heaven, a gateway, a hope

[byblow]

WHO: Grey Wardens & You
WHAT: A daring and not at all ragtag group of Grey Wardens has walked all the way across Orlais to inform the Inquisition--just in case it hadn't already realized on its own--that everything is terrible.
WHEN: Harvestmere 22
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: This post has: (1) A single group "we just got here, we're freezing, who is in charge, what do you mean you haven't decided yet" starter that we'd like to keep to one chronological thread. (2) Open starters for individual Wardens set later in the day/week.

OOC Note: Regarding the first starter--threadjack away! Anyone is welcome to wander onto the scene to see what's going on and wander back out at their leisure, to fall silent for a while, etc. No tagging order. But let slower taggers get a word in edgewise!

Comments

[ombranera]

The knife is set away with a flourish, Zevran spreading his hands to put on his most crestfallen expression. "Only because you are so dear to me, Alistair. Or have you forgotten how we spent our long, cold nights during the Blight already? How cruel of you."

How unfair to warn them before they got to experience him for themselves. That is cheating him of their genuine surprise- then again surprising them after they've been warned and attempt to brace themselves is all the more amusing. And it does seem as though he and Alistair are in dire need of amusement if what he said earlier is true. The situation is dire, playing the fool to bring a little joy to the Wardens, to ease his friend's burden? Is no terrible thing.

Especially if he can get Alistair to blush. It's gotten more difficult over the years.

He stands and makes his approach, hangdog and wounded until he is close enough to wrap an arm around Alistair's waist and lean against him properly. "You said what we had was special. Did you not mean it?"

[paperwing]

She was persuaded down here for the food.

Actually, no. Sabriel was easily persuaded by virtue that, once they've spoken to several official people and been graciously provided with something clean to wear, that she was considering looking for her brothers (and sister) anyway, because that's what happens in a Circle or under anyone superior. They say jump, you say how high. They say we're going to raise a demon army, you say that you're already ready to go.

Or not, in this instance. Go and settle had been the unspoken order of the day, and it was easy for Alistair to persuade her along, because she was half-halfheartedly not doing much at all. Sleeping was still unlikely and she was, as he mentioned food, quite hungry: food wasn't free but this food was going to be. Another plus.

(Not that she wouldn't pay, but real, physical money isn't strewn about a mountainside in the snow.)

Alistair had mentioned a friend, something about the Blight - which she hadn't question because that was a no man's land thanks to the Prince Consort of Ferelden - and even with the warnings, she has no real idea of what or whom to expect.

Except when he does open his mouth his accent is Antivan, or what she assumes is Antivan, as she's had to listen to Scipio's wining for so long. She's not quite squinting, but that alone stops her in her tracks - sorry about that association. Her brow rises a little as Zevran approaches Alistair, and then goes down. If it weren't for the fact there was food and Alistair was, for all intents and purposes, her superior, she'd been skittering straight back out the door.

(She knows what flirting is. Theoretically. But what mages believe to be flirting is not this, not that she's engaged in flirting, so, yeah, this is brand new.)

"Alistair?" She's not sure why she says his name. It's not even a question really. Just a, 'who is this man, what's happening, why is he doing that?' She looks at Sigrun too. Sigrun, do you have any explanations? Please help.

[roguishpast]

Sigrun may be short, but her arms have some reach, thank you, and she uses that reach in a very important way by covering Sabriel’s eyes with her hands, standing on her tip toes to make it easier. This is much better than an explanation, clearly. “Will no one think of the children?” She exclaims in (mostly) mock offense. Never mind the fact that Sabriel is a fully grown adult and the only one of child height present is Sigrun. What matters here is seniority and level of innocence, in that order. Someone has to preserve that Circle-raised purity.

If anyone can make her ignore a bounty of food and all the sights and smells associated with it, it is, apparently, Zevran. Much time has passed since Cousland’s tales of his exploits, and Alistair’s warnings pale in comparison to the real thing. Being told of someone’s antics is much different than experiencing them, of course, but. Wow. Zevran is every bit deserving of the tales told about him and more, at least from what Sigrun has gathered from this first impression.

To the unabashed assassin’s credit, it does take her mind off of the less than ideal circumstances. It has been a long, long day. Free food and entertainment is like a gift from above. Or below? She’s a not a surface dwarf, okay. Her gratitude is less than evident, but give it time. And a good reaction from Alistair to sweeten the deal. That should get the ball rolling.

In the meantime, awkwardly standing with her arms and legs such as they are in the peanut gallery is a bit much, so she sees fit to interject with an introduction, at least. “I’m Sigrun, by the way. And the girl you just scandalized is Sabriel.”

[byblow]

Alistair endures--no, that's the wrong word. He accepts Zevran's sidling-up, pliantly, because he knows there's no escape. But all the preparation in the world can't stop his cheeks from turning pink. Just a little pink. Easy to miss.

"I warned you," he says to Sabriel while Sigrun covers her eyes, and he gives Zevran a perfunctory one-armed hug that is equal parts affection and yes, all right, you can stop now. Whether Zevran cooperates with that or not, Alistair gamely tries to carry on as if nothing is at all odd about the greeting: "Sabriel is one of our newer recruits, from Nevarra," he says, "and Sigrun was with Warden-Commander Cousland--" He doesn't sound like he wants to cry or stomp his foot at the name. It's a miracle. Probably because he's distracted. "--at Vigil's Keep."

Zevran probably knows that. But manners. And efficiency. Food.

"And Zevran," he says to the women, particularly Sabriel, "helped the Wardens," all two or three of them, "defeat the Fifth Blight, out of the goodness of his soft and charitable heart."

[ombranera]

"So you have replaced me. I see how it is. A few years apart and you find yourself something younger and more luscious." Not that it stops him from leaning his cheek against Alistair's shoulder, somber and horribly sad. The biggest, dewiest doe eyes are turned up to him in time to catch that blush. "I forgive you. It has been so long and I must respect your dalliances- you have needs after all."

To the women, a flicker of wicked humor sparkling behind the wounded mask. "Occasionally he would have needs more than once a night."

To that he steps away with a hearty slap to Alistair's behind, leading them to the table proper. "We have ale, we have food, we have cheese and sausages and a warm fire for your chilled bones. I would hear of your travels and your troubles if you are of a mind to share them- though I must ask, Sigrun. Is it true that Ogrhen became a Grey Warden? He wrote the once and I still do not believe it."

[paperwing]

"Sigrun!" It's not much of a protest, if it is one at all. She doesn't seem to mind being called a child, at least, just the eye-covering, but her attempt at removing Sigrun's hands is rather feeble. Perhaps it's safer where she can't see anything.

Yes, it was definitely safer where she couldn't see Zevran because hearing was enough. She just shuffles on the spot, awkwardly. She knows what he's saying but she doesn't want to think about it, thank you very much for those mental images, Zevran. Are all Antivans like this? She thinks all Antivans are like this.

"It's..." she's trying to be polite. It's the last stop at normalcy. "...an honour to meet a companion to the Wardens that ended the Fifth Blight." Surprisingly, it's not strained, but genuine. You should have seen her when she met Alistair the first time.

For now, she just follows towards the table, but she doesn't make to sit until someone else does.

[roguishpast]

“Be grateful I only have the one pair of hands, or your ears would be covered, too.” Sigrun’s beginning to think she should have made to protect those over Sabriel’s eyes in the first place. What’s more offensive, Zevran’s gestures or his words? A question for the ages. The world may never know. The dwarf’s efforts are not overly forceful, at least, and her hands are removed when Sabriel wills them so.

Alistair’s formal addition to the round of introductions is dutifully acknowledged, though not mirrored. Instead, a quip is offered in its place. “Does that make him an honorary warden? I think it should.” Does she respect what Zevran has done? Certainly. Will she express that at a later time when behinds are not being slapped? Definitely.

Her nose cannot help but wrinkle in disgust when a certain name is brought up. It’s a reflex. Like breathing. “It’s true... Unfortunately.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and amends her statement with consideration and a heavy sigh. “I should cut him some slack. For all his faults, he’s a damn fine warden.” Wherever he may be. Stone speed, Oghren.

With all of the formalities finally out of the way, Sigrun beelines towards the table. She needs no invitation under normal circumstances, least of all the unique ones of tonight. A chair is pulled out and sat upon, and a hand reaches out for a piece of sausage. Then she reconsiders, as the memory of Oghren is still fresh in her mind. She helps herself to the cheese, instead.

[byblow]

It's younger and more luscious that finally makes Alistair sputter--only briefly, two unrecognizable syllables that are half-sigh and quickly tamped down on--and give Zevran a withering look. A look that tried to be withering. It is probably more pleading than withering in practice, especially with the blushing.

Anyway, the point: slap his rear if you must, but leave Sabriel alone. So young, so earnest, so unspoiled by lascivious elves.

There was not any genuine sexual tension in the room, fortunately, but if there had been, mention of Oghren would have sucked it all out. Alistair opens his mouth to say they're letting anyone Join these days but shuts it without a word, darkening. Because of Loghain, of course. But perhaps he only looks inexplicably moody.

"Well, I think it's cheating," he says after taking a moment to recover his tired, worried version of good cheer. "After all that dwarven ale, he could probably drink a whole dragon's worth of archdemon blood and ask for seconds."

That would be a yes to the honorary warden thing; Alistair wouldn't talk about the particulars of the Joining around just anyone. He sits down and hovers his hands--predictably--near the cheese until Sigrun has taken her share.

[ombranera]

And there it is, the flushing and sputtering he had long missed in their time apart. Letters simply don't do the expression justice. He can dine happily now. "You'll not consider it an honor for long, sweet Sabriel, trust me. No one who meets me in person ever does. A pleasure, now..."

Does it count as leaving her alone if all he does is speak? He isn't even leering, too busy filling his plate with little slivers of roast whatever it is and dried fruits. Then again his voice can be considered as good as a hand in some instances- but he swears it's keeping from the collar up. For now.

"You know, after the blight? I offered myself to Alistair as the Warden's new mascot. I think it'd be more charming than a griffon, wouldn't you say?" He knocks his foot against Alistair's under the table- eat, boy. Lest you wither away to nothing before you have your fill of those tiny sausages he paid so much for you to have. "He always did have a stomach of iron. Do you recall when we wagered he could not eat- I think it was the leg of one of those massive spiders in the deep roads- and keep it down? Not only was he able to do so- he asked for seconds. This is what comes of too much ale and roast nug."

[paperwing]

With the rest of the small gathering seated, Sabriel finally seats herself, as far away from Zevran as is possible (which isn't very far, given that the table isn't that long). What with the talk of Oghren as well, she's coming to the conclusion that Alistair had a very strange group of companions during the Fifth Blight and her mental image of the band of heroes might have been destroyed... ever so slightly.

"You were kind enough to invite us down here for dinner," she says, reaching for some bread, because this entire spread is so... Ferelden. Not that she minds, and would never complain about its simplicity and it's one hundred times better than whatever they could find in the Frostbacks, but still. Another reason to miss Nevarra. She does sound sincere, though - whether she's reminding herself or thanking him is another matter.

Probably herself, as the chewing of bread ceases at the mention of Alistair eating spiders. Now she's just looking at him. And Zevran, because is that a joke? Is he joking?

"Is that true?"