#Varric is impressed by the intrigue

[trans-ruffboi]

you've heard of MotA damsel kink Anders. now get ready for Gamlen's Greatest Treasure damsel kink Anders

[catyo90]

Romance Scenes I Imagine for Veilguard Companions

Davrin: Outside Rook sees him with his griffin Assan, training it and nurturing it, As they speak he reveals how he found and/or tamed her. Rook asks if how big Assan will get and plays fetch with her. Inbetween throws Rook and Davrin flirt with each other and the last throw causes Assan to jump on Davrin while Rook laughs and helps him up, with a small pause inbetween.

Taash: Like other qunari, trains hard and in need of practice asks Rook to join her for a sparing match, here the player may decide to let her win and go easy on her, or the opposite. Who ever loses laughs it off and the winner comments how cute the loser looks when they laugh, after the loser gets up and says they should do this again sometime. The winner hates to see them leave but loves watching them go.

Harding: In the nearby lounge, Rook asks about her past with the Inquisition, She tells how she was there in the final fight against Corypheus and how Solas was good/bad. (Depends on Inquistors view). She then shows them all the corresponding letters between her and the past companions, with some hidden mentions of past relationships when Rook asks if she ever was with anyone else. She claims that its a tale for another time. After that Rook asks to keep her company while she writes responses, where Harding smiles.

Lucanis: Rook finds him in the Library (early morning or late night.) overlooking old contracts on multiple mages and others in need of a quick end. He sits at a desk with a cup of coffee and kettle. Rook asks if he ever regrets taking a life, (answers depends on class) where he explains that contracts are like a game of Wicked Grace, some cheat the deck and win, others play honest and lose. He tries to change the subject, he seems tired where he sips his coffee and offers Rook a cup to enjoy with him.

Bellara: In the wave of a sudden inspiration to create, Rook finds her tinkering with fade magic, where a small minor explosion of colorful smoke surrounds the room, Bellara walks through now covered in rainbow hue, she snorts and laughs as she pulls Rook into the room showing a new update to her gauntlet. Rook impressed and scare-roused from her intrigue offers any help, (all classes as well get blasted with another cloud of color.) Bellara laughs at Rook and wipes away the stains on their face before punching Rooks arm laughing again at their wacky experiments and conclusion.

Emmerich: In the study Rook walks in on him using magic on Manfred, who makes puns about the situation and after noticing you gets distracted causing the spell to cause Manfred to fall into a pile of bones, Emmerich, slightly annoyed and now has to deal with putting him back together properly, basically volunteers you to help each time you pick up a bone, Manfred jokes claiming its in the wrong spot. While this happens Emmerich gets to know you better and says how your not entirely hopeless as Manfred cackles laughing with a arm around saying if he wants your attention he needs to be nicer.

Neve: Rook sees her in the main chamber of the base, smoking on her pipe with her hair down reading a particular book, Hard in Hightown. She claims how the way Varric writes is quite good but romanticized as the true art of finding the culprit is scientific, not emotional. (LIke Sherlock Holmes) How the art of deduction can change the life of everyone, but it can be messy at times as well. Where we see her cross her protetic leg under her other. She is unsure whether to show it or not. After all the incident was not light on the mind. Rook eases her mind in telling her that she doesn't have to talk about it until she is ready.

[persephoneggsy]

13 and 24 for Marian/Sebastian, 6 and 23 for Hildegard/Cullen, please!

Sebastian + Marian

13. How do they express love for each other? Do they have compatible love languages?

Sebastian's very much a verbal affirmation kind of guy. He loves to just hold Marian close and wax poetic about how much he adores her. She likes to tease that he should be a romance writer and put Varric out of business. Except not really, because his sappy words are for her and her alone.

Marian, on the other hand, enjoys simply being with him. Even if they're just taking a walk together, or relaxing by the fireplace, or doing work in the study, she just wants to be around him (and let him know that she's there for him, too). There's a degree of physical affection, too, if only because she knows the man is touch starved as hell. She likes letting him rest his head on her lap and combing her fingers through his hair.

24. How did they fall for each other?

For Marian, it was infatuation at first sight. Just look at Sebastian's introduction; can you blame her? A handsome, passionate young man swearing vengeance just like a character out of those romance tales she pretended to not like. Then they kept running into each other, and his relentless optimism and determination to be kind despite how shitty his lot in life was started to chip away at her cynical exterior. It finally set it for her when he revealed that he lit a candle in the chantry for Bethany. He never met her sister, he had no reason to do it; he simply thought it was a kind thing to do. How could she not fall for that?

For Sebastian, I think he was similarly immediately intrigued by Marian, this mysterious mercenary who avenged his family's murders. She has such a cold, cruel reputation, and yet all he ever sees her do is help people. She could just as easily say no to everyone, and live the good life off the wealth she acquired in the Deep Roads, but she continues to go out into the world and make a difference, whether it was her intention or not, and he admires that. He falls much more slowly, but surely. It's not until he almost loses her to the Arishok that he realizes he can't live without her.

Hildegarde + Cullen

6. Do they have pet names for each other? Do they like them?

When in public, they refer to each other by their titles. In private, Cullen will either use just the shortened version of her name, "Hilde", or "Snowdrop". The latter came about due to Hildegarde's white hair, and the fact that she is just wild about snow (seriously, red lyrium aside, she loved Emprise du Lion). Later he looked up the flower symbolism for snowdrops -- new beginnings, hope, overcoming challenges -- and decided that yes, the name suited her perfectly.

Hildegarde was too shy to give Cullen a pet name at first, even when they began properly courting, but one afternoon as she was dozing off she called him "Löwe", or lion in German (whatever the Thedas version of German is). It sort of sounds like "lover" if you're not listening too hard, so that's what he assumed she meant until she told him its actual meaning much later.

23. What was their first impression of each other?

She actually didn't mind that he was a templar, or former templar; frankly, all she saw at first was yet another person who was trying to make order from the chaos, like Cassandra and Leliana. When they had their first proper conversation in Haven, she appreciated his straight-to-business approach and was grateful to have a competent military leader. And if she thought privately that he was rather handsome, well, that would be her business.

As for Cullen, he was a bit... concerned. Not necessarily because she was a mage, though that was a factor (to his own chagrin). She just seemed so... mousy. Timid. Insecure. How could such a woman be the Herald of Andraste? Then, at their first conversation, he learned that while she was terrified, she was still determined to help, and his respect for her grew.

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

For your Hawkes for the DA Ask Meme: Essentials 4, Life 9, Party 6.

[ask game]

Heya, thank you for the ask! <33

Essentials 4. What is their moral alignment?

Mmh i wanna say neutral good for both (?). Tho Liam leans more neutral while Lilian leans more chaotic

Life 9. What do they do with their free time? Do they have any vices?

Liam: He likes being with friends and he likes keeping his hands busy, so he's probably doing one or the other or both. At the Hanged Man losing at playing cards, at Merrill's house fixing the roof, taking a long jog with Skippy, stuff like that. Something he keeps to himself: dancing lessons with Fenris xd. "Lessons" meaning i am interpreting that one jokey "i do choreos in my mansion" banter as 'Fenris can and does dance' bc i think it's funny. Liam is awful at it and it's not serious practice, but it's a silly bonding activity & also good workout lol.

Lilian: She also likes being social, but while Liam needs specific company Lilian needs people. She likes being in a crowd, and likes being somewhere with a lot of energy (sometimes anyway). Would love ball sports and/or martial arts in a Modern AU lol, but as it is she enjoys working out and spanking. Also swimming! Which is ironically hard to do in Kirkwall despite it being a port city. Writing is somewhat of a guilty pleasure; not in a "nobody can find out" way, but a "under no circumstances is Varric allowed to get his hands on this" way.

Companions 6. Do they have a love interest? How did their relationship start?

Liam: The beginning interest (in general, not romantic) sparked early; Fenris made a strong first impression that left Liam mighty intrigued, and Fenris was impressed by the way Liam handled the job. They were careful around each other at first cos of Fenris' initial hostility towards Bethany and mages in general, but once it was clear that they got along fine they both relaxed and started getting along really well. In regards to romance Liam and Fenris took it veeery slow, but they did establish mutual interest early on, so it was a very deliberate slow burn.

Lilian: Such a trainwreck lmao. She and Isabela hit it off pretty early, and quickly established a fwb relationship, but they are both horrible at managing their emotional attachment so it took them A W h i l e to get anywhere gdkdj. Isabela was aware of developing feelings earlier, Lilian eventually had an "oh." moment, but they both did their best to ignore any and all romantic feelings until after they had the Arishok drama sorted out. Once Bela admitted to it though, Lilian did too

[theheraldsrest]

“Companions react to a Blind Inquisitor”

Thank you for the ask anon! It’s interesting to think about this, like how do you know what’s around you? The sensor that’s just embedded into all inquisitors? A partner in crime? A DOG??? Maybe there’s a magical means to it, some way to give you “sight” or an enhancement to all of your other senses? So many ideas!

-LordLex

Cullen

How??? Are you doing anything??? How is this possible??? He’s completely flabbergasted and impressed. Tries to help but also doesn’t know if you want to do things independently. He didn’t even know you were blind until you asked him to move one of the pieces to a certain spot on the map even though it was right next to you. Maker, did he feel like an idiot when he pointed this out and the other two said you were blind. But… you always seem to know where you’re going? And what was around you, other than the times you’ve seemed to trip over some small things that were quite obv- oh. OHHHHHHH. They will never let him live that down. On a side note, he finds himself intrigued on how you fight and know where your enemies are. Also, how in the world have you not gotten lost out there?

Josephine

    She is very curious on how you’re able to move around and fight while also interacting with things. If you’re comfortable with it, she’d like to sit down and actually hear about how it came to be or how you grew to overcome it. If not, then that’s ok, she respects that. She tries to contain her laughter when you speak to some of the nobles and point out to them that, you may be blind, but even you can tell when something looks horrendous. Though she does act like a very worried mother when it comes to you. She insists on someone going with you to certain areas in case there’s a possible dangerous or hazardous bit that might be out of your range. Hey, some people get themselves very injured even with sight. Oh god, Josey just realized: why did they give you the room in the tower? 

Leliana

    Color her impressed. She’s taken aback on the first time meeting you because “They’re blind! How do you expect them to have killed Justinia?” She quickly understands how when she sees you fight your way back to the temple. She thought Cassandra might have dragged you all the way there if Cassandra hadn’t been looking equally impressed and surprised at the now blood covered prisoner. What a nasty shock to Chancellor Rodrick. Of course, she never does suspect you of killing the Divine, but she does watch you to see how you operate under such a condition. Every once in a while she’ll make her way behind you only to hear you greet her in a normal fashion. Considers implementing some way to train the spy’s such. 

(“Whoever can get near the Inquisitor without them noticing will be given a bonus”)

Vivienne

    You know, she likes to brag boast that she’s quite excellent at perceiving even the smallest of details about people, but how in the world did she overlook you being blind? It’s during one of your conversations in Skyhold that she notices you miss the table when putting a book down, pausing, and then searching for the table as if it wasn’t in front of you. Madame De Fer physically grabs your face to look you in the eye, not believing that this person, who has led them through the Frostback Basin, through Emprise Du Lion, who has stopped multiple times when there were enemies up ahead, was blind. She’s quite interested in how you’ve been doing everything you’ve been doing. Furthermore, what magic are you using? And how is it possible that you can sense certain things in a 5 mile radius but will trip over a crack?

Varric

    Oh, now this is a plot twist! He could see you out of the corner of his eye fighting and didn’t think much of it until he saw the gray sheen over your eyes. Wow. Brings it up a few times for some jokes (“What’s that over there?” “It’s a nug, Varric.” “Ah, so it is. I couldn’t tell, bad eyesight and all.”), but honestly just his way of expressing his amazement. How the hell did you know there was a nug over there? But if you don’t like the jokes or find any offense to them, he will stop. If you don’t mind, then he constantly pulls you into his jokes to make people freak out. Especially when one joke went wrong with Blackwall. Seems like he doesn’t really care much, treats you like anyone else, but does keep an eye out for you (One day, someone’s gonna kill me because of the puns), makes sure nothing bad is in your way. 

Cole

    Hoh boy. He doesn’t understand, why can’t you see but you can see? Why do people treat you so delicately, so fragile? What is different about you? Cole asks and you tell him that you’re blind. Blind to hatred? No different kind of blind. It’s actually through seeing your memories, your pains, that he understands. The world is gone from you, no color, no shape, until you discover it, until it appears at your touch, taking the form of many things but only being one. A horrible thing to happen, but you have learned to overcome it, whether it be by magic or by using your other senses. It’s fascinating for him, but he doesn’t understand why people get uncomfortable when he talks about it. It’s sadly something that happens to people, just the same as losing family. He would just like to understand. 

Solas

    You had his curiosity but now you have his attention. Like Varric, he doesn’t discover that you can’t see until you’re being introduced. Likewise, he’s quite impressed with how you’ve managed to handle yourself, fighting and locating objects and terrain around you. He’s known many others who had given up after their sight was taken and others who would manage with just the bare minimum, but this truly is a feat. Forgive him for the many questions but he’s just so curious on how you were able to manage this. If it’s too personal, he’ll respect that and try to keep his questions to the bare minimum. Some people ask him why he doesn’t try to help you, but he sees it as an insult to the years you’ve put into mastering this obstacle. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t keep a close watch on you.

Cassandra

    In the beginning, she’s trying to connect dots that aren’t even there. You survived with the mark on your hand, but how could you have done any of the destruction when you were blind?! She takes that statement back very quickly when she sees that you manage to walk ahead without assistance as well as fight quite precisely. Honestly just raises her suspicions but eventually does understand that you didn’t commit the act. She’ll watch you out of the corner of her eye, saying she’s making sure you don’t hit her, but in fact is making sure you’re safe and not blind sided more than you already are. Is constantly asking if you want any assistance. Constantly. Depending on how you look at you, it either gets better or worse when you are considered friends. Overprotective bear. That’s it. 

The Iron Bull

    Yes, he’s astonished that you’re able to work with what you have, but damn does it not make him worry. Imagine that, THE Iron Bull, worried. Being blinded in one eye does make it harder but it makes it a challenge. Being blind in both eyes? Now that’s just an asshole move, whether you were born that way or someone caused it. Now, that isn’t to say that his worry quickly dies down when he watches how you’ve taken what you’ve got and ran with it. Tries to test you multiple times, whether it be something a couple yards away or if he throws something your way. Half of the people think he’s trying to kill you, but he’s just making sure your wits are about. Does talk about tactics you could do to use your skills to your advantage, but never play the victim act, that’s just degrading.

Dorian

    How in the what. It’s probably one of the first things he points out. “Fascinating, how does that work, exactly? Both the blindness and the mark?” Means no insult, just curious. We all know there’s no tone difference between his sass and curiosity. He’ll ask questions out of the blue about it and it’s always the strangest questions like “What color were your eyes?” One of his more immediate and actually serious requests when he first joins is that you tell him when you need help or assistance. He sees how people cast a wary eye when you pass by or constantly ask you to the point that you just get annoyed. But other than that, treats you as if you’re anybody else. Loves watching you work, though, as you're scouring the land or preparing a well placed attack.

Sera

    Jokes about being the one who blinded you. Any chance she gets, she tells people she’s the one who did the deed and every time her story is different on how it happened. To be honest, she thought she had the wrong person when she met you after killing Lord Moldy Butt (👀), even thinking one of the others in your group might’ve been the Herald. The others might be making sure you’re safe and testing to make sure that you can handle yourself, but Sera is here to cause trouble and to see how quick your reflexes are. Thought it was brilliant when you were able to step out of the way of the stuff she threw at you and then to immediately run straight into a wall. She has never laughed so hard in her life and has never ran so fast in her life. For a blind person, you’re freaking fast.

Blackwall

    He honestly thinks he blinded you. He’s the companion who took the longest to figure out you were blind because, let’s be honest, he would try to avoid eye contact and then when he does meet your eyes, he’s not really focused on why your eyes might be different if not a little hazy. It’s after the events at Adamant Fortress, when he’s working on his carving of the griffin that you were able to sneak up on him and got elbowed in the face when he brought his saw back. Apologizing and asking why you would stand behind him when you could see he was working, you told him you were blind. Oh Andraste he blinded the Inquisitor. After a bit of explaining, he’s very thankful that he doesn’t have to add that on to his growing list of Horrible Things He’s Done In His Past. Before that, he treated you normally. Now treats you like glass.

[grimelven]

Merrill for the ask game?

first time i saw merrill was in dao, i really didnt think much of her then. however, first time seeing her in da2 i had no idea she was the same persons from dao😭😭 they changed her look so much, i didnt recognize her until i looked it up. plus, her voice was different, which really threw me off.

my impression of her now; y’all ima be honest i really love merrill. she’s such an intriguing character who’s heart is always in the right place, even if her actions are hella questionable. i don’t care tho, i still love her unapologetically.

ughhh there’s too many! heh, i do love the “isabela is gonna teach me how to do something called…body shots???” line—her little one liners make me laugh. but, i really love how there’s party banter of her taking about how much she loves hawke. like, aveline questions why the hell merrill is still following them around and she straight up just says “because i love hawke.” and then when aveline asks again, she repeats that she loves hawke and says something like “i know i said that already, but its something that needs to be said.” which is really heartwarming. her morals or ambitions may not line up with hawkes, but to her it doesn’t matter, cause she’d do anything for them out of love. AND RIGHT BACK AT U MERRILL, me and all my hawke’s will die for her :’)

okay, so i have a really fun and odd story that i’ve been working on since February. however, i haven’t had the guts to post it to ao3 cause im too nervous ppl will make fun of me or laugh at my terrible writing. But, here’s the summary for it: “Hawke and friends swap bodies due to some magic going awry and it’s thanks to everyone’s favorite cottagecore blood mage.” which was focused around merrill trying to fix said problem and switching between everyones povs as they freak out/try to adjust to being in different bodies LMAO i swear it’s really funny, like i usually write things very ironically, but then out of nowhere angst gets splashed in. it was a fun story to write.

unpopular opinion, i hate the rival romance- i know, I KNOW, hear me out. so, i’ve heard ppl say they liked this version better than the friendship one, so i thought id give it a try, but honestly…it just felt like hawke was controlling merrill’s life and i didnt vibe with that at all.

favorite relationship (other than her and hawkes) has to be her and isabela’s, they are so cute together :’) i love how merrill looks up to her and isabela watches out for her and protects her. i also love her and varrics, cause i just live how they vibe together. varric looks out for her and she likes listing to his stories, its just really sweet.

favorite headcanon, ima be biased and say one that i came up with, but i like the idea of merrill moving in with hawke even if they arent in a relationship with them. merrill calls it “a never ending sleepover.”

[bearsizedant]

hmm maybe solas and/or merrill for the character ask?

thanks for the ask!! <333 (from this post) I flipped a coin and it picked Solas so here we go >:)

First Impression

who the hell is this guy and how does he know what to do to close this thing. why is he so informed. why is his head so shiny. i bet he dies at the end he seems the type

Impression Now

*holds him up in the air like a cat* stinky bastard man (affectionate)

Favorite Moment

probably right after wicked eyes and wicked hearts when you ask him how he knows so much about court intrigue. the only time he gives you disapproval for asking questions

Idea for a Story

Solas learning how to paint frescoes. I wanna see his practice ones that look like shit. I wanna see his ancient elvhen friends watch him painting a fresco, watch him apply the pigments and the plaster and such with their own eyes, and still look him directly in the face and ask "did you draw that?" i need it. it would fix me.

Unpopular Opinion

his romance is kinda boring. like I still love it, and rp-wise it's phenomenal, but like. considering how little actual content you get for it compared to others its just kinda underwhelming to me. you can't even ask him for smooches in between missions :(

Favorite Relationship

his friendship with Varric is so interesting like the entire time they're both trying to study each other under their little microscopes

Favorite Headcanon

honestly i would be distraught if it did happen but the headcanon that Mythal is using Solas and waiting for him to destroy the veil before turning on him/killing him and enacting her Big Plan is just so fucking juicy

[sky-scribbles]

Party banter with Inquisitor Essek

(Because this ridiculous crossover has taken over my life. A brief explanation, as much as explanation is possible: a mis-cast spell has yote a post-campaign Essek through a planar rift and into Thedas, and he happened to land in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. These banters go up to the destruction of Haven, which is why Cole isn’t here - but he will be in later instalments!)

Cassandra: Leliana has found no information about you. Not a thing. Essek: Considering that most mages are met with disgust and imprisonment, it would be... imprudent of me to advertise my presence. Cassandra: Living in secrecy is one thing. Leaving no mark on the world at all is another. Essek: And you would prefer, I think, for all my secrets to be at your disposal.  Cassandra: Are you surprised that I suspect you have something to hide? Essek: Is hostile intent the only possible reason for secrecy, Seeker?

Solas: It would appear that your mark is affecting you physically, Herald. Essek: My hand was not green before, no. Solas: Aside from the obvious. While I tended to you after the conclave, you did not always seem to be asleep. At times, you lapsed into true unconsciousness. At other times, you seemed to trance, half-sleeping. Essek: Ah. Yes. I suppose... the connection to the Fade has altered the way I sleep. I find I can enter these trances at will, as a substitute for sleep. Solas: That is fascinating. The ancient elves could enter an endless dream called uthenera. Perhaps this is a related phenomenon. Essek: So one would assume.

Essek: So, Sera. I was going through  my research notes - Sera: [Sniggering] Essek: And I found that they had been expertly illustrated. Sera: That's what your weird rifty timey magic shite needs. All the butts. Essek: They certainly add interest. Although... that drawing of me closing a rift full of demon butts? You should have shaped my cloak so that it looked like a dick. Sera: [laughs] Like a dick! You're all right, Herald Weirdyhand. Essek: And you are quite the jester.

Varric: How is it you can just walk around pitch-black caves without a problem? Don’t tell me you're part-dwarf and it's stone-sense. Essek: Ah, no. I would assume it is yet another change from the mark. Varric: So this thing lets you fix the sky, and it's a free torch? Who knew that being Andraste's chosen came with a multi-purpose toolkit? Essek: There is no evidence for my being chosen by anything other than political convenience.  Varric: You’re not crazy about the whole Herald business, are you? Essek: About people deciding that I am the mouthpiece of an unproven god who does not speak to anyone, and yet whose name and teachings people use as an excuse for war and conquest, without investigating the truth behind those teachings? No. I am not.

Blackwall: So what does an apostate do, if he's on his own for... I don't know, how many years? Essek: Arcane research, mostly. Why, what does a Grey Warden do when he's on his own for however many years? Blackwall: Kill darkspawn. Recruit for the Wardens. Kill more darkspawn. Essek: And your fellow Wardens do not accompany you? Blackwall: You don't need more than one person to say 'how do you feel about fighting darkspawn for the rest of your life?' Essek: Did you... ever find yourself becoming lonely, in your solitude? Blackwall: I... sometimes, I suppose. Never gave much thought to it. Easier that way. Essek: Mm. I know the feeling.

Dorian: So you think Alexius’s perception of time was fundamentally flawed? Essek: I do. Time is not a straight line, through which one can jump ahead, skip back and rub bits out. Dorian: How would you have done it differently? Aside from the whole ‘conjure a world infested with red lyrium and catastrophe’ part. Essek: Imagine time as a branching thing. Every choice we make causes potential timelines to fade into non-existence. Essek: But their potential remains, waiting to be tapped. Alexius should have attempted to manifest a timeline in which I was never here, rather than removing me from this one. Dorian: Well, don’t tell everybody how to make it work. Wouldn’t want them to get ideas. Though perhaps you’d like to compare notes, later? Essek: I... would like that. 

Vivienne: You carry yourself remarkably well, Herald. Almost like nobility. Essek: Only 'almost'? I shall have to try harder. Vivienne: And despite your youth, you deflect personal inquiries with the deftness of a seasoned player of the Game. Quite remarkable, from a hedge mage. Essek: I'm mildly curious: 'hedge mage'? Vivienne: A self-taught mage, dear. One who has gone without the instruction of a Circle, or even a Dalish clan. If you ever require tuition, I am at your disposal. Essek: I’m sure you are. But I am not especially interested in whatever you think you have to teach.

Sera: You’re proper weird, you are. You go all swanny around the noble piss-bags, all smiles and pretty words like Lady Josie, but you put teeth in it, like Vivvy. Essek: Like Vivienne? I should hope not. Sera: And then you screw the nobs over like Josie does, ‘cept she makes them love her for it and you make them scared. Leliana kind of scared. Essek: When people don’t know you, or what to make of you, they fear you. It makes them... malleable. It’s something I’ve learned to use. As has Leliana, it would seem.

Varric: You doing all right, Smiles? Essek: 'Smiles'? An intriguing choice. Varric: Same reasoning as Iron Lady and Sparkler. Meet as many messes as I have, and you get good at spotting masks. Essek: Indeed? Varric: You fell out of the sky, got attacked by a shit ton of demons and put in charge of an army, and never once stopped smiling. Kind of impressive, actually. Essek: Thank you. Varric: Also, creepy as shit. 

Solas: I'm curious about your name, Herald. Essek: My name? It's Essek. Sera: [laughs] Solas: I meant that it isn't elven, though your family name sounds very like it. Solas: ‘Thelyss’. I wonder if it is is a result of syllables from the name 'Lethallas' being lost and altered over the years. It means, 'a gift to one's kin.' Essek: Ha. Solas: You don't find that likely? Essek: Me being a gift to my kin? Highly unlikely.

Iron Bull: So, boss, what do you make of my guys? Essek: They clearly have an array of talents. Iron Bull: Oh, come on. I didn't ask for what the Herald thought of his new recruits, I asked what you make of my guys. Essek: Very well. They are... unusual. Enthusiastic. I think that some would underestimate them, some would be thrown off-balance by them, and many would do both. Iron Bull: Ha. Yeah, we like to keep people guessing.  Essek: I like them. They are... lively.

Sera: I don’t get it. You can screw over noble shite-faces without being scary. And you’re not scary! I know you and you’re not scary, so why be scary? Essek: Well, I don’t find you scary either, Sera. But I’m sure our enemies do, when they’re on the wrong end of your arrows. Sera: That’s different things, though. I learned arrows because arrows mean nobs are dead and I’m not. Essek: Exactly. Like you, I have had to fight for survival in my own ways. And unlike you, for a long time, I was without friends. Sera: So... you learned how to do scary because you’re scared? Essek: I would say more... aware of potential dangers. Sera: So, scared.

Solas: As for your first name, the final syllable is not even a sound that occurs in elven. Is it Qunlat? One of your parents is Qunari, I assume? Essek: Ah. Yes, of course. Solas: So it is Qunlat? Iron Bull: Nah, that’s not Qunlat, whatever it is. Almost sounds like it, though. Kinda like ‘isskari’. Name for Ben-Hassrath who get hold of weird magic crap. Essek: Oddly appropriate. But since I'm not in contact with my family, the truth shall have to remain a mystery.

Blackwall: Are you all right, Herald? Essek: Fine, thank you. I simply have somewhat sensitive eyes and skin, and it is a very bright day. Blackwall: If you need to stop, I could... I don’t know. Hold a shield over your head? Essek: I appreciate it, but no, thank you. It is tolerable. Blackwall: Didn’t meant to offend. Essek: It is all right. I - [sighs] I apologise. That would help, if you could. Years of solitude have made me... reliant on my own self-reliance, I suppose.  Blackwall: I know what you mean. Shield parasol it is, then.

Sera: Don’t need to be scared, right? Anyone gives you shit, I give ‘em arrows. Or just pies. Or worms in their shoes. Essek: [chuckles] Thank you, Sera. Please do. Sera: Did think you were scary at first, you know.  Essek: What changed your mind? Sera: Scary wouldn’t grin when I drew butts on things.  Essek: ... Are you at all fond of cupcakes, Sera?

[plazmafields]

“You asked to see me?”

Cullen lifted his head from his work to lock eyes with the mage in his doorway. He sighed as he gestured for Dorian to sit.

“Yes. I have a…problem, of my own creation, that I could use some advice on.”

Dorian lowered slowly into the seat across the desk from Cullen, curiously raising an eyebrow. “I’ll see how I can help.”

“Thank you,” Cullen smiled softly before clearing his throat to continue, “There’s…a person who I continue to find catching my eye, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’d really like them to know how I feel, but I don’t think I have the confidence to tell them with words.”

Dorian blinked several times, a bit taken aback that Cullen was so upfront with his ask for romantic help.

“Well,” he began, shifting forward in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, “I am certainly no expert in women—"

“I never said they were a woman.”

Dorian’s mouth still hung open from his comment. He shut it quickly and nodded, silently asking Cullen to continue.

The Commander sighed, running a hand through his groomed curls. “I’ll be honest: I’ve never really…courted anyone before, so we’re essentially starting from scratch here.”

Dorian gave a comforting smile, “That’s perfectly alright. Perhaps a blank slate is best.”

The mage pulled his chair up, resting his elbows on the desk. “Now, you don’t want to come off too strong too soon. So let’s start very basic: what is something almost anyone would like to receive?”

Cullen looked down at his hands, clasped and nervously twiddling. After a moment of thinking he replied tentatively, “Praise?”

Dorian chuckled, “Yes, that’s true, but let’s think most simply. Something superficial, to start. Something physical…?” he guided.

Cullen’s eyes bounced around Dorian’s features for clues. “Gifts?”

Dorian nodded encouragingly, making a rolling motion with his hand to encourage something specific.

“Such as…flowers?” Cullen said it like a question.

“Perfect!” Dorian Tossed his hands up. “Now the next step is easy, what flowers do they like?”

Cullen sighed, rubbing at his scruff, “No idea. And I’m not sure I have the nerve to ask them.”

“Well you wouldn’t want to do that anyway, you want to bring it up casually. Otherwise, they might catch on to what you’re planning.”

Cullen was still looking away, distracted with his own anxiety. Dorian offered a gentle smile and a friendly suggestion. “Why not get a bouquet? A little mix of everything? That way there’s bound to be something they like in there. After all, it’s the thought, not the gift, that matters here.”

Cullen nodded continuously, deep in thought of what to get for his muse. “Yes…a little of everything. That’s…that’s an excellent idea! I’ll go to Orlais, to a florist, pick out the most exotic things they have, the most colorful, most pungent. It’s perfect!”

Dorian couldn’t help the grin that stretched across his lips at Cullen’s excitement.

“Thank you, Dorian. You’ve no idea how much this helps me.”

“Glad to be of service, my friend.” Dorian rose from his seat, gave a friendly bow, and left Cullen to his plans.

__________

As Dorian sat in his little alcove, reading over a new study, the sound of quick and precise footsteps drew closer. Soon, the Inquisitor, ever nimble on her feet, ran into his nook, a massive smile on her face.

“Have you been out today?”

Dorian glanced over the edge of his book. “Not yet, no.”

She bounced on her toes, “So you haven’t seen the garden?”

The mage raised a brow, closing his book with one hand. “Should I?”

The rouge practically squealed as she gestured for Dorian to follow her.

They were in the main hall in no time, Vivienne calling down from her balcony, “It's simply exquisite, darling! Who knew our Commander had such taste?” Varric shrugging as if to say Not me.

Once outside, Dorian had to push through a wall of onlookers, all gawking at the sight before them. The Inquisitor slipped through almost effortlessly, turning to check for Dorian every few seconds.

Finally, they broke through the crowd and Dorian’s jaw nearly dropped. There were flowers everywhere; no patch of dirt in sight. Flowering ivy spiraled up and around the pillars and railings, columns tangled in vines. Each plain tree had been replaced with a flowering fruit tree; one apple, one cherry, one pear, and one orange.

The Inquisitor squeezed his hand to bring him back, saying in a sigh, “Isn’t it beautiful? Like a magic forest!”

Before he could turn to acknowledge her, the red head was already frolicking like a school girl, skipping and bounding through the garden, hoping to find every flower she could. Dorian watched her with a smile, shaking his head at how adorable she could be.

A sudden realization washed over him as he watched the young woman stand on her toes to reach an apple: she must be Cullen’s secret muse. Watching her enjoy every last bit of the garden, even the new insects that had been attracted by the plants, cemented this truth in his mind. Cullen was head over heels for Lyann Trevelyan.

After spending time with his friend amongst the flowers, admiring every scent, Dorian slipped away to consult Cullen on his next move. As he poked his head into the Commander's office, he saw Cullen excitedly pacing, grinning to himself.

“Do you know what a bouquet is, my friend? Perhaps something was lost in translation last we spoke.” Dorian teased, grabbing Cullen’s attention.

Cullen’s head shot up and he smiled widely, rushing over to Dorian to get his reaction. “Well? What do you think?”

Dorian chuckled at Cullen’ childlike glee. “I think you did an excellent job. Maybe a bit over the top, but I can certainly say it made an impression.”

Cullen nearly melted, “Oh, Dorian, I am so glad to hear it. Your advice was invaluable!”

Dorian grinned as he said lowly, “The Inquisitor especially liked it, might I add.”

Cullen’s eyes went wide as he blushed, straightening his back, “O-oh! Well, I suppose I should have run it past her first, but it’s a bit embarrassing to tell her my intentions. Josephine was good about keeping it confidential.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, glancing to the floor.

Dorian gave a hardy chuckle, “Oh I understand. Now, what did you have planned for the next step?”

Cullen froze. “Next…step? How many steps are there?”

Shaking his head, Dorian grabbed the blond by the shoulders and lead him to his desk.

“May I?” Dorian snatched a quill and paper.

“Step one: a sweet but generic gift to show your interest. Something to casually say ‘I might like you'. You already did that one. Following?”

Cullen nodded, leaning his elbows on the desk as he watched Dorian write.

“Alright. Step two: a more personal gift. Something you know they like. This shows them not only are you interested in them, but you’re interested in their interests as well.”

“Right…” Cullen chewed his lip.

“What is it?” Dorian sighed.

“I don’t know much about their likes. They aren’t very…direct. Ever.”

Well that doesn’t sound like Lyann… Dorian thought to himself.

Dorian had to restrain from rolling his eyes. “Well, in that case, an easy thing to get for someone indecisive is sweets. Candy, chocolate, biscuits, pastries. Things like that. Just get them sweets that remind you of them.”

Cullen looked utterly concerned. “Am I supposed to…guess what they…taste like?”

Dorian stared at him with a blank look, completely astounded. “No. What does that even—no, never mind, please don’t attempt to explain.”

After drumming his fingers on the desk for a moment, Dorian tried to be more clear—though he thought he had been plenty clear before. “Think of how they act, yes? Are they kind and sweet? Flowery and fun? Warm like spice?”

Cullen nodded along, seemly understanding this time.

Dorian smiled, placing a tender hand on the blonds arm. “I’ll leave you to it then."

__________

Several days later and not a word from Cullen, Dorian felt a bit anxious. Had he not been clear enough still? Did Cullen get too nervous to continue? Oh no, did he have a falling out with Lyann; she didn’t return his feelings?

Just as he began to lose himself in his nerves, despite having research to focus on, Dorian caught a subtle whiff of something delicious. It was warm and baked, but chocolatey and rich, and somehow tart all at once. Cullen must have asked the cooks to do their damnedest.

After a while the scent became too much, it was too intriguing, Dorian had to go to the kitchens and see for himself what was being baked. As he descended the stairs to Solas's area, the elf came from the main hall with a plate of goodies. Tarts and cookies and all sorts, laid out decoratively on a porcelain dish.

“My my,” Dorian quirked a brow, “Someone has a sweet tooth it seems.”

Solas didn’t look at him as he replied, “There is a spred out there. I would be a fool to turn down free food. Especially Orlaisian pastries.” He popped a fruit tart into his mouth.

Dorian exited to the main hall and was greeted by long dining tables over flowing with every dessert imaginable. Full cakes, cup cakes, full pies, hand pies, everything he loved and things he hadn’t tried before, but was more than eager to.

Everyone in Skyhold, and a few visiting nobles, huddled around the tables making sure to heap their plates, and at the front of the room, with a towering plate nearly spilling down her shirt, was the ever graceful Inquisitor, shoving candied dates into her gob.

“Well aren’t you looking marvelous today,” Dorian laughed as he approached.

“Hm? Oh, Dorun!” Lyann mumbled through half chewed food.

She took a second to chew and swallow before nearly shouting, “Isn’t this amazing?! Cullen and Josephine planned this in only a few days! I don’t know how they got it all here and kept it so fresh! It taste like it just came from the ovens, or maybe the Maker's own kitchen.” She swooned as she crammed another treat into her mouth.

Dorian chuckled, picking up a plate to load up himself. “Cullen planned this, did he? Any idea why?” He feigned curiosity.

“No idea,” Lyann shrugged, nearly dropping a pudding, “He usually doesn’t care about impressing nobles, so I don’t know who he’s trying to impress. Maybe he just felt like the troops deserved it!”

“Oh, I’d bet he’s trying to catch someone’s attention...” Dorian hinted, but the Inquisitor was already going in for seconds. Well, more like fourths.

Dorian shook his head with a smile as she walked off to her chambers with a mountain of sweets. Just as he began picking out his favorite treats, a soft voice spoke up behind him.

“Have you tried the jam biscuits yet? They’re heavenly. I might actually die if someone doesn’t stop me.”

Dorian turned around just in time to see Cullen with a jam cookie half way to his lips. Just as it was about to touch his tongue, Dorian snatched it away, downing it in one bite.

Cullen looked at him in shock, mouth still open to receive the sweet. They laughed together as Dorian tried to chew the mouthful.

“So? What do you think? Did I hit all the right flavors?”

Dorian chuckled, “If everything under the sun reminds you of them, then yes.”

Cullen sighed dreamily, “Everything…”

Dorian had only seen that look a handful of times, but by the Maker, it was his favorite expression on the blond. That look of complete adoration, losing himself to a daydream. It looked beautiful. He looked beautiful…

Dorian shook his head, reminding himself he was helping the man court someone else. The Inquisitor, of all people. But they seemed like a good match, both very…Ferelden.

When he looked back, Cullen was staring at him with bright eyes, an innocent smirk lopsided on his lips. Dorian smiled back.

“Is everything alright?” Cullen asked so gently.

Dorian swallowed hard before clearing his throat, “Yes, of course. Just thinking about your next step.”

“What’s that?”

Dorian led Cullen to a less crowded area of the hall. “Well, everything you’ve done so far has been very…grand. You may want to think about doing something one-on-one with them, personally.”

Cullen sighed, rubbing his neck. “Right, one-on-one…If you couldn’t tell, I’ve been trying to take an indirect approach.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, “But how are they ever supposed to know it’s you?”

“Well, I thought it would be rather obvious.” Cullen gave him a very confused stare.

“Listen,” Dorian sighed and shifted his weight, “they know it’s you, but you have to show that it’s for them.”

Cullen’s eyes lit up, “Oh! Oh, of course, I should have—I’m sorry Dorian I didn’t understand—”

“That’s alright, I just hope you’ve planned for something one-on-one, because I can’t help you with this next bit.”

“What?” Cullen’s eyes seems almost terrified, losing his only advisor.

Dorian wraps his fingers around the back of Cullen’s neck, pulling him closer so he could hear the whisper, “You must make this personal. I’m always willing to help, but I can’t tell you everything they like and how to fit it all together. That’s up to you, my friend.”

Cullen sighed and let his head fall forward, forehead almost leaning against Dorian’s. “Alright. I’ll try to do you proud.”

The mage smiled reassuringly, “You will, Cullen. Don’t worry.”

__________

After nearly a week without any word, Dorian received a surprise visit just as noon struck.

“Glad to see you haven’t given up. I was starting to wonder if you had gotten cold feet.” Dorian teased, slapping Cullen’s arm playfully.

Cullen grinned wide and chuckled, “Well, I’m not actually here for advice this time. I was wondering if you might come with me. I think I’ve found the perfect place for a date!”

“Oh?” Dorian was shocked by the confidence in the Commander’s voice. “What are we waiting for then? Need I pack a bag?”

“No, it’s not too far.” Cullen eyed him up and down, considering his outfit. “Though I might wear something more casual, were I you.”

Dorian looked down at his attire, about to ask why, when Cullen called back to him, already on his way, “I’ll meet you at the gates in an hour. Don’t be late.”

So he dressed down and packed a bottle of wine to sip at on the ride there. Where ever “there” was; Cullen was being awfully secretive about their destination, only repeating that it was the perfect spot for a date.

Just as the two had run out of things to banter about on the ride, Cullen stopped his horse by a gap in some trees.

“Through here. We’ll have to tie up the horses, I don’t think they’ll make it through the foliage.”

Dorian sighed an exasperate sigh, “Are we in for much of a hike? You know I get more exercise than I truly want while adventuring with the Inquisitor.”

Cullen chuckled and held some leaves out of the way for Dorian to duck under. After a short walk, Cullen looked back and smiled, “I think it’s beautiful out here. Tell me what you think.”

Dorian stepped forward through the last bit of trees to be greeted by the most sparkling, clearest, gentlest lake he’d ever laid eyes on. The water rippled steadily with the slight breeze, waves barely formed yet still enough to rock the lily pads and fallen leaves. The sun was just visible through the trees, but not enough to blind them, slowly lowering in the sky, ready shine orange and pink light across the water when dusk came.

“I…” Dorian couldn’t find his words, “Cullen, this is gorgeous…”

He looked back to Cullen who leaned confidently against a tree, pleased with the mage's reaction.

But as he turned back, Dorian remembered who all this was for, and it put a heaviness in his heart. His eyes dropped as he said “She’ll love this, Cullen. I know she will.”

Long moments went by with no response before Dorian felt a gentle hand on the small of his back.

“Who?” Cullen asked softly, seeing Dorian was upset.

“Lyann, silly. She’ll find this all so lovely, I’m sure.” He had a hard time keeping eye contact with the Commander, curious eyes meaning no ill intent.

“Lyann?” Cullen pulled back slightly. “Why would I bring her—”

Cullen’s eyes went wide as he muttered, “oh no…”

He stepped away to pace, continuing his “no”s under gus breath, thinking of something to say or do to make it right.

“Cullen? I don’t understand, what’s wrong?” Dorian followed his pacing, trying to grab his arm.

“I’ve screwed this up royally, that what’s wrong! Lyann?! You thought this was all for the Inquisitor?”

Dorian stopped in his tracks. “Yes? I saw how much she enjoyed everything you did, so I assumed…”

It struck him like a charging druffalo. “No.” He whispered. “For…for me?”

Cullen looked over his shoulder sheepishly, waiting for a better idea of Dorian’s reaction.

“All of it?” Dorian’s words were hardly voiced, sliding out along a whisper of disbelief.

Cullen turned around fully and began taking cautious steps toward Dorian, trying to gage if his surprise was good or bad.

As Dorian continued to stare forward, slack jawed, Cullen placed a warm hand on his neck, the other finding the mage’s chin and tilting his gaze up to lock eyes.

“Everything. Every flower, every tart, everything. I wanted to give you the world, but I didn’t know how to start. I wanted you to see I would do anything for you, Dorian. You want flower, I’ll plant you a garden. You want sweets, I’ll bring the world’s best bakers to you.”

Dorian’s eyes only showed more confusion. Cullen leaned forward, stopping just before their lips touched to whisper, “I love you.”

“You—” But the words were stolen from his lips as Cullen pulled him in, chest to chest, arms around his waist, surprisingly deft lips making him melt into the blond.

He lost track of time. It could have been seconds, minutes, maybe an hour, before they pulled away, each out of breath and shaking from a single shared shiver down their spines.

“That was…electrifying.” Cullen sighed, hugging the mage close.

Dorian could hardly think straight, just hugging Cullen back as he gathered his thoughts.

After a moment of silence, Dorian finally relaxed against Cullen and said, “I…didn’t think I could be so dense.”

They laughed together, Cullen pulling back to plant a gentle kiss to the mage’s nose.

“But in my defense,” Dorian began, returning to his regular self, “who asks the person they plan on courting for advice on how to court them?”

“Well, you liked everything, didn’t you?” Cullen teased back.

Dorian shook his head, still feeling like this couldn’t be real. But those eyes, those golden eyes…

“I…feel strongly about you, Cullen. I’d dare say I’m smitten.”

Cullen smiled even wider before placing a quick kiss to Dorian lips, stripping off his shoes and tunic with impressive speed, and jumping like a cannonball into the lake. Dorian put his hands up to shield his face from the splash, but his casual clothes soaked up the water on contact.

“Looks like you’ll have to let those clothes dry. What should we do in the meantime?” Cullen called over smugly.

“You little southern…” Dorian shook his head before stripping down and diving in himself, making sure to get Cullen in the face.

They laughed together as they splashed the other back and forth, stopping only to share a passionate kiss.

[chaotic-citrus]

Harvest in Honnleath

I have absolutely succumbed to the pumpkin spice season and am in deep fall feels right now, so I was inspired to write this shameless fall fluff by @cozy-autumn-prompts‘ Hot Apple Cider prompt and @oc-growth-and-development‘s OCtober prompt for Day 8: Festival! Enjoy some seasonally fluffy Cullen Rutherford x Evelyn Trevelyan! 

"Few celebrate the year's harvest quite like Honnleath."

When Cullen had spoken the words earlier, Evelyn had assumed it was little more than a case of hometown pride. However, as she took in the sea of decorative gourds so vast it nearly obscured the young children who wandered through it, the unyielding scent of cinnamon that permeated every inch of the small village, and a band so boisterous at times that she could hardly hear herself think, Evelyn finally saw the truth to his words.

Lanterns were strung between the homes lining the main square, candlelight bouncing over the revelry below as the sun's dying rays were swallowed by evening's arrival. A large, unlit pyre sat at the center of the square, the villagers having pitched all manner of tents and carts around it that each boasted their own promising aroma of a different delicacy within. Cullen had assured her that, despite appearances otherwise, most of these tents really just held different kinds of cheese (they were in Ferelden after all), to which Evelyn had (rather cleverly, in her opinion) responded, "I suppose some cheesy jokes are in order then!" Cullen hadn't seemed nearly as delighted by her joke as she had, and with a playful groan and roll of his eyes, he had walked off to fetch them something to drink.

"Do my eyes deceive me or is that something besides cheese? Isn't that sacrilegious for your kind?" she teased upon his return, an eager smile gracing her lips as Cullen gently placed a mug of warm cider in her outstretched palms. Taking a moment to attempt to think up another pun, Evelyn brought the mug to her lips absentmindedly, instantly realizing her mistake as she hissed and recoiled from the scalding liquid. Cullen did a terrible job of stifling his laughter behind his mug, which only grew louder when he caught the glare Evelyn shot his way, emerald eyes unamused and pink lips still stinging.

"Careful, I can't have the Inquisitor injured on my watch," he teased, blowing gently on the liquid in his own cup as if to demonstrate the proper technique for cider consumption. "Cassandra and Leliana could have my head for that, you know."

"Ah yes, a grievous injury indeed," she responded sarcastically, admittedly chuckling at her own clumsy mistake. "Should we call for medical attention? I dare say a head as handsome as yours would be a shame to lose." Cullen quirked a brow at that, lips twisting into a definitive grin as he leaned in a bit closer. "If I recall correctly," he began, one hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, "you're not supposed to apply pressure to a burn. With you talking like that, however, it's certainly tempting." At that, Evelyn watched his gaze fall blatantly to her lips, his warm chestnut eyes sparkling with mirth as she felt a rare blush prickling her cheeks at his forwardness. Blatantly pleased by the blush he'd managed to draw from her, he pulled away with a laugh and a smirk so handsome it bordered on insufferable. "How's that for cheesy?"

Evelyn felt a tug on her sleeve before she had the chance to respond, something that was likely for the best considering she'd opened her mouth before she'd had much of a witty response to deliver from it. Drawing her gaze from the spellbinding commander before her, Evelyn was greeted by a pair of young girls with enthusiastic smiles and arms full of more flower crowns she would've thought feasible for ones their size to manage carrying.

"Can we interest you in some of our fine flower crowns this evening?" the elder girl asked, gesturing to the crowns with a dramatic flourish as her younger friend did her best to display those she was carrying.

"These crowns make fine gifts indeed!" the younger girl added, spinning with the crowns in an act of showmanship Varric would've been proud of. "Crowns like these are the pride of Honnleath!"

"Are they now? Is there a story behind that?" Cullen asked, a gentle smile having settled across his features as he gingerly took the crown the elder girl was handing him.

The girls lit up at his question, both nodding enthusiastically before simultaneously shouting, "Of course!"

This was all the encouragement the girls needed before launching into a dramatic tale of a beloved statue that once stood at the center of town, one that with every passing festival was adorned with countless wreaths and decorations. After the villagers awoke one morning to its disappearance, the girls claimed the villagers eventually started to simply wear the decorations themselves, thus giving flower crowns their popularity.

Despite a cryptically muttered "I thought something was missing..." from Cullen as he looked around the square with a puzzled expression, the Commander returned his attention to the pair of girls as he fished into his pockets for his coin purse. Offering them a generous handful of silvers, he turned to Evelyn with a sheepish expression and flower crown in hand.

"I suppose I should've asked first, but-"

"Cullen, it's lovely. Would you help me put it on?"

The crowns were simple in nature, a smattering of white and purple wildflowers tucked haphazardly into a simple hempen braid to secure them. Cullen carefully placed the crown on Evelyn's head, meticulously placing the hair pins the girls had given him where he thought they'd be the most structurally secure. Fingers gentle every time he'd move her hair or slide a pin into place, he eventually stepped back and announced the completion of his work. The pride in his eyes as he watched Evelyn turn to a nearby window, moving to catch her reflection in its surface, was unmistakable as she let out an impressed whistle. While Evelyn had worn her fair share of intricate hairstyles to any number of balls at the Trevelyan Estate growing up, there was a charm to the clumsy attempt at weaving the flowers into her curls that she couldn't help but love. Satisfied with his work and clearly ready to proceed with the rest of the night, it was Evelyn's turn to stifle her laughter as the girls held out a second crown for Cullen before he could leave. Flushing slightly, Cullen did his best to dissuade the girls of his need for one, though all arguments seemed to falter when the girls pulled out their best wobbly lips and watery eyes. An increasing number of silvers lighter than it had been at the start of the night, Cullen eventually pulled his coin purse from his pockets again with a grumble, planting the flower crown on his own head with far less ceremony than he had Evelyn's as the girls skipped away, successful in their endeavor.

"Why do I feel like I've been swindled?"

"I think you look great. Very princely."

The distinctive sound of a blade striking flint drew Evelyn's attention next, one she knew well from countless nights huddled by a campfire over the course of her many Inquisition expeditions. Several had gathered around the unlit pyre she'd seen before, an older looking gentleman striking at a piece of flint rock twice more before a spark finally took to the massive pile of kindling. Drawn by the sputtering crackle of the growing flame, the commotion of the festival slowly died down as the rest of the villagers made their way toward the bonfire.

"This way," she grinned, giving a still-groaning-Cullen's hand a squeeze before falling into step behind the villagers, most of whom had queued up behind a set of large wicker baskets, each filled to the brim with... pine cones?

"They're for wishing," he explained, clearly having noticed her confusion as he plucked a pine cone for each of them from the basket. "I'm not certain what symbolism a pine cone has, but the wishing part likely started as a way to end the season of the harvest with a wish for another year of healthy crops. For as long as I can remember though, it's always just been tradition to end the Harvest Festival by tossing a pine cone into the bonfire and wishing for... well, whatever you want, really. I think I once wished for a growth spurt."

She laughed at that, the contrast between a gangly teen Cullen and the absolute snack of a man he'd turned into rather stark.

A moment of silence fell between them as Evelyn's laughter faded, both turning the pine cones over in their hands in quiet contemplation. Cullen was the first to break it, his voice soft as he fixed her with an attentive gaze that seemed ready to memorize whatever she said next.

"Do you have anything you'd like to wish for?"

She could still feel the weight of the coin he had given her the last time they’d been in Ferelden as she pulled it from her pocket, the gesture having been so kind she wasn't sure what more she could possibly wish for that he hadn't already given her. She flashed the coin at him with a wink. "What do I need a wish for when I already have all the luck in the world?"

Cullen chuckled at that, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck as he looked away with a flustered blush. "Yes, well... maybe I could commandeer your wish then, if you aren't planning on using it. Mine's hardly an easy request, so it can't hurt to use twice as many pine cones."

Intrigued, Evelyn wordlessly handed over her pine cone, cocking her head to the side curiously as she watched him turn to the fire. His voice was quiet as he spoke, wavering just slightly enough to betray how genuine the plea was as he murmured, "Maker, keep her safe."

Evelyn felt herself soften as she heard the care with which he spoke the words, warmth blooming in her chest and climbing up her neck to her face. For once, their complexions matched as he turned back to her, cheeks rosy for plenty of reasons beyond the glow of the fire behind him.

"Well,” he started, his tone light and teasing as his blatantly blush-stained cheeks twisted up into a mischievous smile. “I figure after the damage that cider did to you, you need all the help you can get."

She let out an incredulous laugh and a scoff as she readied for a retort, but Cullen was faster as he grinned and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her to him and silencing any argument with his lips on hers.

She supposed he was right after all - no one does a festival quite like Honnleath.  

[ourdawncomes]

Stories of Thedas. Volume Two.

1. Campfire. (Read on AO3)

“I’ve got a story.”

The campfire flares as though in response, casting the small circle of companions in orange light as the Herald leans forward, bracing herself on her knees. Her eyes sweep across the faces of the people she’d come to know so well so quickly, a self-satisfied grin steals across her expression as she notes how they all turn to listen. Those who’d busied themselves with their hands paused their work, looking across the fire to where Thora sits. It’s a new feeling for the dwarf, who had learned long ago that the closer you are to the ground the less likely they are to listen. She lets the prelude hang pregnant in the air, cutting through the atmosphere mired in tales. Some real, some legends, all with a touch of fantasy that made one question which were which. When the time’s right, she sits up a little straighter, feigning hesitancy. “Though I’m not sure any of you’d believe me if I told it.” “Stop playin’ and tell us already,” Sera moans. “Before Varric tells another.” The man in question laughs. “Come to think of it, there was that Pride demon in Darktown.” With a dramatic groan, Sera throws boot over his head, only encouraging his laughter. When at last contains himself, he throws an apologetic look Thora’s way, grin still creasing the corners of his eyes. “We’re all ears, Sunflower.”

She’s biting back a grin, herself, struggling to contain herself for the sake of the mood. “Alright,” she begins, collecting herself. “This was in Ferelden, Amaranthine, in the days not long after the Blight. Ferelden was a strange place to be in those days, the memories from the Blight still hung heavy over its people, but there was hope, too. All the more since the Hero of Ferelden had chosen to make the arling her home.” She’d worried for a time if operating so close to a new Warden stronghold was wise, but as it turned out Wardens needed lyrium, too, and even after they’d saved the world official channels were still reluctant to relinquish any power. That’s where the Carta steps in. Same was true of the Conclave. A finger in every pie, that was the Carta motto, sometimes two if things seemed especially promising. “Good thing she did, too, or I’m not sure I’d have made it out of Amaranthine alive.”

Thora rocks back in her seat, eyes sweeping across the faces of her companions, wondering to herself if this is how the Hero felt during those days in Ferelden. Retiring to a well-lit campfire, surrounded by the strangest collection of people Thedas had to offer.

“It was in the weeks after the Darkspawn sieged Amaranthine that it happened. Cool Harvestmere evening, not so different from this one, when a stranger approached our camp. He had a hood on, threadbare, pulled all the way over his face so all we could see was the shadow cast by the fire. He asked for a bit of shelter from the road, and I couldn’t see a reason to refuse him.”

A disbelieving snort shoots from Varric’s nose. “Let me get this straight,” he says. “A mysterious stranger oozes from the shadows asking for a place at your fire and you just… let him?”

“My mama taught me the meaning of the word ‘hospitality,’ Master Tethras.”

Varric breathes a sigh, though he can’t fight his amusement anymore now than he could before. “I suppose it explains the company you keep.”

“Mhm, now, as I was saying.” She doesn’t continue right away, trying to seize her train of thought where it had left her behind. “He asked for shelter, and we let him. We’d… lost someone escaping Amaranthine, and had a bedroll to spare. It only seemed right. He was polite, a little odd, we taught him how to play Diamondback with only a half-deck of cards, never saw a man so happy to win a couple coppers, but times were hard enough I couldn’t say I was surprised.” Thora recalls how he fumbled them between his fingers like he was unaccustomed to the sensation of his fingers in thick leather gloves, after he put them away he kept patting his pocket just to make sure he could still feel the impression of them in his coat. “He thanked us before bed, and by morning he was gone. Not too out of the ordinary, most people have business on the roads. Only I noticed the grass where he’d pitched his tent had wilted overnight, like winter came early. In the weeks that followed we heard rumours, talk of Darkspawn who spoke King’s Tongue, and a friendly stranger who seemed to always precede a sudden breakout of the Blight.”

As she finishes her tale, a quiet settles over the camp. Varric’s face had grown paler in the telling, the dwarf uncharacteristically silent as he avoided her eye.

“Intriguing,” Solas says, “that is, of course, assuming it is true.”

“Would I lie to you, Solas?” She winks his way. “Could be he’s still wandering Ferelden, maybe we’ll meet up again. Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

[kibuto]

Fictober 2020 - Prompt 12

Prompt: 12. Watch me Fanfiction: Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age Inquisition Characters/Pairings: FenHawke (Garrett Hawke and Fenris), Tamvir Lavellan (Pavellan implied) Warnings: None

It was hard to imagine someone like Hawke. He was everything that Varric's Tale of the Champion promised, but better. Tam didn't know how to explain it; he simply was. Hawke was the best of every trait he'd been painted. He was charming, funny, handsome, and strong, not to mention incredibly smart. Just looking at him was like looking at the truest form of what a leader ought to be.

And then there was Tam.

Never had Tam's own shortcomings been spelled out for him in such stark contrast as at Halamshiral. The Winter Palace was filled to bursting with the highest elite. They were fancy. They were educated. They were capable of not only wearing their uncomfortable dress shoes for an entire evening, but dancing in them as well. Tam felt as gangly as a halla and just as out of place. His ears burned from snatches of overheard gossip, and more than once he was mistaken for a servant.

Retreating to a more out of the way spot well off the dance floor, Tam took a glass from a passing server and let his attention drift. He was supposed to be watching for intrigue or anything suspicious, after all. Not that Leliana likely expected much, knowing how far out of his element Tam really was. But he was in a unique position of being able to go mostly unnoticed. Nobody expected 'just another rabbit' to be the Inquisitor, after all.

Hawke, on the other hand, couldn't walk more than a few yards without being swarmed. Judging by Fenris's expression, the other elf would have preferred Tam's anonymity. But he still stuck close to Hawke, and it didn't escape Tam's notice that they were hand in hand or arm in arm at every possible opportunity. It was kind of Hawke to lend his strength like that. It made Tam wish he could bring himself to lean on Dorian, but he was too afraid of drawing attention or causing a scene. He was The Inquisitor whether he liked it or not, and he needed to make a good impression. Or at least as good an impression someone like him was capable of.

Tam took his eyes off of Hawke and Fenris for a moment, instead casting them downward to inspect the shiny toes of his highly polished knee-high boots. Once again he thought about how this had been a mistake. He was a poor excuse for an Inquisitor and they all deserved so much better. They deserved someone more like Hawke, who could demand attention in the center of the crowd, rather than a nondescript Dalish who melted away at the fringes.

When Tam looked up again, he spotted Hawke dancing with an elderly woman. She practically led the dance herself, much to Hawke's apparent amusement. Fenris was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he'd been surrounded by partygoers who wanted to get a closer look at his markings. Tam winced slightly in sympathy.

"Are you miserable, too?" Fenris asked from beside Tam's elbow. The untouched glass of wine in Tam's hand nearly hit the floor in his surprise; the liquid in it sloshed perilously close to the rim, but a short burst of frantic fumbling rescued the situation by a hair's breadth. He even managed to avoid snapping the delicate stem. Fenris exhaled a short puff of breath that may have been a laugh, but cleared his throat so quickly that it was impossible to tell.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Tam said diplomatically. "I am simply taking the opportunity to enjoy the surroundings and immerse myself in the atmosphere."

That time he was certain that Fenris chuckled. "Of course you are," he agreed easily. "Lying doesn't suit you, Tamvir."

Tam blushed and ducked his head slightly, his ears pulling in close against his skull. "I'm surprised you left Hawke," he said rather than continuing the subject and having to admit Fenris was right. "Is that Lady Mantillon he's dancing with?"

"Yes. Sharp old biddy." While there was clearly no love lost between Fenris and the Dowager, there was a note of respect in his voice. "At least she has no chance of adding him to her long list of dead husbands."

"Hawke is very loyal," Tam agreed. "That's why it startled me that you're here instead of with him. I didn't think he'd let you out of his sight."

"I'm the one who keeps an eye on him, not the other way around." Fenris smothered the smallest quirk of a smile before it could grow.

Before he could think better of it, Tam blurted the question on the tip of his tongue. "How does he do it? All of..." he gestured helplessly, "this."

Fenris gestured and Tam quickly handed over his glass of wine. After taking a sip and grimacing, he shrugged. "This is just Hawke. He's one of those strange people who can walk into a room and get all eyes onto himself without trying." His eyes narrowed slightly and he studied Tam. "Why? Even if you could imitate him, it wouldn't suit you. You weren't made to act a fool like him."

Tam wanted to protest, but he knew Fenris had a point. He could try to imitate Hawke, certainly, but that wasn't him. He just wished he could mimic just a tiny portion of that incredible, easy confidence. How long he stared at Hawke, he wasn't sure, but when the dance ended Hawke met his eyes and grinned. Tam flushed and dropped his gaze to his boots again.

Hawke made his way over to Tam and Fenris, sweeping an arm around Fenris's shoulders as soon as he was close enough to do so. "Hello, Tam. Having fun with all this pomp and bullshit?"

Tam looked up in shock, hoping nobody around them had heard Hawke's not at all lowered voice. He wanted to melt into the floor when he saw a half-dozen masks turned in their direction. "Oh. Er, that is..." he stammered, the words scattering like startled birds.

"This is nothing," Hawke assured him. "You've just gotta pick your position and stick with it. Here, I'll show you. Just watch me." He leaned over and kissed the side of Fenris's head. Fenris patted Hawke's chest in mingled affection and warning.

Following direction was easy enough. Tam watched Hawke walk away, Fenris in tow, while other partygoers parted to let them through. If all it was was just focusing on one thing and committing to it, maybe Tam could follow suit. Maybe he could walk through the crowd instead of slinking along the edge to try to find the garden where he'd left Dorian earlier.

What did he have to lose?

[purgatoryandme]

Fade-touched. With no magic of her own, the Fade still dictates Hawke’s every move. It forces her to become a better escape artist near-daily - a runner from the moment her feet could first stay steady under her wobbling legs. Fade-touched. Fade-held. Fade-crushed. Her mother thinks the Fade is something they can run from. Maybe she’s right. Maybe if it were just the Fade, Hawke could tip it a crooked grin, do some fancy footwork, and then put it behind her like so many towns and Templars. From the moment she laid eyes on her twin siblings, though, and then again from her sixteenth year onward (a weight at her back briefly lifted, hefted into her arms like the twins so many years ago - begging to be spun, slashing through ozone and salt), Hawke knows there are some things that can never be escaped. Fade-touched. Fate-marked. She was always going to be a story.                                              ____________________ Fade-touched and fate-marked. Sixteen years old with a long sword strapped to her back (freshly cleaned and swaddled in oilcloth), Hawke contemplates that which cannot be escaped. On the long walk home she laughs bitterly over the irony of it all. A life spent on the run, perfecting the skill until it was second nature, and she can’t escape this one thing. She doesn’t even want to. She doesn’t know what she would be without it. (A person, perhaps) (Certainly not a story)                                             ____________________ Varric hears about her long before he sees her. Of course, that’s usually how his introductions go. His ears are open long before his eyes. None of his informants are terribly good with paints or charcoal, you see (useless bastards - he should get them to practice portraiture so he’s never caught so thoroughly off-guard again). The Amell siblings did not enter Kirkwall quietly. There was a lot of kicking and screaming and wailing. Business as usual, really. Most people didn’t enter Kirkwall willingly, and those that did were usually desperate enough for the usual theatrics to apply anyway. Still, the Amells made a splash. Disgraced (by an affair with an apostate no less) ex-nobles returning to an estate that’s been gambled away by a drunk?Juicy. Well, juicy to thieves. Until they proved to be dirt-poor Ferelden refugees barely worth whatever fee Arenthel was paid to get them into the city. Then, THEN, one of the siblings turned out to BE the fee Arenthel was paid. Just the one. Intriguing, but Varric can think of a lot of reasons Arenthel would pay for a pretty face - dark hair and blue eyes. Probably not the boy, too brawny and sour to be good at collecting information. The girl could be useful - her walking stick wasn’t fooling anyone, but those delicate features sure could. He’d overlooked the third Amell child entirely. A rookie mistake, really, her chosen last name notwithstanding. He let himself look (well, let his informants look) without really seeing. And when you were just looking...well. Hawke didn’t look like much. Or rather she didn’t look much like her siblings, who stood out in the way that you’d expect any purchase to in this city. In the way you’d expect a dirty secret to. It hadn’t occurred to anyone not in the know that Hawke was related to any of them. For all intents and purposes, coming from nobility as the Amells did, Hawke seemed to be a bodyguard (just like the red-haired guardswomen). She wasn’t the product of careful Kirkwall breeding. She didn’t even look Ferelden. Hawke’s nose seems certain to be her namesake. Prominent and high-bridged, hooked in a way that was unusual for people of her colouring (and, if Varric is being honest, the kind of thing that would prevent her from ever having a career at the Rose. Or, he’ll think later with ink and paper in hand, from ever being forgotten). Her skin is dark enough to look Rivaini, which, coupled with the russet-dark of her hair and her build (broad shoulders and hips, thick thighs, tall enough that his neck ached), is almost enough to make him forget the distinctly Ferelden nature of that nose. What makes him remember, what forces him to see the slightest family resemblance in the siblings he’s spying on, are her eyes frosty pale and narrow, or seemingly narrowed by thick heavy lashes, in the way only human eyes ever were (elves were always wide and guileless. Dwarves never seemed so...pointy. Qunari didn’t count - he didn’t look them in the eyes. Couldn’t at his height). Sharp, like ice chips, and made sharper against the warm tones of her skin. Wraith-like. Later, he’ll realize her eyes aren’t the same glowing Amell blue as the twins or her mother. Instead, they’re a shade of green so pale it’s nearly grey. He’ll only realize this when Carver makes it clear they consider her no sister of theirs, however, and he’ll wonder how he missed it over a week at her side. He’ll wonder that often about Hawke - how he missed things. How he missed her. 

She’s a stunner, that’s for sure. Just not in an entirely good way. She cuts an intimidating figure, larger than life somehow, with features so bold that Varric can practically hear the nobles waxing poetic about her ugliness for years to come. Choppy dark hair and mismatched armour over dense muscle just make her seem more boyish and boorish, adding another layer to the tableau. Adding another layer to the distance between her and her picture-perfect siblings.

She’s certainly something - maybe something he hadn’t learned the words for yet (something that will send him, drunk and careening, to his library time and again. Paging cover to cover through poetic epics for a hero that had even a fraction of the something he wanted to describe). Not at all what he expected from the whisperings or from keeping tabs on the mage Amell in case the Templars ruined something interesting before it got to be INTERESTING. He’d expected a catlike rogue or some Feredelen beauty. Something for the history books, you know? Tawdry and bawdy and fitting to the tales he’d later spin in the Hanged Man for drunks and gentry alike. Varric’s forgotten that first impression a thousand times over and reread it on an old ledger just as many times. Hawke has a way of doing that to him. Making him forget the past, replacing it with their present (visceral like a knife to the gut. Which he’s experienced with her. More than once). Hawke also has a way of being underestimated at first glance. Maybe that’s why Bartrand refuses her and the little cutpurse thought he could get clever. Varric puts on a show with Bianca. Hawke is alone - no siblings in sight. She’d only volunteered herself for the expedition. It’s jarring to suddenly have the woman he’s been watching for hours watch him back. Even as she makes quips with the best of them, Varric can’t help but feel like she’s waiting for a blow. Hawke’s guarded in the way a kicked dog is. Unpredictable in the same sense. It makes Varric nervous, but also makes it impossible to walk away. He wants this one on the expedition. He thinks she’ll make it worth his while (just like Arenthel earned her money four times over with just one of a set of three. She passed up on an apostate beauty who knew healing magic. Hawke was definitely someone he’d take a bet on). She does. Creators, she does and then some, wrenching Varric and Anders, the Grey Warden she’d blackmailed and cajoled into accompanying them, through the Deep Roads with an animal glint in her eyes that increases with every day spent in the dark. She jokes with them often, but it isn’t until the near-endless battling with Darkspawn drains even her to the ends of her reserves that she begins to tell them stories to keep their long march going.  “My father was an apostate.”  She tells them, not meeting their eyes, likely anticipating and disliking their knowledge of this fact (Anders, through his willingness to come along at all. Varric because he was Varric - no stone unturned),  “He was never contained in the Circle. To hear him tell it, he was never escaping anything. He moved because he felt like it. Because there was a great plan that he was following, and if it lead him away from the Templars? So be it.”  Garrett Hawke was a man who did not exist, at least according to every record Varric had scoured (and he had, he believed, scoured them all). Varric had thought, up until this point, that the name was simply an alias. He still thought that, but now...  Well, he had to wonder. Hawke’s sibling had never been caged. Perhaps her father flew free, too?  Anders certainly seemed to think so (the animal glint in Hawke’s eyes was fever-bright in his own, near-glowing against the dirt and Darkspawn blood smeared on his skin).  “Freedom isn’t free.”  Hawke says, a sardonic little twist to her lips causing her teeth to flash in the torchlight as she glances at Anders,  “He paid for it in destiny and a dragon was the shopkeep.”  Varric would laugh at the frustrated befuddlement on the mage’s face if it wasn’t echoed on his own.  “My father made this blade.” Another day, another story. The long sword on Hawke’s back stayed wrapped, no matter the fight to be had, twin daggers finding themselves home in her hands and her enemies throats. It was only exposed in moments like these - where she carefully oiled it as they made camp. “We forged it together, but the materials were things he had for years. It was mine to carry the moment it was finished. I’d never heard my mother so angry with him.” “Were you just a pipsqueak?” Varric asks, struggling to imagine her as something so small and soft as a child,  “Not quite as tall as your sword was high?”  Her eyes crinkle, or at least he thinks they do (torchlight stopped being an option in the morning, and Anders’ mage light was a dim and eerie substitute).  “I was thirteen.”  She tells him, lifting a hand to indicate how tall she’d stood then (about his height, he was chagrined to see),  “Beth had just come into her magic. Father took me on a hunt the moment he realized, deep enough into the Wilds that nobody stood a chance of finding us. We came back with a blade, no meat to speak of, and to a little girl who had half-incinerated our cottage. My being a child bore no mind in her anger.”  She snickered, despite the flicker of something Varric felt at the image she’d painted (a child standing apart from their siblings, pushed there by a parent declaring their favourite, widening the chasm with the gift of a weapon handmade and crafted in a moment no other family had witnessed - an intimacy impossible to intrude on and rendered in steel),  “Carver also flew into a bitter tantrum about wanting a sword shortly afterwards. Both her angels were little hellions for years after that hunt.”  Despite knowing they were being baited, Varric still asked the question that had taken root in his mind; “What made them stop? I’m certain it wasn’t from maturing - the very idea would probably bring your brother to tears.” Hawke’s calloused hands caressed the edge of the blade, skin just barely splitting (a cut so thin blood didn’t even bead. Or at least, that’s how the mage light made it appear). Her face was carefully blank no matter how Varric strained his eyes as she replied,  “They realized what it was for.” 

                                            ____________________ Varric tucked Hawke’s stories away for later contemplation. He embedded them into the skin of his arms with quill and ink, determined to remember their exact wording, on the night (or day or midmorning or whatever passed for time under the blasted Darkspawn damned ground) when Anders finally allows Justice out to play, emitting enough light and power that they can struggle their way to the surface, and Hawke mutters something about the Fade that has the spirit’s pupilless eyes settle on and see her. There’s something there.  A story.  He pieces it together in fits and starts. Junior, Carver Amell (who doesn’t deserve to go by that name, not with the sharp distaste he displays whenever Hawke calls him Carver like he’s asked), trails after them post-expedition and post-Bethany (sweeter than her brother, her bitterness reminiscent of dark chocolate instead of stale beer and regret) entering the Circle. Hawke doesn’t turn him away - Varric suspects she can’t after her sister turned her back on her protection and willingly joined the one thing their family had run from for years - and so Varric has a source of information.  He’s somewhat loathe to use it, though. He doesn’t love the way Junior wields his words. They’re such clumsy weapons - he’s liable to hurt himself just as badly as he intends to hurt Hawke. 

Still. Still - Varric is shameless in his pursuit of a story. He’s done more disgusting things (though sometimes...sometimes Hawke looks at him, ice-chip eyes warmed by firelight and wine and Wicked Grace, and her mouth twists a little. That same sardonic grin he’d seen underground when she told them freedom isn’t free. And he doesn’t like that look sitting on her face, not when it’s turned his way).  And it’s worth it. It repulses him to think it, but all those little bits of information he’s hoarded are worth it. Because their party is chased down by Tevinter thugs in a set-up orchestrated by a magic-hating elf tattooed in lyrium who can physically reach into a person’s chest to crush their heart, and the most fascinating thing to happen was little brother’s subsequent freak out.  “Chase him off!”  He hissed into Varric’s ear, bent double to do so and no doubt rendering himself a comical image (red-faced under Fenris’ cool scrutiny and Hawke’s stiff-backed refusal to turn to him).  “He can literally tear my heart from my chest. Forgive me if I’m not inclined to chase him off my lawn.”  Varric hissed back, half-hysterical as Fenris’ gaze drifted between them.  “You’ll have bigger things to worry about if he sticks around!”  Junior fired back, shaking Varric by the shoulders and gesturing at Fenris’ bristling armour and weapons.  “Hawke’s ‘I murder dragons and also really big spiders’ sized sword is almost the same size as his. While you’re all busy seeing which is the bigger thing to worry about, I’ll just run off to High Town in a set of heels where you lot will never think to look for me.”  Varric mutters, much more careful than little brother (the littlest, with his petty attitude - a little dog barking at some junkyard Mabari) to keep his voice down, though Fenris’ lips twitched anyway.  “Don’t talk about it like that.”  Junior snarled viciously,  “Her using it near him is exactly what I’m worried about. I don’t know what it will do.”  Now Fenris’ shoulders were drawing up, impossibly spiky pauldrons growing dangerously close to his ears as his gaze flitted over to Hawke, who sighed unhappily.  “I’m not going to stab you, Fenris. Not even in a fun way.”  She said, sliding her daggers back into their sheaths and rolling out her neck with a crooked grin (one that didn’t reach her eyes and sent another stab of dislike rolling through Varric towards her bratty little brother that rose in sharp competition with his curiousity).  “Is it enchanted?”  Fenris asked, gravelly voice walking a knifes’ edge between interest and distaste that mirrored Varric’s own thoughts too well for comfort (he was pretty sure Fenris was crazier than a nug on lyrium - the comparison wasn’t flattering).  “I’m pretty enchanted with it.”  Hawke replied, sweeping the oilcloth bundle off her back and resting her weight on the pommel, driving the tip of the blade against the cobblestones below,  “Most people find gifts enchanting, though.”  A not at all smooth or subtle evasion, though Varric had to admire the way she’d managed to imply that if it was enchanted, it certainly wasn’t her who had done it. Fenris had cottoned on to the same idea, but Carver looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel.  “Your...brother certainly seems to think there is something I would find distasteful about it. I doubt he’s worried about my wellbeing.”  The humour in Fenris’ voice didn’t quite cover his unease, but it did reflect a desire to please. Varric was certain the elf meant to stick around if he could  now that he was certain Hawke was no mage. “Distasteful?” Hawke laughs, leaning more heavily on the blade and flicking her gaze to Carver on time to see his wince,  “No, he only applies that word to our kinship. He thinks you’ll turn out to be a thief.”  Fenris’ jaw set and Varric’s heart quickened in response. Carver’s fingers practically crushed his shoulder.  “Of a blade?” Fenris asked, taking a menacing step forward.  Hawke chuckled again, though her knuckles had gone white where they wrapped around an exposed silvery green pommel.  “No,” She shook her head, sardonic twist of the lips in place as she tutted, “Of a life.”  Offence coloured Fenris’ sharp retort of,  “Yours?” Making it blunt and threatening as he drew even closer.  “Not mine.”  She shrugs,  "One that can’t be stolen, bought and sold. It’s a pointless fear related to those.”  She taps a single finger against Fenris’ exposed throat, directly over a silvery green line, before leaning back and hefting her blade back to its resting place between her shoulders. Carver abruptly lunged forward, fingers still buried in Varric’s tunic (dragging him a stumbling step towards Hawke despite his dwarven weight. Quite the feat for little brother).  “Don’t let her touch you!”  He snapped at the elf,  “Or she’ll kill you, too!”  Turning on her heel, Hawke's face disappeared from view. She began to stride away, heading off to the Hanged Man most likely, without a single glance back. Instead she called out over her shoulder: “Maybe my poison touch doesn’t affect dwarves, because Varric’s not dead yet, Carver. I think you might actually beat me to that particular punch.” Needless to say, the elf followed. Varric did, too, unable to walk away when his last sight of her was her back.  Junior didn’t.                                               ____________________ “She’ll kill you, too.”  Words meant something to Varric. Even the ones spilled from an imbecile’s lips (one who had realized Varric was not his friend, unfortunately. He couldn’t mourn the loss much, though something in his chest felt slightly out of place when Hawke cast a look about the Hanged Man on Wicked Grace nights and sighed at the utter lack of her brother’s presence. He’d come crawling back eventually, as unable to ignore her and she was him).  “Too.”  Meant something. It meant something in the context of that damnable blade, that sardonic twist of Hawke’s lips that meant she was telling a story, the one that meant honesty and a certain resignation (an animal glint in her eyes in the dark, a cornered animal that always knew the tunnel had an end, that always knew it was going to fight to its bloody last).  “What made them stop?” “They realized what it was for.”  “She’ll kill you, too!” Not enchanted, but enchanting. Apostate-forged in the Wilds by a man who bought his freedom for the price of destiny from a dragon. The answer was obvious. Somehow, though, Varric couldn’t quite put pen to paper. Couldn’t write down a new observation in one of dozens of journals dedicated to Hawke, the only way to keep track of all that made her her before she talked her way into making him forget.   Sighing, Varric pushed his unbound hair back from his face. Slipped his glasses from his nose. Pressed his forehead to the page as he closed his eyes.  He was shameless for a good story. Ruthless in its pursuit. He wanted - no, needed - answers.  And yet.  He could wait for this one. For another sardonic twist of the lips. For more crumbs that Hawke would drop at his feet, knowing he would pick them up, finding their reassembly as inevitable as her brother’s dislike and her mother’s silence (living in a manor Hawke had purchased with children Hawke had been bought and sold for).  Pressing his face ever further into the paper, Varric groaned in horror.  He didn’t want to be another inevitability in Hawke’s life.  He wanted to be a choice.                                      

[sinsbymanka]

Thank you @enigmalea for letting me write your amaaaazing Varric/Josephine prompt (also for playing into my loves during commission time. I APPRECIATE YOU.) 

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Title: An Accidental Courtship Pairing: Josephine Montilyet x Varric Tethras Rating: Teen Content Warnings: Post DA Trespasser DLC, Flirting, Courtship, Intrigue, Misunderstandings, Happy Ending

There were precious few things about Antiva worth the blighted voyage Varric suffered.

Sea-faring, at the best of times, was not his mug of ale. No matter what Rivaini said, there were few advantages to a glorified wash basin bobbing along for days with absolutely nothing but miles of nothing to look at. 

At the worst of times? His rickety ship found itself tossed between waves the size of blighted dragons, lost in storms, drowning in rain, and every meal tasted like salt water that leaked into the termite infested pile of driftwood. Sure, it was probably better than swimming from Kirkwall, but not by much. 

Just to get to Antiva and deal with the human equivalent of the blighted Merchant’s Guild, the Antivan Merchant Princes. All the fun backstabbing politics of dwarves with the added flair, drama, and egos of Antivans. 

It was enough to make him wish his ship had sunk to the bottom of the Waking Sea. 

There was really only one bright spot to the whole trip, and she was the only reason he hadn’t abandoned the whole treaty on the spot. Kirkwall, and it’s Viscount, owed a debt of gratitude to the Lady Montilyet. He didn’t know what he’d have done without her.

That thought brought a complicated pang of grief with it. One that made him look up from the semi-final version of his treaty to take in the woman seated across from him. She’d grown lovelier in the years since the Inquisition, which seemed quite unfair when he seemed to just get older. Her dark hair spilled loose over her shoulders like ink, copper skin shimmering in the sunlight from the windows. She tapped her quill thoughtfully against her lips as she read. 

Varric harbored thoughts about those lips. Roguish thoughts not fit for his dear lady to hear, although if he’d been a younger man, he may have risked it. He risked much more for much less, after all. 

His eyes flicked to the crossbow in the corner ruefully, then back down to the papers he held. 

In truth, there’d be things to be missed in Antiva. The docks lacked that week-old fish odor so common in Kirkwall. The food tended to be far more flavorful. There were less people he knew here, always a plus when he knew such boring people. 

And, most importantly, Josephine. 

Varric dared another glance above his papers just in time to see Josephine’s forehead wrinkle in a matter that could best be described as adorable. Charming, in fact. She was certainly a sight for sore eyes, draped in a delicate silver dress accented with hundreds of dangling, shimmering bits. 

Ripe for the picking by any clever thief. And, Viscount or no, he was still a remarkably clever thief. 

“Ruffles, you look like I need a drink.” 

Josephine’s lips quirked up in an immediate smile the second he opened his mouth. She looked at him through the sweep of her dark lashes. 

“It is tiring, isn’t it?” 

“Tiring is one word for it.” A far more polite word than he would have used. Varric tossed his own stack down, smirking. “What do you want to do for dinner today?” 

He’d taken her out on the town almost every evening since he’d sailed into Antiva City. The first night had been a chance to catch up, talking about old times, gossiping about old friends. 

The second night had been all business. He needed her help to figure out how to cut through the bullshit he’d landed himself in, and who else could he trust?

Every subsequent night got a little less about business and more about hearing Josephine’s delightful observations. He’d always known she was clever and just the right amount of ruthless, but he’d never gotten the opportunity to bask in her glow so completely. The frantic years of the Inquisition’s existence was too full of holes in the skies and demons to appreciate the finer things.

Like beautiful, intelligent women that harbored no secret, doomed angst. 

“A distraction sounds most welcome.” Josephine settled her own papers down, leaning forward. The dress she wore dipped in the front and Varric couldn’t help but look. He felt vaguely disappointed that the neckline was still far too modest. 

“Anywhere you wanna go, beautiful?” The endearment slipped out, but if Josephine found it improper, she didn’t say.  Instead, her eyes sparkled and she dipped her chin, the picture of a demure noblewoman. 

“Perhaps an evening stroll on the docks? It is a lovely night.” 

“And you’re certainly dressed to impress. Maybe we can find you a handsome young bachelor to introduce yourself to.” 

Josephine lifted her dark eyes, the gleam in them almost predatory. “Why would I bother impressing any other bachelors but the one courting me?” 

Varric returned her small smile with one of his own before his mind caught up. He froze, but Josephine had already stood in a flurry of fine silk. 

“There is a cafe that makes this drink, it’s the same one Bull used to favor, with a dollop of fresh cream on top and the prettiest cakes. I’ve been longing to try it.” 

He couldn’t have heard her right. His hearing was finally going. “Sounds very romantic, Ruffles.” 

“I knew it would be perfect for us.” Josephine gushed. “I appreciate your… gentlemanly manner. But I was hoping the atmosphere would inspire you. Yvette swears it works wonders on her suitors.” 

Suitors. 

Well, Maker take him. He was courting Josephine Monitiliyet, who apparently had only one complaint about the whole situation. 

“Your family doesn’t mind you out and about with the most disreputable scoundrel ever elected Viscount?” He asked, just to be sure. He was too old for forbidden romances and cloak and dagger assignations. He certainly wasn’t dragging poor sweet Ruffles along for the ride just cause he was harboring some dangerous fantasies about the way she moved like a dancer waiting for a partner to whirl her away. 

“What objection could they have?” Josephine asked. “You are respectable, my lord.” 

She was teasing him. He’d never been so thrilled in his life. He stood from his seat, offering his arm to Josephine. 

“One last thing, beautiful.” 

“Yes?” 

Varric threw one arm around the soft curve of her waist and pulled her to him, tipping his chin up. 

“How about I claim that kiss now?”

[pikapeppa]

Hawke!Fenris! First thoughts when you saw each other? 😉

[Fenris wilts and smiles at Hawke, who is instantly grinning.]

Fenris: Venhedis. Here we go.

Hawke: I looked at him and thought: ‘marry me’.

Fenris: [scoffs] You did not.

Hawke: [laughing] All right, fine, I didn’t. But I was instantly intrigued. I thought, ‘who is this incredibly handsome elf with the incredibly sexy voice? Why is he able to shove his hand through someone’s chest? Is he single?’ I had a lot of questions, believe me.

Fenris: [gives her a very skeptical look] You looked at a man holding a heart he had just vivisected with his bare hands and you thought, ‘is he single’?

Hawke: [laughing again] I did! I swear I did! But my mind is constantly in the gutter. You’re just that gorgeous, Fenris. [elbows him] Now tell them what you first thought when you saw me.

Fenris: [folds his arms] I thought: ‘she is alive. That is a surprise.’

[Hawke bursts out laughing.]

Hawke: You’re fucking awful, you know that?

Fenris: Perhaps I was half-hoping you would get killed in the ambush so I wouldn’t have to give you my gold.

[He is smirking. She laughs and pokes him repeatedly in the ribs, and he tries to shy away from her.]

Fenris: Stop. Don’t poke.

Hawke: Then stop being a complete shit! 

Fenris: [chuckles] All right, all right. I was genuinely impressed by your aptitude. And… bemused by your companions.

Hawke: I don’t blame you. Varric’s chest hair is quite overwhelming the first time you see it. [fans herself playfully.]

Fenris: No, I mean…  you had… It seemed a lot of companions for one person, that is all.

Hawke: [takes his hand] I can see that being odd for you at the time.

Fenris: At the time, certainly. Not so much anymore. 

[He glances at the door that leads into Skyhold’s main hall, where the clamour of pleasant talking and chatter can be heard. Hawke kisses his cheek.]

Hawke: Not anymore, no. 

******************

Ask Rynne Hawke and Fenris a random question!

[incorrectly-quoted-queers]

Wicked Surprises

Merribela Week, Day 1: Cards

fandom: Dragon Age rating: PG-13 characters: Merrill x Isabela words: 2.3k additional tags: Wicked Grace, flirty, first attraction description: Varric brings Merrill along to Wicked Grace, but after Varric leaves things get a little steamy between Isabela and the sweetest elf she’d never thought she’d have the hots for

For all the clever airs he put on, Isabela was always amused by how Varric ended up in a duel to the death against her during the final rounds of Wicked Grace. And he’d always start furrowing his brows a few hands in, because he’d go in so sure he could beat her. She knew well enough to let him win a few rounds, get his hopes up, just to destroy him when his self-confidence turned into unfounded arrogance. 

They were just hitting the tipping point, about five games in. He put too much money in this time after a streak of wins. And even though his mouth acted in control, it was always his eyebrows that gave it away. Isabela smirked. Everything was going according to plan.

Well, at least when it came to Varric and Hawke. She’d scared the sassy mage under the table two rounds ago and the dwarf was hitting his tipping point. But there was an unexpected element in the game tonight. 

At the end of the table, only inches from her, was a chipper little elf with gorgeous, bright green eyes, her feet crossed dainty under her chair. Merrill was sitting there smiling at her cards like they were candy. Most of the time, she figured the ex-Dalish was too saccharine for her tastes. However, tonight there was this mischievous little grin on her face each time somebody dropped out. 

Isabela couldn’t tell if she just had good cards and didn’t know how to lie, or was pulling off the most manipulative, yet wholesome looking heist she’d ever seen. 

Taking her eyes off the most interesting character at the table, Isabela leaned back in her chair and nodded at her dwarven buddy, his eyebrows looking so tense they could fly right off. She asked, “Going to do anything with your turn, Varric?”

After a few flitting glances between his cards and Isabela, he grumbled and threw his cards down. “Dammit, I’m out.” Even though he was glaring and crossing his arms, Isabela felt so much electric satisfaction. It sizzled under her skin. If she wasn’t such a good pirate, she might have made one hell of a gambler. 

Merrill pouted next to him. Bemused, Isabela wanted to see what she was up to. A cute pout like that had to be deliberate. Batting her eyelashes at Varric, Merrill said, “That’s no fun.” Isabela was caught off guard when those sparkly eyes looked straight at her. “Guess that just leaves me and Isabela, right?Or are you quitting, too?”

Running her tongue behind her teeth, Isabela shook her head. Not so easy, baby doll. Not that she minded seeing this new side of Merrill. “Don’t think your cute smile’s about to scare me away.”

“You think my smile’s cute?” 

Isabela wasn’t used to finding herself caught off guard more than once in a conversation. She also didn’t know how to respond to Merrill’s eyes sparkling extra while looking at her and talking about smiles. But whatever the elf’s ploy was, she wasn’t going to get in her head. “Not the point.” Isabela gestured to the finished game in front of them and said, “Time to show your hand, better hope it’s a good one.”

“I dunno, but I think I did okay for myself.” And then with that helpless, adorable grin Merrill flipped her cards to show the best hand Isabela had ever seen in this seedy bar. Guess the dark haired elf with had more surprises than she expected in her tiny little hands. 

“Well, well, can say I didn’t expect that.” Isabela showed her own abysmal hand and felt her entire body liven up with interest. There wasn’t much about this world that surprised her anymore, more like unfortunate possibilities that she hadn’t counted on happening.

But a surprise, and a pleasant one at that, was something she didn’t want to let go of so easy. Giving Merrill a once over, she said, “I have to see if you can make lightning strike twice. You in, Varric?”

“Nah, Hawke’s already weeping under the table because he lost so I’ll get his ass home.” After standing and dragging up the drunk Hawke with him, Varric gave Isabela a pointed look. “Take care of Daisy, will ya?”

Merrill didn’t look too happy about that, though she couldn’t tell if it was out of annoyance or guilt. “She doesn’t have to--”

“My pleasure.”

Varric seemed pleased with that and lef Hawke out of The Hanged Man, managing to miss other handsy drunk patrons along the way. They both waved the two off and watched the door open and close behind them. 

But the second Varric’s orange head was out of the way, Merrill was looking at her again with pinched lips and a wrinkled forehead. “I can take care of myself.”

It made Isabela laugh, how tightly wound Merrill looked. That was more like what she expected. However, Isabela was a little too intrigued to let the elf get all awkward and tense again. She wanted to see what else was underneath. The few glimpses already made her way too interested to let the more salacious side of Merrill slip away. But she did admit, “Sure you can. I’ve seen you in a fight. I’m just making the grumpy dwarf feel better.”

“Oh. Thank you, then.”

Isabela raised an eyebrow, flicked a card with her fingers, and egged Merrill on, saying, “So are you actually good at this game or was that just a lucky draw?”

“What? Think I can’t have beaten you on wits alone?”

Chuckling, Isabela leaned on the table and bit her lip. “No offense, but I doubt it.”

“I take offense to that, but I’ll let it go. Not your fault I have a “cute smile””

Of all things, teasing wasn’t what Isabela expected. This night was only getting better and better. She even was starting to wonder what other surprises those cute, pink lips of Merrill’s had for her. 

Maybe this night would get even more interesting than she ever expected. 

“Is that all you’re going to talk about now, the fact I said you have a cute smile?”

“When you normally tell people they have nice arse or tits? I take it as a uniquely rare compliment.”

Isabela bristled. She didn’t like that as much as the rest of this conversation. She cut her eyes at Merrill. “There’s nothing wrong with me enjoying company in my bed.”

Shaking her hands in front of her innocently, Merrill looked startled.“That’s not what I meant at all.” Then she looked down at her hands, this little blush covering her cheeks, and said, “I meant it’s nice to hear you say you like my smile.”

While most things about tonight were a delicious mystery, Isabela knew that kind of smile and it made her fingertips tingle. Little miss flower might just have a crush on her. Things just got so, so much more interesting. Especially when said woman wasn’t bad to look at. Good company, too, albeit like a sugar rush sometimes. 

In her element, Isabela brushed her foot against Merrill’s. Her posture shot straight up and the blush got a little more noticeable. “If I didn’t know any better, Merrill, I’d say you were flirting.”

“M-maybe it’s all a part of my grand scheme to beat you at cards.”

Winking, Isabela said, “You starting this kind of game with me, flower? I will win every time.”

“Will you? How so?”

Merrill was just making this easier and easier for her, huh? Well, either she was going to scare the elf off or get a much more evening than she bargained for. Whether it was some squirming or screaming, Isabela was open to either option. She twirled a lock of her hair with her finger. “With someone like you? All I have to do is have a drifting hand or to talk about what my tongue can do under your dress, and you’re done. I’ll have won.” 

Even though Merrill’s cheeks flared, she swallowed and didn’t flinch. Impressive. “Well you aren’t winning right now.” The little elf, exhaled, slow. Isabela watched the way her chest fell. Even though she was petite, she had to admit her body had to be beautiful under her green tunic. She did wonder how soft her skin that didn’t touch routine battle might be. 

But as Isabela was getting far too distracted about all the possibilities of tonight, even though she was pretty sure they’d never happen, Merrill tipped her finished hand and raised an eyebrow at Isabela. Another great damn hand. Merrill's eyes were practically gleaming when she winked at her. “So what do you want to do next?”

Okay, she had to admit that was a little hot. Her throat was a lot dryer than she remembered. 

Showing her own cards, she had to accept she got her ass handed to her. Again. “How--”

“A winner never tells their secrets.” Merrill’s cute smile was starting to have less than a wholesome effect on Isabela. She was fantasizing about what she had to do to get Merrill’s intentions to turn a little more than friendly. Cleavage and some mild flirting normally worked, but they were already past that point. “

Across from her, Merrill asked, Another?”

“I’m out of spare coin, I’m afraid.” Isabela couldn’t get the idea of that green tunic on her bedroom floor out of her head, though. It was time to put the ball in Merrill’s court, try to feel out where her head was at. After all, this wasn’t just some drunken, hot girl that she could make fall in love with her for a night. This was sort of her co-worker. She had to be a little more delicate with it. Raising an eyebrow, Isabela said,“But we can always wager more interesting things.”

“Like what?”

“Each failed round, loser drops a piece of clothing?”

Merrill's red cheeks were really starting to do it for Isabela, and it was getting really distracting. She replied, a little overwhelmed.“Not in the middle of the bar!” 

Isabela accepted the loss. This idea of her and Merrill wasn’t a real practical one. This was probably just a rare night that’d never happen again. Chocking it up to fun flirting that she’d have to work out of her system on some cute rando later, Isabel conceded, “Well then--” 

“W-What if we went to your room?” 

Her lips fell into an easy smile that warmed up her whole body. But Merrill just kept on surprising her, didn’t she? 

Cocking her head towards her back room, she collected the cards and brushed her fingers against Merrill’s. “Then I guess we have ourselves a game.”

When they got back to Isabela’s room, she was practically drunk on the thought of seeing how far her vallaslin really went. So drunk that Isabela lost a couple rounds way too fast. She had wriggled out of her boots and top less than half an hour later. Only upside was that the red-cheeked Merrill was having a hard time keeping her eyes off of Isabela’s, um, assets. 

So much trouble that after losing way too many helpless rounds, Isabela finally won.

“Ha! Seems your winning streak just ended.” 

When Merrill grabbed the edges of her shirt, though, her hands were shaking. No matter how much Isabela wanted to toss the elf on her bed and see how long it took to make her moan, it didn’t sit right with her, seeing her so uncomfortable. Before Merrill started pulling off anything, Isabela grabbed her hand and shook her head. “You know, you don’t have to--”

But Merrill took away her hand and peeled off the top like it offended her. “I’m not a child.” 

“No, you’re not.” Isabela took a deep breath, seeing the pale, pristine skin underneath. She could see Merrill’s chest rise and fall under her crossed arms. With a soft hand, Isabela caressed her side. Though her face was still red and she looked so unsure, Merrill didn’t pull away. 

Tucking a hand under her chin, Isabela pulled Merrill closer and said, “You’re beautiful, you know.”

“Funny, coming from the most beautiful woman in every room.” 

“You can’t mean that.”

“Of course I do.” When Merrill’s eyes flicked down to Isabela’s chest, she covered her red face with her hands. “A-And I’m not just saying that because you don’t have a top on!”

“You’re adorable.” Letting go of her, Isabela held back her more powerful feelings about looking at Merrill and said, “But don’t start this game unless you’re serious about playing it through.” 

“You dare ask that? I may be awkward and small and people don’t take me quite seriously. But I’m still a woman, Isabela.” She unfurled her arms and held her head high. “Don’t patronize me.”

With that, Isabela found her fingers on Merrill’s hips, pulling her in closer, whispering in her ear, “I’m not trying to patronize you. I’m trying to make sure you want this. Because I want you to end up in my bed because you can’t resist me, not because you weren’t sure how to tell me to stop.”

“Don’t.”

Isabela looked directly into those bright green eyes and waited for the delicious words she wanted to hear. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t stop.” 

One gentle pull and Merrill’s body was pressed against hers, and she could feel the elf’s heartbeat against her own chest. It made it hard to keep teasing her, but it was so damn worth it. “And what would you like me to start doing, then?” 

“Kiss me.” Hovering her lips over Merrill’s, Isabela chose to play the insatiable asshole. She wanted to see just how much she could make Merrill squirm. 

“All you have to do is say you want me.”

Merrill pulled back her face and glowered. “Don’t make some sadistic joke out of my feelings--”

“I’m not.” Isabela got close again, running her hand up Merrill’s back, pulling at the smallclothes left on her body. “Tell me you want me.”

“I bloody want you. Happy now?” 

And that was all she needed to hear before crashing her lips down onto hers. 

What a surprising night, indeed. She wouldn’t mind letting Merrill surprise her more often.