@not-born-heroes
The moment the snow had come down the mountains, Maxwell had been sure that it had been the end of his career as The Herald of Andraste. He was never going to see his parents again, his siblings, any of the new friends he had made after starting the Inquisition. Yet, he had woken up nonetheless. He had woken up cold, in pain, barely able to move due to his stiff muscles, but he had woken up. That’s more than could be said of some of the people who had lived in Haven before the attack. And he was grateful for it.
Now, they had been walking for a couple of days, and Solas kept telling them they were almost there. Yet, they had set up camp again and were going to spend the night out in the cold yet again. Luckily, everyone pitched in and their little encampment was done in no time at all. It gave him some time to get to know the latest addition to the Inquisition.
Still a little wobbly on his feet from the beating they had taken at Haven, he shuffled over to where Dorian was sitting. The mage intrigued him. He acted like any place he was, he owned, and people just seemed to accept it. The man was extremely cocky and incredibly charming and, not knowing that much about him, Maxwell gingerly lowered himself onto the cot next to Dorian.
“So… you regret joining us yet?” He asked, a half-smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “You can still run, you know.”