It felt odd, to be encased in a sheath of guard mail instead of his typical light leathers and silent boots. Ashton was still in his transitional phase from lowly shopkeep to lowly guardsman, but there was progress the be found. For one, he was no longer a prospective guardsman, but a fully fledged one. It had been about a month, give or take a few days that Ashton revealed his intentions to join the guards to Nostariel. In those few weeks, they rushed him through the training process and spat him out as fast as they safely could. He had been right that the guard's numbers were down due to the Qunari and the extracurriculars of a select few who perhaps were best left unnamed. Fortunately Ashton was no greenhorn looking for a paycheck, years of living in the heart of Lowtown and taking on some of the more dangerous errands with his friends had prepared him more than a few sword swings at a straw dummy ever would. Of all those that had answered the guard's summons, he was among the few who had the most combat experience, having faced Darkspawn, Qunari, and bandits in equal measure.
It meant little in rank, however. He still started on the bottom rung of the ladder and he'd have to climb his way to the top tooth and nail. They'd taken his leathers and machete and stuffed him in a uniform and gave him a proper sword. The one thing they'd never take from him was his bow and it remained strung on his back, a quiver full of arrows sitting beside it. As long as he had a guardsman sword they'd let him keep the arrows, he'd been told. A fair agreement in his head. He would hate to be armed only with a sword in the dark alleyways he now patrolled. While he looked the part, a soldier he was not, at least not yet. At heart he'd forever be an archer first and foremost.
"Any baddies here? Maybe they'll be polite and turn themselves in, hmm? Would save us the trouble." He spoke aloud, mostly to Snuffy who loped at his side. Even his faithful hound was outfitted to seem more official with a light layer of kaddis displaying the guard crest on her back. Their patrol had been quiet thus far, and there was no indication that was going to change. Not that he complained. He'd rather enjoy the easy peace of a quiet street than have it erupt in a fountain of gang members out for his blood. He'd chosen his own patrol and he chose Lowtown, letting some of the greener recruits safer areas like Hightown and guard duty in the Keep. He wasn't so brave as to attempt Darktown without another partner... or several. Snuffy was a wonderful hound, just not the entirity of Darktown wonderful. A lone uniform there was like a big kill me please sign. He'd rather the relatively safe Lowtown.
Relatively.
A wiser woman might have adopted a faithful hound to watch her stagger through the streets like a sloppy spaghetti noodle, but she was not wise and hounds as loyal as Snuffles were hard to come by. Besides, Sparrow doubted that she could properly care for any other living being if she could not even care for herself. From her hazy view of the alleyways, the streets appeared fairly empty anyway. Not that she could see particularly well. Kirkwall looked much different, in this light. A little less ugly. Swaying tapestries of bright, flapping colors danced in the small licks of moonlight pouring down from the skies. Occasionally, her hands darted out to clutch at the air, as if she could hold the tubes of light. She dared not look up or the world would swallow her whole. Waking up with an egg-sized lump on her head sounded as appealing as dragging herself back home, dejected and still lost in all those thoughts that swam in her skull. Instead of ruminating and reflecting in front of a creaky desk, Sparrow did what she did best in times of thoughtless abandon—she got piss-drunk. In the months passed, she'd thought herself cleansed of those bad habits, of those rank pulls. Habits, it seemed, were hard things to shake, and maybe, she hadn't been as ready as she thought.
Slumping against one of the buildings, Sparrow pressed her cheek against one of the cool bricks and closed her eyes. The world span behind her eyelids, urging her to follow its momentum and continue forward else her head might spin off her shoulders. Like her ripped tunic, slipping freely down her shoulder until she grumbled at nothing in particular and fiddled with her non-existent buttons. While she hardly left home without wearing some form of protective gear, she didn't want to ruin Amalia's hard-work. Ruining the leather by means of vomit or dirt would be a disservice to such beautiful leathers, and so, they remained hung up in her hovel. It still felt strange wearing normal clothes. A soft, fitted tunic that was more or less ruined, and a pair of leather trousers loosely belted and haphazardly tucked into unlaced boots. One might have wondered whether she'd been at the Hanged Man or just woken up, too sleepy and rushed to bother making herself look presentable. “Stupid moron,” she babbled, slapping at her cheek, “Tell me about... story, I said, stupid.”
Suddenly pushing away from the wall, a little too forcefully, she careened into the streets; jerky legs instinctively trying to keep its upper half from taking them both down. The impending danger of the ground kissing her face seemed of no concern to her, because the world felt as if it were tilting to compensate for her lack of balance. Everything was right in the world, or else, in hers. Warmth spread through her stomach, even as the empty bottle slipped from her fingers, bouncing off the toes of her boot and disappearing behind an empty stall. A voice called out somewhere to her right—or was it her left? Or even below? Cocking her head slowly in both directions, Sparrow detected nothing out of the ordinary and decidedly hunched lower, slowly swaying in what might have been an attempt at a silent tip-toe, moving towards another alley. It was neither quiet nor sneaky.
Thunk.
She fell flat on the ground. Far from where she'd been sneaking. Somehow, she had managed to make it into a wide open space and from her sideways vantage, someone was standing there. In a uniform. Shiny. Brown, maybe. And a dog. Or something furry. Lopsided silhouettes tended to look like any kind of critter. She stared at them flatly, searching for a face, and dumbly realized that the man was facing the other direction.
“Whu... this is my alley, you.”
Ashton had whirled around in an instant, hand already reaching for his bow when he realized how entirely unnecessary it was. Even Snuffy bit off a growl as she too realized who had fallen behind them. Sparrow and stealth went as well together as oil and water, it just didn't happen. Ashton paused for a moment to let what he was seeing register before laughing. "So much for a quiet patrol," He told Snuffy who had trotted to the prone Sparrow. Ashton followed soon after, coming to a kneel in front of her.
He held a single finger in the air as a father would do to quieten a child before plunging it down onto her forehead. "Technically," Ashton began, issuing the most haughty tone he could manage, "This is my alley, you. Gotta keep them safe from ruffian vagabonds such as yourself." A mock frown etched into his features before it broke into a genuine smile as Snuffy began to lick Sparrow's face.
"Come on, let's get you to your feet," He said with a smile in attempt to help her stand again. That's when he caught a whiff of the alcohol on her. All of it. "Damn Sparrow, what? Did you sack a brewery while I wasn't looking?"
Sparrow presumed an alert stance in her mind, but in reality, hardly budged from her prone, cheek-to-ground position. She squinted up at the blurry figures, wondering whether or not that furry creature was some sort of monster-cat. No, no—it was a hound. A Snuffy. It was Snuffy. But why was she here? And with a stranger? Snuffy never usually left Ashton's side, and that might have been a more telling sign, but her rattled thoughts immediately hooked onto the singular thought: kidnap. It was obvious, wasn't it? The stern interrogation for committing such a lofty crime against her friend came out as another gurgle, holding none of the intimidation she'd conjured in her head. “Quiet... patrol? Pah!” This couldn't be Ashton. He wasn't a guard. And besides, what kind of guard stole, anyway?
She opened her mouth to sputter some colourful expletive, but the shadowy stranger held up a finger. A finger! How dare he—and then, the offending finger tapped down on her forehead and the blurry image become clearer. Finally dragging her arms up in front of her, Sparrow broke into a fit of snorts and chest-rattling laughter. She swiped at her eyes and blinked up at him. “Oh. You are Ashton. Did you, did you... steal a guard's uniform? Why would you do that?” As soon as Snuffy started licking her face, she attempted to shoo her away with weak, floppy hands. To no avail, mind you.
And then, the world began to right itself as Ashton tugged her back to her feet. Her legs protested, but it felt immeasurably better than lying on the ground. Sparrow squinted her eyes harder at him, peering close enough so that her nose nearly touched his cheek. Then, as abruptly as she'd stumbled into sight, she pulled back and nodded her head, as sage as a drunkard could be. “Ah! You are Ashton, then. Yup—and no, no. I think the bartender is fond of me, is all. Why else,” she threw her arms out wide, “would he send me home with his best ale.” For harassing everyone else in the tavern.
"Last I checked, yeah, I was still Ashton," He chuckled as he let Sparrow stand on her own two feet, though not without caution. He had a hand at the ready in case she threatened to take another plunge face first into the cobblestones. "I'd say he's a little too fond, I mean, how many of me do you see anyway?" He asked with a smirk. He then began to sway side to side, subtly at first to see if she would notice. Despite his words, he didn't miss the initial hesitance Sparrow had displayed, but it wasn't anything he didn't understand. Sparrow hadn't seen him in his uniform yet. Hell, he wasn't sure she even knew about his intentions to become a guard, it wasn't something he paraded around his circles.
"Oh Sparrow, you wound me. I don't steal... Well, I didn't steal this one, anyway," He scratched the back of his neck and averted eye contact as he spoke. The ones that he did had long been disposed of, along with the sword that came with it. Besides, the one that he wore now fit a lot better and didn't ride up in sensitive areas. "They give one to you when you pass training. You, my friend, are looking at one Ser Guard Riviera, esquire. Defender of the peace, protector of the innocent, and friend to a very certain drunk," He said with a playful wink. "Come on, let's get that ale and you home, hmm?" He said, offering her a shoulder to grab on to. He'd been drunk once before too, he remembered how hard walking was.
"What were you drinking for this time?" he asked in an attempt at conversation.
She narrowed her eyes at him, as if to verify his sincerity. Yes, this was Ashton. She had already identified the telltale scar. Sparrow pinwheeled her arms in a slow circle before regaining her sloppy balance, eyeing the ground suspiciously. How dare it move in such a way. Her mouth quibbled to blubber such accusations, but as soon as her eyes swayed back to Ashton, she had already forgotten. “You,” she cooed with a shake of her head, “Just you. And no shadow... are you sure you're Ashton? Serrah man-guard.” She followed his swaying. First with her eyes, then with her head, until she grew dizzy enough to prod a limp-finger into his chest. Or shoulder. Close enough. Ashton the guardsman. The Kirkwall guardsman. It had an odd ring to it. Why would he do that, anyhow?
Well, this supposed-Ashton knew her name, so that was proof enough of his character. Surely, a pretender wouldn't have known who she was. She was a stealthy beast of crafty proportions after all. That sounded nice, come to think of it. She bobbed her head agreeably. Well, if he hadn't stolen it to add to his repertoire of stolen outfits, she supposed that she believed him. Her squinted eyes could have passed for fatigue or veiled astonishment, depending on how one looked at them. “Ser Guard Riviera! Congra, congura, good!” She threw out her arms in celebration and nearly toppled backwards, if it weren't for Snuffy's resilient post behind her, pushing her back to her feet as a colt might. “That does have a mighty fine ring to it, doesn't it? Ser Guard. Riviera, Ser Guard Ashton. Guard Ashton, ser. Protector.” Her rattling laugh carried her forward, where she slung one droopy arm over the man's shoulder. If she'd known any better, and this was not indeed Ashton, she might have been marching off to jail again.
Ah well. When Ashton posed the question, Sparrow crinkled her nose and rolled her eyes skyward, turning the question in her head. Why had she been drinking this time? Why, why. “Oh,” she exhaled solemnly, “There's no ale left, y'know.” She took another breath, heedless of the languishing weight she applied onto Serrah Ashton's shoulders. “Rilien, y'know. He doesn't look like that wooden plate. And, I, no, no.” She pursed her lips and clamped her eyes shut, and recovered. “We sailed to a cave, and I said, I said, this can be home. Like, I can be home.” She swung another stare. Perfect explanation.
"Oh, there's plenty of ale. I can smell it on you from a mile out," Ashton said, having valiantly resisted the urge to poke her in the belly. The rest of her words, however, took a while to decipher and he had a sneaking feeling that if he was drunk as well, he'd understand her perfectly. Alas for sobriety. Still, he remembered being able to understand her, or at least thought he was able to understand her when they both were properly sauced. For all he knew, he could've been hearing something completely different from what she was saying-- but that all that felt so long ago...
"Rilien and that wooden plate...?" He repeated, thinking on what she meant. It didn't take long for the cogs to turn and he remembered the portraits he had carved-- she must had seen the one he had made of Rilien. "Oh! That one. Yeah... But he did, once." And he wasn't talking about the one time in the cave either. Before Ashton, before Sparrow, Rilien the Tranquil, was Rilien the Mage. He never asked about the latter, because to him, he was neither tranquil nor mage, he was just Rilien. Nothing more, nothing less, just a close friend. The next series of blubbering words were a bit harder to peice together. "Wait. You sailed? To a cave? Like, in a boat? The hell'd you get a boat?" He asked confused. Not only had she apparently gotten a boat, but also somehow managed to learn how to sail.
Ashton shook his head to brush his confusion off. The boat wasn't the important part, it was what came afterwards. "Home? Sparrow. This is home." He agreed with a knowing smile.
“Plenty of ale,” Sparrow parroted with a snicker, rolling her eyes skyward. Tattered flags and balconies swirled overhead. Combining muted colours, swaying in the wind. Seeing the world in such a light, as drunk as she was, could have been considered refreshing. With her stomach burning and her legs disobeying simple orders, she found herself sorely missing the simplicity of not caring. There were too many unanswered questions rattling around in that skull of hers, just when she'd begun to clean out the cobwebs to make room for things she'd yet to experience. As of recent, she had decided to stop running from her problems, but here she was, still running, in a manner of speaking. Stumbling around Kirkwall, more like. She dunked her head closer and nudged his shoulder with her forehead, before dipping forward, laugh rattling her entire being.
What she wanted to do exactly remained a futuristic mystery; an island bobbing on the horizon. Holding promises and lengthy conversations that she couldn't bear to voice, and words that would not crack the surface. Rilien might have been patient with her outbursts, however unintelligible, but hers was a minute, mostly nonexistent thing. Her tiny footsteps evolved into coltish stumbles, and no matter what way she looked at it, waking Rilien in a drunken stupor seemed like a bad idea any way she imagined it. He would not understand—illogical, he'd say. Or he'd try to appease her. And neither did she.
Understanding this feeling would've taken a tremendous amount of reflection; and she was childish and selfish, still a sapling in all accounts. She blinked up at him and bobbed her head with a grim frown. It hardly lasted a second when Ashton mentioned sailing and her majestic boat and the cave she'd discovered. “Oh yes, my boat! Sophauriel. You see what I did? A combined the names of lovely lasses,” she cooed brightly, “From the bad ones. The, you know. We killed them. I mean, Ithilian and Rilien, we—uh, you weren't there were you?”
She blinked again, trying to piece together her foggy memories. But the veils were too heavy, and Sparrow simply shrugged her shoulders and grinned. Home. Such a strange word. One she had come to seek out with feverish desperation and one she'd been able to speak aloud when referring to such a strange place. “Home,” her body slowly slackened against his shoulder and she turned to look back up at him, owlish and wide-eyed. She pulled on his neck and peered uncomfortably closer. “You really mean that?”
"Think about it Sparrow," Ashton said, turning toward her own very close head. "I don't know about you, but there isn't anywhere else I'd rather be than here with everyone. How about you? Anywhere you'd rather be than with us? With him?" He said. He followed the question up with a very sudden, but playful headbutt, the risk of drawing far too close to his face. Hard enough to knock, but soft enough that no damage was done. "That's what makes it home."
She stared at him. Murky eyes wide with wonder—as if she was witnessing a miracle, or an assembly of shooting stars, or the first time she successfully kind of sailed her ship. Had anyone ever said anything so kind to her? Maybe. She couldn't remember. And the harder she tried to recount the memories, the more the ground beneath her swayed like the seas. Had she even asked the question before? Maybe. Her assumptions were simple. She belonged wherever her friends were situated, but never accounted for any particular area.
She struggled with the idea of freedom and the need for acceptance, for all of her faults. Even so, despite her addled state, it was strange to hear aloud. Sparrow blinked up at him when Ashton butted her head, producing a rattling laugh from her gut. She finally withdrew her face, kindly sparing her friend from her ale-breath. She drew her free hand to clap him gently on the cheek and readjusted her grip on his shoulder. The sadness that gripped her own shoulders seemed much lighter.
“Seems as if I've been closer to home than I thought. Home. Home.”
She liked the sound of that.
It meant little in rank, however. He still started on the bottom rung of the ladder and he'd have to climb his way to the top tooth and nail. They'd taken his leathers and machete and stuffed him in a uniform and gave him a proper sword. The one thing they'd never take from him was his bow and it remained strung on his back, a quiver full of arrows sitting beside it. As long as he had a guardsman sword they'd let him keep the arrows, he'd been told. A fair agreement in his head. He would hate to be armed only with a sword in the dark alleyways he now patrolled. While he looked the part, a soldier he was not, at least not yet. At heart he'd forever be an archer first and foremost.
"Any baddies here? Maybe they'll be polite and turn themselves in, hmm? Would save us the trouble." He spoke aloud, mostly to Snuffy who loped at his side. Even his faithful hound was outfitted to seem more official with a light layer of kaddis displaying the guard crest on her back. Their patrol had been quiet thus far, and there was no indication that was going to change. Not that he complained. He'd rather enjoy the easy peace of a quiet street than have it erupt in a fountain of gang members out for his blood. He'd chosen his own patrol and he chose Lowtown, letting some of the greener recruits safer areas like Hightown and guard duty in the Keep. He wasn't so brave as to attempt Darktown without another partner... or several. Snuffy was a wonderful hound, just not the entirity of Darktown wonderful. A lone uniform there was like a big kill me please sign. He'd rather the relatively safe Lowtown.
Relatively.
A wiser woman might have adopted a faithful hound to watch her stagger through the streets like a sloppy spaghetti noodle, but she was not wise and hounds as loyal as Snuffles were hard to come by. Besides, Sparrow doubted that she could properly care for any other living being if she could not even care for herself. From her hazy view of the alleyways, the streets appeared fairly empty anyway. Not that she could see particularly well. Kirkwall looked much different, in this light. A little less ugly. Swaying tapestries of bright, flapping colors danced in the small licks of moonlight pouring down from the skies. Occasionally, her hands darted out to clutch at the air, as if she could hold the tubes of light. She dared not look up or the world would swallow her whole. Waking up with an egg-sized lump on her head sounded as appealing as dragging herself back home, dejected and still lost in all those thoughts that swam in her skull. Instead of ruminating and reflecting in front of a creaky desk, Sparrow did what she did best in times of thoughtless abandon—she got piss-drunk. In the months passed, she'd thought herself cleansed of those bad habits, of those rank pulls. Habits, it seemed, were hard things to shake, and maybe, she hadn't been as ready as she thought.
Slumping against one of the buildings, Sparrow pressed her cheek against one of the cool bricks and closed her eyes. The world span behind her eyelids, urging her to follow its momentum and continue forward else her head might spin off her shoulders. Like her ripped tunic, slipping freely down her shoulder until she grumbled at nothing in particular and fiddled with her non-existent buttons. While she hardly left home without wearing some form of protective gear, she didn't want to ruin Amalia's hard-work. Ruining the leather by means of vomit or dirt would be a disservice to such beautiful leathers, and so, they remained hung up in her hovel. It still felt strange wearing normal clothes. A soft, fitted tunic that was more or less ruined, and a pair of leather trousers loosely belted and haphazardly tucked into unlaced boots. One might have wondered whether she'd been at the Hanged Man or just woken up, too sleepy and rushed to bother making herself look presentable. “Stupid moron,” she babbled, slapping at her cheek, “Tell me about... story, I said, stupid.”
Suddenly pushing away from the wall, a little too forcefully, she careened into the streets; jerky legs instinctively trying to keep its upper half from taking them both down. The impending danger of the ground kissing her face seemed of no concern to her, because the world felt as if it were tilting to compensate for her lack of balance. Everything was right in the world, or else, in hers. Warmth spread through her stomach, even as the empty bottle slipped from her fingers, bouncing off the toes of her boot and disappearing behind an empty stall. A voice called out somewhere to her right—or was it her left? Or even below? Cocking her head slowly in both directions, Sparrow detected nothing out of the ordinary and decidedly hunched lower, slowly swaying in what might have been an attempt at a silent tip-toe, moving towards another alley. It was neither quiet nor sneaky.
Thunk.
She fell flat on the ground. Far from where she'd been sneaking. Somehow, she had managed to make it into a wide open space and from her sideways vantage, someone was standing there. In a uniform. Shiny. Brown, maybe. And a dog. Or something furry. Lopsided silhouettes tended to look like any kind of critter. She stared at them flatly, searching for a face, and dumbly realized that the man was facing the other direction.
“Whu... this is my alley, you.”
Ashton had whirled around in an instant, hand already reaching for his bow when he realized how entirely unnecessary it was. Even Snuffy bit off a growl as she too realized who had fallen behind them. Sparrow and stealth went as well together as oil and water, it just didn't happen. Ashton paused for a moment to let what he was seeing register before laughing. "So much for a quiet patrol," He told Snuffy who had trotted to the prone Sparrow. Ashton followed soon after, coming to a kneel in front of her.
He held a single finger in the air as a father would do to quieten a child before plunging it down onto her forehead. "Technically," Ashton began, issuing the most haughty tone he could manage, "This is my alley, you. Gotta keep them safe from ruffian vagabonds such as yourself." A mock frown etched into his features before it broke into a genuine smile as Snuffy began to lick Sparrow's face.
"Come on, let's get you to your feet," He said with a smile in attempt to help her stand again. That's when he caught a whiff of the alcohol on her. All of it. "Damn Sparrow, what? Did you sack a brewery while I wasn't looking?"
Sparrow presumed an alert stance in her mind, but in reality, hardly budged from her prone, cheek-to-ground position. She squinted up at the blurry figures, wondering whether or not that furry creature was some sort of monster-cat. No, no—it was a hound. A Snuffy. It was Snuffy. But why was she here? And with a stranger? Snuffy never usually left Ashton's side, and that might have been a more telling sign, but her rattled thoughts immediately hooked onto the singular thought: kidnap. It was obvious, wasn't it? The stern interrogation for committing such a lofty crime against her friend came out as another gurgle, holding none of the intimidation she'd conjured in her head. “Quiet... patrol? Pah!” This couldn't be Ashton. He wasn't a guard. And besides, what kind of guard stole, anyway?
She opened her mouth to sputter some colourful expletive, but the shadowy stranger held up a finger. A finger! How dare he—and then, the offending finger tapped down on her forehead and the blurry image become clearer. Finally dragging her arms up in front of her, Sparrow broke into a fit of snorts and chest-rattling laughter. She swiped at her eyes and blinked up at him. “Oh. You are Ashton. Did you, did you... steal a guard's uniform? Why would you do that?” As soon as Snuffy started licking her face, she attempted to shoo her away with weak, floppy hands. To no avail, mind you.
And then, the world began to right itself as Ashton tugged her back to her feet. Her legs protested, but it felt immeasurably better than lying on the ground. Sparrow squinted her eyes harder at him, peering close enough so that her nose nearly touched his cheek. Then, as abruptly as she'd stumbled into sight, she pulled back and nodded her head, as sage as a drunkard could be. “Ah! You are Ashton, then. Yup—and no, no. I think the bartender is fond of me, is all. Why else,” she threw her arms out wide, “would he send me home with his best ale.” For harassing everyone else in the tavern.
"Last I checked, yeah, I was still Ashton," He chuckled as he let Sparrow stand on her own two feet, though not without caution. He had a hand at the ready in case she threatened to take another plunge face first into the cobblestones. "I'd say he's a little too fond, I mean, how many of me do you see anyway?" He asked with a smirk. He then began to sway side to side, subtly at first to see if she would notice. Despite his words, he didn't miss the initial hesitance Sparrow had displayed, but it wasn't anything he didn't understand. Sparrow hadn't seen him in his uniform yet. Hell, he wasn't sure she even knew about his intentions to become a guard, it wasn't something he paraded around his circles.
"Oh Sparrow, you wound me. I don't steal... Well, I didn't steal this one, anyway," He scratched the back of his neck and averted eye contact as he spoke. The ones that he did had long been disposed of, along with the sword that came with it. Besides, the one that he wore now fit a lot better and didn't ride up in sensitive areas. "They give one to you when you pass training. You, my friend, are looking at one Ser Guard Riviera, esquire. Defender of the peace, protector of the innocent, and friend to a very certain drunk," He said with a playful wink. "Come on, let's get that ale and you home, hmm?" He said, offering her a shoulder to grab on to. He'd been drunk once before too, he remembered how hard walking was.
"What were you drinking for this time?" he asked in an attempt at conversation.
She narrowed her eyes at him, as if to verify his sincerity. Yes, this was Ashton. She had already identified the telltale scar. Sparrow pinwheeled her arms in a slow circle before regaining her sloppy balance, eyeing the ground suspiciously. How dare it move in such a way. Her mouth quibbled to blubber such accusations, but as soon as her eyes swayed back to Ashton, she had already forgotten. “You,” she cooed with a shake of her head, “Just you. And no shadow... are you sure you're Ashton? Serrah man-guard.” She followed his swaying. First with her eyes, then with her head, until she grew dizzy enough to prod a limp-finger into his chest. Or shoulder. Close enough. Ashton the guardsman. The Kirkwall guardsman. It had an odd ring to it. Why would he do that, anyhow?
Well, this supposed-Ashton knew her name, so that was proof enough of his character. Surely, a pretender wouldn't have known who she was. She was a stealthy beast of crafty proportions after all. That sounded nice, come to think of it. She bobbed her head agreeably. Well, if he hadn't stolen it to add to his repertoire of stolen outfits, she supposed that she believed him. Her squinted eyes could have passed for fatigue or veiled astonishment, depending on how one looked at them. “Ser Guard Riviera! Congra, congura, good!” She threw out her arms in celebration and nearly toppled backwards, if it weren't for Snuffy's resilient post behind her, pushing her back to her feet as a colt might. “That does have a mighty fine ring to it, doesn't it? Ser Guard. Riviera, Ser Guard Ashton. Guard Ashton, ser. Protector.” Her rattling laugh carried her forward, where she slung one droopy arm over the man's shoulder. If she'd known any better, and this was not indeed Ashton, she might have been marching off to jail again.
Ah well. When Ashton posed the question, Sparrow crinkled her nose and rolled her eyes skyward, turning the question in her head. Why had she been drinking this time? Why, why. “Oh,” she exhaled solemnly, “There's no ale left, y'know.” She took another breath, heedless of the languishing weight she applied onto Serrah Ashton's shoulders. “Rilien, y'know. He doesn't look like that wooden plate. And, I, no, no.” She pursed her lips and clamped her eyes shut, and recovered. “We sailed to a cave, and I said, I said, this can be home. Like, I can be home.” She swung another stare. Perfect explanation.
"Oh, there's plenty of ale. I can smell it on you from a mile out," Ashton said, having valiantly resisted the urge to poke her in the belly. The rest of her words, however, took a while to decipher and he had a sneaking feeling that if he was drunk as well, he'd understand her perfectly. Alas for sobriety. Still, he remembered being able to understand her, or at least thought he was able to understand her when they both were properly sauced. For all he knew, he could've been hearing something completely different from what she was saying-- but that all that felt so long ago...
"Rilien and that wooden plate...?" He repeated, thinking on what she meant. It didn't take long for the cogs to turn and he remembered the portraits he had carved-- she must had seen the one he had made of Rilien. "Oh! That one. Yeah... But he did, once." And he wasn't talking about the one time in the cave either. Before Ashton, before Sparrow, Rilien the Tranquil, was Rilien the Mage. He never asked about the latter, because to him, he was neither tranquil nor mage, he was just Rilien. Nothing more, nothing less, just a close friend. The next series of blubbering words were a bit harder to peice together. "Wait. You sailed? To a cave? Like, in a boat? The hell'd you get a boat?" He asked confused. Not only had she apparently gotten a boat, but also somehow managed to learn how to sail.
Ashton shook his head to brush his confusion off. The boat wasn't the important part, it was what came afterwards. "Home? Sparrow. This is home." He agreed with a knowing smile.
“Plenty of ale,” Sparrow parroted with a snicker, rolling her eyes skyward. Tattered flags and balconies swirled overhead. Combining muted colours, swaying in the wind. Seeing the world in such a light, as drunk as she was, could have been considered refreshing. With her stomach burning and her legs disobeying simple orders, she found herself sorely missing the simplicity of not caring. There were too many unanswered questions rattling around in that skull of hers, just when she'd begun to clean out the cobwebs to make room for things she'd yet to experience. As of recent, she had decided to stop running from her problems, but here she was, still running, in a manner of speaking. Stumbling around Kirkwall, more like. She dunked her head closer and nudged his shoulder with her forehead, before dipping forward, laugh rattling her entire being.
What she wanted to do exactly remained a futuristic mystery; an island bobbing on the horizon. Holding promises and lengthy conversations that she couldn't bear to voice, and words that would not crack the surface. Rilien might have been patient with her outbursts, however unintelligible, but hers was a minute, mostly nonexistent thing. Her tiny footsteps evolved into coltish stumbles, and no matter what way she looked at it, waking Rilien in a drunken stupor seemed like a bad idea any way she imagined it. He would not understand—illogical, he'd say. Or he'd try to appease her. And neither did she.
Understanding this feeling would've taken a tremendous amount of reflection; and she was childish and selfish, still a sapling in all accounts. She blinked up at him and bobbed her head with a grim frown. It hardly lasted a second when Ashton mentioned sailing and her majestic boat and the cave she'd discovered. “Oh yes, my boat! Sophauriel. You see what I did? A combined the names of lovely lasses,” she cooed brightly, “From the bad ones. The, you know. We killed them. I mean, Ithilian and Rilien, we—uh, you weren't there were you?”
She blinked again, trying to piece together her foggy memories. But the veils were too heavy, and Sparrow simply shrugged her shoulders and grinned. Home. Such a strange word. One she had come to seek out with feverish desperation and one she'd been able to speak aloud when referring to such a strange place. “Home,” her body slowly slackened against his shoulder and she turned to look back up at him, owlish and wide-eyed. She pulled on his neck and peered uncomfortably closer. “You really mean that?”
"Think about it Sparrow," Ashton said, turning toward her own very close head. "I don't know about you, but there isn't anywhere else I'd rather be than here with everyone. How about you? Anywhere you'd rather be than with us? With him?" He said. He followed the question up with a very sudden, but playful headbutt, the risk of drawing far too close to his face. Hard enough to knock, but soft enough that no damage was done. "That's what makes it home."
She stared at him. Murky eyes wide with wonder—as if she was witnessing a miracle, or an assembly of shooting stars, or the first time she successfully kind of sailed her ship. Had anyone ever said anything so kind to her? Maybe. She couldn't remember. And the harder she tried to recount the memories, the more the ground beneath her swayed like the seas. Had she even asked the question before? Maybe. Her assumptions were simple. She belonged wherever her friends were situated, but never accounted for any particular area.
She struggled with the idea of freedom and the need for acceptance, for all of her faults. Even so, despite her addled state, it was strange to hear aloud. Sparrow blinked up at him when Ashton butted her head, producing a rattling laugh from her gut. She finally withdrew her face, kindly sparing her friend from her ale-breath. She drew her free hand to clap him gently on the cheek and readjusted her grip on his shoulder. The sadness that gripped her own shoulders seemed much lighter.
“Seems as if I've been closer to home than I thought. Home. Home.”
She liked the sound of that.