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(( 18 Firstfall, Evening, The Crown and Lion - Ferdinand Winters ))
Ferren needed a drink.
It’d been a long, depressing day. As much as he’d tried to help distract Delilah, he wasn’t sure he’d really succeeded. And, well. Her husband was still dead. The person she’d built a life with. The father of her kids.
And Riane… Once he’d come back to the inn, she’d asked him in her innocent way why everybody seemed so sad. Ferren really didn’t like the idea of lying to her. He’d been lied to his whole life; talked down to when he was a kid, and even now as an adult. So he’d told her the truth.
You remember the new friend we made in Denerim? Her husband’s gone to meet the Maker. He’s… he’s died.
He had no idea if she understood. She was still so young, and after he’d told her, she’d just given him a hug--since he’d looked like he needed one, probably--then went back to playing with KitKit.
She was in bed now, with guards posted at the door of the teyrn’s suite to keep her protected. And since Ferren was sad and frustrated and cold, he’d decided to make his way to the nearest tavern. He wore the new clothes Fergus had commissioned for him, along with a heavy wool cloak, and still the sky was spitting enough snow that he made a beeline for the tavern, glad to see there was a fire going in the common room.
“Whiskey,” he said after signaling to the barkeep.
As he waited for his drink, Ferren looked around. Place was decently crowded. He wasn’t sure how many were travelers, and how many were native bearfolk just trying to drown their sorrows. Most looked unfamiliar, which was a little disappointing. He wasn’t much for drinking alone.
There was one person, though…
He craned his neck to get a better look at the man who was seated at the end of the bar. Tall, maybe a little too thin. Bit of a slouch to his shoulders. Cute little curl of dark hair at the nape of his neck.
A grin split Ferren’s features, and he very nearly called out to the man. Then he remembered. If Freddy was here, he probably didn’t want to draw much attention to himself. Smart to sit in a crowded tavern--but then Freddy’d always been smart.
So Ferren took his drink once it was served and made his way over to the empty stool beside the friend who’d probably saved his life, if he was honest with himself. He didn’t say anything for a minute, then led with, “so what’s a place like you doing in a guy like this?”
Ferren needed a drink.
It’d been a long, depressing day. As much as he’d tried to help distract Delilah, he wasn’t sure he’d really succeeded. And, well. Her husband was still dead. The person she’d built a life with. The father of her kids.
And Riane… Once he’d come back to the inn, she’d asked him in her innocent way why everybody seemed so sad. Ferren really didn’t like the idea of lying to her. He’d been lied to his whole life; talked down to when he was a kid, and even now as an adult. So he’d told her the truth.
You remember the new friend we made in Denerim? Her husband’s gone to meet the Maker. He’s… he’s died.
He had no idea if she understood. She was still so young, and after he’d told her, she’d just given him a hug--since he’d looked like he needed one, probably--then went back to playing with KitKit.
She was in bed now, with guards posted at the door of the teyrn’s suite to keep her protected. And since Ferren was sad and frustrated and cold, he’d decided to make his way to the nearest tavern. He wore the new clothes Fergus had commissioned for him, along with a heavy wool cloak, and still the sky was spitting enough snow that he made a beeline for the tavern, glad to see there was a fire going in the common room.
“Whiskey,” he said after signaling to the barkeep.
As he waited for his drink, Ferren looked around. Place was decently crowded. He wasn’t sure how many were travelers, and how many were native bearfolk just trying to drown their sorrows. Most looked unfamiliar, which was a little disappointing. He wasn’t much for drinking alone.
There was one person, though…
He craned his neck to get a better look at the man who was seated at the end of the bar. Tall, maybe a little too thin. Bit of a slouch to his shoulders. Cute little curl of dark hair at the nape of his neck.
A grin split Ferren’s features, and he very nearly called out to the man. Then he remembered. If Freddy was here, he probably didn’t want to draw much attention to himself. Smart to sit in a crowded tavern--but then Freddy’d always been smart.
So Ferren took his drink once it was served and made his way over to the empty stool beside the friend who’d probably saved his life, if he was honest with himself. He didn’t say anything for a minute, then led with, “so what’s a place like you doing in a guy like this?”