#[ something something a good magister something something a good noble something something ]

[anecdotist]

i could go on a whole rant about why dorian states so confidently and kindly that he's going to protect the inquisitor in the dark future they get thrown into, but to keep it short:

he was raised with responsibility to others at the forefront of his mind, and even if he's been a little shit in the past, that kind of duty was drilled into him and is so foundational that he probably doesn't realize it's there. the offer is 100% genuine, he means it absolutely, but it's also so much of a given for him that it really doesn't seem like a big deal to offer his protection because he's used to giving it anyway.

[eebeewrites]

DILF Mafia! Elf BF x Nanny! Chubby Reader Part 4

Part 1 -Part 2- Part 3- Other Stories in This Universe

Synopsis: Ronan and Finn disagree on strategies for laundering more money faster, while the twins witness parts of their argument. You eagerly await for the children to go to bed so you can finish what you and Ronan started in the forest.

WC: 4.3k

Ronan, Finn, and their cousin Cedric all sat on the patio, the table covered with manilla folders; not where most meetings regarding money laundering would take place, but it was a nice day today.

The brothers watched as Cedric looked at his laptop, then at one of the open folders, then back to his laptop. Even if they were all on the same team, the way Cedric didn’t hesitate to call either of them out for poor decision-making always made meetings a bit tense.

He let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. There’s good news and there’s bad news.”

“Well, start with the good,” said Finn.

“Profits are up, thanks to your little stunt a few weeks ago. However, if you want to actually see any of those profits, you’re going to need to give me another way to clean that money.”

“That’s why we have the casino though, you can just…do it all through there, right?” Said Finn, Ronan staying quiet.

“I could. But a sudden increase of one billion in monthly revenue is going to raise some eyebrows. So, how do you two plan to avoid that?”

Ronan spoke up, “there are some new expenses that can help minimize that.”

“Right, how much are you paying the new nanny?”

“A million a month.”

“Right, okay,” he sighed, sounding almost exasperated. “That’s insane, but it’ll work. That’s still not nearly enough though.”

“There have been some new…opportunities, I’ve been thinking of investing in,” Finn said, tapping his fingers along the table. “There’s rumors they’re putting parcels of land around Magister’s Hill up for auction.”

Magister’s Hill; the collection of noble estates their family lived in for centuries, driven out of eighty years ago when common citizens revolted against the nobility. Most families were wiped out entirely, their fortunes decimated alongside them.

Most, but not all.

Ronan’s eyes widened; “Are you serious?”

Finn nodded, “figure we buy it, pay our own construction company to set something up there to handle the rest of the money that needs moving. Not a business at first. Something good, like I don’t know, open a school or some shit. My reputation as a successful businessman turned philanthropist persists, and we have room for more fronts. That, and it's a poetic form of vengeance.”

Ronan had no desire to have anything tied to their old lives associated with him. Running a criminal empire somehow felt more ethical than being a nobleman; at least he worked for his money now, even if its source was questionable. “I don’t know, Finn. That might be…might be too much. If somehow, someone somehow figured out your old identity, and that you’re the one buying that land, that-”

“There’s more humans in this country than ever before. Humans forget, their memories are shorter than their lifespans. The revolution was eighty years ago; if someone suspected me, they would’ve found out by now.”

“Who’s to say they haven’t, what if this is some sort of bait? I mean, there’s plenty of people who were there, who are still alive, they know our faces-”

“That’s why I don’t have the same face.” Finn was right. He had undergone so many magical cosmetic surgeries, he barely resembled his former self; a safety measure Ronan couldn’t bring himself to do. “Public record states we both burnt to a crisp when they bombed the estate eighty years ago. We aren’t the same people. That’s why you run things here, and I run things out there, and it works.”

“Just because I’m not on television or meeting with influential people doesn’t mean no one sees my face.”

“Come on Ronan, when was the last time you left the complex? It’s not like you’re out grocery shopping, or taking the kids to school. Point is, they don’t see our faces together, and I’ve never been connected to any sort of crime, nor have you. My books, thanks to you,” he said as he gestured towards Cedric, “are clean as could be. I’m a model citizen.”

“Still, what about Callon? He’s in college, he sees probably hundreds of people per day, and then he’s out on jobs!”

Finn rolled his eyes, “seriously? You want to have this argument again?”

“It’s not an argument, it’s a valid concern! Who knows, someone from his school could see him on a job, then what?”

“First of all, have you seen him at school? He dresses like a damn daisy, he’s in the marching band for fucks sake! He’s pathetic, it’s the perfect cover. Second, I’m insulted you’d imply he’s dumb enough to be seen. Like it or not, Alice was a damn good asset, and someone needs to take her place.”

Ronan crossed his arms. The mention of his ex-wife, and their go-to assassin, made him uneasy. “I don’t disagree, but I don’t think it should be him.”

“Why not? There’s no reason it shouldn’t be him. He’s fast, he’s a good shot, he’s a smooth-talker-”

“He’s your son!”

“Even better! We know he’s loyal! We know he’s not going to run off to screw some-”

“You shut your-”

“Gentlemen, I believe we’re getting very off topic,” Cedric said, stepping in before their feud could further escalate. “Although, if you want to use billable hours to sort out your differences, then be my guest. But I remind you time is money.”

The two sighed, Ronan still unconvinced. “I don’t know, I mean, I know we need to move more faster, but…” he couldn’t explain the feeling of despair, the pit in his stomach. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Are you serious? Buying the land alone would probably cover everything for the books.”

Cedric shrugged, “he’s right. I agree that there’s a risk, but there’s risk in everything we do. It’s just the nature of the game. But if you want to keep your distance, I can’t blame you. It’s your call, boss.”

Ronan paused, thinking it over, the final decision on his shoulders. Logically, it made sense. It’d be a quick way to grow their operation even further, and launder their excess of money through their construction business and other ventures as they built out the land. On paper, it was a fantastic idea.

Yet something about trying to rebuild on the land where their mother had died, where she was murdered because of their family’s excessive wealth and greed, filled him with dread. Every night, he’d tell himself he was better than his ancestors, better than his father even; he paid everyone who worked under him handsomely, believing he didn’t have to lead through fear. Everyone could afford to live comfortably, to send their children to college, to take vacations and live in good health. Yet such generosity was paid for by suffering.

Ronan knew he wasn’t the only drug lord, and he knew most weren’t as generous with sharing their wealth. He’d tell himself if it weren’t him, it’d be someone else; someone far less benevolent than him. The world would always be filled with addictive substances and the misery that followed in their wake; at least he wasn’t making things worse by treating his people poorly.

He sighed, “no. It’s a bad idea. Our hands on that land is a bad idea, I just know it. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he got up from the table.

“Come on, Ronan, you can’t be serious!” Finn called out. “Use your head!”

“My decision is final,” he said as he walked away, not looking back at either of them. “Cedric, find another way. Anything will do. Just not that.”

He grabbed the box of cigarettes from his pocket, and walked outside.

——

“He looks angry,” Amara said, watching her relatives walked out of the house. She didn’t seem startled or scared by their shouting; neither of them did, Adriel not even looking out the window, finding a Lego set far more entertaining than whatever disagreement was going on outside.

You recognized Finn, but the man next to him you had only seen in passing a few times. You watched as they walked further down the driveway, stopping by Finn’s car to continue talking. “Amara, who is that?”

“That’s Cedric. He’s nice. He helps us with homework sometimes.”

You leaned closer to the windowsill, trying to hear more of their conversation. Their words were muffled by the glass, but neither lowered their voices.

“He’s a Goddamn idiot, everyday I wonder why father left him in charge, he’s too emotional, too superstitious.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons, he hasn’t-”

“Don’t defend his stupid decisions just because he signs your checks. You know it, say it. It’s a stupid opportunity to let slip.”

He shrugged, “it is. But my job is to advise. Not tell.”

Finn opened the car door. “I don’t care what he says. I’m putting a bid on that land. I’ve got the money.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that. If he finds out-”

“He’s not gonna find out, I’m not stupid enough to do it in my own name. Besides, it’s not just about the money.” He sighed, his voice now low enough for his words to become inaudible.

“I guess he calmed down,” Amara remarked. “Well, I’m bored.”

You laughed, “you’re bored because he’s not mad?”

“Yeah. It’s funny watching his face get all red, he looks like a tomato. But now he just looks normal, and that’s no fun.”

You looked over at the clock; it was just about time for them to eat dinner, then get them ready for bed. With other live-in jobs you had, you only sat with the family occasionally or on special occasions, usually eating in your own room. Yet Ronan had always invited you to sit and eat with them; certainly an uncommon practice, but you found yourself enjoying it more than you had expected. Sometimes it was rather eventful, particularly on nights when he had his late night meetings, his closest family members all eating together beforehand leading to rather interesting conversations. Nights like tonight however were much quieter, the table only consisting of you, Ronan, and the twins.

“What were you and Uncle Finn arguing about?” Asked Adriel. He didn’t seem nervous or uneasy asking the question; only curious.

“Oh, I’m sorry you guys heard that,” he said, back in his usual business attire after your time in the forest.

Amara spoke up, “we heard him call you a goddamn-”

You quickly interrupted her, “I’m not sure that’s something your father wants to discuss at the dinner table.”

“No, no it’s alright,” he sighed, seeming disappointed but showing no signs of anger. “We just uh, we just had a disagreement. That’s all.”

“About what?” Asked Adriel.

“Just some work stuff. It’s really boring, trust me,” he smiled, “no need to worry about it. Besides, I’m much more interested in what you all got up to today.”

The two of them happily recounted the events of the day; what they learned with their tutor, the games they played outside, how the leaves were starting to change color, all of the highlights of their day. Whenever he was around his children, Ronan’s expression softened, a warm smile on his face as they spoke. They made him happier than money ever could.

You got them ready for bed after dinner, and thankfully they didn’t take too long to get to sleep. You headed back to your room, looking over yourself in the mirror. You decided to take a quick shower given what was to come.

You looked over at yourself in the mirror. You didn’t have much in regards to sexy underwear or lingerie; your job kept you on your feet, and you learned early on to prioritize comfort over aesthetics. You opted to wear the same type of clothing you always did, not wanting to be too forward.

You walked over to his bedroom door. The day had given you plenty of time to reconsider, yet you felt sure of yourself. After all, this would probably be much more enjoyable than awkwardly walking past each other in the hallway.

You knocked, and he opened the door quickly, still wearing the same suit he had at dinner. “Hey,” he smiled.

“Hey. Can I come in?”

He opened the door wider, “yeah, yeah, of course.”

You hadn’t ever seen his bedroom before. It was larger than most rooms in the house, far too much space for one man. The bed sat in the middle of the room underneath a chandelier, with tall windows leading out to the balcony. Every time you thought you had gotten used to the grandeur of the house, something else mystified you.

Nerves didn’t settle in until he shut the door behind you. “I uh, I haven’t done anything like this in awhile, to be honest,” you stammered.

He approached, “do you still want to?”

“Of course, I just…” you trailed off. “I guess I don’t know where to start,” you said with a nervous laugh.

He took another step, gently holding your face. “Well, we could always pick up where we left off.” He leaned in and kissed you, moving slowly as you wrapped your arms around his neck. It started soft, innocent even, the way both of you slightly hesitated to touch the other further. He deepened the kiss, holding you closer to him before you felt his tongue move against yours.

His hands trailed down once more, feeling the curves of your body. He broke away, pulling your shirt off of you. You undid the buttons on his vest, your movements first seductive and slow. He started kissing your neck, the sensation catching you off guard. You moved faster, the feeling of him lightly nipping at your neck making you want more. He pulled away his vest, and you quickly undid his shirt, the tattoos across his arms and chest in full display as the shirt fell to the floor.

You stopped to study his chest. Perhaps he wasn’t the one doing the dirty work, but he was undeniably fit, his muscles well-defined. His chest was painted with all sorts of flowers, the type of flora common within the gardens planted above graves in Elvish cemeteries. Between the flowers were leaves and vines, and at the center of his chest was a large trade ship covered with calla lilies, a few words in Elvish written underneath it.

He smiled, amused by your curiosity. “It seems you like what you see,” he teased.

“I-I mean…yeah, but…” you trailed your fingers across one of the vines. “I’ve just never seen someone with this many tattoos before.”

“I’m sure you’ll see all of them before the night is over,” he said as he reached towards your back, unclipping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. He pulled you in for another kiss, his hard cock pressed against you as he before leading you over to the bed. As you fell back on the mattress, he moved on top of you, eager to experience more of you. To your surprise, the first thing he did once on the bed was lick one of your nipples, as if desperate to taste you as soon as possible. He would play with one with his mouth, and the other with his hand, switching as the minutes passed. Your breathing got quicker; not quite moaning, but certainly close.

He moved away, sitting up and pulling off your pants and underwear. It was clear he didn’t care about what clothes you were wearing. He looked over your pussy, already starting to get wet. You spread your legs just a little further, and he quickly started to lap at your pussy, dragging his tongue along your cunt. Feeling his warm tongue along your clit drew a moan from your lips. He pulled away, only to kiss your inner thighs, before going right back to eating you out. You assumed a man in his profession would be rougher, yet never before had someone been so gentle with you, his movements slow, his eyes looking up at you with admiration. It felt strangely intimate for what should be little more than a steamy hook-up with your boss; right?

He gently sucked on your clit, slowly pushing a finger inside you. He said little, as if all his attention was focused on pleasing you. He moved faster, your body ready for more before he slipped another finger inside. It became clear, he wasn’t taking off any more clothing until you had cum.

He pulled his fingers out of you, moving beside before pushing them back inside even deeper, curling them upward. You felt yourself getting close, the warm sensation between your legs growing stronger.

“That’s it,” you felt his warm breath on your ear, his voice a soft whisper as he moved. “Relax.”

You followed his instructions, letting out another heavy breath as you felt yourself getting tighter around his fingers. Never before had a man made you feel this way from just his fingers alone. ‘He does have hundreds of years of experience, I guess,’ you thought. You bit your lip, gripping the bed sheets as you felt him reach your g-spot over and over. It didn’t take much longer after that for you to cum all over his fingers, instinctively covering your mouth to stifle your moans.

He pulled out, licking your juices from his fingers. The orgasm had left you wanting more, eager to see, to feel his hard cock. Still riding the high, you moved your hand over his belt, slowly starting to undo it as you caught your breath.

He smiled, putting his hand over yours. “There’s no need to rush, catch your breath.” “But I…I want to.” As soon as you said it, you knew how slutty you sounded. You wanted to please him the same way he had you, your confidence skyrocketing after climaxing.

“You want to what? Take your time.”

‘God damn it he’s good.’

“I want to see it,” you said, moving your hand towards the belt buckle once more. “I want to return the favor.”

This time, he didn’t stop you, moving his hand to the back of your head as you undid his belt, pulling down the zipper on his slacks before taking out his hard cock, the tip glistening with precum. It was longer than you initially thought it would be after grinding against him. You slowly lowered your head down, licking the tip.

He pet your head as you swirled your tongue along the tip of his cock, slowly bobbing your head back and forth as you got every inch of the shaft wet. You barely managed to fit all of it in your mouth, the tip reaching the back of your throat. Yet the sound of his moaning made you want to keep going. He didn’t hold back, not afraid to let you hear how much you pleased him as you moved your head back and forth.

“You feel so good,” he moaned under his breath. “Fuck, I…” he tilted his head back, indulging himself in the warmth of your mouth. “Gods, you feel so fucking good.”

You couldn’t wait much longer, eager to feel him inside you. You pulled off of his cock, stroking it in your hand as you looked back at him. You smiled, gaining the upper hand, as you looked up at him, his face flushed with pleasure. “I can make you feel better,” you said as you slowly touched him.

“No, no,” he grinned. “You had your turn. Now it’s my turn to make you feel good.” He sat up, moving on top of you. You spread your legs once more, feeling his cock brush against your cunt. He looked down at you, his face hovering over yours. “Ready?”

His eye contact was almost intense, but that made you want it even more. You nodded, and he leaned down to kiss you, feeling him slowly push his cock inside as your lips collided. He pulled away, looking down at you as he started to move. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he remarked. He kept a slow pace, letting you feel every inch each time he moved.

You grinned, the feeling of him deep inside you intoxicating. “Maybe you’re just big.”

“You flatter me,” he sat up, moving faster as you wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling him deeper. He moved to touch your clit while he fucked you, sending a shiver down your spine. “Sensitive now, are we? Does having your clit touched feel better while I’m inside you?”

“Y-Yes!” You cried out.

He thrusted even faster, still playing with your clit. “You’re already close again, I can feel it.”

He was right, and you couldn’t help but whimper and nod as he fucked you, drunk on his cock.

“Go on, cum again. Cum on my cock,” he said under his breath, maintaining his pace.

You weren’t a virgin, but he was unlike any other lover you had before. Dominant, yet not forceful. Sexy, but sweet and comforting. The sound of his voice made you want to please him, tightening against his cock to cum yet again, letting out another loud moan.

“Good girl,” he cooed, slowing down as you came all over him. “You are so sweet,” he whispered. He pulled out, laying down beside you once more, pulling you in for a kiss . He could feel your shaky breaths as he stroked his cock. He pulled away, “how privileged I am to see a woman like you everyday,” he said as he caressed your face.

You weren’t even sure how to respond, your mind in a haze. “I…thank you.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “No, thank you. Here, ride me,” his command was gentle, and you eagerly moved on top of him, sliding down his cock with ease. He grabbed your hips, bouncing you up and down on his cock as he moved in and out of you. You could feel him hit your g-spot from here, taking every inch as you slammed down onto him. The look of your breasts, your tummy, your thighs, all of them bouncing in reaction to his thrusts, enamored him. He fucked into you even harder, the lustful look on your face something he hadn’t seen in years, both of you equally passionate about getting the other off.

He gripped your hips even tighter, feeling himself getting close. “I…I’m gonna cum, fuck!” Both of you had been so eager for the night’s activities, you hadn’t even thought about protection; that didn’t seem to stop him, though.

“Cum in me, please,” you blurted out. You weren’t thinking, your mind only focused on pleasure.

He let out another loud moan as he held you down on his cock, cumming deep inside you. You felt his warm cum slowly drip out of you, back down onto his cock. As you caught your breath for the last time, your mind started to return.

‘Shit.’

“Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry,” he said as he leaned back. “I wasn’t thinking, I just-”

“It’s fine. We’ll deal with it in the morning,” you said with a gentle smile. If he could afford boxes of spells and walls of guns, he could buy you a morning after spell.

“Yeah, we’ll do that. I…I had a lot of-”

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a sudden banging on the door. “RONAN!” Called out a woman's voice, “ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE, JACKASS!”

“Oh shit,” he mumbled. You got off of him, and he quickly got up, starting to get dressed as he spoke through the door, “I was sleeping, what’s the problem, what’s going on?”

“Ellarian’s grandson set off a trap on a job.”

“What?! Wait, wait, wait,” he started to panic. “What job?! No one should be out tonight, we’re supposed to be laying low right now!”

“I don’t fucking know! But the old lady won’t let me touch him!”

“Then…” he stammered over his words, as if trying to talk his way to an answer. “I don’t know, then don’t touch him!”

“If I don’t touch him, he’s going to die! Can you please convince her to let me do my fucking job so we don’t have another body in the lake?!”

“Okay, just, just give me a second!”

You recognized the voice; it was Serena, their…medic? Doctor? You weren’t entirely sure. You had only seen her once, your first time in the house when you eavesdropped on her conversation with Callon regarding gunshot wounds. You weren’t sure what to do, so you started getting dressed.

Ronan turned to face you, “I…Fuck, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he said in a quiet voice.

“It’s fine,” you kept a surprisingly level head, disappointed but not entirely surprised.

“Make sure the kids are still asleep, then…then I don’t know,” he said, opening the door and walking out. You followed behind him before heading to each of the children’s bedrooms. You could feel Serena’s eyes glaring at you for just a moment before they rushed downstairs.

You poked your head inside each room, and through some miracle of the Gods, both were still fast asleep. With no children to comfort, you weren’t sure what to do. So, you followed the two of them to the basement.

It didn’t take you long to catch up to them. Ronan and Serena turned to face you, standing in front of the safe door. “Are they alright?” Ronan asked.

“They’re asleep, yeah,” you nodded.

Serena furrowed her brow, looking back at Ronan as you took another step forward. “No, no, absolutely not, we do not need more cooks in this fuckass kitchen,” she spat.

Ronan didn’t hesitate, “it’s fine, she can stay, just show me what happened.”

Reluctantly, she listened to Ronan, leading him into the safe and heading down the hallway, ending her protest. You heard the sound of a man crying out, his pleas echoing through the hallway.

‘I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?’

You walked into the safe, curious to figure out just what the hell was going on.

Part 5

lorelorelorelore plotplotplotplot yippee!!!! we had smut, and we got lore. what a day. excited to get the main plot started! theres. theres gonna be a lot. yippee!

thank you for reading!

RONAN TAGLIST: @damnitimasimp @sketchlove @madam8 @jar0fhoney @hikaakox @gurlie919 @caotictimmy

[beaverthemerlin]

An Anomaly's Journey

Aka Magister Beahreth's whole deal... or something. Beware: Heavy Yapping and a lot of fourth wall breaking and maybe a tad bit of Mary Sue'ing depending on how you see this.

Beahreth's gist and character is based around the fact that you can see and interact sometimes with other "Merlins" in game, which i always found funny because, are we all solving the same puzzles? Saving the same persons?.

So here comes the timelines and dimensions theory and all that shabonk that i have no brain to explain properly so i say: Magic. Every magister relives the journey in their own timeline, but every incarnation is wildly different from eachother, and the most powerful ones end up breaking the lines between a timeline and the other, conciously or otherwise.

Where do they all blur together? In Beahreth's... much to her dismay.

"Canonically", as in, what i'm making of her story, the "seeing other players" ingame translates to "Ghost sightings" to her. She sees them, every now and then, running around doing errands she's about to do, living events she's about to live (Oh man did she have fun trying to figure out why one of them was kneeling on the floor and desperatly casting a healing spell at the Lunaris altar...). The joke here is that she wasn't suposed to be a Merlin, she's a good ol' npc in every other Timeline happily living in Cedartown (ngl i added this part recently). Think of a Miles Morales kind of situation and though i'm still thinking of how the glitch came to be, she's an anomaly, the weakest Merlin and the one to sort of connect the rest.... she's not happy about this.

She had a life of her own, of course, which doesn't stray much from the canon except from the part that she sort of accidentaly helped Cyran take part in the Second Divine war, here's how that goes: Serene Lyceum, right? She goes there, graduates, and starts teaching there as a cold and ruthless professor, holding up the mantle of "Merlin" quite well. She is the one to introduce "commoners" back into magic teachings with Mirael, this young pyromancer from Ryeham she grabbed into her tutelage. Following not too far behind (and not too happy with the idea of non-nobles being taught) is her academic rival and fellow professor, Cyran, who she has no particular feelings for besides maybe a camaraderie of sorts. This changes a little when the man starts researching about The Great Will (secretly because he felt unfair that she was "blessed" by Dura, giving her a natural advantage), and bitting down his pride, asks "Merlin" for assistance. Bea accepts, because for once, she's not seeing any "Ghosts" taking this path... though Lyceum Era Bea wasn't quite aware of who those ghosts were yet.

This goes wrong, obviously (And i'll figure this part out once they give us info about this war but at least for now:) Cyran harnesses power in a gem that's now attached to his staff, and strikes a deal with the "Great Will", at the cost of hurting "Merlin" in the process. She leaves the Lyceum, weakened, and slowly losing her mind while Cyran uses his strings and newfound power to do whatever the hell he did to end up as Royal Court Mage. Bea uses what little power she has left helping around in the war taking up various disguises, losing sight of Mirael but meeting Hogan in the process, up until... poof , memories gone. And starts as a blank slate.

Her deep hatred towards Cyran and his betrayal is one of the few things that remained, but she's escencially a whole new person at the moment Starter Story starts. Giving her little brain space to focus on what the hell those ghosts she sees are.

Did Dura orquestrate all the events? Or was helping Cyran the glitch that triggered the anomaly? Who knows, now she's stuck knowing she's not the only one going through this. And whether other Merlins know or not, it doesn't matter, she'll see them anyways.

Some Funky Fun facts! :

She looks a tad younger than she looked back at the Lyceum, this because starting over as a clueless blank sheet rather than an experienced mage. Someone told me about the theory of life stages but i can't remember the name right now- She also starts a lot more cheerful and lets say, oblivious. Her personality changes and matures quickly from Song of Strife to Chains of Eternity, where it does a flip after encountering Cyran.

And BOY did she change in Echoes of Dissent...

Her go-to outfit is the Snow Hunter one, she feels some strange familiarity in it, and it's also cozy (Two reasons: 1) i started the game during CoE and 2) Her being originally an npc from whiteridge)

She usually sees the "ghosts" in the corner of her eye, but if she catches a good glimpse of them some funny things happen: - Her eyes turn into the "Merlin" symbol for a moment (yanno, the one when you click around) and her head hurts a little depending on how powerful the Merlin is, or well, how strong is their rapture in time.

Her magic is blue with some hints of the usual warm, Dura-given gold. It's also colder, weaker, but there's a hint of the distinct merlin warmth somewhere.

Her name is honestly a mouthful and people opt for nicknames instead, "Snowflake" for example by certain fire witch.

She's usually very cynical, enjoys annoying others, but overtime this behavior settles down as the journey grows serious... she'll still throw a jab or two at you though.

Despite her attitude, she's good with kids and enjoys teaching. A bit from her past that stuck.

This part im still working out but the funny paint on her whole self is suposed to represent the different factions Merlin "serves and protects": Warpaint on her face represents maulers, Sylvan marks on her arms is Wilders, i'm still thinking about Lightbearers and the "plot twist" of graveborns that yes, are also under Merlin's protection.

There's an inside joke going on of her being at a perpetual 15% of magic battery, but let's say that by the time EoD comes around she's trained enough to be at... 45% ish?

TLDR; Bea's whole deal started as an excuse to have her canonically annoy other merlins and turned into religious trauma existencial dread with a hint of betrayal here and there, she's fine tho.

[in-the-drowning-deep]

For the not so nice ask: Alone for Lucien, Wound for Esha, and Break for both?

OOH these are juicy, thank you lovely!

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there's no one around to see them?

that's...actually a really fun question, because I don't think he ever has been alone in a literal sense? like - he grew up in a noble family, with servants and governesses and his brothers around. then there was the Circle, which is a lot of things but private is not one of them. then he was on the run with several other apostates, then the Conclave happened and he's been varying levels of too important to be left alone ever since (except for that hike after Haven fell, when everyone assumed he was dead, but honestly he was a bit busy trying not to die to really be aware of much else)

emotionally alone, though - yeah. as of DAI, that's a very new phenomenon for him. he's not used to being surrounded by people who see him as both less and more than a person. he's suddenly up on a wildly high pedestal, and there's an increasingly small circle of people he can be vulnerable or human with, and it just keeps on getting narrower. his reaction is to throw himself into his work to try and live up to that expectation (and maybe also just...ignore all the vulnerable human stuff underneath, in hopes that it'll go away).

is that a good idea? not even slightly! thankfully, bull doesn't let him stew in it for too long before he makes his move.

wound: How does your OC handle being wounded? Are their wounds mostly physical? Mental? Emotional? What's the worst wound your OC has ever experienced?

Esha is so good at dealing with physical damage, a thing which is both normal to want and possible to achieve etc. it was common practice in the Tevinter Circles to use laetan students' blood to power a Master's spellwork - especially non-human laetans. most of the scarring on Esha's hands and arms comes from her work with her former supervisor.

(there was a turning point in this, though, and it was the moment Magister Alexius and his student made a big deal out of not needing blood magic for their wildly successful, wildly powerful new theorems. suddenly all the other Circle Masters were much more hesitant to use blood magic in their own work, for fear they'd look weak by comparison.

at some point towards the end of Veilguard Esha gets the chance to finally thank Dorian for accidentally saving her and the other laetan students from all that, which stuns him because he had no idea that he and Alexius had had that effect at all)

emotional wounds... yeah, she's not so good with those. that would require her to open up and be vulnerable with people to try and heal, and Tevinter tends to teach you to do the opposite of that.

the worst wound she's ever had, though - well. the dagger through the chest from Reva was a particularly bad one, but the fight with Ghilan'nain on Tearstone Island almost killed her several times over, so that wins out I think. poor squishy mage was not prepared for a 1v100 fight with all the remaining darkspawn on the island, and she definitely wasn't prepared to be literally dropped into fade prison after. she survives ofc, but the scarring on her lungs will never entirely heal.

break: What would cause your OC to break down completely? What do they look like when that happens? Has anyone ever seen them at their lowest?

answered this one for Esha here, but Lucien! oh boy. I think the thing that really gets to him is helplessness. like, in every single situation he's been in, there's been something he could do to make things better - whether that was being a good Circle student, grabbing the orb at the Conclave, leading the Inquisition, etc.

the closest he's come to breaking down is during Trespasser, when he realises just how close he is to dying. not in front of his council - they get the diplomatic "I don't know how much time I have left, but I'm going to make the most of it" speech. but then Cullen sends Bull in, and with him Lucien feels safe enough to let out the "THIS FUCKING THING" dialogue option

(that's not what he looks like when he really breaks, though. if he ever had to witness the death of his lovers/children? that's it. puppet with its strings cut. nothing left in him at all.)

[cassiaorsellio]

okay I saw @suntamer (her poll is here) drop a poll about dragon age oc discourse and honestly, i love a good poll particularly when it comes to ocs and even more so if it's something fun like this. so, which of my dragon age ocs would encourage the most / the worst discourse, if they were part of the universe?

magni aeducan (he/they, 27-28 in da:o, dwarven noble, pansexual) — quintessential and traditional dwarven noble and yes, that included the sexism, bought into the noble hunter culture, deadbeat father (gn.) a little too willingly committed fratricide to advance themself (masterful gambit, sir) and brought both gorim and mardy down with him. "has anyone told you you're insane" / "i prefer the term ruthlessly pragmatic myself". chose to desecrate the urn of sacred ashes for Cool Dragon Powers and no other reason, let bhelen stay on the throne because he would rather have an aeducan on the throne that stabbed them in the back if it meant not having their dynastic rule continue. kept the anvil of the void and sided with branka. told alistair he was like a brother to them with a complete stony face and then proceeds to betray him at the landsmeet (magni did say he was like a brother to him...). let amaranthine burn.

rosalind hawke (she/her, 23-30 in da2, human, straight...?) — haunted by her mother's face every time she looks in the mirror, leandra 2.0 and resentful about it. did anything to protect bethany from the horrors of the world, only for bethany to die in the most horrible way possible. rival romance with anders, trying to protect him but smothering him and making things worse in the process by further denying justice its purpose, and was in an emotional situationship with sebastian at the same time. took a hard turn into mage hatred after leandra's death at the hands of a blood mage and meredith got her claws hooked into her. no one knows what's going on with her and meredith. killed her lover and father of her unborn child both out of mercy and justice, sided with the templars to 'get it over and done with quickly'. becomes known as "the butcher of the gallows."

arthur trevelyan (he/him, 49-52yo in da:i, human noble, gay) — noble born and bred, thrived in the circle predominantly due to family interference (aunt paying off templars) and his family name protecting him. extremely pro-circle and anti-rebellion (vocal about reform, however), known templar fucker (had an on-and-off again relationship with one for 20+ years), chose to go to therinfal after finding out what happened to the mages in redcliffe, celene died on his watch and put gaspard on the orlesian throne because he was going for stability over progress and then actively ghosts said emperor. encouraged dorian to speak with his father again because he was somewhat projecting. caused a scandal by getting into a relationship with his qunari bodyguard 12 years younger than him.

hissera trevelyan (she/her, 21-22yo in datv, qunari shadow dragon, bisexual) —thedas' most recognisable nepo baby. in a fashion. constantly got in trouble in the orphanage for either fighting, talking back or letting off homefashioned smoke bombs in the privy. fucked up work with the shadow dragons on such a scale she had to leave minrathous bc magisters were pissed. has been arrested multiple times for theft, murder and destruction of public property but has always been released because someone keeps pulling strings (#nepobabyprivileges.) probably overthinks about all the ways she could painfully kill a venatori. is absolutely not qualified for her job but she got it anyway because nepotism ig???? got hit with the ben-hassrath allegations by her friend's mother and she was just like 🤨no? 🤨thanks for asking? 🤨even though she has absolutely had some form of training from her dad. picked a fight with that aspect of mythal Just Because, and then didn't even use it at the end because of pettiness.

[kafka030]

AFKJ OC - ABOUT SAL'THORIN and ESSAIL CLAN(?) . . .

Note: ⚠️ Fair warning, down below a bit of short story about Magister Kafka in the underground... new region, Sal'Thorin..? It contains spoiler... Read at your own risk and you have been warned...

I try my best to write without touching the major spoiler... But it seems I touched a bit...

. . .

Sal'Thorin... The Underground Kingdom where the Essail clan thrived... Oh-- how Magister Kafka felt disgusted when exploring the Royal City... It's just... messed up...

The nobles treat their servants like pets... Bullying them... hurting them... If the servants did something wrong... Even if it's just... Accidentally withered a flowers or spilled a so-called Divine Dew... Some Holy Water in his POV... They'll be sent to the priest and be judged... punished and marked... Stigma of Judgement what-so-ever that he just heard off...

He felt like vomiting at how... Unfair the separation of the status in the Essail clan... Nobles live such leisure life, fighting to keep their power while commoners or servants struggle to serve their masters and survive... The Divine Dew for Nobles is more magic concentrated than the Commoners and Servants... This is why Magister Kafka dislikes nobles and nobility... The more he explored Sal'Thorin, the more he hated them... He only saw the bad nobles for now... Confused where the good, normal ones are...

. . .

Magister Kafka was slightly confused by Prince Ravion, whether or not he's an ally or a foe... Xera (one of the guards of Sal'Thorin showing some strings of becoming a Guard to Magister Kafka) once mentioned that the Prince favours the commoners more than the Nobles... and he heard from one of the nobles that Indris is a commoner and been promoted by Prince Ravion to become a Guard of Sal'Thorin due to appearance... However... The information still confuse him whether the prince was an enemy or an ally...

. . .

Last but not least... the sacrificial ritual that the Priestess did to... ... Oh-- rage boils within him, truly... He feels like shouting at the moment... Something... within him... as if clawing in his vessel to unleash a destructive magic that would turn the underground kingdom upside down... But really, he defeated them instead of the other options... Is the ritual really needed to keep the Kingdom in one piece..? Is there no other options than that..?

He hates the bad Essail clan more than ever after saving ... especially nobles... and preferred to help the commoners or servants of the Essail clan... He would think twice to help the nobles of the Essail clan, since he once had been threatened to be thrown into a dungeon and executed by some nobles in the past due to how "powerful" he is...

. . .

[possessiveandobsessive]

The Remembrance Chronicles

Part 2: Until Then, Old Friend

*Thwack!*

*Shink!*

*Thud!*

Cassandra's arm was beginning to ache from her hours-long assault on the training dummy in front of her. She scowled deeper and pushed herself even harder for a moment before letting her sword fall to the ground next to her. She flopped heavily onto the wooden bench beside her in the training yard and put her head into her hands.

"DAMN IT!" She shouted suddenly into the deserted space, "DAMN IT ALL!"

The warrior had spent nearly every hour in the small training yard at her home since she had received the letter from Lace 3... no 4 days ago now. It was the only thing she could think to do. Cassandra just couldn't get herself to do anything but come out to the dummies and work herself to exhaustion since she found out... the news.

That day, she had wanted to storm Tevinter herself. She had nearly torn Leliana's office apart with all of her wild gesturing and pacing. Leliana, to her credit, had simply allowed her to rage until she had no choice but to rein her in. Apparently, there was a new apocalypse coming, and she was needed in the south. Cassandra wanted nothing more on that day than to stab Solas on sight and ask questions in the afterlife. How could he, someone Varric trusted, someone she trusted, betrayed them in such a horrible, twisted way. How could he continue on this path, knowing Varric's blood, now stained his hands.

And then, that fiery rage gave way to crushing grief.

"Maker, what is wrong with me." Cassandra spoke in a small voice that would've horrified her had anyone else been around to hear her. Though she ended up being horrified anyway when she felt a hot tear drip onto her hand. She gritted her teeth. This was not who she was. She had lost many comrades over the years, good men and women who gave their lives for noble causes, but for some reason, this time was different.

Taking a shuddering breath, Cassandra sat up and looked out across the yard. She could almost hear his voice in her head, taunting her.

"What are you doing out here again Seeker? I didn't think you were even capable of crying, let alone over little old me. Im touched, really."

The sound of his laughter seemed to bounce off the walls of her mind, filling her with nostalgia and then pain again.

It seemed impossible for that pain in her ass to be gone forever. She just couldn't fathom never arguing with him again, never fuming while he simply laughed at her. She had seen him only a year and a half before when he had met with her and the Inquisitor to give them the update on Solas. He had been so full of life (as well as irritating jokes and taunts) then, and now...

"He's gone." She spoke softly into the empty yard again. "Varric, you're really gone, aren't you?" Cassandra nearly choked on the final word as it squeezed out of her throat. Her heart ached horribly, as if something had it in a vice grip. Was this what it felt like... to lose a real friend? The realization hit her hard. She felt like she had taken a blow to her gut. She had never even recognized Varric's role in her life. He had really been her friend, and now he was just... gone.

Cassandra took a couple breaths then, trying to come to terms with her new reality. A world that she lived in, and Varric did not. She was, in some way, comforted by the fact that he was at least at peace now. Years, Varric had spent saving a city that refused to be saved. Then, a couple of years working to hold the world together as an amcient evil magister worked to tear it apart. Followed most recently, by years spent chasing the man who had lied to and betrayed them all to the ends of the earth. Varric had never gotten a break. He never got time to rest, and he never once complained. Now, she supposed he could at least rest. She hoped he got to see Hawke again.

Feeling some of the heaviness in her chest lift, Cassandra tipped her chin up to look into the blue sky. Reveling for a moment in the sun's warmth on her face, she swore she could hear him on the breeze.

"Don't waste your tears on me Seeker, one of these days, you can join Hawke and I for some Wicked Grace. I can finally show you what a REAL game between professionals looks like."

"Alright, Varric." Cassandra whispered with her eyes now closed and her face relaxed at last. "I suppose I'll see you then... old friend."

[missriggie]

What Was Stolen - Post Veilguard Fanfiction

Rookanis | Lords of Fortune | Slow Burn | Hinted DreadRook | Pirate Adventure

A year or so after the final blight, Thedas is trudging through its tumultuous path to recovery. Syvillia 'Rook' Laidir has left the Lighthouse and returned to treasure hunting with the Lords of Fortune, flitting about Rivain with her good friend Taash and hoping to put the past behind her. Rook and Lucanis share a beautiful moment out at sea, but whatever is locked away in her head seems to want to ruin this bliss she feels with him. Her dreams press the very edge of her caged memories, where she comes upon a Spirit of Resilience on its last legs before it corrupts into a demon. Meanwhile, Solas continues to endure the boundaries of his prison, the demon of Regret stalking him into corners of his consciousness he must explore for himself. In a shadow of Skyhold, he hides between the folds of the Fade to evade his hungry, relentless hunter.

The air cooled as the cover of night swept overhead, the sky dusted with glittering stars to guide the Sea Hawke further along her journey. Rook checked her compass, recorded the heavens with the sextant Isabela gave her to chart their whereabouts, meticulous in her calculations along the map. Should they turn to shore, they would have just passed Rialto.

   Rook shuddered as a chill came upon her. This region wasn’t always cold, especially not so close to the beginning of the month of Justinian when nights like this were usually humid. Though she was sure there was a perfectly rational explanation for this, perhaps it was her ever growing experience that harkened a sailor’s superstition to call out from her very bones that saw this as an omen of some kind. She rubbed her shoulders on instinct until she felt a coat cover her, gentle hands holding it still.

   “So concludes your first day as Captain,” Lucanis mused.

   He smiled over at the gathering of the crew enjoying the meal he had prepared around a collection of lanterns. Lambshank had started another round of Wicked Grace, and Yani Fabrizio was raising the stakes each time until he would lose a boot or another spoon of rice from his plate. Serena and Dimetri watched on, staring at Illario who subtly signalled to the other players what was in Lambshank’s hand. Morale seemed as even as the cruising speed the ship sailed along.

   Rook and Lucanis took a moment of bliss in this open sea, lit by worlds far beyond their own. The warmth of his body against her back welcomed as he wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.

   “You know, there is a famous novel that tells of a great love story between an Antivan noble and a Rivaini pirate,” he whispered.

   “I’m a Lord of Fortune, not a pirate.” She corrected him, nodding at Lambshanks practicing his thrusts with a scimitar. “I don’t think it’s clicked for the chevalier yet…”

   “He’ll learn.”

   He sighed into her hair, the rasp in his voice having the same effect as a purring cat. It soothed her.

   “You know, I didn’t think I’d be able to get the First Talon himself on my side for this trip.”

   “Oh?”

   “This all started off so simple; get the kid home safe. But every turn we take there are more variables mixed in. The artifact, the Carta, my— the Magister…” she trailed off, her mind sinking back into the chaos that invaded the Royal Palace, how close to death she was, saved by some chance that a dream was in fact a memory, one that brought more questions than she had the capacity to withstand an answer. It was too selfish of her to think about even now.

   “If I’d known your homeland was about to perform an Exalted March…”

   She felt Lucanis’s body stiffen at the mention of Antiva’s temporary merger with the Orlesian Chantry. It was a tough situation to be in, and she knew a Crow as sought after and dedicated to his craft would not leave something like that so readily. Instead of pulling back, he only tightened his embrace to reassure her.

   “You couldn’t have, and I’m to blame for that,” he said, “I never sent you letters.”

    She shook her head. “I never sent anything either.”

    “You earned your rest from me.”

    “Don’t.” she urged, placing a hand on his cheek to hold him there, thumb stroking his beard and gently pressing her head into his, “Awake or asleep, I’ll want you near. But I didn’t want to get in the way of your responsibilities. You’re a big deal now. You practically head Antiva’s only means of defence.”

    “And you are a hero.”

   Coming from his lips, she could almost believe herself deserving of the accolades, but Rook suppressed the soul-deep need to shudder at it. Gold and Glory, it was the motto she lived by since she was sixteen. But the Glory part started to weigh her down more than any treasure hoard could.

   Her gaze lifted from her map to the starboard bow where the boy held tight to the ratline, head tilted up to the stars with the breeze sweeping through his sandy brown mop. She watched as he adjusted himself on the ropes, hooking his leg into the links and extending his arm, like stretching out a wing. She could feel it through him; the open and yet full feeling of freedom against a sonata of the wind and sea.

   “Right now, I’m just an elf out at sea,” she said with a proud smile.

   Lucanis chuckled. “You’re more than that, Capitana~”

   She could hear the invitation in his voice as he said it, almost like a challenge, teasing her into dropping her instruments and taking a break.

   Rook turned around to hold his face, gazing into his eyes, the warmth replaced with a cool dusting of starlight that lit up her world. He smiled as they flitted down to her lips, his hands tracing up her back to bring her closer and resting his forehead against her. She closed her eyes, sighing deep in this moment of bliss, and surrendered a soft, loving kiss. 

READ MORE HERE: [LINK]

I am locking my stories in light of the recent AI scraping incident and onslaught of bot comments on Ao3 - DM me for an Ao3 invite if you are not a registered user.

[chashupak]

That one BG3 fanfic deleted scene pack where Pre-orb Gale cries over roses, shows symptoms of being a stuck-up nerd, panics over last-minute project changes, and fails at dice

Ongoing Fanfiction Link: [The Starfall Gambit]

Why scrapped: Moving my action-oriented scenes up as the hook. Weaving relevant information into existing chapters.

Chapter I.1.1 To Ashes

A boy clutched his mother’s apron, tears mingling with the dirt and soot smudged across his cheeks. The garden looked wrong now. Where pretty roses had been, only black stems stuck up from burnt dirt, like accusing fingers. He hadn’t meant to hurt them. He just thought they wanted more light.

“Do not mourn, Little One,” a voice cut through his sobs, cool and clear like water.

The air felt funny. Like right before lightning strikes. She appeared in a shimmer. Her robes changed colors that Gale couldn’t even name. Her eyes looked like the night sky, full of stars.

Gale wiped his nose with his sleeve. “B—But I hurt them. They were so pretty.”

She knelt down, and when Her hand touched his cheek, it felt cold as winter against his hot face. Everyone seemed far away now. Just him and her in the whole world.

“Power answers intent," She said, Her voice gentle but firm. "Your sorrow shows you understand the cost. That is good."

Gale stared at the ashes, still feeling awful. The magic in the air looked prettier than the flowers had ever been—swirling and alive. It only made him feel worse.

“Does that mean I’ll always break things?” he asked, small and unsure. “When I do magic?”

She looked at him with those star-filled eyes.

"No," She said, sounding like she knew everything in the whole wide world. "It means you will learn. And you will be great."

From the ashes, something bloomed. Not a rose but something new. It had petals that shone with colors like Her dress.

A little spark lit up inside him, pushing back against the bad feelings. Her words felt like a warm blanket on a cold night. Like a promise.

He wanted to believe Her.

He wanted to be great.

Chapter I.1.2 The Skies Above

The towers of Sharn pierced the sky like needles through velvet, their peaks dissolving into a lattice of bridges and arcane lights. Below, the city stacked itself in defiance of nature. Stone, steel, and ambition compressed into a monument to mortal audacity, as if challenging the gods themselves.

Gale stood at the balcony's edge in the Upper Deck of the Sky Tournaments, inhaling air too thin and too perfumed for common lungs. The voices of spectators from below reached him as mere whispers, appropriate to their station. Sky-chariots cut through clouds, their elemental wakes painting temporary auroras across the evening sky.

He studied their engines with clinical detachment. Raw industrial magic—crude but effective, like a butcher's cleaver compared to a surgeon's scalpel. The innovation deserved acknowledgment, if not admiration.

"Your assessment of the southern district's stabilization efforts was brilliant, Magister," simpered a noble to his left.

"The Academy still speaks of your treatise on planar convergence," added a scholar to his right.

Gale nodded, offering the precise dose of attention their station warranted—neither so little as to offend nor so much as to encourage further intimacy. Their flattery formed a familiar waltz, one he'd witnessed in a hundred courts with a hundred different partners. He'd mastered the steps years ago.

His thoughts remained fixed on his true purpose: the Netherese tome Mystra had tasked him to recover. It lurked somewhere in this gilded gathering, hidden beneath layers of pomp and spectacle.

"'Scuse me! Mr. Chosen, Sir!"

The voice jarred against the cultured murmurs surrounding him. A gnome bulldozed through the crowd, trailing oil stains and enthusiasm in equal measure. Without preamble, he conjured a blueprint that hovered between them, runes pulsing with potential.

"You must see this enhancement to the city's levitation fields! We've realigned the sigilwork to respond to gravitational shifts. Entire districts stabilized!"

Despite his cultivated aloofness, Gale leaned forward. His fingers hovered over the glowing runes, not touching but tracing their contours in the air. "Clever," he murmured, academic hunger momentarily overwhelming practiced restraint. "You've adjusted the harmonic resonance against the planar flux. But wouldn't that destabilize under erratic Weave fluctuations?”

For a heartbeat, the persona slipped. No longer Mystra's Chosen performing dignity, but simply Gale, a scholar encountering innovation worthy of his intellect. The thrill of discovery sparked in his chest, bright and dangerous.

He caught himself reaching toward the blueprint and withdrew. What was he doing? Mystra's mission remained unfulfilled. This mortal sigilwork, however ingenious, was mere distraction.

Yet She wasn't here. No divine whisper reminded him of his station, his duty, his necessary distance from lesser magics.

Perhaps one brief indulgence.

Gale composed his features, subduing the earnest curiosity to something more appropriately measured. "Apologies, sir. I forget myself. What was your name?"

The gnome's face split with a grin too wide for its confines. "Tibbles Clockmort, Your Chosenness!"

"Gale of Waterdeep will suffice." He permitted himself a genuine smile, the rarity of it making it feel nearly illicit.

With a perfunctory glance at the nobles—their disappointment apparent but irrelevant—he guided Tibbles toward the balcony's edge. "If you'll allow me a moment, Gentlemen."

Leaning over the railing, Gale examined the floating blueprint properly. Questions flowed naturally, each answer spawning three more inquiries. The conversation deepened, excavating theoretical foundations and practical applications with equal fervor. For the first time since arriving in Sharn, Gale felt the joy of unguarded intellectual exchange.

Then—a flicker of movement below caught his eye. Not remarkable for its elegance but for its dissonance, like a wrong note in a familiar composition.

His explanation faltered mid-sentence. An old irritation resurfaced, immediate and visceral.

Among the churning crowds of the lower stands moved a human figure he recognized instantly. Sun-bleached brown hair, carelessly braided. Storm-gray eyes that missed nothing while appearing to notice nothing. She navigated the throng with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere.

She made deals with a grin, laughed at whispered exchanges, touched shoulders as easily as she stole glances. She moved between people like shadow through candlelight.

That gait. That audacity.

The interloper from Elturel...

Chapter I.2.1 A Cage of Light

Elysium breathed with magic. Not the subtle whisper of mortal realms but a violent symphony that demanded submission. Power coursed through floating runes and crawled across Gale's skin like hungry insects. Even the marble beneath him pulsed with divine intention.

And then there was Her.

“You shape the Weave with such precision, My Chosen.”

Gale exhaled, letting Mystra’s words wash over him like the final note of a well-woven spell. Her praise lingered on his tongue, rich and heady as aged wine.

His hands framed his creation, arcane script suspended between them like a constellation bound by his will alone.

Intricate. Flawless. Divine-worthy.

She had not touched him. Not yet.

"Every thread I weave has purpose.” He stepped to Her side. The coolness that emanated from Her form prickled his skin. "I've devoted more to the art than most men give to love." His voice softened, teasing. "Though I'd like to believe I've offered you plenty of both."

Mystra's violet eyes flickered to his, ancient welts that reflected nothing back. Something unstable shimmered between them, possibility and disappointment hanging in perfect balance.

Her fingers barely brushed his spell, but it was no caress. The lattice shuddered, twisting inward like dying stars. Irreversibly altered.

Wrong.

Gale’s brow furrowed. No miscalculations. No imperfections. Yet it rejected him now.

Mystra smiled. “You recall Elturel, do you not?”

A test. Always tests.

“The planar disturbance.” He straightened, masking the tremor in his voice. “A nobleman’s arrogance nearly unstitched reality itself. I arrived in time to prevent catastrophe.”

“Did you?” Two simple words, a scalpel drawing blood.

Gale's fingers curled at his sides. "If you are referring to that bystander—"

Mystra watched him, letting silence stretch between them. The memory flickered unbidden.

The Weave, balanced on a razor's edge. His magic, controlled and calculated. Then suddenly—gone. Yanked out from under him like a drunkard flipping a board game.

A reckless woman with storm-gray eyes, redirecting energy without technique or reverence. The portal snapping shut with her at its epicenter.

No mastery. Just results.

Neat. Efficient. Effective.

A cheat.

"Why do you believe she got involved?" Mystra's voice pulled him back.

His jaw tightened. “Misplaced heroism.”

Mystra's lips curved with quiet knowing. She touched his chin, Her fingers cold as starlight, guiding him to face the altered construct. It hummed wrong notes, dissonant and beautiful.

"You dismiss it, My Chosen, but it reaches places your precision does not." The construct flickered, and he recognized the sensation now. Unstructured. Instinctive. "Even the finest spellbook cannot hold every incantation that exists."

Her touch lingered, clinical rather than loving. No reward. No reassurance. Rather than a lover caressing her beloved, She touched him like an artisan examining an old piece. Where once that touch had sparked divine fire, now it left only frost.

His heart constricted. He had given everything to Her—youth, devotion, brilliance—and still it wasn’t enough.

Gale forced his spine straighter. Precision and control. His defining virtues. What She had molded him to embody. What made him worthy.

As She drifted away, his gaze caught the empty space beside Her, a void he once thought he might fill.

He traced the Weave.

And this time, he forced himself to see the cracks.

Chapter I.2.2 The Stands Below

The Lower Deck devoured all who entered. Where the Upper Deck floated in perfumed refinement, this level throbbed like an exposed nerve. A seething, living thing as loud as the industrial magic that crackled through its steel bones. Flesh made of bodies pressed sweat-to-sweat. Rust and ale and smoke formed a physical presence, something you tasted more than smelled. Each surface held treachery: floors slick with spilled drink, tables scarred from brawls, shadows concealing predators and prey indistinguishable from one another.

A raw, unbridled cacophony that breathed in sparks and exhaled thunder.

Gale pushed through this wilderness with a discreet spell that bent attention away from him. Despite this precaution, his fine robes and straight-backed posture marked him as clearly as a torch in darkness. One hand hovered near his spellbook, both protection and comfort in this alien landscape.

Scholarly curiosity—at least, that’s what he told himself—had led him from the safety of the Upper Deck into this den of structured chaos. The truth was more elemental: he needed to see her again, the woman from Elturel who had unraveled his spell with intuition where he had built it with calculation.

It hadn’t taken long to spot her.

She commanded a gambling table like a general at a battlefield. Sleeves were rolled to expose forearms corded with lean muscle, a single hoop earring catching the lantern light as she laughed. A faint scar tracked along her wrist, visible as she flipped a coin into the growing pot.

"You've got to give it up, Viktor," she teased, her voice cutting through the ambient roar. "That grin's charming, but it's going to be a real problem when someone notices your teeth." She winked at the rough-hewn barbarian across from her, sparking a cascade of laughter that seemed disproportionate to the joke.

Then—there it was. Her fingers twitched, the Weave responding to her silent command. The dice wobbled in mid-throw, their trajectory altered. No incantation. No structured spellwork. Not even a proper cantrip.

Just like last time. Telekinesis? Perhaps the barest of components. A distorted variety.

His lips pressed into a thin line. She played the Weave like a weathered lute, rough and impulsive. A thief picking magic's pockets without a thought to the cost, to the discipline required. To the reverence magic deserved.

And yet… no one protested. No one even noticed. While he detected the disrespect to the Weave itself, her fellow gamblers saw only her charm, her wit, her carefully crafted distraction.

Before reason could intervene, he approached the table. "I'd be loath to let such an engaging game go unstudied. Might there be room for one more?"

Eyes assessed him with predatory calculation. How much could they relieve him of? How quickly?

But when she looked up, recognition flashed before being smoothed over with a grin, disproportionately familiar given their last encounter.

"Feel free." She gestured at an empty seat. "And you are..." Her eyes lingered on every landmark that set him apart—fine robes, enchanted jewelry, perfectly groomed brown locks. Her gaze weighed him with frank appraisal, neither impressed, nor dismissive.

Then she tilted her head. "Prince Charming?"

The table erupted in laughter, rough and genuine at his expense. Gale smiled thinly as he took a seat, refusing to give an inch. "Flattering, but just Gale. Though I can't fault you for assuming nobility."

She hummed, noncommittal. "All right, Gale."

She performed introductions with theatrical flair, ending with a hand settled on her chest, chin lifted in mock ceremony. "Lyanna."

Gale dropped his coin pouch onto the table, its weight punctuating his arrival. Its heft drew appreciative glances. "Pleasure."

The next few hands passed in a dance of mundane gambling, but Gale's attention never strayed from Lyanna's fingers. He watched for the telltale shimmer in the Weave, the disrespectful tug at magic's threads. When the Tabaxi woman rolled the dice, he caught it—Lyanna's casual touch of magic, ready to tip fate's scales.

With surgical precision, Gale countered. A whisper of his own magic nullified hers, leaving a faint shimmer of purple-blue energy that only a trained eye might catch. The dice fell naturally. The Tabaxi squealed with delight at her unexpected win, oblivious to the magic simmering beneath perception.

Lyanna's eyes snapped to him. One finger against the wood, thoughtful. She raised her ale, amusement ghosted across her lips.

"Someone's paying attention," she murmured, her storm-gray eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug.

Gale inclined his head, an unspoken challenge.

The starting buzzer of the tournament blared, sky-chariots roaring, eyes drawn skyward. Lyanna leaned forward, slamming her mug down with a decisive thud.

With each round, their contest deepened, transcending the mundane games around them. The air buzzed with overlapping deals and thunderous cheers, but Gale and Lyanna remained locked in their private contest. Their magic wove through the ordinary gambling like silver threads through base cloth.

Every nullification he performed was technical perfection. Every counter she devised was infuriatingly novel, slipping past defenses like water through cracked stone.

"Lucky," she remarked when his perfectly controlled spell yielded a winning roll.

"Fortune favors the skilled,” he replied with the same scholarly condescension that had earned him both admiration and exasperation from students back in Blackstaff.

Her fingers brushed the table's edge. When she tossed her dice, they wobbled mid-air a heartbeat too long. The Weave bent to her will, careless and unbounded. The dice landed perfectly.

Gale exhaled through his nose.

"Jealous?" she asked.

"For a fluke? Hardly."

As their magical duel intensified, something tugged at Gale’s awareness, a pattern emerging from what he’d assumed was chaos.

When Lyanna manipulated the dwarf's roll, ensuring the dwarf stayed in the game despite poor odds, Gale didn't interfere. He watched as she clasped the dwarf's shoulder, her laughter genuine as she teased him about his vices.

Understanding dawned like a slow sunrise. His gaze swept across the table, seeing the larger design for the first time.

The dwarf, still in the game by a thread. The barbarian, leading just enough to feed his bravado. The Tabaxi, engaged in flirtatious rivalry that had nothing to do with the game. The half-orc, locked in heated competition with the barbarian, their bets climbing higher with each round.

She wasn't chasing victory. She was orchestrating an experience. Shaping the game to maximize engagement, to keep everyone invested emotionally as well as financially. Like feeding kindling to a fire.

The realization unsettled something in him. Magic had its plethora of uses, that he knew. Yet, while his set him apart in a league all his own, hers drew people in. A truth he’d been trained to dismiss as frivolous.

Her eyes met his across the table, a knowing quirk of her brow. As if, for a fleeting moment, he'd glimpsed the real game beneath it all—neither dice nor magic. But rather, she played to their desires, their rivalries, their needs all balanced in a delicate social alchemy.

"Relax, Charming," she said. "It's just a game."

The words stung more than they should have. Perhaps they were only intended as surface-level banter, but they felt like a dismissal of everything he stood for, everything he’d dedicated his life to perfecting. This wasn’t “just a game”, but the very architecture of reality itself.

On the final round, Gale doubled down. Whatever social experiment she conducted, his purpose remained clear. To demonstrate proper control, to teach through example.

He gripped the dice, infusing them with magic of absolute precision. A guaranteed, undetectable victory. The dice tumbled, the Weave humming between them like a plucked string.

Lyanna watched, her head tilted with something like disappointment. Then, just as the dice were about to land, the Weave shimmered. Not opposition, not a counterspell, but a whispered augmentation that made his magic blindingly obvious to everyone present.

The table erupted before the dice settled. Scoffs. Jeers. The barbarian let out a long, unimpressed whistle.

"A shame," Lyanna said, rising with fluid grace. Her expression held none of the triumph he expected, only a flickering regret. As she passed behind him, she leaned close enough that her breath warmed his ear.

"You wouldn't have liked winning like that anyway."

The hem of her coat lifted as she moved to leave, revealing the worn leather of a belt fitted with more pouches than one might expect. Her hand grazed his shoulder—a brief, thoughtless touch that left an inexplicable warmth.

"Try not to let it ruin your night, Upper Crust," she called over her shoulder. Then she exhaled, smoothing a hand over the back of her neck as she melted into the crowd. As if the game had only ever been a momentary diversion.

Gale barely registered the murmurs of disdain from the table, his mind still replaying that final move. She'd caught him in a trap of his own making. Not by opposing his magic, but by revealing it. Why? To teach him some lesson? To humiliate him?

Or perhaps, most disquieting of all, because she'd recognized something in him that he wasn't ready to see in himself.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[slothquisitor]

On Matters of Inertia: Chapter One

Summary: Saving the world is easy, putting it back together isn't.

A post-Veilguard fic focusing on the relationship between Lucanis and Camina Ingellvar as they navigate their brand new relationship and all the duties and responsibilities that come their way in post-Blight Thedas.

Part One: The Vacancy Between Me and Those Days

Also on AO3.

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If anyone had asked Camina Ingellvar what victory over the Evanuris and preventing Solas from bringing down the Veil would feel like, she wouldn’t have told you that it would be a mind-numbingly boring meeting. She had expected some measure of relief, perhaps a sense of accomplishment, of completion. But so far, it’s been mostly trying not to nod off at the table. 

Camina isn’t sure exactly how long she slept in the room her team had claimed after too much wine and a lot of celebration, but she knows it wasn’t nearly long enough. She’d woken up to the summons, had still been fast asleep on a shared bedroll with Lucanis, tucked away in a corner of the room to grant them the smallest hint of privacy. She’d been curled around him, their fingers locked together…until they’d been summoned here. 

She’d at least been given the opportunity to clean up a bit, but hadn’t had anything else to wear beyond her armor, so she shifts a little uncomfortably. Her armor was never meant worn sitting at a table for hours on end like this. 

She’s been told that this is some magister’s house, but calling this sprawl of a building a house is rather like calling the Necropolis a graveyard. It was probably grander before the blight and the archdemon ripped through the city. An entire wing of it has collapsed, but not this room, this large windowed space in which several tables have been brought and pushed together. The windows overlook a large garden, choked with now-dead, blight bathed in watery sunlight. Lucanis sits with the rest of the Antivan delegation, which is for now only Viago and Teia. The Inquisitor is here too, representing the interests of Ferelden and Orlais. Myrna has apparently been granted special dispensation to negotiate on behalf of Nevarra, until someone more senior can attend, anyway. Antoine and Evka are representing the Wardens. Isabela is heading up the Rivaini delegation though over the course of the conversations, it sounds like her influence beyond the Lords is rather limited. She’s forgotten most of the names of everyone else present, but they’re mostly minor nobles from Tevinter or the Free Marches who talk too much. And then there is the acting Archon: Dorian Pavus. 

Dorian had been the one to call this meeting and said it would be a missed opportunity not to meet together with this many leaders in one place. That they would all need each other if they are to rebuild the world. And Camina doesn’t disagree. In fact, she’s rather flattered to be invited to the negotiation table. It feels good to be here in this room with all of these powerful people. Like, she’s finally made it. Like she’s finally getting recognition for doing something well. 

All those years in the Necropolis working to be taken seriously feel like they’ve suddenly paid off in a weird way. She’s sitting at a table with some of the most powerful and influential people in Thedas. She just wishes she wasn’t struggling to stay awake.

“The use of the Crossroads will mean that goods and relief can arrive within days instead of weeks,” Dorian explains to the gathered room. The Iron Bull and one of his Chargers sit behind him, as she understands, there is no remaining Imperial Guard. She’s sure that Dorian’s appointment of the hulking qunari he’s apparently in a relationship with as his personal protection is going to get people talking, but then almost all the other magisters in the city are dead, so there’s not really anyone to complain.

Maevaris Tilani nods beside him. “Our agents have been utilizing these paths for months.”

“As have ours,” Viago affirms. Lucanis sits to his left, and Camina is doing her best not to stare at him too longingly, not to wish she was sitting with him instead of on her own across the table. 

Camina has mostly spent time listening, but she pipes up now. “It should be noted that the paths are treacherous, filled with darkspawn, Antaam, and Venatori. Hard to say how much that will have changed even with the Evanuris defeated.”

“Caravans on roads would need protection too, it is not a reason to avoid using the eluvian network,” Dorian replies. “Minrathous’ ports will need to be cleared, that means we cannot get goods out along normal trade routes for the time being.”

“And the other ports you trade with are diminished themselves. We abandoned Kirkwall,” replies a red-headed woman. Camina can’t remember her name, but she sits beside a Prince, perhaps? They’re from the Marches at any rate. They know Isabela, and she’d overheard some talking about Varric, so Kirkwall connections, probably. 

The Inquisitor, Mara Lavellan, speaks next. “When I left Skyhold, our food stores were dangerously low. With the darkspawn attacks, it wasn’t our most pressing problem, but it is now.”

Viago nods. “Antiva’s farms and vineyards went largely untouched by the blight. We have plenty, but I’ll have an uprising from the merchant princes if I let any of it go without a fair price.”

The Inquisitor leans back in her chair. “You can have all the money in Denerim’s coffers, provided you can get to them through the blight and the darkspawn that’ve overrun it. Meanwhile, I’ve got people who will starve without help.”

Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re here to hammer out agreements, at least until a more official summit can happen. Each one of our homes has needs, let’s hear Antiva’s, perhaps we can find a solution.”

It was a lot of talking in circles. A lot of arguing. A lot of people with every ability to help each other and a million reasons not to. Something about the whole thing doesn’t sit right with Camina. Something about this entire meeting feels incomplete. There’s a wrongness in the room, the way all of these people talk and negotiate, but she can’t figure out quite why she hates it so much. 

She should just be glad to be invited, shouldn’t she? She should just be happy to be here and alive. That on its own is a miracle, isn’t it? So why does she feel like something is wrong? She spends most of the meeting attempting to puzzle it out.

But nothing lasts forever, not even boring meetings. They eventually recess for the day, with promises to be back to continue these talks in the morning. She lets the room clear a little before approaching the Crows. She finds that she likes Viago a little less after having to sit across the table from him as he haggles and bargains. After everything they have all suffered, she wishes that it could be as simple as giving each other what they need. But instead, it’s all politics and bargaining and favors. Everything has a price.

Lucanis looks as tired as she feels, but as always, more put together anyway. He is no stranger to exhaustion, and the lack of sleep only makes him look more menacing. His eyes soften as she approaches.

“Nothing as glorious as victory,” Viago remarks, gesturing at the table with a slight smile. He’s enjoying this. “Now the immediate danger has passed, everyone wants a place in the new world order.”

“Not much of it felt very new to me,” Camina mutters. It had all seemed rather mired with old grudges and beliefs. Is this really the triumphant victory they had all sacrificed and fought for?

Teia looks fondly at Viago. “Including you.”

Suddenly, Camina can’t stand another minute in this room. She glances at Lucanis. “I’m going to go check in on the team.”

“We’ll see you two tomorrow,” Lucanis says, and Camina offers them both parting smiles she doesn’t particularly feel. 

She can feel the way Lucanis presses close, his quiet murmur as they exit the room. “Are you alright?”

Of course. But also not at all. “I don’t know,” she admits. When she’d been pulled out of the Fade, she’d felt stretched thin…likely to snap. Unsure of her reality. And now? She doesn’t feel exactly the same, but she does feel…disconnected from herself somehow. It’s probably exhaustion.

Lucanis nods. “A lot has happened. Let’s get with the team, and maybe we can go back to the Lighthouse for the night.”

That sounds…really really nice. “I think that-”

“Hello.” A man steps into their path at the bottom of the steps of the magister’s home. His armor lacks any identifying markings, but it has been polished to a high shine. The man looks familiar; she remembers seeing him with the Chargers. “Cremisius Aclassi, at your service. The Archon has requested that I lead you to your lodgings.”

“Our lodgings?” she asks in surprise, shooting a concerned glance at Lucanis. 

“Well, we can’t have the heroes of the city sleeping in a store room, now can we? I mean, I don’t know how much sleep was really had last night, but I admit that after a certain point, I don’t remember much of the evening.”

“Seemed like a common state for most,” Lucanis replies, good-naturedly. “You are one of The Chargers?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “My friends call me Krem. Been working for Bull for a long time. Didn’t think I’d be back in Tevinter much less protecting the Archon, but here we are.” Krem has begun leading them through the winding streets, and she and Lucanis follow, hoping that it means finding their friends. 

“You’re from here?” she asks, guessing based on his comments and his name. 

Krem nods. “Thereabouts. It’s been a long time since I was really back. And even longer since I wasn’t skirting the authorities. Seems as though the new Archon is going to really make some changes around here though.”

Dorian’s power as Archon isn’t a sure thing. There will need to be a larger vote when they can figure out which magisters are actually left, but for now, the few that remain have thrown their support behind him, so he’s acting Archon. Camina isn’t really complaining about the turn of events, at least Dorian will try to make things better in the city and he seems very committed to rebuilding. Still, something is bothering her about the whole meeting. Maker, she’s exhausted. 

Krem comes to a stop in front of a large, somewhat ostentatious house. “Here it is, home sweet home. For now, at least.”

Camina turns away from it immediately. “We can’t stay here. There are people whose homes were destroyed…there are thousands who lost everything in this city.”

Krem nods and looks unsurprised. “Yep, and we’ve got people working on that. But here’s the thing: we’ve got some of the most powerful people in the entire world in this destroyed city. It’s a security nightmare. This is a house big enough for you and yours and easily within the perimeter we’ve set up.”

Beside her, Lucanis stiffens, realizing the same thing she has. “This feels less like a gift and more like a cage,” Camina replies. 

Krem sighs. “You’re not prisoners, but if I was a member of the Venatori still smarting after getting my ass kicked, you know who’d I want to kill?”

“You think we’re in danger,” Lucanis says. 

“Oh, I’m way more optimistic than that. Bull thinks you’re in danger, and he’s in charge, so here we are. I do see his point though, the world is in chaos, and people will take the opportunities they see.”

She’s too tired to have an argument about this. “So my team’s inside?”

Krem nods. “Should be. A few of my people were with them as they worked out in the city today. I trust all my people with my life, you can trust them too.” 

She can see that he means this as a kindness, is clearly following orders. She wonders if everyone has bodyguards or if their group is just special that way. She thanks him and then pushes open the heavy door that leads into their lodgings. 

This house is less offensive than the one their summit meeting is being held in, the artwork is much less garish and there are far fewer statues. But that might be because it appears to have been cleared out. Furniture dots the rooms, but it’s clear the more expensive personal items were pulled from the home. So whoever’s home it was left before the battle. Which means that they were likely Venatori and Camina immediately pushes aside any guilt she might feel about imposing in someone’s home. 

She follows the sound of talking, the rise and fall of voices. She relaxes a bit when she finds her team standing around a large kitchen area. There’s some food sitting on a high table in the middle, but mostly her friends aren’t touching it. 

“There you are,” Neve says as they enter. “How were the meetings?”

“Long,” Lucanis replies. 

“Very,” she agrees. “We have to go back in the morning. What’s going on in the city?”

Neve sighs. “What isn’t? The blight’s dead, but it’s harder to clear out now. A lot of people have lost everything, and they’re afraid. The blight in Dock Town was bad, but it was ignorable for the rest of the city…and now…well…Dock Town is almost in better shape. Almost.”

“We spent the day trying to clear roads and buildings of as much blight as we’re able, but the problem is where to put it. The Wardens are helping too, but it’s chaotic,” Emmrich replies. 

“And the bridge out of the city is choked with blight, so even by conventional means, no one can leave,” Davrin explains. 

“What about the Minrathous eluvian?” she asks. 

“Shattered. We checked,” Bellara explains and beside her, Lucanis swears. “Maybe with enough time and the right tools…I could maybe fix it? I learned some things when I was in Elgar’nan’s power…but I’d need time and my tools…it’s a no-go.”

“I know that the remaining Dragons are overseeing the clearing of the bridge and have plans to get the eluvian we used outside the city and bring it here. It’s a top priority, but it’s going to take time. For now, we’re here,” Neve says. 

And with that, all of Camina’s hopes for leaving Minrathous for the evening vanish. It makes her want to cry, but she knows it’s the exhaustion talking, so she simply nods. “And we’re under guard?”

“I had rather hoped you had some information about that,” Emmrich says. 

Taash folds their arms. “Not a big fan of being told what to do and where we can or can’t sleep.”

Bellara leans forward. “But it’s not just us. It’s all our allies. They’re even keeping Strife and Irelin and the Veil Jumpers in this part of the city.”

“Yeah, we were told it was for protection.”

“But the danger’s passed. We killed Elgar’nan, Solas even left. No more archdemons. What are they afraid of?” Davrin asks. 

It is Lucanis who replies, voice somber. “What better way to kill the hope for a new world or ignite a new war than to lose us or any of our allies? If I was trying to destabilize things farther, I would hire assassins to take someone out and frame another for it.”

“The entire world almost ended, and you think someone would try to make it worse ?” she asks. 

Lucanis nods. “Yes.” 

She hates that answer, everything it implies about the world, hates more that she believes him. “Okay, fine. So…we’re here for the time being.”

Neve laughs. “Please don’t tell me that we’re naive enough to accept the ‘it’s for everyone’s protection’ bit. Sure, maybe there is some danger remaining. Maker knows we didn’t kill all the Venatori or Antaam, but we’re not in this house in a controlled perimeter for anything as trite as safety.”

“Then why are we here?” Taash asks. 

“This is a political summit now. Everyone meeting together discussing how to rebuild? We’re all being watched so no one makes a back door deal. Everyone is going to have eyes on everyone. Don’t believe me? Take a walk. You’ll see that it’s not just the Chargers holding the perimeter,” Neve finishes with a shrug. 

“Fuck. You should be the one in that room, not me,” Camina replies.

Neve smiles. “You couldn’t afford my rates.”

“I’d feel better after doing a bit of a walk-about, figuring out what’s what,” Davrin says. 

“I’ll set some wards here, just in case,” Emmrich offers.

“I’ll go with you, Davrin. I need a walk too,” Lucanis says. 

Camina wants to weep at the thought of anything but a bath and sleep, but she nods anyway. “I’ll go with you too.”

Her offer is met with resounding silence. 

“You’re dead on your feet, Rook,” Neve says. “The only place you’re going is upstairs to sleep. You’ve been in meetings all day, you’ve done enough.”

Camina scowls. “So has Lucanis.”

“He didn’t get pulled out of a Fade hole less than two days ago,” Taash replies. 

She can see from everyone’s expressions that this is a losing battle, and it’s not one she particularly wants to fight anyway. “Fine. Have we already claimed rooms?” 

“We left the last two on the right of the stairs open for you and Lucanis. You can fight over who gets which,” Taash smirks.

Camina scrubs a hand down her face; she’s too tired to unpack that. “Sounds great.” 

“I’ll get some dinner going,” Bellara offers. “If we’re here for a few days, we’ll just have to make it as nice as we can.”

Camina appreciates Bellara’s optimism, but she’s too tired to do much more than nod before heading for the stairs. She can hear Lucanis following in her wake, so when she gets to the landing she turns to look at him. “I know there’s a room for both of us…but…I don’t want separate rooms, do you?”

He steps close, taking her face in his hands and pressing his forehead to hers. “No, I don’t.”

She kisses him then. It is the first kiss they have shared since their victory. They have been free with their touch, hands slipped together, gentle closeness, but this is the first moment they’ve had truly alone. The kiss is sweet, over too soon, her exhaustion winning out. 

“You’re going to have stronger opinions on the room, so why don’t you pick which one you want,” she whispers. 

He nods just once before doing a quick circuit of each room. She leans against the wall while he works, leans her head back and closes her eyes. 

“This one,” he says, finally, standing at the one at the end of the hall. 

She doesn’t ask what made this the best choice, simply trusts his judgment. “Alright.”

He stops her at the threshold. “Get some rest. I’ll be back soon.”

She reaches up and touches his face, fingers running gently over his cheek. “Be safe.” 

There is a part of her that is somehow convinced that if she lets him out of her sight, he’ll disappear…or go back to being that unmoving body on the ground. She knows it isn’t logical; she knows that she’s here, really here. But what if she lost him now? After everything? It would be an unfairness she can’t take. 

His brown eyes are filled with nothing but affection as he looks at her. He looks at her like he understands every anxiety and worry in her head. He presses his forehead to hers and promises to be back soon.  

She waits until she’s sure he’s gone until she’s sure there is no one who will hear, and only then does she allow herself to fall apart, the tears and the grief and the exhaustion no longer held at bay. 

***

“So, be straight with me, how concerned are you really about these talks devolving into more conflict?” Davrin asks as they get out into the street. Assan has already taken flight, is soaring up above them in the fading light as the sun sets. 

Lucanis leads them around the perimeter of the house they’re staying in, making note of how easily scaled the walls are, the windows and balconies and entrances someone could exploit. “You’re going to call me paranoid.”

“Probably,” Davrin says with a sigh. “But that doesn't mean you’re wrong.”

“I sat in that meeting today, and you know what I saw? A really big target. A chance to take out the most progressive voices in Thedas in one fell swoop, and it would be easy since we’re already licking our wounds from fighting for the fate of the world.”

“But who’s left?”

They’re properly in the street now, and Lucanis is noting the presence of the Chargers as well as Inquisition soldiers. He even catches a couple of Crows on the rooftops. Neve is rights about everyone keeping an eye on everyone, but it doesn’t mean he’s wrong about the danger. “The Venatori are like roaches: impossible to get rid of completely. And the Antaam joined with Elgar’nan, but the rest of the Qun are still out there. We know some of the Orlesian nobility sided with the Venatori, but we have no idea what power they have. And then there are the enemies we’ve no doubt made along the way.”

Davrin sighs again. “Well, when you put it that way.”

“If it helps, I hope I’m wrong,” he says. “But I think Neve is right too.”

“More enemies to kill just means more enemies to kill,” Spite says, as though it could ever be as simple as that. 

“Kind of looking like she’s got the beat on it. Is Rook alright?” 

Lucanis knows she’s not. Knows that her letting him even glimpse that fact is a sign of trust he refuses to break, but it’s also clear just how not okay she is to everyone around her. “She needs time where the world isn’t demanding so much of her.”

“And she’s unlikely to get it,” Davrin says. “We pulled her from the Fade and she had to immediately jump into the fight without even getting a chance to mourn Harding and her friend, Varric. And now…”

“Everyone wants something from her,” Lucanis finishes. 

“Yeah.”

But there’s nothing to be done for it. They both know that. But the more he and Davrin walk the neighborhood claimed by their allies, the clearer it is that security isn’t the issue at play. The Chargers have done a good job of co-opting the security measures the rich and powerful in Minrathous already used to keep them separated from the rest of the city. But even without high walls and magic gates, he and Davrin cannot get half a block without running into Wardens, soldiers, Crows, or Shadow Dragons. He’d be surprised if this wasn’t the safest area in the entirety of Minrathous right now. Maker, he hates politics. 

When they arrive back from their circuit of the neighborhood, Bellara informs him that Camina didn’t make it down for dinner, and gives him a tray to take up to her. He can feel their friends’ worry and anxiety for her as he treks up the stairs to the room he and Camina have claimed as theirs. He pauses at the door but hears nothing, no movement at all. He eases the door open to find that she is fast asleep. The lamps are still burning and she’s not even tucked into the bed. It is as though she had decided to sit for just a moment and has fallen asleep. 

Camina looks so untroubled like this, her damp hair haloing out around her, her eyelashes dark smudges against her cheeks. She’s wearing a tunic he doesn’t recognize, her armor and clothing hanging over the grate near the fireplace. He approaches the bed on quiet feet and kneels down beside it.  

His fingers gently trace her cheek. “Camina,” he whispers. 

She stirs, blinking sleepily before jerking awake. “What’s wrong?” 

“You missed dinner. Are you hungry?” he asks. 

She relaxes and shakes her head. “No. I just want to sleep.”

“Okay,” he replies. “Then let’s get you under the blankets.” 

She nods and he helps her rearrange the bed so that she’s more comfortable. “Neve gave me some clean clothes. There are some for you too.”

Good, he needs a real bath. “I was wondering what you were wearing.”

“Something is bothering me,” she says, sleepily. “The meeting…”

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises. “Just get some rest.”

“Are you going to come to bed?” she asks. 

He presses a kiss to her hair. “Once I wash up, yes.”

She nods as she sinks into the blankets and pillows, already breathing deeply, sleep already taking her. He pauses to take in the moment: both of them are alive and well, no gods or monsters needing to be killed, and Camina is safely asleep in the room they’ve opted to share. Three days ago, he thought he’d lost her forever. And now his principal worries are making sure she gets some rest and trying not to get caught up in political drama. Camina keeps asking him if this is real, and he’s not sure he can really believe it himself. 

But for her, he’ll try.  

Lucanis quickly washes up, cleans his armor and weapons, and changes into the clean clothes Neve had procured. He doesn’t ask where they came from, is just glad to be in a fresh pair of breeches. And then he carefully slips into bed beside Camina, curls himself around her, and does his best to try to sleep. He’s still on edge, but he’s pretty sure the exhaustion is going to win out. It no longer scares him, the way it used to though, if nothing else he trusts that Spite will be keeping an eye on things at least. It takes a very long time for him to sleep, but he finds he doesn’t mind it so much, not when he gets to be close to her. 

He wakes to her pacing. 

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and notes it must be early since it’s still dark outside the windows. She’s wearing nothing but an oversized tunic, the neck wide enough that it’s slipping off her shoulder. She’s got her arms folded over her stomach, head down as she paces with her brow furrowed. Spite is hilariously following behind her looking somewhat perplexed, as though he is unsure what it is she is doing or why. 

“Is there a good reason you’re not in bed?” he asks. 

She freezes and then glances up at him looking apologetic. “Spite said he wouldn’t wake you.”

“He didn’t.”

She winces. “Sorry.”

He holds out a hand. “Come back to bed.”

She doesn’t take his hand, but she does come back to sit on the edge of the bed somewhat defeatedly. “I figured out what’s bothering me about this whole summit meeting.”

“And what is that?” 

She picks at a loose thread on the blanket. “I just can’t figure out what it was all for. I set out with Varric to stop Solas’s ritual because he was going to drop the veil, drown the world in demons, and the world was going to suffer and people were going to die. And what happened? Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain escaped the world got drowned in blight and darkspawn and a lot of people suffered and died anyway.”

“It would have been worse if the veil had been destroyed,” he says. 

She meets his gaze, a bleak look in her eyes. “Do we know that?”

He wishes he was more surprised by the question; he wishes he had more reassurances to give. “There is no way for you to get answers to these questions, Camina. You have done so much good, don’t discount that.”

“Yeah, we have, but for whom? So that everyone in that meeting can put the world back exactly the way it was before? Is that what we fought for?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. 

She sighs. “The elves aren’t represented.”

He frowns. “The Inquisitor is an elf. And Teia and Antoine…And you.”

Camina shakes her head. “No, it’s not the same. Teia is here as a Crow. She’s not representing the elves. Same with the Inquisitor. She is an elf, but she’s here for Ferelden and Orlais. Antoine is here as a Warden. And me…I’m a Watcher…I’m not…they’re not represented. They don’t have a seat at the table.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, wishing he had some coffee. The Veil Jumpers were critical in getting their team inside the city, but yes, she’s right, they’ve been notably absent from the talks thus far. “I see your point.”

Her amethyst eyes bore into his. “I have a solution.”

“Okay.”

“The only reason I’m in these meetings is because I’m seen as the authority on the Crossroads. All of those plans made today rely on using them, and it’s just been assumed that I’ll allow it.”

“I do think that killing a couple of gods and saving the world might have something to do with you being included in the meetings,” he replies. “So you’re going to leverage your control of the Crossroads to get elves included?”

She shakes her head. “The Crossroads don’t belong to me; they belong to the elves. So, what if I gave control to the Veil Jumpers? The elves don’t have a centralized leadership and the Veil Jumpers aren’t perfect, but they at least include both city elves and Dalish.

“The elves aren’t at the table now because they don’t have anything that anyone wants. But everyone wants the Crossroads, everyone is going to depend on the Crossroads and putting it in their hands, it might just force the rest of the world to work with the elves instead of against them for once.”

Maker, she’s serious. “But how would that work?”

“It would be pretty straightforward. Eluvians can be locked, and who knows ancient elven technology better than the Veil Jumpers? Everyone gets to govern their side of the eluvian the way they deem fit, but the use of the Crossroads, traversing them? That would be all under the control of the Veil Jumpers. They might impose a tax or a fee or whatever they want to ask for…it doesn’t matter because they’d have real political power to leverage. If a country, like Tevinter for instance, mistreated the elves within their borders, they could be cut off from using the routes. It would change everything.”

If she’s right, doing this might cost her everything she’s gained. “And you’re prepared for what that would mean for you? To give up your seat at the table?” 

She sighs, looking towards the windows. “I didn’t save the world for a seat at the table. I saved the world so that we could right some of the wrongs in it. Everyone else in that room today just wants to put the world back together the way it was before. But the world has changed and this is our chance to do something different. Everything has to be rebuilt…why not do it better this time?”

He wishes he could see the world as she does: as it could be. Instead, he finds he only sees the knives that might come their way. “This will make you a lot of enemies.”

“I know, but it’s the right thing. Isn’t it?”

He thinks of the vhenadahls he’s seen in alienages across Thedas; the statue of the scorched vhenadahl in Vyrantium; the elven slaves he’d freed; and even more he had been unable to do anything for. What would it mean to them for the elves to control something as powerful as the Crossroads? Their entire world is on the cusp of change, the Crossroads will change everything. Trade, travel, lives. Elves would, for the first time in recent memory, hold real economic and political power. Camina holds an incredible amount of power, and she would give it away in an instant for what she believes to be right. 

He nods. “It is.”

He can see the way she relaxes at his confirmation, it fills up something inside him to know his opinion matters. “I need to talk to the team. Bellara and Davrin especially. Make sure they agree. I’m not…they’ll have to sign off on it first. And if they do, then we need to get Strife and Irelin.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” he says, reaching out and catching her hand before she can get up and begin working. “We can do all of that in the morning before the meetings start.”

Her brow furrows. “You don’t think we should get everyone now?”

Everything in their lives has been an emergency lately. They have had to act quickly, always with the odds stacked against them. It’s little wonder she wants to solve this problem this very moment, but it will keep until the morning. He believes that.

He pulls her into his arms, kisses the side of her head. “No, I think that this is a conversation best had after everyone has slept more, including you.”

Camina twists in his arms, fingers carding through the hair at his temple. “I thought you said you never sleep.”

He smiles against her lips. “I may have recently reconsidered my stance on that.” He kisses her then, soft and languid. 

Her eyes flutter open as he pulls away. “Any particular reason?”

He pulls the blanket up over them both. “Since it means time with you.”

Likes and reblogs are love!

[thevagueambition]

Finished rewatching Dragon Age: Absolution. The show as a whole isn't a masterpiece or anything, but they did really nail the writing of the Tevinter humans. They're all people who see themselves as the good guys, as the heroes of their own stories

Rezaren does all the things the stereotypical magister does, but if one was to believe the lies he tells himself, he has very sympathetic reasons for doing so. And the specific lies he tells himself are all very in line with Tevinter culture

Tassia sees herself as an upstanding member of Tevinter society. She doesn't like the corruption or the blood magic, she doesn't support anything the Venatori stand for. But she aligns herself with the power in Tevinter all the same. There's no reason to think she sees any sort of problem with slavery.

I also really appreciate the moment where Rezaren gives Tassia an order, she protests and then he repeat himself and she obeys. Regardless of how high ranking of a templar she's not a mage and she'll never outrank Rezaren.

Hira is of course the most interesting one because she was a member of the Inquisition. She was literally part of The Good Guys(tm) in DAI! She does see slavery as reprehensible!

Buuuuut then again. She was a noble mage raised in Tevinter. She has not shaken what her culture has taught her. She is willing to use Miriam as a bartered good. And her plan for Tevinter? Burning the place down and salting the earth would hurt the enslaved people of Tevinter just as much as the Venatori and Maigsters. She doesn't mention enslaved people at all in her grand motive rant. They're not why she cares. What happened to her and her family is why she cares. She wants revenge for herself, not justice for the people of Tevinter.

Anyway, I wish we'd had Tevinter characters in that vein in Veilguard. Tevinter villains with motives that don't revolve solely around personal power accumelation or bringing back the empire of old. People who are just terrible in mundane ways (mundane sans the magic, anyway, lol). Or even Tevinter allies who have all the right opinions on paper but still have to struggle with overcoming the culturally learned behavior of seeing people (elves especially) as tools, as expendable.

People were annoyed at Dorian defending slavery in DAI. I won't say I've never been, though my annoyance has always been more with the dialogue options one has in response. None of them are what I want to say, none of them challenge him in an interesting way. Regardless, Dorian having that opinion when we meet him makes him a far more believable and interesting character and more importantly, it says something about power, about cultural narratives and about the status quo as a potent political force for normalising reprehensible things

[zombiefishgirl]

Can you imagine Neve's thoughts during the meeting with Mara in the latest Songbird verse?

Because she goes with Rook to Antiva to meet his contact - the one who told them where to finally find Solas - and instead of having the meeting in some bar or something, they go to a villa bigger than some magisters' mansions. And they are shown in by a servant (with suspiciously silent footsteps) to a richly-furnished parlour and meet an elf, again, dressed in fancier fabric than many nobles.

Is it her house? Or is she a mistress of some nobleman? Wait, no, she wears a wedding ring, she's married. Still, did she marry some nobleman? How come?

Then in comes the refreshments, except the man who brings the coffee and the tiny cakes is not dressed as a servant, no. And he doesn't leave, just sits down next to the woman.

Is that the husband? He might be. But he moves like he has an actual combat training. And those are definitely knife-handling scars on his hands. And what kind of a noble bakes and then serves his guests himself?

What is going on?!

And then he is very attentive, especially for a husband so that brings her back to Mistress. She calls the man Luca which almost but not quite jogs her memory.

The man makes a comment about Solas having good taste, teasing and affectionate but a hint of possessiveness when Rook looks over the woman. Mara.

"Lucanis," she warns, warmly and reassuring but with a smile.

"The Demon of Vyrantium!" Neve suddenly announces to the baffled room

[blackjackkent]

Next up on the Lighthouse circuit is a quick visit with Harding. This was a bit of a long expositional conversation and probably mostly for the benefit of people who didn't play the previous games, but also some fun fan-service throwbacks to Inquisition.

"Did I see you writing a message to the Inquisition? What's that about?"

"You know Varric and I were part of the Inquisition, right? I'm trying to get news about the South. But Charter hasn't replied to any of my messages. I'm trying not to worry about what's happening there, but... No, it's probably fine. Charter's just busy. She's always busy."

(A/N: Well, that sounds a bit ominous. (I have actually heard in passing from my dash that things are very Not Good in the south; Helena doesn't really care about this, frankly, having plenty of her own problems, but I do. D: ))

"Charter. Who's that?"

"She's the Inquisition's spymaster. Well, no, I guess now that the Inquisition answers to the Chantry, that makes her Divine Victoria's spymaster.

(A/N: It's been so long since I played Inquisition that I straight up did not remember this character. XD )

"I haven't heard much about the Inquisition in years."

"Oh, that's intentional. When the Breach was open, we needed a large group to stop southern Thedas from falling into chaos. It's changed in the years since. We're a smaller force, working underground to keep an eye on things going on in the world.

"So how long were you with the Inquisition? Ten years?"

"Something like that. Why?"

"You must know the Inquisitor."

"Well, yeah. We worked together. I wasn't part of the Inquisitor's inner circle, though. I spent more time with the ordinary people; the ones you didn't hear about."

(A/N: This is true, although Harding was probably about as close to Dom's inner circle as it was possible to be without being in it. Dom liked her a lot and I think they talked a bunch about things while he was traveling to various places. Helena likes that Harding was more down with the normal folks, though; she doesn't have a ton of respect for people like the Magisterium who are highborn and fancy and disconnected from the needs of the ordinary people. She probably, at this point, assumes Dom is the same way - especially since he was of noble background in the Free Marches.)

"So tell me about these ordinary Inquisition members I haven't heard about."

"The Inquisition hired hundreds. And most of them weren't magisters or Ben-Hassrath or the Left Hand of the Divine. There were scouts and stablehands, carpenters and cooks and quartermasters. Even two dedicated pastry chefs. Most of them volunteered, like me. We wanted to help, in whatever small way we could."

"I'm sure those pastries were a great help."

"My ma likes to say that sometimes the pie is for eating, and sometimes it's for crying into. It doesn't even need to be pie. Rector liked cake, and Falkner loved soup. But food was always a comfort."

(A/N: Aw. XD Dom was definitely responsible for hiring the pastry chefs.)

"Rector? Falkner?"

"Leliana gave all her agents pseudonyms."

"Right... like Charter."

"Well, Charter's Charter. But when the other two and I were together, we were just Lace, Wilbur, and Katja."

"And the Inquisition's advisors? What about them?"

"Of all of them, I'd say Josephine is my favorite. She's lovely. She still sends me a box of handmade sweets from Val Royeaux, every year on my nameday. Cullen and I got along too, but he was always busy. He would have bad days from lyrium withdrawal sometimes, and I would share the tea that my ma sent. He's from Ferelden too; maybe it reminded him of home."

"What about Leliana? I heard she's... intense."

"I think she likes to cultivate that reputation. She's not nearly as terrifying as she sounds. I passed her in the great hall one day, and she suddenly turned and asked me if I wanted a nug."

"What, like, for lunch?"

(A/N: Helena no.)

"Leliana wouldn't joke like that! No, she just bred them. As pets."

"So did you take the nug?"

"No! What am I going to do with a nug? Do *not* say eat it."

"But you did know people from the Inquisitor's inner circle, didn't you?"

"I knew them, sure. But those early days, all I wanted was to prove myself and not get in anyone's way. Some of them were more approachable than others. Sera was a puppy with a new toy - a hundred new toys. Fun, if you can handle the mess. She was really the only one who could make Rainier - well, Blackwall then - let down his guard. Otherwise he kept to himself and stuck to the stables. We'd talk when I visited the horses. And there was Cole, of course."

"The spirit boy?"

"Yep. I was just sitting on the walls one day, and he asked if he could join my game."

"Like, a card game?"

"Nah, just good old people-watching. Must've seemed like a game to him somehow. We'd pick strangers out of the crowd and try to say something about them. Like 'She heard the joke yesterday and she's still trying not to laugh.' Or one of Cole's: 'His eyes remind her of the ones beneath her bed.'"

"Who stores eyes under their bed? I'm partial to a nice wall display, myself."

(A/N: Helena nO.)

"Well, that's one interpretation that never occurred to me. Thanks."

(A/N: lolololol)

"Wasn't Cole an empath? He must've been great at this game."

"Ah, but the rule was, you couldn't say anything you actually knew. He got it in the end. ...I think."

"So you didn't ask him if you guessed right?"

"Being right wasn't the point. Making a habit of seeing people was. I think he liked that."

(A/N: Harding is such a sweetheart. <3 )

"Do you miss it? The Inquisition, I mean."

"It's hard to miss an organization. They're only as good as their people, don't you think? But I do miss my friends. We write to each other, but it's not the same. And the Inquisition is different from what we've built here. Not better or worse, just different. It's special when you're among people working towards the same goal. "

"Not everyone. There was Solas. What did you really think of him, back then?"

"Lonely. He always seemed lonely. It's hard not to be when you hold yourself above everyone else."

"You mean it's hard not to be lonely when you're a pompous ass?"

"Something like that."

"You can say it, you know. Try it out. 'Solas is a pompous ass.'"

"Maybe he is, but I can still feel sorry for him, can't I?"

"Anyway, I'm sure something out there's on fire and here I am, rambling about the past. I should let you go. Talk later?"

(A/N: Lol. Helena is definitely not a fan of Solas; their main enemy is definitely Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, but she definitely sees him as just as culpable in everything that's going down, and no better than the arrogant mages she battles every day. I get the impression that perhaps she is a little bit of a black-and-white thinker in this regard, not considering a lot of room for people to evolve from her initial impression of them, so that might be something that also grows for her a bit over the course of this game.

Anyway TLDR Harding is a sweetheart, Dom likes pastry, Helena doesn't like Solas. XD )

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: Thought You Were Dead

Pairing: Sera/ female Trevelyan

Setting: post battle of Haven

---

Shite and pissballs and double shite—this snow’s proper mental. Like some demon’s having a laugh, chucking ice everywhere. (Not that Sera believes in demon snow. That’d be daft.)

Almost as daft as charging off alone to fight a darkspawn magister thing with a pet dragon. Almost as daft as—

No. Not thinking about that.(Not thinking about Evelyn maybe being… dead.)

"Oi! Herald!"

Her voice is raw now, sandpaper in her throat. Been yelling for hours, breath sharp, lungs stinging like she’s inhaled knives. Stupid. (Should’ve brought more water. More arrows, too—not that they’d do shite against this gods-awful white nothing.)

"Evelyn!"

Weird, using her name. (Makes something squirmy happen in Sera’s gut, like butterflies got in there and started a riot.) Usually just calls her Herald or Your Worship—that one all sarcastic-like, because it always makes Evelyn do that awkward snort-laugh thing. (Not cute. At all.)

The wind picks up, a proper banshee howl now, drowning out everything else. Ice needles bite her face. Her fingers are numb, feet past hurting. She's lost any sense of distance two snowdrifts ago.

The others gave up—"too dangerous," they said. "Wait till morning."

Morning won’t help when Evelyn’s out here freezing her fancy tits off.

Then—movement. Something. A shape, slumped and half-buried in snow.

Too still.

Her stomach plummets.

(Oh. Oh, shite.)

Sera stumbles, feet tangling—goes knees-first into the snow. Clawing, dragging herself forward, fingers scrabbling for purchase— (please, please still be breathing—)

A long, wheezy inhale.

A miserable groan.

(Thank the sodding Maker.)

"Frigging… pissbrained… tit-noble…" she mutters, voice shaking worse than her frozen hands. (Hates that. Hates this.)

Evelyn’s ice-cold, stiff as a bloody statue. Lips blue. That glowy magic-hand thing barely flickers—weak. Not enough.

Her breath stirs, barely.

"S-Sera?"

Comes out raw, cracked. Eyes half-focused.

(Not good. Not good at all.)

"Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Not the sodding Queen of Antiva."(Should sound casual. Doesn’t.)

Evelyn blinks sluggishly. She tries to shift, but her limbs barely respond.

"You came… looking…?"

That. Right there. The way she says it—like she didn’t expect Sera to.

Like she thought no one would.

Sera’s chest clamps down, tight. (Not thinking about that. Not now.)

"‘Course I did, you daft tit!" Her voice breaks in the middle, and she swallows hard, forcing something steady back into it."What, you think I’d just let you freeze out here?"

No response.

Evelyn’s eyes flutter closed, and Sera panics.

"Oi, no. None of that. Eyes open."

"Mmm. Tired."

Shite.

(Shite, shite, shite.)

She smacks her cheek—light, but enough to sting.

"No sleeping, Her gracious Lady bits.That’s a rule now. Ain't no dying on Sera’s watch."

Slow, painful blink. Evelyn’s eyelashes are rimmed with ice.

"S'that… an official proclamation?"

There. Sarcasm. (That’s good, right?)

"Yeah, and there’ll be a right proper royal decree if you don’t get your fancy arse moving."

Nothing. She doesn’t move.

The wind screams louder, shoving at Sera’s back, trying to steal Evelyn out of her arms. Snow slams into them like a living thing.

Sera clenches her jaw. (Throat feels tight. Hates that too.) Have to keep her talking. Have to—

"Bet you'd be shite at cheese making."

A barely-there furrow in Evelyn’s frost-crusted brow.

"…What?"

"Cheese," Sera repeats, gripping her tighter. (Keep up, Inky.)"Told you to get a new job, remember? Thought you might be crap at it. Can’t picture you making cheese. You’d try too hard and make some proper Orlesian 'triple-aged-sod-you' shite.”

A faint, frozen snort. Weak, but real.

"Would wear an apron."

Sera almost drops her.

"Eh?" Sera’s brain stutters. She wasn’t expecting that—wasn’t expecting anything really, except maybe more slurred nonsense about cheese.

"Would wear one," Evelyn mumbles, lips barely moving. "If you… if you wanted…"

And shite, that—that’s flirting, isn’t it

Evelyn’s mostly gone now, rambling in a half-dream, eyes slipping shut even as Sera shakes her.

And shite, she’s still bloody freezing, and—and—

"Mmm. Dream about you sometimes."

(Oh.)

(Oh, shite.)

Sera stares. Heart doing something stupid in her chest. Body locking up except for the part still holding Evelyn like her life depends on it.

"Wha—no, what kinda dreams?" (Comes out wrong. Too sharp, too soft, too something.)

Evelyn doesn't answer right away. Her brows twitch like she’s trying to think, like she wants to say something else—but the words keep slipping through her frostbitten fingers. Her lips part.

Then close.

Then part again.

"...Like… girls?."

Sera blinks.

"What?"

A pause. A long one.

Evelyn’s brow furrows deeper, and she tries again, sluggish and slurred, like pushing the word out might kill her.

"Like… liking them."

Sera’s brain short-circuits.

(Oh.)

(Oh.)

That—is she serious? Now?

Her whole body goes tight, like if she moves wrong, this entire moment might shatter. She scrambles for words, but her mouth and brain seem to be running in opposite directions. The best she manages is:

"...Yeah?"

Evelyn makes a tiny noise—almost a hm—and then, just as uselessly, breathes, "Okay."

Then promptly loses consciousness.

Sera makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

"Oi! No—no, no, you do not get to say cryptic shite and then just bloody pass out!"

No response.

Just great. Fantastic. Absolutely sodding perfect.

Sera glares at the unconscious lump in her arms like she's personally offended—because, really, what the shite was that? Girls? Like liking them? What?s that even mean?

(She knows what it means.)

(Not thinking about that. Not now.)

She shifts Evelyn’s weight against her shoulder, knees nearly buckling but refusing to give.

One step. Another.

Alive. Alive. Still alive.

"Alright, Evie," she mutters, voice gruff. "Let’s get you home."

And if her grip is just a little tighter, if her heart is still doing that stupid thing in her chest—

(Well. That’s nobody’s business but hers.)

---

[heliomanteia]

8 and 13 for the choose violence asks 🔥

Thank you!

[ Questions. ]

None of the replies are about my mutuals or followers. All of these will be under #choose violence ask game tag and unrebloggable:

First (common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about):

I'll pick at DA here for a bit.

I am a resident Dorian enjoyer but I on god do not believe that he is the best Archon for saved!Minrathous. For post-coup Minrathous? Yeah sure.

I think Dorian gains so much favor as "the only" good option because he's a big fandom favorite and because a lot of people are not familiar with Maevaris. To be fair, Dorian is my favorite male DAI character as well. However, I have spent too much time considering what the game proposes and why Maevaris is not an option for the Archon role in case Minrathous falls— and I have come to a conclusion that if Dorian Pavus is pushed into the position when Minrathous is secure and not overtaken, he would get killed. His approach to a violent revolutionary overtaking of the seat would just gain him new enemies and set the public against him because in their eyes he would not be any better than another Magister, especially given his noble birth. I believe this sentiment is voiced by Lorelei, elven vendor, who says something along the lines of "yes, they are good ones but still magisters". Something something better the devil you know.

Maevaris, while a little less toothy in approach, suggests reasonable things: build up connections across different Tevinter casts, rally the people, create that safe ground for further operations. She is already discarded as a Magister and would gain trust of the common folk easier, in my opinion. She is my personal preference for Tevinter Archon in my canon playthrough with my Mercar.

Second (worst blorboficiation):

My initial response was "Solas Dragonage" but I think as of recent Emmrich is kind of kicking him off the pedestal.

I see far too much stuff that focuses on nothing but Emmrich's intelligence and experience to turn him into a suave sex god when— honestly I just see a lonely, socially awkward once politeness doesn't work out, and very excitable man. I do think that he would be a good romantic/sexual partner but not because of his magical romance/sex skills but because he's willing to learn and adapt.

I also feel like fanon!Emmrich is devoid if his "weird" charm, his morbid detachment from wider social circles, and his... academic coldness in certain matters. He's kind of flattened into a socially apt, flawless man who makes no mistakes but the thing that made me fascinated with Emmrich in the first place was that he is very flawed, he's just smart enough to learn past it.

[fio-renze]

Fiorenze smiled a bit as she watched Pyraelia social butterfly her way around the camp before their great Bounty feast. Her little sister had been a bit of a late bloomer to being a socialite, perhaps the pressure of the way they had grown up had stifled her, too. She'd made the choice to abdicate the Sunmote titles years before Fiorenze had even considered surrendering the Tel'vaiel's — and that choice had clearly been to her little sister's benefit. Working for the Kirin Tor had helped her confidence and strengthened her social skills in a way garden parties and elegant balls never would have.

They came back together much later, after the feast had been cleared away and the city was starting to turn in — as much as the city ever turned in, the Earthen certainly didn't keep the same sleeping schedules as fleshier mortals. Pyraelia joined her up on her favorite roof, the one that overlooked the interior of the city on one side, and the Dornish bay on the other.

Her sister broke the silence first, eyes on the city below, "I'm glad I came, you know. It was good to meet the people you fight with, and I was able to catch up with some of the Kirin Tor who are still here."

"You didn't have to, I would've understood. You were heartbroken when I told you Aerden was still missing, and this might've been your only chance to see him for a while," Fiorenze let the 'and tell him what you said you wanted to tell him in person' remain unspoken.

Pyraelia smiled one of her little, enigmatic smiles and leaned enough to rest her head on her older sister's shoulder, "He didn't invite me, Khaeris did. I don't think he's ready to see me yet, and that's okay. Things happen when they're meant to happen. You worry about that sort of stuff more than I do, I think."

That was certainly true. "All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy and thriving, Rae. Terrible as some of the things were to achieve that… You're the best of us, really. Wiser, more patient—"

"Charming, beautiful, do go on," Pyraelia laughed and threaded her prosthetic fingers through Fiorenze's own that still glowing slightly from the stain of magic she'd used to get up here, "You invited Keranna to this too, I hope? She misses you."

That had been an ongoing difficulty. Fiorenze rest her cheek against the crown of Pyraelia's head before answering plainly, "I did, she declined. Something about being too busy, she's rejoined the Magistry and couldn't get away."

"Ah, yes. Magistry Intelligence, whatever the offer was must have been great enough to tempt her out of retirement. Not that I'm surprised, she's seemed a little bored," Pyraelia sighed a bit and settled, relaxing into the moment.

Fiorenze's brow furrowed. She couldn't help the back slant of her long ears as she ran through all the implications of that particular fact, "Rommath's setting her up for the Director job."

"What?" Pyraelia pulled away to look at her incredulously.

Fiorenze scrunched up her face in frustration, "He offered it to me last year. Implied the current Director was going to be retiring in the next decade or so, I think they've had a falling out and me being the pick must have reached the current Director. That's why Aradana tried to kill me. Considering how clumsy she was about it must be why Rommath wants to clean house."

"Keranna, though? She's…" Pyraelia's brow furrowed then. She looked so much like their mother, sometimes.

"She worked directly for me and was privy to everything I was, she's from a noble family, has no scandals and she's impossibly discrete. If he couldn't have me, she's perfect," Fiorenze sighed, accepting it for what it was.

Pyraelia lifted her brows then and shrugged, "I'm honestly surprised you turned it down. That's pretty much a direct path to Grand Magister if anything ever happened to the current one."

"It was tempting, I thought about accepting. It wasn't for me, though," she smiled at her sister and then looked back down toward where their camp was situated.

Pyraelia followed her gaze and made some connections of her own, "Xylaes?"

Fiorenze scoffed immediately, "No." She waited a beat and frowned, "Maybe. It's complicated. My ambition was a problem and did need to be checked, accepting that role after promising to work on it in an apology to him, of all things, wasn't going to be helpful. But outside of that I did want to figure out who I was without it. The Magistry, the family legacy getting me everything…"

"It can be a layer cake of reasons. This is a good place to figure that out — the camp, I mean. What are you going to do when it's over?" Pyraelia prodded, directly, while leaning against her again. "You can always come live with me, my house is big enough."

She didn't want to do that, though, and she hadn't wanted to really think about it much. "Not sure. The Sunmote lands are still ours, aren't they? Uninhabitable obviously, but ours."

"Technically. And by all rights you are legally still Lady Sunmote, even if the lands being worthless means it's a title only," Pyraelia's voice quirked up in inflection as she tried to figure out where her sister was going with that line of thought, "Why?"

Fiorenze had been able to nurture the giant whitewood tree that they'd spent decades playing under, pushing back the wasting effect of the Dead Scar enough that it had given her a branch to shape into a stave — a great focus for her magic, and a great weapon in case anything got too close to her. She hummed a thoughtful note, "I think I'd like to work on them. The Druids in Lordaeron have made incredible progress on turning back the tide of corruption there… Maybe if I ask nicely the big tree will let me live in it."

Pyraelia's bell like laugh rang out, bright and soothing, "That's the most absurd thing I think I've ever heard you say, but it's not the worst idea you've ever had. Fixing the land there will take centuries, Renzi."

Perhaps it wasn't, and perhaps it would, "I've got nothing but time, darling."

@themercenaries | @kharrisdawndancer / @aerdendios / @xylaes mentioned.