The Female Vanguard (rewrite) Chapter 3, a dragon age fanfic

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Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age in any way shape or form.

/Chapter 3\

Pizza is great. Tomato sauce is great. Ketchup is great. Strawberry juice is great. I could list other red, red-ish, colored drinks but then I'd be here all night.

But bloody hand down my throat? Not so much.

It's been approximately an hour—or twenty-four (maybe more, I can't exactly tell) since the cosplayer—which I am starting to think is not a cosplayer at all—stuck his hand down my throat and asked if I finally understood him. I am currently thinking how on earth he did that.

Better yet, I think to myself as I look around in this dark dank cavern, where on earth can people get the power to stick their lifeblood-smeared hand down people's throat to make them understand themselves? I am honestly wondering how the heck is this happening right now.

I think I'm in some cave. That, I'm very sure of. The bats were a big giveaway.

Maybe I'm in the Batcave. Maybe Batman will come swooping in from the dark.

Ha.

Other than that, I'm getting a faint barbeque smell mixed with something putrid. Like...I can't even compare it actually, but it smells really bad. And the damp, stale air smell. There's that too.

Do you see how my grammar is deteriorating from how long I've been staying here?

I keep glimpsing weirdly-shaped glasses on the wooden table to my right. I hear bubbling too. Those cute little pops keep popping somewhere to my right. I kinda wished the cosplayer left his torch here now too. I don't mind the popping but it's making me really curious.

You know, maybe I should think of this in a different light. Maybe I could somehow convince myself I'm on vacation. In a cave.

What do vacationers do in caves anyway? Spelunking? Though I don't think this getting-tied-up-on-a-chair BDSM business is part of spelunking.

Sigh.

I look up when I hear a faint sound. Steps? Oh, it is. And getting closer too. Maybe it's the cosplayer.

And it is. And he has blood on his hands and down the front of his monk outfit.

Well, probably better than the vomit down my chest. Its a matter of preference, and I find myself preferring the blood.

Of course, when the cosplayer puts the torch in a stand somewhere to the right, I get a glimpse of endless vials on a rotting wooden table. There were tiny glass ones, big round ones, all arranged according to height. There was also an odd clamp and forceps and other tools scattered among the glasses.

It's like the one my chemistry professor had! Except the rotting table of course. My teacher had a metal counter instead because he's posh and had class.

The cosplayer taking a seat in front of me with a rotting wooden stool breaks me out of my mental tangent. He stares at me with this reverent, fascinated look on his face. I blink at him somewhat tiredly and try to recoil back when his scarred hands hover near my face. I couldn't recoil. I was tied securely.

"Creep." I hiss at him, stretching my head back and away from his creeping, dirty hands. "Dude, get your dirty hands outta my face!" I demand desperately.

He doesn't. In fact, he places them so close I couldn't move unless I wanted him to actually touch me.

I am very stiff as he actually cups my left cheek and slowly, intimately, caresses it with a thumb. The reverent look on his face morphs into outright worship and something along the lines of oh-my-god-i-can't-believe-i-am-doing-this.

"Ya know," I begin tensely, "This is the reason you don't get girls throwing themselves into your pole-thin arms."

"...You're so beautiful." he breathes and I get a faceful of bad breath.

Oh. Thanks. But you can tell that to me without kidnapping me.

"Such beauty...you truly are Urthemiel's daughter." he cooed, bringing his face closer to mine. I get an eyeful of bloodshot blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose. "A true descendant..."

Whose daughter did he say I was?

"Look," I begin as diplomatically as I can, "Can't you just like, lemme go or something? Why'd ya even bring me here?"

"I found you, Daughter of my Lord." he whispered, confided as if spilling out a deep, dark secret. "Milord was so kind and gracious to have had entrusted me with your care." He caresses my other cheek with the back of his hand. I cringe. "Rest assured, dear princess, I will keep you safe for milord." He lets my face go—finally!—but then he rests his head on my bound hand. He smiled up at me.