Continuing a Dragon Age: Inquisition diary.
I seem to have found friends by default. They were just there when I performed my Act Of Ultimate Heroism (i.e. wavey green hand shtick) and now they won’t seem to go away. I already introduced you to the relentlessly serious Cassandra, a very, very solemn ex-Templar who first wanted to kill me and is now telling the world that I’m its salvation. In a fight, I’m her boss. Outside of a fight, she’s calling the shots. Not sure how I feel about that yet. There are two others who’ve decided they’re going to stick to me like glue. They’re bit… full-on.
Varric is a dwarf who clearly wishes he had a cleavage. In lieu of that, he really, really wants everyone to look at his chest hair.
Alright, jeez, put it away. Though it does complement the broken nose and ear piercings quite well, admittedly. The Disco Pick-Up Artist look is offset, unexpectedly, by a slightly soulful character. A writer, a ranger, a dwarf with regrets, but also a businessman with a finger in a whole lot of pies across the land. I’m pretty sure he’s sorted for life already, and is doing this hero business because it looks good. He’ll be running for local election in a few years, you mark my words.
He has got something to him, I suppose:
A guy who looks that surely knows how to use it as a weapon. Thus, I’m wary around Varric – I’m convinced he’s going to make a pass at any opportunity. So far though, he’s kept it buttoned down. Unlike his damned shirt.
On the other hand, I’m disappointed that he’s shown no interest in me. Come on now, clearly I’m the most impressive She-Ox around here. I just need to make him see that.
Wait a minute. Is he negging me?
From afar, I just want to pick Solas up and cuddle him. He’s so tiny and elfin (even by Elf standards), he’s got this softly-spoken Welsh accent that’s all sing-song with a sustained hint of wonder, and he talks about how he thinks spirits from beyond are his friends.
He’s a lonely nerd from the valleys, but he’s never let it get to him, and he’s turned up now because he just wants to help out. He also Slightly Approves of almost everything I say to him. Somehow that’s better than fully approving it. He doesn’t get carried away, but nor is he aloof. He’s so loveable.
Until I see his face close up.
Aargh get it off me get it off me me get it off me.
I do feel guilty about this, but I really do struggle to look at this uncanny boyo from the valleys for more than a second or two. OK, hang on, I’ll try one more time.
Oh, God! Oh, Jesus Christ!
I sought outside advice on whether my reaction was uncalled for, and a sometime colleague from other adventures told me that “Solas freaks me out – like an egg with a face painted on, but the face is slightly more realistic than any other face in the game. He creeps me out. I didn’t kiss him.”
Solas looks like bad magic fused together the little one from Flight Of The Concords and him from Command & Conquer. But Welsh. And an egg. With a cleft chin that’s about three feet long. Again, though, he’s adorable from a distance. Is there some restraining order I can take out, so that he can only ever address me from at least twelve feet away? Will he still be willing to fight by my side and tell me sweet stories about his intangible chums if I do that? It seems a bit rude, but I’m just not sure I can keep looking at him.
Anyway. These three are with me wherever I go, and so far that’s most involved setting up hillside campsites and collecting sheep meat for someone.
Next: The Iron Bull’s nipples.