Visit the Herald's Rest

You decide to end your night as you did most nights in Skyhold with a few drinks at the tavern.

Crossing the dimly-lit courtyard, you allow the dull glow of candlelight and appetizing aroma of hearty Halla stew to guide your footsteps until you reach the Herald's Rest on the opposite side. With a grunt, you heave open the twin doors and stride into the tavern as if you own the place, fittingly since you are the eponymous "Herald" in the establishment's name.

At first glance, it's another quiet night in the tavern. Of course, even "quiet" nights in the Rest would rival most Antivan brothels when anything short of a full-blown orgy is considered dull. Nearly every soldier in the room had a cold ale in his hand and a warm mouth around his cock, the tavern wenches stationed under every table working tirelessly to drain men's balls.

Looking over the tavern floor, you spot many of your faithful companions in their usual spots. Varric hosts a game of strip Wicked Grace at a table full of female soldiers while a tipsy-looking Sera flirts with one of the buxom barmaids. Tucked in the back corner, Josephine and Blackwall share a romantic candlelit dinner together, the diplomat looking quite charmed as the Warden recounts his tales of bravery in the Deep Roads while pouring his date another glass of wine.

The only regulars you don't see are the Bull and his Chargers, their absence likely the reason things are as calm as they are since the Qunari and his mercenary crew are almost always the catalysts for most debauchery in the bar. No doubt the group is out on assignment for Leliana, turning some poor fool's roadside tavern into their own personal fuck-den for the night.

Ponying up to the bar, you take a seat as Skyhold's resident bartender Cabot greets you warmly. The curmudgeonly dwarf's mood has certainly lifted ever since you assigned Flissa, the former barkeep at Haven, to serve as Cabot's "helper" in the hopes of running your tavern smoothly.

“Evening, Inquisitor,” the dwarf smirks, polishing an empty mug clean with his trusty dishrag. Peering over the bartop, you can make out the top of Flissa's ginger hair as she bobs her head up and down her dwarven boss' fat prick behind the counter.

"Evening, Cabot," you reply casually, settling into your barstool. "What's on tap tonight?"

“Pumpkin spice ale.” Cabot offers, his voice gruff as he sets down his freshly-dried tankard. “Quite popular with the noblewomen in Val Royeaux taprooms this time of year, I'm told...."

"Val Royeaux?" you quirk an eyebrow. "Since when did you start serving such high-class ale?"

"...It was Flissa's idea," Cabot answers honestly. "Personally," the barkeep pauses for a moment, letting his hand slip under the bar until you suddenly hear the sounds of rough gagging below. "Personally, ugh...I think the stuff tastes like spiced horse piss and only gets you half as drunk but, ah fuck...our less discerning patrons seem to enjoy it..." he says, bucking his hips.

"And by less discerning, you mean the ones who're already too soused to tell any different?"

“Ah c'mon, Herald..." Cabot pleads, bracing himself against the bar as he grips the wood tightly. "I bought six barrels of this stuff..." he offers between grunts. "I've gotta unload on someone..."

"Fine, I'll take a mug..." you finally relent, eager for any drink at this point.

Suddenly, Cabot let out a stifled groan and for a moment he appears like he needs to take a seat. Relieved in more ways than one, the barkeep pulls an empty flagon from beneath the counter, filling it to the top with frothy ale before sliding the mug all the way down the bar towards you. You catch the mug in your hand, the scent of spice tickling your nose as you draw your first sip. Surprisingly you don't despise the taste, the flavor vaguely reminding you of the ale you used to swipe from the Grand Enchanter's quarters as a teenaged mage at the Ostwick Circle.

While you enjoy your drink, Maryden the bard begins tuning her lute, softly strumming out a few simple chords to signal the start of her nearing performance. You spin around in your seat, watching the topless bard's breasts jiggle along with each strum as a hush falls over the room.

"A song dedicated to our Herald..." she announces, bowing to you while the table of soldiers behind her gets a view up her skirt. "Long may he lead the faithful with Andraste's blessing."

♫ Oh Herald, brave Herald

Closed the Breach with his hand ♫

♫ Now we drop to our knees

Suck his prick on command♫

♫ Lend the Herald your throat

When his cock aches with need ♫

♫ Let his bounteous balls

Fill your bellies with seed ♫

Now that's catchy! Uplifting lyrics too. You wouldn't have minded hearing the second verse but the bard's performance is abruptly cut short by someone ramming their cock down her throat.

That "someone" turns out to be none other than the spirit known as Cole, the pale young man materializing as if out of thin air to thrust his impressive prick in and out of Maryden's mouth, all the while absently muttering his usual string of incongruous phrases as he fucks her face.

"Apples turning ripe...two names etched in the tree...grass tickles her knees." he offers blankly, staring into the middle distance as he bucks his hips. "She earned a nickname...Honey-Throat."

To suggest Cole had undergone a change in the time since you'd acquired the Blowjob Throne would be an understatement. He was still a spirit of compassion, naturally, offering the people of Skyhold help in his own often cryptic ways but being around you and your depraved magic over these past few months has definitely perverted the spirit's nature. Quite literally, in fact.

These days it was common to find Cole in the Herald's Rest, wearing nothing but his floppy hat, whooshing from table to table, rubbing his equally floppy prick against unaware women's faces. And of course, there was his growing penchant for stealing women's panties (a habit that would lead several ladies in Skyhold to swear off undergarments entirely.)

For reasons unknown, Cole has taken a particular shine to Skyhold's bard, Maryden Halewell, helping to keep the singer's throat warm in-between vocal performances or occasionally even enabling her to hit high-notes out of her range through the help of well-timed surprise anal.

As quickly as the boy appeared, Cole vanishes in a puff of smoke back to his perch in the rafters, leaving the disoriented Maryden gasping for breath as she ends her song with an unsteady bow. The surreal performance earns a smattering of applause from the crowd but most in the tavern find themselves pre-occupied with something currently happening in the corner of the room as a group of cheering soldiers crowd one of the dining tables.

Your own morbid curiosity getting the better of you, you hastily chug the last of your ale before rising from your creaking barstool and setting off to investigate the cause of the disturbance...