storyteller

[authorizedbiographer]

“We could always laugh at him.”

Varric cast a sardonic look at the Crow, then back at the slowly advancing behemoth of a lowlife in front of them. The fellow was the last remaining member of his particular weird street gang – Dexy’s Midnight Runners? Or was it Doctor Teeth and the Electric Mayhem? Varric had lost track – but he didn’t seem to mind too much, just grinning at them with a mouthful of yellowed chompers. Had to be at least half-giant or something, given his size and the lack of anything like intelligence glimmering in his eyes.

What a time to be out of bolts! And the rest of the crew wasn’t in any better shape; Hawke shrugged at him, her grenade belt empty and both her main daggers still sticking in the corpses of a couple of Behemoth’s buddies. She still had her smaller blades, but against Behemoth it’d be like taking down a dragon with a sewing needle. Zevran was empty-handed too, it seemed, having thrown his last blade right into the eye of Dexy. Or Doctor Teeth. Whoever.

“Yeah, we could try that,” Varric agreed. “Nothing more devastating than a well-aimed insult. Personally, however, I’d suggest something else.”

Honestly, this was why you didn’t send three rogues to do a warrior’s job. Shoddy planning, is what it was.

“Run!”

[authorizedbiographer]

“We are all fools in love.”

Varric leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingersacross his chest, leveling a long look at the Antivan elf. Zevran was perchedin his own chair like the bird his profession declared him, eyes shining brightand keen. Sometimes it was easy to underestimate the assassin; he joked andpulled little pratfalls, flirted his way through the tavern and told hisstories carefully slanted to downplay his own actions in them.

Varric, who made a living out of telling stories, could seeall the rough bits where the edges of Zevran’s tales didn’t quite line up.Places where shit had been left out, or spun for effect. Oh, Zevran was good atit, maybe; but you can’t kid a kidder. Varric liked him, but that didn’t meanhe quite trusted him. Especially not with Hawke’s heart.

“Love, is it? All right, Crow; let’s just say I buy that for halfa second. Hawke deserves someone who’s going to be there for her, not alwaysflitting around, one day here and the next day gone. Reliable. She’s already lostenough in her life. I know you think she’s strong, and Maker believe me, sheis. Shit she’s gone through…. But she’s got her limits, like anyone. You say you love her,you better start acting like it.”

[authorizedbiographer]

"You already owe me a fortune."

“Aw, now that’s pushing it a bit, don’t you think? What’s ahandful of sovereigns between friends, anyway?” Varric asked with a laugh,spreading his hands before him, palms up. Somewhere ahead of them on the path,he heard Hawke snort through her nose, but blessedly, she didn’t say a thing this time.

He hated it when Hawke dragged them out to Sundermount. Theincline was just murder on his knees and there was so much wildlife everywhere – if you could call giant spiders, variousassorted demons, and even the occasional darkspawn wildlife. He called it a damn nuisance; the smell of spider ichorjust refused to come out of fabric once it’d soaked in. He’d ruined more goodtunics that way. He had to distract himself somehow; and gambling was always a good distraction. Assuming he could get anyone to take his bets, that was.

“It’s an easy enough bet, elf,” he added. “This time, there’llbe at least half a dozen dragonlings. If there are more than that, we wipe outmy debt and call it all even. What’d’ya say?”

[authorizedbiographer]

« I think it is too late. »

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Red,” Varric drawled, without even a glance at his hand. Everyone had tells. Varric’s was overconfidence. He stopped checking his cards when he knew he had a winning hand. “You’re only in the hole three silver so far. What’s another?”

Beside him, Sweet Sam Trouble, one of Lowtown’s more colorful personalities – and given that this was Lowtown, that was really saying something – snorted into her tankard. “Careful, Thrask. People only say shit like that when they’re pretty sure their balls are as big and hairy as coconuts.”

Sweet Sam Trouble – not her real name; she’d once said to Varric “My mother always said I was nothin’ but trouble; figured not to make her a liar, is all,” – was listing precariously to one side already. For that matter, so was Thrask. Varric didn’t actually drink anything at the Hanged Man; their wine cellar was terrible. He just kept a tankard handy and wet his lips from it once in a while to put people at ease.“

"Aw, come on now, Troubles!” Varric protested, leaning back in his chair to better display the luxuriant froth of chest hair. “Don’t be impugning the honor – or hairness – of a dwarf’s balls right before the ante!”

[fortherpwriters]

Pride and Prejudice sentence meme

[authorizedbiographer]

fortherpwriters:

“As you wish to tell me, I doubt I have any choice in the matter.”

“Good heavens. People.”

“Have you no compassion for my poor nerves?”

“Miserable he may be, poor he is not.”

“I have never seen so many pretty girls in all my life.”

“I doubt we shall ever speak again.”

“People do not die from colds.”

“Good Lord, did you walk here?”

“She looked positively medieval.”

“You write uncommonly fast.”

“We could always laugh at him.”

“My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”

“What excellent boiled potatoes.”

“You already owe me a fortune.”

“You can’t invite people to other people’s balls.”

“If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. Not I.”

“Do you never think ill of anybody?”

“It would be most inconvenient as I have sworn to loath him for all eternity.”

“What interesting relatives you have.”

“Clearly, my family are having a competition to see who can expose themselves to the most ridicule.”

“I think she likes him very much.”

“We are all fools in love.”

“You could not make me happy and I am convinced that I am the last person in the world to make you happy.”

“Headstrong, foolish child.”

“You cannot make me.”

“Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry him/her and I will never see you again if you do.”

“Not all of us can afford to be romantic.”

“Don’t judge me, don’t you dare judge me.”

“I love you. Most ardently.”

“So this is your opinion of me, thank you for explaining so fully.”

“I’m quite over him.”

“She’ll be fixed forever as the silliest and most determined flirt who ever made her family ridiculous.”

“My brother gave it to me, he shouldn’t have.”

“Quite well is not very well.”

“I think it is too late.”

“First, I must tell you I’ve been the most unmitigated and comprehensive ass.”

“Can you die of happiness?”

“You have insulted me in every possible way and can now have nothing further to say.”

“For once in your life, leave me alone!”

“Surely you must know it was all for you.”

“I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

“Your hands are cold.”

“I was entirely wrong about him/her.”

“You really do love him/her, don’t you?”

“We’re both so stubborn.”

“I heartily give my consent.”

[authorizedbiographer]

SEEKER:

The silence slipped through her fingers in the rambunctious crowd of the tavern. Sloppy. Careless. Her eyes narrowed for a moment–––she took stock of the situation she’d run into. 

Sturhald, of course. She’d seen him and Varric chit-chat in the castle every once in a while, and it made her wonder more than once about the bonds that were knit and unraveled and knit again between the Surfacers and the thaig-dwellers. Then again, as far as she was familiar with dwarven culture–––and it wasn’t much; a life such as hers inevitably left some gaps to fill–––the stonemason would have spent his last days with his kin below ground. He looked at her with knitted brow, jaw tense; now that she had cast her eye around, it was difficult not to notice. 

She did not care. 

Sutherland, she was surprised to see; she’d expected him on patrol, breaking in that new archer of his. He, too, stared at the Seeker with a level gaze, and when she met it, briefly dropped his chin in a silent salute. 

She returned it. 

The elf, the elf she remembered from the sorry camp of some clan or another whence he came; and although she could still see before her eye the hasty, gangly movements with which he scrambled together his few belongings, she could not for the light of the Maker remember the name of the boy. 

She would remember eventually.

The good thing was, the Inquisition was growing, and the rate at which it did comforted her; it must mean something. It must mean she and Leliana had planted it in fertile soil, and the sweat and blood and tears with which it was watered were not given in vain. 

For the Inquisition. She reminded herself, each night, before bed, before prayer, that all this, every step she made and word she spoke and life she took, was for the greater good of this hallowed institution plucked from the pages of a history book and seated right here, right now, in a land that needed it because no one else would step up to do the deeds that needed doing. 

For the Inquisition.

“No,” she grated out, “I came to apologize. I lost my temper, and it wasn’t nice.” It hadn’t behooved the rank and heritage of one such as her, either. “It won’t happen again.”

Well, knock me over with a feather! Was the Seeker actually trying to apologize? It sat about as well on her as a ballgown would have; he didn’t think he’d ever seen her look quite so out of sorts and uncomfortable in her own armor – well, except maybe that time Hawke had smiled at her, that was. The big human had turned red as bloodstone!

Varric cast Gatsi a sidelong look and saw the stonemason looking just about as flabbergasted as Varric himself felt; good old Chisels gave a half-snort of laughter, poorly disguised. On the other hand, Sutherland was looking up at Cassandra with that patented hero worship expression on his face again; damn Plucky seemed to think he was living in an adventure story. Well, Varric supposed he couldn’t blame him; he’d made a living off of writing that kind of shit, after all. The kid would find out sooner or later that real adventures were pretty uncomfortable at best. Until then, let him have his illusions. And Loranil… well, the wide-eyed Halla just looked a bit confused, Maker bless him. Or Creators, or whatever the Void.

Feeling pretty damned confident for once – all right, maybe even a little ballsy, what of it – Varric pushed back in his chair till it was balanced on the back legs and crossed his arms behind his neck, leveling a smirk at the Seeker. He was damned well going to enjoy this while he could. Milk it for every moment of Cassandra’s discomfort he could. Maybe it was petty of him. All right, it was definitely petty of him. But after all the shit she’d put him through, he figured he was due a little bit of pettiness.

“Wasn’t nice?” he asked, quirking his brows. “You chased me around a table, threatening me with physical violence which was only forestalled by the good offices of our august Inquisitor, and you say it wasn’t nice. I’d hate to hear what you’d say if you’d actually killed me. ‘A bit impolite,’ maybe? Or ‘regrettable.’ That sounds like a word you’d use. Regrettable.”

“But you know, I think I missed that first part. Want to repeat it for me, a little louder?” He cupped a hand to his ear. Beside him, he heard Gatsi mutter something which might have been ‘pushing.’

[authorizedbiographer]

makerbound:

@authorizedbiographer

It was absurd. Maker have mercy, it was truly, utterly, irrevocably absurd. 

At least to herself, that much she had to admit. At least to herself, she could let her self-esteem take that blow, chip a little, perhaps, and then be all the better prepared to avoid another blow that could, Lady forbid, hit her in public. 

A blow such as doubt, that was.

A blow such as hesitation.

A blow such as embarrassment.

Oh, get over yourself. Her brow curled itself into a scowl that Cassandra tried to shake off; yet a frown still remained, even as she hunched her shoulders and crossed the rain-slicked courtyard, new drops of rain coming down thick and in a steady pitter-patter. 

Hence the tavern was full, and that was hardly a surprise. 

No need for her to shove through the masses, though; not really. An elbow here, another nudge there, and people slowly passed, either way. She knew she had that effect, and it never bothered her, although others had remarked on how awkward it could make them feel around her: the tall, imposing woman clad in padded leather or chainmail, as prone to frowns as she was to smiles. She paid them little heed; she was who she was and how she was. The life she had was made for her, not by her, and if she had not ceased long ago to beat herself up about that, Cassandra Pentaghast would have succumbed to an ailment of far more serious character than the occasional bout of awkwardness that overcame her. 

Although, in that particular moment, of course, the apology sat about as heavy on her tongue as a bit on a steed’s.

“Varric.” She sounded like it, too, she thought; bridled and harnessed into a conversation she would as well avoid if she could.

It was pissing down rain outside, the nasty kind, with little bits of ice in it like teeth. Oooh, that’s a good opening line for something; gotta remember that one. The tavern was full and getting fuller, smelling like wet wool and wet fur. But the fire in the big hearth was leaping and laughter was on tap. Across the room, the Chargers were singing that song of theirs again; he liked that one, had a proper sense of fun to it. Blackwall was sitting at a corner table with the Inquisitor, the two of them making cow-eyes at each other and pretty much blind to anything else going on. He shook his head fondly; good on them.

And Hawke was in here somewhere too; he’d last seen her vanishing up the stairs in company of Sera, the both of them giggling and conspiratorial. He was kind of worried about what those two would get up to together, but figured it would sort itself out. With Hawke, it somehow always did.

It wasn’t the Hanged Man. But then again, what else was? The Herald’s Rest wasn’t too shabby, as taverns went; and if it was a little too clean, and if there weren’t quite enough brawls, and if the music was sometimes a little too slow and maudlin – no disrespect meant to the pretty minstrel, but he missed the rollicking Marcher songs he was used to – well, you couldn’t have everything, could you? The ale was cheap, the company convivial, and best yet, he had a whole new audience for his stories. And Hawke was here. That always helped.

“So no shit, there I was,” he started, taking a drink of his ale and wiping foam from his stubble. He was holding court as proudly as he ever did back in Kirkwall, a crew of admirers gathered around his table. Varric kind of liked the Sutherland kid, even if he was a bit reminiscent of a puppy sometimes. And Gatsi was a good hardheaded dwarf, reminded Varric of some of his parents’ friends. As for young Loranil – well, every storyteller would be so lucky as to have an audience like the fresh-faced Dalish; eager, attentive, and best of all, credulous.

It was the widening circle of quiet that alerted him. Varric looked up from his audience to see Cassandra looming there, all – loomy. Not my best effort; note to self, come up with good metaphor for Seeker’s looming.

“Seeker.” He took another drink, deliberately nonchalant. He didn’t think she’d attack him again, not with so many other people around. But she sure as nugshit looked to have a bee in her bonnet. “Something I can do for you; or are you just here to get your jollies by looking dour and ruining everyone else’s fun?”