Prince Ego vs. Sneaky Fennec: FIGHT
Rahlen Theirin belongs to @picchar and Fenlin is Milliara's daughter with a certain apostate. They get along swimmingly.
Winter’s lingering grasp was tightest this early in the morning. The sun’s rays had yet to pierce the grey clouds and burn off the frost that glittered on the grass of the meadow that stretched out below the camp in the upper Hinterlands of Ferelden. The blades crunched underfoot as Fenlin put her feet together, and set her staff down to lay alongside her. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and lifted from her chest, arms reaching up towards the hidden sun. Tight muscles in her back protested as they were tugged into a stretch, and she let her breath out in a huff of silver, folding over at the waist and stepping back into-
“Do you do that every morning?”
Fenlin froze, amber eyes popping open to see pale blue ones watching her from where the Prince had crouched nearby, his head tilted.
“Um. Yes.”
Still watching him from under her arm, one leg lifted up to the sky behind her, Fenlin felt her ears grow hot, the blood rushing to them first before creeping into her cheeks. He was half-dressed, wearing his tunic open to show bare skin that was freckle-less and sun-kissed. Fen blinked, stepping forward and into a lunge. At least that pose wasn’t so awkward.
“Could you teach me?” He asked, arching an eyebrow. She wasn’t watching him. Well. It was impolite not to look at someone when they were talking to you. Even if it messed up the alignment of your salutation pose.
“Uh.”
“The stretches I’m familiar with to help warm up and cool down don’t leave me as flexible as you are.” He winked and Fen turned and stared at the horizon very intently. Very, very intently.
“It’s an elvhen thing.” She muttered. “Your muscles are too big, they’d just get in the way.” Wait. That wasn’t what she’d meant to say. Squeezing her eyes shut, Fenlin could hear the Prince’s laughter get closer.
“So you won’t teach a shem?” he asked, and Fen straightened, looking at him in horror as he scooped up her staff with his toe and kicked it up into his hand. He studied it, the smooth wood shaft that led up to gnarled wood fingers clutching a skull that gleamed with frost.
“I… I wouldn’t call you that,” she sputtered, glaring at him. “That’s mine, I didn’t say you could touch it.”
“Tell you what,” he said, stepping back to avoid the hand she reached out to snatch back the staff. “we spar, if you win, you don’t have to teach me. I win, and you do. Maker knows that there’s no one else in this camp that can keep up.”
Fenlin straightened, embarrassment slowly burning off into annoyance. Why did he assume she’d spar just because he wanted to learn the sun’s salutation? There was nothing she’d possibly get out of that bet. He was right about one thing, though. The Maker probably did know. That was the problem with having a father who made the veil. He tended to keep his eye on you when you slept.
Standing at her full height, the elf barely reached his shoulder and the Prince’s arms were as thick as her legs… and he had her staff. Fen was sure that she could take him. But that would risk a lot more than she was ready to. The urge to show him what-for was stomped down by common sense… for now. Fenlin held out her hand and squinted her eyes in a not-really-quite-a-smile.
“I’m sure you’d beat me too. Please give that back,” she said coolly.
“Why? I kind of like it, and if you won’t spar, then you won’t need it will you?” He asked, twirling it experimentally in his hand. “I thought you looked familiar, when I arrived at camp. I know who you are.”
Fenlin froze, hand still held out for her staff.
“Yeah, when we were kids, this elvish woman came to visit a couple times. White, like a ghost with creepy purple eyes. I remember asking if you were old because your hair was grey. Mother was horrified.”
“I’m not old,” Fenlin snapped. Her hair was a nice colour of grey. “Give me back my staff.”
“Take it,” he said, tossing it to her. “I just expected the daughter of the Inquisitor to be more than a push over. Maybe Leliana did most of the work and your mother was just a figurehead.” He shrugged, turning to head back up the hill towards the camp. He shuddered and staggered as the small elf fade-stepped through him leaving a trail of hoarfrost behind her. She turned and held the butt of her staff to his bare chest, watching him through narrowed eyes.
“I’ll spar with you Prince ego,” she said quietly. “On the condition of when I win, you never talk about my mother like that again.”
The bastard smirked, and pulled his own staff from behind his back. Electricity crackled along the branched tip, purple and blue sparks dancing between the wooden prongs. Already, Fenlin could feel the hairs on the back of her neck start to lift as the air crackled with ozone.
“You seem confident,” he said, knocking her staff away with the shaft of his own twirling it from hand to hand as he stepped back and into the wide stance she’d seen him take so many times before. Of course she’d been watching his muscles more closely than his tactics as he’d worked his way through sparring with the mages in camp.
“I’ve seen you spar,” she said, rolling her shoulders and tilted her head in acknowledgement before they began. “I wasn’t impressed.” With a breath, Fenlin relaxed into her guard, staff held at the ready to block his attack.
“Oh?” he asked, grinning now. “You seemed to be when you watched with those cute pink ears of yours, half hiding behind your Qunari friend.” He leapt forward, twisting in the air and sending a barrage of bolts towards her. Fenlin watched them arc out from his staff, homing in on where she stood. She waited, holding her breath until the last possible second. She stepped forward again, slipping half into the fade to blur forward. The energy detonated behind her, sizzle-crackling in the frost trail she’d left behind.
Instead of striking with a spell, she let the magic’s momentum carry her forward, and struck out with the butt of her staff into his stomach to knock the wind from him. Or. That had been the plan. He was faster than he looked, catching her staff with his and twisting to deflect her strike safely away from his bare skin.
“Cold, hmm? I thought you’d favour fire with how red you get,” he said, sweeping out with his staff to catch her legs and knock her onto her back. Fenlin hopped over the first sweep, and dropped to the ground to avoid the second that whistled overhead, where her stomach had been a moment ago.
Tucking her legs into her chest, she rolled back out of the staff’s reach, and jabbed forward with her own to trigger her spell. Ice flashed up Rahlen’s legs to his chest, freezing him in place. He frowned, flexing as he tried to twist and break the cold’s hold.
“Rahlen Knight Enchanter, storm magic,” Fenlin said, standing and brushing a bit of grass from her jacket. “You fight like uncle Dori, only you’re not as good. You even do your hair sort of like him…” She squinted at him, smirked, and pulled something from her pocket. Fen walked up to him and lifted onto her toes, a bit of charcoal in her hand. “You’re missing the moustache though. Let me help.”
“Wait no!” he said, leaning his head back from her.
“Just hold still,” she muttered, drawing on the missing facial hair. “There. Now you look like Uncle Dori. But pale,” she added with a grin, tucking the charcoal away into her pocket and wiping her fingers on her pants.
The ice crackled and started to fall from his body in bits and pieces. Looking up towards the hill, Fenlin spotted a couple of the scouts watching the exchange, curious to see how the elf would hold up against the hotshot prince.
“Shit,” she muttered, glancing back at Rahlen, Fenlin saw him break free from the ice that had trapped him and lift his staff into the air in preparation for a spell. Wincing, Fen tapped the butt of her staff against the ground next to her.
Everything slowed as the static field burst into being around her. Rahlen strut through it with ease, unaffected. The moustache was still in place, though smeared from where he’d tried to wipe it off with the sleeve of his tunic.
The butt of her staff was still lowering, ever so slowly, as he reached into her pocket and pulled out the Charcoal, wiggling it in front of her narrowed eyes.
“It’s not nice to draw on handsome faces,” he said, taking her chin and drawing three lines across each of her cheeks. “You needed some whiskers you sneaky little fennec.” Looking at him, his hand on her chin still chilled from the ice, Fenlin forced her lips into a slow, slow smile. Like swimming in molasses, she felt her lips start to curl as the butt of her staff struck the frozen ground. The veil overhead ripped open, and incredible force smashed down on Fenlin, throwing her back and to the ground. The disrupton field fizzled, and Fenlin wheezed, sucking in cold morning air into her bruised lungs. Invulnerable within the field, Rahlen just stared down at her, mouth open in shock.
“Wh-“
“Prince wins again!” shouted one of the scouts from the hill. “Pay up Sarge, Elf lost.”
“Oh no,” Fenlin groaned, staggering onto her hands and knees, “You won. How terrible.” She rocked back to sit on her heels, looking at the stunned prince.
“You did that on purpose?” he asked, walking forward and holding out a hand to help her up. Fenlin looked at the hand, debating before she used her staff to stand up on her own. “Why?! Why would you do that?”
Fenlin didn’t answer, looking at the hill to where only Sargent Harding stood, the woman’s arms crossed over her chest. She was probably frowning. Fen winced, hoping the dwarf hadn’t bet much. Otherwise she’d be out hunting for the next week straight to try to pay the woman back.
“There’s a mole,” she said, looking at Rahlen after a long moment. “In the camp. I don’t want them knowing who I am, okay? You won. Hooray. Leave me alone,” she said, pushing past him to head towards the camp and the dwarf.