WHO: Siorus + You; Bastien & Byerly & Benedict & Vega WHAT: Warden intro, dinner party. WHEN: Spring 9:50 WHERE: Various NOTES: Catch-all for some open and closed stuff.
It occurs to Vlast that he's never actually repaired anything before. He's seen ruins, of course he's seen ruins. Even before Balthazar, even before his grandfather, Palawa Joko had laid waste to so much of Elona.
Be he never really thought much on it. Buildings rise, buildings fall. It seemed simply a thing that occurred, like the coming and going of seasons. He could chase the Awakened from a region, but he never stuck around to see if the people they'd been terrorizing would return or rebuild. He certainly had no inclination to help.
Standing in the middle of the wreckage of the Gallows, Vlast's perspective is rapidly changing with physical proximity to the bodies being pulled from the rubble. The concept of grief is becoming far less abstract as he watches people break down when they recognize missing loved ones by clothes or trinkets or tokens, but not their faces, never their faces. Not anymore. Necks don't bend liked that. Skulls aren't shaped like that.
Of course, standing around and watching people mourn isn't going to fly. People keep handing him heavy sacks or carts full of rubble like he should know what to do with them and sending him on his way with nary an explanation. Not that he's bothered to ask, of course, that would be far too straightforward and he has no desire to let his ignorance show.
Presently, his arms are laden now with a number of heavy looking sacks. He's not sure what's in them or where he's supposed to be taking them or why.
When the person atop what was once a wall asks if he needs help, Vlast gives him a long, measured, calculating look, as if trying read ulterior motives in the stranger's face. He can't, of course; facial expressions and their nuances are, at present, a closed book to him. But he tries.
"I don't know where these belong."
His voice is a low growl. It would probably be frightening coming out of a wall of a Qunari, but it's tinged with such petulance that it rather takes the edge off.
"I see. Maybe I can't help you, then," Siorus says.
He's new; he's disoriented by the high walls and the rubble; he doesn't have the faintest idea where anything belongs. But he hops down anyway, landing with as much grace as could ever be fairly expected of a man his size, and approaches to have a look at the sacks anyway.
There's no fear in the look he gives the fellow's horns. Curiosity, though, definitely. He's never seen a Qunari before.
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Be he never really thought much on it. Buildings rise, buildings fall. It seemed simply a thing that occurred, like the coming and going of seasons. He could chase the Awakened from a region, but he never stuck around to see if the people they'd been terrorizing would return or rebuild. He certainly had no inclination to help.
Standing in the middle of the wreckage of the Gallows, Vlast's perspective is rapidly changing with physical proximity to the bodies being pulled from the rubble. The concept of grief is becoming far less abstract as he watches people break down when they recognize missing loved ones by clothes or trinkets or tokens, but not their faces, never their faces. Not anymore. Necks don't bend liked that. Skulls aren't shaped like that.
Of course, standing around and watching people mourn isn't going to fly. People keep handing him heavy sacks or carts full of rubble like he should know what to do with them and sending him on his way with nary an explanation. Not that he's bothered to ask, of course, that would be far too straightforward and he has no desire to let his ignorance show.
Presently, his arms are laden now with a number of heavy looking sacks. He's not sure what's in them or where he's supposed to be taking them or why.
When the person atop what was once a wall asks if he needs help, Vlast gives him a long, measured, calculating look, as if trying read ulterior motives in the stranger's face. He can't, of course; facial expressions and their nuances are, at present, a closed book to him. But he tries.
"I don't know where these belong."
His voice is a low growl. It would probably be frightening coming out of a wall of a Qunari, but it's tinged with such petulance that it rather takes the edge off.
no subject
He's new; he's disoriented by the high walls and the rubble; he doesn't have the faintest idea where anything belongs. But he hops down anyway, landing with as much grace as could ever be fairly expected of a man his size, and approaches to have a look at the sacks anyway.
There's no fear in the look he gives the fellow's horns. Curiosity, though, definitely. He's never seen a Qunari before.
"What's in them?"