Words I'll Never Say

He was convinced the universe had it in for him.

People coming back from the dead, the loss of his eye, his father turning up. Now, his “home” had been destroyed by the walking and talking clockwork that now suddenly had magic. He couldn't blame the Coterie man entirely, magic didn't always present itself at the most convenient of times, but the sight of all the painstaking restoration of some of the more fragile books turned to embers was a bitter blow. 

He had still to move what little belongings he had left to Nairn's residence, but Ruth continued to linger in the Repository for some days after. The comfort of the parchment, the books and scrolls, even the dust, had made better company than familiar faces. While it reminded him of the healer's own copies lost, it was some relief that he could copy the relevant ones again. Mercifully, his journal had been with him, the one key possession that he kept with his satchel at all times. 

He'd found the satchel easy enough, safely on his desk in the Refectory, but his journal was missing. Misplaced? Accidentally catalogued? Ruth had no idea, confused at first that one was without the other. Agitation quickly replaced it. The space soon looked like it had been ransacked, every drawer and cubby had been opened, the contents rummaged indiscriminately. When his search turned up empty, he moved on to the nearby stacks. 

Precariously, Ruth stood on a stool searching the shelves near his claimed corner. One foot planted on a shelf, the other teetering on his toes the vertically challenged elf scoured the spines, some tossed down for later reading, while others he’d shoved aside haphazardly.

A chorus of mild cursing and grumbling came from the stack, concealing the growing anxiety and panic building. “UGH! This is not what I fucking need! Where the fuck are you?! Who has been touching my shit?!”

Caeden's Elf glammour had cost him over half the job's payout, but it was indiscernablely high level magic. He'd come to scout the library sponsored by rare book thieves. Between historical displays and endless shelves of titles, Caeden was exhausted from reading all this Elvish. When he'd discovered the lonely satchel, he'd ruffled through it boredly. It looked like a plain student's, but so many long and dry titles later, that he hoped there might be a snack inside he might pilfer. He'd loved the caramelled hazelnuts he'd first tried when he came to this country.

He pulled out a notebook, opened it, read a line, and laughed out loud. That sentence was rediculous and a dirty sexual innuendo in at least two ways. He read a few lines more, whistled lightly, and walked away from the satchel with his nose in the book. A few pages later, he looked at the cover, trying to discern what he could, but it surely wasn't published. But damn, it was a snarky asshole who wrote it if he knew the sort. The man was obnoxious, but he had a fascinating way of putting the world. 

He finally ambled into an empty reader's room, flopped onto a sofa, and decided, officially, he deserved a break. He spent it making whispered snickers and brief mutterances of:
- Who the hell is this guy!
- I'd never put that in my mouth.
- They just open right up for you, huh buddy?
- You lie to yourself.
- Smart.
- Pssshhh. Nevermind.
- Heh, he deserved that.

With the search of the stacks coming up empty, Ruth had climbed down to wander aimlessly through the rest of the section. No doubt someone would cry bloody murder at the state he’d left behind him, but until the elf found his elusive journal, they could shove their complaints far up their ass, this was a matter of maintaining his sanity. Megara had her pipe and plants, and for him, the words and parchment of a book carried with him nearly always. It wasn’t all written in common, nor did it follow a coherent structure. Pictures, sketches and scribbled phrases, edits, were squeezed into the margins or spaces between the paragraphs of elvish gibberish. Some sections or glued in pages were unreadable, the author’s penmanship a code only known unto themselves. In all the journal was a patchwork of musings, events, observations, poems or sketches of a well travelled individual, an increasingly agitated one.

It wasn’t until Ruth had wandered into the reading room in a last effort to scour its couches when he heard a familiar phrase uttered. His path stopped dead, sharp blues scanning for where the voice had emanated from in determination and upon finding the thief, or the indication of their relative whereabouts, Ruth gestured with his hand. A ward of paralysis was swiftly marked out in the air, cast in the hope it would catch the culprit in the act.

“I know where I left my things. That book, in particular. If you’ve lost pages or damaged it I have to warn you I’m not going to involve any of the authorities, I’ll handle you myself.” While all five feet of him didn’t at first instil confidence in that threat, Ruth was more than capable at scraping. “I would prefer to not have to explain to Megara why I burned down the Refectory, but a man has his treasures.”

Oh? Oh! This is yours?

Caeden snapped the volume shut, still putting away a chuckle. He formulated his Elvish reply in a lowly street dialect he'd originally learned in Ferelden.

Hey buddy, take it easy. Honest mistake. Books in libraries are for everyone to get an eyeful, (lowly agreement seeker)? he continued, wagging the book outward for the other to take. A tinge of envy speckled his thoughts, knowing this man had lived quite the life, adventure and romance around every page. Even if he had a self-absorbed, straight-up cocky way of putting it all down, Caeden would probably have felt just as smug with himself. This human deep in elf-country, was very green behind the ears, in relation to this fellow holding out his hand for his property with fire dancing in his mouth. Despite wagging the book out to be taken, Caeden's grip on it was solid.

Seems like you've been around the (here is a word that is Ferelden elven slang for slave pens) (The previous word is a common, wry phrase that means a sexually experienced elf, with a sex positive connotation among its Elvish speakers, albeit, also a low class connotation, exclusive to the slave population of Ferelden and also, sadly, a reference to the practice of studding, which still practiced but I expect is falling out of fashion. Making up the word might have been simpler than explaining all of the connotation instead. Dragon Age makes me lose my mind. Point is, Caeden is a fool about how he uses words, and this is casual racism. But maybe looking like an Elf at this moment will save him Ruth's wrath, for as a human, in this instant, an Elf he just met ought to smack him.) Why not publish it? Tell the world? What I'd give to have your life?

note: if the diary isnt self-absorbed / cocky, we can chalk it up to caeden forcing his own flaws on his perception of ruth, the classic "pot calling the kettle black".

Did the first page not make it clear? he snapped back.

It took every inch of sense not to march over and snatch it out of his grubby little hands when the stranger pocketed it away. His one eye followed where Cade stashed it, shooting up to meet the man’s face with an incredulous look. We are not buddies. using a finger to gesture between them as he walked over, shortening the distance. Then it landed on where he’d put the journal aside. And books that are carefully stored in a satchel are certainly not for everyone.

Ruth was about to reach out and take it when he offered, but then was caught dumbfounded as the strangers continued bumbling attempts in dalish.

The. Fucking. Audacity. Even his ears seemed to twitch at the garbled butchering and positively insulting way the stranger spoke. It struck the elf so hard that he couldn’t help but laugh.

I’m not sure if you’re stupid, or smart, but fuck it, I don’t honestly give a shit. I just want it back. Offering his palm, Ruth waited, arching a brow while his one eye stared. It’s nice knowing the cipher works. I can’t give away all my secrets because it’s not for anyone else's pleasure but my own. So. Hand it fucking over before I beat your ass like I should have done two minutes ago with your poor as fuck linguistics. Or did you mean to be a mildly racist fuckhead, in Arlathan of all places?

Wow, really? Caeden scowled raising an eyebrow. You've never been to the south? Your belt get too tight hanging around all the Tribers and Sleepers? He made circles with his finger. Not like there's much about 'em in this. His finger came down on the diary.

Here, take it, and Caeden tossed it at the guy to catch. Now he thought this might be a regular old fellah, another of the low class folk who saw the world like he did, who travelled and knew that a word used by both sides was not a black word, but a gray word. Or did he not use it right...? He scowled inwardly, and shelved thinking about it later. I don't get you, but I don't mean no harm, brother. I'm just new to town. Anyhow, thanks for the gossip column.

Caeden got up, and began to walk away, to get back to his task. He had left off at the aisle of tombs, he had, before that juicy nip of a book.