#arianwen tabris

[shivunin]

the fact that you start the Tabris origin by literally stepping into your mother's shoes. the fact that what you get is a wedding outfit and your mother's worn boots, kept carefully intact for years, tucked away for this exact moment. the fact that you then immediately take the path she never could, leaving behind the alienage and the wedding and following Duncan (who would have recruited Adaia first, if not for baby!Tabris) to what ought to have been death.

And Then!! instead of fighting and falling as she did, cheating death and becoming the fighter she always intended you to be instead??? Reliving and simultaneously subverting the story of her life??

[daggerbeanart]

oc doodles the sequel <3

aisling lavellan, june trevelyan

elanor cousland, arianwen tabris

mihri lavellan

aisling belongs to @greypetrel, june belongs to @layalu, elanor belongs to @ndostairlyrium, arianwen belongs to @shivunin and mihri belongs to @n7viper

[inquisimer]

Nepenthe

Wrapping up OC kiss week with more Tabris cousinverse, this time between Ariya and @shivunin's Arianwen. I hope it's okay that I borrowed Wen twice - when I sat down to draft these, I couldn't choose which idea I like better, so I wrote both💜 And I wanted young Wen to have a friend ;-;

read it on ao3 here

Female Tabris & Female Tabris | Rated G | 948 words | No CW

-

A great boom of thunder echoed out over Denerim. It shook the Tabris’ door in its ill-fitting frame, rattled the thin sheet of glass in their lone window, and pulled nails from boards that barely built a house. Ariya bolted straight up in bed.

Her first thoughts were of raids and purges. Fingers closing around the dagger under her pillow, she rolled into a crouch, eyes glinting, searching for the threat in the dark. Then she heard the rain—against the crumbling roof, dripping into the bucket they kept under the leak—and a streak of lightning cut across her face. She relaxed.

Her second thought was a realization that she was alone in the bed where three had gone to sleep. No need to panic, yet, she told herself. Stepping in her careful way to avoid the creaky boards that might wake her father, she checked the darkened corners and spaces underneath where a child might hide.

Nothing.

“Andraste’s ass,” Ariya muttered under her breath. Hiding her dagger safely at the small of her back, she shoved her feet into boots, wrapped herself in a cloak, and stepped out into the storm.

Rain fell in sheets, turning the roots of the Vhenadahl into a small lake and soaking right through Ariya’s stockings. It blew sideways in the wind, blinding her unless she shielded her face. Even then, water caught on her eyelashes and dripped from her chin, cold tendrils that jolted as they snuck beneath her collar .

The main path that wound through the alienage was nothing more than a mud slick now. She felt the squelch of her boots as she went, though the boom of thunder and the crack of the lightning that answered drowned out any other sounds. Sticking close to the buildings, she darted past Valendrian’s door, praying that the storm had not woken him. The only thing worse than the hahren catching her would be city guards doing the same—and none of them were going to come into the alienage on a night like tonight.

She circled the main square and skirted the edge of the meeting hall, right up to the old apartments. A generous name for such ramshackle lean-tos with no insulation and hardly a family’s worth of furniture between them. But that’s what they’d always been called. Ariya ducked inside and made a beeline for the back corner.

“Wen?” she called softly, wringing out her braid with numb fingers. “Wen, are you in here?”

Another peal of thunder shook the building—louder and closer than before. The cracks in the windows gave way and Ariya barely heard an alarmed squeak over glass clattering and the roar of the wind rushing in.

Hastily, she pulled the shutters closed and held them with a scrap of wood wedged into the latch. She kicked as much of the glass as she could see into in a pile, then knelt alongside an old wardrobe.

In some storm previous it had rotted through and collapsed, forming a small nook against the corner. Splinters would shred her hands if she tried to move it. Instead, she laid herself out prone and looked through the gap between it and the floor. Two wide eyes blinked back at her.

“Wen?”

“Ari?”

A sigh of relief pushed the tension from Ariya’s shoulders. “What are you doing out here, a stór?”

“Shia said we should climb up and see the lightning from the roof. That only pathetic babies would be scared.”

Shianni. Ariya frowned. Their cousin ought to know better—did know better, really, and just needed to think more. “Did she leave you here, Wen?”

Fabric rustled against wood as Arianwen shrugged. “She said she was going to get Soris, and she would be right back.”

Hm. Perhaps Soris convinced her to stay inside, or maybe the storm had worsened and she couldn’t make it back. Either way, she would have words with Shianni about dragging Wen into such nonsense. There were enough scamps giving the girl trouble without her cousins doing the same.

“I’m sure she meant to and got caught by the storm,” she said. “Would you like to go home and dry off?”

Hesitant silence met her request. “It’s…a lot of noise,” Wen finally said.

“What if you cover your ears?”

“Then people make fun of me. And I have to punch them, and then I get in trouble. It’s easier to stay in here.”

“There’s no one here but me.” Ariya couldn’t help a smile, even as she coaxed. “Do you think I’m going to make fun of you?”

A long pause. “…no. Probably.”

“Will you come out then? I’ll cover your ears with my hands if you want yours free for punching, just in case.”

“Really?” Wen poked her head out of the tiny gap and Ariya scooted back along the dirt floor to make room for her to squeeze through. At least they had stopped for cloaks before venturing out, she noted, not that either of their cloaks had done a very good job of keeping them dry.

Capturing Wen’s palms between her hands, Ariya blew hot air over both their fingers. A shiver wracked through Wen and little droplets of icy water sprayed off of her.

Unclasping her cloak, Ariya wrapped it around Wen’s narrow shoulders—it wasn’t dry, but it was the driest thing between them. She tugged the newly bundled girl into the circle of her arms and pressed a comforting kiss against her dampened crown.

Another peal of thunder shook the building and Wen tensed. But Ariya’s hands were already over her ears, stroking reassurance down the line of her jaw.

“Really,” she promised.

[scribbledquillz]

F5 for Wen and Rev c:

A23 for Imakai

If you would like two c:

Dragon Age Inspired Dialogue Prompts

Hello Mo! <33 Thank you for the prompts! I fully intend to do the one for Kai as well, but will post it separately when I'm able to write it. In the meantime please enjoy our two being adorable. : 3

A Moment in the Storm

The squall had swept in off the Waking Sea with all the subtlety of a cudgel, and wasted no time in battering the whole of Denerim with torrential rain and thunder the likes of which only the heat of late summer could provide. Miraculously the old warehouse's roof seemed to be doing a passable job in keeping out the worst of the weather. Yes, the far wall was half collapsed and its cover along with it, but aside from a gust here and there blowing in the odd spatter of damp, it had remained quite comfortable in this quiet corner of its loft.

The walk home they really aught to be taking soon, however -

"Shit."

Wen stirred beside Revka, the heavy scent of old burlap and cotton wafting about the both of them with the motion. Her nose wrinkled as she stared out at the sheets of rain racing over the harbor, mouth set in a bitter curl.

"Well, isn't that just wonderful. We'll both look like drowned rats by the time we make it home now. Drowned, guilty rats."

It was Revka's turn to frown out at the weather, though not for precisely the same grievances as Wen. The night might not have been young any longer, but it should have still been far from finished. She'd hoped they'd have at least another hour or two here before the rain picked up. It had been too long since they'd last been able to slip away to their hideaway, to share a quiet night of chatter over nothing without the weight of home life on either of their shoulders. Where it was just Arianwen and Revka.

Just how she liked it to be.

"Not if we wait 'til morning."

The suggestion was off of her tongue the moment it formed in her head. Wen's eyes flicked to her, looking as though she couldn't decide whether to be more surprised or bemused.

"You're having me on, aren't you," she said, humor winning out and flashing in the toothy grin she shot over a shoulder. "You want to stay out all night. Little miss responsibilities and obligations. What happened to that big day helping your Mam tomorrow you were just whining about?"

Revka's face felt warmer than she'd have preferred it too, though she didn't let that stop her from answering Wen's jab with a huff. "Forget I mentioned it, then."

"Oh come off it, Rev," Wen said, one of the pilfered grapes in the bowl between them plucked up and lobbed at Revka's head. "Don't go all sour on me now! You were just about to prove my Pa right - maybe I am a terrible influence on you."

"Absolute worst there is."

The same grape went flying back at Wen, who caught it easily with a laugh and tossed it into her mouth.

"So?" Revka asked after a moment's silence. She didn't like how much anticipation she could hear in her voice, stomach flopping awkwardly at the sound. "You staying with me or not?"

Wen slumped unceremoniously back to her place in their nest of piled sacks.

"Of course I am," she said as she settled her head into the crook of Revka's arm. An old, comfortable habit that poked at something warm and flitting in Revka's chest. "Just thought you would never ask, that's all. Besides-" Wen gestured out to the storm raging past the crumbling mortar and lumber. "I haven't gotten to watch a storm like this in ages. Can't miss our chance, can we?"

"Right." Revka drew in a long breath, only letting it go when the next peal of thunder roared loud enough to hide the tremble in it. "Wouldn't want to miss this."

[pinayelf]

commission for @shivunin of her Arianwen Tabris and Zevran ❤️

[shivunin]

Tagged by @dungeons-and-dragon-age, @nightwardenminthara, @greypetrel, and @pinayelf to do this watercolor picrew and sword picrew for my OCs c: Thank you for thinking of me!

In order: Arianwen, Elowen, Emmaera, Maria, and Salshira. Maria and Salshira don't actually have swords, but I felt bad about leaving them out lol. (And I imagine that the sword I gave Maria would be something she'd describe to Fenris while drunk--"And it would be like a dragon but also a flower and it would be on fire. Fenris. Are you listening?"). Elowen's is her spirit blade, Emma's is the Inquisitor sword, and uhhhh also Salshira gets one c:

Tagging back anyone who likes picrews and specifically @idolsgf @inquisimer @jtownnn @vakarians-babe @dreadfutures @star--nymph if this is something you're into!

[shivunin]

In Peace

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 1,846 Words | Fluff | AO3 Link | CW: brief references to sex, implied/past suicidal thoughts)

Summary: Zevran and Tabris have developed a nightly routine; it surprises him to realize how much he dislikes the idea of breaking it

When Zevran had first seen Arianwen, they’d been trying to kill each other. 

This was not especially odd, he found out later. Statistically speaking, Arianwen was thinking of killing most of the people she met, if she was not already actually attacking them. Zevran was no exception in this; it mattered little that he had been trying to die at the time, and she only obliging his death wish. She had spun through the crowd like dancing death, her face lit with a heady glee. In that moment, Zevran had thought that if he was to die here on some nameless road in Ferelden’s nethers, at least there would be beauty in his death.

Zevran would never have guessed then that she could sleep so sweetly draped across his chest—she had certainly never done so before this night. He certainly would not have guessed that she snored so loudly. It would not have occurred to him to wonder on that first day, Zevran supposed, given that he’d been fighting for his life.

Still—the snoring did come as a surprise. She was usually very quiet when she slept on her side—or perhaps it was simply that her face was closer to his ear now, and thus much louder than he was used to. 

His Warden slept with her hair braided, though in a looser plait than she usually wore during the day. Zevran passed a hand over it softly, hoping to wake her enough to make her shift aside. Instead, every muscle in her body that had been soft and liquid went taut at once, entirely alert between one heartbeat and the next. 

“Nothing is wrong,” he whispered at once. The alternative was a knife thrown through the wall of his tent, most likely, and he had so recently patched the last hole she’d made. 

Arianwen rolled away from him despite his quiet words. When she sat up, her dark silhouette was cut against the lighter blue of his tent, body alert and aware. It was plain that she was listening for some disturbance beyond their tent, so Zevran said nothing more. He propped himself up on his elbows instead, feeling the wash of cooler air against his loose tunic when the blanket fell away from him. 

The sky had not lightened outside, but the fire was banked; they were in the deepest part of the night, perhaps an hour or two from the start of her watch. It had become a routine of sorts for her to stay in his tent until then, though she usually returned to her own tent when she was finished. Zevran was not certain if this tradition of hers was some concession to propriety (unlikely) or the delicate sensibilities of some of their traveling fellows (even less likely) or if she simply had no interest in waking up beside him when dawn came. 

Knowing her as he did now, he supposed it was most likely some fourth reason that had nothing to do with any of the other things. Perhaps she lovingly polished each of her blades alone in her tent until daybreak. He would not put it past her. But, he realized as she moved to stand, this routine might be more easily broken than expected.

And…perhaps he had grown more attached to it than he might have thought.

“Wait,” he said, his voice abrupt in the quiet of the night. Arianwen paused on her knees. 

“What?” she whispered. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Zevran found her hand in the dark on the second try. It was braced on her knee, but she allowed him to pull it away and press it to his mouth instead. Could he tell her not to go? It didn’t seem right, but he could not immediately determine why. She had surprised him by staying when he’d made it clear he had no interest in lovemaking tonight. They had spent plenty of nights together and apart since they’d begun doing whatever it was they were doing. None of the nights together had not featured some sort of…well. 

It surprised him now to realize that it had been pleasant to feel her against him as he’d fallen asleep, even if he would have gladly gone without the noise. 

“I do seem to recall you sleeping, too,” he told her. “Quite comfortably, in fact.”

He could feel her expression in the silence that followed. It would be the one in which her brows furrowed and she looked at him sidelong, as if trying to weigh whether he was making a joke or not. 

“You woke me. Did you not…” she trailed off, taking her hand from his. Zevran peered into the darkness, making no sense of her expression and trying nonetheless. 

“I did not mean to,” he told her truthfully. 

She moved—he could not see how—and a moment later he felt her breath on his cheek. 

“What do you need?” she asked. 

Zevran turned his head, nose brushing against the curve of her cheek. Her face was the only part of her not obviously scarred, he had found. Her cheek was very soft against his skin, the fine hairs there tickling softly. When he leaned his cheek against hers, she didn’t waver an inch.

“There is nothing that I need,” he told her, emphasizing the last word, “but I would very much like for us to go back to sleep. Together.” 

Slowly, one of her hands came to rest on his knee. Her index finger tapped once, twice. This was a tell: she was thinking very hard. Zevran privately thought that he might be the only one in the world who would know when she was bluffing at cards, should she ever play them. Her face was impossible to read at first glance, but the rest of her body spilled her secrets easily enough. Months on the road had taught him this as they’d taught him everything else he knew about her. 

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Some decision was being made, some calculus of factors entirely beyond him. She had done this before she’d told him to keep his earring, too. The verdict had not been in his favor then. He wondered if he would fare so poorly now, too. 

Zevran thought of the weight of her body over his chest, of the way she’d looped leg and arm over him while they’d slept. He thought of the ragged sounds she made in her sleep when the nightmares came, of the way she wrapped herself around him when the foul dreams woke her in the night. 

He thought of how the leather and steel scent of her comforted him when his own dark dreams paced close and set shining teeth at his throat. The smell of leather reminds me of home, he’d told her months ago. It reminded Zevran of her now, too, until the three were all twined together as one. He did not want her to go—not yet. He had grown accustomed to sleeping beside her until the moment before she needed to leave. 

“Arianwen,” he said, and felt the falter in her tapping. “Mi vida. Come to bed.” 

Her sigh rustled his hair. 

“I should never have told you I like the way you say my name,” she told him, but he could hear that he’d swayed her already. Only a little more and they could go back to sleep. A few hours more—only a few, but they mattered. He wanted every single moment he could coax out of her. He wasn’t above fighting dirty for them. 

“Surely you do have no desire to lace up your boots and stumble through the dark of the whole clearing only to climb into your cold bedroll alone,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her cheek. “My dearest Arianwen. Surely not that.”

The blankets over him shifted when she slid beneath them again. The tip of her braid trailed over his arm. A victory—and it felt like one, for all that it had been a battle of words rather than blades. 

“If you are sure I won’t keep you up,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll stay. Until watch.”

Keep him up—was that what she’d been worried about? 

Zevran frowned as she settled in beside him again, less than an inch separating their bodies. He lowered himself back onto his bedroll and reached for her hip. 

“Come closer,” he told her. “It is cold.”

Tabris came, settling against him stiffly, then relaxing by degrees. Zevran kissed the top of her head and she relaxed further still. After a moment, she tugged the blankets more fully over both of them.

“You wanted me to stay just so you could be warm,” she murmured, though there was no heat to the words. Already, he could feel her slipping into sleep. She fell asleep easily enough, his Warden, though she woke at the slightest provocation. Zevran ignored the surge of affection at the thought, though it grew more difficult to disregard when she slipped an arm around his waist. 

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. She made a soft noise, rousing at the words. 

“Say’t again,” Arianwen said. 

“Say what?” he asked. 

Arianwen squeezed him slightly and tucked herself more fully against his shoulder. There was a scar beneath the place where her ear rested, a very thin line just below the joint of his shoulder. She’d stabbed him there all those months ago when they’d first met. One evening, when they’d been dozing in the afterglow, he had casually pointed the silvered line of scar tissue out to her. Tabris had scowled at him and gone all stiff—he still had no idea why—and she’d made a point of not holding him like this for weeks afterward. What a relief it had been when she’d forgotten again. 

By day, she was quick and dangerous and sharp. He liked that about her, he’d found. But he liked her like this, too, somnolent and warm against him in the night. This—her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist—this was his alone. 

There had been very, very few things in Zevran’s life that had belonged to him alone. He had gone without sleep, without affection, without comfort for so long that he knew better than to disregard such things when they were offered openly. No—such things were the sort one held onto with both hands, even if it took some extra coaxing in the dead of night. 

“You know what,” she told him. 

Zevran smiled to himself, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. 

“Goodnight, Arianwen,” he said. 

“”Night, Zevran,” she echoed, her voice slow. “Until watch.”

“Until watch,” he agreed, and paused. “Arianwen.”

She made a soft sound, neither sigh nor purr nor moan, and melted against him. Zevran lay awake for some time after, his eyes shut tight, his hands as still as he could make them. She did not snore, and he did not wake her. 

Tabris’s watch came and went. 

They both slept soundly through it.

(For Day 5 of Zevwarden Week: Bodies and Minds. Thanks again to @zevraholics for organizing!)

[shivunin]

An Afternoon's Meeting

(276 Words | No Warnings)

A series of items in the Warden-Commander’s pockets, hung on a coat rack inside the hall at Vigil’s Keep:

Two vials containing a red liquid. One similar vial that is empty. 

A small notebook containing no words, only a series of columns with check marks and blanks

A tuft of what appears to be brown fur

A piece of white chalk

Five knives of varying sizes, the smallest of which is flat for throwing. 

Two yellow flowers, slightly wilted

Finally, crumpled at the bottom, there is a very rough drawing of what appears to be a stick figure with springs emerging from its head. It is holding a staff with lines shooting from the top. A note beside the drawing in sharp handwriting says, You will know when you see the hair, and an arrow points to the figure’s head.

The page below reads:

Do not scare her. Your Warden says she is his sister and I have watched her fight with my own eyes. She will have you frozen before you can blink—yes, even you. 

She is two or so inches taller than I. Her hair is dark and curly—I have drawn you an apt picture. As long as you have enough time to show her the insignia, we should have no problems. She will have a hound with her, but I do not think you will have any trouble with that fellow. Mabari do seem to favor you.

Be careful, mi vida. She is not called the Champion for idle enjoyment—though of course I would not put coin against you in any fight.

I still think I should be the one doing this. I, at least, have met her before.

For the prompt "a note in your OC's pocket from @idolsgf c: Art by the fantastic and delightful @greypetrel 💗

[shivunin]

In Confidence

( Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,392 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Fantasy racism, past parent death, emotional hurt/comfort)

“Where are you taking me?” Zevran asked, keeping pace with his Warden as they scaled the side of a building in the alienage. It was not a difficult task, though the state of the scaffolding they were climbing did give him pause. 

“You’ll see,” she told him, grunting slightly when she caught the board over her head and pulled herself up. 

Only fifteen feet separated them from the top—or so he hoped. Meeting her family had been trial enough on its own. He had not anticipated this sort of exertion afterward or he would have eaten far less at her father’s table. 

“Almost there,” she added, and there was the faintest note of an apology tucked beneath her usual impassive tone. If he had not known her so well, Zevran might not have heard it at all. 

“I am in no particular hurry,” he told her, and she stopped climbing to cast him a skeptical look. 

“Well,” Zevran amended, glancing below. “I must admit this is not how I thought we would be spending our evening.” 

Below, the vhenadahl swayed in the evening air off the Drakon River. People stood in clusters, their voices ringing off the stone, and food peddlers had staked out rival ends of the courtyard. It surprised him even now to see the condition of the alienage; he supposed that it explained something of his Arianwen that she had grown up in such a place. And yet—these people had built something here, among the ruins. He could see the bright hair of Tabris’s cousin bob through the crowd, pausing near one cluster of people and speaking for a time. They opened to her reluctantly, but even from this distance Zevran could see some of them begin to nod. Perhaps they would yet rebuild their community, even after what the slavers had done to them. 

“Are you coming?” Arianwen called down, and he realized that she’d made her way to the top while he’d looked below. Zevran climbed instead of answering, and reached for her hand at the top when she offered it. 

“We used to play here,” she told him, bracing to pull him over the edge and onto a wooden platform. “Shianni and I. Before and after it burned. It was our secret place, just the two of us. Poor Soris was never one for heights. He’d wait until he heard us climb down and then we’d all wander together. When his parents still lived, he’d grown up in the building next door. I used to hear his mother singing while she made dinner, back when I used to wander the streets looking for strays.”

“Ah—I see,” Zevran said, glancing around. 

The two of them stood in the burned shell of a house three stories from the ground. He had thought that they’d reached a platform at the top of the scaffolding, but he saw now that he’d been wrong. They stood on all that was left of a wooden floor, the edges blackened and crumbled away. Arianwen stood to the empty doorway, patting the wall beside it fondly. There was little else to see here—only the remnants of a bed, piles of fabric in the corners of the room that might once have been blankets or clothing, holes in the floor where the structure below had given way. He did not struggle to imagine two young girls finding this place out of curiosity, for he had done much the same when he’d been a boy. 

“Ready?” she asked while he was still considering this. She vanished through the darkness of the doorway before he could answer, so Zevran had little choice but to follow her into the hallway beyond. 

“How did this place burn?” Zevran asked, ducking a fallen beam and testing the floor before he went on down the hall. 

“Humans,” Wen said, and her face was shadowed when she glanced back at him. “It burned the night Soris’s parents died.”

There was a heavy silence then. She stopped long enough for him to catch up and caught his hand in hers. This was still new—Arianwen reaching for him, for comfort. Zevran did not know quite what to make of it yet. 

“She tried to escape the building after they set it aflame. One of them kicked her back inside. The man who—oh, nevermind. You don’t need the details,” she took a sharp breath, her hand squeezing Zevran’s, and went on down the dark hall. “A few days later, my ma was gone all night long. They found his body washed up on the river, cut to ribbons and bloodless. I didn’t realize until far later what that meant.”

“She was a fighter, your mother?” Zevran asked, for it seemed the safer topic of conversation. Tabris dropped his hand to climb under more debris. 

“She taught me everything I know,” she sighed, “I tried to forget it after she died. My body remembered for me. I’m grateful to it. But—here. Look.” 

They’d found the end of the hallway at last. Arianwen pushed the door open and revealed—

A closet. 

Zevran looked at her, brows arched high in question. To his surprise, she laughed. That was new, too—hearing her laugh when they weren’t in the heat of battle. It was a tired laugh, but that mattered very little in the run of things. 

“Watch,” she said, and turned the coat hook on the back wall. The wall fell away at the pressure of her hand, swinging open into the room beyond. 

“However did you find this?” Zevran asked, stepping into the room behind her. This room was lit by the lone window on the far wall, through which moonlight poured. In the cool light, he could see her clearly enough to read her face. Wistful—yes. She seemed wistful. 

“You know—I don’t remember,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know which one of us opened the door, or even when it happened. I only remember it being our place, Shianni’s and mine. Here.”

She lit a candle and held it up to the wall. Messy colors snaked up the crumbling plaster, handprints followed by rough drawings and holes in a familiar shape. 

“Throwing knives?” he asked, making his way to her side. Arianwen nodded silently, her lips parting and pressing tightly together again. 

Zevran knew that look. She was fighting some battle with herself, weighing what she ought to say to him. They would both be better served if he gave her space. 

“May I…?” he asked, gesturing to the room at large. Tabris nodded again, stepping closer to the marks on the wall, and Zevran slipped away. 

The corners held stacks of books here and there, all adventures set in distant lands or histories of Ferelden. He found only two that he supposed must have belonged to his Warden: a book about animal physiology and one about the care and keeping of various household pets. Zevran smiled at the sight of them, leaving a streak in the dust covering each volume, and moved on. 

Most of the wooden walls bore the marks of her blades. Many of the marks had been thrown wide from their fingerpainted targets. He could follow the progress of her skill by those holes, could trace the time spent in this room by the neatness of the circles they fell within. 

When he had met the Wardens on the road all those months ago, he had met a blade of a woman. She was hard and quick and sharp, flashing through the crowd of Crows like light through a fast-running river. There had been nothing of fear or weakness in her. She had seemed—impervious, somehow. As if nothing in the world could touch her, as if she had sprung into existence precisely as he saw her in that moment. 

Zevran knew better now, of course. He had seen her at her most vulnerable in the mornings when she slept, had watched her uncertainty upon seeing her father again. Two days ago, she had wept over Zevran’s body when she’d thought him dead by Taliesen’s hand. Today, standing in the dusty remnants of her childhood, he knew her better than he might have thought possible even a month ago.

Even so—it was surprising and endearing, somehow, to know that she had not leapt from her mother with blades in hand. Once, many years ago, she had learned her craft just as he had. Maker’s teeth, but sometimes Zevran wished they had known each other then, before the softness had been carved from them both. Who had she been? Who might he have been, in that other life that neither of them would ever live? 

“Here—this is what I actually meant to show you,” Arianwen said. 

Zevran blinked and found her beside him, though he had not heard her approach. She slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together, and pulled him with her to another door. When she opened it to the night beyond, cool air brushed over his cheeks. They had only been in the room for ten or fifteen minutes, hardly long enough to notice how still the air was. Even so, it was a relief to step into a fresher breeze.

“You can sit,” she told him, but leaned forward against a flimsy railing. 

They’d stepped out onto a narrow balcony of sorts. A broken pulley hung from the wall to their left and an alleyway stretched into the darkness of the alienage beneath them. It was wide enough for two chairs and little else, though the gleam of glass bottles beneath them suggested what this space had been used for most recently. 

“This was—” she sighed, and one fist thudded lightly against the wood of the railing. “I was last here on the night before my…before the wedding.”

Arianwen leaned forward until her shoulders hunched.  Her hands were joined into one fist, knuckles pale against the brown of her skin. Zevran breathed sweet night air and watched her. It was still difficult—to wait, to allow her to unspool whatever she’d been fighting. It would be easier to make some joke. Already, one stood waiting on his tongue. But—no. 

No, he found he rather wanted to know what she’d brought him here to say.

“Shianni was too drunk to climb down. I was too scared to try on my own. We dozed off here and dragged ourselves back home at dawn. I remember thinking that it would be the last time I ever came up here. I knew…I knew I would never want to share this place with a stranger. How could I?” 

Zevran nudged one of the chairs aside, wincing when he heard the bottles beneath tipping against each other. He found a spot beside her at the rail and rested his arms against it. Arianwen did not look at him.

“The night my mother died, I was here. I came home late because I’d argued with my father and I knew he would worry if I was out for too long. I was…punishing him. By the time I came back, she was already gone.”

A breeze brushed small, loose hairs over her forehead. Tabris reached up and pushed them back, frowning slightly. Zevran edged closer and leaned his shoulder against hers. After a moment, she bent to lean her head against his shoulder. 

“I don’t blame myself. It wasn’t my fault. This isn’t about that. This is—ugh.”

Zevran wrapped an arm around her waist, thinking hard, but there was little he could say. He had come to trust her slowly, had given himself over one careful piece at a time before he’d realized that he was doing so. It did not often pain him to tell her the hard things now. For her part, Arianwen had opened her arms to him readily enough once she’d begun to care, but it had taken longer to offer pieces of her heart to him in turn. Even now, he could feel her cutting them free for his perusal. 

“There is nothing that you must tell me. Yes?” he said, resting his shoulder against hers. “It can wait. A different night, some other place.” 

“No,” she said sharply. “I want to say—I’m glad you’re here. You should be here. I love this place and I hate this place and I miss it all the time. It was my secret, but now it’s yours, too. And that’s all.” 

Her eyes flicked up and away again, focusing on the dark alley below. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Zev,” she repeated quietly. “That’s all.” 

What could he say to this? Wen could be harsh and difficult and wore the intensity of her feelings like armor. Even so—she had brought him to this, the most vulnerable of places, the tenderest of wounds. She had brought him here and no other. 

Zevran swallowed around the thickness in his throat and nudged her hip with his. She looked up at him, the moonlight snared in her eyes, and what could he say? 

“Do you suppose any of these bottles still have wine in them? Some wine, a fine whiskey, perhaps?” 

Arianwen snorted, shoulders loosening slightly. 

“None that I’d chance drinking,” she said, but tugged a slim, dented flask from her pocket. “Here—I’ll share. But only because you asked.”

“You have my most sincere thanks, dearest Warden,” Zevran told her, voice smooth and dripping with charm. She snorted again, tapping his chest with the flask, and he took it. It was warm, held tight against her side all this time. He treasured the feeling of it as he unscrewed the cap. 

When they walked back to Eamon’s estate later, all but alone on the street, he sought better words. It was easier when she wasn’t watching him. It was easier when they were away from the place that had hurt and raised her. 

“I am glad I am here, too, mi vida,” he told her, watching the ragged road ahead. “Thank you.” 

Her hand slipped into his, palm warm and rough. Zevran wondered if she knew that the words were meant for more than just tonight. He wondered if she understood how far back the sentiment could stretch, that he was grateful for more than a secret shared and glad for his continued existence in a broader sense than glad could encompass. 

“Thank you,” she echoed quietly, and held on tight.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 2: Secrets, Kept and Told. Thanks @zevraholics for organizing this!)

[shivunin]

for the oc codex prompts: a note/letter found in your OC's pocket, for Arianwen?

Ooooh absolutely chewing on this, thank you!!

(Codex Prompts)

For "a note/letter found in your OC's pocket" (377 Words | No warnings)

A handspan of paper, marked with stains and retrieved from a Warden’s pocket after the death of the Archdemon. Its corners are grey with handling, its creases deep, and it is dated only a month previous. The letter reads:

Wen, I know you’ll never listen to me say it aloud, so I’ve written this down in advance. I did what I had to do, and I guess you did, too. If I were to do it all over, I never would have pushed you like I did. For what it’s worth now, I didn’t know what would happen because of it. Maybe you would never have had to become what you are now. Maybe you would have been taken away to Tevinter like so many of the others. I guess we’ll never know, will we? I am proud of who you’ve become. You won’t believe that, I think, but I am proud of you. I wish I could tell you properly how I felt the first time I held you. Your ma wouldn’t let you go for the first day—couldn’t stand to set you down. Couldn’t bear to stop looking at you. She wanted you more than anything else in the world. When she fell asleep at last, I picked you up and took you to the window where the light was brightest. Your head didn’t even fill the palm of my hand, my Wen. I thought—you could do anything in the world, nothing decided for you yet. There’s so much I would change if I could, but I have always loved you. Whatever you think of me now, I want you to know that. Maybe you still can do anything in the world. If anybody can save us from what’s coming, I think it must be you. I saw the way you fought before. I’m proud of you. Maybe I said so already, but I mean it. I’ve already written more here than you’ll ever read, I know. You have been one of the greatest joys in my life. Maybe you’ll allow an old man this one foolishness. I will not tell you to be strong; you always have been, even without my encouragement. Be well, then, my dear, even if you cannot be safe. -Pa

[shivunin]

A Good Fight

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,440 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Mild sexual references/sexual tension)

Summary: Things that annoy Tabris: frivolous conversation and being the butt of a joke. Why, then, can she not get the insufferable Crow out of her mind?

“May I rest my head on your bosom?” the Crow asked somewhere behind Tabris. “I might cry.”

Tabris grimaced, casting a look at Alistair. He echoed her glance, nose wrinkled. It galled her to agree with him, but plainly they were in accord when it came to this.

“You can cry well away from my bosom, I’m certain,” the mage said severely. 

“Reconsidering keeping him around yet?” Alistair asked in a low voice, bending closer. 

Wen pressed her lips together, eyes narrowed, and glanced behind her at the other two. Zevran gazed at Wynne soulfully, one hand pressed to his chest. Wynne was grimacing, staff thumping into the dust of the road as they climbed the hill. 

“Did I tell you I was an orphan?” the former Crow went on, his voice sorrowful. “I never knew my mother.”

“Egad,” Wynne said, disgust as plain in her voice as it was in the lines of her body. “I give up.” 

She sped up, outstripping Zevran and both Wardens. Arianwen watched the mage go, shaking her head, and glanced behind her again. 

Zevran caught her eyes at once and winked. Wen stared back, lips still pressed into a tight line. 

“Maybe I am,” she told Alistair, and turned away again. 

Before them, the harried mage left small clouds of dust above the road. The late afternoon light diffused there, giving the road an odd sort of dreamlike quality. 

“Could still give killing him a shot,” Alistair muttered. 

“What was that? I could not hear you over the sound of all that armor,” Zevran said, abruptly behind them. Arianwen took a large step to the left and carried on. 

“Oh, nothing,” Alistair said. Wen could feel him looking at her, but she ignored the desperate glance. “We, ah…thought your conversation was interesting. That’s all.”

“Ah—so I suppose you also have an opinion about murder, then?” 

There was something under the words. Some sort of…double meaning, hidden undercurrent. Ugh. Wen hated plenty of things, but trying to understand what someone meant when it wasn’t what they actually said ranked highly on the list. 

“Let’s not,” she said. 

“Not what? I am afraid I do not understand you.”

If he started talking about her bosom, she’d just stab him, Wen decided. When she sped up, the assassin matched her. 

“Talk.”

“Pardon? I did not catch what you said.”

“I, ah—wouldn’t push your luck, there,” Alistair said, jogging for several steps until he drew even with the pair of them. “She’s got a short temper.”

“Yes, I had determined as much,” Zevran said. “And how lovely she looks when she is thinking of death.”

Wen stepped directly into his path and stopped moving, forcing the assassin to stop in his tracks or dodge to the side. He chose the former, still smiling broadly, though he stopped only an inch or two away. Arianwen met his eyes squarely, thinking. 

She didn’t think she wanted to kill him. The man was decent enough at what he did. Fighting him had been the best part of fighting any of the Crows. Actually, he’d been her favorite person to fight since they’d left Ostagar. There was something fluid about the way he moved that—well. Fascinated her, actually. She liked watching him. 

No—no, she didn’t want to kill him. What would be the point now? It certainly wasn’t as if she cared that Wynne, of all people, was annoyed. Actually, she should be thanking him. For once, the mage hadn’t been hovering over her shoulder and asking questions. 

“I don’t think so,” she said, to the dust in the air as much as she was speaking to either man, and turned to continue up the hill without any additional elaboration. 

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Zevran said behind her. 

“We aren’t friends, assassin,” Alistair said stiffly, but added in a quieter voice: “Best to avoid prodding at her when she’s already tired.”

“Mmm,” Zevran allowed. Wen gritted her teeth, irritated again, but he went on a moment later. “I shall take your advice very seriously, Warden.” 

Wen glanced behind her one more time, expecting the same cocky grin or perhaps another wink. Instead, she found a flash of something she didn’t expect: 

Exhaustion. Hiding in the corner of his eyes, in the subtle roll of his shoulders.

Ah. That was harder to ignore. 

Wen closed her eyes, willing herself to keep walking. It would be easy. It would be better. He was so annoying; maybe he’d stop talking if he was too tired to manage. 

As soon as she reached the top of the hill, she swung her pack from her shoulder and sat back against a fence. 

Not for him. Obviously not. 

But—maybe it was time for a break. That was all. Redcliffe was almost in sight and they’d probably be busy as soon as they got there. Best they sit and rest now before they no longer had the choice. 

She certainly, pointedly did not breathe easier when the Crow sat to her left with an audible sigh of relief. 

|

“Are you quite certain you are ready for this?” the assassin asked. 

Wen, who’d deposited the last of her armor to the side of the clearing, nodded curtly. She’d have to be a fool to think he had nothing to teach her. Whenever possible, she did try not to be a fool.

“I need to know all I can. Show me, if you want to.”

The outskirts of the Brecilian rose around them, trees already towering higher than she’d ever seen them before. This place was odd and old, breaking the monotony of carefully planted fields and abandoned villages. She didn’t feel like herself here. It was as if she’d slipped off her skin and found it ill-fitting upon its return. Or—perhaps something hung watching in the air here. Something that saw her, that waited and knew. 

She couldn’t say she liked it. 

“If I want to?” Zevran flipped the knife in his hand once, neatly. “And here you have been asking so politely, Warden. How could I say no?”

“You’ve just said it,” Wen replied, taking a slow, smooth step to the side. “Obviously you know how.” 

“Tch,” he began to circle with her—taking her measure, she thought. Some of the glossy humor fell away, baring the steel beneath. “So literal.”

Wen huffed, refusing to be dragged into a conversation. She’d get distracted by talking and then he’d strike. She knew exactly how this worked. 

“First and foremost,” he said, “I have seen you fight. You are very skilled, yes? But you are not careful.”

Wen felt her eyebrows climb. Zevran feinted, she sidestepped, and they resumed pacing each other. 

“Are you suggesting I get thicker armor?” she asked. 

He laughed, a deeper thing than his usual chuckle. Wen narrowed her eyes. 

“You have been spending too much time with Alistair. No—I am suggesting you learn to be quieter,” he said, and moved—it was like his body had become liquid for a moment, flowing so close that she was forced onto her back foot. A blow in the right spot and she was stumbling back, struggling to halt her momentum enough to guard herself. 

To her surprise, he did not press his advantage. He took a step back instead, watching her with an odd look on his face. Wen scowled and rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles that had gone taut. 

“I’m plenty quiet.”

“Not quiet enough to be an assassin—and that is what you asked me to teach you, yes?”

Wen pursed her lips. She had asked him. She’d wanted to know how he moved the way he did, but she certainly couldn’t ask him for that. It had been plenty easy to imagine what he’d say in response. 

“Fight me, then,” she said, and dropped her knife. It sank into the soft earth point-down, which meant she’d have to be very thorough when she cleaned and oiled it later. At the moment, she didn’t really care. 

Zevran cocked an eyebrow at her, but stepped back to set his knife aside. 

“Are you quite certain? Surely you would like some sort of explanation first.”

“No,” she told him. “I’m too literal for that.”

Zevran tipped his head back and laughed. 

As soon as his eyes were closed, she struck. It ought to have been a glancing blow, only a soft slap to his shoulder to get his attention. The strike never landed. Instead, he flowed away from her and spun, planting a hand on her back and pushing. Wen was ready for it this time. Her weight shifted hard to her back foot, but she did not waver.  

“Good,” he said from behind her, but when she reached back to grasp his arm Zevran was already gone. 

Arianwen spun slowly, listening. He must have gone up; there was nothing closer than the branches to hide behind. Her heart thudded in her ears, distracting her. Where was he? That rustle in the bushes had the rhythm of a squirrel, the scratching at the bark to her right was certainly a bird, and the crunch in the leaves behind her—

Zevran dropped from above and locked her into his arms before she had a chance to strike back. 

“As I was saying,” he told her. “Not very careful.”

Arianwen tried to kick him to little avail. Zevran laughed into her ear, his mouth briefly brushing against the point of it. An odd tingling sensation spread from that point to her cheeks, burning as it went. What was this? Some sort of poison?

Arianwen planted her feet, gripped his arms where they wrapped around her, and flipped Zevran over her head. His eyes were wide when she straddled his chest, a knife already pressed against the hollow of his throat. She could feel his pulse against her knuckles, could feel his breath whenever his ribs expanded between her thighs, and—what was this? 

“What did you just do?” she snarled. Zevran’s brows lifted. 

“I caught you,” he said. 

“Not that. You—” 

She pressed her lips together all at once, her face hot, and climbed off of him. If there had been some way for Arianwen to scratch the sensation from her skin with bared nails, she would have done it immediately. It lived somewhere deeper than her skin, entirely beyond the reach of fingertips or knives. 

Had he ever touched her skin to skin before? She could not think. 

“Well? Teach me,” she demanded, taking several steps away from him. The distance, such as it was, did not help.

Zevran rose more slowly, dusting himself off. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. It was—speculative. Like he was weighing her against something in his mind. 

“Or was that it?” she asked. 

“No, no—I was merely thinking how best to show you what I mean,” he said. There was some hidden meaning to his words. She could feel it. 

Wen frowned at him, eyes narrowing. What was he actually saying? 

“Let us begin again,” he said, spreading his arms. Wen took a deep breath, wishing away the odd burning at the back of her neck and the tips of her ears. 

“Let’s,” she gritted out, her heart beating curiously fast, and raised her fists.

|

“Are you awake yet?” Zevran murmured. 

“No,” Wen told him, hand skimming over his loose, night-rumpled hair. Zevran grunted and pressed his face more firmly against her bare chest. 

“It should not surprise me when you make jokes,” he said. His lips pressed against the skin over her heart. “And yet…”

“Oh, ha ha,” Wen said, rolling her eyes. “If you’re going to be a pest, you can get off.”

“Oh?” he angled his head until he could look at her, morning light glinting across one golden eye. “Can I?” 

“Andraste’s tits,” she muttered, squirming without any real effort to dislodge him. 

“Yours are finer by far, I assure you,” he informed her solemnly, pressing a kiss to the nearest of them. 

Arianwen rolled her eyes, but threaded her hand through his hair again. Some of the tangles smoothed under her touch, but not enough. He’d still need to comb it when he rose for the day. 

She tried very, very hard to pretend that she couldn’t hear the army moving outside their tent. 

“Zevran,” she began, her voice soft, and he lifted his head to look at her. 

What could she tell him? That there were even odds she would die today? That she was grateful? What more could she possibly tell him now? 

“It will be a very good fight, yes?” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Your favorite thing.”

Tabris pressed her mouth closed, searching his face for meaning. She found none. There was only the warmth of his eyes, the comfort of his body pressed to hers. The clamor of steel rose beyond their flimsy canvas walls. Time was almost up. It would be a good fight, yes. If there was anything she loved, it was a good fight. 

Arianwen loved Zevran more.

She’d planned to leave him behind, where the fighting was less heavy, but she already knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it. How could she fight through the city, never knowing if he’d been struck by a stray arrow or felled by an ogre? She could not protect him and seek the archdemon both. At least if they were together—at least they would both know. At least neither of them would have to wonder.

Until the end, then, and perhaps whatever came next. At least she knew she wouldn’t be alone. 

“Yes,” she said, passing her fingers through his hair one last time. Her hand fell to a stop at his cheek, thumb tracing the bottom point of his tattoo. 

“You will remember what I taught you, yes?” 

He lifted himself onto an elbow and leaned forward to kiss her. It had been meant as a glancing thing, she thought. It ran deeper than that in the end, desperate hands on shoulders and teeth and tongues and heat. She didn’t want to lose him. She raged at the world, for giving them to each other right on the doorstep of ruin. 

“Always,” Wen told Zevran, and clutched him to her when he would have risen to go. He endured this for several moments longer, his breathing uneven, before he pressed a kiss to her cheek and moved away. 

When she pushed the blankets aside to stand, his was the hand that pulled her to her feet.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 6: Favorite Things and Pet Peeves. Thanks again @zevraholics!)

[shivunin]

OC in Three

Rules: Post three pictures or images you feel relate to a character. They can be face claims, famous artworks, photos, or anything you think fits the Vibe™.

Thanks for the tags @idolsgf @ndostairlyrium and @greypetrel! This gives me an excuse to dust off the ol Pinterest account yet again c:

Tagging @inquisimer @bitchesofostwick @vakarians-babe @star--nymph @dreadfutures @nightwardenminthara @layalu @daggerbean @pinayelf @jtownnn and @zenstrike (and hey, if you want to do this too, consider this a tag!)

Gonna do all of them, because why not!

Arianwen Tabris

Maria Hawke

Emmaera Lavellan

Elowen Lavellan

Salshira Lavellan

Tavitha Hallowthorne

[shivunin]

Three-Song Playlists

Rules: Compile three-song playlists for as many OCs as you can/would like to

Thank you for the tag @greypetrel! Like you, I am linking the full playlist in case anyone would like to listen to them c: The songs are in no particular order.

Tagging @star--nymph @zenstrike @daggerbean @ndostairlyrium @dungeons-and-dragon-age @inquisimer @idolsgf @dreadfutures @bitchesofostwick @vakarians-babe @jtownnn @nightwardenminthara @brother-genitivi and anyone who loves music (Please recommend music to me!! I love hearing new songs!!)

Arianwen Tabris (🗡️)

I Spit On Your Grave by ZAND (Spit your blood into my cup and then I'll gulp you down)

Trigger Finger by Coyote Kid (Bloodstains on a kitchen knife/ it wasn't made for this, but I know how to improvise)

Praying Mantis by Jazz Alonso (If I show my teeth, I must be hungry/ in you go, baby)

Maria Hawke (✨)

Nobody Wants to Be Alone by Christian Reindl, Atrel (When you strain your eyes to see the light, I won't be far behind/ Cause it's better in the dark when you're a friend of mine)

Champion by Fall Out Boy (I'm just young enough to still believe, but young enough not to know what to believe in)

Gracias a la Vida by Mercedes Sosa (Me ha dado la risa y me ha dado el llanto/ Así yo distingo dicha de quebranto/ Los dos materiales que forman mi canto)

Emmaera Lavellan (✉️)

Every Other Love Song by MALINDA (So good at explaining/ at finding the right words/ but when I look at you, I fail)

No Choir by Florence + the Machine (If tomorrow it's all over/ at least we had it for a moment/ Oh, darling, things seem so unstable/ but for a moment we were able to be still)

Comfort by Deb Talan (If you can't remember a better time/ you can have mine)

Elowen Lavellan (🌱)

Overture III/Awake by Sleeping at Last (Today, I'll survive/ tomorrow, make sense of my life)

Soap by The Oh Hellos (I don't know I've seen a thing grow/ without an open coat/ not without a softness showing)

Queen of Nothing by The Crane Wives (Isn't this what you wanted? Time sure feels like it's running out/ Just finish what you started/ Queen of nothing, wearing such a heavy crown)

Salshira Lavellan (🍂)

punchline by KiNG MALA (I'm having a great time/being the punchline to my own joke)

Dutch by Dessa (Love is like liquor/ it burns when it moves you/ Far as I figure/ there's nobody fireproof)

Mean It by K.Flay (So when I say I love you, I want to mean it/ Cause I say a lot of things that I don't mean)

Tavitha (Tav) (🌤️)

Can't Cheat Death by The Ballroom Thieves (There are two things I know for sure: I will be free, I will be free, I will be free/ and you can't cheat death)

Greener by Anju, Uliya (You reached inside and took the parts you wanted out/ maybe you forgot/ you can take what I have, but I grow something better back)

Dancing Plague of 1518 by mollyofgeography(Make room to hold a want that's weighted/shapeshift to sate it/ 'til my head knows my heart betrayed it)

Jesse Shepard (☄️)

Machine Heart by Icarus (You've been looking for some kind of savior/ you created me and turned me into you/ to make me last a lifetime)

Glitter & Gold by Barns Courtney (Do you walk in the shadow of men who sold their lives to a dream? Do you ponder the manner of things in the dark?)

Rusty Cage by Johnny Cash (You wired me awake and hit me with a hand of broken nails...but I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run)

[shivunin]

In Good Time {1/3}

Thank you as always to the lovely @scribbledquillz for letting me borrow her Warden Revka for @ockissweek. She and Wen are such utter disasters together that I couldn't help but go a bit overboard. (I have broken this into three smaller parts to post while I get comfortable with the editing on the other pieces for this week.)

(Part 2 | Part 3)

(Female Warden/Female Warden | 2,101 Words | No warnings)

"For a chance to make your little much, To gain a lover and lose a friend, Venture the tree and a myriad such, When nothing you mar but the year can mend: But a last leaf---fear to touch!" --Robert Browning, "By the Fire-Side"

Somewhere in the alienage, a bell rang. 

It was not the bell of a clocktower, nor the bell of some stalwart city watch. The alienage was afforded neither luxury. It might have been someone’s musical instrument, or perhaps the little bell over the general store in the central courtyard. From this distance, echoing through the fall fog and the alleyways in between, it was difficult to tell much about it. 

Arianwen, who’d already been lying awake, held her breath until she was sure nobody had roused from their sleep at the sound. Around her, her cousins and father went on sleeping, snores rising above the faint ringing. 

Good. Now must be the time.

She slipped from her bed, careful to avoid putting too much weight on the floorboard that creaked the loudest. She slipped her feet into her worn shoes, took her threadbare cloak from the hook beside the door, and slipped soundlessly into the mists of night. 

Somewhere behind her, the bell chimed. Wen found her feet matching its cadence without intending to as she dodged the puddles waiting in the center of the road. It was never a long walk to her dearest friend’s house, but it seemed longer in the mist with the lonely ringing behind her. She passed the burnt-out wreck of a house, a lean-to with a lamp burning inside, and one of the little nests she’d assembled for the stray cats in the neighborhood. She paused there a moment, fishing a cloth from her pocket and shaking her dinner scraps out before the little den. The street seemed less lonely when the tabby crept from within and butted her head against Wen’s fingers. 

“Shh,” Wen told her, trailing her fingertips over the cat’s back. The cat made a soft noise, twining around Arianwen’s ankles before taking her spoils and darting back into her little den. 

Wen waited a moment, listening, and heard the soft sounds of satisfaction from within. There’d been a night much like this, years ago now, when the fog had clung to the banks of the Drakon and she’d slipped through alleyways with her best friend in hand. This very cat had been a newborn kitten then, her little eyes unopened. Wen had fed her mother all through the pregnancy, had watched the kittens be born herself, and she’d been so punch-drunk with happiness that it had seemed the most obvious possible thing to track down Revka and show her, too. 

The tabby was, incidentally, also named Revka. Only her favorite people ever got to share their names with the animals she cared for. 

Wen deposited other scraps as she went, leaving trimmings of fat on this wall or along that gutter. She could hear the stray dogs and cats making their way from the shadows, and the occasional skitter in the refuse of the street that told her the rats had found it, too. Fine enough. Her other creatures could hunt the rats if they were quick enough—and if they were not, she made this trip every night. She would leave more for them later. 

The fire was still lit inside Revka’s house. Wen sighed in relief (she always felt bad climbing through the window, even if nobody here minded) and rapped her knuckles against the door. 

“C’min,” a drowsy voice murmured beyond. Wen turned the knob and slipped through the open door into the golden-lit room beyond. 

Rev was slumped over the table, her mending strewn over the surface before her. There were creases on her cheek that suggested she’d recently fallen asleep on the uppermost piece, and she blinked owlishly at Wen when she shut the door behind her. 

“You should be asleep,” Wen whispered. She slid the latch home and paused to Revka’s left. Rev fought a yawn, pressing her hand to her mouth, and fussed with the things on the table for a moment. 

“Would be, if you’d been earlier,” Revka said, but there was no accusation in her voice. Wen shrugged and offered a hand, which Revka took readily to stand. There were calluses and welts across her fingers, a sign that she’d been long at her mending and the sewing needle had taken its toll. Her fingers were stiff, too, and Wen ran her thumbs over the swell at the base of Rev’s thumb until her joints loosened slightly. 

“Shianni couldn’t sleep.”

“Course not,” Rev said absently, her eyes on their hands. Wen dropped the first and took the second, pressing into the palm until Revka sighed and her shoulders relaxed. 

“Come on,” Wen said, slipping out of her shoes and shrugging her coat loose. “You never lie down unless I make you.”

“’S not true,” Revka yawned, but obligingly unbuttoned her stiff vest and set it aside. 

The two of them fit neatly on Revka’s bed as long as they were both lying on their sides. This was fortunate, because they’d been sleeping precisely like that for a very long time—before Revka had lost her parents, even. Wen slept with her back to the wall because she was never at ease with her back to an open room. Revka, for her part, slept huddled against Wen’s chest. The blanket wasn’t really enough to warm both of them otherwise, as they’d found out many winters ago. Rev had patched it with scraps from the tailor’s shop she worked for, so it was far thicker than it had once been. Even so, they had their routines—both liked their routines very much, in fact, and this was one of the most important. 

“Your day?” Wen asked when they were both amply covered by the blanket. 

“Fine,” Rev said, but the corner of her mouth turned down. 

“Hmm,” Wen said. 

“Was awful.”

“Thought so.”

“Bastards all day,” Rev said, tucking her face into the crook of Arianwen’s neck. “Didn’t get a thing finished.”

“Mm,” Wen said, smoothing a hand over her friend’s hair. Revka sighed, and it was a weary thing. 

“Couldn’t leave at the end,” Revka went on, her breath heating Wen’s throat, “were people against the door—nevermind.”

“What?” Wen asked, pulling back slightly. Revka wrinkled her nose. There were dark circles under her eyes. No matter how early she crept through the streets to Rev’s door, the circles never seemed to get any lighter. 

“Kissing,” Rev said, and her voice was odd around the word. Hesitant—no. Something else. Something strange. “Had to leave through the back.”

“Oh,” Wen frowned. “I don’t know why people do that.”

“Block the door?”

“Kiss.”

“You…?” 

Even in the shadows, Wen could see the faint flush against her friend’s cheeks. She shrugged, then pulled the blanket back over her exposed shoulder. 

“You know I haven’t. I would have told you,” she paused, considering, and went on: “It doesn’t look as interesting as people make it seem.”

“You’re not—” Revka swallowed audibly and shifted on the bed against Wen. Their knees knocked against each other. “Not curious?”

Arianwen considered this seriously. She was curious about very little, actually, and kissing was one of those odd marks of growing up that had seemed irrelevant to her. That sort of landmark only seemed to apply to other people, just like having lots of friends and feeling comfortable in conversations. Rev was more knowledgeable about this sort of thing. She always seemed to know more about which of these questionable necessities Wen actually ought to care about. 

“Should I be?” she asked. 

Revka squirmed under the blanket. Her cold feet brushed against Wen’s calf. 

“Dunno,” Revka said, but she was dodging Wen’s eyes. Arianwen frowned. 

“Who would kiss me?” she asked, because this was clearly some important thing she’d been missing. All the years she’d been alive and it hadn’t come up until now; perhaps this was some threshold she’d been meant to cross before tonight. How odd that nobody’d told her so. 

Revka made a strangled noise. 

“What?”

Rev didn’t answer. 

“Rev. What?”

“I’d,” Rev cleared her throat. “I’d do it.”

“Oh,” Wen said, sinking further into the blankets. “Why?”

“Well. If you’re curious.”

Was she curious? She couldn’t tell. But Revka was the sort of person who always knew what to do, and even when she didn’t she usually had an idea of what ought to happen. If she thought Arianwen needed to be kissed, it was probably for a very good reason. She’d never steered Wen wrong before. 

“Alright,” Wen said. She propped herself up on her elbow, thick braid slipping from the pillow to rest against her arm. 

“I—really?”

“Why not?” 

Revka’s eyes were dark and warm in the firelight. Wen watched them, looking for some second meaning. This seemed like one of those conversations that was happening twice, and she only understood one half of it. A pity; Rev was usually one of the few who told her precisely what she meant. 

“’f you’re sure,” Rev said, licking her bottom lip and shifting on the thin mattress. 

Wen shrugged and leaned forward, pressing her mouth to Revka’s. The air had cooled her lips, especially the lower one, but they warmed against Arianwen’s. Rev made a small sound—surprised—and moved her lips in turn. It was slow at first, then slightly faster. She could feel the ridge of Revka’s teeth beneath her skin, and the small but noticeable scar where her lip had once been split defending Wen in an alleyway. 

Her lungs ached. Wen leaned back, taking a sharp breath, and lay back against the pillow again.

When she felt steadier, Arianwen blinked at Revka. Revka pressed her hands over her cheeks, then rested one palm over her eyes. Wen eyed her hands for a moment, resolving to steal some hand cream from somewhere. The colder it got, the harder the weather was on poor Rev’s hands. Someone ought to do something about it. 

“Well?” Rev asked after several silent moments. 

A bell chimed somewhere in the alienage, the rhythm uneven and halting. 

“Guess it’s nice,” Wen said. “Don’t understand why people are always doing it, though.”

Rev squeaked and rolled over, burrowing under the covers. It was awfully chilly in here, Wen supposed. She found Revka’s hip under the blanket and pulled her closer, looping an arm over her stomach. 

“Thank you,” she added belatedly, and Revka made another indistinct noise. 

The bell went on ringing somewhere in the distance. Wen pulled the blanket up and over her pointed ear, wishing that everyone else in the world would just go away. Hesitantly, pausing halfway through, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Revka’s hair. She didn’t know why. Seemed like the thing to do, maybe. 

“Go to sleep, Rev,” she said, already comfortable enough to feel the pull of slumber. She never slept better than she did tucked into Revka’s cramped bed. She might even go so far as to say that this was her favorite place to be in all the world—the fire flickering past the kitchen table, Revka’s brother breathing softly in the other room, and Rev herself held tightly in Wen’s arms. 

Maybe she’d try to find something else for Revka, Wen thought, yawning slightly and nestling into Rev’s shoulder. A thicker blanket, maybe. Rev was shivering against her, so she must still be cold, and true winter would come very soon. 

Yes, she decided. A thicker blanket would be just the thing. 

Long after Wen fell asleep at last, Revka lay awake. The pillow was damp under her cheek and her hand was pressed hard against her traitorous mouth. It wasn’t even worth wondering what she could possibly have been thinking. She hadn’t been thinking. Obviously. 

What a fool she was—let me show you what a kiss feels like—an utter fool. How close she’d come to giving it all away. If she ever did—if she ever let on how crucial Wen’s company was to her—she would surely lose this closeness forever. Ruin it, and for what? Because she couldn’t help but wonder what Wen’s touch would feel like against something other than her palms? 

Because kissing her had felt like liquid fire running under her skin? Because she had, for a moment, thought that Wen might feel the same? 

Ridiculous—stupid, to think that the hope of something beyond their friendship could ever be worth more than what she already had. 

When they woke in the morning, when Arianwen asked why she looked so tired, Revka told her only that some fool with a bell had kept her awake all night. 

What else could she possibly say? The truth was beyond consideration. She would just—hold it inside forever, and Wen would never, ever have to know.

[shivunin]

Aaaaah for the OC codex prompt… 👀✨

3 for Maria 6 for Arianwen 13 for Emmaera 15 for Elowen 16 for Salshira

(of course, feel free to choose/skip some!)

Ooooh okay, I am going to do them each in separate posts for organizational reasons, but thank you for the prompts friend!!

(Codex Prompts)

6. Something written by your OC in response to an honor they've been awarded

The Morning Post

(299 Words | No Warnings)

A series of letters on the Warden-Commander’s desk, each neatly stacked in the tray for the messenger to take in the morning: 

Dear Lady Hartley,  No, thank you.  —Warden-Commander Tabris

Lord Horleth:  If you are going to build an orphanage, you should name it after someone who will pay you for the honor of having their name on the building. The messenger will provide you a contribution from the Wardens, which serves to do the opposite.  Regards,  —Warden-Commander Tabris

First Enchanter Irving, 

I can honestly say I am glad to hear you’re well. We don’t get much news about the Circle on this end of the Calenhad. I hear it’s being rebuilt, though I can’t honestly say if I’m glad or not to hear it. Better to raze the thing to the ground, I think.  To the matter of your letter: Yes, I suppose I will allow it, but only because it was Dagna’s idea. I hope she fares well, too. At the very least, it sounds like she’s among people who appreciate her. If she thinks it is a good idea to fund this scholarship, I suppose I agree. Let the messenger know where to leave the funds.  —Warden-Commander Arianwen Tabris

Alistair,  No. Absolutely not. If you commission a commemorative snow globe of the defeat of the Archdemon, I assure you that you will not like the bits of it I leave in your quarters to find later. It sounds funny now. It will not sound funny when you’re picking shards of glass out of your toes, you utter fool of a man.  You’d better be doing well. If not, tell me who is to blame for it. I’ve been too long idle in this keep and need some time to stretch my legs.  —Wen Oh—your humble servant, etc etc. Take care of yourself, you buffoon

[shivunin]

15 Lines

This was originally a tag game, but I had so much fun doing it for Emma that I decided to do everyone else too haha. If you would also like to post 15 lines of dialogue from a character, consider this a tag to do so! Just tag me back so I can see them too c:

I've listed the fics I pulled from at the end in case anybody is curious.

For Arianwen Tabris:

“Tabris. Not that it matters. Come on, Crow. We’ve miles to go yet.”

“I will keep my hands and knives to myself if you will.”

“Well. That was…nice. I’m going to check the perimeter.”

“I need to know all I can. Show me, if you want to.”

"Yes, yes. You’re a friend. Of course I remembered.”

“If I want to get myself vaguely damp and uncomfortable, I’ll go sit by the hound and let him lick my face.”

“No—don’t tell me another story. Thank you; you didn’t have to do this, and you did. That means something.”

“I wish I’d known how little time I would have with my mother. Or—or with anyone. Maybe I would have appreciated it better while I had the chance. Maybe it’s a gift, to know how little time we really have. Not many people get that.”

“She taught me everything I know. I tried to forget it after she died. My body remembered for me. I’m grateful to it.”

“You’re always joking. Always talking! Well, talk to someone else. I don’t have anything to say and I don’t have time for your jokes.” 

“You’re right. I don’t think I hate you at all.”

“I am not going to ask you to steal for me. If I want someone’s jewels, I will take them myself. You can stay behind and cover my tracks.”

“Are you leaving or not? Wouldn’t want you to be late for your ship.”

“I was going to let him have you. Or, if he allowed it, I was going to take my time. Fortunately for you, you’ve made me very, very angry. This’ll be quick.”

“I’d do worse to keep you safe.”

From (mind the tags): Ferelden Silver | Saccharine | In Confidence | With the Tide | A Good Fight | Back to Back | Only a Kiss | And Eat It, Too | Rest Now | Whatever May Come | Lock and Key | Shut-Eye |