#Post Trespasser Dorian

[larkoneironaut]

Magister Dorian Pavus is ready to see you now

[heliosisdrawing]

- Magister Dorian Pavus ⚜️

(circa 9:48 Dragon)

[snacobie]

wizard orb pondering

[hoiist]

♚

[chialattea]

My Inky pre-conclave + some doodles hehe

[fancytrinkets]

Dread

Trevelyan falls down stairs. A tiny, short Inquisitor-focused fanfic, written while I wait impatiently for Dreadwolf.

With his tunic half-open, Trevelyan was attempting to tie his laces and button his buttons as he raced downstairs. The coordination required was considerable, but every step of Skyhold was so familiar. He was certain he could do this with his eyes shut.

Overconfidence.

That was always the problem.

He made an ill-considered push to speed his progress, skipping several risers at the end. His boots lost purchase, his balance failed, and the floor rose up to hit him in the face.

Trevelyan sprawled out, groaning in pain on the cold flagstones. When the door to the stairwell opened, Josephine's gorgeous blue-trimmed shoes appeared at eye level. They were framed by the light, gleaming like a sacred artifact, like the holy shoes of Andraste herself.

That wasn't a thing. But the ache in his head made it hard to think otherwise. Why not sacred shoes, after all? Less grim than ashes, and all of it nonsense, most likely. He'd never been much good at faith, despite the title they'd given him.

"Inquisitor!"

Yes, that was it. Inquisitor Trevelyan, the Not Very Pious.

"Josie..." He tried to reply, but the words wouldn't come.

"How could you!?" Josephine sounded alarmed to see him, but also angry.

And that made sense. Just yesterday she'd reminded him about his important meeting with the Council of Heralds — a meeting he was about to be late for, hence all the racing downstairs. Her warning from yesterday came back to him, echoing loudly in his head — most likely because she was repeating it word for word.

"Have you forgotten what I told you? 'Do not be late. Your guests will take insult.' And so they have!"

"Oh, fuck," he said, but the words sounded strange on his tongue, garbled and thick. A tooth had come loose, and the salt metal taste of blood filled his mouth.

"You've ruined everything!" Josephine's voice grew shrill and angry. "You always do!"

Instead of helping him to his feet, she slammed the door shut. And his face hurt, yes, but the shame he felt was so much worse.

It all seemed so real — until the moment when everything stopped.

Trevelyan woke, his mouth dry and open. The pillow was wet beneath him, which meant he'd been drooling in his sleep. He was lying in the quiet darkness in a comfortable bed. The windows were open. He could hear the birds, and smell the salt air. It was almost dawn in Qarinus, and his husband Dorian lay sleeping beside him.

Several years had passed since anyone had called him Inquisitor. But the dreams were relentless lately, and they were all so cruel, filled with imagined episodes of his own incompetence. It almost felt as if the Fade had turned against him. And he wondered what, if anything, the new group of heroes and upstarts would be able to accomplish.

[catnip2554]

visit House Trevelyan /w Dorian (Post Trespasser)

yay ! he happy !

[spainkitty]

The Lavellan Clan's Fate

tw: grief and death

Lanil's Pieces Masterlist

Ambassador Montilyet,

I regret that my help for your Dalish allies came too late to be of use. By the time my forces arrived in the area, the Dalish had been scattered or killed, and there seems little left of their clan.

I understand your Inquisitor must be feeling the loss of her clan. Please accept these gifts and my promise of future help whenever it is necessary.

Yours,

Duke Antoine of Wycome

One hundred gold.

It sat in a pouch with the duke's wax crest sealing it closed. One hundred gold in exchange for however many dozens of lives that had made up Clan Lavellan. 

The paper in Lavellan's hand trembled. Crinkled as she tried not to curl her fingers into a fist. Tried desperately not to scream. To light it on fire. To throw it on the ground and shred it beneath her boot.

All of them. People she would never see again. People she couldn't even remember. A Keeper that had called her da'len and asked for her help.

She had failed them. She failed them all. Because she'd decided to play politics. She should've sent Leliana's spies to slit their throats while they slept. Sent Cullen's troops to grind them beneath the Inquisition's heel and leave their pieces for the wolves.

The room around her was too silent, but she wasn't alone. They were staring at her, or maybe staring at their hands, but she felt the weight of their attention. What would their tame Dalish mage do now? Lavellan slammed the missive on the table.

"Tell him whatever you want and sign my name if you must," she hissed between her teeth.

"And the gold--" Josephine began, halting and quiet. Too fucking quiet.

Lavallen raised her head to meet those soft, beautiful eyes filled with sympathy and pity.

"Keep it yourself. Throw it down a hole. Melt it into nothing. Shove it down someone's throat. Preferably the duke's," Lavallen snarled. Josephine winced. "I don't care. I don't want to see it or hear about it. I definitely don't want anything to do with that simpering moron's money. My People are not worth one hundred pieces of his useless fucking gold!"

She spun on her heel and stormed out. Stay any longer and she'd lash out harder, tear into Josephine until the guiltless, kind woman either cried or despised her. Fuck, she probably already did. Blaming the duke for being useless? She was useless. She failed them and she couldn’t even--

She strode through the hall. People called out, bowed, whispered her titles. She thought she heard Varric, his concerned call of "Shortie" at her back. But she didn't so much as slow. She walked faster. Faster. Plowed past the crowd that milled at the gates. The guards bowed to her there, too.

The minute her boots crunched in snow, she ran. Ran so fast, her shoulders hit tree trunks and pine needles whipped at her face. Her eyes stung and her breath heaved past her quivering lips. Finally, when she couldn't run anymore, she fell against a tree, gripped it tight as if it could hold her back, and screamed into the rough bark that scraped her face.

The scream broke off into sobs. Rocking her whole body with them. She slid down, uncaring that her nice silk tunic snagged, that the thin skin near her eye was probably bleeding and full of stinging sap.

They were dead. All of them dead. She didn't even know their names. Their faces. Most of her grief was for herself, because she didn't have enough of them inside her to grieve. She was empty. Shallow. A blank slate. And her only connection to them was a couple pieces of paper saying how proud those faceless strangers were of her. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to her, but it wasn't fair to them more. How could she mourn them, avenge them, make them proud? She didn't even love them, not truly, not with her entire heart, not as her family.

All she had left was anger while she grieved an idea of people and a home it was more and more likely she'd never remember.

It took a long time for the wailing to end. To run out of tears and breath and selfish guilt. She curled under the tree with her back to the trunk, knees up to her chin, arms tight around her shins, and shuddered and shook her way into control. She couldn't go back until she could apologize for her outburst, then tell Josephine that she hadn't deserved to be at the other end of that tirade. Could Josephine forgive her for the slip?

Just a few more minutes, a few more deep breaths.

...

In the war room, the door had swung shut behind Lavellan's back and all three of them winced. Josephine dropped her tablet and pressed her hands to her face.

"This is my fault! She is right to be so angry! I shouldn't have pressed her--"

"She made the choice and we all agreed on it. It seemed like a good idea at the time," Leliana interrupted. Josephine shook her head.

"I failed her. I failed the Herald. I must take accountability for what I've done," Josephine whispered, voice shaking.

"The only one who failed was this Duke of Wycome," Cullen disagreed, harsh and furious. He punched the table and the map markers rattled. "How well connected to the Inquisition is he?"

"Not... well. Formalities, a few encouraging missives, donations of... of gold." Josephine inhaled unsteadily and they all stared at the pouch on the table.

"Then, we must investigate those so-called bandits. If they're smart, they will be long gone, but my people are smarter. They'll find a trail," Leliana said fiercely.

"The question is why. Why would bandits destroy an entire clan? What do they gain? How was it even possible?" Cullen exclaimed. "I know how Dalish fight and they were on their territory, defending their own. It doesn't make sense."

"All excellent points both of you made weeks ago that I encouraged Her Worship to ignore. I put her trust in a stranger who obviously did not have their best interests at heart," Josephine said, finally finding a sliver of anger in the midst of her guilt. At herself, at the Duke. It didn't matter. It stiffened her resolve and her eyes flashed. "I will do anything to help. I must fix what I can, even if it is only getting justice for them."

"Josie, you must not let this be personal," Leliana warned.

"Of course it is personal! Her entire clan is dead! Massacred in their home!" Josephine cried. "Duke Antoine is obviously a simpering moron, but I have other contacts that I trust wholeheartedly, who have proven themselves to us. I will see to it."

"I will make sure my people get their part done as well. As quickly and ruthlessly as possible. Whoever is behind this, they will not get away with it," Leliana vowed.

"Lavellan..." Cullen said quietly. The women glanced at him. "She should not be told. Not until we know more of what is happening in Wycome. I don't want her to..." He trailed off awkwardly.

"Of course, Commander. We three will see it done. When we have answers for her, then the Herald will know."

"It won't bring them back, but perhaps she will find peace in the answers," Cullen agreed heavily. He looked up at Leliana. "I will tell our troops near Wycome to stand ready. I don't think the bloodshed is over."

"Neither do I."

"We must make sure to protect as many as we can," Josephine said.

Silence fell again. All three were drawn to the pouch still on the table.

"I personally liked the idea of shoving it down the duke's throat," Leliana said at last.

"It seems the most poetic," Josephine said. Then, sighed. "Unfortunately, we have no proof yet that he isn't just incompetent."

"Throw it down a hole." Cullen's lip curled in distaste and he left the room.

"I'll find a hole, I suppose," Josephine said. Leliana laid a hand on her arm, squeezed gently, then followed after Cullen. Josephine grimaced lightly and picked up the pouch with the very tips of two fingers.

...

The guards at the gates bowed again when Lavellan returned. She lifted a hand, actually acknowledging them, but made sure to keep her face in shadow. It was well and truly dark now, not a trace of sunset left, a few torches guttering in their sconces to light the passage, so it wasn't difficult.

"Commander left orders to make sure the gates stayed open until you returned, Your Worship. Should we close them for the night or will you leave again?" one guard asked.

Something squeezed in her chest at the idea of Cullen coming down here to make the order himself, maybe looking out to see if she was already on her way back. But he'd probably only sent a message. He had more important things to do than worry over a grown woman who'd thrown a temper tantrum like a child.

"I won't be going back out. And... um," she inhaled and tried to smile. "Thank you."

Both guards bowed again, somehow even more upright and square-shouldered than before.

"Of course, Your Worship."

She walked... more like trudged forward as the porcullis rattled downward. Hopefully Josephine was in just as concerned a mood as Cullen. Apologies were not Lavellan's forte and her tongue was already in knots.

"Lethallan."

"Shortie!"

She glanced up, startled, as Varric and Solas rushed towards her. Even worse, Cassandra and Dorian were right behind them. All of them had matching worried expressions, and Cassandra looked downright disheveled. Some random courtier behind her looked even more disheveled and a little terrified.

Lavellan forced that smile back on her face.

"What's this? Roughing up poor strangers just because I went on a walk?"

"A walk? Shortie, you've been gone the entire day," Varric said. Lavellan grimaced. So he had seen her leave the hall that morning.

"Lane, you didn't even wear a coat and you're soaked to your waist," Dorian added.

She glanced down and realized how filthy and damp and rough her clothes were. And yes, her breeches were all but soaked through.

"There was... snow." She suddenly shivered. She hadn't felt cold at all until Dorian had pointed it out.

"Really, Inquisitor, you must take care of yourself," Cassandra scolded.

Cool, smooth fingers under her chin lifted her face and she met Solas' dark grey eyes. He frowned, his gaze flicking to the side of her face.

"Did you also walk into a tree?" he asked gently. "Perhaps several trees."

"Ha. Funny. As a matter of fact, yes. It's dark at night, you see, and I didn't see them."

"You didn't see the trees... as you walked straight into them? Several times?" Varric reiterated slowly.

"Yes. It was dark."

"Darling, that is the worst lie I've ever heard."

"I can do better. How about I saw a tree and decided it'd be really fun to run headfirst into it. Or I punched a tree and it decided to punch back."

"Or you tell us why you're lying at all?" Varric interrupted as she was getting going. She grimaced.

Blessedly cool magic stroked the side of her face and she tried to jerk away. Solas merely reeled her back in with one hand and kept his other hand on her face. She flushed in embarrassment. She felt like a naughty child all over again.

"It's just a scratch--"

"It's several scratches and they're filthy. So hold still while I do this," Solas admonished. Lavellan scowled. "Stop doing that with your face. That's moving, lethallan."

She scowled harder and he sighed.

"Must you keep us in suspense like this? Surely you can allow us to help you," Cassandra demanded.

Lavellan tried to shake her head; Solas tsked loudly.

"I will tie your head still if I must."

"Perhaps not in the middle of a crowd of people. Oh, look at that, more people are coming to see the fuss. Perhaps the gossip will no longer involve you and I, darling."

"Fine. Fine! We can... we can go somewhere... somewhere private. You'll find out anyway," Lavellan muttered. The icy balm ebbed away.

"We can go to the Rotunda. It has a small measure of privacy," Solas offered. His fingertips tapped her skin. "You made it difficult, but I finished here."

"Because it was a scratch. A few scratches." She shivered again as wind blew through the passageway. Funnily enough, she was warmer while Solas was using his chill-touched magic.

"All right, Shortie. Let's get you outta the wind." Varric set a hand on her elbow and guided her forward. The heat of his big hand warmed her through the thin silk and tension leaked slowly from her.

It was them. It would be all right.

Dorian, with all his charming pomp, called for tea the moment they entered the hall. Solas had barely settled a threadbare coat around her shivering shoulders when an elf woman appeared, arms laden with a tray filled with much more than tea. Biscuits, a platter of fruit and cheese, several scones glittering with sugar, and a very large pot of tea crowded for space on the tray that was probably heavier than the woman carrying it. Lavallen blinked at the tray, then at the woman, utterly speechless.

"The Herald means thank you. Absolutely lovely assortment. Thank you, my dear." The elven woman blushed, bowed, and hurried from the room. Dorian poured Lavellan the tea himself, adding a generous helping of sugar, before setting it into her numb hands. "Sugar helps get through bad news, darling."

"It's definitely bad news if you went out and got into fights with trees," Varric said, pulling up one of Solas' few chairs.

Lavellan sipped at the tea, trying not to grimace at how sweet it was, but sipped again. Sugar really was helping, even if she hated it.

"Elves. They have... we have some sort of..." Lavellan tightened her grip around the cup, letting the tea burn her palms through the delicate porcelain. "Prayers, a ritual... for the dead. Don't we? I... don't remember." She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.

Her four friends exchanged heavy glances.

"Yes. I could help you remember it," Solas offered finally.

"Shortie, who died?" Varric asked, that large, warm hand on her arm again.

"Varric, that is... there must've been a kinder way to--" Cassandra stumbled over her words, offended at his lack of tact.

Lavellan laughed, harsh and cracked. "Kinder way to ask? In what world is there a kinder way to ask? It's still the same answer." She got to her feet, stared down at the tea, and then dropped it carelessly to the table. It rattled and rocked and dark liquid spilled over its rim to drip sluggishly to the floor. "Everyone. Every single Lavellan clan member is dead. And if they aren't dead, they're scattered like leaves thousands of leagues away. And I'm here! I should have gone home. I should have been there."

She panted, chest shuddering unevenly with each breath, hands curled into fists.

"Da'len--"

"No! Don't." She skittered away before Solas could touch her. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth and stared at the slowly growing puddle. Inhale. Exhale. Control. "The Keeper. They called me... I don't even know if they're a man or a woman, I don't remember them. But they called me da'len, so just... just not today. Not now."

"I understand."

He sounded so... so patient. Her eyes shuttered closed.

"What do you need, Lavellan? Is there anything that we can do?" Cassandra asked. So gently. That blunt kindness that was so particular to her.

"We can be there, when Chuckles here helps you...?" Varric offered.

Lavellan nodded. "But not today."

The idea of letting go of this grief, this rage, in any way; she wasn't ready for that. She wasn't ready to say good-bye. She didn't know how she'd get through it, how much she'd be able to hold down, hold back, while they stood with her. While Solas spoke words she should know to help their spirits travel to the Beyond without her. When the screaming in her head stopped, she'd be ready. But not yet.

"Maybe... we could talk about something else. Anything else," Lavellan suggested quietly.

There was an awkward shifting. And then,

"I'm thinking about naming your story, The Worst Misadventures of Thedas and the Unlucky Son of Bitch that Survived Them."

"Oh, Varric," Cassandra groaned. "I thought you said you weren't writing it?"

"Isn't Worst Misadventures rather redundant?" Solas asked.

"Everyone's a critic. And Seeker, I just said you wouldn't be in it."

Lavellan chuckled. The coat she'd dropped fell around her shoulders. She looked up, and found Dorian smiling gently down at her. The other three bickered over Varric's book title and doled out some food while he wrapped the coat more tightly.

"You were shivering again."

"Oh." She glanced towards the puddle of tea. "I made a mess."

"Solas will survive."

"I yelled at Josephine."

"She most likely already understands."

"I should apologize."

"Apologize? You? Darling, all of Thedas will feel the earth shift. The mountains will crumble and the oceans will boil."

"I'm not that bad." She scowled at him.

"No, but it's nice to have that familiar face back."

She scowled harder, but her lips twitched. He made to move away, his arm so casually slung around her about to leave.

"You could--" He stilled, an eyebrow rising. "We could stand. Like this. For a minute." Her fingers kneaded at linen as she stared at Dorian's chin, face heating.

"Yes, we could." His arm tucked a little more firmly around her.

Slowly, hesitating for every incremental inch, Lavellan lowered her head to his shoulder. It was the lightest pressure, her whole body stiff and ready to flee, until he squeezed her reassuringly. She slumped against his side and watched Cassandra, Solas, and Varric heatedly argue about tea. She was pretty sure Varric was only agreeing with Solas as eloquently as he was to fluster Cassandra. She smiled.

[afieldinengland]

bluebeard, edna st. vincent millay | straight on till morning (1972), dir. peter collinson | bluebeard, charles perrault

[rosella-writes]

Sounds tittered around Tulin, as if the air was full of clicking bugs. He shrank, smaller and smaller, trying to escape them and the crawling feeling that spread over imagined skin. But those eyes above him kept staring down, down, through him and its mouth was so wide —

“Please don’t eat me!” he finally cried out, covering his face with his hands.

The deep sound of it rolled over him before the words did. “Now, now, why would I do that?”

“B-because…” Tulin hesitated. “Cuz you’re bigger than me?”

“Da’len,” chuckled the voice, “what makes you think I need to eat?”

While Virelan Lavellan and Dorian travel far from home, Solas’s son finds himself in the clutches of a creature in the Fade.

Read from the beginning.

[hoiist]

You must fix your heart And you must build an altar where it rests When the storm decays and the sky it rains Let it flood, let it flood, let it wash away

[suppenzeit]

fun fact i chose ace of swords and the moon for hukkas two tarot cards. i was also considering death for his first card but dorians second card is so death-coded that it would've bothered me to have duplicates.

[fancytrinkets]

Bits & Pieces

Little ficlets, set before Dreadwolf, in which former Inquisitor Trevelyan is now living in Minrathous with Dorian. (The ficlet below continues a subplot where Trevelyan's ex-boyfriend Marcus from the Ostwick Circle, formerly Tranquil and now unexpectedly cured, has been staying with them as he recovers.) Link to the full collection of Dorian/Inquisitor ficlets.

The guest room where Marcus slept had been transformed. Plants spilled their greenery over every surface. The floor was covered by pots and planters. As if that weren't enough, so were the dressers, the corner shelves, and the chair by the window.

"A bit excessive, in my opinion."

That had been Dorian's only comment thus far. The plants were too much, but he hadn't made an issue of it. Of late, he had neither the time nor the stamina to spare for domestic squabbles. For weeks he'd been overly preoccupied by his work in the senate. Of course, it didn't help that nearly two months had gone by and he still wasn't sure how to properly relate to Marcus, the uninvited interloper in his household. So he left the burgeoning matter of indoor flora entirely to his husband.

Galen seemed to think it was a good idea — an aid to recovery, he called it, and promised it would hasten the eventual departure of their convalescent guest. Dorian remained unconvinced, and this evening he could take no more of it.

"That man is broken. He needs some other sort of arrangement than whatever this is."

"Probably," Galen agreed, "but I'm not turning him out and neither are you."

He summoned his best Inquisitorial voice to make that point clear. And while that was incredibly infuriating, it was also ridiculously arousing — and so the argument was set aside, abandoned in favor of more pleasurable activities between the two of them. Lying in bed afterwards — with all the worst of his annoyance and tension having been siphoned off and swallowed down by his husband — Dorian felt relaxed enough to offer a piece of unsolicited advice.

"His appetite is better than it was. He almost looks properly fed. We ought to consider that his libido will return — if it hasn't already. He'll need companionship."

"Companionship?" Galen sounded shocked to hear it.

"Don't you think so?"

"I'm not going to drop him off at a brothel, Dorian. If that's what you're suggesting."

A brothel wasn't at all what Dorian had in mind. "Why not host a small dinner party?" he asked. "We'll introduce him to a few of our finest friends and associates." Mostly, he was curious to see if Marcus and Rilienus might find each other interesting. It would make such a good story if they did hit it off.

But Galen wasn't ready to hear it.

"Broken," he said, sounding both annoyed and accusatory. "That's what you just called him. And now you think he's ready for entertaining at dinner and welcoming gentlemen back to his room?"

"Well, sex always helped me sort things out when I was a broken mess."

Galen sighed. "I think the plants are helping. That's always been his area of expertise."

"Perhaps you don't want him to find other men." It was simply an observation. Dorian was trying to be helpful here. Nothing more.

"Perhaps you want to hurry him along in this regard," Galen said. "For some unexamined emotional reason of your own."

Dorian rolled his eyes. He was well aware of his own jealousy. It wasn't entirely��unexamined. "He's fixated on you." Dorian pointed it out in a reasonable and helpful fashion.

"From twenty years ago!" Galen objected. "I'm not that person now and we all know it. The only thing he feels when he looks at me now is rage."

"Galen." Dorian chuckled, genuinely amused by that assertion. "I don't think so."

"Really?"

"You don't see it?" How could he not see it? How could he possibly miss the way Marcus looked at him sometimes — with trembling lips and eyes full of uncontained longing.

"No, I mean–" Galen sighed in frustration. "Yes, all right then. We can introduce him to some friends of ours. Gently though. Not all at once. He'll find it overwhelming."

That was not the response that Dorian had expected. More defensiveness, perhaps? More strident objections? Yes, in fact, he'd been bracing himself for a flurry of those.

"You honestly don't want him anymore, do you?" Dorian asked.

And that was a strange question to consider. To accompany it, he felt a twinge of some unpleasant emotion. He'd first thought it to be jealousy, but maybe it wasn't. Perhaps it was something more akin to disappointment. But why would that be? Dorian tried to puzzle it out, but the answer wouldn't come. All he could do was repeat himself, his voice sounding flat and dull even to his own ears.

"You don't want him."

"Honestly?" Galen propped himself up on his scarred left elbow, lifting his head from the pillow to gain the higher ground. "You want to have this conversation now? We can wait, if you like. Maybe when things are less stressful with the Magisterium–"

"A glorious day that will never happen," Dorian said. "Best get it over with now."

"Right then." Galen paused, brow furrowing, as if it took him a visible effort gather his thoughts.

Their discarded clothing was scattered across the bedroom floor. Dorian wanted to sort it all neatly, to fold it, and put it away. Wait, he wanted to say, don't tell me. You're right that I'd rather not know. But his own curiosity kept him rooted in place.

"Here's how it is," Galen said. "I can feel it here." He touched his chest. "Little sparks of attraction sometimes. And I've thought about sex — a mental image here and there during lessons. But that's it. There's no version of him that's matured for twenty years along with me — emotionally speaking, of course. There's nothing we could bring to each other now that wouldn't be fraught and painful."

Dorian frowned to hear it. A mix of jealousy and disappointment churned within him.

"If it were me," Dorian said, "I'd want you to risk everything to win me back."

Galen nodded.

"If it were you, I would."

Stunned speechless, Dorian couldn't tell if his confession was something to welcome, or else condemn as hypocritical. Lacking a clear sense of what to do with it, he opted for a clarifying question.

"Oh?" he asked. "And where's the difference?"

"The difference," Galen said, "is that you wouldn't have left me the same way he did."

Dorian sighed. The jealousy slipped from his grasp like a bottle he'd grabbed with spilled oil on his fingers. "You're right about that. I would have fought against Tranquility with all the strength I had."

"I know it," Galen said. "And I know it's not Marcus's fault that he didn't. But it changed me."

"I understand it."

Dorian could feel himself relaxing. He'd had a long day, after all. Another exhausting day of politics would rear its ugly head tomorrow, but for now, he could rest, reassured by the comforting presence of his husband beside him.

But then, he remembered the guest room, overwhelmed by a chaotic mess of plantlife — a trivial remedy that wasn't doing nearly enough to soothe the room's sullen occupant.

"Maybe not a dinner party yet," he said. "But at least he ought to meet Rilienus."

[catnip2554]

[broodwolf221]

so we were talking recently about how solas is much better at keeping his secrets than the other characters, and we know bull is one of the most perceptive characters. you've travelled with bull & solas much more than i have, so im curious about your thoughts: do you think bull had any idea? he's able to weed out qunari agents, but do you think he noticed solas'? how do you think bull feels about it, post-trespasser?

rubs my little hands together ty for this, im gonna have funnnn

bull 100% knew something was up. these two bits of banter really seal it for me:

Iron Bull: You've got an odd style, Solas. Your spells are a bit different from the Circle mages or the Vints.

Solas: That comes from being self-taught.

Solas: I discovered most magic on my own, or learned it from my journeys in the Fade.

Iron Bull: I've seen self-taught warriors. Even the good ones have something awkward in their style, something that clunks.

Iron Bull: I don't get that from you. Maybe magic is different.

Solas: Or without magical training, you cannot notice the parts of my magic that "clunk".

Iron Bull: You're not as flashy as most mages, Solas.

Iron Bull: The Tevinter mages I fought in Seheron tried to scare us with what they could do.

Iron Bull: Dorian looks like he's waiting for applause after every spell.

Iron Bull: Vivienne has this little swagger, like she knows she's the most dangerous thing in the room.

Iron Bull: Not the quiet elven mage, though. No frills. Nothing to give you away. Half our targets never even see you coming.

Solas: I shall take that as a compliment.

Iron Bull: If you like.

first, bull does know magic - he gives solas an out, "maybe magic is different," but I think it's just that: an out. one of his first comments is about how cullen is putting his templar training to good use, helping the inquisition soldiers defend against magic, just like bull himself was taught to. he's fought countless mages. solas is dissembling and bull lets him, but I don't buy for a second that he's genuinely fooled

and then the flashy comment. "not the quiet elven mage." bull is so observant... arguably moreso than solas:

Solas: Hmm.

Iron Bull: Something wrong?

Solas: A man in the last village. Something in his manner troubles me.

Iron Bull: The baker with the squint and the red nose? Yeah, spy. Probably Venatori.

Solas: Why do you say that?

Iron Bull: He watched all of us. A normal guy would focus on you, because staff, or me, because horns.

Iron Bull: He had a dagger up his sleeve, which no baker needs, and the knot on his apron was tied Tevinter style.

Iron Bull: I sent a message to Red. She'll investigate.

Solas: You are more observant than you appear.

Iron Bull: The good spies usually are.

so a) he notices everything weird about solas, everything that doesn't match up, and b) he doesn't show what he knows. that's his training coming into play.

I don't think he really knew who or what solas was, though. my suspicion is that he knew solas had his own agenda from the beginning, and like most everyone, knew that solas was keeping his own past a big, deeply-guarded secret. but bull isn't the type to ask direct questions in order to learn, so I think that when he's talking to solas about these things, he's watching him, too. noting the subtle shifts that solas tries to hide or isn't even aware of. hell, bull would learn something from solas having no change of expression or tone, forcibly even and level - because at that point, it's artificial.

so i think throughout the game as they travel, bull is slowly but steadily realizing how much more there is to solas' story. at the same time, he knows that no one is quite as good at keeping secrets as he is, so he wouldn't want to... ask anything too direct, yknow? everything is dancing around the edges of the truth and seeing what comes up, and that is information, usually information the other person didn't mean to give away

varric does this too imo, but not to the extent or with the skill that bull does, nor with the ability to hide everything he knows so, so well.

overall, i think bull was always watching solas. bull's really thrown in with the inquisition, particularly if he becomes tal-vashoth - because at that point, he doesn't really have anywhere to return to (which is tragic). so outside of the advisors and the inquisitor, i think bull is actually one of the inquisition's most steadfast members. but throughout the game, solas does help. a lot. which bull sees, too. hell, solas helps him after he becomes tal-vashoth, it's a really fun banter arc.

bull is suspicious, wary, and watchful, but throughout the main game, solas hasn't done anything overtly hostile or counter to the inquisition's purpose. and ultimately, solas is sorta necessary - he's the only one who can help the inquisitor with the anchor.

as for solas' agents? i'm not sure... but i'm also not sure how many of them there are. if there were a fair number, i think bull would have picked up on it over time, particularly because he tends to hit on the servants more - like, he'd notice them as individuals if for no other reason than his own interest, but also his training comes into play here. but if there were only a few? i think they could've slipped under his radar, particularly because the inquisition grows so quickly that even bull would end up hard-pressed to stay familiar with every single face in the inquisition.

even wrt the qunari agents, it's because he noticed a change in the duty roster and followed up on that, not because he saw them and just Knew from their behavior. he might've been able to suss them out that way had they crossed paths, but crossing paths wasn't guaranteed - at least, not until they tried to kill him. and frankly, i don't think solas would be that sloppy. his agents probably are deeply embedded in the inquisition because so is he. he would know when to have them come in and how they could blend in, even become functioning members of the inquisition, particularly because the inquisition's goals are not directly counter to solas' goals.

post-trespasser? i've written this and in my fic, bull really wasn't surprised at all. i think he would've been if solas got outed as fen'harel/the dread wolf mid-game, but the events of trespasser shed so much light on the reality of the situation, and i don't think bull would've traveled that whole path and not begun to reach that conclusion. solas disappeared for two years ago after fighting corypheus, and now they're mysteriously drawn into an eluvian - elven magic - and pulled through an intricate web of information that exposes the qunari plot?

yeah, i think bull had an inkling solas was behind it at or near the start of their journey through the eluvians.

and there's more, like solas' constant, intense hatred of the qun stripping people of choice - but then, there's a bit of truth in people hating others the most for things they hate about themselves. and bull would know about that, of course. solas does the same thing to blackwall when he's revealed as thom, an ironic judgement considering his own lies, but he hates that he has to lie.

i think for bull, post-trespasser he'd feel... not happy about the situation of course, but sort of satisfied. the pieces finally fell into place, all of them.