#davrilla

[mythals-whore]

Day 5: Bestiary

full piece on ao3

(divider from THIS post, thank you @flowersforthemachines)

The beginnings of his monster manual are scattered across its surface: drawings, wood shavings, and various notes. Davrin settles into the desk chair with a sigh, shuffling through it all.

It's been in the works for years now, every monster he ever faced—and some he hasn't. Always on the move, sleeping on forest floor and in strange strange taverns there was never much time to be dedicated solely to the prospect. The bestiary was just constant notes collected in a leather-bound notebook. An odd sketch here and there. In the past several months he's been busy cataloging the new forms of darkspawn they've encountered, as well as all the strange new creatures in Arlathan. The face (if it could be called that) of one of the fade-creatures they've run across in Arlathan stares up at him with it's bloodied petals and many, many razor sharp teeth. They haven't yet come up with a name for them—all of Rook's suggestions have been unhelpful. Bellara's even more so.

Davrin decided he'd agonize over such things later. He didn't want to wind up with a name like 'The Gloom Howler' a second time round.

Though a quick leaf through the pages has him snagging on something else. A sketch of Assan curled up by the fire, his neck and chin laid flat on the carpet, feet bent at the elbow juncture and tucked in close to his body. No better than a housecat. There were others of him, too. None as anatomical as his other drawings.

Rook teased him about it just the other day, having snatched a page of Assan off his desk upon a remarkably soundless entry.

I didn't take you for an artist.

Davrin had rolled his eyes. He's hardly that.

The drawing came out of necessity rather than passion for any kind of art. In the early days of monster hunting, Davrin was in far over his head. There was a monster terrorizing a local village in Rivain—a dracolisk, he found out later. It's hide was too hard to pierce, adorned with too may spikes and scales, claws sharp enough to rend a man limb from limb with a single strike—which Davrin very nearly learned from firsthand experience. No matter what he tries, nothing seemed to pierce it.

So he made the trip to Dairsmuid.

He went first to the circle of magi, which was where he encountered his first problem. Describing a large beast with claws like needles and hide like stone didn't get him much of anywhere.

He was directed to a bestiary written by a man that Davrin still isn't sure had even seen half the monsters depicted in those pages. The Varterral was all wrong, rockwraiths certainly take more than one arrow to kill and the author hadn't even bothered differentiating the brand of wyvern that spit acid from the ones who spewed fire. At the very least, Davrin thought a mage would have known what a rage demon looked like.

Ludrik certainly could have fooled him.

A year later, he was near Ventus, dealing with a Chimera—likely unleashed by blood magic. Davrin still bears the marks of that one too, along the back of his left shoulder and thigh. There was a scholar in the city he'd heard of, Balmor.

Davrin had taught himself to sketch by that point—they were rough things, but descriptive enough for him to find information when he needed it. Balmor, expert that he was, couldn't recognize a chimera if its serpent's tail had wrapped itself around his throat.

Davrin had already been keeping track, then. His own knowledge and experience stuffed into a small, leather bound book that was often wet, it's pages punctured more than once. He learned to sketch fast and remember the small details for later. That last part wasn't particularly difficult. Davrin actually found it difficult to forget the rancid, noxious breath of a harpy or the exact number of teeth inside the mouth of a great wyrm.

It was a skill more than a hobby at the start but Davrin supposes it'd be a lie to pretend it wasn't both, sometimes. At least the whisper of charcoal pencil on parchment is unlikely to wake either of the current residents of his bed.

And somehow, staring at a blank page, Davrin cannot even conceptualize a monster he's yet to draw.

Except one.

[woundedsoul12]

Yesss its amazing ❤️❤️❤️

A lovely sketch commission for @mythals-whore's Rook and Davrin!!! Thanks so much for commissioning me, it was a real treat!

My commissions are open! I do quick sketch commissions (such as above) and also full lineart + flat colour! Info about commissions is on my pinned post :)

[seaglassmelody]

Swinging wildly back the other direction-

I love it when people come up with ship names for their Rook ships it’s so cute :)

[mythals-whore]

Day 3: The Calling*

(you thought you were so safe from me, but you forgot i was evil)

*venture under the cut at your own risk.

(divider from THIS post, thank you @flowersforthemachines)

"Something wrong?"

Cyri bites at the inside of her cheek and gingerly places the dish on the drying rack. She dries her hands, taking a long moment to herself before she turns to him determinedly, "I have something to show you."

Davrin blinks.

"Alright," he says slowly, reaching for her discarded towel to dry his own hands.

He follows to her desk where Cyri is sliding a key into the hole of her top left desk drawer. The lock clicks and Davrin's frown deepens—he'd never had any reason to check, but he hadn't realized she bothered locking it. Out of the drawer comes a sheaf of papers and a long, thin leather-bound book. She sets these things on her desk with finality before looking at him.

Davrin takes the silent invitation, dread settling heavy in his stomach for a reason he can't quite pinpoint. It's something about her wary eyes, the way her fingers press into the desk until her knuckles turn white.

He searches her impassive face for any hint of what awaits him. When he finally starts rifling through her things, it takes him less than a dozen words to understand. Davrin closes his eyes, breath turning stale in his lungs.

"Dorian's had this research for a long time." she explains, "After Elgar'nan, he and Mae worked to improve it." Davrin can tell from the set of her jaw and the way she seems determined not to look at him she already knows his answer. "It's not a longterm solution, but it's safe. It would give us more time to—"

"Cyri."

She stares determinedly at the research laid out before him, but he catches the wobble in her lip.

"Why not?" she demands, and when she finally looks up, her eyes are burning. "Tell me why you won't even try—"

"It's blood magic, Cyri."

"So?" she demands, and he gapes at her. "Use mine." the plea enters her voice then. Her lip wobbles again, so she presses them together. "I—" her voice breaks with his heart. "Please, don't."

"I don't have a choice, sweetheart," he reaches for her, an attempt to soften the blow. She steps out of his reach and all of the broken pieces of him press into his stomach.

"You do." she insists, "You do have a choice and your choice is to leave."

Frustration and love war within him, but finally he says, "It's not a long-term solution. You said it yourself."

"But it would give us more time."

"Cyri I—" Davrin breaks off with a sigh, running a hand over his face. He reaches for her hands, and this time she doesn't deny him. His hands close over hers, and he sits back into her chair, pulls her until she's standing between his legs. He stares at their entwined hands, thumbs running over her skin. "The song it's…" Roaring in his ears, pressing against his skull. "I'm not sleeping. My head it—I can't think." the first hot tear hits their entwined hands. He doesn't look up, "I've seen what happens to Wardens when they wait too long. They get weak, angry. I can't…I don't want you to see that."

Davrin looks up, to a clenched jaw and silent tears. A muscle in her jaw flicks. It seems difficult for her to meet his eyes as she croaks, "When?"

[mythals-whore]

Your Ship as Text Posts

thanks @rooks-dagger for the tag(:

not to brag but...text posts are my passion (pt. I, pt. II, pt. III) fortunately, I do have more. (you could not stop me if you tried)

Passing this tag to @basedonconjecture @thedissonantverses @gingervitus @blightedcrow @jouskaroo @seaglassmelody @serensama @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @davrinsleftpectoral @becausedragonage @erin-unknown @hedwigoprah @antivan-sprig

And also, anyone who sees this & wants to, please tag me, text posts are my passion <3

[mythals-whore]

it’s them i’m afraid

[mythals-whore]

they’re everything to me. He would defend her war crimes i fear.

[mythals-whore]

WIP Wednesday

I happened to come across @sugar-peanut-cat WIP post so I'm taking that as the official WIP Wednesday kick-off 🫡

In that spirit, I am tagging @basedonconjecture @biowarebisexualdisaster @becausedragonage @bg3daydream @ofcrowsanddragons @glitteringdust @gingervitus @operative-arrow @muqington AND @woundedsoul12

I have been in WIP hell because I wrote like three chapters that I'm now in the midst of re-writing but I did manage to get something down that I don't entirely hate, so here is a small excerpt(:

"Harding won't be pleased if I have to tell her you spent your life to get her back." The Inquisitor murmurs in a tone that's familiar only from his childhood. "Especially in something as unnecessary as that." magic leaks warmly into his chest cavity, stealing his breath as his ribs snap back together. "Neither will Cyri." the Inquisitor adds softly, sharply. At the mention of her name, Davrin bristles. "It wasn't unnecessary—" "It was." she insists in a tone that brooks no argument. Davrin scowls at the cavern wall. "You were reckless." Davrin vehemently disagrees, but knows his counter argument is of no real use. The truth is that he'd grown too used to it—having Cyri at his back, forging ahead at his side. You leave your right side open, she told him once, her dagger poised just below where the Inquisitor's magic leaks in now. It coats his insides like syrup before it begins to itch, flesh knitting itself back together. For several minutes, they all endure a silence marked only by the faint hum of magic and the striking of flint on steel as Stalgard works on starting a fire. Assan lets out a small warble as he plants himself at Davrin's side, ruffling his own feathers almost like he agrees with the Inquisitor's assessment. Davrin slides a slightly resentful hand over the creature's head. Intentionally reckless or not, Davrin needed to be more careful. For the team, for Assan. the hand that isn't on Assan's head slides to his pocket. For Cyri. "Did you know her before?" Davrin hears himself ask, and the Inquisitor shoots him an odd look, thoughtful as she sits on an old stone chair, the back of it having been half-hewn off. "You don't call her Rook." he says by way of clarifying the question.

[mythals-whore]

Ship Sleep Dynamics

thanks for the tag @basedonconjecture I feel like it's been a sec since I yapped about them. I will be passing the tag along to @gingervitus @sugar-peanut-cat @jouskaroo @pinayelf & @cute-ellyna if you would like (:

How often do they sleep together?

In the beginning? Almost never. But post-game they basically never spend a night apart. Taking "Wherever you are, there I am" very literal I'm afraid. Assan is also included in their sleep arrangements until he gets so big that he breaks the bed frame and from then on sleeps right next to the bed.

Where do they sleep?

At the Lighthouse they definitely sleep in the Guesthouse (duh) After, they get a Minrathous equivalent of a one-bedroom apartment where occasionally Cyri falls asleep on the sofa before being air-lifted to bed.

How do they prepare to sleep?

 I think I'm legally required to include the drinking of whiskey into their bedtime ritual. I do think that at some point they trade this practice for like a chamomile or peppermint tea instead. When they really get into a routine, it includes making tea and then sitting in bed together while Davrin works on his monster manual and Cyri reads (sometimes she proofreads for him, most times she reads Tevinter serials, and when something especially ridiculous happens she'll gasp aloud and then immediately relay it to Davrin which results in a discussion about just how ridiculous it is). And when they've finished tea and are properly tired they have what I in my real life call "worm hours" which is, of course, where you are allowed to ask questions like "would you love still love me if I was a worm" but I think with Cyri it's "but if I had an endurance potion and flaming swords, don't you think that would be enough for me to defeat a hydra by myself?" and Davrin always sighs heavily and is like "I really wish you wouldn't." These discussions always conclude with ridiculous stakes that allow Cyri to take on whatever monster it is on her own but a promise that she'd never try it without him.

What do they wear to sleep?

Cyri is a "strip to my smallclothes and fall into bed" type girl. Davrin is basically the same. However, I think post canon Cyri gets ridiculously frilly silk nightgowns that she wears to bed (and rarely to sleep).

Do they cuddle?

I know in my heart that Davrin is a cuddler. For Cyri I think it depends how tired she is. If she's really tired, she can fall asleep in any position. But on a regular basis I think she's a cuddle before we sleep and then kick you to your side. Because Davrin is such a cuddler I think there are occasional middle-of-the-night snuggles but also in my heart I think Davrin runs very warm so Cyri is always kicking/elbowing him away.

How easy do they fall asleep?

In general, both fall asleep pretty easy. As much as I think they're both hyper-vigilant from being on their own, they've also both been part of a larger force (Wardens and Legion specifically) and are used to taking sleep when they need it. (As much as Cyri chooses not to sleep during the events og Veilguard, it's not because she can't, it's more because she doesn't want to/there are other things she feels she needs to do before she can)

Do they toss and turn a lot?

No, but Davrin's warden nightmares can sometimes cause him to move a lot in his sleep. But they sort of establish a rule of, if his tossing and turning wakes Cyri, she'll gently wake him so they fall back asleep together. Cyri only tosses and turns when she can't sleep, which usually means something is bothering her and she won't actually be able to sleep until she takes care of it.

Do they snore?

I have to be honest, Davrin looks like he snores. Not super loud or obnoxious but I think he's a soft rumbly snorer. And I really believe that. He knows it's true but if Cyri complains about it he claims to not know what she's talking about.

Who hogs the blanket?

Davrin. Because he'll try to cuddle Cyri and then wind up either stealing blankets or cuddling with Assan instead.

What do they dream about?

Davrin mostly has the standard Grey Warden dreams which range from 'vaguely unsettling' to 'cosmically horrifying'. On the occasion he has a nice dream, I think he dreams about being in Arlathan with Assan most of the time. Sometimes he has dreams about herding halla or about his mom singing to him. :')

Post-canon, I think Cyri has lots of unsettling regret-prison dreams. they're less nightmares that have her startling awake and more those kind of weird dreams that have her waking feeling like she hasn't slept. I think Cyri's dreams are the kind of dreams where she wakes up like "I dreamt that I was following a talking cat around docktown and he made me catch fish and then fry it for him even though I told him I could just take him to Hal's instead." They're odd but always charming.

How easily do they wake up?

I don't think Davrin is a particularly deep sleeper, which comes from all that time on his own + Warden nightmares. He can go back to sleep pretty easily.

Cyri was very similar to the above pre-Davrin, but is so much more of a deep sleeper now that she wakes for almost nothing except a particularly bad nightmare (from either of them)

How awake they are afterwards?

Davrin is a routine guy + he's the one who wakes to feed Assan. So he wakes at basically the same time every day, and when he opens his eyes he's awake-awake.

If Cyri is woken in emergency-mode, the adrenaline obviously curbs the sleepiness pretty quick. But on a regular basis, she's awake but moving slow until she's had (half of) a coffee. She rarely finishes a cup of coffee, but claims to really love it.

[mythals-whore]

if you need me NO YOU DO NOT

[mythals-whore]

what if i...

Davrin wakes, immediately aware of the missing weight on the other side of the bed. He rolls onto his stomach, reaching across rapidly cooling sheets.

He opens bleary eyes to find the space beside him decidedly empty. Eyes lift to the flicker of movement at the corner of the room.

Davrin hasn't yet grown used to the way she moves with silent precision. There's barely a whisper if sound even as she snatches several power packs of the table, undoubtedly sliding them into the bandolier across her chest. Her back is still turned toward him as she tosses her cloak around her shoulders.

Dressed. Fully dressed. Like she's going somewhere.

Davrin glances just above her. There's the barest hint of morning light through the sliver of a window. She must only have slept for an hour. Two at most.

And she's leaving.

"Where are you going?" Davrin asks.

She doesn't flinch, casting an indifferent glance over her shoulder, "I have business."

It isn't hard to believe. Over the years of their acquaintance she was always flitting iff to some place or another in the name of rebellion, rarely giving hint to wear. He was used to that, hadn't been ubder any real illusions that would change. He had been under the impression that she'd at least guve him some warning before she left, but he supposes a loth cat doesn't so easily change its spots.

Davrin sits up warily, sheets sliding down low around his waist, "When will you be back?"

"I don't know." She turns, still fastening the cloak at her throat. An excuse, Davrin thinks, not to meet his eyes.

A theory which is proven when she looks past him, settling on her blasters and darting away again.

And that's when Davris is sure that there is no business. None that's urgent, none that called her away in the early hours of the morning. Nothing to justify her leaving like this. She turns away again busing herself with her things.

Davrin glares for a moment at the back of her head before letting his eyes toam the rest of the room. His own clothes are still strewn about, boots in a heeo by the floor, spare parts and tools strewn on the desk as a result of their reckless enthusiasm form the night before.

Davrin slips out of bed, slipping underclothes back on—which is when his eyes snag on the comm link still set on the trunk at the edge of his bed.

He stares at it for a long moment.

"Where are you going?" He asks again, standing to his feet, the commlink in hand. It's unblinking, still off.

Her side of the bed hadn't even been fully cold, she couldn't have been awake long.

"You know I can't tell you that." She says airily.

"You'll be needing this, then," Davrin tosses the commslink at her back.

Deft fingers snatch it from the air, and she shoots him a strange look before her fingers unfurl. He catches the flash of guilt over her expression before she turns away again.

And he knows she's lying.

Something of a disbelieving, derisive chuckle leaves his mouth, "You're only a Jedi when it suits you, then."

Cyri whips around faster than he would have thought possible, eyes sharp and nostrils flaring wide. And he knows it's a cruel thing to say, everything she's told him—everything she won't say.

But it's true, too.

"I am not—"

"Then what is this? Acting like that didn't mean anything to you." Davrin demands, flinging a hand behind him to the bed they'd been occupying only minutes earlier. "Were you even going to wake me before you left?"

Cyri says nothing. She just stares up at him, unflinching.

And that's all the answer he really needs.

"You're a coward," he accuses, something in his own chest shriveling as the words leave his mouth.

Davrin steps back, strategically placing himself between Cyri and her weapons, forcing her to meet his eyes at last. Her glare is sharp, penetrating, and then it fades into something else entirely.

"Fuck you." She spits, reaching just past him to snatch her blaster belt off the table behind him. "This was a mistake."

But when she turns on a heel, he lurches, fingers closing too tightly over the space just above her elbow. Davrin loosens his grip until she could slip out easily.

She doesn't.

But neither does she turn around. The air between them turns hard, almost impenetrable. Davrin tries, anyway.

"Don't, Cyri." It's an order as much as a plea.

She ignores both, slipped from his grasp. Davrin doesn't move, the hand that held her falling uselessly at his side. A first slams onto the door command lever harder than necessary, and the moment the chamber door opens with a mechanical whir, her cloak is whipping around the edge of it.

[mythals-whore]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you @sugar-peanut-cat & @gingervitus for the tags!

I don't know if this is an actual WIP (I'm not sure it'll become a long project I'm actually working on) but here is a little something that sprouted out of my Love Island AU idea.

I am tagging @basedonconjecture @flowersforthemachines @thedissonantverses @biowaredisasterbisexual @glitteringdust @cute-ellyna

Her lips curve around the edge of the glass, trying and failing to hide her smile. The bitterness of the wine hits her mouth, and she can't help thinking how beautiful he looks—smug smile and all.

"So," Cyri says, setting the wine glass back on the table, though her fingers remain delicately on the stem, twisting it deftly between her fingers, "What brings you to Love Island?"

Davrin smiles, looks down at the table and gives s shake of his head. when he raises his eyes again, his expression has transformed into something quite serious.

"I got a cat."

Cyri blinks at him, and the new smile that unfurls on her mouth it's entirely of her own volition. Davrin just looks at her, expression still quite serious as she tries to puzzle out how exactly that answers the question. The glint in those dark brown eyes only makes her more curious.

"You got a cat?" she repeats, amused.

"Assan." he agrees solemnly.

She's grinning openly at him now.

"And he needs a mother." Cyri infers, the arch of her eyebrow indicating the question in her words.

Davrin looks down again st the table cloth. His plush lips press together, twisting to one side like he's trying not to smile. "More like…" when he looks up, warm eyes pouring into hers he says, "I realized that maybe "I wasn’t as alright being on my own as I thought." she blinks and he shrugs, "Not that I'm sure Assan wouldn’t love someone else to dote on him."

Cyri smiles at him, shaking her head. It shouldn't be allowed, she thinks, for someone to be quite so charming. But here he is. She lifts the glass again to her lips, ignoring the swell in her chest, leaning back in her chair once more.

"Who’s taking care of him while you’re in here?" she asks.

"Couple friends of mine, Lancit and Remy." and it's the way he says it wistfully that clues her in.

"You miss him."

Davrin gives a bit of a self-depricating smile before he leans in over the table, encouraging her to do the same. for a moment she feels a little like a sixteen year old girl sharing gossip over a lunch hour.

"I tried to negotiate his coming with me." Davrin confides, and then jerks his chin in the general direction of the villa, "They wouldn’t go for it."

The giggle that bubbles out of Cyri's mouth isn't entirely her own, though she quite enjoys the way Davrin's eyes dart from her eyes to her mouth, like it's an achievement.

Then he asks, "What about you?"

Cyri shrugs, "No animals here." she admits, and then amends, "But I'm not opposed."

"Good to know." He smiles warmly and she ignores the way her heart swoops low into her stomach, "But I did mean: what brought you to love island?"

She busies her mouth with a sip of wine to hide her surprise. Truth is, she doesn't really know how to answer. But Davrin waits, expectantly.

Cyri allows a small smile to curl her lips, one that's the perfect mix of honest and dishonest before she says with a half-hearted shrug, "Just a bit of fun really."

He raises a disbelieving eyebrow, the one with the scar carved right through. And then does something that surprises her even more—he doesn't press.

Instead, a sultry smile to mirror her own graces his beautiful face as he leans over the table again, somewhat conspiratorial, "Should we have a bit of fun, then?"

[mythals-whore]

my favorite power couple i’m afraid

[mythals-whore]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you for the tags @woundedsoul12 @glitteringdust @serensama @sugar-peanut-cat @flowersforthemachines

I am tagging @basedonconjecture @davrinsleftpectoral @seaglassmelody @znthra @jouskaroo @serstolas and maybe that’s enough? Idk man whoever wants to please do it and please tag me(:

And honestly i can’t remember if i’ve posted a similar excerpt before but i’ve been in the midst of rewriting some things, so if i have, i am sorry

</3

Davrin falls to his knees before her, reaching for her without any idea of his own intentions—just to see her, to know for sure that she's here. It takes her a moment to raise her head after his hands close on her shoulders—solid. Here. Her face, like the rest of her, covered with blood and ash, but through the grime, several clear trails have been forged by tears. The right side of her face is covered in an aged, yellowing bruise.

Her usually bright green eyes are dull, and her mouth parts slightly, like she's surprised to see him, her left hand fumbles for him, fingers closing around his wrist like a vice. She raises her eyes to where Davrin can feel the rest of them running for them, coming to stand somewhere over his shoulders.

There's a brief moment time feels suspended—and then she launches herself at him with a force that pulls a grunt from deep in his gut. His arms close snug around her, heedless of the plate of her armor digging uncomfortably into his chest. Davrin presses his nose into her hair, the juncture of her shoulder. She smells like smoke and rot and like something metallic, but he doesn't mind. He pulls her even tighter, despite the fact she's still covered in blood and blight and some kind of dust that feels like it's scrubbing his skin raw.

It doesn't matter. For a minute, nothing matters at all, other than the fact that Cyri is not dead. She's not dead and she's here and Davrin realizes suddenly that he hadn't thought she would be.

But then her body starts trembling and a new terror seizes him. His hand splays against the small of her back—an instinctual attempt to steady her. And when he pulls back, he isn't ready to see the tears flowing freely down her face. The jagged fingernails of her left hand dig into his shoulder in wordless plea.

[mythals-whore]

WIP Wednesday

thank you for the tags @woundedsoul12 & @sugar-peanut-cat

I am passing the tag on to @serensama @seaglassmelody @erin-unknown @davrinsleftpectoral @serstolas @fireheartedpup @bluerose @gingervitus @jouskaroo @glitteringdust @bg3daydream @tinyshoopuf

Here's some Star Wars AU for your trouble, because I'm going through a phase.

divider from this post

Cyri is the one who gets them into the sky (how are you going to drive with one lame arm?) and only after they're safely in a hyperspace lane does she give control to Assan, who chirps merrily.

By that point Davrin is still rifling through the ship's storage looking for any kind of medkit.

Cyri all but shoves him out if the way and into a seat. Davrin's a little surprised she doesn't strap him in like he's some sort of child. All the same, he can't really seem to help the way his mouth turns up at the way she violently paws through the same cabinets he'd just been searching through.

Davrin allows this for a moment, smile fading into something pensive.

He should have suspected—would have, maybe, if he ever thought there were any truth to the legends. The Jedi always seemed something mythical. A bedtime story for small children, ones Davrin himself had been told.

He'd never met one before the war, rarely met anyone who had. There was ??? at the tavern, but he was too much of a drunkard to take seriously anyway. But here she was, as much a myth as anything.

"If you're a jedi, couldn't you just—"

"I'm not."

The answer is quick, sharp and final.

Still, "Force healing—"

"Isn't something I can do."

She finally snatches a medkit from a high shelf, standing on one of the seats to do it instead of calling it down. She could, he's seen her do such things before.

Amusement blooms in his chest and across his face. As she settles with a huff in the seat next to him. His smile only deepens her scowl.

Cyri arches an impatient eyebrow, "Your shirt."

Davrin decides sort of likes her like this: disgruntled and stern as if it's his fault he learned something she very obviously didn't want him to know. Obediently, he removes his tunic, and they're both quiet for a moment as she sets to work cleaning the seared skin if his abdomen. He flinches involuntarily at the small stick of the bacta needle.

"Force healing just a myth then?"

There's a long silence in which he's sure she won't answer.

"It's real." Cyri admits quietly, "but I never learned how."

There's a heavy pause in which the ship shudders, signaling they've left hyperspace. Neither of them moves—Assan knows how to take them home.

Cyri wordlessly passes him his shirt but Davrin doesn't miss the way her eyes pass over his bare chest when she does.

She looks pointedly away, settling back in her seat with a weight that suggests exhaustion.

"I was still a padawan when…" Cyri shakes her head, a dark shadow passing over her face. "True force healers are rare." Her eyes drift to him, sidelong, almost suspicious. "How do you know about them?"

Davrin doesn't know why he hesitates before providing the answer.

"When I was young, there was an outbreak of…something, in out village." He tells her. "The woman who came to help, that's what they said she was."

"Well I'm not."

"So I've gathered," Davrin says, pulling his tunic back over his head.

Cyri glares at the empty seats across the aisle while Davrin studies her profile. She doesn't seem inclined to speak, but Davrin has to know, "You are a jedi though."

This time she doesn't protest, though the muscle that jumps in her jaw suggests she wants to. Instead, she pushes up from her seat as if it burned her, "I'm going to check on Assan."

Davrin doesn't entirely mean to do it, but his fingers close around her wrist. Cyri pulls easily out of his grasp, but he follows her down the corridor to the cockpit.

"I'm not going to tell anyone, you know." he tells the back of her head, "You can trust me."

She pauses just before the threshold, hand poised over the door control, "Can I?" she throws a dark look over her shoulder, green eyes flicking over him warily. "I don't have much choice now, do I?"

[mythals-whore]

Busy Woman

I actually wrote this little banter a while ago and it ended up not making it into my longfic so I thought maybe it could go here...

This is the Davrilla meetcute, to ME.

Where ever their base is, it seems to be far. They make it down out of the mountains, traveling mostly in silence. Once the sun has long since sunk behind the mountain ridge, they decide to make camp. The two women busy themselves with starting a fire and pitching tents. Harding offers Davrin one of his own, insisting that she and Rook can share. He nods dully.

Davrin has the distinct impression that the leader—the one called Rook—is giving him space intentionally, which he finds that he resents and appreciates in equal measure. He didn't need to be coddled, and if he was going to be a part of this team, that needed to be made clear.

"You two ought to be more careful when fighting darkspawn." he offers with a once over. Neither of his companions even wears chainmail; Darkspawn claws are sharper than any others he ever encountered, their blades more potent.

"We've been fighting these darkspawn for weeks now." Rook casts a look to her companion, who grins in return, "We know how to handle ourselves."

He's not at all arguing that fact. The dwarf—Harding, as she'd introduced herself—was a sharper shot with a bow than anyone Davrin had ever met. she could hit a genlock in the eye from at least fifty yards. And Rook bore two wicked sabers that cut through the horde like lard, but even so.

"Weeks? he asks, looking between them. "Then you've been lucky." Rook casts another smug smile to her companion, like she thinks his concern is both charming and trivial. She opens her mouth, and he continues with more force, "Talent with a blade or not, you should be taking more precautions when it comes to fighting Blight. There's a reason Grey Wardens exist. It's dangerous for civilians. There's no cure for the taint, and it isn't a pleasant way to go."

Davrin has seen enough fade from the wasting sickness than he cares to recall.

Rook's expression darkens marginally, but she tosses him a ration of bread from her rucksack, "Noted."

He snags it from the air, eyeing her warily.

"You're sure you didn't get hit?" Davrin tries again.

She turns to him with a bemused expression, "I'm sure I know when I'm hurt, Warden Davrin." her mouth lifts with the shape of his name like there's something especially amusing about it.

"We're fine." she insists, though her expression has sobered slightly. "But I appreciate your concern."

Davrin scowls at her, "You're sure? Because even just a scratch could infect you."

"I'm positive." Rook's eyes light with something he can't name, "Would you like me to strip so you can see for yourself?"

He blinks at her once.

"Maker," Harding mutters under her breath. And from that alone, Davrin gathers that this must be one of her moves. Even in the short time since meeting her, it seems clear Rook has charm in spades.

It's not as if Davrin is new to the concept of flirting—or even of strangers coming onto him rather brashly—but there's something about the spark in her eye that says she might be more than he can handle.

Unfortunately for her, Davrin has never been able to shy from a challenge.