Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Summary: A City-Elf/Bann Teagan collection of drabbles and one-shots based on a prompt table from an LJ-community. These will be more or less in chronological order with the faintest traces of added plot here and there. Will vary from drabble length to one-shot.
Author's note: Once again, thank you for your words. Funny detail, I had to stare when I saw the hits. Guess Teagan does call as much attention as he should. Alas, Awakening doesn't seem to think so. Daily updates might end soon but here's the new installement of this plotline. That said, slight attempt at lame humor in this one.
In this chapter: Nobles do not stare.
003.
He is not staring. He is not staring. He just isn't. It is obviously not something someone like him should do. It is immoral and wrong and oh Maker, he cannot be doing this. He definitely isn't thanking whoever had the odd idea to think a skirt and a small shirt can be considered actual armor. No, of course not. He would never think of thinking any of these things. He is merely too tired and the odd thoughts rampaging through his mind are nothing more than the result of a long night fighting, of too many nightmares beating against his door. This is why he's suddenly acting like a – heavily drunk – boy half his age.
The man pulls back, turns from the larger group, now noisily congratulating themselves for something, before leaning against the rocky cliff. It is a decent support and helps keeping his frail sanity in place.
Because he obviously isn't staring.
Rather peculiar though. A flimsy skirt, slips of leather held together just don't seem to provide proper defense no matter how many times he wonders about it. They do, however, make one's anatomy seem very…different. Different is a good word. He might use long as well, it fits. Perhaps toned. Muscled? No. No, he definitely thinks long applies. A toned thigh, never-ending skin finished by a frail foot.
He chooses to keep his mind from despairing completely by forcibly covering his eyes with a gloved hand. Maybe this way he can keep himself from degenerating. Keep some dignity to his name and reputation before he makes a complete fool out of himself. It is not the first time Teagan has seen a female fighter. In fact, his own guard has several of them and many are counted among the best. In any city from Denerim to Lothering, women fight side by side with men in a battlefield. That is not the issue.
Dalish armor is. If it gets any smaller, he might disgrace himself completely.
One breath. Another. Five minutes pass and he keeps himself silently by a side, still alone and recovering. It is only when the more decent part of his mind – anatomy - takes over that Teagan feels someone come closer, booted feet clicking softly in the dirt that surrounds them. A hand reaches out to touch his, pushing it away from his eyes, forcing him to face reality and the newly arrived.
The Warden.
She is staring at him uncomfortably, her blue eyes looking over his features, rolling over his body in search for something he cannot phantom. All the while, her hands rummage through her backpack and the only thought he can hold onto is how her tattoos seem especially red this morning.
Oh. It is morning.
"My lady?" Her name. He cannot remember her name. How peculiar. "Is something the matter?"
Teagan receives one especially dry look for that comment, one that clearly states he is an idiot without need for words. He has seen her giving that particular look to several since arrival. The smith, Dwyn, one of the thugs who follow the dwarf around like a puppy, Ser Perth who was still hammering her about the Maker's protection and a woman who tried sending her to a kitchen of all places. So far, almost everyone she met in the village.
She doesn't reply, which is probably good since his pattern of thought left his question far before. Instead, she is kneeling on the floor while gripping bandages and reaching for poultices, yelling over someone's complaints for wine. He stares. Stares as if the Warden's out of her mind, simply watches her dexterous hands gripping the arrow which is stuck in his thigh and…
Oh.
"Humans." The elf mutters under her breath, carelessly as if she doesn't care he might listen. "Bleeding to death and not bothering to do as much as calling someone. If this is how humans lead others, no wonder...and no one even notices." Her pretty head shakes from side to side as words stumble out, bloodied hair sticking in her skin in a way that seems highly uncomfortable.
And he is also bleeding, the man notices at last. Maker bless him, blood loss does explain his unusual amount of idiocy. Which means he has yet to go completely mad. That is a good thing, Teagan concludes victoriously.
People move around him now, noticing their injured Bann for the first time, asking for help or offering it without being needed. The mage is already there, hands on his skin while the Warden moves a dagger around, heating and cutting, taking pieces of wood out of his skin before any poison can settle. Teagan sees all this with abandon, even though his mind is slowly returning to its normal state.
It does allow itself to form one last nonsensical thought, coated with fever and lack of coherency.
The Warden should consider replacing her scale mail with Dalish armor.
Just saying.
Note: Prompt 003 (Thigh) from Troyed community table of prompts.