rusaalka - Tumblr blog

[rusaalka]

“You know,” she remarked, “I don’t think you’re anywhere near as selfish as you pretend to be.”

“How dare you."

She laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. It can be our secret.”

//

Bitter work: learning that goes against one's nature. Or,

Astarion learns what it means to love and be loved in return.

[rusaalka]

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners." Hawke extended her hand. “Marian Hawke, at your service.”

The dwarf shook her hand with a firm, calloused grip. “Oh, don’t worry. I know all about you.” She grinned, but her eyes were shrewd. “Bianca Davri.”

Hawke held the handshake for just a smidge too long, her breath caught in her chest. Bianca? The Bianca? Varric sent Bianca to her house without even mentioning it? Forget fed up—she was going to wring his neck.

Hawke managed to let go of Bianca’s hand. She tilted her head, wearing that same, winning smile as before. “Bianca,” she repeated. “That's a pretty name.”

If Bianca noticed Hawke’s shock, she didn’t show it. She tucked a piece of hair that had come loose behind her ear. “That’s kind of you. It’s a common name for dwarf girls. I think I know four or five. It beats Zerlinda, anyway.”

//

Bianca comes to Kirkwall. Hawke is not in love with her best friend.

[rusaalka]

Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex/Reader, CT-7567 | Rex/Original Female Character(s), Pong Krell & CT-7567 | Rex Characters: CT-7567 | Rex, CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives, CT-5597 | Jesse, CT-6922 | Dogma, CT-6116 | Kix, CT-5385 | Tup, Clone Trooper Hardcase (Star Wars), Pong Krell Additional Tags: Post-Umbara Arc (Star Wars), Umbara Arc Aftermath (Star Wars: The Clone Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Warning: Pong Krell, POV CT-7567 | Rex, Trauma, Mild Blood, Umbara Arc (Star Wars: Clone Wars), CT-7567 | Rex Deserves Better, 501st Legion Needs a Hug (Star Wars), blood as a heavyhanded metaphor, somewhere between an oc and x reader Summary:

“What? You’re following Krell’s orders?”

Rex shrugged helplessly. “I have to. He’s my general.”

“He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve to be a Jedi,” she said incredulously. She jerked a finger at the medbay. “He’s the reason I’ve been filling out coroner’s paperwork in between the flood of patients. He’s going to get you all killed, and then I’m going to have even more paperwork to do. He’s a horrible general and he should be stripped of his command.”

“And who’s going to do that? You? Me? You’re a medic with no commendations or medals, and I’m a clone. He won’t listen to us. My hands are tied.”

“He doesn’t need to listen. He needs to fall off a kriffing building.”

//

Rex tries to get his men through Umbara unscathed. A medic makes his job difficult.

[rusaalka]

She let her arm fall back to her side, her hands clenched into tight fists so they didn’t get any ideas. “Get the hell out of here,” she said dully. The merc took orders well, and he did exactly as she said, slamming a fist into the elevator’s floor panel in his haste to get away.

Jack watched him run away with an almost predatory look in her eye—almost, because what really stood out was her apathy. “I would’ve killed him.” Grunt grunted in agreement.

Shepard wanted to say the thought never crossed her mind. Instead, she muttered, “Just don’t tell Garrus.”

Shepard gets a little too comfortable keeping things from Garrus and it, predictably, blows up in her face. (ME2 and ME3)

[rusaalka]

Shepard had invited him up to her cabin after his calibrations were done. Garrus wasn’t sure where exactly they stood. Sure, she’d practically jumped on the chance to get him alone as soon as he’d boarded the Normandy with the Primarch—who was not present to see that, thank the Spirits—but maybe that didn’t mean what he thought it did. Or maybe she was just pent-up after six months of house arrest and no contact, and he was an easy release. Things were different now. Garrus didn’t know where he fit.

Garrus hesitantly knocked on her cabin door at 20:11 galactic standard time. He’d been done with calibrations and preparations for the Primarch for some time, but it felt too weird to just rush right up to her cabin. Chakwas and Joker were in the mess hall when he finally left the battery, and they ushered him to the elevator with knowing smiles and a fair amount of whooping. The new guy—Vega—looked confused, asking what he was missing. Garrus hadn’t stuck around to explain.

“It’s open!” Shepard replied.

He stepped through and was greeted with the cabin he’d become intimately acquainted with in the final month or so before she turned herself in. Some of her model ships were missing. And her fish. Everything else was exactly where it had been left, if a few more wires were poking out. The Reapers didn’t wait around for the Alliance to finish retrofitting the Normandy, it seemed. The most important piece was Calliope, and he didn’t see her.

[rusaalka]

Alistair's unthinking words cut Katriel to the quick, and their first argument is not a pretty one.

Katriel didn’t get more than a few days of rest from her injuries before Arl Eamon pulled her aside for another meeting. In that time, Eamon had insisted on bringing Alistair along for visits to the banns and minor lords Eamon knew he would have support from, and Alistair had had just about enough of it. He was bragged on and complimented until the banns decided they’d done enough to appease Eamon, and moved on to their real business of asking for fewer taxes or a greater levy. Katriel soothed Alistair when he came back, rubbing his back and listening to his plethora of complaints, his only reprieve from the general awfulness of Denerim.

Her bruises stood out in the low light of Eamon’s office, the nasty gash a sore reminder of what she’d just been through. Alistair was still upset over how quickly she’d vanished to rescue Anora, but more than that, the way she’d brushed aside his concerns had gotten under his skin.

Most things did, lately.

[rusaalka]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32522725

Keeping her sights on Ser Cauthrien, Katriel’s hand strayed toward her poison belt. “Zevran,” she said lowly, “get her out of here. All of you, go.”

Zevran furrowed his brows and shook his head. “I will not leave you now. Death or glory, my friend.”

“I don’t need you to be a hero. Get her back to Eamon. Give Alistair my love; don’t let him worry.” She glanced to her side to find her companions staring at her, frozen and open-mouthed.

“Guards!” Ser Cauthrien cried. “Seize the Warden!”

Katriel gave her friends a crooked half-smile, taking an acid vial out of her belt. “Go.”

The guards were advancing on their little group. Katriel raised the vial over her head, sparing Zevran one last glance. His eyes widened as he caught on to what she meant to do, and he clapped a hand over Anora’s mouth and nose. “Go!”

[rusaalka]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32422831

Garrus unwrapped one of his dextro rations, popped it in the microwave, and thanked whatever deity—spirit, god, Goddess—had the foresight to make him turian and spare him from Sergeant Gardner’s cooking. Cerberus recruiting aliens, Shepard coming back from the dead—those were nothing. The most shocking thing about the SR-2 was that no one had died from food poisoning yet.

He usually just ate in the battery, unless someone dragged him out of it to eat with them. Shepard wasn’t down in the mess, so the chances of that were zip. Or, they were, until an enthusiastic Kasumi waved him over to her table.

When Garrus was closer, he could see that besides Kasumi, the table featured Samara, Mordin, Zaeed, Thane, Grunt, and Jack. It was an odd enough gathering that he almost sat down right there, just to hear what they could possibly be talking about.

“Is this the anti-Cerberus club?”

Thane tapped his nose twice and pointed at him, and Jack declared, “Yep. We’re forming a rival terrorist group. Gonna blow up more Cerberus facilities.”

[rusaalka]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32170987

The swish of her cabin door startled Shepard out of her report-induced stupor. She’d thrown herself into reading them as a distraction from the rapidly approaching Omega-4 relay. It wasn’t working as well as she’d hoped.

Garrus stood in the doorway awkwardly, one foot over the threshold like he was unsure if he had the right room. “Hey, Shepard.”

She glanced over his appearance, taking note of his lack of armor. When she got to his hands (gloveless for once, and carrying a bottle of wine), her eyes flicked back up to his as she realized she’d been giving him a once over. Not that checking Garrus out was new to Shepard, but she usually tried to be a bit more…discrete. His mandibles flared out in a grin. He knew.

[rusaalka]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31813879

Aoife Mahariel had a problem, and that problem was, once again, named Nathaniel Howe. More specifically, what a Warden Howe looked like and dressed like. She’d put off making armor for her recruits long enough; any longer and any more recruits, and she’d be spending the rest of her life in the forge.

Some of the older wardens from Orlais looked down on the Fereldan warden armor, but she liked that it was unique. Aoife cherished Fereldan pride now, how it made them stand apart even when it was inconvenient for them to do so. That damn Fereldan independence. Nathaniel wasn’t completely Fereldan anymore though, was he? He’d spent so long in the Marches, had all but admitted to her that he intended to stay there before certain events called him back. It wasn’t as simple as Aoife would’ve liked.

Gathering up the materials needed to make armor was much easier when an entire arling was at your feet. Wade might’ve been a little sore that he wasn’t the only designer in the keep, but Aoife thought it was good for him. An exercise in relaxing. Most of her recruits only had a few suggestions, content to let her choose. When she asked Anders, he looked a little lost.

“I get my own armor? But isn’t there some sort of Grey Warden uniform?” he asked.

Aoife shook her head. “There’s standard armor types, sure, but we get a little more freedom. Hard to mistake a Grey Warden for anything else.”

Anders sat quietly for a moment—unusual for him. “I…I don’t know what I’d like. Just not tower robes.”

“I can do that.”

[rusaalka]

Getting ready for bed had turned into the easiest routine—for both of them. Alistair would set up their tent (actually hers, but they’d been sharing for so long it hardly mattered anymore) despite Katriel’s protestations that she was also capable of doing it. They’d lay their blankets and furs down, and she would bring in a lantern to light it. It was peaceful. It was domestic. It made her heart throb to look in and see him lying there, the soft light catching his eyes as he read one of her awful romance novels. Sometimes she got so scared it would all come crashing down around her, like this was all a dream and none of it was real and she’d wake back up in the alienage on her wedding day. She couldn’t go back, not after him.

Katriel changed into her sleep clothes, glad to not have watch for once. The tunic she grabbed was entirely too big; it must have come from Alistair and his unending knack for leaving his things everywhere. It was more endearing when it wasn’t his smelly socks. “Your shirts are comfier than mine.” She looked up him, smiling softly. He was watching her quietly, looking contemplative. Anyone else and she would’ve felt self-conscious, but never with him. Alistair tried a smile back but it looked more like he was battling queasiness. “Are you alright?

“What?” He blinked. “I—yes. Perfectly alright. Why?” he asked.

Katriel shrugged, one of the shoulders of the tunic starting to slip off. She found her comb in her bag and started to take out her braids. “You seemed like you were thinking awfully hard about something.”

[rusaalka]

“Marriage?” Rumarin’s jaw fell open as they told him the news.

“Please, Rumarin. This wasn’t exactly what we wanted either, but the Dominion and the Empire worked out a deal and we have to fulfill our duties.”

The Aldmeri Dominion was seeking a greater alliance within Skyrim, as it was currently the most unstable province. He hadn’t known the exact details until quite literally just now, but a marriage alliance wasn’t the most surprising thing the Dominion could’ve asked for. Political marriages in the Summerset Isles were a dime a dozen.

“But why would I be their first choice?” Rumarin’s mother and father exchanged looks, Maerin shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Darling…you haven’t exactly been with the Dominion for long—”

“Officially, that is.” Rumarin’s father cut in.

Maerin nodded. “Yes, of course. Officially. The truth is, they can’t spare a high ranking official but someone has to be sent, or this will play right into the Legion’s hands.”

“I put your name forward,” Ingaril said. At Rumarin’s incredulous expression, he added, “I know you aren’t…content with your current position within the Dominion hierarchy.”

That was true. Rumarin couldn’t say he enjoyed his work, but there was a bit more to it than just being a low-ranking bureaucrat—namely, that the Thalmor were grasping tyrants that sought to establish their rule across Tamriel. A minor issue, to be sure. Still, Rumarin wasn’t sure if an arranged marriage to soothe tensions with the Empire was much of an improvement—not that he had a choice.

Rumarin sighed, and the tension dropped from his parents’ shoulders, knowing he’d just given in. “Who exactly am I marrying?”

Ingaril sniffed, “They say she’s some ridiculous Nord hero. The Dragonborn, I believe.” As the panic spread across Rumarin’s face, Ingaril attempted to comfort him. “Don’t worry, Rumarin. We wouldn’t hand you over to those savages if we thought there was any truth to it. Most likely, it’s a ruse to give them the advantage.”

“As if allying themselves with fairytales and Tiber Septim would frighten the Dominion,” Maerin added. It didn’t make him feel better. “Now come along. We’ve got to get you ready for your painting—a trinket for your betrothed.”

Rumarin thought he might throw up.

[rusaalka]

They had all been sitting around the fireplace in the great hall, drinking and reminiscing on simpler times, before they were Grey Wardens. Mostly drinking, though. Her recruits (she couldn’t really call them that anymore, could she?) had trickled out one by one, all lamenting the headaches they would have come morning. Sigrun said she knew a trick to solve that—she’d show them in the morning, if she wasn’t too busy vomiting. Eventually, even Oghren stumbled out, claiming that he was trying to take better care of himself in his old age—Aoife might’ve believed it if she hadn’t just watched him empty half a cask by himself.

It was just her and Anders left. Aoife liked Anders, despite how careless he could be sometimes. He cared when it counted—he was like Morrigan, in that regard. The apostate thing, too. He was her first conscription, even if it had mostly been out of desperation and a desire to shut up that templar. And she liked his perspective on mage rights. It was odd to come out of a place where mages were so freely accepted—even praised—to suddenly be thrust into a culture that mistrusted, if not outright hated, them. But there were nuances she could appreciate better now, thanks to Anders.

“I have a secret,” he declared, slurring his words a bit—he’d kept pace with Oghren all night. Aoife didn’t envy the hangover that awaited him.

[rusaalka]

Trying to eat a single meal alone at Vigil’s Keep might as well have been completely illegal, the way the wardens acted. There wasn’t a moment of solitude that Nathaniel could find in the busy castle, and it was especially rare in the mess hall. For the first time, he’d managed to make it down there before anyone else awoke and was feeling more than a little pleased with himself. If he ate quickly, he could make it to the training yard before anyone else and he wouldn’t have to listen to Oghren recite tales from stopping the Blight with the Warden-Commander. Or Anders make passes at the groundkeeper’s daughter, who always giggled back and fluttered her eyelashes. Or Velanna threaten anyone who dared look at her sideways—although honestly, she just liked threatening people, sideways looks or no.

Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Anders slid onto the bench next to him, earrings jangling obnoxiously. Nathaniel bit back a groan. “Hallo, Warden Howe. Good to see our newest recruit up and at ‘em this fine morning.”

“Anders.” Nathaniel hoped that if he kept it brief, Anders would move onto to other things. Like annoying Varel or the frowny lady until they kicked him out of the keep.

Anders smiled slyly, in a distinctly cat-like way. “Such a lovely day, isn’t it? I can’t imagine not spending it with our dear Aoife and fellow wardens; it’s just perfect for some bonding time.”

“It’s Warden-Commander Mahariel. You should show some more respect—she’s gone out of her way to keep you out of the Chantry’s hands.”

“And you out of the mob’s hand. I know, I know.” He raised his hands placatingly as Nathaniel turned on him. All the guile dropped from Anders’ face. “I owe a lot to her, and I’m grateful. Though, if I had my say in it, I would’ve preferred not to be a Grey Warden. Nasty bit of business,” he sniffed.

[rusaalka]

“How’s Ulysses? His semester going alright?” Arcade asked. If you had asked him what he thought of the man who sat behind he and Six in Western Civ 1050 while they were still in college, Arcade would’ve said that Ulysses was quiet and intelligent, a good classmate to have during discussions where no one else had done the assigned reading. He would not have said that Six was going to marry him. It was a bit of a shock when Six skipped back to Arcade’s (and therefore, her) dorm after their first date and declared that he was the one, not least of all since she had shunned the institution of marriage and asserted that love was a sham that same day.

It wasn’t all Six’s fault, though (if marriage can be anyone’s ‘fault’). Ulysses had spent most of the semester glaring a hole into Six’s head for some perceived slight that Arcade never really understood, and she was too happy-go-lucky to realize that it wasn’t because he had a crush on her. Things worked out in the end, because all it took was one date disguised as a study session for Ulysses to join their friend group, and from there fall madly in love with Six. That, and punching that shithead Benny Gecko in the face for catcalling another student, which nearly made Six swoon. Arcade thought that there was a possibility of witchcraft being involved, maybe from that estranged grandma Six was always raving about. Either way, through the failed relationships of all the others, Six and Ulysses had been pillars of healthy relationship dynamics and good communication skills. Also love, or whatever.

“He’s Ulysses,” Six replied with a smile. Arcade let out a quiet huff of laughter. “It’s going good, from what I hear. You know how it is though, all his students think he’s the coolest, stone-cold motherfucker on the planet.”

“So, they’re right?” Arcade asked.

“Hell yeah, they’re right.”

[rusaalka]

The first time Fenris said it, they were sitting in his mansion, drinking. Rather, Fenris was drinking, and Garrett was trying not to think of where all the dead bodies that had occupied the space had gone and how the fire made Fenris’ hair gleam. Unsuccessfully, he might add.

“You are a handsome man, Hawke. Is there no one else who has your…attention?”

Handsome wasn’t a word people used to describe Hawke. He was animated, lively—striking even, if someone was really trying to flatter him. But handsome was reserved for Carver, and elegant was for Bethany. The twins had gotten their good looks from Leandra: round, youthful faces; wide eyes; straight, aristocratic noses, perfect for looking down at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. Garrett was Malcolm’s son through and through, but never grew into his features as his father had. He had retained his awkward and graceless teenage looks; a large, hooked nose (bent more after being broken once or twice) and a weak chin blockaded the path to good-looking, though his mother might call him charming—in both appearance and personality. And that was enough for Hawke. Teetering on the edge of almost-but-not-quite handsome as an adult after an unbeautiful childhood was a higher delight than being handsome from birth.

[rusaalka]

Aoife liked Nathaniel from the start. Now here was someone who was willing to die for what they believed in, even if that belief was completely wrong and, frankly, stupid. Arl Rendon Howe was a backstabbing, grasping tyrant who got what was coming to him. Even if he hadn’t slaughtered the Couslands, or sent an assassin after her and Alistair, or plotted to poison Arl Eamon, or sold dozens of Denerim elves into Tevinter slavery, Aoife still would’ve thought Howe was a bitch. His ancestors had been Orlesian loyalists—how many more signs that the whole family was completely evil do you need? Yet despite all that, here was his son, trying to reclaim what little glory he could from his shattered family name. And trying to kill her too, so that was the second assassin she could reasonably trace from Howe.

“Have any thoughts on the Grey Wardens?” she asked conversationally.