@fenheral: "am i now to be the tricky, clever, deceptive type in your stories?"
there is something all too familiar about standing before a mage that drowns the people around them in the blood of that weeping heart that seems to exist in just about every single damned one of them. varric’s own myocardium is a sturdy cacophony, a deafening sound aside the threat solas strikes in posture alone. “ chuckles, if there’s a right way to describe you— ” he can’t tell anymore, or more accurately he doesn't want to, not yet. there’s a fragile line between hope and reality, the same width of a page, and he's accustomed to pulling it as taut as a bowstring — willing to cash out all that good for just one more opportunity to prove himself right. a habit he’s been unable to kick since kirkwall — just another thing that’ll be buried with him. solas’ wants to save the world, that’s real ambition, a real story, something that's greater than himself. to destroy what you love, for what you love. varric’s not that ambitious, unwilling to take the shot for the greater good, for a decade the cavity in his chest was home to stone walls and dingy taverns, serving comeuppance to the simoniac and the cruel, not ... “ —i’m still working on it. ” even now his heart isn’t quite that big, there’s no room for whatever paradise is beyond, just the tall elf that covets it. “ why don't you help me out? ”