a complexity of elves

[do_not_falter]

WHO: Huguette Bonnay (OC), Elera Lavellan
WHERE: Haven
WHEN: Post-The Threat Remains, pre-In Hushed Whispers
WARNINGS: TBA as needed
NOTES: N/A

Her armour is a disgrace. Which, now she thinks about it, there are two ways of understanding that statement. The more metaphorical is the sword down the front of her chest-piece, the heraldry of the Templar Order, is covered in druffalo shit after the past year. The more practical is that she'd had to be practical on her journey to Haven. Armour isn't cheap even if you are of a size where you can by pre-made pieces, and Huguette is too tall, too much the wrong shape for that. Armour isn't cheap, but it's needed for travelling safely. So she'd had no choice but to dirty it; only care enough for it so that it was still usable, let the sword down her chestpiece get covered.

To be a templar, alone, is dangerous in ways more stupid than noble.

Once Huguette had reached Haven, shaking and stumbling in the grips of lyrium withdrawal, some kind soul had given her armour an initial clean as she raved and whimpered in bed. If she ever found out who, she'd thank them. Now she's on her feet, if not quite up to full practice or full use yet, she needs to devote some serious time and elbow grease into cleaning it all herself. Which is how the knight comes to be sitting outside her tent, scrubbing rust and grime off metal.

She's dismantled her plate armour, undone all of the buckles and straps, because she's safe enough here to do so. If need be, if anyone attacks Haven, she's wearing a gambeson (cleaner than her own, if a little big) and she has her greataxe propped next to her. She's already finished with the front half of her chestpiece, and that is leaning against the log she's calling a bench. Currently, it's the back which has her scrubbing and scrubbing and trying not to swear. Or, indeed, breathe in too deeply, because the cleaning spirits she'd looted from some templars-turned-bandits (bastards, bastards all of them, how dare they, she'd killed them for it but how fucking dare they-) is strong, it does the job, and it stinks. It'd made her head spin, if she was without air.

"Um, Huguette, you wanted..."

She looks up and smiles at Emma. The little girl smiles back, braver than she'd been a few days ago.

"Bless you," Huguette says, taking rags from her. "This will help a lot. Here," she flicks a coin (one of the last she has) at her, and Emma catches it. It reminds Huguette of herself, back in the alienage, which might be a reason why she's looking out for the girl. Beyond just basic decency, anyway. "No one's been giving you any trouble, have they?"

Emma shakes her head, eyes huge and sincere and possibly full of lies. That, too, Huguette remembers. "Nope."

"All right. They call you knife-ear again, come to me. I'll set them straight. Now, off you go, da'len. You've got chores, I know."

Emma grins and then darts off. Huguette shakes her head and then bends back over her armour. Damn rust. If she could smite it, that'd be so useful.

Comments

[dirthena]

If there was one thing Elera was still getting used to about Haven, it was the feeling of being surrounded by shemlen and the occasional city elf. Her journey to the Conclave had been taken mostly alone until she'd run into the groups she was was tasked with hiding amongst, and the Conclave had someone of every race on Thedas present. From the Qunari mercenaries to the Carta dwarves she thought she saw in the shadows -- spies, like her? -- to the shemlen who dominated the proceedings; blending into the assembled masses had been easy.

But Haven and the story of the Herald of Andraste attracts humans first and then city elves; beyond those that she's personally recruited to the cause, that doesn't change. It's a strange kind of loneliness. One that Solas, as much as she is coming to enjoy her time spent with him, and Sera cannot change.

The armor that she wears is strange in its newness -- freshly forged for Inquisition forces -- and came with shoes of all damned things. It's deeply uncomfortable, and Elera has had enough. It's on her way to talk to Haggart about doing something about that, she doesn't care what Josephine says about offending nobles, that she hears it -- da'len and nearly splits her face in two with the sheer force of a smile. Finally.

"Andaran atish'an--" she begins, once she finds the source of the elven. Only-- only that is not an elf. And furthermore, once Elera catches sight of the sword and flames on the woman's armor, not someone an apostate mage should encounter. Surely her position -- however unwanted -- as Herald would protect her from any Templar attempt to corral her? She swore she would fight them all off to protect Solas, if she had to, but that was different than just wandering up to one with a staff strapped to her back, talking in elvish. Fenedhis lasa.

So she stops, partway to Huguette, mouth still open in a very undignified manner, eyes wide and cautious. It's Haven, she thinks, no one would attack her in Haven.