#because you had friends both among templars and mages in kirkwall. it should mean something. you know how to make everyone happy

[mourn-and-watch]

you know what. i actually love that trying to talk to solas was the last thing varric did and it ended in complete failure. especially if you put it in the context of his feelings about anders. varric was so bitter every time he mentioned him because he could not stop him. he didn't even realize that anders was up to something and when it was too late he started to think of him as of someone who destroyed that fragile peace in kirkwall that actually never existed.

it adds layers to the way he felt about solas. he believed that time he could stop a friend who simply lost his way. because varric tethras can talk anyone out of anything, can't he? anders was just too dodgy and self-centred and cut everyone off just like solas did but this time varric is completely prepared. surely. absolutely.

he could have never talked anders out of it even if he had known what was coming. he could have never talked solas out of it either. anders was a desperate person standing against (as varric himself put it) forces he couldn't possibly defeat. solas was a god standing against a couple of mortals and his own conscience buried under his guilt and regrets. being a good friend would not stop meredith's oppression. being a good friend would not stop someone who fears so much that all of the atrocities he committed were for nothing and would mean nothing at the end. varric died because he didn't realize it. he died and left his second in command with an immense guilt because they believed he knew solas enough to pull that off and there's something tragic about it

[sasskarian]

I know you're not exactly a DA blog anymore... But... I just finished DA2 for the very first time and, and. I got myself Inquisition with all DLCs. I need to know what happens. I want the poor baby Cullen to be happy :(

Nonnie, I am still at my heart very much a DA blog (and Mass Effect; I just tend to smear new obsessions everywhere. Like finger painting). I curate my experience as much as I can due to the fandom being shit, but my love for DA is strong and steady. 

The best thing I can say is, play through the game and DLCs. (Tho suggested order is Jaws > Descent > Trespasser) I promise you, Cullen has the option of being happy. I wouldn’t write about it if I didn’t see those paths, and at least some of them are canon. 

I know what you mean, tho. Cullen is, to some of my friends’ dismay, near and dear to my heart. He’s my canon quiz’s romance, for many reasons. The truth is, I struggle with the fandoms’ interpretations of him and was just talking about this with my DA/FO/ME bestie @asaara-writes the other day. I think a lot of Cullen’s trauma is easily missed or overlooked in favor of louder plots (like Fenris’s, who doesn’t get hated on nearly so much for his hatred and distrust of mages, or Anders who hates Templars and is lauded for it. If I see another ANDERS WAS RIGHT banner, I’m gonna overclock somebody’s capacitors)

(Pardon me, I’ll throw this under a cut because wall of text, but I have some got-damn Opinions on Cullen and how the fandom treats him)

But for me, I’m neither in the “Cullen is poor bab who never did anything wrong uwu” or the “Cullen is a horrible bastard and should be set afire” camp. I walk a more moderate line, and here’s why:

I have a Cullen. 

My fiance, he’s... so much like Cullen that it breaks my heart. Military vet, disillusioned with his desire to do good in the world and the realities of corruption and power abuse. Substance abuse issues, and recovery from addiction. Said some bad things/had bad opinions when he was younger due to abuse by certain groups of people, and has since reformed and is trying to continue changing. Abuse survivor. Blood on his hands from his career. Trying his best to find his way in a world that he doesn’t understand. So I see the similarities, and I live with the reality of what that kind of history and life is like. 

Cullen was a fresh-faced 18 year old in the Kinloch Circle (however old his in-game image looks, he was canon 18-20). Which, by canon, was one of the less problematic, more lenient Circles (though you have to have Mage origin to find that stuff out). I don’t think he’d been a Templar long at that point. And he joined the Templars out of a desire to do good in the world. His examples of Templar behavior were those stationed in a small village, who had more leniency and less lawkeeping duties. Honnleath was tiny, and quiet. I’m going on assumption here, on my own history of small towns vs larger cities, that there wasn’t much evidence of power hunger and abuse an eight year old would notice.

Note that he remains kind and even remorseful at some of his duties (for instance, having to attend Harrowings) even under a hateful man like Greagoir.

When Uldred takes over the Circle and kills everyone, Cullen is the last left. He watches possessed mages and demons run wild in his home, killing and torturing his friends. If you’re a mage origin, he talks about how the demons used his feelings and affection for you, inappropriate though they were, to torment him. It’s implied through dialogue that at least some of those demons sexually abused him. 

Yes, in his panic and fresh trauma, he begs the Warden to kill any mages found left in the Circle. I wonder why. Tumblr at large acts like the only way for PTSD and trauma to be exhibited is through cowering and nightmares, but it’s well known among people who have PTSD (including myself) that outrage, hair trigger tempers, and anger issues are as common as crying jags and insomnia. 

After the resolution of Broken Circle, Cullen is reassigned to Kirkwall. Arguably, this is the worst possible Circle he could have been sent to in the entirety of the goddamn world. Not only is Kirkwall famous for increased blood mage activity (both due to history and also due to Templar behavior), which is one of his trauma-groups, but Meredith hates mages, and rules over them with an iron fist. She is fucking crazy, and whether her past makes her a sympathetic villain or not (ymmv), she downright encouraged the abuse of mages and as she loses her mind, we see her start accusing everyone of blood magic. 

Canon states that there are Templars in Kirkwall who sexually abuse mages, who torture them, and who kill them at will, and these are never dealt with. Meredith has no desire to change the way the Gallows is run, and it’s said or implied that before her reign as the overseer, the Gallows-- while still not great-- was not this bad. 

So, freshly traumatized and young Templar is sent to the worst possible place in Thedas, under the command of a crazed mage hater, surrounded by the very thing that will trigger him nigh constantly. I see a lot of the fandom say “well why didn’t he quit/leave?” And I wonder if those fans understand what indoctrination can do. Specifically, military indoctrination. You’re told that the ranks are your home, your family, the only ones who can or will ever understand you. You’re told this for so long that it becomes a life raft. It becomes your world truth. That’s the nature of emotional abuse that fosters codependency: it literally reshapes your world. 

Added to that, Templars are controlled by the Chantry through lyrium, an addictive drug that quitting is difficult and surviving the withdrawal of is often fatal. (that’s another rant entirely that can be summed up as tl;dr fuck the fucking Chantry)

The Templars were the only thing he knew. After that kind of soul-shaking trauma, do you leave behind everything you ever knew? (Remember, he was 13 when he joined into this kind of brainwashing.) No. You cleave to what you can, to what keeps you getting through the day. 

Cullen spent a further ten years in Kirkwall, watching the city fall apart under Qunari, blood magic, and Meredith’s increasing insanity. There was no reprieve for his PTSD: everywhere he turned, there was Something. And yet, we hear in Inquisition (depending on player choices, ofc) Samson say that Cullen tried to continue to be kind. He didn’t abuse mages, he tried to protect them where and how he could. 

[Samson: He arrived after the trouble at the ferelden circle. Cullen jumped at his shadow in those days, always on the watch for abominations and demons. Did right by the mages, though, never played rough with them. Not like Meredith.]

Was it limited? Yes. Was it hampered by circumstance? Yes. Should he have tried harder? Yes. 

But he still tried. 

Does he say regrettable things? Yes. Does he regret those things later? Yes. 

I had a friend, who I am no longer friends with for various reasons, tell me that “If Cullen was a good person, he wouldn’t need a redemption arc.” And... no, No, that’s not how redemption arcs work. Everyone does problematic things. Everyone who grows up brainwashed has to unlearn shit, and atone for shit. 

Cullen still struggles with mages. He still has a deep fear of them. Partly this is the Templar in him talking, partly this is trauma. And, here’s where we break from canon and go deep into psychology land: I think partly because he’s projecting. Cullen cannot imagine forgiveness for what he’s done. I wonder if part of him fears mages because he expects-- perhaps even some part of him desires-- retribution from them for his actions and past. 

And there’s things that have been retconned or that were misleading in previous games. For example, the rumor that Cullen escaped after Broken Circle and went on a mage murdering spree. That was nothing but a rumor, but the fandom levies it against him as if it happened.

But if Cullen “hated” mages, you wouldn’t be able to romance him as a mage. And honestly, that mage romance in DAI? Is one of the sweetest, most tender things I’ve seen in DA. As a mage, you can choose to help him past his fears, help him with his lyrium addiction. Help him grow as a person, and watch as he becomes a better person. As he learns that mages are more than their magic, and that Templars are so often wrong and awful in their treatment of them. 

I find Cullen to be well written. And believable as hell. The portrayal of him-- from the mood swings, to the trauma, to the shaky but steadying growth-- feels real, and I can back that up with my fiance’s own similar path. 

So. To wrap up because hoooooo, Opinions, play through the game. There’s a lot of gems there. <3 

[blarrghe]

Lavellan Bros pt. 2

The other side of the Lavellan Bros au, where Theo  ( @serphena ) is the Inquisitor and Taren has remained First of their clan. The two grew up together, but drifted apart as Theo's work took him away from the clan for long stretches. Now, he's supposed to lead an army and save the world, and it's a lot to handle. A visit from an old friend helps, a little.

AO3 Link or read more under the cut!

Theo sat perched on a high branch over the soldiers’ encampment, just outside the great gate that marked the entrance of the village of Haven. He shuddered, hearing the familiar clash of steel on steel, but he remained in his hidden spot, watching. He was supposed to trust these “former” Templars with his life, now, and he wasn’t about to do that without at least watching how they trained.

Because of his unusual choice of vantage point, it took the messenger who ran from the Chantry at Josephine’s order some time to find him, and when she did, calling up to him with hesitant deference, he scowled at her. But, Theo obliged the request, nimbly hopping down to a lower branch and then hanging from that, his tall frame closing the distance between the lower branch and the ground so that he had only to let go, and drop the remaining few inches onto the ground.

He did not enjoy spending time in Josephine’s office, and attempted to do so as little as was possible. It wasn't her fault, of course, but it still made his skin crawl to be around her, and anyway, whatever she wanted him for probably had something to do with appeasing snotty shems. So, he took the long way around Haven before arriving at the Chantry, putting at least twenty minutes worth of time between receiving the message and actually walking through her door - not to mention however much time the messenger had wasted looking high and low for him, before that. For this reason, when Theo did finally discover the reason for his being summoned, he was suddenly filled with a palpable sense of guilt. For there, sitting straight and proper across from the ambassador, holding a tiny porcelain teacup and laughing with a light, jingling, laugh, was Taren Lavellan: First of his clan.

 Shit.

“Taren?” He balked at the way Taren seemed to have made himself eminently comfortable in the small, dim office, carrying on in easy conversation with the Inquisition’s ambassador. “What are you doing here?” 

“Aneth ara, da’len.”

It was funny, Taren still calling him da’len, he had long since outgrown the other elf, and he was far from a child. It being funny was the reason Taren had never ceased using the term. That, and endearment. And right now, he was in desperate need of both the love and humour that came with an old friend. He just wasn’t about to show it. 

“Keeper Deshanna sent me,” he explained, taking Theo into a quick embrace before continuing, “she thought someone should check on you.” 

Taren smiled, rising from the chair and placing his teacup delicately on Josephine’s desk with a grateful little bow, and jumped into the quick speech of his people - another welcome sound. 

Theo looked away, cheeks flushing slightly. Of course. “Don’t you have better things to do than come all the way out here, First.” 

Taren shrugged, ignoring his mood, “couldn’t think of any. So, are you going to give me a tour?”

They exited the office into the body of the small chantry building, now converted to house dining tables and crates of supplies for the villagers and Inquisition forces. Taren thanked the ambassador as they did, turning to offer her words of gratitude in formal human speech, as she attempted poorly to return the gesture with broken Elvhen. Theo tried not to roll his eyes. 

“I like her.” Taren commented as they walked out of earshot, and this time Theo really did roll his eyes at him. Of course he did, Taren liked everybody. 

“Why did Deshanna really ask you to come? Don’t tell me you’re here to take over.” He said it with a bitter pride that he hoped sounded confident, but secretly some part of him hoped that he was here to steal away the position. Taren had leadership experience and patience, two things that Theo always felt himself distinctly lacking when he tried to tend to his duties.

“No,” Taren replied, frowning, “I’m only here to help. I can’t… I can’t stay very long.” 

Theo tried not to show any disappointment at that, he was still pretending to be annoyed at him, after all. He crossed his arms and kept walking, silently leading them out of the Chantry and stopping to look over the village from its steps. “Well, this is Haven.” Beside him, Taren sighed. 

“First we hear that you’re their prisoner, and something about being responsible for...that.” Taren gestured at the gaping hole in the sky, swirling with green energy and terrifying blackness. The rift was not a pretty thing to look at, and Theo did not follow his gaze. “Then, you’re the herald for their goddess,” 

“Prophet.” Theo corrected, grimacing. 

Taren continued, “and apparently you’re doing magic now.”

Theo shook his head, and held out his marked hand. “This thing’s magic, not me.” He muttered.

Taren took a long look at it, deep lines of concern nestling between his brows. “Either way,” he said finally, “the Keeper - I - was worried about you.” 

He couldn’t help but finally soften a little at that. He hated to admit it, but it was nice to be cared about. “You should meet Varric.” He offered, gesturing to the spot down the stairs a ways where Varric stood chatting amiably with some villagers. Varric was by far the friendliest of his new companions, and that seemed a good place to start.

Varric was more than happy to answer Taren’s many questions, and Taren was beyond enthralled by tales of the dwarf’s personal relationship with the Champion of Kirkwall, but soon he was looking curiously out toward the other buildings in Haven, and asking, in quick Elvhen, if there weren’t any other of their own people around. 

Theo decided to introduce him to Solas, and almost immediately he regretted it. He had to all but tear Taren away from the mage, as their intellectual conversation on topics of various arcane arts shifted toward the subject of Dalish traditions, and threatened to grow tense. 

“Well, he’s…” Taren reached searchingly for a word as Theo led him away. 

“Smart?” Theo offered, Solas struck him as impossibly wordy, but interesting enough. 

“Yes,” Taren agreed, genteel, “but also… sort of arrogant.” It was as close to an insult as Theo had ever heard from him, and he almost laughed. 

That was about as much of a tour as Theo felt like giving, he didn’t particularly feel like seeking out either the Templar Commander or the Seeker, and he felt almost protective of Taren, wandering around as an elven apostate mage in this place full of mistrustful humans. Unfortunately, it seemed that avoiding Cassandra wasn’t in the cards, as she came angrily stomping up to them from the Chantry, another lecture ready on her lips. 

“Herald!” She stopped him, irate. “You cannot continue to simply take things from the Chantry without asking.” 

Taren shot Theo a curious look, and stepped slightly off to the side. 

Theo knew already what this was about; the pastries. He’d taken a large pile of them from the kitchens to distribute among some of the hungrier looking village children, and it had been one of the only pleasant experiences he’d had in days. He returned her glare. 

“I didn’t take them for myself,” he protested, “they were for the kids.” And the elven servants, too. But he didn’t expect a shem to understand that bit. 

“There is food enough for everyone in Haven,” Cassandra continued her lecture, finger wagging, “but those were set aside for Josephine’s meeting today. She has important people to entertain, securing aid for our cause.” 

Theo did not appreciate the explanation. To hell with important people. “It’s food, Cassandra! What is a Chantry even for if not helping the hungry?” 

Cassandra was midway through scolding him again when Taren cautiously interrupted. “Josephine? You mean the Antivan ambassador I met when I arrived?”

Cassandra blinked, seeming only now to notice the other elf standing beside him. How like a shem, to ignore the people right in front of her. “Yes.” She said quickly, composing herself, but still huffy. 

Taren made a thoughtful sound and offered her one of his gentle, crooked smiles. “When we were speaking earlier, she told me that she once convinced a baron to donate a large sum of his fortune over a game of Wicked Grace and some sour ale. I’m sure she’ll be fine without, uh, pastries.” He remarked, “she seems a very competent woman.” 

Cassandra stuttered, apparently unsure how to refute this argument without also insulting Josephine. “She is, but -” 

Theo took the opportunity, “- you aren’t implying Josephine’s nobles needed pastries more than children, are you, Cassandra?” 

Cassandra huffed again, shaking her head at Theo. She returned to Taren, looking now slightly offended. “And you are?”

“An emissary from Theo’s clan,” Taren introduced himself cheerily, not dropping that lopsided smile, “Taren Lavellan, I am the clan’s First.” He said it like he assumed she should know what it meant, and Theo could tell from the look on Cassandra’s face that she was embarrassed that she did not. “Tell me, do all visiting diplomats receive pastries upon arrival, or just the important ones?” Theo snorted as Cassandra stuttered again, introducing herself in turn while her face grew red, and quickly excusing herself. 

As she walked away and Theo continued to chuckle, Taren let out a long whistle, and elbowed Theo in the ribs.

“What?” Theo asked, noting that the amusement on Taren’s face was now more directed at him, than at the Seeker. 

“Nothing, da’len.”

“What?” Theo demanded.

“You like that one.” Taren remarked teasingly. 

“She’s a Seeker.” Theo refused the remark, “near as I can tell, that’s like a Templar, only even more high and mighty.” 

Taren nodded in agreement, but he was giving him a look; the kind of look that only Keepers and Firsts can give, that says “I have known you since you were knee high, and you cannot keep your secrets from me - not even the ones you don’t know you are keeping.” 

Theo grumbled something about disliking shems, and changed the subject. “Come on, there’s a tavern.”

“You don’t drink.” 

“I do sometimes.” Theo muttered. He didn’t, not really, but the accusation made him feel young and immature, and he wanted to see Taren’s reaction to Sera. There, finally, would be a person that even Taren would dislike. 

Sera was just as disdainful as he expected her to be, reacting to Taren’s face full of elaborate swirling tattoos and speech that was heavy with the affect of Elvhen. But, she somehow knew already about the argument over pastries, and she laughed - long and loud - while doing an impression of a flustered Cassandra, and Taren joined her. 

“I love her.” Taren commented when she went to the bar for another round of ale. 

“She hates elves.” Theo pointed out in surprise. Taren shrugged. 

“I don’t think she knows any elves.” 

Taren stayed only a few days, but he was helpful, as promised. He ran countless errands, helping to craft potions and aiding sick villagers while Theo made his frequent escapes out into the forest, and by the time he left he had forged a lasting friendship with Varric and managed to have at least a couple of civil discussions with Solas. Varric sent him off with a signed copy of his Tale of the Champion, and Sera admitted that he was “pretty alright”, which was high praise for a Dalish elf, from her. He had kept his distance from the Templar, and from the Circle mage, Vivienne, but Theo couldn’t blame him for that. And even they, at his parting, offered friendly farewells. 

He was sad to see him go, knowing that Haven would be that much lonelier once he became the only Dalish elf to inhabit it again. 

“If you need anything, anything at all -” Taren offered, hugging him once more as he stood by the village gates. The offer should have been given the other way around, Theo was the one amassing an army, after all. 

“I’ll write, don’t worry. I can do this.” He doubted it, really doubted it, but he still wasn’t ready to reveal all of that uncertainty to his First. 

“I’ll visit again, when I can.” Taren promised, “next time though, I want pastries.” 

----

[BONUS SKYHOLD VISIT]

(Theo technically isn’t in Skyhold yet, but when he gets there Taren visits again, and meets a new fascinating mage...)

“A library? You have your own library?” Taren asked breathlessly, his excitement written all over his face. 

“You absolute bore, yes.” Theo rolled his eyes at the elf. Taren had come to visit Skyhold following the exodus from Haven, and he was dutifully giving him another tour. Taren had already met and appreciated a number of new people, though he looked a little less comfortable in the large fortress than he had seemed at Haven some months before. 

Theo showed him to the library, leading him up the stairs past Solas’ study space. Luckily, Solas was sleeping. Taren looked around wide-eyed and open-mouthed as they entered the large, circular room lined with shelves of ancient texts. “I’m never leaving.” He joked, a grin spreading over his face. 

“Can you even reach the shelves?” Theo joked back. It was nice to see him again, after everything. 

He spotted Dorian, leaning intently over some tome with a look of deep concentration, and figured he should be a gracious host and offer an introduction. 

Dorian introduced himself with his characteristic charm, and Theo saw Taren twitch at the mention of Tevinter. But he was also looking at the mage with an expression of something else; fascination, maybe. Dorian took Taren in with a long look and a coquettish tilt of his head. “You’re related to Theo? This Theo?”

“Not by blood.” Theo answered, “we were clanmates.” 

“I am the clan’s First.” Taren explained, and Theo wasn’t quite sure why he was flaunting the position. 

The reveal got Dorian’s attention. “A First? That’s in line to be a Keeper, right?” He wasn’t aware that Dorian knew anything about how clans functioned, but he was always reading. Taren nodded. “Fascinating!” Dorian was suddenly excited, “so that means you’re a mage, doesn’t it? I’ve never met a Dalish mage, there’s so much I’d love to -” He stopped. Was Dorian blushing? He didn’t know Dorian could blush. “-sorry, I’m being too presumptive. I should let you settle in. But if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps sometime during your stay here you and I might look through some of these texts together? There are some elven ones which I can’t decipher, and to have the insight of a real Dalish mage would be just...incredible.” He offered, sounding shy. Another thing that Theo wasn’t aware Dorian was capable of. 

Taren was stuttering when he answered, his cheeks growing awfully close in colour to that of his hair. “Of course, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to look through artefacts belonging to our people.” 

Theo led Taren away to the next stop on his tour - the Tavern. Varric had asked about him more than once, and he had been storing up jokes to make once he had the small elf standing next to the Iron Bull since the day he had learned Taren was coming. As soon as they were out of the library, Theo let out a long whistle, and nudged Taren in the shoulder with his elbow. 

“What?” 

“Nothing, little brother.” Theo smirked. 

“What?” Taren demanded. 

“You like him.” Theo remarked, teasingly. 

“He’s from Tevinter.” Taren protested, his cheeks still flush, “do you know how they treat our people there?” 

Theo shrugged. “Supposedly, he wants to change all that.” 

Taren glanced back over his shoulder toward the library, curious. “You trust him?” Hopeful, and more than a little eager. 

Theo nodded, and Taren smiled. 

[crackinglamb]

Fluff-uary Prompt 29 - Bonus Fluff

(DA - Hawke/Varric)

Hawke literally fell out of the Fade.

Solas had told her to focus on what she wanted, and so she had.  She didn't know how long she'd traveled, or how far – was measurable distance even a thing in the Fade? – but she'd finally gotten to a spot where the Veil was thin.  The Old Song swelled in her mind, drowning out everything else.  She pressed her hand and the crossbow bolt she'd never let go of into the place where the Song was loudest, forcing her way through.  For a moment she'd been in freefall, weightless but shifting, and then she'd been on pavement in the dark of night.

She landed on her knees and vomited bile before she was able to look up and see where she was.  It was hard to tell in the gloom.  Tendrils of fog curled around the foundation of buildings and obscured roads and for a moment she froze, her first instinct to think that she was still in the Fade.  She shook her head and looked again; the fog wasn't green. She'd had enough of green fog to last her several lifetimes.  She knew she was in Kirkwall, she could hear the chains in the harbor. She got up and stumbled down alleys and streets, eventually turning a corner that her feet hadn't forgotten even though she still didn't know where she was on a conscious level.  She sank to her knees once more and she laughed, the sound coming out more like sobs.  

The swinging sign of the Hanged Man hadn't changed, although the building had.  It was raining, and she lifted her face to it, letting it wash her clean from however long she'd been stuck there, battling for her life and her wits.  She opened her mouth to the rain, drinking in the sweet simple taste of skyborne water.

The door to the tavern opened.  The sound of her cackling must have drawn the attention of the crowd inside.  She wondered...

“Demon!” Varric snapped, pointing Bianca at her.  She stayed on her knees, looking him over.  He looked awful.  Not so much in how he was dressed – which was far richer than she'd ever seen – but in his face. He looked haggard and exhausted, with deep lines between his brows that hadn't been there before.  He looked older.  

He looked like he'd mourned her for far too long.

“How long has it been?” she asked.  Time and distance might have no meaning inside the Fade, but that didn't translate to how much was passing outside of it.  She knew at least on some level that it had been long enough for Solas to put his plans into motion.  Not that she even knew what they were.  Just that the elf was no longer just an elf. Getting sidetracked, Hawke.  “Varric, how long?”

“Do not call me by my name, demon,” he spat, still holding Bianca aimed at her face.  “You can't fool me, Hawke is dead.”

“No...” she whispered.  She hadn't considered this.  Well, she had, but only briefly before she'd been stuck in another fight for her life with the denizens of the far side before finally getting herself somewhere 'safe'.  “My name is Carmilla Marian Hawke.  I've always hated it because it was too high class and girly,” she went on, almost desperately, seeing him still stare at her in revulsion and fear. She paused for breath, wondering what possible thing she could say that only they two would have known.  “The first thing you said to me was 'how do you do' and you were twirling a bolt on your fingers like a showoff.  You'd stopped a pickpocket for me.  You clocked him. Varric, please...it's me.  It's really me.”

Bianca dipped but didn't fall completely in his hands.  A crowd had gathered around him, standing well clear of his line of fire.  He was still staring at her, but the expression had fallen flat into shock.  He cleared his throat and finally spoke.  “Right hand or left?”

“What?”

“Right hand or left.  How did I clock him?”

“Milord...?” one of the onlookers asked softly, as if he too couldn't understand why that was important.  

Hawke's eyes widened and she surged to her feet, ignoring the dizziness that had set in once her body realized she wasn't just a figment of her own imagination.  “Maker damn you for a nug wrangler!  When did you start cashing in on that Merchant Prince bullshit?  And it was a left hook, you ambidextrous son of a...dwarf.”

He wasn't looking at her face now.  He was staring at her hand.  She held up the bolt and let him see it, dulled from use, ragged at the ends where she'd constantly carried it.  That wasn't the only thing he was looking at. A tendril of bright blue traced along the length of her middle finger from the tip, spreading out to cover her palm in etched lines and crooked angles.  It looked almost exactly like a vein of raw lyrium, as indeed it was a lyrium mark.  She'd never been a mage, even though the magic ran strong in her family, but through trial and error she had learned she could make things real, a useful tool in the Fade where so much was not.  Her first meeting with Solas had anchored it firmly into the fiber of her being, and now it would never leave her.

The transition from angry to awed in Varric's eyes started slow, so slow she nearly missed it.  Then he was laughing and Bianca slid behind his back into her holster.  And then his hands were on her face, pulling her back to her knees, cradling her cheek as rain washed down on them both. “Hawke?  My Hawke?”

“Varric, tell me, please.  How long has it been?”  She leaned into his touch, never forgotten, no matter how much had happened since the last time his hand caressed her face.

“Five years, Cara.  It's been five years since we left you in the Fade.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the years she'd missed.  No wonder Solas was surprised that she had still been there when she saw him, just...just a while ago.  No wonder she could hear the Song so strongly, when most people didn't hear it at all.  She'd known that lyrium passed between both sides, and stayed close to it when she could in her endless searching for a place the Veil was thin.  She knew it had changed her.  And now it had brought her home, no matter how long it had taken. Just like he said it would.

When she opened her eyes again, she put any thought of the elvhen mage god out of her mind and smiled at her dwarf.  Varric hadn't gone on without her, it seemed.  She lifted a trembling hand and covered his against her cheek.  So much time had passed.  Were they even still the same people as before?  Would her Templar-like abilities scare him away? After everything that had happened to him, he was not likely to be much of a fan.

“My lord Viscount,” another voice said, breaking the perfect silence of the moment.  “Should we not still test her...er...I mean to say...she could still be a demon...”

Varric tossed a scowl over his shoulder and the crowd shrank back from him.  “I know this woman.  She is the Champion of Kirkwall.”  He looked back to her, his eyes twinkling now in the spilled light from the Hanged Man.  “And she's mine.”

He kissed her then, in front of them all and the years and miles shed off her like the rain pouring off her shoulders, inconsequential and irrelevant.  His breath warmed her face and his touch made her feel solid.  She could have stayed there in the rain forever as long as he was kissing her, his presence filling her with the Song, grounding her in what was true.

When he finally drew back, she smirked at him, a flicker of the old Hawke coming through.  “So...Viscount?”

He smirked back and while at first it seemed unfamiliar to his facial muscles, they remembered at last and it looked more natural.  Her trusty dwarf. Storyteller.  Rogue.  Love of her life.  “Yeah.  Shit, you've missed a lot.  Hey, you wanna take a shot at being a Viscountess?”

Something grew in her, something warm and golden that spread through her limbs like fire, like healing.  The Song flared in her head, then fell soft, whispering from the corners.  She realized she knew more than he thought she did, and passed a final thought for Solas...Fen'Harel. She might know more than Varric now.

No time to waste, she thought.  He said for whatever time remained. She stood up, shaking the rain from her eyes.  “Little Tethrases,” she whispered aloud, seeing Varric's faint smile echo her own.  She could make that happen now, couldn't she?  “You're on, Varric.  As soon as you buy me dinner.  And a drink or ten.”

“I can do that.” He took her hand in his.  “What happened to your hair?”

She huffed lightly, the mundane question so beyond funny that she almost didn't know how to reply.  She touched the roughly shorn ends.  Felt like an hour ago.  A year.  A century.  Maybe just a few seconds.  “I cut it off.  It's a long story.”

“Well, we've got time.”  

She followed him into the Hanged Man without answering.  Somewhere out there her friend was hurting, too many of her friends were hurting.  The wolf still counted among the sheep.  But that was for later.  Now was for them.

(Notes on this ending can be read on the ao3 posting here)

[pikapeppa]

(athenril-of-kirkwall) Fenris/Fem!Hawke, “Relic, Wild, Chest” [also aaaaaa my first prompt for you :D ]

Thanks for the prompt, my friend! I’m 25% asleep, so I hope this is up to my usual standards… >_< For @dadrunkwriting Friday. 

Contains NSFW smut. And Fenris being mean to Merrill. TT^TTRead here on AO3 instead.

*************

There once was a time when Fenris was treated as little more than a beast.

Danarius’s Little Wolf, they called him. He was paraded around the city at Danarius’s side, shown off shirtless during the magister’s blasted parties, ordered to attack and to kill and to rip his master’s enemies limb from limb. He was whipped and beaten and subjugated when he dared so much as curl his lip. When anyone deigned to speak to him, it was as though to an animal; their voices were condescending or fearful, exactly as though Fenris was a rabid wolf: wild but caged, and controlled through cruelty.

At night, when Danarius was asleep, Fenris stretched out on the cot in the tiny room where he slept and stared unseeingly at the ceiling. For hours on end, he focused on the rise and fall of his own ribs. He forced his mind to remain blank, to not revisit the routine ugliness of each passing day: the averted eyes of the other slaves, the covetous stares of the magisters, the unwelcome crawl of Danarius’s fingers on his skin.

But there were nights when he wasn’t able to block out the thoughts. On those nights, the particularly vile nights where oblivion did not seem too terrible an option, Fenris curled up on the cot in the tiny room where he slept. He shoved his pillow against his mouth, and he shoved his fingers through his hair, and he howled.

There was nothing else he could do. He was trapped and chained, a beast with no agency of his own and no choice but to follow the orders of the man who held those chains. So when the despair became almost too great to bear, Fenris released it the only way he could: as a roar of rage.

He gripped his hair until his scalp bloomed with agony. He bit his pillow until his jaw ached, and he screamed and screamed into the silence until he could taste iron in his throat.

That was many years ago. His life was nothing like that anymore. Fenris was no whipped and mindless beast; he was a man who walked on his own two feet with his head held high. He was nobody’s pet, and he was no one’s little wolf. He rarely felt the kind of mind-consuming rage that he used to feel when he’d first come to Kirkwall; he had freedom and friends, and these twofold boons had gone a long way toward softening his rougher edges.

Most importantly of all, Fenris had Hawke. She sauntered at his side with her cheeky smile, those brilliant copper eyes steady on his face as she cracked her jokes and clasped his hand. In Hawke’s irreverent voice and her unabashedly open heart, Fenris had found the kind of calm that he’d never quite managed to achieve on his own.

Unfortunately, habits were hard to break. Being treated as a beast for years on end wasn’t something that could be simply wiped away, and lashing out in a fit of unfettered rage had long been Fenris’s habit. Under the wrong circumstances, his residual rage was still wont to burst forth like maggots from a bloated corpse.

And spending time with Merrill was just the kind of wrong circumstance that brought out the worst of his temper.

“I just don’t understand why you won’t come to the alienage,” the little elf complained. “You only come when Hawke brings you. Don’t you want to get to know the other elves?”

He threw her a scathing look. “You are a hypocrite,” he said bluntly. “You’ve gotten to know them only because you were unable to fix your cursed relic. You have nothing else with which to occupy your time.” He folded his arms and glanced over at Varric. The dwarf was taking an awfully long time to peruse the armour seller’s wares; such errands were much quicker when Hawke was present. Probably because she chooses gifts based on gut instinct rather than logic, he thought idly.

Then he pursed his lips as Merrill’s voice penetrated his thoughts again. “You didn’t answer me,” she said. “Why don’t you like the alienage? Don’t you want to help our people?”

“So it’s ‘our’ people now, is it?” he sneered. “Your former clan made it very clear that I am not a ‘real elf’. And don’t act like you know the plight of the elves. Living among city elves is not the same as being one. You Dalish have privileges that the city elves do not, and still you complain and wave around your alleged heritage as though it’s all that matters.”

“But you’re not a city elf either,” Merrill argued. “Not like the ones in the-”

“No, I am not a normal city elf,” he snapped. “I was a slave. Do you wish to tell me I have greater privilege over them?”

He could hear the snap of rage roughening his words, a perfect reflection of the anger that was simmering in his chest. He pinned Merrill with a fierce glare, but the blasted little mage only pouted.

“Of course not,” she retorted, “not when you were a slave! But you’re free now. You have lots of privileges now. Why don’t you-”

He spun toward her. “Shut your mouth, witch,” he hissed. “You had every opportunity to help the alienage for years, but you sat in your hovel playing with your blood magic toys and whining about a long-forgotten past while people were being mugged right outside your door.”

Merrill opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Fenris took a threatening step toward her. “Do not speak to me of helping,” he snarled. “Do not speak to me of how I have privileges. In fact, do not speak to me at all, not unless you wish me to reach into your open mouth and drag out your heart.”

He waited for her lip to tremble, hoping against hope that she would run away as she usually did, but to his intense displeasure, she squared her shoulders and glared back at him.

“You don’t scare me, Fenris,” she said. “I know you won’t do anything to me.”

Fenris glared at her with a fresh surge of fury. She was far too bold, too confident in her own misbegotten magic. This is exactly what I warned Hawke about, he thought. He could practically see the undeserved power writhing behind Merrill’s eyes and begging to be set free.

“And what will you do?” he retorted. “Will you strike me down? Suck the life from my veins with that malevolent magic of yours?”

Her perky little face creased with anger, and Fenris’s own ire was only further goaded by her indignation. “Go on,” he hissed, “curse me. Cut your wrists. I dare you to try. Templars are roaming every street corner. Let them drag you off to the Circle. I, for one, would not mourn your loss.”

She scowled at him for a moment longer, then finally took a step back. “You’re lucky Hawke isn’t here,” she said. “She wouldn’t like hearing you be so mean.” She turned on her heel and stalked away.

“If you think I won’t tell her about this, you’re wrong,” he shouted after her. He glared at her retreating back for a moment, then folded his arms and turned around to face the market again.

Then he realized that the myriad occupants of Hightown’s market were staring at him. “Uncivilized knife-ears,” someone muttered.

Fenris speared the speaker with a withering sneer until she hurried away, then hunched his shoulders defensively and strode over to Varric’s side.

Varric shot him a casual little glance. “So I guess inviting both you and Daisy on this shopping trip wasn’t the best idea.”

“It stuns me that you thought it would be,” Fenris said acidly. He certainly hadn’t expected Merrill to be here when he’d accepted Varric’s invitation to find Donnic a nameday gift.

“Ah, you know me,” Varric said. “I’m a hopeful kind of guy.” He waved good-bye to the armour seller, then gazed thoughtfully up at Fenris for a moment before shrugging. “Anyway, let’s keep going. We’re running out of time. Lowtown bazaar?”

Fenris shook his head. “I can’t do this right now,” he muttered. “I am going back to Hawke’s.” The occupants of the market were still staring at him, their faces filled with fear and scorn and condescension, and the market was too exposed. Fenris felt too raw to cope with any more human contempt right now.

Varric raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who knows Donnic the best. The party’s tonight. You really have to go right now?”

“Yes,” he snapped, then took a deep breath to calm his temper. The fight wasn’t Varric’s fault, after all.

In a calmer voice, he said, “Yes. I will join you shortly at the Hanged Man.”

“All right, fine,” Varric grumbled. “Don’t be too long. Hawke only gave me one job for this party.”

Fenris grunted his assent, then loped off toward Hawke’s mansion as swiftly as he could without drawing further undue attention.

As he made his way through Hightown’s bright and busy streets, he ruminated over the argument with Merrill. He hadn’t thought it was possible for her to be more infuriating than she already was, but her growing familiarity with the city elves seemed only to reinforce her insistence that the so-called old ways needed to be restored.

She’s a hypocrite, he thought angrily as he slid past a harried-looking Chantry brother and a group of gossiping noble girls. Accusing me of not helping, when she does not even truly understand their plight. Merrill was a fantasist, a naive and spoiled child stuck in half-forgotten dreams of the past. Hawke had told him how Merrill cleaned her blasted broken eluvian every night, the only fastidiously kept item in her messy little hovel. Letting her keep the evil thing would come back to bite them one day; Fenris was sure of it.

We should have made her break it, he thought. He was fuming by the time he let himself into the Amell mansion. “Hawke?” he called.

“Back here!” Her voice emanated from the study, and Fenris followed the sunny sound as she continued to talk. “Did you get the gift already? That was fast. I hope you got him a fancy shaving kit. Aveline might disagree, but I think Donnic’s sideburns are getting a tad out of hand.” She looked up from the sloppy pile of decorations on her desk and smiled as he entered the study, but her smile fell as soon her eyes landed on his face.

“Oh shit. What’s wrong?” she asked.

Merrill is a blood mage, that’s what’s wrong, he thought acerbically. He took a deep breath, ready to launch into the familiar argument for the umpteenth time.

“Do you think I have done nothing to help other elves?” he said instead.

Hawke’s eyebrows shot up, and Fenris closed his mouth, equally surprised at what he’d said.

She eyed him carefully. “Well, that was unexpected. What brought this on?” she asked.

He frowned. This wasn’t what he’d meant to talk about, but now that it was out there…

He leaned against Hawke’s desk and folded his arms as he began to explain. “Varric invited Merrill, as well,” he said. “She said I do nothing to help the city elves, simply because I don’t like visiting the alienage.”

Hawke brushed her spiky bangs out of her eye as she glanced at him. “And since when do you listen to Merrill?”

He shot her an annoyed look, and she put down the decorations and soothingly stroked his arm. “You do avoid the alienage as much as possible,” she gently pointed out. “I’ve always wondered a bit about that.”

He shrugged bad-temperedly. “I don’t need to go there to see how badly my race is treated. I have seen and lived through far worse.” He irritably flicked a speck of dirt from his gauntlet. In truth, the alienage was a constant reminder that he was one of the few elves who had succeeded in escaping the poverty and much of the persecution that plagued their race. It was undeniable that Fenris’s current circumstances were actually quite fortunate indeed.

This fact needled him, somehow. Hawke had always encouraged him to enjoy his freedom, to take pleasure in the pleasant life he now led, and for the most part, he did. But going to the alienage made it hard to do that. The worst was over for him, but for many elves - elves who were not so different from Fenris - the hardships of their lives might never cease, and going to the alienage was a glaring reminder of that.

Whether they would agree or not, the city elves were trapped. Like pigs in a pen, they were corralled into the smallest and shittiest part of Lowtown. They were spat on and talked down to, treated no better than beasts. And Fenris hated remembering how it felt to live that way.

He angrily ran a hand through his hair, and Hawke placed a placating hand on his chest. “Hey,” she said softly. “Look at it this way. You’ve murdered piles of slavers, right? Slavers pray on elves more than anyone else, and no one has racked up quite the body count that you have. That must count for something, right? That’s helping.”

He shrugged again, not feeling entirely reassured. The more he thought about it, the more he began to wonder if maybe, for once in her life, Merrill was right.

Hawke reached up and gently stroked his chin. “You are helping people, Fenris,” she said. “We’re always running around doing all these bloody good deeds, right? It might not always be elves that we’re helping, per se, but… well, there are only so many hours in a day for everything we get asked to do.” She grimaced comically. “I’m not helping much, am I?”

He hesitated before replying, and Hawke gave a little laugh and leaned against him. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess this is the kind of help you can expect from a shem.” She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Am I using that word correctly?”

He smirked at her, a bit of his ill humour fading in the face of her endearing foolishness. “Yes,” he said. “But it’s usually reserved for the kind of human that would call me a knife-ear.”

She gasped in mock horror. “Go wash your mouth with soap, young man. I won’t have such filthy fucking language in my house.” She kissed him noisily on the cheek, then turned back to her desk. “If you’re finished your errand, can you help me decorate?”

Fenris reluctantly pushed away from the desk. “I would, but… we haven’t quite gotten Donnic’s gift yet,” he admitted. “I am due to meet with Varric at the Hanged Man.” Truth be told, he would rather remain here; he was still feeling irritable, and he wasn’t in the mood to leave the house again.

Hawke shot him a smirk. “And you think you’ll find a gift at the Hanged Man? Well, I suppose you could get him a bottle of something. But then he’ll just think we hate him.” She picked up an orange silk banner from the desk, then stepped onto her desk chair and onto the desk itself.

She unfolded the banner and stood on her tip-toes to reach for a small hanging peg in the wall, and Fenris idly watched the rising hem of her short silken skirt as she stretched her arms overhead. She stretched a bit further, and her skirt rode a bit higher, and Fenris was suddenly distracted from his disgruntlement: he’d noticed something interesting.

Very interesting, in fact.

He stepped up to the desk and lifted the hem of Hawke’s skirt.

Hawke squealed with surprise and smacked his hand, but it was too late; his suspicions had been confirmed. “Where are your underpants?” he demanded.

She pulled the edge of her skirt down to cover her bare buttock, then grinned down at him. “Hanging to dry,” she said. “I forgot to ask Orana to do the laundry.” She shrugged defensively. “I was too busy planning this party! It’s been so long since we had something to celebrate!”

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t think. His body was suddenly thrumming with lust, a heady and entirely unexpected rush that filled his cock and burned through his fingertips and his face.  

He lifted his eyes back to hers, and he watched with a dark kind of satisfaction as her cheeks began to redden. “Come down from there,” he said.  

She smiled slowly at him. “I can’t. I have set-up to do.” She turned around to fully face the wall, and Fenris’s hungry eyes fell onto her ass again.

She reached up to hang the banner, and he stared as the slippery fabric of her skirt slid up to reveal the undercurve of her butt. “Setting up can wait,” he growled. Then he slid his palm up the back of her calf.

She laughed and kicked at him. “Hands off, you pervert! At least help me with… with this, uh… this banner thing.”

He smirked as she trailed off distractedly, and for good reason; his fingers were sliding smoothly up the back of her thigh.

“No,” he said. “Not until you get down off the desk.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” she said, and Fenris smirked more broadly still at the breathless sound of her voice. Then she bent toward the wall, curving her lower spine so the edge of her skirt slid higher still.

Minx, he thought darkly. She was purposely goading him, and it was so damned effective. His lust was growling more loudly now, roiling low in his belly and demanding to be fed as he stared at the half-hidden cleft of her bottom.

He pulled off his gauntlets, then curled his fingers around her tender inner thigh and savoured her breathless gasp as he slid his fingers higher, up to the juncture of her thighs. “Fine,” he said brusquely. “Stay right where you are, then.” He eyed her perfectly presented bottom, which was right at his eye level. He didn’t need her to come down, after all; the height of her desk was perfect for his purposes.

He unceremoniously shoved the decorations off the desk, and Hawke tutted loudly. “That was rude,” she scolded. “You’d better not have broken anything.”

He ignored her words and tapped her ankle. “Spread your legs,” he said.

She huffed out a laugh, but obeyed his instruction. “Andraste’s tit, you are so bossy. I could get used to - oh - oh fuck!”

She jolted back toward his face. He’d shoved her skirt up roughly, and now his tongue was sliding along the length of her cleft, slipping through her sweet-and-salty musk as she spread her legs even further and leaned against the wall.

Fenris licked hungrily at her moisture for a moment, then lifted his head. “Where are Orana and Bodahn?” he asked, and he slid a finger through her slippery heat.

She panted and tilted her hips toward him, then smirked over her shoulder. “You’re only now thinking to ask?”

“Answer the question,” he growled, and Hawke released a sunny little laugh. “I gave them the day off,” she said. “But they’ll be back for the party -”

“Good,” he said. Then he bent his head low and licked her again.

“Maker’s fucking breath, Fenris,” she whined, then leaned her head against the wall as he lapped at her pussy. He teased her swollen little bud and tasted every slick fold as she pressed her hips back toward his face. She tasted so delightfully raw, and the pleasured sounds that ghosted from her lips were like music to his ears, and everything about her was calling to him, calling to the furious roaring lust that had rushed over him so suddenly, subsuming his irritation and his unease and his ire until all that was left was need.

He needed to hear her cries. He needed to feel her pulsing around his cock. That was the only thing that would lessen this heady burn of want that was making him feel so rough.

He angled his head slightly and lapped at her clit with the flat of his tongue, and then Hawke was breathing hard, loud gasping breaths that seemed to rasp through her chest until suddenly she threw back her head.

“Fenris!” she screamed.

She shuddered against the wall, and Fenris growled into her flesh, delving his tongue inside of her for a moment before resuming the smooth circling of her clit with the tip of his tongue. a A long moment later, she reached behind herself and stroked his ear.

He leaned away from her and roughly wiped his face on his hand. “Get down off the desk,” he commanded, and even he could hear that his voice was more gravelly than usual.

She shakily turned around, and Fenris helped her hop down off the desk. She almost fell as soon as her feet touched the ground, and he hastily wrapped his arms around her to support her weight.

She gripped his shoulders convulsively as she grinned at him. “Fuck’s sake,” she breathed. “I can barely walk.”

“Then don’t,” he said. He half-carried her over to the fireplace, then released her and jerked his chin at the rug in front of the fire. “Get on your knees,” he said.

She swiftly obeyed and watched with wide eyes as he untied his belt. “I could get used to this,” she panted. “You being in charge, calling the shots, deciding what we do…”

He quickly freed his manhood from his breeches. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure what was compelling him to be so authoritative, but as long as Hawke didn’t mind, he wasn’t going to stop. “Turn around,” he said.

She shuffled close to him, then planted her palms on his thighs. “I have a better idea,” she purred, then she took his full length into her mouth.

Fenris gasped as his cock slid into the hot depths of her throat. She pumped her lips along his length, taking him firm and deep until her nose brushed his belly, and Fenris watched as she dropped one hand from his thigh to the curls between her legs. She caressed herself while suckling him hard, pulling his pleasure from his belly to the very surface of his skin. Within minutes, she was shaking and whimpering against his cock as she came for the second time.

Fenris gasped and groaned under the ministrations of her mouth, and when Hawke pulled away to draw a gasping breath, he gripped her chin. “Turn around, Hawke,” he rasped. “I need you now. Right now.”

She nodded eagerly, then leaned forward on her elbows as she spread her legs, and Fenris took a moment to admire the perfect pose of her body. He slid a reverent hand over the smooth golden skin of her backside, then took hold of her hips and slammed himself in deep.

She cried out in rapture, and within seconds they were fucking each other hard, his fingers tight in her hips as she bucked back against him with the same heated fervour as he was driving in. Her eagerness was as ripe as his own, obvious in the desperation of her bucking hips and the delicious wetness that was coating his cock as thoroughly as her thighs. Fenris gritted his teeth as he fucked her, his rapture rising steadily from his abdomen into his chest and higher to roil in his throat - at the back of his tongue - pressing against his clenched teeth -

“Venhedis,” he gritted, and then he cried out as his climax smashed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, lights bursting behind his eyelids as he tried desperately to suck in a breath, and when he finally succeeded at pulling air back into his lungs, he expelled it in a rush as he bent over Hawke’s prone form.

Fenris breathed hard against her back, relaxing into the rise and fall of her ribs beneath his cheek. Once his heartbeat had slowed, he withdrew from her and carefully rearranged her skirt.

She released a breathless laugh. “Don’t bother,” she said. “Just one more thing that I’ll need to throw in the laundry.” She flopped onto her back with a happy sigh.

Fenris refastened his breeches and stretched out beside her, and she grinned impishly at him. “Well, that was amazing,” she said.

He shuffled close and slid his arm around her waist. Every scrap of his anger was burnt out now, expelled as thoroughly as though he’d been cleansed of a demon. He gently rubbed his cheek against her neck. “It was not my intention to be so rough,” he said softly.

“Don’t be silly. You were hardly rough,” she said. She tweaked his ear playfully. “You should come fuck me more often when you’re mad. My words are rubbish, but that’s a way I can most certainly help.”

Fenris tenderly brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. “Don’t discount yourself,” he said. “This is not the only way you help. You always listen, Hawke. Even when you don’t agree with me. I have always cherished that.”

Her jocular smile softened, and she stroked his cheek with her knuckles. “Of course, you handsome fool,” she murmured. “Whatever you need. I’m all yours, you know.”

He brushed her cheek with his nose. “I know,” he whispered. Then, for the first time that afternoon, he kissed her rosy lips.

Fenris was nobody’s pet, and he was no one’s little wolf. He rarely felt the kind of mind-consuming rage that used to plague him when he was trapped under Danarius’s thumb. But on those rare occasions when his anger rose up, rearing its ugly head and threatening to steal his hard-won happiness, Hawke was there.

She made him laugh with her foolish tongue, and she offered him her open heart. She helped him find the calm that he’d never quite managed to find on his own. For this - and for so many other reasons, so many that he couldn’t stop to count - Fenris would love her forever.

[squirrelwithatophat]

The twist doesn’t even exonerate Cullen at all since he wasn’t beating and threatening to kill Wilmod because he knew of the demonic possession — on the contrary, he assaulted Wilmod on a vague suspicion of the latter helping/befriending mages. And mind you, this suspicion was based on nothing more than Wilmod expressing discomfort with the treatment of mages in the Gallows (you know, as any decent human being absolutely should given everything we can learn about it from casual observation alone) and then going AWOL for a couple of days. Rather than seeing a young man (probably in his mid- to late-teens given the typical age of Templar recruitment) reportedly spending all his free time in brothels as just another idiot going on a bender and possibly contemplating desertion, Cullen immediately assumes something subversive is going on and reacts extremely violently.

And Cullen himself freely admits to all of this (Enemies Among Us, Act 1):

Hawke: (“Why did you attack Wilmod?”) If you didn't know he was possessed, why draw your sword on a recruit?

Cullen: He had only been back a few days when he left again secretly. It set off some warning bells. I meant to scare him into a confession. He had to believe my threats were genuine.

Cullen: Wilmod has never been fully... convinced of the Order's rules. Mages cannot be our friends. They must always be watched. I thought Wilmod might be meeting with some old friends who'd escaped the Circle.

Hawke: (“Not all mages are bad”) I’ve got friends who are mages. Are you saying they need to "always be watched," as well?

Cullen: I was at the Circle Tower in Ferelden during the Blight. I saw firsthand how templars' trust and leniency can be rewarded. A firmer rein may have prevented that entire Circle from being annulled.

“Mages cannot be treated like people” Cullen’s reaction here is also highly consistent across the 7 years during which DA2 takes place.

First, according to his Codex, he became knight-captain in the first place, skipping from low-level guard/executioner to second-in-command of a military dictatorship in a completely different country within the span of 1-2 years, through sheer anti-mage fanaticism: “After Cullen returned to his duties, it became clear that he would go to any lengths to enforce the Chantry's rule. His zeal troubled Knight-Commander Greagoir, who feared it unwise to let Cullen watch over the men and women he deemed responsible for his torment. Greagoir sent Cullen to serve under Knight-Commander Meredith in Kirkwall, and Meredith found Cullen's view of mages similar to her own… Consequently, Cullen rose quickly through the ranks to become Knight-Captain and Meredith's second-in-command.”

In Act 2, by which time merely “supporting apostates” (whatever that means) has been declared a “hanging offense,” Cullen insists that Meredith needs to crack down harder on anyone helping mages flee to Ferelden (Codex: The Mage Underground): “Here in Kirkwall, citizens actually help rebel mages escape. Escaped apostates have survived their freedom long enough to form the ‘the mage underground,’ a network that feeds and shelters escapees and even transports apostates into remote areas of the Free Marches and beyond our easy reach. As of late, the movement has grown bolder, sending raiding parties into the Gallows in an attempt to break out mages who lack the skills or willpower to escape on their own. This is a grave concern. My recommendation is to fight back, both physically and in turning the minds and hearts of their supporters against them.” What it means to “fight back… physically” against “citizens” who “help rebel mages escape” becomes clear in Act 3, by which time literal “death squads” (actual term used in the game) are roaming the streets killing anyone suspected of helping mages flee the country. You as the player can either interrupt a death squad about to knife a woman for letting her “starving” and badly “whipped” mage cousin stay the night (A Noble Agenda, Act 3) or join a death squad yourself (The Last Holdouts, Act 3), although in the latter quest the game permits you to stop the Templars from murdering the helpless loved ones of escaped mages.

He only starts to express some discomfort when it becomes clear that his boss is both becoming literally psychotic and has escalated to plotting to kill all mages indiscriminately, and even then he doesn’t turn on her until she both attempts to kill Hawke (whom he is personally indebted to for saving his life in Act 1) and reveals herself to be in possession of the Red Lyrium idol, essentially confirming that she has truly gone mad.

But of course, as you mentioned, there’s no point in reporting this to his superior in this context. After all, Knight-Commander Meredith is both cheering him on throughout all this and instigating new violence on her own.

I had forgotten that DA2 introduces Cullen kicking the crap out of a young templar recruit all alone out in the middle of nowhere. And then they, I guess, try to pull a "gotcha!!" on you, like, plot twist! You thought this guy was a piece of shit, but actually this ""innocent"" young recruit was possessed by a demon all along, what a maverick!! But it didn't work on me because I still think this is a gross violation of proper workplace conduct and I would report him to his direct superior in a heartbeat if I didn't suspect that she kills and eats babies for breakfast.

[pelle-lavellan-a]

Codex: Maevis

Born 20 Solis 9:25 Dragon

Death: (Verse Dependent) .9:42 Dragon

Race: Dalish Elf

Sex: Female

Height: 4′10′

Weight: 90lb

Marital Status: Single

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Religious Views: Dalish

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Affiliation: Clan Lavellan , (Verse Dependent) The Inquisition

Title: First of Clan Lavellan

Class: Mage (Pyromancy)

Bio: 

“Pelledir...you must understand I didn’t mean to hurt them. But people do awful things when they’re afraid.”

Prequisition:

Maevis was born a miracle to a middle aged couple who believed they would never bear children. She was their little bird. Maevis grew up with the notion from her parents that she could do no wrong, she was perfect in their eyes. She was a normal little girl who lived a normal life amongst the elves of her clan. She was satisfied living this way. She had friends, a loving family, she had everything. The hunters kept her safe from the dangers outside of her clan, she knew nothing of sorrow, of hunger, nor any troubles.

And then her magic surfaced when she was twelve years old. 

It was the first time in her life that she truly did not want something. She has seen the Keeper’s First Pelledir studying magic, learning natural lore, reading the ancient history of their people. The day she accidentally set fire to the bow her father made her--she knew she was doomed. 

The clan did not need another mage, they already had a First who was married to the Keeper’s granddaughter. His magic was strong--as far as she was concerned he was bound to have magical children. If anyone were to hear about her magic she would have no place in her home. She had been training to hunt, she was capable of taking care of herself perhaps--she was no defenseless child. They would throw her out, they really would wouldn’t they? A mage...how could the Creators have been so cruel to her?

And then the tide turned. Both the First and his wife disappeared into the night neither of them to be seen in days. Maevis would not pretend that she was not glad to see the First gone. If he were truly dead then it might be safe for her to tell Deshanna about her abilities that she had been keeping to herself. 

Deshanna was not pleased when she found out, though much to Maevis’ surprise she was not angry about Maevis’ magic, nor that she tried to hide it. What angered Deshanna was that Maevis did not even seem to care that anyone had just died. In her anger she refused to take Maevis under her wing and was ready to have Maevis thrown out from the clan should she continue to show such disregard for her people. 

After the rather unpleasant threat, things only seemed to get worse. The First had been found among mage refugees from Kirkwall. His spirit and his body were broken but he was alive. He was returned to the clan by his cousin Faolan and brother Fen. This was her chance, she had to feign that she was relieved to see Pelledir alive. 

She’d never liked him much, too soft in her opinion. In her eyes he was just a boy who got lucky. He was smart but his body did not serve him well in combat or self defense. He was bond to a woman bigger and stronger than him, his cousin was well rounded, his cousin and best friend trained hunters He didn’t need to be self sufficient, others always had done it for him. As far as she was concerned his disciplined magic and scholarly knowledge was useless in the real world. Now that he was widowed, he was even more abhorrent to her than before. 

He would tell no one what happened to his wife. In fact, he hardly spoke at all. Maevis would visit him, speak with him, bring him food once a day. He rarely ate it, and was seldom up for conversation. This frustrated Maevis. She was determined to fool Deshanna into believing that Pelledir enjoyed her company, that she was not as self seeking as the Keeper believed. 

But the First was no fool, he knew that Maevis could not care whether he died in the night or if he recovered. When the First finally told her he did not want her company because it was insincere, Maevis lost her temper with him claiming that Deshanna had favorites and that if she did not pretend she was not revolted by him the Keeper would surely see to it that she was thrown out. 

The First simply laughed at her and told her that Deshanna was not angry that she did not like him, Deshanna was worried about Maevis. She wanted Maevis to learn to think of someone other than herself. He also mentioned that the threat was perhaps a way to motivate her to work on her attitude. However, he disagreed with Deshanna for what she’d said. He told Maevis that he felt that Deshanna had been too harsh with her, and that he knew that while Maevis acted tough that he knew her family meant a great deal to her. And with that he offered to teach Maevis himself should he recover. 

Reluctantly Maevis agreed, she did not really have any other options. 

She watched crossing her fingers as Pelle insisted upon helping protect the clan from the pursuers of the humans who’d rescued him. He’d nearly killed himself just using magic to protect Deshanna in the first place, losing consciousness soon after. 

He was an idiot, Maevis believed that with all her heart. Within a few days, Deshanna was no longer performing the duties of the Keeper on her own. While he was not actually the Keeper, between the two of them he was younger, more physically capable, and well on his way to becoming the Keeper himself should Deshanna’s health get any worse. The way Deshanna saw it, Pelle was more of an extension of herself now...and he was to teach take her on as an apprentice the way a Keeper would. Which made her...the First in some strange roundabout way...

She tolerated Pelle. He taught her to control her magic, he taught her to read and write, and he began teaching her the old lore. 

Over the years,the clan migrated more often than she remembered in the past due to the mage templar war, and excluding a time where the clan was burned out, nothing major had really happened that was worth documenting for her. She learned her magic, she studied the lore, and in her spare time she still joined the hunts when she was available. 

Pelle knew she had no interest in taking on the responsibilities that came with being the First...or even the second, he did not try to convince her otherwise.

Three years later, Pelle would leave the clan claiming to return with news from the Conclave. 

He never returned... 

Soon enough the clan would receive word from Pelledir that he was being held the Inquisition and was certain he might be struck down should he attempt to leave.

 For now they would have take direction from Deshanna, he did not imagine he would be coming home anytime soon. This seemed as good a plan as any, if Deshanna hadn’t fallen ill shortly after 

She went quickly...and with that left no one to lead the clan. Maevis would not be responsible for them. 

Inquisition:

Traveling Wycome spelled death for Clan Lavellan. Despite Pelledir’s, who was now Inquisitor of this foreign Inquisition, efforts from Orlais the clan could not be saved. Few of her clansmen survived, and in their small numbers chose to leave the area lest they become more fodder to the soldier’s blades. 

One of the hunters, Talwinne, proposed they make their way to the Inquisition. Surely Pelle who was now Inquisitor to this strange Inquisition would grant them permission to stay after the things they’d been through. The journey to Skyhold was long and nothing short of a little gruesome. In the end--only her and Talwinne managed to make it to the hold. 

There had been fifteen of them when they left Wycome. Eight of them died along the way from crossfires in the war, demons, wildlife, etc. The rest--Maevis took care of them. Deciding that it would be difficult to move forwards with so many once they reached Orlesian, she chose to have something done about the others. Making the choice of who would be most useful the rest of the journey, Maevis chose to spare Talwinne. 

The rest, she lied to them, told them she’d found an Inquisition camp nearby when she was scouting ahead and that they ought to go and ask them for safety. The five were not quick to follow, telling her they ought to wait for Talwinne who left to retrieve wood to build a fire. Maevis told two of them to wait for Talwinne, fetch him once he returned.

Where she led the other three instead was a tear in the sky infested with demons, a Rift as they were being called these days. The two who had waited for Talwinne came running when they heard the screaming. By then...Maevis was already gone, she’d fled back to camp leaving them all to die. 

Talwinne was furious, he swore he would kill Maevis if he thought it was worth it. Maevis pretended she wasn’t hurt, that she did not feel the slightest remorse for murdering her own people. She told Talwinne her reasons, he did not accept them. 

In her anger she shouted at him that she had made the hard decision that had to be made, it was too dangerous to travel in packs in the part of Thedas, it would draw too much attention. 

The two did not speak unless it was crucial for the rest of the trip to Skyhold. Once there, both of them volunteered to work as scouts for the Inquisition. 

[aldmerii-blog]

oc interview ~

hey laurel @henantier​ did this and I Don’t Feel Like Doing Work so. 

It’s Matilda Time. 

What is your name? “I’m Matilda.”

What is your real name? “Great question. I’m Matilda, certainly. People called me Talarin because that was my mother’s surname, and my mother was well-known in the alienage. Now, as an adult, I sometimes tack on Enansal’s surname. So we’ll say it’s Matilda Talarin-Lavellan.”

Do you know why you were called that? “I do! When my mother, Eola, and Enansal eloped together, they lived in Kirkwall’s Darktown. Matilda was the name of the midwife who delivered me. She could tell that my parents didn’t have much money to pay her, so she didn’t ask for any money. And my parents were both so grateful to her that they named me after her, that I might inherit her generous spirit. This according to Enan.” 

Are you single or taken? “Ah, a simple question with a complex answer.” 

Have any abilities or powers? "I have a certain talent with healing. Fleeing Kirkwall was rather a trial by fire for those particular skills, with so many needing medical attention and so few people to provide it.”

Stop being a Mary Sue. "A -- what?”

What’s your eye colour? “Blue. I once had a boy in the Circle tell me that he spent so much time with me because he missed the sky and my eyes reminded me of it. It made me blush at the time.” 

How about your hair colour? "Ginger.”

Have you any family members? "My mother, Eola, and my father, Enansal. They’re no longer together.” 

Oh? What about pets? “We were never allowed pets in the Circle, and I simply haven’t had the stability an animal needs since then. But when I settle down with a family, most certainly.”

That’s cool I guess, now tell me about something you don’t like. "Of course I hate the Circle, and templars, and the Chantry. But I hate people who act like every refusal to accept abuse is out of line. Who make neutrality their position, instead of seeing injustice and standing against it. Also, the taste of basil.” 

Do you have any hobbies/activities you like doing? "I really enjoy baking. One of the nice things about being on the run is that I’ve gotten to observe different kinds of food. Orlais is terrible, but they do know what they’re doing when it comes to pastries.” 

Ever hurt anyone before? “Oh, sadly, yes. Only in self defense.” 

Ever… killed anyone before? "Again, only in self defense. I don’t relish it. Well -- once. It was still a situation where he would have killed me if I hadn’t killed him first, but I greatly enjoyed it.” 

What kind of animal are you? “What a peculiar question. Perhaps a rabbit.” 

Name your worst habits. "I -- ah. I can be vicious. I tend not to trust people’s intentions and have more than once latched onto something someone said and used it to discredit them when doing so was wholly unnecessary.” 

Do you look up to anyone at all? "Orsino. He was brave, you know. I don’t think most people know that. And he cared about his people so, so deeply. Every time a new mage was dragged away from their family and would sit and cry for their mother -- he never said how much that pained him, but you could tell. He was desperate in the end, but I still try to be as clever and cautious as he was.” 

Gay, straight, or bisexual? "I’ve been attracted to women before, but I’ve only ever been intimate with men. What does that make me?”

Do you go to school? "I did, I suppose? The Circle was a prison, but it was a place of learning beneath that.” 

Do you ever want to marry and have kids one day? “Oh, yes, very much so. I only had three apprentices by the time the Circles rebelled, but they were bright points in my time there.”

Do you have any fanboys/fangirls? “I wouldn’t call them that. I know some among the rebels admire me greatly.”

What are you most afraid of? “Oh -- hm. I’m afraid of being mislead. I don’t give my trust freely, but there’s always a chance someone could slip through. I’m afraid of being abandoned. I’m afraid of people getting hurt because of me. And templars.” 

What do you usually wear? "When I’m working, cotton prairie dresses and an apron. Otherwise, I like long flowy dresses. How eloquent of me. I know I should try wearing pants -- you know, express my freedom from the Circle -- but I just can’t stand the feeling.” 

Do you love someone? “Desperately.” 

When was the last time you wet yourself? "I don’t recall.”

Well, it’s not over yet! "Take your time.” 

What class are you? (High class, middle class, low class) "High class, I suppose. I don’t labor for what I own, and I want for nothing. I try to live modestly, but I could easily live decadently.” 

How many friends do you have? "Oh, a few. I think more people consider me their friend than I consider them my friend. Lysas, an elf among the rebel mages, is a dear friend. There’s Ser Margot, a knight from Highever. Queen Rosanna of Fereldan. Marian Hawke.”

What are your thoughts on pie? "All-butter crusts are best. A benefit of magic is that I can knead the dough without melting the butter. And I love all sorts of pie -- apple, peach, and strawberry-rhubarb are my favorites.”

Favourite drink? “I usually flavor water with fruit juice. Dragonfruit is a favorite.” 

What’s your favourite place? “I have a cottage near Ansburg. It’s quiet and safe.” 

Are you interested in someone? “’Interested’ is an insult to my feelings about him.”

What’s your bra cup size and/or how big is your willy? “Oh -- uh. Suffice it to say I’m not particularly well-endowed.” 

Would you rather swim in the lake or the ocean? “Lake. I’ve gone swimming in Lake Calenhad more times than I can count.” 

What’s your type? “Tall, kind, erudite sorts. I tend toward other elves.” 

Any fetishes? "I wouldn’t know. I don’t like being hurt or made to feel inferior, if that’s what you mean.” 

Seme or uke? Top or Bottom? Dominant or Submissive? “Ah. Hm. Uke, bottom, submissive. Not overly so. I just don’t know what I’m doing or what I like and it’s nice to have someone I trust make those decisions for me.” 

Camping or indoors? "Indoors, I suppose. I like being outside but being in the wilderness scares me.” 

Are you wanting the interview to end?! "I’ve taken up enough of your time, surely?”

Now it’s over! “Thank you so very much.” 

[laurelsofhighever]

Unlocking the Door

Demi!Cullen, also on AO3

CW: PTSD, psychological trauma, sexual/psychological abuse, sex work. Nothing explicit but I want you guys to be ok!

Cullen is sixteen when he decides there might be something wrong with him. Not physically – like many of the other recruits at the templar training school in Bournshire, his has discovered the pleasure to be gained from discreet stimulation of the organ between his legs – but he feels a disconnect between his experiences and the way his fellow trainees talk about theirs. Who do you think of when you do it? is a question asked of him more than once, and when he blushes and shifts his feet and stutters that it’s nobody at all, the others decide he must be giddy on someone important or out of bounds. The truth is, on the rare occasion he indulges himself, it’s the base enjoyment that drives him, the anticipation of the end that gets him hard, and there is nothing more to it than that. At first, he wonders if his interests lie in another direction, but there are others at the school who do prefer the company of their own sex, and they, too, show more than enough inclination for the act itself.

Cullen decides to let them think him a prude, because the alternative is that they think him broken.

At eighteen, he catches the eye of an apprentice about his own age from across the hall at breakfast, and his stomach flutters. It’s alien, this feeling, terrifying and delightful all at once, and when he lies in his bunk, listening to the snores of the people around him he wonders if this is what they mean by desire. He wants to be close to Amell, to talk to her and maybe hold her so he can feel the warmth of her against his skin, maybe even kiss her, but his imagination falters upon trying to go further. Perhaps it is because she is a mage, and so forever beyond his reach anyway, but the darker, inward-turning part of his mind knows this is only a comforting lie.

This is why, when the Circle falls and his comrades are slain, he is not entirely surprised when the desire demon keeps him alive. He must confound it, lacking the urges other men have, and it spends hours – days, weeks? – peeling him apart, enjoying him, driving his body into raptures while his mind, frozen in place, is stripped bare of all he was, is, and hoped to be. The creature uses her image, when it suits, and finds great amusement watching him writhe, beg, melt away from pain and pleasure so intermingled he can’t tell which is which.

And still he confounds it.

They send him to Kirkwall. At first, he’s grateful for the change, though the air in the Gallows is close, its walls high, all too reminiscent of a cage. He has his own room, at least, for which he is grateful, though he knows it must be because word travelled ahead that he has trouble sleeping these days, and shouts to drive the nightmares away. He tries to keep to himself, to do his duty, to forget, but the men he is posted with these days don’t care for the dignity required of their position as templars. When it becomes clear he will not break his oath of duty just to cool his appetite – the very thought disgusts him – his unit trick him to the Blooming Rose with rumours of an apostate hiding among the clientele. When they suggest he interview one of the young ladies, privately so as not to cause alarm among the public, he, fool that he is, takes the suggestion at face value.

And young lady? Oh she is skilled indeed. He’s not the first to come to her inexperienced, or oblivious to intention, and she knows the right mixture of coyness and command to get what his friends have paid for. She knows where to find the buckles on his armour.

Afterwards, he’s not sure what it is he feels. Part of him feels used, like the demon used him for sport, because his comrades guffaw and raise their drinks to him when he emerges in perfect order from the lady’s chamber, hair tousled, but that is not quite everything. This is not the cage at Kinloch Hold. The workers at the Rose are not demons, and their custom runs on the same principles as those of a blacksmith or a tailor. Nothing is offered that is not first paid for, and it is these clear-cut boundaries that licks at the back of his skull like the song of lyrium in his mind. The next time he wakes shaking with the laughter of the demon too loud in his ears, he counts his pay and finds himself slipping along darkened streets.

He learns much in the months that follow. He does not feel desire for any of the women he beds – still does not, though the demon tried its best to plant the seed in him – but he discovers other benefits to sex that help keep the worst of his nightmares at bay. He learns the mechanics of the act – an endless study in how to pleasure and be pleasured that requires both focus and attention to detail, a twitch here or a whimper there, a dialogue of control ceded and gained, a way of distancing himself from the less beguiling aspects of the deed. In the exhaustion that follows, sleep takes him so deeply that he often does not dream at all.

Desire requires tenderness. This he realises one night as he wakes to find his partner for the evening slumbering beside him, too far away to touch. In that moment, still hazy with sleep, it strikes him as deplorable that he cannot reach for the person with whom he shared such intimacy not hours before, that his caress would be unwelcome without the chink of silver. She cares nothing for him; to her, he is a transaction. He remembers his parents, for the first time in too long, and recalls all the little touches they would share throughout the day, how they would gravitate toward one another’s space and how it leant them strength when times were hard.

It should not be like this, he thinks, then dresses, leaves his coins, and does not return.

He is not made for love. As the years pass this truth becomes easier to bear. He gains the rank of Knight-Captain, which sets him above the jibes of the rank and file, and as the problems in Kirkwall deepen, he accepts his abnormality as the Maker’s will. How else is he to remain focussed and carry out the task that has been assigned to him, if not to lay aside personal thoughts in pursuit of the greater good? Meredith whispers in his ear, she thinks him merely dedicated to his duty, and he is, but she does not know his particular suitability to be Kirkwall’s shield against the wickedness of mages. It does not nag him. It is for the best.

When the world falls apart and he flounders with the rest in the rubble of the city, he has no time to wonder at his past certainty of mind, except sometimes, at night, in bed, alone. Is there a point to fighting if you’re fighting for nothing? True, he has nothing to lose, but every day he looks and sees people protecting each other, their lovers and their families and their friends. And what, Maker, does he have? Nothing more than his crumbling faith and his need to atone for all those years spent blindly following orders. Perhaps, he thinks in his darkest hours, his peculiarity of spirit is a punishment sent by the Maker, who knew before he did himself how he would sin.

But the Seeker comes – Cassandra – and offers him a place to try and build a new world. Punishment or blessing, he thinks no more of it.

Then her. She falls out of the Fade, the Herald of Andraste who is going to save them all, and now he’s sure his inclinations must be a punishment, because the first time his eyes meet hers across the table in the vestry, something steals his breath away. He covers it with good humour, but the truth is he’s never been knocked so far out of his depth, because the lurching of his stomach is something he never thought to feel again. It’s an infatuation, he tells himself, like last time – it will pass, or the world will take it away from you. He is not made for love.

And yet, they grow closer. He yearns to touch her, to feel her warmth, make her laugh, be lost in the scent of her hair. Sometimes when his mind drifts, he imagines the taste of her lips, and it terrifies him. This doesn’t happen to him. The feeling she sparks in his chest is a wildfire, and with every smile she flashes his way it spreads, until he is all panicked edges and bright heat and desire.

Yes, he decides, when he stands with her on the battlements and lays his heart bare. This is desire. This is what his parents had and what he read about in books and thought would never come to him.

There will be more to say in the days to come, about who he is and what he wants, but as she stands with him in the open air and shares a kiss, it is enough to realise that he is in love, and that, whether by the Maker’s will or not, he was never broken. Just waiting for her to unlock the door.

[somevirtualnolife]

First Day Fereldans

Holiday Ficlet 1234 words

Rating: G Pairing: Cullen x Female Hawke Summary: First Day comes to Kirkwall and Aerianne plans a little something for the local Fereldans. A/N: I'm... done... with my holiday ficlets. Next year if I ever do this, I'll choose ONE couple and stick with it. I'm far too slow at writing these ahaha. Anyway, here's some innocent fluff with Hawke and Cullen (Aka a chapter where nothing happens but uncertainty, lol) Enjoy!

“Why Knight-Captain, you actually showed! Happy First Day!”

“Serah Hawke. Well-met,” Cullen straightened out his posture as Aerianne approached Kirkwall’s up and coming noble, doing more than just making a name for herself it seemed. He still didn’t know what to quite make of the situation yet, but it was becoming more and more difficult to keep information regarding mage and templar activities.  

“How is it that no matter what event I seem to find you at, you always have the face of a man who is determined not to have fun?” she asked with a half smile, placing a hand on her hip.

“I do not, always look like that,” he responded flatly as pressed his tankard of ale to his lips.

“You do,” Aerianne grinned. Always had to have the last word “So, What do you think? Not too bad for a farm girl turned noble, don’t you think? The first ever Fereldan-style First Day in Kirkwall!”

“I’m surprised that the viscount’s office allowed you to hold such an event. The paperwork must’ve been tedious. You know how they’re not too fond of displays of ‘foreign culture’, let alone one that involves refugees,” he crossed his arms, looking at her suspiciously.  

“Oh please, this is hardly a display. Maker forbid people can’t get a little homesick? And this isn’t an ‘official event’ per say. It’s just a private party on my estate. I just invited a few people and they had a plus one. And then their plus ones asked if their friends could come, and how could I refuse? No paperwork is required according to the guidelines,”

“A master of loopholes as always,” he should’ve suspected as much from the rogue. “But… I’ll admit, it’s impressive,”

There was no denying that Aerianne certainly put in the effort. The festive music, the smell of ram stew wafting in in the air; she even managed to get some Fereldan beers. Being one of the only Fereldans templars in the Gallows, it had been awhile since he’d heard his homeland accent in once place. Although he didn’t leave Fereldan for quite the same reasons as the others in Kirkwall, he still missed it greatly. Dare he say, maybe even a little homesick as well.

“Why thank you, knight-captain,” she said with a slight curtsey. “So, have you come because you’re genuinely interested in this soiree, or is this work related?”

“A bit of both, but the latter can wait,” Meredith had also told him that it would be a good opportunity to see if there were any more apostates hiding among the refugees, but it was best not to mention that less he wanted her interfering as she always did. If he got something from tonight, that was excellent, but not a priority.

“Work can wait? Now that’s something to celebrate,” Aerianne responded with a beaming smile, lifting her glass to knock it against his tankard.

Cullen felt himself shift slightly. When there wasn’t an ulterior motive behind those grins of hers, they were kind of nice. Cute even. Honestly, he was hoping that she would just say her hellos and then leave him be. Most conversations ended in exasperated frustration with one of them trying to prove the other wrong. If he wanted a headache, he could’ve just waited until Monday for her to come barging in with another complaint. And he just… wasn’t really good with small talk.

“Have you danced yet?” she asked, snapping him back from his thoughts.

“I’m not much for dancing. Not really something you pick up in templar training,” he replied.

“Is that so? I know for a fact that the ones in Lothering loved to when they had time,” she laughed. “There were always a few at the local First Day festivities. Oh, I remember once when my brother Carver  tried to ask this one female templar to dance with him. Rejected him flat out,”

“You have a brother? I only remember your sister,” Bethany Hawke. A lovely young woman from what he recalled of her before she ‘left’ Kirkwall. Certainly less boisterous than Aerianne, but there was no mistaking that they were from the same cloth.

The young woman suddenly stopped the story, her expression changing for a moment; a sudden flash of sadness, followed a bit by a nervous laugh. “He… died. Not too long before coming here,”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s okay. It’s not as though you would’ve known. It’s been a few years now, and I prefer to focus on the positives,” it seems as though she was used to the conversation. “I think you two would’ve gotten along, actually. He was also determined not to have fun at gatherings,”  

“That does sound like the kind of company I would enjoy,” he said, a small chuckle escaping him.

Despite his initial worries, talking with Aerianne actually quite pleasant. No big debates, no talking about work, just… normal things. The thing he was notoriously terrible at.

Then again, when was the last time he was able to talk about Fereldan in a normal way? Without mentioning what happened at the circle. It was nice just to talk about the food, the people, the stuff they missed about their homeland (loyal mabaris), even the things they could do without (terrifying bears).  

“Oh, I have a mabari, actually,” she grinned. “Ferocious in battle, but a real sweetheart otherwise.. She’s upstairs right now. I would’ve brought her down, but she doesn’t do well in big crowds,”

“I can sympathize,” Cullen replied, another laugh escaping him. He, was actually having fun. Something he hadn’t felt in awhile. Not sense before Kinloch Hold.  

“You know what, Cullen Rutherford?”

“What, Aerianne Hawke?”

“I cannot make up my mind about you,” she placed the palm of her hand under her chin, and tapped the side of her head. A contemplative look if he’d ever seen one.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well it’s just that-”

“I don’t mean to intrude,” the young man said, approaching them. “I was just wondering if Serah Hawke would be interested in a dance? Assuming you’re not taken this round of course,”

“Not intruding at all! But that’s a good question. Am I taken?” violet eyes coyly glanced back up at Cullen, making him shift slightly again. What was she implying? He said he didn’t dance, though maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Or what if this was some sort of ploy? She could be talking to him to try and fish for information on the circle or the Order. Or maybe it was some innocent flirting? Maker, he hoped not. Flirting was somehow worse than the previous scenarios. Why would she even…

Or maybe he was just overthinking it all.

“No, she’s not,” he cleared his throat a bit. “I think I’ve taken up enough of your time tonight, Hawke. You should go dance,”

Aerianne twisted her mouth slightly, but didn’t press his answer like she normally would. Should he have said yes? Well it was too late for that now.

“Well, it was a pleasure talking with you, knight-captain,” she said giving the knight-captain another curtsey and wave before taking the hand of the other young man. “I hope you stick around for a bit longer and try to have a bit of fun. Socialize! And once again, Happy First Day!”

“Happy First Day,” he said quietly with a half-smile.

[therealdragonnerdagain]

To be honest, I wish they had done this for Inquisition. Just no fucking dlc greed and everything packaged in the base game, no in-game ads. Like the good ol' days.

To be honest, I believe the only reason they're taking this stance is that EA finally realized being greedy was pushing people away. A lot of people -- myself included -- have walked away from Bioware and are no longer buying their games (Inquisition was the last straw for me). The dlc greed is just a small part of the reason, though, Bioware. There’s also your misogyny, your racism, and your open support of violent transgender activists. 

The ending epilogue was a stupid cliffhanger that forced us to metagame about Solas being the Dreadwolf, and Trespasser should have been a part of the vanilla game. I mean, shouldn't the end of the fucking story be a part of the vanilla game??? Without it, too many characters had broken story arcs.

Cutting Trespasser into dlc was like . . . if Bioware decided to cut the Anders reveal at the end of Dragon Age 2 out of the game, then forced us to buy dlc in order to finish the mage/templar war in Kirkwall.

But there were a lot of things wrong with Inquisition -- such as sensitive princess David Gaider using Varric to insult fans for making valid criticisms about his shitty streamlined mess of a sequel.

Gaider is so misogynistic, too. I swear he revealed Varric's girlfriend just to give female Varric fans the middle finger. I'm not even a Varric "fan girl" and I can see it.

As evidenced by Cassandra and Aveline's implementation, Gaider thinks feminism is women in armor with pink hearts and square jaws. Making women equal means making women like men! Morrigan is the grand exception, but of course, she's presented as an utter bitch, as mostly all of the feminine women in Dragon Age are. Feminine is somehow "evil" in this world, a typically misogynistic view that is actually quite prevalent among gay men.

And then there's the way Dorian's every banter with Cassandra has him objectifying her and dressing her up like a doll in pretty scarves -- because that's exactly how gay men see women, as pretty dolls they can imitate and dress up and not as PEOPLE.

It's nice to see Bioware trying to learn from their past mistakes (I still don't trust them, though) but it would be nice if they would stop changing the lore in every game to shove "gender identity" down our throats.

The asari are women. WOMEN. Monogendered means ONE GENDER not no gender.

What is a woman? A human being with tits and a pussy. That is a woman.

Gender is not an identity. You are mentally ill and/or a misogynist who thinks a bunch of sexist stereotypes (dresses and makeup and high heels) and not physical attributes are what makes a woman. You can't even use the "what about women who don't have tits?" argument because those women are still born with female chromosomes.

White men in dresses are trying to redefine womanhood, are openly attacking women for talking about periods and female bodily functions, and are applauded for attacking queer women as "transphobic" for not liking dick.

Transgenderism is nothing but straight up misogyny in disguise, so it's not surprising that gay man David Gaider -- whose video games have always hated women -- would jump onboard alongside his equally misogynistic straight male friends at Bioware to spout this nonsense.

Yeah, I'll say it if no one else will.I do not fear the dark shithole of faux social justice madness that is tumblr. I’ve been attacked by you all before, and quite honestly, it’s just bouncing off at this point.

I liked Krim but the character was implemented badly, aggressively attacking the Inquisitor for being clueless and changing the qunari lore just to fit in the story.

I am honestly sick of this shit.

You could say to me, "Well, being gay is a mental illness too."

Well, even if it was, at least I'm not going around attacking women for talking about their bodies, silencing them, redefining their language, and telling them they're horrible people for not liking dick, which is literally the definition of being a lesbian.

My "mental illness" is not routinely used to attack other people. As a woman who likes women, I just want the freedom to love who I will and not be bothered or socially, economically oppressed about it. I am not out redefining manhood or telling men they have to like dick or else they're homophobic or something. I am not wearing bloody t-shirts and talking about beating up men for not including me, a woman, in their safe spaces.  

And just in case people are about to say it . . . no. This isn’t the same as lesbians not liking bisexuals. That is biphobia. Lesbians are sexually, romantically attracted to other women -- not just other lesbians -- and if they refuse to date bisexuals -- who are women -- on the basis on stereotypes and prejudice formed from a few bad experiences, that make them biphobic. End of. 

They are refusing to date a certain group of women on the basis of hate, even though they are sexually attracted to these women, who fall under the definition of “being attracted to other women.”

There’s a difference between a preference and prejudice. Preferring to date one group over another is wildly different than blowing off the other group entirely. 

This transgender shit has gotten out of hand, and I'm tired.

I don't have anything against transgender people. I don't care if you're a man and you want to wear a dress. Do whatever the hell you want, as long as you aren't hurting me. But please stop telling me you're a woman. Please stop trying to define what it means to be a woman. Stop invading my spaces to lecture me about your mental illness. Please have something to say in video games aside from "Hello, I'm transgender, now let me teach you about it" otherwise you're a token. Please stop bragging about beating up women who don't agree that having a dick makes you a woman (see how insane that sounds?).

You are biologically a man. You're a man. Gender is not an identity. It's a random happenstance at birth. Take some medication and see a therapist. Or don't. Just stop trying to tell me what a woman is.

No, I don't want you in my public restrooms. Why the hell should I? You are biologically a man. That makes you a danger to me. And if you want to argue about that, I've got thousands of years of history regarding all the biological men who raped, assaulted, and murdered women to support my argument. What have you got?

No, I don't want you in my prisons. See above.

No, I don't even want you in my video games at this point. Because all you do is show up to lecture me about your gender dysphoria and how I'm a bad person for not thinking a man with a dick is a woman. At least gay and bi characters these days actually have some backstory.  

Stop lecturing me about women's problems when you were born a man and were socially conditioned to behave like a man -- as is evidenced by all the bullying, violence, and mansplaining you do toward women.

Also, why are you calling yourselves two-spirits? For the love of god, stop appropriating words from cultures you don't even understand. The only "third" gender belongs to intersexual people, who are born with both sets of sexual organs. Everyone else is either a man or a woman. Period. What you imagine as a "gender identity" is just a bunch of a stereotypes you're confusing with gender roles. It just shows how sexist you are that you think being a woman is getting your hair done and polishing your nails.  

Get out of my spaces, get out of my face, get out of my public restrooms, and just get out.

If you're like Bioware and support violent transgender misogynistic activists, then please stop following this blog and kindly do not speak to me.

Do not send me angry private messages because I won't read them.

Fuck off and leave me alone.

/rant done

[mysdrymmumbles]

Andraste’s Witch - Chapter 63 - SFW

Pairings: Slowburn Cullen x F!Witch!Inquisitor

Rating: M for later chapters which will include violence, PTSD, withdrawal,  angst, body horror (think red templars), and possibly other stuff that I will be sure to tag. This is not actually a grimdark story, but I just wanna give people a heads up for stuff that will happen. There will also be fluff and friendship and magic (though to be fair, this is Thedas, so magic will not always be positive and very rarely as adorable as that last statement implied).

Genre: Action/Adventure with elements of romance  

Summary: Varric finds dissent among the ranks and is offered a deal that might help bring a more lighthearted atmosphere to Skyhold.

I’m going to be dropping updates to twice a month, I think, so that I will have time to work on other projects as well. 

Thank you to everyone who reads! You’re all great :D

Andraste’s Witch

Betting Man

“How can you be so useless? You’re a fucking writer!”

Varric slowly set his mug down to stare pointedly across the table at Hawke, a single brow quirking as a loud thud heralded Hawke planting his face against the table with an agonizing wail that could have been because he was miserable or because he’d actually hurt himself.

Rivaini was inspecting one of the small clusters of lords and ladies standing not far from where she sat beside him and paused to look him over once, checking for signs of blood, and then went back to her people watching. Varric’s spot in the main hall was great for it, and Rivaini liked figuring out who was probably stupid enough to carry something valuable on them.

She’d promised not to take—or at least keep—any of said valuables, at least.

As Varric stared at the wild tufts of black hair now protruding toward him, he leaned against the table, frowning. “I hate to break it to you, Hawke, but not everybody’s going to be your friend.”

It seemed like Kirkwall would have ingrained that fact of life into his head a long time ago, but the man had spent all morning lamenting over how their dear inquisitor hated him, largely due to a multitude of events that he’d had no control over.

“Why do you even care, sweet boy?” Rivaini asked with a sigh, elbows against the table to prop herself up as she finally lost interest in the people around them. There weren’t too terribly many, so Varric was somewhat surprised that she’d been preoccupied for as long as she had been.

“I just…” Hawke started, sitting upright to reveal a slight red bruise on his nose from when he’d flopped forward. “I just want to hug her and give her things and keep her safe.”

Rivaini didn’t miss a beat, instead sighing and leaning her head back so that her long dark locks curled against the table. “Ah, sweet thing. Please stop. You can’t adopt every single person who looks like they had a hard life.”

“She’s like Bethany, though,” Hawke objected, forgetting Varric for the moment to look pleadingly at his lover. “Or…at least what I think Bethany might have ended up like if she hadn’t had Father and the rest of us there to keep her safe from templars.”

Even as Rivaini murmured something, tawny fingers running through Hawke’s wild hair and making it messier, Varric’s face fell.

He tried not to think of ‘what if’s and ‘what had happened’s when it came to the people around him, he really did.

But to think that Stardust might have been more like Sunshine if she’d just gotten a little be of security and…

And who was to say she hadn’t gotten that?

Other than her constant paranoia and the way she never wanted to trust anyone.

Well, except for the one person who might not be the best to trust. More and more, it seemed that Curly was the one Stardust sought out. Whenever Varric saw her, she was either looking for him, just leaving his company, or actually with the man.

From what he could tell, it was making the Rebel mages antsy, as they knew the commander by reputation.

Kirkwall reputation.

Varric had been looking for Sparkler the other day to ask him what he knew about the blonde boy. Cole, he’d said, hadn’t he? He’d told Varric to talk to Stardust, and yet somehow, with everything going on, he’d forgotten.

However, a lot was at work at the moment, and he was fairly certain some of the mages were looking for the boy, though they were oddly quiet about it.

A secretive lot, mages.

Though, Varric supposed they had their reasons. It had to have been hard, living in the Circles, always worried that idle curiosities might lead to undesirable attention or accusations. Blondie had always spoken so hatefully of the Circles, and every mage they’d helped escape from Kirkwall had been equally disdainful.

And with good reason. If the inside of the Circle had been any hint as to what they went through when they were there, it was a wonder they hadn’t all rebelled a long time ago.

However, as he’d wandered the library level of the tower, searching for Sparkler, he’d happened upon two mages talking, and as seemed to be the blessing of a writer, he’d come in at a rather opportune moment for eavesdropping.

“Bet she’d have luck with dealing with it,” the first voice had said. “She’s from the Wilds. She’s got to be used to monsters and demons, right?”

“Sure, go ask her,” the second voice had hissed. “Just go up to the templar bastard and tell him you need his pet for a few minutes.”

“She outranks him.”

There was a scoff. “You really believe they’d let a mage run a religious organization? They gave her a pretty title to placate us.”

“She’s the Herald of Andraste.”

“You cannot be this stupid.” When there was a muttered rebuttal, the second voice took in a long breath and held it before impatiently snapping, “You and I—and all the templars—know how she got her damned eyes that way.”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona and Senior Enchanter Reinald both say she’s not a blood mage. That her eyes aren’t the same as a blood mage’s would be.”

“Of course they say that!” The second voice rose a second before a shush hushed her. After a pause to make sure no one was coming to see what the fuss was about, the second voice added, “If we’re caught supporting a blood mage, they’ll murder us all, and they won’t even need a Rite of Annulment to do it.”

“Well, if she’s a blood mage, then how is she that knight-commander’s pet? From all the stories, he abhors blood magic. He’d have killed her himself.” Before they could be countered, the first voice added, “And anyway, how do we know that’s the same knight-commander from Kirkwall?  Maybe he’s someone else.”

“Now you’re arguing against yourself.”

“No, I’m saying I don’t think she’s a blood mage. The templars would have picked up on that. They’re paranoid like that.”

“Which is why he keeps her so close. To keep an eye on her. Or maybe he’s under her thrall.”

Though there was sort of an aha from the first voice, rather than continue the argument, they were quiet a moment before saying, “It would explain why he seems to keep limited company with the other templars…but no! I won’t believe that. She’s closing the rifts and helping the world. As a mage. That’s got to count for something.”

“You’re impossible to talk to,” the woman muttered before adding, “but if you want to ask her about demons when she gets back, by all means, pry her away from her templar. You could do it to see which of them is the one in control. Just don’t expect sympathy when you get skewered.”

There was a rustling of fabric as one of them began to walk away.

Then, the more optimistic voice asked, “What if she stays near him to keep an eye on him?”

“Like I said, go find out when she gets back.”

And with that, the two had hurried off to do whatever it was they’d been avoiding.

Even as Varric had considered what they were saying—wondered just how deeply this divide in the mages’ trust went—he’d shifted from where he’d sat on the floor and almost shit himself when he turned to find someone sitting right beside him.

Sparkler had waved, his smirk making his moustache curl even more in a most devious way.

According to the Tevinter, there were a lot of those conversations going around, and they were worse with since Stardust had headed out again.

Worse with Cole gone.

Varric didn’t know what that meant, and had been annoyed that Sparkler had refused to explain it, instead shrugging innocently and then warning him not to bring Cole up to the Iron Lady.

Again, no explanation as to why.  

And that’s where he was no. No reasons behind the rhymes and the unsavory fact that Stardust was head over heels for someone who had once stated that he thought all mages should be made tranquil—or he had, according to Hawke in his more recent rant about how he didn’t understand how Curly hadn’t gone mad yet from all the free mages wandering about.

Maker’s balls, but if Hawke found out that Stardust trusted Curly more than him…

That was a wound to his pride that would take years to recover from.

“If you really want to try to win her favor,” Rivaini began, voice slow and expression one that conveyed what a waste of time she thought this was. “You could find a way to help her.”

“But how?” Hawke slumped back against the table, chin resting on the edge. “I’ve been trying to think of ways and so far, all I’ve got is wrangling another spider and bringing it here.”

“Please don’t bring man-eating spiders to Skyhold,” Varric protested, frown firmly in place.

Even as he spoke, Seeker came striding through the hall with her usual air or righteous distaste for life. However, just as Varric considered suggesting that Hawke talk to her of all people for advice, a most unusual thing occurred.

One of the templars who guarded Stardust—he hadn’t a nickname for him yet—intercepted her, stopping Seeker a few feet from their table.

Instantly, there was a change.

Seeker’s cheeks flushed a little, her stance became awkward as though she didn’t know if she wished to stand up straight or cross her arms or just hide. She tumbled over her words, her sure tone gone, and Varric wished he were close enough to hear this conversation, instead of only picking up the dull murmur of words.

“Which of our strapping templars do you think will succeed first, I wonder?”

Varric nearly jumped out of his skin as he realized that somehow Sparkler had snuck up on him again. The Tevinter grinned, most amused at his continued success, watching Varric’s surprise shift to a scowl.

“What’s that?” Hawke was the one to ask.

Sparkler frowned at Hawke, glanced toward the awkward duo several feet from them and rolled his eyes. “If I am truly the only one who’s noticed this, then just ignore me.”

“You can’t say that to him and expect him to drop it.” Rivaini sighed, shifting around so that she could prop her head in her hands, elbows braced against the table. “He won’t.”

Sparkler rolled his eyes, drumming his fingers against the table as he looked forlornly at Rivaini. “But what fun is it for me if I’m one sharing all the information? The looks on your faces will hardly be worth my while.”

Despite a bit of prodding, Sparkler would say no more, instead grumpily watching as Ser Trevelyan and Seeker concluded their awkward conversation and went their separate ways. Just as the mage started to get up, Varric found more guests to his table.

Things had been getting busier as the castle came together and more and more people arrived, though he couldn’t really complain. People always had a way of filling in blanks that he never expected to be filled. The other day, a maid had stopped to rest her feet and had chattered away about something or other that had been going on in the stables and how she’d heard the warden there seemed uncomfortable with their new warden.

The more people he talked to, the bigger and clearer the picture became.

And so he didn’t mind when Buttercup and their new arcanist—when had they asked for an arcanist?—came up to the table, arms laden with various alchemical supplies.

“Oi, they finished prettying up the Undercroft, yeah?” Buttercup began, standing a bit taller as she shifted the box of breakables in her arms rather unceremoniously. “Gotta move shite in so we get the good corners before Harritt.”

“That poor man,” Sparkler protested. “They’re sticking him in with red lyrium?”

“Use your blightin’ head,” Sera snapped, rolling her eyes. “Can’t be stuck with something we don’t got yet.”

“If you have some time,” Dagna interjected before mage and elf could get into a proper argument, “could you help us move? We’d like to get everything set up so we can figure out where to store the red lyrium so that it’ll be safest.”

Though there was some resistance from both Rivaini and Sparkler, the whole lot of them ended up roped into rounding up and moving the various oddities that an arcanist used. Prior to this, her tools had been shoved wherever there was room for them, and so it was a bit trying to figure out where everything was.

Fortunately, Dagna had an incredible mental inventory and was able to say what was missing, if asked.

Once everything was assembled, they sprawled out in the remaining space, allowing their weary limbs to rest.

Bree Cadash had joined them at some point, and while she sat near Dagna and Buttercup, she took to inspecting the rest of them. “My carta heard stories of some caves just inside Orlais that are filled with red lyrium. I need a few people to come with me to check it out, maybe bring back a few samples.”

“That shit is dangerous,” Varric protested, though he already knew his words were going to be ignored.

“Well, I’m not going near the stuff unless I absolutely have to,” Sparkler objected. He was sprawled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “That stuff is a death sentence to mages.”

“It’s a death sentence to everyone,” Varric muttered.

However, as he knew it would, no one listened. Buttercup was the one to pipe up next. “Well, if Finley’s gonna cure it, she’s got to study it. You’d think magic would just be magic, but apparently it’s got all kinds of creepy rules to it.”

Dagna perked up at that. “Oh, they aren’t creepy. It’s pretty fun really.”

“And you would know how? Dwarves don’t go around setting things on fire.”

“Not with our minds,” Bree corrected.

As that derailed the conversation into talk of explosives and the like, Varric ran his hands down his face. Dealing with red lyrium would not end well. It had made his brother mad, had killed Meredith and countless other templars, and it canceled magic.

Who in their right mind would want to keep that nearby?

Though…

Stardust was a healer, and from what he’d heard, she was very upset about the red lyrium, now that she’d figured out more about it.

What, she hadn’t said before she’d left, and she’d taken almost everyone who knew what she’d figured out with her.

Varric had considered asking Curly about it, but the one time he’d brought of Stardust to the commander after she’d left, he’d been so ridiculously awkward that Varric had given up on him.

He understood that the man seemed to have a growing fondness for their inquisitor, but even that didn’t warrant him getting so…bent out of shape.

Varric couldn’t explain it, but he was missing something there. Perhaps he’d brought up his feelings, and she’d turned him down? It would explain the lost feel that seemed to come from him.

“Hey,” Bree interrupted his thoughts as she tossed a small orb of something at Sparkler. It bounced off harmlessly and rolled off. “Magister—”

“Altus.”

“—you ask Varric to host the bet yet?”

“Me?” Varric rocked back where he was sitting, moving so that he could eye both Bree and Sparkler with minimal head movement. “Why me? And what bet?”

Sera snorted at that, starting to ask something only to fall into a cackling fit that overtook her and wouldn’t allow for words. Dagna giggled along with her, eyes alight.

“Does this have to do with the lady seeker and her templar beau?” Hawke asked, perking up a little. So Varric wasn’t the only one still wondering about Sparkler’s earlier comments.

With a nod, Bree leveled her gaze at Varric, trying to fight a grin. “It’s rather clear that certain people’s affections are becoming obvious to anyone with eyes, and so we wanted to start a bet about it.” Even as Hawke started to ask for clarification, wondering if this was indeed about Seeker or not, Bree held up a hand, willing him to have some patience. “Everyone is basically holding their breath, waiting for the next catastrophe to strike. We don’t know what Corypheus is planning. We have no way to strike against him, and so we thought a light-hearted bet might boost morale.”

Hawke cocked his head, considering it. Honestly, it was something he would have done back in Kirkwall. Rivaini seemed mildly interested, as well.

Bree motioned to Varric. “You’re personable and easy to talk to, and good with numbers from what I hear—secrets, too—so we thought you’d be good to be the bookie.”

“Okay, I admit it: I’m intrigued.” Varric couldn’t help but grin as Hawke bit back a laugh. “What’s the bet?”

“Which templar will get his lady first,” Dagna piped up, smile bright as the damned sun.

Even as it sunk in to Varric what they were talking about, Hawke furrowed his brow. “You’re going to have to elaborate on that. Are a bunch of templars falling in love?”

“Just two for the bet,” Bree shrugged. “Ser Trevelyan, and the more obvious Commander. Both men are like love-struck puppies, and both their lady interests seem to reciprocate, yet somehow also seem unsure as to what in the void’s going on, so it’s a matter of seeing which poor bastard manages to get through to his lady first.”

While Buttercup berated Sparkler for not getting things set up already and he shot back that he didn’t like having to explain everything, Hawke sat where he was, expression unreadable as the gears turned slowly in his head.

“You mean to tell me that the commander, as in Commander Cullen Rutherford, has feelings for someone?” Varric held his breath as he watched Hawke let out a laugh and then nudge Rivaini. “I’ll be damned. I didn’t think he had a heart. I’m in.”

That brought a few disbelieving laughs from those who hadn’t known Curly in Kirkwall, though Buttercup seemed more keen on that information than the others.

“Right, right, so,” Dagna waved her hand when Hawke started to ask for details. “Here’s the deal: No interfering. Can’t try to set them up or help them out—”

“Or hinder them,” Sparkler added, though Buttercup just glared at him before continuing.

“Or hinder them so that the other couple gets together first.”

Rivaini leaned back against Hawke, arching her brow. “So we just watch these sad fools try to blunder their way through romance on their own? Can’t give advice or anything?”

“Nothing.”

“What if they ask?”

At that, Hawke scoffed, “Cullen’s not about to ask anyone in this room, and I doubt that other templar would, either.”

“But if one of them does, what’s the policy?” Rivaini persisted, lightly elbowing Hawke in the stomach.

After a brief debate, they finally settled on the rules. No interference. If one was asked for help, one must find their way out of it or give up their shot at winning the bet. If the ladies asked for help, it was again to be considered interference and generic, unhelpful advice was to be given, like ‘follow your heart’.

And above all else, the four involved in the bet must never learn of it.

Varric had spent the whole conversation watching Hawke, waiting for him to ask who it was that the commander fancied, and yet somehow, that little detail never came up.

Likely, everyone else already knew who was involved and didn’t think it needed stating.

In the end, it seemed that Hawke was too amused with the idea that Curly could actually having feelings to consider who those feelings might be for, for even when the subject shifted back to red lyrium, he made not attempts to backtrack.

Varric wished he would, especially when Hawke realized that perhaps procuring some red lyrium samples might make him ‘even’ for squishing Stardust’s spider.

With a groan, Varric had resigned himself to the fact that he was likely about to be traveling into Orlais with his idiot of a best friend, all while trying to figure out how to break it to him gently that the mage he was equating to his sister had a fondness for one of the few people Hawke genuinely couldn’t stand.

Ancestors’ balls, but his was going to be a miserable trip.

[foxymuses]

---- im still working thru painting some things rn (i gotta paint at least one more for tomorrow when i mail them out) but i gotta say a thing before i lose it

on the topic of warren and his family, he wasn’t super close to them. not the way i see a lot of hawkes portray their muses. like, ren was very close to malcolm because malcolm was the one who helped ren hide his abilities through mastering dual daggers, and the majority of ren’s abilities are so powerful because 1) the amell AND hawke magic genes are strong but 2) because he had malcolm to teach him outside chantry law. 

he had never been incredibly close to leandra on the basis that he had never had too much in common with her. he loved her, he did, and growing up (before the twins), ren and leandra were close enough where things were friendly and familial. but when the twins were born, her focus shifted almost entirely to them, while malcolm kept ren in mind. 

warren did his best to help raise the twins, and he has always been incredibly protective of them, but naturally he was closer to bethany because they both had magic. while bethany and carver were close because of being twins, carver and warren always had a strained relationship. not antagonistic, and they could count on each other where it mattered, but carver was always at the end of the ��see what warren is doing? be like that’ or even the “don’t do what your brother did”. everything was in reference to warren, not even by warren’s choice, and that fueled carver’s desire to prove himself.

because warren is naturally a chill person (like, he could be high all the time and it would be no different than how he already is), he didn’t view this as anything one way or another. in fact, a lot of the time, he wasn’t even around when carver got these comparisons, and when he would hear about it, or when someone would say ‘did you hear what carver did’ or something to that effect, warren was more or less unaffected. he didn’t care how similar or different he and carver were. and this lack of care only furthered carver’s irritation at his older brother, because carver had to overthink everything in case he acted too much or not enough like warren, and especially to make sure his two siblings stayed apostates. he would never have turned them over to the templars, but it was often a point of frustration between the two hawke brothers that bethany was far more careful and precise in her magic use where ren was hidden but less concerned.

it became a worse point when carver found out that ren’s specialty in magic was blood magic. not that malcolm taught him that, but ren found it easy to use when he was using daggers as his main weapon, because daggers create little cuts and gashes everywhere so manipulating that was only logical. it created a huge blow out between the two, and ren and carver didn’t speak for several weeks, wouldn’t even be in the same room. malcolm and leandra had to finally say ‘this is enough, get over it’

then of course, malcolm died and warren became the technical head of the hawkes (leandra was still in charge, but as the eldest, warren now had to take on a vast majority of the responsibility). that meant he was also in charge of carver. this caused the rift to grow further.

then came the blight and escaping to kirkwall, where several times you can hear carver comment on how they wouldn’t have even made it were it not for his older brother, a fact he resents but acknowledges, made worse by the fact warren is only half sure what he’s doing at any point in time. top off everything by losing bethany, and things get worse. this brings us back to leandra, because after malcolm died, leandra sort of also started to crumple, and while she did run away with a mage, she was still aristocratic in upbringing, so her and warren had different ideals and handles on things. running for your life across the wilds was not something she knew how to handle properly, and while she deferred to warren for decisions, that meant she also put all the blame for bethany’s death on his shoulders. it doesn’t matter if she really did blame him or not, warren was now handling the death of his sister, the animosity of his brother, and his mother’s grief by himself. and he does blame himself for everything, even though he knows its not entirely his fault, because he is the eldest and he should be able to protect them all better than he is.

in an effort to maintain the peace, he leaves carver behind when they go to the deep roads, because he doesn’t want to risk him dying and having to let leandra know that another child is gone, and placing that blame on warren’s shoulders too. so carver stayed, and when warren gets back, he finds out that carver joined the templars. and that hurt. 

and he knows a lot of the reasons the templars leave him alone is because carver, even if he is an ass, keeps them off warren’s tail one way or another, but at least in my playthru warren and carver were at 100% rivalry before they even hit the deep roads. after the initial letter about settling in among the templars, they don’t speak at all until leandra dies.

and this, too, is different for warren, because he wasn’t close to leandra by any means. he worked his way back into high town for her, and restored her name with the viscount, but aside from dinners and the occasional fireside chat, they rarely interacted. leandra had more discussions with bodan and sandal than she did with ren, because he was out unwillingly solving kirkwall’s issues. in fact, aveline came over to talk to leandra more than ren did.

so when leandra is part of that ritual and dies in his arms, he’s sad but he’s not depressed. the worst is the guilt -- it’s nice to hear her tell him she’s proud of him, something she hasn’t really ever said in sincerity, and the fact she dies from blood magic, something he himself practices, definitely hits too close to home. but aside from throwing himself at bandits or highwaymen a bit harder than usual, he doesn’t really grieve her all that much. he’s not happy she’s dead, of course, and he for sure blames himself, but he doesn’t feel as lost without her as he did without his father.

so then he bumps into carver after the qunari start their shit, and there’s a very tense exhange where he asks if carver got his letter about leandra, to which carver did but couldn’t come for the funeral because he was out of the city on training, and then they part ways with a few disguised ‘be carefuls’ and that’s that.

when the big boss battle comes in act 3, despite their problems, carver won’t fight against warren, and warren would have ever only incapacitated carver to prevent him from hurting any of ren’s friends or to keep him out of the fight. they’re still brothers, and he still love carver, they’re just not friendly. and he still has aveline take carver from the city when shit hits the fan.

carver is one of the first to know that warren was left in the fade, and he’s also one of the last to find out that warren crawled his way out and is fine. their lives are not connected save a letter here or there, mostly written by varric. and when varric becomes viscount of kirkwall, and carver returns to the city, the high town estate has been transferred to his name per warren’s request. after that, though, their interactions essentially stop.

obviously with people who write these characters, things can change around based on how our muses interact, but default-wise, warren did not have substantial relationships with most of his family, and considers his companions more family than his family was (mostly varric and aveline, as they were his first friends, and are the only two (aside from anders who can just tell) who know ren uses blood magic at all). 

there’s no real point to this, it just needed saying. warren will protect his family, naturally, but they are not something he is emotionally attached to. 

[howtoworshipseshat]

💯

you know what. i actually love that trying to talk to solas was the last thing varric did and it ended in complete failure. especially if you put it in the context of his feelings about anders. varric was so bitter every time he mentioned him because he could not stop him. he didn't even realize that anders was up to something and when it was too late he started to think of him as of someone who destroyed that fragile peace in kirkwall that actually never existed.

it adds layers to the way he felt about solas. he believed that time he could stop a friend who simply lost his way. because varric tethras can talk anyone out of anything, can't he? anders was just too dodgy and self-centred and cut everyone off just like solas did but this time varric is completely prepared. surely. absolutely.

he could have never talked anders out of it even if he had known what was coming. he could have never talked solas out of it either. anders was a desperate person standing against (as varric himself put it) forces he couldn't possibly defeat. solas was a god standing against a couple of mortals and his own conscience buried under his guilt and regrets. being a good friend would not stop meredith's oppression. being a good friend would not stop someone who fears so much that all of the atrocities he committed were for nothing and would mean nothing at the end. varric died because he didn't realize it. he died and left his second in command with an immense guilt because they believed he knew solas enough to pull that off and there's something tragic about it