howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

Normally by this time of year there's been at least one storm coming in from the Waking Sea that breaks the humidity -- but no, Kirkwall is unseasonably humid. Because of course it is.

At any rate, that's why Cullen isn't wearing as much plate as he ought. That, and he's in the yard, out of sight of any civilians.

It helps him be faster, he tells himself. Mostly it's just miserable, and he's quite looking forward to plunging his head in a nearby rain barrel.

(It doesn't help that Cullen is currently losing handily. Though if truth be told -- and he'd never admit it -- it feels good to lose like this, winded as he is, muscles burning as they are.)

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"...from Nevarra," he ventures again.

That's as far as he feels safe venturing. He knows about their king, of course -- Markus Pentaghast, who's managed to hold on to his throne for many years, now -- but little else. When he was younger the rest of the world felt very far away from southern Thedas, on the edge of the Korcari Wilds.

Cassandra gives him a startled look, but then realization strikes.

"Yes," she says. "From Nevarra. Nevarra City, in fact."

An extremely pained expression crosses her face as she adds,

"Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. Of the royal line. Seventy-eighth from the throne."

Brooding, she stomps down another couple of steps.

"Not far enough away, if you ask me."

Cullen opens his mouth, then closes it.

A few more steps down:

"My middle name's Stanton," he offers.

This is a gesture of... solidarity? A bad one.

She looks at him, startled -- and then a bright, relieved smile appears.

"I am glad to know it."

Cassandra gets a very quick grin. "Good. Although I suspect I like mine more than you like yours."

It seems wise to refrain from the observation that it might be because she has so many of them.

"Doubtless you are right."

She glances around as they reach the bottom of the stairs, noting the boarded-up complex to the left.

"Do you -- have family? Back in Ferelden?"

"That was the Qunari compound," he tells her. "I -- yes. I suppose. Siblings, in South Reach. I haven't seen them in years. My elder sister writes, but I fear I'm a poor correspondent. There's... not been much of anything worth reporting to her."

It'd be nice if she started asking about the Qunari. Maybe if he --

"There were a few mercenaries -- those qunari called Tal-Vashoth -- around before the Chantry explosion. As you can imagine, they weren't too popular. I expect most of them have left Kirkwall -- or at least I've not seen any for quite some time."

"I would imagine not."

It's obvious he doesn't want to talk about his family, and thinking of Anthony, she cannot help but understand.

"I suppose there were not many here in the city who wished to occupy where they had been, either."

"No, for a wonder." That's wry, as they turn left, down toward the quay where the Gallows ferry waits. "You'd think any number of enterprising businessmen would want the space for some other horrible warehouse that's a thin cover for smuggling and organized crime. But they might well believe the space is cursed."

(A passing longshoreman looks quite sad at the aspersions Cullen is casting.)

"I'm afraid I don't know much about Nevarra."

"Unless you were fascinated with death or dragons, that is not surprising."

She sounds more than a little sour.

"Death, no," Cullen says, perhaps more cheerfully than he ought. "And I don't know about being fascinated with dragons. Interested, perhaps."

Running around pretending to be one as an excuse to pull his sisters' hair? Possibly.

"The Pentaghast clan has long been proud of its dragon hunters," Cassandra tells him. "For ages they have led great hunts to try to eliminate dragons as a danger to Thedas."

Cullen... blinks.

"They missed a few," he says, mild.

"Yes," she agrees, dryly. "They did."

The ferry's approaching from a run around the harbor.

"It could be worse," Cullen says, pragmatically. "At least they're interested in killing them. Not like Tevinter."

She snorts.

"Tevinter is a ... difficult place. To say the least."

"...have you been?" Cullen asks, with some interest. "I'm afraid I haven't traveled much, and of course you know what they say about Tevinter -- is it true?"

"It depends," Cassandra replies. "Much of it is inflated in the telling of rumor and whispers of fear."

Her expression hardens.

"But much of it - yes, much of it is true."

"Wonderful," Cullen says, a little sour, as the ferry pulls up to the quay. "Anything you'd like to do before we...?"

"Indeed. And no; I have seen enough here, for now. We should continue."

Once they're well out onto the water:

"Quick work back there," Cassandra observes, her gaze intent on the giant statues guarding the entrance to the harbor.

She does not, however, sound surprised.

If Cullen never sees another statue of a despondent slave, he will manage to persevere somehow. Especially the giant ones.

"It was that or let him get away," Cullen says, mild.

"...does that happen to you often?"

"More than I would like."

She looks rather as though she's bitten into some sour fruit.

It's Cullen's turn to look out at the water. "Should we be taking any additional precautions?"

"No."

Her response comes automatically before she stops herself. Cassandra frowns, considering.

"... at least, I do not think so. It is more likely to be something that occurred in the nature of opportunity, than any new and concerted effort."

Cullen nods.

The Gallows looms larger and larger. How many times has Cullen made this crossing? If he never makes it again, he'll be grateful.

No one waits for them on the quay. No one is there at all. Cullen can't say he's too upset by that.