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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 6 years

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“The Gift” - Shelter from the Storm Excerpt

Excerpt from ongoing Cullen x F!Adaar Inquisitor x Josephine fic, “Shelter from the Storm.” Read the posted work here.

Herah Adaar and Josephine Montilyet give Cullen gifts he never realized he wanted. (3114 words, sfw.)

The brazier burned low as Cullen pored over the reports on the large war table, shifting his attention from the pages in hand to the map in turns. Condensed, conservative script blurred together on the page and his hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose, a familiar irritation blooming over his temples. It had been a long day, with an uncharacteristically long jaunt down the mountain path as a surprise for the soldiers, and apparently now was the opportune time for the hurts of the day to assemble on his brow. He sighed, standing from his chair to unbuckle his cuirass, removing it and his heavy fur mantle. Perhaps the Maker will show me a sign of what to do next, he mused, setting his armor neatly at his side.

A knock sounded at the door before opening it a crack, a familiar face - but whose name he was shamed he could not recall - sneaking past the entrance. “Commander Cullen, the Inquisitor requests your attendance to her apartment,” the young runner said, all hair and brow in the doorway. The boy had hardly heard his reply before shutting the door again. Cullen sighed and ran his gloved hand through his hair, huffing at the errant lock at his brow that threatened to curl over his temple.

It had been only two weeks since her return from the disastrous trip to the Emerald Graves, and she had not been permitted to leave her tower since her arrival back at Skyhold. Her closest council had been invited to her apartment in turns since she arrived, keeping her company in her recovery and apprised of the goings on of the organization in her absence. He had to admit he admired her, running the ever-growing Inquisition from the confines of her bedroom; he shuddered to think of himself in her shoes. She was a powerful figure, commanding and giving respect, a well-loved leader…

He cut himself off from following the path his thoughts turned to, remembering his emotional outburst to Josephine in this very room some weeks ago, and the actions that followed soon after. “Maker’s breath, I’m not some child of a man with his first look at a woman,” he chided himself, though his face still burned with a flush at the thought of Herah and Josephine.

Of the possibilities of them, together.

His hand rose to rub his neck nervously. Cullen quickly retrieved his armor and his reports, securing each in hand as he strode from the war room, making his way through the halls of Skyhold Keep to Herah’s apartments.

He had reached the inner door of the tower when he heard her laughter, a loud, lively sound like the crash of a rapid river against its bank. An unspoken question was answered before it was formed when he heard Josephine’s muffled voice reply, the words uncertain but her accent crisp and clear on the air. Distracted, Cullen reached forward to knock on the door only to miss the solid panel, instead batting at the air. With a slight frown he connected solidly with the door, rapping confidently at the unadorned wood.

“Come in,” Herah called from the room beyond, and he walked in, tensed slightly with nerves.

The room smelled of crisp mountain air, the smaller balcony opened to let the night sky in, and the fire smoldered merrily in the hearth. Herah sat at a circular table, as he’d seen her before, positively glowing in the soft firelight. She smiled as he crested the stairs.

“Cullen, thank you for joining us,” she said, her voice warm with something he couldn’t quite place through the distracting view his eyes took in. Her tunic was unbuttoned down her chest to reveal the top of her bandages over the height of the table, a startling display, although necessary. Color flushed high on her sharp cheekbones and for a moment he worried until he saw the tray of food and bottle of wine sitting before her, and… three glasses.

A confused smile twisted his lips and he met her welcome with a nod. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well, my lady,” he said with a slight bow.

She dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. “Enough with the ‘my lady’ business, at least in private?” she asked, meeting his eyes. She gave a small smirk. “I would hope that we are all closer friends than that.”

It was his turn to blush, which only brought a giggle from Josephine, who sat at Herah’s side, their fingers entwined on the table. A third chair waited, presumably for him, but it took a wave of Josephine’s hand to get him to sit. He carefully arranged his armor at his feet before he met their eyes, a slight flush blooming over his skin.

Their eyes looked over his face and they shared some secret glance between them, smiles turning their lips. With a contented sigh Josephine stood, her ruffled dress swishing as she moved. He watched her move across the room and rustle for something in the shadows beyond.

“She’s really something, isn’t she?”

Herah’s quiet words caught his attention and he quickly shifted his attention, finding her green eyes on his face. Her oak-colored skin was bronzed in the firelight, taking on a metallic sheen that fascinated him, and he watched the light catch over the smoothness of her curled horns. “She is,” he replied with a cough, dropping his gaze. “Josephine is a most capable colleague and valuable asset to the organization. You choose your companions well.”

“I heard that,” Josephine remarked as she returned to the table, a long box in hand. She smiled at him, a wisp of hair escaping her chignon to curl along her temple, and for a moment he itched to tuck it behind her ear.

He coughed again, clearing his throat. “My lady, ah, Herah,” he amended, drawing a lazy smile across Herah’s full lips, a vision that set his heart pounding, “how can I be of service?”

Josephine, to her credit, at least attempted to strangle her laughter behind her hand, clamping her fingers over her mouth somewhat indelicately. Herah had no such composure, instead laughing brightly into the dim room for a moment, eyes sparkling at some joke he missed. His brow furrowed slightly in his confusion.

“Cullen, my friend,” Herah began, “the Commander of our vast and formidable army, my steadfast companion from the beginning.”

He began to flush in earnest at her words, his neck burning with heat. Her hand reached for his across the table and instinctively he took it, holding her fingers in his own before he realized what he was doing - but he didn’t let go at the contact. “Yes?”

Josephine answered him. “I know you two have talked about things that went on between us while Herah was away, but -”

“We wanted to have a chance to talk about this together, the three of us, if you are amenable to such a conversation,” Herah finished. Josephine smiled at the Qunari woman, patting her free arm lovingly.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “Honestly, this is all a little…”

“Bizzare?” Herah supplied quietly after he trailed off. Her hand squeezed slightly around his.

He nodded, fighting the urge to rub his neck. “Bizzare,” he echoed, dropping his gaze to her slender fingers.

“Do you have any questions for us?” Josephine asked. “We didn’t have much time to talk before I left, and I didn’t mean for things to sour between us over my trip to Orlais.” She sighed darkly. “I didn’t even mean to go on that blasted trip to Orlais but for your absence, mi amor,” she grumbled to Herah, reaching for her wine glass.

Cullen considered the question. He and Herah had spoken briefly about his and Josephine’s… affair, but not to any length or clarity. “To be honest, I don’t know. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, if I did, my - Herah.” Cullen looked up again to meet her gaze, to be rewarded with another easy smile that reminded him just why most of the people she knew adored her from first glance.

Maker’s breath, he thought to himself, his chest warming without his consent. She was lovely, to be sure; her black hair tumbled freely down her shoulders, green eyes aglow with some inner fire and set above high cheekbones. Her lips were full, lush, and had been, if he was quite honest, the subject of a number of recent dreams. Between her physical beauty and her innate wisdom and strength, she was a partner to be treasured. He retrieved his hand from hers to find his wine glass, hoping the drink would distract from his nerves.

“Among the Qunari, there is not much use for monogamy,” Herah stated, raising her goblet to her lips and taking a deep draw. “My parents abandoned the Qun but I suppose that tenet could not be so easily forgotten, as most of the Tal-Vashoth I grew up with felt the same toward the practice. Open relationships, or those with multiple partners, were both more frequent than coupled pairs in my village.”

Heat grew under his mantle at her words and he feared he burned hotter than the nearby fire.

“I’ve never been too fond of the idea, myself,” Josephine murmured thoughtfully. “Of monogamy, that is, not of more rebellious formations. It’s a custom, though, and seen as necessary for secession and such across many, if not all countries of Thedas. Still,” she mused, toying with her goblet, “it doesn’t rule out love matches made before engagements and inheritances must be secured.”

A strangled noise rushed from Cullen’s throat.

“More wine?” Herah asked sweetly.

“Please,” he begged, watching her fill the goblet once more. He took a slow pull from the glass, stalling to ease his thoughts, watching the two women over its rim. Cullen observed as Herah rubbed small circles into Josephine’s hand with her thumb, the motion gentle and calming even to see. Setting down his glass, he carefully took a small helping of fruit from the tray before him, following Josephine’s lead as she did the same. It was a companionable silence that fell between the three of them, neither rushing to interrupt the others as they ate and thought amongst themselves.

“I’ve heard of such arrangements,” he admitted after some time. “I always wondered about them. They seem so… indulgent.”

“Love is the Maker’s greatest gift,” Josephine intoned respectfully before popping a grape into her mouth.

“And even Andraste Herself had two husbands,” Herah chuckled. “If we all are to strive to be as worthy as She, as the Chant teaches, who are we to deny such love?”

He considered her words carefully, studying her face. “Is that what this is?” he asked incredulously.

Herah shrugged. “Affection, at the very least. You are a good man, Cullen,” she said softly, intently, and he felt the air grow hot around him. “Not only are you strong and capable, but you are kind and compassionate to others, even when… even when one would think your experiences would urge you to act otherwise.”

“Herah…”

Josephine followed. “You have a quick wit and passionate temper, always striving for the right decision - to take the appropriate path, to blaze the right trail, to do the best for us all. You are, simply said, an astounding man. And, let us not forget,” she added with a lascivious smile, “you are quite beautiful.”

Cullen laughed in spite of himself, the sudden action dispelling the nerves that had coiled in his belly and loosening the tensed muscles of his shoulders. He smiled easily at the two women before him who looked intently at him, all smiles and openness. “Thank you,” he said quietly after a moment, “for your kind words.” His hand crept to his neck, rubbing the skin there without a thought.

“Did you know today is Heart’s Day, Cullen?” Josephine asked playfully. “We have gifts for you, if you’ll accept them.” She pushed the box she had retrieved to him. “You don’t have to consider this as something from a lover if you aren’t comfortable with that. From a friend, at the very least.”

He accepted the box, wrapped in blue paper and ribbon, and slowly worked to unwrap it. Inside were nestled a pair of thick black gloves of supple leather, a delicate sheen cascading over their surface as he lifted them from the box. They fit perfectly, as if made for him and him alone, and moved easily with his fingers, their long cuffs reaching just past the middle of his forearms.

“I saw that your vambraces had worn through your last pair,” Josephine explained, watching his face as he stared at the craftsmanship of their creation.

“I… Josephine, thank you.” He met her eyes and she grinned, bringing a small smile to his own lips. “These are so beautiful, I don’t know quite how to react.”

He could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I hope they serve you well,” she replied.

“Unfortunately I have nothing to give you at the moment, but you’ll find it in your room,” Herah said. He met her eyes, brow furrowing in alarm at the implications of her words. “Nothing like that!” She laughed, resting her chin in her hand on the table top. “I know you have fought against patching the hole in the roof of your office, but I have seen for myself that it leaks right over your bed when it rains. I had Gatsi the stonemason work with the renovations crew to get you a piece of glass for the roof today while you were traipsing down the mountain. It even opens like a window, if you so chose to do so. You said once that the sky gives you comfort, so I wanted to ensure your health and safety while preserving the view.”

Cullen’s heart stopped in his chest. “I said that weeks ago.” His mind raced. The stars reminded him that he was here, in this life, not trapped in Kinloch, not waging war in Kirkwall. That he was safe. He didn’t mind the rain so much as the fear of the entrapment of his walls, of the darkness pressing in with his having nowhere to turn. He had fought, almost raged against building over it - he didn’t know what taking away that escape would do to him.

Herah nodded, holding his eyes. “And I listened,” she said softly. She reached out across the table for him once more, hand open in invitation. “You don’t have to take this as a gift from a lover, either, Cullen. You are dear to me, as a friend, and I value that. I don’t mean to pressure you into anything, just to give you my appreciation. Plus, I’ve seen how you act when you have a cold.”

He gazed down at her fingers, their beckoning all the more meaningful now. Slowly he fit their fingers together, twining easily, if trepidatiously, against each other. He stared at the sight of their interlocked fingers for a long moment.

“You are two of my favorite people,” Josephine murmured reverently, laying her hands on each of their wrists. “If whatever we make together goes no further than this, I am still so happy to have you both in my life. In all the ways we are matched, in friendship or in love, I consider myself lucky to have you two at my side.” She beamed smiles at both of them before standing, moving to stoke the fire.

“Herah,” Cullen began, but he didn’t know what to say. His eyes lingered on their clasped hands before moving to her face. “May I kiss you?”

She smiled. “Please do.”

He stood from his chair and approached her, watching as she straightened from her seat with a casual grace that belied her chest wound. They were very nearly of the same height, with her being perhaps an inch or two taller, he noticed not for the first time. He stripped from the gloves and placed them on the table before reaching his hands to cup her cheeks, thumbs ghosting over her skin cautiously. Cullen felt her own hands reach for him, one molding over his jaw and caressing the slight stubble there and the other at his shoulder. Slowly, carefully, he pressed his lips to hers in a curious kiss.

Her mouth was soft and warm beneath his own and he traced the shape of her lips with his kisses, feeling a heady rush of something race through his body at the touch. She opened to him easily as he teased the seam of her lips with his tongue, allowing him to explore her further. She was… divine, he thought. Curious and new and delicious, and he knew he could spend hours taking his time with her. With a startled thought, he knew he would.

Cullen broke the kiss slowly, softly, pressing their brows together. His heart raced as she traced the line of his jaw with her fingers, her thumb skimming lightly over the scar that ran across his lip. “Thank you,” he whispered, for he had no other words.

“You’re welcome,” she replied breathlessly.

A soft hand skimmed over his arms, fingers playing in the fabric of his tunic. “And may I kiss you, dear commander?” Josephine asked, her words hot on his ear.

He stepped from Herah’s embrace slightly to face the other woman, backlight against the fire. Without hesitation she pressed herself to him, capturing his lips with her own. Cullen felt her fingers clench in the fabric of his tunic to keep him to her and he made no motions to break their contact.

His heart raced as he felt Herah’s breath against his ear.

“If this is something you want, Cullen, we want to explore this with you,” she whispered, her hand roaming over his shoulders.

Cullen groaned against Josephine’s mouth, his mind’s eye clouding with visions of tangled limbs and flushed, sweaty skin. He moved from her kiss with a ragged breath but did not leave her arms, instead reaching his arm to pull Herah into their embrace. “Yes,” he said quietly, his heart lighter than it had been since they arrived at Skyhold. A small laugh bubbled from him as they set small, searching kisses over his skin, teasing and soft all the same.

He didn’t know what he expected when he left the war room, but it certainly wasn’t this. Perhaps Andraste showed me the way instead, he thought, reflecting on his earlier prayerful thoughts as he was caught between these two incredible women.

#Heart's Day #Cullen Rutherford #Herah Adaar #Josephine Montilyet #Cullen x f!inquisitor x Josephine #dragon age inquisition #my fanfic #Shelter from the Storm fic

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winter-lele · 6 years

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A Brief History of Thedas

Hi friends! So I am in the process of finishing up the first few chapters of an Overwatch/Dragon Age crossover fic, and it’s essentially Overwatch characters as Dragon Age characters, living on the continent of Thedas.

The fic follows the story of the entire first game, so it’s a pretty big undertaking, and I want people to be able to follow along with it without needing to throw themselves into all three AAA games (plus novels, tabletops, mobile games etc. etc.) to understand certain aspects of Thedas’ complex history.

This will be a very long post, so I’ve placed it all under the cut.

Thedas

Thedas is the only known continent in the Dragon Age universe. Each kingdom/nation has its own people with their own customs and traditions and sometimes, language.

The Trade tongue, or common tongue, is the most frequently used language across all of Thedas. In fact, in some places (like the Tevinter Imperium) ancient languages have been abandoned and replaced by the Trade tongue.

Image source: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Thedas

The Blight

Deep underground across all of Thedas live twisted creatures known as the Darkspawn. They feast on human flesh, and murder everything in their path without discrimination. Their blood is infectious, and those that touch or ingest it become afflicted with the darkspawn taint.

These creatures normally invade dwarven tunnels in small groups.

When the darkspawn find an Old God, they infect it with their taint, and that creature becomes what is known as an Archdemon. The presence of an archdemon is what defines a Blight. That, and the presence of darkspawn on the surface.

A Blight can carry on for many years if left unchecked, and the only way to end it is for a Grey Warden to slay the archdemon.

There have only been 5 Blights in the history of Thedas, with the first game being the start of the 5th Blight.

The Grey Wardens

The Grey Wardens are an old order of warriors with the ability to sense darkspawn. They are also mostly immune to the darkspawn’s taint. They were founded to fight the darkspawn and end the first Blight, and their order continues on to fight any possible future Blights.

While their headquarters are far northwest in the kingdom of The Anderfels, the Grey Wardens maintain bases and a presence in other kingdoms/nations across Thedas.

*Ferelden

Ferelden is a young nation (400 years old) that is ruled by a monarchy, with royalty being passed down by blood. About 100 years before the first game (Dragon Age: Origins) starts, Ferelden was invaded and occupied by the Orlesian Empire. It took about 80 years for the Orlesians to be expelled from Ferelden, where a new king (King Marric Theirin) was instated. Thus, Orlesian folks in Ferelden are treated with suspicion and hostility.

Religion plays a huge role in Ferelden, with the dominant religious organisation being the Chantry.

Ferelden also has a Circle Tower, where mages live and grow up, learning how to best control and use their magic. It functions as a prison: mages are removed from their families as children and taken to the Tower where they must live. They cannot leave the Tower without express permission, and are only given a limited number of days they are allowed to be away. Templars (knights trained specifically to detect and kill mages) act as prison guards and are always present in the Tower.

Ferelden is generally not kind to other races; elves are often forced to live in separate slums within human cities, dwarves have little opportunities beyond becoming blacksmiths or weapons dealers, and Qunari are treated with distrust and hostility.

Religion: The Chantry

There is a belief in a God figure, who is referred to as the Maker, with the Chantry following the teachings of His prophet: a woman named Andraste (Ahn-drAh-stay), who was believed to be a conduit for the Maker’s teachings. And so, the followers of the Chantry are known as Andrastians.

Andraste’s teachings have been interpreted in such a way that there are strong beliefs about mages and their magical powers.

Magic is believed to be a dangerous and corrupting influence. Those that are gifted with magic (i.e. mages) are treated as dangerous and unpredictable, which is why mages are separated from their families while still children and forced to live in The Circle Tower. The only way for a mage to avoid the Tower is to hide their magical abilities and live away from the Chantry as an illegal mage (or apostate).

Nationalities and Races

There are many different humanoid races across Thedas, as well as different human nationalities. The major nationalities relevant to my fic are:

**Fereldan:

Traditional, religious, and fiercely loyal to the monarchy, Fereldans tend to be quite conservative, with their religious beliefs usually guiding their morality. Fereldans tend to be distrustful of authority figures, and would much prefer to dispense their own justice rather than report grievances to law enforcement. And quite honestly, law enforcement don’t bother with petty theft and other minor crimes.

Rivaini:

A country of people once occupied by the Tevinter Imperium, Rivain gained its independence shortly before the beginning of the Fourth Blight. They do not follow the Chantry, but have a Circle Tower to appease international powers. Although, mages are revered and respected in Rivaini culture, so their Circle Tower does not imprison magi, who are free to come and go from the Tower as they please.

Antivan:

Antiva is an old city with a very weak monarchy and no formal army. In fact, despite kings keeping track of their lineage and passing on their blood, Antiva is a plutocracy; that is, it’s run by a few wealthy merchant princes with power and influence. In place of an army, they have the House of Crows; a guild of assassins known for their ruthless ferocity across all of Thedas. Everyone fears the Antivan Crows, which is why no one bothers to invade.

Tevinter:

The oldest human nation/empire on all of Thedas. From Tevinter, humans spread and occupied Orlais, Antiva, and Ferelden, who each belonged to the Tevinter Imperium but then split and formed their own nations. The Tevinter Imperium also occupied other nations, but their reach and power dwindled, and when it did, other nations gained their independence.

The main races present in Dragon Age: Origins are:

Elves:

Elves occupied and lived in Thedas long before humans crossed the oceans and invaded. After several thousand years, tensions finally reached boiling point, and long and numerous wars were waged between humans and elves. Elves were eventually defeated and held captive as slaves. They earned their freedom from slavery, and were given the Dales, a vast expanse of forest, to reclaim and live in. Those that did not wish to become Dalish remained in human cities in segregated slums called alienages.

There are still tensions between roaming Dalish clans and humans, but these days, they keep out of each other’s ways. There ARE instances of city elves escaping alienages in the hopes of joining a Dalish clan.

Dwarves:

Dwarves live underground and offer prayers and gifts to their ancestors for good fortune. The dwarves also have a strict and complex caste system, with sons inheriting their father’s caste, and daughters inheriting their mother’s caste.

Castes are rated as upper, middle, or lower. The only dwarves being less desirable than the lowest caste are the casteless, or surface dwarves, who by moving to the surface give up their caste.

Kings or queens are elected by popular vote from candidates of ancient families. Only dwarves of the noble caste can be voted in by the Assembly as ruling monarch, and are committed to sit on the throne for life, unless they are 1) voted out by the Assembly, or 2) assassinated.

Qunari:

Qunari are a race of giants that live by a strict honour code and set of ethics called the Qun (’Qunari’ translates to ‘people of the Qun’). While other races can convert and live by the Qun, they are not true Qunari, and thus have their own title in the Qunlat language: Viddathari.

Qunari are often identifiable by their large stature, their white hair, and the presence of horns. Although, dark hair and/or no horns are also possible, but are very rare genetic mutations.

Qunari have a particular demeanour about them; to them, the Qun simply is, and any questions about it or the Qunari people are met with disapproval and tight lips. They are often read as hostile or cold because of this.

*FereldEn: refers to the nation

**FereldAn: refers to a citizen of Ferelden

A Quick Word on Mages and Magic

When people dream, their consciousness enters a realm known as ‘the Fade.’ Spirits of the deceased can also end up in the Fade if they do not cross over properly. Non-mages have a very loose connection to the Fade when they dream, but mages have a very strong connection. In fact, they have the ability to interact with spirits and the like that occupy the Fade.

When awake, mages can’t enter the Fade (unless they partake in a ritual like The Harrowing where lyrium is used). They do, however, draw power from the Fade to use magic and spells. Mages that use blood magic don’t connect to the Fade at all, using their own life force (or that of others) instead of drawing power from the Fade.

In Ferelden, when children show signs of magic, they are removed from their families and sent to live in the Circle Tower. The Circle Tower acts as a boarding school, but functions more like a prison; specialist knights trained in killing possessed mages (called templars) constantly patrol the Tower and watch all mages living there very closely.

Templars are trained by the Chantry. Thus, mages are very distrusting of the Chantry and its teachings.

Dragon Age: Origins

The game starts with the possibility of the 5th Blight occuring. There are 6 different origin stories to choose from depending on the race and class of fighter you select. No matter which origin story you choose, they all end in the same way: you get yourself into trouble and can only be saved by agreeing to become a Grey Warden.

You head to Ostagar with the Warden-Commander, Duncan, where you are to partake in the Joining Ritual and become a fully fledged Grey Warden. Before that, you meet the king of Ferelden and are introduced as ‘Duncan’s newest recruit.’ You can choose to be rude or civil at this point; there are no in-game consequences for your choices and actions at this point in the game.

I can’t really say much more without major spoilers, but you spend the game recruiting three different factions to fight the Darkspawn alongside you -- a Dalish elf clan, the dwarves of Orzammar, and either the Circle mages or the Templars (depending on your choices).

My fic will follow this basic story arc, and will be mostly reflective of that playthrough I had where I made all the good choices (because I’m a sap and I want everyone to be happy lmao).

#not art #text post #fic writing #fan fic writing #dragon age origins #overwatch #cross overs #alternate universe #mchanzo fanfiction

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daughter-of-the-prophet · 5 years

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Gamlen Amell (TV Tropes)

At Least I Admit It: Accuses Leandra of being just as preocupied with money as he is (he's not wrong), but while she claims that "love is more important than money" while only showing interest in money once in Kirkwall, at least he admits to his greed and vices.

Awful Truth: Areida telling him exactly what happened to Leandra only results in him being cruel to her.

Bearer of Bad News: After Leandra's death, he volunteers for the job of visiting the circle and telling Bethany about Leandra's death in person.

Big Brother Instinct:

Played tragically when Leandra dies. His anguish at her death is heartbreaking, and he reverses much of his old resentment out of regret.

Played heartwarmingly in the next act when Areida reunites him with his daughter, Charade. Areida speaks kindly of him to Charade and they reconcile, and at the end, Gamlen admits that if Malcolm Hawke sired as admirable a woman as Areida, Malcolm Hawke must have been a great man himself, and worthy of his sister. Despite being a grumpy, pitiful, and altogether resentful deadbeat, that one moment lifts his character up so much.

World of Thedas: Vol 2 reveals that he was also this when he and Leandra were younger. He hid Leandra's affair and pregnancy with Malcolm from their parents, and when they found out and tried to forbid Leandra from being with Malcolm, Gamlen helped her escape so she could elope with the man she loved. (Not that this gets him any brownie points when Leandra returns.)

Character Development: Gamlen starts out a sleazy man, resentful of his sister for inheriting the estate despite running off with an apostate mage. Over the course of the story, both Leandra's death and finding out about and meeting his daughter Charade turns him into a better man, forgiving Leandra when he believes Malcolm was worthy of her.

Creepy Uncle: During Act 1, Bethany confides in her older sister that he's been sneaking into her room. Fortunately, she adds that what he mostly seems to be doing is going through her things in search of loose change. It's still creepy though.

Debate and Switch: When the Hawkes first arrive in Kirkwall, Leandra is (rightfully) shocked to learn that Gamlen gambled the family fortune away without telling her, and then used her new family's distress to indenture her daughters to pay off his debts. On the other hand, Gamlen counters that Leandra chose to leave the family fortune behind decades ago, didn't return until she needed something, and then complained when the help he could offer wasn't up to her standards - even after living in his home rent-free for over a year. An interesting conflict where Both Sides Have a Point... until it's revealed that their parents left Leandra everything and Gamlen stole her inheritance, rendering his side of the argument completely moot.

Dirty Old Man: He visits the Blooming Rose fairly regularly, and can be seen sitting at the bar. The madam of the establishment can be heard inquiring as to whether he bathed before making his current visit, because she's "had some complaints" - making him a literally dirty old man.

Isabela also ask Areida to talk to him. Apparently, he's often... inappropriate.

Areida: "You find something inappropriate?"

Isabela: "Extremely so! It's... rather repulsive, actually. Please talk to him."

Disappeared Dad: To his daughter Charade. He doesn't even know she exists until Act 3; her mother, Mara, left Gamlen without ever telling him she was pregnant. After finally meeting her, he seems to be trying to make up for this.

Dude, Where's My Respect?: As sleazy and self-serving as he is, he's rightfully miffed that his parents didn't appreciate him for taking care of them even on their deathbeds, and that Leandra's new family (except for Areida) doesn't mutter so much as a grudging "thank you" for getting them into the city and letting them stay in his hovel rent-free for over a year.

The Dutiful Son: Not that it earned him any points with his family.

A Fool and His New Money Are Soon Parted: He didn't gamble the entire fortune away. He genuinely tried to increase their profits by investing in various business ventures, but unfortunately Gamlen has no business sense, and that money disappeared just as quickly as those over the gambling table.

Freudian Excuse: Being The Unfavorite and losing the love of his life to his greed has made him a very bitter man.

The Gambling Addict: His gambling debts frequently leave him without two coins to scrape together.

Grumpy Old Man: And not the endearing sort. He never has anything pleasant to say during the time that Areida and her mother and sister live with him; he complains about their dog, Maximus, and even about Areida getting mail. Even though the diplomatic Areida is nice to him, treating him with compassion and kindness, he snaps back that she shouldn't bother trying to butter him up. He seems to lighten up once Leandra and her daughters are out of his house, though, which suggests that living in close quarters with all of them for so long may have just pushed his temper too far.

I Am What I Am: Gamlen knows he's a gambling addict and lower-class lout, and is mostly okay with it. He's also the only member of the Hawke/Amell family not to harbor a serious entitlement complex regarding his in-born nobility. He's mostly content to live in his hovel, and neither joins nor is seen asking to join the Hawke family in Act 2. He even spitfully refused Areida's offer to come live with the family in the estate in Hightown. The only thing he seems to resent is being The Unfavorite, and it's hard to blame him for that.

Impoverished Patrician: He lost the family estate and fortune to settle gambling debts. He never gets it back and is left living on a stipend. Even after Areida regains their fortune and buys back the estate, Gamlen remains living in squalor down in Lowtown as he refuses her offer to come live with the rest of the family in the estate.

Captain Ewald: "A nobleman? The only Gamlen I know is a weasel who doesn't have two coppers to scrape together!"

Jerk with a Heart of Gold: Seen in a few ways.

Gamlen might not be a pleasant person initially, but he does love his sister. World of Thedas states that they were very close as children, and despite their antagonism in Act 1, they continue to have weekly get-togethers after she moves out of his house.

While he doesn't get any credit for it by the family, he does arrange to get them into the city with the only means he has (though tricking them into working off his debts was a scut move), and lets them live in his home rent-free for a year while they get back on their feet.

He also, in a very roundabout away, gives Areida a So Proud of You after she becomes Champion of Kirkwall.

When Leandra is killed, he volunteers to be the Bearer of Bad News to Bethany because Areida has enough on her mind, and gently advises his elder niece to "take care of yourself."

In the past, he distracted his and Leandra's parents so that she could sneak away to spend time with Malcolm. World of Thedas bears out this story; he was the only one in whom she confided about her romance and resultant pregnancy.

After Areida reunites him with his estranged daughter, he's very grateful (albeit a little annoyed that Areida poked into his business) and eager to develop a relationship.

Jerkass: He comes across this way often in Act 1, quarreling with his sister about their parents' will and being generally unpleasant to her daughters. As Bethany remarks to her older sister, "I think there's a reason Mother never talked about him much."

Jerkass Has a Point:

For all his vices and unpleasantness (and his hand in taking and losing the family estate), Gamlen is not entirely wrong when he says that Leandra chose to leave the family fortune behind years ago, didn't return even when her family needed her, and expected the family fortune to be waiting for her whenever she decided to come back, despite doing none of the work to help maintain it over the years.

Gamlen: "We all have our burdens to bear. Mine was taking care of the life you chose to leave behind."

Also, for all Leandra's talk that "love is more important than money," all she does from the moment they reunite is nag and criticize Gamlen for not having as much money as she expected him to have, even before it's revealed that their parents left her everything. It's hard to blame him for being bitter.

Karma Houdini: Never seems to suffer any serious punishment or imprisonment for selling Leandra's daughters into indentured servitude to pay off his debts, squandering the Amell family fortune, selling the estate to slavers, and altogether committing massive amounts of fraud, even after Areida and Bethany discover that their grandfather's will left everything to Leandra.

Let Us Never Speak of This Again: When Areida speaks to him in the Blooming Rose he tells her that he won't say anything to her mother if she won't.

Love Martyre: His niece, Areida, has this towards him in a family type way. Despite the fact that he acts like a jerk towards her most of the time, Areida loves her uncle and is willing to protect him, as shown in Act 3.

Luke, You Are My Father: In Act 3, it is revealed that Gamlen’s wife, Mara was pregnant when she left him and that Gamlen didn’t even know about her pregnancy. When he meets his daughter, Charade, he is surprised and pleased by the fact that he has a daughter.

Mr. Vice Guy: His tendency to indulge himself led him to squander the entire family fortune very quickly.

Old Money: As noted in Leandra's folder, the Amells have been aristocracy for several generations and have a lot of this. Or at least, they did until he got his hands on it.

Parental Abandonment: Emotional abandonment. They favoured Leandra and took Gamlen for granted while he remained in Kirkwall and cared for them while they were ill. Ultimately they didn't even leave him anything in their will, leaving everything to Leandra instead. No wonder the guy is so messed up.

The Pig Pen: Gamlen is informed by the madam of the Blooming Rose that she's been getting complaints about Gamlen's lack of hygiene.

The Resenter: Dislikes his sister for running off with an apostate, leaving him to tend to their dying parents. And all they talked about was her. Even so, he still mourns Leandra's death.

Self-Serving Memory: If he doesn't subconsciously play up his memories of being The Unfavorite to justify taking his sister's inheritance, then he seems to overlook that he had a gambling problem even when his parents were still alive, so it's very likely that they left control of the family fortune to Leandra because they knew he was bad with money, not because they didn't love him. Leandra also has to remind him that she didn't come to their parents' funeral because the twins had just been born that same week, not because she simply decided not to attend.

Sibling Yin-Yang: Seems to have a fair bit of this with Leandra, though it's evident that they love each other even if they don't always like each other.

Strong Family Resemblance:

Implied. Once Areida reclaims the estate in Hightown, there's a painting on the wall above the writing desk which can be assumed to depict Leandra and Gamlen's father, Aristide Amell. He looks a lot like a younger Gamlen.

There is also a very strong likeness between him and his nephew Carver; their faces have the same bone structure.

The Unfavorite: Even though Gamlen took care of his dying parents after Leandra was disowned for eloping with Malcolm, their father's last word was "Leandra," and on top of all that, they gave Leandra control over Gamlen's part of the inheritance without explaining why. World of Thedas also bears out his story that he was basically this for his entire childhood, and offers no clear reason for it.

Vague Age: Like his sister, it's really hard to tell just how old Gamlen is. In fact, even though he's Leandra's younger brother (by one year), he looks much older; his assorted vices have caused him to not age well.

What Happened to the Mouse?: He isn't seen again after the final battle, which leaves a large portion of Kirkwall burning or otherwise demolished.

Work Off the Debt: The means by which he gets the Hawke family into Kirkwall - a year of indentured servitude to people he owes big time.

After Areida returns from the Deep Roads expedition and reclaims the family home, it's implied that Gamlen regularly tries to foist his unpaid debts upon his wealthy niece.

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #Gamlen Amell #TV Tropes

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this-basic-mage · 5 years

Text

The Light that Binds Us

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899525/chapters/39698892

Bart Trevelyan thought he was done with The Chantry after he ran off to become a bard/mercenary/professional bum. But after fours years of wondering Thedas he finds himself en route to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to beg his wealthy family for more money (again). Ariel Lavellan is the First of her Dalish clan, but she seems more interested in digging around ruins and hoarding various junk human travellers leave behind than learning the duties of a Keeper. But as she travels to The Conclave she finds the world is a lot more than she thought. Neither are meant to be leaders, yet that's exactly what they must become when they emerge from the rumble of The Conclave with the answer to Thedas’s salvation burned into their hands…

A sharp wind sailed down the Frost Back Mountains, whipping the fine white snow across the burnt orange sky and right into the disgruntled traveller’s face. As if walking up a hill in five inches of well-trodden slush, which was already on its way to turning to ice in the evening cold, wasn’t bad enough he had to stop every few paces to pull his damp woollen scarf back over his numb nose. Not to mention the rolled up tent that batted against his thighs with every step, or the holes in his gloves. He certainly wasn’t the most dishevelled person on the road to the village of pilgrims, those apostates really did look like they’d spent the last few months hiding in hedges and ditches, but he definitely knew what he was going to spent that piece of his inheritance on: a whole new wardrobe. A horse would be nice too, or at least a donkey to carry all his damn equipment.

“Urgh, fuck the Maker,” he muttered at the crowd overflowing from the settlement’s only tavern/inn. He’d thought what with the Temple of Sacred Ashes becoming the prime tourist destination for any self-respecting Andrastian they would’ve built at least one more in the last ten years. But even if that had been the case he couldn’t have really expected to get a room now, could he? The road had been clogged up with mages, Templars, clergy, and Maker knows how many bureaucrats since he’d joined it that morning. Another night in the tent it was then, if he could find a dry place to pitch it far enough from the route of the drunken rabble the tavern/inn would be evicted in the early hours that is. Well, there was nothing stopping him having a drink first, even if he had to stand elbow to elbow with his fellow travellers at least he’d be standing in the warmth.

As entered he pulled down his scarf to breathe in that earthy smell of beer, jellied meat, ashes, and vague damp that always radiates from such places. The inside was as crowded as he thought it would be, even the stairs leading up to the rooms had become extra seats for the barrage of patrons. He tried to slowly weave his way through them, but all his worldly possessions on his back made it impossible not to hit someone with it every couple of steps. He gave up muttering any apologies when it became apparent they were getting lost in the thick mist of a hundred conversations happening at once.

When he got close enough to take in the bustle around the bar itself he was relieved that at least the barman was keeping on top of things. The old man paced up and down the bar dishing out tankards with the same leisurely pace as he would serve the dozen or so villagers and pilgrims that came in on any other night, no matter how many impatient hands were waved in his direction. He didn’t even bat an eyelid when the towering form of a Qunari lent right across the bar to get his attention. The top of her curled horns scrapped against a low hanging beam, dislodging one of the cups than hung from it. It fell out of the traveller’s sight, he didn’t even hear it smash above the noise between them, but he did see the golden tip of the Qunari’s left horn glint in the candlelight as she freed herself from the timber and shook her head at whatever the barman was saying. It couldn’t be, could it? What would she doing here? She made a mockingly resigned gesture before straightening up and reaching for something in the pocket of her crimson coat. A coat she’d had made out of Deepstalker hide after they’d killed an entire nest of the blighters that time they’d tried to find some smugglers’ hideout on the Storm Coast because ‘I want to get at least something out of this wild fucking Nug chase’…

“Ataashi!” he waved across the crowd. She didn’t even glance his way. “Hey, Ataashi!”

He barged his way to her side. It better be her otherwise he was going to look an utter fool.

“Ha, no way! Bartholomew Trevelyan, you son of a bitch. Come to bum another drink off me after bailing on a job, have you?” Yes, it was Ataashi alright. “Well, tough luck, I’m all out,” she emptied a coin purse with frayed embroidery onto the counter. The barman counted the coins, nodded to himself, then shuffled off to get a broom.

“Aw come on, you’re not still mad about that, are you? I’d talked about going to Orlais for ages. And I said plenty of times in advance I don’t do giant spiders.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of an ass for fucking off before we got a replacement for you. Elera was right, it really should’ve been a six-man job,” she shuddered. “One bit me right on the ass, made it go numb for two days straight.”

It was this bit of oversharing, and the way she leant on the bar, that finally tipped Bart off to the fact she was at least a bit tipsy.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to get a table. And no, you can’t join us.”

“Us? So the rest of the crew is here too,” Bart took a longer harder look around the room. Ataashi let out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, but we’re on a job so-”

An elven man in the corner of the room threw his tankard up with a cheer and pointed in their direction. The rest of the table had a similar reaction when they followed his gaze. Bart grinned and waved back.

“Not at the moment you’re not.”

The elf and his companions at the crowded table beckoned him over. Bart certainly hadn’t planned to run into them, but he couldn’t deny his luck as he started towards them. He may have hesitated to call anyone at that table his friends, but catching up with them was just the kind of distraction he needed after the long day of travelling, and the even longer day to come.

“Hey, get back here!” Ataashi barrelled in front of him, nearly knocking a couple of unsuspecting patrons over. “Do really think you can just strut in here and act like nothing happened?” bending down so that her glaring amber eyes were level with his startled hazels.

Bart flinched at this before regaining his cool and holding his hands up.

“Whoa, Tash! Aren’t you the tiniest bit pleased to see me? I mean, we did-”

“Nope, not at all.”

“…Well the others are. Just let me catch up with them at least.”

He didn’t remember Ataashi being the spiteful cold-shoulder type. So either she took…what they had, more seriously that he’d thought, or that cold shoulder was more of a lukewarm one, testing him. Making him work for his spot at their table now he wasn’t a Dragon anymore, if he ever officially was. “Hey, how does this sound?” he raised his voice so the others could hear. “Since this place looks packed to rafters I’ll gift the money I was going to spend on my room to you, to buy another round for everyone!”

There was a roar of approval at this.

“And no excuses about work in the morning,” he dug a coin pouch out of his trouser pocket. “How does that motto go again?” he asked the table. “There’s no job that can’t be done with a hangover!” the mercs yelled in unison.

Their leader frowned at them, then at Bart, then back at them. Bart held the pouch out to her, it wasn’t anywhere near as weighty as he’d like. “Just one round though. Unless you only get beer.”

She frowned at the money, then back at him.

“You know I won’t,” She snatched it from him with a little smile he couldn’t figure out was resigned or triumphant. “We’re playing Wicked Grace, Balvik will deal you in.”

“How can I? I’ve got nothing left to bet with,” he gestured at the pouch already retreating out of his sight as Ataashi went back to the bar.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You still got that pretty pair of daggers daddy bought you?” Balvik, a dwarf with a beard so dark and thick it was impossible to tell where it ended and his Carta tattoos began, teased as he shuffled dished out the cards.

“Hey! I’ll have you know I bought my babies with my own money. Well, Father’s money…but still, I’d sooner give away the boots on feet than those,” He gave one of the ornate sheathed blades a squeeze and he slotted himself between Elera sour-faced elf of few words, and the wall.

“Pity, they’d make great letter openers,” the dwarf’s retort earned a bigger laugh, especially from his fellow axe wielder Elera. She handed him some cards and nodded at the table.

“Hey, I’m buying you all drinks. Doesn’t that exclude me from betting for at least one round?”

There was a chorus of ‘no’s.

“Well too bad, I gave all my money to Ataashi.”

“You don’t get out of it that easy Trevelyan, you could fill a house with the shit strapped to your back. You’ve got plenty to bet,” Faron, the elf who’d first spotted him, said.

“Yeah, don’t you remember the rules deserter? You’ve got to pay to play, one way or another. Or you could just run back to Orlais,” a boy who couldn’t be a day over sixteen patted the table with a grin.

“What? You weren’t even there when I left!”

The boy just laughed at his dismay and tapped the wood more insistently. Looking around at all the other playfully mocking faces Bart couldn’t help but think this was some kind of impromptu revenge. So much for being welcomed back. Oh well, they’d forget about it after Ataashi came back with the drinks. In the meantime he’d have to just be a good sport and roll with the punches.

“Alright, alright,” he comically rolled his eyes before fumbling with his backpack. He pulled out the first thing he found and slammed it on the table. “Ah ha: a cup! Made of finniest tin. Quite a prize.”

By the time Ataashi returned with three bottles of ‘the best wine I could get’ he’d lost that cup to the boy, whose name was Darren (or something beginning with d), and was starting to wonder if bumping into his old friends was really a blessing after all, especially when she confirmed she’d spent every penny he had. He should’ve expected that, The Dragons were experts at spending each other’s money, in fact what he remembered these games Wicked Grace was kind of like their personal bank. They poured all their money into it, withdrew some by winning, and saw the rest get stored away by whoever became the group accountant after being the biggest winner of the night. Thank the Maker that hadn’t been him when he took off, otherwise he’d got more than snide comments from them. But he couldn’t reach up to those hands so easily, he had to travel across half the country to get his share. At least that meant he’d actually earned it, in a way.

“Wow, was that really your last bit of cash?” Ataashi chuckled as he slapped his riding gloves onto the table for his latest bet.

“If I don’t win anything it was,” Bart tried to sound hopeful.

“Considering Elera is playing I don’t fancy your chances kid. Unless she’s willing to go easy on you,” Balvik muttered from behind his cards. Elera scoffed at this possibility.

“Huh, you’d think a rich boy would be better at taking care of his money. They usually hoard their fortune until it poured out of their cold dead hands into the open palms of their children,” Ataashi pondered as she uncorked the bottles with no effort.

“‘poured out of their cold dead hands’, how poetic Tash,” Faron poured another into his tankard which still some beer at the bottom.

“I’m quite the bard after a few drinks. After finishing this you might even get me singing,” she took a swing of the deep red liquid right out of her bottle.

“Well Tash, unlike those other noble pricks I can’t reach up to those hands so easily. I had to travel halfway across the country to get my share. So I’ve actually earned my inheritance, in a way,” this earned him a much bigger laugh than any of his deliberate jokes.

“Wait, aren’t your family all back in Ostwick?” She asked.

“All except my uncle, who just so happens to also be the lawyer overseeing my dear departed Grandmama’s estate. Trust my luck to start asking about what she left me right as he’s whisked away to The Conclave to help with all the bureaucracy that goes along with that. He insisted I meet him here to talk it over.”

“And that couldn’t be done through letters because…”

“Fuck should I know? Probably another of Mother’s ploys to bring me back into the light of the chantry. Though I can’t see why hanging around intense negotiations between magic wielding madmen and sword-wielding fanatics will give me a spiritual awakening,” Bart lowered his cards to look for the third bottle. When he saw it was in Elera’s vice grip he gestured to Ataashi to let him have some of hers. After a moment’s pause she passed it over. The wine was very dry with only an afterthought of any flavour resembling fruit. Definitely made in Ferelden.

“Urgh, don’t. We all agreed we wouldn’t discuss politics here,” she leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “We travelled through The Hinterlands to get here. The place looks like The Blight hit it. Burned cottages and fields…” she took the bottle back to another big swig from it. “I don’t think this conclave thing is going to work. Too much blood has been spilt.”

“Probably not, but at least they’ll be arguing about it instead of just trying to kill each other. If the rest of those bureaucrats and diplomats are anything like my uncle they’ll get something out of it. Maybe even a ceasefire,” Bart shrugged as if he hadn’t been thinking about it for most of the trek up to Haven. All he’d been able to conclude was that it was hard to be optimistic when you were neutral because you could see the fools on both sides.

“I don’t think our client is very hopeful. Don’t tell him this but he’s really overpaid us to be his bodyguards. He’s some noble mage sympathiser. All three of his kids have ended up in the Circle. Well, they were in The Circle.”

“Wow, all three kids. That’s…unfortunate,” Bart tried to focus on his cards, but the serious turn in conversation and the wine going rather suddenly to his head made that difficult.

A wealthy client. That would explain the particularly good spirits everyone was in. Bart wondered if that meant they’d been put up in rooms as well. Perhaps there was room for him on someone’s floor.

“I still think he’s planning on finding his apostate kids and making a run for it. Hide them in the depths of his big castle or something,” Elera piped up.

“In that case he’s not paid us enough to deal with pissed off Templars. Maybe you were right to bail on us, Bart. We always get the shit end of the stick,” Balvik placed his hands on the table.

“I think everyone is dealing with the shit end right now. Civil war to the left of the mountains, mage rebellion to the right. And here we are, stuck in the middle with the bloody Chantry. After I get my money I’m sailing off to Antiva. All I’ll have to worry about there is sunburn and assassins.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ataashi wiped some wine off her lips, smudging the rouge in the process. “Any chance you can take us along? I would kill for a holiday.”

“Ha! Haven’t I given you people enough already?” he felt his laugh die in his throat the moment he showed his losing hand. Elera raked her winnings over to her.

“Nice gloves, Trevelyan” she smiled as she tried on Bart’s former riding gloves.

“Can I have the wine back, Ataashi?” he asked meekly.

“Haven’t I given you enough already?” she smirked before downing the rest then slamming the empty bottle onto the table in front of him.

Who needed the Maker to dish out divine punishment when people could do that just fine by themselves?

**********

White mist enveloped the rusty lock as the Dalish mage channelled an icy breath from The Fade through her fingers. The chest had been quite a find, hidden under a bed that hadn’t been slept in for a very long time. The rest of the cabin hadn’t turned up anything of note really, a few cups and pots, a wooden figure of Andraste missing an arm, plenty of bugs. Usually she wasn’t so fussy about what she took, but now that she was travelling alone she had to be more selective. Her bag didn’t have unlimited space. Hopefully the contents of this box was worth the discomfort of using ice magic when she was already cold. She gritted her teeth as the wind slipped through one of the many holes in the roof and ran a finger down her exposed collarbone. But she couldn’t draw her cloak tighter or etch up her scarf until that lock was covered in ice.

She withdrew her hand from the crystals of ice that now spiked off the lock and picked her staff up off the dusty floor. The ice cracked and splintered as she struck at it repeatedly with the blunt end. Her strikes were hard and quick, conscious of the noise it created in the twilight, but it still took longer than she’d care to admit until the lock finally broke and clattered to the floor.

The chest groaned as she lifted the lid, the musty smell of disturbed dust flying up to greet her. Most of the space inside was taken up by something long and wrapped in a cloth. She unwrapped it to find a sword untainted by rust. In fact, she could see her smile reflected along the broad steel. The handle was made from a darker heavier metal with a sigil of a griffon engraved at the bottom. Whoever wielded it must’ve been strong, considering she could barely keep the tip pointing upward let alone swing it. She wondered what the warriors in her clan would make of it compared to their light ironbark blades. Souren, their craftsmen, would probably make some comment about primitive Shem smithery. She’d assumed such a lonely cabin in the middle of the woods would’ve belonged to some…what did humans call them? Tree Cutters? Wood People? Woodsman, that’s what one of her books called it. There was a large pile of logs outside that had become a haven for beetles, perhaps he’d meant to sell them to the nearest village. Or perhaps a Huntsman, or were they known as rangers? Were they even the same thing? But there was no axe or bow, just this sword. Important enough to preserve, but not important enough to take with them. She fished out the sparse contents of the rest of the chest for more clues. An amulet with a blood red stone in the centre of some engraved runes. She vaguely recognised a couple of symbols from similar jewellery worn by human travellers the clan had crossed paths with over the years. She knew they were for protection, whether this protection came from enchantment or just a promise of good fortune she couldn’t remember. Since humans hated magic so much it was probably the latter, she couldn’t feel any emanating from this one anyway. The only other things in the chest were letters written in a pretty cursive hand, a hand that she couldn’t read in the fading light. She sprung up and organised them into a pile on the table, and tried and failed to lift the sword up to that height. It remained on the floor for now; lighting her was more important. She went to retrieve it from her pack by the entrance. A sharp gust of wind banged the door against the wall the moment she picked it up, rusty hinges screaming in surprise. She’d left it open to let the last of the natural light in since the windows were too clogged with dust and cobweb to be of much use. But now all it was really letting in was the cold. She began to close it, but stopped, breath freezing in her throat. A dark shape stood in the clearing between the cabin and the woods. A human shape.

She stared it down, silently willing it along. But it stayed right where it was, at the edge of the clearing, directly facing her. Creators, where was her staff? On the bed, out of reach. The magic she could channel from her hands wouldn’t be able to reach the shadow, at least not enough to hurt it. But maybe she didn’t need to… The figure strode forward. She threw the door wide open, lightning bursting out of her fingertips. Purple contrasting against the last red rays of the sunset.

“Stay back!” she yelled, lowering her hand just enough for the electricity to strike the snow, causing it to steam and hiss. But the shadow continued undeterred. “One more step and I’ll bring out my staff.” The shadow raised its hands. Could Templars dispel magic without a weapon as easily as a mage could cast it? With little other options she let out one more intense bout of lightning. The crack of energy made the hairs free of her braid to frizz and stand on end. In the burst of light she leapt to the bed and grabbed her staff. She turned back, blinked, a kaleidoscope of colour crossing her vision, the moss green crystal on the end of her weapon pointed at the entrance, the adrenaline pulsing through veins causing it to quiver in her grip. Painstakingly slowly everything came back into focus. Yet the figure still didn’t attack. It just kept its arms up.

“I stopped, just as you ordered. And you still got your weapon?” it stated in a raspy yet placid voice. The last sparks of lightning faded into the dusk sky.

“I have none of my own. I have no intention of harming you,” it elaborated when she failed to respond beyond lowering her staff slightly.

“Why didn’t you say that earlier?” she finally managed to get out.

“I was about to. But your attacks made it difficult for me to communicate this to you.”

“I wasn’t attacking you, I was threatening you,” she squinted out at them. They appeared to be wearing some kind of robe with the hood up that threw shadow over the parts of their face that weren’t covered by a fair beard. They couldn’t be a mage, could they? Where was their staff?

“Hmm, understandable I suppose, being a lone apostate one must be cautious.”

“Are you alone as well,” she cursed herself for confirming she was by herself.

“I am. And I assure you I found this place the same way I assume you did: sheer luck,” they shifted where the stood, lowering their arms and clenching and unclenching their fists to return the blood flow. “I’m very cold, may I come in? I promise you I’m not a Templar.”

“Well, I figured out that much,” she brought the staff to her side but kept a firm grip on it. “Who are you?”

“Martin Amell. Formerly of the Ferelden Circle of Magi. And you are?”

“Ariel Lavellan,” she relaxed a little at this news. He may be a world away from her, but they had one thing in common at least: magic.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he smiled with only his mouth. “So, am I allowed in, or shall I keep walking? I’m sorry to press you on this matter, but as I said, it’s very cold out here.”

She gave him another once over with her eyes and noticed his right sleeve had been singed by her magic.

“…You can stay until the snow stops falling,” She stood aside to let him through.

“Thank you,” he nodded and entered.

He sat down on the bed as Ariel pulled that lantern out of her pack. It took a few attempts to light the candle within (fire magic was not her strong suit). But just as she thought of asking her fellow mage for help a spark caught the wick and the cottage was bathed in a low orange light. Martin’s face was very pale, combined with his thin lips and large dark brown eyes it made him look sickly. She wondered if it was from being trapped in a Circle tower, perhaps they didn’t have any windows there. And then there was the faint mark on his forehead, partially obscured by the shadow of his hood… She didn’t realise she’d been staring until he gave her that polite smile again.

“So…have you travelled far?” she awkwardly took a seat and placed her staff on the table.

“Yes, I was near Ostagar when I heard news of the Conclave,” he lowered his hood, a few strands of greasy dirty blonde hair falling on his face.

“Ah,” she nodded as if the name rang more than a small bell for her.

She couldn’t take her eyes of that mark, she could see now it was a circle, too neat to be a scar. And his complexion wasn’t natural, there were lines across his cheeks and swirls around the mark which suggested he’d painted his face like she’d heard rich human ladies liked to do.

“What about you?”

“The Free Marches,” like her name she saw no reason not to tell the truth. People from all over Thedas had converged here for the Conclave.

“Is that where the rest of your clan is now?”

“How did you-”

“Your face tattoos.”

“Oh…of course,” she moved her hand away from her staff. Blood rushed to her mortified face, the sudden heat making her pull her hood off. Creators, she’d been travelling for weeks now, how could she still forget about her damn vallaslin! Well, in her defence most people gave away when it was visible by staring at her, and sometimes worse. “…Yes.”

“Why did they send you to The Conclave alone?” he didn't sound concerned, or even curious. In fact, everything he’d said had been delivered with a flat, factual, calm. It may have made all his questions sound less like an interrogation, but it also made him completely unreadable.

“Did they teach you some mind reading magic in The Circle?” she tried to make it sound more like a joke than an actual inquiry.

“No, I just see any other reason you’d be so far away from them.”

“Well, I’m the only other mage they have. And obviously our Keeper can’t come.”

“I see,” it was Martin’s turn to nod as if he understood her completely. “And I thought being thrust out of the safety of The Circle back into the outside world was surreal. At least I was still raised in civilisation, albeit an island one. Not that the Dalish aren’t civilised. They’re just…different.”

“Well, I managed to get here on time, so I suppose we’re not completely hopeless out of the woods,” with no human trinkets or mysterious shadows to distract her anymore she became aware of the hunger grinding away at her stomach.

“And yet here you are. In the abandoned shack of a woodsman a good two miles or so from Haven.”

“Huh, I thought it was a woodsman,” she smiled at this confirmation as she rooted through her backpack. “I thought it would be faster to avoid the traffic on the roads by cutting through the forest, re-join further up. But I didn’t take the snow into account.”

It was still better than suffocating in the village. Sitting by the fire with the clan could be draining enough for her, let alone a human settlement with its narrow muddy roads and static stone buildings stuffed to bursting point.

“Are you hungry? I have some bread, some cheese, and some cured meats,” She pulled out the greasy paper bag with all these things inside. Martin appeared to think for a moment. “I also have bandages, and a poultice for that arm.”

Martin probed the tare in his coat.

“I think I need a sewing needle more than bandages, the lightning barely touched my skin.”

“Ah, well, I suppose that’s one good thing about this weather: makes you put on extra padding,” she couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed at this. Whether it was the way he brushed off her power or that she couldn’t easily make amends for her hastiness in using it she didn’t know.

“Although I wouldn’t mind some cheese. Not wise to sleep on a completely empty stomach.”

“Of course,” she broke a sizable bit off the yellow and handed it to him.

They ate in silence, the wooden boards of the cabin creaking and groaning as it constricted against the cold air outside. Ariel drew those letters closer to her, studying their words in the candlelight. She couldn’t cipher much from them. Like many Dalish elves she’d been raised bilingual due to the patchy preservation of her mother tongue, but only in the spoken word. Most of the books she’d studied under Keeper Deshanna were in Elvish. In fact she couldn’t get past the first couple of lines (basic greetings and ‘I hope this finds you well’) without the urge to whisper every word under her breath, which she didn’t want to do in the presence of Martin. He probably thought her being here was ridiculous enough without learning she could barely read the common language or whatever humans called it. And she’d heard somewhere talking with your mouth full was very offensive to them.

She folded the papers up and stuffed them into the overflowing backpack.

“I doubt you would get much for those,” the mage piped up.

“For what?” she mumbled through a mouthful of crusty bread. So much for etiquette.

“For the things you looted from this place, and a few others by the looks of things,” he nodded at the backpack.

“Looting?! I’m not looting…I’m collecting,” she quickly did the bag back up and nudged it closer to her with her foot.

“For what purpose?”

“What purpose? Uh…” she struggled to swallow the last of the dry bread down. “…research.” She finally said as if she’d only just learned the meaning of the word.

“Research?”

“Yes. It’s not like I ran into humans, every day.”

“I see,” he clearly did not. “Does that research include this gigantic sword at my feet?”

The candlelight stroked the blade on the floor, making its surface appear molten.

“Considering I can barely lift the thing, probably not,” but then she didn’t like the prospect of leaving such a weapon where anyone could find it.

“Then I think I’ll like to take it with me. I don’t know if I can make much use of it myself, but a Grey Warden-issued great sword would serve as a good deterrent against any bandits.”

“What would you need a sword for? You have your magic.”

“Oh, I don’t have any magic,” he started rubbing his forehead.

“But, you said you used to be with the Ferelden Circle…” the realisation of what he was saying hit her stomach before her brain.

“I was…” he brought his hand back to his side revealing the mark on his forehead to be some kind of brand. A brand in the shape of something even she knew well: the sunburst of The Chantry. “…You have heard of the Tranquil, haven’t you?”

Yes, she had: ‘If you stray too close to the shemlen’s village, Da’lin, the Templars will lock you away in a big tower. And if you don’t do everything they say they’ll take away all your magic and your dreams. In fact, you’ll have no emotions at all!’ Of course, she never doubted the existence of the Templars. She’d heard human traders mutter about them through sideways glances at her and Keeper Deshanna’s staffs on the few occasions the clan did business with them. The Tranquil, on the other hand: an out of control rumour at best, a complete horror story at worst. And yet here was a mage with no staff sitting across from her with a face as blank as a mask and a voice as monotone as they come.

The intuitive unease she’d first felt rippled through the rest of her body, putting her hands back on her staff. Martin stared at her with those dark stones of eyes set into a white face.

“Hmm…it seems you have. I suppose elves have just as much of a hard time understanding that means I have no desire to hurt you. Or do anything to you for that matter,” saying this in that flat voice of his made him sound more patronising than reassuring.

“…What did you do?” she finally asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What did you do to have that done to you?” a sticky sickly feeling clung to the back of her throat. Such an unimaginable punishment must be for an unimaginable crime.

“I simply didn’t want to risk the Harrowing. And it really was a risk for me. From what I remember my magic was only strong when I was angry, which only served to make me even angrier. Exactly the sort of frustration a demon would exploit.”

“But even if your magic was weak it was still yours. And you emotions-”

“You didn’t grow up in the Circle. You wouldn’t understand,” he didn’t sound angry (of course he didn’t), but there was a finality to his words that plunged them into a silence that only fuelled Ariel’s anxiety. “…I don’t feel nothing exactly. I feel…a general sense of…wells, tranquillity. Like the levity you feel when you realise you’ve been dreaming. Whatever imaginary monsters were chasing you were just that, figments of your mind. They cannot bother you anymore, let alone hurt you. You can just keep on walking until wake up.”

“Except you’ll never wake up,” Ariel pulled her staff into her lap, running her hands along it absentmindedly. The action didn’t sooth her. Instead she imagined that village on the other side of the woods. How many of the mages sleeping there tonight were like Martin? Did they accept their fate as gladly as he did? How many more Tranquil will be made if this Divine woman ruled in favour of the Templars?

“Why did you come here, Martin? What do you hope will happen at The Conclave?”

“I hope that order will be restored. That I can return to my work enchanting runes,” Martin shuffled closer to the other window.

“You want to go back to the people that did this to you, to a prison!”

He didn’t return her shocked stare.

“It wasn’t a prison to me, it was a sanctuary. I certainly didn’t leave it of my own accord, I was rather forcibly taken by some mages when things fell apart, something about not wanting to leave anyone behind. Well,” he wiped the grime away with his sleeve. “As you can see, they did leave me in the end.”

“Oh…I’m so sorry,” she looked back down at her staff.

“Don’t be. I should’ve seen it coming, mages have never really liked being around me. And ordinary people I’ve encountered who don’t know what to think. Hence the face paint, makes things easier,” he leaned closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes. “I think the snow has settled now.”

He rose and pulled his hood up.

“Wait,” her chair scraped against the wooden floor as she rose out it. Martin stopped and waited for a follow up that didn’t seem to want to come out. Her stomach still clenched at the thought of sleeping in this cabin with him. But if she let him go now she knew her guilt wouldn’t let her sleep at all. “…You stay, I’ll go.”

“It’s quite alright, I-”

“I have a tent somewhere in here,” she hauled the heavy pack back onto her shoulders. “And lantern.” She picked it up, causing the light swirl around the room. “That is, unless you don’t have any candles.”

“I have no concerns about the dark, and I’ve got a sword now,” he nudged the blade on the floor again.

“Good,” with her staff by her side and started towards the door. “Well...have a safe journey.”

Martin blocked her way. Even after everything, she couldn’t help taking a step back.

“If you do insist on going, take this,” he reached into the depths of his pocket. “You’ll need it more than I will to blend in with the Circle mages.”

He handed her a tin about the size of her palm. She screwed it open to find a white paste with clear tracks from when he’d applied it to his face.

“Thank you,” she smiled as she transferred it to one of her own pockets.

They gave each other a final awkward nod before she set out into the growing night.

“Fenedhis lasa,” she hissed as the wind bit into her exposed ears. As she wrestled it for her hood she couldn’t help but turn back to the cabin, but the door had already been shut.

#yes I've written a fanfic #I'll be posting the first few chapters on here #and ao3 #lavellan #trevelyan #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquistion #inquistor lavellan #ariel lavellan #bartholomew trevelyan

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