A Queer Night Out
You’re reminded sharply of the little thief you helped in Val Royeaux, mostly because you can feel your entire mind screaming that this is none of your damned business. Nonetheless, your eyes and ears are drawn to the sound of raised voices. When you realize it’s coming from in front of the town’s Chantry, you’re even more curious. Heedless of the fact you’re in company at the moment, you move a bit close to see what’s happening.
“Miss, these supplies are for refugees and the suffering,” a Sister is saying, looking with strain at another woman, who’s dressed nicely enough on such a random Tuesday that the lack of red ribbon around her neck isn’t fooling you, nor, probably, the Sister. “You’re obviously… dressed up,” the Sister continues. “So I doubt you’re the type these supplies were intended for.”
You frown, eyebrows furrowing with your irritation. You can see the seal on the supply bundle from here; that’s Inquisition aid she’s being stingy with. It’s not like she even went to the trouble of getting it together, to be so fussy about not giving it to a prostitute.
“These are for my sister and her family!” the woman protests, quite heated. She doesn’t give off the air of someone not used to this sort of treatment… more like the air of someone too used to this sort of treatment. “They are refugees! And working the ridiculous hours that are the only things available to refugees in this town, so don’t even ask why they’re not here!”
“I’m sorry,” the Sister says, clearly not sorry in the least. “But these supplies are for the Maker’s children in need—”
You barely register the fury in Sera’s eyes before she starts to move. The story of what she did to the noble who angered her, and all the trouble it caused, flashes through you mind. Quick as a whip, you reach out and grip Sera’s arm before she can take so much as two steps. She turns back to glare at you over her shoulder, but you shake your head firmly.
“If you think fer a second—” she begins to hiss, but you cut her off.
“Let’s try doing this without punching first, hmm?”
You huff yourself up to your full height, back straight, and assume the confident gait of a woman with places to be. Solas, were he here, would definitely recognize it.
“Pardon me,” you say, strolling authoritatively over to the arguing duo. “But I believe I can be of assistance here. What seems to be the problem?”
You momentarily cherish the confusion on both their faces—the Sister’s in particular. Her eyes linger on your ears, clearly bewildered as to why an elf is butting into the situation. “And… you are?” she asks, more confused than rude.
“Alix Gagnon, Inquisition representative,” you say with an easy smile. “I just happened to be passing by and overheard your argument.”
“Inquisition… What’s an agent of the Inquisition doing all the way out here?” she asks, teetering between dumbfounded and disbelieving. “We didn’t receive any word—”
“We’re passing through, as she said.” You’re quite surprised to hear Dorian chime in, although it certainly doesn’t show on your face. He does the noble bearing infinitely better than you for obvious reasons, and his lack of pointed ears will add some credence to your claim. “Don’t hold her up for long—I have places to be,” he adds, and you hope he knows that if he wasn’t significantly helping you out by playing the shitty noble, you’d be cuffing him behind his stupid flat ears.
“Well…” the Sister says, floundering to find her footing. “As you know, the Inquisition sent us supplies to help with the many refugees of the war. But of course, one can no sooner begin to hand out free supplies before everyone is knocking on your door. We’re simply trying to preserve our supply for those who need it.”
“As I recall,” you lie. “The supplies were given to be handed out to those in need.” You gesture to the woman. “She says she has a family in need.”
“With all due respect, serah,” the Sister says, and you can’t help wondering to yourself exactly what she thinks the respect you’re due is. “She seems… well-dressed enough that I believe anyone would doubt her story. Everyone who comes by has—”
“I’ll stop you right there. We are busy, after all, and I’m quite certain I’ve heard everything you’re about to say many, many times before.”
“Surely you can see—” the Sister begins, gesturing broadly towards the woman in question.
“I can see, as a matter of fact, but I fail to see how that matters when it’s so much more important what I can see of you.” You point at her chest with a single jabbing finger. “Those are the robes of Andraste’s Chantry, are they not? Has the Chant of Light changed since I last read its pages, or does Transfigurations 3:7 still say ‘My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one.’? And yet here I am, witnessing this lack of charity with supplies that aren’t even yours to be stingy with.”
The Sister’s face has been growing increasingly red with each word, but before she has a chance to reply, someone else comes out of the Chantry. You recognize her garb immediately, and genuflect politely even while making a quick up-and-down sweep of appraisal.
“Goodness, what is all this fuss?” she asks mildly, and you briefly savor the look of panic on the Sister’s face.
“Revered Mother! These are, ah, three?” Her eyes linger questioningly on Sera, who’s done a lot of glaring but no talking as of yet. “Agents of the Inquisition, who had some… instructions on how their supplies should be distributed.”
“I had no idea that the Inquisition was coming to Val Firmin!” Her eyes skip right over you and onto Dorian. “Surely the Inquisition wouldn’t send you all the way out here to deliver such a short message.”
“We’re here for tasks unrelated, just passing through,” Dorian says, waving a hand carelessly. The Revered Mother’s eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly when he speaks. At his accent, you suspect.
“Ah, is that so… Then what brings you to our little Chantry’s doors?”
“It was hard not to be drawn,” you insert dryly. “Should not the ears of the pious be sharp to the voices of those in need?” You gesture to the woman, who’s still there, arms crossed and one hip jutted out, still frowning. “She needs supplies. The Chantry has them, and yet instead of a simple transaction, I count six heads and twelve hands apparently required to hand over a box.”
“Indeed,” the Revered Mother agrees. “It does seem a bit excessive. Is there an issue, Sister?”
It’s pretty damned funny to watch the Sister falter and panic, stammering out a few uncertain syllables before quickly agreeing there’s no issue and handing over a box of supplies to the woman in question.
“Are the three of you going to be here for long?” the Revered Mother asks curiously as the Sister makes herself extremely scarce. Good thing Sisters aren’t ones for revenge, because you and Dorian sure did embarrass her today. But even in Orlais, the land of intrigue and political violence, lower members of the Chantry tend to be the only ones you can trust not to scheme or hire a bard.
“Not at all, your Reverence,” Dorian replies. You’re greatly comforted at his usage of the correct title. You hadn’t been confident a Vint would have any knowledge of the workings of the southern Chantry. “We’re simply here for supplies.”
“Fortunate that you happened by when you did,” the Revered Mother says with the smile of the professionally holy. People would call it kind. Those people don’t tend to overlap with your kind of people: ones who can mimic it perfectly and are also tend to be the as far from ‘kind’ and ‘holy’ as possible.
“The Maker acts through us, his mortal servants,” you quote, and the Revered Mother’s eyes fall on you again, this time curious.
“It’s a rare pleasure to see an elf among the faithful,” she says, and you give a short bow.
“Those who are born further from the Maker’s light must work that much harder to obtain it,” you reply with a pious smile. You ignore Sera shifting to kick at your heel without being noticed.
“Your knowledge of the Chant does you both great credit,” says the Revered Mother, who’s apparently more than happy to attribute your education to Dorian, the nearest human noble. “If you find yourself in Val Firmin again, please, do stop by the Chantry.”
“Of course, your Reverence,” Dorian replies with a polite smile.
As soon as you’re out of earshot of the Chantry, Sera bursts into laughter. “I can’t believe ya! Who taught ya how to talk all pious ‘n’ shit?”
“I do a lot of work with the Chantry,” you say with a laugh. “Now you’ve seen why they’re willing to hire an elven linguist to handle their holy texts.”
“Never knew y’needed that level of bullshite to write books fer a livin’,” Sera says, wiping away a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. “D’ja see the look on that Sister’s face? Fuckin’ priceless, that was.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” says someone leaning against a wall nearby. You turn to look, and are mildly surprised to see the prostitute whose supplies you had wrested from the Chantry’s hands. “Thanks for your help back there. Are you actually with the Inquisition?”
You can’t help but laugh. That question hadn’t even occurred to you. You hadn’t even shown the Sister identification, come to think of it. “It would be pretty funny if we weren’t, wouldn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” she agrees. “It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I bet I won’t have trouble picking supplies from there again.”
“I don’t think anyone will,” says Dorian, amused. “I think I’m seeing why you had so much luck in Val Royeaux, Emma.”
You wave him off as if bashful. “I’ve just lived in Orlais for a while.”
“Are you really leaving immediately?” the woman asks curiously.
“Just here for the night,” Dorian confirms, and she grins.
“One night is still an awful lot of time.”
You’ll maintain ’til your dying day that Sera and Dorian dragged you. It’s true; their level of enthusiasm was significantly higher than yours. But perhaps that just speaks more for their level of enthusiasm than an intense lack of it on your part.
It’s not that you have any issue going out for dinner and a show at a whorehouse. It’s not exactly your natural habitat, but you’re Orlesian. You know how to deal with prostitutes. You even know how to tell which ones are actually bards, because you’ve certainly been there. Not that you play a game of pointing them out, or anything, but it’s worth knowing, especially when Anisha—the woman you’d helped out—announces you boldly on stage as heroic agents of the Inquisition.
And this right before she plays out your “daring rescue” on stage. There’s significantly more dramatic motion and you’re fairly certain at no point did any of you dance even the slightest, but you can forgive it. It is a performance, after all. You’re not sure you can as easily forgive her dragging you up on stage with her, although by that point you’ve had a few drinks.
“And here she is! The champion of the poor and downtrodden!” she says dramatically. You shove half-heartedly at her.
“Champion of pissing off Chantry Sisters, maybe,” you say with a laugh. “I’m good at that, at least.”
“That’s at least eighty percent of championing us!” suggests a voice from the audience, who you can only assume is another brothel worker.
“I’m sorry, whore,” Anisha says, pulling herself up and looking down her nose in a characterization of the Sister you’d been dealing with. “This food isn’t for the likes of you.”
She slides behind you and shoves you forward, while yelling in a frankly hilarious approximation of your voice, “Stop right there, Sister! I am the Inquisition and I believe those are my foodstuffs.“
“That is really not even close to what I said,” you say, amused, as she continues on, ignoring you.
“What’s all this fuss?” she announces from a third position on the stage. She really is quick on her feet. Her voice now is cracking in an amusing imitation of a very, very old woman. “I’m the Revered Mother! I’m old and I have a headache, get off my lawn!”
“That’s not— Well, actually, yes, okay, I suppose that is more or less what she said,” you say, to assorted laughter.
“If she’s such a hero, don’t you owe her a kiss?” shouts some absolute bastard from the audience, who you’re about to drop kick if you can identify them.
“You know, I believe you’re right, serah!” Anisha says, to your chagrin. Great. Now you have to decide between kissing some woman on stage directly in front of Sera and hoping she doesn’t throw anything this time, or attempting to diffuse the situation in such a way that still keeps the free drinks coming your way.
You consider, briefly, the extent of your bad decision making with Sera. She doesn’t seem mad at you anymore, and you kind of want to keep that peace. On the other hand, you kind of want her to kick you in the face, call you a bitch, and hate you forever so you can stop ruining her life slowly.
You sigh, and then you dip that woman into as deep a kiss as your ‘noodle arms’ can manage. It seems a much more polite way to make it theatrical than adding tongue. The cheers inform you that you chose correctly. Frankly, you’re just glad to get off the stage afterwards, face and ears burning. The worst part is, Sera is laughing, which means it didn’t even work. Clearly she doesn’t mind you kissing the occasional prostitute, which, while good to know, is not necessarily the outcome you were hoping for.
Although, plus side: there are a lot of people you can kiss here, in that case, and also just an obscene amount of alcohol. Wait, did you say plus side? No, you’re pretty sure this is about to be a disaster.
After all that, you suppose it’s no surprise that you wind up a bit… on the popular side, but you’re not sure how to deal with it. About the third time you’re being ‘accidentally’ leaned over, and the fifth time someone has ‘casually’ draped themselves over you in some fashion, you decide to start kiting some of them onto your companions. After all, you hardly acted alone, and you know for a fact your two friends have less sexual reservations than you.
Although if you were going to, this would be the place for it. No strings attached by definition, and you’ll likely never see any of them again under any circumstances. When will you be to Val Firmin again? Probably never, and certainly never as Alix Gagnon, agent of the Inquisition. So you might allow yourself a few indulgences as the night drags on and the drink keeps coming. At least three indulgences, by your count, the most memorable of which is going to go to a very handsome, dark skinned elf who caught you as you were stumbling back from the washroom. He impressed you with his ability to pick you up and pin you against the wall. You impressed him with the only thing about you that’s ever impressed anyone: your tongue.
All in all, a very good night.
You’re not even sure Sera notices your increasing escapades, and if she does, she still doesn’t seem to care. She’s much too busy with her own in the form of two women, both over six feet in height, that you managed to attract to her side. You know her tastes well enough by now. You briefly lose track of Dorian entirely, and you definitely don’t want to know what he got up to, where, and with whom, because he’s somehow lost his shirt in the process. Literally. It’s nowhere to be found. You can’t even give him too much of a hard time about it, because you’re wearing the shirt of your hallway paramour loosely over your undershirt and have absolutely no idea where your tunic wound up.
The three of you stagger out of the brothel—and you’re only sort of sure it’s the same brothel you started in—in pretty bad condition. You only have one of your original shirts between all of you, and you gained a rather large, feathered hat from… ssssssomeone. You’re not sure, but you’re definitely keeping it.
Getting back to the inn is an adventure, particularly because Sera is the most sloshed out of all of you, and she’s the only one who has been in Val Firmin before today. Also you keep forgetting that you’re actually heading to an inn and not just… wandering around the well-lit streets for the sake of doing it. There’s a lot of giggling and a lot of stumbling and no one has a clear concept of what “straight” means, in several ways. You walk into three different inns before you find the correct one; they are varying levels of put out and extremely varying levels of helpful in directing you the right direction.
Things haven’t particularly improved by the time you finally make it back to the inn. You’re sort of supporting Sera, who is absolutely plastered, but you also have to be supported by Dorian—who’s probably the most conscious out of all of you. That’s not saying much. The end result is that the three of you are just sort of looped haphazardly together, arms around shoulders and just trying to keep vaguely upright. Your hat has migrated onto Sera’s head.
“Maker’s breath, what happened to the three of you?” someone asks. You squint in their direction.
“We’re heroes,” you explain patiently to the somewhat blurry lump that you think is probably the Seeker.
“…I feel like I’m perhaps happier not knowing the details,” she(?) says, and Sera giggles. “I can at least help you find your rooms. They’re a bit small, so it’s two to a room. Sera, our room is—”
“I’m bunkin’ with Emma!” she declares loudly. You go to smack her, realize both of your arms are kind of tied up in your friends, and just bonk her head with yours instead.
“Uh… Well, that’s fine, I can share a room with Cole, if he and Solas even come back tonight.”
“Are they still gone?” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “Those must be some fucking plants.”
“My thoughts exactly,” she says dryly, leveling you with a steady, sour look. You, in all your drunk wisdom, stick your tongue out at her.
“Just use a similar excuse to your benefit when you want to run off and ‘pick flowers’ with the Inquisitor,” Dorian suggests, which immediately brings her glare from you to him. “Just as well,” he says, as if he doesn’t even notice. Which he might not, frankly. “Tonight’s a good night to have a room to myself.”
“Got tired of sharing them earlier tonight?” you ask with a laugh. “Oh brave Seeker, won’t you escort us poor sinners to our room safely?” You’ve been slipping in out of your pious persona—piousona, you think with a giggle—all night to everyone’s amusement, and see no need to stop now.
“Only so that you don’t pass out in the hall,” the Seeker says. “Dorian, stop eyeing the bar. I’m cutting you off.”
“You’re no fun.”
“No, I’m not.”
Somehow, Pentaghast does in fact manage to herd all three of you into your rooms. You collapse onto the bed while Sera locks the door with some difficulty. The whole building spins around you the second you’re horizontal, but it’s not a bad sensation. It’s like being a child, when you would spin again and again and again and then collapse into the grass and watch the trees dance above you.
You open your eyes, but there’s no trees. No roof, either. Just Sera, who must have crawled on top of you at some point.
“Yer supposed to be mad at me,” you inform her plainly.
“You want me t’be?” she asks, and you’re incapable of reading her expression.
“Yeah. Well, no. Well, kinda. You should be.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Cause yer shit at talkin’ to me.”
You nod in agreement.
“Yer pretty good at talkin’ to Solas, though,” she adds, and you frown, tilting your head against the pillow. “I heard ya in the stables,” she admits, and you can feel your face heating up in mortification as you dizzily play it back, trying to remember everything you said. Well. Cried. Yelled loudly in between sobs. “I wasn’t followin’ you or anythin’,” she preemptively defends, scowling. “I went in there t’sulk first.”
“Fuck,” is all you manage to say.
“I still don’ really know what yer so scared of.” She hesitates, then pushes onwards. “Em, you’d tell me if you’d been like… I mean… Y’know we don’t have ta… It’s not just… I mean, I like foolin’ aroun’ with ya, but it’s not like… it’s not the reason I’m here. We don’t gotta do that, if somethin’ happened t’you. You don’t gotta.”
You blink, slowly.
Oh, she thinks…
…Well, you suppose she’s not really wrong, but…
You push her aside a bit so you can sit up, but don’t move past that. You need to think about how to handle this, but your thoughts are syrupy and confused, thoughts sliding off of conclusions without sticking.
“… S’not that. Not exactly,” you say finally, tilting your head back to stare at the roof.
“Shitty ex?” Sera asks, hazarding a guess, and you burst out laughing.
“Yeah,” you say finally, and it comes out almost as a wheeze. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“Y’wanna… talk about it?”
“I super don’t.”
“…Was it a ‘she’?”
You glance over at her, wonder at her blonde hair and strong frame, and wonder at your life choices.
“S’not really important.”
“Seems like it might be?” she says uncertainly.
“She wasn’t the only one, or anythin’,” you say, staring right into Sera’s eyes as you say it. You want to not be talking about this anymore. “I know what yer thinkin’, but it’s not that.” You lean closer to her, shifting on the bed to face her. “There’s jus’ stuff about me you don’t know.”
“Yeah,” Sera says with a laugh. “I kinda figured. Yer not exactly an open book.”
You lean closer, closer still. Your knees lock in around hers, your face dangerously close to hers. “I’m a book with a lock,” you say, watching for the shine in her eyes, the hitch of her breath. You bring your lips around to her ears. “I’m staying that way.”
“I don’t think tha’s health—ah!” The way her voice cracks when you sink teeth softly into the lobe of her ear is satisfying. “Y’can talk to me,” she persists.
“Is talking really what y’want me to do with my mouth?” you ask, directly into her ear.
“…See, I know what the right answer here is, but—”
You crash your lips against hers just to shut you both up. It lingers on, harder then softer; you take her up and down like waves, wondering if the room spins for her too. When you pull back, her eyes are full of stars and her lips are out of words.
“Let’s make a mistake tonight,” you say with a dangerous smile, voice low. “And regret it in the morning.”
“I don’t wanna regret you,” she says, looking dazed.
You smile broader, only the smallest amount of sadness left behind the acceptance.
“Everyone does.”