wardenbrosca | Open post!

Zoralin tossed the apple to Cousland but couldn't help laughing at Hafter's plight- especially with Barkspawn right next to him, mirroring the hound's obvious suffering.

"Alright, you great sodding oafs, alright, fine." Zora pulled a small dagger from her topknot (her last-resort weapon, as it were), just dull enough to not harm her hair, and sliced off a piece for each mabari. "Here. Hey, hey- gentle... good boy." Repeat for Barkspawn.

Before she knew it, the slender dwarf girl had two enormous mabari on top of her, licking her and nosing at her while she sputtered and protested.

Cousland laughs. She can't help it. She's battleweary and frightened, and the big wardogs are acting like wonderful, eager little puppies. She laughs, a true honest laugh, and it's a sound that hasn't been heard in months. Certainly, Hafter is overjoyed to hear it, and immediately leaps off Brosca to launch himself at his mistress, giving her a sloppy lick.

"Ew, thank you, pup," she says in mock-disapproval. "Don't smother the warden, it's impolite."

Impolite it might have been, but it's a moment of niceness. She wonders how old Brosca is: no older than her self, she's sure.

For the record, Brosca is younger than Cousland. She's younger than everyone in the party, and frequently wonders why the hell she's leading a bunch of grown-ass adults older than her. Forgetting, as always, that she is also technically a grown-ass adult.

Right now, she doesn't feel like it. Barkspawn is on top of her, licking at her tattoos as if he could lick them off, and his breath smells like blood and apples. She roughs his ears, scratching at his head almost aggressively, just the way he likes it. Eventually she does have to get up (hoisting herself up on Barkspawn's collar) and return to the conversation at hand.

"So I guess I should ask you if you've seen any knights of Redcliffe around."

A mabari loving you is a mark of character. It doesn't mean you are a good person, but it does mean you're a person with a strength of character and a degree of loyalty. It's a mark. So it is interesting to see this dwarf (and not a Surfacer, judging from her accent) be so loved by her hound. Interesting and telling.

Cousland is going to remember it.

Then Brosca speaks again, and Cousland refocuses. Refocuses in puzzlement, it should be said, but her blue eyes are intent again as she looks at her.

"Redcliffe? I don't, no, wait." She thinks, thinks hard, but the memory is a wisp too fragile to withstand her tiredness. "I'm not sure. I might have a report somewhere, but not on hand.

Why do you ask?"

Zora's heard vaguely about how surfacers are with their dogs, but aside from complaining about how much Ferelden smells like dog, and making occasional jokes with Lel and Zev about Fereldens, she hasn't thought too hard about it. Which is why she doesn't notice Clarimond watching her, nor think twice about having this silly moment with Barkspawn.

Only half of her attention is on the conversation, the other on Barkspawn's left ear. "They're looking for a magic vase."

"-Sacred Urn," Alistair interrupts, looking pained.

There's a lot to take in. Not so much in the bare words, but in all of the meanings and implications behind them. Redcliffe, with Arl Eamon and Arlessa Isolde: one sensible man, one devoutly religious woman. She does not know them particularly, well, personally, but she knows of them.

A magic vase makes no sense. Magic? And the Arlessa? She knows that Redcliffe has gone quiet, but she's had her hands full here and the north and Redcliffe has been just a mental note in her mind to keep track off as part of the general situation. Magic case doesn't play into that.

Then Alistair interrupts. Clarifies. And it all makes even less sense.

Clarimond doesn't know where to begin asking questions, or how to process the casual, unthinking blasphemy of magic vase so she just stares, gawping slightly.

"Maker's breath, what are they doing that for?"

"The Arl's sick," Zora answers. Yes, she's aware that there was some blasphemy she just committed, but isn't really aware of the extent, nor does she give a shit. The actual task at hand is far more important. "Poisoned by an agent of Loghain."

Her mouth draws into a line. Damn, when she thinks about how far his influence has spread, it makes her want to punch his stupid face in. "Stupid sod's got his fingers in shit pies all over Ferelden."

She laughs at that. It's a cynical bark of a sound, and one followed up by a smirk that's just as cynical, just as bitter. Her sense of humour's grown dark since That Night when Howe's men murdered her family and her household and honestly, neither the Lady Isolde nor young Connor, nor any of Redcliffe's vassals are around to be offended.

"Hah! How dreadfully Orlesian of the man."

Well. She finds it funny, anyway. Her parents are probably disappointed at her but they aren't here. They are by the Maker's side, and their problems are over.

"Aye, he does. It's been interesting pulling them out up here. You'll also want to keep out an eye for people wearing Howe's colours. He's tried to claim my family's teynir, and he's taken the arldom of Denerim as well. You'd wonder how he has time to rule them all, busy as he is with his tongue up Loghain's arse."

"Oh, I'm sure he had to turn around and offer up his own ass instead," Zora shoots back easily. Now it's time to break out the flask- a special treat, surely, that she doesn't break out for just anyone.

She uncaps it with her teeth and spits out the cork somewhere she knows Zev will find it, uncaring of her bad manners in front of fancy-ass nobles. Then she knocks back a swig, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and offers it up to Cousland.

"That way, he's got both his hands free."

Once, she'd had have been shocked. This behaviour and this talk was for the barracks and training yard, not a meeting. Certainly, she shouldn't be indulging herself. She was too young, the youngest daughter of a respected, cultured pair of war heroes. But things change, and she's grown adapt at fitting in more with the rougher life and the rougher people she's around. No one would mistake her for anything other than a noble, and she's not hiding it. But she can make crass jokes and filthy insults when the situation warrants it.

For the people who have thrown the country into bloody chaos? Yeah, she's going to be crass about them.

And, yes, she's going to accept the flask with a sharp grin, lift it up in a little toast, and knock back a swig of her own.

She's gotten used to harder liquor, too.

"So," Cousland says, licking the alcohol from her lips with quick little darts of her tongue, "Isolde's sent out a search for an item that may, or may not, exist. And if it does, is probably hidden at the bottom of some forgotten ruin?"

She thinks of all the other uses for trained, loyal knights, and takes another swig of Brosca's flask before handing it back.

"That's about the size of it." Zora takes the flask back and pretends not to notice that Zevran has started to pour out some of his brandy- not the good stuff, mind, but the cheap shit they were able to buy off traders on the road, or steal from camps they passed.

"Thing is?" Brosca pauses for effect, gesturing vaguely with the flask to ensure she has the room's full attention. "It's not even the most fucked-up thing about Redcliffe lately. Doesn't break the top five."

Behind her, Alistair coughs and clears his throat conspicuously. An obvious but silent shut up, Zora.

Cousland ignores Alistair. He isn't the one who potential information, exaggerated or otherwise, from the arling of one of the (formerly, anyway) most powerful men in the country. She doesn't, however, ignore Zevran and his own bottle of drink. To him, she winks.

She can be, on occasion, shameless.

"Doesn't break the top five," Cousland repeats. "All right, do tell. You can't leave me hanging like that."

Brosca can, obviously, and she's careful to make her tone light enough to hopefully convey that she's not trying to order or threaten the girl. But still.

Gossip is gossip.

Zora considers the balance of Alistair's excellent point about shutting up versus what she could get from this new ally, with the unbridled fun of gossiping.

Okay.

She can do this. She can do this without accidentally bringing shitty Chantry wrath down on the Arl of Redcliffe. Right?

"Okay, so, let's just say," she began carefully, with uncharacteristic caution. "That Loghain's choice of assassins is a bit, um- bloody. Redcliffe has become a much more... magical place."

Subtle.

Edited 2018-05-07 12:02 (UTC)

Open post!

gratuitous dog tag

dogs are never gratuitous. this is ferelden!

she's going native

join us, zora, we have puppies

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