Zevran saw nothing in the blackness; it was all he could do to keep taking one step after the other in the stifling heat and utter darkness.
“Silent Night” pierced the thick enclosure, and, as, Leliana stopped in front of him, Zevran groaned, “I feel like a horse’s ass.”
“Camel’s, actually,” Leliana whispered from the foreleg part of the two person camel costume which they had just walked onstage.
*laughs* So not what I was expecting, and so much better. :p
Just a quick little write. :) Hope it turned out ok. (I’ve actually had this scene popping up in my head for a few days now.)
Looking out onto the water Aveline realized that agreeing to meet Isabela here was probably a mistake. That woman had been out to get back at her for weeks. Ever since she got caught trying to sneak into Aveline’s office and read her reports.
—and I discovered that between last October and this February, I wrote over 100 pieces.
OF VARYING LENGTHS. ONE HUNDRED.
…Yup, I’m buying myself a packet of Twix today.
Holy cow, grats!
“Andraste’s golden tits,” Varric breathes.
“Varric!” Byrne Hawke bristles at the blasphemy, but he can’t take his eyes off Isabela’s new vessel, either. It’s a glorious thing, sleek and fierce and gleaming, though it still smells more of pitch than salt and wind and bilge. If he knows Isabela, that will soon change.
“Now you know why I like big boats,” Isabela says, with a grin that widens by the minute. “Isn’t he the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?”
“I name my ships,” Isabela says. “They’re as much a part of my crew as any sailor. And now you can help me affirm it.” She produces a cut glass bottle, filled with the liquid fire of an aged Antivan brandy. It’s almost too good for the job, and Isabela sips a little before passing the bottle around, nodding for them to do the same.
The liquor burns in Hawke’s throat and up into his head. It feels good.
“I dub this ship The Hanged Man!” she whooped, splashing the rest of the brandy onto the prow.
“Full of memories and always there?” asked Hawke.
“More like dingy, crammed with people and just drunk enough to keep it fun,” she laughs, gazing lovingly at her ship. Hers, at last, after so many years.
“Rivaini, if I was a crying man, I might shed a single manly tear,” Varric quips.
“Into your chest hair?”
“Into my chest hair.”
He sees things, sometimes, but doesn’t have the words to explain them. He’s sure they’re there, somewhere, but the inside-words are harder to hold on to than inside-heat and inside-cold and on a few very memorable occasions, inside-booms.
Sometimes, if he tries very hard, the chains around his tongue and head loosen, and the inside-words come out to play. Only, he’s not sure if they’re the right words, and if they make any sense once they’ve left his tongue. Enchantment does that, sometimes, if it feels like not behaving.
Father looks at him all funny when that happens. He doesn’t like it. Perhaps one day, he will understand; he’s sure he will. They all will. One day, when the skies open wide.
I want more info on Sandal, his “not enchantment” and his little comments about the Scary Lady in DA2 so so so so badly!