Victory. Vigilance. Sacrifice.

Climbing trees has never been a hassle, next to the life he’s lived. Hell, made for the life he’s lived, clinging feet and zinging stars, grasping toes and screaming from the mountaintops, streaking through the trees, frightening birds and small animals from their perches and he’s so, so sorry for this notion, those poor creatures so spooked.

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 As Roland’s gripping feet ascended to the treetops, so did Theo’s boot heels clamor against the soft dirt floor of the forest. A race it was, then! Bracing the scratch of branching greenery and dodging gnarled roots with excited leaps, the Warden rushed through the brush with a spark of competitive delight. It felt good -no, not good- spectacular to bound through nature with his Beloved, to embrace the strain of muscles and pounding heart and fluttering of startled birds. It felt like home, like freedom. Laughter belted out of him, loud and bright as the grin it rode from. Leaves rustled from above and rained down upon him, with them coming the beautiful graces of Roland’s voice. Roland’s songs. Theo’s heart burst to hear it, his eyes welling with the greatest of joy, his feet kicking up dirt as he tried his best to keep up; chasing that glorious chorus as if it were the last thing he may ever hear. Alas, awe triumphed and drew him to a waning halt until Theo stood still and panting and beaming as he watched towards the canopies, simply savoring the echo of his favorite voice. Utter bliss. Eyes fell to a close, honing his senses only to his ears as he chuckl---

fwoom - thUNK!

They move in tandem: Roland a stern, silent sentinel in his narrowed eyes and pointed ears, fly-away hair struck like a wild halo ‘round his head; watching where Theo doth watch, studying the errant lines of a wheel streak’d ‘cross the ground like a line waiting for them to cross. Roland’s expression nearly splits beneath the grin of his Triumph.

“Truthfully? The diet of the halla is normally a crop of elfroot.” Leaning down if only to touch Theo’s shoulder with a warm, intimate hand, Roland moves, thus; touching treebark, touching the tall, springing weeds with the tips of his fingers, reaching out to him as if to say hello! “‘Tis been over ten years since I hath met my clan and kinsmen. I remember… they prefer the trees, and the shade. They prefer the silence of the Wood, and so, that is where we go,” Roland answers, turning his head to look back, in eye contact.

And, grinning, eyebrows lifting, the sun streaks o’er his face like the brightened strokes of a fresh painting. “I could take the trees in grander heights than that of the terra firma. Shall I race thee?” His grin gleams. “My skills against thine. The winner could ask the second place for a favor,” he nearly purrs.

    “Careful.” He hummed, his tone lowering as he spoke. “Probably wouldn’t be wise to upset our tour guide.” There was a very subtle tinge of humor in his last few words, attempting to make some light of the situation. 

    He took the hankerchief from Theo’s hand without any hesitation, he’d much rather the smell of the polish, it was almost comforting. The aroma was one he had grown accustomed to growing up with the other elf. It reminded him, solely, of home. 

     With a sigh, he squeezed the fabric. “I don’t want to get used to it.” His voice was soft, but a layer of anxiety was buried deep within his words. He knew he wasn’t alone in his unease, though with how well Theo can mask his every emotion, it’s difficult to know just how bothered the other may be.  Tam brought the hankerchief up to his nose swiftly, the sharp smell of oil rapidly masking the sour taint of the Deep Roads. 

    The dimly lit halls seemed to continue on with absolutely no end in sight, several doorways with slimmer earthen paths snaked off of the main road into the darkness, the frame’s of such tunnels a mere silhouette against the little light provided from crimson torches, and were the least bit inviting.  He had heard the story of where Wardens go to die. What an awful way to go, so secluded from everything and anything you’re passionate about. Any final cry of defeat would only be met by the chilling silence of these crumbling, once majestic arches and walls stained by the blood of those who too, once feared entering such a destitute place. He followed silently behind Oghren, perfectly ready to leave the minute any of the others in their party have second thoughts. 

long hair in a helmet is everything I fear

[[GAWRD do not want. Even with some tight ass braids that sounds like a nightmare...but imagine those totes beachy waves after soaking in sweat all day, yknow.

rootsofvhenadahl replied to your post:

   (RIP those were supposed to be hearts. I love Theo’s hair though)   

[HELLO MY DEAR!! feshfegyw <3]

Stark gaze focused just below the sharp, inquisitive raise of a dark brow. A thoughtful pause filled the gap between question and answer, though soon enough his voice followed Cauthrien’s with the usual creep of friendliness upon his features.

“…What does that even mean, really? ‘Happy’?” The Warden shrugged with a charming flash of teeth. Ever-deflecting, even when he knew she of all people saw right through him. Still, he’d take his own route to get to the point.

    As they ventured into the vast underground labyrinth, a pungent odor all but knocked him back, he scrunched his face and took a deep breath through his mouth. He had expected a subtle, earthy aroma, but instead was met with a stagnant, musty taint with the distant scent of general decay in the air. He huffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, then glanced up to match his companion’s look of utter disdain.

     “Supposedly, to find that- er, paragon?” He whispered, not wanting to gather the attention of their rather, raucous new friend. His gaze flickered momentarily to that of their odd dwarven companion, thankfully the other seemed blissfully unaware of their conversation.

     “You’re telling me, it stinks to high heavens in here, not sure how long I can endure such a terrible smell.” He definitely wasn’t the only one to smell it, that he knew. Breathing through his mouth was not ideal, not with how stale the air was. How did anything live down here?? Or, more importantly, what still lives down here?

      The fowl hint across his features only strengthened in agreement with Tam's observation. Having essentially grown up sharing the same shelter as gutter rats, displeasure to the senses was never really something that deterred Theo, though even he had to admit the stench was something difficult to ignore. Even Shit-water and week-old Alienage animal carcasses couldn't quite measure up to the waft of ancient must and unknown rot that the deeproads served up to one's nostrils. It was somehow worsened by the ominous mystery of it all - an odor so particular that he already knew it'd be segregated to only bad memories; a scent that assaulted his very skin with how thick it lived in the air they breathed - he could have sworn he almost felt the very corruption now swimming in his veins. It made him shiver.  

      "Oh, I just thought that was ol' Oghren, here!" The elf's humor was nearly a knee-jerk reaction to the unease, as if to catapult them away from the true weight of what they were daring to venture into. With a lean and a jesting jab of his elbow towards the stout man in question, his grin accompanied a mirthful wink. "No wonder we're havin' to drag his wife back to him, huh?"   

       For all the wildly inappropriate joking the two had been carrying on with up to this point, it seemed Theo had misjudged just how far he could take it. The comment warranted nothing but a staunch, disapproving glare and a snarl of teeth that raised the curtain of a fiery braided mustache. Woops. The Warden's laugh fizzled into chuckles, which trailed into silence. The grin he wore survived through pure habit, though all the jovial life had drained from his face, leaving it hollow.

Sometimes it's hard to get in depth with your muse and their backstory, because you can't figure out how to bring those things up with others. Here are a couple of starters intended to make things a little more personal!

"What's holding you back?"

"I'm not comfortable with this conversation."

"Will you /ever/ be comfortable with this conversation?"

"Let me in sometime!"

"It's not that easy, you know."

"Help me understand."

"It's hard to connect with someone when all they do is push you away."

"Why are you always so cold?"

"Why are you always so happy?"

"Are you really happy now?"

"Who hurt you this badly to make you this way?!"

"What, did your ex mess you up that badly?!"

"Why do you keep fighting it any time you feel?"

"It's a problem, I get it."

"This is all kinds of messed up."

"That's not exactly a good coping method."

"So what happened, with your parents, really?"

"What was your childhood like?"

"Everyone has at lest a little bit of mommy/daddy issues. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"My parents aren't exactly perfect models, either."

"You were bullied? What for?"

"Was it hard? Coming out, I mean."

"You can't just run away all the time."

"You can't just hide all the time."

"Are you still thinking about them?"

"I'm not the enemy here. But this makes me wonder who the real one is for you."

"Is the reason you're so cold and defensive because you feel threatened?"

"How long has it been since you last spoke to them?"

"You never talk about it, why?"

"How come you're so different around them?"

"It's like you don't have a care or worry in the world."

"You seem so perfect. I don't get it."

"What was your ex like?"

"I don't think I was ever good enough for them."

"Are you not comfortable being intimate?"

"Why don't you feel comfortable being intimate?"

"Letting someone see you that vulnerable, it's a scary thing."

"Are you scared of being hurt?"

"Have you ever been taken advantage of?"

"Why are you afraid of saying I love you?"

"I never understood how someone could say those words so easily."

"You're hurting others the way you've been hurt in the past, don't you think that's ironic?"

"You use people to make yourself feel better."

"I'm scared of being used again..."

"Losing someone isn't easy, but you're making it harder than it needs to be."

"How long has it been since you lost them?"

"You're too attached."

"I'm not attached, I'm just comfortable with what I'm familiar to."

"Maybe the real reason you're so controlling is because, deep down you'd rather have them in your grasp than lose them."

       The crunch of gravel under boot-heel became far more pronounced upon taking those first few steps over the official threshold into the deeproads. There seemed to be a particular stillness in the already stagnant underground air, bringing attention to the scraping echoes as if to punctuate the oppressive uncertainty that laid ahead. It stopped Theo dead in his tracks where before, he had barely paid mind in favor of joking with the newcomer Oghren, sharing harsh sips from whatever was in his flask.

       Now, his upbeat poo-pooing of danger rang hollow in his bones as amber eyes scanned the vast, ancient stone arches that had been left to the mercy of time. He’d come to pride himself on adaptability in any situation...but...this was all completely foreign to him. Already, he yearned for the surface, again. They had barely yet ventured into the darkness and already he felt drowned by the underground alleys surrounding them, his heart gasping for a breath of fresh open-sky air.

      His hand subtly reached for the mabari at his side, scratching at the scruff of Toki’s neck for some semblance of comfort. It was passed off as the opposite, as if staying his hound’s unease instead, to mask his own anxieties the best he could.

He melts on that simplistic form of verbose and nature like warmed wax just beginning to see the peak of the orange dawn, and he presses his lips to Theo’s knuckles with the edge of a reverent man come seeking sup.

Keen, sharp eyes look above those knuckles, as Roland thinks carefully on this new ploy. How does one find a Dalish encampment in the middle of the Wood? To find those whom do not wish to be found in the rightful first place? He lifts his head with the sharp edge of a deer looking into the greenbrush, and e’ery thought-of-form in his body puts on the airs as a wild, flammable creature; forgotten in his ides to be the human being, of course. All around them is the tell-tale signs of absent Nature; green, healthy bushes of thorns and hidden berries, ripe and green and soft nooks of animal refuse and burrows; black trees so old they resemble more like fossils as tender shoots of baby leaves rise in gay tones t’ward the aching, clear sky of blue clouds and the hot, radiant Sun, painted as a deity on His cotton throne.

And thoughtfully doth Roland hum, soft as a hummingbird’s wings. “Hast thou e’er hunted before, my love?” he asks, as his eyes hath narrowed in his complacency to Find. Everything comes for him all at once, senses and knowledge, and his Father’s voice begging him to use the skills in which he was Known, as he was taught, all those years ago; that he still uses in his want of animalistic safety.

But Roland’s eyebrows doth bounce. “But, without the proper pay-off of primitive nutrients. We may need to track these people, to find them as accordingly. ‘Twould send them the proper respect as one who hast ne’er seen them, I think.” And Roland sends a sly, playful look Theo’s way, full of companionable, gorgeous meaning.

      An inner skip of admiration lifted Theo's head to observe as Roland peered this way and that, the fresh morning rays painting a warm halo of sunlight around his head. Fitting, he thought, and smiled in lieu of their current predicament. Upon the inquiry of his experience with hunting, the Warden offered a quick nod of assurance that he had indeed understood and could deliver on the idea Roland was so graciously nudging him towards. With all the traveling he'd done, he not only needed to learn long ago how to become self-reliant when it came to food, but also in knowing where safety did and did not lie. Though likely nothing close to the nature of Roland’s own skill, tracking had become a secondary habit in being both inconspicuous and aware for Theo. A staple rule in any successful endeavor was to first, think like your target. With Roland's last encouraging comment, he aimed to do just that.

     A swell of determination and hope blossomed inside his ribs at the implications of proving oneself, and another enthused nod followed with a grin to match his Love's. Roland knew just where and how to titillate him, didn't he?

     "Aah, not even a nibble?" Theo playfully pouted in regards to hunting without reward, though followed it with a chuckle before falling into a more astute manner. After a moment of taking in their surroundings once more, his knee gently met the forest floor to inspect a nearby plateau of dirt. What did he know of Dalish that could be useful, now? - Nomadic and insular. Tracking animals was easy - they didn't bother to cover their own tracks...but, that task could also be quite difficult for elves when traveling in the numbers of a clan. A caravan, even; it was then that he squinted curiously at a particular path. The ground was precariously muddled in a faux-natural way, with smears just a tad too smooth to be accidental. Footprints beside the tracks of a wheel, perhaps? He couldn't be sure it was even Dalish and not just a passing cart, but not just anyone would go through the trouble of attempting to obscure tracks - it was a better lead than nothing, eh?

They bump shoulders as they walk; their clasped hands like a living thing.

Roland laughs. “Nay: thy heart and soul should be sufficient enough to gain their consciousness.” He shrugs. “But if naught, that is their keeping: not thine.” For hours they’ve walked; nameless miles hiding beneath the shimmering leaf of golden and burnished oak; brown, craggy things and silted twigs snapping beneath their feet, stinking of fresh grass and the desperate, fading tang of wild onions and yellow dandelion weeds. Roland had gone an extra mile to wear boots for this long journey, aching in his knees and turning green-stained, and he already sweats ‘twixt his toe cracks for want of a proper form of Comfort.

“Much has changed,” he goes on to say; for he feels it in the wind, in the ground, and he gains a faraway expression from the softness of it, and it deepens in settlement of his face. “I’ve naught a wonder what that could mean. ‘Tis been years since I hath seen these people, and I am not sure if my letter had gone through.” He passes a sheepish glance to his Theo. “They would recognize me,” he continues, “if the guards of the Past are indeed the guards of the Now. I will speak with them firstly, if all pretenses should thus be shirked, and they do not remember me.” And his brow goes cloudy, thoughtful, as he doth continue to look a’fore him, in his walking.

“… I should hope that they remember me,” he says slowly. “I should hope I would not be forgotten.” 

            The worrisome weight perched atop Theo’s wrinkled brow soon eased at Roland’s words, melting away altogether upon hearing reason. True enough; all he could do was his best and the rest was out of his hands. It brought a smile to his face and an ease in his chest, as was often the case when seeing through his Beloved’s eyes. The continuation of their walk remained more carefree on his behalf, to the point of continued conversation.              Ear twitched, on instinct, as did the comforting brush of his thumb against the flesh of Roland’s palm. It was his turn to offer the evened scale of perspective - or at least, serve as partner in whatever was to come of this new information.             “No one could forget you.” The words fell not with cliche’ sweetness, but rather with a frank certainty as honey-hued eyes took to surveying their surroundings. With talk of potential miscommunication, a familiar sharpness of the Watchful Rogue’s nature settled over him like the first waves of the tide soaked into the cracks of shore.

             There brewed a downplayed buzzing in Theo’s gut. The only Dalish he'd ever encountered had been a formidable and wary folk upon first meeting, but he tried to let that influence little of his current situation. Alas, where initial doubt sprouted in his sense, the Warden quickly stomped it out in himself. Instead, he paused his footing completely to halt Roland alongside him with a gentle grasp. Firm hands offered a warm squeeze to punctuate a sincere and encouraging gaze.             “You mean no harm and you still know their ways, which is far more than anyone else they might encounter. You are no stranger to them, whatever the case.”  This adventure through Dalish lands would be different; he was with Roland, which forced him to trust and believe in the words that came from his own mouth. He was special, and that was true, and all would be well.

The grin blooms and spreads whence a palm is pressed so firmly on the breadth of his clothe’d skin, slinking and pressing down on the wrinkles of his old, harrowed tunic. He doth pause in his packing, and leans downward whence his Chosen Man leans upward; and he cups Theo’s palm in both hands, migrating to cup his face, as they come together; body to body, pressed tenderly against the front of each other.

Such sneaking, hidden hints of romance in nearly every bit of Theo’s voice, and Roland’s grin deepens, grants a sharpness where there could possibly be a sharpness. The tips of his healthy canine teeth touch mildly the shining swell of his bottom lip, and his eyebrows rise, playfully.

He guffaws distinctly whence he bleats. “What sound doth a stag make? Hah!” He laughs! “A goat for thee, and a deer for me! What a couple we make, two hoof’d things prancing ‘round the merry-go bush as a painting of the Sabbat!” He laughs cackling, nuzzling Theo’s face; brushing his beginning-beard, creasing in his neck and scratching stubble to make him laugh.

    It was still early morning, the sun just now stirring awake over the peaks of yonder mountain ranges, hours after they themselves had begun their trek into the wilderness. While the air still held a crisp bite, chilly enough to watch one's breath dance ahead of them, Theo was convinced his rosy running nose was ailing him for different reasons. Probably all the close-quarters kept in the claustrophobic few days they'd spent on the sea. It wasn't the most ideal ship to hitch a ride on, but it was the soonest to leave port for the Free Marches.

      Maker, from Theo's unease of horseback to catching sea-sickness (not to mention how ragged he'd looked the last time he'd checked a mirror before leaving the Ansburg Keep), it was a testament of Roland's love how he put up with it all. Quite gracefully, at that.

       At the thought, honey-hued eyes glinted with a burst of vibrancy as the fresh sunrays warmed his sleepy face - a fitting moment, like many fleeting moments of poetry allowed by nature, to reflect his beaming heart. He beheld and quietly admired the taller man walking alongside him, with leaves still captured in curls and the gentle points of his ears a blushing pink from the nipping cold. The softest smile delicately wrinkled the corners of his gaze and with a passing yawn, his hand found its familiar home in Roland's. Theo was often left bruised and exhausted on his travels, but this time every step was an adventure instead of a task. He was haggard, and he was happy about it.

       Feet carried him along, enjoying the fresh air while allowing his ponderings to pleasantly wander. He’d been rehearsing his Elvish greetings for the billionth time in his mind when a sudden gasp of realization jerked his head up from it's idle downward tilt. Before he could even form his thoughts, they already came tumbling from his lips in hasty rambling.

@wardentheo || ♥

“You know if you’re ever hungry, you’re welcome to eat with us. We have enough to spare.” The Tabris family is well off in comparison to most of their neighbours — which, in the Alienage, means they do not regularly starve, and might even be able to put aside some of their earnings during good times, for when times are harder. But then, to be four people of working age, none younger or older, in a single family is unusual. If Cyrion has his will it won’t last for much longer, either.

“There’s no need for you to STEAL.”

 Pointed ears perked up in attention upon hearing that familiar voice addressing him. The arch in his brow that followed peaked towards such a generous offer, only to fall flat at the mention of ‘stealing’. Ah, shit.

He must have been caught red-handed, very literally, with his dirtied fingers still clutching the apple he’d swiped from a vendor’s crate just seconds prior. Almost on instinct, the young fellow clutched the fruit tighter and jerked it back, as if obscuring the evidence would somehow absolve him of the crime she’d already clearly witnessed. There came a hot surge of annoyance at the blatant accusation - it’s not like there was any guilt in stealing from Shems, he did it all the time. That’s just the way things worked around their parts of town. Alas, he relented. Shianni wasn’t pointing fingers...she was trying to help. In his mind, pitying him, even. It made him fidget, uncomfortably.

“C’mon, It’s hardly stealing when you’re taking from someone who already has plenty.” Theo’s words held a biting matter-of-fact tone as he gestured back to the fruit salesman, who’d remained none the wiser. Still, his signature smirk presented itself, as usual. A smug characteristic he seemed to showcase far more often after a noble left his mouth scarred in a failed pick-pocketing debacle a year ago. In his case, humor had very well been an adaptation of survival and it served him quite well when it came to avoiding things; His specialty.