Not even the blatant display of intense magic occurring in front of her will pry Sera from Lavellan's side. Vivienne, it seems, can be trusted with something so singular and precious as Lavellan's life, so Sera has consented not to touch her while Vivienne works. Cullen can hear Sera muttering to her, though none of the specifics are clear.
(For her part, Vivienne doesn't shoo Sera away, even though Cullen's seen enough healers at work to know Sera's hovering is a distraction at best. Thank the Maker for the focus of the Knight-Enchanters.)
Leliana looks up from where she's huddled with Dorian and Bull, and nods; the Divine's miter is on a side table, and just that simple shift makes her more Sister Nightingale than Divine Stabbity. He knows that nod: there's news, but no emergency.
Cullen waits until Dorian slips next to him -- Leliana and Bull continue talking, likely about the Qunari's response or something like that -- to say, softly, She'll live?
Dorian looks profoundly ruffled. The points of his mustache are fraying, could use more wax. It's not a productive thing to tell him, Cullen figures. Fasta vass, it was close. She stumbled back through that last eluvian after ten minutes, having lost the Mark somewhere along the way. Before Cullen can ask for more detail, Dorian continues. Along with the rest of her forearm. Just before she lost consciousness, she told us -- Solas. It was Solas.
What?
It gets better, Dorian says, hushing his voice even further. The drop in volume doesn't do anything to disguise the acid in his tone, nor the faint horror underlying it. He's the original elven trickster, you see. The one they called Fen'Harel. The Dread Wolf. The one who built the Fade -- and the one who plans to tear it down and restore the old elven empire of Arlathan.
Cullen stares at Dorian.
Dorian's gaze slides to Bull, just for a moment. The Qunari were after Solas the whole time -- and the Inquisition, for aiding him. You see? He folds his arms -- as though to hold warmth in, not project stoic ire out. That's... nearly all we could get from her, after. We'd just fought a small horde, you see, including a Qunari saarebas who'd taken too much lyrium and fought far better than Corypheus himself. The best I could do... He presses his lips together. Well. She returned alive. I expect I shan't find lizards in my bed, at the very least. Vivienne's much better at this sort of thing. Who knows? Sera might exempt her from lizards for at least the next month.
Alistair and I said vows, Cullen finds himself saying after a long moment, and he found a bottle of brandy afterward, and if I'd been thinking at all I'd have brought it down.
No one is perfect, my dear Commander. At least there's a touch of insouciance back in Dorian's manner. But find me before I depart. We'll drink to your vows -- as long as you buy.
no subject
(For her part, Vivienne doesn't shoo Sera away, even though Cullen's seen enough healers at work to know Sera's hovering is a distraction at best. Thank the Maker for the focus of the Knight-Enchanters.)
Leliana looks up from where she's huddled with Dorian and Bull, and nods; the Divine's miter is on a side table, and just that simple shift makes her more Sister Nightingale than Divine Stabbity. He knows that nod: there's news, but no emergency.
Cullen waits until Dorian slips next to him -- Leliana and Bull continue talking, likely about the Qunari's response or something like that -- to say, softly, She'll live?
Dorian looks profoundly ruffled. The points of his mustache are fraying, could use more wax. It's not a productive thing to tell him, Cullen figures. Fasta vass, it was close. She stumbled back through that last eluvian after ten minutes, having lost the Mark somewhere along the way. Before Cullen can ask for more detail, Dorian continues. Along with the rest of her forearm. Just before she lost consciousness, she told us -- Solas. It was Solas.
What?
It gets better, Dorian says, hushing his voice even further. The drop in volume doesn't do anything to disguise the acid in his tone, nor the faint horror underlying it. He's the original elven trickster, you see. The one they called Fen'Harel. The Dread Wolf. The one who built the Fade -- and the one who plans to tear it down and restore the old elven empire of Arlathan.
Cullen stares at Dorian.
Dorian's gaze slides to Bull, just for a moment. The Qunari were after Solas the whole time -- and the Inquisition, for aiding him. You see? He folds his arms -- as though to hold warmth in, not project stoic ire out. That's... nearly all we could get from her, after. We'd just fought a small horde, you see, including a Qunari saarebas who'd taken too much lyrium and fought far better than Corypheus himself. The best I could do... He presses his lips together. Well. She returned alive. I expect I shan't find lizards in my bed, at the very least. Vivienne's much better at this sort of thing. Who knows? Sera might exempt her from lizards for at least
the next month.
Alistair and I said vows, Cullen finds himself saying after a long moment, and he found a bottle of brandy afterward, and if I'd been thinking at all I'd have brought it down.
No one is perfect, my dear Commander. At least there's a touch of insouciance back in Dorian's manner. But find me before I depart. We'll drink to your vows -- as long as you buy.