"Had worse things on my mind," he says, watching the rubble blocking part of the path as he gets closer to it, and the words come out too serious, missing the humour he was supposed to put in them.
It makes the path narrower, scraping at his shoulders. He could stand, he finds himself thinking, jump over the worst of it, and he knows pain, he could handle the pain-
But any pressure might make the ankle heal worse. Or, this time, maybe it wouldn't heal at all. No brace in the world, no matter how many strings the Chargers want to pull to get it designed, is going to make up for that.
He'd go home, he thinks. The Iron Bull is a mercenary captain. Hissrad is an agent of the Qun. Once both have had the last use wrung out of them, they would send him home to teach. A quiet life. The Chargers would have to fend for themselves. Or dissolve the whole company, maybe, depending. The Inquisition wouldn't have a use for a warrior who couldn't fight. Maybe the Qun would send someone else.
The stone walls brush the drying blood and scabs on his arms and his shoulders, press against his skin. He angles himself differently, a little, and it doesn't help. He grits his teeth. He keeps pulling himself through.
If Dorian said anything, the Bull realises he would have missed it. Bad idea to point it out. "So what do you want me to talk about?" the Bull asks, a little edge in his tone. If Dorian did say something that he didn't hear, that has as good a chance as anything else at blending in to the conversation, maybe not letting on.
no subject
It makes the path narrower, scraping at his shoulders. He could stand, he finds himself thinking, jump over the worst of it, and he knows pain, he could handle the pain-
But any pressure might make the ankle heal worse. Or, this time, maybe it wouldn't heal at all. No brace in the world, no matter how many strings the Chargers want to pull to get it designed, is going to make up for that.
He'd go home, he thinks. The Iron Bull is a mercenary captain. Hissrad is an agent of the Qun. Once both have had the last use wrung out of them, they would send him home to teach. A quiet life. The Chargers would have to fend for themselves. Or dissolve the whole company, maybe, depending. The Inquisition wouldn't have a use for a warrior who couldn't fight. Maybe the Qun would send someone else.
The stone walls brush the drying blood and scabs on his arms and his shoulders, press against his skin. He angles himself differently, a little, and it doesn't help. He grits his teeth. He keeps pulling himself through.
If Dorian said anything, the Bull realises he would have missed it. Bad idea to point it out. "So what do you want me to talk about?" the Bull asks, a little edge in his tone. If Dorian did say something that he didn't hear, that has as good a chance as anything else at blending in to the conversation, maybe not letting on.