A/N: Okay, here's the thing. You probably saw my art thread. And now I'm here on the fic thread too. What does that tell about me? Probably that I'm trying too hard to be great at too many things, or that I'm just bored and wanted to polish my writing. Either works. Both is good. I don't know, really. Sometimes I beat the words to submission, something it comes naturally.
When I made my inquisitor, I've always wanted to develop her further, but I realized that writing blocks of boring text describing her every habit and mannerism isn't my thing, so I wrote this, some sort of... character development fic. Is that correct? Not yet finished, but I'm getting there. I'm new to writing stuff for Dragon Age, and the lore kind of scares me sometimes, but hey. Wish me luck 
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Chapter 1
Spoiler
The elf was a lot less formidable-looking than expected.
When Cassandra sent the message about the survivor being a possible suspect, his creative mind was already forming expectations of the prisoner. Of course, Cassandra is always quick to assume, quick to point fingers, and pretty damn quick to beat someone to submission. But he knew better. He knew she might have spun a story, else there would be no prisoner to talk about. Cassandra did not say much, but damn, he's excited.
But seeing her right now, it might have been for the better that his expectations weren't met, else, they'd be deeper down the demon pit.
She was short and lithe — in human standards at least, and looked like she's way too young to be in the Conclave. The markings on her face and her elaborate braids on her silver hair tells Varric that she's Dalish, and the magic earlier means that she could be a clan's First. The mercenary coat she was wearing made her look like she was wearing too many layers, which makes sense since they're in a frigid wasteland, and the girl was making efforts to pull her scarf closer to herself, easing the cold at the very least.
Cassandra introduced her as a prisoner and nothing more or less, and the girl talked little, merely asking of the origins of the Breach, the mark on her hand — obviously, Solas was more than eager to answer whatever inquiries she had — and a quip or two about Bianca. Of course, that earned Varric's approval almost instantly, and thought to himself that she's more than this tiny little elf girl he's seeing.
After they started heading out to the forward camp, the girl stops for a moment, and looks back to Varric as if she just saw him there for the first time.
"Aren't you cold?" she asks. She fidgets with the scarf, but later on gets distracted with a wraith she saw in the distance, and proceeds to attack it first, setting it on fire of all things, obliterating it almost completely. Just so, the shades were quick pickings. After the fight, she skips beside Varric like she's still waiting for a response.
"I've been worse," Varric replies, matched with his trademark grin. "Could be better, though. But prisoners can't complain, can they?"
And in a swift move, she takes off her scarf, crouches down, and wraps it around Varric's neck. It looked awkward and odd, and it was gaining a chuckle or two from Solas, but it stayed, and she did not waste a second fixing it to make sure that it stayed in place.
"I'm all good in layers. I don't know about you, though." She pats her thick layers of clothing, as if to reassure him. "Just return it to me when we get somewhere safe."
"Th-thanks." Varric wasn't able to say anything else, and made no attempts to return it, seeing that she's not gonna hear through his complaints no matter how hard he tries. The scarf was rough and odd and was all sorts of weird — it was woven with a mix of worn-out cotton and had embroidered designs out of a darker sack cloth thread — but it was warm and thick and he appreciated it. Looking at the mage, she seems to not need it, after all; she breathes out fire and warms her hand with wisps of steam, and seems to be a little more comfortable without it.
Varric walked to the mage's direction, trying to keep up with her speed as much as he could. "Hey." He flashed his friendliest smile, and the elf blinked in confusion after he spends a few seconds just looking at her. "Unless Cassandra wants to keep calling you 'prisoner', we should know your name."
She tenses, but nods in agreement. "Lavellan works."
He raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion. "Is that your actual name or your clan name? It's gonna get awkward if we ever meet a clan mate of yours, you know."
The tension returns, and Lavellan avoids the question as much as speech and body language can manage. "Well, you haven't yet, have you?"
Answer a question with a question, then. "If we're going to spend most of our time together here in this frozen wasteland ass-deep in demons, might as well as get to know each other, right?"
She sighs, giving up on the verbal argument. "Mithiin," she says, barely audible.
Varric repeats the name, but he missed a syllable. He was genuinely curious and repeats it again as accurately as he heard it, and Lavellan shakes her head, either in embarrassment or annoyance. She repeats it again, and sighs as Varric tries and fails again, rubbing fingers on her temples. "That's why Lavellan is preferable," she says. There was a tone of sarcasm, but he wasn't sure if that was intentional. "If you could not pronounce it properly, I'd prefer Lavellan, please."
Then Cassandra calls out as they reach the forward camp, shouting out that she's seeing a rift on the way. Lavellan turns to his direction, does a slight, quick curtsy, as if she's some Orlesian girl formally excusing herself, before proceeding to fry the demons back to where they came from, and seems to have so much fun doing so.
He has only met her for an hour or so, but he's liking her strange spirit.
When Cassandra sent the message about the survivor being a possible suspect, his creative mind was already forming expectations of the prisoner. Of course, Cassandra is always quick to assume, quick to point fingers, and pretty damn quick to beat someone to submission. But he knew better. He knew she might have spun a story, else there would be no prisoner to talk about. Cassandra did not say much, but damn, he's excited.
But seeing her right now, it might have been for the better that his expectations weren't met, else, they'd be deeper down the demon pit.
She was short and lithe — in human standards at least, and looked like she's way too young to be in the Conclave. The markings on her face and her elaborate braids on her silver hair tells Varric that she's Dalish, and the magic earlier means that she could be a clan's First. The mercenary coat she was wearing made her look like she was wearing too many layers, which makes sense since they're in a frigid wasteland, and the girl was making efforts to pull her scarf closer to herself, easing the cold at the very least.
Cassandra introduced her as a prisoner and nothing more or less, and the girl talked little, merely asking of the origins of the Breach, the mark on her hand — obviously, Solas was more than eager to answer whatever inquiries she had — and a quip or two about Bianca. Of course, that earned Varric's approval almost instantly, and thought to himself that she's more than this tiny little elf girl he's seeing.
After they started heading out to the forward camp, the girl stops for a moment, and looks back to Varric as if she just saw him there for the first time.
"Aren't you cold?" she asks. She fidgets with the scarf, but later on gets distracted with a wraith she saw in the distance, and proceeds to attack it first, setting it on fire of all things, obliterating it almost completely. Just so, the shades were quick pickings. After the fight, she skips beside Varric like she's still waiting for a response.
"I've been worse," Varric replies, matched with his trademark grin. "Could be better, though. But prisoners can't complain, can they?"
And in a swift move, she takes off her scarf, crouches down, and wraps it around Varric's neck. It looked awkward and odd, and it was gaining a chuckle or two from Solas, but it stayed, and she did not waste a second fixing it to make sure that it stayed in place.
"I'm all good in layers. I don't know about you, though." She pats her thick layers of clothing, as if to reassure him. "Just return it to me when we get somewhere safe."
"Th-thanks." Varric wasn't able to say anything else, and made no attempts to return it, seeing that she's not gonna hear through his complaints no matter how hard he tries. The scarf was rough and odd and was all sorts of weird — it was woven with a mix of worn-out cotton and had embroidered designs out of a darker sack cloth thread — but it was warm and thick and he appreciated it. Looking at the mage, she seems to not need it, after all; she breathes out fire and warms her hand with wisps of steam, and seems to be a little more comfortable without it.
Varric walked to the mage's direction, trying to keep up with her speed as much as he could. "Hey." He flashed his friendliest smile, and the elf blinked in confusion after he spends a few seconds just looking at her. "Unless Cassandra wants to keep calling you 'prisoner', we should know your name."
She tenses, but nods in agreement. "Lavellan works."
He raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion. "Is that your actual name or your clan name? It's gonna get awkward if we ever meet a clan mate of yours, you know."
The tension returns, and Lavellan avoids the question as much as speech and body language can manage. "Well, you haven't yet, have you?"
Answer a question with a question, then. "If we're going to spend most of our time together here in this frozen wasteland ass-deep in demons, might as well as get to know each other, right?"
She sighs, giving up on the verbal argument. "Mithiin," she says, barely audible.
Varric repeats the name, but he missed a syllable. He was genuinely curious and repeats it again as accurately as he heard it, and Lavellan shakes her head, either in embarrassment or annoyance. She repeats it again, and sighs as Varric tries and fails again, rubbing fingers on her temples. "That's why Lavellan is preferable," she says. There was a tone of sarcasm, but he wasn't sure if that was intentional. "If you could not pronounce it properly, I'd prefer Lavellan, please."
Then Cassandra calls out as they reach the forward camp, shouting out that she's seeing a rift on the way. Lavellan turns to his direction, does a slight, quick curtsy, as if she's some Orlesian girl formally excusing herself, before proceeding to fry the demons back to where they came from, and seems to have so much fun doing so.
He has only met her for an hour or so, but he's liking her strange spirit.
-----
Chapter 2
Spoiler
It has been a few weeks — or months? — ever since the Inquisition has been revived. There has been new people in the inner circle, they have already scoured half of the Hinterlands to 'establish our influence', they have already went to Val Royeaux and laughed about their stupid fashion after dealing with their Chantry.
And Varric still has not returned her scarf.
He would have, since he hated holding onto items that is not exactly his, but he did not always see her around the village, and if she had struck a conversation, she has left before he remembered. And catching her around is impossible, since she was either out talking to their new companions or busy in the war council. Odd how she got quickly promoted from prisoner to a leader, but Varric prefers other people asking questions, not him.
But damn, Lavellan next to never brings him along nowadays, ever since that talkative elf got recruited in the inner circle. She's a good archer, yes, but he's not even sure if she's as much of a good shot like him and Bianca. Lavellan said that she's scheduling the inner circle expeditions in a way that her new companions will quickly get used to operations and expeditions, which seemed half horseshit and half intelligent planning to him. He decided not to question it further, else Sera says something about him being too clever. There's nothing he can do about her opinion.
But the scarf has been with him for weeks. He wants — no, needs — to return it. Lavellan wasn't anywhere near going to him to get it back, and that may be because she's either too shy to ask for it— a likely possibility, seeing how her inner introvert surfaces at the worst times, or she's just too occupied. Probably the latter, considering how things are going.
He gives up. He's going to ask someone. Varric stood up, picked up the scarf bundled up on his table. He's headed out for the door before he realized that he needs to ask someone in the inner circle to give it to her. The question is who? Sera's out of the options, she's probably going to laugh at him. Vivienne may just suggest to get Lavellan a new scarf, or diss the possibility of her wearing a scarf for the rest of her Inquisition days, considering how fashion-oriented she is (it gets a little annoying, but her opinion is welcome often). The Charger's lieutenant is more sensible and gentle than the Bull himself, and he doesn't even come with Lavellan. Solas... with the state of his usual clothes, Varric would not trust him to keep something clean before it reaches Lavellan's hands.
He has no choice, then. Varric grins, taking it as an opportunity, and heads out to the soldier's camps just outside Haven's gates.
Just as he expected, Cassandra was idle right beside the tents, sitting on a tree stump and polishing her sword. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him coming, but did not stop herself from wiping off the blood from her weapon, both as a warning and a statement.
"You've been out with Lavellan for the past few days, seeker." It wasn't a question; it was fact, and both of them knew it. Cassandra nods, lays down the sword she was cleaning, and takes out a dagger. Varric took a step back as if she was about to gut him, but the seeker just used it to scrape off the mud and snow off her boot soles.
"She insists." Cassandra does short work of one sole, and she works through cleaning the other sole off, as if Varric wasn't there. "Said that I knew more about leading than she does. She believes that I could lead her along while she's learning the ropes."
That wasn't surprising. As much as she knew Lavellan, the elf was the type to seek other people's opinion as much as she could. But that wasn't why Varric was here.
"I was not going to ask about that." Varric quickly replies, and Cassandra's face sours at the slightest. "I was wondering if you could do something for me."
"No."
He takes out the scarf, and Cassandra looks at it for a second or two, figuring it out. "Lavellan would hate it if she's cold and she does not have her trusty scarf around her neck, wouldn't she?"
The seeker pauses, letting it sink in for a moment, before scraping off one last layer of mud on her boot.
"Lady Mithiin keep on fraying her coat since she keeps on fiddling with the stitches." She snatches the cream-colored scarf off his hands, and his grin widens as he watches her fold it like a housewife would her husband's clothes. "She needs something else to occupy her hands."
Varric raises an eyebrow. Since when did Lavellan became nobility? As much as Varric knew, Cassandra wasn't the type to shove titles to people. "Lady what, now?"
"Mithiin," she repeats, almost the same tone Lavellan used when she said it for the first time, except a little clearer. "It's a start."
There was an awkward pause as Cassandra lays down the dagger someplace and stashes the scarf to her pack, and finds herself without anything to do, and resorts to doing this really odd thing where she picks on her palms and stretches and presses her fingers together. It's a mannerism of sorts that Varric has noticed when Cassandra felt uncomfortable, and that's a good sign — for him, at least.
"Is something the matter, seeker?" Varric grins. "You usually have something to spit back to me."
The seeker's fidgeting became quicker, and avoids eye contact altogether. She sighs out before continuing. "She's been... okay," she breathes out.
"Who, Lavellan?" His grin widens. "Why so? I thought you're all fine with her leading. Or have you changed your mind?"
"No! It's just that she's... been amazing so far." The words felt like it took willpower to say that, and to him nonetheless. "Although I'd hate to admit it. Everyone loves her, and she gives it back in equal measure."
"Maybe because she's not interrogating every person she sees." Varric muses. "First impressions do kind of last, seeker."
"And your quip-telling and clever-act to everyone is supposed to attract friends?"
And this is why it's so pleasant to talk to Cassandra: she's never lost in a verbal argument if she actually tries. But Varric believes that he's gonna win this one. "If the chest hair is not enough, yes."
She makes that trademark disgusted noise from the back of her throat, and Varric knows that he's won it.
"Okay, I get it, Lavellan is a better leader than expected." Varric loses the grin and sarcastic tone, because this time, he's asking for legitimate answers with no jokes and quips attached. "You're saying that she's been amazing so far, and I see that. I've seen what she has done here."
"And the things she has done to help others," Cassandra follows, "is somewhat... unbelievable."
"I think you've lost me with 'unbelievable.'"
"She does thing to help people. From saving towns to getting everyone food and warm blankets, to helping that one widow to clean his wife's shrine." Cassandra sighs, her mind obviously filtering the words to say in an effort not to ramble. "I feel like I'm following Andraste around with the way she helps everyone."
That... was a surprise. Lavellan sounded so far away from the shy girl that he had met weeks ago when the Breach exploded and started puking demons in Thedas. But hell, it could have been just for show; after all, if people keep on thinking that she's the Herald of Andraste, they have this hope they cling on to which keeps them going.
Or maybe it makes them believe and support the Inquisition further, that's why she's doing that. Either works, really.
"Isn't that ideal for you?" Varric asks. "Why are you telling this to me? Am I in your 'totally-not-going-to-strangle' list?"
The seeker scoffs, finding the question rather preposterous. "Don't you have anything smarter than that to tell to me about it? Or have you been too far away from Lavellan to tell if I'm saying something believable?"
Varric just laughs, and by this point he was pretty sure Cassandra regretted opening her mouth to talk to him in the first place. She shoos the dwarf away before he says anything else, saying that she'd get her sword and dagger dirty again if he stays any longer. He knows the implication of that and does his quickest run back to his place.
Two minutes seems like a good start. And it's all worth it, anyway.
And Varric still has not returned her scarf.
He would have, since he hated holding onto items that is not exactly his, but he did not always see her around the village, and if she had struck a conversation, she has left before he remembered. And catching her around is impossible, since she was either out talking to their new companions or busy in the war council. Odd how she got quickly promoted from prisoner to a leader, but Varric prefers other people asking questions, not him.
But damn, Lavellan next to never brings him along nowadays, ever since that talkative elf got recruited in the inner circle. She's a good archer, yes, but he's not even sure if she's as much of a good shot like him and Bianca. Lavellan said that she's scheduling the inner circle expeditions in a way that her new companions will quickly get used to operations and expeditions, which seemed half horseshit and half intelligent planning to him. He decided not to question it further, else Sera says something about him being too clever. There's nothing he can do about her opinion.
But the scarf has been with him for weeks. He wants — no, needs — to return it. Lavellan wasn't anywhere near going to him to get it back, and that may be because she's either too shy to ask for it— a likely possibility, seeing how her inner introvert surfaces at the worst times, or she's just too occupied. Probably the latter, considering how things are going.
He gives up. He's going to ask someone. Varric stood up, picked up the scarf bundled up on his table. He's headed out for the door before he realized that he needs to ask someone in the inner circle to give it to her. The question is who? Sera's out of the options, she's probably going to laugh at him. Vivienne may just suggest to get Lavellan a new scarf, or diss the possibility of her wearing a scarf for the rest of her Inquisition days, considering how fashion-oriented she is (it gets a little annoying, but her opinion is welcome often). The Charger's lieutenant is more sensible and gentle than the Bull himself, and he doesn't even come with Lavellan. Solas... with the state of his usual clothes, Varric would not trust him to keep something clean before it reaches Lavellan's hands.
He has no choice, then. Varric grins, taking it as an opportunity, and heads out to the soldier's camps just outside Haven's gates.
Just as he expected, Cassandra was idle right beside the tents, sitting on a tree stump and polishing her sword. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him coming, but did not stop herself from wiping off the blood from her weapon, both as a warning and a statement.
"You've been out with Lavellan for the past few days, seeker." It wasn't a question; it was fact, and both of them knew it. Cassandra nods, lays down the sword she was cleaning, and takes out a dagger. Varric took a step back as if she was about to gut him, but the seeker just used it to scrape off the mud and snow off her boot soles.
"She insists." Cassandra does short work of one sole, and she works through cleaning the other sole off, as if Varric wasn't there. "Said that I knew more about leading than she does. She believes that I could lead her along while she's learning the ropes."
That wasn't surprising. As much as she knew Lavellan, the elf was the type to seek other people's opinion as much as she could. But that wasn't why Varric was here.
"I was not going to ask about that." Varric quickly replies, and Cassandra's face sours at the slightest. "I was wondering if you could do something for me."
"No."
He takes out the scarf, and Cassandra looks at it for a second or two, figuring it out. "Lavellan would hate it if she's cold and she does not have her trusty scarf around her neck, wouldn't she?"
The seeker pauses, letting it sink in for a moment, before scraping off one last layer of mud on her boot.
"Lady Mithiin keep on fraying her coat since she keeps on fiddling with the stitches." She snatches the cream-colored scarf off his hands, and his grin widens as he watches her fold it like a housewife would her husband's clothes. "She needs something else to occupy her hands."
Varric raises an eyebrow. Since when did Lavellan became nobility? As much as Varric knew, Cassandra wasn't the type to shove titles to people. "Lady what, now?"
"Mithiin," she repeats, almost the same tone Lavellan used when she said it for the first time, except a little clearer. "It's a start."
There was an awkward pause as Cassandra lays down the dagger someplace and stashes the scarf to her pack, and finds herself without anything to do, and resorts to doing this really odd thing where she picks on her palms and stretches and presses her fingers together. It's a mannerism of sorts that Varric has noticed when Cassandra felt uncomfortable, and that's a good sign — for him, at least.
"Is something the matter, seeker?" Varric grins. "You usually have something to spit back to me."
The seeker's fidgeting became quicker, and avoids eye contact altogether. She sighs out before continuing. "She's been... okay," she breathes out.
"Who, Lavellan?" His grin widens. "Why so? I thought you're all fine with her leading. Or have you changed your mind?"
"No! It's just that she's... been amazing so far." The words felt like it took willpower to say that, and to him nonetheless. "Although I'd hate to admit it. Everyone loves her, and she gives it back in equal measure."
"Maybe because she's not interrogating every person she sees." Varric muses. "First impressions do kind of last, seeker."
"And your quip-telling and clever-act to everyone is supposed to attract friends?"
And this is why it's so pleasant to talk to Cassandra: she's never lost in a verbal argument if she actually tries. But Varric believes that he's gonna win this one. "If the chest hair is not enough, yes."
She makes that trademark disgusted noise from the back of her throat, and Varric knows that he's won it.
"Okay, I get it, Lavellan is a better leader than expected." Varric loses the grin and sarcastic tone, because this time, he's asking for legitimate answers with no jokes and quips attached. "You're saying that she's been amazing so far, and I see that. I've seen what she has done here."
"And the things she has done to help others," Cassandra follows, "is somewhat... unbelievable."
"I think you've lost me with 'unbelievable.'"
"She does thing to help people. From saving towns to getting everyone food and warm blankets, to helping that one widow to clean his wife's shrine." Cassandra sighs, her mind obviously filtering the words to say in an effort not to ramble. "I feel like I'm following Andraste around with the way she helps everyone."
That... was a surprise. Lavellan sounded so far away from the shy girl that he had met weeks ago when the Breach exploded and started puking demons in Thedas. But hell, it could have been just for show; after all, if people keep on thinking that she's the Herald of Andraste, they have this hope they cling on to which keeps them going.
Or maybe it makes them believe and support the Inquisition further, that's why she's doing that. Either works, really.
"Isn't that ideal for you?" Varric asks. "Why are you telling this to me? Am I in your 'totally-not-going-to-strangle' list?"
The seeker scoffs, finding the question rather preposterous. "Don't you have anything smarter than that to tell to me about it? Or have you been too far away from Lavellan to tell if I'm saying something believable?"
Varric just laughs, and by this point he was pretty sure Cassandra regretted opening her mouth to talk to him in the first place. She shoos the dwarf away before he says anything else, saying that she'd get her sword and dagger dirty again if he stays any longer. He knows the implication of that and does his quickest run back to his place.
Two minutes seems like a good start. And it's all worth it, anyway.
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