Participants:

Fenris_icon.gif Taril_icon.gif Minea_icon.gif Aelia_icon.gif

Scene Title Elf Night at the Hanged Man
Synopsis Fenris is Surrounded while trying to have a quiet drink in a noisy tavern.
Location The Hanged Man
Date Wednesday, 25 of Bloomingtide, 9:31 Dragon
Watch For Elvish Porcupine
Logger Taril

This tavern is always bustling with activity of one sort or another, as the stained wooden floors and tables will attest. The main room is large and sports a bar nearest the door where the bartender will serve you any manner of questionable beverages. The high ceiling is festooned with banners that hang between the columns and from the iron candle-wheels in a show of faded red. Further back are a series of small rooms that can be had for a price as well as one rather large suite that has been decorated in dwarven fashion.

Sometimes, you just needed a drink. A drink without staring into your own fire. Or without the crushing silence in which your own thoughts dance and twist and play out horrific scenes on the shadowed backdrop of your mind. Sometimes, terrible ale in a room full of ever so slightly too loud people was just the thing. The din drowned out his thoughts, and his thoughts were so very often a source of his anguish. And the ale drowned the pain, though his problems had long ago learned to swim, his pain had not. For that, he could be thankful. Night had fallen over Kirkwall, bringing the workers into the bars, and in the back corner of The Hanged Man sits an elf with a greatsword upon his back. Shock white hair falls into green eyes, and though the blade and dark, fitted armor would likely be enough to draw looks, the twisting lines of pale white-silver tattoos that mark his arms, throat, and chin certainly get glances as well. Though lingering looks get low growls and glares from the elf, and they ass quickly.

They won't get growls for long. Minea's been standing at the doorway to the room where she and the other wardens have been placed - read squeezed - into for now. The blue and grey marking her for what she is. Her own face marked with lines back near her ear, up around one brow, she's ordered something at the bar for the sake of having something and plunks herself right down beside Fenris. No permission requested, she's just going to sit here. Give a look to anyone who might be growling.

Taril might look out of place as he walks in, though he's at least familiar enough with such establishments to order his beer and pass over the appropriate amount of coin. Still, there's the smell and his nose wrinkles just a little as he passes through crowd of humans in various states of drunkenness. But oh look. There's an elf, and if THAT isn't just the strangest tattoo work he's ever seen. He's going to say something, because of COURSE he is. "You're not Dalish… and you don't act like a flat-ear, either. I mean, they don't usually carry swords." But then there's someone he can relate to so he's going to sit down as well. Congratulations, Fenris! It's a social situation.

Greeeeat. Somehow today the glares hadn't been enough. He must be losing his touch. When first the Warden sits down, honestly, Fenris has little to say to that. Grumpy as he may be, he's not going to tell a Grey Warden when to sit in a bar. Much less a bar that, if the whispers were correct, a number of them were staying at. Why in all the blazes Grey Wardens were staying at /The Hanged Man/ of all places, he certainly couldn't figure out, but it wasn't rightly any of his business. No, he would let her stay. This /other/ man, though. This man who speaks to him, well, he gets a longer look. Brow knit, pulling lines between Fenris's eyes, he eventually just takes a deep breath and lets it happen. What the hell was he expecting? It's a bar.

"No. I am not." He confirms, in his low, gruff voice that is always a little surprising the first time someone hears it, coming from the elf that some might dare to call lanky.

Because someone's cheap.

Or they like the irony.

Maybe both. Either way, they're there and with a mournful look at whatever was poured into her cup, a wrinkle of her nose, Minea's taking a sip and looking over to Taril, a tilt of her head, a shrug of her shoulders and then to Fenris.

Taril grins. "Full of words, this one," he mentions to Minea. "But since we're here and we seem to be the minority, we may as well be in the same area. I'm Taril, by the way. Lavellan." Not that he looks like he's waiting for the introduction to be acknowledged or return. Instead, he takes a drink from his mug and wrinkles his nose again. "I don't know what I was expecting, really…"

Fenris just shrugs. Shrugs and drinks. He's gotten used to bad ale by this point. There's no grimace from him. The introduction isn't returned. He doesn't hand out his name all that often. No, he just turns back to his ale. Though both of them crinkling their noses does make him laugh, low and muffled. "This is one of the better bars in this area, or so I'm told." He says, giving a wry sort of smirk.

"I have… heard the same." The voice precisely what you expect from the Dalish female. "Minea" Doesn't bother with a clan/surname. "IT could be worse. I find if you jus sip it, you might get through the whole mug and not bring it back up." She leans back in her chair, not asking Fenris for his. Accepting him for the silent grump that he's coming off as.

Taril looks a little amused at the 'better bars' label. "Creators, what do the others serve? Fermented nug piss?" He takes another drink. "Makes me wish I'd taken the wine those slavers had with them instead of using it against them," is muttered before he nods to Minea. "Ah well, maybe it'll numb my tongue."

"Eventually, you get used to it." Fenris says, warming slightly. There's an easing at his shoulder, and through his neck that is almost as though his ears perk some. At first, it hadn't been terribly obvious, the subtle tension that pins them back, but now that is released a touch, it can be noted. It returns swiftly however, at the mention of slavers, his hand tightening on his mug, eyes narrowing. "Slavers?"

"It does numb the tongue. That does get annoying." The mention of slavers too though, there's a twitch and a glance over to Taril.

Taril had been taking a drink but his eyes glance between the two and as soon as his mug is lowered he's putting on his best innocent expression. "Well, they're not anymore." It's a great explanation, right? No? "Look, it was pure self defense."

For the first time, there's a smile, though close mouthed and reserved, from Fenris. "Maker, I am not chiding you for it." Fenris says, shaking his head, "Where were they?"

Melina's sure as hell not saying anything, just keeps sipping and grimacing. Inward, if they could see it, a smile as fingers ratta tat tat on the side of her cup and another chair is pulled over and she puts her feet up on it, looking to Fenris.

Taril looks a little relieved. "North of here. Five days on foot, but I wouldn't go looking. They were taking us to the slave markets. It's all they talked about, really." He finishes off his ale with a shudder. "Between that and their singing it was either them or me." He picks up his mug to indicate a return trip. "At least this helps work out the knots from sleeping in a tree. Another three and … well, I don't want to fall out of it." So he's going to go get another.

The look on his face is not that of a man who is going to take that advice about 'not going looking.' None the less, he just lifts his mug as Taril departs. Following through on the motion, he drains it all at once, and curses softly in Tevene as he sets it down. Tevinter elf… With strange markings… And a giant sword. This guy just keeps getting weirder.

Taril takes off to refill and Minea just keeps on sitting, no intent to move along. Not yet. "I'll stay, till they keep their mouth's shut. They don't dare make those sounds with me around." She looks over at Fenris, up, then down. "though i think they'd be wise not to make those sounds at you too. I guess?"

"Depends on my mood." Fenris admits with a shrug. The topic of slavers having passed, his ears perk back up a little. He's not getting up for another drink, though, he's waving down a barmaid, tipping her even. Looking then over to Minea, "What does it matter to you what noises they make?"

"Because the only reason that they don't make the noises at me is because of what I'm wearing an who I am." She's just not even touching her drink at all now. She can't stomach it.

It's almost like a dog, slowly creeping from a corner, after years of being kicked. He's turned growly and sharp, but there's a small pull that holds his attention to her. It's then that he actually bothers to look her over properly. The blue and grey of the Wardens, the tattoos marking her as Dalish, the staff… Sitting against the table. It's there that his gaze pauses, his brow knits again, he frowns. Another drink.

Minea follows the gaze, down to the staff then back up to the man in question. "Do you want to touch it?" The carved wood, it's strips of cloth that look to have been ripped from the clothing of other wardens, thins strips that are tied in bunches. "Yes, I'm a mage. Yes, I'm Dalish. Yes." Minea leans in, resting a hand on her staff. "I'm a warden. No, I don't do it for the glory."

Aelia arrives from the Lowtown.

"No." Fenris answers, a simple statement made with all the weight of the world. He's stopped looking at her now. Again, his shoulders tighten, and the grip on his mug grows more firm. There's more drinking. "How very nice for you." He says, not doing much at all to quell the bitterness in his tone. Night has fallen on Kirkwall, and The Hanged Man rises in a din that is just loud enough to drown out unwanted thought. In a back corner, Fenris and Minea sit, drinking and speaking quietly.

"Good. Because I don't like people touching it. Things suddenly hurt, for them, when the touch it." There's a smile on Minea's face when she says that. "For some reason, it likes to thump people who try to touch it." Something moves though. Not the staff. The hair at the back of her neck shifts, something moving under it and she's fairly use to it, so it doesn't seem to bother her.

The Hanged Man was… well, a hive of scum and villainy as some have put it. However, the only decent bar in hightown is the Blooming Rose and just… no. Not tonight anyway. Bereft of options in this new city to explore Aelia Zinovia comes wandering into the surprisingly charming but derelict tavern. Her nationality is evident form her appearance, her face composed of sharp lines, skin pale and hair pitch black. If her face isn't enough to give it away then the robes, black and green like the Tevinter flag with the twisting green dragon which serves as the Imperium's Seal of State coiled over her heart. The young Altus is devoid of her guards today, in addition to being unarmed, but she still walks like and officer. Striking green eyes scan the room for a moment, falling briefly on the Grey Warden who is offered a respectful nod. Those same eyes linger briefly on her strangely marked companion, almost studying the disgruntled elf, but there is no threat, not shock, if anything just a mild curiosity.

Minea earns from the pale haired elf a low growl. His eye twitches, but he just drinks. A Grey Warden, mage or no, wasn't a threat to him. Wasn't a threat to him. It's a mantra in his mind, and he closes his eyes a moment to try and repeat it a few times in thought. Tries to drive it into his mind, tries to get his hand to relax, though it does not. It's the silence that makes him open his eyes again. While the bar is still loud, there's a travel of noise that ceases near the door. Someone in nice dress has walked in, and people hush. Fenris hears it like a rustle in the breeze, and knows it for what it is immediately. Turning his gaze toward the door, he expects to see a noble from Kirkwall, maybe Starkhaven, maybe Ferelden. Perhaps some Orlesian just walked in. What he was /not/ expecting was that. His frown intensifies, and as the newcomer's gaze settles on him, he glares back. The growl returns, more rumbling and serious this time.

She's the furthest from a threat. The worst she could do is heal someone to death. Which, doesn't really happen. He closes his eyes and Minea's watching, concern on her face. "It was a joke. that was all, I promise." That moving something at her collar is peering around her hair, a tiny little woodmouse, terribly grey, and terribly.. innocuous. Aelia walks in though and there's surprise. The lack of everything with the other and though she doesn't growl, she does offer a dip of her head, shifting her staff to a little closer. "Will you be okay?"

That spoken to Fenris. "I can get us out of here."

Aelia returns Fenris' glare with a look of confusion, though it is not so far a stretch of her imagination to think that someone else from her country has offended him and thus, he's hostile. The Tevinter had a historical habit of offending people. Understatement of the Age. She sighs and shakes her head, "And hear I was hoping the South would save it's righteous indignation for the Templars and the Oxmen." She says, mostly to herself but her words could resonably carry to the table. She pulls her eyes from Fenris, unsurprised to have run into someone offended by her continued breathing, but it is still the slightest bit disheartening. But, she has plenty of money for drinks, that should keep the bartender friendly at least.

"I am fine." Fenris says, practically through gritted teeth, to Minea. There's another twitch from the man at the words that do, in fact, manage to carry to his ear. All at once he finishes his drink, and stands, leaving a tip upon the table. "I can get myself out." He says, tone softening by a hair. It is then that he moves to the door, sticking nearest the wall, and as far from the Tevinter as he can manage.

"Be well." In passing, reaching a hand up to scoop up the little mouse and then let it run over her hand and around on her arm. She watches him go, the wide berth given is noticed, understood and the words spoken by Aelia garners a small smile at least.