silent knife, unholy knife

          “Aye,” Wyatt says with a nod. Wyatt is just fine—more than, even. Though pride surges through him due to his own last name, it is now a name he relates to loss, and he is not ready to deal with said loss. Not yet.

          She bites back the I do mind and succeeds in            not looking as if she's supremely thoughtful           about this entire endeavor, eyeing his sword and           shield for a moment before drawing her own bow           from her back as if mirroring him. An eye for an           eye, displaying weaponry for weaponry. An entirely           legitimate strategy.

          "The truth is nothing but the truth." It's not stated           rudely, just simply; if Eralyn is growing a little           tolerant of her, maybe just a bit, it's only tolerance.           Not fondness. Not friendliness.

Armored feet pause in their stride, the party of soldiers she’s following aimlessly behind disappearing into the raucous throng that bears the banners of King Cailan and Ferelden. It’s certainly a bit odd to be approached out of the blue, though she has to expect customs to be a little bit different this far from the Blasted Hills. At the very least the elf is someone to talk to after losing track of the Warden that had invoked the Right all those miles ago.

          There is something of a standoff for a moment,           as if replies are being measured, and then Eralyn           is blinking once, twice. This one does not look as           if she is too weathered to this scene after all, it only           makes sense.

Gwen pulls a slight face, she’s not overly fond of Daveth. He tends to set her on edge in a way that reminds her of the one Templar that she’d always tried to avoid the most. Which she tries to remind herself isn’t fair, it isn’t Daveth’s fault that Cullen always creeped her out. Although it is his fault that he seems to be unable to keep from alienating the women he meets. 

          Daveth, so thinks the elf, is something frustrating, something           angering, something that stokes the embers that still burn           viciously enough to cause her to make a face -- displeased, and           the slightest amount of hostility in her gaze as she glances over           in the vague direction of the man. Gone, now, but out of sight,           out of mind does not apply here. 

Gwen is quiet as she watches the dark haired man stalk away from the fuming elf. She hesitates for a few moments, considering not approaching but it seems silly at this point not to introduce herself. She steps forward finally, hands crossed in front of her and her face almost apologetic. “Daveth is an acquired taste.” Her frown is slight as she turns to watch him again, “One that I haven’t personally made any effort towards gaining.” 

          She doesn't jump. She doesn't jump, she simply moves a           bit more suddenly to look towards the human who has found           her way towards the elf. Eralyn's anger dissipates in a bitter           confusion then, brows drawn taut together. The only one to           approach her so far has been Duncan. Her surprise is no           doubt written across her face.

          The elf takes a while to return his greeting, but Wyatt waits patiently. Though he’s still grieving over what had happened, it’d be in his best interest to make some sort of comrade in arms for when they go to battle. He raises a brow at the tone of her greeting, but it’s forgotten and replaced by a small huff of laughter. “You have my thanks, Mahariel Eralyn.”

          Brows raise in a bit of forethought as she watches his reaction,           the patience and the resulting amusement. She's intrigued on a           rueful level, and does not quite feel hatred as much as she feels           a roiling of other things that she doesn't care to focus upon, not           now. The manner in which he uses for her name is given a blink,           a bit of a bristle, and then she is taken aback -- at an apology.

Theven stops at the words, a smile that has been hidden away for far too long sneaking out among his features. Light eyes sweep upwards, a small duck of his head signaling his understanding.        ”Ma serannas, adahlen asha.”

          Eralyn is cheered by the reaction and the simple presence           of another as it is; lips curve at the edges in a comfort that           is just enough to be noticed as she relaxes in her chest, as           if something has come loose, finally.

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          A brow tilts down as if in thought as she considers the reply, mouth           a fine line of brooding. She saw nothing wrong with cats who had two           paws, firstly, and secondly -- well, she hadn't meant much offense.            Much, anyway.