Rangers have an affinity for open country and wilderness, but as independent scouts and militia, they are opportunists, not stewards of nature. They exploit every advantage of their environment, and can lure wild beasts to attack their foes.
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Vardel Mahariel held one hand in the air and gestured to the rest of the group to stop, the bear still at his heels unnaturally calm and meek. Barely looking at them all, he frowned slightly, itching the bandage at his arm thoughtfully. “We break for camp,” he said bluntly, the only thing he said since their ragtag band added one more in the afternoon in the form of Zevran Arainai, the man sent to kill him.
“What are you going to do about the assassin?” Alistair said in an undertone, arms crossed against his chest. Furtively the ex-templar threw a look over his shoulder where Zevran followed their group still, unbound and meek as a pack halla.
Vardel smirked slightly in reply, eyes darting briefly to their captive. “I'll sort it out.”
“Sort it out? Sort what out exactly? He tried to kill us.”
“Well spotted, Alistair. And I'll sort it out. Don't make me say it again,” he replied dryly. Morrigan, equally annoyed at the other elf's company, glared at Vardel, golden gaze sparking heat. He winked briefly, raffish and spry finally. “Help Morrigan with her tent, I'm sure she wants your help. Be a gentleman and help a lady.”
“I'll manage,” the witch replied coldly, eyebrows raised. “If that was a joke. 'twas an awful one,” and turned on her heel to leave them all. Vardel particularly appreciated the way her anger made her hips swing, and grinned wider.
“A lady?” Alistair spluttered, grinning at the chance to chase her. “Wait, fair lady!”
“Fools, the pair of you,” Vardel managed to hear and laughed openly.
The other Grey Warden bent down in a mock bow at the witch, following her. “Come back, chaste maiden! I have to help you across puddles, or something. What's that, no? Ah. Pity...” and helped Leliana set up a tent instead, much to the bard's amusement.
Zevran watched the camp unfold with precision, despite the humour and banter, a stranger watching friends speak. Everything had a place, and it became evident that their leader had a ritual for how things were unpacked and placed, everything done just so.
The mabari sniffed at the food packets as they were taken from the bags and Vardel raised his voice once. “Dorcan! No,” and meekly the dog obeyed, guiltily wagging his tail as he joined his master.
Picking one packet up he threw it at the Antivan, gesturing him to follow him and his animals away from the rest. Sten watched them go impassively, Leliana and Wynne exchanging worried glances. Zevran however took it all with a shrug. If this was his fate, so be it.
The Warden elf sat down and ignored him, eating his food to an audience. Once he was nearly done he threw scraps to his dog, who caught them easily. The bear got a smaller portion, delicately eating his offerings with the politeness of an Arlessa.
“Does he have a name like the dog?” Zevran asked as the bear drooled onto its own paws, red rimmed eyes watching them both with baleful eyes at the prospect of no more food.
Vardel chuckled. “Of course not. He's just bear.”
The animal in question made a mournful sound and shifted on his haunches, ears down. Vardel aimed a swift kick to hit rump and his tone changed, icy and commanding. “Down. I said down,” and he clicked his fingers, gesture firm and dominating.
The bear, however had other ideas, haze shaking slightly. A growl emitted through the camp and Zevran nervously back away, his weapons taken from him since his ambush. “Ah, Warden...”
The Dalish elf grinned and with with a rakish smile grabbed the bear and pinned a sharp elbow to a furry throat. The bear choked once and meekly did as he was told and sat, drooling once more.
“Once you learn the trick, they're frankly like rabbits,” and Vardel leant against his tamed animal on his elbows, grinning again. It was a nice smile, rakish and handsome.
“The-
ah, trick?” Zevran said, perplexed, knowing he was being charmed. All he saw was a a blur of arm and dominance, and animal that could easily rip them both apart with vicious teeth and claws. “Does it work on others?” He joked, wondering if he had applied the same tricks to the Qunari that followed the small elf without question.
“Some. Spiders are easier,” Vardel replied flatly. “They're not the smartest, even though legends paint them as wicked, wily creatures adept at luring you to your doom.”
Zevran had never heard of a legend of a spider before, curious at the Dalish legends he had heard little about.
“Oh?”
Vardel knew then he was talking a human in an elf's clothing, a foreigner who probably couldn't even tell the difference between an oak and silverbark. “Yes, the story of
Eheria'l. She-”
The other elf chuckled. “Of course it would be a she.”
“Yes, well. She would lure travellers to her web with song and promises. But in reality, they are much more stupid and easy to manage, spiders- legend or no. A punch above eyes usually sorts them out and they're docile to follow you like a baby halla would.”
“A punch?”
Vardel settled against the bear a little more, all roguish grins once more and conspiratorial looks of two men sharing a story. “Yes, right above the eyes, there's a particular place. They're knocked out enough to do what you want, of course. You know, like the pheasant trick.”
“Enlighten me,” Zevran replied, drawling his words just so. “I am bereft of knowing such a thing.”
The Dalish elf snorted in laughter, sipping from his canteen roughly before speaking again. “We used to do it as kids when we should be chasing the aravels instead. You get a pheasant, lie it on one side and then draw a line in front of its eyes with a bit of charcoal or whatever. Anyway, it's like some sort of hypnotism really, and the animal is now dumb enough to follow the line.”
“I know humans and elves that would do the same,” the Antivan said, examining his nails. “For less then a piece of charcoal too, I'm sure.”
The bear shifted and moaned a little. Dorcan the mabari whuffed slightly under his breath at the noise, alert still. “Well, I wouldn't know about that,” Vardel said flatly, wondering then what this flat-eared had seen to say such a thing.
“But you fight also,” Zevran replied again. “The blades, the bow,” and he remembered the feel of the arrows in his shoulder, wound itching still despite the healing from the elder mage.
“I'm a hunter. I used to defend the clan of course, but...” A shrug of wiry shoulders and Vardel rubbed at his nose irritably. “Out here I am a hunter still. Here is my court and country. Being a Grey Warden somehow has made my hunting ground a little wider and the prey a little more varied, but there's a threat to my camp and I will defend it, ” and with that he gestured vaguely to the huddled tents in the distance, Morrigan's fire visible still in the gloom.
“I understand, I think.”
“Good.” The pair of men watched the fire, Dorcan watching the bear cautiously. “Wolves are the hardest,” he said suddenly. “They are pack animals. The dog over there, even though as far removed from a wolf as can be, he understands this. I am his pack leader. He follows me, without question. It is rare to encounter such a creature in the wild, so you go for the weak, the loners.”
“A lone wolf?”
“Yes, one that has been cast out from the pack, of course. They're usually mad with hunger and desperate for food. More dangerous in some regards then a pack. A pack will only attack unless threatened, crazy or starving. We don't taste that nice you see. But a lone wolf... ah, his first instinct is to bite anyway, not knowing how to think away from his pack, his clan. And you exploit that. You give them what they want, within reason.”
Zevran chuckled throatily. “Which is what, my handsome captor? A pack? You give them a home?”
“Nope. You give 'em a meal first, then you let 'em know that they can be pack. But never let them think they have a chance at being alpha, they should know their place.”
Vardel swilled from the flask and offered it to Zevran casually, who took it without removing his eyes from the other man. As soon as his hand touched the wooden flask Vardel swung his blade to his throat, eyes hard. Dorcan growled, aware of the shift in power, teeth visible in the gloom of the night.
“I understand,” Zevran replied quietly, feeling a trickle of blood down his neck. “I know my place.”
“Good,” Vardel spat back in his face. “Don't think because your ears are pointed, assassin, that we are the same. We're not.”
Zevran refused smiled, despite the blade at his neck. “Undoubtedly so, Warden. You are making your, ah, point loud and clear.”
Vardel withdrew his blade and slapped the elf on the back, all smiles and roguish demeanour once more. “Get some sleep, then. And I'll speak with you in the morning.”
Zevran touched his throat once to feel the blood. He knew the blade was coming, of course he did. But he also knew his options to deflect it were limited.
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Modifié par soignee, 05 octobre 2010 - 01:48 .