GRIFFON GREY

Druffy appeared in Written in Red, as a bit of color to Lavellan's childhood, and then I made myself sad about it, so I made it, and then figured out a way to bring Druffy back in the story.

She would not go to sleep without carefully tucking in her beloved stuffed druffalo just right, tucked in the crook of her arm, under the blankets, but so the covers weren’t over its face. It had been lost in the explosion at the Conclave, and she’d mourned its death, quietly and privately. She’d known it was silly, to mourn a stuffed toy, in her thirties, when so many real people had died, but she hadn’t known them, and she’d known Druffy her whole life. And Druffy was a small thing to mourn, compared to the Breach and the loss of life at the Conclave, something that seemed manageable.

He took the toy from Cole, heavier than expected, and it jingled softly, slightly muffled. It was made of several shades of soft, brown fabric, slightly furry. He suspected it was woven of halla wool, a valuable commodity produced by the Dalish and frequently sold to the Nevarrans to produce a specialty fabric as an alternative to animal hides, dyed brown with walnut hulls, most likely, though there were other plants that produced a brown dye. It had little black glass button eyes and looked at him solemnly. The ears crinkled as he touched it. The materials were finer than what he would have expected from a wandering Dalish clan. It showed how important a clan’s children were to them, and not simply as a new pair of hands, to make a toy like this. They were loved, deeply, to put this much effort into something that was unnecessary for survival. He was oddly touched at this proof of how her people had cared for her.

“This is it, then,” he said. “How did you find it?”