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 Friends?, Cullen | End of 9:29
played by ANGEL
cst    mature content? Yes    Offline
           
GMage
A26
AResearch
P5 posts

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This circle had been her home for nearly ten years now, and as much as she would rather be out there, living with her mamae--possibly with a clan like they had always discussed--Aellai had resigned herself to the fact that here is where she would stay until she was old and withered. Until the last breath left her lips and then her frail bones would be set aflame to keep unwanted spirits from claiming her corpse as their own. She was bitter, but she had accepted it.

Of course that didn't stop her from keeping her Dalish heritage alive. As soon as she was aware that one of the older mages had the ability to create vallaslin--or tattoos as the shemlem called them--she had hunted them down. True to her Dalish descent she had gotten her markings without uttering a sound. She was too stubborn, too determined to fail this sacred act even if no other Dalish were around. She took pride in it, even if it still stung a week later because she refused to heal it with magic. Plus, Aellai found that it unnerved some of the Templars, and while she held no true ill will towards her guards it still brought her some sense of satisfaction.

The winding halls of Kinloch hold she could walk in her sleep. By this age all she did was study and practice for a Harrowing she knew nothing about. It irritated her that she could find nothing on the subject and all other mages kept their mouths shut tight. Aellai liked to know things, to learn things. How was she supposed to do that if they wouldn't tell her?

A sigh left her lips as she ascended the stairs towards the library carefully. Books were stacked up past where she could see and she was using her memory of the circle and the sounds around her to keep from running into anything--or anyone. It was just a bit of light reading about the art of healing. She was intrigued by the intricacies of spirit healing. Yes, it was dangerous but she was plenty sure of herself that she would be fine. She was a strong willed, capable mage.

Aellai barely heard the creak of of metal alerting her to a templar before she ran into something hard and cold. A curse left her lips as the books tumbled from her grasp, moments before apologies started to tumble from her lips.

"I'm so sorry! Normally I am much more aware of my surroundings but I was caught in thought and--" Aellai cut off as another thought occurred to her and she looked up from her crouched position as she gathered her books. "Are you alright? I mean I only know a few measly healing spells right now but it can mend minor things."

Belatedly she realized he was in full armor and that he probably didn't even fell her except for a slight thud.

CULLEN RUTHERFORD
played by CAT
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GWarrior
A33
Asoldier's rest
P88 posts

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The beginning of a shift felt like the end felt like the middle, round and round until he'd spent a whole evening counting the bricks in the hall and the threads in the carpet underfoot. Kinloch wasn't all bad, he'd supposed, but no one ever spoke of the gnawing boredom that came with duty. Tempted to fall asleep where he stood, allow his armor to do the work of keeping him upright, helmet shielding his eyes and breaths even from years of practice in training... Cullen was confident he could have done it. But... nagging as it was, vigilance and responsibility superseded.

It'd made the walk back to the barracks quicker, at least. Steps hastened for a will to be done with it. Return to a book he'd hoped to finish the night before, sat dog-eared and waiting beneath a pillow his pounding head longed for.

That's what the quiet did... it gave headaches.

The sorts of headaches that made a man, desperate to get off his feet, blind to his surroundings. Walking too quick. Head up. Eyes forward. If he'd thought about it, in hindsight, while breezing through the apprentice floor, he ought have thought to look down more often. So many of them too young to be there, he'd thought for long enough that, now, shaking that belief loose, had been difficult. Understanding that a small elven girl was a weapon... understanding that a boy barely able to carry a stack of books down the corridor was dangerous. Looks can be deceiving, Greagoir always said.

Which meant, when the impact came, jostling him from his focused retreat, when gaze dropped to find the culprit, he wasn't too quick to judge what was found. Thin, a wisp of a woman ( or girl? Age was hard to determine in elves ) with the markings of a wildling, was offered the same non-judgemental once over Cullen had prescribed to most of his charges. More in an effort to access her for damage than to pick apart what she wore or how she held her head. Whether she, like other elves, were determined to pay homage to their heritage and go without shoes or slippers despite frigid stone floors. More so, he'd eyed the harsh edges of her tattoos with a curiosity of their fresh state rather than anything else less scrupulous.

"Wha—... oh!" His thoughts working against him, the moment for chivalry had nearly escaped when Cullen took to the necessary crouch, desperately gathering what loose leafs and tomes were scattered about the ground around him. "No, I... I wasn't paying mind to where I was going." His blame or hers, it hardly mattered. "It's the helmet," grin in his voice, the hand not busied with straightening a line of books tapped mockingly at the side of the armor, rattling a noise in his ears less easily ignored than imagined, "whoever designed them must not have had height in mind."

It was easy to get angry.

It was easy to blame mages for all that went wrong in the tower, their abundance clear and their predisposed guilt determined by default as far as the Chantry was concerned. But...

"I am quite alright... my apologies. I'll be more conscious, next time." Mowing over a six-year-old certainly wouldn't garner him much favor, after all. "Um..." Rising, back to his full height, making sure to crane just enough to see her, the stack he'd balanced while doing so was held firm, out for her taking. "Your things, miss...?"

He should have known her name. There weren't any great number of Dalish present. None with their identifiers, at least. And, fresh as her may have seemed, there'd have been whispers among the hall gossip, surely, had he paid heed toward it. That he hadn't meant one thing, "I'm afraid I cannot place your name."

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