teknicianwrites

[teknicianwrites]

Omg please do "A chase on horseback" from the Scarlet Pimpernel prompts for our buddy Ted Templar? I NEED IT

The sequel to this Ted Templar post, and a more faithful interpretation of the prompt, I now present “Ted Templar, A Chase On Horseback” for @dadrunkwriting (and @biblioteknician)!

Ted Templar wasn’t much of a rider. Not a lot of places to ride to back home, and horses could be pretty damn intimidating when you got up close to them. Big ol’ hoofs. Big damn teeth. But they grew on you, little by little, and when Ted Templar came in to help streamline the messenger system because an old friend asked (“C’mon Ted, you know I wouldn’t trust my mail with anyone else, you’re not just the best in Kirkwall but the best in Thedas. Take this on as a favor for me?”), well, Ted didn’t like backing down from a challenge.

It was a damn big challenge. A sense of responsibility might have been the thing holding these messengers together, but it was one measly little thread, stretched so tight it might snap at any moment. Stressed messengers. Stressed horses. No communication whatsoever, and every single messenger had... well Ted wished he could meet their mothers because he had a feeling if he did he’d finally understand why Ysolde kept ten knives on her person at any given time and why Wilfred always hoarded hardtack. So much damn hardtack.

But it was getting better. He won a few battles. Lost a few as well, but progress was being made. The horses weren’t run ragged, so Dennet was happy, which meant he wasn’t shouting at messengers, which meant they weren’t as stressed. He managed to chat with some of the Inner Circle- Blackwall could be found at his carpentry bench and had some sage insight on the roads in Orlais and Ferelden, which was good, and there was the funny elvhen lady, Sera, who liked to pop in and cheer them all up with some grand stories and information from the inns and towns up and down the roads. Friends helping friends, she always said before disappearing. Funny girl, that one. Mysterious. Ted didn’t know what to make of her at all. But ah well, he thought as he took a long sip from his morning coffee (imported, but the cook said he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the drink so he figured the small luxury was fine). He was ready to enjoy a slow day in the stables, where he’d go over the latest maps and reports and reorganize their routes to best ensure safety and punctuality-

“Coach! Coach, there’s a problem!” Samuel exclaimed as he raced into the stables, his broken (now heavily bandaged and splinted) leg barely slowing him down. “Loose horse!” He nearly hit his horns against the doorframe, even though he ducked to enter Ted’s small office at the end of the stables. Ted sighed and rose from his seat, downing his coffee in one great gulp. Sad. He was hoping to savor that, but he’d just have to enjoy his coffee tomorrow with extra gusto. Right now, duty called.

The horse was racing around the yard, frantically shaking its head like a snake, dark eyes wide and wild, golden coat gleaming under the afternoon sun. Her dark mane and tail fluttered in the wind like flags. The horse was saddled, and there was mud on her legs. Her flanks were wet with sweat as she cantered and whinnied and looked pretty damn stressed for a horse. Wilfrid and Lucia sat on the fence as Ysolde chased the horse around the yard, an apple in her long-fingered hand as she tried to tempt the horse to come to her.

“C’mon, Buttercup,” she pleaded with the horse. “I can’t chase you all afternoon, I have a message to take over the mountain, sweetie- Fucking Elgar’nan’s Balls, why must you be as smart as a halla and three times as willful?!” The horse snatched the apple and danced away, back towards the main gate and bridge as if she wanted to cajole them all into a game of chase.

“Go on, Ysolde! You can catch her!” Lucia cheered, her short legs kicking wildly as she leaned forward to shout her encouragement. “You’re her second favorite person, after all!” Seemingly encouraged by the power of positivity, Ysolde managed to snatch Buttercup’s reins and lead her into a gentle trot that turned into a cool-down walk. Yep, solid horsemanship right there. Ted might not be a rider, but he learned the basics, and you always warmed up and cooled down yourself and your partner before and after a run. But where did Buttercup’s rider go?

“Now what’s all this ruckus?” Ted asked, startling his three messengers. They looked around the stables, as if expecting the errant rider to magically pop into existence. Ted half-expected it to happen as well. Lots of strange things happened in Skyhold, and if Mr. Tethras weren’t so insistent that he had to come and fix up this message system...

“Oh Maker’s Bloody Ballsack,” Dennet breathed out, appearing like a ghost in a horror novel at Ted’s shoulder (Sure, Ted believed in ghosts, and he hoped that ghosts believed in him, but it didn’t mean he liked being surprised like that!). “Did Buttercup come in here alone?”

“Far as I know,” he replied. Dennet’s face paled considerably. Not a good sign, but they all dealt with the worst. But nothing could prepare him for what Dennet said next.

“Shit. Ted, that’s the Inquisitor’s horse. She took her out for a morning ride.”

Well that was bad news. He hadn’t met the Inquisitor, only saw her at a distance once, speaking with Mr. Tethras, all bundled up in furs with her dark hair neatly pinned up around her head like a crown. She seemed... well, remarkably well-adjusted, considering the chaos surrounding her. All that stress couldn’t be healthy.

“It’s about noon now,” Ted remarked. “Any idea where she was headed?”

“Only that she promised to stick close. Her Ladyship is a skilled rider. Something terrible must have happened,” Dennet muttered. 

“Samuel! Ysolde! Maps!” Ted hollered. “Lucia, get up to the Inner Circle, go find Jim so he can raise the alarm with the scouts. Wilfred, we’ll be riding out to start the search as soon as we find the search are-”

“FUCKING CREATORS!” Ysolde shouted as Buttercup slipped away and raced out of the ring, recklessly leaping over barrels and fences to  

“Change of plans, y’all keep up with that, I’ll go after the horse!” Ted ordered, and he hopped on the only other saddled horse in the ring- Ol’ Rusty. Ted wasn’t much of a rider, and Rusty wasn’t much of a racer anymore, but between the two of them they should manage to chase after a war mare. Right? Got to keep hope. Got to believe.

So they raced. Past the tavern, past the training grounds, past the chapel, past the watch tower, Buttercup galloping wildly, Ted and Rusty right behind her. He thought she might slow at the bridge, or maybe hesitate at the fork in the road, but Buttercup turned a sharp left and went down, down the narrow hiking trail towards the river, and that-

Was the horse leading them to the Inquisitor?

“Go on, girl. Heard of men leading horses, but horses leading men?” Ted muttered as he and Rusty closed the gap as Buttercup’s gait slowed. He bounced with every step as they went down the path, and when it widened up at the riverbank Ted sidled up to the mare and took the reins in hand.

“Well, show us where your rider is, girl. Ysolde said you’re as smart as a halla, and they���re some bright deer. Go on, show us what you’ve got,” Ted murmured. Buttercup tossed her head and trotted further down the bank, further away from the path and the fortress, but not completely out of sight. And there, in the brambles down the embankment...

“Inquisitor? Miss? You down there?” he called out. The brambles shook, leaves and spring flowers falling to the muddy earth.

“Unfortunately, yes,” a woman’s voice groaned.

“Can you climb out?” Ted asked as he dismounted, Ol’ Rusty content to chew on spring grass while Buttercup looked expectantly at him with her big dark eyes. Smart horse. Smart as a dog. He’d definitely let Dennet know that she deserved the good oats. Maybe some alfalfa.

“I’ve turned my ankle, but with help I can manage it,” the Inquisitor replied, which was awfully positive of her. “Thank you for coming for me, Messere...”

“Ted. Ted Templar. Just my name, not my profession. I run-”

“The messenger corps. I heard. You’ve done good work,” the Inquisitor remarked, and when a hand clad in a dark brown glove reached out through the brambles, Ted grasped it and dragged Inquisitor Trevelyan, leader of the Inquisition and the fearsome mage who closed the Rift, out of the muck and mud and brambles.

“That’s one way to end a horse chase, if you don’t mind me saying, Inquisitor ma’am,” Ted said as the Inquisitor, dressed in simple riding gear, dark hair full of leaves and twigs, face scratched up and a little tired, but smiling, emerged from the bushes.

“It certainly is. Horsemaster Dennet is going to kill me. I promised him I’d be careful,” the Inquisitor mused as she looked up at the fortress above them. Ted helped her limp her way over to Buttercup, then helped lift her up into the saddle.

“Best get to apologizing then, Miss Inquisitor. Ma’am,” Ted replied. “But Dennet’s a softie under all the bluster. You could make him some tea and bring him a scone and he’ll be right as rain. Me, though, much prefer a coffee and a biscuit- not the cookie type, love my sweets but I’m watching my health, you know...”

And so they rode back to Skyhold, Ted Templar and the Inquisitor, and sure, she was a little quiet, but she wasn’t too bad as a traveling companion. She needed to read her maps, though. Maybe if they had a moment to spare he and the corps could mark out safe riding paths around Skyhold. Couldn’t have anyone else falling off their horse and twisting an ankle, after all, and after today Ted Templar was going to learn how to properly ride a horse.

[teknicianwrites]

Happy Friday! For DADWC, Bad Thing Happen with Anders and Justice (and optional Fenris?) "Attacked in their sleep"

I don't love this one, to be perfectly honest, but hey. here you go.@dadrunkwriting Tags and Warnings: physical abuse, kidnapping, drugging, references to past sexual abuse, angst without a happy ending (that we see. it's fine i swear)

Anders jolts awake with the cold certainty that something is off.

The fire in the hearth has long since burned out, plunging the cramped interior of the cabin into a darkness made only deeper by the raging storm outside, heavy clouds hanging thick over the night sky, obscuring the light from the two moons. The roar of thunder and the shrill howl of the wind outside do little to drown out Anders’ shaky breaths and pounding heartbeat. His skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and the hair on the back of his neck is stood up straight. A sickening feeling of wrong crawls across his body like an army of fire ants, and Justice shivers in his mind, alert and sensing something.

It’s some form of energy - not belonging to Anders, yet painfully, terrifyingly familiar.

As Anders’ vision adjusts to the gloom, his eye catches the movement of two shadowy figure in the corner. The realisation that his wards never alerted him to the intruders hits him in the exact moment that the Smite does, and he’s subsumed in searing agony as the magic in his veins is set alight.

Justice is shoved to the far reaches of his mind, shut away alongside Anders’ connection to his mana. He doubles over as a wave of dizziness rushes over him, boiling bile flooding the back of his mouth, unable to move as one of the figures takes a step forward. Their silver armour draws all the light in the room to it, the Sword of Mercy emblazoned clear as fresh blood on snow against the gleaming metal.

Anders opens his mouth to scream - not that it would do much good, but it’s all he can do - and a freezing gauntlet claps over his lips, muffling the sound as he’s roughly shoved back onto his mattress. He struggles against the templar’s hold, and another pair of cold metal hands grabs an ankle and his wrist to force his flailing limbs back down. Justice wails in the back of his mind, the motion summoning memories of a younger Anders restrained in the same way, by men in the same armour, against the filthy floor of the Circle’s dungeons.

“Shh, shh, shh,” coos the templar with his palm against Anders’ mouth. This close, Anders can see the glint of the templar’s teeth, his mouth split wide in a gleeful grin as he grips Anders’ shoulder so hard it’s painful. “Vic, get that magebane for me, will you?”

The hand holding down Anders’ ankle lets go, and he uses the opportunity to kick wildly, screaming into the templar’s palm with as much force as his heaving lungs can muster. The templar gagging him only chuckles, stepping out of the way of Anders’ legs, and Anders catches the reflection of a vial being drawn from the second templar’s pack.

He doesn’t stop screaming when the hand leaves his mouth; limbs thrashing wildly even as they hold him down, pinching his nose and tipping an entire vial of magebane down his throat, clamping a hand back over his lips before he can spit it back out in their faces. The cloying, bittersweet taste coats his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and he tries desperately not to swallow. It’s no use - his body does it automatically to keep him from suffocating. The templars both laugh as he gags and splutters, the poison burning the whole way down.

Then, they take turns slamming their fists into the side of his skull until he passes out.

~ ~ ~

The first thing that Fenris notices when he gets back from Honnleath is that the wards have been tampered with.

He can feel it in the way that the magic prickles against his markings - it doesn’t feel the same as Anders’ magic should, the way it usually hums low and soft through his nerves. This magic feels … sharper, more like static across his skin, a twisted mimicry of Anders’ essence. It’s wrong, and it makes Fenris’ breath hitch as he speeds up his stride through the woods.

As he gets closer to the little clearing around their cabin, he notices the heavy footprints in the spongy forest floor: two sets of them, the wrong shape and size for Anders’ boots. He notices the elfroot sprouts that Anders is always so careful to cultivate are crushed, their stems bent and their leaves pounded into the dirt. He notices the faint scent of something tangy-sweet and metallic in the air, like someone has spilled a whole crate’s worth of lyrium potions. By the time he emerges from the treeline, his heart is racing and his nerves are singing with apprehension. His fingers itch to drop his pack of food and supplies in favour of reaching for his sword.

He gives in to that urge the second he sees the door of the cabin is swinging open in the breeze, droplets of blood still drying on the wooden porch. For a moment, he can't remember how to breathe. His feet sink into the wet grass as he sprints forward, clutching the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles burn, the blade dragging along the soft soil of their front garden.

“Anders?” he calls as he crosses the threshold. The only answer he receives is the banging of the open door, the soft flapping of their curtains in the wind, the quiet hush of scraps of discarded parchment dancing across the floorboards. The cabin has been turned on its head, half their furniture knocked onto its side, books and cutlery and healing supplies scattered across the floor. A stray, half-rotted apple rolls slowly towards his feet. The air is thick with the scent of rust and magic and piss.

The bed is full of blood. It’s soaking into the sheets, the mattress, Anders’ old embroidered pillow.

“No,” Fenris chokes out. His sword clatters to the floor as he collapses to his knees with a pained cry, shaking hands clenched into fists so tightly the tips of his gauntlets sink into his palms.

Anders is gone.

[teknicianwrites]

"You make a fool of death with your beauty" for mhanders 😌😌😌

I've been writing this one on and off every couple weeks since I got it. Have some pre-Handers, with Jonah, the Red Hawke who should have been Blue. @dadrunkwriting

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Jonah was a healer.

He had always been a healer, as long as he could remember having magic.

Before that, even.

Carver had been a colicky baby, and their mother had been so overwhelmed with two infants she'd seem to age years before his eyes, desperately trying to settle Bethany back to sleep when Carver's wailing would wake her from a nap. Jonah was small, but the twins were smaller, and one day he asked if he could help.

He still remembered sitting on the porch in the late summer sun, holding the tiny screaming bundle in his arms.

"Hey, little brother. Why are you so sad?" Carding his fingers through the dark tuft of silky hair, like Mother did for him when he had nightmares. Shifting his grip to try and rock him. Frowning. "Your tummy hurts, huh?"

Running his hand in gentle circles along Carver's belly, until the sobs became sniffles became the even breaths of sleep. How Mother could never seem to replicate the same trick, and calming Carver became his job. How Mother commented that Jonah had the touch over dinner a week later, and Jonah beamed, and Father… frowned.

How Father asked to see, and the next time Carver cried Jonah showed him, and Father kept frowning.

Father telling him he was a mage, and he could never help anyone outside the family, and he could never help the family where anyone else could see, because the templars would take him if he did, and would kill their family if they tried to help him.

Asking why they would do that, when the Chanters always said magic was for helping. Being told the Chantry lies about mages, and that was just the way it was.

Carver asleep in his arms. Thinking of all the other babies he wasn't allowed to help without risking this one, or the one cooing in the next room.

Jonah was a healer, and he had spent eighteen years suppressing it, hiding it, watching people get hurt or fall sick or die because it wasn't safe to save them.

Anders was…

A marvel.

His face was streaked with sweat and dirt, and his hair was falling loose and stringy, and his shirt was torn and his boots were falling apart. But his hands were clean, washed in the chipped bowl he conjured fresh water into, a dwindling sliver of soap next to it. He had a toddler on his hip, the little blond boy so comfortable there he might have been Anders' son, were Anders not treating the child's father with his free hand.

Jonah could almost feel Justice humming in Anders' magic, steady and purposeful as they worked together to reduce the off-season fever that had the man shivering in the summer heat. It reminded Jonah of the first time he'd seen him, determinedly pulling a frightening amount of phlegm from a child's lungs.

How he had turned, startled, and the first time Jonah heard him speak was with a staff in his hand and magic in his voice as the words on his lips declared himself a healer who refused to tolerate any threat to his work.

Jonah thought he was an idiot.

Jonah thought he was a marvel.

The patient on the cot gradually stopped trembling and finally sat up, taking his son back and nodding at Anders' soft instructions to return if his symptoms flared up again. The man gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you, messere. What… what do I owe you?"

"Nothing. Just take care of this little guy." Anders ruffled the child's hair and grinned at him. "And you take care of your dad, ok? Make sure he comes to see me before it gets this bad next time."

Jonah stepped out of the way so the man could leave the clinic, and Anders looked him over when he turned to see him standing there. "I don't see any bleeding. Are you hurt, Hawke?"

"No, I, um." Jonah held out a basket. "I brought elfroot," he said, suddenly self-conscious about it. "There was a job in the mountains and I thought… as long as I was there."

Anders blinked. "Thank you," he said, taking the basket and opening it to examine the contents with a smile. "This will help a lot of people."

Jonah toyed with his bracelet, the familiar worn beads giving him something to do with his hands. "I'm glad."

He wasn't sure what to do with himself as Anders unpacked his gift. Anders didn't need his help, and the table he had to work with was too small to try without getting in the way. He glanced around the little clinic, noting more cots than before. He must have managed to salvage some from his last location. Jonah wondered angrily how long it would be before the templars sniffed out this one and forced Anders to flee and rebuild from nothing yet again.

"Healer!"

Both of them turned at the panicked cry, Anders rushing to the door while Jonah placed a defensive hand on his staff. A girl of perhaps fourteen nearly crashed into Anders as she reached the clinic. Jonah glanced behind her to see if she was being pursued, but no one was chasing her. Anders steadied her as she clutched at him.

"What happened?"

"Healer, help, please-"

"Are you hurt?" he asked as she desperately tugged on his coat.

"No, healer please, my family - please come-"

Anders grabbed his staff and strode out of the clinic as the frantic girl did her best to drag him along. Jonah followed, watching the shadows for signs of templars as Anders broke into a jog and kept his gaze on the girl. He was too trusting, Jonah thought, eyes darting into every dark tunnel for any glint of silver armor. She could just as easily be leading them to an ambush as an emergency.

It wasn't long before the sound of screaming led their way faster than the kid. Anders ran toward the sound, and Jonah ran after him.

Fuck. The scene they found was a mess. Someone had constructed assorted mining debris into makeshift housing inside a side tunnel, and the whole thing had collapsed. A few people were working to free whoever was trapped beneath the rubble, while more just stood around gawking.

Anders pulled a cloth from his pack and tied it over his face to protect it from whatever detritus had been kicked up by the collapse before hurrying to help. Jonah surveyed the crowd, looking for any signs that anyone was too interested in Anders, but everyone seemed either relieved or, at worst, indifferent to his presence. Reassured that this was likely just an accident, and not a plot to lure out the apostate who kept evading capture, Jonah wrapped a kerchief around his own face and joined the rescue effort.

Between the physical manpower and Anders shaping stone to hold back the heaviest pieces of fallen debris, a man was uncovered. He was pale and unconscious, which made sense, as his thigh was impaled with a shard of rusted metal.

Jonah helped Anders drag him away from the precariously balanced rubble, and Anders dropped to his knees by the man's side.

Jonah stood back to let him work. The people who'd helped them free the man didn't rush back to keep digging, so there must not have been anyone else trapped beneath the wreckage. The teenager who'd led them hovered anxiously over Anders, as did a woman - who must have been her mother, from the resemblance - holding a crying baby. The latter two were both covered in filth, and the woman looked bruised but ok. The baby was wailing, and it might have just been fear, but…

Against everything that had been trained into him, Jonah approached the woman.

"I can take her," he heard himself say gruffly. The woman looked startled and clutched the child closer, and it started crying harder. "If you want to hold his hand," he explained, nodding to the man gasping in pain as the pole was removed from his leg.

She hesitated, searching his eyes, then gratefully handed the child to him and dropped down to comfort the husband or lover who was gritting his teeth in pain.

Jonah held the screaming child, unsure what had come over him. He looked around again, but no one was paying him any mind. The crowd had started to disburse, and those left were focused on Anders as he began the work of knitting flesh back together.

Cautiously, Jonah looked the child over. She was maybe a year old. Nothing appeared broken, but lifting her shirt revealed swelling around her belly. Shit. Something must have fallen on her.

He glanced at Anders, but all his attention was focused on stemming the blood from the hole in the man's leg. It was delicate, time-consuming work, and Jonah wasn't sure if the baby could afford to wait if she was bleeding internally.

Her tiny hands were alternating between pushing against him, frightened of a stranger, and reaching for her mother. She was only a baby, but her struggling felt weak.

Fuck.

He scanned the crowd again. No one was watching him. No one knew she was hurt. She was too small to tell anyone.

Jonah adjusted the kerchief on his face, quickly reassuring himself his features were covered, and reached for Perseverance.

His spirit answered, strong and steady. Jonah extended his awareness into the little body in his arms. She was definitely bleeding… the liver. That was the source. Not as bad as he'd feared, but dangerous if untreated. It had to be painful.

Jonah and Perseverance directed the blood back where it belonged, mending flesh, healing bruises. He lost time in it, the careful reconstruction almost meditative as he and his spirit worked to find and fix what was broken.

When he opened his eyes, the child had gone still. A panicked pull on Perseverance assured him she was well, and it took a moment to realize she had fallen asleep. He adjusted his hold on her and she stirred, blinking up at him with tired brown eyes. She didn't start screaming again, so he gently rocked her, humming a Fereldan lullaby. She studied him a moment longer, then laid her head against his chest and drifted off again.

Jonah looked at Anders. He was still healing the man, though he had moved on to less serious injuries. The woman was stroking the man's hair as the girl who'd summoned them cleaned blood from her father's leg, and all of them were listening with attentive awe to Anders' quiet explanation of his magic.

No templars leapt from the shadows. No bystanders ran in fear from an apostate. No family was torn apart by death or holy fire. A healer was just healing, and people were just grateful for it.

Anders caught him staring and his expression went soft. He gave Jonah a small nod, looking between him and the baby on his hip, and Jonah saw knowing in his eyes.

Anders was a healer, and for the first time in years, with the warmth of a sleeping child in his arms, Jonah felt like one, too.

[teknicianwrites]

Happy Friday! I am begging you to tell me about Ted Templar's big Inquisitor Speech at Skyhold

BOY AM I GLAD YOU ASKED.

Saga of Ted Templar Chapter 2 for @dadrunkwriting

There's not much Ellie is truly excellent at in this world. She's alright at cards. She can hold her liquor about as much as the next soldier. She's pretty good at swinging a sword around, which is great considering that's what she does for a living these days. Competent, one might say, but no one's sending her on any wild solo missions anywhere, and quite frankly that's fine by her.

"Elysia Smalltalk!"

Oh, shit.

She scrambles up from her seat in the Herald's Rest and snaps into a salute as her captain storms into the building with a scowl that could shatter mountains. "Present and accounted for, ma'am—"

"Where are you on the guard rotation today?"

"The west battlements, ma'am. On at six bells."

"I'm changing that. Come with me."

Ellie barely chokes out a protest. She almost knocks her beer over and decides to snatch it up and chug it as she follows her captain out into the courtyard before realizing that … may not have been the best choice.

The courtyard is uncomfortably full of people. "Ma'am, is there a, uh, a holiday I forgot about?" she asks as she tries her best to match her captain's long strides.

"Where the fuck have you been?" There's amusement in the captain's voice as she practically drags Ellie through the throng of people with a firm grip on her arm. "They're crowning him Inquisitor today."

Huh. Well.

She doesn't have to ask who. The name Ted Templar's been on everyone's mouth lately, and sure enough, he's standing on the landing flanked by his advisors, and oh, boy, the man looks absolutely fucking terrified.

"He aware of that, ma'am?" Ellie snorts.

"Don't give me your sass, girl. You've just been handed the job of standing behind him to look pretty."

"I thought that was Flynn's job."

Her captain chuckles. "Flynn don't have a mouth on him like you do."

"I… don't understand."

"Maker, Smalltalk, for someone so good at making people think you know things, you're remarkably airheaded sometimes." Captain points at the Herald. "That man up there has never addressed a crowd of people before in his life. Now, all of these people need someone who looks like he knows what he's doing. The people who would normally feed him speeches can't because they're currently front and center right alongside him."

"They didn't plan for this?" Ellie is out of breath now. Fuck, the woman walks fast.

"Yeah, they thought telling him to 'be himself' was going to be good enough. Spoiler alert: it wasn't."

That seems rather shortsighted of them, Ellie agrees. And then it hits her why she's being handed Flynn's spot. "Wait, you want me to bullshit his speech for him."

The captain's face splits into a grin one step away from an outright cackle. "Now you're using your head. You're going to come up with something suitably charming, and you're going to feed that shit into his ear word by word until he has this crowd of idiots eating out of the palm of his hand. No pressure." She claps Ellie firmly on the shoulder and shoves her towards the stairs.

She passes Flynn on the way up, who's practically tripping over himself to get down. He looks ill. Ellie wonders exactly how they'd made his departure plausible and decides she probably doesn't want to know.

She settles into her post and says quietly, "I got your back, Mr. Templar. Just repeat what I say."

"Oh, thank the Maker," he mutters. "I'll pay you double for this later, ma'am. Swear it."

"No worries," she says with a grin. "Inquisitor."

Maybe it's a little meanspirited, the way she takes a little too much delight in the way a shudder ripples down his spine.

"The Inquisition requires a Leader," Cassandra declares. "The one who has already been leading it: you."

He gulps and she feels a little bad. Just a little.

"Corypheus must be stopped," she whispers. His voice wavers a little as he repeats the line, but the applause that follows seems to bolster him. "Some of us are here with family. Friends. Loved ones. Some of us are here alone. I am here to tell you today that none of those differences matter."

He says her words with more confidence, and his voice rings out across the crowd.

"We may have nothing in common with the people standing beside us," Ellie continues under her breath. "But all of us have something at stake. Something to lose. Something worth fighting for." She emphasizes the last three words carefully and hopes he takes her cue.

He does, and another round of cheers erupts. "You're doing great," she whispers encouragingly, and then panics when he opens his mouth. "No, don't—don't say that part—"

"You're doing great!" he calls out. Ellie groans and scrambles for a coherent follow up.

"All of you are here, alive, standing together in this sanctuary," she says, stalling as she tries to think of what else he can say. "I will lead you to victory," she whispers finally. Satisfaction wells up in her gut at the way he stands a little straighter, shoulders a little taller. Maybe he's finally starting to believe what she's saying, and that … that feels good. A lot more good than she'd expected.

"I will lead all of us to victory, and I will do it because it's right. Because all of us, down to the last, deserves a fighting chance for a life worth living."

Another round of cheers follows his words. Her words. Ellie's never been so proud of someone in her life.

Cassandra handles the rest of the speech. Commander Cullen from somewhere down in the crowd draws a sword and riles everyone up just a little more. "Your leader!" he yells. "Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!"

Ted freezes in front of her in the face of the madness. Cassandra hands him the sword, and he just stares at it.

"Pick it up!" Ellie hisses. "Wave the fucker around. Look inspiring!"

"Right," he mumbles. He picks it up and matches Cullen's motions on the ground, and whatever he says after that is swallowed up in the roar.

"Very good, Guardswoman," Sister Leliana says smoothly. "We were right to count on you."

"Anytime!" Ellie chirps. She's dismissed, and she promptly makes a beeline back to the Herald's Rest. There is a very cute bard waiting for her who will probably be very impressed, dare she say charmed, by this story, and she intends to capitalize on that immediately.

She doesn't expect Inquisitor Ted to follow her, but when she turns around she almost bumps into him as he enters after her. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't — didn't get a chance to thank you right. Up there."

"Oh, it was nothing," she says. She hopes she sounds reassuring. "Glad to help."

"I've never been too good at words," he says softly. "Never needed 'em. It was something to me. So … thank you." He holds out a hand, stiff, like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Maybe it's that pint she chugged before all of this happened that's making her feel all warm and fuzzy inside. "Aw, hell," she says with a grin. "Come here."

He makes a grunt of surprise when she hugs him, but then he hugs her back, and damn, if Ted Templar isn't a great hugger. Real friendly like. He should do that to more people more often.

"You have all of my gratitude, Guardswoman," he says when they break apart. He fishes a pouch from his pocket and holds it out to her insistently.

"It's uh. It's Ellie," she says as takes it. It's heavy, probably the heaviest coin pouch she's ever held in her life.

She's going to buy so much ale with this. Ted turns to leave, but she waves him over with a grin. "You can't just give me all of this money and not expect me to buy you a drink with it, Inquisitor." She punches him lightly in the arm. "Call it a return on your investment."

The smile that lights up his face is truly adorable. "I'd like that," he says softly. "And, uh. It's Ted. Just Ted."

[teknicianwrites]

Welcome to DADWC! First prompt from me, Hawke/Anders, “You’re supposed to talk me out of this.”

Hi, @biblioteknician! Thank you for the prompt. For @dadrunkwriting I give you... a wyvern hunt! This references a specialization choice one can make in DA: Awakenings, where Anders can learn blood magic. Since that doesn’t carry over into DA 2, I figured it would mean that although he knows the spells, he simply doesn’t use them any more. <3

“You were supposed to talk me out of this, remember?”

Anders startled, the last shreds of his frayed concentration frittering away at his beloved’s voice. He was already spiraling into panic; his magic roiled under his skin, roaring in his ears as he attempted to stop the bleeding. Hawke’s levity in the face of death wasn’t helping matters. Maker, the last time Anders had seen so much blood was after the Arishok…

After the Arishok, when he had nearly lost her.

Anders swallowed hard. “Don’t speak,” he replied, voice thick with tears. “Don’t tire yourself, love.” Her smile was weak.

“I’m the Champion of Kirkwall: nothing tires me. Except Orlesians. I thought Duke Prosper would never shut up back at the chateau. The De Launcets were insufferable. Did you know they have a summer house? Decorated with ceramic cows?!"

“Hawke.” He blinked hard. No matter how much pressure Anders applied, blood still seeped through his fingers. “No,” he whispered, “no, no, no, no. What are you two doing over there? Isn’t the fire ready yet?!” he called to the others. Magic stirred under his skin at his emotion, begging to manifest. Anders fought back tears of frustration.

“Can’t you just heat one of my daggers with magic?” Tallis asked. The spy shifted on her feet, eyes slinking to her bloody boots when Anders shot her a glare.

“Did I not say I can’t use aurum instruments on open wounds?” he replied. “Maker’s Breath, just… get away from her. You’ve caused enough damage.” She bowed her head and slunk to the fire, no doubt too ashamed to stay. Anders didn’t bother watching her leave, adding more linen bandages to try and combat the bleeding.

‘That was unjust,’ Justice chided him, ‘the wyvern bit the Champion, not the elf. Do not take out your frustrations on her.’

“If not for her, we wouldn’t be lost in this Maker-damned forest swarming with wyverns. And Orlesians. I don’t know what’s worse…” Anders looked to Hawke, ice settling in his chest. Her eyes had glazed over, fluttering as she struggled to keep awake. He bit his lip.

If he waited any longer for that fire, Hawke wouldn’t make it.

‘I forbid you,’ Justice cut through his thoughts. ‘Did you not swear after the Wardens and Amaranthine you would never perform such magic again? It is highly dangerous.’

“Maker damn it, Justice, she’s dying,” he shot back. Perhaps it was too loud; Anders winced when it caught the others’ attention. He blinked hard, wiping tears away. “I-I have to. I have to save her at all costs.”

The irony of his spell repertoire wasn’t lost on him: spirit healers like him shouldn’t even know blood magic, let alone use it. One false move could end in possession... Foreboding stayed his trembling hand. Last time he had used blood magic like this was at the Siege of Amaranthine, when he had acted as a medic for the Gray Wardens. It had been far too dangerous to use while in Kirkwall, what with the Templars searching for him. Even now, out here in Maker-Knew-Where, it was far too risky for him to feel comfortable. 

Anders gazed at his beloved’s now ashen countenance, the afternoon shadows falling across her features like the finest gossamer veil. He couldn’t help but envision them as a shroud.

“Magic must serve man,” he reminded himself. “Doesn’t matter the name of the spell, if it saves lives.” He centered himself and concentrated, calling to the power in Hawke’s blood and weaving the spell. “Stop,” he commanded, “go back.” 

He held his breath, praying. Everything seemed as though it was going well, but… would it be enough? Was it too late? What was to say she wouldn’t bleed out after he lessened his pressure?

Where was Merrill when he needed her? She’d know what to do. He scoffed a laugh. "Consulting maleficarum on blood magic technique. Yep, definitely Tuesday today.”

But the chaos and misfortune that usually dogged his steps on Tuesdays must have gotten lost in the forest along with the Orlesians. When Anders removed the bandages and the bleeding staunched itself, he nearly shouted with joy.

“What happened?” Varric cried, waddling over as fast as he could. He carried the small copper pot Hawke kept in her pack for cooking; steam curled from the vessel, freshly heated water sloshing onto the grass below as the dwarf hurried. “Blondie? What happened? I-Is she…?”

“Alive,” Anders replied, smiling. “Bless the Maker, I think she’ll be alright. If you could wash up and fetch my instruments?” The relief was palpable on Varric’s face; he let out the breath he’d been holding, no doubt grateful for the distraction. He knelt beside Anders, the two working together to dress the wound. The color soon returned to Hawke’s cheeks as she regained her consciousness.

“Shit, you scared me, Waffles,” Varric said to Hawke, tears in his eyes. “Don’t you know you’ll give me white hair, if you keep this up?” Hawke’s smile reminded Anders of the sun on the harbor, warm and inviting. He swallowed hard; his whole world was in that smile, and he had almost lost her, that day...

Life without Hawke. The color and music drained out of the world at that thought, leaving it gray and soulless.

Hawke, meanwhile, laughed. “Mm, you’d be a lovely silver fox, Varric,” she slurred, “you’d give Fenris a run for his money.” Even half dead, she was still making jokes. Anders barely covered a sob with a chuckle, he wept tears of joy.

“Hey! What am I, chopped liver?” Anders said in mock outrage, just to make her laugh. Her giggle reminded him of a bell, silvery and melodious.

“That depends,” she replied. “Do you go well with toast points? I could go for one of those charcuterie boards from the chateau.”

He chuckled, “you hear? She’s definitely better, Varric: her unholy love of cheese is back.” Anders brushed a curl from her face with a fond smile. “I’m so glad. I’m so very, very glad.” He leaned in, planting a tender kiss on her brow. “Thank you for coming back to me,” he whispered.

A mischievous spark lighted in her eye. “Mm. I don’t know… we’re just getting to know each other, and all. I’m a bit shy around strangers—” Any other silliness was promptly silenced when Anders took his beloved in his arms and kissed her deeply.

[teknicianwrites]

Welcome to DADWC! 👀 I see Merrill/Hawke, I am legally obligated to request it! How about "leaves are falling"

3. Leaves are falling (Merrill/f!Hawke)

RATING: G

For @dadrunkwriting.

@biblioteknician Thanks for the warm welcome and the prompt. Hope you'll enjoy it.

---

The forest was red and vibrant and looked like something you might see in the Fade. The ground was covered in leaves and every time a breeze went through the space more kept falling.

Merrill was nestled in Lizzie's arms in a spot she had cleared, appreciating the beauty of it.

"Thank you for taking me here," Merrill said. "I don't think I would have been able to take the noise of Lowtown for a minute longer."

"You and me both. I come here a lot when things get too much. It's nice and quiet." She ran her fingers through Merrill's hair with a smile. "I'm glad you're here with me."

"Me too." Merrill let out a pleased sigh. "This is nice. I like it when you play with my hair."

"It's relaxing, isn't it?"

"Yes. I-" Merrill paused, trying to find the right words to express herself. "I feel safe with you. You always understand and give me space when I need it. It's nice not to have to try so hard to appear like everyone else."

"No need to thank me, Merrill. I feel the same about you."

Merrill plucked one of the falling leaves out of the air and turned to Lizzie. "Can I braid this into your hair?"

"Of course."

Merrill got to work and said, "It'll be pretty when it's done."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"So do I. It makes me happy that I get do do something nice for you as well."

Lizzie leaned close and kissed Merrill on the cheek. "I love you."

Merrill blushed, her cheeks as red as the leaves around them. Lizzie knew she wasn't embarrassed or shy. She was blushing because she felt joy.

"I love you too."

[teknicianwrites]

Happy Friday! For DADWC, Adaar/Josie, "Is it ok if I kiss you?” “I would like that very much.”

Happy Friday and thank you for the prompt. I love writing them like this hehe. For @dadrunkwriting

Turen sighed when a pang of pain crossed her spine. After hours of sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair, huddled over the scrolls and papers of the Inquisition, her muscles and bones protested the poor treatment.

Her back cracked when she stretched her arms above her head, the lack of movement a disadvantage of being the Inquisitor. A cartographer's job entailed sitting in one place for hours at a time, but at least back then she was free to roam around the world while she worked. Now, this small room with its brown walls and cold floor kept her away from Thedas' roads, trapped to deal with the boring tasks of the Inquisition.

The only light that kept her sane was Joshepine with her elegant way of holding the quill between her fingers. Beside her, the Ambassador frowned slightly and nibbled her lower lip. She was engrossed in another boring letter, thanking some asshole noble for their oh-so-valuable support, Turen suspected.

How Josephine had the patience to put up with those self-centred bastards, she could not fathom. Her lover's patience and tolerance for their imbecility never ceased to fascinate Turen.

The edges of a smile touched Adaar's lips as she watched Josephine work with unwavering energy. With her uptight posture, she was the perfect image of elegance. One stubborn strand of hair came loose from her tight chignon and caressed the tip of her nose. From time to time, Josephine gently blew it away, only to have it bounce back.

A warmth settled over Turen, clouding her thoughts and her desire to work on those dreadful papers. How was she supposed to concentrate on petty complaints with Josephine standing so close to her, the candlelight playing on her cheeks?

"Josie?" whispered Turen, careful not to startle her beloved. She rose slowly from her chair and moved closer to Josephine, needing to feel the warmth of her cheeks.

"Hmm?" she hummed, still absorbed in her work.

"May I kiss you?" she purred against the hair Turen loved so much.

Josephine's hand stopped abruptly and the plume left behind purple smudges on the yellow parchment. With a melodic hum, she leaned into Turen's touch. "You may."

Adaar's breath shortened in anticipation of the kiss, and she leaned toward the love of her life, ready to taste the curve of her smile. Her lips tasted sweet, the aroma of the peaches they had shared that night still lingering on Josephine's tongue. A taste she would love to lose herself in for a lifetime.

[teknicianwrites]

Hi hon!! How about another song prompt: Bravado by Lorde for Cian & Pride!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA OMG HON THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR GIVING ME AN EXCUSE TO WRITE PRIDE, she is- she- She may be one of my favorite OCs now ^^'

CW: Vague allusions to past rape, vague implication of attempted rape that gets brutally stopped before it gets started. Also some unreality a la the Fade section of Origins.

@dadrunkwriting

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“First Enchanter Irving?” Cian gasped, blinking himself awake with a gasp.

“Hush, now, son,” Irving soothed, his kind old eyes crinkling as he soothed his hand back through his hair. “It’s all over now.”

“What’s all over?” Cian stammered, whipping his head to look around the room. He was in Irving’s bedroom in the Circle, the door shut, keeping them in privacy. Bookshelves lined the walls, clean, organized, quiet. Not covered in blood and pulsing flesh that smelled like rot.

…But, then again, why would it?

“The Blight, child,” Irving said kindly, soothing his hand through his hair again. “You did it. You saved us all, and now you have come home to us.”

Cian’s heart stuttered in his chest as he reached up to cling to Irving’s wrist. “No, but- I don’t remember- No, I- I’m supposed to be free-!”

“You are free, child,” Irving soothed, “here in the Circle, you are free. You are safe. And you are loved… for you were always the one child of all the hundreds here… that I most regarded as my own. And now, we can be a proper family.”

Cian’s eyes stung, furiously. “You mean…”

“If you will have me…” Irving said kindly, “I would be proud to be regarded as your father.”

Cian’s mouth trembled up into a smile. “I… I-I… yeah… I’d like that… Dad,” he whispered.

The door opened, then, and a templar loomed into the light, Irving’s lantern glinting harshly off his armor. “First Enchanter,” he gruffed. “Knight-Commander Gregoir demands he see you. Alone.”

He knew that voice.

Irving smiled placatingly and nodded, turning back to Cian with a warm smile as Cian turned white as a sheet and began hyperventilating in the bed. He was in his smallclothes in a bed with a Templar in the room. A Templar so much like- like-

“Dad, please don’t leave me alone,” he cried, grabbing Irving’s wrist in a desperate vice-grip.

“You are hurting me, child,” Irving said, using his disapproving voice, and Cian shrunk away, shaking violently under the weight of his disappointment. “I have assured you countless times, you should not judge all Templars based off the one bad apple who hurt you. You are my prodigy and the Grey Warden who saved all of Ferelden. There is nothing he can do to you.”

“No,” Cian whispered, letting Irving slip away towards the door. “No.”

He could feel the Templar smiling, hungry, predatory, in the doorway.

Before Irving could fully leave the room, he was impaled by five long, black spikes.

Cian scrambled up on the bed and against the wall immediately as Irving slid off, dead, and the Templar let out a terrified scream before a delicate purple-gray hand reached out and crushed his helmet like a grape, oozing out gore and viscera like an exploded bottle of red nail polish.

“This is just insulting,” Pride drawled, turning to smile at him in the doorway, her feminine arms still drenched in blood in contrast to her cool light purple skin, her deeper purple gown flowing ethereally around her supple body just like her long shadowy hair that floated around her like she were in water, her three eyes glowing a shade of violent violet with black sclera. Delicate purple makeup decorated her face, immaculate as always, and black lipstick surrounded sharp teeth, matching her four sharp black horns that stretched towards the ceiling.

“Pride,” Cian snarled, thrusting out his hands with a wave of cold to catch her with a winter’s breath, only for the ice to hit her and not even make her flinch.

“Oh, please,” she groaned, rolling her eyes, flicking off all the gore from her hands before snapping her fingers.

All at once, the surroundings blew away in a long trail of black smoke, revealing The Fade.

And suddenly, it all came crashing back.

Cian crashed down to his knees, suddenly in his robes again, his staff by his hip, and tears streamed down his face as he remembered the strewn bodies of all his peers: teenagers, mentors, children, almost every templar, the walls of his home drenched in blood and pulsing flesh.

Sloth.

Irving and the Templar — the forms of demons — burned away in sickly blue-green light.

Cian snapped his gaze up to Pride where she was looking down at him, bored.

“Did you have anything to do with this?!” he snarled to the demon who stalked him ever since he was a small child, rage quaking through him and flooding every part of his body. “Did you do this to my home?!”

Pride rolled her eyes yet again and manifested a throne with a wave of her hand in a flutter of smoke, which she then floated down to lounge in."No, I'm not here to hurt anyone. Sloth is pathetic. Sloth is nothing. Sloth is an affront to Pride. And your wallowing and self-flagellating is a close second."

“I am not Prideful,” Cian vowed, his voice cracking.

“Obviously.”

“So why do you seek me now?! Now, of all times?! Do you want to make my job harder than it already is?! Because I DON’T NEED IT!”

“You are not Proud,” Pride snapped, flickering forward in a violent rush of smoke, stopping to kneel down right in front of Cian, reducing her towering frame to his size so that they were eye to eye. “For your entire life, I have watched you for the volatile potential I sensed within you. Here is a worthy vessel, I thought. I can mold him, shape him into my image, only you did not go by ‘him’ at the time. But then you did, and even with all the bowing and bootlicking you did in this prison, you had the pride to demand mage and templar alike respect you as the gender you are. But then I watched you bury everything else.

There is pride within you, Cian. Deep, and terrible. And the disgusting, weak, pathetic abusers in this gilded cage taught you to mutilate yourself when you fail and deny yourself any praise or care if you succeed. You were lifted up not as the child of your mentors, but as their tool, their pet, their weapon. They used you. They have robbed you of Pride, child. And it is killing you.”

Her voice trembled at the end.

And suddenly… everything came flooding back.

The ‘purple woman’ who would watch him in his dreams, who would occasionally venture out to warily crawl across the ground towards him, reaching out long, black claws that he would then grab and giggle at. The woman who held him in his dreams when he was ripped away from his screaming mother and sent away to Fereldan’s Circle — a supposed ‘mercy’ over the Circle of Kirkwall, and yet- When he was the last one out of the baths, and the new Templar arrived for his shift-

It was Pride who stopped him from ending it all that night.

And suddenly… he didn’t see her as a demon anymore.

He saw her as the guardian she was.

“How do I… Pride, how do I save them?” he croaked. “I don’t… I-I- I’m not strong enough on my own…”

“Of course you are,” Pride responded, disgusted, harshly tilting his chin up and dragging him up to his feet in a swirl of smoke. “You have power within you which you never allowed yourself to possibly imagine. They honed you into a weapon, Cian. So be one. Own your skill, and grow it still. Tap into the power they tried to collar and chain you from. Destroy their ceiling and become the sky, and even the Archdemon will fall before you.”

“Blood magic,” he said quietly. Knowingly. His oldest temptation.

“Yes,” Pride responded, tucking a ginger curl behind his freckled ear. “You are filled with so much pain that you are addicted to it, child. So use it. Use your hurt, your pain, and make the people who hurt others hurt, too.”

Cian’s heart pounded in his chest as he slowly shook his head. “I can’t be a hero if I’m a blood mage,” he said, his voice small and brittle. “No one writes stories about blood mages. Monsters aren’t allowed to be heroes. And if the others- if- If they find out about you, they’ll call the both of us monsters. They’ll hunt us down and kill us!”

"Fine. Let me be their monster. Let yourself be their monster. Why should either of us care if they call us 'demon,' when we both are the only ones allowed to know who we truly are? Let your deeds speak for you, Grey Warden Cian. Let them see who makes a difference, and who sits on their ass."

He chuckled a little, then hugged her.

“Will you help me?” he asked, quietly. Then quickly slammed the door of his heart closed. “Not possess me. Just help. And I promise you, I will love and nourish you and bring you things and tell you all about my experiences in the mortal world.”

She chuckled and retracted her smoke where it was beginning to curl around him. “Nice catch,” she drawled with a smirk, then warmly embraced him back. “And that, my dear Warden… sounds like a deal.”

Pride leaned back, then, and extended her finely manicured hand, tipped with black claws that she could easily extend to impale him on, if she willed it.

But she didn’t.

“Deal,” Cian vowed, taking her hand, and together, they began to glow, deep red light with black smoke.

She smiled, sharp. “Oh, child…” she spoke, and her voice was booming. “I cannot wait to see your full potential.”

–

Sloth fell, but the Circle did not, and every blood mage was purged…

…except for one.

[teknicianwrites]

Happy Friday! For DADWC, drunk sickfic prompt “It’s not fun anymore, I’m dizzy…”

Thank you for the prompt (and for supplying me with a hilarious drinking game to accompany it), this was an absolute blast to write!

For @dadrunkwriting

~*~*~

Rating: Mature Characters: Mo Hawke, Merrill, Isabela Relationships: Hawke/Merrill & Isabela Genre: High Chaos Sickfic Word Count: 2114 Content Warnings: Alcohol/characters getting very drunk, Nausea/vomit, Strong language AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35634007

~*~*~

“King!” Isabela declares gleefully. “Everybody pour some of your drink into the King’s Cup.” She starts them off by pouring in some of her coconut rum.

Merrill and Mo follow suit with hard cider and some kind of coffee, cream, and whiskey concoction.

“That’s going to taste terrible,” Merrill wrinkles her nose.

“That’s the point, kitten,” Isabela laughs. “Your turn, Mo.”

Mo picks up a card. “Seven!” Mo and Isabela’s hands both shoot up towards the ceiling.

Merrill blinks in confusion.

“Last one to raise their hand takes a drink, remember vhenan?” Mo nudges her girlfriend.

“Ohhh,” Merrill says. “I… drink now?” Mo and Isabela nod in unison, so Merrill takes a drink of her cider.

“And now it’s your turn!” Mo declares.

“Okay,” Merrill flips a card, “Three. What’s that one?”

Isabela snorts, “Take three drinks, kitten.”

“Oh dear,” Merrill lets out a half-giddy, half-nervous giggle before taking three more drinks. They’ve only been playing a couple rounds, and her drink has far less alcohol than her companions’ do, but her head is already feeling fuzzy and there’s a pleasant warm tingly feeling in her toes.

“Bela’s turn!” Mo announces.

Isabela flips over a card. “Five! Ooo I get to make a rule. How about…” she taps her fingers on the floor as she thinks, “oh, I know! No one can use pronouns.”

“Any… pronouns?” Mo raises an eyebrow.

“Any pronouns,” Isabela cackles.

“How do we—” Merrill begins.

“Pronoun!” Isabela interjects. “Take a drink, kitten.”

Merrill sheepishly takes a drink of her cider.

“Is it my—” Mo cuts herself off, “shit. I’ll drink.” She takes a swig of her own drink.

“Yes, it is Mo’s turn,” Isabela confirms.

Mo draws a card. “Nine! Rhyme time.”

“Ooo fun,” Isabela giggles. “What word are… what word?”

Mo grins, “Fire.” She looks towards Merrill.

“Flyer?” Merrill says.

“Dire!” Isabela announces.

“Tire,” Mo contributes.

“Mire?”

“Sire!”

“Ire.”

“Im…plier? Someone who… implies?”

“Is that even a word?” Isabela asks.

Mo shrugs, “I’ll let it fly… wait, shit, pronouns.” She takes a drink.

“Alright then,” Isabela says, “uh… fire?”

Mo and Merrill snort.

“Take a drink, Isabela. That was literally the… uh, the first word,” Mo says with a fond shake of her head.

Isabela takes a swig of her rum then looks to Merrill, “Alright, kitten’s turn.”

Merrill reveals another card, “Two! I get to make you two take drinks for that, right?”

“Yep!” Isabela confirms, “But first take two drinks because y— Merrill said two pronouns.”

Merrill giggles and takes two drinks, then points at her friend and girlfriend, “Now one drink each!”

They each take a drink, then Isabela flips over a card, “Eight! That means… Isabela gets to pick a mate who drinks with… Isabela for the rest of the game. How about… Mo. Because kitten is a lightweight.”

“Hoo boy!” Mo laughs. “Okay, my turn,” she flips a card, “King again! Everybody add to the cup.”

They all pour a bit of their drinks into the King’s Cup and then Mo and Isabela look to Merrill, who flips a card, “Four! That’s, um…” she carefully rearranged words in her head to try and avoid pronouns, “Merrill drinks twice and Mo and Isabela each drink once?”

“Wait, if I—fuck!” Mo takes a drink. “If Mo has to drink every time Isabela does, does that mean… Mo… drinks… twice?”

“Seems logical to m—yes,” Isabela says.

“Okay,” Mo takes two swigs of her drink. Merrill and Isabela follow suit.

“My turn!” Isabela declares.

“Ha! Finally, Isabela needs to drink for using pronouns,” Mo gloats.

“Doesn’t that mean Mo also needs to drink?” Merrill points out.

“Oh. Crap,” Mo takes a defeated drink.

Isabela takes a swig of her rum and flips over her card, “Three! Time for Isabela and Mo to take three drinks.”

They do so, then Mo flips over a card, “Queen! Ladies drink. That’s all of us—damnit.” She takes a drink for the pronoun. “Wait, if Isabela is also drinking for this, do—does… Mo… need to… drink twice?”

“Isabela thinks yes,” Isabela says with a smirk, so Mo takes two drinks while Isabela and Merrill take one each.

Merrill flips over a card, “Ten! Ooo that one’s categories, right? Oh oh oh I have a good one! Animals with hooves.”

“Take a drink, kitten,” Isabela giggles, “I heard that pronoun.”

“Isabela just said a pronoun too, so everyone has to drink now,” Mo points out, so they all drink.

“Okay,” Merrill says, trying to gather her thoughts even though her head is spinning a bit, “amnils… animals… with hooves! Halla.”

“Druffalo,” Isabela says.

“D… dragon,” Mo says hesitantly.

Merrill and Isabela both dissolve into uncontrollable laughter as Mo takes a defeated swig of her drink.

“Okay, m— turn for… Isabela. Nailed it,” Isabela chuckles, turning over a card. “Hmm, Jack. Boring, there are no guys here to drink. Mo?”

Mo flips a card, “One! Waterfall time.” She and Isabela both cackle.

“How… does that work?” Merrill asks.

“We all drink. Merrill can’t stop drinking until Mo does, and I…sabela can’t stop until Merrill does,” Isabela explains.

“Nice save,” Mo snorts. “Alright, everyone ready?”

Isabela and Merrill hold up their drinks, so Mo starts drinking and they follow suit. And she just… keeps going. Merrill is drinking as slow as she can, but by the time Mo stops, Merrill’s cup is near-empty. Mo refills her own now-fully-empty cup, so Merrill and Isabela take the opportunity to top theirs off.

“Is it…” Merrill points at herself. The room is wobbling around her a little bit.

“Go for it!” Isabela says, so Merrill flips over a card.

“Oh good, it’s just King. The cuppy-cup can drink instead of us,” Merrill dissolves into hysterical giggles as she pours some cider into the King’s Cup (and a bit on the floor, as well).

“Ooo, that’s King number three!” Isabela notes. “I wonder who’ll get the last one?”

“Yooooiiiisabela’s turn!” Mo declares.

Isabela flips a card. “Ooo… six,” she says with a smug smile as she adjusts how her hands are positioned on the floor.

Wait, what are they supposed to do for this one? Merrill wracks her brain.

Mo mimics Isabela’s hand positioning and it clicks.

“Oh, thumbs!” Merrill declares.

Mo laughs, “Take a drink, vhenan.”

“Oh. Right,” Merrill takes a sip of cider.

Mo picks up a card, “Two. Both… oh wait, if Isabela… all of us drink. Shit, pronoun!”

They all drink (Mo twice), then Merrill flips a card, “Seven!” She raises her hand so fast that she nearly falls over. The other two follow suit, Mo a bit slower than Isabela.

“Oh well. Would’ve had to drink even if Isabela lost,” she shrugs as she takes a swig of her drink.

Isabela picks up a card and cackles, “Ten! Categories, hmm… ship parts! Deck.”

“Oh shit, uh…” Mo squints, “Crow’s nest.”

“Saaaiil?” Merrill says, fighting the fuzziness in her head.

“Keel,” Isabela says.

“Uhhhhhh…” Mo’s face contorts as she thinks, “…butt?”

Isabela laughs so hard that Merrill is worried she’ll knock her cup over as Mo sighs and takes a drink.

Once Isabela can breathe again, Mo flips over a card and smirks, “Five. Mmmm…o’s turn to make a rule, ohoho… no names.”

“Are nicknames and pet names still legal?” Isabela asks.

“Sure,” Mo says, “but only ones not derived from name-names. Kitten and vhenan are fine, but not uh… Mo or Bela.”

“You just said two names,” Merrill points out.

“Only to demonstrate!” Mo protests. “Also, you just said a pronoun.”

“One drink for kitten and three for… uh…” Isabela gestures at Mo.

They drink, then Merrill flips over a card, “King again?”

“Oh nooo, kitten has to drink the cuuuup,” Isabela groans through giggle-snorts.

They all pour a bit more of their drinks into the cup (and onto the floor), then Merrill picks it up and stares forlornly into it.

“Bottoms up, kitten!” Isabela urges.

“Drink it! Drink it! Drink it!” Mo encourages, giggling.

Merrill scrunches her face up an brings the cup to her lips, taking a tentative sip of the offensive-smelling concoction. It tastes as bad as it smells. She grits her teeth, takes a deep breath, tilts her head back, and chugs it as fast as she can just to get it over with.

“That’s the spirit!” Isabela cheers.

The room is spinning – or maybe Merrill is? It’s like her skull is full of rapidly whirling marbles – and her vision feels weird, like everything is blurry and wibble-wobbly and vibrating slightly. But at the same time she feels a bit like she’s floating on clouds. That part is kind of nice? At least… if she ignores the unpleasant gurgling in her stomach and the feeling of bile in her throat.

“Vhenan?” Mo checks in, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Um,” Merrill says in a tiny voice, trying desperately to keep the contents of her stomach on the inside, “I don’t think this is fun anymore. I feel dizzy…”

“D’you need to throw up?” Mo asks softly.

Merrill nods, jaw clenched shut and tears in her eyes.

“Bela? Trash can?” Mo says, immediately abandoning the rules of the game in favor of making sure her girlfriend is alright.

Isabela grabs a trash can and sets it in front of Merrill, who immediately pulls it close and empties her stomach into it. The alcohol and bile burn her throat and nose coming up. She lets out a hiccupy sob before continuing to dry heave into the trash can as Mo caresses soothing circles around her lower back.

Once her body finally figures out there’s nothing left for her to throw up, she wipes her mouth and nose with a cloth that Isabela hands her and then collapses into Mo’s lap and curls into a tight ball. The world is still spinning and fuzzy, her head is pounding and her insides are a little bit on fire, but at least the nausea has mostly faded.

And the way Mo is holding her is nice. Caressing soft fingers up and down her back. Around her shoulders. Through her hair. She wonders how many people know about this tender side of Mo. She hides it around the general public, and even around her own family, but Merrill knows it’s there. It’s her favorite side of her.

“Hey kitten,” Isabela says, setting a glass of water near her. “You should drink some water. It’ll help you feel better.”

Merrill whimpers in protest as Mo guides her into a sitting position and offers her the water as Isabela tidies up the room. She drinks it in small sips and is uncomfortably aware of the sensation of it sliding down her raw throat and into her stomach. But the more she drinks, the less her head aches, so that’s something.

Once their aborted game has been cleaned up, Isabela pats her bed, “Why don’t you two move to the bed? It’s comfier than the floor.”

“Oh, yes please,” Mo sets aside Merrill’s now-empty water glass and helps her to her feet, leading her over to the bed. Isabela lifts the covers for the two of them to crawl under, then grabs another glass of water and joins them in bed. It’s a crowded fit – Isabela’s bed is clearly sized for one person rather than three – but Merrill finds it comforting to be sandwiched between her two favorite people under the comforting weight of blankets.

Isabela chugs half her glass of water, then hands it to Mo, “You should drink something, too. Can’t very well take care of kitten if you’re drunk off your ass and dehydrated, after all.”

Mo grumbles, but sips at the water as suggested.

“Can I take a nap?” Merrill asks.

“Of course, kitten,” Isabela replies gently. “Get some sleep. Just lay on your side so you don’t risk inhaling any puke, okay? I’ll wake you up later to drink some more water. Would you two like to spend the night? I doubt kitten here is up for the trek back to Hightown tonight.”

“Oh, can we, ma vhenan?” Merrill asks, staring up at Mo with big, pleading eyes. “That sounds so cozy.”

“That does sound cozy,” Mo agrees. “Sure, why not? Snuggle pile at Isabela’s place tonight.” She finishes the last of her water and hands the empty glass back to Isabela, then sinks down into the bedding next to Merrill.

Merrill responds by rolling onto her side and absorbing Mo in a fullbody hug, resting her head on her soft chest. “You’re my favorite pillow,” she murmurs sleepily.

“You’re my favorite… favorite… my favorite you,” she hears Mo chuckle fondly as she drifts off to sleep.

[teknicianwrites]

Happy Friday! First just as an fyi, I tried to click your Six of Crows prompt list to see what that was and it linked back to your prompt list. But for an actual prompt! From the physical contact list, "hiding their face in the other’s neck," with Zevran/Tabris?

@dadrunkwriting

OOF, thanks for the head's up. I have fixed it now (and thank you for sending another prompt, I love those prompts, too!)

Have some angst with a side of mild spice? (I have TOO MANY feelings about Zevran sometimes.)

Zevran wasn’t his usual self tonight — there was something tense and raw about him, a darkness clinging to him that Dirk had only caught glimpses of since the day they’d first met. It had been most noticeable after they left the Temple of Sacred Ashes, where the Guardian had cut into Zevran’s past in precisely the right way to make his facade slip away.

Dirk had wondered about Zevran’s regret then, but he didn’t wonder this time. This time, he knew. He’d seen the look in Zevran’s eyes as he pulled his daggers out of the Crow’s body below him in that alleyway, had felt the weight in the air when he stepped into this room and found the assassin cleaning the man’s blood off his blades.

As he felt Zevran’s teeth sink into his shoulder, Dirk groaned and held him close. He’d been the one to drag Zevran into his bed tonight, hoping to distract him from his pain, remind him —

“I love you,” Dirk said. He felt Zevran shift against him, his face pressing against the side of his neck. His breath was quick, shallow. “Even at times like this, I… just want… you to know.”

He heard Zevran make a noise that could have been a laugh or a whimper. Dirk shivered when he felt Zevran sigh against his neck, then trail some soft kisses up to the side of his jaw. “You are too perceptive sometimes, my dear Warden. I… am glad, though. To have you.”

He muttered something else in Antivan, but Dirk could understand ‘mi amor’ and the softness in his tone.

I love all of you, too.

[teknicianwrites]

Hey it's Friday! For DADWC, how about “There’s something strange going on with my head.” “You may be unfamiliar with these things—they’re called thoughts.”

Hello and please enjoy three mages (including the Inquisitor) being mean to Cullen lololol

Context: Elspeth & Aedan are Inquisitor Lavellan's apprentices and they go everywhere with her bc it's funnier that way

@dadrunkwriting

***

"Who's going to tell him?" Elspeth leaned over Aedan's shoulder to whisper—to the extent Elspeth could whisper, anyway— to Shielan.

Aedan scoffed and shoved her out of his airspace. "The Boss is, obviously." Shielan side-eyed the pair, and he added: "If the Boss wants to, of course. Personally"—he gulped down the rest of his drink, and slammed the bottom of the stein against the table—"I think it's hilarious."

"Hilarious?" Elspeth smacked Aedan needlessly in the chest, and leaned in, her voice rising. "Inquisitor, with all due respect, half the bar is already whispering about his behavior. As many times as you've emphasized discretion tonight, one would think—"

"One would think you'd have the sense to whisper along with them instead of shouting in a bar filled with Andraste-fucking shem," Aedan hissed.

Elspeth's posture straightened, and she flipped her hair over her shoulder, waving one flippant hand half-heartedly in Aedan's direction. "As if you haven't lived among 'Andrastian-fucking shem' your whole pathetic life. Inquisitor"—she turned to Shielan, jerking her head across the table at Cullen—"we need to get him out of sight before somebody starts asking questions."

Cullen sat on the opposite side of the table alone, one hand loosely grasping his drink, and the other clutching at the side of the table. His face grew pale at the mention of his name. "My head"—his neck bobbed forward as he spoke—"something strange is happening."

Aedan leaned across the table and flicked Cullen on the forehead, chuckling. "Those are called thoughts, champ. Guessing you don't have them often?"

"Oh, do be careful," Elspeth said, sulking down into her side of the booth and rolling her eyes. "You might confuse the poor fool further."

Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't—

Shielan pinched the skin of her elbow beneath her cloak and spoke through gritted teeth, hoping her tone would be received as stern rather than amused. "Both of you, shut up." She downed what remained of her bitter drink and nodded at Cullen. "He's fine."

Cullen's bleary, bloodshot eyes floated down to the amber liquid in his cup, then back up to Shielan. "I think something was in that drink she gave me."

"Poison," Shielan replied, and cleared her throat to stifle a chuckle that would no doubt be the least appropriate response to this situation. "Bartender's been eyeing me since we walked in, so I assumed it was meant for me."

"Then how did it end up—"

"Because I switched mine with yours." Shielan met his wavering gaze with a blank stare. "You did say you owe me your life."

Aedan burst into raucous laughter, eliciting a stern slap on the shoulder from Elspeth. "This is about to be the funniest murder I've ever seen."

Elspeth rolled her eyes and scoffed, arms folded over her chest. "If your head wasn't in the fucking clouds during alchemy lessons, you'd know Adder's Kiss isn't even lethal."

"A man can dream," Aedan replied, grinning as he watched Cullen sway back and forth.

Above the influence of poison, Cullen's eyes might've widened. Instead they twitched defiantly against his attempt to move them, sending Aedan into another fit of chuckles. "I said it and I meant it, Inquisitor. If tonight is to be my last night—"

"For fuck's sake, Rutherford," Shielan sighed. "How much poison would I have to add for you to save me the dramatics?" She held her cup in the air and nodded at one of the barmaids. When the young woman came to refill her drink, Shielan watched her carefully. The barmaid's eyes flitted from Cullen's face, down to his drink, and then straight into Shielan's knowing gaze.

Shielan leaned forward, lips pulled into a small, polite smile, and said: "Tell your man to try deathroot next time."

[teknicianwrites]

Practical Magic Prompts

"I want him so much, I can't think about anything else."

"I want to go where no one's even heard of us."

"Darling, when will you understand that being normal is not necessarily a virtue?"

"I don't care what he comes back as, as long as he comes back."

"She has all this power and doesn't use it!"

"I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for."

"I have this dream of being whole."

"I'm scared. Can you come and get me?"

"Nudity is entirely optional, as you well remember!"

"It's all my fault, ___. I didn't mean to ruin your life. I just had no one else to turn to."

"You should stop smoking so much." "Why? I'll probably get life. I should smoke two at once. It'll shorten the sentence."

"Ok ___, I will get you out of this, but when I do, we are definitely breaking up."

"If you're going to work here, maybe you could, I don't know… work."

"All that's missing now is me naked without my homework."

"Midnight margaritas!"

"Since when is being a slut a crime in this family?"

"Something's going on. I can smell it. It's a very distinct smell. It's the smell of bullshit."

"She's not saying they murdered him." "Yes I am."

"Did you or ___ kill ____?" "Oh, yeah. Couple of times."

"I'm sick and tired of cleaning up your messes."

"Will you get on your knees and beg for mercy?"

"How many times did you read my letter?"

"You know what? I wished for you, too."

"Oh, dear. It seems we've not arrived in the nick of time."

"He wants me. Just me. Everyone will be safe. Just let him take me."

"Can love travel back in time and heal a broken heart?"

[teknicianwrites]

Hi there! For DADWC, might I suggest "Covering them with a blanket when they fall asleep" for Galena Surana/Zevran?

Eyyy, I actually managed to write something short for once. Thank you for the sweet prompt! @dadrunkwriting

Galena wasn't surprised to find Zevran in her tent, nor was she surprised that he was naked. They had been enjoying each other's company at night for months now, and it would have been more unusual if he weren't there.

No, the surprising part wasn't his presence. It was the fact that he was dead asleep atop the bedroll, half of his face squished where it was pressed uncomfortably against the ground.

She pulled the flap closed behind her, summoning a wisp to light the space as she regarded him with amusement. He was sprawled out on his side, on full display, and she was sure his plan had been a suave seduction as soon as she entered the tent. It was a pity her talk with Morrigan had gone so long. Galena quite enjoyed being seduced by Zevran.

She didn't blame him for falling asleep, though. The trek up the Frostbacks was taxing, and everyone was exhausted.

It was also freezing. She knelt by him and saw gooseflesh across his skin. Idiot, she thought fondly, smiling to herself at the picture he made. It would be just like him to freeze to death while plotting to get beneath her robes.

Galena grabbed her bear-pelt blanket and crawled onto the bedroll behind him, pulling it up around them both. He stirred and she gently tugged his shoulder to encourage him to get his face out of the dirt and onto the pillow. A shiver ran over his body as he moved, and she scooted closer.

"My Warden?" he murmured, turning his head to blink at her sleepily.

"Shhh." She let the light she had conjured fade and brushed grime from his cheek. "Go back to sleep."

"Ah, but such plans I had for this evening," he said mournfully, even as his eyes drifted closed. "You would have been most impressed."

"I have no doubt," she told him, pressing close to his back to warm him up, winning a small noise of appreciation. Galena wrapped her arm over his waist, calling on her mana to warm her hands, and he sighed contentedly. She kissed his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll be just as impressive tomorrow."

His breathing was already starting to even back out as he drifted back off, and she curled up against him, sharing her body heat as sleep claimed her as well.

[teknicianwrites]

@for-the-ninth tagged me for WIP Wednesday, and as usual, I'm really just dicking around with DADWC prompts, and also consider yourself tagged if you want to join in.

"What are you doing?"

Anders looked over his shoulder to see Hawke standing just inside the clinic door. Hawke pulled it closed behind him as he took in the space, supplies and mementos and so much fucking trash sorted into half-organized heaps on the floor.

"Deciding what to keep," Anders answered, turning away as he threw the latest draft of his manifesto in the trash pile. "I can't carry all of it. Do you know anyone who needs cots? Seems a shame to waste them." He could hear how frantic he sounded, how quickly his words tumbled from his mouth, but he was beyond caring. Let Hawke see him like this. Maybe he would finally understand exactly what he was - what he had become.

Feral. Dangerous. Beyond control.

[teknicianwrites]

@for-the-ninth tagged me for six-sentence Sunday, and because I don't do longfic, here's a few sentences from a dadwc prompt that I suddenly got inspired for. It's not technically Sunday anymore but the sun is still down so I'm counting it.

In which Jonah Hawke has some issues with the way Varric wrote his story.

Jonah glared at Varric and set it on fire.

"Somehow, still not the harshest review I've ever gotten," Varric said lightly, as the ashes of his drivel blew around him on the wind.

"What the fuck, Varric?" Jonah demanded, spinning his body around to stand and tower over him.

Varric eyed him, unimpressed. "You're going to need to be more specific. It's a long book."

[teknicianwrites]

(for dadrunkwriting - welcome!) More a sort of vague idea prompt, but perhaps a scene where Anders and Justice are thinking about Anders/their attraction to Hawke. Or just something Anders/Hawke/Justice if you have another idea!

Well, this @dadrunkwriting prompt took a fucking while, but here it is! On the eve of the Chantry's destruction, the boys have a talk.

There was nothing left to write.

Anders had written and rewritten his manifesto more times than he could count. He'd written until his vision blurred, until his hands cramped, until his fingers grew stained with ink as he wrote and rewrote and rewrote beyond the point of exhaustion. He wrote until a few firm words from Hawke finally pulled him away to bed, reminding him that he could think better if he rested. He'd written between patients at the clinic, around hands of Diamondback at the Hanged Man, and during evenings at the Amell estate.

He'd started writing alone, until more and more he found Hawke was at his side, offering suggestions on phrasing or assistance with his arguments, or simply taking his finished pages of frantic scribbling and copying it onto fresh parchment in the neat, severe handwriting his father had passed down to him.

The manifesto was complete. It had been distributed among sympathetic circles, quietly disseminated over the years by the Collective and the Underground.

The time for writing was over. The time for action had arrived. War was upon them.

Anders felt a warm rush of approval from his spirit at the thought. He ran his fingers along the soft quill in his hand, watching a faint flicker like magelight play through his veins, feeling Justice's strength and resolve, and letting it bolster his own.

He curled his legs under him on the plush loveseat, setting aside the blank parchment for the moment to turn his attention to Hawke.

Maker, the man was beautiful. His dark skin glistened with sweat as he spun his father's staff, practically dancing through practiced maneuvers between himself and his mabari. Adain was damn near an extension of Jonah at this point, able to weave around his legs from all angles while protecting him from enemies that got too close. From what Anders could tell, they were practicing close-quarters forms, if the occasional deep rumbling instructions for Adain to pull in tighter were any indication.

Another warmth through his chest seemed to engage in its own mock-battle against Anders' anxiety when he thought about the reason for Hawke's exercises. A firm but gentle reassurance followed, and Anders could almost hear Justice whisper, He can handle himself. He is with us.

I know, Justice, Anders thought. That was not in doubt.

It had been, once, when Anders and Justice were still new at being Anders-and-Justice, and they had taken a risk in asking a scruffy refugee apostate for help in freeing Karl. After so many years in the Circle surrounded by mages who accepted their crimeless imprisonment as the natural will of the Maker, Anders had been surprised when Hawke agreed without hesitation. He'd been even more surprised when Hawke had actually shown up, the same cheerful dwarf and grumbling little brother from their first meeting in tow.

But Jonah had stood against templars with him that night, and then stood with a warm hand on his shoulder as Anders cradled Karl's body, despite the crackling blue that still broke through his skin. Jonah's hand had trembled then, but when Anders finally looked up there was no fear in his eyes. There was only rage at the atrocity that had been enacted on Karl, the same atrocity that might have been enacted on Anders if he had stepped into that chantry alone.

"Why aren't you afraid of me?" he asked later, in his clinic, after Varric had left with a thanks for the maps and Carver had stomped out muttering about having enough trouble already without adding an abomination to the mix.

"Should I be?" Rich brown eyes studied him for a long moment, wary perhaps, but not frightened.

"Well, I mean… Abomination?" He gestured at himself, as though somehow Hawke had forgotten the last ten minutes of conversation. There was no change to Hawke's expression. "You saw what happened back there. I lost control. The Chantry doesn't call us that for no reason."

That got a reaction, though not one Anders expected. Hawke scoffed. "The Chantry lies," he said disdainfully. "Your spirit is Justice. I saw you avenging your friend. Seemed straightforward to me."

Anxiety tangled from two sources in his chest. Anders looked away. "That's not Justice. That's Vengeance."

"You think the two can't go hand in hand?" Hawke stepped closer. "Especially after what they did to your friend? They made a Harrowed mage Tranquil as bait for another. He passed their fucking test and they still did that to him." Hawke broke off, scratching at his stubble as he took a breath. "They deserved worse."

The maelstrom of fear and hope that roiled through their heart at Hawke's words threatened to overwhelm him. It was too much, too confused and complicated to work through with a near-stranger. Anders began tidying the clinic for something else to focus on. "You know a lot for a lifelong apostate. The Harrowings are supposed to be secret."

If Hawke was bothered by the topic change, he didn't show it. "My father was Harrowed. At the Gallows, actually. He escaped to be with my mother, and taught me and Beth how to handle the Harrowing… Just in case." Hawke grimaced, and Anders looked up at him, struck nearly breathless at the thought of a mage raising and teaching his own children. "There was always the chance the templars would find us, and he didn't want us unprepared." He toyed with a beaded bracelet at his wrist, worrying at the frayed edges of string holding it together. "Anyway, if you say you're dangerous, you'd know better than me. But you shouldn't believe it just because the Chantry says it."

Anders didn't know how to respond to that, under Hawke's steady gaze still free of fear.

Hawke nodded and made to leave, and Anders called out, "Hawke… thank you. For tonight. If you need me, look for the lantern. I move a lot."

Hawke gave a soft chuckle. "If you need me, head to Lowtown. Uncle's home is the one that smells more of piss and stale drinks than the rest." Hawke flashed him a wry grin. "Or you can try the Hanged Man. It's where Varric stays. The smell is similar, but there's also a sign. Might be easier to find."

Justice thrummed contentedly beneath his skin as they continued to watch Jonah. He was the first person to believe in them as them, even before they did. Even after the tunnels.

Especially after the tunnels, truth be told. Jonah hadn't abandoned them, even when Anders was ready to run. He'd spent weeks scouring the Emporium for books on the Avvar, on Rivaini seers, on any forbidden knowledge of benign or cooperative possession he could get his hands on.

"How do you even know about this? Not exactly a Chantry-approved research topic."

"The Chantry lies. We lived near Edgehall for a while. Father took me to speak to an Augur when he realized spirits were interested in me."

"To… what, to learn how to become possessed?"

"No. To learn about spirits and how they can help people. Here, this chapter looks promising."

They smiled at the memory, and with practiced ease earned from those long nights with Hawke, Anders ceded control to Justice.

Hawke completed the maneuver he was practicing and glanced to the blue light permeating the study. He raised an eyebrow as he poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk, then poured some more into a bowl for Adain. Justice felt him pull on the Fade, and the steady hum of Perseverance as Hawke eased aches and soreness from himself and his mabari before they could take hold.

"Evening, Justice." Jonah strode over to lean against the armrest opposite the one Anders had positioned them at. "Is Anders worrying again?"

Justice smiled for Hawke's concern and the half-hearted indignation he felt from the mortal whose body he shared. "He always worries for you. It is not the reason I came forward."

Hawke relaxed, taking a deep drink from his cup. Justice watched a trickle of sweat drip down his temple and basked in the aura of Perseverance Hawke had not yet dropped. "Writer's block?" Jonah asked, nodding at the blank parchment.

"No. We have already written what we must, though the act of writing itself is a comfort to Anders."

Jonah eyed the parchment again. "So what does it mean if he's not writing?"

Justice straightened his posture, and Jonah sat beside him. "Nothing of concern," he reassured him. "We were thinking of you. Anders finds you distracting." Once these words would have indicated disapproval, but now Justice spoke them with affection.

Jonah smirked, draining his cup and setting it on the end table. "And you?"

Justice considered the question. Jonah took his hand and traced the Fade-light across his palms, content to let Justice consider his answer. "You have taught me that distraction is not always a vice," he said, enjoying the sensation of Jonah's fingers on his skin. "You have never sought to keep us from our purpose. Your support has meant the world to us both."

"I'm glad," Jonah murmured, giving him the soft smile that often seemed reserved for them alone.

Justice felt a melancholy that was not his own, and remembered Jonah's original question. "Anders still worries for you. He remains concerned that we have pushed you into this and mourns the way of life you will lose."

"I don't." Jonah stopped his exploration of Justice's hand, though he kept holding it. He seemed to be searching for words. It was a familiar struggle to Justice, the inability to accurately express himself in matters of emotion, so he returned Jonah's courtesy and gave him time to think. "... Do you know why we waited so long to leave Lothering?"

A curious change of topic, though Justice trusted the question was related. "I believe you told us your mother was loath to accept losing her home," he recalled.

"She was. That's not why we stayed. She was more practical than that," Jonah said fondly. He paused once more, and seemed to pull on Perseverance. When he met his gaze again, his eyes were hard. "We waited because of me and Beth."

Justice tilted his head, considering this. "I do not understand," he admitted.

"Some Wardens came through not long after Carver got back from Ostagar and warned the town about the horde. We had already begun packing after Carver told us about the battle, but then half the village started evacuating." Jonah sounded… agitated? Adain approached him, sensing his master's mood, and rested his head on Jonah's knees with a soft whine.

"Was that not for the best?" Justice felt even more perplexed, as Jonah's hands left his to scratch the hound's ears, though a dread within his chest made him suspect Anders had an idea of what he was missing. "I have witnessed the destruction that darkspawn leave in their wake."

"Mother didn't think it was safe for us to travel with so many people on the road. Between darkspawn, bandits, and wildlife, we were bound to be attacked, and what would our options be? Hide our magic and get killed? Fight back and hope that people would be more scared of darkspawn than apostates?" Justice was now certain it was agitation that brought Jonah to his feet to pace the room. "Lothering was a Chantry town. What would we have done if people turned on us? Slaughter our neighbors? Let them kill us? Let them turn us in to the first templars we came across?"

"You do not believe they would have simply been grateful for the aid?" Justice asked, for while the templars and their Circles were an injustice that they would soon move against, it still left him baffled that ordinary mortals could believe their propaganda so fully.

Jonah snorted. "Even if they accepted our help on the road, everyone lost everything. The bounty for turning in two apostates could buy the start of a new life once we reached Amaranthine, if they didn't do it to gain the Maker's favor first." A deep rage built in Justice and Anders both, separate and intertwined, that even in the face of a Blight, the so-called faithful would take the opportunity to deprive good and decent people of freedom. "So we waited. We stayed until we were sure everyone who was going to leave had left. We took a calculated risk, and we lost Beth."

Jonah's gaze went distant as he paused his story and his pacing, fingers running along the beaded bracelet he always wore. They now knew it to be a gift made by his sister in childhood, and their heart ached for his loss.

"I am sorry," Justice said, though it seemed inadequate for the sorrow in Jonah's eyes

"I'm furious, Justice," Jonah replied, pain and rage radiating from him as he came back to the moment. "I'm so angry. If we had been free to use our magic, we could have helped. We could have healed the old and the sick who stayed behind. We could have gone with a group and defended them. We could have fucking saved lives. And instead I watched my baby sister die."

Justice stood when Jonah's voice broke, moving to his side and touching his wrist that bore Beth's memento. He felt her echoes there, the love she felt for her big brother as she crafted it, the excitement upon presenting it to him. He sensed a kindness, a gentleness there, and not for the first time felt a profound regret that he never had the chance to meet her.

"I am sorry," he said again. "She deserved a better fate."

"She did," Jonah agreed softly. He swallowed hard and took a moment to regain his composure, calming with Justice's gentle caress along his wrist. He took a breath and met his eyes. "... Anders can hear me?"

"Yes."

"Good." Jonah took his free hand. "Listen to me. Riches, titles, I never wanted any of it. Mother, Carver, Beth… everyone I've done this for is gone." He glanced around the lavish room dismissively before looking back to Justice. "It's helped shield me, and you, and the work we do, but I don't need it. I've spent most of my life in hiding for the crime of magic. I'll do it again so no one else has to.

"You two didn't force me into anything," he told them firmly. His let go of Justice's hand and brought his own up to trace the Fadelight along his cheek. "When I met you, I was so angry it made me sick inside. You're the ones who made me believe it could be different. That there could be a world where Bethany could have lived."

Jonah rested his forehead against his, and a profound marriage of love and pride welled within him, from him and Anders both. They stood there, just breathing, just touching, just grateful.

"I know Anders is worried about what this will mean for me," Jonah murmured after untold moments. "The Chantry will say we killed innocents. Fuck them," he hissed fiercely. "They kill innocents everyday. Mages. Their families. I'm ready to fight back."

Justice loved him for it. Anders loved him for it. They loved him for everything he was. Passionate. Determined. Unwavering. They had never dared hope to find someone like him, who unapologetically told the world he was a free mage, who openly loved and lived with another, who dared to defy the Knight Commander to her face when she condemned all mages for the desperate actions of a few.

Who would help them force a revolution when all peaceful avenues were exhausted.

The world would change tomorrow. The Chantry would burn, and the Gallows would fall, and the battle for justice would begin in earnest.

Jonah kissed them, and when he pulled back they saw the same steady, fearless gaze he'd worn seven years ago, changed only by the addition of his love for them in return.

"I'm ready, love. I'm with you."

[teknicianwrites]

Happy Friday! For DADWC, I am craving more Morrigan and Kieran, "Shivering in a place where the Veil is thin"

Thank you for this!!!! I can't get enough of these two…

For @dadrunkwriting :

More snippets of Morrigan and Kieran in Serault.

Rating: G

-:-:-:-

There was no pause, no chance to catch their breaths.

One day it was late summer, air tinged sepia at all times. The distant buzzing of flies blanketed the Marquisate from dawn to dusk. Even as a bear, Morrigan rarely encountered such pests here, but she could hear their threat over her shoulder at all times.

Not flies, Mother, Kieran told her when she slammed her quill down and cursed the droning noise. The trees just have a lot to talk about.

Then they should grow mouths, like sylvans do, and stop their rattling! she'd responded dourly, but the trees—or rather, the Spirits within them, no doubt—did not heed her request.

One day it was late summer, air tinged sepia at all times with wildfires from across the distant Blasted Hills.

The night came and brought a frost that woke her from her dreams as surely as fingers on her neck. But it was not Halevune, returned from a mission; it was a breeze from an open window, where her son sat, shivering.

She pulled a fur from the foot of the bed and dragged it with her along the floor to his side, where she joined him on the wide lip of the windowsill. But Kieran did not move to take the offered warmth. His face remained turned upward to the red moon barely visible through the smoke. His hair had grown long in their time away, and it hung in a messy cascade over his brow and curtained his eyes from her.

Morrigan watched that profile in silence, for it lay around them thick and cold as a crypt. She shivered a little, too, despite herself. Sometimes, when they sat in silence like this—when he clearly communed with the things that watched from the Beyond—when they trespassed in places where the Veil was thin, she feared that he would turn his eyes upon her and there would be someone else looking back at her from behind his eyes. Would that creature, that being, be as much my son as this boy I know? she wondered once, but not now.

Now, she released her breath slowly, calmly, and waited.

"This place is like a waking dream," Kieran said in a shaky voice. "But I can't control anything like I can in the Fade."

He blinked slowly, lashes catching on his hair.

Morrigan tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips. "The Fade is not kind here," she told him soberly. "It comforts me some to know you cannot yet make it manifest while awake. But your control will come in time, my son."

Kieran shivered again, and this time he reached for the fur. She wrapped it around him and pulled him, thus bundled, into her arms. With her cheek upon his head and her thin, wiry arms banded across his back, she hoped to give him the anchor he needed to cast off his worries. But it would not be, she knew. He had borne these worries far longer than he should have—at a much younger age than he should have been aware. She supposed it was her curse, as well as her gift, for having raised him surrounded by so much magic.

"We have both seen the signs," she said gently across his brow. "They may seem fleeting to you, but I am sure of them."

Her son stirred in her arms, and she pulled back enough for him to turn his head and look up at her.

Morrigan's heart nearly stopped. The eyes that looked back at her were mirrors of her own—and her mother's. Overnight, Kieran's amber-brown eyes had become rings of burning, burnished gold. And while it was true that she had seen the signs of his developing magic for some time now, she had not quite been prepared for something so sudden or so…familiar.

She took one more breath and purged all thoughts of Flemeth from her mind. She would not allow this moment to be tainted with the very fear that had driven them so far from his father, and his friends.

"Look in the mirror, my love," she whispered. "You are a mage. 'Tis no mistake."

-:-:-:-

The night was cold, and a frozen morning followed.

And like that, winter was upon Serault.