Spellbound

13. Sociable

Dorian's birthday was over, but he was naturally sociable. Mere weeks after his grand celebration, his friends came over again. This time, it was the blond dwarf Lavellan had seen at the birthday party. He had a big bag swung over his broad shoulders and upon his arrival, he promptly dumped its contents on a table while a servant hurried to inform Dorian of his arrival. Judging by the way the dwarf showed up with the surprise of a thunderstorm, the people of this household were familiar enough to him to let him enter without complaint.

Lavellan was on his way to the kitchen when the dwarf called out to him and halted him in his tracks.

"Hey, elf. Can you help me here?" He didn't sound unkind despite his gruff voice, but Lavellan didn't appreciate being ordered around. Still, he approached and noted with wonderment how the dwarf's chest hair peeking through his half-open tunic was longer than the stubble on his chin.

"These need some dusting. Do you have a rag I can use?"

Lavellan stared at the figurines made from brass and then at the dwarf. Did he want to clean them himself?

"Right away," Lavellan muttered before the dwarf could change his opinion and fetched two clean cloths. Upon the owner's beckon, Lavellan helped him wipe down the old relics.

The dwarf's eyes lingered on Lavellan. Wisdom showed in them, the kind gathered by having seen a lot in life and having survived many adventures. Those eyes had stories to tell, and the first lines of his age showed in friendly wrinkles around his eyes.

"Varric Tethras," he introduced himself a minute into their silent teamwork. "Dorian told me about you. You come from the Free Marches?"

Attentive whether the dwarf was spying on him, Lavellan nodded. Dorian didn't seem the kind to have two spies watch each other, but the Bull was. His wicked intelligence paired with Dorian's wit was a dangerous combination.

But Lavellan stuck to his plan more than ever. Befriending Dorian's people could create a way for Lavellan to mislead him. He just had to convince his closest circle.

"I'm from Kirkwall, on the east coast. It's called The City of Chains if you ever heard of it."

Surprised by their common roots, Lavellan slowed his work on the brass warrior. Now that Varric said it, Lavellan heard the swinging dialect of the southern Free Marches shine through his speech.

"You're a surface dwarf?"

"Grew up and lived there all my life, aye. I'm a merchant and I met Dorian through a shared friend during his travels in Ferelden."

Pensive, Lavellan eyed the door from which Dorian would emerge in due time. Lavellan should hide by then. After the grape incident last time, he tried to avoid the meddlesome mage. His mind still bothered him with questions about what might have happened had he kissed Dorian's cheek.

He would have snapped the mage's neck; that would have happened.

Petulant, Lavellan returned to his task. Dorian's visits to the south explained why he was well-versed with the Dalish and what happened to them in his home country. Perhaps his rather lenient views on slavery had been influenced by the slave-free states.

"I've never been to Kirkwall, but I knew someone from the Dalish clan there," Lavellan recalled. He couldn't remember her name, but the girl had been a dreamer with the most colourful tales to tell. He attended her visits to his clan rarely since he was away a lot, but he always found her fascinating among other Dalish.

"She doesn't happen to be called Merril, does she?"

Lavellan blinked, overcome by memories.

"That's her name," he said, astounded. "You know her?"