Who: Shale and Sloth Demon
Where: The back of a moving Dalish land ship being pulled by halla - destination unknown
What: "Just where are you placing your hands?"
"Are we there yet?"
"No." Its voice filters through the creaking wood of the elf contraption. The elves' construction is as fragile as the elves themselves, and Shale wonders how something so flimsy can carry her weight. She also wonders just where the Warden is taking her. All it says is "It's a surprise." Stone is hard to surprise, but Shale is willing to let it try. The Warden has earned its little whims. So she crouches in the shuddering wood structure that smells of little squishy elves and the beasts who pull the little cart, and she waits, trying not to break anything by accident. Or on purpose.
The cart halts as the animals pulling it give a squalling cry. That sounds promising.
"Are we there yet?"
"Blood mages!" the Warden cries. "Stay where you are!"
Shale does not take kindly to orders, and there are mages' head to crush. She opens the land ship door – well, she tries. It implodes under her hand.
"What have we here?" The Sloth Demon towers above her. "A restless stone soul, how... intriguing. Don't you desire to be at rest, to gather moss peacefully?"
"I spent 30 years at rest. Being crapped on by pigeons," Shale says, lumbering past the demon. There is a mage paying insufficient attention to his surroundings. "It fertilized the moss, which covered my sparkly crystals." Shale reaches down to the mage... then she pauses, remembering one useful thing the painted elf had taught her. She shifts her stance. The mage sees her now and tries to wriggle away, but Shale's got a firm grip now –
"Shale!" the Warden splutters, breathless with laughter or exertion. "Just where are you placing your hands?"
"Upon his... goolies. Is that the word?" She crushes her hands together as the mage turns a satisfying shade of purple. Then she squishes his head.
That leaves only shades on the field – and the Sloth Demon. The Warden can handle it. The golem perches on the edge of the elves' contraption and kicks at the splinters of the door.
An oily shadow slips up beside her. "Stone heart," the Sloth Demon croons. "One of the crystals that adorns your arm has cracked."
She looks - "Pigeon crap. I liked that one. I will have to find a replacement."
"So tiring, so much effort," the demon murmurs. "I have one." It holds out a sparkly gem, cut like... like... what had the painted elf called it? A love heart? Shale thinks it's the prettiest thing she's ever seen. "It's yours, stone one. From me."