milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Some days have uneventful training voyages and trips to seed banks around the world in them.

Some days you run into places where the human spirit of opportunism has gotten wildly out of hand.

Shephard kind of hates a lot of his species right now, but shit, at least he's got a Brazil mission to look forward to when he goes back through the door to his side of things. Yes, that means he's looking forward to the community where they haul out the bullet ants special for him. It's been that kind of a day.

Bar was kind enough to grant him a copy of Traditional Bowhunter's issue with the special article on making dogwood arrows along with the beer he ordered, so he's gonna spend some time with that, but he'll be happy to talk once he's about halfway down the bottle or three quarters of the way through the article, either one.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Will a non-human bearing ale be welcome at his table?

Ysalwen is making her way in his direction, regardless, Liranan trotting at her heels.

"Would you mind company, Adrian?"

Shephard glances up. "Sure, sit if you want," he says. "Ain't expectin' nobody today. How're you'n yours doin', anyways?"

No reason not to attempt to be polite.

"No more deaths, which I'll take."

She sits, shifting her legs so Liranan can settle underneath them, then braces her booted ankles against his back.

He does not appear to mind.

"Broodmothers in the Deep Roads, though, or so I hear, which -- is not one of my favorite ways to spend a week."

So it goes.

"How are you?"

She might've told him what Broodmothers were once. He'll think about it later. Can't be anything good, though. So he nods, and he makes a face, and he says, "What's the stupidest fuckin' reason folks've got for bein' jackasses to whole other groups of their own people in your world?"

"Hmm. There are a lot of terrible reasons we give for being terrible to each other. They have horns, they don't have horns, they have pointed ears, they live in cities, they live in caravans, they don't believe in the Maker, they like fancy clothes, they like dogs and not fancy clothes, and they're mages. Or they're not mages, up in Tevinter. But the stupidest -- it's a toss-up between hatred of those who don't worship Andraste and the Maker, and completely shitting on the dwarves who are casteless."

Her mouth twists.

"You've run into some damn stupid reasons lately, I take it?"

"Skin color, this time around," says Shephard. "Some folks got it into their heads that seein' how there weren't no Combine Empire no more, this'd be a perfect time for palefaces like us to git ourselves put on top of the human hierarchy once'n for all. One of the fuckers in charge was an asshole I put through a wall once for insultin' my brothers'n sisters of the Corps that way some years back."

"Skin color? Really?"

What the --

"Can I hope that you put the fucker in charge through a wall again?"

"Little late for that," Shephard says. "Word from one of the survivors is, he got his ass the hell out of Dodge when he realized he'n his brother's scheme of workin' up their own tame little plague to use as a weapon'd gone really fuckin' wrong and got loose among his followers. I ain't too sure where the Butler brothers are now. Might have to hunt 'em down before they git anybody else killed. There ain't enough humans left for this kind of shit."

Her expression twists in what is probably disgust.

"Of course a plague. Selective, I assume? Or they planned to use it selectively."

Andraste's ever-loving ass.

"They sound like the kind of people who ought to be put out of everyone else's misery. Or at least forcibly kept out of trouble, depending on -- local mores."

"They thought they could," Shephard says, "on account of we had a scientist some while back cook up somethin' along those lines that killed the creature the Combine were usin' to turn the air on Earth into the kind of air the Combine could breathe. Thing is, our scientist was a fuckin' genius and we had samples of the blood'n muscle from those critters for him to work from. Weren't but seven or eight of those things in the whole goddamn world. Their scientists were tryin' to make their plague hit folks who weren't their idea of the right kind of people. Problem is, 'right' people or 'wrong' people, all us fuckin' humans're still humans."

"And I'll tell you what, if I git permission to hunt 'em down, I don't care how long the human race went without bein' able to have any more children. Those two assholes're genetic variation we can fuckin' well do without in the next generation."

Did he tell her about the Suppression Field? Maybe, but who knows.

Now does not seem the time to ask about the lack of children.

Maybe later.

"One day the people who understand that disagreement doesn't make someone less deserving of life will -- be the most numerous. I hope."

She shakes her head a little.

"Until that day, we can just hope the others are stupid enough to get themselves killed. Early."

And often.

"It would save me a whole lot of trouble," says Shephard. "'Specially since if I catch up with these assholes I'm more or less obliged to bring 'em back for public trial. It's the principle of the thing. Reckon they'll likely be found guilty of endangerin' the whole human race and publicly executed, but shit, my life'd be easier if they just wound up smeared across some landscape somewhere'n all I had to bring back was their heads."

"People will do a lot of things when they're panicked. Most of them stupid, some of them actively suicidal."

She's just saying.

"That they will," Shephard says. "That they will. Wonder how good my people are at makin' panic happen. I can't do everything myself."

"I'm sure you've got a few imaginative people among your -- crew, was it?"

"Ship's got a crew," says Shephard. "I was thinkin' of my Marines. They ain't sailors so much as soldiers who're trained for fightin' at sea and on land and goin' from one to the other without battin' an eye. The Borealis crew's mostly scientists'n engineers'n shit- good folks, but Borealis weren't built as a warship."

"Flexible, these Marines of yours."

Ysalwen cracks a small, sharp smile.

"I like it. I'd offer my magic in assistance, but the only fear I can manage to induce is the cowering kind. That's -- probably not the type you want."

Edited 2015-03-17 02:13 (UTC)

"If the opportunity to make use of that sort of thing arises, I'mma come lookin' for you," Shephard says. "I ain't above usin' whatever comes to hand to git the outcome the way I want it."

"I feel much the same, so as long as your cause is the kind of thing I wouldn't mind making mine -- and I have no doubt that it is and will be -- just let me know."

Liranan lifts his head and barks, just once.

It's a lower and rougher sound than his usual happy yips. But he agrees with Ysalwen.

Edited 2015-03-17 02:17 (UTC)

"Much appreciated," says Shephard. "Hopefully it won't come to that, but it sure is nice to have somethin' to fall back on."

He leans over to offer the dog a sniff of his hand before making to scratch behind the ears. It's only polite to make sure that's okay first.

Liranan rarely turns down petting, unless they're in combat.

Or it's someone neither he nor Ysalwen trust.

And Shephard is very good at scratching.

"It really, really is. Thank you for the explosives, by the way. I have a feeling they're going to come in handy in the Deep Roads."

Those Broodmothers aren't going to know what hit them. Among -- other things.

"Any time," says Shephard. "Just be careful with 'em. I don't want to hear nobody's missin' a finger or three on account of the batch goin' off at the wrong moment."

"Don't worry. You won't."

She's good, her sappers are better, and she's made some time to practice.

Plus walls of ice are very useful in times of crisis. Kind of.

"Fair 'nough." Shephard smiles crookedly. "I went through a lot of shit to git my new hand after I lost the old 'un. Ain't somethin' I'd recommend to nobody else."

"I'd probably be stuck with a carved wooden hand, or a hook. Though maybe the dwarves -- "

A pause.

"But seriously, I have no plans to lose a limb, or my life. And I have a spirit healer in the newest crop of Grey Wardens. He's quite good, if not as good as Wynne. It should be all right."

Shephard nods. Then: "Spirit healer? That like the shamans they got down in Corporal Maripyaipok's neck of the woods?"

"Maybe? I'd need to know more about these shamans, first. But a Spirit Healer -- it's sort of what it sounds like, I suppose. They are very good at touching the Fade and using it to heal people from, oh, all kinds of things. I -- spirits of Faith help them, sometimes. Or so I've heard."

Her mouth twists in a wry smile.

"It took a very good Spirit Healer almost a year to teach me to heal a paper-cut, for what that's worth."

"Ain't too clear on the particulars involved, but from what Mari told me once, it's a whole lot of invokin' local nature spirits'n shit like that to git poisons'n sickness pulled out of a body," Shephard says. "Dunno much more about 'em than that myself. He says it ain't really the kind of thing he reckons I'd understand less'n I sat down with the shamans themselves'n got a good year's worth of education, and I ain't got the time for that."

He thinks for a moment and adds, "Only other folks I know much about who've got spirits'n healing mojo're Bumi's people- water benders c'n heal with that shit they do, but I ain't too sure if they call on spirits or just learn their shit from spirits or what."

"Huh. Well, if it works, it works. They do sound sort of similar, from your description. I -- if I could heal at all I'd probably be able to make better comparisons. Or learn something from all this."

She smiles crookedly.

"Though it is nice to have spirits you can learn from, rather than those that only want to make you their slave."

"Yeah, I ain't sure I ever heard of that kind of spirit from his folks," says Shephard. "Might be somethin' that'll try to bite your fuckin' head off, but shit, you git that in the regular world half the time anyways. No big difference there."

She laughs a little, quietly.

"True. Sometimes the creepy spindly fingers are the only real difference."

Not really, but still.

"I'll take your word for it," Shephard says. "Some shit you leave to the experts."

"Is it wrong to be a little horrified at the things I'm an expert in?"

"I hear that happens to folks sometimes," says Shephard after some consideration. "It ain't an unusual thing. Wouldn't worry about feelin' that way too much."

"Usually I don't have the time, so that helps."

Her smile is crooked.

Shephard nods. "If you can't git used to it, bein' too busy to give much of a shit about it's the next best thing.'

"Is that your situation, too, these days? Or have things started settling even the tiniest bit? Because it sounds like 'no', but some days I'm stupidly hopeful."

Edited 2015-03-17 17:24 (UTC)

"Well, it ain't quite as bad as it was last time," Shephard concedes. "I moved myself'n the Marines I'm trainin' up back to my hometown, 'stead of havin' us stationed where the commander-in-chief lives. There ain't proper harbor options for a ship like Borealis at the Greenbrier, but we got room for her on the river near Rowlesburg, so I ain't got to travel near as much. Not to mention most of the folks there're lifelong farmers'n miners'n such, so they know the area and know their shit better than a lot of folks back Greenbrier way, so I ain't always bein' driven up the wall."

"That is a blessing, and not even in disguise. I'm glad for you."

She really is.

Maybe one day dealing with Amaranthine will be like that, too. An elf can dream.

"Much appreciated," says Shephard. "Sure do hope things git to fallin' in line for you sometime soon. Reckon you could use it."

She exhales.

"Well, if not, I'll just have to find some way to make it so."

Still.

"Thank you."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only