In Search of a Wayward Bronto
Summary: Desperate to find his brother, Garrett Hawke heads to a blight-ruined stretch of Orlais to search for the Wardens with Varric and Alistair. Amid their misadventures and unending banter, Garrett grapples with past failures and his growing love for Inquisitor Rose Trevelyan.
WC: 6585
Rating: Teen
No CWs
Excerpt below the cut 👇
“I think there’s sand under my eyelids,” complains Varric. “Sand in my shoes. Sand in my hair. Sand in creases I didn’t know I had. And now my Maker-damned eyelids.”
“Hawke, where’s your spyglass?” asks Alistair.
“Check the outside pocket,” says Garrett, taking a swig from his water skin and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He squints through the darkness, scanning for the ritual tower that’s supposed to be right bloody here. They’d sent Liska and Feyrith on to the Inquisition camp ahead of them to reduce their party size on these vast stretches of sand and salt.
Instead, Alistair pulls out that well-worn copy of The Fires of Satinalia Garrett kept, his eyebrow arched high, wrestling with a tenacious grin and losing.
“The Fires of Satinalia?” chuckles Alistair. Garrett plucks it from him and thumbs randomly through the pages, laughing in preparation for the roasting. Alistair snatches it back, dancing out of reach. “Hey Varric— look what Hawke’s had all this time. Contraband.”
Varric saunters over, catching the book Alistair tosses. “Maker, Hawke, really? I thought you were a few pegs above the target audience for this shit.”
“You seem more like a Lurid Lust Charade man, to be honest,” says Alistair. “Or maybe The Pleasure Château.”
“Bit quick on the draw with those titles, aren’t you?” asks Garrett, flashing a grin. He leans into it, desperate for something to lighten his mood. “If you must know. It’s sentimental.” He braces for another savage tide of comments.
“Sentimental? Of velvety candlelit nights with your hand in your drawers?”
“How scurrilous of you, my sweet prince,” rejoins Garrett. “Try ‘velvety candlelit nights making my lover snort brandy through her nose’.”
“Really didn’t need to know that,” says Varric.
“Pish posh. You’re just envious of my good fortune! How long’s it been for you? Four years? Five?” Varric waves him off.
“Keep your sodding smut,” says Alistair, chucking the book at Garrett’s chest. “Just hang a sock on the tent before you cozy up with it.”
“Spoken like a true connoisseur.”
Alistair huffs an indignant laugh and taps his temple. “I certainly have no need of such things.”
“You never had a stack of poorly drawn tits hidden under your mattress? I find that highly doubtful,” says Garrett.
“The way the sisters would scour the dormitory?” he chuckles. “No.”
“Probably behind a loose brick in the base of a statue of Andraste that they’d all know about,” theorizes Varric.
“Well— it was Hessarian,” admits Alistair, finally fishing out the spyglass. “Impressive guess though.”
Varric smirks. “Adolescents are nothing if not predictable.”
“The prevailing rationale was that Andraste’s holy bosoms would draw suspicion,” says Alistair. “They were— remarkably shapely.”
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“Can’t look at Grian, hum?” Asked Cleo in a knowing smile.
“Do the betrayal hurt that much?” Asked Bdubs in a half whisper. “You have us now.”
Scar looked at his new brother’s pouty face and at his mother’s movement, shaking her head in exasperation – they were right, he was looking everywhere but at Grian’s cursed direction.
He could not take the sight of Joel and Jimmy at his old place at Grian side, even worse, having his back.
Hells, at his back!
Grian’s betrayal? No – that he was used to.
But Grian’s tight-ass leather pants? Gods help him.
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