faderift | puppy post (man, i love being able to write that unironically)

He's been ordered to get food. What food, Zapp didn't bother specifying, which means Kif's going with the easy solution of stuffing things between bread that might go together. Sandwiches are efficient. There's less complaining, and Kif can make up fancy names for them that impress the man.

A noise by the door catches his attention and he turns to see a giant dog eyeing him and the sandwich he's worked hard on.

"No. It's not for you. Not for you, do you understand? It's for someone else and I'm not feeding you too. You're probably smart enough to get your own food, unlike him."

Is puppy giant, or is Kif just tiny? The eternal question. Not that the mabari seems the slightest bit put off by Kif's attempt to shoo him away. Not at all. He pads into the kitchen, expecting to be welcomed. He is welcome (or at the very least tolerated), one of the apprentice cooks even addresses him directly and gives him some scraps from breakfast. If any dog is going to be tolerated in this place, of course it will be the COmmander's. When he's finished receiving his snack and attention, he wanders closer to Kif, wanting to see what's got him so upset.

He's awfully high strung for a cook. The cooks aren't usually high strung. Or this glittery, for that matter.

He finishes making the sandwich while constantly glancing over. It's a wonder he hasn't made a mess, really, seeing as most of his focus is on the dog.

"Back?" This is why he doesn't like anything Fereldan. This, and so many other things, but right now it's dogs in particular. "Shoo. Shoooooooooo." It's not working. Weren't the bigger ones supposed to know what someone was saying? Kif looks around for help and finds no one.

"Go... something. This isn't for you." The dog isn't going. Clearly this means Kif should try to pick up the plate and sidestep nervously.

Puppy understands that the sandwich isn't for him. He's not sure why the elf keeps on repeating it. It's not as though Puppy is hurting for food, and he has no issue with Kif not wanting to give him any.

Very high strung. Nervous. That's no good. He should take some time and rest. It's a feeling Puppy often has about his master. Puppy isn't large enough to force Cullen to lie down and nap, but Kif looks pretty scrawny. Puppy takes a trailing end of a ridiculous coat in his mouth and tugs. Testing.

It's now that the relative size issues with a big dog and a small elf starts to sink in, as his coat is tugged and he stumbles. Hastily Kif puts the sandwich back on the counter and tugs his coat back. If it gets a little torn he doesn't mind too much; it's one of his least favorite outfits. Blaming its destruction on a dog will make Zapp rant but he'll rant about Fereldans. That's win-win.

Unfortunately, he's not managing to free his coat. He keeps tugging because he doesn't have any better ideas, muttering about Orlesian lace and dirty dogs. In a last-ditch effort to get free, Kif braces his feet and tugs with all his might... only to slip on the floor and wind up on his back, hating the world, hating the slippers Zapp insisted he wear, and above all, hating dogs.

Puppy, meanwhile, just whuffs happily. That's the ticket. Finally, this one is grasping the idea of taking a break. Puppy crowds in, front paws on Kif's chest, and licks his face and exposed neck. The cooks don't seem overly concerned, partly because there are only a few in this area of the kitchen at this time of the day, but mostly because they have work to do. Kif is welcome to try and struggle free, but his chances are plummeting the longer he spends letting Puppy get comfortable.

This is his life. Something larger bowling him over and then just holding him down. He could struggle. He could push at the dog. But in the end, would it do anything? He's pretty sure the answer is no, and doesn't see a point in fighting only to confirm that answer.

Kif deflates with a heavy, put-upon sigh.

Well, at least he is accepting of Puppy's clear wisdom. Puppy licks his face for a few more moments, and then climbs the rest of the way onto his chest, curling into his own little nap ball on top of him. They can nap together. It's nice and warm in the kitchens, here tucked out of the way and surrounded by the smell of baking bread. It's a nice place for a nap. A very nice place for a nap.

After a few moments, Kif realizes the horrible indignity that's been bestowed upon him. The dog is asleep.

"Maker, why?" He tries to push his way free with a grunt of effort, but gets nowhere. He has dog slobber on his face, and he's now a dog bed. It could be worse. It could be Zapp passed out on top of him. But even that's not too much worse, and the tiles are digging into his back. "I hate Skyhold."

At least Puppy is warm, though he will not be moved. He's heavy and contented. Kif's shoving registers in his mind as a massage, if anything. It's not an indignity, though. Not in Puppy's mind. Kif seems kind-natured, and like a good safe partner for a nap.

Though Kif is in luck, because the owner of this very heavy nap partner is currently looking for him.

The cooks don't even seem to notice, which is mildly annoying but Kif isn't surprised. Who would try to help budge this lump? And then footsteps approach, and he wonders if he should bother calling out. The floor is awful, but this is time he doesn't have to spend looking after Zapp. ...Who is probably making an even larger mess.

"Hello?" he winds up calling.

Cullen doesn't answer at first, not sure that anyone is talking to him. It's chatter from the kitchen. Well, not chatter, because at this time of day it's really just the apprentices with the bread. Though just because a meal isn't being prepared, that doesn't mean that Puppy won't come and try for scraps. Which he has apparently done, because Cullen can hear the soft even murmur of the dog's snoring. "Hey boy, did you find a... rug?" From this angle, Kif is really just a pile of fabric in far too many competing colours and textures.

A rug. He's just been called a rug. It's not the worst thing he's been called, by any means, and it's at least new. But really?

"Uncultured, heavy... I'm not a rug! Or a pillow. Or anything of that sort!"

Oh for crying out loud. Cullen can't help but laugh, though it's with a look of mild distress on his face. It shouldn't be funny, but it's funny. He clears his throat, and raps his knuckles sharply against his breastplate, causing Puppy to startle awake. "Come here, you. Get off that poor person."

The mabari obeys quickly, coming to sit next to Cullen, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Cullen looks down at what he can now quite clearly see is an elf on the floor. "Are you all right?" he asks, extending his hand to help him up.

Now the person is laughing at him. Kif can feel his ire rising until he gets a look at the man offering a hand out. Human, dressed well, very probably someone with some sort of authority that Kif shouldn't aggravate. He deflates all over again as he takes the man's hand.

"I'll be fine," he says a little mournfully. He's going to have to wash everything, and at least one of the nicer ornamental buttons is broken so he'll have to replace that too.

And then his words catch up to him, and he looks at the human with some horror in his eyes.

"I didn't mean to call you uncultured. Sir." Because going by the bearing, this man has to be a sir. "I couldn't see and he was heavy." He's here to clean up Zapp's messes, not make more, even if this man sounds utterly Fereldan and has a dog.

Cullen just chuckles. "I'm Fereldan," he points out, unintentionally confirming Kif's assumption. "You... are Orlesian, I take it? By your definition of it, I'm quite uncultured." He doesn't sound offended, mostly because he's not. He would hate to be cultured by Orlesian standards. He much prefers being a man of action, being useful, and having no lace whatsoever upon his person.

He stands there, a bit dwarved, or elved, really, listening to the chuckle and not hearing any condescension in the man's voice. Maybe there's barbs in the way the man says Orlesian, but Kif isn't surprised. Fereldans will never admit the truth of Orlesian superiority.

"I still wouldn't call you uncultured to your face," Kif finally replies. "You have a big dog."

Considering the man, it might be a mabari. Kif hasn't seen one before, but it's huge and it had certainly smelled and obeyed right to be one. Speaking of smell... Kif looks down and sighs. He'll have to clean these again, but for now he's just going to dip his hands in the washbasin and get back to making Zapp's lunch on a large plate, with his own on a smaller plate.

"Have you ever had a sandwich? It's Orlesian." There's pride in his voice there.

"Tiny little pieces of soft bread, runny cheese, something called cress, cut into decorative shapes? I've had them." He'd been wholly unimpressed with tea and sandwiches in Orlais. Even Puppy hadn't really wanted them. Still, Cullen had made the attempt. For Adelaide.

He hopes to never have to do so again. He doesn't fit in in Orlais. It's not for him.

Kif shudders.

"Not those." Those are always unpleasant, and he doesn't care who knows he thinks so. At least no one's tried to make him eat that sort of sandwich, though. There are perks to not being seen as worth the 'nice' food.

"I mean like this." He gestures to the larger pieces of bread in front of him, two on Zapp's plate, one, halved, on his, before starting to add small stacks of meat. "The bread makes it easy to hold so you're not interrupted from your daily hounding of anyone you see as a peasant by something so basic as needing to eat."

His expression is perfectly schooled, but there might have been just a little disdain in his voice for a brief moment there. "Or other tasks that might actually be important."

Overall, Varric felt that he was mostly neutral when it came to the subject of dogs. He didn't generally have much against them, save that they were usually as large as he was and trying to maul him, but he wasn't overly fond of them either.

With the sheer number of dogs meandering around Skyhold, however, that was likely to change.

Today, Varric decided that taking apart and tuning up Bianca was a good use of his time and, the moment he had her parts all spread out, he spotted a little nose poking up past the far edge of the tabletop. It would have been cute (well, it was still cute) if it weren't attached to a very reasonably sized dog. It didn't seem like it was up to anything, but there were an awful lot of stick-shaped tools sitting on the table. Varric wasn't particularly attached to them, but he was realistic about his odds if he had to chase the dog down to get one back.

"Hey," Varric said, in the universal dog warning tone. "You stay down now."

There were sticks. There were so many sticks. Oh, how Puppy wanted the sticks. All of them. Every single one.

When Varric told him to get down, he whined plaintively, but obeyed, tucking his body low to the ground, almost looking like he was lying flat on his stomach, and very much looking like a roast chicken. Something about the hind legs and the way they tucked up against his rump, probably.

Of course, now that he was down, he couldn't see the sticks. Or the Varric. Not ideal. So, while maintaining his assigned position of 'down' in the technical sense, he began to scootch himself along the ground, inching one limb forward at a time and then scrunching his body up to close the distance. It wasn't exactly quick if dignified, but he was determined to get around the other side of the table to where Varric was, using this highly advanced scootching method.

For a few minutes, Varric was pretty sure that the dog had taken to just sitting by the table. It was quiet, there was no barking or whining, and he didn't hear any little nails on the stone floor. Clearly it was the obedient type, which was novel, and he made a mental note to dismiss it eventually. That mental note was promptly forgotten when he shuffled to the side and nearly tripped over the creature. He caught himself on the table but, honestly, it was a pretty near miss.

He glanced down, prepared to shoo the dog away, but came up short. He watched it shuffle closer and, to it's credit, it had stayed down.

"Okay, so I see you're a literal thinker," Varric said. He sounded a bit warmer than he meant to but, hey, you can't just watch a dog shuffle like an inchworm and not be amused.

"So what is it you want? Toys? Treats? Pats on the head?"

Hey, he was behaving. Cullen liked it when he follows instructions, and he laughed when Puppy found ways around them. Laughter was a good thing. He didn't laugh often enough. So when Puppy heard a hint of a laugh in Varric's voice, it only encouraged him. He gave happy little whuffs at each offer presented - toys, food, affection. All of it. He wanted all of it, always. It was the eternal state of being a dog.

Varric considered the dog and its eager little responses and then cast a long, hard glance at the table beside them. After an extended pause, he reached out and plucked up one of his duplicate tools.

This was going to teach this dog a terrible lesson.

He looked back at the puppy, still hunkered down merrily, and resigned himself to his fate.

"Okay you," Varric greeted and reached down to ruffle it's head. There was something deeply satisfying about making its ears flop back and forth when he did that. "This one is yours. Just this one. Okay?"

He held the tool out and shook it in the general direction of the dog.

"You ready to fetch?"

His. Just this one. Puppy snuffles at the stick in Varric's hand, putting his scent on it, becoming intimately familiar with the shape of it by pressing his wet nose against it. His. Right.

At the word fetch, his entire body tightened in anticipation, muscles standing out in stark relief under his silky coat. Fetch. He was good at fetch. He was so ready, his entire back half wobbling with the force of that tiny little tail wagging.

Okay, that was clearly a word this little creature knew. Varric watched it almost shake itself apart as it waited, alert and excited, and eyes locked on the tool. Varric lifted it up, eyed the dog for a moment, and then quickly swung his arm down.

The tool remained in his hand, of course, but half the fun of playing with a dog was fooling them a little, right?

Puppy tore into action, getting exactly one step before his eyes, scanning the air and attempting to trace the arc of the item that had supposedly been thrown, found nothing. He turned quickly and lunged back to his starting position. He basically turned in a tight circle incredibly quickly. He stared at Varric's hand, shifted to the side trying for a glimpse of the tool that he believed might still be in that hand. He could fetch. He was the best at fetch. Only if the person played it right, though. Did Varric need to be shown how?

"Oh, you are smart, aren't you?" Varric asked, more than slightly impressed. The last mabari he'd played fetch with had fallen for that a half dozen times before it caught on.

"Okay, okay, I'll play fair," Varric said and hefted the stick again. He gave it a little toss, straight up, caught it, and then threw the thing. Even with all his strength behind it, the tool didn't go quite as far as he'd hoped it would. It clattered to the ground somewhere in the distance and Varric stretched out his arm. It had been a while since he'd played fetch, he was going to have to warm up.

Cullen was probably partly to blame there. Even in the games he played with Puppy, he was teaching him to make careful observations, to not be tricked, never fall for the feint. It was what he'd need from a war hound, what he'd need to be able to take an animal that he loved onto the battlefield and not be terrified that he wouldn't come home.

When Varric threw the stick straight up, Puppy looked for a moment like he might have leapt into the air to snatch it. He contained himself, though. Barely. When Varric threw it for real, he was off like a shot, tracking the flight and snatching it up in his jaws just moments after it clattered to the floor, his too big paws scrabbling on the stone as he turned (with the help of a convenient wall to half run into) and tore back toward his newest friend.

You don't get that many Mabari in the Free Marches, but Amélie has seen enough to recognise one of the intelligent Fereldan dogs when she sees one.

And there just so happens to be one in the doorway to the armory, where Amélie is completing her daily tasks. Tasks including, but not limited to, sweeping the floor.

She shifts slightly so she's blocking most of the doorway with her body (or, truthfully, the bulk of her clothing), and speaks to the pup in a tone kinder than the one she reserves for most people.

"H-ey, boy. You can't come in here right now."

But why? Puppy's ears droop slightly as his rump hits the floor with a faint but audible thud. Why isn't he allowed in? Cullen goes everywhere, which means he should be able to go everywhere. He whines sadly, front paws scraping against the floor, hungry for attention.

Flames, why does she have such a soft spot for animals? She has half a mind to let him in, but she's really not sure how much Samouel would appreciating her letting the mabari into the armory.

"I'm cleaning," she answers, gesturing to the broom she's holding with her free hand. "You are adorable, but I just know you'd get paw prints everywhere."

Paw prints? Puppy leans into the armoury to snag a cleaning rag from a bucket near the door. Once he's reached it, he jerks his head back and forth to work it free. Once he has it, he drags it outside, snuffles his head and paws against it until it's more or less spread out, and then stands on it, kicking against it with his back paws, and then digging against it with his front paws. Very enthusiastically. So enthusiastically that he actually forgets why he's doing it, and spends a little bit of time just playing with the rag.

When he is finished, though, he comes back to sit just at the threshold, tiny little tail wagging eagerly while he raises one leg to paw at the air in front of him. Clean. See?

She sighs the long suffering sigh of a woman who cannot resist puppy-dog eyes, and she sets the broom aside and shifts so that the young Mabari might enter. "All right, all right, fine," she says, exasperation entering her tone even though her eyes are bright with joy. "Don't know why you want to come in here so bad anyway. Stubborn little pup."

It's a room with a person in it. Does a puppy really need any deeper reason to want to enter a room? Come on. He bounds in joyfully upon being invited and right up to Amélie, planting his paws on her thigh and barking happily, nudging the flat of his head against her to encourage her to make with the pettings.

Maker's breath, she really is going to end up with an entire menagerie of animal fur on her clothes. Oh, well, it's more layers for the upcoming winter. She doesn't offer much (any) resistance to the pup's demands, scratching behind his ears almost immediately. "I better not get in trouble because of you."

Puppy just whuffs happily and soon his tail wagging causes his entire body to shift from side to side, such is the power of the tiny mabari tail. She smells nice. Interesting. Not too clean, all the soaps and perfumes that some people use covering up the smell of their skin, stripping them of what makes them unique. Not her. She smells real. He smushes his nose against her side and snuffles there.

She mistakes the hound's snuffling for something else; shifting so she's now stroking down his neck, she murmurs, "I don't have any food for you, boy."

The voice that comes from the doorway is soft and amused. "He doesn't want food. He likes the way you smell." Puppy's continued snuffling, even after being told that no treats are forthcoming, is the proof of that. "I have mabari crunch if you'd like to give him something." She doesn't have to, though. The little beast really is just after attention.

Distracted as she is by the pup, she doesn't hear anyone approach, just their voice cutting through her distraction. Hastily getting to her feet, jostling the poor Mabari slightly on her way up, she dusts off her trousers and stands to face the guest.

But Maker's breath, she doesn't expect the Commander of the Inquisition to be standing in the doorway, although she can't really think of any reason why he shouldn't be. She visibly stumbles, shrinking in his presence with her shoulders hunched and hands folded in front of her.

Willing herself to relax, she shakes her head slightly at the offer of the dog food. "I, no, that's all right, ser. I should be getting back to my work." She gestures to the broom, then glances back down at the Mabari.

"I assume he's yours?"

In something of a playful mood, Cullen pushes off the door frame and steps into the room. "He was this morning. Let's see." He raises both hands and slaps his palms flat on his breastplate twice. "Up!" Obediently and almost instantly, Puppy leaves Amélie and bounds across to Cullen, using all the strength in his solid hind legs to leap into the air, trusting his person to catch him. Which Cullen does. Even though it almost unbalances him. Totally worth it. "Looks like he's still mine." Puppy responds with a happy bark and an enthusiastic licking of Cullen's face.

Amélie feels the loss of the Mabari's body heat instantly and keenly, and it bothers her. She has no claims to the pup, and she's glad that the dog has been reunited with his owner. Truly.

Still. She cannot help but feel like something is missing. Her fingers grip the broom tighter. "He's a cute dog, ser. Stubborn, though."

"That doesn't begin to cover it. Heavy, too." Cullen hefts the dog in his arms, and then bends and opens his arms to let him jump down to the floor. "He likes you." Puppy likes most people, but Cullen is working on picking up the nuance of his behaviour around new people. "Would you like to feed him?" Cullen's trained him away from digging in pockets for food, but that doesn't mean Puppy doesn't always want food.

"I-" She looks up at the Commander's face briefly, then pointedly stares down at the ground. "I wouldn't want to be a bother, but, if it's not too much of a hassle..." She chances a look up again. "I'd like that."

"Of course it's not a bother." Puppy likes her. That means more than she can possibly know. He takes a large piece of mabari crunch out of a pouch on his belt and hands it to her. "He knows all sorts of tricks, and he'll do just about anything for that." The second the treat changes hands, Puppy's attention is entirely on the little mage again. She has the treat. He's going to be a good dog and earn the treat.

She accepts the treat from the Commander, holding the piece of mabari crunch between her nervous fingers. Crouching down again so she's eye level with the pup, she wonders what she should ask him to do. "Sit, boy," she gently instructs, deciding to wait until he's totally still to give him the treat.

puppy post (man, i love being able to write that unironically)

Kitchen, of course

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armory

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