"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."
That actually perks Talin up—he has met Astrid, and he immediately liked her more than he's liked... this giant. He looks to the other occupied bed, searching for indications of who it is who's claimed it, whether it actually looks like a space that would belong to someone like Astrid.
"I knew I would have roommates, just not who they were. Do you have a name?"
Presumably it would be rude to just call him Giant.
"Uh-huh," Yeah, he knows that look. Long as it's not his sheets. "It's Lazar."
A hand through the week's beard, as he watches Talin watch the bed. Got an ear for language. Sat his ass in Val Royeaux the better part of these past few years. Knows the Orlesian cities and countryside well enough to know what don't come quite standard.
"Didn't," as the giant well knows; immediate assessment rings dirty, not stupid. "All over, though. Never settled in one place too long."
Could mean Dalish. Could mean bog-standard traveller. Could mean none of your business, shemlen, keep your nose out of it. Tone's not giving a lot away, Lazar can read into it whatever he likes.
"You... that's not Orlesian. Not Tevene, either. Definitely not Qunari, probably not Fereldan. Antivan's supposed to be nicer'n that. North-west, then?"
He hasn't been to Antiva, doesn't speak the language—but he's heard its accent in Trade, can recognize the sounds, enough to know when it's spoken to him. The smile he aims back at Lazar is less impressed than it is vindicated: definitely not stupid.
"Heard enough accents to know the ones I haven't. Never met an Ander before, Nevarran either."
Dread Wolf hasn't been recruiting up that way yet, seems like. Still not sure which Lazar is, but if the shem's not pressing him Talin won't press either.
"Water's that scarce? Thought it was a lot of bog."
"Run a river through dirt, and you got a marsh." And the cluster of life around it. Breadbasket of the country. "Ain't no rivers where I'm from."
Just boom or bust on the winter rains. A crater's good for one thing, and that's a reservoir. Keeps enough graze for the goats. Talin's smiling like he's won something, and hell, not knowing the Hills has gotta be first prize.
Still, nostalgia in the telling. Place is better as a story. Somewhere he can close the cover.
It's a mark of Talin's maturity as a person, and his suitability for his appointed task, that he manages not to respond back with his knee-jerk feeling every time some human talks about how old something of theirs is: Bet there's an older name in Elvhen. That it takes a moment of actual effort to swallow the words down just means that he's making the conscience choice not to be an asshole, which, when you think about it, is more meaningful than if it took him no effort at all.
At least, it might be more meaningful if it weren't motivated by being a more effective spy when humans like him.
Regardless, he bites his tongue—and he knows nostalgia when he hears it. Knows the kind for a place you'll never go back to best.
"Orth..." he muses, considering, teasing at what he knows of Trade, Tevene, and Elvhen, what archaic words and forms survive in place names that have fallen out of every day use... Then he shrugs, because what he knows isn't all that much. "What's it mean?"
"Fuck knows." Lazar tips the boot overhand. Dirt trickles out. "Go back enough, all that shite ends up the Place or the People."
That's language for you.
"But you ever meet some big bastard with scars down his face, might be playing he's Orth." A doubtful grunt. "Kicked Ma when she knocked up with a Chanter."
A thunk of the sole. Again, and a bit of tooth bounces free —
"I'm sure you're supposed to be speaking Trade, but I have no idea what you're talking about."
The words are all words he knows, but arranged in such a fucked way that he's still barely able to follow along. What in the fuck does playing mean in this context. Who kicked Lazar's mother, and is it literal or figurative kicking. He can't possibly be implying any large, scarred human could only be from the Orthlands, but what the fuck else he could be saying Talin truly has no idea. Why is he the one having trouble understanding a human?
"I can talk around you too, shem," he says in elvhen, snappish. He's frustrated with Lazar, but even more frustrated with himself for being so bothered.
![[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.
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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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That actually perks Talin up—he has met Astrid, and he immediately liked her more than he's liked... this giant. He looks to the other occupied bed, searching for indications of who it is who's claimed it, whether it actually looks like a space that would belong to someone like Astrid.
"I knew I would have roommates, just not who they were. Do you have a name?"
Presumably it would be rude to just call him Giant.
no subject
A hand through the week's beard, as he watches Talin watch the bed. Got an ear for language. Sat his ass in Val Royeaux the better part of these past few years. Knows the Orlesian cities and countryside well enough to know what don't come quite standard.
"Where'd you say you were from?"
a million gomens, feel free to drop!
Could mean Dalish. Could mean bog-standard traveller. Could mean none of your business, shemlen, keep your nose out of it. Tone's not giving a lot away, Lazar can read into it whatever he likes.
"You... that's not Orlesian. Not Tevene, either. Definitely not Qunari, probably not Fereldan. Antivan's supposed to be nicer'n that. North-west, then?"
no subject
If that's an echo, it's not only elves who keep caravans. He yawns.
"Don't bother with it, nothing worth seeing. Waterskin leaks, and there's your pay gone."
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"Heard enough accents to know the ones I haven't. Never met an Ander before, Nevarran either."
Dread Wolf hasn't been recruiting up that way yet, seems like. Still not sure which Lazar is, but if the shem's not pressing him Talin won't press either.
"Water's that scarce? Thought it was a lot of bog."
no subject
Just boom or bust on the winter rains. A crater's good for one thing, and that's a reservoir. Keeps enough graze for the goats. Talin's smiling like he's won something, and hell, not knowing the Hills has gotta be first prize.
Still, nostalgia in the telling. Place is better as a story. Somewhere he can close the cover.
"Old name for it's Orthlands."
no subject
At least, it might be more meaningful if it weren't motivated by being a more effective spy when humans like him.
Regardless, he bites his tongue—and he knows nostalgia when he hears it. Knows the kind for a place you'll never go back to best.
"Orth..." he muses, considering, teasing at what he knows of Trade, Tevene, and Elvhen, what archaic words and forms survive in place names that have fallen out of every day use... Then he shrugs, because what he knows isn't all that much. "What's it mean?"
no subject
That's language for you.
"But you ever meet some big bastard with scars down his face, might be playing he's Orth." A doubtful grunt. "Kicked Ma when she knocked up with a Chanter."
A thunk of the sole. Again, and a bit of tooth bounces free —
(Lions. Messy cunts.)
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"I'm sure you're supposed to be speaking Trade, but I have no idea what you're talking about."
The words are all words he knows, but arranged in such a fucked way that he's still barely able to follow along. What in the fuck does playing mean in this context. Who kicked Lazar's mother, and is it literal or figurative kicking. He can't possibly be implying any large, scarred human could only be from the Orthlands, but what the fuck else he could be saying Talin truly has no idea. Why is he the one having trouble understanding a human?
"I can talk around you too, shem," he says in elvhen, snappish. He's frustrated with Lazar, but even more frustrated with himself for being so bothered.
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"Don't be a tit." Lazar strands. Stretches out his back. "I'm taking a bath."
A clear hour for the elf to sort himself. Young mercs, always the same.