Fern has found ways to keep herself busy since the senior Grey Warden rejected her appeal to join their ranks, but some days are harder than others. This is one of the harder days--not helped by the fact that Rooster, on his morning walk, felt compelled to stop in the middle of a bloody downpour and would not be budged until Fern got her boots muddy to chase away a nearby nug.
(Yes, a nug. On the list of things Rooster is not afraid of: a Templar in full plate armour. What he is scared of: errant leaves, and small nugs. Glad we got this squared away.)
The rain has at least passed the city by when Fern finally returns to Kirkwall, but the thought of going back to the Gallows just fills her up with more misery. The last thing she wants right now is to bump into one of the many do-gooders in her life who have decided that their new mission in life is to treat her like a child in need of coddling. Instead she finds herself wandering thoughtfully into the Chantry forest again, arms folded over her chest to ward off the chill.
There's an oilskin tarp set up in the center of the forest, under which sits Sina, a heavy blanket over her shoulders and another beneath her to protect from the wet grass. She's humming quietly, bent over a flat stone, on which she appears to be drawing with a thin brush. A little pot of something ink-like sits beside her.
Inquisitive as a little cat, Fern follows the little foot path through the foliage and into the clearing, making enough small noises as she goes so that her arrival won't spook Sina. She self-consciously puts some of her damp hair behind her ears; at least she doesn't look quite as water-logged as she did while on the road.
"Am I interrupting?" she asks her with a little smile, and looks towards the stone beneath the tarp.
Sina is glad for the sounds, not that she has much to fear from a forest, especially one devoid of wild carnivores that she couldn't fight. She looks up with a smile when Fern greets her, pausing her work. "No," she assures her, "you can sit with me if you like."
"...okay," Fern replies, smiling, and pads over to duck beneath the cover offered by the oilskin, settling down beside Sina. She tries not to crowd her, but is nevertheless quite curious about the painted stone in front of her.
"I'm marking where the three of us knelt when we grew the forest," Sina answers amiably, finishing off this first stone with a final sweep of the brush. Rather than using paint, she's staining it, hoping to preserve the design as long as possible. Surrounded by a rough but careful border of flowers on a vine, it reads:
It's not so different a process from the one Fern's parents used when staining the wooden furniture for their modest little farmstead, though the material is obviously not the same at all. At Sina's words, Fern leans in a little closer to regard her work, drawn in at first by the border vines before considering the words.
Something about them grabs her and holds fast, like the cobwebs of dream stuff still lingering, but when she tries to understand it, it's gone. Her letters aren't that great anyway. "What does it say?" she asks Sina, turning to look at her in profile; pretty, and so wise, it's difficult not to feel a stab of inadequacy beside her.
"It's a song," Sina explains, blowing lightly on it to help the stain dry, "it says..." She has to think for a moment, translating the words in her head. She speaks Trade well enough, and nobody really speaks elvhen fluently, but she grew up with a mishmash of the two and she still has to work to separate them at times. "On and on, each day is done," she recites, her voice quiet and self-conscious as she picks out the melody, "on and on, triumphant as each night is won."
For a few moments after the melody is concluded, Fern just sits quietly next to Sina under the oilskin tarp, smiling a little. She turns her eyes away from her to the stone again, chewing on her lower lip. "...it's beautiful," she says a little timidly; easier to say those words if she's not looking at Sina. She reaches up a hand to self consciously thread a little hair behind her ear.
The melancholy that follows isn't expected, and she doesn't quite know what to do with it. "I never knew about any of... this," she admits after a few seconds, gesturing to the rock, then around them at the forest. "My parents didn't know any of it, I didn't know this kind of magic was even possible."
The compliment elicits a giggle of embarrassment from Sina, and she shakes her head, blushing a little deeper. "I'm hardly the best singer," she admits, "but thank you." When Fern gestures around at the forest, Sina turns her head to look at her, expression fond and curious. "If you were born Dalish, you'd be a First," she says softly, "apprentice to the Keeper, who leads and protects her clan. There are special magics that come with the role, but none that couldn't be learned by anyone willing." Though she smiles, there's something sad about it. "I don't know that I'd be the best teacher, but I can show you a few things. It is your birthright."
Fern looks visibly startled by that, blinking wide-eyed back at Sina for a few seconds. Her birthright? the only thing she's ever assumed would be hers at some stage is responsibility for her parents' share of the work on the sheep farm--and tending to Rooster, of course, mules live for an age. It's hard for her to imagine a life that might have been, growing up among the Dalish, learning her magic from a Keeper. Her aunt taught her what she knew, but Lorna had never received training anywhere except from trial and error on her own.
"...would you really?" she asks uncertainly, not wanting to sound too eager, but unable to hide it, either. "Teach me Keeper magic, I mean. I know--I know I'm not a Dalish elf," this added with downcast eyes, and she fidgets her fingers together, "I don't really know anything about the Dalish at all."
Sina smiles patiently through Fern's startled look, broadening it as she answers. "I can teach you what I know," she replies, "if you're willing to pledge its use to the legacy of the People." A moment's pause, and she looks down, trailing her thumb along the lettering. "I ask that you first learn of the Creators, of our values and priorities. You aren't Dalish, but you could be, if you try." Though her words are serious, her eyes are calm and welcoming. "To learn Keeper magic, you must become a Keeper. Called thus because she keeps our traditions and history alive, and passes them to future generations. This is a mage's role, in a clan."
Sina may as well be speaking a foreign language, for all that Fern is able to really, truthfully understand the full import of what she's saying. In her mind, she still has only the barest understanding of what a clan really is, or who the Creators are--and growing up, she knew only that the Dalish looked down on elves like her for being city born... or at the very least, born amongst humans, and reared in their culture. Sina doesn't seem like that at all to Fern.
"I'd like to try," she ventures, biting her lower lip.
Silly Fern! She's not speaking a foreign language yet. "You should speak to some of the other Dalish in Kirkwall," Sina continue, "my clansister, Nahariel, is a master of storytelling. Her vallaslin is June's--" Realizing Fern won't know what that means, Sina takes the end of her brush and draws an oval in the dirt, quickly picking out the pattern of Nari's facial tattoos. "--the master of craft. He is brother to Sylaise," she draws a second diagram, "keeper of hearth and home. Beleth, the scoutmaster who hails from clan Ashara, wears hers; and her twin brother-- Beleth's-- Sorrel, my bond-partner, has Dirthamen, keeper of secrets. Pel has gone outclan," Sina continues, drawing a third and fourth diagram, "but still loves the People in her own way. Her vallaslin is Mythal's, the great protector. Ellana has the same, but a smaller version." Another diagram drawn. "Pel is also very pale and white of hair, hard to miss. You should meet her." Sina grins, clearly getting excited. "Sorrel hasn't been here long, so he might be skittish, but he's really a good person." Exhaling, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "...it's a lot, I know, but really anyone out and about who has the blood writing will be happy to talk to you. And it really is worth it to hear Nari's stories."
She's listening in wide-eyed, rapt attention to these descriptions as they are given to her, doing her very best to make sure that she keeps all of these names and tattoos connected in her head--who are we kidding, of course she's going to forget everything. But she's trying to remember, because she can tell that this is so important to Sina, who is describing the members of her clan--or her friends, maybe--with such affectionate detail. Fern has begun to smile again, in fact, though the expression hitches at that word: bond-partner.
"..is a bond-partner like a husband?" Immediately she feels beyond foolish for voicing that question, out of all the other questions she could be asking, and can't for the life of her sort out why she's so bothered by the idea. She fidgets her fingers together and looks at the diagrams in the dirt to give herself something other than Sina's (far too pretty) face to look at.
If nothing else, Fern will at least know to look for people with pointed ears and tattooed faces, which is all Sina really hopes to get out of this. When Fern's expression changes, hers does too, her own smile dwindling in uncertainty. She knows that look; something about it stabs at her, not unlike how it did when she was in Fern's place. Or could that be? Perhaps she's too full of herself. Suddenly blushing, Sina seems to withdraw slightly, tucking a strand of hair over her ear. "Yes, I think that's the shem'len equivalent," she answers quietly, still smiling, but with less confidence now. "He's the First of Clan Ashara. Dahlasanor is very small, and we united the clans by bonding."
She isn't old enough, or experienced enough, to mask her candid reaction to this revelation; confusion and sadness mingle together in her downcast eyes, the little furrow between her eyebrows, the line she's pinched her lips into. There's embarrassment there, too, bringing another flush of pink to her cheeks, and she self-consciously tugs her fingers through the ends of her damp hair to give herself something to do with them.
The silence has grown long and unmistakeable awkward. Fern darts a glance at Sina's face. "...sorry." Then, a sheepish moment later, a bit of nervous laughter and, "...I don't know why I said that."
Feeling a lurch in her chest, Sina averts her own gaze. She's been around long enough now to somewhat understand what this feeling is, but of course, feeling it reciprocated now... it's too late. Sedi and Nymii could bond and no one would bat an eye, but Sina has responsibilities, to her clan and now Ashara. "It's all right," she says after a moment, forcing a smile, but doesn't know how to proceed.
That makes two of them. It doesn't help that, in the intervening moments, dark clouds have rolled in again and, with a gentle rumble of thunder, begun to trickle rain across the Chantry forest again. Fern just sits quietly next to Sina for maybe another minute, still fiddling with the damp ends of her hair.
"...um," she says gracelessly into the silence, chewing at the corner of her lower lip. She steals another glance at Sina, but this time resists the impulse to drop her eyes again. "Should I, um--should I go?"
Sina looks down at the dirt and sighs when the first raindrops hit it: soon all her diagrams will be mud. At least the stain should hold, as long as she keeps the stone dry. Looking up when Fern makes a sound, Sina meets her eyes briefly, then tentatively touches her hand. She gives it the smallest of squeezes, then withdraws her own with a shake of her head. "I should," she decides, "I've got deliveries to make." Another quick glance at Fern, then she quickly collects her things and stands. The stone remains, the tarp protecting it.
Fern stills her fingers in her hair when Sina touches her hand, staring back at her with very blue, very wide eyes for just a moment. But then Sina is already gathering her her things up and getting to her feet, and Fern watches her do so in dumb silence, too startled to speak at first.
Then she gets to her feet too and says earnestly, "Thank you," with a gesture to the diagrams that the rain is already beginning to wash away. She tries to smile again. "For sharing all of this with me. It means--" A pause while she tries to find the right words, can't, gives up, and just finishes with, "..just--thank you, is all."
Sina pauses, a little startled herself. Then she smiles back, a look that's genuine if brief, before she turns away again. Hopefully Fern will take her advice. ..perhaps she'll see her again.
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the Chantry forest - a week or so before the voyage
(Yes, a nug. On the list of things Rooster is not afraid of: a Templar in full plate armour. What he is scared of: errant leaves, and small nugs. Glad we got this squared away.)
The rain has at least passed the city by when Fern finally returns to Kirkwall, but the thought of going back to the Gallows just fills her up with more misery. The last thing she wants right now is to bump into one of the many do-gooders in her life who have decided that their new mission in life is to treat her like a child in need of coddling. Instead she finds herself wandering thoughtfully into the Chantry forest again, arms folded over her chest to ward off the chill.
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"Am I interrupting?" she asks her with a little smile, and looks towards the stone beneath the tarp.
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"No," she assures her, "you can sit with me if you like."
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"What are you working on?"
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Surrounded by a rough but careful border of flowers on a vine, it reads:
uthathe, ga'sa'vunin halam
uthathe, ga'era'vun ena'sal'in
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Something about them grabs her and holds fast, like the cobwebs of dream stuff still lingering, but when she tries to understand it, it's gone. Her letters aren't that great anyway. "What does it say?" she asks Sina, turning to look at her in profile; pretty, and so wise, it's difficult not to feel a stab of inadequacy beside her.
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"On and on, each day is done," she recites, her voice quiet and self-conscious as she picks out the melody, "on and on, triumphant as each night is won."
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The melancholy that follows isn't expected, and she doesn't quite know what to do with it. "I never knew about any of... this," she admits after a few seconds, gesturing to the rock, then around them at the forest. "My parents didn't know any of it, I didn't know this kind of magic was even possible."
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When Fern gestures around at the forest, Sina turns her head to look at her, expression fond and curious. "If you were born Dalish, you'd be a First," she says softly, "apprentice to the Keeper, who leads and protects her clan. There are special magics that come with the role, but none that couldn't be learned by anyone willing." Though she smiles, there's something sad about it. "I don't know that I'd be the best teacher, but I can show you a few things. It is your birthright."
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Fern looks visibly startled by that, blinking wide-eyed back at Sina for a few seconds. Her birthright? the only thing she's ever assumed would be hers at some stage is responsibility for her parents' share of the work on the sheep farm--and tending to Rooster, of course, mules live for an age. It's hard for her to imagine a life that might have been, growing up among the Dalish, learning her magic from a Keeper. Her aunt taught her what she knew, but Lorna had never received training anywhere except from trial and error on her own.
"...would you really?" she asks uncertainly, not wanting to sound too eager, but unable to hide it, either. "Teach me Keeper magic, I mean. I know--I know I'm not a Dalish elf," this added with downcast eyes, and she fidgets her fingers together, "I don't really know anything about the Dalish at all."
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Sina may as well be speaking a foreign language, for all that Fern is able to really, truthfully understand the full import of what she's saying. In her mind, she still has only the barest understanding of what a clan really is, or who the Creators are--and growing up, she knew only that the Dalish looked down on elves like her for being city born... or at the very least, born amongst humans, and reared in their culture. Sina doesn't seem like that at all to Fern.
"I'd like to try," she ventures, biting her lower lip.
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"You should speak to some of the other Dalish in Kirkwall," Sina continue, "my clansister, Nahariel, is a master of storytelling. Her vallaslin is June's--" Realizing Fern won't know what that means, Sina takes the end of her brush and draws an oval in the dirt, quickly picking out the pattern of Nari's facial tattoos. "--the master of craft. He is brother to Sylaise," she draws a second diagram, "keeper of hearth and home. Beleth, the scoutmaster who hails from clan Ashara, wears hers; and her twin brother-- Beleth's-- Sorrel, my bond-partner, has Dirthamen, keeper of secrets. Pel has gone outclan," Sina continues, drawing a third and fourth diagram, "but still loves the People in her own way. Her vallaslin is Mythal's, the great protector.
Ellana has the same, but a smaller version." Another diagram drawn.
"Pel is also very pale and white of hair, hard to miss. You should meet her." Sina grins, clearly getting excited. "Sorrel hasn't been here long, so he might be skittish, but he's really a good person." Exhaling, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "...it's a lot, I know, but really anyone out and about who has the blood writing will be happy to talk to you. And it really is worth it to hear Nari's stories."
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"..is a bond-partner like a husband?" Immediately she feels beyond foolish for voicing that question, out of all the other questions she could be asking, and can't for the life of her sort out why she's so bothered by the idea. She fidgets her fingers together and looks at the diagrams in the dirt to give herself something other than Sina's (far too pretty) face to look at.
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Suddenly blushing, Sina seems to withdraw slightly, tucking a strand of hair over her ear. "Yes, I think that's the shem'len equivalent," she answers quietly, still smiling, but with less confidence now. "He's the First of Clan Ashara. Dahlasanor is very small, and we united the clans by bonding."
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She isn't old enough, or experienced enough, to mask her candid reaction to this revelation; confusion and sadness mingle together in her downcast eyes, the little furrow between her eyebrows, the line she's pinched her lips into. There's embarrassment there, too, bringing another flush of pink to her cheeks, and she self-consciously tugs her fingers through the ends of her damp hair to give herself something to do with them.
The silence has grown long and unmistakeable awkward. Fern darts a glance at Sina's face. "...sorry." Then, a sheepish moment later, a bit of nervous laughter and, "...I don't know why I said that."
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Sedi and Nymii could bond and no one would bat an eye, but Sina has responsibilities, to her clan and now Ashara.
"It's all right," she says after a moment, forcing a smile, but doesn't know how to proceed.
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"...um," she says gracelessly into the silence, chewing at the corner of her lower lip. She steals another glance at Sina, but this time resists the impulse to drop her eyes again. "Should I, um--should I go?"
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Looking up when Fern makes a sound, Sina meets her eyes briefly, then tentatively touches her hand. She gives it the smallest of squeezes, then withdraws her own with a shake of her head. "I should," she decides, "I've got deliveries to make." Another quick glance at Fern, then she quickly collects her things and stands. The stone remains, the tarp protecting it.
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Then she gets to her feet too and says earnestly, "Thank you," with a gesture to the diagrams that the rain is already beginning to wash away. She tries to smile again. "For sharing all of this with me. It means--" A pause while she tries to find the right words, can't, gives up, and just finishes with, "..just--thank you, is all."
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..perhaps she'll see her again.