#bethroot cadash

[thievinghippo]

Seven Inquisitors for potentially seven different Rooks

Bethroot Cadash, Rogue Artificer, romanced Blackwall

Fredgar Cadash, Rogue Tempest, romanced Cassandra

Raelin Lavellan, Rift Mage, romanced Solas

Alba Trevelyan, Knight Enchanter Mage, romanced Cullen

Eldrien Trevelyan, Rogue Assassin, romanced Dorian

Iske Cadash, Rogue Assassin, romanced Harding

Pearth Adaar, Warrior Reaver, romanced Sera

[cherieofthedragons]

Giveaway sketch for @thievinghippo of her Bethroot Cadash and Blackwall. Bethroot is absolutely gorgeous, and drawing her really made me want to play DA:I again with a dwarf Quizzy.

Hippo, I hope you like it.

[wolverineproportions]

Chapters: 11/11 Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Cadash Characters: Blackwall, Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Female Cadash, Thom Rainier Series: Part 6 of Bethroot Cadash Summary:

In the grand scheme of the Inquisition, what is one man's life truly worth? And what might the Inquisitor be willing to give up to save her lover? The machinations, ploys, and subterfuge behind the freedom of Captain Thom Rainier.

I am behind the times. I was waiting for my own dwarven play through to romance Blackwall (inspired by @thievinghippo) (and my very first Warden), but then things happened (read: I got a next-gen console that wouldn’t allow me to import my Inquisition game so I could play Trespasser). Along the way, my Trevelyan threw herself at Blackwall and really messed up my plan to play everything the same way as before (sorry, Cullen).

ANYWAY, I was waiting to read about Bethroot and Blackwall until I had played through (because ROMANTIC SPOILERS). And now I’m here. Mostly. (I still haven’t played Trespasser, but *shrug*)

Thank Jeebus I was home while reading most of this because the way Hippo writes Bethroot and Blackwall makes my heart hurt and sometimes I had to lie down and hug my phone.

So. I have a game to finish and a DLC to DL, but tomorrow I’ll be reading Masks. YOU SHOULD, TOO.

[thievinghippo]

Daffodil for Bethroot and Blackwall

Rainier hoped their last day at Skyhold would have been sunny.

Instead the clouds overhead seem almost oppressive and the wind, cruel. They’ve had to tie down their trunks to ensure that none will fall off the wagon as they head down the mountains. He’s not looking forward to sitting out in the elements as they leave the area.

Only a handful of people are left in Skyhold. The mages have all relocated to Redcliffe, the majority of forces released from service or returned to their original patrons. Even all of the servants are gone, Bethroot taking the time to write out letter after letter of recommendation, to help them all find new positions.

Rainier wonders who will claim the fortress for their own after the Inquisition formally relinquishes it’s hold. Surely someone will try to set themselves up as lord of the Frostback Mountains. Or perhaps Ferelden or Orlais will try to sneak in and expand their territory before the other country notices.

Whatever Skyhold’s future brings, Rainier won’t be a part of it any longer.

Seems strange to think that. Skyhold’s been his home for almost four years now, the longest stretch he’s had in his adult life. His time in the Orlesian army was spent chasing after the next promotion and never settling down. Back then he was content to sleep in the barracks, close to the men and women under his command, hoarding his gold as best he could, never having enough.

“We just need the Inquisitor and we’ll be on our way,” Josephine says quietly. Next to her stands her husband, Adorno, his fingers curled into the fabric at her waist. Rainier didn’t quite understand why Lady Montilyet was willing to enter an arranged marriage, but it seems to have worked out for the two of them. And anyway, who is he to judge someone else’s choice.

“I suppose that means I should find her,” Rainier says.

He already knows exactly where she is; he saw her sneak into the barn not too long ago. The stables have been empty for weeks. Rainier can admit he misses the horses and especially misses the steady companionship of Horse Master Dennet.

His wife - and he will never tire of calling her that - has been quiet these past few days. Whenever Bethroot is quiet, there’s always a small part of him that worries. He’s grown so used to her talking about everything and anything under the sun, that when she chooses to keep her thoughts to herself, something feels off.

This quiet, though, he understands. She’s disbanded everything she’s built over the past four years. Not to mention the threat of bloody Solas lurking behind every piece of news they receive across the southern continent.

He can see her silhouette as he enters the barn. Bethroot is sitting on the stairs leading up to the loft. Before he even enters her line of sight, she asks, “It’s time?”

“Yes.”

When he stands before her, he’s not sure of what to expect. Will she be sad? Resigned? For what it’s worth, Rainier’s looking forward to a bit of an adventure. Bethroot gave away most of the Inquisition’s funds away to those leaving its service, leaving hardly any for herself. They won’t have much coin, and for someone once so controlled by gold, it’s absolutely liberating.

To his relief, she’s smiling. Not broadly, but enough that Rainier believes it’s real.

Bethroot glances up towards the loft. “How many times do you think we had sex up there over the years?”

Rainier holds out his hand. “I don’t think I can count that high, Bethy.”

She laughs, just like he hopes, and places her hand in hers. “We’ll have to find new places, won’t we?” she asks.

“I can show you a few of my old favorites in Markham,” he says.

Markham. Hard to believe he’s going back there by choice. But he and Bethroot want to tour the Free Marches a bit, see what sort of good they can do, before taking Varric up on his offer of a home in Kirkwall.

He must admit, he’s looking forward to introducing Bethroot to his cousins and the few aunts and uncles that are still in town. Perhaps they’ll have time to explore a few of his old haunts.

“I just… It’s hard to believe this day is finally here,” Bethroot says, squeezing his hand.

“Better days ahead, I think,” Rainier says, truly meaning the words. There’s a sense of freedom with the Inquisition disbanded. He and Bethroot can go wherever they want, do whatever they want. Solas, that bastard, still remains a threat, but they can still have a life of their own. Start a family of their own.

Bethroot nods and stops just as they leave the barn doors. She looks back and Rainier does, too. His woodworking table’s still there, though his tools are packed safely away. His chair in front of the fire. Four years, this had been home.

“Better days ahead,” she repeats, her voice full of promise.

She takes a breath and starts walking towards the wagon. Rainier matches her step by step and neither one of them look back.

[thievinghippo]

Spider Flower for Bethroot and Blackwall! :D

Josephine’s mother’s name is courtesy of servantofclio. Thank you Clio! And this got long, so it’s partially under a cut!

#

Maybe it was a mistake to host Josephine’s wedding to Lord Otranto at Skyhold. It made sense in Orlais. Have one last hurrah before starting the arduous task of disbanding the Inquisition. 

But when Josephine warned her just how exacting her mother will be, Bethroot simply shrugged it off and thought she could easily deal with it. She just stopped a qunari invasion and lost half her arm less than a month ago. 

How hard could planning one wedding be? 

That would be before she met Lady Eugenie Montilyet.

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor, where are you?” 

Bethroot might be a one-handed rogue these days, but she’s still a rogue. Keeping to the shadows, underneath the scaffolding to help with the decorations Lady Eugenie insisted on, she slips into Solas’s old room. 

She doesn’t have the heart to paint over his work, not even knowing that he means to kill everyone in Thedas. The simplicity is beautiful. 

But she can’t linger, not when Lady Eugenie is on the warpath. Bethroot wonders what’s wrong this time. Maybe they didn’t order enough appetizers or the color of the napkins are wrong. 

Whatever the complaint is, Bethroot doesn’t want to hear it, so she sneaks onto the ramparts. A moment later, she barges into Cullen’s thankfully empty office, and head down to the courtyard. 

There’s only one place where she knows she’ll be safe, thanks to Lady Eugenie’s fear of horses. Pretending she doesn’t have a care in the world - and she doesn’t, now that she’s escaped - and walks into the stables. 

Thom is sitting in a chair next to the fire pit, whittling a small toy of some sort. At her entrance, he stands. “And here I thought you’d be in meetings most of the day,” he says, putting his woodwork down on the bench. 

While they’re on ground level, there’s still always the chance of discovery. So Bethroot puts a finger to her lips and walks up the stairs into the loft. 

“I take it things went well,” Thom says as he follows her up the stairs. 

She walks to one of their spots, the one where he can sit against the wall and she can lean against him, both of them looking over the courtyard. An excellent place to watch in case Lady Eugenie is determined to find her. 

A moment later, her head is tucked under Thom’s chin as his arms are wrapped around her waist and all feels right with the world. 

There’s no healing or fighting in the courtyard right now, just dancers. Apparently the Montilyets always make a show of traditional Antivan dances during weddings, and this one will be no exception. 

“I’m just tired,” she says, gesturing towards the dancers. “Who knew a wedding could take this much work?” 

“Is this the type of wedding you’d want?” Thom asks, tightening the grip on her waist. 

Bethroot stills. They’ve never really discussed the idea of marriage. Trying for a child, yes, but getting married? It’s never come up. 

Maybe it should. 

“You’ve seen me at diplomatic functions. I’m not good at being on display,” Bethroot says. 

“I guess I’m more wondering if you want a wedding at all,” Thom says, and there’s a hesitation in his voice she hasn’t heard in years. “Not something we’ve really talked about, I know.” 

Bethroot turns in less than a heartbeat so that she’s on her knees, face to face with the man she loves. “Thom Rainier, did you just ask me to marry you?” 

Thom pushes a bit of hair out of her face - she had to cut it after the Exalted Council - and nods. “I suppose I just did.” 

Without thinking, Bethroot leans forward and kisses him hard, ignoring what an awkward position they’re in. Instead she focuses on his tongue gliding against hers and how he’s digging his fingers into her ass. 

When they break apart, Bethroot simply looks at Thom. There’s a touch of awe in his face, one that she’s sure is mirrored in her own. 

“Is that a yes?” he asks. 

Bethroot can only nod and kiss him again. She will never tire of kissing him. Ever.

“We’re going to get married,” Thom says softly, with a slight chuckle, deep from his chest. 

“We’re going to get married,” Bethroot repeats. What wonderful words. “But I don’t want a wedding.” 

Now that the idea is in her head, she wants to figure out some details. “Something very, very small, and maybe we keep things to ourselves a bit. I don’t want to steal Josephine’s spotlight.” 

Thom tilts his head. “How quickly do you want to get married?” he asks, sounding amused. 

One thing Bethroot is good at is planning. One of the reasons why she made an excellent negotiator back in her Carta days. She also doesn’t like to wait when she’s made a decision. Another excellent trait.

“Let’s find Sera, Varric, and Mother Giselle,” Bethroot says. “We can be married in an hour.” 

Sera’s here for the upcoming fun at Josephine’s wedding, though under strict instructions to leave the nobles alone. Varric and Bethroot have so many business investments at this point, they might as well be family. 

“I fucking love you,” Thom says, bringing her back into his arms for a kiss. 

Bethroot happily kissed him back. “I love you, too,” she says, standing up. She holds out her hand. “Now let’s go get married.” 

[thievinghippo]

This just in. I still really, really, really, really love Bethroot. That is all.

[thievinghippo]

1, 11, and 19 for Bethroot!

What was the first element of your OC that you remember considering (name, appearance, backstory, etc.)?

I knew she was gonna be a dwarf, no questions asked. I also knew I wanted her to have light brown hair and blue eyes, because I wanted something different than Anelle’s and Wynneth’s coloring. I knew that her mother was one of the most important relationships in her life. Narrah died two years before the Inquisition and Bethroot still misses her every day. 

Did you know what the OC’s sexuality would be at the time of their creation?

I did not! I had to wait until all the romance options were announced before I had a better idea. Once I knew she would romance Blackwall and based on a little bit of the Cadash canon, I assumed she was straight. But then by the end of the game, I realized that if Blackwall wasn’t in the picture, she would have hooked up with Harding, and then I realized she wasn’t. 

What is your favorite fact about your OC?

She had sex with the male Aeducan from the noble dwarf origin in DA:O, back before the Blight. She was in Orzammar on a business trip and ended up wining and dining him. So she’s had sex in the Diamond Quarter, in the palace. She heard from the grapevine that he had been killed and always felt a little bad about that. 

[thievinghippo]

10,12,14, and 19 for Bethroot, please :)

If they have an LI, how much of their character is tailored to be compatible to that person?

Not as much as some of my other OCs. Since I played Inquisition new, unlike other games that had been out for a while, I didn’t know how the different romances would play out. I knew that my main Inquisitor would be a dwarf. That wasn’t in doubt for a moment.So I had time to figure out who she was before we even knew who the romances were. I was just lucky that Bethroot and Blackwall ended up working together so well!

What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC (any form of art: writing, drawing, edits, etc.)?

Writing wise, it’s actually not been that difficult. The game left us plenty of spots where I knew I wanted to fill in the gap. Honestly, at this point, the hard part has been choosing what to work on for her. I have about five different chaptered fics I’d love to write some day!

If you had to narrow it down to 2 things that you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be?

That she likes to talk. She’s someone who made a living talking (being a negotiator for the Carta) and when she’s not talking, in her mind, she’s probably losing something (like money, esteem, etc.) 

Then I need to remember that she is a dwarf in a human centric world. The dinnerware at Skyhold should be too big for her. She needs to jump into chairs. People walk faster than her. I forget that sometimes, and make things too easy for her.

[thievinghippo]

Prompt Fic!

A million and one years ago, @frandayam​ prompted me to write ‘Yahoo Me’ for Blackwall and Bethroot. I started it right around when Trespasser was released and finally finished it!

So please enjoy some Blackroot facesitting. (This is rated E.)

Read on Ao3!

#

“I always did like the start of Cloudreach,” Bethroot says as she leans back against Blackwall. They sit on her sofa, facing the open balcony doors, watching a spring storm rage over the mountains. She smiles as his arm tightens around her waist. Pity they didn’t have more time like this, where they could just sit back and watch the rain. Right now, Bethroot feels strangely content, and the sensation doesn’t quite fit like it did once. But they have two days before they leave for the Western Approach to meet Hawke, and most of the preparations are already complete. Which leaves them with some free time for once.

“I do as well, but for different reasons,” Blackwall says. “It’s my birthday today, I don’t think I ever told you that.”

“Your nameday-” Bethroot straightens up and sits on the edge of the sofa, not sure what to think. She asked him once, about his nameday, but he told her it didn’t matter. Perhaps she should feel pleased he trusts her enough to finally tell her something. But pleased is truly the last thing she feels, when instead she’s reminded just how wide the gulf between them is sometimes, with all of his secrets.

His hands grip her waist and Bethroot makes no protest as he pulls her back into his arms. “You’re angry,” he mutters against her hair.

“Just a little annoyed,” Bethroot says truthfully. “You couldn’t have given me a couple of days notice? I would have liked to have gotten you a present.

“But I don’t need anything,” Blackwall says. “And if you were to ask me how I’d like to spend the day, what we’re doing right now is exactly what I’d want.”

“Well, I would have at least worn nicer small clothes, at least,” Bethroot says with a laugh, realizing her annoyance has disappeared. It’s his day, after all. Who is she to tell him how to celebrate? “I’m only wearing plain linen ones right now.”

He lets out a chuckle, dark and deep. After these past few months, she recognizes the sound and knows dirty thoughts are running through his mind. A moment later, Bethroot bites her lip as his hand slides inside the front of her trousers, dirty thoughts now running through her mind. “Nothing plain about you in small clothes,” Blackwall says, his voice low. “But perhaps I’d like to decide for myself. Let’s see them, then.”

She supposes she should make him work for it a bit, that is the way the game usually goes, after all. But Bethroot’s finding it hard to concentrate with the way he’s tracing circles with the pads of his fingers into the hair between her legs. And besides, she can think of worse ways to spend his nameday than acquiescing to his requests.

The moment she starts to undo her bodice, Blackwall’s untying the laces of her trousers. “And to think, only minutes ago, we were watching the rain,” Bethroot says, throwing her bodice to the floor.

“See one storm, you’ve seen them all,” Blackwall says as he glances out the balcony doors before Bethroot feels his full attention on her body. She stands, meeting his gaze with her own as he takes off his gloves. “You’re still wearing a great deal of clothes, Bethy.”

A laugh escapes before she can stop herself. She had thought to try to be seductive, but she simply didn’t think she could pull it off this evening. The combination of Blackwall offering information about himself instead of her having to ask, combined with the knowledge they didn’t have to leave her room until morning causes happiness to bubble up inside her. So she kicks off her boots with a smile.

Her joy must be contagious, because before she can takes off her tunic, Blackwall sits up straight and pulls her into his arms, kissing her deeply. The kiss is slow and thorough as he wraps his arms around her, his grip firm on her waist. As they kiss, she starts working at the toggles of his gambeson, wanting him in smalls just as quickly as he wants her

His lips move to her neck, sucking just hard enough Bethroot knows he’s going to leave a mark. But before he can leave a full trail, she steps back, and immediately wants to be in his arms again. To think she worried once he would be too human for her. Arms and legs too long, chest too broad, to fit comfortably with a dwarf. Funny how other humans still look that way to her. But not Blackwall.

She lifts her tunic over her head and throws it to the floor. Her breast band is simple, natural colored linen, as opposed to some of the nicer pieces, ones with embroidery or brocade, that have found their way into her wardrobe since her relationship with Blackwall started. She’s still not sure who to thank for them, Josephine or Leliana, and part of her doesn’t really want to know. And then after she shimmies out of her trousers, Bethroot stands in front of Blackwall, hands behind her back.

He’s leaning against the back of the couch now, and Bethroot swears she can feel the hunger in his eyes as they roam her body. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he says quietly.

The pressure builds between her legs as Blackwall undoes his belt, his eyes not leaving hers. Once he shrugs out of his gambeson, leaving him only in an undershirt and trousers, Bethroot climbs up and straddles his lap. His hands are warm against her skin as they start to kiss. She rolls her hips, trying to get a sense of him, and feels his cock straining against his trousers.

A sudden crack of lightning followed by a barrage of thunder ends their kiss. The air is cool now, too cool to keep the balcony doors open if they didn’t want all the candles to be snuffed out. Bethroot jumps off his lap and walks to the first set of doors, putting a deliberate sway in her hips. With the first set of doors closed, she walks to the other side of the room, not looking back. As she closes another set of doors, she looks out towards the mountains, the rain drowning out the normal sounds she’s come to associate with Skyhold: the cries of troops training and the general bustle of life.

When she turns, Bethroot is more than pleased to see Blackwall’s clothing, including his smalls, at his feet. Her eyes drift to his cock as she licks her lips, knowing this is one area where she thoroughly enjoys just how human he is. Her pace picks up as he grips his cock, stroking just once. She swats his hand away as she stands between his legs, kissing him hard, her hands roaming his back, feeling muscles, scars, and hair.

He breaks away, cupping her face with his hands. “Your small clothes don’t match,” he tells her seriously.

Bethroot tilts back her head and laughs before swatting Blackwall on the shoulder. What he says is true. Her smalls are much darker than her breast band. “I never said they did. Just that they were plain.” Reaching behind her, she unhooks her breast band. “Just for that, I’m taking them off.”

He’s laughing now, too, and apparently wants to help, pulling down her smalls. His eyes light up once she’s naked. “I’ve an idea,” he says, standing up. “A birthday present you can give me.”

Bethroot follows him to the bed, curious. “I’ll suck your cock whenever you want, you know that,” she says.

His hands grip her hips as he lifts her slightly off of the ground, just enough so she can sit on the edge of the bed. “Another time for that,” Blackwall says. His hand goes between her legs and Bethroot moans softly as he traces around her clit. “I’ve a different idea in mind.”

Snaking her hands around his shoulders, Bethroot brings his head down for a kiss. She’s happy to try anything he wants, especially when he’s in a good mood like this. Sex is the most honest thing they share, with all the secrets he keeps about his past and the Wardens. It’s the only time she truly feels there’s no line between them.

He lay down on the bed, propping himself up with his forearms, a wicked grin across his face. “What am I getting myself into?” Bethroot asks, swinging a leg over his hips so she can straddle him.

“Have you ever sat on a man’s face before?” Blackwall asks, sounding almost eager to hear her answer.

Giving herself a moment to respond, Bethroot slides her nails down his chest, pleased when he closes his eyes with a shiver. The truth is she’s never done anything like that before. Dwarves don’t use their mouths nearly as much a humans when it comes to sex. So she shakes her head, nerves threatening to overtake her arousal. “Is that even possible?” she asks, hearing a timidness in her voice. “How would you breath?”

“Let me worry about that,” he says, running the palms of his hands up her thighs. 

Bethroot bites her lower lip, making a decision. “Sod it, let’s try,” she says, climbing off of his hips. She crawls up to the top of the bed and gets on her knees, trying to figure out exactly what to do. “If you can’t breath at some point-”

“Bethy, I’m strong enough to make you move if I need to breathe,” Blackwall says, and she doesn’t doubt him for one moment.

She places her hand on his chest, running her fingers through his chest hair. It’s lighter than the hair on the top of his head, no doubt because of the few silver strands she spies. “So what am I to do?” she asks.

“Face the headboard and straddle my face,” Blackwall says, putting a hand on top of hers. “You’ll be in complete control. Do what you want.”

Bethroot swings her leg so that her knees are on either side of her face. “I thought this was supposed to be a gift for you,” she says, making sure to keep her balance.

“You’ve no idea,” Blackwall says, running his hands up the side of her thighs to rest on her ass. “There’s nothing better than this.”

Throwing caution to the wind, she lowers herself down until she can feel his beard tickling her inner thighs. Lowering herself just a little further, she feels his nose. Then lowering even more, she feels his tongue.

She stills, her hands on her thighs as he starts to lick her cunt. He’s gone down on her a few times now, but with Bethroot always on her back. Sitting upright feels different, more powerful, almost. She wonders if that’s what he likes so much about this. Well, time to find out.

Bethroot grips the headboard for balance as she starts to move her hips back and forth. Not a lotl, but enough to get his tongue exactly where she wants it. His tongue is amazing, the way it seems to never stop moving.

She loses track of time for a bit. For the moment, her universe is reduced to her bed. There’s no thought of Corypheus or the Inquisition. Of the million things she needs to get done sooner rather than later. All Bethroot cares about this what’s happening in this bed. And just how fucking good Blackwall is making her feel.

Then she lowers her hips a bit.

For the briefest of moments, she worried she’s putting too much pressure on his face. But Blackwall holds down her hips and she remembers his previous words. He’ll move her if he needs to. So she forces any doubt out of her head and just revels in sensations. The way his beard is scratching up against her thighs and her cunt. The way he’s digging his nails into her hips. The way he’s sucking her clit like it’s water and he’s in the desert.

It’s almost too much, and she can feel her orgasm starting to bloom, deep within her core. She shifts back slightly, grinding her cunt against his chin for a few seconds, making sure he has time to breathe. Then she shifts again, wanting only his tongue.

Her hand reaches down on his forehead to steady herself slightly - she’s about to come, oh fuck is she about to come - and she accidentally pulls a fistful of Blackwall’s hair. She’s about to apologize, but she can hear his moan even when she’s covering his mouth completely.

His moan seems to coarse through her cunt and it’s enough. Bethroot leans back and holds her breath as pleasure runs through her veins. Blackwall doesn’t stop, he’s still sucking and licking her, and after a moment, it’s almost too much, but she doesn’t want it to stop.

And then it does. Her orgasm ends and oh, that was one she’ll want to remember. But Blackwall’s still working so she raises her hips and strokes back his hair. “That was…” She can’t think of a word that’s not cheesy or cliche. “Happy Nameday,” she says with a laugh.

She swings her leg over him and settles next to him, laying on her side. Blackwalll’s still catching his breath as he turns to face her. Bethroot smiles as she gets a good look at him. His beard, usually so neat and tidy, is an absolute mess and she can see her wetness coating most of it.

There’s only one thing to do in this situation. Bethroot leans forward and kisses him, tasting herself on his tongue. “You’re a mess,” she says between kisses.

“Best way to be,” he says, pulling her flush against him. She can feel his still hard cock pressing against her belly. Well, considering how good he just made her feel, she wants to return the favor.

With a contented sigh, she breaks off the kiss and still on her knees, crawls towards the footboard. Then settling on her knees and forearms, ass pointed directly at Blackwall. Less than a second later, he gets the hint and sits up, cock in hand.

“Fuck, you’re nice and ready for me, aren’t you,” Blackwall says. She can feel his hands lining up his cock. There’s no resistance at all as he thrusts into her easily. Bethroot closes her eyes; the fullness of his cock is amazing. “So fucking wet.”

She tries to picture what he sees. Her ass in the air as his cock slides in and out of her cunt. She thinks it must be a beautiful sight and for a moment, she wonders if they could bring up a mirror, so they could both watch themselves fuck. But she pushes the thought away as Blackwall digs his fingers into her hips and he starts to thrust. He sets a demanding pace and Bethroot grabs the covers with her hands, trying to keep her leverage.

“This is going to be quick, Bethy,” Blackwall says and there’s an apology in his voice.

Bethroot clenches around his cock in response. Why should he feel the need to apologize? She’s nothing but pleased he’s so worked up. All because of her.

She likes that. She likes that a lot.

Behind her, he’s swearing under his breath, mixed throughout with moans. Those sounds, plus the sound of their bodies slapping together is just about the most beautiful music she’s heard. He thrusts in harder than the others then starts to grind against her. The hair around his cock tickles her cunt and she pushes back against him, wanting every last inch. She’ll most likely be sore in the morning, but for his nameday? An ache between her legs when she wakes up tomorrow is a small price to pay.

“Fuck,” he groans as he stills against her.

The room is suddenly very quiet without the sound from their fucking. With the windows closed, all she can hear is the sound of the fire cackling and their breathing. It’s quiet and peaceful, the way her life hasn’t been for quite some time.

Bethroot moves her hips forward, his cock easily slips out of her cunt. Without looking back, she stretches out, resting her head in her crossed arms. Blackwall quickly follows suit, laying down next to her on his side, his nails lightly scratching her back.

“Do you want me to finish you off?” Blackwall asks, his voice low. “Never feels right to just take my pleasure like that.”

She reaches over and puts her hand on top of his. His hands are so large compared to her own yet she’s seen how gentle they can be. “One orgasm is plenty tonight. It’s your nameday.” Now that they’ve fucked, she’s tired. But then again, she’s always tired these days.

“If you had any idea how much I love watching you come…” His voice trails off as he presses a kiss to her temple.

His beard is still a bit of a mess from earlier. Bethroot reaches up and tries to smooth out his mustache. No matter what she does, it won’t lay flat. “How in the world do you get your mustache looking so nice?”

“Wax,” Blackwall says at once. “I only grow it out like this when I know I’ll have wax available. Otherwise, I cut it short.”

She wonders what that would look like, Blackwall with a close cropped beard or maybe no beard at all. It’s not an easy image to picture in her head at all. He’s far more preferable with a beard. Running the pad of her thumb over his lower lip, she says, “It’s probably too early to go to bed, isn’t it?”

He chuckles. “Considering the sun just went down? I think so.”

There’s a sudden flash of lightning followed by a thunder. The bed faces one of the windows and she can see the rain hitting the glass. It’s a lovely sight.

Blackwall sits up and moves to the headboard. Bethroot curls in on herself to keep looking at him without actually having to sit up. Once he’s leaning against the headboard, legs spread, he pats the space in front of him.

Being next to Blackwall is far more preferable than being not next to him, Bethroot decides. Very inelegantly, she moves to the top of the bed and settles between his legs. Blackwall’s arms go around her immediately.

And together, they sit back and watch the rain.

[thievinghippo]

New Fic: Measurements

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Blackwall/Bethroot Cadash

Rating: Teen

Notes: Holy crap I finished another one-shot. I started this before Trespasser came out and couldn’t figure out an ending. Go me for finally getting it done!

(Read on Ao3)

#

Apparently Lady Montilyet decided he’s put things off long enough.

A messenger shows up in the middle of a training session with strict orders not to leave his side until the deed is done. Some of the soldiers laugh good-naturedly while others look wistful. Blackwall knows he’s fortunate, knows most of these soldiers would do anything for the chance to be part of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. Yet he’s dragging his feet on this simple task.

He ends the training session early. The messenger looks bloody pleased with themselves, as if it was because of them he’s not putting up any sort of argument. But all Blackwall can do is follow them in silence as they walk through the courtyard and up into the Keep.

“The tailor is waiting in the ambassador’s office,” the messenger says as they pass gossiping nobles and those good folk just wanting to help the Inquisition. Blackwall sees Bethroot go into the Undercroft, holding her bow. Even she spoke to him about this bloody assignment, saying he couldn’t put it off forever. “She promises this won’t take long.”

Blackwall acknowledges the words with a grunt and pushes the door open. Lady Montilyet’s not there, but bloody Dorian and Lady Vivienne of all people are, just lounging about.

The tailor is a fussy looking man, with wisps of hair poorly attempting to cover his head. He wears a tape measurer over his shoulders and clasps his hands behind his back. “One of the last stragglers!” he says, his Orlesian accent grating Blackwall’s nerves immediately. But anything involving Orlais will do that these days. “It will be good to get these uniforms done.”

Blackwall removes his gambeson, leaving him in a tight fitting undershirt and steps up on the wide stool in the middle of the office. Without being prompted, he raises his arms out to the side so the tailor can measure his chest.

Dorian and Lady Vivienne share a look then, and Blackwall understands at once why they’re here, wanting to make fun of the common man who’s never had his measurements taken. He shakes his head, thinking of how many times he’s done this in his life. With each promotion in the Orlesian army came a new dress uniform. And every six months, Blackwall had a suit custom made, one he could wear to parties and dinners while he made his futile attempt of playing The Game. When he wanted, he looked just as elegant and put together as any Orlesian man back then.

He lets his mind wander as the tailor starts taking his measurements. His life back in Orlais seems fuzzy sometimes, like a night when he’s had too much to drink. Twenty years of his life and he has trouble remembering the simplest details, like the wine he liked best or the name of the brand of cigars from the Anderfels he indulged in. Perhaps he can’t remember because so much of it was spent behind a mask. Ask him about his life now, especially his time with Bethroot, and he’ll remember everything.

And now he’s willingly walking into that pit of vipers again. Bethroot asked if he wanted to go, offering to take Cassandra instead if he preferred. But as long as she wants him by her side, he’ll be there, end of story. It's not like he's the same man. The chances of anyone recognizing Thom Rainier is remote. After all, he accompanied the Herald to Val Royeaux twice now without issue. He’s certain this will be more of the same. Thom Rainier had no beard, and wore his hair short. Who would look for Rainier when speaking to Warden Blackwall?

Blackwall spreads his feet apart as the tailor finishes measuring his back, ready for the next step. Vivienne and Dorian are quiet now, and he knows, he just fucking knows what they’re waiting for. Well, if they think he’s going to have any reaction to having his inseam measured, they’ll be sorely disappointed.

“On which side do you dress, ser?” the tailor asks quietly.

“Left,” Blackwall says with a grunt.

The tailor places his hand on the inside of Blackwall’s right thigh and brings the tape measurer down. Blackwall doesn’t move, not one bloody inch, as the tailor works. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dorian and Vivienne look at each other again. Those two are experts at looks; it amazes him sometimes that Vivienne is, after wearing a mask in Orlais for so long. Now they seem a bit put out, like he's ruined their fun. Poor things, as Vivienne would say.

"All done," the tailor announces, standing up. "We'll have the outfit ready for a fitting in a week."

Blackwall nods his head in thanks and steps off the stool. He sees sketches on Lady Montilyet desks and walks over.

"Is this what we're wearing?" Blackwall asks, picking up a drawing. He studies it for a moment. "Who designed it?"

"I believe it was a collaboration between the ambassador and Sister Nightingale," Vivienne says.

"This... This design will not flatter the Herald," Blackwall says.

“Funny you should mention that,” Dorian says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Vivienne and I here were just saying the same thing. I’d be curious why you think so, big man.”

Blackwall looks at the sketch and wonders if he should lower himself to take the bait. One doesn’t live in Orlais for as long as he did without learning about fashion. It was, as some would say, a crucial part of the Game. He remembers which cuts would flatter his body type the most and knows this uniform or whatever it was, will actually look quite good on him. Red is a good color for him and the sash will distract for the bit of extra weight he carries in his stomach.

Just as he knows the outfit will look well on him, he knows it won’t look quite right on Bethroot. And because he can’t stand the smug look on Dorian and Vivienne’s faces, he takes the bait. “This will look fine on a human,” he says. “But the with that sash around her middle, it will put focus on her chest and make her look like she has no waist at all.” He puts the sketch back down. While he thoroughly loves every bit of Bethroot’s body, he knows she’s self-conscious about the fullness of her breasts. This design won’t help. “And red is not her color.”

“I do wonder about the ambassador’s insistence that we all wear the same thing,” Dorian says, shaking his head. “I understand we are a military power, but we’re so much more than that. Our sartorial choices should reflect those as well.”

“First the Heart of Spring and now this? My, my, you are full of surprises.” Lady Vivienne crosses her arms over her chest and shrugs an elegant shoulder. “You’ve made me almost curious about your life before you were... What did you call yourself? A drifter?” She lifts a solitary brow and Blackwall matches her gaze. “A common soldier? Isn’t that what you told the Inquisitor?”

“That’s right,” Blackwall says, picking up his jacket and shrugging it on. "I was." He starts fastening the toggles, looking away from the pair. “And even common soldiers need to be fitted for uniforms.”

He can almost feel the disappointment radiating from the pair. Blasted nobility, thinking they know everything about commoners. Did they really think that the lower class didn’t care how their clothes fit? Of course measurement were taken. Fabric costs too much, in time and coin, to waste.

The door opens and Bethroot walks in, holding her bow, with Lady Montilyet right behind her. “I told you, Lady Inquisitor, this must get done today.”

“I know, but-”

“Even Warden Blackwall has been in for his fitting,” the ambassador says triumphantly.

Blackwall catches his lady’s eye and gives her a smile, which Bethroot promptly returns, looking sheepish. As well she should, he thinks. When she scolded him this morning, she certainly didn’t mention that she still needed a fitting, too.

“Come, Dorian, there’s a book I’d like to show you,” Vivienne says as she stands up. She looks at Bethroot. “Have fun, my dear.”

“And I have another meeting to attend, my lady, so I will leave you here,” Josephine says, making it sound like there’s nothing more she’d rather do than stay and watch a fitting.

As the three head towards the door, Bethroot says with a grin, “Say it.”

“I will, thank you,” Blackwall says, wishing the tailor was somewhere else, so he could give her a proper kiss. “Here you were, making me feel like I’ve personally failed the Inquisition-” Bethroot starts to laugh and he stops talking to simply look at her instead. Amazing how he can spend so much time just looking at her.

The tailor clears his throat. “If we may begin.”

Her brow furrows a bit. “I’ve never had human fitting before. I think dwarves do things different. What am I supposed to do?” she asks, sounding a bit uncomfortable.

“Can’t imagine it’s that different,” Blackwall says. He raises his arms to show her where to start. Measurement by measurement, he shows her what to do, until the tailor is satisfied.

“Once the uniforms are made, we’ll have another fitting,” the tailor says as he bows from the waist. “Inquisitor, it has been an honor.”

“Thank you for your help,” Bethroot says.

As the tailor gathers his things, Blackwall sees Bethroot scrunch up her face. He knows that look far too well. It’s the look she wears when she’s trying to find the right way to phrase a question to him in a way he might answer. His heart lurches, thinking at just how much he keeps from her. “So you’ve had fittings before?” she asks finally.

“Soldiers need uniforms,” Blackwall say, treading lightly. And then he does what he always does, reflect the question back to her. “So you’ve had dwarven fittings? What for?”

He knows she understands exactly what he’s doing and somehow, she never gets upset with him. “I had to get a couple of nice dresses for Orzammar back when I was negotiating for the Carta. Dwarven nobles have far too much time on their hands and care way too much about appearances.”

“Wouldn’t mind seeing you in a fancy dress,” Blackwall says. He’s seen her wear a dress or two, but nothing good enough for the Diamond Quarter. “Might be nicer than that uniform we’ll be wearing.”

“I sort of like that we’ll all be in the same outfit,” she says. Now that the tailor is out of the room, Blackwall puts his arm around her shoulder. Funny how she fits right next to him like she does. “I’m going to stand out enough. A dwarf in the Winter Palace? At least they won’t be judging me on my clothes, too.”

“Hadn’t thought about it that way,” Blackwall admits. Though he’ll probably be able to use that to his own advantage. The folk of the Winter Palace will be far too wrapped up in Bethroot. If he can stay off to the side, hopefully no one will even notice him at all.

The door to Josephine’s office opens and they immediately take a step apart. The last thing Bethroot needs is for more rumors to swirl around her.

“Pardon, I forgot some paperwork needed for my meeting,” Josephine says. As she walks over to her desk, she adds, “So everything went well? Monsieur Couture is one of the top designers in Orlais.”

Blackwall thinks back, wondering if he ever deigned that shop. Probably not. Even in his captain days, he couldn’t afford the finest shops in Orlais. Only the top nobility could do that. Wonders that the Inquisition is willing to pay those sort of prices for glorified uniforms. Must be to impress someone. Always someone to impress in Orlais.

“Just fine, thanks, Josephine,” Bethroot says.

Josephine nods and quickly leaves the room.

As much as he’d like to stay here with Bethroot, his recruits still need training. And Bethroot most likely has a meeting of her own to go to. Seems like half her day is in meetings. She seems to have the same thought and they both start walking over to the door.

“Blackwall?” Bethroot says.

He looks down to find a sly grin on his lady’s face. “Yes, Bethy?”

“Remind me to double check your inseam measurement tonight,” she says, running a finger down the front of his gambeson. “I plan on being very… thorough.”

Blackwall lets out a bark of a laugh, even as his mind already starts to picture the night ahead. He pushes open the door and gives her a wink before she turns and starts walking towards the library door. And he’s not too proud to admit that he watches her hips as she walks away.

A new spring in his step, Blackwall heads back to his recruits. To think just this morning, he dreaded his fitting with the tailor.

[thievinghippo]

I’m working on updating scrivener with some art. This is the bethroot page. I can’t even tell you how damn happy this makes me. I love my little dwarf so much.

[thievinghippo]

So I just got home from Thanksgiving dinner to discover I have yet another thing to be thankful for. That people like @bugsieplusone exist. She had portrait of Bethroot commissioned! 

The artist is @aceshepard and I absolutely adore it! The flower crown! Her armor! Her little smirk! AHHHH! 

Thank you so much! <3

[thievinghippo]

If you're feeling it, maybe "Duel" for Bethroot and Blackwall? Have a lovely trip!

“Inquisitor!”

Bethroot gripped the edge of the low wall where she sat, talking toThom. She never liked being called out in public, especially in Val Royeaux.Instead of the lazy afternoon they planned, strolling along the theatredistrict, she now had to deal with whoever wanted her attention.

A man, of medium height and build, stumbled over to them. Alreadyonlookers watched the scene, so Bethroot sat up straight, folding her hands inher lap. Thom wore no armor or carried a visible weapon, but she knew if thisstranger made any trouble, Thom would be ready.

“I demand satisfaction,” the man said, his thick Orlesian accentslurred. The gentleman clearly had too much to drink this afternoon. Hishalf-mask was tilted, giving him an almost comical look, and his clothes werecrumpled with dirt smudges. Far from the expected appearance of a man abouttown, unless one was attempting to play the part of the village drunk.

Bethroot met Thom’s gaze, who looked just as confused as she felt. “DoI know you, ser?” She tried to place the man. He had a shock of red hair, butshe simply couldn’t figure it out.

“I am Fulbert,” the man said, clearly trying to keep his balance. “Youkilled my brother.”

Neither piece of information helped identify Fulbert. Sadly, in hertime with the Inquisition, she had killed a great many brothers. “I’m sorry foryour loss, ser,” Bethroot said, wondering if she should stand on the ground.Realizing how much shorter she would be, she decided against it. Better to bealmost at eye level with the man.

“That is not enough,” Fulbert said, over enunciating every word. “Ichallenge you. I challenge you to a duel of honor.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bethy,” Thom said, only loud enough for her tohear.

Bethroot ignored him, concentrating on Fulbert in front of her. “Wherewas your brother killed?”

“In the Emerald Graves. He was a Freeman of the Dales,” Fulbert said,raising his chin. “And now he is dead.”

She had no pity for the Freemen of the Dales. If they lived in peace,there would have been no reason for her to attack. But Bethroot understoodloss, and she could empathize with Fulbert. “It sounds like you and yourbrother were close-”

“Close? Ha,” Fulbert said, waving his hands. “I hated my brother.”

The obvious question was on the tip of her tongue, but Bethroothesitated to ask. Maybe she could talk her way out of this.

“Then why challenge the lady?” Thom asked, crossing his arms over hischest. He stood with his legs spread apart and his chest out, seemingly takingup as much room as possible.

Or maybe not.

Fulbert poked Thom in the chest with one finger. “He was the onlybrother I had. Honor demands it!”

“Right, then,” Thom said with a sigh, looking back at Bethroot. “Mylady, may I have the honor of fighting in your place?”

Bethroot had to stifle back a laugh. Thom sounded bored, of all things. But the question seemed to catch Fulbert’sattention. The man jumped into a fighting position, his fists out. “I willfight whoever you choose, Inquisitor.”

She lowered her voice. “We don’t really need to do this, do we?” sheasked.

“I know this type,” Thom said, shaking his head. “He won’t leave usalone until we’ve given him what he wants.”

“Well, then, I guess... You may?” Bethroot asked, not sure of theproper protocol here. Thom must know from his days in the army. The stories sayhe caused more than one duel with a jealous husband back then.

Thom bowed low, and said, “My lady.”

Then with one quick step, Thom punched Fulbert right in the face,using the weight of his entire body. Fulbert tumbled back onto the grass with athud, legs spread and arms out.

“That was quick,” Bethroot said. She supposed she should feel bad thatthe man lay on the ground in the middle of Val Royeaux, but she really didn’t.She had apologized. Why did he  need morethan that? "Will he be okay?"

Thom walked over to Fulbert and nodded. “He’ll only be out for a outfor a bit. No permanent damage. Just a headache.”

“That’s something at least.”

“Maker’s balls, that hurt,”Thom said, rubbing his knuckles. “Been years since I punched a bastard in amask. Forgot how much it fucking hurts.”

“My hero,” Bethroot said with a laugh, jumping down off of the wall.“Your hand going to be alright?”

Thom nodded. “I’ll soak it tonight. It’ll be fine by morning,” hesaid, shaking his hand out.

Bethroot looked down at Fulbert, unconscious in the street. Withoutthinking, she leaned over and straightened the mask on his face. Satisfied, shegestured to Thom. “Come on. Let’s not be here when he wakes up.”

[thievinghippo]

29. Letter, Bethroot and Blackwall!

On my list of things to write is the two years between Inquisition and Trespasser. So this may get repurposed at some time in the future. 

#

Rainier rests his head against the wall and tries to catch his breath.Only a few hours into his stay at Val Foret and already he worries he’s made amistake.

A tug should have helped. The letter Bethroot promised would bewaiting for him once he arrived in the city gave him plenty to distract himselfwith. Yet as he found some sort of half-hearted release into an empty chamberpot, all he could think of was that he should have been with her, instead.

No point in having any regrets now. She’s more than halfway to Skyholdat this point and he’s in bloody Val Foret in an inn he can barely afford. Amember of his company, Bridgette Toulson, is somewhere in this city. Varric’snetwork says she tends bar at one of the dives in town, the Leaping Frog.

It’s far too early to get to the tavern now, which leaves Rainier afew hours with nothing to do. Funny how in another life, he would have reveled in a few hours free. Taken thechance to go to the local brothel or spend some coin on wine or clothes.

Now a few hours of freedom gives him too much bloody time to think.

He supposes he could answer Bethroot’s letter. A natural letter writerhe is not, but Rainier wouldn’t mind her knowing he made it to Val Foret in onepiece. Decision made, he stands,  tryingto right himself and lacing up his trousers.

The sun streams in through the small window, giving him plenty oflight to attempt a letter. Rainier takes his time making his way to the smalltable in his room; it suddenly seems imperative to make sure he has an extrabar of Celestine Black in his satchel.

Excuses run out and Rainier sits at the table in the room. It’s aplain room, far different from the lavish rooms he stayed in with Bethroot aspart of the Inquisition. Ten years ago Captain Thom Rainier would have turnedup his nose at a room like this, a room barely big enough for a single bed, atable, and a basin stand. While it might be small, it’s neat and clean, with acolorful patchwork quilt upon the bed.

Rainer takes out a roll of parchment, a quill and a bottle of ink fromhis satchel. It’s a heavy parchment, thick enough that no one will be able tosee through it if brought up to the light. He can write his thoughts here,without worry.

He removes the cork from the inkwell and tentatively dips in hisquill. Thinking of the last note he wrote Bethroot - There is little I can say that will ease this pain - Rainier dropsthe quill onto the table, smudging the corner of the parchment.

“Bloody coward,” Rainier mutters as he rubs his eyes with the heel ofhis palms. "Being ridiculous.”

Taking a breath, he picks up the quill and starts writing. It’s aplain scrawl, very different from the flounce and flourishes he used in formalwriting while in the army.

My lady,

I hope you’ve arrived safely back atSkyhold. I’ve made it to Val Foret and will be here until I’ve spoken toBridgette. Velun will be the next stop and I wouldn’t say no to another one ofthose letters.

I’ve not even slept in the bed yet, but Ialready know it will be too big without you, even though you barely take up anyroom at all. When I read your letter, I thought about some things I’d like todo when we’re reunited. Remember when you asked me to hold you down? Might betime for you to return the favor.

Only three days have passed since weparted, and already I miss you more than I can say. Even so, I know I’m doingthe right thing. Maker knows I’ve not been sure about a lot of things in life,other than loving you, but this is one. You might not agree, but I’m gratefulyou didn’t make a fuss about me leaving.

You’ll be in my thoughts often, and I’llwrite when I can. Maker keep you safe.

Yours,

Rainer lifts his pen, his heart beating outside his chest. More thanfive years have passed since he’s signed his name Thom Rainier. Bethy calls him Thom, he thinks of himself more andmore as Rainier instead of Blackwall. But in all that time, he’s yet to writedown the name given to him by his parents.

He stalls best he can, dipping his quill in the ink, touching the nubto the blotter. But if this letter is to make it out tonight, he needs tofinish it sooner rather than later.

The tip of the quill touches the parchment and he readies himself tosee his name in ink.

Thom Rainier

There it is for all to see. And somehow the world didn’t end. He letsout a slight chuckle as he preps the wax for the Inquisition seal. Once done,Rainier sets the letter carefully in the middle of the table.

Satisfied, he walks back over to the bed, wanting to give Bethroot’sletter another read.

[thievinghippo]

3. Peace or 7. Sun for Bethroot and Blackwall, please? :)

Ended up combining these a bit!

#

Where was he?

Bethroottakes another glance around the stables. She can’t have overlooked him;Blackwall is far too big of a man to miss. But she’s checked all the places heusually can be: the training yard, the tavern, and now the stables. If he’s notanywhere here, where could he be?

Anunexpected hour of free time came up this afternoon and Bethroot hoped to spendit with Blackwall. Already she’s wasted twenty minutes looking for theman. Perhaps she should just go back to the training yard and practiceshooting.

Her eyeslinger on the stairs, leading up to the loft. Or she could go up and close hereyes for a half an hour. Surely being well-rested is just as important asworking on her aim?

Decisionmade, Bethroot starts up the stairs. Halfway up, she hears a loud snore comingfrom the loft, and starts to laugh. Mystery solved!

Bethrootpeaks her head into the loft and there he is. Flat on his back, hands foldedover his stomach, and using his gambeson as a pillow. Thanks to cracks in theroof, light is streaming in, and Blackwall lay in a pool of sunlight, just likea cat.

It’snot often she sees him like this. She almost always falls asleep first when hespends the night, and he’s the earlier riser as well. So she takes the chanceand simply looks at him, amazed at just how still he seems. When Blackwall’sawake, he’s almost always fidgeting or moving from one place to the other.Never in one spot for very long. Now he’s simply quiet. And Bethroot wouldn’tmind some of that quiet right now.

So shewalks as softly as she can - and being a rogue, she can walk softly - andstarts to lay down next to him. The movement wakes Blackwall and his eyes open,but he doesn’t move. “Bethy,” he says, his voicerumbling. “Not sleeping. Just resting.”

“Sure you are,” Bethroot says, not able tokeep the smile off her face. “Because you always snore when you rest.”

Blackwallturns to his side, bunching up his gambeson again. “Expandsthe lungs. Good practice for the shouting in the field.”

Shestarts to laugh as he takes her hand and pulls her down so she’s laying next to him, her back flush withhis chest. “Well, the last thing I want to do is keep you from practicing,”Bethroot says. Thom rests his hand on her stomach as she closes her eyes. Hisother arm acts a pillow. Not the most comfortable pillow, but laying like thisin Blackwall’s arms, the sun warming her cheek, she wouldn’t want to beanywhere else. With a yawn, she adds, “Maybe I’ll practice a bit, too.”

[thievinghippo]

Bethroot, 26!

The prompt is chase. :D

#

“Someone’s angry.”

Cole’s words stop Bethroot in her tracks. Since she discovered that he knew the truth about Thom all along, she’s listened more carefully to what he has to say. “Who’s angry?” she asks, wondering if it’s involving the Inquisition at all. Maker knows they’ve pissed off enough people over the last year.

“Hateful, hunting.” Cole tilts his head and looks down at Bethroot. “They want to hurt you.”

Suddenly, taking Cole out to have a quiet lunch in Val Royeaux seems like a bad idea. Bethroot wears no armor - her only protection a leather bodice - and the only weapon she carries is a small dagger in her boot.

Her eyes flick towards le Barre Chocolat Confiserie, where she planned to buy some moss candy, but perhaps it will be best just to go back to the hotel. No need to wonder if someone’s going to try to kill her in broad daylight.

Out of all the ways her life has changed since the Conclave, it’s her anonymity she misses the most. She’ll probably never again walk down a street with someone not recognizing her. But then she thinks of all the things she’s gained since then, and the lack of privacy seems like a fair price to pay.

“Get down!”

Bethroot drops to one knee in an instant, trusting Cole completely. Just over her head, she hears the sound of an arrow lodging into wood. She only takes a moment to look at the arrow - if there’s one, there will be others - and sees that it’s one made for a dwarf-size bow.

“It’s the Carta,” Bethroot says, fear rising in her chest. Not for her, but for whoever is between her and the assassin. She’s enough blood on her hands. The last thing she needs is more, simply because she wanted to take Cole out for a treat. “We need to move.”

Cole stealths at once; she will never not be envious of his ability to do that. Well, she might not have that power, but Bethroot does have a few tricks. A good artificer always does. And armor or not, she’s never without a bit of cloaking powder. Taking a pinch from her belt, she throws the powder to the ground.

A second later, the world around her becomes hazy. “To the left,” she says to Cole. She can just see his outline ahead of her. She’s not quite sure where to go - their hotel is on the other side of the city - but she wants to leave this open area, where someone might get hurt.

Another arrow hits behind her, and by now the people in the square are starting to catch on. Bethroot hears a shrill scream next to her as people start taking cover.

There’s an alley nearby, if she remembers right. Not the perfect place to go, but hopefully there won’t be any innocent people to get in the way. She wonders if the assassin is on the rooftop or on the ground. Hopefully the ground, so maybe the Val Royeaux guards might have a chance to catch the person.

She only has a few seconds left in stealth, so Bethroot turns a corner, into the remembered alleyway. At the end, there’s a door, and thankfully she never goes anywhere without her lockpick kit.

The moment she’s out of stealth, someone tackles her to the ground. Bethroot doesn’t see a face, but she can tell just by the weight it’s a dwarf and not a human or an elf. It really is the Carts going after her. Fuck.

Bethroot rolls away from her attacker, grabbing the knife in her boot. Even with Thom’s help, she’s still awful at hand to hand, but there is no way she’s going down without a fight.

But the fight never comes. It only takes a moment, but suddenly she sees Cole behind the dwarf, a heavyset one with a thick red beard, and he plunges both his daggers into dwarf’s back.

The kill is instant.

“Are you okay?” Bethroot asks as she catches her breath, trying not to stare at the dead dwarf on the ground.

“You killed his brother,” Cole says quietly as he sheaths his daggers. “At Valammar. That’s when the Carta decided you were a traitor.”

Bethroot rubs her hands up and down her arms, trying to feel a little warmth. It’s cold here in the shadows, and she wishes she thought to wear a cloak. “I know,” she says, her voice dull.

“They will keep trying.”

As if having Corypheus, Red Templars, and Venatori wanting her dead isn’t enough. Now she needs to add her former family - the people who smuggled her mother out of Orzammar, helped raised her, and gave her a start in life - to that list. “I know.”

Any joy in this day has disappeared. With a wave of her hand, Bethroot motions to Cole to start walking. She’ll need to report this to the authorities and more importantly, to Leliana. As she walks past the dwarf’s body, Bethroot decides right then and there she’ll do whatever she needs to so that the Carta can’t finish what this dwarf just started.

Cole kneels and closes the dwarf’s eyes. Bethroot doesn’t recognize him, but she memorizes his face. Hopefully Lantos will be able to give her more information.

“That was a very interesting day you planned,” Cole says as he stands up. “Next time, though, I think lunch alone will be enough.”

Bethroot lets out a joyless laugh as she pats Cole on the forearm. “I’ll remember that. Next time, just lunch.”