(closed) the coldest story ever told

[byblow]

WHO: Zevran Arainai, Maxwell Trevean, Pel Ashara, Salem Ghilan, Alistair
WHAT: A Dalish mage Ron Swanson, a Dalish warrior who throws eggs, an Antivan assassin and his many knives, a Warden who's probably technically exiled, and one single actual human nobleman on whom we are hanging all of our hopes and dreams try to make a dude stop being a big meanie.
WHEN: Haring 5-?
WHERE: Northern Ferelden
NOTES: Plotting post!

Comments

[dreadinquisitor]

"I can dislike both," he muttered with another shake of his head, pushing his grouts around in his bowl with a little more force - his appetite suddenly fleeing.

When he looked back her and so how clearly she was not fine, he exhaled a long breath, and tried some wry, self-deprecating humor.

"I'm a decent multi-tasker when I try."

[mythalenaste]

"I appreciate it." She does. It's little comfort, but it's stabilizing, knowing Maxwell thinks that way. Knowing he's on her side.

[dreadinquisitor]

"Come on," he said, gesturing with one hand and turning decidedly away from the direction the woman had gone. "I'm sure there's plenty to be done elsewhere."

Somewhere they were offended and offending.

[mythalenaste]

Pel follows Maxwell away, wondering if Vivienne had a point about uniforms and looking "professional" or whatever.

"We're going to help them, aren't we?"

[dreadinquisitor]

"Despite themselves," Maxwell nodded with a little sigh. "Because the Inquisition is better than that. We're better than that."

[mythalenaste]

That gets a smile from her. "That's what I hope."