Excerpt from a Dragon Age fic about Dorian getting stuck in Ferelden and going native :)

[tozette]

Dorian's at least sure he's in Ferelden.

How is he sure? Well, it's simple. He stumbles into their tiny town, which is little more than a way-stop for merchants and fishermen situated next to a frozen river, and when he finds the general goods store, the first thing that happens when he closes the door behind him is that a painted dog gets up from her bed of rags in one corner to harass him and nobody tells her to stop bothering a paying customer.

Sometimes, the scholars and historians of Quarinus exaggerate. It's an understandable vice, because a university lecturer has to keep his students paying attention by some method or other. But sometimes, their descriptions are painfully exact, and you never really know until you've been to a sprawling Nevarran catacomb and heard the moans of the dead, or seen the horror of an Orlesian alienage, or, indeed, stepped foot inside a grubby Ferelden store and been greeted by a massive, drooling beast.

It's an ugly animal. Mabari are something between a very large wolf and a very large mastiff, with brutish slavering faces and skin so thick and bristly it might just as well be boarhide. This one is an unobtrusive shade of mud brown, undoubtedly useful for ambushing the local mountain goats in spring.

She has a collar made of ram's leather. Hopefully that means she's trained. Dorian tucks all his fingers in tightly but he lets her snuffle wetly at his hand.

The dog is remarkably polite, despite her yellow teeth and sloppy drool. At least her breath is warm, which Dorian has not been for days now and may never be again. The general goods store is warm but the cold is in his bones.

At last, the dog wags her stubby little tail and shoves her enormous head under his hand. This is a benediction, he supposes.

"Well," says the old man manning the store, squinting suspiciously at Dorian. "We don't get too many vints up here, but Belinda seems to like you, so that's good enough for me. She wants you to scratch her ears."

Dorian wonders about asking if it's normal to take the word of a dog in this part of the world and decides that won't be a fruitful line of inquiry. He scratches Belinda's head, fingers clumsy with cold, and wonders if this is some kind of unknown ritual act. It certainly feels like he's sacrificing something. He's getting dog hair on his cloak, at least, which is basically identical to his ancestors bringing a midwinter slave to the temple of Lusacan...