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inquisimer · 2 years

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Dalish Week: Arlathvhen

Very excited to kick off Dalish Week and a big thank you to the mods who put this event together!! You’re awesome, lovely people and I’ve had a lot of fun musing about the prompts and exploring rabbit holes about the clans in my stories🥰🥰

For day one, I submit a snippet of reunion between Merrill and Neria, post-Trespasser, discussing some logistics and anxieties about the upcoming Arlathvhen.

@dalish-appreciation-week

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A gentle breeze drifted through the Inquisitor’s bay window, warmed by Skyhold’s weather enchantments and carrying the faint smell of new blooms. It stirred Neria’s hair across her eyes and her frustration spiked. The leather straps she was trying to fasten gave her enough trouble when she could see them—now they inevitably slipped her grasp and fluttered loose. Again.

Across the room, Merrill’s oblivious chatter continued uninterrupted. Neatly organized stacks of parchment filled Neria’s desk and a quill occupied her friend’s hand, tracing out a campsite guide for the upcoming Arlathvhen. Neria caught only snippets of Merrill’s dialogue in her peripheral—something about making sure Clan Ghilain stayed at least two sites apart from Clan Oranavra and establishing civility between the Firsts from the start. She clenched her jaw and fumbled for the straps again, to no avail. It simply wasn’t a task meant to be done one-handed and her stump of a left arm stubbornly refused her efforts at control.

To her shame and embarrassment, a frustrated huff slipped out between her teeth.

Lithe hands replaced hers at once—she hadn’t even noticed Merrill cross to the bed, but her friend tucked the loose strands of Neria’s hair behind her pointed ears and set to braiding the straps. Her fingers wove a far more intricate plait than the basic knot Neria failed to achieve. Defeated, she wilted like a parched lotus.

“Time and patience make the elfroot a silk gown, falon,” Merrill chirped lightly. She let the newly fastened straps dangle at Neria’s side and tugged her braid playfully.

Neria frowned. “I’ve given it time, salgehsa. Time, and rest, and healing—but the world will not wait for my brain to figure out it’s missing an arm. Turmoil in the Wardens, fallout from the Breach everywhere, and Solas—“

She tripped over her friend’s name and bit her tongue, hard, to push back the hot lump of tears in her throat. “Solas could decide that this world’s time ends at any moment. How long is this” —she clumsily jerked her left shoulder forward— “going to take?”

“As long as it takes,” said Merrill firmly. She returned to the desk, flipping through a stack of half-sheets. “How long did it take you to learn how to use two arms?”

“What?”

“Well that’s your only point of comparison, unless you plan on hunting down another amputee and asking them. So however long it took you to learn how to use two arms, expect this to take that long. Longer, if you count that you have to unlearn the two-handed way and replace it with the one-handed way in your head.”

She paused and tilted her head, glancing back over her shoulder. “Does that make sense?”

“I think so?” Neria rubbed her remaining hand over her eyes and when she opened them once more an apologetic smile curled her lips. “Ir abelas, Merrill. You were saying something, before?”

“Oh yes, the campsites—the trouble is, Ghilain and Oranavra have both written that they’re bringing more aravels than anyone else and the hunters who scouted the site say we’d have to put them next to each other…”

Neria half-listened, nodding and humming in the right places even as her attention drifted. She needed a meeting with Leliana, perhaps once Josephine’s latest fleet run returned. Cassandra wanted to discuss the new Seekers’ progress. And she owed Cullen’s clinic a proper check-in—he assured her the mages there thrived, wholly empowered and respected, but she’d be restless until she saw for herself.

At some point, Merrill’s train of thought switched from logistics to something more interesting, but Neria’s half-focused mind didn’t catch it. Merrill eventually cottoned on to the neutrality of her responses and she cocked her head, brow furrowed as she trailed off. In the ensuing silence, Neria’s attention finally snapped back to her friend, an apology already on her lips.

“Aren’t you excited for the Arlathvhen, lethallan?” Merrill asked.

“Oh, I—.” Neria caught her lip between her teeth. Exasperation hovered on the tip of her tongue, but Merrill looked so genuinely puzzled, Neria couldn’t doubt her. It seemed obvious to her and she’d rather thought Merrill, of all her friends, wouldn’t need an explanation. “I’m thrilled for you, salgehsa. And the clans. It’s overdue and sorely needed. But…I won’t be going. You know that, right?”

“No, I don’t know that. And neither do you. Why on earth wouldn’t you be going?”

“Do you want the short list or the long one?”

“You have lists? Oh, Mythal.” Merrill pursed her lips. “Wait just one moment.”

She neatly straightened the paper she’d been shuffling and returned it to the desk. A snap of her fingers stoked the dying fire and she dragged a few soft furs from the basket at the foot of the bed to form a comfortable nest before the hearth. She sat cross-legged and looked pointedly at the space in front of her until Neria joined her.

“Now,” Merrill tilted her head, looking quite like an expectant puppy. “Tell me these reasons you have and we’ll see if they have any merit.”

“Right,” muttered Neria, sliding her fingers through the silky fur and picking at a matted patch. She tucked her bare feet under her legs and bit the inside of her cheek.

“Well start with the obvious—just a handful of years ago I wouldn’t even be invited to the Arlathvhen. I’m not fundamentally different than I was then and yet somehow a few scant years with Clan Lavellan and ink on my face qualifies me? It feels like obligatory pandering, at best.”

“And even when I was with the clan I never adopted their beliefs, or any form of Dalish religion at all. I don’t think I can even properly be called Dalish without that? And especially now, with everything that we learned at the Exalted Council, from Solas? How can I look all those people in the eye and tell them their last hope for their culture is built on a lie?”

“I’ve lived most of my life among humans—how will the more isolated clans see that? And—“ Neria tried to swallow, but her throat had dried in an instant. She coughed against closed lips. “And I’m married, but my husband and our relationship would be a blacklisted topic, because I know there are clans who frown on relations with shems. Even though Cullen loves all of me—because of, not despite the pointed ears and tattoos.”

“At best, I’m going as some half-hearted representative of an organization that doesn’t exist anymore,” she finished, sagging like a deflated balloon. “So I might as well just stay away.”

Merrill considered her for a moment, then nodded. For half a beat, a shocked Neria almost believed that this wouldn’t be any kind of debate. Then—

“Right, well. If those are your reasons for not going, then I suppose I won’t be going either.”

“What?” Neria nearly choked on the word. Her ears twitched forward in disbelief. “How do you figure that?”

Merrill held up a hand, lifting a finger with each reason she ticked off. “I haven’t lived with my clan full-time in over a decade—I’ve been in Kirkwall or off with Hawke or traveling through shem cities. And even the last time I was seeing my clan on a semi-regular basis, those aren’t good memories on either side and we definitely didn’t part on a speaking basis. Nearly getting them killed is probably worse than not having a clan—which you do, by the way, but I’ll get to that.”

“If we want to talk about relationships—I might not be married, but Carver is about as shem as they come, lethallin.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes sparkled with fondness. “And you know I’ll be talking about him, not in the least because I’m sure they’ve all read Varric’s books and are dying to know what’s true. You’re right, some clans are isolationist and strict—but the Arlathvhen isn’t dictated by them. It’s a notorious gossip mill and our relationships far outweigh their opinions in that regard, unfortunately.”

That brought a strained chuckle to Neria’s lips.

“And you—“ Merrill jabbed a finger toward Neria’s chest— “better hope I don’t send a letter off to Mahanon. You know how well he’d take this self-flagellation you have going on—and discounting your time with the clan? Oh, he’d have a field day with that. On second thought, maybe I should—“

“Don’t you dare. I’ll tell Harding not to let you use any of the ravens, if I have to.”

“I won’t, I won’t.” The mischief in Merrill’s eyes melted into something more serious. “But—if it would ease your worries—“

“No.” Neria shook her head firmly. “The clan…I don’t want to put them in an awkward position. They have their actual First back and I don’t want them to feel some sort of unfounded obligation to send an affirmation they don’t mean.”

“It’s hardly unfounded, lethallin,” Merrill pointed out. “Even before you found your clan—you did a Long Walk of your own, in a fashion. Escaping the Circle, surviving Kirkwall, it’s different than our history of course, but most Dalish don’t get closer than words and tales”

“And of course you spent two years and change as their First proper. That’s not a short time, falon, and they won’t discount it. Plus all the work you did to help in Wycome—you saved their lives—“

“—which wouldn’t have been in danger if not for me—“

“And you saved Ellana,” Merrill continued as if Neria hadn’t spoken. “Your Seeker found the Cure and you helped her develop and test it safely and you brought Ellana truly back to all of us.”

“Anyone would have done the same,” Neria said quietly. The remnants of guilt surrounding Ellana’s ordeal still coiled like a snake ready to strike in her gut. Even now—saved, Merrill said, but there were outbursts and the occasional lack of control and she would never be the same.

“Anyone didn’t. You did. But that makes it sound like you’re earning a place and that wasn’t my point. You’ve always had a place.”

Something like shame shadowed Merrill’s face and she frowned. “It’s different when you’re raised in a clan, because everyone believes the same things and you feed agreement off each other. We tell our children: ‘they forgot Andraste called Shartan brother.’ But most Dalish have forgotten that Shartan called her sister in return.”

“When I moved to the alienage, and with all our rebuilding efforts across Ferelden and the Marches, I realized something I never would have if I stayed with my clan—if the Dalish want to preserve the People’s culture, maybe we should start with remembering who the People are.”

“Even with the Dread Wolf’s recruitment, there are so many elves left in cities or with the College, many with human lovers. But it will be harder for them to walk up and say ‘let me in’ than it will be for you to walk in, invited, and set a new precedent.”

Merrill encased Neria’s hand in both of hers and squeezed sympathetically. “You are right, lethallin, but you are also wrong. There will be people who spurn you for your history and your choices—but if they never face their hypocrisy, they will never learn. It is not a reason to stay away altogether.”

Her reassurance didn’t ease the knot of anxiety in Neria’s chest, not really. But it hollowed out the worries creeping up her throat and gave her concern room to breathe. She ran her tongue over her teeth and one of her ears twitched flat against her head.

“But what about…y’know. I’m not even sure—should we even tell them? How could we possibly? But how could we not? Maker next time I see Solas I’m going to wring his stupid neck.”

“I’ll help,” Merrill agreed. “Your hands are too small to do it alone, anyhow.”

This time, Neria’s laugh was genuine. Some of the stress melted from her shoulders in the way only Merrill could make it and she rolled onto her side, laying her head in her friend’s lap.

Calloused fingertips pressed against the shaved hair around Neria’s ears and cool healing magic seeped into her temple, easing a headache she hadn’t even registered yet.

“Ma serannas,” she murmured. Her eyes drifted shut as Merrill continued to rub soft circles against her skin.

“It will be…difficult, of course. But the Arlathvhen is for sharing information and lore—to keep it alive. To compare what one clan has found with the others and find the cross-section of truth. That’s what they’ve always taught.”

She paused. “Well, that, and reconnecting and switching mages and celebrating. Oh, and so much delicious food, the hand pies and soups and—“

Neria coughed.

“—and that’s not relevant here.” Merrill grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I was going to say, we should hold them to that claim. If we’re going to share and preserve our history, we can’t sanitize it to our liking. We have to take the bad truth and reclaim it for a better future.”

“You make it sound so simple.” Neria reluctantly opened her eyes, feeling very much like a cat as she curled her toes in the fire-warmed fur and blinked blearily up at Merrill. “But I don’t even know how we would start that conversation.”

“‘Oh dhea, lethallen, your entire religion and history is built on a lie?’”

“If that’s your plan, definitely count me out.” Neria snorted. “I’d rather tell Josie and Cullen we’re at war with the Qun again.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Merrill declared, clapping her hands firmly about Neria’s shoulders. “But we’ll never even get to that discussion if they can’t park their aravels.”

She pushed Neria back to sitting and shoved her lightly toward the desk. “I’ll make tea—you look over those seating charts and either find a different arrangement or come up with a plan to make Ghilain and Oranavra play nice.”

“Yes, serrah.” Neria snapped a lazy salute and set to a familiar pattern of scouring for common ground—the starting point of all compromise.

Compromise.

Maybe Merrill was right, she mused, cautiously cupping metaphorical hands about the timid spark of hope in her chest. Maybe the insurmountable was more approachable than she’d thought.

#dalish week #dalish week 2022 #dragon age fanfic #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #oc: neria surana lavellan #merrill dragon age #neria & merrill #arlathvhen #dalish elves #post trespasser #I really love them together how am I just now realizing this uwu #my writing #surana lavellan au

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untilthcyrot · 8 months

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that's amore!! valentine's day symbols. | 💋 to kiss my muse ( from cassimolar to neria ) from @fortitudina

The taste of his lips reminded her of home; it was unexplainable really but she was sure it was because it had something to do with the both of them being from Hell. No, no, it wasn't a taste of ash and brimstone but something else entirely that she couldn't put her finger on. The hairs on the back of her neck did stand up on end though, and she parted her lips as his own came crashing down against hers, savoring the feeling of lips that burned hot and yet didn't cause her any discomfort. It had been a long time since indulging in an act of intimacy, even as something as innocent as a kiss between two Hell spawns. After lingering for a few moments, kissing him back, she broke away and looked up into his dark eyes. ❝ I've been waiting for that for a long time. ❞

#fortitudina #♡ ───── NERIA ( MEME REPLIES )

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asharinhun · 2 years

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DWC Day 6 - Home

Ironforge was never silent, with the great forge always in motion and the clanking of the many dwarven smithies echoing in the belly of the mountain. It was one of the reasons Neria loved this place so much. Her hands didn't stop working nor did she lose focus despite her mind wandering, the sound of her own hammer striking metal adding to the beautiful cacophony.

The different metals and minerals were all gifts of the earth, and her affinity for working them was not surprising, given that she was a black dragon... wearing a human disguise in the capital of the dwarves. She always thought that she couldn't stop from standing out, then might as well give it a reason that's not her true nature. Still, she had a lot to learn from the locals, and learn she did. Now she was just one of the many smiths.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Nerah. Is this the right place?" A voice coming from the entrance of her workshop rudely interrupted the smith. She suppressed an annoyed growl and turned to the newcomer.

"It's me, but the shop's closed for the day, but if ye want to commission me, don't even bother to come back on the morrow. Am swamped for the next month or so." She replied grumpily, taking her time to look over the supposed customer. 'Bronze skin, light-blonde hair and garbs fitting for a deser-dweller. Unusual.' Neria mused inside, but the other's ice-blue eyes gave her chills for some reason.

Still, no reason to judge a book by its cover, her own looks were just as 'unique', with the whole left side of her body decorated by one giant burn. She couldn't hide the scars even while wearing her 'visage', so this disgusie was no different. 'Another lesson I've learned from...' Such thoughs always made her bitter, but her expression didn't change at all from the beginning.

"Now, now, is that how you greet one of your kin, child of Sabellian?" The other woman asked with a teasing tone, chuckling.

Neria froze, eyes wide, even if an eyepatch hid the left one from view without hindering her own sight. She could have shrugged it off, but her earlier behavior all but confirmed it, so she just growled, her form rippling to reveal her preferred visage.

"What do you want from me, timelizard, and how do you know who am I?!" Now it was easy to guess the identity of the newcomer, especially as the city was suddenly silent, time stopped for all but for the two of them.

"My, my, you're just as rude as I've expected. My name is Zhiadormi, a pleasure. Or would you prefer Zhia, since Nerah must be your name among mortals." The bronze dragon took on her own visage, the only changes were her horns and the scales now visible on her body.

"What do you want?! I won't ask again." Neria hissed, body tense. She didn't wish to fight - to ruin the home she'd built in the past decades even if she had to leave it for the safety of Outland from time to time -, but she would if she had to. The dwarves would rebuild... and she would help them in secret.

"Don't be so hostile. I'm not here to fight... but to convince you to return to the Dragon Isles with me. Surely you must have felt the call to go back home."

Neria actually laughed, a grave sound. "Home? Oh, no. This smithy here is as close to a home as I ever got. Why cave in to a longing only to know you're not welcome? I'm no fool, the deeds of the one called Wrathion didn't escape me. I won't become another crossed-out name on his list." She got angrier as she spoke. "Now that you've found me here, I don't doubt he'll be able too. Thanks for ruining all that." Her gaze was full of molten fury, ready to erupt.

"I swear on my duty to guard and preserve the true timeline that noone else will know you're here, not unless you want them to. There. Is that enough to cool your head off, hotstuff?" Zhia replied, her infuritating smirk unwavering.

Neria didn't have a lot of knowledge of the other flights, but an oath like that was as close to a guarantee as she could force out from a bronze.

"I still don't know why you want me to come to the Isles so badly... but I'm no puppet in anyone's schemes. I've disobeyed Deathwing himself and have the scars to prove it, do you think I'd dance to your tune after that?"

"Seriously, don't be such a spoilsport. If you want I can swear again to prove I have no ill intentions. I'll be honest here: I have a few suspicions and I need help in case things go south, and I don't mean the Incarnates here... and you would be a truly valuable ally. Not just because of being a black dragon, but also for your skill with that hammer. That's all I can say." Zhia finally put her foot down, actually feeling a bit nervous. She needed the black one's help.

Neria fel torn, the honesty in Zhia's words was undeniable, and stroking her ego about her blacksmithing skills didn't make the choice any easier.

"Damn it, you silver-tongued timelizard... Alright, I'll go and see what's all this fuss about the Dragon Isles - and you better fill me in about those Incarwhatevers -, but that place will never be my home, so you'd better find a proper substitute for me here. I can't let the shop go untended or its reputation sullied, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll take care of that. Just one last thing. Before we go back to the Isles, can you repair or make a sword to one of my other allies? Hers broke while doing me a favor."

Neria frowned, but forging a blade wasn't what she expected. "Bring her here then, along with the sword. I'll need to know more before I start... and all the materials and gold are to come from your pocket, got it? My work is not cheap."

"Sure thing, I'll be back shortly." Zhia disappeared with a chuckle and time resumed its normal flow.

"Haaahh... it was naive to think I could stay hidden forever. Might as well stretch my wings and see what will come of this." Neria muttered, alone and once again wearing her disguise. She didn't lie, this smithy was her true home.

@daily-writing-challenge

#novemberdwc2022 #novemberday62022 #Neria #Zhiadormi

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etdraconis · 3 months

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@solstice-muse-collective asked: " “i know this place is hard for people like us... but we're not gonna be here forever.”-from Neria for Oliver "

The words were meant to be comforting, he thought. But Oliver felt it hard to believe Neria's statement. How could she say that they wouldn't be there forever when it was so clear they would? Oliver had already been in the circle for nearly 9 years. Every moment of it had felt like hell for him; he was never meant to be locked up in a tower like this. No one was meant to be locked up like this.

No matter what anyone said, they were trapped here.

"This place is a prison, Neria," Oliver murmured, signing the words as he spoke them. It was easier for him, most days to just sign instead of speaking. Especially when his anxiety grew to such levels that his tongue felt leaden in his mouth. When words felt so foreign to him, and he was so frustrated that if he opened his mouth it would only be to scream. Or cry. But still, he did his best to speak most of the time. He hated having to rely on sign; hated that so few people were able to communicate with him when he couldn't speak.

"I... I swear I'm going to go insane in this tower," he said with a laugh, running his hand through his short curls. "Do you truly think we will ever manage to leave here? The Chantry thinks us mages no better than animals meant to be penned. They will never let us free no matter how much we behave. And people like me who don't behave... well. You've seen the Tranquil. I don't... I don't want to become like that, Ner."

He knew there was fear in his voice as he spoke. And he was afraid. Afraid that not only would he be stuck in Kinloch forever, but that he may become an empty shell like those who worked throughout the tower.

#thread - ( the protector: oliver amell )

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fereldensheroes · 6 months

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@solstice-muse-collective asked:

“ I miss a lot of things , but you have to keep on moving , don’t you ? ” From Neria for Cullen

"Looking back helps nothing." The answer came quietly, but firmly. Perhaps more firmly than he meant it to. He avoided looking back as best he could, but it was always there. Kinloch. Kirkwall. He remembered Neria, of course. He remembered her from Kinloch, remembered presiding over her Harrowing--- the first and only one he participated in, a waiting blade for if she failed. He remembered when they'd last encountered one another. It was a moment of pain and collapse.

He'd told no one of the things he'd experienced within the collapsing Circle... but she knew. She knew better than most. She knew his reaction, as well. How quick he'd been to condemn all mages within Ferelden's Circle just in the off chance one might be a blood mage. Did she blame him for it? For his response? He'd been a teenager, he'd been so young. But then there'd been Kirkwall...

A gloved hand rose, pinching the bridge of his nose a moment, steeling his mind. "It's... best to look towards the future. To improve and safeguard."

#i kinda went off a lil #the commander | main #the commander | threads (solsticemusecollective: neria)#solsticemusecollective

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savingthrcw · 1 year

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@altuspavus

Saying that Neria was in a good mood couldn't capture the way her heart felt so full now that she had been reunited with Leliana. In person, for an undetermined amount of time. It could almost distract her from not having gotten a hold of Alistair yet. She wasn't a fan of being introduced as 'the Hero of Ferelden' to the few people from the Inquisitor's team who were close to the balcony were they were standing, though 'one of my dearest and oldest friends' was nice. And she hadn't seen Cullen face to face yet - now that was gonna be fun. "I'd have you as our guest of honor tonight, but-" "Nah, not before I talk to your new boss myself." "My new-!" Leliana didn't continue her surprised retort and smiled at Neria's smirk, recognizing that she was being messed with. She had changed, Leliana, had gotten darker, quieter, but this was still a thing for them. "I have to make sure we've got our stories straight so I can help with... whatever... that is," she gestured at the inquisitor who was on the floor below, talking to the people there to rally them up and keep them hopeful, "I'm only here as moral support and to stab demons. Also, possibly, never as a guest of honor of anything, thanks?" Still, as the speech quickly got derailed by the curious crowd and touched the Herald of Andraste subject that she had heard about but wanted nothing to do with, Neria wondered if she was joining a cult. She did chuckle eventually, and her voice had a note of hilarity in it: "I am... so uncomfortable right now," she grinned at Leliana, "I regret so many things." "I know you don't even believe in the Maker, but if anyone asks-" "All hail to the Herald, yes, no problem. Still." She gave herself a push away from the railing, "I am going to need all of the alcohol." Leliana quickly turned to the one introduced as Dorian Pavus, whispering something that Neria guessed to be about accompanying her. To keep her out of trouble, probably. Because company had worked so well as a deterrent, ten years ago. "All the alcohol," she repeated to Dorian.

#//i'm not using icons because I only have her real life fc but also PLEASE IGNORE THE LENGTH obviously you can write 2 lines #I had to set up the place (Skyhold. one of those balconies where we find Vivienne I'm guessing and the Inquisitor is talking right below?)#notice all the trouble I went in to not mention the gender of the inquisitor lol #altuspavus #first time at skyhold #muse: neria #show: dao #neria starter;#neria thread;

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solstice-muse-collective · 1 year

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Which muse is the kinkiest?

Well there’s a lot and there isn’t one standing out but it would probably be between Teddy, Claudia, Andreas and possibly Neria but I haven’t written her enough to be sure yet

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roguelioness · 3 years

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[Read on AO3] The tome was a gift from Clan Valrian. Many thanks for your assistance, da’len, the accompanying note had read. I send this to you with gratitude, and with the hope that you will not forget your roots. The unspoken reprimand had stung briefly, but the momentary annoyance had vanished when Neria examined the book. It was a rare manual on shapeshifting. Not the original, no - that would remain in the Keeper’s hands, carefully and jealously guarded - but this was a beautifully rendered copy, the leather on the cover engraved with animals, her name in an elaborate script adorning the very center.

Striding towards the stairs, she checks and double-checks to ensure she’s alone, and that the door leading to her chamber is closed. Satisfied, she retreats to her bed, sitting cross-legged on the matters before cautiously, gingerly opening the cover. She’s heard tales of Keepers with the ability to change into the form of ravens and wildcats - there were tales that the ancestors of her people could even turn into dragons - and though she’s begged Deshanna over and over to teach her the skills, the Keeper had steadfastly refused.

But now, she can teach herself!

The path of the shapeshifter, it begins, is one that crosses the boundary between mage and warrior. It is a way of self-mastery, a means of survival, a trick that allows unpredictability in battle… Her eyes move across the pages, taking in the words and advice, until the fire in the hearth hushes to embers, making it too dark to read. With a groan, she sets aside the book and stretches, feeds more wood into the fireplace before returning to bed, this time to slide beneath the sheets.

To shift is no easy feat, the words echo in her head, one must understand the creature first, to see through its eyes and smell through its nose- she laughs as she burrows deeper into the mattress. I wonder what all those bears in the Hinterlands were thinking, she idly muses as her eyes flutter shut, perhaps all they wanted was a nice conversation. Chuckling, she sighs, the trials of the day catching up to her, pulling her into the Fade.

Her bed feels strangely small. The wood slats creak in an alarming way, the metal hinges groaning as though they’re under great strain. Neria rolls over to her side, yelps as she lands on the ground. It doesn’t hurt, but she instinctively rubs her hip… and freezes when she encounters fur.

What in Mythal’s name… she opens her eyes.

And screams.

Only it isn’t quite a scream, it’s a loud, loud, loud roar, and it has the floor and walls vibrating from the force of it.

This can’t be happening! She stares at her hands. No delicate fingers with calloused tips there, only hairy paws with razored claws. A mournful grunt pours out of her as she turns her head towards the mirror. Sure enough, there’s a bear’s head with a bear’s body, paws suspended mid-air. She tilts her head. The ursine reflection in the mirror does the same.

“Inquisitor? Is everything okay - MAKER’S BREATH!” Cullen immediately pulls out his sword, points it at her. “Inquisitor?” he calls out, keeping a wary eye on her. “Inquisitor, where are you?”

I’m here, she tries to say, but it comes out as a series of snuffles. Sighing irritatedly, she smacks her head; grunts because ouch, that hurt! Seeing Cullen approach her, his stance aggressive, she holds out both paws in a placating, easy there gesture.

It stops him in his tracks, though he still doesn’t sheathe his weapon.

“Inquisitor?” he asks, now puzzled. “Is that- is that you?”

She nods.

“You’re the bear?”

She nods again.

“Andraste’s grace,” he exhales. She’s annoyed he still has that damned sword pointed at her. “How did this happen?”

She huffs, points at the book by her bed.

Cautiously, warily, he inches towards the bedside table. She decides to take pity on him and moves onto the bed, intending to create some space between them, to keep him from feeling threatened.

The bed creaks, wobbles, then crashes with a series of loud, prolonged cracks. Neria sits in the middle of the debris, a clearly unhappy look on her bear-face. She tries to push away a pillow, but her claws tear into it instead, causing an eruption of feathers, several landing on her head like a makeshift crown.

Cullen lets out a chuckle, immediately tries to turn it into a cough. “My apologies, Inquisitor,” he picks up the book, flips through it. “Shapeshifting magic?” His tone and look are both reproachful.

Neria shrugs. "Aghrufhurg," not quite what she wants to say but it's what comes out of her mouth.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs the long-suffering sigh of a man who’s seen too many shenanigans. “I’ll get the mages to come help.” At her widened eyes and rapid head shake he amends, “Not Vivienne?”

She nods.

He sighs again. “Very well.” He finally sheathes his sword. "Wait here," he orders.

Neria huffs. Thankfully it conveys her disgust.

"I know, I know," Cullen groans, "you can't go anywhere like that. I'll get Solas and Dorian. Just," he flaps a hand around, "don't break anything else."

She grumbles at his back as he leaves.

The wooden splinters are very annoying, so she sits near the balcony door. The cool breeze is pleasant against her back, but it does little for her irritation. This wasn’t what she had in mind when she started reading that book! Dirthamen is clearly having a laugh at her expense. Her stomach rumbles, deepening her frustration. She wants food! And lots of it! Not honey, though.

Maybe some honey.

She tries to cross her arms, but she doesn’t quite have the dexterity to do so. “Aurhgghghhhhawrrrr,” her grunt could be the ursine equivalent of a particularly nasty curse. Though she wouldn’t know, she doesn’t speak bear. Is this my life, she wonders, now alarmed, what if I’m stuck like this?

The sound of footsteps climbing the stairs has her stiffening with alarm. There are… several. Several more than just the two people Cullen had promised to fetch, which means… Neria groans, smacks her nose with her paw again. They’re going to laugh at her, she just knows it. And the worst part is she can’t even respond!

Thoroughly grumpy now, she settles for placing her -paws- hands on her lips, eyes narrowed as she waits for the newcomers to make an appearance.

Varric is the first to arrive, parchment and quill ready in his hands. The burst of laughter he gives when he sees her is, frankly, quite rude, and she grumbles at him. “Don’t worry,” he says, scribbling something down, “it’s bearly noticeable!”

Did he just make- he wouldn’t, would he?

Bull’s head peeks over the railing. The grin on his lips is a shit-eating one. “Had to paws there for a second, boss,” he begins without preamble, “didn’t recognize you.”

She grunts with indignant rage. I’m a bear, and they’re all making puns?

“This is quite an embearassing predicament,” Varric slyly adds.

Neria huffs, tips her snout into the air.

“Ah, come on, boss,” she can hear Bull’s smirk, “there’s no need for such a disgruntled attitude.”

She groans. It comes out as a strangled kind of wheeze.

“Well, well,” Dorian doesn’t even attempt to hide his amusement. “This is remarkable. My dear, I have to admit your situation is giving me claws for concern.”

The look she throws him, one of outraged betrayal, has everyone in the room laughing.

“What’s the uproar about,” Blackwall looks especially pleased with himself.

“Graawrghuff” she grumbles.

“You must be feeling quite grizzly,” he adds.

Bull thumps him on the back. “Good one!”

She sticks her tongue out at them.

“We’re here to fix it,” Dorian announces, throwing his arms out in a grand gesture, “so you won’t have to grin and bear it.” When she rolls her eyes, he crosses his arms and sulks. “That was a perfectly good pun and you know it.”

Solas’ voice has her prickling her ears, and she looks eagerly towards him. “Don’t worry, vhenan,” actually, she’s quite worried given the expression on his face, “this won’t last furever.”

Roars of laughter from the group, a roar of indignation from her.

“You are all children,” Cassandra mutters, but the corners of her lips twitch with suppressed humor.

“We should sort this matter out. We would not want you to create a panda-monium among Skyhold’s inhabitants.” Solas’ grin is almost worth this ordeal. Almost.

“Can you fix this?” Cassandra asks.

Dorian’s thumbing through the tome. “It’s certainly pawsible,” he says without looking at either of them.

She glares balefully at his back.

“I can help,” Solas adds, a smirk in his voice, “I believe I have the right koala-fications.”

Everyone groans. “That’s not a pun, Chuckles,” Varric complains, “I expected more from you.”

“It is perfectly acceptable-”

“No, he’s right,” Dorian says, “the koala doesn’t belong to the bear family. You should know this.”

Solas clasps his hands behind his back, puffs his chest out. “The current koalas do not,” he begins in a scholarly tone, “but in the times of Arlathan they were very closely related. My travels in the Fade-”

“That’s enough,” Bull interjects. “We get it, you have another polarizing opinion.” Neria smacks her face with her paw when Blackwall reaches over to give him a high-five.

“Are you quite done?” Cassandra demands. “Can we get on with it?”

“Come on, Seeker,” Varric nudges her. “You have to appreciate the koalaty puns.”

Everyone chuckles, but Solas huffs, the sound annoyed. “So we have decided that it is an acceptable pun when Master Tethras uses it?”

“You can’t panda to everybody’s tastes,” Dorian shrugs.

Cassandra groans and throws her hands up. “That’s it,” she declares. “I cannot take any more of this!” She points at Dorian, then at Solas. “The two of you find a way to fix this,” she glares at them, “and soon.”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian brushes away the unspoken warning, “this is getting rather unbearable.” He smirks at Neria. “For the Inquisitor, at least.”

Neria gives an offended grunt.

“This is a serious matter, Dorian,” Cassandra’s face is scrunched up, as though she’s trying to glare, but can’t quite manage it. “The Inquisitor has meetings with nobility today. I believe one of them is a… bearon.”

There’s a hush in the room. Everyone stares at the Seeker, including Neria, who turns red under the attention.

Varric’s the first to break. “Hah! I have to write that down,” he chortles, his eyes twinkling with mirth, “that was fantastic, Seeker!”

Neria howls sadly, deeply wounded. How could Cassandra join in? Cassandra, of all people! At least the Seeker looks suitably ashamed.

Dorian crosses his arms, adopts a suitably pompous pose. “That’s quite enough. Everybody find their bearing so we can get back to the matter at hand.”

“Yes the Seeker’s made things beary clear,” Varric’s still busy jotting down Creators know what on that parchment of his.

“I always knew the boss could be overbearing, but this takes things to a new level,” Bull looks especially pleased with himself.

Solas shakes his head. “Now that Varric has recorded this for pawsterity, I believe we can get back to resolving this issue,” he at least has the decency to shoot her an apologetic look.

There’s a silence. It’s obvious everyone gathered is trying to think up more puns. “Well, I’m out,” Bull concedes. “Anyone got any more?”

“I suppose there’ll be some kind of celebearation once this is fixed,” Blackwall says, but his heart’s not in it.

“I think we’re all tapped out.” Varric remarks.

“Well then,” Dorian rubs his hands together in glee, “let’s get on with it, shall we? I can bearly contain my excitement!”

No one laughs. He sighs. “The moment’s gone, hasn’t it.”

“Yeah,” Varric nods.

“That was a bit too much,” Bull agrees.

Neria grunts, the sound relieved even to her own ears. Solas approaches her with a smile, puts a gentle hand on the side of her snout. “We’ll fix this,” he says with a gentle smile. “Now, just close your eyes, and think of how it feels to be yourself. Picture yourself moving your legs, your arms. Focus on the feeling…”

It takes an hour or so before she returns to her human form, frantically taking stock of her fingers and toes. “You are whole,” Solas reassures her.

She turns to him, and the others gathered out. “I can’t believe it,” she says, her voice raspy from the grunting and growling. “I needed help, and what do you do? You make fun of me!” They all hang their heads under the force of her scolding. She presses her lips together. Solas is the first to sense the change in mood, and he glances up at her, his stance relaxing further when he realizes she’s not really angry at them. “Un-bear-ievable.”

Bull breaks the silence. “Yeah, that doesn’t work so well, boss,” he says, and everybody murmurs in agreement.

“It sounds odd,” Dorian adds.

“I’d use it, but as a last resort,” Varric shrugs.

Solas presses a kiss to her cheek. “I’m certain you will come up with something better in time,” he says placatingly.

Neria stares at the pile of wood that was her bed and sulks.

#lavellan #dragon age fic #fluff and humor #attempt at humor #i have no excuse #roguelioness writes #bear with me

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pcrseverance · 3 years

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💐 from neria, you knew this was coming, ofdevotedheart

send 💐 for a flower or plant my muse associates with yours

and you knew this was coming:

Neria reminds Cullen of sunflowers, which he acknowledges is odd because as of yet he's barely seen her in a place with actual blooms- there certainly weren't flowers in Kinloch and he's not sure that the herb garden in Skyhold really counts. But her smile and her disposition are warm, and he finds himself turning towards her whenever she's in the room, so... sunflowers.

@ofdevotedheart

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heartslogos · 3 years

Text

the declassified texts of the inquisition's elite [185]

(920): I need advice on ways to politely say “fuck you on your way to hell”.

“Since when did you need advice on anything?” Josephine asks as Mahanon drums his fingers on the table. “Least of all from me?"

Mahanon graces Josephine with one of his rare genuinely fond smiles that doesn’t carry a single ounce of its usual double edged sharpness. It's a quick twitch of the corner of his mouth and a slight softening at the corners of his eyes that gives him away. It's a very rare thing to see. Josephine finds herself smiling back.

“I could always use advice from you,” Mahanon says with such sincerity that Josephine can’t help but wonder if something is about to go downhill incredibly fast. And possibly in flames. “And who better to go to when I need advice on being diplomatic than the Inquisition’s in house ambassador?”

“Generally speaking, when you want to tell someone off, you do it,” Josephine points out. “I’ve never seen or heard of you holding back before when it comes to expressing your scathing opinion of someone. And truth be told, whoever it is you’re telling off usually deserves it in exactly the candor you give them.”

“I am an underappreciated asset," Mahanon muses, “But in this specific case, it would be prudent of me to exercise some measure of tact.”

"Is that so?"

“Unfortunately,” Mahanon scowls. “It’s my cousin’s husband. We do not get along. I regret going to their wedding. If I could I would have labelled their wedding gift as for my cousin only.”

He pauses.

“If I could, I would have removed the interloper before it got to the point of a wedding, but I was young and inexperienced then. It was…a moment to learn from.”

“Mahanon, I genuinely hope you aren’t confessing to plotting some kind of crime that you failed to carry out to your standards of perfection. I wouldn’t do anything about it, of course. But I could live without another thing on my conscience.”

Mahanon laughs, waving his hand. Josephine doesn’t know why everyone else is so constantly afraid of him. They always make him out to be some kind of strange specter of death and misfortune. A boogeyman that pops out when least expected.

Granted, the man has some quirks. And his ethical compass is less of a compass and more of an inkblot test. But he’s always been nothing but polite to her and Josephine thinks that if that’s how he steers himself he’s doing much better than most other people she’s encountered in her life.

If everyone went around treating each other with civility and politeness unless they were given substantial reason to do otherwise, Josephine’s job would probably be nonexistent.

Being polite until given reason to otherwise is an excellent code of conduct. It’s practically the most basic one. It’s manners distilled to its basics.

Josephine wonders how Dorian would react if she said that Mahanon has more manners than half the Inquisition.

“Children’s exploits,” Mahanon says dismissively. It means nothing to Josephine because while she doesn’t quite buy into everyone else’s opinion of Mahanon as some grim specter of destruction, she does know that he’s…well. He is what he is and that’s perfectly fine. “No. They’re getting divorced now. Thankfully they have no children to complicate matters. But it seems like the man is intent on going out with the least amount of dignity possible.”

“I would think that this means this is the perfect time for you to react with your usual level of scorn,” Josephine says.

“I refuse to stoop to his crass and base level,” Mahanon wrinkles his nose, scowling into the palm of his hand as he glares into the distance. Probably imagining the man’s face. “Do you understand?”

“You want to appear to take the high road without actually taking the high road,” Josephine nods, “Something you aren’t unfamiliar with. Being passive aggressive is practically an inherited trait for you, isn’t it? Ellana is certainly very good at it. And from what Leliana’s told me so are your distant cousins.”

“She’s talking about Lyna, isn’t she? Neria is about as subtle in her condemnation of others as the sky is blue, Alim is so tactful he could make mountains cringe, and Theron’s ability to be passive is nonexistent.”

“I have to admit a lack of familiarity with Leliana’s friends.”

“I’m not asking Lyna for help because Lyna is of the opinion that we should all stay out of it. I would also be of this opinion if it weren’t for the fact that the man insulted my father,” Mahanon sneers. “And I am not taking that lying down.”

Ah, no, he wouldn’t. Most things roll off of Mahanon like water off a duck, but slights to family he holds close to the chest and refuses to let go.

“I’m surprised you aren’t going to ruin the man in the background,” Josephine says.

“I would, but the man is already a ruin on his own. There isn’t much else I can do to make him miserable,” Mahanon sighs. “I don’t know what she ever saw in him. I’d chalk it all up to sexual prowess but no one’s dick can be that good.”

Josephine coughs, choking on air as she struggles between a laugh and a gasp. Mahanon reaches over and pats her back as she tries to clear her lungs.

“Mahanon!” Josephine scolds, scandalized.

Mahanon smirks, "Am I wrong? There are some things even good sex can’t excuse.”

“You’re right, but of all the people for me to hear say that I didn’t think it’d be you,” Josephine points out.

“Do you often imagine who in your circle of friends and coworkers would be most likely to say crude but true facts of life to you directly?” Mahanon asks. “If so, which one was I most likely to say if not that?”

“I don’t,” Josephine says, clearing her throat. “You are full of surprises today, aren’t you? Now. As to your cousin. Perhaps if you could give me some background information we can come up with some nice, tidy rejoinders for you to deploy when the situation arises.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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inquisimer · 1 year

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word search tag game

thank you @nirikeehan and @demawrites for the tags <3 I did both your lists because I was having so much fun rolling around in my fics and wips like catnip

and tagging forward to @plisuu | @warpedlegacywrites | @fadedsweater | @rakshadow | and you, person looking for an excuse to do this meme! (it's fun, you should do it)

And you're looking for the words: comfortable, touch, mood, opposite, & answer

Broken - from an unpublished wip about my Lavellan siblings

Because what was the point? He hadn’t saved them all. That opinion wasn’t popular and she’d taken care to keep it to herself after one brutal encounter where a hotheaded soldier accused her of being ungrateful for her life. She’d broken his wrist rather than admit the truth: he was right. She would give her own life a thousand times over if it would bring back even one of her crew.

Tooth - from if our demons cannot dance (f!Hawke/Anders)

He gave her a rather toothless glare, before remembering that he was meant to be placating, apologizing. He was always apologizing to her, it seemed. He drew the cloth back to the basin, this time leaving it to float in the water, and tucked loose strands of hair behind Mari’s ear. “Comforting,” he said.

Stroll - from the unpublished Lavellan siblings wip

Luckily, most people failed to look up in their observations. He crept silently along the backside of the roof and leapt with ease across the other buildings, dropping down in a thicket of trees and strolling out just between the Chantry and the spymaster’s tent. The rest of the village was still asleep, or just barely stirring, but Leliana was already bent over a stack of reports, frowning.

Civilization - from an unpublished wip where Neria meets Clan Lavellan

The tripping of her wards woke Neria well before she felt the nudge of a blade under her chin. Templars was her first, panicked thought—but she was too far from any proper civilization for that to be the case, and Templars would have dispelled the wards rather than tripping them, anyhow. Bounty hunters were another story though. There was a moderate village off to the east and even if they didn’t know she was a mage, her pointed ears would fetch a pretty purse with slavers.

Satisfied - from Before My First Breath (f!Trevelyan & m!Trevelyan)

“I will divert Charter to this,” said Leliana. “She is my best. Perhaps, in the meantime, some of the concerns on the council might be assuaged by a brief accounting in your own words?” “A brief accounting,” Acacia mused, drumming her knuckles against the war table. “Will you be satisfied by one with some holes in it? There are questions I’m not prepared to answer.”

Soft - from in lieu of flowers (f!Hawke/Sebastian Vael)

A soft grind of mechanism against marble and the passage door slid open. Turning immediately, Sebastian drank her in like a man starved: her rough edges had gotten rougher, but she was here, alive and whole. The woman he loved who gave who heart to another and could never love him back. "Hawke—“ He started to smile, but something was off. She'd flinched—at his voice? Her name? And he realized, suddenly, that she held herself as stiff and aloof as she did when politicking. He crossed the chamber in three quick strides. "What's wrong? What happened? Is the Inquisition—“ “Oh, fuck the Inquisition.”

Shadow - from after all this survival (f!Hawke/Loghain Mac Tir)

He pulled her to his chest at the same moment that she surged forward and held her as she shook. It would have been easy to mistake her tears for grief, the tremors that wracked her frame for anguish. But he had seen those emotions in Siobhan: in the shadow of her brother’s departure; kneeling before a newly made orphan; watching the ashes of a one-time friend drift skyward from a secluded grove on Sundermount. This was not her grief. This was her anger.

Cut - from if our demons cannot dance (f!Hawke/Anders)

“The Knight-Captain?” Bethany raised a skeptical eyebrow. “‘mages aren’t people like you and me’ that Knight-Captain?” “He’s been a bit too close to Meredith’s paranoia. But he cares about his people, his men. That’s something we can use. If we can just cut off the Knight-Commander, turn her firepower against her—maybe we can keep the casualties to a minimum.”

Curious - from hold my hope by the throat (f!Hawke & Carver, f!Hawke/Loghain)

The very air around them chilled, gone icy under Siobhan’s scorn. The Ferelden raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, though there was something calculating and curious behind his impassive gaze. “Neither,” he shrugged. “Merely tempering your expectations, and his.”

Hollow - from Softly Uttered Curse (f!Lavellan & Merrill)

#tag games #mer writes

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