AS THOUGH EMBARKING were itself some
easy feat; let his gait be a cautionary tale, sundered
by soil and quelled by knolls hither and thither. He was
not of the rolling hills and loosened loam; perchance
this was proclaimed by his very visage, with a harsh
binary downward-turned in distaste and sharp vexation
thus, for he wears that frown as armour, and the curses
as a scutcheon. A quatrain of cusses might have
already parted from him, though an embittered yet
stringently sardonic sonance followed in tandem ere
long.
❛ YOU’D THINK that after
traipsing through eight miles
of sand, you might come upon
something other than sand,
but apparently oh. ❜
And heretofore he might have thought himself barren
of company; the presence of another quickly ( and
unpropitiously ) proved this superstition incorrect,
however. A hasty, ❛ Well, this is embarrassing, ❜
is muttered afore clearance of a dry throat, and
side-stepping of any unprofessional hindrances.
❛ EXCUSE ME you haven’t
happened across any peculiar
men, have you? Particularly
ones in pointed hats and
loincloths…not ones which
talk to themselves in the
desert, maybe. ❜
Floundering in the eternal night of the Wastes seemed a typical venture for most who deigned to tread across solemn grounds and tombs. Misstep begged itself a favor amongst the unwary and ill-grieved, those who would find themselves swallowed within the slinking quagmire of dust, bone, and forgotten ash. ‘Tis petty diatribe that ushers forth, sweeter echoes of a man not made for such venture -- tilting sensibilities that give a coy smile to grace a tanned mien. She sits upon the perch of a dune, legs cross in comfortable fashion, scimitar a foreboding presence across a generous lap. It is only when that the quirk and squeak of the other’s timbre pauses to notice that the woman looks up, bemused.
“Do you always talk to yourself? I doubt your, ” a quick look over muscular shoulder, chortle slipping past glossed lips, “ -- companions could even bother to hear you. “
Wide berth of sunkissed blades roll beneath tattered garb, a shiv of ivory and gilded splendor. She blends only for the sake of the ebony sky above and the shifting world beneath, easing into the miasma as if it were own second nature -- her home. ‘Tis with modest amusement that she takes him in, drinking the sight of his contrast against all other. Pointed ears, tattooed flesh ; Dalish, err perhaps, though it nary matters. A tease oozes off her tongue, a wry benediction befitting a woman who would not even stand in the presence of another. He could be that fated Herald she had heard so much about, but the sun could also never shine again in these parts. She had never been one for making assumptions so easily.
“You speak of the Venatori. I wouldn’t worry about them exactly, travel far enough down this dune and you’ll see someone else handywork,” Downward poses a nod. “ -- strangers aren’t exactly welcome in the Wastes these days. ”
