This brief story is the result of a prompt proposed by the Fellowship of the Cullenites Writers, nearby. While so many of the prompts that inspire me tend to take one single chapter page in length and examination, this one was exceptional enough that it will require a bit more consideration. So it will end up with multiple chapters before I'm done.
The original prompt, as we begin: "During one of the dragon fights, an egg is found and brought back to Skyhold and hatched. Dragon grows and becomes a mount for the Quizzy. It is not a mindless animal but an intelligent creature (like dragon riders of Burk, Hiccup and Toothless) and from this relationship a new understanding and partnership is created between dragons and the other races."
Please remember, that all characters I describe here belong to Bioware and Electronic Arts, and they're only incredible enough I have to write their stories down. As always, my thanks to Bioware for creating such an incredible world for me to explore!
The dragon was dead.
That was obvious enough, as the creature was splayed wide on its back where it'd tumbled down from rearing up in one final blast of fiery rage towards the wide, yawning sky overhead. How terrible it screamed up at the sky, just as it was dying. Wild and untamed, like the violent storm of lightning that streamed out from its mouth – hot and extraordinary even in its death throes.
It sent a shuddering thrill down the entire length of Maikhel's spine as it raised up onto its hindquarters and screamed like that. As it raged and flailed against the dying … Maikhel actually raised his own fist up and yelled back at it, yelled his own incredible salute. A hailing farewell, tinged with respect and sorrow at the very same time.
Now the dragon was dead, so that it laid on its back there on the ground. Steam rose up all around it, the marsh and the bog seeming fired and hot in welcome of the dead beast. Its wings were crushed underneath, the shimmer of thin, leathery wings obscured under the huge weight of dead dragon, and its head lolled backwards along the ground.
It was the colors of the beast that Maikhel marveled over when he first caught sight of it. Even now, even dead, the thing was beautiful, glorious, and absolutely grand. Such an incredible wash of the most brilliant colors – purples and blues, and gold all down along its underside, from its tail all the way up to the very tip of its long, sharp snout lined with wide, dagger-sharp teeth – until the entire body of the creature seemed this incredible burst of sheer, wondrous color that echoed the power under its skin and in the air all around it.
The ground no longer shook underfoot from the dragon's mere stomping jumps, the air no longer sizzled from its lightning calls, the sky no longer pulsed from the beat of its wings. The dragon really was dead. Complete with its mouth hanging open and silent, with its thick tongue draped out from between its quiet, gaping jaws.
And blood, of course. There was blood everywhere, on the ground and over all of them as they stood there panting in the aftermath of the incredible battle. It smelled hot and coppery, like everything else in this violent, steamy place, and Maikhel breathed in slowly to catch his breath back. Then Iron Bull leaned his head backwards and shouted a vibrant cry of celebration at the sky overhead, "Fuck yes! I fucking love you, boss! This has been the best fucking day ever! Let's do this fucking again!"
Cassandra blinked up at the Qunari warrior from where she was tiredly leaning, with her shield hanging limply against her side and the tip of her sword held pointedly into the hard soil at her feet. So that she didn't fall over out of fatigue, most likely. Now she panted wearily, "As if anyone here would like to fuck you. And please. Just. Stop. Talking." She shook her head slowly, her ears obviously still ringing from being so close when the dragon screamed and screamed.
Iron Bull laughed loudly, though. And outrageously. Like he did everything, really. Then he reached out to lift the dragon's dead, dripping tongue with the edge of his huge battleaxe, and boomed aloud, "Give me five minutes off to the side here, and I could so change your mind about what you'd like of me, Cassandra." Then Iron Bull glanced over at Maikhel, smiling widely, "Look, boss. More of that dragon-tongue pudding shit the cooks at Skyhold make that you practically licked from the plate the last time we had some. I never did figure out how they made it so yummy, mind you. Must be an Orlesian trick or something."
Maikhel slanted the Qunari a thin, weak-hearted grin. He reached up to smooth his fingers along the edge of his pointed ear, a nervous habit that marked the ending of every battle he survived. Just checking to see he still kept his ears attached to his head, is what Iron Bull laughingly called it back when they first started running along together. Of course he was more accurate than he really knew, only because Maikhel never told him the story.
He told Dorian, rather. Which might be why the Tevinter he'd fallen in love with made it so much a custom of gently brushing Maikhel's ears whenever the battles were finished. Except Dorian was safe at Skyhold by now, and Maikhel was left clasping his own pointed ears all by himself here in the wilds of the Exalted Plains.
Dorian would probably spank his palm flat against the slender curve of Maikhel's backside if he knew they'd agreed to battle another dragon after he returned to Skyhold. Maikhel's gaze shifted to the gentle tendrils of smoke he could see drifting up through the sky over the beefy curve of Iron Bull's shoulder, marking where the Orlesian ramparts were located in and around the Plains.
He still wasn't entirely certain how to discern one Orlesian battlement from the next … even the armors all seemed the same, and never mind how Vivienne and Cassandra seemed so perfectly able to tell them apart. Perhaps it was the colors that gleamed against their armors, except that there seemed so little uniformity to the coloration of the various Orlesian camps they encountered.
No. To Maikhel, every Orlesian they came across looked and sounded very much the same. So that he waited until they started shouting and running at them before deciding whether or not they were enemies. Kind of hard to miss at that point, when one of the "namby-pamby Orlesian lapdogs" as Iron Bull referred to them, was calling aloud and lifting his blade to rush at them, "You Inquisition! The Freemen will keep the Dales from you!" Since any human yelling about taking the Dales tended to fire Maikhel's blood, he generally met them with almost eager bitterness, his staff flying with fierce gouts of flame and fire.
But the Orlesians in those ramparts insisted they needed the Inquisitor's help, that the dragon was overclose and dangerous as it flew overhead and snapped up horses and oxen from their camps. The men quailed back from the threat, pointing at the sky and insisting to him in those singsong prettified voices, how nothing less than the Inquisitor had to save them from the impending threat. Vivienne hummed approvingly, "Show them, Inquisitor. It's so much important to show them. Always." They had heard of the dragon battles Maikhel made, and they said how it was, that he might be the only thing standing between them and utter annihilation.
Everyone seemed to believe only Maikhel could save them. Everyone. From dragons, from holes in the sky, from giants, and monsters, and undead. From Titans and red lyrium. From Corypheus.
All of them counted on him.
So he'd slogged through the bog to reach this spot and fight this dragon today, too. Because why not save some more people?
Only now he was sure the Orlesians had only made some game of the thing. The dragon was so deep in the wet marsh, so far surrounded by rocks and mire and far from a risk to a single one of the Orlesian lines. They only wanted a showing, a story to tell back home in Val Royeaux. Something to brag over and boast, "I saw the Inquisitor take on that dragon … I was there!" The damned Orlesians, with their damned tourneys and pretty clothes and singing tones. Balls, maybe they just wanted to see him lose his pointy ears!
So Maikhel sighed and bent the briefest smile towards Iron Bull, "Who would have supposed that reducing meat into a paste could taste so good? Although Orlesians do eat snails, don't they? I believe Varric was complaining about that at some point." Iron Bull smirked as he smacked the dragon's tongue with his weapon yet again. But then Vivienne ambled around the back end of the dead dragon, gliding smoothly as if the entire battle had been nothing more than a lark in one of Val Royeaux' parks and sighing, "Pate, in fact."
Maikhel frowned at her. Not the least because he couldn't quite understand how Vivienne managed to appear so unaffected. Even Iron Bull looked like he'd been cooked several times over by the dragon's lightning breath attacks. His own hair felt hot, and he was pretty sure it was still standing on sizzling end and frizzing from the static that hung low in the air even now that the dragon was keeled over. And here was Vivienne, looking as stately and gorgeous and even clean as ever.
Curious as usual, Maikhel had to ask her, "What exactly is pa-tay?"
Vivienne explained in that crooning drawl of a voice. The one Maikhel thought was the most perfectly proper and refined sort of tone, that he struggled to emulate whenever he was plunked in that blasted chair in Skyhold's great hall where everyone clung to his every word. He'd never managed the feat, though.
Vivienne was in some unique class all her own, far removed from the rest of the more backwards rough-necks that surrounded her, and no one would ever quite manage such utter excellence. Such was Maikhel's own belief, at least. It was a wonder he liked her so much, really. But Vivienne enjoyed teaching and instructing; and Maikhel's endless curiosity appealed to her. The two of them dealt well together, and bantered regularly over what Cassandra insisted was the "most meaningless drivel".
Now was no different. "Pate, my dear. It's a mixture of ground meat and fat minced into a spreadable paste and mixed with herbs and spices, sometimes wine or brandy. It's usually best served cold after chilling over several days. It's likely why Skyhold can produce such amazing servings of the dish."
"Ugh," Cassandra groaned loudly. "I can not believe we're discussing food as we stand here over a bloody heap of dead dragon."
"Are you joking?" Iron Bull shook his immense horned head, so that small droplets of blood went flying in all directions rather than continue dripping down over his face. Maikhel rather thought he looked like a dragon himself just then. "The smell of all this blood is making my stomach growl for a good, thick piece of meat. Steaks, maybe a potato. Cooking's optional."
Cassandra moaned pitifully, "I believe I'm going to be sick."
But Iron Bull flung both his hands wide apart, standing between the dead dragon and the Seeker's green face, "Back away then! Last thing we need is the Inquisitor's newest trophy splattered with the contents of your weak-assed stomach!" Cassandra harrumphed with disgust, gainfully ignoring him in lieu of planning the best means of gathering materials from the corpse. Maikhel sighed softly as he considered the creature all over again, hard-pressed to exult over the possible leathers and claws and other sundry items they could wear and wave around so boastfully.
The dragon was only … dead.
Vivienne frowned at him, moving close enough to brush his shoulder where some of the dragon's blood was slowly drying. Her murmured wondering was low enough, then, "You're troubled, my dear. I can't imagine why. So few can claim to have killed even one dragon, mind you."
Maikhel smiled thinly as he regarded her, "That only inspires people to find new and bigger dragons for me to kill, actually." Vivienne laughed lightly, so that the low light reflecting off the steamy water nearby made her dark skin glisten with moisture. Glistened, mind you. Because a polished lady never did something so mundane as sweat, Vivienne told him once. Now she bent her head, letting her laughter trail away before she reached out to brush back the dark tangle of his hair which tumbled over his brow just then.
"Is that what bothers you at the moment? That the Orlesians asked us to slog through this marsh and bog to battle this beast here in the muck?" Vivienne did echo part of Maikhel's concern. Because there really was no reason for this fight. Regardless of the ever-skittish Orlesian fighters that dotted the Plains nearby, the dragon was tucked up in a bog rife with gurguts enough she didn't need to fly so far looking for hunting grounds.
But Maikhel only sighed softly, "She wasn't angry. Most of the dragons we've fought, Vivienne … they were raging, maddened things. Little more than beasts, animals with no single purchase aside from killing whatever soul happened to cross them." Maikhel lifted one of his slender hands, gesturing slowly towards the huge dragon lying in a spill of purple scales across the hard, cragged rocks, "But not her. She was afraid, frantic even. It beat at her, like her heart was beating inside her chest. Like she knew us, even."
Vivienne's lips pursed tight into a thick line against the bottom of her face as she regarded him. That the Inquisitor's magic was very much about the feelings he sensed in those around him, that he could almost see a person's emotions in the merest moments of meeting them, was hardly well-known and something the Inquisition's leaders kept closely guarded a secret. If only because it provided a unique advantage in terms of diplomacy, negotiation, and judgements.
Maikhel tried describing it to her only once, that it was different from person to person – sometimes colors that shined from them, almost glowing, sometimes that he himself felt as they did, and sometimes like a tinkle of sound, a chiming thing he was able to hear and listen to.
But he always understood who was trustworthy, who was not, who was worth drawing close to and who was good only for avoiding. Vivienne explained to Leliana when the spymaster asked her about the potential, telling her, "If Maikhel Lavellan killed a man, I would adamantly cheer him for the action. Because that would be a man likely so dangerous we'd all suffer for him to live. Maikhel's judgement is a thing of beauty."
Now she wondered aloud, "I never imagined a dragon even had something like feelings."
Maikhel shrugged, "Most any animal has simple feelings, Vivienne. But this? No, this was no mere feeling. This dragon was something very much different. It was more … an awareness, maybe even understanding." Maikhel tugged lightly on the tip of his ear again, "She was a thinking creature, Vivienne." Vivienne didn't exactly squirm with discomfiture just then. But her back was ramrod straight as she turned her head to regard the dead dragon with the same troubled expression that colored Maikhel's features. But Maikhel finally glanced down at his staff, reaching to tuck the long length of gleaming wood into the harness against his back.
He pointed towards the long wall of stone that ringed the steaming grotto, "I think that's prophet's laurel over there. The herbs are quite rare enough, they're worth grabbing up." Maikhel's fascination with plants and growing things was as well-known as his magic was secretive and mysterious.
Skyhold's people and soldiers made it a habit in the earliest days of the Inquisition, even before Maikhel earned the title Inquisitor, of gathering small plants for him. In pots, no less. His quarters in Skyhold were packed with potted plants in every single corner, along shelves and all along the outside balcony edge, and he tended the things the way most people tended pets they adored. He even talked to the things!
Cullen clicked his tongue over the ready habit of his soldiers when he finally realized what they were doing, "They keep bringing him flowers. I thought they were mocking him at first. As if an elf only dances naked through fields of clover, like some child's tale perhaps." He told Vivienne then, smiling, "But it's more a game to them, really. He always seems to recognize the most mundane green things. And what it might be used for, to boot. The potions he makes are extraordinary!"
For now, letting Maikhel wander around the brief area looking for new plants and weeds was hardly worrisome, at least. And Vivienne decided he needed the peace that might be won from the routine motions of picking flowers and leaves. She didn't even watch him move away, only turned back to help Iron Bull and Cassandra as they planned the butchering of the dragon with methodical precision.
Maikhel pattered along the pitted stones, following the line of laurel that snaked in and around the various nooks and crannies of the rock wall. Steam rose all around him, brightening along his skin with warm moisture that dripped down over his face so he could lick up the droplets. He could almost feel the dirt and grime from the fight slowly sloughing off his exposed skin, until he was tempted to bare his entire body and let the pain and stress of the entire fight just … drop off from him.
But he only moved along, slowly picking at the vines of prophet's laurel. He gathered handfuls of the herbs, thinking of the various medicinals he could make using the leaves, the stems that he could blanch over a heat source. Even some teas, that maybe Solas might enjoy. A game all its own, finding a tea that Solas would like to drink. And Maikhel smiled softly as he considered what herbs he might use to bring a smile of delight to his own hahren. He was so occupied with imagining, that he very nearly missed seeing the crevice.
Except there was a line of laurel that lead into the narrow confines of rock set into the wall, and Maikhel stopped abruptly to consider it.
It was the most brief passage, from what he could discern. He turned his head, looking back towards his companions standing against the far side of the grotto just then. The dragon's body actually stretched the entire length of the opening into the space, almost end to end, and Maikhel grimaced as he watched Iron Bull yank roughly against the dragon's wing, pulling it out from underneath the huge body so he might judge the incredible breadth of leathered appendage.
Maikhel wasn't interested in the dragon's parts just then, so he turned back to the brief opening into the rock wall.
He turned sideways to edge past the line of stones and sharp corners, trying to slide along the way without disturbing the rocks on either side. Even his own slender body was too big, though, and some dust drifted down to settle in a gray line along the top of his head. Maikhel felt his nose twitch with an impending sneeze, and he fought back against the looming chance. Until his entire nose felt like it was on fire. He blinked furiously, trying to catch the sneeze before it forced him to bend over sideways and bang his head against the side of the rocks and stones on either side of him.
But that was the struggle which forced him into position enough he could finally see the thing the amazing, beautiful, and incredible dragon they'd just finished killing was fighting so hard to defend from them.
