Barcus does wish he had more detail to share on what exactly Caldera's problems were, but going into the fact that the moon just attacked them would really make him sound insane. Best not to stretch this man's credulity any further than he has to. He lets out a soft huff of amusement when he comments about Bel wants to tinker. "Well, obviously. That's the best proof I could offer that I know her, isn't it? She's clever. I wish she'd come around the workshop more often, actually. She's made me a few fire-resistance potions in return that have come in handy."
He quiets, gaze trying to search the stranger's face from a distance, and then he nods his understanding. "Which direction do you want me to go in?" The soft sobriety of the question ought to tell Sorrel that he understand the full weight of it. Barcus' village had scouts, too, and they were meant to shoot strangers on sight. Sorrel could send him right into a trap or ambush; the gnome is offering his full trust here.
When pointed, he'll go without question, hands resting loose at his sides, and count out the distance in his head before he stops and sits on a fallen tree to wait and see what happens next.
Sorrel watches him go, to be sure he's going, and then sighs and turns on his heel. Right. What to do about this, then?
But for Barcus, time passes; it would have passed, regardless. An hour crawls by, the shadows shifting as the sun travels. Up above him in the sky, a pale daytime moon is showing— and another, smaller, a few handspans away in the sky. Two moons. Then the elf comes out of the underbrush, staff in hand. He looks around a moment, spots Barcus, and sighs. Oh, you're still here.
He had hoped, somehow, that the problem might've gone away. Then he could go back to the clan shrug and say it had been nothing, and not have to answer a thousand questions with uncertainty, or worse: lies.
"Right," he says, and offers Barcus the sack he's carrying, "You don't look like you have any supplies, and there's no camps near enough here that we know of. You're not from Wycome, we'd know, so— here. Never let it be said that Clan Lavellan has forgotten hospitality."
The sack is actually a square of cloth, green-dyed and hand-woven with a finely-stitched whorling pattern around its border, as if the thread had been tied in an endless series of complex knots. Inside is a bottle of dark and fragrant drink, a vellum-wrapped packet of smoked venison, and three nut-studded flatbreads, still warm. Enough for a meal or two, if you stretched it all, or to fill the hungry belly of an inopportune traveler.
"Can you tell me, what's come of my sister?" He says then, not waiting for him to actually tuck in, "If she's well?"
The passage of time is both nerve-wracking and reassuring. On the one hand, he half expects to be shot at any moment. If the Dalish are anything like deep gnomes, it would almost be irresponsible not to kill him. And he certainly doesn't want to die here!
On the other hand, the longer he waits, the more he doubts he's going to be hurt, but the more, also, he doubts Sorrel will return to clarify things to him, and if he doesn't, that's going to leave him quite lost. Suffice to say, the gnome has mentally died a thousand deaths by the time the elf returns, turning over all sorts of thoughts. How did he get here? How to get back? What to do if he can't return? He is not just a stranger to this world, but also a race that's going to be unfamiliar to everyone. They're going to think he's some sort of little imp-thing, probably, and put him in a zoo.
He starts slightly when Sorrel emerges from the bush, but looks deeply relieved. Congratulations, saer, you're the only thing he has in this world to navigate by. He's utterly surprised by the gift, let alone the implication that it's been offered not just by Sorrel but as a truce by the rest of the Clan. Maybe a 'here, we won't kill you but go fuck off' gift. That's downright friendly by his standards. He smiles, accepting the sack gratefully. "Thank you. I genuinely don't know enough about the woods here to navigate out and back, so your secret is safe regardless, but I promise my complete discretion anyway. Sworn by the Stones."
The bread is still warm, and Barcus marvels at that for a moment. He's not that hungry, but he'll break a piece of it off to nibble, partly to show trust and partly because bread fresh from the oven shouldn't be wasted.
"She's well," he says at once, before taking a bite. "She is..."
Well, here's where he has to mention certain individuals, or start being openly evasive. At least he knows better than to refer to him as Fen'Harel. "She has a home in Caldera, with Solas...? And another friend. I don't know if you know...um." Actually, let him just stop here and see how he reacts first.
Sorrel waits, listening with a faintly pinched expression, right up until the name; Solas, which engenders a full-bodied grimace. It's as if she were right in front of him, his hands coming up, the question alive in every line of the gesture: what the hell are you thinking?.
"Solas!?" He cries, deep in his exasperation, "That fucking ponce, she's back with him? After everything he's— He is literally Fen'Harel!"
Which might mean anything.
"Creators beyond the veil, what is wrong with her? She is so much smarter than this. I thought she was—" Sorrel starts, seeming to recognize, or remember, the inappropriate audience he seems to find himself with, "...Sorry, it's just so damned frustrating. I could shake her."
...He can't help himself. "Ah," he says mildly, deadpan. "So you do know him, then."
Look, he's reasonably sure Solas would think it was funny, too.
He gives a little shake of his head a moment later, adding: "You're not giving her enough credit. She knows exactly what she's doing, even if her reasoning doesn't add up to you. Trust her. She's giving up a lot for him, but not without getting just as much in return."
"Anyway, they're both very dear to me. Both her and Solas." So, you know, maybe don't put your foot in your mouth, saer. Although it's not as if Barcus is in a position to fight for anyone's honor, even if he wished to. "I do understand he might not be your first choice as an in-law; he's certainly...complicated. But whatever other history they may have, he is devoted to her now."
"And neither of them asked to be brought to Caldera, so there's that."
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He quiets, gaze trying to search the stranger's face from a distance, and then he nods his understanding. "Which direction do you want me to go in?" The soft sobriety of the question ought to tell Sorrel that he understand the full weight of it. Barcus' village had scouts, too, and they were meant to shoot strangers on sight. Sorrel could send him right into a trap or ambush; the gnome is offering his full trust here.
When pointed, he'll go without question, hands resting loose at his sides, and count out the distance in his head before he stops and sits on a fallen tree to wait and see what happens next.
no subject
But for Barcus, time passes; it would have passed, regardless. An hour crawls by, the shadows shifting as the sun travels. Up above him in the sky, a pale daytime moon is showing— and another, smaller, a few handspans away in the sky. Two moons. Then the elf comes out of the underbrush, staff in hand. He looks around a moment, spots Barcus, and sighs. Oh, you're still here.
He had hoped, somehow, that the problem might've gone away. Then he could go back to the clan shrug and say it had been nothing, and not have to answer a thousand questions with uncertainty, or worse: lies.
"Right," he says, and offers Barcus the sack he's carrying, "You don't look like you have any supplies, and there's no camps near enough here that we know of. You're not from Wycome, we'd know, so— here. Never let it be said that Clan Lavellan has forgotten hospitality."
The sack is actually a square of cloth, green-dyed and hand-woven with a finely-stitched whorling pattern around its border, as if the thread had been tied in an endless series of complex knots. Inside is a bottle of dark and fragrant drink, a vellum-wrapped packet of smoked venison, and three nut-studded flatbreads, still warm. Enough for a meal or two, if you stretched it all, or to fill the hungry belly of an inopportune traveler.
"Can you tell me, what's come of my sister?" He says then, not waiting for him to actually tuck in, "If she's well?"
no subject
On the other hand, the longer he waits, the more he doubts he's going to be hurt, but the more, also, he doubts Sorrel will return to clarify things to him, and if he doesn't, that's going to leave him quite lost. Suffice to say, the gnome has mentally died a thousand deaths by the time the elf returns, turning over all sorts of thoughts. How did he get here? How to get back? What to do if he can't return? He is not just a stranger to this world, but also a race that's going to be unfamiliar to everyone. They're going to think he's some sort of little imp-thing, probably, and put him in a zoo.
He starts slightly when Sorrel emerges from the bush, but looks deeply relieved. Congratulations, saer, you're the only thing he has in this world to navigate by. He's utterly surprised by the gift, let alone the implication that it's been offered not just by Sorrel but as a truce by the rest of the Clan. Maybe a 'here, we won't kill you but go fuck off' gift. That's downright friendly by his standards. He smiles, accepting the sack gratefully. "Thank you. I genuinely don't know enough about the woods here to navigate out and back, so your secret is safe regardless, but I promise my complete discretion anyway. Sworn by the Stones."
The bread is still warm, and Barcus marvels at that for a moment. He's not that hungry, but he'll break a piece of it off to nibble, partly to show trust and partly because bread fresh from the oven shouldn't be wasted.
"She's well," he says at once, before taking a bite. "She is..."
Well, here's where he has to mention certain individuals, or start being openly evasive. At least he knows better than to refer to him as Fen'Harel. "She has a home in Caldera, with Solas...? And another friend. I don't know if you know...um." Actually, let him just stop here and see how he reacts first.
no subject
"Solas!?" He cries, deep in his exasperation, "That fucking ponce, she's back with him? After everything he's— He is literally Fen'Harel!"
Which might mean anything.
"Creators beyond the veil, what is wrong with her? She is so much smarter than this. I thought she was—" Sorrel starts, seeming to recognize, or remember, the inappropriate audience he seems to find himself with, "...Sorry, it's just so damned frustrating. I could shake her."
no subject
...He can't help himself. "Ah," he says mildly, deadpan. "So you do know him, then."
Look, he's reasonably sure Solas would think it was funny, too.
He gives a little shake of his head a moment later, adding: "You're not giving her enough credit. She knows exactly what she's doing, even if her reasoning doesn't add up to you. Trust her. She's giving up a lot for him, but not without getting just as much in return."
"Anyway, they're both very dear to me. Both her and Solas." So, you know, maybe don't put your foot in your mouth, saer. Although it's not as if Barcus is in a position to fight for anyone's honor, even if he wished to. "I do understand he might not be your first choice as an in-law; he's certainly...complicated. But whatever other history they may have, he is devoted to her now."
"And neither of them asked to be brought to Caldera, so there's that."