albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

[Ah. Well, that explains it then. Better than, say, actually seeking her out to lean suggestively across her shoulder would. Something in the line of her mouth twitches - not really a smile and not really a frown, just a neutral bracing of her expression, and then she's laying the arrow shaft across her knee. If she breathes out her defeat, she at least manages to not make it an audible sigh.]

Well that sounds awful. My aunt winters in Orlais and even I don't think I could stand to read something like that. [Thank the Maker it's him and not her; she'd never have the patience for that kind of nonsense. She's much better use to everyone tripping along at the back of the party, shooting arrows at things that look particularly murderous and making little bracelets out of reeds while walking to delight Cole. Politics seems like more work than she'd be able to stomach.

She rubs her hands together, attempting to get the feeling back into his fingertips so she doesn't have to keep clumsily trudging along through the task at hand.]

If you're really desperate, you could drop the book out in one of the muddy snowbanks. I used to lose my penmanship work out the window sometimes.

Edited 2015-02-20 23:49 (UTC)

You also never had Josephine as an instructor. [But the smile's easy enough - reactive in clear response to the flickering tug at the edge of her mouth - lax, lazy posture and sloped shoulders. Tongue at the back of his teeth for all of half a beat.] I doubt Corypheus himself could stop her, much less a muddy snowbank.

Demons, assassins, Red Templars, abominations...

[Counting off flimsy, so-called opponents on his fingers the way a child counts hala.]

[True enough, and the quirk of her eyebrow likely says as much.]

Thank you for the warning. I'll be sure to be scarce should Lady Montilyet ever come looking for a favor.

[Which, barring that thing with some well removed cousin she'd cheerfully sent a cease and desist letter about, she can hardly begin to even imagine what that might be. But still: lesson learned and it never hurt to be prepared.

She pauses then, stretching her hands out toward the fire. She flexes her fingers purposefully, shakes them. By the look of it, it's a well practiced dance at this point.]

Have you learned anything worthwhile or is it all just lists of names and heirs and boring heraldry?

[He watches her as she goes about it, squinting just slightly at the way she flexes and contracts her fingertips in those rolling waves of residual heat. And sure as he is that it helps, he's also well aware of how frigid the air around them is by comparison: how a warm hearth only does so much compared to contact, and there's no thought involved when Llyr goes for the buckles at his collar, unlatching the heavy Orlesian cloak (ceremonial mostly, a gift from someone somewhere that only exists in letters and favors) for the sake of bundling her in it. Informal, undoubtedly, but court is out of session - and Maren doesn't seem the type to care.

Rough fingertips smooth down the sides about her shoulders.] That depends on your definition of worthwhile. I've learned how not to treat a duchess, and that the Dalish custom of spitting in your hand before you offer it up for a trusted companion to take doesn't exactly go over well amongst the upper class.

Which is just shocking, don't you think?

[She doesn't - care. Not about the cloak. Not even about how he wraps her in it. But his hands smoothing the fabric over her shoulders leaves her sharply aware of things like how she holds them hunched forward (her mother would be ashamed), how he's all idle touches all the time with a cavalier quality that isn't present in things like aunts fixing your clothes for summer balls or older cousins picking at her archery stance.

She draws her hands back from the fire, twitching the edges of the cloak close around her. It's warm from him wearing it, smells like wood smoke and winter air. She tucks her fingers in under it without question.]

No. [All faux shock.] I'd never have guessed. Why we spit on each other all day long in the Free Marches. 'Oh, good morning father.' 'Hello, Revered Mother. Beautiful weather we're having.'"

[She punctuates each with a descriptive sound effect, a pucker of the lips.]

[And it sparks the bright flash of teeth, sincere amusement present at the forefront of his expression for a change compared to the usual forced pleasantries that serve as part of the growing daily routine.

So he stays at her shoulder this time, just for a while longer; it's the brightest he's seen her since her arrival, no point in wasting it.] Well that's why my clan always liked you Marchers - that is what you go by, isn't it? Marchers?

[There's some satisfaction in it - a minor streak of smugness over her own cleverness, lame joke or otherwise. It's a rare show and she can find some pleasure to it.]

That's right. Well-- [amending:] Mostly. Some people prefer just to go by their own city state, but that's just how Marchers are. Just because something suits a handful of us doesn't mean it suits them all.

[Orlesian politics, eat your heart out.]

Same as our clans, then. [Like comparing a broadsword to a finely tuned dagger, maybe, but his people-- his specifically versus the broad spectrum, anyway-- have always been adaptive, always quick to spot similarities rather than differences. As a boy he'd often assumed all Dalish felt the same, lived the same, operated with a similar sort of open mindedness, and growing older to find the truth so radically different meant...

Well it meant working out a sound theory as to whether it's luck or land or local politics that governs the difference between Dalish that endure and Dalish that suffer was something that'd always be beyond his reach.] Smart, sensible, unafraid - traits that too often go hand-in-hand with stubbornness and pride.

Edited (I should not phone tag) 2015-02-21 12:37 (UTC)

[The comparison seems to catch her by surprise. She can't say it's one she's really heard before - though before the Inquisition, she hadn't exactly been in the company of too many Dalish elves. Certainly not enough to be conversational.]

Well. I suppose so. [She seems reluctant to give him the point, though even she's not entirely sure why. It just seems-- odd. Not as strange as hearing stories about a Herald touched by Andraste herself and coming to Skyhold to find the man was-- well, she hadn't been expecting an elf. The mage part she'd heard, one of many things shed been instructed to keep a close eye on while she wintered at the keep, but-- Sometimes she finds herself looking at him when she's certain no one else is watching, trying to puzzle it out. She shouldn't question divine providence but it seems like an exceedingly bizarre pick.

Not that the Inquisitor has been anything but capable. But that almost is just as strange, given the circumstances.]

I don't know how it is with your people, but mine spend quite a lot of time squabbling at one another.

Oh that's the part we're best at. [Bizarre is probably the most accurate word for it; he wasn't meant for this. Despite Cassandra's conviction and Leliana's reassurances his life had been set and measured well before the mark ever found his palm: being his clan's First meant human politics, dwarven relations, qunari-- everything is all foreign territory. Dangerous territory if what he's seen is to be believed.

Weeks spent holding his breath thinking he'd be buckled in irons the moment Cassandra's shield lowered from his side, but she'd stayed. They'd all stayed. And for the most part it's shifted him away from defensiveness into more trusting territory. They're not his people, but they are his, he supposes.

Maren included.]

You haven't seen chaos till you've seen a handful of undisputedly wise elders argue over whether or not Enduil's wreath traditionally includes dawn lotus or crystal grace.

[Which has her huffing out a low laugh, short and dangling as she uncurls her fingers from the edges of the cloak. She reaches out, drawing the arrow back from across her knee. When Maren starts winding the thread this time, it's passive and mild - less stubborn focus which seems to help.]

Some things are universal, I suppose.

[And for a few seconds he leaves a mutual laugh as the only conversation between them, stifling it with the slow press of his lips, shifting back down towards his previous seat and crossing his ankles over one another. Stretched legs, curled toes.] Too many things are. But I'm glad for it, more often than not.

[Watching her is nice, at least. Better this time. Reminds him of old, long forgotten memories.] Writing a love letter to Sera?

[That? Makes her snort. It's all but a real, proper bark of laughter as she drops her attention to the arrow pinched between two fingers, studiously winding the thread over and over--]

Hardly. She'd have to admit I make mine better first.

[Debatable at best. Sera was natural with a bow where at her most basic, Maren was all technicalities wrapped in automated determination. Different schools, same weapon and their was no denying that their bolts largrly both flew true. But her arrows are rather pretty--]

But if you've something you'd like me to deliver on your behald, I could probably manage to play messenger once or twice.

[Her tone is neutral enough, though the sidelong glance she throws in his direction betrays the slyness underlying it. Two maximum, ser. Which, by her estimation and how he leans across any set of likely shoulders, wouldn't exactly make much of a dent in his prospective stack of love letters.]

OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

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