#so if the Maker / Andraste let you kill them they were probably guilty of something 🙃

[tendertenebrosity]

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Tagging: @quirkykayleetam, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @burtlederp, @paradigmparadoxical, @theycomeinthrees

The mage wept quietly but violently, shoulders heaving, face hidden in his arms.

“Hey,” Everet said, wincing. “I don’t, um… look, I don’t want to rush you but we don’t have a ton of time here? So I really need you to, um, pull yourself together?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head and hissing a breath between his teeth. “Not that I – I’m so sorry I said all of that, about... You must’ve been terrified, Maker knows you have every right to tears, but –”

The mage gulped back a sob. “But we d-don’t have time,” he interrupted, voice cracked and thick with tears. “Yes. Okay. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath, eyes closed, then another, visibly pushing back the weeping. “Sorry. You’re right. I’m okay, I’ll be okay.”

Everet winced again. “Don’t apologise to me,” he muttered. “Andraste. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Galen,” the mage said, blotting at his face with one torn sleeve. “I’m Galen. You’re Ser Everet, I know, I heard.”

Everet took a deep breath. After seeing Galen break down, he wanted to keep apologising; he cringed away from thinking about the fear he’d just put the mage through. But he’d just said they didn’t have time. He glanced up, around the hillside, to where the trees were beginning to be silhouetted against the dusky sky. “All right, Galen. I want out of here, and I want to get you out, too. There’s just one problem.”

He glanced over. The mage was giving Everet his full attention, knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, his eyes huge dark pools.

“If I leave here, within a couple of days I’m going to start getting lyrium withdrawal, and I’ll probably die,” he said bluntly. “I need to take lyrium with me, at least enough to last until I can get to another stronghold of the Order. So I’m asking you for your help in stealing some from the supply that’s kept in the wagon, before we leave.”

He paused, and waited for a reply. He felt guilty for asking for help. The mage was so battered, and Everet should be able to do this on his own, but… the fact was that he couldn’t.

The mage – Galen - licked his lips, winced as he disturbed a scab. “I… you’ll help me?” he said, his voice thin and wavering. “You’ll get me out of here?”

“It’s not – yes, I will,” Everet said, his stomach twisting. Did Galen think he was proposing an exchange? That if he didn’t help, Everet would leave him here? That wasn’t what he’d meant at all. “I’ll help you get free regardless, of course I will, I just – I was hoping you might be able to help me, too.”

“You want to help me,” Galen repeated, and his eyes were shining, he was looking at Everet like… like he was a hero from a storybook, like he’d stepped out of a stained glass window, blazing with light and righteous sword in hand. “Thank you, oh, Maker, thank you…”

Everet could feel a flush creeping up his cheeks. He bit his lower lip and made another anxious scan of the horizon. “Enough, enough of that, shh,” he hissed. “Listen, do you think you could break into the wagon? With magic?”

He was surprised and quietly relieved when Galen’s brow creased and he looked thoughtful. He’d been a little worried that the mage would leap to ‘yes’ immediately, out of fear or gratitude. But the mage seemed to be giving the question genuine thought.

“What’s holding it shut?” he asked, voice hushed.

“Chains and a padlock.”

“Any anti-magic safeguards on them?”

“I – ” Everet blinked, shook his head. “I don’t know. How would I tell? They’re supposed to be keeping us out, though, not mages, so I wouldn’t think so.”

Galen bowed his head, fingers working in his lap as he thought. “Do you want it blown up, or opened quietly?”

“I – blown up? I was planning on sneaking away afterwards,” Everet said, taken aback.

Galen flicked a little glance at him past a hanging lock of hair, and Everet realised that a tiny rueful smile was trying to lift the corner of his mouth. “Pity. Explosions are almost always easier,” he mumbled. There was a note of nervous mirth in his voice. “I suppose you want to take the lyrium with you, though, not spray it across ten miles of forest.”

Everet blinked, not sure what proportion of that comment was supposed to be joking. He looked at the mage, and was taken aback again. Having a name probably helped, but for the first time, he got an inkling of Galen, not just as a pitiful victim in need of rescue but the real person. A slight, fragile-seeming figure who could sit in the dirt after enduring days of torment, calmly and coolly ask Everet questions, and make a rushed joke about preferring explosions.

“But yes,” Galen continued quietly. “If you can stop the, the lyrium thing that templars do, to stop me from doing magic… I could get the wagon open. Quietly.”

“Right,” Everet said, feeling the tension ease in his chest just slightly. Then it tightened again as he thought about what he was planning to do: steal and desert from his Order, and release a rogue mage on the world. Oh, Maker, what am I doing?

He looked at the bruises on Galen’s face and his thin, scabbed-over knees, thought about Toss him over here, Everet and he’s yours, do whatever.

Andraste save me, what am I doing? The right thing. The thing I should’ve done all along.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder, shimmied down into the dead leaves out of a sudden fear that his head and shoulders might be visible from further up the hill. “The next night I have the midnight to morning watch, everyone else’ll be asleep then. I’ll cut your bonds, then draw the other man on watch away, so you can use magic. Once you’ve gotten into the wagon... hopefully I’ll be back by then, but if I’m not, grab the lyrium - at least a dozen vials, if you can - and come to meet me here.”

Galen nodded, as he was speaking. “Yes,” he said, on the heels of Everet’s last sentence. “Yes, I can do that.”

“Good.”

Everet and Galen gazed at each other in silence for a few moments, listening to the rustles of lowering evening, and the sounds of the templar camp that loomed up the hill a short distance.

“I’m sorry,” Everet said. “It won’t be tonight. I’m not on watch till morning. Tomorrow.”

He saw Galen’s jaw tighten as he swallowed, eyelids fluttering shut. Then he nodded. “I can hold out,” he whispered.

“And I’m going to have to go back to treating you like absolute shit again,” Everet said, wincing. “I mean, I’ll try not to hurt you too much, but…”

Galen nodded. “I won’t hold it against you.”  

Maker’s breath, what if it’s too late? Everet wondered. What if somebody goes too far and kills him tonight or tomorrow? What if something else awful happens in the meantime?

I won’t let that happen.

“We should head back,” he said reluctantly. “Soon.”

Galen’s shoulders hunched, but he didn’t argue or protest. He glanced up the hill, dread obvious in his face. “We should – we should muss up my hair a bit or something,” he said, visibly steeling himself. “You, too. Um. I’m sorry, it’s so horrible…”

Everet cringed, but after a second of thought he realised the mage was right. They should look like they’d been doing something out here. “Urgh. I’m sorry. Here, hold still…”

Galen rubbed dirt on his arms, and Everet stuck a dead leaf into Galen’s already matted hair. He tried to ruffle his own clothing and armour, too, feeling grim and oddly selfconscious.

Galen wiped a trickle of blood away from a scab that had opened up on his chin.

“Um. Here,” he said, holding his fingers out.

Everet shuddered, his stomach turning as he let the mage smear his bloody fingers across Everet’s cheek. Not at the mage’s touch or the blood, so much; at the image that he and the mage were trying to conjure up.

This task done, they stared at each other again.

“Ready?” Everet asked.

Galen nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Everet growled. “I haven’t done anything so far. I might just get us both killed.” He clambered awkwardly to his feet, and had to resist the urge to offer the mage a gentlemanly hand to help him stand. “Ready to look scared? Sorry in advance.”

He bent down, took Galen by the upper arms, and hauled him upright.

Galen didn’t resist him as they headed back into camp, so Everet kept his grip on his arms as light as he dared. The mage, stumbled alongside Everet, and pretended hopelessness. His eyes were glassy and his head hung low enough that Everet hoped the others would be fooled.

“See you tomorrow,” Everet muttered, after he’d finished tying Galen’s bonds. Hopefully if anyone overheard, it would sound like a threat, instead of a promise. Tomorrow. Hold out until tomorrow, and we’ll get out of here.

[askdragonagecompanions]

Could you do a companions reacting to someone insulting an elvish inquisitor because of their race, and striking them? Companions and romances???

Dorian: Dorian had grown up seeing the injustices done to elves. They were enslaved and treated like nothing more. Free elves seemed to be treated even worse and preyed upon in every instance. It sickened him. He wanted to be better than his countrymen. When he joined the inquisition he was a tad surprised to see that the Inquisitor was an elf as well. As soon as their business in Redcliff was over he made sure to let the Inquisitor know that despite where he came from he wanted to do better than his countrymen and apologized in advance for anything that would come off as an insult. He wanted the Inquisitor to correct him. He thought that the south would be better about not being racist, but he realized how naive a thought that was. The ones insulting the Inquisitor must be idiots to not realize how powerful the Inquisitor is. He starts to move closer to be there if the Inquisitor needs him but he’s not fast enough. He sees the humans strike the Inquisitor and feels a deep anger in him. He helps his friend up before tearing these idiots apart with his words and scaring them with his necromantic spells. He laughs as they call him an elf loving freak saying that it’s a compliment. As soon as they’re gone his attention is on the Inquisitor again, making sure they’re okay and offering them the best bottle of tevinter wine he can find back at Skyhold and someone to talk to. He doesn’t really know what else he can do but he wants to help. +romanced: He can see the trouble brewing in this small town. The humans keep looking at his Amatus like he’s a freak, like his countrymen would if they saw an elf walking about. It makes him bristle. The Inquisitor assured him he would be fine. Dorian trusted him and began to look at some of the wares being sold which was a mistake. He heard his love gasp in pain as he was struck. Dorian caught the tale end of the insults and rushed over, gripping his staff tight as fire began to burn in his hands. “Striking the Inquisitor? My you Southerner’s are much dumber than I thought, see now I fear I’m going to have to ensure you never do it again.” They hurt his love. They’re disgusting little men who just make his stomach boil with anger. He doesn’t care about being called an elf lover. The homophobic insults they start to sputter only make the flames burn hotter. They start running away, their pants on fire and Dorian wants to give chase. If his love stops him he won’t. He’ll take the Inquisitor home and hold him close and assure him that he’s amazing and the most wonderful elf in all the worlds. Dorian wants to be sure his Amatus knows that he’s loved and that the bruise on his face isn’t too bad. If his love doesn’t stop him he encourages the Inquisitor to hunt them down with him. It’ll be fun. Afterwards he does the same if they had not given chase. 

Solas: While Solas was wary of another elf being the Inquisitor they have started to grow on him. They still hold their Dalish beliefs and worship those… He won’t get into it. What surprises him is their feelings on spirits and the fade. In time he found himself actually enjoying their company. He knows he shouldn’t get close to them, that it’ll only end poorly for them both, but it’s hard to keep himself isolated when they keep coming to talk with him. He enjoys their chats more and more. There’s one annoying constant that didn’t seem to change since the time of the ancient elves. Humans will still be racist no matter what, even if the elf in question was probably powerful enough to cut them down with one blow. He stays back at first, not knowing if the Inquisitor wants him to step in. The remarks he’s used to of course, barely even registering that he too was insulted. Then things turned violent and he acted swiftly, freezing the humans in their place. “I would suggest you move along before you do something that will get you killed human.” His words are calm but the icy tone to his voice is was truly scares the humans. When he lets the spell go they take off running. He makes sure the Inquisitor is alright and heals up any bruise caused by those idiots. +romanced: Solas curses himself for not staying closer or stepping in sooner. How can humans be so idiotic to threaten the Inquisitor especially with him right there. As his love gets struck he again freezes the humans in place, this time it’s their entire body. “How idiotic does one have to be to think it’s fine to strike someone down just for the shape of their ears?” He turns to his love, “What would you have me do with them?” He lets the Inquisitor decide the mens fate. Either way he takes the Inquisitor home to tend to their wounds and make sure those words did not harm them. They are just insults and his love his amazing. He won’t let anyone tell them otherwise.  

Vivienne: They’re traveling through one of the cities when a group of humans approach them. Her eyes narrow and it becomes clear soon enough their intent. Oh of course there’s going to be racists in this town as well. She doesn’t know how the Inquisitor deals with the insults, but Vivienne is proud that they can keep a straight face. They don’t need these humans spreading rumors that the Inquisitor is just a “Dalish Savage” that attacked them “unprovoked”. It would be total slander, but anyone would believe it to tarnish the Inquisitor. Then things take a turn for the worst. They strike the Inquisitor and she can see the Inquisitor getting mad. She steps in front of them and give them a small smile. With barely a flick of her wrist the men are frozen in place, “Oh how dreadful. A group of uneducated fools taking out their stupidity on one of the most influential people of the inquisition. I doubt that will go over well.” She tuts. “Now Inquisitor, what should we do with them?” She gives the choice to the Inquisitor once again and will do whatever they want her too. When the situation is concluded she pulls the Inquisitor aside to make sure they’re alright. It’s important to keep up appearances yes, but one also needed to take care of themself. Back at Skyhold she gets them some nice tea and make sure they take a moment for themself. 

Varric: It’s like a bad start to every fight that gets played up for drama in novels. A group of low lifes approaching the hero of the story. They start hurling insults and he gets Bianca ready for a fight. He thought that maybe they’d have some sense and try to not really make this a fight, but that was apparently hoping for two much because the next thing he knows the Inquisitor just took a punch to the face and is spitting out blood. Varric narrow’s his eyes and lowers his crossbow. “You’ve got three seconds before I start shooting.” And he starts the countdown, aiming for the the one who punched his friend. He gives them about two seconds before he lets his first arrow go. It hits his mark and he smirks, satisfied. Now the guy’ll have an arrow in his ass for a while. “You doin okay? Don’t let em get to ya. They’ve got approximately two thirds of a brain between the lot of em.” Maker if Fenris were here those idiots would be lucky to have one walk away. 

Cole: He feels the unrest the men are causing the Inquisitor and he doesn’t like it. Their souls are full of hatred and anger. Why must they take it out on the Inquisitor. They haven’t done anything wrong and these men keep getting more and more violent. Suddenly it all explodes and the Inquisitor’s pain flares along with anger. He steps in between the men and the Inquisitor, “Your hearts are full of hatred and anger. You know nothing of the plights of the elven. You don’t care to know. You are scared and you take it out on innocent people just because you can. You will leave. The next time you do anything like this you will not be so lucky as to keep your lives do you understand?” These men most likely won’t change, but with enough fear they might stop harassing innocent people. 

Sera: Oh she’s friggin pissed. Yeah she’s dealt with it on her own. There’s shitty people everywhere but now they’re coming after her friend? Sure the Inquisitor can be a little elfy but they don’t deserve to be fucking called racist shit. She’s already getting an arrow ready and then those shites fucking deck the Inquisitor and it’s on. Streams of curse words escape her as she lets off arrow after arrow at the idiots. They’re running away, well those who can. “I can’t believe… UGH how can they be that fucking stupid! Maker look you want to go after them? I’ve got plenty of arrows.”+romanced: She’s more than pissed. Her Inky is the most amazing elf in the whole friggin world and these shit heads think they can yell at her? She throws down a jar of bees that she’s been working on all week and quickly pulls her Inky away from the fray, protecting and shielding her as Sera shoots arrows at the assholes. She aims for their asses and smirks as she gets nearly all of them. Then it’s time to make sure her inky is alright. When they get back to Skyhold there’s lots of cuddling involved and the Inquisitor assuring Sera that she’s alright. 

Blackwall: Sadly this sort of thing was all too common. Humans thought of themselves as more common or the “right ones” the “default”. Blackwall knew he was guilty of it too sometimes. Hell he’d just assumed the Inquisitor would be human as well before realizing how wrong he was to do so. He should have stepped in sooner and glares at the men in front of him, holding his sword threateningly. “I would suggest you leave before making things worse than you already have. I don’t think the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, takes too kindly to being walloped in the face by a couple of idiots who don’t know how to keep their mouths shut.” Blackwall doesn’t want to make the situation worse, but he doesn’t want these idiots to get another hit in either. +romanced: He’s pissed. He has grown to love the Inquisitor and they are the most amazing person in Thedas, the most amazing elf. They can look past his past and still find it in their hearts to forgive him, to love him and these idiots think they can just spew their shit? He punches the one who hit his love and glares down at him. “I. Suggest you Move on before I decide that you need more than a fist to teach you a lesson in manners.” He growls out. He’ll fight if he has to, but once the idiots are gone he turns to his love to make sure they’re alright. He offers to get them both drinks once they’re back at Skyhold. 

Iron Bull: All Bull has to do is walk close to the idiots and they get nervous. He holds his battle ax in hand and starts to run a finger over the blade. It’s still covered in blood as he hasn’t had a chance to clean it yet. Besides Vivienne’s not here to see it so it’s a great intimidation tactic. “I must have misheard and my eye must have seen things, or did a group of idiotic humans just insult and then assault the Inquisitor. I mean it would have to be the world’s dumbest group of men to do that in front of me.” They try to say the didn’t mean anything by it and he laughs, “Oh right, because punching someone in the face because of their ears is nothing. You have three seconds to run before I start swinging this thing. And the next time you even look at an elf wrong? I’ll find you.” He growls out. Once they’re gone he makes sure the Inquisitor is okay. If they need a moment he makes sure no one around gives them shit for it. Sometimes that shit cuts deep no matter how much you guard yourself. +romanced: Oh he’s mad. Like really mad. His Kadan doesn’t deserve this. “You know maybe you should pick on someone your own size. Why don’t you try that shit on me?” And he gives the men a dangerous smirk. He has his axe in hand and they decide it might be best to run off. Bull then turns to his Kadan and frowns, checking them for any injuries before giving them a hug. “They’re assholes Kadan. None of that shit means anything okay?” He promises. Bull keeps an eye on them and makes sure they’re not trying to keep it all inside. Back at Skyhold he lets them talk it out with him and when they’re ready they have a great night. If they don’t want it he holds them close through the night and makes sure no one wakes his Kadan up until they’re ready. The Inquisitor already works hard enough. This incident was infuriating and added stress onto an already overworked elf. 

Cassandra: “Oh for the love of-” She doesn’t understand how these people don’t recognize the fucking Herald of Andraste. It keeps happening too. People mistaking the Inquisitor for an elven servant and it’s been wearing her down more and more. She punches the one who hurt the Inquisitor and kicks him away. “I would maybe think the next time you want to open your mouth. You Disgust me. This is the Inquisitor. They are working their ass off to save the lives of everyone in Thedas and that includes yours, so don’t even think about trying that again. Leave or I will draw my blade.” She waits until they’ve left before making sure the Inquisitor isn’t injured too bad. “The next person to even start saying something like that is getting my fist.” She grumbles. +romanced: For a second she thinks she’s seeing things. Then again they haven’t really had the best of luck with idiots like this. Her eyes narrow. She knows her love can handle themself but it pisses her off so much. When the Inquisitor gets struck she rushes forward and returns the blow, glowering down at the men. “Leave. Now.” She says. They don’t move so she draws her sword and the see the Seeker symbol on her armor. It’s enough to send them packing and she turns to her love, quickly inspecting their face and giving them a small kiss. She glares when she hears Varric snickering and turns away, waiting till they’re back in the privacy of Skyhold to make sure her love is truly okay. She grumbles about racist idiots for a while until the Inquisitor convinces her to read the next chapter of Sword and Shields to them. 

Bonus:

Romanced Cullen: He enjoys his trips with his love. It’s nice to be out of Skyhold. Maker knows they both need it too. He stays in his office a bit to much and the Inquisitor is always so busy on their missions. He frowns, brows furrowing as they’re approached by a small group. Cullen puts his hand on his sword, ready for a fight. The Inquisitor is a strong elf and can take care of themself, but he isn’t going to just stay back and let them take on a hole group by themself. The insults they hurl make his lip curl into a smile and anger boil in his stomach. Before he can do anything one of them strikes out and hits his love. He draws his sword and pushes the man away from the Inquisitor. “How dare you! You know nothing about them, what they’ve gone through, what they do just to keep the world from getting taken by the breach!” He’s speaking out of anger. He can’t believe that people would do this to his love, an elf so gentle, willing to help anyone, someone who was helping him work past his lyrium addiction, someone helping him to break past what the templar training had ingrained in his mind. They helped him be better and to see idiots just tear them down… “Leave.” He growls out. When the men are gone Cullen sighs and just carefully inspects his love. “Well this… this did not go as well as I thought it would.” He murmurs. “Lets get back to Skyhold.” Once they are back they cuddle and Cullen will listen if they want to talk. 

Romanced Josephine: Sadly Josie is not surprised that it comes to this. It’s quite common that even an Elf in a powerful position will still be treated poorly by most. They were enjoying a beautiful day when the group approached. Josephine’s not really the best in a fight and she can’t help the feeling of guilt in her stomach when her love gets punched. The Inquisitor is strong though and can handle themself. They leave the area, ignoring the insults still getting hurled at them. Back at Skyhold Josie takes care of her love’s wounds and curls up with them for the night. If they want to get it off their chest she listens, but as soon as they’re asleep Josephine works tirelessly to find out who those men were so that she can destroy their social standings.

[bigfan-fanfic]

About Tash Adaar

I know nobody asked, but I want to tell! :) Check out more about Tash using the tash adaar tag - link here or at the bottom.

what is your inquisitor’s name & race? Ataashi “Tash” Adaar - later Lord Ataashi “Tash” Adaar Hawke-Tethras of Kirkwall.

what is their sexual orientation? When Tash grows up, he prefers the company of men.

what do they look like? Drawing here.

how did they feel about being called “the herald of andraste”? Tash finds it strange, but to be frank, enjoys the preferential treatment he gets from it.

what are their religious beliefs, if they have any? Tash believes in the Maker, but he doesn’t subscribe to the Chant of Light. He has a pretty philosophical belief for one so young, and often wonders if all the gods of all the cultures are real, or if none of them are, or both. Solas’ musings on the Fade do nothing to help him determine the answers.

what is their opinion on the mage/templar war? Tash really wishes everyone would stop fighting each other and talk things out more. He understands why people fear mages, but thinks templars are supposed to protect mages and help them become better, not fight and abuse them.

who is your inquisitor’s best friend? Technically Varric or Cole, although they’re more surrogate family. Being so young, most of the Inner Circle serves a parental or uncle/aunt/older sibling role. So... his best friend might have to be Kieran. Morrigan is a bit surprised at the friendship between them.

who is their rival? Tash has not found it in him to forgive Sera for putting a sack full of lizards over his head and seriously freaking him out. But even so he considers Sera a friend, and while she didn’t apologize, she told him she’d prank anyone he wanted if he asked.

who is their love interest, if they chose one? do you ship them with anyone else/non-romanceable options? Tash is a kid of about 11-12, so no love interests. However... I do sort of ship him with Kieran, as they both are sweethearts, and I think when they’re older, they’ll be really sweet together.

warrior, rogue, or mage? Mage. Knight-Enchanter.

how do they feel about the dalish? Tash thinks the Dalish are unnecessarily unfriendly. He thinks that generally they’re rather mean. However, he is fascinated by the stories of their gods, and pesters Solas to no end for more Dalish tales.

how do they feel about the qun? Tash thinks that the Qun is no better than slavery, and is absolutely disgusted by it. 

how do they feel about the chantry? Tash feels persecuted by the Chantry due to his magic and his horns. He wonders if Cassandra is right and it does more good than ill, but Tash believes that it is unlikely for mortals to actually know the will of the Maker.

which demon is most frightening to them? Imshael was the most frightening demon Tash encountered, even more so than the Nightmare, because Imshael could likely convince anyone to do anything.

did they choose the qun or the chargers in iron bull’s personal quest? why? The Chargers. Not only does Tash have utter disdain for the Qun, he realized that it was a test for Bull and can’t stand how they put him through that. He saves the Chargers without hesitation.

when are they the happiest? Before the Inquisition, he was happiest when his fathers and brother would take him to the Grand Tourney to see the melee. Now he’s happiest sitting in front of the fire, writing or reading while Varric writes on the desk behind him and Hawke plays with the mabari.

how do they feel about the mark/the anchor? Tash feels weird about the mark. It’s definitely useful, and is indirectly responsible for him making so many friends, but he hates when it hurts him, and it makes the whispers he hears grow ever stronger...

upon first meeting cole, were they afraid of him? Tash adores Cole, and loves how he can voice the strange thoughts whirling in the back of his mind. Tash also uses Cole as a human teddy bear sometimes when the nightmares get to be too much, as it reminds him of when his brother used to hug him.

did they use the templars or the mages to close the breach? Tash used the mages, although there’s a part of him that feels very guilty after hearing that Therinfal Redoubt fell to demons.

what was their court approval like at the winter palace? did they have any fun at all? Tash quickly achieved 100 Court Approval at the Winter Palace, mostly by just being polite, despite starting out at a huge deficit due to being a Qunari and a child. Tash loves dancing, and also danced his way to the top of the Court, even getting in dances with Cyril de Montfort and Lady Mantillon.

someone is encroaching on their love interest. how do they respond? Young Tash will be very petty, maybe even set Sera on the encroacher. As he grows older, he becomes more proficient in the Jane Austen school of polite put-downs under the tutelage of Vivienne.

what is their favourite weapon? Tash likes his staff, but he really admires warriors using swords and shields. This stems from his early crushes on the warriors, knights, sellswords, mercenaries, and chevaliers in the Grand Tourney of Markham.

are there any creatures in the wild that they refuse to/are reluctant to kill? why? Fennecs, because they are adorable. He also cried when they had to hunt rams. Tash likes meat, but he prefers not to see it when it was alive. Also Tash doesn’t like killing snofluers because they don’t do anything but waddle around. Tash tends to have a way with animals, even once befriending a bear in the Hinterlands, so he doesn’t like killing any wild animals he’s bonded with.

what is their opinion on blood magic? would they ever use it, if given the chance? Privately, Tash thinks blood magic isn’t so bad if the blood is given consensually. Mostly Tash is afraid of the sight of blood, so he probably would never use it and publicly displays a conservative opinion of the practice. 

what is their favourite place within playable regions? The Storm Coast. Tash loves the combination of the rain and ocean, although the shiny and sparkly Val Royeaux is a close second.

did they feel suspicious of dorian upon first meeting him, because of his tevinter heritage? Tash was slightly afraid of getting to know Dorian because he was afraid the whole Qunari-Tevinter thing would mean Dorian would hate him on principle. But he quickly warmed to Dorian after the altus correctly determined he was a Vashoth.

as a whole, how do they feel about tevinter + the imperium? Tash likes the idea of mages being able to govern, but hates the idea of slavery. Besides, Tevinters tend to hate him on sight, so he’s wary of them. He’s also SO over their pointy outfits and asymmetrical fashion.

did they encourage cullen to continue taking lyrium, or to stop? for what reasons? Tash urged Cullen to stop, not only because Tash gets really weirded out by lyrium, even the blue kind (sometimes he thinks he hears it whispering and refuses to even take lyrium potions) but also because he doesn’t want Cullen to lose his mind to it. Cullen was so ashamed when he threw his lyrium kit and nearly hit Tash in the head with it that he became that much more motivated to quit.

does it bother them to sleep in tents when on the road with the inquisition? Tash dislikes sleeping in tents, because his horns don’t let him get comfortable. It gets even worse after Josephine commissions special horn cushions for him at Skyhold. 

are they an optimist, a pessimist, or neutral? An eternal optimist. An optimist who is scared of everything. Although living with Varric and Hawke makes him slightly more of a cynicial optimist.

if varric wrote a book about your inquisitor, how would they feel about that? Tash loves Varric’s writings, and is super excited and honored to be written about. Of course, it gets annoying later when people start expecting him to be more like his self in the book.

do they get along with vivienne? Tash gets along exceptionally well with Vivienne, to the amusement and confusion of many of the Inner Circle. He respects her skill in both magic and the Game, and although he disagrees with her about the Circles, he even becomes known as her protegee.

are they afraid of anything specifically? Spiders, all insects, Tranquility, blood, darkspawn, dragons, heights, the dark, the Qun, archers, and nugs.

what was their reaction to the destruction of haven? Tash was more than a little traumatized by the events. He already had a fear of dragons, and now he is terrified of them, as well as iffy around fire. Thankfully he helped get most of the people out of Haven or he’d be even more fearful.

how do they feel about “the game”? Tash enjoys playing the Grand Game of Orlais, as he has a natural flair for etiquette, and loves being able to use it to his advantage. He also loves the sparkly masks.

are they especially protective of certain inquisition members, even those capable of defending themselves? Tash had a huge crush on Blackwall, and was very protective of him. Tash is likewise close to Cole, Josephine, Varric, and Cullen.

do they like their skyhold pajamas? Tash finds them to be comfortable, but wants to wear something in brighter colors, immediately going to Vivienne or Josephine to make it happen.

are there any insults they find to be especially offensive? (i.e. “knife ear”/”rabbit” for elves, “oxmen” for qunari, ect.) Tash hates being referred to as an “ox,” but also can’t stand being called “Qunari.” He prefers to be known as a Vashoth, or at the very least a Tal-Vashoth.

if varric gave them a nickname, what would it be? Tash’s nickname is Dimples, for the little divots that appear whenever he smiles, which is frequently.

do they enjoy being the inquisitor? Tash enjoys being able to help people and influence events towards helping people. However he was slightly traumatized at losing his arm and immediately stepped down afterwards.

[forthelulzy]

Heaven By Violence: Chapter 3

Such are promises! All lies and jests Still a man hears what he wants to hear And disregards the rest — “The Boxer”, Simon & Garfunkel

“Varric Tethras. I knew I had heard that name.”

The dwarf in question glances up from the fire, gesturing with his flagon. “Really, Stormy? You didn’t recognize me immediately? You wound me.”

The bags under Irene’s eyes could carry an Orlesian’s powder kit, he sees, but at least she’s still standing. Her hands are on her hips, and she’s blinking at him, clearly taken aback by his jest. She’s been cloistered in with the advisors too much of late, he supposes. Today, two meetings. The rumor is they’re trying to figure out a way to get Chantry support in the wake of Roderick’s denouncement of the Inquisition. It’s all above Varric’s pay grade, but he is curious how it will turn out. He’s already taking notes, after all.

“I don’t read a lot of fiction,” she says at last.

“Okay, most of my stuff is fiction, yeah. But Tale of the Champion? All true! Mostly true.”

“Tale of the Champion…” she repeats, rolling the title around in her mouth. Varric is tempted to joke about her literacy, but that would probably be a bad idea. “That was the one about Hawke, right? Cassandra mentioned something about him.”

“Yep. Seeker was looking for him before the Conclave, wanted him to lead this Inquisition. Until I said I had no idea where he was, and then you fell out of the sky.” He would go into more detail about Cassandra’s rough treatment, but there will be plenty of opportunities for that.

Irene’s eyes narrow. “Until you said you had no idea where he was.”

“Shit, Stormy! Not you too!” he deflects. He reminds himself that though Irene looks like nothing but a thug, he still needs to be careful. “Look, even if I did know where he was, I’d rather have you than him any day. I respected the man, sure, but he and I weren’t exactly the best of friends. He got shit done, but he left a lot of bodies in his wake. Allies’ bodies.” Varric still doesn’t know why Cassandra was so eager to find Hawke; it was all in the book. He spared no one, and Hawke had — has — a lot to answer for.

“He killed his own allies?”

Varric sighs, gulps the rest of his ale. “Not directly, but yes. He sold an escaped slave back to his magister master, after leading him on for years. I thought they had a nice romance going on, right up until the betrayal. He did a lot of backstabbing, towards the end. The only person he didn’t stab — literally, or figuratively — was the guy who blew up the Chantry.” The sick smile on Hawke’s face as it had all unraveled… Practically congratulating a resigned Anders, encouraging him to run. No one had seen it coming. Meredith wasn’t the only lunatic in Kirkwall, she was just worse at hiding it.

Irene’s face has gone through an interesting array of emotions while he’s been talking: disbelief, surprise, anger, disgust. He’s grateful she’s so bad at hiding them. “I can’t… Why?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, but he can only shrug and look down into his empty flagon. “I’ll need a lot more ale to even begin to speculate. Join me if you like?”

She twitches, like he’s just suggested drinking literal dragon piss, says her goodbyes quietly and continues on her way down to her cabin. Varric shakes his head. Irene Trevelyan may be unstable, especially with so much pressure on her, but she is no Garrett Hawke and for that, he could almost thank the Maker.

~o~O~o~

The Hinterlands are huge and strangely boring for a battlefield. Varric wants nothing more than to get what they need — Mother Giselle — and go, but Irene rallies further as the days pass, and he can’t complain about her wanting to help people. Solas complains, mentions the Breach and Val Royeaux more frequently as they linger. He’s only slightly mollified with the discovery of some artifact that is supposed to measure the Veil.

Then he is back to complaining.

Varric thought he had Irene figured out — that she would argue with Solas over her leading them up and down and around the countryside while the Breach was still visible in the distance — but she mostly ignores the elf. She is, for once, in a good mood, though sometimes he catches her staring off into the distance with that expression. The one when she remembers something both fondly and with crushing grief. That one. He thinks about how to describe it in his book, but it will never suffice when compared to seeing it with his own eyes. Such is the nature of writing from life.

(There were some things he left out of Hawke’s tale, for the sake of the story. Things that may better explain how he should never be a choice for leader of anything. One day, maybe, he will write them down. Sod the plot. Sod the flow.)

~o~O~o~

He leaves the tent in the middle of night, Solas still breathing deeply and undoubtedly doing… something Fade-related, to find Irene still sitting alone by the embers of their campfire. He shakes his head at her pensive profile, and wanders off into the woods.

When he comes back some minutes later, she is, unsurprisingly, still there. He sits down next to her. “If you don’t mind me asking, Stormy, isn’t it time you woke up Cassandra?”

“Yes,” she replies. It is a simple statement of fact; she doesn’t sound remotely guilty. She breathes deep and keeps her eyes on the horizon.

“Right. If you, again, don’t mind me asking, is there something you’ve been avoiding? Something important?”

He means sleep, but she turns her head sharply and says, “I am not avoiding meeting with the Mothers! I need to help these people, and time to… Time to… Bullocks.” She turns away again, hands clenching. The mark flares in her left fist, and she hisses and punches the ground.

All right then. “It’ll be fine. Look, you may not be the sweet-talking negotiator Ruffles wanted, or the steady leader Curly wanted… or really, who any of us expected.” She scowls at him, but he shrugs and keeps talking. This is, for once, what he’s good at. “But you are far from incapable. Like she said,” he hooks his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of the Crossroads, though Mother Giselle is probably in Haven by now, “you don’t need them to agree with you. What you need is doubt. They think you murdered the Divine. Show them you want justice for her real killer. Just… try not to let them under your skin. They win that way.”

Something in her posture loosens at his words: she lets out a long breath and leans back on her hands, looking up at the stars. She studies them, that expression creeping back across her face. Varric lets her think. He’s said all he wanted to say, and though he could say more, no more is needed.

“Thank you,” she says when the embers have long become cold ashes. “You… remind me of someone. I haven’t seen him in years, but… I hope he’s okay, wherever he is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re friends with another handsome dwarf with irresistible charm and impressive chest hair? What a coincidence.”

She barks a surprised laugh, wiping at her eyes. “No! I’m afraid you’re the only one I know quite like you. He’s almost twice your height, for one.”

“My dear Herald, was that a joke?”

Her smile cracks a bit at the title, but her voice is still teasing when she says, “No joke. He’s taller than me. Only by a fingerwidth, but still. He’s my… my brother. Half brother. One of my father’s many bastards. But he was the only one who let me be myself, when we were young.”

“Sounds like a good brother.” He does not mention that he wishes he had a brother now. It would ruin the mood, and it is not about him, besides.

“He will be so worried that I haven’t written. Everything has happened so fast. I don’t have the last letter from before… before the Conclave, anymore. I don’t remember where he was.”

“Don’t worry.” He pats her arm. “If anyone can find him, it’s our Sister Nightingale.”

He helps her with the first draft that night, and the next day Irene finally turns back toward the Crossroads to ask Corporal Vale if there is anything more that can be done.

He stares at her like she’s bloody Andraste come from on high.

And that is the day she looks back at them, exhausted, blistered, and smelly from days out on the road, and says, “Well then. Suppose it’s time to go.”

~o~O~o~

Brother,

I don’t know how much you’ve heard, wherever you are. Everything has been happening so fast, I can barely keep up myself most days.

And I’m in the thick of it. I was at the Conclave. I’m the only survivor — Colm is dead. I’m the one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste, brother. Symbol of the reborn Inquisition, closer of the rifts, a bloody Chosen One. I’m having enough trouble just trying to stay sane in all this, I can’t begin to live up to their dreams. I can’t begin to live up to my own.

I am going to Val Royeaux. My advisors — I have advisors! — insist that I need to get the support of the Chantry, or at least divide and conquer. I hope you don’t believe their stories about me. I didn’t kill the Divine.

I miss you.

Irene

~o~O~o~

Irene’s mood does not sour as they near Val Royeaux, but she does grow tense. The four of them haven’t stopped in Haven for more than a day to rest before they are out on the road again with the advisors’ blessings. Whatever they’d said in that war room, Irene holds herself like a giant is pressing down on her shoulders.

Her mood does sour when they enter Val Royeaux. A Mother grandstands in the square, decrying the Inquisition for all to hear. Worse, she recognizes their party immediately, and confronts Irene. She, however, dregs up the past she seems determined to escape — daughter of a Bann — for the confrontation, and remains surprisingly tactful. Varric wouldn’t blame her, really, if she got into a shouting match with anyone and everyone who still thinks her a murderer. But they have not seen what he, what the whole Inquisition, has seen. The Mother isn’t anywhere close to doubting, but the Sisters nearby are, and the templar with them wears it openly on his face. Herald of Andraste.

Then the other templars arrive and it all goes to shit.

She lives up to her nickname on the ride home — though only Solas and Cassandra seem truly comfortable on a horse, they are pressed for time after gallivanting around the Hinterlands for weeks — quietly building up a storm. The other elf they’ve picked up, Sera, keeps sending the rest of them quizzical looks, but she doesn’t leave, at least. Irene found someone else, ‘the First Enchanter of the last loyal mages’ (that part is said with contempt), but he hasn’t met this Lady Vivienne yet. He is told she needs to wrap up unfinished business before joining them in Haven. Probably involving an entourage and about seventy-three suitcases, if she’s a true Orlesian.

He chats with Sera, trying to distract her from poking at the Herald literally and figuratively. She is… an odd duck, but she’s funny at least. He’s glad she hasn’t run screaming into the hills yet.

They reach the valley without incident, and arrive at Haven to find the Commander waiting for them. He is tenser than usual. No wonder; Cassandra has sent word ahead.

“Herald!” he calls as Irene swings off her horse with all the grace of a druffalo. “I heard… that is… are you all right?”

She stumbles getting off, but bats his hands away when he reaches to steady her. Interesting. She brings her shoulders back, and though they are of similar height he seems so much smaller in the moment. “Fine, Commander. I’m fine. Val Royeaux won’t be. I did get approached by Grand Enchanter Fiona, though. Seems we have a better alternative to your precious templars,” she snarls.

He reels back as if struck. Varric winces. It’s a low blow, and the long road between Orlais’ capital and Haven has done nothing to soften her fury. A crowd is gathering, too, whispering among themselves.

Irene huffs and shoulders past him, heading for the gates, but stops short when Leliana, waiting on the steps, speaks.

“It’s more complicated than that,” she says calmly, voice ringing. She produces a folded paper. A report? “Your letter bore fruit. We have received a reply. You should read it before deciding.” She saunters back inside.

Irene takes a deep breath, then sprints after her.

~o~O~o~

Sister,

I believe a lot of things, true enough, but I could never believe that you would harm a hair on Colm’s head. He was a good man and I am sorry.

We hear very little, but what gets through is worrying. The rumors are vicious and I fear the Lord Seeker has done his best to promote them. What goes on outside fills me with dread, but what is happening here is worse. It is a thousand times worse. I do not wish to alarm you, but it is difficult to overplay the situation.

I am at Therinfal Redoubt, sister, with the remaining templars. The loyal templars, as we called ourselves at the start of the war. Oh, how arrogant we were. Our loyalty has been twisted. I don’t know what’s happening, but something stalks these halls.

I am sorry.

Julien

[timesorceror]

Anders Week 2017 #2

Gluttony // Temperance

The theme could be a side of Anders to explore, or something that has been inflicted/gifted to him by someone else in his life.

@teamblueandangry A bit of some soft Fenders for the soul: Fenris and Anders have a discussion about their drinking habits, both past and present.

Fenris knew that the mage didn’t drink, and that he often attributed his spirit’s dislike of... well, spirits.

“He once told Oghren that calling alcoholic drinks “spirits” was a humiliating word for it,” he recalled Anders telling his Diamondback group one evening. “I do still like the occasional drink, when I can afford the things I prefer.”

“And what things do you prefer then Blondie?” Varric asked. Fenris frowned at the dwarf, who was always asking personal questions so that he might write down the answers to put in his strange memoir. Fenris didn’t care for it, personally, and he knew that sometimes even Anders had his limits as to what he would and wouldn’t divulge to their private playing.

“Sweet things,” Anders surprised Fenris by replying. “Things like berry meads or certain light wines. You don’t often find such things around here.”

Anders had sighed, lamenting the lack of his favorite drinks. When their next session rolled around, Fenris rummaged through the wine cellar to see what other drinks he could offer his guests, only to be surprised when he found a bottle of mead that he recalled Anders mentioning the session prior.

He waited until after Varric and Donnic had left, and then and only then did he present it to Anders. The mage was understandably flabbergasted.

“W-What? Why? Did you... remember what I said last time?”

Fenris nodded, reluctantly.

“If you wouldn’t mind sharing it with me...” 

Anders stared at him, eyes slightly narrowed, assessing him. The mage likely suspected that he had some ulterior motive and planned to kill him, but Fenris had planned no such thing. He hoped that Anders could see that and not devolve into his usual rants of suspicion. Once, Fenris had participated in them wholeheartedly and gave as good as he got, but at some point they became less enjoyable and even started to hurt...

...a fact that Anders seemed to be noticing, but hadn’t yet figured out why.

That was just fine with Fenris. He himself was afraid of the feelings welling up inside him. For one, he knew what they were, and they scared him. 

Anders did not start ranting as Fenris had expected, but even as he nodded slowly and replied, “No, no, I don’t mind,” in a very calm, even tone, there was tension writ into the tightness of his arms, the hunch of his shoulders, and the way his eyes were still trained on him when Fenris led Anders up to his room so that they might share the drink in a more private setting.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” Fenris said as they sat down and Fenris opened the bottle. He’d even found some glasses earlier in the day and placed them on a small table between the plush, high-backed chairs he’d dragged before the fireside. He filled them, and handed one to Anders.

Anders took it, and at last his tension began to recede as he shook his head in disbelief. “I... I hope you do not think me insulting that I thought you were. We do not... this is not...” Fenris chuckled, and Anders startled at the sound, eyes wide with amazement. “I know. But I know that Varric and Donnic are not fond of such sweet indulgences, so naturally you were my choice to share this with.”

“You don’t really discriminate with your alcohol,” Anders said lightly, almost accusingly. “You picked this out for me specifically.”

Fenris looked away and drank from his glass as he stared into the fire. The sweetness of it lingered on his tongue as the rest of the pleasant burning slid down his throat. Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Surprisingly, it was Fenris who broke the silence. 

“You know, at first I didn’t like it,” he confessed, very quietly. Anders didn’t reply, but he could tell that the mage was listening intently.

“Danarius would give me some to taste, on occasion, but he preferred the bitter alcohols like Donnic and Varric, and at the time, I had no recollection of what it tasted like. I was not enthusiastic about the taste, but had to fake my enjoyment anyway. I was not certain of the reaction he’d been hoping for, but enjoyment always seemed to please him.”

“My mother would give me a little of my father’s ale sometimes,” Anders replied when Fenris had finished his story. “And it was Ferelden ale, so of course it was bitter, just like the people who drank it.”

Fenris snorted. “You’re Fereldan. As is Hayden. Neither of you are bitter people.” Then it was Anders’ turn to snort as he let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! Not bitter! I’m more bitter than a mother who’s only child left to become a cleric. I can’t really speak for Hayden, though I know that some bitterness lingers in them. Mostly towards their mother, but I shouldn’t say any more.”

Fenris told Anders about how when he was left with the Fog Warriors, they showed him what a sweeter drink tasted of, and though he glossed over the circumstances of his departure, he said that through them he learned to be more open and discerning about his drink.

Anders regaled him with tales of Circle mages making their own drinks in the dark, mostly forgotten places of Kinloch Hold’s tower, and as Anders continued to indulge in his drink, the stories became more and more elaborate. He did voices too, and sometimes got up to reenact some scenes that had Fenris curled up or bent over with laughter. 

Then the mage seemed to remember something painful, and he sat down with a tired smile. “Those were some of the few happy memories I had of that place... but after Karl was gone, I had no desire to stay.”

“You started escaping again.”

“Yes.”

Anders began to tell the tale of his sixth escape where he made it to Denerim and lived there for a year before being caught again.

“I drank a lot, then. I started out working at the Pearl as just a Healer, but then after one of the servicers talked me into wearing a corset and the Madame caught us doing it... she said I looked good in it and decided to hire me on.” 

A fond smile stretched Anders’ face, and Fenris had the strangest wish that the mage would smile more often. 

“I drank often, with my patrons. Some liked spoiling me, cause I was pretty. Some also shared my preference for sweet things, and couldn’t possibly finish an entire bottle on their own. Some even taught me how to appreciate some of the more bitter drinks, but I knew sweet drinks would always be my favorites.”

Then Anders sighed and bitterness lingered in the words that followed, “It was not to last. Though the Madame kept Templars away from me as best she could, one night there was a really fantastic orgy with like, six or seven people, including me and two other servicers. One of the patrons was a former Templar though, and turned me in right as soon as he sobered up.”

“And... after your escape? Did you drink with the Wardens?”

Anders snorted again as he polished off a glass and filled it up again.

“Did I drink with the Wardens,” he muttered, chortling. “Maker, did I ever. It’s hard to get drunk as a Warden, but I knew a dwarf, Oghren, who was like perpetually drunk. Strangely functional. You would’ve had nothing on this guy. He brewed his own ale that tasted like fire and despair and all you wanted after you finished the first shot was, “Another!””

He raised his glass of mead and downed it in several gulps. He filled it once more, but did not continue to drink as heartily.

“Nate, Sigrun, Velanna... even Rashia would sometimes join us for drinking competitions. Once, I woke up after one of those, layin’ up against the statue of Andraste in the keep’s courtyard, completely nude. My robes had ended up servin’ as my bed, I think, but my knickers –this was back when I’d started wearing them again– had ended up right on top of the head like a crown!”

Fenris descended into a fit of raucous laughter.

“I wish I could’ve stayed,” Anders lamented after Fenris’ laughter died down.

“Why didn’t you?” Fenris asked, and Anders sighed, setting his glass aside and shaking his head. “Some templars joined the order to try to get at me. They nearly would’ve, if not for Justice.” Anders bit his lip, staring intently at the floor.

“Some people might’ve died. Good people. The templars I didn’t care for, but the other Wardens... some of them were my friends...”

Anders pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them.

“After that, I did the only thing I knew I was good at, and I ran away. I haven’t really... really had a real drink since then except this –thanks for this by the way, it was nice– and I kinda figured that me not bein’ able to enjoy shit anymore was penance for my sins. And accordin’ to the Chantry, my very existence is a sin so... I’ve got a lot to be repentant about.”

“Anders...” 

Fenris didn’t like the ache in his chest that Anders’ words seemed to evoke. He figured that a lot of the details were missing and that Anders was probably saying things he wouldn’t normally say, but his tale about leaving the Wardens was... similar, eerily similar to his own sordid past.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he began, and Anders snorted, but Fenris kept going on, “about us being more alike than I thought.”

“What?” Anders’ word was barely above a whisper, but Fenris’ keen elven ears caught the sound. 

“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about killing people I care about and leave it at that, Anders. By your logic, I don’t deserve anything nice either, but Hayden... Hayden has taught me that I do. I can have and enjoy nice things. So can you!” Anders huffed, but a small smile made its way onto the mage’s tired face. “Huh. That’s got to be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me...”

Perhaps it was. Fenris felt guilty now for all of the untrue and hateful things he’d ever said, and he was about to give the mage an honest apology before Anders stood up and dusted off his coat before polishing off his last glass.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Anders mumbled. “I’ve missed that gentle buzz in the back of my head. It was nice.”

“I still have more of those,” Fenris said, on impulse.

“...oh? Do you?” Anders flashed him a tired grin and Fenris couldn’t help the flush that blossomed on his cheeks. Anders didn’t seem to notice, so he continued with, “Yes. Would you care to join me some other evening to share another? Perhaps with some food? Hayden still complains that you don’t eat enough.” Anders chuckled.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were asking me out on a date,” he mused, and Fenris stilled. Anders merely flashed him another smile and inclined his head to Fenris. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Just swing by whenever you’re ready. You know where to find me.”

And then the mage sauntered out of the room, leaving parts of Fenris very hot and bothered and not at all affected by the alcohol he’d just consumed.

Fasta vass. Now he was going to be dreaming about what that ass looked like underneath that coat and those robes. Did the mage still wear smallclothes, he wondered? Well, there were worse things to dream about, he supposed.

[shadowyin-yang]

For the prompt thing, something with Anders, Fenris, and Zevran, based around "I was mistaken, it seems. I was under the impression you were... Close"?

Send Me Prompts!

This turned a bit longer than intended…Idk if this is what you were looking for but here we go!

Link to Ao3 Chapter: here.

Misc notes: Pre-Fenders, feelings of jealousy, Zevran/Warden mentions

Stupid, ignorant elf who thinks he knows so much! Ugh! 

“Anders…!” The man didn’t stop walking or respond to his name. In fact, he hurried more in his steps. No, this day was over. He planned to go home, clean up, take a 5 minute nap before Justice kicks him back to work, and no more of…everything else! With all those days they spent in Sundermont Anders was just surprised he and Fenris didn’t snap at each other sooner. Guess it was too soon to hope that they’d make a trip out and back without feelings getting hurt…

Anders just reached the lift to Darktown when he heard his name again. He entered the lift and turned around just as Hawke approached. He could see Fenris and Varric taking their time in the distance. 

“I’m not apologizing!” Anders snapped before Hawke could open their mouth. Anders activated the lift without waiting for the others, not that Fenris would want to be near him anyway.

“I’m not asking you to apologize. I’m…apologizing on behalf of Fenris,” Hawke muttered the second half as the lift made a loud creak and started moving. 

“You’ve apologized for him enough!” Anders argued in frustration. 

“Mage!”

“Heads up you two!” 

Their attention snapped to their companions who were running towards them. A shadowy figure swooped in from the top and through the narrow space above before they were underground. An unfamiliar thud was heard above them but the mages paid it no mind as they both reached for their staffs. The magic in their hands sizzled when the figure swiftly removed his black hood. “Peace my friends! It is only I, the harmless Zevr-AH!” 

The lift stopped without warning, catching them all off guard and sending the mages off balance as they hit the ground. 

“…That was not part of my plan before you either of you decide to blame ol’ Zevran,” the elf stated when everything grew quiet. 

“Andraste’s Knickerweasels, did this stop moving?!” Anders looked up and patted the wall. There was barely any light coming into the lift. They were surrounded by the metal most of the ride was made out of as well as the earth mixed in with decaying wood. Anders always did figure some of this had to be replaced at some point before they lose an entrance - but not this soon! 

“Maker, you didn’t have to scare us like that,” Hawke stated, finally addressing Zevran after standing up.

“I got bored waiting. I had a delivery to make in-person; and I traveled all this way back to Kirkwall only to find who I was looking for was out with the Champion. I figured I might as well make a memorable entrance when the time came. Not exactly like this of course. I believe your friends may have mistaken me as an enemy.”  

“I wonder why…” Hawke replied sarcastically, noting Zevran covered in all black with light armor. Though Hawke couldn’t help but give a tilt in confusion upon noticing a small basket covered with fabric dangling from the assassin’s arm. Was Zevran delivering a picnic basket to (Hawke assumed was) Anders? 

Zevran only replied with a laugh, “That is fair. You have loyal friends, Champion. The dwarf almost shot me…but no harm done. To me anyway.” Despite the playful tone, Hawke could see Zevran’s eyes travel, examining their little boxed in situation. He eventually focused in at edge of the ceiling, where the little cracks of light from above barely came in. Hawke followed the other’s line of sight and saw a small dent at the roof of the lift. 

“Oh for Maker’s sake. Is that a bolt from Bianca?!”

“Bianca’s one strong woman.”

“Don’t tell Varric that. He’ll never stop reminding us then.” Hawke immediately warned. 

“Mage! Hawke!” 

“Fenris! Varric!” Hawke shouted back. Their barely lit space showed movement with constant moving shadows before it stilled again and Hawke could barely make out the silhouettes of their friends through the tiny gap. 

“Are you two hurt?” Varric shouted. 

“We’re fine! You gotta remove the bolt! We’re stuck!” 

“And the enemy?” Fenris asked. 

“It’s just Zevran!” 

“Just? You could not throw in a bit of flair?” 

“On it! You guys sit tight!” The silhouettes started moving again and Hawke looked back towards Zevran once they heard some creaking above them. 

“I guess they’ll finish with that soon. You know, if you were looking for Isabela, I’m pretty sure she’s still hanging around the Hanged Man. No pun intended.” 

“I shall pay her a visit before I leave, naturally. However, I was sent here to see Mi Amor’s old friend, Warden Anders…” Zevran’s amused face dropped as his eyes glanced towards the mage in question. Hawke turned around to find Anders curled up in the corner. 

“Hey…Anders!” Hawke immediately dropped to their knees and reached out, gently touching Anders’s shoulder. 

“I’mfine,” Anders muttered quickly between heavy breaths, his face buried in his knees. Anders flinched when they heard another loud creak and the lift dropped for a moment. “I’m…fine,” he repeated when everything stilled again. “It’ll over soon…right? It…it’s only a moment before we go down far enough to Darktown…” 

Hawke was ready to smack themselves upon realizing their surroundings a tad too late. They immediately summoned fire in one hand and their other hand softly caressed Anders’s back. “That’s right. They’ll get this moving soon, and we’ll be in Darktown. You’ll see.” Hawke had to resist rolling their eyes at the irony of seeking light in Darktown. 

Anders could only nod in reply. The lift jostled again and the only noise for a moment were of Varric and Fenris above them. 

“Meow…” 

Anders lifted his head. Was that…a hallucination? 

“Mew~” Soft fur, cute paws, and beautiful eyes. Zevran was knelt before Anders, holding out the basket he had. Underneath the small blanket was a cat staring curiously at Anders. Blocking out the world around him Anders reached out and lifted the cat and swiftly shifted himself to gain a better hold on the magnificent creature.

“Am I dreaming? Pounce, is that you?!” Anders gave the tabby a scratch on his stomach, and Pounce curled into the touch like he always did. Anders let out laugh and suddenly felt some tears about to run down his face. “Oh Pounce! It is you! Pounce…My little warrior! Who is the bravest cat in all of Thedas?~” Anders brought the cat to his chest and he could hear the soft purrs as Pounce rubbed against his face. 

The lift shook again before going into a brief drop followed by more creaking. But this time it moved at a regular pace, annoying screeches and all. Before long, light fluttered in as they finally reached Darktown, much to Anders’s relief. 

Fenris tapped the wall impatiently. By the time this lift goes down and back up, he could walk over to another entrance and probably still find his friends before he would get down there waiting on this entrance. 

“Calm yourself now, ya Broody Elf. You heard it was just that flirtatious assassin down with them. They’re fine. Isabela knows him, remember?” Varric reassured but it only had Fenris tapping faster.

“It is dark in there. And regardless if this Zevran is friends with Isabela or not, he is still an assassin.”

“I suppose that could be something worry about,” Varric rubbed his chin in thought, “But at least we’ll know who to kill if worst comes to worst.” 

Fenris grumbled to himself. 

The lift eventually came back up and the two made their way to Darktown only to find none of their companions were waiting for them at the bottom.

“Rude,” Varric stated as he started walking. Fenris didn’t have to be told as the two hurried towards the clinic. 

The lantern was out, but it didn’t stop the two as they continued until they pushed on the door. It opened easily and the two stepped inside before shutting it behind him. Fenris glared as he immediately spotted Zevran snooping around Anders’s desk - and Hawke stood by letting him do it! Sure, he wasn’t moving anything, but the nimble fingers were still touching and poking things!  

“I cannot believe you guys just left us! You realize were going to come right down didn’t you?” Varric was the first to speak as he walked up to the pair with Fenris silently behind him. 

“Sorry, we wanted to get Anders back to the clinic as soon as possible. The dark,” Hawke gestured vaguely at the clinic entrance and Varric gave an ‘ah’ in understanding. Fenris took that as a reason to check up on the mage. Without word he took a step towards the back of the clinic but Hawke’s hand reached out in front of him. “I think we should let him be for a bit.” 

Fenris stared, partially confused, but was quick to look away. He didn’t argue but his gaze dropped to the floor as a feeling of helplessness washed over him. 

Zevran turned to face the rest of the group, curious to what just occurred. He couldn’t, shouldn’t, but his lack of a guilty conscious regarding this particular situation didn’t cease the amusement he was feeling as he leaned back on the desk to watch how it will unfold. 

“Anders is fine, don’t worry. If you were worried I mean. I can’t tell sometimes.” Hawke stated, mostly for reassurance. Fenris only folded his arms but didn’t answer and continued to glare at the ground. “If it helps, I did get to telling him that I said sorry on your behalf before the whole thing went down!” 

“I do not need you apologizing on my behalf, Hawke…” Fenris had to force himself to speak slower, if for the sake not to sound angry. 

What is this? Has something occurred since the last time Zevran was in Kirkwall? He couldn’t help but do some more poking. Surely this something involved Anders, and when it involved Anders, it involved his dear Warden. That is reason enough to investigate the matter! He stopped leaning on the desk and started pacing around as he spoke. “Do not worry, my friend. Your favorite mage will be fine now that he has his favorite loved one in his arms again.” Zevran eyes didn’t miss the small twitch on the other elf’s face. 

“…What.” He could hear the shift in the pitch and saw the tenseness go up in the warrior. The dwarf must’ve noticed too with him pulling back from the group in silence while scribbling on a parchment. 

“Yeah, I suppose his cat is a loved one with the way he always talked about Pounce,” Hawke stated while scratching their head. “Oh yeah! Zevran here brought back Anders’s old cat! The one with the cute name? Ser Pounce-a-lot! Ah how do I even top that?”

The tenseness in Fenris significantly decreased. Zevran watched the way Fenris tried to regain control of his breathing to avoid letting out a sigh of relief - an obvious sign that even Hawke could pick up on if it had occurred. 

“Champion, perhaps we should leave. Fenris here clearly wishes to spend time with his own Amor.” There was a look of confusion on Fenris. That won’t do. So Zevran continued: “Amor. It comes in many names. My dove. My swan. My sun. Lover.” 

Hawke snickered, “Oh, yeah, because Anders means so much to Fenris.” Oh dear Champion. If only you knew. 

Fenris’s eyes widened and his body froze over. Those mere moments of vulnerability felt like ages to Fenris when finally, he regained control and shook his head furiously. “Do not be ridiculous and insinuate such a thing!” 

Zevran could only shrug in response. He could see how Fenris didn’t like how the grin never left. “Oh? My apologies then, my friend. I was mistaken, it seems. I was under the impression you were…Close? Perhaps it was someone else that Warden Anders spoke of in his letters to his former Commander.” 

Zevran felt he had to be rewarded for not laughing right then and there. In just seconds he watched Fenris try to silently decipher what was just said. The warrior’s emotions would then jump all the over the place. Zevran could pick up a hint of hurt and confusion in the other, and then Fenris would try to get his body to act as neutral as possible to the untrained eye. 

“Are you guys talking behind my back again?” Everyone’s attention drifted to the back of the clinic where Anders pushed aside the fabric that blocked the entrance to his ‘room’ and started approaching. Anders still cuddled Pounce in his arms. 

“Not at all,” Zevran waved off, “I simply mentioned you still spoke with Mi Amor.”

“Ah, well, we do-” Anders didn’t even get to finish when Fenris swiftly walked up to him and grabbed one of the man’s arm. He effectively stopped Anders in his tracks and attempted to turn him around to pull him back to the room but Anders stubbornly refused to move (not unless Fenris wanted to start dragging him). Fenris stopped pulling and looked back to Anders who was effectively glaring him down. 

“I need word,” Fenris stated as if that was enough to convince Anders. 

“Yeah and? I’m still pissed at you.” Anders pulled his hand back and properly cuddled his cat closer. 

Fenris sighed. “I apologize for my behavior earlier. I wish to properly mend what happened with you if you let me. But I still need word with you. Alone.” 

Anders looked back to the others in confusion. Varric seemed keen to keep writing on his parchment while sitting on a cot. Hawke just shrugged, looking as confused as Anders was. 

“Go on, we shall be right here. No harm, yes?” Zevran encouraged, trying to wave the two off. 

“Alright but if I die, you guys all know the culprit right?” with that agreement, Anders followed Fenris back to his room while snuggling his cat to his face. “It’s okay, Pounce. I won’t let meanie-Fenris treat you badly. If Daddy dies, you run though, okay?” 

“Meow?” Anders’s soft laugh was the last thing heard before he and Fenris disappeared behind the cloth. 

Zevran clasped his hands together to give himself a feeling of accomplishment. He swiftly started heading towards the door and putting on his headgear while doing so. Hawke seemed to follow his example as they picked up their staff. 

“What, you’re both leaving? Not going to stay for the show?” Varric gestured to the back of the clinic. Hawke only blinked in confusion. 

“The what? I mean if you want to make sure they don’t kill each other, that would be great. I need to get home and see if my dog’s okay! He’s been alone for days!” 

“Alright, but if you pass Isabela, send her down here. You staying?” Varric asked Zevran as he fixed up his cloak.  

“I regretfully cannot,” Zevran answered. “I will stop by again to see you though, Champion. I seem to have misplaced a letter in my robe somewhere…I shall find it, no worries. I will keep an eye on Isabela if I pass her. For now, I have other matters to attend to.” One of them being to escape from here before Fenris learns that Anders hasn’t spoken of any lover in his letters to his former Commander.