#redcliffe is eventually overrun | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

faded-mage · 6 months ago

Text

Avise

Repercussions from the Evanuris escaping in the north quickly hit the south. New, strange looking darkspawn appeared all over southern Thedas and with them they brought mass uncertainty and fear. Governments closed borders, tensions rose once again between Orlais and Ferelden. Avise reached Val Royeaux to find it under siege. With the Divine allowing men, mages and non-humans to join the Chantry as clergy, they at least had a fighting chance to hold off the waves of darkspawn at their door. Standing in the room with Leliana was surreal, the last time they held a council like that she disbanded the Inquisition - now they wanted her help. Again. Letters and reports continued to reach them from Charter who relayed the information from Harding. Varric’s second-in-command, Rook, was taking over his group in the north and fighting there. Working with Solas somehow, though those details were shaky. Avise did not let herself think about it.

News from Ferelden continued to get worse. Denerim fell completely, the city and its soldiers falling back to Redcliffe, hoping to keep the darkspawn from engulfing the country. Orzammar began to assist Ferelden, allowing them to hold out against the endless tides of darkspawn that were thrown at them. Whatever directed the darkspawn, likely something to do with the gods, they were intelligent enough to keep southern Thedas busy so they could not assist the north.

With the approval from the Divine, the Inquisition went to regain control of Skyhold, their former fortress. In the years after the Inquisition disbanded the fortress was preserved but no instruments of war were left behind. It was set to be held by a small group of caretakers who lived in the keep. It was eventually overrun by demons. Fortunately, they were regaining their footing on fighting demons once more. It almost felt preferable to the darkspawn. The new iterations of the creatures were faster and harder to kill. Standing inside of Skyhold brought memories back - many good and many she pushed down and ignored. Avise had little time to mourn her friend, busying herself so she could maybe forget for a minute that the dwarf was not standing by the fire in the hall, playing Wicked Grace or writing novels. Teasing Cassandra about enjoying the romance ones, which were absolutely awful but the Seeker loved them anyway. Forcing herself to forget that she would be unable to hug him again, he had been such a comfort when she thought she would not make it through.

No, no. Focus on the task ahead. With Skyhold cleared and cleanup efforts in place, displaced Fereldens and other refugees made the trek with the assistance of Cullen’s remaining soldiers. Soldiers from other regions nearby began to join their ranks to help and the hallways of Skyhold were busy once again. If they had only kept the Inquisition together… maybe they could have saved more people. They could have intervened quicker before cities fell. The guilt of that decision sat with Avise daily.

Avise used the Divine’s connections to assist her in retrieving people of importance. She did not tell Cullen she sent scouts to South Reach to secure his siblings and their families and watching his face as they walked through the gates of Skyhold, safe and sound, eased her guilt for a little while. Her own family had been unable to be saved during the Inquisition and Sera was never able to locate any surviving members of Clan Lavellan. The elf was still the last one left. If she could save Cullen from the same fate, she could be happy with that.

The Inquisitor knew Harding’s mother was still located in the Hinterlands and she personally set up a group of scouts to collect her. Setting her up somewhere cozy and safe. The Scout had done so much for the Inquisition and for Avise herself, along with standing beside Varric for the last 10 years - it was the very least she could do.

News from other countries continued to arrive at Skyhold, the missives were piled atop the war table in a heap. It was daunting. So much chaos and destruction spanned throughout southern Thedas. Avise regained her former quarters and found it hurt to stand there. It had not been her home for a very long time but the memories were painful and they felt fresh as she stood in the center of the room. A mural painted on the wall, one of the first Solas did when they arrived at Skyhold was still there. Though it was certainly aged, the paint not standing up well to time. Perhaps that was for the best, she did not need that reminder.

Avise found herself sitting on the floor of her room in front of the fire with missives surrounding her. So many cries for help, so many towns and cities requesting Inquisition aid. The more letters opened the more pain sat in her chest. There was no way they could help them all, they would need to make decisions on who to save. As if some lives were worth more than others.

Hidden beneath the pile of letters was an envelope that stood out to her. It was not addressed to the Inquisition or to Inquisitor Lavellan. But her name. Her full name that not many knew, one of which was Varric. Aviselan Lavellan. The envelope appeared to have been through quite the travel. Dirt, some ash marring its surface. She opened it slowly and at the first word it felt like her heart stopped beating. Nas’falon. Her eyes read over the letter, noting how his handwriting had not changed over the years. She could almost hear it read in his voice. It caused her eyes to tear up, a few escaping and trailing down her cheeks. Solas wrote to her before he started his ritual. Reaching out to her, another breadcrumb, another clue as to what he felt. What he wanted to ask for without actually asking. I could have shared the truth, or even put my plans aside and simply stayed with you as Solas… as I wanted.

The letter sat in her lap as she stared at the fire. Other than the crackle of the flames and her own breathing, the room was silent. Everything hit her finally, having a moment to consider what happened since the ritual. The ache of losing Varric. One person she loved so much, for him to die by the hand of someone she also loved? How does one reconcile that? She could see who Solas was, who he truly was at his core. Avise saw it in their quiet moments alone when he was comfortable existing as himself or the joy and pure reverence to the Fade he held. That was who he was. The apostate mage who helped her close the Breach. The man who held her in her grief.

Additional reports through Morrigan indicated Varric’s death appeared to be an accident. He was stabbed with a dagger held by Solas while they struggled over it. Knowing Solas he was sitting in that regret. His persona of the Dread Wolf did not care about those who were harmed by his actions but Solas did. Pity existed in her heart when she thought of Solas alone in a prison in the Fade. He would be mourning his failed ritual and the fact he killed a friend. Someone who believed until the very end that he was worth the attempt.

Varric was convinced Solas was not beyond redemption. She never was sure if it was because of her. Did the dwarf spin that tale so Avise could have some semblance of hope to reunite with him? No, she did not think it was like that. The elf knew Varric saw hidden glimpses of Solas and who he really was and truly believed the man could be saved.

Her grief over Varric and Solas was interrupted by a soft tug in her stomach. It felt much like the golden thread that connected her and Solas when they were in the Fade. The same feeling when he would pull her to him to show her some long forgotten memory. Avise placed the letter on the floor beside her before following the feeling. She was not sleeping, she knew what the Fade felt like. But the strength of the thread felt foreign on this side of the Veil. Sitting on the balcony outside of her windows she found a blue statuette of a wolf. She had seen the design all over Arlathan forest when she visited. It always looked to her like the wolf was in mourning. Unable to hold back its grief as it howled into the sky.

Shakily she bent down and picked up the statuette. It felt like him. The magic that rippled off of it was warm to the touch and almost electric. Solas’ magic crawled across her skin like it was pulling her closer, the taste of it sat on her tongue and for a few moments she felt like she was at home and he was standing beside her. A quick glance behind her proved he was not there, reminding herself he was stuck in a prison of his own making. The heavy statuette felt important. Maybe it could give them something to work with. She could not unlock it herself, she felt that realization deep in her stomach as she held it but perhaps Rook could. The reports she received from Morrigan indicated the woman was intelligent and resourceful. They were also residing within a former home of Fen’harel. Perhaps it was a key?

Avise took the statuette inside and placed it on the desk, watching it carefully as she backed away. She would try to reach Morrigan the next morning but for now she needed to sleep.

- - -

Morrigan installed an eluvian in Skyhold once more to allow her to travel quickly between the north and south. As strained as their relationship was after the Well of Sorrows, they grew close over the decade they spent working together. Though hearing the woman apologize for explaining elven history to her like she did in the Temple of Mythal was extremely satisfying. Perhaps the embarrassment from the realization that she was explaining Fen’harel to the Dread Wolf himself prompted such a conversation. Whatever the reason, Avise grew to rely on Morrigan’s experience. As well as the knowledge she gained from taking the fragment of Mythal from her mother into herself.

The three stood around the war table, Cullen looking increasingly more uncomfortable as Avise explained where she found this glowing blue statue of a wolf. “It was just… on your balcony?” He looked at her incredulously, Morrigan chuckling beside her. The elf shrugged her shoulders, “Yes? It was after I read his letter.” She was pretty sure Cullen’s voice rose an octave, “He sent you a letter? What did it say?” Avise gave him a wry smile, “It is nothing you wish to read, It was romantic words from an elf who had regrets.” A hint of pink hit the top of her ears. The letter was folded and placed in her pocket, she read it a dozen times since she found it. Morrigan stepped in, inspecting the statuette, “I believe that this is the first of many of these statuettes. However I do believe this is a key like you said. If sent by Solas in some form - whether he knew of it or not - he sent it to you because of the bond you shared. You were seen as a safe caretaker for this artifact.”

Avise folded her arms across her chest, eyes glued to the statue. She tried not to think too heavily on Morrigan’s words. That she would be sent a key specifically because of her connection with the man, “I do not believe we have the resources in Skyhold to unlock whatever this is supposed to be used for. But you said Rook is living in the Fade in an old haunt of Solas’? You called it the Lighthouse?” She paused, her voice grew quiet. The words were meant for Morrigan, “I can feel him in it. It feels like it was part of him in some way. I do not imagine it is a fragment… like others I have encountered. But something similar?” Morrigan did not advertise the fact she held a fragment of Mythal that lived through the ages, she slowly nodded. Cullen was still in the room looking between the two mages with a strange expression. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Why do I even come to these meetings? All the magic bits go over my head… I will go debrief the scout that returned from Starkhaven while you two… do your magic business. Inform me of our next move after your meeting, Inquisitor.”

The elf could not help the small chuckle that escaped her as Cullen walked away. Poor man, he stood strong though and Avise appreciated him for it. He was a steady rock through the past few years. Loyalty of a friend like that was not to be forgotten. Varric was the same. Each time she thought of Varric, she felt like she began to mourn him all over again.

Avise’s mind wandered - Varric did not really have family to send word to. Bianca would be the only one she would know to reach out to and to be frank she was afraid of the woman. He wouldn’t have wanted some dwarfy funeral, he’d have hated it unless it became some level of joke halfway through. The only thing Avise could think of to push her through the sadness was at least Varric and Hawke could be wherever they were, together. The dwarf missed his friend over those years since the Inquisition and Avise hoped that whatever was meant for all of them after death, that Hawke and Varric could be drinking together and catching up on the years they missed.

Morrigan’s voice brought her back, “Inquisitor? Avise.” The elf blinked a few times and glanced at the woman before smiling, “Sorry, lost in thought. Continue.” Morrigan nodded, “I believe you are correct. I could bring this statuette to Rook but I believe it may be a boon to have you two meet.” Avise furrowed her brow, slightly confused. “Why? I can’t leave the front line here for very long. We are working on ensuring Ferelden and Orlais do not devolve into war with each other while also fighting darkspawn.” There was something in Morrigan’s face that revealed she had something specific in mind. Gently reaching out to grab the statuette and place it in the elf’s hands, “I believe you will have more in common than you realize with young Rook. It would do well for her to understand that you are working to ensure southern Thedas does not fall while she does her job in the north. An eluvian will ensure you do not waste the little time that we have.”

There was something else to it, Avise could tell but if she asked more from the woman she would be given cryptic answers and the elf would only grow frustrated. She had to trust Morrigan. The woman found heroes from all corners of the world and understood their worth. Between Elera, the Hero of Ferelden and Avise herself she chose to assist the right people, “Alright. I will coordinate with Cullen. Take me to meet Rook.”

1 note · View note

nemithian · 5 years ago

Text

dragon age: origins biography

heir to the arling of nemeth (with land located between the white river bannorn and the bannorn of calon as seen here), mithian was forced to leave her home and seek help from the ferelden circle of magi when her father fell ill to a disease that no normal medicine could hope to cure.

although she was eventually able to persuade first enchanter irving to provide assistance, mithian was only successful in reaching lothering in her bid to journey home before hearing news of the darkspawn horde that had overrun ostagar, as well as her home. determined to stop the remainder of ferelden from falling victim to the fifth blight, she made her way to the nearby arling of redcliffe, where she planned to utilise her talents with daggers and a bow to assist the ongoing assault upon the village.

RECRUITMENT CONDITIONS

mithian is a recruitable character in dragon age: origins. she is available for conversation during the warden's first visit to redcliffe village, will subsequently appear as an ally during the siege, and will ask to join the player in the aftermath if the following conditions are met: helped redcliffe prepare, helped redcliffe fight. if the warden does not help redcliffe sufficiently prepare or fight, it is implied that mithian dies with the rest of the village. she will leave the party if she is present when the warden allows connor to die. if not, she will leave shortly after the warden returns to camp.

SLOTH DEMON

if trapped by the sloth demon, mithian will dream that she is home in the blightless arling of nemeth. she is unwilling to awaken now that she has been reunited with her father, and will only recover from the sloth demon’s spell when the warden reminds her that rodor is dead.

#v. dragon age tbt .#i. ― i'd be in paris now if i could afford it / ooc .#ani's post inspired me to finally write up my da:o bio lol!#the personal quest will be added Soon .......#and i will reblog this post when i add it!

1 note · View note

laurelsofhighever · 6 years ago

Text

Favourite passage written

tagged by @ladymdc - thanks! <3

and in turn I’m tagging @gingerbreton @athenasdragon @naiatabris @out-of-the-embers @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul aaaaand @dovahgriin - all completely optional, of course!

This was rather difficult, because I have written a lot. Eventually, though, I got it narrowed down. Some of my best work is in Falcon, and this is a scene from Chapter 16, which is my favourite not only for what happens and because of the wonderful commission I had done for it, but because it’s one of the first scenes I had in my head for this story, and it’s the start of Rosslyn and Alistair’s feelings for each other:

It was Alistair.

He lay without moving. A thin sheet was pulled up to cover his bare chest, a thick crust of gore caked his scalp and the left side of his face, and the skin beneath it shone pale with sweat. Was all the blood his? Someone had splinted his left arm and tied it in a sling. If he were dead, then surely they wouldn’t have bandaged his wounds, or propped him up with so many pillows for comfort. Surely.

Cuno, sensing his mistress’ uncertainty, came to lick her hand. He whined and nudged her hip when she only batted distractedly at his ears, and then with a perfunctory sneeze padded over to the bed and jumped up so that his large paws landed squarely – heavily – on Alistair’s stomach.

“Cuno!” Rosslyn hissed. She started forward, but halted again when Alistair groaned and cracked open his eyes.

“Ow, gerroff… ugh… where’d you even come from…?”

Relief hit her with such force that her knees sagged and she had to catch herself against the doorpost, her throat choked with every emotion she had kept in check since riding into the camp. He’s not dead. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened to the creak of the straw mattress, the rustle of blankets, sending her thanks to all the gods who cared to listen. He’s alive, he’s alright, he’s not dead. The barbs of their argument loomed out of the darkness, still mocking, still powerful enough to sting her with shame, but their potency was lost with the fear that he might have died thinking she didn’t care.

“Who’s a cute and adorable puppy?” Alistair crooned, oblivious to everything but the dog snuggling against his arm. The words were slurred and a laugh bubbled in her throat.

“Andraste?”

She opened her eyes. He was peering into the shadows where she stood, propped up on one elbow to get a better view. The blanket covering him slipped down to his navel, bare except for the bandages, and she quickly turned her gaze away.

“Not quite.”

His confusion broke into a drunken sort of smile. “Rosslyn?” He settled back onto the mattress. “Good. Much prettier than ‘draste.”

Her hand froze against the tearstains on her cheek. The mages must have given him a soporific – blood lotus, perhaps, for the pain of his broken arm – and it was distorting his perceptions. She didn’t know what to say.

Then, after a moment, a thought seemed to occur to him, because he leaned up again and narrowed his eyes at her. “You are real, aren’t you?” he asked. “You’re not some sort of ghost, or apparition, or – or a demon, right? Because I really, really don’t want you to be a demon.”

“If I were a demon, would I tell you?” she teased.

He relaxed. “It’s you. Nobody else mocks me like you do.”

She chuckled as she moved towards him out of the darkness, determined to ignore how her face heated under his scrutiny. “It’s me.” She fiddled with the edge of the bedsheet. “I –”

“There you are!” The healer appeared next to the curtain, more puffed up than ever now that he had been made to exert himself. “My lady, please, I’m afraid I cannot allow you back here. These patients need rest, and –”

“I thought they were here to be healed,” Rosslyn said.

“They are. Which is why I will have to ask you to –”

“Perhaps, then,” she interrupted, “you could tell me why this man is lying here still covered in blood, and still with such severe injuries?”

“My lady,” the healer replied, indignant. “His injuries have been treated, and he has been given a draught to help control the pain –”

“If he needs the draught, then his injuries have not been treated,” she snapped.

From the bed, Alistair giggled.

“Answer the question I asked,” she ordered. “Or will I have to go to Senior Enchanter Wynne to find out why it is you’re so reluctant to be helpful?”

Mention of Wynne’s name deflated the last of the man’s bluster. “M-my apologies, my lady. The volume of patients we received from the battle, we had to prioritise our time and the mages’ energies.”

“Prioritise? You seem to have enough of both time and energy spare to follow me from one end of this place to the other hissing at me like a goose,” Rosslyn said dryly. She let the healer wilt for a beat longer as he tried to think of a response, before drawing herself up to her full, commanding height. “Fetch me a bowl of warm salted water, a clean cloth, and some elfroot salve,” she ordered.

“My lady…”

“Now.”

He did as he was told, mumbling an apology as he stumbled backwards out of range of Rosslyn’s cold glare.

“It’s nice when you’re angry at someone who isn’t me,” Alistair mused before turning his attention back to Cuno. “Who’s a good dog? Yes, you’re a good dog, yes you are!”

She frowned. “You say that like I’m always angry at you.”

The healer bustled back in, keeping his head low as he laid a water bowl and a small clay pot on a collapsible table he set up by the bed.

“That will be all,” Rosslyn said when he remained hovering a few feet away, only relaxing when the sound of his footsteps retreated out of earshot. She turned and shrugged off her cloak and gambeson, laying both across the foot of the bed before rolling up her shirtsleeves.

“Um, what are you doing?” Alistair asked as she sat down. The bed was very narrow. He tugged the blanket back up to cover his chest as far as possible, for decency, suddenly light-headed and rather warm to feel her thigh laid alongside his hip. Water plinked into the bowl as she soaked and squeezed the excess out of the cloth.

“I refuse to talk to someone so unkempt,” she breezed. “It’s undignified.”

“Unkempt?” He looked down at himself, pouting. “I am not.”

“At least tell me this isn’t all your own blood.”

“I – hm. I’m not sure.” He focussed on the way Cuno was butting his head into the crook of his elbow, because the only other thing to focus on was Rosslyn’s studious frown, the way her lips parted slightly as she trailed the cloth over his forehead. It was hard to think when her touch brushed so gently over his skin. “I remember there was a big guy with an axe and an even huger moustache, and then I think someone fell on me, but I was trying to get – Teagan!”

He shot upright and yelped as the movement wrenched his injuries. The next thing he knew was Rosslyn’s hand pressing his shoulder back against the pillows.

“Lie back, or you’ll make it worse,” she instructed. “Teagan’s alive. A lot of people are, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to…? No. I didn’t really do anything.”

She rinsed the cloth. “You saved half our mages and kept our lines from collapsing even when you were overrun.” Her mouth quirked. “His Majesty is very impressed.”

“King Cailan is here?”

Panic churned in his gut. Now – now was the time to tell her everything, about his past, his heritage, every secret about who he was that he had ever kept hidden away. But the drug the mages had given him fogged his brain and fear weighted his tongue. She searched his face, watching him with the kind of patient silence that waited for castle walls to turn into ruins. A memory of Isolde offered itself up then, the pinched force of her glare as she waited for him to confess just who it was spilled paint on her favourite dress.

The image clamped his jaw shut. Rosslyn was a noble. He was a bastard. That was all they would ever be.

“I thought you sent the king to Redcliffe?” he checked, trying to turn her attention away from himself.

She snorted. “Nobody tells a king to do anything.” For a while she wound the cloth through her fingers, chewing her lips together so hard it must have hurt. “He’s the one who led the cavalry.”

“Oh.”

“Still,” she added brightly, “He’s out of Denerim, which was our main concern, and his presence has certainly put new energy into the soldiers. And as for you…” The smirk returned. “There’s talk of making you a proper field commander and everything.”

“What?” His eyes widened in mock horror. “No. no, nonoo no no no. I can’t command an army. Baaaaaad things happen when I lead.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Before you know it, we’d be stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by – by giant nugs, and I wouldn’t have any pants. Maybe not the last bit, forget I said the last bit,” he added. “Unless…” He leaned forward, eyebrows waggling, before he could stop himself. “Are you now imagining me without any pants?”

It took a beat for her to respond. “You are a very strange man.”

“Some women would call it charm,” he retorted.

“And you’d find most of them serving drinks in taverns.”

“That’s cruel.”

Conversation faltered after that. When most of the dirt was wiped away from his face, Rosslyn shifted closer and set to cleaning out the deep gash on his cheek, wincing in sympathy every time he grimaced at the sting of the salt. It was an ugly wound, but the edges were straight enough that it ought to heal with little scarring. She had to pause every few seconds to tilt Alistair’s head back towards the light, because he kept turning to study her face no matter how she told him to hold still, and after a while it became easier just to leave her fingers resting against his jaw, with his stubble prickling against her skin.

“There, done,” she said, and leaned back with a satisfied curl of her mouth. “You look almost presentable now.”

“There’s no need to be patronising.” He watched as she rinsed out the cloth for the final time, his giddiness from the sedative and from her touch wavering when he noticed the stiffness of her shoulders, the tension in the line of her neck. “You’ve spent all this time on me, and I haven’t even asked,” he muttered. “How are you?”

“That’s a fine question coming from the man lying in a tent with at least three broken bones.”

Alistair shook his head. “What happened to Howe?”

He got no immediate answer. Instead, Rosslyn busied herself folding the cloth, the muscles in her jaw tight and her gaze turned deliberately away from him as she unstoppered the lid on the clay pot. A bitter-sharp whiff of elfroot and peppery knightsfoil caught in his nose when she scooped up some of the salve on her index finger and held it to the wound.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“I’m sorry for before,” he pressed. “This morning – yesterday – whatever day it is now. There were things I shouldn’t have said.”

“Hold still.”

“Rosslyn.”

She slumped, her hand falling from his cheek to wipe the excess salve away on her breeches, turning her body away again with an unsteady sigh. Should he reach for her, try to bring her back to him? He cursed his splinted arm, and his ignorance, and his cowardice as he fought the urge to pull her closer, to trace his fingertips along her hairline, to bury his head in her shoulder and tell her in no uncertain terms how glad he was to know she was alive.

“I had him, Alistair.” She still didn’t look at him, her gaze instead softening on Cuno, who came to push his head into her lap and lick her hands clean. “He was right there, right in front of me, but…”

He realised. “You came back for us instead.”

She nodded.

“Well, err, I’m quite glad you did choose to come back,” he said, unsure of what else to say. Tentatively, he stretched out his hand and brushed her arm. The unexpected contact made her jump; her gaze flicked between his face and the warmth of his fingers on her skin, her expression frozen in shock.

“You saved a lot of lives.”

She frowned, her words no more than a whisper. “And now all of Highever will suffer for it.” Then propriety asserted itself again, and she shrank away, leaving his hand to linger on the empty air as she reached for her discarded gambeson and cloak.

“It’s late,” she said. “You should get some rest.”

“I… of course.”

Alistair settled back down into the pillows as comfortably as possible and tried to ignore the cold squirm forming in the pit of his stomach with every brusque step she took further away from him. When she paused in the doorway to let Cuno amble past and licked her tongue over her lips, he leaned up again, hopeful for whatever she would say.

“Rosslyn?”

“I… About yesterday morning…” She shook her head, the words lost. “Forgive me.”

And then she was gone.

#ask meme thing

15 notes · View notes

simonjadis · 6 years ago

Note

Pppst! Can you talk about your Dragon Age OCs? Who are your faves?

This is a phenomenal Ask!!

My Dragon Age OCs are Azaria Surana, Galen Hawke, Marcel de Serault, and Talyn Adaar.

With the exception of the Marquis de Serault, they are all mages.

[Art of Azaria]

Azaria is a bisexual elf INTJ. She is a mage. As the game establishes, she is both a bright pupil and a powerful one. I figure that Azaria always looked down on the idea of blood magic as a cheap trick to make weak mages stronger until she saw it do just that for Jowan. That was when she began to wonder what it might do for her.

Azaria has a pathological need to be liked. She’s a liar and a manipulator, but most of the people she meets end up finding her likeable and trustworthy. She believes that being a mage makes her better than other people, but didn’t voice her views while studying at Kinloch Hold. The one thing about which she never made any pretense was the chantry, Andraste, and the Maker. The Maker is pretend.

She’s not just a believer in mage rights – she has Magneto-like views of mages. She wants a magocracy because she knows that this is the best way to rule.

As a Grey Warden, Azaria was thrilled with her relative freedom, but aware of the cost. She seduced and deflowered Alistair because literally why wouldn’t you. Eventually, however, it became clear that he was too attached to her. His love for her and desire to remain exclusive, coupled with the knowledge of his heritage, made her gently break up with him. She forced herself to wait a week or two before taking Zevran up on his offer of a “massage.” He was perfect for her. He remains perfect for her.

Morrigan is not only a trusted companion, but her best friend. They share many values. Azaria learned shapeshifting from her, but knows very few forms and does not use this magic in combat.

Azaria named her dog Jowan.

In Redcliffe, she made a deal with a Desire Demon to learn blood magic. She would do anything for an edge against the Blight, and Azaria has no regrets. Her fighting style relies heavily upon fire and blood. She made Alistair and Anora rule together after she convinced him to conduct the Dark Ritual with Morrigan.

Azaria will never succumb to The Calling. In fact, she is determined to prolong her life by any means, and viewed Avernus as a role model in that regard.

Note: when Anders was with the Wardens, she boned him. when Carver was with the Wardens, she boned him. she has great taste. She also did the threesome with Zevran and Isabela.

[I commissioned art of Galen Hawke, but it was lost in the tumblr purge; I still have it of course; Galen’s model is Marlon Teixeira]

Galen is an ENFP and a true Disaster Bi. He’s not as powerful, skilled, or smart as Azaria, but he is outrageously attractive and tends to YOLO his way through life, even – or especally – after facing various family tragedies.

He mostly practices Force Magic in combat, as he trained in that in Lothering to avoid tell-tale signs of an apostate (if people find dead spiders without explanation, that’s one thing. Dead spiders and signs that the entire area was recently encased in ice in the middle of summer? that’s mage work). He grieved his sister Bethany and always wished that Carver were less resentful.

Galen’s mabari is named Hakkon. Galen is not religious, but he grew up with stories of the Alamarri and Avvar.

Galen romanced Isabela and Anders and Merrill and Fenris. I know that polyamory isn’t enabled in the games and I don’t even know if DA2 has a mod to that effect, but that’s my OT5. Galen also hooked up with Jethann and did the threesome with Zevran. Actually, it might be faster to talk about the people in Kirkwall he didn’t bang.

Galen was neutral on blood magic until the murder of his mother, at which point he asked Merrill to teach him. Carver was already a Warden at this point, and Galen wanted to make sure that he’d have every tool at his disposal to protect his family – including his found family. Still, he never really mastered the art or learned to control others – it just gave him an edge in fights and helped him to resist the blood magic of others.

Galen believes in mage rights but doesn’t set out to rule anyone. He might consider himself an activist if he were in our world – though, as a mage, does he have any other choice? He’s not very politically minded. He just wants for him and his friends and everyone they know to be safe and happy, but if he needed to do some magic-murder of some bad people, he doesn’t have a problem with that.

Galen flirted with Tallis. He’s a huge flirt – that’s what he does. Also, he got around when he visited Skyhold.

[I have no art of Marquis Marcel, but he’s a blond fop]

Marquis Marcel just wants to keep his ridiculous, heavily cursed hometown from being overrun by outlaws or intrigue or jungle spirits. He romanced The Wayward Bard, but his thirst for The Silent Hunter is noteworthy. Also, he hooked up with Carver Hawke during the part of The Last Court in which Carver visits.

[Art of Talyn]

Talyn Adaar never expected to become Inquisitor, obviously. She is a distinguished bi and an INTJ. She has a tendency to have somewhat formal speech – a habit she picked up because, too often, humans see their first vashoth and wonder if they can even understand them. She comes across as severe – and she certainly can be severe – but she is a good person who cares about her friends and the fate of the world.

I would say that Talyn is a little more powerful than Galen, but still lower on the magic scale than Azaria. She is a Rift Mage, though in combat she often wields lightning or Force.

Talyn had a casual relationship with Bull early on during her time as Inquisitor. Ultimately, she fell horns-over-heels in love with Sera, who seemed to be her opposite in every way. They married years later, and have matching wedding rings featuring a design with three gold bees.

Talyn’s best friend in the Inquisition is easy to identify – Dorian. Talyn and Cassandra have similar dispositions but different interests. Talyn has a great deal of respect for Vivienne. Talyn was never public with the extent of her dislike for Blackwall, but she regards him with contempt. His lies put her and others in mortal peril. She likes Leliana and respects Morrigan.

She of course secured the best ending for Orlais, with Celene and Briala reunited. Were she to magically read The Masked Empire and have access to all of the information contained therein, she wouldn’t change a thing. She also recruited the mages for obvious reasons.

She was one of those who hooked up with Hawke when he visited Skyhold.

Talyn had never really been religious in any way, shape, or form. She still isn’t, exactly, but after witnessing Hakkon’s spirit leave the physical world in the Frostback Basin, she realized that the Avvar may be theologically correct. Also, she chose to keep the Inquisition to serve Divine Justinia (Leliana).

Anon, thank you so much for asking this!!! (And I’m so sorry that it took so long; I went to bed and then played Anthem with my roommate before he went to work)

PS: the first time, I forgot to answer your question -- Azaria Surana is my favorite. Maybe because she’s my first, or because Origins is my favorite of the games.

#Dragon Age #anon ask #anon #ask #Dragon Age Origins #Dragon Age 2 #Dragon Age Inquisition #Hawke #Surana #Adaar

8 notes · View notes

fanfoolishness · 7 years ago

Text

they write happy endings, don’t they?

(Varric, In Hushed Whispers.)

Varric had always been damn good at denial.

It had served him well over the years, hadn’t it? It helped when he spent half his twenties taking care of his mother and she died anyway. It’d been there for him and Bianca when they sent their futile letters back and forth, when they kept their secrets and lost the reason for keeping them. Denial had kept him from dealing with Bartrand for as long as possible. Denial had helped him ignore the Qunari, the mages, the templars until the city came crashing down around his ears.

Denial. It worked. So what made this any different? This musty, shitty cell underneath Redcliffe Castle was a piece of cake, even if they’d stripped him of Bianca, his backup daggers, his lockpicking kit, his emergency fountain pen and journal. He’d been in worse scrapes.

All he had to do was find something, anything, that would let him pick the lock, and he’d be on his way. Even if the Herald had vanished and all hope seemed lost, well, maybe it would work itself out. Some of his stories had happy endings, after all.

***

It wasn’t working out so well.

He managed to pick the lock the first night with a bit of metal sheared off his boot. They caught him one floor up and kicked him in the ribs until he coughed up blood.

He picked the lock the second night with the pin of his belt buckle, even though it was hard to breathe; every expansion of his chest seared. They caught him on the stairs. His nose streamed from a hit to the face.

He picked the lock the third night with a button he’d ripped off his jacket and sharpened against the edge of one of the bars. They caught him in the hall, his breathing too noisy. His ears rang where they boxed him in the head.

After that they cut out his buttons and buckles from his clothes, traded out the locks, and kept a guard on him constantly. His head swam and his hands itched, aching to do more.

He’d been too eager, too rushed to get out of this place. Was it his imagination, or were the walls closing in? He’d never liked tight spaces. He’d have been a terrible Orzammar dwarf.

***

He was so fucking bored.

He wondered idly where they’d put Blackwall. He wondered how the Herald and the Tevinter mage had disappeared in a flash. He wondered who the guards were, what Alexius was up to, why they’d chosen Redcliffe and not someplace warmer. Everything was cold and damp and moldering. And even though the Tevinters had no interest in Mabari, the place still smelled, overwhelmingly, of dog.

He tried chatting up the guards; pulled out all the stops. Friendly banter. Insults. Meandering stories. Nothing got a response. Sometimes he asked for a pen and paper. “Ever heard of me?” he asked more than once, with a winning grin and a cock of his head. “Hard in Hightown? C’mon. I know for a fact Maevaris Tilani called it ‘trash, but enjoyable trash.’ You can’t get better than that in Tevinter.” They just looked at him with flat eyes in blank faces. Whatever. They were probably all weird on blood magic.

He tried listening instead. Sometimes they did talk amongst themselves. Usually stupid things, what was for dinner, who was punished for trying to run away, who Alexius had chewed out most recently. Sometimes there were interesting tidbits about a prisoner upstairs, a woman whose capture had apparently been quite the coup. Sometimes there were rumors of an Elder One, information that was disquieting enough that he had to stop listening and start pacing. He knew he should pay attention, so that if – no, when – he escaped he’d have useful intel, but the information seemed less like a commodity and more like a death sentence here on the inside. So he paced sometimes and shut his ears and told himself he’d done his part.

Pacing lost its fun, though, when he discovered something new in the left corner of his cell. The ground didn’t look right. He thought at first he was imagining it, even though he could feel it pressing against his eardrums like a mosquito’s whine.

He tried to ignore it for a few days. Paced and paced around it, refusing to examine the corner where the ground looked wrong.

Eventually, though, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He brushed away the dirt on top, revealing red lyrium crystals creeping out of the ground, glittering in the dim torchlight. His hand froze over the red specks, trembling.

He stared at the red for a moment. A single frozen moment, his heart a jagged stutter in his chest, his mind a howling blank. Then the mosquito whine was sheer and sharp in his ears, and he remembered the song in Bartrand’s home, remembered the shimmering hum that Hawke and Merrill and Anders could not hear.

“Fuck,” he muttered. A ragged breath, and then a shout tore itself from his lungs. “Fuck this shit!”

***

Varric scratched at his chin. Too much beard. You’d have to put an arrow in him before he braided the mess that kept trying to grow; he might be losing it, but not enough to go full Orzammar. His fingernails were jagged against his skin like a pen nib tearing through thin paper. If only they’d let him shave.

His guards were too busy with other things, though. Apparently Empress Celene was dead and the world was overrun with demons. You know, normal shit.

He had his own issues. He didn’t feel so good, these days. Kind of dizzy. Kind of sick. His bones hummed on the inside, trying to match the song of the red lyrium growing in his cell. It was growing larger every day and was now several inches tall. He stayed as far away from it as he could, but it still messed with his head, its song inescapable.

He tried to drown it out. He didn’t like to sing; he’d told Hawke that more than once. “I don’t sing, Hawke.” His voice cracked when he asked it to carry a tune, even more than it did normally. He’d always had only whiskey and broken glass to work with when it came to that. But he liked to hum, liked the little dwarven tune he’d repurposed for Bianca’s song, and it thrummed in his throat like a talisman, the words mixing and sliding around in his head but the melody strong in his mouth.

Sometimes he tried talking over the sound, when humming was too hard. It worked, a little, but it made him feel like a madman. At first he simply narrated what he was thinking.

“Day two hundred and seventy. I think. I’m guessing. My captors have still somehow failed to provide me with a comfy bed, good ale, and paper and pen. I’m getting pretty pissed off, and so are my publishers and adoring fans.”

But the days were flimsy things, and it was lonely talking to himself, so at times he talked to others. It wasn’t crazy if you knew they weren’t really there, right?

“So, Bianca. If things had been different – where do you think we’d be? I’d like to think of us kicking ass and pissing off the Ancestors. You’d be the first surfacer Paragon and I’d be your loyal paramour, and it’d be just great, Bianca, you listen to me.” But thinking of Bianca and what might have been was a surefire way to get him melancholy. Funny how that worked. He tried again.

“Bartrand. I hate the way this shit sings. Is this a dwarf thing, that we can hear it more than other people? Because if so, that’s damn unfair. I don’t know what that idol told you to do, or why it hit you so hard.” He stared at his hands. Remembered a bloodied blade. “How’d we get here, Bartrand? Brothers are supposed to look out for each other, right? You tried to kill me, but I did you one better. Did I do it because I hated you, or because I cared about you, you idiot? I’m… still not sure which is worse, and which it was.” No, no, that wasn’t helping, wasn’t helping at all –

“Hawke. Shit, it’s good to see you. Where are you? You probably noticed I stopped sending letters. That’s because these bastards won’t give me any paper. I’d write on my leather coat if I had to, Hawke, you of all people deserve ruining a good piece of tailoring. You deserved so much more than what Kirkwall gave you; you were too damn good for the place. I wish I could have –”

But that was too painful to say, so he fell back against the wall of his cell, staring at the baleful red lyrium, and wondering, wondering, what it was doing to him.

***

The red was in his throat, his eyes, his hands, belly bones skin tongue teeth. He was drowning slowly, even with his head above the water. The song pounded in his ears. When he tried to hum Bianca’s tune, the red whined in his throat, twining a weird, high weave through his gruff voice.

His hands hurt. Fingers stiffened, didn’t want to work. He wasn’t sure how well he could hold a pen now. It scared him less than it should have.

The song of the red lyrium wasn’t such a bad thing, really. It had a complexity to it, a beauty that Varric almost thought he could read if he turned his head and listened hard. “All right, Bartrand,” he muttered. “I’ll grant you that. It’s pretty, I guess.” His hands curled and uncurled into fists, pulsing with the rhythm of the red. It was all around him. It was him.

He kept listening, and it sounded like a song he knew once upon a time and then forgot.

It sounded like a story.

#varric #varric tethras #dragon age: inquisition #da:i #in hushed whispers #red lyrium #angst #dragon age #varric x bianca #(implied)

339 notes · View notes

stagrot-blog · 7 years ago

Text

DRAGON AGE VERSE.

Born in 9:08 Dragon, he had the misfortune of being a mage within a Dalish clan that had already exceeded the number of mages it allowed. Abandoned in the Ferelden wilderness, he was lucky enough that a human man stumbled across him and took him in before the wild animals could pick him off.

He spent the first ten years of his life in Redcliffe with his adoptive father, who gave him the name ‘William’ and did well to hide his magic when his abilities really began to form. He taught him things such as how to fish, how to sail the waters of Lake Calenhad, how to tend to animals. He was the closest thing to family Will had.

When Will was eleven, there was an incident in which his emotions got the better of him and he accidentally used his magic, and it was seen by one of the other villagers. News spread fast, and no matter how much his father tried to protect him, he was eventually taken away by the Templars and placed in Kinloch Hold.

The mages and the Templars in the Circle came to learn, rather quickly at that, that Will had remarkable magic ability --- he was just too emotionally vulnerable, which led them all to believe he would not pass his Harrowing. They thought that, along with his pure empathetic abilities, would make it easier for a demon to take control.

He proved them wrong, of course, at the age of seventeen, when he was finally permitted to undergo his Harrowing. He did not succumb to a demon, but shortly afterwards he found he had attracted a benevolent spirit; a spirit of empathy. He would call upon it, sometimes, in secret. An unconventional companion.

As the years went by, the young mage was allowed a position as an Enchanter, tutoring the apprentices within the Circle and, when there began to be suspicion of blood magic within the tower’s walls, forced to be the Templar’s tool to investigate these rumors and any accidents potentially caused by blood magic. He began to get in deep, too deep, learning more than he ever reveals to the Templars, and his mind became scarred from it. He began seeing a creature---a white creature, with ornate antlers. A Halla. It appeared in his dreams, out of the corner of his eye, visible to only him. A sign of some sort, maybe; but he thought it was only because he was slowly cracking.

He managed to survive when Kinloch Hold is overrun by demons and abominations caused by desperate mages that resorted to blood magic for their freedom. Afterwards, the Templars pushed him more and more in their investigations after, and his mind was on fire when he finally escaped the Circle in 9:31 Dragon at the age of twenty-three with the Templars hot on his heels. Now, at thirty-four, he has spent the last eleven years as an apostate. Never staying in one place for too long, always leaving at the first sign of Templar suspicion.

IMPORTANT NOTE:

Just as Solas is Fen’harel and there’s the theory Sera is possibly Andruil, Will in this verse is a reincarnation of Ghilan’nain, the Halla Mother, into the body of a male elf.

#☙ ━ dragon age v. ) wait a second‚ let me catch my breath.#i did this for all my da pals.....youre welcome

3 notes · View notes

crisontumblr · 8 years ago

Text

Get yourself a snack and maybe a drink before you settle in for this one, kids, because I have got a long tale for you today.

I'm officially of the mind that, after the issue with Connor is resolved, Isolde takes a quiet moment to approach Alistair alone to sincerely, genuinely apologize for the way she treated him as a child. Not even to ask forgiveness; just to genuinely, humbly apologize.

From what Alistair tells the Warden, Isolde spent his entire childhood resenting him and making sure he felt unwelcome in what should have been his home.

"Anyway, the new arlessa resented the rumors which pegged me as [Eamon’s] bastard. They weren't true, but of course they existed. The arl didn't care, but she did. So I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She despised me."

I don’t know about you guys, but I can conjure up a whole list of ways as to how Isolde might have treated him, just short of turning him into Connor’s whipping boy, to leave this sort of lasting impression on Alistair. (Eamon wasn’t that much better, and I’ve done a fair amount of yelling about him. However, I’m convinced Eamon has always operated under the belief that he’s doing what is genuinely best for Alistair.) Her feelings about him are the reason Eamon sends Alistair to train with the templars to begin with, in a bid to placate her.

Consider what a shock to her system it must be when Connor begins displaying signs of having magic. Isolde knows what happens to children like him, where they go; how his nobility means nothing to the Chantry outside of maybe some preferential treatment once inside the Circle. Imagine what it must feel like, realizing that she is going to have to send her son away, permanently, because of something he was born with and never asked for.

Thedas may not have the word “karma” in its vocabulary, but the concept is surely alive and well. At the very least, the parallel is impossible for Isolde to ignore. She certainly tries, though. Why else does she go to the lengths of hiring an apostate--a criminal in the eyes of the Chantry--to come teach Connor how to hide his gifts?

It fails, naturally, because Loghain strong-armed Jowan into poisoning the arl in such a way as to push Connor towards seeking a cure in magic--which only attracts the attention of a Desire Demon. (I really like that Desire Demons, despite being overtly sexy, don’t just focus on the lustful meaning of desire, but that’s for a different post.) All hell breaks loose.

The castle is overrun. People die, get resurrected as monsters, kill more people, resurrect them as monsters...

Eventually it spills over into the village. People are killed, get revived as monsters, kill more people...

At this point, I would not blame Isolde for wondering if the Maker is punishing her for defying his will. Or maybe it’s not the Maker, but rather Andraste herself who is delivering this punishment! She was, after all, a mother both literally to several children and figuratively to those who worship her. Perhaps she has been taking stock of Isolde’s life choices and this is finally the thing that tips the cup over.

Isolde spends a lot of time praying. Bargaining. Pleading for help of any kind.

And then, as if in response to her prayers, help comes! They’ve already rescued the village and were on their way to the castle when Isolde was allowed to fetch Teagan. Who are these people?

Depending on how you gathered your party, another apostate, a Circle mage, a Qunari, a Chantry lay sister, an Antivan assassin (and an elf besides), a drunk dwarf, a living stone construct...and the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden.

And one of those Grey Wardens is Alistair.

Irony is a word in the common vernacular of Thedas, and it is not lost on Isolde.

But the inescapable truth is that Isolde needs help and nobody else is rushing in to volunteer. Beggars can’t be choosers. If they can help her family, if they are the answer to Isolde’s prayers, then the least Isolde can do is tolerate his presence for as long as they’re useful, right?

(If there is some kind of divinely sent lesson for Isolde to learn within all of this misery, then she will do her best to learn it.)

Then the truth comes out about how she hired Jowan to help Connor hide his magic, how it led to the suffering in the castle and surrounding village. The consequences pile up. The choices for handling this are laid out before everyone and for a fleeting moment, Isolde faces the very real possibility of either losing her son permanently (in a different sense) or giving up her own life.

(And it’s somewhere around this point where, in Aeron’s timeline, Isolde finally actually learns that Alistair is Maric’s son instead of Eamon’s after Aeron catches them arguing--specifically, while Isolde is in the middle of saying something really mean--and steps in to defend him.)

But it doesn’t happen. By miraculous coincidence, Alistair and his newfound friends helped the Circle of Magi deal with an Abomination problem not too long ago; they even convinced the templars in charge to keep from killing everyone inside. Or, after hearing about a third possible option, maybe Alistair and his friends actually decide to make the harrowing trip from Redcliffe to the Circle tower, wherein they clear out the Abominations and prevent the templars from doing their ordained duty. Doesn’t matter. Point is, the mages more or less owe them a huge favor--and this situation with Connor is kind of huge.

It isn’t easy work, but they are determined to help. Alistair, the boy she despised and resented--on the basis of an untrue rumor, mind you--so badly that Arl Eamon sent him, is determined to help the arl and rescue her son. Her son!

It doesn’t happen right away, of course, but Isolde starts to see the sort of man he has become--kind, compassionate, courageous. She sees, too, the way he attempt to protect himself with jokes and wit. (Isolde is Orlesian, after all, and familiar with the art of the Game.) She starts to wonder how much sadness and sorrow is hidden underneath.

Then she starts to wonder how much of that is her own doing, and she finally finds the divinely sent lesson in the misery.

So Connor lives. Isolde lives. Arl Eamon is saved after Alistair and his friends retrieve the Sacred Ashes, so he gets to live, too. It’s a momentous occasion.

But Isolde does not let herself forget to whom goes the gratitude. More importantly, she knows what she actually needs to do. The problem is that it’s hard. It’s scary. (She figures that that’s part of the point.) How do you find the words? What do you say? How will he react?

Isolde decides it doesn’t matter how he reacts. She has to do it. And she does; on the day before he is to leave with his fellow Warden and their friends, Isolde calls Alistair aside and, after a patch of awkward silence (during which she takes a nervous breath), she apologizes. Fully, honestly, without any sense of expectation of forgiveness; she apologizes for those years that were so hard when they shouldn’t have been.

And Alistair...

In Aeron’s timeline, at least, it makes a difference. It means something. It doesn’t mean they’re immediately friends, but it opens a door that was locked shut before. And that’s good. That’s important.

#Dragon Age #DA Headcanon #Lady Isolde Guerrin #Alistair Theirin #Alistair

16 notes · View notes

chenria · 8 years ago

Note

For Meri: What if Howe never attacked or betrayed her family? How differently things would have gone for her?

Oh my... there you are breaking Meri’s heart.

If Howe never attacked/betrayed her family the Blight would have still happened. Duncan would have chosen a different Warden (probably Amell in my game-canon).

The Cousland’s troops would have still joined the King at Ostagar as planned. Her father might fall in the battle, Fergus getting lost again. Meri would still be betrothed to Teagan but maybe never meeting him because Redcliffe would still get overrun by the dark hordes and Amell would have higher priority freeing the Circle than Redcliffe.

Much of her character was formed due to her friends and comrades - who she wouldn’t have met. She wouldn’t know Zevran and Leliana, would have never met Morrigan or had a chance to meet Alistair.

Eventually the Blight would have been ended by Alistair and the Warden.

Meri wouldn’t know either of them, wouldn’t know of what they had to do to end this war. This would be the Ultimate Sacrifice scenario where Alistair dies and Anora takes the throne.

But Teagan and Meriana... they wouldn’t happen. After everything that happened Teagan would have ended the engagement. There are more important matters than him marrying a girl who shouldn’t be part of the cruelties he had seen. He is not the same man he used to be.

Meriana would end up being married to a Bann of the Free Marches... she might live in peace, but she would not feel much of a purpose in life.

#dragon age headcanon #meriana cousland #darth-salem-emperor-of-earth

10 notes · View notes

minwrathous · 8 years ago

Text

ZEVWARDEN WEEK 2017 - DAY 4

Thursday, August 3 : AU Day What it says on the tin.

[ This is something I’ve thought about a bit. Basically ‘Surana isn’t the Warden’ AU. Anyway, this got a lot longer than I expected. About 4K words. Holy crap. ]

Kinloch Hold.

Zevran feels a cool hand touching his brow. He hadn’t realized how hot it was before the hand was placed there. He tries to move, to lift his head. He was in the middle of a fight! The Warden!

“Shh. Don’t move,” a voice says. Male. Cool, like the hand. “You’ve been injured. You need to lie still.”

Zevran settles. “The Warden.” His voice is harsh, his throat much too dry. “She…”

“Your friends aren’t here; they had to leave you here because you were hurt,” the man with the cool hand says, gently stroking Zevran’s forehead. Zevran can feel the healing magic flowing out from the hand. “They’re off trying to end all this.”

Zevran remembers now. They’d arrived at Kinloch Hold and found the place overrun with demons and blood mages. The Warden - Mahariel - had insisted on going in to try to clear it out. They’d been in battle when Zevran had been struck from behind and…

Zevran opens his eyes and finds himself looking up at another elf. Another elf with white hair, a worried expression, and tired violet eyes. Oh, Zevran thinks. His eyes…

Nymm. His name is Nymm and he survived the initial demon-fueled uprising because he was in an isolation cell at the time. He fidgets a little when he tells Zevran this. Zevran tells him not to worry; who is he to judge? What matters is that Nymm started helping others once he found his way out of his cell. He’s been hiding with a group of survivors in a large kitchen pantry, healing those he can and protecting the younger mages.

He’d been out scavenging for supplies with another apprentice when they’d stumbled across the Warden’s party. Zevran had been unconscious after taking the hard blow to the back of the head. That, combined with a deep gouge to his shoulder, had been enough to worry Mahariel.

So, the Warden had been forced to leave Zevran in Nymm’s care.

Nymm tells Zevran this as they sit and wait for the Warden to return. Or for the demons to finally take over. Or for Templars to burst in to murder them all. Any of the outcomes is just as likely as the other, so instead they focus on talking about other things. They talk about a lot of things, and Zevran realizes he’s starting to like this mage.

It’s hard waiting. But at least the company isn’t bad.

Finally, it’s the Warden that returns to them, and Zevran is very glad to see that his friends are victorious. Still, there’s a strange part of him that regrets leaving that pantry behind. But the day has been saved, and the mages can be left to sort themselves out. He bids farewell to Nymm.

When they leave the tower, there’s a new companion with them - an old woman named Wynne. For a moment, Zevran wishes that another healer had been able to come with them as well. But Nymm’s place is in the tower.

Zevran hopes that they don’t put him back in the cell; if there’s somebody else that’s earned a second chance, it’s Nymm Surana.

Redcliffe.

They do battle with hoards of the undead. They finally make it into the castle, only to find more undead, an imprisoned blood mage in the basement, and one possessed lordling. Wonderful. Zevran wonders if anything will ever go right on this blasted quest.

Warden Mahariel decides that she’s sick of magic, and Zevran can’t help but agree. But then she goes and decides to consult the mages at Kinloch Hold with their possession problem. It has to be a better idea than just trusting the blood mage, Jowan, or simply killing the boy, right? Well...Zevran doesn’t really agree there, but he trusts her judgement.

She sends Leliana and Sten back to the Circle while the rest of them wait. Hopefully the undead stay dead for the time being.

Sten and Leliana quickly return to Redcliffe with a small company of mages and Zevran is pleased to see a familiar white-haired elf. It seems that they’ve kept him out of the cells after all. But Nymm looks deeply unhappy when his is introduced along with the other mages. He barely meets Zevran’s eye.

Zevran wants to speak with him, but there’s no time. They’ve waited too long as it is, and the ritual must be done if they are to save the boy. Nymm steps forward to volunteer as the mages prepare. He insists that he will be the one to go into the Fade. Zevran feels a pang of worry at this - how can they expect the a healer to fight?

But nobody argues. Mahariel simply asks Nymm if he can do it. Nymm nods, and Zevran can’t help but notice that Nymm shoots a particularly cold look at the blood mage. Jowan quails under the look and Mahariel agrees that Nymm will be the one to enter the Fade.

Zevran watches as they prepare the ritual. It’s just as Nymm holds his hands over a bowl of glowing liquid that he finally looks over to Zevran. Nymm manages a little smile and a tilt of his head, but before Zevran can respond, there is a rush of magic and a flash of light. Two of the other mages catch Nymm’s body before it hits the floor.

“Don’t fret, lad,” Zevran hears a voice behind him say. He realizes that he’d tried to rush forward toward Nymm and turns to find that the First Enchanter is looking at him. “He is stronger than you might think; he had one our best Harrowing performances.”

Then why was he locked in a cell at the bottom of your tower? Zevran doesn’t ask. He turns away and says nothing instead.

The waiting is hard this time too. Zevran wonders what will happen if Nymm fails. Will he die? If he comes back, will he be himself? Will the Templar standing watch near his cot rush forward to kill him? Hours tick by, and the mood in the room blackens

In the end, Zevran doesn’t have to worry about the “what ifs” - Nymm wakes up, a tired smile on his face. Soon after, the boy is declared free of possession. The day has been saved again; congratulations are offered and gratitude is showered down on both the Warden’s party and the mages.

Later that night, Zevran has an idea of his own. He pulls Nymm aside and the two of them find an empty room in a wing that has been mostly untouched by the fighting. There, Zevran undresses the mage and offers congratulations of his own.

Zevran is surprised to find that the other man is not the blushing virgin he expected; the sex is good. Very good.

Zevran is also surprised to find a brief moment of tenderness after they’ve finished fucking. They remain on the bed, tangled up together, and share a long, slow kiss.

He thinks about that kiss again even after they part ways.

Denerim.

Zevran knows that it’s very nearly the end. The Landsmeet is over and Alistair will be the King of Ferelden, provided the Wardens are actually able to slay the Archdemon. Forces are gathering in the city as they prepare to mount the final assault. The dwarven warriors arrived the day before, the Dalish archers that morning.

Zevran is eating his evening meal when the mages from Kinloch Hold arrive. The dining hall gets a little louder as the new arrivals flood in to eat after their long march. He looks around and is a little disappointed when he doesn’t see a familiar head of white hair. He goes back to his meal and finishes. Perhaps they needed Nymm to stay behind at the tower.

Ah well. He’ll just have to figure out where he can get a drink. Maybe he can sharpen his knives one more time.

“Hello again,” a familiar voice says before Zevran can stand. “We keep running into one another, don’t we?” Nymm sits down on the bench across from him. He looks a little better than the last time Zevran saw him. Still tired, but not so unhappy.

“Hello,” Zevran says, and smiles over at the mage. “I only regret that it always seems to be under such unfortunate circumstances.” This earns Zevran a chuckle.

That night, he sneaks Nymm into his quarters. Zevran’s lucky to be associated with Warden Mahariel; he knows it’s the only reason he has a room to himself. He counts his blessing as they take advantage of the privacy. This time, Zevran thinks it’s a little more like making love; they take things more slowly, and there’s a lot more of the kissing.

Zevran’s glad.

The next day is full of preparations, and the night is again reserved for the two of them. He does take the time to visit Mahariel; the elf is not taking her separation from Alistair very well, and Zevran worries. There’s a strange look in her eyes when he leaves her; he makes a note to check on her before the battle commences.

Finally, it’s time. Nymm is away with his mages and Zevran is at his friends’ sides. It’s a fierce battle, much harder than anything they’ve faced before. Zevran is not with the Warden when she climbs to her doom; he has been ordered to hold the gate, along with Alistair.

He watches her go and realizes that he will never see her alive again.

Mahariel is triumphant in death, and her companions are left to cope with the victory she left for them.

Later that night, Nymm joins him in his room again. This time, the mage holds Zevran while he cries for his friend. It’s not something he’s proud of, but it’s something he needs. He’s grateful that Nymm seems to understand.

Zevran finds that he isn’t sure what to do with himself anymore; he’s a free man, but… He throws himself into helping the city recover from the Darkspawn attack. It’s good to have something to focus on. He finds ways to spend time with Nymm over the next few days, in between the cleaning and Nymm’s healing and the organizing of the keep. Eventually, it’s time for the mage to return to his tower.

“Come away with me,” Zevran says as they lie next to one another in his bed.

“I can’t,” Nymm replies, and looks at him sadly. “They’ll hunt me down.”

Zevran knows it’s true, as much as he wishes it wasn’t. The Templars of Kinloch Hold don’t take kindly to their mages slipping out of their stone prison. He knows the two of them have been living on borrowed time the past few days. And really, isn’t that the story of his life?

They make love one last time.

Antiva.

Zevran leaves Ferelden a few weeks after Mahariel’s funeral. He returns home so he can settle a few debts. He cuts a bloody swath through the Crows and makes them think twice before hunting him down. For now, anyway. From then on, he’s a free agent.

Sometimes he thinks about sending a letter to Nymm. He never acts on it.

Later that year he returns to Ferelden to visit Denerim on business. One thing leads to another and he finds himself traveling to Kinloch Hold. He’s welcomed there as a guest (and friend of the King), though some of the Templars are loathe to allow him to stay.

‘Important Royal Business’, he tells them.

One younger recruit asks his supervisor what sort of royal business involves bedding one of the Apprentices. There’s really no answer for that.

Things stay like that for a while - Zevran wanders the world, practicing his craft doing his best to enjoy his freedom. Every year, he returns to Ferelden for the same business with the Circle. (Some years, he even makes it more than once.) Before he leaves, he always offers to steal Nymm away.

It never works.

And then, six or seven visits later, Zevran arrives and finds that Nymm is no longer there.

“The Free Marches,” the First Enchanter tells him when he asks. “He’s gone to travel the Circles there, to help train healers. He should be back here in two years. Maybe three. By now, he should be in Starkhaven. Next is Kirkwall.”

Zevran notices how the First Enchanter’s face darkens a little when he says the word Kirkwall.

Kirkwall.

Zevran had decided to wait to see Nymm again. It’s too hard to gain access to Circles that don’t know him as a friend of the Hero of Ferelden and the King. But fate seems to have a sense of humor, and he ends up outside of Kirkwall anyway.

Fate also decides that he should meet the Champion of Kirkwall, a fierce woman named Hawke. And of course, the Champion’s lover is none other than his dear Isabela. Fate really is a tricky bitch.

The Champion helps him with his Crow problem, and later he helps the Champion (and Isabela) out of their clothes. Isabela is just as fun as he remembered, and her Hawke is very nearly as wicked. Afterward, while they’re sorting out their clothes, he asks them about Kirkwall’s Circle. Are the mages well-cared for? How hard would it be to visit?

He doesn’t like the Champion’s answers.

Zevran goes with Hawke to a place called the Gallows a few days later. She’s there to see her little sister, and she also has business with the woman in charge. Zevran is there as a courtesy to Hawke, and is left out of the meeting. When he asks a Templar if there’s a healer from Ferelden present, the man sneers at him. There might be, but even if there is, nobody is allowed inside.

No, this place isn’t as open as Kinloch Hold, and that’s really saying something.

When they bring Hawke’s sister out to the courtyard for a visit, Zevran finds that the Champion of Kirkwall has pulled a few strings for him as well. Accompanying the younger Hawke is a familiar elf with white hair. He sees Zevran and stares at him for a moment. Zevran smiles and approaches Nymm.

Hawke embraces her sister and leads her to a nearby bench to talk, and the two elves are left to stand together.

“You again,” Nymm says.

“I’m hard to get rid of,” Zevran replies, and reaches out to touch Nymm’s arm. He doesn’t like how thin he looks now, how tired. Nymm laughs though, and it lights up his face.

The two of them talk quietly for a bit, standing close together in the heavily-guarded courtyard. Kirkwall’s Circle is different, Nymm tells him. It’s not a good place to be. He doubts that they’ll let him journey on to Ostwick like he should be, and fears he’ll never get to leave. There’s also the looming threat of Tranquility.

“I should have let you steal me away before,” he says. “But it’s too late for that now.” He smiles sadly and something in Zevran aches.

They embrace after a guard informs them their time is up. He kisses Nymm’s cheek once before the mage is forced back through the gate. He takes Bethany Hawke by the hand and the two of them walk back inside.

“If I knew how to get them safely out for good, it would be a done deal,” Hawke says softly to Zevran. Her voice is low and quiet, but there’s steel in it.

“When you figure it out, I am your man,” he replies.

The Gallows.

Zevran is back in Kirkwall a few months later. He’d heard rumblings of more trouble and had come as quickly as he could. He finds a city tensely balanced on the edge; it’s waiting for something to tip it over into chaos. And of course, it doesn’t take long.

He watches as an explosion lights up the sky.

Well, that’d do it.

He finds himself back in the Gallows again, making his way through Templars doing battle with mages. It’s unfortunately familiar territory, but he does his best to assist mages when he can. Zevran finally catches up with the Champion and her companions.

Hawke has found her sister, but Bethany doesn’t know what happened to Nymm; she hadn’t seen him before the explosion.

Zevran fights along with the Champion, though he pauses every so often to check the corpses lining the halls. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he finds one with that familiar white hair. Luckily, it doesn’t comes to pass; he’s unable to find Nymm Surana, alive or dead.

The final battle is upon them, and the woman in charge of the place has started to glow. Zevran wonders if his life could possibly get any stranger. Then, the giant statues lining the place start attacking and Zevran immediately curses himself for jinxing it.

Zevran, of course, is knocked out by a particularly angry statue near the end of the fight. He isn’t conscious to witness Meredith turning into a living statue. But...maybe it’s better that way; it’s too hard to believe even for the people who see it.

He wakes a few hours later to a cool hand touching his brow. He knows this touch! His eyes snap open and he’s looking up into a face he knows.

“You know,” Nymm says. “You’ve really got to stop getting hit on the head. We can’t keep meeting like this.”

Zevran laughs and it feels like a weight has lifted from him.

Waking Sea.

“Are you sure you must go?” Zevran asks. They’re standing against the rail of Isabela’s ship, looking at the coastline in the distance. They’re a week out of Kirkwall, hitching a ride with Hawke and her companions.

“Yes,” Nymm says. “I’m an apostate here. I participated in the Kirkwall uprising. They’re going to come looking for me.” He sighs and leans against Zevran.

“But the Gallows...they said most of the blood vials were destroyed,” Zevran replies.

“Mine is back at home in Ferelden,” he points out. “If I turn myself in there, I might not be punished.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Zevran says.

“I know,” Nymm says.

“You...you said before that you wished I would have stolen you earlier. Well, you’re stolen now. Stay.” Zevran hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels.

“I know,” Nymm says again, more softly. “But things have changed. I’ve heard that there’s been talk of the mages gathering to dissolve the Circles. I saw what happened in Kirkwall; they’re going to need me.”

But I need you, Zevran doesn’t say.

He doesn’t convince Nymm to sail away with him in the end. Instead, they make the journey to Amaranthine and leave him there on the docks. The Wardens will help him get back to Kinloch, and from there… Zevran hopes he doesn’t end up back in that old cell.

Rivain.

Zevran is in Llomerryn when he hears that the College of Mages has been disbanded. He hasn’t been back to Ferelden yet to see if Nymm is safe in his tower; Zevran wonders if he’s even still alive.

Antiva City.

Zevran is back in Antiva City when he receives an unexpected letter from Nymm. He doesn’t know how the mage has managed to track his whereabouts from halfway across Thedas, but he’s pleased nonetheless. (The answer, of course, is magic. And a bit of borrowed Warden coin.)

Nymm says that he has been accepted back into the Circle, and he has joined a group of other mages trying to find a peaceful solution to the current trouble. There’s going to be a big meeting soon. He hopes to see Zevran some time in the future, but doesn’t know where he’ll be just yet. He apologizes again for having to leave.

Zevran unfortunately knows that the letter has taken its time in getting to him. He also knows that the gathering didn’t work out; the mages are already in revolt.

He sets it aside and tries not to worry.

It almost works.

Wycome.

Zevran is in Wycome when the sky splits open. He doesn’t notice it; he’s busy on a job, and Wycome is very far from Haven. He hasn’t thought about Nymm in a while, though deep down he still hopes that the mage is alive.

Word travels. The Conclave has been destroyed and the Divine herself is dead. Andraste has chosen a man who walked out from the Fade itself, and he’s gathering an army in the Frostbacks. An Inquisition, they call it.

Zevran dismisses most of it as gossip, though part of him worries about the larger ramifications. And maybe another part still worries about the mage.

A few days later, he receives a bird and wonders how in the world people keep finding him. He stops wondering when he realizes who it’s from. So, Leliana is involved in all the madness down south? Zevran thinks he might pay a visit after all.

Skyhold.

By the time he’s close to Haven, he finds out that it’s been buried under an avalanche. Of course it has. Well, no big loss there - he hadn’t liked that place the first time around. He’s directed to a new place in the Frostbacks called Skyhold. He’s loathe to travel farther in the cursed snow, but he’s a man of his word, and he’d already sworn he’d help Leliana.

He arrives at Skyhold cold and miserable. It’s an impressive castle, but he thinks they should probably invest in a better road. Upon noticing how much repair the castle itself needs, he changes his mind. He slips through the gates with a group of workers and makes his way to the tavern.

Things don’t seem as bad once his belly is full and he’s had a chance to warm up. The atmosphere around the keep is hopeful. These people have a purpose, and there is a great many different kinds of them around. Why, he’s even found that the newly appointed Inquisitor is actually a Qunari.

Zevran is leaving the tavern when he sees a group of mages walking by. He’d noticed a few others earlier, but it only occurs to him now that they’re wandering the keep freely. He’s only seen a few Templars around, and he doesn’t think they’re there just to watch the mages. It’s strange, but he finds he likes it. He wishes… No. He’s stopped wishing.

His meeting with Leliana goes well, though he’s a little worried by his old friend; she’s not quite the soft-hearted bard he remembers. Still, she welcomes him to the Inquisition and says that the Inquisitor is looking forward to meeting him the next day. For now, though, she gives him directions to the small room he’s been assigned. As he leaves, he can’t help but get the feeling she’s smirking at him.

He finds his room easily enough, though he gets a strange look from a pair of mages that pass him in the dimly lit hallway. It’s late though, and he’s too worn out to care. He opens the door, steps inside, and then pauses. Something is off. There’s a stack of books on the small desk, as well as a pile of parchment and an inkwell. A folded pile of clothing is on the chair in the corner, and the bedclothes are rumpled. This is already somebody’s room; he must have misheard Leliana’s instructions.

Zevran turns to leave and bumps into someone who is suddenly standing behind him. Shit. He has no excuse for not noticing somebody getting that close! He takes a step back and is about to apologize when he finds himself looking into a pair of violet eyes.

“...oh,” Zevran says.

“Oh,” Nymm agrees. His hair is longer now, held back from his face in a braid. He looks tired, but it’s the good kind of tired this time.

“This is supposed to be my room,” Zevran says dumbly. He wants to reach out and touch Nymm, but he’s scared that this is somehow not real. That if he does try to touch, the mage will disappear like a plume of smoke.

“That’s funny,” Nymm says with a soft laugh. “It’s already mine. Though…” He breaks the spell by moving in and wrapping his arms around the frozen assassin. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Zevran relaxes into the embrace once he realizes that it’s real. He buries his face against Nymm’s neck and breathes him in - he’s warm and solid and smells like elfroot and mint. They hold onto one another and Zevran feels lighter. Warmer. Better.

“Congratulations,” Nymm eventually murmurs. His hand caresses the back of Zevran’s head. “You didn’t even have to get knocked out to find me this time.”

Zevran laughs at that and pulls back from the embrace. He grins at the mage before grabbing his hand and dragging him back into his own room. The door is shut firmly behind them.

They have a lot to catch up on.

#ZevWarden Week #ZevWarden #Zevran x Warden #Zevran Arainai #M!Warden #M!Surana #Nymm Surana #Dragon Age fanfiction #AU #my writing #better late than never #holy crap i went overboard #my zevwarden week

37 notes · View notes