eolasemah | [closed] you cannot have me, I own myself

[closed] you cannot have me, I own myself

WHO: Sina, Nari, Beleth, Korrin, Araceli, Thranduil, others as specified in Notes
WHAT: The bonding ceremony of the Firsts of Clans Dahlasanor and Ashara (Siuona and Sorrellean, respectively)
WHEN: mid-Bloomingtide
WHERE: the Planasene Forest
NOTES: Usually only Dalish would be allowed, but amnesty is being granted to close, trusted friends of the bride, including outclan Ashara and Sabrae, should they choose to accept it. Upon the insistence of Clan Dahlasanor, unaffiliated city elves will also be welcomed as long as they aren't disruptive. (OOC note: if you're unsure and your dude wants to go, PM me)

The day starts out rainy and grey, never a promising sight for an outdoor ceremony. But the Dalish do most things outside, and everyone will likely be too busy partying to care about it after the bonding ritual itself, so the festivities are set to begin right on schedule.

A clearing has been chosen by Keeper Thalia of Clan Dahlasanor, and the words are to be spoken right at the edge of the forest, under the shelter of trees but still fully incorporating the flowers of the field. This is a place of some significance to Sina's clan, a symbol of their flight from the plains to the forest, and of their new, strengthening relationship to Clan Ashara.

The clearing and surrounding forest are otherwise littered with aravels and tents, a gathering of clans
one of which eagerly anticipates their joining. Keeper Thalia, an active participant in preparations,
has made it clear that she will be officiating the ceremony alongside Deheune; Dahlasanor is being welcomed, not absorbed.

Sina has been quietly nervous for the entirety of the journey from Kirkwall, but as is her tendency, she comports herself with poise and says little on the upcoming nuptials. She's not unhappy. It's her duty, she's proud to do it, and more than anything she's intensely excited to see her clan again.

And let's be real, the party afterward is going to be a rager.

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[Help out! Say hi to your family! Get yelled at by Keepers! Stand around being nervous because you're surrounded by unfriendly elves with bows! Why is that blonde elf with half her face tattooed looking at you like she's about to eat you alive? Stay alive!]

(thank u mica)

The ceremony is an old one, as the Dalish count these things. It's mostly in elven, words repeated very nearly by rote, well-worn and fondly remembered by all those who have found lasting love, in Clan Ashara at least.

Let the Creators witness those who are gathered here today, in the light of love...

Storied as the tradition is, it is also simple. Sorrel and Sina stand, hands clasped, before a carefully tended fire, with the Keepers in attendance. Deheune places a hand, first on her son's shoulder, and then on Sina's, and smiles all through the traditional prayer. Thalia's smile is fierce and proud as she seals their joined hands with a rope intricately woven, made from white halla-hair, and anter-carved beads. The blessing is said, over this, the physical embodiment of their union, and the union of purpose between their clans. Each of the pair is asked, and confirms their own vow, their dedication to that which now binds them, more than mere corded fibers: the hopes and futures of their now-mutual clans.

...As in the past, now for our future, let us pass together down the long road. Let our legacy here be born, in solemn vows, joyfully undertaken...

Finally, the happy couple turns to the crowd, smiling, flush with pride. Sunset and firelight combine to light their faces golden, and give everything a soft, dreamlike air. Quiet rushes over the assembled clans like wind though grass. Here is the moment, the great climax, when the blessings and vows and prayers all punctuate themselves in action. The Dalish are a people of their gods, yes, but always first they are a people of actions weighed before words are believed. Together, hands still bound, Sorrel and Sina, each crowned in flowers and trailing petals, leap the bonfire and land among the raucous, wild cheering of the elven gathering. It is with that signal that the real party begins, to much backslapping and congratulations. Within a few minutes, someone will quietly cut the tie, so that the knot put there by the Keepers' blessing should never be untied, and the two young newlyweds will join the festivities, but for now... For now, they are among friends, hand-in-hand, and forever after in spirit, if not in body.

...And so The People live on.

[The post-bonding party for most clans lasts about two days and is absolutely nuts. It's elf Burning Man, complete with bare feet, things being smoked, and probably weird sex. Get your freak on, just don't piss off the Keepers. Or the hunters. Or the halla. Please do not get anyone pregnant. If you get pregnant that's your problem.]

[Feel free to do an open for your dude if none of these scenarios fits!]

It's only natural that Deheune is here, at the wedding of her son. She's no less imposing than she was the last time they visited, lobbing orders like a general in a battle, Ashara clan members scurrying about like soldiers at her direction. That doesn't take away from the fact that she's looking pleasantly satisfied by everything around her, the culmination of one of her finest achievements.

Despite her busying around the area, she's happy to stop and chat with anyone that approaches her. Even those she might not have preferred to appear at the bonding ceremony will be given some amount of polite pleasantries. This ceremony is not about her, but about the clans, and it wouldn't do to make a fuss over petty squabbles.

Beleth serves as a much more anxious version of her mother, passing out orders and moving around to check that everything is perfect. This is, after all, her brohter's big day, and Corypheus himself couldn't stop her from making sure that it was perfect. And speaking of her twin, Beleth takes frequent breaks to stop and talk to him, fixing his hair--even if she just fixed it a few moments ago--and straighten his clothes. Those breaks are never long enough, and it's with clear reluctance that she pulls away to resume her duties.

When she isn't directing, she's working right beside her fellow Dalish, setting up pews and adding decorations. Once again, it's obvious that Beleth is decently well-liked among her clan members, and any that she takes the time to aid are happy to pleasantly chat with her, and wish her well as she hurries off again.

Nevertheless, she'll stop and talk to anyone who wants to speak.

It is a truth universally accepted that Nymii had the nimblest fingers in Dahlasanor. Every year, around this time, Sedi would show up with her hair in intricate braids, sometimes with a little flower tucked in somewhere that the dour hunter pretended not to notice. It was therefore only a small surprise when the thief showed up with a bright smile, her hands full of several different flowering vines, their fragrance delicate and sweet. No doubt there was a trellis in Hightown somewhere that had been ...'trimmed'.

It was a genuine surprise when she offered them to Sina to choose from. No matter how anyone else asked or begged to have their hair put up for this or that, Nymii would only smile and shrug. As far as anyone knew, she'd not touched anyone else's hair--save Sedi's--since joining the clan.

"I like the white lilac," she said conversationally, as if this were a completely banal occurrence, "but it's your bonding ceremony, so--"

Cyril isn't as vibrant as usual today. He's here, dressed well in Dalish clothes, and appears happy when someone is near him, but he isn't trying to be the center of the party.

He wants to talk to Sorrel before the ceremony, but he had no idea if he'll be allowed access to the groom before then. Either way, he just wants to survive today, support his friend, and return to somewhere he feels he's accepted.

It's strange how being back among his Clan helps him realize how little he wants to be here.

Sina has taken up residence in a tent of her own, where she's being attended by way more women than she even knows the names of, and is finding her nervousness rising with the more of them that are in here washing and changing into their best clothes and putting their hands all over her. It would be nice, she can't help but think, to just sneak off with one of them, perhaps hold her tightly for a while, calm down--
but that's ridiculous, and she's jolted back into reality by Halesta arriving with a suspicious stick of charcoal, or one of the many Ashara attendants speaking to her, or Nymii popping in with designs on braiding her hair.

Everything will be better when this is over, but in the meantime, Sina maintains what stillness she can and lets herself be groomed and preened like a doll shared between a hundred girls.

Nymii's appearance is reassuring to Sina, both in that she's a much-respected slightly older member of the clan (not that everyone isn't older than Sina), but also because she and her partner are both terrifying and likely to clear out some of the madness in this tent. She supposes it's fortunate that Sedi is nowhere to be seen, but sometimes that actually bodes worse. She warned Araceli, didn't she? ...she will.

"White lilac is fine," she agrees with a shaky smile, "whatever you think best, lethallan." Sina may be the First, but having a healthy respect for the blonde hunters is just basic survival.

The shaky smile is returned with a bright sure one, Nymii letting the other selections carelessly fall to the ground as her bright blue eyes dance calculatingly over the young First's head. Deft fingers comb through the length of her hair to both settle it down and test its texture, gently pulling at sections to test how their slight wave responds. After a few long moments she'll nod, and hold out the remaining flowers for Sina to hold.

A small bottle is produced from somewhere, the fragrant oil it contains applied sparingly to the ends of her hair, then patiently brushed through with a very elegant and decidedly not-Dalish brush. It adds a soft shine to the First's hair, a rich dimension that had slowly faded as the stress and illness brought by the shard stretched on.

Nymii smiled like a cat as she worked. She reclaimed the lilac from its keeper and replaced the brush with her fingers again, their practiced sectioning, twisting, smoothing, weaving motions hypnotic enough to lull some of the stress Sina was under. It also helped that interruptions and fussing became quickly sparse as the blonde hunter extended her vaguely threatening 'go away' aura to encompass the both of them. Although Nymii was usually the chattier of the blonde dyad, she was quiet now; but brief but purposeful touches conveyed her sympathies. She--perhaps of all those Dalish gathered--with her time in the city, knew what it was to be with a man of necessity or duty rather than love or even the barest attraction.

She was glad Sorrel was a good man. Her brief rummaging through the belongings he'd chosen to bring, the snippets of conversation she'd eavesdropped on, had been proof enough of that. Even devoted Nahariel wouldn't do what Nymii would do if he hadn't been. And moreover, it seemed he was in the same position. The best match that could be hoped for, given the circumstances.

After a good candlemark of work, the fingers gave their final pat, and it was done. She held up two hand mirrors at careful angles so that its wearer could see. The whole thing was held together securely by flower, stem, and a lovely pearl-topped pin; the latter safely placed so that its wickedly sharp tip wouldn't be a danger to anyone unless its bearer wished it.

"It's not Dalish, but in the alienage I'd always stick a pin in. In case someone thought they'd act in a way that wasn't ...appreciated. What they do with their 'pin' is their choice, what you do with yours--" She gently guided Sina's hand to test it, so she could feel where it was. "--is yours. Always."

Another smile, genuine and bright, as if she hadn't just suggested stabbing someone, and Nymii was gone.

Unsure of her place here exactly, Araceli is all the more aware of how many eyes there are at any one time following her movements but even if she hasn't been invited, her presence here has been allowed, so that surely extends to seeing Sina. It's habit that has her slipping back into her mother tongue rather than common because this reminds her too much of casing estates in Castileos, wondering if the guards would turn, if one would call the rest and draw a pistol.

The results here might be far worse and she's not going to know when she's being insulted or spoken about, her grasp of elven is sadly limited.

"Lo siento," she murmurs softly enough that Sina can choose to ignore her if she wants to or send her out because Araceli isn't entirely sure about Dalish wedding etiquette here. "I didn't know if I would have a chance to see you again before you were a married woman, so I wanted to try. If I'm not intruding."

Aside from the bride-to-be, the other person actually involved in proceedings that Araceli actually knows is Beleth. She can't avoid anyone's gaze here since she's a human but she knows better than to point out that she's a rifter either since that isn't going to make her look better in anyone's eyes. There's an itch beneath her skin that isn't entirely from being watched however, so she goes to Beleth since they know each other.

They're both bards too. They can smile and laugh even with sweaty palms for entirely separate reasons.

"Beleth," a pause as she reminds herself that she has to remember to speak the common tongue again, "is there anything I can do to lend a hand that won't be seen as rude or out of place? I have no desire to offend, I knwo that some customs belong entirely to a people alone."

Sorrel is not, by nature, a nervous person. But then, in most cases, he wouldn't be facing so important a moment, and in front of not just his mother, but his entire clan-- Two clans.

Two clans! And visitors! And everyone will be watching him as he inevitably does something foolish and--

Is it hot in here? If it weren't for the day, and his place in it, Sorrel would try and find the time to go walking, find somewhere cool and shaded and lonesome to think. But there's no time for that, and the ties on his fancy wedding-robe are hard to do with shaking hands.

"Just breathe, it's going to be fine," Sorrel told himself, then laughed at his own nerves. No, nothing was going to go wrong; for once, the precision and force of his Mother's will were working for Sorrel, rather than against him, "You can do this."

He hopes. Maybe you have some insight on the matter?

"Cyril."

It ought to have come with an exclamation point, really. Sorrel's that happy to see him, like an unlooked-for gift, pleasant surprise. It's not the Sorrel didn't think Cyril would come, of course, it's only that he's been so occupied with so much else that the thought had been pushed to the back.

"It's so good to see you here," And he smiles, only remembering at the last minute not to put his hand through his hair. It's done up nicely, for this, slicked back and soon to receive its floral crown-- be a shame to ruin it, only for nerves, "I, uh-- Creators, this is all so..."

He trails off, grinning, not quite able to find the right words. Terrifying? Exciting? Strange? Wonderful? Something like those things, at least.

"How are you, Cyril?"

"Bel, Bel-- stop it's fine," Sorrel is protesting this treatment, despite the fact that he's the one who asked her, more fool he, if his appearance was, in fact, fine, "Breathe, alright?"

He catches her wrists, gives her the example of his own breath, and tries a smile. Here now, twin. Relax, just for a moment with me.

"I swear, you're more nervous than I am. And I'm about to retch," Without asking, Sorrel pulls her into a hug. It probably ruins some small, vital, totally unnoticeable detail about the way his robes are setting over his shoulders, not the Sorrel much cares, "S'gonna be okay."

Cyril looks over at Sorrel and for a moment he can't breathe. After that passes, though, he moves a little closer and offers his hand to give Sorrel something to hold onto while he can't run his hands through his hair.

"I'm well," he says. There is a lot of sadness in his heart being back among the people who raised him and grew up with him with the knowledge that he might never see them again. He doesn't let even an ounce of that show, though. His face is pleasant, welcoming, and pleased for the festivity.

"More importantly, how are you?"

"Nervous. Everyone's going to be watching. I'm mostly alright, but then some stupid thing will come into my head. What if I trip and fall into the fire?"

Well, Cyril? What if he does? Then he'll be on fire and the whole thing will be ruined and his mother will probably just kill him out of pure disgrace. Sorrel reaches out for Cyril's hand, grateful for the distraction. It's clear he's been stripped of his usual self-soothing methods, for the sake of appearances.

"Thanks. Beleth keeps having to fix me back up. I'm a mess."

"If you do that, Beleth will scoop you out before much damage is done and everyone attending will have a story to tell that will make your marriage on of history." He squeezed Sorrel's hand lightly. "Even more so than being the union between two clans."

"Oh good, well. Now I'm going to feel bad for just throwing up on someone."

Hopefully not the Keeper. Either of them. Or Beleth. Oh Creators, or Sina. Cyril's squeeze is well-timed, pulling Sorrel out of his panicked spiral. Right. Right.

Shit, what to say?

"I'm really glad you could come, Cyril. I don't have a lot of friends, and I know we haven't really spoken in so long, but-- but even if the Keeper's cold about it, you are missed, around here. Not just by me, either. It wouldn't be the whole clan without you here."

A small frown does reach Cyril's lips at the talk of him being missed. He doesn't want to dwell on that though, instead he wants to focus on Sorrel. He steps a little closer.

"Write to me," he says. "Tell me things about what it's like to be a married man. Keep me updated on your life." He offers Sorrel a small, reassuring smile and then grows serious again.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to return to the Clan again after this."

"I will," Sorrel promises, answering smile gone soft and a little silly. Although there was much unknown about the future, that part he was looking forward to, "Though Idon't know if it'll be so different, at first. The Keepers need me here, for at least a while, and I know Sina's still obligated to the Inquisition."

And then Cyril sobers, and Sorrel's smile falls away, concerned. Not able to return?

"Why? Is it-- that thing with the-- your people?" Boyfriend doesn't seem the right word, when there's two of them. Husbands? No, that's not right. Even Cyril wouldn't run off and get some kind of clandestine three-way marriage vows taken, not without telling someone. Telling Sorrel. Or Beleth? Sorrel feels suddenly that the distance between them isn't just time or distance anymore, but something darker, and harder to cross.

"What's going on, Cyril? I know--" Here a subtle glance. No, they're alone, "The Keeper's a pain, but she won't be Keeper forever, and she's not the only one in charge, anymore."

Edited 2017-05-10 02:57 (UTC)

Cyril makes a soft, amused sound at calling Taas and Sam 'his people.' He isn't sure he can fully explain all of the issues that being here has raised in him, so he just sort of shakes his head a bit.

He sighs softly. "When you are Keeper, then, maybe I'll come back." He promises. "But you need to focus on the present. Your marriage." Then, after a moment. "Is this what you want, isn't it?" he asks, watching Sorrel carefully.

[Nahariel, eager to blame the tears in her eyes on something besides emotion, and attempting to give Sina space with her new bondmate, found her way into the stash of moonshine the Dahlasanor hunters had brought along, and is now ebulliently challenging anyone who looks at her to an arm wrestling contest. She doesn't seem to mind all that much whether she wins or loses.

And she's more than willing to share that moonshine.]

"Nerves are good," remarked an unfamiliar voice from behind him. Its owner--a blonde Dahlasanor elf that shared his vallaslin in thin, black, hollow lines--took over the task of tying the robe with hands as deft and steady as Sorrel's had been shaky. Her lips curved in a bright, welcoming smile that didn't reach the ice in her calculating blue eyes; it looked more like a bow being drawn than any actual reassurance.

"They mean you care about what caused them."

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Page 1 of 5

[closed] you cannot have me, I own myself

PREPARATION

CEREMONY

PARTY

MISC TOPLEVELS

get yelled at by a keeper!!

Beleth

get fancy 2

Cyril

help the bride!

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Deal with the Groom!

Before the Ceremony

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RASSLE - OTA

no-one expects the lesbian inquisition