Orsino did not consider himself to be a drunkard, or an alcoholic, or anything else that would besmirch his pride over the indulgence of alcohol. While he took to the drink more often than ever before in his life, he was not reliant. It was a fact he was adamant about, as he could only deny his other habits to a certain extent. He didn’t need anymore, but what he did need occasionally was something to take his edged away. It was just now that he seemed to be made of nothing but sharp edges.
Alcohol sometimes helped in dulling the points, and sometimes it did not. It was only recently that Orsino realized that drinking alone was far worse than drinking with friends. It kept his mind occupied on something else rather than what dwelled in his darkest depths.
“Neither did I,” Orsino returned with sincerity. The thought of sharing a glass with any other Templar than Thrask was practically incomprehensible to Orsino. Who else could he trust like Thrask? While his constant mistrust of Templars would always remain, he knew tho other to be a good man through actions seen by Orsino himself instead of self-righteous claims.
“Let’s take it as a sign for better times.” The mage took the wine that had been poured for them, giving a thankful nod towards Thrask for the initiative, and raised the glass for a toast. “Perhaps that’s what we should toast to: better times in the near future. Once we’ve drunk enough, it’ll be believable.” Dark humor made with smiling lips and bright eyes, but not even that could rid of the grim implications.
Thrask opened his mouth, but he had no prompt witticism that could counter Orsino’s joke, if a joke it could be called at all. He’d never been, truth be told, a man made for sharp rebuttals, of the nature that would be the repertoire of a certain kind of people, the kind who made of entertaining, sardonic socialisation their lifestyle.
He too raised his glass and, carefully, clinked it against Orsino’s. He did it with a faint smile, a little tired but nonetheless complicit, then sipped his wine. He’d tasted better, but he’d also tasted worse: this one was slightly sour, but rich in flavour, and it was better than nothing and more than enough.
« I want to believe, Orsino », he said then.
It wasn’t blind faith. He no longer picked up sword and shield and wore his armour thinking that the Maker’s light shone through the blade of mercy emblazoned on his breastplate. That kind of certainty had abandoned him many years ago, long before Olivia’s death. He said it, in fact, with a certain restraint, a certain awareness.
« It’s the reason why I’m here at all. Why I came to the Inquisition. » A pause, then he smiles to himself and corrects his statement. « Or why I tried to reach Divine Justinia, at least. Arriving too late has been more of a blessing than I could ever have imagined. But I want to believe. »
He looked away, towards the other patrons of the Herald’s Rest, men and women of every race (even Qunari, he reminded himself, spotting the large horned mercenary behind the stairs, on the other side of the tavern); perhaps not all of them were guided by a belief or a hope, but it had to be a reason strong enough to lead them up the mountains, to Skyhold.
Again Thrask looked at Orsino, his grey hair, the wrinkles, and matched the gleam in his eyes with a spark of his own. « It’s either that or getting drunk for the rest of my life, and a constant hangover does not feel very good at all. »
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