Well into Cloudreach, Strand has had the room to himself; the cats ceded their territory some time ago, though there's been a periodic stench in the room from when one of them gets ideas. None of them are present when their benefactor comes shambling in from the corridor, looking as wan and thin as is possible for someone the general size and shape of a bronto, and it actually takes Barrow until after he's sunk down on his bed to realize the room is already occupied.
Someone's things were here. Shirts twice his size, decent whiskey, a razor that minds sharpening. He's gone through it all, he's put most of it back,
(Tavarys is here, he needs a drink.)
But a few weeks on, he's ready to clear it. Let them toss it in some closet for the next of kin to come knocking, and that's what he's at by the time Barrow arrives. Strand stoops up from the box he's been tossing the odds and ends into — assesses —
The answer to the question sits dry and unspoken on Barrow's lips for a moment as he stares at the newcomer, and it occurs to him in this period that answering honestly would open him up to a level of intimacy he is quite keen to leave behind after the ordeal. Too many people have seen too much of him, recently.
"Fighting fit," he grunts instead, obfuscating the reality behind brusque dismissal. He feels like he looks, which is like shit. "I'm Barrow," he adds, glancing expectantly back to Strand.
"Strand," Lamentation isn't in the paperwork, but Obeisance was; so he doesn't expect pushback. "Warden. Out of your hair soon enough."
He slings the box onto Barrow's bed. Here, have that back. His gaze is steady, and if it'd be kinder to look away, he doesn't. The hand out is calloused to shake.
(Pale and sweaty and unable to stop trembling, the last thing he'd wanted was anyone's kindness.)
Soon enough. What's that supposed to mean? Is he dying?
Barrow follows the box with his gaze, turning it back on Strand with tired, slightly narrowed eyes-- why did you have that-- but he's not about to start a fight. Instead, he shakes his hand.
"As much as cats are anyone's, I s'pose." Long ago he'd promised a friend he'd care for her half-grown strays; she's not coming back, but at least they're still here.
"Stalking," Barrow corrects amiably, his smirk growing and then receding again. "They've got good ears and noses, even if we give dogs all the credit for that. And they wander about, catching vermin. Hard to avoid 'em."
He pauses a moment, rubbing lightly at the overgrown stubble on his chin. "Where'd you say you're from?"
"Oh." His laugh is weak, raw-- a stupid oversight, he realizes, but everything is a little harder right now.
"Right. Like dogs just fine, of course." He's trying, keeping this conversational when all he wants to do is lie down, go to sleep, ignore the world for a while.
He could tell another bad joke, ask after stories: Camaraderie, in the rough manner of the Order; of the docks. No point. The man looks a zombie, and they've exchanged pleasantries enough to call the matter settled. Strand lives here now. Barrow isn't dead.
All that's needful.
"I'm to see a man about a horse," He'll do no such thing. Risen, Strand shrugs up his coat for the door. "But I'll leave the sugar."
His head tilts toward the bed, eyes lifting in an exaggerated point: There's a pouch of tobacco, weighing down some broadsheets. And with that, he's gone.
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hewwo
None of them are present when their benefactor comes shambling in from the corridor, looking as wan and thin as is possible for someone the general size and shape of a bronto, and it actually takes Barrow until after he's sunk down on his bed to realize the room is already occupied.
"Oh," he greets, distantly.
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(Tavarys is here, he needs a drink.)
But a few weeks on, he's ready to clear it. Let them toss it in some closet for the next of kin to come knocking, and that's what he's at by the time Barrow arrives. Strand stoops up from the box he's been tossing the odds and ends into — assesses —
"Feeling better?"
Can't be much.
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"Fighting fit," he grunts instead, obfuscating the reality behind brusque dismissal. He feels like he looks, which is like shit. "I'm Barrow," he adds, glancing expectantly back to Strand.
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He slings the box onto Barrow's bed. Here, have that back. His gaze is steady, and if it'd be kinder to look away, he doesn't. The hand out is calloused to shake.
(Pale and sweaty and unable to stop trembling, the last thing he'd wanted was anyone's kindness.)
"These your cats been about?"
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Soon enough. What's that supposed to mean? Is he dying?
Barrow follows the box with his gaze, turning it back on Strand with tired, slightly narrowed eyes-- why did you have that-- but he's not about to start a fight. Instead, he shakes his hand.
"As much as cats are anyone's, I s'pose." Long ago he'd promised a friend he'd care for her half-grown strays; she's not coming back, but at least they're still here.
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"They found me," he replies, "they're all right." He's not, but it's fine. Everything is fine.
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Worth the price of peace. Wouldn't be the first time something's pissed in his boots.
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He pauses a moment, rubbing lightly at the overgrown stubble on his chin. "Where'd you say you're from?"
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A joke: Only idiots get themselves born into Cairn.
"Ferelden, is it? You're breaking with tradition."
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"How's that?" Breaking with tradition.
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Ferelden, dogs.
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"Right. Like dogs just fine, of course." He's trying, keeping this conversational when all he wants to do is lie down, go to sleep, ignore the world for a while.
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All that's needful.
"I'm to see a man about a horse," He'll do no such thing. Risen, Strand shrugs up his coat for the door. "But I'll leave the sugar."
His head tilts toward the bed, eyes lifting in an exaggerated point: There's a pouch of tobacco, weighing down some broadsheets. And with that, he's gone.