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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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.