inachinashop | psl post

"So that's always the goal, then? You don't just want to win, you want to win and have everyone know how good you looked doing it. Are songs good too, or is it just the physical stuff? Paintings, statues, maybe a fashion fad or two, that sort of thing?"

"The goal is to win and to look flawless in victory. Paintings and statues are preferable. Starting a trend wouldn't be awful, and I suppose I wouldn't mind a ballad or two."

Then, as if realizing who he's talking to, Dorian hastens to add, "That's not an invitation for you to write one."

The Bull is too busy keeping an eye on all the heavy, unmoving rock above them to look over at Dorian, but he does give a low chuckle. "Get a couple drinks in me and I'd take that as an invitation."

Maybe he normally wouldn't even need an invitation, but - well. Once he can focus on it a little better, maybe.

"So, I'm guessing you wouldn't want it to be a song about your ass? Or your legs or your nose or your staff? And it can't be only about your jewellery. So what kind of ballad would you write, if you got to choose your own?"

Dorian wants to say it's a relief that the Bull doesn't take the comment and run with it, doesn't turn it into the obvious joke it well and truly should be – but it isn't. He frowns for a moment, wondering if maybe his distraction hasn't been as successful as he had hoped. They both need to keep their wits about them, of course, but there's a difference between remaining aware and wallowing in— whatever in the world this is.

"Ah, well. Something that emphasized my devastating good looks and my magical prowess, I suppose. Or else something that talked about how soundly I beat my enemies into fine powder. I should hope there would be a few lines about how my fine figure was haloed in golden sunlight.

"I expect you would want something ribald that would fit comfortably in a tavern. The bawdier, the better?"

"Ha, yeah. If it was supposed to be about some battle I guess it would have to be all metaphor, but that's alright. I think some of my guys like those songs with all the innuendo even better than the outright raunchy ones anyway. And it would have to make sure the Chargers got some play too; a ballad could probably get us some good business if it got popular enough. Might not happen if I'm fighting next to you, though. All that sunlight shining off your... add in a bunch of rings and it's, what, thirty, forty-six pieces of gold hanging off you? Any ballad writer's definitely going to get blinded by you before they even think about how badass I am."

He smiles at that slightly ridiculous mental image, of him literally blinding potential onlookers. Varric would surely laugh and point out the aptness of his nickname for Dorian.

"Am I mistaken, or isn't there a song for your Chargers already?" he asks. Or at least, Dorian certainly remembers the Chargers drunkenly slurring something, all of them vaguely following the same tune. "Something about 'horns pointing up'?"

It's the only line that they manage with any sort of clarity, most nights.

"Yeah," the Bull says, some deep fondness in his voice that, for a second, nudges at the weight settled in over his mind. Horns pointing up. As a rallying cry, it's not half bad. His boys have really taken to it. "Yeah, we've got that one. But that's for us. Good for team cohesion, and all that stuff. We could use a couple more for business. Moot point, though, since we already covered that if any of us is getting a song - aside from the boss, pretty sure she's already got at least one - then it's going to be you. Only the bravest 'vints are going to come up and duel you then."

"Well, yes, but I'm trying to offer some consolation, here." He's teasing, still, and making an effort to maintain the lightness in his voice, in answer to the warmth in the Bull's. "After I've ground Corypheus' face into the dirt, the bards may be scrambling over themselves to pen dozens of songs about me, but you, at least, technically already have one.

"And besides, at this current juncture, I haven't even got one, whether it's for personal use or public enjoyment. So you could consider yourself to be winning the race, at present. Even Sera has inspired a song before I have. It's practically criminal, honestly."

The warmth in the Bull's voice doesn't quite last. Not that deep, genuine part, anyway. He still sounds friendly, a part of him enjoying the conversation well enough and the distraction it provides, but he isn't really putting his back into the act. If the Chargers were actually here, he would - but that would take a lot right now. Might do the Bull more good just thinking about them than actually having them here. "Hey, you could always write yours, like we did. Or commission someone. Don't you nobles like doing that anyway? Pay Varric to help. I bet he could come up with something fun."

"Maker," and there's a touch more dread in his voice than fully necessary. "I've read that man's writing. I don't want Varric anywhere near a song about me."

Ahead of them, the Inquisitor lets out a sound of triumph when her scavenged gears open yet another door, this one spilling out into a cavern. Dorian pauses as he regards it. It's breathtaking, admittedly, with old dwarven statues illuminated by fissures in the land above, and all that expansive emptiness stretching out beyond them.

In a whisper meant mostly for the Bull, "Well. I'm not sure whether to be humbled or horrified."

The Bull gives an unhappy grunt, pausing next to Dorian to take the whole thing in. "Dwarven architecture," he murmurs back, gamely. Well, a little sullenly. But he says it, instead of complaining. "This is the kind of place tama would have insisted on bringing us, if it was aboveground."

He lets a hard breath out through his nose, trying to shake off the way Dorian just admitted that this place is getting to him, too. Yeah, the Bull had a sense outside all his own crap that there have been a couple moments when Dorian seemed to be trying just a little too hard, and there's probably a reason that he's hanging back here with the Bull rather than going up ahead with the rest of them and getting involved. But there's something about outright hearing it.

Doesn't matter. He isn't going to let his own shit turn itself into weakness again, get in the way of his willingness to do what needs to get done. "Come on," he says a little louder, and tilts his head toward the doorway as he steps up through it.

"I know this place is big," he starts once he's through and looking around, unable to keep himself from trying to ask. "But we've got to be getting closer to what we're looking for by now, right? Feels like we've been down here for a while."

"Or there's rather more to go. They're called the Deep Roads for a reason."

But he steels himself, following after their adventuring party. Shaper Valta seems rather enthused, making her guesses as to the area they've stumbled upon. Heidrug Thaig, she calls it, a place thought lost to the ages. How she can tell is beyond Dorian, but she is a Shaper. She's meant to be able to sense these things, he thinks.

Valta is discussing the place's history to an attentive Evelyn, while Renn and Cassandra are markedly less fascinated behind them. Cassandra says something about taking care around raw lyrium veins, and Dorian just peers out over the wide, cavernous expanse, imagining how long it would take someone to fall from that fissure at the surface before they hit something solid.

A long time, it looks like. What a terrifying thought.

He tears his gaze away from the cracks above them, away from where the light is spilling in, and focuses on the path the Inquisitor is forging. He doesn't quite clear his throat, but he does, at least, make a small sound.

Quietly, he prompts, "I'm thinking of a place."

The Bull grunts again, this time sounding more acknowledging than unhappy. It's nice to think that Dorian's saying that more for his own sake than for the Bull's. Which isn't a kind thought, but it's one that puts a little steel into the Bull's spine, so he might as well use it. It's a little easier to keep up the act when it's someone else who needs him to.

"Yeah?" he asks as he keeps himself walking forward, the mask over his own nerves a little more convincing than it was a couple seconds ago. He moves over as he walks, just a little, to bump his arm into Dorian's shoulder without looking at him. "Any place I've been?"

Dorian hesitates for a second, then, "I'm afraid I can't give a 'yes' or 'no' to this one, but I'll offer that it's not beyond the realm of possibility."

It's darker here, even with sunlight lancing in through the cracks above. In the distance, in little pockets of what was once ancient dwarven civilizations, those lyrium-laced lamps are still glowing gamely.

"Darkspawn all over the place," Lieutenant Renn grits out. "You can see their torches."

... Ah. Not lamps, then.

"Even darkspawn appreciate a little mood lighting," Dorian says, feigning some amusement.

The Bull just frowns into the distance. Knowing the darkspawn are close has him automatically cataloguing all the weak points in their new armour, all the ways he can fight a little differently to give blood spatter less of a chance to get in to them. It's good, he tells himself, that he's one of the ones the rest of them count on to wade into the thick of the fighting out in all the blood and guts, so the ones who can do their thing from a distance get a chance to do it. It's good that a part of him's thinking about ghouls, about the chance of the taint turning his mind that way - or, it can be a good thing, that little, persistent thought. It'll make him careful.

This feeling doesn't have to turn itself into a weakness. It can be useful. Help him do what needs to get done.

They're prepared for this, anyway. As close to it as they're going to get.

Focus. Darkspawn aren't close yet, and Dorian still needs distracting. "So," he murmurs, just for Dorian to hear. "This place you're thinking of. We're talking countries, right? So it's no country we've ever been to together, instead of some library or whorehouse or something you just really like."

Dorian is largely unconscious of it, but he adjusts his mask again. Ahead of them, Lieutenant Renn is telling a cautionary story about a soldier who had accidentally swallowed darkspawn blood – and Dorian is doing his absolute best to ignore the man.

His voice is a little louder in response – whether to force the brightness in his tone or to drown out Renn's story, it's difficult to say.

"I'm not sure any of that was a 'yes' or 'no' question, Bull." That imperiousness is back in his voice, though he lilts the words to take away the bite. He pauses, running through the Bull's comments again, before Dorian lands on an appropriate response. "As utterly charming as I've found Ferelden, yes, my mind strays to another country."

There's always one guy who just can't read the room. It isn't like he can shut Renn up without making the mood worse, though. Maybe normally the Bull would find a way, interrupt with something that sounded friendly, figure out how to distract him - but right now Dorian is who's in front of him, and with where the Bull's head's at it's better if he tries not to make waves. If Renn's little story is getting to anyone else they're going to have to deal with it themselves.

"Hey, some of it could have been yes or no if you're creative enough." Not that he has a lot of incentive to totally play by the rules here, if him not doing it right gives Dorian something more to think about. "It can't be Tevinter, right? Too obvious. Plus, there's not a lot of places there I actually know about. Orlais then, one of the bigger cities?"

"Bull," Dorian says, exasperated, like he's speaking with a very small child who refuses to stop putting foreign objects up his nose. "You're meant to ask yes or no questions."

He sighs, then, realizing that the Bull will simply continue to bend the rules. Dorian runs over the other man's comments again, head tipped back a little as he thinks. After some consideration, he holds up a hand and starts ticking off his answers on his fingers.

"No, it's not Tevinter. And no, it's not Orlais." He lifts two more fingers. "That's four questions down, so you know."

Dorian pauses, lips pressed together. Thedas is a large place, after all, and he wonders if he ought to provide a hint. It's only fair, he decides, considering the Bull had guided him on his slightly lewder round.

"It's a famous location I've yet to visit." After another considering pause, he adds, "I feel you would hate it in there."

"Huh." The Bull keeps walking, eyeing the distant darkspawn torches, focuses on the question and considers. It isn't just his options for what he wants to guess that he has to decide on, but his phrasing, too. Cassandra's making some comment to Renn, interrupting him, and about the time she finishes and Renn draws breath to keep going with that story of his the Bull goes on, his voice just a smidge louder than it was a moment ago. "So this place is famous for magic, the kind you expect people to know you're into. Otherwise you wanting to go wouldn't be a hint."

Not a question, so if Dorian wants to confirm that, technically it shouldn't add to the Bull's question count. "This place does the kind of magic you do that research on, then, something you'd want to go learn about? Instead of some kind that you're already good at?"

Perceptive, this one. Dorian casts the Bull another sidelong glance, eyes narrowed not with suspicion but with interest. He's known for some time how clever the Bull can be, but hearing the Bull reason the puzzle aloud is a little fascinating.

And more than that, Dorian is grateful that the Bull's voice is just loud enough that he can't quite hear the rest of Renn's lovely story.

"I excel at anything to which I apply myself," Dorian replies automatically. After a beat, he adds a little more sincerely, "But in this case, yes, I'll admit there's more to learn. That's five, I believe?"

"I've still got fifteen more, keep your smallclothes on." The irony of him saying that last part to Dorian makes the Bull feel like he should grin. He does, a little. The cloth over his face means he doesn't have to worry about whether he's made it big or convincing enough but he does let out an amused breath, nudges Dorian a little.

Anyway, puzzling out his next guess. He's getting close, he feels like. Probably won't need the whole fifteen. "Not a lot of places famous for doing enough magic that I'd be that put off. Not a lot that you'd admit you're not the best at, either. Or are you just in a generous mood?"

The irony isn't lost on Dorian, either, and he lets out a quiet, incredulous ha! in response. Mixed signals, Dorian might point out, but he'd prefer not to invite that sort of commentary. Not with their companions still within earshot.

Ahead of them, Evelyn is frowning at two diverging paths split by a tall stone protrusion – one following the contours of the cavern wall, the other acting as the edge of a cliff. She decides to lead them down the cliff side – no doubt with plans to loop back around to around to explore what she missed. Thorough, she is. Nice that at least one of them can find this entire trip fascinating.

"Do you not consider me a typically generous person?" he asks, his hand pressed against his sternum as he feigns offense. "Why, just the other day, I held a door open for someone, unprompted, and even allowed them to enter the room before me."

"Well shit, I stand corrected," he says, pleased. That laugh was quiet, but it sounded real. Feels good, like he accomplished a little something. "But saying you might not know everything about some magic crap, that's something else. Guess I'm going to have to get used to the idea of you being bad at something. Hard to imagine what, though. You got some kind of weak spot you're not telling me about?"

And if Dorian recognizes that as the bait it is, trying to get Dorian to tell him something about what branch of magic it he's talking about without spending one of his questions on it, that's fine. It isn't the most subtle bait he's ever laid. But then, it isn't really meant to be.

"In all fairness," he says, and there's no reluctance to his voice – only a simple statement of fact, "there is quite a bit we don't understand about magic. Do you remember what I said the other day, about the Inquisition tampering with mysterious forces? It's quite like that, but on a larger scale – one that encompasses every Circle of Magi in Thedas. We think we know what we're doing, but all we're really doing is stumbling around a dark library with a single lit candle."

Solas, for instance, gives off the air that he finds Dorian's knowledge of and skill with magic rather quaint, as though Dorian knows only enough to fill a thimble, compared to Solas. What an insufferable man.

"That being said, I would hesitate to call myself bad at anything. Less knowledgeable, perhaps, and eager to learn, but going so far as to say I'm bad at it? A few steps too far. So, no, I won't admit to a 'weak spot', as you've called it."

His smirk isn't visible, but the Bull can still probably see it in the way his eyebrow has quirked, can probably still hear it in the lilt of his voice. "That's six yes or no questions, by the way."

"Come on, that last one didn't count, that was just me asking about you," the Bull says, barely sounding sore at all about it even though he's technically protesting. "You're really going to tell me magic magic isn't half as in control as I want to think, say you don't really know what you're doing, and then take a point off of me on top of that? You play rough."

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