Snippet #1476347

It wasn't but a scant moment more before another head poked into Alistair's tent, accompanied by the rather chipper sort of voice one did not usually associate with soldiers. Its owner was none other than Liliana, the rather energetic, perhaps a trifle too-twitchy lass who'd been in front of him in line through the portal. Her enthusiasm drew a small chuckle from the harpy, and he shook his head good-naturedly. "If you do indeed enjoy it so much, you are more than welcome to some," he replied sagely. "It is in times like these ones that we must hold onto those things which make us happy."

In so saying, he prepared a third cup, wondering if the Quartermaster's assistant from whom he had procured the dishware had some sort of ability to read the future. The thought did not sit well with him, and so he banished it, gesturing for the girl (for indeed, she was scarcely more than that) to take a seat as well. She spoke of family and friends, and Alistair recalled that it had been quite some time since he thought of his clan. Not a pitiable offense, since such thoughts brought him no joy at all, but he had had friends before.

Ah, the Murder... it had been a while since then, in truth, and to his knowledge the group was all but disbanded now, their leader dead. He'd taken up with the Legion in the years following. Much of Alistair's life had been spent devoted to blood and death; it was truly a shame that the world was still such that others had to also. He wondered somewhat sadly how long Liliana's good cheer would last before being crushed under the onslaught of violence that she was sure to experience. He counted himself lucky that he'd managed to keep his manners and general pleasantness intact, for the most part, though few were as lucky. Or perhaps just not inclined to it; the soldering life did tend to draw a certain type to it, after all.