As I'm down with a cold, I'm stuck in my dorm and have very little to do except wait for my copy of Mass Effect 2, due tomorrow (daaaamn you, USA, for getting advance copies!), watch DVDs and play chess with my cheating lump of a computer (never allows me to move the pieces correctly), I've had time to get to writing this chapter.
Teagan's still in the lead of this poll, but voting is still open, so feel free to contribute with your thoughts and votes. The insanity is finally beginning properly! Oh, and this chapter features more Alistair, since everyone seemed to like his involvement in the last two chapters. Zevran had a scene here as well, but Morrigan weaseled her way into another scene of her own and I seem to enjoy writing her quite a lot, so I just ran with it. Yeah, Zevran will have to wait for the next chapter.
o.O.o
Rainfall for Ever After
o.O.o
Before the actual departure, before the sudden change of the playing field, there was yet one final confrontation to be dealt with.
Someone, at least, was enjoying themselves at Redcliffe Castle; Oghren was making full use of the wine cellar of the castle, lounging around the kitchen whenever possible as well. Not that most of those he travelled with weren't decent cooks (aside from Alistair, naturally), but having an honest-to-goodness cooking staff around was practically heaven, especially since there was only a very slight risk that any of them would try to poison him.
It was also an excellent way to keep possible eavesdroppers away; everyone knew the dwarf by reputation now, and when their warhound's rather fine appetite was added to the mixture, it was highly doubtful that anyone with the slightest sense in their body would try to venture anywhere close there.
This meant that mealtimes were excellent for strategy discussions between the trio of gamblers, especially when notes were supposed to be compared.
This was before the official proclamation of the possibility of engagement, which meant that the playing field was still rather leveled; no one knew who exactly had the advantage. And so, naturally, each assumed that they were the one ahead of the race, knowing Nimue as they believed they did.
Shale was beginning to regret the sudden decision to exchange boredom for novelty in terms of betting, because it meant having to spend time with Oghren and the dog; if only to make certain that they didn't resort to cheating. At least, not more cheating than Shale herself would resort to.
Apparently, though, that was beneath the intelligence of at least half of her opposition, which meant that there wasn't much of a challenge. Oghren was simply celebrating victory already, from the way things appeared.
"The drunken dwarf is being foolishly overconfident." Shale didn't necessarily think that any number of reprimands on her part would stop its nonsense in any way, but it might at least provide a halt to the consistent vomiting. The fluids were rather disgusting, even to the dog. "After the night's departure, the enchantress will be removed from the castle. The dwarf will lose its trump card. It will be weeks until we return to the puny village. It cannot possibly expect the painted elf not to make its move in that time."
Predictably, the vomiting stopped only for a moment, but the splashing of ale everywhere most certainly didn't. The dwarf was confident in its victory by now. "Yeah? Well sod it, I must have missed Nim's rutting-depraved streak, then." it crowed, taking yet another deep gulp of its vicious brew. The dog whinnied a little, reproachful, as if noting that nothing was certain. "Keep telling yourself that and you might even get convinced. The Warden'll never turn into Miss Yo-Yo Knickers and 's long as she keeps up the frigid virgin act, it's all or nothin' with her." Shale rightly suspected that if she were flesh, the triumphant sneer she received would have been a full-out leer. "He doesn't stand a chance."
The warhound grudgingly admitted that the hound noble wasn't perhaps entirely the wrong option for its mistress. He did give good biscuits when in the vicinity, which could only be a good sign. The dwarf, splashing ale around, attempted to hit it with its tankard.
"Hah! You're not weaseling out of giving me that prize, mongrel!" the dwarf crooned. It was one of the few organics that didn't allow itself to be manipulated by the dog in any way, not even by the so-called sad eyes. Well, not too much, in any case; it ceased with the wild tankard movements in a while. At least after a dismissive wave of its other hand. "Eh, you'll be mooching off her and that rotten son of a whore for the rest of your life; you can stand to give up a few meals."
"That is assuming the enchantress acts according to its predictions." Shale couldn't help but grumble. This unashamed self-confidence and gloating reminded her of Wilhelm and that always made her want to crush things. Of course, beating the drunken dwarf at its own game and then being given the chance to gloat in its face would no doubt be much more satisfying than crushing its mead-filled skull right now. No matter how tempting that might be.
Which was very tempting, of course.
Especially when the dwarf sniggered as vilely as it was doing now. "'Course she will." It said that as if it were beyond any doubt. This would have probably been more troublesome if the enchantress were a dwarf; fortunately, it being elven, it was about as far from the dwarf on the evolutionary ladder as it could be while still remaining fleshy. "She'd be stupid not to… and potentially not female, 'cause that would go against a normal woman's mindset." the dwarf added. It was surprising that it was still able to use words this big, despite its entirely intoxicated state. "Maybe just really many columns short of a hall."
That was an apt description of the dwarf's own mental state, if someone asked Shale for comments, but she wasn't about to get involved in pointless discussions. "Why does it believe the enchantress would be insane not to accept? Refusing copulation with a squishy male of its species or anything close to it seems logical, if it is unable or unwilling to reproduce. So much liquid involved…" The golem almost shuddered, or tried to do so. Since she felt very little in the way of human physical sensations, parts of the motion were obviously fabricated. "Disgusting."
Ever the rational one, the warhound interjected with a resolute bark. Nothing was certain until his mistress explicitly gave her word to one of the males; and even then, things would be up in the air until she actually mated with one of them or – at the very least – openly chose to stay with him. Until then, the bet was on.
"Cheating nug-licking little…" the dwarf continued muttering to himself, but couldn't really think of a way of contradicting reasonable logic. Shale was just glad it had managed to shut the nuisance up. Really, the dog was the only reasonable one of the bunch, aside from the enchantress itself. And maybe the elder mage and the sister, if they were in the right mood.
Fortunately, the drunk wasn't given the time to find a loophole; there was movement on the stairs leading to this place and the door opened in a tentative manner that suggested who the person on the other side was quite clearly. At least, it did to the mabari; he would have recognized the herbal – vaguely clinical, one might suppose – scent of his mistress practically anywhere.
"Oghren?" The door creaked, revealing the finally robed and armed figure of the enchantress. It almost backed away from the smell, but the shimmering shield seemed to be able to at least partly repel it. "Have you seen- ah, Shale, I was just looking for you."
"Hey, Nim." Even though the conversation wasn't focused on it any longer, the dwarf waved clumsily in the elf´s general direction. It didn't have enough liquid in its tankard to spill by then. "Just trying out the last of the goods here. You should take a sip yerself; last day of having private quarters is almost at an end."
And they all knew what that meant, of course; the thin fabric walls of a tent allowed complaints through much more easily. Nor did they stop anyone who wished to enter on a whim, making it harder to throw said person out. Plus, they were flammable if a mage had to resort to more drastic methods. On the long run, all of these were equally important.
Nimue grimaced a little, but thought better of whatever she had been considering saying. "I'll save that for the actual journey, thanks." Or it could just be the smell keeping her away; you never knew. "We'll be leaving in an hour or so and Bodahn's packing up. He has to leave some of his stuff here due to weight restrictions, so if you want something, just give the word and I'll get it for you. Otherwise, it's staying here until we return and might get sold to the villagers."
o.O.o
They could have gotten horses at Redcliffe, but Nimue decided against it; not only would it mean they would require far more supplies to feet many more mouths, it wouldn't change their speed significantly. Shale wouldn't have been able to ride on two horses, let alone one. And with the degree of intoxication Oghren was usually prone to, it was highly questionable that he could remain mounted for longer than a few seconds, at worse, a few minutes at best.
Besides, almost none of them had ever ridden a horse before in their lives, meaning that without some training, they wouldn't reach their destination before the archdemon got bored with this whole Blight business and moved on to take a vacation somewhere warmer and sunnier than the rainy plains of Ferelden.
Crossing distances during rainfall was one of the more annoying aspects of cross-country travel. At least the mages could create shields of mana around themselves (not that it helped against the mud that still continued to find a way to cling to their boots, out of a resemblance of fairness in the world). The rest of them had to make do with heavy cloaks or other fabrics… or simply try to hold on and hope that whatever cold-curing magic Wynne had at her disposal would be effective later on. Only Leliana had had the foresight to invest some of her money in an umbrella – and back then, everyone had called her foolish and fanciful for purchasing such a useful item, good only for show.
Right now, even Oghren probably wouldn't have minded holding the frilly pink thing, if only it helped him stay dry. Of course, Shale had to comment on this once or twice, straight into the rhythmic tapping of raindrops against his armor.
As this was going on at the back of the group, though, Nimue herself heard very little (read: nothing) of it, enjoying what was left of the silence even as she marched on deeper into the woods. Her mind wandered a little, remembering the parting of two days ago with mild confusion. She still didn't really know what she was supposed to think about this, or in what new and inventive awkward ways she would have to address this development when others brought it up. Right now, she was simply grateful to be away and on the road, given room to think.
After all, fighting darkspawn was nothing compared to juggling words and options, all the while trying to remain in everyone's good books.
Apparently sharing her opinion on the priceless factor of peace and quiet, Morrigan appeared at her side, keeping the pace. Both of them had a weak shield up – just enough to keep the rain away, but one that would crack like an eggshell at any hint of a magical or melee attack. It was rather like having fireflies around; pretty, but useless, to paraphrase Flemeth on this one occasion. Credit had to be given to the fact that Morrigan still managed to look intimidating, despite the small spheres of light that hovered around her, flickering now and then.
"'Tis not what I would have expected from you." Her methods of starting a conversation were still as succinct as ever, if this was anything to go by, but of course she wouldn't have approached without a good reason to do so. As for the swamp witch herself, she was a bit disappointed. She had actually been looking forward to the moment Nimue would crush the imbecile's quasi-romantic aspirations with her usual deft touch – all the more humiliation for Alistair. But no doubt Leliana had a hand in this. "I thought you valued your recently-gained freedom somewhat higher than to give it up so soon."
Nimue, who had been expecting this kind of discussion from anyone but Morrigan, sighed just a little. If the world went at least a little according to her predictions, everything would be fine within moments. But no, the Maker had to have his own ideas about stuff.
"To set the record straight; he's proposed to me and I've asked for time to consider it." she explained, keeping her eyes on the road. Peculiar that Morrigan of all people should be interested, but then again, boredom did tend to have detrimental and potentially horrifying effects on people. "So until I say yay or nay, I haven't given up anything. I'm perfectly free to make my own choice regarding the matter."
The witch's thin eyebrows rose, partly concealed by her flyaway fringe. Someone had prepared a little defensive speech here, but obviously not for her. It was far likelier that this was the first draft of a justification rant to wipe any objections off the table. "Getting a little touchy, are we?" she teased, relishing a bit in the thought that she could guess who this effort was going to be targeted at, in the end. "I thought this was what friends were for; pointing out things you yourself do not wish to see."
A heavy branch got in Nimue's way; instead of swathing it out of her path, she ducked. Perhaps there was indeed something to the connection between elves and nature; Morrigan would have simply set the bush ablaze, had it not been raining. Or hacked it apart, if it continued to offend. More likely, she would be travelling in animal form anyway, making all these motions pointless.
"You haven't yet done anything like that." Flemeth may have exaggerated a bit when proclaiming that Nimue had an open mind, but it certainly wasn't made of mush; for a Circle mage – no, for a person of any kind, especially the kind Morrigan usually encountered – the elf was highly perceptive.
A shame that she wasn't a man, though that was one of the reasons why she was beyond simply tolerable, Morrigan thought for a moment. Using Alistair for her plan was something she truly didn't wish to think about, but unless there were other Grey Wardens with only recent taint coursing through their veins, there was little chance of anything else.
"Perhaps I have yet to get to that moment. In any case, 'tis hardly what I wished to speak to you about." At the moment, there were other concerns than this, though, which would have to wait for the night before the final battle. Assuming they survived that long, of course. "How do you intend to locate these elves we are searching for? Moreover, how can we be certain that the clan we find will respond to the treaty at all?"
Logically, Nimue herself had to be thinking of such concerns too, if the almost mechanical way she responded was any indication. "The treaty was signed long ago, presumably before the war that turned them into nomads. In which case, the keeper of every clan should be familiar with it and respond… or, at the very least, be aware of what the Grey Wardens require and that he or she is obliged to provide aid." Her step was a bit heavier, but the shield didn't flicker.
Morrigan almost gave a small smirk. When you couldn't persuade others to cooperate, you could always intimidate them into submission. "You could always merely threaten to conscript some of them; you have yet to exercise that right properly."
"I don't know how the Joining works besides the drinking of darkspawn blood." Still, temptation was written in her face, even though of course the elf would never admit it. She didn't really fancy this whole leader business and, as far as allies went, Alistair was a highly useful warrior but not so big on the whole giving information to new Grey Warden recruits business. Probably because he hadn't been told much more than what Nimue already knew. "Duncan said that it required preparations made by the Circle as well, so I assume it requires further ingredients added to the blood to make it effective. Drinking it raw would probably just poison whoever was involved. Besides, we need them all alive to fight, not just one or two with only vaguely useful powers of detection."
"That is self-explanatory." Morrigan nodded. It would have been fascinating to watch the Joining from start to finish, learning of these ancient rituals. In a sense, it was like blood magic, only twisted, corrupted and – this was also self-explanatory – tainted. Flemeth had taught her about the Grey Wardens, but she had never said anything about these things, the truly interesting ones. "'Twould be more logical to have at least one or two more Grey Wardens, however. Weren't there supposed to be the reinforcements from Orlais coming so long ago? Surely some of them must have entered Ferelden to investigate the situation."
"True, but the chances of finding them are much lower than us managing to find the Dalish." Nimue stopped only for a moment, glancing around. The air was too damp to allow proper breathing and she was certain even their shields wouldn't keep the water out of their boots for much longer. At times, she actually missed having a roof over her head, be it the Tower or, more recently, Redcliffe Castle. "We must assume that they won't come. Which I don't really understand, because they must have heard about the king's death… anyway, it's all up to us, as usual."
That shrug certainly possessed none of the wide-eyed idealism she had displayed upon initially being told that she was free from the Circle's influence and could roam the world as she wished. Well, provided she put a stop to the Blight, anyway. Morrigan much preferred this jaded and relatively wise Nimue to the previous version, even though the signs had been prominent even then.
"How cheerful. I wouldn't be surprised if these Grey Wardens of yours showed up only in the aftermath of the whole battle to congratulate you on your victory and to claim you among their recruits." Therein lay another thought she wondered about. "Are Grey Wardens permitted to marry, abandoning their order for a time, so to speak?"
"All I want in exchange for fighting this Blight with all the strength I have is the chance to live my life as I wish it afterwards." Again, this seemed to be an answer she had been preparing for some time, and not for Morrigan's benefit. "If they refuse to grant me even that, I have no use for them."
They would certainly be in no position to stop her, assuming she came through for them. The witch laughed a little inwardly. It was almost a pity that she couldn't afford to stay for the post-battle celebrations. Certainly it would be a sight to see, the newcomers trying to convince Nimue that her place was now with them. Catching a bird once was hard enough. Catching one that has flown from its previous cage could prove to be nearly impossible.
"Ah. You retain some sense yet." Which was about as much of a compliment as anyone could hope to receive from the likes of her. "Perhaps we should scout ahead for a while?" Morrigan suggested, glancing through the trees as if she could see beyond them. "'Twould seem there will be little opportunity to set up camp once we leave the clearing."
Nimue considered only for a moment before making a pre-agreed sign to Wynne. Once the elderly mage caught it and understood, she gave a single nod.
"Yes, let's."
And, within moments, ironically in hindsight, two wolves vanished among the trees.
o.O.o
They managed to find the Dalish only after about a week of searching.
Perhaps it was luck, coincidence or the Maker's will, but it (whichever) was on their side at the moment. Right up to the point when it became obvious that, despite an apparently sincere wish to help (Keeper Zathrian knew about the Blight already, which wouldn't have been as impressive if the elves weren't reclusive and living in the middle of nowhere), there could be no assistance given unless their own werewolf-shaped troubles were resolved by helpful strangers with access to heavy magical firepower and sharp swords.
And people said diplomacy was hard.
Nimue had agreed to try and venture into the forest the following day, as they arrived only about two hours before sunset and venturing into a werewolf-infested forest under the cover of night seemed highly irrational. Alistair actually thought it was rather nice of the Dalish to allow them to stay the night and not make them set up camp too far away from the aravels.
The nice factor degraded fast when he noticed that most of the elves were giving him looks of frosty distrust.
It was a bit relieving that they gave the same glances to Morrigan, which made them good judges of character, but they did so more covertly – the witch had a tendency to glare back. Leliana and Wynne were subjected to this as well, even though some of the elves did open up to them after considerable coaxing. In fact, the only people they reacted relatively warmly to were, predictably, Zevran and Nimue, the former having already gained an apparent unsubtle female following from among the younger elf girls.
The fact that Nimue almost ostensibly turned a blind eye to this was nice too.
She had borrowed one of the smaller chair-like benches from the Dalish and moved it to the shade of one of the pine trees. Apparently, that was also the spot where she would eventually set up her tent, once given enough motivation to do so. Sitting where the light was best, she was apparently intent on decrypting whatever message that new book of hers involved within a day. Surprisingly, seeing Nimue reading with such determination was a generally rare sight; for one thing, books were expensive and heavy; for another, she was usually so tired at the end of the day that focusing her mental energy alone on something would have required a great deal of caffeine.
Of course, what Alistair saw, first and foremost, wasn't the book or the determination, but the way her fingers moved across the pages as if she were blind, almost, and how light reflected off the hair concealing at least half her face from his particular angle.
Peculiarly – just for an instant, though – Alistair wondered if this was how that caged templar in the Circle tower (Collin, was it? Or Clooney? C-something, anyway) had felt for years, just out of reach to make it seem that there was still a chance to break through the glass dome.
Right, now that was creepy. Come to think of it, no wonder that Nimue was so reserved and careful with any hint of romance if her only experience with it was an obsessed templar who had watched her for years. Not that it helped much to make him see a bright side of things.
A small whine alerted him to the fact that Rabbit had decided to join his part of the makeshift campsite. The reason why was obvious; Nimue wouldn't risk a dog slobbering over any book in her vicinity, not even a trained mabari. Maker, the way she handled that book made it seem almost like she was reaching into the Urn of Andraste time and time again to get a single grain of ash out. Did ash have grains anyway? Wouldn't it be too small to be called a grain in comparison to, say, sand? Or even dirt, for that matter?
Rabbit laid his head down at Alistair's feet, growling in what was supposed to be a "Hey, I'm trying to talk to you, look at me, pretty please?" manner. Since the warhound felt no illusions about how by the book the two competitors in their little bet were going to act, he had decided that it was all right for him to give a little support to his chosen candidate as well. It wasn't as if the clown knight (Shale sometimes got the nicknames right, he had to admit) would respond to anything even mildly subtle, meaning that a more decisive tactic was required.
Namely, encouragement. And if Alistair didn't pick up on it, well, maybe Rabbit could get away with some of his food, at the very least.
"Did you know about this?" the de-facto prince blurted out after a few moments of ostensive brooding, mixed with unabashed staring as Rabbit's mistress. Apparently, she had a lot of practice regarding ignoring this kind of thing. "About the proposal, I mean." Alistair clarified. Rabbit correctly assumed that honesty wouldn't be the best policy in this case. Fortunately, the human buried his face in his hands momentarily just when the proper time for a response came, so it wasn't necessary in the end. "Maker, now I can barely even say the word. It just doesn't seem real… I mean, I saw that they got on well. Everyone gets along fine with Nimue."
Which was perhaps a problem in this case. Since Nimue knew that elves and mages weren't necessarily on people's invite-to-our-dinner-party list, getting people to cooperate with her ideas was usually hard. And since she was both in one body, there were two ways she could go about doing things; being extra careful about how she approached difficult situations or making sure that everyone saw the fireballs hovering two inches above her palms before they decided how to respond to her proposals.
Surprisingly, both plans worked on different kinds of people.
The point being that Nimue was usually very likable, assuming she wasn't about to make your head explode. But hey, maybe some people liked that. Never having been on the receiving end of such a sentiment, Alistair couldn't exactly judge.
Breaking this train of thought, the dog wisely pointed out that such an assessment was hardly true for templars and maleficar in general. As Alistair made a point of always saying that he wasn't a templar any longer, there was a relatively high chance that he wouldn't be annoyed or upset by this comment. The only maleficar that Nimue seemed to have very little objection to was Morrigan – and even that was a (could one call it that?) friendship forget through long-term forced exposure to the other. Meaning that there were indeed people whom Nimue didn't like and who didn't care much for Nimue.
Alistair was once again briefly reminded of the Circle of Magi. Certainly the shield of cordiality hadn't made its appearance there and his fellow Warden had spared nothing and no one any punches while there.
"I suppose that could explain a few things. What I don't get is how come she's agreed…" Alistair cut himself short right there. She hadn't, not yet, which was probably one of the very few things holding him above the typical templar clench-jawed misery. First came mourning, then the self-flagellation. There had been stories about that all over the dormitories back in his time. "Well, agreed to consider, anyway. I mean, they haven't known each other for too long and would likely never have met if circumstances were just a little different… I guess it isn't all that different from how we met, actually."
Dejection wasn't necessarily the best thing to hear in this case. Rabbit was forced to rapidly recalculate his position. If he was counting on this human to get his courage together and even think about proposing a mating ritual to his elf, severe encouragement would be required. The warhound would have preferred sincerity, since it was difficult to deceive a third person when your supposed partner in crime didn't know what was going to happen – or that three roast beef dinners were on the line. In which case, the mabari was resolved to employ as much truth as possible before lapsing into the realm of fiction.
Hence, the first thing Rabbit noted was the most obvious truth; that the hound noble was older than his mistress, which could be potentially detrimental to a successful match. Well, he didn't mention the potentially part, but maintained the could. It was usual to seek a mate of one's own age, for the most part, as far as humans and elves were apparently concerned. And one's own race, usually, but that wasn't the crucial point to make in this case.
The sound Alistair made could have potentially been a sign, save for the hint of a childish pout in his expression. Well, more than a hint, if one was to be honest. "I suppose, but with the taint, she isn't likely to care too much about age gaps… do you think that was why she agreed?" Now this realization seemed to be more frightening to him. The dog would have liked to point out that Nimue hadn't explicitly agreed on anything, but this wasn't something fitting for the moment. "That she wants someone who knows the world and the limits of what he can offer her…?"
Well, the time for honesty and subtlety both had certainly passed by now.
The things he was doing for his mistress… hopefully, she would recognize his valiant efforts to make her the alpha female amongst humans and reward him with that nice ear-scratching only she seemed to ever get right. And some roast beef for dinner, of course. Couldn't not have that, could he now?
Waggling his tail just a bit, the mabari presented a counter-argument. Perhaps Nimue had feelings for the clown knight, but remained too shy to mention them on account on not wishing to ruin their long-standing friendship? They had known each other for quite a while now, after all, and their situation was highly complicated without mating being thrown into the mix…
Alistair perked up just a little, but didn't know whether or not to trust this entirely. While he hadn't yet given credit to Morrigan for pointing out that the warhound had a manipulative side – when there was a possibility of siding against the marsh witch in an argument, Alistair usually took it – he wasn't certain if a dog was the most obvious choice of a confidante for Nimue. Admittedly, it seemed unlikely that she would confide in Leliana, considering the way the bard kept chasing her around with a dress, Morrigan wouldn't tell him anything and the elven mage had more sense than talk marriage with someone who openly scorned feelings of any kind and, in his own way, Zevran had appeared just as surprised as he himself had been upon hearing of this new and sudden development.
Which left Wynne and the mabari, really. And with the evil jests at his expense that Wynne was so prone to making, bizarrely, Alistair was more ready to trust the dog on this account.
"You think so?" More inclined didn't necessarily mean that he fully trusted this canine instinct-supposition-whatever, but it did perk him up a little. After all, dogs could smell emotions through those pheromone-whatsits or something. The kennel master at Ostagar had mentioned as much. So there had to be a bit of truth in the speech, which was good. "Well, she did seem to like the rose… after deciding it wasn't a potion ingredient, anyway."
That had been the worst moment of awkwardness in his life, beating even the day he had splattered a mouse with a frying pan while on dishwashing duty as punishment in the Chantry. Compared to the innocent puzzled surprise Nimue had displayed, the face the revered Mother had made back then was nothing. Even if that look would have sent the archdemon itself cowering in fear.
Rabbit, knowing an opening when he saw one, took the time to point out that his elf still had the rose. Why she would bother keeping useless plant matter with her was beyond the dog's comprehension, but it had been a gift, apparently, so perhaps that could build up Alistair's self-esteem a little bit when it came to the whole mating thing.
The ex-templar did perk up noticeably. The older mage was right; it was indeed rather like dealing with a small puppy. Easily excitable, the lot of them. "Really? Well, you would know, with how often you try and sneak off with her potion ingredients." At the very least, it was a passable justification.
The dog took offense to that last one, though. Rising up, he made a move as if to walk away. After all, if the clown knight didn't want his help…
Fortunately, humans were very easy to predict, meaning that the pork chop bit used as a lure to make him stay was utterly expected by the mabari. Not that it wasn't welcome, mind you. It just went to show that the heir apparent might potentially be the right male for his elf, as he gave good treats when so inclined. Of course, the other one gave treats whenever they passed each other, so…
But it was a matter of standards and principles, of course.
"No, no, I want help." Alistair said, entirely too quickly. The pork chop bribe worked, as most food-related things did with the mabari. Luckily, he was mostly out of his big-eater stage or Grey Warden development. Otherwise, this would be an entirely too high cost for romance advice from a four-legged canine. "Maker knows I need it. Maybe you could, eh, talk to her? Or however it is you make her understand everything you say." Alistair shook his head, partly due to wondering what the world was getting to if this wasn't some peculiar cheese-induced dream. "I swear it's some sort of magic at times."
The dog huffed a little, only mildly offended. He could still withdraw from the betting poll or put his bet on someone else, assuming Oghren was drunk enough when the decision would be announced…
"Aw, come on, you know I don't mean it that way." This method of quick apologizing coupled with uninterrupted whining would have to be remedied somewhat. "I just feel helpless about the whole thing. It feels like it's already been settled; like I don't really know Nimue."
The dog gave him an all-too-meaningful glance. Like when you didn't tell her about being heir to the throne? That was a low blow, but a true one, so it kind of evened things out.
Alistair gave up. "All right, all right. Not all of us are as cunningly manipulative as you."
Something the mabari was rightly proud of. Now, if only theirs was a world where chess skills could outweigh the unrivalled power of human stupidity, perhaps he even stood a chance at winning those dinners, if only for the sake of professional pride. His elf deserved something for all her trouble, after all. And somehow, the warhound didn't really think a few nice scratches behind the ears would quite cover it.
