Exalted Plains

[aban_aqun]

As they cross Orlais back toward the Frostbacks, a message arrives for the Inquisitor, diverting them to the Exalted Plains. The civil war between Gaspard and the Empress has seen the land war-torn again, ravaged by soldiers and by mages. Bull has been here before, and if he had a choice, he would not be here now.

But he doesn't. This is where the Inquisitor is and so this is where he will be. Their first order of business is to rid the ramparts of demons and spirits and to burn the dead.

Bull hates the close quarters of the ramparts. He can fight in them - he can fight almost anywhere - but he doesn't like it. It reminds him of battles and ambushes in city streets. Qunari didn't use ramparts like this no dug-in fortifications.

The smell of dead and decaying bodies and fresh blood, the sound of far-off skirmishing keep Bull hyper-vigilant and alert. As best he can, he keeps his state to himself. The Inquisitor doesn't need to be preoccupied with him, nor does the rest of the party.

After they set camp between the river and the ruins of Ville Montevelan, Bull sits apart, lost in the sound of the water and a battlefield far away.

Comments

[bestdressed]

"Because drinking, gossip, and well-endowed serving girls are important to you, and that's the best place for all of them at once," Dorian jokes. Bull's fingers are rough, but he loves how they feel against his skin.

Bull more than anyone understands how out of place he feels here--how he's regarded with suspicion simply because of his status as a mage from dread Tevinter. He doesn't know when he'd started to feel that he has more in common with the Bull than anyone else, but he certainly feels that way now. None of these southerners quite get it.

"Now, can we be done talking about Solas and return to complimenting me?" He suggests, feigning impatience as he smiles into Bull's shoulder.

[aban_aqun]

He laughs quietly and gives Dorian another lazy kiss. "You look adorably ruffled every morning," he quips as his thumb strokes across Dorian's cheekbone. "Mussed and sleepy and, even if you don't say it, everything about you begs five more minutes."

Bull nuzzles Dorian's dark hair. If he's honest, morning Dorian is one of his favorites. Followed closely by the way Dorian looks when he's absorbed in a book in his library nook, or how gleeful he can get in the heat of battle. He murmurs all of this against Dorian's temple.

It lifts the weight from his shoulders. Bull feels tired, but not the bone-deep, existential exhaustion he felt when they got back to camp.

[bestdressed]

And Dorian, of course, pretends to take offense, even if he actually finds Bull's observations strangely sweet, endearing--some even flattering. "I'll have you know," he says archly, "that I never look mussed. I believe artfully disheveled would be a more apt description."

This is not what he'd expected when he finally took Bull up on his standing offer. He'd expected spectacular sex; a night to remember, where they would both sate themselves and perhaps be done with it. What he'd gotten was two months of shared beds, learning about the Bull, being held in his huge, gently arms while remarkably observant compliments are whispered into his hair, the Bull relying on him to help keep his head, an intense feeling of affection, of protectiveness--

He hadn't signed up for this. This is not his world. Yet this is precisely where he wants to be.