The fortress looms ahead of them, its dark shape almost lost against the overcast heavens. It looks foreboding in its ruinous state, with crumbling towers reaching into the sky like broken fingers. The old keep appears desolate and normally he would give it a wide berth, believing it to be abandoned - or worse: taken over by rogue Wardens, possessed Templars or crazy possessed mages.
These days a dwarf can't set a foot outside of an inn for fear of running into one of the three.
Varric shakes his head as if the action actually helped in banishing such dark thoughts and curses his overactive imagination. His shoulder has gone numb sometime around midday, but still he tightens his grip on Bianca and hefts her higher, telling his faithful crossbow that soon they'll be there. Poor baby needs some comfort, the rain isn't becoming her at all. He would have to wax her string tonight to keep her nice and supple.
The Seeker looks at her companion askew, but Varric will be damned if he cares. He has stopped caring about a lot of things, and making a good impression has never been very high on his list anyway. She is the one who insisted they journey here, after all.
"Where else will you go?"
It had been a bad idea then and it is a bad idea now, but by the time he had recovered enough to say so, the realization had hit him that to go on was a shorter way than to turn back. Varric could very well have done without the enlightenment.
If he ever stopped to think about it he might admit that Cassandra is right; which is why he doesn't.
The dwarf pulls his hood down and curses the deluge they have marched in for the better part of the day. He is soaked and imagines he can hear the water slosh around in his boots with every step. More than ever he hates the outdoors and Hawke's enthusiasm for nature, no doubt a residual trait of his peasant Lothering upbringing that Varric has done his best to cure him of, has never passed on to the merchant prince.
At heart though, Varric is a storyteller and the setting in front of him does not inspire any light-hearted comedy. If he had to judge the invitingness of the Inquisition's headquarters he would place it somewhere between a dungeon in the Gallows and a dank cave on the Wounded Coast. The only thing welcoming is the weak light that pours through a few arrow slits and the warmth of a hearth's fire that it makes him think of.
The front court's wet cobblestones are slick beneath Varric's feet and he has to lengthen his stride to keep up with the Seeker, though pride will not allow him to jog along. Thankfully, Cassandra slows down immediately once she notices her companion struggling. She's not a bad one, she is. A bit on the stiff side, but her heart's in the right place and she's got brains she's willing to use, which is not a quality Varric would usually associate with the Chantry.
'Neither is she very grandmotherly', he reflects and winces, because that train of thought leads to the Grand Cleric and how Anders blew her into an early meeting with the Maker.
Nobody answers when the Seeker knocks a patina coated, broken off rapper against the sturdy wood and Varric shakes off the onslaught of memories.
She tries the door next; it is unlocked and ominously swings wide without a sound. Varric sees her hand come to rest on the hilt of her sword and lets her enter first, following carefully. The tension is almost tangible as they stand in a gloomy corridor, straining their eyes for movement and their ears for a sound other than their own breathing.
Just then, laughter rings out from further inside and Varric relaxes, releasing a penned up breath that he did not realize he was holding.
Cassandra huffs in annoyance and bolts the door shut behind her. She mutters something about carelessness and leads her fellow traveller through the antechamber and across a small courtyard overgrown with weeds and a fountain clogged with rotting leaves standing in its midst. They take the first door on the right, go up a staircase that looks like it has seen better days, through the main upper hall and right again. Varric does his best to remember all the turns as Cassandra opens a door they can hear voices behind.
The first thing the dwarf notices is the wave of blessed heat that washes over him and the second... the second is the biggest Qunari Varric has seen since the Arishok. And, even now, it is a close thing. Curiously enough, the brute with an eye patch is folding something with a look of intense concentration upon his scarred face.
There is another oxman, and a slim elf with straw blonde hair and dark kohl around her eyes hangs something that appears to be paper figurines on the other Qunari's horns, who additionally has a flag with a hand, the emblem of the Inquisition, draped around his shoulders like a cape.
What in the name of all the nug-licking Ancestors-?
"Inquisitor," Cassandra speaks up, brisk and businesslike and the smaller, blonde and bearded Qunari looks up, and straight at them. Varric's eyes follow the garish ornaments that dangle from his horns.
Maybe he is drunk in the Hanged Man and this is a vision of his ale-addled brain, and any minute now Corff is going to clap him on the shoulder and demand he pay his tab... but it probably is too much to hope for.
"This is the one I told you about," Cassandra ploughs ahead, oblivious to the discomfort of the dwarf beside her. "Varric Tethras."
The name hangs in the air for a few heartbeats.
"You could have mentioned he was one of them hornheads." Varric could have bitten his tongue off right after; he had not meant to say that out loud.
The seeker stiffens and the blighted Qunari actually looks hurt.
It is the elven woman who slides onto the desk and crosses her legs with more show than the action merits, head cocked to the side. "Look who's talking," she drawls, her voice as sweet as deathroot sap. "A dwarf."
It has to be the one-eyed brute who backs her up. "I hear it's good luck to rub your heads."
"Sure." Varric can feel his finger itch for Bianca's trigger. "If your definition of 'good luck' is flexible enough."
The Inquisitor bursts out laughing, drawing everyone's attention. Just like that the hostility dissipates, and frowns are replaced by small, rueful smiles.
"I'm Caelan," the Qunari behind the desk introduces first himself, and then each of his companions. "The meatshield is Bull, you can ride him into battle if you can beat Sera to it. Who is in danger of permanently being paired with Vivienne and Blackwall," he adds with the faintest hint of a warning. "Oh, and Vivienne is the lady in the corner mimicking our hairstyle; don't look for inner qualities, you won't find any."
Varric's eyes dart into said corner and indeed, there is another person in the room that he has overlooked. There is something... misty about her, and his eyes fail to focus. He looks away again, unsettled.
The elf, Sera, pouts prettily and gets a pat on the back from the other hornhead. While well-meant, it knocks her off the table, and although she lands gracefully on her feet, straightening her skirt immediately after, she gifts her friend with a gesture most unbefitting for a lady anywhere outside of Lowtown.
"You forgot to lock the gates." Trust the Seeker to intervene.
"Nope," the Inquisitor answers merrily. "But you probably just locked out Cole and Blackwall."
"What are they doing outside?" Sera inquires, voice rising with disbelief. "It's raining."
"Wardeny-spirity-things, I guess," the Qunari who calls himself Caelan replies. "You know, doom and the Blight and questing for finding one's own true self." His words are slightly slurred and Varric knows Cassandra has noticed it as well as she sniffs the air, brows furrowing.
Yep, there's definitely a whiff of alehouse about the mismatched trio.
"Did you spend the entire day drinking?" the Seeker asks with disgust.
"We only had a quarter barrel," the elven lass mouths off.
"Bull, why don't you pour our guest a tankard?" the Inquisitor immediately suggests with a wide sweeping gesture that encompasses Varric, Cassandra and at least half of Thedas.
"It's our ale." And here Varric has thought he might begin to like the imp. He spares a glare at Sera who does not want to share their drink and manages a tight nod in thanks for Iron Bull who hands him a tankard. He isn't sure the giant notices.
"Look at him," Caelan appeases his sulking friend. "He's small, how much can he possibly drink?"
'Well, thank you,' Varric thinks. 'I guess.' He takes a healthy gulp of the golden-brown liquid and savours the bitter, malty taste.
"I'm afraid you'll have to join the pool for further access to alcoholic beverages," the Inquisitor tells the dwarf as if in apology for Sera's earlier behaviour. "Bull gets them by the tons. Mass discount."
He offers a mug to Cassandra who has not moved this entire time and shrugs when she declines, draining it himself.
"We actually raised the price of ale by six coppers per gallon in the surrounding breweries," Sera says to no one in particular. Varric gets the distinct feeling she likes the attention her antics bring her. He has known people like this before. Maker's Breath, he has followed one such man for six years and look where it got him!
"Or maybe that was the demons descending from the heavens," Caelan muses on the matter, his gaze slightly unfocused. "You know, desperate people driven to spirits... by spirits."
Varric snorts, that actually is a good one. He'll have to write it down later.
"You sure know you have a drinking problem when the brewers use you to set their prices," he remarks, tentatively joining in the banter. If there is one good thing about the blighted demon-infestation it is that it has gotten the merchant's guild off his back.
The Inquisitor gives him a smile, an expression so incongruous for a Qunari, Varric is not sure how to take it. It's better than a frown, at any rate. Probably. "We may be outnumbered, badly equipped and short on arms and armour, but at least we know how to party in those sporadic moments when we don't have to fear for our lives."
He sighs heavily and motions at one of the free chairs standing around. "Why don't you take seat? Since this is to be an interview- " He waits until Varric sinks down into the chair before resuming. "What can you bring into the Inquisition?"
The dwarf gives the crossbow lying in his lap a pat. "I got Bianca."
"Huh. Good enough. You're in."
"You can be our mascot," Sera offers and at the same time Cassandra calls,
"Inquisitor!" with no small amount of disbelief.
"What?"
"You cannot just- ," the Seeker begins but never gets to finish.
"Have you seen the crowds of volunteers queuing for application?" the Inquisitor silences her with an icy glare, his rough voice tinted with the first hint of authority since they walked into the room. "Yeah, me neither."
"Your standards are not very high, are they?" Varric cannot help but ask.
Caelan – it's still difficult thinking of the hornhead as such - lowers his chin onto the desk. He looked like a man, well, an oxman beat. "If they get any lower they'll hit the Deep Roads," he states with a wry twist to his lips, a gesture that is surprising reminiscent of a human despite his Qunari features.
The lady in finery with the artificial horns, her name having quite escaped Varric at the moment, gets up abruptly and, without a look back or a word of greeting for the newcomer, leaves the room. The dwarf watches her departure and then his attention is caught by the Inquisitor pocketing a few gold coins that his friends reluctantly hand over.
Cassandra leaves as well, with a mutter about childish behaviour, irresponsibility and being too tired to deal with muttonheads, the litany going on. He may not have forgiven her yet for the whole interrogation, but despite her surly nature, without the Seeker at his side the dwarf feels abandoned with these strangers. He used to be good at this, being social, he remembers. A lifetime ago.
"You'll never hear the end of this," Iron Bull remarks with a glance at the doors that close with a loud bang.
"It's a good thing then Vivienne is happiest when she has something to complain about," Caelan replies. "It can as well be me."
"Taking one for the Inquisition," Sera calls out jovially and they knock their mugs together making the liquid slosh over the brim and a few drops run down the sides.
"On that note, I'll better let in our Warden and Spirit Boy. See you at dinner." The one-eyed Qunari gets up and then it is just the three of them left, the Inquisitor, the perky elf and one tired, wet dwarf.
Even so there is a question Varric wants answered. "And what about you, serah?" he asks. "How did you find yourself with the Inquisition?"
"Me?" Caelan tugs off one glove and it strikes Varric as odd that he should be wearing one in first place, yet when he pulls it off it is to reveal... the rogue isn't entirely sure himself. "I got a glowing green hand. Never needed to light a candle to find the outhouse since."
Varric watches with a mixture of horror and fascination the slash across his palm that pulses with a faint green light. Dwarves are said to be particularly resistant to magic- and no dwarf has been able to muster magic, but Varric swears that he can feel the coils of something that does not belong here, not in this room or castle, or in this world.
There is no blood from the wound and he imagines he can see the Qunari's greyish palm through it, but nevertheless it is as wrong as the breaches in the fade themselves. He is glad when the Inquisitor pulls the glove back on.
"I'm sure you want to get out of these clothes," Caelan suggests with surprising care. "Sera can show you around."
"This way," the elf calls and skips ahead. Varric gets to his aching feet again and trudges after her. All this energy she is radiating is not becoming him at all.
The dwarf gets what looks like a whole wing of the castle to himself. Sera finds something for him to wear that does not fit, but is dry. Varric wiggles one finger through a moth-hole under his armpit and sighs. If his younger self could have seen him now, he'd easily mistake himself for a Carta thug.
While the elf lights a fire, he takes care of Bianca. She withdraws then and he dangles his feet from the bed, kicking up a cloud of dust. The room is still cold and damp, unlike the one they had been in before. Before he can rethink his actions, Varric heads back down.
He does not want to be alone in this lonely ruin and he remembers the Qunari brute mentioning dinner.
xxxx
"Where are you from, Varric?" Sera asks, trying to draw the dwarf into the conversation. Or maybe she is genuinely curious.
They are sitting in yet another hall, this time one with a long oaken table and massive crystal chandeliers hanging overhead. Specks of light from the burning candles dance over silver plates and the faces of those seated in front of them. The meal is yet to arrive, but the ale gets distributed liberally.
"Kirkwall," Varric replies. For all its faults, the White City of Chains will always be his home.
"Ugh." The Inquisitor, who is leaning against the mantlepiece, shudders and takes a healthy swig from his goblet. "Family history," he declares apologetically.
Sera's eyes go wide. "I hear it's full of abominations," the elf whispers sliding closer until Varric has to lean away to gain some private space. "And the Knight-Commander used to drink the blood of the mages she had tortured."
A silence falls over the table, with the other members of the Inquisition all turning their attentions to the dwarf in their midst.
"You're not entirely wrong about the abominations," Varric concedes and feels grateful towards a man he has not met yet for pulling the blonde troublemaker back.
For once the... Bull... isn't smiling. "I hear the Arishok was killed by a giant of man seven feet tall."
Dangerous territory, if there ever was one.
"Hawke?" Varric laughs, just to spite the Qunari. He should not enjoy rubbing the death of the Arishok in, but he does. For all that lunatic has done to Kirkwall... "More like five feet seven. With shoes on. Haven't seen him since he, Junior and Blondie disappeared into the Deep Roads."
"Parshaara! That cannot be! How could a mere-"
"Talan esaam Qun," Caelan cuts him off, and the rogue breathes a sigh of relief at the Inquisitor's timely intervention. If only he wasn't wearing that smug smile. The blonde Qunari takes the seat next to Varric who suddenly feels, well, dwarfed, and he has his own question for the storyteller. "I hear the Arishok's horns were so large, he could scratch his butt with them while sitting down."
Varric chokes on his ale and when he coughs, Sera enthusiastically slaps him on the back. "That's one I can't verify."
The one-eyed brute looks like he wants to say something, but his kinsman claps his hands just then. "Tethras!" he calls. "Now I remember! You're the one who wrote 'Hard in Hightown' aren't you?"
"I did not know that one was still around." Talk about awkward.
It is difficult to tell with an oxman's dark colouring and the poor light, but Varric thinks the Inquisitor's face might be just that bit redder. Maybe it was the drink. "I got if off the black market. It's been banned by the guard-captain."
"Hard in Hightown?" Sera butts into their conversation "That sounds awfully... ambiguous."
"It's about the difficulties a Hightown city guard faces," Caelan snaps at her and she withdraws laughing. "It's quite popular. And I didn't want to read it. A demon made me do it," he says, playing upon one of the punchlines in the booklet.
The elf grins, obviously not fooled and Varric has to rethink his opinion of the Inquisitor. He seems to care about the people around him, even going as far as to intervene in arguments for the dwarf he has just met. And he obviously is two parts crazy. 'Good story material,' a part of Varric's mind that has been lying dormant for months whispers. "You are not what I expected, serah," is what he tells his... boss.
"Nobody expects the Kossith Inquisition," Caelan replies good-naturedly and, "I don't follow the Qun."
"Vashedan! Ashkhost say hissra, bas! You Tal Vashoth- "
Varric does not have to turn to see who is speaking.
"We could form a club," the Inquisitor suggests and raises his goblet in a toast. The two hornheads grin at each other like maniacs and it slowly dawns on the storyteller that all this angry gibberish must be some joke between them.
Just then a bell rings and heads turn and in comes a man with an immaculate moustache announcing that "Dinner is ready!"
"I hope it's not demon shashlik again," Sera says. When Varric raises an eyebrow at the statement, she explains, "It's the established cuisine around here."
Maker, but the rogue hopes she is joking. He never thought he'll find something that that sounds less appetizing than deep mushroom and spider ragout.
His attention is once more claimed as the horned lady – Vivienne – sweeps into the room in an evening gown that would be fit for the Empress' court. The mage – she has to be, Varric thinks remembering the unnatural fog that had hidden her from view until the Inquisitor pointed her out – scrunches up her nose at their appearance.
Varric looks around. His own clothes he had to roll up, the Qunari named Bull is only wearing pants, the Inquisitor has yet to dispose of the paper figures adorning his horns and Sera is sitting with her legs tucked underneath her. The others he does not know yet, but they too are lounging around in various states of relaxation, all except for Cassandra who sits with her back perfectly straight, as if she had swallowed a broom.
"Don't you ever wear anything proper?" Vivienne sniffs at nobody in particular while Bull helps the Moustache carry several large pots over to their table.
"Like what?" the oxman grunts and begins to dish out the food.
"A shirt would be a start," the mage retorts and takes her seat, prim and proper like a lady. There is something grand about her that she can make this simple dinner look like a banquet at the palace.
"How would he fit it over his head?" Sera enquires with a challenging tilt of her head.
"You know, there is this one technology," Varric find himself saying. "I think it was invented in the Ancient Times; it's called buttons."
The Inquisitor, with his chin leaning in one hand and a strangely vacant expression, mutters "Don't put any ideas into his head."
Varric gets his portion of the food and to his relief he recognizes pieces of potatoes and beetroot and mushrooms – the normal variety, not the blighted one – and he digs in with gusto, only now realizing how hungry he has been all this time.
"Do you like it?" the cook asks and is visibly pleased when the dwarf nods. "Where are my manners?" the man asks and introduces himself as Dorian.
"Varric," Varric manages through a mouthful of delicious hot food and the other smiles.
Meanwhile, the talk around him seems to have turned to the one-eyed oxman's horns.
"How can you sleep with those things anyway?" Sera wishes to know. "You'd want to turn around, and... get stuck."
She looks at the Inquisitor, but he only shrugs; his own horns are curved in a way that does not make them look like they'd pose much trouble.
"I take them off, of course," Iron Bull explains with a straight face.
The next minutes are spent with Sera unsuccessfully trying to wrench the Qunari's horns off. The antics end when Bull stands up and she is lifted into the air, feet dangling.
She drops to the ground and something rolls across the floor, the elf diving after it. "Where is the... oh, blast! Caelan, can you shine your hand?" The Inquisitor does and receives a smile in return. "Thanks."
When the meal is over and all the food has been wolfed down, they settle down on old, but comfortable looking furniture. Varric gets a divan all to himself, maybe because it has a deep, permanent impression that he immediately sinks into. He struggles for a while and manages to free himself with the help of some undignified manoeuvres that he hopes nobody noticed.
The Inquisitor lights a fire in the hearth and the room becomes a lot more hospitable, despite the heavy, faded tapestries that are illuminated now and a carpet that has trenches worn in it and the one or other burn-mark.
Iron Bull is sitting on the ground, Caelan on a sofa with a broken leg that looks like it might fall apart under his weight anytime, while Dorian reclines on a futon and lights a pipe. The others have left, or withdrawn into different corners of the room.
Sera sidles over to Varric. In the half-light her eyes shine with mischief. "Do you know any stories?"
Such an innocent question to stir up such a multitude of feelings. The dwarf notices how everybody leans closer.
"There is this one about how a charming, albeit kleptomaniac rascal by the name of Hawke, an exiled prince, a healer with split personality disorder and my humble self battled our way through the wilds of the Wounded Coast to aid some of our friends who had gotten themselves into a bit of a tight spot when they tried to track down a pack of slavers who had abducted a broody elf and went hiding in the Bone Pit and we had to clear out an entire mine infested with dragons to get to them... ," the storyteller begins hesitatingly and picks up on his audience's rapt attention.
Except for that of one. The elf rolls her eyes. "No way!"
Back in his element, this is the first time Varric finds the energy to muster a genuine smile. "I shit you not, milady; I was there..."
AN: Hope you liked it. It's a (great) bit on the silly side but with how gloomy the new trailer looks I want some light heartedness for our Inquisition. There'll be time to get in trouble later.
Vashedan! Ashkhost say hissra, bas! = Dammit! Seek peace with your gods, unbeliever (thing)
Talan esaam Qun = You'll find the truth in the Qun; obviously Caelan being sarcastic.
Sorry for the Monthy Python. I couldn't resist.