Poor Decision Making
You wake up in a haze of confusion and pain. Your head is pounding, a sure sign that you fucked up the night before. You hadn’t drunk as much as the first time; you at least have memories. You kind of wish you didn’t, however.
You’re not even surprised to realize that you’re using Iron Bull’s outstretched arm as a pillow. It seems like “brutal mortification” is your new normal. Mercifully, the giant Qunari appears to still be asleep. He appears to have gone to sleep in his clothes—fair enough, so had you—but you DO note that both his leg and shoulder braces have been removed. A brutally nasty scar on his shoulder, not too different from the one on your abdomen, reveals part of why he wears that brace.
Watching him sleep feels like watching a sleeping dragon. How is possible that someone can look more dangerous when asleep? His default, sleeping expression is not a kind one. You sit up slowly, your head spinning and throbbing violently despite the gentleness of your movements. You were trying not to disturb him, but it seems the absence of your weight on his arm is enough to stir Iron Bull from his sleep.
As he begins to shift, you quickly give yourself a once-over. Your clothing is all still on. You rather suspected it would be… But it never hurts to be sure. Remembering your words from last night, you have to smirk to yourself a little bit. Didn’t even wake up with a cock against your ass… You’ve woken up in more compromising positions than this. You’ve even woken up in more pain, although the waves of nausea beg to differ.
As Iron Bull wakes, it’s like watching walls fall away. The look on his face actually sends a bolt of fear through you, at first, but as he recognizes you, and his surroundings, both his face and his body relax. He shifts to glance out the window. “Up before dawn. You really are an early riser.”
Ugh, every sound is like being punched in the side of the head. You wince and try to stabilize your spinning head. It doesn’t help.
“Morning after regrets?” he asks with a smirk.
“Sooo many of them,” you groan. “Why do I feel the need to drink everything people hand to me?” You rub your forehead. It doesn’t help, either. “How many apologies do I owe you now? Half a dozen? I’m losing count.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll get it out of you in sweat and tears in practice today.”
“…Practice? …Today?”
“What, did you think you were getting a day off? You already got time off from your real job.”
“C-c’mon!” you protest. “You’re joking, right? It was your idea to go to the tavern!”
“Yeah, and you’ll notice I’m going to be right out there with you. You wanna trade places? I could punch you instead.”
“No! And… I mean, I don’t have to go,” you point out. “You can’t make me.”
“Nope. Sure can’t.”
There’s a moment of silence while you wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. “W…well, then…” Well, then, what? Are you going to go nap on Solas’ couch? Pretend like you’re not just flaking out of something you suggested because you don’t feel like it?
“…Alright,” you sigh. “Get me some water and a bucket, or the puke’s going on you.”
“That’a girl!” Iron Bull says, blessedly refraining from giving you a slap on the back—it would no doubt cause the contents of your stomach to become the contents of his bed.
“Come on! Is that all you’ve got?”
“Maker, not so loud,” you whine, wanting to clutch at your aching head.
“Hit me hard enough to shut me up, then!” Iron Bull bellows. Weakly, you swing into another punch, which he, of course, blocks. He had picked today, for some gods-forsaken reason, to start teaching you about blocks. As if you’d be absorbing any of this information. The movement jars the contents of your stomach, and you rush away from Iron Bull to retch into what you’ve affectionately titled the “Death Bucket.” You kind of want to keep it; it seems a shame to waste something that could be used so well for so many terrible things.
When you’ve finished emptying your stomach and dry heaving, you down some of the juice Iron Bull had brought out, just to wash the awful taste out of your mouth. Your stomach churns with displeasure, but frankly, throwing up the juice in ten minutes is better than dry heaving. You turn miserably back towards Iron Bull.
After he’s proven his point and you’ve vomited more times than you care to count, Iron Bull calls training a little early. Thank the Maker.
“Good hustle out there, kid!” he says, opting to tousle your hair instead of smacking you on the back. He’s managed to get this far without being puked on, no need to change it now. Just the gentle back and forth of his hand on your head causes more hair to fall lose from your haphazard bun. You shrug away from him and pause to recollect your hair. It always falls about, especially when you’re moving around a great deal.
“Good hustle? I didn’t land a single blow,” you say with a scowl as you yank your hair back into proper order.
“In your condition, I would be amazed if you had. I was watching for another rogue uppercut, though.”
“Ugh, just the thought of jumping that high makes me sick…”
“Tell you what, we’ve got some time before breakfast… Why don’t you get a bath?”
You’re not sure why he’s suggesting it, but the idea is appealing. You’re no doubt a disgusting, smelly mess after marinating yourself in alcohol, snuggling up to a Qunari—who don’t smell phenomenal on the best of days—and then running around sweating and vomiting everywhere. The thought of the cold bathwater is unappealing, but it’s better than being disgusting.
“And then meet up for breakfast? I should probably at least try to make the meal on time; I think Thea’s getting sour with me.”
“Well, I can walk you there, at least.”
You roll your eyes. “To the women’s baths? I’m surprised you’re allowed within fifty paces.”
“Nah. I said I have a private bath. Why not use it?”
“W… No, that’s fine, I…”
“It’s enchanted. The water comes out hot. Some kinda… fire magic, I guess. I wouldn’t offer, but I figure if you’re comfortable enough to share my bed…”
“Sssshhh!” you hiss sharply, glancing around, although few people are up and about, with the sun barely beginning to peek above the horizon. “Fine! But if I catch you taking a peek, I’ll take one of your damn horns as a trophy.”
“I’ll be the picture of chivalry,” he promises. You snort.
“Don’t say that. I’ve met chevaliers.”
The bath is, as promised, magnificent.
“How did you get this?” you call into the other room. The bath is large… probably, two elves could share it rather handily, although you suspect it gets crowded quickly with a Qunari in it.
“It came with the place! Skyhold actually has a couple of them. Dunno how old that enchantment is… gives me the creeps, a little.” Iron Bull’s voice is coming from the other room, where he’s staying, rather politely, while you take a bath. Oh, he’s probably thinking about you naked and soapy, but you don’t really mind that sort of behavior as long as it stays in his head. You’ve certainly envisioned Sera in much more compromising positions since you bathed with her.
“Gives you the creeps?” you ask, running a hand along the bath cautiously, searching for enchantment. Just because Iron Bull’s the only one around doesn’t mean you can be careless. You find it on the spout, and examine it in wordless wonder as Iron Bull grumbles about mysterious ancient magic from the next room. It’s a modified fire rune… How has it lasted this long? Remarkable. The steam coming off of the water speaks for how well the old enchantment still works.
“Where does the water come from?”
“Look, if you want to study the damn thing, you should have asked Solas if you could have a look at his. Just get in the tub!”
“Solas has one?”
Iron Bull lets out a frustrated groan.
“Alright, alright…” You quickly strip out of your dirty clothes. A hiss of satisfaction escapes between your teeth as you step into the tub, sinking your leg in nearly up to the knee. That water is delightfully hot. You pause, a slightly disturbing thought just now occurring to you. “…Bull?”
“Yeah, kid?”
“How many times have you had sex in this thing?”
“Sooooo many times, Emma.”
“Oh, Maker.”
“Hey, just think about how many people have had sex in the public bathhouses. At least that water is fresh.”
“Oh, MAKER!” you groan. “Now I’ll never be comfortable in that damn bath again!” You sink into the water sullenly, but even the disturbing mental image of Iron Bull and some redheaded maid rutting against the side doesn’t prevent you from enjoying the steaming water. You can feel muscles relaxing that you hadn’t even realized were tense.
“You might as well go get breakfast, Bull, because I’m going to live in here from now on.”
You do eventually leave the water, around the time it starts cooling off. You change into clean clothes and head towards the mess with Bull in a daze. Despite the soak, your head is still throbbing, and the concept of food fills your stomach with renewed dread. The now-risen sun isn’t doing you any favors, either… each sunbeam feels like an angry dagger stabbing you in the eyes.
You sit miserably in the mess, each loud conversation making your head pound more. How you long to just soak in that bathtub for the rest of the day. Thea is pleased to see you, which is nice, but her loud, teasing conversation is not. Still, you don’t want to alienate her further, so you try to smile along and talk when absolutely necessary.
By the time you get to your desk in the rotunda, your stomach is in an unpleasant knot and your head is still throbbing. You just sort of… lay your head on the desk, for a moment, staring sideways at the tome whose translation you finished the day before. You’re in no condition to ink anything… Instead, you work on ensuring the translation papers are in correct order, and then loosely binding them together, a task which takes you most of the morning.
When it’s getting towards lunch, and your translation is in order and tied neatly together, you grab it and a few choice pages, including the one with the eye diagram you’re so proud of, and climb the long steps up to what you’ve come to think of as Leliana’s lair. Her face when she sees you is amused, which is mildly disconcerting. It’s no wonder, however… If she’s a spymaster worth any salt, she already knows you and Iron Bull have been… growing closer. Likely, it looks like even more than that, from the outside looking in.
“I’ve finished the translation, serah,” you say politely, placing the transcript on her desk. “If you wish to look over it. I also have a few initial pages to show you what the final tome may look like.”
The surprise on Leliana’s face is priceless. “That was very fast. Perhaps the praise of Alix Gagnon was not high enough.” She thumbs through the translation, eyes the pages with satisfaction. “Your work seems excellent, Emma. You are ahead of schedule. I believe I may feel more comfortable distracting you from the tome with other duties.” She glances up at you, eyes sharp, but your face is a polite mask.
“Whatever you need, serah. I’m pleased that my skills are being put to good use.”
“You seem to be adjusting to life here, as well. That’s good. I’m certain you’ll come to be an asset to the Inquisition, Emma.”
You thank her with a bow, and she hands back your papers, dismissing you. Seems as though you might be seeing more Ben-Hassrath reports… or perhaps something else entirely. You’re still not sure what she’s playing at.
You’re feeling better, your stomach less twisted and your head no longer feeling as though there is a spike being driven through it, so you head to the mess for lunch. Skipping meals will only serve to make your queasy body worse, at this point. Iron Bull sees you as you’re heading towards the building. You spot him, as well; he’s running the Chargers through some sort of drills. Krem sees him spots you, and ribs the Qunari in the stomach as Iron Bull shouts that they’ll break for lunch.
Several of the Chargers eat with you and Iron Bull in the mess. They reek of sweat, and it twists your delicate stomach slightly, but you still manage to down a bit of gruel.
“You know what I miss?” you say, to no one in particular, although Krem, whose seated next to you, perks up. “Escabeche. It’s an Orlesian dish, and the perfect hangover cure.”
“Orlesian?” Krem questions, wrinkling his nose.
“I think it may have come out of Rivain, originally… But the Orlesians have done wonderful things with it.” You sigh wistfully. “It’s this… fried fish, marinated in a spicy, acidic mix, normally with peppers and pickled vegetables.”
The entire table has paused in their eating to stare at you in horror.
“What?” you say defensively. “It’s good! And it’d knock me right back onto my feet and out of this miserable hangover.”
“Sounds like it’d knock me straight on my ass,” Krem says, looking disgusted.
“Like it’s hard, Krem?” Iron Bull says with a snort. “You still can’t block a shield bash!”
The conversation continues on, but you’re still thinking about escabeche. You’ve never been more nostalgic for your mother’s cooking.
You feel much better when you get back to your desk. The gruel sits in your stomach like a stone, but your headache is gone. You’re well enough to get back to outlining pages, at the very least. You remind yourself to ask Leliana for a magnifying stand as you squint at a nightmare of a jaw diagram that you’re going to have to duplicate at least once. You say at least once, but there’s no way you’re doing it twice. The Inquisition has to have a mage who knows duplication spells. At the very least, Varric has to know a mage with duplication spells. He hardly wrote every single circulating copy of Hard in Hightown.
You find yourself mildly lonely as the day turns towards evening and dinnertime looms. The room feels empty. The peace and quiet is nice, certainly, but you had just as much silence when Solas was around, with the added comfort that having another elf nearby granted you. As much as you’re coming to appreciate Iron Bull, and the understanding that your somewhat-shared experiences grant, it’s not quite the same. You can’t engage with Sera, Iron Bull, or Thea in a debate about… Well, anything much at all. And where you can get in a grand old row with Dorian, the two of you lack shared experience that draw you towards Sera and Bull.
Solas… Well, you and Solas have a lot in common. By now, he’s been gone longer than you knew him, but you still find it stings to think about his absence.
You sigh and place your quill down. It’s time to get dinner. Your sensitive stomach won’t abide by you skipping meals today, and you need to clear your mind.
You’re alarmed by how chilly it’s getting. You realize, with no small amount of horror, that tomorrow is the first day of August. You’re about to begin the slow descent into winter, and in the mountains, at that… and you with no fireplace or means of heating your tiny room. You sigh miserably as you quickly cross the courtyard. Perhaps this is just a cold snap, and not indicative of the normal August weather in this area, but… you doubt it. It’s probably going to be awful. In Orlais, you had a rose garden. Here, you’d be lucky to grow arctic moss! You’ll certainly never forgive the Templars for this one.
You sulk more as you sit alone in the mess, sullenly eating whatever stew the Inquisition is feeding its masses. You suppose you should be grateful you’re somewhere safe, being fed, but you had safety and food in Orlais, before this mess started. Although what’s really amazing is that it took the mages of Thedas this long to rebel. The red Templars were a surprise, though.
“Hey, Em’!”
The sound jars you out of your sullen thoughts.
“Yer cute when you sulk, anyone ever told you that?”
“Hey, Sera,” you say, not having to force a smile. She really did light up a room. “Let me guess, you’ve figured out another lesson?”
“Sure have! And this one’s good! Finish up your soup and let’s go!”
You are a little trepidatious… Her last “lesson” had gone very poorly, and you would really like to avoid going to the healer’s tent again. But she avoids walls and archery ranges today, and instead takes you down to a part of Skyhold you’d never seen before and hoped never to see again: the prison.
“Uhm, Sera… why are we here?” you ask nervously. Prisons have always made you skittish. You’ve spent your entire life avoiding prisons of one kind of another, and the only thing you fear more than imprisonment is death.
“Don’t worry! S’mostly empty. We’re here cause this is where all the best locks are.”
“…The best… locks?”
“Tha’s right! S’not a person in this world who can’t benefit from learnin’ how to pick locks! Look!” She pulls out a little leather pouch. “I gotcha your own set!”
You’re… you’re actually quite touched. This is a useful lesson… you’ve no doubt your skills have gotten quite rusty, and you were never particularly talented at picking locks in the first place.
“Sera, that’s actually quite brilliant,” you say as you accept the lockpicks.
“Hey! Don’t sound so surprised about it!”
The two of you find a likely candidate, a cell door for a cell that has a large hole in the back wall. The lock on the door still functions, and that’s all you really need. Sera begins walking you through it as you fumble with your tools, trying to remember skills you haven’t used in years.
“Y’done this before?” Sera asks curiously as you swear at the lock in Tevene.
“I grew up in the alienage in Denerim… all the kids tried to learn how to pick locks. None of us were much good at it.”
“You grew up in Denerim?” Sera sounds shocked. You’re not sure why.
“Yeah, I… Fais chier!” you curse as you fumble with the lock. “I’m worse at this than I thought…”
“…I grew up in Denerim, too.” Sera’s voice is quiet, but what she says jars you so much that you drop the pick altogether.
“You what?”
“I was in the orphanage for… a while. Didn’t stick around.”
You stare at her. “…I was in the orphanage too.”
There’s an awkward moment where you just stare at each other, both at a loss for words. Finally, you break the silence.
“I don’t remember a Sera, off the top of my head, but…”
“I was only there til I was like ten!” she says with a huff. “I was outta there before the Blight hit!”
You shift awkwardly. “It was actually Denerim where I was sold into slavery,” you confess. “I was there until then.”
“Aw, piss, this is awkward. How did we not realize this before?”
You have to laugh. “Neither of us talk about this shit, Sera!”
And it’s true. One of the things you like about Sera is her complete lack of interest in the past, both the short term past, i.e. yours, and the long term past. It’s not a take you necessarily share; someone who studies ancient languages is, by nature, curious about the past. But it’s a very nice trait to have in a friend when there are things in the past you’d rather not discuss.
“Maker’s breath,” you say with a chuckle. “You must’ve been out before the whole thing turned to shit, then.”
“You mean the riots? I kinda heard about them.” She looks guilty, but you don’t press. However she got out of the Alienage, she did it at a good time. You didn’t and nearly died in the ensuing “riots,” then got sold into slavery by a deranged teryn. You don’t care if she had to prostitute herself to get out; she did well.
“Yeah… It was ugly. Y…Y’know everyone’s dead, Sera. The orphans who made it out were the first ones rounded up by Loghain’s men.”
“Wot, everyone?” she exclaims, face contorting in horror. “Even little Dirth’len?”
You swallow, hard. So she remembers after all. Your life with the Inquisition is one ridiculous “almost but not quite” after another.
“….Yeah,” you say, after pausing for too long. “Even Dirth’len.”
“Fuckin’ shits!” she exclaims hotly. “Those bloody pissbags! I can’t believe…”
“Hey, at least I made it out, right?” you say with a joking air. “And you made it out. Maybe some of the others did, too.”
The look of guilt on her face is clear, now. “And… you went through all that shite, first. Seheron and piss. Shit, Em’, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, you had nothing to do with it,” you say gently, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder. “It was bad luck and stupid shems, right?”
She makes a face. “Don’t go thinkin’ just cause we grew up inna same place means you can go all elfy on me.”
You make a face right back. “You don’t wanna start our own little Alienage? We already have a separate bath. We can start calling Solas ‘hahren’ and raiding the Inquisitor’s kitchen.”
Sera shudders and glares. “Tha’s horrible. You should feel bad.”
“I don’t. Not even a little.” You pick your picks back up and turn towards the lock, trying to remember a little blonde elfkit named Sera. You were in the orphanage for years, and you were the exact kind of brat that other little brats flocked to. You could hardly be expected to remember all of them. But you were the first one whose livelihood she’d asked after… Little Dirth’len, a name long dead. If you were the first one she asked about, the two of you must have been close, or perhaps you were merely someone she admired. The sort of ridiculous nonsense Sera got up to now was not that different from the foolishness you’d get the other orphans to do in the streets of the Denerim alienage.
You do, eventually, manage to pick a few locks, and thank Sera profusely when she says you can keep the little kit of lockpicks. You do intend to keep practicing with them. Like Sera says, you never know when you’re going to need to pick a lock. She invites you back to her room in the tavern, but you turn her down, citing the need to get some more work done. The reality of the situation is threefold: you don’t want to go into that damn tavern again; you do have something you want to do; and you don’t trust yourself to keep it professional if you’re alone in a pretty elf girl’s bedroom. It takes very little for you to get carried away… your silly little one-day infatuation with Solas after seeing him shirtless was proof enough of that.
But that little incident had given you one thing… the knowledge of where you could likely find warm, soft blankets and, possibly, an enchanted bath that absolutely no one would be using until Solas came back. You smirk to yourself as you steal off towards Solas’ room. No more scratchy cotton blanket or cold, segregated bath for you! And Sera had given you the last little piece, a set of lockpicks and a refresher course. It seems that the world had decided you’d had a bad enough time lately that it was going to hand you this one for free.
The best way to sneak anywhere, is, of course, to march right in. You know maids must regularly come and go from the chambers nearby, so you simply adopt the unassuming but confident gait of housestaff and stroll right past Madame de Fer, whose regular presence on the balcony seems to serve largely to make you uncomfortable. She seems content enough to leave you alone, however. After you get out onto the walkway, you listen carefully for any sign of movement from within the other doors. The last thing you need is someone stepping out to you picking a lock. It seems relatively quiet inside, however–perhaps no one wants to room near the elven apostate–so you quickly get to work on Solas’ lock.
Cleverly, you check for magic first, but sense none. With a last check around to make sure no one’s approaching, you kneel down to work on his lock. It’s a simple thing, much more straightforward than the locks down in the prison, and you make short work of it. You ghost into his room with a wicked smirk on your face–an apostate should know better, but you suspect he simply has little of value that he would leave behind in his room. In any case, you’re not here to snoop; it’s quite possible he would enchant a chest containing his actual valuables with any number of unpleasant things. Instead, you make a beeline for the wardrobe near his bed, running a hand over it to check for spells or wards, then upon finding none, opening it. Inside is a small but beautiful stack of blankets. You run your hand over the one on top and find it suitably soft and thick. You yank it into your arms, careful to preserve the delicate folds, then close the wardrobe and exit the bedroom, locking it behind you.
The stolen blanket is a treasure. You drape it over yourself as you sit at your desk, working, and it keeps the chill off, allowing you to work longer into the night. You burn a candle down to a stub and light another before your eyes are finally too heavy. It isn’t until you sink onto the couch with your stolen treasure that you begin to feel a little strange about it. This very blanket had likely once been wrapped around Solas’ half-nude body. It had probably been cleaned since then, but the thought still makes you feel like a stalker. Still, Solas’ blanket is very warm, and with its help, you drift off to sleep, finally warm and comfortable, on Solas’ couch.
You awake hours later, brutally confused. Had you… dreamed? In your state, it shouldn’t be possible, and you can’t quite remember. You do feel significantly more well-rested than you normally do upon waking up, however, and you’d barely tossed and turned at all during the night. You’re surrounded by the gentle smell of elfroot and old books. The smell, you realize with a sudden jolt of horror, of Solas.
You positively ricochet off of the couch, staring at both it and the blanket in horror. The best sleep you’ve had with all your power locked inside you, and the cause might well be the comfort of a man’s blanket?! You had rested warm and content in Iron Bull’s bed, knocked into unconsciousness with the help of copious amounts of alcohol, and had not slept this well. The difference… the blanket? That it was Solas’s? You shudder. No, there will be absolutely none of that. You’ll be back to your own bed and own horribly scratchy blanket tonight.
You realize, when you step out of the rotunda, that you’ve slept in. That’s… not a thing you do. It’s still before dawn, but barely. You can almost feel the presence of the blanket and it’s implications looming over you. You quickly jog down the steps and head towards the sparring rings. Iron Bull is there, working through some practice routines of his own on a practice dummy. You approach guiltily.
“You finally get some sleep?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“…Yeah, I guess,” you mutter. It’s the last thing you want to talk about. “I slept in. Sorry.”
“Eh, it works out. You getting some actual sleep is more important; you’re practically unhinged as it is. And I was planning on giving you the morning off anyway.”
You blink in shock. “You were? This from the man who wouldn’t let me take a day off yesterday when I needed it?”
“You didn’t need it yesterday, you wanted it,” he says. It’s so pedantic that you want to punch him recreationally.
“Besides, it’s Sunday. I thought maybe we could go to the stables.”
Oh. It is Sunday, isn’t it? The idea of riding Revas again fills you with excitement. Then, the idea of tolerating Belassan and his Dalish nonsense fills you with dread. Well, perhaps the two will cancel each other out. And if Iron Bull is there, you can pretend like you’re not being taught by a Dalish… your pride couldn’t handle it, otherwise. Either way, you can’t resist the desire to be on Revas again. You nod eagerly, and the two of you head off towards the stables.
Blackwall is there, of course, and does his normal glowering as you enter. Is that, perhaps, his default expression? Is he just a suspicious person? Perhaps it’s a Grey Warden thing.
“Back to visit with your hart again?” he asks as you pass by.
“Revas is hardly my hart, ser Warden,” you say politely.
“Oh? And here I thought one of your… friends must have purchased him for you by now.”
You’re bristling internally, but your face remains placid. “Of course not, serah. It’s not a matter of ownership. We merely enjoy each other’s company.” The subtext here is thick enough to cut with a knife. Does he believe you sleeping your way up the ranks of the Inquisition? Well, he likely won’t be the first or the only.
You sweep past him and head towards Revas’s stall. You notice Iron Bull glancing between you and Blackwall, but you pointedly ignore it. There’s no way Bull hadn’t realized the consequences that rumors of your promiscuity might have. Perhaps he just didn’t think the Grey Warden the kind of person to buy into it.
The sight of Revas cheers you immensely. You sweep up to the hart, cooing happily as he seems just as pleased to see you, nuzzling the side of his head against yours.
“Oh, good, you came!” Even the sound of Belassan approaching can’t kill your good mood. You happily bury your face in Revas’s fluff, breathing in his woodsy scent to kill the remnants of Solas’s.
“Hey, boy,” you say softly into his ear. “Want to knock me into the dirt a few more times?”
“The two of you really get along. An outsider would swear you were Dalish, you know!” This time, you’re unable to ignore Belassan. You stiffen, bite back a sharp retort. You have a dozen of them. Revas notes the change in your posture, tilts his head slightly and snorts. You give him what you hope is a comforting pat.
“They would be wrong,” you say, as politely as you can, not wanting to give away your distaste to Bull, if not Belassan. “Would you mind if Revas and I went out into the pasture?”
“By all means! His tack is over here. It’s always good for the harts to have practice with carrying someone. I try to ride them myself, but I don’t have time for all of them.”
You manage to get Revas saddled and bridled, noting for the second time his distaste for the bit. You doubt that Dalish use them, in all honesty, and the saddle appears to be little more than a modified horse saddle. Knowing the Dalish, however, they probably ride bareback and bemoan any saddling as “caging the wilderness” or some such ridiculous nonsense. You never see a halla with a saddle, just a lot of bruised Dalish from falling off repeatedly.
Not that you have a lot of room to throw stones in that direction… You manage an undignified crawl onto Revas’s back, utilizing the fence again, and the awkward process begins anew. You can stay on him easily enough when he’s walking around, but the second Belassan urges you to move him into a run, you’re bouncing around like a moron. You do manage to stay on, however, only falling off when Revas stops unexpectedly, sending you soaring over his horns and into the dirt.
You’re still riding around in circles when you see Blackwall approach Iron Bull. You can’t really eavesdrop from a moving hart, but the Warden’s posture is relaxed, casual… nothing like the way he looks at you. He’s gesturing towards the gates, Iron Bull is nodding… What are those two up to? Then Iron Bull points at you and Blackwall frowns. You definitely see a “no way” gesture thrown around, but Iron Bull is arguing back. Now you’re really curious. Then you see Sera approaching… No, scratch that, Sera and Dorian.
Sera listens to Blackwall for a moment, then laughs. The Warden only looks more irritated. You begin to worry… is there word from the Inquisitor? Are the rest of your “inner circle” friends to run off to war as well, now? Despite your better judgment, you bring Revas around to the gate to see if you can find out what’s happening.
“Like she ever wasn’t coming, beardy! Get real,” Sera is saying with a scoff. “M’not goin’ into the woods with three stinky guys for an hour.” She notices you and waves, then lifts up a basket. “So, I had a great idea, right-“
“We had an idea, I think you mean,” Dorian says pointedly.
“Shut it! Remember eatin’ on the balcony? That was fun, right? Well why don’t we do it again, except instead of the balcony, we find a nice place outside Skyhold? You like ridin’ horses, so we can all go for a ride and have a big meal and a good time!”
You’re at a loss for words, for a moment. “…You want me to go… on a picnic?”
“Yeah!”
“With you and Dorian?”
“With all of us! Blackwall’s a riot; you’ll love him!”
“Blackwall’s a… riot. I see.” You clear your throat delicately. “Well, I would love to join you, Sera. It sounds like you’re putting more thoughts into ideas since ‘climbing a wall.’”
“’Ey! That could’ve been golden, yeah?”
“If you like healer’s tents visits from falling injuries,” Dorian quips, causing you and Iron Bull to glance at each other momentarily. Healer’s tents visits. Sure would be silly to do something like that. Ha. Ha.
“Alright, you just keep ridin’ around like an elf princess! I’m gonna go get a normal horse,” Sera declares, sending a pointed glare at Belassan. You’re a little impressed at his placid smile. Perhaps it’s not that he’s stupid, and more that he’s just used to barbed comments.
In either case, you’re a bit more eager to hear his advice while the others amble off to the stables to get mounts. This will be your first time out of the pasture on Revas. The hart isn’t prone to bolting, according to Belassan, but you’ll have to watch him to ensure he doesn’t headbutt the horse in front of him. You nod along as Belassan describes the mechanics of staying in your saddle on steep upwards and downwards climbs. You just hope you don’t fall off a cliff, at this point.
The others start coming out the stable on their mounts, and it’s almost humorous how well-suited each horse is. The question of what kind of a horse could carry Iron Bull is quickly settled… a mountain of a horse, easily eighteen hands, thick and broad and a beautiful cream color with dark mane and tail. Dorian, in turn, is riding a horse that could only be described as coifed, all streaming mane and tail with a delicate gait. Blackwall is on a beast of a horse, solid black and powerful looking. And Sera is riding about on a slight, spirited, brown and white painted horse.
Well, you have a hart, so yours is automatically better. Solas would have ridden a hart, probably. You are nervous the second the gate is opened, but Revas doesn’t suddenly bolt or anything. You fall in next to Sera fairly effortlessly, and breathe a sigh of relief.
“You ride a lot of harts, Em’?” She asks, eyeing you and your mount up and down. You laugh.
“Oh, please. This my second time, ever. And before you ask, no, I’ve not ridden a horse before, either. If I live to see the inside of that barn again, I’ll do better than I expect to.”
“Well, we’re not going far. I got a nice place out of the wind, near a hot spring!”
“There’s a hot spring?” It’s really a shame the two of you aren’t going alone. No one’s going to be up for co-ed bathing, you least of all, but there are worse things than another hot bath with Sera for company.
“Don’t get any ideas! If Blackwall gets in, he’d clog it.”
“I heard that,” calls Blackwall from further on ahead. “As if any of us would be interested in bathing with two scrawny elves.” The teasing in his voice shocks you… Apparently he is less of a stick in the mud around people who aren’t you. What a joy.
“Speak for yourself,” says Iron Bull. “I have a hard time thinking of something I’d want more.”
Sera makes an exaggerated, disgusted face and a few gagging noises, and you can’t help but smile.
“Do the Inquisitor’s loyal inner circle often go on picnics together?” you ask Sera coyly.
“Well, not if you say it like that!” she says with a scoff. “But we do stuff together, yeah? Why not? We wind up together more often than not, so might as well not hate each other.”
You can’t argue that… It’s essentially the same logic you used with Iron Bull. If you can’t avoid someone, try to at least get to a point where you’re not actively stabbing each other in the face. The thought causes you to eye Blackwall, who’s having a rather animated conversation with Iron Bull. Perhaps the source of the strange look Iron Bull had given him earlier was that his behavior towards you was out of character? You had, in all honesty, assumed him either a suspicious individual or a racist. Perhaps it’s something else.
Unfortunately, for most of the journey, you’re too busy trying not to slide off Revas’ back to give Blackwall’s sullen distaste towards you much thought. You do manage to stay on, and it is a miracle… or certainly feels like one, in any case.
The place Sera picked out is as pleasant as promised. The soothing sound of a babbling stream fills the background, and it’s far enough down the mountain that there’s essentially no snow. You wouldn’t call it warm, exactly, but it’s comfortable enough that you don’t hate yourself for coming.
The five of you dismount and tie up your horses, or, in your case, hart. Revas doesn’t seem too keen on being tied to a tree, but you soothe him with gentle whispers and pats, and compromise by sitting close enough that he can headbutt and nuzzle at your back. The others settle around into the clearing as well, and you find yourself in a rough sort of circle with four of the Inquisitor’s most trusted companions. Life is a strange thing.
Iron Bull and Blackwall are having a rather amusing and lively debate on the pros and cons of axes versus swords. Perhaps dismemberment is not the most traditional light dinner conversation, but the two of them seem to be enjoying themselves. It’s not something you can really join in on, having never used either weapon. You’re more of a “single dagger where it needs to go and then get the fuck out” kind of person, but you don’t share that tidbit.
“You know, Blackwall, I’ve been teaching Emma here how to fight,” Iron Bull says, and you find yourself suddenly the center of attention.
“Oh, really? The linguist needs to fight?” Blackwall asks, his voice dripping sarcasm. “I suppose you’ll take to training the maids next?”
“If anyone needs to know how to fight, it’s the maids,” you say with a slight scowl. “Or do you think every man in the Inquisition to be a gentleman as kind-hearted as you?”
Blackwall stiffens visibly, and his visage darkens. “I’m certain that if anything like that were to happen within the Inquisition, our Commander would ensure the men responsible punished enough to discourage further… ungentlemanly behavior.”
“He kept that one guy from gettin’ an arrow in the face, though,” Sera points out through a mouthful of pheasant.
“I still can’t believe you were going to shoot him,” you say with a smile. “He was just running at the mouth!”
“What’s all this, then?” Dorian inquires curiously.
“Oh, just a run-in with some of the ungentlemen Emma’s talkin’ about,” Sera says with an eyeroll. “Cullen showed up before I could solve it the fun way.”
“See? The Commander puts a stop to that sort of ridiculousness,” Blackwall says, vaguely gesturing with a fork.
“I can’t argue,” you admit. “He was very… Wait, his name’s Cullen?”
“Huh? Well, yeah. D’you think his name was Commander?” asks Sera with a snort.
“It’s such an ordinary name!” you laugh. “He’s such a tall, intimidating fellow, but his name’s Cullen.” You snort to yourself.
“Intimidating? Cullen?” Iron Bull says with a laugh. “Alright, I can see you being scared of me at first, I’m a big guy with horns. But you have met Cullen, right? He has no fangs around a pretty girl.”
“Seeing as how I’m hardly a pretty girl, Iron Bull, I’ll continue with my skittish nature. I’ve no desire to see whether our Commander has fangs or not.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Emma,” Dorian says casually. “Maybe let your hair down, dress in something that isn’t oversized cotton…”
“You should come to morning practice sometime,” Iron Bull says with a smirk. “She can’t keep that hair up to save her life.”
You scowl at Iron Bull, absentmindedly checking the state of your hair. “My hair is quite fine up, thank-you-very-much.”
“If y’don’t like it blowin’ around, cut it short, like mine!” suggests Sera.
“Maker, no, not like yours,” says Dorian, sounding horrified. “What did you cut it with, a rusty dagger? Besides, if anyone here needs a haircut, it’s Blackwall. A bath wouldn’t hurt, either.”
You withdraw from the conversation as they bicker around in circles, concentrating on eating as much of the packed bread and fruits as you can. Let the men of the Inquisition feast on deer meat until they’re gorged. You’re more concerned with not getting scurvy. Focus turns back to you, however, as you pull a certain fruit out of one of the baskets.
“Hey, a banana! Man, they’re so much smaller here than they are in Par Vollen!” exclaims Iron Bull. You pause mid-bite. “They’re just plain bigger there. Firmer. You really have to stretch your mouth around them.” You close your mouth with distaste as Blackwall snickers.
“Wot? You not gonna eat it?” asks Sera curiously as Dorian rubs a hand over his face.
“I’ve lost my appetite,” you say dryly, glaring up at Iron Bull.
“Well, I’ll eat it!” Sera says, reaching for the already peeled banana.
“Don’t give it to her, she’ll have no idea what to do with it!” chortles Dorian.
“Wot are you talking about? S’a banana!” Sera says with a scowl.
“We can’t all be experts at bananas, Dorian,” you say darkly. “Perhaps you and Iron Bull could give us a demonstration?”
Iron Bull roars with laughter, but Dorian looks flustered. You bite into the banana with satisfaction while they’re distracted.
“I don’t get what all the fuss is over one stinkin’ banana,” Sera grumbles.
“Oh, that reminds me, Dorian. You speak some Tevene, right? What’s “pedicabo” mean?” Iron Bull asks curiously, causing you to nearly choke.
Dorian does choke, coughing and clearing his throat as you quickly avoid making eye contact with either of them.
“WHAT?! Why would you ask me that?”
“Well, I suppose I could tie down one of the Venatori and ask them, but this seemed easier.”
“It… Never mind what it means!” Dorian snaps. “Where did you even hear that?!”
Iron Bull gestures over towards you, and you blink as innocently as you can.
“Emma!” Dorian says, sounding shocked. “Did you put him up to this?”
“I have no idea what either of you are talking about,” you say, taking another bite out of your banana. “Keep me out of your pillow talk.”
“Seriously, someone tell me what it means,” interjects Iron Bull.
“Ask your filthy-mouthed paramour!” Dorian snaps.
Four sets of eyes turn expectantly towards you. “Hmm, I seem to be lacking in any sort of ancient Tevinter dictionary,” you say, exaggeratedly patting at your pockets. “Perhaps you can catch me near my workplace, and ask then?”
“Was it really that bad?” Iron Bull asks Dorian.
“Filthy. And I find myself simultaneously curious about the context and suspecting I’m happier not knowing,” he adds, glaring towards you.
“You lot are weird,” chimes in Sera.
The ride back from the picnic is just as difficult, and you continue to nearly slide off Revas’s rump, but you’re in a good mood nonetheless. Blackwall certainly hasn’t warmed up to you any, but it was enjoyable (and informative) to see how the Inquisitor’s companions interacted. Dorian gets along with Sera, and likes Iron Bull more than he lets on, but honestly and genuinely dislikes Blackwall. Iron Bull and Sera, it seems, get on fine with anyone. Now if you only knew how each one genuinely felt about the Inquisitor, you could have some actually valuable information on your hands.
You give Revas a thorough brushing and a lot of praise when you finally make it back to the barn, although you notice that you and Blackwall are the only ones who don’t simply hand your mounts off to the stablehands. You give the hart a final, loving stroke on the nose, and turn to head towards the rotunda.
“Wait, are you headin’ up to work?” Sera exclaims when she sees where you’re heading.
“I thought Sundays were your day off,” comments Iron Bull. It seems as though Sunday is a lot of people’s day off, considering that the four of them are more or less loitering, seemingly not having anything better to do.
“I spend a great deal of time during the week with you lot, rather than working,” you point out.
“Don’t lump me into this!” says Dorian. “You never come visit me.”
You ignore him. “I spend mornings with you, Bull, and some evenings with Sera. Every week so far you’ve managed to even drag me off to the tavern.”
“He has?!” fumes Sera. “You wouldn’t go with me!”
“My point,” you say slowly. “Is that I’m perpetually behind on work because of you very charming fellows. I need to play catch-up.”
“Yer full of it!” snorts Sera. “I heard Leliana sayin’ that you work fast, real fast.”
“Because I have dedicated myself so fully to the Inquisition,” you say dryly. “On that note, I’m going to go work now.”
You do, eventually, make to the rotunda, despite your friends’ protests. You like them well enough, but a full day in such rambunctious company would leave you exhausted. You enter the rotunda to a note on your desk, likely another missive from Leliana. You open it with a sigh, and are surprised to see it’s a handwritten note requesting your presence in the library, of all things. Confused, you head up the spiral stairs, wondering what on earth this could be about.
You head towards Thea, but the moment she sees you, she calls over Mahvir.
“Oh, there you are!” the elf says. “Thank goodness. I hate the first of the month… I keep thinking I’m going to get mugged,” he says with a shudder. “Here, take this.” He thrusts a small satchel towards you. You accept it, confused.
“Um… What is this?” you ask, shaking it slightly. It jingles.
“Your pay, of course, although I suspect you’ll eventually be paid through upstairs instead of the library,” the distracted man says with a slight frown.
“They pay the first of the month, every month,” Thea explains as Mahvir rushes off. “S’pro’ly a little short, since you came in halfway through Solace.”
You barely hear her; you’ve opened up the bag and are staring inside at quite a good bit of silver. “Wait. Three meals, clothes, shelter… and they’re paying me this much?”
Thea peeks into the bag as well and whistles. “Maker! Linguists are rollin’ in it, huh?”
“More than I thought, apparently,” you murmur. It’s nothing compared to what you made translating tomes for the court, but it’s significantly more than you had thought. You had expected to make barely anything, serving the Inquisition as best you could in return for a safe place to lay your head and walls to keep the Red Templars outside. This is Leliana’s doing, no doubt. Between this and the coin you’d won from the mercenaries, you could buy… Well, something. Perhaps you can procure yourself some better clothing, or a better blanket, somehow. Do merchants even come to this place? Do you place a requisitions order or something?
You make your way back down to your desk in the rotunda, and somehow do manage to get some work done. You skip dinner, not out of any devotion to your work, but because you had eaten way too much at lunch. No one stopped you, so you had wound up eating two small loaves of bread, the majority of a pheasant, and no small amount of fruit. If you ate dinner on top of that, you’d likely explode.
It’s around sunset that Sera bursts into the rotunda. Even if you hadn’t already had an iron will and steady control of your hands, you would have obtained them since coming to the Inquisition… it seems people will constantly be making loud, sudden noises while you’re working on delicate things.
“I had the best idea for training, Em’!” Sera exclaims excitedly. You try not to sigh.
“Not more lockpicking, I take it?”
“So much cooler than that! Iron Bull was telling me about those Fog Whatevers…”
“Fog Warriors,” you say cautiously. “And I don’t like where this is going.”
“And he says they were good at urban combat or whatever…”
“There are a lot of whatevers happening here, Sera.”
“Shut it! And it reminded me of stuff me and my friends used to do, running along rooftops and that sort of thing! We should do that! Here!”
“You want me to… to RUN… on roofs,” you say, slightly dumbfounded. “After what happened with the climbing?”
“Well, we’ll be moving! No time for dipshits to make commentary! And besides, you were doin’ fine before you pussied out!”
“This… this sounds like a recipe for disaster, honestly,” you say, rubbing your head. “I fall off of horses. I’m not exactly the most graceful, athletic person, Sera.”
“We’ll go slow, then! Come on, it’ll be fun!” She grabs your hand with both of hers, and in that moment, you realize you’re a very weak person.
“Well… Alright… But let’s try not to go anywhere too dangerous.”
Sera’s idea of not too dangerous turns out to be along the ramparts. That’s all well and good, at first. You’ve run along the ramparts before. Well… jogged. Sera runs, and you wind up running along after her, trying to keep up. It feels good, in an absolutely terrifying way. Then things start getting interesting. She jumps up onto the half-wall that serves to keep drunken guardsmen from falling off the wall into the courtyard and begins running along that. You stay on the ramparts, until she jumps onto the tavern roof, at which point you’re forced to jump up on the divider and then over onto the roof. You scramble after her as she whoops with joy and slides down the side of the building, catching windowsills to slow her descent. You’re not up to jumping off of buildings, so you just dangle yourself off the edge of the roof from the tips of your fingers until your feet are close enough to the ground to warrant letting go.
Off she tears through the training yard, leaping over fences and spinning around training dummies. Now that you have two feet solidly on the ground, you start getting more into it, enjoying the sensation of throwing yourself over a rope fence with one hand on a post and the rest of your body in the air. Before too long, the two of you are whooping and hollering your way across the courtyard, bouncing off of anything that will hold still long enough. The rush is similar to what you get when sparring with Bull, but different. The excitement is there, but instead of aggression, the feeling is freedom.
The two of you dart back up onto the ramparts, and this time, when she jumps up onto the half-wall, you jump after her, racing across the stone. You come to a break where a set of stairs leads down into the courtyard, and Sera leaps dramatically across the gap, flying beautifully through the air. You move to mimic her, but as you kick off the stone, part chips away, sending you sprawling out into the air much, much less gracefully. Where she landed safely on the stone half-wall, you go soaring out over the stairs.
You twist yourself in midair like a cat. You catch yourself with one foot on a step, but your momentum is just too much. You hear a crunch in your leg and continue moving, smashing into the stone steps repeatedly as you fall. You thrust your leg out desperately to catch yourself, and manage to twist it into a corner, wrenching yourself still before you smash your skull on the steps. You can feel the twisting wrench shoot up your leg, slamming bones out of the proper place. You feel, more than hear, the loud pop! and collapse onto the stone.
“Emma! Emma are you okay?” Sera is shouting, darting down the steps after you.
“I’m fine!” you say through clenched teeth. You can’t move your leg. “Okay, not fine, but not dead! Andraste’s tits, that was stupid!”
Sera rushes over to you. “Are you o- Ooooh, your leg… your leg don’t look right.”
“Fenedhis, merda, qulaba, figlio di puttana—”
“Stop saying things and tell me what to do!” Sera exclaims. “The tent, the healer’s tent, I should get you…”
“Ugh, I think they’re going to ban me from there,” you say with a groan. “How bad does the leg look?”
“Well… I’ve seen worse,” she says, which isn’t very comforting.
“Alright. Alright. I’m just going to drag myself to the healing tent and come up with a perfectly good reason for this on the way.”
“Why would they care?”
“Because I’ve been there three times in three days, Sera, and this will make four,” you say sourly. “Even I would start denying myself service.” You start to drag yourself forward and nearly pass out from the sudden explosion of pain in your leg. The world does go black for a moment.
You must have screamed, or made some kind of unhappy sound, because Sera is on you in an instant. “Em’? Maybe I should carry you. I… can pro’ly carry you, yeah.”
“You would drop me, Sera, and we both know it.”
“I would no—”
“Maker’s breath, what is going on out here?” Both you and Sera freeze like spooked halla, looking up the stairs.
“U…um… nothin’?” Sera says, sounding the least convincing anyone has ever sounded.
“Are you getting the linguist into trouble again? Why is she… Maker, what happened to your leg?!”
You twist around to face the man who you’ve recently learned is “Commander Cullen.”
“I may have had a… slight accident… ser. It’s no issue. I’ll just… be out of your way…” Pure adrenaline and the power of your desire to be literally anywhere but right there powers you halfway into a standing position. Unfortunately, as you straighten, your damaged leg flops uselessly and sends agonizing pain shooting through you, causing your vision to go dim. You thump back down against the steps.
“Stop moving!” the Commander says in, frankly, a commanding voice. You freeze. “You, soldier, get this woman to the healing tent! Now!” The authority in his voice allows for no questions or excuses, but you still try.
“Oh, no, ser, that’s really not—” you try to say, but the tall human man has already turned on Sera. He looks pretty pissed, and you’re just as glad he’s yelling at her and not you.
You’re distracted from what he’s saying as you’re suddenly, but carefully, lifted up onto someone’s back. “Don’t worry miss, I’ll get you there in one piece,” promises a light, female voice.
“This is all very unnecessary,” you wheeze. “I just fell, is all…”
The soldier snorts. “From where, the sky? Hold on tight now, we’re going down the stairs…”
You’re a little amazed at how the soldier prevents you from jarring much as she heads down the stairs. But then, you suppose a soldier would have experience with carrying the wounded. Not that you’re wounded… You’re probably not even injured that badly. It’s shock, surely. You twist your head around to try and look at your uselessly dangling leg… It’s hanging all wrong. Maker, what did you do to yourself?
“Shit,” you say out loud.
“What?” asks the soldier. “You okay back there?”
“Just realizing that I make abysmal life choices when attractive women are involved.”
She snorts. “Don’t we all, miss. Alright, here we are… let’s get you in.”
The healer’s tent bustles into action the second you’re dragged in. They get you laid out on a bedroll, both a surgeon and a mage looking you over, if their clothes are any indicator. Then you realize, with horror, that you know that mage, the old lady who you keep running into in here. She healed your ankle, and Bull’s busted nose. Her face is serious as she looks you over, however.
“The hip is dislocated,” the surgeon says finally. “We’re going to have to put it back in.”
You begin swearing in a multitude of languages. You don’t plan on stopping until this is over.
“Where’s that Qunari of hers?” the older lady says. “We need someone with more muscle than I’ve got.” She scowls down at you. “Honey, I see the appeal, but you should really give your anatomy more consideration. Your body can only take so much.”
Oh for… “Bull didn’t do this!” you nearly shout through gritted teeth. “I fell!”
“Didn’t you fall on your ankle, and your man’s face, not that long ago?” she says pointedly.
“He’s not my… Oh, Maker. Ask the Commander! I fell.”
The woman looks largely unconvinced, but you won’t have the chance to try and persuade her further, because another surgeon is approaching, this one a man, and stronger looking. You know where this is going. You can’t say you’ve ever dislocated your hip before, but your shoulder, certainly. This is going to hurt. As if in confirmation of your fears, the first surgeon slips a piece of leather between your teeth. You bite down, hard, swearing between clenched teeth.
The man grabs your thigh, and twists. You feel the warm spread of magic in your leg, likely healing what other damage there is, or perhaps attempting to lessen your pain. It doesn’t distract from the agony, and you scream through the leather. You suspect the Inquisitor can hear you, all the way in the Fallow Mire.
You may have blacked out a little, because the next thing you can make out is Sera looming over you. She looks close to tears. “Em’? Em’, you okay? Talk to me!”
“M’okay,” you croak. “Oh, Maker. That was stupid, Sera. We’re stupid. We’re really, really stupid.”
“Yeah, maybe we make each other a little dumb,” she admits. “You really okay, Em’?”
“I think so…” You twist, slightly, and your leg moves, thank the Maker, although it aches. “Maker… Sera, you tell everyone who’ll listen I fell off a freaking wall while being an ass. That lady thinks Bull fucked me into the healer’s tent!”
“Wot? Really?” Sera says, grinning wildly. “That’s hilarious!”
“It is not hilarious!” you snap. “It’s mortifying!”
“And hilarious!” she chortles. “I’ve been sayin’ for ages, how would him ‘n’ elves even work?” She eyes you, a bit of caution in her amused eyes. “So, you two ain’t…?”
“What? Oh, Maker, not you too!” you exclaim. “No! We’re not… no! We’re just friends. Not even friends, we’re just… we’re whatever!”
“You goin’ around sayin’ you’re ‘whatever’ s’why people think what they do,” Sera points out.
“Fine! Then we’re just friends! He’s just… He’s teaching me how to fight. You’re teaching me how to get horribly injured, no one thinks we’re involved.”
“They might think it, a bit!” Sera protests. You flop your head back onto the mattress and groan.