Into the Wilds [Cyrlan]

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for Fenris & Ashyla Lavellan; 5000 years later here is a poopy post[break][break]
"Not my fault trouble likes me," `he counters childishly. It's not without truth, though, if one considers the fact that this entire mess sprung out of mere coincidence. That, and many others. He doesn't make a habit of planning, that much is evident. Still, the elf allows Ashyla to drag him by his arm, complying without protest, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Her worry is not without reason, instead akin to a familiar routine that the cousins have fallen into since becoming involved with the Inquisition. One of them goes out on a mission, comes back scuffed up in one way or another, the other either frets anxiously or gets annoyed that they weren't invited along. Both, sometimes. [break][break]

He plops himself down onto the offered log gracelessly and proceeds to unsling the staff from his back, laying it onto ground. The same goes for the travelling cloak, though this one is folded with some vague semblance of neatness. Cyrlan looks up just in time to have a bowl of stew thrust into his hands, with the brusque command of "eat". Few speak to him in such a manner, even with him actively trying to seem less of a threat (as much as the Inquisitor could afford to be, at least), save for Ashyla and perhaps his closest friends, of which many have since left his side to pursue their own lives and whatnot. Part of him wants to think up some sort of smart, witty reply, but only now does he realise that he hasn't quite eaten properly in the last few hours, settling for an appreciative "thank you" before he digs in. Da'sa, on the other hand, now circles Fenris tentatively. The fennec is terribly curious about the stranger, ears perked inquisitively. [break][break]

Meanwhile, the Inquisitor himself stretches out before the fire, flicking a finger idly towards the campfire to make it blaze all the brighter. The additional warmth is welcome, to say the least, considering how it is getting rather late. Fog is starting to roll in, but lingers at the edge of the camp. Enchantments carefully placed at the boundaries offer mild protection from the harshest weathers, but out here, that only refers to the cold that comes with nightfall, and the occasional storm. It's not the harshest place he's been in, that's for sure. "There were sylvans," he informs Ashyla oh-so-helpfully in between mouthfuls, gesturing with the spoon in the vague direction from which they came from. He swallows before continuing, still directed at Ashyla. "I'm not sure how many are out there, but we might be safer sticking around the temple for now."[break][break]

"Introductions seem to be in order," he comments, raising his voice just enough to be carried to where Fenris is seated close to the fire. The other doesn't seem the type for words, he has come to realise. "Ashyla Lavellan." Cyrlan nods to the mentioned huntress, then to the warrior. "Fenris." He repeats it in the opposite order, indicating to each as he does so. "And myself, Cyrlan." There are better ways to get acquainted, but such fails to come to mind right now, and so he simply returns to his food and contemplates the route to take the next day.

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