"Well, that was a right waste of time —" He's barged in without looking, which might not be best protocol for someone's had assassins after him near as Wintermarch. But it's only ever Astrid, who can handle interlopers. Or whoever Astrid's bedding, what's like as not the same. "— Lions ate him."
So he looks a bit puzzled for seeing a scrawny elf and no Astrid at all.
"Who the fuck're you."
An eye up and down, but Talin doesn't look about to shank him, so it's over to his mattress (unmade beneath some pinned, artistic sketches of the female form) to slouch and begin pulling off boots. Still waiting for an answer. Not fussed for its speed.
Talin, for his part, looks just as unimpressed as Lazar—though if it's with Lazar himself, his bed, the sketches, or the room in general is hard to say.
"Talin," comes slowly, sitting on one of the two un-claimed beds, "new recruit. The Quartermaster said this is my room assignment. What was that about a lion?"
"Ate him," Boot thunks to floor. "Haul my ass halfway through the High Reaches to meet this guy, right, supposed to draw us a map."
If any of that new information — Talin, my room — might give a man pause, Lazar doesn't. If any of this impromptu scouting report is confidential,
(It isn't.)
It doesn't stop him running his mouth. (It would.)
"And he's got it half done, then says hang on, I need a piss. So I tell him: Stick it back in, we're nearly done. But the idiot won't listen. Strolls off past the fire as-you-please. Give it a minute, figure he's giving it a shake, then it's all screams."
He scratches his balls.
"So we got half a fuckin' map, and a spare donkey."
Haring has been sinking its teeth into the Planasene: the weather finally turning, some early snow hanging off the boughs of the trees, bushes and branches crackling with frost. Astrid’s breath steams in the night air, even more frigid after the sun set.
Unlike their usual hunting trips, this time they’re out on regular assignment, scouting the woods. Astrid’s setting up their camp with quick, practiced efficiency; and she is, in more ways than one, a useful person to have with you on a job like this. After setting up her enchanted tent, she tests its framework rune, satisfied to see that it’s still working and that magical warmth starts to fill the space. They’ll share; it’s fine, they sleep in the same room anyhow back at the Gallows.
But Talin is not back yet.
She’s piled wood into a pile, and gotten the fire started. Sitting in front of the campfire, warming some water for tea — she’s a little more careful about alcohol when out in the field — she cranes her head, listening. He’s been monitoring the outskirts while she got their camp ready. And perhaps someone else might not have noticed, but Astrid has a very good sense for how long it takes to scout this particular perimeter and how long it usually takes Talin to do it; they’re not near the occupied Tevene border, so he should’ve been back ages ago. Unless he ran into trouble —
She’s got a hunting knife, peeling back layers of a lump of unshaped wood, when there’s finally the crack of footsteps on frost. Her chin jerks up, eyes watchful as the elf approaches the light.
This is far from the first time Talin and Astrid have gone to the Planasene together; this is the first time Talin's had a meeting with another agent during one of their trips. Fen'Harel was frustratingly vague as to what kind of information he expects from his embedded agent, so Talin has to assume "weird people claiming to have always been part of Riftwatch have showed up" is as important as anything else. Slipping Astrid wasn't difficult, and barely even constituted slipping, really—she has no reason to suspect him of anything, and he's supposed to be a bit deeper in the forest for the perimeter check anyway. She barely even looked up when he disappeared into the trees.
The meeting point is a half hour's walk past the Riftwatch perimeter, under a crumbling old statue of Mythal. Her ever-vigilant protector wolf watches from a respectful distance, missing one stone ear.
(Talin would be the first to admit it's a cliche, but the truth is elvhen ruins make for great landmarks and no one would think it strange to see elves congregating around them.)
His contact is another former Dalish—at least Talin thinks they are, from the barbed curls he can just barely see tattooed under the scarf they've pulled over their mouth.
(He'd be offended by the lack of trust, but he's similarly covered.)
They exchange no pleasantries nor names. He gives his report, receives his next orders, and they part ways. The whole encounter takes less than five minutes. By the time he returns to Astrid, he's not even twenty minutes later than he should be,
but Astrid has paid more attention to him, and has a better sense of timing than he realized. His steps don't stutter and his eyes give away nothing as he comes further into camp, but he doesn't respond for a moment, considering angles to play, ways to explain.
"Why," he says eventually, the suggestion of a flirtatious smirk crossing his lips. "Miss me?"
Things she is good at: keeping track of time even without a timepiece, having a good instinctive muscle-memory for how long things take. She’s lived her entire life out in woods like these, with nothing but the slow movement of the sun and passing of the clouds to mark the minutes. It’s a skill.
What she is very bad at: telling if someone’s lying to her face.
She’s gullible, and tends to assume the best of people, thinking everyone operates from the same baseline standard of straightforward honesty with each other. She’s bad at lying herself; it’s always written all over her face. And so while Talin’s answer is an evasion, and she notices it’s an evasion— she snorts instead, and pours some tea into a second mug and holds it out to him.
“Started thinking maybe you’d gotten ganked by a Tevene patrol.”
This, too, isn’t actually an answer. (She did miss him. She misses most people. Despite being comfortable out in the wilderness by herself, with only the sky and the trees for company, having one person to talk to is preferable.)
His flirtatious smile turns into something more akin to offense as he takes the mug, scoffing.
"Those shemlen couldn't catch me in this forest even if I did leave a trail—which I didn't."
Not least of all because any trail he did leave would make it very obvious he'd been beyond the perimeter. He sits at Astrid's side in the dirt, turns his face to the trees above them. Closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with the scent of damp earth and things that grow. The frost hasn't killed everything yet, but it gives the air a crispness which has its own appeal—certainly more than the oppressive stone walls of the Gallows.
He's wondered at the Dread Wolf's wisdom in sending him to Riftwatch. There are other agents he could have sent, elves and elfblooded humans from the cities who'd have been more comfortable in such a setting. Even some of his fellow Dalish-born had acclimated better to the shemlen cities. Kirkwall is nothing Talin would choose if he had a choice—
and there, a bit of honesty to offer Astrid, to paper over his lie.
"I needed to get the stone out of my system," he says after a long exhale. "Made the perimeter and then I just wanted to keep going, you know."
It's not a question; she knows, if nothing else, because he's complained of needing to see something green and growing at least once a week since he moved into the room they share. It's why she invited him out with her the first time: he was being annoying, and she had a solution. It's mostly good fortune (and a little desperation) that they like each other enough to keep coming out here together, even off assignment.
The moment Talin offers up that explanation, Astrid swallows it hook, line, and sinker (because why shouldn’t she?), and she knocks her shoulder companionably against his while blowing on her cup of hot tea.
She buys it so easily because it’s her same reasoning. They often come out here for a break from city life. The justification is usually hunting — catching some food to supplement the Gallows’ stores — and it is that, sure, but it’s also the pleasant company and fresh air and sprawling space and the smell of dew, flourishing trees, rich earth, far from Kirkwall’s grimy docks and stinking streets. The companionable silence as they set up or break down camp, skinning rabbits, washing off their bloody hands.
“It’s better, innit?” Astrid says.
There’s always a tension carried in their bones in the city: the tight quarters, the crowds, the constant noise which keeps their hackles permanently raised. She relaxes more out here. She thinks she sees the same thing in Talin, too: his affected languor a little less affected.
“Out here, always feels like I can let down my hair.”
Her hair is long and loose today, spilling messy over her shoulders, only parts of it wound into braids.
I work with our artifacts, and the Gates are a major focus. So it's dreadfully inconvenient that I've ears like cabbages, and no firsthand account of the space. I hope to ask yours.
What led you to believe it was dedicated to a creator?
[ hopefully he's not, like, sensitive about that, or anything. ]
I don't believe it's a temple to Lethanavir, [ patiently, ] That's what it is.
[ he could leave it there and hardly feel bad—but he's trying to sand down his sharp edges, after the temple made him all splinters. ]
Elvhen temples are hard to mistake for anything else. No Andrastian has ever loved mosaic as much as the People, while old Tevene work might have twice the tile but dedicate it all to dragons.
They are terribly fond of the beasts, aren't they? It's all wyverns for Ciriane work. [ pages shuffle. ] Lethanavir: Friend to the dead. Fitting placement.
[ the dalish bury their corpses, at least so long as the dales. but they hadn't the dales until andraste. whatever came before, ]
The artifacts about the gate, were they as familiar?
[ Astrid is out on the road, away for a few days on a short job: slogging through the Free Marches on some transportation task more tedious than dangerous. So it is, perhaps, a surprise when she calls early, and there’s the sound of wind and birdsong to indicate that she’s still outdoors. Out of nowhere, sounding a little frazzled: ]
[ his crystal comes to life, and the deer talin has in his sights spooks, crashing away through the brush. he'd be annoyed, but how could he be? he's just happy to hear her voice. she sounds frayed; his response is unquestionably fond. ]
[ There’s a plaintive animal whine in the background; then her voice muttered low and away from the crystal, a quick No! Don’t eat that! before she turns back. ]
Came across this Fereldan merchant cart, looks like it got robbed by— dunno if it was roadside bandits or Tevinter forces from Starkhaven sacking for supplies, but either way, all the actually valuable shit was taken and the cart was empty and the driver’s dead. There was a mabari left behind.
[ And like, of course she couldn’t leave the dog huddling alone in the mud under the cart. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
at some point, whenever you prefer timeline wise w plot stuff
So he looks a bit puzzled for seeing a scrawny elf and no Astrid at all.
"Who the fuck're you."
An eye up and down, but Talin doesn't look about to shank him, so it's over to his mattress (unmade beneath some pinned, artistic sketches of the female form) to slouch and begin pulling off boots. Still waiting for an answer. Not fussed for its speed.
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"Talin," comes slowly, sitting on one of the two un-claimed beds, "new recruit. The Quartermaster said this is my room assignment. What was that about a lion?"
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If any of that new information — Talin, my room — might give a man pause, Lazar doesn't. If any of this impromptu scouting report is confidential,
(It isn't.)
It doesn't stop him running his mouth. (It would.)
"And he's got it half done, then says hang on, I need a piss. So I tell him: Stick it back in, we're nearly done. But the idiot won't listen. Strolls off past the fire as-you-please. Give it a minute, figure he's giving it a shake, then it's all screams."
He scratches his balls.
"So we got half a fuckin' map, and a spare donkey."
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Do you want him to find that person for you? That might be preferable to whatever this conversation is.
(Why are humans so tall? And big? It's completely unnecessary. That's too much flesh and bones to have.)
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"You're the one asked, mate." Not his fault he's not expecting de-tail. Lazar jerks his chin to the bed across. "Ain't met Astrid yet?"
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a million gomens, feel free to drop!
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camping.
Unlike their usual hunting trips, this time they’re out on regular assignment, scouting the woods. Astrid’s setting up their camp with quick, practiced efficiency; and she is, in more ways than one, a useful person to have with you on a job like this. After setting up her enchanted tent, she tests its framework rune, satisfied to see that it’s still working and that magical warmth starts to fill the space. They’ll share; it’s fine, they sleep in the same room anyhow back at the Gallows.
But Talin is not back yet.
She’s piled wood into a pile, and gotten the fire started. Sitting in front of the campfire, warming some water for tea — she’s a little more careful about alcohol when out in the field — she cranes her head, listening. He’s been monitoring the outskirts while she got their camp ready. And perhaps someone else might not have noticed, but Astrid has a very good sense for how long it takes to scout this particular perimeter and how long it usually takes Talin to do it; they’re not near the occupied Tevene border, so he should’ve been back ages ago. Unless he ran into trouble —
She’s got a hunting knife, peeling back layers of a lump of unshaped wood, when there’s finally the crack of footsteps on frost. Her chin jerks up, eyes watchful as the elf approaches the light.
“Took you long enough,” she says.
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The meeting point is a half hour's walk past the Riftwatch perimeter, under a crumbling old statue of Mythal. Her ever-vigilant protector wolf watches from a respectful distance, missing one stone ear.
(Talin would be the first to admit it's a cliche, but the truth is elvhen ruins make for great landmarks and no one would think it strange to see elves congregating around them.)
His contact is another former Dalish—at least Talin thinks they are, from the barbed curls he can just barely see tattooed under the scarf they've pulled over their mouth.
(He'd be offended by the lack of trust, but he's similarly covered.)
They exchange no pleasantries nor names. He gives his report, receives his next orders, and they part ways. The whole encounter takes less than five minutes. By the time he returns to Astrid, he's not even twenty minutes later than he should be,
but Astrid has paid more attention to him, and has a better sense of timing than he realized. His steps don't stutter and his eyes give away nothing as he comes further into camp, but he doesn't respond for a moment, considering angles to play, ways to explain.
"Why," he says eventually, the suggestion of a flirtatious smirk crossing his lips. "Miss me?"
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Things she is good at: keeping track of time even without a timepiece, having a good instinctive muscle-memory for how long things take. She’s lived her entire life out in woods like these, with nothing but the slow movement of the sun and passing of the clouds to mark the minutes. It’s a skill.
What she is very bad at: telling if someone’s lying to her face.
She’s gullible, and tends to assume the best of people, thinking everyone operates from the same baseline standard of straightforward honesty with each other. She’s bad at lying herself; it’s always written all over her face. And so while Talin’s answer is an evasion, and she notices it’s an evasion— she snorts instead, and pours some tea into a second mug and holds it out to him.
“Started thinking maybe you’d gotten ganked by a Tevene patrol.”
This, too, isn’t actually an answer. (She did miss him. She misses most people. Despite being comfortable out in the wilderness by herself, with only the sky and the trees for company, having one person to talk to is preferable.)
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"Those shemlen couldn't catch me in this forest even if I did leave a trail—which I didn't."
Not least of all because any trail he did leave would make it very obvious he'd been beyond the perimeter. He sits at Astrid's side in the dirt, turns his face to the trees above them. Closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with the scent of damp earth and things that grow. The frost hasn't killed everything yet, but it gives the air a crispness which has its own appeal—certainly more than the oppressive stone walls of the Gallows.
He's wondered at the Dread Wolf's wisdom in sending him to Riftwatch. There are other agents he could have sent, elves and elfblooded humans from the cities who'd have been more comfortable in such a setting. Even some of his fellow Dalish-born had acclimated better to the shemlen cities. Kirkwall is nothing Talin would choose if he had a choice—
and there, a bit of honesty to offer Astrid, to paper over his lie.
"I needed to get the stone out of my system," he says after a long exhale. "Made the perimeter and then I just wanted to keep going, you know."
It's not a question; she knows, if nothing else, because he's complained of needing to see something green and growing at least once a week since he moved into the room they share. It's why she invited him out with her the first time: he was being annoying, and she had a solution. It's mostly good fortune (and a little desperation) that they like each other enough to keep coming out here together, even off assignment.
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The moment Talin offers up that explanation, Astrid swallows it hook, line, and sinker (because why shouldn’t she?), and she knocks her shoulder companionably against his while blowing on her cup of hot tea.
She buys it so easily because it’s her same reasoning. They often come out here for a break from city life. The justification is usually hunting — catching some food to supplement the Gallows’ stores — and it is that, sure, but it’s also the pleasant company and fresh air and sprawling space and the smell of dew, flourishing trees, rich earth, far from Kirkwall’s grimy docks and stinking streets. The companionable silence as they set up or break down camp, skinning rabbits, washing off their bloody hands.
“It’s better, innit?” Astrid says.
There’s always a tension carried in their bones in the city: the tight quarters, the crowds, the constant noise which keeps their hackles permanently raised. She relaxes more out here. She thinks she sees the same thing in Talin, too: his affected languor a little less affected.
“Out here, always feels like I can let down my hair.”
Her hair is long and loose today, spilling messy over her shoulders, only parts of it wound into braids.
“—Metaphorically, like.”
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nsfw here on out,
😈
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🎀 already a great closer imo
crystals;
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[ is there a question coming, or are we stating facts? ]
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[ as they've yet to be introduced. ]
I work with our artifacts, and the Gates are a major focus. So it's dreadfully inconvenient that I've ears like cabbages, and no firsthand account of the space. I hope to ask yours.
What led you to believe it was dedicated to a creator?
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[ hopefully he's not, like, sensitive about that, or anything. ]
I don't believe it's a temple to Lethanavir, [ patiently, ] That's what it is.
[ he could leave it there and hardly feel bad—but he's trying to sand down his sharp edges, after the temple made him all splinters. ]
Elvhen temples are hard to mistake for anything else. No Andrastian has ever loved mosaic as much as the People, while old Tevene work might have twice the tile but dedicate it all to dragons.
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[ the dalish bury their corpses, at least so long as the dales. but they hadn't the dales until andraste. whatever came before, ]
The artifacts about the gate, were they as familiar?
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crystal;
Tal. You’re still good with animals, right?
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I do my best. Do you need something, Asta?
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[ There’s a plaintive animal whine in the background; then her voice muttered low and away from the crystal, a quick No! Don’t eat that! before she turns back. ]
—a puppy, t’be exact.
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I have less experience with them than halla and horses, but we had dogs in the clan and Farnon was teaching me before he left. What happened?
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[ And like, of course she couldn’t leave the dog huddling alone in the mud under the cart. ]
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crystal.
Amelina Palme, but the spyglass was hyperbole. She has opera glasses and she frequents the rooftop café on Krayvan Square.
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Is she important, can we use that?
[ normal things to ask when reminded that you're being peeped on, probably. ]
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She is not important on her own, but she is invited to dinner with important people.
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[ he's an artifacts retrieval scout, not a honeypot—for riftwatch, at least. ]
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[ Half of this is a joke. ]
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