The BGs provided me with a protective suit that kept the electromagnetic radiation at bay in a very... limited capacity. It was burdensome and the shielding was temporary at best, but it provided me with just enough time to connect to the Device and active it fully.
[Connor shifts in his seat, eying Arenvald closely. As if he's expecting a reaction that's not yet come, constantly braced for disapproval that surely must still be lurking in the background.]
[ A lot of that doesn’t mean much to Arenvald, but he has seen healers (and others) who can shield, so that is the comparison he draws. A limited barrier, then. At least it kept Connor alive. ]
I… A little bit, I suppose. It seems all I’ve done since we got here is to tell you to be careful, only for you to turn around and do something dangerous, but I’m not going to yell at you or anything. Were we facing down something that could be fought with a sword, I’d have surely put myself in harm’s way as well.
[ He reaches over, resting a hand on Connor’s shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. ]
[The gesture is… appreciated, really, in the way that Connor doesn’t attempt to analyze how to react to it, what to say. Perhaps it'ss the heavy weight of practically having to reboot himself, waiting for that period for everything to slide back into the category of normalcy again, that he choses not to expend the effort, and merely accepts it for a sign of friendship and camaraderie.
Maybe he’s glad that he’s all right, too, and to be in the company of a friend once more. Maybe it’s because the tension of everything has slowly drained away, from everyone with the Storm gone.]
Thank you, Arenvald. The sentiment is mutual.
[His mouth tilts up in a slightly crooked grin, just a whisper of a thing.]
Our next mission, whatever it is… I will do my best to avoid this level of consistent danger.
[ It’s good to see Connor smile, even just slightly. Outside of their jaunts on odd job after first arriving, this whole stay has been fraught with danger for his friend, and Arenvald knows he hasn’t made the situation much easier, harping on him as he had been. (Even if he does feel it’s deserved.) ]
You’d better. Save some danger for the rest of us.
[The small fleck of amusement is lingering enough to not leave his eyes just yet, despite everything. Such is the power of good company, he supposes -- better than left to recover in a tent on his own, with many coming and going, again and again.]
Of course. It would be a shame if you wore all that armor for show only.
[Actually-]
What was your part in dispelling the Storm, if I may ask?
[ Arenvald is all too glad to provide company if someone needs it – he knew loneliness when it was at its darkest, its biggest and coldest, and so he strives to make sure no one else has to experience that, even to a lesser degree.
And, well, he does enjoy Connor’s company. Their friendship came together quickly, and he very much treasures it. The other’s presence to be a bright spot all its own. ]
Me? I went with some others to set the pins around the Storm. Not half as dangerous as what you went through, but the wind sure was nasty.
[ His armor kept most of his safe, it’s true, but he’s got a nice scratch on one cheek. An angry red line carved through his usual white warpaint. ]
[The injury across his cheek is easily noted, had been noted the moment Arenvald wandered into the tent. It sings brightly against the whiteness of his friend's warpaint, a stark difference in color and texture.
Connor reaches up to gesture at his own face with a finger, mirroring where the scratch lies across Arenvald's.]
[ The blinks, tracking the motion of Connor’s hand with his eyes. Ah, yes. It’s a pretty minor injury, all things considered, and he’d almost forgotten about it. ]
Ah, just a few scrapes and bruises. Nothing major, I promise. There was just all sorts of debris getting flung about, and it caught me a few times.
[ He can’t help but laugh. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the show of concern, but the way Connor presents it is so… factual, and he finds something about that funny. ]
I can pop over there and get it cleaned up if that would make you feel better.
[ “Over there” being one of the tables manned by a handful of the BGs, which he indicates with a tilt of his head. ]
All right, all right. I'm going. I'd hate to have you nagging at me all day.
[ It's said with good humor as he rises from his seat, giving Connor one last pat on the shoulder before he departs.
Arenvald wanders over to the table, exchanging a few words with an android manning it - a BG with a face of dirty, once-white silicon that puckers in odd places when she moves her mouth, and large, dark eyes, almost like the lenses of sunglasses. She offers him a crooked smile and reaches across the counter to tend to the scratch on Arenvald's face with some sort of sterile wipe. The warpaint around the mark comes away as she wipes at it, and when she moves her hand to clean the rest of the paint away, he stops her.
It's fine, his lips form the shape of the words, though there's enough bustle in the tent that it's hard to pick up his voice. I'd rather you leave it.
She tilts her head, confused, but ultimately complies, pressing something like a white band-aid to his skin. It's oddly soothing, whatever medication they have on it, and he leaves the table with a word of thanks to resume his place next to Connor. ]
[(You joke, Arenvald... and so does Connor, but he really would've been nagging at you about it all day.)
His eyes track his friend, casually, as he makes his way over to the BG who had been tending to the non-critical wounds of many who had visited throughout the day. He watches, merely observing, simply because it's what he does, what comes naturally to him. Watches as the android cleans the cut, wiping away a little at the warpaint that always adorns Arenvald's face. Furrows his brow slightly as Arenvald politely stops her, mouth forming words he cannot quite make out, but can create approximate guesses at.
Connor realizes that he's never seen Arenavld without the strokes of warpaint across his face. Aesthetic, he thought, perhaps cultural. But its significance -- in whatever degree it might be -- is therefore highlighted to him, watching this transpire.
When he comes back to him, Connor nods.]
Satisfied. [Ah, but wait for it. Here it comes, that question behind his eyes making its way to his lips.] Though, I noticed something that I'm curious about.
[ Arenvald, for his part, can’t think of anything that happened between points A and B that would pique the other’s curiosity, and his brows arch in surprise. ]
[ He realizes then that Connor must have caught the exchange he just had with the BG, and he rubs at the back of his neck, obviously self-conscious.
It's not like he wants to keep his reasons a secret from Connor -- he trusts him, would trust him with his life, even -- but he's not so sure he wants to get into the whole mess that is his past right now. ]
I, ah. Had kid of a nasty injury when I was a kid. Warpaint covers up the scar.
[Connor senses the self-consciousness, sees it in his body language. Has no reason to not believe what he’s being told, and as a result, his logic is thus:]
Less that, and more that it has some unpleasant memories attached to it, so I prefer to keep it hidden.
[ Though it is definitely unflattering, too. In addition to the paint, he keeps his hair like it is for a reason, as well, since the worst of the scarring is in the middle of his forehead. ]
[And thus Connor finds himself in the middle of a familiar sort of situation, and his social programming strains to dictate his next action. “Unpleasant memories” meaning bad associations, also meaning that people are often not inclined to talk about it — depending on closeness and circumstance. Depending on personality, and willingness.
They’re in the middle of this tent, likely tired, in which Arenvald didn’t bring up the matter; Connor did. But his friend is the amicable sort, and it is hard not to be curious.
In the end, he decides to venture asking.]
I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know. Are you willing to talk about it, or did you prefer for me to not press the subject?
[At least he remains conscientious in that weird Connor-like way of his.]
[ If nothing else, he's glad that Connor is so straight-forward, outright asking instead of awkwardly dancing around the subject and dropping vague hints. ]
Later, mayhap. When the both of us have had a proper chance to rest and recover.
[Even better, then, that his friend is the type to respond well to his straightforward approach. An awkward reply in return, where people vacillate between annoyance and faux comfort always muddles things up.]
Later, then. We’re all due for a little bit of refocus after this mission.
[ He’s almost brought up his own past in conversation with Connor several times now, what with Connor’s insistence that he is not meant to be more that he was made for. Arenvald knows how that feels, after years of scraping away on the streets, a child of two worlds and yet belonging to neither. It was only his own choices that led him across Baelsar’s Wall and, eventually, into the company of the Scions.
After all that, he could never believe that someone is the product of their birth and no more – even if Connor was manufactured rather than born.
But, given all they’ve been through, the timing never felt right, or it felt like too much to heap onto an already reeling Connor. He’d welcome the chance to discuss it in private, once things have calmed down. ]
I’m due for a decent meal and a nap after this mission, to be quite honest with you.
[It's for the best, likely, even if Connor's curiosity would dictate otherwise. Still, he's patient -- or rather, he can afford to pretend to be patient for a friend.]
And if I was the kind of individual that ate or slept, I would agree with you.
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[Connor shifts in his seat, eying Arenvald closely. As if he's expecting a reaction that's not yet come, constantly braced for disapproval that surely must still be lurking in the background.]
Are you not upset?
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I… A little bit, I suppose. It seems all I’ve done since we got here is to tell you to be careful, only for you to turn around and do something dangerous, but I’m not going to yell at you or anything. Were we facing down something that could be fought with a sword, I’d have surely put myself in harm’s way as well.
[ He reaches over, resting a hand on Connor’s shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. ]
I’m just glad you’re all right.
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Maybe he’s glad that he’s all right, too, and to be in the company of a friend once more. Maybe it’s because the tension of everything has slowly drained away, from everyone with the Storm gone.]
Thank you, Arenvald. The sentiment is mutual.
[His mouth tilts up in a slightly crooked grin, just a whisper of a thing.]
Our next mission, whatever it is… I will do my best to avoid this level of consistent danger.
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You’d better. Save some danger for the rest of us.
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Of course. It would be a shame if you wore all that armor for show only.
[Actually-]
What was your part in dispelling the Storm, if I may ask?
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And, well, he does enjoy Connor’s company. Their friendship came together quickly, and he very much treasures it. The other’s presence to be a bright spot all its own. ]
Me? I went with some others to set the pins around the Storm. Not half as dangerous as what you went through, but the wind sure was nasty.
[ His armor kept most of his safe, it’s true, but he’s got a nice scratch on one cheek. An angry red line carved through his usual white warpaint. ]
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[The injury across his cheek is easily noted, had been noted the moment Arenvald wandered into the tent. It sings brightly against the whiteness of his friend's warpaint, a stark difference in color and texture.
Connor reaches up to gesture at his own face with a finger, mirroring where the scratch lies across Arenvald's.]
You were hurt.
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[ The blinks, tracking the motion of Connor’s hand with his eyes. Ah, yes. It’s a pretty minor injury, all things considered, and he’d almost forgotten about it. ]
Ah, just a few scrapes and bruises. Nothing major, I promise. There was just all sorts of debris getting flung about, and it caught me a few times.
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[Here comes that prodding concern of Connor's, because organics are squishy and fragile, and need to take care of themselves!]
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I can pop over there and get it cleaned up if that would make you feel better.
[ “Over there” being one of the tables manned by a handful of the BGs, which he indicates with a tilt of his head. ]
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I would be less inclined to continually suggest that you do so, at least.
[So, yes, Arenvald. That would make him feel better.]
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[ It's said with good humor as he rises from his seat, giving Connor one last pat on the shoulder before he departs.
Arenvald wanders over to the table, exchanging a few words with an android manning it - a BG with a face of dirty, once-white silicon that puckers in odd places when she moves her mouth, and large, dark eyes, almost like the lenses of sunglasses. She offers him a crooked smile and reaches across the counter to tend to the scratch on Arenvald's face with some sort of sterile wipe. The warpaint around the mark comes away as she wipes at it, and when she moves her hand to clean the rest of the paint away, he stops her.
It's fine, his lips form the shape of the words, though there's enough bustle in the tent that it's hard to pick up his voice. I'd rather you leave it.
She tilts her head, confused, but ultimately complies, pressing something like a white band-aid to his skin. It's oddly soothing, whatever medication they have on it, and he leaves the table with a word of thanks to resume his place next to Connor. ]
Happy now?
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His eyes track his friend, casually, as he makes his way over to the BG who had been tending to the non-critical wounds of many who had visited throughout the day. He watches, merely observing, simply because it's what he does, what comes naturally to him. Watches as the android cleans the cut, wiping away a little at the warpaint that always adorns Arenvald's face. Furrows his brow slightly as Arenvald politely stops her, mouth forming words he cannot quite make out, but can create approximate guesses at.
Connor realizes that he's never seen Arenavld without the strokes of warpaint across his face. Aesthetic, he thought, perhaps cultural. But its significance -- in whatever degree it might be -- is therefore highlighted to him, watching this transpire.
When he comes back to him, Connor nods.]
Satisfied. [Ah, but wait for it. Here it comes, that question behind his eyes making its way to his lips.] Though, I noticed something that I'm curious about.
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Alright then. What is it?
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I’ve never seen you without your warpaint. Why is that?
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It's not like he wants to keep his reasons a secret from Connor -- he trusts him, would trust him with his life, even -- but he's not so sure he wants to get into the whole mess that is his past right now. ]
I, ah. Had kid of a nasty injury when I was a kid. Warpaint covers up the scar.
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Do you think it’s unflattering?
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[ Though it is definitely unflattering, too. In addition to the paint, he keeps his hair like it is for a reason, as well, since the worst of the scarring is in the middle of his forehead. ]
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They’re in the middle of this tent, likely tired, in which Arenvald didn’t bring up the matter; Connor did. But his friend is the amicable sort, and it is hard not to be curious.
In the end, he decides to venture asking.]
I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know. Are you willing to talk about it, or did you prefer for me to not press the subject?
[At least he remains conscientious in that weird Connor-like way of his.]
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Later, mayhap. When the both of us have had a proper chance to rest and recover.
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Later, then. We’re all due for a little bit of refocus after this mission.
[A successful mission. It’s... nice.]
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After all that, he could never believe that someone is the product of their birth and no more – even if Connor was manufactured rather than born.
But, given all they’ve been through, the timing never felt right, or it felt like too much to heap onto an already reeling Connor. He’d welcome the chance to discuss it in private, once things have calmed down. ]
I’m due for a decent meal and a nap after this mission, to be quite honest with you.
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And if I was the kind of individual that ate or slept, I would agree with you.
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[ He makes a face, wrinkling his nose. Though, that does bring up a question about Connor in general. ]
Can you even taste things or just… uh, analyze them?
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[He should be grateful, but honestly, he was more concerned for the state of morale after having to eat that slop every morning.]
Only analysis. Taste is not a sense that androids experience, not in the way that humans do. Though both forms gather information in their own way.
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