[He keeps his expression as open as he can as he glances up at the other elf.
What a question. Not an unfounded one, not at all, and yet not one Fenris can easily answer. And yet he has to answer it well, for it might be the most important conversation they ever have. Wherever this elf came from (and watching as he stands rigid with terror, Fenris thinks— not wholly incorrectly, as it will turn out— that he has a good idea of where that might be), it was somewhere where the rules of survival were plain. Kill or be killed. Help someone and have that repaid with betrayal and grief. Survival of the fittest, where only you mattered, and there was no sense in anything so soft and weak as sentiment.
How could he not flinch from someone seemingly altruistic?
(Imekari, you're hurting my neck, Shokah had said to him crossly, her wrinkled face even more creased with annoyance, and it was so utterly disarming that he'd sat right down, bewildered right out of his fear).]
It is not my habit to watch someone die at the hands of demons if I can prevent that. I do not find pleasure in the pain of others— at least, not innocents— and those monstrosities are vile.
[He says it slowly, certain to not make a single move. Like with a spooked dog, stand right now and the other elf will go running.]
As for now . . .
[Hmm . . . but honesty is nearly always the best policy. That was how it was with Shirallas, wasn't it? He can almost feel the similarity. Both elves have the same rigid posture, the snarling defensiveness that covers up so much fear . . . or perhaps that's just how it is for elves in their world. Fenris tips his head, keeping the other elf in his sights.]
I do not have an angle. Nor do I expect anything in return— at least, not for tonight. Do not mistake altruism for charity; I will not carry you forever, and if you wish to stay by my side, you will work to earn your place. I am a bounty hunter, and my prey are the slavers who patrol these borders.
But I will not sell you. I will not rob you. And if you wish to leave right now, Kirkwall is some fifteen miles to the south— I will not stop you from leaving.
[Hmm. It doesn't quite feel enough, and so he adds, not unkindly:]
But if you wish for more reason than just that . . . there was a time when I was fleeing from my master, and I needed help. I was fortunate enough to receive it.
You look as though you are the same. And while I will not demand you tell me where you came from or what you're fleeing, anyone with eyes can see you're lost.
no subject
What a question. Not an unfounded one, not at all, and yet not one Fenris can easily answer. And yet he has to answer it well, for it might be the most important conversation they ever have. Wherever this elf came from (and watching as he stands rigid with terror, Fenris thinks— not wholly incorrectly, as it will turn out— that he has a good idea of where that might be), it was somewhere where the rules of survival were plain. Kill or be killed. Help someone and have that repaid with betrayal and grief. Survival of the fittest, where only you mattered, and there was no sense in anything so soft and weak as sentiment.
How could he not flinch from someone seemingly altruistic?
(Imekari, you're hurting my neck, Shokah had said to him crossly, her wrinkled face even more creased with annoyance, and it was so utterly disarming that he'd sat right down, bewildered right out of his fear).]
It is not my habit to watch someone die at the hands of demons if I can prevent that. I do not find pleasure in the pain of others— at least, not innocents— and those monstrosities are vile.
[He says it slowly, certain to not make a single move. Like with a spooked dog, stand right now and the other elf will go running.]
As for now . . .
[Hmm . . . but honesty is nearly always the best policy. That was how it was with Shirallas, wasn't it? He can almost feel the similarity. Both elves have the same rigid posture, the snarling defensiveness that covers up so much fear . . . or perhaps that's just how it is for elves in their world. Fenris tips his head, keeping the other elf in his sights.]
I do not have an angle. Nor do I expect anything in return— at least, not for tonight. Do not mistake altruism for charity; I will not carry you forever, and if you wish to stay by my side, you will work to earn your place. I am a bounty hunter, and my prey are the slavers who patrol these borders.
But I will not sell you. I will not rob you. And if you wish to leave right now, Kirkwall is some fifteen miles to the south— I will not stop you from leaving.
[Hmm. It doesn't quite feel enough, and so he adds, not unkindly:]
But if you wish for more reason than just that . . . there was a time when I was fleeing from my master, and I needed help. I was fortunate enough to receive it.
You look as though you are the same. And while I will not demand you tell me where you came from or what you're fleeing, anyone with eyes can see you're lost.