#monday hell

Varric: He requires some work to wake up on a Monday. The weekend was spent in the tavern with drinks and cards and fun, and the morning just came too damn fast. He groans, mumbles and shuffles about, a bit of brandy slipped into his morning coffee to help him get a jump start. He would have probably been fine, but when The Iron Bull suggested that they play for some higher stakes, he remembers that one time that Hawke bet him he couldn’t streak through High Town naked without being caught, and he has to throw all bets in.

Sera: She can be found still in bed, curled up in a ball with the blankets tossed overhead. If you attempt to prod her, she will let out a spew of curses and threats that would sound vaguely terrifying, if she wasn’t yawning and groaning between them. Her entire weekend was spent playing pranks and causing general havoc until the early hours of the morning, and she is in the mood for some much needed ZZZ’s. Mondays are shite, and whoever invented them is shite, too.

Vivienne: She wakes without trouble, and is no more grumpy that she ever is. The weekend was spent in her books and studies and, as any woman of power knows, beauty can only be maintained with a steady and regular sleep pattern. When no one is looking though, she lets out a quick, covert yawn. No one will ever know that she sleeps best with a feather down pillow, and the one she ordered from Val Royeaux still hasn’t arrived. No matter. She has endured worse, and will surely endure harder trials in the future. It is best not to let another see her with her guard down, darling. Mondays are no more troublesome than any other day when mages are running rampant without organization or structure.

Cole: Is busy, busier than he normally feels sometimes. Everyone is so down and grumpy, mourning the day before when rest and relaxation were the orders of the day. He slips among the crowds of people chewing their food and he eases them with thoughts of the next weekend coming, and that the day will surely get better. He has to be stopped when he reaches The Iron Bull, though. The qunari has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with Cole discussing his dreams or thoughts. 

The Iron Bull: Grunts and groans, but he’s up in the morning and everyone had better shut their damn mouth about it. He is found on a Monday morning in the training yard, working off the hangover from the weekend shenanigans. There was copious amounts of ale, men, women, and the alcohol flowed from every barrel, courtesy of Krem breaking them open with axes. Now, though, he takes a long drag from a tankard and wipes his mouth, hefting his battle-ax and charging the Chargers, shouting a battle cry. Monday is hell to him, but nothing beats fighting in the training yard to shake the weekend off of him. Besides, under the Qun, Mondays are like any other days. There are no days of rest. Growing up, there was no weekend to mourn because there was no end to the work.

Dorian: Mondays are a horrible time to exist, though he tries to pretend that all is well. He sits slumped at the breakfast table, forcing down another cup of the dreaded and bitter thing they call coffee, hoping to wake up soon. He is lucky that the Inquisitor is his friend, for they have kindly removed his night cap before the others noticed that he accidentally left his room still wearing it. Though his weekend was spent mostly in his studies and theories, he had been coaxed into some Sunday afternoon fun, and didn’t manage to get to bed until much, much later. He takes comfort in the fact that although he is sleep-deprived, at least he still looks devilishly handsome and attractive.

Blackwall: He wakes up hungover, and hating life. He wasn’t sure just how The Iron Bull was able to talk him into the drinking contest, but when he wakes up in the stables, having passed out in the stall with the giant nug, he knows that he’s made a horrible, grave error. His Monday starts with dunking his head into a barrel of water to clear his thoughts, and then he devours half of the table, the breakfast foods doing just the trick to clear his mind. He debates taking some of the brandy that he saw Varric adding to his own drink, but he decides against it. Mondays are his Goliath, and he is prepared to slay it.

Solas: He isn’t quiet sure what the fuss about Mondays is all about. He spent his weekend dreaming, finding new places and new stories from the safety of his bed at Skyhold. When he wasn’t dreaming, he was relaxing in the rotunda, painting the walls in tribute to the Inquisitor, utterly at peace with the moment. Of course, when one of Sera’s pranks caused a bucket of paint to fall on his head, he spent the rest of Sunday plotting his own revenge on her. Now, in the cheery light of Monday morning, he listens to the sound of a bucket of water dropping from the air and soaking her blankets through, effectively waking her, and he smiles to himself. Her curses can be heard all throughout Skyhold, and it is a simple sort of joy. He quietly sips his coffee, relishing in the fact that it isn’t tea.

Cullen: Squints and mumbles and generally stumbles around on a Monday. He spent his weekend working over time, training with recruits that needed more work, helping them along with things that needed improvement. When he wasn’t in the training yard, he was in the war room, planning their next moves and running scenarios over and over in his head obsessively. When Varric shows up with a wink and a handful of coin, betting that Cullen can’t win his money back, he finds himself once again in the tavern, relishing in the thought of some good old revenge. He didn’t plan on that revenge plan failing, nor did he plan on waking up so late on a Monday, a minor hangover making his mood altogether grumpy. There are things to be done, recruits that need trained. But first, breakfast. One can fight against Monday with a good breakfast.

Josephine: Is no a morning person, although no one will ever know that. Mondays are the worst, and she lays in bed with her sleeping mask still firmly planted over her eyes, wishing that it was still Sunday. Finally, when she can hear that other people are stirring, she hoists herself up and begins getting ready, a shuffle in her step that she will remedy once she leaves her sleeping quarters. If she had not spent so much time with the other nobles, attempting to ensure their stay at Skyhold was complimentary, she may have had better rest for the next week. As it was, her under things were missing, and she was entirely sure that Leliana was to blame. But maybe that sort of thing was a better endeavor for a Tuesday? Mondays were so...

Leliana: Is fine. Mondays are nothing. She learned long ago that showing weakness to something like a Mondays is a slip-up, a mistake that no fool should make. She wakes early, and already has one noble signing over his inheritance and another taking a bribe well before 10:00 A.M. It is all in a days work. No one should expect anything less.

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