#Dawn's kind of in denial on the Scion front

[sjofn-lofnsdottr]

Alright, I am going to TRY to do a BRIEF overview of Dusk's backstory, I guess. Just hit the highlights, up until he started actually adventuring. I will tell myself I can expand on everything later. Later!

Here's a picture that has nothing to do with anything, just because I like having a picture above the fold:

Alright, first off, Dusk's real name is Bellinor, and his sister is Oriane. Their father, when they were very small, started calling them Dusk and Dawn for reasons he never explained, and it stuck. Their grandparents use their given names, and basically no one else does.

He was born in Ishgard. I have thought a lot about his family and where they were in the Ishgardian hierarchy, but I am being BRIEF, so suffice to say, the fanciest of his relatives is his maternal grandmother, who was a knight in service to house Haillenarte.

His father is a spearman, and when Dusk and Dawn were eight or so, he began to train them how to use it. Their mother, a chirurgeon who was starting to break under the strain of being a healer in a Forever War, was still taken by surprise by how visceral a negative reaction she had to this. After talking it over with her husband, they began to plot an extreeeeemely slow desertion from the city. The timing turned out pretty good ... they were finally intending to leave for good when the twins were ten (who had no idea, of course) and during their very last trip outside of the city as a sort of dry run ... the Gates closed, and they couldn't go back, even if they had wanted to.

Dusk never thought of himself as not-Ishgardian, in spite of spending so much more of his life outside of the city than inside it, and he understands why his parents left, even if it was confusing and scary at the time. Unfortunately, part of why it was scary was ... they had fled to Gridania. I have a lot to say about his adolescence being spent in pre-Calamity Gridania and the stresses involved, but suffice to say ... sure, there were no dragons trying to kill them, but at least the dragons were somewhat predictable. The elementals were not.

Dusk and Dawn's parents never wanted them to have to fight, even though their father did continue their training with spears. Just in case. After the Calamity, the twins travelled to Limsa Lominsa. The plan had been for Dusk - who was already a fairly good carpenter - to train as a blacksmith there to supplement his skills. Dawn, a botanist, went with him for company, and just to spread her wings a little, the Calamity giving her an urge to travel while she could. Neither intended to adventure, although they were certainly dressed the part, the whole family still in the habit of being Ever Vigilant. None of them want to be caught unarmed when shit hits the fan, if you will.

As a result, though, while they were bumbling around the city trying to figure out who to even talk to, H'naanza spotted them, and thought they were new adventurers. She called them over and asked them to kill some wharf rats. Dusk agreed to it without correcting her, which made Dawn feel too awkward to correct her herself, and it all kind of spiraled from there.

It all worked out, at least.

I generally follow canon as far as his actual WoL career goes, filling in headcanon in the spaces the narrative itself provides. The biggest 'change' that isn't really a change regards his twin. Dawn, who also has the Echo, did not want to be a Scion, but she is extremely protective of her brother. So when it makes sense in my mind for her to be around, being very clear she is helping him and not the Scions, she's there. The big exception is Shadowbringers ... she's stuck at home and hating every second of it.

He was 30 when the Calamity hit, and was 35 when ARR began. I'm a one expansion = one year person ... except again for Shadowbringers, which in the Source timeline I think of only having happened in a couple of weeks. Which means he'll be turning 40 when 7.0 hits, I'm sure he's excited.

[lightblume]

Tagged by: no one, i found it then i stole it because i liked it! Tagging: @wardenspaeon @earthlysun + anyone who wants to do this of course!

— also as usual, please repost! don’t reblog!

— BASICS!

Is your muse tall / short / average? Short. Incredibly short, so much so that you can use her as an armrest if you’re tall enough, though she won’t react too kindly if you try. 

Are they okay with their height? Yeah, she’s completely fine with it! She doesn’t think there’s anything she’s missing out on by not being tall and can laugh at jokes pertaining to her height. The only thing she might get a bit fussy about is if someone compares her to a child.

What’s their hair like? Long purple hair with white highlights that falls to her mid-back. She stopped keeping it trimmed and opted for a more natural look, so the back may see messy and uneven sometimes. She has bangs covering her forehead, too!

Do they spend a lot of time on their hair / grooming? Not too much anymore. While she used to be really particular about her hair, as she’s grown older, she’s learned to just let it do what it will. Aside from straightening it out to look presentable, she lets it do whatever it wants so long as it looks decent! As far as grooming goes, she spends a fair amount of time on it. She does like looking her best if she can!

Does your muse care about their appearance / what others think? To an extent--yes, at least concerning her appearance. She likes to dress fashionably and likes to be complimented on her looks. It’s not a big thing for her, but definitely something she enjoys whenever it does happen. As for what people think about her? Not really, there are too many people that want her dead or otherwise out of the picture for her to care on that front. If people like her then they like her and if they don’t, then they just don’t!

— PREFERENCES!

Indoors or outdoors? Both.

Rain or sunshine? Sunshine, but she doesn’t mind staying inside when it rains. Or even going outside when it is. She just...prefers the sun a lot more.

Forest or beach? Forest. She grew up in one, after all. Though that isn’t to say she hates the beach, it’s just not her favorite place to be.

Precious metals or gems? Gems.

Flowers or perfumes? Flowers, undoubtedly. 

Personality or appearance? Both are equally a factor to her.

Being alone or being in a crowd? Indifferent to both.

Order or anarchy? Order. What world can exist in total anarchy?

Painful truths or white lies? Painful truths. She’d rather be told the truth than lied to in any manner.

Science or magic? Magic. She does specialize in a certain kind, you know.

Night or day? She likes both equally!

Dusk or dawn? Dawn, though again just by a bit more than dusk otherwise she likes them equally!

Warmth or cold? Warmth.

Many acquaintances or a few close friends? A little bit of both? Mainly because she has the Scions, who she treasures, but also considers her acquaintances' people worth putting her life on the line for as well in most cases.

Reading or playing a game? Reading. Though it depends on the game!

— QUESTIONNAIRE!

What are some of your muses bad habits? Being hasty when she’s emotional. She has a bad habit of forsaking everything or trying to run off on her own when she’s caught up in how she feels. And also being wreckless in general, while capable of formulating plans, she doesn’t rely on them nor does she feel like she especially needs to, just always feels as if things will work out one way or another.

What are some fond memories your muse has? They mostly pertain to her adoptive parents, as she had a relatively happy childhood thanks to them. Also, playing with the animals of the forest in her youth. As for her adulthood, there are many fond memories she’s made along her journey, but none that she wants me to list here.

What’s it like when your muse breaks down? Tsuru has only broken down twice in her life, so it’s hard to say what exactly she acts like because both situations have been different but for the most part, it starts with a quiet shock and then evolves into her being in denial at what’s happening until finally, she breaks down into tears. She’d say that in both situations, she felt a pain akin to dying and for the latter, that actually was the case. For her, it feels as if she’s falling endlessly into a dark void, unable to ever hope of coming out of it. She also becomes withdrawn, unwilling to speak or even simply exist in cases like these. It takes her a while to go back to her normal self and even then, it’s never complete.

Is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life? Of course. She’d trust any of the scions with her life wholeheartedly after all they’ve been through together. She also trusts G’raha as well. If she loves you, no matter the kind, she will give you her trust completely.

[fanfoolishness]

no words for heaven or for earth (4/?)

Hawke was left in the Fade, but Varric thinks, or hopes, that she’s still alive. And he has some surprising evidence. Read here at AO3.

Part 1: Where’s Hawke? |  Part 2: because you aren’t here | Part 3: the lonely ruined tower

Part 4: what’s real, anyway? 3000+ words.

Varric sat in his tent, set up in a sheltered area of the ramparts of Griffon Wing Keep.  Here the daytime sun was not quite so fierce, and the night winds were broken by the sand-worn stone.  The dawn would be coming soon, but despite trying, he could not fall asleep again.

Just one more dream, he thought, and then cracked a smile in the dim predawn.  What a fucking weird thing for a dwarf to think.

He sat up, groaning, and fumbled for the small thieves’ lantern he’d kept at the front of the tent.  He rummaged in the half-dark for his firesteel and lit the lantern, its small glow enough to illuminate his tent.  Bianca lay at the ready at the front of the tent; jumbled to the side were his clothes and armor.  Closest to him lay Hawke’s things.

He didn’t know who had packed up her belongings from their camp near Adamant and carried them to the Keep; didn’t know who had bundled them neatly in his tent after setting it up for him.  He didn’t remember very much after he fell out of the Fade and Hawke didn’t.  

He suspected it might have been Cole.  Possibly it was Cullen.  A matter of Fereldan respect for the fallen, maybe.  His stomach clenched.

Varric reached out to touch her pack; soft supple leather and travel-stained cloth, its top slipping open to reveal a rogue’s delight.  Spare daggers, a kit of poisons, raw wire and steel for traps.  And folded beside them a red scarf trimmed in gold thread, its weave warm enough for Skyhold.  

The scarf.  He remembered giving it to her a few winters back, after Kirkwall had a rare snow.  He’d been the cold one -- she enjoyed the snow, as it reminded her of Lothering -- but he’d seen the scarf in a stall in Hightown and thought she might use it.  Really, that was all he’d meant by it.  

She’d thanked him and given him a strange look.  She only wore it a handful of times in Kirkwall; it just didn’t get cold enough.  

In those few short weeks they had in Skyhold, she wore it every day.  

He took the scarf in his hands, raised it to his face, took a long breath.  It smelled like the soap she used, cinnamon and peppery spindleweed.  It smelled like her.

Varric waited for the Inquisitor, kicking his feet idly against the stone ledge on which he sat.  The desert sun was fierce even this early in the morning, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Varric,” said Namira, sitting down beside him.  Her voice was careful.  Controlled.  She’d probably practiced this conversation.  She was awfully tenderhearted for some of the shit she’d seen, he knew that much.  Her question to him was simple.  “How are you?”

They hadn’t yet had a chance to speak since Adamant.  Well, that wasn’t exactly true.  She’d tried and he’d pushed her away every time.  He blamed her and he didn’t, and both truths were too difficult to face.  But he needed her help.  

Varric shrugged.  “I could lie,” he offered.  “Might make us both feel better.  I hear that I’m very good at it.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, then looked hard at him, her eyes watering. The control was gone, collapsed in an instant.  “It’s my fault,” she said quietly.  “She -- she said she should stay behind to fight the Nightmare.  It was blocking our path to the rift.  She said Corypheus was her responsibility, that Alistair should rebuild the Wardens.”

Varric closed his eyes.  Damn but if he couldn’t imagine her saying it.  He could hear her voice, steeled, determined.  Ready to do the Right Thing.  Again.

Why had he called for her?  Why had he brought her here?  She’d already given so much, so damn much, for a world that would never afford her the same courtesy.  The Nightmare’s voice thundered in his head.  Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you.

“Nah.  It’s my fault.  I should never have dragged her here.”  He let out a shuddering breath and opened his eyes, looking anywhere but at Namira.

“But I’m the one who told her yes,” she said.  She pulled her hand off his shoulder, gazing into the sunsoaked morning.  “Do you want to know what she said?”

“Yes.”  Then he thought about it.  “No.”  Another shuddering breath.  “Yes.”

“She said, ‘say goodbye to Varric for me.’”

It was hard to breathe.  He tried.  He knew it was something he had to do.  He closed his eyes again, worked at it, tried to bring the desert air through his nose and mouth into his lungs, tried to remember how to make his heart beat.  It sort of worked.  “Fuck, Doodles.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said miserably.

He scrubbed at his face with a gloved hand.  The leather came away dotted with moisture.  Sweat?  Tears?  Hard to tell.  He gritted his teeth.  “Have you talked to Solas?”

“Not yet,” said Namira.  She searched his face.  She had circles under her eyes.  Inquisitor wasn’t a role he would have pushed on anyone.  But if he’d just told them where Hawke was in the beginning, maybe she’d be Inquisitor now, maybe she wouldn’t be in the Fade --

He shoved the thought aside, banishing it with a strong wave of denial.  Thinking like that was bound to fuck you up.  He couldn’t afford to do that right now.

“Well,” he huffed, his voice cracking, “I think Hawke’s alive.  And before you tell me it’s impossible, you know what else is impossible?  A dwarf having dreams.”  He pointed at himself with his thumb straight out, fingers loosely curled.  “Solas confirmed it.  Apparently I am now a Fade-touched dwarf.  So.  That’s exciting.”

Namira stared at him, her mouth slightly falling open.  “You’ve been dreaming?”

“It’s weird as shit, but I’ve been walking in the Fade,” said Varric.  “Where we -- where we lost her.  And I think she’s still there.”  He felt almost brave, laying it out for her.  “I’ve already got Solas looking for her when he takes his twenty winks, but he doesn’t know her -- I don’t think he’ll find her, not like maybe I could.  I’ve sent out letters on the fastest birds to our friends in Kirkwall; maybe they can help guide her, protect her.  But if we do find her, she’s still going to need a way out.”  He eyed Namira’s left hand, the sizzling green light faint under the bleaching sun.  “If there’s a chance… any kind of chance at all… will you help us?”

Namira reached out, laid her hands on his arms, and leaned forward.  “Yes,” she said fiercely, and he remembered how to breathe again.

The discussion raged for hours.  Namira insisted on bringing in the other mages, and they sequestered themselves in one of the Keep’s back rooms, the stone walls not enough to cool the stifling air.

The mages fought amongst themselves.  Varric sat at the end of the table, letting them talk; the only thing he fought back was a yawn after hours of deliberation.  He wavered in his seat, holding back his exhaustion.

“It simply shouldn’t be possible,” said Solas.  “A mortal left alive in the Fade -- it defies explanation.”

“There are two precedents,” said Vivienne.  “The Tevinter magisters of old --”

“And me,” said Namira.  “I do still seem to be alive.”

“Three precedents,” corrected Dorian.  “After all, Solas, Varric, the Warden and myself all walked in the Fade without perishing.”

“Hawke was brought in the same way we were, so the Fade itself may not be fatal to her.  If she doesn’t attempt to get to the Black City --”

“She wouldn’t,” said Varric, rubbing his eyes.  This was the sixth time they’d had this conversation, or so it felt like.  “Her dad was a mage, her sister too.  She knows the risks.”

“I would not have thought she could survive the Nightmare,” said Solas.  “But perhaps it was more weakened by the Divine’s spirit than we believed.”  

“What Varric describes is an unusual level of clarity in a dream, even for a mage,” said Dorian.  “The clues he has seen… it could be her.”

“Let us assume that it is her, and not a scion of the Nightmare, or a similar spirit,” said Solas.  “I walked Adamant in the Fade for hours last night, and found no whispers of a demon holding that remnant of the Fade.  The spirits are quiet.  Perhaps it is because there is a mortal among them.”

“That’s rather a large assumption to make, my dear,” said Vivienne.  “But I do acknowledge we tread here in lands uncharted.”  

Namira ran a hand across her lips thoughtfully.  “There was water in the Fade.  She could survive for weeks without food, if need be,” she said.  “Supposing she needs it there, that is.  Do any of you recall feeling hungry?  Thirsty?  Any physical needs?  Who knows how time moves there?”

“What’s real, anyway?” Varric murmured, but they ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“I am not certain of the nature of time in the physical Fade,” said Solas, looking disquieted.

“I asked Cullen,” said Namira.  “They thought we were gone for less than an hour.  But I thought we were there for longer, nearly a full day.”

“Even if time is flexible within the Fade --”

Varric yawned.  Mages.  They always had something to say.  He supposed he couldn’t exactly fault them that.  This was some pretty weird magical shit, after all.  He rested his chin in his hand, blinking slowly.  The light was so dim in here, just a few small candles and an oil lamp at the other end of the table.

“Do you recall sensing any temporal distortion?” Vivienne asked Dorian.  “After all, you do have additional training in time magic.”

“Things did move differently there,” began Dorian.  But Varric’s eyes fell closed.  He’d have to catch up with what Dorian was saying later.

Hawke peered warily out of the tower window, watching for any signs of movement below. The rocks shifted as they always did here, but she saw no signs of spiders, shades, or demons scurrying on the stairs. Good.

The lack of demons had been surprising at first, but she had plenty of time to think about it, didn’t she? The Nightmare had been such an all-consuming force in this part of the Fade, according to the elf Solas, and when it crumpled, or vanished, or retreated, it must have left a vacuum behind.

She had been less troubled by creatures than she would have expected.  Still, though, once she found the Tower of Ishal, she had gratefully taken it as a place to shelter.  The longer she stayed, the more constant it became, as if it was trying to change itself to suit her.  Amell banners fluttered at the walls, a tiny memory of home.

She thought back to Dad’s lessons, mostly for Bethany, but she had often listened in as well.  Memories shape the Fade just as surely as our hands shape the world this side of the Veil.  In the great places, where history has been changed or many lives have been taken, the Fade forms itself in response to the memories left behind.  But maybe her memories shaped it, too.

She hadn’t seen many creatures, but she had seen many wisps, hints of people dreaming who stalked the stairs of the tower.  One of them had reminded her of Warden Alistair, but she couldn’t say why; just something about the way it hummed to itself as it passed, oblivious to her presence.  It made her feel less lonely, for a moment.

It also reminded her to continue to keep her wits about her.  She wasn’t sure what traps would do to creatures of spirit, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt to find out.  It gave her something to focus on, anyway, besides that storm of howling terror waiting for her in the back of her mind.  You are lost, lost forever, no one will ever see you again, you’re going to die here --  It was quite the unpleasant litany.  

So she tried to ignore it.  She pooled all of her trap supplies from the pouches on her belt, bits of metal and flint, wire and string, and she worked.  

Her efforts reminded her of Kirkwall.  She’d been decent with dueling and daggers when she arrived, years of practicing behind the barn sparring with Carver an aid.  He’d had so much strength she’d put her energy into evading, dodging, ducking.  But she’d been hopeless at some of the other aspects of roguery when she came to Kirkwall.  It had been Varric and Isabela who had taught her, somewhat patiently, but mostly with an enormous degree of teasing, how to be truly clever.

She fought back tears, thinking of Varric’s sturdy hands on hers.  She remembered being impressed by how nimble his wide fingers were, showing her how to jigger a lock or how to thread a tripwire just right.  She’d been surprised by how sure his touch was.  He could be unexpectedly serious when he was concentrating.

“You fool,” she said into the empty, echoing Fade.  “You rather liked him from the start, didn’t you?  What would Mum say about an Amell and a dwarf?”  She laughed, finishing up her trap, and turned to head back through the door into the tower room.  

Only it wasn’t the tower any longer; it was their home in Lothering.  And she was not alone.

Mum was pale and wan before her, her eyes as dull as they had been in that terrible foundry.  Hawke scrabbled for her daggers, suddenly gasping for air.  “No,” she said weakly.  “Mum.  Please.  Don’t make me look at you, not like this.  I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Mum said, her voice soft but strained.  She reached out, her hand jerky, twitching. “I forgive you, Min, sweet girl.  It wasn’t your fault.”

Hawke’s hands shook on the hilts of her daggers.  “Just stop,” she begged.  But she missed her mother, too, wished she could take her hand, meet her in an embrace. Leandra had been such a beautiful woman.  Her flat, scarred eyes blinked in her ruined face, one after the other.

“Please don’t worry, my love.  I’m with your father again.  And Carver.”  They appeared behind her, their faces ghostly pale, their eyes hollow.  “We miss you and your sister.  Please, my Min.  Come with us.”

“We miss you,” echoed her father.

“I miss you,” said Carver.  “Honest, sister.  Even I miss you.”  He hitched a grin on his face, where it looked wrong, somehow; too wide, the teeth too even.  But she stared at them, fighting back false hope.  It was so hard.  

If she tilted her head, if she squinted, they didn’t look so pale; didn’t look so strange.  The color came back to Carver’s face.  Mum’s eyes looked clear.  Dad smiled, crows’ feet creasing at the corners of his eyes.

They didn’t look strange at all.  They just looked like her family.

“I’ve missed you all so much.”  They smiled, and she stepped closer.

He was back in Kirkwall.  He’d missed the shithole more than he’d let on, though if he was honest, he suspected a discerning listener just maybe might have picked up on it over the past few months.  He suddenly remembered all the times in the Inquisition he’d constantly mentioned Hawke and their friends, their adventures in the Hanged Man, stories from around the city, and he had to laugh.  It was obvious now.  

He’d been fucking homesick.  For Kirkwall!

Sure, it was good to be back, even if Lowtown was surprisingly empty this time of night.  Was it night, or was it a strange, shifting twilight?  The rebuilding was proceeding differently from how he had remembered.  He didn’t remember doorways opening from the second floor of some of the houses, for example, or windows set in the cobblestone ground.  He shrugged.  Maybe this would withstand an explosion a little better.

Streets soaked in blood, beggars with their throats ripped out, the roar of the abomination shattering the windows, a red sun, a fell sun --

No.  No, that wasn’t all Kirkwall was.  He tried to remember better times.  Happier times.  It’s a shithole, but it’s our shithole!  He tried to forget the backs of Hawke and Anders, leaving the city; tried to forget the smell of smoke, the hum of the lyrium shimmering from what had once been the Knight-Commander.

He shook his head, mouth narrowing in a hard line, and kept walking until he saw something better than old, dark memories.  The Hanged Man.  

Varric squinted up at the wooden man hanging from the roof; it looked different.  Smaller.  Sleeker.  It hadn’t been painted in gold and red before, either.

His hands curled into fists.  “Min?” he called hoarsely.  The wooden figure shimmered, then disappeared.  “Right,” he said.  “Okay, that seems normal.”

He shoved open the door and stepped inside.  The chairs were stacked on all the tables except one.  Hawke sat at the table, studying a mug of ale.

“Varric,” she said warmly.  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He pulled up the chair beside her, put his hand on hers.  “Min.  Do you know how good it is to see you?” he asked.  “I -- I’ve missed you.”

She grinned, winking at him, leaning into his touch.  “But I’ve been here the whole time.  Where have you been, you foolish dwarf?  It’s not like you to leave Kirkwall behind.”

Varric looked at her, feeling a little confused.  Hadn’t she been the one who left?  Or -- no, maybe he had it backwards.  It was hard to say.  He busied himself with watching two pints of ale appear, disappear, reappear on the table.  

He was here for something.  He tried to remember.  His next book was due, wasn’t it?  Damn publishers on his back.  With his free hand he tried to reach into his pocket for his pen and journal.  Something about them seemed important.  

“Something distracting you, love?” she asked, her expression sunny.  “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Of course,” said Varric.  “But I was supposed to do something.”

Hawke nodded, suddenly serious.  “I see.  You’ll do what you must, I suppose.”

Varric pulled out the journal and pen, and hesitantly pulled his hand away from hers.  “I’ll just be a moment,” he explained.  He gazed at the blank paper and set the pen to it.  But the words wouldn’t come.  “I don’t understand,” he said.  He closed his eyes, tried to remember.  The memory hit him like a blast.  

“I’ve with the Inquisition.  Corypheus -- he’s back.  I’m doing the noble thing and trying to stop the bastard.”  He gasped, remembering.  “We have to get you out of here!”

Her smile faded.  “I can’t leave, Varric.”  Her mouth quirked to one side, her lip trembling.  

He tried to write something; he wasn’t sure what.  He ripped the paper out of the book and let it float away, setting down his pen and turning to her.  He took her hands in his.  They were softer than he remembered, without the callouses he’d grown used to.

“Why can’t you leave?”

But she just stared into her drink, letting go of his hands.  Tears shone in her eyes. “You were too late,” she whispered.