(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]

"And on who inherits," Maxwell added wryly from his seat a chair down, leaning back and folding his arms. "His brother, son, nephew..." he waved a hand, "...might not be any more forthcoming than he is."

[byblow]

"Brother," Alistair supplies, not very helpfully. That's all he's got. He can't say how helpful said brother may or may not be. He's sad that he even knows that much.

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell nods at the clarification, a small movement of acceptance and thanks. Then he glanced at Zevran.

"I'm not certain threats and blackmail are the best way to go either. If we push on him that way, it encourages him to do the same. To spend his free time thinking of ways to get back at us, or the Inquisition - or, most likely, the people we're trying to help here."

[ombranera]

"It never hurts to have more dirt on someone than they have on you- why am I telling you this? You should know already." he is a noble himself, is he not? He is. "We could go over his head, yes? Speak to the Cousland that hasn't run off to Maker knows where. Fergus is still at home, is he not?"