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[mbwestover]

Love your work! Particularly your fic: An Alternate Theory of Worlds by Archmage Almaliriel Eruvarin! Hope you're doing well!

Thanks anon! I’ve been doing really well!! I’ve been trying to outline the next chapter for ATOW but time keeps sleeping and things get in the way.

Who in particular is your favorite character so far?

[mbwestover]

Very random but will Millie changer her looks to match her precious body or will she stay as merope ?

I’ve thought about it, honestly. A characteristic of Millie is that she’s vain and she acknowledges this. It grinds her to be inside someone that is ugly, but it has pushed her to adapt more than if Merope was a great beauty.

Short answer is maybe. I don’t want to give away anything I have planned, but I honestly switch between Millie keeping Merope’s appearance the way it is or changing it.

[mbwestover]

WHEN WILL POOR MILLIE GET A JOB AUTHOR. WHEN WILL SHE GET A JOB AND END HER SUFFERING

SHE WILL FOREVER SUFFER, THIS IS A DECREE—

Jk. She will get a job NEXT CHAPTER

[mbwestover]

Hi Westover, I wanted to say that I really love Merope and I'm really grateful you decided to share it with us. It is such a unique concept of a fic and fills in the niche fic I've always wanted but was too nervous to actually write. I usually don't like SI-OCs, but Merope has made me open my eye to more of the genre and I'm really grateful it did! There's so many great fics I've been missing out on!

Oh wow. This is like, such a huge compliment, Anon!!! I hope that you’ve found great joy in other SI-OCs out there and I’m glad I’ve been the “gateway” author for the genre!

[mbwestover]

picked clean art!

made for my fic w/ @mbwestover​ , TheWritingCorner and bones :D

[mbwestover]

if millie had been a witch in her own body and went to hogwarts, which house would she get sorted into?

Late answer! I haven’t been looking at my inbox — so sorry Anon!

Hmm. Millie, at her barest, is a self-insert. I personally placed into Slytherin for Hogwarts and Wampus for Ilvermorny, but this ask is about Millie!!

Millie would be Slytherin. I took the Pottermore test (when Pottermore was still around) when Millie was starting to form as a character in my mind, and the test came out as Slytherin when I was answering how I would want Millie to.

I don’t think Millie would’ve been a particularly ambitious Slytherin, however. Or a notable witch.

[mbwestover]

Prompt : Daemon Blackfyre x Maron Martell ( can be unrequited ) Daemon Blackfyre loved dornish prince, not dragon princess.

Fire and Blood.

His hands clench the edges of the table, his gloves squeaking as his shoulders tense, and he resists the fiery urge to flip the whole table. Crinkles spread across the map, the creases stark against the parchment as the Crownlands folds into itself in a crumpled crater that he refuses to look at.

What would there be to even see? Scattered holds and useless towns that have no meaning to him in a land he had no proper claim to, never mind the fact that his mother was a Targaryen princess and his father was a king.

He was Daemon Waters. A Great Bastard. Another stain on House Targaryen, right next to all his brothers and sisters that did not have the pleasure to be whelped from the late Queen Naerys’s royal cunt. Not that anyone in court really considered her to be queen, except maybe a handful of courtiers and relatives, and of course, Uncle Aemon, who had stared at her as if she hung the moon and stars and was the Mother herself.

He sits back in his chair, the thing creaking as he closes his eyes and leans his head back. His solar is quiet during this time of day and has been growing even quieter and less busy since the year his sons were born. The court looked between himself and Daeron with bated breaths and shining eyes and have been, ever since father had given him, a bastard, Blackfyre.

Daemon didn’t understand why anyone had expected him to—he glances at the shadows on the wall and rubs his eyes. When was the last time he had eaten? Rohanne usually came around noon to scold him into eating, one of the boys propped up on her hip while her Tyroshi handmaid followed after her with their other son.

Wood scrapes against bare stone as he pushes himself away from his desk, his chair rattling as he then pockets his key to his solar. It wasn’t an exuberantly large room, like one would expect from being a part of the royal family, but with a shared name like Waters tacked onto the end of his name, he was just as royal as his bastard sisters from common Merry Meg who were given to the Faith.

Locking the door behind him, he glances down the hall. It’s unusually empty, save for a pair of women in maid uniforms who carry a basket full of linens as they pass him.

On some days it grinds on him, how they don’t greet him before scurrying past.

The halls are cooler than normal, autumn settling upon King’s Landing with the promise of a cold winter soon to follow. Summer had lasted a short two years and Rohanne had moved her attentions from wooing her own husband over to making sure their sons were hale and healthy.

Three years of marriage had produced a lucky set of twin boys, conceived on their wedding night and there were yet siblings to follow if Daemon could ignore the way his own wife followed him with greedy eyes. As an Archon’s daughter, it wasn’t far-fetched to assume she got what she wanted, not that he would know, given the way he tried to avoid her as much as he could.

She was a stunningly pretty woman, with chestnut-toned skin, fox-shaped eyes, and a pert mouth. Her strands of colored hair only highlighted her warm skin and brought attention to her pretty face, which was easily admirable even in the bright sun of day. Daemon wasn’t blind to realize that she was a good wife for him, ignoring her foregin status.

The only fault that Daemon found with his wife was the fact that she wasn’t someone he had picked himself.

He liked to collect things. Liked to pinch and touch and grab before pocketing whatever it was he wanted. It wasn’t terribly hard, especially when the other option of getting what he wanted was simply working for it. He was a bastard; a Great Bastard at that. Hard-work wasn’t an unfamiliar concept to him and in fact was the only concept he had ever really put any sort of conviction into, at least when father was still alive.

Ever since Daeron had taken the throne, Daemon had flopped around uncertainly within the Red Keep (not that he would ever let anybody know about), since his brother couldn’t provide him any sort of title or governmental position without his supporters losing their little heads or running into his dear wife, who was quick to personalize his free time into her own tastes.

Daemon enjoyed the few moments they shared together--how could he not when she was the mother of his children and an ever-present figure in his life? He was bound to form at least a fondness of Rohanne, especially since he didn’t outright dislike or hate her much like his father did with his own legal wife.

The Red Keep grows cooler as he nears the royal gardens. There are less braziers and candelabras strewn about this way since most of the time, the large doors leading to the gardens were constantly kept open since Baelor the Blessed, who was said to be seen within the gardens almost as much as he was seen within a sept.

Despite being meant for use by those of the royal family only, the royal gardens typically saw more use out of them from the lucky few outsiders who were granted permission to browse the hedges and greenery. Daemon didn’t think that there was much to see besides bushes and more bushes, but the women of the family seemed to enjoy the quiet of these gardens in comparison to the godswood in the Red Keep that was used as a more public ‘garden.’

Father’s Blackwood mistress had once tried to get him to plant one of those ghastly trees within the godswood, but she had fallen out of favor before she could actually get it done. Instead she had left behind three bastard children, with the boy being pale as a ghost and just as ghastly as one of her savage blood-thirsty trees.

He stops before he can properly see the fountain that gives the royal guarden’s its name, instead closing his eyes and tilting his head upwards to feel the pale sun. In his mind’s eye, he can perfectly imagine the supposed replica of Princess Maegelle Targaryen in her septa’s habit as she holds an urn where water gushes from the opening of it.

“Daemon?”

He opens his eyes, blinking to adjust them to the sunlight before turning around. “Sister.”

“What's caused you to leave your lair?” Fifteen and already a great beauty, Daenerys Targaryen peers at him, light purple eyes almost lavender in the pale sunlight. The greenery of the royal gardens makes her stand out like some sort of fae creature, her platinum hair tumbling down her shoulders and over her Reacher-styled dress that had been the newest rage of the court since one of Lord Oakheart’s daughters had shown up in a daring new dress cut.

“Some fresh air.” He follows her with his eyes as she sashays past him, her arms pulling the skirt of her dress this way and that in a rather childish and dramatic move that reminds him that she is only fifteen.

He was fourteen when he had married and consummated his marriage with Rohanne, but it wasn’t so far long ago where he had forgotten the way he wanted to throw up and close his eyes so it could all be over. Father would’ve taunted him in front of the entire court if he had done that, had he still been alive, but it was Daeron’s cool gaze that had anchored itself in his mind as he was carted off to the bedchambers with Rohanne.

Father had brokered the betrothal between Rohanne and himself, but it was Daeron who had sealed it, despite his protests.

“You are father’s son.” Daeron had said shortly, placing down his goblet before fixing his ever-even stare upon Daemon. “Thus you shall do what is required.”

(Daemon still remembers the way he had clenched his hands into fists, the letter in his hand crinkled and crushed to the point that it had smudged the dry ink. He had written, he had promised him, and all Daemon had to do was show his kingly brother the contents and--)

“I understand, Your Grace.” He felt the tendon in his jaw flex. “Please excuse me.”

“Daemon!”

“Don’t pinch me, Daenerys.” He scowls, tugging his arm out of her grasp. Despite her delicate stature, Daenerys had sharp little fingers that she wielded against her siblings in the form of pinches.

“That’s the fifth time now,” Daenerys says matter-of-factly, one of her eyebrows raised in a way that has him already bristling. As the precious (legitimate) younger sister of the king, Daenerys had grown used to others following her words or actions with the ease of just flicking a pinkie finger. The late Queen Naerys had certainly adored her youngest, who (in Daemon’s own opinion) resembled the Dragonknight more than the baseless rumors that followed Daeron, who looked like a skinnier version of their late father. “Are you even listening to me?”

Daemon exhales, leaning forward until his elbows rest on his knees before looking up at the princess. “Unfortunately.”

Her lips press into a frown, which then form into a pout as she huffily sits next to him on the stone bench. It wasn’t often that they were allowed alone together like this ever since one of Daeron’s supporters had started a disgusting rumor saying that the two of them fancied each other.

Of course, Daeron, ever trusting and ever near-sighted with things when it came to the ‘wise’ men of his courts, had lapped up this rumor like it was fact and had forbidden them to be around each other without a chaperone. Daenerys was hurt by Daeron’s insinuations and Daemon’s own wife had then taken it upon herself to hang onto him like a limpet.

“The Dornish party will be here soon.” Daenerys tells him, “I am to be married.”

“Oh joy.” He says flatly, no joy in his tone.

“It’s not funny, y'know. I have to be Princess Consort of Dorne. Dorne!”

Daemon purses his lips. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulat—I don’t want to go to Dorne.” She uncrosses her arms, huffing.

“Brother would not be pleased to hear that; nor would his wife.” Daemon warns.

“Well I am not pleased.”

“When are you ever?” Daemon mutters, hissing as she digs her elbow into his side.

“Daenerys!”

“I’m marrying a complete stranger, Daemon. Have some sympathy.”

Daemon rolls his eyes, rubbing a hand onto the side she had jabbed him with. “You and everyone else. Rohanne and I were strangers on our wedding night.”

“That’s different,” Daenerys tells him, when it's really not. “You two grew to love each other.”

“I grew to tolerate her, not love her.” And Daenerys looks stricken by this, her eyes searching his own for any trace of falsity or lie. Perhaps to others, the marriage between Rohanne and himself looked to be one that was well-matched. He rarely lost his temper with her and it was obvious that his Tyroshi wife held affections for him.

He just didn’t hold the same affections for her.

“But Rohanne…” His sister trails off uncertainly, her pale hands folding into the skirts of her dress in a move that he recognizes as one of her anxious habits.

“I care for Rohanne,” He says evenly. “But my love is held for another.”

They stare at each other for a moment, conflicting emotions swimming in Daenerys’s eyes as she furrows her brows. She was still young and coddled, a perfect princess in the eyes of the realm for her beauty and soft-spoken side she only ever showed in public.

Suddenly she stands, turning back to Daemon with pursed lips as she folds her hands in front of her. Even standing, she isn’t too tall of a girl, taking after her mother’s almost wispy stature as she shuffles her feet.

“Do you think the Prince would treat me kindly?” She asks quietly.

Daemon softens. “He would be beyond kind.”

“Would he love me, you think?”

And here he reaches up to tweak her nose, ignoring her indignant squawk as she slaps his hand away.

“It would be hard not to love you, Dany.”

Daenerys beams, her nose red and her eyes sparkling as she leans down to pull him into a hug. Her head slots against his neck and he can feel some strands of hair tugging as she wiggles herself back down into the spot next to him.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” She breathes, her voice soft against his ear.

Daemon closes his eyes, resting his head against his sister’s. “Clever, clever. What tipped you off?”

“Love.” She says simply, as if that answer alone would suffice.

And it does, as he can see those words printed stark against the darkness of his lids, of how he wondered over Maron’s neat penmanship and the way his stomach would flutter as he clutched their secret little letters to his chest.

“Love.” Daemon echoes, opening his eyes.

[mbwestover]

solas: i need to return the world to the elves...this is my mission. i am a tragic villain. i do this for reasons the op of this post cant remember

the hero of ferelden, who just got back from curing themselves of death disease:

[mbwestover]

“Westover why haven’t you updated—“ “Westover when will the next update—“

I FORGOT. I FORGET I HAVE OTHER WORKS BESIDES ATOW AND MEROPE!! UPDATES WILL COME WHEN THEY COME PLEASE STOP FILLING MY ASK!

[mbwestover]

god this scene i haven’t written would be so emotional if it came with 50k words of context i also haven’t written

[mbwestover]

Hi Westover, I tend to be interested in why authors pick certain names for their characters. How did Millie’s name come to be and other characters like Dorothy, Alla Fawcett, etc

I've been sitting on this ask for awhile because the first draft of it did not save (thanks Tumblr) and I was too discouraged to reply after that. Sorry Anon.

Typically when picking names, I consider the time period, fandom, background I want for the character, and already-existing names in canon.

I knew from the beginning that I wanted Millie to be French somehow. I liked the sound of the name Fontenot, but I wanted my character to be very much English + their name start with an 'M' for them to reflect Merope in a way. I liked the sound of Millie and ended up later settling as Amelie for her full name (probably around chapter 4).

Dorothy was named after a great-aunt I had, along with that name being rather popular in the 1920s. That particular side of my family is Welsh, so I've grabbed a few of their names (particularly Westover) and have put them in my works.

Simply put: If I like the name and it fits, it sticks.

[mbwestover]

Female Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen

Mother is fussing over her veil again, lifting it this way and that to get it to lay just right. It’s annoying, aggravating even, they’ve all been fussing since the king had moved up her wedding date by a good nine moons, but the king’s word was law and the Baratheons were good vassals to their cousins.

“Don’t slouch, Bertha.” Mother tuts, moving behind her to now fuss with her maiden cloak.

“It’s hard not to.” Bertha grumbles. They’d woken her up at the crack of dawn and had dunked her into the coldest bath she has ever taken in her life. Probably as cold as the shallow pools on Estermont, where her mother’s kin like to dance and play in the chilling waters as if it was a warm summer’s pool.

Cassana Estermont looks over her daughter, her only daughter, who is declared to be too-tall and too-boisterous for a proper lady. Bertha likes running with her skirts up and around her knees, she likes staying in the sun until her skin freckles, until her laugh is the only thing filling Storm’s End’s cavernous halls, and riding every horse she can get her hands on, astride. She’s the furthest thing from most ladies, too outspoken and free-spirited, but she is also a Baratheon and there is a certain allowance with that.

Oh, she’s much too wild. Bertha has heard it all before. How her father should properly punish his errant eldest, make her a proper lady so as to not shame her family, but whatever punishment her father employs never seems to work. Septas quit, tutors give up; it's a common story in Storm’s End.

Loud, unladylike, and much too mannish. Bertha has heard it all, whether it be in her face or behind her back. She’s not very smart, she’s aware of that, but she isn’t completely dumb.

“Your strides must be perfect.” Cassana frets. “Match your father and do not try and pull him.”

Her mother turns to dismiss the gaggle of women in the room, maids, septas, and handmaidens all quickly and quietly leaving. Grandmother is with their cousins, her maiden house, as it has been awhile since Rhaelle Targaryen has stepped foot into King’s Landing.

Bertha knows that she is supposed to marry Rhaegar. She’s known that she was supposed to marry Rhaegar since she was born and the Queen failed to have any more successful pregnancies. There was Viserys, who was born just a year before, but he was not the daughter that the King had anticipated and so here she was.

She’s the closest source of Targaryen blood, besides the Targaryens themselves. There’s the Tarths, who currently descend from Princess Daella Targaryen, but there are no daughters for them to offer to the crown. The King and her father are first cousins anyways. It’s the closest connection available, besides an imaginary sister.

Bertha doesn’t think that she could ever understand the Targaryen tradition of wedding siblings. She has Stannis, who is much too dour and serious for a child his age. He’s the perfect little heir, she will give him that, but he is also the most annoying child ever. He’s quick to tell her how to behave and even quicker on tattling on her to their parents, but now Bertha is getting married and so she could do as she pleases to the little brat as she will only need to listen to her husband and his father once she is wed.

“Oh, Bertie.” Father breathes, looking at her proudly. It’s very rare that he looks at her proudly. Usually he is too busy scolding her for out-doing Stannis in something, like riding, or that time she had disarmed him in the training field in front of the household guard, stealing one of the practice swords to prove that she was actually better than him and not bluffing.

He offers his arm to her and she takes it, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. There was really little in father that inherited the Targaryen traits of his mother, but there were times -- like this one -- where the light shown just right and revealed a purple so dark that it blended in perfectly with his Baratheon blues.

The Great Sept of Baelor is packed with people. There are the lifelong courtiers, many of them from Crownland houses that she can barely recall just looking at them, their colors all blending together just like their faces until it becomes nameless.

There are her Baratheon and Estermont relatives near the front and across from them in the pews are the shining silver heads of the Targaryens.

The sept is aptly named, as the Father and Mother stand steadfast and in gold, tall and godly above their worshippers as the sept falls silent as the sight of her. Her slippers are quiet, the satin of her dress barely even skimming over the marble floors as a rainbow is painted across them from the stained glass windows that stretch along the walls. Sardonically, Bertha wonders how humility can be found in such rich halls.

The Mother is gold, resplendent and beautiful, with a child held tenderly in her arms. The Father is steadfast, strong and striking and in the very image of a young Jaehaerys the Wise, his beard reaching down to his chest and a set of scales held close.

Between them, there waits her future husband and the High Septon.

Bertha has never met Rhaegar. They have exchanged letters, but the practice of it all can barely be called ‘exchanging.’ It was more of her forgetting that she had to write back, or her feeling dumb and childish in comparison to Rhaegar’s more eloquent handwriting and long paragraphs. He was well-read, everyone in the Seven Kingdoms has heard about how well educated, how strong, and how talented the Silver Prince was.

In comparison, there was Bertha. Too loud, too mannish, too wild Bertha.

She’s fourteen to his seventeen, basically a child in his eyes, but she is already taller than most boys her age. Stepping up to the dais, she almost feels a sense of triumph with how she isn’t completely dwarfed by him.

The High Septon begins, his arms raising up to the domed ceiling as he thanks the Seven.

Her mother is in the front row, her smile as wide as the sun as she clutches Stannis’s hand in her lap. Her younger brother looks bored, but she can see the way he tries to mask it with his ‘serious’ face, which consists of furrowed brows and him sitting as straight as he can.

In comparison, there is King Aerys, who sits hunched, his hands folded in his lap as one of his white-cloaked kingsguard stands alert not-too far. His eyes are beady and fixated on Rhaegar, an almost smug smirk on his face as he stares at the procession like a very-pleased housecat that caught the rat.

The vows are easy enough and she gives herself a mental pat-on-the-back for not stumbling over her words like she always did in practice. She vows to love him as a woman should, to mother his children, care for his hearth, and always obey his word.

Rhaegar’s hands are careful as they pull back her veil, and she meets his gaze evenly. He does not look...like anything really. He is handsome, enviously so, with high cheekbones and a straight, even nose and perfectly shaped cupid's bow lips, but there is no emotion she can decipher behind his eyes.

He is calm. He is there. That simply is the end of it.

Bertha closes her eyes, tilting her head up as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.

And that was it. Her dowry would be handed over after the celebrations and her family would eventually pack and leave to go back home, to the Stormlands. Aerys got himself a Valyrian-blooded gooddaughter and Rhaegar; a wife.

She opens her eyes, her hands held firmly in her new husband’s as he leads them off the dais. Above, the stained glass image of the Crone stares down at her.

Bertha notes idly, quietly in the back of her mind as cheers and congratulations rise up in the grand belly of the sept, how cold his hands are.

[mbwestover]

Who are all of Alma and Teldryn's kids? You said there were five in the authors note but only mentioned four. Who is the fifth? also how did Sofie die?

Aventus, Alesan, Lucia, Sofie, and Raena. Aventus is the unnamed fifth and is very much alive, but the events surrounding why he isn’t mentioned as much would go into spoilers.

Sofie died in early 4E 403 from an infection in her lungs. Her immune system, and particularly her lungs, were rather weak after years of sleeping outside in Windhelm, and the ash of Solstheim did little to help her condition.

Alma moved the family to Solstheim after the whole Miraak fiasco because she liked the people there, wanted her kids to experience more of Dunmer culture because Teldryn, of course, and finally so she could do research with Neloth in a closer vicinity.

By the time Alma finally noticed what was going on with her daughter, Sofie was already terminally ill. She’s not the most attentive of mothers, being constantly away and handling other responsibilities, but she does love her children and the death of Sofie affected her in a way that has her blaming herself, years later.

[mbwestover]

Alma and Teldryn have honestly become my most favorite ship ever and because I am a masochist I request ANGST. Prompt of one of them dying.

Teldryn does not feel like he can breathe. He hasn’t felt like he has breathed since Alma was declared sick, then ill, then dying.

She’s Altmeri, he had told himself when the healer declared her sick, passing along a potion meant to cure her of that wet, rattling cough in her lungs. Sickness means little to them.

She’s gotten sick before. Quick, sniffly things that left her grumpy and tired and maybe even a little delirious at times when a fever picked up, but she had always gotten better. They lived in Skyrim. They were bound to get a few colds every other year.

“She’s dying.” The healer had told him quietly, closing their bedroom door behind so as to not stir Alma from her rest.

He remembers how it felt as if someone had knocked the very wind from him, a weight crushing his throat and stars dancing in his eyes as he registers the healer’s words. He hadn’t replied, too stunned, too shocked to even formulate a response.

The healer had stared at him sadly, reaching out a hand to place on his shoulder, “The best thing now is to let her rest.”

She’s been resting for months now, he wants to say as if he could somehow reason the healer into a different response.

Teldryn wets his lips, exhaling harshly and turning away from the healer. “Thank you.” He says thickly.

“It was an honor to serve.” The healer pauses, staring at the bedroom door before turning back to Teldryn. “A week. If you're lucky, two. Her left lung has already collapsed.”

They had left then, letters in hand to give to a courier on Teldryn’s behalf. Their children would have to be called home.

Every so often her eyes flicker open, but he can tell that she does not recognize him in the least, because she stares at him blankly, and she has always looked at him so fondly since they had confessed their feelings, fumbling clumsily under a starlit sky and dying campfire as they laid together for the first time.

If not for the smell of bitter herbs and the taste of Restoration magicks in the air, he may have tried to rouse her, if only to try and recall the memory and hear her voice. Instead he holds her limp hand in his own, and wonders how he will continue to live without her.

[mbwestover]

Prompts are Open!

Send in anything regarding characters/fics I've written or something within the fandoms listed below:

A Song of Ice and Fire/A Game of Thrones

Avatar: The Last Airbender

Demon Slayer

Dragon Age

Genshin Impact

Harry Potter

Naruto

Red Dead Online

The Elder Scrolls

Tolkien

Zelda

[mbwestover]

I really liked the new chapter of Alternate Theory! It was longer than I expected so I was taken aback at the wordcount when I saw the update email in my inbox!! You mentioned in the latest chapter that Alma actually wiped out the Dark Brotherhood rather than join it, which I can totally see from how much youve shown us her character, but what was the circumstances surrounding that?

Thanks! I really enjoyed writing it.

The only organizations/guilds/factions that Alma ever joins in Skyrim are the College of Winterhold, the Imperial Army, the Blades, and finally Clan Volkihar, but she has since left both the Blades and Clan Volkihar. She's had a couple run-ins with the Thieves Guild and its hinted that Teldryn has even interacted with them, but she generally stays out of their way/avoids them and they do the same with her.

The Dark Brotherhood, on the other hand, made the mistake of kidnapping Alma when she was sleeping. She was staying in the Moorside Inn in Morthal and her companion at the time was Erandur. Waking up and being told to kill someone in order to leave was just another mark against the Dark Brotherhood and so she killed Astrid. She didn't want to leave loose threads and went forward with destroying the Dark Brotherhood lest one of the members take revenge on her children or companions.

Also, Alma doesn't really have a high opinion on assassins, which is ironic since Teldryn was once apart of the Morag Tong in my universe. (Mainly because I love the Teldryn Serious mod that gives him a dynamic background story.)

[mbwestover]

your herald is honestly such a breath of fresh air for dalish inquisitors. hes genuinely angry and bothered by being seen as the herald of andraste and the fact that he doesnt want anything to do with the inquisition is such a new take!! i cant wait to see his character development

Thank you Anon!!

While I do love the portrayal of most Lavellans, I’ve always wanted a genuine angry one. A Lavellan who has witnessed a horrible tragedy and has lost his traveling party of clanmates (the warrior Lavellan and mage Lavellan) and on top of that is being held up as a holy figure for a religion that has historically, and continuously, oppresses his people.

So yeah. A Lavellan who is very much reacting to everything pretty reasonably and just wants to go back home.