"I was in a rift," he says, looking increasingly concerned. "There was...a disaster, tears in reality. We were all trying to seal them."
The idea of the moon shards creating a passage between worlds isn't too crazy; magic does such things. He has to get back, though, and he certainly can't afford to die outside of Caldera. He holds up both hands, belatedly showing he's mostly unarmed, though there is a dagger in the sheath at his waist. Barcus certainly knows he's not fast enough with it to take an elf by surprise from this distance, even if he wanted to fight.
(Also, deformed?? He begs your pardon, he's a very handsome gnome!)
"Please don't kill me," he somehow manages to sound more long-suffering and irritated than actually afraid. "I have so many things to do, you have no idea."
But wait-- "Lavellan? Is...is Beleth here?" If she came through the rift too, they can work together and presumably her clan won't kill him!
The name has an effect; Sorrel stiffens, and a sensation not unlike ice goes through the whole of him, shocking and abrupt and it kicks his heart where it's tenderest and sets it to galloping. A thousand wondering questions run through his mind all at once babbling like a crowd of children: how did he know Beleth? Did she get into, somehow more than usual, trouble? Did she need them? Did she send this person?
Did this little thing even know her to begin with? It could all be a lie.
"Right," Sorrel says, abruptly more focused, his staff tilting more readily in his hand; on guard, "You're going to tell me who you are, what you want, and where you got that name from, and if you lie to me I'm going to set you on fire."
Well, he's not clear on what sort of tactical error he's made, but he seems to have made one. Beleth's name is familiar, obviously, but that reaction could mean the elf hasn't heard from her in a long time and he's worried or it could mean there is discord between them that Barcus is entirely ignorant of. He's quiet for a long few moments, pale eyes searching the elf's face, trying to read him.
"The problem with that," he says finally, "is it's not an easy tale to believe. I'll do my best, though. I've no reason to lie."
"My name is Barcus Wroot. I'm a deep gnome from another world entirely, called Toril. You won't have seen my kind before. But Beleth and myself and, mm, quite a lot of others, were brought into a place called Caldera, via magical rifts."
(Should he mention Solas is there? Probably not, but he might have to, to fully round out the explanation.)
"The leadership of Caldera wanted help in saving the place from..." he gestures vaguely with one hand. "Honestly, we're not clear on the full extent or cause for what's going wrong. Twists in the local magic, weird monsters, that sort of thing. It's a work in progress."
"I met Beleth when she first arrived. She was considering one of the underwater quests and I gave her some flares to assist. She was interested in how they're made, the chemical reaction that allows them to give light underwater."
The story is strange, oddly detailed, and full of the stupidest shit one can imagine coming out of anyone's imagination. Half of it is made-up words, like gnome, and place-names that Sorrel's never heard of. But it all rolls out of him with such easy aplomb, casually dismissive of the complete babbling insanity of it all, that it's somehow hard to dismiss. Which is to say... It takes a great deal of effort not to interrupt the little man at every turn, and— despite all his better judgement— Sorrel is beginning to believe that it might not be a lie. Lies, after all, tended to be more believable than this.
What the hell had Beleth gotten herself into now? And how?
"You do realize that all sounds made-up," He mutters, not at all quietly. June's own hand couldn't pen a stranger tale, "...Except for the bit where Bel' wants to tinker."
She always was like that, after all. Fussing with fire. Trying to make little potions, even as a child. Sorrel runs a hand through his hair and then down, to the back of his neck, where he grips, and grimaces, and—
"Oh, I am so stupid. Look, you turn around and walk away, and I'll tell the scouts you were a few hundred paces out there, and not over here inside the perimeter. We can talk there, if you want. And— I'm Sorrel. Sorrelean Lavellan," He says, throwing it in as an afterthought, "I'm Beleth's brother. She's my twin."
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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branchandroot
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Date: 2025-12-13 01:29 pm (UTC)The idea of the moon shards creating a passage between worlds isn't too crazy; magic does such things. He has to get back, though, and he certainly can't afford to die outside of Caldera. He holds up both hands, belatedly showing he's mostly unarmed, though there is a dagger in the sheath at his waist. Barcus certainly knows he's not fast enough with it to take an elf by surprise from this distance, even if he wanted to fight.
(Also, deformed?? He begs your pardon, he's a very handsome gnome!)
"Please don't kill me," he somehow manages to sound more long-suffering and irritated than actually afraid. "I have so many things to do, you have no idea."
But wait-- "Lavellan? Is...is Beleth here?" If she came through the rift too, they can work together and presumably her clan won't kill him!
no subject
Date: 2025-12-16 04:45 am (UTC)Did this little thing even know her to begin with? It could all be a lie.
"Right," Sorrel says, abruptly more focused, his staff tilting more readily in his hand; on guard, "You're going to tell me who you are, what you want, and where you got that name from, and if you lie to me I'm going to set you on fire."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-16 01:18 pm (UTC)"The problem with that," he says finally, "is it's not an easy tale to believe. I'll do my best, though. I've no reason to lie."
"My name is Barcus Wroot. I'm a deep gnome from another world entirely, called Toril. You won't have seen my kind before. But Beleth and myself and, mm, quite a lot of others, were brought into a place called Caldera, via magical rifts."
(Should he mention Solas is there? Probably not, but he might have to, to fully round out the explanation.)
"The leadership of Caldera wanted help in saving the place from..." he gestures vaguely with one hand. "Honestly, we're not clear on the full extent or cause for what's going wrong. Twists in the local magic, weird monsters, that sort of thing. It's a work in progress."
"I met Beleth when she first arrived. She was considering one of the underwater quests and I gave her some flares to assist. She was interested in how they're made, the chemical reaction that allows them to give light underwater."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-29 03:21 am (UTC)What the hell had Beleth gotten herself into now? And how?
"You do realize that all sounds made-up," He mutters, not at all quietly. June's own hand couldn't pen a stranger tale, "...Except for the bit where Bel' wants to tinker."
She always was like that, after all. Fussing with fire. Trying to make little potions, even as a child. Sorrel runs a hand through his hair and then down, to the back of his neck, where he grips, and grimaces, and—
"Oh, I am so stupid. Look, you turn around and walk away, and I'll tell the scouts you were a few hundred paces out there, and not over here inside the perimeter. We can talk there, if you want. And— I'm Sorrel. Sorrelean Lavellan," He says, throwing it in as an afterthought, "I'm Beleth's brother. She's my twin."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-31 02:06 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2026-01-03 05:45 am (UTC)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
Date: 2026-01-11 04:44 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2026-01-12 08:30 pm (UTC)"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
Date: 2026-01-12 11:54 pm (UTC)...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."