apocalisse

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i really could say a lot about not having much to show for this year but! if you account for the massive amount of in the works things i already have set up, 2017 doesn’t look as terrible, and 2018 isn’t as daunting ��� (top is finished, bottom wips)

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A smiling Fen C: 

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Mad!Solas A1

I tried -.-’

The ‘I Just Committed Murder’ Drawing Meme >>>

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Bethany Hawke

Practice -  drawing face’s

Well, now better than last work.

Next would be Carver

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post-Into The Abyss??? Who knows! Have a sad Fenhawke doodle!

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WHAT IF: young anders met young hawke on one of his escape runs!!!!

bless @pikestaff for patiently indulging me with this

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YES WE NEED THAT FIC YOU KNOW IT :D

19, 23! :)

Thank you for the ask. <3

19. any new fics to start next year

Hm, there’s my LeliHawke Lothering one-shot, which is currently an outline and a whooping 382 words, haha. I don’t really have anything else planned yet – my goals so far are to finish my current WIPs and give my original projects some love.

I do have some embryonic fic ideas: namely a Tevinter longfic in which Hawke, Varania and Orana are dragged to Tevinter to be tried for Danarius’s murder, leaving Fenris to stage a daring rescue, or an idea I discussed with @apocalisse​, about a romanced Fenris who stands by his principles to the very end, fights Hawke during ‘The Last Straw’ and survives only to regret his decision – until they meet again during the events of Inquisition.

… but I’m not sure whether either one of them will grow beyond the “fun to think about” stage.

23. fics you wanted to write but didn’t

A few! I think most of them are ideas I had for the Month of Fanfiction challenge I did back in August, which had a different prompt for every day of the month – I couldn’t keep up after the first 10 prompts or so, though. The one that’s still at the back of my mind is “role reversal”: I’d been planning to write an alternate DA2 timeline where Fenris becomes the Champion of Kirkwall, just to see how bad things would have been then. :D I also wanted to write a Dragon Age/Witcher crossover for Halloween, but didn’t have the time.

Thanks again for asking!

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What if Blackwall was actually Santa Claus?

YOU BETTER WATCH OUT

YOU BETTER NOT CRY

YOU BETTER NOT POUT I’M TELLING YOU WHY

SANTAWALL IS COMING TO TOOOOOWN

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Merry Christmas everyone (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ *bark bark*

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had a very important conversation with @weenyah about proper nug winter attire (*´꒳`*)

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— Always watching out for your little brother, huh?

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A year in art. Some pieces I’ve not yet published are cropped into this as well, but dw I’ll post them before the year ends. Why four of each? Because I am very industrious. 2016.

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Available for Pre-Order: Dragon Age: Hard in Hightown

THIS IS NOT A DRILL. The famous (infamous?) Varric Tethras novel is now available on for pre-order, written by Varric Tethras (insert devilish Dwarven smirk here) with BioWare’s Mary Kirby. Illustrations included.

The description of the crime-noir drama is below:

Twenty years of patrols have chiseled each and every stone of the Kirkwall streets into city guardsmen Donnen Brennokovic. Weary and weathered, Donnen is paired with a recruit so green he might as well have leaves growing out of his armor. When the mismatched pair discover a dead magistrate bleeding out on the flagstones, they’re caught up in a clash between a shadowy organization known only as the Executors and a secretive group of Chantry agents–all over some ancient artifact.

You can grab it on Amazon (affiliate link here / Amazon Smile). Release is expected July 31, 2018.

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A Christmas prompt for you, if you’ve got time to do one (and if you feel like it, of course)! Carver/Merrill, number 38 from that list... :-)

“Last Christmas, you broke my heart. But I’m still not over you.”Whew, right on time! It’s 11:48 p.m. on Christmas day in the UK as I’m posting this. :D I hope you won’t mind this little piece of incredibly trope-y, convoluted drama.

“The mulled wine smells really nice, doesn’t it?” Merrill says, throwing a handful of dried cranberries into the hearth-cake dough. She’s wearing a headband with rattan halla antlers and a hand-knit sweater, now powdered with a layer of sifted flour. “Hawke said it was your father’s recipe.”

Carver shrugs as he stirs the mulled wine. The cinnamon sticks and vanilla pods swirl in the saucepan, the flesh of the orange slices purpling. “If ‘throw the spice mix into cheap wine and simmer it’ counts as a recipe, then yes.”

“Oh.” Milk splashes on the table as she dribbles some into the dough. “Still, it’s quite different from the version I grew up with. We’d just use the same spices as for the hearth cakes: ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg, so no anise or orange peel, with honey or maybe some puréed dates or even a chopped apple and—sorry,” she says with one of those thrice-damned giggles of hers that just make him want to sweep her off her feet and kiss her. “I’m rambling.”

“You are,” he concurs, more harshly than he intended, regretting the words the instant they’re out of his mouth.

She laughs again, but it’s a little strained this time. “That—that wasn’t very nice, now, was it?”

“You said it first,” he retorts. Maker damn it, why can’t he just apologise instead?

“I did, yes. Sorry. I’ll just shut up now.” And she does, kneading in perfect silence before flouring the tabletop—and it’s worse, of course it’s worse, with that silence thick as the dough between them, only filled with the rustle of the wine simmering on the stove and the slow back-and-forth of the rolling pin.

Carver throws an agonizing look towards the doorway, hoping to see his sister return. Void, he’d even take Fenris’s scathing remarks if it meant a distraction.

How long does it take to set up a bloody trivet, anyway?

Just damn his luck. Taken hostage by the mulled wine, doomed to watch it simmer while Fenris and his sister are busy getting everything ready to bake the hearth cakes … and only then does it occur to him that it must’ve all been on purpose. Of course his sister would invite only Merrill and him early, then find a way to leave them alone together in the same room. Minding everyone else’s business is just what she does, romantic, meddling fool that she is.

But Carver feels, oddly, most betrayed by Fenris. Not that there’s much in the way of friendship between them for Fenris to betray—and maybe this is what makes it doubly frustrating: that Fenris—Fenris, with his bloody puppy eyes and his bloody flannel shirt and his bloody rolled-up sleeves—now thinks himself happy enough to meddle into other people’s affairs. And why wouldn’t he be? The way his sister is glowing, she probably expects a marriage proposal before the night is over (now wouldn’t that be mortifying?), or she’s expecting, period, and—

And why does that bother him?

Bloody mulled wine. Bloody hearth cakes. Bloody Satinalia.

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I drew a lil  christmas nuggy for the @santa-age im taking care of !! ✨

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…and a happy new year!

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N. 11 for the Christmas prompts, with a side of angst if possible! Thanks <3

“I can’t believe you’re not gonna be home for Christmas.”Argh, kind of a loose take on the prompt, and it really didn’t turn out as angsty as I’d anticipated. I’m sorry – it’s probably not what you were looking for, but I hope you still enjoy it. <3

Her new dress has a scalloped hem and ribbons stitched on the sleeves, just like her favorite princess, Ser Aveline, wears in the movie. She twirls like a ballerina just to watch the skirt poof up around her legs, but the living room keeps spinning even after she stops. “Careful, pup,” Papa says, steadying her before scritching her face with his beard. The fireplace burns orange and warm, and the house smells of baked apples and slightly burnt ham. Papa had to do all the cooking alone this year because the kitchen is too small and Mama’s belly keeps getting in the way.

When the twins are born, they’ll keep each other awake and catch Santa putting presents under the tree.

“How much are you giving her?” Mother chides when she catches Father handing her a mug, a pod of star anise bobbing in the steaming, fragrant wine. “Malcolm, she’s fifteen.”

“Exactly, Leandra. Would you rather she gets drunk with the boys down in the village while our backs are turned?”

She pokes one of the oranges Father brought back from the market with a toothpick, otherwise the cloves keep slipping off the rind when Bethany tries to push them in with her tiny fingers. Carver sits cross-armed on the couch, kicking the air because the label on the biggest present under the tree reads the name of his twin. Mother hums The Twelve Days of Satinalia while wrapping presents; Father is grousing under his breath, screwing and unscrewing the bulbs on a string of lights to find the one that burned out. The puppy hobbles across the room, ears still folded, one paw stuck in the red ribbon tied around his neck.

The pads of her thumbs are sore; her hands smell of citrus and spices all night.

Bethany shrieks. Maker’s Bark bounds away from the tree just as it tips over in the exact way a Satinalia tree shouldn’t, then crashes to the floor in a shatter of ornaments and glittering dust. Carver doubles over, roaring with laughter, while Mother brandishes the broom at the hound and chases him outside the house.

“That one!” she announces, pointing to the scrawniest tree in the spruce thicket. It’s even colder outside Lothering, the air fragrant with the scent of pine resin and fresh-fallen snow.

Father grins and hands her the axe. “Always going for the underdog, eh?”

They sing along to Harold the Red-nosed Halla on the way home, the scrawny spruce tree strapped to the car roof. Snowflakes stick to Father’s beard, and Mother squeals when he kisses her under the sprig of mistletoe that hangs from the doorframe.

A gust of wintry wind blows into the room as the door swings shut. Hawke shivers.

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