Post by Jenae Amell on Sept 26, 2015 15:27:27 GMT
Party Camp, 9:30 Dragon
Well. Denerim had been a bust. At least, that was how she imagined Alistair might have put it, if he hadn't borne the brunt of what made the trip so...unsatisfying? Disappointing. Terrible, even. So much for happy reunions—that, too, Jenae could almost hear him say. There hadn't been many opportunities for quips or deprecation since Gol since Denerim, however, so it would simply have to remain unsaid.
Leaving a lot unsaid these days, aren't we?
She flinched, clamping a hand to her mouth to prevent from crying out (which only proved Pride's point, really). It was still so new, so rightfully strange, to have the—the demon inside her head. Jenae thought she'd never get used to hearing it speak, knowing that if she faltered, or if the terms of their bargains were met, well. Then she'd prove all the fears true, wouldn't she? So perhaps she simply hoped she'd never get used to Pride. And yet it was right, wasn't it? She'd not spoken a word to any of them about what had truly happened in the Fade, instead making up some vague story about taking on the forms of dreamers, and that had appeased them. Even Wynne, clever enchanter that she was. Even Morrigan, who spoke about shapeshifting in the casual manner of one who'd learnt the skill on one's own.
It was getting late in the evening: the campfire had all but burnt out and died, save for a few stubborn embers that still glowed. Cautiously, she drew back her hand, uncertain in the darkness whether or not her sudden reaction to, well, to seemingly nothing at all had been noticed. Her gaze fell upon Alistair's pack. How long had he imagined finding Goldanna, she wondered. How many years of dreams had fallen by the wayside as soon as he'd met his sister? She couldn't blame the woman's reaction, not really; life had made her hard, and sentimentality held little weight in Denerim's market district. Yet it was Alistair she knew, Alistair whose expectations had been crushed so terribly.
She swallowed hard. Goldanna had not been what was expected, and ever since the Fade, Jenae supposed that she, too, was a lie. So she had to tell him.
Oh, must you.
Her reaction wasn't nearly as violent this time, merely a shudder as she drew her cloak tight around herself. But yes. She had to tell him. So Jenae stood and made her way through the darkness towards Alistair and his things. Between the embers of the campfire and Morrigan's distant blaze she could just about see him, and she resisted the urge to tap his shoulder, to get his attention through physical contact. After all, he'd nearly been a templar. Which made this that much harder, only.
"Can we talk?" she asked, arms crossed and voice small. "There's, ah. I've something to tell you."
Only if she was to be a disappointment as well, then she'd be kind enough to let him know now, as opposed to years later.
Leaving a lot unsaid these days, aren't we?
She flinched, clamping a hand to her mouth to prevent from crying out (which only proved Pride's point, really). It was still so new, so rightfully strange, to have the—the demon inside her head. Jenae thought she'd never get used to hearing it speak, knowing that if she faltered, or if the terms of their bargains were met, well. Then she'd prove all the fears true, wouldn't she? So perhaps she simply hoped she'd never get used to Pride. And yet it was right, wasn't it? She'd not spoken a word to any of them about what had truly happened in the Fade, instead making up some vague story about taking on the forms of dreamers, and that had appeased them. Even Wynne, clever enchanter that she was. Even Morrigan, who spoke about shapeshifting in the casual manner of one who'd learnt the skill on one's own.
It was getting late in the evening: the campfire had all but burnt out and died, save for a few stubborn embers that still glowed. Cautiously, she drew back her hand, uncertain in the darkness whether or not her sudden reaction to, well, to seemingly nothing at all had been noticed. Her gaze fell upon Alistair's pack. How long had he imagined finding Goldanna, she wondered. How many years of dreams had fallen by the wayside as soon as he'd met his sister? She couldn't blame the woman's reaction, not really; life had made her hard, and sentimentality held little weight in Denerim's market district. Yet it was Alistair she knew, Alistair whose expectations had been crushed so terribly.
She swallowed hard. Goldanna had not been what was expected, and ever since the Fade, Jenae supposed that she, too, was a lie. So she had to tell him.
Oh, must you.
Her reaction wasn't nearly as violent this time, merely a shudder as she drew her cloak tight around herself. But yes. She had to tell him. So Jenae stood and made her way through the darkness towards Alistair and his things. Between the embers of the campfire and Morrigan's distant blaze she could just about see him, and she resisted the urge to tap his shoulder, to get his attention through physical contact. After all, he'd nearly been a templar. Which made this that much harder, only.
"Can we talk?" she asked, arms crossed and voice small. "There's, ah. I've something to tell you."
Only if she was to be a disappointment as well, then she'd be kind enough to let him know now, as opposed to years later.
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