I don’t talk about my tabletop RP group’s shenanigans much because I am often not there for games (too tired/too sick to make it) but get this: my rogue fired off the most perfect shot, disarming an enemy and sending his crossbow flying a cool nine yards from his hand. GG, Qen Thelaan.
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.
