"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."
― Zen in the Art of Writing, Ray Bradbury
Varric tapped the surface of the parchment with his quill. He sat at the corner table that afforded one of the best views of the tavern, along with Bull, Blackwall, and Cole. Bull swilled the last of the ale around his tankard before draining it.
"Another round?" he asked, sliding off the bench.
Varric shook his head distractedly. Bull headed towards the bar.
"Come on, Kid, give me something. My ass is on the line here."
"O-ho! So you have an actual ghostwriter?" Blackwall smirked, glancing at Cole.
"I'm up shit creek. Told the Inquisitor I'd do her a solid and write the next installment of Swords and Shields so she could cheer Cassandra up. Problem is, I'm out of ideas. I hate writing romance stories. It's a smutfest and I am all rosy nippled out."
"Cassandra's a fan of yours?"
"Not of mine, no—of this damn serial I agreed to write so I could finance a venture that went belly-up anyway," he grumbled.
"Never took her for a fan of the genre…" Blackwall mused. "Learn something new everyday!" He raised his tankard.
"I'm almost at the point of offering to let Cassandra slap me around instead. That should cheer her up just as much, if not more…" he sighed, tossing his quill back into the inkwell.
"So Cole is good at co-authoring smut?"
"No, but I figured since he can read people's most intimate thoughts…We are in a crowded tavern surrounded by horny soldiers…Stuff writes itself." He leaned towards the young man. "Focus…" he instructed. "Scan the room. What are you picking up?"
"A redhead, apparently," Blackwall interrupted, pointing at Bull chatting up a curvy barmaid.
"They did it for his sake, in his memory, eyes like glass staring at the sky, he could have been any of them…" Cole declaimed, an intense expression upon his face.
"Too depressing. Next."
"Forgot the name. It's basic training all over again. Nervous. Head like a sieve. Is it Serrah or Messere? …"
"Nope. Bubblehead. Next."
Bull returned to the table carrying two full tankards.
"Ah! You didn't have to," Blackwall grinned, reaching for one.
"Who said I did? These are mine," Bull explained, slightly mystified that he would have presumed as much.
Blackwall leaned back, deflated.
"Rolling and rising, like being on the storm-tossed ship again—the stew would have been wiser, why did I go for the roast?"
"Maferath's balls…" Varric glanced worriedly at Blackwall, "Think it's too late to change our order?"
Bull grabbed one of the tankards and turned his attention towards the bar. Cole resumed his channeling.
"A fine ass. Best to take from behind—"
Varric's eyes widened and he scrambled for the quill.
"Jackpot!" he cried.
"Round and juicy, give it a little slap just so, prick her pincushion…"
Varric let out a small chuckle of delight and Blackwall leaned in to listen better.
"Keep it coming!" Varric encouraged him.
"Wonder if the rug matches the drapes, though… Oh, for fuck's sake, Cole, get out of my head!" Cole recited obligingly.
Varric paused and slowly peered up from the parchment. Bull had turned around and was glaring at them. He reached across the table and tore the sheet away from him, crumpling it into a ball. Blackwall sheepishly redirected his attention to the bard, who was warbling a morose ballad.
"I'm serious. No more. We're done," Bull pointed a finger at Cole and Varric.
Varric frowned, resting his cheek on his fist with great desolation. Cole's attention turned to the tavern's door.
"I'm not scared, don't come home if you can't uphold your honor, no son of mine, I'm not scared, lock them all away, toss out the key, they're the reason the Maker abandoned us, just a word, teach the bitch a lesson…"
"What's that all about?" Varric turned to Cole, but he'd already disappeared.
"Kid?…" he called out.
A/N: Switching this to an "M" rating, mostly due to some language and some mildly racy content... Thanks for your kind support of this fic!