The Paragon of Manliness

ihateyoualliwasaslave asked: Yes, I may have heard that.

Maybe it’s relevant to the situation.

ihateyoualliwasaslave asked: I should stop believing it every time she promises not to cheat.

You know the old saying, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…” ?

ilikebigboats asked: Bianca might like a girls day out. I'm sure by the end of it she'd have no complaints.

I’m not sure how she’d feel about that, Rivaini. She pines if she’s away from my side for too long.

ihateyoualliwasaslave asked: I made the mistake of challenging her to a game of Wicked Grace, one-on-one.

Again? If I recall, Elf, this isn’t the first time this has happened.

ilikebigboats asked: Varric, Fenris has informed me you have five sovereigns belonging to me. You can keep them if I can have Bianca for a day.

Now, now, Rivaini, you know that Bianca doesn’t like it when other people touch her.

ihateyoualliwasaslave asked: If you see Isabela, give this to her. I've come looking for her for a week and she is nowhere to be found. I give up.

*blinks* Er. Sure.

Prince-to-Prince: Confessions of a Deposed Bastard

willworkfordrink:

Templars. That meant mage. Alistair rubbed his temples and closed his eyes for a moment but all that did was make the room feel weightless and that was worse. Mages, from Alistair’s experience, were a mixed bag of nuts. Even when you found a good one, one you could be friends with, they could still shove the metaphorical knife in your back and not even have the decency to turn you into a toad. Like this Blondie’s Warden Commander. Ugh, all this did was bring up more questions and—Andraste’s flaming sword why should he even care? Even with the permanent nightmares, darkspawn sense and voracious appetite he wasn’t a Warden anymore. Blondie—Anders—whatever, if he had wanted out too, it wasn’t a surprise in the least.

The fact this guy wasn’t a secret around Darktown and Lowtown was a little surprising. It sounded like they had both been in Kirkwall for almost the same length of time and Lowtown was practically the only place Alistair “bummed” around in. Where had he been all these years?…Oh. Right.

Alistair chuckled. “He didn’t want to stick around with the great Hero of Ferelden? Color me completely not surprised. I followed the Hero all over Ferelden and look where I am now!”

He turned away and looked back to the bar, waving at the waitress. When she noticed and came over, Alistair asked for a bowl of stew—any stew—and shoved a few coins in her hand for payment. “Sorry, but I’m starving,” he said, turning back to face Varric. “As great as this ale is, it isn’t food…The stew might not be either but it’s closer.”

Even hearing the words the ‘Archdemon had been slain’ was enough to give Alistair an unpleasant kick in the gut. Yes, it was fantastic it was dead and they were all living because living was generally preferable to the other option but it had offered redemption to a man who didn’t deserve it. As if every action, every person who had died because of his choices, all those enslaved elves he had offered up to Tevinter, the assassins, being hunted like animals, all of it had been shoved underneath a rug. When all was said and done, Loghain had regained his title of the Hero of River Dane. All sins forgiven. Only his heroic deeds were to be retold for generations to come. And would anyone ever speak of Duncan and King Cailan? Would they speak of their deaths and gloss over the reason they perished? It was a slap in the face, a disservice to their memories, to their deaths.

The Hero of Ferelden, the Hero of River Dane, the Champion of Kirkwall. Alistair decided he hated titles. They were there to obscure the person behind them, for good and ill.

It was apparent this line of questioning was discomfiting to Alistair.  Varric simply nodded as he ordered a bowl of The Hanged Man’s (in)famous “stew”, studying the man intently. He had heard rumours of Loghain’s misdeeds before the Landsmeet; that he was trying to kill the (then-soon-to-be-)Hero of Ferelden, something that had nearly caused a civil war amidst the Blight.  Something had been amiss in that showdown at Ostagar: he had learned enough from Aveline and Carver, that Loghain had quit the field, leaving Cailan’s forces overwhelmed and allowing the horde to march on Lothering.

There were even whispers of darker things, that Loghain had aligned himself with unsavoury sorts in an effort to fund an army, and the war against the Darkspawn.  Varric mused quietly as Alistair seemed to struggle with his thoughts.  There were so many questions he wanted answered - so many things that would make a fine addition to his story about the Hero of Ferelden.  It would be as close as he could get to speaking with the Warden like he spoke with Hawke.  Granted, he wouldn’t be there first-hand for anything, but a storyteller always knew a good, reliable source.

Well, reliable enough, usually.

The ruckus in the main room was growing louder, but it didn’t bother the dwarf.  He nursed his ale, waiting for Nora’s return.  He should’ve asked for a bit of that “stew” himself.  He patted Bianca sadly, mourning a missed opportunity.

After a significant silence, Varric spoke.  ”You know, Alistair, legends have a way of coming undone.”  He paused, letting the words sink in.  It wasn’t as if he wanted to start a war with Loghain, per se, but there were legends, and there were legends.  The truth was often far more interesting than the romanticised rendition, though not necessarily preferable.  Case in point: Hawke.

He looked meaningfully at Alistair, smiling just a bit.  ”Sometimes, the best stories have more truth than people realise.”  The dwarf leaned back in his ‘throne’, putting his feet up on the table.  ”So why don’t you tell me what really happened?” he ventured, speaking smoothly and easily.  Varric kept his tone light: this was a conversation, not an interrogation, and he didn’t want the prince spooked.

“I already know,” he added, “that Loghain quit the field. I’ve got a buddy in the City Guard — the Captain, actually — who was at Ostagar.  The Champion — Hawke — his brother was there too.”  He took another swig of ale, chuckling softly.  ”They all met on the outskirts of Lothering, apparently, trying to escape the Horde. Quite a grand tale, that.  I won’t bog you down with the details, but Hawke tells me they met a dragon.  Someone named… what was it?  Flemeth, I think.”  Varric eyed Alistair covertly, looking for a reaction.  He already knew who Flemeth was (as far as you could know, really), and her part in the Hero of Ferelden’s tale.  He was just trying to establish some common ground… and maybe put Alistair a little off-guard.

“So what’s your side of things?” he smiled, finishing the rest of his ale and attempting to catch Nora’s eye.  It was important he keep the conversation at hand seemingly unimportant, so he acted as flippantly as he could.  ”Let’s go back a bit — ‘The beacon is lit!’ — Your turn.”

(Source: theparagonofmanliness)

@Alistair

kirkwallswag:

willworkfordrink:

Wonderful! That means I can stop the panic attack I was having.

Soooo, I have a surly elf, a renegade mage, a dwarf and some guy I’ve never met before coming with me to this party. Anyone else?

Have you asked Rivaini?

(Source: ihateyoualliwasaslave)

@Alistair

willworkfordrink:

He’s not going to do that…is he?

I wouldn’t do that.

(Source: ihateyoualliwasaslave)

Anyone want to crash a party with me?

kirkwallswag:

What else? You’d think these nobles would have something better to do than get dressed in the stiffest finery and throw the most awkward and boring parties.

You’re coming by the way, Varric.

Sounds fascinating, Hawke. I’ll even get Nora to clean out the bloodstains on my duster.