#c: lysander veturius

[gwynbleiddyn]

“I am just saying, we shouldn’t make a habit of collecting Tevinter pariahs, Rion.”

“I shouldn’t make a habit of collecting world-shattering problems either, but here we are, second time around. Give him a chance; he’ll prove his worth ten times over.” 

-- an overheard snippet of conversation between Inquisitor Rion Severan and the Spymaster regarding the acquisition of the ex-Tevinter alchemist, Lysander Veturius.

[gwynbleiddyn]

10, 11, and 12 for ri boi

mr rion severan sir it’s time to answer for your crimes

10. Their interactions with an enemy/rival

Rion’s pretty abrasive with those he doesn’t like. Not snappy, but not really afraid to show his teeth, so to speak. He likes people to know that he’s powerful, he doesn’t like people focusing on anything else because there’s a lot of weaknesses that he is acutely aware of hidden behind that initial facade. So, he’ll do a lot to ensure that facade remains standing, particularly with people he doesn’t like.

Rion watches Hawke pace the battlements, the sound of his armour putting dents into Rion's vision - sharp scratches of white sound, interrupting the shape of Hawke's words.

"Hawke, stop walking," Rion holds out a hand from where his arms have been folded tight across his chest. He waits until the other man looks at him in acknowledgement, the pacing coming to an abrupt end. "You knew about Corypheus, and you made no mention of it to anyone."

"That's not true--" Hawke takes a step towards Rion, indignance written across his face as his words fall flat against Rion's growl of warning.

"Then why was this hidden from us for years?"

"Corypheus was dead, Larius was on his way to tell the Wardens. My part in it was done!" Hawke argues, and Rion watches how his voice pitches dangerously into bloody purple hues, a colour Rion hasn't noticed before. He licks his dry lips, feeling sick to the stomach from the way his Blight-sickness has hit today, and his patience is running thinner than a razor. He could argue this all day long, how Hawke's reluctance had cost the Wardens nearly everything - but what good is fire against fire? Breathing in deep, Rion gives Hawke a long, cold stare.

It turns to ice at the mention of Larius.

"A Warden on his calling does not return," Rion's eyes narrow, stare hardening. "There's nothing left of the Warden, nothing worth knowing. They walk into those festering halls to die, nothing more. Did it not occur to you that a creature so twisted by the Blight should not be allowed to walk free?"

Hawke's expression twists, dark eyes fraught with confusion. "Larius, or Corypheus?"

Resisting the urge to smile, Rion shrugs. "Both."

11. Their interactions with a stranger 

It really depends on the day you catch him. The older he gets, the more volatile his anchor grows, the worse his Blight-sickness seems to get.-- you tend to have a bigger chance of catching him on a rough day. He can be pretty sharp and snappy on these days, more than any other. Strangers would probably get the brunt of that, and come away the worse for wear. 

On a good day, though, Rion does have this innate paternal quality to him that stands out to a stranger. He’s invested in people and their wellbeing, and his interactions reflect that. He creates a sense of being open without really revealing much about himself in the process. He’s always looking for allies, and most of the time, he’ll try and come across as someone worth knowing.

The boy is freezing, Rion notices right away. His jaw is clenched against the cold, his arms wrapped tight around himself with a white-knuckle grip, and he refuses to look anybody in the eye. His clothes are Tevene in origin, Rion guesses by the odd lines and layers the boy is draped in, although they're torn and worn thin, colour fading.

Rion can see Amrun and Ziyan bickering on the deck of the Boeric, gesturing towards the hunched figure every so often but neglecting entirely to include him in the conversation. A little rude, Rion thinks, but it is not his problem. He slips past a merchant's aravel and pulls a woven blanket from a pile of goods. He sees the first flicker of a complaint arising from the merchant, but one look their way and they can't seem to apologise quick enough.

"I will pay you later, friend. Does the Hahren no good to have a thief for a son, hm?" He quips idly as he passes, and the reply is lost on him when his focus returns to the boy, perched on a crate on the docks, staring at the ground like he wants it to swallow him whole. Rion approaches confidently, slowing as he draws near.

"You look cold." Rion offers his thoughts to the boy with an air of nonchalance, unfolding the blanket in his hands. The boy looks up at him sharply, eyes blown wide. There's a moment where he looks over his shoulder to Amrun on the deck, and then back to Rion, and recognition dawns. Rion gives a small, knowing smile, and throws the blanket around his shoulders. His thin frame is buried under the woven fabric, and his shaking slowly subsides.

"Thank you." The boy speaks softly, much softer than Rion was expecting. He studies him quickly, trying to put some pieces together in the short moment he'd swept the blanket upon his shoulders. He's young, very young -- can't be older than eighteen, surely? Lost, that much is certain. A little bruised and banged up, but the marks are fading. A runaway, but to Rivain from Tevinter? That's a long way. Perhaps Tevinter decided that for him, forced him out. A place so deliberate about its society is bound to have outcasts, even this young. All these possibilities filter through Rion's mind in an instant but he pushes the thoughts aside, settling on a simple question.

"Do you have a name?"

There's a moment of deliberation, before the boy pulls the blanket tighter around him and looks up with a sigh. "Lysander."

12. Them in their favorite outfit

We know he’s vain. He cares about his image. His favourite outfit is definitely going to be something that he feels powerful in -- probably his Warden-Commander regalia. It’s armour. It’s protective, it’s safe. But it’s also a symbol, and he knows it. 

It's easy to stand before Adamant in his armour - Commander of the Grey, denoted by the griffon wings, the elegant plate, the stark blue tabard lying over burnished silver, a hint of blue sky amidst an endless storm.

Sure, it's heavy. It carries weight, weight that isn't tangible in its metal plates and leather straps. Weight made up of memories, good and bad and everything in between. If Rion closes his eyes, he can feel the first time he put it on in its most basic form, the unadorned half-plate of a recruit fresh out of the Joining, stumbling through Ostagar with his fingertips on fire. He almost misses that time of ignorance, the joy of not knowing what lay ahead.

He remembers adding the gauntlets early on, not suited for magic but beautifully weighted for a sword. A moment where he decided his future would not be ruled by magic, however innate.

The greaves to go over his boots came from Alistair, months into their campaign. For a man who could, on occasion, be rather obtuse in his understandings, Alistair was strangely intuitive. Rion remembers the awkward, hesitant conversations they shared over their training regime under the Templars, silently admitting their fears for the organisation beneath their outspoken love for the purpose they upheld. Rion had spoken of the armour, how he'd enjoyed the weight and sturdiness of steel over leather, how it forced him to use his blade properly. Alistair went out of his way to find some greaves in Denerim. Rion hasn't forgotten that. He won't.

He's never liked helmets. Too restrictive. But Leliana had found one in an abandoned chest in Redcliffe Castle - Rion didn't ask questions, she had a penchant for finding and taking what she liked - and gave it to him, asked him to wear it. Rion remembers the way he'd laughed and refused repeatedly until she all but begged, "Just once, Rion, I promise.", and so he did, thinking he'd finally hear the end of it. He remembers how quiet the camp had gotten, how devoid of colour as silence fell -- and the way she'd looked at him, like he was some kind of hero.

Piece by piece he'd built his armour - him and his friends, companions, brothers in arms - and that gave it something else that any other piece of armour wouldn't have. Rion doesn't know how to explain it, but he can feel it every time he puts it on.

Right now, in this armour, watching fire rain down upon the Warden fortress of Adamant, he isn't the Inquisitor, and that thought is incredibly freeing.

character description meme

[gwynbleiddyn]

For Lysander: 4, 19, 10

Lysander got me real good, i won’t lie to u

4. Their laugh

despite the very fragile and well-maintained exterior, Lysander is a giant goof at heart and laughs very easily - it’s just unfortunate that he’s gotten used to trying to hide it. he’s quick to turn away and cover his mouth in a casual gesture, scratching at the side of his nose or thumbing away an itch above his lip, and then when his attention returns, he’ll be wearing that stone-smooth expression again. 

Lysander slowly starts falling out of his old ways the longer he spends with the Inquisition, and when he does allow himself that little bit of joy, it’s a lovely sound. soft and crumpled as though the sound is cut short, but rich, like a luxurious silk clenched in a fist. 

19. Them drunk

Lysander is a very careful man, by nature and from experience. although his anxieties surface, the only people he’s ever really let his guard down for are Rion and Dorian -- everyone else has only ever seen the quietly charming Tevinter alchemist, and nothing more. 

he’s aware of that, and sometimes when a habit is so deeply ingrained, it gets a bit stuck when you do try to unravel it. alcohol helps with that, to an extent. Lysander hates going overboard, but he likes enough of a tipple to break down some of those more stubborn snags, and he becomes quite the conversationalist after a glass or two of a choice vintage. he smiles more, and his eyes have a noticeable spark to them. he’s also much more amenable to physical contact, and even his entire posture seems to melt away into something much looser, not wound up and coiled tight like a serpent waiting to pounce. 

10. Their interactions with an enemy/rival

he can be particularly scathing, a leftover remnant of his time in Tevinter amidst the diabolical elite. it’s a cold cruelty that surfaces when he faces off against a rival, and it’s jarring to see from a man known for his gentleness. he’s not particularly forgiving, so it’s probably a good thing he hasn’t made many enemies in his time.

character description meme

[gwynbleiddyn]

“What’s your name, mage?”

“It’s Lysander-- Lysander Veturius, ser.” 

“Tevinter?”

“I was.” 

[gwynbleiddyn]

the board is set, Inquisitor, and the pieces are moving. how will you decide who wins this war?

[gwynbleiddyn]

For a man who talks so openly, I know remarkably little about the Tevinter alchemist the Inquisitor requested. His name doesn’t exist anywhere, and any who knew him before his time in Rivain is long lost to us without a trail to follow. 

We will have to trust our Inquisitor’s judgement on this one. 

 -- a note from Leliana to Seeker Pentaghast found attached to a requisition report for absurd amounts of Felandaris.

[gwynbleiddyn]

2. What would break your OC beyond repair? Has it happened? 👀

I think I’ll do this for Lysander my beautiful alchemist son whom i LOVE

2. What would break your OC beyond repair? Has it happened?

Rejection, I suppose, of his true self. He hasn’t been the same since leaving Tevinter and his grief is all tied up in an awkward knot that nobody quite knows how to tackle, because nobody knew him from a time before Lysander, and he certainly isn’t about to tell anyone. It’s a lonely place to be. Fear snapping at his heels, uncertainty ahead of him -- Lysander is mired by his own indecision, and his own insecurity. If he doesn’t break free of those chains someday soon, they’ll almost certainly break him instead.

[gwynbleiddyn]

Hi! Tell me about 17 and 24 for your new Tevinter boy, please? :)

gladly!! thank you for asking

17. their ambitions

Lysander’s main ambition is to be content with himself, first and foremost. That’s not to say he’s completely selfish, but it’s more that he’s spent a lifetime trying to leave something behind and he feels like he needs to close that chapter before he can go hopping, skipping and jumping into the new one. For him, that means portraying himself a certain way and being established in that view. He’s almost there.

Other than that, his ambitions are humble. Clan Severan took him in - among many other outcasts of society - and made him their own, in a way. He may not wear their ink or know their words inside out, but he views them as family and if he can use his position as a powerful Tevinter mage to help them then he will. Before coming to Rion’s aid, his main role in Severan was influencing trade in the more ‘difficult’ human territories. He could smooth things over where a pair of pointed ears couldn’t, and once Severan had a hold, they took over from there. 

24. what motivates them

Pretty much everything I mentioned above, with an added pinch of guilt for his homeland. Tevinter cast him out, but that doesn’t mean he cast Tevinter out of his heart or mind in return. He has fond memories of Minrathous and its marble-ways, golden spires aplenty, and the summer festivities that they so kindly stripped from Andraste and renamed in their own favour. Like Dorian, he has a hope there somewhere that Tevinter can change for the better. While he isn’t so outspoken about this, it shows in his interactions with the Venatori they meet throughout the Inquisition. 

[gwynbleiddyn]

2, 10, 22, 23 for Lysander (and honestly, he shouldn't look that pretty)

god i have no idea what happened he just appeared out of the ether im so sorry

2. their smile

Sharp. He’s a kind boy at heart, and that heart is a soft little thing, but Tevinter didn’t afford him the niceties of being true to oneself and so for fifteen years a young boy had to learn how to smile the wrong way. The ‘smile’ you see often is a slight curve of his lips, he doesn’t show his teeth, and it’s meant to be a pretty little thing that gets him what he wants.

A true smile from Lysander is something else altogether. Toothy and bright, occasionally tremulous and difficult to hold, but genuine. It makes his cheeks dimple, and his eyes seem ever brighter.

10. their fashion sense

... [gestures wildly at Dorian] 

He’s possibly a little less... ostentatious? But Lysander still harbors a deep love of gold and rich materials. He’s lucky that Severan’s trade markets have plenty to speak of, enabling him to indulge in that little slice of home he brought with him. He has a tendency towards gold and blacks - black because it’s the easiest colour to hide under when your body is the wrong shape - and gold to draw the eyes away. Even now, with a body he’s growing to love, he still falls into old habits. 

In terms of style, Lysander has a penchant for half-cloaks and asymmetrical wraps, pinned to his shirt or breastplate with a suitably intricate gold brooch or clasp. He wears fitted tunics, usually silken or soft cottons, and tailored breeches along with sturdy riding boots. He might be Tevinter, but he knows sensible footwear will go a long way at Skyhold.

22. what they’re like on two hours of sleep

For Lysander, that’s pretty standard, actually. He doesn’t sleep well. Any long stretch is often fettered with restless dreams and sudden starts as his body pulls his mind from sleep. More often than not he will simply stay awake into the night and read until his body can’t stay awake any longer.

2 hours of sleep is enough for him to get up and go for a while before coffee or a catnap becomes a priority. 

23. how they act when they’re sick

He tries not to show it - Lysander is used to taking care of himself, and will try his best to do so even when he knows there’s people who are there to look after him. He might be a bit quieter than usual and more withdrawn, unwilling to share his burdens. To that end, it’s not uncommon for Lysander to be a little snappy in the process.

[gwynbleiddyn]

12, 13, & 20 for Lysander pls and thank

12. Them in their favorite outfit // 13. Them in formalwear (i accidentally answered the second with the first but IT WORKS)

Lysander never expected an invite to Halamshiral, least of all as part of the Inquisitor’s entourage. He’d paced the floor of his room for weeks before the event, wondering, panicking, devising a way to get out of it - but the minute he’d gone to Rion to explain why he wouldn’t be attending, he’d just met his complaints with a smile and a half-shrug. “I want you to go and enjoy yourself. Skyhold is hardly your type of place.” That, Lysander could agree with. “Besides, I invited Dorian.”

Lysander turned on his heel and left before Rion saw how much he matched the red of his robes. Of course he’d invited Dorian. Why wouldn’t he? Smart, charming, endlessly capable, perfectly suited to the devious machinations of Halamshiral--

Oh, Maker.

But now, striding up the stairs of the vestibule at the Winter Palace, Lysander is grateful for the invite. The chatter and free-flowing wine is music to his ears, a reminder of better times, long ago, and he finds himself embroiled in conversation after conversation on his circuit through the Palace. At the very least, he’s not the one dodging marriage proposals or ferrying halla statuettes up an ivy-covered trellis. Every so often, he catches sight of Dorian and Rion on their way somewhere, thick as thieves but nowhere near as stealthy, and Lysander finds it easy to sweep up a passing noble with idle conversation, if only to give them a bit of breathing room.

The night is wearing on, his polished boots have trodden the same circle through the Palace countless times, and it seems only now is the guest wing beginning to grow quiet as revellers make their way to the ballroom. It’s then that Lysander catches sight of himself in a gilded mirror for the first time that night.

Part of the reason he’d been so afraid of this invitation was simply... how was he to appear? The last ball he’d attended in a dress with hair to his waist and suitors out the door, back home in Minrathous. He didn’t know any different, despite feeling it. And it was the hardest thing to explain, this profound ache in his chest would swell and ebb with thought and memory as he spoke his fears aloud to Rion. And Rion had just listened. A few days later, Rion showed up at his door, telling him to get ready for a trip to Val Royeaux. They’d gone to a tailor in the city, and Lysander is sure he would have turned tail and abandoned the idea if it hadn’t been for Rion’s presence. He trusted him. So he allowed it.

And this mirror shows him the reward. His shoulders are square and solid beneath the emerald coloured vest-robe he wears, loose and belted at his waist, over the top of a black, high-collared shirt, embroided with fine gold filigree. The belt of black leather is twisted with a golden cord, linked to gold rings around the belt itself - a homage to his usual attire where he’d be adorned with alchemy pots - and the vest is split into 4 panels from the waist down, each corner of a panel embroidered with the same gold filigree on the shirt. Simple black breeches and knee-high boots complete the look, which makes him feel amazing. The square silhouette, the elongated look from the vest, how it hides the waist and the hips so seamlessly -- the tailor worked magic, and Lysander can’t hide his grin as he regards himself in the mirror for the first time that night. Hints of stubble and a heavier brow from the alchemy he uses on himself is slowly becoming apparent, and it just looks--

“Dazzling, aren’t you?” Dorian’s voice breaks the reverie. Lysander’s gaze is torn from the mirror to the even better image of a formal Dorian, smiling at him, and Lysander can feel his cheeks burning. 

“If you say so, Pavus.” Lysander swallows, laughing breathily. His voice is raspy, slowly beginning to break into something he prefers. 

“See, I’m usually right,” Dorian’s laughter joins Lysander’s, and he begins to approach. “The Inquisitor is preoccupied with the Grand Duchess. I thought I might find our intrepid alchemist and see what he’s found.”

Without waiting, Dorian links his arm through Lysander’s own and begins to walk them through the guest wing, towards the garden. “So do tell.”

20. Wildcard/writer’s choice

► interactions with a crush because i’m into this pairing

Lysander isn’t exactly a quiet man, but there’s a subtleness to him that becomes starkly obvious when he’s viewed as a Tevinter mage, and not as the friendly alchemist that the Inquisition has come to know. It speaks of years lost, the empty echo where something should be, and very few have broached the space. 

The echo seems less intense around Dorian, Lysander finds. Smaller, more confined, somehow. He isn’t sure if it’s the familiarity of Tevinter that he finds in the man, or if it’s something else entirely - a kindness, a necessary affirmation of who he is that up until now, he’s never received. Regardless, it shapes his interactions with Dorian in a way that it doesn’t with anybody else. 

[gwynbleiddyn]

Elfroot for Lysandar!

Elfroot :: What is a small, mundane thing that brings your character great comfort?

oooh, man, Lysander definitely has a lot of creature comforts, but i think one of the things he enjoys the most is incense for his study. it’s something homely that reminds him of his time in the Imperium, but also his time in Rivain. he always has something burning when he’s in for long nights of study or documenting his work!

dragon age oc ask meme

[gwynbleiddyn]

“Skyhold isn’t quite Minrathous or Dhavan’an, but I’m sure I’ll live, Inquisitor.”

“See that you do, Lysander. I’d hate to have to tell Dorian that the last tolerable brain cell in this place got eaten by frostbite.”

[gwynbleiddyn]

1, 2, and 10 for Lysander? :D

2 + 10 got snapped up ;o; but 1 is here in all its glory

1. their voice

It’s... very neutral? Not high pitched, but not low either. He speaks clearly and deliberately from his chest, if only to alleviate some of his own anxieties about how he sounds. Soft-spoken, but in a way that you’d probably be able to fall asleep to his voice no matter what shape the words might be taking. It makes his voice all the more potent when anger starts to seep in - like a sharp crack, a sudden pitch. 

On some days, it sounds raspy and croaky. That’s an effect of the alchemy Lysander practices on himself. Over time, his voice settles into something a little deeper.