Author's note (3/31/20)
Recently came back to DA:Inquisition and felt the desperate need to write again. It's been a long while since the bug hit so I thought I'd make use of it while I could.
I intend for this to be a fun piece that could explore some relationships, romantic and friendly, within the Inquisition. Am going to indulge myself here and focus primarily on that between Lavellan and Cullen, but I've been itching to wander off and pair up other characters that we know and love.
It takes place a few months before the explosion at the temple, and should - if I have the will and the stamina - run its course throughout the main story of DA:I. I will do my level best not to reiterate situations we've all played through (possibly more than once or twice...) as that's an invitation for boredom. Or, if that's an unavoidable obstacle, I'll attempt to change it up a little bit, or look at it from a different angle.
Mostly, and for some strange reason, I've always felt that in-game Lavellan - when contrasted with in-game Trevelyan - had little character. They share the same lines, the same adventures, save for their race and backstory, so I can't really figure out why I feel this way. No blame on the DA:I writers; I understand that pinning down character onto the PC is tricky. You're liable to piss off a few players who have their own interpretations of who they are. So consider this a meager attempt to flesh her out a little more and we'll see what happens when I burrow into that rabbit hole.
Warm Bread
The Speckled Hen was filled to bursting. As the rain drummed down outside, booted-feet, sandaled-feet and the occasional inebriated shoeless patron stomped across the wooden floor. The ensemble of flagon against flagon, the lute that tried to fruitlessly captivate an audience over the din, the bedlam of loud chatter – punctuated by the occasional squeal of children and tavern girls – served to compose a painful cacophony. It was an uncoordinated jumble of sounds that would drive anyone straight into the arms of silence and solitude. If they weren't accustomed to such environs, that is. But as a tavern owner, the louder the clamor of dishes and talk, the faster the gold clinked into his pocket. Noise was good. More noise meant more business.
Unless a fight broke out, the innkeeper thought. Almost into his seventies, he shifted his portly weight onto his good leg and gave the side of his neck a customary scratch. He'd run the Speckled Hen for nigh over two decades now. He knew better than to participate in even the tamest of revelries and he never touched a drop unless he wasn't working, and better still, not working in his own establishment. He'd rather scuff the floorboards and dent the crockery of another's watering hole than wake up the next day to the aftermath in his own. He knew himself well enough to understand that while under the spell of several drinks, his powers of recollection – which had already begun to wane with mild senility – were rendered completely useless.
And at any rate, if he chose to compromise his senses, he couldn't keep an experienced eye on the commotion beyond his kitchen and bar. He inconspicuously observed a particularly sloshed man sporting the hat of a chevalier approach him with two women in tow.
"Best watch out for that one; he's trouble," came a low voice beside him. It was his wife.
"Seen him in here before a few times." He turned his back to the room and somehow managed to pull off a whisper amidst the commotion. "All bark, that one. Just a child and just here to impress the women."
"And what if one of the women he's impressing at this very moment happens to be someone's wife? The wife of a Bann or something?"
"You're letting your imagination run away from you again, woman. Besides, you're forgetting Safi's just around the corner if things get rough."
The would or would-not-be chevalier sidled up to the bar. He placed his elbows on the counter and leaned forward. "I'll have another ale and a glass of your finest merlot for both of my friends." He gave the ginger beauty on his right a wet kiss on the cheek.
"Our merlot doesn't come cheap. Sir." remarked the innkeeper's wife acidly. She didn't approve of these wanton wenches and certainly didn't approve of him.
"I've got the coin if that's what you're worried about. And even if I didn't have any, I'm a man of supreme merit. Honourable too. Would never skip out on a payment. Never done that in the past, never." He maintained his lop-sided grin and tried his best to win her over with his vibrant cobalt eyes.
His charms apparently didn't work on her. In fact, they fizzled out instantly at her withering look. She was convinced that all his earnings had dried up after the numerous palliative cocktails he'd consumed. "Talk is cheap, and we run a decent establishment here. If you can't pay, you can stay in here to finish up the rest of your drinks but after your festivities, you'd best take you and yours out the door."
Her husband tactfully stepped in to diffuse escalating hostilities. "Now I'm sure that if the good chevalier here says he can pay, then he can pay. Isn't that right, sir?"
The young man nodded vigourously. The women on each flank shuffled their feet; they were growing restless as the exchange between the innkeeper's wife and their intoxicated sponsor went nowhere.
"Go on and show us then, lad. You'll get your drinks, we'll get paid and it'll please my old woman."
He removed his hold on his friends and fumbled about in his pocket for whatever currency lay lodged within. After a long moment, he brought out several coins of silver and slapped them onto the counter with a cavalier cackle.
It was more than what they would have charged for but the man's wife snatched up their payment before her husband could protest, let alone count what they'd generously received.
"You can keep what's left. I'm nothing if not charitable." he proclaimed, as his hands wrapped a little too tightly around the tankard of ale before him. "Where's the lermot...I mean; merlot?"
"Looks like you won't be needing it any longer." His host nodded in the direction of a fair, curly-haired youth, no more than twenty-five or so, in the corner. The women's attention was on him now. The boy masterfully strummed a lute and had somehow managed to beguile a small audience. A small, and mostly female audience.
"Andraste's tits," he scowled.
A short burst of laughter rang out from his right side. A much older woman, vastly beyond the age he was inclined to seduce, turned azure, twinkling eyes in his direction. She was slender, and had her silver hair tied tightly behind the nape of her neck where it cascaded down her back in soft waves. The tattoos across her face triggered something buried amidst many memories but significant cognition and thought were far above his reach tonight.
"You can get them back if you can minstrel as good as he does, you know. Traditionally, your women tend to gravitate towards that sort of thing." she remarked.
"Bah, who needs that kind of attention, anyway?" He turned back around and nursed his drink with a petulant frown.
"Why, you did. Up until about...oh, three minutes ago."
"I'm a changed man."
"If a bit capricious at times," she observed.
"And what on earth did you mean by your women anyway?"
"Human women, Shem," she explained, her voice more even and less playful. She was about to say something else, but stopped short and caught herself.
Reflexively, he conducted a more thorough inspection. A ruddy elf, he recognized. Not that he hated elves. A lot of their women were known for their comeliness. Hell, he'd flirted with a few in a Denerim alienage once upon a time. Even went so far as to sneak out with one into another tavern much like this one. Putting aside all social mores, they'd enjoyed each other's company in more ways than one. Too bad they couldn't shave back a decade or two from his new acquaintance. She must have been quite the beauty in her time.
"I...uh, I didn't mean anything by it. My apologies, Miss...?"
"Lavellan. Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan." She offered her hand. She spoke her name slowly, mostly for his benefit, as many Shems...no, humans – she corrected herself – lacked skills in Elven vernacular. The lengthier the word, the faster they tied their tongues in an effort to pronounce it. Which in turn led to embarrassment on their part, followed by annoyance. And what kind of a way was that to initiate a conversation?
About a year ago, clan Lavellan had become entangled in an altercation with some human sellswords protecting a nobleman and his family while wandering the Free Marches. Under normal circumstances, they'd have read the signs that land and water wrote, and would have easily steered clear of the band of travelers, but the rain had been torrential for nigh on a week and their supplies were running low. A small hunting party had been sent out and had managed to get themselves into a skirmish with the mercenaries. Or so it was told to her. On closer investigation and repeated interrogations, she'd discovered that one of their best archers just may have a hand in antagonizing the already agitated group. And, just as it had unfolded so many times in the past and would again in the future, communication was reduced to the language of bow against sword against flesh. Until someone emerged victorious, of course. The humans were well armed and had them outnumbered, so it wasn't long before the elves had to retreat into the woods, firing whatever arrows remained in their quivers to help cover their escape.
None of the wounds they sustained proved to be lethal, and what she was even more grateful for was that no humans were murdered during the scuffle. Not a single party of lawmen scoured the woods for their encampment, which they had abandoned anyway since it would be imbecilic not to, was sufficient evidence of that. The only currency she had understood as a child was that the life of one human was worth the cost of whatever human justice, or vengeance in most cases, called for. And such invocations relied heavily on how powerful and bloodthirsty their human accusers were. As an adult, it was a truth she'd be a fool to forget.
As Keeper of her clan, she was primarily responsible for their survival and safety. She couldn't have her small tribe killed at the end of human weapons simply due to the exchange of inimical banter. All it would take for them to come to blows was the presence of a single undisciplined oaf – human or elf – to lose his temper and set the powder keg alight. So she'd decided that she would do all she could on her end to foster an improved understanding of humans. And she couldn't lead by example if she kept thinking of them as Shems, now could she?
The young man accepted the outstretched hand and shook it. "Lucien Calwood at your service. So what brings an elf far out of the woods and into this dingy little dive?"
"Oh, you know us backwater bumpkins, we find your human pastimes terribly quaint and exciting and we can't help but indulge ourselves once in a while." The other voice projected at him from nowhere and he nearly fell off his seat in fright. In a weak attempt to recover his fractured dignity, he caught a glimpse of another elf. This one was younger.
Finished with him, she strode over to her older companion. Taking her seat on a barstool, she adjusted a grey burlap bag onto her lap and addressed her Keeper. "Safi's ready for you now. Managed to get a real bargain on a reel of Orlesian silk. She said it'll be ready on our way back."
"Orlesian silk?" repeated Istimaethoriel, impressed. "The lot we bought in Tantervale didn't even last a month. Had to have Kel and Emmon patch it with some ram leather. It was all we had on hand at the time. Leather's thick and heavy. The aravels can't handle that kind of weight distribution in high winds."
"They'd imported it from Ferelden of all places. You shouldn't have sent Biedrin out to get it either. You know what he's like with a handful of coin and a parched throat."
They shared a knowing glance. Istimaethoriel nodded in her associate's direction. "They really did a number on your shoulder, didn't they? Did she clean it up well?"
"Well enough. The room was dark and Safi's eyesight isn't what it used to be."
"Maybe we should wait to dress mine until we're back at camp," Istimaethoriel fidgeted. Apparently her fear of healers did not dissipate with age. If she couldn't do it herself, she didn't trust anyone else. It wasn't a matter of competence but more so one of control and the reluctance to relinquish it.
"Well, that's the stupidest idea you've had all day. That thing is going to fester. And as we're walking home while it oozes blood and pus, the pain will spread and no amount of elfroot oil you rub on it is going to make it any better. Which means we'll have to stop and ask for help. And the only people we've seen on this road are human merchants. And you know what they're – "
"Fen'Harel take you! Alright! I'll get it seen too. And you'd better order me something strong for when I get back."
Lucien, in the meantime, had been quietly observing their interaction and tried to make sense of their conversation. "Tough old bird, isn't she?"
The woman looked at him incredulously. Grateful for the empty seat between them, she shifted her gaze elsewhere, paid him no mind and summoned the barkeep's wife.
He called back out to her. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to offend."
She exhaled, worn out by their journey and now...this place, and this irritating little man. If her Keeper were here, perhaps she'd encourage a bit of discourse between the three of them, but thankfully she wasn't. And while Istimaethoriel insisted on being civil in encounters like this, it didn't necessarily mean that she had to be friendly. "You didn't. It's just...it's been a long day."
"Buy you a drink?"
She shook her head, no. And before he could say anything else, she removed herself from the bar and went to sit down out of the way in a small nook.
Lucien occupied his seat for a spell, feeling a little forlorn and rejected. He kneaded the bridge of his nose before crossing the room over to her table. Before she could protest, he bent over and set a few pieces of silver before her. "No, no, don't get up. I can be a right arse sometimes – I'm not always aware of it when I've downed a few, you know? And this isn't charity, it's payment for putting up with this Shem when he should have been minding his own business. I'm very sorry I've bothered you both. Journey's mercies to you and your friend."
He straightened up and made for the door.
"Oh...wait!" she called out after him.
She offered him a conciliatory smile. "I may have ordered too much bread. And Isti's not really fond of it. Would you like to grab a chair and help me finish it?"
"I don't know," he objected half-heartedly.
"Come on. You've had more than a few tonight and you're going to wake up tomorrow with an incredible headache. The food will help. And if I know Isti, and I do, there'll be a generous helping of apple pie later."
And there was that smile again. The one wall sconce didn't illuminate much in their corner; it was difficult to tell if she measured up to the auburn-haired temptress he'd run into earlier, but this one – when she smiled, everything else seemed to pale and diminish in comparison. Or maybe he had just drunk too much.
Only one way to find out. He introduced himself. "Lucien Calwood."
"Elori Lavellan." She pushed a platter of bread in his direction. "Warm bread?"
He grinned as tore off a piece and held it up to his mouth. "Warm bread."