Varric Tethras can't stand holding back the truth about Marian Hawke after the Inquisitor leaves her in the Fade to die. What he can't stand more is no one is trying to get her back. With the assistance of friends in surprising places, he fights in...
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And it's already been a day and Dorian thought of strangling Josephine with her own fashion disaster—twice—but the silk would slip any way he tried—so not worth the effort. He could burn her wardrobe or maybe Solas wants gold trimmings for the party. How long would it take until she noticed his disdain for her? She hasn't noticed every time she walks into the room he comes up with an excuse to leave it. There are only so many times he can make a trip to the kitchen before the cooks begin thinking he's attracted to them.
Dorian had set the tables with two elven servants stealing glances his way. Why would a Tevinter noble help with petty work, they're probably wondering. Is he so above them he can't help with last minute orders? They're already short on staff and the Inquisitor left for an emergency outing to Val Royeaux. She said she'd be back in time, although how much she had to drink before she left may render a different schedule. It took her how long from the Game to here? Well. Logan is faster on her own. She took the red Charger because the horsemaster said she was power and speed. But he digresses. The chargers on the table sparkle when he turns them just so. Did he just coo out loud? The snickers between the elves confirm it.
Josephine's squeals rake his ears. She barges into the great hall, not five minutes after she left. He underestimated the power of the elves; their ability to not eyeroll at every annoyance demands respect.
"I cannot believe how fast people reply to these invitations! How do the birds sleep?"
Dorian says through his teeth. "With you around, what's sleep?"
He shifts the silverware an inch and a half away from the plate, and evens them along their handles. One refuses to cooperate so he flicks it, ruining the arrangement. Dorian addresses her passive request for help and snatches her board.
"Hey—!" She says.
But he swears she sighs with relief.
He reads over two sheets—one with checks and lines across a seemingly infinite column of names, and the other with scribbled names. Sweet Andraste, she's invited half of Thedas.
"What...is this?" he asks about the scribbles.
"The confirmed guests list."
He wrinkles the corner and a drop of wax falls from the candle.
"Careful!" she says.
"Lady Montilyet, do any of these names ring a bell?"
"Of course they do." She looks its over; her floral perfume wafts up his nose. She trails her finger down and stops where he hopes she would. "Bloody flames!"
He snorts. "Excuse me?"
"I am such a—I am so sorry! I didn't think—I just—oh Maker, no—what are we going to do?"
"First," he says, patting her on the back, "and this is top priority. You cannot fail this quest for the life of you."
