Maaaaaaaasplat
Maaaaaaaaaaaaasplat
What…. what the fuck?
It’s clear Cullen hears it too, because you’re both frozen, your hands and his on his gift, eyes narrowing in confusion. Your gazes meet, as if to say… did you hear that too?
MaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaAAASPLAT.
“You heard that, right?” you’re the first to ask.
“What in the Maker’s name…”
You both turn to look over the battlements as you hear another similar sound beginning.
And so you both see a goat, flying through the air, then thudding against Skyhold’s wall. You watch, blankly, as it slides down and then stumbles onto its feet, milling about in a confused daze with two other goats.
You and Cullen look back at each other, no less confused.
“I should… go look into that,” he decides, his hand wrapping around the tiny, wooden mabari you’d handed him. He hasn’t even looked at it yet. But he has it. That’s what counts.
“Um… Yes. I suppose so,” you agree, and he rushes off across the ramparts. You stare down at the goats. Who the fuck threw a goat at Skyhold? Multiple goats? Literally at Skyhold?
After a second longer of bewilderment, you head off after the Commander. You’re curious, damnit. You catch up to him quickly, and trail behind him as he shouts for a group of soldiers. You shadow him out of Skyhold. You suspect he’s forgotten you’re there, and apparently your sheaf of paper and the quill behind your ear is enough to make you look like you belong there. Or perhaps no one is questioning you because you’re standing close to the Commander and he’s not questioning you.
But then you get across the bridge, and he and the soldiers begin rushing off towards the source of the disturbance. And you realize you’re outside of Skyhold with a hell of a distraction happening.
Your curiosity can wait.
You slip quietly into the woods. There’ll be no grand display of magic today; your aura isn’t nearly as overpowered as it was before. Instead, you duck only a minute’s run into the woods and proceed to drain yourself as quickly as you can with whatever spells come to mind. You wish you had time to try some of the new things you’ve read about, like summoning veilfire. But you’re in a rush.
You leave yourself with an unhappy, bare-bones aura again, and tuck it back into your stomach as you rush back towards the bridge. Hopefully, no one will have noticed your little stroll into the woods. Fortunately, things are even more chaotic than when you left. The gates are wide open and soldiers are rushing back and forth. It’s nothing for you to slip back into Skyhold. Honestly, these people need to work on their security. Although you do see a few guards take note of you, they seem to recognize you, or simply don’t register you as a potential threat.
Well… now what? Back to work, perhaps? But you’re still a little curious, so you climb back onto the battlements to see if you can’t see what’s going on. You can’t, as it turns out; there’s some sort of kerfluffle, but it’s too far away for you to make out the details. Seems like maybe the Inquisition men are running some other group off—presumably a group of weird, aggressive goatherds or something. Whatever happened, it was clearly interesting, so you’ll certainly hear about it through the rumor mill by lunch.
Seriously though… why goats? That thought is interrupted by a familiar, displeased bleating. You glance down, and to your shock, see that the goats are still there. They’re sort of stuck there along the cliff. How are they going to get down? The little ridge they’re precariously balanced on goes all the way to the bridge, but would they think to walk that way and then cross a bridge?
You puzzle over the mystery of the goats as you head towards the kitchen, absent-mindedly muse as you fetch a wilting head of lettuce and some rope. You suspect you look just as odd as Cole sometimes does, tying rope around lettuce. You don’t even have his benefit of being forgotten afterwards. But, like him, you’re just trying to help.
And as silly as you may look, and as many odd stares as you get from guards on the ramparts, it works. You lower the lettuce slowly over the side of the wall. You have to physically strike one of the goats in the face with it before it gets the idea… and then you have to move very quickly as the three goats chase after the lettuce and try to pull it out of its rope harness.
Honestly, running around the wall of Skyhold, dodging underneath the arms of soldiers, and occasionally jumping up onto the outermost protective wall, all while leading goats with a head of lettuce on a rope…
Probably the weirdest thing you’ve ever done.
You finally reach the gates and have to more or less swing the lettuce onto the bridge and drop the rope. But the goats jump onto the bridge, much to the confusion of several passing soldiers. You dart down the stairs and out the gates, quickly fetching the rope while the goats are still butting heads and tearing at the lettuce. As swiftly as you can, you tie the rope around all three of their necks. They don’t appear to be at all scared of you, or of the soldiers. They must have been farm goats, not wild.
Who threw them at the fucking wall?!
Ah well, you’ve other things to worry about. You grasp one end of the rope firmly; the goats aren’t as big as wild mountain goats you’ve seen—and eaten—in Ferelden, but there’s still three of them. You wait until they finish the lettuce, and then proceed to pull them towards the gate. They don’t really seem to want to go, and all attempt to go in different directions despite the fact that their necks are tied together.
So they’re not particularly smart goats, then.
“What on earth are you doing to those goats?” comes a familiar, low voice. You glance over your shoulder to see Warden Blackwall, of all people.
“Oh, ser Warden… I assure you, it’s not as odd as it seems. …Or maybe it’s odder, actually. Hey! Hey you! Stop trying to eat his ear!” you snap at one of the goats. You glance back at Blackwall. “You know, you’re a strong looking fellow… and they do say Wardens live to serve,” you say with a cheeky grin. “If I promise to explain the goats, will you help me get them out of the way and into Skyhold?”
Blackwall laughs, a hearty, throaty sound. You can’t help thinking to yourself that everyone in the entirety of the Free Marches probably has an uncle just like him. He sort of gives off that uncle vibe, when he’s not being an asshole for no reason. “Alright,” he agrees. “But mostly because I want to hear that story.”
Between Blackwall’s strength and your coaxing, the two of you manage to get the goats inside Skyhold and into a quiet corner near the stables. You feel quite accomplished.
“So… why do you have three goats?” Blackwall says as you idly feed them some oatcakes, mostly just to feel their adorable little noses push against your hand. They’re kind of cute. You’ve always been more fond of animals like donkeys, mules, goats, and sheep than you are of traditional “pet” type animals like dogs, cats, or nugs. Although the nug thing was more of a trend within Orlais, from what you understand. You had thought for a very short time that dwarves kept nugs as pets. You were corrected by a particularly loud, particularly drunk dwarf you’d met at an Orlesian event.
“Alright, so, I was on the walls with the Commander—” you begin.
“Why were you on the walls with the Commander?” Blackwall interrupts immediately. You glare at him.
“I was delivering him a missive. And before you ask why I, a linguist, was delivering a missive to Commander Rutherford, I don’t know either. I suspect it’s because I did it once without protest, and now Leliana assumes I don’t mind.”
The way Blackwall glances around, as if he expects an assassin to swoop down from the barn, is somewhat amusing.
“Anyway, we were on the walls and… someone started throwing goats at the walls.”
“…What?”
“I’m not kidding! I’m still waiting to find out why,” you admit. “But in all the hubbub, no one seemed to notice the goats were stuck, so I sort of… lured them over. They seem to be tame. I can’t imagine why someone was throwing them at the damn walls.” You giggle slightly, distracted, as one of the goats lips at your thumb, hunting for more food. “I want to get a healer to look at them… this one’s limping, and I suspect they might have some broken ribs or something from being… I can only assume they were catapulted or something.”
“Belassan knows one of the healing ladies fairly well. He gets her whenever something’s wrong with one of the animals,” Blackwall muses. “Why would someone throw goats at the wall, though? Do you think they’re possessed or something?”
“I honestly have no idea. I’m sorry to ask for another favor, Ser Warden, but would you mind seeing if Belassan can get that healer? She’s a mage; she could heal them and tell if there was something off about them. I’d like to stay and keep an eye on them so they don’t wander off.”
“Certainly,” Blackwall agrees amicably. He’s a lot nicer when he doesn’t think… whatever it was he thought about you when the two of you first met.
You run a soft hand over each of the goats in turn. They’re not even slightly skittish, although the way several flinch adds more credence to your theory that they’re injured. How could they not be? It’s a miracle none of them died. They must not have been thrown at a high velocity…
You swallow anxiously at the thought that some may not have been thrown hard enough to fully cross over the chasm.
Your curiosity about who had thrown them is a little darker now.
Blackwall returns, and then a few minutes later, Belassan arrives with the Rivani woman from yesterday. What had she said her name was? Nami? Navi? Navi, that was it.
“Goats?” she asks, an eyebrow raising. “Where did you procure goats from? We’re in the middle of the Frostbacks.”
“Would you believe someone threw them at us?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s the answer you’re getting,” you say with a shrug. “And they’re banged up from it, too. I was hoping you could take a look, see how badly injured they are.”
The woman eyes you suspiciously, but kneels next to one of the goats and runs a hand along its side. Her hand doesn’t visibly glow, but you’re certain you’d be able to feel the magic were your aura out and about.
“Cracked ribs,” she mutters under her breath after inspecting one of the goats. Another gets a diagnosis of three broken ribs and a broken leg. All three are banged up, but at least they’re alive. She leaves to get some supplies to set the broken leg of Goat #2 (you’re steadfastly refusing to name them, though you know it’s inevitable). That leaves you, Blackwall, and Belassan with three goats.
“So… What are you going to do with them?” Belassan wants to know. “You keep acquiring random animals.”
“Maybe you should start a farm,” Blackwall jokes. “Why not? You do everything else.”
Blackwall is joking, but it triggers a thought in you. You hum thoughtfully. “She’s actually going to now,” Belassan says blithely. “Just watch.”
“The chickens,” you say out loud, and both men turn and look at you expectantly. “They just put them in this shitty pen. It’s not even a proper coop. And every now and then, we get other animals from traders… but they just get slaughtered right away, because we’ve no place to put them.” Your mind is racing now, eyes flicking about at nothingness. “But winter is coming, and pretty soon animals won’t be able to make the journey through the Frostbacks as easily. Trade will slow and meat and animal products will be at a premium.”
“Oh dear,” murmurs Belassan, but you barely hear him.
“And there’s so much unused space by the pastures… The horses won’t even be able to use it during the winter, and they don’t need that much space to begin with…”
“Is she serious?” asks Blackwall. You see Belassan nodding out of the corner of your eye.
“Belassan, fetch me the Horsemaster,” you say absent-mindedly. “Blackwall, you carve, do you not? How good are you with wood tools?”
“Adequate, why?” he says cautiously as Belassan scurries off towards the barn again.
“Adequate should be enough…” you murmur. “Whose approval… Dennet and Gaston… Lady Montiliyet? No, she won’t care… Who else do I need? Fenris, Nell, Blackwall, Navi…The requisition agents? No, I can go around them, faster that way…”
“Are you planning what I think you’re planning?” Blackwall asks.
“Probably,” you admit, tapping a finger against your chin. “If I do this right…” You begin mumbling to yourself, then, half thinking out loud, mostly in Orlesian, with the occasional other word thrown in when Orlesian fails you. You wish you had some paper and a quill. Oh, wait, you do have paper. No quill though, damnit. Why do you go anywhere without a quill? You need one of those damn mini-desks like Lady Montiliyet has.
Oh, good, Belassan brought the Horsemaster. He looks a bit confused, but no matter.
“Belassan, do you know where to find Fenris?” you ask, eyes looking past him, mind still flipping through a dozen thoughts a second.
“I can probably locate him,” Belassan says, and you nod.
“Wonderful. Do that, bring him here. Horsemaster Dennet? I have a proposition for you…”
After a bit of haranguing, Dennet agrees. Belassan brings Fenris, who brings the news to the ex-slaves, who appear to love the idea. The little ones especially, once they see the three goats. Navi quickly leads the goats away to heal them, and lets a few of the smallest come with her.
Then the real work begins.
You explain the situation to everyone, just once. You don’t want to have to repeat yourself. Then you split them up into groups. Those who have a skill for woodwork are with Blackwall, crafting huts and coops. You’ll need more later, but honestly, right now the entirety of your planning encompasses three goats and two dozen chickens. It’s not exactly a plantation. Fenris gets a group of the stronger adults and begins clearing out some to the spare space in one of the unused corners of Skyhold, near the pastures. Mostly, they’re moving rocks and rubble out of the way. Nell gathers together the rest, women and children mostly, and they get to work running about Skyhold, taking supplies where they can get it.
As for you, you’re mostly doing what you do best: bullying shems.
“Please, serah?” you say, mind racing for a way to manipulate the stern-faced blacksmith in front of you. “What about… Bevin? Surely you can spare him to make a few dozen nails?”
“You know Bevin? I’m not surprised,” the woman says, rolling her eyes. “He does need to work on his form… but this sort of thing needs to go through the requisition officers, young lady.”
“I know, serah, but they’re so bogged down, what with the new influx of books, and it’s just a few nails,” you say, staring up through your eyelashes at the larger woman. She lets out a displeased snort, but relents.
“Fine, fine. You’ll have your nails. At least you’re polite about it. I’ll put Bevin to work on it; maybe it’ll tire the little shit out. Oy! Bevin!” Maker, her voice is loud.
While you’re in the area, you take a moment to sneak up the stairs, as well, to where you’d met with Seeker Pentaghast. You’re not entirely sure why she bunks above the smithy… Although you’re also quite certain that you’ll be envying her for it as the weather turns steadily colder.
Fortunately, she’s not in, which lets you simply leave her present on the bedstand. Maker knows you’ll be better off if she doesn’t know it’s from you. You’re certain she’ll like it. If she enjoys Swords and Shields, then she’ll certainly enjoy the—frankly superior—newest issue of Randy Dowager. You picked up two copies in Orlais instead of one. She might not thank you, but it’s a favor nonetheless; getting books up here is difficult, and you somehow doubt she’d put in a requisition for one such as this.
You set it neatly on the stand by her bed and then slip back down the stairs. Back to work!
It’s not easy. You have to beg and manipulate and straight-up lie your way into wood scraps, nails, and the actual chickens themselves. That somehow winds up being the easiest part; Gaston, to your surprise, listens to you as you explain your plan, and agrees that it’s a good idea. He’s an asshole, as it turns out, but he’s not stupid. Or maybe you’ve just earned enough points with him that he won’t write you off immediately. Either way, the end result is the same.
After all of that, though, the only thing left to do is actually help out with the heavy lifting. It only took you an hour to get the stuff you needed. Especially since you don’t need to bully your way into workers: Fenris’ group is handling the labor… with help from Blackwall and Belassan. And… wait, when did Cole get here? You have to laugh when you see him, toddling across Skyhold with an armful of chickens, dodging out of the way of people who don’t quite see him.
“Let me guess,” you say, pausing to pluck a few chickens from his arms so he’s not carrying quite so many. “You’re helping?”
“I am!” he says happily. “And so are you. It’s very smart.”
“I’m glad you think so! Jobs for the ex-slaves—some of them, anyway—and food for the Inquisition. And the goats get a home,” you add happily. “Sometimes all these things need is someone to kick them off.”
“The chickens will like their new home,” he informs you. “They didn’t like the pens.”
“Good. Hopefully, the goats—”
“Has anyone seen Emma?” You perk up at the sound of your name, and glance around to see Sera. Her eyes are glazing right over you.
“She can’t see us?” you ask Cole.
“She doesn’t like seeing me, so I try not to make her,” Cole says, sounding apologetic.
“Oh, there you are!” Sera exclaims, her eyes locking onto you. “I knew you’d be at the center of all this!” she gestures around at what, when looked at with fresh eyes, is a few dozen elves building a small farm. You look at her a little guardedly. Is she going to give you a hard time for helping out elves, specifically, again? “Wha’s goin’ on?” she asks curiously. “I don’t see ya at all when ya come back, then suddenly…” she gestures vaguely at the elves.
“Well, the new refugees needed something to do, and I found goats,” you say, a little lamely.
“You found goats? Wot, in Orlais?”
“It’s… becoming a long story…”
“Awright, awright, drinks later and you can explain it. For now, let’s uh… work on the farm, I guess.”
Somehow, it turns into An Event. You suspect it’s because Skyhold really is just that boring. Eventually, you get not only Blackwall, Fenris, Belassan, Navi, Sera, and Cole, but a whole bundle of people you don’t even recognize. Mostly elves.
A boy comes and drops of the nails. You recognize him instantly; he has the same curly brown hair as his older sister. You feel you should apologize for sticking him on nail duty for the day, but instead, you find yourself distracted. He looks to be about fifteen or sixteen, a boy on the cusp of becoming a man, with his sister’s hair, tan skin, and copious freckles. As opposed to their sister, who has dark red hair, pale skin, and deep, hazel-green eyes.
And who also looks about fifteen.
Well, it’s none of your business, admittedly; you’re just naturally curious when you smell intrigue.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been at it at this point. The sun is rising steadily but it hasn’t hit high noon yet, that’s about all you can say. With so many people helping, things are coming along shockingly quickly. The ground has been cleared, fences are actively being raised all over the place, one goat hut has already been finished and there’s a coop coming along very nicely. It’s a bit chaotic, but the ex-slaves look cheerful and engaged and the children are playing with Navi and the newly healed goats. Navi even mentions that one of the girls has a healer’s touch and she intends to see about getting her stationed in the healer’s tent to begin learning.
And that was kind of the point of all this. It gives the refugees something to do now, but it will also give them something to do in the future… a point that isn’t lost on Fenris, who comes to sit next to you while you’re taking a breather and drinking some tea that Lily, Celia and some of the other kitchen girls brought around.
“I feel I should thank you again,” he begins, but you shake your head.
“No need.”
“You’ve gone out of your way to help—”
“The Inquisition would have found something for them eventually,” you say, cutting him off in an attempt to control your blushing cheeks. “I just saw an opportunity to help.”
“Still. It is appreciated. Many would neither see the opportunity nor think to actually help.”
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, watching elves dart around the courtyard. And it is nearly all elves, you realize, although there are humans too. But well over three-quarters of those working have pointed ears. You suppose that’s not surprising; you’d grabbed most of your workforce from Tevinter ex-slaves, after all… But still, it’s nice to see your people working together for something like this. The elves in Skyhold seem to exist as a sort of quiet, unspoken bottom layer. If there exists any kind of coherent network between them, you’ve yet to gain access to it.
But… if there’s one thing you’ve learned of elves that live within human civilizations, it’s that they are always a network waiting to happen.
You and Fenris work a bit more closely after that. You’re both on your knees in the dirt, planting grass seeds the garden was nice enough to provide, when yet another elf comes to see what all the fuss is about.
Solas.
You see him walking through the work area, what’s rapidly becoming a farm, and pause in your conversation with Fenris about the difficulties of acclimating to life after slavery. Fenris had been telling you about a slave girl that Hawke adopted. But she was young, female, and elven, so while Fenris didn’t seem to think anything untoward happened, you’re nursing private suspicions about the man’s motivations.
All of that rushes from your mind when you see Solas.
He looks so natural here, in his dark greens and browns, bare toes sinking into the freshly plowed dirt. Amongst so many elves, it’s easy to notice how tall he is. He looks… oddly regal, in a way, but that’s probably just because everyone is toiling around him while he strolls through. There’s an odd look in his eye, but you can’t quite identify it. You’re staring when his eyes meet yours… embarrassing.
“I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here,” he says, and you recognize amusement in his eyes, now. “What have you done now?”
“It got away from me, a little bit,” you admit, standing and wiping a bit of sweat off your brow with the back of your hand. No use getting dirtier than you already are. You’ve already forgone your tunic despite the chill nip in the air, and your clothes and hands are both covered in dirt. “But we’re sort of… building a little farm for the animals here. Goats and chickens. Some of the new refugees can man it, and it’ll give the Inquisition a more steady food supply this winter if we can get it up and running before it gets too cold to ship in supplies and animals.”
“An inspired idea. So inspired, in fact, that you worked straight through lunch,” he comments. You pale slightly. Your lunch was no big deal, but that means you’ve made Solas go without.
“Ir abelas, Solas,” you begin, clutching your hands together as if in prayer. “I thought I had more time—”
“You’re apologizing for the wrong reasons, I suspect,” Solas interrupts you. “A single missed meal would not hurt me. I am not the one whose ribs can be counted.”
You flush. Your sides are very much not visible through this undershirt; what he’s said has revealed to everyone listening that he’s seen you in less. Mortifying in any situation—particularly one where gossipmongers can hear—but Fenris is also only a few feet away, which makes it pass from “mortifying” straight into “hurl yourself from the battlements.”
“I-I-I…” you stammer uselessly, groping for a comeback.
Solas sighs. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance? If the work is done more quickly, it will be all the more easy to persuade you to come inside and eat.”
“We could always use more hands,” Fenris comments from where he still kneels in the dirt behind you. You shift to the side as he stands, already cringing internally. You’d hoped to put this off. What if they loathe each other? Well, Fenris will probably hate Solas, that’s almost a given. But what if they loathe each other loudly? You note nervously the way Solas’s eyes travel across Fenris’s tattooed neck and arms. “I don’t suppose you know much about carpentry?”
“I’m sure I could figure something out,” Solas replies, glancing over towards where the fences are being built. You’ve no doubt he’ll be a great deal of help; one mage is as useful as a dozen men. Whether Fenris sees it the same way, however… “You must be Fenris. I’ve heard a great deal.”
“Oh?” Fenris says, wiping his hands off on his pants. “All good, I hope.”
“Of course,” Solas says. “Emma seems quite… fond of you. I’m pleased to finally meet you.”
Fond? Well, he could have said a lot worse.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Fenris is saying while you essentially stand in the background, silently screaming.
“Ah, of course. My name is Solas.”
“Oh, yes. Solas. The man whose meals she fetches.”
Oh, Maker.
“The same,” Solas agrees.
“Well,” you interject loudly, your panicked mind abruptly spilling your nerves out in the form of words. “Solas, why don’t you go help Nell and Sera with that fence? I’ll finish up here and we can go in and have some lunch.”
The still-amused look on Solas’s face tells you that he knows exactly what you’re doing, and why, but you don’t care, so long as he plays along. He gives you a slight nod of the head, and wanders off towards the fences. Fenris’s eyes follow him for a moment, before they focus back on you. The two of you kneel back into the dirt and continue working. You only hope you can continue to hold his focus while Solas begins magically assembling fences some distance away.
“Are you his servant, then?” Fenris asks.
“Not at all,” you say blithely. “Although it’s a common assumption. We share a workspace… his workspace. In return for allowing me a peaceful, quiet place to work, I began fetching his meals. It’s more a favor to myself and the kitchens than it is to him; someone would have brought them regardless. As it is, I can fetch two meals and dine on far better fare than we get in the mess hall.”
“Is he someone of particular importance, then?”
How long can you dodge this before he gets irritated at you when he actually does find out? “He’s of the Inquisitor’s inner circle,” you say carefully. “He’s been with them since before they were the Inquisition, before the Inquisitor was the Inquisitor.”
“You’ve managed to find lofty company—” his voice cuts out suddenly as he turns to look at Solas just in time to see him magically putting together an entire section of fence at once, hands glowing softly. Well. That didn’t last very long. At least Solas seems to be enjoying himself. Sera punches him in the arm and says something moronic about magic, but one of the slave children is bouncing up and down and clapping, and Blackwall is calling him over to help with the coop.
Fenris’s eyes turn back to yours, eyebrow raised. You clear you keep your face perfectly neutral. You never said he wasn’t a mage, after all.
“You find yourself in the company of a great many mages, it seems,” Fenris says finally.
You shrug. “It’s no matter to me.”
“Is it not?” he says, and you’re not surprised to find he sounds irritated. “Without mages, there would be no ex-slaves here in need of help.”
The corner of your eye twitches slightly. You want to bite your tongue. You do. You want to ignore it and plant the seeds and end the day in peace.
But…
“I know your situation is different, Fenris,” you say finally, with a bit of a sigh. “But do you know who sold me into slavery?”
“I… do not.”
“It was the infamous Loghain Mac Tir, in fact. He sold off whole swaths of the elven population of Denerim in order to fund his little revolution. And while the man who ultimately purchased me was a mage, that was one man amongst many. The one responsible for my position and all that followed was, and always will be, Loghain Mac Tir.” You look up from the dirt and towards Fenris, a bit sadly. “Slavery exists outside the Imperium. If Loghain had decided selling my body was what he needed to do, he would always have found someone to purchase me. Magic is responsible for great evils, yes, Fenris, but mankind is responsible for far more. I can no more hate every mage for the actions of some than I can hate every person for the actions of some.”
“You have a very… sympathetic worldview,” he says, finally. He looks irritated, perhaps, but not angry. At least he’s not yelling. “One might say overly sympathetic.”
“So I’ve been told. By Solas, in fact, who is as surprised as you at my lack of hostility,” you say with a smile.
“At least he possesses some degree of self awareness, then,” Fenris grumbles, and you breathe a small sigh of relief.
Crisis: avoided. For now, anyway.