#lacklon

He flexes his hands as he marches, itching to get his axe out and destroy a tree or seven. But he can’t stop walking. He’s got to get away, far away. He’ll have to stop at some point, go back, face the music or whatever. But not now. Not yet. He’s too…

He holds it up to the light. It’s…special. Small, but beautiful, with veins of green and gold running along its sides. It’s got a nice shape, too—irregular, but not jagged. Worn slightly by the wind and rain, though all the elements have really done is smooth it, polish it. He has no idea what it’s doing in the middle of a forest, but it’s perfect. He’s sure that Roland will—

“Ah, sod off,” Lacklon grumbles to the unbidden memory, shaking his head and scrabbling at his temple as if to tear the flashback out of his head.

The look on Roland’s face. The sound of Qwydion’s laugh.

Lacklon growls and punches the nearest tree, some big tall thing with leaves, he doesn’t know what it’s called he just knows that it looks like it can take a punch so he punches it.

The crack echoes through the forest. The crack of the bark. The crack of his knuckles.

“Fucking fuck!” he yells in pain. That echoes, too.

He grimaces and keeps walking. The pain fades pretty quickly, hidden under all the anger and self-loathing. 

You really thought he’d like it? Him? The guy from Orlais? You’re real thick, dwarf, real thick. He’s gotta be used to emerald-encrusted swords and ruby-red knives and gold-plated chamber pots. You really thought you’d impress him by treating him like some grubby dwarf, by giving him a rock?

He bellows in frustration, punching another tree. He yelps in pain again.

Ugh, this is the absolute worst—

A hand shoots out of nowhere and yanks him by the collar, pulling him down between two bushes. “Will you shut the fuck up?” a voice hisses sharply.