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Harmon slams the notice down among them like it's a winning hand. “The bounty just doubled. Saddle up, boys, we're hunting ourselves down a dragon!”
Silence. Everyone avoids eye contact. Perhaps he was expecting more of an enthusiastic response, although Sorrel can't imagine why. This is not the first time they have had this sort of discussion and it always ends the same way; with Harmon being reminded of the fact that he is not in charge, that they function as an autonomous collective where everyone gets a vote, and generally the vote on one of his crazy ideas is no.
It is Skinny Tal who finally leans forward to cast a keen eye over said bounty notice. “You do realise that this drawing is not to scale, yes? The real dragon will be much larger.”
Harmon pouts. “Come on, where's your sense of adventure?”
“I believe I used most of it up when I abandoned everything I had ever known, nearly got murdered by the Ben-Hassrath, and lost half a horn in the process.” Skinny Tal says. “I will admit, though, the idea has a certain appeal, and the price is right. If we can pull it off.”
“I haven't told you the good part yet!” Harmon says. “My cousin reckons there's an old dragon slayer who lives near his village. Big Vashoth guy, one eye, wears the fucking tooth around his neck and everything. We could get him to give us his secret tactics.”
“That doesn't sound very promising to me.” Jackal calls, from the back. “I'm far too pretty to lose an eye.”
Sorrel, herself, is starting to think that this sounds at least more fun than guarding caravans, and really the opening is far too tempting to resist. “Show of hands-- who thinks our Jack is too pretty to lose an eye?”
“I hate you fuckers.” Jackal says, when no hands other than his go up.
“Show of hands,” Skinny Tal drawls, over the laughter, “as to who thinks our friend Harmony of Blessed Andraste should go find this alleged dragonslayer, come up with a slightly more detailed plan than saddle up, and then we vote again.”
Maker's saggy balls, Skinny Tal can be vicious sometimes. Full fucking name and everything.
Still, Sorrel puts her hand up, because Harmon brought this on himself. So does pretty much everyone else, except Jackal, who is now sulking, and Daisy Knives, who is, as per usual when there's no food, fight, or fuck to be had, sound asleep.
Harmon puts his hand up too, because he's actually that much of an idiot.
Harmon is going to find a dragonslayer. Harmon is going to find out everything there is to know about fighting dragons, like, tactics, and strategy, and everything, and then he'll show them.
At least, if he can figure out how to find this villa, because apparently dragonslayers don't make it that easy to find their house. That's probably a strategy thing. Or tactics. He forgets the difference. Also, the locals who gave him the directions kept snickering after he told them why he was trying to find The Iron Bull, so he's not entirely sure the directions are accurate. Eventually, though, he spots a path that must lead somewhere, ties his horse to a tree because the damn thing is getting all fussy all of a sudden, and goes to investigate.
It is not quite what he'd been expecting. A secluded location, sure. Nice stone wall around it, sure. The very large number of very pink blossoms in the carefully tended garden is a little bit of a surprise, all things considered, and the horse-shaped thing that leans over the wall when he gets near and snorts at him with breath that smells like the grave is-- fuck, what the fuck.
“A marvel, isn't he?” The man who speaks is not the Vashoth he'd been told of, The Iron Bull, but a human, probably old enough to be Harmon's da at least, but a lot posher looking. He's wearing a great big fucking tooth around his neck, which is probably a good sign, and he's pointing a big shiny staff at Harmon, which is probably a bad one. “Don't be alarmed, he's actually completely harmless. The same cannot be said, however, for me. Are you lost?”
“Uh, I don't think so.” Harmon says.
“Would you be interested in getting lost?” the man replies. “I'm not in the mood to determine whether or not you're an actual threat. I have horn balm to brew, magical research to conduct, and a nasty letter to write to a very stubborn wine merchant in Nevarra City who is being entirely unreasonable about delivery charges, so I don't really have the time to deal with meddling children today. Terribly sorry. Go away.”
“Actually, I came here to ask about dragons.” Harmon says, hopefully, but also eyeing the staff warily, because Sorrel has this thing she does with electricity when she's annoyed with people and it hurts.
There are several loud crashing noises from the direction of the house proper. The man sighs. “Selective hearing. Ask if he could assist me with some simple task like applying embalming fluid to Boggy's coat, and he's as deaf as a post, but say the word dragon within ten miles and suddenly--”
A qunari throws the door to the house open and hurries towards them. This must be The Iron Bull. The locals who had directed Harmon to the villa had described him as 'rather big', apparently in the exact same way that a Fereldan might describe himself as 'rather fond of dogs'. Harmon has always been vaguely aware that Skinny Tal is called Skinny Tal for a reason, but this one is something like two or three of him. “What's this about dragons?”
“I haven't determined whether or not he's a threat yet, amatus.” the man says.
“Aww, come on, kadan. Dragons.” The Iron Bull grins widely. Finally, somebody understands how Harmon feels about dragons. “Besides, he looks trustworthy enough.”
The mage gives The Iron Bull a look. It is definitely A Look. The look is not even aimed at Harmon and he feels like hiding behind something just in case. “Remind me which of us has survived more assassination attempts?”
The Iron Bull appears to be immune to The Look. “That's more to do with how good you are at pissing people off than anything else, Dorian, and you know it.”
art by serenity-fails
Dorian heaves a very large sigh and turns back to Harmon. “Very well. You, identify yourself and explain what you want to know about dragons. Succinctly, if you would-- and keeping in mind that I could kill you where you stand at any moment, etcetera.”
Harmon rummages in his pack for the bounty notice, while mouthing succinctly to himself. Sorrel can probably tell him what it means when he gets back. “My name is Harmon. I'm a mercenary. Um, I came to ask for some advice about this.”
Dorian steps forward to snatch it with the hand not pointing a staff at Harmon in a threatening manner, and holds it at arms length, glaring at it. “Hmm.”
“You forgot your glasses in the house again, didn't you.” The Iron Bull says.
“I did not forget them. I left them there because I don't need them.” Dorian replies. “Clearly, this man is seeking our assistance in hunting a dragon, which we cannot provide because we are both far too busy and far too retired to do so. He can go away now.”
“He guessed that from the picture.” The Iron Bull says. Dorian huffs. “A dragon hunt, eh? Hmm, you know what kind we're dealing with?”
There's kinds? Harmon honestly doesn't know except big, apparently and ate somebody's prize ram. “Um—”
Dorian says something that sounds rather foreign and also probably insulting. It's not Harmon's fault he didn't know there were kinds of dragon. “Does it breathe fire or not?”
That, he can answer. “There's definitely fire.”
“How large is the company, and how many mages?” is the next question.
“Ah, forty-two, eight mages.” Forty-four if you count the Mabari, but since Daisy isn't here, nobody can make Harmon count the Mabari.
“Sounds reasonable.” Bull says. “Depends on what the field of battle's going to be like, of course.”
“Depends on whether or not they're any good.” Dorian responds, eyeing Harmon like he thinks the answer is no.
Hey now. “We're good.” he snaps back. “Did those two wyverns up near Hunter Fell just last month.”
Dorian and Bull exchange glances. It's like they think this is funny or something. To most people, wyverns are a big deal, okay? This story nearly got Harmon laid just last week.
“You're not going to let this go, are you, amatus.” Dorian says.
“You know it, kadan.”
“In that case,” Dorian says, and turns his attention back to Harmon. “We will assist you. I will of course be in charge of your mages, and Bull can handle the rest. For a fair share of the bounty, naturally, and dependant on your company being up to our standards.”
“We can be ready to leave in an hour.” Bull says.
“After lunch, if you please.” Dorian corrects. “I would like to savour one last meal eaten on actual plates before I let you drag me on what is undoubtedly going to be yet another tour of every unpleasantly muddy field in Nevarra.”
They invite Harmon in for lunch. It's pretty good, but he can't stop looking at the picture on the wall at the far end of the table, the one that appears to be a sketch of a beehive out of which are flying a great many small winged penises.
It's probably one of those arty metaphor things.
He wonders if he should point out that they're supposed to just be explaining how to fight dragons, not coming along, but he gets the feeling that the moment to explain that has now passed, and also they're sort of terrifying.
Well, it's probably good that they come along to explain dragon-hunting strategies to everyone. One of the others can clear up the confusion when they get there.
The good bit about travelling with The Iron Bull and Dorian Pavus is that Harmon gets to hear lots of stories about dragon hunting. Harmon has been trying to write down as many bits of dragon-hunting advice as he can manage, both for his own use and as a guide for everyone else. The Iron Bull talks a lot about Respect, which Harmon has dutifully written down and then, since The Iron Bull has mentioned this concept several times, underlined it twice.
Great respect for a great and dangerous foe. He likes that. It makes everything sound more serious and important. He hasn't managed to write down too many more specific pieces of advice, partly because the dragon-hunting stories keep getting... interrupted.
“Of course, that was a high dragon, and this will be some overgrown lizard barely worth our time.”
“You didn't have to come along, kadan.”
“Of course I did.” Dorian Pavus says. “I am here to ensure you don't do anything too reckless, and to rue my life choices.”
The Iron Bull grins. “Little late for that, isn't it?”
“Never too late for a good rue. I blame you and your ridiculous musculature, personally. If you are going to tell dragon stories, though, you might as well tell me the one about the Vinsomer again.”
There is a brief pause. “Lad, watch the fire for a bit. We're going to go get more firewood.”
Harmon sighs to himself. They've only just set up camp, he thought they might at least make it to dinner this time. On the far side of the clearing, the monster-horse Dorian Pavus insists is called 'Boggy' stares at him in a way Harmon suspects is judgemental, although it's hard to tell what with the weird dead eyes, and it being an undead horse and everything.
“Shut up.” He tells it. “Soon I'll have awesome dragon-fighting stories to tell, too.”
He might leave out this bit, though. This bit is mostly Harmon poking at the fire and wondering if sex is really meant to be that loud, and he can't imagine it will be of interest to anybody at all.
They pick up a couple of boring jobs while they're waiting for Harmon to get back from his Dragon Slaying Strategy outing. Guarding things. Removing guards from things. That kind of thing. Honestly, Sorrel thinks the best outcome is that he manages not to fall in a ditch. Harmon's good qualities are that he is enthusiastic and can take a hit, and it's the ability to take a hit that is probably responsible for him surviving all of his worse qualities.
Next to her, Daisy suddenly sits bolt upright and snarls. She hasn't bothered to put her clothes back on, so Sorrel takes a moment to admire the view before asking. “We got company?” For a human, Daisy's ears are nothing to sneer at.
“Stinks.” Daisy says, glowering. “Like something died.”
Well, that sounds like something worth checking out. Sorrel grabs her staff and the nearest bit of clothing that looks like it's hers, and pokes her head outside for a look.
Then she pokes her head back in and says “Daisy, you gotta come see this,” because Harmon's really outdone himself this time.
How should she describe the scene in front of her? Well, there's Harmon, looking like his usual empty-headed self, but having more trouble keeping his horse under control than usual. That's probably because of his two companions.
One is probably the largest qunari Sorrel's ever seen (and she's been around), wearing an eyepatch and with an axe strapped to his back about the same size as Sorrel herself, astride a similarly giant black horse that looks like it eats children for breakfast. All the tack on said giant child-eating horse is pink, which oddly doesn't make the scene any less intimidating.
It says something that the second rider is even weirder, mostly because of the horse, which appears to be dead, and has a sword through its head. Sorrel takes a moment to run that sentence back through her head. She's lived in Nevarra pretty much all of her life, and the Mortalitasi get up to some weird shit sometimes, sure, but she's never seen one decide to ride said weird shit around the countryside. The man riding it is definitely a mage, but Mortalitasi have a certain look, and this ain't it. Too much flair.
Most of the camp are now gathering around to watch the ensuing shit-show, but nobody steps forward, because if ever there was a time to abide by their whole autonomous collective without a single leader thing, this is definitely it. That is, until they dismount and Harmon, in response to some query from the mage, points directly at her.
That shit.
Still, at least as he comes towards her, the dead horse stays where it is, so Sorrel pulls herself up straight and faces him head on. She is a pretty damn good mage in her own right, which is why they voted her in for this job in the first place.
Up close, there's definitely an aura of nobleman ageing gracefully, but Sorrel's been in and ducked out of enough bar brawls to recognise the posture of somebody who could fuck your shit up at any moment and knows it. “I understand you lead the mages within this company?” He says. “Sorrel, is it?”
Well, clearly Harmon's been running his mouth again. “That's right. You need something from me?”
“I am Dorian Pavus, and I will be determining if you are capable of handling a dragon. Your friend over there assured me you were, but your friend over there also walked into a tree the other night while we were making camp, so I don't think I'll be relying on his opinion. What training do your people have?”
Well, fair enough, she wouldn't trust Harmon's opinions on magic, either. “Four circle-trained, including me, one apostate, two Dalish, and-- well, not sure on Rat, he's from over the border, and he doesn't talk about it.”
Dorian Pavus frowns. “Rat?”
Short for 'drowned rat', actually, because that's what he looked like when they fished him out of the river. He's somewhere upwards of fourteen and downwards of twenty, mostly made out of limbs and sarcasm, and questions every order he's given, but kid's got no other place to go and he's willing to fight (maybe a little too willing), so they ended up keeping him. “He's got skills, I just don't know where from.” She looks around, spots the kid peering at them from behind a tent. “Rat, get your skinny arse over here.”
Usually Rat's primary method of locomotion when asked to do pretty much anything is a sort of slouching shuffle, except in a fight when he forgets he's an actual mage and starts hurling himself at things, as if he doesn't have enough scars already. Today, he scurries over in double-time, and stands nearly to attention, silently staring at their visitor. “Is he mute?” Dorian Pavus asks.
“Not normally.” Sorrel replies. Normally, she can't stop the damn kid informing her of his opinions on things.
Dorian Pavus reaches out slowly, and touches two fingers to the lightning scar that blooms on Rat's cheek. “Liberati?” When Rat nods, he sighs. “Signed yourself up to be trained by the army, I suppose. My countrymen do like to stretch the meaning of the word volunteer to its limits.”
“Are you actually Dorian Pavus?” Rat says suddenly, so meek and timid that it's more like Mouse than anything she normally associates with their Rat.
“The one and only, I should hope. While certain persons have been known to express an interest in more than one of me, I would worry about that being too much splendour for Thedas to deal with all at once. Do you think you could set up a suitable duelling circle somewhere nearby for me, Rat?”
Rat nods, straightens, and puts one hand to his heart in a sort of salute, and then sprints off with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Sorrel frowns. “You want to see us duel each other?” Well, it's not a bad way to see what someone's capable of. They duel a lot anyway-- settling bets, settling quarrels, or just for training. Although Sorrel doesn't even really want to fight a dragon all that much, so she's not sure why she's agreeing to all of this in the first place.
“Oh, no. You're all going to duel me.”
Sorrel looks him over with slight disbelief. He might be powerful, or at least obviously he thinks he is, but the guy is definitely getting on in years. “You're going to fight eight duels in a row?”
“That's really up to you.” Dorian Pavus says. Smirks. Smooths his already immaculate moustache. “I would personally recommend you even the odds by having at least two of you up against me at any one time. All at once would be fine, too.”
This shit. Sorrel wouldn't usually beat up on old men, but this one time? She can definitely make an exception.
“As much as I'd like to see that,” the qunari says, “we should also talk battle plans. Who's your strategist?”
She takes a small vicious pleasure in the look on Skinny Tal's face when several people point at him at once.
Tal isn't sure what hurts worse; the way The Iron Bull just methodically took his draft strategy for dragon fighting apart, bit by bit, or the actual bruises caused by the sparring that followed.
The physical ones, at least, he can get Revas to slap some salve on, which is what he's doing now, although their healer is rationing the supplies, something about there being limited time and resources and not wanting to spend either on idiots who went back for a third round.
Look, he nearly had him that time, okay? He was close. Close-ish. Closer than any of the rest of these bastards, anyway.
The flap to the healer's tent opens, and this time it's Sorrel who limps in with a face like a thundercloud. Well, at least he's not the only one who's had a humbling afternoon. “How did it go?”
“I,” Sorrel says darkly, “am going to learn everything that man knows, and then I am going to kill a dragon, just to prove him wrong.”
“Sounds like your afternoon went about as well as mine.” Tal replies. “The Iron Bull reckons we might be able to pull it off, with a little additional training, and their help. He also said it would be 'fun'. Several times.” Actually, The Iron Bull had been wearing a huge grin all the way through destroying everyone bit by bit and then giving them friendly advice on how to improve, which kind of makes it impossible to hate him.
“Dorian Pavus said I was 'not entirely incompetent'.” Sorrel grinds out. It's actually quite impressive how she can enunciate through gritted teeth like that. The sight is cheering up Tal about his bruises already, since at least it's not just him. “The problem is, he's just as good as he thinks he is, and it's pissing me off. Rat is following him around like a puppy, asked me if I thought he would look any good with a moustache.”
“Think of it this way,” Tal tells her. “Nobody's been able to pick up that bounty yet, and if we do it, we'll be famous all across Nevarra. They're like our secret weapons. Our secret scary elderly weapons who keep making kissy faces at each other, but our secret weapons nonetheless.”
Sorrel's only response is a low growl.
Harmon decides to go down to the river first thing in the morning, because his Mam always said the Maker's blessings fell heaviest on boys who wash behind their ears. He wonders if he should put that advice into his list of Important Dragon Hunting Advice. It's not directly relevant, but it couldn't hurt, right?
Unfortunately, he's not the only one who decided to do this, and he very quickly reverses this decision because he's seen as much of Dorian Pavus and The Iron Bull as he ever needed to on the trip here from their house, thank you very much. When you get old, isn't everything supposed to... slow down, or something?
It seems very unfair that two old guys are having way more sex than Harmon. He's strong, and not nearly as stupid as Sorrel keeps saying he is, and his Mam says he's handsome.
On his way back, he bumps into Rat carrying a bucket of something weird-smelling towards the horses. “What is that?”
“Embalming fluid. Ser Pavus said I could assist with Boggy.” Rat says, looking cheerful.
Rat never looks cheerful. This is very suspicious. “The last time I asked you to help with the horses you told me to fuck off and that you didn't want a horse to kick you in the face, or you might end up looking like me.” He'd been very specific. Harmon remembers it quite well.
“Boggy is a magical undead horse, it's totally different, you dumbass.” Rat responds. At least this response is closer to normal, for Rat. There's more smiling than normal, though.
He's also looking a lot cleaner than usual. Normally getting Rat to bathe is a matter of Sorrel accidentally knocking him into a lake or something and then him calling her a stupid cow until he manages to dry off. Also. “Did you... comb your hair?”
“Comportment is Important.” Rat says. Harmon isn't sure what that means, but Rat seems very convinced. “Magi-- Ser Pavus says there's no point in crushing your enemies under your heel unless you can do it with style. Also, that I have the cheekbones to carry off a moustache, but at my age I'd be better off going clean-shaven and doing something avant-garde with my hair.”
“What's avant-garde?”
Rat sticks his nose up in the air. “I wouldn't expect you to know.” he says, and then picks his bucket back up and strides off.
Harmon's pretty sure he hears him say maybe Sorrel will know under his breath as he goes.
Dorian Pavus complains about everything. The food is not up to scratch, the accommodations are 'primitive', his feet are cold, and none of them bathe enough (except Rat, who has suddenly taken up personal hygiene as a hobby). “My bones ache,” he says, “I can't believe I let Bull talk me into this nonsense,” and then hefts his staff so he can beat Sorrel into the ground again.
Not with magic, this time. Something about training both body and mind, Sorrel has to grudgingly admit, is a sensible idea, although does the training have to end up with everybody except Dorian Pavus face down in the dirt every time?
Apparently she's showing marginal improvement, and she refuses to take that as a compliment.
She's not actually sure where the heck he got his training, beyond 'somewhere in Tevinter'. Somewhere pretty damn good, clearly. Rat knows something, but is also really enjoying knowing something nobody else does, and so is not talking. Dorian Pavus, on the other hand, is happy to expound at length upon his origins, if asked. By expound she means lie elaborately. Options he's offered up so far include trained as an assassin by the finest magical brothel in Minrathous, the secret lovechild of the Archon and the Black Divine and raised by a travelling band of necromancers, and they've all learnt not to even bother asking how he met The Iron Bull.
For someone who looks like a prissy noble, he's got a filthy imagination.
And for an old guy, he's got a heck of a libido. They both do. It's almost better when Dorian Pavus is making them eat dirt, because that means he won't be bickering with The Iron Bull about pointless minutiae (like handkerchiefs, spare her), said bickering almost inevitably ending up descending into an exchange of innuendo, followed by a swift mutual retreat to the nearest semi-private location.
“They're like a bad romance novel.” She complains.
Daisy looks up from her position slumped in a pile of dog, and scrambles for the tattered sack which holds most of her personal effects. Dog just yawns at being disturbed, while Dog Junior scrambles alongside her in the apparent hope that something in there is edible.
It is a rather tattered book. Huh, Daisy is full of surprises-- Sorrel doesn't think anybody even knew she could read. As Daisy carefully places it in her hands, she realises she recognises the cover “Oh, I remember this. Didn't it get banned in Tevinter, or something?”
It's a sort of funny coincidence, she supposes, but Varric Tethras has written so many books she supposes that at least one would be about the unlikely romance between a Qunari warrior and a Tevinter battlemage, right?
Daisy flips the book open to page 103 and stabs one of her fingers at the page.
It's an argument about a handkerchief. Which wouldn't be so unusual if she hadn't heard two certain dragonslayers having pretty much the exact same argument just this morning.
Well, damn.
Skinny Tal doesn't think he's ever seen everyone so enthusiastic about training. It probably has something to do with the fact that getting a slap on the back and a good job, lad from The Iron Bull is a sort of miraculous feeling, even though Skinny Tal is technically a great number of years past lad.
There's also the endless stories of successful dragon fights, told with great gusto. There's the fact that The Iron Bull has a never-ending supply of energy to spar with anyone who asks, even when it rains and their camp site becomes something of a mud bath. There's the fact that he's convinced Daisy Knives that it might be a good idea to climb up onto his shoulders and launch herself from that position onto unsuspecting victims, which is highly amusing when Tal's not the target of it.
Considering what he's heard from Sorrel about how training is going on the other side of the camp, he reckons the non-mages definitely got the better half of the deal.
But every now and again The Iron Bull will do or say something that makes a shiver go right down Tal's spine and up again. It's nothing he could explain to any of the others; the only other qunari around are proper Nevarran Vashoth, and their cultural landmarks primarily involve songs about goats.
It's nothing. A certain turn of phrase he's never heard south of the sea, a move you'd only know the origin of if you'd spent far too much time as an imekari watching the goings-on in the sparring ring, until your Tama finally sat you down and explained to you that that wasn't going to be what the Qun required of you. Just a feeling. Probably nothing at all.
Then there's the off-hand comment The Iron Bull makes as they're going over the maps again, just after Dorian Pavus has stormed out claiming he needed to clean up and couldn't possibly consider discussing anything while coated in an inch-thick layer of Nevarra. To Tal's eyes he's pretty much near-immaculate, at least relative to anyone else here.
Bull snorts. “Forgot his glasses again and wanted an excuse.” he says, loud enough that there's a I heard that! from outside the tent. “Mud I can deal with. At least it's not sand. Had enough of that in Seheron. That shit gets everywhere.”
Tal blinks. “You were in Seheron?” He'd got the feeling a while back that Vashoth wasn't 100% accurate, not that Harmon would know the difference anyway, but Seheron...
“About ten years. Long time ago now.” Is all The Iron Bull says, and Tal doesn't ask any more because there's unspoken rules, and one of them is that you don't ask what someone was in the Qun, and another is that you don't ask how they got out.
Ten years?
He has to bite his tongue not to ask any more, because holy shit.
Yeah, if he'd survived ten years in fucking Seheron, Tal's pretty sure he'd consider fighting a fucking dragon a jolly bit of fun, too.
Jackal angles the mirror just right on his makeshift dressing table, which he has constructed in this here muddy tent from a chest and a pile of books nicked from Skinny Tal's endless book stash, such that it catches the light that leaks through the hole in the tent roof just right. This piece of ritual complete, he frowns at his hair. Certainly he hasn't gotten any less dashing since the last time he looked, but there's still something missing.
Skinny Tal says plenty of people like the Qun because at least everyone knows what their place in the world is. Jackal doesn't need the Qun for that. Jackal knows what his place in the world is, and in the context of this company it is this: he's the pretty one.
A low bar when you're competing with the likes of Harmon, granted, but all the same. While he was technically born in the back of a Merchant's Guild wagon, Jack has been to Val Royeaux a grand total of seven times, and likes to think he brings a little of the glamour of Orlais to this operation. He's only stopped describing his previous occupation as gentleman thief because Daisy has a grudge against kidnappers and won't listen to sense.
So now he's just the guy who opens locks (but with flair) and sets traps (also with flair) and is the most likely to talk someone into his bed in any given tavern. What he is saying is this: he's really not used to not being the guy with the best hair in the room.
“Hi, Jack.” Sorrel says, pushing aside the tent flap and making a beeline for him.
He realises too late what is about to happen; by the time he can think of making a run for it, the shock goes up his arm. He nearly knocks the mirror off its precarious perch. “Fuck!” What the hell does Sorrel think he's done now?
“Stop bothering the mages.” Sorrel tells him. “If it is a spell that makes his hair do that thing, it's sure as fuck not one any of us know, and we've got better fish to fry.”
“Dragons aren't even a fish.” Jack complains.
Sorrel stares at him a moment, and then just leaves. Rude. Mages, honestly. All of them are probably in league with each other, like some-- some anti-dwarven conspiracy, that's what it is. At least, he thinks, turning back to the mirror, he still has the best beard in their group.
Also, she didn't say it definitely wasn't a spell, right? Everything is explained.
Dragon lures are made mostly out of organs. It's disgusting. It's amazing.
There was a statue of Magister Dorian Pavus down by the docks where Rat grew up, and Aunty taught him to tip his hat to it. There were stories. So many stories. Everyone knew who Magister Pavus was. Magister Pavus was awesome.
So when he first woke up from a strange dream with ice slowly melting into his blanket, Rat had imagined that maybe someday he could be at least a little bit as awesome as that. Reality had been something different. Reality had been kinda shit.
But now, here he is, carefully extracting a liver under Magister Pavus' direct guidance. It's sort of like everything he ever wanted, only somewhat more squishy.
“If I told you you were far too young to be considering fighting a dragon,” Magister Pavus says softly, cupping a heart in his hands as if weighing it out, “would you tell me to fuck off?”
Rat considers it a moment. “Fuck off, ser.” he responds, because it is, after all, Magister Pavus he's speaking too. That's etiquette, that is.
Magister Pavus sighs. He does that a lot, mostly when telling Rat he's being very young. “Another lesson on barriers this afternoon, then.”
When Rat was in the army for that little while, one of the least shit trainers was from Qarinus. So it's not like he doesn't know what it means, that string of black beads around Magister Pavus's wrist, polished from where he rubs them between his fingers when he's worrying.
There's a lot of beads. A lot of deaths to take on as your own. A lot of names to remember. Rat has heard a lot of stories, and he's not stupid enough that he has to ask. “Eat shit, Altus. You think just because I'm Liberati I can't hold a barrier? I'll kick your ass.” He means, stop worrying, old man.
“You really are the most charming child.” Magister Pavus responds. “Try not to cry when I win. Again.”
“Right,” The Iron Bull says, “everyone ready?”
Sorrel looks around. The horses are loaded up. The lures are ready. The weapons are sharpened. Everyone is well rested. Everyone who needs lyrium has lyrium. Rat is wearing eyeliner for reasons she's not going to question. All in all, they're in as good a condition for dragon-fighting as they're ever going to get. “Suppose we should take one last vote.”
“Show of hands.” Skinny Tal says. “All those who think our Jack is too pretty--”
“FUCK YOU, TAL.”
“Joking, joking. All those in favour of going to fight a dragon?”
The Iron Bull's hand shoots up nearly instantly, along with Harmon. Skinny Tal meets her gaze, and raises his hand, too. They're not alone. Even Jackal doesn't want to be left out of this vote. Daisy holds a knife aloft. Rat has his hand up so far it's like he's trying to claw a hole in the sky.
Dorian Pavus slowly raises his hand as well. “I suppose I can indulge your whims, amatus, at least one more time.”
“Thanks, kadan.”
They've got that look in their eyes again. By now this is all rather familiar. People are starting to edge out of the way, just so that when they decide to throw themselves at each other, nobody accidentally gets caught in the middle.
Well, Sorrel supposes, if she's still up for being kissed like that when she's old and grey, it probably means she's done something right. Perhaps dragon-hunting is as good for the soul as The Iron Bull keeps claiming it is.
At least it means that when Daisy sneaks up beside her to ghost a shy good-luck kiss across her cheek, everyone is too pre-occupied with trying not to pay too much attention to what's going on in front of them to pay any attention to anything else at all.
It seems to go well at first. They take up their planned positions and wait to see if the dragon follows the trail of lures that were put out. Sure enough, they see it-- first the shadow as it flies straight over their position, then the dragon itself as it perches on top of a rock bigger than the stables back home to snack on whatever weird mix of innards the mages have been mixing up as dragon treats. A small note to be added to his list of dragon-hunting advice: dragons are very big, this close up. Harmon knew that. Honest.
It's just. Very big. Very very big.
Unfortunately, rather than heading for the final lure, which was meant to bring it to an appropriate spot so they could ambush it, the dragon swings around and seems to be pointing in, uh, their direction.
Then it seems to be flying in their direction.
“Change of plan?” The Iron Bull says, as if a dragon flying straight at them is only a mild inconvenience.
“Same plan.” Dorian Pavus answers, immediately. “Different lure.”
“Don't you dare, kadan.”
“Faster than you, also barriers, don't let it eat me.” Dorian Pavus retorts, and the undead horse takes off at speed. An arc of lightning hits the dragon right on the nose, which doesn't seem to do much except make it annoyed, and it swivels to follow his path.
Oh, Harmon realises belatedly. That was probably the point.
The Iron Bull lets out a string of probable curses in Something Foreign that makes Skinny Tal startle. “Places, all of you. When he brings it back around, strike on my signal. Remember, once it's grounded, it's not that much less dangerous, just all the danger is stuck in one place and angry. At us. Mages, barriers first, attacks second. Nobody else do anything stupid.”
art by Pasic
Actually fighting an actual dragon is all kind of a blur after that, and by that Harmon means running around a lot trying to hit things while everything is also on fire.
It's brilliant.
This is the best thing ever.
Shit shit shit one of the things on fire is him. How to deal with being on fire is definitely not written down in his Important Dragon Hunting Tips, and it definitely should be.
He is very thankful for the blessed wash of cold against his skin, and slightly surprised at which of the mages is responsible.
“Don't just stand around on fire making me waste mana, idiot.” Rat snarls. “The dragon is that way.”
Normally Rat wouldn't spare the mana required to spit on Harmon, which, come to think of it wouldn't actually take any magic at all. “I knew this experience would bring us all closer together.” He's going to add that to the list, the Importance Of Warrior Bonds.
“Die in a ditch.” Rat snarls, but casts a barrier on him before he heads back into the action.
“How do they even have the energy to have a row?” Sorrel asks, slumped in a tuft of viscera-stained grass. Next to her, Skinny Tal seems to summon up just about enough energy for a shrug. Mostly because neither of them feel like moving yet, they have front-row seats to the after-dragon-fight show, which is entitled The Iron Bull and Dorian Pavus Fight About Dragon Fighting.
“You could have been killed, kadan!”
“Yes, and I'm sure I couldn't name a single stupidly near-suicidal thing you've ever done while facing down a dragon-- no, wait, let me fetch the list. It worked, didn't it?”
“You were magnificent, fuck.” The Iron Bull says, and Sorrel should have expected this by now, but within a few seconds they go from yelling at each other to passionate kissing in the middle of a field which, she would like to point out, is still covered in bits of dragon and also somewhat on fire.
art by serenity-fails
The only thing she can be grateful for is that, as they stumble towards the tree-line which is the nearest form of semi-privacy, they keep most of their clothes on until they get there. It's very sweet that they're so very much in love, yes, but Sorrel has really seen quite enough proof of how much love they're in and does not need to see any more.
Also, really, is now the time? “Who gets off on fighting a dragon?” she says, exasperated.
“Yes, indeed.” Skinny Tal replies, pushing himself to his feet. “I'm going to. Uh. Go get cleaned up. In a lot of private. Excuse me.”
“I am not,” a slightly singed Harmon says, as he totters past in the general direction of the healer, “putting the weird sex stuff in my list.”
“I still have pine needles everywhere,” Dorian Pavus says, “and the stains are never coming out of this robe. Vishante kaffas, everything stinks of dragon. You, especially. Did you roll in it?”
“You like it.” The Iron Bull responds, in a very particular tone of voice, and everyone else groans.
“We are not making another stop,” Skinny Tal says, voicing the general feeling in the group, “so unless you're able to make out while also on horseback, please try to control yourselves until we reach town and pick up the bounty. "
He ends up regretting this suggestion.
art by Shae C