“I’ve heard of the Alienage,” Tav replies. “Primarily how unsafe it would be for me to visit. I would be a member of the Riftwatch one moment and a slave the next.”
“Is it not true?” he asks, though judging by his conversation partner’s face, it very likely isn’t. “They don’t take elves off the street to subjugate?”
He’s almost sure he read something of the sort about Denerim alienages.
There's a brief, ugly calculus that takes place - the odds that Tav'd follow him blindly into Darktown, against the chance he's got anything worth taking -
Eh. Bad investment.
"You got boots," Lazar yawns, rubs at his chin. "Find an elf 'round here if you want an escort."
Tav blows out a breath. It seems everyone is allergic to him these days. Or perhaps he’s once again said something he shouldn’t. (Sewing his lips shut or becoming a hermit are both sounding like better and better ideas by the day.)
“I do indeed have boots and legs to fill them,” Tav attempts diplomatically. “I’ll find an escort to the Alienage.”
Or, more likely, he’ll go alone, with only his shirt and shoes.
“I’m used to being on the road with friends,” Tav admits quietly.
He feels he has neither here and the desire to at least feel the touch of nature grows the longer people whisper and call him mad. Leaning back in his chair, he does what Bastien would want him to do: consider his company before speaking next. Would Lazar run off to tell someone his is plan if he spilled it now?
“I suppose itchy feet is a way to put it,” Tav nods.
“A job,” Tav replies, deeply skeptical if he’s even allowed jobs, but that’s not the point. His endgame is to get out of Kirkwall, one way or another. Maybe the Captain will be more forgiving if Tav tells him he’s got a job.
"Bird-catching," Lazar turns the fork over, digs a tine beneath nail. It's been weeks since putting out that bandit's eye, and he'd swear there's still gunk - "Merchant's wife sends out a raven every week, pays to keep it private."
The Hightown rookeries have integrity, which means the information costs more than he's willing to cough up. They'd only sell him right back to her.
"She's hiding it from her husband. Could be an affair, mundane shite."
Or she could be in contact with the Anderfels, the whole reason she's being watched. Either's useful. But both sound a pain in the ass to intercept - what's Lazar gonna do, shimmy up a fucking tree, hope for the best?
"Be easiest to nab the bird outside the city. I can get you a route, and a description. They all got little red bands."
Tav considers Lazar's proposal, but there's just one hitch that he needs to address.
"I need an escort to leave my cell," Tav replies quietly, gesturing with his head toward the two piratey looking men standing in the corner. "I doubt my friends would allow me to leave the Gallows without permission of the captain. I can talk to the birds, possibly get them to land closer-- I haven't tried to use my ability here-- but I can't go too far without someone watching me."
It's miserable and he hates it, but he's still trying to cope with it.
There's a famous portrait in Rialto - he's seen copies - the Maiden Calculating. A blonde woman sits in classical three-quarters, arranged against a neutral slate of grey. Her eyes seem almost to move with the viewer, in sympathy, or perhaps confusion. Its reproduction alongside mathematical formulae came into vogue for a period of time.
He thinks of her now, that anonymous sitter. Wonders if she'd look half so lost.
"I'm locked in and under guard any time I'm in my room," Tav clarifies. "It might as well be a cell."
He's wondering if he'll eventually be executed or if they're all waiting for him to finish the garden before unleashing that upon him. Regardless, he feels deeply unsafe either in or out of his cell and the only way he thinks he'll sense that safety again is to get outside, into nature.
Lazar says, still running the numbers on whether Riftwatch has taken up a sudden interest in criminal justice. There are some completely baseless accusations that he needs to take care of, if so -
(There's coin under the loose floorboard, a change of clothes, some letters. He could be gone in under an hour.)
"You a mage?"
Sounds like an awful polite imprisonment. Gotta be a mage thing, they never stop fussing for that shite.
"Walk around. Breathe some air. Talk to your birds, or whatnot." He chugs the last of his cup, scrapes up to his feet. "Don't need to leave nowhere for that. Seagulls shitting all over this place - griffons're probably worse."
Lazar doesn't know. He's not putting an arm anywhere near those beaky fucks.
"Griffons?" Tav raises an eyebrow. "You've griffons here?"
Though the point is made: if Tav wants, he can make the best out of this incarceration. Or perhaps, really, he should stop complaining in general when there's so much else going on.
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Tav doesn’t really mind all that much; he’s been called worse on the road.
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Probably. Disapproving grannies and heckling kids are the same, world over.
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"Who the fuck told you that?"
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“Is it not true?” he asks, though judging by his conversation partner’s face, it very likely isn’t. “They don’t take elves off the street to subjugate?”
He’s almost sure he read something of the sort about Denerim alienages.
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Might cut it for himself, if there's a moment. This one fell off the apple cart hard.
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“A neighborhood?” Tav asks, doubt still apparent in his voice. “Well now I’d like to see it in person”
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Eh. Bad investment.
"You got boots," Lazar yawns, rubs at his chin. "Find an elf 'round here if you want an escort."
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“I do indeed have boots and legs to fill them,” Tav attempts diplomatically. “I’ll find an escort to the Alienage.”
Or, more likely, he’ll go alone, with only his shirt and shoes.
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He's already reaching for Tav's bacon.
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He pauses, tapping his fingers on the table.
“Have you ever been outside of Kirkwall?” Tav asks, his brows furrowed and voice distant.
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A kid, by Marcher measure, but Marchers are soft and he's always been tall. No one back West asked his age.
"Why, your feet getting itchy?"
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He feels he has neither here and the desire to at least feel the touch of nature grows the longer people whisper and call him mad. Leaning back in his chair, he does what Bastien would want him to do: consider his company before speaking next. Would Lazar run off to tell someone his is plan if he spilled it now?
“I suppose itchy feet is a way to put it,” Tav nods.
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Lazar is not an empathetic man.
"Hell," Fork scrapes against plate. "If you're so eager, I got a job for you."
He's been snap-to-ing orders since he turned back up here. No harm in outsourcing a thing or two.
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If he tells the Captain.
“What sort of job?” Tav asks.
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The Hightown rookeries have integrity, which means the information costs more than he's willing to cough up. They'd only sell him right back to her.
"She's hiding it from her husband. Could be an affair, mundane shite."
Or she could be in contact with the Anderfels, the whole reason she's being watched. Either's useful. But both sound a pain in the ass to intercept - what's Lazar gonna do, shimmy up a fucking tree, hope for the best?
"Be easiest to nab the bird outside the city. I can get you a route, and a description. They all got little red bands."
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"I need an escort to leave my cell," Tav replies quietly, gesturing with his head toward the two piratey looking men standing in the corner. "I doubt my friends would allow me to leave the Gallows without permission of the captain. I can talk to the birds, possibly get them to land closer-- I haven't tried to use my ability here-- but I can't go too far without someone watching me."
It's miserable and he hates it, but he's still trying to cope with it.
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There's a famous portrait in Rialto - he's seen copies - the Maiden Calculating. A blonde woman sits in classical three-quarters, arranged against a neutral slate of grey. Her eyes seem almost to move with the viewer, in sympathy, or perhaps confusion. Its reproduction alongside mathematical formulae came into vogue for a period of time.
He thinks of her now, that anonymous sitter. Wonders if she'd look half so lost.
"Your cell,"
Lazar prompts. What the fuck, dude.
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He's wondering if he'll eventually be executed or if they're all waiting for him to finish the garden before unleashing that upon him. Regardless, he feels deeply unsafe either in or out of his cell and the only way he thinks he'll sense that safety again is to get outside, into nature.
But his guards won't allow that any time soon.
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Lazar says, still running the numbers on whether Riftwatch has taken up a sudden interest in criminal justice. There are some completely baseless accusations that he needs to take care of, if so -
(There's coin under the loose floorboard, a change of clothes, some letters. He could be gone in under an hour.)
"You a mage?"
Sounds like an awful polite imprisonment. Gotta be a mage thing, they never stop fussing for that shite.
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The captain has advised him against blabbing about his condition so many times so Tav finally keeps his lips shut for once.
“I’m not sure when the punishment will end, regardless,” Tav shakes his head. “I could be locked in forever.”
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"Well," He decides after a moment. "That's not gonna work for the bird."
No shit.
"You tell 'em you wanna touch grass?"
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Wait.
“Touch grass?” he asks, furrowing hus brow.
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Lazar doesn't know. He's not putting an arm anywhere near those beaky fucks.
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Though the point is made: if Tav wants, he can make the best out of this incarceration. Or perhaps, really, he should stop complaining in general when there's so much else going on.
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