[ Sabine could almost nap like this, but attempts to try are interrupted when a wheel hits a stone or a dip in the dusty terrain, jostling her awake. By the time Alistair joins her, she's resigned for wakefulness, bored of the monotonous desert view and instead fidgeting with a length of skinny leather and unpainted wooden beads. They clack together as she threads them.
Her hands pause as he settles, and she obliges him to squint up at the sky. She makes a sound, thoughtful, enlightened. ]
In Orlais, [ she says, leaning in as if in conspiracy and pointing upwards in a different direction, at the brightest point of the sky ] we have the sun. You see it every day, instead of as a rumour. It is for warming, you know.
[ Alistair cants his head to give her his ear, when she talks, without looking at her. He is busy looking where she points: not directly into the sun, because he's not as stupid as he looks, but near enough that his flinch to shut his eyes is not entirely fake. ]
It's trying to kill me.
[ For the record, he has lived in Orlais off and on for ten years. A very slow murder.
He doesn't open his eyes again. It's quiet. The wheels are creaking and crunching over rocks, the horses snort, people nearby are talking, the wind is audible, but--it's quiet. ]
And I can't see how you haven't turned into a freckle.
[ She stretches her arms in front of her to inspect. There's a little colour that isn't just a sort of lobstery pink settled in her skin, but not much, as if any pigmentation were to be collected in little freckle deposits for a later time. ]
I will have new ones, [ she says, like she's resigned to it. ] Et toi.
[ She folds herself back up again, back to her fidgetty task of beads on a bracelet, picking out a simple enough pattern. They don't sell for the effort they take, but it's a good means of getting rid of pieces she doesn't have more inspired purposes for.
There's a suspicious glance sideways. Aware of his presence in a sense that transcends just a sort of semi-amusing shem shape nearby her. (Not the case in battles; they have fought within the same vicinity twice, now, and he had been, then, a point of reliability, movement with a sword, demon gore, a blindspot covered. But every other time.) She can smell him, for one thing, because everyone sort of stinks a little out here. Sweat collecting in clothes, and desert dust trapping itself in linen.
But it's not. Bad. Vaguely intimate in a way she doesn't associate with shems. Maybe a little bit Martel on the occasions he has bodily lifted her out of harms way, but he doesn't count -- and then there are Orlesian nobles, who mask their faces and also their bodies in acrid perfumes and smokes.
This close, she studies him. The gingery grain growing along his jaw. The easy relaxation that is settling in his face. She should probably draw something on it. ]
Et moi, [ in mumbly assent, and when he's too tired to put effort into being aggravating to any nearby Orlesians, his accent is marginally better than normal. ] I do turn into a freckle, I get-- [ he snuffles without opening his eyes, oblivious to examination ] --weirdly dark. A freckle with freckles. It's unfortunate-looking.
[ Riveting conversation, he would be sure, if he weren't speeding rapidly toward sleep. On some level he regrets it. She's pretty, and she's talking to him, and he is distantly aware of the possibility that he'll wake up with something drawn on his face. But he won't wake up dead, he's pretty sure, by her hand or any hand she might notice coming. That's something.
He's not entirely unconscious when his head lists and his temple touches shoulder, but he's near enough to it that it doesn't seem presumptuous or like nearly so bad an idea as moving. ]
An upgrade from your usual, [ is heartless in itself and heartless for the fact he is clearly falling asleep and in no position to banter back. Sabine smiles to herself for her own wit, and this smile fades a little immediately when she senses the weight of Alistair's head on her shoulder, and tries to figure out if fell there or was placed there.
Her first compulsion is to shrug him off and push him and call him names. This is what normally would happen, even if in a good natured sort of way.
But she doesn't.
Something about knowing a thing or two about the sleepless way of the Grey Wardens, the ceasing of the songs they hear. She knows the relief of finding sleep without nightmares, so just sighs a little and carries on with her work. Leather, beads, a clasp, some neat knotting, and then, eventually, she reaches for where his hand is lying lax on his knee. She only touches it lightly, just enough to manipulate it to sneak the bracelet around his wrist, carefully clasping it closed.
Her hands hover to see if she's managed to get away with it. ]
Nn mmmmmmm mmmm mmmm mmm-mm, [ Alistair counters brilliantly, from the edge of the Fade--but that's it. He's gone. He probably won't remember his dreams, but they're all his own. No darkspawn--minimal darkspawn, whose eyes he doesn't see through and whose hunt he doesn't join and who are easily beheaded and moved on from. Warm leather. A dog briefly lost and then found. Fingers on his wrist. (He twitches and hums but doesn't wake.) Cakes that are just out of reach, forever. Altogether the least unsettled sleep he's had in a very long time. ]
[ He doesn't stir, besides that one last twitch. Sabine smirks a little, to herself, and allows herself to relax as the wagon rolls over rough ground and the sun persists, eternally, in the clear sky. Maybe he drools on her, maybe he doesn't, but she remains, for the most part, a sturdy leaning post.
And has some experience in the ways of sneaking away from sleeping men that when Alistair does wake, he's been pushed aside and gently onto whatever burlap wrapped cargo the wagon is intended for.
No elf in sight, but he's gained a new bracelet, a crick in the neck, and a handsome mustache drawn on with a piece of charcoal. ]
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Her hands pause as he settles, and she obliges him to squint up at the sky. She makes a sound, thoughtful, enlightened. ]
In Orlais, [ she says, leaning in as if in conspiracy and pointing upwards in a different direction, at the brightest point of the sky ] we have the sun. You see it every day, instead of as a rumour. It is for warming, you know.
no subject
It's trying to kill me.
[ For the record, he has lived in Orlais off and on for ten years. A very slow murder.
He doesn't open his eyes again. It's quiet. The wheels are creaking and crunching over rocks, the horses snort, people nearby are talking, the wind is audible, but--it's quiet. ]
And I can't see how you haven't turned into a freckle.
no subject
I will have new ones, [ she says, like she's resigned to it. ] Et toi.
[ She folds herself back up again, back to her fidgetty task of beads on a bracelet, picking out a simple enough pattern. They don't sell for the effort they take, but it's a good means of getting rid of pieces she doesn't have more inspired purposes for.
There's a suspicious glance sideways. Aware of his presence in a sense that transcends just a sort of semi-amusing shem shape nearby her. (Not the case in battles; they have fought within the same vicinity twice, now, and he had been, then, a point of reliability, movement with a sword, demon gore, a blindspot covered. But every other time.) She can smell him, for one thing, because everyone sort of stinks a little out here. Sweat collecting in clothes, and desert dust trapping itself in linen.
But it's not. Bad. Vaguely intimate in a way she doesn't associate with shems. Maybe a little bit Martel on the occasions he has bodily lifted her out of harms way, but he doesn't count -- and then there are Orlesian nobles, who mask their faces and also their bodies in acrid perfumes and smokes.
This close, she studies him. The gingery grain growing along his jaw. The easy relaxation that is settling in his face. She should probably draw something on it. ]
no subject
[ Riveting conversation, he would be sure, if he weren't speeding rapidly toward sleep. On some level he regrets it. She's pretty, and she's talking to him, and he is distantly aware of the possibility that he'll wake up with something drawn on his face. But he won't wake up dead, he's pretty sure, by her hand or any hand she might notice coming. That's something.
He's not entirely unconscious when his head lists and his temple touches shoulder, but he's near enough to it that it doesn't seem presumptuous or like nearly so bad an idea as moving. ]
no subject
Her first compulsion is to shrug him off and push him and call him names. This is what normally would happen, even if in a good natured sort of way.
But she doesn't.
Something about knowing a thing or two about the sleepless way of the Grey Wardens, the ceasing of the songs they hear. She knows the relief of finding sleep without nightmares, so just sighs a little and carries on with her work. Leather, beads, a clasp, some neat knotting, and then, eventually, she reaches for where his hand is lying lax on his knee. She only touches it lightly, just enough to manipulate it to sneak the bracelet around his wrist, carefully clasping it closed.
Her hands hover to see if she's managed to get away with it. ]
no subject
no subject
And has some experience in the ways of sneaking away from sleeping men that when Alistair does wake, he's been pushed aside and gently onto whatever burlap wrapped cargo the wagon is intended for.
No elf in sight, but he's gained a new bracelet, a crick in the neck, and a handsome mustache drawn on with a piece of charcoal. ]