#[sad apostate noises]

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I’ve never dressed up for Halloween before in my life. Tomorrow there’s a parade at the school I work for. It’s dinosaur time. 🦖 rawr

I’m also going to wear a handmade superhero costume for the time before the parade; because I can — fuck you Jehovah — that’s why. Since age fifteen, I’ve devoted all my time and energy to coming up with subtle costumes for the purpose of scaring away householders from this cult; so I’m allowed to dress up as something silly that doesn’t deal me 10,000x psychic damage when I look in the mirror, goddammit.

I am going to walk with the children and it will be FUN. I will distribute CANDY and eat PIZZA and watch GOD-DISHONORING MOVIES and worship SATAN in my CHUNKY DINO COSTUME.

[wcmcink]

notes in three parts

notes i took on my phone in 3 parts

1.

& the mountains underneath the cover of a sunset... i'm looking out the window/ like a doorway into a photograph & organizing the pennies on my desk into petrine crosses         & it's hard to tell the nighttime from a close friend it's just an outfit, you can take it off a way of being in the world not so much but when that outfit reflects a way of being in the world/ watch out! i wonder if the same holds true for systems & design... you can take it off it doesn't reflect the soul of the matter everything has a use & a purpose & i sit  just like this to conduct my investigation: i've been going this way & there's nothing i can do but rest easy with the decisions i've made yeah, we'll all be gone before we know it." in the blow up doll world full of blow up things it's good that someone's filling up the silence with pointless conversation all the way down to the slumlords on hoover advertising student housing "you came in at fig," yeah i get it, everything means something there's a bit of a schoolboy confusion over what to say & i wish someone would come by smoking a cigarette & then i could bum one & everything would be alright... get on board with the made up universe dick tracy can have anything he wants you understand? to bad he wants to fight crime in palookaville... i don't know what's happening to me i can't force myself to cry  'cus i'm not sad but it scares me meanwhile i aspire to a challenging definition of spam...          "what is this?" (husband over the shoulder of his wife) "not quite sure, i think i'll throw it away." (using his index finger to follow through) "makes sense, i'm really not quite sure what i'm reading either."  they are rough poems in the outline of your face

2.

all relationships between people are arrangements of some sort this doesn't mean they are void  of genuine emotion in fact, it would be a better arrangement if they had genuine emotion... now to clean it up some impatient for a microwave the malicious intention of stray comments void of emotion while i'm holding your hand she's gonna find a shotgun buried in the cabinet, "well, that's a window into a dark room..." i'm kind of into the fantasy of it all the late nights the neon signs in front of midnight restaurants  a real greasy spoon, a cigarette, & a cup of coffee  the many vagaries of the institution are hard to navigate he's singing, "i was born in a storm..." just like i'm somewhat aware of this not being what you wanted to hear  i'm not really into the big things here although i know it's something to talk about when we are having dinner/ all about this pocket book of loose verses... right now: i'm writing a sentence with my right hand & performing it with my left that scratchy sound & screeching voice "playing that rock & roll music" beneath the letter of the moon

3.

dry cleaning & shopping carts & supermarket parking lots & smile 'cus you don't know what it means... i wake up sing my songs scratch the dirt & resin off my face & write these swollen verses & for some reason that requires an audience... at the corner of good shit & right on there's a decent compromise to be made like a dead skin that fits over a dead animal leaving it with a toothy grin thoughts come in waves, no...dualistic impulses that cut  both ways "sometimes, i feel like smacking your head like a swizzle stick."      it's ten in the morning & already the day is getting away from me little by little comes the fall not in whole but in part given to the vicissitudes of a twisted heart...   morning & its tergiversations  i don't know if that word is really necessary not just because i don't know what it means: "to change ones loyalties, become apostate" or it's difficult to use in a sentence it's just extra, you know tergiversations  perfect for a friday morning noise carries through my hearing aids & the din of a half empty room hits me like a brick i'm sitting in a meeting house: "thinking i understand things well enough to figure them out." that's what the guy says, it's smart, you know, i wonder if he practiced beforehand... this is the philosophy of a fractured state when we're out of clever replies & our little defenses we all feel similar & certain situations strike us the same although the response is different every comment, every gesture has an orientation & point of view & this precludes action of any kind thinking of each thing & what it means & where it's going & what will come of it... "what will you do?" "i dunno, smoke a couple cigarettes, think about the conversation we just had... how we create in the clearing of what we are patently not able to do... leaving gently what is left what we are able to do & who we are" "blood & sand" is a cocktail, "blood & soil" is the nazi era program to return german citizens to farmland... & other things i must remember but i have no time for dewy-eyed maidens in the backroom, "it's always like this, he'll probably write that down to, he has no idea what should remain a thought & what should be put down on paper... holy shit, that's a great poem." still we hold fast to our beliefs even if it means wearing a pirates hat in the middle of los angeles it's satan re-imagined as another life form maybe an uprooted yellow flower in a science fiction movie... bending towards the sun on a rainy day..."i'm so happy when i'm on my own" the flower says, (could it be described as bright, shaking its petals in consternation yearning for the sun?) surely, something i can ask my phone later, like what's "i love you" in french. or did the giants win? or find my italy trip last month & set a meeting for nine... tell him i'm on my way.

[curiousthimble]

Fictober Day 1

Fictober Day 1: I Need You Fandom: Dragon Age 2 Characters: Anders, Catriona Hawke Tags: breaking up is hard to do, two idiots in love, pre-chantry explosion

Catriona looked up from the note in her hand, making sure that this was the right place. Why meet here and not the clinic? She wondered, looking out over the ocean. At least there’s a view, she thought, settling on a large stone and watching the waves roll over the rocky shore.

The rhythmic water soon settled her nerves and made her less apprehensive. She hadn’t seen Anders since they’d broken up over a year ago; she’d worked hard to become the healer she needed on her crew, and thought she’d done a fine job of it so far. She’d kept up with Anders and his antics through Varric and Isabela, who frequently informed her of the trouble he got himself into. More than once, she’d pulled strings behind the scenes to keep him out of it, too.

When his note had shown up this morning, passed through Varric, her hands had shaken a little as she broke the seal. Their breakup had been bad— and very public. But when she saw his familiar scrawl, noting a time and place, she’d felt a trickle of worry. What had he gotten himself into now? It must be bad for him to reach out to her.

“Cat.”

She hadn’t heard him approach and whirled around, fire swirling around her hand in surprise. He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, a sad smile on his face as he studied her. “I give up?” he offered.

His hair was longer and there was a new scar on his jaw. He seemed to be growing a beard to cover it, but it wasn’t quite there yet. He was thinner than before, his black coat hanging loosely on his frame.

“Anders, you startled me,” she said, extinguishing the fire and lowering her hand. “You really out to call out or something.”

His smile widens, lifting some of the sadness. “Catriona Hawke, scared by a lowly apostate making enough noise to wake the dead?” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Varric would have a field day with this one.”

“Don’t you dare tell him,” she said, crossing her arms. “I can still beat you up.”

Their teasing made her heart ache. It felt like they were happy and in love only yesterday, before Justice and Anders had decided to shut her out and put their mission before her. She still didn’t understand why— she was a mage fighting for her freedom, too. She just chose to slowly undermine Meredith and drain away her political power.

But Catriona had always thought they were fighting the same fight.

Anders looked out over the water, doing his best not to look at her, it seemed, and cleared his throat. “How...uh.” He coughed. “How is Fenris?”

Fenris? Why would he bring up Fenris? “He’s fine,” she said, eyebrows knitting together.

“Oh. Good. I’m… I’m glad.”

“Anders,” Catriona said, almost touching his shoulder.

Almost.

The memory of Justice crushing her hand, breaking it in several places, was fresh enough that she stopped, pulling back and clearing her own throat. “You didn’t ask me to meet you all the way out here to ask about Fenris.”

“No,” he said, turning back to her. “I came to ask for help. I need you.”

“Anders, what is it?” she asked. His eyes flashed a blinding blue before returning to his warm amber. Before he can speak, she knew it was the old argument.

“The Revered Mother is the real problem,” he says in a low, hard voice. “She’s the one who won’t lift a finger to protect the mages from Meredith.”

“So where do I come in?”

“Fenris won’t like it,” he warned.

Catriona threw her arms wide and looked around. “I don’t see him anywhere, do you? What is it with you and Fenris today? Did you see him recently or something?”

“He’s living with you, isn’t he?” Anders snapped. “From what I understand he moved in right after I moved out.”

Catriona almost laughed as the pieces fell into place. “Fenris moved in because I couldn’t sleep in the empty house. I nearly went crazy after you left,” she spat. “I was a wreck, Anders. He stayed with me to make sure I didn’t starve, and he stayed because it was actually nice to live with someone.”

“You make a cozy couple, I hear.”

The bitterness in his voice broke her heart all over again, and Catriona had to swallow past the tightness in her throat. “We aren’t a couple, Anders,” she chokes out. “He sleeps down the hall. I just needed someone there.”

[numbaoneflaya]

Can I get a list of all ur ocs?

Well anon youve done it, you made me make a list of all my major OCS in one place. I hope your happy with yourself. Under the cut for obvious reasons, may link in my blog desc later.

Modern/BTD verse!!

Jilly- Ferret beastkin little creature, was recently turned into a werewolf by vincent as well so she's running around on full moons in a wereferret wolf hybrid creature form. Chaotic and friendly and wants to be everyone's bestie. She has the most energy in the world and is very kind hearted. Banned from most Claires for stealing and from one Home Depot for climbing the shelves. Prone to living life with rose colored glasses on and seeing the best in everything/everything even when there's nothing there. Socialization is a must for her and is why being basemented/kidnapped broke her psych so quickly and developed severe stockholm. Sometimes overly talkative/enthusiastic and can scare people off. Even if she sees someone shes decided shes friends with be noticeably 'evil', will convince herself it must be for some reason/her fault and ignore it.

Ciggy- Undead punk still learning to harness his powers to interact with the world as a ghost. Was sacrificed by a cult he joined for free concert tickets and to get laid. Likes to cause problems on purpose both pre and prior death and he's not above possessing someone once he learns how to. Was called Rooster in high school before he dropped out because he's loud, obnoxious and always screaming. And also has bright red dyed hair. Looking 4 ways to become less ghosty bcs he wants to be able to help raise his infant daughter, whom he died before he could meet. Bit annoying and in your face, likes poking at bruises, his or others. Kind of a sad heart seeking attention through volume and persistence.

Mike: Vampire loser! Sells drugs and lives at raves. Was turned when she was attacked by a coked out vampire (whom she supplied the product to) and has major scarring on her face and chest. Needs a somewhat constant influx of blood so shell sometimes take victims back to her place and chain them up, slowly draining them over time. Feels bad (ish) about it tho so it is possible to survive her if you are nice and or interesting enough. Kind of desperate for a friend and for love. Is a stalker. If she likes you enough/finds you interesting, she might just appear in your house one night and start rummaging through your fridge like nothing is wrong and youve been besties for years. Its best to indulge her and be friendly, otherwise she could turn violent quickly if her feelings are hurt.

Kilaine- Regular human woman, but fucked up. Born and raised by an elite waspy society she had an interest in the human body and pain tolerance since she was young. Quickly learned that these traits were socially unacceptable in most professions, so she became a doctor. The only family she cared about was her younger sister who she lost in a car accident, where they were flipped over and trapped inside while it was afire. While her sister burned up in front of her Kilaine only lost her left arm and had major burns on her body. This tipped her descent into sadism and she is now madly obsessed with bringing her sister back no matter the cost. Rude and offstandish, clinical.

Dragon age verse!

Thurwen- My main Hero of Ferelden with a bad temper and a heart of gold. City elf from the Denerim Alienage, 18 at the start of origins. She's a reaver warrior with a lot of pent up rage which sometimes scares others when she lets it out in battle. Over the years she's grown less moody as she's had to take the role of Commander. Crude sense of humor and violent impulses, very sensitive to the plights of others and tries often to help. Never seen crying in public but only cries to herself at night- major martyr and hanged man complex.

Caz- My circle mage elf inquisitor who was an apostate before the conclave. Blood magic, but make it sneaky. Wary of strangers and new faces, always dealing with the impulse to flee/find a high vantage point. Endless curiosity about the unknown/ the forbidden/ naughty, was supposed to be made tranquil for it but she escaped. Kind of a little creature as well, lived on her own for a while as an apostate in the woods, filed her teeth down to sharp ends to make herself look more intimidating (shes 5 ft tall) and less cute (her elf ears are huge and expressive, which shes embarrassed about)

Dag and Thagna- Carta twins! Professional lyrium smugglers since birth pretty much. Raised casteless in dust town and had to work their way up the chain of command by themselves. Dag is the brother, Thagna the sister. Their father traded them to the carta for drinking money and their mom died in childbirth so they have somewhat of a codependent relationship. Both charismatic and calculating, friendly and agreeable but won't hesitate to put a dagger in your back. Hard to pin down morally or physically, squirrelly bastards.

Reila: Dalish elf who works for the inquisition/ is the inquisitor in some aus. She has an extreme fixation on elvhen history and rebuilding what they have lost. Not a people person, prefers solitude. Takes some time to warm up to shemhlen as she has a hard history with them. Good friends with Caz, who recruited her in the first place. Doesn't understand very many social cues and finds societal expectations limiting and frustrating. Fondness for halla and hooved animals, which she finds graceful.

Elder scrolls verse!

Valkya: Near seven foot nord woman whos over a thousand years old by the events of skyrim. Tall and buff, two handed warrior and compulsive hero there to bask in the spotlight save the day. She was killed at the start of the events of Elder scrolls online and had her soul ripped out and sent to coldharbor and she's just been a pain in the ass about it since then. Her body can physically die and will not regrow pieces. Her soul however will escape and teleport to the nearest source of power where her body will regrow from an aetherial plasm until its whole again. Loud and brash, friendly and jovial. Actually pretty keen especially after centuries of life but prefers to play dumb as it makes people underestimate her. Plus, she really does enjoy mud wrestling and drinking contests and acting generally like a rambunctious frat boy. Ha developed a bit of a substance problem and a problem with acting out, as after being alive so long she would turn to anything to dull the ache inside of her that never goes away.

Espira- My Dragonborn! Redguard from Hammerfell who was briefly in the Ash’abah due to killing undead while protecting her parents water farm as a child. Ran away from them after years and went to Cyrodille, then to Skyrim and was caught crossing the border. Reserved, kind and soft spoken, she's a sword and shield warrior who's committed herself to doing good in the world by helping others. Dislikes killing and anything messy but believes it is often necessary in order to protect the weak. She blacksmiths often to save money on the upkeep of her own equipment, and takes up metal jewelry working as a hobby with the excess material. Prone to trusting others too much and giving too many second chances, as shes always looking for ways to make even the most hardened criminal a second look at life.

Riley- Espiras little brother who she locked in the wardrobe during the event of the water farm attack. In preventing him from doing violence against the undead she kept him from being conscripted into the Ash’abah. He's way more chaotic than his sister, and suffers from a case of little sibling syndrome in which he will often pester/poke at people just to get a rise out of them. Still kind hearted as his sister, he tries to hide it because he believes that the world is a cruel place and the cruel survive. Despite that belief he is often still unable to force himself to be cruel/careless, only making a show of it so that others leave him alone and don't see that he's very sensitive and emotional. Deaf in one ear due to a magic mishap in his youth, he trained and enchanted his most beloved rats to live for years and sit on his shoulder, alerting him to noises he would not otherwise notice.

Felria: Evil vamp :/ chaotic evil dunmer necromancer. Small and devilish and likes dead bodies too much. Manipulative and cunning, she loves acting. She's a trained assassin for the dark brotherhood and is the speaker. Likes dressing up for missions and wearing disguises like its all a play. Loves toying with people more than she loves killing them, will act in ways that cause as much trauma as possible for other people just for fun and she finds the reactions interesting. Considers herself too far removed from most people's perception of morality and of her so it's hard for her to trust someone or see them as worthy of knowing her. Finds the psychology of grief and fear to be interesting and wants to study them first hand. The hero of kvatch.

Herren: Fifty something year old rat woman looking for something to keep her going. Ran away from her wealthy family in her youth when they wanted her to take charge of the household, instead became an infamous jewel thief and swashbuckler. Spent most of her life traveling and stealing and double dealing. She's smarmy and sarcastic, a serial romancer of the highest caliber. Bit of a show off and a hedonist, always looking for the next good party or new product to snort. Her family died off due to the hard times she wasn't there for and she keeps looking for bigger and bigger heists to fill her appetite as she's chronically bored and lonely, though wont accept intimacy and will scoff at it out of the belief she doesn't deserve it. Irresponsible and selfish, lonely and terrified of any sort of commitment. Fun to party with though!

[enby-hawke]

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence                     

Category:F/M

TW: Graphic depictions of violence, exploration of race and class dynamics, eventual smut

So here it is after 3 years of talking about it and then trying to turn it into a comic, I’m kicking it out because it doesn’t pay rent and I have other stories to tell. Here it is. Hope you enjoy. 

----

“I still do not understand what taste is,” the spirit somehow huffed. Malcolm knew it was a mistake to respond at all. The red specter hovered on the edge of Malcolm’s bed, it’s angry red glow a contrast to the murky green that the Fade was hazed in. It had somehow got in again, into the sanctum where he allowed his mind to rest as he guarded the dreamers of Kirkwall. Malcolm could have made his sanctum look like anything, but he didn’t bother giving himself the illusion he was anywhere else but his Circle cell. The thin sandpaper sheets did nothing to soften the metal bed underneath him. The cell had barely enough room for his dresser and desk that he used to do his studies, which he spent more time doodling on than learning. Even here he could still smell the faint aroma of the toilet that was next to his bed. Still, as unpleasant as his sanctum was, he needed a strong sensation to anchor his body, especially if he was going to battle a demon tonight.

Malcolm took in a stale breath, held it for 4 seconds, and gently let it go. It was important that no matter what happened, he remained calm.

The shimmering of the phantom became more urgent, more vibrant. Malcolm continued to ignore it, even turning his head and body away to make a point, but it didn’t seem to stop the creature from trying to dart into view, insistent on having his question answered. After the third turn of his head, the demon reached and gave one of Malcolm’s pointy ears a firm yank, screaming, “Can you hear me?”

On instinct, Malcolm swiped at the demon with a crackling fist, but the demon darted away. The sparks in Malcolm’s hand arced wildly as he leveled it at his target. “Fuck off, demon. I told you, one question.”

The wraith started to warp along with the Fade as anger emanated from Malcolm’s body. Claws started sprouting from it’s fingers and through it’s translucent skin, he could see it’s teeth starting to jut out at odd angles, but the demon made no move to fight him. “Were you listening? I am not a demon. I’m a scholar. And you are the first somniari I have come across in ages.”

The demon kept it’s distance but became more animated, gesturing with it’s gangly arms. “The last somniari only survived long enough to tell me about eating, but though I’ve tried it, the phenomenon remains perplexing.” Malcolm jumped as the demon inched closer. “Sometimes eating brings joy. Sometimes eating brings sorrow. Sometimes eating brings no emotion at all.” Quivering in curiosity, the demon then sprung forward so close to Malcolm could easily punch it. “Why somniari?”

The sparks in Malcolm’s hands died down as his eyes glazed over, caught in a memory. He saw his mother, with dark freckled brown skin, and beautiful curly hair that cascaded down her back, but her face was blurred as he failed to recall the details. Still, he remembered the smell of the plate of piping hot pancet that she placed in front of him, how the steam coming off of the unending noodles made his mouth water. She brushed his mop of curls from his eyes and kissed his forehead with a warm smile. “Happy birthday, Malcolm.”

The creature sniffed at his head as if he was about to take a huge bite. “Oh, what is that? That smells delicious!”

Malcolm swatted at the spirit as if it was an annoying fly. “Stay out of my head!”

But the spirit had already plucked the memory out of his head and dashed away a safe distance from the room. It wiggled in delight of it’s prize, and in it’s hands it materialized into a bowl of pancet. Malcolm felt a sick twist of envy as the spirit grabbed a handful of long fried noodles and shoved it into it’s mouthless face, slurping it down with wet smacking noises. “This,” sluuuurp, “memory tastes both,“ sluuuurp, “happy and sad, though the sadness is fresher.”

Malcolm, quaking in anger, rose to his feet, summoning threatening flames so high, they licked the ceiling. “Were you not warned of who I am?”

The spirit continued to eat in bliss, Malcolm’s threat no more than an annoyance. “The wisps call you,” sluurp, “Spirit Slayer.”

Malcolm raised a thick eyebrow, wondering why this spirit had no sense of self preservation. Or was this demon stronger than he thought? “So why do you risk pestering me?”

At this, the demon lowered the bowl, a mess of sauce dripping down it’s face. “Because only you can answer.”

The demon looked sadly at it’s last noodle and picked it up between it’s claws. “I, too, have lost much, somniari. I had a name once. I’ve given up trying to find it.”

“I’ve asked every stone, every wisp, but so much was lost after The Sundering. What I am, is what I have left.” The demon turned to Malcolm and though it had no eyes, he could feel it looking through him with earnest that he could feel thrumming in his heart. “So if this quest is my end, so be it.” Then it ate the noodle, looking oddly like a worm being sucked through a hole.

The flames died in Malcolm’s hands, his anger deflating with plumes of smoke. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to spare a moment.”

The words had barely left Malcolm’s mouth before his pocket started to buzz with a generic ringtone, that vibrated the air of the Fade like a tinging glass. The spirit cocked his head, confused as Malcolm dug through his pajama pockets and fished it out. “Sorry, demon, duty calls.”

“Scholar,” the spirit corrected, but Malcolm shushed him as he put it to his ear.

A terrified voice began sobbing through the speaker. “Help! Somebody help!”

Malcolm didn’t recognize the voice, so they weren’t one of the Circle mages being plagued for a meal. An apostate perhaps?

“Hello? It’s going to be alright,” Malcolm began like he always did. He raised his free hand to feel the cords of the Fade that were weaving together, trying to connect to the dreamer who rang his phone. The air around his hands shimmered like sparkling dust, faint harp-like threads connecting from the tips of his fingers.

“Hello?” the voice answered back, full of confusion. “Who is this?”

“That doesn’t matter. Can you tell me where you are?” He stepped off his bed and towards his bedroom door.

“Where I am?” the voice repeated, slick with tears. “I’m…I don’t know.”

He could feel that she was panicked, confused, disoriented, and that there was a dark aura surrounding her, stronger than he had felt in awhile. Malcolm had been sure that he had cleansed this area of the Fade of demons, but this just meant that more would come in to feed on the remnants. Malcolm closed his eyes, reaching through the phone to try to peek at her dream. “Yes, you do,” his soothing voice taking a commanding tone. “Just open your eyes and describe what you see.”

He heard her gasping for air as she struggled to breathe but eventually she sputtered out. “I’m in my bedroom. It’s filling up with water, fast. You have to hurry.”

He put his hand on the door. Through the darkness of his eyelids he began to see light, and the running rush of water filled his ears. “Describe your room to me.”

“What would it matter!?”

“It matters if I’m going to find you.”

A beat of silence registered on the phone, before she continued. “Well, it’s a room…with a closet and a bed.”

“Helpful,” Malcolm snorted before he could stop himself. Still, a misty silhouette of a closet, which was more like it’s own room, and a grand bed with a flowing cloth canopy started to form. There was a body tucked within it, nestled on a throne of pillows.

“Well I’m in a state of panic right now! Can you blame me? My clothes are getting ruined. It’ll cost a fortune to redo these carpets, not to mention-”

Malcolm sighed, trying to press on as she chattered. It never did any good to argue, but this monologue wasn’t helping. “What color are your blankets?”

“Cream…embroidered with gold thread.” The vision in his mind began to fill in with color.

“And the pattern of the embroidery?”

“Really?”

“Messere,” Malcolm gritted his teeth. “It’s important you stay calm. The more you panic the faster the water will flood.” It wasn’t a lie, but he also needed her to hurry.

She relented with a sigh, and said, “a gold-leaf rose spread.”

It took a little more coaxing, but eventually Malcolm got her to describe her wallpapers, floral and pink, and her carpet, which she insisted before the flood was a beautiful white color. She also described a bookcase, her lute, and a vanity mirror where she would get ready for the day each morning, a family heirloom, made from wood of the grove of the Emerald Graves, with brass knob handles and the symbol of her family’s crest that was carved into the wood, that showed either two ravens perched in angular stone columns, or a dragon head, depending on how you looked at it. Soon he could see the room, and could finally solidify the flimsy connection.

He pressed his forehead against the bedroom door, eyes still closed, the hard metal cold and unforgiving. “Now I need you to walk up to your door and let me in.”

“Are you crazy?” she shouted so loud that Malcolm had to take his ear away from the receiver. “It’s going to let all the water in!”

“No,” Malcolm said calmly. “Because I will be on the other side.”

“You know that makes no sense.”

“You’re talking to a strange voice in your head, your room is flooded, and from my estimate about the cost of that vanity mirror alone, you live somewhere in Hightown. Does any of this make sense?”

This time she whined, which sounded more cute than annoying. “But I’m going to get wet.”

Malcolm burst out in laughter. He had run into a lot of dreamers, but while most were suggestive, she seemed to easily resist the strings connecting them. He could see deep into the pit of her heart that she was as stubborn as he was, which was saying something. It was intriguing really, but before his curiosity could run away with it, his sensible self reminded him that she was in danger. And with how long it took for him to find the location of her dream, the demon had now sensed him coming.

“Look, the door is locked, and only you can open it.”

“Can’t you just break the lock open?”

“Sure,” Malcolm said, “but that door represents the connection of your body to your slumbering mind. If I break it open, it would hurt…a lot.”

Silence filled the air except for the splash of rising water and the slurping noise of Scholar licking the last remnants of sauce from their bowl.

“You promise you’ll be on the other side?”

“Promise.”

She heaved a huge sigh and after a few moments, he could hear the sloshing of water as she started to wade her way through her bedroom, but Malcolm could not only hear it from the speaker, but the other side of the door as well. Malcolm shoved his phone back into his pocket and placed his hand on the doorknob that would normally be electronically locked, but right now, it was just another illusion of the Fade. As the lock clicked open, Malcolm turned the doorknob, blissfully unaware of how his life would change until he met the girl’s black doe eyes.

Read more on A03

[tiadres]

30 Days Dragon Age OC Challenge

Day 9: Social Status

Cadriel has really been moving up and down the social ladder. Her father Malcolm Hawke was an apostate mage (runaway from the Kirkwall Circle) and mother Leandra Amell a noble lady who abandoned everything to run away with Malcolm. In Ferelden they lived as humble farmers, trying not to draw attention to themselves. It was a simple and mostly peaceful life, although they had to be careful so no-one would discover that Malcolm and two of the kids were mages. Because of their background, Malcolm and Leandra were able to give their children Cadriel, Carver and Bethany an excellent education. Malcolm especially had a lot to teach, and he spent much time training his (mage) kids. 

Cadriel was in her early twenties when the family’s misfortunes began. First Malcolm died, and then the Blight forced the family to flee from their home village of Lothering. They chose to escape to Kirkwall where Leandra still had family left, but Bethany didn’t make it out of Ferelden alive. In Kirkwall they had trouble getting into the city because there were so many Blight refugees already and Leandra’s family didn’t hold the same status and wealth as it had used to; only her brother Gamlen was left, and he had managed to lose the estate. Cadriel and her mother and brother were able to stay at Gamlen’s sad little hovel in Lowtown. Cadriel was now a poor nobody in an unknown city, but at least she and what remained of her family were alive. 

With the fortune made of the dangerous Deep Roads expedition, Cadriel was able to purchase the Amell estate in Hightown, and defeating the Arishok earned her the title of the Champion of Kirkwall. While there were disagreeing noises, in the eyes of many she was a hero, and with her hard work and risking her life she had risen from a poor refugee to a city noble. Still for her none of that was ever about status or fame; she simply wanted to be able to provide for her family, help her friends and make Kirkwall a safer, happier place to live in. Getting to live in a mansion was a luxurious bonus. 

Cadriel’s world was turned upside down once again when Anders initiated the mage rebellion. In a heartbeat she decided to leave everything behind again so she could be with her partner. They went from Circle to Circle and helped some of them take that final step to rebellion, and otherwise the couple tried to stay hidden. There was a certain freedom to sleeping under the stars and going where ever the road took them, although sometimes Cadriel missed their Hightown home. 

After Corypheus was defeated and Varric was elected to be the Vicount of Kirkwall, Cadriel returned to the city she had come to consider her home, and helped her best friend to rebuild it better than ever. She moved back to her old estate and some rumor that Anders returned with her and even re-opened his old free clinic, but they must have been incredibly careful because no authorities (that don’t answer to Varric) have been able to prove that... 

So tldr; Cadriel has gone from peasant to refugee to noble to exile to noble again. Quite a rollercoaster. Because of her background she talks to everyone in a friendly manner (unless they are rude to her first) and doesn’t judge anyone based on their status. 

Want to do the challenge as well? Here are the prompts

[bitesizedpromises]

Title: Amber and Mahogany

Fandom: Dragon Age

Relationship(s): Cullen Rutherford/Tamarion (M/M)

Characters: Cullen Rutherford, Tamarion (original elf character)

Words:2667

Summary: this is basically a prologue to a much bigger thing I’m planning for Tamarion. Just wanted to write how Cullen and Tamarion’s first meeting went.

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Amber and Mahogany

Kinloch Hold had to be enchanted.

That would hardly be a surprise – after all, magic was an everyday occurrence in the tower. Cullen had arrived the previous evening and he'd already witnessed events he never thought were possible. He saw mages who could conjure items and even living beings out of thin air, while others could heal any wound or turn themselves into animals.

It could be expected that such a strong concentration of magic would affect the building as well. That was how Cullen explained the unusual difference in temperature in the area he was patrolling, compared to the weather outside. True, the corridor was dark, as there were no windows to let any light or warmth in. The pair of torches, placed too far apart from each other, did little to change that. It was so cold that Cullen, who had been patrolling since early morning, could hardly feel his toes by this point.

What rotten luck he had, being assigned to this freezing place! Just after breakfast, Cullen had caught a glimpse through the open gates and had seen how wonderful the weather was. The sun was shining from a clear, silk blue sky and underneath its warm rays the lake had turned into molten gold. The sight had been so lovely that Cullen was convinced the Maker had granted him a momentary view of paradise. But then the heavy gates had closed with a thunderous sound and Cullen's heavenly visions had been shattered cruelly.

During his training, he'd been told of mages who escaped the Circle to lead a desperate life on the edge of civilization, stealing and killing to survive. While he was disapproving of apostates, as most of them were dangerous, he could understand why some mages felt the desire to run away from such a bleak place.

A sudden noise snapped him out of his musings. It was coming from around a corner, where some of the Circle's food supplies were stored. That area was part of Cullen's route. Unfortunately, he'd become distracted, so he wasn't as vigilant as he was supposed to be. Someone had obviously taken advantage of the fact and had sneaked in, most likely in hopes of stealing some food.

When Cullen came around the corner, his suspicions were confirmed at once. The door to one of the cellars was slightly ajar. He carefully stalked towards it, trying to be as quiet as one could possibly be while wearing heavy armour. Luckily for him, the person in the room was too busy searching through the boxes and jars on a shelf and didn't hear him enter. Judging by the aroma, this particular room was used to store the Circle's supply of herbs and spices.

The intruder had their back to Cullen. The soft clinking of glass indicated they were searching for something particular. They must be quite young, Cullen assumed. They were small and clad in the robes of an apprentice, with the hood pulled over their head. Cullen cleared his throat and the mage jumped up, shrieking in surprise. They spun round to face him and for a heartbeat, the two stood motionless, staring at each other. Then the intruder spoke up, uttering a single sound.

“Oh.”

An odd response. The tone was even, just slightly distorted by disappointment. Cullen was left with the strong impression that this wasn't the mage's first attempt at stealing food. This person's disregard for the Circle rules was quite obvious, and he felt rather anxious at whether he was capable of taking any meaningful action. Would he, a newcomer, be perceived as an authority figure by someone to whom breaking the rules was no big deal?

While Cullen was hesitating, the mage pulled down their hood, revealing themselves as a young male around Cullen's age. He had a pretty, delicate face, which initially deceived Cullen into believing that a girl stood before him. However, he realized the truth upon noticing the pointed tips of a pair of ears barely poking through his hair.

Ah!

Just as he made that discovery, he noticed that the other was studying him as well. The elf's eyes – which were mismatched in their colouration – were full of interest, while his eyebrows, light and delicate like the wings of a dragonfly, were arched high. The examination went on for several seconds longer. When it was over, the elf parted his lips and uttered the same exclamation as before. Only this time, there was no trace of disappointment in his voice.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn't used to receiving such attention … or any, for that matter. But he quickly squared his shoulders, reminding himself that the mage had broken the rules and he, as a templar, had a duty to take appropriate action. He cleared his throat in an effort to imbue some sternness in his voice.

“You shouldn't be here. Mages aren't allowed to visit the cellars.”

“I know that,” the elf replied. “But you don't understand. It's an emergency.”

“Oh?” Cullen relaxed his posture slightly. He wasn't that surprised to hear something had happened. The Circle was a dangerous place, full to the roof with mages, some of who were unable to control their powers. He had also been warned of certain trouble makers. “What's happened?”

“I'm really craving some dried cherries!”

Cullen's jaw dropped. At first he thought he must have misheard, but then the elf dropped the seriousness. His eyes sparkled with mirth and his lips spread into a huge smile. Cullen felt his ire rising.

“I'm sorry,” he said stiffly, “but this isn't a real emergency. Please, leave now or I will be forced to take punitive measures.”

“Ohh, scary!” The elf chuckled. He took a strand of hair between his fingers and twisted it, while casually leaning on a cupboard. “You're new here, aren't you?”

“I don't see why that matters.”

“I've just never seen you before, that's all.” The elf grinned. He had a gap between his front teeth which gave a rather impish, but oddly charming appearance. “What's your name?”

“Er … it's Cullen.”

“It's nice to meet you. Cullen ... that's a pretty name. Ser Cullen. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

“I suppose?” Cullen shrugged. For a moment, he was torn between duty and curiosity. The latter won. “And what's your name?”

“Tamarion.”

Tamarion offered his name with a dazzling, gap-toothed smile that was all too easy to reciprocate. Cullen felt the corners of his mouth twitching and hastily locked his jaw in an effort to keep himself from becoming too friendly. He tried – once again! - to steer the conversation in the right direction.

“Listen, you either leave now, or I'll have to punish you. The Circle has rules.”

“Fine, I get it. Jeez, you newbies are always so strict!” Tamarion rolled his eyes. “I'll just grab some cherries and I'm off! Happy?”

“No! No cherries!”Cullen sighed. His first day and he was already having troubles. The Chantry had prepared him for demons and blood mages, but no one had ever told him he'd be faced with … this nuisance! “Just … do as I ask you. Please? I don't mean to offend you but the Circle has rules and they must be followed.”

“So you're really going to punish me?” Tamarion asked playfully. Seeing that Cullen was hesitant to answer, he laughed and leaned forward to pat him on the arm. “Relax, ser Cullen. No one's going to get in trouble. I was born here, so I know how things are done. Nobody gives a shit about the cellars.”

“That can't be right!” Cullen bristled in defence. “If that is the case, then why was I told to patrol the cellars?”

“Because you're the new guy.” Tamarion shrugged. “They never let the newbies do important things!”

Cullen furrowed his brows. Though Tamarion's words were unpleasant, he had no reason to doubt them. He was well aware that he could hardly stroll into the tower and be entrusted with real responsibilities at once. A templar's duties were far too heavy a burden to be entrusted to Cullen without him having proven himself worthy first. He knew that. But still … it was disheartening to have Tamarion confirm that what he was doing right now was completely useless. His shoulders sagged a little and he let out a soft sigh.

“So that's how it is ...”

He must have looked quite pitiful because Tamarion suddenly dropped his teasing manner.

“Hey, hey ...” He spoke in a soft voice. “Don't be like that. Guarding the cellars isn't that bad, really. Trust me, it could have been worse. At least you weren't sent to scrub the Tranquil.”

“Huh?”

“It's this cruel joke that some of the older templars do,” Tamarion explained. Though his tone was bright and cheerful, Cullen noted that he'd suddenly become quite stiff. “Those who still have their wits, that is. What they do is, they pick some greenhorn, usually someone who's a little bit on the stupid side, and they tell them that they have discovered a dastardly, cunning plot. According to them, there's this group of mages who are planning on escaping the Circle by pretending to be Tranquil, with a fake brand on their foreheads, drawn in ink. So, the greenhorn is given a bucket of water and a rag and instructed to go to each Tranquil in the tower and rub their forehead to see if the brand will come off. And all the while the older templars are laughing their asses off from the sidelines.”

Cullen listened with increasing disbelief and horror. He was tempted to believe that Tamarion was jesting. After all, the elf had not been serious at all during their whole conversation. But he could clearly see that his light-hearted demeanour was merely a mask. Tamarion's eyes were deep and Cullen could see the sadness and fury within.

How was it possible that this was happening? How could people who had sworn to serve Andraste take joy in such indecent, nasty tricks?

“Has the Knight-Commander been informed of this?” He asked. “Surely he would not allow such practice!”

“He just doesn't care?” Tamarion shrugged. “He might do something if he got enough complaints, but those poor Tranquil never say a word about it.”

“It's utterly humiliating! No one should be treated in such a manner!”

“I agree.” Tamarion looked intensely at Cullen. He began playing with his hair again, a soft smile on his lips. “I like you, ser Cullen. You're not like the others here. You're actually a good person!”

“I … thank you.” Cullen blushed. His hand found the back of his neck again. “But surely you must be exaggerating. I'm certain most of the templars have good intentions as well.”

“They don't.” Tamarion shook his head sadly. “Most don't care about us, which is actually the better option. The others are outright cruel. You see, ser Cullen … the Circle isn't a happy place for us.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Cullen said softly, painfully aware of how hollow the words seemed. “It shouldn't be this way. The Circle isn't a prison. What we're doing here … it's for your own good too.”

“It's not.” Tamarion sighed. He absently rearranged a few boxes on the shelf next to him while he continued talking; his voice was so soft it was as if he was talking to himself. “But I can see why you want to believe it. It must help you sleep at night.” He sighed again, then turned back to Cullen. “Well, it was really nice meeting you, ser Cullen,” he said, smoothing out the front of his robes, “but I think I should go. Without my cherries.”

“Oh!” Cullen was startled by the decision. He couldn't help but think it was yet another trick. “Really?”

“I don't want to risk losing the only templar who cares about us. Not for a handful of fruit,” Tamarion said chuckling. “I'll be seeing you around, ser Cullen.”

He gave him one last soft smile, then headed for the door. As he walked past him, Cullen caught the scent of flowers. He was unsure of how Tamarion had got a hold of perfume in the tower, but he wasn't about to complain about it. Though the aroma was quite faint, like the wind caused from the flapping of butterfly wings, Cullen found it oddly intoxicating. Tamarion had barely managed to make a couple of steps when Cullen reached out and took him by the arm. Led by a sudden impulse and spurred on by the fact that, for the first time, the elf's face showed genuine confusion, he walked to the shelves. It took him several moments to find what he was looking for.

“Here.” He returned to Tamarion with a small pouch in his hands. “The rules only apply to the mages, so … if I take something and give it to you, it should be alright. Right?”

He wasn't entirely certain who he was trying to convince – Tamarion, or himself. The rules of the Circle were open to interpretation when it came to what templars were allowed to do. But Greagoir would likely disapprove of Cullen's actions were he to learn about them.

Luckily for Cullen, it wasn't the Knight-Commander that stood before him. Tamarion accepted the cherries with a wide grin. He quickly devoured some and licked his lips in obvious delight.

“How generous of you!” He chuckled and bounced on his heels, like a small child would. “I'll remember this, ser Cullen. Thank you. Here,” he offered the pouch to him, “take a cherry or two. You've earned them.”

“Thank you, but I think I'll decline. I actually prefer raspberries.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Cullen nodded. “When I was a child … we had raspberry bushes in the garden. When they were in season, my siblings and I would get up really early in the morning, and we'd pick and eat them all. They were delicious.”

He and his sisters would pick the bushes clean. Their family was the only one in the village that didn't prepare raspberry jam, much to his mother's displeasure. She would always scold them for their gluttony, but how could anyone resist? Soft, plump, covered in tiny droplets of dew, yet unkissed by the sun … fresh raspberries were truly a delicacy surpassing any Orlesian feast, Cullen thought. He sighed, filled with bittersweet nostalgia.

“It was … wonderful.”

“It sounds pretty wonderful indeed.” Tamarion smiled softly.

“Yeah.” Cullen smiled, but then remembered where they were. He cleared his throat. “Er … perhaps you ought to leave now? Another templar might come to switch with me soon. If they find you here, you'll get in trouble.”

“So will you.” Tamarion ate a few more cherries, then pocketed the rest. “Thank you, again.”

“Don't mention it.” Cullen smiled. He shifted his feet and rubbed the back of his neck, hesitant to voice his thoughts. “Er ...”

“Yes?”

“I suppose that … I'm not as well-acquainted with … the way things are done here as I thought. And you seem to be.” He paused and Tamarion nodded encouragingly. “So … I wouldn't mind … er … talking with you again. I think it would be very educational for me. If you'd like to, of course.”

He exhaled shakily, acutely aware of his burning neck and ears. His heart was going wild; it was a miracle Tamarion couldn't hear it thumping against his chest plate. He already regretted speaking out. Maker, he'd come off as quite the fool, hadn't he?

Tamarion didn't seem to think so. He threw his head back and laughed merrily.

“I'd love to, ser Cullen!”

Then, instead of turning around and leaving, as Cullen thought he would, Tamarion took a quick step forward. The next few moments passed in a blur. When Cullen finally found himself able to think and see clearly again, he was alone. The door was now wide open. The hallway echoed with the sound of footsteps and bubbly laughter which were quickly fading. And his lips tasted of cherries.

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btw, if anyone’s interested in checking it out, @goblin-deity drew Tamarion ages ago, here’s the link!

Edit: Forgot to add that this is also up on AO3, link to that as well!

[creepingsharia]

“Burned Beyond Recognition”: Muslim Persecution of Christians

“Burned Beyond Recognition”: Muslim Persecution of Christians, October 2019

by Raymond Ibrahim

The following are some of the abuses that Muslims inflicted on Christians throughout the month of October, 2019; they are categorized by theme:

The Slaughter of Christians

Uganda:  A Muslim mob set fire to the home of former Muslim, Ali Nakabale, 36, for converting to Christianity.  Four of his family members—including his two children, a 6-year-old son and a nine-year-old daughter—were burned to death in the blaze.  His wife, who was enraged to learn that Ali had become Christian, reportedly prompted the arson attack.  “I had just visited my aunt only to receive sad news of the burning of our house,” Nakabale explained. “Upon arriving home, I found the house destroyed by fire that burned my four family members, including my two children.”  His mother and stepfather were also killed in the inferno.  “On reaching the mortuary, I found their bodies burned beyond recognition.” “We saw fire emanating from the house of Hamidah with loud chants from Muslims saying, ‘Allah Akbar [God is greater],’” reported a neighbor. Earlier, when his wife learned that he and his son had become Christian, she beat the boy.  On “[t]he same day my wife walked out of the marriage and left the home,” said Ali. “We got scared because we knew that our lives were in danger.”

Egypt: Two Christian men were killed by Muslim men on two separate occasions.  First, according to one report,

“Friends of a 40 year-old Egyptian who converted from Islam to Christianity believe that his premature death on 4th October is linked to numerous threats he received from his family that they would kill him for his change of faith.  Before Amr Hussein Mohamed El-Sayeh died, apparently by electrocution at his home, he told several friends that his uncle had, in July, reported him twice to the Alexandria police security directorate for his ‘apostasy’. He also told his friends that when he tried to talk to his wife about his new-found faith, she told their family, prompting them to constantly taunt and insult him.”

Amr was an Al Azhar graduate and taught Islamic studies before being baptized and taking the name “George” in April 2019, a fact that especially aggrieved his kin: “his family began to resist him and insult him, they wondered that Amr was an al-Azhar student and a graduate of the Faculty of Islamic Studies, and yet he converted to Christianity,” said a friend.  After his uncle reported him to the authorities, Amr/George, “made a cross tattoo on his right wrist, which triggered his family against him.”  A number of suspicious circumstances further surround his case: a hospital source saw bruises around his face and neck deemed inconsistent with the official cause of death (electrocution); he was not given a ritual washing—customary for both Muslims and Christians—reportedly because “the body washers were told that he should be treated as an ‘apostate’”; nor did his Muslim family hold a funeral for him, opting instead to bury him in a charity cemetery for the destitute.  His friend’s concluding thoughts follow:

“[He] was a very brave man….  He challenged his family for his faith in Jesus Christ. He was knowing that his family were going to kill him anytime but he didn’t fear death. He kept faith till his last breath and refused to renounce his new faith. He was martyred in the name of Jesus Christ.”

Separately, after six Muslim men beat him, Maged Fathi, a born Coptic Christian, died from his wounds in a hospital, leaving behind five children.  His neighbor, an eyewitness, explained what happened:

“Maged’s son was carrying dead chickens, and one fell beside the (Muslim) house. The Muslim man hit the boy on his face with the dead chicken. Maged heard his son crying loudly and got out of the house quickly. He tried to defend his son, but the killer [and five other Muslim accomplices] hit Maged on his head with a cudgel, and injured him with a knife too.”

Ibrahim ‘Abdu Zaid was reportedly radicalized in neighboring Libya; he was heard urging fellow Muslims that they “have to kill Christians.”

Nigeria:  Among the Christians killed by Muslim Fulani herdsmen in October—including 13 in the Plateau State alone—was Bartholomew David, 23.  According to Enoch Barde, a local, “As he was coming back [from dropping off his sister at the train station] he gave a lady a lift to Akilbu, and on their way the kidnappers stopped them, took them inside the bush and shot him to death, and the girl ran.  The girl said the herdsmen kidnapped them because they were Christians. She told the police the same thing.” The kidnapping of Christians in the region has become rampant, added Enoch:  “In most cases, only a few women or girls who are lucky usually escape from the rampaging kidnappers.  And at times, the kidnappers will rape the women and girls before letting them go.”

Separately, on October 3, Muslim Fulani herdsmen kidnapped six Christian female students and two teachers from a Christian-run high school. Last reported the eight women remained in captivity.  A week later, “another attack in the same county led to the killing of a Baptist woman and the kidnapping of four others from the same church.”

In another incident, Fulani herdsmen intentionally maimed Grace Zeku Gboogyo , a Christian woman, by cutting her hand off.  She was alone on her farmstead when the terrorists invaded the village.   According to a source close to Grace, “her attackers  told  her to place her hand on a log of wood  before  cutting  it off.”  The source added that there were machete wounds on her head as well.

Cameroon: During a raid on Sunday, October 20, suspected radicalized Muslim Fulani herdsmen killed Benjamin Tem, 48, who worked as a Bible translator in the Aghem language spoken in north Cameroon.  Two months earlier, Muslim Fulani killed Angus Fung, also a Bible translator.  Tem was murdered in his home and leaves behind five children.

Persecution of Apostates and Blasphemers

Iran: During a brief court hearing, nine Christians were sentenced to five years imprisonment “for,” according to the October 21 report, “leaving Islam.”  Christian Solidarity Worldwide was also quoted as condemning “in the strongest terms,” the sentences handed to the Christians:

“Once again, it is clear from the brevity of the trial and reported lack of interest of the presiding judge that due process was not observed. And the judge was not impartial.  The charges against these Christians are excessive, completely unfounded and constitute a criminalization of a religion which the Iranian constitution purportedly recognizes.”

Kenya: An October 22 report summarized the sufferings experienced by a former Muslim family with eight children, after they embraced Christianity.  Area Muslims began to monitor their movements soon after the family stopped attending mosque.   Then, one night, “[a]t around midnight I heard noise close to the homestead,” Ibrahim Juma, the father, said. “Peeping through the window, I saw more than six people wearing masks approaching my house, and I knew that we were not safe at all. I quickly woke up my children, and we fled out the rear door.” The house was apparently doused with gas before being set ablaze.  “The children’s schoolbooks and their uniforms were all destroyed. Our four-bedroom house was completed destroyed; beddings and other valuables worth a huge amount of money were all destroyed by the fire.”  According to the mother, “My two primary-school children are always asking what was the wrongdoing committed by the family that caused the burning of the house, as well as about moving from one place to another.  I always keep quiet or only tell them that soon things will get better, and that God is the provider. Sometimes I weep the whole night when I think back upon the trail of destruction left behind.”  The family has since moved three times, sometimes living in wretched conditions. “It has been very difficult for my children’s schooling—we are constantly on the move, which has adversely affected the education of my five children in school,” continued the mother.  “We have started receiving short phone messages from our Muslim relatives demanding that we return to Islam if life is to go on well with us.”  Last reported, they were still receiving threats for leaving Islam.

Indonesia: Despite being diagnosed with schizophrenia, a Christian woman was tried for “blaspheming” against Islam—the penalty for which is a maximum of five years imprisonment.  According to the October 11 report:

“[W]itnesses testified in court that defendant Suzethe Margaret, a Christian woman living in Bogor, a Jakarta suburb, brought a small dog into a neighborhood mosque, looking for her husband. Margaret accused the mosque of converting him to Islam to marry another woman. She was wearing her shoes and kicked a mosque guard when asked to leave.  Judges ordered the trial closed to the public because the defendant has a psychosocial disability. Margaret has paranoid schizophrenia, according to a psychiatric examination at two hospitals in Jakarta in 2013.”

Indonesia’s criminal code (Article 44) states that anyone committing a criminal act by reason of a mental health condition cannot be held liable, but rather is to “be placed in a lunatic asylum” for one year maximum. Regardless, even Indonesia’s Vice President Jusuf Kalla—who is also the chairman of the Indonesian Mosque Council—said Margaret’s act of “bringing a dog into a mosque was obviously blasphemous.”

Attacks on Churches

Algeria:  Authorities sealed down three more churches, two of which were among the nation’s largest.  First, on October 14, authorities notified the Church of Makouda that it would be shut down on the following day.  When October 15 came, worshippers of the 500 plus congregation filled the church in peaceful protest, prompting the authorities to beat and forcefully drag them out and seal the church off.

Hours later authorities went to seal off not only Algeria’s largest church, but the largest church west of the Nile River in Egypt: the Protestant Church of the Full Gospel of Tizi-Ozou, which served approximately one-thousand members.  On learning of the plans to shut it down, a few hundred Christian worshippers again rushed to and filled the church in protest.  According to the report, “Some of those praying for God’s intervention were in tears as police arrived who would beat and drag some Christians from the worship hall….  Police forced them out, dragging some women by the hair, and when Pastor Chalah and other Christian men tried to intervene, officers kicked them and struck them with batons, the pastor said. He sustained minor injuries.”  Prior to this, the church had existed and been legal since 1996.  “It’s been 23 years that we exist in plain view,” said Pastor Chalah: “why wait until today to do so? May everyone know that we have been beaten and abused, including our sisters too, in our own premises for one reason only—our Christian faith. And because that’s the cause of our pain, we’re proud of it.”  He also explained the situation in a brief video:

“…  I am sharing with you our worries, and the challenges that we are facing on a daily basis.  I would like to bring to your attention that fact that eleven churches have been closed by the Algerian authorities.  We are concerned about the situation, because we do not know how far this will go, and what are the intentions of our authorities…  [T]he situation is critical. Please share this message as much as you can.”

On the next day, October 16, authorities sealed off the Church Tafath, which served about 150 worshippers.  It was the twelfth church to be closed down in as many months in Algeria; eight of them were sealed off in just September and October alone.

Discussing these ongoing closures, Pastor Benzid, another Christian leader in Algeria, said: “I never thought that one day places of worship could be invaded by the elements of security services with their weapons in front of children, women, old people and young people…. It is unimaginable and unacceptable in the 21st century to see such a scene occur in a place of worship and in front of pacifist people.”

Egypt: On Sunday, October 13, “a massive fire swept through a major Coptic church in a Cairo suburb causing heavy damage, but no casualties.” Online images and video of the St. George Church in Helwan — considered one of the greatest and oldest churches belonging to the Coptic Orthodox Church — confirm that, to quote Bishop Bishara, it “had been completely destroyed.” “The old wooden building burned down very fast and the fire destroyed everything inside, even before the firefighters arrived….  Our loss is great. We have lost a great historical building and we can’t rebuild anything like it,” said Fr. Andrew, who personally served at the church for three decades.

Three days after the fire, on October 16, another blaze broke out in another St. George Church, this time in Mansoura (images here and here). “The fire completely ate up the wooden chapel,” stated the report. Five people — two of whom were firefighters — were injured in the inferno.

Preliminary reports from Egyptian authorities indicated that both fires appeared to be accidents related to electrical or circuit failures, not arson. No concluding report for any of the fires has since been issued. General opinion among Christians, however, is that the fires were “not a coincidence.”  According to Fr. Samuel of the Mansoura church, “The fire started from the wooden ceiling of the adjacent hall.” Video footage, he added, indicated that something from the market behind the church was hurled onto its roof. Another clergyman, who is also a professional engineer, at the same church, said:

“When we built the church, we designed the electrical circuits in the best possible way and we make sure to switch everything off when we are not around. Also, the electricity distribution panel is equipped with devices to protect against overcurrent and high voltage rise.” A local source speaking on condition of anonymity added that a short while before the fires, the security services had contacted several churches and told to make sure their surveillance cameras were in working order: “This indicates,” he postulated, “that the national security had information suggesting that some churches in Egypt would be attacked.”

In a separate but possibly connected incident, just two weeks before the first fire, Ali Batehk, a leader of the Egyptian founded Muslim Brotherhood, who is currently exiled in Turkey, released an audio recording which stated, “we will get the presidency of Egypt again. Also we will prepare something for targeting the churches and monasteries. … We are preparing something that will get the Christians on fire.”

Bans on Bibles and Crosses

Turkey: On October 3, before and during a Europa League soccer match against a German team from Mönchengladbac, Istanbul police removed the flags and banners of soccer fans because they had the symbol of a cross, which is part of the German team’s logo (a coat of arms with a black cross on a yellow background).

The German team and its fans also reported general harassment from the Muslim authorities for carrying their customary Christian symbols during their stay in Turkey.  Responding to this, German sports director Max Eberl said,

“It makes me extremely sad that we have conditions in Europe in 2019 that the police can dictate which flags come into the stadium. This rule does not exist…  [There was] harassed from the start…  For me, these are bizarre and grotesque pictures and scenes that are no longer expected in Europe these days. It has nothing to do with the European Cup. This is a police dictatorship.”

Saudi Arabia:  On October 14, about two weeks after Saudi Arabia had announced that it was launching a new visa program designed to promote tourism, Barnabus Fund released a statement saying,

“… Christian visitors should [still] be aware that displaying a Bible in public, or taking more than one Bible into the country, could place them at risk of arrest.  The new regulations for tourists state that a Bible may be brought into the country provided it is for personal use only. Bibles must not be displayed in public and anyone found bringing a large number of Bibles will face ‘severe penalties.’”

The statement continued by explaining that openly practicing Christianity is forbidden in Saudi Arabia:

“There are hundreds of thousands of Christians from other nations, such as the Philippines, other parts of Asia, or African countries, who are living and working in Saudi Arabia.  But they must meet in private homes to worship, and risk harassment, arrest and deportation if they are caught doing so. Saudi citizens who convert to Christianity face risk of execution by the state for apostasy if their conversion becomes known.”

General Demonization and Persecution of Christians

Turkey: According to top secret documents obtained by the Nordic Monitor, an NGO, “Turkey’s National Security Council (MGK) secretly drew up plans to fabricate a threat supposedly posed by Christian missionaries in order to create fear as part of social engineering.”  Excerpts of the report follow:

“A study of the top-secret documents reveals how the legal activities of Christian faith groups such as Catholics, Orthodox and Protestants in Turkey were presented as national security threats to the sustainability and viability of the Turkish state. It shows how the powerful institution that helps shape policies in Turkey views the European Union as a Christian project and offers nationwide measures for cracking down on Christians in Turkey…. The documents confirm that the Turkish state profiled dozens of Christian groups in Turkey and abroad, proposed controversial measures to halt their work and instructed all government agencies including the military, police and intelligence to monitor and thwart their projects.  What is more, the Turkish judge who reviewed the documents … of the criminal investigation into suspects who were involved in crafting the secret policy that led to murders and attacks on Christians in Turkey was arbitrarily dismissed and later arrested by the Islamist government of President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan.”

Pakistan:  Bishop Samson Shukardin of Hyderabad expounded on the sufferings Christians experience in Pakistan during an interview published on October 4.  Excerpts follow:

“Many minorities give their children Islamic names so they will not be singled out as Christians and become potential targets for discrimination in primary or secondary schools or at the college level….  In many cases, minority students do suffer abuse in public schools… The minorities are considered infidels and they are depicted negatively in textbooks, which promote prejudices against minorities.  The fundamentalists believe that Islam is the only complete religion—that salvation is only found in the Qur’an as the last holy book…. Most of the minorities, and in particular Christians, are afraid of attacks and persecution….  If the West strikes against Muslims anywhere in the world, enraged fundamentalists in Pakistan often attack the churches…. Muslims believe that converting one person to Islam earns them eternal life. If an initial effort fails, people turn to kidnapping…..Kidnappings and forced marriages are most common in rural areas, where people have little education.

Separately, according to an October 25 report, in just the three months of July, August, and September 2019, there were 43 documented cases of persecution against Christians: “These cases included kidnappings, rapes, forced conversions to Islam, discrimination, and several religiously motivated murders….  In early September, police tortured to death Amir Masih, a 28-year-old Christian gardener in Lahore.”  In another case, a Christian teenager and student at a government girls’ primary school was abducted and converted to Islam by the school principal.  According to the girl’s mother,

“On that day, my two daughters went to school, but only one returned home. When we went to the school in search of Faiza, the principal revealed that Faiza had converted to Islam and therefore, we had no right to meet her. It was heartbreaking for me.  Instead of returning our daughter, the principal asked all of us to convert to Islam.  She offered us a luxurious life and [said] that she will bear the entire expenses of the family and we will have access to Faiza if we converted.”

Among the other 43 documented cases of persecution were the “abductions and forced conversions of seven Christians girls, another seven cases where Christian women were targeted for sexual assault, five cases where Christians were denied their religious freedom rights, seven cases of Christians being physically tortured, six religiously motivated murders, and 11 cases of discrimination.”

Raymond Ibrahim, author most recently of Sword and Scimitar, Fourteen Centuries of War between Islam and the West, is a Distinguished Senior Fellow at the Gatestone Institute, a Shillman Fellow at the David Horowitz Freedom Center, and a Judith Rosen Friedman Fellow at the Middle East Forum.

About this Series

The persecution of Christians in the Islamic world has become endemic.  Accordingly, “Muslim Persecution of Christians” was developed in 2011 to collate some—by no means all—of the instances of persecution that occur or are reported each month.

Previous Reports here

[kinda-nerdy]

Inktober Dragon Age Inquisition Prompt #1

Prompt #1: The Inquisitor

Also @the-solavellan-archive pre-relationship prompt 2

Solas POV of their First Meeting

Another corrupted spirit slashed at him and his heart was filled with despair. How had his plans come to this? How many spirits would have to die for his mistake? Despair or not, he couldn’t allow himself to be injured now. The woman, the Dalish, with his power in her hand, showed no signs of ever waking again.

His attempts to reclaim the power were for naught, as were his attempts to seal these rifts without the power. It was time to go before the human Seeker decided to kill him for his inability to do anything, as she had threatened.

Just as he made that decision, two more corrupted spirits targeted him. Cursing under his breath, he froze one, turning to the other just in time to see it seize as lightning traveled through it. At the same time he heard the Seeker’s battle-cry as she stormed into the battle. Quickly dispatching the stunned “demon” in front of him, and hoping against hope that the mage the Seeker had brought was the Dalish, he turned toward his other still-frozen opponent, just in time for Master Tethras to put a bolt through it, shattering it.

Looking around, slightly desperately, he quickly located the Dalish who bore the mark of his power. Grabbing her hand he pulled her to the rift, shouting, “Quickly, before more come through!” Holding his breath he crossed his fingers that this worked. If it didn’t, all hope was lost. But it did! The moment her hand was raised to the rift it connected, and as she wrenched her hand away from the rift and out of his grip, the rift closed.

She started at her hand for a moment, then looked up at him. “What did you do?” she asked him.

Hearing her voice and looking into her eyes for the first time he felt… he wasn’t sure what he felt. Her voice was melodious and lilting, but quiet and almost…unsure? Her eyes, which had remained closed while he had treated her, were a deep forest green. They took on an almost eerie glow in the light of the Breach. Her hair, which he had thought to be brown, was showing new color in the light of day, or what light could come through the obstruction of the Breach. The presumed brown hair was actually a dark auburn color.

It was only his centuries of experience that allowed him to keep his thoughts behind a calm facade as he answered, “I did nothing. The credit is yours.” He briefly wondered how she’d react to such a claim – would she gladly take all the credit, or…

“I closed that thing?” She asked incredulously. “How?”

Pleased that she’d both tentatively trusted his answer, and questioned how, a sign of an inquisitive mind, he replied, “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.” He allowed a little pride to seep into his tone at the end to make it seem like he hadn’t been mostly sure that it would work.

Before she could answer him, however, Seeker Cassandra butted in. “Meaning it could close the Breach itself.”

Stifling his unwarranted irritation, given that his conversation with the Dalish hadn’t been private, he replied, “Possibly.” Turning back to her he said, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Her face passed quickly from terror to resignation to resolve, but before she could say anything in response Varric spoke.

“Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever,” he said. Solas pondered his irritation at such interruptions. He wouldn’t usually mind, but he seemed to crave her responses, her voice which seemed to capture him.

As Varric walked up to her to introduce himself, he heard her say under her breath (quietly enough that if he had been an average elf he wouldn’t have heard her), “Whose ass? ‘Cause yours isn’t all that far off the ground…”

He stifled a chuckle as Varric said, “Varric Tethras, rogue, storyteller, and, occasionally, unwelcome tagalong,” he added, winking at Cassandra who scowled at him in response.

“Lovely to meet you, Varric,” the Dalish woman replied politely.

He had to refrain from rolling his eyes, thinking of all the meaningless chatter and complaining the child-of-the-stone was capable of and said, “You may reconsider that stance in time.”

“Awww,” Varric said, feigning hurt. “I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

“Absolutely not!” The seeker cut in. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” Varric said, cutting Cassandra off. Brave man. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

The seeker made a very disgusted noise, but seemed to accept the argument.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” he said, turning his attention back to the Dalish. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

Varric scoffed. “He means ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’,” Varric asserted.

Solas looked away for a second, knowing that he’d done very little. When he looked back the Dalish was staring at him. “Thank you, for that,” she said simply, then added, “You seem to know quite a bit about it…?”

Before he could reply the Seeker interrupted again. Solas had to grit his teeth for a second to keep up his act of “humble apostate”.

“Like you, Solas is an apostate,” Cassandra said, unnecessarily in Solas’ opinion. His status as a mage should be fairly obvious.

“Technically, Seeker, all mages are now ‘apostates’,” he told her calmly. Turning back to the person he really wanted to be speaking to he said, “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I could with the Breach, for if it is not closed we are all doomed, regardless of origin.” He gave her a sad smile and ducked his head, adding, “And you should only thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process.” Before Cassandra could interrupt, again, he turned to her and said, “You should know, the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen.  Your prisoner is a mage, yet I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.” At least in this Fadeless world, he added in thought.

“Understood,” Cassandra said. “We must get to the forward camp quickly.”

“Well Bianca’s excited!” Varric inserted.

Everyone had started moving toward the path forward, but at his comment the Dalish paused. “Bianca?”

“Yea!” Varric replied, caressing his crossbow. “Ain’t she beautiful? Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

“You… named your crossbow Bianca?” she asked, bemused.

“Of course. Speaking of names, I didn’t catch yours…?” Varric probed.

“Oh, it’s Rilla. Idrilla Sylvas,” she replied easily.

He gave her an interested look. Little rebel and freedom’s breath… he thought, I wonder how she got those names? Did she choose them, or were they gifted to her, I wonder? And every other Dalish he’d met had included an “of Clan ____” in their introduction. Combined with her skin-colored, barely visible Vallaslin, perhaps she wasn’t so Dalish as he’d thought.

[iawv]

She Called Him Fen’Harel - ‘Freedom’ Chapter 11

Also on AO3

"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."

― André Malraux

Most days he spent in his cottage or in the forest near Haven. The Fade eluded him lately, perhaps because of the noises and the crowds. Haven became a shelter for many in only a few weeks. He started to miss their missions outside this irritating place.

He grabbed his cloak and closed the cottage door behind him just to be greeted by the gossips about their Blessed Herald of Andarste. Everyone was talking only about her. Whenever he wanted to avoid any new stories or comments, he was finding himself in the center of it, as if everyone were against him.

"She seems unfriendly, but when my husband was sick she delivered herbs and potions" he heard.

"It must be magic, I tell ya. Nobody looks that good being 30!" some lady seemed annoyed, "She is weird. A savage, dalish, I've heard."

They evaluated on her every move, every gesture, her clothes, her interactions with the inner circle of the inquisition. The gossips circulated each day in new ways, such as having a drink with Varric, or how in the next day, she spent an hour with her commander. News spread that perhaps the whole village is witness to a blossoming romance between the two.

It was tiring, even if he experienced it so many times before, maybe this is why it was so tiring. The unwanted déjà vu.

What a cynical, empty, and hopeless age this was.

He passed the small tavern taking his steps towards the main gate - a day before he had found an interesting spot to clear his mind and study books delivered by Lady Ambassador. The woman had quite good contacts; still, he wished he could have access to better resources. His thoughts ventured to the Vir Dirthara.

"What do you mean I cannot leave Haven?" Lavellan's voice reached his ears, and he looked up at the Herald. Her voice polite and calm at the surface but by the signs of the body language and deminer, hands folded behind her back told him anything but of tension and a hint of defensiveness.

"I mean, you cannot leave alone to risk your life in search of one animal Herald" Cassandra explained slowly.

"Must I remind you, Seeker, I could easily change my appearance and leave Haven without you knowing of it?" the answer came quickly and smoothly. Solas slowed his steps just to observe this verbal exchange.

"You could..." Seeker gaze darkened but Lavellan ignored it.

"I would not. That is why I am asking you to give me permission to investigate the case of the corrupted wolves." he could hear an unspoken plea in Herald's voice.

"I appreciate that but as I said, Herald" Seeker straightened her back, folding her hands behind her back in a similar manner as the Herald, face tense, unease in her eyes "You can't leave alone."

"Ah. I hear it somewhat different. I can't leave without you, Seeker. You have other matters which force you to stay in Haven for at least a week," Lavellan murmured, her gaze momentarily sliding past him to some distance, and it seems as if an idea struck her, as her gaze refocused onto him, pinning him.

The Seeker frowned and followed Herald's gaze, the woman opened her mouth, but Lavellan was quicker with a response "I suppose I can travel with Solas and Varric then. Will you agree, Cassandra?" Solas could recognize the purposeful use of the Seeker's name, "We will report at every Inquisition's camp."

What a manipulative woman, he thought. He had mixed feelings about any excursions with her.

A long sigh escaped Seeker's mouth "Alright, Herald. Do as you must."

"Ma serannas. Ha'hren," her eyes found him once more, "When you can prepare yourself to depart?" a slight excitement in her gaze and the sudden smile on her face dazzled him for a short moment, the way it changed her features, softening it...

He cleared his throat "In a few minutes, Herald."

His expression stayed polite and calm as she brushed past him, her steps light and quicker than ever before.

"We really are in the ass-end of nowhere now," Varric stated over the silence. Falherna chuckled reaching to her traveling bag, her features lightening up as she pulled up a bottle of what seemed to be Grey Whiskey.

"For you," she handed it to him, "Perhaps it will quiet down your complaints."

Varric chuckled, which transformed into genuine laughter, "Oh, Brighteyes, I wish it could be so simple.".

"You are not the only one wishing it," she murmured, scanning the road and trees. They walked in blissful silence for a while. She could hear Solas' bare feet ghosting over the ground.

Her thoughts drifted to their conversation from two weeks before. Since then, she did not seek him out because her mind was occupied with other matters; still, she longed to another chance to speak with him about the Fade. His input was interesting, to say at least. His voice was pleasant to her ear, the pace of his words fascinated her, reminding her of nights under the stars when her father read her poetry. Hearing Solas speak left a similar impression in her memory.

"So, elf, did our Herald explain to you what kind of mess we are going to clean up today?" Varric said as he walked at Solas' side.

"She did not, Master Tethras." Falherna sent them both a quick glance.

"No need. Solas overheard my conversation with Seeker Pentaghast," she replied.

"Varric, you joined the Inquisition when seeker Pentaghast questioned you?" she accepted the change of a subject with relief.

"She was very insistent that I help." Varric chuckled, and she could hear he was a little surprised by Solas's question.

"Interesting." the apostate murmured.

"What's interesting?" Varric sent him a curious glance, frowning a bit.

"It surprises me that an elven apostate is the one who joined the Inquisition voluntarily."

She observed him by the corner of her eye. He seemed relaxed, calm, resolutely marching beside her, but she could tell there was some tension in his eyes.

"Nobody thanked you for that?" she asked quietly scanning his face. Was it the gratitude he was missing or perhaps he was so arrogant to point out his action?

The genuine roll of his laughter surprised her. "I do not seek gratitude, Herald."

"No?" she insisted without knowing why it was so important to get an honest answer from him.

"No."

"Understood." she murmured. "Still, in my opinion, it is very admirable. You decided to remain. Thank you, Solas." Falherna sent him a soft smile.

There was something in his expression as he looked at her. Something different. Something she could not place. Before she could try it disappeared.

"It will be interesting to watch this fledgling Inquisition make its way. I will stay to see it. For now," he stated slowly, sending her a quick glance, "I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces, and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution."

"I do," she exhaled and shook her head. "You came here to help, Solas. I won't let them use that against you." She looked at him, straight into his eyes with this internal wish to convince him that nobody in Haven will suffer as long as she is there.

"How would you stop them?" The question pierced her heart. Solas' tone low, his expression severe and intense as if he really wanted to know the methods she would use.

"However I have to," she replied in the same manner.

The moment stretched out between them, staring at one another.

"Thank you." He was genuinely surprised.

They walked in silence for a time. She started to count the steps, staring at the trees, expressionless. One, two, three, four, five...

Thoughts in her head slowly changed their speed, finding their proper place and the order, the priorities were again clear for her.

"By the end of Hard in Hightown, almost every character is revealed as a spy or a traitor," she heard and smiled. She did not notice she left Varric and Solas behind till now, she tilted her head slightly to listen to their conversation. She would never guess Solas is the type of person who reads Varric's novels.

"Wait, you read my book?" Varric laughed, shocked.

"It was in the Inquisition library. Everyone but Donnen turned out to be in disguise. Is this common?" She could not help but chuckle.

"Are we still talking about books, or are you asking if everyone I know is a secret agent?"

"Are there many tricksters in dwarven literature?"

"A handful, but they're the exception. Mostly they're just honoring the ancestors. It's very dull stuff. Human literature? Now here's where you'll find the tricky, clever, really deceptive types."

"Curious." He really seemed interested.

"Not really. Dwarves write how they want things to be. Humans write to figure out how things are."

"The elven history has one of the biggest tricksters," she stated calmly, guarding her tone.

"Here we go again, Brighteyes..." Varric laughed and sighed.

She smiled and carried on, not at all discouraged.

"In ancient times, only Fen'Harel could walk without fear among both our gods and the Forgotten Ones, for although he was kin to the gods of the People, the Forgotten Ones knew of his cunning ways and saw him as one of their own. And that is how Fen'Harel tricked them." she laughed loudly.

"I am sure you know all these Dalish stories, Solas." she looked at him and found him frowning.

"Stories?" he asked with a calm voice, but she had the impression he was transfixed.

"What else would you call them?" While speaking, she drew a map from her pouch and studied it for a while. Leliana's agent had delivered it to her a day before with a marked location.

"Dalish called themselves the best hope for preserving the culture of 'our People'," "she continued not waiting for any response, throwing words and letting them hang in the air.

"Ah, our people. They use that phrase so casually. It should mean more... but the Dalish have forgotten that. Among other things,"

Falherna scanned his face for a while, processing the words. Was it sadness in his voice? Hidden upon measured tone?

"Is it sadness in your voice that I am hearing, hahren?" her thought formed into words unexpectedly.

He sent her a quick glance "Perhaps, Herald," he said then fell in silence. She let him stay quiet, observing him with a corner of her eye. Suddenly she knew he will open his mouth and speak again. She came back to counting her steps anew.

"While they pass on stories," Falherna heard his voice when her counting reached three, "mangling details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not." Solas said quietly but fiercely.

"Hey Fal, do we need to march everywhere?" Varric looked at her over his shoulder, "I thought master Dennet's horses would be a better way to travel." he sighed, and she smiled.

"Tomorrow they will arrive,"

"Great," he murmured under his breath as he wiped his forehead with a sleeve.

"Whiner," Falherna chuckled slowly chewing.

"What you do have there?" Varric looked at her with curiosity and a small smile.

"An apple. I know the answer already but do you want one?" she teased him.

"Nah, thanks," he kicked the rock on the road, and he brushed his hair.

"Solas?" She looked at the elf, wondering if he was disappointed about the interrupted conversation as much as she was, but he seemed distant and calm. Always so stoic, almost indifferent.

"Thank you, Herald. I am fine," he answered, and this time, he didn't bother himself to look at her.

Fal leaned heavily on her staff, silently cursing their misfortune.

The pain grew hotly over her leg. A wolf's sharp claw had sliced through her armor, and she could feel blood spurt down her calf and onto her feet.

"Fenedhis!" she cursed as she sent an unrelenting fire into a wolf. The animal howled loudly. The pack moved, like a flock of birds, a wave, in one smooth move.

"An alpha," a whisper escaped her lips. A big, beautiful alpha male.

Such a waste, such a loss, she thought.

Falherna growled, and with a single sweep of her staff, she called the power of thunder paralyzing the wolves. Solas took the opportunity to lock them in a sheet of ice, freezing them in place while Varric finished them with a rain of arrows.

"We must move!" Solas screamed towards her. She nodded and started to sprint deeper and deeper into a cave. She could feel bones cracking under her feet, remnants of small animals. The den was more prominent and darker than a previous one.

Behind her back, she heard Varric's grunt and a twang that echoed through the walls of the cave. Solas caught up with her panting quietly.

"We're close," he stated what seemed obvious to her. Perhaps she was simply half-elf, but she had heightened senses, and she could recognize the quiet stomps of a creature that wasn't a wolf. A sudden scream spread throughout the entire cave, and Falherna inhaled deeply preparing herself.

"We kill the demon. If it's possible to spare the wolves, do it." she whispered.

They found a small pit hidden behind the rock, a great spot both to stay unseen and to observe the area.

"Fal..." Varric looked at her with a deep frown.

"Just the demon," she insisted scanning the cave, counting wolves, regarding them carefully while searching for a sign of Fen.

She glanced at the demon, stomping slowly amongst wolves, a lesser terror it was. They had fought it not once before with success.

She sent a quick glance to Solas, and Varric giving them a nodding sing and she rose slowly. The wolf on her left growled. Cold green eyes held hers. Green like the Breach, vacant and transparent.

"Now!" she screamed. The pack focused on her, the demon turned towards her screaming loudly. Gritting her teeth, she concentrated and sent a chain lighting to stop the screaming while Solas locked the beast with winter grasp. Varric waited for it, finishing the demon with his arrows.

"That wasn't hard..." he mumbled.

"Wait," she commanded, straightening her hand.

"Herald," Solas murmured, but she dismissed him with a small shake of the head.

"I know what I am doing." Her voice remained amazingly calm. She maintained eye contact with the wolf and started to slowly back away, waiting, observing the fading green light in the animal's eyes.

"Back away slowly." One step.

"Don't turn your back." The second step.

"Look him in the eyes." Third.

"He will not attack," Fourth.

You are so beautiful, she thought, looking deep at steel eyes.

She smiled to herself when the wolf nonchalantly turned around and disappeared on the other side of the cave.

The others joined him.

"Brighteyes, that was insane," Varric's voice startled her back to reality.

"Was it?" she asked. She stared at the fire but watched Varric out of the corner of her eye. She had never seen him so concern before.

"Herald, it was risky" Solas added as he approached her. "Can I take a look at your leg?"

"Yes," her voice never changed, showed no emotion. And regardless of her choice of words, it was sometimes difficult to tell whether she was excited, bored, or utterly disinterested.

Varric shooked his head, sighing.

"They would not attack us, Storyteller. They were confused, but their behavior was rather a display to intimidate and scare off intruders," she kept her voice sincere, though she didn't want or need to justify herself.

Solas knelt in front of her, running his eyes along her body as if checking for injuries.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" He looked up at her when she didn't answer.

She shook her head, scanning his face. His fingers circled her calf as healing magic bled into her skin, and she winced as the soft trickle of magic strengthened.

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing slim but muscular forearms. This time Falherna let her eyes slowly study the length of his forehead, ears, nose, staying longer on his eyes. He seemed tired, drained of energy.

He caught her staring at him, and when their eyes met, she held his gaze. She didn't care if he saw the concern. In fact, she wanted him to see it.

"The bards would love this one. Andraste's Herald and her brave companions perished by the corrupted wolves," Varric laughed, interrupting the moment that spread between the two mages.

The dwarf took a sip from the bottle she gave him earlier.

She moved to his side and said, "Are you alright?"

"Now I am," he sent her a smile, lifting the bottle. She snorted and patted his shoulder.

"Are you alright, Solas?" She turned her gaze to the elf unfolding his bedroll, his head tilted slightly, so the only thing she could see was his profile.

"Yes, Herald." All he gave her was a short answer. Far less than she expected but she was starting to accustom to it.

"We are all fine, Brighteyes," Varric choked. "The farmers can have a good night sleep. They are safe from the wolves." he mumbled as he turned over on his bedroll and closed his eyes "Goodnight, kids."

"I expect the wolves are also pleased to be freed from the demon's control," Fal smiled hearing those words.

"I am sure they are," she murmured gazing at the fire, unconsciously running her fingers along her calf.

"It will leave a scar," Solas stated casually, and she shook her head in answer. His sudden care seemed so illogical, she irritated him after all. Why did he bother himself with her scars?

"So? It will match the others." Her voice sounded harsher than she intended. She cleared her throat and tried again, "It does not bother me."

She loosed her hair, unwrapping the leather strap, combing it with her fingers. Solas took off his coat and belt as he sat down on the wooden log, and she discreetly observed him in his undershirt. He seemed leaner, taller, humbler, and tired. His eyes met hers, the hair on her hands rose as if the air was filled with electricity. She felt it before, the first time when he took her hand and closed the rift. His eyes stirred up complex silt of emotions in her, feelings she'd rather have left settled.

Falherna turned her gaze to the trees waiting for her companion to fall asleep, but Solas just sit there in silence.

"Solas," she turned to him, tense as his name laid on her lips.

He looked at her "Lavellan," he answered with a low voice.

"Can I join you?"

"Please," he smiled, pointing a place next to him.

She got up, throwing some pieces of wood into the bonfire, and sat beside him but not too close.

"You're a somniari, am I correct?" She caught him by surprise.

"Yes, I am. It's interesting that you know about their existence."

"My father was interested in them." She smiled.

His mouth distracted her, so she focused on her hands.

"Will you tell me about your explorations of the Fade?"

He looked pleasantly bewildered but hesitated, "I will if you answer one question."

She sighed quietly suspecting a question about her past, looks, lack of emotions; questions she had heard before.

"Why were you given the name which is the anagram of 'Fen'harel'? He looked her straight in the eyes.

Nobody asked about it before. Nobody was smart enough to get an idea of what her name really was. He impressed her.

He sat so close she could touch him, her heart was pounding in her chest, and she felt the urge to touch him.

"Tomorrow," she said with her usual manner.

"Tomorrow?" He arched his brow but seemed genuinely interested.

"The story is too long for tonight" she sent him a smile "Well, I wish you a good night," Falherna was ready to stand up and let him be, but his next words stopped her.

"Do you think I will not share my stories with you since you did not answer my question?" He smiled warmly.

"Yes. That was your condition," she chuckled and relaxed sipping water from her skewer. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked at Solas.

"I'll make an exception if you wish," he smiled weakly before his face fell to a more melancholic shape.

"Yes, please," she murmured, looking up at the sky and stars.

Solas looked into the fire "What would you like to hear about, Herald?"

"Old ruins," she answered, simply trying to hide a note of excitement in her voice and disappointment of the fact that he still called her 'Herald'."

"Ah, I found in the Korcari Wilds a humble cottage far removed from any of the simple tribesmen. The trees and weeds had not reclaimed the home, nor did the chasind dare to come and steal the trinkets still remaining. It was empty, long abandoned but the world feared that she might return." he was narrating quietly, each word taking significant effort, his voice scraping against his throat. She could've been mistaken, but she heard a subtle warmth in his voice.

"Flemeth's cottage," she whispered. He said nothing, studying her silently for a moment.

"Your ability to sleep in those places is fascinating," she said, and she really meant it. Her father had the same ability, and it fascinated her too. She even felt jealousy when he was telling her specific stories. Stories about old gods, Arlathan or Fen'Harel.

Solas send her a smile "Thank you. It's not a common field of science, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything."

"I'd like to know more about you," She untucked two of the chess pieces from the velvet-lined bag and gave Solas one.

He took it silently, his jaw clenching tightly before he looked at her "Why?"

"There's no other motivation besides my will to know something about you, Solas," she studied him carefully, speaking calmly as if he was a small child.

"I am sorry. With so much fear in the air... What would you know of me?" he seemed relaxed again, but something in him was off.

He is lying, she realized.

"What made you start studying the Fade?" she regained her composure quickly, meeting Solas' gaze.

"I grew up in the village to the North. There was little to interest a young man, especially one gifted with magic. But as I slept, Spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. I treasured my dreams. Being awake, out of the Fade, became troublesome."

"The same can be told about being in the Fade."

He didn't respond, but she could feel him watching her, examining her response.

"Did spirits try to tempt you?" she looked at him out of the corner of her eye digging her teeth into the last piece of cheese.

"No more than a brightly colored fruit is deliberately tempting you to eat it. I learned how to defend myself from more aggressive spirits and how to interact safely with the rest. I learned how to control my dreams with full consciousness. There was so much I wanted to explore," Solas' voice was dry, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, his gaze was locked on her.

"I gather you didn't spend your entire life dreaming."

"No, eventually I was unable to find new areas in the Fade."

"Why?" she knew the answer to that question, asked years ago in a different place by a small girl who sat next to her father with wide and innocent eyes.

Truthfully she wanted Solas to continue, to hear his voice.

"Two reasons. First, the Fade reflects the world around it. Unless I traveled, I would never find anything new. Second, the Fade reflects and is limited by our imaginations. To find interesting areas, one must be interesting."

"You must be very interesting then."

Surprise flashed across his face, transforming his features.

Falherna's brows furrowed "Considering how many areas you have visited, Solas. Is this why you joined the Inquisition?"

"I joined the Inquisition because we were all in terrible danger. If our enemies destroyed the world, I would have nowhere to lay my head while dreaming of the Fade."

"Ah, yes, we all view the world through the prism of our selfishness," she whispered, liking that hesitant delight in Solas' eyes every time she caught him off-guard.

"That is a surprising acknowledgment from one so young."

She laughed, "Of course for you, it is."

For a while, she studied his face, his mouth opening, and closing, mind searching for an answer. It was amusing, but she decided to change the subject.

"I wish you luck," she said, poking the fire with a stick.

"Thank you. In truth, I have enjoyed experiencing more of life to find more of the Fade." he smiled.

"How so?"

"You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit."

She winced, What was that? Indomitable focus? What was he trying to do?

It wasn't what she expected from him.

"You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I." She held his gaze, conflicted inside.

"True," she agreed. "Indomitable focus?" The question was a simple result of her curiosity and intention to understand his words correctly. He spoke strangely, using metaphors and anachronisms.

"Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be... fascinating." he said, his voice lowered.

She almost snorted but remained still and emotionless. Silence spread between them, and there was an awkward tension in the look he gave her. She handed him the water, he nodded and took it. Their fingers met, the mark awoke, vibrating. She sent him a curious gaze, seeing his eyes were tight as he stared down at her mark.

As if nothing happened, she withdrew her hand, clenching and unclenching it. A small puff of wind touched her cheeks, brushing nearby bushes. She looked that way. Solas stilled for a moment, eyes scanning, seemingly trying to sense something.

"Da'len," he whispered suddenly, "I am convinced your wolf found you."

The hair on the back of her neck rose as she scanned the dark.

She smiled, seeing him, her wolf hidden by a tree, looking straight into her eyes.

[valpoet]

So it's interesting how my choices in the Dragon Age series change from game to game

In DA:O, I literally replayed over and over until I did all the things that benefited everyone as much as possible and I couldn't stand to see my warden have to deal with anymore pain since their life was already so goddamn hard and fuck no I'm not killing off anyone screw that noise, Alistair lives forever and my warden deserves to LIVE and fuck I love everyone.

DA:2, fuck Welp Bethany is already dead so I might as well make Hawke's life as tragic as humanly possible and write sad fanfiction about it and yes this is Canon in my version of events and it's never changing because Bethany died and then Carver dies and then Leandra dies and Hawke has the crushing weight of reality and an empty house and the realisation that all she has now is the family she chose. That's the only reason she let Anders LIVE, because in the end she still is hopeful that one day mages can be equal to the world and she wanted to be more than just another mage apostate gone mad and to show that they're not all like that instead of arguing and fuck I have a lot of Hawke feelings

DA:I, Hawke dies over Alistair because I'm not killing Alistair and Hawke still feels she has to make up for mistakes in the past.

Inquisitor is friends with everyone but carries the same optimism Hawke had about maybe not all mages are that bad because then she'd have to face the fact that she HERSELF is a terrible person and is constantly unsure and checking herself and putting everyone else first because she was forced into this role, but Damn it, she will do her damndest to make sure everyone gets through this alive.

Long story short, I mostly have a lot of Hawke feelings. And I fucked her life totally.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I had my toxic little outfit on with my black cape and chunky rings and my ship pendant (to reference the Demeter), and bloody lipstick; and I had the scripture of “I am the resurrection and the life…” pulled up as a reference to Dracula AD 1972, and I look vaguely like Christopher Lee if I do the right facial expressions and posturing (except I’m not very tall lmao)…

Did I get to use any of this to scare householders? No! Couldn’t see my face because we need to wear masks indoors. Couldn’t dramatically read the scripture because you don’t do that in business territory. Fucking hell.

[buttsonthebeach]

For DWC: cards and letters and stationary

Okay, so I know it isn’t Friday, but I’m not going to be around for DWC tomorrow, and I had an idea for this prompt the second you said it, and I finally wrote it and got too excited to wait. Whoops?

This is slightly canon-divergent for the Merrill romance, because it didn’t feel natural for my Hawke to ask Merrill to move in after that first night. You can read more about these two in Who Tells Your Story, where I will post this at some point.

Pairing: Marian Hawke x Merrill

Rating: Explicit for sexy times (although they are fairly brief)

Summary: Marian wakes up the morning after her first night with Merrill, and grapples with the idea of a new beginning.

When Marian awoke at Merrill’s side it was with a deep, cold dread. Like being at the bottom of a well. She knew what it was like at the bottom of a well because she and Carver and Bethany ended up in one once, although saying they’d “ended up” there made it sound like it wasn’t on purpose, which it was. They climbed down and when Marian looked up to see how far away the top was, and then down to see how small the twins were, she knew there was no way they were getting out on their own. Their father had to levitate them out, in fact, sweating the whole while, their mother keeping a watchful eye out for anyone who might see him.

“Don’t get yourself into situations with no way out,” Father said, when they were free, his grip hard on Bethany and Marian’s hands alike. Carver trailed behind with Mother. “Do you hear me?”

Merrill was still asleep, lying on her back, her lips parted. She was beautiful. Marian had noticed that before, of course. But in an abstract way. Not in a way that twisted her up inside. She is beautiful, and she is here, and she said she loved me. And last night I told her that this didn’t have to be the end. What does that mean? Why did I say it so quickly? How did Merrill take it?

Hence the deep, cold dread. The sense that she was at the bottom of that well again.

Marian rose from the bed slowly and carefully, rearranging the covers after she left, tucking them just a little around Merrill. She stopped just short of brushing back her hair. She stood there a moment, and then walked out into the hall, working through her thoughts, trying to understand them.

She used to help Bethany sneak into the chantry in Lothering sometimes, and once they’d heard an angry sister declare to a mother weeping for a son who’d been taken to the Circle that not only was the tower his place, but that they should castrate him when he got there, just to be sure there wouldn’t be more like him.

“Maybe you and I should never have children,” Bethany said quietly on their walk home.

“That’s absurd,” Marian said, because she suspected it was what Bethany wanted to hear.

“It does run in families, though. Look at us. Look at Aunt Revka, and all of her children. It’s in the Hawke blood and the Amell blood. And there is some truth to what she said about the Chant of Light.”

It. That was how they always referred to magic in public - and even, sometimes, when they were alone, as they were then, walking up the dirt path.

“But only some, Beth,” Marian insisted, pretending the words had struck no chord in her. “Imagine if Mother and Father thought that way. There’d be no you - and you are the best person I know.”

Bethany smiled at her then. Her smile always made Marian think of summer and sunflowers. Even now, standing in her dim, too-big Hightown house, where Bethany had never set foot, and never would.

That was some part of the dread. Marian protested that day, but privately, she doubted she would ever marry and have children of her own. She knew what the rest of her life as an apostate would look like. She did not resent her father and mother for that life - the running and the fear - but if she had the choice, she wouldn’t live that way. And she wouldn’t run the very risk that Bethany described that day. She wouldn’t bring a child into that life.

Of course, it did occur to her shortly after that decision that she might marry a woman, instead. Her first love had been a girl, a farmer’s daughter when she was fifteen. Wren. Marian could still picture her heart-shaped face perfectly. Maybe that was it. Maybe she would marry a farmer’s daughter with a heart-shaped face and they would adopt orphans given up to the Chantry - and Marian would live every day looking over her shoulder, praying no templars ever came to take her away from her children, that she never fell prey to a demon while sleeping next to her wife -

So that was part of the deep, dreadful feeling she had, then. Marian had never expected to fall in love again. And she hadn’t. She’d found several men and women attractive since then - she’d bedded some of them - but she hadn’t loved any of them.

And she knew, going down the stairs, replaying the events of the night before - Merrill’s big green eyes, the way she stayed so close the whole time they made love, the way she kissed her, savoring every breath - she knew this meant something. This wasn’t Isabela, who’d come in here like a hurricane, dropping knives and clothing left and right, never giving Marian a moment to think or feel anything other than more.

And she wasn’t Fenris. Fenris who’d smile at her and shiver when their hands touched as they practiced his letters, and whose voice grew louder and louder each time she tried to defend the reason she’d let an apostate go or lied to a templar or took Anders’ side. Fenris who’d finally looked at her one evening, a month before, when they’d been saying good night and she’d sidled up to him and angled her face up, a clear invitation for a kiss that would taste like the wine they’d shared, a kiss that would soothe away the argument they’d just had about Anders and Justice, and said:

“It’s never going to work between us, is it?”

She knew they couldn’t pretend anymore.

Wasn’t that part of the attraction to him, anyway? Knowing, on some level, that it was never going to work? That he was too principled, too wounded by mages and magic, to really fall for a mage who never said what she was really thinking if she thought it would disturb the peace?

Marian paused by the table in the hall where Bodahn left her letters and began to leaf through them. On top of them was a note from Bodahn himself, saying that he, Sandal, and Orana had gone out to the market together. Beneath that: trash. Trash. A plea for assistance. A clearly false advertisement for some sort of - male sexual enhancement. Another plea for assistance. Trash. A bill she would show to Varric before paying, because he’d insisted on becoming involving in her finances. Trash.

Marian went through the cards and letters and let herself think, until the thought floated to the surface. Merrill was not Isabela or Fenris, and that was why Marian was afraid.

Because when she turned and looked at the front door that Merrill came through the night before, her eyes wide and afraid - when she looked at the wall that she’d pressed Merrill up against when they kissed - when she thought back to all of the moments she’d missed over the years, the way Merrill looked at her, how stupid she’d been not to notice - she knew this meant something.

She’d known it the night before, or she would not have gone upstairs with her.

The stairs creaked then, and Marian turned to see Merrill standing on them, dressed only in a long white shirt - one of Marian’s own. Marian’s heart beat faster. There was something guarded in Merrill’s eyes. Shit - of course.

“I’m sorry,” Marian said at once. “I didn’t mean for you to wake up alone. I was going to the kitchen to bring us some breakfast.”

So quick to lie, Marian.

“Oh, it’s fine. I am an early riser anyway. Being Dalish, and all that. Always up with the sun.” Merrill smiled, but it was a weak smile, and her words were strangely clipped - not flowing and tumbling over themselves, the way they usually did. Marian’s heart sank. Merrill approached anyway, stopping a careful distance away from both the desk and Marian. Then she looked down at her bare feet, curling her toes in the expensive rug.

“Merrill -”

“I know last night meant something different for you than it did for me,” Merrill said, quick now, like usual. “Of course it did. I’ve been in love with you for years, Marian. And I know you aren’t in love with me. You said last night that this didn’t have to be the end but - if you are having second thoughts about me it could be.” She took a breath, and looked up, and her eyes were resolute, but there was something sad in the shape of her mouth. “I am sure it will take you some time to decide what you feel for me - if you feel anything - and that’s perfectly fine and I only wanted to say that -”

Marian took Merrill’s face in both her hands and kissed her.

Marian kissed her because it wasn’t Carver or Bethany that suggested they climb down into the well that long-ago day.

It was her.

Because under all the carefully manicured layers that Marian wrapped herself in now, she was still that child who knew an opportunity she couldn’t refuse - and leapt.

Merrill made a startled noise against her lips - but then she parted them, and Merrill followed suit, and they were warm and close together and the soft lap of Merrill’s tongue against her own made Marian’s breath catch. She fisted her hands in the loose cotton of Merrill’s shirt, shivered when Merrill’s own hands found their way to her back. They were both out of breath when they parted.

“You’re right,” Marian said. She kept Merrill close. “We are in different places. You got a bit of a head start on me. But I want to see where this leads, Merrill. I meant what I said last night. I did.”

Merrill’s smile was a little like Bethany’s. Summer and sunflowers and everything growing and new.

Marian kissed her again. And again. And again, through Merrill’s delighted giggles, as she pushed her towards the table and then helped her up onto it, sweeping the pile of letters and cards aside.

“Stop laughing,” Marian said, pushing the wide collar of the shirt down, leaving sucking kisses along Merrill’s collarbone. “It makes it hard to kiss you.”

“Maybe I’m just hoping you’ll kiss me somewhere else instead,” Merrill said, and her smile was wicked now, so Marian sank to her knees and parted Merrill’s legs and went to worship between them. She got her head underneath the hem of the shirt and saw Merrill there, already bare, and bit her lip against the flood of heat in her own belly at the sight.

“Here? Now?” Merrill didn’t sound hesitant. Marian pushed the shirt back anyway, all the way up Merrill’s stomach. She met her eyes, and then planted a kiss on each of Merrill’s thighs, right near those tiny, perfect whorls of dark hair.

“I think we both waited long enough.”

Merrill was noisy with a tongue between her legs, Marian discovered. And strong. She quickly got one hand in Marian’s hair and tugged whenever she wandered away from her clit. She broke out in elven when Marian sealed her lips around that pearl and sucked. But she didn’t come until Marian took one hand away from where it had been playing between her own legs, teasing her own swollen sex, and pressed two fingers up inside Merrill instead - and then she finished silently, except for a few high, needy noises at the biggest peaks, when her cunt was tight around Marian’s fingers. Marian felt her chest tighten, watching her come down from her high, seeing how her whole body rippled with it, how her mana buzzed and zapped around them both, just brushing against Marian’s own. She was beautiful, and she was here.

Later, in the kitchen, they sat together and had bread and cheese and cured meats, and talked idly, and Marian felt something settle into her chest. A little fear, maybe. But excitement, too, at the sight of Merrill in the morning, wearing her shirt, hair mussed, talking about what they should do that day. This was a beginning. This was something real.

Bodahn commented on the spilled mail when he, Sandal, and Orana returned later. She and Merrill hid their smiles in their tea, grinning at each other over the porcelain rims.

“I’m sorry, Bodahn,” Marian said. “But I’m afraid it may happen again.”

Merrill couldn’t stop laughing, and Marian found herself already planning new ways to earn that sound.

[withthebreezesblown]

63. Routine Kisses Where The Other Person Presents Their Cheek/Forehead For The Hello/Goodbye Kiss Without Even Looking Up From What They’re Doing

He’s distracted.

She can tell because he never loses this badly at Wicked Grace. She’s a good liar–if being an apostate didn’t make her one, Maker knows the hand she’s been dealt since the Blight began has taught her how to bluff–but he’s always been just a little bit better.

Tonight he really isn’t even trying.

She knows why, knows where his mind is at: the desk where he often spends all night, scribbling away furiously and only leaving it in the morning to go, sleepless, to his clinic, glancing back at the reams of paper with a sort of reluctant longing.

The more obvious it becomes that it does not matter what he writes–that the Maker himself could come down and pen his manifesto for him–and it still could not move Elthina, the more desperately he works at it.

She laughs loud enough that even he is called momentarily out of his thoughts.

“I’ve never seen you lose so many games in a row. What is that, three?”

He grunts a vague acknowledgement. “Yeah, I guess.”

It’s five. She knows perfectly well that it’s five, but he has no idea how long he’s even been sitting here. Sighing, she lays down her hand–a pity, it was a good hand too–and stands, yawning and stretching with the kind of intentional arch that would once have commanded his attention on its own. Now she has to tug his sleeve. “Come on, love; if you don’t take me to bed now, you’ll have to carry me home.”

She leaves the comment wide open for some suggestive remark, but he just nods and says a little too eagerly in just the wrong way, “Let’s go.”

“Andraste’s tits, that’s so sad, even I’m not cruel enough to rub it in.” Isabela appears to be attempting to arrange her face in a look of sympathy for Hawke, but it’s mostly disgruntled disgust.

She isn’t sure whose benefit it’s meant to be for when she replies, “Oh, now, my lover’s just a bit down… if you knew how good he is when he’s up, you’d put up with it too.” She winks at Isabela and blows the pirate a kiss, unsurprised that Anders doesn’t even seem to be aware that he is the subject of their banter.

Back at the estate, she washes her face and discards her clothes. Bodhan, Sandal, and Oranna have already retired tired for the night, and, well, she’ll never have to worry about appalling her mother again now–she laughs, small and light, as though her little amusement is weightless, and it’s perfect, a perfect lie–so she pads down the stairs naked and poses herself in the doorway of the study, knowing it’s as vain an act as laughing by herself, because he will not notice.

He’s obviously heard her, because he cocks his head slightly without looking up from his busy quill. “Going to bed, love?”

She feels herself slump and doesn’t bother correcting it. There’s only one person in the room even aware of the act, and Maker knows she isn’t convincing herself. “Yeah.”

He cocks his head further, an obvious invitation, but his head stays tilted after her lips brush against his cheek as though he hasn’t even registered it.

She runs a hand over his head, lets her fingers linger for a moment, twisting a strand of hair. “Do try to get some sleep at some point, hmm?”

He acknowledges her only with a noise from his throat that she isn’t sure she’d call assent.

By the time she reaches her room, cold despite the mild Marcher night, she doubts that, if asked, he could even say whether she’d been in the study at all.

[sylveonne]

“Do you trust me?” Varric/Cassandra for DWC? Cheers! :)

FINALLY FINISHED THIS ONE i had the idea but didn’t get a chance to actually write it til camp nano finished hehe

for @dadrunkwriting!!!

varric/cassandra, the 5th vignette is rated M for very mild smut, everything else is sfw tho!

The first time he yelled it, Cassandra was caught off guard.

“Do you trust me?” Varric had asked, his voice pitching above the clamor of demons that were congregating on the iced-over pond. The prisoner and apostate wove in arrhythmic patterns on the other side of the shore. Sloth demons swarmed the two for a brief moment before they were blasted back by one of their spells.

The Breach yawned overhead, sparking and spitting out even more evil spirits. Cassandra looked at her feet, at the ice that was thick but cracking from the heat of the fire magic that kept scalding the surface, and then back at the thickening flock of demons at the other end.

“No!” she called back, the disgust in her voice obvious as she kicked one of the creatures squarely in the chest to send it reeling backwards. She leapt back up onto the banks of the pond and used her shield to bash another of them. It dissolved with a shriek that made her skin crawl. “But do it anyways,” she growled loudly.

Varric laughed, far too sanguine for her liking, but scraped a bolt along a nearby boulder and loaded up Bianca with it as it began to spark. “Hold on to your breeches, Seeker!” He fired the bolt into the center of the pond.

And then there was chaos as the ice shattered and demons fell beneath the frigid waves.

The first time she yelled it, Varric was scared shitless. Not that he’d ever admit that, of course.

Red templars were overtaking the pathways, the walls, all the entry points. The way they glowed, eerie and vicious and unaware of themselves, set his teeth on edge. Everything about them was wrong. Blood dripped from his split lip and hit the ground as he shuddered.

“Do you trust me?” Cassandra asked. Her grip on his shoulder wasn’t tight the way it had been when she and Cullen had “escorted” him from Kirkwall to Haven, and her brown eyes were remarkably calm despite the utter insanity of the situation. There was an archdemon, for fuck’s sake.

He grunted as pain lanced down his leg. “Don’t really have a choice now, do I?” he said as he forced a smile. She rolled her eyes with a huff, then heaved him to his feet. Varric wobbled, his ankle unable to support him properly, but the Seeker whirled and bent down with her back to him. He hobbled forward to lean against her. Cassandra heaved him up onto her back with a minute grunt of exertion and began to walk away.

“Hold it, hold it. I need Bianca. I can’t leave her behind,” he said, his hand tapping on her pauldron. From the way she stiffened, he knew the hysteria had crept into his voice. Even so, she turned back, fetched the crossbow, and passed it to him without a word. She then began to jog towards the chantry.

Varric looked out towards the siege equipment and tried to catch a glimpse of the Herald. His heart sunk when he couldn’t find a trace of any of his allies amidst the pandemonium. He turned back to watch their progress through the rubble. Her steps were measured; he realized she was trying to keep from jostling him too much. He forced his breaths to slow. Happy thoughts. “Thanks, Cassandra,” he said at last.

“You are welcome,” she replied. The doors to the chantry swung open to admit them into the halls.

The second time he asked, Cassandra fumbled for a response.

Sera had insisted on sharing a tent with the Inquisitor. That left the remaining tent to herself...and Varric. She was quiet as they set up their quarters. The routine came easy: canvas, stakes, bedrolls, her belongings, and then time to sit around the campfire. Nervous energy hummed beneath her skin that she was too fatigued to fight. Varric recounted stories to Sera as the Inquisitor secured the perimeter of camp. Sera went out to hunt and returned as dusk fell; they ate as the moon rose. Soon after they had all finished, the Inquisitor shooed them off to bed to take the first watch.

Cassandra’s boots felt like they had been laced with iron (more iron, anyway) as they approached their shared tent. Varric held the flap open for her to enter, then let it fall closed once he had followed suit. She sat on her bedroll to begin the process of removing her armor. Her eyes kept flitting back to the dwarf despite her best efforts. When it came time to remove her breastplate, her fingers lingered on the straps over her shoulders. Varric glanced up from what he had scribbled in a small notebook when he noticed her lack of movement. “Don’t mind me, Seeker,” he said, his teasing gentle. “I’m not the kind of dwarf who enjoys roughing it up in a tent in the great outdoors.”

She grimaced and made a sound of revulsion. Of course he would joke about that sort of thing. Cassandra finished up in a hurry and then ducked into her bedroll. Varric took his time finishing what he had started writing, then slid inside his as well. Several minutes of tense silence between them passed, the only sounds the soft pops of the low fire the Inquisitor tended outside and the chirps of crickets. Just when she thought she would finally snap and do...something drastic to ease the awkwardness, Varric rolled to his side so he could face her.

“Cassandra.”

She started, both from his voice and that he used her name. She turned her head to meet his eyes a mere foot away. “Yes?”

He paused as if he was considering his words, then asked, “Do you trust me?”

Despite being in a small tent, she felt his words echo around them. She was frozen as their mutual gaze held, unable to answer affirmatively one way or the other. When she didn’t respond, Varric’s lips crept up into a tiny, sad smile. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” he assured her, his voice soft. Cassandra finally came back to herself and made a noncommittal noise in response. He huffed a hoarse chuckle and then rolled to face the other side of the tent. “Goodnight, Seeker.”

She stared up at the canvas ceiling for a long time after that.

The second time she asked, Varric wasn’t sure what to think.

Wine flowed in a ceaseless river at the event Josephine insisted they be present for. Cassandra didn’t usually drink in excess, but the Inquisitor had plied her with drinks in an attempt to help her loosen up. Cullen had also fallen prey to this tactic and was passed out in an alcove off the main hall; Sera had already doodled on him, and Blackwall stood watch over the commander’s unconscious form. Those with the proper social graces, like Vivienne and Dorian, made use of them alongside the Inquisitor. While he possessed the skills to mingle, Varric opted to keep a low profile and avoid any potential Merchant’s Guild members, which was how he wound up in a garden to begin with.

Cassandra let out a wistful sigh from where she sat on an elaborately carved bench-- clearly, she was daydreaming. Overhead, rose bushes bloomed in tamed arches, and small lights, most likely magical in origin, floated amongst the thorns. Varric sat beside her and watched the orbs bob. The buzz of those playing Orlais’s Game seemed distant at that moment.

“Varric, do you trust me?”

He immediately swiveled to look at her. After he took a moment to gauge her features, he smirked and patted her arm. “More or less. I still sometimes wonder if you’re going to snap one day and throw me in a cell, but that seems pretty standard...for...us…” he trailed off as her expression melted into one of distress.

“I just thought...after all these months traveling together…” she mumbled, her cheeks flushed from both the copious alcohol and drunken embarrassment. Her eyes lowered to her lap.

Varric scratched the back of his head and sighed. “Seeker...c’mon, you’re drunk. We can have this conversation tomorrow if you remember any of it.” She looked back at him again, her lips still set in a sad pout, and he looked up at the roses again awkwardly. In the blink of an eye, Cassandra slouched over and rested her head on his shoulder. He paused for a beat, then wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Andraste’s knickers, I didn’t realize you were a cuddly drunk,” he teased, but she just grumbled.

The Inquisitor came to check on them as the soiree wound down. Cassandra’s head was pillowed in Varric’s lap as he sipped leisurely at his own glass of wine. When their eyes met, Varric smiled and held a finger up to his lips.

The third time he asked, Cassandra could only nod mutely.

She had discovered that his quarters were far more lush than her own spartan room at Skyhold over several visits. As always, books had been stacked in a haphazard fashion throughout and a thick fur was spread across his bed. Her fingers burrowed into the soft throw as she watched with bated breath as Varric knelt between her bare legs. His hands brushed the tops of her thighs in a gentle reassurance, and she couldn’t stop the quiver the touch elicited. He chuckled and cupped her hips, then let his thumbs rub against the curve of bone and muscle. His head dropped to press kisses to her stomach. Before he proceeded any lower, he met her eyes and asked, voice soft and low, “Do you trust me?”

The ache she felt was becoming unbearable and clear thoughts had long since left her head. Even so, she managed an enthusiastic nod. Yes, she trusted him, and yes, she wanted this. Varric’s gusty sigh of relief made her wriggle beneath him. “Maker, Cass,” he muttered, and then his mouth was on her and his ever-too-clever tongue made her cheeks burn. She gasped and turned her face to the side and bit one of the pillows, but Varric immediately stopped. “I want-- no, I need to hear you. I need to make sure I’m making you feel as good as possible.” Cassandra could only blink in silence at the glisten on his chin. He huffed a laugh and returned to her folds.

This time, she wasn’t quiet.

The third time she asked, Varric just laughed.

She stretched beneath the blankets, her satisfaction as blatant as a purring cat. She blinked the drowsiness from her eyes, cheeks flushed from sleep, and hummed to get his attention. He finished his sentence with one last scritch of his quill, and he turned to face her. “Good morning,” he said, and he watched as she propped her chin up on her palm. His eyes were briefly drawn to her newly-bared skin, but he was far more fascinated by the content smile she wore. Varric stood up from his desk and returned to his bed. He brushed her bangs out of her eyes before cupping her cheek and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Good morning, Varric,” Cassandra returned, and her fingers reached out to skim his bare chest. His tunic had been thrown somewhere the night before and he had been too lazy to search for it-- or dress himself in anything other than his breeches, for that matter. She tilted her chin up in silent invitation, and he leant down and met her waiting lips. His kisses soon trailed down to her jaw and cheek, and she laughed softly and swatted at him in jest. After a few quiet moments of relaxed silence, she asked, “Do you trust me?” Varric raised a brow and waited for the other shoe to drop. “Because if you do...can’t you show me what you’ve done with the new installation so far?”

He let out a full, hearty laugh that shook his shoulders. “For you, Seeker? Anything.”

[veridium]

Theia 16 & 17? :)

Thank you for indulging me, kind friend! 

16. Anger Head Canon

Running, running, running. That’s all she could think to do.With Haven under snow and ice, there was nothing but the white abyss in frontof her. Then, a light, like a spark on a small match stick. There, she thought,there was her destination.

She trudged through the snow with vigor, derived from puresurvival instinct at this point in the boundless night. It was getting closer,but ever leg lift through the drifts and sheets of ice made it feel abysmallydistant.

Suddenly, as if she blinked and found herself there, thelight was in front of her. A small campfire kindling that remained lit. Shelooked into it, the light harsh on her vision in contrast with the dark anddank snow.

The light began to grow from the spark, and became almostravenous. Suddenly, it illuminated everything before her. It was now a cavern,a vast space of wet and frozen-over stone. The boulders and rocks took theshake of human figures, shoulders rounded, hunched, lifeless. Beyond it, shesaw them: the torn and ripped fur of Cullen’s armor cloak. A Seeker’s chestplate all that was unburied by a pile of snow and stone. Her chest began torapidly move up and down, her nerves crackling with torment. She anxiously,desperately looked around, for anything that would give life to this landscape.

Gold satin fabric ripped from its original garment.

Broken-off Horn fragments.

A staff, snapped in half, before the body of one morelifeless Apostate.

Soon, something in her veins overtook her senses. It was theelectric nature of herself, now enraged. A rhythmic growl started to grow inher throat. All of that, so they couldarrive at their slaughter. I saved nothing. I saved no one.

The growl grew into a momentous, earth-binding roar. Herhands turned to fists, and the current of energy oscillated from them. Staticbecame relentless, hungry for justice. With her voice growing louder, it grewmore ravenous.

The light consumed her irises, now flickering colors ofpurple, blue, and red. The snow around her feet began to melt. Above her head,the sky began to tremble with thunder.

Her noise gave way to shaking, tears and sorrow graspingonto her throat with a ransom. The breathing from her chest still rapid,unrelenting. The electricity waded, but the magic seeped out of her body like aravaging current in the sea.

“I will have my vengeance, even it takes me in exchange forjustice,” she thought to herself. And she would, by the Maker, make everyonebleed as she did.

Suddenly, darkness. The wind knocked out of her. Her eyesopened when she thought it was impossible not to see.

The room was dark, one single candle almost burned to thequick. She lept upwards, breathing heavily. Sweat dripped down the back of herneck, and strands of her hair were pasted to her forehead. Another one, thatmakes three this week. She had to stop drinking the ale from the Pub, for sure,this time.

Maybe then it would end.

17. Soft-Spot Head Canon

It was a rare and unique occasion to see the Inquisitorworking at her desk. Even so, on this day she found it rather grounding. Thenext expedition was being prepared for and packed, and she had one last daybefore she would have to be wayward once more.

The door opened and steps made their way up the stairs.Based on the footfalls, Theia had no reason to look up from her books andnotes.

“I say, friend, you make study posture look positivelyagonizing,” Dorian’s lyrical voice.

Theia chuckled. “I am truly in desperate times, having toactually recommit myself to my magical studies.”

“Blasphemy. We all know mages don’t know their ass from adispel spell.”

She sat back in her chair, arms landing on the rests withconviction. “What am I to do with you, then, friend? You came to visit me.”

Dorian leaned up against the stone column supporting thebalcony opening. “It occurs to me you have not received many gifts during yourtenure. Save the tithes, an outfitted army, weapons that would arm Thedas forfive age’s worth of siege, and whatever that was Josephine got you that waswrapped in oodles of tissue.”

“It was a handcrafted –“

“Yes, yes, I understand she has quite affable taste. Not myconcern, however.”

“Dorian.”

He shifted his weight unto one hip. “I understand that nowyou are…involved, I scarcely have room to be honest. The whole “in love” mattermakes logic unwelcome.”

“I know you came here for something endearing, which is whyyou’re fronting it with pounds of sarcasm and bitter humor. Talk to me,” shesaid, scooting her chair back, preparing to stand.

“No, no, sit. Please. I shan’t be long.”

She stopped herself, though skeptically. Dorian pulledsomething out of one of his pockets. It looked like a small charm, and when heheld it out to her, her suspicion was confirmed. It looked like a turtle dove,clutching a branch.

“Dorian, I –“

“Remember when we were off on that marvelously fatiguingtrip in the Hinterlands? Well, you were asleep in a cot, and you startedtalking. Talking! As if you didn’t tire of doing it endlessly in your wakinghours. Alas, you were adamant. You were telling someone you wanted them to freethe doves from a cage. It sounded as though you would cry,” he explained, hisface still jovial.

Theia paused in disbelief. She grasped the totem, and heldit closer to her, examining it. “The Circle had a cage of turtle doves they’duse for things. Feathers, meat, that sort of thing. But I loved them. I wantedthem to be free, wild again. I was silly and young,” she said, grinningnostalgically, but the sadness in her voice was unavoidable.

Dorian wasted no time lamenting. “There you are, my friend.That pendant is a free as you are, take it wherever you go. No cages in sight,”he said, arms crossing.

Theia smiled, her face glowing. “Dorian.”

“I know.”