Now I write Dragon Age fic, apparently. For @littlestartopaz, who requested this prompt:
“You know the difference between subjective and objective, right? ‘Some rabbits’ is the former, ‘three rabbits’ is the latter, and much more accurate. So I’m going to need you to be very clear when you say there are ‘a few’ dragons outside.”
Dorian Pavus, formerly of House Pavus in Tevinter and lately of Skyhold, Altus and ex-heir of the Magisterium, had borne witness a number of strange things in his life, the vast majority of which had come to pass in the last six months. These strange things have included, among others, an archdemon, a Qunari with a jovial temper, a Seeker and a Templar working side-by-side with mages, a truly preposterous number of demons all-too-solid for his liking, and whatever the blessed hell that sword-horned terror in the stables was called. And, of course, there was Rhosyn Lavellan, Dalish elf, Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, and presumptive savior of the world, whom he had personally seen get into fights with no less than seventeen great bears.
Seeing that sort of person walk out of a ravine and immediately turn on her heel, looking distinctly pale under the black ink of her lacework vallasin, was notably strange, even among such a prodigious collection of oddities.
“Boss?” the Iron Bull asked, reaching absently for the haft of the great axe she had gifted him after their move to Skyhold. “Everything all right?”
“We are not going that way,” she said firmly. “Not today, at least.”
“Seems like a nice enough way to go,” Varric observed.
“Well,” Lavellan said, with the sort of pointedly chipper cock to her head that suggested she was feeling a bit maniacal, an expression that always made Dorian’s blood run a little cold with foreboding, “if you want to go scuffle with a few dragons out there, you are more than welcome. I am trying to stay alive long enough to worry about Corypheus and his lot, so I am going the other way. Andraste’s rosy tits,” she muttered under her breath, raking her hair back from her face. “I’m shaking that hard.”
“Lavellan, dearest,” Dorian said, and she looked over at him, steel blue eyes alight with adrenaline. “I’m sure some of you southern barbarians are literate,” he drawled, and she silently arched an eyebrow at him, “so you know the difference between subjective and objective, right? Some nugs is the former, three nugs is the latter, and far more precise. So, I’m going to need you to be exceptionally clear when you say there are ‘a few dragons out there,’ yes?”
She gave him a crooked, slightly wild grin. “Well, I saw five, a mother and four babies, but I suppose there could be more. Did you want to double check?”
“Hell, I’ll go,” Bull said, eager, eye bright and his broad mouth stretching into a grin. Lavellan threw out her right hand, catching him against the chest and stopping him dead with a tolerantly amused look on his face—it was blatantly evident that he could pick her up and carry her under his arm like a sack of potatoes if the whim took him. The Iron Bull was an extremely sizable Qunari (not that Dorian took note of such things), and Lavellan was a positively dainty Dalish elf. Dorian had seen Bull carry the Inquisitor on his shoulders while she folded her arms on the crown of his head and slept.
“No dragons today, Bull,” she said, somewhere between apology and mild hysteria. It evened out to high spirits, that, all things being equal, usually ended with picking a fight with some convenient Templars or apostates. “We’ll come back another time.”
“With an ice mage, I sincerely hope,” Dorian remarked. “Not that I’m not happy to help, but I somehow imagine Solas might be of more use.” He’d never fought a dragon and, until scrapping with great bears and red lyrium monsters became part of his norm, had never considered the idea. He didn’t need to consider it long in order to suspect that a pyromancer, perhaps, might not have the best of luck.
Lavellan clapped him on the back, chivvying the three of them back up the ravine toward Dusklight Camp. “Yes! That’s the spirit, Dorian, knew there was a reason I liked you.”
“What is it with you and finding fights we can’t win?” he wondered. “Bears and armies and dragons.”
“Oh my,” Varric said dryly. Lavellan laughed at that, and the dwarf shook his head. “It’s just what heroes do, Sparkler. Pick fights they can’t win. Like the entire Chantry, or a power-mad archdemon, or a resurrected wanna-be god. You know. Little stuff.”
