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Contrary to popular belief, Elissa Cousland did not sleep in her armor. Have you seen that monstrosity? The point of the full Revenant plate was to make the wearer look larger and horrifying in battle. It was definitely not conducive to the act of sleeping. And besides, Elissa knew not to wear what could be cursed armor more than was necessary. True, she often short sided, but in this, she could see pitfalls of trying to remain battle ready at all times.

Instead, Elissa Cousland preferred to sleep in full nightclothes; the last trappings of her life as the daughter of a Teyrn. Even while she kept her armor tucked in next to her bedroll, she remained buttoned up, ruffle at the top of her collar, high up to her chin. (No-one dared make fun of her. They’d seen her on the battlefield.)

It was part of her ritual, buttoning up her pajamas before curling under an ungodly amount of blankets. Not just one or two and a small sheet to keep her warm, but thick wool ones, piling as high as a tower on top of her as if to keep her from floating away in her sleep. When asked, she’d say it was the last vestiges of living with her brother; a prank turned truth. It was hard to know if she was there when her bed was already a pile of blankets, and although she was not slight, it hid her well.

But in time she learned she didn’t need to hide anymore. And besides, Leliana was one to overheat in the night. So one by one, Elissa shed the blankets until a happy medium was found. So, it took her a little longer to fall asleep at night, but the Warden couldn’t complain. How could she when it gave her more time to watch her beautiful bard fall asleep in her arms?

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While Solona may have been shy and reserved save a few of her peers, at night, when she was fast asleep, Solona was unhindered.

Every night she would curl up into her dormitory bed, slim arms and legs disappearing into the simple wool blanket. Her bed was small, but so was she, until that is, she entered the Fade.

It was her playground and, maker, did she play.

Soft mews and gentle laughs escaped her lips and the other mage children wondered what she found so funny. The few times they woke her to see what she was dreaming, she shrugged and whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

When she became a Warden, she found she was in less control of her dreams than she had been as a child. And again, she found a child hovering above her, probing her with questions of the noises she would make.

“I am no stranger to dreams, Alistair,” she said, settling back into cocoon of her blanket. “Go back to sleep.”

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The three men stood around Alim’s bed, glancing nervously towards one another. He looked so peaceful, tuffs of wild hair sticking out from his blanket, soft quiet snores, ears twitching in the cold every minute or so.

Was that an elf thing? Alistair thought to ask Zevran, later perhaps.

Oghren was the first to speak. “You could use smite-”

“I’m not going to to use smite!” An alarmed whisper. “Just… poke him with your axe, Oghren.”

A low grumble. “Not a chance, have the elf do it.”

“Have you ever tried waking up a grumpy elf who could electrocute you with his fingertips? I’m not doing it.” Zevran folded his arms across his chest in defiance.

They fell to silence for a moment before someone whispered. “Sten?”

Again, more silence as they pondered how much blood would be shed before shaking their heads in unison. Too much to be worth it.

Still. They had a problem. “We could stand on that side of camp and then bang some pots and pans together. That would wake him up.”

“Again. Lightening.”

They quietly conferred over Alim’s sleeping form before a voice from below formed a grumbled query.

“What are you fools doing?”

From across the camp, Wynne sat in wait, throwing her glance to the three every moment or so to watch them shift uncomfortably. She told them to leave Alim alone, to perhaps eat breakfast first. They kept forgetting she watched him grow up and knew him better than most. Still, watching them ponder was really quite amusing and was ideal to pass the time of that particular morning.

She took a bite of her breakfast. Looked up again. They had now settled on arguing quietly above Alim’s sleeping form. Curious. She wondered if he would wake up at that.

Crack. Lightening shuddered from the sky towards the three. She chuckled to herself, taking another bite of her breakfast. It was always nice to see habits they left behind as they grew up and of course, the ones they kept.

The blight may have changed a great many things, but not everything.

Another crack of lightening, followed by a few screams.

She chuckled again. No, it hadn’t changed everything.

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For a man who had always slept in a royal sized bed, Duran was conservative with his use of space. He settled on his back, a single pillow under his head, one single blanket draped over him. Simple. Easy. Not opulent like his brothers’ tastes. Was it sleeping habits that would set him apart from his brothers, making him a better king? Probably not, but it served as a reflection of his ideals.

Duran was also a creature of habit. Before tucking himself into his bed, he had a ritual. It would start with washing his face, scrubbing dirt (and sometimes blood) away from his face. Then he would take the braids out of his beard, comb through it before braiding it again. Then he would clean his teeth and change into his bedclothes. He, of course, could have a footman do it for him, but he preferred to do these things himself. He always felt the need to converse with footman and butlers, and before sleeping he needed the quiet.

When all of this was done, the cleaning and the preening, he would kneel next to his bed and pray. While it had been a long time since he’d prayed to the ancestors, every night he knelt next to where he would sleep and took a few silent moments to himself.

Then, he would lift the single blanket, lie down in his bed to sleep alone. Always alone.

He was, indeed, a creature of habit. Wash, pray, sleep. It was something he could keep with him even if he didn’t live in a palace any longer, no matter how long the blight went on. He at least had that.

And even when he didn’t have to sleep alone any longer, Zeveran respected Duran and let him go back to his tent without a word, a surprising feat for the elf.

Besides, Zeveran knew Duran would never been alone when it counted, and that’s what mattered, wasn’t it?

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Theron Mahariel had grown accustomed to certain things, living with the Dalish. And really, learning how to constantly move really instilled him with the concept of "less is more". And while that certainly applied to belongings and fighting strategies and hunting, Mahariel had taken this to mean sleeping as well. It was better for the body, he thought, and gave him a better quality of sleep. So, even after he joined the wardens, whether they were camping or at Redcliffe or in Denerim, Mahariel slept without one scrap of clothing on.

Or as Alistair would say “completely nuuuuude.” Not that he’d seen it first hand, although there had been several close calls. Morrigan however assured Alistair that this was indeed the case and Alistair responded by sticking his fingers in his ears and backing away while singing “la-la-la not listening.”

“That’s not a Dalish elf thing, is it? Sleeping bare?”

“No. Just a Malarial thing, I’m afraid.”

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Her snores rival Oghren's, so much that the others strategically placed the two on the opposite sides of camp for that together, the cacophonous sounds of their combined snores would alert creatures and darkspawn to their presence.

Normally, one would throw something at the person snoring, or possibly kick them, but not with Kalli.

Why you might ask?

Oh, it's that knife under her pillow. It's just in case, but there are at least 3 more like it hidden in her bedroll at all times. Not to mention the one in the iron grip in her right hand, clutched to her side.

That is why you don't wake the warden up in the middle of the night when her snoring gets to loud.

“Are the knives optional?”

The look in her eyes is sharper than any of the knives she's hidden on her person.

“No. They are not optional. Why would you even ask that?”

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The first time she dreams, she cries, clinging to the soft mat of her bedroll. She isn’t used to being alone, sleeping alone. And she definitely isn't used the onslaught of images tearing her from a peaceful sleep.

In dust-town, she shared a bed with both her sister and her mother, ever since she could remember. She clung to her sister even when the heat and the dust in the air threatened to burn their skin and melt it away. She thought it would always be like this and she would never have to fear losing her. She hated being afraid and avoided it by being sure of the future.

Before the wardens take her, she clings to Rica; she doesn’t cry, but her small hands curl into her sister’s shirt and her eyes burn with fire that a little girl made of dust has no right to have.

“You are not dust, little sister. You’re a Grey Warden now.” She lets go and lets Duncan take her, but her hands are still fists.

The first night she sleeps alone, she wills herself to sprawl and spread, her arms hitting the warden sleeping closet to her. He mumbles and shoves her arm away, but a moment later it is on him again with a more deliberate slap.

She will not be small; she will not be dust.

The wardens all talk about their dreams. Weird things these dreams, these frightening jumbles of images and sounds. For the first time in her life she is glad she is dwarf. Sleep is a sanctuary. More-so than the stone ever was.

Ostagar ends in tragedy and she sleeps for days. When she wakes up, Alistair is there and she finds herself diving into his arms, sleep still in her eyes.

She clings. He cries into her hair. Her body is so tired but she cannot find the will to let go.

During their travel, he keeps his bedroll across from hers and remains awake while she sleeps. Keeping watch, he says. But watch of what, Natia is pretty sure she knows, but says nothing. She never does when it could count for something.

At first he notices the hitch in her breath. Then the tossing and the turning. He moves hesitantly towards her when she wakes up with a gasp.

Her gaze is piercing. No, she doesn’t want to speak. The fear fades, but the sadness never does and he tries not to notice the tears welling up in her eyes.

She slumps back down into her blanket, arms curling around her pillow, teeth clenched, with every muscle, willin her own body to still as it shakes with heavy sobs. After images flash through her head. Darkspawn; the archdemon. Even if she did fall back asleep, they would be back.

She wants to scream into her pillow, but settles into a small whimper.

Where would she find peace, now?