#velarric

[dementation]

sketch dump from a recent starwars 5e session, feat. my dumbass chiss zishak nat 1-ing his sleight of hand check to avoid laughing out loud at the mention of a sith noble family that was publicly executed, and subsequently dragging his jedi friend norvarro down in the process. also zishak is spice buddies with our newest party member and resident tweaker chestol. + i wanted to draw the non-force using gang (chestol, zishak, and SIS agent velarre) out for drinks/general fun. aaaaaand acanaar+norvarro jedi bestieism. i love star wars.

[lyrium-lavellan]

In Confidence

*a conversation had in a quiet corner of Skyhold between two best friends about the possible necessity for a wingman*

Hawke: Will you write her story too?

Varric: Who? What’re you talking about, Hawke?

H: The Inquisitor, of course. You’re sweet on her, Varric. I can tell.

V: How do you figure that?

H: It’s not hard to notice, you know. The whole ‘making calf-eyes at each other during important missions’ thing is a little obvious. Not to mention how you look at her... And the kitchen maids are only too happy to share whispers of your nocturnal activities. Or at least the fact that you hardly spend the night in your own room.

V: Not so loud, please! Andraste’s sacred knickers, you really haven’t learned the art of subtlety.

H: Neither have you, from what I hear. Probably spend your nights pining for her like an idiot. You know she likes you too, right?

V: Hm?

H: Maker, Varric. Haven’t you noticed? She looks at you like you’re made of solid gold. Reminds me of Merrill, actually.

V: I guess so. But that’s just her personality, though. Too nice for her own good.

H: The Inquisitor’s fallen hard, Varric. Take it easy on her.

V: Don’t worry. But I think it’s her who’s gonna have to go easy on me. 

H: And here I thought you didn’t go for the hero types!

V: She’s not a hero. She’s just a normal person caught in the middle of all this shit, like you and me.

H: Then why is she called Inquisitor?

V: Convenient title. Besides, Inquisitor Velahris Lavellan - it has a nice ring to it, eh?

H: That’s her name? And you call her Clover? How’d you get there?

V: Long story. Tell you over drinks later.

H: Hey, V, if you ever need a wingman...

V: If I ever do, Hawke, you’ll be the first to know.

[creativerogues]

Newly Fashionable Curses Of The Realms

Forging the Realms - By Ed Greenwood

Curses in the Realms change over time, and Ed provides you with some colorful curses you can add to your game.

ALTHUR’S SPIDERGOUT

Whenever those afflicted by this curse try to speak, a spider of a random sort (possibly harmless, possibly not) is teleported from somewhere in Faerûn into their mouths. It might be facing outward, and it might not. 

(There’s apparently a similar “toadgout” curse, but thus far Elminster has only heard rumors and has not seen it with his own eyes.)

BALARTHRAN’S RECURRING PROFANITY

Whenever victims try to speak, they must concentrate or the word will be replaced by a full-volume utterance of a word selected by the bestower of the curse (which may not be a rude word; often it is something like “kill” or “murder” or “guilty,” to make others wary of the speaker).

CLOAHKAUDRA’S FOLLICULAR FURY

Victims of this curse grow hair with astonishing speed—all over their bodies. 

It covers their features, interferes with vision, smell, speech and other oral activities, makes clothes tight and movement-restrictive, and may make many observers think the afflicted beings are turning into some sort of wild beast. 

If the hair is cut while the curse is ongoing, it grows all the faster in the shorn spot. 

This growth draws on the victim’s vitality, causing the victim to grow unhealthy. 

If the victim’s fortitude is sufficient to overcome the curse, the curse ends. 

If the victim fails to overcome the curse after another span of time, such as an hour, it continues, though the victim might still find the fortitude to vanquish this curse.

HANRA’S LEAKING LIQUESCENCE

Victims of this curse perspire profusely and heavily. 

Hair is rapidly drenched, clothing becomes wringing wet, eyesight is repeatedly hampered unless an absorbent headband is worn (and itself wrung out or replaced frequently), and dehydration rapidly occurs. 

Eventually, drinking must become almost continuous to keep up with water loss (failure to do so brings on dizziness, nausea, then loss of balance, and finally loss of consciousness). 

When sleep or unconsciousness comes, the afflicted has a chance to withstand the curse and be rid of it. 

If the victim fails to do so, the curse goes into remission for one day and night, but returns the next day—and at next unconsciousness or slumber, the afflicted one has another chance to throw off the curse, but it becomes more difficult with each such attempt.

JARRAKAL’S HALLUCINATIONS

When those afflicted by this curse looks at the faces of (human) strangers, they instead see the faces of humans they know but haven’t seen for years. 

This curse waxes and wanes (though victims won’t know when it’s operating or not), but ends instantly and for good—though the afflicted won’t be aware of it ending, at that moment—if those thus afflicted look at a face that is magically disguised.

JONATHA’S CLUMSINESS

Whenever victims try to grasp an item or perform any tasks of exacting dexterity (such as write something, thread a needle, or fasten a button), they must concentrate to do so. 

Trying to catch a moving item or grasp a live and mobile being requires even more focus. 

This curse lasts for five hours before a victim can attempt to remove it through sheer force of will (though magical means of removal can work instantly if used). 

If the victim cannot throw off the curse, it continues for another hour, whereupon the victim can try again to will it out of existence. 

Unless the victim breaks the curse or it is removed by magical means, it continues.

METALBANE

Victims of this curse can’t hold or touch metal—things of metal (not rock with metal ores in it, but all pure metal, whether alloys or of a single element) pass harmlessly through those so afflicted by this curse. 

So they can’t handle coins or most weapons (unless they bind the hilts completely in something), do up buckles, wield most tools, or perform most cooking tasks, and so on. 

This condition lasts for four hours before the victim has enough strength of will to make an initial attempt to break it; after those first four hours pass, the afflicted one can focus each hour to attempt to remove it.

ZULT’S UNQUIET SLUMBER

Whenever the afflicted ones fall asleep, they suffer wild spasms and cramps in their limbs. 

The pain of these spasms jolts them awake from the pain, since their limbs jerk about violently and uncontrollably. 

(Victims risk hitting themselves or their limbs against something hard and unyielding unless they succeed at being nimble enough to avoid such painful situations.)

After a day, victims can, by means of their inherent fortitude, break the curse on their own. 

Failure sees them dealing with the curse for another day, plus they begin to have issues with agility due to having an increasingly unclear mind. 

Such losses to dexterity and their ability to process the world around them mount until lasting sleep is achieved by the curse being removed or running out, or these losses can stop if magically- or herbally-induced deep slumber occurs and lasts for eight hours or more.

There are more, Elminster warns, that he’s still learning about. He added that he’s far more interested in tracking down a copy of one of Velarr’s protection spells that cause curses to rebound—but thus far, such magic still eludes him.

[lyrium-lavellan]

THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER IM-😭💖🌺

[lyrium-lavellan]

Red Inside, Eating You Up

It was Vel who heard it first. The low, mournful melody of the stone - eking its way into her brain, corrupting her from the inside out.

“Do you hear it?” She spoke softly, barely a murmur over the noise of the prison. Clanging steel gates, screaming prisoners, the crying of the desperate.

“Hear what?” Varric replied, looking up at her to find her face empty, devoid of emotion. At the corner of her eye was a line of red, just beneath the skin. It glowed inside her, a sickly red warmth.

“The song.” Vel says, eyes blank and drifting into the darkness beyond their cell. “It’s beautiful, but so sad.”

Varric pauses for a moment, looking down at his hands.

“I know, Clover. I know.”

----------

He was glad he couldn’t see himself. Almost a year in a prison had him a little worse for wear - most notably, at least to him, the fact he hadn’t been able to shave. His beard grew in thick and fast, unpleasant and unwanted. Vel didn’t seem to mind, nuzzling her face up against his cheek.

“You look good with a beard, Varric.” Vel added, curling herself up into his lap with practiced ease. It was less difficult to fit her there, now - her frame was bony and pale, sickened and so small. Her tiny, thin hands found their way to Varric’s exposed chest, eventually wrapping themselves around his neck. They were cold and clammy against his skin, but he didn’t care.

He pulled her against his chest, taking off his duster to wrap it around her. She shivered slightly at the flutter of wind created by his movement, and he quickly pulled her in, tucking her head flush against his chest. 

“Really, Clover? Hm. I don’t like it. Isn’t it scratchy?” He huffs, planting his chin on the top of Vel’s head.

“No. It feels like home.” Vel speaks, her voice drifting into a whisper.

“Then I guess I’ll keep it. Just a little longer, though.”

----------

She got worse quicker than Varric thought she would.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” She whispered, crawling her way to him in the dark.

“Hey, don’t talk like that. Someone’ll come for us, Clover. There’s... There’s gotta be someone still out there.” Varric wrapped her small, spindly frame in his arms, trying in vain to comfort her.

“Varric, look at me.” Vel tugs his chin down, forcing him to look. Her skin was sunken and grey, lips cracked and eyes starting to crystallize. She hadn’t slept in days- no, weeks. How long had it been since they’d eaten? “I’m dying.”

“If we’re going to die here, tell me the story of her. Of Bianca.” She asked, her voice hoarse with pain. 

“I made a promise, Vel. I can’t just...” Varric starts, before being interrupted.

“The world is gone, Varric. Tell me the story. Please?”

“I... Alright, Petal. I’ll tell you.”

“Petal? That’s new.” Vel’s lips quirked into a tired smile.

“I can’t keep calling you Clover, now can I?”

“Suppose not. And Varric?” Vel mumbles, lifting her head up slightly to meet his eyes.

“Hm?” Varric hums in question before Vel presses her lips to his. It was a long, slow kiss, ending with their foreheads pressed together, sad smiles on both of their faces.

“If I’m going to die, there’s no one I’d rather die with than you, Storyteller.”

[lyrium-lavellan]

C R I M S O N  S I L K  &  C L O V E R  F L O W E R S

Vel and Varric are my ultimate OTP and it shows

[lyrium-lavellan]

#24 Tender for Vel/Varric please? :)

24. Tender - for Vel and Varric @dalish-rogue

She was nothing like Bianca. She was tender and compassionate, sweet and genuine. She trusted fully, loved without reservation, and Varric fell for her much faster than he should have.

“So, you and the Boss, huh? Lucky.” Bull half-whispers to Varric over a pint of ale in the Herald’s Rest. He seemed almost jealous, but who wouldn’t be? Vel was who she was. Not to mention, she did have a look about her. That sweet, doe-eyed elven face that made his bones turn to jelly.

“Am I? I feel like any minute, the Seeker’s going to come in and lop my head off for getting too close to her.” Varric laughs, only slightly serious. He knew that Cassandra wouldn’t dare. Vel had gone through enough as of late.

“Hey, everyone needs a distraction. Just so happens that yours is Vel.” Bull shrugs, leaning over the table to order another round. Vel walks into the tavern, slipping into the seat next to him and tucking her hand in his under the table.

“Long day?” Varric says, chuckling softly.

“You can say that again.” She smiles slightly, pressing her thumb into his palm. The gentle, affectionate touch made him sigh. “I could go for a drink.”

Send prompts for either Vel/Varric, Nehri/Solas, Ari/Bull or Isolde/Sten!

[lyrium-lavellan]

45. Svelte fir Vel x Varric!! *cough* 🍆

45. Svelte - for Vel and Varric

Vel’s form was slender, but not skinny. Her skin was supple and soft, warm and blush-pink beneath Varric’s fingers. He was out of practice. It had been too long - but he was glad he’d waited. She was worth it. She smiled up at him, red hair fluttered against the pillows.

“Are you alright, vhenan?” She asks, a tinge of curiosity and concern in her voice. She reaches a hand up to cup Varric’s face, tracing her thumb over his lips. Her hands were soft. Every inch of her was soft and forgiving, feminine and...

“Yeah. It’s just... You’re beautiful, Clover.” He says, smiling brightly. “I’m trying to find the words to describe you, but I can’t.”

“Then don’t speak, Varric. Deeds are good enough for me.” She smirks, pulling him down into a heated kiss.

Send prompts for either Vel/Varric, Nehri/Solas, Ari/Bull or Isolde/Sten!

[lyrium-lavellan]

Vel and Varric!! For the ship thing!

My babies!!! AAAA

Who wakes up first?

Usually Vel. City boy Varric didn’t have to wake up before dawn to help move the aravels.

Who falls asleep first?

It’s always Vel. Varric likes to keep watch over her and make sure nothing will harm her, then snuggle in and wrap his arms around her. His sweet little spoon :3

What they playfully tease each other over?

For Vel, it’s usually over Varric’s dwarfiness. And vice versa, Varric makes fun of Vel’s elfiness. Something like “Oh yes, your Paragon-ness!” “That’s not the word for it, Clover.” “Well, I can’t help that the dwarves have weird names for things!” and so on.

What they do when the other’s having a bad day?

Vel will try and pull Varric away from his desk and into bed. She’ll sing him Dalish lullabies and tell him stories, combing out and braiding his hair. Then she’ll let him take a nap, tucking him in and planting a little kiss on his forehead. Varric would always take Vel aside and ask if she’s doing alright. He knows she has a difficult job, especially post-Trespasser, and especially since she’s an elf. If she’s having trouble, he’ll take the rest of the day off to work in the gardens with her. It reminds her of home, and he’d never admit it but it’s calming for him too, to watch her at work. Also, the dirt smudges on her face are precious.

How do they say “I’m sorry” after arguments?

Vel’s apologies are wordless. She simply presses a hand against him, letting him know that she’s there. Varric verbally apologizes, sometimes profusely. 

Which one’s more ticklish?

Actually, Varric.

Their favorite rainy day activities?

Sleeping in! Also, playing with the kids and occasionally, doing dramatic readings of the Chant of Light in various funny voices.

How they surprise each other?

Vel will put together a little surprise based on either the kids or her garden. Varric is usually the one to go all out on surprises - expensive and extravagant. Only the best for his lady wife 💖

Their most sickening displays of public affection?

Varric grabs Vel’s butt when he thinks no one is looking. Also, heavy petting at the Hanged Man is a thing 😂

Send Me A Ship!

[lyrium-lavellan]

Helpless

Varric has written many stories in his time. He considers himself an expert on the subject. However, when it comes time to write his own, he has some difficulty finding the words.

Looking at her leaves him starstruck. He swoons over the smallest gesture: the way she examines ancient texts, the tenderness with which she carries the dusty, crumbling old tomes. The way her fingers trace the elven words, wishing the subtleties of her people’s bygone language would come to her in a dream. 

The curve of her neck as she stretches in her chair, the bend of her spine as she reaches gracefully over his own shoulder to snatch a few pages of unfinished work. The playful tug of her lips upward, the crinkling of her nose and the corners of her eyes as she smiles.

“You’re staring again, Varric. Why?” Her voice is soft, curious and inviting.

And in a single moment, he’s wordless. Mute. Defenseless. He wanted her - only her. His beautiful Flower of the Dales and a bottle of cheap whiskey, in a comfortably dingy tavern with a witty name. He wanted a world of their own where he’d never have to leave her bed before dawn. A universe in which they could exist in an imperfect, natural synchrony together, without secrecy or remorse. His heart was tangled up in longing, the desire to make the world perfect for her. To make it work for both of them. 

He wants to hear her sing again. The notes, too familiar to ever forget. He played the moments over and over again in his mind: the warm touch of her hand against his cheek as the lilting lullaby fluttered from her lips. She’d thought he was dying, and for all intents and purposes he had been. If Solas hadn’t been there to help him, well... He didn’t want to think about what could have been.

“Don’t forget me, vhenan.” She had said, teary eyed and weak, as she tried in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his wound. She was covered in his blood from her chest to her thighs, her hands slick, the metallic scent of it thick in the air. It came too fast. He didn’t even get to say goodbye. To ask what the word meant. But now he knew.

It meant love. Permanence, finding peace at last. It meant whatever the user needed it to mean. For Vel, it was a home, simple and honest and enduring. For Varric, it meant the final resting place for his fragile, world-weary heart. But what they had went beyond love. It grew strong and deep in the fibre of their beings, their very souls entangled like the chains at the bottom of Kirkwall’s harbor. Together, their histories told a story like no other. A fairy tale he was determined to compile. He just had to ask.

He opens his mouth.

“You’ve got an elfroot stain on your forehead, petal.”

[lyrium-lavellan]

The aesthetics of all my OCs are wildly different and I just love them so much!!! I had a bunch of thoughts and needed to write ‘em down so here’s some pairing aesthetics!

Vel and Varric are busy taverns with clever names serving cheap, shitty ale; ink-stained hands dripping color onto each other’s skin. The sound of coins clinking on well-worn tables, backs pressed up against doors. They are confidence and ease. They are knowing.

Ari and Bull are bloody hands and war paint, the rhythm of the drums like the thumping of still-beating hearts torn from the chests of gods. They are instinct and desire, ripped sheets and heated kisses. They are primal.

Nehri and Solas are an endless, flat sea - magnificent and green, the calm after a storm. And yet, they are the storm. They are the wind in the trees, the howling of the wolves on a frigid winter’s night. They are omnipotent- they are divine.

Ash and Dorian are the softness of marble in the hands of a master sculptor, humid summer evenings soaked in wine and sweat. They are the soft touch of silk, a high-cut collar angled dangerously upward towards the heavens. They dare to defy. They are rebellion.

Teya and Sera are terrible jokes and toothy grins, the cool touch of a sharp blade against the skin. They are the lights in the city on a foggy night, and the danger lurking behind every shadow. They are blasphemous - They are irreverence.

Cassia and Blackwall are honeysuckle blossoms and lamb’s wool, the crocuses peeking through the snow in the first warm days of spring. They are the calloused hands of laborers, the courage of soldiers, memories of hardship never to be forgotten. They are virtue - They are righteous.

[lyrium-lavellan]

I call this one “My pregnant fiancé is about to do something incredibly brave and stupid and I need to be there to witness it”

[lyrium-lavellan]

Vows

“Be careful with my daughter, Master Tethras. She has a tender heart. I would not see it broken.” Vel’s father speaks, more of a suggestion than a warning. He was a strikingly mild-mannered man, compared to his outgoing and confident wife.

“Oh, ‘Athi, he will! Stop fretting. She’ll have every comfort! He is the Viscount, after all.” Her mother defends Varric before he can answer for himself. She stood, almost protectively, between himself and Vel’s father, hands on her hips defiantly.

Speaking with them, he noticed his fiancee’s resemblance to her parents much easier. Her father’s quiet, calm disposition and fiery red hair. Her mother’s blue eyes and enthusiasm, occasionally her temper. But she was still remarkably, uniquely herself. Velahris Lavellan. Velahris Tethras, in a few moments.

“I know, vhenan. I know. I’m pleased she chose well. But enough of that. They should be ready now, yes?” His soon to be father-in-law leads the large party of guests to the Grand Cathedral. It was a bright spring day in Val Royeaux - dew slipped off the petals of flowers in the gardens, and a light fog hung in the air. It was cool, but not uncomfortable. Sunlight glittered off the miraculously flat sea. The perfect day for a wedding. For his wedding.

Varric twiddled his thumbs while he walked. He felt as if someone had dropped a lead ball into his stomach. He wasn’t used to being anxious. Not anymore, at least. The sash at his waist suddenly felt a little too tight. Maker, it still didn’t feel real. After all the years he spent alone, the decades he’d pined for Bianca... He was hardly the age to be marrying, let alone...

His thoughts drifted to Vel, and their child. His child. He’d never known fear like what he’d felt when she told him. Not for himself, but for her. He wasn’t entirely certain she’d even survive the Council. He sat beside her, replacing the bandages on her arm after it had been amputated. Hoping, praying that she would pull through. And she did. She always did. 

“Nervous?” Ashara leans in, sensing his anxiety.

“Of course.” Varric confesses, seeing no reason to lie. 

“Good man. You’ll do fine.” Myathilen, Vel’s father, claps him on the shoulder.

-----------

Vel looked otherworldly. Her wedding gown, a wisp of white sheer silk with gold embroidery lining her neck, just barely skimmed the floor. Her left arm, or what remained of it, was cleverly concealed beneath a heavy fur cloak, while her right arm was adorned with jeweled bracelets and one long sleeve split down the middle, each side drifting in the slight breeze afforded by the open chantry doors.  Her hair was braided intricately and tucked beneath a fine lace veil. Her ethereal appearance drew gasps, but he could barely focus - until her eyes met his, and she smiled.

“You look... spectacular.” Varric says, breathless. As she drew closer, he could see the glittering green tones woven into the fabric. It reminded him of the Breach, merely a rippling scar in the heavens now. The soft swell of her stomach was well hidden beneath her skirts, and he silently thanked Josephine for being able to conceal her condition.

“You’re not so bad yourself. Who chose that outfit of yours?” Vel whispers, leaning in close to plant a kiss on Varric’s cheek.

“Ah. Sparkler helped me pick it. Or, forced me to let him toss clothes at me until I found something I didn’t hate. And you?” He observed his own outfit subconsciously - they were matching, as the former ambassador had insisted upon. He hoped she was happy with the outcome. His usual duster and tunic were replaced with magnificent(and ridiculously expensive) robes. A high, angular collar transitioned into a buttoned golden doublet. To match his wife-to-be, he had a cape fastened and draped over his shoulder. A red sash was wrapped around his waist. Dorian had insisted on loose-fitting trousers, which were then tucked into high boots. He didn’t fully understand the nuances of fashion, but he’d wear just about anything if it would make Vel happy.

“Vivienne’s tailor. Though, Josephine and Leliana made a few suggestions. I’ve got twelve knives in my skirt. Twelve! I’ll have to show you later.” Vel snickers a little before pulling back, placing her hand out.

“Now that’s the Vel I know.” Varric murmurs, pride in his voice, before taking her small hand in his.

He could just barely catch the hint of Vel’s perfume as she spoke her vows. It was light and floral, perfect for spring by all accounts. It reminded him of the gardens in Hightown, lilac and wisteria in bloom, petals drifting onto passersby. He wondered if Vel would like to have a garden in Kirkwall. He supposed she would.

He finally understood what Cole meant. Her voice does sound like lyrium’s song.

His own voice almost faltered as he said his vows. He’d prepared for days, reciting, re-writing them to be perfect. Flawless. But all that preparation went out the window when the time came. So instead, he spoke from the heart.

“I promise, to the Maker, and to whoever else is listening... I promise to keep you safe, care for you, and love you always. Your heart will always be safe with me. You’re the only person who’s ever left me speechless, Clover. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Varric uttered the last sentence quietly, pulling his wife in for a kiss to seal their fate. It reminded him of her height, but he didn’t mind. She was the only person he cared to look up to.

The applause was thunderous, every single person rising from their seat. Varric couldn’t help but smile as he watched a grin pull at his new wife’s cheeks.

“Drinks, husband?” Vel spoke only to him.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, wife.” Varric winked, and led her out of the Grand Cathedral.

[lyrium-lavellan]

It's Tethravellan positivity hours and I'm so glad I'm not alone in this ship anymore 😊 you're all wonderful and I can't thank you enough for sticking with me through this rarepair hell! I'm so flattered that there are people out there who love my sweet babey Velahris as much as I do 😘💖🌺

Also I finally made their playlist public! Find it Here!

[lyrium-lavellan]

Yeah so This Song reminds me of Vel and Varric? Dunno why it just does

[lyrium-lavellan]

Copper Marigolds

In an instant, Varric’s whole world changed. He’d just fallen out of the Fade, turned back, and saw the Inquisitor glowing. Although, not a rarity for her, it was different this time. It wasn’t the Anchor. It was... her. 

Before he could call out to her, she’d created a wall of fire around herself, burning the remaining demons and corrupted Wardens to ash. He could see her outline behind the magically summoned flames, kneeling on the stones, her arms outstretched trying to maintain the barrier.

He ran through the flames without thinking, dropping Bianca as the barrier parted to allow him in. Cassandra tried to follow, but the gap closed after he entered.

The woman he found behind those flames was not Vel. Or at least, she was not the Vel he remembered.

His Vel, the Dalish with eyes softer than warm summer rain and a smile sweeter than her favorite cakes. Enthusiastic and kind, who happily recalls her dreams at breakfast for all who will listen. The woman who weaves flower crowns for children, keeping hers until it has long since wilted away. Who mumbles incoherent elven in her sleep, who hates to wear her hair long. The innocent, sweet thing who cried when she killed a dragon and who blushes all the way to the tips of her ears when embarrassed.

This woman was Vel beneath all that - the broken core of her being. Her face was contorted in a guttural scream, blood dripping from her nose down onto her armor. There was fear in her eyes unlike anything he’d ever seen before. She was not simply afraid - she was terrified. She gripped her left hand with her right, clawing at it as she cried. She was scared of herself.

She dropped to her knees, battered and bruised, and the wall of fire that had protected her collapsed around them. Varric dove to catch her in his arms, rocking her against his chest as she sobbed. Her hands shook. Her entire body shook.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She repeats the broken syllables, again and again, voice hoarse and gravelly. “I didn’t... I’m not... It was an accident... I can’t!” she stared at her hands in shock and disbelief - soft, dainty hands which still glowed with the remnants of the magic flames she’d called forth.

“Shh, Clover. I’m here. Everything’s gonna be alright.” Varric pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes the blood from her face, trying not to smear it further. Her head lolls against his hand and she looks up at him with the same lyrium-blue eyes, now bloodshot and brimming with tears. Wet teardrops roll down her cheeks and over his fingers, but he doesn’t wipe them away.

“Don’t let them take me. Please don’t let them take me!” Vel cries out, reaching up to grip the collar of Varric’s duster. He pulls her in closer, forming himself into a protective shield around her.

“Nobody’s gonna take you from me. Not ever.” He speaks, slow and soft, pulling her hair back from her face and tucking her legs over his arm. It was at that moment he realized he’d left Bianca behind, tossed her to the side before he ran into the wall of flames. Shit...

He knew what he had to do. It reminded him of Hawke, what he’d said before they left for the fortress:

Bianca’s a memory, Varric. You’ll never get her back. So stop dwelling on the past and start thinking about the future. The Inquisitor cares for you, and I know you care for her too. I’ve seen how you look at her. We all have. Just say it. Tell her.

“I love you, Vel. I’ll always keep you safe. I promise.” Varric’s voice faltered, the words falling from his lips in a graceless whisper. He pulled her tighter still, his knees aching from pressing against the hard stone. He could feel her breathing slow, cool tears dripping onto his chest as she calms.

“Don’t leave me, Varric. Please...” Vel says, a pitiful whimper escaping her lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clover.” Varric murmurs, his voice quieter now than it was. He pulls himself to his feet, carrying Vel with ease. She truly was a wisp of a thing, though her long legs hung awkwardly over the side of his arm. Cassandra was the first to speak.

“A mage? How could she hide that? Why?” The Seeker asks, just as shocked as the rest of the witnesses. Varric does not reply, instead focused on Vel’s white-knuckled fists clenched onto the lapels of his duster. He keeps walking, not stopping until he finds a suitable mount for the two of them.

There will be no copper marigolds in this tale. No, their story is silver moonlight and a stolen kiss. Honeyed words and strong wine, scandalous secrets shared in the dark. Their story is crimson silk and clover flowers.

His mind lingered on the words long after she’d fallen asleep, slumped in his arms on the cart ride back to Skyhold. He rewrote the first few paragraphs in his head, longing for a pen and paper. For the time being, he’d simply have to remember it.