It's quick to hear who the Templars are. Were, and Maker, but this place collects past-tense - almost enough to make him reconsider; grab an axe and hope there's still room for a one-handed soldier,
Almost.
"Ser Keen," Familiarity over formality, this isn't the field. Cedric slides into the bench opposite. "Hope you don't mind."
"If I don't eat slow," He blows on his bowl between words. "Sister Heiss'll rise up to haunt me."
Edited (we built this city (typo city)) 2024-02-05 07:04 (UTC)
Ser is more formality than Redvers is used to with this lot, and never mind that he'll tell anyone to call him Redvers (or Keen) once the moment arises. Every now and then it's nice not to have it assumed. The default look on his face—friendly-enough amusement—is tempered with a little appreciation.
He knows this face. The name—starts with a C, doesn't it? Or an S?
It'll come to him. Maybe.
In the meantime, he grins over his spoon and has mostly swallowed before he says, "It'd be nice to have a Sister around in any form."
"Is that how he put it?" Redvers says to Cedric—right, Cedric—as he slides his hand in to shake. "Feels the other way around most of the time. I've told him so."
More or less. Redvers' letters to the Templars on the front are 40 to 80 percent complaints, saved from outright whining by wryness of tone.
He doesn't ask Cedric what brings him here. Matching green hands answer that.
"Shitshow," That’s no secret, or they wouldn't have called in Kirkwall. Trevis was ugly, but it was ugly along a plan. Everything in the desert has just been - "Yeah, a shitshow."
His expression sobers.
"Can’t say I’m sorry you missed it, Vints managed to stall us half the winter. Lot of wasted swords."
Some buried in their own army, but that doesn't bear mention. Can't say whether the abominations made it to Wallace's letters. Another knight wouldn't have made or broken the line -
Just, could sound that way to someone stuck down South.
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action;
Almost.
"Ser Keen," Familiarity over formality, this isn't the field. Cedric slides into the bench opposite. "Hope you don't mind."
"If I don't eat slow," He blows on his bowl between words. "Sister Heiss'll rise up to haunt me."
no subject
He knows this face. The name—starts with a C, doesn't it? Or an S?
It'll come to him. Maybe.
In the meantime, he grins over his spoon and has mostly swallowed before he says, "It'd be nice to have a Sister around in any form."
no subject
The Honoured Dead kept penned in a cellar - he's still not sure whether the Ferryman was pulling his leg. Wasn't anything there when he looked.
"Cedric," He offers, drops the spoon long enough to stick out a hand. "Wallace said you were holding down the fort out here."
no subject
More or less. Redvers' letters to the Templars on the front are 40 to 80 percent complaints, saved from outright whining by wryness of tone.
He doesn't ask Cedric what brings him here. Matching green hands answer that.
"How were things when you left?"
no subject
"Shitshow," That’s no secret, or they wouldn't have called in Kirkwall. Trevis was ugly, but it was ugly along a plan. Everything in the desert has just been - "Yeah, a shitshow."
His expression sobers.
"Can’t say I’m sorry you missed it, Vints managed to stall us half the winter. Lot of wasted swords."
Some buried in their own army, but that doesn't bear mention. Can't say whether the abominations made it to Wallace's letters. Another knight wouldn't have made or broken the line -
Just, could sound that way to someone stuck down South.