"That is not necessary. I'm sure someone will find me, just as you and I found one another." Six shakes her head. There's no need to force Marcoulf to run around after her when she was more than capable of figuring herself out. There are more than enough people who train and as long as she doesn't end up breaking down over the training dummies again then she thinks she might make it out fine.
Otherwise, there's always Adalia. She thinks her sister might enjoy a few more lessons with hand to hand combat, especially with what had happened in Tevinter. Making sure that Adalia can take care of herself is one of the most important things on Six's mind - and her magical strength is good, but physically? Maybe she'd like some more guidance on that.
Shifting, she looks down at the griffons, hesitating.
"It is new. I would like to become a rider and I was told that bonding with one is the first step."
His spare hand has taken to picking absently at the edge of his shirtsleeve where it pokes out from under the heavier fabric of his coat. "Are they most like birds? Or cats?"
He doesn't need to ask the question or the one that came before it at all. By right, he should leave her to it - take his leave and go trundling back down the stairs to see to his own business in what remains of the day. Arrangements will need to be made to see that his horse sees some exercise while he's away and there is some small matter of packing to be done and-- He'll blame it on curiosity, later. There's no one in their right might who might not ask a few questions about the creatures given the opportunity and she must know something of the griffons if she's meant to be riding one in the future.
Six doesn't know why he remains. She doesn't know why he is spending his time talking to her when there is clearly other things that he needs to be doing, other things that are important. He has to prepare for his trip, has to sort out the things he wants, has to... Do more, she thinks, than waste his time with her. There's a moment of doubt that prickles at her, making her feel a kind of awkward anxiety that she hasn't felt for a long time.
"They are as affectionate as a cat might be," she says quietly. "They seek attention and give it when they want to. They all have different personalities, of course, and I find myself attached to this one." She motions at the one she had been tending to with a hand. "I might ask to bond with him permenantly."
The griffon cub - chick? hatchling, maybe - in question earns itself a moment of study as Marcoulf picks his sleeve with the ragged nail of his thumb. It's little more than a rolling bundle of fur and feathers, one a dark sleepy eye in the shadowy interior of the roost.
"Does he have a name? I remember some talk about it when they were born, but don't recall what was decided."
He's fond of animals. Or finds it easy to discuss them. Or--
Animals have always been something that Six has found easier than people and it's obvious in how she reacts now; some of the tension bleeds out of her shoulders as she turns back to look at them, her face relaxing. It's not quite soft, not quite a smile, but it shows that these things, these nameless birds, are somehow easier for her than any person might be. It happens when most of your young life is coloured by isolation and little else.
"Not yet. I believe those that have tended to the griffons before now name them. I will be glad to ride him, no matter what name he is titled with."
He frowns, red whiskers twitching and brow pinching. It's a disapproving kind of look, though evidently has very little to do with Six's ambition to be a rider and everything to do with--
"An animal ought to have a name. You should speak with the tender and see that they give it one. It's not right to leave it without."
Children? Fine. Call them One, Two, Three-- Six, even -- until they're of an age where they're less likely to die on you. But an animal's short lived enough to warrant naming from the start. And it makes them more familiar, just like training them to listen to the click of the tongue or a little heel on the side.
Her eyes glance back down to the beast and she hesitates for a moment, wondering what she ought to say. It's not her place to try and give these things names, even if she had made a few suggestions. They're not hers to name; she will simply bond with one and ride it into battle, should it be necessary.
"They are choosing names soon, I think." Six nods her head. "I have given a few suggestions, but I do not know how welcome they would be."
Glancing back over, her lips twitch, just a little.
"You should give it a pet name then if they haven't said something official. Call him Feather or Chestnut or whatever you like. But he will like to be named something by you if you're meant to bond with him. Or her." Curled up in a ball like that and it isn't easy to tell, is it? "Whatever the proper name is can be for the papers or whoever minds them. There's nothing saying you can't call it something for your own."
It's maybe the most he's said in one breath for days, if not weeks. A kind of clipped, sharpishness to it that means it's a rare, real opinion. You can't go hanging about animals without calling them something even if it's just Sweet or Darling or Little Brother or whatever comes most easily to hand.
"I fear only that he would learn to think that it is his name when it is not. Perhaps they are smart enough that it will not be a concern." It certainly seems as though the one she is bonding with is big enough, but will his mind match it? She has been told good things about the wit and strength of the griffons, but she would not wish to do something to offend. She is already a foreign Rifter asking to bond with their precious native birds - she would not want to lose what she has been given.
She fears it, just a little.
Her eyes turn back to Marcoulf for a moment, drinking him in before she breathes out gently. Moving closer, she reaches, putting a hand on his arm.
He is clearly on the verge of disagreement - nonsense, animals are smart enough to know their different names; a dog can be called a thing by one master and then learn to answer to another spoken by someone else -, but before he gets there, her hand is on his arm.
Marcoulf doesn't sharpen or still at it. The contact is easy, untroubled, and nothing compared to the two of then trying to stab one another in the training yard. But what she says to follow it makes his face go blank. His hand hooked habitually over the pommel of the silvered sword closes into a fist around it, gripping so thoughtlessly hard that the ornate pattern of the raised metal digs into his fingers. After a taut moment, he gives her a curt nod in return without meeting her eye.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Otherwise, there's always Adalia. She thinks her sister might enjoy a few more lessons with hand to hand combat, especially with what had happened in Tevinter. Making sure that Adalia can take care of herself is one of the most important things on Six's mind - and her magical strength is good, but physically? Maybe she'd like some more guidance on that.
Shifting, she looks down at the griffons, hesitating.
"It is new. I would like to become a rider and I was told that bonding with one is the first step."
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He doesn't need to ask the question or the one that came before it at all. By right, he should leave her to it - take his leave and go trundling back down the stairs to see to his own business in what remains of the day. Arrangements will need to be made to see that his horse sees some exercise while he's away and there is some small matter of packing to be done and-- He'll blame it on curiosity, later. There's no one in their right might who might not ask a few questions about the creatures given the opportunity and she must know something of the griffons if she's meant to be riding one in the future.
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"They are as affectionate as a cat might be," she says quietly. "They seek attention and give it when they want to. They all have different personalities, of course, and I find myself attached to this one." She motions at the one she had been tending to with a hand. "I might ask to bond with him permenantly."
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"Does he have a name? I remember some talk about it when they were born, but don't recall what was decided."
He's fond of animals. Or finds it easy to discuss them. Or--
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"Not yet. I believe those that have tended to the griffons before now name them. I will be glad to ride him, no matter what name he is titled with."
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"An animal ought to have a name. You should speak with the tender and see that they give it one. It's not right to leave it without."
Children? Fine. Call them One, Two, Three-- Six, even -- until they're of an age where they're less likely to die on you. But an animal's short lived enough to warrant naming from the start. And it makes them more familiar, just like training them to listen to the click of the tongue or a little heel on the side.
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"They are choosing names soon, I think." Six nods her head. "I have given a few suggestions, but I do not know how welcome they would be."
Glancing back over, her lips twitch, just a little.
"Perhaps one will be called 'Ten'."
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It's maybe the most he's said in one breath for days, if not weeks. A kind of clipped, sharpishness to it that means it's a rare, real opinion. You can't go hanging about animals without calling them something even if it's just Sweet or Darling or Little Brother or whatever comes most easily to hand.
Honestly.
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She fears it, just a little.
Her eyes turn back to Marcoulf for a moment, drinking him in before she breathes out gently. Moving closer, she reaches, putting a hand on his arm.
"I thank you for the advice. I respect it."
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Marcoulf doesn't sharpen or still at it. The contact is easy, untroubled, and nothing compared to the two of then trying to stab one another in the training yard. But what she says to follow it makes his face go blank. His hand hooked habitually over the pommel of the silvered sword closes into a fist around it, gripping so thoughtlessly hard that the ornate pattern of the raised metal digs into his fingers. After a taut moment, he gives her a curt nod in return without meeting her eye.
"You're welcome."