Isn't being forced to listen to you penance enough?

Maker. The sexiest GRUMP Nathaniel Howe and THAT SMIRK. *Swoon* @cocotingo strikes again! For all that is good and right in this world, commission this artist! 

Dorian paused, his paintbrush held delicately between hisfingers. A single drop of green paint hung poised on the tip and he wiped itabsently on the palette, just in time to prevent a disaster.

“Fenris,” he said chidingly, eyeing the other man’s project.“You cannot write that on your mug!”

The elf looked up, the tip of his tongue caught between histeeth in intense concentration as he painstakingly, with all his new andhoarded skills of literacy, scribed two bold red words upon the surface of hiscoffee mug. “Why not?”

“There are childrenhere! And little grannies!” Dorian hissed under his breath, feeling like somesort of uptight granny himself. But he had to admit, the fact that Fenris waswriting at all, let alone that the phrase he’d picked was bilingual, was fairlyimpressive. And funny, given the phrase itself. Not that he’d admit as much.

“You know that no one will understand it,” Fenris said, inrapid-fire Spanish.

“That’s hardly the point!” Dorian said, in the same tongue.

Just then, Nathaniel returned to their table, a fresh tubeof vermillion paint in one hand. He glanced at Fenris’s mug, which proudly borethe words “Pinche Coffee.”

“You misspelled ‘pinch,’” he pointed out. “And don’t youusually measure coffee in scoops?”

Dorian and Fenris glanced at one another for a second, andthen burst into laughter.

If he were in the land of his birth, speaking his own tongue, conversing with men of his own people, Durans might have retorted with something eloquently barbed and designed to be humorous enough that the buried insult could be easily forgiven, or even unnoticed. Such was the art of small talk in Rhea Lupina, a sort of battlefield all its own, scattered with verbal caltrops and lightly poisoned. At such conversational war, Durans had once been master.

Here, in this realm of cold air and colder stone, where the very air smelled wretchedly foreign – though at least the smell of Iskryner pine was similar enough to that of cypress that he could nearly take comfort in the familiarity –  where he knew no more than a quarter of the tongue, where he knew less than a quarter of the customs, Durans merely smiled. It was a thin smile, attenuated not by ill-will nor malice but by weariness and a generalized sort of misery. A smile despite these things, bravely fighting them.

“Talking bird,” he confirmed softly. A gesture toward Isen, toward the other wolves. “Not like these. Not talking in head, yes?” His hand made a gesture as of a clacking beak. “They are smart, but they… ah, what is the word? Mimic? To make believe, to pretend. You say, they say, you see?” 

Frustration ground his teeth together and he gulped at the mead in his cup. It tasted of honey and flowers, thick and wild and hot… and nothing like the tannic, berry richness of a grape wine. It tasted, for a moment, cloying and rotten, and nearly he gagged on it, nearly he sputtered. But his dignity was still in place, tattered and worn as thin as his smile though it might be, and the dignity of Rhea Lupina did not allow one to choke on one’s wine at table. Or one’s mead.

“My parrot, her name is Crescendo,” he said. “Is a term of music. When the song swells louder, you know this?” He shrugged one shoulder helplessly, having precisely no idea what Iskryner music might sound like, if they even had music of the sort he knew. Perhaps they all just sang drunken battle songs about war and blood and wolves, for all he knew. Perhaps they had no instruments at all but their voices and skin drums. His teeth gritted. And these barbarians were the ones with whom he’d thrown his lot! 

Everything hurt, a swelling ache not unlike a crescendo itself, and he breathed slowly and deeply for a moment, pressing his free hand to the center of his chest. At his feet, Isen stirred worriedly, a small whine in his throat.

“Crows do it too. Ravens,” Durans said after a moment, trying to think of birds these northmen might have known in their time. “Very clever, them. They learn too. You have crows, ravens? Take one young, they learn like parrots learn.” Fuck, maybe he could get himself one, go entirely native. It would be a poor substitute for his parrot, but this was a poor substitute for his life in Rhea Lupina, so it would be fitting.

If Durans was the type to make up false information about his country he was certainly determined to stick to his story, language barrier or no language barrier. Both Brandrulf and Kolbjorn leaned in a little closer as he told his story, trying to make sense of the stilted words, charades, and occasional Rhean word thrown in whenever the man couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say. Kolbjorn certainly had to hand it to the man. He was committed to speaking, no matter how slow or graceless. The wolfsprechend wished, however briefly, that he was fluent in Durans’ native tongue, if only to hear how he could really speak. The man must have been a talented orator in his own language.  

Brandrulf let out a low whistle at Durans’ description, clearly impressed by these foreign birds with such incredibly capabilities. “It would be nice to have some of those up here… we could use ‘em to send messages! Though, I guess, they wouldn’t survive too well in the cold, would they?”

“I don’t think the jarls would be very impressed with us if we started sending them talking birds,” Kolbjorn pointed out, trying to pretend that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. “They’re suspicious enough of our wolves as it is. They’ll stop tithing and barricade themselves in if they think we can control birds too.” Even though Durans had indicated that these birds were not bonded to their human companions the same way the wolves were, their ability to copy human speech was fascinating. Idly, he wondered just how smart these birds were, and what else they could do. It was a pity, as Brandrulf had said, that keeping them even just this far north, would be difficult.

Both wolfmen repeated Durans word for his bird under their breaths, Kolbjorn nodding slowly at the mention of the musical term. “I don’t know much about music,” he admitted, “But I know of what you speak. We have skalds, here, to sing stories and tell tales. Do you have such men in your home?” He had not heard talk of music since he was but a mere boy, when his father was more willing to indulge in merriment.

“Not at all!” Col said, in some surprise. Forbidden? What a strange idea! Why on earth would he be forbidden from seeing his mother? It was fairly common, actually, that the boys in the healls would visit family in town. Merely because Col himself never did was no reason to think… his surprise turned to something sadder as he looked at Natanael, taking in the deep furrow of the other lad’s brow and the confusedly truculent set of his mouth. Or maybe it was reason to think so, Col realized slowly.

“No,” he said again, big hands fidgeting with one another in front of him. He’d have preferred to still be splitting the wood, but their chore was nearly finished, the split logs stacked and ready. They’d have to fell more trees if there was to be more wood to cut. “I could go, if I wanted. Or if she wanted.” He shrugged, his face soft and open. Maybe he was making an offering to the other lad. Telling Natanael he wasn’t the only one dragging around a weight of pain, but that there was more than one way to deal with that weight. Or maybe Col was just like that. “She has her life there and I have mine here. It doesn’t seem… like either of us needs that.”

There’d been a time, when Col was younger, that he’d felt differently. He’d wanted to know his mother, to really be her son the way the other children were. He’d had some hazy notion of a sort of warm domesticity, hearth and home, a mother’s arms and a family all sitting down to a dinner together, jostling and laughing. He’d even gone so far, once, as making that trek into the village with the intent of seeking her out. But when he’d gotten there and seen her, he’d been struck all at once by the realization that the harried, tired looking woman was a stranger to him.

Later that night, sitting in the heall surrounded by the other boys and the older wolfbrothers, all of them laughing and jostling as they’d dined, Col had smiled. And he’d never sought out his mother again, nor wanted to.

“Anyway,” he said after a second, picking up the axe again. “Maybe we could go for that walk tomorrow then. I don’t have any chores on the roster till after midday; we could go out in the morning, maybe? I promise not to make you pick any flowers if you don’t want to.” Col grinned brightly. “You can just walk and enjoy the quiet. I’ll try not to break it too much with all my blather, even.”

Natanael had not expected such open vulnerability from Col, surprise and then uncertainty flitting across his face before his expression finally settled on something as close to neutral as he could manage. It was not often that anyone shared personal details of their life with him, and even then, he couldn’t recount anyone other than his siblings being so honest about something so sensitive. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was meant to react to this information, whether he was supposed to pity his companion for his distant relationship with his family, empathize with his struggles, or perhaps even praise him for his courage to go on without her support.

In truth, he did know what it was like to have family who didn’t want anything to do with him, though perhaps not in the same way that Col and his mother didn’t seek each other’s company. And while Natanael was no more welcome with his relatives than he was at the wolfheall, Col had managed to find a place for himself regardless of his family’s lack of support. He was doing alright, with or without his mother. Even so, it must not have been easy to speak so openly.

“I… asked a strange question. I appreciate your honesty.”

It was as close to an apology for bringing up a sore subject was Col was likely to get from the young man. A part of him insisted, quietly and quickly before he could squash it, that if there was anyone who might understand Natanael’s feelings it would be Col. Moreover, he had accepted his fate where Natanael had not, and conducted his duty with admirable commitment (regardless of his personality). Perhaps there was something to be learned from spending more time with the young man, as much as he initially balked as such a thought.

“I’ll be no use to you now if I fall back!” Wystan shot back, not pausing in his forward charge. That arrow had come far, far too close to hitting Nathaniel – and even through the throbbing, white-fire pain in his thigh, Wystan felt the red-fire rage of it. How dared these creatures? How dared they come so close to taking Nathaniel from him? A quiet, rational voice whispered that Nathaniel wasn’t his, not really; but there was precisely nothing rational in charge of the big mage’s actions right now. He was all righteous fury and battle-rage, sheathed in ancient magics.

Distantly, he was aware of Anders elsewhere on the battlefield, casting spells of healing and rejuvenation; the idiosyncratic ‘taste’ of the other mage’s spellcraft was familiar. Distantly, he was aware of Nathaniel close behind him and the fact that the archer had traded in his arrows for daggers, dogging his heels as closely as Jack might. Distantly, too, he was aware of Justice; despite the flesh he wore, the spirit warped the Fade around him just slightly, tangible to a mage’s otherwise senses.

And he was aware, far more viscerally, of the enemies which surrounded them. To one side, he felt a spell being woven; the magic had a slick, greasy feel, foul and corrupted. Blighted. His eyes narrowed and his free hand wove in a complicated pattern as he channeled forth his own mana through the pulsing metal of the sword which served him in place of a staff. A burst of mana draining force lanced out; somewhere nearby, the Emissary screamed horribly and the spell it had begun stuttered and died.

Wystan growled in fierce triumph and pressed his advantage. The enchantments he wore and the mana he had just stolen helped to balance out his own flagging strength, at least enough for one final effort.

“To me!” he shouted, pulling Nate into the close, safe circle of space in his own immediate vicinity. Anders would feel what was happening and back off; Justice, Wystan would have to trust to find his own safety.

The spell which was unleashed was a wild torrent, the culmination of everything he had learned from the bound spirit in the Brecilian and everything he had learned since. A chaotic vortex of elemental fury raged and swirled around the field of battle with Wystan – and Nate, close to his side – at the tempest’s churning eye. Fire, ice, lightning, spirit… all of it was in this spell, unpredictable, random, arcing and spitting and striking each of the enemies remaining, burning them and freezing them.

In the spell’s aftermath, Wystan sagged to his knees, a pained sound wrenched out of him as the crossbow bolt still in his leg sent fresh agony through him with the movement. But the spell, with its heavy cost in mana, had left him scoured out and emptied. His very skin felt raw and flayed and he recognized the signs; he’d overdone it, pushed himself too hard, too far. But he’d had to.

“Nathaniel?” he asked painfully. He coughed, and spat to one side. His mouth tasted like copper. “You all right?”

Nathaniel furiously squashed down the urge to snap back at his commander, if only because he knew that conversation was a terrible distraction in combat. (And not because he knew that Wystan intended to ignore his advice anyways, the stubborn idiot). If the man would not yield then all the rogue had to do was eviscerate their enemies more quickly, such that Wystan did not have to fight for very much longer. It was a task that was easier said than done, however; Darkspawn were disgustingly persistent creatures, especially when they drew blood. Where one fell, another seemed to take its place, as vile as its predecessor and just as dangerous.

While Justice and Anders battled on – an unusual pair but a surprisingly effective one – Nathaniel focused on swiftly ending any Darkspawn that got within dagger range. He could easily handle any of the grunts, leaving Wystan to get rid of the magic-wielding types, which was plenty in the rogue’s eyes. He would have rather the man fallen back so they could properly defend him, but this would have to do until they were victorious or he could think up an exit strategy. Despite all his combat training, Nathaniel was regrettably not as well versed in escaping combat as he was in starting it, and doubly so when facing an enemy that would chase them down if they ran.

His planning was cut short when Wystan pulled him in, launching a barrage of elemental magic against the forces surrounding them. Not for the first time, he was grateful that the Warden Commander was on their side. He had heard tales of mages allowed outside their Circles to do battle, of course, but experiencing it first hand was something entirely different. Maker help them if the mages ever revolted.