Word Games

Iralen couldn't tell when the conversation shifted from idle talk to a contest.

She scrubbed out a skillet with coarse salt and oil, preparing to put it away for the night. Their campfire crackled and snapped in the darkness. Her mind wandered, preoccupied with what they would find in Redcliff on the morrow. What had prompted Grand Enchanter Fiona to approach her that day in Val Royeaux? Perhaps her invitation meant the mages were willing to lend their aid to the Inquisition. Iralen slipped the skillet into her saddlebag, and hoped so. Meanwhile, Varric and Solas spoke in low voices while Cassandra cleaned the shield resting across her lap, all of them slowing down after a day of battling through the dregs of the rebel mages, rogue templars, and faux bandits.

In fact, Iralen might not have noticed the change at all, except, "If you would put the branch upon the fire, we might a little more light have to see," didn't sound like the Varric she knew. Nor did his falsely hearty, slightly sarcastic voice. It took her a second to realize what was wrong.

"I'm sorry, what was that you said just now?" she asked in the same style, smiling.

Both men looked at her, surprised. Solas grinned.

"Ah, excellent," the elf said, his voice warm and genuine. "Lavellan renews the spirit of our debate. Shall we proceed?"

"You in need of some assistance, Chuckles?"

That sounded like Varric.

"On the contrary, I am merely expressing my hope that Lavellan could provide a worthy challenge, since you are not," Solas loftily said, not missing a beat.

"Yeah, you can just keep telling yourself that," the dwarf grumbled.

So it went, the apostate and the storyteller firing words back and forth as if they were crossbow bolts. Solas slid smoothly around Varric, his lyrical speech second nature. One of the many things about him that Iralen thought so remarkable. Varric, however, kept advancing, stolid and earthy. From his mouth, the galloping rhythm threatened to turn real, a lady in her smallclothes rather than the flowing dresses Solas preferred. No wonder his serials were so popular! He was clever. Solas was loving it, too. He was also giving no quarter, and Varric began to sweat.

"What spirit crossed the Veil to help a pious man?" he demanded. "Ain't nothing but weird shit breeds in the Fade. Truth saturates Andraste's words."

"A truth shortened by half," Solas disagreed. "Fear blinds your man. Imagine: unbound beauty, unfettered wisdom, faith and compassion which live, breathe."

"What are they doing?" Cassandra asked under her breath, her voice gently cracking the way it always did when she was stressed. Iralen could tell their companions were genuinely worrying the Seeker, whose fingers clenched around her polishing rag. "Has some mage taken control of their minds?"

"It's fine, Cassandra. Male bonding," Iralen said out of the side of her mouth.

Cassandra blinked. She tilted her head like a mabari hound trying to figure something out. She was obviously thinking of males drinking too much beer, lying about partners bedded, and comparing the size of swords, and utterly failing to see how this genteel behavior applied. Then, when Varric said, with a sly sideways wink at her, "We did not flee the snares of tyranny; wisdom is certainly in short supply," she made a face.

"Are you sure? Maybe they are just foolish," she said in a disgruntled whisper.

Iralen smothered a laugh. Trust Varric to take a shot at Cassandra every chance he got. "Positive."

"I'll have to take your word for it. Get some rest, Herald. We don't know what awaits us in Redcliff," Cassandra said, shaking her head as if to say Iralen would have to clean up this mess on her own. The Seeker swaggered toward her bedroll, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Good night," Iralen said.

She scooted over to her tent, settling herself in its opening. She hugged her legs to her chest, resting her chin on them, and watched Solas and Varric talk. The firelight explored the campsite, turning Varric's hair more orange than ever, glinting on his ear piercings and the heavy chain he wore around his thick neck. Everything about his short, stocky frame and broad shoulders suggested strength and solidarity, like the Stone from which his people originally came. Solas, on the other hand, was a study in his opposite: tall and lean, his hands and ears long, his entire being as graceful as an elfroot stalk, like any child of the woodlands.

Time stretched out, and the night quieted except for their strange, spoken song, Varric's part rusty as a hinge, Solas's soft as a lullaby. Iralen's eyes closed while she listened. She smiled as she let Solas's smooth speech wash over her. His accent was subtle, impossible to pin down but very pleasing to the ear. She could listen to him for hours, drifting between the worlds of wakefulness and sleep. The words lost meaning until only the rhythm remained.

And then Varric faltered.

"To lift the boot of justice . . . sticky fingers . . . No. A coat charmed, a pocket emptied – dah!" He broke off with a weary snarl. "Do you ever lose?"

"From time to time." Solas never shrugged, but Iralen could hear it in his voice. "It is not a state that I often permit."

"Permit? My brain is about to call in sick."

"You did yourself credit, wordsmith."

"Right." Varric crawled into his bedroll without a backward glance, obviously in no mood to play nice. "You've got first watch, you pedantic bastard."

The game was truly over, so it was with sincere regret that Iralen finished the last line for him: "Well, shit."

Across the fire, Varric snorted.

She rolled onto her back, first fastening the tent flaps behind her before she settled into her own bedding. The darkness pressed close.

Solas chuckled, the sound like velvet that brushed against her skin and made her shiver in spite of the warm night. She thought he might have paused outside the tent on his way to sit out the first two hours of the watch.

"Sleep well, lethallan."

A/N: Dragon Age: Inquisition Omake Gekijō Presents: "Word Games."

Inspired by the random snatches of conversation that the characters strike up while they are in the field. Also by the inner circle quest, "Well, Shit."

By the way, I in no way mean to trivialize or generalize men through the cliché of "male bonding." I was merely expressing one of Cassandra's shortcomings, as I see it.

Disclaimer: I mentioned this before, but iambic pentameter is extremely new to me and I have no other teacher than the internet, so my efforts may not be entirely correct. Also, my apologies to Shakespeare . . .

UGGGHHHH, my stats are still broken! I can't even tell if anyone is reading these. Won't you please leave a review and let me know you're out there? Heaps of gratitude to Blackpantherlilies and The Night Whisperer, again. Ladies, you're the best! X3

Until next time,

Anne