Author's Notes: It took me longer than I care to admit to figure out you needed to go to Redcliffe to find the poetry book.
If the Golden City could find its parallel in the physical world, it would be none other than Val Royeaux; it was a city that existed for its own grandeur, supported by a population of aristocrats and patrons who relished the opportunity to expand upon every element of glory that could be scavenged up in such a dreary world. Gold (or at least, gold leaf) leaked from every orifice, oozing out of every corner to coat the streets and trees and buildings until the entire city glowed with the same rich warmth as the sun itself. The scent of flowers, expensive perfumed, and wines waiting to be drunk lofted through the warm, weightless air—birds, exotic and natural, sang in a harmony impossible anywhere else in the world. It's residents sought to emulate the otherworldly splendor of their city, and were in turn absorbed by it, becoming extensions of the Royeaux's soul—golden masks, apparel sewn by the nimblest of hands into the most elegant of designs, and a posture, composure and attitude that was bleed into their veins by a society that purged anything 'common' out of itself. It was blissful assimilation, and the more you explored the polished ballrooms and crystal-coated courts, the deeper you fell into the abyss of opulence and indulgence until the city owned you completely; inside and out. Which was not a bad thing; to be owned by the city was to become one with culture itself—a physical work of art that had achieved nirvana of the mind, and a living, breathing pillar on which the wonders of mankind's imagination for extravagance could be realized.
Of course, under normal circumstances, that made outsider stick out, like a colorful rat trying to hide in a box of crayons. But when that outsider was the Inquisitor himself, in full battle regalia with a company of armed companions at his heel, it wasn't even a colorful rat—it was more like a large rock a very sick Druffalo had just peed on.
"Alright then." The Inquisitor pondered, eyeballing a mental checklist, "I found the flowers, I got… what were they called, 'the most romantic candles in all of Thedas'? Remind me to compare these to some other candles when we get back to Skyhold, there'll be hell to pay if they're not THE most romantic."
"I'll make a note of it." Varric rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his sensually puffy chest hair. "So, I think we've all give you the benefit of the doubt long enough… is there any particular reason you made us come to Val Royeaux with you?"
"Hm?" The inquisitor turned, hugging a bouquet of flowers against his chest with a box of candles being held under his other hand.
"You said it was a, and I quote, 'very important mission'." Varric pointed out, "But since we've gotten here it's been candle shopping and spending two hours picking just the right kind of flowers. Two hours. And one of those hours was deciding between the blue flowers, or a slightly darker blue flowers."
"Oh. Didn't I tell you on the way over?"
"No, you were a bit preoccupied with your incessant giggling."
"Well, then I've done you all a great injustice." He nodded, immediately straightening his posture and folding his arms behind his back… dropping the flowers and candles in the process, but he was committed to this now so there was no helping it. "Gentleman, this is indeed the most important mission I've ever taken you on—I'll be blunt, I'm one sweeping romantic gesture away from romancing Cassandra, and I've come to Val Royeaux to get the necessary supplies for our first night of passion."
"We rode three days from Skyhold for this?" Blackwall greatly disapproved, his already sunken eyes falling deeper into his skull, "There are dozens of urgent things the Inquisition must do, and you drag us away from our posts for this? What do you even need us for?"
"I brought you here because I trust you!" The Inquisitor defended himself, batting his eyelashes like an offended noble—if he had been wearing a monocle, it would have popped right out of his head… make a note of that, 'get monocle'. "Varric, I need you because you know the most about literature, and Cassandra loves your books!"
"Sorry, I'm going to be a bit slow, I'm still trying to process the idea of anyone being interested in Cassandra. You'll have tell me how this 'night of passion' goes—I imagine a lot of dexterity will be required to work around the stick in her ass."
"Blackwall, you're the one who first helped me realize what I needed to do to seduce her!" The inquisitor continued, nodding to the man, "Plus, she's a seeker—as a Templar, you should understand what she likes better than anyone."
"I'm not a Templar, I'm a Gray Warden…"
"Tomato, Tomoto." The Inquisitor shrugged, "And Dorian—well, I mean, come on, why wouldn't I bring Dorian? Look at this guy, he must be beating off the ladies with a stick."
Dorian stared drily at the Inquisitor's grinning face… there were so many things he had to say to that he was having a hard time picking one. For the time being, he settled for an eye roll and a few choice phrases muttered under his breath, none of which the Inquisitor caught as he loosened his posture and finally went about re-scooping up the flowers and candles he'd dropped. Only a couple of the candles had broken, nothing Harritt couldn't patch back up, he was sure.
"Anyway, we have just about everything we need. Now, all we need is a book of poetry to really drench those pubes."
All three men in attendance visibly cringed, with Dorian in particular loudly wrenching at the mental image the Inquisitor so openly offered, but if the Inquisitor minded, he certainly didn't show it. With a spring in his step, he started onwards to the book and lore shop in town, his three companions hesitantly following behind him. If there was anywhere in town you could get a book of poetry, that would be it!
"…what do you mean you don't have any poetry!?"
"I didn't say we didn't have any poetry, holiness. Simply not the kind you would be inclined to share on a so-called… 'night of passion'." Willvan respectfully bowed his head, an apologetic but completely insincere glint in his yes. "We have countless other tombs if you'd like to peruse my wares…"
"No, I need poetry! Romantic, sappy, the kind that give you diabetes!"
Even from behind his mask, it was obvious Willvan had an eyebrow raised. The inquisitor chuckled a little, nudging Varric with his elbow as he grinned at the novelist.
"Get it? Sweet so… diabetes…"
"Trust me, we understood, that's why we look so pained right now." Dorian sighed. "Well, if the man says there's no poetry, there's no helping it—we may as well go back to Skyhold and get back to, you know, saving the world and everything."
"No, I can't just—are you sure there's nothing?" The Inquisitor turned back to Willvan, who straightened his back once more as he was addressed. "What poetry do you have? I mean, she's kind of a hardass so maybe she'd appreciate something a little more… I don't know… what's the word?"
"Trashy?" Varric offered.
"Tortured?" Blackwall suggested.
"Hate to break the alliteration, but 'humorless' seems to fit."
"Any and all." The Inquisitor pointed to his three advisers, to which Willvan could only sigh, turn, and start fingering through his library of books—he brushed his fingers against the spines of a number of volumes before drawing one out; an older book with a weathered leather cover and a number of scratches on the front, marking the clumsiness of its author. He flipped it to a page, and without breaking stride, began to recite.
"Tyrdda bright-axe, dwarf-friend chieftain, with her leaf-eared lover lay, woke she did to love-sweat morning, lover gone in light of day, dream-words whispered, spoken soft, still the silence crushed and crashing, dead her tribe, unless a child could keep her line in warrior fashion, Aval'var, so named the lover, called 'our journey, yours and mine', one day child of Dyrdda's blood, Morrighan'nan, in strength must shine, lover's whispers to obey, Hendir, Dwarf-Prince, friend in passion, babe produced to serve the line, the Avvar Tribe, her name, our taking."
He snapped the book shut.
"…oh yes, she'd definitely a kick out of that." Varric snorted, "Read that one to her, see how fast her breeches drop."
"Er…" The Inquisitor blinked, "We'll… pass, thanks."
"I'm sorry my humble services were inadequate, holy of holies. Please do remember us next time you are in need of… real literature." Willvan bowed his head once again, to which the Inquisitor fumbled, awkwardly bowed back, before walking out the door, grumbling to himself.
"This is the freakin' culture capital of Thedas, there has to be a book of poetry somewhere." He grunted, "Let's ask around, maybe… we'll be surprised…"
"I think I speak for all of us when I say we've had our fill of surprises." Dorian snidely remarked, "But go ahead, lead on, Inquisitor. We'll be here, waiting for you to come to your senses."
"Yeah, get your shots in now" The Inquisitor remarked in return, "I'll be hard to hear you haters when my ears are covered by her thighs."
"Would you stop that?!" Varric nearly begged, entire face twitching on impulse, "You're going to give me a serious case of ED at this rate."
And so the Inquisitor and his merry band started to gallivant through the stores in the Summer Bazaar—first, they checked the armor and robe shops, which unsurprisingly had little in the way of reading material, but it didn't stop the Inquisitor from making them check the back rooms anyway. "If we don't try our hardest in all things, people will think we're weak", he rationalized to his companions while the employees were shifting through crates of metal and explosive staves looking for a book. When it was made abundantly clear they didn't have what he was looking for, he checked with the street vendors—and each stand he came too, attended or not, was dangerously lacking anything that could even remotely be called a book of poetry. The Inquisitor had them search through some bushes for a while (in case someone 'dropped one') then tried their luck at the furniture store… which, unsurprisingly, didn't have any books, but while they were there the Inquisitor did pick out some new drapes and had them send a brand-new fancy bed to his chambers in Skyhold, because "a grade-A ass deserves a grade-A parking spot".
"Maker help me, are there honestly NO books of poetry in Val Royeaux?!" The Inquisitor sighed, throwing himself overdramatically onto a bench. "I'm getting desperate here. Varric, can you-"
"-No."
"Dammit!" Their leader loudly shouted, smashing his fists into the bench. "We've been here for hours, the flowers have wilted, the candles are all but melted, and there's still no poetry book! This is the worst day of my life!"
Blackwall, Dorian, and Varric exchanged pained glances—wordlessly, they conspired the possibility of murdering him and just trying to recreate the explosion at the Conclave to see if lightning would strike twice—it would probably be less painful than keeping this guy in charge.
"…yes, well, I'm sure the memorial they make for your failed shopping trip will be every bit as heart wrenching as the one back in Haven." Dorian tapped his foot impatiently, staring down hard at the seated Inquisitor. "Shall we get going?"
"Oh, cheer up." Varric offered the pouting Inquisitor a smile. "The maker gave you that mark so you could close horrible rifts, not open them."
And then it was Blackwall. Anxiously, the older Warden glanced between Varic, Dorian, and the Inquisitior… he paused, thoughtfully, balancing some ideas in his mind… and with a very tentative step forward, he extended his hand to his employer… a hand intended to help him stand once more.
"…you know… I hear there's some books down in Redcliffe." He offered, Dorian and Varric both staring at him with wide, foreboding eyes—shaking their heads aggressively, trying to deter him from his own conscious. "Maybe we could check there?"
While the other two face-palmed, a dawning realization overcame the once defeated Inquisitor… and with a smile that could shine brighter than the golden faces of the nobility, he grabbed Blackwall's hand and pulled himself up, empowered once more. He proudly threw back his chest, bore his fabulous teeth, and nodded.
"Excellent idea! Mages have a lot of books with them, one of them is bound to be a book of poetry. Hopefully we won't have to kill too many for one to drop."
With a new plan detailed in his mind, the Inquisitor started to march back for the gates, where their horses waited for them to take another long, grand journey on his most important mission ever. The sun was setting at their backs, the sleepless city of Val Royeaux preparing its transition into a silver-lined realm of dreams. The Inquisitor and his companions wouldn't be there when the lights flicker on and the whispered secrets and darker desires of its citizens are realized, and they would not miss it, either.
"It's just as well, I suppose." The Inquisitor sighed, dropping the wilted flowers and shattered candles behind him as he strode ahead. "We needed to head down that way to reunite Dorain with his father anyway."
"Wait, what?"
"What? Nothing. I said nothing."