There's technically some backstory to account for here. But despite the involvement of smuggling secret documents in the guise of his latest manuscript and a handful of scheming, traitorous Ferelden Bann's children, the most exciting part of the whole trip is the storm that threatens the little trade ship as it finally makes its approach into the Kirkwall harbor.
So let's start there, shall we?
It's a dark and stormy night as the Seadog's (look, he didn't pick the name; sometimes Fereldens really do live up to their ridiculous reputations) jolly boat finally makes landfall in Kirkwall. It's passengers, esteemed author Varric Tethras included, make their way directly to the nearest public house to get out of the rain. Even without discriminating for taste, Varric is so soaked through by the time they duck out of the rain that he's considering the possibility of those important secret papers being turned to much where they're wrapped in an oilcloth packet and living in his coat pocket. And wouldn't that be the rotten cherry on this disappointingly vanilla sundae?
While the sailors head straight to the bar, Varric makes a beeline to big hearth on the back wall. There's a bench there with an open seat close to the fire and he means to occupy it. The papers might be a lost cause, but his toes might still have a chance to live on.
"Tell me this seat isn't taken."
Not that he actually waits for confirmation before sitting down beside the young woman occupying this end of the bench.
Fereldan hadn't necessarily been Derrica's destination, but it's where she's landed. Like so many other times, she finds herself beside the fire in a pub wearing someone else's cloak and considering her options for the morning. She's back in that liminal stage between severing ties with one crew and ingratiating herself with another. She's never managed to find a way to make it easier for herself; each time she parts ways for some new, far-sailing band of sailors her heart aches for what she's left behind.
Transience doesn't suit her as well as she wanted it to. Thinking of future opportunities and trying to pretend she isn't lonely, that she doesn't miss Dairsmuid, has made her poor company; most of the sailors she'd arrived with have dispersed through the tavern. If anyone was taking the seat beside, she'd expected one of them, rather than a sodden dwarf.
"I—" Derrica begins, then shakes her head. "No, actually, you'd be doing me a favor if you take it."
And who knows, maybe this was her next ticket out on the morning tide.
"As long as you're planning on getting comfortable there, you could tell me your name. And where you've come from."
Ruy Asturias is an alarming man by reputation, though not so much to look at. To see him, you might think he is a well-experienced merchant sailor. Smartly, dressed, though very practical. His hair, dark brown and run through with silver, curls loosely and is normally kept shorter than its current state. His beard and moustache are dense and kept short as well. Both are less matters of being businesslike and tidy, and more to do with not wanting to provide an enemy with something to grasp in a fight. He has seen impressive bears and braids used to latch onto someone attempting to move out of their foes reach, before. Average height, a build that seems perhaps slighter than average, and does not betray the sheer strength and speed that comes with his life, his ways. His skin is weather beaten and sun darkened, and make the silver grey of his eyes all the sharper. He is a businessman, and he is one of the terrors of the Raiders of the Waking Sea.
Right now he is sitting on deck, peeling an apple. After a morning of work, Rutledge is cleaning up the blood, and Harva is tipping something from a bucket into the sea. Probably nothing to be alarmed by; just necessities that come of people thinking they could infiltrate his crew unnoticed, take from them. No. Such things had consequences.
At least they were at sea, the winds were strong, and he inhales the scent of the ocean contently as he looks over. "Derrica. How goes, little one?"
There had been a time when Derrica had never thought she would love anything the way she had loved the deep forests she'd grown up within. But she's learned to love the sea the way Ruy has; she's learned to tip her head, draw the salt into her lungs and be content with the light tilt of the deck beneath her feet. She'd stumbled up the gangplank and onto this ship half-blind with terror, but the cold bite of that fear had been left behind on Rivain's shores.
The violence comes easier to her now too. It is not so hard to sidestep Rutledge, working blood up out of the deck. She has remembered again the pleasure of bringing her staff spinning around and down on an offending limb to elicit a satisfying shriek. She had thought the screams that had chased her through the dark out of the wreckage and destruction of her life would have kept that enjoyment along with everything else, but it has come back to her among these men.
But even so, there is always that moment when that long-familiar sensation lances through her chest: uncertainty. Two years later, and Derrica still carries her doubts tucked close in her chest. How long will this last? Ruy's presence is a balm; his easy acknowledgement holds off the shiver of worry.
"I have nothing to complaint about," she reports. "It's a good day."
Whatever day sees this crew safe and prosperous is a good day by Derrica's standards. The Annulment had changed that about her too. She sits, one heel bracing on the edge of the barrel so she can wrap her arms around her knee, draw it back against her chest.
His smile is warm and easy, especially for this little one. She reminded him, in some ways, of an eagle hatchling; fragility and softness that could grow into such strength, if properly cared for. Some made the mistake of considering affection and caring a weakness, and there had been those in the past who had tried to overthrow Ruy (and other members of his family in other places) when they mistook the capacity to love and nurture as a vulnerability. They had paid dearly for the mistake.
Cutting a slice from the apple and spearing it with the point of the knife, he holds it out to Derrica in offering.
"We go where the sea takes us," he replies, tone so serious, and in the same moment betrayed by the subtle sparkle of mischief in his gaze. "It's been a while since we visited Brandel's Reach. There are people there who owe me favours."
Favours. That's a new currency, one she's learned how to barter in at Ruy's elbow. She doesn't question the idea of collecting on what's owed. Ruy has never steered them wrong. They have come through every skirmish and clash mostly unscathed. Derrica believes in his judgement.
But even so, the idea of taking the ship into port still sends a chill down her spine. Who knew what would wait for them? (Who knew what would wait for her, and if it would be dressed in templar armor, wielding a blade?) Still, she answers the spark of amusement in his eyes with a fond smile of her own, letting herself be reassured by his presence.
Carefully, she plucks the slide of apple from the tip of his knife. She turns it between her fingers before she bites half of it off, chews and swallows before she speaks.
"And people who could tell us what's been happening."
News on the sea is a dicey business. And while Derrica has very specific (and perhaps misplaced, at this late date) fears about the state of the world, she knows that what happens across Thedas will eventually affect their crew. Even if it's only impact is a shift in trade and targets, it's worth knowing about.
"It's been a while since we caught up on all the gossip."
Her gaze slides sideways as she finishes the last bite of apple, eyebrow raising at him.
"Exactly." She has learned much, since first they found each other, and Ruy fondly cups the back of her neck. It will do, in favour of ruffling her hair - a habit he knows young ladies will lament, for many different reasons.
"Gossip says as much from what it highlights as what it doesn't share. It can give us people who will be willing to do desperate things to regain their position, or people who may betray if that is what will further them. Even those most dear to us might hurt us if they are bent far enough. Don't forest, Derrica. You need to know what people love and how they prioritise that love. That will help you understand them."
Love of the self, of a land, of an ideal. Whatever other thing they might love will be compromise to protect that they love most. For him, at the end of the day, family always had to come first. Family could mean different things, but that love meant his crew, his blood, all were loyal. That is what made the Vivas so well suited for his sister, after all.
That brings another thought back to mind, and he looks back to Derrica. "Are you happy, little one?"
Seven years have passed since the move from Nevarra City to Dairsmuid. Not his move, the move. Refusing ownership of that history makes its memory slightly more palatable, but he'd still scrape it away with his tongue and spit it out if he could. Then he'd probably just find it and eat it again.
What Dairsmuid does have that no other Circle has, or cares to have, is room to live. The mages here have permission to come and go—what's more, they are trusted not to go too far, and under that trust they not only live, but thrive in a way he's never known. In passing he thinks he could have flourished here if he'd come younger, really and truly bloomed, but in truth the strictures were never really his enemy—they were the guiding hand, and now that he's slipped free of its fingers... well. He knows what Ilias would say.
(But he doesn't really know, even as he tries to imagine it. Aches to hear it. Even as the years slip by and the angles of his body leave their boyish softness behind to grow strong and sharp, still, he thinks of him all the time. Still. The ache is all that's left.)
Now, the young man named Leander has developed a bit of a reputation among the mages here, mostly for being strange and, in a way, unfriendly; he can certainly navigate a conversation, even amicably, but with him always comes an impression of detachment. He spends as much time alone as community life permits. He scavenges dead things and keeps their pieces; about that, they say yes, he's definitely Nevarran. (He never corrects them.)
Today, anyone may find him on the pedestrian bridge—the bridge that crosses another thoroughfare, which at this hour is nearly empty—seeming in a mild mood. He's just pressed his thumb through the rind of an orange and lifted it to sip the juice from the heel of his hand. He's looking into the wound his thumb has created, pulling at its edge with one finger. He's using his teeth to peel back the skin. Strings of white pulp as it tears free.
He leans over the rail, spits out the rind and watches it fall into the street below. Doesn't climb down to eat it, though.
Derrica doesn't remember exactly when Leander came to them in Dairsmuid. That's the nature of life in this little community. He is not the only newly arrived mage. In time he distinguishes himself; the way they all live, all together intermingled and familiar, means the inevitably one becomes known for something. Leander holds himself apart. He appreciates dead things. He is different. Derrica can't imagine he is the only mage who has passed through their midst to earn such a summation. She was quiet once too, but she was raised by the village, and then by the Circle. Derrica has never know anything but a close web of affection and familiarity. Holding herself apart isn't an instinct she has.
It's that urge for connection, regardless of how strange the recipient, that slows her progress across the bridge. She sees Leander leaning over the rail, observes his activity. In spite of everything, there is a momentary gut-punch of disgust. If he were younger, she'd admonish him. But he is not a young man, so that urge is discarded in favor of a more diplomatic greeting.
"Leander," she says, stepping up to stand by him on the rail with her palms braced against the wood. "Would you share a piece of that with me?"
Upon hearing his name, Leander turns to see Derrica, easy as you please, as though he'd known she was coming all along. He didn't, of course, but nevertheless rolls with the sight of her by greeting her with a friendly look.
"Derrica. Hello." He's leaning sideways now, elbows bent and hip jutting casually, his body turned mostly toward her. He doesn't answer her request directly, but his slim fingers have begun working at the peel; already it's coming away in one long spiralling strip. Were he going to keep it to himself, he'd have continued to dissect it. "It's been a minute, hasn't it?" Since last they spoke. "You look like you just smelled something unpleasant."
And if she looks like anything else, his casually roaming eyes might pick up on that, too.
The warm welcome is all the invitation Derrica needs to brace her palms against the rail, lean her weight against in an easy slouch. There are smears of dirt and paint on her skin; the old sigils the Seers teach her to paint do not come off so easily. They smear beyond legibility, but the paint sticks. She'll scrub later. Restoring the appearance of piety is an easy thing. The Dairsmuid Circle does not ask so much of them.
"We've been busy," Derrica agrees, without acknowledging what her expression had looked like. She struggles to put that impulse into words in a way that won't cause affront. Don't spit like that, as if he were a boy and she his elder. She lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Learning something you're interested in crowds everything else out, doesn't it?"
Expectantly, she holds out a hand for a slice of orange as if it were some agreed upon transaction. Derrica's been ferried through life being taught to expect some measure of kindness from those around her. It never quite occurs to her that the world may not mete out those same lessons to everyone else.
The Dairsmuid Circle asks of them next to nothing, by Leander's reckoning. Rivain has barely given the Chantry anything to squeeze, and even here, where it can reach, its grip is slack. He can't imagine that even the gentlest of the templars from Kinloch Hold or Nevarra City would refrain from violence upon witnessing what the seers do. They all live on a knife's edge here. It's wonderful.
He's not looking particularly pious, himself, lately. Seems to have forgotten how to lace a shirt, for one, and his hair's getting a bit out of control. He'll get away with it for a while, yet; might have a bit of a reputation for that, too. Among other things.
Before depositing half the orange in her palm—this is his favourite fruit, it must be noted—he uses that same hand to point out some of the pigments she's still wearing. "Looks like you've been having some fun. Anything spooky today?" Stopping himself just short of taking a wedge into his mouth, himself, he adds, "I'm still jealous, by the way. All they've ever taught me is basket weaving." Not entirely true, but what he's been afforded through charm can't compare to a real lesson. "Still wouldn't trade my coin purse for it, mind you." Aaand there he is.
Spooky. Derrica is quiet while she separates a segment of the orange and pops it into her mouth. Leander could be forgiven for thinking she's stalling; the silence stretches a bit before she tucks the fruit into corner of her mouth and finally attempts a response.
"Not spooky. Just...sad, I think."
It's hard to explain. Sometimes all she comes away with is the flavor of a spirit. It's just a brief impression of something beyond her grasp, and she still finds herself balking at talking that last step to make contact. Whatever praise and reassurance she receives, there's something that scares Derrica about opening herself so fully to forces beyond her control.
"Maybe that's just what I tend to attract," she continues with a little shrug.
Like calls to like. Maybe there's something in her that calls for sorrowful spirits to peek out at her from beyond the Veil. Her gaze lifts to Leander's face, furrowed brow softening as she drums up a smile.
"I'd have thought you would know something about spooky things yourself. Being Nevarran."
Rumors don't always add up to anything remotely resembling fact. But Derrica's heard enough whispers to imply that there's some kind of knowledge Leander must have at least passing familiarity with, considering where he's from.
Being Nevarran: the title of his memoirs. It's a real thought he has, and the flicker of a real smile, shortly snuffed by another piece of fruit.
"A bit," he says, talking around it. "There's more to Nevarra than the macabre, you know. Not much, granted—but they've got all that dragon-slaying business, as well, about which I know absolutely nothing, except that I'll never try it." A pause to swallow, and to shift his weight from one hip to the other. It seems as if he'll go on, but instead he just looks at her, considering, licking the citrus taste from the back of his teeth.
It's a long enough stare to become uncomfortable.
And if it doesn't, how about this: "Are you feeling sad?"
Right now, lately, in general—however she chooses to interpret it.
Leander is not the first person to direct such a look at her. His searching gaze provokes the same self-conscious discomfort in her as the matriarchs sometimes have. There is something sad in her. Derrica knows this. An absence, a craving. Something missing that she knows to miss but doesn't have a face to set against.
She drops her gaze, sucking on the inside of her cheek. There is an orange in her hand that she occupies herself with while Leander studies her, carefully separating out a particular segment, thinking of dragons rather than her haphazard entry into the world. She expects something other than the question he puts to her, and raises her head to look at him, taken aback.
"Now?" She questions, seeking specifics, seeking a little time while she thinks about an answer.
Is she sad? Sometimes. Isn't everyone? It's hard to pin down if she is today; whatever she had felt, whatever she'd touched, had felt tragic. It left an impression on her. But then again, every single spirit that she feels stirring behind the Veil leaves some sort of mark. She wouldn't have it any other way.
"Obviously not now—how can you possibly be sad while standing next to this?"
Leander's hand spreads theatrically, makes a smooth gesture from shoulder to hip, indicating his own self—then back up to his face to swirl once more for good measure. The silly, extra-cheekbonesy face he's put on becomes a smile that grows as he leans in, and in, and in, unrelenting, trying to provoke a little fun out of her. A laugh, maybe.
He finishes with a companionable bump of shoulders before easing up on her personal space, and once there's room, still looking pleased with his own antics, he shoves another slice into his mouth.
It was a real question; she can answer it if she likes.
The laughter comes. A smile first, then a bright laugh. It gives her some space from the ruminations of what she'd felt in the fade and the scrutiny she had weathered time and again.
"Obviously not right now," she agrees. It's less to do with whatever manly charms Leander teases and more the companionable company, the shared snack. Derrica cherishes these little reminders of camaraderie. She stacks them and tallies them, holds them close to her heart.
"No, I'm not. I'm not sad," she continues a bit more firmly, though it's not entirely the truth. "But the spirits that come are sometimes. And it...sticks. Like tar."
Which may be more because of Derrica than anything else. Too empathetic. Too easy to sympathize. But that doesn't occur to her.
There we go. For some, this would be a moment of reflexive commiseration; for Leander, a puzzle to feel proud for solving. Insert effort, receive attention. Transform frown into laugh. Easy.
"I thought it might." As if it was his idea all along, and Derrica hadn't wandered this way a whim—or to seek comfort, maybe, from the very first living body she saw. (Why else would she come to him? Surely not for any precise reason.)
"Do you ever wonder what it's like, being a spirit? Living such a directionless existence you've got to mimic a fragment of someone else just to experience some... sense of purpose. How boring would that be," he asks, entirely casual, before what's left of the orange disappears into his hungry mouth.
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no subject
So let's start there, shall we?
It's a dark and stormy night as the Seadog's (look, he didn't pick the name; sometimes Fereldens really do live up to their ridiculous reputations) jolly boat finally makes landfall in Kirkwall. It's passengers, esteemed author Varric Tethras included, make their way directly to the nearest public house to get out of the rain. Even without discriminating for taste, Varric is so soaked through by the time they duck out of the rain that he's considering the possibility of those important secret papers being turned to much where they're wrapped in an oilcloth packet and living in his coat pocket. And wouldn't that be the rotten cherry on this disappointingly vanilla sundae?
While the sailors head straight to the bar, Varric makes a beeline to big hearth on the back wall. There's a bench there with an open seat close to the fire and he means to occupy it. The papers might be a lost cause, but his toes might still have a chance to live on.
"Tell me this seat isn't taken."
Not that he actually waits for confirmation before sitting down beside the young woman occupying this end of the bench.
no subject
Transience doesn't suit her as well as she wanted it to. Thinking of future opportunities and trying to pretend she isn't lonely, that she doesn't miss Dairsmuid, has made her poor company; most of the sailors she'd arrived with have dispersed through the tavern. If anyone was taking the seat beside, she'd expected one of them, rather than a sodden dwarf.
"I—" Derrica begins, then shakes her head. "No, actually, you'd be doing me a favor if you take it."
And who knows, maybe this was her next ticket out on the morning tide.
"As long as you're planning on getting comfortable there, you could tell me your name. And where you've come from."
no subject
To see him, you might think he is a well-experienced merchant sailor. Smartly, dressed, though very practical. His hair, dark brown and run through with silver, curls loosely and is normally kept shorter than its current state. His beard and moustache are dense and kept short as well. Both are less matters of being businesslike and tidy, and more to do with not wanting to provide an enemy with something to grasp in a fight. He has seen impressive bears and braids used to latch onto someone attempting to move out of their foes reach, before. Average height, a build that seems perhaps slighter than average, and does not betray the sheer strength and speed that comes with his life, his ways. His skin is weather beaten and sun darkened, and make the silver grey of his eyes all the sharper. He is a businessman, and he is one of the terrors of the Raiders of the Waking Sea.
Right now he is sitting on deck, peeling an apple. After a morning of work, Rutledge is cleaning up the blood, and Harva is tipping something from a bucket into the sea. Probably nothing to be alarmed by; just necessities that come of people thinking they could infiltrate his crew unnoticed, take from them. No. Such things had consequences.
At least they were at sea, the winds were strong, and he inhales the scent of the ocean contently as he looks over. "Derrica. How goes, little one?"
no subject
The violence comes easier to her now too. It is not so hard to sidestep Rutledge, working blood up out of the deck. She has remembered again the pleasure of bringing her staff spinning around and down on an offending limb to elicit a satisfying shriek. She had thought the screams that had chased her through the dark out of the wreckage and destruction of her life would have kept that enjoyment along with everything else, but it has come back to her among these men.
But even so, there is always that moment when that long-familiar sensation lances through her chest: uncertainty. Two years later, and Derrica still carries her doubts tucked close in her chest. How long will this last? Ruy's presence is a balm; his easy acknowledgement holds off the shiver of worry.
"I have nothing to complaint about," she reports. "It's a good day."
Whatever day sees this crew safe and prosperous is a good day by Derrica's standards. The Annulment had changed that about her too. She sits, one heel bracing on the edge of the barrel so she can wrap her arms around her knee, draw it back against her chest.
"Have you decided where we're going next?"
i'd like to open with a three part apology
Cutting a slice from the apple and spearing it with the point of the knife, he holds it out to Derrica in offering.
"We go where the sea takes us," he replies, tone so serious, and in the same moment betrayed by the subtle sparkle of mischief in his gaze. "It's been a while since we visited Brandel's Reach. There are people there who owe me favours."
gathers you into my arms immediately.
But even so, the idea of taking the ship into port still sends a chill down her spine. Who knew what would wait for them? (Who knew what would wait for her, and if it would be dressed in templar armor, wielding a blade?) Still, she answers the spark of amusement in his eyes with a fond smile of her own, letting herself be reassured by his presence.
Carefully, she plucks the slide of apple from the tip of his knife. She turns it between her fingers before she bites half of it off, chews and swallows before she speaks.
"And people who could tell us what's been happening."
News on the sea is a dicey business. And while Derrica has very specific (and perhaps misplaced, at this late date) fears about the state of the world, she knows that what happens across Thedas will eventually affect their crew. Even if it's only impact is a shift in trade and targets, it's worth knowing about.
"It's been a while since we caught up on all the gossip."
Her gaze slides sideways as she finishes the last bite of apple, eyebrow raising at him.
chomps ur arms
"Gossip says as much from what it highlights as what it doesn't share. It can give us people who will be willing to do desperate things to regain their position, or people who may betray if that is what will further them. Even those most dear to us might hurt us if they are bent far enough. Don't forest, Derrica. You need to know what people love and how they prioritise that love. That will help you understand them."
Love of the self, of a land, of an ideal. Whatever other thing they might love will be compromise to protect that they love most. For him, at the end of the day, family always had to come first. Family could mean different things, but that love meant his crew, his blood, all were loyal. That is what made the Vivas so well suited for his sister, after all.
That brings another thought back to mind, and he looks back to Derrica. "Are you happy, little one?"
Dairsmuid Circle, Rivain, 9:39 Dragon
Then he'd probably just find it and eat it again.
What Dairsmuid does have that no other Circle has, or cares to have, is room to live. The mages here have permission to come and go—what's more, they are trusted not to go too far, and under that trust they not only live, but thrive in a way he's never known. In passing he thinks he could have flourished here if he'd come younger, really and truly bloomed, but in truth the strictures were never really his enemy—they were the guiding hand, and now that he's slipped free of its fingers... well. He knows what Ilias would say.
(But he doesn't really know, even as he tries to imagine it. Aches to hear it. Even as the years slip by and the angles of his body leave their boyish softness behind to grow strong and sharp, still, he thinks of him all the time. Still. The ache is all that's left.)
Now, the young man named Leander has developed a bit of a reputation among the mages here, mostly for being strange and, in a way, unfriendly; he can certainly navigate a conversation, even amicably, but with him always comes an impression of detachment. He spends as much time alone as community life permits. He scavenges dead things and keeps their pieces; about that, they say yes, he's definitely Nevarran. (He never corrects them.)
Today, anyone may find him on the pedestrian bridge—the bridge that crosses another thoroughfare, which at this hour is nearly empty—seeming in a mild mood. He's just pressed his thumb through the rind of an orange and lifted it to sip the juice from the heel of his hand. He's looking into the wound his thumb has created, pulling at its edge with one finger. He's using his teeth to peel back the skin. Strings of white pulp as it tears free.
He leans over the rail, spits out the rind and watches it fall into the street below.
Doesn't climb down to eat it, though.
bounces in here
It's that urge for connection, regardless of how strange the recipient, that slows her progress across the bridge. She sees Leander leaning over the rail, observes his activity. In spite of everything, there is a momentary gut-punch of disgust. If he were younger, she'd admonish him. But he is not a young man, so that urge is discarded in favor of a more diplomatic greeting.
"Leander," she says, stepping up to stand by him on the rail with her palms braced against the wood. "Would you share a piece of that with me?"
no subject
"Derrica. Hello." He's leaning sideways now, elbows bent and hip jutting casually, his body turned mostly toward her. He doesn't answer her request directly, but his slim fingers have begun working at the peel; already it's coming away in one long spiralling strip. Were he going to keep it to himself, he'd have continued to dissect it. "It's been a minute, hasn't it?" Since last they spoke. "You look like you just smelled something unpleasant."
And if she looks like anything else, his casually roaming eyes might pick up on that, too.
no subject
"We've been busy," Derrica agrees, without acknowledging what her expression had looked like. She struggles to put that impulse into words in a way that won't cause affront. Don't spit like that, as if he were a boy and she his elder. She lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Learning something you're interested in crowds everything else out, doesn't it?"
Expectantly, she holds out a hand for a slice of orange as if it were some agreed upon transaction. Derrica's been ferried through life being taught to expect some measure of kindness from those around her. It never quite occurs to her that the world may not mete out those same lessons to everyone else.
no subject
The Dairsmuid Circle asks of them next to nothing, by Leander's reckoning. Rivain has barely given the Chantry anything to squeeze, and even here, where it can reach, its grip is slack. He can't imagine that even the gentlest of the templars from Kinloch Hold or Nevarra City would refrain from violence upon witnessing what the seers do. They all live on a knife's edge here. It's wonderful.
He's not looking particularly pious, himself, lately. Seems to have forgotten how to lace a shirt, for one, and his hair's getting a bit out of control. He'll get away with it for a while, yet; might have a bit of a reputation for that, too.
Among other things.
Before depositing half the orange in her palm—this is his favourite fruit, it must be noted—he uses that same hand to point out some of the pigments she's still wearing. "Looks like you've been having some fun. Anything spooky today?" Stopping himself just short of taking a wedge into his mouth, himself, he adds, "I'm still jealous, by the way. All they've ever taught me is basket weaving." Not entirely true, but what he's been afforded through charm can't compare to a real lesson.
"Still wouldn't trade my coin purse for it, mind you."
Aaand there he is.
no subject
"Not spooky. Just...sad, I think."
It's hard to explain. Sometimes all she comes away with is the flavor of a spirit. It's just a brief impression of something beyond her grasp, and she still finds herself balking at talking that last step to make contact. Whatever praise and reassurance she receives, there's something that scares Derrica about opening herself so fully to forces beyond her control.
"Maybe that's just what I tend to attract," she continues with a little shrug.
Like calls to like. Maybe there's something in her that calls for sorrowful spirits to peek out at her from beyond the Veil. Her gaze lifts to Leander's face, furrowed brow softening as she drums up a smile.
"I'd have thought you would know something about spooky things yourself. Being Nevarran."
Rumors don't always add up to anything remotely resembling fact. But Derrica's heard enough whispers to imply that there's some kind of knowledge Leander must have at least passing familiarity with, considering where he's from.
no subject
"A bit," he says, talking around it. "There's more to Nevarra than the macabre, you know. Not much, granted—but they've got all that dragon-slaying business, as well, about which I know absolutely nothing, except that I'll never try it." A pause to swallow, and to shift his weight from one hip to the other. It seems as if he'll go on, but instead he just looks at her, considering, licking the citrus taste from the back of his teeth.
It's a long enough stare to become uncomfortable.
And if it doesn't, how about this: "Are you feeling sad?"
Right now, lately, in general—however she chooses to interpret it.
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She drops her gaze, sucking on the inside of her cheek. There is an orange in her hand that she occupies herself with while Leander studies her, carefully separating out a particular segment, thinking of dragons rather than her haphazard entry into the world. She expects something other than the question he puts to her, and raises her head to look at him, taken aback.
"Now?" She questions, seeking specifics, seeking a little time while she thinks about an answer.
Is she sad? Sometimes. Isn't everyone? It's hard to pin down if she is today; whatever she had felt, whatever she'd touched, had felt tragic. It left an impression on her. But then again, every single spirit that she feels stirring behind the Veil leaves some sort of mark. She wouldn't have it any other way.
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Leander's hand spreads theatrically, makes a smooth gesture from shoulder to hip, indicating his own self—then back up to his face to swirl once more for good measure. The silly, extra-cheekbonesy face he's put on becomes a smile that grows as he leans in, and in, and in, unrelenting, trying to provoke a little fun out of her. A laugh, maybe.
He finishes with a companionable bump of shoulders before easing up on her personal space, and once there's room, still looking pleased with his own antics, he shoves another slice into his mouth.
It was a real question; she can answer it if she likes.
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"Obviously not right now," she agrees. It's less to do with whatever manly charms Leander teases and more the companionable company, the shared snack. Derrica cherishes these little reminders of camaraderie. She stacks them and tallies them, holds them close to her heart.
"No, I'm not. I'm not sad," she continues a bit more firmly, though it's not entirely the truth. "But the spirits that come are sometimes. And it...sticks. Like tar."
Which may be more because of Derrica than anything else. Too empathetic. Too easy to sympathize. But that doesn't occur to her.
"But this helps."
She lifts the orange, tips her head towards him.
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"I thought it might." As if it was his idea all along, and Derrica hadn't wandered this way a whim—or to seek comfort, maybe, from the very first living body she saw. (Why else would she come to him? Surely not for any precise reason.)
"Do you ever wonder what it's like, being a spirit? Living such a directionless existence you've got to mimic a fragment of someone else just to experience some... sense of purpose. How boring would that be," he asks, entirely casual, before what's left of the orange disappears into his hungry mouth.