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Lace Harding runs into a dwarf at the Storm Coast while she's waiting next to the huge hole in the ground for the Inquisitor. Or more accurately, they run into her.
"Whoa, whoa there, pal! Careful now, didn't mean to make you fall in," they say, gripping her tightly around the arms to make sure neither of them fall into the hole.
"Sorry, sorry," she says, blushing. It's chilly out, but now her face feels warm.
"No, it was my fault," they say, patting her arm consolingly before releasing her. A look passes over their face, slight confusion. "Have we met?"
Lace frowns. "Have we? I don't think so. I'm Lace, Lace Harding."
"I'm Fig. Nice to meet you." They shake hands, and Lace thinks they have a great handshake, just like the Inquisitor; firm and commanding.
"So, you're from Orzammar?" Lace asks. Her eyes are drawn to the obvious brand on their wide face.
"What gave it away?" They smile crookedly and brushes their thumb over said brand.
"I'm a surfacer, myself," she says. "Never been to Orzammar. Always wanted to go though."
"You're not missing anything." That charming, crooked smile doesn't falter. "So, you're guarding the hole?"
"Just waiting around, mostly," she says. Leliana drilled into them about not giving anything away.
"I heard the Inquisitor is down there," they say, peering down the hole like Inquisitor Cadash is about to pop her head out.
"Oh, I wouldn't know anything about that," Lace says, not quite making eye contact.
"You're a fabulous liar," Fig says, nudging Lace in the side with a cheeky grin. "You're in Inquisition colours, and anyone who's done some digging definitely knows the name 'Harding.' It's okay, I won't tell."
She's mildly perturbed, but this strange dwarf is so damn genial, it's hard to be too suspicious. That's how they get you, the paranoid part of her brain pipes up. And that's a very reasonable point, says the rest of her brain.
"Oh? So why have you been doing so much digging?"
"Well, I grew up in Orzammar, see. Maybe I just want a hole in the ground big enough to remind me of home."
Lace can't help it, she throws back her head and laughs. "That's the funniest thing I've heard in ages."
"You need to get out more, Harding."
She continues to chuckle. "I am permanently out. I need to get in more. I mean, look where we are."
Fig grins. "Yeah, you're right. Hey, I was just going to plunk down and have something to eat. I'd be honoured to share a meal with the fabled Scout Harding."
"Aww, thanks," she says, brain still tingling a little, trying to decide if this is suspicious. "I'll be just over there," she tells one of her fellow scouts, pointing toward a convenient couple of trees not far from the hole. It’ll give the two of them some privacy, but still be easy to find in case the Inquisitor shows up when she’s not looking.
She ought not have worried so much -- Fig is delightful. They tell a story about the time they got their foot caught in a broken crate that has Lace almost rolling on the ground. There's roast partridge and wine, and it's not a shabby night at all, even with the weather. An hour slips away, and then another.
"The rain never lets up around here, does it?" Fig asks.
"On the Storm Coast? Nope, not usually," she says.
"You sound awfully cheerful. Are you… an optimist, Scout Harding?" Fig says 'optimist' like they're accusing her of being an evil mastermind.
"Aww, you got me."
It's like they've been friends for a long time, laughing together. Fig's laugh is high and bright and it makes Lace smile to hear it. The conversation flows just like their wine. She doesn't normally like wine but this stuff is good. It's just the right amount of 'grapey' and she says so.
It's Fig's turn to almost end up rolling on the wet ground. "Grapey? It's grapey? Oh Maker, you are a true connoisseur, hmm?"
There comes a shout from the hole.
"Oh, shoot," Lace says, hauling herself to her feet. Then she remembers why she doesn't usually like wine: her head is swimming. She giggles.
"What?" Fig asks.
"My head is swimming. And it's raining. There's a joke there."
They chuckle as they stand, holding out a hand to steady her. "Well don't stretch too far for it, you might pull a muscle."
She laughs harder, taking the proffered hand. "Oh, oh no," Lace says after a flash of lightning startles her into remembering. "The Inquisitor."
They both scramble back to the hole in the ground as quickly as they can. There's a flurry of movement and a ton of noise; the lift is ascending.
"Air! Fresh air! And fuck, it's raining." Lace recognises Varric's voice right away, at least partly due to the familiar complaining.
"On the Storm Coast? Imagine the audacity!" Inquisitor Malika Cadash laughs and holds both hands out to Lace. Lace obliges and hauls her back onto solid ground.
"Well, there she is!" Fig says, moving forward to embrace Cadash. "Cousin."
"Figgy-boo!"
Lace watches them laugh together and feels foolish for being so suspicious. Next to Malika, the similarities are obvious. They move the same way, laugh the same way. "You didn't say you knew her. Or that you're her cousin."
"Everyone knows the Inquisitor. And we're Carta-cousins. It's not quite what you're thinking," Fig says.
"Okay," Lace rephrases. "You didn't say she knew you."
Varric, Fig, and Malika all trade looks before they start to laugh.
Finally, Varric gives Lace a lighthearted whack on the shoulder. "You know for a scout, you're not very observ -- wait, are you drunk?"
"Nah," Fig says. "We're not drunk."
"We're tipsy at worst," Lace agrees.
"Both of you… oh wow, really rubbing salt in the wound, hmm? 'Ha ha Varric, you get to traipse into the most bizarre, creepy places imaginable, and me and the Hero of Ferelden will sip our drinks and mock you from the surface.' Real nice, Harding." Varric sounds positively wounded. Lace feels a bit guilty, but then something he said clicked into place.
"The who?"
"You, Lace."
"No I got that who. You said the Who of Where?" She looks to the Inquisitor, who's grinning, and then to Fig, who gives her a little mock-bow.
"Hi," they say. "Hero of Ferelden here."
"Why didn't you say something?!" Lace's face is burning (more than the alcohol would cause) and shakes her head a bit to clear it, but it doesn't help. She feels so befuddled.
"You never asked," Fig points out.
"I don't ask every dwarf I meet if they're the flippin' Hero of Ferelden!"
"Now you won't have to."
More laughter. In spite of herself, Lace giggles too. Fig just has such an infectious laugh.
"C'mon," Cadash says, throwing one arm around Fig. "We'll tell you the crazy shit we saw and have a drink or two -- providing you two didn't drink everything."