"Here. Aye, but out hunting. 'Tis his turn today, and he didn't want me following." Why, she couldn't say, but she respected Sam and his wishes--like she respected few others, either here or back on Azeroth. Then again, he'd earned it.
Maybe he had just wanted time alone. Fine by her.
At Dean's expression--the 'have you seen him?'--the elf couldn't help but laugh. Especially since, compared to Sam, she's short. At least she could ask him to get things off the high shelves, right?
"Aye. Long as I have, a month's time or so, give or take. 'Least how I reckon time, it's been a month." Not that Avandrel would have been happy to find it had been longer--there's a burgeoning invasion back home, and her shivs hungered for demon blood. That was neither here nor there, though.
"We'll find him. You know him, gods know with what he's said about himself, if yer family--" because she can tell--"ya can prob'ly track him well enough, aye?" Watching his face. Watching that frayed focus, with a bit of a frown playing around her lips.
"Ye ain't well though, are you, cull?" Dean. She should call him Dean, but old habits die hard. Still, she knows enough about the bad things to know her rogue cant or sing-song might throw him right back into the bad times. So she forces herself to ease off that. She doesn't know details, but Azeroth isn't a pretty, kind place, most days. "Dean. What happened to you, before ye came here? Might want to clear the air, before we find Sam."
This way if there's shit he wants, or needs, to hide, there's a chance it'll come easier. And gods know there's always that flask she's still holding. Ah, alcohol. Cause and cure of life's problems. Or at least a panacea to help cure what ails one. What's foremost in Avandrel's mind at the moment, however, is not setting off the potential powder keg standing before her with a joke on his lips.
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Maybe he had just wanted time alone. Fine by her.
At Dean's expression--the 'have you seen him?'--the elf couldn't help but laugh. Especially since, compared to Sam, she's short. At least she could ask him to get things off the high shelves, right?
"Aye. Long as I have, a month's time or so, give or take. 'Least how I reckon time, it's been a month." Not that Avandrel would have been happy to find it had been longer--there's a burgeoning invasion back home, and her shivs hungered for demon blood. That was neither here nor there, though.
"We'll find him. You know him, gods know with what he's said about himself, if yer family--" because she can tell--"ya can prob'ly track him well enough, aye?" Watching his face. Watching that frayed focus, with a bit of a frown playing around her lips.
"Ye ain't well though, are you, cull?" Dean. She should call him Dean, but old habits die hard. Still, she knows enough about the bad things to know her rogue cant or sing-song might throw him right back into the bad times. So she forces herself to ease off that. She doesn't know details, but Azeroth isn't a pretty, kind place, most days. "Dean. What happened to you, before ye came here? Might want to clear the air, before we find Sam."
This way if there's shit he wants, or needs, to hide, there's a chance it'll come easier. And gods know there's always that flask she's still holding. Ah, alcohol. Cause and cure of life's problems. Or at least a panacea to help cure what ails one. What's foremost in Avandrel's mind at the moment, however, is not setting off the potential powder keg standing before her with a joke on his lips.