dadrunkwriting

[dadrunkwriting]

Artifacts of Thedas: A plaque denoting the Hero of Ferelden’s birthplace (Eireann Surana & Zevran) ~@lordgoretash

artefacts of Thedas | @dadrunkwriting | @lordgoretash

I don't have a title for this one yet. Help me out!

When she was crowned Queen of Ferelden, one of Anora Mac Tir’s many promises was to rebuild the city of Denerim, with new techniques and sturdier materials. So much of it needed to be rebuilt anyway, and it made sense to do so in ways that would have the city last for centuries to come. The city’s elves assumed that they would be left to their own devices – the crown has showed little care for them in the past. How strange it was, then, for human construction crews to arrive in their alienage. The sewers were properly covered, and cast iron water pumps were installed in the square. Many of the old, ramshackle houses were deemed unsafe for habitation, and pulled down one by one to be replaced by apartments with sturdy foundations and fire-resistant materials.

One little hovel remains. Zevran has been here before, and so has the woman beside him. She’d been carrying the little girl then, too, but in her womb, rather than in her arms. There’s a plinth to the left of the door now, built of stacked stones and mortar, and bearing a bronze plaque.

This plaque was erected to mark the birthplace of EIREANN SURANA Hero of Ferelden Vanquisher of the Archdemon Urthemiel Born on the seventh of Harvestmere, 9:12 Dragon

“I didn’t know I was born here,” Eireann says, absently.

Zevran frowns. “Is that so?��

“I should have,” she continues. “I should have, I don’t know…worked it out.”

It does seem an obvious assumption, but obvious assumptions are often wrong. He would say so, but Eireann isn’t finished. “No, no, I should have known. I should have been able to learn it. Why does the kingdom of Ferelden know more about me than I do?”

Zevran folds his arms, and stares at the offending plaque. No doubt it was placed in good faith, with an intention to honour a truly remarkable woman, but it has also served as a reminder of a childhood lost. Or rather, a childhood stolen. He might be able to relate to that, but he’s not so sure he ever had one to steal.

Little Farah must pick up on her mother’s distress. She lets out a worried little whimper, and hugs Eireann around the neck, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. She may be the luckiest of them, in more ways than just material.

“To think you, solecito, were born in a castle! Quite the change, no?” As he speaks, Farah lifts her head to look at him. Zevran tickles the babe’s cheek, and she chortles heartily – she might be the cheeriest baby he’s ever met, though admittedly that’s a very small pool. He lays a hand on her mother’s free shoulder, and squeezes firmly. “You must teach her everything you wished to know about yourself. She will know the stories of what you have done, but she must know where you started.”

Eireann kisses her daughter’s head, and smiles at him. “Thanks, Zevran.” She looks over to her mother’s new house, made of stone and mortar, warmer and safer than anywhere her mother may have lived before. “Mamae is making extra leek and potato soup. There will be more than enough for you.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he replies, and Eireann rolls her eyes.

“Come on. You know she loves you. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to adopt you yet.”

They both laugh, and Farah giggles too, as if she understands completely. Perhaps she does. Zevran wouldn’t know.

“Alright, potato and leek soup it is,” he agrees, “as long as she hasn’t added any Denerim rabbit.”

Eireann looks scandalised. “Would my mother ever?”

“She did when we were last here!” he argues.

“Oh, you mean when the alienage was quarantined?” Eireann retorts. “I wonder why she had trouble getting to market for ingredients.”

Their playful argument echoes well off the new stone walls and freshly cobbled streets.

[dadrunkwriting]

hello, happy dadwc! how about the "falling through a frozen lake" prompt from the whumperless whump list, for any characters in your modern kirkwall verse? :>

My first Modern Kirkwall AU for @dadrunkwriting! This universe is still kind of underdevelopment. But I think all you really need to know for this is Adam Hawke is a mage who works as a fire fighter. Avaline is a police officer. And Anders is a vet who moonlights at a free clinic.

“Hawke! this is reckless even for you!” Aveline’s voice carried clearly across the frozen lake, cutting through the crisp winter air. She stood at the shoreline, arms crossed, her expression both exasperated and unamused.

Adam turned, gliding effortlessly across the ice, a grin lighting up his face. He couldn’t quite remember whose idea the ice-skating outing had been—probably Merrill’s; it had her whimsy written all over it. Whoever suggested it, though, almost everyone had joined in, some of them sliding or stumbling their way across the surface, while a few more cautious souls remained on the shore, eyeing the frozen lake with distrust.

“It’s fine, Aveline!” he called back, laughing. “I, uh, reinforced the ice.” He threw her a playful wink. There was no one else around who might notice, but he kept his voice low, not wanting to tempt fate by mentioning he’d thickened the ice with a bit of magic.

Aveline only sighed, her disapproval unwavering, but Hawke just chuckled, enjoying the freedom of gliding over the lake’s surface, even if his friends were watching from the shore with judgment—or maybe just waiting for him to fall.

Isabella skidded past him and came to a stop in front of Merrill, who had just toppled over yet again. “Big girl is allergic to fun, Hawke,” she teased, laughter spilling from her lips as she looked back at Aveline.

“Just because I’m not prone to reckless stunts doesn’t mean I’m allergic to fun,” Aveline shot back, as she cautiously stepped into the ice.

Adam grinned as he spun in place, the chill air biting at his cheeks, invigorating him. “Oh come on, Aveline! You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little tempted to join us. Just think of the thrill!”

“Thrill? Or stupidity?” Aveline shot back, taking another careful step forward, the ice creaking slightly beneath her weight. "if I fall and break my neck, I’m blaming you.”

Adam laughed again, the sound buoyant against the backdrop of winter’s chill. “It’s not like you’re going to fall, Aveline. Just look at how graceful I am!” He exaggerated a twirl, arms wide, before toppling over landing with a thud.

“See?” Avaline called, grinning slightly, as she stepped further onto the ice with a bit more confidence.

Adam lay sprawled on the ice, momentarily stunned before laughter bubbled up from his chest. He pushed himself up on his elbows, shaking his head. “Okay, maybe I need to work on my grace a bit,” he admitted, a sheepish grin plastered across his face.

Aveline approached, her initial concern replaced by amusement. “You certainly do,” she replied, suppressing a laugh as she extended a hand to help him up.

Hawke grinned, taking her hand and pulling himself up.

Avaline slid slightly, her balance wavering for a brief moment before she steadied herself. “This is really not my idea of fun.”

"Relax," Adam replied, moving away and gliding smoothly past her, relishing the moment. “Besides, the ice is thicker than it looks!”

Aveline frowned but took another step forward, her confidence growing. Just as she began to find her rhythm, a sudden cracking sound echoed across the lake.

“Aveline!” Adam shouted, his heart racing. He skated toward her, his pulse quickening. “Stay still!"

But Aveline was already shifting her weight back to regain her balance, her face set in determination. “I’m fine!” she insisted, but the ice beneath her creaked again, and a fissure began to form, snaking its way dangerously close.

Before Adam could reach her, the ice gave way with a loud crack, and Aveline vanished into the frigid water below.

"Shit!" he shouted, panic rising in his throat as he approached the spot where she’d fallen. "Merrill! Isabella! We need the rope - now! Anders, get on the ice and help me!”

Merrill scrambled to the edge of the lake, her wide eyes filled with concern. “I’m on it!” she called, digging through the supply bag as Isabella rushed to her side.

Aveline’s head broke the surface with a gasp, the water splashing around her as she struggled to keep herself afloat.

"Aveline! Hold on!" Adam yelled, his voice strained. He reinforced the ice beneath his feet as he skated closer to the hole, his heart racing. “Just keep your head above water!”

"I'm… I'm trying," she called back, grabbing the edge of the hole, but the ice fractured further, threatening to break away in her grasp.

"Rope! Now!" Hawke yelled as Anders appeared next to him, sending healing magic toward Aveline. A faint green glow surrounded her, offering some warmth against the icy grip of the water.

As if on cue, Isabella skidded to a stop behind them, rope in hand. “Got it!” she shouted, tossing one end toward Adam, who quickly tied it around his waist.

“Keep it tight!” he directed as he edged closer to the hole.

“Be careful, Hawke!” Merrill cried from the shore, her voice trembling slightly.

Adam felt the ice shifting beneath him as he moved, every creak sending jolts of anxiety through his body. He steadied himself, breathing deeply, aware there was only so much he could safely reinforce. As he approached the hole, he crouched down, spreading his weight across the surface. He’d trained for this, simulations at least, but this was a skill he’d never needed to use.

Spread your weight. He lowered himself fully, stretching out toward the hole, inching forward. He could see the faint green glow of Anders' magic still around Aveline, hear their friends shouting, but he blocked it out.

"Aveline," he called calmly, forcing his voice to remain steady, "I’m going to reach down, and I need you to hold on to me tightly, alright? Isabella and Anders are at the other end of the rope, just don’t let go.”

Aveline’s breath came in sharp gasps, her heart racing as the cold water lapped against her body. Though Anders' magic offered some relief, it was far from enough. “I won’t let go,” she promised, her voice shaking.

Adam continued to shift forward, the ice creaking ominously beneath him. He extended his arms, feeling the cold bite at his fingertips as he reached for her. “Just a little more.”

“On three,” he instructed, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “One… two… three!”

With all his strength, he grasped Aveline’s hand, pulling her toward him. She latched on with both hands, her fingers digging in as the frigid water rushed against him.

He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the icy water seep through his clothes as he pulled. The world around them blurred into a cacophony of shouts and concern, but he focused solely on Aveline’s pale face, now flushed from the cold.

“Get ready!” he shouted over his shoulder, signaling to the others. “On three again!”

“One… two… three!” He heaved, using every ounce of strength to pull her toward him while bracing himself against the ice. A surge of panic shot through him as he felt the ice start to crack beneath him.

Aveline broke free of the water just as Adam felt the rope tighten around his waist, Isabella and Anders heaving them both away from the thin section of ice.

With a final, collective effort, Isabella and Anders yanked them both clear, and Adam felt the ice beneath him buckle, but they slid free just in time. Aveline gasped as she was pulled up onto the solid surface, shivering violently, her hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks flushed with the cold.

Anders was there, sliding to Aveline's side, his hands already glowing before Adam had even had the chance to untie the rope.

“I’m alright, just a little cold,” Aveline managed to say, though her chattering teeth betrayed her.

"Help me get her to the shore," Anders instructed, taking control of the situation.

“I’m fine,” she insisted again, but her shivering contradicted her words.

“Sure you are,” Adam said, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “Just your regular ice-water swim.”

"I’ve heard that ice swimming is good for your circulation,” Merrill interjected.

“I would have preferred to stay dry, thanks,” Aveline muttered, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.

Adam couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head as he pulled off his coat, ready to drape it over Aveline’s shoulders. “You’re not really making a compelling case for ice swimming."

"As amusing as all this is," Anders cut in, his tone serious, "can someone please go get the car?"

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy DADWC Friday! How about "Summer is a curse" for Amber Hawke?

It's so long since I've filled a @dadrunkwriting prompt! Not sure why really, just brain being uncorroperative... So, lets have some Amber Hawke really not liking the summer.

"Summer is a curse," Amber muttered as the sun bore down on her, relentless and scorching. The heat seemed to radiate from every stone of Kirkwalls streets. She tightened the leather straps around her wrists, each layer another reminder of who she had to be here.

Rogue.

Fighter.

Anything but a mage.

She slipped into the crowded street, where the narrow alleys seemed to trap the heat, thickening the air with each step she took. Every breath felt weighted, as though the city itself held its breath, waiting for something to ignite. Even the people around her - smugglers, street merchants, children darting between the stalls - seemed to move sluggishly, the sun sapping energy from everyone beneath it.

“Damn leather,” she muttered. She hated wearing armor in the summer—how Aveline managed in that metal nonsense, she’d never know. Meanwhile, Merrill and Anders looked practically unaffected, their mage robes better ventilated. Why do I impose this on myself? she wondered, resisting the urge to rip off the stifling armor.

She could feel her magic simmering beneath the surface, just one slip away from betraying her. Her hand drifted toward the longbow slung across her back, her fingers tracing the cool wood. The disguised staff pulsed faintly beneath her fingertips, tempting her to call on ice to bring her a moment’s respite. Yet, she held back, taking shallow breaths to resist the instinct. A spark of magic here would draw the attention of the wrong people, and she couldn’t risk that—not here.

Her hand drifted to the longbow slung across her back, running her thumb over the cool wood. The disguised staff held a familiar pulse beneath her fingers, tempting her with promises of ice that could bring reprieve. Yet, she held back, taking shallow breaths to resist the instinct. A surge of magic here would be disastrous. She could practically hear Aveline’s voice in her mind—Keep it together, Amber.

A ripple of energy crackled at her fingertips, breaking through her restraint as she slammed a palm against the wall. A faint spark of ice bloomed under her hand, a patch of cool frost spreading out just enough to chill her fingertips, before it melted into a damp streak on the wall.

No one noticed.

No one but Amber herself, the last whispers of ice fading from her hand.

"Summer really is a curse," she muttered, as she moved back into the bustling street, the heat pressed down on her again, relentless, turning each breath into a battle. She set her jaw, her hand unconsciously brushing her longbow-staff. She had no choice but to keep her magic shackled; a single slip could mean the end of everything she'd worked so hard to protect.

Stay in control, she reminded herself. Just like always.

[dadrunkwriting]

DA Drunk Writing Holiday Free-for-All!

Many of us have gone social media dark for the new game's release, so this week's DWC is a Free-for-All!

There will be no formal headcount or kickoff post tonight.

HOWEVER, please feel free to send each other prompts, and tag @dadrunkwriting - we'll catch up with reblogging!

We hope everyone has a great time with the game, or a safe time away from the internet, or a wonderful time writing if you so choose!

[dadrunkwriting]

DA Drunk Writing Holiday Free-for-All!

Many of us have gone social media dark for the new game's release, so this week's DWC is a Free-for-All!

There will be no formal headcount or kickoff post tonight.

HOWEVER, please feel free to send each other prompts, and tag @dadrunkwriting - we'll catch up with reblogging!

We hope everyone has a great time with the game, or a safe time away from the internet, or a wonderful time writing if you so choose!

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy DADWC! For Connor X Solas: [PRIDE]: after the receiver succeeds in a remarkable achievement, the sender cups their face and tilts their foreheads together to express how proud they are of them.

The Inquisitor goes dragon hunting (the prompt got away from me a little bit hahah)

wc: 800 @dadrunkwriting

Fighting dragons was no simple matter. Or it was, but the difference between simplicity and ease had never been more apparent than when they faced down the great beast in Ferelden.

It was a magnificent thing, all fire and fury—not unlike their Inquisitor, Solas supposed, as Connor’s sword sparked off scales, steel wreathed in flame—but the fight had dragged on longer than sustainable. The Iron Bull had fallen more times than he could count, Vivienne giving the Qunari the polite courtesy of health potions as she flitted in and out of the fray. Her own mana slowly waned as she began to stay further and further back, relying more on glyphs and spells than her conjured blade.

Despite his fading companions, Connor remained firmly planted beneath the dragon’s bulk, concealed by dense clouds of dust and the spray of ichor that poured from where his blade had sunk into its thigh. Solas’s barriers had long since reached their limits, each one weaker than the last as he struggled to stay standing against the pull of beating wings… but he continued to cast, relying on the faint push and pull of the Fade to pinpoint his target amid the whirling wind and debris. The Inquisitor still fought, so Solas still protected him, replacing each barrier steadily as they blinked out, one after the other.

They emerged victorious, of course. Bull was hollering on the far side of the fallen Frostback, axe lifted in victory, shouting in Qunlat. Vivienne carefully plucked the cork from a potion as she stepped around a puddle of viscera, taking care to give Bull a wide berth while he flung gore off the end of his weapon.

Solas picked his way across the battlefield, pulling a lyrium potion he had been saving for this moment from his pouch—surely the Inquisitor would need it after such a sustained battle. Connor stood unmoving beside the dragon’s corpse, shoulders hunched and leaning heavily on his sword, his armor coated in a sheen of blood.

He mumbled something as Solas approached, muffled by his helm.

“Inquisitor, here. Your mana…” he trailed off, bottle held aloft as Connor lifted his head at last, finally tearing his gaze from the creature they had slain. He slowly removed his helmet, his hair drenched in sweat that had plastered itself to his forehead.

“…We did it.”

Solas looked down at the dragon—the deep wounds and scorched scales, mangled by Connor’s blade—and nodded.

“Yes. An impressive feat, even for a skilled warrior.”

Connor tossed his helmet and blade aside, turning to face Solas. His cheeks were pink with exertion and he breathed heavily, but instead of the exhaustion Solas expected, he only found exhilaration in the Connor’s expression.

“We did it,” he repeated, louder this time, and Solas was suddenly lifted into the air, enveloped in an embrace that stole the air from his lungs as he was crushed against Connor’s breastplate. He was set back on his feet unceremoniously, unsteady and off-balance from the sudden movement after what must have been hours of exertion. Connor began to pace, brimming with an exuberance that Solas had never seen from him before, nearly bouncing with excited energy. The lyrium potion lay forgotten, its contents spilled across the ground.

“Solas, did you see? Maker, I thought I’d get trampled! It was so… The fire—no, the… the everything. That was…” He stopped in his tracks, turning to face Solas again, his eyes bright with pride and delight as he stepped forward again. Solas prepared himself for another of Connor’s utterly crushing hugs, but it never came. Instead, he was surprised by the feeling of rough leather against his cheeks and damp skin against his.

“That was incredible,” Connor whispered, impossibly close as he pressed their foreheads together. “I… Thank you.”

Solas’s his words caught in his throat as Connor’s hands cupped his face. They shook violently—from lack of lyrium, mana depletion, or residual adrenaline, Solas wasn’t sure—and he wanted nothing more than to place his own upon them.

“For what, Inquisitor?” he asked instead. His chest felt tight, as if he had forgotten how to breathe. “You are the one who fought, not I.”

“For being here. For helping.” Connor paused for a moment, eyes closed. Solas could smell the mint he chewed on his breath, with the sharp bite of lyrium just past it. “For… everything,” he finished, eyes crinkling with a smile as he moved away at last.

“Boss, this is the greatest day of my life!” Bull’s voice bellowed as he joined them, clasping Connor on the shoulder and pulling him away. Their conversation turned to celebrations and ale while Solas stood stunned, unsure of what just occurred, the warmth of the Inquisitor’s touch lingering on his skin.

[dadrunkwriting]

okayyyy, apparently i already fulfilled this prompt and just forgot to delete it off my list, lmao. but it is Not in my inbox 😂 anyway, the prompt was solas/anyone with "I think I've earned the right to the truth" and i went with solas and atros shiral, my beloved city elf inquisitor <3 i ended up going a slightly spicy direction with this fill >3 @dadrunkwriting 393 words cws: none

"I think," he said, breath warm along the shell of Atros' ear, "I've earned the right," earned was spoken so thickly it made him shiver, "to the truth."

"And what truth would that be?" He countered, after a pause to make sure his voice would be steady. Solas hummed against his ear and what the fuck, that wasn't fair at all.

"The truth," he just grazed his teeth across Atros' ear and he clamped his own together hard, trying to stifle any noise that sought escape, "of why you're here."

"Think I made that clear."

"Make it clearer."

Shit. Shit.

Shit.

"Fuck me," he said, and Solas… Solas actually growled against his ear, a deeply primal sound that sent a pulse of shocked lust racing through him.

"That's why you followed me?" The growl clung to his voice, a rich and gravelly depth that went straight to Atros' cock. Not that it needed the help.

"Told you why already," he managed to say it reasonably plainly. And he had. He'd explained why he'd chosen to follow Solas, why he'd chosen to pursue this path with him, come what may and damn the consequences.

He trusted Solas. He really did. It was strange and sometimes it scared him, and sometimes it even scared him in a good way, but it was real. He had grown to trust Solas so much, and even with everything that had happened, the core of that trust remained.

That was why he'd followed him. And that was why he could be like this, why he could enjoy Solas' hands gripping his hips with force, why he could enjoy the rough timbre of his voice making demands, why he could enjoy being pushed to the floor and fucked within an inch of his life.

And under it all, under the play of power and control, Solas was extraordinarily gentle. His hands gripped, yes, but they settled in such a way that Atros could dislodge them simply by stepping forward. He didn't pin him, didn't manuever him…

He was just so careful. Careful in a way that made him feel respected and seen, seen to a disturbing degree, known the way Solas had always seemed to know him.

So he had followed him.

And now he could do this, and Atros could yield, and it was all okay.

Better than okay.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday!!

How about ‘ [ intertwine & kiss ]  –  for the sender’s muse to intertwine their finger’s the receiver’s muse and kiss the back of their hand. ‘ for whichever pairing you’re feeling tonight!

Alright! Tonight you get an incredibly short and sappy slice of domesticity for Fenris x Cal. Omg it's like marshmallow fluff.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: ~700

From his bed, Fenris looked up into an Antivan sunset. Ships of all sizes were crowded into the city harbor, standing black against the falling orange light, and the water was aglow. A pair of seabirds circled above.

The painter of the scene had been talented. Fenris wondered if they had ever imagined their work would end up patching the ceiling of a decrepit manor in Kirkwall. Perhaps it would be of some comfort if they knew he admired the painting more in its current location than he ever had when it had hung in the downstairs hall.

Just then, Cal, the man responsible for nailing the canvas into Fenris’ roof called, from the next room.

“Fenris?”

“Yes,” he answered, although he never understood why Cal always said his name that way, as if he expected someone else in the great empty house to answer.

“Fenris, have you got that copy of The Adventures of the Black Fox? I want to take it to class tomorrow.”

Fenris turned his head on the pillow to look at the stack of books growing by the bedside. He supposed he should feel some embarrassment that he still shared books with children, but Cal brought them back to the manor without prompting.

“Yes,” he said again, reaching to pull the book from the bottom of the pile.

“Thank you,” Cal sang quietly as he came into the bedroom. He’d had a bath that left his cheeks pink, and his blond hair was having a difficult time deciding what direction to dry in.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked after he took the book from Fenris’ hand, peering at him with some playful suspicion. “You have a very serious look on your face.”

“I was thinking about when you fell off my roof.”

“I didn’t fall off your roof,” Cal corrected. “I mean, your roof collapsed.”

“And you fell.”

“The roof and I fell at the same time.” Cal held up his hands level to one another and then dropped them to his hips. “Is this what you do? You lie in bed making serious faces about the time I almost died?”

“You didn’t die.”

“I could have died.”

Fenris hummed. “Yes, you did bleed a lot.”

“I did! I have the scar.”

“I don’t recall a scar,” Fenris said, although he did.

“It’s right here,” Cal said, marching over to Fenris’ side of the bed. He unceremoniously lifted up his shirt and pointed to a raised line of skin above his hip. “I mean, that’s a scar.”

“Ah. So it is.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No.” Fenris couldn’t stop the slow smile that spread across face. “Yes.”

Cal laughed and pulled his shirt up to his neck so he could list the other, darker scars that marked his body. “Darkspawn, Darkspawn, Darkspawn – Qunari! – Darkspawn.” His finger returned to the smallest scar. “Your roof.”

With that, to Fenris’ mild disappointment, he dropped his shirt. “I could have died.”

Cal had a point. Death would have been a likely outcome for any non-mage who fell three stories onto stone. Fenris, when he had scrambled to look over the edge after Cal, had been sure he was going to see the man’s broken body lying below.

He swallowed. He had been afraid.

“I believe that was the night I became fond of you.”

For a moment, Cal wore a crooked, uncertain smile as his only answer. “Fond? Really?”

“Uh. Yes.” Under those bright blue eyes, Fenris felt his cheeks begin to flush.

“Because I fell off a roof?” Cal sat down on the bed and leaned over him, curious.

“Yes. You did it so…” Fenris waved a hand. “Freely.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Cal said, taking Fenris’ hand and threading their mismatched fingers together. “I wouldn’t have climbed up on your roof in the middle of a rainstorm, you know, with a bunch of paintings, if I wasn’t already pretty fond of you.”

He kissed the back of Fenris’ hand with warm exaggeration, and then again, after a moment’s hesitation, with the soft sincerity that still left Fenris speechless.

“Really, I was very, very fond of you.”

[dadrunkwriting]

A Note on the New Game

We are gently requesting that when you mention @dadrunkwriting in your prompt fills, please also mention if it concerns the new game. Here are two simple examples:

We will reblog the prompt as usual, and to help readers filter out new game content, we will add the tag:

We have many readers (and your fellow writers) who would appreciate the warning. We cannot read every prompt to catch it, so we appreciate your cooperation and consideration for your readers and fellow fans!

Please be generous in your interpretation of what counts as "concerning the new game." Mentions of Rooks, new companions, reunions, cameos, and of course, writing related to released game content, gameplay, and story events, may have different impacts for different people.

[dadrunkwriting]

happy friday! I would love to see what you do with "(Reverence) Macabre beauty of bones".

I really debated over filling this prompt today or waiting until next Friday when Veilguard is out and we've met all the characters. But the temptation was too great, so I decided to write Emmrich Volkarin for @dadrunkwriting!

He loved his work. There was always something new to discover when you worked with the Fade, spirits, and the dead, and Emmrich had ever been a lover of learning. There was always something to learn when you speak with the dead- or the spirits who inhabit the dead.

Death never frightened him, and neither did the unknown. Instead, he was enthralled by the lure of knowledge and the temptation of being able to solve a good mystery. He delighted in hosting the dead- and the spirits within- for tea. Perhaps it would be better to say it was a sort of tea, for they did not embibe food and drink, but it was always at tea-time and he provided refreshments for his guests both living and dead. He loved to pepper the dead with questions, and answer their questions in turn. He collected data- though it was not nearly as clean and clinical as numbers in a ledger, at least not for him. Perhaps for others it was different, but Emmrich loved his work.

It did not make the work easy, especially when it was tragic. Emmrich held up the skull (white, picked clean, empty sockets staring back at him pleadingly) and sighed heavily.

"I am afraid," Emmrich informed the investigator. "That there is little I can divine from his skull." There was little he could do with a skull, a femur, and a patella. He could tell it was from the same person, a poor soul who had been unearthed from underneath the paving stones of a courtyard of a nobleman's estate, but beyond that... Emmrich could tell that his living guest was most displeased by this turn of events. She clicked her tongue impatiently and glowered at him, the bones, and poor Manfred who came in with the tea tray.

"Can't you just..." the investigator waved her hand at the bones. "Ask?"

"A spirit must come willingly to inhabit the deceased. If they do not wish it, I will not force the matter," Emmrich said firmly. That never led to anything good, at least in his considerable experience with the dead. He looked down at the skull. It was beautiful, it its own way, a reminder of their fragile mortality. Someday this shall be you.

"But let him remain here for some time, and I shall see what can be learned from this," Emmrich promised, which seemed to make this investigator happy. She almost smiled, and she deigned to take tea with them. She didn't linger overlong- too much work to do, for this was a murder case no matter how old- but Emmrich was glad for the living company before he returned his attentions to the dead.

[dadrunkwriting]

Hi!! Happy Friday <3 How about "(Patient) Under the watchful eyes of crows" from the eerie autumn prompts, for whoever you're feeling?

Well, I had to write something to do with the Crows, didn't I? And because I finally read Tevinter Nights I sort of want to examine some of the Crow... culture, as it were. This is just me playing in a sandbox, of course! So here are some Crows for @dadrunkwriting!

No one looks up.

That was one of the first lessons every Crow is taught. Make yourself discreet, always carry a knife, and no one ever looks up. Oh, sure, there were always the exceptions- a child eagerly gazing at clouds and colorful flags and banners, an irritated shopper scowling up at stormy skies interrupting their errands, a birdwatcher seeking out a finch or wren- but on the whole people didn't look up. Children were easily distracted, irritable shoppers didn't have eyes for anything more than their current troubles, and birdwatchers were usually looking for birds, not Crows.

Crows, however, have eyes everywhere, and they looked everywhere too. Up, down, left, right, the watchful eyes of Crows could pierce through clothes and flesh straight into the heart if they so wanted. That was a bit of supernatural nonsense, of course, but Crows weren't above invoking superstition if it meant adding to the mystique and awe a Crow invoked. They had a reputation to uphold, one that occasionally took a battering when a job went sour. But a few successes and then people forgot the bad times and remembered what they wanted instead. And it wasn't supernatural, wasn't magic, but a Crow could see into the hearts of men whenever they pleased.

That was what a Crow did. People never looked up, but Crows looked everywhere.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday!

"Whose blood is that?" For Anders/Fenris/Hawke

Thank you for the prompt!! :D This is written for @dadrunkwriting

Content: Established Fenhawke, Fenders, Talks about Anders' past experience in the Circle/abuse, Baby deliveries, feelings realized, hopeful ending

It’s a strike of luck that Fenris is leaving his mansion just as Anders is knocking on Hawke’s door. 

“He’s not home,” Fenris says, catching Anders’ attention. “He’s visiting the elves with the blood mage.”

Anders turns towards him fully and that’s when Fenris notices his wide eyes and the blood covering his hands and robe. He rushes to Anders’ side. 

“Mage? Whose blood is that?”

“It’s okay,” Anders says right away, his voice sounding far off. “It’s not mine.”

Despite being covered in blood, Anders falls into Fenris’ arms. This might be the first time they’ve touched like this. Normally, Fenris hates being touched, but there’s something about the desperation radiating from the mage that has him surprising even himself as he raises his arms and hugs him back, ignoring the way Anders is smudging blood against his armor. 

Fenris is expecting tears or upset murmurs but instead, Anders breaks out into giggles. 

He’s even more confused than when he opened his door. 

“What is going on with you?”

Anders keeps his hands on Fenris’ shoulders, his face broken out into a grin. This is a good look on him. Fenris finds his stomach fluttering with warmth, the same way it’s only ever done for Hawke. 

It’s no secret that Hawke has feelings for Anders despite being in a relationship with Fenris. He’s never faulted the man, always assuming the two mages had some sort of special bond. Suddenly, Fenris gets it. He understands. And he finds himself thinking back to all the times Hawke and he had talked about trying to get Anders to understand Hawke feelings. 

Maybe if they both sit him down, it would help him understand that the three of them could be something. If he’s agreeable. 

“I’ve never been better,” Anders says, his cheeks rosy from laughing. He tucks his hair behind his ear, spreading blood across his forehead. 

“Mage,” Fenris says softly, reaching up and wiping the blood off his forehead. “You are going to scare the nobles. Come inside and get clean.”

Anders follows behind him into Fenris’ mansion. 

“Will you tell me where this blood came from?”

Instead of answering the question, Anders says, “I know you don’t enjoy when I talk about my time at the Circle, but one of the things I hated most about being a healer was when people got pregnant. It was a dark cloud that would follow the mother as the babe grew inside of her, knowing she’d see them for a split second before they were ripped away and sent to a different Circle. I hated it. I would often deliver the babies and then cry myself to sleep.”

Fenris listens as he leads Anders to the bathroom. He starts the bath, letting it fill as Anders continues talking. 

“Many times, they’d fall into a depressive state that was hard to help them out. Not that I blame them. I was only there to deliver the babies yet I felt completely hopeless and gutted each and every time. I can’t imagine what that would do to me if that was my baby.”

Anders starts stripping out of his robes, handing them over to Fenris as he does. There’s a domestic ease in which they move around each other. Fenris hasn’t even noticed how close they’ve gotten until right now, preparing to clean Anders’ clothes, listening to his story with bated breath. 

“Tonight I delivered a baby,” Anders finally says. He strips out of his smalls before getting into the tub. He turns towards Fenris with tears in his eyes but Fenris knows those are tears of joy. “I delivered a healthy baby and I was able to give that baby to their parents who will get to keep them and raise them and love them. No one will rip that babe from their hands.”

“Oh, Anders,” Fenris breathes out. 

“I’m so fucking happy, but at the same time there’s this deep-seated sorrow inside of me. Like I’m somehow still mourning all those past parents and babies and what they couldn’t have.”

Fenris finds himself kneeling beside the tub. His hand finds Anders’ cheek, caressing it softly. “I understand,” he says softly. “It wasn’t uncommon for slave families to be separated. Seeing happy families together still fills me with mixed feelings.”

“Thank you, Fenris.”

“It is nothing,” he says, shaking his head, but Anders’ reaches out of the bath and snags his arm. 

“It’s not nothing. Not to me.” Then he realizes what he’s doing and he lets go, sinking deeper into the bath. “Sorry, I know you don’t like to be touched.”

“It is alright. If I minded, you would know.” Anders cracks the tiniest smile. “I will wash these while you finish in here.”

“No, Fenris, it’s okay. I can do it. I wouldn’t want you to feel like I was asking you to clean after me.”

Fenris warms. “I don’t feel that way. It’s alright, Anders, I have much experience getting blood out of fabric. You take care of everyone, let me take care of this.”

Anders stares at him for a long moment before he finally nods. “Okay,” he says softly, barely audible. 

“You and I and Hawke have much to talk about when he’s back. But until then, will you stay here with me?”

Fenris can see the way Anders swallows. He looks ready to run, not that Fenris would blame him. He’s surprised yet again when he smiles up at Fenris. “Okay. I’d like that.”

“Me too,” he says seriously before stepping out of the bathroom and getting to work on cleaning Anders’ robe. He’s looking forward to Hawke’s return.

[dadrunkwriting]

A Note on the New Game

We are gently requesting that when you mention @dadrunkwriting in your prompt fills, please also mention if it concerns the new game. Here are two simple examples:

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[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday! I don't know anything about your Rook, if you have one planned...would "no one's ever actually just... sat down and listened to me." fit for them, or a romance you're planning for them?

Used this prompt for Electra de Riva, my crow rook! This was a lot of fun haha- she's so bored at work lmao.

She's sick of being given boring seduction jobs while the nepo babies like Lucanis get all the opportunities to distinguish themselves. She has a one sided feud against him, whereas he doesn't know she exists lmao.

773 words, no spoilers, CW: sexual references, lecherous old man being lecherous

@dadrunkwriting

"No one's ever actually just... sat down and listened to me." Electra looked away, wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye, her bottom lip beginning to wobble. “It’s just- it’s just-“

“It’s okay darling. I’m here for you,” the man said. She was half on his lap already, an arm draped over his shoulder for support.

“Nobody has eve taken the time to just listen to me…”

“I’m here now. You can trust me.”

Electra had to look artfully and demurely away so that he wouldn’t see her eyes roll nearly into her skull. She had the technique down pat at least- the ways to look away so that the angle would be flattering- she had to show off her best angles after all.  Maker this one was obnoxious though. It had scarce been five minutes since he had ‘saved’ her.

To him, she looked every bit the innocent maiden- long blonde hair flowing down her back and her dress, while originally the height of fashionable modesty, had been oh so ‘accidentally’ torn. She was quite proud of that detail- men liked to have an upstanding and moral woman, but they also liked to see and imagine that modest woman with her clothes off. Bit of a double standard really.

The tear went so low that you could just make out the blush of her areola. And sitting half on his lap gave him even more of an eyeful with only a simple downward glance.

“Thank you ser. You are so kind and good,” she said with a particularly good sniffle. The sniffles were a challenging one and has taken her a little while to master. It was about finding the perfect balance between looking like a pathetic, simpering woman, but still remaining composed enough to remain attractive. She continued on, “it was my mother you see… she didn’t care for me…”

“She must have been jealous of your beauty,” the man said, sliding a hand up her thigh. He was palming her through her dress at least, but by the maker this man was not subtle.

Though, she thought with an inner smirk, he is getting an excellent view of my tits. It was one reason she found seduction easy in this pose- her half draped ontop of him. Not only did he only have to glance down to get an eyeful, but all she had to do was innocently shift her hips and he would be able to feel her ass right atop his cock.

It was almost frustrating that he was doing her job half for her. She really needed to ask for some more challenging jobs- some workplace development. It wasn’t that she hated luring people to their deaths through the allure of her body. That was just the job, even if the blood magic for the maintenance of it- the removal of wrinkles and scars- could get tedious.

No, more than anything it was just boring. Every mission the same. Maybe after she finished this she would go to that new little sweets shop with the cute cakes. Something to cheer herself up.

The noble man had been talking, getting bolder and bolder with his hands, though she hadn’t been paying attention- too busy trying to decide between the strawberry and the passionfruit. She adored passionfruit, but the strawberry ones had such cute icing detailing.

“I could take you back home with me- just to get you fixed up. I wouldn’t want you to get mixed up in anything… unsavoury.”

Maker, he really was doing her job for her, wasn’t she. It was probably the sight of her tits. She’d have to try showing off her nipples more…would she be able to get away with just fully having them out?

“If you wouldn’t mind My Lord…but I don’t know how I could ever repay you for your kindness…” She pressed her arms against her stomach so that her breasts rolled up, the dress slipping further down.

The man smiled as he began to stand up, bundling her up in his arms. Wow, he was doing her job so thoroughly that she wouldn’t even have to walk to his bed. She wrapped her arms around his neck- allowing her to push her practically naked breasts against his chest.

“You need not worry about repayment my dear…I’m sure we can manage something…”

She stifled another eyeroll. Maker this man was really filling every cliche of a lecherous old nobleman, wasn’t he.

She decided to get both the strawberry and passionfruit cakes. She’d deserve a treat after this. At least most of the men she seduced and then brutally murdered had the decency to be good conversationalists.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy friday! For Celeste & Cole, "what are you going to do? he needs help." (from the spirited away prompts)

Hey there! Thanks for this @dadrunkwriting prompt. I unfortunately decided to turn it into one of the worst moments of Celeste's life???

(After this, Cole is making an emergency call to Vivienne and Dorian like "something is wrong with her.")

For very brief context, this takes place a year or two post Trespasser. Cece became Herald at age sixteen and her father served as Inquisitor. He died during the final battle with Corypheus. Word Count: ~800 Content Warning: Reference to self-harm and implied suicidal ideation.

The demons came when she wrote her grief in blood. Her pain was too tempting to refuse; they thought an easy meal waited for them across the Veil.

Instead, she devoured them.

Once bound to her, the unlucky demon’s scream turned to a song and then to an echo that rang out in the great stone hall. In her hand, her sword trembled from their chained rage, but their fury felt empty. She was glad when the blade went still, and only whispers of power traveled up to her ears.

She was nearly done.

“No, you said you would stop.”

From the doorway, between the two oaken doors that had long fallen from their hinges, her favorite voice came as a surprise. She should have heard his arrival; his steps had become heavier.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Cole.” Her voice emerged as a rasp; she hadn’t spoken aloud since his last visit.

Cole approached from the darkness, his steps and words hurried. “It’s wrong. You have no right to bind them. The others came to you, waking up, answering your call in the dark. You used to help them. These spirits – it hurts them to stay.”

She wanted to let the sword fall from her grasp – its cold, black steel has grown so heavy – but his words only tightened her grip.

“It’s only – I need to. I’m almost done.”

She wanted to be done.

At the edge of her painted glyph, Cole stopped.

“Your hurt is becoming like his.”

She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. “No.”

“He wanted to mend his mistakes. A wrong seam. He made them worse. The pain was old, never fading. It only...changed. You changed it.”

The candles she had left burning on the floor had melted to stubs, she realized. She watched the flames flicker until Cole spoke again.

“You. What are you going to do, Celeste?”

“I told you,” she said, finally. “I’m going to kill him.”

Cole shook his head. “That will not help, not really. He needs help.”

“No!” Her voice was so loud it surprised her. The words that followed came out in a terrible rush. “No, he doesn’t. He killed everyone – everyone! He killed my dad.”

Before Cole could argue, as she knew he would, she plunged ahead through clenched teeth.

“I’m going to find him, and when I find him, I’m going to kill him.”

Her vow echoed off the walls, just as the demon’s had. Cole waited until it had faded to speak, his own voice quiet and simple.

“You won’t.”

Sensing the threat, her mouth buckled. “Are you going to help me, Cole? When did you stop helping me?”

“You want help to hurt. I don’t want to help you with that.”

“Then what are you doing here?” She threw her arm out, sword pointing towards the doorway. “Go – everyone else did.”

“No, they didn’t leave you, not the last time,” Cole said, shifting on his feet but not moving. “You left when they weren’t looking.”

Celeste squeezed her eyes shut, spurning the memory. They’d planted a tree in his honor. It was too still, as if made of the same stone that marked his grave. Everyone had been too still.

“I’m never going to leave you again,” Cole said in her father’s voice.

“That’s – stop! Just stop it. You don’t do that anymore. People don’t do that.

“All this time you have been copying people – all their pain. You copy it and you act like you know what it is but you don’t know any of it. You don’t know anything. You don’t know how it feels – you don’t feel anything real. You’re not real!”

She didn’t know when she started screaming. She didn’t know when she had leveled the sword to Cole’s chest.

“I am real.” Cole had withdrawn a step and now looked at her with a shocked, sad curiosity. “You’re not. You’re not really you, not anymore.”

“Leave me alone.” The tears that should have felt hot on her cheeks only ran cold. “Just leave me alone.”

“No, Celeste, you are my friend.”

The words that used to calm her only fed the horrible rage. She felt as if she was burning, but there was nothing inside her left to burn. Her mouth tasted of smoke.

“You want to help him! You’re not my friend. You’re a traitor – a demon.”

Her words repelled Cole, and she saw his pale hands ball into fists.

“I am not a demon.”

She pushed the sword forward and held it to his face, trembling.

“Do you really think I couldn’t bind you if I wanted? How do I know you weren’t bound to him the whole time?”

Cole’s lips twisted into an ugly, unfamiliar snarl. Celeste waited.

In that moment, she wished he would attack. Instead, after a dark silence, he turned from her. Watching him walk away hurt worse than when he used to simply disappear.

“Go!” She tried to make her voice hard, but it only grew louder. “I never want to see you again.”

Cole paused in the doorway without looking back.

“You will.”

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday! How about cuddling in their sleep for a pairing of your choice?

Here's some Dagna/Sera for @dadrunkwriting!

Sera kicked in her sleep. Like a cat with a bit of prey or a toy in its grasp, she kicked and kicked and kicked until she final took out whatever it was that was bothering her. Or maybe she was running, running and running until she outran the world and left everything and everyone behind. Or she was in a desperate fight for her life, kicking and clawing her way out of scraps that only she was privy to.

But Sera kicked like a horse, and Dagna could only be thankful that she was short enough to not be in the line of fire of Sera's kicking fits when they shared a bed.

"Whatever could you be dreaming about?" Dagna mused as Sera kicked off the sheets and pressed her face into the pillows. Dagna propped herself up on her elbow and examined her lover critically. Dwarves didn't dream as a rule, though she was sure that there had to be exceptions. There always were, as her studies into the Fade and magic and runework proved. But dreams and Dreams were very different things, and she knew that whatever plagued Sera now wasn't a Dream (Portentious, Fade-phenomena related, generally an unpleasant time) but a dream (more ordinary and usually forgotten). At first she worried about that Sera might be experiencing the first kind, so violent was her thrashing tonight, but she settled down when Dagna started smoothing down her hair and cuddled up against her. The thrashing ceased to an occasional kick or groan, but Dagna was used to that by now.

What she wasn't used to was the talking. That was new. Or perhaps it was new to her. Dagna thought she remembered something Sera mentioned when she said she shared a tent with Dorian- something about sleep-talking loud enough to wake the dead? Dagna couldn't quite remember, but she recalled Sera's indignant protesting. "I don't talk in my sleep, you'd tell me if I talked in my sleep, wouldn't you?"

But here she was, talking in her sleep. Though Dagna couldn't make heads or tails what the conversation was about.

"It must be something quite serious" Dagna mused. "If only you could remember these dreams!" Then surely they could unravel the mystery, and perhaps separate what made a dream a dream and a Dream a Dream!

"-marmalade down the trousers," Sera replied before flopping an arm over Dagna's waist. "Shrimps up in th' meringue."

"Fascinating," Dagna agreed. She really ought to write this down sometime.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy friday! For the pairing of your choice, "going to sleep as the big spoon and waking up as the little spoon" (bedsharing prompts)

Here's some Zevran/Surana corporate espionage AU for @dadrunkwriting!

Zevran always kept his partners where he could see them.

It was a habit of his he developed early on in his career. Never let a lover (work-related or otherwise) out of eye or ear shot. Don't bring them home if you can help it, and keep everything work-related out of reach and behind several locks. Wandering hands and wandering eyes could cause a world of trouble in his line of work, and Zevran's life was messy enough as is. Even with a year's sabbatical behind him Zevran kept to his habits: lock away the knives and poisons, wipe hard drives regularly, and don't let a lover out of sight.

There was a reason Arainai Crows were the best in their line of work. If you needed a honeypot, you got an Arainai to handle it with as little mess and fuss as possible. Dellemortes handled mess, and De Rivas did poisonings, but Arainais coaxed their intel out of targets with sweet words and touches and a great deal of care. Never let a lover out of your sight. Always know where hands and eyes are at all times. Always be careful, always be wary, because when the illusion crashes you need to be as far away as possible.

Zevran was losing his touch.

The night (or early morning) ended as he planned: him curled around Bran, his chest plastered against Bran's back, his nose buried into the soft, silken wispy hair at the back of his neck, their legs tangled together and Bran half-way asleep already, his stubby black lashes pressed against the pale curve of his cheek. Zevran tightened his grip around Bran's waist, sighed deeply into the crook of Bran's neck, and drifted off into slumber.

Yet when he woke up, he found their positions reversed in the night.

Bran had somehow twisted them around until his arms were wrapped around Zevran's chest and his leg was thrown around Zevran's hip. His calf pressed Zevran into place, and he couldn't move without waking Bran. And Bran's pointed chin dug into the meat of his shoulder, and his soft breathing echoed in Zevran's ear like the dull roar of the sea. He fucked up. He fucked it all up. Because you didn't take your eyes off a lover, casual or otherwise, and you definitely didn't take your eyes off of your JOB. And Zevran had done both in a single night. Of course he did. He was terrible at his job these days. His heart (what little he had) wasn't in it. Maybe it never had been.

He ought to move around. He ought to turn to face his lover- never turn your back, never let yourself be exposed, maintain control in all things- and then Bran shifted behind him. He tightened his grip, dropped his chin and pressed his cheek against Zevran's shoulder, sighed contentedly, and curled up behind him like a cat.

"Zev," Bran mumbled, and then he went still. Zevran could scarcely hear his breathing over the pounding of his heart.

Intimacy. He knew how to create intimacy where there was none. He didn't know how to handle it when it grew organically, and this was not artifice. What was Zevran supposed to do with something that was honest and pure?

Bran would laugh at that, Zevran thought hysterically. Pure? Him? Absurd! But there was something sweet and innocent about this moment. As gray morning light flooded through the blinds Bran nuzzled his face into the meat of Zevran's shoulder, and a lump began to form in Zevran's throat. Stop it! He was not going to fall apart because of a bit of sleepy sentimentality!

But he could indulge in it, just for one morning. Surely nothing could come of that. Zevran reached down and rested his hand over Bran's, shut his eyes, and did what he could to fall asleep once more, at least for one more hour.