#dawn trevelyan

[theluckywizard]

A little illustration for the latest chapter of my long fic In the Shattering of Things.

Cullen and Rose are talking about her rescue and all the hot garbage she endured after Corypheus' dragon snatched her up while she recovers in the mountain pass. Lots to discuss such as:

Stab wound from Red Templar Horror

Dislocated shoulder from Corypheus

Head wound from getting chucked against trebuchet

Survived avalanche and dug herself out

Escaped Samson and his red templar scouts looking for her.

Survived near death from hypothermia in the pass thanks to a timely mystery rescuer

Picked up by Cullen and Cassandra and carried to safety at last

[alienturnipp]

First part of the 6 (and more) fanarts meme - people sent me some cute OCs! 💞Hope I did them right <3

From top to bottom: Reth by @wolfs-dawn Neria Surana Lavellan by @inquisimer Neria Surana by @windwalker57 Irassalin Lavellan by @xochihuacoyotl Thalia Trevelyan by @nirikeehan Malachi Trevelyan by @fthechantry

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

[he-who-reads-until-dawn]

I need an edit of Dragon Age: Inquisition where after Haven falls, instead of everyone singing The Dawn Will Come the Inquisition all start singing Happy Birthday.

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

iyhsb my absolute beloved,,

[curiouslavellan]

I was tagged by @herearedragons to do some picrews (characters, swords) and like Dragons it's all mostly vibes based lol

First is Aurelia and a fancy ceremonial sword I'm sure would get left on a desk if she really had it, because she would have no idea how to use a sword

Second is Helaine, my Pillars of Eternity character, pictured as a mostly normal elf because it's tough to make a godlike in a picrew lol. Her sword is more practical, except that it's on fire, but usually she's on fire so it's not a problem

I'll tag @cactusnymph, @calicostorms, @merrybandofmurderers, and anyone who hasn't been tagged yet but wants to do this

[ir0n-angel]

Just received my commission from @exalted-dawn!

Eve Trevelyan, Inquisitor and unwilling Herald.

[houseaeducan]

Lyra was already getting a little weird about being chosen by andraste but I think she fully snapped wandering through the frozen snow with the thought that andraste would preserve her being the only thing keeping her going

[vultures-and-scavengers]

start.

curly, if any man needed a hobby, it's you.

he's not sulking: the commander of the inquisition doesn't pout.

but he has hobbies! he does! he spars every morning with his officers (wait, that counts, right? he enjoys it), he reads (books on tactics, but it's just lucky he finds the reading he does for his job interesting.), and he... he...

cullen has hobbies, he swears. he just can't... name one.

five minutes later, cullen thinks of one. chess! he likes chess. it's unfortunate annette-- lady trevelyan, he reminds himself-- likes to take dorian with her so much, and leliana is busy, so he can't play as much as he likes.

and sure, ann-- lady trevelyan-- has been in skyhold the past few weeks, and so has dorian, and he still hasn't played recently, but they just got back from adamant.

really, cullen doesn't have leisure time. if he had time, he's sure he'd know some way to fill it. cullen stares at the paperwork on his desk, pondering, telling himself an idea will come to him, any day now.

alright, he's got nothing.

he broods over that enough that he startles when lady trevelyan sweeps into his office, a small stack of papers in her hands. she looks unbothered, moving with a practiced grace as her skirts flow around her. she tilts her head slightly, asking if everything is alright.

oh, sure, he's fine, cullen's just contemplating the monotony of his existence. it's what everyone loves to do. he intends to tell her he's fine, really, but what he says instead is, "am i boring?"

right. he's going to resign and go live alone in the woods, now.

she doesn't react at first, her eyes unblinkingly focused on him, and then her lips purse. "what brought this on?"

that's not a no, he observes.

"ah," she answers for herself while he flails for an answer that doesn't make it look like he's obsessing over something varric said a week ago. he doesn't need to tell her that. she figures it out for herself. "is this about varric's comment?"

he chose the three most perceptive women in thedas to work with. cullen would appreciate it more if they turned that perception on him less. he nods, though.

"i think," she says, and while she always picks her words with deliberation, she seems even more cautious than normal, "that you have been put in positions where you had little time or opportunity to develop hobbies, but it does not follow that you must then be boring."

well, he can't ask her how to find a hobby he likes, so he tries a slightly different tactic. "well, what do you like to do?"

she opens her mouth, closes it, and cullen is rewarded with the rarest of visions: a flummoxed lady trevelyan.

"oh," he says. and then he laughs, because what else is there? it's a tired, disbelieving sort of laugh, because here they are, inquisitor and commander, and they can't think of a single leisure activity between them.

what a pair they make.

she flushes, but she only pushes her shoulders back and stands a little straighter in a defensive sort of defiance. "well, what did you do before joining the templars?"

at first cullen thinks to remind her he was raised on a farm, and that the work started before dawn and lasted until dusk. but he dusts off an old memory and furrows his brow, wondering why he'd let it grow so faded. his uncle had been the town carpenter, and on days cullen had been able to slip away, he'd spent hours in his uncle's workshop.

"woodcarving," he finally answers. it's a start. she escapes the conversation before he can ask what she had once enjoyed, but that's fine. he's learned by now that she's allergic to being known, but if he opens a door and gives her space, eventually she'll walk through it.

blackwall is easily convinced to part with spare bits of wood, and because cullen is still ferelden, he attempts to carve a mabari first. its terrible, but its a start.

he tries to carve a bird next. birds are much simpler. his raven hops closer, sitting on his shoulder as he sits back, summoning childhood memories to guide his hands. its much better. he locates paint, and paints it black, with a splotch of white on its chest, and he sets it next to his raven's perch.

it makes his raven seem pleased, and his raven can't tell him he's terrible at painting. its an ideal location.

as he carves a second bird one evening, lady trevelyan appears, a steaming mug of cocoa in her hands, and thick furs wrapped around her shoulders. he reminds her its summer and receives a haughty glare in response.

but he spins his chair around and she settles herself onto the couch shoved against the wall behind his desk, and slowly, shyly, lady trevelyan tells him she's fascinated by herbalism, by the histories behind how different plants are used and how the uses have changed over time.

he asks if shes tried growing her own, but she shakes her head, and tells him in a voice she can't quite erase the wistfulness from that its not lady-like.

he swallows his first instinct, which he still thinks is a quite reasonable one, to tell her to hang the nobility and what they think. but lady trevelyan has bound herself to their rules in order to play their game, and she is only more visible now. he's had (and lost) that argument.

"and?" he finally asks.

lady trevelyan-- no, annette-- looks over at him, and she has no answer. her confused expression fades, replaced by blank neutrality, but she sips at her cocoa. the silence that follows is more contemplative than tense, and when she speaks, its only to ask if he'd be willing to share more about how he learned woodcarving.

cullen lets her change the subject, the door opened. he tells her of his uncle, of the woodshop nestled up on the hill behind the baker's store, and of learning how to use his uncle's tools. later he'll savor the memory of wrapping his hands around hers, showing lady trevelyan-- annette-- how to hold the whittling knife so she won't hurt herself, her side pressed to his as she listens to him talk.

and three weeks later, a rather terribly painted mourning dove carving sits in a planter with an over-watered and drooping embrium.

its a start.

[leviiackrman]

Yavanna Trevelyan, Dragon Age: Inquisition || Jordan Parker, Until Dawn

Isaac Wattleseed, The Witcher 3 || Margot Durand, Attack on Titan

Qui’en Amanita, Daggerheart || Ziri, The Legend of Korra

I was tagged by my beloveds @crownrots + @rhettsabbott to use this picrew, thank you bbies!

Tagging: @risingsh0t @simonxriley @marivenah @bbrocklesnar @confidentandgood @unholymilf @florbelles @thedeadthree @shellibisshe @roofgeese @aezyrraeshh @faerune @tekehu @jackiesarch @zevlor @minaharkers @sergeiravenov @carlosoliveiraa @rosenfey @queennymeria @shadowglens @nokstella @imogenkol @heroofpenamstan @fenharel @alexxmason @pensdragon @rolangf @gwynbleidd @solasan @bigbywlf

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the competition is won.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. End. Words: 1,762. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 50: Wanted

It was hard to overstate how impossible it was to marry Trevelyan off. A mage of such little accomplishment, and such signifcant unimportance, she had always been unwanted.

And thank the Maker for it.

For had she not been so magnificently undesirable, Trevelyan would have none of what she had now: a home; an occupation; a hope, for her future.

And she would certainly not be preparing to tell Cullen that she cared for him.

But she was. Within the sanctuary of her room, she readied. Her hair was tidied into place, her dress selected and draped over her body. In the little looking-glass upon her dresser, she inspected herself for the thousandth time.

Caught, within her reflection, were the golden rays of a setting sun, filtering through her window to herald the arrival of the evening hour. The moment had come.

Trevelyan begged the trinkets upon her desk to bring her luck. Beside her book of astronomy and a neatly-folded napkin, lay an onyx-encrusted Orlesian mask, a ribbon of pink chiffon, and a little wooden chess piece. Reminders.

They’d be proud of her. They would support her.

(They’d want the gossip after.)

Smiling, emboldened by their memory, Trevelyan found the courage to leave the room.

The corridors of the castle beyond carried on as if normal, blissfully unaware of what transpired within her mind. No soul she passed could tell how extensively it practiced the words she’d practiced all night and all morn:

Cullen, I care for you.

Such a simplification. Those few words alone could not tell of how every time she heard his voice, her ears did warm. Of how every time he smiled in her direction, her eyes could not bear the sight. Of how every time their fingers brushed, her body gnawed itself from within.

But that was perhaps a lot to say, so the simplified version would have to do.

All words fell away, however, as she reached his tower. Skyhold came to a hush, breath and breeze the only sounds. The drum-beat of her heart quaked through the valley. Mountains watched, in anticipation.

Ancient, gnarled wood stood between them. A door Trevelyan feared to open. She raised her hand to knock.

The door opened anyway.

A startled messenger appeared on the other side. With a hasty, “Sorry, ma’am,” they hurried past, and left her to the room beyond. Trevelyan shook the concern of their business from her mind, and peered inside.

Cullen’s office was warm, inviting. Candles flickered in every corner, an intimacy radiated by their glow. His desk had been cleared of its usual clutter, place settings prepared on either side. A chair waited, for her to take it.

Cullen already occupied another. But his mood did not match that of the room. He leant hard upon his hands, eyes shut firm. Only when her foot crossed the threshold, did he look up.

“Arcanist,” he greeted, solemnly rising from his seat. “Are you well?”

“I am,” Trevelyan confessed. “And—you?”

Cullen shook his head. “I am afraid I can’t stay.”

“What?”

He made his way around the table, hand trailing its prefectly-prepared surface. “We’ve received word, from the Champion—the Grey Wardens have been corrupted. The Inquisitor has called the War Council. We may be at war with Adamant.”

Everything Trevelyan had been worried for mere minutes ago now paled. Though words could hurt, the theatre of battle could kill. And a general must ride with his army.

“How soon will you march?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

“...At dawn.”

Breath spilled from her lungs. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no—it’s… I understand. It cannot be helped.”

The Maker had a wicked sense of humour. Truly, at last, urgent business did call him away. Yet it was this. Yet it was now.

“You can stay, if you like,” he offered, as if a concession. “You may eat—I can still have the food brought.”

“What about you?” Trevelyan asked. She meant it more ways than one.

So did he: “I’ll be all right.”

His hand almost reached for her, but any attempts at gestures or reassurances died in place. Though the ache upon his face told the story of a man who wished to do something to fix this, there was, in truth, nothing to be done.

“I’ll try and see you before I depart,” he told her, his only consolation.

“Thank you,” she said.

Little more to do or say, he retreated from her side. Though she could feel his lingering gaze, linger he did not. The War Council beckoned.

“Wait—”

She said it before she’d even had chance to contemplate what came next. Cullen halted at the door. Anticipating.

“Yes?”

Trevelyan resolved herself. She would not have this moment taken from her. She would not allow him to leave, to march off to battle, for Maker-knows-what to happen—not without first knowing this:

“Cullen, I care for you.”

The candles flickered. Cullen’s fingers slipped from the door handle. His voice was but a whisper:

“You… even after everything..?”

Even after everything. “I thought you should know.”

The door was abandoned; he padded towards her. “Are you certain?”

“I am,” she said. He drew in close. She asked, “Do you..?”

“I do,” he murmured, “also. Care for—care for you, I mean. As well.”

Trevelyan's breath caught. Maker, let this be real. Let this not be a dream. Let her not have imagined this.

Yet here he was, before her. She hadn’t imagined it. She hadn’t imagined any of it. The pining looks, the accidental touches, the hopeful invitations—they had all been meant. And they had all been meant for her.

Cullen whispered, “I didn’t think, after all that’s happened, that you would…”

“I do,” she reassured him, “I do.”

His anxious face softened to a smile, the warmth of it flushing Trevelyan’s cheeks. Unable to meet his eye, her gaze instead settled upon that smile. And the lips that formed it.

Cullen must have noticed, for he cleared his throat, and withdrew.

“I should... get to the War Council,” he told her, guilt strung through his voice. “But, we could talk, later?”

“Yes,” Trevelyan agreed, wholeheartedly, “please.”

“Good”—reluctant, he took a step from her—“good.”

Her eyes did not leave him, as strode for the door. Nor did his leave her, even as he opened it. And though his hand remained upon the handle, his feet hesitant to pass the threshold—with one last smile, he slipped on through.

And was gone.

Yet in Trevelyan’s mind, he remained, for within, she replayed the moment over and over and over. He cared for her. Maker, he cared for her. Weeks ago, she would not have wished to hear such a thing—but now, it was all she wished to hear. He cared for her! And she—

The door slammed open. Trevelyan had little time to express her surprise—as Cullen marched back in, took her by the waist, and asked:

“I… May I—?”

She kissed him. And, Maker—

Their lips collided as if shaped for one another, as if sculpted by the same godly hand. His, warm and wetted, were as tender in their touch as the man to whom they belonged. There was a tangible distinction between their caress and that of his scar, and there was an irreplacable intimacy in the knowledge of it. She did not know how she would bear it.

But bear it she would, for the kiss was worth it. No sensation in all of Thedas could compare to the sensation of him. To have the barriers between them burnt to ash; to feel the fire within him intertwine with her own; to succumb and melt into his form—it was everything she had ever longed for. He was everything she had ever longed for.

When at last he withdrew, her eyes did open. She had not realised they were closed.

“That was… really nice,” Cullen murmured, himself too dazed for grander description.

“Only one,” she whispered, “or more?”

“More,” he replied.

Their lips connected again, and the sensation was no less divine the second time. Nor the third. Nor the fourth.

It was sweet, slow, satiating. Her curiosity to know the touch of his lips had long become a hunger which only they could satisfy. Dinner was unnecessary. His was a nectar she could sup on for eternity.

If only they had that eternity. But into their next kiss, she murmured:

“Shouldn’t you be on your way to the War Council?”

His reply was spoken upon her lips: “In a moment.”

Trevelyan had no objection. She would fight the war herself, for a moment more of this. But she wasn’t the one who had to.

“Cullen—”

He kissed her again, as if to stop her from saying it.

“Cullen...”

One more—and he finally relented:

“All right.”

Though their lips parted, their foreheads remained as one, each rested gently upon the other.

“You cannot forsake your duty,” she warned.

The tip of his nose still trailed her skin, as if in search of another kiss: “Don’t tempt me.”

She stroked his hair back into place. “So you do find me tempting?”

He caught her hand, and brought it to his lips. “Naturally,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the centre of her palm. Trevelyan curled her fingers around it, and kept it safe within.

“The stars are out tonight,” she told him.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

“Yes.”

She leant in, to leave a final kiss upon his cheek; but felt his stubble graze her skin, as he turned and caught her by the mouth one last time.

It was only when he began to linger that Trevelyan did object.

“Cullen,” she whispered.

His lips withdrew, his body parted. The loss of his warmth and pressure left a chasm. The reluctant and hesitation of it was shared between them. Their hands remained entwined until the last; until he took one step too many, and his fingers slipped away.

“Farewell,” he told her.

“Another time,” she replied.

One last look, one last smile, and he left the room. For good, this time.

Trevelyan collapsed against his desk. Her fingers traced the path of his lips, across her own, onto her skin, burning the memory into her mind, so that it would never leave her.

A feeling welled within her chest, entirely unfamiliar. But as she wiped the first, joyful tears from her cheek, she recognised it.

Wanted. Finally, wanted.

[leggywillow]

The Path of Most Resistance (3070 words) by leggywillow Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Carver Hawke/Female Surana, Carver Hawke/Female Warden, Anders/Female Hawke (Dragon Age) Characters: Female Surana (Dragon Age), Female Warden (Dragon Age), Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Carver Hawke, Male Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Anders (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Warden Carver Hawke, Grey Warden Secrets, Trevelyan is Not the Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), The Taint (Dragon Age), Established Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added Series: Part 3 of The Mistakes of Men and Monsters Summary: After (supposedly) killing Corypheus alongside her partner Carver Hawke, Warden Adara Surana is determined to cure the Taint that dooms them to an early grave. When Anders blows up the Kirkwall Chantry, however, her plans are thrown into chaos. Carver rushes to Kirkwall to help his sister, Champion Vivian Hawke. With a startling new surprise of her own, Adara rushes after him.

Templar Dacre Trevelyan is lost and grieving. He’s determined to drag Anders to Starkhaven to face justice, and he’s willing to go through Vivian Hawke—and anyone else—to do it. He crosses path with Adara Surana instead. It’s kind of a disaster.

I'm back at it! I've started Part 3 of my Dragon Age series, and I'm excited and nervous about it!

DAFF Tag List: @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @dreadfutures @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @oxygenforthewicked @nirikeehan @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @blarrghe @agentkatie @delicatefade @about2dance @warpedlegacy

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Chapter 37: From the Dust

In the Shattering of Things, Chapter 37: From the Dust

My Dragon Age: Inquisition long fic featuring my OC Rose Trevelyan, my Level 1 archer who romances both Cullen (slow burn) and Garrett Hawke (fast burn)

Longfic Summary:

Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.

Chapter Summary: Broken and fading, Rose is recovered from the mountain pass above Haven, another seeming miracle. As she recovers she wrestles with the ordeal she faced, all that she survived, the forces that enabled her survival and everything that stretches before her.

CW: Graphic descriptions of injuries and medical treatments

Excerpt:

By the time I wake again there’s daylight filtering in through the gaps in the canvas flaps. My arm is bound in a firm sling and my shoulder hurts less, but I can still feel the distant squeal of the red lyrium in the back of my mind. Across the tent, Candlelight wavers on a makeshift table where Cullen is hunched over a journal scratching notes. His quiet company, the gesture of his presence while I slept fills me with unexpected bliss which punches forcefully through the grief and guilt and exhaustion.

I attempt to roll up to sitting, the cot creaking and he jolts to attention from where he’d been referencing a book.

“Keeping out the riff raff?” I ask, attempting some lightness in spite of everything.

“You’re awake,” he says, stating the obvious but with relief, his expression soft, setting down his pencil and coming sheepishly across the tent. “How do you feel?”

“Like I was chucked against a trebuchet like a ragdoll,” I groan, clutching my shoulder in its sling. Cullen helps me up to sitting and then steps back again fidgeting anxiously.

“I offered to keep watch in case you woke up. Let me get Ellendra.”

“No, no–” I protest. “Just, stay for a minute.” He looks momentarily unsure, no doubt the propriety of my ask weighing on him slightly, but he nods and drags a crate over to sit on.

“Of course.” 

“Can you tell me the situation?” I ask. He runs his hand through his hair, his expression grim. 

“Thankfully we were able to get enough supplies up into the pass to shelter everyone in shifts. But we only have enough food for another week with the strictest rationing. Game is hard to come by up here and we need to start moving.”

“Have we made contact with anyone?” 

“Leliana and I have ravens out to the nearest strongholds and the Fereldan and Orlesian governments, but we haven’t received word from anyone yet. I have scouting teams trekking in three directions but their reports haven’t come back yet. I suspect I’ll have their birds by morning if not earlier.”

“How many are we? How many did we lose?” I ask anxiously. 

“We would have lost a lot more if it weren’t for you,” he says, avoiding the question. 

“Cullen.”

“Best estimate is we lost a hundred and fifty or so. It’s hard to know exactly as we never had official counts of civilians. And the other issue is that morale is low. If we don’t find a way to rally, we’re going to start losing people to their injuries,” he explains. “The healers we have on staff are talented but they are critically low on supplies. And they’re tired themselves.”

“Supplies they’re using on me,” I huff, annoyed with the situation. He chides me with a look. 

“It’s unfortunate, but you’re needed. Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he says. “I’m not sure what to do about the morale, but I’m hoping–”

“We need a direction. Something to look forward to.”

“I know,” he sighs, rubbing his neck. “You’ve always been better at that part. At the moment they don’t know much about how you are, only that you were recovered from the pass. Once Ellendra clears you to leave the tent it would be good to make the rounds.”

“I will,” I nod. Resting on his elbows, his hands clasped, he looks impossibly defeated in spite of having survived the attack of an enemy at least ten times stronger, against all odds. 

“What was Haven like? After,” he asks quietly. I sigh deeply. 

“It was a graveyard. Only the gate and the Chantry withstood the Avalanche. I was able to run to the Chantry’s door and hide around the corner, but I was still buried to my waist. And then the templars came scouting…”

“The templars?” he asks, sitting forward.

“Yes, their general was with them. They were looking for survivors… and me.”

“Samson,” he spits, shaking his head. “I can’t– I can’t believe– no. I can. He only ever wanted two things. He wanted authority. And he wanted lyrium. And I’m sure the Elder One offered them both.” Cullen seemed to be working it out to himself, trying to reconcile the friend he’d once known with the corrupted man who effortlessly pummeled into the snow.

“It must have been hard to see him like that,” I say, not knowing what else to say.

“Hard?” Cullen asks, a little bit forcefully. He shakes his head. “No. In a way it’s completely unsurprising. It makes me sick to think about it. I could have done more to convince the others to come to the Inquisition. I– should have–” He hunches over his knees again and rubs his forehead, his mouth pressed into a bitter frown.

“Cullen,” I say softly. “You can’t take that on yourself. I won’t let you.”

“I wish you luck in stopping me,” he scoffs quietly. He glances up and snorts a regretful laugh. “Forgive me.”

Read the whole chapter at AO3

DAFF Crew Tag List:

@warpedlegacy | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @effelants | @bluewren | @breninarthur | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @dreadfutures | @ir0n-angel | @inquisimer | @crackinglamb | @nirikeehan | @oxygenforthewicked | @mogwaei | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @melisusthewee | @blarrghe | @agentkatie

[nirikeehan]

Happy DADWC! Let's have some Thalia/Cullen, with "Reunion x Defying prophecies" from your Fun Trope Combos list!

Hi Duchess!! Perfect prompt for some post-Battle of Haven early Thalia/Cullen character study, I think.

Also had to add these prompts from @breninarthur and @wolfs-dawn:

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1289

---

Now that Lady Thalia Trevelyan had returned from the dead, Cullen did not know how to speak to her. 

It had been easy at first. The scrappy red-haired mage had looked to him for guidance those months in Haven. Uncertain of the moniker bestowed upon her by the masses, she had peppered him with questions — about leadership, philosophy, religion, and listened with earnest fervor to what he had to say about them. She was young, certainly, but Cullen had every confidence she could grow into the role presented to her. Had been flattered, even, to mold her for command. 

Then everything came crashing down, and Cullen, acting as her commander, sent Thalia off to die. 

He replayed the moves of the battle through his head as the stragglers that called themselves the Inquisition trudged through snow and mountain. The days were brutal and the nights were worse, with ice winds howling down into the narrow rocky passes, and Cullen thought he might freeze a thousand times over. Only the rage boiling in his gut keep his blood pumping, as he ran the plays again and again. In chess, there were times when one must sacrifice a piece, even an important one, but the risks so often outweighed the reward. Try as he might, he didn’t see an outcome that saved her from destruction. He would have to live with that for the rest of his days. 

Maker guide her, she went willingly.

The burden of the march had eased. The train moved with lighter steps, their Herald restored to them. They had a destination, a goal to picture in their minds. Still, Cullen found it difficult to approach her. It was he who had found her, on her knees in the snow. When her lips were blue, he cradled her fragile body to his chest, trying to bring some warmth back into her. He flushed with the memory, in turns frightened, relieved, and… something else. 

Tonight, the cook fires burned brighter, it seemed, after the skies had cleared. He saw her, sitting on the cot in the healer’s tent, where her condition was being monitored, nose in a book. Her hair, auburn and incredibly long, she had coiled around her head in one long plait. She seemed stronger, the color starting to come back to her oval face. For days she had been white as the snow around them, offset only by the spiked tattoo ringing one eye. An extra security measure, Cullen had learned, devised by templars at the Ostwick Circle. It made him vaguely uneasy to behold, but he often found other parts of her face more pleasing  — her bright blue eyes, for instance, or her heart-shaped lips. 

She looked up and spied him, and Cullen’s heart thudded. She smiled at him shyly over the rim of the book, and his feet moved toward her of their own accord. 

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said as he approached. 

Thalia glanced around the empty tent and back to him. “Oh, Commander, as you can see, there’s nothing to intrude upon. I’m alone.” 

“Yes, but you seemed so engrossed.” Cullen motioned to the book.

 Thalia cleared her throat and set it aside. “Just something Mother Giselle lent me. I guess she was conscientious enough to salvage several books from the Chantry before the evacuation of Haven. I wish I’d had that level of foresight.” 

Cullen glanced at the title. The Holy Mysteries of Andraste and Her Disciples. “Ah. I read that one in templar training.” 

“You did?” Thalia’s pale gaze was upon him. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold wind. “What did you think of it?” 

Cullen chuckled. “A touch… fanciful, perhaps.” 

“What? You don’t believe the story of Saint Sylvester slaying the dragon on New Year’s Eve?” The corner of Thalia’s mouth quirked upward. It was nice to see her smile again. 

“Some of the tales are apocryphal at best, if I recall,” Cullen said. Then, he blurted, “You look good.” 

Thalia blinked in surprise. 

“Better, I mean,” Cullen cried, backpedaling. “Healthier. When I saw you in the snow, I feared for the worst.”

Thalia ducked her head shyly. “Thank you. I didn’t mean to scare you then; I was just… very tired.” 

“No need to apologize,” Cullen said quickly, leaning on the hilt of his sword to regain some dignity. “I’m just relieved to see you on the road to recovery.” 

“After rising from the grave, you mean,” Thalia quipped. 

Cullen felt sheepish. “I don’t really believe—” 

“No, I know,” Thalia cut in, laughing nervously. “I already gave my report. It’s very unlikely I was truly dead at any point.” She sighed, glancing at the book. “I am not so sure that’s what the masses think. That’s why Mother Giselle lent me the book. She thought stories of other religious figures might… inspire me, I suppose.” 

“And do they?” Cullen asked softly. He could sense the conflict in her, but didn’t want to push her in one direction or another. Being looked to for leadership was an immense, painful thing, whatever the reason. 

Thalia shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re right, they sound like fictional characters, most of them. Do you think there’s truly been a secret Chantry in Par Vollen for centuries that no one has been able to find, run by an knight-errant Chantry mother?” 

“I suppose stranger things have happened,” Cullen conceded, “but no, I found the accounts of Prester Johanna far-fetched, as well.” 

“As far-fetched as being the Herald of Andraste,” Thalia huffed. “Is this how I’m going to be remembered in the history books? Some mythical figure no one can believe in?” 

“I think that may depend on you,” Cullen said carefully. “We have ways of crafting the narrative around you, but your own deeds and decrees, how you treat others… that’s as telling as the rest.” He smiled in spite of himself. “I think so far, most have wanted to follow you because you give them something to believe in. Your compassion and drive inspire them. Tales of defying death, or slaying dragons, that may come later, but… it’s who you are that makes the most impact.” 

Thalia was looking at him curiously as he spoke. Cullen cut himself off with an embarrassed sigh. “Forgive me, sometimes I do think I like to pontificate a touch too—” 

“No, no, it’s all right. I like listening to you.” Thalia chewed her bottom lip and looked down. “Thank you, Commander. That’s good food for thought.” 

“Right.” Why was Cullen’s heart thumping like that? She didn’t seem to think him a fool, though he certainly felt like one. “I’ll leave you to your convalescence.” 

“You could stay, if you like,” Thalia suggested brightly. “I could read to you. Saint Sylvester was just about to team up with two elven apostates to fight the dragon terrorizing Vyrantium.” 

Cullen hesitated. He had maps to pour over, losses to calculate, casualties to report to Knight-Captain Rylen. As of late, however, when it became difficult to concentrate, he dug through the trunk of his that had survived the Haven onslaught. He sat on the floor of his tent and, with trembling hands, contemplated the one vial of glowing cerulean that sang to him under tunics and greaves and letters from home. He’d been so parched lately, and no amount of mountain fresh ice water could quench it. 

“You’re busy,” Thalia decided, before he could answer. “I understand.” 

Cullen swallowed thickly. “Sometime soon, perhaps. Once we’ve reached this castle Solas has promised us.” 

“Of course.” The book was back in her lap, her eyes straying from his. “Have a good night, Commander.” 

“Yes.” He stifled a sigh, turning to leave. He felt more stupid than ever. “You as well, Lady Thalia.” 

[pulse-oflife]

Prompt #5 // Stamp

Kaitan stared at the pile of letters on the table, unsure at first of what exactly he was looking at. The Lalafell on the other side of the table - Tataru? - had dumped them all there after he had mentioned his sister's name. These were all letters he'd sent - letters he'd addressed to wherever the Scions of the Seventh Dawn had been located, hoping that the mail service would know where to deliver them. He'd never gotten a response, but he'd kept writing in hopes that the Trevelyan he'd heard about really was his presumed deceased sister. Apparently they had made it safely to their destination, but not to the recipient.

"I'm sorry," he said, spending a moment to collect his scattered thoughts, "Why do you have these?"

Tataru unfolded her arms and leaned forward. "The Antecedent and I weren't sure that you were who you said you were." He could see that some of the letters had been opened, presumably to check the contents. "According to all of the information anyone could find, she was the only surviving member of the family." Kaitan flinched a bit at hearing that, hearing that confirmation that his parents and younger siblings had in fact not made it through the Calamity. "You were reported as missing, presumed dead, from the Twin Adders. We had no reason to doubt the report, so when your letters started arriving..." At least she had the grace to look somewhat ashamed. "We decided to hold them and investigate further."

"That can't have taken very long." He gestured towards the pile. "And yet this looks like none of my letters made it to her." Tataru leaned back with a sigh and explained the business in Ul'dah that had driven the Scions to exile and Ishgard. He'd heard some rumors of the sort, but the Gridanian rumor mill hadn't seemed to place much stock in the whole affair. He hadn't either, but reality remained stranger and more awful than anything the bards could dream up. He listened to her story of their time in Ishgard and beyond, though she didn't have as much personal detail to share once his sister had left the city. And of course, once the Scions' name had been cleared, a pile of undelivered letters was the last thing on anyone's mind. Understandable. It stung, but he could understand the logic. "So. What now?"

"She's due back in Ishgard any moment now for a meeting with the Lord Commander," Tataru replied with a small shrug. "His office isn't that far away from here." She smiled at him and made a shooing motion with her hand. "I promise she'll get all the letters!"

Kaitan barely heard the last statement as he bolted out of the small room he'd been staying in, then up the stairs, nearly bowling over an armored Au Ra man who yelled curses after him. It didn't matter - he was going to see his sister.

[dragonologist-phd]

what kind of love are you?

tagged by @thefathersbride to put some of my characters through this quiz! thank you for the tag!

some interesting results here- something of them got something different than what i expect, but the descriptions are intriguing!

Marja Aeducan

Love As A Choice

You choose to love. Love does not come to you easily, but every day you wake up and choose it. It would be so easy, wouldn't it, to grow cold and callous and grim. But you rise to greet the world, making the conscious effort to find something, anything to love. When you fall for someone, you do not kid yourself of their flaws. Instead, you resolve to see them for who they are, mistakes and all and you love them all the same. Your love is work, and it does not come easy. Your love sweats and toils. It is calloused and sunburned; it bears scars and comes with stories. Your love is worn, but it is no less valuable for it. Being loved by you is like being loved by a gardener, a mother, a teacher. Your love may not always be the simplest, but it is worth the effort.

Darvis Brosca

Love as Religion

Devotion, that is the name of your love. Your love is an act of worship. Your love is like witnessing the birth of Venus, like seeing the sun come alive, or the stars fall. When you love, it is because you have found God in a lover. You have found the meaning of life itself in the heart of the one you adore. They are everything to you; they are your Maker, and you are their lamb, their flock, their first and holiest worshipper. When you fall in love, it is as a baptism. You are born anew, made a believer in the divinity of the one you love most. Being loved by you is an ascension; it is holy and golden. It is all-consuming, and all-faithful, loyal as the dog. You will never, ever bite back.

Thalia Hawke

Love as a Threshold

Your love does not ask for much. Your love does not take. Your love is free, and unquestioned, and here for wherever needs it. When you fall in love, it is as gentle as a breath in the night. It is quiet, and it is effortless. It is tender. If your love was a house, it would readily welcome all who come through. If your love was a hearth, it would warm the hands of whoever stopped by, whether for a day, a month, a year, or forever. When you fall for someone, it is without strings, without conditions, without need. You love for the sake of loving, for the sake of caring for those who need it. You love with a giver’s heart and a giver’s hands and are made so much stronger for it. Being loved by you is to always feel at home. Your love may not always be well-received by those unprepared to linger, but it is unforgettable all the same.

Genevieve Amell-Trevelyan

Love as the Dawn

Pastel, saccharine and hopeful, your love rises slow to greet the day. It tiptoes on doe feet and blossoms bit by bit, petal by petal. Love is new to you, isn’t it? A fresh discovery in a world you do not quite understand. Your love loves with bated breaths. Your love swoons and sighs and lingers under awnings. Your love romanticizes. Your love aches as tenderly as a bruise. You’re swollen with desire and idealizations. The perfect kiss, the perfect touch, the perfect partner in life. Your love is wide-eyed and innocent, naive and pristine and oh, so very easily breakable. Being loved by you is to be loved by a child, by a lamb, wooly-eyed and helpless. Oh. I really hope it lasts.

tagging:

@bugdotpng @dujour13 @camelliagwerm @mordred9971 @orime-stories

@first-talon @miseryscrowned @bladesmitten @big-cheesy-productions @arendaes

@bezelusbubulez @starlightcleric @vigilskept @thesolemnhour @ampleappleamble

@rollofleaf @adozentothedawn @undyingembers @milesmentis @serenbach86

@herearedragons @jean-dieu @daisymeade

tag list here!

[warpedlegacywrites]

The Reign, Ch 11 - "No Rest for the Wicked"

Theresa and crew finally return to Skyhold. But there's no time for rest.

The Chantry has told many lies. Theresa Trevelyan is merely one of them. They called her a heretic first, then a savior, then a prophet. She rejects the myth they've made of her life and her suffering. But more than this, she resents their erasure of the truth behind her rise to power. You think you know the story of the Herald of Andraste? Now you will hear the truth. With a little help from Thedas's favorite serial author, of course. This is Part Two of my Reprises and Reprisals series, but I have done my best to make it accessible if you'd rather start here instead. Part One covers the game's beginning up through In Your Heart Shall Burn. Part Two is intended to cover early Skyhold up through the end of the base game (DLC and Trespasser to come in Part Three).

DAFF Tag List: @rakshadow, @rosella-writes, @effelants, @bluewren, @breninarthur

@ar-lath-ma-cully, @dreadfutures, @ir0n-angel, @inquisimer, @crackinglamb

@theluckywizard, @nirikeehan, @oxygenforthewicked, @exalted-dawn-drabbles, @melisusthewee

@blarrghe, @agentkatie, @delicatefade, @leggywillow, @about2dance

@plisuu