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The Alienage in Denerim is not what you'd call a nice place to live, but it's calm, and it has some nice scenery. Enormous tree, shanty-huts, that sort of thing. And the people are always interesting.
One of those interesting people is standing shadily on a street corner and looking at nearby elves. One of his hands is in his pocket. He's unusually dark for someone in Ferelden. Unusually human, too, though he's hunched over so that it's not immediately obvious. And he's muttering to himself, which is a sure way to make people not want to look at someone.
The things he's muttering to himself aren't the ravings of a madman, though. "Not her, I'm sure she'd just rupture... couldn't get him... promising. Excuse me, young man?" he quavers in the voice of an old beggar. "Spare a silver?"
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"I've already been through the rest of the Alienage and haven't come up with any other potential recruits, so if you're ready to go then we can be on our way. Probably stopping in the market square for clothes and sword and... probably food, unless you're somehow not hungry after tripling in size."
moreperfect
"Oh. Yeah," he says. "Now that you mention it, I am hungrier than usual."
"There's an excellent Orlesian place I've been missing lately, unless you've got some suggestion. Though we'd have to get you shoes and a shirt first, their policies are quite clear."
"Good, good. Valendrian, it's been wonderful to see you. I will have the captain on this blood mage issue, and Loghain will be informed as soon as I get to Ostagar. I'll see you again soon. In the meantime, dareth shiral, falon."
"Dareth shiral, lethallin." Valendrian turns to Tev. "I will mourn the deaths of our kinsmen, but you honor them by using the power you have been given to protect our world from the Blight. I am proud of you, Sentevlan. Dareth shiral, lenaan. May the Maker watch over you."
"Dareth shiral, lethallin." Valendrian turns to Tev. "I will mourn the deaths of our kinsmen, but you honor them by using the power you have been given to protect our world from the Blight. I am proud of you, Sentevlan. Dareth shiral, lenaan. May the Maker watch over you."
"Shall we be off, then?" Duncan asks.
Duncan leads him into Market Square, and brings him into a store advertising vanilla scent "the finest selection of clothing this side of Orlais". In a whirl of measuring tape and cotton, Tev is provided with five travel-appropriate outfits that actually fit him, and two pairs of very sturdy (and moderately fashionable) boots. And fifteen pairs of socks. "It's in the mountains, extra socks are a good idea."
moreperfect
This is more clothes than Tev has ever owned at once.
"Thank you," he says, very sincerely.
"Thank you," he says, very sincerely.
Duncan looks sad, for a moment, but the sparkle returns to his eye quickly enough that it may not have happened at all. "So! Orlesian food. Ever had it?"
"It's excellent, as long as you stay away from the snails. Lots of good seafood, and their bread alone is half worth the price of the meal. Which is saying something. Come along, I'll introduce you to the wonders of Orlais." He pauses. "Not those wonders. The food wonders."
Duncan escorts Tev to a restaurant closer to the manor district than the merchants' district with a blue and gold sign above the door reading D'Orlais. Outside it stands a sneering, impeccably dressed man who is clearly and undefinably Orlesian.
He opens his mouth and becomes very definably Orlesian. "Do you 'ave resehvasions?"
"I have a standing reservation, because the owner of this establishment owes me his life."
The definably Orlesian maitre d' looks slightly agog. "I may 'ave to consult ze owner."
"You may."
He flees.
He opens his mouth and becomes very definably Orlesian. "Do you 'ave resehvasions?"
"I have a standing reservation, because the owner of this establishment owes me his life."
The definably Orlesian maitre d' looks slightly agog. "I may 'ave to consult ze owner."
"You may."
He flees.
moreperfect
...This is a nice enough restaurant to make Tev slightly uncomfortable! Also he keeps almost hitting his head on things. Like that sign.
The very Orlesian maitre d' returns, followed by a very Fereldan man who envelops Duncan in a bear hug (careful of his swords). "Duncan! Come in! Who's this!" He looks at Tev. "Enormous elf! Come in! Bring your weird shield, it's very appropriate!"
moreperfect
'Enormous elf'. Okay. He is pretty enormous, it's true. Smiling sheepishly, he follows them in.
The very Fereldan man leads them into a private dining room, where large amounts of food are brought out. (There are snails. Neither of the men consume the snails.)
"So! Shield elf! What's your story?"
"So! Shield elf! What's your story?"
"Ah. Well, you're in good company there! Where'd you get your shield?"
moreperfect
"From a... room full of very unhappy bears," he says. "It helped. With the bears. So I kept it."
"Unhappy bears."
The very Fereldan man, whose name may have been observed to be Bron, elects to continue chatting with Duncan rather than press Tev for more information.
The very Fereldan man, whose name may have been observed to be Bron, elects to continue chatting with Duncan rather than press Tev for more information.
moreperfect
Tev sighs with relief and focuses on the food.
The food is kind of amazing. Hell, if nobody else wants them, he will even try the snails. They are not the highlight of the occasion, but he's eaten worse things.
The food is kind of amazing. Hell, if nobody else wants them, he will even try the snails. They are not the highlight of the occasion, but he's eaten worse things.