A Stranger In Chains [OPEN]

The flowing, elegant accent of the cultured Orlesian gave her presence away more than any mount could, even if it was stomping up behind the Qunari the entire way up the mountain. He'd been cognizant of her watchful, suspicious gaze, and it was something that made his stomach turn in knots. He hated the attention, the peering eyes. He'd been a slave and an exhibit in Tevinter, a trophy for the family to display. All those eyes ogling the Tal-Vashoth had a very same effect. The ashen hairs on the back of his neck raised as he felt the horse draw closer, head not entirely turning to face the one corralling and shepherding him and the other refugees up to Skyhold. 

The ramshackle garments turned, cloth and leather of various origins catching the light, the few pieces of armor glinting in the midday sun. Red eyes in a sea of black focused on the Orlesian, quietly sizing her up. She had hair like his own, but the rest of her was unmistakably alien, from the fair skin to the gentle curve of her face. His great nose expelled a huff of breath, warm exhalation clouding and billowing in the cold winds of the mountaintop before fading away. "Neither," Shackle rumbled, voice as gravelly and rough to the ear as his grizzled form looked to the eye, "Not too sure about signing up with this outfit on a permanent basis. Just here for work." There was a whisper of cobwebs in his voice, a harsh, brutal rasp that made it sound like he hadn't used his voice in years. Closer inspection about his lips would reveal the faint pockmark scars of the stitches that had once sewn his mouth shit.

Red eyes moved from her own soft orbs down her figure, sizing the stranger up. Massive, tree-trunk thick arms folded over his barrel chest, not in defiance or annoyance, but in a gesture of withdrawal and reclusion. Orlesians weren't his favorite people, mostly because they made it abundantly clear he wasn't one of theirs. Still, he had to admit a longing to visit Val Royeaux, to walk among the ports and gardens. Maybe he'd even sneak into one of their parties, but there wasn't enough ceramic in the world to craft a mask that would hide everything so grossly Qunari about him. "You with the Inquisition?"

The Tal-Vashoth didn't recede from her look. Her unease, however, did cause a small frown to deepen across his grizzled mug. Who's she to bark orders to him, when her spine trembles before him like a reed in the wind? Dragon's Breath, she didn't even look older than Shackle, himself. He was almost on eye-level with her, even astride her stallion, and the Orlesian was to poke and prod at him? Arrogance may not have been a uniquely human trait, but the Orlesians seemed to present themselves with an abundance of it.

He made no mention of these thoughts, nor any indication of their existence. Red orbs latched onto the human like an anchor to the bottom of the sea, black abyss swallowing her gaze whole. "I work," he rumbled, the voice still as distant as some of the peaks, but just as fundamentally present, "I have talents in magecraft, and my shoulders are broad enough to carry you and your horse." He was tempted to call it a pony, but the mount didn't need that sort of treatment. Shackle, after all, too to animals then he took to people. Horses were still relatively new to Shackle, and he knew little of bonding with him. What he did know was that their loyalty was ferocious and protective, and to tempt the wrath of the beast below was a good way to wind up on your back, looking up at the roof of the healer's tent.

Or worse.

Red orbs remained on the Orlesian, thick arms still crossed over his chest. "Who're you?" He rumbles, voice now a distant clap of thunder, a rolling tumult, but faint in his throat, "Not the Inquisitor, are you?" He'd never met an Inquisitor before. What was the right thing to call her? Your Inquisitorialness? Your Holiness (It was a branch of the Chantry, after all)? Anything longer than three words or five syllables, and he'd just grunt respectfully. Bless the Avaar for teaching him that trick, should it come down to that.

Ah, you're a mage. At least the Orlesian skipped the almost obligatory glance of caution, as if he was to sprout into an abomination before her very eyes. It was a small kindness that she didn't seem outwardly terrified of the Tal-Vashoth outed as Saarebas. Though the humans in these southern kingdoms didn't take their terror of the raw power and unknowable majesty of the arcane to the same fanatical level as his own people did, Shackle had still seen too many looks of fear and terror at his mention of magical talent. The novelty had long worn off. The fear was insulting. The pity, doubly so. At least the good Lady skipped that. Polite, for an Orlesian, but what was a lady of Val Royeaux without her manners?

Still, that begged the question what a courtly lass was doing on this forsaken hilltop. True, the Inquisition called to all who could serve, and there were benefits for a family that offered their daughter in the Inquisition. Did she ask to come here, or was she asked, instead? Was this her dream? Her nightmare? All these people Shackle had met, and each had a valid reason for joining this branch. Most, vengeance and justice, crying out for righteousness before a hole in the sky and the screams of those hurt by the Fade. For others, they came for glory, seeking to champion their name further, or simply write the first chapter of their own imagined legend. Lofty, haughty goals, in the eyes of someone who, admittedly, was chasing more simple pleasures. A warm meal, a cot, and a roof to keep out the rain and wind were more than enough to sate Shackle's soul. 

"Shackle," The Tal-Vashoth responded, adjusting his weight. The bondage at his wrists and ankles clinked at that, more fashion than function now. The real chains were internal, mental, and were anchored deep in his psyche. These scraps of metal had their own function in combat, but little outside of the battlefield. Still, they gelled and glistened in the sunlight, as steel weights bound to the oaken frame of the mage. His gaze didn't pause or waver, even as he felt other eyes turn towards him. He could hear the rumor mill spinning from here, and all those suspicious tales will have been told before. Perhaps the Inquisition could come up with a more novel tale to spin to explain him, leaving the truth less than thrilling in it's wake. 

Menial labor sentence. Well, that didn't take long. As broad and wide as the mammoth Tal-Vashoth was, he was still often dwarfed by those of his race more active. Spending a good portion of your life in chains as Saarebas had left him weaker than most, but his talents of combat and unfortunate proclivity to find himself in more than a few fights left his build just a shy of gargantuan. Still, for the smaller races of Thedas, he must have still seemed imposing, more compact than his other kin or not. Work, however, was work, and he'd simply swallow his pride as he always did. A job was a job, as long as it paid a decent wage. So long as the Inquisition didn't seek to rob him, he'd clean the latrines if it came to it. 

The mage studied the Orlesian as her slender figure dismounted, her frame especially diminutive compared to his own. Shackle loomed like a stone henge as she laid out her offer; a tour, before setting to work. "Fine," he rumbled, a noncommittal shrug heaving his massive shoulders, "Lead the way." Better to know his way around Skyhold than bumble and stumble about like the town fool. Being laughed at drew out his more potent ire, anyway. Red eyes followed her unceasingly, though the periphery caught some glances of strangers. He could also se the wear and tear of the millennia on the people, as well as the keep. It was not a brittle, frail thing, Skyhold, but it was weakened and aging. It needed repairs and upkeep. If that's what he'd have to do, he would. 

He took another moment to study the ashen-haired Orlesian girl. She seemed happy enough to be here. Was she chasing glory? On the path of vengeance? What sort of life deposited this Lady of Val Royeaux atop this forsaken peak? Though his curiosity flickered in the corners of black eyes, red irises still gleamed sternly, a strange, eerie, distant glow to them, as his unflinching gaze bore upon her. 

So he did make her nervous after all. That, or she was tired of his draconian graze on the back of her ashen head. Red eyes gleamed as she turned to face him, her elevation almost eye-level thanks to the steps. Still, Shackle towered over the small girl, and she was just that in his eyes. Not out of disrespect (He didn't know her well enough to decide if she merited his respect yet), but out of objectivity. Denise seemed young, but not as shallow as most of the Orlesian girls Shackle had unfortunately met. Strong as her arms suggested she was, she was still such a small thing. In the scope of the universe, they were all humbled and minuscule, but matching eyes with the Orlesian was like looking down on an irritated mouse.

Shackle's blood-red gaze was unflinching as the Lady turned, huffing and puffing a pout of class. Again, her youth shows; these are the sort of wrinkles maturity irons out, even though it replaces them with wear and tear along the line. Meeting Denise's eyes enough to look into her soul, the Qunari remained still and quiet for a moment. The breeze caught the strands of his own white hair, sharp locks wafting with her own in the air as he watched her. Surly and uncomfortable as she might be, Shackle had never meant offense or unnerving. He carefully thought of how to phrase the next words to leave his mouth. No need to make the situation worse.

"Why are you here?" He rumbled, voice a faraway rockslide, "I've had insight into the lives of nobles. They don't like to get their hands dirty. You don't seem to care." That, or she was bidden to be here, bound by debt or oath or something else stupidly human in it's conception. He waited for her answer, still as the mountains around them, towering like the walls that penned them in. In the end, that's all walls were to Shackle: fences. Prison bars. Meant to contain, not to protect. That wasn't a concept he'd learned yet. Isolation affords few merits to the walls that keep you alone.

So, Denise was bidden, but that wasn't what drew bitterness from her lips. Shackle fell in beside the Orlesian as she started off again, every one of his steps taking up two of hers. He listened to her explanation in pensive silence, eyes still locked onto the back of her head. His curiosity, for now, was mostly slaked, though, so the red eyes were less intense as they bored into her.

"My condolences," he rumbled quietly, before falling quiet next to her once more as they strode through the keep. The concept of brothers and sisters wasn't a strange one for the Qunari (similar principles were promoted in the Qun), but there was no concept of brothers and sisters from birth. It was hard to Shackle to imagine what such a connection could be like, and what it would do to him emotionally to lose someone like that. It was a profound sense of loss, one he could only equate to being bound as Saarebas for the first time, and being cut off from his kin in the Qun. 

Quietly, he walked with her, contemplating his answer. Was she wrong? Was there anything to this venture, other than work? Was he really so detached, so disconnected from the world, that he didn't care for the people corrupting mages and the monsters threatening to end the world? "I don't like bullies," he finally snarled, another huff of bullish breath leaving his nostrils.