Chapter Text
Rosie
The Inquisition.
An odd thing to join, an odd place to be.
Rosie was a lover, not a fighter. A bard; a musician, a part-time comedian, a full-time civilian. She had no interest in politics and every interest in living.
But her uncle Cabot had joined up as a bartender, and he was more or less all she had.
He headed to Skyhold first, but they kept in touch with frequent letters. She’d been surprised when he’d left, doubly so when he’d encouraged her to join him.
The Inquisition has one bard, Maryden, who spends most of her time here in the Herald’s Rest. She’s fine, but nothing to write home about. Well. I suppose I’m doing that right now, but it’s not complimentary. I digress.
The forces grow, new faces showing up every day. Both drink and tips flow better when there’s music, and Maryden can’t play all hours. You should come by and give her a break.
Besides, I miss your wit. No one here is funny.
It turned out her uncle was a huge fucking liar, because she ran into a rather flamboyant mage on arrival, and he had some rather colorful things to say about her unruly mop of bright pink ringlets.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad here.
The accommodations were spartan but clean, and Skyhold itself was… A few repairs—improvements?—were still underway, but overall, it was remarkably nice. The garden courtyard was pretty, the stables robust, the people in good spirits.
Herald’s Rest was… a bar.
She felt like it had been oversold to her, which was unlike her uncle. (Perhaps that was the fault of her overactive imagination. She’d have to reread his letters with fresh eyes.)
But it was a bar Cabot was more or less in command of, so, in she slid, ready to help behind the bar or play her lute, depending on the vibe and who was where.
It wasn’t much, but she was with family and had a reliable paycheck, a roof over her head, and people who supposedly enjoyed musical entertainment. She could work with that.
As with most places she’d wound up, it didn’t take her long to settle in.
Despite her uncle’s initial jabs, she made quick friends with Maryden.
The woman wasn’t half as bad as her uncle made her out to be, and, rather than be upset or have any sense of competition, she was friendly and open to collaboration. The two bards banded together with intent to split time on and even play together when the mood called for it.
Days passed comfortably. She picked up the what-was-where of the bar and began to recognize repeat customers and unique faces, like Iron Bull, the huge Qunari who sat near the back, and Sera, a tall lanky thing who’d claimed a room a floor up. (As much as Rosie enjoyed taverns, she could not imagine living in one. That elf must have had a stern constitution.)
Then she discovered that Varric Tethras was part of the Inquisition.
“You didn’t tell me Varric Tethras was here.”
“Should I have?”
“Well, it would have been a selling point.”
“I didn’t know you were a fan.”
Who wasn’t? She was pretty sure half of Ferelden had at least read Hard in Hightown, doubly so for dwarves.
She’d heard the name Varric tossed around once or twice before it clicked. He’d apparently been away with the Inquisitor on some mission or another—what had they said? Hinterlands? Crestwood? Somewhere in that direction.
“It’s hard to tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”
“Good.”
She rolled her eyes, tuning her lute. “What’s he like?”
“Who, Tethras? Fine. Nice enough. Storyteller. Comes in every so often, mostly to write or drink with the big fellow in the back.”
Storyteller—yeah, no shit, Unc.
She shrugged, leaving it there. She honestly wasn’t sure if her uncle was a reader or not. Even if he was, the idea of him being remotely starstruck about such a thing was laughable.
Still, it felt odd to think about crossing paths with Varric herself. Not that she was like that about big names, but, as a songwriter, she could appreciate other folks who put pen to paper in the name of entertainment.
Rosie set up for the night.
She left Maryden’s place by the hearth to her; she preferred the acoustics of the back corner near the bar, up on one of the wooden tables that let her thump a steel-heeled boot heel for a beat while she played.
She settled on a more ‘normal’ set for the first half of the night, figuring she could always switch it up to something more bawdy later on if the mood was right. Some nights just didn’t have the right atmosphere for that sort of thing, especially here in the middle of the Inquisition.
But, said Inquisitor and her people had returned to Skyhold earlier that day, so everyone seemed to be in high spirits. It might be a good night for it, depending on how drunk everyone decided to get.
Varric
The Herald’s Rest was no Hanged Man, but it would do in a pinch.
Varric bid the rest of the Inquisitor’s team farewell at the gates, all off to do… whatever Chuckles did in that rotunda, and whatever the Seeker did when she wasn’t busy terrorizing training dummies. Reading? The Herald herself was presumably off to moon after Curly.
After a quick wash and change into something not covered in road dust or darkspawn guts, he headed to the bar with his most recent manuscript under his arm. He always did his best writing in the corners of taverns, in the crowd but apart from it.
“Just a pint if you don’t mind, Cabot,” he told the grumpy dwarf. “Whatever’s on tap.”
The barkeep just made a very dwarven noise that reminded Varric painfully of Tethras family gatherings. Fair enough.
While waiting, he took a look around, nodding at Tiny and a few of the other Chargers, shooting Buttercup a wink as she slipped something crawly down the collar of a soldier rumored to be a poor tipper, and noting a pretty redhead (pinkhead?) with a lute in the corner. He idly wondered if Tiny went for dwarves, because if so, she might get an offer soon.
“Who’s the new bard?” he wondered out loud, leaving a generous tip for his ale. “Haven’t seen her around before.”
Casual words, but he made a point of knowing as many members of the Inquisition as possible, at least by reputation. Nightingale might have him beat on the spymaster bit, but he liked to help out wherever he could.
Cabot
“Rosie,” the bartender replied simply, setting a full mug on the counter between them and taking the extra coin without comment. They had enough rapport* that it barely registered, even if he did appreciate it. “She’s here to give Maryden a break and sparring partner.”
He decided firmly against saying anything about their familial relation; he’d rather see that sort of thing play out in real time. More fun that way.
“Been here about a week or so. Fitting in pretty well. Knows how to find the mood and play to it. Even gets a good laugh out of the big fella in the back every now and again.”
That had happened once after a bestiality-themed ballad she called “Moose” when she called him out by name. The qunari seemed to appreciate that.
He assumed the other instances.
“Writes her own stuff. Stick around and see if she plays a bawdy set later; seems like something you’d enjoy.”
*This had happened at least three times and yet Varric had continued to tip. If it was a game of chicken, he would win. If not, it was rapport.
Varric
“Good to know…”
He glanced over at Tiny, noticing the way the mercenary’s eyes lingered on the cute little bard. She shot the qunari a wink in turn. Could just be the kind of teasing common to her profession… maybe.
He shook his head and sipped from his beer, stifling a wince at the taste. It wasn’t important, anyway. He was a one-crossbow kind of dwarf.
“I’ll be in my corner,” he announced, as if Cabot cared.
But somehow the sweet, unfamiliar voice made it difficult to focus on the Hard in Hightown spinoff he was trying to get a manuscript ready for. If the protagonist of Hopeless in Hercinia happened to be a little similar to Curly, well, Aveline hadn’t killed him for Swords and Shields yet. Yet.
Maybe it’d help to reassure the lovesick commander he got the girl at least in this version of the story, even if Iselle was a plucky Antivan Crow rather than a Dalish ranger raised in the wilderness of the eastern Free Marches. Assassins made for better narrative foils to morally constipated military officers.
Maybe he should make the protagonist a Seeker… Throw Curly off the trail a little…
He marked it down, but then got distracted again as Rosie switched to a different tune, lively and just a little ribald. A nickname because of the hair, or just her name? Maybe it was short for something…
Rosie
Oh shit, that’s him.
She’d wondered if he’d pop in—not that it mattered, but it was still a little exciting.
There weren’t all that many dwarves here anyways, she’d realized. A few, but not many, so running into more was oddly… refreshing?
Look, sometimes it was nice to have a conversation without having to look up the whole time. (Also another reason she liked performing on tables. And if Krem could stand on a chair and not get yelled at, then, by Andraste, she’d be on the table.)
She rounded out her set, promising she’d be back in a bit, and if anyone wanted to buy her a drink she was a blueberry mead kind of girl, thanks, then hopped off the table.
She was still unresolved on saying hi or not.
Maker’s balls, Rosie, you are overthinking this.
She busied herself setting her lute carefully into its case and closing it—she’d learned better than not to over the years—and picked up what was left of the honeyed tea she’d started the night on to keep her voice in check.
It was getting late. She could switch over to harder stuff for the next set.
Varric
He flagged down one of the serving girls and sent a blueberry mead to Rosie, on his tab. Bards deserved to at least have a nice drink on their breaks for their work, and she’d more than earned it.
But he did wonder… mead, because the honey helped her throat? Or did she just like the taste?
He’d never been much of an artist, his ability laid in words, not images, but he found himself doodling a little blueberry in the margin of his current (terrible) draft, and then one of those honey drizzlers, mostly because he was suffering from an epic bout of writer’s block.
Clearly he’d have to set up in the great hall in clear sight of where both Curly and Pointy would enter and leave the war room in the morning, all not-so-subtle glances and hands brushing in the pretense of passing this or that. Fresh inspiration.
Not that his Seeker and Crow had anything to do with the Commander and his Inquisitor, of course. There were just some common features in the trees of a pine forest. Maybe. He wasn’t really a nature guy. Give him a nice library or tavern over wilderness any day.
He really wasn’t getting paid enough for this shit. Especially because he wasn’t getting paid at all.
And if his editor murdered him for missing another deadline, he really wouldn’t be getting paid at all, so he should probably stop doodling roses and get to it.
Rosie
Her uncle looked annoyingly cheeky when she’d made her way back to the bar and he set the mead down in front of her. Not that his brand of cheeky involved smiling, just a little more all-knowing in the eyes and a bit less fuck-you.
“From a new admirer.”
“New, huh?”
“Tethras.”
She tried to keep a neutral face but felt her eyebrows lift of their own accord. Rude of them. “Oh?” At least she sounded as baffled as she felt.
“One writer to another, I guess. I don’t know, I’ve learned better than to ask questions.”
Well, shit.
She picked up the mead, glancing back over her shoulder. “Should I go say thanks or does he not like being bothered when he’s writing?”
“If he doesn’t want to be bothered, then he shouldn’t be writing in a bar.”
“Fair point.”
She picked up the mead and turned to head back in Varric’s direction.
Casually.
She opened with simple, “Hey, cheers,” a thank-you that was casual enough to either open a conversation or be just as easily you’re-welcomed and turned away. “I appreciate the tip.” She raised the drink to him in thanks and took a sip.
Varric
He paused his quill with very little reluctance. The scene where the assassin snuck through the Seeker’s window for a midnight game of chess was getting bogged down in talking shop, anyway.
Less bullshit more flirting, he scrawled in the margin before giving the bard his mostly undivided attention.
“It seemed the least I could do, and you’d been kind enough to announce exactly what to get you.”
He shot her a grin before offering his hand to shake.
“Varric Tethras. I’d say everything you’ve heard about me is true, but it’s probably at least moderately exaggerated."
He’d done most of the exaggeration himself, after all.
“If you talked to the Seeker she was definitely lying, though.”
As if. He was almost sure Seeker Pentaghast was incapable.
He considered and discarded several nicknames on the spot. Petal was too infantilizing, Red was still Aveline in his mind, Pink didn’t flow well, Bard was stating the obvious…
[This coming from a guy who calls Cullen Curly and Cole Kid]
Rosie
She chuckled, taking the invitation to step closer.
“After suffering through one too many shots of shit whiskey kind souls think are a gift, you learn to specify. Still, I appreciate it.”
She took the proffered hand in greeting.
“Nice to meet you. I’m sure you hear it plenty, but I’ve been a fan. Am still, if we’re keeping score, but the night is young.”
He was, oddly enough, more or less what she’d expected. Sharp eyes, nice hair, roguish scars, iconic open shirt and much-lauded chest hair.
Unfair of him to live up to at least a few of the rumors.
“Fortunately Seeker Pentaghast was off with you and the Inquisitor since I turned up, so you’re free and clear on that front. Again, the night is young, but she doesn’t sound like the kind of person to poke her head in here past dinnertime.”
Varric
“You sound like you know her,” he teased. “Rosie, wasn’t it?”
More nicknames considered and discarded. Wit, Thorn… he’d get it.
“Well, Rosie… welcome to the Inquisition. I’d say the views are worth the trip here but, for danger of sounding like a stereotype, I’m actually not great with heights.”
At least the Herald’s Rest was turning into a nice respite, a place to put your feet up and watch a barfight. It just needed a bit more… patina. Character. Maybe Rosie would help with that.
“And when you say fan… do I need to start putting a guard on the chest hair again?” he quipped. “I know, it’s just as magnificent in person.”
Some fans of his work could be… a bit much. Hazards of the trade.
Scarier than the Davri assassins half the time, though. They just wanted him dead.
Rosie
“Thank you,” she smiled. That was one of the more genuine welcomes she’d had.
“I’ll take your word for it. I’d think the soldiers would have a heart attack if some bright pink dwarf bard decided to wander up and check out the view from the ramparts. The little courtyard is the highest I’ve been.”
She actually didn’t mind the heights, but it felt weird pushing her luck exploring the keep. She hadn’t even gone up into the main hall yet; it felt… weird. Too official. No place for some lute-strumming girl that had more or less just turned up.
It would be neat to earn a chance to play for the inquisitor in there sometime, maybe, if they put on a feast or celebration of some kind. Granted, Maryden had been here longer but… well, a girl could dream about having her moment in the spotlight.
“As someone who’s been grabbed at enough by drunks, have no worries. Spectacular, though, good to see at least a few of the rumors were true.”
Plus, the decidedly un-dwarfy lack of beard really did let it shine.
“Might wind up nosily hoping you might casually let spill what’s getting published next, but, you know, I have manners so I would never ask about that sort of thing.”
She took another pointed sip of her mead.
Varric
“Keep an eye out for false accusations,” he said cryptically.
He’d written the damn thing for the Seeker, but he might as well publish it. Judging by what he’d seen in Orlais, his readers would eat up the worst drivel if it said Varric Tethras on the cover.
“I’d offer to take you sometime, but Pointy has the best view, up from her tower. Uh, Ixora I mean, the Inquisitor.”
It felt weird to call her by her title. The Inquisitor was an idea, but Pointy was a city elf with the slightly-wary look of someone who’d spent much of their life looking after themselves alone, too many knives for anyone’s comfort, and a fondness for a good (terrible) sailor’s rum indistinguishable from paint stripper.
“But… The soldiers aren’t all bad. Curly’s still got a stick up his ass, but I think he’s starting to pry it loose. Pointy’s helping. ... Well shit, I didn’t need that mental image.” He winced and flagged down a serving girl for a fresh drink. “Point being, no one would lose their shit if you took a look around, especially in daylight hours.”
Rosie
“Pointy, huh?”
It felt bizarre to hear anyone refer to the Inquisitor as anything less than that or The Herald.
She’d heard well enough from her uncle that she was humble, all the same; that she came into the Rest often enough, both to drink and to check in on her companions as well as getting a feel for the overall vibe and rumors that tended to show their truest colors over drink.
Still.
She snorted at Varric’s mild distress, smiling at the server who’d swung past to take his order.
“Pretty sure I’ll get stopped six ways from Sunday if I tried for that particular view, but I’ll be sure to ask around and see where I can manage.
“Though, that little mental side-quest of yours reminds me, I should probably get back to work here fairly soon. Planning on sticking around? The place seems pretty warmed up and in a good mood, I’m thinking about taking a turn for the spicy.”
Varric
“She’s an elf, she carries enough knives for a small army, and she has surprisingly sharp elbows,” he explained as if it was perfectly logical. “Pointy.”
He accepted a fresh pint with a grin and a generous tip for the serving girl. Daisy, her name was. Always reminded him of his Daisy. But only the Maker knew where she was, these days, as much as he tried to keep an ear out.
“But yeah, I’ll be around, don’t worry. I always do my best writing in a crowd.”
And with good company, but he didn’t say that.
Peony’s probably too obvious. Might piss her off, though. Player? Singer? Oooooh, Songbird…
“Off you pop, Songbird. I’ll send you another mead for your next break. And I’m looking forward to your bawdier set. I can always use new material,” he joked.
Yeah, Songbird fit. A little pink warbler or robin, maybe. Something small and a little round in all the right places, with a beautiful voice and plenty of cheek.
Rosie
She shrugged a little, nodding along with the description. The explanation made sense enough, and if it didn’t bother Her Worshipfulness, bully to him.
It surprised her to hear that he did his best writing in a crowd; the very idea seemed overwhelming to her. She did her writing alone in the quiet of her room, or maybe collaborating but still in a relatively quiet space.
Granted, she usually had a lute in her lap at the time and needed to hear her tune. Maybe music and fiction were broadly different animals in more than one way, but still.
What surprised her more was to earn a nickname of her own so soon.
Songbird.
Aww…
She tried not to beam too boldly about it.
“Pop off, I shall. Thanks in advance for the second drink, handsome.”
With that she turned to leave, not wanting to overstay her welcome in his corner, nor seem like she was doing anything more than returning his own flirt.
They say to never meet your heroes—not that hero was the word she would have used, but it was still significant enough that she was pleased to confirm that he wasn’t a douchebag.
Now to quickly pick a set list worth a good second impression…
Maybe she’d start with The Captain's Wife’s Lament. That one worked best when people didn’t think to expect cum jokes.
Varric
He howled with laughter as the song reached its crescendo, having heard more than one variation of similar tunes but few this objectively funny.
Good sense of humor.
Between songs his scene began to take shape, inspiration flowing until he was almost done with a second, far superior draft. Like he’d said, he did his best writing in a crowd, one eye on his parchment and one on his surroundings, a quill in one hand and a tankard of tavern swill in the other.
The Herald’s Rest felt more and more akin to home by the night.
The Songbird’s pretty chirping helped, but it was just as much the Inquisition, growing from a ragtag group of lost pilgrims and castaways huddling in a village chantry to a proper organization, with a base of its own.
It was rare he got to be a part of something he might look back on with pride instead of regret. It was nice.
Rosie
Fuck yes, she’d clocked the room right.
It went off well, the first song getting proper laughter and buy-in. The second and third sent it home.
True to his word, Varric had sent over a second mead. She used the excuse to pepper in a few toasts. Birds came to mind:
A toast: here’s to the storks who bring good babies, to the ravens who bring bad babies, and to the swallow, who brings no babies at all.
She let the mood play out, throwing in a few extra songs to keep the mood up. Besides, it was the last structured set beyond maybe sitting around strumming for mood while the place emptied out.
She finally called it quits once her mug ran dry, thanked the crowd for laughing at her bad jokes, took a bow, and hopped back off her table.
Happy drunks were good tippers; she enjoyed the extra coin people offered while she repacked her lute in its case.
The creative in her kept tugging at her to check in with Varric, to see what he thought, only tempered when she reminded herself that he could very possibly have more critique than praise and she might need a third mead before that.
Varric
He clapped with the rest as her set drew to a close, his quill for once sat down. It could wait.
Musicians were a dime a dozen, every tavern worth the name offering some sort of music on the busiest nights to build a crowd or cheer the crowd they had.
But true bards and minstrels were far rarer. Maryden wasn’t half bad, but Rosie… she had more than simple skill with a lute and a pretty voice. She had cheek aplenty, yes, but more than that, she had a presence far bigger than her average-for-a-dwarf height.
That hair really was striking. Like the plumage of some exotic bird. The nickname solidified in his head. Songbird. It fit.
Against his usual custom, he left his table, aware no one would be stupid enough to touch his things without answering to a dozen rowdy Chargers, most twice or thrice his size.
He headed for the bar, thinking to intercept the bard on her way out or when she went for a nightcap.
He wondered if she preferred something stronger than blueberry mead when she wasn’t working.
Rosie
Naturally, he ended up at the bar first.
Cool, cool cool cool.
At least it answered the awkwardness of bothering him in his writing corner again.
“Good crowd,” she remarked, signaling to her uncle for a fresh drink as she leaned in against the bar near Varric.
That much was true; she’d risked getting audience participation on a repeat refrain—a risky gambit with some rooms, but a lot of contagious fun when it caught.
“You heroic-types should go out and come back here more often, really puts everyone in a chipper mood when the Inquisitor has a fresh victory or three under her belt.” That much was also true—she hadn’t counted, but the tips had been generous—and at least one other person (she assumed) had sent a mead as well.
Varric
“I’ll have to let her know,” he bantered back with a grin. “Cabot, you wouldn’t happen to stock any half-decent whiskey?”
The bartender made a sound that could be either of course or fuck off, so he figured it was 50/50.
“I was going to ask if you preferred something stronger for after. And if the mead was for your voice or because you have a sweet tooth.”
She might be a sherry kind of girl. Or rum. Hard to tell, really.
“But as for victories… I guess it’s nice knowing there’s someone back here appreciating how many muddy bogs we trudged through to capture that keep in Crestwood.”
Of course the weather cleared as soon as the worst of the work was done. That went without saying.
Rosie
“Cab, grab the MacKay’s. Don’t act like I haven’t seen it stashed near the back.”
Cabot rolled his eyes, moving downbar to fetch the bottle.
He’d tease her later. She’d deal.
“I’m not too picky outside of quality. Honestly a sweeter ale or cider is my usual go-to, but those sit heavy and I’m not about burping during my performance. Though, now that I think about it, that might actually get me extra tips with the right crowd if I could time it right.”
She held up two fingers to signal to Cabot that she’d take a whiskey, too. She pretended not to see him pour himself a splash as well; bartender’s privilege.
“Lots of someones appreciate your work, they’re just too intimidated to tell you top-ranking folks to your faces. It’s in their moods and chatter when they’re in here. Soldiers who come in can be adorable; the younger ones especially like bragging about what action they saw.”
Varric
“Hah! I can see it being a hit with Buttercup, at the very least.”
The Red Jenny had entertained the campfires on their travels with more than one impromptu burping concert. The Seeker always looked disgusted in a way that almost made him believe she was technically Nevarran royalty, and Tiny sometimes looked almost impressed.
“But yeah, I’ll make a note of it. For after your performances.”
The bard’s job was a thirsty one, but the Songbird didn’t strike him as one for drinking to excess, at least not while working. After? That was her own business.
“It’s nice to see. Half of these kids were just farmboys and refugees half a year ago, and now? Now they’re damn near a proper army, one out there doing good.”
It made an old sap like him feel positively optimistic of their chances. He believed in Pointy, and the people around her. They could damn well change the world if they pleased. For the better, he hoped.
He’d seen plenty of the other kind of change with Blondie.
“Curly’s surprisingly good at his job when he isn’t busy mooning over Pointy. Hero, too.”
Even if you could chart the progress or lack of in their respective love lives by the tenor of their reprimands during the morning drill.
Rosie
She leaned back against the bar, crossing her arms with her mug in one hand.
“Alright, late night, puzzles time, I can do that.”
She was bad enough with all the new names she’d learned here since she arrived, let alone a creative’s nicknames.
“I’m pretty sure Buttercup is Sera just based on the burping; that one feels easy. And I know Pointy now, per earlier conversation.”
She took a drink to buy herself time to think.
“I’m guessing by now Curly’s the Commander.” She knew enough scuttlebutt to know that he and the Inquisitor had a thing. Kinda cliché, but cute all the same. She liked that the tiny, deadly Inquisitor went in the field to kick ass while tall, blonde, and beefy stayed home to do paperwork and yell at the kids; that was refreshing.
“Hero feels like it could be damn near anyone though, you’ve got me there.”
Varric
“Three out of three,” he congratulated her with a cheeky toast. “You’re right, there’s probably any number of wanna-be heroes here. But most of them aren’t trying nearly as hard as our resident Warden.”
He nodded towards Blackwall, currently sending longing looks after Crumpet where she was sitting with a few of the other kitchen girls, having a drink or three and likely some excellent gossip judging by the giggling.
“You’d know him as Blackwall. Girl he’s staring at is Laena, but I call her Crumpet. She’s an apostate, Ostie originally, her brother’s one of the Nightingale’s people. She works in the kitchens, and she might be the sweetest thing in Skyhold apart from her cinnamon rolls.”
The Hero could use someone soft and sweet to look after him a little, and Crumpet could use a hopeless romantic to worship the ground she walked on. It was a shame they were both too damn shy to make a move beyond longing looks and the most cautious flirting he’d seen outside of some of the less realistic court romances, the ones where they didn’t just fuck behind their spouses’ backs.
“She’s pretty friendly with Ruffles, too. Lady Montilyet, the ambassador. Turns out she has a weakness for these bitter little Antivan cakes, something with coffee and chocolate… But other than that…”
He looked around the inn, spotting only Tiny and his Chargers, Sparkler interestingly enough trying to hide his glances at the horned mercenary behind his wine glass. Of course the Tevinter brought his own glassware to a tavern.
“Tiny’s in the corner with his people. He prefers being called the Iron Bull, article very much necessary. And then there’s Sparkler. He’s a Tevinter Altus, but we forgive him for it. Mostly. Don’t know if there’s any other inner circle around tonight. Oh, wait, no, Buttercup’s throwing something from upstairs, that sounds like her.”
Rosie
She nodded. Odd though they might have been, the nicknames were somehow easier to remember than a great number of the names. She probably didn’t have quite the pluck necessary to get by using them to their faces, unfortunately.
“I’ve met Laena; she’s a sweet thing. He could be so lucky.”
As an entertainer and thus a late riser, most of the preferred baked goods were usually well pilfered through before Rosie had even crawled out of bed. Laena had taken pity on her and usually tried to save one of whatever she was proudest of that morning off to the side for her.
She hadn’t interacted much at all with Blackwall, but even after just a few minutes watching him, she could tell the quiet fella had it bad for Laena.
“I’ve got three silver that he’s out of here two minutes after she calls it a night and leaves. Does she not know? What’s the hold up?”
She followed his gaze through the tavern.
“Bull and I have met, he’s here pretty much every night. Chargers are good folk. Respectable, tip well.” Krem clearly preferred Maryden over her, but… well, she knew why.
No one in this place was subtle. That was war, she supposed.
“Dorian’s the first one I met when I arrived,” she offered. “He made fun of my hair. I like him.”
Varric
“I’m pretty sure someone treated her in a way that made them deserve the business side of Bianca in the past,” he mused. “Left her wary, especially of making the first move. And him? Some sort of complex. Thinks she deserves better.”
She did, but that’s why he should do better. Become who she deserved. Varric might have nudged the two in the right direction once or twice with some success.
“They’ll get there in the end,” he announced with mostly-sincere confidence. “Probably.”
Unless she legitimately didn’t know. He hadn’t considered she could be that blind. But would she listen if anyone pointed it out? Would another girl be better?
Damn it, he was terrible at playing matchmaker.
He chuckled at her quick judgment of the Chargers and Sparkler. Both accurate.
“Sparkler mocks as a form of affection, I’m pretty sure it’s just how Tevinters talk. And yeah, the Chargers are good people. Some of the finest mercenaries I’ve met, even if they can and will drink the whole keep under the table if you let them.”
Tiny was the worst of the lot, not helped by the fact an insanely large and heavy qunari was almost impossible to move more than an inch once he’d decided to pass out somewhere.
Rosie
She knew she shouldn’t interfere, but Maker, the desire was palpable. Imagining the Warden lingering around the kitchens to steal a kiss or three was precious.
“I’ll have to throw out a casual line or two around her and see if there’s a bite. I’m invested now. Carefully, though, if she was hurt she gets all the space she needs.”
She took around the bar, smiling slightly at the faces she’d started to recognized mixed with the new.
“Good folks around here, overall. A few are a little brusque or quiet, but… hell, I like the closed ecosystem of it all. Everyone helps, and at least kinda knows each other. Plus, being surrounded by these big ass walls feel safer than I expected.”
She glanced over her shoulder to ensure Cabot was busy downbar.
“I hate feeling like I owe Cabot for talking me into joining up but even a broken clock is right twice a day, hm?“
She felt like she was doing a mostly-acceptable job of not acting weird. Still, the novelty of having a relaxed and natural conversation with Varric Tethras wasn’t lost on her.
Varric
“She’s a tough cookie, Crumpet. She’ll look after herself. And if not, half the keep’s ready to murder Blackwall if he tries anything.”
He tapped his blunt fingertips on the counter of the bar, thinking.
“But if you think a word or two in edgewise might make a difference… be my guest. I think they both deserve a little happiness.”
Hero was a romantic straight out of some old song, ready to live and die at the word of a woman who barely gave him the time of day. So what about one that loved him back?
And Crumpet… she needed someone who truly appreciated her. Someone to return all the love and kindness she had to give, instead of discarding it. And someone to look after her when that bleeding heart of hers hurt.
“But I’m glad you’re taking a liking to the place. It’s still a little rough around the edges, what Fereldans might call rustic charm, but damn, I’ve gotten attached.”
It wasn’t like Kirkwall, that had little charm, rustic or not, it was more or less just a shithole, but… it was home, at least for now.
“And don’t worry. I won’t tell Cabot if you won’t,” he promised with a wink.
Rosie
“I feel like he always finds out, one way or another. I’d accuse him of being a spy but there’s no way he could be arsed with all that. Still, bartenders.”
She swirled the whiskey in her glass thoughtfully. She didn’t want to meddle too much, but she could at least get a temperature check on Crump—Laena. She was genuinely curious, now.
“I won’t lie, Skyhold is better than most places I’ve been. Kinda shabby-chic but, yeah, charming rather than derelict. Confusing as fuck though, I got lost about five times in my first week. Too many damn staircases and they all look identical.”
The place was a bit of a labyrinth. She’d finally gotten mostly calibrated, but not without running in circles a few times first.
At least in talking to Varric she didn’t expect jokes about being able to tell stone from stone. No, she didn’t care about rocks, fuck you, she wasn’t that sort of dwarf.
Her father had been, but that was beyond the point.
She cut herself off of that train of thought. No one wanted to start thinking about Orzammar this many drinks in.
“Anyways, how’s the Authoring going? Still boggles me that you can work through noise like that.”
Varric
“Bartenders,” he agreed with no shortage of sympathy. “Only bigger gossips I’ve ever met are washerwomen and whores.”
Excellent informants, all, the whores especially happy to talk for naught but the price of a client interested in what was between their ears more than what was between their legs.
Maybe not the best topic of conversation with a woman, if a rather easy going one.
You’re out of practice, Tethras.
Out of practice at what? It was just a friendly drink.
“The writing? Eh, it’s fine. I’ve got a draft to polish up later, at least. And the noise helps me focus. It becomes… I don’t know, background noise. Just a few sounds will drive me batty, but a comforting cacophony is just right.”
It was just how he worked.
“I used to work in the Hanged Man, back in Kirkwall. It was much worse. This lot is positively well-behaved by comparison”
Rosie
She laughed.
“If that isn’t the Maker’s honest truth,” she added. “I’ve enjoyed many a past-noon breakfast with working girls and the stories never once disappointed.”
Sometimes she wished she could enjoy the din like that, but her ears were too well-trained to listen for odd bits and pieces of inspiration—and in the interest of keeping herself safe.
“Mm, can’t say I’ve been, but I’ve heard a few stories. Unless I have some sort of escort, I try to keep it to reputable and well-lit establishments. I’d keep a dagger on my hip except I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I needed it, and I’d be more worried about giving someone unsavory a bonus weapon.”
Nor did she truly have any interest in learning. She was more likely to look for a quick getaway or make good decisions than hold her own. That was for braver folks.
Here? She liked it here. Guards all over, soldiers all over. Heroes all over. Not that a few of them weren’t likely bad eggs, but here, she was pretty sure the good outnumbered them well enough.
Here, she never missed a wink of sleep and could well and truly relax while she performed. She had no plans to leave—and sort of hoped the fort would hold even after the Inquisitor’s ultimate victory.
Varric
“Very understandable,” he empathized.
A woman alone was always at more risk, especially if she wasn’t willing and able to defend herself with violence if necessary. He’d probably be a lot more worried about Crumpet if he hadn’t seen her storm magic flare once or twice.
“The Hanged Man is… the worst hellhole I’ve ever been to, but it was home for a decade. I loved it and hated it, but that’s home. There’s much nicer parts of Kirkwall, but not that many.”
Noting she hadn’t as much as blinked at his mention of prostitutes, he decided on a particularly amusing story.
“There’s this brothel in the cheapest part of Hightown. Nice and accessible to the fancy folk. The Blooming Rose. Some of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, even if none were that keen on excess clothing. Anyway, I used to come over from time to time, usually with Hawke, get a drink and a round of Wicked Grace, leave a lot poorer, you know how it goes.”
Hawke had partaken in the paid kind of company from time to time, mostly in the three years or so between her first bedding the elf and them making a proper go of it, but he only ever paid for time, not sex. Not his thing.
“And one time, who do I see but the Inquisition’s very own Commander, then the Kirkwall Knight-Captain. He insisted he was there on official business, some sort of investigation. I was inclined to believe him, mostly because the poor man was blushing like he’d never seen a pair of tits before.”
Honestly, what did they do to them in the Chantry?
Rosie
She’d been around Ferelden a bit, but mostly to the South and East. The North and West was a mystery to her, the only real points of reference having been, well, Varric’s books.
She’d heard mention that the Commander had come from Kirkwall too—that he and Varric had known each other in a past life, but she’d not quite expected him to turn up in this particular breed of story.
She smacked her palm on the bartop in surprise.
“Stop, what happened after that? Did he oh-shit about getting recognized and just turn tail?”
Damn storytellers and their pauses and chapter breaks. At least she finished her damn songs promptly.
She wondered if the Inquisitor knew. Judging by what she’d learned of her background, Rosie could only fancy she’d have a rich laugh at the sweet soldier’s expense—especially if she’d heard it told like this via Varric.
Varric
“Believe it or not, he tried to hold firm. Hawke teased the poor man half to death of course, bought him a drink and asked if he wanted the insider’s perspective to his options.”
All the while making it sound like she partook far more often than she actually did, of course.
“I left that little bit out of the book. Seemed cruel.”
The memory was a little hazy. They’d had more than a few at Hawke’s too-nice, too-empty estate before wandering over to the Blooming Rose, keen for company outside their own thoughts.
“But the girls had even more fun with them, of course. He asked for one’s name, she replied with something like ‘for you, handsome? Anything and everything.’ I hadn’t known it was possible for a man to turn that color before.”
He’d looked oddly like an eggplant, really.
“He eventually ran when he asked for a way to contact one and she offered him her smalls. I was surprised she was wearing any, to be honest.”
Rosie
She laughed again, almost a very unladylike cackle that her mother would not have approved of.
“Andraste preserve the poor sod,” she lamented, setting her empty glass up on the bar. “The sweet ones are too easy. I’m sure the Inquisitor hunts him for sport when she’s home if he’s still got that sort of constitution.”
She signaled for one more—another mead, a gentler pacer than whiskey.
“You know, I was always curious how much of your writing was pulled from lived experience versus pure fiction. With stories like that, it’d almost be a shame not to preserve them.”
Shit, even she could make some sort of riff on that one. Maybe not here lest she displease the Commander of the very forces keeping her safe, but just in general.
Most bards chronicled heroes and wars. Boring. Bawdy stuff was way more fun, especially when it was funny, too.
Varric
“Oh, I’m pretty sure Pointy’s turned it into an art form. Don’t be too sorry for him, I think he likes it.”
Romantic woes aside, Curly looked happier now than he ever had in Kirkwall. Not being under Meredith’s steely boot would do that to a man.
“And my stories… Hmm, depends I suppose. Tale of the Champion is mostly true. I only really left out a few things to spare people who didn’t deserve to be put at risk or needlessly embarrassed.”
Some of the uglier parts of the Fenris/Hawke saga had been glossed over. No one needed to know about the three years of them struggling to get over the false start, or all the tears Hawke had shed trying and failing to get over her grumpy elf.
“The rest, though…”
He glanced towards his current draft, maybe more than a little similar to a little rumor he’d heard of Curly enjoying a few rounds of chess with her Inquisitorial Pointyness herself.
“Eh, I take bits here and there. Impossible to figure out where most of it comes from, really.”
Rosie
“Impossible, huh.”
Everything came from somewhere, be it lived experiences, someone else's stories, or even just simple fantasy.
Still, she'd tease but she wouldn't push.
“Fun little peek behind the curtain, all the same. I rather enjoy learning more about other creatives’ processes. Even just bards. Maryden finds the music first, then the lyrics. I work mostly the other way around. Once she gets going on something, though, it gels damn fast. She's good.”
It had made for some interesting times faffing about over midafternoon lunch, but it worked out in the end, each girl picking their strengths on their ideas and leaning on the other to fill in a few gaps.
“We've been tinkering with a couple sets of ideas. We'll see if they go anywhere.”
She wasn't exactly sure why she was telling him all this, but she was feeling the drink a bit, and she enjoyed the conversation.
Varric
“Well… Mostly impossible.” He shot her a teasing grin. “I imagine it’s pretty different from your process. There’s not really any option of starting with anything but the words for me.”
There was the ever-present debate between pantsers and plotters and those somewhere in between, of course, but that wasn’t really the same thing. As a merchant’s son raised with more focus on spreadsheets than the classical hero’s journey, he’d sort of stumbled into writing his own stories, and then into writing them.
He didn’t really have a formal method, he just… did his thing, and sometimes people liked it, and sometimes his publisher bluntly informed him it would turn a greater profit to turn the remaining stock into woodpulp than to try to sell it as is.
“I’d like to see, or, well, hear, any results though. You’re both good at what you do, but your style is very different.”
Maryden often tended a little moody, even grim at times, where Rosie was more… upbeat. In more ways than one. And maybe he found her habit of perching on the table a little charming, even if it might be a one-time thing.
He’d opted for another whiskey himself, and myths of dwarven constitution aside, he was starting to feel it. It was getting late, anyway. Probably best to quit while he was ahead.
But he’d always been a passable Wicked Grace player at best.
“It gets too boring here, too many straight laced nobles and well-behaved soldiers. We need someone like you to encourage us to let a little loose once in a while. To have fun. It’s nice.”
Rosie
“Well, shucks, you'll make me blush.”
It was quite the compliment, and it seemed genuine.
“Plenty of people being people here,” she noted. “Sure all of you hero types, but then there's the bakers and the tailors and the medics. I treat it like any other town, mostly.”
A town with a legend in the making at the helm, of course, and with plenty of bad days and people who didn't make it home. But, well, it was like that outside these walls, too.
“But, thanks. It's nice to know I bring levity. Life up here is brighter than life underground, even on the grim days, both literally and figuratively. I try to keep that in mind when the going gets a little tough. Better to laugh than cry.”
She'd done enough of that. She got out. Optimism came easy now.
Varric
Shit, she’d been born in Orzammar. Probably raised there too.
Born on the surface himself, sometime after his parents’ exile, he had mixed feelings at best about his supposed ancestral homeland.
If she’d left, it seemed likely she was the same.
“It’s good to remember there’s little people everywhere. And not just our kind of little, I mean,” he joked, a little weakly. “It’s a good part of why I’m here, to be honest. The mages and templars, or the civil war in Orlais, lots of people killing each other, not many caring about the farmer whose field they’re ruining or the shepherd who lost his flock, or, well… worse.”
The Hinterlands had been bloody grim their first few visits.
“Decent chunk of the refugees ended up here, or otherwise helping out the Inquisition however they can. Pointy did right by them.”
And earned the undying loyalty of a good chunk of the Fereldan countryside in the process.
“It’s nice to see, people having a chance to recover, even thrive.”
He’d seen more than enough starving children for one lifetime.
Rosie
She nodded.
“Wouldn't have come if I'd heard anything less than what I had about your Pointy, here. She seems to give far more a shit about said folks than anyone else, having been one. Good woman to have at the helm of this operation.”
News travelled fast in bars and inns. People had been starting to sound more hopeful than they'd been just a few years prior.
Rare air, honestly.
“Look at us, getting all serious after too much booze, ew,” she offered, shaking her shoulders out as if to knock it back.
Not to totally redirect if he'd wanted to keep talking, but enough to provide an easy out. Drink could turn sour quick with the wrong thought.
Varric
He caught her redirect, and didn’t push. Part of staying alive in Kirkwall as long as he had was learning when to roll with the punches.
Hawke never had. She’d gotten more than one broken nose as a result.
“Hey, at least it’s the happy kind of serious,” he offered with a laugh, finishing off his last sip of whiskey. “But nah, I’m sure we can think of something more cheerful.”
Probably. He had mostly managed to keep morale up even during the grimmest hours before the Arishok fully lost his mind. Mostly.
“Oh shit, Crumpet’s moving,” he exclaimed, as if commentating on one of those nug races certain Orlesian nobles seemed very fond of. “I think she’s heading over to Hero.”
They couldn’t be lucky enough the lovebirds got somewhere even without their involvement, right?
Rosie
“True,” she agreed, mirroring with the last of her mead before perking up at his announcement.
Of the same mind, she caught Varric by the sleeve, dragging him after her to a table slightly hidden by one of the support beams but with a better view of Blackwall's table.
Sometimes it was a perk to be short of stature. Easier to keep a literal low profile, even with bright pink hair.
She wished she could read lips.
“Ugh they really are so cute, look how fucking excited he looks.”
Even from across the room, the Warden's eyes seemed brighter, even if his body language was demure and almost bashful, like he never in a million years expected her to talk to him.
“I'm so gonna be nosey tomorrow when I visit the kitchen. This is my new favorite serial. No offense.”
Varric
“Hey, none taken, I was always better at mysteries than romance.”
The Seeker’s opinion didn’t count. Even if it was flattering.
They were cute. Bloody saccharine, really. Shame they were both too shy to do anything about it.
“Look at her, she’s blushing,” he cooed. “Twirling her hair. Bet she’d ask him to dance if you were still playing.”
He wondered how much her friends had in the betting pool at this pool. He might have to see about merging it with the one Pointy and Sparkler had started.
“Wait, holy shit, look-“
Turned out Hero did have some moves, judging by the way he just bent down to kiss her hand before mumbling some sort of farewell or apology, judging by the way he left shortly after.
Poor Crumpet looked like she might need a moment. She actually fanned herself for a second.
“Damn, didn’t know he had it in him,” he laughed. “Good on him.”
Rosie
She yanked on his sleeve again out of excitement.
“Who kisses hands! That's too much,” she squealed.
“Damn, I'd be fanning myself too. Something something buttered that crumpet,” she riffed without putting in any real effort. It was late and she’d been drinking.
She let go of his sleeve.
Oopsie.
“I am so being nosey in the morning. I need to know what that was all about. I'll track you down and share it if it's any good.”
She realized she had no idea where he idled around the keep, but what a perfect accidental way of asking she'd stumbled into.
She was glad she'd found, if nothing else, a fellow gossip in Varric. Maryden was annoyingly uninterested in such things. Dorian might have been but she felt weird about approaching him, especially if he'd come in to ogle the T-boned beefsteak along the back wall.
That was its own source of good material, anyways.
Varric
“Songbird, I’m getting all the intel I can, we can compare notes.”
Crumpet went back to her friends, all giggles and blushing and loving teasing. She looked young, happy, in love. Good. She deserved it.
“Hero always gave me the air of someone who’d spent some time in the outskirts of some aristocracy or other before he headed for the hole in the ground we found him in. Orlais, probably. He has far too much appreciation for the finer things to have spent his whole life roughing it.”
His leading theory was army officer or some sort of fancy mercenary. He’d compare notes with Tiny, but the Qunari tended to just give him a look and ask uncomfortable questions about Kirkwall.
Damn annoying habit of his.
“But if he treats Crumpet right, he can have as much not-so-secret appreciation for good wine and those little cakes as he wants.”
Women, too, even if it felt weird to think of Crumpet that way. She was a beautiful woman, if in a somewhat subdued way. Probably a product of years of avoiding attention.
“He has a sweet tooth. Go figure.”
Rosie
She giggled at Varric’s full agreement.
And maybe at the confirmation of her own nickname.
She knew enough about Wardens to know that most of them had started elsewhere, either by choice or by ultimatum. Hard to tell with Her–er, Blackwall. She’d take Varric’s word for it.
Not that she would judge Blackwall for it, whatever the case. Everyone had a story or four.
And he made Laena blush and giggle.
The hand kiss was so cute.
“Hey, nothing wrong with a sweet tooth. That man has the air of someone who could use a little spun sugar in his life on the regular.”
Past aside, he was here and fighting on the side of good. That counted for something.
Varric
“I think we all could, really,” he mused. “I’ve always had a weakness for a good cinnamon roll.”
Unfortunately his taste in women tended to trend spicier than cinnamon.
“Everyone deserves a bit of happiness, don’t they? Especially in uncertain times.”
The hopeless romantics in particular. He might be a bit of a sap, deep down, but he’d long given up on the idea of any kind of happily ever after for himself.
Nah, he was fine on his own. He’d probably have a gaggle of kids to call him uncle Varric and spoil rotten eventually. Pointy and Curly alone seemed the sort for a whole litter.
He smiled, more genuine than most he gave, and set down his empty glass on the nearest table.
“On that note, Cabot’s started glaring at people who try to order, so it might be time to call it a night.”
Unless…
Unless what? They both needed sleep, and he was probably getting dragged in for a debriefing or some other mission far sooner than he’d like.
But he had enjoyed talking to her.
Rosie
She gave a half smile. Well and true.
She'd had a few dalliances just for the fun of it. It started as a rebellion, so there were more than a few bad decisions and regrettable nights in there, but she'd had a few good ones, too.
Cabot had kindly turned a blind eye. He was her only family left, sure, but never once had he treated her as anything less than a grown adult with her own agency.
“Probably should,” she agreed. Headcount was dwindling. Another night for the books.
“Well. It was a pleasure to enjoy a few rounds and a chat, Varric; unexpected fun. I'm sure one of us will find the other soon to trade those notes, hm?”
It would be a nice thing, having a new friend. Specifically dwarven, male, a creative, and funny; even more than a little impressive and in more than one way.
She tried not to act a fangirl about the inner-circle author, but what fun was life if you couldn't lean in to enjoy the stupid, shallow shit sometimes?
Varric
“You know it, Songbird. As soon as I can escape the dreaded debriefs.”
Most of the council were early risers by necessity or nature, and none had any mercy. He had a miserable morning ahead of him.
“I’ll probably be around by the time the night shift’s finished their breakfast.”
He winced at the thought of how early Crumpet and the other cooks were usually up. Poor girl. Maybe he should bring her some of his secret stash of good coffee, straight from Antiva, carefully smuggled in with one of Ruffles’ shipments of “necessities.”
“Hey, do you like coffee? The good stuff, I mean, Antivan, not the tarry sludge they serve in the great hall for breakfast. Bitter as sin but damn good with a bit of sugar and cream, and it’ll keep you awake if you need it.”
Should he admit to having access to small luxuries like coffee and real sugar and proper pipe tobacco on the rare occasion he indulged? Probably not. But sharing was caring, or something.
Rosie
Some days she still felt like a rube. It had been going on ten years she'd been above ground (okay, seven and a half, but that was going on ten, right?) but she was still getting used to a great many things.
Pretty much any food and drink were better here than back there; her palate wasn't what anyone might call refined.
“Can't say I've had the luxury,” she admitted, not going into the fact that she didn't really think anything was wrong with the normal stuff they served around the keep.
“How early am I gonna have to haul my ass out of bed to partake?”
She got to sleep in more often than not. She could brave a bit of extra daylight just this once for what she could tell was a generous offer.
Varric
“I’ll probably need a second round by the time I’m done with, well, the Inquisition. Or maybe a third.”
When the Seeker and Nightingale got going they were scarier than any stories of the Inquisition of old, in truth.
“So I thought I’d bring some, say, a bit after noon? I’ll see if I can wheedle Crumpet into saving some cinnamon rolls for us, she tends to be a good sport about that sort of thing. For the exchange of notes.”
Maker bless that girl. Or maybe Maker preserve her given the combination of a hangover and sleep deprivation she was likely to suffer by morning.
It felt oddly like arranging a date, but he chalked that up to most of his friendships being due to circumstance and opportunity more than any kind of planning. Hawke usually handled that part. Poorly. He just showed up, cracked jokes and ordered drinks.
Rosie
‘After noon’ was its own sweet song.
“Perfect. At the kitchens? Cinnamon rolls would be good.” She tended towards fruit pastries (fuck the underground, fruit was so good) but pretty much anything that Laena put into an oven turned out heavenly.
She hadn't had plans in a hot minute. It was refreshing; something to look forward to.
And like. With Varric Thethras.
Neat.
“I feel like I should be bringing something to contribute but I can't imagine what that might be. Something tells me she won't want any more noise than necessary or I'd bring Old Faithful along to pluck at.”
Varric
“You got it, Songbird,” he agreed with a chuckle and a cheeky salute that would have made Curly puff up about appropriate respect and proper procedure. “I’ll be there.”
It was a miracle Pointy put up with him at times, really. Maybe she’d found his off button.
He made a note of her calling her lute Old Faithful, at least in jest. You never knew what might be useful.
“Music might be a bad call,” he agreed. “But… I don’t know. She likes stories. And fruit. Berries especially.”
Why had he made a note of this? Maybe to give Hero a hint, if necessary. She liked peonies and tulips too, but found roses a little overdone.
Rosie
“Stories I got. Fruit, she probably has the leg up on me with, in the kitchens and all.”
She'd see what the morning held. She didn't like to be a freeloader but also, like, she would. Sometimes entertainers played by different rules.
It was an odd way to get by, but it worked. Most of the time. She was cute enough to pull it off, or something.
“Sleep well, then, Varric. Welcome back home. Thanks for the change of pace and company, it's been fun.”
Too sappy? Nah. Her tone sounded casual enough.
“I’ll see you again around noon, then.”
Varric
“Around noon,” he echoed with a grin. “I might sleep well, but it’s unlikely to be for long.”
Maker, it was long past midnight already. He would regret this when the Seeker dragged him from his bed at the crack of dawn.
“So long, Songbird.”
He tipped an invisible cap before making his exit, the draft he should have finished in hand. But hey, if nothing else Songbird was likely to be the source of plenty of new inspiration.