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"Aye."
Meaning taken. It's nearly unnecessary. Ellis is hardly given to chattering about his evening exploits, much less the exploits and actions of those accompanying him.
"Good night," comes more quietly, as Ellis draws the laces of his tunic closed, makes for the door.
Meaning taken. It's nearly unnecessary. Ellis is hardly given to chattering about his evening exploits, much less the exploits and actions of those accompanying him.
"Good night," comes more quietly, as Ellis draws the laces of his tunic closed, makes for the door.
All right. In an hour or so.
[ Whenever he arrives he'll find Adrasteia sitting on a stool in front of the stable door for her horse, who is still without a proper name. She's feeding him a carrot from her seat and smiles at Ellis. ]
I thought perhaps you could use a sturdier horse than the typical one Riftwatch might be able to provide.
[ There's also several pack bags at her feet. ]
Would you rather your Satinalia gift now, or when you return?
[ Whenever he arrives he'll find Adrasteia sitting on a stool in front of the stable door for her horse, who is still without a proper name. She's feeding him a carrot from her seat and smiles at Ellis. ]
I thought perhaps you could use a sturdier horse than the typical one Riftwatch might be able to provide.
[ There's also several pack bags at her feet. ]
Would you rather your Satinalia gift now, or when you return?
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer to follow— not that there’s much room to be had in a space as narrow as this one, watching those footsteps in near-contemplative silence.
“Look after yourself, darling.”
“Look after yourself, darling.”
Months ago, Ellis had seen her riding into Orzammar on this horse. Bigger than she was, almost comically so. He hadn't thought of it since, but now he does consider the beast. Sturdy, large, perhaps suited to covering long distances.
Ellis gives his attention first to the horse, letting his pack drop to the stable floor as he reaches to pat the horse's neck as he looks over the bulk of this creature. From what he can see? It might serve him better. And even though the horse doesn't look it, Ellis can't imagine an Avvar horse isn't made for speed to some degree.
"You're too generous," he tells her, before his voice dips back towards seriousness. "When I return will be better. I won't be able to take much with me."
Or rather, he won't be able to take much that betrayed where he'd been. He is meant to come as if he'd been ranging across fields and forest for years.
And everything precious to him is better left here, where it is safe.
"A horse is already a fine gift, Adrasteia."
Ellis gives his attention first to the horse, letting his pack drop to the stable floor as he reaches to pat the horse's neck as he looks over the bulk of this creature. From what he can see? It might serve him better. And even though the horse doesn't look it, Ellis can't imagine an Avvar horse isn't made for speed to some degree.
"You're too generous," he tells her, before his voice dips back towards seriousness. "When I return will be better. I won't be able to take much with me."
Or rather, he won't be able to take much that betrayed where he'd been. He is meant to come as if he'd been ranging across fields and forest for years.
And everything precious to him is better left here, where it is safe.
"A horse is already a fine gift, Adrasteia."
Adrasteia nods; the answer is about what she would have said in Ellis' place and thus is more or less expected. Still. She pulls out from her robes a small plainly wrapped package and presses what turns out to be a set of new gloves into his hands.
"These are part of it, though, and I don't imagine they wouldn't be of more use on your person than tucked away in a drawer in my room."
They are leather, well-tooled, with wool around the cuffs in a similarly dark color as the leather so as not to attract attention to the wrists.
"The horse is a gift I intend on having you return to me, so it's not fit for Satinalia." Stated seriously, but with a smile anyway. She shrugs immediately after. "If you see fit to name him on your journey, I wouldn't mind."
"These are part of it, though, and I don't imagine they wouldn't be of more use on your person than tucked away in a drawer in my room."
They are leather, well-tooled, with wool around the cuffs in a similarly dark color as the leather so as not to attract attention to the wrists.
"The horse is a gift I intend on having you return to me, so it's not fit for Satinalia." Stated seriously, but with a smile anyway. She shrugs immediately after. "If you see fit to name him on your journey, I wouldn't mind."
"He's handsome," buys Ellis a little time to consider the gloves. A small kindness. And they'll be of use, in the journey through the Anderfels. Ellis hasn't forgotten how miserable the terrain can be.
One bare hand strokes up the horse's shaggy neck.
"We'll get on well enough, I think."
Well enough to think of a name? Maybe. Ellis' naming skills are perhaps less imaginative than Adrasteia might be hoping for.
His attention shifts back to her, grip flexing on the gloves.
"Thank you."
One bare hand strokes up the horse's shaggy neck.
"We'll get on well enough, I think."
Well enough to think of a name? Maybe. Ellis' naming skills are perhaps less imaginative than Adrasteia might be hoping for.
His attention shifts back to her, grip flexing on the gloves.
"Thank you."
“She understands simple commands,” Silas is saying,
A fat little finch bobs on his outstretched palm, obsidian feathers fluffed under just a hint of a metallic green sheen in the dawn light making its way across the yard. Her eyes are a pale sage, slitted pupils twitched wide under a flick of her crest. The wedge of her beak is built for cracking nuts and a venomous blue on the inside: soon seen, as Silas pushes the entire length of his sending crystal down her craw by way of demonstration.
Given givens, she probably isn’t surprised.
The open hang of her gape is more a matter of working the crystal down, of setting her beak back into alignment the way a snake would after swallowing an egg.
“You can ask her to scout ahead or keep a watch, provided you’re patient with the limits of her discretion.”
A fat little finch bobs on his outstretched palm, obsidian feathers fluffed under just a hint of a metallic green sheen in the dawn light making its way across the yard. Her eyes are a pale sage, slitted pupils twitched wide under a flick of her crest. The wedge of her beak is built for cracking nuts and a venomous blue on the inside: soon seen, as Silas pushes the entire length of his sending crystal down her craw by way of demonstration.
Given givens, she probably isn’t surprised.
The open hang of her gape is more a matter of working the crystal down, of setting her beak back into alignment the way a snake would after swallowing an egg.
“You can ask her to scout ahead or keep a watch, provided you’re patient with the limits of her discretion.”
The indignities Thot suffers.
Ellis doesn't seem to be enjoying the demonstration anymore than Thot does, but it is necessary information. Ellis watches Thot for a moment before shifting his attention back to Silas.
"Does she tell you things?"
Ellis doesn't seem to be enjoying the demonstration anymore than Thot does, but it is necessary information. Ellis watches Thot for a moment before shifting his attention back to Silas.
"Does she tell you things?"
Edited (words) 2021-11-07 06:49 (UTC)
“In a manner of speaking.”
Silas answers as casually as if Ellis has inquired about her wingspan, focused primarily on how well the crystal has gone down, the knot of it in her crop. He brings up his far thumb to feel over it, and she croaks at him, rawp -- the same froggy cry of her feline form in miniature.
“May I have it back please?”
He asks aloud for Ellis’ benefit, and Thot the finch wriggles to work it right back up out of herself, the joints of her beak bowed wide as any little serpent’s.
Silas answers as casually as if Ellis has inquired about her wingspan, focused primarily on how well the crystal has gone down, the knot of it in her crop. He brings up his far thumb to feel over it, and she croaks at him, rawp -- the same froggy cry of her feline form in miniature.
“May I have it back please?”
He asks aloud for Ellis’ benefit, and Thot the finch wriggles to work it right back up out of herself, the joints of her beak bowed wide as any little serpent’s.
Edited 2021-11-07 07:07 (UTC)
Thot the finch receives a sympathetic look from Ellis, who has watched the performance dutifully before asking, "Is this very uncomfortable for her?"
It seems a lot to ask of a little creature. (Thot is always a little creature, regardless of present form.) There's no declining at this late stage, but there's also no rule against Ellis ascertaining the exact level of imposition they're inflicting on Thot.
It seems a lot to ask of a little creature. (Thot is always a little creature, regardless of present form.) There's no declining at this late stage, but there's also no rule against Ellis ascertaining the exact level of imposition they're inflicting on Thot.
Oh, are we very concerned about this being uncomfortable for Thot? The lines around his eyes crease a little tight beneath a pinch at his brow, timed near perfect to the plop of damp crystal to palm.
“It isn’t.”
Indeed, past the flex and reset of her beak, the finch seems happy to wing from Silas’ open hand to the high turn of his collar. He tucks the crystal away behind his lapel while she preens.
“Keep her warm and avoid crushing her to death and she will be fine.”
“It isn’t.”
Indeed, past the flex and reset of her beak, the finch seems happy to wing from Silas’ open hand to the high turn of his collar. He tucks the crystal away behind his lapel while she preens.
“Keep her warm and avoid crushing her to death and she will be fine.”
Silas' answer is accepted. Ellis seems more or less prepared by now to accept all Thot's oddities in stride. His gaze follows her up to Silas' shoulder, before Ellis looks back to her keeper. Whatever he finds in the expression on Silas' face goes momentarily unremarked upon in favor of more practical matters.
"Does she need to eat?" Ellis asks. Casting back through all the time spent in Thot's company, Ellis cannot recall that he's seen her eat, but admittedly he has not been overly concerned with it before this point.
"Does she need to eat?" Ellis asks. Casting back through all the time spent in Thot's company, Ellis cannot recall that he's seen her eat, but admittedly he has not been overly concerned with it before this point.
“She doesn’t eat or sleep.”
That she preens at imaginary nits in the bristle under Silas’ chin may erode at this assertion; the beady glitter of her eyes and busy flirt of her feathers sends all the signals the human mind is wired to expect of life. She is a strange bird, but a bird, and upon cursory inspection nothing more mystical or terrible.
“But she is physiologically delicate.” So don’t put her away into a pocket and sit on her. He breaks eye contact after that unspoken warning.
The offered finger he lifts sees her springing to it from his collar. From there, it’s for him to offer her out, even as she skips across his knuckles like a flipped coin.
That she preens at imaginary nits in the bristle under Silas’ chin may erode at this assertion; the beady glitter of her eyes and busy flirt of her feathers sends all the signals the human mind is wired to expect of life. She is a strange bird, but a bird, and upon cursory inspection nothing more mystical or terrible.
“But she is physiologically delicate.” So don’t put her away into a pocket and sit on her. He breaks eye contact after that unspoken warning.
The offered finger he lifts sees her springing to it from his collar. From there, it’s for him to offer her out, even as she skips across his knuckles like a flipped coin.
There's no need for two hands to take possession of Thot. She is a small bird, and she comes willingly. But Ellis reaches with both hands. One to provide a perch, and one to catch hold of Silas' hand before he can draw back.
His thumb presses gently over the green pulse of the anchor embedded there. (He is thinking of Wysteria, ensconced in her infirmary bed.)
"Thank you."
However businesslike this hand off has been, Ellis is not convinced that this is small thing Silas is offering by giving over Thot into his care.
His thumb presses gently over the green pulse of the anchor embedded there. (He is thinking of Wysteria, ensconced in her infirmary bed.)
"Thank you."
However businesslike this hand off has been, Ellis is not convinced that this is small thing Silas is offering by giving over Thot into his care.
Ellis has a way of grabbing him this way, in a singular movement that catches him again just off his guard. So captured, hawk by the ankles or cat by the scruff, he is naturally still. Tolerance via familiarity saves them from coiling tension. There is some prickling at his chops while he watches the splinter of green in his palm muted under thumb, subtle discomfort in an invisible pin at his ears.
It’s very early in the morning for this.
“You’re welcome.”
Thot bounces like a note along the creases of Ellis’ sleeve, little claws clumsy in their clamber for purchase up to the shoulder.
It’s very early in the morning for this.
“You’re welcome.”
Thot bounces like a note along the creases of Ellis’ sleeve, little claws clumsy in their clamber for purchase up to the shoulder.
Edited (not allowed) 2021-11-16 03:54 (UTC)
Thot is insubstantial. Delicate. Her weight hardly registers beneath the padding of his gambeson. She is permitted, as always. Her ascension is unimpeded.
Soon he will snap his breastplate into place. He will lift his pack. He will pass from this room with nothing but what he crossed into Kirkwall with, and close the door on all the most precious things he's collected in two years time. They will remain here in this little room, and Ellis will pass into the north to collect something improbable, and hope it shall all be as he left it when he returns.
It is far too late to hesitate, so he does not.
"Swear to me you'll do nothing until I return."
His hand is warm around Silas'. It is not a tight grip, but it is firm, decisive as all the moments in which Ellis reaches out for others tend to be.
The promise may be nothing more than Silas placating him. But Ellis chooses to believe otherwise. Chooses to believe that in all of this, he is not misplacing his faith in Silas' word.
Soon he will snap his breastplate into place. He will lift his pack. He will pass from this room with nothing but what he crossed into Kirkwall with, and close the door on all the most precious things he's collected in two years time. They will remain here in this little room, and Ellis will pass into the north to collect something improbable, and hope it shall all be as he left it when he returns.
It is far too late to hesitate, so he does not.
"Swear to me you'll do nothing until I return."
His hand is warm around Silas'. It is not a tight grip, but it is firm, decisive as all the moments in which Ellis reaches out for others tend to be.
The promise may be nothing more than Silas placating him. But Ellis chooses to believe otherwise. Chooses to believe that in all of this, he is not misplacing his faith in Silas' word.
Under his own scrutiny, Silas crooks his thumb to trace an arc along the knuckle pinched at his palm, needle-tongue light across the web. He doesn’t answer.
Two can be uncomfortable in this position.
Two can be uncomfortable in this position.
There’s a twinge at the sound of his name, barely there -- tension tuning fine through the hollow of his cheek. He lifts his thumb out, fans his fingers from the light touch of their grasp.
Still held, of course.
“I won’t undermine our previous agreement while you’re away.”
He looks up and the blue to his eyes is as autumn crisp as it is distinctly (cordially) unhappy about his having to say so.
“I swear it.”
A broad stroke agreement to do ‘nothing’ is not on the table.
Still held, of course.
“I won’t undermine our previous agreement while you’re away.”
He looks up and the blue to his eyes is as autumn crisp as it is distinctly (cordially) unhappy about his having to say so.
“I swear it.”
A broad stroke agreement to do ‘nothing’ is not on the table.
Still held. Ellis' grip doesn't waver, even after Silas bequeaths this begrudging reassurance.
Instead, Ellis studies Silas' expression. His thumb passes back and forth along Silas' palm as he scrutinizes his face, weighs up the careful boundaries of this new agreement. Silas is clever. Ellis understands that he's left himself loopholes.
On his shoulder, Thot hops in close to the collar of his jacket. The scar at his neck is masked by the folds of his scarf.
"Alright."
Recognition that maybe he's elicited the most he'll get from Silas.
Instead, Ellis studies Silas' expression. His thumb passes back and forth along Silas' palm as he scrutinizes his face, weighs up the careful boundaries of this new agreement. Silas is clever. Ellis understands that he's left himself loopholes.
On his shoulder, Thot hops in close to the collar of his jacket. The scar at his neck is masked by the folds of his scarf.
"Alright."
Recognition that maybe he's elicited the most he'll get from Silas.
Caught fast, Silas is more at ease than the average fox clamped in conibear jaws — resigned to his fate or confident in his escape. It’s very hard to tell. He doesn’t flinch from inspection any more than he has from contact.
A roll at his throat gums up the gearworks of his jaw at the brush at his palm, pins a trace of tension understated in through the scruff of his neck.
“Alright.”
Anything else?
A roll at his throat gums up the gearworks of his jaw at the brush at his palm, pins a trace of tension understated in through the scruff of his neck.
“Alright.”
Anything else?
"He's a good horse."
You can thank me when you get back, crosses her mind but is discarded as too harsh, too... emotionally involved as a response. It's an interesting balancing act, sometimes, having feelings for someone who she's certain doesn't have feelings for her, and might resent her if she confessed her own.
Instead she nods, once, a small smile on her lips.
"I know you'll be careful." Because there's a lot on his shoulders, she imagines. People here who depend on him, who expect him to survive. "But I crafted some potions for you, just in case." They're in a bag at her feet, which she nudges in his direction with her toes. "There's healing potions, obviously, but a few offensive grenades as well."
You can thank me when you get back, crosses her mind but is discarded as too harsh, too... emotionally involved as a response. It's an interesting balancing act, sometimes, having feelings for someone who she's certain doesn't have feelings for her, and might resent her if she confessed her own.
Instead she nods, once, a small smile on her lips.
"I know you'll be careful." Because there's a lot on his shoulders, she imagines. People here who depend on him, who expect him to survive. "But I crafted some potions for you, just in case." They're in a bag at her feet, which she nudges in his direction with her toes. "There's healing potions, obviously, but a few offensive grenades as well."
"I'm not much for this."
What kind of Warden is well-versed in good-byes? They are chased out or they leave in the night after their work is done, and their hosts breathe a sigh of relief to see the back of them. What a thing it is, to feel some specific sense of loss, to understand that he would be missed and that he may yet be welcomed back.
"Good-bye, Silas Atheris."
Something said seriously, in spite of the little bird preening at Ellis' shoulder and his thumb set gently in against Silas' palm. He holds there for a beat longer before his grip loosens, and draws away.
What kind of Warden is well-versed in good-byes? They are chased out or they leave in the night after their work is done, and their hosts breathe a sigh of relief to see the back of them. What a thing it is, to feel some specific sense of loss, to understand that he would be missed and that he may yet be welcomed back.
"Good-bye, Silas Atheris."
Something said seriously, in spite of the little bird preening at Ellis' shoulder and his thumb set gently in against Silas' palm. He holds there for a beat longer before his grip loosens, and draws away.
A quirk of a smile finds its way to Ellis' face, as if he knows what's gone unspoken. Ellis will be careful because Tony has made it a condition of this venture. He will be careful because he has promised to come back and there is no other way to do so than to be very, very cautious in the way he proceeds onward from here.
Because he wants to come back, perhaps. (A more complicated thing.)
Ellis tucks the gloves into his pocket on his way to crouching to lift the bag. There is the clink of glass from within, which Ellis weighs up and then, very carefully, stows in the saddlebag before he tells her, "I'll do my best not to use any of them."
Potentially the best thanks he might give her.
"I'm not afraid," comes on the heels of some quiet scrutiny of her expression. "So you needn't be either."
Because he wants to come back, perhaps. (A more complicated thing.)
Ellis tucks the gloves into his pocket on his way to crouching to lift the bag. There is the clink of glass from within, which Ellis weighs up and then, very carefully, stows in the saddlebag before he tells her, "I'll do my best not to use any of them."
Potentially the best thanks he might give her.
"I'm not afraid," comes on the heels of some quiet scrutiny of her expression. "So you needn't be either."
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