Whelp, this is it. It's all I have so far.
I'm trying to reorient my writing schedule, so... Positives are present :)
Anyway, hope you guys enjoy. It doesn't feel like much, but... :3 I really like this chapter. Because reasons.
Everything was …relatively quiet. Mostly. Well. Almost. There was always a sense of restlessness with their merry band.
The entire team had been through such an ordeal, that it felt like they desperately needed to not think about anything they'd been doing. Not only had they encountered fanatical cultists(then again, what other sort of cultists are there?), they'd found and slain a dragon, ventured through a frozen and long forgotten temple, and found the ashes of the Maker's Bride… if you believed all that.
The stuff about Andraste being the bride of the Maker, not …uh…anything else.
Personally, Crista Tabris was not the sort to debate the Maker's existence. If he did exist, the most the Chantry was right about was how little he interfered with anything. Whether he existed or not, you couldn't wait about on him.
Anyway.
The team was…weary. Herself included. Tomorrow, they would make for Redcliffe (again), and Arl Eamon would (hopefully) be cured.
Everything always happened beyond the edge of the campfire and past the tents….why was that? For that matter why couldn't people just content themselves around the fire?
Current state of camp:
Alistair was on cook duty—insert sarcastic 'yum' here.
Wynne was helping, so maybe it wouldn't be a total loss.
Zevran and Leliana were seated near the fire. They were near enough to each other to keep the other under surveillance, while they were far enough apart to casually go through their packs and pretend to tend to their 'tools'.
Leliana was really odd things out of a bag that Bral had given her (though Crista didn't know when the dwarf had found the time), and Zev was… really? Sharpening knives?
Ok.
Personally, she'd rather he get a few lock picking kits and practice. He needed it.
Morrigan was farthest away, just outside her own tent…she and Ben seemed to be in quite the engaging discussion. They were doing that thing they did, where the rest of the camp no longer existed while they were talking. It was… cute. And sickening.
Shale was standing around… like a statue. A gargantuan statue hovering just by the tents near the campfire circle's edge. Míriel had mused, once that she often wondered if Shale's inertia was a hold over from actually being a statue, or just his inability to fathom what to do with himself.
Bral was nearest Míriel and Sten… who were the catalyst of this tension.
Crista had known that it would need seeing-to when the dogs, usually content to watch the preparation of food by the fire, had swiveled their attention in the general direction of the discussion. She heaved to her feet, ignoring the general pain in her lower back and legs and making her way towards the commotion.
"Not again." Bral was saying. "This is, what? The fifth time you're asking someone this."
"Women are priests, artisans, shopkeepers, or farmers. They do not fight."
"Whoa, wait-wait….what? What is happening here?" Crista asked as she neared them. Sten glared at her, his impatience for their usual culture shock to his questions surfacing.
"Sten was… expressing his confusion at, ah…our gender… or Sex. Yes It's sex." Míriel informed.
Well.
Now this conversation was at the center of everyone's attention.
Here they were. The rebels with a cause. The future saviors of the world (hopefully). But mention something like, oh, the word 'sex', and they were a bunch of cookie-suffed nine year-olds.
"Sten seems to believe that females cannot be fighters." Míriel finished.
Why couldn't she have started with that statement? It was so much easier to understand.
Wait…
"Well that's stupid." Crista blurted out, getting another scowl.
"Ah." Míriel was squirming to do damage control. "It seems that, under the Qun…" She paused, motioning to Sten who nodded, confirming the authenticity of this phrase, "people are appointed roles. Now, from what I gather the role of a fighter or warrior is so strictly homogenized as male, that any female who should be better suited to fighting is…no longer female. She becomes a he." Míriel again looked to Sten, who nodded in grim satisfaction.
"They are aqun-athlok. The sex of their birth is counter to their service to the Qun."
Silence descended as Crista continued to look between Sten and Míriel, waiting for more of an explanation. This couldn't be it. She felt the entire camp watching. Waiting for her reaction. Because she was going to react… as soon as she understood what the fuck was going on.
"See, the Qunari assign roles for their people, and sex is one of the biggest determining factors in how one serves the Qun." Míriel explained. "Men serve by becoming fighters in the army. Women serve largely as bureaucrats and craftsmen…" she paused, eyeing Sten contemplatively. "Though there seems to be a gray area concerning those who serve as keepers of the faith—priests and enforcers and such—"
"Simply put: Women do not fight." Sten interrupted. "If women fought, they would become men."
Another beat of silence, this one heavier.
"And Sten is expressing confusion because he sees us fighting and…our sex matches our gender and—"
Crista held up a hand.
She tried to gather her thoughts amidst the thick haze of indignation.
"Sten. I don't know how it's escaped your notice. But. We are women. And we are fighting. This logically leads to a simple conclusion. Women fight."
"Do they also walk on the moon?"
Crista looked over her shoulder. Yeah. They were all watching.
"Sten… I think what Crista means is that we don't live under the Qun." Míriel explained while Crista sighed, unholstering the heavy-ass shield strapped to her back. "No one assigns roles—at least not like that—so, people come to understand their world and themselves and try to work towards whatever role they want. I'm sure it's very—"
Crista launched forward with a powerful swing, striking Sten's upper chest and part of his face with the flat of her shield. The giant toppled back, nearly causing a dust cloud as he hit the ground.
"Maker's Teeth!" Míriel yelped.
Crista laid her shield over Sten's upper chest and sat on top of it. Right about now, he was probably feeling the steady pressure of her weight against his sternum. She knew he would barely be able to hold her up and breathe at the same time. Limited oxygen always took the fight right outta people. A resentful grunt ground through is grit teeth.
"I don't know how things are done where you're from, Sten. What's more, I don't care." Crista said with one of her overly-calm, terrifying, 'i can kill you with all these brilliant teeth' smiles. "Whichever of our societies is 'right' or 'wrong' doesn't matter either. Maybe your frail fuckin' females are weak willed enough to lie back and take whatever role they're given, but I'm. Not. Them."
Sten was glaring, because of course he was, but he was also starting to change color He wasn't suffocating, just straining to bear up her weight.
"Since you enjoy roles so much, take what role we've given you." Crista said, rising with her shield and sauntering away casually. She took an obscene amount of satisfaction from his gasp of relief. "Soldier on. Keep your philosophical commentary to yourself. Follow. Orders. And tow my fucking line."
Míriel practically skipped past her, she was in such a flurry to help. Sten would refuse because stoicism was all about protecting his 'male' pride or ego or whatever.
Crista patted her shield, almost praising it, before re-slinging it on her back.
Current state of the camp: Alistair was focusing a little too hard on the stew…especially for that barely contained mischievous smile.
Wynne's hand rested against her chest, as though she were breathless or winded. Ha. Winded. Wynne did.
Leliana was smirking while tuning…wait, when had she gotten a lute? Did she have that in Lothering? Had she always had that? How long had Crista gone on without even knowing this lute existed?
Zevran was smirking at her. Infernal wretch that he was.
Ben was saying something like 'told you she'd sort it' to Morrigan, who was grinning in near-feral amusement at Crista.
Shale was still a statue.
Sten now stood on the opposite side of camp from Shale—a set of stoic statues the both of them.
Bral was smirking as Míriel sat next to her.
Final check, and the dogs were curled by the fire, caught between watching the stew pot and sleeping.
Yup.
All was well.
...is it weird that Crista's final check essentially boils down to 'the dogs are ok, so I guess we're good'?...I mean...I guess she is Ferelden :3