The Public House
A great many patrons of Herald's Rest treated Cabot well and tipped him even better. No one looked down on the man for being a dwarf (figuratively speaking). Still, as time passed, it became clear that women's eyes tended to focus on other conquests. If a human female hit on their resident bartender at all, chances were she was some kind of fetishist.
Once in a while, his unique brand of humor enticed a willing woman. Those were the nights he left Cherry in charge of the bar. His parting words of advice: "Avoid mixing anything that tastes like nug."
§
People flocked to The Iron Bull. Most of them tried to play it smooth, but it was easy to tell what they wanted. Men and women alike allowed their eyes to roam over exposed qunari flesh when they thought themselves unobserved. Other serving girls found excuses to touch him; a playful slap on a muscled shoulder, a hand resting on top of one twice as big. Even Krem looked—just the once—after Cherry gave him too many refills.
Bull seemed to enjoy the attention. He seldom left the tavern alone. She noticed, though, that all his partners were gossips.
§
The only person who came on to Sera was Maryden.
Sera insisted the song written in her honor was creepy. She made it clear that if their resident minstrel harbored any desires, those feelings were full stop unrequited. Wisely, Maryden never acknowledged the rogue's accusations. However, she wrote no more songs about the Inquisitor's inner ring of trusted companions. Well, no more that were quite so on the nose, anyway. The raven-haired musician kept her lyrics general and relevant to current events.
It made Cherry a bit sad. Who wouldn't love a song written especially about them?
Sera—that's who.
§
Herald's Rest was not, as the name suggested, a peaceful retreat from the chaotic Skyhold lifestyle. If anything, it compounded the chaos.
People gathered to drink and carouse and socialize.
They also gathered to hash out deals and settle differences.
Most of all, they gathered to flirt.
Cherry saw more people hook up in the tavern than she had in all her years of high school and college. How there wasn't a rampant outbreak of STDs, she didn't know. One thing was certain: it was always funny when a mage and templar snuck away, hoping nobody else was the wiser.
§
The tavern namesake visited once.
Inquisitor Trevelyan was an average woman, discounting the whole living legend bit. She dressed in fine but unassuming clothes. She wore no crown and carried no weapons. The crowd didn't notice her until she had reached the Chargers' unofficial corner.
It was then that Cherry learned on a deeper level what it meant to be the Herald. Evelyn Trevelyan could never let loose and have fun. No one flirted with her. No one joked too much. Hell, nobody uttered a word they wouldn't dare say in front of their mother.
The Inquisitor didn't come again.
§
Things were winding down for the night. Cabot left early, trusting the Ing-glish girl to close up shop.
He slid onto a stool, empty mug thudding on the bar between them. "Got any more maraas-lok back there?"
"Just for you, Bull." Cherry smiled and retrieved a half-full bottle.
He watched with a gimlet eye as she poured him a shot. "Why not pour yourself one, too?"
After a hesitant glance around at the vacant tavern, she did.
Bull knocked back the liquor and gave a satisfied hiss. "Now, bas, tell me how someone like you learns Qunlat."
She choked mid-drink.
to be continued...