badebi

[nirikeehan]

HAP FRI NIRI I beg for some Pravinquisition PLEASE, perhaps with ❛ why is it whenever we see each other, you’re covered in blood? ❜???

HI MER so this one kinda got away from me. It's a continuation of this fill that I posted last week. Enjoy Pravin and Cullen and their bad ideas. And we're both writing about Cullen hitting things tonight, which I love. 😊

As always, Pravin belongs to @monocytogenes

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 2903

CW: Violence, blood, some light torture

---

Cullen squinted at his reflection in the looking glass. The dark circles under his eyes he had long since considered a permanent feature, much like the vertical scar above his lip. Although he deemed his hair presentable, he’d once again lacked time for a proper shave. The stubble clung to his jaw and chin, giving him a vaguely disheveled visage. And the collar of this infernal uniform was still too tight. He watched himself tug at it, once, twice to no avail, the ire growing on his face. 

Sighing, he looked down at the notecards in his hand, scrawled with the shorthand for tonight’s speech. He’d memorized Varric’s words a week earlier and had been practicing them ever since, but still feared he’d take a singular glance at the crowd of sycophants tonight and forget every one. 

The knock was a welcome distraction. “Come,” Cullen called, straightening. The heavy wooden door to his room at the Gull and Lantern slid open, and in slipped Fidencio Frye — no, scratch that. His name was Pravin Talavera, and in one of many strange twists in Cullen’s life as of late, the Antivan was actually the Inquisitor’s third cousin. 

Or was it fourth? Tracing noble bloodlines gave Cullen a headache. 

He did not fully understand why Pravin and Thalia had decided to keep this fact a secret for months. However, given Pravin’s line of work, Cullen could not begrudge him the desire for anonymity. He had proven a reliable advisor, tempering Leliana’s more… straightforward approach. Whatever Pravin’s true identity, Cullen considered him a friend. (Which was more than could be said for some who still served the Inquisition despite inconvenient identity reveals.) 

“Have you come for a last minute rehearsal?” Cullen asked. The damn speech had been Pravin’s idea, and the bard had spent much of the previous week coaxing a passible delivery from Cullen’s lips. “I hate to tell you, but unless Corypheus crashes the party tonight and I need to rally the troops, this is as good as it’s getting.” 

The joke fell uncharacteristically flat. Pravin seemed distracted, a frown etched below his waxed mustache. He ran fingers through the pointed chin hair, lost in thought. “A situation has arisen.” 

“What is it?” Cullen asked, dropping all pretense. His gaze darted to the nearby bureau, on top of which he’d put his scabbard and sword. In truth, he was almost relieved.

Pravin looked at Cullen from under the brim of his hat, his green eyes glittering in the shadow cast upon his face. “How much do you know about Thalia’s tattoo?” 

Cullen blinked, surprised by the non sequitur. “I… very little. She doesn’t like speaking of it. It’s something related to her time at the Circle, I understand.” 

When Cullen met Thalia, he’d assumed the face tattoo to be a statement piece, much like that of his friend Rylen. Something en vogue across the Free Marches, perhaps. When Thalia told him it had been mandatory for all Ostwick Circle mages to get, Cullen had been taken aback. The Gallows had had more than its fair share of institutional troubles, but at no point had any Kirkwall Templar suggested they permanently mar the faces of all their charges. 

He had never succeeded in learning more about the practice. Not even recently, when he’d felt compelled to kiss every inch of the ornate design across her face. He’d stopped when he tasted the salt of her tears, horrified. Cullen sensed that he had tapped into a deep well of pain — a phenomenon all too familiar to him. She hadn’t wanted to talk, and he hadn’t wanted to push. 

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Why?”

Pravin paced the room with a strange, frenetic energy. “Evidently, at some point before her time at the tower in Ostwick, some Templar came up with the brilliant idea that face tattoos could act as a backup security measure to mage phylacteries. I’m certain you know more about this than I do, Commander, but this Templar was not satisfied with the idea, thinking that such things could be lost or broken. He also fancied himself something of an artist. He devised the design himself. By the time she came to the Circle, he’d had many years to perfect it.” 

Cullen felt nauseous. He braced himself against the stone wall. “Thalia told you all this?” 

Pravin nodded. “I assume,” he said, voice soft, “this was not standard protocol among the Templars?” 

“Maker, no.” Cullen shook his head vehemently. “The phylacteries were always considered the least invasive way of making sure every mage was accounted for.”

“That’s what I thought.” Pravin took a slow breath. “It’s very painful, I’ve been told. Tattooing that close to the bone. And takes hours, for work that intricate.” 

Cullen felt a deep, seething rage rise within him. Such anger hit him sometimes, red-hot and mean, with a potency that scared him. “Pravin, what’s going on?” 

“It seems,” his friend said carefully, enunciating each word as if he were on stage, “the man responsible, someone named Algernon, is present in Redcliffe tonight. He must have left Ostwick to join the Mage-Templar war, and is how skulking about the Hinterlands, not having the grace to die when he had the chance.” 

“He’s here,” Cullen said, stunned. “Right now?” 

“Indeed. And had the absolute gall to approach Thalia this evening, when she was taking petitioners. I chased him off before he could try anything, but she’s pretty shaken up about it.” Pravin grinned tightly. “A couple of your soldiers need a reprimand, by the way. They stood right by and let it happen.” 

“Andraste have mercy.” Cullen leaned against the window frame, glaring out into the night, as if he could catch a glimpse of the knave by sheer chance. The soldiers he could discipline later. “So he could be plotting to return as we speak.” 

Pravin’s mouth twitched. “You always get right to the heart of an issue, Commander. I like that about you.”

Cullen paused. In the window glass he saw his reflection — jaw set at a sharp angle, eyes narrowed. He barely recognized himself, although he knew he must look like this often, when about to give an order with lethal consequences. “Are you proposing we do something to cut off his plans?” 

“He can’t have gone far, and Redcliffe’s not that big.” Pravin gave a casual shrug. “I have a few contacts among the refugees I could ask. Probably won’t take long to find him.” 

Cullen looked up, meeting Pravin’s eyes. “And what exactly are you proposing we do about it? The Inquisition has limited jurisdiction for law and order here. All that falls to Arl Teagan.” 

Pravin waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Oh, I don’t think Arl Teagan need get involved. Or anyone else, for that matter.”  

Cullen leaned his back against the wall, crossing arms over his chest. “So you are suggesting vigilante justice.”

Pravin narrowed his eyes. “That’s a strong term for it.”

“But an accurate one,” Cullen countered. “If the Inquisition’s Commander and one of its most trusted advisors are caught sneaking about the slums of Redcliffe on some petty quest for revenge—”

“If we’re caught. I have no intention of letting that happen.” Pravin sighed. “Think about it, Commander. Think of how much damage this man has caused, under the banners of a corrupt Order. Think of how it must have felt for Thalia.” 

The fury crept up Cullen’s throat, coiled and waiting to strike. He thought of all the complaints that crossed his desk in Kirkwall, the official accusations and the anonymous rumors alike, how they were often appalling to even behold. And all the times he brought them up to Meredith, only to have them dismissed, the papers cast aside, forgotten. It’s not your job to advocate for these unfortunates, Cullen, she told him, more than once.   

Then what is it? he’d snapped at her, finally, near the end. 

Her blue eyes had never seemed colder. To keep them where they are. 

“This man.” Cullen’s voice was raw. He felt an abrupt, maddening desire for a hit of lyrium. “This — Algernon, you said his name was?”

Pravin nodded. 

Cullen thought of Ser Alrik, the spate of Tranquil mages, the stack of complaints sitting untouched on Meredith’s desk. He ignored the tremor in his hands. “Did Thalia say whether he… did anything else to her?”

A knowing silence passed between them. Pravin’s face hardened into a mask to rival that of Orlesian nobility. “No,” he said softly. “But she was fourteen years old, and he apparently ‘really seemed to enjoy himself.’”

Cullen closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. He felt, rather than heard, a roaring in his ears. He strode to the bureau and grabbed his scabbard, pretending not to see the azure haze at the edges of his vision. “Let’s go pay this Algernon a visit.” 

Slowly, painfully, Pravin smiled. 

---

The row of rotting cottages along the Redcliffe docks was notorious for housing degenerates. So went the wisdom of Pravin’s contacts, who eagerly accepted his sovereigns in exchange for the information. If someone like Algernon was to be found, it would be there. 

Two cloaked figures kept to the torch-lit shadows, the shorter and slighter leading the way. Cullen felt as though his heart might burst out of his chest following behind Pravin. 

The first two houses were abandoned, containing only damp barrels and the scent of fish. The third gave shelter to a handful of former Templars. They sat on the grimy floor on their bedrolls, passing around contraband lyrium bottles. None answered to Algernon and no one claimed to know him. Cullen was grateful for the hood on his cloak, and that Pravin had insisted they both change into more discreet clothing. He stared at the sunken faces and haunted eyes, and did not want them to know that he felt the pull of the cerulean song as strongly as they did. 

The fourth house had a collapsed roof and no way to get inside. The fifth possessed a window that glowed dimly with the light of a lantern. When Pravin knocked and called the man’s name, the door opened. 

He was raggedy, taller than them both, thin and spindly like a scarecrow. Limp hair sat on either side of his temples, and his eyes were a dull, washed-out blue. “Can I help you gentlemen?” 

Pravin kept his head bowed in darkness, but Cullen found it impossible not to look the man square in the face. He pictured his spidery hands on Thalia, holding her down to be restrained, imagined his grotesque face leering close to hers, delighting in causing her pain. 

“Are you Algernon, formerly of the Ostwick Circle?” Cullen demanded. 

The man’s beady eyes darted from Cullen to Pravin and back, his grip tightening on the doorframe. “Who’s asking?” 

Cullen turned to Pravin, catching his friend’s one green eye visible under the shadow his hood. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. Cullen surged forward, catching the door before Algernon could slam it in his face. With a hard kick, he sent it flying open, nearly breaking off its hinges, and Algernon backed away with a yelp. 

“Please, sers, I don’t know what this is about,” Algernon groveled as Cullen and Pravin stormed the premises, “but I don’t want any trouble.” 

“You chased trouble yourself tonight when you approached the Inquisitor,” Cullen growled. 

Algernon’s eyes widened. “That? I was just being friendly, I swear! I wanted to see an old— friend, let’s call it.” 

“That runs rather contrary to what we’ve been told.” Pravin spoke for the first time — a soft, menacing tone that rivaled the near shout Cullen had achieved. He closed the door to the one-room hut, dragging a stray barrel in front of the entrance. 

“You.” Algernon pointed at Pravin with a trembling finger. “You were there. Her… cousin. Listen, whatever she said to you, y-you mustn’t trust it. Mages have such a loose relationship with the truth—”

Cullen balled his hand into a fist and struck Algernon in the face. The blow caught him by surprise; he gave a yelp as he lost his balance and fell to the earthen floor. Cullen stood over him, knuckles stinging, chest heaving. He felt rage and disgust and exhilaration all at once. 

“Nice shot,” Pravin deadpanned, stepping beside Cullen. “Shall I get him up for you?”

Cullen nodded.

“Wait, wait please! Whatever it is you want, I’ll do it. I’ll— I’ll apologize to the little miss, I’ll—” 

Algernon shrieked as Pravin bent down and grabbed him by the back of his loose linen tunic. As Pravin hauled him to his feet, he tried to twist away, and Cullen saw just how emaciated he was. The life of a former Templar refugee was not kind.  

“That ‘little miss’ is the Herald of Andraste, and the leader of the Inquisition,” Cullen said, while Pravin forced the man’s arms behind his back. His jaw was already beginning to swell, and fear danced in his pale eyes. Cullen’s voice dropped to near a whisper. “And you hurt her.” 

“Please, you have to understand, it was for the good of the Circle! For her and everyone,” Algernon pleaded. “I was just doing my job.”

Cullen shook his head, flexing his hand and aiming another jab, this time at Algernon’s mid-section. The air escaped his lungs in a choked gasp. 

“You weren’t,” Cullen said. “I know exactly what duties are in the Templar job description, and disfiguring the faces of children isn’t one of them.” 

Algernon slumped forward, coughing and sputtering. “I-I’m an artist,” he rasped. “I— I only— wanted to practice my art…”

Recoiling, Cullen hit again, two sharp jabs in the jaw. The man gurgled and heaved, spitting out saliva mixed with blood and white bits that might be teeth at Cullen’s feet.

Cullen leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. The knuckles on one hand had split, and the other tingled with pain. Yet he wanted to lunge forward, punch Algernon again, and again…

“Did I hear right?” Pravin asked, calm. “Did he just call himself an artist?”

“He did.” Cullen felt ill. 

Pravin shoved Algernon in his direction. “Hold him for me, will you?”

Algernon stumbled, head lolling. Cullen caught him, seizing him by the elbows, a technique born of habit of subduing apostates. 

“Not like that,” Pravin said, pulling down his hood. His mussed black hair shone in the dull lantern light. “You’ll want to hold him very, very still.” 

Cullen frowned, the primal elation quieting as he took in Pravin’s unsettling serenity. He advanced on Algernon, hand slipping under the hem of his doublet and returning to his side. The motion was so subtle Cullen didn’t see what he held until the blade glinted orange. 

“Whoa, hang on,” Cullen said as Pravin raised the long stiletto. “This isn’t what we agreed upon.”

Algernon saw the knife and began to struggle anew; Cullen had to grab his torso to keep him from escaping. Algernon let out a scream. “Help! Help, they’re going to kill me!”

“Shhh,” Pravin murmured. He glided closer and held the point of the stiletto under Algernon’s chin. “I’d think very carefully about your next movements, if I were you.” 

Algernon fell into terrified silence. “Pravin,” Cullen insisted. The thrill of exacting revenge was rapidly wearing off, replaced by a growing alarm that perhaps the two of them had come here with different agendas. “Summary execution is not—”

“Oh, do relax,” Pravin chided. “I’m not intending to kill him. Merely give him a memento he’ll never forget… just like Thalia.” 

Pravin grabbed Algernon roughly by the shoulder and kneed him in the groin. He cried out in pain and fell limp; Cullen staggered and dropped him. He backed away, grasping the wall for support. Pravin fell on top of Algernon, who lie face down on the floor. Straddling Algernon’s back, Pravin asked, “Is this how you did it? Is this how you held her down?”

Algernon was weeping openly. “No, no, please…”

“Pravin,” Cullen warned, but stayed still as if transfixed.

Pravin grabbed a clump of Algernon’s hair and lifted his head. “This man calls himself an artist, but it’s clear he’s never suffered for his art.” With his opposite hand, Pravin pressed the stiletto tip to the man’s cheek. “Let’s see how close I can get the design to Thalia’s, shall we? I suggest you lie still if you want to keep your eye.” 

Algernon began to scream. Cullen felt light-headed and strange, clapping his hands over his ears. He knew he could stride closer, insist Pravin cease, knew he should. He sank to his knees instead, finding it difficult to breathe. 

The door burst open then, the barrel rolling impotently out of the way. Standing there was Cassandra, looking aghast. “Commander?” she demanded in concern, locking eyes with him first. Then, aghast, her gaze fell to Pravin and his victim. “Fidencio!” she cried, drawing her sword. “Get away from him at once!” 

Pravin pulled back, getting to his feet. Algernon stayed face down on the ground, sobbing and retching, his face a patchwork of red. Much of it had splattered on the front of Pravin’s clothes and cloak. “How did you find us?” he asked evenly. 

“Never mind that,” Cassandra snapped in disgust. “Why is it whenever we see each other, you’re covered in blood?”

[ofvaliantheart]

TAG DROP ! RYLEN.

[kalle-and-lita]

By Fates Design

By Fates Design Warhammer 40K Chapter 1

Warning! Graphic Depictions of Violence, and sensitive subjects!

From a very young age had been taught to be nobody. Nostramo was a world of the harshest extremes; not a place for the weak, nor faint of heart. Each day a struggle for survival, and to make one self into a ‘Somebody’ was to invite death. Her mother was a wise woman, or so Lita would often think. Cunning, quick on her feet, and devilishly smart. All of this allowed her to stay alive for a long time, and she did much to teach Lita the same.

Be nobody Lita, she would say. Be nobody and you’ll live.

For to be pretty was to catch the attention of the depraved Barons that ruled over them, or the eyes of their ruthless Crime Lords. So her mother would smear soot and grime on her face and in her hair in an effort to mask her pretty, young features.

To be loud was to be found out. Their home was a good one. A hovel big enough for just the two of them, and cleverly tucked away from prying eyes. Her mother took no chances, so no talking, no laughter, no singing. Only heavy, sullen silence as they sat and listened to the despaired screaming outside. Starving to death in the dark.

Yes, it was better to be nobody and live, then to be somebody and end up gutted in a back alley somewhere. Though for people like Lita, and her mother, being alive didn’t seem to be all that worth it.

Their planet was one of perpetual darkness; the sky blanketed so heavily by smog that the light of their already star couldn’t reach them. And people like her and her mother were expected to work. Hard labor in the many foundries that dotted their Hive world, churning out impossible quotas for their Barons. From the time she could walk and talk she was forced to work until the day she keeled over dead.

It was easy to give into despair because of this. Their future so bleak that, despite all of her cunningness and wit, Lita’s mother flung herself from the Church Spires of the Lower Wards in an attempt to escape the only way she knew how.

Lita had been nine.

She’d watched, uncomprehendingly, until her mother hit the ground with a sickening crack, blood pooling from her mangled body. Only then did she realize what the severity of her situation was. Her mother had protected her these many years, what in the world was she going to do without her? It would only be a matter of time before someone noticed she’d no guardian; Little Ones like her did not have kind fates. Slaves to hedonistic barons for their sick pastimes, or worse wrought by the Crime Lords.

Then he came.

From out of the crowd he approached, a cutting figure that knelt down next to her to push back her hair. Kind black eyes that reflected the sad smile on his face, dark hair streaked with gray.

Rylen.

He was the head servant in the palace of Nostramo Prime, and he was in need of a new serving girl. He plucked her right off those streets and brought her back to the palace, cleaning years of soot and grime off of her with new clothes and a belly so full she almost became sick.

He taught her how to survive the palace. Much of the same advice as her mother had given her. Keep your head down, work hard, and be quiet. Be nobody and she would be safe.

But whatever kind fate that had looked down Lita the day Rylen saved her, had only decided to be kind once.

~~

Lita cringed as she heard the Baroness snap her fingers loudly. A cold order for the girl to approach her lounge chair when she sat. Lita gripped the broom she held tightly in her hands, bowing low and hunching her shoulders in an effort to seem small. Quietly, long dark hair falling over her face and shoulders, she meekly approached the woman.

The Baroness was beautiful beyond words, a fact she took immense pride in. From head to toe she adorned herself in lavish, sparkling jewelry. Lace and silks made up her clothes, falling and curving over her form in the most flattering ways. Long, dark, and magnificent hair curled and tumbled over should in waves that accentuated her pretty, pallid face.

But it was her eyes that betrayed an ugliness no amount of finery could ever hide.

Everyone one Nostramo shared the same eyes; pools so black it was like witnessing the maw of a massive void. In the eyes of the Baroness there was a cruelty reflected in them as she reached out to grasp Lita by the chin. Heart hammering in her chest, for she knew what came next, Lita could do naught but allow the Baroness have her fun.

Mocked and tormented, threatened with the worst kind of torture. What right did she have to be prettier than the Baroness?

The woman was reaching into her aging years, and it could be seen starting to show on her face. Oh how desperately she tried to hide it. Yet make up and masks did little to hide her waning beauty.

Oh how jealous she was that she was losing what she prized so much. How she wished she could pluck it from the face of an undeserving serving girl. The Baroness laughed and she pulled Lita’s hair, and attempted to scratch her eyes out.

Lita dared not make a whimper; this was nothing new and she could do nothing but take the Baroness’ abuse.

At least until her husband called for her.

She left Lita on the floor of her decadent room, bleeding from the scalp and with a new set of bruises to nurse. Only when she was gone did she let out a small sniffle before picking herself up off the ground. She still had a job to do, and now that Her Ladyship was gone it could be done in peace. Methodically, Lita moved from one end of the chamber to the other. She returned chalices and wine jugs to their proper places, dusted and swept with an efficiency that allowed her to be done in no time.

And only when she was done did she return to the kitchens to tend to her wounded head. It was there she found Rylen, the man who had taken her in over ten years ago, barking and yelling at servants. Not uncommon but a bit early, though he was stressed for good reason.

Tomorrow evening there was to be a Grand Ball unlike anything the Aristocracy had ever seen. Everyone who was anyone was going to be there, and the palace needed to be spotless. Rylen turned to her as she walked in, eyes flicking to the blood and then moving to help her. He needed her to scrub the Grand Throne Room, there was no one else in the palace he trusted to do it than her.

It made her smile that he depended on her so, and she was all the more happy to do as her asked.

It took her well into the night to complete her task, time that she spent singing. It was a luxury she never had growing up, and one she often enjoyed in secret. The vaulted ceilings that made up the Grand Throne Room made a wonderful echo that she loved to hear. She often practiced to see how high she her voice could reach as she swept and waxed the floor, playing with the echo as she washed the sculptures.

Yet she was not a fool. She made sure that no one was around when she took moments like this. Singing made her a somebody, and somebodies always met a sticky end.

Once finished, she informed Rylen and set off into the night. She had her own house in the Middle Wards, a fact she took great pride in. It was hers, and she took care of it well though the walk home was rife with danger.

Yet these past few night had been quiet, and she knew why. Everyone on Nostramo did. It was the Night Haunter. It had all started on dreary evening many months ago; the sightings of a lone figure cutting through the night upon roof tops or in back alleys. Its victims were those known for their crimes; it had started out small. Petty thieves and murders. Then the Crime Lords among the Night Haunters brutalized warnings, cut and flayed for all to see.

To many of them, like Lita, he was their savior in a world gone completely mad. Crime over the last few months had dropped considerably, and it was driving all the ruling Barons mad. The people who used to keep the populace in line were being slaughtered one by one.

She envied whoever it was. They were somebody who was making a difference, and was strong enough to do it. An exception to the rule that somebodies always died on Nostramo.

And though the streets were clear of any life, Lita hurried home all the same.

For only fools let their guard down completely.

~~

And a fool she had been. The Barons had called her to the Grand Throne Room, and she didn’t know why. A spill they wanted cleaned she assumed, but their intentions so much darker.

Lita screamed as another blow came to her ribs, a heavy boot that knocked her to the floor. She coughed violently, blood splattering on the floor she’d waxed just last night. Every breath she took made her ache and the pain so great her vision threatened to black out. She gave out another scream as she was rolled onto her back, staring up at the cruel visage of the Baroness. A knife glinting in her hands as she had two other people hold Lita down.

What right did she have to be so pretty?

The baroness laughed and laughed as she plunged the knife down again and again. Lita struggled, screaming so loud her voice eventually cracked.

What right did she have to possess such a pretty voice?

Well no more.

The baroness would see to it that no one would ever be prettier than she.

Cuts to her face this time, and across her neck and shoulders. So much blood that the hands that held her down slipped and let go. Not that she was going anywhere anymore. Out there in the crowd she knew Rylen was there, being held back by his staff lest he charge in and do something reckless.

And as Lita lay there dying, the fringes of her vision going black, she looked up at the ceiling and barely registered that there was someone crouching in the Rafters. The pain was starting to fade as she looked up at it, and she felt as if a heavy weight was starting to pull her under.

Male, distinctly male. Very large, and in his hands a body.

Which he dropped to the floor with a resounding thud. A chorus of screams followed and they all turned their attention upward and away from her. Then several sets of hands pulled her away, Rylen’s face crossing her vision darkened. He was talking to her, though she couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

She felt only sweet bliss now, a sense of calm she’d never felt before in her life. In the darkness there would be no pain, no suffering, no sense of self. And as they rushed her away it was then she realized why her mother had flung herself to her death.

~~

Hope you enjoyed!

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 34. In which love is a balm and anger is an analgesic

Read the full fic on AO3.

Read on Tumblr (desktop)

Josie had secured them passage on a boat that left from Jader, the port city on the border of Orlais and Ferelden, and they rode hard out of Skyhold to ensure they made it on time. The pace left little room for talking, but she wouldn't have wanted to speak anyway. The last few days had been too special, too unbelievable to be able to engage in idle talk just yet.

As she gazed unseeing at the blur of rocks, hills and trees around her, Evana faded into herself to sort through the strange aches and flutters that had plagued her since that day on the battlements. Her tender feelings had flourished under Cullen's gentle care, roots digging in deeper, tighter, woven into intricate, irreversible patterns through her heart. But the way her heart now yearned for him, the way every step away from him pulled at the fragile roots, testing strength as only time and distance could... Would she break under these new and uncomfortable feelings? Would the separation wither the ties between them? Would he change his mind with so much time to rethink their impractical relationship?

A tiny gasp escaped her lips at the sharp, visceral ache that pulsed through her at the thought, an ache unlike anything she'd felt before. She then sighed as one truth became crystal clear. This is going to be a long trip.

They made camp late that night and set off early the next morning to catch their boat. Josephine's connection had offered them passage all the way across the Waking Sea and up the river through the Heartlands to a small port town on western side of Lake Celestine, which meant they'd only have a few days of traveling by horse after disembarking. When Leliana had sent word to Captain Rylen to expect them, Rylen had responded that they had yet to hear from the Champion or Warden Stroud. Evana intoned a prayer as she rode that they were both OK.

Although the prayer was directed to the Creators, she couldn't help the small part of her that wondered if she should also address it to the Maker and his prophet, Andraste. She was supposed to be Andraste's Herald after all, and Cullen's song the other night had moved her in a way she hadn't expected - in a way the songs about the Elvhen lore and Creators never had.

She felt a tinge of shame for even thinking in such a way. But what if Andraste had really guided her through the Fade and given her a mark to fight Corypheus? She still had no memory of what had happened to her in the Fade, but the more regions they stabilized and the more they emerged victorious, the more it felt as though a guiding force had truly taken interest in their mission. The existence of one god did not preclude others, after all.

She pushed the thoughts aside. Her faith in the Elvhen gods had always been more academic than spiritual, but she wasn't ready to jump into another religion quite yet... if ever.

They reached Jader with a couple hours to spare, so they made their arrangements and stopped in for a late afternoon meal at a nearby restaurant. As she absently listened to the idle banter of her companions, she picked at her food. She should be hungry, but the food held no appeal. Halfway through the meal, Dorian's voice finally cut through the haze of her thoughts.

"... I know. But she's clearly not listening to anything we're saying. It's no fun to tease someone who isn't even paying attention to you."

Evana looked up to see her companions staring at her with equally amused and concerned expressions on their faces. "Hmmmm...?"

"There you are. I thought I might have to do some sort of interpretive dance to get your attention. We are supposed to be dancing our way through Thedas, after all," Dorian quipped. After a pause during which she merely rolled her eyes at him, he continued. "So, can I guess what - or rather who - you're thinking of? Perhaps the person I saw kissing you so passionately in the courtyard yesterday morning?"

Varric laughed. "And it's about damn time, too. I thought Curly was never going to make a move."

Evana blushed hotly and looked back down at her food without responding. She wouldn't take the bait. Perhaps she'd be able to joke about it later, but right now, it was too precious a thing to sully with Dorian and Varric's teasing. Bull's voice cut in, much softer and laced with concern.

"I was merely saying that you really should eat, boss. We won't have another meal like this for... well... weeks."

They all gave her their most serious looks. The irony of her three most sarcastic, smart-ass companions being serious for this long was not lost on her. She had to laugh, or she would cry.

"Creators, I'm not made of glass! I'll be fine... and yes, I'll eat, Bull. I was just... distracted."

To prove her point, she began eating in earnest. She made sure to finish the plate for good measure. As they boarded the ship, Evana tried engage more with her companions, but she found herself drifting into her own thoughts in spite of her best intentions. She wasn't used to having friends who worried about her, asked about her day and expected her to participate in conversations. In her clan, she'd focused on her work and learning from Vash'an and Deshanna. Her peers had all had families of their own, so...

All excuses. You were diffident to your clan and your peers. You had no confidence in yourself. How could they?

During childhood, she'd always felt out of place, but she'd also been less shy, more willing to take chances. However, her odd relationship with her mother, working so hard with Vash'an and then being apprenticed to the Keeper had led her to be more withdrawn. Her relationship with Hanir, even before their bonding, had introduced feelings of inadequacy, and she'd folded into herself even more. Then, after the attack, she'd poured all her energy into learning to protect the clan - to do what she'd hadn't been able to do for them before. She worked hard to become the best at offensive magic she could be. She would not let them down again.

But the clan had taken her dedication as disinterest, her lack of confidence and withdrawn nature as superiority. Deshanna had understood and done her best to pave the way, but Evana knew. Clan Lavellan didn't miss her, didn't wish or hope for her return. If she were honest with herself, she was still working on coming to terms with that realization, but her growing friendships and... other relationships at the Inquisition stood in stark contrast with the years of ambivalence from her clan.

Perhaps that was why she felt such kindredship with Cullen. They had both made mistakes in their past, neglected their own lives to try to make things right. Now they both had great purpose as well as great people surrounding them. It seemed like a chance for redemption that neither of them thought they deserved but both had grabbed onto like an anchor in a storm.

With these thoughts swirling in her head, she took up a spot that would give her the best view of the Frostbacks for as long as the late evening sun would allow. Ironically, an experience that started with imprisonment had made her realize exactly what she'd been missing in her clan. Perhaps she felt homesick now because, for the first time, these people felt like a true home. And she shouldn't let her reticent nature keep her isolated from them.

As if they could understand her thoughts, she turned around to find Dorian, Varric and Bull standing just behind her. She smiled at them.

"So, Varric, tell me more about this game you've been talking about... Wicked Grace was the name, I believe?"

**

The ship docked in a port outside the small town of Velun four days later. Evana had ended up sleeping for most of the trip, the rocking of the boat mimicking the rocking of the aravels of her childhood. She would try to stay awake for longer than a few hours, but the rocking of the boat just put her right back to sleep. She hadn't felt so refreshed in ages. After gathering their waiting supplies, they headed in the direction of the forward camp. They pushed on until dusk, and she took the first watch as they set up camp. She was still wide awake, but the others collapsed as soon as they hit their bedrolls.

Alone once more with her thoughts, she found herself humming Cullen's chant to herself. She couldn't remember the words, but the gorgeous melody echoed in her thoughts along with the golden visage of her Commander.

She'd come to think of Cullen's faith as just another facet of the man, and she could see that he truly did his best to serve his Maker and Andraste. He failed at times, that much he'd told her, and she'd heard echoes of rumors, the vague whispers of other mages in the dark corners of the keep, of the things in his past he had yet to share with her. Although she'd never pressure him to speak with her about it, the fact that he had yet to open up presented an obstacle she knew they'd need to overcome. Additionally, they'd simply agreed to be open to one another's opinion on mage oversight, but they'd not truly reached an understanding. And yet she thought of all she'd learned about him in the last several months, and she couldn't help feeling that they'd come to an understanding eventually.

It was still hard to believe that he truly cared for her, but all the times he'd gone out of his way to please her or make her feel more comfortable went far beyond cursory concern. Even in Haven, before he'd let himself truly show how much he cared, she'd felt and seen his kindness. Just the fact that he'd taken time out of his day to walk and talk meant the world to her. She already missed him terribly, and it made her feel a bit like a love-sick fool.

Too bad I don't care at all.

She woke Varric at midnight for his watch and lay down to sleep. She felt like she'd only closed her eyes for a moment when a hand shook her awake.

"Come on, sleepy head, time to get up and go kill things," Dorian cooed in her ear. "It's your favorite thing, I know."

She grimaced as her body protested from sleeping on the hard ground. It was amazing how quickly a person could get used to a shemlen bed. As they rode further west, the heat and sun intensified. By the time the sun set, they were all exhausted once again. After another night on the ground, they rode into the forward camp as the late morning sun beat down upon the rows of tents and supplies marked for the Inquisition's extended stay in the Approach. Scout Harding greeted them with a wry smile.

"Inquisitor, welcome to the Western Approach. We've sighted Warden activity to the southwest, but no one's been close enough to figure out what they're doing. Between the sandstorms and the vicious wildlife, we haven't made it far out here. One of my men got too close to a poison hot spring and gave me a slightly delirious report of a high dragon flying overhead."

"A dragon!? Yeeeeessss!!"

Evana shot Bull a death look, and he shrugged. Harding paused and shot an amused look between the two of them before continuing in a faux chipper tone.

"In short, this just might be the worst place in the entire world."

Evana gave her a sympathetic look. "I assume you've got your orders to head to the oasis next?"

"Yes, your worship. I will be heading out there soon. And Captain Rylen and his company are out fighting off a group of varghest from our water supply."

"Please tell the Captain when he returns that we're going to find the Grey Wardens. I hope we can end this quickly."

"Be sure to let us know if you think you need back up. Good luck, and be careful, Inquisitor."

Evana saluted Harding and pulled out a map of the area. She found her direction, and they set off. They had to fight through a couple of rifts and multiple attacks from wildlife and Venatori before they finally approached the Grey Warden ruin several hours later. To her great relief, she saw Hawke and Stroud crouching outside the tower's entrance. The lines in Stroud's face pulled deep as he turned his agitated gaze on her.

"I'm glad you made it, Inquisitor. I'm afraid they've already started the ritual."

The green light emanating from the tower told her all she needed to know about the situation. A cold stab of fear shot through her, but she looked at the group of warriors gathered around her and shoved the fear away. Whatever lay within those walls, they would defeat it, as they had done countless times before.

As they approached, they could see a Grey Warden walking away with a rage demon following closely behind. He joined a line of other Wardens bound to various other demons standing eerily still on the tower platform. A dark-haired man in Tevinter-style dress looked up from his Warden thralls and called out to them.

"Inquisitor! What an unexpected pleasure." The man bowed, a twisted smile splitting his face. "Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium at your service."

"You are no Warden!" Stroud shouted at him across the platform.

Erimond's eyes narrowed as he looked to Stroud. "But you are. The one Clarel let slip. And you found the Inquisitor and came to stop me. Shall we see how that goes?"

Evana's blood boiled. Corypheus sure knew how to pick the most arrogant, self-important asses for his dirty work. At least if they're assholes, I don't feel as bad about setting them on fire. She pointed to the dead Warden on the ground before Erimond.

"Looks like you've already done some of my work for me."

"What? Him? We simply needed his blood. Oh... were you hoping to garner sympathy? Maybe make the Wardens feel a bit of remorse? Wardens! Hands up!"

The Wardens lining the path to where Erimond stood mechanically lifted their hands like puppets on a string.

"Hands down!"

The Wardens lowered their hands. Evana's heart plummeted to her stomach as she took in the vacant eyes staring out into nothingness. Beside her, Stroud positively radiated anger. She wondered sadly whether he knew any of the enslaved Wardens.

"Corypheus has taken their minds," Stroud choked out.

Erimond shook his head, a sick smile still twisting his lips. "They did this to themselves. You see, the Calling has the Wardens terrified. They looked everywhere for help."

"Even Tevinter," Stroud growled.

Evana could tell Stroud wouldn't last much longer with the talking portion of this interaction. She needed more information, though. What was the plan? Why do this? Luckily, she didn't even have to ask as Erimond provided the information freely. How accommodating of him.

"Yes, and since it was my master who put the calling into their little heads, we - the Venatori - were prepared. I went to Clarel full of sympathy, and together, we came up with a plan... raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake."

Evana rolled her eyes. "Ah, I was wondering when the demon army would show up."

Erimond looked a little nervous for a moment. "You... knew about it, did you? Well, then, here you are. Sadly for the Wardens, the binding ritual I taught their mages has a side effect. They're now my master's slaves. This was a test. Once the rest of the Wardens complete the ritual, the army will conquer Thedas."

Blood magic at its worst. Leliana's words in the dark future at Redcliffe rang in her ears. And mages always wonder why people fear them... no one should have this power. Evana felt the rage inside her grow at the thought. This was why people feared them - feared her. Weak-willed fools who would try to control others with their magic. How many mages' lives had been ruined by the actions of those few who gave them all a bad name? Those who misused their power for their own personal glory or even in misguided attempts to do good?

"Thank you. That's all I needed to know," she spat out at him.

Erimond sneered and lifted his hand. It glowed red as he extended it toward her with a vicious snarl.

"Oh, please."

Suddenly, a stab of pain pierced her hand and shot up her arm. She stumbled, fell to her knees and bent over, clutching her hand to her chest in agony. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. She was too angry for that.

"The Elder One showed me how to deal with you in the event you were foolish enough to interfere again," Erimond continued, oblivious to Evana's rising temper. "That mark you bear? The anchor that lets you pass safely through the Veil? You stole that from my master. He's been forced to seek other ways to access the Fade."

Arrogant fool! Evana took several deep breaths to push back the pain, and while Erimond babbled on about his power, Evana focused as Solas had taught her. The anger became a tool, feeding her destructive force, and she stood up slowly, with purpose, raising her hand.

"When I bring him your head," Erimond finished, "his gratitude will be-"

Erimond suddenly cried out in pain as Evana used her anchor to overpower and subdue him. He flew backward a few paces and the rift the Warden had opened to summon the rage demon closed with a vicious snap. Erimond got up slowly, terror dawning on his face. In the next moment, he turned tail and ran, shouting over his shoulder.

"Kill them!"

Chaos broke loose around her as the enslaved Wardens and their demons attacked. At least all of Stroud's pent up frustration could now be put into action. A deep sadness on his behalf mixed with her fury as she worked through her forms, fighting against the men and women who once stood as heroes of Thedas. She knew the Calling had them all frightened, but this? Surely they could see they were being manipulated!?

Evana took a hard hit to her right side, forcing her to focus more fully on the battle. She called down barriers for her team as often as she could, but she mainly focused on icing out the rage demon to keep her companions from getting burned. The other mage Wardens were not difficult to kill, and finally, with one final freeze and a jolt of electricity, the rage demon exploded into a thousand pieces before her. As horrible as she felt cutting down the enslaved Wardens, the demise of that rage demon felt good.

Her blood hummed with left over adrenaline as they regrouped. She passed out a few healing potions for Varric and Hawke, who'd taken the brunt of a demon attack before she'd been able to get a barrier up for them. Dorian had been able to keep himself protected, and Iron Bull just shrugged off the damage. Hawke guzzled the potion and then shook her head.

"They refused to listen to reason."

Stroud sighed. "You were correct. Through their ritual, the mages are slaves to Corypheus."

"And the Warden warriors? What of them?" Hawke asked.

Stroud wouldn't look at Hawke, and the other mage seemed to understand. She closed her eyes and shook her head again.

"Of course, sacrificed in the ritual. What a waste."

Evana's ire was still up. She tried to be sympathetic, but surrounded by so much blood and chaos, she began to understand why Cullen might have difficulty feeling sorry for a person like Samson.

"Human sacrifice, demon summoning..." She shook her head in disgust. "Who looks at this and thinks it's a good idea?"

Hawke answered simply with, "The fearful and the foolish."

Tension arced through the air as Stroud responded. "The Wardens were wrong, Hawke, but they had their reasons."

Hawke leaned back and crossed her arms in front of her. If looks could maim, Hawke's eyes would be considered deadly weapons.

"Yes. All blood mages do. Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions... and it never matters. In the end, you are always alone with your actions."

Hawke's words pierced her anger, and all former sympathy for the Wardens flooded back to her. Evana's response was quiet but firm.

"Perhaps you're right, but a person who makes a bad decision may also still be redeemed."

Hawke looked at her curiously, but merely tilted her head in acknowledgement.

Evana's statement seemed to ease the tension, and Stroud finally spoke again.

"I believe I know where the Wardens are, Your Worship. Erimond fled in that direction." Stroud raised his hand and pointed south. "There's an abandoned Warden fortress that way - Adamant."

She nodded. "Good thinking."

"Stroud and I will scout out Adamant and confirm that the other Wardens are there," Hawke offered. "We'll meet you back at Skyhold."

Hawke took Varric aside, their heads bent together in whispered communion, and then she left with Stroud to scout the fortress. As Evana looked over her companions, her mind, still roiling from the adrenaline, swirled in several directions at once. Finally, Dorian pulled her from her thoughts.

"Uh, not to rush you, my dear, but we are standing among a bunch of dead Wardens and demons. Could we move on soon? I'm worried I'll get blood on my shoes."

Evana looked down at the other mage's blood-soaked armor and boots, then looked back up at him with a raised eyebrow, her lips quirking in a disbelieving smirk. "Blood on the shoes, eh? Little bit late for that." Then, turning to the others, she huffed out a long sigh. "Well, it's still light, and I'm worked up from that fight. I know it's hotter than dragon's fire out here, but... should we look for a few more rifts before heading back to camp?"

"Bianca's all in," Varric affirmed.

"Yeah, I'm up for it, Boss."

She looked at Dorian, who sighed dramatically. "Only you would ask me to trudge around in soiled armor and blazing heat to kill even more demons. Shall we practice our dancing in the sulfur pits, too?" Evana's mouth twitched with a barely suppressed smile, and Dorian's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Oh, I suppose since we're here and my boots are already ruined, we might as well."

She gave him a lopsided grin and headed off in the direction of the next rift on her map.

[cuinceredir]

@rogue-valor​

"Do you own this bar?" Erne asked as he accepted his drink from the handsome bartender. "Cause if you do, I'll probably come around here more often.~" there is another smile and a sly wink at the end of his sentence.

Amusement gives way to a little exhaustion, a sigh escaping without Rylen even intending on it, smile still present on the owner’s visage.

“Kid, you are barking at the wrong tree.”

Rylen did expect the conversation to be over after the little remark, but apparently the other took his answer in a different way. Better to cut any hope from the start.