(no subject)

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen is fine in the field. He can set up a tent, build a fire, find water safe to drink, make something edible. But he hasn't traveled enough to get the knack of what's wise to bring.

These days it makes little difference, given his status: he helps to set up camp, but there are runners and adjutants to find and fetch things. And there are few enough of them, this time -- not the massed force of the Inquisition, but a patrol's worth of soldiers and scouts and accompanying support -- that in the evenings, Cullen finds himself... restless.

It's akin to the reason he doesn't frequent the Herald's Rest, but there's no office to hide in, and no paperwork to justify staying in the tent.

At least tomorrow he and Alistair will peel off to where Honnleath used to be, to spend the night and rejoin the rest again late the following day.

(This may also contribute to his fidgeting.)

Comments

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair gives a theatrical shudder.

"Was that the worst thing you found in the lake?"

[howtoactfereldan]

"No leeches," he says promptly. "So -- yes. Eels."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Potentially man-eating eels, but," loftily, "I suppose it could have been worse."

Seriously, leeches are gross. Alistair can never look whenever the surgeon pulls out the leeches.

[howtoactfereldan]

"...what were you expecting?"

[bringspeopletogether]

"Well, as you said -- leeches."

He makes a face.

"Or gurguts. Something out of a scary story, where you're swimming along without a care in the world until a monster grabs your foot."

[howtoactfereldan]

"You seem to be forgetting, Alistair, that I was a very brave and noble child, and my faith and courage would protect me from gurguts, who do not swim."

[bringspeopletogether]

"No, they just sit there on the shoreline and wait, drooling, until you're forced to return."

Beat.

"Though yes, I don't doubt your bravery and nobility one bit."

[howtoactfereldan]

"Then you should recognize that I would obviously defeat any waiting gurguts and then get home in time for dinner."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Obviously," says Alistair, laughing. "My apologies for ever thinking otherwise, Commander."

[howtoactfereldan]

"Especially given that you knew me."

[bringspeopletogether]

"I knew you from thirteen onward," he protests. "You could've changed dramatically on your thirteenth birthday for all I know."

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen stops walking.

Arches an eyebrow.

"You think?"

[bringspeopletogether]

As straight-faced as he can manage:

"I can definitely imagine you gallivanting around with the Dalish and rejecting the Maker's teachings at age twelve. Definitely."

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen raises his other eyebrow.

[bringspeopletogether]

"And then, the night before your thirteenth birthday, a light shone from the clouds..."

Yeah, that's as far as he gets before the laughter wins out.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen heaves a sigh. And waits. Patiently.

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair manages to compose himself eventually.

Only to go on, "Was it the Maker? Torchlight? The moon? No one knows. But it was as if the Maker cleared his throat and said a very meaningful, 'Ahem,' to our young man here, and he immediately ceased his gallivanting and ran to the nearest Chantry. But! Just when he thought he'd left that life behind, who should he meet but an elf-blooded troublemaker bent on wreaking as much havoc as possible."

[howtoactfereldan]

"Sera?" Beat. "Fenris? -- you don't know Fenris, never mind."

[bringspeopletogether]

It's Alistair's turn for his eyebrows to rise.

Curious: "Who's that, then?"

[howtoactfereldan]

"One of Hawke's -- compatriots. In Kirkwall. I suspect he could best Cassandra, and he'd certainly give Bull a hard time."

Half a smile; it's not particularly warm. "Given that he escaped enslavement to a magister, he was predisposed to be cordial to a templar. I understand he finally put an end to the magister in the Hanged Man. And he and Dorian never need to encounter each other."

Beat.

"Mostly because the magister did something to him, with lyrium -- " He holds up his arm, indicating a rough pattern. "Like tattoos. All over. They allowed him to pass through objects, which he primarily used to rip the hearts of his enemies from their chests. I understand he's currently occupied harassing slavers in Tevinter."

All of this sounds... quite admiring, really.

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair's eyebrows climb higher. His eyes have widened.

(And -- not unexpectedly -- they've gone a measure darker.)

"Good for him." His voice isn't as light as it was a moment ago, either. "May he have a long and fruitful life putting an end to plenty more magisters." Beat. "Dorian excluded, of course."

[howtoactfereldan]

"As he frequently mentions," Cullen says, a little wry, "he's not a magister, he's an altus."

[bringspeopletogether]

A thin smile: he's trying to push some of the darkness back. (It's not working as well as he hopes.) "That works out well, then."

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen eyes him; it's not to the point that he'll say something, but --

"I doubt the fine distinction would make much difference to Fenris. It doesn't for most of the Inquisition." Light. "At any rate -- with the exception of the guard-captain, Fenris was the easiest to speak with of Hawke's little cabal. Mostly because neither one of us was too fond of speaking."

[bringspeopletogether]

A tiny snort of laughter, as Alistair relaxes another inch. "Perfunctory greetings, four hours of silence, commendations on the excellent chat, and farewells, then?"

Definitely sounds like Cullen's ideal form of conversation.