At such a distance, it had been difficult to see details through the commotion, the screaming, the way he’d gone for the lyrium. But his recognition sparks a pleased reaction: “I am, yeah! Astrid, Scouting,” which still feels indefinably odd to her as an introduction, denoting Riftwatch division rather than Avvar hold, but she’s getting accustomed to it.
“And I dunno, your teeth look pretty fearsome.” She squints at his mouth, staring perhaps a little too closely for politeness’ sake. She’s never met a Qunari before; she keeps looking at the white hair, the horns.
Spurred by the inspiration for some vague gesture, that equalising force of food uniting all cultures, she holds out her greasepaper bag of snacks. “You want some fried octopus? They’re good here.”
Vlast's nose wrinkles. He supposes his teeth might look ferocious by human standards, but compared to what they once were...
Well, these dull, blocky things in his mouth aren't rending the flesh from a hydra, or inspiring terror in the harpies nesting in the desert highlands any time soon.
The food does smell exquisite though. That's the thing about cooking. Vlast had initially scoffed, of course; how can anything be better than fresh off the bone? But this was yet another thing he'd dismissed out of hand far too hastily. Fire and salt and assorted herbs and spices seemed to bring out all the good flavours.
Grudgingly, he had to give the mortals their due.
"It smells good," he admits, wary, and then tries for something like basic courtesy. "I am Vlast. Forces. ...Probably."
Astrid’s mouth runs quicker than her thoughts. There’s a quick moment of mild embarrassment, were you maybe not supposed to just come right out and say oi you’re a big beefy one, “Not that I’m saying all Qunari need to be part of Forces and beat people up, like. Just that you seem like you’d be good at it? But I could be wrong, you’re the first one I’ve met. First Qunari, that is. Um.”
"You still haven't met a Qunari," he says flatly. "I'm a Rifter. This is the form this world saw fit to shape me into, but I have no connection to them or their culture."
Vlast watches the stranger - Astrid - with mild bewilderment. He can't fathom why she's so flustered. He isn't anywhere near as big as he used to be, and he hasn't bit anyone in weeks.
"Though I cannot give you insight to the Qunari, I confess curiosity about the Avvar."
How was she supposed to tell he wasn’t actually a Qunari when he looks exactly like one, she didn’t even know that could happen—
Astrid takes a deep breath. She’s still sitting on the dockside wall, but at least that brings their eyelines into closer alignment. She gently underhand lobs him the bag of fried octopus, and then re-settles with her legs folded under her. She’s so new to this. Maybe redirecting the focus will make her less awkward and off-kilter, a fish out of water around interdimensional dream-spirit-visitors:
“There’s not that many of us in the city,” she says. “Happy to answer anything y’like, though, Vlast the Rifter.”
He catches the bag, and almost immediately digs in.
Chewy, but delicious! And the octopus is fresh too.
It's not that he never snacked on carrion before (waste not), but fresh was always best.
"Your people come from the mountains to the south, yes? I have read that the Avvar are great warriors, gifted in magic, and commune with spirits."
Well, the book had described them as savage barbarians whose clans festered with apostates that consorted with demons, but Vlast approved of anything that got those Chantry sisters shaking in their silly hats.
But a smile ticks at the corner of Astrid’s mouth, brightening at this particular description. She’s aware she sounds like a song caught on repeat, always drifting back to the same motif over and over, she just can’t shake that godsdamned way she still has a foot stuck in her homeland; the prospect of explaining it to a rifter, though, makes it feel a little more useful. This is educational. Right?
“We are all that, yeah, mostly,” she says with a puff of pride. And then adding, grudging but not very tactful, “Northerners have a problem with the bit about the spirit communion. They’re scared shitless of their local spirits unless they’re using them for healing, which is hypocritical as all get-out, if you ask me. But we accept that they’re all a part of our life, our society, our landscape. They can offer wisdom.”
"Such hypocrisy goes hand-in-hand with cowardice," he growls between mouthfuls of fried squid. "It seems the further north one goes here, the worse it gets."
He has read what the actual Qunari do to their mages. His perpetual scowl only deepens.
"...Do you face much trouble from the humans here?"
i’m so sorry!! eventually my life will stop blowing up
Astrid’s expression turns thoughtful. “A few people here in Kirkwall are a little shitty, they make assumptions. They’ve not met a lot of Avvar besides, like, hearing that we’re all growling barbarians in furs or whatever. But I don’t expect it’s as bad as… Why, have you?”
If he looks like a Qunari but isn’t actually a Qunari, then surely that might lead to some problems. The skittish way people look at the big horned foreigners, this newfound experience of an entire species’ baggage which isn’t your own.
Astrid snorts, bemused: “I’ll keep practicin’ it.”
And then she finally slides off the sea-wall, her boots hitting the ground; it brings her back to standing and shorter than him, the angle now a little uncomfortable to crane her head to look up at the not-a-Qunari, but at least this way she can amble into a walk beside him. She wipes her hands off on her trousers, the seafood snack now gone.
“Where were you headed? Before those dwarves’ cart broke open.”
Astrid has to lengthen her steps to match Vlast’s longer gait, but she takes it in stride (both literal and figurative); she’s used to a quick pace, a run, hurrying through the wilderness for hours on end.
“Shopping,” she says. “I’m after some white facepaint and wood, for carving. Want to familiarise yourself with the market? It’ll be useful for haggling. All you’ve gotta do is stand beside me and look real intimidating, like.”
And she pulls slightly ahead, setting a course and a destination. He’ll be able to observe the social interactions and transactions around them, and the negotiation itself, as Astrid eventually delves into fierce haggling and arguing back and forth with the owner of a stall of miscellanies. There’s some loud voices, some wild gesticulation of hands, a lot of numbers, a lot of the proprietor shooting skittish looks at the hulking shape of Vlast, and then, finally: a good deal on some wood and some whittling knives.
Vlast is very good at being big and imposing. He's a head and a half taller than the next tallest person in the market and twice as broad, and his face settles naturally into a scowl or sneer.
Meanwhile, he watches the rapidfire haggling with interest. It's... a lot to take in, and some of the dynamics are lost on him, but it's a battle of sorts. One of wits and words and cunning, something Astrid seems to have in abundance.
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“And I dunno, your teeth look pretty fearsome.” She squints at his mouth, staring perhaps a little too closely for politeness’ sake. She’s never met a Qunari before; she keeps looking at the white hair, the horns.
Spurred by the inspiration for some vague gesture, that equalising force of food uniting all cultures, she holds out her greasepaper bag of snacks. “You want some fried octopus? They’re good here.”
no subject
Well, these dull, blocky things in his mouth aren't rending the flesh from a hydra, or inspiring terror in the harpies nesting in the desert highlands any time soon.
The food does smell exquisite though. That's the thing about cooking. Vlast had initially scoffed, of course; how can anything be better than fresh off the bone? But this was yet another thing he'd dismissed out of hand far too hastily. Fire and salt and assorted herbs and spices seemed to bring out all the good flavours.
Grudgingly, he had to give the mortals their due.
"It smells good," he admits, wary, and then tries for something like basic courtesy. "I am Vlast. Forces. ...Probably."
no subject
Astrid’s mouth runs quicker than her thoughts. There’s a quick moment of mild embarrassment, were you maybe not supposed to just come right out and say oi you’re a big beefy one, “Not that I’m saying all Qunari need to be part of Forces and beat people up, like. Just that you seem like you’d be good at it? But I could be wrong, you’re the first one I’ve met. First Qunari, that is. Um.”
Eurgh. She wants to shove her foot in said mouth.
no subject
Vlast watches the stranger - Astrid - with mild bewilderment. He can't fathom why she's so flustered. He isn't anywhere near as big as he used to be, and he hasn't bit anyone in weeks.
"Though I cannot give you insight to the Qunari, I confess curiosity about the Avvar."
no subject
How was she supposed to tell he wasn’t actually a Qunari when he looks exactly like one, she didn’t even know that could happen—
Astrid takes a deep breath. She’s still sitting on the dockside wall, but at least that brings their eyelines into closer alignment. She gently underhand lobs him the bag of fried octopus, and then re-settles with her legs folded under her. She’s so new to this. Maybe redirecting the focus will make her less awkward and off-kilter, a fish out of water around interdimensional dream-spirit-visitors:
“There’s not that many of us in the city,” she says. “Happy to answer anything y’like, though, Vlast the Rifter.”
no subject
Chewy, but delicious! And the octopus is fresh too.
It's not that he never snacked on carrion before (waste not), but fresh was always best.
"Your people come from the mountains to the south, yes? I have read that the Avvar are great warriors, gifted in magic, and commune with spirits."
Well, the book had described them as savage barbarians whose clans festered with apostates that consorted with demons, but Vlast approved of anything that got those Chantry sisters shaking in their silly hats.
no subject
But a smile ticks at the corner of Astrid’s mouth, brightening at this particular description. She’s aware she sounds like a song caught on repeat, always drifting back to the same motif over and over, she just can’t shake that godsdamned way she still has a foot stuck in her homeland; the prospect of explaining it to a rifter, though, makes it feel a little more useful. This is educational. Right?
“We are all that, yeah, mostly,” she says with a puff of pride. And then adding, grudging but not very tactful, “Northerners have a problem with the bit about the spirit communion. They’re scared shitless of their local spirits unless they’re using them for healing, which is hypocritical as all get-out, if you ask me. But we accept that they’re all a part of our life, our society, our landscape. They can offer wisdom.”
no subject
"Such hypocrisy goes hand-in-hand with cowardice," he growls between mouthfuls of fried squid. "It seems the further north one goes here, the worse it gets."
He has read what the actual Qunari do to their mages. His perpetual scowl only deepens.
"...Do you face much trouble from the humans here?"
i’m so sorry!! eventually my life will stop blowing up
If he looks like a Qunari but isn’t actually a Qunari, then surely that might lead to some problems. The skittish way people look at the big horned foreigners, this newfound experience of an entire species’ baggage which isn’t your own.
no worries! take as much time as you need
He's been very, very good about encouraging that distance be maintained.
"For a growling barbarian, your growl could use some work."
no subject
And then she finally slides off the sea-wall, her boots hitting the ground; it brings her back to standing and shorter than him, the angle now a little uncomfortable to crane her head to look up at the not-a-Qunari, but at least this way she can amble into a walk beside him. She wipes her hands off on her trousers, the seafood snack now gone.
“Where were you headed? Before those dwarves’ cart broke open.”
no subject
He ponders the question - he had no destination in mind, but he certainly had goals, however nebulous.
"I wish to familiarize myself with this place," he says, at last. "And you?"
wrap as we sidle over to the newer one? :’)
“Shopping,” she says. “I’m after some white facepaint and wood, for carving. Want to familiarise yourself with the market? It’ll be useful for haggling. All you’ve gotta do is stand beside me and look real intimidating, like.”
And she pulls slightly ahead, setting a course and a destination. He’ll be able to observe the social interactions and transactions around them, and the negotiation itself, as Astrid eventually delves into fierce haggling and arguing back and forth with the owner of a stall of miscellanies. There’s some loud voices, some wild gesticulation of hands, a lot of numbers, a lot of the proprietor shooting skittish looks at the hulking shape of Vlast, and then, finally: a good deal on some wood and some whittling knives.
sounds excellent to me :3c
Meanwhile, he watches the rapidfire haggling with interest. It's... a lot to take in, and some of the dynamics are lost on him, but it's a battle of sorts. One of wits and words and cunning, something Astrid seems to have in abundance.
Clever human.