I hc Foulques as a specialist in Alchemy, so I switched to him to do Crystarium Deliveries for the Facet of Nourishment (ALC/CUL)... I didn't expect to see so many parallels between this questline and Foulques' being betrayed by his friends at the Wood Wailers /crying
I'm imagining his anger at the craven poachers tricking the Amaro into taking their poison, knowing how cruel people can be after gaining your trust-- he'd feel like a hypocrite trying to convince the Amaro that he's different, so he carefully prepares each meal in front of the animal, showing him all the ingredients and telling him about them
At first he chose to help Bethric only because he specializes in Alchemy, but helping the Amaro overcome his fear becomes Personal until he finds himself so attached to the animal that he calls him a friend...
Nope, not emotional about this imaginary piece of fiction at all...
“...But they'd want us to enjoy it for ourselves, too─as would all our other loved ones who couldn't be with us here today. Remember: the best way to honor the dead is to live.”
In the capstone quest for the Facets, the Artisans of the Crystalline Mean come together to comfort the children of the Crystarium who are uncertain about the return of the night and the unexpected scariness of the dark. Each of the Facets brings their own talents forward, educating and inspiring the children.
And then the Warrior of Darkness hears a familiar whistle and the sky lights up in a way not seen on the First in over a hundred years...
“A little surprise I cooked up for the children with the Exarch's help─fireworks. And a taste of home for you, I'm told?”
Bethany likes the rain--funny, especially given Varric's new nickname for her.
Petrichor
Rain always reminded her of Ferelden.
It smelled different here, of course, where the drops hit the tightly-packed earth or cobblestone rather than fields and loose dirt. The scent in the air was a little more bitter, musty, compressed by the buildings rising around her. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply enough, though, it was there--a little house in Lothering, fields stretching out to the horizon, Carver chasing after Marian's mabari, Father standing in the doorway, watching them all.
"Petrichor is the word you're looking for, milady."
She opened her eyes and turned back, amused, to where Varric sat safely out of the rain. She thought it funny that he called her that; estate or no, she still felt like a refugee. Bethany, the little sister. Bethany, the apostate. Bethany, the noble didn't fit quite right. Nobles couldn't run in the shoes they wore.
"How did you know I was looking for a word at all?" she asked, propping a hand on her hip. The downpour was increasing; she could feel her shirt sticking to her skin.
"The way you were sniffing said it all."
"Petrichor," she tried.
"The smell that accompanies rain," Varric supplied. "Some call it pleasant, but I'm not inclined to call any sort of weather pleasant."
He didn't move, just raised an eyebrow and settled back on the crate.
"It's been terribly hot," she said patiently, "and this hits the spot, I promise." She stretched a hand out toward him, beckoning. She knew he wouldn't make her look foolish, even if there was no one here to see. The market was deserted; all the merchants huddled in The Hanged Man, waiting for the storm to pass.
He sighed heavily and hopped down. She smiled in triumph as he stepped out into the rain, but she wasn't about to let Bianca or his leather duster suffer. There were no templars around to see, so she cast a bit of force magic, just enough to keep the rain off his clothes and crossbow.
Others flinched when she used magic on them. Even Marian had a reaction to a healing--a few very powerful sneezes, usually. But Varric just smiled up at her, face tipped up to the rain.
"Didn't know you could do that, sunshine."
"Oh. Well." Self-consciously, she brushed her fingers against her chainmail, drawing reassurance from the worn links. "I borrowed one of Merrill's books. She said the style doesn't suit her, but that I might like it. Father dabbled in force magic a little, but he passed away before I was advanced enough to try it."
She stopped herself from saying more. She used her magic regularly, but she didn't usually talk about it. Silence was safer, and even standing in an abandoned market didn't seem like the right place to discuss such things. Surely the beat of the rain covered her words, but...there were a lot of templars in Kirkwall.
To her surprise, he took her hand and squeezed it gently. Despite the cool rain, she blushed. "I'm sorry about your father," he said, tone sincere. "I'm afraid I don't have a spare one of those."
She laughed. She always liked it when he dropped his storytelling voice--though she liked that, too. She'd never been certain she would have good memories in Kirkwall, but she did, and an awful lot of them featured a bellyful of ale, questionable stew, and Varric's stories.
Impulsively, she leaned down to brush a kiss to his now-damp forehead. He didn't startle at the magic, but he startled at the touch of her mouth. She thought it was nerves rather than an aversion to her affection, and that suited her just fine.
"Shall we take a walk?" she asked, smiling. "Perhaps the Hightown merchants are still out."
He bowed low, sweeping an arm out toward the stairs. "After you, milady Sunshine," he said.
She liked days like this: no questionable job to complete, no staff on her back. She wasn't a noblewoman, not really, but she was just Bethany with a palm full of magic tricks, and that suited her just fine.
