an alien a day keeps the sorceror's away

Sivene had heard rumors whispered through the lips of strangers, that there was a merchant peddling Ancient Elvhen artifacts. It was with that purpose that she set out into the marketplace of Denerim. She had discovered others wearing things that resembled items from her childhood but were simply reproductions in this new era. She wanted to hold something authentic, as old as she.

She stood in front of the merchant, studying his wares. He had some nice fabrics, and she had brought things to trade with. In the bag on her hip rested a handful of gold that some kind soul had given her (she still did not understand the significance of this), and various trinkets to barter with.

The aberration pointed towards a fabric, an un-dyed roll, and reached to pick up a necklace featuring the likeness of the Creator. What do you want for this? She inquired, tilting her head back slightly, studying the merchant. The merchant named a price; added it to the bolt of fabric, and Sivene stared silently, before holding out her bag. Too trusting, she firmly believed he'd only take what would equate the over-inflated price he had asked for.

The man muttered something about daft women needing men to keep them in line, as he dug through her bag. The gold crowns equalled double what he'd asked for, and as he began counting out gold, Sivene was none-the-wiser. She'd never learned what equalled what when it came to money; they'd not had that in her time. Thank you! She exclaimed, excitedly accepting the necklace and the fabric, pausing in front of the merchant's stall to pack her things neatly into the bag she carried.

Stupid girl, the words were spoken loudly enough that anyone around her might hear, but they meant nothing to her. Come back anytime, miss. I'm here every day of the week. The merchant called, as she walked away.

Rylee disliked Denerim. Like all shem-run cities, it was a cesspool of the dregs of society. The marketplace was especially bad. Swindlers of all kinds peddled their wares and took advantage of others. Especially those like her. Knife-ears, they'd call them, rats that didn't beg worth of their time or effort to be fair.

She'd been perched up on a rooftop, one leg hanging off as she casually watched the bustle of people below. She'd been eyeing a particularly interesting looking woman, idly sharpening one of her daggers. That was, however, until she heard the loud voice of the merchant. With a scowl, she stashed her whetstone away.

Dropping in right behind the merchant after a few hops across the rooftops, Rylee pressed her dagger into his back. Is that how you treat women? she hissed into his ear, slowly pressing the dagger into his back. A hand over his mouth stifled any chance of him to answer, any chance for him to cry out for help.

Where are the items you took from her? she asked, voice still a harsh whisper. He didn't seem keen to give an answer. Idiot. The man squealed under her iron grip as the silverite dagger pressed deeper into flesh. I will have what you swindled from her or I will have your life.

When the merchant finally cooperated, Rylee released him, pulling her dagger out of his back. Good dog, she remarked, taking the items, sheathing her dagger, and heading after the woman.

I think you lost something, she called out to the woman, jogging up until she was alongside of her. She held out a pouch of the items she'd just traded to the merchant, a surprisingly warm smile on her lips. A harsh contrast to the cold manner she'd treated the shem.

Sivene, oblivious to the scene behind of her, was on a path to leave town behind. She paused, at the shout, and the pouch of gold and trinkets held out to her. No? I was paying that man for his wares. Isn't... Did I do it wrong? Confusion quickly crumpled to worry, that she had somehow messed up.

Ir abelas. She accepted the pouch, frowning as she reached for the larger bag on her hip. I have to... give it back? She inquired, cautiously searching behind of the stranger for guards. The last time she'd messed up in the marketplace, the merchant had called the guards. Said she'd 'stolen' from him; which she had, but...

There were no guards coming, in fact, nobody around them paid attention to them save for the brief glare that was likely attributed to the fact both women were elvish. Are they mad at me? Did I steal again? Ir abelas.

The reaction that Rylee got from the stranger was unexpected, at best. It took a moment before she could even get a word in, but finally, she was able to sneak in to explain: Nooo, noo, no. Not at all, it was him. Rylee gestured back toward the merchant, who was no doubt shooting daggers at her - if he could even stand.

Suddenly, Rylee quirked a brow. Again? Do you often steal from the shems? Nothing wrong with it, in Rylee's opinion. They'd stolen so much from the elven people, what was the difference now? After all, she'd essentially just helped this sweet stranger steal from that disgusting man.

After a beat, Rylee placed her hand gently on the woman's arm. You haven't done anything wrong and you don't have to give anything back, all right? Another pause, she shrugged. Besides, he's probably more upset about the hole in his back than anything you might have done. She winked, then gestured they should keep heading out of the area.

I'm Rylee, by the way - are you dalish? She'd not met many, they usually had vallaslin over their faces. But with everything so different after the Veil going down, part of her wondered if this woman's bare face was part of that.

Sivene shook her head, Not on purpose! But my Creator never... she trailed off. Her Creator had never done much for her; but her mother-handler had. No-one had ever asked who she was before. No-one knew what she was unless she came into contact with water; she was one of the luckier aberrations.

The stranger was touching her arm, and gesturing that they should leave. Talking about... Did you hurt him? Eyes widening, she didn't stop following the other elf, though. Why? Was he a bad man?

And then there was a name.

And a question.

Uhm. I'm— My handler named me Sivene. Nobody had ever asked her name before. She wasn't sure what to say. And then she shook her head. I'm not from, uhm. I'm— She frowned, stumbling over her words.

Oh. I'm not a slave. I'm an experiment. She nodded, as if that explained everything. She was qiet for a beat, walking slowly as she considered what she wanted to ask.

Creator. Singular. Rylee contemplated the thought behind that. She'd never heard a dalish elf refer to Creator in the singular like that. Always plural. Always Creators. Interesting. Was this woman, perhaps, from some more isolated group that practiced differently? Rylee, herself, had never grown up with the notion of the Creators. As an elf born in the city, she'd had the Maker shoved down her throat at a young age. She wondered if this was, perhaps, some mashup between the two.

Rylee stirred from her thoughts at the question about hurting the man. He was a bad man, and there are a lot of bad men in places like this, she explained. The only not bad shems Rylee had ever met could be counted on one hand. And they were typically mages. People who understood the elves more than others. People who were also all but enslaved because of how they were born.

Handler? Interesting. Well, they picked a beautiful name, Rylee offered, a charming smile on her lips. She decided to gloss over the handler part for now.

You're... what? Rylee blinked a few times trying to process. Are you from Tevinter? she asked, a hint of concern touching her tone.

Sivene tilted her head, nodding slowly. Is it always men that are bad? She inquired, as if the idea was new to her. And honestly, it probably was. The woman blinked slowly, at the compliment to her name. Nobody had ever... complimented her before, and it showed in the way her face reddened and she ducked her head.

But then Rylee was concerned, and Sivene stared at her, blankly. I don't know what 'Tevinter' is. I'm from Ghilain'nain's Grove. I'm an experiment of my Creator, the Evanuris, Ghilain'nain. She sounded like she was repeating that last bit off of a script; and she likely was. The Evanuris that had made her and so many others had been proud, and had wanted the world to know they were hers.

Rylee paused a moment at Sivene's question, contemplating the answer. Truthfully, men were the majority issue. But it wasn't just men. Collecting her thoughts, she answered: It's more the shems than just the men. Humans treat us like we're less than dirt. It felt odd having to explain this to another elf, but then, there were elves out there fortunate enough not to really deal with shems and all their sheer nonsense.

Then Sivene answered her question about Tevinter. And, Rylee struggled with how to respond to that information. Confusion clouded her blue eyes as she looked away from Sivene, processing. You... her mouth opened and closed a couple times. Rare was the time one could catch Rylee without words.

Dalish Creators weren't Rylee's forte in knowledge. Having been in the Grey Wardens a better part of her life, learning about that aspect of her heritage had never been able to happen. Not more than the bits and pieces she got over the years from the few dalish elves she'd met.

She wanted to ask how old Sivene was, but would that be an impenitent question to ask? Would the poor woman even know if it was? Would that make it better or worse? Rylee's mind swirled as she tried to figure out what to say.

Sivene tilted her head, as the other woman stumbled over her words. Before going silent, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly. I was created by the Evanuris, Ghilain'nain. She stated again, as if she didn't understand the confusion. Do you not know about the Evanuris? She frowned at the thought that the elves of this time had no knowledge of their history.

That's sad. Would you like to learn?

Rylee took a deep breath, finding some words after Sivene ended up repeating herself. I can't say I do know about them, no... I have only ever heard stories of the Dalish and heard them mention 'Creators'

Did she want to learn? Absolutely. Though having the tables turned like this so suddenly felt odd, keeping her on her back foot. She nodded, though. I grew up learning about the Maker and Andraste. She tossed out, as if that would make any difference on the matter. Likely it would confuse Sivene, if anything else was to go off of.

Sivene tilted her head as the other woman processed and responded. What is... Delish? Elf? She furrowed her brow, that certainly did not sound right. She'd never learned the differences between present day elves and her own people.

When Rylee says the 'Maker and Andraste', Sivene hummed. Who is that? What did they make? She knew nothing about the Chantry, though once the stories are told she'd be able to trace them back to things in her time.

Rylee pursed her lips. How the fuck was she supposed to answer these questions? Also how the fuck did Sivene not know any of this? And how did she ask that question without being rude to the poor, sweet woman.

She took a breath and tackled the first issue. I do not know why it is they call themselves Dalish. They live in the wilds, bear tattoos they call Vallaslin upon their faces, and call my kind flat ears. Rylee didn't like the division among her own godsdamned people. Such views only made the shems stronger in their position of constantly oppressing the elves.

The Maker... Rylee blew out a long, heavy sigh. And as she began to talk, she waved her hands a bit as she did. Clear hints of disdain would be unmistakable here and there. There was no word for heaven or for earth, for sea or sky. All that existed was silence. then the Voice of the Maker rang out, the first Word, and His Word became all that might be: Dream and idea, hope and fear, something something something, made children, blah something dominion, make shit happen. It pained her to think she recalled even this much of what she'd been taught about the Chant.

They'd even walked past the Chantry, where some sisters were out reciting the Chant even as Rylee butchered her lines. That too, she pointed out the sisters to Sivene. But, uh, there was something else about a city of gold that sounded like music, but no wind? Honestly, bullshit. But. Anyhow. Creations do nothing of note and he realized he fucked up the Fade, did some weird ass sex shit probably and yanked flesh from his ass, I guess? That part's unclear. She shrugged. Long, long story short: the shems say He made everything and then fucked off and think he'll eventually return. She gestured around them. Obviously it's all shit.

Sivene tilted her head. She listened, processed. And then she spoke again: The Fade did not exist as a separate entity until Fen'Harel created the Veil to punish the Evanuris. She furrowed her brow. I think your shems worship an Elf. That was unfortunate.

Another frown. Shems are weird. What is a flat ear? She'd never heard said insult, in her day there had never been half-elves. Not because of racial forbiddenace, though. Rather, there had been no humans.

The response from Sivene came as a great surprise to Rylee. She blinked, staring at her as she explained that Fen'Harel created the Veil. That the shems might actually worship an elf. The pause to process lasted maybe a few seconds. Then, all at once, Rylee began to laugh. Hysterically.

That is the best thing I have ever heard, she finally managed, quelling the laughter to a manageable level. I could kiss you right now, that might make my... life. She laughed again, briefly clutching her stomach. It was beginning to hurt from the laughing. She'd never had such a good belly laugh before. Not to recent memory, at least.

They are, she agreed with a nod. Though the question after gave her pause. I've never asked a Dalish what they mean when they call us that. I can only assume it's because we're stuck around shems.

Sivene listened to the other woman laugh, and turned to face her fully, peering up at her. Okay. You can kiss me. She thought Rylee had been asking permission. Consent was important, she supposed.

Ah, more things that confused the poor mermaid.