About those dragons…

“Dragon hunting.” Kylian says each syllable slowly and clearly, as if explaining to someone with a less than average intellect. “Is a Nevarran sport.” 

You’re at the Montbeliard manor in Val Royeaux. You for Inquisition business, him for trade, and also because he received your letter to meet, and as always, was eager to please. But you’re pretty sure Kylian didn’t expect this when he offered you his assistance. 

“It’s benefited them well,” you say, completely innocent. “Dragon hunting is profitable; lastingly so. The current wealth of Nevarra is a holdover from their Dragon hunting days. It’s not like they have anything else marketable.” 

That last statement was more for Kylian’s benefit than anything, and it works, as his lips uncurl from the grimace he’s had ever since the other country was brought up. His eyes are hidden behind his family mask — you were in the middle of a court city, after all — but Kylian’s always been quite free with his expressions around you. Around the Inquisition in general. It’s interesting. 

You continue on. “There’s a perfectly good reason for this, I swear.” 

“You swear.” The utter disbelief in Kylian’s voice would be offensive if he hadn’t broken into an incredibly crooked grin. He adjusts his elbows on the armrests, leaning forwards in mock anticipation. “Do tell.” You can’t help but chuckle yourself. 

“Yes. Absolutely.” You lean back in your own chair, steepling your fingers together. Josephine says it makes you look more impressive, good for making people listen. “The Inquisition does need the material — dragonscale, dragonbone.” Dragon heart, maybe; you’re waiting to see how that goes so you don’t mention it.  “That stuff’s ridiculously expensive to buy. And the amount we need, it’s not really reasonable to dedicate teams to solely dragon hunting. But if we could get some noble, what-do-I-do-with-all-this-coin sponsors…” you let the sentence trail off. 

“The terrible thing is that I can think off the top of my head some of them who might already be more than interested,” he drops backwards into his chair, awfully informal.  Kylian had some servants bring in tea as you talked, and you purposefully met the large, soulful eyes of the elf girl who brought the tray in, thanking her. She nearly drops the tray, and scurries out of the room. You can only be grateful that Kylian was a fair master, one who pays his workers well — you confirmed it with him practically the moment you met him. You think the accusation still slightly stings him, though, as his head turns to follow the servant out of the room, before turning to meet your eyes. 

“Don’t suppose you can tell me what you need it for, exactly?” Kylian asks, after the door to the parlor clicks shut. 

You think of Corypheus, enemies, information getting out of hand. “...No, sorry.” And then you see opportunity. “Not unless —“ 

“Stopping you there.” Kylian throws out a hand, waving it in your direction. “My dear Inquisitor, how many times do you want to have this conversation? I have responsibilities to my own seat; I can’t afford to dedicate even more to the Inquisition.” 

Now you’re the one who’s pouting. “It wouldn’t be so different to what we have now. I know your time is precious.” You play with your hands in a helpless gesture. “You’d be... more of my inner circle companion, rather than just another agent.” 

He clears his throat. It sounds forced, suspiciously like he was covering something up. “As much as I’d like to accompany your jaunt throughout all of Thedas, my life is already enough at risk with the Game I play right now. If I wanted to join your death-defying adventures, I’d just invite you over to my aunt’s house for tea.” 

“Harrowing.” 

“Indeed. One fine session ended in disemboweled pig guts, exploding stilettos, three public executions, and a very unhappy fiancé.”

You take a moment to attempt to picture that, then give up. You decide to switch gears. 

“It sounds more like you’re trying to avoid going out,” you taunt. “I’ve never seen you ride your war horse out to war before. Is she just for show?” 

He takes a long sip of tea, and you feel more than see his eyes narrowed through his mask. “Haha,” Kylian exclaims dryly. “You need to work on your misdirection, friend.” 

“Needed to get the topic back on track somehow.” 

“Oh Maker.” Kylian rests his chin in his palm, covering his mouth. “Right. That.” 

“Come on, just imagine — all those lords and ladies, used to hunting weakened prey, with their frocks and fancy coats and servants to roll out carpets for their horses to walk on.... Getting chased by a majestic dragon, wings spread and fire raining down from the heavens, her pack of hissing dragonlings hot on their heels.”

Kylian seems to deliberately pause and contemplate, dramatically. He taps his finger against the rim of his teacup, the sound of his metal ring against porcelain a steady beat. “They’d all just get themselves killed.” You can tell he’s not completely serious by the theatrical lilt his words take on. 

“What death is more honourable than death by high dragon?” That gets a snort out of him, and he drops his gaze. 

“...it’s going to be such a hassle keeping everyone alive. I wonder if my men are even up to it.” 

“Not confident in yourself, hm?” The taunting has been working so far, but this time Kylian only puts on a smile that is more of a grimace. 

“I survived the nine hells of chevalier training, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.” 

This is something you already know. You’re constantly surprised whenever Kylian’s chevalier history is brought up, as if it’s always slipped your mind. It just seems so incongruous -- Kylian, the overly-compassionate, empathetic man who you call a friend. Connecting it to his Orlesian heritage and upbringing is a challenge, considering their stereotypical ruthlessness. It’s strange, because Kylian is as patriotic as any of his countrymen (not to mention, as a Player of the Game, Orlais has his undying loyalty). Maybe it’s because Kylian wasn’t the kind to take pride in having a hard-heart, like his family would. It’s gotten to the extent where the only time you’ve seen him draw a sword was to diffuse a quarrel; you’d have been worried about people walking over Kylian, had you not judged the conviction of his sword hand for yourself. 

“I still do want to see you fight,” you say, and it’s a genuine sentiment. There’s a meaningful pause, as that sentence parses. 

“My territory holds the Nevarren borderline. You’re going to need a damn good reason for me to pull my forces away just for you, Inquisitor.” 

“One day, perhaps.” 

“Please do not hope for it.” 

“Well, okay.” The conversation’s come a full circle -- you’ve made your arguments, now to hammer them home. “Look at it this way. If you hunt down all the dragons, there’ll be less for those Nevarran bastards, yeah?” 

Kylian sighs deeply and buried his face in his hands, but you know you’ve won him over by the flash of white teeth in the spaces between his fingers. “Right,” he agrees, if grudgingly. 

“Right, fine, okay. You’ve convinced me.” He pushes himself to his feet, dusts off his breeches, and walks towards the door. “Come along, then.” 

You sit up with a start. “Where are we going?” 

“Well, now, we convince the rest of Orlais.”