howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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He could not say how long he spent in the Arbor Wilds. Nor could he say how long he spent away from their forward camp, fighting his way through to the gates of the temple. Days, certainly. At least two. Perhaps three. Bolting down potions, to lessen the effect the red templars had on him and to help him stay awake. The potions didn't provide for witnessing the sight of a few of his ruined brothers and sisters, hearing the sound of more of them hissing his name, before Cullen and his men cut them down.

A few bad gashes, here and there. (More scars for the collection.) His right side feels like one giant bruise. It was not clear why Corypheus quit the field until Leliana's agents made it in, and found Samson, and discovered the empty well. And the shattered eluvian.

Cullen was already swatting away healers -- too many of his soldiers were worse off, and he was beyond not in the mood for magic -- when word came: Charter had concluded that the Inquisitor's party, likely in the company of Morrigan, went through the eluvian. Probably back to Skyhold.

Cullen, in Leliana's company, was examining the remnants of the bodies of the Grey Wardens when confirmation of Charter's theory arrived.

Less than an hour later, bruises and all, Cullen was on a horse headed north to the next available station to swap out his mount and keep riding. Corypheus fled the field; there's no reason he wouldn't go after Skyhold; and even if he didn't Cullen needs to know what happened --

Shadows are long, and the mountains reflecting blue and gold light, when the horn sounds and Cullen rides through the sally port. A stablehand is there, to lead the horse to Master Dennet. He's not sure how his legs are holding him up, but he's not going to stop to find out. The war room, first, and then if the Inquisitor isn't there --

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"You really have to put your back into it to trip up a hill, though. Much easier to trip over stairs."

"Know this from experience, do you?"

"It happened once." He points at Cullen. "Once. And I will maintain there was a half-buried rock in that hill until the day I die."

Cullen laughs, drawing up his feet onto the chaise again. (The floor remains cold.) "Of course there was. You'd never trip over your own feet on your own recognizance."

"Of course not," says Alistair, with great dignity. "I'm a man of enormous poise and grace, Cullen."

He glances out the window. (Still snowing. Ugh.) "Too early to get a head start on the drunken revelry, do you think?"

It's either that or finish wrapping the effects, and Alistair, as Cullen suggested, ought to talk to Leliana before finishing that task. He also just flat-out doesn't have the heart for it anymore. Not right now.

"Not like anyone's around to judge us." Wry. "But I'm bringing the chess board. Be warned."

Alistair's mouth falls open in dismay -- and then he shuts it as he gets a thoughtful gleam in his eye.

"All right," he says.

Maybe Cabot's got some more of that powerfully strong whatever-it-was he gave Alistair last time. Maybe he could convince Cullen to have a tankard before playing a match. Hmmmm.

"Oh, no."

When Alistair gets that look --

"Whatever idea you've just had -- it's terrible, forget it."

With practiced innocence: "No, no, it's all right, by all means, bring the chess board. On an unrelated note, you remember that drink Cabot gave me? Before the brandy? It was delicious, you should get a big glass of it."

Smooth, Alistair. Very smooth.

Cullen rests his arms on his knees, and steeples his fingers.

Alistair gets an intentionally beady look.

"You assume I don't become more brilliant when inebriated."

"Are you willing to test this?"

He's very near to beaming.

"...I've got another two days of enforced idleness."

He drops the act, rubs the back of his neck. "There's no better time, really."

VICTORY.

"Wonderful. Go get your boots." He claps his hands together, rubbing them with the sort of air that usually accompanies an evil cackle. "And fair warning, if I manage to beat you? I will lord it over you for the rest of the night."

"More like the rest of my life," Cullen mutters, shifting to stand. "It'll be longer than boots, I've got to do something about this." He runs a hand through his hair, which is still... uncouth. Unaddressed. Unacceptable.

On the one hand, nobody'll be around to see it and it would give Alistair another opportunity to tease Cullen. On the other: if anyone can appreciate the desire for proper hair maintenance, it's Alistair.

"Doesn't look any different than usual," he says, straight-faced.

(Okay, so teasing Cullen does not have to be a mutually exclusive part of this decision.)

From two or three rungs up the ladder:

"Consider this a cordial invitation to fuck right the fuck off, Theirin."

Alistair cackles, pleased, and flops onto the chaise to wait for Cullen to finish tidying up.

After a moment, he grabs the book Cullen was reading to see if it's any good.

It's not like it's some long, involved process. He'll allow that he's a little vain, but he's also practical: his job is to hit things and make sure other people are very good at hitting things, especially bad people. An involved routine takes away from time to practice hitting things.

Taming his hair only takes a minute or two. Finding the plain, serviceable wool cloak he acquired upon finding out they'd be stationed in the Frostbacks (but then abandoned when he decided he'd rather wear his armor all the time instead) takes longer.

The portable chess set is the last thing he grabs, off the top of the corner bookshelf, as he scowls at Alistair. "You'd better not have lost my place."

As though a) he hasn't read the book six times already, and b) he actually bothered marking his place to begin with.

"Don't worry, I would never." Alistair catches the remaining pages and flips through them in double-time. "I promise I won't spoil the ending, either."

He stops on the last page and, after a calculated beat, covers his mouth in affected shock.

"Oh, no."

"Go ahead." He folds his arms. "I dare you."

"He gets eaten by a squid. And then the squid gets eaten by a bronto."

Alistair shakes his head sadly.

"Terrible. Just terrible."

"Thus confirming," Cullen announces, "that you're illiterate on top of exasperating."

Sagely: "I prefer creative and entertaining."

He shuts the book.

"Shall we?"

"Let's get this over with."

He draws his cloak around him.

Smugly.

Warmly.

Alistair, on the other hand, will just grab one of the furs and wrap that around himself instead. Hey: they're right there, and he's established through rigorous testing throughout the day that they work as well as a cloak.

Off to the tavern they go.

In the absence of so many people, the noise in Herald's Rest has sunk to a low murmur. Cabot's busying himself with wiping out glasses that don't look like they need much cleaning; Maryden's quiet, enjoying a drink sans audience. They have their pick of tables.

First, though, Alistair's going to fetch the drinks: ale for himself, and Whatever It Was for Cullen (if Cabot can supply it).