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

[byblow]

Alistair hesitates--hand still hovering, not fully convinced that she isn't going to cry more or curse more or fall, or that there isn't something wrong with her beyond upset over an ill-considered joke--but then says, "Grey Wardens," so as not to be rude. Ruder.

He lowers his hand, tentatively, and eases a half-step back from her to lean his shoulder on the merlon.

"Are you all right? I'm sorry for--"

He's not sure what he did, exactly, but he's sorry for it. They can move on more completely after that's established.

[mythalenaste]

"No." Spoken like she's cutting him off from that train of guilty thought. "It wasn't your fault. Someone in our clan died that way. You couldn't have known."

She's now as distant and businesslike as you please, though she softens it with a little smile, a gesture of goodwill. She is collected, but still searching for--

Her mouth forms a little O.

"That song." The threads start coming together now, and she frowns thoughtfully. "That song...I heard it while I was visiting another clan. A few of them had the Blight, and I was doing chores round the camp till..." Till the patients died, and their caretakers could go back to work. No need to say all that. "One of the patients was singing it. Quietly, to himself. It was so beautiful. I could never remember it after."

[byblow]

Beautiful--well, maybe that's fair. If it meant something else, and if it hadn't been constantly playing in his head for months now, Alistair would probably agree. But it has been, and he knows what it means, so it takes him a moment to muster: "It is pretty."

The wind picks up. He's a hardy man, but he still shivers, for a moment, while he tries to decide whether she's as all right as she claims. He doesn't want to upset her further.

"They say it's the sound of the Old Gods calling the darkspawn to find them," he says. He thinks she's all right. And this isn't a secret--or at least nor more of a secret than half of the things he's already broken oaths to share with various people in the last twenty-four hours. "Puts a bit of a damper on the beauty, I think. But it can get stuck in your head something awful."

[mythalenaste]

A skeptical half-smile.

"A rumor started by the song's composer, I don't doubt. Nothing like a bit of infamy to spread your fame about. Still. It is very lovely. It made me think of the Fall of Arlathan."

[byblow]

He'll take even a skeptical smile over the elven cursing and the sense that he's done something terribly wrong. It's even enough to stay the impulse to prove himself right--that and the fact that he doesn't really want to think about the Calling more than he already has to.

So he smiles back. "And that doesn't put a damper on anything."

[mythalenaste]

Her lips part in a faint grin.

"I wasn't there. Maybe it'd put a damper on it if I was. I'm Dalish. Most Dalish see the loss of our glory days as some heartbreakingly beautiful and climactic stanza of an epic poem. That's the only reference we have. I imagine we'd find it a lot less beautiful if we knew how it actually went. If I ever find evidence to debunk our insistent myth that the ancient elves were immortal, I'll cry with joy."

[byblow]

"I once met a Dalish who'd been alive for centuries," Alistair says. This is not actually the opposite of what she's hoping for: "His people told us he'd rediscovered the secret of immortality. But it turned out he'd done some sort of blood curse, and he died when he broke it."

So not what she is hoping for, either. But topical.

[mythalenaste]

"Something like that sounds more likely." She sits back down in one crenel and pulls her feet up under her long shawl. "Was it that Zathrian? I never met him myself, but he was something of a celebrity every Arlathvhen."

[byblow]

"That's the one," Alistair says. "Bald fellow. Very severe—with us, anyway. Maybe he was peppier when there weren't plagues and Blights and humans stomping all around his camp."

Alistair doubts it. But it seems kinder not to judge someone who died doing the right thing, and who he did really only know during particularly dire circumstances.

"We did have an elf along, but he was—" This pause is utterly unnecessary, as he already knows how to describe Zevran both politely and not, but he attempts to draw it out anyway, until the wind shifts direction to whistle through stone and the sound is too familiar for comfort. "—Antivan."

[mythalenaste]

"There's an Antivan elf who joined the Inquisition," Pel says absent-mindedly. "An entertainer. I thought he was quite charming."

[byblow]

"That was just the accent, I guarantee it," he says. "That's how they get you. The accent distracts from all the knives."

Perhaps Alistair should know they're talking about the same charming Antivan elf, but he's thrown off the scent--for now--by entertainer.

"My Antivan elf is here, too." Yes, his. "If we have two Antivan elves going around charming people--maybe I should post a warning."

[mythalenaste]

"The accent is rather exotic." Pel can't resist the smile coming to her face. "My taste doesn't normally run so...slight."

An elf who is hardly ever attracted to elves.

"I'm...sorry, did I miss your name?"

[byblow]

At first, when she mentions her taste, Alistair brightens like he's been handed a gift--maybe that isn't visible in the dark, maybe it is--and he's on the verge of delivering a line, in his particular I'm only serious if you want me to be and if you don't want me to be you're welcome to hit me way.

But then: his name. Right.

"I hope not. It hasn't been gone very long."

She's still allowed to hit him. His grin is both proud and self-aware: he knows he's the worst. He also knows it's usually sort of endearing.

"It's Alistair," he offers, without making her work for it. If he's lucky, she's never heard of him. He doesn't leave time for her to say so if she has. "Yours?"

[mythalenaste]

A stronger smile at the joke. It is definitely endearing.

"Pel."

She may have heard of an Alistair once, but for all she knows, it's a common name.

[byblow]

Very common. Definitely common. Dalish are the best.

"Pel is a good name," he says. "Simple and straight to the point, but not too... pointy." She knows what he means, he hopes. He's not sure he does. He's been running off very little sleep for a very long time--or that's the excuse he'll give, anyway, if he needs to pretend awkwardness and bad jokes aren't just his standard fare.

[mythalenaste]

Not to pointy? Is he referring to her ears? Or to the point, but not too heavy-handed?

"Not too pretentious, you mean?" she guesses.

[byblow]

"Not too sharp," Alistair says. "Or--blunt."

This is not going well for him.

"It's soft," he decides on after a moment. "I guess most elven names are. But it suits you." Sort of. Maybe. He hardly knows her. But her hair is nice.

Maker.

"I'm sorry. I'm very tired."

[mythalenaste]

Soft? Pel has hardly ever felt soft. She always wanted to be soft and pretty, like Ellana, but there was never time for it as Keeper's First. Sharp and blunt have been her tools for a long time, but certain types of people seem to bring out something else. Alistair is that type of person. Alistair babbles, and Pel has always been exceptionally comforted by people who babble. Not chatter--that's talking without having anything to say. Babble is more nervous. It means he respects her enough to care what she thinks of him, but has so much personality that it bubbles out regardless. It also makes someone unlikely to lie.

She smiles at him.

"What does Alistair mean?"

[byblow]

"Fun and unlucky," Alistair says. "Prophetic, really."

He's lying, and not well, but that's what she gets for encouraging him. (Smiling counts as encouragement.) He relents without prompting, though. That might be as grown-up as he'll ever get: following up his jokes and sarcasm with real answers without making anyone pry them out of him first.

"I don't know. I don't think anyone picked it for its meaning. Closed their eyes and pointed at a page in a book, more likely." Who even named him? Maric? Eamon? He hopes it was Eamon. "Does yours mean something?"

[mythalenaste]

She shakes her head. "I think it's just a sound they liked. They named my brother Kim, it doesn't mean anything either. They don't really even sound elven, the consonants are too hard. I never managed to ask them where they got them."

[byblow]

Alistair nods and thinks about keeping his mouth shut--not permanently, of course, but on this particular topic, given what happened before. He isn't incapable of keeping his foot out of his mouth when he puts effort into it. And if in this case he does decide to open his mouth, it is, at least, coming after a sobering pause, subdued instead of flippant.

"Is it too late?"

[mythalenaste]

"They're alive, if that's what you're asking."

She doesn't usually talk about her family, but Alistair is...bolstering, somehow. Like he's not going to judge her for whatever she says.

"I...my magic manifested when I was still toddling around in skirts. I could barely speak, let alone-- There were already three mages in my clan, and having too many mages makes it easier for the templars to find us. I was sent to Clan Ashara. I only know my family from seeing them at the Arlathvhen once every ten years, and it's...awkward."

And excruciating.

"Anyway, I don't really know them. Most of our conversations have them asking me the questions, instead of the other way 'round."

[byblow]

"It's good that they're interested, at least," Alistair says. For the record, there's nothing bitter in his tone. He isn't thinking about himself, and he certainly isn't jealous. Dalish life looks hard even under the best circumstances. Never mind being an apostate and foster child (of a sort) as well. He's quiet for another sober beat before he brightens--looking a bit preemptively pleased with himself, already ruining whatever slim chance of being taken seriously that he may have he had. "I was raised by dogs," he confides. "Now they're only glad to see me when I bring them treats."

[mythalenaste]

A faint smile. Barely a smile. More an acknowledgement that he's making light.

"I'm sorry. I hear I'm too serious all the time."

[byblow]

"What? No, you're--"

Very serious, yes, but that's fine.

"You're fine. I have terrible manners, that's all. Because of the dogs. You should see me eat, I'm--" He's doing it again. He catches himself this time, tamps down on his own smile, and offers, "I never met my parents, actually, and when the man who raised me sent me to the Chantry I was so sullen about it that he gave up on visiting." He doesn't quite have the self-awareness to explain that it's himself he's trying to keep upbeat, not her, but there it is. "If my father had ever come around, it probably would've been worse. Awkward." Like she said. He was listening. "I can't even imagine."