Disclaimer:
I don't own anything that you've seen before, just my OC that is probably a bad collaboration of every cliche in the book (so I doubt I even own her, not really) and stuff. Bioware is the owner, yadahh yadahh.
Also, this story will be primarily from first person point of view, the OC of mine, but it will jump to third person limited on occasion to give you the what happening four one one shit going on. Also, I suck at all things grammar and I'm terrible when it comes to tenses, like I switch writing from past to present to future tense three times in one sentence. So, forewarned. Also, I feel I can get away with that (mostly) because I am telling this story using my OC's voice and way of speaking. So if the sentence structure is abysmal and you're like why the hell is she stupid, it's because its supposed to be like the inside of her mind, inner jumble of thoughts that won't always make sense. Just felt the need to clarify that. Also, rated M for some major language, and hopefully future sexy stuff, and probably graphic violence if I can figure out how to write it. Also, my character loves alcohol but who doesn't when you're placed in her situation?
Prologue (or would it be more like a Preface?)
So here's what you need to know about me: I am a white (Caucasian, American mutt-face) female who has just turned twenty-two years old. I grew up below the Bible Belt of America, the south in a sea of red states (Republican for those who don't know the lingo) and if you didn't worship college football you were a social pariah and Nick Saban is God in all things college football related. That being said, I don't fit into most of those stereotypes.
I am not a church goer, haven't been into organized religion since I was able to make the choice not to go. So for the better part of the last decade I steered clear of all things churches. They give me mega anxiety. I don't know why, I just feel wrong sitting there listening to the old man rant about sinners and saints. My family went to a Church of Christ when we did go when I was younger. Both before and after the parents divorced (Dad's side was more strict in the church going aspect) I always loathed Wednesday nights and Sunday church days. I went to a predominately white church, although it has grown more diverse since I stopped attending, with the same family of old men preaching. After Sunday school you had to sit in the auditorium and listen and sit still and just be a porcelain doll basically. There were itchy dresses involved, afternoon naps between church services on Sundays, and smelly old people who knew I was one of my family's many, many relatives.
On Daddy's side, PawPaw was one of fifteen children, the eldest in fact, and MawMaw was the third out of ten. Each of those great aunts and uncles of mine had at least two to four children, each of those had at least three or five, and you get the picture of how large my family is. About eighty percent of that family stayed in the same county, if not the same state, although now that the 90's and Millennial generation are growing up that's changing. Don't as why my great grandparents had so many children. It was the 1920's and someone had to work the farm while there was only radio and books to entertain and most people couldn't read past a fourth grade education level. I say this in all seriousness too, although my MawMaw's side of the family was Poarch Creek Indian and cause a bit of a scandal when her full-blooded mom married a white man.
Now on Mom's side, Grandpa and Grandma had three kids with two making it to past the age of three. Grandpa was bad into drugs and ran with the Mafia/Mob down in Florida in the late sixties/early seventies and my grandmother ran away from a bad home to his arms when she was just thirteen (Grandpa was eighteen I think?). Grandma had Mom the day before her fifteenth birthday. Her two younger brothers happened some years after, and one died from some stomach disease I cannot remember (but it was the same problem that killed the little girl who played Carol-Anne in Poltergeist). My Uncle has five boys because he doesn't have the balls to create a girl and we don't really associate with him because he makes terrible life decisions and lives a few states away and nobody likes visiting (that goes both ways). Grandma has two sisters who each had a few kids, and Grandpa has a brother and sister and my tia (Aunt in Portuguese- Grandpa is an illegal immigrant from Portugal but I think he's a resident Alien now?) has two boys. Grandpa married again like sixteen years ago and had two more kids, my tia and tio, who are like fourteen and sixteen now? I don't know, we see them about every other year or so.
Oh, so that comes to me now. I am the second of four, older sister with two younger brothers. Parents divorced when I was seven, but had separated when I was five or six. Dad was a bipolar abusive alcoholic and Mom a paranoid schizophrenic with pathological liar tendencies. Mom remarried two years later to a Jehovah witness (who doesn't practice anymore) and Dad remarried when I was fifteen to a women he'd only known two weeks. Both are divorced again, for a plethora of reasons, and I have every belief in my mind that if they lost their memories and met each other they'd fall in love because they're perfect for each other and deserve each other (not in a fairy tale romantic kind of way but a karmic universe kind of way). I don't want to start rambling because you don't need to know much more about my family other than this: they are the reason I have separation anxiety issues and also the reason I want to just leave the world and never look back twice.
Me and my family never really got along. I felt like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit and it wasn't until college (when I met people who I genuinely like and like me for me) that I realized I didn't have to be stuck in a small town my whole life surrounded by people who didn't want to leave. I want to travel, to see the magic of the world and know what it's like to live somewhere else.
Of course, it would be kind of pathetic to say that I should've been more careful about what I wished for.
Need to know definitions:
phantasmagoric or phantasmagorical
[fan-taz-muh-gawr-ik, -gor-]
adjective
1. having a fantastic or deceptive appearance, as something in a dream or created by the imagination.
2. having the appearance of an optical illusion, especially one produced by a magic lantern.
3. changing or shifting, as a scene made up of many elements.
There isn't even a way to logically describe it, the situation I found myself in. The only words that came to my mind were blasphemous and phantasmagorical. And yeah, one of those words just might be more or less one of my own personal favorites that I feel will be a apt description of my situation. I don't suppose it makes sense in any way, shape, nor form you look at it. But what can I say? It's like that stupid bumper sticker logo: shit happens. Maybe that's what I'll name my memoirs or tell my biographers to title my biography. I'm sure Varric will like that.
Oh, yeah I said that. Go ahead and tell me your disbelief that I know (or have, at the very least, met) the rogue, merchant, storytelling, and occasionally tag-a-long dwarf. I thought I was dreaming too, but two months, three and a half days tell me otherwise. I know in "reality" when you dream it's really only like seven or so seconds per dream and there's like so many you have a night but really only remember one or two. Anyway, my point is even if I am dreaming (which all signs point to no but the mind is an extremely fucked up thing, so who knows?) it has been a long ass dream and I don't think it would be as vivid as this is. I can feel shit. And not just the jumping or free-falling sensations of regular dreams. Oh no, I get migraines, backaches, shin splints, burns, cuts, bruises, my eczema flared up again... I even got stabbed, but that's a different part of the story. Point is, I bleed dammit, and I feel it.
The only thing I haven't gotten has been my period, not that I am worried. It's probably due to stress, malnutrition, change of diet...oh yeah, and the phantasmagorical temporal displacement situation. At least, that's what I am calling it. It has a nice ring to it, no? I'm definitely telling Varric to make that the name of my book, or at the very least the title of the chapters in his next book. And I know he's writing one. After Tale of the Champion, his next one about the Inquisition will be sold more times than the Bible did in my world.
Speaking of champion, I have to find a copy of that book. I have heard rumors, but I still haven't been able to pin-point if I am in a play-through of my own, or someone else's world entirely. Now there's a scary thought. I also need a reference book about the Hero of Fereldan, although that one will be easier to tell seeing as I heard Queen Anora being mentioned last week by Lady Josephine. And I talked to the requisitions officer...whats-her-face and she said she didn't believe Loghain deserved the brutal death he got by Warden Allistair but the Hero (I cannot remember her name) of Fereldan condoned it so it was all fine and dandy with everyone but her. Poor girl, she's got an unpopular opinion and I know she'll be moved to a different position once we reach Skyhold- that's something I actually remember from the game. Anyway, I also learned she was a Dalish elf, mage, who seemed to be pretty upstanding and righteous as far as the rumors go. Still, I want to know the more concrete stuff. Did she spare the architect, who all did she recruit and what quests did she do or not do... And did she do the Dark Ritual with Morrigan? That one is pretty important. Wait...everyone is alive? (Not Loghain, but oh-well) So she must have!
I smile at this thought and clever (albeit late) powers of deduction I have. I really need to write all this down, but I can't risk anyone finding it. Dammit, why didn't I pay attention in Spanish I and II... Maybe I could've written it down if I knew a different language. I'll have to create some kind of code I guess. Not that it matters, everyone thinks I am a social pariah and nutcase anyways. The other help (read: slaves) wouldn't be able to read it anyways, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have a place to write down my thoughts and the shit that's happened (or will happen).
"You damn nug-brained moron, watch where you're goin'! Worse than the bloody flat eared bitches..." I stumbled out of my thoughts by the loud cursing, causing me to drop the basket of freshly washed linens in the snow. I groaned and bent down to pick up the sheets and blankets. I ignored the mumbling elf, clearly he had better things to hurry up and do. I was in no rush. The day was twenty four hours no matter how you counted it. This particular gentleman was the elf in charge of manual labor (like gathering wood, lifting heavy stuff, anything a poor defenseless elf woman couldn't do) elves and he hated me. Mainly because I wasn't submissive to him or his demands. He once threatened to whip me because I dropped a load of clean clothes in the mud and I stomped over the clothes and slapped him. I don't play abusive shit like that. Of course, I ended up restrained and I had to listen to Lady Josephine for like two hours go on about politics of slaves and how I needn't interfere since I was a human (albeit unpaid help here, so slave) and since they didn't know where exactly I came from, I wouldn't receive corporal punishment if I misbehaved I would just get more shit to do, basically. Not that it mattered, I learned to keep my head down. I can't fuck things up even more than I have by just being here, who knows what will happen if I try and start something. Besides, the time of the elves are coming, just go ask our friendly neighborhood apostate and elven god, Solas, I'm sure he will be more than happy to tell you of how he plans to destroy the veil and all that.
The wet cold seeping through my skirts brings me out of my thoughts. Have I mentioned I am extremely over my love of snow? No? Well let me tell you, I am. I used to enjoy the seasonal change and first falls of snow. The snowman, the snowball fights... It was every southerners dream to dance in the snow and then curl up in a fireplace. Who doesn't love a white Christmas. But, and I stress this, that's only fun and games for maybe two weeks not two months. And they tell me it will be like this for maybe four or five more. Who the fuck decided on the weather here?!
Like I said. I am over the snow, and no one here likes me (they all just tolerate me). That's why I was surprised when I saw another pair of hands holding the sheet I was folding. "Need some help?" A warm voice questioned and I felt a smile tug at my lips even though I was freezing, annoyed, and freezing. The hand and voice was connected to a man. His hands were gloved and he looked to be in some pretty hefty looking armor (a total warrior, if you know what I mean). He had a smile on his face that made mine even large. It was totally contagious. I just nodded at him and continued picking up my mess, glancing at him as he did the same.
He was handsome, okay? His hair was a wavy color of wheat, thriving in the fields before harvest. His eyes were a warm honey brown that set off a rumbly in my tumbly like Winnie the Pooh Bear for honey. His face was scruffy and he had a small smile on half his mouth, a friendly smirk that made me focus more on my task. He doesn't need me ogling him when he is just being nice, unlike most folks here. "Are you alright?" His voice was concerned and it made my heart ache at the sound. No one has spoken like that to me in ages.
I just nodded, scared my voice wouldn't work now that I was standing, my basket refilled and linens sorted away. He gave me a scrutinizing look and I felt naked even though I was wearing layers of clothes. "I haven't seen you around before, have I?" He asked, curiosity dancing on his beautiful face and my face went blank. Well, at least people were forgetting about my entrance.
"Been around." I croaked quietly, not wanting to trigger any meltdowns on my part or repulsion on his. Speech was hard, as I barely said two words most days and this cold didn't help my throat. I swallowed harshly, hoping this would end before I made a complete fool of myself.
"Oh!" I heard him gasp and took a chance to look his way again. His face was awashed in shock and the scar on the right side of his lip was pulled in a straighter line. Man that had to have hurt. I saw recognition flutter across his features and felt my neck burn in embarrassment. He remembered. I blinked back the tears building in my eyes. Two things, okay? I don't blush (never have til I got here) and I don't cry like this. I mean, yeah I am human and cry occasionally but not as often as I have these past two months. You'd think I would've used all the water in my body up by now.
He cleared his throat and I stared at his feet as he shifted back and forth, clearly uncomfortable. Great, we were in the same boat. "Are you...alright?" He asked again but this time his voice was different. Concern was still there, but there was an undertone now. Suspicion?
I nodded, gathering all the willpower I had left and locked my gaze on his, determined to stand strong. "Better." I hurried past him to the cabin whose linen needed changing, leaving him in the snow with a look of confusion on his striking face.
The gossip was dying down, what with the new people coming in every day. No one was chattering about me much anymore, thank all that is holy. Everyone was too occupied by the new Knight-Enchanter, ballsy rogue elf, mysterious new Grey Warden, and the mercenary group that just signed on to pay much attention to me anymore. Well good, I don't mind being yesterday's news. It can stay that way.
I hurried to switch the bed sheets, not wanting to linger in this room. Replacing the old with the new, I tidied up the room. I enjoyed cleaning. Don't judge me, it just relaxed me. When everything was neat and organized, life was so much better. Everything had it's place, just so, and worked like a well oiled machine. I thrived when I was organizing chaos, which was an apt way to describe the small one roomed cabin.
"I just don't understand this." I shifted the papers into a neat pile and organized the potions cabinet by use: healing, regeneration, shielding tonics, and grenades. I was so caught up in my organizing I didn't hear the door open, but I felt a hand on my shoulder and screamed so loud I nearly dropped the pitch grenade I was holding. "FUCK!" So I couldn't control my tongue at all.
I heard laughter behind me and spun around fast. I was met with a tall, like a foot taller than I was, dark hair and dark skinned warrior currently covered in blood. Well, specks of blood. You know how they look after battle. I frowned, looking at the muddy (and bloody) steps he tracked in. Well, so much for leaving the room clean.
His brown eyes followed my gaze and then he stopped laughing. Ass. At least he had the nerve to look ashamed. Good, serves him right muddying up my clean floor. "Er...Sorry about that, I wanted to get these clothes off first thing. Venatori blood and guts does nothing for my complexion." He flashed me a (fucking perfect) smile, the lines in his lips creating (yet another) contagious smile that was paired with long dimples. Mother fucker, you're not allowed to look that devastatingly adorable while I am mad at you. His chestnut colored eyes were dancing with mirth (dear lord, I swear I do not talk like this, but if this is all made up in my head why the hell not) and he threw his two handed sword (which was like seventy percent my height and weight I am sure of it) on the bed and shrugged off his coat. He dumped it on the chair (which I had learned was his 'catch all' for his dirty clothes) and began to work the clasps on his armor.
I spun around quickly, not wanting to embarrass myself further today (I swear I am not a creep, I just haven't been this close to anyone other than slaves or workers in a long time). I distracted myself by finishing up my organizations. Everything had a place and I had to fix it so it would work how its supposed to or it will fall apart and nothing will work or-
"Thank you, you don't have to do that." His voice was deep and gave me chills as he brought me out of my musings. I turned to face him and swallowed hard. He was out of his armor, now carefully placed on the ground, and in nothing but linen pants that did nothing for my imagination. And when I say nothing, I mean I did not even need to use my imagination to paint the rest of this statuesque picture.
I shrugged, lost for words. His skin was a similar chestnut color as his eyes, his face darkened by the sun, dirt, sweat, and blood. There were a few scars that littered his features, but by no means did they take away from the charm. I noticed two scar in particular. One cut from his right ear, skipping down his neck and down past his collar bone to stop above his left nipple. The other continued from just under his right pectoral muscle, slightly down his ribs, following his waist down, and disappearing beneath the linen pants he was wearing, in between his left hip and bellybutton. My mind landed in the gutter as I wondered how far this scar continued.
He raised a hand to the back of his head, lightly wiping off sweat and dirt from his head. His hair was cut to his scalp, little dots lining his face told me where his hairline was. He wasn't conventionally handsome, not like the blonde outside. No, if you took apart the bits and pieces of the man in front of me it wouldn't work (unlike the warrior who helped me before), but altogether he was a vision of strength. Not the burly strength, a rock and shield in battle (again like the other), but a decisive and lean strength that could cut through you like a hot knife to butter. He was tall, but I already said that. Well, I stood at maybe five foot three on a good day, and this man was a foot ahead of that. He wasn't wide, but his body was curved and lined with muscle. Well, I guess to be the warrior holding that large sword you had to be strong and sure or you'd lose a toe (at least).
"You're staring." He was forthright and his kind of honesty was hard to come by around here. He was still smiling, although this time it was more of a knowing smirk. I rolled my eyes and felt a smile grow on my face. Idiot.
"Don't let your ego inflate, I was wondering who was supposed to clean up this mess." I countered, rolling my eyes as I bent to pick up my basket. Some other poor soul could deal with his mess, I was on laundry duty today thank the maker (look at that, picking up the slang already). Although my back ached, my arms were drier than a desert, my eczema flaring up again, and hives dotting my hands due to the lavender used in the washing, I relished the hard work. After a long day of laundry and cleaning detail, I was assigned to the drying of the laundry, I found I was able to fall asleep faster at night. Of course, that didn't mean I stayed asleep.
The smirk grew to grin and he let out a light laugh, plopping on the bed to remove his boots. "Don't be like that." His voice was teasing and I was proud to say that I'd managed to lock my knees to keep standing tall.
"I am what I am, good sir, and I bid you good day. I've got laundry to do and it'll be dark soon and we need the sun to dry the clothes and sheets or else Lady Josephine will throw a fit if we-" I was cut off when he stood and placed a hand on my arm.
"Don't worry about the cleaning," He said this with an air of arrogance that could only stem from his noble upbringing. I glared at him. Far be it from me to be judgmental but I don't enjoy it when hard work went around unappreciated by the higher ups.
I narrowed my eyes and he only tried to charm me further with his damned dimpled smile. "I have laundry duty, and it won't dry itself." My voice is harsh and I am grateful for the stability of it, because my insides were churning like a storm. His hand on my forearm tingled and I attributed it to nothing more than my allergies. With my luck I was allergic to Venatori blood.
He was beauty and grace as he tried to coax the basket from my hands, but I held firm. "C'mon, love, don't look at me like that with those eyes of yours," well they certainly weren't anyone else eyes dammit, "you'll break my heart." His voice was soft as silk and I latched onto the anger I felt even though it was quickly fading. I cannot let myself turn to mush just because some pretty boy decided to be nice to me! I am not weak!
"Lemme go and I won't even have to look at you." I was surprised, again, at how I managed to keep my voice steady even as the walls I had were crumbly so quickly under this giant. The room was chilly and standing still only made the chill set in my bones. My skirt was damp due to the snow from earlier and I struggled to fight against the fever that started earlier in the day.
He knew it too, dammit. He knew just his effect on me and that only angered me further. "Are you cold?" By the tone of his voice I knew this surprised him, the chill of my body. It had to be around forty degrees Fahrenheit in his cabin and he just looked at me in confusion. "Where are you from?" This wasn't the first time anyone has asked me a question like this, and I doubt it would be the last. So I just used the same answer I've been using since day one.
"A land in a place far, far away somewhere over the rainbow second star to the right and straight on til morning." I deadpanned. I was seriously getting tried of these kind of questions although I knew they were perfectly warranted given the current situation going on. I mean, if the situation were reversed I would want to know what the fuck was going on with the new kid too, y'know what I mean? Varric, of course, loved this story line and constantly asked me questions about myself whenever he saw me. I felt like this was some kind of cosmic payback for me abusing the dialogue options too much in the game.
His laughter was like a song (seriously though, I mean I love poetry and fluff but I will try to cut back...I'm just trying to paint a picture, okay?) and I rolled my eyes. "Sounds grand, take me sometime?" He quipped and here I rolled my eyes. He was never serious, that was probably why he got along so well with Varric. Not to mention he was a notorious flirt, I could see that from a mile a way. He was a bad a Dorian was and it made most the the females (and a few males) swoon around him. I, however, refused to fall victim to hi harem. I may have only been here a few months but I recognized the band most women used as bras around here, and I found one under his sheets as I was changing them.
He did manage to let my arm go and I would've been grateful had I not been a stupid klutz. You see, when he let me go I lost my center (knees were locked dammit) and the basket in my arm flew from my hands as I reached for something to stable myself. My hand caught his arm and my leg was caught by his as we stumbled (him backwards, me forwards) and landed on his bed in a heap of human limbs. Luckily, I managed to be on top of him and not his sword (which missed cutting through my calf by an inch). I may not be good at falling but I always stick the landing.
"Ow, are you trying to kill me?" I moaned, trying to get off him but his hands were firm around my waist.
"Please, the Herald isn't a murderer, love." His words were full of pompous annoyance and I rolled my eyes.
"Tell that to the Venatori," he laughed loudly at the comment and I felt the bed shake slightly. "Let me go." My neck was flushed with embarrassment and I struggled but was powerless against the giant under me. Damn him, I needed to get off. Butterflies were dancing in my stomach. It's been ages since I was in this position with anyone and my body was reacting against my will.
Here is a small thing you also should know about me: I enjoy sex. I know, burn me at the stake for being a sexually active young woman who will admit to the fact that orgasms are the best thing in the world and if you haven't had one I suggest you stop whatever you are doing and find your favorite way to achieve one and get yours too, boo. That being said, I had sex one time in high school with one person. It was a few months after I turned sixteen and the backseat of my first car and it was to one of my closest friends. I know, cliche but whatever. I initiated it because I wanted it to be with someone I trusted, cared for, and not someone who I was dating because (thanks to the divorce history of my family which is like maybe a seventy five percent divorce rate) I knew it was stupid for me to think I would be with one person for the rest of my life. Another thing about me, I talk about sex a lot. Like I will tell my life story to a stranger and my favorite positions to boot. I have no shame. I thought, for year and a half, that I couldn't enjoy sex because it was just 'meh' the first time I did it. I mean, I knew it wasn't supposed to be all sunshine and rainbows but honestly I thought it would be better than that! It wasn't until I had just turned twenty that I had my first orgasm and let me tell you it was fantastic. I'm not a whore though, at least not in the way I believe what a whore is. I have only slept with seven people, and granted I was only dating two the first time(s) we had sex, I wasn't cheating on anyone. I have been the other woman twice, but I swear on my life I did not know. Silly me for thinking if I was honest and upfront about sex the guy would be too. I mean, I don't think you should have to be in a relationship to have sex, but at the same time you shouldn't go and fuck three guys in one day carelessly. The most important thing(s) is to make sure you are clean, safe, and comfortable. Everything else is not that important to me. Hey, judge me all you want, I will be up front and honest about it though.
"Stop wiggling." He laughed out his words and I felt the vibrations of his chest through my skirts and I bit my bottom lip to stop any noises from escaping. I am not weak. I am not weak! "Here," as easy as breathing, he sat up and held me bridal style as if I weighed nothing. Now I am not and lithe elf. I don't weight a hundred pounds, although I've lost considerable inches since coming here, I've maintained the muscle through hard work and chores. I was a good hundred and thirty five, maybe forty pound and here he was acting like I was a feather. Show off. He knows it too. I guess that could be attributed to him growing up rich and pampered. Sure, he's a fighter (two handed warrior to be exact) and has been in more than a few battles, but he wasn't war lorn. His face still had the smile of his youth and his eyes still full of laughter, unlike the blonde warrior in the snow. Complete opposites, you could describe the two. One was tall, the other shorter and sturdy. One had blonde hair, the other's hair grew black.
And yet both held such and allure I knew I needed to steer clear from.
"Thanks." I mutter as I move to stand on my own. I find my basket a few feet from the bed, most of the linens still in thankfully. I scrambled to pick up the few that had fallen out, eager to leave the chilly cabin. I was exiting the door when he finally said something.
"Careful, my dear, don't go around falling for any other man or you'll break my poor heart." The blush that had began to subside was back full force and I screeched an awkward laugh as I nearly ran from his room and back to the cabin where the slaves were doing the laundry. My heart was racing by the time I stopped and a cool sweat was falling down my back. I ran the whole way.
"Finally, where in the maker's name have you been?" I ignored the squawking of the head launderer and dumped my basked in the 'to be washed' pile. Most people were used to my lack of conversation and she paid no mind to me.
I ignored the other murmurs of the workers. It was, however, unusual for me to be late. I pride myself on being early, and therefore on time, to any and everything I do. I ran a hand at the back of my neck, trying to work out the stress I felt building up. "You're free to go if that was from the Herald's cabin." The Head Launderer, who was a plump middle aged Fereldan woman named Darla, brought me out of my thoughts and I nodded my head in thanks before rushing out of the humid cabin.
I glanced up at the sky, trying to estimate the time. By the looks of it, I had an hour or two of daylight left. Wow, I don't think I'd ever finished that early. Then again, we just received about ten or so refugees yesterday who volunteered their services so the slaves weren't quite as overworked as usual. My feet found their way towards the pub and I opened the door.
A few familiar faces, human slaves/refugees like myself, nodded towards me in recognition. I smiled back, preferring to drink alone these days. Of course, as soon as I make it towards the bar and barmaid I hear a very familiar voice shout across the small tavern.
"Fabulist! You're here!" I spin to see a ginger dwarf with a crooked nose and large grin on his face. Of course Varric is here, where else will he be. I feel like he only really likes me when he's got alcohol in his system, but then again I never see him outside the pub so it could just be that he's growing used to me. Fabulist is the name he gave me after I started answering his and everyone else questions in some sort of story (which everyone knew was more or less made up- even if it was with copy-written work from my world I'm sure those laws don't apply in alternate universes). And you know I was fangirling every time I heard it. Varric gave me a nickname! I smiled at him and sat down in the chair next to him. "Tell us a story from your world," He was already buzzed and I rolled my eyes at him.
"You buy and I will." I countered, eager for the release the ale gave me. Although I never enjoyed beer, the faster I drunk this stuff here the better I felt and if I drank enough I managed to go to bed and stay asleep. No nightmares.
Varric nodded his agreement and signaled Flissa to bring us a few rounds. I quickly downed half my ale, following my gulps with a grimace. "Nothing like piss to wash away the day." I mutter and Varric chuckled. My stomach warmed and my throat felt better. Nothing like alcohol to rid your worries. "Now, what do you want to hear today?" I asked, a smile dancing on my lips.
A few of the soldiers were seated around the table, eager for my story as well. Sera was sitting across from me, she by now knew and enjoyed my lavish tales, and a few of the Bulls Chargers, Krem included, turned their chairs to face me so they could better hear me. "Did the prince with the magic carpet ever marry his princess?" A female solder, who looked no more than seventeen, asked. She was a hopeless romantic and believed all of the stories I told were a part of the history of wherever the hell I came from. I smiled and nodded. She breathed a sigh of relief.
"But not before they found out his father was still alive, and dealt with the Forty Thieves." Varric looked intrigued now and I began telling the group everything I could remember about the movie. Aladdin was one of my favorites growing up. Of course, my version of the story was less Disney and more dark, and sexy of course. What can I say, sex sells!
Everyone around me listened to the story and it just seemed to flow from me with ease. Anything I couldn't exactly remember I made up (easy enough with the help of alcohol) and no one would tell me I was wrong because no one knew any of the fairy tales here.
I didn't notice the blonde and black haired warriors at the back of the room an hour and half later.
"You think any of that actually happened?" Cullen turned his head towards the herald, curious as to what exactly was the enigma of the girl Varric called Fabulist. He had been keeping an eye on her since they found her a little over two months ago (shortly after they found the herald). She seemed to have settled in her work easily, and kept her head down out of trouble. She was peculiar, if any word was able to describe her. Cullen couldn't quite put his finger on it. He rarely saw her talk, but he always heard from Varric or the soldiers about her stories she would tale. It wasn't until just last week that he started coming to the tavern. He told himself it was because he finally found a way to manage his schedule so he had time for a pint or two but in truth, he wanted to know what her deal was. She didn't cause a fuss, like Josephine was worried about. She worked hand in hand with the rest of the help, no trouble at all. She wasn't unaccustomed to hard work, or was a very good actress in covering it up.
His friend shrugged and down the rest of his ale. "Doubt it. She tells stories like Varric, some of it may have half a truth or two but one they don't add up to the whole lot of it." Theirry Trevelyan admitted to the commander. Theirry was unsure about her. She wasn't something he was used to dealing with, rejection. He was the eldest of three boys and three girls, the Trevelyan Heir, and was groomed for greatness at birth. All his life he was given what he wanted at a price. He had to be the best. He had to be the fastest, the strongest, the best strategist, the best leader for his family and for his people. It was the will of the Maker, his family told him often, that he was promised for greatness. So when the Conclave blew up and he received the mark on his hand he knew it to be true: he was destined to do something that would change the world. He thought it was simple: fix the breach/save the world. He recruited the templars because he trusted Cullen and Theirry didn't trust magic. Mage magic was what cause the breach in the veil and it was the will of Andraste and the Maker that the templars corrected the mage's abuse of magic. It was something he was taught his entire life and something he was prepared, more than any other person, to deal with.
Cullen nodded his agreement. "You're right, as always. You know, I don't think there's much magic where she's from." Cullen had been thinking about Fabulist for some time, since her arrival in fact, and judging on the way she reacted to mages and spells he felt she had little to no experience with it. She thought she had been loosing her mind when she first arrived but seemed to adjust as she settled in working among the rest of the volunteers.
Theirry nodded. "Almost right, mate, I think, where she is from...She was the only magic in that place." His voice was lacking its usual whimsy and was serious as he stood to leave. While Thierry enjoyed sarcasm and jokes, he knew when to be serious. "I'm turning in for the night. Madam wants me to kill some wyvern somewhere and Dorian needs my help with some shit so we're going to the Hinterlands in the morning." Theirry clapped hand on the back of Cullen's shoulder as a way of saying goodbye. Cullen was becoming a quick friend and trusted confidant to Theirry, which is why he often told him of his plans and asked for his advice. During war table meetings, if someone gave him a problem he often came up with four different solutions differing depending on which need was preference: the speed of the mission, the strength needed, the diplomacy needed, or the secrecy and nondisclosure needed. He knew the Inquisition's strengths and weaknesses better than anyone, perhaps even Leliana, and Theirry often wondered why Cullen didn't want to become the leader of the movement. It was clear he had a talented mind. Theirry knew, though, that Cullen liked being in charge, but not necessarily being in command of everything. Give me authority just not power, Cullen had told Theirry once. Theirry knew some people couldn't handle the weight of being solely responsible for everything.
"Dear lord, must you babysit and take care of their every whim? I thought you were the Herald of Andraste man!" Cullen taunted and Theirry gave him a light shove, causing Cullen to spill his drink slightly. Cullen was tipsy now after his two and half ales, and Theirry smiled at his older, if only by two years, friend. Cullen looked more at ease than Theirry had ever seen him.
"Walk her back to her bed. I heard some elf muttering about the fable making human giving him trouble. I don't want anything to happen." Theirry was all seriousness again and Cullen gave him a nod of assurance.
"I shall, sleep well." Cullen watched as Theirry sighed, taking in how haggard the man looked when he wasn't laughing. His eyes showed a deep need for sleep, his shoulders hunched in slight exhaustion. But he walked with a swagger that couldn't be taught. It was only something natural men and leaders came by. It was then Cullen knew, in his heart of hearts, that no matter what others said Theirry Trevelyan was their leader. He was the one who made the decision to recruit the Templar knights. He was the one who went and sough allies. He was their leader, unofficially now but Cullen wondered how long it would take before they were forced to pick someone to the their Inquisitor. Cullen had only told Cassandra and Leliana of his decision to stop lyrium, and he was curious as to what the herald would think of his decision, knowing how he felt about the Chantry and templars.
Author's Note:
I never do self insert type of stories, although this isn't technically me I am inserting. I do love self aware stories, they're a guilty pleasure of mine. I love reading them and so I've been mulling this over in my head for the past few weeks and finally decided to put it out there. My OC is a mess but she's my mess and I hope you enjoy the debauchery of her brain.
Here is hoping it shall amount to something!
