The mage frowns. I thought Halamshiral didn't have an alienage.
They say they don't. She spits. Might as well. Humans get the High Quarter and we get the rest. You can't even go up there if you're elf-blooded, let alone elven.
Alistair's head snaps up before he's aware of it.
Anyway, the woman goes on -- neither seem to have noticed his reaction, thank the Maker -- I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear I got sick of it. Val Royeaux's even worse. So here I am. How about you?
The mage shrugs, starts to relay the same story Alistair heard a thousand times in the Wardens, of hedge mages seeking protection, choosing any path they could find that wouldn't end with the Chantry caging them. Alistair draws breath, lets it out slowly, and returns to work.
What about you?
...Maybe they did notice his reaction. Alistair glances up, warily. Hm?
You're a Warden, right? How'd you end up here? I thought all the Wardens were...somewhere not here, the mage finishes lamely.
Carefully, Alistair sheathes his knife. For a long, silent moment, he regards the man -- a boy, really, not much older than their Orlesian friend still cursing at the fire to catch already, Maker damn you. The look goes on long enough that the mage starts fidgeting.
And Alistair tells him. About Warden-Commander Clarel; about his own research into Corypheus; about Hawke, and the battle at Adamant, and deciding upon his return that he couldn't serve Weisshaupt any longer. He keeps it succinct, and conveniently glosses over every single detail about his little two-month jaunt to the Fade, but it's still enough that the mage looks a little pale around the edges when he's done.
In a further stroke of convenience, that's when the captain calls the mage over for his own bit of fire-starting practice. (Also sans magic, just to expand his skill set.)
Not so much the funny one any longer as the scary one, thinks Alistair wearily, and unsheathes his knife again.
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They say they don't. She spits. Might as well. Humans get the High Quarter and we get the rest. You can't even go up there if you're elf-blooded, let alone elven.
Alistair's head snaps up before he's aware of it.
Anyway, the woman goes on -- neither seem to have noticed his reaction, thank the Maker -- I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear I got sick of it. Val Royeaux's even worse. So here I am. How about you?
The mage shrugs, starts to relay the same story Alistair heard a thousand times in the Wardens, of hedge mages seeking protection, choosing any path they could find that wouldn't end with the Chantry caging them. Alistair draws breath, lets it out slowly, and returns to work.
What about you?
...Maybe they did notice his reaction. Alistair glances up, warily. Hm?
You're a Warden, right? How'd you end up here? I thought all the Wardens were...somewhere not here, the mage finishes lamely.
Carefully, Alistair sheathes his knife. For a long, silent moment, he regards the man -- a boy, really, not much older than their Orlesian friend still cursing at the fire to catch already, Maker damn you. The look goes on long enough that the mage starts fidgeting.
And Alistair tells him. About Warden-Commander Clarel; about his own research into Corypheus; about Hawke, and the battle at Adamant, and deciding upon his return that he couldn't serve Weisshaupt any longer. He keeps it succinct, and conveniently glosses over every single detail about his little two-month jaunt to the Fade, but it's still enough that the mage looks a little pale around the edges when he's done.
In a further stroke of convenience, that's when the captain calls the mage over for his own bit of fire-starting practice. (Also sans magic, just to expand his skill set.)
Not so much the funny one any longer as the scary one, thinks Alistair wearily, and unsheathes his knife again.