Avoiding
“No, focus. You seek to control your power, but it is a part of you, like an arm. See it as such, and control becomes not domination, but casual mastery. You do not seek to control your arm, it merely does as you wish.”
You are terrified that if you lose your grip, this beautiful wagon will go up in flames. Control of light without heat is difficult for you. How are you meant to let go and relax?
“See? An aura is a fluid thing. It flows through and around you, rising and falling like the ocean. Wait for a wave, ride it, reach through the Veil, and—”
The blade bursts into flame in your hand, but it stays narrow, focused. The metal does not melt. You are delighted.
“Spirits are as natural a part of the world as rain. Open yourself up to the Fade. Keep your mind clear and free of judgment, and you will be able to see the truth.”
You giggle as wisps dance around you, ever curious. Perhaps what they glean from you today will send them down the path to becoming spirits of one kind or another. You give one a little kiss, smiling and laughing as you imagine it growing into a spirit of curiosity, eternally probing the world around it for more knowledge. As you walk through the world, sometimes you can feel them following you in the Fade, peering down to watch. Always there to help if you just reach up and through.
It becomes a background sensation that you no longer even consider, but when you wake up in a high-up tree branch, for a moment, you feel them flickering around you in the Fade, and smile. You reach through the veil, ever so briefly, brushing against them with the soul of you. They recognize you as friend, swarm to your side. Then your aura is back inside of you, and you’re making your way down the tree to see about making breakfast.
Solas and Cole were on last watch, which is what enabled your nap in the first place, although you never would have had the courage if you hadn’t been nestled out in the woods where he would be unlikely to even look, let alone locate you up a tree. He wanders over as you begin to set up the pot for breakfast. You’ve no doubt he noticed you wandering in from the woods, but fortunately doesn’t ask about it.
“I saw some deathroot around the roots of some trees in the forest,” you say finally, to break the silence.
“Arcanist?”
“I think so. I didn’t get too close.”
“Were any of them flowering?”
“A few. If you have a safe place we can store them, I could show you where I saw them once Blackwall is awake to take over the porridge.” You stifle a bit of a yawn, not wanting to give him the impression you hadn’t slept when you actually had. “There’ll probably be more of them the further west we go. They like arid environments.”
“Madman’s deathroot is particularly common in the Approach,” Solas says with a nod. “Of course, there are alchemists in the fortress there whose job it is to venture into the desert to gather such reagents for the Inquisition.”
“If I’d realized that was an option,” you say sarcastically. “I wouldn’t have been so quick to settle into Skyhold.”
“Regretting introducing yourself as a linguist instead of an alchemist?”
“I picked the option I thought more likely to get me a safe job inside of some walls,” you say with a laugh. “I picked wrong.”
“Not necessarily. I believe our requisition officers wind up sent to the far corners of the globe, often alongside soldiers or even the Inquisitor’s personal strike team.”
“So basically exactly what I’m doing now?”
“More or less, yes.”
You let out a long sigh. “I guess that’s just Inquisition life for you.” It’s probably unseemly for you to complain so much about risking your life when that’s what most members of the Inquisition do, but it’s really the opposite of what you had in mind when you first fled to Skyhold. Still… you’re better off than most refugees. They might have been able to settle in the valleys under Skyhold during the summer, but with winter fast approaching, especially in the mountains… Well, you’d taken part in the relocation works several times, yourself. At least you have a home and a job. Even if it is a shitty, dangerous job, apparently.
“Those who most want peace for the world are least likely to see it themselves,” quips Solas, and you shoot him an odd look.
“Do I seem like a ‘world peace’ type?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“Perhaps I am mistaken,” Solas says with a shrug. “But when needs must, I believe your actions speak for themselves.”
After Blackwall is up for you to foist your breakfast efforts onto, you and Solas head to a corner of camp to stretch for the day ahead. As always, you struggle your way through poses that seem as though they shouldn’t be as hard as they are. Your upper arm strength leaves much to be desired… but while it might be in your head, you feel as though you might in fact be gaining some power there. While you curse and sweat and wobble your way through an armstand, you can see the muscles in your arms straining… muscles that you’re not particularly used to seeing.
Any good mood that might have put you in is quickly removed when you notice Sera glaring—and clearly trying hard not to glare—at the two of you. This time, however, instead of feeling guilt, you feel a surge of irritation. It’s true you’d wanted to alienate her, but the fact that this is what did it… What is her problem? You’ve put her through so much worse than this! It’s inexplicable, especially when compared to how quickly she’s been willing to forgive you for things that you think would be much bigger red flags than “is elfy.”
Maybe there’s more to it that you’re just not seeing. The thought of asking her about it fills you with a bitter taste, however. Why should you, when she’s the one being a jerk?
Unfortunately for you, Solas is in the advance team with Cassandra and the Inquisitor today, leaving you without much company for purposes of dodging Sera. You wind up sticking close to Dorian, hoping that Sera just sticks similarly close to Blackwall and you can have something resembling peace for the morning ride.
Within a few hours of travel, you’re well and truly off the Imperial Highway. The going is a bit slower and considerably rougher. There’s a path through the woods, right now, but it would be barely big enough to get a single wagon through, and the dirt is loose and torn up. You travel in two lines, one horse—or hart—following each rut of the path. At least this makes it easy for you to pair up with Dorian and Sera to pair up with Blackwall for, hopefully, the entire day.
The thickness of the trees and the relative narrowness of the path, however, has you jumpy. Especially after the comparative broadness of the Imperial Highway and the Dales. You were already ambushed once… how much easier would one be here? There could be demons or bandits or rogue soldiers behind any tree. After the third time you flinch at a snapping branch or a jumping squirrel, Dorian decides it’s time to comfort you. In the most Dorian way possible, of course.
“You really needn’t be so jumpy, Emma. Why, you have some of the best fighters and mages in all of Thedas to protect you!”
You can’t help but laugh a bit at his good-natured braggadocio. “Lucky for me, and unlucky for you that you have me along.”
“Ah, but what’s a squad of heroes without a damsel in distress to protect?” Dorian announces grandly, and you laugh again. You do so love being the damsel in distress.
And to be fair, he’s not wrong, either. Well, he’s wrong about the damsel part, but he’s not wrong about the strength of the team you’re with. Oh, sure, he’s exaggerating, but this is quite the squad. And while Sera would probably let you get stabbed to death right about now if your earlier roles vis-a-vis demon attacks were replaced, you’re fairly confident everyone else would have your back. Blackwall is a Warden, and you’ve more than seen that he can hold his own versus things other than Darkspawn. You might have less battle experience with Dorian, but he’s an Altus, and you’re confident that his magic and techniques will be deeply familiar to you. Cole, wherever he is, can be trusted not to lose sight of you on a battlefield where everyone else might in the chaos.
The advance team is safest of all; with the combined awareness of the Inquisitor, in Templar training and paired with his supernatural mark, a Seeker, and Solas. It’s unfortunate that this sort of team could kill you in an instant if they saw the need, but at the same time it makes you particularly safe for as long as they see you as an ally and an asset.
This isn’t the sort of trip you could ever make alone, but if there does turn out to be anything of value in those ruins, then it will have been the opportunity of a lifetime. Darkspawn infested areas in particular, you have always avoided. One can’t hire Wardens, and the number of mercenaries you need to even stand a chance otherwise has always been far beyond your coin purse. Your mind almost itches as the thought of all that otherwise out-of-reach knowledge. Hopefully you’ll actually be able to get it, and this isn’t some elaborate ruse to have you sit in a tent for a month.
Frankly you might abandon them out of sheer frustration if that’s the case.
Your lunch break comes when the ahead team finds a small clearing in the forest, large enough for what you still think is an unreasonable number of horses. The fact you think that is probably due to how much time it takes you to care for all over them. Compared to when you were on the Highway, you have a nightmare of a time cleaning all their hooves and brushing burrs out of their manes and tails. The others might not think it necessary, but if you do it now, it’s less work for you in the evening. Plus you really don’t want to risk the horses being in discomfort on such a long journey.
The harts aren’t nearly so difficult. Their split hooves are much more suited for forest travel. Of course that advantage is going to go out the window once you reach sand, but you can’t exactly trade-off for camels halfway through. Alas, the Inquisition’s hand hold into the desert happens to be on the other fucking side of it.
You finish caring for all the mounts about three minutes before it’s time to pick up and leave again, but you manage to cram some bread and jerky into your mouth and chew it on the way, like a ruminating cow. It’ll get you through the day, at least.
This close to a desert, you feel, it should not be raining.
But it is. In the early afternoon, the clouds rolled in and the sky split open with slow, rumbling growls of thunder. This does not noticeably help your mood or you general jumpiness, because the air is thick and muggy despite the time of year. Water clings oppressively to your skin, and every breath feels like inhaling fog.
Only the fact that there isn’t any actual fog, just the limited sight of a heavy rain, keeps you from complete panic. The way you’re shaking on Vhas’durghen’s back is hopefully hidden by the rain at large. You keep your mouth shut and your teeth clenched, despite how it jars your jaw every time Vhas’durghen’s hooves hit the ground. You can’t help but remember your stupid little breakdown at the war table in Skyhold. You refuse to show any more genuine weakness in front of these people. That they know so much about you already—your ‘night terrors’ for instance—is humiliating enough.
People thinking of you as weak is convenient, but people knowing actual weaknesses is inexcusable. Few people can take advantage of nightmares, and many people suffer from them, but eventually, someone is going to have enough of your fears to piece something of your past together. Let alone enough to put you in a disadvantageous situation should their need arise.
Your state of mind is probably why it takes you so long to notice that Dorian, who’s riding next to you, does not look nearly so water-logged as you. You squint for a moment, and notice something you’ve seen before. Water streaming off an invisible surface above him, pouring off the sides. Almost impossible to notice at this speed; if you hadn’t known what to look for, you doubt you would have noticed at all.
Good to know that everyone except for you apparently learned the “umbrella” spell when they were children. Not that you could cast it here, in any case, but you can think of a number of situations where it would have come in extremely handy. You sulk to yourself about it, wondering if you’ll ever have the chance to fool around with your magic enough to figure it out. At this rate, you suspect you’re going to die with your aura clenched in your gut.
It’s still raining when you stop for the night, because of course it is. Of course you’d get completely drenched a few days before hitting a literal desert. The rain hits you in huge drops when you’re under a tree, water collecting on leaves until it falls down in rushes. It’s not particularly pleasant, and you’re out a jacket, so you’re utterly soaked. You probably look like a drowned rat; you certainly feel like one.
You leave the others to figure out how to erect tents in the pouring rain and focus in on the mounts again. They’ll certainly need some extra care with all this muck around, and while the tack and saddlebags are all waterproofed, you don’t want to leave them in the mud overnight. After a few minutes of hemming and hawing over it, you eventually just wind up climbing trees on the edge of the clearing, hoisting up saddles and saddlebags on your back. You hang them up in the trees on branches sturdy enough to hold their weight, using their own straps to ensure they don’t fall.
You’ve gotten about a third of the way through when the Inquisitor wanders over, probably to figure out why a saddle is climbing its way up a tree. It must look strange, but strapping them around your back is the best way to get them up.
“That’s quite clever for someone who’s never done this before,” he calls up to you, and you have no idea whether he’s praising you or being suspicious. Probably the latter, given your luck.
“It just seemed logical,” you shout down over the sound of rain pattering against leaves and ground. “I don’t want to waste more time washing mud off of these in the morning, or risk flooding our supplies.”
“Here, let me help,” the Inquisitor suggests. “I think I can lift some of these up over my head far enough that you won’t have to keep scrambling up and down.”
You consider. The Inquisitor is fairly tall, and your arm and core strength is getting to the point where you can probably reach down pretty far while hooked around a branch.
“Alright,” you agree. “Let’s see if we can get these horses unloaded; Maker knows I still have to brush them down and clean their hooves.”
The Inquisitor’s plan works remarkably well. He can easily lift saddles over his head, offering them up at the zenith of his reach, arms straight up. For your part, not only can you reach down and grab them, you even manage some amusing tricks. Around the time you’re dangling down from a branch with your knees locked around it, grabbing a saddle with both hands, and pulling it and yourself back up, you realize that you’re definitely getting stronger. It’s not just in your mind. It’s a good feeling, and the two of you manage to breeze through getting the saddles and supplies up into some trees for the night. Getting them down should be a lot easier.
You drop down out of the trees, and the Inquisitor surprises you yet again by sticking around to help out with the horses. When you comment on this, he shrugs.
“No one else needs me right now.” He gestures over to where Blackwall and Sera are working at a campfire protected by a hastily put together cover of leather and fallen branches. Meanwhile, the Seeker, Dorian, and Solas are setting up the tents in a remarkably complicated manner that you don’t particularly understand.
Well, far be it from you to turn away a helping hand, even if one of them has an otherworldy mark that can close tears in the veil. Which you’ve still yet to see, but you’re kind of fine with that, frankly. The circumstances in which he needs to use it are not circumstances you ever want to be a part of. One close run in with demons was more than enough.
He starts with caring for Jarek and Snowblind, which is frankly completely fine with you, since Snowblind is one of the biggest pains in your ass. You still have to wrangle Zephyr, but she’s small, so you’ll take her over Snowblind any day. You’re not surprised, but you are slightly annoyed, to see how much better both of them behave with the Inquisitor, who talks to Jarek in the kind of voice one might expect to come out of a Ferelden talking to their dog.
“I heard that Jarek was your horse from home?” you ask, wondering if you can needle more information out from the Inquisitor. He’s not quite a closed book, but even during sword practice, he tends to focus more on the moment. You still barely have a grasp for what kind of man he is, stuck with a dozen incongruous pieces that don’t even seem like they’re from the same puzzle.
“Yes, he is. Elaine brought him from home when she came.”
“Elaine?” you ask, frowning. Surely not the same Elaine you know?
“You know her? Oh, that’s right, she was on that Val Royeaux job. Yes, she used to be one of my family’s knights… Still is, I suppose, but she was sent out here with a handful of others after the Inquisition allied with the Templars and got a bit more of a name for itself.”
“Is that why her technique is similar to yours? Or at least, I presume it is…” She used a sword and shield, but past that you wouldn’t have noticed if she used a completely different technique.
“Mmm, yes, I suppose it would be. We still spar together when time allows,” he says, nodding as he brushes through Jarek’s mane. “She won her way in through the Grand Tourney when she was…” He sucks in a breath, tilting his head this way and that as he tries to remember a year. “I guess thirteen or so?”
“That young?” you ask, genuinely surprised.
“That young! She was the youngest to be made a knight in my family’s history, if I recall correctly. Frankly, there should have been more competition for her amongst the noble houses but… well…” He sighs. “I guess I’ve learned nothing if not that people will do stupid things because if their own personal biases.”
Right, which was so completely unlike him. You don’t point that out, though, because you’re not an idiot. “Because of her age?” you ask instead.
The Inquisitor pauses, then nods. “I suppose so, yes. My parents didn’t see any further than her skill, though. She’s two years younger than me, did you know, but she still acts like my older sister.” He laughs. “At thirteen she already had more talent than me at the blade and a better hand with the horses.”
“Impressive,” you say, thinking back to how you were at that age. Your talents didn’t lie in the blade, but if they had, you could easily see yourself doing something similar. Hadn’t you used your ill-gotten skills to weasel your way into places you had no right being? In Antiva and Rivain both. Perhaps you and the knight you’d known so briefly have more in common than you thought. Not that it matters.
The conversation peters off and starts again and meanders aimlessly while the two of you work your way through the mounts. You, obviously, take care of all four of the harts yourself, remembering that you’d heard they didn’t care for the Inquisitor. As it should be, given that he’s a shem, although you mutter under your breath about that as you work with Derreck. Some harts, you inform him, can’t be trusted with their own tastes, and it’s a bit silly of him to let the Seeker prance about on his back and then get all huffy around the Inquisitor.
“There!” the Inquisitor announces finally. “I do believe we’re done.” You nod in tired agreement. The tents have been fully set up, and while you’re sure they’re damp in their own right, they’re clustered in a fairly tight circle around the fire. It will make sleeping… interesting, but at least you’ll be warm.
You head over to them, intent on figuring out a way to get your soaking clothes off sooner than later, but get no further than dropping you mercifully-extremely-waterproofed bag into the corner of your tent.
“Come on, then, no rest for the wicked!” the Inquisitor says cheerfully, throwing a heavy arm around your shoulders and startling the living daylights out of you. “This is perfect weather for practicing footwork.”
“…What?” you manage as he begins to drag you off.
“If you can’t perform in poor conditions, you can’t perform at all! Surely Bull taught you that?”
…He had, actually, and yet you still hadn’t considered for a moment that the Inquisitor would want to swing swords around with you in this weather. Nonetheless, that’s exactly where you wind up, slipping around in grass and mud while trying to run through training exercises with the Inquisitor. Water fairly pours off of a brimmed hat the Seeker had tossed you to keep the rain out of your eyes, and keeping your balance is a challenge. But thanks to the Iron Bull and, frankly, a number of other people you could name, it’s not as unfamiliar as it could be, and you adjust quickly.
You’ve finally gotten to the point where you can swing the Inquisitor’s bastard sword around without your entire arm wanting to fall off, although it’s still a struggle to swing it as fast as you know you’ve seen others do. The warriors you’ve seen whip these blades around like they’re an extension of their arm; you’re not even that good with daggers. If nothing else, you’re getting some newfound respect for fighters.
The two of you move out of predetermined training routines and into something a bit more free-form, which is a hassle for you because it requires you to actually think creatively instead of just focusing on performing correctly. You mostly stick to moves you’ve already started developing muscle memory for, but as your arm begins to ache terribly, you decide to experiment a bit. These swords are called “hand-and-a-half” for a reason, and the Inquisitor’s is so large for you that you can grip it with two hands quite easily. You do so as you’re moving into a sideways swing, and the added strength means you move fast enough that the Inquisitor elects to move backwards instead of blocking. It’s the first time he hasn’t caught your blade effortlessly, and you feel pretty good about it even as you spin around a full time due to the force of the swing. You slip a bit in the mud, but manage to stay upright.
You’d been half expecting a lecture about proper stance, but the Inquisitor actually bursts out laughing, to your surprise. You blink while he tries to collect himself. It takes a while; he’s caught in a serious giggle fit for reasons you can’t at all comprehend.
“Sorry!” he wheezes finally, still laughing. “That just looked so Maker-damned funny! Cassandra, did you see that?!”
You glance over, and find that both the Seeker and Blackwall are watching. Blackwall is laughing as well, and the Seeker is clearly trying very, very hard not to. You tilt your head in confusion.
“You’re just so tiny, and that sword is so huge and you swung it so hard, you were like a tiny… elven… ball… of—”
“Rotational energy?” the Seeker suggests, sounding deeply amused, and the Inquisitor bursts into laughter anew.
By the time you finish swinging a giant sword around, pretending to be Fenris, you’re inventing new levels of “utterly soaked.” This isn’t a surface level wet. Every layer of clothing is soaked. Your skin is soaked. You think your bones might actually be wet. You stand glumly outside your tent, which they somehow got up without getting it even slightly wet inside. You aren’t going to just strip to your skivvies by the campfire, but if you go in like this, the inside will be a puddle.
While you’re still trying to come up with the logistics of minimal damp-making, rain abruptly stops falling on your head. You glance over, expecting to see Solas, but to your surprise it’s actually Dorian.
“How long can you maintain that spell for?” you demand. He looks remarkably dry.
“I barely even notice it’s up,” he admits. “It’s something of a reflexive habit.”
“Do they not have umbrellas in Tevinter?”
“They do, but this makes one look much more impressive,” he replies, and you roll your eyes but smile. He’s not wrong. If it weren’t for how pissy the Chantry got about mages using their magic for mundane things, probably everyone would do it.
“Well, you’re about twelve hours too late,” you tell him, gesturing at your soaked… everything.
“Oh please, Emma. Do you really think I wouldn’t be able to fix clothing?” With a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand, you feel a gentle surge of heat wash over you, like a wave at the very edge of the ocean. You’re too startled to take complete notice of what’s being done mechanically, but when it passes, you realize that you and your clothes are both comfortably dry.
“Holy fuck magic is amazing,” you exclaim, instead of what you want to yell, which is ‘teach me how to do that right this fucking instant holy shit.’
“Isn’t it just?” asks Dorian, looking appropriately smug. “However, some things are even better than magic to beat a chill.” At this, Dorian pulls out… some kind of… ceramic jug? You look at it, then up at him, bewilderment clear on your face.
“Aren’t you Ferelden? I’d think you’d recognize mulled wine when you saw it.”
“First off, I’m Ferelden by a technicality at best,” you say. “And secondly, I don’t have your ability to sense alcohol from a few meters away, so…”
“Sass won’t get you warm and drunk, Emma.”
“A good point,” you say, lifting your tent flap to the side. “Come in, good ser, to casa di Emma.”
You follow him in, kicking your backpack further over to one side, and throwing down the customary blanket you always leave out for Cole. You don’t think he’s ever used it, but you never know. He might decide he wants to try napping. This time, however, it’s more for Dorian to sit on than anything. You leave the flap open, letting the heat and light from the nearby fire spill in. The thick, treated leather over the top of the tent goes over the entrance enough that there’s no risk of rainwater falling in, so it’s actually quite a pleasant effect.
Dorian pours out two mugs of the mulled wine, which is a Ferelden classic and not exactly a favorite of yours. The Dalish have warm alcohol which is loads better, in your opinion, and more than anything you’re craving a bit of Rivaini sake, served hot. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and it warms you up from the inside out. Even if the alcohol content isn’t enough for much of anything.
“What have you been hauling around in that bag, anyway?” Dorian asks, pointing at your ever-present backpack. “I thought it was clothes, but it sounds like it’s about sixty pounds.”
You manage not to frown. You can’t believe Dorian is the first one to wonder what’s in your bag. “Books, mostly,” you say with a shrug. “And a few other important belongings.”
“Books? Why are you carrying books when we have horses?” Dorian demands incredulously.
“That bag’s waterproof. Very waterproof. It’s been with me through everything short of a flood; I could probably submerge it and the books would be fine.” On days like today, you’re reminded of why you spent a solid fortune on it.
“The Inquisition saddlebags are waterproofed as well,” Dorian points out. “They have to be, or the rations would get absolutely ruined the first time we had a downpour.”
You shrug. “I know that objectively, I suppose, but I feel more comfortable knowing from personal experience just how safe they’ll be.”
“What sort of books are you dragging across the countryside, in any case?” Dorian asks curiously.
“The ones I need to finish the tome I’m ostensibly supposed to be finishing, for one,” you say with a sigh. “Some that I think the draconologist will be interested in. And a few others for reading and research, since I have no idea how long the Inquisitor intends to leave me stranded in the Western Approach. Cole mentioned there were some Tevinter ruins, though, so I brought whatever I could dig up that I thought might be useful.”
“Oh, are you planning on visiting? I might see if I can tag along; I wasn’t there the first time and the Inquisitor wound up completely destroying one of the ruins.”
“Of course he did,” you say with a scowl. “Honestly…”
“What sorts of things have you got?” Dorian asks, and with a sigh, you pull your bag over. At least you don’t have to worry he’ll get implausibly interested in some of your “extremely boring” titles that are actually tomes of forbidden magic. You have enough of actual interest in here to keep him busy for half a month.
Sure enough, he finds great interest in some of the books you pulled together about Tevinter architecture in the southwest.
“I haven’t seen some of these before. Where do you find these things?” he’s saying, looking very impressed as he flips through pages of dry text and sketches of ruins.
“I spend an inordinate amount of time in book stores,” you reply. “Or I used to, I suppose. I was able to dig through all of my old haunts in Val Royeaux, and I unearthed some gems.”
“But how did you even know you’d need this?” he marvels.
You shrug. “I mean, I didn’t exactly plan on heading into the Approach myself, if that’s what you mean, but it still looked interesting. And besides, there were half a dozen requests for basically everything I could find on Ancient Tevinter, pre-Blight specifically. Because of that Corypheus fellow, I suppose.”
Dorian nods with a chuckle. “A good number of them were probably mine. That library was sorely lacking before you swept through.”
“I thought the Inquisitor was out of his mind for sending me,” you confess. “But compared to this, it seems downright inspired.”
“You certainly did an amazing job then, and you’re doing quite well this time, as well.”
You roll your eyes. “You just say that because I haven’t gotten anyone killed yet. Just wait.”
“I suspect we’ll all be just fine,” Dorian says with a chuckle. “After seeing you go to town on that terror demon, I think you’re scarier than most things we might run into.”
Dorian heads out at a reasonable hour after spending the evening thumbing through some of your books. It was an enjoyable time, actually. Nerding out with Dorian always seems to be. You honestly have no idea why he’s had trouble making friends amongst the Inner Circle. Well, actually, if you consider what kind of people the Inner Circle generally has in it, you can make perfect sense of it. Most of them would find your conversation with him absolutely intolerably boring and pretentious.
What a shame. As with Solas, you can’t quite shake the feeling he’s being wasted on the people around him. But you also can’t deny that to someone with priorities slightly different than yours, they’d be largely insufferable.
You’re comfortably drunk by the time he’s left. Or maybe tipsy? Drunk enough that you’d prefer to keep drinking, but unlike Dorian, you don’t just keep a stash of alcohol on you at all times. Well, there’s too many people, with the tents too close together, for you to risk actually letting your aura out to sleep, but where there’s a Cole, there’s a way. You can at least catch a nap, even if it won’t be very effective.