Formatting, please work, please, please, please!Prompt: Nug“What is a nug, anyway?” Lysandra asked.
He raised an eyebrow; one might think she’d address the question to one who would know such things on an intimate basis, rather than an elf. Especially an elf whose sole underground experience until this cursed expedition had been a few hours in a slaver cavern. Then again, that would require directly addressing the dwarf, and she’d proven remarkably resistant to engaging him on her own initiative.
“Dwarf!”
“Need something, Broody?”
The blood mage flinched when he responded. “Would you care to enlighten us as to what a nug might be?”
The dwarf snorted. “Who wants to know? And why would you want to know? One of the best things about the surface is that it’s wholly nug-free.”
“All you dwarves ever talk about is ‘nug-this,’ and ‘nug-that.’ You even indulge in ‘nug-humping,’” Lysandra said. “One might think that nugs were the be-all and end-all of dwarven existence, much as we Fereldens worship our dogs.”
Boy raised his head and whined; her hand followed as surely as the sun rose over any other part of Thedas, far aboveground. He stared into the gloom above that swallowed not just the light from their fire, but from the wide circle of torches they’d planted. The only surety this far below ground was the endless supply of darkspawn. And demons.
The dwarf’s snort turned into a coughing fit as he choked on it. “Nug-humper’s an insult, Hawke, just like ‘b!tch-born!’”
Her eyes narrowed, blackened slits in the faint, flickering light. “Funny, I thought it a compliment.”
All this time, she’d been absently rubbing the top of the dog’s drooling head, but now it turned into a half-violent
scrubbing. The dog whimpered and trotted away into the darkness.
“Can’t answer a simple question,” she muttered.
“Evasiveness is the dominant dwarven trait, from what I’ve observed,” he said.
The dwarf snickered and Lysandra gritted her teeth at the sound as she always did. “Hawke, nugs are nasty little pink squeaking things that cause trouble and eat their own sh!t.”
“Just like everything else down here,” she said.
“That isn’t a very kind thing to say, Hawke,” the blood mage said from far across the fire, but avoided his gaze.
“True,” he said. “For example, darkspawn don’t squeak, and I’ve yet to see a pink one.”
She cracked a tiny smile, though only he could see it as she turned toward him.
“You wound me, Broody,” the dwarf said as Lysandra’s hand went reflexively to her knife. “Dwarves don’t squeak.”
Lysandra shot him a glare when he allowed himself a laugh.
“True, Worthy didn’t,” she said, “though you all cause trouble.”
A week ago, she would have allowed the dwarf’s comments to pass over her like a tiny breeze. Not that there were many breezes here, just gusts of reeking corruption here in the midst of darskpawn territory.
“When did I cause
you trouble?” She shuddered as the dwarf turned his smug grin her way.
“Varric…”
“I never knew you were a coward, Hawke. It’s not like you to pull a punch once you’ve launched it.”
She gritted her teeth and pretended to be mesmerized by the flames.
Pretended since she shot not-at-all-subtle glances his way. Regularly.
“Do dwarves eat nugs, Varric?” the blood mage said in that grating Dalish accent. “They seem rather unclean from your description.”
“What else is there to eat down here, Daisy? Sure, there are a few hundred types of lichen and several species of mushroom, but have you ever seen a single surfacer sheep survive below ground? Or an ox?”
“I suppose I’ve never considered it.” The mage seemed almost abashed.
“That’s like asking if the Dalish eat their halla,” the dwarf said.
“We do
not eat our halla, Varric. We’d have nothing to pull our aravels.”
“Funny, I thought the answer would be, ‘of course,’ since your clan goes nowhere these days. Anyway, Daisy, of course we eat them.”
“You said they’re filthy beasts,” Lysandra said.
“No more so than surfacer pigs. They wallow in their own sh!t too, and they squeak even louder.”
Lysandra eyed her pack and went white. “We ate… All we have…”
Nothing but dried pork, dried apples and apricots, with a dwindling supply of hardtack. He’d eaten far worse, especially at Hadriana’s hands.
“You didn’t know about pigs, Lysandra?”
“I’m going to be sick…”
The dwarf burst out laughing. “Squeamish, Hawke?”
“Oh Maker!” she whispered. “We only had sheep in Lothering.”
She staggered away from the fire, but the retching sounds echoed close around them off the narrow passage walls. He would have followed her, but for the dwarf’s guffaw.
“How’s this for a tale, Broody? The brave Hawke slays ancient rock wraiths without breaking a sweat, but meets her nemesis in a strip of pork jerky.”
“Before you spread such stories, dwarf, you should speak with Lysandra.”
The dwarf grinned. “I’m not suicidal, Broody. You do it.”
Modifié par lizzbee, 28 mai 2011 - 05:10 .
Please do more of these, you glorious person, you.
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I really love the handstand one.
