howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"You still could. I'd watch."

Alistair snorts out another laugh.

"So you know, I draw the line at wrestling anything in my smalls." Beat. "I'd be all right doing it without a shirt, though."

"That's impractical for wrestling wyverns," he points out. "They spit."

Alistair gives this his full consideration.

"Yes," thoughtful, "I suppose being covered in venomous wyvern drool would diminish the sexiness somewhat."

"Not to mention wyverns aren't exactly a turn-on."

He dissolves into fresh laughter.

"What," he manages, "you wouldn't be impressed by me strangling one with my bare hands and posing with a foot on its head like something out of Varric's novels?"

"Are you confusing me with Bull?" Cullen arches an eyebrow. "Because if you are, we have problems."

"I would never," he says, mock-affronted. "You don't have any horns."

"Then why assume the sight of a large deadly lizard is something I'd like?"

"More the sight of me with my shirt off doing something manly, but -- point taken."

Still laughing.

"Your first mistake," Cullen says, trying for stern, "was thinking taking your shirt off wasn't enough on its own."

"A simple man with simple tastes." Fond. "All right. Much easier to oblige that than go find a wyvern anyway."

"And less lethal." Dry. "Which serves as good justification for said simple tastes."

"True," he says. "I am against dying, just on general principle."

He finishes off the last of his fish.

Cullen, meanwhile, picks up some leftover woodsorrel and pops the leaves into his mouth: the sharp, sour flavor spreads over his tongue. But it's better than fish breath.

"Right. So. Where are we exploring?"

Alistair wipes off his hands on his trousers. "We could pick a direction and start walking until we can't any longer," he suggests. "Left or right?"

This is where Cullen's superior knowledge of the landscape will serve him well.

Trying to hide a smirk: "Left."

About half a mile away, there's a sheer wall of rock.

Alistair eyes Cullen with marked skepticism. He's planning something. Alistair can tell.

But he doesn't object to the choice. Once he's assembled a small pack -- precautionary provisions, a healing potion or two -- and strapped a dagger to his belt just in case, they turn left to begin their walk around the lake.

Ten minutes later:

"Cullen!"

(He's laughing at the sight of the wall, at least?)

Cullen leans up against the wall, arms folded, smirk decidedly more pronounced. "Yes?"

"Did you consider that maybe if you'd warned me," he manages, "I might've brought rope along as well?"

Which is precisely why Cullen didn't warn him!

But it's more fun to play innocent in a very obnoxious way. "For what purpose?"

"Making a decorative knot sculpture. Or, perhaps, climbing this."

He smacks a palm against the wall.

"The next time you tell me I work too much," Cullen says with some glee, "I'm reminding you of this moment, when we're taking less than a full day away from everything, and all you want to do is climb cliffs and wrestle wyverns."

Alistair scowls, playfully.

"For months I've been cooped up at Skyhold," he says. "Months. And now you won't let me run free. How do you sleep at night, ser."

"I have this pillow. Very comfortable, but has a tendency to run at the mouth."