#dasovertaker

[razzberrydazz]

Me? Resharing my Josephine Montilyet x Inquisitor Lavellan art? On Valentine's Day? Very likely. Take my Inquisitor OT Lavellan out on a date with Josie in Val Royeaux as a treat.

[razzberrydazz]

Penmanship

A Dragon Age Inquisition fic - Josephine and OT Lavellan, genfic

"Inquisitor, I encourage you to work on your penmanship. These reports are illegible. I was wondering why you kept putting off turning in your mission reports, but this? I implore you to rewrite them with a more careful hand."

Josephine hands the stack of unreadable parchment back to Inquisitor Lavellan, exasperation furrowing her brow.

"Oh, right, about that... you know how the Mark is on my left hand? Well I happen to be left handed. It makes writing, well, quite a painful endeavor." Inquisitor OT sheepishly takes the parchments back, clearly not intending to rewrite any of them.

"You're left handed? Have you been writing them with your marked hand this whole time?!"

OT stifles a chuckle at the indignation from their dear ambassador. They hold up their hands in mock surrender, that characteristic lopsided grin on their face.

"I've actually been practicing with my right hand, since the Mark hurts to write with. It's, ah, going slowly, learning to write legibly and all. I promise I'm trying, Josie!"

Josephine sighs, then pushes herself out of her chair to approach them. She takes Lavellan's hands into hers, frowning at the marred green and darkened veins spreading over their left hand.

It's gone up their wrist by now, creeping up their arm day by day. What will happen if the mark takes over their whole body? Will they die? Should they nip the problem in the bud by amputating so that the Mark poses a threat to their life no longer?

The ambassador shakes the worrying thought away, instead focusing on sitting the Inquisitor down and handing them a quill and parchment to practice with.

"I know as a Dalish elf, you never went through finishing school. I had to learn to write both in print and cursive, and write both perfectly legibly. I also learned how to do calligraphy, but that's besides the point. It's nigh time you learn to improve your penmanship."

"Are you posing as my penmanship teacher, dear Ambassador? I'm flattered you'd want to take the time to teach me, I know how busy you can get with all your responsibilities."

"I doubt you'll practice this otherwise, judging by how many reports you haven't turned in, and your general avoidance of writing in general."

That earns a nervous chuckle from the Inquisitor. They pick up the quill with their left hand, then palm it into their right. Their hands tremble slightly with each movement. While they've been able to still the tremor in their Marked hand in order to cast spells, it doesn't seem to translate to their right hand for ease of writing.

"Alright. Start by writing out the Common alphabet, lower and uppercase. Try it with both hands so I can see what you're working with."

It takes a few minutes of effort for them to write with their right hand and make it even half legible. With their left hand, they write very quickly, grimacing in pain as they do so, and the resulting hurried cursive is just as illegible as the chicken scrawl script from their right hand. Even a cypher would do little to decipher the markings their pen leaves on the parchment.

"Tell me, inquisitor, can you even read your own handwriting?"

After a pause of squinting at the still drying lines of writing, OT shakes their head no.

Josephine sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose with exasperation. "Okay, try again. You need to practice this until not only you can read your handwriting, but other people as well. Specifically me, since I have to sort through your reports."

"I can practice this in my own time, Josie. Pinky promise, I'm not going to blow it off. I know you should have a meeting with that board game loving noble soon, and I'd hate to eat into your card game playtime with her!"

"Inquisitor, before you-" OT places the quill and parchment back on Josephine's desk and steps past her back towards the hallway, much to Josephine's chagrin. Never resting, never content staying in one place long, so busy all the time. Do they get enough sleep? Do they sleep? The bags under their eyes are evidence against that.

Well, Lavellan was right, Josephine does have a meeting with said noble soon, and she must prepare for the resulting headache of dealing with her. Seems she'll have to address their penmanship at another time.

---

Several days pass, and both the Inquisitor and Ambassador have been too busy to even sit down and chat for more than their daily briefings in the war room. She's seen the Inquisitor speaking with Leliana in the main hall, walking from the library in the main tower of after having talked with Dorian or Solas, walking the ramparts beside Cullen's office, sparring with Cassandra and Iron Bull in the newly built sparring ring by the Herald's Rest tavern. Sitting on the roof of said tavern with Sera and Cole eating cookies. Feeding the horses treats in the stables while joking with Blackwall. Gossiping with Vivvienne.

One day while Josephine walks out from her office by the war room down the main hall and host of steps, she spots Lavellan sitting on the roof of Herald's Rest with parchment and ink. They're using a piece of wood as backing to write, face scrunched in concentration as they etch into the parchment with a quill.

Oh, they're practicing on their own after all. A smile flits on Josie's face as she makes her way down the steps and OT notices her in the distance and waves. She waves back.

The next day, Josephine finds a stack of reports on her desk, addressed from Inquisitor Lavellan. From a quick leaf through, the writing is legible. The bottom of the stack is a letter from them, in deliberate and careful cursive.

Like the finish on a fine piece of woodwork, I will finish what I started.

I jest, I jest, but I did want a way to show you I've been trying, and I care. Hope your report readings go more smoothly from now on, my dear Josie. xoxo

~ Inky OT

Underneath the writing is a crude drawing of cheese, and stick figures of the Inquisitor sitting on a bench with Josephine with hearts drawn around them. Such a cheesy romantic, that elf. Sera's been rubbing off on them with the margin drawings on their reports.

[razzberrydazz]

Seen other dragon age lovers drawing their inky's icons/tokens and I wanted to give it a shot. May redo this later to better match the game style but I wanted to do it with my usual stylings first. OT Lavellan how I've missed you.

[razzberrydazz]

2021 Tarot Card for my Inquisitor OT Lavellan, based on the Judgement Tarot card, done largely with a pastel textured brush in MediBang Paint. Took me about a week of on and off working on it, I'm still very happy with how this came out!

If anyone finds me and knows this OC of mine congrats you're old now!

[razzberrydazz]

Here, take my first psychic damage isekai crackfic, enjoy. TLDR is a deranged kobold paladin who worships Hatsune Miku is whisked away by a nautiloid and becomes a tadpoled adventurer and somehow ends up the leader of whatever companions she meets, even though she Clearly should not be put in charge of ANYTHING.

Made this for a friend to give them psychic damage, they lovingly told me "Your energy could be used for the greater good but yet you decide to violate the Geneva Convention instead. *continuously and actively violate the geneva convention **MY BAD**" and that's how I know I've done a good job making written psychic damage. They also said the fic was amazing in a footnote which is high praise to me.

[razzberrydazz]

I did a mild ShadowZel fic that's about their first long rest at camp and Shart's qualms about Lae'Zel's harness top. Take it.

It was inspired by tahthetrickster!

[razzberrydazz]

Hhh so I'm taking out my body image problems on my Durge and on Shadowheart and this fic is the result of that. TLDR is Shadowheart is chubby and has body dysmorphia, both her and Rana (my Drow Dark Urge) have eating disorders but in opposite directions, and Rana tries their best to help Shart feel better about herself and get along with Lae'Zel who keeps staring at her (in a gay way but Shart thinks it's in a judgemental way).

Topics include self harm, body image issues, dysmorphia, food issues, EDs, cult mindsets, Durge-typical intrusive thoughts and violence, canon typical violence, sadomasochism, possible kink, yadda yadda, if ya don't like then don't read ya know the drill.

[razzberrydazz]

Time to ramble on about my Durge OC Ranarox's backstory of before and after they became the head of the Bhaalist cult! Content warning for death and violence obviously, this is the child of a murder god after all. I enjoyed writing this out finally. Also, mild DurgeTash mention, I love that sleazy man.

TW for mentioned animal cruelty and death, blood and gore, suicidal ideation, dissociation, BG3 spoilers, listen this is a Bhaalspawn they are not gonna have a nice happy backstory. DLDR.

The Bhaalspawn was found swaddled in a basket in the middle of a dying forest fire, the flames miraculously having not scorched the poor child (in fact it appears as if the flames originated From the child in how those flames spread). Though smoke choked the several unfortunate souls who stumbled upon the child, the babe slept peacefully through the smoke and ash. They looked just old enough to have been weaned, with no sign of possible parents. There is no note, no mention of family, no sign of where this child could have come from.

Not wanting to leave the child for dead, those that discovered the basket carried the child away from the fire and the forest and back towards their caravan. They were a traveling circus troupe - The Raucous Rooks - made up of adventurous misfits and runaways who lived on the road and lived to delight the crowds they attracted.

After unwrapping the babe and cleaning the ash off their face, they determined the child must be a drow. Strange. Usually they'd assume drow would just kill a child outright instead of leave it to die in the wilds like this, but it's not completely out of the question. Luckily there is one drow in the troupe, a seldarine drow, a kindly woman called Rox La'Rouge who took it upon herself to raise the child as her own. She named the babe Rana, an easy name to say, for ease of calling for them when they're needed.

As Rana grew old enough to walk and speak, Rox and the rest of the troupe taught them various skills to perform in the circus - juggling, balancing plates on sticks, cartwheels, tightrope walking, the like. Rana basked in the praise they got from every stunt they successfully pulled off. All Rana wanted was to make Rox and the ringleader Rook happy, and every time they displeased their found family they felt like scum of the earth. The ringleader was hard to please.

They were a courageous kid - perhaps overly so - as they always wandered into places they shouldn't be and got scrapes and bruises from climbing to where they shouldn't go. Rox had to save Rana from being the troupe's pet displacer beast's dinner on more than one occasion. Rana was convinced they could make the kitty like them enough to let them pet them, despite it all.

When they were old enough to confidently walk the tightrope, the ringleader Rook Haven added them to the official circus act, and with each subsequent performance their stunts got more dangerous. From tightrope walking, to sword swallowing, to juggling flaming clubs, to running across red-hot coals without burning their feet.

Rox La'Rouge the acrobat and Rook Haven the ringleader were the closest thing to parents that Rana had.

Rana was a daredevil and delighted in the challenge, though their adopted mother Rox worries endlessly something would go wrong.

Something went wrong all right.

The circus had stopped just outside of Rivington - where most circuses stop to perform near Baldur's Gate - and Rana was preparing to do their most daring stunt yet. Only 12 years old, and they were planning to do a trapese act through flaming hoops and land on the back of Chewy the Displacer Beast and ride her onto a rolling ball to balance them across some red-hot coals then land safely on the other side. Turns out Rana did succeed in befriending the beast.

There was a fairly new recruit to the troupe, a brash high elf man called Pirello who worshipped Shevarash and looked down upon Rana due to them being a drow. For months he taunted and bullied and antagonized Rana for their perceived heritage, wishing death upon them but just out of earshot of the ringleader so as to not get in trouble. His ire made Rana's blood boil. It awakened a deep bloodlust in them that they hadn't fully felt before. They don't remember that as a toddler, they were caught and scolded numerous times for hurting small animals they found near their camp, or for their brief fixation on ripping wings off of bugs, or that their affinity for sharp objects is why they were always delegated to balancing stunts instead of more dangerous acts like knife-throwing.

During Rana's first attempt at their latest act in front of a live audience, Pirello sabotaged it, and the ball Chewy was meant to land on rolled away before she could get onto it. The beast howled in pain as the coals burned her paws, and Rana fell off her back as she dashed off the platform towards the exit flaps of the tent. The crowd broke out in panic and screams as the distressed displacer beast growled and roared at anyone who got close, and Rana screamed out in agony as they fell onto the glowing coals. Their skin sizzled, smoke searing their eyes, Rana forced themself to their feet and with all their strength jumped off the platform and dashed to get to Chewy.

"Chewy, please, it was an accident, I'll get your paws healed I promise! Chewy-"

Rana's pleas to calm the beast are interrupted by its claws lashing out and clawing them in the face, piercing their right eye enough that it oozed dark blood and strange blackness down their face. They were not a normal child. The scleras of their eyes turned black as the red of blood rage and death consumed them. The overlapping stampede and yells of the absconding crowd deafened any reason left in them as they made eye contact with Pirello, grinning cruelly at them from across the tent. Then all black.

Rana didn't realize what happened until they were blinking the blood out of their remaining good eye and realizing they taste blood on their tongue. They were definitely in shock. As their vision cleared, what came into focus was their hands and arms covered in blood and half-submerged in that damned half-elf's chest cavity. His face brutalized, eyes gouged out with little fingers, small nails clawed through his skin, childish teeth had tore through his teeth and neck. The blood was still gushing from his exposed artery, though it was clear he was no longer alive. Rana felt the sickening squelch of flesh and sinews in their hands, and looked down to see they had torn his ribs and heart apart. The gleam of the blood and guts hid the still hissing burns on their hands. Their heart was pounding in their head.

Dimly they heard screaming, clearly directed at them, but they for some reason did not care. The scene felt so far away. This can't be real. This has to be a dream, right? They look over to see Chewy, lying dead, having been impaled by a guard's spear for attacking the audience. The blood pounding in Rana's head drowns out the surrounding sounds again, the red is creeping in. This has to be a nightmare. This can't be happening!!!

Numbly, as if they were watching themself act in third person, Rana got up from kneeling beside Pirello and pulled their hands out of his chest. Metal gleams in their bloodied hands. A knife? When did they find a knife? Ah, Pirello's sheathe on his belt is empty, it was his knife.

Rana blankly walks towards the slumped body of their beloved Chewy, paying no mind to the screaming and adults waving to get away or brandishing weapons to threaten them. Rana sees themself point the knife at chewy, then at the guard now pointing a spear at them and yelling for them to freeze, then in a blur they're running at the guard with the knife - someone runs to intervene! The knife finds purchase with taut muscle and supple flesh, blood sails through the air in a glittering symphony of pain. The knife found itself in the belly of not the guard, but of Rana's mother, Rox. The scene comes in and out of focus as Rana stares dumbly up at Rox, who clutches at the dagger and falls to her knees and reaches to grab Rana's shoulder, her mouth open in a silent scream. Pain, confusion, betrayal, and agony cloud her teary eyes. The blood soaking her blouse is such a pretty shade of red.

In the back of their mind, Rana is screaming at themself to move, act, do something to stop the bleeding, to save their mom from this fate of bleeding out. Please. Please don't die!!!

But that is not what their body does. No, instead, their hand finds the grip of the knife again and pushes further, deeper, tearing more flesh and pouring more blood onto their sinful fingers.

Their mother's face contorts in agony, she doesn't know why this is happening, why is her happy daredevil child doing this to her?!?! She never gets an answer. Rana's teeth meet wailing flesh and bury deep in the contorting muscles of the neck, the hot bright water of life gushing onto their face and pooling in their torn right eye socket. It's horrifying. It's thrilling. It's disgusting. It's....familiar. The red. It seeps deeper into their vision until it is all they see, all they feel. Red. Blood red.

-

Laughter breaks them out of the bloodlust stupor, then slow clapping. Rana uses their sleeve to wipe the blood out of their eye to see the scene has shifted, time has passed, the guard and ringleader and the rest of the troupe lie dead in the tent, their hands missing and in a pile all at Rana's feet. Several shrouded figures make their way around the perimeter wearing decor of blood and bones, bone-wrought daggers glinting in their hands. Emblazoned on their chests and backs is a bloody symbol of a skull surrounded by blood droplets.

The clapping comes from a peculiar imp-like man, with a hooked beak of a nose and strange hat with a snake skeleton clinging to the rim. A gross, disgusting, vile creature, spittle clinging to his thin lips as he smiled at the both horrified and rage- numbed child. "I was wondering when you would finally wake up, master! Oh, it is so good to finally meet you! Of course I will make all the arrangements for your room and board, your father is so happy you have finally realized your potential!"

"My.....father.......?" Rana's voice feels foreign in their blood-slick throat. Scratchy, low, gravel, the innocence of their youth lost in an instant. Still they yell in the back of their mind fruitlessly as they watch their body shuffle towards the imp man, bloodied knife still in their hands. No matter how hard they try, the red has taken over, and they can't swim out of it back to their own body again. What manner of being is this? Are they a puppet to some murderous guile? To some Dark Urge that bewitches them?

The imp hums excitedly as he leads them away, the other shrouded figures falling in step behind them reverently.

"Yes, your father! He is very happy to see you, to see you've finally made contact with your most unholy lineage! Your father Bhaal, of course! You will do well to please him, my lord! You mean the world to him!"

Nothing is making sense. Bhaal? The Lord of Murder?!?! Rana thought they had no true parents, they were abandoned in a forest! Their 'father' was Rook, and Rook was dead with the rest of the troupe! Their parents were dead....by their own hand. Even though they don't remember all the events, they inexplicably know They did it. Oh gods.

Revulsion and nausea coil up in their chest, and finally the red cleared enough for them to move without the strange puppeteering violence-fueled numbness. Rana throws the dagger away and falls to the ground clutching their head, their body wracked with sobs.

"Nononononono! That's not my father! Get away from me! Get away get away get away!" Rana screamed in vain and the childish pitch of their voice returned. The imp merely tutted in disapproval, and with a cry of dismay and fear Rana found themself being carried off by the two shrouded men behind them.

"Tut tut tut, I should have expected it would not be so easy. No matter, in due time you will see life through your father's eyes. Murder runs in your veins, dear one, and you will do well to embrace it!" The imp leads the shrouded men off, as Rana writhes and squirms in vain in their vice grip.

-

Forced down into the bowels of the earth, into the temple of Bhaal, where Rana was kept as its captive and its caretaker. They refuse to forget their family, or what they had done. Named themself Ranarox La'Rouge, to forever hold vigil and memorial to their mother whose life they stole.

Daily did the imp appear, and command Rana do unspeakable atrocities, and daily did Rana reject his suggestions or enact violence on the imp to shut him up. Even after ripping his bony arms off and cutting his tongue out and pounding the imp into fleshy mulch, he would reappear fully intact the next day to tutor the unfortunate Bhaalspawn. Each day the red would skirt around their vision, threatening to take over, and each time Rana would fight the red with all their might and send the pain below.

Each day the fight got harder and harder, and their resolve grew smaller and smaller. Until one day the red never left. They learned to relish the blood and gore they left in their wake, the pain and agony they caused, even the agony they felt when punished for disobeying their father's wishes. Pain became home. Blood was their only respite.

-

Rana met Gortash in their thirties, after they had made an accomplished assassin and brutalizer of themself in Bhaal's name. The voice of little daredevil circus troupe Rana had slept dormant for years after the red took over their vision. But something about this sleazy, dark haired man makes that small voice stir. The red fades ever so slightly when they talk to him, when they plot with him. They might not see clearly entirely, but they see clearer than they did before. The fog lifts much like it did when they escaped from a misadventure in Barovia several years prior.

He told them he'll fashion them a new eye to fill the empty socket in their head, as a token of his affection. He told Rana that they would rule the world together. Rana told him they would save him for the last, they would cherish his presence until the very last moment. They had forgotten what love felt like, but perhaps they almost felt that for the dastardly Baneite that stole the Crown of Karsus with them. They certainly held no love towards the other Bhaalists, who either prostrated with blind reverence or plotted their death in jealous envy.

Rana knew Orin was jealous, was plotting. Rana did not care. The red had seeped away from their vision enough for them to see, after Gortash gave them a new eye, and they saw the horrors they had unleashed. They were better off dead than causing more death.

If only Orin had actually finished the job instead of letting them live in their idiotic state.

-

Eating the Noblestalk bought from the Bonecloaks shop, didn't bring everything back, but it brought enough. The red was chased away from the edges of Rana's vision to be replaced with astonishing clarity. And horror. They've done so, so many horrible things, and enjoyed it. Even now they still find pleasure in pain. Though with the red gone, it is more their own pain they delight in, less so the pain of others. They deserve to bleed for what they have done.

Astarion is more than happy to use them as his blood bank, but that's not enough. Rana wants every last drop of murderous blood in their veins drained. They want nothing to do with that lord of murder that burned away their childhood and willpower.

Lucky for them, renouncing him at every turn rewarded them with such. Oh how they craved sweet oblivion, only for that damned scribe to bring them back. Dammit! They feel like a little kid again, having accidentally trapped themself in Chewy's cage during cleaning time. Chewy isn't here anymore, but the blood and detritus must be cleaned from the cold metal bars. They must clean up the blood soaked bars of their own life or die trying. For their sake, for their dead troupe's sake, for Shadowheart and Astarion and Lae'Zel and Karlach and Wyll's and Gale's sakes, for all their new friend's sakes, for Baldur's Gate, for the world.

Rana may not think themself a hero, but by the hells, they're trying to be.

(AO3 version below)

[razzberrydazz]

Like a maniac I pulled an all nighter not for something pressing or actually important, but to type out chapter two of my isekai crackfic featuring Ina the kobold. Started this at 10pm and finished this at 6:30am, with some intermittent breaks of course. No editing just chaos.

I've officially concerned the friend whom Ina originates from, to the point of her telling me "I am concerned with your obsession with my character, please rest, Ina will be there in the morning I promise" well it's already morning and I am having a blast being the leader of Ina the kobold's fanclub. Hope whoever reads this enjoys my mania made manifest in writing.

[razzberrydazz]

Did I stay up writing Ina isekai this time? No! Did I perhaps stay up writing something Worse by writing my dark urge's gory backstory? Perhaps! Warning for obvious blood gore violence and death. Did it as a Tumblr post earlier but decided to dedicate a post to the AO3 link version too.

If ya wanna see more about my Durge Rana this is their backstory. Peak the reference to Barovia because I did in fact use them briefly in a Curse of Strahd game I played in.

[razzberrydazz]

Pssst chapter two of my isekai Kobold Miku Paladin fic is up and I've went back to add hyperlinks to various songs that are referenced as well as some of the pictures and fanart done for it. To think this thing already has Fanart. Egads.