Tales From the Inquisition

The Drunkening

There goes my hero, watch him as he goes
There goes my hero, he's ordinary

Foo Fighters, My Hero

The Inquisitor awoke – or, more accurately, regained consciousness – slowly. Awareness returned by slow degrees. First, an awareness of his stubbled face pressed firmly against the hard wooden boards that composed the floor of the Herald's Rest Tavern.

Second, a dull thump and thud in his head, a pain that pulsed in time with his heart. Third, a taste in his mouth like a dog had crapped in it. Fourth, a peculiar draft around his buttocks.

Draft? Buttocks? "Urrrrr," the Inquisitor grunted and attempted, rather valiantly, to raise his head from the floor. Even this slight movement sent a stab of pain through his head and sent a wave of blackness across his vision, all but obliterating the extremely close quarters view he had of the tavern floor.

The floor needs a good scrubbing he observed. His face appeared to be lying in a sticky pool of spilled mead. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, trying, and for the moment, failing to ascertain quite how he'd ended up on the floor. In a puddle of spilled mead, no less.

He retained just enough insight to realise how extremely un-inquisitorial he must look and thanked the Maker that he seemed to be alone at present and nobody was able to witness the spectacle that was the Herald of Andraste recovering from what must have been a drinking session of epic proportions.

At least, he assumed he'd be drinking. Either that or somebody had laid into his head with a mace and dumped him of the floor. "Urrrr," he moaned again as a fresh wave of pain rolled across him.

A screech of hinges and bar of bright sunlight preceded the heavy thump of boots through the doorway and into the tavern. The Herald squeezed his eyes tight against the light from outside.

"Hey, Boss," came a bass-like rumble from what sounded like a mile above him. "Big night last night, huh?"

"Ohhhh," the Inquisitor replied. He swallowed past the dog-crapped-in-mouth feeling and tried to speak actual words. In Common, if it wasn't too much trouble. "Iron...Bull?" He managed, face moving uncomfortably against the wet floor.

The Inquisitor heard a smile in the qunari's voice. Sounded like a mocking smile. "Yeah. You're lucky it's me who walked in and not-"

His voice cut off as a second pair of booted feet strode into the room, preceding an outraged shout that bludgeoned at his head and made him wince. "What in the name of Sacred Andraste is going on?"

Cassandra. Of course it would have to be. Next to Solas, probably the most humourless person in the entire Inquisition. Still, it could have been worse.

Then, it got worse. A high-pitched laugh that felt like steel spikes ramming through his ears floated through the air. "He's got no breeches!" Sera shrieked.

The Inquisitor felt himself flush with shame. That would explain the draft he felt across his nether regions. But how?

"Out!" shouted the Seeker. "Everybody out!" Apparently not satisfied with the rate of Iron Bull and Sera's departure, she shouted, even louder, "Now!"

Iron Bull's heavy footsteps sent small tremors across the floor and through the Inquisitor's teeth as he exited the tavern. Sera's footsteps, lighter and faster sounded like she was dancing out the door. "No breeches!" she was still laughing.

By this time, the Inquisitor had managed to raise his head and despite the pain, focused his bleary gaze on the Seeker. Her rage temporarily abated, she stood over him, arms folded across her chest, longsword at her hip. Her jaws were clenched so tight, he could see the muscles shifting beneath her skin.

"What were you thinking?" she finally ground out. "Were you thinking at all?"

"I only had a few drinks," he heard himself protest. Even to his own abused ears, it sounded weak.

"And your pants?"

Slowly, it came back to him. The main parts at least. "Iron Bull invited me to have a few drinks with some of his men," he began.

Cassandra made a sound like a dog growling. The Inquisitor had heard her make it before, usually while Varric or Sera were in the vicinity. On those occasions, it was almost funny. Now it was just hurtful.

"And how do you explain..?" She trailed off, one hand waving in the direction of his bare backside. Thank the Maker he'd ended up face down instead of...he forced himself to not think about that.

"I vaguely recall we started playing Wicked Grace."

Cassandra made that noise again. "Gambling. What else? Should I expect a woman of loose morals to come strutting out from behind the bar?"

"I ran out of gold," the Inquisitor recalled sheepishly, "So Rocky – he's one of Bull's crew, the dwarf? - he suggested-"

Cassandra cut him off, "That you use your clothes as the stake?"

"Uhh...put like that, it does sound a little..."

"Idiotic?"

"I would have said juvenile, myself," he protested. Under his breath he muttered, "I'm going to kill that dwarf."

The Inquisitor's eyes tracked Cassandra as she strode across the tavern floor, picked up an empty barrel, kicked the bottom out of it and sent it rolling across the floor until it came to a stop a half-inch from his nose. "What?" he muttered.

"Unless you want all of Skyhold to see the results of your drunken idiocy, I suggest you make use of it."

After Cassandra left the tavern, the Inquisitor shuffled after her, wearing the empty barrel as kind of bizarre wooden skirt.

"Good day, your Worship!"

The Inquisitor looked up as Harding crossed the garden towards him. After retreating from the tavern with a barrel in lieu of pants, he had taken great pains to avoid everybody and found solace in the garden.

Though it was a warm day, he wore a heavy woollen cloak with the hood up and so far at least, the various pilgrims passing through had taken him for one of their own.

For a moment, the Inquisitor clung to the faint hope that Harding had been out scouting the wilderness whilst he was getting acquainted with the tavern floor. Then she opened her mouth to add, "I heard you really tied one on last night."

His cover blown, the Inquisitor lowered the hood and wiped sweat from his face. "Yes...well..." he trailed off. "You haven't come to lecture me have you?"

Harding shook her head as she sat on a stone bench beside him. "No. I figure between them, Seeker Cassandra and," she affected a posh Orlesian accent, "Madam Le Fer had that covered."

"Maker. You should have heard Vivienne. She went on and on. And on."

Harding smirked. "I can imagine."

The Inquisitor shook his head. "You really can't" Adopting a fair approximation of the First Enchanter's voice he said, "My dear, getting drunk and gambling with the hired help paints a most crass portrait. I expected more from the leader of the Inquisition."

Harding's eyebrows went up. "The hired help?"

"Bull's Chargers." The Inquisitor considered. "Technically they are hired help."

"Lady Vivienne's a bit of a..." Harding looked around the garden, saw nobody was within earshot and continued. "Bitch isn't she?"

The Inquisitor adopted a wide-eyed look. "Why, Scout Harding, First Enchanter Vivienne is a valued and well-respected member of the Inquisition!"

Harding grinned. "Sure she is, your Worship."