&---EIGHT8 ROOM DISCO ;
They're unlike anything else bleeding heroism on the roads.
Because the conversation between a bard, a dwarf, and a raunchy elf cannot go two minutes without the words 'sodding', 'shoes' or 'bosoms'. And the old lady, everyone recalls solemnly in their minds, she's not really there, while there is a daughter of the Witch of the Wilds and she's really there and about to kick your ass if you so even look at her the wrong way. There is a warrior, who cannot converse past battle plans and a warrior who cannot converse past supper, when his belly is full and his mouth is snoring into the moonlit evening. The conversations are rising and lowering along harmoniously with the continuous chant of a suspiciously large wardog trotting against their heels.
And there are snippets that occur when the conversations wear thin; not-so-normal conversations that make everyone stop talking and think (all except Alistair who cannot, for the life of him, do both at the same time) conspicuously if the thing they heard was the thing they heard.
Oghren is the first to take notice, of course, because he's almost unconscious and dragging himself on the floor. His breath smells strongly of ale and he takes Wynne's hand to better himself. She winces, because his hands are rough like rustic iron:
"What did you just sodding say, kid?" he remarks incredulously and stares up at the fragile robed elf to his side. His smile is almost expanding straight out of his face, and his yellow teeth shine through his pale lips. The elf can only laugh.
Another elf pipes in before she can say anything, with his luscious accent and suave voice. "This beautiful remark from someone so sheltered," he whispers and earns a deadly look from Morrigan: "This is what life is about."
He's about to get punched, Sten agrees in his mind and exchanging pathetic looks with Dogmeat, by the red Templar just inches away from his face because he's told Zevran to keep it in his pants many, many times before.
The elf blushes as her hand is swept away by the palm of the wayward assassin, and there is another gloved hand that cuts between them. The Templar reminds him of a tomato, Sten blinks in amazement. Former Templar clears his throat and offers his sound advice:
"Keep it in your pants, Zevran!"
"Ah, jealous are we…?"
Both boys receive the death glare from a certain witch mage and they turn slowly, scared to meet her eyes, and trying not to ogle distractedly at the outrageous low cut of her shir—
Ooh, too late.
It is the female mage's turn to cut Alistair one, and he offers many more apologies than the amount of shots Oghren has taken today.
Wynne can only shake her head in both merriment and empathy as she allows the female mage to continue, waving her hand to cut off any futher apologies Alistair could possibly say. He slips one by her fingers and Dogmeat growls, nudging him at the ankles.
Leliana is guardedly quiet, listening intently to whatever the younger mage has to say:
"We're a family, you know," she rings amorously into the night.
Leliana smiles pathetically, her mouth giving way to a few chortles of laughter, nodding her head in agreement. Oghren is laughing as well, although it's not safe to say why, and Alistair gives her the most endearing look in the world.
They continue walking down the dirt path, smiling selfishly to themselves, sharing the happiness with the bard, the senior, the dog, the warrior, the templar, the assassin, the witch, the dwarf, and the mage. The family.
---&END.
And don't forget that even the little people appreciate reviews... now and again...
yeah. that is not a hint or anything of the sort. haaah. haaaaah. paaaaah. ;n;
btw; oghren x wynne otp forreal.