#arelan

[schleichoftheday]

Today's Schleich is:

70428 Noctis' Black Panther [2010 - 2012]

[mi1k-wizard]

moooree of these assholes 

[maybethings]

I'm still thinking of how awk it would be for Thelaan to seduce someone.

How do you think he got with his girlfriend?

[maybethings]

Ashkaari’s Daughters - The Soup and the Trade

The soup was the enemy. At least, that was the way it seemed, the way the human stared balefully at it. It was a thick bone broth with chunks of meat floating inside, and young green shoots of some vegetable or herb, and sprinkled with the dried native peppers of Seheron to finish. It was thick and delicious-smelling and making her stomach grumble. It was in the hands of a young priestess, dressed in robes of purple similar to what Qunra had worn, staring down at her with patient eyes.

“It’s getting cold,” she put in helpfully. Her Trade was as fluent as any merchant, but there was some kind of odd accent in the way she rolled her R’s and how hard sounds nearly snapped with military precision from her lips. “I thought humans were chattier than this.”

“You’re not...like what I’d heard of either, begging your pardon,” said the human, glancing quickly away.

“If we were to judge a person just by the length of his fingernails, how wrong we would all be,” said the priestess with a faint smile. “You’ve probably only seen soldiers, if at all. They are the body of the Qunari, but in Seheron you will find our mind and soul, too. We are whole here.”

“I still don’t see why I have to give you my name for that soup,” she mumbled while picking at the sleeves of her new robe. Senaan had called for soap and water, scrubbed her down very thoroughly indeed, and sent for new clothes to replace her soiled shift. The blue underskirt and white tunic were light cotton, well-made, and so comfortable they might have been tailored for her alone. She was still trying to take it all in.

“I have already mentioned. Hunger must be affecting your memory. The Qun tells us: to know a name is to understand its true self. To name a thing wrongly is kin to putting out your own eyes. You already know I am Arelan--a priestess of the temple here--but I know nothing about you. And if you are to join us, it is imperative that we can see what you truly are.”

“Maker!” the human groaned, rather blasphemously for someone surrounded by what Tevinter’s Divine had once called ‘the scourge to the Chant’. “You can see what I am! I’m sitting right in front of you!”

“All I know is that you are a human female of childbearing age. You could have come out of a tree for all we know, thanks to the leaves and mud Senaan found in your hair. You could be a Fog Warrior, or a Tevinter spy. Even a particularly clever demon.”

“I’m not--ugh.” The woman folded both arms, hugging herself sullenly at the waist. “I’m not any of those things. I’m nothing special, just some farmer’s daughter is all. I can plant, and sew, and read and write too. I make a good loaf of bread. I can work hard, and prove any of what I’ve just said if you’d just let me.” She shot Arelan a sharp look. “Isn’t that enough?”

The placid expression on Arelan’s face could have rivalled a statue of Andraste herself, and her pale gold eyes betrayed nothing. “That is what you did, human, but it tells me not who you are - beyond someone who will not say her name.”

“I can’t--look, listen, please, I can’t give you my name. You know it yourself and so does the, the Qun. Names have power.”

“You think some curse would befall you if we knew it?” She sounded almost bemused.

“No! No, not like that, I’m--” Her eyes lit with panic, then closed. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I was running from a magister. He knows my name, who I am. If he found out I was here, he might choose to attack Seheron. That would put this whole city in danger. I’m not willing to take that risk.”

Arelan raised one highly-arched eyebrow. “You think rather highly of yourself, that you feel this magister of yours would storm the gates of Seheron to try and reclaim you.”

“I know him.” The human winced. “He has a band of soldiers at his command. I’ve seen them at drills. And he is a man extremely possessive of everything he owns, or all he thinks he owns.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Can I trade his name for that soup?”

“A sly attempt. No. You were his slave?”

“I’m not a slave.”

“You seem proud of it.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Her voice was taking on a tinge of genuine irritation. “Maybe I got lucky, but I’ve been a free woman all my life. I did what I could to stay that way, even when--” She saw Arelan looking at her expectantly, and sighed. “--even when I lost everything else. Do you have any other questions?”

“Just the one. I need to know your name.”

“I need to not give it to you.” Her eyes softened. “You took a complete stranger in, and I haven’t even been here a day. I will not put you all in danger. That’s not how I was raised.”

“And this leads us nowhere...though I do feel some sympathy for you.” Arelan sighed. “Rest for now, human. I will come again tomorrow.” She turned her back and made to leave the chamber--with, of course, the soup.

The woman swallowed, tossed her head. “Sparrow,” she finally called out.

“Pardon?”

“Sparrow. That was my name, in a way. It’s what my mother and father used to call me, when I was still a small child.” It was superstition. Name properly nothing you are afraid to lose. They had stopped when it looked clear she was going to survive her childhood.

“But it is not what your world called you.”

“That name...means more to me.”

[maybethings]

★★★★★

Ashkaari’s Daughters edition:

- Qenvaarad’s a biromantic bisexual. Official liao

- The Arvaarad of the 5th has a scar on one wrist in the shape of a small, near-perfect mouthful of teeth. That particular saarebas went on to some great things.

- Latan scratches behind her ears while she’s thinking.

- As a child, Arelan used to talk to the fishes they kept in one part of the qunlok.

- Sergius is actually a Laetan (mage from a magicless bloodline) who fought like hell to claw his way upward, and still does. Also he would have known Dorian but disdained him like a lemon behind his back

[maybethings]

★★★★★

Arelan got that scar on her brow about the same time Qenvaarad lost his eye.

Paloma knows how to play the lute - but only one song.

Theramina learned a bit of how to maneuver with her words from her sister...but how to throw a punch? Yeah, that was all mom. *cough*

Byrne Hawke...doesn't really want to be a dragon, though he'd take it in stride. If you give him the choice he'd rather be a fox.

Ali Shamsuddin nearly passed out after getting a big portion of his first fire sleeve done in one go. He was more careful to space out the rest of his ink after that.

[maybethings]

I think I love Arelan and Qenvaarad with the fury that I do because despite their tribulations, they're the most well-adjusted pair in the whole damn story

I just want them to have a big fat happy ending. And a dog.

[maybethings]

OK, this one I wanted to do for myself:

Agelast: a person who never laughs

Despite the senaanra's best efforts, Thelaan's eye remains ruined, the silver moon of an iris gone grey and clouded. A massive keloid claims that half of his face, long shining fingers pressed against his skin. His horn has split so badly he must band it for almost all his days.

Tamassran hates Tevinter with singular passion. They took his eye, they took his purpose and--worst of all--they took his smile, that easy and unsinkable joy that had once captured a priestess-in-training's heart.

He is solemn and quiet and his laugh is a forced, drowned-out wheeze. Something must be done.

---

When he enters the kennel it erupts in sound. He flinches--kost, even now he flinches--but he puts down their meal and watches the qenan eat. They devour their breakfast vigorously, strong jaws champing, tails wagging like banners of war, and he watches, quiet, lost in his own dark thoughts.

Something nudges him on his blind side and he jerks backwards in alarm, one foot catching the feed bucket. It rolls away with a clatter and clang, and he ends up on his back in the pen. That seems to be a signal, and qenan pups barrel toward him, little velvet paws squishing him heavily in sensitive spots, little tongues laving his face and arms as he squirms to get away. Through the gaps in his fingers he sees one half-grown dog, hanging back, tongue lolling out ridiculously as it shakes mud from its paws. The little vashedan is laughing at him. It's almost black from snout to tail, save for a pale crescent marking on its shoulder. The hound closes its mouth, regarding him curiously with large, intelligent eyes. Well? Aren't you going to do anything?

"ENOUGH!" he growls, rising upward abruptly and shaking off several pups as he does so. One catches its little peg teeth in his arm, leaving several not-at-all-peg-shaped marks in the flesh. "I'm not for eating, confound it, get back to your food dishes!" One more is creeping round his blind side--he turns, fixing one angry eye on it. The pup withers. "No. You've a long way to go if you think that's going to work twice. Git." It gits, scurrying away.

The original culprit pads up to him then, ears twitching, looking innocent as a newborn babe. It woofs once. The man snorts.

"Don't you start with me, karabas," he growls. One side of his face is twitching. He doesn't know what it's trying to do. "Got anything to say for yourself?"

It paws his knee, and when he reaches for it, slips its snout into his long, rough hands and chews idly on his fingers. Not bad, she seems to say. Not good either. But you'll learn.

All the hounds, now satiated, bound over to inspect this new presence, and he is soon swamped by dogs black and white and grey and a sea of tails, wagging, wagging like banners of war and festival flags. The young ones knock the breath from his lungs again and chew on his hair and give his face several washings, and he is surrounded by warm skin and dog breath. Much to his surprise he finds himself cursing them all loudly and affectionately in between laughter, loud and raucous enough that he barely remembers ever sounding like that.

--

It's about a year on when a converts' escort, newly-made, takes a detour past the dog kennels of Seheron. It doesn't take long to find the Qenvaarad she's looking for. His is the kennel where the dogs are sleek and happy and chatty off the leash, and she can hear his voice above the barks and howls, commanding them this way and that.

She stops and leans on the fence, waiting for him to notice her presence. The new pups do it first, and bumble madly to her feet. He turns, forearms raked with thin white scars and upper arms with the old marks of blades. His hair is tied back, away from curious slobbery mouths. Qenvaarad fixes his whole eye on her and grins, all teeth and light. The black bitch at his side does the same, tail wagging a more sedate welcome.

"Sorry about the young upstarts, Arelan!" he says, wiping muck off his hands as he comes to greet her. "They're worse than the imekari."

"At least these won't headbutt me in the knees."

"Yet!" He raises one finger solemnly. "Do not underestimate the hound. He never underestimates you."

"I'll keep that in mind, kadan." She raises her gaze to his face, scars and all, leans against the fence. "And how are you doing, Qenvaarad?"

"Well! Very well," he says, adding in a softer tone, "Even better now that you're here, actually."

"Flatterer," she spits back at him, eyes crinkling.

"When am I not?" he counters, laughing with a great barking sound as big as the joy of his heart. If there is a little relief and a lot of pride in Arelan's smile, he makes no mention of it.