There is, Lukas has concluded, some unwritten law which dictates that Tevinter citizens travelling South must never be warm or dry. No doubt the good Maker's message telling them to go home. Wouldn't such an option be delightful? But the possibility of home is as remote as that of dry socks, and here he is trudging through ankle-deep mud, struggling to - by the old gods, this is embarrassing - wrestle out of his water-logged outer robes before he catches his death. The current had slammed into him and swept him what feels like miles off the trail, left him gaping like a fish in a shallow puddle, he can't even see his staff anywhere around the dank, muddy landscape. Just the debris that's been swept around with him. Sticks and stones and the occasional animal corpse, and the smell of wet dog, somehow. So Ferelden in a nutshell.
His day is not complete, though, until he stumbles over a sharp rock embedded in the muck and falls flat on his face, sending a massive splash up from the weight of his soaked clothes. Lukas is normally a man of magisterial class and grace, but these are exactly the kind of circumstances in which he reverts to his crasser roots.
"Fasta vass! Fuck this entire benighted country!"
IV. Crystals
[A weary, Tevene-accented voice comes through the crystal to ask a very important question:]
I don't mean to question the wisdom of the natives, but is there a reason why I should sit up this tree until the bear has gotten bored and gone away? It's only a bear. I can shoot lightning, you know. Lightning does kill Southern bears, doesn't it? Look, robes aren't made for sitting on branches...
V. Misc
"One more round. You know I'm good for it."
Some men in exile drink to forget. Some drink to dim the pain of separation. But Lukas Fremantle, in exile, drinks to celebrate. Another day survived in the Ferelden ass-end of the world. Who'd have thought that a bear would be an opponent worth drinking to? But any excuse will do, when you are cheerful though in need of warming up, and rich, let's not forget rich. He is good for another round. The barkeep nods appreciatively at the coins he sends clattering to the table. The other patrons cheer and swing their mugs up and drink to the best 'Vint they've ever known. Lukas smiles in half-drunken indulgence. He likes this atmosphere. It has a rustic charm. And essentially these are good people. He'll drink with whatever company he can get.
"I don't know what this is made of, but it does the job," he happily tells the patron closest to him. "Here's to adaptability. I'm doing terrific, if I may so so myself."
Lukas Fremantle ¬ native OC: Tevinter Mage
There is, Lukas has concluded, some unwritten law which dictates that Tevinter citizens travelling South must never be warm or dry. No doubt the good Maker's message telling them to go home. Wouldn't such an option be delightful? But the possibility of home is as remote as that of dry socks, and here he is trudging through ankle-deep mud, struggling to - by the old gods, this is embarrassing - wrestle out of his water-logged outer robes before he catches his death. The current had slammed into him and swept him what feels like miles off the trail, left him gaping like a fish in a shallow puddle, he can't even see his staff anywhere around the dank, muddy landscape. Just the debris that's been swept around with him. Sticks and stones and the occasional animal corpse, and the smell of wet dog, somehow. So Ferelden in a nutshell.
His day is not complete, though, until he stumbles over a sharp rock embedded in the muck and falls flat on his face, sending a massive splash up from the weight of his soaked clothes. Lukas is normally a man of magisterial class and grace, but these are exactly the kind of circumstances in which he reverts to his crasser roots.
"Fasta vass! Fuck this entire benighted country!"
IV. Crystals
[A weary, Tevene-accented voice comes through the crystal to ask a very important question:]
I don't mean to question the wisdom of the natives, but is there a reason why I should sit up this tree until the bear has gotten bored and gone away? It's only a bear. I can shoot lightning, you know. Lightning does kill Southern bears, doesn't it? Look, robes aren't made for sitting on branches...
V. Misc
"One more round. You know I'm good for it."
Some men in exile drink to forget. Some drink to dim the pain of separation. But Lukas Fremantle, in exile, drinks to celebrate. Another day survived in the Ferelden ass-end of the world. Who'd have thought that a bear would be an opponent worth drinking to? But any excuse will do, when you are cheerful though in need of warming up, and rich, let's not forget rich. He is good for another round. The barkeep nods appreciatively at the coins he sends clattering to the table. The other patrons cheer and swing their mugs up and drink to the best 'Vint they've ever known. Lukas smiles in half-drunken indulgence. He likes this atmosphere. It has a rustic charm. And essentially these are good people. He'll drink with whatever company he can get.
"I don't know what this is made of, but it does the job," he happily tells the patron closest to him. "Here's to adaptability. I'm doing terrific, if I may so so myself."