#i also fought with making him a hairy mountain man

[vampireflowerarts]

So many Trolls projects, here's a sketch of the Bros~

Branch's render so far ^^-

[scapegrace74-blog]

Saorsa, Chapter 22

A/N  Here is the next installment of Saorsa.  At long last, after dragging things out for 21 chapters (21!), I’m finally sending Jamie and Claire on their honeymoon, with all the bow-chicka-wow-wow that implies.  Although it’s pretty tame, by my smut standards.  Why am I still writing?  Go read it!

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging!  It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

The honeymoon was Claire’s idea.  After two weeks of painfully polite coexistence in which she felt they were both acting the parts of a newly married couple for an audience of two, she suggested the getaway.   Jamie had never heard of such a thing.  She insisted time spent cloistered away from their everyday lives was now the norm for newlyweds, and he begrudgingly agreed.   They left as soon as Murtagh returned from his visit home to the Isle of Lewis.

Jamie was an uneasy automobile passenger, and he refused to learn how to drive, so it was Claire who navigated onto the ferry that crossed the narrow channel to the Isle of Skye.

“Are you alright?” she asked as Jamie clutched the door handle in a white knuckled grip.

“Aye.  Jus’ no’ fond of ships, is all,” he answered, eyes pointed out the windshield as though he could bring the looming island closer with the strength of his stare.

“Just a few more minutes, an duine agam,” she assured, taking his clammy right hand in her left.

“Who’s been teachin’ ye Gàidhlig, Sassenach?” he asked, distracted from imminent sea sickness.

“Murtagh.  Just a few words, here and there.  I thought it would be useful, so I could speak it to the baby once he or she is born.”   As it usually did, her free hand came to rest on the softly rounded swell of her belly when she spoke of her child.

There was silence from the passenger’s seat.  She glanced over only to be met by a look of stunning intensity.  She felt naked before so much bridled emotion, but she could not break away.  The only movement between the two of them was the clenching of a muscle high in his jaw.

“Claire, I…”

Whatever Jamie was about to say, it was interrupted by the shunt of the ferry as it met the shore.  They both looked away, and the moment was gone.

The drive to their inn at Dunvegan was shrouded in low-lying clouds.  She could just make out the lower slopes of mountains robed in snow.  Jamie had once again fallen silent but seemed content to gaze at the passing scenery.  She parked carefully on the side of the main road in the tiny village, just two lines of tidy single-story stone cottages, a café and their inn.  

Jamie rose awkwardly from the car and stretched before walking to the boot to gather their shared suitcase.  As he did, a pair of women exited a nearby cottage, talking in loud, animated voices.   He froze, then spun around.

The women turned right at the pavement and continued walking and chatting.  Seeing the tall, handsome red-haired man standing near their path, they both uttered a polite “feasgar math” before continuing on their way.

“Feasgar math,” he responded belatedly, bowing slightly at the waist out of habit.  He turned around, slack-jawed, as the scene came into sharper focus.  The signage above the café and inn was in Gaelic.   There were horseshoes hung above every door and tartan decorations festooned a nearby fence.   Sheep bleated from the fields beyond.  Apart from their car and another parked across the street, nothing in view would have been out of place two centuries before.

She stepped onto the pavement beside Jamie and touched his chest.

“You see?  The Highland culture did not die.  It fled, far to the north and over the sea, but it survived.  Here,” she gestured around them.  “And here,” pressing her hand against his breastbone.  “It takes something tremendously resilient to face that sort of hardship and endure.”

Jamie’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.  She could see that he was struggling against tears.

“Come on.  Let’s check into our room, and then you can show me around.”

The matronly innkeeper greeted them in a waterfall of Gaelic, to which Jamie answered in kind.  He seemed taller suddenly, although perhaps it was the low, timber-beamed ceiling that made him appear so.   She heard him say “Claire Fraser, mo bhean”, while looking at her with pride.

If the innkeeper thought it strange that the tall Scot and his obviously pregnant English wife were making heart-eyes at each other across her lobby, she did not let on.  She led them up a steep stairwell into a hallway so low that Jamie had to duck to avoid banging his head.  At one end was a gabled room with a merry fire already lit.  It wasn’t large, having room for just an immense four-posted bed, two wooden chairs facing the fire, and a window with views across the slate roofs to the slate-grey sea beyond.

Thanking their hostess and promising to come downstairs later for tea, they stood facing each other from across the room with nervous expressions.  It was strange.  They had shared the laird’s bed chamber in the days since their wedding, but the idea of being alone in this strange room felt more intimate.  There were no routines or distractions to mask the fact that they were now man and wife.

Jamie spent an inordinate amount of time placing their luggage on a low stool, and then stared out the window like he was searching for answers.

“Did you want to take a walk down to the castle?” she suggested timidly.

“Aye,” he agreed eagerly.  “Tis a braw day for a ramble.”

She glanced at the fine drizzle that had begun to fall, shrugged and grabbed her Macintosh.

**

Jamie was like a giddy schoolboy upon entering the ancestral seat of Clan MacLeod.  The castle itself was not open to visitors, but they had the grounds to themselves.  He capered about the battlements, pointing out one feature after another.

“What eejit built those turrets?  They’re no’ big enough for a wee lad to enter, ne’er mind a marksman,” he commented, looking up at the main stronghold’s façade.

“I imagine they were added recently, merely for decoration,” she replied, smiling at his outraged tone.  “I understand the current Chief Macleod made significant improvements, prior to the war.”  Jamie replied with a truly Scottish noise that expressed dubiousness and concession in a single, guttural sound.   He spun around, taking in the whole view.

“I always heard it was the bonniest castle in all of Scotland, but I dinna believe it.  Now that I see it wi’ my own eyes, weel…”  Jamie scuffed his boot on the gritty rock, looking guilty for a moment.  “I still prefer Lallybroch, ye ken, but this, this is…” he trailed off, at a loss for words.

Jamie face grew pensive, a deep furrow bisecting his brow.

“What is it?” she asked, stepping closer.

“It’s only… Tormod MacLeod fought on the side of the English at Culloden.  I didna ken it at the time, but I read in yer husband’s books that the MacLeod attacked the lands of Jacobite supporters after the Rising, causing much suffering.  And yet here their laird abides, twa hundred years on, while the Frasers are nought but names on graves…”

She stepped towards him, wrapping an arm carefully around his broad back.

“Listen to me, James Fraser.  You fought bravely for a cause that you believed in, even though you knew the odds were overwhelmingly against you.  There is honour in that, and honour is stronger than any castle wall.   Also, you are my husband now.  I’d thank you to remember that.”

He wrapped an arm around her slim shoulders in return.   “Duly noted, Sassenach.”

They stood there in the drizzle, leaning slightly into each other until she interrupted the moment with a vital clarification.

“Oh, and Jamie?  I never said that a laird lived in this castle.”

He leaned back to gaze at her face, eyebrows lowered in confusion.

“Flora MacLeod of MacLeod, twenty-eighth clan chief of the MacLeod since her father passed away in 1935.”  She grinned smugly, watching the perplexity transform to amazement on his expressive face.  He let forth a burst of laughter.

“Dhia, I hope she looks fairer in a kilt than Tormod.  That man was a hairy beast.”

**

After a light meal of crusty bread, sheep’s milk cheese, dried sausage, and tea for Claire (“why do ye English insist on polluting water wi’ wee leaves, Sassenach?”), they retired to their room to warm themselves in front of the fire.

Jamie was quiet again, pulling at his lip as he stared into the flames.  She sensed he was working something through in his mind and gave him room for silence.  She allowed the warmth and crackling pop of green logs lull her into a state of suspended awareness.

“I havena been entirely truthful wi’ ye, Sassenach, and tis vexing me greatly,” Jamie began without taking his eyes from the fire.   Her stomach dropped, trying to imagine what fact was so awful that even his absolute candor bowed to the demand that it remain unspoken.

“When I asked ye tae be my wife, I told ye it was on account of yer bairn, how t’would be… practical for me tae be its Da, and tae help ye in the running of Lallybroch.”

“Yes.  I remember,” she said hesitantly.  “It’s a little late for second thoughts, Jamie.  The Catholic Church isn’t any fonder of divorce than they were two hundred years ago...”

“Ifrinn.  That’s no’ what I mean at all.  Christ, Claire, would ye let a man speak for once!”  He rose and began pacing the small room in tight circles.  His speech hurried to catch the cadence of his steps.

“Tis no’ that the reasons I gave were untrue.  Tis just that t’werenna the only ones.  No’ even the main one.  I asked ye tae be marrit, weel, because I wanted tae be yer husband.”

Running out of words, he stopped near the bed and looked at her.  At his apparent inability to continue, she ventured, “You are my husband, Jamie.  And I’m very grateful for…”

“No’ a husband in body.  Only a husband in name.”

“Oh,” she breathed.  “Oh!”  She felt her cheeks reddening, even warmer than the glow of the fire.  “Are you saying that you would want to be a husband… in body… to me?”

“Aye.  Och, look at ye, Sassenach.  What man wouldna want tae lie wi’ ye?  I’m only mortal.”

She tried to imagine how she looked to Jamie.  She was wearing a practical cotton dress, cut a little loose to accommodate her expanding waist.  Her cheeks were no doubt flushed from the walk in the rain, the fire, and Jamie’s sudden revelation.  She was certain her head was surrounded by a veritable Gorgon of curls.

His confession expelled, Jamie was once again able to meet her eyes, and what she saw there ignited a spark inside her that she was certain had been extinguished forever.  She rose gracefully and made her way to where he was standing.  In her stocking feet, she had to look up into his face. When she did, she felt electricity prickle her skin.

“Well, it is our honeymoon.  I suppose it would be the… traditional thing to do.”

Her hand came to rest on Jamie’s damp linen shirt.  Underneath, she could feel his heat and the tremor of muscles held tightly in check.  A broad palm cupped her hip.

“I dinna mean this verra minute, Claire.  Ye can take yer time tae consider.   And wi’ the bairn…”

She ignored him, plucking gently at the fabric.  “Your shirt is damp.  You’ll catch a chill.  You should hang it… by the fire…” she finished as he disposed of the offending clothing in a single move.  Her hand now was free to rest against bare, gold-hued flesh.  

She paced a tight circle around his body, stopping behind him where the firelight and shadows emphasized the lacerated surface of his back.  Jamie’s shoulders stopped rising and falling as he held his breath, obviously nervous for his scars to be so closely observed.  Before he could comment or grow restive, she pressed a careful kiss along his spine, teasing her fingertips over the sensitive skin of his flank as she completed her turn.

“Yer dress is wet as weel, Sassenach.  I wouldna wish ye tae fall ill.”  His voice, deep normally, was positively cavernous, pulling her pulse deep into her belly.

She spun away and lifted her hair from her neck, presenting the zipper.  After a moment’s pause, Jamie’s fingers fluttered across her nape.

“What do I do?” he asked in an entirely different tone.  Gone was his brash confidence, and she reminded herself anew that he was only twenty-two, five years her junior, and came from a world unaffected by modern notions of love or sex.  Not wanting to embarrass him by calling attention to his inexperience, real or perceived, she determined that if Jamie was in want of guidance, he’d ask.   As he had just done.

“You pull downwards on the little tab.  It’s called a zipper,” she whispered back.  A metallic tearing noise, and her dress loosened.  Moist breath blew against the tiny hairs of her back, causing them to rise in greeting.

“Verra practical wee fastening, Sassenach,” he muttered as the garment cleaved in two, held up by the precarious slopes of her shoulders.

She turned back to him, and the sparks in his eyes rivalled those in the hearth, hot as ingots with a pulsing blue glow.  A ratchety breath stuttered from her lungs.

“Ye dinna have tae do this, mo bhean ghaoil.  Imma verra patient man.  I’ve already bided twa hundred years just tae meet ye.”

Her lips twitched at his beautiful, though not entirely accurate gallantry.

“Mo bhean ghaoil?” she asked as she let first one, then the other shoulder dip.  Her dress fell easily to the floor.

“My beautiful wife.” The words withered away to air as the vision of her body unfolded before him.  Undulating ribbons of amber and shadow caressed the ivory of her skin, broken by the pale satin of her long line bra and maternity girdle.

“That’s where ye’ve been hiding yer corset,” Jamie muttered, half to himself.  They were both drawing hungry lungfuls of breath, the space between them fraught with an oncoming storm.

Very slowly, as though certain she would startle and flee, he raised an outstretched hand until it met her breastbone with the pressure of a feather.  She could feel the tremors that shook within him as he dragged each fingertip downward until they gathered in the warm valley between her breasts.  The air in the room suddenly felt thick, too heavy to breathe.

Just as it seemed Jamie’s hand was about to venture below the edge of her undergarments, a memory assaulted her addled senses.  Jamie, unknown to her as anything other than a mysterious and gravely injured patient, lay sleeping on his side in her room at Lallybroch.  He was still fevered, and she had lowered the sheet to his waist, allowing night air to caress his wounded back.  The firelight caught the powerful lines of his shoulder and pectorals, lighting each russet hair that bisected his torso so that he glowed like a lazy sunrise.  She had been flooded by a sudden desire to know where that trail of hair led.

“It’s my turn,” she asserted, reaching for the belt holding up his trousers.

The buckle clattered to the floor without heed as Jamie pulled her roughly upwards into his descending mouth.  It was a kiss without introduction or politeness, a tactical assault on her senses launched through the breach of his open mouth.  It bore no relation to the few chaste kisses they had thus far shared as man and wife.  She had evidently pushed him past the breaking point of his ingrained courteous behaviour.

They parted, stunned speechless, wet mouths agape.  He angrily pushed his trousers past his hips and the two collapsed onto the high mattress in an inelegant flop, limbs battling and grasping anywhere for purchase.   Her legs fell open instinctively to cradle the long, muscular arc of his body.   A cool button nudged her inner thigh.  Calloused hands pushed desperately on the unyielding structure of her girdle.  A coarse abrasion between her legs.  Heat.  And then an urgent plunge, both familiar and foreign.

His forehead was pushed into the pillow above her shoulder.  Untutored, laboured grunts echoed in her ears.

“Jamie,” she gasped.  “Jamie, you’re crushing me.”

He rose immediately onto his elbows, relieving the grinding pressure on her chest, but seemed unable to halt the tidal surge of his body into hers.   In a moment, it was moot.  He froze, letting loose a shuddering moan that scaled his spine one vertebra at a time.   Collapsing sideways onto his back, his face was a portrait of mute astonishment.

She lay beside him, staring at the beamed ceiling, and tried to gather her thoughts.  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t invited this very thing.  And while the… encounter had been ephemerally brief, she could not deny that she’d enjoyed it.  Enjoyed being the recipient of so much passion, no matter how short-lived.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jamie’s ring finger bouncing, tapping a morse code of disquiet against his chest.  Awkwardness was a palpable third presence in the bed between them.  She wanted to say something to ease his nerves, but words floated away as she tried to wrangle them into coherent sentences.

“Claire, I… please tell me I didna hurt ye.  Ye or the bairn.”

His quiet anguish snapped the cord that had been holding her tongue still in her mouth.

“No.  Jamie, of course not.  I would have said something, if you had.”

“I didna ken it would be sae… fierce,” he confessed.

That certainly answered her earlier question about his prior experience.  She couldn’t help feeling a flutter of… something… deep in her belly at the thought.

“It can be.  But my body is designed to protect the baby.  It will probably become more awkward, as I grow larger.   I’ll tell you, if anything doesn’t feel…nice.”

Jamie rose on an elbow, peering down at her.  His face was now alight with novice curiosity.

“Ye liked it then?  Men gossip about these things, ye ken, and I had heard that most women dinna like it.”

It was too late, and her nerves were too taxed to launch into a conversation about female sexual pleasure and a man’s role in assuring it.  She hazarded it was a better lesson to learn by example, in any event.  But she didn’t want him to go to sleep disappointed in himself.

Instead she told him the truth.

“I did like it, Jamie.  Very much.  I’m tired now, but perhaps in the morning…?”

He grinned like a Cheshire cat.  Shucking his trousers carelessly, he splayed naked across the bed with his hands tucked behind his head, looking for all the world like a piece of toppled Grecian statuary.  It suddenly hurt to breath.  The simmering warmth low in her belly threatened to burst into flame, but she was truly exhausted.   What she needed most was sleep.

Turning modestly aside, she unhooked her bra and unzipped her girdle before quickly donning a white nightdress.  She could feel Jamie’s eyes run over the bared skin of her back.  

“Cuir stad air do cheann, Sassenach,” he said softly as she once again settled beside him.

He lay behind her, fingers trailing through her hair and down her arms like spider webs.   She fell asleep to his quiet Gaelic mutterings, a lilting lullaby.

**

an duine agam - my husband

feasgar math - good afternoon

mo bhean - my wife

mo bhean ghaoil - my beautiful wife

Cuir stad air do cheann - Rest your head

[higglety]

The (somehow, improbably) Ongoing Adventures of Bibigul and Gurgle

Ok guys, I gotta tell you what happened in our game last session, because I have never in my life had a plan go SO COMPLETELY OPPOSITE of the way I intended, and yet, somehow, still work.

Ok so quick recap:  the campaign concept is “One of you is the Hero of Legend; the others are not. Go out there and keep killing bad stuff until I dunno, one of you proves yourself or you all die or something.”  I’m playing Bibigul, a wildly impulsive halfling rogue/favored soul/swashbuckler, whose patron god is Olidammara, and who adheres very strongly to the idea that “whatever happens is destined to happen and it’ll all work out fine cuz I’m the hero of legend”.  We also have an elf Warlock whose whole schtick is knowing things, who has proven in actual play to know next to nothing, yet still be able to figure things out via sheer luck, a human scout who is extremely laid back and go-with-the-flow, and whose major character quirk has been a poorly-taxidermied snake with extreme sentimental value which he wears as a stinky belt, and Gurgule, my main man, an enormous bug-man who is a Barbarian (and, as of our last level-up, a summoner), who didn’t really dump Int Wis and Cha, so much as completely annihilate them.  

As you can see, our party is completely terrible, and that we’ve survived this far can be chalked up to sheer, blind, stupid luck.  It certainly couldn’t be attributed to any real skill or strategy employed by either we the players, or our characters.  In fact, the player who plays Gurgle and I have had backup characters made and ready to go for MONTHS now, because literally every session we almost die, and are absolutely certain that next session is when we finally kick the bucket.  The only uncertainty in our minds is whether we’ll accidentally force a TPK or not.  But I digress.

The session before last, we were offered a choice:  go kill the rest of the goblin horde who had been harassing a nearby town.  One relevant detail?  We had just come back from the neighboring town, which had been dealing with a zombie problem, and ran into the goblins on the way out.  We killed their leader, and a good chunk of their fighters.  This would be a mop-up mission, since we’d already accidentally done a good chunk of it.  OR, we could go help a halfling monastery that was being attacked by giants.  Because we’re idiots (and I, the idiot halfling who does not fear death, will take full responsibility for this), we pick the giants.  We pick the giants, by the way, because I talked the squad into accepting the result of a coin flip to decide the question.

So anyway, off we go to the monastery.  It’s a few day’s journey away, so we have a few random encounters along the way.  One of which happened on a bridge we had to cross.  As you might have guessed, we encountered trolls.  Now, they didn’t immediately attack us - they were gathering tolls, rather than dinner.  I felt confident that I could have talked our way through the encounter without having to fight, except - - - well, except for the fact that Gurgle had some past.... negative experiences with folks collecting tolls.  Long story short, he raged, they raged, we fought, it all got rather hairy there for a bit.  Fortunately I was able to talk everybody down and convince them to accept the human’s horse as a toll, and they let us go on our way.  This is very fortunate, because it became rapidly clear that there was no way we could have beaten these trolls.  (This doesn’t bode well for how the encounter with the giants is going to go, of course).

So then, as we travel along, we come to the next town.  We get a cordial welcome, which becomes even friendlier and more excited when they learn we’re the Heroes of Legend come from the Citadel.  The excitable halfling I had pulled aside to chat with informs EVERYONE that holy cow look!  It’s the Heroes of Legend come from the Citadel to save them from the problem they’d reported!  Hooray!!!  What was the problem, you ask?  TROLLS.

Now remember, I believe in luck.  I believe in fate.  I believe that no matter where I end up is exactly where I should be, and by the way, my dude Olidammara’s got my back.  I even have proof - along the way, we’d met a mysterious old beggar man who was Not What He Appears.  He had offered each of us a chance to play a challenge of skill, wits, or chance.  Our Scout chose chance, and lost his snake, to his great consternation (and the relief of the entire party).  The warlock gambled the party in a contest of wits, and only won because the player who plays Gurgle gave her a hint on one of the riddles, and I used my luck powers to force a reroll when the GM decided to roll a die to decide whether to accept her answer or not.  I, of course, chose a game of chance, and the old man granted my request to invoke my god ahead of time.  No, there was no cheating - just a simple appeal.  “Yo, Olidammara!  Hey dude, can you help me out here real quick?  Just gonna do a couple dice tosses, and it’s kinda important.  If you feel like it of course - no pressure.”  I figure of anyone, Olidammara is probably a god who appreciates a casual, low-key approach.  And he must have, because the old man rolled snake eyes thrice in a row, and I rolled high on each toss. Now, I had made the rookie mistake of not specifying terms ahead of time.  He wanted the enormous glowing, necromantic green gem I carry strapped to my torso like an magical crystalline pregnant belly.  I wanted.... him to not have it.  So, by way of a prize, the Mysterious Old Man assured me that the baby would be MINE.  Previously, it would been Not Mine, and that would have been Bad.  So anyway, the point of that anecdote was to illustrate that Olidammara’s got my back.

So, riding high on luck and fresh proof of my god’s interest in me and what all I get up to, I agree.  “Sure!”  I say, “We’ll make your troll problem go away!  No sweat!”  And we party the night away.  But, while’ we’re partying, I’m also making preparations.  I talk with the local halflings to get that hot gos, and I also buy the worst horse in town.  I’m ready.  

Next day, we go back out to the trolls.  I call out to them while we’re well away from the bridge, and tell them I want to talk, so they don’t ambush us.  They’re confused, but send one out to talk with us.  He reminds us that there is a toll to cross the bridge, and I assure him that I know that, and I didn’t actually want to cross the bridge, I just want a chat.  I ask him how the toll collecting business is going, and he says it’s going great!  Every few days, merchants come through, the trolls kill their guards, and the merchants give them money!  It’s fantastic!  There’s no end in sight!  I probe to see if they’ve noticed the merchant traffic slowing, as the town has, and they have not.  As far as they’re concerned, this is a viable situation that will continue indefinitely.  I clue them in on a secret, that there are giants to the north that have just PILES of gold, but they’re not having it.  I took the wrong tactic, I immediately realize - the trolls don’t want big targets, they want easy targets.  In my desire to steer the trolls to the giants and so benefit by them fighting each other, I fail to motivate them in a way they will accept.  Even bribing them with another horse to eat isn’t going to get them to budge, I immediately realize.  Fortunately, Gurgle had another moment of inspiration (the last of which was making an enormous explosion, so I’m On Board), saw what I was trying to do, and was able to talk with them On Their Level.

“You know what I heard,”  he tells them very seriously.  “I heard there’s halflings in the mountains, and they have gold.  PILES of gold.  They’re pilgrims, so they take the gold up to their gods, and they just leave them there!”

“Really?”  the troll is intrigued, but wary.  “But the bridge is right here.  Why should we leave the bridge?”

“Think about it,” says Gurgle.  “Not everybody uses bridges.  Bridges are ok, but even people who have never used a bridge can name two, even three gods!  And people give gold to gods.  Look at me!  I don’t have any gold, because I gave it all to the gods!”  The troll finds this to be a very compelling argument.  “Besides, you can just eat the halflings, too!  It’s not like it’ll be hard to kill them, they’re all small and squishy.”  At this point, I voluntarily roll a will save to keep my mouth shut.  Fortunately for us all, I succeed.  “Good cooks, too - they always have good food.  Here, look!”  I’m ready for this, because I see where he’s going with this, and I produce a bucket of ogre slop I’ve been carrying around in case it comes in handy.  Whaddaya know, it did!  

The trolls LOVE the ogre slop, and they think Gurgle is talking good sense.  They are convinced.  They set off north to the halflings in the mountains.  The path to which runs directly through the town we just came from.  Crap.  I ride on ahead as fast as I can like a demented Paul Revere to warn the town to stay indoors for the next little while.

“But why?”  One man asked.  “You said you were going to kill all the trolls, right?”  

“We’re solving your troll problem”  I reply tersly.  “So the trolls are all dead?”

“WE ARE MAKING THEM GO AWAY NOW PLEASE GO INSIDE.”  I am out of time.  I roll Diplomacy, and crit.  They go inside.  A few minutes later, a parade of trolls trundles through the town, off (unknowingly) to do battle with giants.  What will happen if any of them survive the giants and decide to start eating halflings and looking for gold?  I guess we’ll figure that out when we get to it.  

HEROES OF LEGEND

[cassandrapentayaaaaas]

Male Trevelyan Compilation (with backstories)

*whips out the wallet which I keep specifically for pictures of my fictional children* good afternoon I have so much to say about my babies

(also- if y'all ever want to share your inquisitors with me like literally at any point ever my sub and ask boxes are always open for cute BioWare-rendered faces <3). These are characters we’ve poured time and effort into, and they are absolutely worth sharing.

Benjamin (Ben) Trevelyan: 30/Warrior/Non-Beliver/Bisexual/Pro-Templar (he’s the newest baby) 

Ben’s motto is “do it now, ask questions later.” Honestly, he’s a lot like Cassandra, minus the whole “devoted to the Maker” thing. He believes firmly in “right” and “wrong,” but he’s willing to learn. If he looks tired, it’s because he is. He didn’t want this job; he was at the Conclave to escort some of the mages who made up a distant part of his family, and now they’re all gone.

He’s built like a monster truck -Varric calls him “Muscles”- he can give Bull a run for his money where drinking is concerned, and really just wants to go home to Ostwick where his family, fiancée, and mabari are (there’s no way he’s uprooting them to bring them to Skyhold). He’s not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but his gut feelings are almost always right. He’s learned to go with it. He’s strikingly kind and loves very deeply. He’s a good man.

Friedrich (Fritz) Trevelyan: 38/Rogue/Questioning Belief/Gray-Asexual/Pro-Mage (I definitely have a crush on this hairy man)

Fritz used to be a Chantry scholar and historian (imagine Bram Kenric, but but less about the Inquisition and more about holy relics, texts, and figures). He’s also studied the history of magic. He was excellent at his job and he’s terribly intelligent, but he flaunts neither of those factors. He’s truly a very quiet man, until you come to him with a question or a topic to discuss. When you do, he’s wonderfully patient, attentive, and never condescending -three of the many factors that make him Dorian’s favorite pal. (He’s also my first inquisitor to personally drink from the Well of Sorrows ‘cause he’s a big ‘ole nerd that wants to know everything).

Varric calls him “Doc,” because of his former profession, and to be honest, he wasn’t much of a fighter until the world called on him to become its leader. In fact, he’d never even picked up an object with the intention of making it weapon until he was 24; someone broke into his rooms at the university to steal an artifact he was examining and they were ready to kill him for it. He fought back with a letter opener, and won. 

About 5 years after that incident, he fell in love with a very sweet chantry sister. She fell ill very suddenly, and the local mother opted for prayer over a healer. It didn’t end well for Fritz’s girl, and he felt utterly betrayed by the Maker. He lost his faith for quite a while afterwards, but Cassandra has done a good job of reminding him why he believed in the first place. 

Fritz’s sexuality is really hard to pin down, but he finds he’s most comfortable identifying as gray-a. He’s pretty head-over-heals for the Seeker. She’s really fond of him, too, but they haven’t quite gotten around to discussing where things are going. Their flirting is the shy, gentle, complementary type, and it makes my heart happy just thinking about it.

Dennon Trevelyan: 34/Rogue/Andrastian/Bisexual/Undecided

Dennon (or “Stubble,” if you’re Varric and can get away with it) is a hard man. He’s the middle Trevelyan boy (out of three), and he’s always had to fight for what he’s been given. He’s not an intentionally cruel person, he just genuinely doesn't think feelings are a thing that should be taken into consideration when conducting business, and his business is now the Inquisition. 

While his directness (or bluntness, if you prefer) has made him rather popular with Cassandra, Cullen, and Vivienne, it’s made keeping alliances a risky business. Josephine has spent many hours attempting to help him navigate the art of subtlety, and every time she winces at his sharper edges, it dulls him down a little more... and to be honest, he’s liking the results (and Josie) a lot.

Maddox Trevelyan: 28/Mage/Agnostic/Homosexual/Pro-Mage

Maddox is constantly on the move. This is his first time out of the Circle, and he’ll be damned before he’ll waste it on idleness. He knows what duty is -the number of responsibilities they heaped upon mages in the Circle taught him that- and the members of the Inquisition are constantly amazed at how he’s able to fulfill all of his duties to the utmost, with time left over to explore.

Honestly, Maddox is an adventurer. There’s nothing he likes better than the rush of seeing or doing something new. If he’s not scaling a mountain, he’s diving head-first into the Waking Sea, or considering joining an Avvar hold. Dorian has done wonders to keep him grounded, when need be; Maddox is a dreamer and his amatus, on the other hand, is a dreamy pragmatist. ;)

Maddox (or Blue Eyes, as Varric calls him) is entirely anti-circle, but he’s still somehow managed to win Vivienne over. In fact, there’s no one within the inner circle who isn’t utterly pleased when he’s around. He’s simply a contagious personality, and he is deeply loved.

Abelard (Abe) Trevelyan 42/Rogue/Andrastian/Heterosexual/Undecided (I’m almost as in love with him as I am with Cassandra)

Abe looks like the kind of guy who would beat the snot out of you for looking at him funny, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Varric has even nicknamed him “Grizzly” just for the irony of the implication. He’s wickedly intelligent and he’s the biggest, softest teddy bear this side of Lake Calenhad. He just doesn’t smile much, anymore.

He lost his wife and daughter about two years before the Inquisition began, and he’s still trying to work through it. He’d turned his back on the Trevelyan family’s money to marry a girl who was below his station. They needed cash, so he had to work. He became part of a crew that was sent to ransom and return captives and slaves taken from the Marches and Ferelden to Tevinter, mostly. While he was away on a mission, raiders sacked his tiny village and killed everyone who looked too weak to turn a profit in the slave market. That meant most of the populace, since two harvests in a row had failed and most people were malnourished.

He’s a quiet man, but his actions speak very loudly. He’ll do anything for anyone, so long as he knows them to be good, and it took the inquisition two extra weeks to get out of the Hinterlands because Abe couldn’t leave the refugees “like this.” He even helped to design and construct the area’s first school house, which now bears his family’s name -a fact he will no doubt blush at, if you mention it.

He really likes Cassandra, and she really likes him, but they’re both grieving (Regalyan’s loss is still fresh). For now, the find comfort in their friendship. Neither one wants to push while they’re unready. She is the one who gets him to smile the most often, though.

Peter Trevelyan 22/Mage/Questioning Belief/Pansexual/Pro-Templar

Peter is usually a little shit, and that’s why I love him. He’s always pulling someone’s leg, and Sera often comes to him for prank ideas –though he never lets her pull one off without him at her side. He’s terribly sweet, and his brand of humor permeates nearly every sentence he speaks. He may be a prankster and an utter clown, but he’s wonderfully fierce and has this innate need to protect everyone.

Before his magic manifested, he wanted to become a Templar. Once he discovered he was a mage, he had to battle a lot of self-loathing as well as some serious self doubt. He saw his magic as a flaw and a weakness, and he clung to his idols, the Templars, upon arrival at the Circle (he was only 12 and they just took him away from everything he knew and loved someone please give my poor baby a hug D,:). He sees the value of the Circle because that’s where he was trained to master the parts of himself he came to hate and fear most. It’s been a slow road to go, but in being around apostates and liberated mages like Dorian, Morrigan, and Solas, he’s learning to see mages (including himself) as people and not as wrong, ill-formed things.

He copes with his own insecurities through self-deprecation and near constant levity. He’s still consistently unsure of himself, and his opinion of his own worth is still relatively low, but his dedication to bettering himself and the world around him is admired by all. Honestly, he’s so good to everyone. I love this boy so much.

Michael Trevelyan 26/Mage/Passively Andrastian/Bisexual/Pro-Vivienne-Style-Mage(so... Pro-Templar?)

Right now, Michael is an asshole, but I love getting to know him. He’s the only son of Bann Trevelyan’s four children, and even though he’s a mage, he’ll inherit the better part of his parent’s estate. He’s been treated like a prince since he was born, and it’s made him horribly self-serving. He thinks he’s the cream of the crop, and advice is the one thing he never takes. But, underneath his haughty exterior lies a true idealist with an amazing work ethic.

His air of superiority often leads people to assume he’s lazy. In actuality, he’s amazing at spotting potential and talent in others, which makes him skilled in delegation. He also does his own work at breakneck speeds. Michael won’t tolerate being hindered in the process of achieving his goals by anyone or anything, and he always does whatever is necessary to see that his ends met.

He hasn’t made many friends in the Inquisition, so far, but he hasn’t even gotten out of Haven yet, so we’ll see. Honestly, he’s not currently someone I’d want to spend much time with, but he’s quite handsome, and I want to see his character develop.

Caleb Trevelyan 15/Warrior(Mage)/Questioning Belief/Heterosexual/Undecided

This is my favorite child, and the first Inquisitor who I actually spent time crafting a personality for. I don’t want to get too into his backstory, because he is a large part of a fic which I wILL DEFINITELY WRITE SOMEDAY WHEN I HAVE TALENT TO DO IT JUSTICE. But he is so incredibly driven. He has such a desire for justice, and he learns like it’s no one’s business.

Everyone loves this kid, but he’s got such a self-sacrificial nature that they all have to stay a little more on their guard with him than any normal warrior, because he will literally bury himself in enemies to keep his friends safe. He has so much potential, and everyone is happy to help him reach it in whatever way they can. Ugh. He’s such a little cutie.

[ecotone99]

Humor [HM] Fantasy [FN] Cadorna Keep Chapter 2 - A Dnd GameLit

Chapter 2 - Tracy Gets a New Spell

The sky was dark blue and the sun hot and cheerful. White fluffy clouds grazed deeply upon the horizon, looking so much like the snowy mountain caps upon which the giants were reported to dwell. The breeze was light, pleasant, and constant.

The party, though, well contrasted against the happy day around them. The ship’s crew busily avoided them as they worked the lines and wheel, keeping their vessel, Sir Boaty McBoatface, on path and on time.

Seriously? The vague voice of one of the Gamers asked.

A vague and authoritative murmur dismissed the question in the distance. The party refocused on each other and the task at hand.

“There was nothing left of them when we came back to pick them up. Balls!” Bern moaned, looking off a bit into the distance. There better be a hoard of treasure when we get there, he contemplated, dark thoughts stretching out like daggers back to when they got owned.

Carric the bard smiled, though, and strummed his lute.

“It could be bad. It could be horrible! But we’ve done bad and horrible. Remember when we were first level nothings and we saved the world?”

“Yeah!” Yenrab the barbarian piped in. “We saved our world! Ya know, this is gonna be a breeze compared to that. At least it isn’t a god or the king of the fairies or anything like that this time, right?”

Wex coughed, the mask of his god Mask glinting hard in the sunlight of the dark blue sky.

“As far as we know, bro, it’s both,” Wex noted. The group fell silent. About them bustled the boat folk, eager to drop off this party of five onto the monster-infested island keep before them and then be off.”

“Hey!” Yenrab said, rising with his own grin to replace the one that Carric had lost. “I have an idea. Back in the tribe when times were hard and morale was low we’d, well, you know, we’d sing songs.”

“What kind of songs?” Tracy asked with sudden interest. “Back in the Freemeet we’d sing songs too. But not just when we were sad. When we were happy too. And when we were angry. Or hungry. Or, like, when the moon was rising into the sky and it was night and -”

Bern Sandros put a hand to his temples, rubbing them as anger clouded his vision.

“Tracy?!” the man asked.

“Yes Bern?”

“That’s enough about songs, mate. It’s not gonna happen,” the cantankerous assassin grunted, his face dark and distant.

Tracy nodded and took two steps back.

Oh no his mind warned.

“Laaaaaaaaa -” Tracy began.

“Tracy!” Bern shouted.

“Laaaaaaaaa -”

“Don’t you dare -”

“Let’s build a snowman! We can give him lots of arms-”

“Gaaah!” Bern loudly grumped as Tracy sang a merry tune. Wex laughed and Bern gave him an angry look. The cleric, though, simply shrugged. Then he weaved some sort of orangish gold field about himself, divine threads radiating to his fingers from the eye holes of his mask. It flared as it finished and then it finished. Wex put his arms behind his head and relaxed, sighing without sound.

Carric also shrugged and began to play accompaniment to Tracy, whose sorcerer’s robes were at this point swinging and sighing back and forth in rhythm, glimmering and shimmering in chaotic swirls and whorls in the rainbow robes of his craft. Yenrab nodded, an enormous grin occupying his face, and then he moved over and sat down next to the grumpy assassin. Bern gave the man a look over, his face rigid as he wondered what sort of conversation was about to be pushed his way.

“So what’s up, Bern?” the big half-orc asked his friend. “We’ve faced bad odds before and, well, think about how many of those, uhm, experience points that the Gamers use we’ll get a hold of. Maybe we can even level up before the next session! It can’t be that you’re scared, ya know, because I’ve seen you swinging through the air from three stories to try and kill the big baddy. You’ve got what Granny always told me was gumption. She used to drain that from the animals she caught before she ate them.”

“She ate them raw, right? Every time you talk about your grandma it is disgusting,” the human said, the shadow of a smile creeping over him.

“You got that right. Ya know, she said it didn’t taste quite right if it didn’t squeal. But I’m just wondering what is on your mind. We’re friends, hey, we can talk.”

“It’s just that we really got bested by the general back there. And it made me think - when can us little guys be the besters instead of the bestees? Are we just rolling around from mission to mission, adventure to adventure, making ends meet? Are we saving up for a better tomorrow? Mate, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Yenrab sighed. He was younger than them all and yet, often, he had the clearest head. He maybe wasn’t the wisest adventurer, but perhaps he had the best philosophies on life.

“Bern, you know, all we can do now is rise. And we’ve been rising. That party, Some Other Guys, they were the best around. They thought that nobody was gonna keep them down. Think about that. The best, around. Ya know, I bet they fought till the end, staying proud, staring out to the clouds, when the odds in the game finally defied them. And now that’s us. But we aren’t like that. We aren’t like some strange heroic montage that’ll get murdered the moment the Gamers lose interest. We’re going to get somewhere in life. We’ve got skills. We’ve got plans. We’ve got strategy -”

“You’ve got Tracy,” the sorceress interrupted, her song finished. The air sparkled with magical cantrips about her as she attempted to emphasize the moment.

“Carric too!” the bard added, smirking in that odd way that showed he knew he was caught in some lame after-school special type moment and he was just making the best that he could of it.

Wex began snoring, his holy spell of silence finally at an end. It was a rough and guttural sound that snapped him back to wakefulness.

“You guys done singing,” he asked, his words groggy and slow.

“Yeah,” Tracy smiled. “It was wonderful and you missed all of it.”

“Good,” Wex yawned.

“I’m going to get somewhere for sure guys,” Carric Smith informed them as a catch of spray blasted over them, smooth and cool. A drop of lake water dripped down from a pointed ear. “Remember that orphanage in Torus Strade? I bought the place. And that’s where I’m going to retire.”

“Yeah. Life in a small village doesn’t sound so bad,” Bern Sandros grinned, nodding at the idea. “But really, if I can, I just want to help all of my mates out back home. You know, some of them deserve to be out there on the streets, but not all of them. Maybe I’ll make a guild and get them some good paying and honest work.”

“Honest?” Tracy asked, one eyebrow arched in inquisition.

“Mostly honest then,” he chuckled. “Alright, yeah, we coulda shoulda woulda asked for more my friends but, hey, one day it’ll be us that some new adventurers are whinging on about, right?”

“Absolutely. I can’t wait to be grand poombah, chocka full magic and with acolytes running around doing all of my stuff for me,” Wex daydreamed aloud. “But I’m going to take quests in a new direction. Can you imagine all the things you can do with a, as the Gamers say it, first level party under your command? Welcome adventurers to your first quest, I’ll say. You must travel to the market and obtain the lamb of sustenance using naught but your adventuring skills and the coins in your pocket.”

“Haha that is top kek, mate,” Bern threw to him. The elf beamed back.

“I’d make my adventurers give Yenrab a bath,” Carric smirked.

“I will never ever allow myself to smell as I did in Torus Strade,” the half-orc barbarian stated as he failed to suppress a shudder. “I had to roll around in muck for days even after the damnation bound curse was lifted.”

“Well, mates, we’ve got some time before we get there,” Bern Sandros said, standing up to face them. “I for one can use some zeds. Rest up and pick your spells, right Yenrab?”

“Yeah,” Yenrab agreed. “Sounds like a heck of a plan.”For the rest of the voyage they napped, dreaming pleasant dreams of handing off all of the crap jobs to lower level nobodies, and perhaps not having to hear or deal with the grief of the Gamers any longer. All except Tracy, who dreamed of going bald and shining his head with the wax of the babaturt, its prized excretions found only in the lands of the Freemeet.

***

“‘Ips up and arms out ‘venturemen, we’ll be back dis time in da morrow, ya ken?” one of the sailors, hairy like a bear and missing more than a few teeth, spat at them in a friendly attempt at conversation.

“Ew,” responded Tracy, now a man since his male id had taken over. He wiped the saliva off of his face and tasted it.

“I ain’t kenna da gurl t’ing do,” the sailor continued. His accented Common sounded Frostmountian. If so he was a long way from home.

Dice clattered in the air, unheard by any but the party.

“Ah, it took me a bit to get that,” Carric informed the man, a 17 blazing in his head. “See here, let me explain. Tracy is anointed by his god Coraellon. Not one of the native gods but one of the foreign gods. And this god, well, he can give elves and half-elves his mark. If they have that mark they change genders every now again. And, well, I don’t know if maybe Tracy here is extra-marked or something, but he’s got three of him inside that noggin of his and they just kinda take turns driving.”

“Huh,” answered the sailor, shaking his head in wonder. “‘Da gods and dere miracles.”

“He’s got that right,” Yenrab smirked, stretching out as they piled out of the small craft onto the thin strip of beach at the entrance to the keep.

It certainly was something to see, Cadorna Keep. It wasn’t large but it was tactical. Its outer walls had been built right up to the edge of the shoreline on every side but this one, with its walls slanted in to out in order to make scaling and climbing a very difficult task indeed. Certain magical fields kept the dirt from eroding, making the structure a multi-generational facet to a new and needful republic, and thick stone blocks lay within its shallow depths, driven through with rusted iron rings through which to moor visiting craft.

The only place upon which anyone could land soldiers was this thin strip of beach, also buttressed against erosion, at the front gate of the entire structure. Maybe a few dozen soldiers, tops, had the room to assemble and fight effectively upon this sandy and rocky terrain, upon which a few straggly, leave-less and thin wooden plants also lived. It looked like an assaulters’ nightmare. Or a defenders’ paradise.

The party rechecked their gear, looking about to make sure nothing was missing. Then they bid good-bye to the transport crew, who good-lucked them back as they left, shoving off hard from the sandy embankment.

“Well, bros and brahs, this is it. All on our own. In a place that is haunted. And a cleric that, get this, can finally turn! Buzzow!” Wex exclaimed, taking off his mask and doing a a tight little jig.

“Hey man, congratulations!” Bern said, slapping him on the back. “You mentioned that before, mate. How did that happen?”

“Ah, well, as far as I can tell my Gamer was whining about something and the Chief Gamer gave in and boom, I just felt wiser and more powerful.”

“I wish my Gamer was a whiny whiner,” Carric complained. “I’ve heard whispers from above that when I get to high enough level I can cast fireball!”

“Hold up, hold up,” Yenrab interrupted. “Hi, ya know, Yenrab the half-orc barbarian here, what exactly is this stuff? What is turning and what is fireball?”

Tracy held up his hand. Yenrab tried to ignore him. Tracy waved his hand and began to jump up and down. The rest of the party giggled, staying mum.

“Oh for the sakes of the gods. Yes, Tracy?” Yenrab groaned, though a hint of humor danced about his cheeks.

“Turning is when a cleric or priest of someone with god-bestowed power tries to use the god-bestowed power. What one can do with it and how many times they can do it depends on the god. A good god usually devotes a lot of energy to turning the undead, scaring them off or even destroying their essence. The neutral gods like Mask are kinda hit or miss on what they do and how often. And the evil gods, well they tend to try to use their energy to control or to recruit the undead.”

Yenrab looked at Wex for confirmation. Wex nodded, looking quite impressed.

“Alright, that was pretty good Tracy,” the barbarian complimented him. “So, now, what is this other thing. Fireball? A ball of fire?”

“Not exactly. It’s more like, well, let me show you,” the sorcerer said, turning and chanting. All eyes were upon him as he blasted a group of reedy plants, exploding them into every direction simultaneously. Other plants nearby began to creep away from the blaze.

Bern Sandros whistled. Wex clapped. Carric murmured something about having to choose a different spell.

“That’s incredible!” Yenrab beamed. “I’ll admit, I was a little worried about this challenge, but with that in our weapons rack I’m not worried at all! How many times can you do that Tracy?”

“Once per eight hour rest,” the half-elf sorcerer beamed back. “I can’t do it anymore until I’ve slept a long time,” he explained further, still smiling as Yenrab’s face dropped and paled, green turning to light, almost white green.

“Gods alive,” the half-human half-orc moaned. “We’re all doomed.”

Chapter 1 = https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/edngy6/humor_hm_fantasy_fn_cadorna_keep_chapter_1_a_dnd/

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