Anders_icon.gif Taril_icon.gif

Scene Title Notadeernotagoat
Synopsis Taril visits the clinic with melons
Location Darktown Clinic
Date July 8, 2016
Watch For Titles of familiarity
Logger Taril

It is hot. Damn hot. It only gets better at night, and you can only sprawl so much when you sleep in a tree, which means it's still warm even then. Thus, Taril's been in the water SOMEWHERE, and narrowed down his clothes to 'I won't be thought of as a whore or a wildman'. Which is a good thing, since late afternoon is when those tend to come out. He has to wait for his hair to dry to braid it (or fuzzy ginger, which… no). So now he's entering the clinic with enough melon to feed… well, a lot of people. "Forget healing… in this heat it's better to let us just die and end the misery." He's not used to this.

There aren't many things that can drag Anders away from those who need him - guilt is a powerful motivator, but when it's working on someone with a genuine need to care for others, well… let's just say there are plenty of days where the Darktown Healer doesn't need his passenger's prodding to work himself into a mess. But a familiar voice and the tantalizing sweet scent of melon are enough to detach him from his current task of cleaning absolutely everything he can get his hands on. "This is why we have frost magic." But since Cone of Cold isn't conducive to cleaning, he's just stripped down to sweat-stuck shirt and trousers. No way is it a temperature for that ridiculous coat. No way.

Taril doesn't even ask, he sets his burden down on one of the clean shelves and pulls out one of the melons and a knife, splitting it in half with one swing (Because those hunting knives? Sharp). One half is held out and he smirks. "Not a mage, remember? Can you imagine me training as a Keeper?" See? He knows. He's also going to hand over a spoon for the melon before pulling out one for himself. "Do you ever let yourself have a selfish moment? You know, go dump a bucket of water over your head, take a nap? You should try it." He eyes the shirt. "You also should try something without as much fabric. I swear you humans would walk around covered from neck to ankles if you could." Pause. "Most. I mean, I've seen some things."

That melon half is accepted with a gratitude that borders on teary-eyed relief. Anders is not civilized enough to wait for the spoon, instead snapping the half in half and taking a huge, messy bite out of one quarter. The sigh that comes with cool watery sweetness is deep and heavy, the healer collapsing into one of the cots to lay sprawled out while he munches melon and gets juice everywhere. "Selfish moment?" It's an odd question, one that manages to bring even more pink to his cheeks. "I - yes. Yes, I have very selfish moments." The time he steals to spend with a certain prickly warrior, for one. But mention of less fabric makes him go irrationally tense; it takes him a good two minutes to swallow his mouthful and formulate something he could possibly say. "There are worse things to live with than sticky clothing." Like scars on his forearms or all down his back - things he does not want to see or have seen; things he does not want to explain.

Taril shrugs and settles on the floor with his own melon. "I suppose." Just as easily as that, the subject is dropped, except that he sets the melon aside and unstraps the bracers from around his wrists and holds them up to show the recent rope scars. "Our secret." Because sweat gathering under those things itches. "As long as you let yourself have them." He gestures toward the world outside the clinic before picking up his spoon again. "You can't heal them all, and you'll heal none of them if you drop dead trying."

Anders' breath is held a little longer - still unaccustomed to people who can let things lie unanswered - but when released it takes the tension with it. He lets it sit a moment, taking another couple bites of melon. "Thank you." It's spoken quietly, but not necessarily for the melon. He even manages a little bit of a laugh at this 'drop dead trying' business. "I think I'd get my arse handed to me if I did something so foolish as that."

Taril merely grins at the thanks, but that turns into an actual smile, then a laugh. "Well, I think 'handled' would be a better description but that's none of my business. Except I said it out loud and I can't un-do that." He gives that look you'd expect on a kid who'd said something about a sibling's sex life but then carries on with his melon consumption. "By the way, I've heard a rumor that you have some sort of deer down here. Did you really get a pet? Because I can't picture you with a deer. Cat maybe. Not a deer."

Choking on a bit of fruit is not the way Anders had ever pictured he might go. But when Taril just blurts that one right out in the open there, the chances of that being a legitimate possibility go straight through the roof. "Haha, very funny," he chokes out, sitting up to cough properly and leveling a look at the red-headed demon he's managed to somehow adopt. "You have met Fenris, right?" He shakes his head to get the flyaway strands of hair out of his eyes. "Although now that I think about it I doubt it'd ever make it that far anyway." He gets picked up and carried off for his knees being a little wobbly. There's no way he'd make it to 'dead'. "What? Oh. Baby? Yeah, she's back napping where it's a little cooler." Not that this explains the situation any better, but it does answer the question at least. "Why?"

Taril laughs. "I've seen him princess carry you, remember? I'm glad it's him, someone else might let you argue your way out of it." The name makes his eyebrows rise. "Baby. You have a deer and you named it baby." It's followed by a shake of his head. "Of course you did. Well? Do I get to see it? You realize it's unusual, right?"

That is enough to make Anders laugh outright. "That will never be a problem with Fenris. Don't try to argue with him. Ever. It is infuriating and impossible. He out-argued Adeline Vael! I've only ever seen one person do that - and they outranked her." It's enough to make him huff out a sigh like a cat whose fur has been ruffled the wrong way, but none of it is enough to chase away the idiotic expression of fondness and dopey adoration he gets. He's a disgusting sap. It's a real problem. "Well… I'm not the one who named her. Minea did. I'm just sort of… babysitting." He folds his legs under him tailor-style, now that he's decided to sit up and eat a little more like a civilized person. "And she's not so much a deer. I mean, I thought she was a goat at first, so I can't exactly say much, but still. Not a deer."

Taril's grin might be a little on the sad side but he's going to go check this thing out. "So it's notadeernotagoat?" Of course, he then ducks his head it to find out for himself and you don't have to listen hard to hear the gasp that is his reaction. "Creators, Anders. Do you know what this is?" He steps back and shakes his head, swearing under his breath. "Where did it come from?"

"Notadeernotagoat." Anders shakes his head, laughing to himself. "That's the elvhen word for it? I'll have to tell Minea." He's joking. Mostly. But he's also entirely willing to let this little escapade play out on its own. So he's ready for that gasp and when Taril pops back out of there, Anders' expression is almost innocent. "It's a notadeernotagoat." He almost manages to say it with a straight face, too. Almost. "A golden one." He thinks he's funny. "A beast merchant down in the black markets. Nasty piece of work he is."

Taril's expression is somewhere between wonder and worry. "Do… Do you even know what that halla means?" If he didn't grasp much, he can swear wonderfully in the language of his ancestors. "A beast merchant? Is he dead?" He shakes his head again. "No, it's Hanal'ghilan. This…" He sits again and shakes his head. "Shit."

"Sadly, no. I wouldn't mind an opportunity to kick him in the ribs." Violent, Anders. As for the deep cultural significance he's sure the halla has, he shrugs. "Something about a bad omen, that's all I caught." It's too hot to be existential right now. But after another bite of melon he's pretty willing to offer at least his opinion. "Not that I know anything, but… well sure she chews on a lot and she wants to get into everything but 'bad omen' seems a bit harsh."

Taril runs the fingers of one hand through his hair to push it out of his face and puffs out a sigh. "It's kind of complicated, but it appears at a time of great need. I mean, we've lost a lot. The rest could have something to do with hope, but we don't usually hope too much. It tends to blow up in your face." Yep, he's a pessimist. "I don't know how something so cute can mean something bad. Maybe her age changes things? Is she with one of us at least part of the time? Can I kill the animal dealer?"

"So… less a bad omen and more 'hope in the face of a bad omen'?" Anders tilts his head to one side to consider this and then unfolds himself to dispose of his melon rinds. He can't really argue in the face of pessimism; he's not that big a hypocrite. "Minea's taken charge of her care and she's from Clan Redway. And there's a Rivaini Dalish Keeper in the Circle here who'll be helping to look after her while we're in the Roads. I just keep her here when Minea has to go on patrol or an errand." He shrugs. "She likes me pretty well, even with me being shemlen. And she's… nice to have around. I've missed four-legged company."

Taril shakes his head. "I'm pretty sure it's just 'bad things are going to happen to the Dalish'. I HOPE it's something else, but… why here in the city?" He rubs at the scar over one wrist and gives a somewhat bitter chuckle. "Great, what else?" Give him a second, there are about a thousand worrying thoughts running through his head. "See? THIS is why we can't have too many mages." He swears again. "Well, at least she's well taken care of. There's a bundle of sweet rushes and herbs that I meant for under your matress, but you can probably give her herbs. We give them to the young ones to keep them from chewing on everything. They're fiberous, it keeps them busy. You're not going to tell me it's ok to kill that guy, are you?"

"When aren't bad things happening to the oppressed in Kirkwall?" Anders' tone is dry, stopping at one of the wash basins to splash water on his face and clean the juicy mess away. Taril's statement confuses him and he turns with a furrowed brow. "This is why… there should be fewer mages or why people who say there are too many are idiots?" Just for clarification purposes. The herbs and rushes make his color deepen and he clears his throat. "Thank you, I'll use them for an afternoon snack once it cools a little." Which works just as well, since he doesn't so much sleep in the bed as in the weird nest of pillows and blankets on the floor in the back. Which is not generally known, but he's given up with Taril and boundaries at this point. "No, I'm not." Pause. Exhale. Inhale. "But don't go alone and bring the animals here when you're done. They'll need looking after."

"No, your Templars putting our keepers in circles." Taril saw that blush. "You turn red way too easy. It's because it's hot. They give off a nice scent, fools you into thinking it's cooler. If you're on the floor, put your blankets over them. I'm still in the tree, so they're not much use." He nods, standing to retrieve his bracers. "He deserves it. He harmed one of us, took it away from its mother, even if he just paid those who did it."

"They're not my Templars," Anders huffs, indignant. "I'd just as soon not see any mages locked up, thanks." But he nods to the explanation about the herbs and says exactly nothing at all about the blushing. But as Taril rises there is a rush of fondness and worry and pride the exact match of which Anders hasn't felt for a very long time - outside Adie, but she breaks all the rules. He shakes water from his hair and straightens further, cracking his back and moving to reach into the storage cabinet for healing and stamina draughts. "Hold a moment. Take these." He's not sending his brother out unprotected.

Taril pauses for a moment, finishing the tie on the leather that now covers both wrists before taking the bottles. "Ma serannas, Lethallin. Who knows? I may find he leaves behind a cat." He'll just leave figuring out those words to Anders.

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