This was a fun idea I couldn't pass up! I found that while my Rook had a lot to say on the first impression, my Inquisitor was the type to withhold judgment and let actions speak louder. So Rook's half takes place during that first meeting in the Cobbled Swan, while the Inquisitor is during the penultimate quest One Last Breath. Spoilers ahoy!
Chiara blinked in surprise when Harding finished speaking. Inquisitor Lavellan- so this was Inquisitor Lavellan.
She'd heard the legends, of course. Stories of this Dalish mage who'd somehow gotten himself appointed the Herald of Andraste, rebel leader of the faithful in the south. She'd been a teenager when all that was happening, seldom leaving the bounds of Antiva, but even there she'd heard plenty of stories. Of his bringing to heel the rogue Templars, saving the Grey Wardens from destroying themselves, thwarting the assassination of the Orlesian empress, and of course, the defeat of Corypheus.
Seeing the man behind the myth, she was struck but just how… ordinary he looked. If she'd seen him on the streets of Treviso or Docktown, she wouldn't have given him a second glance. Like most elves he was slight and willowy, with skin dyed bronze by long hours in the sun. He had an upturned nose framed by eyes the color of fire, and the golden inked branches of those Dalish tatoos. What were they called again? Val… Vali… Hm. I'll ask Bellara later.
His hair, shaved down to stubble along either side of his scalp, formed a blonde braid along the top of his head that stopped just below the point where his skull met his neck. Practical for a fighting man, the crow in her observed with approval. Mages didn't often consider such things.
The only attention-getting thing about him was the stump- his left arm ending just above the elbow, with his sleeve pinned up and out of the way. That must have been where the so-called Mark of Andraste was- the one that had almost killed him, until Solas took his arm and the mark with it. Varric had mentioned that many artificers and enchanters had offered to make the Inquisitor a prosthetic, but he had declined.
"Don't need the arm to be dangerous," he commented, clearly having noticed the direction of her gaze. She glanced back up at his face to find his eyes dancing with amusement. He winked, and a halo of fire briefly surrounded his head before snuffing out. She couldn't help but smile back. He seemed so earnest, so vibrant and open in spite of all he had been through. Varric had once described him as, "Not much one for politics, but he cared about people, and they knew it."
In those cheery, dancing amber eyes, Chiara could see exactly what Varric meant.
Belial hadn't been sure what to expect from this recruit of Varric's. Between Hawke, Bianca, and the apostate that started the Mage Rebellion, the man had interesting taste in friends.
The dwarf who stood opposite him at the long table had certainly lived up to Varric's eclectic tendencies. She (it was "she," Belial remembered from Varric's letters; Rook was like Crem) wore the trademark blue of the Antivan Crows, but instead of the knives or arrows Belial usually expected from an assassin, a war hammer rested at her hip and a broad shield on her back. She had dark skin with an even darker splotch of a birthmark across her right cheek. Her hair, swept across her scalp in short dreadlocks, was dyed a brilliant shade of magenta out of all keeping with what one might expect from a legendary Crow Assassin. That hair in particular had surprised him when he met her for the first time- it was very memorable for someone who would've been expected to fade into the shadows.
But in this, it turned out that Varric's instincts had been right on the money. They didn't need a shadow, but a confident, inspirational leader. And that hair certainly reflected Rook's confidence.
It's like I told Cass- Never play Wicked Grace against Varric. He always wins a bet.
Like all dwarves Rook was stocky, but he'd spent enough time with Varric, Harding, and Dagna to recognize that there was an appreciable layer of muscle on her as well. Strength, confidence, and intelligence as well. He remembered with amusement the calculation in her eyes as she'd looked him up and down critically during their first meeting.
People look at you, Boss, they see a guileless doofus, Iron Bull had once told him.
One on one you're about as intimidating as a nug. Crem had agreed. Er. No offense, your worship.
A healthy dose of skepticism in their one last hope wasn't a bad thing either, though. Solas certainly warranted it. It still made Belial sad, remembering everything his old friend had done to both the Inquisition, and now to Rook's Veilguard. And to Rook herself- she couldn't be blamed for her obvious resentment of, Solas, not really. Fool me once, as the saying went.
But for all his facade of cynicism, for all his talk of being a writer of tragedies and knowing how heroes ended, just like Belial, Varric hadn't been able to give up on Solas. It remained to be seen what his protege would chose, in the final confrontation that lay just ahead.
But her team clearly trusted her. The Crows, Wardens, Lords, Veil Jumpers, Mourn Watch, and Shadow Dragons trusted her. Morrigan trusted her, and the Witch of the Wilds was far from free with her trust.
And when Rook finally looked up into his eyes, and he smiled encouragingly, giving her his trust too.
