#when things are racing towards the breaking point both for kirkwall and their feelings

[queen-scribbles]

Good for the Soul

Inspired by this lovely art from @levikra, this was supposed to be short but the muses had other plans. OOPS

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The sun’s reflection shimmered on the water, broken by rippling waves and stray seabird silhouettes as they circled overhead. It was calming. Mesmerizing. Exactly what she needed and almost enough to keep her from noticing the quiet footsteps behind her.

Astrid smiled to herself, twisted a lock of windblown hair around her finger, and spoke without turning around. “You know, some might say it’s dangerous to sneak up on someone like me. Good way to find yourself dead.”

There was a chuckle, the soft rasp of boots against sand-grit stone. “Perhaps I have faith in your judgment.”

She snorted and looked down at her feet, the soles just skimming the water’s surface. “In recent years, that’s also proven a good way to find yourself dead.”

“Astrid.” There was no missing the note of friendly reproof in Sebastian’s voice as he sat next to her. There was a beat of silence before he shifted to, “What d’you mean by ‘someone like me’?”

“Oh, you know.” She finally turned and smiled at him. She tried to make it reach her eyes. “One of the more well-known sorts. A mage. The kind of person who might be extra jumpy about being approached unannounced.”

“Ah.” There was a smile tugging his lips and concern in his eyes. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t tryin’ t’ sneak-”

“I know,” Astrid cut him off, lightly bumping her shoulder to his. Several seconds of comfortable silence stretched between them before she asked, “So, are you today’s short straw?”

Hm?” Sebastian cocked his head and ran a hand over his hair as the coastal breeze tried to ruffle it. (A deep down secret part of Astrid wanted it to succeed)

“You know, the unlucky soul who gets to make sure I’m not drowning in misery.” She kept her gaze on a swooping gull as she spoke, felt her heart give a similar lurch when Sebastian shifted closer, pressing their shoulders together.

“There were no straws,” he said with a half-smile that made her breath catch, carefully shifting so his boots were braced against the rock. “I volunteered. I know you like it out here, an’ it is quite beautiful, in the right spots. And peaceful, even, when nothin’s tryin’ t’ kill ya.”

She couldn’t help the giggle, or the more genuine smile that followed. “Oh, is that it? Too dangerous for me to be alone?” she teased.

Sebastian shrugged. “As you said, you are well-known, especially since Viscount Dumar’s started keeping council with you. Also one of the few voices of reason remaining in the city. Surely you can see how that might put you in added danger.”

“True,” she allowed, pulling her legs in so she could dry her feet and tug back on socks and boots. “I also can handle myself.”

“Well I know it,” he replied, lips still curved in that half-smile, and rested a hand on her arm. “And I didn’t mean to imply you shouldn’t be out here.”

“I was planning to head back soon anyway,” she assured him, patting his hand.  “You did no such implying.” She nodded toward the dark band of clouds off to the east. “That’s more responsible than you for my choice.”

“In that case...” Sebastian pushed to his feet and offered her his hand. “Care for company on th’ walk home?”

Astrid accepted the help up, let her hand linger in his. Since it’s you offering...  “That would be lovely. If you have the time? I don’t want to impose.”

He shook his head. “Helpin’ you is never an imposition.”

She stared at her boots, biting her lip around a smile. “Sebastian.”

“I mean it. I promised t’ help you if you needed me, an’ I have no duties this morning, anyway.”

She arched a skeptical brow at him. “None?”

“None pressin’ or that couldn’t be traded, then,” he amended. “B’sides, I’d say offerin’ my support or at least company to a friend who may still be grievin’ is a more worthy use of my morning that foldin’ linens or parin’ down candles.”

Her smile spread. “Ah. In that case, it’s most welcome. Your company, I mean.” A more insistent breeze whisked around them, tousling their clothes and her hair and she reached up to push it back as she added a teasing quirk to her smile.  “Even if I’d be fine on my own.”

Sebastian took the gentle ribbing in stride as he fell in step next to her for the walk back. “I’m sure your would be. I’ve seen how well you handle yourself. But y’ never know what you’ll run into out here, an’ two are better than one, isn’t that th’ saying?”

Astrid gave him a pointed look that lingered on his lack of armor, bow, or quiver. In fact, the only part of his usual ensemble he had on was the hooded jacket; trousers, boots, belts were all plain and unassuming. No trace of white and gold. “I take it you’re confident in your fist-fighting skills, then?”

He chuckled and clasped his hands behind his back. “I can handle a fair few, aye. But with the weather turnin’ I don’t think that’s as much of a risk. Most would-be threats are like a not seeking shelter “ There was a muffled crack of lightning and he half turned to glance behind them. “As we should probably do.”

“Wha-” Astrid turned to look as well and her eyes widened at the rapidly darkening sky. Damn unpredictable weather... She rested a hand just above his elbow to tug him into a quickened pace with her. “There’s a cave that should be cleared out a little ways up the coast. Unless you think we can make it all the way to the city?”

Even as he opened his mouth to reply, a fat raindrop hit her cheek and the wind tugged at their clothes and hair again, forceful enough it loosened her ponytail.

Sebastian shook his head. “How far to this cave?”

“Half a mile? Maybe a little more.” She pushed her hair out of her face, tendrils curling around her fingers as she tucked them back.

“I think we’ll be lucky t’ make that, rate th’ storm’s comin’,” he said. More rain pattered down around them to underscore the words.

Astrid was a bit more optimistic about their chances, but no point tempting fate--especially when she’d barely dressed warm enough for fair weather. If she got drenched, there were better than decent odds she’d catch cold this time of year. “Oh, if we hurry we can make it,” she said, reaching for his hand as they both quickened their pace again. Another strong gust of wind and they were all but running. Sebastian’s hand was warm in hers, and it took effort to focus on the path and remembering where precisely the cave was rather than that.

Fortunately, their goal wasn’t hard to find, and the weather mostly held until they were inside. The wind gusted every few seconds, and there was a healthy pattering of large raindrops mixed in, but there threatening storm still hadn’t unleashed its full fury when they reached the cave entrance.

They hurried into the shelter it offered with barely a moment’s hesitation, finally releasing each other’s hand as they leaned against the walls to catch their breath. Astrid summoned a spell to illuminate at least part of the cave, check they were alone. It was, as she’d hoped, still empty. It was too shallow a space to make a good home for larger animals or a hideaway for criminals, and too bare to be attractive to smaller critters.

Just as she finished her examination, the rain turned from warning drizzle to full-on deluge. She and Sebastian flinched further back into the cave as water hit the ground with sufficient force and volume to generate spray.

“Well, that was good timing on our part,” Astrid said with a sigh, staring at the curtain of rain. “I wasn’t expecting the storm to roll in so fast, sorry you’re stuck here now.”

Sebastian shrugged and ran one hand through his hair--which, she noticed with a small bit of internal glee, the wind had succeeded in thoroughly ruffling. It returned to a disheveled state the second he let his hand drop. “It’s not your fault, the weather’s never been predictable out here.” He flashed a smile, the glow from her spell sharply highlighting the planes of his face. “An’ I can think of far worse ways t’ spend a few hours than in your company.”

Her face warmed, making the goosebumps on her arms all the more noticeable by contrast. “As can I,” she mumbled, tucking back hair the wind had pulled loose from her ponytail. A smile pulled at her lips. “In fact, if I have to be stuck in a cave with someone, you are my first choice.”

His smile widened. “Thank you. High praise, indeed.”

“I mean...” Astrid rubbed her arm. “It says more that you’re good with sitting still than anything else.” Liar, her thoughts mocked. “If I have to spend a couple hours in close quarters to someone, best it not be someone who’ll go stir-crazy and drive me up the wall.” She hesitated a beat. “And I just enjoy your company in general.”

Sebastian chuckled. “And I yours. As that storm looks intent on staying around for a while, any ideas for passin’ the time?”

The way he was looking at her--gentle, genuine smile, with his hair all tousled like that--was giving her several ideas she’d rather die than share. “Umm...” She bit her lip in thought, rubbing both arms now as a cool breeze swirled through the shallow cave. Her shirt was just damp enough from the rain spray to make a shiver prickle up her spine. “Talking or sitting in comfortable silence are the only options coming to mind.”

“Both good options,” Sebastian agreed, his hands rising to the clasps for his jacket. Astrid forced herself to stare at the pouring rain outside rather than his long, strong fingers. “Anything in particular you’d like t’ talk about? Or avoid talkin’ about?”

She smiled wryly toward the downpour. It’s like he read my mind. “How I’m doing. Since Mother...” The words trailed off and Astrid bit her lip. “Seems like that all anyone wants to know about me anymore-” She broke off with a flinch when she realized he was standing next to her, in the process of draping his jacket around her shoulders.

“You looked cold,” he said with a shrug when she shot him a questioning look.

She couldn’t really deny it. “Thank you,” she murmured, fingers curling around the leather. After only a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her arms through the sleeves--which were, of course, too long--and wrapped it around her. It smelled of candle wax and pine rosin and cleaning oils and ever so faintly she caught a whiff of his pomade from the collar. It was like having him hug her, and between that thought and the general kindness of the gesture, it was a long moment before Astrid trusted her voice. “Won’t you need it?”

Another shrug as he crossed his arms(she stared even harder toward the rainy outdoors to avoid ogling his forearms). “I’ll manage, never fear.”

She hoped he wasn’t just saying that. If he caught cold because he’d given her his jacket she’d never forgive herself. “If you’re sure...”

Sebastian smiled and bumped her shoulder. “I’m sure.”

They  lapsed into comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the rain fall. Another faint shiver rippled up Astrid’s spine despite the jacket’s warmth and she hugged her arms even closer around herself.

“It’s almost pretty,” she commented, nodding toward the view outside the cave.  “A little bleak, but there’s still something beautiful about it...”

An inscrutable look flickered in Sebastian’s eyes as one side of his mouth tugged into a brief half-smile. “You really are a marvel, Astrid,” he murmured. He took a seat on the lone boulder in the cave and leaned forward, bracing his arms against his thighs as he studied her and the rainy panorama with equal curiosity. “Seein’ the beauty in even days like this, not wantin’ people t’ worry about you...”

“Oh, they can worry about me all they want,” Astrid clarified with a wry laugh, sitting next to him. “I just wish they’d ask me about other things. I’m handling it, best I can. And having people ask about it constantly feels like poking a wound and wondering why it won’t heal.”

He nodded. “I see th’ sense in that.” Another beat of silence, their shoulders pressed together by the narrow seating. “Have y’heard from Carver recently?”

She shot him a grateful smile, her stomach fluttering. “Not recently, no. Maybe a month? Gamlen was going to handle writing him about ... about Mother.” Her nose wrinkled. “Perhaps I should have done it, but-”

“Not everything is your responsibility,” Sebastian interjected gently. “True, your uncle may be... less tactful than you would, but it’s fair t’ let other people take at least part of the burden from your shoulders. Even something that seems as simple as that.”

“Mm.” Astrid nudged his knee with her own but didn’t really reply. After a moment, she sighed. “This kind of weather makes me think of him...”

“Carver?”

She nodded. “Rainy days like this back in Lothering, and even before, sometimes, we’d hole up in the barn and I’d help him practice sword moves. Mother and Father would never let him actually ask anyone for lessons, so he’d watch the militia and templars train and then I’d stand in as an opponent armed with a broomstick so he could practice.” A wistful smile tugged her lips at the memory. “One time her got so caught up in it, he cracked my knuckles--I think by accident--and I hit back so hard my broomstick broke. Against his broomstick, not him,” she hastily added. “Mother was not amused. Father was.”

“Why didn’t they want him seekin’ lessons?” Sebastian asked.

“They were worried,” Astrid murmured, dragging the toe of her boot through the dirt as the heated conversation played in her head. “Worried it would draw attention, too much scrutiny on the family, especially if he asked the templars.” ‘The lone blade in a house of mages...’ “As we’ve recently had painfully reinforced”--a sad smile--”they are not all good men, and the reaction to a family full of apostates would hardly have been pleasant. So he made do. And considering what he had to work with, he did a rather fantastic job. I was--am--very proud of him.”

Sebastian smiled. “Sounds like you were close.”

She snorted a soft, wry.laugh. “As we could be.” Her ponytail drooped against her shoulder, and she shook her hands free of the sleeves to tug it entirely loose. “Carver... Carver can be prickly at the best of times, and a downright tit at his worst. I love him dearly, but it’s true.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Most would say it’s a good thing to recognize the flaws of those you love. Keeps you from puttin’ them on a pedestal.”

“Oh,we shared a room at Gamlen’s far too long for that to ever be a risk where he’s concerned,” Astrid laughed, fingers deftly twining her hair into a braid. “I almost pity the Wardens.”

“You miss him,” Sebastian said, gaze intent on her face. It wasn’t a question.

“Very much,” she said softly, keeping her own gaze fixed on the rain outside as she tied off the braid. If she met his eyes, she wasn’t sure she could hold back the suddenly-prickling tears. “But at least Carver there’s a chance I’ll see him again. The rest...” The words trailed off with a sigh.

“I know.”

The two quiet words made her face burn hot. “Maker, Sebastian, I’m sorry.” She rested a hand on his arm, wishing the ground would swallow her whole. “I didn’t... I forgot for a minute...”

“Astrid, it’s alright.” He covered her hand with his and gave it a gentle squeeze as he swallowed reassuringly. “I know you didn’t intend offense, and none is taken.”

“Still...” She gnawed self-consciously on her lower lip.

“You’re much too hard on yourself sometimes,” Sebastian said softly, his smile taking on a compassionate edge.

Astrid locked eyes with him and tried to shrug it off. “It’s part of my charm?” she murmured uncertainly. That was convincing...

“Then it’s part you could do better without,” he countered, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. “You give so much grace to others, Hawke, extend some to yourself as well.”

“Easier said than done,” she said, quiet, rueful.

“Try,” he said, earnest, caring.

Her breath stuttered in her lungs as they held each other’s gaze, near-unblinking. The warmth of his hand on hers and his arm under it was... intoxicating felt too strong. Overwhelming? And with his hair all loose and tousled like that... 

He has vows, Astrid. The thought was cold rainwater down her smile. Ironic, considering when she tore her gaze away toward the cave mouth, the actual rain was starting to taper off. “Oh, look, it’s dying down.” She withdrew her hand and hastily pushed to her feet. (Of course, the fact she was wearing his jacket was not helping at all.)

Sebastian was nice enough to both not press the previous line of conversation and let fade the heat of whatever that... moment had been. “Aye, we should be able t’ head back soon.”

“Oh, here.” Astrid slipped off his jacket(with no small amount of reluctance) and handed it back. “I’ll be alright now. Thank you for the loan.”

He shot her a look silently asking if she was sure even as he took the jacket and pulled it back on. When she didn’t contradict herself, he started fastening the clasps. “Glad it helped.”

“It definitely did that,” she laughed. “Thank you, as well, for the company. It would have been quite boring to be stuck in here alone.”

Sebastian grinned. “Happy t’ be of service.”

It took longer than they’d expected, but after a bit the rain had indeed died to a faint, spotty drizzle. Looking at the overcast sky, this was likely the best they would get, and there was no telling the odds of another downpour. They decided to chance heading back to the city proper and hope the weather held.

“Even if we can’t make it all the way to my house or the chantry, there are, at least, more interesting places to take refuge than a cave,” Astrid said.

“More comfortable, too,” Sebastian added with a chuckle, and she laughed as well.

While the drizzle didn’t abate, neither had it worsened by the time they reached the chantry steps and parted ways.

“Thank you,” Astrid said, briefly resting a hand on Sebastian’s bicep. “I know I already said it, but I’m very grateful to have you in my life--as, as a friend, and I deeply appreciate the help you offer. In all its forms.”

He caught her hand as it started to slide away, gave it a single squeeze before letting go. “It’s my pleasure, Astrid.”

She knew the words were as sincere as his smile, and it made something warm flutter in her chest. She gave a shy nod. “I’ll see you... when I see you, I suppose. Not sure we’ll be ‘adventuring’ with the weather like this; I’ve nothing pressing.”

Sebastian nodded. “Alright. I’ll look forward to next time, then. Goodbye, Astrid.”

“G’bye, Sebastian.”

The rain started to pick back up as Astrid made her way back toward her estate, but she was near to glowing with the same peaceful warmth she’d felt earlier, watching the sun’s reflection scatter across the water. She barely noticed it.

Today had definitely helped her mood, unexpected turns and all. She brushed off Bodahn’s concerned fussing when she entered the house soaked to the bone and apologized for the drip trails as she headed for her room. Mother’s door didn’t spark quite the same looming ache it usually did, and Astrid smiled at the difference from even earlier that day.

I wonder what helped.... she thought with an airy, knowing chuckle, pulling in a deep breath that almost caught the remembered scent of his jacket as she slipped into her room to dry off.

[phoenixsoul13]

Alissa Hawke as a DAI Companion

I actually started working on this one before Rosalie’s, but I struggled so much with writing aer companion quest. ^^’ (template by dextronoms)

OC’s Name: Alissa Hawke (pronouns: ae/aer)

Race, Class, & Specialization: Human, Two-Handed Warrior, Berserker

Varric’s Nickname for them: Hawke

Personality archetype: Red/Blue (though you’ll only encounter the Blue side with high approval)

Default Tarot Card: The Hermit (inner strength, withdrawal, caution, vigilance)

How they are recruited: After talking with Alissa in Skyhold, ae will join as a temporary companion until Here Lies the Abyss is completed, at which point ae will automatically be permanently recruited if aer approval is high enough. “You’re not as useless as I thought, Inquisitor. I’ll help you stop Corypheus.” Otherwise, Alissa will leave for places unknown.

Where they are in Skyhold: Before Here Lies the Abyss is completed, Alissa will stay up on the ramparts, sharping aer sword. Afterwards, ae can be found next to the herb garden.

Approval/Disapproval: Alissa will approve of direct actions, getting straight to the point in dialogue, delivering justice swiftly (ae will Slightly Disapprove if judgments are left too long), and killing darkspawn. Alissa will disapprove of beating around the bush in dialogue, pro-Chantry/Templar sentiments, and the Inquisitor making presumptions about aer.

Major Quest Approvals/Disapprovals:

-(Applied after speaking to Alissa for the first time in Skyhold.)   In Hushed Whispers/Champions of the Just: Ally with the Mages (Approves), Ally with the Templars (Greatly Disapproves), Disbanding the Templars (Approves), Conscript the Mages (Disapproves)

-Here Lies the Abyss: Grey Wardens exiled (Approves), Grey Wardens recruited (Greatly Disapproves)

-Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts: Celene rules (Disapproves), Gaspard rules (Greatly Disapproves), Briala rules through Gaspard (Slightly Approves), Public Truce (Slightly Approves)

-What Pride Had Wrought: Following the Elven rituals (Approves), Ignoring the Elven rituals (Disapproves), Allying with the Sentinel Elves (Approves), Refusing to ally with the Sentinel Elves (Greatly Disapproves)

Mages, Templars, Other?: Having grown up in a family with apostates, Alissa is very defensive of mages being able to choose their own path. Still, ae can be persuaded by the argument that mages need a place to study, but only if said place is run by mages, with no Chantry interference. Ae has no respect for Templars, from the stories ae has heard and aer time in Kirkwall.

Friends in the Inquisition: Sera, The Iron Bull, Blackwall (until Revelations)

Romanceable?: No. A few opportunities will be available to flirt (for all Inquisitors), but the first time such an option is selected, Alissa will say, “Don’t. I’m not interested.” Attempting to flirt a second time will cause aer to Greatly Disapprove, with the comment, “I said no. Try again and it’ll be the last thing you say.”

Small side mission: After completing Crestwood’s main questline [closing the lake rift], talking with Alissa will prompt aer to bring up the Fifth Blight and how it’s still affecting Ferelden today. If the Inquisitor expresses interest in helping people still struggling with the Blight’s aftermath, Alissa will Approve and says ae’ll give the Inquisitor the locations of places they can help. These will include pockets of darkspawn to dispatch and places to donate supplies. If Alissa is along with an encounter, ae will Approve. Otherwise, the Inquisitor will only get Slight Approval from aer.

Post-Recruitment Cutscene: After Alissa is permanently recruited, talking with aer will trigger a cutscene that shows aer working in the garden. The Inquisitor can express surprise that Alissa is into gardening (“Why not?” Slight Disapproval.) or ask what ae’s working on (to which ae’ll reply “The elfroot needs to come out before it chokes itself”). Eventually, Alissa will stand up to face the Inquisitor and ask what they want. The Inquisitor will have three options:

-“Just wanted to make sure you’re settling in okay” will grant Slight Approval and Alissa will respond with, “I’m fine, thank you.”

-“No reason,” will not give an approval change, but Alissa will frown and appear to eye the Inquisitor cautiously.

-“Making sure you’re staying out of trouble,” will grant Disapproval and Alissa will scoff, roll aer eyes, and say “I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

Regardless of the option chosen, the conversation will move on to the fate of the Wardens at the end of Here Lies the Abyss. If the Wardens were exiled, Alissa will say the Inquisitor made the right decision. If the Wardens were recruited into the Inquisition, Alissa will reiterate aer thoughts from the end of Here Lies the Abyss, that it isn’t safe to keep people Corypheus can influence around. The Inquisitor can defend their choice, admit ae has a point, or if they were exiled, agree with aer or wonder if they really did make the right decision. No matter what, Alissa is not swayed from aer position.

At this point, the Inquisitor can ask about aer dislike of the Wardens, especially since they saved Ferelden from the Fifth Blight. “No, two Wardens saved Ferelden. Of course there are good ones; one of my sisters is a Warden herself. But over two dozen Wardens left Kirkwall to fall to the Qunari, and we almost ended up swimming in demons because they can’t think about anything but Blights.”

Alissa will then sigh, say, “Whatever, it’s done,” and turn back to working on the garden.

Companion Quest: After permanently recruiting aer and getting high approval, interacting with Alissa will trigger a cutscene where ae and Cassandra are conversing near the training dummies. Cassandra says that while she wished they could have found the Champion earlier, she’s glad ae’s here now. Noticing that the Inquisitor has joined them, she adds that maybe it worked out for the best that Varric refused to give up Alissa’s location.

Alissa is confused by this, as Varric and ae have never been friendly, and ae assumes he’d sell aer out in a second to save his own skin. Cassandra insists quite the contrary, that he was very defensive of Alissa. Alissa scoffs, saying that doesn’t sound like the Varric ae knows.

Here the Inquisitor can ask if Alissa wants to ask Varric. Alissa will ponder it for a sec then shake aer head. Either way, Alissa will say there’s no point in asking, as he would probably just lie anyway; telling fiction is one of his trades after all.

After this scene, the Inquisitor will have a chance to ask Varric about it. If they do so, he’ll say that despite the differences between them, he does have a lot of respect for Alissa, and feels partially responsible for drawing negative attention aer way. “I know Hawke hated the fact that I wrote The Tale of the Champion; I wanted to show aer and the others in a positive light, but maybe I just made things worse.” The conversation ends with Varric asking the Inquisitor to not repeat any of this to Alissa.

The Inquisitor can then talk to Alissa in the garden, where ae will admit that despite aer earlier dismissal, ae can’t stop wondering about why Varric would defend aer to Cassandra, wondering if he was up to something.

Option 1: The Inquisitor can encourage Alissa to talk to Varric. Ae sighs and says, “Fine, soon.”

Option 2: The Inquisitor can encourage Alissa to forget the matter, to which ae’ll say, “For the best, I’m sure.”

Either way, the quest will complete. If Option 1 was chosen though, after leaving Skyhold and returning, talking to Alissa and Varric will reveal that they’ve talked and made things less tense between them.

Tarot card change Option 1: reversed Eight of Swords (new beginnings) Option 2: (no change)

What Pride Had Wrought: After the cutscene where Morrigan shows the Inquisitor her eluvian and the Crossroads, another will trigger where Alissa approaches the Inquisitor, saying that ae noticed that the Inquisitor’s Arcane Advisor has an eluvian. The Inquisitor can ask how Alissa knows about them, to which Alissa will say ae knows someone that worked on one and might be of some help. Whether the Inquisitor says they could use someone with that knowledge, or says that they’ll be fine with just Morrigan, Alissa will say that ae already received a response to aer letter and aer partners are on their way.

After leaving and returning to Skyhold (or when What Pride Had Wrought is selected on the war table, if done without leaving Skyhold after this scene), a cutscene triggers where Merrill and Isabela arrive in Skyhold. Alissa will introduce them to the Inquisitor, who can be welcoming or cold (of which Alissa will Approve or Disapprove respectively). Regardless, Merrill will say she’s glad to be of assistance. Isabela will remark on the size of Skyhold, and then walk away, mentioning wanting to catch up with Varric. In Skyhold, Isabela and Merrill will change locations: both can sometimes be found by Alissa, while Merrill can occasionally be found talking with Morrigan, and Isabela can occasionally be found sitting at Varric’s table in the Great Hall.

Regardless of companion selections, Merrill will join the Inquisitor alongside Morrigan during What Pride Had Wrought as an extra companion. She will be excited at the prospect of meeting the elves of the Temple, and offer her own commentary throughout. Alissa, if brought along, will defend Merrill against any negative remarks towards her comments (and Slightly Disapprove). Merrill will insist they follow the elven rituals, breaking away from the group if the Inquisitor refuses; Alissa will stay with Merrill, meaning the Inquisitor will be down a party member if they refuse to complete the elven rituals. At the Well of Sorrows, Merrill will be another choice to drink from the well, becoming angry if Morrigan or a non-elven Inquisitor is chosen (Alissa will Greatly Disapprove); Alissa will be noticeably worried if Merrill is chosen (no approval change), saying it would be better if no one drank from it until they know more about it, but unfortunately Corypheus is leaving them no choice.

After the quest, Alissa will offer comments about it when spoken to in Skyhold, positive or negative depending on the choices the Inquisitor made and how they responded to Merrill’s commentary.

Trespasser: Alissa will not be present at the Exalted Council, but with high enough approval, the Inquisitor can find a letter from aer wishing them well.

Cole’s reflection on their thoughts: “Anger fills you up until it’s all you know. Not this again. Why must it always fall to me? It’s not fair, but you still keep fighting.”

Comment(s) on Mages: “People fight back after being driven into a corner too long.”

Comment(s) on Templars: “They claim to fight for good and then attack innocent people? Typical.”

When looking for something: “I’m sure it’s nothing important.”

When finding a campsite: “Tired already?” High Approval: “Let’s stop for a bit.”

When the Inquisitor Falls: Low Approval: “Carry your own weight for once, damnit.” Middling Approval: “Someone check on [Last Name]!” High Approval: “No! Inquisitor!”

When they are low on Health: Low Health: “I refuse to die here.” KO: “Damn... you.”

When they see a Dragon: “Not again.”

When during their small side quest: “Good.” “Ten years later and the darkspawn still keep coming back. And we’ll keep cutting them down.” “So many people still hurting from the Blight.”

Default saying: “What?” High approval: “Nice to see you.”

What do they call the Inquisitor?: With positive approval, Alissa will refer to the Inquisitor by their last name. It’s only with high approval that ae will (non-sarcastically) call them Inquisitor, as at that point ae believes them worthy of the title.

Leaving the Inquisition: At the end of Here Lies the Abyss, if aer approval isn’t high enough, Alissa will not be permanently recruited. Instead, ae’ll say, “Now that this is done, I’ll be going.” The Inquisitor can attempt to convince aer to stay, but Alissa will refuse. “I don’t have any interest in being part of your Inquisition.” The Inquisitor can ask where ae’ll go, and be met with, “Somewhere else.”

If Alissa’s approval is low enough at the end of Here Lies the Abyss, ae’ll leave without a word.

If after being permanently recruited, Alissa’s approval falls far enough, ae will not leave, but it will trigger a cutscene where Alissa is pacing the garden and turns on the Inquisitor when they appear. “I thought you were making a difference. I can’t believe I fell for it.” Ae’ll cross aer arms and be silent for a moment. “I’ll stay since I said I would, but the moment Corypheus is dead, I will leave and not look back.” All dialogue options will disappear, and interacting with Alissa in Skyhold will just have aer say, “Go away.” After Corypheus’s death, Alissa will be true to aer word and will not be present at the victory banquet.

[jawsandbones]

Riches and Wonders

For @rennybu

He pulls his hand away from his side, wordlessly staring at his palm, sticky with blood. It seeps through the cracks between his fingers, weeps quiet drops onto the ground. The arrow sticks out the flesh of him, a scar in waiting to go beneath an already existing scar. He presses his hand back against the wound, fingers around the arrow, focuses instead on the swell of magic in his other palm. On the inhale, he pulls all the bandits together. Fire blooms in the spaces between, and on the exhale, he squeezes his hand around the staff, some wanted fist.

It’s almost too easy. In a night, they snuff out one of Kirkwall’s gangs.

He looks at his hand again, so red and full of noise. It doesn’t scream, it doesn’t shout. It whispers. Soft words, gentle and pliant. “What are you doing?” Snapped, breaking Orson out of his own head. He tosses a grin towards Anders, even as the other mage is poking fingers at the wound, scowling at the arrow.

“I didn’t know I could bleed,” he says, and it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s the first words that come to mind and they’ll have to do.

“Right,” Anders says, giving him a singular look, “well, surprise.” On that word, he yanks out the arrow. He fills the missing spaces with his magic, and it’s as though he makes the stitches with a needle made of ice. A cold burn around the edges, a lake in the middle of it. The blood is an ignored inconvenience, simple, meant to be washed away and forgotten. He hasn’t forgotten the last, or the time before that.

Finished, Anders spins the arrow between his fingers. Isabela snatches it from his grasp, steps out of his reach. Holding it between two fingers, one at pointed prick and the other hidden by feathers, she holds it up to study it properly. “I wonder how much we could get for selling this,” she says, “wounded the real Champion of Kirkwall! A rare item indeed.” Orson hides his unease with laughter, gently plucking it from her. It goes up in flames, crumbles into ash.

“Meredith would be the first in line, hoping to make a phylactery of it,” Anders tells her, with an angry roll of his head, and a glare to match. She crosses her arms and chuckles.

“And I bet she would pay a fortune,” she says, a smug smile on her lips, a teasing shake of her shoulders as she leans closer to him. Anders opens his mouth to speak, stops when he feels the hand at the back of his neck. A matching one on Isabela’s, and Aveline’s eyes are closed, the sigh falling heavily between them.

“This incident will be a mountain of paperwork in the morning. I want to go home. I want to go to bed,” she says. Opening her eyes, looking between the two of them.

“If you kill them, it’ll only be more paperwork,” Orson tells her, “that was the last of them anyway.”

“Good,” Aveline says, letting them both go. A hand drops to the hilt of her sword, and she falls into step beside Orson. He’s absentmindedly looking at the frayed edges of his tunic. How do they always manage to find the most inconvenient spots? He wonders if he has any thread left that will match. The moon shudders in its reflection, rocked by waves that break against the docks. Orson lets his gaze drift out over the sea, and there are some moments when Kirkwall can be truly beautiful.

“Please don’t get killed,” Aveline tells him as they all go their separate ways. Orson gives her a cocky grin as he walks backwards, his arms outstretched.

“I’m the Champion of Kirkwall. I can’t die,” he says. With a wave and a roll of her eyes, Aveline turns in the direction of her own home. The grin lasts until Aveline is out of sight. His footsteps echo over cobble, the subtle loneliness of Hightown. He goes to reach for the handle of the door, and pauses. Blood looks black in the moonlight. The same breath of loneliness follows him inside the estate, hovers around his shoulders. Kicking off his boots at the door, resting his staff against the wall. He lights the fireplace in his room with a flick of his hand.

The tunic and all the rest of it is something to be shrugged off into a pile, to be forgotten until the morning. In the bathroom, water runs cold but serves its purpose. He hastily wipes at the blood, watches it circle down the drain. He throws himself face down onto the bed. Feet hanging off the edge, breathing stifled by the pillow. With a groan, he rolls himself over, an arm flopping limply over his belly. It doesn’t take long for sleep to claim him. The Fade always starts at some great distance. He, in a pit of darkness, and he longs to stay there. The ground runs up rapidly to him, and with it, the spirits who flock to his presence.

Most don’t speak. They put their hands on his shoulders, his body, as though they have the right – fingertips drift over the twinned scars of his belly, made by the same blade and Orson reels backwards. Falling to the ground, and the spirits hover nearby, waiting. They remind him. Always. Blood pools beneath him, seeping from his hands, pouring from long dead places, long dead people. He wakes in shuddered shock, clenching his hands into fists.

The morning is a blur, his feet carrying him wordlessly here and there. He washes his tunic, squeezing out dried blood from the fabric. The sewing is easy work. The thread is not quite the same color, but a distant cousin. It will do. It will be almost unnoticeable, like all the others. Lost in the concentration of it, his thoughts drifting to far off places, and he refuses to let them circle around to the dream. He lets them settle somewhere better. He wonders what sort of excuse he might need to go see Fenris.

In the end, he settles on food. A wrapped bundle of it in his arms, taken from the kitchen. It doesn’t particularly have any rhyme or reason, it just… is what it is and he hopes it’s enough. He knocks on his door, waits for the answer. With Aveline, it’s easy to tell when she’s coming with the footsteps that grow ever louder. Isabela is a shout of acknowledgement, while a knock at Merrill’s door might be met with something crashing to the floor as she races to answer it. With Fenris, it’s nothing. No warning, no sound, he’s simply there, opening the door. Peering through the crack, opening wider when he sees Orson’s smiling face.

“I thought if you didn’t have anything better to do, we might have lunch,” he says, holding up the bundle. Fenris looks between it, and him, and then nods, steps back to allow him inside. The door closes behind him and the place has gotten better over the years. There are a few less holes in the roof, and the fireplace is cleaned and cleared, filled with fresh logs for burning. There are no more bodies, like those first few days, and in the main area, Fenris has claimed it as his. Trinkets on the mantle. A quilt for a bedcover. Little tokens and mementos, given to him by his friends, kept close to him. The closest of all, wrapped around his wrist.

He settles himself back down into the winged back chair, picks back up the tunic that was resting on the table beside it. Orson makes himself comfortable on the bench in front of the fireplace, opens the bundle. It’s the glint of a needle in the firelight that catches his eye. Fenris is glaring at the shirt as though he’s willing it to burst into flame, each thread through done slowly and deliberately. The hole in the shirt is wide and torn, clearly a loose thread caught on something and ripped to its end. “I could do that for you,” Orson says.

“I’m capable of doing it myself,” Fenris says almost reflexively. The slightest wince, the barest turn of his head as if quietly berating himself for the words. Both things would be almost unnoticeable to anyone else. Orson doesn’t mention it. “However, it is… frustrating, and I would appreciate the help.” Fenris instantly holds them out towards Orson, the needle pinched between a finger and his tunic. Orson takes the bundle carefully, rests the tunic on his knees. He takes up the needle, settling the spool of thread beside him, and continues where Fenris’s careful stitching left off.

“I got shot yesterday,” Orson says cheerfully as Fenris leans forward to steal a slice of bread from the bench.

“Congratulations.” It draws out barked laughter, but his steady hand doesn’t slip, plants the next stitch carefully. “Are you still injured?” There it is. The low voice of concern, almost hesitating in his asking. It’s been years of a meticulous pull, followed by a wary push. How far can they go without it being too far, too much? There are days when it isn’t far enough. Days when nothing is more than plenty. Orson shakes his head.

“Anders healed it up. Isabela thought we should sell everything that injures me. Thinks we might make a fortune. Swim in riches,” he says, the words falling easily from his mouth. Fenris frowns.

“Something is troubling you,” he says. He doesn’t say more, doesn’t need to. It’s an understood invitation, a statement that stands on its own. Orson’s stitching slows, and his hands fall to his lap, over the tunic. He looks up, away from it, towards him. Fenris’s gaze stays fixed upon him, lounging easy in the chair, each muscle tense and controlled, as if ready to go to his side at any moment.

“Every time I get hurt, I remember what happened with the Arishok,” he says. “All that blood and I – I can hear it? It’s not. It doesn’t want to leave me alone and I don’t ever want to do anything like that again, I just…” his words trail off as he sighs, puts down the tunic and the stitching on the other side of him. Fenris shifts forward, the edge of the chair, his hand at the very edge of the armrest.

“I’m sorry,” Orson says, rubbing a hand at the back of his head, “I’m not very good… at this.” A small breath of laughter, and the smile on Fenris’s face is something soft, and easy.

“Spoken as though I am.”

“It scares me.” He cups his hands together, and then flattens them, palms upwards. He looks at crisscrossing lines, every joint and tip. “The fact that I had to do that. The fact that I might ever have to do it again. Every time I use my magic I think about – what I’m capable of.” Fenris pushes himself up from the chair, at last, brushes the tunic and thread carelessly to the floor as he takes its place, sitting on the bench beside him.

“You remember our time spent in the Fade together, when we were rescuing Feynriel?” Fenris asks. The betrayal of his surprise shows in the rise of Orson’s eyebrows.

“Yes, of course.”

“I faced you. Not of my own will, but, I did face you. I have seen what you can do with your magic. I have seen you burn, and crush and stomp out anything in your path. But I am stronger, and I am faster than you and I have killed you once already. I am not afraid of you,” Fenris tells him. A gaze kept, that steady green, a touch of fingertips that brushes only barely against the edges of Orson’s palms. Orson lets out the shaky breath that he didn’t even know he was holding.

“It was a relief, to realize it,” Fenris says. “I cannot say I have known many mages to be kind, nor have I known them to use their magic to protect me in a fight. I rest well, knowing you are at my back, Orson.” Orson struggles with the strangle of emotion that suddenly swells in his throat. It has been conjured up from some place deeper, and catches where he can’t make meaning of it.

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” is all he can manage, choked out hoarsely, and wrapped up in wonder. Fenris’s smile widens, and his hand settles properly in his.

[blustersquall]

Only Make Believe // Chapter 38: Intimately

No long intro for this chapter. Just a NSFW warning. 

Chapter is on AO3 as well for those who prefer it. Enjoy. <3

---------------

Cullen followed Nevena into his bedroom and closed the door behind them. His tongue was heavy in his dry mouth, and an excited, nervous energy rippled over the surface of his skin. Her hand in his did little to soothe it, instead her touch only amplified it making his heart and mind race. Since their talk in the park and returning to Cassandra and Varric’s house, she had seemed to him more relaxed. Calm, even confident. As if, now she had put the issue of her mother to rest, she was truly able to just be. Like her mind was finally quiet.

He didn’t mind this change in her. It was a good one. He liked seeing her like this; at ease and comfortable. Since their encounter with Rick she’d been jumping at shadows and restless. He doubted she had or would forget it any time soon, but it was as though with her determination to take control of her life and fate, she was equally determined to move on from that encounter. To not allow it or him to ruin what was left of their time in Kirkwall.

She sat on the edge of Cullen’s bed, bathed in the soft illumination of the bedside lamp he left on. Cullen stood before her, swallowing hard when she lifted his right hand and kissed the back of it. Smiled up at him wordlessly, caressing his skin with her lips and the tips of her fingers. The neckline of her shirt draped open, giving Cullen a tantalising flash of skin. He took a slow breath to settle the excited energy still flooding his senses and racing around his body. Cullen moved closer, he curved the hand at her lips around to cup and cradle her face, before gingerly sliding his fingers down lower, over her neck.

The bruises left by Rick’s hand on her throat were still visible. Nevena lifted her head, a silent, defiant expression coming to her face. She didn’t hide them from him or flinch away. Pride swelled within him. Maybe she could eventually move on from all the horrific things Rick put her through. Maybe, one day, he would be nothing but a ghostly memory to her.

He sat beside her. His fingers remained there on her neck, touching the bruises while he studied them with his eyes. They would fade in the next few days. They were already a pale mottled brown and they would fade faster than the memory of her encounter with Rick, but in time, all recollection of him would disappear. Cullen was determined that he would assist in that.

“What are you thinking?” asked Nevena, placing her hands on his thigh. She leaned closer, resting her chin on his bare shoulder. Cullen dropped his hand from her neck, instead stroking her arm.

“How resilient you are.” He smiled at the look of surprise that flitted across her face. “That’s beside the point though. Didn’t you say you were thinking about me?”

“I might have mentioned something along those lines, yes.” She laughed through her nose, a blithe smile coming to her lips. “I’m really glad Roselyn called you for me. If she had told me that phone call and the meeting at Red Jenny’s would lead to… this, I would have burst out laughing.”

“I’m happy she called me on your behalf, too. I’m also glad you didn’t run away from me.”

Another chuckle, “I didn’t make the greatest first impression, did I?”

“Oh no, you made a… remarkable first impression on me” Cullen ruffled a hand through his hair. The more they talked, the more the anxiety within him settled. This was Nevena, after all. “I told you, I could hardly take my eyes off you when I saw you in there.”

Her smile softened into one that was both coy and a little flustered, and the colour in her cheeks deepened making her freckles appear more pronounced. “It’s going to be weird going back to Denerim after everything that’s happened.” She said, after maybe thirty seconds.

“It will take some adjusting to.”

“Do you think things will change a lot? B-between us, I mean.”

Cullen slid an arm around her waist, bringing her closer and pressing his lips to her forehead. “Maybe, a little.” He sighed, “we won’t be around each other all the time for a start, but it’s not as though we’ll be countries away from each other.”

“I know. It’s just going to be strange, getting back to normal, daily life.”

“It will definitely be an odd transition.” Cullen shifted and started to lie back, taking Nevena with him. There was no resistance from her, and once they were settled on his bed, she perched her cheek on his chest, one arm over his waist. “I’m going to enjoy the questions from my colleagues.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re going to tell them about me?” She sounded surprised and amused.

“Of course,” Cullen glanced down at the top of her head. “And I’m sure they’ll have questions if you stop by after work, or when I tell them I’m going to see you.” Nevena shivered against him and Cullen rubbed her shoulder. “You cold?”

“No.” She lifted her head, smiling at him. “It’s… nice to hear you say things like that. That you’ll be telling your colleagues about me. About us. I… I guess it’s kind of… an unfamiliar sensation. Gave me butterflies.”

She didn’t say anything, and Cullen didn’t want to question her further, but the implication was unmissable. Rick probably never talked about her to his colleagues or friends – if he had any. He probably guarded and coveted her like a precious jewel and never felt pride in having her at his side. Never appreciated her the way Cullen did, and would continue to.

He leaned up to kiss her, sliding his hand at her shoulder up into her hair to guide her to meet him halfway; though he needn’t have bothered. Nevena greeted his lips putting her weight into her elbow and moving her hand at his waist over the bare skin of his chest. Her fingertips caressed the scarred flesh, a sensation as recognizable to Cullen as his own heartbeat.

Aside from their increasingly heavy breaths, the only noise that filled the room was the occasional smack of lips, or a soft, pleased murmur rising from either of them. Removing his other hand from under his head, Cullen spread his fingers over the base of Nevena’s back. She rose onto her knees, the kiss breaking for a moment with her movement giving Cullen a glimpse of flushed cheeks and reddening lips before she kissed him with more heat than before.

She was intoxicating. She overwhelmed his senses in every way and it was something Cullen could only compare to being pleasantly drunk. That warmth that spread from his chest down to the very tips of his fingers was incredible. How smooth her skin was beneath his rougher hands. Her scent filling his nose and the taste of her on his tongue. She was addictive. Sweet, delicious, and wanted to know every inch of her.

With no bidding Nevena straddled his legs, causing Cullen to rise to a sitting position to maintain contact. His cock, already excited just from their kissing, hardened at the brush of her heat above. Cullen pressed his fingers into her spine. He shifted her hair away from one side of her neck and dragged his mouth, reluctantly, from hers. Quick kisses on her jaw were followed by slower ones on her neck. He lapped her skin with the roughness of his tongue before sucking, enough to be felt but not enough to leave a mark. Nevena arched towards him, her chest pressing against his and a low sound rose from her chest.

“Alright?” rasped Cullen, kissing her neck again ready to stop if she said so.

“Mhm,” she replied. Her hands caressed his shoulders and she tipped her neck back, offering more skin to him. “Feels good…”

Cullen obliged. He lavished her throat with his lips, nipping experimentally to see what reaction it would bring. Her fearful reaction when he touched her neck the night before lingered at the back of his mind. He stayed alert for anything and everything that indicated discomfort or fear in her, primed to stop if she so much as hesitated.

Nothing came. No fear, no scream. Cullen stroked her back beneath her shirt and relished every heaving breath that came to his ears. He drew shapes and letters with light scratches over her skin causing her to shiver and ripple within his hands. Her hips moved back and forth at a torturous pace, the juncture of her legs positioned perfectly against the growing hardness of his length. He gripped her backside through her flimsy cotton trousers and led her to grind slower and harder on him.

He groaned, “fuck…” into the curve of her shoulder, his eyes rolling back into his head at the jolt of pleasure and desperate need that swamped his mind for a moment. “Oh, Nev…” Dragging the tip of his tongue up over her throat, he drew away enough to see her face clearly. Her reddened, kiss swollen lips, her blazing, wildfire eyes, the hunger and desire he felt all through his mind and body reflected back at him.

Time stopped for him. He was enraptured by the woman before him. The openness of her expression, the vulnerability he could see behind the desperate, ravenous yearning. A vulnerability Nevena saved only for him. A vulnerability she probably kept tightly under wraps for years, and yet felt safe enough to expose to him. Something squeezed around his heart.

“Nev,” he heard himself say sounding sluggish and dazed even to his own ears, “I need-- want to tell you…”

“Yes?” she kissed him. Light, feather kisses like raindrops on his lips. Her hands drifted down from his shoulders to his chest. She caressed the sensitive skin of his nipples, circling and brushing her thumbs over them until they were harder and peaked. Their breath mingled, eyes locked and her hands delved lower. The muscles in Cullen’s abdomen twitched in reaction to her gentle caress and when her left hand slid between his body and his trousers, her fingers wrapping around his throbbing cock, Cullen’s eyelids fluttered closed with a stuttering moan.

She stroked from base to head, winding her hand and fingers around him with quiet confidence. Her breathing was staggered, and Cullen’s own breath hitched when she tightened her grip ever-so-slightly. In response, he dug his fingers into her thighs, drawing her closer to him. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against her collarbone, his nostrils flaring with every shuddering breath. Nevena’s shirt gaped open before him exposing her breasts and budding nipples to his hazy vision. Taking a chance, Cullen rose his hands sliding them up over her body until his palms were on her back. He lifted them a little at a time twisting the fabric of her shirt in his fingers and taking it with him.

He watched and waited for Nevena to protest. For her to stop and tell him ‘no’. He forced his gaze from her hand around him to her face, trying to gauge her thoughts from her expression alone. There was nothing to dissuade him in her facial expression, but he stopped when her lowered arms prevented him from fully removing the garment.

“Shirt?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He watched her for a reaction and licked the corner of his bottom lip. “May I?”

Nevena nodded. She lifted her arms in silence and Cullen tugged her shirt up and over her head, tossing it blindly to one side when she was free. Her hair fell in soft, golden cascades around her shoulders, spilling down her body until tendrils brushed dusky pink nipples. She looked like something out of a Renaissance painting. A work of art to be adored and admired from afar, not to be tainted by human hands.

Cullen gulped. He had seen women naked before. Even Nevena had been almost naked with him in Redcliffe, yet here and now it was an altogether different experience. Maybe it was because she was so willing. Or because she met his eyes with both coyness and fire in her own. It could simply have been down to his own shock that she was comfortable enough to bare herself to him like this… Whatever it was, it struck him dumb. And all he could do for a few moments was stroke her back and stare.

Then all time and sense caught up with him. He spread his hands over her skin and drew her towards him, greeting her with a searing kiss and burying a hand within her hair. The sensation of her bare flesh was one that caused a ripple of excitement to speed through him. Her breasts cushioned against his broad chest, nipples budded, begging to be touched and kissed.

“Maker, Nev…” Cullen gripped her backside and her back, easily shifting their positions and moving her onto her back beneath him. She arched her head back, yielding her neck to his desperate lips and curving her back, pushing her chest into his exploring hands. He moaned, rutting his cock on the covers for some kind of relief while digging his toes into the sheets, wanting to make the most of this opportunity to please her. To make her feel as wonderful and radiant as he saw her.

Fingers dragged through his hair while he lavished attention on her right nipple, tongue swirling across her flesh and grazing gently with his front teeth. Every soft noise Nevena made, every moan and sigh of pleasure, each involuntary murmur of his name only spurred him on. He wanted her to feel good. Wanted to make her quiver and writhe and find that blissful edge with him and fall over it with abandon. He wanted to be that anchor of safety that allowed her to let go and feel.

Glancing up, Cullen saw she was biting down on her lower lip. He left her breasts for a moment, caressing down her sides and over her thighs while lying over her. She buried both hands in his hair as she kissed him, rocking her hips up to rub his erection.

Moaning and shivering, he danced his fingertips over her lips. “I want to hear you.” He murmured to her. She parted her lips enough to draw the tip of his index and middle finger into her mouth, grazing his skin with her teeth. Cullen buried his head into her neck, taking a deep inhale and trying to ignore the pulsing of his cock. With a strangled groan, he lifted his head again, drew his hand away from her lips and kissed her forehead. “Is everything alright? I don’t want to push you… Overwhelm you.”

“I’m fine,” Nevena curled his hair behind his ears. She looked drunk, her face and neck a deep red, spilling down her collar and shoulders. Her chest heaved on her breaths allowing Cullen to feel her breasts pressing to his chest. Her heartbeat racing with his own. Maker, he wanted to devour her. “Would you like me to do what I did on the boat?”

“No--” Cullen blurted out, her query surprising him with its boldness. Nevena tilted her head to one side, confusion filtered through her expression. Cullen huffed, laughing at himself. “I-I mean yes, it was… incredible…”

“But…?”

His stomach turned over, the enjoyment racing through his veins cooling a little at the prospect of what he was about to ask. “I would… like to make you feel… good.”

“You do. You are.” Nevena’s fingers twisted in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“More specifically,” Cullen cleared his throat, “I should like to try and help you enjoy something you said you didn’t before.” It was a few seconds before he saw the recognition in her eyes. She knew what he was asking, and he worried he was pushing too hard, moving too fast.

Asking was an awkward thing but it was the right thing in this case. He knew how Nevena was affected by past experiences. Clearing things with her was the right thing for her.

“Uhm…” she took a breath, eyes glancing from his. He waited for her refusal, prepared to accept it and stay as they were. “I… o-okay… sure.”

Cullen blinked back his surprise. “Are you sure? I won’t, and don’t want to, if you’re not totally on board.” He kissed her forehead to offer her some reassurance. “Don’t feel like you have to say yes because I asked.”

“I’m sure. I don’t want to miss out on things with you because of… past experiences.” She offered a small smile, brushing her thumb along the scar on his lip. Cullen pressed his lips to the palm of her hand. “Just… not too fast.”

He leaned to kiss her, gentle lips meeting pliant ones. She sighed into it, relaxing in his embrace and slid her hands down his back. Cullen thrilled each time her fingers graced his scarred flesh. She never recoiled or shied away from the change in texture or how much they covered his skin. She enveloped him, faults - physical and not - without flinching and with no hesitation. Cullen adored her all the more for that.

Drawing his lips from hers, he mapped a path down her throat to her collar. He lingered at her breasts, kissing her skin and adoring the sweet buds of her nipples between his fingers and within the warmth of his mouth. Her ribs jerked on her breaths beneath his right hand as he explored lower. Lower, over her stomach, his fingertips ghosted over her navel and her hip bones. He paused his attention to her breasts when he began to inch her pyjama bottoms down.

Cullen tugged them bit-by-bit, rising onto his knees when forced. The view from his vantage caused all the air in his lungs to evacuate. Nevena, all but utterly bare before him, her skin flush from his attention. Beautiful breasts rising and falling on her staggered breaths, rosy nipples erect and still begging for Cullen’s lips. Blazing amber eyes, golden cascades of hair all mussed and framing her like the exquisite woman she was. He realised how lucky he was to have found her in such strange circumstances. She was radiant, both inside and out and he would never tire of her.

Nevena leaned up on an elbow, suddenly coy and blindly feeling around for a corner of the duvet. “Sorry, if--”

“Don’t you dare apologise.” Cullen darted forward, cupping her jaw and kissing her. “Sweet Maker, I love you.” He said with his lips on hers. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“Cullen…” Nevena stroked her fingers back through his hair.

“Lie back down,” he told her. “Please relax.”

Nevena did as he asked, lying flat and wriggling her hands into the covers. Cullen finished removing her pyjama bottoms and dropped them to ground by the side of the bed. He ran his hands up over her legs, guiding her to part them for him. Nevena’s eyes were clenched closed and Cullen saw her hands were now fists.

“Sweetheart,” Cullen murmured leaning over her and kissing her belly, “you’re alright, I swear…”

“I know…” Nevena’s hands slipped through his hair. “I think it’s the anticipation…”

“I’ll stop if you want me to.” He trickled his fingertips over her waist. “All you need to do is say so.”

“I know.”

“I won’t be angry. This is for the both of us. Not just me. I want you to be comfortable…”

“I am…”

“Any time to want to stop, promise me you’ll say so.” He was pushing. He knew he was pushing, but he needed her to understand. He would abide by her comfort, her boundaries, and her feelings. He would never push. Never force her. He needed that confirmation from her that she knew he would stop if she said even one word. He would not go on without her ultimate confirmation that she would say something if she felt he was pushing beyond her limits.

“I will.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Do you trust me?” He met her gaze, breathing hard and waiting for whatever answer she would give.

The moments between his question and her answer were endless hours. Nevena cradled his cheek in one hand and brushed the scar on his lip with her thumb. She met his gaze with an enigmatic smile. “…Intimately.”

There it was. A single word. A confirmation that caused a wave of emotion to flood through him all at the same time. Relief – she trusted him so completely. Pride – she was allowing herself this. This chance to undo or move on from pain from the past. To experience something intimate and attach new memories to it. Good ones. He was happy, and the unbridled adoration that filled him was hard to contain.

For so long she had shown she trusted him. Demonstrated it in the deeds and the things she confided, but to hear that confirmation in a single, resounding word. To know how closely she trusted him… It was a better answer than Cullen dared hope for. Her word choice only increased that sense of wonderment. Intimately. It was a good word to describe their relationship. There was physical intimacy which was growing bit-by-bit. More than that, since there beginning almost there was an emotional intimacy between them. How easily they opened up to the other. How willingly he told his story to her, his past and was not judged for it.

Intimately. It summed them up perfectly.

Cullen smiled up at her, “good.”

Gliding his hands down the outside of her legs, Cullen shuffled down, his feet dangling off the edge of the bed while he settled himself between her thighs. He kissed first, feather-soft touches of his lips to the soft skin available to him. Nevena’s skin prickled under his lips, goose bumps rising beneath his hands. She bent her knees slightly, feet pushing down into the bed. Cullen wriggled up the bed closer to the juncture of her thighs. The friction caused by his moving gave his throbbing cock a moment of respite.

He slid one hand beneath her backside, the other he pressed into her abdomen, reaching lower with his thumb to rub along her core. He could smell her arousal, filling his head and making it swim. Her underwear was drenched, and Cullen rotated his thumb around her clit when he found it swollen.

Nevena jerked a little in his hand and Cullen laughed against her thigh. He stroked her through the cotton fabric barring him from his goal, glimpsing her glistening core and tufts of coarse, dark blonde hair. One of Nevena’s hands pressed into his shoulder. The other he could see was in her hair, her head arched back while sounds - delicious, indecent, erotic sounds - escaped between her staggered breaths.

Kissing his way to her heat Cullen placed his mouth against her, easing his tongue along the material of her underwear. The taste of her filled his mouth and entered his head, mingling with her scent. Nevena squirmed a little above him. Cullen dug his fingers into his backside, holding her steady. He replaced his thumb with his mouth, tongue swirling over the hard bud at the hood of her sex and earning a low moan in return. Lifting her hips up off the bed a little, he buried himself deeper pressing his tongue to her. He slipped two fingers between her body and her underwear, tugging it to one side until he met her core bared before him.

Nevena’s fingernails pressed into his shoulder causing Cullen to pull back a little. “You okay?”

“Mhm-hm. S-sorry…”

Cullen chuckled, “feeling good?”

“U-uh-huh…” she nodded.

“Want to carry on?”

Another nod, “please--”

He knelt, breathing deep as his erection strained against the fabric of his clothing. Nevena watched him, scarlet blush spilling down her body like a drop of paint in water. He ran his fingers around the hem of her underwear, lips pulling to one side. “May I remove your underwear? If you’re comfortable enough, that is?”

She’d be naked, if she allowed him to. Completely and utterly naked. Vulnerable. Unencumbered. Of course, Nevena herself had said before that naked didn’t necessarily mean sex, and Cullen was happy to remain as they were. Sex didn’t have to come into their relationship yet. This was all about exploration. Learning how to please the other. Helping Nevena overcome the barriers in place from the past. He stroked her outer thighs waiting for her response, watching as her breathing grew slower as if giving clarity to her mind.

Nevena leaned up on an elbow. She shifted to one side, then the other, sliding her fingers underneath the edge of her underwear and beginning to slide it down her legs. Cullen swallowed hard on a lump in his throat. Her gaze was on him, eyes burning in the lamp light. She adjusted her legs, first the left, then the right, pulling her remaining garment off her feet and depositing it with her other clothes on the floor. It wasn’t lost on him how she removed them. It was another element of regaining control. He might have asked if he could remove her underwear, but her doing it was a non-verbal way of agreeing. Of demonstrating she was comfortable enough with him to be naked. To be vulnerable. She was showing that she felt safe with him in a way she likely never felt safe with Rick.

Cullen leaned over her, weight on his hands and kissed her forehead. Nevena exhaled through her nose, a deep, slow breath that he imagined settled whatever anxiety was flooding her body. She was trembling a little. Cullen cradled the nape of her neck, kissing her soft and slow. Nevena’s lips parted and she leaned back until she was flat on the bed again. Her arms draped over Cullen’s shoulders, mapping his spine and his scars with her fingertips.

Still with his weight on one hand, Cullen began to journey down her body with his hand at the nape of her neck. Caressing down over her shoulder, over the curve of her breast, pausing a moment and allowing his fingertips to trickle over her nipples. Slowly venturing lower, along the centre of her chest and abdomen, past her navel and beyond the thatch of dark blonde hair between her legs. Nevena shuddered when he slipped his fingers along her wet heat, moving them back and forth until they were slick. He followed the same path his hand had taken, kissing her flesh at random intervals, brushing his tongue over sensitive areas until he was back in place between her thighs.

He kissed the soft skin of her thighs before approaching her dripping core. Careful, but sure in his actions he pressed his mouth to her, moving his tongue between her lips and flicking the bud of her clit. He held her legs apart in his hands, squeezing and massaging her flesh with his fingers, all the while alternating between licking her and sucking. Broad strokes with the flat of his tongue, brief touches with the tip of it. He experimented with flicking her clit, circling it, sucking, and rubbing, back and forth. He gauged Nevena’s reaction as best he could with muffled hearing and little sight. Her sighs, her moans, her gasps. The tightening of her fingers on his shoulder or in his hair. The way her hips jerked, or her legs jumped. Her muscles twitching on either side of him. Every gesture brought a new reaction and Cullen was enraptured by every single one. He was engrossed, learning what made this woman happy.

When she shifted above him, it prompted him to glance up and he saw she was sitting, her weight back in one hand and an expression of growing ecstasy on her face. Her bottom lip between her teeth, eyebrows furrowed and eyes partially open, she nodded to the questions Cullen didn’t ask: was she alright? Was this okay? Did she want him to continue?

He buried his face deeper, groaning into her as he rutted on the sheets to bring himself some relief. His jaw ached a little. He slipped two fingers inside her, watching her head droop back and her hair spill down behind her. Her throat moving as she swallowed. He kissed her thighs, working his fingers in-and-out, in-and-out, curling them up and rubbing his knuckle on the sweet spot he found before in Redcliffe.

“Oh—” Nevena bowed her head forward, her free hand coming to comb through his hair. “Cullen—”

“Lie down,” Cullen rasped to her, sweat on his brow matting his hair to his forehead. He twisted his fingers inside her, and her body clenched around the intrusion. She did as he requested, her back arching, pushing her breasts beautifully towards the ceiling. Cullen moved his grip beneath her, grappling her hips and backside, lifting her lower half slightly up off the bed.

He resumed with gusto, the ache in his jaw nothing more than an irritating thud at the back of his mind. He marvelled at her open before him, giving herself away to him and the pleasure he so desperately wanted to bring her. To the bad memories and experience he wanted to replace. He closed his lips around her swollen clit, inhaling her essence and working his tongue against the bundle of nerves that drew such delicious sounds from above.

Nevena was growing more and more breathless, her fingers grasping fruitlessly into the covers, her toes tensing and curling in Cullen’s periphery. He doubled his efforts, bringing his right hand away from his body and easing two fingers inside her once more. Her body tensed, her thighs shuddering on either side of him. He sucked and licked, alternating the sensations, all the while moving his fingers inside her, twisting to different angles, changing the depth of his penetration, teasing that spot inside her that made her breath and voice catch. Cullen’s cock throbbed. He rubbed himself on the covers in time with his fingers moving, eager for some respite from the bubbling tension in his belly. He glanced above him, viewing Nevena as best he could, the exquisite expression on her face, the way she buried one hand in her hair, the other slightly over her mouth as she bit down on a finger.

Another push, a deep, guttural groan rose from within Cullen’s chest when her thighs squeezed around his head. Her body vibrated, and through the muddled haze of arousal he could hear her panting and the occasional huff of his name. She came apart in a rush, her body tensing and convulsing as though everything inside her was suddenly wound too tight. The muscles inside her clenched around his fingers, pulsing with the orgasm racing through her body. She buried both hands in his hair, her thighs shaking beside his head. Her head was thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan, her eyes tightly closed. Her fingers and toes curled, her chest rose and fell on breaths too quick for her to catch.

She quaked as Cullen pulled his mouth away from her. She was on his tongue. His lips wet from her arousal. She shook, even as Cullen shifted up the bed to get a better look at her. Nevena grabbed his face in both hands, pulling him down into a fierce, breathless kiss. One that took him by surprise for a moment, before he relaxed into it curling his arms around her smaller body and holding her to him. Her heart thundered against his chest. He stroked her back, her hair, marvelling at the way she was trembling and how she was coming out of that state of bliss.

“Sorry,” she gasped on his lips. Cullen’s heart stopped. An apology was not the first thing he expected to hear after that. “SorrysorrysorrysorryI’msorry—”

“Hey, hey, shh…” he drew back, stroking her face with the back of his hand. “Why are you apologizing?”

Nevena opened her eyes, blinking up at him with a look of confusion. “I… I don’t… I didn’t…” Her breathing evened out a little. “I didn’t warn you that I was…”

Cullen stifled his laughter, “I don’t expect you to warn me?” He kissed her forehead, tasting the sweat on her brow and sliding his hands over her skin.

“Oh…” She looked sheepish for a moment, glancing down and for the first time apparently realising how they were entwined. “I—uhm…”

“You alright?” asked Cullen.

“Mhm-hm,” she lifted a hand and ran her fingers back through her hair a little. “My head feels a little fuzzy.”

“No cramp this time?”

“No cramp!” She extended one of her legs as if for proof.

Cullen laughed at her enthusiasm, “I think not being kneeling up on a small sofa helps.”

“Definitely.” She curled her leg back to where it was before. In doing so, her knee brushed against Cullen’s cock giving him a sharp reminder that it was something he should deal with. Before he could say anything, Nevena brought a hand up to cradle his cheek. “Thank you for that…” she glanced away, bashful in what she was saying, but earnest. “I… think, maybe, I’d need a few more… uh… experiences, but… I enjoyed it.”

“Good,” Cullen greeted the kiss she pressed to his mouth, tightening his hold around her body and bringing her closer to him. “You are,” he broke the kiss, “completely naked.”

Nevena gave a snort of laughter and she covered her mouth with one hand to stifle it. Cullen was pleased; he expected her to shy away from his comment, that she might request to go under the covers or to put her clothes back on. Laughter was a much better reaction.

“I am,” Nevena sighed once her laughter died away. “And I notice you are not.”

“No.”

“I feel that’s unfair.”

“Do you?” Cullen lifted his chin, as if to challenge her.

Nevena poked her tongue out. “I was thinking, perhaps, I could reciprocate in some way, but if you’d rather I didn’t then—”

“No, no,” laughing Cullen tapped the end of her nose and started to rise to sit on the edge of the bed so he could remove his grey joggers. “I daren’t refuse such a kind offer.”

It was… odd, in a way, for him. To undress, to be naked, all his scarring and the injuries of the past on display and to feel comfortable with it. Nevena watched him as he removed his clothing. He saw no pity or disgust in her gaze. No abject horror or even a glimpse of doubt or regretting her decision. She saw him, and her gaze remained hungry, affectionate, adoring, yearning. She wanted him, even as he was, she wanted him. In the past, being naked was reserved for sex or showering. He couldn’t even remember if he ever really allowed Solona to see him fully naked with the lights on, he was too afraid what she saw might disgust her. Nevena embraced his insecurities. She allowed him to be vulnerable, just as she allowed herself to be vulnerable with him.

He liked this even playing field.

Cullen lay back on the bed, head in the pillows, legs out stretched. He wasn’t sure what to expect, only that he was painfully aware that his erection – throbbing and almost too sensitive to bear – was now on full display. Nevena snuggled up beside him, her head level with his, one arm curled into her chest, while extending the other and tracing her fingertips down his chest. Releasing a shaky breath, Cullen curled one arm around her shoulders, trying to control the coiled heat within him and hold on to it.

She hardly touched him at first. The occasional brush of her fingers dancing up and down his shaft, briefly touching the swollen head. Cullen’s hips bucked, even at the slightest touch. When Nevena shifted beside him, leaning up on her elbow, he shifted his gaze to her through half-open eyes he was unaware he ever closed.

“Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, just sensitive.” Cullen exhaled, gritting his teeth a little as Nevena closed her fingers around his length. “Gently—”

“Relax,” Nevena kissed his brow. “You’re in safe hands with me.” She nuzzled his forehead, lowering herself down and starting to wind the fingers of her free hand through his hair. Cullen’s nostrils flared when she began to stroke him, the precum that had already leaked from his cock acting as a lubricant He turned his head, so they were forehead-to-forehead, his eyes open and watching her.

He tightened the muscles in his core, clenched those in his legs and his backside – anything to help him cling on longer. He was close already. His grinding against the bed offered some respite, and Nevena allowing him to be so intimate with her had almost pushed him over the edge. He closed his eyes as his heart rate increased. His breaths grew faster and Nevena’s grip tightened ever-so-slightly. She picked up speed, her hand on his cock making a lewd sucking sound with each stroke. Cullen began to thrust his hips into her rhythm. He buried his free hand in her hair, bringing their lips together in a breathless kiss.

It took so little effort on Nevena’s part. Her hand was soft and warm, her grip around him just right. She kept brushing her thumb over that trigger spot she liked so much – Cullen liked it too, and that she was willing to exploit it. She kissed him, murmured to him, and her breaths grew faster with his. Cullen pressed his feet flat into the bed, curling his toes in the sheets. His stomach dropped out from him as his mind blanked and the edges of his eyesight grew hazy. Hot liquid landed on his stomach in spurts, his cock pulsing with each ejaculation and Nevena stroking him until there was nothing left.

He was relieved, and tired. And buzzed. The pleasant fizzing sensation after an orgasm meandering its way through his body like a lazy river. Cullen caught his breath, sharing kiss after kiss with Nevena beside him, the two of them whispering soft reassurances and affectionate words to each other. When they were both breathing steadily once more, Cullen reached across Nevena to the bedside table, grabbing a box of tissues that was nearby. Together, they cleaned his chest and stomach of his seed and Cullen returned the box of tissues. As he was moving back into his lying down position, Nevena tried to hide a yawn behind her hand. She offered a drowsy smile when she realised she was caught.

“M’sorry,” she blinked owlishly, only just able to keep her eyes open.

“I’m tired, too.” Cullen said. He moved and lifted the covers so Nevena could get underneath them. He joined her, settling into the mattress and then turned off the bedside light. In the darkness, he found Nevena’s form and wrapped her up in his arms as he had done before. They were silent, enveloped in a comforting afterglow and companionable silence with one another. Nevena’s breathing deepened and evened out in no time. Cullen ran his fingers through her hair, stroked her back, still marvelling at the fact she was naked beside him.

It didn’t matter how comfortable he felt or how content though; with the darkness, came the doubts.

Had he pushed too hard? Had he been too rough or demanding? Should he have allowed things to go as far as they did? What if Nevena was aching? Or his actions only made things worse? Of course, all the evidence pointed to the contrary, but Nevena was well practiced at concealing her true feelings. He hoped she wasn’t concealing them from him… What if she was?

No. No. She would have said if something was wrong. After all, she promised she would tell him to stop if she got uncomfortable. She said she trusted him intimately. He needed to stop doubting himself. Needed to stop letting his worries and concerns consume him. Needed to stop going over everything in his head. He needed to sleep. The next day would be a long one. They would have to amuse themselves on the ship home for eight or so hours.

Nevena snored quietly beside him and shifted moving out of his arms a little and rolling onto her other side. He smiled at what he could see of her outline. She had the right idea. One he needed to copy. He wriggled up behind her, slid one arm over her waist and cocooned himself around her body. He liked being the big spoon. He breathed deep, pushing the doubts and the worries to the back of his mind and trying to silence them with the draw of sleep.

It almost worked, until one phrase flashed in his memory like a siren.

He said he loved her again. This time to her face.

Fuck.

----------------------------------------------

Nice break from all the angst in this fic.  As you might be able to tell, things are beginning to wrap up in this story. The next few chapters will be tying ends together. I hope to have the fic done by the end of the year. Which means the last few chapters will probably be a bit sporadic in updating. Writing has been... troublesome. I have the next chapter done and beta’d. And the one after that is about half done on its first draft. Then its just a couple more and Make Believe will be finished. 

Hope you enjoyed this chapter and the respite from the angst. I like this one a lot, actually. idk. I don’t really like to buy into the whole Cullen “champion pussy eater” Rutherford claim, but I would like to think he has some skill. 

I’ll be honest, smut scenes like this (where there’s sexual content and orgasms without actual penetrative sex) are more appealing to me than full penetrative sex scenes. I think there’s more to unwrap. And scenes like this, for me personally, suit Cullen and Nevena. I always imagine them as a very “mutual exploration, mutual pleasure” kind of couple. And that doesn’t always have to mean penetrative sex. How many times can I use penetrative in one paragraph.

ANYWAY.

Let me know what you think as always. I appreciate comments in the tags, reblogs, asks, and general flailing. If you like my writing, I do have a Ko-Fi if you feel like donating - but no pressure. <3

[smallbutplucky]

A Dutiful Son -The Chronicles of Varric Tethras

For a while, I was working on a fan fiction chronicling a younger Varric’s life before he met Hawke and give some insight into what I believe shaped him into the Dwarf we all know and love. I’ve gotten distracted with a few projects and so this story is probably going to sit for a while, but I thought I’d post a few roughdrafts of the earlier chapters to see if anyone would even read the full thing someday. Feel free to give feedback! *Update 3/19/19 - I’ve received enough feedback from people that I’ve decided to continue writing this story. Still deciding whether to just post here on Tumblr or make a Fanfiction.net account. Varric crashed to the ground in a cloud of dirt and sawdust. The lad blinked away stars as his eye stung from the sucker punch he just received. The clatter of his stool falling with him drew the attention of everyone in the Saucy Maid Tavern, who paused in their drinks to watch the unexpected show. The two sailors he played against looked furious to say the least after the Angel of Death card was played and Varric revealed a winning hand, earning him the rather impressive pile of coins in the middle of the table. Varric tried to compose himself on the ground as Gael stomped around the table and leaned menacingly over the dwarf.

 “You little shit!” Gael growled as his shipmate Elias reached across the table to look at Varric’s fallen hand of cards. “ You cheated, dwarf!” Varric scoffed and looked quite wounded at the accusation despite the truth that he had in fact, cheated. Two of the barmaids and the old man in the corner all kept tabs and gave him signals on what his opponents had in hand. But he wasn’t about to own up to that. “I cheated? where did you get those Serpent cards?” “The same place you got those Angels. I knew you were cheating!.” “Oh yeah? How?” the Dwarf challenged as Elias tossed Varric’s cards across the table.  “Because that wasn’t the hand I dealt you!” Gael emphasized with a solid kick to Varric’s stomach, leaving the young Dwarf breathless. Gasping for air, Varric staggered to his hands and knees, hoping the beer and meat pie from earlier weren’t going to make a reappearance. As he desperately sucked in air, he could see that neither the barmaids nor the old man were going to jump in and help him, but then again he wasn’t paying them to fight for him--only to cheat. “You  Dwarves think you’re so clever, but you’re a damn fool if you think you’re getting a sovereign of our money!” “In fact,” Elias smirked, pulling out his purse “I think the pot will go to us today.” Varric balked at the sound of his coin falling into the human’s purse, but consented with a smile as he sat back on his heels..“Seems fair, let it be known a Dwarf keeps his honor when beaten.” The Tavern patrons chuckled at Varric’s assertion and began returning to their drinks. Varric started to rise to his feet but Gael firmly gripped the Dwarf’s shoulder, keeping him off balance.  “You’re not getting off that easy, Dwarf.”  “How can we be sure you won’t try to cheat our friends out of their money if they come here?” Elias wondered,  tightened the strings on his purse with a dramatic flare and tossing it on the table. “I think we need to make sure you remember this little lesson.” Before Varric could register what the human was implying, Gael grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him onto the table. Elias slowly rose from his chair and drew a long thin knife from his belt, the metal gleaming in the lantern light. The Tavern fell in a hush at the sudden promise of violence. “Enough of that, serrahs, you leave that lad alone!” The bartender barked from behind the bar, “I won’t have Dwarf blood all over my tables!” “You stay out of this, old man!” Elias ordered, pointing the knife menacingly at the bartender. “This Lowtown trash needs to learn!” Gael leaned over Varric, splaying the Dwarf’s arms and holding them down. Varric struggled futilely to free his arms from under the much bigger human as Elias twirled his knife perversely in his hand. “Tell me, Dwarf” Elias sneered, as he leaned over to look Varric in the eyes “how attached to your nose are you?” “Very.” Varric snarled, quickly jamming his knee up and hitting Gael firmly in the groin. The human sailor fell to the ground with a groan as Varric took advantage of his free arms to grab a tankard and slam it into Elias’s face. Elias dropped his knife and gave a howl of pain as blood gushed from his nose. Scrambling off the table, Varric snatched the heavy purse and tucked it in his belt as he bolted from the tavern, a chorus of farewells, cheers, and laughter following him. Pausing in the door, Varric gave an elegant bow as the two sailors struggled to recover from their injuries.  “Until the next time, Saucy Maid!” “There won’t be a next time if you don’t start running laddie!” a patron called out as the humans stumbled towards the door. Crap. Varric cringed as he turned and made a break for the streets of Lowtown. Dodging between beggars and jumping over merchant tables, Varric chuckled to himself as  he peeked over his shoulders and found the sailors nowhere in sight. Trotting amiably down a set of stairs, his eyes swept the corridor, looking for anything familiar. Varric silently chided himself, realizing that he may have gotten turned around in his heroic fleeing. Spotting a familiar looking door, Varric’s eyes brightened as he suddenly remembered the path to take to get back to Hightown. Taking a left, Varric found himself in a dead end alley. Grumbling to himself, Varric  realized just how lost he was when the sound of boots pounding pavement echoed towards him. Frantically looking for something big enough to hide behind, Varric froze in dread as Gael and Elias stumbled into the alleyway. Panting with a wild look in their eyes, Varric tried to put on a disarming smile as they prowled towards him. Well, shit.

“Oh, hello boys!”

“Didn’t think you’d see us so soon?”  Gael smirked, cracking his knuckles ominously.

“Hoping, would be the better term.” the Dwarf admitted, backing away from them. “You aren’t still sore about what happened back there--” “You broke my nose!” Elias cut in, his nose, indeed swollen and bruised.

Varric grimaced at Elias’s bloody face, and felt his stomach drop into the Deep Roads as he realized he was in for a lot worse than just a sliced nose now.

“When we’re done with you dwarf, we’re tossing whatever’s left onto the first slave ship we see!” There it was.

One dwarf against two angry humans was not going to be a fair or long fight. Watching Elias and Gael pull out their knives, his breath hitched as he reached behind his back for his own blade. Licking his lips, his mind raced for a plan that would end with him walking out of the alley alive, and only one came to mind. Letting go of the hilt of his sheathed knife, he put his hands up disarmingly.

“Now wait a moment, serrahs.” Varric reasoned, standing his ground against their approaching figures. “I think we’re missing a prime opportunity here. Now I can understand you wanting to pay me back for the broken beak, but hear me out first.” Gael and Elias shared a hesitant look, and while they did not sheath their weapons, neither took another step towards Varric. Taking a moment to lay out his proposition, Varric decided honesty would be the key in this battle. “ Now did I cheat in that game? Yes-- yes I did. But, so did you. And if either of us played against any other drunk, we would have walked away with lined pockets and no one would have been the wiser. We’re all clever men here, that’s the only reason we all got caught! Now imagine if we combined our techniques? We’d be set!” “You’d be set!” Gael pointed out “Our boat leaves tomorrow, you’d vanish with our tricks and our money--again!” “You wound me, Gael.” Varric mourned “Naturally I’d keep a book of my winnings and every time you came into port, a heavy purse with your names on it would be waiting for you in Kirkwall. What do you say?” The two looked as if they were considering letting Varric go with all his body parts in place, when a deep voice echoed into the alley. “There you are Varric!” Peeking between the two sailors, Varric gave a huge sigh of relief at the sight of two of his house servants at the entrance of the alcove. Hugin, while not a particularly impressive dwarf, served as Bartrand’s steward, and that came with experience in fighting in back alleys when deals go bad. Behind Hugin was Mori, the house kitchen boy, and a good friend of Varric’s. While he didn’t really engage in Guild business, a few drunken nights on the town taught Varric that the boy had a mean right hook. Luck seemed to be on Varric’s side tonight.  Good, the bitch owed him a few. “Everything alright here, Messer?” Hugin pressed, eyeing the two humans warily. “Just having a friendly conversation.” Varric smiled at Gael and Elias pointedly. “Walk away Dwarves, our quarrel is with this Lowtown trash, not you.” Gael warned, turning to brandish his blade at the two house servants. 

“Messer Varric  is hardly Lowtown trash!” Mori chuckled. “He’s of house Tethras, and a high standing member of the Dwarven Guild.

“I suggest you run back to your boats, humans.”  Hugin offered, pulling out a knife of his own. “Unless you plan to make enemies of the Guild today.”

Both humans stiffened at the thought, and skittish looks crossed their faces. Even if they survived this skirmish in the alley, crossing the Guild meant a Coterie knife in your back or a poisoned drink with your supper. Suddenly a little card game seemed a petty thing to lose a life over.

Elias quickly sheathed his blade and Gael reluctantly followed suit.  They cautiously edged closer to the two dwarves and the only exit, holding their hands up in a sign on peace.

“Forgive us Serrahs, we meant no offense.” Elias begged.

“They had a little too much to drink.” Varric offered with a shrug “Just got carried away.”

“Exactly!” Gael smiled back at Varric wiltingly. “The drink went to our heads! We meant no--We’re sorry!”

Mori took a step aside and the two sailors bolted without another word, spending the rest of the month looking over their shoulders for assassins in the dark.

Varric gave an exaggerated sigh of relief and happily approached the house servants.

“Andraste’s sweet ass, am I glad you two showed up!” He chuckled as Mori reached out a hand and pulled Varric into a brief embrace. “Who knew Rivaini’s were such terrible card players?”

“Who knew a dwarf could be so bad at cheating?” Mori snickered. “I keep telling you, don’t play all your cards at once!”

“Yeah, I’ll remember that next time.” Varric grumbled as he tenderly felt at his swelling eye. “Thanks for coming along like that.”

“It wasn’t by accident, your brother sent us to find you.” Hugin jumped in his voice dropping into a whisper, “He has some important family matters to discuss.”

“Does he?” Varric groaned, already bored at the idea of talking business with his brother.

“Yes.” Mori added, “He sent us after you hours ago but you weren’t at the Guild meeting like you said you’d be.”

A light went off in Varric’s head as he recalled that’s what he was doing out of the mansion that day. Well, he was supposed to, but he decided to take a detour to a few Taverns along the way. Bartrand was not going to be happy to hear that.

“Yeah about that,” Varric chuckled nervously as the three Dwarfs ascended the stairs to return to Hightown. “Let’s not tell him about this little adventure, shall we?”

                 ____________________________________________

Staring at his reflection in a display of polished dwarven armor, Varric sighed as he noted the greenish purple hue that was beginning to stain his cheek and eyelid. A maid scurried behind him as the household began lighting the fires and lanterns for the evening. By the time Varric and his escort had returned to the Tethras house, the sun had begun to set over Kirkwall, meaning Bartrand had been waiting almost all day for Varric to come home. And if there’s one thing Bartrand wasn’t it was patient.

The black eye throbbed on his face as he made his way down the stairs and towards his brother’s study. Bartrand was always a stickler for appearances, and while this would not be the first black eye Varric had worn to his office, he knew Bartrand would take it as a personal offense that his little brother had the nerve to allow himself to even get clocked in the face. 

Bartrand took a lot of things personally.

Coming to the study, Varric took a deep breath before rapping on the solid oak door.

“Come in.”

Slowly creeping open the door, Varric’s eyes swept the room for his brother until he found him at a bookshelf shoving a piece of folded paper into a book. Quickly returning the tome to its place on the shelf, Bartrand turned and locked eyes with his beloved baby brother.

“You filthy lying little nug-humper, where have you been all day? And don’t say the Guild meetings, I know for a fact you weren’t there!”

Varric quickly shut the door and countered his brother’s steps as he made his way across the room.

“I may have gotten a little...sidetracked along the way.”

“So I’ve heard.” Bartrand grouched, taking a seat behind his desk. Almost disappearing behind mountains of paperwork. “Wasting the day away in Lowtown taverns cheating Rivaini sailors out of their money.”

“If you’re having me followed, why bother asking me what you already know?” Varric sighed, plopping recklessly in a chair. “This is why we never have anything to talk about at dinner.”

“Dammit Varric, you were supposed to represent our family at that meeting! What are the other houses to think of us if one of us isn’t there?”

“That maybe we have more interesting things to do?”

Bartrand’s face was taking on a hue of red, and the little vein on his forehead began pulsing. There was a pool going around of when and who was going to cause it to burst. If Varric was allowed into the pool he would bet on himself, he was very good at testing his brother’s limits.

Bartrand slammed his hands on his desk, sending papers flying as he stood and stared down at his brother furiously.

“Loitering in low-class taverns, gambling away family money, and getting knocked around like a kitchen elf--by humans no less! Is it your life’s mission to bring shame down on this household?”

“Don’t you think father beat me to that punch, brother?” Varric’s voice faltered at the end of his comment, knowing he just went too far.

“Don’t push me Varric.” Bartrand glowered, his voice quiet like a storm. “I’m this close to throwing your sodding ass out on the street!”

Varric sullenly looked away from his brother, their game no longer fun. Plucking a quill from Bartrand’s desk, he twirled it silently as he waited for Bartrand to calm down and continue.

“This ‘reckless little brother’ act  is getting old, Varric. As are you. You’re 26 now, it’s time you start stepping up and being an active member of this family and our business ventures.” Varric stopped fiddling with the feather as he felt the point of this meeting coming close. “I have a job for you, it’s important, it’s dangerous, and it’s the last chance I’m giving you to prove yourself worthy of the name Tethras.”

Rising from his desk, Bartrand paced to the fireplace contemplatively; coming to the hearth, he stared into the fire intently. “I’ve been brokering a deal with a lieutenant of the Coterie, Dougal Gavorn. Our profits and product are growing, and I can’t rely on hired idiots to keep them safe anymore.”

Bartrand turned to find Varric contrarily depositing the quill into its stand before examining his nails for ink stains. With a harrumph Bartrand pressed on.

“I have a shipment coming in from Orzammar at the end of the week, a test run to see if those nug-humpers can actually provide the security we need. They’ll intercept the caravan in the Free Marches and bring it to Kirkwall, and I want you there to make sure those thugs don’t run off with my property!”

Varric quickly twisted in his chair and stared at his older brother is shock.The name Dougal Gavorn was completely foreign to Varric, and while he did try to keep tabs on all the dangerous people his brother allied with, Varric made it a point to avoid the Coterie when he could. He’d heard stories in taverns and the few Guild meetings he did attend, and they sounded like nothing but backstabbers and cut-throats .A bear he’d rather not poke. Yet here Bartrand was tying a juicy steak around his neck and telling him to go make friends with the bear.

“And uh-- how exactly do you suggest I do that, dear brother?” Varric chuckled, as he anxiously joined his brother at the fireside, already imagining his body lying dead in a ditch.

“I’m not exactly a warrior or marksman, Bartrand!”

Bartrand huffed, and reached over the fireplace, yanking the crossbow that was mounted above the mantle, he shoved it his brother’s hands. Leaning towards his brother he gave him a derisive leer, clearly enjoying Varric’s distressed face.

“Then you better start practicing.”                         _____________________________________

Trudging from Bartrand’s office, Varric wearily hefted the crossbow over his shoulder as he processed what just happened. Not only had his flesh and blood threatened to cut him out of the family, he also elected him to go on a dangerous  adventure out of the city with some of Kirkwall’s least savory citizens. 

Some days Varric wondered if Bartrand found ways to torment him just because he actually had a life.

And people who liked him.

More or less.

Scaling the stairway slowly, Varric decided to dump the lump of wood and metal in his room before going to dinner when a loud crash and the excited voices of women drew him down the left wing of the manor towards his mother’s room. Coming to her door, he tried to make out the commotion inside when it abruptly swung open and a young dwarf maid named Mela came barreling out of the room, slamming into Varric and sending them both to the floor as something small and expensive flew over them and shattered against the hallway wall. The maid scrambled off of Varric and desperately grabbed the knob of the door, yanking it shut behind her as something sturdy collided with a thud.

Expelling an exhausted sigh, Mela leaned against the door in defeat until she realized just who she had leveled onto the floor.

“Oh, dirt and spit!” the maid spluttered, as she grabbed Varric’s arm to help him up. “Please forgive me Messer Varric, I didn’t mean to knock you over, it’s just--you see--your mother she--!”

“Problems, Mela?”

Mela straightened hurriedly “It’s my own fault Messer, I tried to convince her to eat some of her dinner. Lady Tethras hasn’t been eating much lately.”

“Hmm.” Varric muttered as he and Mela switched positions at the door.

Varric worried about his mother’s health. She hadn’t seen the sun in months and seems to be wasting away more with each passing day. The healers say it’s an ailment of the liver, brought on by her drinking after her husband’s passing. A terrible refuge from the disillusionment of life Ilsa Tethras suffered at the reckless hands of her husband Andvar.

Varric knocked lightly on the ornate bedroom door.

“Mother? Are you awake?”

Something collided with the other side of the door, as a shakey voice retorted.

“Of course I’m awake! How can I sleep with an assassin trying to kill me?”

Shooting the baffled Mela a wink, Varric ventured into his mother’s room, leaving the door ajar should he need to retreat from his mother’s throwing arm.

The room was dark and stale as Varric tread carefully into the room. A soft crunch below his boot made him examine the mess in front of the door; some tableware, a shattered bowl, and what looked like porridge cluttered the door frame. The fireplace burned a dull orange as its embers began to die from neglect. Peering into the gloomy room, Varric’s eyes scanned over the shadows until they came to rest on a small lump hunched on a chaise lounge. Varric deposited his crossbow at the foot of his mother’s bed and made his way across the room to her. Edging closer, his eyes adjusted to the dark and he reached out to touch his mother’s shoulder.

 “Mother? What are you doing out of bed?”

“Who are you?” Ilsa hissed, stumbling off the lounge and crawling away on her hands and knees.. 

“What are you doing in here? Did she send you in? That little assassin, she’s trying to kill me, I know she is!”

Sighing to himself, Varric chased after her, gently grabbing her arm he forced his mother to face him. In a soothing voice, as if coaxing a spooked animal, he tried to find where his mother’s tangled mind was. “Mother, do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?” “What a stupid question, of course I know where I am!” Ilsa glowered straightening with indignation.  “We’re in Orzammar, in my bedroom. And you better pray to your ancestors my husband doesn’t find you in here, assassin!” Varric’s heart clenched as he realized how far she had regressed. With guiding hands, he encouraged her to her feet and began helping her hobble to bed. “No mother, I’m not an assassin.” He explained as she sank onto her bed with a labored groan. “You’re in Kirkwall, topside, remember? You moved here with Father and Bartrand years ago.” “Kirkwall.” Ilsa parroted, as she tried to rub at her swollen legs, her breathing grew pained and Varric swept her hands aside and proceeded to massage her ankles. “Where’s Andvar?” Varric’s ministrations hesitated for a moment before he continued, moving on to her calves, he always hated this part. “Father’s not here anymore, he died...a long time ago. Do you remember?”  “Oh,” Ilsa mumbled quietly, the shimmer of tears glittered in her eyes as she looked away from Varric. “Oh yes, that’s right...” “Do you know who I am?” Varric wondered, leaving his mother’s legs to take her hands gently in his.  “No.” Varric pressed his forehead into their joined hands, fighting the urge to run away. To leave her in the dark, in the past, and pass the responsibility to someone else. But she was his mother. She needed him. “I’m Varric.” He explained, his voice wavering in frustration. “My name is Varric, I’m your son. You’re m-my mother.”  “Varric...I remember that name.” Ilsa mused as Varric stood and moved towards the fireplace. Varric swallowed the lump in his throat and poked at the embers. As he added more logs to the grate, he could feel his mother’s eyes on his back. “You’re my son?” Ilsa asked, trying to piece together her memories.  “That’s right, mother.” Varric plucked the tinder from a box from the mantle. “And... we’re in Kirkwall....” After a few moments of striking the flint against the fire steel, Varric sparked the fireplace back to life. The room brightened considerably, and he turned to see his mother had climbed under her covers, her eyes closed and chest rising and falling. Kneeling  next to her bed, Varric, watched her for a few moments. Stroking a hand that lay on her swollen stomach, he examined the yellow tint her skin had grown in the past few months. With gentle touches, he ran his fingers through her thinning hair, remembering when her tresses were a soft gold. Nowadays her hair hung limp and lifeless, all the color and vibrancy gone. Ilsa began to stir from the caresses and slowly gurgled awake. Stifling a yawn, her eyes darted around the room as she drew herself up on her pillows until they came to rest on Varric. A light seemed to flicker in her eyes. Her expression softened and a small smile graced her lips as she tentatively reached out to her son. “Oh,Varric!” She whispered, tenderly pressing her hand to his cheek. “What’s wrong my treasure?” “Nothing Mother...nothing.” Varric smiled, cradling his hand over hers. “How are you feeling?” “Oh, I’m fine.” she croaked, leaning back into her pillows “Although some food would be nice. That maid, I don’t like her. She doesn’t listen, she brings me poor food and refuses to give me wine. I think she’s trying to kill me! Be a dear and fire that maid, she’s good for nothing, and I don’t trust her.” Varric held his tongue as he considered his mother’s request. Mela was a good girl, a hard worker, and had served the Tethras family well. She had come all the way from Orzammar at his request to care for his mother as her health declined this past two years. Glancing up at the thick dusty curtains that shut out all light from his mother’s room, Varric’s heart tightened at the lengths he’d gone to let his mother believe she was still in Orzammar. Her memory had vanished into the bottom of a bottle, clinging more and more into the past, back when father was alive, when their family name held true power, and everything was simpler. He tried his best to keep her with him in the present, but at times like this, her poor memory could be used to his advantage. “Of course mother,” He soothed, brushing a few stray strands of her faded blond hair from her forehead. “Whatever your heart desires. I believe Hugin has a niece who could take your maid’s place. Her name is Mela, I’ve mentioned her to you before, haven’t I?” “Mela,” Ilsa mused staring up at the canopy of her bed as she tried to remember. “The name does sound familiar. Yes, I believe you have mentioned her before. Anyone would be better than that imbecile I have now. How soon can she start?” “As soon as possible, I’ll have Hugin send for her.” “You’re such a good boy, Varric.” Ilsa beamed as Varric stood and went to the door. After a few hushed words, Mela scurried off to the kitchens to bring Varric a jug of water and another meal for his mother. Closing the door, Varric turned to his mother as she sat poised with her arms out to him. “Come here, my treasure.”  Crossing the carpet, he perched on the bed and leaned into her embrace. For a moment, he was a child again, safe in her arms as she hosted salons. She used to smell of rose and mint, and on impulse Varric breathed deep in her neck and in an instant, he was dragged back to the present. She smelled nothing like that anymore, now only a sweet and rotten musk hung around her. She smelled like liquor, like sickness, like death. He hated the smell and yet, he pulled her closer as if he could feel his mother’s life slipping through his fingers like sand. “What is that doing here?” Varric focused his thoughts and pulled away to look at his mother’s face. Her amber eyes were fixed at the crossbow at the end of the bed. Detaching from Ilsa’s arms, Varric reached back and brought the wretched lump of wood between he and his mother. “Bartrand gave it to me.” he explained, twinging at the cord of the weapon. “It was my father’s.” Ilsa muttered, tracing the ornate handle reminiscently. “I had no idea this made it to the surface. We had to leave so quickly, I thought it was lost forever.” Varric’s breath hitched as he realized his mother was having a full moment of clarity. They were so rare nowadays. Normally she only existed in the past or in the present, never both at the same time. “Why would Bartrand give you this?” his mother edged, locking eyes with her youngest son. “I’m um--going away for a while, and I’ll need it.” Varric explained, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Away?” His mother gasped, taking hold of her son’s hand. “Where?”  “Now don’t worry yourself mother, I’ll only be gone for a week at most. Bartrand has some business with the Coterie--” “Bartrand!” Ilsa spat, “He never comes to see me, he wants me to just hurry up and die. All he cares about is money and business. He’s just like his father, and to make deals with the Coterie--!” A wild look grew in Ilsa’s eyes and with surprising strength, her hands clamped down hard on Varric’s and she lowered her voice conspiratorially.“He’s going to kill you!” “What? Mother, calm down, Bartrand would  never betray me.” “No, no Varric!” Ilsa wailed, grasping at his shirt and trying to pull him close. “He’s just like his father, he’ll sacrifice anything for money!” “Mother, please!”  But it was no use, Ilsa was gone. Varric tried to pull himself free on his mother’s clawing hands as she grew more frantic, his skin stinging as her nails dug desperately into arms  “He’s going to take you away from me! My son, my little treasure! He wants me dead, he wants you dead!”   Varric managed to pry himself free of her grip and  tumbled off the bed, taking the crossbow with him. In her fit, Ilsa buried herself under her blankets and pillows, her muffled wails and accusations growing softer and softer until the room was silent. Varric stared in horror at what he just witnessed, as the small lump under the blankets rose and fell with his mother’s breaths. “Mother?” A soft knock at the door broke the spell as Mela announced herself from the other side. The soft shuffle of sheets drew Varric back to the bed and his mother sat there, staring at the fire as if the last few moments had never been. She sat stiff, staring into the fire, her mind clearly elsewhere. “Mother, I have to go now. One of the maids has brought you dinner.” “Send her in, I’m famished.” “Yes mother.” “And send someone up with more firewood.” “Of course mother.” Ilsa pulled her blanket up to her chin and glared at Varric with crafty eyes. “And stop calling me mother. I don’t know who you are, but you’re certainly not my little Bartrand.”  Varric blinked back a few rebellious tears as he bowed his head in apology.  “Of course, sorry mothe--sorry.” “Don’t you come near me again, or I’ll have my husband kill you! He’s a very important dwarf, you know? We are the noble house Tethras!”  “Of course, Lady Tethras. You’ll never see me again.” With a short bow, Varric grabbed the crossbow and spun on his heels, making his way to the door. Throwing it open, he stepped aside as Mela made her way in. The maid stopped short as she saw the grief in Varric’s eyes, she looked to her lady, before offering him a small smile. “She’s just having one of her bad days.” Varric blinked back any emotion Mela could read and wandered through the halls to his own room. Tossing the crossbow onto his desk, Varric sank into his chair with a sigh.

 Laying his head in his arms, Varric’s thoughts drifted to memories and soon he fell into a heavy sleep, his cheeks sticky with tears. 

[jellydishes]

i recently rediscovered the Inquisitor as a Companion meme i had filled out for my Belluel Trevelyan (pictured here, on the left) several years ago, and wanted to post it here for own purposes (i.e. crying)

Belluel (Jacinta Immaculada Maita) Trevelyan

Alternate name: Her name is identical, though she is from a lesser branch of the Trevelyan family

Race, Class, & Specialization: Human, Duel-wielding rogue, Tempest

Varric’s Nickname for them: Jaws

How they are recruited: Belluel is first encountered on the Storm Coast a short distance away from where the dragon and the giant are battling, hunched in the ruins of a lifeboat with what surviving crew made it off her ship. She grips the hilts of her blades in her hands, and seems adamant in her refusal to leave her crew, some of whom are gravely injured.

Once the dragon leaves, the giant turns on Bell and her crew. The inquisitor can choose to fight the giant at this time, and if so, Bell leaves the scant cover of her lifeboat to provide assistance. If, however, the inquisitor avoids fighting the giant, Belluel will be understandably short with the inquisitor when they do speak, and several dialogue choices will be unavailable.

Either way, once the giant is finally dispatched, Belluel will approach the inquisitor. She promises the full support of herself and her ships, a pirate fleet she’s gathered under her command in the last ten years, if the inquisitor helps her repair her ships, damaged by storms and monster attacks.

The inquisitor can refuse to help Bell, or turn her offer down once the ships are repaired, at which point Belluel will scrub a hand down her face and say with brittle cheerfulness that she’s sure they’ll muddle along with them. Bell and her crew will be gone the next time the inquisitor comes by that spot, and will vanish from the game at that point.

If the inquisitor accepts, Bell will beam and tell the inquisitor that, really, they’re taking advantage of her good nature, seeing as how they’re getting a pirate captain and a fleet of ships out of the deal.

Like Iron Bull, her crew will accompany her to Haven/Skyhold. At Skyhold, her first mate Claudette can be found in one of the two buildings overlooking the bridge leading away from Skyhold, warming her hands over a fire (or, in the case of a glitch, IN the fire.) Talking to Claudette, as like Krem, provides additional information about Belluel and her crew, and will occasionally trigger quests. Usually, her crew will be put to use scouting out materials or harassing enemy forces on the seas, though they will also serve as protection for dignitaries and additional forces traveling from Rivain or Antiva.

Where they are in Skyhold: In Haven, Belluel can be found outside the walls by the trebuchets with her hands crammed up in her armpits and a wide smile turned towards the mountains, and the Free Marches. These first conversations with her are bright and cheerful and mostly lies. A Trevelyan inquisitor can call her out on a number of her lies, which will net both a laugh and disapproval.

In Skyhold, she can typically be found on the long bridge leading away from the fortress, leaning against the low wall and looking out over where the land breaks away from the sky. She will freely share stories of her decades at sea and of her various misadventures through every port town with a name and some that didn’t, always with a smile and a tilt of her head. Occasionally, if approached with the right amount of approval, she can be convinced to tell stories of her pre-Andrastrism gods and how they shaped the world, though, with the crooked smile she’s aiming at the inquisitor, it’s hard to tell if she’s telling the truth…

Things they Generally Approve of:

Providing assistance to mages whensoever possible, choosing dialogue options that support mage freedom, and, similarly, working against oppressive systems.

Good natured teasing.

Lying as a means to conceal your motives or true emotions will often be rewarded with a skeptical snort or a sideways, though wordless, glance, but a slight increase in approval. Similarly, cleverness and subterfuge. An easy way to get Bell’s approval rating up is to successfully beat her at riddles or word games. (This comes up later in her romance path, when she requests that the inquisitor help her locate a book of riddles given to her by her cousin Ista as a child, which is filled with their beginning efforts at code to make it past the circle’s censors, and that Bell had to leave behind when she ran away from her family home to be a pirate decades ago.)

Taking her to visit the tailor in Val Royeaux, wherein she will coo over waistcoats and tails and the detailed tooling on leather gloves. An additional approval point can be gained by purchasing and subsequently outfitting her in a specific item, which is randomly selected each playthrough.

A larger bonus can be gained after recruiting Dagna, after which Bell will be found in the undercroft, pulling up her pant leg to expose one of her prosthetic legs, conferring animatedly with Dagna over design and function and wouldn’t  it be magnificent if the leg came to a point?? The inquisitor can comment on the proceedings, during which approval can be won or lost (though, it should be noted, the inquisitor has no actual say on the final design). On this occasion, joking will be met stiffly if made at anything but the highest approval, and any serious attempts to change her mind will result in an invitation to suck on Phoenix eggs, and a loss of approval. (Shortly afterward, a short cutscene will be triggered where she will be seen giving a small sigh with her eyes sliding shut, shifting her weight from side to side to judge the fit, before opening an eye to a slit and joking that she’s “moving away from the floral motif. Whatever will people say.”)

Expressing skepticism in Andrastrism and/or the chantry, or inquiring after her gods and Rivaini background.

Riding on the rowboat on the Storm Coast, though only if she is actually present in the party.

Things they Generally Disapprove of:

Siding against mages, or choosing dialogue options that reinforce  oppresTHE LIESsive rules or beliefs.

Taking the amulet from Mihris in the Hinterlands will result in a loss of approval, while killing her will trigger a major loss of approval, and a small cutscene wherein Bell will stand rigid over her body in shock, before whirling on the inquisitor and shouting hoarsely at them. “How could you?!” She’ll cry out, slashing the air with a palm. “You’re supposed to be better than this! Than me!” If currently romanced, this is one of several triggers that can cause Bell to end the relationship.

Choosing to full-out decorate Skyhold with all of the chantry decorative options.

Upgrading the tower for templar usage.

Out and out cruelty in conversation choices, or in ignoring sidequests that benefit mages for a set amount of time, depending on the severity of the quest. (Taking your sweet time about delivering the amulet containing her phylactory to the mage in the Hinterlands, for example, will result in dropped approval.)

Confronting her directly about things she’s obviously lied about or evaded in conversation will often result in a loss of approval, though these can subsequently be won back if the inquisitor expresses genuine concern. These won’t win you the answers you’re looking for, either, not in the beginning, but Bell will give a start and a huff of a laugh and say with only a bit of awkwardness that she appreciates your concern. “It’s. Been some time since any but a select few people have called my bluffs. Perhaps I should play cards more, yeah?” (These same questions can be asked again after achieving high approval, and will net very different answers.)

Unnecessary killing, though she will admit, with clenched teeth and shaking fists, that the inquisitor is doing what they think best serves the inquisition, as she did (and does) with her crew. Continued executions will result in further loss of approval.

Hiding things that are considered important to someone’s well being (such as the fact that Dorian’s father wrote the letter from Dorian) result in a massive and immediate loss of approval.

Asking Krem transphobic questions. One of her mothers is a trans woman, and Belluel will immediately lose approval if the inquisitor picks certain dialogue choices. Additionally, she will bring this up the next time the inquisitor talks to her.

Mages, Templars, Other?: Belluel whole-heartedly supports mage freedom, and is openly disapproving of anyone expressing otherwise.

If pressed, she’ll admit that she’s given some thought to the ways her Rivaini mother Ahu described the circles in Rivain as being run, and will start to expound upon this before interrupting herself with a snort and settling her weight back on one leg, crossing her arms. “Well. That worked out so grand for Dairsmuid, then, didn’t it?”

If asked her opinion on the matter, Belluel will hem and haw and give her usual diversionary smiles and half truths before eventually telling the inquisitor that she supports Cassandra for the new divine based on the reforms she plans to make to the chantry, though Bell is also willing to hear the inquisitor out about their decision.

Friends in the Inquisition: (which canon characters are they close with?)

Belluel can often be found bullshitting with Varric, the both of them bent over mugs by the hearth, each trying to top the other, either in most believable lies or in the most unbelievable truths. Varric will take particular delight in telling her stories of Isabela, about whom Bell is greatly intrigued, while Bell will regale him with stories of her surviving sibling and twin, Rudy, who quit the pirating life many years ago and now lives in Kirkwall. After the jokes fall away, though, is where they find the other’s smile waiting for them.

She finds that she has a lot in common with Iron Bull. Once they get past that initial feeling out period wherein they take one-step-forward-two-steps-back, they settle into a comfortable rhythm of jokes and actual personal admissions carefully hidden as bunk. Several banters are the trading of riddles or talking entirely in code, with both trying to figure out what is actually being said.

She has great respect for Cassandra, and can sometimes be found sitting nearby Cassandra’s practice, discussing all manner of things. Cassandra will sometimes try to trap Belluel in a lie, but it is good natured, and Belluel somehow always manages to get a smile out of the seeker. Belluel is utterly, and unapologetically, head over heels for Cassandra, though she doesn’t know quite what to do with that information, often leading to her usual flirtations stumbling out of her mouth in a muddle. Numerous gifts make their way to Cassandra’s quarters, and Belluel can be spotted dancing with Vivienne, relearning the steps of a dance she’d long forgotten, though the inquisitor cannot interrupt.

Their relationship begins in fits and starts, but Belluel eventually becomes quite close with Vivienne, and will in fact eventually be heard to say that Vivienne is one of her few, close friends. They have very basic and very intrinsic disagreements about mages and the future of the circles, but through banter, it becomes obvious that the two are coming to genuinely appreciate each other despite this, and settle into a very easy back and forth.

She is unsure what to make of Cole at first, though she very quickly warms up to him. Their banters are warm, with Bell making mention of training him as a sailor after all of this.

Belluel and Dorian have their differences, most notably on the topic of slavery, though in most cases they get along very well, and become very close by the end of the game. She spends a lot of time with him in the library after his personal quest, talking of inconsequential things, joking and teasing and being silly just to get him to smile, though she can be spotted gripping his hand in hers and telling him with the utmost seriousness that she doesn’t have so many loved ones that she is ready to lose him just yet. She promises him that wheresoever he chooses to go, she and Ista will be there with him, whatever comes.

Though they couldn’t truly be called friends, Bell actually gets along better with Blackwall after his revelation than she did before, though she certainly does not approve, and in banters with him will admit that she cannot fault him for wanting to be someone else.

Romanceable?: Belluel is romanceable by women and nonbinary individuals of any race, and is available for poly relationships.

At low approval, or if the flirtation options are only occasionally chosen, Bell will return any and all flirtations with a laugh and a wink, including flirtations from men.

Once medium approval has been reached, Bell will cock her head at further flirtations, something going stiff in the edges of her smile. She will hesitate only a moment before shaking her head with a laugh. At this point, she will gracefully let down men with a clap to the shoulder and an offer of drinks at the tavern, and will meet further flirtations from women and nonbinary individuals with a flustered, crooked smile and a hand to the back of her neck. She “hadn’t actually considered this far,” she’ll admit.

“That’s not true,” she’ll say after a time, the first time in the inquisitor’s memory that she’s admitted to a lie, and will look down at her cupped hands before glancing back up at the inquisitor. “You are. Filling in a lot of spaces with light and noise, my dear inquisitor, and."

Still, she will hesitate, starting and stopping several times before she goes on to say, ”I’m not used to things going well, you’ll find. With ships or with people. It will go wrong, eventually, or all at once. I’m still not convinced that they won’t,” Bell will add with a breathless laugh that tried for normalcy, “but- if you’re serious-” She will draw in a breath and take up the inquisitor’s hand in hers, saying, “I wouldn’t mind seeing where they can go right.”

If the inquisitor approaches Bell and initiates private moments, there will be a cutscene of the pair of them holding hands on the staircase overlooking the main hall, Bell breathing out a smile before tipping her head to press kisses to the corner of the inquisitor’s mouth, hands rising to caress their face.

Early on, in a conversation triggered by walking by Belluel while she is talking with either Cassandra or Josephine enough times to witness certain fumbling smiles, Belluel will take the inquisitor up to the inquisitor’s bedroom for a private discussion. She’ll pace the length of the bedroom, holding her arms behind her back, pursing her lips before telling the inquisitor with a slow and measured carefulness that she’s poly, and if asked will explain, emphasizing trust and mutual respect, before falling quiet again.

Bell will stop moving and draw herself up to her full, if diminutive, height, and inform the inquisitor that she had only recently ended a long-term relationship with her first mate, Claudette. For over ten years, she will explain haltingly, the pair of them had spent a good deal of their time hurting each other, with Bell taking solace from events in her past and current depression in drink and in increasingly risky pirating activities, while Claudette turned to dallying with men and women outside of their relationship. Which would have been fine, she’ll take care to say, except that Claudette had never approved of Bell’s being poly, and took pains to hide her liaisons. Neither spoke of it, of any of it, and it festered between them for years.

Only recently, she’ll say, did she find it in herself to break things off, round about the time she found out about Ista’s disappearance. If asked why she’d never ended the relationship earlier (which will earn a sharp look but no loss in approval), Belluel will merely say that it’s not so easy to climb out of a hole when the sky holds just as many horrors.

Belluel will fall silent again for long moments after her story before giving herself a shake. “I haven’t even told Ista that,” she says. “I haven’t told anyone. I only tell you so you will fully understand what I mean when I say that that is not what I want. I want. I-” Belluel will drag a hand down her face again to grasp at her mouth. “I love you,” she says, simply, “but I have room in my heart for other people. I always have.”

At this point the inquisitor can A) Accept Belluel and her expand the relationship, which will both continue the romance and open up additional pathways for romance with other characters, eventually triggering cutscenes with Belluel involving those characters. Belluel herself will approach Josephine and Cassandra if the inquisitor does not.

B) Accept Belluel but decline expanding the relationship, which will continue the relationship unchanged.

C) End the relationship, to which Belluel will step back with her hands clenched behind her back, her crooked smile falling to pieces. She will reach for a joke and, finding nothing, will wordlessly leave the inquisitor’s bedroom. Later, she will be found sitting beside Ista, their joined hands between them as they share quiet stories of times past.

Also: Midway through the romance, Belluel will initiate sex. Turning down her offer of sex will have no negative consequence on the romance, and will trigger a cutscene wherein Belluel takes the inquisitor up to the battlements wherein Bell will be seated beside the inquisitor atop the battlements, arms linked together, voice a low hush as they talk over everything and nothing.

If unromanced, Bell will romance a similarly unromanced Josephine and Cassandra, both if they are both available.

Small side mission: Between the Lines

Belluel requests that the inquisition use it’s resources to track down former circle mages that hailed from the Free Marches and are located throughout Orlais and Fereldan, though she’s rather cagey as to the reason, more so than usual. If present in the party when the mages are located, Belluel talks with them, and bags will change hands. Belluel will refuse to discuss the bag’s contents with the inquisitor, and if pressed, will tell the inquisitor an obvious lie.

As with Blackwall, she disapproves if she is not in the party when they are located, and will make pointed remarks about this when talked to back in Haven/Skyhold.

Several items can be shaved off the questline if you take her along to the Winter Palace, where she can be spotted in one of the side rooms, trying to leverage some of the power behind her family name in order to track down a certain artifact, though the inquisitor’s presence is spotted before much of significance is heard.

Companion quest: Words, Words, Words

After her approval is high, Belluel will barge into the war room in a triggered cutscene to demand Leliana’s help and, when confronted by the inquisitor, their help as well. For once, Belluel’s usual easy going smile is shaken, and she is quite serious when she tells the inquisitor the purpose of her side mission: she has been bargaining, wheedling, and outright bribing mages in order to suss out the location of her cousin Ista’s phylactory.

Ista, she tells the inquisitor, had half raised her when they were both children, until she had, Bell would say delicately, “shown signs of magic” and, less delicately, “been stolen away by those utter bastards in armor” when Ista had been twelve and Bell had been six. They kept in regular contact through letters, passing along hidden messages through increasingly convoluted code, and Bell became worried when those letters cut off recently. Ista, she says, has disappeared from the Ostwick circle in the confusion of the war. Much of the circle’s contents had also since disappeared, Bell had discovered, including the phylactories.

Bell requests the inquisitor’s help in locating Ista’s phylactory so that no one could use it against her, even if that means that she wouldn’t be able to use it to find Ista, either. Further questioning will reveal that Bell had not met the inquisitor by chance— she had purposefully driven her fleet in through unseasonal storms in order to meet up with the fledgling inquisition. As fleeting as the hope of their assistance may have been, it was still the best chance she had of finding Ista’s phylactory.

The quest itself takes about three hours of research, after which time Ista’s phylactory, and Ista herself, is eventually located in the Hinterlands with a small group of young mages and tranquil, penned into a box canyon by red templars. Belluel will demand that the inquisition journey there right now, this very instant, damnit.

The mission is TIMED. If the quest is not begun within a set amount of time, Belluel will leave Skyhold. She can be caught up with in the Hinterlands, though she will be bitterly angry with the inquisitor, and will barely be able to speak through her anger and worry.

When they arrive, Ista is clearly in trouble. The vegetation around her is a scorched ruin, and a number of red templars lie dead, but there are more, always more, and Ista is flagging. Seeing no other course to protect her charges, Ista gulps down her last lyrium potion at the inquisition’s approach, and tears open a hole in the Fade that begins to draw in everything in a large radius, including Ista herself.

Belluel grows desperate, and tears away from the inquisitor. Dousing herself in an alchemical solution, Belluel hurls herself down the canyon towards the Templars and her cousin, damaging her prosthetics in her haste and nearly tumbling down the canyon wall.

Option 1: The inquisitor can seal the rift, which requires opening it still further and dealing with the demons that emerge. Multiple pride demons have to be dealt with, including the red templars.

After the battle, Belluel and Ista will joyfully reunite, and Ista will be gained as an agent. Ista will subsequently be found nearby Bell’s location in Skyhold, and can be talked to, though will have limited dialogue.

Option 2:

The inquisitor can refuse to help, try to delay or stop Belluel, or collapse precariously balanced boulders down on the canyon.

Depending on the choices made during the battle, Ista may or may not survive the battle, but any combination of the above will result in Belluel leaving the inquisition.

If Ista dies, Bell will collapse at her side, passing a shaking hand over her face before balling her fist up by her mouth. Without speaking a word to anyone, Belluel will gather her cousin up and disappear in the direction of the coast. Later, Belluel will turn her pirates against the inquisition forces in a series of brutal attacks, and can be captured in a subsequent quest, at which point Belluel can be imprisoned, forced to once again turn her fleet towards the good of the inquisition, or be executed.

If Ista survives, Belluel and her crew will permanently leave the inquisition, along with Ista. The pair hug, Bell leaning up to kiss one of Ista’s largest scars and to whisper things in her ear that go unheard by the inquisitor, and then off they go, without a backward look.

Afterward, reports on the war table tell you that the pair have ended up using Bell’s boats to ferry refugees, particularly rebel mages away, from dangerous areas.

The inquisitor will later get a quest on the war table about a minor Fereldan lord getting riled up because Bell’s crew was spotted flying pirate colors off the coast, and setting up a war camp full of apostates and criminals on his lands. Varying reports coming in accuse Belluel of intercepting shipments of food and armaments for the use of her crew or, according to one particularly colorful tale, planning on deposing the lord and setting up her cousin Ista as the new ruler of the lands.

If Cullen is used to strongarm Bell, Ista, and their crew away from the lord’s lands, they resist, and a good number of pirates die defending the apostates and refugees. Bell herself is injured in the attack. Some time later, the inquisitor will be notified in a bit of ambient dialogue from Josephine that the inquisition has received a bill from Belluel for the cost of a replacement prosthetic leg from a certain artisan in Val Royeaux.

If Josephine is used to negotiate a parcel of land for the refugees, a grateful Belluel will (somewhat begrudgingly) pass along a bit of intelligence about venatori forces moving along the coast, earning a bit of influence for the inquisition. The letter notifying the inquisitor of success will be from Belluel, informing Josephine (and, therefore, the inquisitor) that, as leader of their combined forces, all further messages can be directed to Bann Ista, please and thank you. The inquisition earns a small amount of influence.

If Leliana is used, Belluel and Ista’s forces will be slowly picked away by Leliana’s agents until Belluel is forced to gather what remains of her people and retreat back to the relative safety of the sea,  leaving much of her supplies and ships behind. The inquisition earns a substantial amount of money from this course of action.

[agentkatie]

Ok, gotta tell you: a parenting drabble/one shot written by you with Cullen and Shepard would be hilarious and priceless xDDD

You (and @kagetsukai​) are the best/worst influences :P I got incredibly carried away, but here it is!

Sunday Lunch

Shepard and Cullen play host to their daughter’s new boyfriend. It goes, predictably, terribly.

2989 words, Cullen x Shepard (also: Baby!ShepRutherford x Baby!FenHawke), featuring fluff, teenage angst, questionable parenting, and a hint of NSFW at the end.

“I refuse. I categorically refuse, Moll.”

Shepard sighed, abandoning her dough to face her pouting husband. Many things about Cullen had softened over the years; his clipped accent had surrendered to its broad Fereldan roots, his formerly rigid hair had been overrun by curls, and his once-toned abdomen had tragically lost its war against pastries - but his stubbornness had remained, hard and unyielding. She would have preferred he kept the abs. “You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

“She is sixteen,” Cullen huffed. “She is too young to be involved with anyone - least of all with him.”

“He’s just coming to visit for a few days; they aren’t getting married.”

“I know they will not get married; they are just going to— to fraternise. Is that what you want? Our future grandchild, the Hawke?”

Shepard bit her lip, trying her best not to laugh at her husband’s petulance. “If that’s what you’re concerned about, I gave her The Talk last year.” Cullen huffed again, his weathered brow wrinkling further as he glowered out the kitchen window. “Does this have something to do with the Hawke family being full of mages?”

“It has something to do with the Hawke family being full of Hawkes.”

“Maybe Marian’s the black sheep; Bethany turned out alright. And Fenris is pretty level-headed.”

He looked towards her once more, one eyebrow arching in scepticism. “He used to rip out people’s hearts.”

“Yeah, he’s really cool,” Shepard said, unable to keep the dreamy lilt out of her voice. “Kinda hot, actually. Pity Hawke got there first.”

“Now you are just trying to provoke me,” he grumbled, though there was a twinkle of humour in his eyes. “Why are you being so calm about this?”

“Because, my lion, I have a plan.”

“Indeed?” Cullen asked, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “What do you suggest?”

“There’s no point in forbidding it; that’ll only make them want each other more. We’ll have to scare him away. I propose a very dignified Sunday lunch - during which I show him that, whilst his dad might be able to rip out hearts, Cassie’s mom can turn grown men to dust.” To prove her point she picked up her rolling pin, bringing it down against the kitchen counter with such force the wood splintered. “Any questions?”

“One,” he said, placing his hands on her waist as he smiled properly for the first time that afternoon. “Have I told you I love you today?”

“Only twice,” she grinned, pushing onto her tiptoes to kiss him. “You’re slacking.”

- - - - -

At the age of twelve Mal Hawke’s heart had been captured by a cascade of golden curls - his breath stolen by a fervent smile stretching freckled cheeks - and he hadn’t looked away since. It had taken two years for him to speak to Cassie without stuttering, another three to kiss her, and sixth months for his mother to stop laughing about it, but through it all he’d been unwavering in the conviction he would marry her one day.

His parents were less convinced. When Cassie’s letter arrived it took two weeks to convince his father it wasn’t a trap; a further two were spent persuading him not to accompany him to South Reach. When Mal eventually departed, his mother gave him a new sword as a parting gift, and bade him goodbye with the reminder that if Curly gives you trouble tell him I’ll kick his ass - and, like a fool, he ignored her, believing with youthful naivety the former Commander would soften on seeing Mal’s love for his youngest daughter. He spent his trip south scouring through her letters, committing facts on her family to memory; that her twin sisters could be differentiated by a cluster of freckles at Rory’s left eye, and that it was best to address both her parents as Commander, and not to question who was the senior officer. He’d even acquired a potted Prophet’s Laurel for David, who at thirteen years old was already an avid botanist, abandoning the family trade of hitting things for a peaceful life amongst dirt.

And his parents had been right to prepare him for Cassie’s father, who greeted him at the door with a glare and a handshake that almost broke his fingers. But they’d neglected to warn him about her mother.

“Moral of the story,” Commander Shepard said cheerfully, wrapping up her fifth consecutive tale of bloodshed with an unsettling smile and a manic glint in her eyes. “If you’re trying to stay incognito, don’t punch someone so hard you actually decapitate them. I ruined the evening and a perfectly good dress. Anyone for seconds?”

Mal glanced down at his barely-touched plate of food, his stomach churning as the congealing gravy turned to rivers of blood in his mind. “No, thank you,” he said as he pushed his plate to one side, offering Shepard a smile that was more like a grimace.

“You’ve hardly eaten a thing,” Shepard said, her voice sincere and brow puckered with concern. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Probably not, because you keep talking about decapitating people,” Cassie grumbled.

“He asked!”

He hadn’t asked; he’d merely enquired if she’d ever visited Starkhaven, after which she’d launched into a tenuous tangent about the time she’d attended a masque hosted by the Prince of Starkhaven. After an entire meal of such stories, he was beginning to suspect she’d never been to an event and not killed someone.

“Tell a nicer story, Ma,” Nova said, winking at Mal from across the table.

“Yeah,” Rory agreed. “Tell him how you and Da met.”

Nova pressed her lips together to stifle laughter as Rory nudged her indiscreetly, and with a sinking feeling Mal began to suspect the twins were setting him up. “An excellent suggestion,” Shepard nodded. “It was just outside Kirkwall, actually - right after I destroyed an entire race of killer machines, but that’s a different story. Cullen had been cornered by a band of Tal-Vashoth; they’d already killed the other Templars, but Cullen was still going strong.” She placed a hand on her husband’s arm, a soft smile blossoming across her face as she regarded her partner; it would have been romantic, if Commander Rutherford wasn’t silently glaring at Mal - as he had been for the past forty minutes. “Cullen is very strong,” she said emphatically, her smile tightening as she looked back at Mal. “He’d already killed four Tal-Vashoth by the time I arrived, but they had him pinned down. Luckily, the eight remaining weren’t much of a challenge for me. Have you ever fought a Qunari, Mal?”

She knew full well he hadn’t, but he found the courage somewhere inside himself to talk about a person who had. “No, but I know they’re tough. My mother says defeating the Arishok was the toughest battle she ever fought.”

“Oh, yeah; I remember reading about that. Something about her running a figure of eight around two pillars whilst chugging health potions.”

“Ma!”

Shepard raised her hands in surrender as footsteps sounded just outside the room; David burst through the kitchen door, Prophet’s Laurel tucked under his arm and a wide grin on his face. “Bull’s here!”

Mal didn’t know who Bull was, but judging by Cassie’s expression he didn’t want to find out; her eyes narrowed to slits as she glared murderously at her mother. “You didn’t. Ma, you promised—”

“Oh, look; it’s The Iron Bull!” Shepard exclaimed, pushing up from her seat to greet their new guest. “Feared mercenary leader of Bull’s Chargers!”

Mal swivelled in his seat, the colour rapidly draining from his face as his eyes landed on the man she addressed; a heavily-armed, war-beaten Qunari took up the entire doorway, his one eye scanning the room as if scoping it for enemies. “Commanders. Kids. Hope you don’t mind me dropping by.” His gaze landed on Mal, and his eye narrowed infinitesimally. “You’re new,” he noted; with two strides he closed the distance between them, pulling out the chair next to him and sitting down heavily. “Finished with this?” he asked, grabbing a chicken leg from Mal’s plate before he’d even answered and stripping it to the bone in one bite. “Killing people always works up my appetite.”

“What have you been killing today, Bull?”

Every fibre in Mal’s being was itching to run, far away from Cassie’s homicidal mother and terrifying family friend; it was only Cassie’s hand on his under the table that kept him rooted in the situation, and stopped him from making a break for it through the kitchen window. “You said you wouldn’t do this!” Cassie yelped, her hand tightening around Mal’s.

“Do what?” Shepard asked, her voice so innocent Mal very nearly believed her. “I think it’s nice to have friends drop by unexpectedly.”

“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to buy—”

“I was in the area,” Bull shrugged, leaning in far too close to Mal as he scooped a dumpling off his plate. “Top secret mission for the Divine. You know how it goes.”

“I don’t believe you. Da, please—”

Cassie’s appeal to her still-glaring father was cut off at the sound of more footsteps, and her eyes flashed as she scowled at her mother once more. “Who’s that?” she demanded, but Shepard merely shrugged. “Who is it?”

“I actually have no idea; I’m just as intrigued as you,” Shepard said, her eyes lighting up in the next moment as she looked over Mal’s head at their latest visitor. “Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast!” Mal knew that name; he turned in his seat once more to face the woman who’d threatened his uncle Varric a lifetime ago, and though twenty years had elapsed since then she looked just as formidable as he’d imagined. “Right Hand of the Divine, Hero of Orlais, dragonslayer and all-round badass! What a lovely surprise!”

“I hope you do not mind me dropping in,” the Seeker said, her sharp jawline flexing as her gaze fell on Mal. “I am on… important business,” she offered, much less believably than the Qunari. “For the Chantry.”

“Perfect,” Cassie threw her hands up in exasperation. “Who’s going to turn up next; Divine fucking Victoria?!”

Commander Rutherford finally spoke out at his daughter’s outburst, his glare directed away from Mal for a glorious moment of respite. “Cassiopeia Shepard-Rutherford! Language!”

“Ma says it all the time!”

“In my defence, I try really hard not to,” Shepard said. “Cassandra - would you like some chicken?”

“Maker, what is wrong with all of you?!” Cassie exclaimed, furiously pushing up from her seat - although at five foot tall, standing hardly made her seem more threatening.

“There is nothing wrong with me,” Commander Rutherford bristled, eyes boring into Mal’s in a way which sent a shiver down his spine. “All I wish to know is why a man of nearly twenty is consorting with a child.”

“I’m not a child!” she protested. “I’m almost seventeen!”

“And I’ve actually only just turned eighteen—”

“Are there no eighteen-year-olds in the Free Marches?” he demanded. “Is there something wrong with women your own age?”

“We’re women his own age,” Rory pointed out as her twin fell apart in silent laughter. “What are you saying about us, Mal?”

“I hate you all!” Cassie screeched. “I’m quitting this family and becoming a Hawke!”

And with that she turned on her heel, storming from the kitchen and slamming the door behind her with such force the whole room seemed to shake. And following her to her bedroom would undoubtedly have him thrown out of their house, but the alternative - staying around the dinner table and quite possibly becoming the next course of their meal - seemed like an even worse idea.

“Oh, dear,” Commander Shepard sighed, shooting Mal a sympathetic smile. “That’s the Shepard women for you; an unstable bunch, the lot of us. Best steer clear.” She stood once more, busying herself with clearing the plates from the table and, once she was done, pulling a covered tray off the windowsill. “Would anyone like dessert?” she asked. “I made blood orange loaf cake.”

“That depends,” The Iron Bull grinned, leaning back on his chair and winking at Mal. “Did you use real blood?”

“No,” Shepard smirked back. “But I can probably find you some, if you need it.”

- - - - -

“I think we went too far today.”

Cullen glanced up from his book as his wife readied herself for bed, her silver-streaked curls free from her ever-present braid as she scrubbed the remnants of makeup from her face. And, loathe though he was to admit it, he agreed with her, so much so that guilt had prevented him from reading even a line of his novel. “It will get rid of the Hawke boy,” he told her, attempting to reassure himself as much as her. “That’s all that matters.”

“He didn’t seem very… Hawkeish.” With a sigh she flopped down next to him on their bed, propping her chin on his shoulder as he placed his book to one side. “He actually seemed like a good kid. I swear the last time we saw him he was trying to beat up a tree.”

“I think that was Hunter; he’s the older one.”

“She called one of her kids Hunter Hawke?” Shepard asked, scrunching up her nose in derision, and Cullen shrugged.

“You named all of ours after planets.”

“For the thousandth time - they aren’t planets,” she bristled - completely predictably - at his teasing. “A nova is an astronomical event, an aurora is a light display—”

“I know, Moll,” he chuckled, cutting off her grumblings with a kiss to her temple; she made a disgruntled noise but yielded to him as he pulled her closer, one arm stretching out across his chest.

“Plus, Mal is literally Orlesian for ‘bad’. Who names their baby ‘bad’?”

“Whilst I do agree, Malcolm was her father’s name.”

“Oh,” she mumbled, wincing slightly. “Well, now I definitely feel mal.”

Cullen let out a splutter of laughter, and she smiled up at him. “I suppose we may have gotten carried away,” he conceded. “We were a little harsh on him.”

“We put the fear of God into the kid. We were a lot harsh on him.” She sighed again as she absentmindedly weaved her fingers through his chest hair. “By the way - inviting Cassandra? A stroke of evil genius; I’m very proud of you.”

Cullen frowned. “I didn’t invite her; I assumed you did.” Shepard shook her head. “Hmm. She must have heard about it from Bull.”

“Or she has a sixth sense for protecting her namesake.”

Their bedroom door creaked open, and they both groaned at the sight of an empty doorway, knowing full well what it heralded; Mairyn lept onto their bed, wedging herself firmly between Cullen and Shepard with a contented bark. Mairyn was still little more than a puppy, Calenhad having died of old age some time ago and Shepard only just recovered enough from the loss to agree to another; whereas Calenhad had quickly grasped the concept of personal space, Mairyn favoured being as close to her masters as possible at all times. Cullen hoped it would be correctable with training; Shepard, on the other hand, firmly believed the dog was wilfully ignoring their commands. “Ugh, you’re such a third wheel,” Shepard grumbled, half-heartedly trying to push the dog off of her; she merely barked again and planted an enthusiastic lick on Shepard’s cheek.

“What do you think, pup?” Cullen asked, scratching Mairyn behind the ears. “Were we too mean to the boy?”

Mairyn whined, fixing Cullen with a look so reproachful he almost left to beg Mal’s forgiveness there and then. “I guess that answers that,” Shepard mumbled. “We should apologise. Tomorrow.”

“I agree,” Cullen said, and then to Mairyn; “go keep Cassie company. If she tries to run away in the night, let us know.”

“And if Mal tries to sneak into her room - go for the balls.”

“He can go into her room to console her,” Cullen clarified the command. “But anything inappropriate - then yes, go for the balls.”

Mairyn barked in confirmation, launching herself off the bed and then, tail wagging, stalking towards Cassie’s room. Shepard stood to close the door, blowing out the candles in their room before returning to their bed; he expected her to curl up next to him but instead she slung one leg across his waist, and even in the darkness he could still make out her mischievous expression as she straddled him. She leaned in to kiss him, her lips treading the first steps of a dance they were both experts in now; with practiced hands his fingers teased along her waistband, rocking her hips back and forth with just enough pressure to make her moan.

“I still think it is a mistake for them to be involved,” he muttered against her lips, needing the final word before his mind became too fogged by her to think rationally.

“Maybe,” she agreed, her talented mouth trailing lower now, pressing soft kisses to almost-faded scars across his shoulders and chest. “But maybe we need to let her make her own mistakes.” She paused and looked up at him again, her face suddenly fierce. “Although if one of the twins shows up with Hunter, I reserve the right to kill him.”

“What if Hawke comes after us?”

Shepard smirked, leaning back to pull off her shirt; as the garment fluttered to the floor she sparked up a soft mass effect field around her, glowing blue and ethereal and beautiful in the moonlight. “I’m fairly certain I can take her.”

Cullen chuckled, the force of it rumbling through Shepard as she sat astride him, and it felt like the perfect embodiment of their marriage; firstly that it was never boring, and secondly that they laughed. “So am I, my love,” he told her, before leaning in to kiss her again.

[novamm66]

Red Sky in the Morning: Chapter IV

Sorry for the slight delay in getting this one out.  Life got in the way.  Also I am going to be taking a bit of a longer break while I deal with this holiday season and the family drama that always comes with that.

I really hope that you are enjoying this story.  I am finding writing it very exciting and scary all at the same time.

Love you lots.

Kiaya was feeling more herself now that she had some idea of what was immediately in her future.  Everything in the immediate past that was not so good but she would obsess about that later. Cassandra had left after showing her where the supplies were located and pointing her to the tavern for food.  Everyone still whispered and stared everywhere she went, and the woman behind the bar didn’t ask for any payment.  This was good because Kiaya had nothing to pay her with. As she waited to be served, she could feel the eyes of the other patrons on her back and the casual chatter was trying really hard to stay casual.  The tavern was starting to feel much more closed in.  Kiaya watched her hands tighten on the bar edge until she could tell which knuckles had been broken.  The moment the woman returned Kiaya slipped out a side door, bowl and mug in hand.

She pulled the hood of the new-to-her cloak low over her face as she hunched against the back of the building, well out of sight of any passersby on the road. You have been alone a long time.  Kiaya ate as slowly as her starving stomach would allow.  It was still fast enough that she felt sick when she was finished but it settled after a few deep breathes.  As she sipped from her mug, she could hear the villagers and soldiers gossiping about her and the recent events.  I’m in trouble, so much trouble.  Kiaya started to gently rock back and forth trying to block out the doom in her head.

“You won’t be able to hide forever.”

Kiaya hissed and almost leapt out of her skin. “Maker’s balls Varric, don’t you know you can kill someone by doing that?”  Kiaya rubbed her chest as she tried to calm her racing heart.  “And what do you mean hiding?”

“You’re tougher than that,” Varric chuckled, “I saw you slip out here and crouching in the bushes to eat is considered hiding where I come from.  I wanted to see if you want to watch the show?”

“What show?”

“By now Seeker and Nightingale have finished filling in Curly and Ruffles all about your acceptance.  Which means history is about to happen.”  Varric waved his hands grandly.  “Who wouldn’t want to see that?”

Kiaya snorted, “That’s not usually my first instinct.  Fine, let’s go watch history.”

Varric is right.

Kiaya thought as she watched the flurry of activity that was the beginning of the Inquisition.  It was exciting to be here and everyone could feel it.  She could see it in the eyes of villagers, overshadowing their fear of the Breach.  It was in the straight postures of the soldier's shoulders as word spread about what was going on.

And I’m at the centre of this. Terrifying thought.

Kiaya began to wish she had stayed in the bushes behind the tavern.

“This is insane Varric, it’s too big.  I can’t do this.  I can’t, I don’t, I… fuck.”

“Yup, that sounds about right.  Hawke would say ‘fakes it till you makes it’ and it seems to work for her.”

Kiaya dissolved into nervous giggles at this declaration.  The laughter eased the pressure in her chest and helped to clear her thoughts. “Really? The Champion of Kirkwall would say that?”

“Maker only knows why she’s horribly cheesy.  I’ve always had to give her better dialogue in the book.  She always thought she was funny too, would dissolve into giggles just like that.”

Kiaya smiled warmly at the dwarf at her side.  His easy banter had lifted the weight that had started to weigh on her shoulders so that when she saw Cassandra waving her towards the Chantry she didn’t hesitate.  “Here we go. See you, Varric.  And thanks,” Kiaya smiled at the dwarf as she moved towards the doors.  Kiaya could feel her fears returning as she joined the Seeker and headed to the back of the Chantry.  As if it knew, the mark stirred within her hand almost like it was enjoying the panic pounding in her chest.

“Does it trouble you?”  Kiaya jumped when Cassandra spoke.  She had been completely absorbed in the pulsing mark on her hand.

“Yes, no, yes.” Kiaya sighed as she fumbled for an answer.  “It doesn’t hurt exactly at the moment, it does feel strange though.  I wish I knew what it was. Or how I got it.”

“We will find out,” said Cassandra. “What’s important is that you and your mark are now stable, as is the Breach. You’ve given us the gift of time, and Solas believes that a second attempt might succeed, provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place he thinks. That is not going to be easy to come by.”

Kiaya choked on a laugh and stumbled over her own feet. “You’re telling me. Holy crap sounds like fun.  What harm could there be in powering up something we barely understand and have even less control of?”

Cassandra chuckled. “Hold on to that sense of humour.  We are going to need it I feel.”

The doors opened for them and Kiaya crossed the threshold with a grin on her face.

Time was passing too slowly for Cullen as he waited with Josephine and Leliana in the War Room. The rush of the public declaration had drained away as they had started to outline the monumental undertaking they had before them.

Everything was questions and not enough answers.  It was astounding how far rumour and stories could spread in three days.  Maker, there were already requests for the Herald of Andraste before she woke up and they still had no idea if she would help.  And once she had agreed, everything had shot forward like a mabari attack wave.

Whatever I think of her methods, Leliana certainly is efficient at getting things started.

Cullen could feel the throbbing of a headache start to build at the base of his skull and pain was starting to shoot down his neck, back and arms. Maker, please, not now.  Cullen unconsciously began to rub his neck trying to relieve the building pressure.

Everything depends on her.  Cullen’s doubts flared again as he tried to ignore the pain.  He had had three days to process events and he still didn’t know what to make of the mage the villagers were calling the Herald of Andraste.  He wasn’t sure where that had started although he had his suspicions, and he couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing.  This woman was a mystery.  What she had done at the Breach site had been kept quiet, amazingly.  However, new magic made Cullen nervous although he wasn’t sure that wasn’t simply leftover distrust.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening to reveal the woman in question and Cassandra, both women looking comfortable and relaxed as they exchanged smiles.  That is certainly a mark in your favour if Cass likes you already.  This was the first time Cullen had really had a chance to look at the woman who had fallen out of the Fade.

She was almost a hand shorter then Cassandra and a full head shorter than him.   Her figure was soft, curves more than angles, wider hips and chest with a narrow waist gave her an hourglass figure and the extra padding on her stomach and backside did not take away from that shape.  

Her cheeks flushed pink when their eyes met and Cullen suddenly realized he was staring and snapped his eyes down to the world map that separated them. He listened while she was introduced to Josephine and when he dared to look up again she was smiling politely as she spoke to Leliana, although her eyes were weary.

He thought he was ready when Cassandra began to introduce him to the mage across the table, but he lost his words the moment she looked at him again, and his response came out much harsher then he wished.

“Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear we will lose many more before this is all through.” 

Kiaya blinked at the bitterness in the words from Commander Cullen.  Either he cares deeply about his men or he resents my decision to take the path or both.  It was enough to clear her head of the anxiety that was fogging her brain. Kiaya squared her shoulders it was time.

“I am pleased to meet you all, I understand the basic idea of what we are going to try and accomplish here.  However, before we begin my belongings... please.”

Leliana smiled as she retrieved a tied bundle of cloth and placed it on the table in front of Kiaya.  Kiaya’s fingers hovered over the bundle, itching to tear it apart in the search for the locket, however, the interested glint in Leliana’s eyes stayed her hand.

“I am sorry Lady Trevelyan, your robes were mostly destroyed.  I had them cleaned, however, I am unsure that you will be able to make use of them again.  Please, if there is anything that you need that our supply officer can’t provide, let me know.  I will do my best to provide whatever it is you need.”  Josephine smiled warmly across the table at Kiaya.  

“I am barely a Trevelyan and I am definitely not a Lady,” Kiaya returned the smile to soften her words.  “I know that my identity will play a role in our plans. I also understand that the name Trevelyan comes with strings: some good, many bad.”  Kiaya took a deep breath as her eyes slid from face to face around her. She had given some thought to her next move, not as much as she would have liked but then she had only been awake a few hours.  “I am willing to take whatever name you wish me to, play whatever role is needed.  Although I will not lie if asked a direct question, I will not openly dispute the Herald of Andraste title that seems to have become popular.”  Kiaya spoke very slowly, controlling the tremor in her voice, her hands and her legs.  She couldn’t quite hide the slight look of distaste that flashed across her face although she smoothed her features quickly.  Her eyes were drawn back to the Commander’s face, which was unreadable as he listened to her speak.  She could feel the colour rise in her cheeks and she swallowed, trying to remember her next thought.

“Why were you at the Conclave under another name?” Cassandra asked abruptly drawing Kiaya’s attention back to the others in the room.

Kiaya chose her words carefully, “It was discovered that there was a contract taken out on Evelyn Trevelyan’s life and there was a plan in place for some time during the Conclave.  Knight-Commander Malcolm and Senior Enchanter Lydia believed I was better... suited to...” Kiaya struggled to find the correct words, “counter the attempt.”  Kiaya breathed slowly; the perfectly controlled faces of those listening to her were starting to rattle her defences a bit.  “I was asked to attend in her place with Knight-Commander Malcolm and Senior Enchanter Lydia and I agreed.”

“How were you acquainted with the Knight-Commander of the Ostwick Circle?” The Commander’s words and tone were softly spoken and Kiaya could feel her face warm under her gaze.

“I was a resident there for a number of years.  In fact, Malcolm was the first templar that I met there.  He was...” Kiaya’s choked on a wave of grieve as she lost her thoughts for a moment in her memories.

She was called back sharply by Leliana’s voice, “You were not a current resident of the circle then?”

Kiaya blinked slowly while she considered the other redhead across the table.  Stay focused.  Grieve later.  “I was not.  I had left a number of months before the circles fell.”

“Left?” Leliana’s smirk was starting to piss off Kiaya enough to override the panic at being the centre of attention.  Maker, she is so fucking smug.

Kiaya spoke firmly, narrowing her eyes at the spymaster and returning the smirk with one of her own. “During my time there I became close with Malcolm and Lydia who, as you probably already know, were instrumental in putting what was left of Ostwick circle back together.”

“As was Lady Trevelyan, if the rumours are to be believed,” Leliana interjected.

Kiaya was not going to be lead in this conversation.  Evie was safer far away from all of this and by now, hopefully, plan B was in motion.  “I was familiar with the idea that the Ostwick party wanted to bring to the Conclave, and I could work with Malcolm to stop any assassins before...,”

“You were killed,” Cassandra finished her sentence. “You were using yourself as bait?”  Cassandra seemed personally insulted by this idea. “You’re not even... you are a mage,”

Kiaya couldn’t help but grin at the taller woman, “And so is she.  It wasn’t a perfect plan but I am more experienced with fighting then Evie.” Kiaya winched slightly at her slip.  Damnit.Fuck it.Fine.

She sighed, “I wasn’t at the Conclave with any motive beyond protecting my sister.  And that is exactly what I intend to continue to do.” Kiaya motioned to the map and markers spread out impressively before them with her marked hand.  It sparked and pulsed right on cue, causing a small gasp to escape Lady Josephine and a sharp intake of breath from the grim Commander.  Kiaya mentally laughed at the mark’s dramatic timing.  But it seemed to have used the small amount of energy that Kiaya still possessed.  She suddenly felt very sick and dizzy and her knees noticeably shook, so much so that she had to grip the table edge to keep from pitching over. “This is a threat to everyone and everything.  This magic is not friendly.” She tightened the grip of her left hand.

Kiaya’s control was gone, all she could think about was moving on, getting through this and lying down. Her words tumbled from her.  

“The immediate problem before us is what name I am going to be using.  The issue with using Evelyn’s name is that contract was paid for by Lord Trevelyan; although, that has probably already been revoked.  He will want control of his now valuable youngest daughter,” the venom was clear in Kiaya’s voice, “and the moment he realizes it’s really me... well, that would be a show worth watching.”

Kiaya slowly straightened, no longer leaning heavily on the table, although her marked hand didn’t relax. “Kiaya Trevelyan would be the most practical maybe.  It was my name in the circle.  However, that would mean nothing but animosity from the Trevelyan family.”

“My name, my past, brings nothing to the table.  Kiaya Rolinin is a nobody from nowhere. ‘Piss poor and proud’...,” Kiaya’s voice hitched, “as he’d say.”

The room filled with silence as everyone seemed to absorb everything she had said.  

“Please,” Kiaya’s voice was shaking and tired, “Decide who you want me to be, then we can move on and fix this hole in the sky and after that,” Kiaya squared her shoulders and raised her chin, meeting everyone’s eye in turn, “we shall see.”

Check out the Master Post to read the other chapters and for the AO3 link.

Likes & reblogs are always appreciated.  And if you would like message me that would be wonderful too.

[kierarutherford]

Sharp End Out

736 words. I don’t want to give too much away with this one. It’s a little of the Commander, commanding lol. I hope you enjoy, and this is post #2 of the day. One more left! Thank you!

Grunting he parried the lazy thrust away with a heavy bat against the recruit, “it’s a sword in your hand, not a loaf of bread!” Smashing the man across the thigh with the flat of the blade, he shook his head. “You two, repeat the drill again!” Growling he tossed his practice blade at his awaiting lieutenant. Pacing to the head of the large group of men and women in training tunics he bellowed out, “repeat the parry/thrust drill. I want to see flawless technique before you get your supper tonight!”

“Commander,” Cassandra’s voice called out as the men groaned and the sound of wooden swords slapping together filled the small encampment.

Acknowledging her call, he uttered a few words to his second hand and marched off to meet her, “is there something the matter Cassandra? He smiled brightly to her, despite the throbbing ache of his mind and body.

Since leaving Kirkwall now, nearly three months ago he was suffering daily. Catching himself in the mirror he tried to hide it with powders and lotions. His eyes had sunken, the skin around seemed to grey and pale. At first it was just random sweating, feeling hot in the late evening hours. Then it had turned to aches in his joints, muscles seemed to stiffen and atrophy upon waking. Now it was headaches. Throbbing, pounding, mind splitting headaches. He had confided in Cassandra his fear, his pain and his need to do this. His penance for the horrors of an unclean life before the Maker. At least, that was how he had come to feel. Seeing the depravities of Meredith, Kirkwall, Orsino. All of it left a bitter taste in his mouth. The loneliness of his suffering left unaided and him set shuffling off to Kirkwall. No one spoke to him, no one saw to his nightmares and it had taken him many nights of screaming, crying and breaking several things before he finally realized he was alone. How could anyone do that to anyone? How could the Order take such care to raise and groom these men and women only to abandon them when they truly needed someone? Gritting his teeth, he tried to focus through the pain.

“You push yourself too hard,” she sighed, patting him upon the shoulder as they did their usual rounds before retreating to the war room. Leliana and Josephine would be awaiting them to finish their reports.

Keeping stride with her he rested his arm upon the hilt of his blade at his side, “we must be prepared. These men and women are raw. Some not even knowing which end of the sword to hold. If we are to be taken seriously, if the Inquisition is to make things right, then it requires a properly trained army. That cannot come from hope, or lax training.” Sighing he rubbed at his neck, “we have a small army as of now, but without these recruits we risk being left open. I push because they can handle it. I push because it is required.”

Smiling she agreed, “I understand. I see your point and I agree. I do not, however agree with the punishing pace you set for yourself. Your lieutenant could easily handle some of the work in your stead.”

Shaking his head as they reached the doors of the Chantry he held them open for her, “no. I took on this task and I will see it through.”

“Come now Cullen, the Conclave will begin any moment and surely the Most Holy…” her words trailed off as the earth shook beneath them. Nearly knocking them both to their knees. Bracing themselves against the wooden beams things crashed about them, people falling, screaming as the violent shaking rumbled off.

Fighting his body, and the earth beneath him he heaved at the thick door. Slamming it against the wall outside he let out a gasp, “Maker….”

Crackling in the sky above them pulsed a vibrant green gash, above where the Conclave was set to be. Cassandra stood beside him and she gripped his shoulder tightly, her own legs reduced to a jiggling mass, “Cullen… the Conclave… Most Holy!”

Before either could utter a word, a messenger came racing towards them, “ma’am, ser, the Conclave! There was an explosion, people are dead and dying! A giant rift in the sky fields demons!!!” Collapsing at their feet the messenger became a mumbling, shuttering mess. 

[userwithnoname]

ive played skyrim before and liked it an a friend recommended dragon age but i dont know which one i should pick

Hm… this is still a little bit complicated, so I’m going to put another cut here just because it gets a little long.

tl;dr Your friend was probably talking about Inquisition, and while I recommend you start with Origins, Inquisition’s not a bad game to jump in with.

If Skyrim is your only basis for comparison, then I think your friend was recommending for you Dragon Age: Inquisition. I was in a very similar place when I started playing Dragon Age: had just beat Skyrim for the thousandth time, was getting bored and didn’t know how to mod my game, so I started looking at Steam recommendations. However, I had a bit of a buffer. Steam recommended me Kingdoms of Amalur: Reckoning, which is a pretty good game, but not quite what I was looking for.

What Skyrim lacked to me was character involvement. That isn’t to say there aren’t good characters, but they are limited and of the companions you’re given, they have little to do with the actual story and almost no involvement other than one quest here or there. Kingdoms of Amalur is similar to Skyrim in terms of story and gameplay, and if you liked Skyrim’s open-world and hack’n’slash combat, you’ll like Kingdoms.

To that end, Dragon Age is a pretty logical leap from either of those. But I can see where it would get confusing. The games are both reliant upon each other, yet can contradict each other horribly. When most people talk about Dragon Age. they’re referring to Inquisition because it’s the newest game to come out in the series. But as I mentioned, there are three games in total, not counting Awakening or Heroes of Dragon Age.

There’s no easy way to do this, so I’ll do a brief description then a (personal) pros and cons to each game before talking about the flaws the series has on a whole.

(Disclaimer: I am not a games reviewer or expert in any sense, these are personal opinions so take them with a grain of salt.)

(Also: SPOILERS)

Dragon Age: Origins (DA:O):

The first game in the series, DA:O focuses on the Warden or Hero of Ferelden. Without getting too much into the story, it heavily focuses on the arc of your character and the story that unfolds, allowing you a range of choices and quests that help keep replaying the game from getting boring.

   Pros:

Personalized character backstory.

Character creation is interesting.

Pretty backgrounds (for the time).

Pausing combat doesn’t interrupt the flow of combat too much.

Gameplay is pretty straightforward and intuitive (at least on PC).

A lot of dialogue options.

Just enough side quests to pad out the story without distracting from the main quests.

Quest timing options.

Gifts to fix things if you mess up the dialogue options and can’t reload a save (they have diminishing returns, so be wary).

Companion options–don’t like someone? Kick them out of the party!

Weapon and armor options–spell casting doesn’t work well for this, but most weapons and armor aren’t class restricted.

DOG. PUPPY. WHO NEEDS ROMANCE, I HAVE A DOG.

   Cons:

Main character has no voice acting.

Clunky animations. Like… mages in particular just stand there and point a staff in the air and sometimes wave their hand.

Sometimes confusing leveling mechanics.

Too much Codex stuff too fast.

Focuses a little too much on Alistair romance (even if I love him) and not much on the other characters.

Dialogue options can be hard to understand–this was before Bioware got their choice menu properly sorted out.

Will probably never see the Warden/Hero ever again no matter what they accomplish.

No armor modifications, only giving runes to some weapons.

Repetitive environments.

Limited romance options.

Hats.

Dragon Age II (DA II):

As the name implies it is second in the series, focusing on Hawke, the eventual Champion of Kirkwall, and has only a little to do with Origins. Not a direct sequel, DA II is very disputed across the fandom, and could have been handled better in general. Bioware changed their story-telling rhythm in this, instead breaking it up into 3 acts rather than major quests you can pick and choose the order of.

   Pros:

New main quest each Act that focuses on Hawke as a person.

Varric.

Combat animation feels involved and fluid–you’ve upgraded from a person standing to actual fighting.

Hide hats option in menu.

Main character is voice acted now–yay!

Fixed the dialogue options so it’s not as confusing.

Dog is no longer a party member, so you have a back up you can summon if shit hits the fan.

Gives you a junk slot in your inventory so you know what you can sell.

Rival and Friendship system make it so you can hate someone you need and still keep them in your party.

Rival and Friendship system make it so you can romance someone even if you don’t particularly like them.

   Cons:

Rival and Friendship system also, unfortunately, can lead to weird things happening in the story unless you go all out one way or another.

Cannot have a set team you use all the time unless you’re willing to possibly lose a few companions *coughs*Isabela*coughs*. Characters must be rotated out on quests if you want to get Friendship/Rivalry where it needs to be.

Specific, limited gifts that are easy to miss.

Confusing leveling mechanics.

The fuck did they do to the elves in this one?

Almost no interaction from anything in DA:O.

The screen layout got worse.

Facial animations (specifically eyebrows and mouth) are sometimes horrifying.

Character relationships are harder to manage.

Spend more time thinking about who you want on what quest than you probably should.

Romances are weirdly broken up in this one.

Armor picked up can only be worn by Hawke.

Please. Just let me romance Varric.

Combat animations are a little over the top and unrealistic.

Story makes it feel like your actions only effect Kirkwall, but actually end up effecting the whole world.

Race options–it forces you to play as a human.

Very repetitive environments.

Background is glanced over and explained away with no interaction.

Sibling death.

Dragon Age: Inquisition (DA:I):

The baby of the series, the most recent game and prettiest overall. DA:I has way more options in just about everything in comparison to the previous two games. You play as the Herald of Andraste, eventually becoming Inquisitor.

   Pros:

That character creation tho.

Armor and weapon creation and customization.

Fixed elves appearances–no longer aliens.

Races now have different body types.

Fixed the combat ratio of fluidity to excessive.

Open world.

Actually get a horse/hart/dracolisk/freakishly large nug to ride this time.

Voice options (only two, but that’s one more than DA II and two more than DA:O).

Way more companion options.

Can play as a qunari.

Interesting cameos from companions in DA:O and DA II.

Cool search mechanic.

Cole.

HUGE map.

More romance options.

DRAGON MASTER.

Don’t have to play Origins or II to get the story-type you want, just log in to Dragon’s Keep and fill out some stuff.

Screw attributes completely.

   Cons:

The hair. For everyone, but mostly qunari.

Undermines other choices in previous games.

Ooh… you might wanna get that hand looked at, buddy.

Hardens companion from DA:O regardless of actual choices in game.

Cut scene animation is a little weird sometimes.

Save files corrupt so quickly.

Sudden retconning of Dalish facts and changes the way mages are handled by the Dalish.

Main character disappearances.

Needs DLC in order to get the “real” ending.

Does not mod easily.

Bugs with animation and placement.

WHERE IS MY DOG, BIOWARE??????

THE MOUNT IS NOT A REPLACEMENT, IT CANNOT FIGHT OR FOLLOW YOU.

Doesn’t feel like a solid story ending, regardless of DLC.

You know those helpful numbers and bars we had to measure friendship in DA II and DA:O? Fuck ‘em. Don’t need ‘em. Oh, but likability is still being measured by the game, just not visibly.

Fuck gifts, too.

No more healing spells.

Oh, and let’s limit the number of healing items you can carry at once.

And we can’t make it too easy to make money, either.

Random loot is incredibly buggy.

Weapons/armor now class coded.

Gameplay takes some getting used to on the PC.

Screw attributes completely.

And that’s not including Awakening and Heroes of Dragon Age, which I am not discussing in this post.

Now, despite what you might think after that, I love these games.

They just… have their issues.

They pull a “Supernatural” on us, if you will. Each game, the enemy somehow gets bigger and badder. In the first one, you’re trying to stop the Blight and save your home, which is already a big feat. In the second one, you end up causing a civil war across multiple countries (even if it doesn’t feel so big at the time). In Inquisition, you have to save at least three countries at once, and in the fourth it looks like you’re going to have to save the world.

Each game focuses on a new protagonist, which is great in that it means a fresh new take on each challenge and new characters, but it really, really sucks in that it feels like you’re leaving a story unfinished. I mentioned we’ll probably never see the Warden in-game again and it’s been confirmed by Patrick Weekes, the lead writer for DA (I’d put a link here, but I can’t find it right now). This is mainly because the story has moved on from the Warden, but also because importing a Warden from DA:O to any new DA game would be almost impossible from a technical standpoint. While this is sad, it’s understandable from a story standpoint. But this method wasn’t what fans were expecting when DA II came out.

Which is probably the biggest reason for all the hatred towards DA II. It was marketed as a sequel to DA:O, and people kind of automatically thought of it as a direct sequel, mostly because the only other RPG series Bioware had running was Mass Effect and that’s what happened there. But it didn’t happen with DA II. Instead, we were given a new hero with new goals, no familiar companions and in a place DA:O didn’t even mention. Other than a few cameos, a couple characters, and a mention every now and then, there was nothing from DA:O in DA II.

And that’s really Dragon Age’s biggest problem. Playing DA II, it makes it feel like all those choices you made in Origins were insignificant (which on a scale they were). And Inquisition didn’t fix this. In fact, in some ways, it made it worse. It gave Hawke and the Warden more stories, which isn’t a bad thing, but it took your characters and tried to generalize your Warden and your Hawke into The Warden and The Hawke. Imagine you’d been given a choose-your-own-adventure book and the first two chapters are about one character, and then the next two about another, and so on and so forth. But in each of these chapters, you get glimpses of the previous characters doing other things in the same world. No interaction, no conclusiveness, just your character doing things that your character might not do. You have no control of the character whose choices are supposed to be yours after those two chapters are done.

Basically: for the story, with the way they’ve set it up, it forces you to bond to a character that you create but only briefly glimpse into their lives before someone else takes over. Yet instead of divorcing entirely from said character, the shorter timeline forces the heroes to interact in some capacity that we’ll never get to see. Varric is the perfect example of this. DA II is set up in a way that you know Varric will have to be involved in Inquisition. But after people started really liking him and the general backlash of DA II, Bioware couldn’t kill him off and couldn’t send him away. So they gave him a minor role in Inquisition and then retired him.

They do this again with the Inquisitor. The way DA:I ends left many fans to believe DA4 had to continue as the Inquisitor; after all it didn’t feel like the Inquisitor’s story was finished and the next Big Bad had been hinted at being kind-of their fault. But we’ve already been told that DA4 will not star the Inquisitor–instead, their story is supposedly done and the only chance we have of their involvement is probably a letter, a cameo, or as an advisor. That’s if Bioware doesn’t kill them.

Once again, they put away another character when it feels like they should still be involved, thus reducing the choices made in the previous games by an even smaller margin. Bioware takes a character you made, tells you their story is over when it feel like it’s just starting, then takes control of them.

The solution?

The Elder Scrolls series actually does a pretty good job at doing the same thing–by spreading the events out. I get that the whole name of the series is focused on a hundred year margin, but that’s still a hundred years for you to spread events out. Over the course of three games, only about 10-20 years have passed. DA:O takes place over the course of 1-2 years, maximum. DA II takes place over 7. And DA:I is about 2-5 (depending on if you count Trespasser), with a short gap between II and Inquisition.. That’s a lot of shit to happen over such a short time.

Give the games space. Let them breathe. Let the actions of the Warden fade as time passes, not lie ignored by NPCs just because it’s hard to account for all the choices. Let the stories have their own weight before you stack the other on, and maybe don’t rely to much on rapid storytelling.

And that really went off on a tangent, sorry.

Simply put, the games have their own flaws. If you have the money and prefer a newer-looking game and have the system to handle it, I recommend Dragon Age: Inquisition to start off. Being able to control the world through your choices in Dragon’s Keep gives you a good idea of previous stories without having to play them, while still preserving the themes from the series.

(But oh my god save frequently. Save every few minutes. And stagger save, too, don’t just save over old files because that shit corrupts EASY.)

[extravagantliar]

five times kissed ❤

1.  Grand Cathedral, Val Royeaux, Orlesian Empire ( 9:42 ) Let’s kiss before you go away. 

First light has yet to break. However, the Cathedral teems with activity. It’s easy to get lost between the servants, the Mothers, the Sisters, and the diplomats in those moments. For instead of attending morning rites with the rest of the diplomatic missions from the Free Marches ( he went to her holiness’s candle vigil the night before ), he’s slipped into the crowd of spies and cloaks; fitting better among those ordinary men. 

He’s always been a Spy King.

She’s always been easy to find, she’s a bright spot among those trying to keep too many secrets ( that and the Spymaster to the Divine had pointed him in the right direction ). He only has a few more hours within the City of Spires, a boat was chartered for passage home and was already resting safely within the thoroughfare — Kirkwall was already calling to him, yet he’s found it hard to leave the city.

Thoughts turn to the woman nestled under one of the many flowering trees. The Divine’s personal gardens are a flurry of colour and lovely blooms, and yet — his focus is on her. She’s most likely working on orders, it can’t be one of his letters, for they’ve spoken at least once ever since he arrived. Yet, he couldn’t find the words, they still miss by moments ( this time Cavin had called to him, right as the words were on the tip of his tongue ). 

“Door.” Head jerks and her gaze settles on him before she scrambles to her feet. “You’re turning into me, bringing your work everywhere.” It’s a half-hearted chide that is only met with the disapproving click of her tongue, it’s a sound he’s more that used to ( it’s something he’s missed, one of the many small things he’s missed about her ). The gap is bridged between the both of them, she stands a head taller than him, but her voice is quiet — soft and almost lost in the early morning dew.  

“Do you really have to leave today? You just got here last week — the Markham diplomats…” Her own words are caught, she knows the answer before she finishes her statement. Work-worn hands pull her hands into his, preemptively stopping the wringing that would come.

“Are leaving next week, but they didn’t send their Viscount, they also don’t have a city still dealing with round the clock repairs and economic reconstruction, I have to go.” Kirkwall needed a sentry when he returned home, something he had not planned to be, yet Varric guarded her with whatever might he could muster. He spent Bartrand’s coin purse on his hearth and home, hoping that somehow that was recompense for bringing that idol to the surface. 

Kirkwall thrived, so they let him lead — and now he was needed more than ever. “I have to go.” 

“When?”

“In the next hour or so, the boat is already in the thoroughfare, bags are already headed for loading.”

“That’s so soon Varric.” 

Come with me dares to fall from his lips, but she ducks, resting his forehead against his for a moment, and he shifts, gloved hand coming to her cheek. It’s hard to steady his breathing for a moment, his words have left him again, and in their stead his heart races and bravery finds him. He kisses her. It’s not poetic or romantic, it’s almost cowardly — this was the moment to do more, but lips brush against her cheek, lingering far too briefly for his liking. Heat rushes to his face, just for a moment as he pulls away, thumb and forefinger, pushing a stray lock of hair aside and gently tucking it behind her ear. Come with me echoes again, however selfish it may be those thoughts are pushed aside — they’ve survived a war, he’s walked through hell. “Come home soon, I miss you, and it’s getting harder to sneak away.” 

“Viscount Tethras! Seneschal Cavin is looking for you!” 

“See?” He lets her go again, gloved hands slipping through his once again. “That’s my cue,” It comes off as a joke followed by a laugh, yet it falls flat — going soft at the end. 

“Stay safe, Door. I’ll write to you.”

2. The port of Kirkwall, Kirkwall City, The United Cities of the Free Marches ( 9:43 )As long as you are with me, there is no place I’d rather be.

The port of Kirkwall has slowly become the gem of the city. The docks have all been redone, and the boat slips are all new, allowing more ships than before to trade and dock, reviving the fishing industry during the summer months, allowing Kirkwall to be a trader’s outpost once more. New shops and inns have cropped up, no longer merely restricted by the Templar and Mage movements to the South and East of the city, people are flowing in again to his hearth and home, and for a moment as he walks the docks he’s almost prideful. However, he’s careful with such emotions, especially when walking in public, even more so when walking the docks.

The locals have gotten used to the sight of the Viscount walking the docks, lost in thought — perhaps waiting for something as he pauses and looks towards where the Storm Coast would be, before turning to where the boats from Orlais would dock. Varric knows they don’t understand, they haven’t seen the letters confirming passage from Orlais to Kirkwall for one Door Porter. Their letters had been scarce, but she had sent him her ticket confirmations with expected arrival dates, hence his pacing — his searching for an Orlesian Chasse-marée in the distance, however, the only things coming into port have been Antivan Hoys and Inquisition Caravels. 

The Caravel catches his eye, it doesn’t port where it belongs, especially considering where it was coming from. It only takes a few strides to make his way over to where the Caravel has begun to port — thick ropes and crates marked with the Divine’s sigil and the Inquisitor’s own personal crest being thrown down to the men working on unloading such a large rig. A bag is thrust into his chest, and he meets the eyes of someone he knew from Skyhold, not particularly well — but well enough to know they were also a cloak who had worked for Leliana. 

“For you, Viscount.”

Door.

The bag is slung over his shoulder, but he pushes through the crowd — brushing off the well-wishers and those who sought him out to shake the hand of the newly crowned Viscount. Bran could be mad at him later, he apparently didn’t give enough of a damn as he pushed further into the crowd, searching for her. However, she finds him — she finds him wide eyed and holding a collection of her things, and they fall to the wayside as they crash into each other. 

For a moment it’s just the two of them, intertwined and rooted to that place as the world passes them by; eventually, passersby will divert their eyes, and he honestly doesn’t care what they think. It’s been nearly six months since he’s seen her, six months since that last moment and he doesn’t plan to miss this one. 

But she kisses him, she thwarts his best efforts, her arms curling around his neck as her hands find his hair. One hand settles at her waist as the other finds the plains between her shoulder blades, drawing her closer to him. It’s seven years of emotion, poured over those moments as noses bump between them and they meet again for a second kiss, this one less hurried — more careful. Her hands slide forward, untangling from his hair, he can feel calloused fingertips resting on his cheeks. Their noses brush and a laugh tumbles from him, thumb circling against her back. 

This was right. 

“Hey.” His greeting is uncharacteristic, for he’s thoroughly distracted by her. She’s in Kirkwall, she’s curled into his arms, and he’s never been more sure about anything. “People are staring, Door.” 

“Let them.” She breathes against his neck, “I’m comfortable here.”

“I realise this, however…they’re unloading your things, and I really don’t think you want them at wholesale in Lowtown.” She groans against him as she moves, conceding — however, he leans up, brushing his lips against her’s one more time before they untangle to collect her things. 

“Welcome home.”

3. Viscount’s Keep, Kirkwall City, The United Cities of the Free Marches ( 9:44 )What a feeling to be right here beside you now.

“An Exalted Council? What does that mean exactly?”

Bran shoots a look to Varric, the Viscount knows that the seneschal isn’t upset at the question, but rather at Varric’s blatant disregard for tradition. Door is not his wife, not his bride to be, yet she stands at the right of his office chair, a hand on the highback with her brows knitted in contemplation as the Viscount weighs the words that Bran has relayed. Gaze returns to the parchment before him, it’s a warning from the Divine, followed up with a letter of action from the Inquisitor themself — it seemed that there could only be one outcome that would secure lasting peace between Orlais and Ferelden. “They’re calling for the dismissal of the Inquisition it sounds like,” It comes off as a weak explanation, for there is nothing good about any of this. “Cavin — a moment please?” 

If there is one thing Bran is good at, it’s taking a hint. The seneschal doesn’t even gather his papers, he simply reaches for his glasses and bows to the Viscount and the lady at his side before excusing himself from the office. The lock clicks and Varric stands, pushing away from the desk. 

Door stands aside, allowing him to take to pacing the floors of his office. However, she does not stay silent. She was never one to be just be seen, at least to him — she always wanted to be heard as well. “Varric? Would Trevelyan actually do that — disband the Inquisition? Even though the Divine still calls the Inquisition her ordinance, I was there, I know what the Divine requires, and it’s not temperance and caution.”

If the Inquisitor was resigned to this, it left a gap in reconstruction, not of his city — but of places like Redcliff and those who had been subjected to the rips and tears in the very fabric of their world. Perhaps, if the Viscount of Kirkwall could not reason with the Inquisitor — Varric Tethras could. 

“Varric.” A hand meets his cheek, and he’s guided to look at her, “Are you alright?” 

“Trevelyan — for as long as I’ve known them, they’ve always been diplomatic to a fault, you know this better than I. If Cullen and Josephine are telling them that this is the one true chance for peace, I think they will listen to Cullen and Josephine, even if the Divine is opposed.” He doesn’t answer the question, for he’s not sure how he feels — he’s winded at the thought of Thedas without the Inquisition, for the past two years, it had been the one thing keeping Thedas glued together. 

She closes the gap, and for that, he’s grateful, for he is about to ask something of her — something he hasn’t in nearly a year. Her voice lowers as her head ducks, her forehead meeting his, it’s soothing and helping still the thousands of thoughts stewing. “That answers my first question.”

“I’m fine. However, I don’t want to incur your wrath with your bow or your knives.” He jokes, knowing well, she wouldn’t — their fights in the year have just been a handful of heated words over something misunderstood passed on by someone within the Viscount Household. “I think the world still needs the Inquisition, and I need to be there to talk some sense into Trevelyan since Curly seemed to learn some diplomacy from Ruffles.”

“I’ll go with you.” Her comment isn’t surprising, but it overwhelms him for just a moment. This past year has been entirely selfless — there has been no running, no hiding, no assassins, no new scars to get used to. There is so much he’s still getting used to with her, it’s a narrow and new road she’s leading him down, one he never dared to traverse with his crossbow’s namesake. These thoughts don’t flutter up often, but when they do, it’s always when a stark difference arises and takes him by surprise. The look on his face must give him away, it normally doesn’t — however, he’s comfortable with her. He always has been, even before their relationship, before the Inquisitor asked him in a meeting if they were married, perhaps it spanned all the way back to his days with Hawke. “Don’t look so surprised.” 

“Sorry, habit, I don’t expect people to run away with me.” 

Lips ghost over his and he clutches at her waist. She’s his anchor. “I’ll always run away with you.” 

4.  Providence Chantry of Kirkwall, Kirkwall City, The United Cities of the Free Marches ( 9:46 ) I’ll wear those shoes, and you will wear that dress.

Cavin is their witness with a handful of others, most of them are contacts from the Inquisition — even the Inquisitor and the elusive Commander make the trek to Kirkwall ( of course they ae the first ones to leave, Cullen excuses himself, and the Inquisitor follows ). However, his attention was drawn elsewhere. 

His bride is a vision, a vision he never saw himself seeing. The Lady Viscountess of Kirkwall has enraptured their compatriots with some sort of tale, and he can’t help but watch from across the room, hoping that she catches his eyes on her — however, she’s too enthralled recounting something to Dorian. The Magister catches his eye for a moment and raises a glass to him, Door turns, and she lights up. 

Varric can hear Dorian laugh from across the chantry as Door excuses herself. So he moves, meeting her halfway in the middle of the grand hall, her hand finds his own, and he’s suddenly aware that all of this is real, that she accepted to be his wife all those months ago and then stood and took vows with him in front of Her Holy Mother Victoria.

He pushes up on the balls of his toes, the shoes Cavin chose are restrictive, but they allow him enough to press a kiss to his wife’s cheek, before kissing her again. Her fingers find the nape of his neck before they part and she laughs at him, it’s a sound he’ll never tire of. “I love you.” It’s stated in hushed whispers, brushed against her cheek as she laughs at him again. It’s the greatest sound in the world – he adores his wife’s laughter. There are letters filled with the things he’s loved about her, lines crossed through as he tried to write his vows, but instead, he found words of a different kind for that — and now he’s more liberal with his words. 

They’re married. 

She kisses him again.

Bull shouts at them to get a room. However, he ignores him. He’s waited so long for this moment, and he savours it.

5. Tethras Family Estate, Kirkwall Territory, The United Cities of the Free Marches ( 9:73 )There won’t be a moment, where my heart doesn’t feel the same.That’s  some type of love!

The makeup of their family had changed over the years —- children ended up being in the cards, after all, one of their own and then two others, not of their flesh; but they were theirs regardless of where they hailed from. The dynamics of their family shifted as well. Eventually, he stepped down as Viscount and offered the title to his eldest, who was more than honoured to take up their father’s mantle. Sometimes he wasn’t sure who loved Kirkwall more, his child or himself.

Retirement had been kind to him, it had allowed him to reach for inkwell and quill once more — hoping his affair with words would return to him with gusto, and it had. The written word spilt over falling onto pages after being caged and confined for nearly three decades. Of course, during his time as Viscount he continued to publish, but nothing consistent or serial worthy, for his attention was split between his city and his bride — he, the wayward, black sheep Tethras had found the balance that his immediate family had so craved. 

He was a father, a spouse and a leader — he had shortcomings, blights on his good name, but he weathered that storm, and well into his seventies he seldom had regrets about the choices he had made for his City and his family. 

He had aged, poorly if anyone asked his personal opinion, glasses were finally needed full time, and his hair shocked itself into a bright white in his late sixties, greying simply had not been an option for the dwarf. A beard of shocking white followed as well. He had staved it off for so long. However, he finally let genetics take him and grew it for it was easier to maintain than to shave with hands slowly aching from writing and arthritic pain. Door, his lovely bride, had aged like fine mulled wine — her hair had naturally lightened into the pale shade of white she now sported, with a shock of blonde at both temples.

Of course, he knew she would always be lovely, regardless of looks, the woman he had fallen in love with so long ago was still there and stronger than ever. Her spirit was an unstoppable force to be reckoned with. Well into her sixties she had continued to manage The Raven before handing the holdings over to their youngest, who had inherited their mother’s spirit and quick wits, with the sharp tongue of their father ( without the control, to much of their concern ).  

Their middle child had ended up embedded in the Tethras family seat in the Merchant’s Guild, having more business sense than both their father and their late Uncle Bartrand combined. 

So their nest had been emptied, new heroes had arisen to fight the good fight — to deal with whatever was lurking around the corner, and that itch was always there to take up his mantel and crossbow once more when things seemed bleak. However, he was an old man and Door had to remind him of this, for it appeared that his body had aged, but his mind remained as sharp as it once was. 

Such was the plight of ageing. 

So by the sea, they stood, arm in arm, watching the storms roll in from the Southern Storm Coast – Thirty years ago, they had done the same thing, looking for Kirkwall in the distance, wondering and dreaming what home would be like when they returned. 

He brings her hand to his lips, brushing against her knuckles — his lips meeting the cool metal on her ring finger. 

Fate had written a nicer ending for him after all, her by his side until the very end.

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 6 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M (for language) Warnings: Bereavement, canon-typical injury and violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Familiar Faces

"Hump a nug - who invited the Qunari?"

Rory glanced up at Varric's complaint, following his uneasy gaze to where a large group of Qunari had just walked up to the gate. Gods, they're even bigger than I thought they'd be. She knew vaguely who they were, of course, aware that two potential Inquisitors were among that group of massive mercenaries.

"I doubt they're here to spread the Qun, Varric," she offered to the dwarf, turning her attention back to the minor bandage she was securing on, of all things, a nug's paw. "There, all done."

The little girl who had begged her to sweetly to bind up her pet's boo-boo beamed at her. "Thank you, Mistress Rory."

"It's my pleasure, sweets," she told the child. "Just don't let Master Muttons here pick any more fights with foxes."

The little girl giggled. "I won't!" she promised faithfully, skipping off with her nug cuddled close in her arms.

"Since when do healers drop everything for a pet nug, anyway?" Varric asked her as she bent to pick up her basket of freshly-washed bandages.

The dwarven storyteller had taken to keeping her company when she wasn't in the clinic, at a loss for how to fill his time until the Divine arrived and was ready to hear the story Cassandra insisted on him sharing with her. And since he was so often right there, he often ended up doing things with and for Rory. Take now, for example. He'd outright refused to do any of the washing, but he was carrying her skiffle board for her.

"Since now," Rory informed him, kicking her skirt out of the way as they walked up the steps to the clinic. "Besides, that was helping her just as much as her nug."

"Strangest healer I ever met," he repeated his oft-declared assessment of her character for the umpteenth time. "They'd probably re-educate you in Par Vollen for acting out of type."

She laughed, setting her basket down to begin hanging the bandages on a line to dry in the sun. "Varric, seriously, the Qunari aren't here to go on a rampage," she promised him. "They're the Valo-Kas." At his blank look, she went on. "Tal-Vashoth merc band? They've been hired to keep the peace."

"How do you know all this stuff?" he asked, baffled by her informative response.

Because I've played it through and read all the codex entries. "Soldiers gossip like old women," she told him cheerfully. "I listen."

"So that means the Divine's almost here then, huh?" Varric frowned thoughtfully. "Makes sense, I guess. It takes a lot to bring down an ox-man."

"Varric." Rory paused in her work, eyeing him warningly. "You know how I feel about racial slurs."

He had the decency to look abashed. "Sorry, cupcake," he apologized. "Force of habit."

"Break the habit, then," she suggested. "You never know when you might need someone just like them to to care if you live or die."

"Wise words."

They both turned to find one of the Valo-Kas standing on the steps near where they were talking. He really was huge, curling horns somehow making him seem even bigger. Rory wasn't sure she blamed Varric for stepping backward, even if it did put her in the line of fire somewhat. It was tempting to do just that herself, especially when she noted the sharp blade on the enormous sword resting at the Qunari's back. His smile, though, was surprisingly charming, almost boyish, as he nodded to them.

"Didn't mean to frighten you," he apologized in a quiet tone.

"I'm not frightened," Rory countered honestly. Wary of the big man with horns who could possibly break my spine with a careless hug, yes; frightened, no.

"Speak for yourself," she heard Varric mutter none too quietly beside her.

"Neither's he, he's just shy," she added out of pure mischief, just to hear the dwarf bite down an argument with an audible snap of his jaws. "Can we help you?"

The Qunari's smile never faltered. "I hope so," he said easily. "Shokrakar said we were supposed to report to either a Lady Seeker Pentaghast, or a Commander Rutherford, but no one will tell us where to find them."

"Everyone's a little on edge, sorry," Rory apologized, knowing it was learned fear of the unknown that was keeping the people here from being polite. "As far as I know, the Lady Seeker is in the Chantry. If the commander isn't on the training ground, then I don't know where he is."

"Then I'll tell Ataas to try the Chantry," the Qunari said gratefully. "Thank you, Lady ...?"

"Rory," she offered, ignoring Varric's wary cough. "Just Rory. And you are ...?"

"Kaaras," the big mercenary told her with a teasing sparkle in his eyes. "Just Kaaras."

She laughed softly. "Pleasure to meet you, Just Kaaras." So he might be the Inquisitor?

"And you, Mistress Rory," Kaaras replied, inclining his horned head to them both as he took his leave, turning to step back down and report to the leader of his company what he had discovered from the only person in the village who wasn't trying to pretend he was both invisible and mute.

He was only just out of earshot when Varric exploded. "Are you insane?"

Rory rolled her eyes at him. "What?" she asked defensively. "It's not like anyone else was going to tell them where to go."

"They're Qunari!" Varric protested. "Do you remember what they did to Kirkwall?"

"Correction - they're Tal-Vashoth," she pointed out. "They have nothing to do with what the Qunari did in Kirkwall."

"That's worse," he insisted. "Tal-Vashoth are crazed killers."

Rory couldn't help being taken aback. It had never occurred to her that Varric might still be hung up on the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall. Yet it did make sense. Kirkwall was his home, and the Arishok's attack had been utterly, savagely meaningless.

"Varric ..." She turned to face him, leaning back onto the stone wall behind her to bring her closer to his eye level. "What the Qunari did in Kirkwall was terrible," she said gently. "But so was the Exalted March on the Dales. Do you really think the way to move on from it is to hold an entire race accountable for the actions of a few, the way most humans and elves do?"

He stared at her, conflict clouding his eyes. "Kirkwall is my home."

"And no one says that you can't be angry for what was done there," she assured him. "But blaming the Tal-Vashoth for the actions of the Qunari is like blaming every surface dwarf for the behavior of those in Orzammar. They weren't involved; they don't even consider themselves Qunari anymore. I know it isn't an exact analogy, but it's close."

Varric frowned, the expression heavy on his face. "I get what you're saying," he told her reluctantly. "It's just hard, you know? They killed friends of mine; innocent people who didn't deserve that bloodbath."

"And Hawke ended their threat," she reminded him, still trying to be gentle. "I'm not saying go out and make friends with the very next Qunari you see. Just ... try to keep an open mind, okay? Not every Qunari is a crazed killer or a blind adherent of the Qun. Just like not every surface dwarf is a liar or a thug."

He chuckled blandly. "Cupcake, every dwarf is a liar," he told her, but she could see she'd got through to him. "I'm not making any promises, but ... you're right. Not every human is an entitled ass."

She snorted, chuckling through a brief flare of indignation. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"What can I say?" Varric shrugged. "You bring out the charmer in me."

"How are you not fighting the ladies off with a stick, with lines like that?" she asked teasingly.

"Who needs a stick when I have Bianca?" he countered, good humor restored with just a little banter. "She's all I need."

"Liar." Rory laughed. At least the crossbow doesn't treat him like a shameful secret.

"Didn't I just say that?" he asked, letting her take the skiffle board from his hand as she turned toward the clinic door. "Don't work too hard, cupcake."

A vain hope, that one. The rest of her day was full - not only with the everyday ailments of the villagers of Haven and the pre-Inquisition, but also with increasing numbers of visitors from all over the southern kingdoms. It seemed as though everyone and their pet dog wanted to be able to say they were at the Conclave, and their representatives were beginning to arrive. No sign of templars or mages yet, but some important figures were already here. Chancellor Roderick, for example, had swept in that morning and taken charge of the Chantry in preparation for the Divine's arrival in a few days. The Valo-Kas were another example, as well as representatives from a few noble houses. In every group, there always seemed to be someone who needed a healer. The nobles, however, were particularly trying.

"How can I help you, my lady?"

The young woman opened her mouth. "I -"

"She has feminine weakness and hysteria," her companion boomed. "You will provide her with a sedative."

For a moment, Rory's jaw worked silently. She glanced between the pair sitting in front of her - one delicately beautiful human girl, staring fixedly at the floor; the other, a robust Valkyrie of a Chantry sister, glaring at Rory impatiently. She'd never had to deal with an overbearing parental figure before; in the hospital, that was usually left to the senior nurses. The problem was that, here, she was the senior, and she had an awful feeling she was about to offend someone important.

"I'm sorry, sister ... are you this lady's relative?" she asked politely. "A close family member?"

The sister drew herself up in her seat. "I am governess to the noble house of her birth," she declared proudly. Prime demon bait, this one.

"But not related by blood," Rory pointed out.

"I fail to see how that has any relevance," the imperious woman sniffed. "Give her the sedative, and we shall go."

"It has relevance because unless you are her mother or sister, or she specifically requests that you remain, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Rory said as firmly as she could. She didn't miss the sudden flash of hope that crossed the younger woman's down-turned face. In for a penny ... "Any consultation with my patient is private and confidential. I'm sure you understand, sister. The Chantry confessional operates in much the same manner."

"She can have nothing to say to you that she would not tell me," the sister insisted.

"And that is her decision to make," Rory said sternly. "However, here and now, you are wasting time better spent with my patient on stroking your ego for an audience that doesn't care. I have other patients to see, and no time to spend on your sense of self-importance. So, unless you would like me to call one of the soldiers in here to remove you, I suggest that you leave. Now."

The sister spluttered indignantly. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

She met the woman's glare head on, refusing to back down. Honestly, what was wrong with some people? All right, so the Chantry had power, but not in this. Not in her clinic. Rory declined to be intimidated in her own space, especially by some jumped up busybody who thought her fancy robe entitled her to ignore the personal boundaries of someone who had been placed in her care. Evidently the look on Rory's face promised that she would follow through on her threat for, after a long moment of impotent glaring, the sister abruptly stood.

"I shall be making a complaint to your superior," she announced, flouncing toward the door with Rory at her heels.

"You do that," the healer said calmly. "I'm sure he'll enjoy it."

She shut the door firmly on the sister's seething face, drawing the bolt across to make sure the woman didn't try to come back in. Cullen wasn't going to thank her for that, but hopefully he'd grasp the situation well enough not to try and order her to allow such a blatant breach of her own stated code. Hearing a giggle behind her, she turned to find her patient crying with laughter into her sleeves.

"That was wonderful," the young woman crowed. "Can I keep you?"

"Only if you're prepared to stay here indefinitely, I'm afraid," Rory told her, smiling as she sat down. "Now, shall we start again? I'm Rory. How can I help you, Lady ...?"

"Trevelyan," the young woman said, hiccuping through the last of her laughter. "Evelyn Trevelyan."

Rory felt her heart sink. So this might be the love of Cullen's life. And why wouldn't he be drawn to her? Evelyn Trevelyan was young - younger than Rory, certainly - and devastatingly beautiful. In her own opinion, Rory could just about manage pretty in the right light. The delicate features of the girl in front of her were more than alluring, sensual promises made by the wide mouth and bold eyes. The inner fangirl hissed like a feral cat, taking an instant dislike to a canon P.C. she'd played multiple times in the past and enjoyed. It was like a slap to the face to suddenly realize that this might be the girl Cullen passed her over for. But Evelyn was here for help, and Rory wouldn't allow herself to be petty because of an imagined attraction.

"And what brings you to see me?" she asked, more reserved than before but hoping it would be taken for professionalism.

Evelyn blushed, fidgeting awkwardly. "Well, I ... it's my bleeding time," she offered uncertainly. "And ... the pains are ... quite bad?"

"Unusually bad?" Rory asked, startled and pleased with how quickly she had set aside her petty jealousy in favor of helping this woman with her problem.

"Oh, no worse than they are every month," Evelyn told her. "It's just ... it does make traveling rather uncomfortable, and we expect to be in the valley for several days. Sister Vada is ... less than forgiving of anything that delays us."

"Let me guess," Rory drawled, "she's the one who branded it feminine weakness and hysteria."

The young woman nodded. "The sea voyage was awful," she confided shyly. "I had pains and sea-sickness, and all she had to say was that I was complaining too much. She thinks if I'm sedated then I won't complain."

"Heaven forbid a woman should mention she's in pain," Rory muttered, angry to find this attitude reflected by another woman. This wasn't the first time she'd heard this, though. According to several of the women in Haven, human and elf, their menfolk thought period pains were a myth.

"She throws Andraste in my face when I do," Evelyn said in an unhappy tone.

"And I'm sure that really helps," was Rory's sarcastic response. She sighed, shaking her head. "Well, I can't guarantee the pain will go away completely, but I can give you something that should help." She twisted in her seat, leaning down to retrieve a small pouch from one of the chests by her desk, handing it to the young lady before her.

"What is it?"

"It's a tea," Rory explained, "made with willow-bark, spindleweed, elfroot, and fennel. One small pinch, steeped in hot water for three minutes. Do not drink more than two cups every three hours."

"Why?" Evelyn asked, sniffing the contents of the bag curiously.

"Because you'll throw up copiously and feel even worse," Rory told her without flinching. She knew that for a fact; that was what had happened to her when she'd overdosed by accident on the stuff. "Follow the instructions, and the pains should definitely lessen."

"I will." Young Lady Trevelyan tucked the little pouch away in a pocket of her cloak. "And thank you, Mistress Rory. Most healers I've seen just dismiss it as beneath them, or don't believe me."

"Most healers are men," Rory pointed out in amusement. "No womb, no opinion - that's my view." And I just misquoted Friends. What is wrong with me?

Evelyn giggled, rising to her feet to take the healer's hand. "One day, you'll have to come to Ostwick," she suggested warmly. "I'm sure my mother would love to meet you."

"That's a very kind offer, Lady Trevelyan," Rory answered, trying to banish a sudden wave of sadness. Because this warm young lady would never go home again. In a matter of days, she would either be dead, or marked for a thankless fight. It was a sobering thought. "It's been a pleasure to meet you."

"And you," the lady responded with a smile. "Thank you again."

They were met at the door by Sister Vada, who seized her charge by the arm and marched her away at speed. Rory watched them go, guilty to her core at a pang of petty jealousy over what might never be. What was better for that girl - to die suddenly in a massive explosion, or to live and be loved by a good man or woman? The same question could be asked for anyone here who had that maybe in front of them.

She felt, more than saw, her assistant moving to stand beside her.

"Shrivelled old bat, that one," Fabian commented mildly, nodding at the departing sister. "You all right, Ror?"

Rory's smile was bittersweet. No. No, I'm really not. "I'll live," she told him, turning to meet his gaze."Is there anyone waiting?"

He shook his head. "Not right now. Messenger came by with this for you, though." He handed her a small sealed missive.

"Thank you, Fabs." She smiled, taking the note from him as he chuckled at the nickname she'd pinned to him from day one. "Look, why don't you hold clinic for the rest of the afternoon? I'll be around if you need me, but I think you are more than capable of handling it."

He stared at her, stunned by the faith she put in him. "Really?"

She laughed at his incredulity. "Really," she promised.

"That's ... I won't let you down!" he declared. It was quite something, to see a forty-something-year-old man almost bouncing with excitement.

"I know you won't," she chuckled, patting his arm. "Go, rearrange the desk to suit you, Healer Fabian."

"Healer Fabian ..."

Turning away from the clinic cabin, she absently reached up to check how dry the bandages were. Dry enough to come down and be rolled, but before that ... She looked down at the folded paper in her hand, breaking the wax seal to open it up and read the short message written within.

Mistress Rory, Barring unforeseen circumstances, I will call upon you for that consultation an hour after the dinner bell is rung. Cullen Rutherford, Commander

As the words sank in, Rory felt the choking fog of foreknowledge lift just a little from her mind, a slow smile creeping over her face. Got him. Ramming the letter into her belt, she turned to take the dry bandages down, whistling tunelessly as she worked. Roll on dinnertime.