A Bullshit Retirement Plan 8 (Patreon)

To the old woman's credit, she rallied from my complete dismissal rather quickly, "You do not deny being the creation of Tevinter? The Templars, returned to the fold, will deal with your heretical Inquisition!"

Despite the sound of several humans in plate armor marching through the marketplace, my gaze remained locked on the priestess. Instincts honed from spending over two thirds of my life on the battlefield told me that they weren't planning to attack me or mine.

Instead, one of them laid the woman out with a single punch. The apparent leader gave a grandiose speech about destiny, acting like every two-bit warlock that managed to summon a succubus.

"Different world, same shit," I muttered as the armored humans marched off.

Cassandra and Varric went to help the woman who was punched. I personally couldn't care less. Of more interest was the arrow that landed on the ground by my hooves, a letter tied to the haft. That, along with an invite to a ball being held elsewhere in the city were the main things in this stinking pit of disappointment that had my attention. The letter led us on a short-lived wild tallstrider chase, finding red banners that each contained additional kernels of information, coalescing in directions to a back alley in the city. But as we left the main plaza, we were approached.

“If I might have a moment of your time,” the elf woman asked, the dress she was wearing matching those of the few mages in Haven and that we’d fought in the Hinterlands.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Cassandra asked, sounding surprised to see the woman.

“Leader of the Mage Rebellion,” Pride continued. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

“I heard of this gathering, and a dozen different fantastical tales about the Inquisition’s Herald. I wanted to see both with my own eyes. If it is help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are the wiser option,” the elf woman offered.

“Head to Haven,” I said. “We have more business in the city and will meet you there.”

“I’m not willing to wander blindly into the den of those I’m not familiar with. Consider this an invitation to Redcliff, we can discuss how our groups can help each other there. I look forward to seeing what the Inquisition has to offer.”

I remained silent as the woman left, not letting the fury roiling within me show outwards. Kodoshit like this was why I hated dealing with mages, always with their heads in books and never considering the necessities of the real world. If it were up to me, then the mages under her had just lost any aid from the Inquisition. I’d ask Cullen to put some feelers out, see if he had some contacts that would be able to arrange a meeting with the templars without involving their leader.

[hr][/hr]

Friends really came through with their tip, and with the Herald Thingy coming to Val Royeaux it would be good to see if they were like all the big people or if they were more like the little people.

“Herald of Andraste! How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!” Foppy Ponce declared, telling Sera it was time for her to make an appearance.

Drop down from the walkway behind the guard, stab an arrow into the back of the neck between the helmet and plate, pull it out, draw, and to get his attention, “Just say ‘what’.”

“What is the mea…”

“Urg,” Sera groaned as she made my way over to the body. “Squishy one, but you heard me? ‘Just say what’, rich tits always try for more than they deserve.” She bent down to grab the arrow and pull it out of his eye. “Blah blah, obey me. Arrow in my face. So you followed the notes well enough, glad…”

Sera was normally pretty hard to shock, life on the streets all over Thedas, even living through a Blight, saw to that. But she’d never seen anything like the supposed Herald. Andraste, his forearm was as thick as her waist!

"You're big!" Sera breathed in shock, barely able to put the words together. The last time she'd seen anything that big was an ogre when she was a kid in Denerim. Not important, focus. "Right, the important thing is you're that Herald thingy? You glow?"

"Yes," he said, his voice like a rockslide. Imagine what the women must be like, a quiet voice in my head whispered. Not now, focus.

“Right, this is cover, get ‘round it. My friends gave me the key to the armory where this tosser’s men are. They’ve got no breeches.”

He just stared at her, until the rich twit’s guards came running into the alley, cheeks flapping in the breeze. Sera laughed at the sight while sending arrows at them.

“Why didn’t you take their weapons?” the elfy-one asked, twirling a staff around. Bleh, magic.

“Because no breeches,” she answered with a giggle.

In truth, Sera wanted to see if the rumors about the Herald being a mage were true. If they were, he certainly didn’t feel a need to use magic here. Void, he didn’t even bother taking the ax off his back. He just reached out with hands bigger than Sera’s head and crushed any guards too slow to move out of the way. Which was most of them. Some he popped their heads like melons, others he grabbed around the chest, squeezed, and dropped them, their metal armor crumpled up like the foil wrappers around those lemon cakes.

Unbidden, a mental image of a female Herald rose up in Sera’s head. Big, beefy muscles, thighs thicker than her shoulders, fingers so big they’d split her open…

No! Focus, Silly Sera! Fantasize later! Taking a breath, Sera nodded as the last of the tossers died, and made her pitch to the Herald. He seemed to follow the explanation well enough, better than most with their heads in their arses would, and told her to head to Haven. Good, get in with them before they’re too big to like.

[hr][/hr]

“How did you understand what that girl said?” Cassandra asked.

“The translator ring works on unusual dialects too.”