dadrunkwriting

[dadrunkwriting]

something loosely inspired by the Rook Codex Prompts by @shivunin - it was an idea I had, but the format didn't come together for me until I saw this list. It also fills multiple possible prompts, but I didn't write it with any specific one in mind? So I'm just posting it like this asldgjlkdfh.

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 449 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers, a letter written before Tearstone Island, for Neve to deliver in the event of Arlow's death

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A letter written in Antivan, crumpled and smoothed out many times over. It is pinned to the library table by a dagger embossed with the sigil of House de Riva.

Viago, If you knew I was writing this, you’d slap me upside the head. But I’m writing it anyway, because you should hear it from me. It isn’t your fault. Whatever happened, if you’re reading this, it is not your fault I’m gone. And it’s not Lucanis’ either, so don’t blame him. I made my own choices. I hope they were the right ones, and that I’m not gone before the job was done. A Crow always finishes their contracts, right? I hope I didn’t let you down, in the end. (Here’s a break for you to yell at my ghost. Come back when you’ve calmed down.) You saved my life, you know? You didn’t have to. I know you would have made Talon, regardless. But you saved me—changed me, so much I don’t even know who I would have been otherwise. And I’m glad for that. I wouldn’t have wanted to be anyone other than who you made me. Yes, I mean that. Yes, I’m sure. Don’t argue with me when I’m not there to argue back. Just—believe me, for once. It doesn’t matter how it ended. We had a good run. A really good run. And despite it all, I wouldn’t have changed a thing, except maybe that I’d like to be hearing your lecture in real time right now. Wherever I am, I’m missing you. But don’t spend too much time missing me. The others need you—if the job isn’t done, help them. For my sake—a contract signed with my last breath. You help them save the world, and then you take Teia back to Treviso and you live. Have a really good cup of coffee; watch the sun rise over the canals. Keep going, because even when the world fell apart in my hands, you were the one thing that stayed the same. If there was anything I could leave this world knowing, it’s that that hasn’t changed. So. Keep living. For me? We’re not big on words, and I’ve already used up most of mine. But the seal on this letter wasn’t poisoned—as you undoubtedly tested—and that should tell you all you need to know. I love you, Viago. I’m sorry that I wasn’t good enough to make it back and tell you in person. But I always have. Thank you. For everything. -Arlow de Riva

The loopy signature is blotted with tears. Some smear the ink; others appear to have been left after the letter was opened.

[dadrunkwriting]

WELCOME! Happy Friday! "listening to the other’s heartbeat" for Solas/Varric, if you're inclined towards incredible pain like I am.

thank you!!! i am indeed inclined towards incredible pain, hence why i wrote this on my phone when i got an idea while trying to sleep

@dadrunkwriting - veilguard

this is primarily inquisition but dips into veilguard a bit, like the section of the beginning from the gameplay preview promo video

372 words, varric/solas, has some suggestive content

Solas' heartbeat is nothing special--it's the sound a heart makes, and all beings have hearts. But it's Solas' and the distinction is important; Varric doesn't go around pressing his ear to everyone's chest, and Solas doesn't simply allow anyone near his bare anything. Holding Solas in bed, arms wrapped around tight, is something special granted to Varric, and it's something he knows in his gut won't last forever.

"Varric?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you enjoy listening?"

"Shh, I think your ribcage is trying to tell me something..."

Solas chuckles, spins a lock of Varric's hair around his finger. "And what would that be?"

Varric hums. "That's going to be a secret."

"Are we keeping secrets now?"

Varric pats Solas' arm. "If you aren't keeping secrets from me now, then color me surprised."

He notes that Solas pauses, but his heart doesn't. Then Solas clears his throat. "When are we expected to meet with the Inquisitor?"

"Not until tomorrow. It's nighttime."

"So," Solas says, trailing his hand down Varric's side, under the covers, "we have time."

Varric wishes he could hear Solas' heart when he's flushed ruby red.

---

It's been many years since the last time Varric was close enough to touch Solas at all. His heartbeat sounded like anyone else's, but it was his, and Varric finds himself remembering it in the dark of the night when he tries to sleep during his hunt for Solas himself. The memory begins to fade, until Varric can't hear it anymore.

After so long, Varric is sure he never will again.

However, as he and his team move into Arlathan Forest, the beat rushes into his mind, drumming up sensations Varric thought were long gone. The chill of Solas' skin, the fine touch of his fingers, the soft words his spoke, the beating of his goddamn heart--all of it floods in, wrecking the dam Varric put up to keep it all at bay.

They get closer. Solas' heartbeat intensifies. It sounds like any other, but it's his. The hunt nears its end. 

Varric can hardly hear what he says to Rook before he turns a corner and finally, after so many years, he sees Solas, and he wonders if Solas can hear his heart, too.

[dadrunkwriting]

hi there and welcome!!! Gabriel Andras/Anders for "A kiss to the palm of the hand"?

ty for the prompt!! a little bit heavier than i intended to go but their insane pre-relationship awakening dynamic has been on my mind alas...

trigger warnings for blood, injury, unnamed templar npc deaths just barely offscreen (takes place right after anders' awakening quest)

words: 767 | @dadrunkwriting

The blood didn’t stop roaring in his ears, even after the last of the templars lay dead at their feet. His heart seemed unwilling to slow, and the feeling of imminent danger wouldn't quite let go of him.

It took a real effort not to flinch as the Warden Commander — Gabriel — took ahold of his hand, still bleeding sluggishly where he'd run out of mana to throw up a barrier and caught the blade of a templar's sword in his hand instead, felt it slice into his palm.

Felt the surge of power too, as he drew from that vital source to let frost travel up that blade and turn it brittle, encasing even its wielder as it reached outward.

It had been so easy, in the end, to become what they'd accused him of being. Maleficar. Blood mage.

It was fear more than pain that drew a shudder from him as Gabriel pulled off his glove.

The condemnation he expected to fall upon him failed to make an appearance, however, nothing more than simple concern in his voice as he asked, "Can't you heal it?"

Anders shook his head, tried to clear his throat when he couldn't manage the words on the first attempt.

"No, not like this. Blood magic's no good for healing yourself."

Gabriel's dark eyes remained fixed on his, unflinching in the face of what amounted to his confession. "Do you think you could handle another draught of lyrium now?"

He took a moment to consider it, taking stock of himself, before nodding.

Unbelievably, Gabriel produced one from his pocket without a hint of hesitation, presenting it to Anders and waiting patiently until he overcame the shock and took it with his free hand.

The taste was less unpleasant than he was accustomed too, diluted with a little elfroot, which only raised more questions. Had he bought it? Brewed it himself back at the keep? Since when had he started carrying lyrium with him?

It hadn't been his habit on that first night they met, this much Anders could be certain of. He still remembered that awful, raked across coals feeling that came with repeated mana exhaustion, slumped against the wall with two Orlesian Warden Commanders swimming across his vision as he asked whether he or the pretty recruit might have a bit of lyrium they could spare.

Focusing on drawing spirits nearer to heal the cut on his palm, at least, forced his mind away from those questions. It was deeper than he'd realised, until he recognised the feeling of muscle and tendon knitting together under his skin, grimacing at the feeling.

Gabriel’s hand held his own through it, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over his wrist until the wound was little more than an angry red scar bisecting his palm.

“Done,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Not exactly how I’d hoped things would go, but I’m not in a noose. It could be worse!”

Gabriel’s smile was wry as eyed the Templars whose bodies were being looted by Oghren as they spoke. “Yes, I believe your, hm, capabilties, caught them by surprise.”

Anders swallowed.

“I hadn’t,” he started, fumbling for the right words, eyes roving over the crates Sigrun had made her way over to as though they might be hiding them. Were there right words? Anywhere? “I mean, I wasn’t—”

“Anders.”

His eyes snapped back to Gabriel, whose gaze stayed fixed on Anders even as he raised their hands until he could press his lips to the newly healed wound on his palm. An Orlesian gesture, surely, yet Anders found himself struck mute by the intensity of his gaze, and the spot where a Anders’ blood seemed to have stained his lips.

“You are alive and you are free,” Gabriel insisted, as though these truths were important enough to him to excuse all the rest. “So long as this is true, you owe me no explanation.”

“If I’m dead or locked up, it might be hard to give you those explanations I owe,” Anders said, trying for levity even as his heart seemed to forget, again, that he was safe, pulse rabbit fast.

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “You should avoid this, I think, if you want to keep me from breaking into the Fade or a Chantry prison.”

If the disbelieving laugh that escaped Anders sounded a little like a sob, it couldn’t be held against him. When Oghren inevitably decided he wanted to be funny about all this, Anders planned to take this blanket permission as Gabriel's tacit approval for him to light his beard on fire.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday!How about "tripping, but being caught in the arms of the other" from your RomCom tropes for Emmrich x Rook?

it is time for barry to reveal himself. to be absolutely shit at comprehending his feelings. veilguard ahead! @dadrunkwriting

tell me there's a chance!

rating: m

words: 621

additional notes: referenced sex acts (not in detail), rook being terribly bad at feelings. barry uses he/him!

qReally, Barry should have been paying more attention. Everyone knows that in a foreign place, paying attention to your surroundings is paramount. A dwarven warrior should know that. A former Proving champion should know that. And, especially, a Grey Warden should know that.

Still, the Grand Necropolis is a place of wonder. The skeletons are very strange, after all they were once inside people and used to have tendons and blood vessels surrounding them. Their bones are very clean and a fine grey colour, no black or yellow discolouration. Many of them are digging tunnels, clearing away debris, and generally tending to the maintenance of the necropolis. A bit like the few working golems in Orzammar. But far more macabre. Oghren would shit his pants.

Bellara leads him through a few winding passageways, and spies a well-dressed skeleton. Well, compared to the other working skeletons at least. A hardy pair of goggles, a well-worn leather backpack and a waterskin tucked in his ribcage. The care and attention to that skeleton is actually kind of adorable. Like a freaky little cat.

He misses whatever Bellara says, and immediately trips over something. Barry didn't quite have time to see what caused him to trip. Instead, he careens into a broad chest, hidden behind fine fabrics. A green velvet waistcoat adorns a pin-tucked shirt with two rows of pearly buttons now pressing into the dwarf's cheek. A thick leather coat presses in on either side of his face as lithe arms wrap around his body.

Truly, a phenomenal entrance. "Are you alright?" asks the smoothest Nevarran voice He's ever heard. Right. Not a problem. Just a nice voice.

He leans back and finally gets a decent eyeful of the man who caught him and bronto shit. In that moment, Barry Thorne learns a few new things about him. First, he is a sucker for a refined sounding voice. His previous two wives spoke like filthy dusters. At the time, that was what he wanted. A strong woman who knew how to make even a proud warrior like him feel small. This man, whoever he is, presents him with a new experience. He hopes he gets to hear more of that voice.

Second, he learns he likes men. He always knew it was a possibility that his preferences might change. His second wife didn't need any gadgets to peg him, she had her own prick to use on him. Never bothered him much. After joining the Legion and then the Grey Wardens? Not much attraction at all. But looking at this fine specimen reminds him of more youthful days, when he brought home plenty of women after winning a Proving match. The longing he felt for this spindly man is as intense a passion as he had twenty years prior.

The third is that he doesn't know how to react to this. Hello? After so many years of accepting that he is dead to Orzammar and quite literally dying to the Blight in his veins, Thorne figured there would never be time for anything more. Or finding someone who would willingly help him tend to his needs at 53. He knows he's gone through the wringer. He doesn't keep up with his grooming as he should. Paragons know he hasn't-

"Rook?" asks Bellara interrupting his thoughts.

"Nothing stops this old dwarf," Barry responds with a half smile to the girl.

The fourth thing he realises is that the man he tripped into is looking at him with concern. Rook properly introduces himself, and shakes the necromancer's hand.

"Professor Emmrich Volkarin, of the Mourn Watch," the mage chirps.

The fifth thing hits Barry harder than he can swing his hammer: there might actually be a chance.

[dadrunkwriting]

"Dust floating in golden sunlight" for Solas and Cassandra?

They're in love.

For @dadrunkwriting, some DAI-era Solas x Cassandra with some slight suggestive themes and casual nudity.

asha'dirthar: she who seeks after wisdom

~~~

In her modest quarters above the blacksmith’s forge, Cassandra Pentaghast sat at the window, a hand mirror propped against the jamb. She hunched, undressed and with the posture of a person utterly at home, peering at her reflection as she carefully braided the long lock of hair at the nape of her neck. 

Solas, similarly naked and at home, laid on her unmade bed and watched. 

Dust motes hung in the dawning light of day, suspended in time around Cassandra’s muscled frame — they swirled in a sudden shift of the air as the Seeker’s hand passed through them, quickly plaiting a strand of hair and replacing the one she held between her lips. Her method was quick and sure, one born of habit. 

Her bent back exposed the bumps of her spine only between her lower ribs. The rest of her was made of muscle upon generous flesh upon more muscle — her shoulders bunched and worked, as did her arms as she braided. The two valleys of strength in the small of her back, Solas noted with fierce pride, were covered with dark marks, kissed there with a biting mouth. His mouth. 

The trail wrapped around her waist, along with a few reddened stripes, as if from grasping nails. More kisses marked where her belly folded. More on the underside of her breast. One still glistened in the new light of day — love so recently placed on her neck that it had not had the chance to dry. 

“I feel your eyes,” Cassandra chuckled dryly. She wrapped the end of her braid with a strand of waxed thread. “Haven’t you consumed me enough?”

I have not, he thought, sure that he was just shy of starvation. 

“Come here, asha’dirthar,” he said, reaching out a hand. 

The warrior’s burden she carried dropped away as she tossed the finished braid over her shoulder —  instead, a girlish giddiness took over in her scarred smile, in the way she hurried back to bed, in the way she kissed him again with a giggle at the back of her throat.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday. ❝ i begged for a miracle. instead, i got you. ❞ could be fun or sad, maybe for Dorian and Baz? or whoever you think fits it best.

they're disgustingly in love, your honour!! i just think that dorian would have a complex about proving himself a more competent lover and father than both baz's former wife and halward pavus. also, grown men deserve to be horny like teenagers as a treat. @dadrunkwriting

to sleep or not to sleep?

rating: m

words: 500

additional notes: horny middle-aged men. a bit of poking fun at the chantry.

"A night to ourselves Dorian. Whatever shall we do?" Baz teased, rubbing his nose against Dorian's. He let his breath carry over the Tevinter's lips, smiling as it disturbed his groomed moustache.

A cheeky smile crossed his face as he marched him up against a wall. Dorian leaned in close to kiss Baz. The Inquisitor's eyes fluttered shut, waiting for a kiss that never came. Instead the asshole whispered in his ear, "Get a good night's sleep. I don't know how you put up with Tavish throughout the night, then go frolicking about Thedas."

"You get used to it," he replied, closing the distance between them to peck Dorian's lips. "In a few years, you'll be wishing Tavish was back in the cradle. Look away for a moment and he'll be setting fire to the curtains."

Dorian trailed a few kisses down his partner's cheek until his face was buried in the hollow of his neck. "I won't be sorry when I have you all to myself," he grumbled, his hands looking for a way under Baz's formal wear.

He couldn't help but laugh. Baz missed eager sex, longing touches, and feeling absolutely besotted. "Mmm. You get to explain to Flick why he walked in on us 'wrestling naked.' I'm afraid Andrea and I blinded poor Eleanor while we were busy making Lucian," he teased. His last sentence was broken by a whimper as Dorian found a particularly sensitive spot on his neck.

However, the lovely sensations paused as the Tevinter man cornering him stared at him incredulously. "How did she walk in?" he blanched. His gaze travelled quickly to the door, suddenly very uncertain as to whether the door was locked.

"She picked the lock," Baz answered nonchalantly. "Besides, I'm sure no one is coming by til morning. I swear half of Skyhold knows you're in here tonight."

Dorian snorted. "Well, Father Basileus, Herald of Andraste and the Divine Inquisitor. I hope they know that an 'evil Tevinter magister' is defiling your Golden City tonight," he declared before pressing closer to Baz.

"What can I say?" he laughed. "I begged the Maker for a miracle after the Divine Conclave. Instead I got this really cocksure Tevinter mage."

As Dorian led Baz to the bed, crawling on top of him, he grumbled, "The real miracle is your kids haven't driven me mad. I almost think of the littles as my own now, you horrible, horrible man." Dorian summoned small parts of the Fade to restrain Baz as he started to strip him naked.

"Wrong. The real miracle was the first time - fuck - the first time you had me come untouched. I'm not the same," Baz groaned, trying to use his legs to pull Dorian down for a kiss.

Pavus obliged him, just the once. "As fun as talking about my prowess in bed is, I'd like to get on to the good bits now," he growled, smirking as Baz wiggled beneath him.

They had a long night ahead of them.

[dadrunkwriting]

Oooooo WELCOME TO DADWC! Can I get Nelaros/Tabris “A tentative kiss”? :>

ty for the prompt!! a little post-wedding moment for chaya/nelaros here (around ~10 years prior to the the events of the city elf origin bc this is a double tabris worldstate!!)

warnings for some mentions of offscreen canon-typical racialised violence & character death (adaia tabris), pre and post-wedding jitters

words: 611 | @dadrunkwriting

As the door closed between them and the drunken festivities just outside their new home, the anxiety she'd somehow kept at bay all through the ceremonies seemed to creep back up on Chaya.

Leaning back against the door to look up at Nelaros — her husband, Maker, it still made her head spin even to think it — it was a relief to find him looking back at her with a nervous smile on his own lips.

“Was it anything like you expected?” he asked, and she couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head.

It couldn't have been farther from it.

The truth was that she had expected to feel sick to her stomach with dread. She had expected to call in a favour from someone, anyone to stage a distraction so she might find an opening to run away.

To the docks or to the Dalish, it didn't matter. Anywhere would do, so long as it was away from this marriage.

In the end, she hadn't been able to bring herself to even try it. There was so much joy, just outside their door. An uninhibited, foolish joy she couldn't remember seeing in anyone's faces in months, since the disappearances had started stacking up, her own mother's the last in a line of them.

Relief had come to Chaya in the form of a dagger retrieved from filthy hands and bathed in blood, but it had been short lived, paid back with elven blood spilled in the streets.

She knew of no one less fit for love, less fit for motherhood, but in the face of the happiness that seemed to overflow in the streets and alleyways as they passed through to receive the alienage’s blessings, her fears had seemed so small. A shard of glass in the face of a river's rushing current, edges worn down into something something softer, more suited to being strung onto a necklace than drawing blood.

And so she stayed, looked into her betrothed’s clear blue eyes and spoke her vows.

Even now it feels less like a mistake than it should, looking into those same eyes in the dim firelight.

“I don't know if I'll make you happy,” she admits, glancing down at the new, golden band adorning her finger, “but I promise I’ll always try to do right by you.”

Here in the quiet of the home that will be theirs for years to come, it’s a far truer vow than any of the words she’d spoken before the Chantry Sister who presided over their ceremony.

Her breath catches in her lungs as Nelaros takes her hand in his own.

“It’s enough,” he promised, nothing but warm certainty in his eyes as though he had any idea how he might feel in another year, in ten.

He knew her no more than she knew him, yet he insisted on believing the best of her. She couldn’t help but find it a little foolish, and yet she was hopelessly endeared by it all the same.

For how little distance remained between them, it still took an awful lot of courage to close it. A kiss had never felt like a promise, the way it seemed to with now, a mere brush of her lips against his own as damning and reverent as any of their vows.

If the holler rising up just outside was any indication, some idiots had been peering in the window, waiting for just that before pouring another round of drinks.

She rolled her eyes, more fond than irritated despite herself as she pulled her husband along by his arm, deeper into the house so they might rid themselves of their audience.

[dadrunkwriting]

thanks tumblr I finally come back to @dadrunkwriting and you immediately eat this ask from @theluckywizard. But I just banged out this beauty so I'm posting it anyway!

In which Meira meets Hawke and Varric.

WC: 1449 and I didn't proofread this at all. GREAT TO BE BACK

---

Meira could never sleep well on dry land. Without the gentle sway of the sea beneath her and the crashing sound of waves, the smell of salt, she felt as though she’d run afoul of something deep and primeval. 

And the Grand Cathedral barracks were quiet. Far quieter than she ever would have expected upon her arrival, staring with huge eyes as Chantry mothers and sisters and brothers ran past in the long marble halls. By day, it was full of penitents from Val Royeaux and beyond, and tourists as well, here to see the eternal flame of Andraste burn bright, or maybe just brag to their friends back home that they’d caught a glimpse of Divine Victoria. By night, it emptied out, and the corridors became black echoing holes, wall sconces extinguished, and grew colder than the air outside. 

Meira had a bunkmate, Cecily from Ferelden, who was fine if you please and all that, but the girl had a snobbery to her Meira didn’t like. Her parents had both been Inquisition soldiers, she said proudly; her little sister was even born at Skyhold and the Herald of Andraste had held her in her swaddling clothes. (Meira doubted that last part; by all accounts, the Herald of Andraste had been busy.) 

So while Cecily slept on the bottom bunk and the quiet pounded in her ears, Meira got up and put on her trousers and a loose tunic and went out to wander the halls. 

What she wanted was to find the harbor. She’d sailed into Val Royeaux on the high tide with her father’s retinue a week ago and a finer sight had scarcely been seen, the calm water reflecting the lovely painted buildings, all bright whites and blues. You’d hardly think the world was falling to ruin around them, not here, not in the seat of Orlesian and Chantry power. 

But the Grand Cathedral was worse than a labyrinth, or at least what she pictured a labyrinth to be, never having had the pleasure herself. And she wasn’t quite sure if she was even supposed to leave, her orientation just half done, conducted in back rooms and under the guise of continuing Chantry education for the hopefuls of tomorrow, something like that. She certainly wasn’t supposed to say what she was really doing here — learning, training, being sorted into groups, to fight a war no one was allowed to name. 

So Meira wandered, feeling lost. Like maybe she was in a labyrinth after all, but there was no minotaur to chase her, she hoped. Old Tevinter legend, her father’s bosun had told her as a wee child. He’d been Soporati but the prospects for non-mages in the Imperium had been grim, so he’d taken to the high seas. At least back then. Now the prospects for everyone in the Imperium were grim, something that clutched at Meira’s heart even though it was far away. Her father had made port a hundred, a thousand times in Tevinter in the old days. She recalled the docks alive with slaves and freemen and even spotted a Magister now and then, all in their decadent finery. Closed now, or burning, or being forced to learn the ugly letters of the Qun. The minotaur, girl, who do you think he was? A horned beast, o’ course, and savage, just like the lot of them. 

Things were simpler when the Inquisition had been around, and that’s why Meira was here. Mistakes must be corrected. They had gone too long idle; the heroes must march and all that. But her father’s cough had been worse this season and the grey in his beard impossible to ignore. And so she was here, finally. Like a wish on a falling star come true. 

She couldn’t find the exit, and even so the Divine guard were still on patrol, and she had to sneak past them so she didn’t have to say what she was (or wasn’t, as it were) doing. 

She ducked through a doorway to avoid a close encounter and closed the heavy door behind her, silent, nary a click. She was pleased with herself — maybe she’d be good enough for the scouts — but then the room distracted her. Fully lit with braziers and candles, a rotunda of white plaster, painted with murals of old Andraste — old old, like before the Towers Age at least, maybe, she thought. She loved the icons of the Maker’s bride, in Nevarra they were everywhere, along with her venerated servants, statues raised high of Pentaghasts of ages past, and saints no one has heard of, and of course the Herald. Saint Thalia Trevelyan, they called her back home, though the title was a matter of some debate elsewhere, given that she was still alive. But who else had gone to the Fade not once but twice, and saved the world from a would-be god, and repelled the Qunari invaders, and freed the mages? Meira thought the rest a technicality. 

Despite the murals, the room felt disused — furniture was covered with white sheets and one end was home to stacked crates and barrels, put there as if an afterthought. Meira thought to stay and inspect the murals some more, but two sets of heavy footsteps came from beyond the door, along with muffled voices and she panicked, truth be told, and leapt behind the crates to hide. 

The door open, and the footsteps came inside. Two men, from the sound of them, mid-conversation. 

“—where she say it was?” said the first man, an accent she struggled to place. And Meira prided herself on placing accents, because she had heard so many in her young years, sailing. Marcher, maybe, but weird. Dwarven? Yes, probably Dwarven. 

“Supposedly. Or perhaps one of the other lesser towers.” Another man, Fereldan definitely, but also slightly affected by the Free Marches. “How many towers does one Cathedral need?” 

“When you’re the Divine? Infinite, probably.” The sound of sheets pulled from furniture. “Ah, here it is. Shit, would you believe the map’s still on it?” 

“Slightly out of date.” The Fereldan man’s voice sounded sour. 

“Cheery as always, Hawke. Now help me move the damn thing.” 

The two men began to groan with effort as something heavy was dragged across the floor, but Meira had gone both numb and tingly at the same time, somehow.

It couldn’t be. Maker, no. She was absolutely still in her bed right now, dreaming this. 

Hardly able to breathe, Meira clutched the edge of a crate and peered beyond it. One man was hugely tall, dark hair peppered with grey, a beard. The other was a dwarf all right, with a fancy samite tunic and embroidered coat. And they were dragging a long, large table to the center of the room. 

The Champion and Viscount Varric Tethras of Kirkwall. It had to be. 

“Did Leliana say what exactly she plans to do with this thing?” asked Garrett Hawke, teeth gritted. 

“Aside from replace the map with something more accurate? Nope.” Varric paused, panting, leaning against the edge of the table for support. “But I gathered we’re about to unleash the dark side of human nature.” 

They had, by now, gotten the table to the center of the room. And yes, there was a faded map on top, with a dagger stuck right in the middle. And Meira, having read All This Shit is Weird from cover to cover multiple times, was finally beginning to understand. 

“Maker’s breath, I need a drink.” Varric wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “I’m getting too old for this shit, Hawke.” 

“Aren’t we both.” The tall man — Hawke, that Hawke — put a sympathetic hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “But there’s a lot of fight left in some of them. Lady Thalia especially.” 

“Girl never knew when to stop fighting,” Varric muttered under his breath. “Check those barrels over there, will you? I think we’re lucky. I’d know a cask of ale from Orzammar anywhere.” 

Meira realized, too late, he meant the exact stack behind which she was hiding. Hawke swaggered forward on long, long legs, and gripped a barrel directly to her right. She tried to pivot out of the way, but he was too fast, or she was too clumsy, or a little bit of both — and when he pulled the barrel free, Meira went flying, arse over teakettle, as her father would say, sprawled at the feet of two of the most important men in Thedas. 

She panted, flat on her back, her dark hair haloing her head, as they gazed down at her with bemused curiosity. 

“Hello,” Meira said brightly, waving like a proper idiot. “I’m a huge fan.” 

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday! I'd love to see your Gavin Cousland and Nathaniel for this prompt from the sensory prompts: "40. A lingering sour aftertaste."

thanks for the prompt!! first thing that came to mind was a little bit of post-joining introspection from nate. not much as far as romance goes here, however. they get off to a hell of a rough start 🥲

words: 466 | @dadrunkwriting

If he closed his eyes, let the familiar sounds and smells of the Vigil crowd in his senses, he could almost convince himself that nothing had really changed. That when he next opened his eyes, he could seek out Thomas or Delilah to sneak into the pantry for a quick bite after hours, catch up on all he'd missed while he was in the Marches.

Almost, but not quite.

It was the sour aftertaste of the darkspawn blood that killed the illusion before it had any real chance to take root, incontrovertible proof that everything had changed now, and Nathaniel too.

Rotten blood, the lot of them, the barkeep at the Crown had spat out, when he asked after his family. The arl's father sided with those damned Orlesians during the rebellion too, you know?

As if all the good his father had done, all the blood he'd spilled for Ferelden meant nothing.

Whatever the truth of the war had been, the Wardens had seen to it that the gossips would have the right of it when it came to Nathaniel at least. Rotten blood in his veins, and the taste of it lingering on the back of his tongue. Conscripted by a man who he could hardly recognise, who wouldn't even meet his eyes.

Cousland — and it was Cousland now or Warden Commander, Gavin was as good as a stranger to him after all these years — was deep in conversation with the seneschal at the far end of the hall.

There had been a moment where that distance had seemed to close, a warm hand and a sure grip pulling him to his feet as he tried to shake off the disorientation from the savage dreams that seemed to come with the Joining. It had almost seemed like he wanted to say something, then. As a commander, if not as an old friend.

Whatever it might have been, Cousland had seemed to think better of it, his eyes growing cold again as he turned away and called over a servant to find him some armour.

He hadn't so much as glanced in Nathaniel's direction since.

Should've hanged me if you couldn't stand to look at me, he thought, the bitterness surfacing in his mind even as he tried to retreat behind a cool, professional mask like Cousland seemed to have settled on.

He couldn't fathom what kind of revenge Cousland imagined he would be getting out of conscripting him that he couldn't gain by simply taking his life as his own arling’s justice would’ve demanded. He was resolved not give him the satisfaction of thinking that the prospect of this phased him in least.

Do your worst. Us rotten-blooded Howes can take a great deal. You’ll be the one to regret it, in the end.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday! "I love this." "What?" "Us." for Davrin/Thorne, and Taash if you like.

ok so this one is kind of loosey goosey, but I like it. a Veilguard ficlet for @dadrunkwriting

"This is nice." Osla snuggled into Davrin's side, careful not to stab him with her horns. They were laid out on the grass, admiring the stars as a symphony of crickets serenaded them from all around. Assan was sound asleep and sprawled out on his back, his legs all going in different directions.

Davrin made a low noise of assent as his fingers traced little shapes into the small of her back. Their tent was ready for them nearby, but it was such a nice night out...would it be so bad to sleep under the stars?

Honestly, Osla thought she might be able to fall asleep anywhere if Davrin was with her. She felt so warm, so safe--

"Hey, check out these lightning bugs!" Taash flopped onto the grass beside them and held out their cupped hands. Within, half a dozen flickering insects crawled across their palms. "I've never seen 'em this big before!"

Osla grinned as she felt Davrin's chest rise and fall in an exasperated sigh. "Did you have any luck with the firewood?" "With the--? Shit, I knew I was forgetting something!" Carefully, Taash released the bugs into the grass and set off once more.

"Thank you for letting me invite them," Osla whispered, then kissed Davrin's jaw.

"It feels just like home," he answered with a smirk.

[dadrunkwriting]

happy friday! i think it'd be fun to see the hawke siblings for "aw, did you miss me?", maybe for a holiday family thing?

Whoops, this one went a little more angst than fluff, but OH WELL

For @dadrunkwriting!

Words: 1104 Rating: G

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Winter in Kirkwall was always a milder affair than winter in Ferelden, and this year was even warmer than most. Or, at least, it seemed that way. Cal was willing to chalk that up to the stark contrast of having just returned to Kirkwall after spending the better part of five years in the south. In truth, they had never really planned to return to Kirkwall. The city they’d come to call home after the Blight was, well, a terrible place to live, and full of bad memories to boot—but the Inquisition had changed things. The Inquisition had treated its mages as equals rather than as prisoners or things to be feared. The new Divine, too—one more sympathetic to the plight of mages—had abolished the Circles once and (hopefully) for all.

Kirkwall was not a safe city to be a mage, but it was safer than it had been, and that was good enough that when Varric asked them to return, Cal had agreed. They had arrived in Kirkwall just before winter started to take hold of the Waking Sea, and both Varric and Merrill had greeted them at the docks. It was almost like old times.

Almost.

Anders had declined to join them right away; he was in Amaranthine for the first time since he’d fled the Wardens, and planned to stay there while Cal got a sense of whether or not the people of Kirkwall still wanted him dead. Fenris, on the other hand, had gone north months ago with the intention of finding and killing anyone who might still be able to make a claim for the Danarius name. Cal would have gladly gone with him, if not for the fact that he’d asked them not to.

Isabela had left Kirkwall, too, and though they had crossed paths at Skyhold, Cal did not expect her to ever return. She had a ship again, and a crew—what use did she have for Kirkwall? Sebastian had long since returned to Starkhaven. Carver was with the Wardens; the last Cal had heard from him, he’d been on the road to Weisshaupt. Bethany had stayed in Ferelden, having adopted a small cadre of kids just starting to come into their magic who needed guidance and training.

But Varric had returned to Kirkwall. Merrill and Aveline had never left. That was… enough, Cal supposed.

In the first few days after their return to Kirkwall, Cal was busy. Hiring new staff for the manor—if only so the estate didn’t feel so empty—and getting reacquainted with their neighbors filled much of their time. They wrote a letter to Carver, on the off chance that it might actually reach him. Wrote another to Anders, tucked inside a separate letter for Warden-Constable Nathaniel Howe. They spent time with Merrill in the alienage, visited both Varric and Aveline at the Keep—the idea of Varric being Viscount was still so strange and yet right—and on one particularly restless evening, Cal walked the city streets on four paws like they’d once done so often.

They settled into a new routine, and the weeks began to blur together. Before Cal knew it, First Day was upon them. It was not quite the grand event in Kirkwall that it was in Ferelden, but Cal had nonetheless received at least a dozen invitations for dinner and entertainment from the noble families of Kirkwall. Though they appreciated the gesture—and recognized the societal risk of their decision—Cal politely declined each and every invite. First Day was a day of celebrating the past year, and they hadn’t been in Kirkwall for the overwhelming majority of the year. It seemed… wrong.

Then, sometime around midday, the young doorman Cal had hired dashed into the library to find them. “Excuse me, serah,” he said, rushed. “There’s a Grey Warden and a woman at the door. They claim to be family?”

For a few seconds, Cal stared blankly at him. That was simply impossible. Their siblings couldn’t possibly have both come to Kirkwall just for a minor holiday. Then, finally, they got to their feet and said, “They are. Invite them in, please.”

Evidently startled, the doorman hesitated for a moment before bobbing his head and turning on his heel to dart back to the front door. Cal watched him go, still bemused, and ran a hand through their hair in a wan attempt to make themself more presentable. A silly concern, really, when one’s guests were your younger siblings, yet they still felt compelled to do it. By the time Cal emerged into the front hall, as presentable as they were ever going to get without a bath and a change of clothes, both of their siblings were standing in the middle of the room. Bethany shot them a small, tired smile—traveling from Ferelden to Kirkwall was no small endeavor, after all—but Carver was busy looking around, studying the room. Distantly, Cal remembered that while Bethany had spent a year or two living in the estate, Carver had never gotten the chance. Aside from breaking into the basement, had he ever actually seen it? They couldn’t recall.

“Happy First Day, Cal,” Bethany said warmly as they approached, stopping just a few steps away from the twins. “Sorry for not warning you we were coming—someone insisted on it being a surprise,” she continued, none-too-subtly elbowing Carver in the ribs as she spoke.

Though he still wore the blues and grays of the Wardens, he wasn’t in full plate, and as such got the full force of her elbow. Muttering a curse as his attention was yanked back to the middle of the room, Carver finally met Cal’s eyes and shot them a shit-eating grin. “Yeah. Surprise!”

Part of them was pleasantly surprised. Another part was suddenly grappling with the realization of how lonely they were, living more or less alone in an estate that had been built to house an entire family, serving staff, and guests. Torn between the two emotions, all Cal could do was fight back a sudden influx of tears.

Ever the observant, empathetic one, Bethany noticed first. She immediately moved to wrap Cal in a tight hug, and murmured into their ear, “I figured you might need some company. Guess I was right, huh?”

A half-sob, half-laugh burst from their chest. “Yeah. Little bit,” they managed to get out.

“Aw,” Carver joked, “did you miss me?”

Cal lifted their head from Bethany’s shoulder just long enough to glare at him and retort, “I will not dignify that with an answer.”

Carver only cackled.

Finally, almost two months after returning to Kirkwall, Cal felt like they were home again.

[dadrunkwriting]

welcome to DADWC!! for Medea and Dorian, how about: “Don’t worry. Everybody’s afraid of something.” “Even you?” “No.”

*finger guns* Nice to be here, hope I don't disappoint.

470 words @dadrunkwriting

She was basically growling at this point, glowering at the Tevintar mage who looked back at her coolly.

"My, my, is the Inquisitor quivering in her boots? The same woman who, let me see- ah yes, decided let's just jump down in the dragon's nest? 'It will be fine, Dorian' she says. 'The dragon should be asleep.' she promises. And what happened? My favorite tunic is all but ash now. Wonderful."

"I'm not getting on that horse. You have to drag me and we both know those muscles are for show," Medea said through gritted teeth. Dorian put a hand on his chest in feint offense.

"No need to attack my looks, my dear friend. We both know its a service I'm providing our little group. Now, please just get out of the stable and on the damn horse?" Medea stayed quiet but her anger did not seem to subside, judging by how hard she was tapping her crossed arms. Dorian leaned against the open door way of the stable room.

He knew about her distaste for equestrians, it was one of the first few things their peers ever even told him. Something about a traumatic encounter with them that left her stiff and frozen on sight.

"Are you really that afraid of the thing?" Dorian asked quietly. Medea snapped back, "You want a stupid answer for your stupid question?" Dorian blinked slowly, his patience wearing a bit thin.

"Of course, take it out on me." Medea widened her eyes.

"I-I'm sorry, Dorian. That was unfair of me." Medea sighed as her cheeks flushed with guilt under her vallaslin. Dorian crossed his arms and let out a bark of a laugh, easing the tension in the air.

"Look, don't you worry. Everyone has something they fear. Yours is just a large dumb beast we ride." Medea snorted.

"Oh, I'm sure you are an expert on that." "Hush you, I'm being a good friend."

Medea gave him a appreciative look, her arms now fallen to her sides, though her fingers still tapped her thigh with a soft rhythm. She tilted her head curiously.

"What about you?" Dorian knew what she was asking but didn't know what to answer. He could go with the simple answer- Fereldan fashion. Not too honest, but not too revealing. Or maybe he should be honest, tell her how much he feared the power at their finger tips, how easy it was to lose control and indulge in the magic. Medea, of all people, would understand. She always did.

"No," Dorian lied with a cocksure grin that he was sure an observant Medea took noticed. Well, if she did, she didn't say anything. She just looked, nodded, and sighed.

"I'm still not getting on the horse." Dorian rolled his eyes. Naturally

[dadrunkwriting]

varric/solas is so intriguing, so “All my choices lead me to you.” for them?

i started an angsty fill for this but i lost my way and came around to this. unfortunately not very heavy on the varric/solas but it IS about them

apologies for any weird spacing, i'm doing this on mobile

@dadrunkwriting - veilguard

687 words, pre-veilguard, varric & fig (rook)

"All my choices lead me to him, Rook," Varric laments, eyes his mug of beer with a contemplative stare, "every last damn one of them since he disappeared."

Fig sighs through his nostrils, mouth pulled into a tight line. Varric doesn't often talk about his personal relationship with Solas, and when he does Fig comes up dry on what to say. What do you say to a man who's lost a good friend and has to hunt him down into his older years? Fig hasn't the slightest clue on what to be sincere about.

"Well, surely not everything," Fig says, cracking a smile. He taps his mug against Varric's. "Like this, right?"

Varric hardly smirks, but he does lift his mug to bump back against Fig's. "Technicalities, kid. It's all the big decisions, you know? It's not like anyone's making them for me these days."

Varric takes a deep swig and Fig sips, the vagueness of Varric lingering on his mind.

Fig clears his throat. "When we find him...what are you going to say to him? I don't think a "hi nice weather we're having" is in the cards," he says and smiles when Varric laughs. "But you know him better than I do."

"Sometimes I wonder if I ever knew him at all," Varric says, coming down from his bout of laughter. He sighs, gets that far away stare into his beer back. "Hey, kid. You ever...nah, never mind."

"No, no, what is it?" Fig insists. "If I can help you I will."

Varric appears tired, suddenly, in a way Fig can't quite place. "My lips are a little loose, so don't remember any of what I'm about to ask."

Fig grins. "No promises. But I can keep it between us."

"Figures. Alright. You ever been in love?"

Fig's mouth twists to the side and his brow furrows. Weird question. "Uh..."

"See! Forget it. I--"

"No! Let me just...think for a bit."

Fig runs past relationships through his mind, thumbing through memories, digging into the few he's had. Sure, he liked past partners, but being in love?

"Can't say I've been in love," Fig admits, shrugging, "at least not deeply or anything. My relationships aren't made to last."

Varric nods. "Looks like we have another thing in common."

"We do? Kind of a sad thing to have."

"Worse if you had an elven god as your ex."

As Varric downs the rest of his beer, Fig gawks at him. "Are you serious?"

Varric brings down his mug with a loud bang. "I think that's all for tonight," he says quickly, "let's get back to the inn and forget about all this."

Fig puts his hand on Varric's arm when Varric tries to get up. "No way. Come on, Varric, you can't just drop that on me and leave."

Varric groans and falls back into his chair, slumping back against it. "I'm not telling you a damn thing."

"You're still going to stop him, though, right?"

A pause between them is louder than the ruckus of the bar's patrons.

Varric rubs his eyes. "Yeah, Rook. Yeah. I've got to stop him."

Fig squeezes Varric's arm. "It's gotta be hard for you, right? I know that much about caring about someone."

"I wish it wasn't."

"Yeah, I bet." Fig pats Varric's arm and sits back in his chair. "So, uh...good kisser?"

Varric chuckles. "Let's not get into the gorey details."

"You know what? You're right. Don't want to know if one of my gods was good at making out."

"I will tell you he's an ass man, though."

Fig sticks his tongue out with a childish, "Blegh!" and Varric laughs, full-bodied and louder than Fig's heard before. For the rest of the night Fig puts Solas out of his mind, choosing to enjoy the drunken night with a good friend. Varric, on the other hand, finds himself lost in the past during lulls in conversation.

Varric considers himself lucky Solas left him with nothing to hold onto, not physically, but perhaps the weight in his chest he can never drink into numbness is worse.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday! “ thank you, but i’ll be alright. ” for Carver/Cullen? I haven't seen anything for this ship before and I am Intrigued.

and they were coworkers! cullen is just a bit overworked, yeah? he needs a break. @dadrunkwriting

a kiss, ser?

rating: t

words: 373

additional notes: grey warden!Carver, at some point in skyhold in inquisition.

Cullen wasn't sleeping. Half of his soldiers knew it. They entered his offices quietly, talked back less, and frankly Carver missed falling asleep together.

After the events earlier in the day, however, he kindly informed the Inquisitor that he was taking Cullen on a much needed break and that Rylen would be able to handle things in the interim.

It started with a soldier's complaint. He hadn't meant to hear it, but they were talking quite loudly in the tavern. It sounded like Cullen lost his temper with one of the scouts and tore up their report, asking for a better one. Knowing Cullen as he did, he knew that something was off. He only got this irritable when the lyrium withdrawals were terrible.

So he decided to take a detour to the commander's office to see if he needed anything.

His knock at the door wasn't answered. Nor did the commander look up as he entered. The withdrawals must really be bad. Carver watched him for a few minutes, as he struggled through the shaking of his hands to pen some orders.

When he sat back after completing the message, he finally realised Carver was there. Though, perhaps he didn't see Carver. "Ah, good. I just finished this missive. Please take it to the Rookery for the Spymaster to deliver," he ordered, sticking the paper out for him to take.

That wouldn't do. "I came to see if you would like a kiss, ser?" Carver teased, leaning across the commander's desk.

"Thank you, but I'll be alright. Dismissed,“ Cullen responded. Oh, it was bad.

Carver took the missive, and then turned to lock the doors. Once he did that, he returned to Cullen's desk and inserted himself between the commander and his work.

"I must insist, ser. I'd quite like a kiss and I think you'd like a break," he said, cupping Cullen's chin with his hand. When their eyes made contact, it was as if a spell had broken over him.

Cullen immediately stood and breathed, "Carver. Maker's breath, I didn't notice you." The Grey Warden pulled him in for a kiss.

"Good to see you too," he smiled into the kiss, letting their lips move languidly for a few moments.

[dadrunkwriting]

hello, happy dadwc! for a prompt, from the eerie autumn prompts, may I submit: (Lost souls) Wispy clouds over a full moon

I wasn’t sure if I should write anything Veilguard related because I hadn’t had the chance to play the game yet, but now that I’ve gotten started I just have to dig into my Rook’s backstory! So here it is for @dadrunkwriting ! Obligatory Veilguard Spoilers Warning.

It was a dark and stormy night. That was how a horror story began, was it not? She ought to bow to traditional methodology and nomenclature when working in unknown fields, and creative writing was not her expertise.

She didn’t quite know what she was an expert in anymore.

Elena Ingellvar, formerly of the Mourn Watch, peered out of the grime-covered window of the dingy tavern in a backwater Free Marcher town located just across the Nevarran border. It was neither dark nor stormy outside, though it was night. The full moon hung low and luminous in the inky blue-black sky with barely a wisp of grey cloud to block its silver light. The scene was almost… Elena could not think of a proper word to describe it. Enchanting, perhaps? Romantic? It could be, had circumstances differed. But the moonlight was cold and harsh, and she was not eagerly awaiting a lover to darken her threshold or whatever romantic wash the Randy Dowager wrote about in her serials. Elena pressed her forehead against the windowpane and sighed heavily. Fog formed on the cold glass, breath given visual representation. She watched the vapor spread out, linger for a moment, and then fade away into nothingness.

Anxious. Elena was anxious. The feeling was somewhat novel, though she must say she was not fond of it. She had little cause to be anxious before. She was of the Mourn Watch, and her business was with the Noble and Sanctified Dead. In the face of that great and terrible burden, all else paled in comparison. The concerns of the living were not the concerns of the Grand Necropolis, or so she had been taught from the moment she could comprehend words. She was nursed upon stories of sacred duty and care, taught how to tend to the Dead as she was learning her letters and sums and how to crawl, how to walk, how to run- the Dead are entrusted to us, Elena Ingellvar, and the Dead have given you to us in turn. All you are, you owe to the Dead.

Lies and rubbish, all of it. Elena scowled out at the world through the foggy, grime-covered glass. The Dead were not incorruptible. They were not above petty grievances or desires. They possessed the same foibles they did when they were alive. Sometimes they were even worse. When the Honored Dead threatened to overtake and overwhelm all the souls, Living and Dead, that dwelled in the Grand Necropolis, she knew action must be taken. Swift, decisive action. When the Dead leaders were caught in a duel to the undeath (a second death, a third, a fourth, killing the Dead was yet another avenue of research for members of the Mourn Watch), Elena saw an opportunity and took it. Waste no time, waste no effort. So, it was done. She led her raid on the dueling Dead and emerged victorious. Lives, Living and Dead, were saved. She did it for both, for all, all so the balance could be maintained, all so Life and Death could continue its cycle, all to preserve what her home and family was.

Others disagreed. A great many others. Important others, with titles and riches and grudges and many other things that Elena thought didn't matter in the Necropolis. These were matters that were beyond tending to the Dead, and her business was with the Dead. But the outside world and its will wrapped around her like a thousand stinging vines, threatening to strangle her. She left. Was forced to leave.

Myrna was kind about it. She helped her pack in the dead of night, on a night that was dark and stormy. She told Elena to look out for herself, told her that she spoke with someone who could help her navigate the world above the Necropolis and beyond the borders of Nevarra. There's a world out there that needs people like you, Elena Ingellvar- and there will be a need for you in the coming days. And these are people who can help- and who will need your help. They aren't the Dead, but they are in need. Myrna sent her off then with a map, directions, and a letter of introduction- evidence that you are who you say you are. Wait at this inn for Varric Tethras.

I'm waiting for a novelist, Elena wanted to ask Myrna, but she mutely nodded and let the woman pull her into a stiff, short embrace. Elena patted her back twice. Pat. Pat. Mechanical. Abrupt. Was this how one gave a hug? She hadn't been embraced often in her life- the Dead did not often enjoy being touched, and the Mourn Watch concerned themselves with the Dead, not the Living.

Elena breathed out once more, a short, sharp breath, and her breath fogged the glass up again. She should stop that. How was she to keep watch of the road if her window was fogged? She reached up to wipe away the condensation with the sleeve of her tunic.

"Planning to draw some doodles on that glass there?" A man said in a low, rough drawl. The voice was unfamiliar to her, naturally. She did not know many outsiders beyond the Necropolis. Elena dropped her hand to her lap, straightened her back, and turned her head to address this unwanted arrival.

"No," she informed the man standing at her table. Older. Short. Broad. Dwarf. Beardless (unusual, but not impossible) with a deeply low-cut shirt and an impressive amount of dark chest hair (was that the fashion of the day with the Living?). The dwarf smiled at her. His teeth were straight and even.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, though he was already rounding the table to take a seat across from her in the worn green leather armchair, the twin to her own. Or perhaps a sibling from an enormous litter? There were many armchairs scattered about the tavern floor, though she had taken a corner table far away from the light and the fire, the one closest to the window that overlooked the main road.

"I am waiting for someone," Elena warned the dwarven man once he settled into the chair. How was one supposed to drive away unwanted company? The Dead were not nearly so troublesome. They were quite upfront about their needs, though they were often confused. But back to the dwarven man. Elena eyed him cautiously, hoping she might spy a clue that would help guide her through this interaction. His dark hair was streaked with silver, and his handsome, broad face was lined with wrinkles. His was a face used to laughter and wide grins.

"And so am I! What a coincidence," he said. "Business or pleasure? And wine or ale? Wouldn't recommend either in this place but waiting without a drink draws attention, you know. As does lurking in dark corners." He lifted a thick eyebrow and smiled at her before winking, as if he was letting her in on some joke. But what was the joke? That she was out of place in this tavern? Elena knew that. She was out of place everywhere now, now that she couldn't go- couldn't return to the Necropolis. Couldn't return to the only home she ever knew.

"Business. And I don't drink," Elena said automatically. She didn't drink much. She wouldn't drink here. She liked a dry white wine, liked a little sip of cognac when discussing the finer points of necromantic duties with Professor Volkarin or Myrna, but she was out of her element here. Out of her element everywhere.

"Straight shooter, eh? I can work with that," the man announced, and he reached his hand out towards her, broad and calloused. "Varric Tethras. And you're Elena Ingellvar."

She nearly gasped. Would have gasped, but she felt as if she had swallowed her tongue. She could scarcely breathe. What gave her away? She wasn't wearing her robes or working clothes. She had put her staff away in her inn room, stowed under her bed and cloak. She carried a dagger and orb for peace of mind, but otherwise she thought she seemed normal. She even gave herself a haircut, because Myrna suggested she change her appearance to keep the worst of her enemies off her trail. Enemies. She hadn't thought she would have enemies. But she had been recognizable anyways, no matter how she dressed or changed her hair. If a stranger could identify her, anyone could.

"How?" Elena finally asked. She must rectify her mistakes immediately. Change. Cut her hair again. Or should she purchase a dye? Perhaps red was too distinctive.

"I've got an eye for people and nose for trouble," Varric Tethras replied. "And I knew where to find you. You did some big damn hero shit down in that Necropolis, didn't you?"

"The Dead were causing unrest. The Mourn Watch sees to the Dead," Elena replied stiffly. Hero? None of what she did was heroic- she never intended it to be. She simply saw to her work and preserved life- Living and Dead- as she ought to. Maintaining the balance and the environment of the Necropolis was her job! Was her job. What was her job now?

"Don't know what you know about me and my work, Elena Ingellvar, but I'm in need of someone like you watching my back," Varric Tethras explained, and he braced his forearms on the table and leaned towards her.

"A Mourn Watch member?" Elena asked, because it was too painful to say former Mourn Watch member. Varric Tethras laughed, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. But he wasn't laughing at her, was he? She had a feeling he wasn't. Elena didn't put stock in feelings often- too messy, too unreliable. But this was all she had to go on, the most stable ground on which to form her conclusions, and she would like to trust in something.

"Like I said, a straight shooter. No fuss, no nonsense, barreling down a straight line- a rook on my side of the board," Varric explained when his laughter died down. "Offer's open, and if you'd like a trial run- well, we can provide that too. Payment as well."

Payment. Trial run. Job offer. Games and boards and rooks- Elena shook her head. She needed time to sort through this deluge of information and sensations, but she hadn't any time to spare.

"I would like a drink. I think," she said, and Varric's mouth twisted up into a wry grin.

"That can be arranged," he replied.

[dadrunkwriting]

Welcome and happy DADWC! For a prompt how about MedeaxCullen and "You left something." "What?" "Your heart." “Fuck off.” from the office enemies to lovers prompt list. Have a good night writing Mythalsknickers.

Thanks!! Happy to join~

NGL, I forgot about the office prompts so I snorted when I saw this in my inbox. To start off my first ever prompt for DADWC, I went with something a bit longer!

552 words @dadrunkwriting

They had to tell the Inquisition at some point, it wasn't like they wouldn't figure it out eventually. Not with how intuitive Josephine seemed to be with gossip of this nature. No, Cullen had to at least report his relationship- ugh - with the Inquisitor before anyone else Medea had a chance.

The issue was that the only time he even had an opportunity to speak with his fellow advisors was during War Table Meetings and- well, the actual object of his affections never made it easy for him. Like usual, the meeting would start with checking off any changes or updates from last meeting, followed by new reports regarding on-the-field changes.

Medea would decide on whose advice to follow, leading to Cullen to speak up indignantly as to why she didn't chose his advice. Cue the eventual argument that ensued as they both fought until one of them relented, usually Cullen. However, as of late, Medea didn't even attempt to bite back when he pushed, only responding to him with a simple:

"I will keep your words in mind, Commander," Such a soothing voice that mocked him for even trying to fight.

There was no way Cullen could deny her when she looked at him like that, how easy her lopsided smile was to him, how brilliant her eyes looked to him as they explored his face with such intensity that left him clenching his jaw.

Maker, Medea must know her effect on him and was using every bit of it to break him in front of his peers.

So of course, today was no different. Medea continued to assure him that she took his words to heart, almost cooing at this point, leaving the Commander silent as his words failed to find any of his usual irritation.

As the meeting came to its conclusion with the slow transition to idle chatter, Cullen began gathering his documents, keeping his face down as he could feel the side glances from the 3 women. As he straighten up and turned, he heard that sweet voice call out his name. Cullen paused, feeling the quickening of his heart.

"You left something." Medea smiled cheekily. She earned a few odd looks from the other 2 women but seemed to happily ignore them. Cullen looked back behind him, his mantle tickling his flushed cheeks. Did he forget a document in his hurry to leave?

He did a quick scan of the table but found nothing of his. He frowned at Medea with a questioning look.

"What did I leave-"

"Your heart" Medea chirped, earning her astonished looks. Cullen could barely hear the squeals from Josephine as his paramour's words repeated over and over in his head. He stared at her with a gaping mouth, face as red as his uniform. Their spymaster let out a soft chuckle, her eyes dancing between the couple.

Medea smirked at the Commander with a look that made his blood boil, but his knees weak. His feelings must have been clear as day because Medea started cackling like the mad woman he somehow adored.

"Fuck off, Lavellan!" Cullen growled with no real bite before marching out of the room, leaving a still laughing Medea to the utterly confused Josephine.

[dadrunkwriting]

good evening! for DADWC, how about Davrin/Thorne with Strength reversed?

According to my new deck, this card means "Vulnerability, self-doubt, weakness, lack of confidence," etc etc.

a veilguard ficlet for @dadrunkwriting

spoilers for endgame stuff!

Over the past several weeks, the Lighthouse steadily emptied of her companions until only Osla herself and Davrin remained -- with Assan, of course. And she knew they only stayed because of her.

And she stayed because of the weight that seemed to chain her here.

Now that the events of the past few months had time to settle under her skin, it had become increasingly difficult to sleep. Though she had managed to escape a prison locked by guilt, her dreams were now plagued with memories of Harding. And Taash... They were broken in a way that Osla didn't know how to fix, despite being a fellow qunari.

All because of a decision she had made.

To the outside world, she appeared fully confident in her own ability and that of her friends, her team. She spent much of her time helping in Minrathous, or else checking in on the other factions that sent aid during that final battle. No matter the task set before her, be it hammering nails or digging latrines, she didn't falter; she simply got to work. During breaks, she shared her provisions with those around her who looked like they had missed a few too many meals, and offered encouragement with an easy smile.

But here, in the Lighthouse, she couldn't hide from what she had done. Because she wasn't willing to face Ghilan'nain without Davrin by her side, Harding was lost. All because she thought selfishly, rather than tactically.

If Davrin had gone in her stead, surely he could have found a different way. He wouldn't have thrown himself at death like that -- would he?

"Hey." Davrin had joined her at some point without her noticing. They were on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, leaning on the banister. "You've been quiet. What's on your mind?"

Osla gusted out a sigh. "It's stupid."

"Try me."

She knew he wouldn't let this drop, so she sighed again. "I just...I've been thinking about Harding." He made a noise of understanding in his throat, so she went on. "I just wonder if..."

"If things could have been different. I wonder that, too." He nodded and stared off at a crumbling statue floating in the distance. "But letting it take over your life like this isn't going to do anyone any good."

"I'm not--"

"Aren't you?" He challenged, turning to face her. He didn't raise his voice, or change his tone beyond a gentle conversation. "You barely sleep anymore, and not for any of the fun reasons. You're quick to give up your food, even when you haven't eaten all day. Your leathers barely fit you anymore with the weight you've lost."

Her shoulders slumped. "I don't know what to do. How do I move on?"

He took her hands into his own. "We do it together. Let's start by joining the rest of the Wardens in the Wetlands, and then we can see about building that future we talked about."

For the first time in weeks, she gave a genuine smile, albeit a tiny one. "Alright."