#and is surreal to varric

[general-sleepy]

Headcanon:

Post-mage rebellion, "Anders" becomes a common name for the first generation of babies born to free mages. In Skyhold, for example, there will be multiple Anderses walking and toddling around, to the point that it becomes confusing. Someone shouts, "Anders, stop that!" and four kids turn their heads.

[imagine-silk]

Masterlist (Old)

🍮 My Favorites

AtSV

Peter B staring down Jess while hugging Autistic!Younger!Spider

Peter B taking Autistic!Younger!Spider to a meeting

DRAGON AGE

Dragon Age Inquisition characters finding comfort with you

Yan!Sera headcannon

Josephine Montilyet headcannon

Cassandra Pentaghast headcannon

Varric with a Noir Detective 🍮

Dorian, Cassandra, and Cullen finding out a Scout has a crush on Varric🍮

What if Sten was Pining

Vegas AU ideas

Okay hear me out... Trian and Alistair

Origins Fake dating ideas(Commenter has a great one for Shale)

DAI Modern summer events (Sera, Josephine, Iron bull)

You're a dark elf (Solas, Dorian, Josephine)

How they show affection (Varric, Cullen, Morrigan)

Their child is sick (Cassandra, Josephine, Vivienne)

Pining over a scout (Varric, Cole, Josephine)🍮

Days Recovering; One, Four

FALLOUT

Fallout Yan!Dudes with a courser s/o who left the Institute

Yan!Cait w/ Institute scientist Darling

Sole turns into a supermutant

Preston reacting to Sole w/ Auditory processing disorder (APD)

Yan!Girls Meeting your Assaultron Girlfriend

Yan!Girls w/ a tourist Darling

Reactions to terrifying super-ghoul

Super-mutant wing-man

Sole's accidental trick-shot

Sole painting companions in a surreal art style

Missing Sole turns up as a glowing ghoul

Girl companions meeting your ghoul parents

Sole sobbing uncontrollably when they come back from the Intitute

Modern!Companions comforting reader after a pet death (Not dogmeat's)

Cartoon door beat-up thing

Sole high on painkillers confesses (Deacon, Preston, MacCready)

Yan!Danse and Haylen react to Sole being former Enclave

Yan!Girls react to you saying you want to have a baby w/ them

Yan!Girls react to Sole leaving to hunt down an item and returning months later

Insults between dumb and dumber

Sole having four arms

Peaceful!Sole finally snapping at an ungrateful settler

Telling Yan!Girls you were once in the Enclave

Shooting Yan!Girls w/ a bubble gun🍮

Pouring your heart out to Yan!Girls

Companions gaining fire abilities

Companions (+Proctor Igram) react to a ripper doc

Life w/ Codsworth after the bombs dropped

Reader giving love-nips (Hancock, Nick, MacCready)

Scribe Haylen headcannons

Piper Wright headcannons

React to a magical girl w/ guns

Hancock, Deacon, Nick, and MacCready react to M!SS who shaves too much and ends up with a babyface

Companions react to Pacifist!Lycanthrope!SS who is stuck in werewolf form🍮

MacCready, Deacon, and Danse after a gore-y fight with blood everywhere🍮

X6-88's guide to cure love sickness🍮

React to the song Until I Found You by Stephen Sanchez

Chipper!SS breaking down after going to the institute

React to the song Glimpse of Us by Joji

Child giving them a friendship braclet (X6-88, Cait, Vadim and Yafim)🍮

Taking care of a Asian!Teen!SS(Travis Miles, Nick Valentine, Deacon)🍮

Deacon traveling with a Vampire SS(not romanced)

M!SS is protective over non-human companions (+Kent, Sturges)🍮

House husbands (Preston, Hancock, Deacon)

Favorite place to go for a date (X6-88, Preston, Hancock)

Yandere (Cait, Curie, Piper)

Having a trouble-making twin (Hancock, Nick, Piper, Deacon)

Yandere Preston, Gage, Danse

Relationship milestones (Deacon, Preston, Gage)🍮

Modern Companions

Modern Companions Love Interest/Ocs

You have a stutter (X6-88, Hancock, Piper)

When someone reacts negatively to them being a synth (With no interference)

What their kisses are like (Deacon, Hancock, Curie)

What are mornings like (MaCready, Cait, Preston)

Danse and Nate smut I wrote drunk

MARVEL🍮

Marvel characters being inebriated

Finding a portrait of them you painted

Secretary!Trilogy!Peter finding out he's in love with you

Natasha and sleepy kisses

Secretary!Spidermen; You doze off

Secretary!Spidermen; Winter dates i guess

Secretary!Spidermen (MCU, TASM, Trilogy, Peter B., Miles Morales)

Secretary!Spidermen; Getting you ready before a meeting

You're a Slime (Peter, Tony, Bruce)

Glass in my hands (Scott Lang/Fem!Reader)

DBH

Yandere husband!Hank + son!Connor x willing!Darling

Supernatural lore ideas

Gavin having a surgeon husband

"You're so cute." (Hank, Gavin, Chloe)

Hugging them out of the blue (Hank, Gavin, Chloe)🍮

You don't like androids (Simon, Luther, Markus and Carl)🍮

Meeting your parents (Hank, Markus, Gavin, Elijah)

Darling is very tactile (Yan Connor, Hank, Gavin)

Misc.

Please I need this Bagginshield ending

Yandere Elliott

Yandere Sam, Sebastian, Emily

Star Trek: Next Generation; Having a crush on Data (+Socially awkward)🍮

Overprotective!Yan!Parvati/Nyoka + trying to escape

Parvati romance headcanons (still ace)

[inquisimer]

👀

roooooo happy new year!!! A lil taste of a half-baked idea about Carver as the Inquisitor uwu

send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of writing that i never got around to finishing in 2022 (r.i.p)

After so long in the Free Marches, being back in the Hinterlands was jarring, to say the least. The rolling hills, covered in lush green grass, contrast starkly with the barren wasteland they fled a decade earlier. It's all a bit surreal, Carver thinks, staring at a pair of passing nugs and sighing.

"Copper for your thoughts, Junior?" Varric nudges his pony alongside, ostensibly watching the horizon as well, although Carver can feel he's being watched peripherally.

"You wish, dwarf."

"I do wish," admits Varric, not even trying to hide his sheepish grin. "Not that Tale of the Champion is struggling, but I know my publisher is itching for a sequel."

"No one wants to read about this shit," mutters Carver, gesturing vaguely toward the swirling green sky. "And Saoryse--well, whatever makes a hero, she had it." He opened his palm, revealing the crackling green mark responsible for his current predicament. "I'm nobody without this."

"Serce was a product of circumstances too, Junior. Yours are just a bit more…glowy." Varric shrugged. "There are all kinds of heroes, for all kinds of stories."

Where his sister might have offered a sassy quip, Carver has nothing but a scowl. He's saved from responding when a rift crackles to life a few hundred yards ahead. The familiar tingle of a barrier washes over him, although the magical signature tastes more like elfroot than lightning, and he hefts his greatsword.

If there's one thing he's always been good at, it's killing things.

[broodwolf221]

THE MERRY WHUMP OF MAY

5th — Strained; “Put that down"; electrical wires; plane ao3: Fear and Fade

cws: electrocution

888 words

This was Fear’s domain. Despite the thrill of being physically within the Fade, he knew he had to be cautious. Of all of them, he was the one most aware of the dangers of this realm, this plane of existence; even the Inquisitor, who had walked physically in the Fade once before, did not know it as he did.

As the others remarked on the things they passed, as they mentioned structures he did not see, he was able to confirm to himself that this realm was unique for each individual within it. They did not shape it into a cohesive whole. For him the whole area was thread through with glowing blue-white cracks, like lyrium veins. And like lyrium veins, there was something almost alive to them, quick movements that caught his eye, as if they sought to distract him.

Despite these unique, individualized surroundings, it appeared that the route was fixed, for they all ascended the stairs together. He supposed it could all be illusory—the route, the others, everything around him—but he did not want to give that consideration strength. Not here, and not now. If he was alone, the others around him false projections, their bodies elsewhere in the Fade, he was confident that in time it would be revealed. They would slip up, make a mistake. Until then, he would not feed the fear.

Besides, he was preoccupied avoiding the cracks. They were everywhere, although the least concentrated on the ground. But rock faces, deteriorating structures, all were covered with the marks, like a spider cocooning its prey with thin strands. While not entirely ‘real’ in the typical sense, he knew that this realm held its own reality, one deeply connected to the mind. If he touched one and it was dangerous, it would be dangerous to him here. So he simply avoided touching them.

The stairs curved and drew them closer to the wall. While still paying careful attention to his steps, he took the opportunity to study the marks. Up close, he realized they were not cracks but protrusions, pulsing with a light which strangely did not extend beyond, giving them a sunken appearance at first glance. At times they crossed one another, and at those points they seemed particularly bright, as if feeding off the connection. He realized with an unsettling start that he could hear them crackling and popping. 

He was distracted, only seeing the movement too late, Varric bending over to pick up a rock pulsing with those same veins. “Put that down!” He shouted, rushing forward as Varric spun and let the rock clatter to the ground, staring at him with wide eyes—and clearly entirely unharmed. “I— ah.” He took a deep breath, resisting the urge to lean against the wall, his heart still racing. “Apologies. I saw… I thought I saw…” he shook his head. “This place, it will continue to feed on our fears. We should make our way free of it as soon as we can.”

“You don’t say,” Varric deadpanned, and despite everything it was enough to make Solas laugh. How surreal, for a dwarf to be one of those physically traversing the Fade—yet he seemed to be handling the situation particularly well. After a moment the others turned forward and Solas sighed, glancing at the ridges on the wall near him.

Hesitantly he put his hand out, hovering for a moment just shy of touching them, then he brushed against the nearest one.

A pulse of white-hot energy coursed through him, somehow clarifying in its brutality, like plunging into bitterly cold water. He was without thought, without anything save the sensation, and did not even realize he was moving until he disconnected from the source and stumbled away. Far too late he realized that there were more marks beneath him and glanced down, but he had already, luckily cleared them. Had he not, he feared that unique agony might have destroyed him. As it was his heart was hammering in his chest and his breath came quick and panicked, his hand entirely numb and his arm throbbing.

He came back to himself by degrees, eventually remembering he was not alone and turning to look at the others, who had approached but did not reach out to him. He was grateful, uncertain whether he might have acted as a conduit for this force and unwilling to inflict it on any of them. “The…” he cleared his throat, his voice strangely raspy. “This realm. The challenges are individual. Varric touched what I saw without harm, so I thought, perhaps…” he shook his head. “If you see something that looks dangerous, even if no one else does, you must avoid it. And you must avoid fixating on it.”

“‘Don’t touch the scary shite’, got it,” Sera muttered under her breath and he scoffed, something comforting about her attempts to defuse the situation. He shook his head, stinging now that sensation was slowly returning to it.

“What do you see?” Varric asked, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice. Solas considered the powerful ridges once again, then sighed.

“Something quite impossible. Come, we should not idle here.” If they all made it out, he’d be pleased to recount certain details of his experience here—and to hear of the others. But they had to free themselves first.

[arsuledin]

I was getting those sad vibes listening to a breakdown about tevinter nights, and I thought I’d share this with ya’ll. Does anyone ever stop and think what the Inquisitor feels through out this all? Like, whether you’re friends or lovers with Solas, imagine how they must feel hearing people threaten him, call him hideous names? And then to hear all the things he’s doing and the people that are throwing their lives away because they believe in his cause? Like it makes me so sad, because the Inquisitor was close to this person, cared for them, and now you’re on opposite sides of the playing field.

[darethshirl]

artober day 12

Tavern

The Herald’s Rest, like the Inquisition it nominally belonged to, had a fresh, optimistic feel to it. Spacious and sunlit, too new to have accumulated the usual grime and dirt that came with decades of use, it was filled with cheerful voices and Maryden’s lute pluckings, the perfect image of wholesome community fun.

To Varric, who used to spend his leisure time in much damper, danker environments, the whole thing felt surreal. Where were the shadowy corners, filled with unsavory characters playing jail-breaked versions of Wicked Grace? Where were the not-so-dulcet tones of drunken men singing sea shanties, or yelling over perceived insults? Even the food and drink were of good quality here, hearty and filling, and this more than anything was what perplexed Varric the most. All taverns watered down their drinks! It was just good business. 

He sighed, eyeing his mug of ale with curmudgeonly suspicion. “Did I ever tell you about that time the Hanged Man got a dire-rat infestation? And I do mean dire-rat, big nasty fellows the size of a cat, and twice as aggressive. Hawke—who was already three sheets to the wind at that point, mind you—volunteered to clear the cellar out, swaggering and bulging her biceps, claiming that the great Champion of Kirkwall would vanquish the wee beasts with just her hands.” 

Varric chuckled at the memory, helpless against his fondness. “Five minutes later we heard her squeal like a newborn nug, then curse so loudly and so continuously even the sailors blushed. When she finally emerged she looked like she had just tussled with a dragon, bloody and wild-eyed and—inexplicably!—singed.” He shook his head, his smile still going strong. “She demanded one of the ‘trophies’ to be baked into a pie, so all could share in her victory. The cook refused, of course, but—”

“Enough!” Sera banged her fist on the table and sloshed her mug menacingly. “No one gives a dire-rat’s ass about what Hawke did!”

Varric started at the outburst, surprised and more than a little offended. “I’m just sharing a story here!”

“No, what you’re doing is reminiscing,” the elf enunciated with the shocking eloquence that sometimes came to the drunk. “You keep going on about Kirkwall over and over again like it’s the last bone in the rubbish pile and you’re the mangy dog. Well this ain’t Kirkwall, innit? Focus on us for once.” She took a too-large gulp of ale and grumbled. “Enough about the glory days already.”

Varric’s protest froze in his mouth, the words jogging another memory in him. *Glory days*. The image came to him with crystal-clear clarity: Bartrand, drunk, ranting and raving about the ‘good old days’ back in Orzammar.

...Andraste's tits. Was he turning into his own brother?

“Alright, Buttercup, alright,” he murmured into his cup, chastened by the unmitigated horror of his realisation. “No more reminiscing.”

[vonuberwald]

Mend (Kanders, PG)

I just started this and kept going, just because I wanted to write something for Kandersgiving even if this is the only thing. 

It has a happy ending, because I have only written whump for them so far and they deserve nice things. This is also a Justice-free Anders zone.

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

A breath caught in his throat, released as a sob. Karl slumped against him, sighing his last, but Anders couldn’t pull away. He buried his face into his lover’s neck, heaving wails threatening to burst free.

The clanking of Templar armour, getting nearer, faded to nothing. Hawke’s urgent hand gripped the back of his robe, pulling in vain. Anders was numb, was nothing but a hand curled around the hilt of a dagger in his love’s back.

Withdrawing the dagger, he kept Karl somewhat upright between his own body and the pillar with some difficulty. But he did it. He raised the dripping blade in front of his eyes, staring transfixed at the red lifeblood as Hawke shouted in his ear. The dagger, plunging towards his own breast by his own hand was the last thing he saw before there was a sharp pain on the back of his head and everything abruptly went black.

*

He awoke to red again. He stared at it it for who knows how long before he realised he was even awake, lying on his back - somehow not dead - and in... Hawke’s bedroom? Staring up at the canopy of his bed apparently.

‘I see you’re awake.’ A voice laced with annoyance and disgust proclaimed right next to his ear and he jumped half out of his skin and off the bed before he realised it was just the man himself, sitting on the side of the bed with his arms crossed. He looked... displeased was an understatement.

‘I...’ Anders began, but he didn’t have any idea what he wanted to say and subsided, looking down at the pattern on the quilt instead.

‘I cannot believe you were even considering...! Do you know how close we cut it?’

Yep, Hawke was definitely pissed. Anders worried his bottom lip with his teeth. The moment had seemed so surreal to him as he remembered, the ache in his heart made him want to bury his head in the covers, to flinch away from Hawke’s angry gaze and curl in on himself. He had wanted to die there with Karl, the pull so strong that it was easier to just... not resist. 

He wasn’t sure how he felt now that Karl was gone for good, not even the fading warmth of his body left to hold onto. He clenched his hands in the covers.

Hawke cleared his throat. ‘Oh, and by the way, I don’t know what you were thinking, yanking the knife out like that, but we managed to stabilise him and Isabela knew this Seer that knew a thing or two about Tranquility-’

Anders whipped his head up and stared blankly at him. What... was he saying?

‘-and that cost a pretty penny, don’t think Varric won’t remind of you that next Wicked Grace night when you’re playing him for coppers, let alone the fucking riots that’ll cause if it’s gets out that it can be undone. But we got him in the spare ro- ack!’

Anders had lunged forward and grabbed him by that stupid neckerchief, nose-to-nose as he all but snarled, ‘Where!?’

Smug satisfaction swiftly followed Hawke’s initial surprise at being grabbed, and made itself at home on that stupid, fantastic face. 

‘He’s in the spare room. And I have it on good authority that he’s awake. You’re welcome!’

The last was shouted after Anders’ running figure, practically a blur as he ran out to the landing, straight for Hawke’s guest room, flinging open the door and completely forgetting himself in his urgency.  The heavy oak bounced on its hinges but Anders flung out an arm to still it absently, all of his attention focused on the figure sitting upright on the bed near the window. His sudden appearance had caused Karl to drop the book he was reading, but when he saw who it was, the other’s face, with its blessedly, beautifully blank forehead, lit up.

‘Hello, love.’

[playwright-fate]

The Earth was made for lovers

Fenris/f!Hawke 

1783 words

Fenris is hoping for a quiet night out but as he steps in the Hanged Man, his eyes fall on Hawke, sitting alone at the back of the tavern. And the vision is enough to stop him in his tracks.

READ IT ON AO3

Fenris hurries through the streets of Kirkwall.

He’s heading straight for Lowtown and the Hanged Man, where he hopes he might find Varric and Isabela and perhaps even Donnic or Sebastian for one or two glasses of wine, games of Wicked Grace, light conversation with people he might have grown tempted to call friends…

He had just spent the last two days sulking–as Isabela would say–in his mansion or, as he would rather describe it,  spending some much needed time on his own, in peace. A necessity for his sanity as the rest of his time was spent working as a mercenary, usually with a certain band of misfits constantly looking for trouble and being, as Fenris had noticed through the years, quite gifted at finding it. He shakes his head at the thought as he takes a turn into a street still bustling with the business of the day, night having not quite fallen on Kirkwall yet. After two days inside not seeing anyone, he had strangely come to feel the need for fresh air and even company; if the latter was still quite a rare inclination, it had become more and more frequent in the past years. Ever since he had met Hawke in fact…

No, he isnt’t going to think about her now. He pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders. No, tonight, he hopes for simple distractions; for a diversion.

But try as he might, worry still nags him a little as he considers the possibility of her presence, which, in truth, he fears as much as he wishes, but which would definitely prevent him from loosening up tonight.

He pauses as a group of Chantry sisters pass in front of him, one of them eyeing him with inquisitive eyes before quickly turning away as his absentminded gaze, too used to these kinds of unwanted attentions, follows her down the street.

Of late, he thinks as he goes back on his way, the sight of Hawke at the tavern or any social gathering had become a rarity anyway. She’d been going back home after almost each of their missions, mumbling something about headaches or other urgent tasks or, as time passed, nothing in particular as she simply went up to Hightown with a smile and a wave, leaving them behind and silently wondering what could be done to break into the defences she had slowly but surely started to erect around herself lately. Fenris knew he certainly wasn’t the designated person to do so after what had happened between them, but that only made him feel more worried, guilty and hopeless. In the last months, she had grown thinner, paler, her smiles and interventions in their discussions sporadic and usually lacking of their past radiance and warmth…

He only realises he arrived at his destination as his nose almost bumps against the door of the tavern. He sighs. Thinking of her was exactly the kind of distraction he did not wish for tonight. Or he would risk far more than accidentally bumping into doors.  Taking a long breath, hoping it might help him clear his mind of its last thoughts, he swiftly pushes the heavy door open and takes a single step into the tavern, ready to find one or more of his comrades already sitting at one of their usual tables, probably being impossibly loud and animated. But he does not go far before his feet stop on their own as his eyes, like magnets, fall on a figure sitting alone at the back of the tavern.

She’s sitting alone. It’s a strange enough vision–enough to stop him in his tracks, Fenris thinks, to have Hawke, who is always surrounded by people, whether by associates, contractors, friends or enemies, or at least by her loyal mabari who usually trails besides her like a shadow, to be sitting alone, here in the crowded tavern, absentmindedly gripping a mug of beer she does not even seem to have touched yet. She offers a disturbing contrast with the rest of the place; surreal, impossibly quiet among its suffocating noise and buzzing agitation. She appears small, her frame almost huddled in the corner of one of the booth of the Hanged Man, her soft grey eyes riveted on the table, probably indifferent, he surprises himself thinking with a fond smile, to the myriads of meaningless inscriptions and lewd drawings he knows are carved into the wood, several by no other than Isabela. Isabela–ever the questionable artist!–whose satisfaction only heightens if poor Sebastian is there to witness her masterpieces, outraged as he tries, rather unsuccessfully, to prevent her from adding any more aggravating details, or Anders smiling at her albeit with more and more distant approbation while Varric encourages her loudly and Merrill tries to decipher and understand something in the commotion.

But the vision blurs and his mind is quickly dragged back to Hawke. Ever since he met her, all those years ago, it seems to have become one of its main features. To go to her. She is always somewhere on his mind, haunting his dreams, lingering where he often expects her the least as he is unable, despite all his efforts, to cast her away. Unwilling also, which he dislikes admitting. He does not even notice that he’s staring at her more and more intensely. The two of them suddenly lonely figures removed from the lively, if somewhat rowdy atmosphere of the tavern. For Fenris is lulled by the waves of emotions rising from deep inside of him, creating ripples which reverberate almost painfully right down to his fingertips. Those waves which collect, overbalance and crash over him before retracting to collect, ascend and build up again. Building up as he looks at her, building up with each of the shallow breaths she takes, barely distinguishable from where he stands, but that he feels in each fibre of his body. He had now entered her orbit, sucked in by the power of her being.

But it feels like trespassing. Surely, losing his way, he has stumbled on some forbidden vision not made for his eyes–or anybody else’s–to see. Even when she is here, standing in plain sight, he cannot shake the idea that he’s intruding. Dispossessed of the usual distractions that surround her, Hawke suddenly appears to him in all her immensity and smallness. He sees the stars about her head, about her feet the sea. He slowly gazes upon her face reconstituted at this distance by a mix of observation and memories which know by heart the curve of a nose, the width of cheekbones, the texture of skin. He almost looks away as the delicate features of her face seem, tonight, to bear a sadness older than the world itself. Her absent stare shines with a heavy emptiness and something else, something which, at times, seems to set her away from the rest of them. Unreachable and hypnotic. She is of a beauty that does not wholly pertain to this world; she lies somewhere beyond, unaffected despite the soft smiles painted on her lips while she–almost–always finds the right words to ease even the tensest of people and situations, while she listens with respect and intelligence to anybody who wishes to speak to her, while she understands what others want to say perhaps even better than they do so themselves, and offers advice which always makes one think and wonder. There is a great power in her compassion, a power that scares him sometimes. A power in her stillness. Peaceful and unwavering, she seems to know about the ways of the world in a more intimate way than most. In what abyss she has stared he can only guess… he knows quite a lot of them himself.  And if one looks attentively, it is plain to see that the shadows of what she’s seen are still veiling her eyes. Maybe permanently. He is reminded in this moment that despite all the time spent together, the fleeting, strained but still living and breathing intimacy, the tacit understanding he often feels in her presence, there is an untraveled distance which will perhaps be impossible ever to cover. She remains a mystery.

Time slows down until it comes to a stop, as he looks at her, still hesitating on the threshold of the tavern.

But he’s lying to himself. In truth, he knows better. He knows her better. He knows she cares so deeply her feelings might swallow her whole one day. Once more, the wave descends and crashes over him. He wants to say, to scream something that would shake her from her reverie. But even in his mind, the words die down, get stuck in his throat. The air sucked out of him as she suddenly looks up at him and their eyes finally meet. The veil is torn down; the distance evaporated in an instant. He feels a sharp, tugging pain in his hands, a sudden longing for her which consumes him all. She is everywhere. Her heart has been fragmented times and times again by grief, heartbreak and the state of things, by those relentless ways of the world which crush so many under their wheels and which, too often, left her alive but washed up on the shore, battered, and alone and feeling so very, very, tired tonight. She would like to feel anchored to the world again, but the pain and losses pile up and obscure her. She has been uprooted and she wonders if she isn’t beyond retrieving… He exhales sharply and takes a tearing step forward. Behind him the door of the tavern opens with a bang, smacking the wall as Isabela, Varric and Merrill stride in, apparently deep in a conversation about the morality of some Wicked Grace tactic. Fenris doesn't look back at them but feels a relief tinged with annoyance. His eyes are still locked with Hawke’s. As Isabela claps him on the back and leaves her hand there, bringing him forward with them, already trying to draw him in the conversation, he feels the veil being lifted up again but he refuses to avert his gaze. Now that he knows–what exactly he would never be able to say–but now that Fenris knows, that he has seen, that he has heard… He can never forget.

With them, Fenris comes and sits at her table where Hawke greets them with a smile and a quick sign to Norah to order more wine and beer, already listening attentively to Varric’s advocacy in the Wicked Grace’s heated debate as if nothing had happened. And for a time, the shadows have passed.

But Fenris won’t forget.

[pikapeppa]

FenHawke baby fluff: Memories At Sea

@lethendralis-paints requested some Fenris x Rynne Hawke spending time with their little man Faren, and how could I resist?? So for @dadrunkwriting Friday, here is a little Papa Fenris fluff! 

This takes place in my “Fenris the Inquisitor” AU, so this is post-Trespasser, after FenHawke have settled in a cabin on the Rivaini coast. And yes, Fenris has both his arms, for Reasons™. 

~2600 words. Read on AO3 here. 

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

Hawke smiled at Fenris. “Ready?” 

“I’m ready,” he said. The late afternoon sun was still high enough to be warm, but not so high as to be blinding. It was low tide, and the waves washing up along the white-sanded Rivaini shoreline were little more than gentle ebbs and flows. 

“All right,” Hawke said, and she smiled at six-month-old Faren. “Here we go!” she cooed. “Are you ready to feel the sea on your feetsies?” 

Faren blinked his big coppery eyes at her, and she chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She kneeled at the shoreline and settled Faren on her lap with his chubby little feet touching the sand. 

She leaned in close to Faren’s ear. “Here it comes,” she murmured. “The tide’s coming in… and… oop!” She gasped playfully as a gently breaking wave lapped at Faren’s feet.

Faren’s eyes went huge, and his feet jerked. Fenris chuckled and crouched down beside them. “Shocking at first, isn’t it?” he said to his son. “You wouldn’t expect it to be so cold, given the warmth of the day.”

“The water’s not cold!” Hawke protested. “It’s practically bathwater!”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Bathwater for whom? Fereldens? The Avvar, perhaps?”

She chuckled. “If Dorian was here, he’d say your Tevinter is showing. You hot-weather boys and your complaints.” She tickled Faren’s knee. “I hope you get my sturdy constitution, Faren. I don’t mind a little cold.”

“Says the woman who spent the entirety of our time in Emprise du Lion begging me to share my body heat,” Fenris said pointedly. 

“Oh, I wasn’t cold then,” she said. “I was just horny.”

Fenris scoffed and rubbed his mouth to hide his smile, then gave her a chiding look. “Can you refrain in front of the baby?” 

“No can do, sorry,” she said cheerfully. “Let him know how much his mum is gagging for his dad. Oh, here comes another wave! And… oop!” 

This time when the water touched Faren’s feet, he smiled and haphazardly waved one hand, and Fenris smiled at his raven-haired son. “It is better once you’ve had some time to get used to it,” he told Faren. “We will have you swimming in no time.”

Faren gave him a gummy smile. Another wave began crawling up the sand toward them, and this time when it touched Faren’s feet, he squealed happily and waved both his hands. 

Hawke laughed — that lovely sparkling laugh that never failed to lift and ease Fenris’s heart. “Such an adventurous little turnip!” she crooned. “I think we should get you standing up now. Yes, I do.” She lifted Faren onto his feet and supported him carefully beneath his armpits as he tottered, very slowly and clumsily, on the damp shoreline. 

Another wave began to climb up along the sand, and Faren bounced excitedly in Hawke’s hands as the wave approached. When the wave reached him, it washed up to his knees with a tiny splash, and Faren shrieked again.

Hawke and Fenris both laughed, and Fenris watched adoringly as Hawke chatted to Faren while supporting his chubby body. Faren was only six months old, so there was no chance that he would remember this particular moment — his first time ever touching the sea. But still, this would be the first of many such moments in the sea: the first of a string of peaceful and pleasant little moments with his parents holding his little hands and encouraging his curious nature. 

Over time, these moments would build on each other like layers of lacquer growing more lustrous and brilliant with time, until one day Faren would have a concrete memory in his mind of splashing in the sea and loving it, thanks to his mother’s tender hands and her bright and brilliant laugh. 

His memory of the sea will be so different than mine, Fenris thought. After all, his first memory of the sea was during his time in Minrathous under Danarius’s control. 

He still remembered that first time following Danarius to the docks on one of the rare times that Danarius deigned to go somewhere so common. The Nocen Sea coastline was busy and noisy and grim, populated by magisters lording over their browbeaten slaves, and when Fenris had looked at the sea for the first time that he could remember, all he could see was a brownish-green fathomless depth that echoed the deadened emptiness in his heart. 

But the Nocen Sea was only the first coastline that Fenris had seen. Years later, after he’d arrived in Kirkwall and made Hawke’s acquaintance, he saw the sea for the first time again.

A few weeks after he began travelling around with Hawke and her friends, they’d taken a trip to the Wounded Coast, and Fenris still remembered taking in that stark landscape for the first time. The sky was a surreal haze of orange and pink that reflected off of the oddly still waters of the Waking Sea, and there were stony spires of rock jutting out of the water like enormous splintered rib cages piercing into the sky. 

“Well, it’s official,” he said. “I have travelled all the way from the northern coastline to the southern.”

“You know this isn’t the end of the continent, right?” Hawke said.

He gave her a chiding look. “I’m well aware, Hawke.”

“Good,” she said brightly. “For a second I thought you’d forgotten all about Ferelden.”

“I haven’t, no,” he said. “But I’ll become acquainted with one foreign land at a time.”

“Ooh, a one-country-at-a-time sort of fellow, are you?” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I like that in a man.”

On her other side, Varric scoffed. “I can’t decide whether you or the Rivaini is the worse flirt.”

“Hey, that’s unfair,” Hawke complained. “I’m at a disadvantage. Isabela’s got her gorgeous rack to do half her talking for her.”

Fenris studied her surreptitiously as she bantered with Varric. Her body might not be as lushly curved as Isabela’s, but Fenris still found himself eyeing her more often than he felt strictly comfortable about, considering that he and Hawke were still practically strangers. And considering that she was a mage. 

He forced his gaze back to the coastline instead. It was so calm here – so quiet. Aside from the giant spiders and bandits they’d encountered on their way here, of course. But compared to the noisy, busy, depressing docks of Minrathous, the stark and intimidating scenery of the Wounded Coast was more than welcome. 

“I wonder why it’s called the Wounded Coast?” Hawke mused. “Is this near the Injured Cliffs, maybe? Or the Limping Hills?” She smirked up at Fenris. “Maybe we’re off the coast of Massive Head Trauma Bay?”

Varric snorted, and Fenris frowned slightly. “If you don’t like it here, why did you lead us here?”

Her eyes widened. “What makes you think I don’t like it here?”

“Your unflattering remarks?” he said dryly.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m just being silly. I actually think it’s pretty here.”

“You do?” He was surprised. He’d been thinking the same thing, but he was surprised that he wasn’t the only one to appreciate the rather barren landscape.

“Of course!” she said. “It’s striking, isn’t it? I mean, it’s no Orlesian cultured garden, but it’s still pretty.” She pointed to the jutting peaks of stone. “Those spiky rock things are really… I mean, all right, they’re spiky. But I love the way the water’s carved patterns into the stone.”

Fenris eyed her in silence for a moment until she looked up at him. She blinked. “What?” 

“You’re quite the optimist, aren’t you?” he said.

She laughed. “You say that like an insult.”

“Not an insult,” he said. “An observation.”

“A critical observation?” she said with a mischievous smile. 

“I…” He frowned, then awkwardly rubbed his hair. “My apologies. I don’t mean it to be. It’s just…”I’ve never met anyone quite like you before, he thought. Her own circumstances of being in Kirkwall were far from rosy or ideal, but one would never know it from the way she joked and flirted.

He couldn’t say any of that, though. It felt far too personal considering he hardly knew her. 

She chuckled. “I’m just teasing you. Of course I’m an optimist.” She bowed dramatically to him. “Rynne Hawke, cavalier fool and optimist at your service.”

Varric tapped her arm. “Maybe we should go be cavalier and optimistic with the others. They’ve run off ahead.” 

“Yes yes, of course!” Hawke chirped. “We can’t let them kill every thug on the coast without us.” 

Varric smirked and walked away, and Hawke turned back to the view and scoffed. “Wounded Coast, they say? More like Picturesque Coast.” 

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.” 

“It doesn't, does it?” she said agreeably. “I’ll have Varric come up with a better name. Either way, it’s a pretty coastline.” She winked at him and wandered away. 

He pursed his lips. Trust Hawke to find the beauty in something wounded. 

He admired the peaks of stone rising from the water to reach toward the sky. Then he turned away from the view to follow Hawke’s carefree steps. 

“Fenris? Are you coming?” 

He blinked and looked up. Hawke was standing ankle-deep in the water with Faren in her arms.

He smiled and nodded, then stepped into the water to join her. Faren gurgled and reached for Fenris, and Hawke kissed his plump cheek before handing him over.

“You disappeared for a moment there,” she said to Fenris. “What were you thinking about?” 

“The sea,” he said. “What it’s like to see it for the first time.” He looked away at the horizon, stretching off into the distance as far as the eye could see. “Faren won’t remember what it’s like to set his eyes on the sea for the first time,” he said softly. “It’s… strange to think he won’t remember something so momentous.” He stroked his son’s back and thought of that moment again, of seeing the Waking Sea for the first time with Hawke by his side, and how her sunny spin had elevated that moment from something mundane to something special – something that stuck in his mind even to this day, fourteen years later when he and Hawke were taking their child into the sea for the first time. 

Hawke stroked his arm. “But it’s good though, right? Having him grow up somewhere with such a gorgeous view? He can wake up every day and voilà, there’s the beach just a few steps away!” She gestured grandly at the aquamarine expanse that swished and flowed around their calves. 

“Of course it’s good,” Fenris said. “I don’t mean to suggest otherwise. I’m simply… awed by the contrast, I suppose.” He pressed his lips to Faren’s raven-haired head and inhaled his baby-sweet scent, then gazed at Hawke. “The only early life I can recall was written in pain and blood. I could remember clearly that I remembered nothing, and that blankness was…” He swallowed hard. “It became more painful than the marks, in time.” 

“I know,” she said softly. 

He smiled faintly at her, then gently patted Faren’s back. “His memories are an unwritten book. They will be seamless and whole. He won’t know why he loves the sea, but that love will be written there. A page of his story, tucked safely in his mind.” 

Hawke shifted closer to him and looped her arm around his waist. “Are you sure you don’t want to regain your memories?” she asked. “Cole could help. We could try and write him a letter. Do a little Avvar ritual to get his attention from the Fade.” Her tone was playful, but her smiling amber eyes were serious. 

“I do consider it sometimes, still,” Fenris admitted. Then he smiled at her. “But not today. This day is not about the past.” He bounced Faren gently in his arms. “This is a day for new memories, isn’t it, little man?”

Faren cooed and patted Fenris’s face, and Fenris chuckled. “All right. There is a wave approaching, so let’s see how you feel about this…” He crouched until the water was up to his waist.

The water was licking at Faren’s calves. Faren squealed and gripped Fenris’s ear, and Fenris smiled. “Brace yourself. Here it comes.”

The wave washed up to the middle of Faren’s back. Faren’s eyes grew impossibly wide, then his face started to scrunch. 

Fenris winced in anticipation of the impending wail. “Uh-oh.”

“No no!” Hawke said quickly. She knelt in the water and tickled Faren’s neck. “Don’t you cry! The sea is wonderful, look!” She watched another incoming wave with a huge smile, and when it washed over herself and Faren and Fenris, she gasped and clapped her hands. “Yay!” she cheered. “The sea is such fun, isn’t it, Daddy?”

“Yes, it is,” Fenris said with a smile. Faren was staring wide-eyed at Hawke, and his face was no longer squinched into an almost-wail. When the next wave came, the baby smiled.

“Yes, that’s it!” Hawke said brightly. “It’s fun, you see? Look!” She took a big breath and ducked her head beneath the water, then popped back up a second later. “Ta-dah!”

Faren squealed and waved his hands. Hawke played peek-a-boo with Faren a few more times, and it wasn’t long before Faren was laughing uproariously in that pure and uncontrolled sort of way that never failed to make his parents laugh as well. 

Hawke sighed happily and slicked her wet hair back from her face. “Ooh, come here, you little turnip.” She gently took Faren from Fenris’s arms, and he smiled helplessly as his wife and son laughed together. 

“He sounds just like you when he laughs,” Fenris said.

She grinned at him. “He does not!”

“He does,” Fenris said. “He sounds exactly like you.” 

She giggled, then tipped her chin up and batted her eyelashes. “Well, he looks just like you. The two most handsome boys I’ve ever seen.”

Fenris scoffed, then leaned in and kissed her smiling lips. A moment later, she pulled away and beamed at the baby. “How about we take another dip, hm? Yes, let’s do just that!” She waded a little further into the water, and Fenris watched them with a feeling of warmth and fullness in his chest. She was pointing to the waves and to the gulls floating lazily overhead, telling Faren how lovely and interesting everything was, and Fenris realized something sweet: as different as his and Faren’s early memories would be, there was one enormously important thing – one enormously important person – that would tie them both together.

It was Hawke. More than ten years ago, she’d spoken to Fenris of the beauty of the sea, and now she was pointing out the very same beauty to their son. 

He waded toward her and slid his arms around her waist from behind, and she smiled at him and continued speaking to Faren. “... and one day, when you have better control over your own arms and legs, Auntie Isabela will teach you to dive for treasure, and you can see all the fishes and corals and crabs that live under the water! Ooh, that will be so exciting.” 

Faren burbled and patted her chin, and she laughed — the same joyful burbling laugh that she’d passed on to their son. Fenris inhaled the salty sea air and held his family in his arms, and as the rolling waves tugged at his legs and washed soothingly around his waist, he cherished the making of this new memory in the sea. 

[enchanter-rhys]

There Beneath

Rhys has spent the larger part of the day wandering Skyhold. He can feel something pulling him, calling out to him, but he’s yet to figure out what exactly it is. It only drives his curiosity further, which in turn is making him a little afraid of what he might find. He’s not certain just how thin the veil is, here, not to mention whether or not that mark on the Inquisitor makes it more likely for demons to prowl.

He finally finds himself in the gardens, and feels that strange pull in full force. There’s got to be something here, but why doesn’t anyone around him seem disturbed or curious? He hasn’t seen any other mages wandering with such a look of curiosity or determination, so why him?

As he makes his way through the awkwardly placed potted herbs and trees until he was greeted with his answer. It's so much different from what he’d expected to find, though he had no idea what he’d thought he’d discover. His eyes widen, his mouth opening silently for a moment before he can find the words. Well, one word in particular.

“... Cole?”

The young man sits in soft grass and wild flowerbeds behind a tree, hidden from view of anyone in the main section of the gardens. He looks up from where he’d previously been weaving flowers together, his look of surprise mirroring the enchanter’s.

Rhys notices a few things about him that are strangely different. The first notable thing is the hat. It's an object he’d never seen the man wear before, though it seems rather fitting for one who was always so eager to hide from the world. He’s gained two new and deadly-looking daggers, and it seems he’s finally found clothing that isn’t merely a tattered tunic and dirt-caked trousers. He’s wearing proper casual clothing, if still a bit worn. The kind perfectly fitting for a man sitting among flowers.

“Cole, I— Does... Does anyone even know you’re here? This place could be dangerous, Cole, there are so many templars, why are you—”

“They know,” Cole gently sets the crown of delicate flowers beside him and stands, removing the hat obscuring his features. It’s strangely relieving for Rhys to see him without it, as if confirming that it's really him. “I... I’m here to help.”

Rhys watches as Cole chews his lip, searching for something to say, but he isn’t given the chance. Rhys pulls him into a hug so quickly that it makes him jolt. Thankfully, he returns the embrace. He grasps at Rhys’s robes, hiding his face in his shoulder.

“I thought you were dead, or you'd returned to the Fade, or... I don’t know. I can’t believe you’re really here! How did you even get here?” He finally lets go, holding Cole’s shoulders as if he’s afraid he might run or disappear. They lock eyes and Rhys can see pinpricks of tears.

“I thought... I thought you’d be angry with me, or you’d forget me— I thought it would be better if you both forgot me, I told the Inquisitor not to try and find you. But he did and you’re alive and I... I’m glad.”

Rhys swallows the lump in his throat, smiling wearily. “I had a feeling. I wasn’t certain, but some part of me knew it was you. Always trying to protect me when I didn’t need it, but this time I did,” His breath hitches for a moment. “And I’m so glad. I’m so glad they found us. But I’m still not certain how you came to be here, or how you convinced them to let you stay.” Rhys has met Vivienne. They had a curt conversation before Rhys promptly decided to avoid her. He can’t imagine she was thrilled to know someone like Cole is among them.

“There was a man. It wanted the power he wielded, waging war on the world and watching it burn. He was so hollow inside... He was angry the Inquisitor took his mages. I heard it in the templars, the red growing in their minds. I had to help. They didn’t know what I was, but he let me stay.” There’s relief in his tone as he explains. “E-everyone was frightened of me at first. Some still are... but I think I have friends now. They can... They can see me now.”

“They can see you? And you’re alright with this? How did you manage it?”

“It scared me, at first. I can’t make people forget, anymore...” He trails off, and Rhys feels like there might be more to it than that, but he resists the urge to pry. “There was a Cole in the White Spire. Broken and beaten and forgotten, begging for anyone to remember him. I reached out, then through, then found him... But I couldn’t help.”

Rhys blinks, a realization hitting him like a blow to the head. Cole isn’t finished, though. He’d hate to interrupt, especially if it means learning more about his friend. He has a feeling, a suspicion that he might finally understand what Cole is.

“Solas called me Compassion, but more. More fixed, fastened to what’s real. I won’t fade away anymore, and I won’t hurt anyone else. If I do, they’ll kill me. It’s better that way.”

“You won’t,” Rhys states adamantly, squeezing Cole’s shoulder. “The moment I told you what you were doing was wrong, I saw a change in your eyes... I could tell you already felt guilty for doing it, I just... Couldn’t help you. I’m so sorry, Cole.”

Cole, to his surprise, smiles. “No. You helped me. You broke it. The curse, crushing and collapsing what I am. I learned. I learned because of you, because of Evangeline, even because of...” The smile fades.

“Lambert,” Rhys frowns, releasing Cole from his grip. “He’s dead, now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

There’s worry in Rhys’s eyes when Cole’s features turn dark. Another suspicion weighs heavily in his heart, and he waits a moment for the inevitable while his friend considers his words.

“I know. I killed him...” He pulls back, holding his arms. “He was going to hurt the mages, he wanted to crush them, contain them, cut them out of the world like a disease.”

There it was. The weight of the man’s actions, the terror it brought down on the world. “Oh, Cole...”

“They said it was an assassin, a mage, someone from the tower. You knew it was me,” Cole locks eyes with him. Cold, piercing, worrying eyes. “It was wrong but right, relieving but wracking. I’m sorry— I made everything worse for you. I-I just wanted to help, I’m sorry...”

“No, Cole,” Rhys interjects, reaching out once more for his friend. “It was bound to happen at some point. The timing of all of it was what made everything worse. If the attack on Kirkwall hadn’t been so recent, breaking from the Chantry wouldn’t have been seen as such an act of war. The mages from the Spire who chose to fight... I’m sad to say that it was my doing. Maker, I didn’t think they’d take it that far.”

“But you’re alive. Alive and helping to heal it,” Cole smiles again, if only slightly, and moves to sit back down among the flowers. Rhys sighs and follows suit, looking around his little corner of quiet. “You didn’t make them kill people. You always want to help. I think that’s why you could see me.”

“Compassion.”

Cole nods, plucking a new flower from the ground to resume his weaving. Rhys slides a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath, trying to let it all sink in. It almost feels like a dream when he thinks about it, but it's too real not to be. The scenery is just real enough, not instilled with that odd shimmer of the Fade. He’s wide awake.

Perhaps it’s time to change the subject...

“Are you happy here, Cole?”

“Yes. I can help here, and they help me learn. I... forget to do things real people do, sometimes, but I write them down and it helps.” He smiles again, deftly braiding intricate patterns of flowers between his fingers.

“What real people do..? I’m sorry, I’m still not quite sure how this is happening. You said you’re more... Tethered? To here, to this side of the Fade?”

“Oh- The Inquisitor and Varric,” He looks up from the flowers, his smile showing that slight gap between his teeth. Rhys had noticed it before, but now it feels so... Human. “They helped me find the templar who killed me— Who killed Cole. I was angry. I wanted to kill him back, but Varric said we needed to remember. So... We did. Now everyone can see me, they can remember me.”

“So, what you’re saying, is... You’re human now?”

“No? And yes,” He hums. “I’m just... More.”

This is a lot. This is a lot of new information that Rhys wasn’t prepared for. He rubs over his face and looks up at the sky. It’s so surreal, so strange to see his friend again... But, at the same time, it’s such a relief.

“Just more...” Rhys sighs, finally feeling lighter. “I think I can understand that.”

“I’m glad you found me,” Cole says, offering out the flowers to Rhys.

“I’m glad I found you, too.”

[modernagesomniari]

Headcanon: Dalish Curses

A lot of people have picked up on the fact that the Dalish may very well use Fen’Harel’s name in their curses more than just ‘May the Dread Wolf take you’, to hilarious results.  This being one of my absolute faves ( @ladyshinga is a very talented babe if you haven’t found them already, go look)

In my mind this is compounded by the Dalish making up for not really having very much to swear on by developing very French/Yiddish-like cursing - aka long, often pretty surreal and incredibly creative.  This is helped greatly by the fact that we know that elvish is quite meandering as a language.

The shorter curses are the ones they save for really meaning it.  You’re not likely to hear a Dalish say ‘May the Dread Wolf take you’ unless there’s about to be a fight.  He’s far more likely to tell you to:

‘Go suck on the Dread Wolf’s unnecessarily hairy ball sac.’

 or 

‘May the Wolf shove his tail up your arse so far you spit hairs covered slightly with shite’.  

The fact that these curses are damning but also funny also demonstrate the closeness of the Dalish people - they want to tell each other when they’re being an arsehole, but ultimately they don’t mean each other harm.

Dalish who are especially creative with their curses become almost famous for it and there’s almost always an unofficial curse-off at the Arlathvhen.

Translating these phrases (which are often in elvhen, at least in part) becomes something of an in-joke to the Inner Circle with a Lavellan Inquisitor (or Dalish from the Chargers, for that matter).

Varric’s favourite roughly translates into: ‘May the Dread Wolf take you up the arse in the manner of nugs’.  Leliana does not approve.  For all his knowledge of the Dalish, Solas seems to know very few of these curses, but no one can tell if he approves of them or not.

[musetta3]

BTV- WIP Wednesday

My artwork for this chapter is being printed in Kirkwall (I haven’t finished painting it yet, ) so in the meantime, please enjoy  part of my favorite scene from the upcoming chapter of my fic, The Songstress and the Swordsman. 

The Drunken Dragon was very busy that evening, thanks to Varric’s event. Patrons abandoned their tables and the bar and thronged around a small stage, while a smooth, familiar voice began reading. 

“‘Reyna Akhoura stood before the fireplace, her silk robes trailing behind her. The Rivaini Nightingale, they called her, the beautiful woman who could make angels weep with her voice. Or, at least, according to Ser Fendrick.’” 

Fenris nearly dropped his fork at ‘Ser Fendrick.’ He and Rana exchanged wide-eyed glances over their dinner. 

“‘She sang a piece from her homeland, a song with notes reminiscent of pearls on a string. Shimmering notes that twisted and turned, flying down the scale with a velocity that could make heads spin. She sang for the elven lord and his guests, and they were so intrigued, they didn’t notice anything amiss. Nothing strange… until her high note turned into a blood curdling scream.’” 

The audience gasped. Fenris bit back a laugh; despite her initial displeasure, Rana was leaning over the table in interest. 

“‘Smoke billowed from behind her. Her robes had caught on fire. “Take them off,” Fendrick shouted over her screams, “Reyna, hurry, you’ll burn yourself.” She fumbled with the knotted sash, becoming increasingly panicked. 

“How in the Void did you tie this? Arms out.” He tossed the robes onto the floor, smothering it with a pillow, but in vain; his efforts merely set the pillow afire, too.’” 

Fenris drowned a snort in his wine, while Rana bounced in her seat from laughter.

“Yi! I can’t believe he wrote that in,” she gasped between giggles. “I’d forgotten that part.”

“I didn’t; that was my favorite pillow,” he replied. “The chaise lounge will never be the same without it.”

Varric continued. “‘Now free from her silken prison, Reyna ran to the well in her under-dress to fetch water. But, alas for Lord Fendrick—the girl had no aim whatsoever. He was soaked through, his tunic shlucked and sucked as he pulled it away from himself. Much to his dismay, she started crying. 

“Reyna, calm yourself, you’re alright.” He closed the gap between them and offered a handkerchief. Not wanting to seem awkward as she stood in her under-dress, he turned to leave, but she threw her arms around and hugged him tight. 

“Thank you for saving me,” she said. 

“I-It was nothing.” His voice came out as a squeak. Ah, but it most certainly was something, by the way he relaxed into her. His heart was pounding, his breath quickened, and, for the first time in many months, there was a smile on the brooding elf’s face.’”

Fenris huffed. “Of all the—How many times must I say it, dwarf? I do not brood.” He didn’t mean for his words to be so loud; he’d intended it to be an aside, to no one but himself. Damned wine that loosened his tongue. The crowd turned towards him, murmuring in excitement and disbelief. Varric chuckled. 

“I thought I saw you come in! Messeres, may I present the inspirations of the tale: Ser Fenris El-Khoury and Lady Rana El-Khoury? Elf, Songbird, come take a bow.”

Fenris’s eyes went wide. Before he could make a polite excuse, Rana jumped from her seat and whisked him away by the hand, straight through the crowd to the stage. Fenris felt his face go hot; he never liked being the center of attention, unlike Rana, who was at home onstage. 

There was a question and answer session about his and Rana’s life together. Many questions from men intrigued by the alluring Rana on the book cover, much to their wives’ (and Fenris’s) chagrin. They requested an aria, which Rana gladly obliged. One piece led to another until she sang an impromptu recital. In addition to Varric’s autograph, the attendees demanded Fenris’s and Rana’s, as well. They swarmed them both. This was all so surreal, so unlike anything he would’ve imagined. 

“You do a few of these with me, and you’ll be more famous than Hawke,” Varric said as he sold the last crate of books. “What do you say? It’s great for business.”

Rana autographed a book with a flourish. “We want a cut of the royalties, as well as appearance fees, Varric; I’ll make up the contract.” 

Fenris’s eyes widened at her boldness. “Ran, you can’t say such things—”

“Done,” Varric said. “We’ll discuss terms afterwards over pie.” He elbowed Fenris in the ribs. “Smart girl,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t let her go, elf: she’s sharper than most businessmen around here and certainly a vision to behold.” 

“Yes, I know,” Fenris replied. He finished writing a dedication, stealing a look at a glowing Rana. The soft light from the candles bathed her in gold, shadows cast on her features like a veil of the most delicate gauze. A smile beamed across his face. He would never let her go, never, not in this world or the next.

Tagging the awesome people from BTV: @kita-lavellan​​ @silvanils​​ @ellie-effie​​ @5lazarus​​ @rivainisomniari​​ @ashalle-art​​ @anavakarian​​ @followingthewolf​​  @fandombird123 @noire-pandora​

[anemeraldknight]

About Duke Cadash, part 2

okay so I know that this is supposed to be like an ask thing from here! butI only have like 3 followers on here, I just finished my second playthrough of Inquisition and I really really wanna talk about my Inquisitor :’)) so we’re doing this

what is your inquisitor’s name & race? - Duke Cadash, surface dwarf

what is their sexual orientation? - bisexual <3

what do they look like? (add screenshots, drawings, descriptions!) - he's a freckly ginger and has bright blue eyes, a very well groomed beard (he at least tries to redo the braids every morning), undercut on on the left side of his head but otherwise longish hair, scarring underneath his right eye and between his brows; he's like muscular and thick at the same time, I don't know a good word for it? but yea :) he's prettyy

how did they feel about being called “the herald of andraste”? - he uses it to his advantage. he doesn't outright deny it to people he doesn't really trust, only those closest to him know his real stance on it. he just takes being called the Herald in stride, doesn't hate it but isn't the biggest fan either

what are their religious beliefs, if they have any? - believes in the Stone because his parents had been cast out from Orzammar and they passed on their beliefs to him as well. he's not super into it though, more like a casual believer.

what is their opinion on the mage/templar war? - supports the mages and even though he can get along with templars if necessary, he often calls them out for their prejudices and bullshit. he believes that the war was inevitable and kind of necessary as well because in his eyes big change usually comes by, sadly, using harsher tactics.

who is your inquisitor’s best friend? - he was suuper close with Blackwall in the beginning because their humor was pretty similar, he was one of the first people he recruited on his own, and they're both pretty close in terms of age as well. however, as Duke grew closer to Dorian, they became best friends instead (and then eventually lovers). I'd say his real best friend is either Cassandra or Solas? because even though he disagrees with both of them quite a lot, they still somehow manage to get on pretty well <33 and they both have been there from the very beginning of this entire journey!! so it makes sense :) also, Duke is suuuuuper loyal, so when he found out about Blackwall :)) he fucking flipped and completely shunned him and never again took him into his party.

who is their rival? - uhhh among the companions? I don't think he really has one...

who is their love interest, if they chose one? do you ship them with anyone else/non-romanceable options? - DORIAN!! <333

warrior, rogue, or mage? - rogue, archer

how do they feel about the dalish? - he feels for them and wants to support them and work together as much as possible. he can see that a lot of them seem arrogant and standoffish on the outside, but he gets why that is, so he just lets them be and tries to work with it.

how do they feel about the qun? - he does not like the qun, to him it seems like a cult. he can also see many similarities between it and the chantry so.

how do they feel about the chantry? - he doesn't like the chantry BUT he does not shun them out loud because he knows that having them support him makes him look good to those who believe in Andraste and such, but also he doesn't wanna take away hope from those who find it in him during such a difficult time (even though he doesn't believe he's chosen in any way)

which demon is most frightening to them? - definitely the nightmare. Duke doesn’t get rattled very easily but that whole thing managed to get underneath his skin. plus! he’s incredibly scared of spiders and the nightmare created to many of them to freak him out, so the entire fade thingy was very hard on my poor Master Cadash :((

did they choose the qun or the chargers in iron bull’s personal quest? why? - the chargers. he didn’t trust the whole thing from the beginning and basically went along with it because he wanted to support the Iron Bull and because he could feel that something fishy was going on. also, even before the whole thing Duke got along with Krem really well, because he has this habit of taking younger people under his wing (exhibit A: Cole) so that’s also what kinda happened with Krem. ALSO! another thing is that Duke id very much against sacrificing lives in order to get something, so even if he hadn’t cared about any of the chargers personally, it would’ve just went against everything he stood for.

when are they the happiest? - when he's exploring the wilderness with his party, probably picking elfroot or iron lol

how do they feel about the mark/the anchor? - it doesn’t really cause him very much pain so he sees it mostly as something  that’s just there and helps him deal with this whole mess.

upon first meeting cole, were they afraid of him? - not really? he could tell that he was different but Thedas is full of so much surreal and nonsensical shit that this kid who acts a bit outside of the established rules of the society didn't really faze him. when he first met Cole during the attack on Haven, his first reaction was that “why is this young kid out here??? get him to safety!!!!” but yknow in a way where he could still see that Cole was perfectly capable of pulling his own weight, Duke just worries.

did they use the templars or the mages to close the breach? - mages

what was their court approval like at the winter palace? did they have any fun at all? - the only things that Duke liked during the whole charade was seeing Josephine and Leliana enjoying the whole thing AND getting to dance with Dorian. he got 100 court approval but he hated that everybody kept shitting on him for being a dwarf etc. also dealing with Gaspard, Celene, and Breala was frecking frustrating.

someone is encroaching on their love interest. how do they respond? - idk how to answer this. he knows that Dorian can handle himself but if the situation requires his help then he will get supper angry and protective

what is their favourite weapon? - Duke’s Bayard!! :D this really great bow that he got made

are there any creatures in the wild that they refuse to/are reluctant to kill? why? - nugs because to him they look like a rabbit and an old wrinkly man merged into one. so yea, no. he also doesn’t like killing dragons. the only proper dragon he and his party ever killed was the big one in the hinterlands but Duke didn't feel right about it afterwards so he never went after another again

what is their opinion on blood magic? would they ever use it, if given the chance? - to him blood magic is just a type of magic really but I don't think he'd use it if he were able to

what is their favourite place within playable regions? - interestingly, the hinterlands. it's because he grew up in fereldan is used to that kind of nature

did they feel suspicious of dorian upon first meeting him, because of his tevinter heritage? - a bit, yes, but it quickly faded

as a whole, how do they feel about tevinter + the imperium? - he hates the whole slavery business that they've got going on over there but Dorian manages to convince him that the imperium could be changed so he has hope for it. he doesn't blindly hate every vint he meets.

did they encourage cullen to continue taking lyrium, or to stop? for what reasons? - to stop because even though he’s not very close to Cullen and he has his issues with him, he didn't want him to be dependent of lyrium in order to work to the best of his abilities. because Cullen is in charge of such a huge part of the Inquisition, he needs him to be dependable

does it bother them to sleep in tents when on the road with the inquisition? - nope! Duke loves tracking and yknow finding and looking for stuff out in the wilds so he’s used to that sort of thing since he grew up in a naturey place. he had to spend a lot of nights in similar situations while he was part of the Carta too

are they an optimist, a pessimist, or neutral? - i guess something between an optimist and a neutral? I guess you could call him an optimistic realist. he rarely veers towards pessimism

if varric wrote a book about your inquisitor, how would they feel about that? - he would actively encourage it because it would be fucking hilarious to read

do they get along with vivienne? - nope, he doesn’t even recruit her.

are they afraid of anything specifically? - spiders

what was their reaction to the destruction of haven?

how do they feel about “the game”? - a bunch of nugcrap

are they especially protective of certain inquisition members, even those capable of defending themselves? - even though he knows that all three of them can take care of themselves and he trusts them to do so, he still worries about them the most. Cole, Krem , and scout Harding.

do they like their skyhold pajamas? - he hates the pajamas. but the outfits that he usually wears look superrr fly so he doesn’t mind those one bit

are there any insults they find to be especially offensive? (i.e. “knife ear”/”rabbit” for elves, “oxmen” for qunari, ect.) - I am not sure what insults a dwarf would get in terms of specific words. the fact that people keep making comments about the Inquisitor surprisingly being a dwarf does annoy him though

if varric gave them a nickname, what would it be? - either cherry because of his red hair OR the Archduke :P

do they enjoy being the inquisitor? - yes!! at the beginning, he's more wary of it, which of course makes sense, but even then he's just ready to take on the role of the leader because no one else will do it and he does have the mark so it makes sense for him to do it. as time moves on he grows to really like it! he makes a great leader and he knows it.

[novamm66]

From Earth to Sky - Chapter 3 - After Haven

—

The population of the Inquisition and of Haven had been cut by more than half. The few tents they had were not enough to shelter the survivors, and food was hard to come by this high in the mountains. Everyone was hungry, tired and hopeless with the loss of their Herald.

Varric sat in the snow, icy water leaking into his boots. But his grief overshadowed his discomfort, and he simply sat in the cold. He believed in his heart that Kiaya was dead, buried under the snow in Haven. The kind, strong woman, had become one of Varric’s closest friends, and she deserved better. She deserved to live, but there was nothing that Varric could do.

“Spymaster,” a scout raced up to Leliana, seated close to Varric. “They found her.” The man panted. “The Commander and the Seeker, they found her alive.”

The news lifted Varric to his feet, and he felt hope weave through the people gathered as the news spread through the camp. The sound of pounding boots broke through his thoughts, and Varric realized that the voices around him had stopped. The silence froze Varric’s heart as the Commander and Seeker came into his view. Both were running, and the body in Curly’s arms was lifeless.

Solas, Vivienne, and the other healers surrounded the pair as they approached, forcibly pulling the Herald from the Commander’s hold. She disappeared amid a flurry of activity while everyone else remained frozen, watching until the tent flap closed and, as one, the camp exhaled.

All of it happened within the span of a few minutes. It felt surreal as regular activity returned, somewhat muted than before. Varric listened to the voices around him: some despairing at her state, while others were filled with hope simply because she had returned. But outside the tent, among those who thought of her as a friend, the tension continued to rise. Everyone settled in to wait, and no one seemed to know what to do or say.

Please, please let Smudges wake up. We need her, and she deserves better.

Varric prayed for the first time in years. Haven’s fall had shaken him to his core. The world was in serious shit. It would be a long time before memories of the infected templars’ twisted faces didn’t haunt him. He knew it was time to throw everything he had on the table to stop this Elder One, but nothing would matter if Kiaya didn’t survive.

No one was expecting it when they heard the first snap of bone, followed by a scream of pain. Varric saw the Seeker turn white, then green, before turning heel and almost running from the camp. Varric followed more slowly. He didn’t want to hear any more from the tent and anyway, she shouldn’t be alone.

She hadn’t made it far: just past the tree line where the snow was less deep before she had dropped to her knees to be sick. Varric came up behind her, making enough noise to let her know he was there but not enough to startle her.

Cassandra finished retching. “Go away.” Her voice was ice and razors covering fear.

He offered her the water skin and towel he had brought. “I thought you might need these.”

She glared at him, her suspicion melting to gratitude and shame as she accepted his offering. Her thanks were softer, barely loud enough for Varric to hear. Cassandra remained where she was, staring at the cloth twisted around her fingers. She looked vulnerable, and it tugged at Varric’s heart.

“She’s strong, Seeker. Stronger than she knows, probably stronger than any of us know. You got her back here alive. She will be alright.” Varric could see the woman’s shoulders shaking.

“How can you possibly know that?” She twisted around in the snow to face him. “So she survives this, then what? She’s not a fighter, Varric! She is going to get torn apart.” Cassandra was just as passionate in her fear for her friend as she was in everything she did. Varric could see unshed tears in her eyes as she continued. “She stayed behind, Varric. Kiaya sacrificed herself for us. Who does that?”

“Heroes do that.”

Cassandra snorted. “Heroes are from stories. It’s never that simple.”

“Simple is boring and usually never the truth.” His answer had the desired effect, and she smiled a little. “We are all here for her, Seeker. You have protected her, helped her, and we are all going to continue to do so.”

Moments passed as the two looked at each other before Cassandra dropped her eyes. “I want to apologize to you, Varric. I may have been wrong in my...” the Seeker searched for words, “My judgement of you before. You have been an asset to the Inquisition and a friend. Thank you.”

Your judgement was not that wrong, Varric thought as he offered her a hand to help her to her feet.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

—

Cassandra sat on the bank of a small lake, watching Kiaya teach Cole how to swim. It was a moment of peace in a world gone mad. Kiaya and her team had left Skyhold shortly after the Herald had led them there, to round up supplies and answer the numerous calls for the Inquisition’s assistance. This break, this moment of rest and fun, was much needed by everyone. Cassandra chuckled when Cole, likely distracted by something on the bottom, didn’t resurface and Kiaya swore and disappeared.

“They certainly look like they’re having fun.” Varric appeared seemingly out of nowhere to stand next to her. “You didn’t want to join them?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I only swim for survival or to get clean. I have never taken pleasure from it.”

“I’m with you. Water is too shifty to be trusted,” Varric said. “It’s nice to watch them enjoy it, though.”

Kiaya’s laughter rang across the water as she dodged away from Cole, encouraging him to chase her. Cassandra marvelled at how easily she moved in the water. Kiaya looked utterly comfortable as she gracefully slipped just out of Cole’s reach. Kiaya also seemed happy, something that was rare since the Conclave. Cassandra smiled as she watched the two splash around.

“We could have done a lot worse, you know. Smudges have a good heart,” Varric pointed out.

“Yes. Kiaya has proven herself very capable. I just wish she would not fall so much.”

Varric chuckled. “She does seem to have trouble tripping over her own feet. Coordination isn’t for everyone, although you wouldn’t know that at the moment.” They both watched as Kiaya dove under the surface of the water.

“Where is that grace in battle?” Cassandra asked.

“I think she leaves it in the water,” Varric answered. Cassandra’s attention was caught by a bird landing in a tree above her and began to sing, and Varric noticed her distraction. “What is it?”

“A blackbird.” She smiled as the bird’s call filled the air. “One of the few memories that I have of my parents is mornings in the garden. Blackbirds had made nests in the wild roses, and they would sing like anything.”

“That’s a wonderful thing to remember. You must miss your family very much.”

Cassandra shrugged, watching the bird take off and fly over their friends’ heads in the water. “I miss the idea of my parents if that makes sense. I was very young when they died. My memories are so hazy. I miss my brother desperately, though. For the longest time, we were all each other had.”

Varric said nothing as he offered a hand to help her stand. Still, his eyes brimmed with an understanding that Cassandra had never seen before. She reached out and took his hand without thought. His palm was warm against hers, his fingers strong and a little rough. He quickly pulled her to her feet, and Cassandra felt disappointed when their hands parted.

Varric whistled loudly and shouted. “Hey, fishes. Food’s ready.” Then he motioned to the path and, in a familiar voice, said, “Shall we, Seeker?”

She led the way back to camp, still feeling the heat from his hand against hers.

--

Varric stood in the shadow of the gate of Skyhold fortress. The Inquisition had grown drastically. The fortress now housed the population of a village, and five times that camped in the valley below. The courtyards were always bustling, which suited Varric fine. He loved people watching, and it also gave him the perfect excuse to be waiting here.

His face split into a grin when he spied her entering with a group of merchants. She looked just as travel-worn as all the other folks, and no one paid her any special attention as she detached from the group and drifted over to him. Varric opened the door behind him, and they both pass through. The moment the door clicked shut, they both grinned at each other.

“Andraste’s ass, it good to see you in one piece, Hawke,” Varric said.

Hawke laughed and wrapped Varric in a hug. “I have never lost any pieces. Not any big ones anyway. I’m the worried one. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?”

“A big pile of scary shit.” Varric sighed as they separated, and he led the way up the stairs towards the battlements. “I kept you out of it as long as I could, but after Haven…” Varric shook his head.

“What happened, Varric? The information I picked up is sketchy and terrifying.”

“Whatever you heard, the reality was worse. Corypheus is alive.”

Hawke stopped dead, her hand gripping his shoulder like a vice. “No, he’s not. I killed him myself. I stood in his blood. I had to throw out my boots.”

“You can tell him that when you meet him again. And his new archdemon.” Varric said while giving her hand a sympathetic squeeze. He had known that this news would upset Hawke.

Hawke let loose a string of Trevinter curses that would have made Fenris proud.

“It gets worse,” Varric added when she paused to inhale. “Somehow he’s infected the Templar Order with red lyrium. It’s everywhere, Hawke.”

All the colour drained from Hawke’s face as she rocked back to lean against the wall. Her eyes unfocused as she processed the information. Varric could see the same guilt he was feeling wash through her.

A few silent moments passed. Then Hawke blinked before resuming the climb. “Well, then. What’s next? And why are you telling me this in a stairway? I need a drink.”

Varric pulled out his flask and handed it over. Hawke laughed and accepted.

“Your arrival here will ruffle some feathers, and I would like to put that off as long as possible.” He answered.

“Mmm,” Hawke mumbled around a mouthful before swallowing. “That’s not like you. You enjoy it when I ruffle feathers. You’re usually egging me on.”

“True. However, this will likely get me punched in the face, so let's wait all the same.”

Varric could feel Hawke’s eyes on him. “Your ears are turning pink. Explain to me how getting punched makes you blush.” Hawke said.

“No.”

“You know, I will find out eventually,” Hawke said, but she let the subject drop. “Where are you taking me?”

“Up to one of the towers. You can lay low there until I can get Smudges. You and she have lots to talk about.”

“So, she’s not the puncher then.”

Varric rolled his eyes as he opened the last door. “Wait here, I won’t belong.” He ushered her into a room crowded with broken furniture and debris.

“I love what you have done with the place,” Hawke said as she sat sprawled on a three-legged bed. “I’m keeping the flask.”

Varric snorted. “I kind of figured.”

--

Thanks for reading. To read from the beginning here is the Master post.

[inquistior-a]

@bornpariah​ asked   :   𝙺𝙸𝚂𝚂 —— 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵 𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈, 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈

   ‘ Sit up. ’

   A gentle but impatient command as Halwn slips back into the bed and braces his back against the headboard, legs stretched across the coverlet. Dorian is half across him again almost immediately, and half back to sleep as well. It’s likely only interest in the promised present that’s kept an eye cracked open---Halwn chuckles at his expression, and smooths a thumb across one of the mage’s sleep-disheveled brows, smiling a little wider at the impatient huff it earns him because, of course, he will not be able to preform the attempted procedure to Dorian’s particular standard.

   He has a small wooden crate in his hands, fetched from where he had concealed them the night before in the alcove behind his desk. It is a small crate, smaller than he’d like, no bigger than an egg crate. He pulls the lid free with an easy jerk, revealing inside a cluster of two dozen oranges carefully packed with straw. The fruits are small and ripe and vibrant as spessartite stones, smelling strongly of sunlight and a warmth that their current climate sorely lacks. Not that Halwn minds the cold overmuch---but they are not meant for him.

   ‘ Do you remember the morning at Haven, the first you ate with Varric and I at the tavern? They served you stone-meal and boiled potatoes under really dreadful hard-fried eggs. You started in immediately on the failings of Southron cuisine and, when Varric insisted that it couldn’t be so much better in Tevinter, you described to him the breakfasts you ate as a boy. Sweet yeasted breads dredged in citrus blossom honey, rose petal preserves mixed with chopped cashews and almonds and spread on slices of pear---coffee and sweet milk and coconut. You described bowls of oranges, peeled perfectly bare by use of magick, piled so high that you could not see across them. You carried on for nigh a half an hour, through the whole meal, and Varric vowed he’d never eat with you again, since the cooks would surely spit in your food, and the food of anyone fool enough to be seen sitting with you, after a tirade like that. ’

   All the time he speaks, Halwn has been peeling one of the little fruits in his surprisingly nimble hands. Nimble for their size, at least, and delicate with the orange---used to handling such tender things, and many more tender even than this. Seedlings and new-cut blossoms. A foal’s confused head, eyes barely open. Hurt hands, frightened faces. All of that is far from his mind, now.

   ‘ They all thought you were ridiculous---and you were, a little, ’ something sharp sinks into his left thigh, and Halwn is reasonably sure it’s a short nip of teeth. He chooses to ignore it for the moment. ‘ But I had never longed so acutely to taste something as I did the things that you described. I knew then that your excess wasn’t pretension or pride, as the rest suspected. It was passion, and love, for the place you’d come---pouring out of you like light. ’

   ‘ That was when I knew I’d have you, ’  it’s sly, and goading, and far more tease than truth. Halwn had known he was lost, then---whether or not anything would come of it, he hadn’t yet allowed himself to consider. His inclination towards the newly-arrived and universally mistrusted Evil Magister had begun in a world that technically did not exist. Returning to the reality of a relevant timeline had done nothing to shatter the stunning clarity of the feeling.  ‘Your inclination’  was how Josephine had nervously described it, too polite to call it what it plainly was:  an infatuation past a simple interest.  ‘ I was fairly certain that I’d been born for you, regardless of whatever claim it was supposed that Andraste had made upon me. ’

   The severity of the statement is blunted somewhat by humour, by their shared flirtatious lightness---but only somewhat and still, Halwn knows he can’t linger on it long, or the truth of it will sit like a rock between them. Not yet, perhaps. It’s true, and he isn’t ashamed to share it---but it’s not to be dwelt on when it might make his lover feel unsafe. That’s utterly opposed to Halwn’s purpose, now, which is nothing more than delight, and tenderness, and an easy smile.

   It’s not easy to forget that, now---now, with oranges piled in his lap, and Dorian’s chin resting on top of his thigh, lovely grey eyes inherently sharp and yet somehow softened, almost unfocused with affection as they watch him work. Bright with amusement, with pleasure. Halwn carries on peeling the oranges, and doesn’t indulge in too long a direct stare. If he does, he’ll have to kiss him, and then the trail of his thoughts will certainly be lost.

   ‘ I saw these in a market stand in Montclair six days ago, when we rode past on our return from the capital. They’re very rare in this part of the world, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. They will not grow well south of Tevinter. Not even so near to it as Ostwick. I thought you should have one, to please you---but then I thought you should have more, so many that you could not see over the pile of them, as you had when you were a boy. Josephine thought I’d gone mad---or else she suspects I’m paranoid over the fear of developing scurvy. ’

   By now, Halwn has divested three small fruits of their rinds. He begins to separate their segments out, tenth by tenth, and offers the first of a ridiculous many to Dorian. The Inquisitior isn’t surprised when his lover takes the section of fruit with his teeth rather than hand to hand---not surprised, but still obviously pleased. As if it were a reward for that blatant indulgence, Halwn sweeps his thumb, sweet with the perfume of the oranges’ juice, across the mage’s lower lip, and bends over low enough to kiss him. Dorian’s mouth is sweet with the oranges, too, sweet and sharp with citrus. It’s crushingly appropriate, blisteringly beautiful, and one kiss turns into a second, a lingering third. As it always seems to be when he is in good health, Dorian’s skin is warm to the touch, and the flare of the Anchor, as well as the little sing of nerve tension that accompanies it, indicates their shared thrill, something like the surge of hearts. Dorian’s pleasure, so attenuated to magickal manifestation, pulls---and the Anchor is a well.

   Where it’s rooted, Halwn cannot say---though, in moments such as this one, it feels as though it’s drawing out of the center of him, pulling from a bottomless place that had opened up only after the first time that Dorian had stepped insistently into his arms.

   ‘ I’m sure a mage could peel them more completely, though I challenge him to claim he gets half so much pleasure in doing it for you as I do---and, though I bought all the merchant had, it may not be enough to match the excess you were once accustomed to...  unless the bowl is very small. Will you forgive me? ’

   The rest is all laughter and equally teasing placation, kisses and hands and more. Eventually, the oranges tumble to the floor half forgotten---which is a shame, since they’d ended up as a donation once the merchant realized who she was selling them to. Wasting the fruit of the faithful is the least of the charges against him, certainly, but Halwn would take much worse for a moment or two more of this particular kind of peace:  the surreal, almost ghost-like sensation of home.

[spiffingtea]

Favorite DA:I place? ❤️

Every single time I play through, I NEVER fast travel in The Hissing Wastes. It’s the place that most people hate because of how big and empty it is, but I kind of love it for that? I love the perpetual twilight, the discoveries that leave more questions than answers, the surreal and slightly creepy quality to it... there’s something just very calming about it. It’s also the best place to bring along Dorian, Varric, and Iron Bull as a party in terms of banter and lore reveal. 

Aside from that, the Emerald Graves as a Dalish elf.... there’ll be more.