' Do you remember the first time I tried to kiss you? '
' I beg your pardon, love? '
' Come now, Rosaire, you remember Orzammar. We were with Wynne and Sten... ? '
' Oh... yes, yes, I remember it clearly, now. '
Fatigue was a good word to describe the party. Composed of four - a Spirit Healer, a mage who still had her feet wet in the terms of Spirit Healing, a Qunari man with an eye for bloodshed and two hands to cause it, and then, the templar-in-training. Crown turned over to the rightful king of the dwarves (and not that shit-faced spoiled brat of a prince, mind you- ) and Anvil destroyed by the new Warden's hand, it would be two weeks' time before camp was even in the distance, and at the request of the redheaded addition to their ragtag team of... something, the four (five?) would stop at Tapster's for a drink and a rest.
Now, mind you, four of the five of these people had been out drinking before, and while the oldest member of the party had the common sense to not go out and drink her mind numb, the... men of the party had other ideas.
Hands twiddling quietly, dark brown eyes set on the tankard of some variant of distilled liquor before her, the youngest and most unexperienced member of the party - the newest Grey Warden Initiate, a beautiful young woman by the name of Rosaire Amell, who had had the displeasure of being a Mage of the Circle prior to her indictment into the elite force - sat questioning her life choices. Why was it that she, a behaved, a good girl (albeit with a temper and a slight addiction to adventure and... some interesting vocabulary), was stuck in a situation like this, the gazes of men staring her down, the only thing keeping her sane behind the gentle touch of her mentor's hand atop hers.
"Go on, lass, it ain't gonna kill you to have a sip!" It was Oghren's voice that pulls her from her thoughts; the mage in question looks up, blinking before nodding. Looking to Wynne for one last bout of confidence ( the older woman's smile alone makes her feel as if she is not alone, and Sten's quiet glance from behind her adds to that, reminding the woman that she, indeed, was allowed at least two members of her party with some decency ) before picking up the stein with both hands, she sipped a little at the drink, face contorted into one of displeasure.
Oh, how vile-
"I'm sorry," she laughed, setting the pint down in front of the redheaded dwarven man. "It seems mead and ale are not my type. Try again with wine or some other fruity alcohol, and then we'll talk, I suppose..." She let her hands raise to her hair, twisting out five silver pins, her braided updo gradually coming down, as if to show that while she wouldn't be drinking alongside the men, she had no problem in relaxing with them. Chair moved, and the woman stands with grace, entrusting her hairpins to the older Spirit Healer in her absence. "And now, if you don't mind, I think I'll step out for some air that doesn't make me want to vomit."
While that was a bit of an overstatement, the woman wasn't particularly lying about her distaste for the alcohol-stained air of Tapster's. She smiled, wringing her hands as she exits, stretching her arms over her head as she approaches the banister of the Orzammar Commons, draping her arms over the side as she rests her chin in her arms, and smiling happily as she recalls the fond memories she has had as her time as a Grey Warden- much more exciting than her life inside the Tower, mind you!
"Ah, you didn't go far. Lovely."
Alerted by the familiar yet unexpected voice, Rosaire's hand instinctively went to the staff on her back, only to relax a bit at her fellow Warden, the dashing blonde known to her party as Alistair, alerted his presence to her, joining her at the banister. The relationship between the Wardens was, for lack of a better term, conflicting. During some days, the two seemed inseparable, laughing happily and sharing stories at camp, as if they had never experienced the tragedy that was Ostagar, and others, they were soulless corpses hell-bent on destroying every Darkspawn that had the unfortunate end of crossing their path- Alistair shouting curses of hatred, forcing them to regret what their brethren had done to Duncan, Rosaire chanting in the language of the mages, casting spell after spell, draining herself dry of mana and ability until she had to be toted back to camp and treated by both Wynne and Morrigan in fear that she contracted something stronger than Spirit Healer abilities could cure.
"No, I told you I was stepping out." She laughed softly at him, her voice chimelike, slightly accented from feint Orlasian descent, clear and recognizable accent distilled from years of breeding and family tree branching with different races and castes of Ferelden, until it wasn't even proper for Rosaire to call herself such. "I feared I would be drunk from just sitting in there much longer."
"So, you leave poor old Wynne alone to deal with our drunken arses?" Alistair's accent was somewhat different, commonplace in Ferelden, albeit strange to the mage girl upon falling upon her ears for the first time; in fact, there were still some times, when Alistair gets in the heat of explaining things passionate to him, that he must take the time to calm down and clearly pronounce his words for the raven-haired woman. "What a devilish minx you are; you'll make the poor woman suffer."
"I believe Wynne would be able to handle things better than I would." She returned the debate. "If anything, she'll scold them so badly that it would make the Darkspawn turn tail and run." A soft laugh escaped the woman's throat as she returns to propping herself along the banister, the Templar man joining her by taking her right.
"It's a beautiful place," Rosaire had the audacity to note. "And to think, I didn't know this was here."
"You didn't know Orzammar existed?" Alistair's voice was tainted with disbelief as he looks to the woman, blinking, eyes widened. Everyone knew that dwarves were real, were alive!
"I knew it existed, but from what I figured, it was a collapsed city of ruin. Being in that tower for so long makes you... look at things in another light." She smiled, brown eyes starry with wonder as she looked upon the dwarven civilization. "I'm glad I was proven wrong, though. About all of this- about the dwarves, the elves, the humans, the Templars, the Wardens-"
"Wardens," Alistair stopped her, a curious look upon his visage. "You read about the Wardens before you became one?"
"That, I did." Rosaire looks out into the fire, letting her mind and thoughts wander, skin pressed against iron banister. "Glorious heroes of legend, fighting alongside the notorious kings of Ferelden in a dangerous onslaught of Darkspawn known as The Blight. Heroes, conqueror, generals, legends. The Grey Wardens, from what I read, were nothing to trifle with. What I saw at Ostagar changed my mind, until we stand here now, and I believe that what I read was proper."
The two laugh for a moment at their own expense, silence falling among Templar and Mage once more, before now it is Alistair again to break the silence- not with a statement, but a question.
"And to think, all this time we've spent together," he spoke, voice gentle and expression even more so as his attention is turned not at the fire that his partner had fixated herself upon, but the woman standing to his left, letting his eyes wander along her form - her hair (how she had rarely let it down in fear of it getting caught and singed in magical crossfire, something commonplace for female mages; Alistair minded it not, making the visions like this, in her most vulnerable and beautiful state all the more refreshing), her body, her hips, her curves - as he continued his speech. "Tragedy. Blood. Death. Murder. Do you think you'll miss it when we're gone?"
Rosaire did not laugh laugh. Instead, her chest rose and fell, stomach opposite so as she took in a deep breath, looking to the fire with a look of determination. "Honestly, it makes me upset just thinking of it." She admits to him. "I do not know where I will go once the Blight is over, the Archdemon slain. I do not want to return to that blasted tower, perhaps... perhaps I will stay here, explore my world a little more. Become an... an apostate."
Her answer took Alistair back, eyes widening. "Rosaire, are you- are you sure that's what you want?" He asked, fighting the urge to place his hand over hers, a gesture he knew she loved so. "There are other options."
"Such as?"
"Staying with the Wardens." He told her. "Sure, we only have... well, thirty years to live, but do you not want to rebuild the legacy in that time?"
She shrugged, adjusting her posture a little, back straightening. "Perhaps that is also a viable path for my feet to dance along. Why do you care so, Alistair?" Gaze rose from the floor, looking to the man who returned her gaze. "Is there something on your mind?"
The Warden's breath is ripped from his lungs at her eyes, finding them captivating and dangerous simultaneously, but he began to speak straight from his heart, as both Leliana and Wynne had advised him to do during this moment, and what more perfect of a moment, the blonde Warden had come to think, than in a place where she felt safe, entertained, entranced? "I know this... might be strange," he began, pushing away from the banister, heart racing as she does the same, the two standing at attention before one another- a six-inch height difference being something that changed the tone of the conversation. "But I really have come to care for you, Rosaire. A good deal. Oh, listen to me speak. Perhaps this is because we've been together, hand in hand, through all this... or perhaps I'm fooling myself. Am I?"
Mages were not bred for love, the first thing that comes to Rosaire's mind was. Stopping herself before she can speak, the Warden's hand rose to her bun, to fidget with it as she was known to do, only to find it wasn't there. Vulnerable, open. Perhaps this was the moment that Alistair was waiting for, she pondered, and if it was, she must truly honor him for his tactics. Throat cleared- how did she feel about Alistair, exactly? There was that time, with the rose, and those many nights they stayed up together at the campfire, beginning with Rosaire's shift in nightwatch, talking all hours of the night until she fell asleep upon his shoulder, only to wake up in her proper tent the next morning, knowing it was his doing to put her there. The Mage from Orlais hadn't really thought about it in that manner of being until this very moment.
"I don't know, Alistair," her voice was quiet as she spoke, looking to the taller man with a sense of curiosity in her gaze, as she always had. "I believe it is... too early to say. If you don't mind me saying."
Courage buckled in his core, the man looks down at the woman, not missing a beat of breath as the next words rolled off his tongue like honey, voice smooth, yet dark. "Well," he asked her, eyes lidded as he smiled, "Is it too soon for this?"
The kiss was gentle, battleborn fingers tilting the chin of the woman, skin as white as snow, up to his; the man bending to close the gap in their lips, his eyes closed in confidence as hers snapped open in shock, quickly processing what was happening, what was going on. They are quiet for a long while, the mage's hands resting on the back of his neck, eyes finally closed in relaxation, perfect tempo do their hearts go.
And in the background, three pair of curious eyes watch on, ready to interrogate in the morning.