#fine dwarven goods

[cryoverkiltmilk]

STUDIO TRIGGER HAS UPHELD THEIR OBLIGATION.

[nilesmoon]

this is going to be a controversial opinion but. while I think that ryoko kui has great character designs, she did take the cowards way by not giving dwarven women beards

[y-rhywbeth2]

Lore: Common Phrases & Words

Accuracy Disclaimer & The Other Stuff [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Abeir-Toril Why it's called the "Forgotten" Realms History | Time & Festivals | Lexicon [1] [2]| Languages | Living in Faerûn [1] [?] | Notable Organisations | Magic | Baldurs Gate | Waterdeep | The Underdark | Geography and Human Cultures --- WIP

Translating some earth phrases and words into their Faerûnian equivalents, plus some words specific to Faerûn; Here's how make friends and insult people in Faerûn. Also they have coffee, guitars and health insurance.

Also included a handful of Waterdhavian phrases and words.

-

Phrases and curses:

"Before all the gods..." - "I swear to god..."

"Well met" - default greeting; hello

"Well again" - greeting between acquaintances, business partners and friends.

"Well enough" - agreement; "ok", "that's fine with me"

“Never undress in a room with a window, a Harper may be near!” – "Be careful what you say, you don't know who's listening. an interesting warning courtesy of Waterdhavian noble matrons.

"Haularake!" - The polite way to say "gods fucking damn it!" while in front of small children.

"Hrast!" - Damn it!

"Hrasted [thing]!" - Damned [thing]!

"[Deity]'s Blood" - eg "Cyric's Blood" Religious oath, rather like jesus christ. Contracted version of Blood of [deity]

I swear that I have seen "Umberlee's Teats" and "Cyric's Balls" said somewhere...

"Being an ox-haunch" - "Being an asshole"

"a breath" - a moment, a second; "wait a breath"

"A breath or two" - A moment/second; eg, "give me a breath or two to finish this."

"A goodly breath or three" - a minute. (Waiting for a notable amount of time, maybe ten minutes, but not that long.) -- The dwarven variant is "but a little while" -- Halflings call it a "long song"

"Counting like a halfling" - Being contrary just to be difficult Most of the Realms counts on their fingers starting with the thumb, halflings do it the other way around.

"Naeth!", "Naed!" - Shit!

"Sabruin" - Fuck you, Fuck off.

"Lay down [good] coin" - "pay [a lot] for something"

“Resourceful as a bard”

"Life's better when you're not a frog." - "Avoid wizards."

“Sweet water and light laughter until next we meet” - A goodbye said between nobles. Technically an elven farewell, but human nobility decided it made them look cultured or something.

"Gone to Daggerford" - Waterdhavian phrase meaning to hide from the law by lying low outside the city

"Black as a black opal" - used to describe people who seem evil, but aren't really. (Especially if they'd dislike you saying so)

- Faerûnian Lexicon:

Scorchkettle - a Karen.

Dining-house - a Restaurant

Glim - Eye-catching, beautiful, flashy

Kaeth - Coffee ~Fireswallow - a colloquial term for Coffee.

Yarting - acoustic guitar

Short scroll - Newspaper

Nandra - mediocre, meh.

Dael, daelin - a year, years

Saer - a term to address nobility when you don't know the proper title, or when they're children

Lackwit - Idiot

Roundskull - a prejudiced idiot who doesn't use their brain; "often applied to local folk who sit drinking in their tavern displaying prejudices and repeating the words of their parents and grandparents, rather than making their own judgements about changing conditions around them, and new concepts, items, and customs."

Handfast - an engagement (to be married) Handfasted - engaged

Goldnose, Goldnosed - Haughty. aka. "Has a stick up their ass." Highnose - as above

Lackcoin - a derogatory term for those living in poverty.

Darkmorning - the early morning hours between midnight and sunrise

Highsun - Midday

the Eavestrough - the Gutter

a Bell - an Hour

a Candle - an Hour

Festhall - a type of establishment found in the Realms. A kind of fusion between an inn, laundromat, spa, night club, brothel and casino. I'll explain these in another post. Suffice to day that BG3 is the most accurate portrayal of how damn horny this setting is that I've seen in a CRPG so far.

Blesséd - an elven loanword referring to immediate family.

Harhand - a labourer (minimum wage employee)

Healthshield - Health insurance, also known as a "healing-bond"

Fire-bond - Fire insurance

Rivvim - horny

Dawnfry - colloquial term for breakfast A common breakfast, especially for travellers at camp, is to quickly fry the leftovers from last night's meal.

Highbite - colloquial term for lunch Long variant is "Highsunfest."

Latebite, Evenfest - Dinner Abbreviation of "Eveningfeast."

the Art - Magic

Lackspell - a weak, or novice wizard

Aloft - Upstairs; "she went aloft/upstairs."

High-coin - Expensive; or referring to a high paying job Low-coin - Cheap; or paying minimum wage

Finework - intricate and valuable metalwork. Silverware and jewellery, for example

Finesmith - a smith who works with precious metals.

Hiresword - Mercenary

Stareyed - naïve

Shraehouse - a type of very small tavern

Fastmud - Cement

a Swords out - a brawl or violent argument

a Smur - a light, misty rain

Beast-men - common word for ogres

Big Folk - Term used by gnomes and halflings to refer to the other races

Longears - term for an elf

Little man - insult aimed at dwarves

a Blackstick - something like a grease pencil. A writing utility made of a stick of thorden (juniper) wood that can be sharpened on one end, which is then slightly charred and used to write with.

a Blandreth - a three legged cooking pot

a Boot - a Traveller

Dadacky - Rotten, Decayed

Heartstop - a Heart attack

Coin - Money; "I've got no coin until I get paid next week."

a Broad Cry - Headline of a newspaper/broadsheet

Holy hand - a temple guard

Tenday - equivalent of a week (10 days instead of 7) Other, less commonly used terms include; an "eve," "hyrar", "ride" or a "domen".

the Elf day - the Weekend. The tenth day of a tenday, sometimes a day of rest.

House storming - a burglary; home invasion

the Realms Below - the Underdark

a Black Robe - a magistrate [Waterdhavian dialect]

a Sun - a platinum coin [Waterdhavian]

a Dragon - a gold coin [Waterdhavian]

a Shard - a silver coin [Waterdhavian]

a Nib - a copper coin [Waterdhavian]

[hollowtones]

I started playing "Tales of Symphonia" with a friend today. It's a game I've always been curious about ever since I saw it in Nintendo Power as a kid, so it feels exciting to finally play the cool thing I saw tiny pictures of in a magazine once.

It's very charming in an early 2000's first-time-the-devs-made-a-game-like-this kind of way. I'm having a good time with it. Every model of a dog I've seen in game has been completely FUCKED. I'm obsessed with the idea of Dwarven Vows.

We've been playing it over Dolphin netplay & my internet's been kinda jank today, which has mostly been fine, but sometimes the text at the end of a battle gets all fucked up, which is mostly just really funny.

[spacebarbarianweird]

headcanons or one-shot (pick your poison!) of astarion and gn!tav celebrating midwinter/winter solstice together? technically, it does exist as a holiday in the forgotten realms! blessed yule as well! :D

I suppose this prompt can't wait forever so here we are. A short fluffy drabble.

Prompt ✶New Beginnings✶ for BG3 Winter Holiday Challenge

Thanks @bhaalbaaby for beta-reading! Especially for re-writing some sentences!

I fucked a bit and didn't notice the requester asked specifically for gn!reader and did f!reader as usual. So, this one is f!reader and I will do gn! later

Winter Solstice

Synopsis: Astarion and Tav spend Winter Solstice in the northern town of Firesheer, and the subject of marriage comes up.

Tags: fluff, comfort

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

You are freezing.

You've never been so far to the north, and you have never understood why people were afraid of winters.

Now, you do.

It's Nightal, 20. The longest night of the year. And probably the coldest, because the only thing you can think of, is how to get inside the inn and hide under fur blankets.

Till snow melts.

You look around. People of Firesheer are festive as if the cold doesn't bother them. They sing and dance, resting after months of hard work in the mines.

You put your hand inside the pockets of your traveler fur coat, golden coins jingling in the pockets. The only redeemable quality about this frozen hell is the danger always lurking. The city is always under attack: orcs, crag cats, giants. Though citizens have their army, they don't mind paying adventurers rather than risking their own people.

"Bracelets! Rings! Necklaces! All of the finest copper and silver!" A dwarf shows you his goods, "Take a look, traveler!"

You look disinterested as you take a look at the jewelry, shrugging at the selection.. You can wear silver things, but Astarion won't talk to you anymore if you put on something like that. Meanwhile copper... He would find it dull.

"No, not interested."

"This is copper of the best quality! Will last for generations!"

You chuckle. There is a very popular joke about things made by dwarves. They think humans are dumb to buy something that lasts only for four generations. Forgetting that the human generation lasts less than a century.

"Look at these bronze rings. They are engraved with protective runes!"

The ring is simple. but there is something elegant, something powerful about it. You look at the runes - "protection", "love", and "safety".

"I will take this one", you say.

"Oh no," the dwarf laughs. "This is a wedding ring, you need two. Unless there are more people involved."

And before you manage to object, both rings are placed in your palm.

And why in nine hells did you decide to buy them?

You've never discussed marriage with Astarion. Boundaries? Traumas? Feelings? Yes. Sometimes, you talk about the future. But such things as marriage never came to your mind.

You have no idea what he thinks about it. You have no idea what you think about it.

But now you have two wedding rings in your pocket. Dwarven bronze will last for centuries.

You look around, trying to notice the familiar silver curls. Astarion has gone to see the ocean at sunset, and you agreed to meet in the city at midnight.

“Darling, there is something utterly nightmarish about a dark cold ocean."

You refused to go. Astarion is already dead - he can even swim there if he desires (the ocean isn't running water, so he will be fine). You, on the other hand, want to keep this heart beating.

Suddenly, a drunk man blocks your way.

"Leave me alone," you mutter, putting a hand on your dagger hidden below the cloak.

"Why is a beautiful woman alone? It's a sin to be on your own at the Winter Solstice."

You step back. The man is much bigger than you, but he can barely stand on his feet. If you were out of the city, you could snatch your dagger - but within the walls, fighting isn't wise.

"So, what d'ya think, pretty girl?" he reaches out for your chin, but before his dirty hand touches your skin, the man is pulled away from you.

"Hands away from my wife", Astarion hisses. "Or I will turn you inside out and feed the crag cats!"

The man recoils. "I-I beg your pardon, didn't know she is... taken."

"Fuck off," Astarion is quiet, but you know - one false move and the vampire will rip his throat.

The man stumbles and walks away as fast as he can. “Thanks”, you mutter, still feeling scared. "How was the ocean?"

"Dark. Cold. Frightening," He wraps his hand around your waist and tugs you closer. There is something possessive in this gesture. You don't mind. "Come on, we have the longest night ahead!"

You shiver.  Night plans are set in stone. Astarion cherishes the nights when he can walk freely and see the world not hiding in shadows, and he rarely wants to walk alone. Besides, you already abandoned him when he went to the seashore. You can't leave him alone again for the rest of the night.

You walk through the city square. The songs are loud and lively, and the festive mood warms you up. Or maybe this is Astarion's presence. You plant a kiss on his cheek and notice he stiffens.

"Let's go somewhere less crowded," you suggest.

Maybe he is afraid people will notice he is a vampire. Maybe big crowds remind him of his hunting spots - who knows how many drunk idiots he would drag to their deaths during the same festivals. 

You walk together in silence until the houses disappear. The winds howl like hungry wolves. The snow reaches up to your ankles.

Astarion kneels and you notice he tries to make a snowball but the snow crumbles in his hands.

"I see what you are doing," You say, "Don't you dare"

"I was just touching snow," He smiles innocently.

You put your hands deeper into the pockets and feel the bronze rings. Wedding rings.

"When that man approached me, you called me your wife."

Astarion turns away as if trying to see something in the distance. "Never mind, just slipped off my tongue."

"Why did you call me that?"

"I am sorry to have offended you with such vulgar words."

"That’s not what I mean. Just weird, considering we have never officiated anything."

"Do you want me to kidnap a cleric and make him marry us? I don't know... I just... " he sighs. "We sleep together. You care about me, and I care about you. I want to be with you until your mortal days are over or until I am killed by some monster hunter."

"And how long have you seen me as your wife?"

He shrugs. "The night in the graveyard, when I realized I'd never truly experienced real lovemaking? When you found me in that cellar, hiding from the sun, and kissed away my fears and pain? One of those nights when I woke you up, screaming, and you held me until the nightmare finally let me go? What about you? Have you ever thought about me as your husband?"

"I mentally married you when you tried to slice my throat. But, I realized you were mine when I noticed you standing between me and danger for the first time,” You say, stepping closer to your love. 

“So, what now?" he asks.

You grin, playfully pushing Astarion into the snow. He either expects that or simply decides to play along.

You straddle Astarion, taking in his expression. He smiles - a very rare joyful smile when he doesn't try to pretend or to laugh things away. It's the real him you saw for the first time on his grave. It's the real him you see in the darkness of the tent when he thinks you are still asleep. The real him who somehow survived his own death.

"What are you up to, little pet?" he grins.

You snatch the rings from your pocket, quickly taking his left hand.

"Will you marry me?" 

You wait for his reaction. Sometimes even the most sincere forms of affection cause him mental pain, and he locks himself inside the shell. Once, he couldn't bring himself to talk to you because you tried to force him to stay inside the tent during a snowstorm.

Maybe it's too much, you think, ready to let him go. It's not like he doesn't like being dominated by you, but it depends on his mood.

"How could I say no?" He grins, allowing you to put the ring on.

You giggle like a little girl, leaning down to kiss him.

"There is supposed to be a second one," He notices when you pull away.

You give him the other ring, and he graciously takes your hand. Before putting the ring on it, he kisses your wrist and pierces it a bit with his fangs.

You sit like that for a while, looking at each other. Gods, does he even know how truly beautiful he is?

Your love. Your man. Your husband.

The winds howl again, and you shiver.

"Seldarine. Why didn't you tell me you are so cold?"

"Didn't want to ruin the longest night for you."

"Really? So you decided to ruin the next two weeks for me because you will get sick, and I will have to take care of you?” he chuckles. “Besides, we are married now, and I don't have any excuse to leave you!"

 "Oh, I would never think I was such a burden to my husband!" you pout.

The next moment you are in his hands. You love being carried like that, especially knowing you are weightless to him.

"You are the most insufferable sweet burden I've ever wished to have, my little wife," he kisses you. "I suggest we return to the inn and consummate our marriage."

You giggle again and wrap your hands around his neck.

"As long as you offer me a hot bath as a wedding gift."

"It absolutely can be arranged, my dear!" 

--

Nightal ("The Drowing Dawn") - the last month of the year. Winter Soltice is celebrated on Nightal, 20.

Firesheer - a mining city in the Frozenfar in northwest Faerûn

Seldarine (Elven) - Gods

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @astarion-beloved @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati

[vintagerpg]

Pretty much as soon as Enemy Within wrapped up with Empire in Flames in 1989, Games Workshop spun off Warhammer Fantasy Role Play to a subsidiary called Flame Publications. Same brains, same artists, different company. Sort of. Flame’s main project was the Doomstones campaign, which manifested in four softcover books, one for each of the titular stones. This is Fire in the Mountains (1990), the first part, concerned with the locating of the Crystal of Fire.

Like Enemy Within, the narrative is initiated by a chance discovery — the corpse of a dwarven messenger sent to get help in the face of an orcish siege. This leads the party to the ruins of the dwarven stronghold, sacked a century previous, though the orcs left a trail that is still visible all these years later. At the end of it might be an artifact of great power (spoiler: there is!).

Where Enemy Within leads to a web of plots and mystery that subverted a lot of my Warhammer expectations, Doomstones plays right into them. This journey, for the most part, about sticking swords into monsters. The variety of that sword-sticking is pretty good — there are chaos bands and undead orcs (I feel like the Flame era is pretty preoccupied with the undead), there are caves and wastelands and a lonely old tower. It’s fine, it just doesn’t thrill me after Enemy Within.

Tony Ackland and Russ Nicholson provide the interiors. I assume that is Ackland on the cover — it definitely isn’t Russ, and there is no clear credit inside. I am sure one of you Warhammer-heads will let me know if I need to correct that.

[okilokiwithpurpose]

Here comes a Gigolas AU for your consideration:

Arranged Marriage AU with a twist - the twist being that both Legolas and Gimli's parents are opposed to said marriage (sorry if it already exist!! i tried!).

Let me explain: to mend the relationships between Elves and Dwarves, some sort of High Council decides a wedding is the best option and, given their respective ages, the importance of their families and who knows how many other criteria, Gimli and Legolas are considered the best candidates. Glóin and Thranduil are absolutely opposed to it. Gimli and Legolas are not that keen on the idea either, but they decide to accept nonetheless (for the "Greater Good" and all that). This could include:

Their parents trying until the last minute to dissuade them

The awkward first meeting on the Wedding Day

The awkward first days/weeks not knowing what to talk about

The walking on eggshells, the stiff politeness, and the first time one of them let it all out that "they never asked to be there" and "they wish someone else had been chosen to play this farce."

Then getting to know each other, getting more comfortable around each other, slowly moving on from averse strangers to easy acquaintances (...to friends?)

Tasting each other's food - some they may be surprise to actually enjoy, other...not so much (and the visible effort to pretend t's "fine" or "very interesting" making the other laugh)

Gimli introducing drinking games to Legolas - and being amazed by Legolas' ability to hold his drink. Legolas discovering dwarven ale and Gimli discovering elven wine.

Gimli gifting/making jewelry for Legolas out of shining stones and the finest gold and silver (maybe trying to get inspiration from elven jewelry or going for a composite style)

each getting impressed by the other's fighting abilities (in training or on field)

Gimli admitting he does appreciate the softness of elven silk

Legolas admitting the deep harmony of dwarven songs captivate him

Both of them starting to properly enjoy their companionship and starting to fall in love

The time it takes them to come to realise it, and discover the feeling is mutual

How hard it becomes for each of them to visit/have relatives visiting and having to hear their friends and family pity them for "having to live with such a vile/disgusting/untrustworthy creature"

How bewildered Glóin/Thranduil get when their sons one day snaps at them, because "This is my husband you're talking about!!"

The decision a self conscious Gimli may once make to "accommodate his looks", using product to make his hair smother, straighter, his skin softer, changing his clothes (and maybe even -gasp- shaving his beard?), in an attempt to appear more desirable from an elve standpoint - and Legolas answering he finds Gimli beautiful with both looks, but that he prefers the one Gimli feels comfortable with

The inevitable schemes from people this wedding inconveniences (for political, cultural or personal reasons) who wish to separate them and are furious to see how close those two have become...

...and if they can't manage to pull them apart figuratively, they would have to go for a more literal type of separation (that is to say: abduction...or worse)

Gloin or Thranduil lowkey rejoicing that his son-in-law has been removed from the equation (which doesn't mean they have anything to do with it), for it means his son his free!

Gloin or Thranduil who also doesn't understand his son's eagerness to find and bring their spouse back, and how sad and broken they appear to be... (maybe both can finally come to realise how important Gimli and Legolas have become for each other and help in order for their sons to be happy!)

[fili-urzudel]

Hi I absolutely love your writing!!! Like seriously you have me smiling to myself hard I feel like an idiot lol. Anyway, can I request a romantic Kili with fake relationship + forehead touches? Bonus points if you add teasing brother Fili into the story too!

I love getting compliments like this omg! I'm so sorry that it took me so long to get this out for you and that I sort of left Fíli out (though whoever said this couldn't have a part two?).

When I put 50. under the meet cute prompt, I meant exactly that: you're strangers when one or the other of you finds yourself in need of a fake romance to escape some situation.

I also have Taylor Swift on the brain

9. Forehead touches (again yippee!)

12. Dancing (added this one)

50. Need a fake relationship immediately

Warnings: Dancing, being a little intoxicated, lying, reader describes self as a woman

Word count: 1.2k

Enchanted - Kíli Durin x Reader

It was nice to be recognized as equals by the dwarves of Erebor. This was what you reminded yourself as you leaned against a pillar in the back of the ballroom. It was nice that they were attempting to involve the people of Dale in their culture. It was nice that, after three years of instability, the two kingdoms could afford a night of leisure.

You had never really been one for parties. Talking got to be boring and stressful quickly, most of the eligible men had already picked their dancing partners, and you had made a promise to yourself to stay lucid. Unfortunately, dwarven liquor was quite strong, so you could only manage one drink for the time being. 

You sighed, wondering if you had wasted too much time tailoring your dress for this event. If you had wasted too much time on practicing what few traditional dwarven group dances you could find information on.

As your eyes swept the room again, they landed on an attractive side profile. Dark hair with bangs, strong features, a dusting of stubble that you hadn't seen before but found appealing, and brown eyes—oh, no. You quickly glanced away, wondering how long you had been staring. You decided to risk raising your eyes again, in the hopes of appearing less awkward. He made eye contact once more, and smiled. It was a dazzling smile, one that you couldn't help but respond in kind to. 

He was moving through the crowd before you knew it. 

"I can see you're having just as much fun as I am," he said sardonically, and you chuckled. 

"Never have I been so excited," you agreed with him.

"Well, there are ways to make the evening more interesting," he mused, and you wondered what he could mean. He glanced to the side, clearly recognizing someone, and he stepped closer, well within your personal space. "Are you a good actor?"

"What?" You asked in a daze. You feared your tipsiness dragging down your understanding.

"A dwarrowdam has been eagerly pursuing me for some weeks and she is beginning to refuse to believe that I have a partner."

"And do you?"

"No," he admitted, and the two of you laughed. "But you could help me uphold the lie."

You contemplated it for a moment. He was certainly more interesting than any man you had yet met. You would go so far as to say he was incredibly handsome. It was all almost enough to make you wish that his interest was more than just a ploy to escape an annoyance. But a dance partner was a dance partner.

"Dance with me," you offered, which earned you another bright smile.

"Of course, my lady," he held out his hand. You realized that neither of you had asked the others' names. Neither of you had offered. 

You took his hand.

"Do you know this dance?" he asked.

"I practiced," you nodded seriously. "Just... never with someone who learned it traditionally."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," he said with another easy smirk. The violins signaled that you had no more time to wonder.

The dance would have been head-spin inducing even if you were sober, especially being the tallest among the dancers. That was rare for you. Still, the intertwined elbows, quick turns, and aisles of other dancers were a thrill, and you were glad to finally be able to participate.

You gave a hearty laugh as the dance finally came to an end with a stomp and a loud cheer. "I did it!" You said proudly, to no one in particular.

Your partner smiled along with you. "You did excellently!" His expression suddenly changed. "Here she comes," he muttered, and you were barely able to steal a glance before the mass of petticoats made herself known. 

"My prince!" She said with fake politeness and a painted on smile. You did your best to hide your surprise. Prince? Was that only a pet name?

He did look awfully similar to your father's description of one of the dwarves that had paraded through Laketown, now that you thought of it. "May I ask who your lovely partner may be? It's quite unusual, men dancing with dwarves, don't you think?"

"Well, then it is a good thing I am a woman," you said, chuckling in a way that you hoped matched her energy. You introduced yourself. "Thank you for calling me lovely. I am courting this handsome dwarf!"

She glanced between the two of you, looking confused and mildly angry. She hid it surprisingly well. "Is this true?" She asked your partner, and he laughed nearly naturally. 

"Of course it is! I keep telling you about her, and well, here she is," he gestured to you with his free hand.

"You never mentioned her name before," she insisted.

"She's a private, quiet maiden. Something I appreciate about her," he said, pushing more warmth into his voice. He was selling it very well.

She stood, upset, observing the two of you for another moment. Just as you were about to excuse the two of you, she spoke up again. 

"Why is it that neither of you have courting beads?"

Your partner's mouth gaped for a moment, and you scrambled for a believable lie. What on earth and in the heavens was a courting bead?

"Ah, well, men's traditions are different, and I am waiting to give..." you realized you still didn't know his name. "...my love a bead of his own until I can learn to forge one well enough that it is an adornment rather than a burden."

"No matter how much I assure her that any gift from her is a treasure," he said with a smile, looking up at you. 

You took the opportunity to hopefully shake his suitor for good. It was the least you could do for your new friend. You dropped your forehead against him, putting on your best lovesick smile. "You're too sweet, beloved."

"Well," the impatient dam huffed. "Congratulations."

Your hair blocked your view. "Is she gone?" You murmured, realizing you could feel his breath on your lips.

"Yes, I do believe you've rescued me," he chuckled, eyelashes fluttering at your closeness. 

"My pleasure," you smiled, before remembering yourself. You straightened, allowing the two of you to clear the floor before the next dance. "Why did she call you Prince?"

"Ah, right," he cast his eyes to the floor. "I am Kíli Durin, Prince of Erebor. Not that it means much, since I'm not in line for the throne."

"Huh," you said simply, sure that if this were any other circumstance, you would be all but panicking. "Well, um, I believe I've already introduced myself, Your Highness. It's a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance."

The prince's face seemed to fall. "Come now, we don't need all of that," he assured you. "I much prefer for you to call me by anything other than my title."

You laughed. "What, like 'my love'?" You referenced your earlier bluff. "I don't suppose that would do for a man I just met."

You thought you perhaps could have seen his cheeks turn pink at the name. "Well, no, but Kíli is a perfectly acceptable middle ground."

"Nice to meet you then, Kíli."

"And it is an honor to meet you."

[youareunbearable]

Against Curufin’s better judgement, he leaves Tyelko in charge of Himlad for a month while he goes off to visit with Finrod down in Nargothrond. Tyelpe, who lept at the chance to be away from his brooding hen of a parent for a moment, had begged to stay in Himlad with Tyelko and Huan.

Against Curufin’s better judgement, he allowed it. He knew his son would be safe and well taken care of as long as his brother and the dog didn’t vanish into the wilds on a month long hunt. The threat of siccing the wrath of their eldest brother onto the blonde if he did vanish and leave his son unsupervised also was a good incentive to behave. 

Against Curufin’s better judgement, he had a peaceful and relaxing three and a half weeks spending time with his charming half cousin, telling himself everything would be normal and fine when he went back. It was honestly a delight to be able to catch up with Finrod in person, gossiping about what the rest of the Arafinwean brood was up to-- as truth be told they were his favourite kin outside of his brothers-- visiting the sights, and spending time in Nargothrond’s somewhat adequate forges. He spent many an afternoon swapping tricks of the trade with the Dwarven and Men smiths that had made themselves a home in the underground city, and it was so enjoyable and educational that he almost regretted allowing Tyelpe to stay behind. This would have been a good experience for him.

It was a handful of days before he was supposed to start the long trek back to Himlad and Curufin was with his half cousin, chatting amicably and strolling through the aboveground marketplace. It was interesting to see such a booming centre for trade, and Curufin spotted many of the traders baring Moryo’s version of the Feanorian Star Emblem on their person or booths. He knew his elder brother had an iron fist on the trade routes in Beleriand, but it was a different thing seeing it in person on non-Fenorian lands. Finrod, it seems, was either used to seeing Caranthir’s symbol all over his markets, or was woefully blind to it, which Curufin doubted. The two browsed the many stalls for trinkets and baubles, Finrod on the hunt to add to his dragon hoard of accessories, and Curufin looking to bring back home something for his son and brother for their good behaviour.

Against Curufin’s better judgement, he didn’t think the messenger hawk that was flying right at them was anything to be concerned about. He didn’t even think it was for him until he saw the scroll attached to the bird’s leg. 

Continue reading below, or on Ao3

Then, Curufin felt his heart falter in its rhythm for a moment. No messenger bird for Finrod would ever carry a written message. His heart proceeded to plummet into the pit of his stomach as he recognized Celegorm's third fastest hawk, the one that his son doted on and normally took out when exploring the mineral deposits in the hold. 

Vilya, he thinks with dread.Tyelpe named the bird diving at him with speed and exhaustion Vilya. The hawk flared out its wings and landed gracefully on Finrod’s outstretched arm, its chest heaving from a very long and fast flight.

Quickly, Curufin reached over and took the letter attached to the bird's foot. Finrod, being the empathic fool that he is, shuffled nervously from foot to foot beside him, craning his neck to try and read the letter over his shoulder. 

Curufin almost crushed the letter in his grip when he read the first sentence.

"Don't be mad, but uncle and I were hunting out near Nan Elmoth, even though you told us to stay away from Eol's lands. We had everything under control, I swear! But, as I was walking along the river bed by our camp, hoping to find some new minerals, Aunt Aredhel and her son burst through the wood!"

Aredhel? A son? Curufin had no idea his half cousin was even married, let alone long enough to have a child. Last he heard, she was missing, along with her brother Turgon somewhere in the mountains. What was she doing near Nan Elmoth? Finrod made a choked sound behind him, like a drowning pig, and Curufin, instincts honed from so many nosey brothers, mindlessly shoved him away as his eyes roved over the letter.

"I managed to catch up with them, and her son- whose name is Lomion- told me they were fleeing from his father! Aunt Aredhel was apparently bridenapped by Lord Eol, were you aware of such a thing? Stealing a wife! Anyways, Lomion told me they were fleeing to his uncle Turgon's hidden home, where Eol would never find them. Gondolin, father! The city uncle Neylo and Fingon have been trying to find for years! And father, I couldn't just leave them! Aunt Aredhel looked so worn, her hair had streaks of grey just like uncle Neylo’s, and they both were so scared! Aunt Aredhel swung me on the back of Lomion’s horse, so I fled with them to Gondolin. Father, I’m so sorry but I was so caught up in the excitement, that I forgot to send Vilya with a message to uncle, to let him know what happened. But, I suppose when I wasn't back by nightfall, uncle and Huan went looking for me. He and Huan tracked me all the way to Gondolin's gates and demanded that they let me go or to let them inside. You should have heard him scream, father, I’ve never seen uncle so furious, I thought he was going to throw his hunting spear right at poor Glorfindel who was guarding the gate.

Oh father, it's been awful. Well, not Gondolin itself, it's a very beautiful city and the forges aren’t that bad, and they have so much mithril here father! Rog, one of the smith lords here says the mountains and caves within and surrounding the city are rich with it, which is incredible! He promised to take Lomion and I to see a mithril mine soon, can you believe that? Veins of the strongest metal just laying around, just think of the works you could make with such quantities! I’ve been talking with Lomion about the mithril jewellery they have here and I have some ideas I think you might like ab–” The sentence abruptly ends, the letters jerking into a smudge, like Tyelpe’s hand was jostled while writing.

With a frantic flip of the page he sees the writing continuing on the back. “Lord Eol showed up shortly after uncle, and he was a raving madman, father. He screamed and swore and made such ugly demands and if it wasn’t for the clear look in his eyes I would have sworn he had not a sane thought in his head. Uncle Turgon had to let him in before he attracted Morgoth’s attention. He and uncle and Uncle Turgon and Aunt Aredhel were screaming at each other in the throne room for a long time. I stayed behind with Lomion and Huan, and father, the poor boy was shaking. I can't believe he lived with such a creature for his entire life! I don’t remember what was said, but suddenly Lord Eol was brandishing his spear and launched it right at us! We would have been killed if it wasn't for Huan knocking away the poisoned spear at the last second. The poison on it must have gotten on him somehow cause Huan is really sick now, but believed to be better soon. Uncle Turgon was furious, he was yelling and demanding Eol's head for daring to kill Lomion, when uncle picked up Eol’s poisoned spear and threw it back at him. Oh father, I wish I could wash the memory from my mind, the way Eol screamed as Uncle Turgon dragged him from the halls, his blood trailing through the street as we followed them to the gate ramparts. Before Uncle Turgon tossed him over the wall Eol spent his last breath cursing his own son, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget how Lomion’s hand trembled in mine as we watched. I didn’t think Uncle Turgon could be so cruel."

Normally, Curufin wouldn’t be able to either. But the thought, no the memories, of what he did to protect his son and brothers during the Kinslaying, well he could easily imagine what his stuffy half-cousin was thinking as he ended that scum's life. His hands shook, just imagining the peril his son was in. What if Eol missed and pierced his precious Tyelpe? Or if his aim was true and his son would have to watch his new cousin die. Bless Celegorm’s unwavering aim and Turgon’s uncharacteristic rage.

Finrod was gripping at his arm, clearly having read the letter along with him. He was saying something, but the words were indistinct and lost to the ringing in his ears.

"Well, father I'm really sorry, but uncle, Huan and I are stuck here for the time being. Uncle Turgon told us we are not allowed to leave, or to tell anywhere where we are. I wasn't allowed to write clues or send a map along with this letter either. Infact, I had to argue very hard to be able to send it at all. Aunt Aredhel helped greatly with persuading her brother. But have heart, father!  Uncle and I are faring well so far, and Huan is regaining his strength by the day! Maeglin and I are becoming fast friends, and it is nice to see Idril again, despite the circumstances. 

I hope you enjoy the rest of your time with Uncle Finrod. I hope I’ll be able to see you again, father. I’ll write back as soon as Vilya returns. 

- Yours dearly,

Celebrimbor"

At the bottom of the letter was a little doodle, one not in his son’s detailed and precise hand, but looking more like Celegorm’s hasty scrawl. The doodle consists of a blobby figure that is clearly Finrod from the sparkles surrounding him and the wide smile splitting its crude face. The figure is surrounded by, annoyingly accurate and tellingly more thought out then the rest of the doodle, birds. They must be singing for there are lines and dots that Curufin realises are music notes around them all. Beside the blob-Finrod, is another hasty doodle, one Curufin could recognize half blind as Celegorm’s terrible interpretation of him. Shorter than blob-Finrod, scowling pout on its triangle face, and his version of the Fenaorian Star drawn on the blob that must be his chest. Little blob-Curufin also has his signature forge hammer in one hand. There was no note to go along with the doodle, nothing to give that hunt obsessed asshole’s side of the event, no plans on how to escape Gondolin, or to contact their other brothers. Not his account on how Tyelpe is handling everything, or some sort of bullshit reassurance for his favourite younger brother who has just read a terrifying account of what has just happened to his only son in his care. Nothing, not even Celegorm’s signature or emblem to sign off the doodle.

Curufin screamed.

His hands wanted to tear that damned letter to shreds but some distant part of his brain not blinded by worry and rage knew to stay his hand to the last thing he had of Tyelpe’s presence on this land.

There were hands on his face, and he looked through the tears he hadn’t realised were blurring his eyes at his dumb stupid half-cousin. Sudden rage shot through his body and Curufin wanted nothing more than to rip into the Elf cradling his face in his hands. If Curufin hadn’t visited this stupid blonde waste of space, he would have been home at Himland, and none of this would have happened! Tyelpe would be doing his forge work, and Celegorm would be off hunting and doing fuck all in the woods like he normally does! Eol wouldn’t have tried to kill his darling little boy, nor would his child be ripped away from him, hidden who-knows-fuck-where with fucking Turgon of all people!

Suddenly, all fury dissipated in his body, making Curufin feel off balance and light headed at the sudden change. 

Finrod, who was still cupping his face in his hands and ignoring the snarling Curufin must have been doing, was humming a lullaby threaded with Power. As he wobbled, feet suddenly unsteady and vision blurring again, Curufin tried his best to rally up his anger again to no avail. He toppled into Finrod’s chest, feeling his older half-cousin scoop him up and cradle him close. The letter was gently plucked from his hand, and unable to fight the Power of the lullaby, slowly succumbed to sleep. 

Fucking Singers, was Curufin’s last thought as he felt Finrod start to move. They never fight fair.

—

It was suddenly and all at once that Curufin was conscious again. He bolted up, arms tossed out blindingly searching for the son he knew wasn’t there. He looked around frantically, heart racing as tried to find a trace of his son, or what happened.

Finrod, however, was sitting at a desk across the room. He was staring at Curufin, a wary smile on his face as he studied his cousin. 

Curufin met his eyes and snarled, suddenly remembering the dirty trick in the market. He shifted, ready to push himself up and throttle his half-cousin for putting him to sleep when he should have been looking for a way to save his son. And his idiot brother he supposes.

When suddenly, Curufin tumbled off the fainting chair he was laying on, having shifted too close to the edge. 

With an embarrassed and frustrated snarl, he shook himself off and leapt to his feet, ready to verbally tear into his half-cousin when Finrod spoke over him.

“Now that you’re awake, cousin, we are ready to head out.” With that he folded up the piece of paper in his hands and stood. “If we hurry, we can leave before the letters I sent out reach your brothers and our uncle. I’m sure Caranthir’s little snoops have already sent their own messages to him about your outburst. If we leave now, we can have a day’s head start on them. The only issue will be Maedhros or Fingon cutting us off at the mountains. We could rest at Tol Sirion, but I’m afraid that would just give those two more time to try and stop us.”

As he spoke, Finrod was striding around the room, his office, shuffling documents around and looking over everything with a critical eye. He nodded, satisfied with the state of his office and turned to Curufin, giving his cousin a blinding smile. 

“Come on now, I had the servants pack up your things and some of my stuff as well!” With that he bent down behind his desk and pulled out two large travelling packs. He tossed the bag with the darker bedroll at Curufin, who caught it and swung it on his shoulders absently. 

Curufin studied his half-cousin critically, all traces of anger gone. “You know where my son is being held?” 

Finrod nodded, “Of course, I asked Vilya. She was never sworn to secrecy about Gondolin’s location, and she loves little Tyelpe too, she knows how much being away from you will hurt him. So between her directions, and my blessing of Ulmo, I know we’ll be able to find Gondolin with no issues.” He paused. “Unless your brothers or our cousins get in the way. I’m very confident that if he gets the chance, Maedhros could very well stop us from going to the city that people never come out of again. Except for Aredhel apparently.” Another pause. “So let’s go!”

Curufin was already at the door, ready to see his son and strangle his brother for letting something like this happen. “Well, an easy solution for not getting Neylo involved, is to not involve him.” He snarked, striding down the halls of Nargothrond at a fast clip. Finrod with his stupidly tall legs following with ease. “Why send everyone a letter if you know they are just going to hinder us.”

“Well,” Finrod snarked back, practically pulling Curufin out of the main doors that were hastily opened by the guard. “I just don’t think it’s a wise idea for three of the Noldorian Lords of Beleirand to just up and vanish within the span of a month. I know your brothers, you know your brothers, and we both know Fingon. This knowledge should be enough to know that the world around us would burn down if we just left without a trace.” Finrod snorted and stopped yanking Curufin as they reached the royal stables.

His horse, a beautiful white and black spotted mare gifted from Maglor’s prized stock, knickered at him. She was eager to be on her way, right beside Finrod’s handsome all-white stallion who looked ready to run on command. 

Curufin wasted no time leaping upon his horse, Finrod mirroring his movements beside him. With a brief mental nudge, letting his mare know we needed to leave and now, they were off. 

The world around them blurred as they raced, Finrod humming a Song that made him and their horses feel energised, like they could run for days without stopping. Soon, Nargothrond was behind them, and they were racing across the vast open plains towards the Crossing of Teiglin. They rode without falter, without distraction. So focused on their journey, that Curufin didn’t even notice Vilya soaring above them, easily keeping pace with the help of Finrod’s Song. 

Finrod shared her directions. Once they pass the Crossing, they must reach where the Sirion meets the Dry River, then she can lead them through the twists and turns of the mountains to Gondolin.

Just wait, Curufin seethed, no one was going to keep his son away from him. Not even his family. 

Against Turgon’s better judgement, he should have known the Feanorians would ruin all of his plans.

[asgardianhobbit98]

Four for Valentine: Week 4 "Sugar"

Fandom: The Hobbit

Pairing: Fili / female OC (Kalâtha)

Important Tags: Fluff, romance, start of a relationship, Dwarven Culture HC

Summary: Put on cooking duty by Thorin, Fili and Kalâtha have a heart to heart about why Fili has been acting so distracted lately. The reason? Dwarves only love once.

Words: 2163

Written for my "Four for Valentine" event 🩷

Tag list: @fizzyxcustard @middleearthpixie @glassgulls @evenstaredits @knittastically @heilith @lathalea @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @nowandthane

if you want to be removed or added to my tag list, please let me know 🩷

Dwarves only loved once.

That thought kept distracting Fili during a quest that was sure to become historically known to his kin. And it was embarrassing.

Fili should be focusing on the quest at hand. He should be focusing on keeping his brother protected. And he should be focusing on showing Thorin how far he’d come; that his uncle could be proud to call him crown prince soon. Yet… here he was. Doing the opposite of focusing.

Such an important quest… and all he could think about was her.

Whether the others were aware of what was distracting Fili, he wasn’t sure of. Either way, his uncle had suddenly begun to task him and Kalâtha to do chores together when camping for the night, leaving Kili to work with Ori. Which was odd because his uncle never separated the two brothers. Especially considering the deal Thorin had made with Dis to make sure both her sons stayed close to keep an eye on each other.

So perhaps at least his uncle knew?

It had begun as a childhood crush. Which then stuck with him into his teenage years. He’d thought it would be nothing more but that. But… then in his young adult years Fili felt the crush only grow stronger and grasp onto his heart.  

Even when Kalâtha left the Blue Mountains to pursue a path of self discovery, Fili had not felt his feelings dissipate in the slightest. No matter the week long flings he’d had with others, Kalâtha was always the one on his mind in the late hours of the nights, even when not alone in his own bed.

And now…?

Now as they had picked her up from her new life among the humans in Bree (of all forsaken places) and found her just the same, just with a tad more confidence, Fili felt his feelings… blossom. As if he had just fallen down from the cliff he had been hanging from all this time, down into a vast ocean of warmth and uncertainty with the waves of both these feelings crashing into him painfully, anxiously, lovingly… lustfully.

And he was stuck. Because…

Dwarves only loved once.

Did Kalâtha feel the same? Did she look at him differently? Did she even view him this way?

If she didn’t…

“Fili?”

“Huh?” he blurted out a little louder than he should have.

“Are you even listening to me?” she asked, with little malice in her voice. Instead, she was smiling, close to laughing at him… He would be fine if she laughed at him. She could be cruel and vicious to him too if she wanted. It didn’t matter… He was far gone in his love for her and any attention was like a high to him. But she could never be cruel. She was too good for that. Luckily. Because he truly would have let himself be tossed around by her if she so desired.

“Fili?” 

She snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. He’d gotten lost in her again.

Now, though, she looked worried. “What is up with you? You’ve been acting strange this entire journey. Are you ill?”

Fili shook his head, his braided moustache hitting the sides of his cheeks with the urgency of his gesture. “No, not ill.”

“Then what?”

The two of them were sitting crouched in front of the campfire, waiting for Bofur to get it started. Their task was to cook dinner. Which… Fili had to admit wasn’t his strongest side. Kalâtha ended up doing most of the work.

“What indeed,” Bofur teased with a little look to Fili.

Okay, so the entire company did know what was up with Fili.

Somehow that didn’t comfort Fili in the slightest. It only gave him more anxiety because how could he show his uncle he could lead a people some day when he dropped his daggers or tripped over nothing whenever Kalâtha glanced his way?

“Uh… Well, I’m not quite confident in my cooking abilities,” Fili lied.

Kalâtha giggled. That gorgeous divine giggle that she had. She flipped her beard braids to the side a bit in a cocky gesture at which Fili smirked: “Don’t worry, I know how to make an amazing stew.”

“Good,” Fili responded. “I’d expect nothing less from you.” That had meant to come out as praise because he truthfully thought everything she did was amazing, and perhaps it had because Kalâtha hadn’t originally reacted... But in his stupid state, Fili panicked: “Oh uh… Not because you’re a woman. I simply meant-“

“Fili,” Kalâtha interrupted with a laugh. “You’ve not changed a bit, have you?”

“No… I suppose I haven’t.”

He glared at Bofur as he snickered at the exchange. Great… Another moment where he’d made a fool of himself.

…

During the duration of their chore, Fili did mainly some chopping… and the rest was staring. At Kalâtha.

She was busy, determined to teach Fili the recipe of her stew. But she wasn’t aware of the fact that the only details Fili was taking in were the details of her face, her beard, her hair, her ears, her nose…

He was closer to her now than he was usually when he found himself able to freely watch her. So he saw all these new little details that he adored. Like how she wrinkled her nose a bit when opening the lid of the pot and steam touched her face. Or how her lips moved when she said his name. How sometimes she bit her lower lip when focusing on a task like stirring the stew. Or perhaps it was mild anxiety that made her do so as she was a perfectionist. She was most certainly worrying about this not tasting the way it should, even if that only meant there being a little bit too much or too little salt.

“Fili?”

He blinked out of the stare, quickly pretending that he had, indeed, been listening.

“More salt.”

Fili reached back, not wanting to stop watching her, and grabbed the bag he thought to be salt, handing it to her. Trusting him, she didn’t double check the contents of the bag and simply put the required amount of salt into the stew.

“There. And then, you let it simmer for a few minutes before tasting, so the spices have time to melt into the vegetables and meat.” Kalâtha turned her head to Fili, catching his eye. Or, rather, his stare.

A smile spread over her lips.

He smiled back.

“Did you listen to a single thing I just said?”

Fili eagerly nodded his head. “We have to let it simmer for a bit.”

“And before that?” she tasked him with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh… Basilica makes a good replacement for oregano?”

He hadn’t gotten it right. That was obvious. Because Kalâtha stared at him in disbelief for a moment before shaking her head. “Okay so… are we going to talk about it?”

“What?” Fili asked panicked.

“About what’s up with you? Come on, Fili. You’re my closest friend. At least, you were before I left. You can still talk to me.” She reached out, surprisingly hesitant for the confident woman that she was, and grasped his hand in hers. “Fili?”

“I.. uh…” he stuttered out, the nerve endings in his fingers exploding under her touch and sending shockwaves of literal alarm to his brain, shortcutting everything, it seemed. “Uh…”

And then she looked… sad. Grieved by his seeming hesitance to talk to her.

And all of a sudden any panic, any hesitance, disappeared in an instance because underneath all that fluster and the nerves was the core of his love for her, which burned brighter than any nervousness he might have: and that core was made up of his love language, which was protection.

From everything.

Even little moments of hurt feelings.

And this was one of those.

He squeezed her fingers tightly and stopped stuttering as he reassured her with a determined look: “You’re right. I have been acting strange. A fool, some might say. But that is not because I view you any different. Or… It is, but it is in no way a negative view.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

The bustle of the Dwarves around them doing their assigned chores meant a strange bubble of privacy was created. Only the two of them were listening to each other, others too busy. And it felt more intimate than any other private moment they’d shared before when it was just the two of them in one room.

It helped give Fili the boost of confidence he needed.

“I mean I think you’re… amazing. I have thought so since the first time your parents brought you over during that dinner… Dis and your mother were speaking the entire night, and you were so shy. I didn’t know how to approach you.”

“Kili ended up talking my ear off,” Kalâtha reminisced, smiling wonderfully at what Fili was saying. She seemed a little hesitant… no, nervous? But her confidence, her calmness, was infectious. Despite what Fili was about to admit to her, he felt secure and safe with her. As if no matter what her answer was, he was in good hands. “Then he brought you over and you talked my ear off.”

“That’s – Well, yes, I suppose I did.” She giggled. He smiled. “I didn’t know why I was so nervous approaching you then. Only years later did I realise you made me nervous. But not in a bad way. A good way.”

Kalâtha grew quiet now, watching Fili intently. Or was that… hopeful?

“And then those sort of…”

“Butterflies?” she clarified, as if knowing.

Now Fili grew hopeful too. “Yes…” he breathed out. “Yes, just like butterflies. They stayed. Throughout my entire youth. I thought maybe… it was just…”

“A crush. But then it didn’t go away,” Kalâtha finished for him. As he watched her, dumbfounded by her means to finish his thoughts, she smiled sweetly at him. “My dear, did you think you were the only one?”

“I did, actually.” Fili’s honest response made her the dumbfounded one. “I thought there was no way you could feel this way for me. Especially not since I’ve been acting a fool this entire journey.”

Kalâtha giggled. Then she chuckled and slowly her chuckles turned into a snorting laughter. “Oh,” she managed to get out, “is that why…?”

“Yes.” Fili blushed, his brows furrowing into a pleading look upon which Kalâtha calmed herself down and squeezed their still intertwined fingers to reassure him. “I never thought…”

“Dwarves only love once,” Kalâtha repeated the words Fili had been worrying about this entire time. “I was scared that I’d lost my chance at love to someone who could never even think about liking me back. So I never mentioned it.”

“I… That’s exactly why I never did!”

Then the two shared a bout of laughter together, inching closer to each other in a gesture that was… new but welcome.

But before any more words could be said, or before any other loving gestures could be made – Bofur appeared again.

“How’s food coming along?”

Letting go of each other’s hands, Fili watched as Kalâtha opened the lid of the pot once more and showed the food to Bofur.

He sniffed the aromas happily, either completely unaware of what he had just interrupted, or finding some amusement in interrupting it… Either way, he looked very pleased with himself.

And he also had an extra bag of coins at his side.

“Smells heavenly. A little sweet too, what’s in it?” Bofur asked.

“Sweet?” Kalâtha asked in confusion. “No, it shouldn’t be sweet.” She grabbed a spoon to fill it up with some of the sauce, tasting it…

She pulled a face of surprise, then slight disgust.

She looked around at the spices they’d used, frantically searching for the culprit of whatever had made her stew taste strange enough for her to pull a face Fili hadn’t seen before.

Then she slowly lifted the salt bag. Her eyes shifted to Fili. Bofur glanced between the two of them. “What’s wrong?”

Fili wondered the same thing, raising an eyebrow at Kalâtha.

“Fili… You gave me sugar, not salt.” She looked amused. After their conversation, it was obvious why he’d been distracted enough not to notice this mistake. At least he wasn’t getting reprimanded.

“Well, I’m glad it amuses some of ya. Bombur’s not gonna be quite so happy,” Bofur pointed out.

Kalâtha sighed. “It’s alright. I can fix it. Just tell everyone it’s gonna take a few extra minutes before we eat.”

Bofur left with this message, and somewhere from camp Kalâtha and Fili could hear a distinct ‘aww…’ from Bombur at the disappointment of having to wait longer.

But Kalâtha and Fili didn’t mind in the slightest. Now actually capable of focusing, Fili sat with his arm around her waist, offering her the right ingredients whilst relishing in the feeling of her leaning against him…

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[honourablejester]

I’m reading the Pathfinder ‘Lost Omens: The Mwangi Expanse’ setting book (guess whose copy arrived recently!), and I’m on the section on the Mbe’ke dwarves of the Terwa Uplands, and I just. I want to mention the origin story the Mbe’kes tell about themselves:

“This is the story that Mbe’kes tell.

Long ago, dwarves marched upwards on a Quest for the Sky. They saw many wondrous things on that march; temples and treasures, magics and mysteries. One group of dwarves, who would later become Mbe’kes, finally emerged in a sheltered valley.

They looked about the rocky sides of the valley, and they looked at the great blue thing above, and mistook it for just one more cavern, if perhaps larger than most. Sages stroked their beards and engineers hefted their tools, and the dwarves set about breaching the vault of the sky. They climbed the tallest mountain in the land, braced the sky properly, and started digging. Dwarves, of course, can dig through anything, and so quite soon they broke through the sky into the Plane of Air.

The People of the Air were greatly surprised by these strangers. First a great hurricane-spirit tried to chase the dwarves away, but the dwarves had fought worse beneath the earth and were not cowed. Then a great djinni of the west wind offered the dwarves fine treasures to leave, but nothing matched the wonders the dwarves made themselves. Finally, a curious cloud dragon asked what in the seven stars above and the three stars below the dwarves were doing.

Once they understood their mistake, the dwarves descended back to Golarion and looked about the valley from which they’d emerged. They could most certainly make a home there, and did, and ever since Mbe’kes have been good friends with cloud dragons.”

Now. A couple of things. First, the actual historical and archaeological record tells a different story, suggesting that the proto-Mbe’ke initially fought for territory with the cloud dragons in the Terwa Uplands (evidence includes a suspicious number of old Mbe’ke relics made of dragon bone), but eventually the two groups made peace and became the firm allies they are today later down the line. Second, the Mbe’ke have a proud tradition of ‘tangle-tales’, an expression of their humour, which involve telling the most ridiculous, nonsensical, over the top stories possible with the straightest face possible, and responding to them just as seriously to encourage elaboration, until someone finally breaks and laughs. So. Tall tales are a prized tradition for Mbe’ke. And third, there’s this later note:

“If one were to ask a Mbe’ke, they would say that their people are famed for three things: first, they are the most stubborn of all dwarves; second, they are the most argumentative of all dwarves; and third, they have absolutely no sense of humour. This last will be said with a perfectly straight face.”

Their humour and culture is a combination of dwarven stubbornness and pragmatism, and cloud dragon whimsy and curiosity. And in that context …

I just really love that origin story? As a thing they tell about themselves. Because you can see …

The things they pride themselves on are being stubborn, argumentative, and secretly humorous. And it shows. Their origin has them climb out of the earth, look up, fail to realise that the sky is not just another ceiling, and then impossibly dig through that as well anyway. Stubborn, yes. Heh. And then, in the Plane of Air, they cannot be driven away by force, because come and have a go, and they can’t be driven away by bribery, because we’re dwarves, you can’t offer us anything we couldn’t make ourselves, but they can be politely knocked back by someone gently arguing with them until they realise their own idiocy. In this story, the cloud dragons were just ‘lads, what are you at?’, and the Mbe’ke looked around, realised their cosmological error, and just went ‘oops, our bad mate, thanks for the head’s up’, packed up their kit, and went back down a layer.

I love so much that this is a story they tell about themselves. That it shows what their pride is held in. In stubbornness, in doing the impossible, in refusing to be driven back by any insurmountable obstacle or show of force or attempt to undermine their integrity, but also in recognising their own foolishness, in acknowledging their own errors, in having fair dealings with people who deal fairly with them, and in poking some gentle fun at every previous thing on this list. Yes, it’s showing them in their best light, according to their own values, and the reality is often different, but it does illustrate quite well what those values are, and it’s fascinating.

And I also love some of the little details. They climbed the tallest mountain in the land and braced the sky properly. Like, if you’re going to do this ridiculous thing, you’re damn well going to do it right. Is it plausible or even possible? Irrelevant. Do it right regardless. I love that they saw another vast ceiling, another impossible barrier, and the ‘sages stroked their beards, and the engineers hefted their tools, and the dwarves set about breaching the vault of the sky’. Like, right, on we go! Another job, let’s get it done. They’re so … dwarvish. And god I love dwarves. You cannot stop a dwarf from digging. I love them.

Ahem. Anyway. I like the Mbe’ke a lot? Also dwarves. Just. In general. Heh. Carry on!

[the-pen-pot]

(Bagginshield Everybody Lives/Nobody Dies fluff. 2,000 words. Read above on AO3 or click the read more ♥)

The Only Truth

Amidst the great Dwarven halls, with the strike of pick and hammer conducting the percussive beat of honest toil, music grew like weeds amidst freshly tilled soil. From their earliest days, crafting down in the dark, dwarves had lifted their voices in song, the caverns they carved into their mountainsides carrying the tunes from dawn until dusk. They sang, and the earth that cradled them sang back, sharing in their joys and sorrows.

To his shame, Bilbo had been surprised that the Company all played instruments. In his prejudice, he had failed to understand how a dwarf could be made rough and course by hard work, but still carry the grace in their fingers to play with any skill. They all soon proved him wrong. There was not a dwarf among them who did not seem to have a flute or pipe ferreted away in their pack, and they came out often, their tunes bright and cheery as they made their way over the land.

Yet it was only once they were back in Erebor that Bilbo realised that even their celebration of music had been whittled away by necessity. They had kept with them the instruments they could carry as they fled. Only now that the Lonely Mountain was slowly reclaiming its splendour did the Master Craftsmen turn their attentions to their heritage once more. Slowly, the voices of those dwarves hard at work and raised in song were joined by the tuneful dapple of strings and flutes and brass.

Still, to Bilbo, it felt as if one part of Erebor's great orchestral rebirth was missing. He knew, from stories told on the roads over Middle-earth, that Thorin, in his youth, had played the harp. Balin had confided in him, his eyes bright with recollection, how beautifully he had once played, before the dragon came and turned all he loved to ash. The instrument had been left behind amidst the embers of Thorin's old life: too big and unwieldy to be saved.

That was why he was here with Bofur, up in the wrecked remnants of the royal chambers, opening up old doorways and viewing the calamity confined within their walls.

'A right mess, this is,' Bofur murmured, his usual good humour eclipsed by the destruction. 'It'll take years to repair.'

'And Thorin has prioritised every other part of the mountain.' Bilbo sighed. He understood why he did it. Thorin's heart lay with his people. He did not care for the symbols of status that his grandfather had held in such high esteem. He would rather sleep on a rug before an open fire than live in luxury while his people went hungry.

Bofur grunted, and now, at last, there was a touch of a sparkle in his eye. 'He won't get a choice in the matter before long. For now, the dwarves arriving in Erebor are grateful for his humbleness, but soon they'll insist he climb back on his pedestal and stop getting his hands dirty. You'll have to soothe a lot of ruffled feathers.'

Bilbo cast a look in Bofur's direction, shaking his head before lifting his torch higher. 'That's why we're here, remember? To do something for Thorin, since he will not take the time to do it for himself.'

'First, we have to find the thrice-damned thing, assuming Smaug left any of it behind.'

That was a valid concern. Even here, after traversing the ruined, twisted staircase, made narrow and precipitous by Smaug's ruination, he could see signs of the dragon's invasion. Gouges scored the walls, disrupting the marble's exquisite sheen. Tapestries had been ripped from their moorings, their fine silks and gold thread hoarded amidst the mountain of treasure. Delicate glass windowpanes, worthless to the wyrm but expensive all the same, had been smashed in his wrath. What remained was a skeleton of grandeur, and one that would linger in its sad state for some time yet.

'Bilbo, here!' Bofur's voice was hushed, as if he had disturbed some poor soul's tomb.

Bilbo crept forward, lifting his lantern higher to let its light pour into the chamber he'd revealed. It was then, with a flash of grief, that he realised a body of a sort had found its rest here. The once graceful arch of a harp lay, its pillar broken and its soundboard cracked. Many of the strings had snapped or come loose from their pegs. It was a sad sight, but something in him rebelled, determined to find whatever small life might linger in the instrument's shattered frame.

'There must be something we can do.'

Bofur rubbed a finger up the bridge of his nose before adjusting his hat with his palm, his dark eyes black and thoughtful in the meagre light. 'I'm a toy-maker,' he pointed out. 'I don't think "we" is the word you're looking for, but...' He hunkered down, setting the lantern on the floor and sucking in a breath through his teeth. 'It's not rotten. That's a start. Looks like it was smashed against the wall. Key bits of the frame will have to be replaced, and that needs the right kind of wood and hands with the skill to fix it.'

'But it can be done?' He didn't mean to sound quite like that – achingly desperate – but the dwarf he loved carried a multitude of hurts. Not merely the physical ones, which had almost claimed his life, but ones upon his soul. This, Bilbo knew, was as much part of the healing as Oin's tinctures and constant nagging to rest and eat.

'Aye, I think so. It'll be a challenge, but I know more than one dwarf who lives for this sort of thing, and to do it for our King? They'll rise to the occasion.' Bofur gave Bilbo a look, full of the soft fondness of friendship. 'This was a grand idea, Bilbo. Leave it with me.'

It took time, as all such things did. True craftsmanship could not be rushed, and the broken body of Thorin's old harp was an invalid in need of delicate care. Bilbo dropped by often, nervous, at first, that Master Mothi would view his presence at an intrusion. However, the kind old dwarf, busily training an apprentice, was more than happy to talk about his craft as long as Bilbo kept his hands in his pockets.

'I remember when my master first built it,' he confided one day, as his gnarled hands stroked along the sound box, testing it for any small flaw that might break the harp's voice. 'The look on the face of the young prince as he played! I recall his only complaint was one he made to his mother, and that was a criticism of his grandfather's decorative taste.'

'How do you mean?'

'The old king had it carved and covered from crown to base in gold leaf. Delicate work. Challenging, too. It made the harp more fragile. The sound a touch less pure. My master was unhappy to do it, but we had our instructions.'

'No gold, this time,' Bilbo decided, feeling in his heart how Thorin would rather the wood's grain could shine through. He would wish the strings to sing with their truest voice, more admiring of the harp's function than its form.

'Perhaps an inlay, here?' Mothi stroked his palm down the front of the pillar. 'Something shallow, so as not to compromise its strength. I have a wonderful alloy: brass with a touch of mithril. It gives a wonderful sheen and need never be polished. Geometric, perhaps?'

Bilbo hid a smile before inclining his head. He had not wanted to say anything about the graceful lines of the harp, though he had noticed that there were some fundamental differences between the ones he had seen in Rivendell and this specimen. Even broken, he could tell Thorin's harp had a subtle angularity to its form, something sharper, where the elves favoured the sweeping curve.

'Will it be much longer?' he asked, eyeing the framework, which to him looked as good as whole, but as yet unstrung.

'Another week, maybe two.' Mothi gave him a knowing look. 'You cannot rush perfection.'

'And I would not wish you to. Thank you.'

He tried to set it from his mind, the secret slowly taking shape beneath Mothi's hands. During the day, when there was much to be done, he did a fair job. Yet it was in the evening, when he and Thorin retired to their shared chamber in the overseer's quarters that he felt the strange, amorphous absence of it. He observed how Thorin seemed to not know how to draw the boundary between work and rest. He carried his tension with him, his mind forever caught up in the needs of his kingdom without a moment of respite.

So it was that, the day the harp was ready, and stolen carefully into their chambers, Bilbo found himself alight with nervous anticipation. He hoped that this had been the right thing to do. He prayed that he was healing a wound in Thorin's being, rather than ripping off a scab to leave him bleeding anew.

'We need to finish treating with the merchant guild. They have their eye on the treasury, as always, but I will not allow them to –' Thorin's words stumbled to silence as he preceded Bilbo over the threshold. His next breath was an odd little hitch, as if his lungs had forgotten how to work, and Bilbo sank his teeth into his bottom lip, praying he had not made a grave mistake.

'This is...' Thorin swayed before stepping forward, reaching out with shaking fingertips to rest them against the harp's pillar like a healer checking for a pulse, reaching for the life that resided once more in the instrument's beautiful frame. The strings gleamed, waiting to be stirred into song, and Bilbo was almost sure he could hear them humming softly, like a cat purring in the presence of one who loved it. 'Where did you find this?'

'The Royal Wing.' Bilbo shifted forward. 'It had been broken and forgotten, but there was enough of it left to save.' He swallowed, thinking how those words were not for the harp alone. They could be said about the kingdom around them and the line that ruled it just as easily. 'Master Mothi remade it, keeping as much of the original as he could. I thought you deserved something out of all this that was yours alone.'

Thorin turned, sweeping Bilbo into his arms, his brow a warm press against Bilbo's own. It was an assertive embrace, as if Thorin were trying to press everything he could not put into words down into Bilbo's bones, and the kiss that followed it had Bilbo's toes curling against the flagstones.

'You like it, then?' he managed, delightfully breathless when Thorin reluctantly eased back, those rich blue eyes all softness and delight.

'More than almost anything, except for you,' Thorin promised, his voice low and resonant in a way that set love thrilling through Bilbo, spreading beneath his ribs to pool in the hollow of his belly.

'Will you play?' he asked, feeling as if it were some moment of truth. He had heard Thorin sing, his voice soft and deep, but this was another matter. He knew how talented those hands could be, and now he wanted to see them there, coaxing sound from an instrument that had been silent for far too long.

'It would be a crime not to, though I warn you, I am out of practice.'

Though Bilbo could well-believe the claim, he could hear no flaw in Thorin's playing. At first, perhaps, he was a touch hesitant, learning this old friend anew, but before long the music swelled around them, filling their chamber with its magic. It was not the ethereal, haunting melody of the elves, but something faster and deeper, the pitch of the harp more resonant: fitting for the booming mountain halls. It made Bilbo's heart race and quickened his blood. He let his eyes drift shut, the better to lose himself in the melody, and it was only when Thorin stopped that he opened them once more.

'That was beautiful,' he murmured, feeling a little drunk – transported to somewhere glorious by Thorin's playing.

'Would you like to learn?'

Bilbo's first thought was an instinctive refusal: the instrument too fine and his skill non-existent. Yet there was a gleam of something in Thorin's eye that made him think about how dwarves saw music – not as something to be performed for praise, but something to be shared with one another: the good and the bad. Skill was not as essential to them as the simple act of creation, and that was something he knew Thorin sought to share with Bilbo at every opportunity.

'I can't even read a stave,' he warned, reaching out to take Thorin's hand and allowing himself to be guided closer, to cradle the harp between his spread legs like a lover, and set hesitant fingers upon its strings.

'You don't need to. We rarely write down our songs. They are fluid things, learned and adapted, simplified and embellished.' Thorin stood behind him, bending to place his larger, broader hands over Bilbo's own. Warm, calloused fingers showed him how to move, teaching him where to pluck the strings and where to soothe them, leading him through it like he might lead a partner through a dance.

And so it was that, slowly, music raised its voice once more in the halls of the Lonely Mountain once more. The tune carried, bright and true, through the turn of the seasons until the melody of love at the kingdom's heart became a symphony of prosperity for the whole realm to enjoy.

For all the years to come.

[herearedragons]

Homecoming

(3,876 words; Dorian/m!Lavellan; angst, post-Trespasser)

written for a Florence + The Machine prompt from @greypetrel : “Can you protect me from what I want? The lover who let me in, who left me so lost?”

read on AO3

On a summer night, the Pavus estate stands empty.

Not empty of visitors or of the presence of its owner - empty of everyone. There are no guards at the gates or in the garden; no cooks in the kitchen; no servants in the hallways. Its rooms are cold and unlit, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the large windows and painting bright geometric shapes over surfaces and decorations.

In the study upstairs, one of those shapes falls directly over an armchair with a small wooden table by its side. On the table, a freshly opened bottle of wine; in the chair, the last remaining resident of the estate raises a glass to his lips, appreciating the fine vintage. 

A staff rests balanced on his knees. An artisan dwarven clock with twelve handles ticks away on the wall beside him.

Magister Dorian Pavus drinks his wine, and waits for the man who is supposed to come kill him.

*

“All staff have been escorted off the premises, Magister.”

“Marvelous; thank you, Valeria.”

The captain of his guards regards him with a look that is familiar: respect, alertness - and the slightest hint of suspicion. She is saying, without speaking a single word aloud: you are behaving unusually, and I would like to know whether my job of keeping you alive is about to get harder.

“What are our orders?” she asks.

Unfortunately, she will not like the answer Dorian has for her.

“Go home,” he says. “Forget everything you’ve seen and heard here today.”

If she has an immediate reaction to his words, it doesn’t register on her face. Wait, no - it does, just very subtly; a slight tilt of her head to the side, a twitch of her brow.

She’s saying: excuse me?

“Magister, I beg your pardon, but I’ve been led to understand that someone will attempt to assassinate you tonight.”

Valeria is highly professional. A slight emphasis on the word “assassinate” is all she allows herself as an attempt to communicate extreme incredulity to her employer.

“Exactly - and I want you to be as far away as possible when it happens.” He sees the resistance brewing beneath her composed exterior and adds, quickly, before she has a chance to speak again: “This is an order.”

The resolve drains from her at once; an expression of defiance becomes one of defeat. She will not argue; this is above her station.

“Yes, Magister.”

Her tone, though subdued, is unbearably miserable; he can’t possibly end the conversation on this note.

“Oh, don’t look so grim; you don’t have to shop for a new employer quite yet,” Dorian says. “I can assure you that I have every intention to survive the night - and, when I do, I’d like to have your services still available to me. That last part will be tricky if you are dead; reanimated guards have fallen out of fashion, I’m told.”

Confusion, writ large across her face; the veneer of professionalism broken.

“This is about protecting me ?”

“This is about protecting all of you, if I can help it. You are very skilled, and I would trust you with my life - I do , in fact, trust you with my life, regularly - against any threat but this one. If you are here when he comes, you’ll be in his way, and you will die.”

Her brow furrows. He’s gotten through to her; there was enough gravity in his words to make her realize that his decision to send her away isn’t a foolish whim.

“And yet you will survive… him?”

“I certainly plan to. Now - ”  Dorian raises an eyebrow -  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Valeria nods shortly and hastily collects herself; their little moment of eye-to-eye sincerity has passed.

“Of course.” She hesitates. “...Have a good evening, Magister.”

The setting sun shines in bright oranges and reds on the back of her armor as she walks away.

*

In the moonlit garden of the estate, there are shadows.

Their presence is subtle and easily overlooked. Their footsteps make no sound; their clothes blend perfectly with the dark greens and grays of the night, hiding them behind pillars and in foliage, in solid blocks of shadow and in the mottled patterns of bright moonlight filtering through leaves.

There are twenty-seven of them, in total. Fifteen serve the Divine, and have traveled to Minrathous in secret from various corners of Thedas. The remaining twelve are Dalish, who have made the long, long trek from Wycome to one of the most dangerous places for their kind - just to be here tonight.

Some of them are on the outer side of the fence. None of them are inside the building. They are scattered across the perimeter, and, when the intruder comes, they will make no attempt to stop him.

They are not a wall keeping him out; they are the iron teeth of the bear trap, waiting to close on him once he has taken the bait.

*

The morning sun reflects off the crystal embedded in his transmitter amulet, each facet polished to perfection. He’d be able to spot his reflection in one of those quite easily, had he tried.

He doesn’t.

“Tonight, then,” Dorian says. “Are you sure?”

A small blue glow ignites inside of the crystal for a fraction of a moment, indicating that his message has been sent properly. Some seconds pass as the other party speaks their response, and then the amulet vibrates with the familiar voice of the Inquisition’s former spymaster - or, as she is more widely known these days, Divine Victoria.

As always, the sound of her speech comes with a pinprick of irritation in  his chest. This is not what this amulet is for, and no, he has not gotten over that gripe after four years of it being used in this way. 

Still, it would be foolish not to use it at all. The ability to instantly communicate between Minrathous and Val Royeaux has granted them an immense advantage in their hunt.

“As usual, we don’t have much evidence when it comes to his intentions - but what we do have shows that it is likely.”

Dorian allows himself a moment to process her words, taking his thumb off the back of the amulet so that it would not record and send the sound of him taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, with only the slightest shudder at the end.

He always knew that this was a possibility; hoped for it, even, on some of the worst (and best) days.

He tries to parse his own feelings. Fear is certainly present, his self-preservation instinct kicking in (good - it’s still working). There is also anxiety - different from fear; the vague tremble of uncertainty rather than a call to action - and something like… excitement. 

Hope, even? 

No. Not hope. He’s made some good progress from the point of denying himself hope for anything at all, but hoping for the best in this particular scenario feels too daunting.

Excitement, however, is something he can definitely work with. He did always love a challenge.

The amulet vibrates in his palm again.

“Is everything alright?”

He puts his thumb back on the warm copper.

“Never mind the pause; I’m still here. Now, what are our plans for tonight?”

*

The Magister finishes his glass of wine and sets it aside. He looks at the bottle for a moment too long, but does not reach for it. 

This was his first and last glass for tonight. It was certainly good, even though he could barely taste it after the first sip; his mind is elsewhere, try as he might to anchor himself in the present.

For a moment, he thinks that he hears footsteps echoing downstairs, but he dismisses the thought. The sentries will not enter the building - and it couldn’t have been him , either.

His hand, idle without the glass, moves to rest on the grip of his staff.

The Magister knows: when he shows up, no one will hear any footsteps.

*

The first of the Dalish arrive soon after Valeria leaves.

Two figures at his front gate; two elven women with scarves on their heads, their faces bare, carrying large baskets. Servants; no one would look twice.

Through the study window, Dorian sees the taller of the two set her basket down and stretch; as she does, her hands form the signal gesture that was described to him. 

He activates the spell inscribed into the wrought iron, and the gates swing open of their own accord, letting the two women inside.

He comes downstairs just as the front door opens. The first thing to cross the threshold is is one the baskets, which look even more enormous up close; the women haul them in and set them down unceremoniously, the shorter of the two slamming the door shut behind her.

Both of them acknowledge him with a brief glance before beginning to furiously wipe their faces with their scarves, removing the thick layer of makeup that was necessary to hide their vallaslin.

“Would you like some water?” he asks.

The taller - and older - woman takes the scarf away from her face, meeting his eyes in earnest for the first time. Hers are brown and warm, just as he remembers; her hair, also a painfully familiar brown, has more grey streaks than it did the last time he’d seen her.

Four years and six months ago.

His last visit to Wycome before he left for Minrathous; the last time he has seen her son.

“Would you like some water” is not, by any means, an adequate greeting for the situation they’re in, but - even after years of imagining their next conversation  - he doesn’t have anything better.

To his own surprise, Dorian realizes that a significant amount of his fear has nothing to do with the impending attempt on his life, and everything to do with meeting her again.

Adria Lavellan smiles - a small, humorous smile; just a quirk of her lips and a slight rise of her eyebrows - and nods.

“Yes, thank you. Both to drink and to wash up.”

Nothing about her tone or demeanor is hostile. She’s friendly, and the attitude she projects suggests that she is genuinely glad to see him again. 

Something in his chest tightens and tightens until it hurts. He tries to say something in response, but finds his mind horrifyingly blank, and his tongue heavy.

He silently nods and walks away.

More elves arrive. Most of them come in pairs; some come in a group of three, or alone. All in the guise of servants.

Many of them carry baskets. Inside - armor, weapons and traps.

The sun disappears below the horizon, the sky painted twilight purple in its absence. 

When he speaks to Adria again, she has donned a set of ironbark armor - her husband’s finest work, no doubt - and is in the process of stringing a longbow.

It’s strange to see her like this. Every time Dorian has met her in the past, she wore dresses and aprons and seemed to prefer the role of hearthkeeper; here, she is in charge of a party of eleven, armed to the teeth.

He starts by complimenting her armor. She thanks him with the same small smile; still unbelievably non-hostile. She compliments his house in turn.

Be it any other person, Dorian would have interpreted her attitude as cleverly disguised contempt - but this is Adria Lavellan ; he knows her, and he knows the son she raised, and she would not lie to him.

He wants to ask her a question.

How - 

No, why - 

Does she - 

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t write to you,” Adria says all of a sudden. “If the Inquisition was still around, they could have gotten my letter to Minrathous - but without them, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She’s throwing him a lifeline, giving him an easy topic for conversation - and, shamefully, he elects to take it.

There is, at least, a question he can ask here.

“…Why would you want to write to me?“

The words come out without his usual flair. Flat. Vulnerable.

Thank the Maker that no one else seems to be listening, for the moment.

She regards him kindly with her warm, brown eyes.

“I lost my parents and my first husband almost at the same time. I remember what it feels like; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’m glad that you held up well.”

“…Well. Yes.” Dorian clears his throat. “I try. I - “ 

This is the perfect place to say something clever, perhaps some witty remark about his father’s demise, but the words do not come. This woman’s presence is equal parts comforting and terrifying to him, and it causes his brain to stop working.

He must do something about this. Now . He absolutely cannot remain a bumbling fool around - around his - around Neilar’s mother.

Dorian takes a deep breath.

“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Why - “ his voice quivers - “Why are you not furious with me?”

A slight frown appears on her face as she parses his words.

“Well,” she says after a moment’s pause, “Those are two questions, and I’ll answer both. Why am I so calm: I’m not. I’m worried, and scared, and angry, and many other things - but those feelings are for me, not for the world. Sharing them with the world right now won’t help me or my children. And for the second question, I’m not aware of anything I should be furious about.” She tilts her head to the side slightly and perks up her left ear, which is closest to him. “ Have you done something I should be angry about?”

…Yes? No? He has spent countless sleepless nights trying to answer this exact question, and he still has no idea.

Is he to blame for what happened? Should he have postponed his return to Tevinter? Should he have been more thorough with his questions when he spoke to her son through the amulet that is now being held by the Divine?

Should he have dragged him away from that bloody Well by force before he could ever drink?

“I don’t know,” Dorian says.

Adria’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, inspecting him.

Judging?

Then, she nods and turns her attention back to the bow.

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” she says. “Not any more than I blame him. Everything you two did, you did out of love, and it was right; now we must deal with the consequences. I don’t like those consequences, but I don’t think that you could have chosen to do anything differently. If you could, you would have been different people.”

It’s not forgiveness or absolution, but it is something much more precious: acceptance.

*

A creature walks through an empty hall.

Despite the dry summer night, beads of condensation shimmer on the edges of its form. Its movements make no sound, save for a faint dripping noise.

The creature has taken nineteen lives so far. Thirteen throats slit open, bodies found in pools of their own blood; three of them Dalish Keepers, one a First. One a Tevene Magister.

Six more bodies found drowned or strangled, floating face-down in a body of water or inexplicably buried in undisturbed soil. All six served what remained of the Inquisition; all six died on duty.

Thirteen assassinations. Six casualties.

In the Magister’s study, the temperature begins to drop.

*

He was right - there are no footsteps. In fact, there is nothing at all; not even an ominous whisper on the wind, a creaking door or the howling of wolves in the night to herald the intruder’s arrival.

The doorway is empty. Then, Dorian blinks, and it’s not empty anymore.

His only exit out of the study that isn’t a window is blocked by a wraith with glowing eyes the color of veilfire. The dark figure stands unmoving just past the threshold, every detail of it obscured by shadow.

Tonight is the night.

His entire body tenses as fight-or-flight kicks in; he forces himself to relax again, easing back into the chair. He remembers the investigations of previous murders; the target was never struck on sight. There will be a trigger, something that will set off the assault.

Outside, twenty-seven fighters are getting into position.

“You came, then,” Dorian says. His voice does not betray him, thank the Maker; it manages to produce the exact amount of sarcastic aloofness he had hoped for. “And all I needed to do was to get rid of my guards and staff and sit alone in the dark for a couple of hours. Who knew it was that easy?”

The figure steps forward, over the threshold and into the rectangle of moonlight streaming in from behind Dorian’s back. At once, it ceases to be a shadow and becomes a material presence.

A revenant.

His face is pale in the moonlight, the green vallaslin of Ghilan’nain appearing dark grey. Scratches and dirt on every visible part of his skin; grown-out, unkempt hair with leaves and twigs caught in it. Eyes glassy, pupils glowing veilfire green.

When he speaks, his voice is low and rasping, barely familiar - but familiar nonetheless.

A single word.

“Vhenan.”

Fuck. He can’t do this. This is too much - this is wrong - he can’t - 

No. It’s too late now. Either he sees this through, or he dies.

“Amatus,” Dorian states dryly. “Long time no see. Next time you decide to become possessed and disappear forever, maybe leave a note? ‘Dear Dorian, just letting you know that I’ll be away for a while. The ancient spirits I let into my brain have finally claimed my soul and I’m going to spend four and a half years murdering people on their behalf. You were right about everything and I should have listened to you. Love, Neilar.’ ”

It feels good, at least. Sure, he’s just rambling to buy a few more minutes for the people outside - but, while he’s at it, he might as well get some things off his chest.

Now that he’s been forced to work through the fear and the guilt at an incredibly fast pace, all that’s left is anger; quite a hefty amount of it, with the name of this glassy-eyed idiot written on it in giant glowing letters.

“Or how about using the amulet? You know - the magical marvel I invented specifically for the purpose of talking to you? It didn’t cross your mind to maybe mention all the sleepwalking and speaking in tongues that was happening? No! It’s all I’m alright, Dorian , and things are fine, Dorian , and I have to spend a month wondering if the amulet is broken before Leliana calls to tell me that you’re gone - ”

A sharp edge against his throat, clutched in ironbark fingers. Appearing without the warning of sound or motion, like Neilar himself.

The others should be about ready by now, shouldn’t they?

Neilar speaks. Ancient elven.

Dorian understands every word; he’s been doing his homework on everything elven and ancient ever since the disappearance.

“The will of Mythal demands your demise.”

The blade presses deeper - fuck - no, not deep enough to end it. 

It takes all of his willpower not to start casting. Not yet. This isn’t just about saving his own hide; this is about capturing him for good.

The signal. Any second now. Surely - 

*

“...Hold on, just a second - he’s not peeking, right?” Dagna asks, adjusting buckles and leather straps.

“I can’t - he’s covering my eyes!” Neilar protests.

His eyelashes tickle the inside of Dorian’s palms, as if to prove the point.

“Well, good - keep covering them. It’s all wonky and misaligned and you’re not allowed to see it until it sits right.”

Dorian can relate to her fretting. This particular project was, in many ways, a work of passion, and the necessity to finish it as soon as possible only added to the frantic energy of everyone involved. His own part was relatively small; he chimed in at the design stage and provided some arcane support at the tail end of the process, drawing on his necromantic knowledge of animating limbs.

It looks good, though. It should also work well; they’d checked everything a thousand times over. 

Dagna finishes the adjustments and leans back to inspect her work from afar. Satisfied, she nods:

“Alright, let him see it.”

He takes his hands away from Neilar’s eyes and steps aside, making sure that he can see Neilar’s expression as he looks at his new prosthetic.

The look in his eyes is blank, at first, processing what he’s looking at. Then - surprise, curiosity; he leans closer to the artificial arm, inspecting it for details.

“Try holding it up to your face instead,” Dagna suggests.

“But how do I - ”

“Don’t think about it too much! Just do it.”

The arm moves, rising up to eye level and turning, allowing Neilar to look at it from different angles.

Silverite-inlaid ironbark, the metallic parts lovingly engraved with images of vines and halla.

Dorian can see the exact moment when Neilar finds the writing hidden among the designs. His lips move silently as he reads the text.

The same quote in elven, dwarven and Tevene, snaking along the vines:

“Wounded and blinded, I will find my way home.”

A line adapted from the tale of Ghilan’nain, changed ever so slightly to make it into an oath; the same oath Neilar had taken, years ago, upon completing the trial to earn him a place among the clan’s scouts.

Despite the recent revelations from Solas, it seemed appropriate. Dorian doesn’t remember who was the first to float the idea for adding text, but the approving look he received from Taren - Neilar’s father - upon suggesting that particular quote has been firmly burned into his memory.

And yet… This is all fine and good, but the most important question is - 

“It’s… perfect.” Neilar sounds almost puzzled, as if liking their gift is a surprise to him. “I didn’t know what it would look like, but now - I can’t imagine it looking any other way.”

Dorian feels something inside of him deflate with relief. Neilar keeps inspecting the prosthetic, turning it this way and that, then starts playing with it, testing how far the fingers can bend and how quickly he can shift from one gesture to another.

It’s not as good as the real thing, it’s a little slower; Dorian knows that for a fact.

Still, right now Neilar doesn’t seem to mind; after messing with the hand some more, he shifts his attention to Dagna and pulls her into a hug, thanking her. Then, it’s Dorian’s turn.

The hug is tight enough to make his ribs hurt.

For the first time in weeks, it feels as if everything will be alright, after all.

*

A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.

Neilar freezes, both ears perked up. Distracted.

At the sound of the signal, relief floods Dorian's system. He feels the corners of his mouth twist into a smile of their own accord.

“I still love you, for the record,” he says, “But letting you slit my throat is a little too much, don’t you think?”

With a snap of his fingers, the lightning glyph he’d drawn on the floor of the study hours ago detonates.

[high-dragon-bait]

Sorry for being a nuisance 🥰 I know you're probably getting waaaay to much of these (but you're doing such an awesome job with them 😍) and may be tired of fake banter...

but fake banter for Fenris and the Iron Bull, please? 🙏

And/Or

more banter for Fenris and Dorian, please, please, please? 🥺🥺🥺

Hello! I picked Bull and Fenris for this. It's pretty goofy since my last banter was so heavy. Also it requires a disclaimer:

Look. Sometimes. These don't go in the direction I expect. I lose control and have no choice but to write down whatever it is the blorbos want to say. I'm absolving myself of any and all responsibility here. Enjoy

____

Fenris: Is there something you want, Qunari?

Iron Bull: You've got a reputation with the Vints. The things they say about the Blue Wraith... it's good to meet you.

(Third Party Member Dependant)

Dorian: Wait... Bull, are you a fan?

Blackwall: I think the man's in love!

Cole: He likes watching the blood drip to the grass. He feels warm when it matches the beat.

Solas: Tread carefully Iron Bull, our guest’s abilities can be unpredictable.

Cassandra: You are aware this is a friend of the Champion, yes?

Sera: Uh-oh. Watch out glowy-man!

Vivienne: Oh dear, I do believe the Wraith has added another heart to his collection.

Varric: Hate to tell you Tiny, but you've got loads of competition for that one.

Iron Bull: What? Not every day you meet a guy who can rip the beating heart out of a man’s chest with his bare hands. Getting to see it up close is nice.

Fenris: That's... a unique response.

____

Iron Bull: Hey, Fenris?

Fenris: Yes, Qunari?

Iron Bull: Ben-Hassrath. Get it right.

Fenris: No.

Iron Bull: Uh- okay- You looking for work after this gig? Chargers could use a guy like you.

Fenris: You’d like me to join your mercenaries?

Iron Bull: We’d give you steady work. Good coin. Good drinks. The chance to stick your hands wherever you want.

Fenris: Tempting. I’m afraid I have my own uses for my talents.

Iron Bull: Oh yeah, I bet.

Fenris: What?

Iron Bull: What?

____

Iron Bull: What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever ripped out of a guy?

Fenris: What answer are you expecting?

Iron Bull: A second heart? Some crazy blood crystal? Oh! A man eats his twin in the womb, never knows it, and then the last thing he sees is you rip it out of him!

Fenris: I once grabbed a man’s stomach by mistake. It was unpleasant.

Iron Bull: You're not as fun as I thought you’d be.

Fenris: I weep to hear it.

____

Iron Bull: You stand taller every time we pass someone who looks noble.

Fenris: Are you about to accuse me of reflexive respect shown to those in power?

Iron Bull: Oh, I think it's reflexive. I don't think it's respect.

Fenris: What is it then?

Iron Bull: Respect would be standing so they feel important, careful you don't stare too long at the face. You look straight at them. Move your shoulders in a way that makes you look big. You let them know one step too close, and they won't get to make a step back.

Fenris: I see. Teth a, Qunari.

Iron Bull: That's all I do, Wraith.

____

Iron Bull: Hate to say it boss, but all these demons might make you the worst contract we've ever had.

Fenris: I once faced a demon of pure magic and stone, lost in the pits of a forgotten dwarven thaig.

Iron Bull: Wait… really?

Fenris: We had been in the Deep Roads for a week. After being deliberately trapped and left to rot.

Iron Bull: I can’t tell if you’re joking.

Fenris: By the man who hired us.

Iron Bull: Ah, now I believe you. Shitty clients? Nothing’s impossible. 

____

Iron Bull: (Groans)

Fenris: Sore?

Iron Bull: Anyone ever tell you you're heavier than you look?

Fenris: Yes. Stronger too.

Iron Bull: That part's not a problem

Inquisitor: Everything alright, Bull?

Iron Bull: Fine boss. We were just blowing off a little steam. Doing some sparring.

Inquisitor: What kind of sparring put you in this condition?

Iron Bull: My kind.

Fenris: Am I still less fun than you thought?

Iron Bull: Can't tell by just one session, Wraith.

Fenris: Then I'll have to see you tonight, Qunari.

Inquisitor: I... Please don't break anything.

Iron Bull: No promises, boss.

[maglor-my-beloved]

Affectionate Drunk

Characters: Elrond, Erestor

Words: 530

Warnings: depictions of drunkenness

Read on Ao3

“Elrond?”

Elrond turned as Erestor came up to him and laid an arm around his waist. “What is it?”

Erestor gave no response, only leaning his head against Elrond’s shoulder. “Love you,” he muttered.

Elrond frowned. This was not at all like his steward, always so aloof and proper in public, even at more private gatherings like this, with only the House of Elrond in attendance.

“Are you well?”

“‘m fine. Only wanted you to know that I love you.”

“Erestor, you’re drunk,” Elrond said, astonished. Erestor and he would share a glass of wine or two in the evening, sometimes, but he did not think he had ever seen Erestor truly drunk.

Now that he was paying attention, he could see that Erestor’s eyes were unfocused, his pale cheeks flushed, though his speech was barely slurred and he still walked with remarkable grace as Elrond led him to a sofa in a secluded alcove.

“Come,” he said. “Sit.”

Erestor curled up against him as soon as they were seated, and Elrond laid an arm over his shoulder. Now that his initial concern had passed, he quite enjoyed the closeness, something Erestor’s sensibilities rarely permitted in public.

“You drank that dwarven liquor Tyelpë brought, did you not?”

“Mhm. Atya would bring it home sometimes, ‘s good. Very sweet.”

That explained why always proper Erestor had gotten drunk in public; memories of his father and his childhood in Thargelion were the one thing that could break his iron composure.

Elrond sighed. “I will make you a tea for headaches before you go to bed. You might need it tomorrow.”

“You’re so good,” Erestor muttered. “Do you know that, Elrond? You’re so good and kind and loving, and you took us in even after everything we did to you, and we haven’t ruined you, we haven’t… to evil end shall all things turn… but not you. Not you. You are the one good thing that came of this accursed House, and you’re so perfect… I would follow no other, I would… I will spend all my life making you happy, I… You’re so good, I can’t…”

He broke off with a sob, and Elrond realised Erestor was crying in his arms, his tears soaking Elrond’s robe.

“Hush,” he whispered, drawing Erestor closer, pressing a kiss to his brow. “I love you as well, Erestor, and treasure your devotion. There is no other I would trust so, and I am glad to have you by my side.”

His words only made Erestor cry more, so Elrond simply held him close, rocking him gently while humming soft, comforting melodies.

“You have uncle Maglor’s voice,” Erestor muttered, his speech growing more slurred. “You’re the best parts of them… Can you sing atya’s lullaby, Elrond?”

Elrond knew which song he meant – it was one Maglor had written for Caranthir, long ago, and Caranthir had sung it to Erestor. Softly he began to sing, the words still familiar after all this time. When the song was finished, Erestor was asleep in his arms, as sweet and peaceful as Elrond had ever seen him, and he smiled and kissed his brow as he settled comfortably amidst the pillows.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: A Wager Among the Waves

Never try to cheat a dragon, not only are they sore losers, whatever game you’re playing you’re playing it by their rules.

Hooks

Having traveled to Port Sweldin in order to catch a ship, the party get to enjoy a few days enjoying the picturesque beachtown while waiting for a vessel known to be traveling to their destination. Sweldin boasts of lively boardwalk amusements, charming market streets, and a thriving artist community that caters to both tourists and wealthy folk summering

All seems to be going well until early on the morning of their fourth day when the party assembles to see their ship come in only to watch as it suddenly begins to sink out in the harbor. Rescue boats are dispatched ( which the party may be pressganged into) but the effort is interrupted when a grey scaled dragon launches from the waters below and delivers an ultimatum to those gathered to watch the chaos:  His name is Xemplaris, and he is there to claim their shore by right of challenge as the town once challenged him long ago. Before he leaves, he claims that he will sink any ship he sees out on the water, throwing Sweldin into chaos and preventing the party from reaching their long sought destination. 

No one has any idea how the port managed to anger a dragon, but when the party investigates a few miles up the shore they find that the chalenge they’re expected to meet him in is not combat, but an elaborate game. Xemplaris has smoothed out the beach and drawn in a grid, arranging his side of it with large stones and giant shells. Apparently he expects the party to source their own pieces before he tells them the rules, which will require them to go savaging above and below the tideline to find the assortment of oversized tokens needed to compete. The dragon will take great amusement in this, and may engage them in conversation as they thrash about in the surf. during which they may be able to piece together why the beast is doing all this beyond just draconic greed.

Setup: Several hundred years ago,  Beryl Sweldin was a dwarven huckster entrepreneur in search of his next con venture, after being chased out to the coast after his most recent scam enterprise went belly up. Born the son of an imperial scout and surveyor, Sweldin knew a good patch of land when he saw it, and stumbled across a stretch of shore that with a little dredging and other sorts of management would make a fine deepwater port. The only problem was that this stretch of land was inhabitted by a young dragon, who’d grown up alone among the dunes, lairing in the shell of some massive sea-beast that’d long ago died on the beach. Already large enough to pose a threat, Sweldin cozied up to the young Xemplaris, offering him shiny trinkets  to earn his trust and persuading the innocent creature that he was a friend. After that, the draogn was just another mark, and Sweldin was going to fleece him of everything he had.  Sweldin devised a game and taught it to the dragon, wagering coins and baubles along each match and instilling the young wyrm with an undersanding that games like these were binding and one must always abide by their outcome. Naturally Sweldin was cheating, adding more rules and complications to the game each time that the dragon could get caught up in.  After half a year of this grift, Seldin eventually tricked Xemplaris into wagering the entire beach and the giant shell which served as his home, and when the little dragon lost he went away weeping.

After that it was easy for Sweldin to bilk a few inverters into his new project, as deepwater ports were sure to be big business. His grand house still sits on a hill overlooking what he made, its floors and couryard tiled with fragments from a great leviathan’s shell hauled up from the shore.

The Shore game is played in an 8x8 grid, with players taking turns to deploy their pieces anywhere across the first three rows infront of them. The game is often played in sand, and while the grid should be as straight as possible the topography does not need to be even.

Pieces are as follows:

8 roundish stones, all the same color: the main playing piece of the game, these pieces can only be moved two squares at a time. They can also be “flicked” at another piece to remove it from play. If the stone lands its hit, the struck piece is removed and the stone stays in, taking the removed piece’s postion ,were as if flies off the board without making contact it is considered out. Xemplaris requires stones for his game to be large enough for HIM to flick, meaning that for the average humanoid they are improvised weapons with a range increment of 5/15

4 tall shells: These pieces serve as the primary goals of the game, with a player losing once all 4 of their shells have been knocked down. These Shells cannot be moved once placed, and after they fall, no piece can be placed on the spaces into 2 spaces into which they have fallen.  Xemplaris uses the figureheads of different ships he’s salvaged as his point counters, and is very proud of them.

2 Flat shells: These shells move like chess knights, leaping over other pieces. If they land on an enemy piece (including a tall shell) that piece is out, but if they land on a friendly stone, that stone is protected and cannot be taken if struck ( the flat shell needs to be struck first to remove it). Xemplaris uses giant chunks of coral for these pieces.

1 Stick: The stick is three grid spaces long can be placed wherever the owner wants it provided there is not another piece in the way, including digging it into the sand at an angle. The stick is not removed when it is struck by stones, and stones cannot be placed into spaces  the stick occupies ( though the flat shell can still remove it). Xemplaris uses an entire driftwood trunk as his stick. 

2 Shiny tokens:  Not placed on the board, these tokens amount to an attempted “do over” allowing you to retake a shot or force an opponent to retake one of theirs. If the do-over is successful, the one who called for the do-over has to give the other player one of their tokens. Regardless of the outcome of the game, whoever’s holding the tokens keeps them after the game is over. Xemplaris’s tokens are a pair of shimmering gems, and expects the party to ante something equally valuable which may require them to haggle with a jewler back in port. The dragon will also allow one of the challengers to ante their eyes in place of tokens, taking vindictive pleasure in making them wager something precious to them.

The players take turns moving two of their pieces at a time, though only the roundish stones can be used twice in the same round ( first moving, then flicking). Play ends when one player has all their pointy shells knocked over, or when both players are out of stones to toss, in which case the player with the most pointy shells standing wins. in the event of a tie, the player with the most tokens wins, after which the game is a draw.

Further Adventures: 

The world was not kind to Xemplaris after he was evicted, and for centuries the dragon has nursed a shameful sorrow that slowly transmuted into hate when he matured and realized the dwarf had cheated him. Deeply hurt and fixated on winning his home back, the dragon has spent years codifying Sweldin’s nonsense game into something he considers fair, subconsciously convinced that if he could beat the long dead huckster he could undo the hurt he suffered after losing his home and fending for himself in the wider world.  His wager is simple: if he loses, he won’t destroy the port in an act of draconic wrath. If he wins: The port is his, and everyone else needs to leave or risk being burned alive. Xemplaris sees this as justice for the exile he was forced to endure, nevermind how unbalanced the scales might be. 

With his new found fortune, Sweldin married into the prosperous Stouthull clan, and used their combined influences over the newly forming town to invest heavily in shipping.  The vessel the party were set to sail on belonged to the Stouthulls, which gives Sweldin’s decendants a perfect excuse to aim the party at Xemplaris in order to buy time to rally their defences and secure their assets.  They knew the dragon was coming after all, Sweldin had told his children about the centuries long graceperiod he’d gotten the dragon to agree on before their next “rematch” and it was kept as family secret while they prepared various countermeasures.  The Stouthulls promise the party a fortune to just kill the dragon if they can, or delay long enough for them to ready wyrmkilling construct and enchanted balista they’d had prepared for just such an occasion.

If Xemplaris loses his game, he’ll fly into a rage, a half millennia of regret pouring through him and spurring him to rampage through town, tearing apart buildings desperate to find the shell that was once his only shelter. If the party can’t talk him down, they or the Stouthulls will have to kill him, being hailed for heroes in their part but always being haunted by the wyrm’s last words: “ It’s not fair, I just wanted my home back, It’s not fair, It’s not fair”

If the party do manage to talk Xemplaris down ( what port city wouldn’t want to have a draconic protector on the naval payroll?) and eventually return to Port Sweldin, they’ll find that the populace has gone a bit mad for the Shore Game, playing a table-sized version on the boardwalk and at the biweekly tournament hosted outside the dragon’s new beachside lair.   The heroes will of course have made an enemy of the Southull clan but honestly,   who’d pick a pack of greedy, murderous merchants over having a boardgame playing dragon friend?