doing anything they didn't want to do, so."
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"...yeah, wouldn't especially want to fuck with a giant either. Or a varghest, fuck varghests."
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"Varghests got all this judgment attached. Like it ain't enough to rip you up, they gotta say you deserved it."
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That's people, Lazar!!
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"How did you do that?"
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A starving giant will take anything in its path. Goats, pigs, entire caravans. His fork scrapes plate: Empty.
"- But the marrow's good, if you can crack in. They get fatter in the jungle. Vints got all sorts of dishes."