ONE

Ink on Parchment

"Oh, Curly? He and I go way back. I first met him in Kirkwall, where he used to serve under Knight-Commander Meredith. You know, Hawke's sister, Bethany, had a little bit of a, uh..."

"Ooh, but wasn't she a mage? Forbidden love, then. That's interesting...!"

Cassandra Pentaghast glanced up from her yawn-inducing report just in time to see the crimson flush spread upward from beneath Commander Cullen's fur pauldrons. Despite the folk music and lively conversation going on about them in Herald's Rest Tavern as they wrote their records of the day's events, the two warriors could just about make out the sordid exchange above them. Frozen in a state of mortification and curiosity, the man sat across from her in breathless silence, straining with burning ears to hear more whilst simultaneously feigning disinterest.

"He said that?!" Blackwall's booming voice roared with hilarity.

"I swear on my brother's brass balls, Hero."

Arching a dark brow, Cassandra twirled her grey quill between her thumb and forefinger. "What did you say, Cullen?"

"W-what?" The Commander stammered, suddenly realising that she, too, was eavesdropping on the table on the first floor. "Oh, that - them? Nothing. Varric is just... spinning tales, again. You know how he is. Apparently I was there, but even I don't know what's going to happen next, the way he tells it," he replied, his scarred lip turning up in a nervous smirk.

"Ah," Cassandra nodded, looking down at her half-finished report and editing an un-dotted "i" three sentences back. "I'm familiar with his little 'embellishments'. Let us pay him no attention, then," she mercifully relented. "That's all he truly seeks, anyway."

"Of course. Let them have their fun," Cullen sighed, rubbing at his tired face again as the light through the windows began to fade to dusk. "It's not as if any of it ever happened, anyway. Drunken nonsense, that's all." He huffed out a small laugh as he absently dipped his quill in their shared inkwell located in the middle of the table.

"'Young ladies'?!" Sera howled with laughter.

Cullen's hand jerked forward, instantly knocking the inkwell clean over, the black liquid splattering and pooling over Cassandra's lengthy report.

"Shit," she hissed, her brown eyes widened in surprise and aggravation.

"Maker's Breath," he blurted, standing upright and pulling a handkerchief from beneath his cloak, dabbing the paperwork quickly. "It's fine - I'll fix it. Don't panic." Cassandra couldn't quite tell if he was attempting to reassure her or himself, in this instant.

She held up her wet parchment to the light of the hearth in dismay, the surface painted completely jet black. Sighing frustratedly, she buried her head in a hand, still watching with one eye as the ink ran down and dripped from the bottom of the paper onto the wood table. "It's all right, Commander," she muttered, "I think I can still make out a word or two at the beginning..."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Cassandra," he winced out an apology, tucking the soaked handkerchief back under his appropriately red cloak. "Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you an ale, or...?"

She looked up, leaning on an elbow as she dropped the ruined report in front of her. Shrugging, she sighed, "Perhaps you can fill me in about the 'young ladies' Sera just mentioned, at least?"

Cullen stared at her for a long pause, stark indecision painted over his face as obviously as that of any puffy, cream-filled noble in Halamshiral. After a minute of exchanging tense glances, Cassandra's brow furrowed in exasperation, and with a look, she relented.

"I should go," Cullen breathed, gathering his stacks of files and reports.

"Goodnight, Commander," she shrugged sleepily. "I'm sure we'll do this again, soon."

"Uh, yes," he nodded in confusion. "It was nice - Though next time, perhaps somewhere a bit quieter would be preferable... Like a dragon's den."

Smirking, Cassandra waved a hand as he bowed his head slightly in apology, making a swift exit and nearly colliding with a male patron as he made for the door. Turning the handle, the Commander stumbled out, and she watched as Scout Harding hurried over from her place beside the door, taking a portion of the paperwork from his arms before the wooden door blew shut after him.

Her work for the night all but reversed, she pushed out from the table and stalked up to Cabot, whom stood behind the bar going over the steel mugs with a cloth. "Bitter," she ordered her drink with a turn of her lip.

"So I noticed, but what can I get ya?" He winked. Pleased with his jest, he placed the steel in his hands under the spigot and pulled the handle down, filling the mug to the brim. Nodding in thanks, she scooped it up handily and turned around, her eyes on her drink as she made her way back to the table across the floor.

"Well, this one's certainly not as dry, so to speak, but it's about as unreadable as everything else you've ever written, Seeker."

Cassandra looked up with a start to find Varric Tethras holding her ruined parchment before his nose as though reading a missive. "How did you - "

"Jumped the bannister."

"But... I didn't hear you - "

"What can I say? I'm light on my feet."

Glaring icily, she took up her seat again, pressing her back against the wall and turning strategically toward Maryden and her lute to avoid the dwarf's mischievous smirk. "It's your fault my document is rubbish, Varric," she spat in frustration, placing her mug on the table. "If you hadn't been up there telling tall tales about Cullen in Kirkwall, he wouldn't have accidentally bumped the inkwell all over the place."

"Oh, they weren't 'tall tales'," he shook his head, glancing curiously at Cassandra's drink. "What's that you got, there?"

Cassandra snatched up her mug before Varric's outstretched hand could reach it to sample its contents. "Hands off," she bit curtly.

"Fair enough," he nodded, picking up the black parchment with a gloved hand again. "You say he screwed up your papers over something I said?" He clicked his tongue, his other hand rubbing his evening stubble in pensive thought.

"Did I stutter?" She arched a brow of disapproval in his direction, drinking deeply from the foamy, amber-coloured liquid.

"No, you didn't. But I bet Curly did," he sighed, sitting up straight. "All right, Seeker, it seems I owe you one. Tell me what happened out in the field today, and I'll write it up for you."

She choked and spat her ale, coating the table in a sticky mist, and wiped at her mouth as she hurriedly swallowed and coughed. "Maker-" Cassandra rasped hoarsely, coughing again. "Varr-"

"Okay, first, breathe," Varric cut her off, his hands raised so as to indicate to onlookers that he had nothing to do with the warrior's sudden fit. "Second, what kind of reaction was that? I offer to do you a favour, and you nearly choke to death?"

"Varric," she leaned in over the table, glaring hard, "if I left my reports in your hands, you would make them - "

"Bearable?"

"Outlandish," she criticised, denying his offer with the shake of her head. "The first thing you ever said to me about the Champion concerned a dragon transforming into an old woman, who placed her essence inside a necklace that Hawke later gave to an elven blood mage - And then the old woman sprung out of the necklace and transformed again into a dragon!"

"What! That happened! I can't help it if the truth sounds insane. It is what it is," he waved a hand in dismissal of her point. "I'll try not to add any spice to it; I can make it as bland as possible, if you'd rather, so it matches the rest of your stale writing."

"I'd rather go to bed," she rolled her eyes, knocking back the last of the bitter beer and wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Sorry, Seeker," Varric shrugged, brushing his chest hair absently as his eyes focused on the hearth fire, "you're not really my type."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise deep in her throat and tossed a coin on the table for the bus boy. "I wasn't offering. Sleep well next to 'Bianca'." And with that, she crossed the back of the room and made her way out the door, presumably to call it a night.

Varric sat in relative silence as he readjusted himself to prop his boots upon the table, lacing his gloved fingers together as he leaned his head back against the wall of the tavern. She was a migraine incarnate, that woman. Rubbing at his temple and scratching his chest, he sniffed and sighed, listening to Maryden sing her soft tune:

"Once we were in our peace with our lives assured, Once we were not afraid of the dark... Once we sat in our kingdom with hope and pride, Once we ran through the fields with great stride..."

"I couldn't help but overhear, Master Tethras," a new, sad voice to Varric's right interrupted quietly.

Turning, Varric caught sight of the elf in his peripheral vision, hunched over a steaming cup, his elbows propped upon the table next to Varric's own. "Overhearing seems to be everyone's favourite pastime, Chuckles," he greeted him with a two-fingered salute. "Care if I join you? This table's pretty much firewood, at this point."

"Please do," Solas waved with an outstretched hand at the chair across from him.

Varric stood up and grabbed his chair, hauling it with him as he approached, and spun the seat with one deft hand, placing the back against the table as he plunked down on it backwards, resting his arms on the top rail. "How're you holding up?" He asked sympathetically, his voice slightly more hoarse than usual.

"I'm... Well," he lowered his head, raising the cup to his full lips and sipping gently. "I will come to terms with it, eventually."

"I still don't really understand all that Fade shit," Varric shrugged with a wince, "but if you want to talk about your Wisdom friend, I could pretend to - "

"Would you care to speak of Hawke, presently?"

Varric straightened, his brow knitting in remorse. "No," he barely breathed, frowning as he stiffly fought the sting of fresh tears. "Not really... Point taken." He cleared his throat gruffly, wishing he had brought an ale with him before he sat down. "You, uhm... said you were listening?"

"Yes," Solas nodded once, setting his cup on the table. "I gather Seeker Cassandra's report was damaged, and you feel it is your obligation to repay her?"

"Yeah, you got any bright ideas? Because she wasn't too thrilled with my suggestion."

"First, I must ask why you care so much about her paperwork?"

Varric scratched at his ginger hair, nonplussed. "Chuckles, are you drinking?"

Solas looked down at his half-empty cup. "It is only a sedative designed to relax and aid meditation. The question is still valid."

Varric thought for a moment and sighed, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the table. "You know, things between her and I were getting... I don't know - tolerable, I guess. She'd ask me about Bianca, I'd ask her about Regalyan, but after Adamant... and Hawke - "

His words cut off in his throat again, and in annoyance, he rose and left the table, making his way across the bar to Cabot, where he ordered a pitcher of dark ale, hauling it and a steel mug back to his chair at Solas' table.

"Ir abelas, Varric," Solas offered his condolences. "I apologise for bringing your grief to the surface. I didn't realise it was so closely entangled with your desire for keeping peace with Cassandra." He paused as Varric poured out a mug-full and drank its contents greedily. "If I could propose a solution..."

"Sure, why not?" Varric shrugged, "I've literally got nothing left to lose."

"I sympathise more than you know," Solas nodded. "The Inquisitor told me recently Cassandra is fond of a certain book you wrote which you're not particularly proud of."

"Ah, Inquisitor Lavellan told you about 'Swords and Shields', did she? Did you have a chance to read it, yourself? Go on, be honest, now."

"I've not found the opportunity, as of yet. Besides, romance isn't really my cup of tea," Solas admitted.

"From what the Inquisitor told me, tea isn't really your cup of tea."

Solas snorted despite his glum mood. "I must concede your point," he smirked. "Will you be publishing the recent chapter you wrote for Cassandra?"

"Hell no," Varric laughed, topping off his mug, "that crap belongs at the bottom of a barrel in Dust Town, never to see the light of day."

"Then, presumably, since it is purely for Cassandra's consumption, you could write whatever you wanted within its pages."

Varric eyed the bald elf suspiciously for a moment before the gears in his mind began to turn with ideas. "You know what," he muttered, "you might actually have something, there." He bit his lower lip, deep in thought. "I could really screw with her head, come to think of it."

"There's that," Solas shrugged, lacing his fingers together near his face, "but I was thinking more along the lines of making the woman happy, considering you were searching for a way to make up for Cullen's fumble, earlier."

"Oh - right. That. Hey, thanks, Chuckles. I think I owe you one, now." Varric stretched, cracking his back in a few places before picking up his drink and clinking his mug against Solas' cup in a silent toast.

Solas leaned back, a contented look upon his face as he finished the last of his strange concoction. "You can repay me by recounting that interesting tale the Seeker referred to, earlier. Something about a dragon becoming an old woman? It sounds quite fascinating..."