Chapter Text
Rating: G
Word Count: 460
Genre: Humor
Meatball sits before them, tail thumping against the dusty ground. In his mouth is a flier: “WANTED!” The picture is Brosca’s face.
“Tell me again what the thought process was?” Zevran sighs.
“Trained him to take down posters. What are they going to do? Arrest a mabari?”
Alistair’s dismayed guffaw from behind her suggests that they very well might.
“Yes,” Zevran gives, ever-patient. “But could you make it perhaps a tad bit more specific?”
He has a point. Brosca’s isn’t the only drool-covered wanted poster at Meatball’s feet. The faces of two pick-pockets ( amateurs , Brosca thinks), a crew of Highwaymen, and a missing elf from the alienage are strewn in the dirt. Brosca picks the elf’s up and dusts it off.
“We can just hang this one back up,” they shrug. “We’re back to Denerim tomorrow anyway, right?”
“But what about the granny missing her earring?” Alistair has joined them outright now. The flier he chooses is only half-legible. “‘Made of rub— and lost on North Thir—.’ She’s offering a reward of ‘3 cop—‘ Sounds great.”
“Or the missing chicken?” Leliana chimes in. “Missing children? No, I have it. Messy chicken. Maybe a restaurant.”
Brosca rolls their eyes, leaning forward to scratch behind Meatball’s ears. He pants and gives her a little boof.
“At least you’re on my side.”
“No, no, some of these are good.” Leliana says. Three to two now. Brosca is winning. “Lyricist wanted for a wedding song. Seeking elf root source. We could make some money.”
“Yes.” Alistair is thickly facetious. “Money selling black market cheeses. Or alternatively, hunting down black market cheese sellers. We’ve got offers from both sides here.”
When Wynne comes over Brosca screws their eyes shut. What’s all this, they expect her to say, followed by some inane scolding.
“Hm,” she says instead. “‘Young man seeking wife. Twenty-four. Single. Farmer.’ Charming that he’s single, looking for a wife and all.”
“Hog breeder wanted—“ Alistair starts, but Brosca snatches the paper from his hands. For a moment he holds their stare, and they can see him about to reach for another.
“Alright, alright, leave them alone,” Zevran finally cuts in. “We will undo the damage in the morning.”
“I’m keeping the lyric one,” Leliana says. “I could use a silver or two.”
They return to the Denerim message board the next day. An odd city, that no one stops them with their armful of posters. The board is still empty, Brosca sees from a distance, except for a single large poster in its center.
“WANTED!” they read when they get close enough. They fall to the ground laughing, and Zevran has to pull them up. It’s a picture of Meatball’s face. He bounces up onto his hind legs and rips it.
“Good dog!”