This is unedited, but my friend is pulling into my driveway right now to pick me up for Dungeons and Dragons, so I'll edit it when I get home. Much love to all of you!
Herald,
(No, too formal.)
He balls up the parchment and throws it blindly over his shoulder before grabbing another piece from the stack at his elbow.
My lady,
(She's not technically a lady. That's more of a human title, he thinks. Do the Dalish even have titles? He remembers her talking about being First of her clan. That's an important position, so there's probably a more respectful way he's supposed to address her—not that he has any way of finding out, short of asking her directly. It's too risky.)
The parchment crumples neatly in his fist and lands somewhere on his bedroll.
Your Worship,
(Maker's breath, no. She hates it when people call her that. Anyone with two eyes and a brain can see it, plain as day. He laughs softly, thinking about the way her nose scrunches up in distaste whenever she hears those words aimed in her direction. He could never call her that intentionally, much less mean it.)
He starts anew on a fresh sheet of vellum.
Aer
With horror, he realizes he has no idea how to spell her name. He knows it's complicated and has lots of vowels and an apostrophe thrown in for some Void-forsaken reason. (It's also the most beautiful sound he's ever heard in his entire life, not that he'll ever admit that.) Besides, no one calls her by her first name except Solas. Maybe it's an elf thing.
Again, the piece of paper sails over his shoulder in a crumpled heap, landing softly near the others. He starts again.
Lady Lavellan,
There, he thinks, staring down at the ink with immense satisfaction as it dries. It's perfect—not too neutral or cold, but not too familiar, either. A happy medium. He eagerly dips his quill in his inkwell and writes the rest of his carefully-planned note, being careful not to drip ink anywhere on the page.
Lady Lavellan,
I thought you could use these. They should be the right size.
Regards,
Commander Rutherford
He picks up the vellum by a corner and blows lightly on the ink to help it dry faster, fighting to keep his knee from jiggling up and down nervously while he waits. He shouldn't be this nervous—he's not technically doing anything inappropriate. Colleagues give each other gifts all the time. It's completely normal for him to be concerned about her and it's naturally expected of someone in his position to be worried and he should not be this nervous.
He groans and lets the parchment flutter to the surface of his desk, dropping his face into his clammy hands. Maker's breath, what is wrong with him? He feels sick. Maybe he's coming down with something. Perhaps he should wait a few days—
No. He cannot wait to do this. If he waits any longer, she'll leave for Val Royeaux and he'll have to wait another month to give them to her. It has to be today.
Cullen looks at the boots through his fingers. Harritt has outdone himself this time: made of supple brown leather, the boots are inlaid with lightweight silverite scales that gleam in the firelight, offering ample protection without sacrificing movement; the stitching is even and precise around the knee-high cuff, forming an intricate pattern of overlapping leaves that reminds Cullen of the ivy she sometimes weaves through her hair; the inside is lined with dark blue everknit wool, for warmth. The shoes are a masterwork, a prime example of the finest craftsmanship this side of the Frostbacks.
…but what if she hates them?
Deep down, he knows that even if she does hate them, she will smile and thank him all the same. He has nothing to fear. His racing heart begs to differ, though.
Ever since she gave him the taproot, things have been… different. He knows this. He no longer feels the need to watch her so carefully, and she doesn't glare at him during meetings—instead, she smiles at him and asks his opinion more often, never needing to feign interest. She has also started coming down to the training grounds to ask him questions about the templars.
"As First of my clan, it has always been my job to seek out as much information as I can. I find my knowledge of the templars rather lacking," she'd explained, taking her spot at his side so they could watch the recruits. She gave him a sidelong glance and a smirk. "Indulge me, Commander."
At first, answering her questions had been easy enough—she asked about templar beliefs, his training, and his days in the Circle. (Not Kinloch, though. He could never tell her that, not when she'd only just begun trust him. Maybe not ever.) Their conversations were short, never lasting more than a few minutes at a time due to her busy schedule, but Cullen had enough sense to be thankful for what little time she lent him. It was more than he deserved.
She never seemed to run out of questions about templars; her curiosity was nearly insatiable. She'd even asked about his templar vows at one point, her voice sweet and inquisitive and entirely too distracting, Maker help him. Cullen's cheeks warm uncomfortably as he remembers the way he'd sputtered his answer that no, he had not taken any vows of celibacy, nor would he ever want to. Considering her limited knowledge on the subject, it was a perfectly logical thing for her to ask, but he still had trouble looking her in the eye for a few days afterward.
At some point in between her return from Val Royeaux and her trip to the Fallow Mire, she had stopped asking him about templars and switched to more personal inquiries. He doesn't remember when the change occurred, but before he knew it, Cullen found himself detailing his childhood in Honnleath, from his daily chores to the way Branson used to tie Mia's hair to the bedbolts while she slept. (He had earned one of her rare laughs for that particular story.)
Every now and then, five minutes will turn into ten, and occasionally ten becomes half an hour—those rare mornings are his favorite. Even on her busiest days when she doesn't have time to speak with him, Cullen will glance periodically at the gates of Haven in hopes of seeing the familiar flash of her silver hair; sometimes he catches a glimpse of her smile or the smallest hint of a wave, and that is enough to tide him over until their next conversation.
Maybe it's selfish of him to crave her attention like this—perhaps she merely tolerates him for the sake of the Inquisition, for her duty to Thedas, and her upbringing as First—but he cannot bring himself to stop. Talking to her is easier than breathing. It is more satisfying than the taste of lyrium, and twice as addictive. Maker's breath, she is dangerous.
But he doesn't care. She is a mage who doesn't look at him like he's a monster or a murderer, and that's good enough for him.
Commissioning the boots from Harritt had been a knee-jerk reaction. Cullen wanted to thank Lady Lavellan for the taproot—it had worked even better than he could've imagined, despite the bitter taste—and to apologize for his unwelcoming demeanor during those first few weeks. Giving her a proper pair of shoes will never fix his mistakes, but it might help bandage the wound a little better.
...really, though, he just wants to see her wear a Void-taken pair of shoes for once.
Cullen stares at the glittering silverite scales that are inlaid on the front of the boots, suddenly feeling rather numb. He checked every Dalish book in the chantry's library in hopes of finding an explanation for her foot wrappings, but ultimately came up with nothing. It's clearly an elven custom—some of the elves in Kirkwall wrapped their feet with leather straps, including Hawke's warrior friend with the strange tattoos—but many other elves in the alienage wore normal shoes like everyone else. Why?
It makes sense to go barefoot in the Free Marches, where the weather is warm year-round, but going barefoot in the snowy recesses of the Frostback Mountains? He has no idea how she keeps her toes from getting frostbite, or how the soles of her feet haven't been sliced to ribbons on sharp rocks. The shoes are a good idea, he tells himself. A practical, appropriate gift for the Commander of the Inquisition to give to the Herald of Andraste.
…but what if she hates it?
Cullen groans and rubs his temples, sinking lower into his desk chair. He glowers at the note on his desk like he can will it to leap into the candlelight and turn to ash, but it doesn't move despite his urging.
It's now or never.
With a sigh, he pushes out of his chair and reaches for his armor, donning it piece by piece while constantly reminding himself that this is a good idea. He will not somehow manage to insult her in seven different secret ways or criticize her life choices by offering her a pair of nice shoes. He will not ruin one of his only friendships the same way he's ruined every other good thing in his life. He will not mess this up.
The morning air is brisk and sharp against his face as he exits his tent, boots under one arm and his note folded neatly between his gloved fingers. Dawn has just broken over the distant peaks of the Frostbacks, painting the entire valley a faint shade of purple; only a handful of guards and recruits are awake to salute him as he walks toward Haven's front gates. He nods tightly at all of them in turn, adjusting his cloak so the boots aren't quite as visible.
Cullen approaches her cabin with light footsteps and pauses just shy of the stoop, hesitating. Her windows are dark and her chimney emits no smoke—she must still be asleep. He mentally chastises himself for being so foolish. Of course she's still sleeping, why would she need to get up at this hour of the day?
He looks down at the note in his hand and winces. Time for plan B.
Almost reverently, Cullen sets the boots on her doorstep, meticulously straightening them until they're parallel with one another. He slips the note in between one of the leather straps near the cuff of one of the boots—secure enough that it won't blow away, but not hidden enough to go unnoticed.
It'll have to do.
It's pure coincidence that he's nearby when she finally emerges from her cabin.
For the last hour and a half, Cullen has been cross-referencing Seggrit's prices with the list of Inquisition-approved prices per unit that Josephine keeps in one of the drawers in her office. He's been meaning to get around to this. Honestly, it's long overdue—the man's prices are marked up ridiculously high. Cullen is not doing such a menial task just because the Herald's doorway happens to be within eyeshot of the merchant's stand. Not at all.
He's glancing over the cost per fennec fur (outrageous, really) when he hears the creak of her door as it opens across the way. He stiffens—without being too obvious, he glances up at her.
She has forgone her armor today in favor of a loose-fitting white linen shirt and dark trousers—her training outfit. She must plan on sparring with Solas later this afternoon. A deep red cloak hangs from her shoulders and brushes the ground behind her feet, which are bound with leather as per usual. Willow switches are woven through the complex silver braid that rests over her shoulder.
She notices the boots instantly and freezes mid-step, hand still on the doorknob. She cocks her head to one side and squats to get a closer look, balancing expertly on the balls of her feet. Her eyes are narrowed utter confusion, her brow furrowed. Cullen tries to remember how to breathe as she reaches for the note.
Andraste preserve him, she's reading it and she doesn't look happy at all. Her face sours and she mutters something under her breath, lips forming a curse in Elvhen she often uses, though the meaning has escaped him every time. Sharply, the Herald snaps her head up and scans the courtyard; she is scowling and her ears are twitching, cheeks flushed scarlet. When her eyes fall on Cullen, he pretends to read the stock list in his hands and hopes she hadn't caught him staring. Thankfully, her piercing gaze passes over him as if he isn't even there.
Cullen feels a weight drop into the pit of his stomach that's colder and heavier than anything he's ever felt before. This must be some kind of divine punishment for his actions in Kirkwall, or perhaps for what happened at Kinloch all those years ago. Not that it matters at this point, he thinks miserably. He's ruined one of the few good things in his life. Again.
The Herald stands and pockets the note, still muttering to herself. She closes the door to her cabin, locks it, and turns to walk away, but she makes sure to give the boots on her doorstep a wide berth as she skirts around them.
What, is she just going to leave them there?
At first, he worries that she's going to make a beeline for him and roast him inside his armor for his impertinence, but he is relieved to see her turn toward the Chantry instead. (In the back of his mind, Cullen realizes that she is probably going to call a war room meeting, and he should probably be present for that, being the commander of their armies and whatnot. He just can't seem to move his feet at the moment.)
She spares him a glance as she passes Seggrit's. He flinches automatically, expecting her green eyes to be as bright and venomous as the mark on her hand, but when he meets her gaze, he is shocked to find nothing but… warmth. The corners of her mouth quirk in a warm smile and she inclines her head in pleasant greeting as she breezes past him, almost like—
Like she hadn't hated the gift.
Maker's breath, he thinks, staring at her retreating back as feeling slowly begins to return to his hands and feet. What just happened?
"—and I'm telling you," Cassandra snaps, slamming her fist down on the table, "we do not have the influence to approach the Order, nor the time. If Redcliffe is in the hands of a magister, we cannot stand idly by."
"I agree," Josephine chimes. She begins scribbling notes furiously. "If we manage secure Redcliffe, we'll have the respect of the nobles of Ferelden, as well as the support of the mage rebellion. We must act."
Leliana purses her lips. She stands at the end of the table, eyes glinting deviously in the firelight as she scrutinizes the metal markers and pins that are scattered across the map. "I… see your point. Perhaps the mages are our best option after all."
Have they lost their sodding minds?
Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe—in, out, in, out, happy thoughts, happy thoughts—all while trying to organize his thoughts before speaking. On the other side of the table, the Herald remains completely silent, save for the sound of her steady breathing; she's hardly said a word this entire meeting, choosing instead to listen to each of her advisors and their opinions on the situation in Redcliffe. She obviously supports the mages, which was to be expected, but she has not ruled out the templars, either. Cullen suspects their conversations by the training grounds are giving her pause.
He has no idea whether she's upset with him or not, but at this point, it's the last thing on his mind. This morning feels like it happened ages ago—the five of them have been trapped in this room for hours, arguing in endless circles about the mages and the templars and supposed time magic. He doesn't know who this Dorian Pavus is, but Cullen doesn't trust anyone from Tevinter, magister or no.
Yes, it's bad that Redcliffe castle has been seized by Magister Alexius and the man has an army of mages behind him, but he had earned the rebellion's support far too easily for Cullen's taste. If the mages can be won over so easily, what's to keep them from walking out on the Inquisition? They have no guarantee the mages will keep their word, should they propose an alliance.
"You cannot seriously be considering this," he mutters tightly, looking at all four of the women in turn. The Herald does not meet his eyes. "The mage rebellion has no infrastructure, no discipline. Their entire cause will crumble at the slightest hint of resistance. You would rather let mages go unchecked—"
"Not unchecked," Cassandra insists. "Not completely. I would not let the templars go unchecked either, Commander. Both are dangerous. Regardless of which side we pick, there must be safeguards put in place. For everyone's safety."
Leliana stares him down coolly, her eyes unreadable. "Their organization may be poorly structured, but you forget that the Herald is a powerful mage herself. They will trust her. If nothing else, they may choose to follow her on principle alone."
"That's not a good basis for loyalty and you know it," he snaps.
"We cannot close the Breach without support from someone, Commander."
"I am perfectly aware of that!"
"Then what would you have us do?"
Josie glances nervously between the two of them. Cassandra, on the other hand, makes a disgusted noise and leans a hip against the table next to Lady Lavellan. The Seeker crosses her arms and mutters something under her breath to the Herald that makes her ears twitch in what he now knows is amusement.
Cullen tears his gaze from them and turns back to Leliana. Her eyes are frigid and unfeeling, much like a snake. "We cannot leave this up to chance," he retorts, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. "Just because the mages might follow the Herald is not a good enough reason for her to risk her life." He turns to the Herald, his voice strained. "The templars will respond well to the chain of command we have in place. If we talk to them, they will see sense and help us close the Breach. I'm sure of it."
"Or they might kill her the second they see the staff on her back," Josephine mutters.
"She will risk her life regardless of which side we choose, Commander. You cannot guarantee anything, nor can I." Leliana persists. Her voice is irritatingly calm, her words saccharine and sickeningly cold at the same time. He hates how right she is. "It is her life on the line. I say we let her choose."
Josephine turns to the Herald, who is staring intently at the metal marker that sits over Redcliffe. "Your Worship, we must make a decision. Shall we side with the mages or the templars?"
At first, it seems like the Herald does not hear her. She traces the outline of the Hinterlands with the tip of her index finger and does not look at any of them; her face is lowered, shadowed in the torchlight. Cullen awaits her response with bated breath—the templars are safer, they will protect you, they will protect everyone—but the silence drags on.
"Whatever you choose," Cassandra murmurs, breaking the silence. She shifts closer to the Herald, "I will support your decision."
She looks up finally and gives the Seeker a tight smile, nodding. "Ma serannas, Cassandra. But that does not make this any easier."
Several beats of silence pass. No one says a word, no one moves as they wait for the Herald's decision. She slowly turns to look at Josephine, being careful to avoid Cullen's own searching gaze.
His heart plummets in his chest before she can even open her mouth.
"I will ride for Redcliffe Castle," she says quietly. "Cassandra, you and Varric will accompany me, as well as this… Dorian. I think his past relationship with the magister and his son may be able to help with negotiations."
Cassandra frowns slightly at the mention of Dorian. She does not voice her concern, however, replying, "Of course. I will requisition our supplies tomorrow morning."
"Josephine, respond to Magister Alexius' invitation," she continues, eyes trained on Redcliffe's marker on the map. "Inform him that I will be arriving with two party members and a small escort of soldiers. I want to keep Dorian a surprise as long as I possibly can; we will leave within the fortnight, but he will ride three days ahead to allay suspicion."
Josie inclines her head. "It will be done, Your Worship."
"Leliana, your spies will infiltrate the castle through the secret entrance you mentioned earlier. Once we are inside with Alexius, put them to work. Hopefully, they will be able to dispatch the guards before the magister tries to kill me." She pauses. "But I am usually not that lucky. He'll probably try to kill me ahead of schedule. Air on the side of caution and make sure your assassins are in position as early as possible, all right?"
The spymaster's conniving smile makes his skin crawl. "With pleasure."
The Herald murmurs her thanks. Finally, she turns to him, her voice soft. "Cullen, I require only thirty soldiers, if you can spare them."
He can see her sorrow on her face plainer than the branches tattooed on her forehead. He wishes he could tell her that it's all right, that siding with the mages will get the job done and that's all that matters, but he just… can't. He doesn't trust mages, maybe he never will. Not completely, at least. He'd learned his lesson. Of course, she is different than the Circle mages in every possible way—born to lead, raised in the wild, and trained without fear of imprisonment, execution, or Tranquility. She is the only exception to his rule.
But he still wishes she'd chosen the templars.
He swallows thickly and nods once, dropping his gaze to the floor. He may not agree with her decision, but it is the one she made and he will respect that, regardless of the outcome. "I'll have a list of names for you tomorrow morning, my lady."
She gives him a small, sad smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. A pang of guilt shoots through his chest—he shouldn't be upset with her, not for something like this—and he opens his mouth to apologize, but she turns away before he has the chance. She looks across the table at Josephine. "If that's everything, we should begin preparations. I have a feeling this trip to Redcliffe will not be as easy as it sounds."
Josephine nods distractedly, resuming her scribbling. "For your sake, I hope you are wrong. That was all we needed to discuss this time, but perhaps—"
"Actually," Leliana quips, "there is something else."
Josephine gives her a puzzled look. The Herald raises an inquisitive eyebrow and braces her hands against the table, leaning forward. "Oh?"
Sister Nightingale's eyes sparkle with mirth as she reaches toward a stack of papers and letters at the opposite end of the war table. She sifts through them, finally slipping a sealed letter from the stack; from where he stands, Cullen can see two nonsensical words written on one side of the envelope in looping, elegant script—Asa'ma'lin Aerin'ahl. She also produces a small, oval-shaped package the size of her fist that is wrapped tightly in what appears to be an oversized leaf.
The Herald lets out a strangled, shuddering gasp that startles all of them, and they watch as her calm, collected façade suddenly crumbles to dust.
For the first time, she does not look like the Herald of Andraste, the figurehead of the Inquisition—she looks every inch the homesick young elf who has been forcibly separated from her people by things beyond her control. Cullen watches as the blood drains from her face and her eyes blow wide, her mouth moving silently as she stares at the items. She is gripping the edge of the table with crushing force, her knuckles blanched white.
"Is that…" she croaks.
"A letter from Keeper Istimaethoriel of Clan Lavellan, I believe," Leliana informs her. "It arrived late last night. The package was with it, so I assume both are for you."
"Let me have it," she demands, reaching across the table. Her fingers tremble in anticipation. "Please, Leliana, I… if you would be so kind."
The Herald is fighting to regain some control of her haywire emotions as Leliana hands the letter across the table. Lady Lavellan clutches both objects tightly in her hands, murmuring words that tumble effortlessly out of her mouth in her own unfamiliar language. But instead of ripping open the letter like Cullen had assumed she would, she pockets the envelope and focuses solely on the small leaf-wrapped package.
Hesitantly, she holds the package up to her ears and gently shakes it—a small rattling noise echoes through the chamber.
Her expression falters at the sound, crumpling into something completely unrecognizable. She is broken. Defeated. She suddenly looks exhausted beyond all measure, her eyes shadowed and her shoulders slump, curving inward protectively. The way her hands tremble does not escape his notice. Cullen immediately feels his heart squeeze painfully in his chest at the sight.
She holds the package in her upturned hand, staring at it with glassy, unfamiliar eyes. "Enlea," she whispers.
He feels the heat before he sees the flames overtake her palm, engulfing the package instantly. The magic pulls at Cullen's senses and makes him wince as a headache begins to build behind his eyes, but he forces himself to watch—it's just a small spell, completely harmless, this is not Kinloch this is not Kinloch. Cassandra gives him a warning look from the other side of the table, but he waves her off. He can manage.
The leaves that encase the package begin to curl, smolder, and turn to ash in the Herald's palm, gradually revealing a small lump of… something that shines like steel in the torchlight. She extinguishes the flames as quickly as she conjured them; the room suddenly feels much darker than before. The silence that follows is deafening.
The item fits perfectly in the palm of her shaking hand. It appears to be made of some kind of bluish-silver metal that has been painstakingly polished smooth by a craftsman of great skill; it reminds him of a river stone, shaped and refined by years of rushing water. Cullen glimpses a small inscription on one side of the object—Aerin'ahl.
She closes her fingers around the stone as a single tear slips down her cheek; she swipes it away and drops her gaze to the table, cheeks colored with shame. "I am sorry," she murmurs, her voice hollow. "I should not have… I mean, it's—"
"You have nothing to apologize for," Josephine assures her, smiling warmly.
Leliana nods. "Indeed. It is perfectly normal for you to be homesick." She glances at the object in the Herald's hands. "Forgive my curiosity, but that is ironbark, yes?"
Cullen hears the hesitation in the Herald's voice. "Yes," she finally replies, her voice stiff. "Yes, it is."
"Warden Mahariel use to treasure her ironbark bow more than anything in the world," Leliana muses. "A very rare material, from what I understand. I must admit, I am surprised to see it used for something besides weapons and armor. May I ask what it is, exactly?"
She frowns and glances around warily. "Why?"
"It is my job, Your Worship."
Instantly, the Herald's face shutters, becoming void of all emotion. "Your job," she repeats coldly.
Trepidation grows in Cullen's stomach—Maker, Lady Lavellan looks like a cornered animal. He wants to tell Leliana to stop, to leave the Herald alone, but the spymaster smiles saccharinely and adds, "Secrets are my business, my lady. Mahariel was always forthcoming about the Dalish way of life whenever I asked, but she never mentioned anything about ironbark trinkets like that one. I am curious as to its purpose."
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, the pressure in the room dips sharply and swells—the Herald stiffens and the torches burn a little brighter, a little warmer as her magic fills each corner of the war room. Sparks sputter and float languidly to the floorboards from her red-hot fingertips. The faint traces of lyrium in his blood surge in response to her seemingly-endless mana reserves, and pressure begins to build behind his eyes, his heart pounding erratically. The room is too small, they're not safe, he needs to do something.
Cullen feels his grip on his sword tighten—but a firm look from Cassandra roots him to the spot. He reminds himself to breathe. The Herald is not a blood mage. He is not in danger.
NotKinlochnotKinlochnotKinloch
On the other side of the table, Lady Lavellan grimaces and slips the polished ironbark into the recesses of her robes and out of sight before she starts to massage her hands. They are glowing from the inside outward, highlighting the delicate bones in her palms and fingers as if molten metal courses through her veins instead of blood. She presses her thumbs into the palm of her hand and kneads until they stop glowing and the magic in the room dissipates.
"Forgive me," she murmurs, biting the inside of her cheek. She has regained a fraction of her composure and holds her shoulders back with dignity, but her eyes are still haunted and strangely glassy as she looks between them all. "This is—" A bitter laugh, sharp and abrupt, escapes her lips. "I am not handling this half as well as I would like. Losing control like that was… uncalled for. I'm sorry."
Leliana clears her throat. "I did not mean to upset—"
The Herald holds up a hand and cuts the spymaster off, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Enough," she says sharply. "As far as I am concerned, Sister Nightingale, you know too many of my secrets already. Allow me to keep this one to myself—I think I deserve that much."
The spymaster's face is impassive, but Cullen does not miss the way she drops her gaze to the floor in shame, lips pursed. She clasps her hands behind her back. "Of course."
Several moments of silence pass, filled only by the crackling sound of the torches that line the walls and the rush of blood in Cullen's ears. Cassandra is glancing concernedly between Leliana and the Herald, brow furrowed in confusion and irritation; Josephine shifts her weight from foot to foot and pretends to read something on her portable desk, but her gaze flits apprehensively to the Herald every few seconds. Cullen winces and rubs his neck in an attempt to work out the knotted muscles before his inevitable headache kicks in. He needs to get back to his tent and use some of Lady Lavellan's taproot—preferably sooner rather than later.
Lady Lavellan rubs a hand over her face and sighs wearily. "I must go. If anyone has need of me, I will be in my cabin."
And with that, she turns on her heel and opens the door abruptly with a wave of her hand, the hem of her dark red cloak brushing the floor behind her as she stalks out of the room. No one says a word until they can no longer hear her soft footsteps echoing throughout the chantry. The front doors slam with a note of finality, and they all flinch.
Cassandra slowly turns back to the table and crosses her arms over her breastplate, shooting them all pointed looks. "Well… that went well, now didn't it?"
Next chapter's half done, and it's just between Cullen and Lavellan. Hooray!
