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WHO: Talin Shira'nehn (

dirthsal)
WHAT: Resident Dalish needs to make some friends, he guesses.
WHEN: Currentish!
WHERE: The Gallows, or perhaps one of the outposts (for one prompt)
NOTES: None I can think of!

eyrie a (for griffon riders)

Talin has not let falling into the bay on his first ever flight dissuade him from continuing to fly—he jumped, he lived, he's not stupid enough to do it again, everything will be fine. That mindset has served him well the past couple times he's attempted to fly again, at least, and there's no reason it shouldn't serve him again, especially when he has

"A bribe," he says to Ghostface as he enters the stall, tossing the griffon a fresh rabbit carcass, "for good behaviour and steady flying. There's more where it came from if you're good. So be good, hey?"

Ghostface may or may not be paying attention, he may or may not even understand what Talin wants, but he's definitely horking down his rabbit.

eyrie b (for everyone else)

Another (marginally?) successful flight under their belts, Talin sets about the business of cooling Ghostface down. His experience being mostly with halla and harts, he does for Ghostface what he would do for them: he curries the lion half, checking him for injuries or sore muscles. Next will be his feathers, smoothing down what was ruffled by their flight and checking for pins to free from their sheathes. The work is meditative, calming—for him. Ghostface gets restless being asked to stay still for so long, but in their time together Talin has learned his companion.

As he works, he sings under his breath, and Ghostface holds still to listen. He'd stumbled into the method at first, humming to himself while he worked and only belatedly realizing that Ghostface hadn't moved as much while he did. After that, he sang with purpose, starting with Dalish hymns, war songs, elvhen poetry—Ghostface will only hear the same song so many times before it stops working quite as well. By now Talin's moved into nursery rhymes; he'll have to learn new songs.

"Ir sa tel'nal, Mythal las ma theneras..."

watch (forces, you choose the place!)

This isn't the most boring task he's ever been set to... But it's not not boring. A man can only sit in silence for so long before he runs out of things to think about and cracks to count in the walls. At least with the clan—

He looks up with a sharp inhale.

"You don't happen to have a deck of cards, do you?" might literally be the first words he's said to his partner guard all night.

training yard (anybody!)

He's already been in the training grounds for over an hour by the time he approaches the archery range, splitting his time between climbing and leaping between frames and practicing his knifework—and it's a good thing he started with knives, as by the time he picks up a bow, he's already clearly established to anyone watching that he is a competent combatant. It's just that, contrary to popular belief, not all elves—not even all Dalish—are master archers.

His arrow skitters on the stone floor, laughably wide of the target. Bela's laughter rings in his ear, clear and bright like she's standing right next to him. He can hear her good-natured mockery—little halla boy never had anyone teach him to shoot straight, huh?—tickling his ear.

Talin stands frozen, but he doesn't flinch, stopped in place for only a second before he shakes himself out and moves to retrieve his arrows. Bela's voice fades, as it always does. She sounded different, he thinks, but he can't put a finger on what his subconscious has got wrong.

He comes back to the mark, breathes deep, and resets.

buying drinks (anybody!)

He's been here too long without making friends. It was understandable at first—a Dalish elf in a predominantly human organization, taken prisoner by the Venatori almost as soon as he joined up—but at this point his lack of social ties should be growing suspicious to anyone paying close enough attention. He has Astrid, but she's just one person, and most of their time spent together is in the Planasene, not actually in Kirkwall or the Gallows.

So: avoiding suspicion, building social connections, appearing invested in Riftwatch and her people. The easiest way to hit all of these goals at once is, of course, alcohol. Which sends Talin to the Loose Noose at the end of the day, drinking on his own until he sees someone who looks in need of (and receptive to) a companion.

"Well," he says, placing a mug in front of his new mark, "we can't both be drinking alone, that's just sad."

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"I'm not alone," wryly insists the Personnel Officer, "I'm practicing solitude." By the smirk on his face, he's not serious, and nods to the chair across from him for Talin to take a seat if he feels so inclined.

"How're you settling in?"

Chasing chickens, hauling trash, taking an earful on kids these days —

It's not glamorous. It isn't, probably, the best use of Riftwatch's time and resources. But now and again there's some morsel: A name, a rumour. Stones picked from a long road.

"Farriers moved t'Ostwick," Cedric leans on his shovel. He's shuffling through a mental list, on and past Evelyn. "But kin's about. And folks know Serah Amsel. Clan of Dalish did some work back when, but dunno more'n that. Still had me at Skyhold."

Half an age gone. Talin's bare face pulls fewer stares than the Asharas would today.

Edited 2025-01-15 02:11 (UTC)

"Plenty of work getting done for Lowtown," Talin observes, striking into hard earth with his shovel. It's easier to talk to Cedric when he's not looking at his face, though he's been careful not to be cruel enough to show it. Enough scraps have started between agents for him to know it's a sensitive thing.

"Probably employ a fair few of these people," as maids, laundresses, runners, nothing important, "seems a few of us could come and do a bit for them, too. When we've got the time."

They don't always, he knows. War doesn't leave a lot of time for helping your neighbours when you're as in the thick of it as Riftwatch is, with all the missions and intrigues and running halfway across the world for artifacts and temples. What Riftwatch does for the Kirkwall alienage, for all of Southern Thedas, is help make sure there is a Southern Thedas for them all to live in. Everyone else can work on digging up a community garden; they've got a Magister to destroy.

Still.

"You don't have anyone here? Kin?"

"And practicing solitude is different to being alone...?"

He raises his eyebrow at Benedict as he takes the offered seat, prompting. Come on, finish the sentence, this should be good. Much better than Talin explaining that, well, now that he's returned from Venatori captivity he's settling in fine, thanks. Nice of you to check in, Tevinter.

There's no need to be rude when he's making friends, after all.

Benedict opens his mouth, closes it again-- he's not quite so quick on his feet, yet, as others can be, and he needs a little time to finish that sentence.

"...because it's chosen," he decides, and seems satisfied by that, even as his expression softens. He angles his head slightly, waiting for Talin to answer his question.

His mouth opens, squiggles for reflexive answer: Gone,

But that isn't true, is it? Cedric runs a hand over scratchy jaw, and tries again.

"Cumberland," What's left of them. "They're in Cumberland. Got the kids, and they hear stories, y'know. How it goes outside Nevarra."

Kirkwall, Denerim. Halamshiral. What a world, to be eaten by the dead, and better fear the living.

"Any rate. Be good of you to help. Can't look too much like we're playing favourites, don't mean to bring trouble 'round." Plenty of the city's still hungry. Alienage walls keep folks out much as in. "But an elf's better for that."

A smile, down to the ditch. Little funny. Little tired. Cruel or kind, you notice when someone won't look you in the eye.

"Shemlen, we're just gonna think y'live here."

Several weeks - maybe months - ago, Hermione had to stay on a griffon while Cedric jumped off to act as a distraction for the Venatori chasing them on dracolisks, proving the old adage that you can't outrun your fears. She's alive and in one piece, and the griffons in the Riftwatch do not act as hippogriffs do, so past that trial by fire she has lost the fear of them.

She's not ready to court one's favour to have her own griffon, though. Let the experienced riders handle that, she'll just be a distraction. (You also can't Apparate out of a fall forever.)

But she does want the creatures to be used to her presence and her scent, if for no other reason than the fact that she doesn't want to get knocked off one because the griffon decides she's enemy. Also, there may be a level of loving horses and anything that passes for them, which brings her here.

Near the pens but not in any of them, close enough to have heard the sequence from song, to poetry, to elven...good wishes? She would not know. She approaches the fence, letting the humming carry on, until she feels it safe to ask:

"Do you think it's the singing or the way the language sounds what calms him down?"

Talin doesn't startle, exactly, but he goes abrupty quiet on hearing from someone else. He glances over his shoulder at the girl, assessing her before he speaks, noting her anchor shard, her accent, the way she's in the eyrie but not actually interacting with any of the griffons.

"Couldn't say," he finally responds, rolling a pin feather between his thumb and index finger. "Haven't tried any shemlen songs, so he might quiet for those too. Did you want to come say hello?"

The sheath flakes off the feather, and he brushes clinging keratin off on his trousers as he turns to the girl.

"He won't bite if you don't have snacks."

She tilts her head at the strange word - shemlen, what is that again? Thedas is complex enough without all the languages taken into account, so her retention has not been great. It would be great if she could keep a little pocketbook of phrases and words in different languages to keep track of, but how would she even structure it to accommodate all of them?

Did you want to come say hello.

She shakes her head to brush off the thoughts of a pocket dictionary from the forefront of her mind, and smiles in a tightlipped way. "I could say hello from afar, and not risk bitten. Although..."

She pushes herself back from the fence to pull her small bag - on a long strap that sits crossed over her chest - to the front and sticks her hand inside. To the observant eye, her arm goes far further inside that small bag than it should, but for a good reason. It's enchanted, almost bottomless. There's a bag of candied oranges left over from her Satinalia gifts that's in there - it comes into her hand when she thinks of it, and she takes it out, producing it with a little flair.

Gives it a shake, too, so the griffon can hear it. "I do have snacks."

We, he says. Talin looks up at Cedric, takes in the rueful twist of his mouth, considers. Eventually, he sets aside his shovel, and crosses to a wheelbarrow full of manure.

"Wouldn't want the shemlen to think we care too much about each other." Elfblood isn't People, but it's not human either. "That would be a disaster."

It would be, is the fucked up thing. Too much aid for the alienage, not enough for humans, it would eventually cause a problem. For Riftwatch, yes, but for the elves first and worst. They'd feel the brunt of the humans' bitter envy, same as the People have been for hundreds of years, and that could go any number of unpleasant ways.

"I'll do what I can," he promises, and dumps some of the manure into the area where they've been digging. "Is there anyone particular you'd want me to check on, if you can't do it yourself?"

"I don't think that's how that works, actually," he says, but he doesn't sound too concerned about debating it, either. When it becomes clear Bene is actually waiting for an answer to his question, Talin sighs, and glances around the tavern to mask his twitch of annoyance—let the officer think it's about the walls that surround them, not personal.

"Being settled isn't easy. Cities have rarely meant safety for me, so it's difficult to relax sometimes." All true enough, while side-stepping the whole kidnapped and tortured for a week thing. "The Planasene is near enough I can be in nature again when I feel the need, though, and there are others who struggle with staying still, same as me. So it's manageable, especially with worthwhile work to keep me here."

He looks back to Bene, head tilted in curiosity.

"How did you end up here? Tevinter, Altus, mage... Stranger place for you to be than me, I'd think."

With a little twitch of unease, Benedict shuts up again, but nods his sympathetic understanding to the struggles of the city.

"There's at least one Dalish clan that comes around nearby sometimes," he says with a shrug of one shoulder-- "they're familiar with us and probably wouldn't mind a visit, if you felt so inclined. Clan Ashara."

He picks up his wine goblet to nurse from it, dropping his gaze.

"I was brought against my will, once upon a time," he explains, bracing himself for the inevitable conversation, "my perspective has shifted somewhat since then." A wry, quiet smile.

Ghostface noticeably perks up at the sound of the rattling candies, the connection to the word snacks—Talin rolls his eyes, visibly suppressing an indulgent smile as the griffon makes a cooing, excited noise and takes a step toward the girl.

"Well, now he won't leave you alone until he gets one," Talin says, the fondness of his tone belying the exasperation in his body language. He approaches their new friend first and Ghostface follows, eyes bright and laser-focused on the bag in her hand. The griffon keeps clicking his beak, like he'd be salivating and licking his chops if he were just a little more cat than bird.

"Introductions first, boy. It's polite."

Ghostface huffs, but sits on his haunches, tearing his eyes away from the bag of candies to blink intently at the girl holding them. Talin waits to make sure Ghostface's attention is properly diverted from the candies, and proceeds once he's sure Ghostface is paying attention.

"This is Ghostface. Ghostface, say hello."

The griffon coos something that could almost, sort of, if you're being generous, sound like "hello". He and Talin both look at the girl expectantly.

"Messere Connell, he gets wandering. There's eyes on him most days, but... 's a lot. Dunno what year it is. Asks after his wife."

He nods to the wheelbarrow, fishes a handkerchief to offer. Gratitude, maybe, or only a working nose. Cities stink. Their gardens do. Sometimes it's nice to suck in a breath without swallowing flies.

"Been trying to think what Riftwatch can do, that someone else couldn't." Pull a sword, set some fireworks off, evade arrest: These are the things that he doesn't suggest. "Easier for us t'move around, get aught heard."

It's not only them. Chantry does good work down here. It's just that lately, robes in the Alienage send his head a little funny, a little too hot.

This is the second time in a week someone's mentioned the Dalish clan to him. Talin has half a mind to be annoyed—do they all think all Dalish like each other? That there's no inter-clan conflict? Have they never considered that he might not care to meet a group of total strangers?—but he knows that annoyance has more to do with himself than Cedric or Bene. Yes, he does want to meet this clan, and correctly assuming that is not a crime. It's just annoying to be predictable.

"I'll have to keep an eye out for them, they might have news they're more willing to share with a fellow Dalish than humans. Even ones they like."

But never mind clan talk—this is far more interesting. Talin doesn't even bother trying to hide the intrigued glint in his eye as he leans forward.

"I'd hate to pry," is a sentiment he should at least pay lip service to, probably.

Benedict offers a little nod of agreement-- he certainly hasn't done much interacting with Dalish before this, but as Personnel Officer, it seems worth the while to get people in touch with other people. Maybe they will share things they wouldn't with humans.

Noticing how Talin leans forward, Benedict offers a dry smirk.
"How considerate," he replies, and takes a sip from his wine-- Talin may hate to pry, but he'll have to if he wants more information.

That's two different answers. Both agreeable to Talin, of course, though he's a little more surprised by one than the other. He accepts the kerchief with an absent-minded ma serannas and inhales through it, observing Cedric. Considers him in all his elfblooded Templar glory.

"Plenty we can do they can't," he says finally, with a shrug carefully practiced to be just the right amount of casual. "Just depends what kinds of jobs we want to draw the line at, I suppose."

He can think of a lot of things they could do that these elves can't. Intimidate shemlen, pay them off, make problems disappear, if necessary. (Funnel People out of the city, to the safety of the Wolf's camps.) They could even go the normally corrupt route of bribes to elevate complaints to the viscount, lean on the guard for better protection for the alienage—though that's much less interesting to Talin specifically.

He holds the kerchief back out to Cedric, but doesn't let go of it immediately. Holds Cedric's eyes.

"Not a lot I won't do for People, myself." He lets go of the kerchief and smiles, friendly and non-threatening. "Within reason, o' course."

Well, if Bene is going to make him ask, Talin is suddenly not interested. Who wants to know about a Tevinter turncoat anyway!!

"That's me," he leans back in his chair and drinks from his cup, maintaining stubborn eye contact with Benedict. "I'm known for being polite."

Great!! Fine!!!

"So I see," he says pleasantly, leaning back in an unconscious mirroring of Talin's body language, "is there something else I can do for you, Messere Shira'nehn?"

Ghostface coos, and all Hermione can think of is how cute that is. There are some similarities between griffons and hippogriffs, although the ones that the Riftwatch houses aren't anywhere near that proud.

Still, this one reminds her of Crookshanks when it came time to feed him. Local griffon has never been fed ever, says local griffon.

"Hello, Ghostface," she greets back, now untying the back containing candied oranges so she can pick out three - she's not cruel, alright? She likes cats and birds (and the occasional dog), and griffons straddle the line between both. She would never refuse them snacks, even if she'd refuse to ride them.

"I'm Hermione."

She holds one hand out with the candies in her palm, in open offering; the sleeves of her tunic are rolled up as usual, the scar on display (she has stopped hiding it, and the nightmares have begun to wane). Hermione's focus is on the well-behaved griffon, however.

"He's very pretty."

"Nothing in particular. I was under the impression that drinking together is how settled people make friends."

As though the Dalish don't do the same—the drinks may be different, mead and fermented halla milk instead of ale or beer, but they drink around fires just as much as the shemlen. Let Benedict call him on that, though. At least this conversation would be slightly more interesting if there was some overt friction to it.

"Very polite of you," Benedict remarks, folding his arms, "do you not consider yourself settled?"

It's as good an opening question as any.

Edited 2025-04-14 04:09 (UTC)

Local griffon wasting away, says local griffon. Local griffon skin and bones, reliant on the charity of kind young witches to liberate him from the cold, unfeeling clutches of his partner's starvation rations—

Hermione holds out her hand and Ghostface lunges at it. Before he gets even a step closer to her, Talin swats mildly at the griffon's chest and clicks his tongue, sharp; Ghostface responds to the correction with a grumbling sort of coo, and approaches Hermione slowly this time. He takes the candies delicately out of her hand, one by one, careful of the sharp points of his beak on the soft meat of her palm. His restraint earns him a smile and a scratch behind the ears from Talin, and that seems enough to appease him.

For Talin's part, he notes the scar Hermione sports, first idly and then more obviously—she sees him see it, and she can choose whether she wants to say anything about it.

"They're very handsome animals," he agrees, while Ghostface stares intently at the bag the oranges came from. Talin stops scritching, and Ghostface's ear flicks back at him, his tail lashes once; Talin chuckles and starts scritching again. "I never thought I would see one in the flesh. I'm surprised Riftwatch doesn't have more people signing up just to see them.

"I'm Talin. Don't let him guilt you into giving him any more candy than you feel like parting with."

Well. Well, thank god for the correction - she likes having fingers, thank you very much. Hermione would gladly reward the restraint with a scritch or two, if she were feeling particularly daring. But Ghostface is clearly being trained - trained well - and she isn't going to interrupt it.

She notices him noticing her scar, her gaze darting to her bare arm, the explanation on the tip of her tongue. And just as quickly, abandoned - no, she will not explain it unless asked, but she doesn't hide it anymore either.

She leans against the fence, safely on the other side. (Local griffon is being taunted by temptation, never experienced such cruelty, and so on...)

"Oh, it's good to put a name to the face," she tells Talin, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. "I've seen you before." Then her gaze gets drawn back to the griffon, noting his hungry look towards the bag still in her hand. "I could part with all of them, you tell me. Is sugar alright for griffons?"

"No," bluntly—but he considers it for a moment, actually, and then inclines his head in allowance. "Excepting now, I suppose. This is the most settled I've ever been, and I don't plan to move on any time soon."

If he had anyone to send him letters, if anyone who cared about him could read (or was alive), they'd have a constant place to send them to. That probably counts as settled, doesn't it?

"Is that not a distinction that you make, settled and not? Or do you use a different word for it?"

Even odds a Tevinter magister distinguishes civilized and not.

Benedict thinks on the question a moment, shrugs a shoulder noncommittally as he sips from his drink.

"Comfortable," is what he decides on, "in the context of... settling in, I suppose." The corners of his mouth quirk in a little smile-- he's never been one for verbal sparring, never found that his mind can work quickly enough to make his mouth do anything but stammer.
"I can't pretend to know what it's like for everyone, but I felt more settled when I..." A pause, as he chooses his words carefully, "let myself relax into it. The new place and people, I mean."

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open;

drinks

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eyrie b

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sorry for the wait, feel free to drop!

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