141. Good Taste
Turned out, Redcliffe wasn't really big enough to handle all the forces they were trying to cram into it, but Eamon wasn't the type to turn down a key role in saving the world, so he tried anyway.
At least the Dalish, when they arrived a day behind the human forces, stayed in the surrounding countryside. Already, the inns and shops were packed, and the Chantry was renting out floorspace like a brothel. A Chantry which, apparently, was already a little run-down from an apparent undead invasion back near the beginning.
All while Garott had been playing the part of the rope in a political game of tug-of-war in Orzammar. He missed all the fun.
Redcliffe castle was full to bursting with visiting nobility and heroes from past wars. It seemed there was some hoity-toity feast or party every night, with Eamon playing the enthusiastic host.
Garott got it... he did. Fostering kinship and solidarity among the nobles that would be fighting beside you, and all that. He still couldn't stand it, though.
And so, as the clinking of glasses and strains of high-brow music started up in the main hall, Garott grabbed one of the better brandies off the table and slipped out into the night.
He made his way down the path to the village, where strains of a livelier, more fun song rose from below.
As he descended down into the village proper, he chuckled to find a different sort of celebration underway. Finian (it was going to be either him or Leliana) played a lively lute in the square, the elf reveling in having his fingers back to full functionality after the whole Fort Drakon thing.
Villagers and soldiers alike danced in circles around the square, accompanied by the sounds of laughter and heckling from those that sat around the edges, nursing tankards. There was a hefty man off to one side with a gigantic keg, doling out alcohol with a small legion of barmaids. Judging by the grin on his face, he was being compensated quite generously for his wares. Oghren could be spotted following one of the barmaids around, the dwarf bearing a tankard, a grin, and a fresh red handprint across one cheek.
Garott wandered along the edge of the festivities, looking for a semi-private place to lurk and enjoy his pilfered bottle. When he spotted a gaggle of familiar nobles enjoying a conversation off to one side of the Chantry, Garott beelined for it.
Why? Well, mostly because the captain was smiling, and that was just too rare to pass up.
There was a burst of laughter throughout the small circle as he approached, and Percival's head ducked in embarrassment, his hand reaching down to pat the mabari at his feet.
"The trainer lets the puppy off the leash," Fergus continued through a laugh of his own, nursing a tankard. "And it darts across the yard and barks right at him like a long-lost friend!" Another burst of laughter. "Father was trying so hard not to laugh that he had to drag Percy to Mother by his ear, just so he'd get a proper scolding!"
The circle roared with laughter, Percy joining in, much to Garott's surprise.
The group wasn't large, containing five of the friendly nobility from the Landsmeet, among them Bann Alfstanna and Arl Wulff, all nursing drinks and chatting comfortably with the Cousland brothers. Behind them, working his way through a tray of cookies, was Sten, of all people.
"And yet the mutt chose you, boss," Garott rumbled as he slipped up to the circle. "I thought mabari were supposed to be smart."
Another round of laughter. Percival's smile was soft and self-depreciating... but comfortable, and Garott honestly couldn't be happier for the guy. "Managed to slip away from the castle, Garott?"
"Lot easier for me than you lot, probably. Except I got a souvenir." He held up his brandy victoriously, only for Alfstanna to lean over and pluck it from his hands.
"Hm. Antivan brandy," the noblewoman said appreciatively. "Say one thing about Wardens, you all have excellent taste."
Garott snorted. "All due respect, you ain't met many Wardens." He could see why the captain was enjoying himself. The group was casual and friendly. Alfstanna took a sip of the brandy and passed it around, and Garott found he didn't mind. "Speaking of my excellent taste, what's Sten doin' here?"
"Eating," the Qunari supplied smoothly.
A hint of mischief snuck into the captain's smile. "I introduced him to the Redcliffe baker. Sten has an abominable sweet tooth."
"Pah, sweet tooth," Wulff rumbled. "This fellow, strange though he is, has the most excellent taste in art. Not two hours ago, he identified a fraudulent painting Eamon has had over his mantel for years!"
The nobles chortled, and Sten licked his fingers casually. Garott took a moment to stare at the Qunari with a tilted head, a little baffled by that. Then Fergus pressed his now half-empty bottle back into his hands.
"While we're sharing embarrassing stories about Percy," Fergus said, "have you got any good ones?"
"Of the captain?" He smirked, and Percival groaned. "Well, yeah. But first, I got a question. How many of you know our boy here is a berserker?"
That drew raised brows all around, except for Fergus, who chuckled, and Percival who whispered, "Maker protect me..."
Settling down beside the fire with a bunch of human nobles, he was surprised to find that he was entirely comfortable, even among these pristine, goody-two-shoes bluebloods. Heh. "We didn't either," he began. "As far as we knew, he just went a little crazy every time he fought. But then... see that guy over there? The dwarf copping a feel with the barmaid? Yeah, we hadda hear it from him..."
Laughter flowed easily, and Garott took a sip from his bottle, prepared to enjoy himself a little bit.
They all owed it to themselves, right before the world ended.