fandomhigh | Fandom High Welcome Picnic, Front Lawn of the School, All Day: Part I

Some parts of the East Coast might have been freaking out about a hurricane, but there was no such madness going on in Fandom. Sure, it was a little hot out, with the sun shining and not much breeze happening, but all the milk and toilet paper on the island was safe, and that was important, right? Besides, once the new folks started learning about their new home, there'd be more than enough freaking out to go around.

The usual main attraction had been set up first: a large buffet of food and drinks had been laid out next to all the information the new arrivals would need, and then the blue and gold tables and chairs had been arranged across the rest of the lawn. Everything was just about done when the shuttle arrived, and it was time for a picnic once again.

[OCD is up! This is part one of the picnic, specifically for meeting siblings, roommates, and teachers. The rest of the picnic is happening here and here, in an effort to keep browsers from breaking for as long as possible. Since it's outside, the picnic is open to all students, teachers, and townies!]

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"It's not really what I signed on for, not that I'd complain, either. It's better than the Chantry," Alistair said, sobering a little. "My name is Alistair, of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Thought I'm... not in Ferelden at the moment. I was sent here to teach, as well."

Edited 2011-08-27 11:53 (UTC)

Tyrion nodded. He didn't know the specific places Alistair had mentioned, but the outlines of it made sense. "Home for me is Lannisport," he said. "But I've already been told I moved a reality over. I didn't think you could do that, and I'm not drunk enough yet to understand it. What do the Grey Wardens ward?"

Edited 2011-08-27 12:07 (UTC)

"I don't think you can get drunk enough to understand it," Alistair, the complete lightweight, said. "Maker knows I've tried."

He jabbed his thumb in that general direction. "We ward Thedas against the Blight, whenever one rears its head. Which will be soon again, they say."

"Ah, then the fun will be in trying harder," Tyrion decided, lightly. He'd be testing the alehouses soon enough even if this place made perfect sense.

"I don't know about a blight, but at home we keep being told we're due for another winter. I almost want one at this point just so the warnings will stop."

Alistair laughed. "Do they pull these really dire faces when they warn you?" he asked. "Duncan's like that. 'The Blight is coming', he keeps saying." A pause. "They tend to all be like that. The clerics at the Chantry were the same, really, though theirs was more of a generic 'fire and death' thing."

"And then when I point out I've made it through three winters already, they look more worried and tell me it won't be the same," Tyrion confirmed, guessing at what Alistair's clerics and Chantry were. "Religious men are like that, I've found. Though ours are called septons."

That... gave Alistair pause for a moment. "Only three winters?" he asked. "I didn't realise dwarves aged that fast."

Tyrion gave him an aggrieved look. "Same rate as anyone. I didn't think I looked that old, but thank you."

"Sorry, it's just, you look like an adult dwarf," Alistair commented, "And yet you say you're three years old. It's a bit weird, isn't it?"

"Not especially," Tyrion said, rubbing his chin impatiently as he tried to work this out. "Of course there's not a winter every year. Everyone would freeze. I'm no more three than you are."

"I've seen eighteen of them, and the worst thing that's ever frozen was Revered Mother Kordillia's moustache," Alistair countered.

Tyrion started to argue again, then put a few things together. "Don't tell me the blasted seasons themselves work differently outside Westeros."

He wasn't angry at Alistair, just dismayed that he'd gone even further afield than he thought at first.

Alistair squinted at him for a moment or two. "How long are your seasons?" he inquired, at last, because he was sure he was missing something here.

"Usually a decade, but they've been shorter lately," Tyrion answered. "Which is part of why the maesters think the next winter will be bad."

He peered up. "How long are they here?" Honestly, he had to ask the most basic questions. Next he'd be puzzling over the alphabet.

"A few months, usually three. Firstfall through Wintermarch," Alistair said, shrugging. "I don't think anyone's seen even an ordinary cold streak that long. At least not in the Dragon Age, or even Blessed."

Tyrion took that in carefully,, filing it away for later. It was weird; it wasn't likely to stop being weird. But he was distracted: "Dragon age as in literal dragons, or dragon age as in Targaryens?"

He still hadn't completely discarded the possibility Alistair's world was some remote corner of his own.

"Dragon Age as in 'at the end of the Blessed Age, the Divine witnessed the awakening of a high dragon, and so gave the age a fancy name'," Alistair supplied. "I don't know what a Targaryen is, I'm afraid."

"Ruling family in my world up until their last king was killed about a dozen years ago," Tyrion explained. If he was leaving out how exactly Aerys II had died, that was intentional. "Their sigil is a dragon. Real dragons have been extinct for centuries for us."

Other than the ones at the other side of the picnic, but Tyrion hadn't noticed those yet.

Fandom High Welcome Picnic, Front Lawn of the School, All Day: Part I

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