Golden Boy

    The angle of the setting sun ensured long shadows were cast throughout Skyhold: the already chilled temperature dropping further when one stepped out from the remaining light into the expanding dark. For his part, Manvunean—rather, Majda, as he was called in this age, did not feel much difference as he crossed from the shade into the sun. He could not see the shift, but he felt - if only barely - the shift of warmth as he moved through the light.

    For the most part, he was ignored by passers-by. Those with duties about Skyhold had more important things to do than strike up random conversations with strange elves swathed in dark clothing. Fingers bedecked with rings curled beneath lace sleeves and Majda’s hands joined afront him, long, dark nails crossing over one another.

    A figure in the unseen distance was Majda’s goal - a figure burning gold in the remaining sunlight, dancing about the sparring ring with sword in hand. His black eyes could not appreciate the beauty, but he could feel the magical signature of the younger - his main means of tracking others when without a guide of some sort. From under the veil covering his head and hair, a soft tinkling accompanied his slow movements - courtesy of the bells weaved by the golden hands of the mother of the other elf.

    Majda did not call out to Gaelavun when Majda reached the low fence, instead reaching out to feel the rough wood beneath his fingers. He tilted his face into the sun, even as the ever cold breeze rendered his unshifted eyes into wetted pools upon his face and forced a red flush across his cheeks as what life remained in his body fought against the harsh environment. He still could not feel much. But he smiled, regardless, listening in fascination to the sound of metal against wood and the pattern, the beat, woven within it.

Gael continued his practice, unaware of Majda's presence as he maintained battle-focus.  It only broke as he finished a rather graceful set of offensive moves. He panted tiredly and dropped the point of his sword somewhat toward the ground. Briefly, he eyed the wooden dummy before him, as if it might suddenly attack at his lowered guard like a proper opponent. When it didn't, he allowed himself break. 

It was only then that he could feel eyes (even unseeing as they were) upon him. He twirled himself on his heel searching for the source of the aura that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

His eyes fell upon Majda and he relaxed, slacking his shoulders so that the tip of his sword now dragged through the dirt beneath him. He gave a genuine smile; it was an automatic response to seeing Majda, who- if he thought about it, would deem him as his favorite person. But he did not think about it. Instead his mind emptied as it almost always did around the other, and he approached.

The more Gael spoke, the harder it became for Andrai to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He could not stop the amused perk of a brow, however, when his companion’s presence and physical presentation were so very eloquently brought to attention. The tiger’s reaction - a low, unamused rumble in her throat - only made it that much more entertaining. He almost cracked a smile. Almost.

“Her name is Narissa.” While his voice retained it’s cool clarity, his eyes uncharacteristically softened with affection when they traveled to her. “And she has been my companion since well before these modern ages.”

Andrai’s gaze snapped back up sharply, the softness gone so quickly it was almost as though it had never been there. They fell into a silence as he looked Gael up and down, ruthlessly analytical, until they seemed to settle on his eyes. His locked gaze was intense, as if he meant to bore deep into Gael’s head simply by staring him down. He’d been told in the past that he made people uncomfortable with how intensely he watched them. Like he was trying to learn their strengths and weaknesses, guess their skills, and plan exactly how to kill them all with one look. Andrai typically did not tell the people complaining to him that that was indeed exactly what he was doing.

“I know who you are,” he said finally, breaking the uncomfortably long silence and returning the arrow he’d nocked to his quiver. “And I assume you know who I am beyond ‘that one with the tiger.’”

Narissa let out another low rumble, her great head turning just enough to level her ice blue eyes on him like a mother silently scolding her child. He sighed.

“Andrai. My name is Andrai.” He shouldered his bow, turning his body now to face Gael in real conversation. He had announced himself for a reason, after all. “And if you are to face proper combat on behalf of the Inquisition, I can teach you to better defend yourself.”

Narissa’s eyes remained on him insistently. He stubbornly did not look at her. “…If you’re willing to accept my help, I mean.”

It was definitely odd, Gael thought, that Andrai so freely spoke of being older than 'modern ages'. He raised his eyebrows, wondering if he was that forward with everyone or if it was because he really did know exactly who he was. He didn't know how much Andrai knew, or who told him what he knew, but that would be an issue for sometime later. For now he found himself on the receiving end of quite the piercing stare. Gael responded only with a pleasant smile. He didn't know why the other gave him such an intense look. It would have been intimidating but he figured if that was his intention, then he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. 

He repeated his name and in retrospect, just saying that would have probably left him better off than ‘that one with the tiger’. He opened his mouth to speak but as Andrai went on, he closed it again. He noted pretty immediately that Andrai was not exactly tactful. The way he offered help suggested that he needed it. If he was insulted by that insinuation, he kept it to himself. He returned the soft smile to his face, and loosened his arms, letting the tip of his sword rest on the ground. 

The evening sun had, at best, a handful of hours before it would set, and Gaelavun would not waste them. He kept himself to a rather strict and rigorous training routine with his great sword that both kept him in shape, and kept his skills honed for battle.