It occurred to Ithilian the next day that he hadn't ever really seen the Warden, Nostariel, around the Alienage. Their meeting and subsequent cooperation in rescuing Feynriel had been the first time he'd ever seen her. It crossed his mind that she may have been a newcomer to the city, or that perhaps she was merely passing through, and got caught up in events. But she'd seemed to have known her way around the city well enough. Ithilian had never met an elven Warden before, or many Wardens at all.
It was not long then before he began to make inquiries about her among the elves who tended to get out of the Alienage more. Ithilian didn't qualify in that category. He was too likely to do something very illegal if he spent too much time among the hordes of shemlen that pervaded every level of this city. He passed by Amalia several times during his inquiries. He meant to speak with her... but not yet. He needed some more time to think before that conversation would happen. Eventually, he determined that Nostariel spent a great deal of her time at the Hanged Man, the tavern here in Lowtown. Ithilian had frowned at that. He supposed there were worse places, though. Like Hightown. Still, for every worthwhile person that passed through that tavern, there were no doubt a few shemlen that would tempt his wrath if he spent too long around them.
Not having anything in particular to do at the moment, however, the Dalish decided it wouldn't hurt to pay her a visit. He left the Alienage, armed as always, keeping his head down as he worked his way through the bustle of people. He passed a shem hawking what was apparently a pouch of Andraste's ashes to a crowd, demonstrating their magical healing effects on a woman of suspect illness. His frown grew as he went by. Beggars lined the streets, mostly human, by Ithilian's estimation. In his experience, the dwarves typically joined up with the Carta before resorting to begging. And the elves went to the Alienage, where they actually looked out for one another. The shemlen were content to let themselves rot, it seemed.
The Hanged Man eventually presented itself before him, rather busy as it always seemed to be. He waited for a pair of drunk mine workers to clear out of his way, overhearing them mumbling about opening up some new passage at the Bone Pit, before pushing through the door and entering. With the variety of types that passed through the Hanged Man, it was difficult for anyone to look out of place, but Ithilian seemed to be trying his best to do so. A woman approached him to see if he needed something to eat or drink, but he waved her off with an annoyed flick of his hand, scanning the patrons instead.
He spotted Nostariel in a corner of the room, a table to herself. Ithilian found it puzzling how at home a Grey Warden could look in a tavern. Nostariel definitely looked as though she had been here many times before, and would be here many times again. It was... angering, in a way. He moved forward, weaving between tables, until he had reached her corner. "Marethari took the boy in, did she not?" he asked, not taking a seat, or appearing as though he wanted to. "Did she object at all?" He felt he already knew the answer to the question, but it was worth asking, anyhow.
Nostariel was, much to her own surprise, not really in the mood to get drunk on this particular day, and so her cup was filled with watered wine, the safest beverage of choice in Lowtown, where the water itself was far from non-toxic in large doses. She was presently enjoying a light lunch, and rather simply pleased at the fact that her salad wasn't even rotting. It was, as far as she could tell, as good a day as she ever got for free, and she was resolved to enjoy it. Lifting a green-laden fork to her mouth, she was halfway through taking a bite when the door to the tavern opened.
Normally, this would scarcely concern her, and she was quite content to ignore the influx of patrons just as she ignored the egress of anyone still sober enough to walk. Those that couldn't, well... there was magic for that.
As it was, however, she would not be ignoring this particular entrance, completely obvious as it was. Her eyes found Ithilian seconds before he located her, probably because she was far less obtrusive... or curt, for that matter. Her frown was a fledgling thing, small and rather tame compared to the scowls he seemed to sport nearly-constantly, and she calmly chewed over the rest of her mouthful before gesturing that he could sit. He probably wouldn't. His question was direct enough, and she answered it in kind. "She did, and she did not, in that order." A small pause. "She requested that I relay a message to you, though. The Keeper seems concerned for your welfare, and would deter you from your present course." Her composed neutrality contained faint echoes of melancholy, but they were subtle and might well have simply been the natural tenor of her voice. They certainly rarely left it.
The Dalish crossed his arms over his chest. "She said that, did she? I've heard it before. Many would deter me from my course, though few have deterred me so politely. I'll take the Keeper's words under consideration." The way he said it implied that it was most definitely a no. Ithilian's beliefs and Keeper Marethari's conflicted far too greatly for one to ever fully see the other's side, he knew that. But as of yet, nothing had changed since he had left her clan for Kirkwall. He saw no reason yet to accept a life of being pushed from one area to the next every time the humans decided to do something about them. Reclaim. Not remember.
"Do you live here?" he asked, glancing about the place as he changed the subject. The look on his face as he surveyed the other patrons, and perhaps simply the atmosphere was... not quite disgust, but perhaps disbelief. "It hardly seems a fitting place for a Warden."
"I see." She didn't, really, and she had half a mind to ask him exactly what this course of his actually was, but his question was quicker, and she accepted that for now, the conversation, such as it was, would proceed in a different direction for at least a short while. Nostariel followed his glance, smiling faintly when she saw Varric about to depart, that crossbow of his slung over his back as usual. She raised a hand to bid him farewell, but she was unsure if he saw it or not. Either way, she had to think for a second about how to answer that one.
"Perhaps not, but it is surely a fitting place for me." Sipping her wine, she set the tankard back down and leaned on her elbows, cupping her face on both hands. "Do not the drunken disgraces always end up in such places?" The question may as well have been rhetorical, for she answered it herself, after a fashion. "But I suspect you have no desire to hear the story, and I'm far too sober to tell it anyway." Shifting her grip, she traced one finger absently about the rim of her mug and shrugged.
"If I may ask, what is the nature of the disagreement between yourself and the Keeper? I had gathered the impression that such folk were revered leaders of the People, that conflicts of such... devisive nature were uncommon, and tended to cause quite the stir." She couldn't decide if she expected him to answer, or growl like a threatened wolf and tell her it was none of her city-elf business.
Ithilian watched her finger for a moment as it circled the rim of her tankard. "I do revere the Keeper. That doesn't mean I can't think her a cowardly grandmother. Or have a differing opinion. I am not Sabrae, nor was I ever. I was of Clan Mordallis for much of my life, in Ferelden. Keeper Felaris had differing ideas, and I shared them. But that clan is no more, and now I am here. I'm far too sober to tell the rest of that story, as well."
A drunken disgrace, huh? The Sabrae no doubt thought him a disgrace to the People. He'd faced his fair share of misery in his lifetime, and he was willing to bet that it matched the Warden's, though of course he could not be sure. He hadn't turned to drowning himself in taverns. Not yet, anyway. "If you don't mind me saying, you did not seem a disgrace yesterday when we fought through slavers, mercenaries, and abominations. I don't see why you should let yourself rot in this pit. Not with the gifts you have."
It was annoying, almost, and he wished he knew her reasons for whatever disgrace she had brought upon herself, for then he would know whether or not to be truly angry, or... well, less angry. He didn't see how he could sympathize with this. "Do I need to buy you a drink for you to tell me how you joined the Wardens? I have only ever met one, a shem, though I have not encountered a worthier human."
His sullen echo of her own words had tugged the smile further up her face, flashing teeth for the briefest moment, but it was short-lived. "If I did not, then perhaps it is simply because the world has a sense of irony," she replied dryly, shaking her head slightly and dislodging a few blond hairs from behind her ears. She replaced them carefully, considering the next question, though perhaps not quite so seriously as it appeared. "You should be careful, Ithilian. If you continue to say such things, people might come to believe there is compassion somewhere in that vengeful soul of yours." She wasn't sure exactly how she'd struck on the word vengeful, but nothing she was observing told her it didn't fit, so she didn't bother to correct herself.
"Hm, no. I don't think I have to be inebriated for that one, but you do have to be seated. I'll not speak to someone so much taller than myself if he insists on looming so." The last person she'd told that to was actually a good deal taller than Ithilian as well, but it applied all the same. "Of what would you like me to speak? The Joining itself is a rather interesting process, I suppose, but usually people are looking for the circumstances that lead to it, or perhaps the valiant tales of first battles with fellow Wardens." A single eyebrow arched gracefully, and it was clear that she really was going to insist that he sit.
Seeing that he might actually get something from the Warden, Ithilian was willing to take a seat. He pulled his bow from his back as he slid down into a chair, placing the weapon across his lap and settling into a somewhat slouched posture. Her comment about compassion had almost gotten a guffaw that would have been dangerously close to a laugh, but not quite. At the word vengeful, he had almost wanted to trace the lines of the vallaslin decorating his neck, the symbols for Elgar'nan, the God of Vengeance. It was indeed all that was left in his soul. Occasionally, on days like yesterday, he yearned for something more meaningful to devote himself to... but until such a thing presented itself, vengeance would have to do.
"Let's start with the circumstances. You are from a city, are you not? A Circle mage, then, or rather, a former one?"
"Hm. You're either entirely correct, or only half so. I couldn't tell you which." Nostariel chewed absently on her lower lip, free hand now occupied pushing her salad around on her plate with the fork. "The Circle is the first thing I remember. I couldn't tell you who I was, who's child I was, before that. But you are right that the Circle eventually found me, or I was given up to them, whichever." It was among the reasons she so vehemently did not desire Feynriel to be pushed into that life. He was long old enough to remember his mother, remember what he'd had, but he would have been subsequently without it even so. "I'm not sure if that's worse or better then being able to remember, to tell you the truth."
"As for the rest, well, I suppose I was the sort of person who had dreams a little too big for that tower in Starkhaven. I'd always wanted out, and the Wardens offered me that chance. I'd have been a fool not to take it." Particularly when the other options were tranquility or death. She wasn't quite comfortable talking about it, though, as the inevitable next question would have been what did you do to deserve that? and the answer was incredibly painful, a wound in her very soul even now. "I... can't say it turned out exactly how I expected, but... what ever does?"
"Indeed, nothing ever does," Ithilian agreed. What she said hadn't bothered him, though. She hadn't been given a choice at birth, but rather was forced under the heel of the Chantry and their Templars. It seemed only natural that she would want to escape, that anyone would want to escape that, and yet many of them willingly allowed themselves to be caged by their shemlen jailors. Their talents were wasted in such a way, when they could be used to help their people.
"We take advantage of the chances given to us. We have to. If we don't, the shemlen will. They'd see us all forever under their heel like the Templars would to the mages. That is my present course that Marethari would deter me from, in a sense. To wait for a chance to be given to me, and then to take it. Elgar'nan, vengeance, was branded into my skin. I can take no other course." He looked down at the bow in his lap. Thought for a moment on the number it had claimed. More had been added to that tally yesterday. It would never be enough, and he knew that... but he didn't know what else to do.
If Nostariel had flinched slightly at the mention of Templars and shemlen, she did not acknowledge it. Instead, she simply watched him as he spoke, reading into the silences as much as the words. She wasn't always right about these sorts of things, but she liked to think she could guess at what he was thinking, and it was uncomfortably familiar. "Grey Wardens know a thing or two about lost causes," she demurred. "I can't say I share the thought that humans all desire us beneath their feet, though I won't contest that it happens. Circles are.... a bit different from the outside world, as are the Wardens. I'm a captain, you know. I suppose a few humans have had a problem with that, but by and large they're a little more scared of my magic than my ears." She shrugged lightly.
"Even so... I'd like to think that there's always hope for a better world, no matter how futile it seems to work for it." She could not condone killing your way through humanity as a means, but surely what Ithilian seemed to desire was not just the violence and the vengeance, but rather the world wherein his people could be free of their chains. That much, she understood without reserve.
Ithilian certainly would not argue with her about the subject of humans and just how much they oppressed his people. He suspected both of them were far too sober for that discussion. And from what history he had learned of her... being elven was not what she considered the most impactful on her life, but rather being a mage, or being a Warden. She'd lived in a Circle, and then she'd lived with Wardens. As of now, he did not believe she had experienced the state of their people as he had.
"There was a better world," Ithilian said, rising to his feet, and returning his bow to his back. "It was called Elvhenan. It is gone now. Whether or not it can be recreated in a world with the shemlen, I don't know. I intend to take the All-Father's vengeance just the same." He gave Nostariel a respectful nod of his head. "Ma serranas for your time, Nostariel." With that, the Dalish took his leave of the Hanged Man, headed back for the Alienage.
It was not long then before he began to make inquiries about her among the elves who tended to get out of the Alienage more. Ithilian didn't qualify in that category. He was too likely to do something very illegal if he spent too much time among the hordes of shemlen that pervaded every level of this city. He passed by Amalia several times during his inquiries. He meant to speak with her... but not yet. He needed some more time to think before that conversation would happen. Eventually, he determined that Nostariel spent a great deal of her time at the Hanged Man, the tavern here in Lowtown. Ithilian had frowned at that. He supposed there were worse places, though. Like Hightown. Still, for every worthwhile person that passed through that tavern, there were no doubt a few shemlen that would tempt his wrath if he spent too long around them.
Not having anything in particular to do at the moment, however, the Dalish decided it wouldn't hurt to pay her a visit. He left the Alienage, armed as always, keeping his head down as he worked his way through the bustle of people. He passed a shem hawking what was apparently a pouch of Andraste's ashes to a crowd, demonstrating their magical healing effects on a woman of suspect illness. His frown grew as he went by. Beggars lined the streets, mostly human, by Ithilian's estimation. In his experience, the dwarves typically joined up with the Carta before resorting to begging. And the elves went to the Alienage, where they actually looked out for one another. The shemlen were content to let themselves rot, it seemed.
The Hanged Man eventually presented itself before him, rather busy as it always seemed to be. He waited for a pair of drunk mine workers to clear out of his way, overhearing them mumbling about opening up some new passage at the Bone Pit, before pushing through the door and entering. With the variety of types that passed through the Hanged Man, it was difficult for anyone to look out of place, but Ithilian seemed to be trying his best to do so. A woman approached him to see if he needed something to eat or drink, but he waved her off with an annoyed flick of his hand, scanning the patrons instead.
He spotted Nostariel in a corner of the room, a table to herself. Ithilian found it puzzling how at home a Grey Warden could look in a tavern. Nostariel definitely looked as though she had been here many times before, and would be here many times again. It was... angering, in a way. He moved forward, weaving between tables, until he had reached her corner. "Marethari took the boy in, did she not?" he asked, not taking a seat, or appearing as though he wanted to. "Did she object at all?" He felt he already knew the answer to the question, but it was worth asking, anyhow.
Nostariel was, much to her own surprise, not really in the mood to get drunk on this particular day, and so her cup was filled with watered wine, the safest beverage of choice in Lowtown, where the water itself was far from non-toxic in large doses. She was presently enjoying a light lunch, and rather simply pleased at the fact that her salad wasn't even rotting. It was, as far as she could tell, as good a day as she ever got for free, and she was resolved to enjoy it. Lifting a green-laden fork to her mouth, she was halfway through taking a bite when the door to the tavern opened.
Normally, this would scarcely concern her, and she was quite content to ignore the influx of patrons just as she ignored the egress of anyone still sober enough to walk. Those that couldn't, well... there was magic for that.
As it was, however, she would not be ignoring this particular entrance, completely obvious as it was. Her eyes found Ithilian seconds before he located her, probably because she was far less obtrusive... or curt, for that matter. Her frown was a fledgling thing, small and rather tame compared to the scowls he seemed to sport nearly-constantly, and she calmly chewed over the rest of her mouthful before gesturing that he could sit. He probably wouldn't. His question was direct enough, and she answered it in kind. "She did, and she did not, in that order." A small pause. "She requested that I relay a message to you, though. The Keeper seems concerned for your welfare, and would deter you from your present course." Her composed neutrality contained faint echoes of melancholy, but they were subtle and might well have simply been the natural tenor of her voice. They certainly rarely left it.
The Dalish crossed his arms over his chest. "She said that, did she? I've heard it before. Many would deter me from my course, though few have deterred me so politely. I'll take the Keeper's words under consideration." The way he said it implied that it was most definitely a no. Ithilian's beliefs and Keeper Marethari's conflicted far too greatly for one to ever fully see the other's side, he knew that. But as of yet, nothing had changed since he had left her clan for Kirkwall. He saw no reason yet to accept a life of being pushed from one area to the next every time the humans decided to do something about them. Reclaim. Not remember.
"Do you live here?" he asked, glancing about the place as he changed the subject. The look on his face as he surveyed the other patrons, and perhaps simply the atmosphere was... not quite disgust, but perhaps disbelief. "It hardly seems a fitting place for a Warden."
"I see." She didn't, really, and she had half a mind to ask him exactly what this course of his actually was, but his question was quicker, and she accepted that for now, the conversation, such as it was, would proceed in a different direction for at least a short while. Nostariel followed his glance, smiling faintly when she saw Varric about to depart, that crossbow of his slung over his back as usual. She raised a hand to bid him farewell, but she was unsure if he saw it or not. Either way, she had to think for a second about how to answer that one.
"Perhaps not, but it is surely a fitting place for me." Sipping her wine, she set the tankard back down and leaned on her elbows, cupping her face on both hands. "Do not the drunken disgraces always end up in such places?" The question may as well have been rhetorical, for she answered it herself, after a fashion. "But I suspect you have no desire to hear the story, and I'm far too sober to tell it anyway." Shifting her grip, she traced one finger absently about the rim of her mug and shrugged.
"If I may ask, what is the nature of the disagreement between yourself and the Keeper? I had gathered the impression that such folk were revered leaders of the People, that conflicts of such... devisive nature were uncommon, and tended to cause quite the stir." She couldn't decide if she expected him to answer, or growl like a threatened wolf and tell her it was none of her city-elf business.
Ithilian watched her finger for a moment as it circled the rim of her tankard. "I do revere the Keeper. That doesn't mean I can't think her a cowardly grandmother. Or have a differing opinion. I am not Sabrae, nor was I ever. I was of Clan Mordallis for much of my life, in Ferelden. Keeper Felaris had differing ideas, and I shared them. But that clan is no more, and now I am here. I'm far too sober to tell the rest of that story, as well."
A drunken disgrace, huh? The Sabrae no doubt thought him a disgrace to the People. He'd faced his fair share of misery in his lifetime, and he was willing to bet that it matched the Warden's, though of course he could not be sure. He hadn't turned to drowning himself in taverns. Not yet, anyway. "If you don't mind me saying, you did not seem a disgrace yesterday when we fought through slavers, mercenaries, and abominations. I don't see why you should let yourself rot in this pit. Not with the gifts you have."
It was annoying, almost, and he wished he knew her reasons for whatever disgrace she had brought upon herself, for then he would know whether or not to be truly angry, or... well, less angry. He didn't see how he could sympathize with this. "Do I need to buy you a drink for you to tell me how you joined the Wardens? I have only ever met one, a shem, though I have not encountered a worthier human."
His sullen echo of her own words had tugged the smile further up her face, flashing teeth for the briefest moment, but it was short-lived. "If I did not, then perhaps it is simply because the world has a sense of irony," she replied dryly, shaking her head slightly and dislodging a few blond hairs from behind her ears. She replaced them carefully, considering the next question, though perhaps not quite so seriously as it appeared. "You should be careful, Ithilian. If you continue to say such things, people might come to believe there is compassion somewhere in that vengeful soul of yours." She wasn't sure exactly how she'd struck on the word vengeful, but nothing she was observing told her it didn't fit, so she didn't bother to correct herself.
"Hm, no. I don't think I have to be inebriated for that one, but you do have to be seated. I'll not speak to someone so much taller than myself if he insists on looming so." The last person she'd told that to was actually a good deal taller than Ithilian as well, but it applied all the same. "Of what would you like me to speak? The Joining itself is a rather interesting process, I suppose, but usually people are looking for the circumstances that lead to it, or perhaps the valiant tales of first battles with fellow Wardens." A single eyebrow arched gracefully, and it was clear that she really was going to insist that he sit.
Seeing that he might actually get something from the Warden, Ithilian was willing to take a seat. He pulled his bow from his back as he slid down into a chair, placing the weapon across his lap and settling into a somewhat slouched posture. Her comment about compassion had almost gotten a guffaw that would have been dangerously close to a laugh, but not quite. At the word vengeful, he had almost wanted to trace the lines of the vallaslin decorating his neck, the symbols for Elgar'nan, the God of Vengeance. It was indeed all that was left in his soul. Occasionally, on days like yesterday, he yearned for something more meaningful to devote himself to... but until such a thing presented itself, vengeance would have to do.
"Let's start with the circumstances. You are from a city, are you not? A Circle mage, then, or rather, a former one?"
"Hm. You're either entirely correct, or only half so. I couldn't tell you which." Nostariel chewed absently on her lower lip, free hand now occupied pushing her salad around on her plate with the fork. "The Circle is the first thing I remember. I couldn't tell you who I was, who's child I was, before that. But you are right that the Circle eventually found me, or I was given up to them, whichever." It was among the reasons she so vehemently did not desire Feynriel to be pushed into that life. He was long old enough to remember his mother, remember what he'd had, but he would have been subsequently without it even so. "I'm not sure if that's worse or better then being able to remember, to tell you the truth."
"As for the rest, well, I suppose I was the sort of person who had dreams a little too big for that tower in Starkhaven. I'd always wanted out, and the Wardens offered me that chance. I'd have been a fool not to take it." Particularly when the other options were tranquility or death. She wasn't quite comfortable talking about it, though, as the inevitable next question would have been what did you do to deserve that? and the answer was incredibly painful, a wound in her very soul even now. "I... can't say it turned out exactly how I expected, but... what ever does?"
"Indeed, nothing ever does," Ithilian agreed. What she said hadn't bothered him, though. She hadn't been given a choice at birth, but rather was forced under the heel of the Chantry and their Templars. It seemed only natural that she would want to escape, that anyone would want to escape that, and yet many of them willingly allowed themselves to be caged by their shemlen jailors. Their talents were wasted in such a way, when they could be used to help their people.
"We take advantage of the chances given to us. We have to. If we don't, the shemlen will. They'd see us all forever under their heel like the Templars would to the mages. That is my present course that Marethari would deter me from, in a sense. To wait for a chance to be given to me, and then to take it. Elgar'nan, vengeance, was branded into my skin. I can take no other course." He looked down at the bow in his lap. Thought for a moment on the number it had claimed. More had been added to that tally yesterday. It would never be enough, and he knew that... but he didn't know what else to do.
If Nostariel had flinched slightly at the mention of Templars and shemlen, she did not acknowledge it. Instead, she simply watched him as he spoke, reading into the silences as much as the words. She wasn't always right about these sorts of things, but she liked to think she could guess at what he was thinking, and it was uncomfortably familiar. "Grey Wardens know a thing or two about lost causes," she demurred. "I can't say I share the thought that humans all desire us beneath their feet, though I won't contest that it happens. Circles are.... a bit different from the outside world, as are the Wardens. I'm a captain, you know. I suppose a few humans have had a problem with that, but by and large they're a little more scared of my magic than my ears." She shrugged lightly.
"Even so... I'd like to think that there's always hope for a better world, no matter how futile it seems to work for it." She could not condone killing your way through humanity as a means, but surely what Ithilian seemed to desire was not just the violence and the vengeance, but rather the world wherein his people could be free of their chains. That much, she understood without reserve.
Ithilian certainly would not argue with her about the subject of humans and just how much they oppressed his people. He suspected both of them were far too sober for that discussion. And from what history he had learned of her... being elven was not what she considered the most impactful on her life, but rather being a mage, or being a Warden. She'd lived in a Circle, and then she'd lived with Wardens. As of now, he did not believe she had experienced the state of their people as he had.
"There was a better world," Ithilian said, rising to his feet, and returning his bow to his back. "It was called Elvhenan. It is gone now. Whether or not it can be recreated in a world with the shemlen, I don't know. I intend to take the All-Father's vengeance just the same." He gave Nostariel a respectful nod of his head. "Ma serranas for your time, Nostariel." With that, the Dalish took his leave of the Hanged Man, headed back for the Alienage.