- Posts
- 118
(AU - 35 Dragon) Isabela , Aveline Vallen
Donnen Brennokovic was not one to indulge in self-pity. Shit happened, like it or not, and the smart man figured out quickly that pissing and moaning over the things you couldn’t change meant maybe losing the opportunity to change the things that you could. He’d lived by that rule for most of his life, and while it might not have done much to make him happy, it went a long way toward keeping him sane.
But every rule worthy of the name had to have an exception, and the guardsman was currently on his fourth - or was it fifth? - round of oak-aged Nevarran single malt whiskey. Stupid, perhaps, spending most of his week’s pay on booze when a cheap rotgut would likely have done the job just as effectively. But the romantic streak that Brennokovic had been startled to discover beneath several decades layering of cynicism, pessimism and general misanthropy (he’d been called a surly misanthrope by a scholar he’d arrested for murder, looked up the definition in a dictionary and liked it) was evidently too stupid to lie down and die quietly; using cheap whiskey to drown out the memory of hair that flamed like the setting sun and emerald green eyes felt like sacrilege.
It had been a fool’s dream, at best, returning to the Kirkwall guard in the hope that something more than a shared devotion to duty might develop between himself and Captain Hendallen. He’d known it, and hadn’t even let himself acknowledge that hope until it had been dashed to pieces against the unforgiving rocks of reality. She deserved better than a washed-up smartass of a guardsman who gave her nothing but headaches - even for the minuscule chances of winning her affections, he had been unable to change his approach to fighting crime in the City of Chains. She deserved - his brow furrowed as he glowered into the amber liquid in his glass for a moment before tossing it back, feeling the heat spreading smoothly down his throat to join the fire in his gut. She deserved more than she would ever get in this town; the young buck who had caught her eye with a pretty face and pretty words was a decent enough bloke, but Brennokovic had been pub crawling with him after hours, seen the women he preferred. Could he even see past her face and those incredible eyes to the fiery heart of the woman warrior, full of courage and honor and a passion for what was right and good that burned every bit as brightly as it had in the legendary knight for whom she had been named -
“SHI-IIIT!!”
The quill dug into the parchment, and the tip broke off in the desktop, leaving a blot of ink on the wood. Varric tossed it aside, snatched up the piece of paper, crumpled it into a wad and pitched it into the corner. It hit the top of a pile of similarly discarded scraps, bounced and rolled down to the foot of the stack. He glowered at it briefly before capping the inkwell and pushed away from the desk with a growl of disgust.
Three days. Three sodding days he’d been banging his head against this brick wall, and the sequel to Hard In Hightown, which had begun with such promise, was currently stuck in a rut alongside its author. He’d never either confirmed or denied that the main character was an alter ego of sorts, but Brennocovik had never been too obvious of a self-insert, allowing him to slyly sidestep the questions, keep people guessing. And he’d always managed to keep a certain amount of distance between himself and the fictional guardsman when he was writing … until now.
One of the reasons that the original had been so successful (and that the author hadn’t wound up at the bottom of the harbor) was that he had managed to make the characters never be completely identifiable with any real persons, living or deceased. There had been plenty of talk and speculation, and a few people had gotten offended, but there had never been enough resemblance to hang a contract killing on. Captain Hendallen was a recent - and frustrating - exception. Not that the real person in question would waste time and coin hiring assassins; she’d just break his neck herself. Or never speak to him again.
Pouring himself a whiskey, the dwarf settled into his armchair. Take a break from writing for a few days, that’s what he needed to do. Spend some time bullshitting with the regulars downstairs, get out and spend a few nights on the streets rediscovering the grit of Kirkwall. Maybe he just needed to ditch the romantic angle altogether, make the sequel another straight-up crime thriller with a side of casual sex. Why mess with a good formula? Not everybody needed the hearts and flowers garbage, right? He certainly didn’t. He and Bianca were doing just fine.
A creak on the stair outside: the one he refused to let Corff fix. Too loud to be someone trying to sneak up on him. “Come in!” he called, saving whoever it was the trouble of knocking.
Donnen Brennokovic was not one to indulge in self-pity. Shit happened, like it or not, and the smart man figured out quickly that pissing and moaning over the things you couldn’t change meant maybe losing the opportunity to change the things that you could. He’d lived by that rule for most of his life, and while it might not have done much to make him happy, it went a long way toward keeping him sane.
But every rule worthy of the name had to have an exception, and the guardsman was currently on his fourth - or was it fifth? - round of oak-aged Nevarran single malt whiskey. Stupid, perhaps, spending most of his week’s pay on booze when a cheap rotgut would likely have done the job just as effectively. But the romantic streak that Brennokovic had been startled to discover beneath several decades layering of cynicism, pessimism and general misanthropy (he’d been called a surly misanthrope by a scholar he’d arrested for murder, looked up the definition in a dictionary and liked it) was evidently too stupid to lie down and die quietly; using cheap whiskey to drown out the memory of hair that flamed like the setting sun and emerald green eyes felt like sacrilege.
It had been a fool’s dream, at best, returning to the Kirkwall guard in the hope that something more than a shared devotion to duty might develop between himself and Captain Hendallen. He’d known it, and hadn’t even let himself acknowledge that hope until it had been dashed to pieces against the unforgiving rocks of reality. She deserved better than a washed-up smartass of a guardsman who gave her nothing but headaches - even for the minuscule chances of winning her affections, he had been unable to change his approach to fighting crime in the City of Chains. She deserved - his brow furrowed as he glowered into the amber liquid in his glass for a moment before tossing it back, feeling the heat spreading smoothly down his throat to join the fire in his gut. She deserved more than she would ever get in this town; the young buck who had caught her eye with a pretty face and pretty words was a decent enough bloke, but Brennokovic had been pub crawling with him after hours, seen the women he preferred. Could he even see past her face and those incredible eyes to the fiery heart of the woman warrior, full of courage and honor and a passion for what was right and good that burned every bit as brightly as it had in the legendary knight for whom she had been named -
“SHI-IIIT!!”
The quill dug into the parchment, and the tip broke off in the desktop, leaving a blot of ink on the wood. Varric tossed it aside, snatched up the piece of paper, crumpled it into a wad and pitched it into the corner. It hit the top of a pile of similarly discarded scraps, bounced and rolled down to the foot of the stack. He glowered at it briefly before capping the inkwell and pushed away from the desk with a growl of disgust.
Three days. Three sodding days he’d been banging his head against this brick wall, and the sequel to Hard In Hightown, which had begun with such promise, was currently stuck in a rut alongside its author. He’d never either confirmed or denied that the main character was an alter ego of sorts, but Brennocovik had never been too obvious of a self-insert, allowing him to slyly sidestep the questions, keep people guessing. And he’d always managed to keep a certain amount of distance between himself and the fictional guardsman when he was writing … until now.
One of the reasons that the original had been so successful (and that the author hadn’t wound up at the bottom of the harbor) was that he had managed to make the characters never be completely identifiable with any real persons, living or deceased. There had been plenty of talk and speculation, and a few people had gotten offended, but there had never been enough resemblance to hang a contract killing on. Captain Hendallen was a recent - and frustrating - exception. Not that the real person in question would waste time and coin hiring assassins; she’d just break his neck herself. Or never speak to him again.
Pouring himself a whiskey, the dwarf settled into his armchair. Take a break from writing for a few days, that’s what he needed to do. Spend some time bullshitting with the regulars downstairs, get out and spend a few nights on the streets rediscovering the grit of Kirkwall. Maybe he just needed to ditch the romantic angle altogether, make the sequel another straight-up crime thriller with a side of casual sex. Why mess with a good formula? Not everybody needed the hearts and flowers garbage, right? He certainly didn’t. He and Bianca were doing just fine.
A creak on the stair outside: the one he refused to let Corff fix. Too loud to be someone trying to sneak up on him. “Come in!” he called, saving whoever it was the trouble of knocking.