howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

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 --

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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).

Cullen doesn't mind sitting on the first floor today -- though he does elect a table away from the door. But that's about the temperature and the wind rather than the desire not to be seen.

He folds his cloak over the empty chair beside him. The chess set goes on the table. It would be nice to resist the urge to put his head down on his arms.

(There's a fire in here.)

The question is whether Cabot will supply it. Cabot can see Cullen over there for himself; the mysterious drink from the mysterious shelf is his. Alistair would be well advised not to swap his ale for the commander's drink. Cabot is watching.

Cabot is always watching.

Someday, Alistair will figure out how to appropriately bribe Cabot into getting in on his plan to beat Cullen at chess. Someday.

Today, though, he will just stare at Cullen's drink longingly as he carries it over to the table -- it smells so good -- and behave himself: no switching, no stealing, no nothing until it's safely in front of Cullen.

"It's your lucky day," he says, settling in with his own (far inferior) ale.

Cullen pulls the tankard closer, hunching over it. To protect it.

"Yes." Happily. "There's a fire over there. Perhaps I could commandeer it."

"Might be difficult to smuggle an entire fireplace back to your quarters." Alistair grins. "Though you do already have a hole in your roof for the chimney. No need to find a tarp after all. Can't I just have a sip of that?"

The last, of course, being to Cullen's drink, a bit plaintively.

Cullen looks up at him.

And grins, suddenly, and slides the tankard in Alistair's direction. "You may have up to three sips," he says, grandly.

....

Alistair wasn't expecting that to work.

He stares at the beer, looks up at Cullen, back to the beer, and then pulls the tankard the last few inches, as reverently as if someone just dropped Andraste's ashes in front of him. "Your generosity will not go unsung," he says.

One long sip. His eyes close in bliss: the drink tastes just as rich and delicious as it smells. After an extra moment to savor it, he takes another sip, then pushes the tankard back to Cullen.

"You lucky bastard. I'll save my last sip for later."

Assuming there's any left.

"Noted," Cullen says.

And reaches, quick, for Alistair's ale, drinking half in one go. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he slides it back. "Finish that up and I'll split what I've got with you."

Alistair yelps and tries to snatch his drink before Cullen can grab it, to no avail. Luckily, the bargain Cullen's offered more than makes up for it.

"Done," he declares, and immediately chugs the rest of his drink, shoving the tankard to the table's edge once he's finished.

Laughing quietly, Cullen pours half the contents of his tankard into the freshly emptied one.

"We should think about other fireplaces we could commandeer. -- does your room have one?"

Alistair shakes his head. "Too small. I'm sure it'd be pleasant enough if I borrowed a torch, though. I could...prop it somewhere, I don't know."

Maybe stick it in his Warden armor, now that he definitely won't be using it any more.

He takes a longer sip of beer. Give it a few more sips and he'll stop sighing contentedly after each one, but not yet.

"...or we could commandeer a brazier instead." Thoughtful. "I'm sure there's one in the unoccupied guest quarters."

Alistair brightens. "I'll salvage one. There's -- where is it." He snaps his fingers, trying to recall. "I know I saw one in one of the towers, I'll grab it on the way back."

"Meaning we should retain enough of our faculties to play with fire without incident."

Cullen caps this off by drinking.

"One of us, at least." Judiciously. "I'd still like to see how much it takes before you can't tell a pawn and a king apart."

"...I guarantee you I'd fall unconscious before that happened. They look nothing alike."

He snickers; takes a drink. "Only way to be certain -- "

Alistair gestures to the chess board.

"Or would you rather wait to start until we're on the third drink?"

Cullen rolls his eyes and starts setting up the pieces.

"I'm not drinking to black out, Alistair. Unless you'd like to ensure that I never drink with you again."

Edited 2016-10-07 22:09 (UTC)

"I say there's little point to drinking unless you're really drinking, but...fine, fine," grouses Alistair, good-naturedly.

After another swig of his drink, he helps Cullen set up the board. (This involves a lot of surreptitious glances to Cullen's half to make sure he's got the order of the back row right. Alistair can never remember which piece goes closest to the king and queen.)

"Look," Cullen says, lifting up his tankard, "it's me, really drinking."

He follows through.

Voice lowered: "I spend enough time feeling ill that I don't want to induce a hangover on top of it. All right?"

Ah. Yes.

"All right," says Alistair, more soberly. He lifts his tankard an inch. "To no hangovers, then."

Cullen snorts.

"Feel free to make yourself sick by all means."

"Oh, no." He points at Cullen. "I am going to defend my minuscule scrap of chess honor to the best of my ability."

Beat.

"After that, we'll see, but for now..."

"...we don't have to play, you know."

His gaze drifts back toward the fire. "We could just... sit here."