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This was a good Thursday by Varric's standards. Much of their running around these days happens around disgusting bogs, rainy, rocky, slippery cliffs and Maker-forsaken darskpawn infested caves in the ass-end of nowhere. And if Varric knew one sure thing about himself it's that he wasn't exactly an outdoor enthusiast.
Which is what made today so special. After turning every single pebble in the Hinterlands looking for whatever danger was still lurking behind after the mage-templar war, their long stop in Redcliffe was a much welcome break. No demon-spouting holes in the sky, no ambushes, no ancient magical death traps. Just the comforting stench of civilization, as odd as that was. Not only that, but here they are, about to uncover the last secrets of the Venatori hideout in Redcliffe. The bastards left their base of operations and fled right after that time-travelling nonsense.
Excellent Thursday all around. In fact, Varric is so relaxed that he almost didn't notice someone is already doing his work for him. The Herald somehow already set out his lockpicking tools that he for some reason carried before Varric could even reach for his. Interesting.
"Huh. A bit of a weird hobby for a noble. Not trying to judge, I've definitely seen weirder. I met this lord something-or-other once who liked to collect chicken feet, paint them, dip them in resin and hang them in his dining room." Varric didn't finish the sentence before scrunching up his nose in disgust. The faint aroma of rotting fish in the general vicinity doesn't help, that's for sure. "Yeah. Now I remember why I don't think about it that often."
Trevelyan doesn't look like he paid attention, but he lets out a displeased sound as he resets his tools.
"It is a little odd, now that you mention it," Solas chimes in, "It is understandable for someone like Sera, who has to rely on looting for survival. And for someone like Varric, I suppose?"
"How did you pick it up, Varric?", Trevelyan asks, cutting Solas off just a little bit, just the tiniest bit. Just enough to catch Varric's attention, to show that this might be somewhat of a sore subject. So the Lord Herald needs a prompt then? Very interesting.
"Eh, it comes with the trade. The charming rogue kind, not the writer business. If you have Carta contacts, it's almost basic courtesy, you know - shoot, poison, open locks that hide important stuff. Too useful not to have." He could let him off, and they could all pretend that was the end of it, but what could really stop him from being nosey when there was a story to uncover? "So which one was it for you?"
Chuckles leans on his staff and listens. Even Grizzly's all ears, while doing his best to look like he's standing guard.
"I was going to leave the Chantry after the Conclave, if it all went well," the Herald says with a bitter smile. "Thought I was going to be on my own from then on. So I thought this would be useful to have, as you said."
Took the prompt then, like a good listener, Varric notes. He watches Trevelyan pour his focus into holding the tensioner still. It’s a tricky one by the looks of it. Picking these is not just something you pick up as a travel arrangement, yet Trevelyan seems confident he could do it. Sure enough, a little bit of fiddling later, the latch clicks open, revealing the morbid mess inside. Varric lets it slide this time. There's plenty of time to pick this question apart, after all.
What did the Herald of Andraste steal?