To the uninitiated, the Herald's Rest can truly be an assault on the senses. Beyond the door is a serene mountain landscape, young trees with foliage of brilliant orange or muted sienna, the rustle of heraldry swaying in the breeze, the flutter of wings coming or going from the spymaster's perch. But one step inside the threshold and you're bombarded by the smell of smoke and fermented drink. Whatever you can hear of Miriam's lilting voice is drowned by the din conversation, laughter, and feet against the wooden boards above. The warm light of the candles illuminating what the dirty stained windows can't is welcome, but only draws attention to the wild variety of people within. Miriam is a fixture of course, in her well put together wardrobe, but around here you're bound to find a soldier still in armor, a dwarf with a mustache that only merits the title of 'supreme', an elf in the process of explaining her staff is merely a traditional Dalish bow, another elf with two dinner knives jutting from her lower lip as she tries her hand at impersonating an angry druffalo. At times a trussed up noble of garishly bright clothing and gaudy masks will be found, curiously tasting "The common drink" and finding it not a bit to his liking. On any given day the Herald's Rest is a feast for the eyes. What I try to ignore the most is the most difficult to avoid. The ox man owns the room each day that he comes down from his bed. His enormous stature is difficult to miss even from behind the stairway and hearth.
The sight of one or both of his horns is always the first to catch my eye when I come in. His shouts of laughter never cease to make me jump from my skin and when he passes me I can't help but shy away. I don't mean to say that I am a shy person, rather I suppose it's better to say I wilt. When he comes too close I wilt beneath his gargantuan presence. I fear he'll swing a tree trunk of an arm and send me across the room when he only meant to gesture, I worry that his unnecessarily huge horns will snag the chandelier and bring it crashing down on my head, and Maker preserve me if any part of me were unfortunate enough to find itself under his clumsy, massive feet. He's just... too big. He's entirely too large for this place. If I were to be completely honest I would have to confess his stature isn't what frightens me the most about The Iron Bull. It's his eyes. Ah, eye.
I don't care too much for his size; I trust myself to avoid any limbs or horns. But I can't bear to be under his gaze. It's heavy, it's sharp. I could find a way to like anyone, even an ox man, if they were good, honest people. I could make a friend in a crass, crude, and womanizing man even. But the Iron Bull- he's none of those things. By that I mean he is crass and crude and womanizing but none of them are what he is. At least that's the impression that I see. His eyes are too sharp, they hold too much intelligence to make me believe he's only what he presents himself to be. When he looks at me, truly looks at me, I feel like I've lost all privacy. He looks at me and I feel like I've been stripped bare. It unnerves me the way I sense that he can read my thoughts, my every move, without ever speaking to him I feel as if he knows exactly who I am. My values, my fears, the wants and needs that even I might not know or acknowledge. He sees every part of me and I hate it. I disguise my disdain as a contempt for the more beastly race. Which wouldn't seem a terrible stretch of the imagination when thinking of a younger woman with only the rumors which float among Orlesian social circles about rabbits and ox men in the wild and shadowy corners of the world. But in spite of the effort, I know that facade is paper thin at best. Instead, my next greatest asset is to be plain. I feel most at ease when his eyes never fall on me at all. I'm comforted when he never has reason to look at me with any degree of interest.
It doesn't bother me terribly when I'm called to lend a hand inside the Herald's Rest. In most cases, I'm only wanted when things are so busy that the Iron Bull would never have reason to pay me the slightest bit attention. And, despite the leering glances it earned me, the others understand that I will not serve him his drinks or food. They must think me bearing a sort of prejudice and until it stops serving my purpose I won't tell them otherwise. Nor do they seem terribly inclined to broach the subject with me. It's an understanding that I appreciate as I shoulder open the door to the tavern and swing it shut behind me with a heavy thud.
The bombardment of the sights, smells, and noise inside leaves me blinking for a moment until a smile curls the edges of my lips. It's already much, much warmer inside and I can feel that a good sweat will be worked up if I don't pace myself. Anticipating this I had already pulled my shoulder length hair into a painfully tight twist, neatly gathered and pinned to the back of my head. My linen sleeves were rolled up to my elbows as I made my way through the door, passing the blazing hearth, and coming to a halt beside the long bar. I smiled and offered a greeting to Cabot as I wiped my hands clean on the apron tied securely over my sleeveless tunic of wool. "And here I thought you were avoiding me." Cabot deadpanned, a cloth in one hand as he wiped down the bar.
I wondered briefly if that great mustache of his acted as some sort of natural filter to remove any pleasant tone from his voice. "I was," I shoot back cheerfully. "But I can't let you have the satisfaction of keeping me away from my favorite place." The dwarf only offered a sneer in response before sliding a tray across the bar to me and piling it with a wooden pitcher, filled to the brim with something that I can only assume is some sort of fire starter and a trio of freshly washed tankards. He jabbed a sausage of a finger at the tray then at a table just behind me. "Drink. There. Now." I take a moment to balance the tray carefully in one hand. "Is it your birthday?" I wonder aloud. "I don't think you've ever been in such a chipper mood." He waved a dismissive hand. "Do you want to annoy me or do you want to make sure our patrons don't go thirsty?" The annoyed look I shoot him over my shoulder is good natured as I turn carefully and take the five paces or so to the table.
Already I see the group has been enjoying their night, or perhaps not quite up to par with their strong drink. They greet me with raised glasses and happy cheers as they see that more drinks have arrived. Of course, I smile and joke with them as I lift the tankards from my tray for their newly arrived compatriots and tip the pitcher to refill them all. Coins are idly tossed onto my tray and I make the promise to be back soon and freshen their cups. I offer warm smiles to the patrons as I make a semi-circle through the room, checking their drinks and collecting empty plates and bowls. It goes unnoticed that my walk doesn't take me behind the stairs. But stopping just before the stairs and collecting plates from a table scare me terribly. The pain in my knee flares up as if it knows I'm coming too close to Bull. I'm hasty in retreating from the table and I can feel the heat in my cheeks. I drop my head and turn away to hide it. The very idea of that sharp eye recognizing me as the one at his door past midnight last evening is enough to have my palms sweating heart thundering. There's little I can do to stop myself from racing past Cabot and the bar, into the sanctuary of the backroom.
It's a clutter of barrels and bottles, with a basin of water for washing hastily flung into the corner, but a small haven of privacy on most nights. The tray slips from my fingers, spilling everything on it across the tops of barrels and noisily scattering flatware and coins over the floor. I hiss a curse and fall to my knees, gathering what I can off the floor into the hammock of my apron. "What did you do?" I turn and find Jane looming above me, clearly having stopped abruptly to avoiding toppling over my crouching body. Her expression is sympathetic as she looks over the mess I've made.
"I was in a rush," I explain, hurrying to get out of her way so she can deposit her own load of cups and mugs into the suds of the wash basin. "I was clumsy and dropped it. I'm sorry." She answered me with a puff of air, blowing a tendril of her red hair out of her eyes.
"Nothing to forgive, 'Lette. Accidents happen, did anything break?" I shook my head. "Not that I could see." She knelt beside me, lending an extra pair of hands and helping me set everything back on the tray. I rose and as I should have before set everything inside the basin. I turned back to the sound of a yelp and a hiss of pain. I left the empty tray on a barrel top and returned to Jane, her pretty features contorted in discomfort.
"A clay bowl broke," Jane hissed, reaching for a cloth in her apron pocket and revealing a flash of crimson against her sun-kissed palm. My stomach gave a turn as I gasped at the sight of the cut.
"That needs a bandage!" I gasped. She hissed once more as the cloth was pushed into her palm and I quickly tied the edges around it.
"I can ask Adeline to come and take my place while I go to see the healer," Jane explained, backing towards the exit. I nodded and took a cloth of my own, carefully gathering up the broken pieces from where they scattered under the wine rack. "Just take the next order Cabot is putting together for the Chargers until she gets here, alright?" I fumbled with the cloth and the pieces I had picked up clinked against the floor again.
"I can't do that, I'm sorry." I protested, exasperated to kneel and pick up the sharp pieces again.
Jane's tone brooked no argument as she gave an exasperated shout, "Colette please!" I could see in her brown eyes she was short on patience in her discomfort. "Just do it, this once. I don't understand your prejudice, he's not the monster you think he is." Her gaze lingered on me for a moment more before she left.
"Oh... okay," I muttered to the empty air. In a rush, I neglected the cloth and gathered up the largest shards of the bowl and disposed of them before collecting my tray and joining Cabot behind the bar. The dwarf looked me over with a curious eye, giving me a queer look as I sucked a prick of blood from my thumb. "No orders for you to take." He finally said, leaning with one hand against the bar.
I pulled my thumb from my lips, wiping it clean on my apron before I found the voice to answer him weakly. "I need the Charger's order." Cabot let a pregnant pause hang in the air, and I could see the lines of surprise lining his tattooed face. "Where's Jane?" He finally asked, turning away to collect a flagon and fill it, scraping away the head of foam and thrusting it back towards the man who sent it forward.
I had already begun to wring my hands. "Hurt, cut her hand on a broken bowl and gone to see the healer." I shoved my hands into my apron pockets.
"She expects you to serve the Chargers all night, does she? You?" The emphasis in his voice spoke volumes of his opinion of me.
My voice was meek and hardly above a whisper. I'm sure Cabot had to strain to hear me above the din of the tavern. "She's going to ask Adeline to take her place. I just need to take them their drinks until she gets here."
The dwarf's finger tapped the bar with a heavy thud, a thoughtful rhythm. Finally, he nodded and waved over my tray. Handing it to him I walking to wait for him on the opposite side of the bar. Two large stoneware bottles were uncorked and arranged near the center of the tray along with four flagons of beer, a thick head of foam spilling over the brim. "Say nothing." He warned me harshly. "We know you don't like Bull. We don't ask, you don't make a fuss and that's alright." He leaned heavily over the bar towards me, his voice low. "I don't care what your problem is, just keep it. To. Yourself. Can you do that?" I swallow thickly and nod. He pushed the tray towards me. "Just serve them and leave, Colette. Nothing else."
My hands shake as I reach for the tray and I take longer than usual to balance the load in my hands. My eyes never leave the precarious bottles as I walk and my pace stalls before I pass the stairs. I struggle to hide the tension in my shoulders and in my movements, it's easier now I'm not noticed by the drinking and celebrating mercenary company. I looked at the chatting and laughing bunch, hopelessly trying to guess which of the diverse group could have possibly wanted the beer or the mead on my tray. I lifted a flagon from the tray, turning in a circle and looking for an empty spot to put it on the small gathering of tables. "Beer here!" A gruff voice beckoned. Spinning on my heel I spotted the raised hand of a hooded dwarf, which was hastily filled with a flagon of beer. And in return he passed me his own empty tankard. I saw an understanding smile from beneath that bushy mustache of his and he leaned over his compatriots. "Who else needed beer?!" He bellowed with a hand cupped over his half hidden mouth.
That's the precise moment I feel it. That stormy grey eye is on me and I feel every barrier, every ounce of privacy is stripped from me. In front of all these people, I feel like I'm bare.
"Hey!" A shrill voice is suddenly shouting in my ear and I falter, I jump and the flagon in my hand spills over my hand and drips down my arm. A slender hand braces my shoulder and I'm met with the presence of a willowy elf, half her blonde head shaved and the other braided. Her slim brows furrow as she looks me over. "I said that I ordered another beer." I nod mutely and let her petite fingers pry away the flagon from my grasp. In my stumbling, the group descended into an awkward silence and I felt the searing heat of a blush creep up my neck. My head falls in shame and the weight of The Iron Bull's gaze is nearly too much to bear. I rush to put the bottles down on the appropriate tables. I can't bear the thought of looking at him, and there's no subtle way to avoiding turning your eyes on a man that large.
"Uh, wh-who's is this one?" I'm mumbling now, but it doesn't fall on deaf ears.
"Mine." Is the simple answer. In retrospect, I see that it was foolish of me to serve the Charger's drinks and not anticipate having to serve him. But regardless I still feel my stomach drop to my feet. There's no possible course of action that could stop him from recognizing me if he had not already. My heart is hammering in my ears. What humiliation it will be when he realizes I was the one outside his door, haunting the ramparts like a ghost. Worse yet will be when I meet his eye; when I look into his eye I know that everything that I am, every secret, dream, fear, and instinct will be open for him to read. And that transparency without knowing who is delving so deep into me is what petrifies me. It's a terror that I don't have the courage to face.
"Are you going to give it to me?" His voice shatters my thoughts, rather it makes it impossible to think. My lips gape but no sound comes out, I shut my mouth and nod. Eyes fall to the floor and I wish to the Maker that I had allowed myself the buffer of leaving my hair down to cover my face. I hold the flagon out at arm's length, I shuffle forward until I see the brace of his ankle. My head turns away and I quickly put the drink down on the table at his side, pivoting on my heel to retreat.
"Stop." My steps falter and halt, The Iron Bull's words work like a spell over me. I can't take another step.
"Give it to me. In my hand." I hear the creak of leather behind me, the sound of his harness moving with the extension of his arm. I can only answer with silence. Turning, picking up the flagon by the base and pushing the handle into his open palm. The prick of tears makes me blink rapidly as I'm forced to wait for him to accept the drink. Another long moment then, slowly, his scarred, grey fingers wrap around the handle and lift the weight from my hands. I withdraw my hand, staring at the floor and waiting to be told to leave. I don't hear him take a drink, but I see his knee shift as he idly balances the flagon on it with one hand.
"Thank you, Colette." Is all he says and just as I did the night before: I turn and flee. I blink to keep the tears from falling until I'm past the bar and standing in the storage room. I let them fall into the wash basin as I scrub and rinse the dishes deposited in the searing water.
I quickly wipe my face against my sleeve as I hear footsteps approach. "I'm here, Jane says you needed help." I turn my head and nod, feigning enthusiasm as Adeline picks up an apron from one of the many hooks set in the wall.
"Thank you for coming!" I chirp. "The Chargers are taken care of so you've got a little while to check on the rest of the tables before they need more."
Adeline makes a surprised sound. "Thank you, Colette." The plate in my hand splashes back into the water, spraying me with flecks of suds. A weary sigh heaves its way from my chest and I brace my hands against the sides of the basin as I take a moment to collect myself again.
"Of course, let me know if you need anything." The effort to alter my tone to resemble that of a pleasant, happy woman is nearly exhausting. But it's an effort I gladly make to make Adeline smile and leave me in a moment's privacy.