Dragon Age

"What in the Maker's name were you thinking?"

The two shadowed figures seemed to shuffle further into the darkness. "Lady Pentaghast - you asked us to find the dwarf. We-"

"You," Cassandra interrupted, "decided to kidnap a powerful member of the Merchant's Guild, thus eliminating any last trace of the Chantry's favor with them!"

"My Lady, it is an open secret that the two are lovers. We would use her to lure-"

"Andraste's grace," Cassandra snapped, "did you consider that attempting to kidnap the inventor of the repeating crossbow might get you shot?"

Fools. She would have to do this herself.

"Why does it have a name?" Taash narrowed their eyes, staring at the broken crossbow. "I don't even really get why people have names. And weapons aren't people."

Lace sighed. "He named it after someone." She was saying too much. Taash had a way of making her do that. "It's not important, okay?" The sound when her string broke; like a wounded violin. The swan song of a legend. How could she remember? She couldn't possibly have heard.

"Hey," Taash frowned, taking her hand. "I want to understand."

She knew they did. It was part of why she loved them.

Dwarves are even less comfortable on water than they are on the surface, but Varric, to torture a metaphor, was already a fish out of water. Who would have thought Vicounts spent so many days at sea?

The Proud Cock was a fine ship, which he only very occasionally regretted having let Sera name. He was comfortable, even out here on the deck with the stench of salty wind messing up his hair.

Seeing the roofs and towers of Kirkwall rise in the distance - that felt like home, yes. The grinning qunari at his side though, that was his anchor.

"I know you had your reasons. I know he could be headstrong, and not always as sensible as would have become a King."

Anora took a careful breath. Everything she did had to be careful and thought-out. She didn't have the same leeway to be brash and impulsive as a man would. As her husband had. As her father did.

"And I know you didn't love him like I did." She met her father's steely blue-eyed stare with one no less steely. "But would you do something different, if you could replay the day?'

The silence that followed was deafening.

"So," Varric continued, "there we were, just me and Hawke, an angry mob heading toward us, and no way out except this giant, metal door."

"Metal door?" Sera frowned. "I thought dwarves did everything in stone."

Behind her, Dorian giggled into his goblet, literally too deep in his cups. It was that sort of night.

"Yeah, they're also big on metal."

"They?" Sera raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, you're one to talk. Anyway; Hawke suddenly realizes - the door's handle is an arm. So..." He gestured.

"She... wrestled it open?" Cassandra snorted? "Please."

Varric shrugged and drank. "You had to be there."

The scout looked a bit nervous. The Inquisitor was impressed it was only a bit nervous.

"I think the calculations are right. But I'd feel a lot better if we tested with stones first..."

Krem laughed brightly. "This is supposed to be a sneak attack!"

"You're making a lot of noise for a sneak." Bull's laugh was deep and low in response. "Grab your knives, your balls, and your socks, and hold tight!"

He leaped down onto the platform, and the basket of Chargers flew through the sky, landing in the middle of the enemy camp with a pleasing thud.

The Mabari's eyes were fixed adoringly on the Hero as she spoke. Sit. Roll over. Play dead. He obeyed, and a cheese rind was his reward.

"He's a war dog." Loghain's sullen face made its appearance. "You should be training him for battle, not parlor tricks."

"He's a smart dog," she replied, coolly. "He can do war and fun. You should try it sometime." She waved a finger at him before he could respond. "Eat your dinner. We have a mission tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes, but picked up his wooden bowl and obeyed.

Old dogs could be trained, too.

The Inquisitor was very drunk. Drunker, in fact, than Varric had ever seen her. From his vantage point at the back of the tavern, he could see her swaying gently, one head above everyone except Bull, exchanging laughs and pats on the back.

He was startled to suddenly see her face next to his, stray hair catching on her horns, eyes unfocused. "Let's fight something," she slurred, swinging her drinking horn.

"We already did, Spikey. That's why we're celebrating."

She huffed. "Need more. Gotta... stop brain. Thinking," she added.

There were other ways, Varric pondered. Something to consider, another night.

"Don't you think it's dangerous?" Cassandra narrowed her eyes, but the figure who called himself Cole had disappeared, as though he had melted into the tapestry of the world.

The Iron Bull took another bite out of the apple Dorian had handed him. "Nah. We need all the people we can get."

"Is he people, though?" Dorian leaned back against the castle wall, his face unreadable.

"Doesn't matter. Throw him in the pot. Different meat makes the stew better."

"Delightful," Cassandra muttered. Dorian laughed. But Bull was watching the Inquisitor, meeting her eyes. Ah yes - there was a smile there.

The Queen was the most powerful piece on the board.

It was true in real life, as well. The King was the focus of attention, the key to the game, limited and vulnerable. He had to stay behind the front lines, protected by his knights and foot soldiers and mages.

When he insisted on running out in front of all of them, what hope was there? A king sacrifice was not a winning move.

Yet all metaphors must fall apart at some point. The game continued, the pieces continued to move.

When the Queen was freed to act, Ferelden won.