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isola-affiliated varric tethras from dragon age. indie-friendly. 18+

[epistolaries]

"Most people are like cats. They either puff up to look dangerous or they crouch down and hope you don't see them. You show them you're not a victim or threat, and they're in your lap and purring before you know it."

App / Stats / Rules / Nicknames

The dwarf, the legend, the chest hair—Varric Tethras, author of Hard in Hightown, best-selling book in all of Thedas. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.

No major content warnings, aside from canon-typical violence.

[deimcs]

“The Blackmarsh is a gloomy, desolate place. All who travel the one lonely path between the trees are beset by an oppressive feeling of dread. Nothing stirs in the marsh, for even birds and beasts sense the foulness in the air and dare not stray too close.” - DRAGON AGE: AWAKENING CODEX

[wiseoldmage]

"Then allow me to refill your pantry with bread, as it were. Many have tried to catalogue my life, to mixed levels of success- some see me as a folktale, some hero or villain that was there in important chapters of our realm's stories. Some see me as some sort of beast to catalogue, little more than an ever-illusive snipe or untamable myth. Others still come to me asking of the mystic arts, the different branches of our benevolent weave that gives and takes like an ebbing tide..." The man sighed, shaking his head and finally drinking a healthy swig. Despite his age, he showed little reaction to the strong drink. "But... to me, I suppose, I am simply me. Why, even with thousands of years to my life, there's no reason that your book of tales should be any lighter than mine, my friend." He raised his mug again, offering a kind smile. "Still... I suppose you're right. We could be doing worse for ourselves than a populated land with people much like ourselves. Gods have forever dotted different planes like stars in the sky- be these benevolent or malevolent, well, you would likely know more than I..."

[epistolaries]

Varric can tell he's going to like this old man. The way he phrases himself, it speaks of someone not only smart, but witty. He likes witty. Who doesn't? And it's gold to a writer, makes his job so much easier.

"Wait wait, back up old timer—thousands of years?" Holy shit. Forget that 'weave' stuff, this is better. An immortal (?) wizard! Imagine if the Vints could live that long. "You're going to have to explain that. Where I come from, that's the stuff of legends. They say elves used to live forever, but that and their empire came tumbling down with the arrival of humans."

Not the whole truth, Varric knows now. But myth-making is myth-making, revealing much about those who invent it, even if it's lies. And this wizard doesn't need to know the minutiae of Thedosian history and race relations yet. Not unless he asks.

"Uh, I wouldn't be so sure of that. My knowledge on the gods isn't the same as a Dalish Keeper's, or a Chantry Mother's. I never quite learned that whole being pious thing so many people peddle in Thedas. Wrong beliefs anyways. Dwarves are supposed to believe in this thing called the Stone. But me? I was born on the surface, so I never developed the sense for it."

[epistolaries]

"Someone asked me if I was dressed as a toy bard for this Halloween. Have the children forgotten their stories about dwarves and gnomes? I refuse to grow a beard, or sing."

[punisheye]

"Huh?"

It's surprisingly easy to get him to stop in his tracks. He blinks, looking down. Wow, that's one short guy. Looks like he's even shorter than that little insurance lady. Or, well, maybe Wolfwood's just freakishly tall. That's also a possibility. Plenty of people have said it.

He's got a particular air about him, though: confident and charismatic. No real signs of being duplicitous. Friendly enough. The nickname—and the promise of making it worth his time—earns the stranger a slight upward quirk of his lips.

"Since ya asked so nice, I got a tailor down in Fibonacci; not a lotta stores out here got anythin' that fits us long-legged folks." This guy might be in luck and have an easier time. "If it does, it ain't my style. So I found someone who can do both. I reckon they could help ya out."

And, well, just like this guy says—likely they have similar tastes, if the plunging neckline is anything to go by.

"Not findin' anythin' that suits ya 'round here?"

[epistolaries]

Varric knows that look. Yeah, he's short—a dwarf. Imagine that. But he's always taken it in stride, no chip on his shoulder over it. Why get angry about what you cannot change? Besides, it makes him so damn cute. And cuteness, in the right hands, is deadly.

Case in point.

"Not a lot of stores that fit us short-legged folk either. Which is why I'm asking." And Varric's looked. It was funny at first, how apologetic the shopkeepers were about his particular issue. But after the tenth time or so, it grew tiresome. Only so many times he can watch humans squirm their way through an apology before it becomes cringe-worthy. "Not a damn thing. One shopkeeper suggested the children's section, and his tone sounded like he expected me to hit him for it. Lucky him, not the first time someone's cracked that joke. Alas, my arms and legs are too muscular."

"Varric Tethras, by they way. You can tell me your name, or I can keep calling you Smokey. I probably will, even if you give your name. Don't take it personally. I mean no disrespect."

[epistolaries]

This city wasn't made for dwarven feet. No city is, really, but this city makes him miss the layout of Lowtown, which is madness. Wherever Blondie's clinic might be would be, if proper characterization follows, in the dilapidated part of town, more alleys than streets. And it is madness to traverse its expanse with no Bianca strapped to his back.

But hey, no pain, no gain and all that.

It's also necessary (and fun!) to get a lay of the land. The citizens of this sprawling metropolis are not used to dwarves, obviously, for the stares are many, not lingering purely at his sternum as usual. At least being called cute never gets old, never meant with malice either.

This time, however, it's Varric's turn to stare.

"Hey, aren't you that Crow Hawke was supposed to kill?" A snort leaves his lips, his hands thrown in the air in a gesture conveying well, what can do you? "But then he didn't because whatsisname—Nuncio, that's right—attacked us all."

"Try not to piss off anyone else while I'm here, okay? I'm still looking for Bianca."

[epistolaries]

"Alright, so, I think you and I have similar fashion tastes, so point me towards your tailor," Varric asks this smoke-cloud blowing, hirsute-chested stranger—its thickness and prominence impressive in its own right, but not as impressive as his own—with such confidence it's chummy, perhaps inappropriately so.

But this a dwarf used to getting his questions answered, so he barrels past that moment of silence, before this man decides to stop looking down, then continue walking.

"Promise I'll make it worth your time, Smokey."

@punisheye

[epistolaries]

My new Bluesky account. FYI that I post NSFW over there (yaoi, mostly).

[wiseoldmage]

With Varric clearly offering the man a kindness that the mage wouldn't take for granted, Elminster still took the time to appreciate someone with a lenient enough policy that meant El would be able to drink tonight. He would have to figure out how to make money (or what form of currency they used here) later. "Then Elminster Aumar at yours, right after I sample your hospitality, request a flagon of ale, and am sure to raise it in toast to the departed and her benevolence which saves me this day." Clearly this man talked as fancy as he looked, but he also seemed to be in high spirits for an old man. "Still, you may find that the currency I offer is far more substantial than you expect!" El casually stroked his beard as he watched Varric work, temporarily putting his mind back in simpler times where a dwarven barkeep was as common as rain. "I'm ancient enough to have more stories in my life than scores of people could ever hope to craft- not that all of them are proper to speak of, or even interesting in the first place! So perhaps I shall start simple. Tell me, how long have you been in this strange realm we now inhabit?

[epistolaries]

Varric loves this tavern, it's appropriate dilapidated, and the stools are tall enough with plenty of tiered footrests he can easily climb to the top without embarrassing himself. The drinks are reasonably priced. Its patrons are a mixture from all sorts of social circles yet remains comfortably working class in mien, exactly how he likes it.

Best of all? Neither the Carta nor the Merchants' Guild own the place.

(That he's invested in this place, therefore is obliged to give them business and drive up business, is neither here nor there. )

If only Elminster knew how much this dwarf loves taverns. The wizard's onto something there—the dwarven urge to lounge about where everyone knows your name.

"I don't mind those sort of stories. They're my bread and butter," Varric comments off-hand, takes a sip of his frothy ale, then wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, "Depends whether you're okay with them ending up on paper, potentially. I'm a storyteller, serah. I'll never waste good plots or characters." With the twinkle in his honey brown eyes and the smug aura he's projecting, it sounds both a promise and a threat.

"A couple of weeks?" He thinks back on all the eventful moments he's experienced so far. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Should've known interdimensional travel is possible after everything that's happened to me." He lets out a low chuckle. "Glad they brought me to a city this time and not some cave in the middle of nowhere. I hate caves."

[wiseoldmage]

@epistolaries liked for a starter!

It had been a most interesting day for Elminster! He'd met friends, old and new, and had slowly become more acclimated with his lot in this strange new land. While he wasn't entirely sure what his long-term goals would be for this place or if he was prepared to struggle to escape, he knew that he no longer needed to go at it alone. Perhaps that was why he carried himself with such a light skip in his step- or at least, as much of a skip as a thousand year old man could bring himself to do. Libraries, large grassy knolls, places that reminded him of the realm he knew. So what better way to end it all than a trip to one of the last locales that all adventurers found themselves going to at the end of the day? A tavern! Or... at the very least, the closest thing that could be managed to that in these... Spirales. All people with good tales parked themselves in an inn when night rolled around- surely that didn't change just because they were in a different plane of existence, right? So when El finally found a place that looked serviceable, he made his way to a barstool that looked close enough to the barkeep while also giving him a good vantage point over the people coming and going from the establishment. "Kind fellow," he called out to whoever would aide him, "I find my throat to be rather parched- could I trouble you for an ale? The kind that is of a poorer quality that you do not mind parting with for little money? Or, if lacking in a distillery of such ill quality, I shall simply take a water and pay you with my thanks!"

[epistolaries]

This old man looks like he stepped right out of a fantasy series, pointy hat included. Or that he got lost on his way to the nearest senior enchanters' Circle meeting. It takes a lot of self-control for Varric not to burst out laughing, ask this impeccably bearded stranger how his casting is doing.

But his mother raised him better. Alas, you cannot take the cheek out of the dwarf.

"Not in the business of doing things for free. I have a reputation to maintain." And create, for those who do not know him. "But my mother, rest her soul," and Varric makes a gesture akin to a prayer with his thick, begloved fingers, "would hit me upside the head if I didn't help out the elderly. So," and the dwarf gestures at the bartender, signaling the wizard's drink is on him, "order whatever you'd like, tell me your story, and we'll call it even."

An old man dressed like this, without an interesting story? Impossible. This is foreshadowing in the flesh.

"Varric Tethras, at your service. I recommend the ale, but hard pass on the rum."

[epistolaries]

Alright, like for a starter. Capping this at three, castmates except though I'm still gonna cap it at five max.

[epistolaries]

[epistolaries]

"I'll be smelling tomato sauce for a solid week. I think it's best we leave Curly with the household tasks from now on."

Yep, this is going into the cringe compilationthe book.

[epistolaries]

"You're telling me there's people here who charge others to listen to their problems?"

"I'm in the wrong business."

[mirevasan]

" I'd say ask Cullen for the details but I promised not to tease him too much about it." which she's being very good about, mind you! " Plus, I'm sure Dorian's already had a go at it."

" Did the ' forces that be ' ever consider the fact that I'd like to rest? I haven't been able to sleep in for years now!" a roll of the eyes. " True. And how knows, maybe another ancient god will walk into this place. Maybe Solas could finally have some company in the woods then."

[epistolaries]

"Good thing you made that promise, not me. Sparkler doesn't know Hawke or Curly the way I do. I'll get it out of them."

"I don't know, this place doesn't seem so bad. A lot less bears than the Hinterlands, that's for sure." And it's a city! Whenever he's whisked away to some foreign land it's always to some Maker-forsaken terrain like caves, or bogs. This? Is practically a picnic. "Chuckles too? Who's left to defend—or tear down—Thedas at this point?"

[accipio]

Hawke at least has the grace to wince. “Well, I did invite you to join me on my ignominious flight from justice, but we both know you’re not the type to get your beauty sleep in some spider-infested bolthole. I’m sure you had the Seeker eating out of your hand in no time.” By now accustomed to being Varric’s writing fodder, the thought of the tawdry details of his personal life ending up in print doesn’t bother him too much. “So long as you promise to put appropriate emphasis on my dashing good looks. Tale of the Champion was rather lacking in that department, you know.”

He snorts derisively. “Don’t count on it. If he wanted to apologize, he’d have to detach himself from Andraste’s heavenly teat and descend to the level of us mere mortals. That sure as hell isn’t happening any time soon. Or ever.” Hawke doesn’t consider himself a particularly vindictive person, but Sebastian eliminated the possibility of reconciliation between them when he raised an army against Kirkwall. If he never sees the sanctimonious little princeling again, it’ll be too soon.

Oh, Maker’s bollocks. He should have known the nosy blighter would eat this up. If only for Cullen’s sake, he mentally scrounges for something to distract Varric from this line of inquiry, but he knows that it’s futile. The dwarf is like a bloodhound after juicy gossip, doubly so when he can turn that gossip into book sales. “Royalties? Oh, please. You know damn well he fell for me because I’m entirely too charming for my own good, thank you very much. And it didn’t happen like in those awful romance novels, either. We just so happened to bond after events conspired to trap us in the Fade, and… I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?”

“Sparkler? You and Dorian know each other? Figures, he said he was with the Inquisition.” He really ought to just accept that Varric is on a first-name basis with every man, woman, and child in Thedas. “I’d rather not spend my night scraping up whatever’s left of Cullen after Justice is done with him, so I’m inclined to agree with you there.” 

Varric’s title ideas elicit a groan. “Sweet Andraste, you’re serious, aren’t you? Since I’d give any templar who tried to drag me to a Circle the drubbing of his life, perfect arse or no, it had better be the first one.” Cullen dragging him to the Circle in chains has featured prominently in some of his more licentious daydreams, but he’s not about to admit that to Varric. Bastard would never let him live it down.

[epistolaries]

"Someone had to stay behind and take the heat off you. And too many people in Kirkwall owe me money for me to skip town. Then there's all the businesses I help run. The Merchants' Guild would lose their minds, which means the Carta would lose theirs and then we'd have half of Kirkwall and Orzammar after us. Not worth it." That Varric hates caves, moisture, roughing it in the outdoors, anything that isn't the comforts of civilization? Needless details. "Everyone's a critic. Tale of the Champion is an account of historical events, not the trashy erotica we made fun of at the Hanged Man. But hey, that's why I'll be writing He Circled My Heart. I'll dedicate half a chapter on how your looks remind me of mabari, you Fereldans love that stuff, then I'll spend the other half on Curly, contrasting and comparing you two, enemies slash lovers." The Inquisition's forces, together with Aveline's city guard, handling Sebastian was good enough for him. No need to commit more energy on a man who'd either see the error of his ways, or wouldn't. That's life for ya.

"If Choir Boy shows up there's always the possibility he comes from a point when he hasn't done any of that. We should try to be nice, to keep the peace if anything. Besides, Curly and Aveline made him flee Kirkwall with Andraste's face falling down his crotch. Fun as it sounds, I don't think we need to beat him senseless again."

"Don't dismiss our teamwork, Hawke. It's rare I meet someone with a vocabulary as nice as mine, or as committed to annoying people into friendships." Well, after Hawke, that is. "But don't tell Sparkler that, he'll never shut up about it."

"Wait, you and Curly were trapped in the Fade, forced to work together?" Varric's honey brown eyes light up in authorial glee. There's a glint around Hawke's neck, metallic in nature. "I spy with my little eye..." His meaty pointer finger traces a meandering path in the air until it settles somewhere at the center of Hawke's chest, behind that gorget that cannot hide from the dwarf's keen instincts. "Let me guess, phylactery? You weren't the type to wear necklaces before. And there's no way that's your own blood, not even Daisy could convince you to give blood magic a try. Which leaves only one other Fereldan whose blood you'd be wearing around your neck right above your heart." A shit-eating grin. "I've been in the Fade, that place is a maze. So you two needed a way to keep track of each other, and inadvertently made a lasting symbol of love. Sounds just like those awful romance novels to me, Hawke."

"Yeah, me and Sparkler go way back. Ends up it's helpful to have a Tevinter mage on the payroll when you're dealing with an ancient Tevinter magister. We also braided each other's hair and talked about boys—Curly and Tiny, mostly. Guy has a thing for strapping, furry men. Caught him peeking at my chest hair a couple of times. But you know how it is—I'm in a committed relationship with Bianca."

The image of a vaguely Cullen-shaped soot stain does shake Varric out of his mirthful mood, however. "Take it Blondie's still angry about everything? Figures." Would Anders always be angry as long as Justice possessed him? Varric thinks about Cole, how different that kid was. If only Anders could've gotten possessed by a spirit like that...

(Well, actually, that might've made things worse too. What's the opposite of compassion—indifference? Callousness?)

Hawke's groan elicits a smirk from Varric. "It's allegorical. You know, circles, cycles, love and hate, mages and templars? Symbols. You out of anyone in Thedas should know how that goes. Embrace your place in history, Champion. The title's staying."

[mirevasan]

" Especially for a retired Commander. Just last month did we have to deal with red lyrium but he resisted the song. It helps that Hawke is there to look after him."

" Oh gods, don't jinx it. Though with you here now, maybe some of that divine bad luck will kick in. "

[epistolaries]

"Well, shit. So that's how it happened. No wonder they're kissing each other now." Snort.

"No rest for the wicked, Inquisitor. If it wasn't for my luck, I wouldn't have anything interesting to write about."