Dragon Age: Inquisition fic -- In Another Life
I've been playing Dragon Age: Inquisition lately and I have two Inquisitors going in different games, Elleth and Oriana. I started wondering what each of them is doing in the other's universe, hence this fic.
Cullen/Trevelyan, with minor spoilers for Trespasser, short and sweet
The Divine is meeting with Marcher lords in Westfall, which is far too close to Kirkwall for Cullen’s taste, but it’s not as though the military commander of the Inquisition, the Divine’s personal guard, can plead the vapors and skip. He suspects that the meeting would actually be in Kirkwall if it weren’t for him. It’s a much larger town than Westfall, and its count is Varric, who would be more than delighted to play host. However, Leliana quite understands all the reasons Cullen would prefer somewhere else, and Kirkwall is never mentioned. The meeting is in Westfall.
It’s a nice place, and Cullen has actually never been there before. It’s inland a bit, more rolling hills and farmland slanting slowly northward to low green mountains like sleeping dragons, mounds rather than peaks. It’s a kinder land than Ferelden, a good deal closer the equator, though he imagines it snows plentifully in winter with the gales off the Waking Sea. It’s possible to just walk out the town gates without anybody recognizing him as long as he doesn’t wear Inquisition armor. Certainly nobody remembers the Knight Captain of Kirkwall fifteen years ago. If the Blight touched here, it’s all hidden now beneath a carpet of green.
His dog trots along at his heels. He’s just taking this walk for Towser, he says to himself. A Mabari Hound shouldn’t be cooped up all day. Alright, he never actually hunts with him, but he’s a hunting dog and needs to get out of too-close rooms and doors and windows. Cullen walks along in the sunlight, enjoying the feel of the sun on his head while Towser ranges ahead, probably sniffing a nug trail or something. Not that he ever catches a nug. He’s a big puppy, really, a big comfortable lout who no doubt would be fierce if he ever saw a bear, but thankfully Cullen sees few bears these days. And he can’t really turn Towser loose on Orlesian lords or Chantry sisters who don’t like the Divine’s reforms.
There is a sudden storm of barking and crashing. Cullen swears under his breath, his hand going to his sword. Hopefully not a bear. It would be like Towser to find the only bear within miles of Westfall. He crashes through the trees after, realizing too late that there’s a drop and instead of leaping nimbly out of the trees goes spinning down a muddy bank and into a stream four inches deep. He gets to his feet quickly, ready to face the bear.
Instead Towser was barking at an unimpressed horse whose rider is now petting him, her hands on his jowls. “Aren’t you the drooly one? Aren’t you just a salivating hell-hound?” Towser looks up at her adoringly.
Cullen blinks. It’s a woman perhaps ten years his junior, wearing riding leathers instead of a dress, her bow slung at the side of her saddle. She has cinnamon colored hair escaping from a pony tail and green eyes that seem just a little widely spaced, the broad, flat cheekbones that speak of distant Chasind blood.
“Is this your dog?”
“Um,” Cullen says. He realizes that’s a bit inadequate. “Yes. I mean, yes, that’s my dog.”
“He’s such a sweetie.” She’s knelt down, her nose inches from Towser’s salivating snout and enormous teeth.
“You should be careful,” Cullen says. “He’s a Mabari. He’s a war dog, bred for generations to….”
Towser rolls over to have his stomach scratched, waving his front legs in the air and wagging his entire body.
She looks amused. “What’s his name?”
“Towser.” Cullen feels that he can at least answer that correctly. There’s something about her that takes the breath out of his chest, not that he’s ever been what you might call a ladies’ man. Belatedly he realizes perhaps he should introduce himself. “And I’m Cullen Rutherford.”
Her eyebrows rise. “The Military Commander of the Inquisition?”
Clearly he doesn’t look the part. “Er. That is to say….”
She stands up and offers a gloved hand, albeit one covered in dog drool. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a great many things about you from Varric Tethras.” She smiles like they’re sharing a secret. “But he didn’t say you were a dog lover.”
Dogs are a very good subject. “The Mabari are majestic animals,” he says. “I found him abandoned in Halamshiral, and….”
The majestic animal unconcernedly lifts a leg and shoots a stream at the nearest tree. Her horse snorts.
“He’s got very large balls,” she says. “Do you breed him?”
“He breeds himself. I mean, I don’t have anything to do with it.”
“Perhaps he needs his privacy.”
How is he standing in the woods talking about balls with this radiant woman? But she must be a farm girl with a farm girl’s matter-of-factness about breeding, not one of the people arriving for the Divine’s meeting. Certainly she’s no Chantry sister. She must be from a farm around here.
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” Cullen says formally. Yes, that sounds more like a military commander.
Oddly enough he’s still holding her gloved hand. “I’m Oriana Trevelyan, Bann of Ostwick.”
“I thought the Bann of Ostwick was an old man.” He remembers meeting him in Kirkwall days, a grumpy old warrior with a leg missing at the knee. They said a Darkspawn bit his foot during the Blight and he had his leg off so the poison wouldn’t spread, just had it off like that. Some tales said he did it with his own sword, but most said it was a proper healer.
“My father died last year,” Oriana says. “I’m his youngest daughter, but my older sister is established in Fenley and one of my brothers was with the Templars and now he’s off in the Western Approach somewhere doing who knows what, and my other brother is a merchant now, so I was the heir. People wanted me and so did my father.” Her voice is clear and crisp. The Marcher Lords don’t practice the kind of strict inheritance they do in the south. Varric is elected, even. Acclaim matters, even if it’s not outright election.
“My apologies,” Cullen says. “Lady Oriana.”
“I’m not used to Lady,” she says. “You might just call me Oriana.”
“Then I shall be Cullen,” he says, and when he lets go of her hand he misses it.
Cullen/Trevelyan, with minor spoilers for Trespasser, short and sweet
The Divine is meeting with Marcher lords in Westfall, which is far too close to Kirkwall for Cullen’s taste, but it’s not as though the military commander of the Inquisition, the Divine’s personal guard, can plead the vapors and skip. He suspects that the meeting would actually be in Kirkwall if it weren’t for him. It’s a much larger town than Westfall, and its count is Varric, who would be more than delighted to play host. However, Leliana quite understands all the reasons Cullen would prefer somewhere else, and Kirkwall is never mentioned. The meeting is in Westfall.
It’s a nice place, and Cullen has actually never been there before. It’s inland a bit, more rolling hills and farmland slanting slowly northward to low green mountains like sleeping dragons, mounds rather than peaks. It’s a kinder land than Ferelden, a good deal closer the equator, though he imagines it snows plentifully in winter with the gales off the Waking Sea. It’s possible to just walk out the town gates without anybody recognizing him as long as he doesn’t wear Inquisition armor. Certainly nobody remembers the Knight Captain of Kirkwall fifteen years ago. If the Blight touched here, it’s all hidden now beneath a carpet of green.
His dog trots along at his heels. He’s just taking this walk for Towser, he says to himself. A Mabari Hound shouldn’t be cooped up all day. Alright, he never actually hunts with him, but he’s a hunting dog and needs to get out of too-close rooms and doors and windows. Cullen walks along in the sunlight, enjoying the feel of the sun on his head while Towser ranges ahead, probably sniffing a nug trail or something. Not that he ever catches a nug. He’s a big puppy, really, a big comfortable lout who no doubt would be fierce if he ever saw a bear, but thankfully Cullen sees few bears these days. And he can’t really turn Towser loose on Orlesian lords or Chantry sisters who don’t like the Divine’s reforms.
There is a sudden storm of barking and crashing. Cullen swears under his breath, his hand going to his sword. Hopefully not a bear. It would be like Towser to find the only bear within miles of Westfall. He crashes through the trees after, realizing too late that there’s a drop and instead of leaping nimbly out of the trees goes spinning down a muddy bank and into a stream four inches deep. He gets to his feet quickly, ready to face the bear.
Instead Towser was barking at an unimpressed horse whose rider is now petting him, her hands on his jowls. “Aren’t you the drooly one? Aren’t you just a salivating hell-hound?” Towser looks up at her adoringly.
Cullen blinks. It’s a woman perhaps ten years his junior, wearing riding leathers instead of a dress, her bow slung at the side of her saddle. She has cinnamon colored hair escaping from a pony tail and green eyes that seem just a little widely spaced, the broad, flat cheekbones that speak of distant Chasind blood.
“Is this your dog?”
“Um,” Cullen says. He realizes that’s a bit inadequate. “Yes. I mean, yes, that’s my dog.”
“He’s such a sweetie.” She’s knelt down, her nose inches from Towser’s salivating snout and enormous teeth.
“You should be careful,” Cullen says. “He’s a Mabari. He’s a war dog, bred for generations to….”
Towser rolls over to have his stomach scratched, waving his front legs in the air and wagging his entire body.
She looks amused. “What’s his name?”
“Towser.” Cullen feels that he can at least answer that correctly. There’s something about her that takes the breath out of his chest, not that he’s ever been what you might call a ladies’ man. Belatedly he realizes perhaps he should introduce himself. “And I’m Cullen Rutherford.”
Her eyebrows rise. “The Military Commander of the Inquisition?”
Clearly he doesn’t look the part. “Er. That is to say….”
She stands up and offers a gloved hand, albeit one covered in dog drool. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a great many things about you from Varric Tethras.” She smiles like they’re sharing a secret. “But he didn’t say you were a dog lover.”
Dogs are a very good subject. “The Mabari are majestic animals,” he says. “I found him abandoned in Halamshiral, and….”
The majestic animal unconcernedly lifts a leg and shoots a stream at the nearest tree. Her horse snorts.
“He’s got very large balls,” she says. “Do you breed him?”
“He breeds himself. I mean, I don’t have anything to do with it.”
“Perhaps he needs his privacy.”
How is he standing in the woods talking about balls with this radiant woman? But she must be a farm girl with a farm girl’s matter-of-factness about breeding, not one of the people arriving for the Divine’s meeting. Certainly she’s no Chantry sister. She must be from a farm around here.
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” Cullen says formally. Yes, that sounds more like a military commander.
Oddly enough he’s still holding her gloved hand. “I’m Oriana Trevelyan, Bann of Ostwick.”
“I thought the Bann of Ostwick was an old man.” He remembers meeting him in Kirkwall days, a grumpy old warrior with a leg missing at the knee. They said a Darkspawn bit his foot during the Blight and he had his leg off so the poison wouldn’t spread, just had it off like that. Some tales said he did it with his own sword, but most said it was a proper healer.
“My father died last year,” Oriana says. “I’m his youngest daughter, but my older sister is established in Fenley and one of my brothers was with the Templars and now he’s off in the Western Approach somewhere doing who knows what, and my other brother is a merchant now, so I was the heir. People wanted me and so did my father.” Her voice is clear and crisp. The Marcher Lords don’t practice the kind of strict inheritance they do in the south. Varric is elected, even. Acclaim matters, even if it’s not outright election.
“My apologies,” Cullen says. “Lady Oriana.”
“I’m not used to Lady,” she says. “You might just call me Oriana.”
“Then I shall be Cullen,” he says, and when he lets go of her hand he misses it.