#m!inquisitor

His right arm rested over a small funneled basin, two half-circles notched from the cool ceramic edge to hold his wrist and elbow steady. Just beneath the bend of his arm, a small cut slowly but steadily wept, dripping into the bowl and trickling, one drop at a time, into a small vial below.

His left hand fiddled aimlessly with the pages of Genitivi's book, telling himself he'd use it to pass the time while he filled his last vial, but his eyes were fixed on the drops instead. He'd skimmed all of five or so pages for the information he sought before giving up, foot bouncing below the desk as his head ached and his skin took a chill. He swallowed thickly and rubbed his clammy forehead; bloodletting was always more difficult on the last moonlit night.

But after a few more drops, the vial was full enough to call it done. He sat back, lifting his arm from the bowl, and dragged his fingers through the warm dribble of blood, smearing it across the cut. With a whisper and a flash of static, the cut disappeared, knuckles throbbing and skin stinging as it knit itself back together. The new vial was nothing extraordinary; he held it to candlelight for a moment, watching blood cling to glass as he turned it over in his hand, and found nothing of note aside from his own trembling fingers.

Cleanup was more or less muscle memory by this point. Within a few minutes, the basin and lancet had been cleaned and stored away in the bottom left drawer alongside the vial rack, into which he slotted the fresh tube. He closed the drawer slowly, glass rattling gently against metal, and locked it tight.

The key trembled in his hand as he pocketed it, pulling a frown to his lips. He needed to get up; water and a fruit platter waited for him on his bedside table, an intentionally-placed beacon to tempt him somewhere softer. If he stayed where he was, hands shaking and brow sweaty, he'd fall asleep at his desk, and he was in no state to be inviting further joint pain upon himself. He just... needed to get up. That wouldn't be so hard. He rested his forehead in a palm — just for a moment, he told himself. Just to take a breath. His head was so heavy, all of a sudden, really. He wasn't going to pass out. He was not going to fall asleep here, not again, but —

A sudden scraping noise, something tic-tic-ticking across stone, and his eyes flew open, breath frozen in his lungs. Something was on his balcony.

In a breath, he was on his feet, snatching his staff from the wall and leaning his weight into it, head swimming as he padded through the open archway into the night. Pale stone tiles, carved railings, open doors. The wobble of candlelight across the floor, and distantly, the shimmer of stars. He blinked once, twice, rubbed his eyes, but everything seemed as it should be. He walked slowly to the corner, peering around the wall, but the balcony was... empty. He shook his head.

Damn this, he huffed, dragging his feet back towards his bed. He'd never started hearing things after bloodletting before, but... he leaned his staff against the wall, picked up an apple, and nearly collapsed onto his mattress, sinking his teeth into the fruit. It was possible that the stress was getting to him. He had been more on edge than usual, what with worrying over Dorian on top of playing Inquisitor. It was possible that he did, in fact, need to relax, as Varric and The Iron Bull often urged him, dragging him into their card games in thinly-veiled attempts to coax stories from him.

He grimaced and itched at his forehead, feeling the drying sweat there, and sighed.

It was possible that, for now, he should just... take a bath, read a book, and try, for once, to have a pleasant night.

xxx