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Snippet #2079289

located in Thedas, a part of Dragon Age: The Undoing, one of the many universes on RPG.

Thedas

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Character Portrait: Ethne Venscyath Character Portrait: Rhapscallion Linnell
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His thumping heart was a gossamer of patchwork loops and worried seams coming undone when he surveyed the damage done to the rest of his companions – because, honestly, he considered them all his companions even if it wasn't mutual. Like an old teddy bear with disconsolate eyes, fluffed innards ready to spill out with the slightest pull of a string. He wasn't perfectly put together. Rhapscallion couldn't draw the shades over his distress. It wasn't in his nature. The worrisome gravitational pull guided him over Ethne's shoulder to see whether or not Solvej was alright. His presence lingered, hovering like a bloated fly. Though because of Kerin's earlier chiding, he'd learnt not to continuously jabber on, pestering those who'd merely wanted silence after doing battle. Flapping his gums got him nowhere, and it certainly didn't heal any wounds. As if sensing another annoyed interjection, Rhapscallion let out a low whistle and skipped backwards, fiddling with his fingers behind his back.

He plopped himself down on a malformed stump, patiently awaiting for Ethne to approach him. His long limbs had finally composed themselves at his sides, no longer fiddling with his belts, or scabbards, or picking at his fingernails. He'd already unbuckled his forearm gauntlets and his lopsided pauldron. The half-breed promptly discarded the burnt remnants of his shirt – ripped into tendrils so fine they could've been used to floss the ogre's teeth – to allow Ethne to heal the burns blistering their way across his upper torso. They were spidery little marks spinning wild patterns across his skin. If they hadn't been so discolored, it might've been beautiful. Rhapscallion had been apprehensively avoiding the Seeker's gaze. No doubt he'd be amused that he hadn't sensed the trap there in the first place. Instead of dipping his fingers through the cache like a delectable pie, Rhapscallion mutely shrugged his shoulders and retrieved his shamshir from the creature's thick back.




The half-breed busied himself by running his fingertips across the mollusk-encrusted underbelly of Captain Bryland's wonderful ship, completely captivated by the hardened knots spiraling through the grains. They'd scramble aboard any minute, Rhapscallion certainly couldn't wait. He hardly payed any attention to the Captain's heady introduction, preferring to busy himself with the ship's figurehead – though, his ears twitched at the name Scarlet Tide. Was that it's name? It was brilliant. His mouth formed a barely-contained giddy line, attempting to remain serious and calm, full of wry twitches, before it cracked and exposed flashing teeth. Now, this would be an adventure. He'd completely forgotten their destination and what said destination might hold for him. Though, he'd momentarily paused when Blathnat announced she would not be coming. He threw his spindly arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a humiliatingly tight hug before solemnly muttering that he'd lost one of his drinking companions. Who would he share his mulled wine with? For now, it didn't matter. He'd see her once again. When the Captain waved them aboard, Rhapscallion nearly pranced across the gangplank.

He was the first to board the ship, though he'd loitered around the railings, leaning heavily across them to see how the others' fared with the seas. Surely one of them was frightened of sea voyages. Like an amused feline, Rhapscallion's delighted grin danced across his mouth as if he would suddenly break into unstoppable bouts of laughter. He watched. Honestly, it was only Kerin, which was surprising, given her temperament, who had trouble boarding the ship. Was she actually frightened? Perhaps, it was not so surprising. She was a dwarf, after all. They were used to the musty ceilings of the underground, not the gentle swaying of a ship idling on the waters. She was used to shifting clays, earthen dirt’s, and smooth stones. His eyes shone with encouragement. Rhapscallion resisted the urge to push her along like a clumsy colt walking for the first time. He knew that would not go well. It was strange. He would've thought that she would have welcomed another adventure. Here on the ocean, especially aboard a pirate ship, there was blood and brine and adventure. He'd been aboard such a ship once as a castaway, nestled alongside barrels of spices and flour – when he ran from his father's homestead, from his responsibilities, from his awkward life. Instead of tossing him overboard when they found him, the half-breed was put to work without prejudice. It was a fond memory.

His thoughts shook apart like crumbs when he caught sight of Kerin dashing madly across the deck, wrapping her arms and legs around the mast like a stubborn child clinging to her mother's skirts. Rhapscallion's mouth twitched, once, twice, then subdued itself into a forced frown. To avoid breaking down into laughter, and subsequently being murdered when they reached Orlais, the half-breed turned on his heels, clicking his tongue thoughtfully, and retreated down into the ship's inner quarters. The cry of gulls and the crash of water melted away, replaced by the busy sounds of movement and clattering wooden utensils scraping the last morsel of soggy bread from their corresponding bowls. His stomach rumbled in response, reminding him that he hadn't very well eaten in awhile. Rhapscallion's uncannily light footsteps found themselves shuffling out of Solvej's way, invoking a strangled greeting that died quickly on his lips. She did not look amused. Something had occurred. He knew better than to snatch out at her wrist and question her – Solvej, though hard enough to anger, preferred to calm down in her own time, uninterrupted.

Instead, Rhapscallion finally found himself in the crew's quarters where food was prepared. Where the men sat huddled on benches and dolloped scoops of whatever-it-was-they-had into their mouths. Another willy smile. Ethne. He snatched a bowl, plopped spoonfuls of stew into it and inconspicuously sat down next to the Healer with a theatrical sigh. Leaning his face into his upturned palm. “Quite an adventure, don't you think? Darkspawn, and leadership, and adventure! Endless, endless Darkspawn.” He ladled the spoon in a circle, staring into the bobbing dumplings. “Do you think we'll turn the tide, Eth? Save the world, I mean.

He wanted, dearly, to believe they could.

Ethne, upon reaching the ship, had climbed aboard and been entirely uncertain as to what to do first. She'd never been on a boat this large, scarcely been on a boat at all. In then end, though the vast expanse of the sea called to the more poetic side of her nature with all the force of a Siren's song, she was long used to rejecting tempations greater even than those, and settled for keeping herself out of everyone else's way. She may have the ghost of a map planted firmly in her head, but it was muzzy still, and she held no illusions that without it, she would not be here in the first place. Though she was accustomed enough to doing in single opponents, she had always done so in a setting where all the control was hers, where her target was singular, and where lives as such were not at stake. In short, she didn't belong here, with these hardened warriors, fearsome mages and elusive rogues.

The decision of where to place her weary self had been made by a raucous call to attention from her stomach, which had her flushing several shades of pink when she asked the nearest crewman where she might find some food. He'd raised his single eyebrow speculatively, but pointed her down a set of stairs, which she'd dutifully followed with a mouselike tread, placing one soft-soled foot in front of the other with caution, unsure how much the rocking of the ship might affect her balance, which truly was precarious on the best of days. At least she wasn't ponderous, she supposed.

As it turned out, the food available consisted mostly of some form of hard bread and a stew which smelled mostly of fish. She'd eaten much worse, and really, though it was quite bland, there was nothing distasteful about any of it. Perhaps it was just her hunger, demanding that she replace the depleted reserves of energy left in the wake of more magic than she'd ever had cause to do in a day before, but it might have even been delicious. Given the size of the galley, she was seated among several burly sailors, but when they spoke to her, they weren't rude, or at least not intentionally so. She supposed sailors had a different set of manners, and being referred to as 'poppet' was probably not offensive. Or at least she didn't think it was.

She was listening to one man swear up and down that Darkspawn came in kraken-shape, while his friends ribbed him. The easygoing nature of the conversation relaxed her, however unsavory the subject matter, and when Rhapscallion joined her, the budding smile on her face had bloomed impressively, wrinkling her nose and teasing from her a chuckle. She bumped her shoulder into his when he sighed dramatically, shaking her head, but her mirth contained itself at his question, and she looked down into her stew as if it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

How was she to answer? Her self-doubt was not a temporary condition, brought about by a change in circumstance. It was no idle fancy of a chit groping about in the dark for comfort, reassurance, or- Fade forbid- compliments. It was something ingrained into her very make, resting woven somewhere between muscle and bone. Had she grown up anything but a slave, anything but a half-willed Dreamer, she might have been confident, assured. But magisters, demons: they spoke the same words, and at the root of it all was her weakness.

She tore her eyes from her food and looked at her friend, expression nothing but open honesty. "I believe it can be done. I believe in the others. And I certainly believe in you, so... yes. Yes, I think we will. I know we will."

He'd caught the end of the swearing man's conversation – something about a certain Darkspawn who's shape imitated the frightening sea creature pirate's whispered about in bad weather. It might've been his imagination, but Rhapscallion squinted grimly at the floating contents of his stew, picturing slender tentacles bobbing amongst the potatoes. Although he might pretend to enjoy thoseparticular tales when huddled around a campfire, entrusting himself with the task of narrating childhood terrors; Rhapscallion, in reality, was not keen on ghost stories, goblin tales, or anything that involved being gobbled up. He preferred reciting livelier tales about knighthoods, vanquishing demons, and battles won by pure cleverness. Those were the stories that lit a fire in his heart – certainly, not the one's that involved gnashing teeth and sucking tentacles dragging him to the depths of the sea to drown. Even the ones about beautiful sirens luring men away from the safety of their ships seemed far better, though they usually ended the same.

When Ethne bumped his shoulder, Rhapscallion feigned a quick expression of pain, gingerly holding his shoulder, whistling softly through his teeth. A few ruddy men exchanged glances, frowning at his dramatics, before flashing uneven grins: all cobbled teeth, black fillers and pocked faces. It seemed as if they were used to people of his sort aboard the vessel. These were the moments he felt warmth and familiarity and affection. He encompasses the world in his hands, picking everything apart until he thinks he understands it – and he believes she does the same, picks things apart, and worries, for the most part. They were both naive, weren't they? He could admit it with every fibre of his body. Solvej told him on several occasions, as if to remind him. It's all too easy to do, to make wishes on stars he couldn't see. His pretend-frown melted away into a preposterous smile, crinkling laugh lines and dimples. He watched curiously as Ethne's gaze lowered back down to her stew, much like he'd done moment's ago. As if she were investigating the mixture, waiting for a Darkspawn-kraken to crawl out and announce itself, an uninvited visitor. With what they've gone through already, Rhapscallion wouldn't have been surprised.

He suddenly worried that he'd ruined her appetite by asking something so deliberate, so resolute. It was a question that left too much room open, all gap-toothed and smiling sickly. Sometimes, he was the one with nightmares, with self-doubt, with thoughts that did not match his words. He wasn't all dancing, singing, laughing, living. He wondered if Ethne had the answers. He wondered if it was selfish to ask her, selfish to believe that her response would hearten him. The muscles in his jawline worked at a response, chewing unpleasantly on words to remedy the situation – when she finally tore her eyes away from her food and looked at him again. She was bright, like the sun: a stunning yellow. Even if they hadn't saved each other's lives on the battlefield, Rhapscallion knew, without a doubt, that he would have befriended her in an instant. It was inevitable. No question about it. Her hopes, his hopes, were bright enough to blind – perhaps, it was infectious. His expression softened, before he flapped his hand in front of him, embarrassed. He exhaled through his nose, pinching his earlobe: clearly relieved.

I'm glad you said so. We've got a strong group, I know that much, even if we butt heads along the way.” He laughed loudly, leaning back in his chair. They'd do fine. “So,” Rhapscallion enunciated, dragging the singular adverb into a soft croon. “After all this is done, what will you do, travel the world? Adopt five children? Find that blasted kraken?

After... It was a thought gossamer in cast, thin and translucent and ephemeral, liable to tear if you tried to grasp at it with too much fervor. Such things must be nursed tenderly, drawn close to the lights of hope and possibility burning betwixt the heartstrings and allowed to grow more solid, more real for their presence. Played close to the chest, perhaps, for other people were sometimes less kind, even when they didn't mean to be, and anything so small as an offhand remark could incinerate her butterfly-wing dreams in but a moment. She of all people understood dream, and understood frailty. But. But her whimsy, her unspoken little hopes and the thoughts that backlit her faraway eyes, these were things she could share with him of all people. Cynics would eviscerate her. Pessimists would shake their heads and scoff. Realists might be the worst of all, for they could lay her to waste with words she could at least understand.

But he was like her, and she knew she could entrust him with these fragile little things, her dreams, the kind that grew in your soul before they ever played before you at night. "Someday," she said quietly, bashfully, for perhaps it was silly and small, but it was certainly hers. "Someday, I think I want to have a garden. With roses, and wisteria, and orchids and ivy, you know?" Upon reflection, it was a painfully-simple thing, so stark in its lack of any complexity that it might have been embarrassing. But to she who'd never owned a thing, it was a mighty little dream indeed, positively audacious even, and it carried with it many little things. It implied a place of permanence, perhaps, where she would need run from nothing and nobody. Maybe even a little home to call hers. She didn't dare imagine that there might be friends or family to share it with, or go so far as to speculate to where she might grow the flowers, or what books she might read in her own little slice of paradise, because the fabric of her fancy was not yet strong enough to hold those things.

"How about you?" The smile that dimpled her cheeks was innocuous as springtime swallows in the air, but she wondered somewhere inside if Grey Wardens were allowed to have those kinds of inclinations. If the Blight was over, though, surely he could do what he wished? Brief as their acquaintance was, Ethne was secretly certain that she wished for him to visit her garden, and- perhaps, if they wanted- that the others might come, too, if the fancy struck them someday. Who, after all, didn't like flowers and vegetables and trees?

Hope was a persistent thing constantly, and consistently, nipping and grabbing at the hem of your flapping shirt like a grimy child on the streets with a twinkle in his eyes. It did not judge. It did not bend and break under hardships. Hope was the little bit of fire they held in their cold hands, fingers markedly numb, on a freezing winter night, while something magical and unexplainable set their hearts alight, and they knew, somehow, they'd find a way. It was enough to keep Rhapscallion revitalized, tenderhearted. If there was anything he would do, he'd certainly keep their hopes tucked into the hollow cavity of his chest – safe and sound, warm. For them, he would not change. He would become an immutable fortress. Finally, rather absently, Rhapscallion shovelled a heaping spoonful of the stew into his mouth. It was cold. It was lumpy, gooey, and smelled funny. It was too spicy. It was also the best thing he'd ever tasted. A starving stomach often made anything and everything taste like godly dishes – this certainly wasn't any different, though he appreciated the different textures and heavy spices.

He was a bit naive for believing in fairy tales and true love and anything else that's considered childish for a man, but it's what always kept his hopes alive, keeps his buoyancy. It's what kept Solvej from pushing him too far while they trained. There's a spark roaring to life in his eyes, so impassioned, it's almost desperate: that need to fix, to cradle and protect. Grey Wardens weren't expected to live any longer than their short life expectancies permitted, which usually spanned thirty or some years, depending on the level of interaction with the Darkspawn. The Calling was a dreadful thing full of old whisperings and feverish nightmares. In the end, it always ended up a blade through your throat. If they didn't willingly commit themselves to the Deep Roads with honour and dignity, then, eventually, the darkspawn would seek them out, drawn like moths to the flame. This was common knowledge. Even still, Rhapscallion hoped for a brighter future. Ethne's bright eyes creased up at the corners, though they looked somewhat distant. It's a childish impulse, to want something safe, but what it all comes down to is that he's running scared. Eventually, just as Solvej will, Rhapscallion will weave himself through the Deep Roads and kill as many darkspawn as he can before falling – that's the honourable thing to do, right? It's what they expect, after all.

These dreams, these hopes, were little bird-boned things tucked into the folds of their hands, curled around their fingers like lizard tails. He loved too much with his whole heart: it collided and tumbled against adjacent organs, stretched down to his knees, swept through his throat and threw itself from his tongue. It was a clumsy thing. He believed he shared these sentiments with Ethne, or at least, she understood them. Her light was not sifting through her fingers like an hourglass. It was there – he could see it, clearly. Rhapscallion's wooden spoon scraped unpleasantly, searching for morsels of potato. His bowl was empty. Had he been eating that whole time? Hopefully, she wasn't too put off by his appetite. A garden? He smiled softly, imagining what it might look like. It sounded beautiful. In the Linnell estate, there'd been a stunning garden of marigolds, blistered vines, twisted mandrake roots, and a mass of roses, all garnished with nettles and slugs and thick worms. He used to pinch the beetles between his fingers, offering it to the nannies like flowers. They always laughed before shooing him away. “That's wonderful!” The half-breed crooned, eyeing her brightly, childishly. “And whenever I visit, I can bring a different seed. Like the primrose – they're simple, but they're really beautiful. You'd love it.

Her question took him aback. Even if it was obvious given the turn of conversation, Rhapscallion hadn't expected it. His mouth twisted, crinkling awkwardly on his usually cheery features. What would he do in the future, after they'd sorted everything out? He couldn't think of it in terms of whether or not they survived. It was impossible, improbable. The likelihoods and chances meant absolutely nothing. Solvej had taught him better than that, even if it meant whisking his innocence and his common sense and his naivety in the same crummy bowl. “What about me?” He repeated, slowly, as if testing the words. He fiddled with the wooden spoon, swirling it in lazy circles, focusing on the small puddle of juices. Clearly, it wouldn't give him the answers he sought, so he pushed the bowl away. “I want...” He trailed off lamely, before finally recovering, “Someday, and don't laugh, I want to open a bakery. Y'know, baked goods, confectioneries, nutted breads. Of course, I'd still offer my blades on occasion.

What do you think the others want to do? Somehow, I can't picture Kerin baking anything.

Ethne didn't laugh; wouldn't have thought to do so at all, really. Dreams like these were sacred little things, she knew that better than anybody. Instead, she nodded along solemnly, though a smile made of pure goodwill and delight still layed at the edges of her mouth. She didn't want him to think she was mocking, oh no, so she kept it constrained to that and naught else, but... it was such a lovely thought. "I think it sounds fantastic," she opinioned with no hint of condescension. It was good that he had something like that thought; she'd been terribly concerned that Wardens looked to their futures and saw only darkness. Sometimes, that was all she saw, even. It was that desperate, desolate realizaition that had eventually set the fire beneath her feet, giving her the phantom strength she did not have which allowed her to, in turn, flee Tevinter and that encroaching, fulminating dark.

The scrape of his spoon against his bowl did draw a giggle from her, and she pushed what remained of her own stew at him, having eaten considerably more than her usual portion already. She kept the spoon, though, tapping it against her lower lip in a fanciful gesture as she pondered over his question. "I think... that in our little town, with my garden and your bakery, Kerin guards everything and terrorizes the little children who come asking her to teach them to fight." A silly assumption, that they'd all be around when this was said and done, but no sillier than assuming it would be done at all, and the elf allowed her imagination to run away with her. "Dekton lives in the woods, but every once in a while, we see a crow or a bear or something and we know he's there, and he always visits on holidays. Solvej is a grand adventurer, and comes back with stories of places we've never been and things we've never seen. Lukas teaches all the mage-children and runs a tavern, supplied with food from Ser Seeker!"

She chuckled at her own absurdity, but it was all in fun, and surely there was nothing wrong with that.

Strangely enough, Rhapscallion could picture her silly images. Clear as day, clear as his own hands in front of him. More than anything, he hoped, wished, prayed that it came true.