A/N: This was something I wrote as some sort of character development series thing for my inquisitor, Mithiin Lavellan. I've written an unbelievable amount of text and description for her, but I never actually got to sit down and complete writing something, or even thought of why I'm writing said text. So I'm putting it to good use, I guess.

This was supposed to be a one shot, but the words kept on coming, so I split it to chapters. But it's... still not yet done. Amazing.
Still, I hope you like it, and please do tell me what you think! =)

..

The elf was a lot less formidable-looking than expected.

When Cassandra sent the message about the survivor being a possible suspect, his creative mind was already forming expectations of the prisoner. Of course, Cassandra is always quick to assume, quick to point fingers, and pretty damn quick to beat someone to submission. But he knew better. He knew she might have spun a story, else there would be no prisoner to talk about. Cassandra did not say much, but damn, he's excited.

But seeing her right now, it might have been for the better that his expectations weren't met, else, they'd be deeper down the demon pit.

She was short and lithe — in human standards at least, and looked like she's way too young to be in the Conclave. The markings on her face and her elaborate braids on her silver hair tells Varric that she's Dalish, and the magic earlier means that she could be a clan's First. The mercenary coat she was wearing made her look like she was wearing too many layers, which makes sense since they're in a frigid wasteland, and the girl was making efforts to pull her scarf closer to herself, easing the cold at the very least.

Cassandra introduced her as a prisoner and nothing more or less, and the girl talked little, merely asking of the origins of the Breach, the mark on her hand — obviously, Solas was more than eager to answer whatever inquiries she had — and a quip or two about Bianca. Of course, that earned Varric's approval almost instantly, and thought to himself that she's more than this tiny little elf girl he's seeing.

After they started heading out to the forward camp, the girl stops for a moment, and looks back to Varric as if she just saw him there for the first time.

"Aren't you cold?" she asks. She fidgets with the scarf, but later on gets distracted with a wraith she saw in the distance, and proceeds to attack it first, setting it on fire of all things, obliterating it almost completely. Just so, the shades were quick pickings. After the fight, she skips beside Varric like she's still waiting for a response.

"I've been worse," Varric replies, matched with his trademark grin. "Could be better, though. But prisoners can't complain, can they?"

And in a swift move, she takes off her scarf, crouches down, and wraps it around Varric's neck. It looked awkward and odd, and it was gaining a chuckle or two from Solas, but it stayed, and she did not waste a second fixing it to make sure that it stayed in place.

"I'm all good in layers. I don't know about you, though." She pats her thick layers of clothing, as if to reassure him. "Just return it to me when we get somewhere safe."

"Th-thanks." Varric wasn't able to say anything else, and made no attempts to return it, seeing that she's not gonna hear through his complaints no matter how hard he tries. The scarf was rough and odd and was all sorts of weird — it was woven with a mix of worn-out cotton and had embroidered designs out of a darker sack cloth thread — but it was warm and thick and he appreciated it. Looking at the mage, she seems to not need it, after all; she breathes out fire and warms her hand with wisps of steam, and seems to be a little more comfortable without it.

Varric walked to the mage's direction, trying to keep up with her speed as much as he could. "Hey." He flashed his friendliest smile, and the elf blinked in confusion after he spends a few seconds just looking at her. "Unless Cassandra wants to keep calling you 'prisoner', we should know your name."

She tenses, but nods in agreement. "Lavellan works."

He raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion. "Is that your actual name or your clan name? It's gonna get awkward if we ever meet a clan mate of yours, you know."

The tension returns, and Lavellan avoids the question as much as speech and body language can manage. "Well, you haven't yet, have you?"

Answer a question with a question, then. "If we're going to spend most of our time together here in this frozen wasteland ass-deep in demons, might as well as get to know each other, right?"

She sighs, giving up on the verbal argument. "Mithiin," she says, barely audible.

Varric repeats the name, but he missed a syllable. He was genuinely curious and repeats it again as accurately as he heard it, and Lavellan shakes her head, either in embarrassment or annoyance. She repeats it again, and sighs as Varric tries and fails again, rubbing fingers on her temples. "That's why Lavellan is preferable," she says. There was a tone of sarcasm, but he wasn't sure if that was intentional. "If you could not pronounce it properly, I'd prefer Lavellan, please."

Then Cassandra calls out as they reach the forward camp, shouting out that she's seeing a rift on the way. Lavellan turns to his direction, does a slight, quick curtsy, as if she's some Orlesian girl formally excusing herself, before proceeding to fry the demons back to where they came from, and seems to have so much fun doing so.

He has only met her for an hour or so, but he's liking her strange spirit.