Post #2579171 in The City of Chains, a roleplay on RPG

Rilien was not a common sight in Kirkwall’s Alienage, elf or no. He stuck out a great deal, perhaps even more than its usual defenders did, and considering that one of those had a face full of scars and a bearing the furthest thing from servile and the other was a human, that was saying quite a lot. Even bereft of his usual silk and soft linen, in favor of coarser blue-dyed cotton and dark leather armor, he was exceptionally distinctive. The meeting place for this venture had been given as the shade of the large painted tree, however, and so, distinctive or not, that was where he chose to plant himself, in anticipation of a venture out.

Sparrow had been making attempts, insofar as someone with little knowledge and less tracking skill could, to locate her birth family, he understood. The excursion into the mountains outside Kirkwall was going to be the fruition of those inquiries, and he had asked him to be there. Rilien could not remember the names or faces of his birth parents, beyond a few very indistinct impressions, but he had never cared to. Not even when he was young, and yet complete. He therefore found it difficult to truly understand why she had any desire to find hers. They were not a part of her life, and had not been for a very long time. But whether he understood or not, she had asked this of him, and he was rarely inclined to deny her anything.

He was not presently alone. Amalia, his newest business partner, was beneath the tree as well, and the Dalish elf Ithilian. They were to be the remainder of the party for the trip, and this also he had no reason to object to. He knew little of either of them, truthfully, but it did not matter. He knew enough, and Sparrow wanted them here as well.

"She would be late to her own venture.” The observation was dry, but perhaps not entirely so.

Amalia’s lips twitched; she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the trunk of the vhenadahl. Rilien spoke truly, to be sure. Still, she expected that Sparrow would be along as soon as it was physically possible for her to do so, given the importance of what they were doing. Amalia understood that her parents were apparently part of some nomadic group of elves and humans, though she chose to follow what seemed to be logic in not referring to them as a Dalish clan. She didn't know a great deal about them, but what she had picked up from Ithilian indicated that actual Dalish clans would likely disdain them a great deal. It seemed an unsafe way to live, but perhaps they saw it as better than a city. They may not even be wrong.

“She would,” Amalia agreed, “but she will be here, even so.” The one human in the group was also dressed for travel, with an eye for the dangers of the road, but out of consideration for the fact that this was supposed to be a peaceful meeting, she was only wearing two visible knives in the way of weaponry, and had a mere four hidden elsewhere on her person. It was about the minimum for leaving the Alienage, really.

Being at least in appearance obviously Dalish, it was less concerning for Ithilian to be armed, but he carried no more than his usual armament, the bow and two short swords, Parshaara at his belt. He was eager to be getting on with this, though mostly for Sparrow's sake. As far as he knew, the clan they sought didn't know they were coming, and would have no reason to stay put for too long.

Sparrow had taken the longest to appear at the designated meeting place—partially because she'd been worrying over what to wear, pacing in front of the mirror like a dog with no direction. She plucked through her wardrobe and tossed whatever article displeased her on a growing pile in the corner, much like she'd done with the riches she'd acquired in the Deep Roads. That pile was much smaller. It was a surprise it wasn't entirely depleted, but for once in her life, dingy taverns like the Hanged Man hadn't been receiving as much attention from her as it had been over the years. Too worried, she was. Instead of drowning herself in goblets of ale and wandering her ship like a sailor late for duty, Sparrow obsessed and fantasized about her meeting with her parents, heedless to the possibility that they may not even be living. With a snarling noise frothing from her lips, she finally donned a soft green shirt, strong leather pants, and quickly strapped on the armour Amalia had crafted for her. Why hadn't she thought of that before...

She ran the entire way, puffing through the empty alleys, and scrambling over stone fences to reach Kirkwall, and the others. They were all here, which meant she was the only one who was late. A crooked smile twitched across her face, accompanied by an awkward laugh. “You wouldn't believe how busy the streets were,” she gushed with sweeps of her arms, and bobbed her head. “Anyhow, now that we're all here,” she looked them over and took another deep gulp of air to still her beating heart. Her mouth felt as dry as a desert. Or bones. Bones chucked into the desert on a hot summer day. Or else anything equally uncomfortable. She regretted not bringing her water canteen. Unlike the others, Sparrow hadn't brought any weapons. Not this time. One dagger, she supposed, tucked into her boot, would be enough. Even if there were other dangers outside of Kirkwall, and they were met with hostility by the unknowing clansmen, she appeared nonplussed by any of those possibilities.

“Let's get a move on. Time's a wasting.”

The sheer magnitude of the forest troubled her as they walked, following Ithilian's surefooted directions. She believed she'd explored a great portion of the region—but found herself wrong on all accounts, at least, when it came to this particular path. How Ithilian navigated himself through all the shrubbery without getting lost was beyond her. She counted herself lucky that she wasn't the one leading. As they walked, the woods grew thicker and thicker; taller trees, thicker branches, with far less open spaces. Darker, almost. Her gaze drifted away from Ithilian's back and settled through the trees, to their sides, because she could swear... she heard absolutely nothing. The only advice Ithilian had given was to assume you were being watched at all times, because you probably were. From his directions, they had walked around the main pass to avoid banditry, and taken an indirect route.

“Stay your ground.”

A voice from her left... no, right. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she jolted to a halt, swinging her head to locate it. It seemed as if it echoed off the trees, and carried on a ways. Through an abyss of branches, yet she'd heard none snap at the strangers approach. She'd never been the most perceptive of hunters (or even one at all), but she had trouble even locating its source. Light filtered through the trees, and caught the reflection of an arrowhead nearby; notched, poised. Dark eyes narrowed, focused on the only other person recognized as Dalish.

”Ar'din nuvenin na'din. Dirth. Why have you come?”

They were wise to be defensive, Ithilian thought. They traveled like Dalish and lived like Dalish, but if these rumors of shemlen in their midst were true, then they weren't really Dalish. It wasn't anything negative or positive, simply how it was. Ithilian expected they had run into trouble with other clans in the past, if they were pointing an arrow at him. The Dalish were typically quite welcoming to those that bore their marks.

"Andaran atish'an, falon. We mean you no harm, so I'd prefer if you didn't shoot me or my friends." He stood at ease, one foot elevated slightly upon a fallen log. His hands he rested on the pommel of one of his swords, fingers loose and not actually gripping the weapon. "Sparrow here," he gestured to the elf-blooded woman in question, "would like to meet your Keeper, Beragail. She is the Keeper of this clan, correct?"

There was a murmur of compliance coming from behind the combative archer. Another voice, higher pitched and much kinder. Another male, equally covert. Sparrow only now noticed the first of the two, following Ithilian's line of sight. The arrowhead dipped slightly lower. His knuckles, however, remained taut and white, ready in case any of them made ulterior movements. His eyes remained narrowed slits, searching them without restraint. It was only when an older man shifted from behind the tree; smiling disarmingly. He, too, was an Elf. Dalish markings claimed the majority of his face, but newer ones, in a lighter colour, had been added. Old, and faded patterns, casting a stark contrast against its lighter counterparts. The design was mostly of a tree, with the lighter parts signifying a Secret-Keeper.

He raised his hands defensively and then placed them palms-up, empty of any threats. No weapons, no deceit and no crinkles of distrust—like the younger man, hardly at ease beside the tree, but still stepping out from his vantage point. “Ma serannas. For staying your blade.” He tipped his head to the side, meeting Ithilian's eyes; dismissing the hand that could, and would given the circumstances, draw its blade out in a matter of moments. He'd seen that look before, in his younger days. Dangerous men; Dalish or no. “I am Pilen, and he, Arros.” He paused briefly and shifted his gaze towards Sparrow, before continuing. “If you are aware of Beragail, or our clan, you must understand our caution.”

The archer's mouth twisted into a scowl, sour as curdled milk, as if he wished to speak but barely managed kept his tongue in check. Instead, he snorted and finally loosened his grip on the notched arrow, slipping it over his shoulder into its quiver and pinned the bow to his side.

Pilen seemed to consider the Dalish' words, without any haste. He looked at each one of them as if he were scrutinizing hoodlums caught trespassing on an old man's property. If the situation was awkward, he bore no indication that he thought it was so. This was, however, a strange assortment of strangers bandying through their woods. He had no doubt that the Dalish man had led them here, though he was curious as to why they had a Tranquil elf in their midst’s, as well as a human woman. He scratched at his chin and bobbed his head once. Twice. Not a Dalish ploy—that was for certain. “You are correct,” he admitted and hooked his thumb in the direction they had been travelling in, “you may follow us, but you are not welcome unless Beragail permits it.”

The archer made a hissing noise and shook his head, hopping down from the mossy outcrop and stalking ahead of them. Red-faced and shoulders hunched. Younger, by far.

Sparrow felt uncomfortable and giddy all at once. How did one even claim something as large as these woods? Dalish etiquette made no sense to her. Their words slipped out like silk, but jumbled in her ears like tangled cords. None of it made any sense, but whatever Ithilian had said seemed to have some effect. They weren't pin-cushioned with arrows, at least. She trekked beside Amalia and Rilien, as quiet as she'd ever been. Deeper and deeper into the woods, and finally, underneath overgrown thistles and thorns, they somehow appeared into a well-hidden grove. A cleared space with wagons and leather-made tents. Easy to tear down and move when needed. Most surprisingly were the people living there; humans and Elves alike. Some with vallaslin, and others, bare-faced, and perhaps, from different Alienages. The humans appeared like any other, adopting traditional garb, and simple clothes; laughing and eating together.

“Vir Adehlen,” Pilen hummed softly. Together we are stronger than one.

Amalia had thus far been silent. She was not here to take issue with the hostility directed against them by the younger of these guardians, nor indeed to do anything at all, save apparently be beside Sparrow whilst she underwent whatever she supposed was waiting for her here. Though she understood intellectually the importance of family, she still didn’t quite understand how this could be so significant, to meet with someone who had played no important role in Sparrow’s life. If Amalia ever knew who her own birth parents were, she would likely be concerned with them not at all. Perhaps a bit of idle curiosity, but nothing so important. The Tamassrans had raised her, and the Ariqun had advised her, and these were the people that had made her into the person she was. Even Marcus had a more significant impact on the person she had become than her parents. All of that, of course, was to say nothing of the exceedingly important contributions of those she had met since arriving in Kirkwall. She had thought this was something she and Sparrow had in common.

But nevertheless, she was also not here to tell her friend that what she believed was important was really not. Sparrow was not Amalia, and they were allowed to be different. As for these people… honestly, it looked like an Alienage with humans and aravels. They gave off not the air of guerrilla fighters, as she would have expected from a clan like Ithilian’s had apparently once been, nor even the hardened survivalists she would at least have suspected most other Dalish were. They were… soft, somehow. It was more a moving village than a band as such.

Amalia glanced over at Ithilian for a moment, raising a brow. She was interested to know what he made of it.

Ithilian was wondering if that young scout they'd run into was not the finest of their warriors. If so, this would-be clan was right to fear all outsiders. He was also glad that Emerion had not needed to come along for any reason. Regardless of their heated conversation and his subsequent attempts at altering his mindset, he would not have been able to contain himself here. Even Ithilian, who had been without a clan or any reliance on Dalish ways, was feeling old pride being dredged up to be slighted by this.

Amalia's glance caught his eye, though they were certainly in earshot of the clan elves of their present company, so he could not respond as bluntly as he might wish to. Instead, he directed his question at the elf who had greeted them, Pilen. "You must need to be extra careful, to avoid the other clans as well as the humans." All had some reason to dislike this place, after all.

“We are well aware,” Pilen replied with another modest smile. While some Elvish hackles raised around them—perhaps for good reason, and others seemed less so, only raising their heads away from conversation to offer Pilen their greetings and sparing them curious glances, before returning to their duties. Some cooked and stripped the hides from rabbits, cutting them up, while others prepped cooking pots and bustled around with various vegetables. They worked efficiently and laughed easily. One might have assumed there was nothing different from any ordinary day; as if there were no strangers walking into their camp. There was an impressive array of Halla in a makeshift fenced-in area. Mostly with wooden posts and ropes, tied in sailor knots, surrounding the enclosure. Anyone well-travelled would have recognized many different cultures amassed in one location.

“This must seem strange to you,” he trailed a finger across his chin, where the patterns were the heaviest, “I had thought so, too. Once.” He tipped his head towards the tree canopy and squinted against the sliver a light sifting through the leaves and branches, pausing briefly before regarding Ithilian once more. Out of all of them, he supposed he would have the most to say about the way they had chosen to live. Few Dalish understood their way of life, clinging to the past as they did. Humans thought of them as peculiarities, but still, laughably, as Dalish. They were different from them, that much was to be admitted. And the Elves, outside of their clan, looked to them as threats; as if they believed their scheme was to tear down their heritage and ancient ruins just to spite them. A foolish notion.

“Humans. Elves. They are not so different after all of our old aches, and our prides have been put to rest,” he continued while leading them further into the camp, nodding his head, “Imagine an old tree, bending against the wind. There are other trees around it, but it refuses to accept shelter. Cling to those grievances long enough and new growth is impossible.” A rough laugh paused him in his steps. “Had I been with you years ago, I would have cursed this,” he swept his hands towards the campfire, and everyone else around them, “Beragail is a strange woman.”

Sparrow lingered closer to Amalia, as they followed. It was only when they paused in front of another group that her throat tangled further. A couple of Elves, and two humans, clustered with bows and staves, speaking heatedly about something she could not hear. Something about moving camp again. She could not see most of their faces, but someone had tufts of snowy hair. Lighter than hers. And she was much shorter; arms crossed and talking vibrantly. Sparrow's hand snaked out and snatched Amalia's wrist while she ground her teeth together to keep them from chattering. She was sure her fingers trembled, but she kept focusing on her wrist.

Rilien wasn’t the sort to care much for the explanations or the politics of this kind of thing. None of this had ever been his world, and in all honesty, he probably would not have given any of it much consideration even if he were not Tranquil. He wasn’t Dalish, and he wasn’t even really part of any sort of elvish culture, not anymore. Nor did he subscribe to the sorts of soft-bellied notions of togetherness and union that fell so easily from the tongue of this Pilen. It was antithetical to everything he knew about the world—to the world as it really was. That made it illogical, and Rilien was nothing if not logical. Of all those present, he probably fit in least of all, given the way he was dressed and the way he carried himself; there was no common ground to be found, really. Besides, he wasn’t here to learn what these people thought was the right way to live; he was here because Sparrow believed she needed to be, though for how long, neither had he asked nor she specified.

As such, his attention had remained more or less fixed on her, aside from what was necessary to ensure that the were not taken by surprise in some manner. He noted her anxiety and the way she clung to Amalia; also, perhaps, the way it was fixed on a specific figure in the distance. The resemblances were clear even from this distance—that must be the infamous Beragail. Sparrow’s mother, if her memories served her well.

Moving up to her other side, opposite Amalia, Rilien folded his arms into his sleeves, glancing at her from the corner of one bright eye. "You did not come here only to observe. If fear stays you now, there will likely be no more chances.” He would go with her, if she wished, stay at her side just like this all the way up to her mother, but he could not and would not speak her words for her. However much easier it would be for someone with no anxiety to do so. Amalia's only contribution was a hum of agreement; she chose not to mention the increasing pressure on her wrist.

Sparrow gulped thickly. Her mouth was dry, so not even the comfort of saliva could quell her anxieties. It was not she who first approached, but the woman with snowy hair turned slightly to face them, and inclined her head, bird-like. However much fiercer. From the sharpness of her chin to her hawkish nose, even she could see the similarities in appearance. Though, her eyes were different. Much lighter, and blue, nearly as bright as Rilien's, but not quite. There was humour there, dancing a slow circle of curiosity around them all. Not quite a predator on the hunt, but a quiet, mischievous creature slinking through the trees, curious and clever. Her death-grip only relinquished Amalia's wrist when she realized she'd been holding on too tight, and she hung her head apologetically.

“Aneth ara. Newcomers?” The woman finally spoke, nodding her head towards their group. Her voice was higher than hers; soft-spoken, and bright. Everything she was not. The telltale signs of a past long abandoned marked her face in colours of white and blue; unusual markings spanning the majority of her face. Her smile was friendly, wrinkling around to her eyes. There was a staff strapped to her back; decorated with white feathers, and green beads.

"No, no. They wished to speak to you. I felt no ill-intentions." Pilen tapped his bottom lip and hooked his thumb towards Sparrow, nodding. "Or her, specifically."

She knew that Rilien could not speak for her. Nor could Amalia, nor Ithilian. The woman who stood before her was her mother. She needed no introduction, needed no confirmation beyond seeing her face in person, and even as she stared at her, she could see that the recognition was one-sided. Her mouth worked over the words she'd so carefully practised, and she swore she could imagine the outcome—but nothing came out. Letting her gaze drift around the Dalish camp, or whatever it truly was, and Sparrow found that she could not recall any of her prior memories. There were trees, padding around barefoot and strange insects; afterwards, only pain and soon after rebirth, when she'd been inducted into the Qun and introduced to Amalia. She did not belong here. This was not her home. Even still, the tension sifted away from her shoulders, and she cleared her throat; applying another carefully cultivated mask.

“Ah yes, er. We've come from Kirkwall. This clan, I heard, has few friends. Trade must be difficult. And the area, as you probably know, is dangerous,” she spoke with her hands, “and I know you've no reason to trust us, blindly. I know I wouldn't, but there's channels that can be explored.” Sparrow prodded herself in the chest and then pointed at Beragail. “Between you and Kirkwall. We've a shop, with goods.” Ashton's shop. She sported a cheesy smile. “Kirkwall's a free port, after all. Things come in from the sea; you make Dalish things, we make everything you might need, and we trade. Good yeah?”

Beragail stared at her. Her smile did not slip away, only crinkled apologetically. “You are sympathetic merchants, then?” She paused and regarded Pilen and the others for a few moments before slowly shaking her head, fingers perched on her chin. “Abelas, da'len. We thank you, but we will not be staying here for much longer. And I cannot risk the safety of my people in lands I am not familiar with. Rafael may know more. You may stay as long as you like.” Pilen had already murmured a soft farewell and retreated back towards the archer he'd been with previously.

Sparrow exhaled softly and nodded her head, forcing a wily grin on her lips, even though it quivered. “All's well. That's business for you. I tried my best,” she threw up her hands and shot Ithilian a look of defeat, “thanks for the hospitality, but we'll be heading back. It's a long walk.” She began walking in the direction they had come in, shoulders slumped, as if the business deal truly bothered her. She could feel the eyes trailing her back, but could only focus on keeping her face settled into a straight line; smother the quibbling and push back the sick lump in her throat.

They were alive, after all. And doing well from what she could tell. It was enough.

Snippet #2579171

located in Kirkwall, a part of The City of Chains, one of the many universes on RPG.

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