calling a wolf a wolf

It's a wonderful riot of colour, which is only fitting. It'd be worse if the festival of colour were dreary and drab, and the Elvhenan have had enough bad things happen to them for millenia worth of lifetimes. A festival being depressing would just be the cherry on top, wouldn't it?

It's overwhelming, in a nice way, seeing so many elves about. In Kirkwall she only ever saw elves in the Alienage, really, and even still she doesn't see them often out of it -- and many of those faces are ones that she put there. Most of the faces around her are flat-ears, unmarked by Vallaslin, or else wearing what is either some very poorly done Vallaslin or a best approximation at it from someone who doesn't know the patterns.

Still, though, it's lovely, and Merrill lets herself be swept into the crowd, a bright embroidered hood over her head and her entourage left behind. Some lively bards strike up tunes every few hundred meters, and a circle dance has formed around the nearest one. She joins the ring of clapping and stomping hangers-on around it, knowing well enough that she's no use among the dancers. Maybe after a bit more liquid courage.

But then a bright young thing grabs her hand and swings her into the midst of it all, and Merrill flails a little, spinning in his arms before the dance moves on, and she stumbles, all but tossed into someone else's.

I'm sorry in advance for my two left feet! she yells over the music.

Solas had once had two left feet; as a spirit he'd never had a body to learn to move. But as a human... he'd had to learn. And he had learned from the best. Mythal had been patient, kind. Eventually that kindness, that patience, had developed into something more.

She'd fallen first.

It had taken him longer. He'd never felt like he deserved her affection, not when she had Elgar'nan and so many others vying for her.

'They're real people,' he had once said, after rejecting her in private. 'You should be with a real person.'

Mythal had taken his hands in her own, and informed him that though he might be a wolf, he might be a spirit, was everyone not part spirit? And could everyone not shift?

Slowly, she convinced him that he was real enough. And he learned to dance, so that he was more than a bodyguard at the various events she attended. No, they danced as lovers might, in unison.

He had not intended to join this particular dance, but simply observe. However, at some point the circle of dancers widened and he was pulled into it. The stranger that was tossed his way would find herself steadied, and then guided.

With the right guidance, as he had once learned, dance could be easy. No worries.

Oh, you're good at this, Merrill marvels, letting herself be led -- lets the stranger with the beautiful long hair guide her with steady hands, when to turn, when to jump along, when to separate and clap and take hands once again. Have I stepped on your feet yet? Creators, but this is fun! 

Struck with doubt, she looks down at her feet, and gets tangled up in them. Fucking shit--

Solas simply smiled, as the stranger noted how well he led her through the dance. She's asked if she'd stepped on his feet yet, and then a cursory glance down—

That ruins their movements, and he's pulled down with her. They'd been moving too well together to not go down together.

Solas is quiet, chuckling softly at himself, until his attention is stolen by his little red-haired daughter. The toddler, running with her enchanted Dread Wolf plushie, tackled him.

Baba, you falled!

He laughed, as he untangled himself from the stranger, and pulled Aelera onto his shoulders once he stood. You were doing well, until you started to doubt yourself, he stated, offering a hand out to Merrill.

Yes, that's rather the story of my life, Merrill says under her breath, and lets herself be pulled to her feet. She peers up at the child. Hello, da'len, she chirps. Your baba is a very good dancer, I'm afraid I am the reason that he fell. She emphasizes the conjugation lightly -- she had never been allowed anything less than perfect diction, as the clan's first at the ripe age of five, and she's not in the habit of letting such errors slide. 

The child looks nothing like the father, but of course that means nothing, and especially not in a city of refugees such as this. Oh, aren't you bonnie. What's your name?

Aelera peered sternly at the woman, wagging her finger, Shouldn't make people fall! She shouted, as if shouting it made it even more true.

'polgize. Her Common wasn't very good; though no-one had yet questioned why the girl spoke such well ancient Elvhen.

Solas chuckled, tousling the child's hair. This is Aelera. She's... headstrong and has opinions that she thinks everyone else should follow.

Ir abelas, da'len. Merrill bows formally. And then, with her head raised, to the father: She's lovely. And are you alright? No broken bones, no bleeding? I'm terribly sorry for ruining your fun.