faderift | heaven, a gateway, a hope

Entry tags:

heaven, a gateway, a hope

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!

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"Oh, no, of course not," he says. "I'm not much of an archer. If I were going to do anything like that, I'd have to stab you, and then there's all the blood, and the washing-up."

He takes that drink, finally.

"I'm only looking for common ground. What about dog bites? Have you ever been bitten by a dog?"

"I haven't. Fended off a few wolf attacks, but I cast a barrier so I would be protected. I'm afraid I might not have anything else to weigh it against. Could you just take my word for it?" Even if he doesn't, it's at least got them talking. She could think of worse ways to start a conversation.

Alistair hums, considering, and shakes his head.

"I'm afraid not," he says. "I'm not a very trusting person, unfortunately. I'm working on it, but it's a slow process. It involves interrogating a lot of strangers."

He extends a leg under his table to push out the empty chair across from him in invitation.

Her lips lift with a smile and she seats herself without ceremony, crossing her arms on the table and leaning in.

"That's wise of you. A person can't be too careful, and besides, I don't mind answering questions, as long as you answer some of mine too. And I think I've given you enough free questions, haven't I?"

But the problem with asking questions is that she never knows where to start! She's happy knowing anything about anyone, because their lives have been so different from hers. She's always felt trapped within the clan, unable to change it from within. Other people have seen exciting places, done marvelous things, and here she's just the third mage in a clan who has never been able to find where she truly fits; where she truly belongs.

Tucking a piece of hair behind her long ear, she tells herself to focus.

"I suppose the most important thing to know is your name. Otherwise I would have to make one up for you and you don't want that."

She sits, and he brightens: that means he doesn't have to ensnare someone else in his net for at least the next ten minutes, or else descend into talking to himself in the corner. Looking mad in public only plays into people's expectations about Wardens, so he tries to avoid it.

And the elf-mage (he did notice, he's holding onto it for later) might be a kindred spirit, if she keeps carrying on this way.

"I might," he says. "I've been thinking of changing mine. It's got three syllables, and that turns into a mouthful when you have to put Warden in front of it all the time. Not that you do," he adds, to clarify, "but some of the new recruits always think they ought to, and then they're stuck in the middle of a bloody fight against darkspawn trying to get out five syllables every time they need my attention. Have you got anything with just one?"

Ellana smiles, shaking her head a little. She's already enjoying herself talking to this human, and they've barely even begun. She knew all shems couldn't be bad. This one is funny, the same as any Dalish jokester would be.

"Three syllables is a nice length. I have three. And wouldn't it be more confusing to change now? Your recruits will start to say the old name, then the new name and that takes up even more time and attention."

"Only at first," Alistair says. "In the long run, you could save us whole minutes and countless lives." But he relents, sitting back in his chair, with his drink--he'll buy her one in a minute, if she sticks her around--poised ready near his mouth. "It's Alistair."

Annnd a drink. Like maybe if he tosses it out and then puts something else in his mouth, he won't be accountable for elaborating on whether he's that Alistair or only an Alistair or anything of that nature--and then it occurs to him that he might not have to anyway. Dalish are insular types. He's probably being presumptuous. She's probably never heard of him; she might not have ever heard of anyone.

He swallows quickly and adds, now hopeful that they'll be moving right along, "What's yours? Or do I have to give you two more questions first."

Edited (SORRY) 2015-10-24 00:58 (UTC)

Her expression doesn't change at all, still wearing that same smile as he tells her his name. Here he's probably found the most insular Dalish elf who has longed to not be so for her entire life. She's never had the same opportunities the hunters have, venturing far from camp and running into humans. She was kept close, a mage with a target on her back, for surely the Templars would drag her away.

"Oh, you don't have to do that. I'm Ellana. It's very nice to meet you, Alistair. We can just go back and forth with the questions now. Which would make it my turn again." Now she pauses to consider, but like when she spoke to Zevran, one question comes to her mind straight away. "Where's the most beautiful place you've ever been?"

"Well," Alistair says. "Not the Deep Roads."

That much is simple.

"And if I say it was any place in Orlais, my father may come back from the Beyond to disapprove--and the decision is complicated by the fact that when I go somewhere, it's because darkspawn have lit it on fire." He taps a finger on the table and raises an eyebrow at her. "Now that I'm thinking about it, it's an incredibly insensitive question for you to ask."

There's nothing remotely sincere or believable about his irritation. He relents not two seconds later.

"I'll say Redcliffe." It's seventy percent nostalgia, perhaps, but the remaining thirty-- "I'm biased. I grew up there. But if you climb up near the waterfalls, Lake Calenhad goes on forever. You can still see the village, and that's all muddy and brown, but it adds a sense of scale."

Edited 2015-10-24 06:27 (UTC)

Alistair, don't give her a heart attack like that. Even if he isn't serious, just saying that puts her on edge for a second, as she worries she's really been insensitive. The only indication of this is the slight tinge of pink that comes to her pale cheeks before she catches on. Really, she's used to jokesters, but he's human and she doesn't want to offend him. It's a bit of a different situation from normal.

But now that she does know for sure, she relaxes, huffing out a laugh.

"I've been to Redcliffe! It's where my clan and I stopped before continuing on to here. The lake seems endless, doesn't it? Like I was looking at the sea instead."

"From North to South it's further across than the Waking Sea."

He says it with some measure of pride. Nostalgia and bias, again, but Ferelden really is wonderful. Not because of its glorious past--fatherland of Andraste herself, the barbarians standing against the Imperium, the scrappy scourge of Orlesian oppressors, he doesn't care about any of that--but because of the people, and the mud and the dogs, and the fact that there's an enormous lake shaped a bit like a rabbit in the middle.

He doesn't wax rhapsodic, though. It's his turn:

"Your clan? Is that why there are so many Dalish here?" So many. Six or seven or eight, as Beleth will soon point out. He's aware-- "Not that you've overrun the place. It's just there are a lot of stone walls here. And humans. I thought maybe you all hadn't noticed yet."

"I didn't think there were that many," she says, puzzled. "I haven't met the ones outside of my clan yet." But it's only a matter of time. She would like to meet other Dalish. She was never allowed to attend Arlathvhen, so she's been isolated from other Dalish outside the Ashara as much as from the other races.

His observation has her lips pursing, understanding that it's a joke and deciding to play along herself.

"Stone walls..." she says slowly, before looking around them and giving a fake gasp. "And humans?" Ellana brings her eyes to his and sets a hand over her heart, gasping again.

"Don't tell me you are human? I hadn't noticed."

Alistair grins at the act, a little wider the longer she carries on, and cups his hands behind each of his ears to bend them out for display. A second later he drops them, flat-palmed on either side of his own shoulders, like he's taking their measure. "Usually the width gives me away first." Width. Brawn. Etc. Alistair is insecure about a lot of things, but that's not one of them.

Anyway, Zevran could still pin him in a wrestling match.

"You're the fourth one I've seen since I got here this morning," Alistair says, "which is three more than I've ever seen outside a forest at one time. Except among the Wardens. But we're special."

Her eyes flicker down his body and she smiles to herself. Hopefully the look isn't lecherous, but it is meaningful. Male elves aren't brawny at all. They're more wiry. Which has always been good enough for her, but she finds she likes his human size too.

"I should have caught on sooner." She sets her chin in her hand. "Maybe I should save face and say I was lost in your eyes or something equally complimentary." Though it's hardly saving face if she admits to it up front. Ellana's just too honest for her own good, even when kidding around.

"You mean you have Dalish Wardens? Really?" She looks utterly intrigued. "Are you friends with them? Did they tell you why they joined?"

Alistair leans forward--"That wouldn't save you face at all," he says, "because your eyes are much lovelier than mine, and I still managed to notice your ears."--and then sits back again. Was that smooth? He can never tell what's smooth and what's cheesy.

And if it was smooth, his subsequent see what I did there eyebrow raise might possibly ruin it. Someone should probably save him from himself. Or change the subject. That's good, too.

"I'm afraid not," he says. "There were four or five in Montsimmard when I left--but that's out of all the Grey Wardens in the South. It's rare. I know there was one in Ferelden--" He doesn't speak to Cousland anymore, but he hears things. "--who joined because darkspawn killed her sister, or something like that. I'm sure the other stories aren't much more cheerful."

Her response to that is to smile brightly. Receiving compliments on her appearance has been rare within the clan, but not because her people are cold. It's just that everyone knows her past trouble with love and thinks she gives away her heart too easily. And yes, she did, when she was seventeen. She likes to think she's grown since then.

And whether he's kidding or not, she is a woman who can't help but enjoy people complimenting her. Maybe she's been starved for it. So she smiles. There's no harm in it.

"Now I'm just proving myself utterly unobservant, aren't I?" Despite the fact that this is all her kidding around.

"Oh, that's a shame, about losing her sister. We had a great loss in the clan when I was young, so I can sympathize there. Hopefully those Dalish are happy to serve as they do. I wonder if they miss their clans."

"I'm sure some of them do," Alistair says, "and some of them don't. I've heard that sometimes human Wardens will miss their families, as well, but that's only a rumor."

A great loss, like her magic, seems like something that deserves a follow-up question, but also something that could turn the conversation dour or sour or tense. That doesn't mean he won't ask, maybe, possibly. But first:

"My turn--do you want a drink?"

"It would depend on their personality, of course," she says, smiling faintly at the joke, but choosing to answer seriously. "The clan can feel like a family, but sometimes not. I lost my parents when I was young, so the clan raised me, and you would think it's like a family, but-- It's a bit hard to describe, really. And I have nothing else to compare it to." Having lived outside it for the first time here, she really isn't sure if the relationship would be akin to extended family, or neighbors, or something else to other people.

Lowering her hand from her chin, she nods at his question.

"I would, yes. Thank you, Alistair."

Alistair doesn't stop smiling while she talks, but the expression does get tighter, grimmer--empathetic. Maybe he understands a little bit, maybe not. But in either case, he stalls any heart-spilling with alcohol offers.

"Don't thank me. Thank Weisshaupt," he says on his way up out of his chair, even though he is, in fact, paying for everything with what little money they managed to scrounge up while on the run.

He's only gone a minute, and never out of sight. It's late. The crowd is thinning. He comes back with two tankards and starts talking as soon as he's placing one in front of her.

"I was going to try to sympathize with you by telling you I was given to the Chantry by my foster..." Father is a loaded word. He sits back down. "... sort-of uncle. But first I would need you to promise not to get weird and nervous if I said the word Templar, and that seems like a lot ask of a Dalish mage."

Ellana amuses herself with tapping out a tune Zevran taught her on his lute while she waits. An Antivan love song, it only had three chords and was therefore easy to learn during her first lesson.

But she draws back her hand when she sees him turn back from the bar with their drinks. She sits up straighter and gives him a thankful smile when her tankard is placed before her. Even if she is supposed to thank Weisshaupt, whoever that is.

"It is a lot. And until recently, I would have been nervous." Her head tips to one side. "There was only a bit of fear that I'd be dragged off to a Circle. We figured they'd drag me away to kill me in the wild instead." She lets that hang in the air for a moment, giving it the necessary weight. Despite the jokes they've shared, she can't joke about that. It was a constant fear. It was what had kept her shackled to the clan for her entire left while Gavin had gotten to run off whenever he wanted.

"But," she begins after a few seconds, "The world is changing, and there are bigger problems than where I learned my magic. I find I'm not so afraid of them anymore, even if they can dispel my magic. Besides, why would I be afraid of you? I see a Grey Warden before me; one who hasn't looked at me with harsh eyes, not a Templar plotting my death."

That you know of, Alistair almost says, going so far as to open his mouth and get his tongue to his front teeth for the T, before his tender heart catches up to his instinctive cheek and reminds him it probably isn't funny to her, what with the whole life-spent-in-fear-of-being-killed-in-the-wild thing.

"I'm not really a Templar," he says, just in case she's lying about her lack of concern. "I was rescued before the vow part, if they even would have let me take them. We didn't get along very well."

Sufficiently reassuring? He hopes so, because he tips his drink toward her in lieu of pointing an accusatory and offended finger.

"But I am scary. How dare you."

"Oh, is that so?" She looks so very concerned. Really. Look at that smirk she is quick to hide behind her tankard. Utterly terrified, this one. She takes a sip of her drink before setting it back down.

"If you want people to be scared of you, perhaps you shouldn't offer to buy them drinks. Just a tip." He seems pretty nice so far. Then again, anyone who isn't calling her knife-ears and throwing something at her would end up in the "nice" category. It's a broad range.

"Maybe you should tell me more about yourself so I can come to an informed decision on whether or not you're really scary."

"I kill ogres with my bare hands," Alistair says without hesitation. "Sometimes twice a day. Often before I've had breakfast. And breakfast--" He shakes his head, as if impressed with himself. "Raw corrupted spiders, in the Warden tradition."

"Oo, terrifying," she says, scrunching up her shoulders in a faux shudder. "And if I wanted to know the more mundane parts of your day?" In other words, the parts that aren't him just teasing and are an actual answer.

"Well," Alistair says. He can't stop hearing the Calling--ever--but he is having an easier time ignoring it than in quite a while. "They're mundane."

His squinty smile would not be mismatched with a wink, but he doesn't. He takes a long drink instead.

"I spent the last two weeks traveling with three new recruits and a dwarf obsessed with death. One of them stole all of my socks. We had to make snow caves in the mountains and I might have looked the other way during some petty thievery. And here we are. Nice and warm and not dead yet. I even took a nap."

heaven, a gateway, a hope

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