Carver: *thinking* Do NOT let him fluster you, Carver. You’ve got this. Yes, every other time you’ve spoken to the man you’ve turned into a gibbering idiot, but THIS TIME you’ve really got it. Say something intelligent. BE the Inquisitor. Just… don’t fuck this up.
Dorian: While I’ll admit looking at me is one of my favorite hobbies as well, I am going to assume you are actually here on business, yes? After all, I’ve watched you chat up the locals all morning as if you were trying to gain their approval. I simply cannot wait to hear how you intend to woo me.
Dorian: Unless of course you intended to save the flowery words and cut directly to the matter of my research. While you have been charming every nug wrangler and chamber pot handler in the name of goodwill and such rubbish, I have been spending my waking hours researching our enemy.
Dorian: I’m certain you realize that the South does not have a firm grasp on Tevinter culture. “Seen one magister, seen ‘em all.” Yes, yes, they’re all big and scary and likely to devour toddlers with their gaping maws or whatever tales they’re peddling about us this week. “But, Dorian,” you will say after you compliment my good looks and ample talent. “They’ll look at you and realize that some magisters are not complete arse hats.” True… But then I’ll remind you that I’m an altus and thank you bitterly for not listening to me ever when I talk about myself. And then I’ll pout.
Dorian: But– oddly enough, I don’t think I’ve ever said this before– I tire of hearing myself speak. You look as though you have something brewing in that seldom used brain of yours. Dazzle me with your wit.
Carver: *thinking* DAMNIT, CARVER. SAY SOMETHING. ANYTHING. SHIT. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THINKING THIS WHOLE TIME. HISTORY. HE LIKES HISTORY!
Carver: In 5:61 Exalted, a mabari was elected mayor of Lothering.
Dorian: Was that… an attempt at flirting?
Dorian: Andraste’s bosom, it WAS! And how positively Ferelden of you. My heart is absolutely aflutter at such divine bit of prose you have bestow upon my ears. What comes next? A proposal, perhaps? Do we exchange mabari collars at the wedding? Or do we have to sniff each other’s crotches?
Carver: Fuck this. I’m leaving. Forever. I just want you to know that I’ve hated you all.
Solas: Inquis– AAAGH!