#he ignored the blight to play politics

[anakinh]

lasted approximately 2 hours into a new playthrough of Dragon Age: Origins before I downloaded a mod. god those mage cowls are ugly af

[mythalism]

im normally not one to defend this asshole because a lot of the criticism of solas is great and valid but i need ppl to stop acting like solas is bringing down the veil to bring back arlathan because he believes it’s “better”.

solas does not romanticize or idealize arlathan. his goal of bringing down the veil has absolutely nothing to do with arlathan being morally superior to present thedas. most likely, his goal has nothing to do with restoring the empire of arlathan at all, and rather is about reversing the damage the veil did to his People- elves, maybe. spirits, more likely.

he is vocally critical of elvhenan as an empire on several occasions. he literally tells dorian not to romanticize it and compares its corruption and depravity to TEVINTER:

he also literally orchestrated a slave rebellion and threw a coup?????

he exhibits some nostalgia, maybe, for things like architectural marvels and of course the magic, but to act like solas ignores the reality of the political corruption of elvhenan and wears rose colored glasses, dreaming about ripping the veil apart and letting everyone die to create a perfect elven utopia just like the last one? it’s a major disservice to his character.

if i were to speculate, id guess that there’s far more to his motivations than we even know at this point, most likely (definitely) regarding the blight, considering how heavily implied it is that he created the veil to contain it, and that that also majorly plays into his need to bring down the veil regardless of the potential loss of life, but since it’s speculative ill can it for now.

regardless, the whole point is that it wasn’t perfect, elvhenan was deeply flawed, but it’s not about the empire, it’s about his People and his personal responsibility to atone for what he did to them. in trespasser he does not say he will bring back arlathan or elvhenan. he says “i will save the elvhen people”. whether you think he’s right or wrong isn’t really relevant (it’s relevant to your own playthrough and relationship to the narrative, of course, but not to the greater themes of the story), it’s not about right or wrong, or whether or not one society was more just or “better” than the other.

even a low-approval solas who HATES your inquisitor and tells a human inquisitor that they proved him right about their people being small-minded and crude will still approve when you help the refugees in the hinterlands and when you leave flowers at an old womans grave. he will still develop respect for cassandra, a friendship with varric. he still plays 4d mind chess with the iron bull to cheer him up. he will still tell blackwall that he will remember the people of the inquisition for their courage:

solas is not weighing thedas versus elvhenan on the metaphorical scales of justice and finding elvhenan worthier of existence, and destroying the other. he is a man who loved his people and in trying to save them, he made a mistake that doomed them, and feels he has to make it right, no matter the cost.

solas’s is not the story of a god making judgement calls on the worthiness of those beneath him, finding them lacking, and condemning them to death. it is a story of a man who has completely lost himself to the enormity of his guilt. it is a story of well-intentioned mistakes, of impossible choices and who has to shoulder them, of losing your personhood for a cause you believe in, of whether or not the ends justify the means, of accountability versus complacency, of progress versus stagnancy, of the role of violence in radical progress, of absolution of guilt, and of loneliness. right or wrong doesnt matter - he knows it's wrong and suggests the process will turn him into a monster. but its not about right or wrong, its about a man alone on an island, who can’t bring himself to surrender, who can't help but fight, knowing it all might end with him.

[ooachilliaoo]

Play Along

Elissa had said ‘play along’.

Play along, and they’d figure it out as they went. Play along, because they needed Eamon, his men, and his political clout to combat the blight. Play along, and a solution would present itself.

He’d been fine ‘playing along’ while they had been running around Orzammar and the Brecilian Forest, gathering their other allies. But then they’d returned to Redcliffe, and things had become startingly real.

Eamon had said – and Elissa had agreed with him – that they couldn’t challenge Loghain without presenting an alternative. They had to have all the solutions – to have the blight and the civil war in hand – if they were to win over the Landsmeet. And since they couldn’t trust Anora, their candidate had to be him.

Elissa had tried to suggest that perhaps Eamon himself might be a good suggestion as Ferelden’s next ruler. But Eamon had summarily dismissed her, citing Alistair’s own stronger claim. Thanks to that factor that had dogged him for most of his life… his blood.

She’d looked at him, all apology in her eyes, but she hadn’t argued further.

And now? Now they were on the way to Denerim, Eamon having called the Landsmeet on the very premise of pushing him forward as king. King. Responsible for the entirety of Ferelden.

He didn’t expect Eamon to care that he didn’t want it. Didn’t want the responsibility, or the power. Elissa might, but even then, the price of knowing her so well was also knowing that she would lay aside both their wants, both their desires, in order to do what was best for Ferelden. She’d push him into it if she had to, but she was also loyal, and she’d find another way if she could.

Maker, he hoped she could, but it was looking less and less likely the closer they drew to the capital.

Another concern that didn’t seem to enter anyone’s mind but his own – and Morrigan’s, he supposed – was that if he did end up having to take the throne, he wouldn’t be any good at it.

He wasn’t completely ignorant of Fereldan politics. His education had seen to that. He also knew history. He’d studied his… ancestors. Not that he’d thought of them as such more as past kings of Ferelden, really. But the point was that he knew that being king meant making difficult choices. Meant that you sometimes had to betray a friend, sacrifice a town, employ assassins, choose the best thing out of a bad set of options, learn to live with the consequences and then do it all again. He wasn’t sure that there existed a version of him where he would be capable of doing that.

It would be shame if they somehow managed to save Ferelden from the blight only to doom it to his leadership.

Or lack thereof.

Thinking about it, if they were talking of alternatives to Loghain for the throne, why not Elissa herself?

Read the Rest on AO3

[bumblewarden]

So!! I've been wanting to do this for a while, but life got in the way, so now I'm here to take that thing up again because!!! Fun!!!! This is about the relationships between OCs, and I don't want to impose anything but. Regarding how Novhen and Astala would get along:

What if they HAD grown up together? Maybe not in the same family (although, it would be fun 👀👀👀👀👀👀 they are very similar and very different from each other in different aspects. For example both are very loyal and community oriented, but also Astala is loud and boisterous while Novhen is quieter and more underhanded), but definitely the same Alienage. They'd know each others' quirks and habits. Maybe Novhen got frustrated with Astala because she'd always hide in these really obvious spots when playing hide and seek and Astala in turn would never be able to find Novhen? Maybe Novhen would at some point have stolen a plum tart for her and maybe Astala would've helped him against another kid who made fun of Novhen? Maybe, if we wanted them to meet up later during the Blight, Astala had to move away from Denerim at some point. I think she's a bit older than Novhen; maybe she got married elsewhere. Or, if not, now we gave more elves storming Vaughan's estate, which is alwats fun. I think Novhen would get to lead that one operation until Nelaros's death, because before that, stealth does seem to be the best option.

I think these two would get along well, differences aside. Astala would make an effort to lower her if needed, and having a familiar face to lean on during the Blight year would probably be a big comfort to them both. I think they'd be comfortable enough with each other to talk about the recruitment and how it didn't exactly happen willingly; they could gripe about nobles and politics; they could just. Sit in silence after Broken Circle and try and digest Sloth's nightmare. They could kill the slavers at the Alienage together!!! I think having a like-minded person from the same cultural background would help enormously.

One thing Astala probably wouldn't be on board with is the Cult of Fen'Harel. She'd let Novhen practice alright and defend him if accusations about this were levelled against him, but I think she would either have fallen out of it if she'd ever been introduced to it (it didn't save Adaia after all, so...), or never warmed up to the idea of this elvhen trickster god

These are my thoughts as far as they go. What do you think? Also I hadn't thought of it, but if you want to move this conversation to DMs, they're open ^^

(And if this doesn't tickle your fancy anymore, feel free to ignore ^^)

👀👀👀👀👀 I am eating this ask up like breakfast. Or, er, ramen. Which is the thing i am actually eating atm. But yes yes yes to all of this, i love it so much

Full response under the readmore for length, but i'm realizing now my response is mostly about them as kids 😅 Oops

[Ask Game]

The way i play with companion!Novhen, i'd assume he and Astala are probably either siblings or cousins (i waffle), except this time on their mothers' sides. I don't know Astala's exact age, but Novhen was born in *pulls out notes* Wintermarch of 9:7 Dragon. If we try to stagger them based on Adaia's death, that's probably close to a decade between them which seems a tad bit higher than it should be. We'll just have to dance around that matter

Even if Astala isn't significantly older, there's probably never a single moment where he's taller than her XD Add onto that that girls tend to hit puberty first, there's gonna be quite the height difference around age 10

But yes, their personalities go in very different directions but are probably pretty compatible, especially if given the benefit of a shared childhood! They're both very sociable, but i suspect most people like Astala more, especially authority figures. She's much less of a troublemaker, and Novhen definitely took a while to come into his own as a social mastermind. (This also would make her the ideal candidate for a distraction whenever Novhen’s a-scheming. That’s gonna do her a lot of favors when trying to get him to steal plum tarts for her XD These two are the real blight as far as anyone in the alienage is concerned XDD)

Oh, actually! If they knew each other, i can imagine pretty well him practicing with or studying Astala to get better at social situation! And clearly it worked! (A: "Ok now make an angry face... You just look like you can't find a chamberpot. You have to scrunch your eyebrows like this." *jams her thumb down his forhead*)

Astala seems to prefer her hair shorter during the Blight, but how was it as a child? Because if it were in some sort of puff, i can imagine her child-level object permanence resulting in her hiding in an empty barrel with the puff still peeking over the top! (Artist's Rendition Below)

I don’t think he’d be too frustrated with her poor stealth outside of team games at least! (If they’re partnered is another story…) He does sometimes tease her that she’s not going to be a very good criminal when she gets bigger. Idk, how would she respond to that? Because how does she feels about the fact that she's not going to follow in her mother's footsteps (or how aware of that she'd be as a child) or maybe she would retort about how she’s already bigger or something else? Definitely a lot of ways to take that one lol

But also the idea of Novhen as alienage king of hide and seek is kinda cute. He's usually the last one left (all that damn thief training), so it’s not unheard of to see a parade of Astala, Shianni, Soris, and whoever else they've wrapped into their game (which with Astala could be quite a number) turning the alienage upsidedown to find him. There's probably at least one time he gets found in the first minute, and he thinks he's going to die of embarrassment. Because of that, they almost never let him be a hider in the first round. Sometimes when he’s hiding, they'll accidentally pick up seekers who weren't even playing along the way because they want to see him knocked down a peg XD That's what happens when you win too much!

Astala probably has him beat at wrestling tho! And the game where i imagine they’re most evenly matched would be arm wrestling. As an archer, Novhen has insane upper body and especially shoulder strength, but Astala has insane everywhere strength

On the less competitive side, imagine them as dance partners as little kids ☺️ Astala’s probably the more enthusiastic one about it, but i’d imagine she could drag him into it Easy whether through blackmail or Ole Reliable (puppy dog eyes). There have to be lots of events in the alienage that call for dancing, so it’s good to have a go-to dance partner! And if they ever get a Silly Urge while dancing, the one thing that i’ve found little kids most reliable to do is spin so fast they nearly make themselves sick, and when there’s two of them spinning each other, there’s no stopping them until the centrifugal force throws them both to the ground. At least they’re having fun lol

The Cult of Fen'Harel thing makes sense. I wouldn't expect Astala to be into that. I imagine in this case that Cyrion and Adaia agreed to expose the children to both sets of beliefs, so they could choose once they got older

It's a good thing Novhen's good at keeping matters hush because otherwise Astala would likely get stuck constantly mediating between Novhen and Ilanlas on matters of religion 🤭

Tbh Novhen would slightly begrudge her for choosing the Chantry, but i don't think he'd ever let her know if he could help it. It's just not worth it, and you can't talk about that without talking about Adaia's death which nobody is excited to talk about. Still, it's a potential source of drama, esp as the politics of DA:D are winding up

Back in the present day, if the endgame configuration is one where they live in the same location (which i think could only be the case if they were both companions), Novhen would offer her once for him to educate her child/ren in the way of the Cult of Fen'Harel and/or the Vir Banal'ras fighting style, probably get denied at least on the first one, and never bring it back up. He knows she's Andrastian and also wouldn't expect her to teach them that fighting style herself (too rogue-based), but if he had permission, he'd want to at least try to expose them to their family's traditions, so they could make a choice themselves like Novhen and Astala did

And honestly, if he's present for the origin, once Nelaros dies, Novhen would more than happily hand leadership of the mission over to Astala. Stealth only goes so far, and she has first dibs on revenge #SupportWomen

And with Unrest in the Alienage! As soon as Caladrius is dead, Novhen is scampering over his corpse to pick the lock on Cyrion's cage. Doesn't even wait for someone else to pilfer the key. Astala is free to react to that little scene however she wishes, and we get the whole Tabris family reunion after

Whoever’s Warden, i imagine those two leaning on each other a lot for emotional support during the Blight because not only are they the only alienage elves in the party, they’re family (or at the least childhood friends). Once we personalize the Broken Circle dreams, they get upsetting fast. If either of them get sent into that mission (or Maker forbid both of them), they’re definitely going to need to share a blanket by the fire for a minute

EDIT: the paragraph looks like it's been eaten but also! Novhen would be very cautious about Astala's Zevran romance at first. ("Yes, Stala, he's very dreamy, but let's not forget he's only here because he was hired to kill you.") We know he's very protective, and they're both so eldest sibling-coded

[greypetrel]

Hello!

I left one prompt behind from @whiskynorocks and… I didn’t forgot, I just needed to keep this a little over and mull about it. I wanted to be a Coronation scene but eh. Of my characters, Alyra is the one I’m finding the most difficult to nail. But listen. Let’s wing it, I don’t know how good it’ll be but here you go.

Greis if you’re reading this: SHOO. THERE ARE SPOILERS, SHOO.

Tis the prompt list

Another card up her sleeve.

14. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you."

The palace was at full capacity for the joint ceremony, both the coronation of the new king and the celebration for the end of the Blight, and whatever building and room was left standing in Denerim had been filled to the brim. It was as if the city was finally catching its breath, still much in shambles but not able to wait to turn page and begin a new chapter. A peaceful chapter, one of reconstruction and building, with a new king on the throne. A king who saved the realm from a Blight and fought against an Archdemon for them, a good one, one of the people.

She would have gladly done without the grand celebration for a victory they told it was hers and didn’t feel completely so, added to the coronation itself. It felt like a pointless show off. There was so much to be done, and she would have preferred to be up and about cleaning the Alienage from rubble, more than dressing up and be forced to partake into another pointless show.

Nonetheless, she had promised Alistair -still unaware of her intentions, but he had a lot of other things to mull over - that she would be there for his coronation, so ditching everything really wasn’t an option. She planned on skipping his marriage, that she did. With Morrigan gone without even a proper goodbye, she couldn’t bear to see him exchange vows with Anora. Anora who was the queen, Anora who was politically shrewd and clever, Anora who hadn’t been humiliated asking for his hand in front of the Landsmeet, showing vulnerability for once and being harshly reminded that her ears were of the wrong shape. No, that she couldn’t do. Not even for Alistair.

But now, she had promised, and she had plans of her own for the coronation. So, she sucked a breath, ignored the nasty pain in her ribcage, and tied the blue kirtle over her bust, deftly tying the laces in a knot over her chest and smoothing imaginary wrinkles down. Wool dyed of a rich blue, Warden’s blue, lined in fur, with a hint of embroidery in white thread on the bodice forming flowers and leaves. She snorted, noticing now that Leliana -the one who insisted that she shouldn’t wear her armour but a fancy dress and ordered the damn thing for her- had asked for roses. Ironical, she thought, as she sad back and started braiding her hair and putting jewelry on.

If she had to lose time in putting up a show, she might as well do so in style, for once. She braided her hair, leaving two smaller ones in front of her face, to cover the barely healed scratches from the damn dragon, and collecting the rest in a complex games of plaits that ran from the top of her head down, over her shoulder. The red played a nice contrast over the white fur and the blue.

After all, that attire was as much an armour as her dragonskin gabardine, she thought, and what she was about to fight was as much as a battle as the one that she and her friends recently won. A battle with her pride at stake: she allowed Arl Eamon -that despicable man that she really should have left to die- outsmart her once, convincing her that putting a crown on Alistair’s head and marrying him off to the former queen was the only sensible solution. She had danced on his hand, and realised just later that he just used the both of them for his own purposes. That Anora would have been a good queen on her own. She had made a mistake, letting the old man convince her to indulge, after evading from Fort Drakon, in the irritation against Anora - who really had no choice, she later realised that in her shoes she would have done the very same.

She danced on his hand, she let him move her and Alistair like pawns once. She wouldn’t have allowed that to happen again. Alistair was too naïve, too attached to the idea of a family he never had -that was no family-, to see that Eamon didn’t care for him as a person. She wasn’t. She saw. She cared. And she would not leave her best friend, her lover, one of the parts of her heart, in the hands of Eamon Guerrin ever again, after putting a crown he never wanted on his head.

No.

Let the simple Dalish huntress she once had been definitely die, substitute her with this woman dressed in fancy clothes fitting for an Arlessa. The huntress had died long ago with Tamlen, after all.

Because as much pain and drama this year had brought… Alyra had to say that it suited her. The chance to do something substantial suited her well, and she revelled in it.

So, she schooled herself, slipped on some jewelry – some earrings covering the tips of her years in silverite, that Ashalle brought her from the clan and once belonged to her mother. One of Morrigan’s necklaces -a gift she once gave her, it brought a bittersweet memory but she needed it- on her neck, and the enchanted rings she wore with her armour, and she was ready to go.

Fashionably late, she heard some banns commenting on her entrance in the great hall, straight and proud with her chin held up high. She wasn’t fashionably late, she thought this whole ceremony was a ginormous loss of time, when the city lied in shambles. Morale could be gained better by full stomachs and roofs repaired before the winter came. She had to adapt to new rules, it didn’t mean that she couldn’t express that she thought they were stupid.

So, she stood in her assigned place, was the very image of property and professionalism, did whatever was expected from her in that ceremony, and even if she felt too many side glances on her, she didn’t care nor deigned one of undeserved attention. Contrary to most nobles there, she earned her place and was intelligent and competent enough for it. She had nothing to be shy of or to be questioned about.

Alistair was there, putting some real effort to be less clumsy as possible, as he kneeled down and the crown was put in place on his head, pronounced some vows, accepted the position Alyra had forced on him. The fleeting thought, when he rose up and all the crowd cheered and saluted him as king, that it really suited him, made him look less like a stray puppy and more like… Like what she saw in him whenever he allowed himself to forget humour and be serious, take some space for himself. He was beautiful, in the tragedy of that moment, dreams and hopes dying as he kneeled down a Warden and stood up as the King of Ferelden. And the responsibility was on her. She had done this to him. That two horrible people used her as well and moved her around like a pawn wasn’t an excuse. Nonetheless, the damage was done, and there was no turning back now. She prayed to Mythal that she saw right, and that he could grow to appreciate the role. Or that at least the burden of the crown would not have broken him for good.

All that she could do, now, was waiting for her turn to pledge her vow to the new king, and make it worth it. As the chamberlain announced Lady Mahariel, Commander of the Gray, Arlessa of Amaranthine and Hero of Ferelden, she gracefully stepped forward, walking in stride and taking all the eyes of the crowd on her with as much dignity as she could muster. She raised her gown with both hands to step on the dais, in that dainty way Leliana had shown her, and knelt in front of him, purposefully. The kneeling part was something she had protested, when both Guerrins decided to annoy her with formalities and instructions. She was a Grey Warden, she was apolitical, she wouldn’t have knelt. But, if she wanted the political title for Amaranthine, it was necessary. And that title was central to her plans. So, she thought now… If it was Alistair, and she worded her vow carefully…

“I, Alyra Mahariel Sabrae, Commander of the Grey, Arlessa of Amaranthine and Hero of Ferelden, promise on my faith to pledge my sword and loyalty…” She casted a sideway glance to Eamon, who was standing a little further back the throne, and smirked at him. The traditional oath wanted her to pledge fealty to the crown, but she had a better idea, that honestly even solved the conundrum of Grey Wardens needing to be outside of politics. “…to king Alistair Theirin, first of his name. I swear to never cause him harm and to observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”

She could hear murmurs raising from behind her, for the unorthodoxy of her vow. Not as loud as she would have feared, which was good and gave her a good idea of how strong her position actually was at court. Eamon’s firey glance, which she felt more than saw, only made her surer in what she was doing. Oh, she would have worn that angry glare like the most precious of jewels, she thought as she kissed the ring on Alistair’s right hand, as was custom to seal the oath.

She had one more thing to tell him, tho. Before the rest of the celebrations brought them apart, she had some more words and some more oaths. Which were just for him, just for the two of them. They hadn’t really spoken in the last days, they hadn’t parted in the best of ways, and he didn’t know whether she planned on staying or not. So, as he motioned to slip his hand away, clearing his throat in that way that she knew meant that he was getting flustered, she clenched her fingers over his, keeping him there and leaning forward to him, gaze fixed in his.

“I promise also that you’ll always have me by your side. Should you want or need one, I’ll always be an ally, for you.” She lowered her voice, and she didn’t care if people were staring. “You’ll never be alone shouldn’t you wish to, and I am not going to let anyone hurt you, not anymore. This I promise.”

It was personal, it was intimate, it was an echo of things she already told him, once, when they shared a tent and he told her more about his story and fears, quietly and softly in the deep of night. It was an echo, and yet it was as true as the first time she told him. From his expression, he felt it too: from the longing in his eyes, he knew. What was still to be said, was whether he really believed she committed. But for that, she still had a card up her sleeve, ready to be played before evening fell.

She bowed her head, letting go of his hand, finally, and raising up to return to her place. Bann Teagan, up in the first row of seats, casted her an inquisitive glance, not very benevolent, and she replied in tow, glaring back. She saved his village when he could not, she had no reasons to care for his opinion.

She stood back, so straight she looked taller, majestic and an imposing presence. So much so that nobody dared to speak to her. It was good.

It was good, when she was called back on the dais for her part of the ceremony, as the new king was properly greeted, and Alistair offered her a boon.

There were no murmurs, but proper gasps, when she refused to grant lands to the Dalish, and chose to stay and serve the crown, as a Chancellor in the King’s private council. Alistair smirked at that, a glint of amusement -Alyra hoped it was happiness too, but she didn’t want to illude herself- in his eyes as he ignored Eamon’s protests and granted the boon to her. She smirked right back, bowing her head in a thank you.

As if she ever believed that gifting to the Dalish the lands more hit by the Blight was ever meant to be a real boon and not just a pacification. As she turned back, both Eamon and Teagan, from one side to the other, were livid. Anora, on the contrary, was smirking to, the faintest respect in her eyes.

Yes, she thought, it wouldn’t have been half bad, after all.

[fatetcrn]

Some Absolutely Random Alistair Things: Royalty Edition.

You will have to literally physically wrestle him into anything fancy. He just wont have it. Nothing more elaborate than leathers, furs and simple weave cloth.

Alistair has no sense of diplomacy and doesn't feel the need to play any silly games with words. He will tell you exactly and directly how he feels about a situation and what his opinions are on any given matter. There is no posturing and double talk.

Initially leans heavily on Teagan for guidance and support. His only constant confidant across all verses but this reliance grows steadily less and less and it isn't long before Teagan is barely ever in Denerim letting his sort-of-nephew get on with things in his own unique way.

There are three crowns. One for daily wear when seated ( slouched and bored ) in the Great Hall as nobles have their audience with the King ( and Queen conditional ) where they come before him with their problems, grievances and complaints. One slightly more ornate one for more formal occasions such as banquets, galas and dinners / meetings with dignitaries from other counties. And then there is The Official Crown ( along with the scepter, orb and fur lined mantle ) only worn at coronations and other official ceremonies of state. He doesn't care for any of them.

Alistair has a small personal guard of trusted men and women and can often be found among them ( either sparring or drinking ) as he wont ask anyone to protect the Fereldan Royalty if he can't stand beside them.

He isn't into hunting, a hobby that would normally be considered appropriate for a Ferelden King but he does make sure the royal forests and areas around the city are maintained and protected.

He continues his interest in the arcane and collects magical/possessed artifacts… mostly to keep them away from anyone who would misuse them. There is a whole room full of these things on display to both keep them safe and for their arcane advisors to study.

Never stops collecting ornately carved figurines. He is a small boy inside.

Helps re-establish the Warden Compound in Denerim and builds up a massive library of Grey Warden Lore and History second only to that at Weishaupt.

Travels across Ferelden overseeing her restoration after the Blight. He is happier away from court among what the nobility would considerl "the ordinary. common" people. To him they are Ferelden.

Is in tentative negotiations with Orlais but can't be manipulated ( or charmed ) by the Empress.

Makes every effort to never be anything like either Cailan or Maric. This extends to his private relationships. Does not engage in affairs and dalliances.

There are those who insist he is an usurper or put on the throne as some Grey Warden bid for control or power. While not wanting to risk a civil war, he will not tolerate unrest. He knows from history that these things cannot always be solved without bloodshed and will fight those who threatens Ferelden's peace. But not 'at all costs' there are some prices that are just too high and if a compromise can be met he will take it. Many would call him idealistic and they might be correct but those who understand him refer to him as incorruptible. A king is to serve and this is something he doesn't want to forget.

it is the fact that he never wanted to be king, never wanted the power or status and this is what makes him a good king though. He does. however accept the responsibility reluctantly but not half-heartedly. Can he make those impossible often morally questionable or outright callous decisions? That remains to be seen.

Can sometimes be found up into the early hours of the morning studying politics, law, history and anything that could be useful. This is not common knowledge and many still see him as flippant and ignorant but there is power in being underestimated.

In 9:38 he travels to Antiva following a lead to where he might find Maric and returns fully committed to being good king. Whatever that means. But he will endeavor to find out. He doesn't talk about that journey.

There is always that restless part of him that would give all this up in an instant. Theirin blood or not.

[thebitchkingofangmar]

ASKING ABOUT “O, Audacious Hearts”!!! DRAGON AGE??!!!! 🙌

DRAGON AGE. I LOVE THIS ONE SO MUCH ITS SO DAMN LONG

Just like And The Lovers, AOH is set in the same universe as The Song of Dirthalath, just far into the future, and its my canon divergent stand-in for my Hawke, Rowan.

I really love this one because its written in one of my favourite techniques: mixed media. I love how intertwining narration with epistolaries, codexes, diary entries and other kind of recorded accounts not only pays homage to the game but allows me to play with the nuances of the narrative more.

I'm the main writer but this is a collaborative effort with @atypicalacademic, my bestie, my comrade, the other half of my creative soul. There's just so many bits of this one that own my entire heart, but I'll try to keep it short:

It features a brief Arviraven cameo.

Everyone's miserable in the thaig but there is this one moment, of Fenris almost touching Rowan in the red-blue light of the lyrium in the caves that drives me insane.

The title comes from a independence/resistance song the Hawkes grew up with that I made up for world-building purposes. The full stanza is O, audacious heart, guard us from darker skies / Make your steady beating courageous men of us / O, audacious heart, be the marrow in me / Don't let us forget we're free.

There's an entire subplot of Fenris trying to propose and being interrupted by several people.

This "codex" entry:

Oh my, aren’t the Hawkes hard to kill. Leandra’s tragedy is proof enough that you need a psychopath of that calibre to be done with them. Yes, Leandra was still the Leandra Amell we knew, but she became something different too, Maker rest her soul. She became as much of a Hawke as she was an Amell. 

Of her children, she remained only with Rowan, one of the Champions. Her youngest died in the blight and her second is a Mage. I believe she is involved in one of the non-violent factions of the Mage Rebellion, and by what I’ve heard of Bethany, I would not be surprised if she became whatever the equivalent of a First Enchanter will be when all of this is over, if she is not trialled in case the Mage Rebellion becomes the failure many of us suspect it might. 

As for the Champion, I am told she is the spitting image of her father: she has all the charm of a roguish Noble Prince and deadlier than should be advisable to be in polite company. Like her father she is a radical, who advocated not for Mages or Templars, despite her very obvious support of late First Enchanter Orsino. Her adamant opposition to the Knight-Commander was on the grounds of what she called ‘the Liberty and self-determination of the peoples of Kirkwall, and all Thedas if it came to it’. Apparently she believes in some sort of cooperative form of politics that I will not pretend to understand. 

She is impressive but she makes little sense to me. Considering she was publicly engaged to an elf with strange markings and Tevene accent, you can do the maths on your own. I ignore if they married, though I’ve heard that they did. She was candid, irreverent, and extremely direct. I hear that dwarf Tethras might become the new Viscount of Kirkwall, and if he does, I would not be surprised to see her back in town. 

I know nothing of her grandmother that you speak of, however, just of the Amells and little of her father. I can ask if you want, but I doubt I will get anywhere with it.

[arpov-blog-blog]

Willie Horton and Me, Again | Bowdoin College

....."Shortly before his death in 1991, Atwater (rather clinically) explained to political scientist Alexander Lamis what he and his fellow strategists were thinking as they developed the ad: “You start out in 1954 by saying, ‘N——r, n——r, n——r.’ By 1968 you can’t say ‘n——r’—that hurts you. Backfires. So, you say stuff like forced busing, states’ rights, and all that stuff. You’re getting so abstract now [that] you’re talking about cutting taxes, and all these things you’re talking about are totally economic things, and a by-product of them is [that] blacks get hurt worse than whites. And subconsciously maybe that is part of it. I’m not saying that. But I’m saying that if it is getting that abstract, and that coded, that we are doing away with the racial problem one way or the other. You follow me—because obviously sitting around saying ‘We want to cut this’ is much more abstract than even the busing thing, and a hell of a lot more abstract than ‘N——r, n——r.’”

I think that stands as evidence; one of the two major American political parties has deliberately, for more than fifty years, fanned the fires and divisions of racial hatred and misunderstanding. As their plan.

Consider a statement made by Trump supporter Crystal Minton, who said to New York Times reporter Patricia Mazzei in reference to Donald Trump, “He’s not hurting the people he’s supposed to be hurting.” She was complaining that the 2018–2019 government shutdown, implemented by Trump, was harming her and the people of her small town, who were largely dependent on government jobs at the federal prison in Marianna, Florida. In Minton’s statement, we hear the revenant of Atwater’s remark: “Blacks get hurt worse than whites.”

But by 2019, the subtext had become the text. Atwater had played a very large role in this GOP battle plan, often referred to as “The Southern Strategy,” architected in 1968 by the Nixon campaign to use race as a wedge issue. But I didn’t know that, not for sure, in 1989. In 1989, it was painful and bewildering. And, looking at it from the vantage point of 2020, I didn’t know that not only would it continue over the next thirty years, but it would get ever more sophisticated and savage, turned to cringing effect against Barack Obama and finding (one must hope) its apotheosis in the mind-numbingly regular statements and taunts of Donald Trump. I have to say, as an intellectual proud of what I think of as my sophisticated irony, it would almost be funny, like a Saturday Night Live or Dave Chappelle skit mocking outdated ignorance, if I were not the parent of a child who has had her childhood blighted by all this.

I also didn’t know as I wrote, and neither did many others, that the officer who apprehended Horton and brought him to justice, Yusuf A. Muhammad, was African American. Muhammad, a corporal in the Prince George’s County Police at the time, shot and wounded Horton, bringing him in. That wasn’t in the ad. It also wasn’t in the ad that Corporal Muhammad was the recipient of two degrees from Johns Hopkins, that he would go on to be a police chief, or that he would finish his illustrious career with the Metropolitan Police of Washington, DC.

The everyday occurrence that the best and worst of our society, a valiant and studious and learned police officer and a vile criminal, were of the same race had been conveniently overlooked by the Republicans in their rush to stereotype Black males. And perhaps it points to what I have come to think of as the general incompetence on these matters of the Democratic Party and their strategists that they did not make an advertisement pointing this out. But what we were left with was a masterpiece of cruel political magic stirring up fear and division that went virtually unanswered and that has been allowed to morph and metastasize over the succeeding decades."

[amgarrak]

The political implications of the original paragon Aeducan essentially organising a bloodless coup upon all the Noble caste in order to actually begin combatting the blight? That shit gets me so hyper I can't even cope with it.

It's also such a fascinating backdrop of history to your Aeducan, Trian and Bhelen's seperate narratives. Aeducan's rise to kingship and Paragorn-dom was a clear acknowledgement by the Assembly that they had failed in their caste-given duties and that Aeducan had shamed them. So now, so many hundreds of years after this, the Aeducan house has this reliable and down to earth reputation. And all of the heirs have a different take on what that means to current times and current politics of Orzammar.

Bhelen obviously believes in his father and brother's abject failure of this reputation, and in his own superior insight into what is necessary and unnecessary political machination. But he is young, naive, and incredibly egomaniacal. Obviously he becomes a tyrant eventually.

Meanwhile Trian is fundamentally invested in the spirit of what he perceives the Aeducan house must be. He is possessive of the Throne but absolutely not unaware of the responsibility he is bearing, to the extent that he is unendingly critical of those not matching his level of work ethic. But of course, that attitude earns him enemies, even within his own family, and he is too focused on the work of his position to consider the emotions behind people's actions. He assumes too readily that his dedication will speak entirely for him.

And, where Ves specifically sits as the middle child, she is invested in Aeducan as the warrior, the selfless defender with no aspirations to the throne whatsoever. She has ambitions, but she is also content to remain the second to Trian's unending dedication. She envisions a future of supporting her brother in the Assembly, of becoming a daunting political force in her own right through deeds of great valour against the darkspawn and taking that power back and consolidating it amongst the Houses. She had a long term plan of being mediator between the political necessities of court and the immediate threats of war, advocating for the Legion of the Dead and expanding their reach throughout the Deep Roads and reclaiming Thaigs again. She saw herself as making Aeducan proud.

Not to say that she didn't engage in politics, indeed she was already a very daunting and ruthless player within the Assembly, simply because of her foundationally noble goals. Aeducan's supremacy was best for Orzammar and she put effort into keeping it that way. But even in that goal, her own sense of dedication and clarity of purpose blinded her too much to Bhelen's growing discontent. She found it too difficult to imagine someone of her house interpreting their founder's actions so selfishly, and with so little thought too.The idea that Bhelen would risk all of Orzammar's stability just for a quick fix to what he perceived a governmental failing? She couldn't fathom it. So when Bhelen came to her with an obvious lie and a clear attempt to play the game, she ignored him and assumed he had misheard.

Trian had been her brother for decades, she knew exactly what his honour and code and care for her (genuine, though others found it difficult to understand) would allow him to do. And she did not press Bhelen on his motives. 

And she believes all that happened after was a deserved punishment for that failure, for her over investment in her own plans over actually identifying the rot at the heart of her family. The Ancestors made their judgement and Ves considers it a fair one.

AND THIS ALL MAKES HER literally Duncan's ideal replacement. She is not only grimly dedicated to ending the darkspawn no matter what, she is also politically savvy enough to hear 'the Wardens have to be neutral' and know EXACTLY how hard you have to work at that stricture. Indeed, that is a vital quality for Warden-Commanders that Duncan regrettably lacked and in the end it sets all the tragic events into motion.

[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 21

The Darkling x Reader

The atmosphere in the Palace was welcoming and enjoyable yet you couldn't help but dampen the mood of those around you. Your smiles were visible fake, your laughs as forced as the diplomacy of the evening. It was hard to focus on anything but the Queen's request, you could still feel her cold touch on your hands, could still hear her voice as if she was standing next to you. Some would say being in the presence of the Royals was a blessing by the Saints, but to you it was a sudden blight; a curse.

The duties and obligations you had were out the window now as you looked for the particular head of red flame hair, completely ignoring the Kerch ambassador and his slurring words of trade agreements.

Did Genya tell her General that the charming Lantsov Prince was soon to be wed to the Deputy of the Second-army? Or did she keep that part to herself? You had a feeling it was the latter given Aleksander's behavior earlier but what if he knew- What if his obedient spy told him everything and he was looking at your predicament as an opportunity, even though it would hurt you to the core and shatter your moral values. There's nothing he wouldn't do for more power.

'Deputy Y/L/N, I presume?' A man in a military uniform adorned with colorful medals approached you from the side, silently shooeing the Kerch man away and taking his place despite your obvious air of hostility. You were in no mood for diplomacy.

'The one and only.'

'So I have heard.' You could make out the smallest tinge of an accent reminiscent of a Fjerdan rhythm through the spoken words. His blonde hair and long beard tell-tale signs of his druskelle service and enough for your anger to flare. 'Tell me, what kind of Grisha are you?' You didn't miss the disgust dripping from the word as he forced it through his teeth. No doubt he hated himself for being here.

'A powerful one.'

'More powerful than the Sun-Summoner?'

'Much.'

'I won't forget that.'

'I hope you don't. Tell your people too, it'll save me some time and perhaps some lives.'

'Is that a threat Deputy?'

'Yes' He snorted and looked around the lively room.

'Fjerda isn't here to fight tonight, we're here to party. I thought it would be the same for you, no?'

'I don't keep peace with people who wish my kind dead.'

'Neither does your General. But the West, I'm not too sure they're on the same page'

You bit back the urge to smack the tall man stone-cold. The West was a tricky situation that had been playing heavily on your mind for as long as you could remember. Although it was Ravka, Grisha were no longer safe there. Zlatan was coercing with the Fjerdans to capture Grisha in exchange for military backup and as much as it angered you to keep the First-Army General alive, it would create a whole other problem if he was found dead.

'West Ravka is Ravka. All Zlatan is is a mere General of the First-Army. He's no King.'

'You would be surprised. People would listen to a stableboy if he spoke of truth and justice.'

'And would Fjerda back him up too?'

He smirked and gave a nod of his head in amusement at your raging eyes. 'You drüsje get so worked up over words. It's actions that matter.'

'Not here in Ravka. Remember where and what you are. Then think of what half of this room can do to you' Without so much as a goodbye, you walked away from him with a huff and continued looking for Genya. You hadn't even seen Aleksander make an appearance yet but you didn't think you wanted to see him, not after your conversation with the Queen.

We wish for you to marry my son

Every time you thought you had shaken the haunting request, it came back with a shiver up your spine. It went against everything you ever believed in. You hated the crown, the Lantsov line, you hated the Ravka they created. But this didn't feel like something you could reject. It wasn't a proposal, it was an alliance.

You turned your head to the doors and watched as Zoya clambered up the stairs in her stunning blue silk kefta. Behind her, a Suli performer climbed up on her silks as if it were all she'd ever known. Her body swung gracefully and smoothly, not batting an eyelid at all her observers. It was memorizing and distracting, something for which you were thankful.

'Haven't you got some Dukes and Ministers to babysit?' Zoya appeared beside you, eyeing up the empty glass in your hand.

'Let them roam free for the night'

'As long as they're not groveling over me'

'Because your presence is so much more captivating than the Sun-Summoners' You rolled your eyes and made your way to get a new, full, glass.

'Thank you for finally admitting it'

'Where's Genya Saffin?'

She made a face and took a glass to, bringing it up to her lips and taking a small sip.

'With Alina. Why?'

'Oh nothing, just some details to hash out about Marie attending dinner' You covered up. 'I spoke with a Fjerdan dignitary. He had no problem hiding that West Ravka is coming to their aid.' Zoya was a good soldier and a great tactician, if you were to tell anyone such sensitive information, it would definitely be Zoya.

'I overheard a Zemeni ambassador say they were spotted at Zlatan's rallies. He's raising his ranks whilst our own coffers run out. We can't afford a war with each of our borders'

'Try telling the King that' The Lantsov King. Nikolai's father. Nikolai.

'Saints are you alright?' Zoya looked at you with wide eyes, then to the broken glass crumbling in your hand. You had been clutching it so hard you managed to smash it and slice the palm of your hand.

'Oh umm- I need a moment' You disposed of the glass on a nearby table and basically ran to the nearest washroom. Crimson red blood dripped slowly from your fingers as you tried to keep it from staining your kefta while you closed the door behind you.

This was the first moment since your talk with the Queen where you were alone. Truly alone, no ambassador looming over your shoulder or a Duke at your side. Alexander, Alina, and Genya were still nowhere to be seen and the demonstration would begin shortly but all you wanted to do was stay in this tiny and stuffy room, shut off from everything. You washed your hand down with water, hissing in pain as the water tinted red and carried away the signs of injury. The quarters were quiet and calm, a stark contrast to the liveliness in the hall not often seen in the Little Palace.

The Little Palace tended to be quiet, but the Grand Palace was different. The Grand Palace. The winter home of the Lantsovs. Nikolai. Marriage.

The gentle tears came like a surprise, rolling down your face with grace. 'Fuck me' was all you could say as your head rested on your uninjured hand. You still felt exhausted and overwhelmed now even more so but you liked to think you hid it well. What good was a Deputy in emotional turmoil at a party full of political vultures?

The door to the small space suddenly opened and none other than Genya Saffin walked in with ease only she possessed. She looked at you in shame then fixed her attention on her shoes, not meeting your broken gaze.

'I take it you spoke with Tatiana?'

'Why didn't you tell General Kirigan?' You sniffed and wrapped your hand in a handkerchief, not bothering to wipe away the tears that you continued to cry.

'I felt it wasn't my place'

'Why?' Your voice cracked, slightly distracting you but the meaning to your question was obvious. Why me?

'She wished to squelch his bastardry rumors with your standing reputation.'

'Does he know?'

'She wrote him, but he has yet to respond.'

'Why not Vasily? Is it to make sure a Grisha never sits on the throne?'

She stayed quiet, toying with her sleeve. 'She says you have the air of a false Queen but the mind of a demon'

'Nothing new there' You laughed and straightened up, using the handkerchief on your hand to pat your face dry, diminishing any last sign of your weak moment away. 'Is Alina ready?' She looked at you with pure pity on her face, the compassion bursting on her face busting at its seams.

'Yes. Last I saw she was with the General.'

'Thank you Ms.Saffin'

***

You didn't mean to miss the demonstrations, but you took your time walking back to the main hall anyway. It was only when you saw the darkened room and searing light did you stop dead in your tracks at the door. Alina stood there on the podium, the image of a Saint. Her black and gold kefta shimmered in her light beautifully, illuminating her face and smile. She was glowing. Her powers had brought her not only luxurious life but good health, something everyone prays for. The black looked well on her too. It set her apart from the sea of bright keftas and gowns. In a Palace full of Grisha and powerful members of society, only Alina and Aleksander wore the black keftas, not even you wore it tonight and it made you feel surprisingly insecure.

He stood to her side, enthralled by her show of strength and skill. He was fascinated with her, it showed in his eyes and on his face but it definitely wasn't a facade. Even watching them from afar you could see that he looked at her as if she was his Sun, the only thing capable of lighting up his night sky.

You didn't know how to look at her. Everyone around you was worshipping her, whispering silent prayers to Sankta Alina: the Sun Saint, but you stayed frozen and still. You were never faithful to the Saints, they never listened to you, so what good would pledging your allegiance to Alina be if you knew Aleksander planned to extort her?

The whole room was kneeling now, heads bent down in symbols of submission yet you stood. No doubt you stuck out like a sore thumb, but a leader does not bow to anybody, not even the Saints. He momentarily turned his head to look at you but his eyes were far from the softness he gave Alina. They spoke more than his smooth words ever could yet this time the silent exchange did nothing to soothe your muddled head.

A tap on your shoulder caused you to break your burning gaze away from the summoners and to a guard instead.

'Deputy, we have 2 First-Army soldiers who claim to have found Morozova's Stag' The Stag. Just my luck.

'Tell the General, I have no business with the stag' You waved him off and returned your stare back to the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk when her eyes caught yours. Queen Tatiana was looking through to your soul, demolishing any confidence you could muster at that moment.

Marry my son.

----------------

Part 22

Taglist (tell me if you want to be added to the Little Witch taglist!!) @theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess @lunas1x1 @adoringb @grisha-of-shadow-bone @rosiethefairy @carlywhomever @allisjustok @keepdaydreamingbb @luciadiosa

[laurelsofhighever]

Hey, you! Yes, you!

Have you found yourself with some free time and want an excuse not to do the chores you promised yourself you would get around to?

Are you looking for something new to read, something that’s maybe a little bit different?

Did playing Dragon Age: Origins leave you with questions (or at least wanting more)?

Do you have a deep desire for or passing interest in any of the following:

Fereldan politics

A well-built Alistair x Cousland relationship that shows their strengths but doesn’t ignore their flaws

Slow-burn romance with heaping doses of angst and fluff

A compelling plot filled with interesting, fleshed-out side characters

Detailed worldbuilding that explores parts of Thedas you never get to see in-game

Explicitly asexual characters

Then do I have the fic for you!

The Falcon and the Rose

This fic:

Is COMPLETE

Contains 76 chapters of tragedy, intrigue, romance, revenge, fluff, angst, and hope set against the epic background of Fereldan culture and history

Dares to ask the question: what would have happened to the civil war in Dragon Age: Origins if there had been no Blight?

Explores the motivations of minor characters from the game, including cameos from some of your favourites

Contains compelling and nuanced relationships of all kinds that bring to life the conflict inherent in waging war to bring peace

Has a dog

But why take my word for it? Here is what other people have to say:

“i have read the entirety of this fic and it was the first one to really make me 1) actually use my ao3 and figure out how the site works 2) comment 3) cry uncontrollably with both joy and angst. your style, characterizations, everything is 100% beautifully perfect, not to mention the genius of this concept”

“All of this is so very well written.  I admire your ability to write so many different characters, each with a distinct voice.  Well done.”

“I adore your writing style so much!!!! It fits so much the tone of the story, and it just keeps me interested. It's absolutely perfect for the high fantasy that the whole world of Thedas is. I also love your own characters that you added in the plot, and I'm super glad to see so much of the world developed and explored and dissected.”

“Your style of storytelling is phenomenal, and I can't quite put my finger on what it is yet (I'm sure I'll figure it out eventually), but it's just so GOOD.  It's like watching a movie.”

“Oh my heavens. I have not stopped to comment because I am just too enthralled and can’t stop reading. The SCOPE of this fic...amazing!!! I love the depth and the detail you are bringing to my favorite story!”

“I'm finally leaving a comment. I have wanted to sing praises from the rooftops for every chapter so far but I'm afraid I just had to keep on reading...”

“With that line, that ONE line, you've said so much without ACTUALLY saying anything, and that's the most accurate I think I've ever seen someone get Alistair's character regarding his attitude towards how people treat him, and how he views himself in comparison to those around him.”

“I've pretty much just come across this fic after finishing dao and I love what you're doing here! I love this au and how you're building the relationship! The characters are so well written and I love how you've written them, especially how adorably awkward alistair is”

“So I started reading this yesterday. I wanted to tell you how stunning this fic is. It’s so rich and detailed and your talent for words really shines through.”

“I’m just crying over here, nbd.”

So, if this has whetted your appetite for a Dragon Age: Origins story with a difference, click through and give The Falcon and the Rose a go today!

[lesetoilesfous]

5. Comical roleplay for Kanders?

Ok I went A DIRECTION with this and I really hope you like it, thank you so much for the prompt!!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Kanders

Characters: Anders, Karl

Tags: the Circle is violently abusive, reference to infanticide, reference to suicide, reference to abusive religious institutions, tyhe author Gets Political (when doesn't she), Anders is going to change the world in a bright pink dress, Karl is hopelessly in love with him, pro-mage propaganda

Rating: Mature

It’s almost midnight halfway through the month of Wintersend. The Circle is dark, the enchantments controlling the tower’s heat and lighting having long since switched into nocturnal mode. Despite this, and the high, thick darkness that came from rooms and rooms without windows, a handful of stars are suspended in the air at one corner of the apprentice’s dormitory. At least, Karl assumes they look like stars. His own memory of the night sky is blurred and vague, fuzzed over by the veil of early childhood. And of course, he hasn’t seen enough but watercolours of the sky itself since he was seven years old. But he likes to think the cloud of glittering witchlights that he, Anders and the other have summoned into the air might look like stars. He sees some of the younger children staring at the lights with an expression of something like awe, their dark eyes wide in hunger-stricken faces. Karl ignores the ache in his chest, and coaxes the lights to glow a little brighter.

In the middle of the crowded children, Anders is wearing a bright pink dress. Where exactly he got it, Karl has no idea. He also has no idea how Anders has managed to keep the thing away from the templar’s attentions for nearly five years. Every child is stripped of their own clothing as soon as their brought into the Circle and issued with the same, standard, worn apprentice robes that all of them had to wear. The clothes itches, and were often mended. Many of them smelled of sweat and other things left behind by the many generations before them. Choosing their own clothing: especially clothing as ostentatious and lurid as the pink affair Anders was currently strutting about in - was strictly forbidden to even the Senior Enchanters. Which means that this in itself is something of a sight to behold.

There’s also the fact that Anders has plaited his long strawberry blonde hair onto either side of his head, rouged his lips and dusted his face with powder. He looks ridiculous. He looks beautiful, and Karl is trying very hard not to think about it. Karl and the other older apprentices Anders has roped into this are not just managing the lights: they’re also running several low level heat spells. The trick was keeping the magic low enough not to alert the mages and enchanters on the second floor, whilst making it strong enough to beat back the thin layer of frost that crept across the stone floor of the dormitories at this time of year. The templars said that the Circle’s enchantments were designed to keep the building warm enough to live in, but Karl and the others had noticed how many additional layers the templars tended to wear during Wintersend down here. (They didn’t speak of the children they’d lost. Usually the youngest, more shocked by the cold than anything, taken in the night so that when the others woke up at first they though they were sleeping.)

Karl is jerked out of his reverie by Anders’ voice in a ridiculous falsetto. “Oh no!! Not the evil Hessarian. If only there were some friendly mage to help me. Shartan, catch me as I faint my love.” With that and a pirouette, Anders dropped himself into the arms of the much shorter Seran Amell, kitted out in a robed version of elvhen armour. Amell flushes red to the tips of his ears when Anders catches his face and kisses him, soundly, and several of the children giggle. When Anders pulls back, Amell’s lips are red with makeup and Anders’ eyes have a wicked gleam of gold in the witchlight.

“Oh friendly mages, where might I find you.” He reaches out into the dark, searching.

Anders’ ‘Unedited’ Wintersend carol was a piece of theatre he’d performed every year since he’d turned thirteen. Every year around midwinter, the Chantry Sisters would give them a long, special mass which was compulsory for all apprentices and junior mages. The mass explained, in detail, why the children in attendance were personally responsible for the ruin of the world: for the blights, for demons, for all evil. That they were born twisted, and dirty, violent and corrupt. That the best they could do was hope that one day the Maker might welcome them back into his light.

Not coincidentally, Wintersend was also when the number of attempted suicides among the junior mages and apprentices skyrocketed. At seventeen, Karl has seen too many ways to die, and most of them have been self inflicted. He tries not to think about it.

Anders, on the other hand, puts on plays. A soapy, silly pantomime in which Andraste turns in her hour of need to the ‘good mages’ never mentioned anywhere in the Chantry gospels. And together with her lover Shartan, the elf, the mages help her win a mighty victory. Every years, the kids from the alienage and kidnapped by force from their Dalish clans attach themselves with force to the notion of Shartan, a name that the new arrivals have often never heard. Every years, the kids boo and cheer in hushed whispers in the precious hour between templar patrols - mercifully spare in the colder months, when none of the soldiers in their prison want to be on the colder lower levels in their armour.

Karl thinks, probably, Anders has saved more lives than he knows. But he steps into the witchlight, compelled by an ache in his chest that never seems to go away when he looks at Anders, and he meets the fire in his brown eyes, and he thinks that maybe he knows. Softly, Karl speaks, the faces of the children and teeangers around them fading into blurred light. Anders is wearing fake pearls and fake gold in his ears, and everything about him is bewitching and lovely. “Blessed Andraste, I am here. My friends and I do not wish to see harm done to anyone, and our magic has only ever been used for good and healing.” Karl falls to one knee, and thinks that it is not only an act when Anders’ hand brushes lightly against his shoulder. Karl stares at Anders pale, scarred feet as he goes on. “Please may we help you.”

The children hold their breath.

Anders’ fingers run beneath Karl’s chin, his fingertips silky and cold. Gently, he lifts Karl’s chin, and Karl looks up into his face: all sharp lines framed by twists of red and gold. Anders smiles at him, lips fuller with the rouge and smudged pink by the kiss. “Yes.” He says, softly, to whispered cheers from the children. “I welcome the assistance of my friends, the mages.”

[viviae]

can you like. tell me a little about dragon age. seeing your posts about it has got me interested in playing but i have little to no clue what it actually is

Boy can I explain nonny <3 This is a bit long so strap in and im sorry

Dragon Age is (currently) a three game series composed of Dragon Age: Origins (PS3, Xbox 360/Xbox One, PC), Dragon Age: II (PS3, Xbox 360/Xbox One, PC), and Dragon Age: Inquisition (PS4, Xbox One, PC) and its really unique because of its selling point that your actions impact the games as you progress. Like if you kill one character in one game they’ll stay dead through the rest of the series which makes you feel lived in the story and that your actions matter. Dragon Age is also an RPG so a roleplaying game kind of along the same lines of DnD where you get to make and play your own character. And yes there are romances and you can be gay.

The First Game of the series is Dragon Age: Origins where you choose from a selection of six unique (technically seven) origins or backgrounds for your character. You can be anywhere from a human noble or a Dalish elf, the unique elven culture in Dragon Age of nomadic clans dedicating to reclaiming their past. But eventually, from the events in your origin, you wind up a member of a secretive and elite order known as the Grey Wardens whose duty is to protect the world from the Blight.

The Blight is this spread of a horrible disease known as the Taint but is characterized by the presence of Darkspawn, a kind of zombie like creature who exists only to destroy the world. Grey Wardens take the heavy duty of protecting the world from the Blight, which have nearly wiped all of humanity multiple times, at all costs. And currently the country of Ferelden is under going a blight and due to events you wind up the only Grey Warden with your companion Alistair to save the world and reunite Ferelden which had fallen under a civil war.

Along Origins you meet many interesting characters. Alistair is your friendly co-warden who has a mysterious parentage that he hides under his happy go lucky attitude. In contrast to Alistair is the witch Morrigan who is your favorite goth swamp queen who would insult you and you thank her. In addition you meet your chaotic bi rogues Zevran and Leliana. Leliana is a nun who is on the run and hiding from a dark past and she is suspiciously good at murder. And Zevran is not at all hiding his aptitude for murder as an Assassin for hire who tried and failed to kill you but who can ignore that charming bastard?

Dragon Age II follows a much smaller story of a Ferelden refuge who had escaped from the Blight to the city of Kirkwall named Hawke. Unlike in origins where you get to pick your background 2 limits you to Hawke but fear not, Hawke is a loveable bastard and you can still customize them. Throughout DA2 you get to experience all the delights Kirkwall has to offer: Demons, crime, corrupt cops, and fighting your way to survive in this city and make a name for yourself.

Where Origins sets the stage for the world DA2 you are the actor in that play - literally the game is divided into 3 acts that take place over a span of 7 years. DA2′s main conflict is the argument of Mages vs Templars, as in DA’s lore while there are those who are born with magic they are forced to live in prisons policed by the Templar order and the church. You explore the more political arguments of; are the Templars right in their fears of magic as Kirkwall is filled to the brim with corrupt mages or do Mages deserve the chance to live and prove themselves freely from their prisons.

Your romancable companions in DA2 are all bisexuals as the true theme of DA2 is: be gay do crime. You have the foils of Anders: the runaway mage who fled from the prisons the mages are housed in and is determined to bring mages to freedom, and Fenris: the runaway escaped slave who curses magic for only inflicting pain and suffering in his life and wants his warnings to be heard about the dangers magic bring. In addition you also have Merrill, your cute but terrifying Dalish mage who would probably murder you with a cute smile and then go oops. And of course, my pirate wife Isabela, who lives a life free from commitment and is dedicated to the idea everyone should have a good time no matter the cost. Also while not romancable Hawke’s bff Varric deserves every ounce of praise he gets as never before has the energy of “two idiots sharing a braincell” ever been so well adapted.

Then finally we reach Inquisition. After the events of DA2 it triggers a full on war between the Mages and Templars that is destroying the land and causing severe damage that neither side can handle anymore. Desperate for an end to the conflict the Divine (err... fantasy pope) calls for a meeting on both sides... only for the entire thing to literally explode. Killing everyone present and causing a hole in the sky which now means demons are raining like cats and dogs you are the only one to survive. In Inquisition you can once again return to pick between unique backgrounds like in Origins but you don’t get to play through those backgrounds sadly.

You now possess something on your left hand which gives you the ability to patch up the hole in the sky that is pissing demons and due to being the only survivor everyone is incredibly confused about you. Eventually the Inquisition is formed around you, the character they are calling the Herald of Andraste (Andraste is fantasy Jesus) due to your ability to seal the holes. The mystery unfolds as over the course of the game you learn what caused the explosion, how you are connected, and what exactly the mark on your hand is.

DAI has the largest numbers of romance options so I’m gonna give a quick bullet point list for them all

Iron Bull (Pansexual, All Races): A Qunari (think Tiefling but big and beefy) mercenary who is far more clever than he lets on, as well as being the rope top dom of your dreams. Literally! Bull’s romance is a really healthy bdsm relationship if you are interested its very well done

Josephine (Bisexual, All Races): Your loveable ambassador and advisor for the inquisition. She is a workaholic noble who is a tried and true classic romance. Sweep her off her feet and duel for her hand all while navigating the nobility

Dorian (Gay, All Races): The flamboyant pariah rock star mage, he demands attention whenever he walks into the room. Although he wants to be all talk and no emotions make no mistake he is making puppy eyes at you the entire time and gets deeply offended if you say he is. Also not going to lie Dorian is the best piece of gay male rep in gaming history.

Cassandra (Male-only, all Races): Your stern warrior wife who is all serious no funny business... expect she is a bleeding heart romantic who reads horrible smut for fun. You wish to COURT HER?? I mean... if you want 👉👈 she won’t say no...

Blackwall (Female-only, All Races): Your weird dilf who wants desperately to prove himself every step of the way and help people. He is a constable for the Grey Wardens, but all the details on him seem murky... Ah well I’m sure its nothing, the Grey Wardens are a secretive order after all.

Sera (Lesbian, All Races): My wild child, monster chugging, beer guzzling, arrow shooting lesbian. Sera is here for a fun time and not a serious one, she’ll always make sure to keep you humble and ensure you aren’t getting to big for your breeches. 

Cullen (Female-Only, Human and Elf only): Cullen’s the Inquisition’s commander who oohh boy is steeped in a lot of trauma. Cullen’s actually a character you get to know through out the series and see just all the horrible nonsense he’s been through. But he is your tragic self loathing... he isn’t princely but he is your adorkable charming

Solas (Female-Only, Elf Only): The humble apostate who joins the Inquisition out of curiosity of the breech, he is an expert on what the hell is going on with that hole in the sky. However, he holds a wisdom that goes far deeper than your typical apostate. Smooth talking and refined he carries a heavy cloud over him.

I left out a lot and all the nonsense with books and what have you but this is the easiest overview of the series I can offer. It’s main selling points is the deep story and characters throughout the games. And of course who doesn’t love the ability to make and roleplay your own character as a bonus? The games are bit of a flawed gem and Origins in my ugly child but they are truly a delight if you are interested

[rohad93]

Worth the Fight: Chp 5

Luz is, in a word; bored.

Horribly, terribly, wanted to die, bored. She had resorted to playing with the strands of the black tunic she’s been given to wear that bears the Blight family insignia on its shoulder and watching the occasional person walk by on the dirt road heading into the walls of the city proper. Sometimes she played a little game with herself, trying to spot a certain number of the same bird before someone walked by again. It’s all horribly dull, really.

She has to keep reminding herself, thirty silver a day, plus meals and a place to live.

Though, that last part was more of a negative in some ways.

The guard barracks are full of other witches, including those who have worked for the Blight’s for years, if not generations, and it didn’t take Luz more than two hours that first night to figure out she wasn’t wanted here, King either, by the new guards for hire just like her, or the old guards. They all give her less than friendly looks, and honestly, she’s afraid to go to sleep with all the dirty looks she got. Instead, she grabbed her sack of belongings and the two wandered around the manor grounds a while before she found herself in the stables. There are a few horses and even a couple of griffins and a hippogriff inside. She found an empty stall and plopped herself down into a clean pile of hay, with King curled up at her side, luckily, it’s summer, so she won’t get cold, and there's even a slight breeze she wouldn’t get inside the barracks. Despite that though, and how used to it she is, it still stings a bit; to be so wholly rejected. They don’t know her, but they don’t want to either; knowing she’s human is all they need to know.

After five years of only having King and Eda, as much as she loved them both, she ached for companionship. Friends and maybe something more than that someday, but more than anything she wished to have friends to talk to, who unlike King, could at least talk back, though she’s sure he does his best. They sleep in a scratchy, prickly, but clean, pile of hay in the empty stable stall, curled up together.

It’s two days into her career as a guard for hire for the Blight family, and she’s starting to wonder if maybe it wouldn’t have been better to run deliveries around town or find that lost rooster even.

She rarely sees anyone all day, and she’s yet to see even a hair of Lord or Lady Blight, though from what her fellow front gate guard, Jerbo, tells her, it's better off that way. The Blight’s are apparently quite prominent and wealthy, as well as cold and distant from what they say.

Probably better to avoid the entire Blight family for the duration of her stay if it’s possible.

Which may not be very long if she continued to be bored to death for much longer.

She sighed to herself, leaning heavily on the pike she’d been given for when she attended gate duty and looked around the manor grounds for anything that might catch her interest, and surprisingly, she found something.

“Hey,” She nudged Jerbo in the ribs, waking him from his standing nap.

“Huh, wha-?” He blinked, wiping the drool off his chin as he looked around, half expecting Sir Bump or for them to be under attack.

“Who's that?” she nodded and he looked across the manor grounds toward the pond, surrounded by trees that peeked around from the back of the house. It’s manicured to be quite picturesque with a carved stone bench sitting waterside.

Sitting on the bench beside the water is a familiar-looking woman with almost shoulder-length, bright, mint-colored hair.

“Ooh, that’s Amity Blight,” Jerbo whispered quietly to her. “The youngest of the three Blight children.”

Luz grimaced at that. The noble she had barreled into the other day is her superior… perfect.

“You okay?” Jerbo asked, seeing her dark skin suddenly go pale.

“Yeah, fine!” she yelped, voice pitching with a slight crack. She cleared her throat. “I’m fine, totally fine,” she assured.

“If you say so…” Jerbo nodded but is still giving her a strange look before he turned back to face the road, and started to nod off again soon after.

Luz watched the youngest Blight sibling sit by the pond for at least an hour, hardly moving, she just seemed to be staring forlornly into the water. Luz tilted her head curiously, she looked rather sad, sitting there by herself staring into the pond. Does she not have anything else to do or anywhere to be?

Before she can think about it further Amity happens to look up and they lock eyes. The other woman looks confused, puzzled really, as though trying to remember where she’s seen Luz before and Luz swallowed, hard, as sudden realization sparked across Amity’s face and she scowled as she shot up from the bench, dress swishing angrily as she made her way over.

“Uh-oh…,” Luz mumbled to herself as the noble quickly crossed the manor grounds on a direct collision course with her.

“You!” she all but shouted, pointing a finger at Luz when she’s within arm's reach. Jerbo jerked back awake and is looking between the two of them, unsure what is going on or what to do.

“Uh… Good afternoon to you, Lady Blight…?” Luz tried to be polite and diplomatic in the face of the angry noble.

“What are you doing here!?” she demanded, sneering up at Luz, who stands a good, four or five inches taller than the noble. She’s not exactly sure what she should say, maybe she could just play dumb and pretend she hadn’t knocked her down and torn her dress the other day.

“Guarding the gate…?”

Too dumb, she decided when Amity’s frown only deepened.

It’s Jerbo that comes to her aid.

“Beg your pardon, Lady Blight, but this is the newest guard recruit,” he introduced her.

Luz decides to just swallow the bite she’s taken in this situation.

“Um, right, I’m sorry about the other day, I wasn’t looking where I was going, I’m Luz.” she held out a hand, which Amity looked at disdainfully before turning up her nose and crossing her arms.

“Put that away,” she scoffed. “You got me in trouble with Sir Bump,” she accused, scowling. “And I never get in trouble.

“How did I get you in trouble with Sir Bump?” She blinked at that, she hadn’t even met Bump till after she’d bumped into Amity. Amity scowled at that, that she doesn’t have a clue what she did.

“If you hadn’t run into me Bump wouldn’t have…!” she started, sneering, but stopped short, mouth snapping shut with a click. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, you’re a servant,” she huffed, turning her head away.

Luz bristled at the comment, her grip on the pike tightening. She had to bite her lip to keep from spitting out something that is sure to get her thrown off the manor grounds, and settled for scowling down at her. Amity can tell if the little smirk that pulled at her lips is anything to go by.

Before she can say anything more Bump appeared in the manor doorway and spotted her before he began to make his way over.

“Good afternoon, Lady Blight.” The older witch nodded, arms clasped behind his back as he stopped in front of them.

“Sir Bump,” Amity nodded to the man. “I’m glad you’re here, I was hoping I could go to the archives, to study," she asked, completely ignoring Luz's presence now that the steward is here.

“You may go...,” he started, and Amity broke into a smile, until, “...so long as a guard accompanies you,” he finished and her smile fell.

“Sir, I’m more than capable of…,” she started but Bump held up a hand to stop her.

“Lord Blight’s orders were clear, perhaps I was willing to turn a blind eye for you before, being the more responsible of your siblings, but after the other day, I can not take the risk of you being hurt,” he said with finality and Amity’s shoulders slump.

Bump looked over to Luz, still standing there looking at them.

“Luz, accompany young Lady Blight to the archives in town,”

Luz is still stewing in her anger, but an order is an order and she gives a jerk of a nod, trying not to glare at anyone in particular.

“Ugh, anyone but her…,” Amity grumbled and Bump frowned.

“If this guard does not suffice then perhaps you simply do not need to visit the archives that badly?” he cocked a brow at her, the tone is clear. Luz or nothing.

“She’ll suffice,” Amity nearly grits out, and Bump nodded before turning back toward the manor.

“Very good, be back before supper, Amity,” he said as he walked away.

“Let’s go,” Amity bit out as she stalked past Luz and Jerbo, out of the gates.

Luz scowled at her turned back as Jerbo took her pike.

“Good luck,” he mumbled to her as she followed, grumbling under her breath.

She stayed a few feet behind the noble as they made their way through the city toward the archives, one hand swinging at her side and the other resting on the pommel of her sword as she walked, fingering the intricate details of the wolf head pommel, calming herself. When she got the chance she’d need to talk to Viney about it, maybe pay her some more.

She’d been hoping for a change of scenery, but escorting a spoiled noble through town wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind.

She was still fuming about being called a servant. This was a job she had agreed to take for compensation, not because she had to because she was bound to Blight manner like a serf. She was a knight damnit!

Well, she was working on becoming a knight!

She's still steaming when they arrive at the archives but it quickly evaporates the moment they step inside and the smell of parchment, ink, and leather fills her senses.

Books upon books fill the place, nearly stacked up to the ceiling. Sure, she knew what an archive was, but she’d been so busy frothing over what Amity had said she hadn't really thought about it until this moment.

She wants to read all of them.

She's broken out of her daydreaming as Amity spins on her heel to look at her.

"I don't need an escort, especially not you, so just stay here until I'm done." She didn't even wait for a response before she turned and walked off into the archives. Luz stuck her tongue out at her treating back and once the noblewomen was gone she grinned to herself and darted off into the stacks.

Sure, she's supposed to be working, but Bump said she took her orders from him or a member of the Blight family, and Amity was very clear when she said not to bother her. She’s only doing as she was told, never mind the fact that Bump was above Amity in actuality it seemed.

How quickly books could turn her mood around. She picked through the shelves for a good half hour, some of them are quite interesting, few are fanciful, romantic, adventures, like the tale of ‘Azura, the Good Knight’, which she grabbed, despite the fact she has read it many times, but most are manuscripts, intricate recipes for elixirs or how to enchant certain objects for wards and barriers.

True, a lot of the books are written in runic but a number of them aren't, they're the ones she's really interested in, naturally, and she collects a small stack she plans to borrow from the archives.

She wonders if she can find a book that could teach her to read runes.

She turned a corner and ran straight into someone.

Books clattered against the wooden floor and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping against all hope that she hasn’t run into Amity, again.

“Ow…”

That isn’t Amity’s voice. Luz opened her eyes and came face to face with a boy, a bit younger than her and he’s darker than her, with closely cropped black hair and wearing a pale blue tunic and black pants.

“I’m sorry!” two voices rang out at the same time and they sat there, looking at each other for a second before both broke into chuckles.

“No, it was my fault,” he said, quickly scrambling to his feet and scooping up her books as he did.

"No, I wasn't paying attention, I seem to be doing that a lot lately…” she scratched the back of her head sheepishly as she accepted the books back from him.

“We’ll just call it an accident.” He grinned, looking up at her, but the moment his gaze landed on her ears, they grew to the size of dinner plates and his mouth hung open in a little ‘O’. “Are you a human?” he asked after a few long, awkward seconds of staring up at Luz with silent amazement.

“Uh… yeah?” Luz isn’t sure how to respond, she’s been asked that question, she doesn’t know how many times, but usually with disdain or disgust, not the open wonder that seems to drip from the boy’s words and especially not the drawn-out gasp that he lets out at her answer.

“Amazing, I've never seen a real, live human before!” He grinned, reaching up and running his hands over his own pointed ears if for no other reason than something to do with his hands to expel all the sudden energy Luz can see pulsing behind his eyes.

“Uh…” She’s not sure what to say, especially if he keeps looking at her like that, which he luckily, seemed to notice.

“Oh, sorry, I’m Augustus Porter.” He stuck out his hand

“Luz Noceda,” She nodded, taking it. “I knew an Augustus once, I just called him Gus.” she shrugged and Augustus gasped before breaking into a grin.

“Human nickname? Yes, call me Gus!” He practically bounced with excitement.

“Sure,” Luz chuckled at the boy, but then had a thought. “You’ve never seen another human?” she cocked her head as he shook his head.

“No, I know there used to be a lot, but it’s been decades since they’ve been around, none of my friends have ever seen one either…,” he explained. Luz frowned at that. What did that mean? But then Gus tapped a finger to his chin. “I thought you’d have gills,” he admits.

“No… but that would cool!” She grinned and he laughed.

“I noticed your books seem to be from the Magiaology section of the archives, brushing up on your magical theory?” he asked.

“Trying to learn magic actually. Humans don’t have bile sacs, so I can’t absorb the natural magic of the world like you can, but if I wanna be any good as a knight, I need to be able to perform enchantments.”

“Humans don’t have bile sacs? Fascinating,” he mumbled when Luz shook her head. “You want to be a knight? That’s really cool.” Gus grinned.

“Yeah! I’ve been training with Eda Clawthorne for the last five years.” Luz puffed up proudly.

“Eda? Like, the rogue Owl Knight Edalyn Clawthorne?” Gus blinked up at her in amazement.

“Yup!”

“Whoa… does she eat people like they say?” he whispered, leaning in close.

“Uh, no…” She frowned, shaking her head.

“That’s kind of disappointing... but probably for the best… well, if you need help finding any materials let me know, I’m an apprentice archivist, I know this place like the back of my hand!”

“Are there any books for learning to read runes?” she asked and Gus’s face erupted in a grin.

“Of course, this way!” He quickly led her down another aisle of books.

~ ~ ~ Amity is, in a word, annoyed, and has been for two solid days now.

Her parents had been gone for the last four days on business and normally, when they're away the three blight siblings are confined to the manor grounds unless escorted, to keep them ‘safe’ in their parents' words, though mostly to ensure that they do nothing to embarrass them while they’re gone.

As the most responsible and level-headed of her siblings she had managed to get Sir Bump to turn a willfully blind eye to her leaving the manner to go to the market unattended… until some bumbling commoner had barreled straight into her, ripping her dress and scraping her knee.

She tried to sneak by him, but he'd been waiting for her when she returned to Blight Manor, and upon seeing the state she was in, revoked her privilege of leaving the grounds by herself.

Then her siblings have been a pain in her hindquarters the rest of the time, they were bored, and pulling pranks on her was their form of entertainment. That and constantly interrupting her studying, even though there wasn't much left she could study.

She was well-practiced in the art of enchanting and most other fields of magical academics, but what Amity wanted to learn more than anything, was sword play.

Something that couldn't really be learned from a book, and what little could, she already had, which was to say, the names of different maneuvers and footwork patterns, nothing tangible or truly useful.

Then when she couldn't stand the twins for another minute she'd escaped to the pond that was behind the manor, just below her bedroom window.

It was a quiet place, where she could just go and think, be by herself, unbothered.

She wasn't sure how long she had sat there for but then she happened to look up and lock eyes with one of the gate guards.

A familiar-looking young woman with a tell-tale scar, stretching across her left cheek beneath her eye.

The commoner that had run into her and gotten her confined to the manor until her parents returned.

She was standing and moving across the grounds in a beeline for her before she even realized it, taking great pleasure in the nervous look that flickered across the other woman's face. The dressing down she gave her Amity feels is well deserved, and she can see the nerve she's struck after she calls her a commoner in the way the sharp cut of her jaw tightens and she bites her lip to keep herself from saying something they both know she’d regret.

She’s certain she’s gotten her point across to the new guard and decides nothing more needs to be said to her, and when Bump appears she puts her out of her mind.

Until Bump tells her that the only way she's leaving the manor grounds is if she's accompanied but this 'Luz'.

He's not budging and she knows she's not going to win, so she swallows her pride and agrees, but she's not happy about it.

She stewed about having her tag along as they made their way to the archives and tried to forget that the guard was following a few feet behind her.

She doesn't need to have anyone watching over her shoulder. If her parents had just allowed her to take training lessons with Lady Lilith before she left to fight in the war, she wouldn't need anyone following her around like a guard dog.

Her jaw clenched. She’s not helpless and could be even more prepared if they would allow it.

She ditched the guard at the doors before heading for the section of the archives that housed a few volumes about swordplay. She's read most of them, but it never hurts to review.

She's annoyed even more now because she can't find the damn woman, she wasn't at the front of the building where she told me to wait, so now she was wandering around the archives because she can't show back up to Blight Manor without her escort, Bump would have a fit.

"Where is that…," she grumbled to herself but stops as she spots the familiar head of short, dark hair she's looking for, standing in one of the aisles, several books under one arm and another open in her hands that holds all of her attention hostage, brows furrowed between her eyes in intense concentration as she flipped the pages.

That surprised Amity.

Most of the guardsmen that have worked at her family's estate over the years have never been the most scholarly types. More the kind whose every off day is spent near-drowning themselves at Hexside in cheap ale.

Most of them couldn't read anyway, so surprised is definitely the mild way of putting it.

She wasn't aware she'd made any noise, but suddenly she realized Luz was looking up at her. The guards' faces turned sour as they locked eyes.

"What?" Luz didn't mean to ask the question with as much attitude as it came out, technically Amity is her superior and the last thing she wants to do is be dismissed from her position.

Amity is, again, surprised and answers more out of shock than any real desire to answer the snappy question.

"I didn't realize you could read…," it still came out with a haughty air to it though that made Luz's frown deepen.

"I realize I'm a human and a commoner…," she bit out. "but yes, I can read, and write," she grumbled.

"You're human…," Amity mumbled to herself, finally seeing the other woman's ears, lacking a distinct point.

Amity prided herself on her observation skills, among other things, but she'd been so aggravated by the woman in front of her that she had never even noticed her ears until this moment.

"I didn't realize you were human till just now…," she hummed thoughtfully. She'd heard about humans, all witches have, and how they used to be quite prolific on the Isles, but most people can't remember the last time they saw one, till now it seemed.

"You didn't realize…!?" Luz started, looking startled. "Then why have you been such a bitch to me?"

She hadn't meant to say that out loud, honestly, she'd just been so surprised. Usually, her ears are the first thing people notice about her. She had assumed that was why Amity had been so cold and hostile to her, it wasn't like it would be the first time it had happened.

Amity blinked at her in surprise, but that surprise doesn't last long and quickly morphs into a sneer, sharp, gold eyes narrowed and cheeks turning red.

"You… filthy, cretin!" she snapped angrily. "My behavior is because you are a graceless moron who doesn’t watch where she’s going!" she snarled and Luz scowled back, taking a step forward to lean over Amity, who didn't move, just defiantly looked up at her, face set in a sneer.

“I told you I was sorry, it was an accident!” She snapped back.

“Sorry doesn’t get my privileges back from Bump!” she barked.

“All you have is privileges!” Luz growled.

“You don’t know me!” Amity snarled, gritting her teeth and face turning hot with anger.

“I know you’re probably like every other noble I’ve ever known, looking down your nose at me. I’m sorry the world can’t revolve around a spoiled brat like you all the time, so get over it!”

The slapping sound echoed through the aisle along with the clattering of books hitting the floor.

Luz blinked in bewilderment, head now turned to the side and cheek stinging from where Amity’s hand had made contact with her face. It takes her a handful of seconds to realize what had happened.

She scowled as her head whipped back to face Amity, face contorted with anger, and bowed up to full height over the noblewomen.

Amity's scowl vanished in the face of the furious, dark look that had settled on Luz's face as she loomed over her. Fear, cold and hard settled in the pit of her stomach that Luz is about to strike her back as she tensed up, hands balled into fists, but she doesn't.

Luz wanted so badly to strike back, but there were two voices in the back of her head that stilled her hand.

One, is the main character of her favorite novel, Azura, the good knight, whose crux of her character is to never use force against an opponent who can't defend themselves, and who had been Luz's first inspiration to becoming a knight as a child.

The second is Eda's, repeating her dire warning about striking out in anger. A lesson she had learned hard once already and has no interest in repeating.

She took a deep shaky breath, ignoring the stinging pain in her right cheek, and reached down to pick up her books.

Amity can only blink in confusion as Luz said and did nothing in retaliation. It would be easy to do so. As much as she wished she was, Amity is no fighter, and she can tell just by the litany of small scars on Luz's hands, chin, and cheeks that she is, but she doesn't lift a finger against her.

She only collected her books and then turned and walked toward the archives entrance.

Amity doesn't know what else to do but follow, much as she doesn't want to.

They say nothing to each other, don't even so much as look at each other as they walk back through the city toward Blight Manor.

Luz is still seething inside, clutching her books tightly as they walk and trying to calm the uncharacteristic rage churning in her stomach.

She's definitely out of a job after this, but if this is how it was going to be, then that was probably for the best.

Bump is standing out front of the gates talking to Jerbo when they arrive and Luz sighed heavily and silently through her nose.

"Ah, you're back," he greeted Amity who nodded silently. "How were the archives?"

Luz swallowed, waiting for Amity to give Bump a summary of her incompetence and attitude.

But she doesn't

"It was fine," Is all she says. Bump nodded and Amity quickly hurried inside, leaving Luz standing there; confused.

Why didn't she tell Bump about what had happened at the archives?

She has no discernible answer.

"Excellent work, Luz." Bump nodded to her before he turned and followed the youngest member of the family into the manor.

Luz just continued to stare at the closed door in bewilderment.

"You okay?" Jerbo asked, cocking his head at the flabbergasted look on her face as well as the pale red spot on her cheek.

"Yeah… fine," she answered.

But she's not sure about that answer at all.

[haphazardlyparked]

a dragon at war

the continuation of this (ancient history) 

Let me show you what I remember.

Again.

*

In the memory, the twitch of yellow silk at the corner of his eye draws Niskaya’s attention. Niskaya doesn’t turn his head—chin high and back straight, he stares towards the nine-pointed sunburst made of yellow glass at the far end of the hall, brilliant with sunlight—but he still sees the quirk of Jinaya’s lips and pays attention to the tell-tale twitches of her skirts. He is the holy prince, and he stands beside the king’s throne, but he does not always listen to the requests brought before him. The king, who is as a father to Niskaya, is usually content so long as Niskaya acts as directed.  

And as the king is his earthly father, then Jinaya is his sister. So Niskaya does not see why he should not indulge the royal heir when she invites him into one of her games. This one had begun a few years ago, when Jinaya reached her fourteenth name-day and was allowed to the Halls of Petition to listen and learn from her father’s rulings. She will be queen after him, with Niskaya by her side, and they will have to listen then… but for now, the king prefers to keep his own counsel, and Niskaya acts accordingly.

In careful, subtle movements, a language of her own, Jinaya’s skirts say, It’s memory! Don’t you have anything more challenging, blessed brother?

Niskaya knows the royal heir—she’s one of the few people he does know—so he hears the teasing endearment in his head when he reads her skirts, and holds in a smile. With a careful twist of hope and will, he draws his power into a wish, and changes the words on the scrap of paper Jinaya has hidden in her sleeve.

A new riddle appears for her. A more difficult one, since that had been the request. Wishes these small are easy to keep from the king’s watchful eye… and is it not within Niskaya’s rights to grant blessings to his own sibling, the royal heir herself?  

With a minute tilt of her head, Jinaya surreptitiously reads the riddle. Yellow silk shifts, sharing the riddle that Niskaya’s power has wrought. His wishes are always like this; the desire comes from Niskaya, but the answer derives from the god, so it is not always Niskaya’s to know or control.

I am a dragon at war, Jinaya’s skirts say. What am I?

Niskaya holds his surprise in as well as he does his smiles. While Jinaya looks thoughtful, considering the potential metaphors and plays on words, Niskaya taps his fingers ever so slightly against the staff he carries. His range of expression is far more limited than what Jinaya can do with her skirts, so his message is slow and careful. 

I do not know, Niskaya admits, and hides his uncertainty. Is this the god’s riddle, one for Niskaya himself? 

Niskaya never sees Jinaya’s response. The king stands suddenly, abruptly blocking her from view, and Niskaya drops his eyes from the bright sunburst window. Staring through sunspots in his vision, he studies two young men who have entered the Halls and brought the king to his feet.

Foreigners.

Niskaya is sure of it. It’s not just their clothes—they both wear trousers and dark coats the gleam with thread-of-gold embroidery, cut like Niskaya has never seen before—but something intangible, a knowledge that must come from the god.

The king knows too. “I see strangers among us,” he says, voice flat.

On his feet, Niskaya’s earthly father stands a head taller than him. With a strong chin, sharp dark eyes, and skin darker than Niskaya’s, he cuts a far more imposing figure in flowing yellow robes. On the king’s other side, Jinaya also rises to her feet, dressed in yellow from her slippers to the silk scarf that binds her halo of dark, tight curls on the top of her head.

“It is a sacred honor, to stand before the Prince,” Jinaya informs the foreigners. She does it kindly, as is her wont, but firmly. When she is queen, the people will worship her. Niskaya does not have to wish this into being. 

One of the foreigners before them straightens at Jinaya’s words, chin rising proudly; Niskaya wonders what words such pride might speak. He’s smaller than his companion, slender and pale-eyed with a deep tan that clearly comes from long days of travel under a bright sun. His voice is crisp and clear when he declares, with a polite bow, “We are no common visitors.”

Niskaya feels a moment’s surprise. His own language rolls easily from this foreigner’s tongue, smoothly accented like any courtier’s—did he do that himself, without meaning it? Had his speculation wrought a wish? 

Then the taller man speaks up, his formal words pronounced with an awkward lack of surety, a student of a foreign tongue. “Your majesties, your holiness, please allow me to make proper presentations.” 

No wish, Niskaya thinks. 

Though it’s hard to tell from the raised dais set several steps above the rest of the hall, Niskaya judges this man to be nearly of height with the king. He’s almost as broad as the king too, with green eyes set in a tanned face framed by loose curls. Instead of looking up to the dais where Niskaya stands with the others, those green eyes stay fixed on his countryman. Perhaps he’s looking for cues, or confirmation that he’s using the right words.

“Forgive my tongue. My prince’s gift is with languages. Mine, now regrettably elsewhere. I learn slowly.” The green-eyed foreigner shrugs with a strange confidence... while freely sharing his weakness.  

Pale eyes blink in surprise, then slide sideways to meet green. The taller man winks cheerfully at his prince with the gift of languages. 

A lie, then? Or simple reassurance? Niskaya doesn’t have time to decide whether all or part or none of what the grinning foreigner has said is true before he continues, slow but understandable with concentration. 

“I present his highness, called Sanokil, a first prince among our people. Prince Sanokil is named for his swaying speeches.” Sanokil bows his head at his introduction, hiding the rest of his surprise from Niskaya’s careful scrutiny. Niskaya thinks he might be pleased. “And I am Akalnai, the prince’s loyal lord.” 

The loyal lord finishes his introduction with a deep, sweeping bow that encompasses his prince along with the king. When he rises, he finally turns his eyes on the dais. 

He speaks truths, Niskaya knows. Something in those dancing eyes tells him they are not all truths. He wonders what Akalnai is named for. 

Prince Sanokil takes up the explanation of where they come from, polite but unmistakably regal. “My... loyal lord and I come from across the mountains, adventurers proving ourselves, and come to you as weary travelers curious about new lands.” 

The king studies the travelers, prince and lord each. Prince Sanokil meets his gaze with a cool self-assurance, and Lord Akalnai stares back with unbridled curiosity. 

And then the king invokes the ritual greetings. “You will answer before the holy prince.”

Neither prince nor lord have a chance to speak. 

“What is the loyal lord Akalnai named for?” 

The first question is Jinaya’s, the same one Niskaya had briefly wondered about. He watches the foreigners intently enough to catch Prince Sanokil’s sudden, small smile.

Only a blind man could miss the loyal lord Akalnai’s flashing grin. “Your majesty,” he addresses Jinaya. Even with slow, awkward words, there’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice, nor the playful light in his eyes. “I am named for my love of shining things.”

Prince Sanokil’s smile twitches. So do Janya’s skirts, though she says nothing aloud. 

He’s amusing, Niskaya reads. When she catches his eye and quirks her lips, he also understands what she doesn’t spell out: I would not mind these visitors.

Niskaya wonders what it would be like to have lord Akalnai’s mischievous eyes dancing about the palace. He wonders what this loyal lord would say if his tongue weren’t guarded by Niskaya’s language, and what might draw a first prince away from his people.

“What business do you have in our kingdom?” the king demands, the second question. He offers no introductions, makes no words of welcome, and it is not for Niskaya nor for Jinaya to make them in his place. Not yet. 

“No business but our own curiosity,” Prince Sanokil supplies smoothly. “Traveling and meeting new people is our joy.”

It’s Niskaya’s turn to ask something, if he chooses.

He does.

“I am a dragon at war.” He speaks slowly and enunciates clearly for the loyal lord’s benefit. “What am I?”

The king’s head jerks to Niskaya, disbelief plain on his face. His eyes narrow, but Niskaya ignores that. The king had surely had been about to speak, certain that Niskaya would not honor foreigners with his words. Now that he has, the king is bound by laws of courtesy: if the foreigners’ answers please Niskaya, the king must offer them hospitality.

Niskaya looks beyond the king’s surprise, to Jinaya’s smile. He likes to make her smile.

The foreigners, meanwhile, confer with each other in their own language. Niskaya knows it is their own language, but as strange sounds and syllables fill the air, meaning fills his mind.

“It must be a riddle,” Prince Sanokil says. “I, a dragon at war, what am I?”

“Very angry and highly dangerous,” Lord Akalnai answers. When Niskaya looks away from Jinaya and back at the foreigners, the loyal lord is smiling politely.

Prince Sanokil frowns and turns sharply towards the dais. “Very powerful?” he offers, showing himself far more diplomatic than his loyal lord. 

Niskaya doesn’t laugh—in the memory.

“They are answers as good as any, and I am pleased,” he decrees. And the king, thus bound, invites the prince and his lord to stay among them.  

“You and yours are as welcome as family, cousin Sanokil from beyond,” Jinaya declares.

*

“Blasted stars in the bloody, blighted sky,” Kalor swore, opening his eyes and reeling. It was a foul oath as old as the oldest dragons. Predictably, Niskaya’s head dropped down to his face, reproach clearly written in his dragons expression. Still, Niskaya’s long neck supported Kalor as he slid down to slump against the dragon.

Kalor laughed. It was a loud laugh, sharp and out of control, and all the while Niskaya’s riddle rang in his head. I am a dragon at war. What am I? Kalna turned and pressed his face into Iska’s scales to muffle himself. A dragon at war. That can’t be a real memory. It can’t.

And why not?

Iska’s voice was like the whisper of silk in Kalna’s mind, and immediately strangled his hysterical laughter.

And why not? Kalna thought. Why not? What did he know about all those lives lived and lost, without Iska’s clear memories? Bloody, blighted stars and blasted skies, he really didn’t want to think about it.

“I stand by my first answer,” Kalna muttered.

The puff of air against his cheek felt of snorted laughter. “I am a dragon at war,” Niskaya repeated. “What am I?”

“Pissed off and extremely dangerous.”

Iska’s eyes narrowed to pleased slits, and he made a show of carefully inspecting a claw. It should have been funny, such studied menace from a baby dragon not much larger than Kalna—one who’d barely ever hunted for himself—yet Kalna’s chest swelled with with awe and an impossible affection that made his insides weightless.

“Yes,” Iska rumbled. In their bond Kalna felt his own emotions mirrored deeply—his love, his devotion... and his fury. “You always have known me best.”  

“I dunno,” Kalna said, suddenly grinning again. “I never would’ve guessed that you’d be the one roaring for vengeance.” 

your notifications have reminded me that i do actually like my characters, so this is for you, @chaos-writing​. thank you <3 

[curiousthimble]

Fictober Day 21

Prompt: This. This makes it all worth it Fandom: Dragon Age Origins Characters: Connor Guerrin, Evette Amell Rating: G Connected to: Cold Hands, Warm Heart Read More Fictober

Evette looks out over the lake, her heart light. Below her office balcony she can hear children at play on the green, shouting and laughter that was never allowed when the tower had been known as Kinloch Hold.

Now it was the Ferelden School of Magic, created and supported by the King of Ferelden and utterly ignored by the Chantry. 

She had fought two wars for this, had risked her life over and over protecting mages from Templars, had broken her own heart for this. The setting sun was warm on her face, tempting her to let the work on her desk stay undone while she lingered.

“Are you happy?”

There was anxiety in his voice, as if he didn’t know the answer. She smiled, not looking over her shoulder as he came to stand beside her. “Yes, Pup,” she said, clasping his hand. “Are you?”

She could hear his shuddering breath as he looked down. “It was so hard,” he said. “All the fighting and politics. I don’t know how many times we nearly died.”

“And yet?” she asked, a grin growing. 

“This.” His hand squeezed hers as the smile broke across his face like a sunrise. “This makes it all worth it. I’m just sorry we lost so many along the way.”

“We gained just as many,” she reminded him, nodding to the children below. “They will live in a world our lost ones built.”

“You aren’t nervous about marrying Alistair tomorrow, are you?”

“Nervous?” she scoffed. “No. I’ve loved him so long, and I don’t have to miss him anymore. Are you worried about it?”

“I’ve never given anyone away before,” he admitted. 

Evette put an arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. “You’ll do fine, Pup.”

“How did you ever find the strength to fight?”

So happy she thought she might burst, Evette looks up at him. There’s a tall, handsome young man standing before her, but all she can see is the little boy who rode across the lake with her after the Blight. “You, Pup,” she said. “You gave me something to live for. This,” she said, gesturing to the tower, “is grand and good. But after the Blight, it was all for you. You're my legacy.”