#alistair fanfic

[writeyouin]

Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) X Fem-Reader - Sinless Sinners

Chapter 1 - Hate For All Sinners

A/N – I couldn’t stop thinking about this short King after episode 5 of Hazbin Hotel came out. This is mostly a fic for me, to get me back into writing. (WILL DO A MALE AND NONBINARY ONE SOON!)

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

MALE VERSION HERE

NON-BINARY / GN VERSION HERE

“Who’s that?” Lucifer asked, pointing you out to Charlie.

In truth, he would’ve likely asked that of the next person he saw. As Charlie’s father, Lucifer was trying desperately to show how interested he was in his daughter’s project, even if he was barely holding onto anything she said. It wasn’t that he was disinterested, or too ignorant to understand the situation, but rather that after spending so much time as a recluse, locked away in the protective space of his workshop where he wouldn’t have to see the sinners or the Hell he was responsible for creating, Lucifer could barely comprehend what was going on around him. He knew it was because he was depressed, but he was trying and he had to make Charlie see that, even if it meant feigning fits of hypomanic excitement.

Yet, Lucifer found himself genuinely… horrified by you. He had seen many types of Demon over the millennia. Typically, they tended to represent Earth’s animals, such as that annoyingly powerful Deer Demon, Alistair, whom Lucifer had met thanks to this very tour… not that Alistair was worth mentioning, piece of shit that he was, mingling with Lucifer’s daughter when he had no right to even breathe the same air as her-

Lucifer caught his snowballing thoughts, turning them back to you. You weren’t an animal Demon. There were other types of Demons of course, though Flora and Fauna were the most common; object Demons also existed, such as that rather famous one that people talked about, the TV Demon, V-something? Lucifer couldn’t remember his name. He didn’t watch Television… he didn’t do much of anything these days.

“Oh,” Charlie sidled over to you, wrapping her arm warmly around your shoulder as she corralled you towards her father, “Dad, this is (Y/N). She’s one of the hotel’s, uh, allies I guess, right (Y/N)?”

“That’s right, Sir,” You held out your hand for Lucifer, who was staring dumbly at you, uncertain what to make of you.

As the ruler of Hell, fuelled by angelic power, Lucifer could always read a Demon, or rather, he could read their strength. For example, he knew after only one meeting that the bartender, Husk was a strong Demon, though his power was clearly being dampened by a soul contract, whereas that little snake fellow Sir Pentious was rather weak, though he had potential if he could manage to claim even a few souls of his own, but you? You were entirely different.

First off, you didn’t resemble an animal, plant, or object… You were the most human-looking Demon that Lucifer had ever seen; frankly, he found that disturbing. Secondly, you didn’t seem to have much if any power. What was wrong with you? To come off as human with little demonic power… Well, if Lucifer didn’t know any better, he would guess that you weren’t a sinner at all, but you had to be. You were definitely dead; that much he could tell. And, you were in Hell.

Dead and in Hell - those were the only two qualifications for becoming a Demon, so why were you like this?

“Dad, are you listening?” Charlie said exasperatedly, clearly annoyed that Lucifer’s thoughts seemed to have trailed off once again.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Lucifer stated, staring at your hand which you had seemingly retracted when he wasn’t paying attention. Damnation! Now Charlie was going to think he had snubbed her friend on purpose.

“So, (Y/N) is another one of your patrons. That’s nice.”

“What? No. Dad, I just told you, (Y/N) has no interest in being redeemed.”

“Oh,” Lucifer looked you up and down disapprovingly. It figured. Even this non-Demon was looking for power in Hell, probably so you would finally be a killer worth bragging about – Honestly, what was the point? All sinners were the same. Greedy, destructive forces who wouldn’t stop until there was nothing left to break.

“Yep, she’s our only permanent resident who wants to help rehabilitate other souls. Isn’t that great? She helps with everything here, and she doesn’t ask for anything in return.”

“That’s not true,” You blushed at Charlie’s praise. “Your daughter is very generous, Sir. She lets me stay here rent-free.”

“And that’s all you want?” Lucifer asked suspiciously.

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Lucifer shook his head but didn’t argue. He didn’t want to know what your real motivations were. It was probably as simple as hoping for regular boons from the Princess of Hell; you were clearly just biding your time. Besides, if you didn’t want to redeem your soul, then you must be just like Alistair, a sadistic monster just waiting to see Demons repeatedly fail in their attempts at redemption.

Now that his curiosity was sated, Lucifer decided that he didn’t want to lay eyes on you again. You weren’t worth his time. Only Charlie was… Well, Charlie and Vaggie, because any woman his daughter loved was practically family to him. He was glad when the tour continued, leaving you behind to catch Nifty who was trying to pull a piece of fabric from Lucifer’s coat, muttering something about the ‘Ultimate bad boy.’

“Okay, I can get you the meeting,” Lucifer agreed, doing what he could to support Charlie’s dreams of saving her people, even though he didn’t think there were any redeeming qualities for any denizen of Hell.

It hurt him to tell Charlie that he wouldn’t be able to go with her to that lofty paradise, having been cast out; how he wished he could protect his daughter from those who carried out God’s will. Still, she never asked him for anything, and if this was what her heart most desired, he would do all in his power to help.

“Will you be okay?” He asked sombrely.

“I’ll be fine,��� Charlie assured him, taking hold of his hands.

“That’s my girl.”

For a moment, it looked like Lucifer was done, but he paused, worried that this wasn’t enough to make up for the years he had been absent, leaving Charlie to fend for herself while he shut himself away.

“Is there anything else you need?”

Charlie couldn’t help but worry about her father. What would happen when he went back into isolation? He needed something to focus on, but… What was there for him when all of Hell was his prison?

She couldn’t help thinking about how little Lucifer thought of all the other citizens of Hell. If only he could see that they weren’t as terrible as he thought. Granted, they could be violent, and loud, definitely rambunctious, but these were his people, and he had to see that his gift of Free Will was a good thing, yet, if she said any of this, she was certain Lucifer would only laugh at her or tell her to get real while playfully pinching her cheek. There was no way that Lucifer would leave his home to hang out with any citizen of Hell.

Then it hit her. If Lucifer wouldn’t leave his manor to visit people, then people should be allowed to visit his manor. Or better yet, one person should be chosen to go and live with Lucifer so that he would learn just how good people could be, and Charlie knew just the person for the job.

“Actually, Dad, there is one more thing.”

“Name it,” Lucifer smiled, glad that his daughter wanted to ask things of him, as any normal child should want from their parents.

“I think it would be good for you to socialise, just a little bit.”

“Charlie,” Lucifer’s voice was strained at the thought of going anywhere else in Hell.

“I know,” Charlie reassured him, looking into his eyes; she looked so understanding that he relaxed slightly. Then, she continued in a more upbeat tone, “That’s why I think you should take (Y/N) to live with you, as your maid!”

She pounded her palm decidedly, much like a judge pounding her gavel.

“What? NO!” Lucifer sputtered.

You for your part, had seemingly been shocked into silence, watching the exchange uncertainly while Alistair grinned devilishly at you, and Angel Dust was holding in a snicker. Granted, you could have argued, but Charlie was stubborn, and she always had some kind of wild idea. Whatever she was thinking, you decided that you would go along with it; there was usually a method to her madness after all.

“It’s fine, Dad, (Y/N) doesn’t mind, right (Y/N)?”

You shrugged your shoulders passively, “I guess?”

“See? You should get to know your citizens, Dad. It will be good for you, I promise. They’re not all as bad as you think.”

Lucifer took one hard look at you. Honestly, he wished his daughter had picked the porn star or that psycho maid. You, as a very human-looking Demon, were a vicious reminder of his past mistakes. Still, he had told his daughter he would do anything for her, and he had already promised her a meeting with Heaven, and nothing could possibly be worse than that.

“Alright,” He agreed.

Then, he summoned a portal for you with the flick of his wrist.

“Good luck, kiddo.” He said to Charlie, and upon keeping a safe distance from you, he waited for you to step through the portal.

“Charlie, I’m assuming that you have a good reason for this,” You said before taking a step towards your newly appointed home, “Just call me if you need anything.”

With that, you were gone, followed closely (though not too closely) by Lucifer.

[majordemonblockparty]

au where sam goes along with the demon blood drinking 'cause he figures if anyone can grant clemency in hell, it oughta be the boy king of the fucking place.

cue full-on yellow-eyed juiced-up rightful prince of hell sam winchester who has spent the past four months picturing how he'll pour into the depths of hell with legions of demons and hellhounds at his beck and call to break his brother out of whatever implement of torture he's been strung up in... except that when he gets there, dean's unbound, unfettered, up on his own two feet with a knife in his hand, and doesn't even notice sam right away. he's dialed in, laser-focused on peeling back the skin of what might've once been a person with all the care of a shearer going after a sheep, everything from his face (oh, god, his face, his dear face; last time sam saw that face he was nailing pine boards over top of it after he'd closed the eyelids and wiped it free of blood and salt and kissed that cold, still mouth and--) to his bare feet spattered in abattoir-floor gore.

(in the end, sam's never entirely sure how he gets dean's attention -- whether he calls his name, or chokes on a sound trying to be words, or if something inside him deeper than a soul screams out for dean -- but there's a knife in dean's hand and blood on the blade when he turns to sam.)

dean just stares at him for a second, that still, cool, animal look he gets sometimes on a hunt; all predator, 'yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil for I am the meanest sonovabitich in the valley' kind'a look that makes the hair at sam's nape stand on end. then dean's face contracts all at once -- eyes narrow, lip curls, jaw tightens -- as he turns on his heel and flings his knife into the chest of the -- man? demon? demon, gotta be; nothing still human wears a face like that -- standing just out of arm's reach.

"thought we had an agreement," dean snaps, gravel-scrape low at the bottom of his register, like he's been sick but won't admit it for weeks on end. (or screaming. like he's been screaming, a lot, for weeks. or months, maybe. but maybe not; sam's been wrong before.) "no more projections, no more games. we agreed."

the demon puts his hand to the hilt of dean's knife, still buried in his chest cavity, and sam can't have that, can't have an armed demon within throwing distance of deandeandeandeandean, and all he has to do is think about it -- not even really think, not anything so complicated as holding the words or the image of it in his brain; just the intention behind the thought is enough to send the knife jerking out of the demon's grasp and slapping handle-first into sam's open palm.

the demon doesn't laugh, exactly, but his face stretches into what might be the memory of a grin; all teeth, no smile. "we did, and I have not thus far reneged on our agreement, boy. if I'm not mistaken, that's the genuine article; sam winchester, in the flesh. and what pretty flesh it is, too. goddamned succulent."

"hey!" dean barks, "knock it off." that habitual, spine-up, big brother voice that's been part of sam's life since before he can remember. "quit talking about his fucking... flesh." he says 'flesh' in a tone people usually reserve for words like 'fascism' and 'gangrene' and sam's chest aches for the dean-ness of it.

for a second, like a hologram or a magic-eye puzzle, sam sees dean. dean disarticulated, splayed out like a frog pinned to a dissection board, chest cut open, organs scooped out and toyed with and put back wrong. bones rent from their joints, eyes ripped from their sockets, fingers broken one knuckle at a time, nails torn from their beds in a bloody little pile. pieces cut off and waiting for their white waxed paper wrappers; bloody red pieces of flank, ribs, leg, shoulder.

"dean."

(he doesn't say his brother's name so much as he breathes it, horror and relief and delight and longing all shading his tone.)

the look on dean's face is like missing the bottom step of the staircase in the dark. he looks at sam like he hasn't seen him in a hundred years. he looks at sam like he saw him yesterday, the very last thing he saw, sam's face inches from his when his pupils blew out, the fine muscles inside his eye relaxing as his brain and heart and lungs all stopped working.

"sam?"

[inquisimer]

dragon age character study fic recs

I'm back with another fic rec list, this time focusing on character studies! There were so many more than five that I flagged as interesting 👀 when I was putting this together, so there's definitely a chance that this theme makes a repeat in the future.

Check these awesome fics out! And leave a comment + kudos to let the author know you did💜

Vote in this poll to help me choose a theme for next week's rec list (:

-

New Tricks by Penknife (@penknife)

Dorian Pavus & Cullen Rutherford, Josephine Montilyet & Cullen Rutherford & Leliana | G | 1968 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: Five times Cullen found that he didn't have to do everything the hard way. Mer's Rec: If you're into Cullen & Dorian friendship, or really any Cullen friendship, this fic will be right up your alley. Penknife does an excellent job of contrasting Dorian as a beleaguered academic (beloved) with Cullen's quieter intelligence. They also highlight Cullen as a strategist and commander, not just the "send the troops" guy, and the advisor interactions resonate with coworker friend energy, which I loved. I always adore fics that explore Cullen's habits and traits leftover from so many years as a Templar and this story seamlessly weaves in those details, which brings a real depth to both Cullen and his interactions.

Names Are Cloaks by EllanaSan

Female Adaar & Josephine Montilyet | G | 2963 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: They can’t have that, she supposes, the Herald of Andraste being called names behind her back… The only way the situation could have been worse is if she had been an elf. She could tell the ambassador that there are people in this very camp disrespecting her at every turn but she is far too used to it to care. They call her oxwoman. They call her witch. They call her chosen or your worship. They call her Tal-Vashoth. Names are weapons. For the bearer to hold and to wield. Names are cloaks. For the bearer to wrap themselves in and discard when outgrown. Mer's Rec: With Bioware's scant lore about Qunari and the Qun, I was impressed by how this story immersed me in Adaar's history. Tidbits from canon interwoven with fascinating-slash-heartbreaking details about the Qun, Vashoth, and Saarebas, plus her introspective musings on the past and her identity make this Adaar stand out from the cookie-cutter protagonist in the best way. I want to know more about her! From Josephine's dialogue and mannerisms to the uncertainty, fear, and alienation the Herald can experience in Haven, everything about this story feels like it could be straight out of the DAI canon.

I have outlived the night by lilith_morgana (@senseandaccountability)

Loghain Mac Tir, Minor/Background Relationships | T | 2106 words | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Author's Summary: He's five, he's eighteen, nineteen, twenty, forty-six, and fifty-five, he's fifty-six, fifty-seven and ready to die. Instead, he lives. Mer's Rec: The emotion in this fic is so palpable, so visceral, and it slaps you in the face the way careful consideration of complicated characters should. With repeated contrasts between Loghain in his youth versus his later years, the author takes us on a journey from hot-headed kid to weary veteran, and it just makes your heart ache😭 It features strong exposition on Loghain's motives, feelings, and regrets during the Fifth Blight, which I love to see since it's fairly absent from the game itself. Their portrayal of Loghain in Inquisition also felt fresh and different, including a conversation with Cullen, which is a dynamic I hadn't considered before and found incredibly interesting to read. And of course it ends on a bittersweet note, as it always does with Loghain.

To Yield Is Not Weak by disasterhawke

Alistair/Anora Mac Tir | M | 4018 words | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Author's Summary: She may not like her new husband, but Anora Theirin is not about to let the world treat him like it has treated her. She will do whatever it takes to earn his trust. This is not quite what he expects. An Anora character study that explores her arranged marriage to her husband's bastard brother. Mer's Rec: this 👏 was 👏 everything I wanted out of an Alistair/Anora fic! While I think antagonism between those two has a place, this fic explored their relationship through the lens of teaching and working together, rather than animosity. It works SO well and there was a definite give-and-take, with Anora running the show immediately post-coronation, but gradually softening her harsher edges and highlighting Alistair's strengths while they grow as rulers. Anora's internal monologue, not only about Alistair, but also Cailan and Loghain, does a fantastic job showing the humanity she usually has to hide, without diminishing her competence in the least.

when the bough breaks by gummies (orphaned)

Morrigan, Flemeth | G | 1124 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: In her hands, the mouse is kept still. The only movement Morrigan feels from it is the beating of its tiny heart. With her eyes closed, it almost seems that she is holding in her hands its heart alone. Tiny, vulnerable, and so stutteringly fast. It must be afraid, Morrigan muses. Something twinges in her chest. Empathy. She cannot help the flare of protectiveness inside her. For now, the mouse is hers. Plucked from the world from whence it came, tucked away and safe. She wonders if this is how Mother feels of her. Mer's Rec: What struck me most about this fic was the author's grasp of character voices. Flemeth is just as cunning and calculating as she comes across in game, but I was beyond impressed by their young!Morrigan. I could see and hear so clearly how Morrigan would get from the childlike hope she has in this story to the harsher, bitter Morrigan we meet in game. I don't even know how they did that, but it was incredible to read, even as this slice of Morrigan's childhood and her abuse at Flemeth's hands was breaking my heart.

Don't forget to get your fic and art recs lined up for tomorrow's Fan Work Friday!

[yoshitsuno]

Damian & Alistair Dusk (commission)

AAAAAHHHHHH finally I drew them ! FINALLY ! I was so honoured to draw @speedysart 's characters, especially Damian who shares some headcanons with my ravenclaw girl Alice ! Thank you so much for letting me drawing them !!! I love them and Love you ! 💕

[dragon-age-fame]

Edit: I want to thank you guys for the interest. She is 14 pages in now. Low key might skip work today to write. Keep up the good work. I answer some of your questions and replies uwusl

Hwy guys.

I'm hoping to generate some interest for my current project with my bestie. We are writing a dragon age fanfic. Instead of one origin surviving, Duncan recruited all of them.

It will have romance, adventure, friendship, politics, betrayal and hope.

Our goal is to keep it true to the story to lore as possible.. hope to eventually write through all 3 games. (Possibly dreadwolf too depending on how that turns out)

The romance list is F. Maharel x Zevran, F. Tabris x Leliana, M. Adecan x Morrigan, F. Cousland x Alistair.

Surana and Brosca will be announced later.

How it will work is we are splitting the chapters. She writes one half. I write the other. We have different writing styles so I hope this will be a fun and relatively unique project.

Bestie says she will be more.motivated to write if people are interested. So I am hoping to show her to get her on the ball.

Please feel free to comment with any thoughts, comments, questions or ideas.

[all-things-ghostly]

Yandere Hatbox Headcanons ❤️‍🩹

Okay I guess I lied when I said I’d post fics on an alt. Have some hcs for our beloved Hatbox (this one’s for Alistair, not the ride version, I envision two separate personalities for them :))

Rather than being cruel towards you, he is instead highly protective. Anyone who dares lay a finger on you, physically or emotionally, will at the very least get the fright of their lives, if not meet their end entirely.

This also means that you typically aren’t allowed to leave the mansion, at least not without him sending out his finest and strongest ghosts to supervise and protect you.

He will also protectively hide you under his cape sometimes ❤️

This man spoils you beyond belief. You’re his most prized possession mortal after all, and you deserve only the best! Feeling hungry? He has his staff prepare only the finest meals for you. Got your eye on something? Alistair will shower you with all the gifts you desire. Not to mention all the physical affection he piles on you.

Due to his childhood trauma he has a tough time expressing himself emotionally, including through words. He doesn’t really know how to articulate his feelings to you verbally so instead he shows it through his actions. There’s gift giving, as was previously mentioned, but he also likes to set the fireplace up for you and cuddle you silently. Even if he’s quiet about it, you know he loves you.

You can feel his powerful presence as he follows you around the mansion and watches over you

Getting into the more violent side of things… imagine Alistair slowly walking up to you, staring deeply at you with his yellow eyes half-lidded and full of tainted love, all while covered in the blood of his most recent victim. He licks his fangs seductively and roughly pulls you into his body, growling into your ear.

He likes to nip at you a lot. Not in a way that harms you, but just to be playful. His sharp teeth graze against your ears and neck while he growls softly

In the end, Alistair is just a big, fucked-up pushover for you. He will subject everyone around him but you to his cruelty. You are his little gem and he would rather die all over again than watch anything bad happen to you.

No one, no one, will ever harm you under his watch.

[tobythewise]

Welcome to DWC! Happy friday! For Zevran/Alistair: “Hey, so about—” “I suddenly have memory loss and don’t remember who you are.”

Thank you for the welcome and for this brilliant prompt!! 🥰💚 I hope you enjoy!

(Written for @dadrunkwriting content ahead: mentions of drinking, a drunk kiss, and getting together)

Alistair wakes up in his tent with a pained groan. His mouth is parched and tastes like dirt, his head is somehow both spinning amd pounding, and his stomach is sour. The smell of booze comes from his breath, making him all the more sick.

By the Maker, what did he do last night?

Oh right. They found themselves at the Pearl, deal with yet another job their fearless leader took on. After that, they somehow found themselves playing cards with a pirate named Isabela and after that there was alcohol. A lot of it.

Alistair hasn’t had many opportunities to get drunk, not while living in Redcliffe and certainly not while studying at the Chantry. So for the first time, he accepted every glass put in front of him. Looking back, he really should have stopped after two, but once he started it felt like a cop out to stop. If Wynne could handle a few drinks, surely he should be able to as well!

That was his line of thinking anyway.

Now? Now Alistair promises himself to never drink again. He’s sticking to water going forward.

Alistair smacks his lips, realizing the last time he woke up with his mouth tasting this vile was his Joining. Great, now he’s going to start associating alcohol with Darkspawn blood.

Covering his face with his hands, Alistair groans long and low. Just then, the flap of his tent folds open, letting sunshine through.

“Close that,” he grumbles without looking up. “Too early. Too bright.”

A warm chuckle makes him part his fingers, finding Zevran carefully closing the tent flap behind himself. Alistair’s stomach does a flip only this time it’s followed by a warm tingly feeling instead of the urge to throw up.

“Ah, I had a feeling you would be feeling a bit rough this morning, my friend. I’ve brought you cold water to help.”

Without saying a single word, Alistair reaches out and takes the water skin from him. Their fingers brush and a shiver runs through him. There’s something nagging him at the back of his mind, something that happened last night.

It must not have been that important if he can’t think of it.

Alistair takes a long swing of water, thankful at the way to washes away the gross taste in his mouth. He looks over at Zevran, finding him staring. Alistair feels himself flushing, something he does often when he’s around Zevran.

And of course because he’s him, the attention makes him panic. Alistair takes a large swig, the water shooting down the wrong pipe and suddenly he’s choking on water, coughing it back up while trying not to spit any water onto Zevran.

With dexterity and smoothness that Alistair is jealous of, Zevran slides further into the tent, kneeling next to him. His hand slides across Alistair’s back, patting him a few times.

By the Maker, the blushing is back and it’s even worse now that he’s so close.

Alistair turns his head, finding himself almost nose to nose with Zevran. This close, he can make out the little golden specks in his brown eyes. He’s so close it would be so easy to….

Oh. Oh no. Holy shit. Oh god.

Alistair’s eyes widen as he realizes what he couldn’t remember about the night before. He was so drunk he could barely walk which meant Zevran had to practically carry him here. While the assassin was helping him into his bedroll, Alistair pulls him down into a sloppy, drunk kiss.

They kissed.

He kissed Zevran.

Alistair can tell the moment Zevran notices that he remembers. His eyes grow soft and he puts on an easy smile.

“Hey,” Zevran starts to say, “so about—“

Alistair does the most mature thing he can think to do in this moment. He shoves Zevran back, falls back into his bedroll, and pulls it over his face.

“I suddenly have memory loss! I don’t remember who you are!”

There’s a long moment of silence. It goes on so long that Alistair is half convinced that the man he’s grown to have a giant, embarrassing crush on has left his tent. He just wants to hide and pretend none of this has happened because he’s not sure he’ll survive the teasing this situation is going to leave him with.

“If you wish to play it this way, I am not one to push,” Zevran finally says, his voice surprisingly soft. “In my experience, drunk lips tell what one is too scared to share while sober. If that’s not the case, consider this conversation to have never happened.”

Alistair swallows around the lump in his throat. It would be so easy to let it go, to pretend it was all a drinker mistake. But for once, he wants to be brave. He wants to take a leap. Zevran is worth that.

Pulling the blanket down so only his eyes are showing, he stares up into Zevran’s eyes. “And if my drunk lips were telling the truth?”

Zevran’s lips curls into an easy smile. “Then I would ask you to never kiss me while drunk again.” Before Alistair can apologize or throw himself from the tent in embarrassment and rejection, Zevran continues. “When our lips meet, I want all of your wits about you. I want you to experience our kiss fully. I want your sober lips to talk to me, my warden.”

Alistair might not remember much about their first kiss but their second kiss? He commits it to memory, completely sober.

[kaz-identified]

“Do centaurs have two rib cages or like… one long one?” Tav asks, curling her tail around herself.

“Pardon?” Gale asks, looking up from his book, not sure if he heard her properly.

“I’m genuinely curious,” the tiefling says. “And you’re smart."

"Well, that I am."

"Do you know?”

“I… have never been in a situation where that information would be necessary, so… no,” he answers, carefully.

“Damn. Another mystery goes unsolved. If you don’t have answers to my stupid questions why do I keep you around?”

“Because you love me and enjoy my company?” he offered, glancing over at her.

“Oh… yea I guess that’s true," she responds, looking up, head tilting sideways.

"Well, I'll take 'I guess' if that's the best I can get."

"If you had an answer to my question you'd get more than just I gues-"

"I don't want to continue this conversation, actually."

[baejax-the-great]

Alistair x Bethany | Chapter 12 | AO3

That boy could drown in a puddle

Alistair watched the dawn break over Bethany’s face. The sun had brought out freckles across her nose and cheeks over their time together. They were sweet. He was going to miss them.

He had woken up with a terrible thirst, and plunging his hands over and over into their little stream and taking in as much water as he could did nothing to quench it. Alistair knew this was coming, but he had sort of hoped that maybe his lyrium addiction sank to the bottom of the sea with his armor or Bethany’s phylactery and was just as easily discarded. Maybe the real world and all its problems really couldn’t penetrate the thick jungle of this place, wherever it was. Maybe the sunshine would burn his thirst away.

No such luck. The thirst that could not be quenched with fresh water nor rum would soon turn into something all together worse, and Alistair should not have delayed their escape from this cave back into civilization unless he wanted to die here.

Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst option for him, dying somewhere nice and warm without the droning chanting of old women the whole time.

Read the rest here | Or start from the beginning

[writeyouin]

Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) X Male-Reader - Sinless Sinners - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Hate For All Sinners

A/N - As promised, one for male-presenting folks. This is also on A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53448742/chapters/135282199

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

FEM VERSION HERE

NON-BINARY / GN VERSION HERE

“Who’s that?” Lucifer asked, pointing you out to Charlie.

In truth, he would’ve likely asked that of the next person he saw. As Charlie’s father, Lucifer was trying desperately to show how interested he was in his daughter’s project, even if he was barely holding onto anything she said. It wasn’t that he was disinterested, or too ignorant to understand the situation, but rather that after spending so much time as a recluse, locked away in the protective space of his workshop where he wouldn’t have to see the sinners or the Hell he was responsible for creating, Lucifer could barely comprehend what was going on around him. He knew it was because he was depressed, but he was trying and he had to make Charlie see that, even if it meant feigning fits of hypomanic excitement.

Yet, Lucifer found himself genuinely… horrified by you. He had seen many types of Demon over the millennia. Typically, they tended to represent Earth’s animals, such as that annoyingly powerful Deer Demon, Alistair, whom Lucifer had met thanks to this very tour… not that Alistair was worth mentioning, piece of shit that he was, mingling with Lucifer’s daughter when he had no right to even breathe the same air as her-

Lucifer caught his snowballing thoughts, turning them back to you. You weren’t an animal Demon. There were other types of Demons of course, though Flora and Fauna were the most common; object Demons also existed, such as that rather famous one that people talked about, the TV Demon, V-something? Lucifer couldn’t remember his name. He didn’t watch Television… he didn’t do much of anything these days.

“Oh,” Charlie sidled over to you, wrapping her arm warmly around your shoulder as she corralled you towards her father, “Dad, this is (Y/N). He’s one of the hotel’s, uh, allies I guess, right (Y/N)?”

“That’s right, Sir,” You held out your hand for Lucifer, who was staring dumbly at you, uncertain what to make of you.

As the ruler of Hell, fuelled by angelic power, Lucifer could always read a Demon, or rather, he could read their strength. For example, he knew after only one meeting that the bartender, Husk was a strong Demon, though his power was clearly being dampened by a soul contract, whereas that little snake fellow Sir Pentious was rather weak, though he had potential if he could manage to claim even a few souls of his own, but you? You were entirely different.

First off, you didn’t resemble an animal, plant, or object… You were the most human-looking Demon that Lucifer had ever seen; frankly, he found that disturbing. Secondly, you didn’t seem to have much if any power. What was wrong with you? To come off as human with little demonic power… Well, if Lucifer didn’t know any better, he would guess that you weren’t a sinner at all, but you had to be. You were definitely dead; that much he could tell. And, you were in Hell.

Dead and in Hell - those were the only two qualifications for becoming a Demon, so why were you like this?

“Dad, are you listening?” Charlie said exasperatedly, clearly annoyed that Lucifer’s thoughts seemed to have trailed off once again.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Lucifer stated, staring at your hand which you had seemingly retracted when he wasn’t paying attention. Damnation! Now Charlie was going to think he had snubbed her friend on purpose.

“So, (Y/N) is another one of your patrons. That’s nice.”

“What? No. Dad, I just told you, (Y/N) has no interest in being redeemed.”

“Oh,” Lucifer looked you up and down disapprovingly. It figured. Even this non-Demon was looking for power in Hell, probably so you would finally be a killer worth bragging about – Honestly, what was the point? All sinners were the same. Greedy, destructive forces who wouldn’t stop until there was nothing left to break.

“Yep, he’s our only permanent resident who wants to help rehabilitate other souls. Isn’t that great? He helps with everything here, and he doesn’t ask for anything in return.”

“That’s not true,” You blushed at Charlie’s praise. “Your daughter is very generous, Sir. She lets me stay here rent-free.”

“And that’s all you want?” Lucifer asked suspiciously.

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Lucifer shook his head but didn’t argue. He didn’t want to know what your real motivations were. It was probably as simple as hoping for regular boons from the Princess of Hell; you were clearly just biding your time. Besides, if you didn’t want to redeem your soul, then you must be just like Alistair, a sadistic monster just waiting to see Demons repeatedly fail in their attempts at redemption.

Now that his curiosity was sated, Lucifer decided that he didn’t want to lay eyes on you again. You weren’t worth his time. Only Charlie was… Well, Charlie and Vaggie, because any woman his daughter loved was practically family to him. He was glad when the tour continued, leaving you behind to catch Nifty who was trying to pull a piece of fabric from Lucifer’s coat, muttering something about the ‘Ultimate bad boy.’

“Okay, I can get you the meeting,” Lucifer agreed, doing what he could to support Charlie’s dreams of saving her people, even though he didn’t think there were any redeeming qualities for any denizen of Hell.

It hurt him to tell Charlie that he wouldn’t be able to go with her to that lofty paradise, having been cast out; how he wished he could protect his daughter from those who carried out God’s will. Still, she never asked him for anything, and if this was what her heart most desired, he would do all in his power to help.

“Will you be okay?” He asked sombrely.

“I’ll be fine,” Charlie assured him, taking hold of his hands.

“That’s my girl.”

For a moment, it looked like Lucifer was done, but he paused, worried that this wasn’t enough to make up for the years he had been absent, leaving Charlie to fend for herself while he shut himself away.

“Is there anything else you need?”

Charlie couldn’t help but worry about her father. What would happen when he went back into isolation? He needed something to focus on, but… What was there for him when all of Hell was his prison?

She couldn’t help thinking about how little Lucifer thought of all the other citizens of Hell. If only he could see that they weren’t as terrible as he thought. Granted, they could be violent, and loud, definitely rambunctious, but these were his people, and he had to see that his gift of Free Will was a good thing, yet, if she said any of this, she was certain Lucifer would only laugh at her or tell her to get real while playfully pinching her cheek. There was no way that Lucifer would leave his home to hang out with any citizen of Hell.

Then it hit her. If Lucifer wouldn’t leave his manor to visit people, then people should be allowed to visit his manor. Or better yet, one person should be chosen to go and live with Lucifer so that he would learn just how good people could be, and Charlie knew just the person for the job.

“Actually, Dad, there is one more thing.”

“Name it,” Lucifer smiled, glad that his daughter wanted to ask things of him, as any normal child should want from their parents.

“I think it would be good for you to socialise, just a little bit.”

“Charlie,” Lucifer’s voice was strained at the thought of going anywhere else in Hell.

“I know,” Charlie reassured him, looking into his eyes; she looked so understanding that he relaxed slightly. Then, she continued in a more upbeat tone, “That’s why I think you should take (Y/N) to live with you, as your cleaner!”

She pounded her palm decidedly, much like a judge pounding her gavel.

“What? NO!” Lucifer sputtered.

You for your part, had seemingly been shocked into silence, watching the exchange uncertainly while Alistair grinned devilishly at you, and Angel Dust was holding in a snicker. Granted, you could have argued, but Charlie was stubborn, and she always had some kind of wild idea. Whatever she was thinking, you decided that you would go along with it; there was usually a method to her madness after all.

“It’s fine, Dad, (Y/N) doesn’t mind, right (Y/N)?”

You shrugged your shoulders passively, “I guess?”

“See? You should get to know your citizens, Dad. It will be good for you, I promise. They’re not all as bad as you think.”

Lucifer took one hard look at you. Honestly, he wished his daughter had picked the porn star or that psycho maid. You, as a very human-looking Demon, were a vicious reminder of his past mistakes. Still, he had told his daughter he would do anything for her, and he had already promised her a meeting with Heaven, and nothing could possibly be worse than that.

“Alright,” He agreed.

Then, he summoned a portal for you with the flick of his wrist.

“Good luck, kiddo.” He said to Charlie, and upon keeping a safe distance from you, he waited for you to step through the portal.

“Charlie, I’m assuming that you have a good reason for this,” You said before taking a step towards your newly appointed home, “Just call me if you need anything.”

With that, you were gone, followed closely (though not too closely) by Lucifer.

[nimthirielrinon]

Dania’s Tale

Chapter 20: The Mage in the Dungeon

Chapter 20 is up!!! The long-awaited continuation of Dania’s Tale, where they reach Redcliffe Castle, meet an imprisoned mage, and learn a bit more about what is happening with the whole undead rising thing.

And Dania just keeps finding more reasons to hate Lady Isolde.

[youngstarfishphilosopher]

Hi there, I really love your Alistair Crump I had an idea if it's alright to share as a fic idea where he finds a young barely a teen outside his mansion during a extremely bad storm and they get sick and he brings them in also learning that they are mute.

Hello!😀

That sounds like a really fun idea. So here is a little scenario for you to enjoy.

××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

ALISTAIR CRUMP WITH MUTE! PREETEEN/TEEN! READER

××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

It was a stormy evening at Crump manor. The master of the home, Alistair Crump, was getting ready for the evening as usual. He had planned a large banquet for the evening, and the guests were supposed to be arriving any minute now.

Looking outside through his window, Crump found that it was raining a lot harder than it had been a few minutes prior.

That wasn't really a surprise seeing how dark the clouds had gotten and how fast the storm had rolled in. What did surprise him, however, was the fact that he saw a small figure in his manor's back garden that looked as though it was a human person.

This was confirmed when Crump took a closer look, which was found to be difficult due to how dark the night was and how heavy the rain was pouring.

Stepping out of his room, Alistair began walking down to the party. Searching for the first poor servant that happened to cross his path.

Spotting a young woman down the hallway, carring some sheets to one of the bedrooms in the household.Crump spoke to her as he passed by.

" There seems to be a person in my gardens." He tells her nonchalantly.

The woman tenses up at the sound of Crump's voice and stops in her tracks, as if she was waiting for something.

" Find them and bring them inside." He demands. His voice getting serious. " I wish to have a little chat with whoever was Foolish enough to enter my home unannounced."

" Y-yes sir. Right away, sir." The servant replies before quickly scurrying off.

And with a devious grin now creeping up his face as he walked down the hall, Crump headed down to the first floor of the house to enjoy his banquet that he had so intently prepared for the evening.

He would take care of the intruder later. But as for now, there was food to eat and fish blood to spill.

----------------------------------------------------

It had been about two days since that incident when you had finally woken up to find yourself sitting in a nice, warm bed.

When you had awoken, a richly dressed man was there and began drilling you with questions. Before finally figuring out that you, in fact, can not speak.

Soon enough, after a very long time of asking "yes" and "no" questions, you were able to explain to him that you were an orphan who was looking for a place to take shelter.

" Is that so . . . " Crump said, coldly looking down at you. " Well then, I guess you will be staying here with me then."

The surprised look on your face was enough to get a small smirk to grace his lips.

" Now, now. There's no need to thank me." He tells you, walking out of the room " I'm sure you'll get used to being here eventually."

And with that, he left.

Crump honestly couldn't believe his luck. He knew that he needed a successor, and now he had the perfect one .

You were quiet, so you wouldn't be that annoying to him. And even if you found out about what evils he would do to his guests, there would benoway for you to tell them in time.

" Well now," Crump said to himself. " I seem to be quiet lucky."

----------------------------------------------------

Well, this was a strange turn of events.

You had only been in the mansion for about a month at this rate, and everyone had already seemed to take a liking to you

Even Crump had to admit that you weren't all that bad to have around.

Although you couldn't talk, you were still a very fun and expressive person. The exact opposite of Crump.

When others found out that you were made to become Crump's successor, they were very surprised to say the least. Like: How did you somehow become the adopted child of him?

Everyone who ever met Crump always took him as someone who didn't like children, ESPECIALLY not what appeared to be a teenager.

And they would be right. But you were ok, and Crump didn't really mind you.

As a matter of fact, to him, your quiet presence was a rather nice change.

----------------------------------------------------

Author's note:

Thanks for the request, Anonymous!

I tried leaning in more towards a more cannon Version of Movie Alistair in this story, so I hope that's OK.

But anywho, thanks for reading and keep those requests coming! 😁

[inquisimer]

dragon age oneshot fic recs

@dreadfutures said that we should do more fic recs and she's absolutely right, so I'm starting what will hopefully be a series of fic rec lists, leading off with some oneshot recs! These are just standalone stories that don't require a big time commitment and definitely stuck with me after I read them.

Check them out! and leave a comment or kudos to let the author know you did 💜

Feel free to reblog this post and add your own oneshot fic recs! Or make your own fic rec post and tag me in it so I can read and promote your awesome recs :3

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My Lover's Phylactery by FrodaB

Cullen Rutherford/Female Inquisitor | G | 1472 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: She doesn't destory it Mer's Rec: this is an excellent piece that fills the gap DAI left (imho) about Trevelyan's phylactery! There's some excellent introspection from the Inquisitor and a bittersweet but somft and heartfelt ending between Cullen and his love.

Bent, Not Broken by spirrum (@spirrum)

Fenris/Female Hawke | G | 1595 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: In which Hawke doesn't run off to Weisshaupt, and an angry elf turns up at the Inquisition's door. Mer's Rec: this is a little slice of interpersonal relationships that beautifully captures Hawke's spirit! It starts with some platonic Hawke & Varric, perfectly encapsulating the exhaustion both of them feel after HLTA, and transitions smoothly into the heart-tugging reunion between Hawke and a frustrated Fenris who's very much in love.

last man standing (perhaps) by havvke (Wintertree)

Charade Amell & Carver Hawke & Female Hawke | T | 6749 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: Hawke’s teeth glinted when she grinned, except for the gap of her missing left dogtooth. Funny how they did that, even in such poor lighting. Glinting. Hawke barely seemed real. They’ve gone on a mission or two together since that initial, embarrassingly disastrous meeting, and it was still shocking that the woman lived up—if not surpassed—her nearly legendary status. Compared to the other missions Charade led with the Jennies, this was somewhat easier than her normal fare. But while Hawke was a known figure, and by technicality kin, Charade still didn’t know her. Mer's Rec: Okay, I'm admittedly biased toward this piece, because it was a gift for me as part of the 2023 Platonic Ideal Exchange. That being said, it is an INCREDIBLE work of sibling dynamics and I think of it whenever I think about Charade Amell. Havvke explores the relationship between Charade as a Red Jenny, Carver as a Grey Warden, and Hawke as...Hawke, in a beautiful web of complicated choices and found family. Over a year later, it still holds up as one of the best exchange gifts I've ever received.

Doggone by leggywillow (@leggywillow)

Alistair/Female Warden, Alistair & Anora Mac Tir, Alistair & Warden's Mabari | T | 3042 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: Alistair and the Warden are no longer together, but they still exchange letters - through Dog. Alistair struggles to find happiness in his life as king, but he isn't entirely alone. Mer's Rec: I read this one just recently and oh my GOODNESS it both made me laugh and also pulled at my heartstrings. Leggy alters the canon breakup between a King Alistair & the Warden to be somehow even more heartbreaking and the way that he talks to Dog is just so essentially Alistair, I could hear every line in his voice. Add to that several well done bits between Alistair & Anora and this piece absolutely delivers on the "sad" and "heartache" in the additional tags.

That Word You Call Me by thewitchofthewilds (gossamerstarsxx) (@saiyanshewolf)

Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford | T | 1768 words | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Author's Summary: The first time she tells him she loves him is the time he needs to hear it the most Mer's Rec: I love this piece for the intermingling of angst and fluff between Lavellan and Cullen. It leads in with one of the better descriptions of nightmare panic that I've seen and the way that Lavellan grounds Cullen from it is smooth and heartfelt, as is his reaction to her comfort. It caps off with some sweet fluff and a taste of human/elf relationships dynamics, for which I am a sucker, and which end the fic on soft, heartfelt note.

[heniareth]

In Lothering

Chapter 1: First Steps are Always the Hardest

In which they march through the swamp and Astala packs out Chantry icebreaker games to do away with the damned silence.

Wordcount: 3,789

WARNINGS:

one character getting stabbed discussion of character death grief (Read on AO3)

“How about we take a moment to go round and introduce ourselves?” Astala asked when the silence around their campfire had become too damn loud to ignore.

Stubbornly crossed arms, eyebrows raised in disbelief, genuinely confused looks… she was scoring all the good reactions, wasn’t she? Astala looked around the circle they were sitting in—they had lighted no fire for fear of the darkspawn, even though all star or moonlight was choking in smoke—suppressed a sigh and wished she had just let sleeping dogs lie.

“We, uh, already know each other,” Alistair ventured.

“We know each other’s names,” Astala answered. “But not much more. If we’re going to spend the next months together, it’d be nice to know a bit more than that.”

Alistair acquitted the point with a half-nod and looked away again to lose himself somewhere between the ground and his thoughts once more.

“So what?” he said after a while. “I say ‘hi, I’m Alistair, I like cheese and corny jokes’?”

“Something like that, yes,” Astala said and smiled encouragingly.

[ooachilliaoo]

The Tower of Ishal

His elation naturally lasted no more than a moment. A second, or maybe two. It entirely accorded with the rest of the day, which had been essentially one shit thing after another.

He was used to shit things in general. There had been less of them under the Grey Wardens than there had been in the abbey, but not so few that he had stopped expecting them at every turn. Frankly, he considered himself lucky that at least one of the new recruits had made it through the Joining and extra especially lucky that that one just had happened to be the best, funniest and prettiest.

But then, of course, everything after that had turned phenomenally shitty.

First, Duncan had informed him that he wouldn’t actually be in the battle. Their first real battle against the darkspawn. He’d been so ready for it too. Ready to stand side by side with his brothers – and the father figure he never thought he’d find – and do his duty.

He’d fought before, of course, both as a templar in training and as a warden in skirmishes with the darkspawn. But he’d never been in an actual battle before. With lines and strategies and armies.

All day, he’d been full of nervous energy. The horror of witnessing a Joining subsiding into that anticipatory excitement mixed with utter terror that came before a fight. He’d been ready – eager – to work off some of that energy in a full pitched battle against the darkspawn.

Duncan and Elissa – Elissa the new warden – had been called to a meeting with the King and Teyrn. He hadn’t been sure why, and hadn’t particularly cared. Frankly, he was mostly trying to stay out of the King’s way as much as possible. It brought up… uncomfortable things that were best left alone.

As long as he remained just a warden in the crowd he’d be fine, and Duncan seemed to agree. They’d defeat the darkspawn in glorious battle, and he’d go on being a warden. It was a good life. Or, at least, a better one than any other he’d yet lived.

Except that the result of that meeting had apparently been the decision to exclude both him and the new warden from the battle. Foolish, in his opinion. Removing the two of them from the front lines, just so wardens could be holding the torch for the signal fire.

But then, from what he’d seen of the King, such romanticism probably appealed over common sense.

Except, as it turned out, maybe it hadn’t been so foolish, because the second shitty thing that had happened today – beyond the lurching, swooping feeling in his stomach as he and Elissa had watched the wardens charge the darkspawn lines – was the surprise darkspawn in the Tower of Ishal. Maker only knew how they had come to be there. They shouldn’t have been, and it had turned what should have been an easy task into a frantic, time-sensitive one

Read the rest on AO3

[laurelsofhighever]

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 11/? Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read on AO3!

--

Two more days of uneventful travelling brought the little group to the outskirts of civilisation, chilled and soggy under the pall of wet snow that had closed over them the night before. They had sheltered, shivering, in an abandoned barn, one of many along the old, paved road they were following, which had been in poor repair even before rumours of war had channelled carts and animals and the refugees who drove them out of the southern hinterlands. Now, it was a struggle to trudge through the lines of muddy, iced-over puddles where the flagstones left gaps, breath coming in harsh clouds of white fog and cold-numbed fingers tucked as much as possible under the folds of the oilskin cloaks Flemeth had been able to spare them.

“Lothering,” Alistair huffed when they finally paused for breath on a bluff overlooking the village. Thin banners of smoke rose from the hunched cluster of buildings in the settlement proper, and from the damp campfires dotted between the mass of grubby tents that spilled out over the southern boundary like flotsam from a shipwreck.

“Pretty as a painting.” He shot a sidelong grin to Rosslyn on his left. “I almost didn’t think we’d make it.”

“It’s a real sight, isn’t it?”

The new, reedy voice came from just off the road, from a small campsite set far enough back into the bushes that any travellers heading north would miss it on the way past. The thin, gaunt man it belonged to stepped out onto the path in front of them. Four others emerged after him, in front and behind to block their path, all in similar states of beggary with weapons drawn. Rosslyn’s own hand reached for her sword at the same moment Alistair stepped closer to guard her flank. The shiver of air along her spine told her that Morrigan, too, readied for an attack. She hoped it would not come. Though her shoulder had knitted together far faster than should be expected even with the aid of magical healing, the dull twinges that flared with every movement warned of the permanent damage that could be done if she got into a fight before the muscles fully recovered.  

“Let us pass,” she commanded from beneath her hood. At her side, Cuno growled his own threat, the sound a low vibration against her leg.

“Ah, the pretty one is in charge, I see,” the stranger cried, as if delighted. He looked malnourished, his hollow cheeks exaggerated by the cracked, ill-fitting leather armour strapped about his shoulders, the sour odour of his unwashed body an offence even from ten paces’ distance. Everything from his stance to the flashy, overly stiff grip of his sword screamed his lack of skill, even without the coating of rust on his neglected blade that would have gotten any squire in Castle Cousland flogged.

One of the other bandits shifted on his feet when she didn’t respond. “Uh… these ones don’t look much like them others,” he ventured. “Maybe we should just let them pass?”

“Nonsense,” the leader snapped, and turned a greasy smile on Rosslyn. “We have rules, you know. There’s a toll. A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.”

“You’re not very well dressed for tollkeepers,” Alistair noted. “Better hope Bann Dunstan’s militia doesn’t catch you preying on those fleeing the darkspawn.”

The man laughed. “Bann Dunstan went north with Teyrn Loghain, and took all his soldiers with him. There’s only a few templars left at the chantry now – so we’re taking the initiative.”

“You are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan told him with a sneer.

“Loghain came through here?” Rosslyn pressed, before the bandits could test the claim.

The leader shrugged. “Day before yesterday, leading his whole army and saying the Grey Wardens betrayed the king and got him and themselves killed.”

“That’s not –”

“No other survivors?” she interrupted.

“A few,” he answered. “Band of Ash Warriors came through yesterday – stayed right out of their way, I can tell you. But you aren’t Ash Warriors.”

“No?” she asked lightly. “We came from the south, we’re armoured and armed better than you, and I can tell you exactly how far the darkspawn are behind us. Are you really going to risk yourselves on a losing battle here when you could be running?”

“Uh… you don’t seem to realise –”

She feinted forward. He flinched, and she tilted a cold smile at him.

“Alright!” he huffed, throwing up his hands. “We’re just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all.”

“Then go,” she suggested. “And hope they don’t catch up.”

He risked a glance sideways at the campsite, one hand rising in a hopeless gesture that faltered with the deliberate step she took towards him, his eyes glued to the inch of white steel drawn from her scabbard.

“Those things don’t belong to you,” she reminded him.

“Yes, right.” He swallowed. “Of course. Come on, gents – it’s slim pickings here anyway.”

She kept her gaze on him as he stumbled backwards, tense in case of a double-cross, though she had spent enough time among her father’s hounds to know a beaten dog when she saw one. The patter of the rain fell heavily in the mud as he retreated with the rest of his miserable band slinking at his heels, reluctant, but not one daring enough to attack alone.

They would not remain cowed for long.

As soon as the last man retreated into the cover of the trees, Rosslyn turned and leapt the ditch between the road and the bandits’ makeshift camp, hissing a curse as her boot slipped on the landing and wrenched her shoulder.

“Uh… what are you doing?” Alistair asked, coming closer.

“Outfitting,” she replied. “Before they come back.”

“If they do, I say teach them a lesson,” Morrigan scoffed. She had stayed on the road, vigilant as a wolf with the distant scent of deer on the wind.

“The best way to win a fight is to not fight in the first place.” Busy hunting through the meagre spoils the bandits had managed to scrounge together, the adage came to Rosslyn’s lips almost without thinking. It crowded with others in her head, the stories retold by the hearth on winter nights that spoke not of the glory of battle but of the hardships that went between, nights of cold and hunger where morale wavered like a candle flame by an open window. There had been days, her father said, where the Orlesians had forced them to choose between the tired army and starving civilians.

Behind her, Cuno whined. A small animal, perhaps a yearling lamb, lay poorly spitted over the fire, its flesh half-cooked and the tips of its shanks beginning to burn. Drops of fat hissed as they surrendered to the flames. In the few days of travel from Flemet’s hut, the dog’s share of their meagre rations had been smaller than she would have liked, stretched as far as possible with grains but limited by all the things he couldn’t eat.

“Such a good boy,” she crooned, leaving off her inspection of a tatty bedroll to cut away one of the haunches for him. The heat of the bone warmed her numb fingers through the thick leather of her gauntlets, gone again the instant she wiped the juices away on the inside of her cloak.

“Are we taking this stuff, then?” Alistair tried. “You know it was stolen.”

“We’re taking what we can carry, what we need,” she corrected, without looking at him. “I don’t like it either, but you heard what he said about Loghain just as well as I did – we need all the advantages we can get.”

Morrigan delicately flicked a cleaning rag away from the rim of an engraved silver bowl so she could inspect it. “If the former owners of these items were foolish enough to allow themselves to be robbed, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

“The people who passed through here were desperate,” he insisted. “They had nothing else.”

“Neither do we,” Rosslyn reminded him, and sighed. “We can pass word in the village once we get there – maybe someone will come for what’s left.”

A long moment passed as he wrestled with his conscience, as the snow thickened overhead and Cuno crunched down the bones of his impromptu meal, until necessity overcame nobility and with a snarl at nothing in particular he tramped over to the bandits’ tent to dismantle it. Even through the thick layers of armour and cloak, the tension in his shoulders screamed loud enough that Rosslyn had to grit her teeth and turn away. She swiped a bag of dried provisions and a coinpurse from the bottom of an unlocked chest, and an extra cloak and bedroll that she hoped weren’t infested with lice, before hunting around for something that might serve to wrap the rest of the meat.

Further into the trees, they found a pair of tacked-up horses tied to the branch of a bare oak. One was of much finer quality than the other, with the tall, strong-boned confirmation of a knight’s charger, but both had been neglected, left to stand with no sign of fodder in a slurry of mud up to the fetlock.

“Ah, I see we are to rescue every pathetic creature that wanders across our path,” Morrigan commented as Rosslyn ran her hands over the destrier’s legs to check for swelling.

She shot a glare over her uninjured shoulder. “Would you prefer to carry the tent?”

--

With their baggage now strapped to the horses, the last stretch of the journey took less than an hour. By the time they reached the outskirts of Lothering, the blizzard had eased and a glance of pale sunlight managed to slip past the bars of cloud. The squalor it illuminated rose bile in the back of Rosslyn’s throat as surely as the smell. Families huddled beneath scavenged yards of cloth trying to stay dry as the few campfires still burning billowed acrid curls of smoke, their meagre possessions kept within sight and easy reach.

“I wonder, Alistair,” Morrigan commented as they passed through the gauntlet of wan, wary stares, “why do none of them recognise you? You passed through Lothering on the journey south, did you not?”

“I was considerably better dressed then,” he pointed out, but pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his forehead nonetheless. “It’s probably for the best that we’re not recognised, if what that bandit said about Loghain is true. It does make you wonder what all these people are waiting for, though. They have to know the darkspawn aren’t that far away.”

Morrigan clicked her tongue. “‘Tis not our concern if they wish to sit like rams waiting for the wolf.”

They trudged further in silence, until the cobbles of the road once more emerged from beneath the quagmire of the squatters’ field. In the distance, the tower of the village chantry rose above the lines of shingle roofs, its pennants flashing with gold-embroidered sunbursts. If any organised retreat existed, the templars would have charge of it, though to judge from the blasphemous ravings of the merchant they passed arguing with a lay sister, their grasp on order was tenuous at best.

“Please, sers – have you seen my mother?”

Rosslyn stopped cold. A small boy, older than Oren but not by much, and with lighter hair, huddled under the eaves of an empty doorstep, clutching a scrawny, point-eared mongrel about the neck. His clothes were thin and ragged at the hems, smeared with the dirt that also smudged its way across his cheek.

“Your mother?” she repeated, fighting back the shake of double vision.

“She’s really tall, and she has red hair,” the boy said hopefully. “Some mean men with swords came and Mother told me to run to the village as fast as I could, so I did. She said she’d be right behind me, but I’ve been waiting and waiting and I can’t find her.”

“Do you know where your father is?”

The boy’s gaze turned briefly to Alistair before settling on the dirt. “He went with William to the neighbours’ yesterday, but he didn’t come back.”

“‘Tis likely your parents are dead,” Morrigan told him, without sympathy. “Waiting for them here is pointless.”

“That’s not true!” The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She said she’d come.” But his lip trembled, and he drew his arms tighter around the dog.

“Here,” Rosslyn interrupted, reaching to her side before the tears could truly come. “Get yourself something to eat, then go to the chantry. It’ll likely be the first place your mother will look for you.”

With a hearty sniff, the boy peered dubiously at the offering before lighting up in glee, his worry forgotten. “A whole silver!” He made to grab for it, then remembered his manners. “Thank you – you’re a really nice lady, kind of like mother.”

“Go on,” she commanded with a rough jerk of her head, and watched him disappear through the crowd.

“Poor thing,” Alistair muttered. He rounded on Morrigan. “Did you have to do that?”

“I only spoke the truth,” she retorted.

“And what good did it do?” Rosslyn demanded.

“What good is a silver to someone who will likely soon be prey to the darkspawn?”

In terms of cold practicality, the point was well barbed; it fired clean and struck true, even if the silver for the boy’s meal had come from an already-stolen purse. Rosslyn’s hands curled into fists nonetheless, the image before her eyes smeared not with mud from the gutter, but with blood.

“You don’t know that,” she growled.

“Denial will not –”

“I won’t argue this.” She drew in a steadying breath and clucked at the horses to walk on. “We should get to the chantry.”

Morrigan scowled at her. Alistair, too, held a wary edge in his posture, as if daring himself to ask whether she was alright, but she ignored them both to push on through the crowd of people milling about without much seeming purpose at all. Most wore the simply stitched clothes of farmholders, bundled up against the cold in cloaks of thick wool. A few, wealthier, had rabbit or squirrel trim about the collar, but none could be considered truly rich in their dress, and like the refugees beyond the village boundary they all kept close watch of their belongings, heads bowed like workhorses at the plough as they hurried about their business. Clearly, any with the means to leave had already made their escape.

Further on, a crowd had gathered in the lee of the chantry wall, their number shifting uneasily as a wiry man in the leather tunic and cross-tied cloak of a Chasind trader gesticulated at them from atop an overturned crate. His hair was lank and matted, his hose stained with mud to the thigh, and wild exhaustion creased the sun-darkened skin around his eyes.

“The legions of evil are on your doorstep!” he cried. “They will feast upon our hearts!”

“At last, someone who seems to understand the situation,” Morrigan noted dryly.

“There! One of their minions is already amongst us!”

Several faces turned in the direction of his point, and murmured amongst themselves as their eyes landed on Rosslyn, trying to guide her horse to the quieter side of the road. Travel-worn she might be, and scowling like a thundercloud, but a disappointing comparison to the monsters that haunted the dark edges of their bedtime stories.

“Prettiest darkspawn I ever saw,” someone laughed. “If they’re all like that, maybe I should join up.”

“This woman bears their evil stench!” the man insisted, spit flying from his lips. “Can you not see the vile blackness that fills her? The darkspawn will cover the world like a plague of locusts, and she is but the beginning! There is nowhere to run – better to slit your children’s throats now than let them suffer at darkspawn hands!”

Rosslyn stopped. Her lip twisted in a moment of indecision before she dropped the leading rein and started into the crowd with Cuno at her heels. Above, a bank of cloud shifted again and covered the sun, so that as she advanced, with onlookers scrabbling out of her way and drawn in her wake to see what would happen next, the sky darkened and the little warmth left bled from the air.

“I am not your enemy,” she declared, when she finally stood before her accuser.

“You are but the first of those who will destroy us!”

“What’s going on here?”

The Wilder shrank from the bite of the new voice, from the two soldiers in Gwaren Black fighting through the ranks of people, shoving with the hafts of their polearms when someone was too slow to move.

“You again!” spat the taller one, who had a sergeant’s band around his upper arm. “We’ve warned you. Move along, and stop causing trouble.”

“You would punish me, but not this thing of evil?” the wilder demanded. “Look on her! See the corruption thick in her veins.”

The soldiers were already looking, eyes half-lidded in affected disdain as they measured her. She stood, half a head taller than either of them, and glared coolly back.

“You’re well-armed, traveller,” the sergeant said. “Come from the south, did you?”

“Most recently,” she allowed.

The man scratched his chin. “No sigil, and no company. No mercs that I saw at Ostagar, and an honest soldier would wear a liege lord’s colours. Corrupted, you say?” he added, turning to the Wilder. “That sounds like a Grey Warden to me. I think we’ve just been blessed.”

“In what manner?” Rosslyn asked. These were not desperate farmers driven to banditry; all reports said Loghain trained his soldiers hard, ever fearful of a new invasion from Orlais, and they would not tuck their tails like scolded mongrels if she merely bared her teeth. She stood relaxed, drawn up to her full height despite the pain it brought to her shoulder.

“There’s a bounty out for traitors,” he leered.

As his hand shifted for a firmer grip on his polearm, his gaze slid to a point to Rosslyn’s left and widened in disbelief. A red-haired woman in the dawn-coloured cloth of a lay sister slipped into the open space the crowd had drawn around the confrontation, her graceful fingers splayed palm to palm in the sign of the sunburst as she placed herself gently as a feather between the soldiers and their hoped-for prize.

“Surely there is no need for trouble, gentlemen,” she said, her voice low and melodic, lilting with the precise inflections of court Orlesian. “No doubt this is but another poor soul seeking refuge.”

The sergeant gestured with his weapon. “Stay out of our way, sister, or you’ll get the same, chanter’s robes or no. The Wardens killed the king, or haven’t you heard?”

The crowd tensed. Rosslyn didn’t move. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Alistair hanging in the first line of onlookers, his stance and sword ready to aid her should any real fighting erupt, though he kept his hood low over his face, hunched to disguise his height. She could worry about his silence later, but for now she was glad neither Morrigan nor the horses were with him.

“It is no excuse for ambushing –”

“Loghain is the one who betrayed the king!” she called out over the Chantry sister’s misgivings, a clarion note on the dull air as she circled to once again stand before her opponent. “When the moment came for his support in the battle, he turned and fled, and left King Cailan and the Wardens to be overwhelmed. Their sacrifice is the only reason the darkspawn are not already swarming at your door.”

“Lies!” the sergeant spat. “This isn’t even a true Blight!”

“When the moment came,” she repeated, in a voice like winter, “he chose cowardice over loyalty.”

The insult struck. With a bellow like a bull the sergeant charged, polearm lowered to skewer her. She was ready. Whistling two quick notes, she stepped into the attack and drew her sword to parry the blow, the movement a graceful arc into his guard that slammed down into a pommel strike against his neck that sent him to the floor. His companion yelled a protest, but before he could intervene, Cuno’s massive jaws clamped around his arm. Surprise broke off into screams as he was borne to the ground and shaken like a dust rag. There was crack of bone.

“Alright!” the sergeant cried, as the crowd swayed, sickened by the sound. “Alright! You’ve won – we surrender!”

Rosslyn, her sword laid like a whisper against his neck, whistled once. In an instant her dog let go and backed off, though his thunderous growls still reverberated through the space, and left no doubt about his intentions should anyone else dare to attack his mistress. A few lost snowflakes drifted down against the stones.  

“They have learned their lesson now, I think,” the Chantry sister said, calmly, as if the soldiers had lost a chess match and weren’t both lying in the dirt, the one cringing against a white steel blade and the other cradling his bloodied, broken arm. “We can all stop fighting now.”

“Can we?” Rosslyn asked of the sergeant.

Eyes wide, he nodded. “Maker bless you for your mercy, ser!”

“My mercy,” she repeated. “There’s precious little of it. I want you to be of use to me.”

“Anything – anything!”

“You’re going to take a message to Loghain,” she said.

“Uh, what –” He swallowed. “What do you want to tell him?”

She glanced up and met Alistair’s eyes, the lines of his mouth pinched in worry as he slowly shook his head to urge her to caution. For a moment, her jaw clenched around the desire to rebel, to issue a challenge like those her ancestors had laid down before their enemies, a bright, shining pennant to unfurl across a battlefield, a streak of midnight intent, but the urge bled from her as she once again felt the ugly itch of the whispers in the back of her mind. Loghain possessed an army, and in sacrificing the Wardens had excused it the obligation of stopping the Blight; for now, Alistair’s survival, and her own identity, were the only tactical advantages they had.

“Tell him there are those who know what he did,” she growled. “And that we will see justice done for it.”

She took her blade away, and kicked him for good measure as he scrambled to his feet His lackey stumbled after, cowering away as she flexed out the rush of the battle-blood that made her fingers shake. She would pay for that burst of action later. All eyes were fixed on her, or on Cuno nosing up under her hand for a scratch behind the ear. Even the Chantry sister, who seemed far less bothered by the violence than should be expected, watched with curiosity to see what would happen next.

Her father would have known what to say; he would have chided her for shrinking back from her duty.

“I am a Grey Warden,” she told the gathered crowd. “Listen to me – the darkspawn are coming. King Cailan bought you time, but it is falling away and they cannot be stopped. They do not reason. If you do not leave, you will die.”

“Coward’s talk!” someone shouted.

“We’ll show ‘em if they dare creep out of the Wilds!”

“Maybe the Wardens killed the king and you’re trying to cover it up!”

The Chantry sister raised her hands. “Good people, please –”

“If it is so safe here, then why did the bann flee north?”

The voice did not come from one of the villagers, but from Morrigan. Her disdain rang so clear that it might have been amplified by magic, and it blunted the anger of the crowd into a low, uncertain buzz that faded entirely into silence as the lay sister once more stepped forward to address them.

“Please, do not despair,” she said. “The Maker sent this Grey Warden as a warning, to help us in our hour of need.”

“Do you think we should tell her who actually sent us?” Alistair muttered in Rosslyn’s ear as he sidled up to her.

“It would be interesting to see how things could get worse,” she muttered back.

“You handled those soldiers pretty well – I’d almost forgotten how scary you were in the lists.”

Disbelieving, she glanced at him and found nothing but sincerity in his shrouded features, a soft trust that stung not least because part of her wanted to throw back his hood and show him to the people in all disregard for sense. Such a move would certainly make them listen, but if Loghain had truly put out a bounty for captured Grey Wardens, how much more would he be willing to pay for Cailan’s only heir? Perhaps, at least until they met with Arl Eamon, it would be safer to pretend he was another Grey Warden instead, to shield him with her own status as much as it was her duty as a Cousland to shield him with her body.

As she mulled this over, the crowd succumbed to the lack of fresh entertainment and let itself be chivvied back about its business, clearing the path to Morrigan and the main doors of the chantry that had been their first destination. The lay sister remained, a demure smile upon her face as she waited for them to notice her.

“Thank you for intervening, Sister,” Alistair said. “We’re glad the crowd decided to listen to you.”

“I couldn’t just sit by and not help,” came the reply. “Though from your display of skill I see my aid was not required.”

“A welcome attempt nonetheless,” Rosslyn told her.

The woman smiled and dipped into a curtsey. “Then I am glad. Perhaps, if you wish it, I can offer further assistance by escorting you to the chantry?”