dadrunkwriting

[dadrunkwriting]

hi! happy dadwc friday c: how about some solavellan with the prompt of: Just when you think you have it figured out, something new begins to take.

-broodwoof

thank you for the prompt! This is definitely a good one for Solas haha. I love to write him being clueless @dadrunkwriting

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It took Solas a long time to figure out how to be a person. If he's honest, he's not sure he was ever very good at it: the easy intimacies of the other elves always seemed to elude him. Still he thought, after a few thousand years or so, that he must have encountered all the surprises his physical existence had to offer.

But then – the Conclave, the breach, the Inquisition. And Eirlan Lavellan.

At the beginning, she says to him that she will protect him. Solas tells himself that it is funny. This quickling child, stating so confidently that she will protect him – the Dread Wolf, the great liar, the patron saint of betrayal.

But there's a part of him which does not find it funny at all, though he dares not examine that instinct too closely.

He recognises an attraction to her; this is unwise, of course, but he is not particularly alarmed. It feels harmless and innocent, a nostalgic glimpse back at the person he once was, before everything went so terribly wrong. It's not as if anything could happen between them. She called him hahren once – she sees him as an old man, as indeed she should. It's a small pleasure, one he can indulge in without cost.

She wants to learn, and Solas is happy to help with that. And soon enough she doesn't just want to learn, she wants to debate, and Solas is even happier to help with that. They walk through the Hinterlands side by side, arguing fiercely about an obscure point of higher-order elemental theory: Solas ought to have the advantage but magic has changed since his time, and she has a way of thinking about the topic that he has not before considered. He becomes quite heated, as he tries to make his argument.

Varric sighs and says to Cassandra 'I think you messed up, Seeker. You wanted an impressive military force and instead you managed to recruit the two biggest nerds in all of Thedas.'

Solas covers up a laugh. Sometimes he snorts a little, when he laughs. For reasons that are obscure to him, he suddenly feels self-conscious about this.

In the evening, they make camp and set up their tents. The Herald always shares with Cassandra, and he with Varric. Tonight will be no different. But as they hammer in the pegs together Varric says, 'Perhaps you should switch with Cassandra for tonight, huh? Give you a break from my snoring.'

It is a joke; of course it is a joke. But for a moment Solas considers it and he is struck, overwhelmed, by a terrible, profound ache in his bones. His pulse beats a quick, urgent rhythm against his temples. It isn't even sex that he's picturing. He just has a vision of him and Eirlan lying there, facing each other but not touching; speaking quietly in low voices, sheltered in that intimate darkness. Her breath on his skin, that's all.

He is, frankly, bewildered. It is such a strange thing to want so very fiercely.

When Eirlan comes back from the river, her wet hair twisted up behind her head, he looks at the nape of her neck and has a vague, confused thought that he would like to put his lips there. Or perhaps just the palm of his hand. Like an offering.

Solas knows what desire is. He is not inexperienced. This – well, clearly it is desire, but it's something else too. Something new.

It's exhausting. It's unacceptable, really. This time, this time, he really thought he had it all figured out. And yet; even now, wandering through the ruins of the world that he himself shattered, his mortal life continues to surprise him.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy dadwc! How about “I thought I was about to die. I figured I should tell you the truth before that happened” from the ‘I accidentally told you I loved you’ prompt list for Ethiriel/Lucanis or whoever strikes your fancy!

Happy Friday! | @dadrunkwriting

This made me realize I might need to spend more time with my Rook x Lucanis.

Words: 140

Ethiriel had not thought about the words she spoke when she left Lucanis. To face Elgar’nan and die was the worst case scenario, knowing that there was a chance that if it were not Elgar’nan’s hand, it would have been Solas’. 

Climbing down from the Archon’s palace, as the red eclipse faded from the sky and the sunlight shined on her face, Ethiriel felt a hand on her shoulder before being turned, pulled into the waiting embrace of one dear assassin. 

“See?” She laughed, though there were tears welling up in her eyes. “I told you we’d win.”

“You also said that you loved me. Just in case.”

“You know, I thought I was about to die.” She pulled back, a small smile creeping at the corner of her lips. “I figured you should know the truth. Just in case.”

[dadrunkwriting]

hi! happy dadwc friday uwu intrigued by eirlin/solas, maybe with the i accidentally told you i love you prompt of: once this is all over... let's talk about this again. -broodwoof

Happy Friday! | @dadrunkwriting

I'll be honest, I had no clue where this one was going.

Words: 213

“Once this is over… Let’s talk about this again.” 

Solas nodded, taking a step back. He was falling right back into his old self again, ever the humble apostate with knowledge beyond one’s understanding of the Fade. 

It was easy, perhaps, to allow herself to be distracted in the days that followed. Replaying his words, Ar lath ma, vhenan in her head again, and again. Finding herself drifting off into her daydreams during the War Council meetings, spending more time in the library that overlooked Solas’ spot in the rotunda.

Then Crestwood happened. And she had not been entirely sure that it was the right idea to let herself fall in love so easily. At times, Eirlin felt a fool, not knowing just what would make Solas change his mind. 

He was a distraction, but never an unwelcome one. And then, he vanished after the victory against Corypheus. Two years of hearing nothing of Solas, or where he had gone, she was almost convinced it was her that had driven him off. To then learn he was the Dread Wolf, to then shouting var lath vir suledin at him, in hopes he could understand her. 

All because when it was over, she didn’t get her chance to tell him she loved him back.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC!! Would love “Being clever never got me very far” for Solavellan OR “Did I disappoint you?” for Neverook :)

Hello! Thank you for the prompt!

I'm glad you picked this one because I think of Solas every single time I hear the line 'being clever never got me very far' so this is perfect. @dadrunkwriting (my Lavellan is called Eirlan)

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Solas is clever. He knows that he's clever. There's no possible room for doubt about the matter: even his enemies have never tried to dispute it.

He's undeniably very clever.

So he just doesn't understand why everything he tries to do always turns to ashes in his hands.

He thinks of this, in the days after the Temple of Mythal, when they have a short period of respite. The army has not yet returned to Skyhold, and such a marvelous peace has fallen over the castle. As if they've stumbled into another world altogether. The late summer sun pours itself sweetly over the ramparts, turning this place built for war into a fleeting, foreboding wonderland. Solas lies with his head in Eirlan's lap in the orchard and watches the blossoms fall into her hair. All his mortal wanderings, for this one afternoon.

There should not be blossoms at this time of year, but the castle has provided them for her. The castle loves her; of course it does. How could anyone fail to do so?

He's been telling himself all along that soon he will have to leave her, but in that long, lovely afternoon he changes his mind. There's a solution. There has to be a solution, because in all his many years nothing has ever made him feel this way: like he's dying and yet coming alive, all at once.

He is clever, he knows that. He just has to think hard enough, and he'll figure it out.

And so he plots for days, arranging his arguments, deciding which truths to tell and which to withhold. Regimenting his explanations, as if somehow the right words can make his story less bleak, less shameful.

But then he's standing there at the lake in Crestwood with Eirlan in his arms, and all of his scheming comes to a shuddering halt. He can't tell her. He can't do it. No amount of planning, no brilliant arguments are going to help him here.

He gasps, helplessly, as the one thing that's been keeping him alive slips out of his hands. He stumbles out of the cave and into the forest and falls to his knees. Breathing like he's dying, or like he doesn't want to live. What is the good of all his cleverness? What is the point?

Solas is tired of being clever. He wants to be something else. He wants a different kind of story where things go right for him, just this once.

[dadrunkwriting]

happy dadwc :) sending you "Shivering in a place where the Veil is thin" for Eirlin and Blackwall and/or Solas

Happy Fridayyyyyy! | @dadrunkwriting

This was a bit of a challenge, considering I still need to figure out their dynamics a bit. But the exercise was a good one! Thank you for the prompt!

Words: 237

The Exalted Plains at night had been colder than what she had expected. The Anchor had flared angrily as they made camp for the night, Varric had taken up cooking while the other three settled in around the fire.

“The Veil is thin here.” Solas nodded, even as Blackwall shrugged off his gambeson and draped it over Eirlin’s shoulders. “That would explain the cold.”

“But that does not seem to affect you, Solas. Seeing that you are one, a mage, and two, a self proclaimed Fade expert.”

“I suspect it might be the Anchor.” Solas waved his hand, beckoning her to sit closer. “You might need a few extra layers in the night, if we are to continue on our path.”

“You suspect that everything that might be wrong with me to be the Anchor.”

“Everything that’s happened to you has been because of the Anchor. He has a point.” Blackwall patted her shoulders as they sat huddled around the fire. Eirlin leaned against Blackwall’s shoulder, letting Solas look over the Anchor as the fire crackled on.

“Not helping.”

“Maybe some good ol’ fashioned stew would help. It’s a Ferelden thing. Apparently, good for camping.”

“I didn’t think you were in Ferelden that much Varric.”

“I wasn’t. This one’s from Hawke.” Varric passed out bowls, steam rolling off into the night air. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“So, what are the chances this kills us?”

“From Hawke? High.”

[dadrunkwriting]

"Soft kisses turning rough" with meira x lucanis?

HI THANK YOU. These two are a little ridiculous, but I had fun with this.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1169

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Meira squinted at the illuminated manuscript laid out on the table before her. It was written in Common, supposedly, but she could barely make heads or tails of it. 

“So, what do you think the answer is?” Kieran asked, not unkindly. The piece of parchment in front of him was covered in runes and equations, where Meira’s was suspiciously blank. 

Meira stifled a groan. She was sort of hoping Connor or Lysas would take pity and give her the answer, but they sat opposite her and Kieran, bickering over something that seemed like it had more to do with philosophy than spell work. The ginger mage hailed from Redcliffe in Ferelden, the son of minor nobles, and he was quick to tell everyone in their study group how much better they would have had it if the Circles were still around. No one cared to argue with him, since he was sort of a sad sack. Except Lysas, who was a city elf  and had presumably already been through a lot. They’d both been a part of the mage rebellion, so it was sort of interesting to watch them argue over their differing ideologies. But not while she was supposed to be figuring out the difference between an enchantment and abjuration spell. 

“We can’t just wait for your mum to go over it?” Meira asked. 

Kieran gave her a sympathetic look, because Lady Morrigan was lounging in the front of the room — once a scriptorium for Chantry brothers and sisters, off the Grand Cathedral’s library — her feet up on the desk, absorbed in her own tome. This was supposed to be an “advanced study” for the Aviary’s mages, but most were placed in it because they, like Meira, didn’t actually have much in the way of magical training. Kieran did, because he was the son of Morrigan, Empress Celene’s occult advisor; Lysas and Connor did because they were old enough ton have been placed in Circles and then, after the war against Corypheus, been settled in (competing) schools of private study. Morrigan catered to them out of her own interest, more often than not, which made Meira feel… well… hopelessly behind, which was not uncommon to her in most fields of academics. 

Kieran was going over the formula for her for the third time when the door opened and in strode Lucanis. 

Meira dropped her quill. 

Morrigan looked up, squinting suspiciously. “May I help you?” 

Lucanis, wordlessly, held up a feather duster. Meira clenched her teeth. He looked beautiful, but then, he always looked beautiful, long hair pulled up and away from his face, secured at the crown of his head, falling over his shoulders. 

She did not know if Lady Morrigan knew much about him — the stir he’d caused joining the Aviary, nor the punishment he’d incurred after dueling Jude de Chalons in the street a couple weeks back. Maybe Morrigan did, she seemed to be high up in the echelons of power in this place, and she knew Celene, which certainly meant she knew about Gaspard and probably his nephew too. Most of the recruits, including her son, knew about Jude, because he was, well, sort of an arsehole. 

If Morrigan knew any of this, though, she didn’t show it. With a dismissive sweep of her hand, she banished Lucanis to do whatever it was servants with feather dusters did. Which in his case, was look direct at Meira and, with a tip of his head, motion toward the rows of bookcases in the back of the room.

Meira felt her face heat up. None of her friends seemed to notice, thank goodness, nor did they think it strange when she excused herself and weaved in between the other tables with studious mages at them. She walked into an alcove cordoned off by an arrangement of bookcases, out of sight of prying eyes. 

Lucanis stood in the corner, and for his part, he was running the duster along the edge of a shelf. 

Meira dashed over to him. “What are you doing?” she hissed. 

“I’m working,” he whispered.

Then he grabbed her and kissed her. 

Meira wanted to protest, but unfortunately for her, he was pretty good at kissing and the move effectively silenced her. His lips were soft, his beard pleasantly scratchy, and his fingers light and nimble on the nape of her neck, under her hair. He leaned over her, gripping the bookshelf above her, and let the kiss linger. When they parted, he leaned his forehead against hers, their giddy breaths hot and shallow between them. 

“I don’t think this counts as working,” Meira murmured. 

“I’m taking a break.” He kissed her again, lightly. 

“I’m supposed to be working too, you know.” 

“You ought to take a break, also.” Another kiss. 

Meira put her arms around his neck. Even through his doublet, she could feel how warm and muscular he was. “We’re going to get into so much trouble.” 

Lucanis shrugged. “I am already being disciplined. How much worse can it be?” Chuckling, he put his hands on her face and tilted her chin up. They kissed again and again, growing rougher and more urgent each time. “Though I admit, I do like it better when you do it—” 

They continued on like this a little longer. His fingers raked through her hair and tugged lightly at her scalp. She pulled him closer; her lips parted and he poked at her tentatively with his tongue, which made her giggle. Meira caught his bottom lip between her teeth and he let out a strangled whimper of pleasure. 

“Meira?” 

She stifled a shriek. She launched herself out from behind Lucanis, trying to tuck him behind her as if he wasn’t a full head taller. Kieran peered around the corner of the opposite book case, peering in at the alcove. 

He looked a lot like his mother, with a tangle of jet black hair and eyes that seemed near golden in the light streaming in from the high, arched windows. But instead of being horrified, he just seemed confused. 

“Are you coming? We’re about to go over the answers.”

“Um.” Meira laughed, high and shrill. “This, um, isn’t what it looks like.” 

Kieran’s dark brows furrowed. “What’s... it supposed to look like?” 

Meira glanced over her shoulder and gaped. Lucanis had vanished into thin air. As had the feather duster. 

“Nothing!” Meira squeaked. “It’s supposed to look like nothing. I’ll, er, be right there. Thanks.” 

Kieran left, and Meira looked around in a sort of panicked disbelief. 

“L-Lucanis?” she whispered. 

From atop the bookcase came a noise like one might summon a cat. Meira craned her neck up. Lucanis, visible only from the eyes upward, looked down at her. 

“How did you even—” 

As if in reply, he gripped the edge of the bookcase with both hands and flipped down, landing silently beside her. He had the handle of the duster in his teeth. 

“Attractive,” Meira said fondly, flicking the end of a feather with her fingers. 

[dadrunkwriting]

happy friday and welcome!! how about solas tending to the anchor with an inquisitor of your choice?

Figured I'd merge these two prompts; thanks so much!! I chose Elenara; she’s one of my Lavellans and is largely nonverbal :)

Kudos to @dadrunkwriting and @contreparry <3

Everything about the Storm Coast made Elen shudder. The cold, the damp, the spiders, the open ocean constantly within view... All of it was disagreeable except the soothing rain sounds at night.

Varric, in comparison, was in perfect agreement by way of doing all of the complaining for her. This was half the reason she enjoyed having him around so much. Who needed to voice their thoughts when a scruffy dwarf could do it loudly for them? The mute “Herald of Andraste” needed no mouthpiece, not on the Storm Coast. Her misery was known because it was a misery shared.

And as much as he liked to publicly eschew “dwarven” culture, Varric slept like a damn rock. He had no problems whatsoever with her storming his tent for the hedgemage he shared it with— not even tonight. The constant cold and damp had decided to grace her with muscle aches. And her Mark, fickle thing, hadn’t yet decided if it was now a part of her or still an unwelcome guest. Could it participate in said aches and pains? Well, of course; no need to be rude, said her hand and forearm. The betrayal of it all.

Their group of four had spent enough time on the road together by now— to and from Haven, to other places— that there was a routine around the Mark’s flares in the night, now. Solas would wake by virtue of being a startlingly light sleeper; she would present the hissing and spitting mark, gritting her teeth, and he would quickly reach out his own hand. Reach to say wordlessly each time, “Give me yours; let me look at it”. There was no improvement needed for their method.

But tonight felt… strange. Different somehow. She merely stood in the doorway, drenched from pouring rain but reluctant to soak the tent’s dry interior. He was already awake, and the look on his face unreadable. Maybe the dream he’d woken from was a dream sorely needed, and here she was. Disturbing it.

Solas bade her in anyhow. From there, the routine was familiar; the magic that wrapped her hand and arm liked to seep under her skin, into her bones, and still the pain. Her deep sigh was the same as it was the time before, and the time before that. It was only once she noticed his touch lingered longer than it ever had before that she saw her own hand twitching, and looked to see his face tilted in question. Both were new.

She nodded.

He sank back to his feet, to sit— slowly pulling her down with him. “You may wish to roll up your sleeve.” He still sounded sleepy; that was something worth a quirk of her lip. Cute.

And once she had, there were hands on her arm, again— no magic this time. Slowly pressing into the tissue, and kneading out what ached. Painful, as all good massages were, but the good kind of pain. He even moved to work above her elbow, and a particular dig into her tricep had everything further down her arm tremble with relief.

The relief felt palpable enough Elen knew her eyes would water. “Thank you,” she blurted. It was a hoarse, quiet sound, and the both of them were startled by it. The raw, unexpected tenderness... that was what was different. She had a name for it now.

It seemed Solas did, too. Whatever strange expression his dreams had given him had been washed away now that she had been here long. “You are most welcome.”

She had sat to dry off some more, after— and he had walked her back to her own shared tent, under a barrier that kept the rain off.

[dadrunkwriting]

happy friday! how about “This reminded me of you” with hawke and a character of your choice?

Happy Friday! This one was a short one (irl kinda got in the way while writing it). But this was a fun one, though a bit sad.

Words: 196 | @dadrunkwriting

“Good, you’re here.” Aveline had rounded the desk as Marian stepped into the office. “I was about to come looking for you.”

“I got your letter. You said it was urgent.”

“It is.” Aveline had produced a gift from the cabinet set off to the side. “I realize that it has been three years since we met, and I wanted to get you something to celebrate. I found something that reminded me of you.”

The red scarf that she picked from the box looked like the one that Bethany had worn, and Aveline had already tied it loosely around Marian’s neck. 

“There. It suits you.”

Marian rubbed her fingers against the soft fabric, staring blankly at it while Aveline explained she had to convince a vendor to let her buy it. Any tighter around her neck, perhaps if she were to look in the mirror, she would see Bethany. Save for the eyes, those were Mother’s blue, while Bethany had Father’s brown. 

“Aveline, don’t tell me you spent sovereigns on this?”

“Silvers. I am not as bad as you think, Hawke.”

“Sure, let’s see about that when you lose your coin to Isabela during Wicked Grace.”

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC! How about for your solavellan ship: "Did I disappoint you?" from those delicious Florence + the Machine prompts?

Hello! Thank you for the prompt! This feels very solavellan indeed. Angst and bitterness ahead ... @dadrunkwriting

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No, Solas. You didn't disappoint me. You couldn't, because after all, I was always waiting for you to leave.

You weren't just another person who left me; but, also, you were.

I suppose that for a while I let myself imagine that it was different, because you needed me so much. The tumultuous desperation in you as you enveloped me with your arms; the way you would reach for my hand when nobody was looking, like a reflex you didn't know how to suppress. You loved me the way nobody had ever loved me. Maybe I let myself believe, for a little while.

But then. We stood in amongst the broken columns, in the moment of my greatest triumph. I had tried so hard to be everything to everyone; to be good enough. I split the world open and cast my enemy into the abyss. And it was all for nothing. You left me anyway.

I watched you walk away and thought: at some point, I have to start acknowledging the patterns.

The first night you came to my rooms in Skyhold, you said this isn't a good idea, but you did it anyway. That was something of a habit of yours. I didn't ask why it wasn't a good idea, because I thought I knew. I thought you were just saying to me that love wasn't a good idea. That, at least, we could both agree on.

It wasn't a good idea but oh, how I loved you, there in that tender darkness. The windows open, the smell of snow drifting in from the mountains. I undressed you and traced the lines of your body, held your hips in my hands. Kissing the faint scars. You pretended that you weren't crying, but I could see that you were.

Afterwards, you slept, and I did not. I lay there in the dark, thinking desperately don't hurt me don't hurt me, please don't hurt me; but of course you did.

[dadrunkwriting]

For the DADWC, from the "group chat" prompt list: “What are the Deep Roads if not the highways of Thedas?” perhaps for Surana?

Happy Friday! Thank you for the Prompt. | @dadrunkwriting

Another short one!

Words: 186

“It just had to be the Deep Roads.” Athell groaned as they continued forwards. 

She swore up and down that they had passed the same pillar at least twice, a pile of rubble in the same formation just about the same. There was no doubt in her mind that they were lost, somewhere in the Deep Roads on their way to find Branka.

“It shouldn’t be that bad. Dwarves are able to navigate it just fine.” Lonan called over his shoulder, taking the lead as they followed the wall to the left.

“So Oghren is supposed to be guiding us?” Athell shook her head, trying to keep up as Lonan rounded the corner. “Great, so you are saying we might die down here.”

“What are the Deep Roads if not the highways of Thedas?” Lonan was far too chipper about being lost, aimless in the cavernous labyrinth that was the Deep Roads, depending on the drunken dwarf to guide them to where Branka’s party was last seen. “Your faith is lacking today, my friend.” 

“My faith in highways tends to be above ground, not under it.”

[dadrunkwriting]

hI HELLO HAPPY FRIDAYYYY! For Caelen/Lucanis, how abouuuut: [ listen ] sender listens to receiver explain something they're passionate about (ordinary things that feel intimate) prompts??

heyy thanks for the prompt! for @dadrunkwriting

Caelen wasn’t sure when he had stopped listening. At some point, Lucanis’s voice had become background noise — something pleasant to hear but impossible to focus on. He rested his chin on his hand, watching from behind the kitchen counter.

Lucanis worked with impressive precision, the knife in his hands moving too fast for Caelen to track. He chopped the ingredients swiftly, effortlessly. Contrary to the battlefield, he handled the blade with a gentler touch, though Caelen knew exactly how deadly those hands could be. It was almost unfair how easy Lucanis made it look, as if cooking was just another skill he had mastered without breaking a sweat.

Not to mention, he looked good while doing it. Ridiculously so.

“This is where most people go wrong,” Lucanis said, tipping a handful of rice into the sizzling pan. “They add onions, which ruins the texture. You want an al dente paella, not something mushy.”

A smirk tugged at Caelen’s lips. “Oh? Does that mean we never have to buy onions again?”

Lucanis shot him an amused glance. “We do, just not for this.”

Caelen hummed in response, but his attention had already drifted. The way Lucanis’s sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, the shift of muscle beneath the skin as he worked — it was all just too distracting. Even the damned apron looked good on him. Caelen forced himself to stop staring, trying to concentrate on the actual dish.

“You’re not listening, are you?” Lucanis didn’t even look up as he stirred the pan.

Caelen arched a brow. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he straightened up in his seat, resting his elbows on the counter. “I’m completely invested in learning how to make a paella.”

Lucanis chuckled, a warm sound that made Caelen’s heart skip a beat. Their eyes met for a brief moment, his gaze knowing, teasing. “Forgive me. I had the impression you were… distracted.”

Caelen should have had a comeback ready. He was quick with words, always had been.

But then Lucanis turned back to the stove, firelight flickering against his skin, and whatever remark Caelen had died in his throat. The way Lucanis carried himself, confident and in control, was the same way he fought. Except there, he was at ease, entirely in his element.

And that was dangerous.

Not because Lucanis was an Antivan Crow, or because he could kill a man a hundred different ways with a butter knife. 

But because this felt like something — something more than playful, meaningless flirting.

Caelen swallowed, lowering his gaze to the floor. Anything to avoid the way Lucanis moved so naturally in this space, as if he belonged there.

Soon, Lucanis plated the rice, setting the dish down in front of him with a satisfied nod. “Here,” he said, sliding a fork toward Caelen. “Tell me what you think.”

Caelen took it without a word. He stabbed a bite of paella, ignoring the way Lucanis watched him expectantly, and slowly chewed the food.

It was unsurprisingly perfect.

He set the fork down, meeting Lucanis’s gaze with a deliberately placed smirk. “Well, you really do know how to make paella. Though, for the sake of fairness, I should probably try it a few more times... just to be sure.”

Lucanis let out a short laugh. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

Their eyes lingered on each other a moment too long, the air charged with something unspoken. A pleasant scent of spices and fresh herbs filled the kitchen. It smelled of something dangerously close to comfort. Home.

Caelen pushed back from the counter, suddenly needing some distance. “I’ll let the others know dinner’s ready,” he said, turning before Lucanis could say anything else.

He didn’t look back. Because if he did, it would be harder to ignore the strange feeling growing in his chest. One that was far too risky to name.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday! How about "A message between two companions about Rook" from the codex prompts?

Absolutely! Here's some Emmerich and Lucanis discussing Mourn Watch Rook for @dadrunkwriting! Veilguard spoilers apply!

Emmerich was not surprised to find the first note on his desk. Lucanis had questions about the art of necromancy. To be more precise, he had frustrations with the practice. It was perfectly logical. His career, his practice, his life's work, was in dealing death. To learn that death was not an end but simply a stepping stone in a soul's journey must be alarming. Of course Emmerich was unsurprised to find a note. He suspected it would contain a continuation of their previous conversation concerning King Markus- a man is not that lucky, there have been over twenty contracts on his life and he was poisoned seven times, how can a man dodge death with such ease?

Emmerich was honor-bound not to give an honest answer. If he was not, he might say something like this: Even death cannot keep King Markus from ruling Nevarra. Pentaghasts were simply like that, especially when it came to the Van Markhams, and King Markus would not give up his throne to one of that lot. Emmerich heard the whole rant before as he tended to Markus' flesh and bones: They will destroy all we have built up, all we strive to be, and I will not be the Nevarran king who let his kingdom crumble because of THAT SELFISH LOT!

King Markus was very opinionated. Emmerich could recite that rant by heart.

But much to his surprise, Lucanis' note did not address that conversation. No, it was of another matter entirely. It was about necromancy, yes, but concerned something far more... personal.

Emmerich,

Do all members of the Mourn Watch grow up in the Grand Necropolis?

Lucanis

An odd question indeed! Emmerich rounded his desk and sat in his chair before pulling open a drawer and pulling out a fresh place of paper and a pen. He tapped the end of his pen against his cheek as he pondered the best way to answer Lucanis' question. In truth, he wondered how to address the question underlying Lucanis' question. He wasn't just asking if all members of the Mourn Watch were raised in the Grand Necropolis. Lucanis was asking him if Rook was a special circumstance (which she was), or if those of the Mourn Watch were similar to organizations more familiar to him (in other words, the Antivan Crows). But how to answer... Emmerich set pen tip to paper and began to write.

Lucanis,

The Mourn Watch is a sect of the Mortalitasi. One is not 'raised' in the Mourn Watch, they join it. Some join earlier than others, but in general it is an organization that is joined in the fullness of adulthood. Other Mortalitasi join other organizations or find different callings. The Mourn Watch is specifically assigned to tend to the Grand Necropolis, while other Mortalitasi deal with the other minutiae of life, death, and spirits.

In short, no, most members of the Mourn Watch are not raised in the Grand Necropolis. Rook is a special case, one that was much talked of over the years. Many rumors flew about at the time, rumors that higher up members of the organization did their best to hush up. I will not share them here. If Rook wishes to disclose them to you, she may. But know that her childhood was not typical for necromancers, Mortalitasi, or the Mourn Watch. If you have any further questions, please do write to me. I would be happy to answer them.

Emmerich

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday!! Would love to see your take on “Rook’s shopping list” 🥰

Here's Mourn Watch Rook's shopping list for @dadrunkwriting! It's a continuation of this fill!

Elena held her shopping list tightly in her hand, the paper crinkling in her grip as she nervously glanced at the door leading to the pantry. No one was in the dining hall or kitchen, and she didn't hear anything (or anyone) behind that closed door. Lucanis was out, then, and everyone else was tending to business elsewhere. No one would witness her write down her own requests on Lucanis' shopping list. No one would know.

The subterfuge was ridiculous. There was nothing shameful about making a list of requested items and asking Lucanis to look for and purchase them. He asked her to do so! And nothing on the list was odd! She didn't ask for strange magical tools or obscure alchemical ingredients. She didn't request he bring her tomes on blood magic or necromancy or anatomy. Her list was... normal! Perfectly normal! So why all the shame? Why the fear of being seen?

Because you are too much, her guilt whispered, eager to jump upon her insecurities. Too full of questions, too intense, too much for anyone to endure for long. All you do is make demands, and this will just be another set of them. Fetch this, get that, accomplish this task, do that chore- she couldn't ask for more. She wouldn't ask for more. Elena glanced down at the list in her hand and scanned the one Lucanis pinned to the wall, hoping that perhaps someone else requested what she wanted. No such luck.

Write it down, another part of her murmured. Write ONE thing down. Lucanis asked, you said you'd think about it, you have thought about it- this is the last step! Write it down! Add to the list! You are here, you have wants, all you need to do is give those desires a voice! She looked down at the items on her own list once more, every item more of a luxury than a necessity, spurred by a childhood memory of freshly baked sandwich cookies with a jam filling and powdered sugar sprinkled on top. She did not need them. She didn't NEED anything. But... Elena reached out, took a pencil off the countertop below the list, and quickly wrote her own down before she could change her mind.

Flour

Black Currant Jam

Almonds

Lemon

Butter

White Sugar

Confectioner's Sugar

Cinnamon

She set the pencil down with a loud clatter and fled the dining room, heart caught in her throat. She wanted to laugh- all that hesitation, all that skulking about, and there had never been a need! No one stopped her, no one demanded answers, no one even looked askance! You can ask, you can ask, you can ask! Nearly wild with delight, Elena only stopped her retreat to kneel down and pet Assan before racing back to the main building of the Lighthouse.

Meanwhile in the kitchen, a dark shape dropped from the rafters and approached the pinned list. Lucanis unpinned the list, read it, and slowly smiled.

"That's a start," he murmured.

[dadrunkwriting]

For the DADWC, from the 'budding romance' prompt list: "you're very distracting, you know," perhaps for Solas/Eliana?

This was so fun, omg. I didn’t think I’d really ever write DAI Eliana/Solas but this really sold me on it. They’re just so cute and happy here…. ;A; Thank you for the prompt!

For @dadrunkwriting

———

Audience: General | Pairing: Solas/Eliana Lavellan | WC: ~650 | CW: none

———

Eliana stirs the slowly bubbling stew, musing over the day’s events. They had spent most of it chasing down wild rams, eventually gathering enough to provide food for the refugees for the foreseeable future. It had been a struggle, with only Varric among them really suited to the task, but they managed.

All of this still felt like a bizarre dream - or nightmare, some days - to Eliana. She was regularly surrounded by more shems than she’d seen in her life, by their ‘chant’; isolated from even the non-Dalish elves by the mark on her hand. Her one comfort, so far, had been her talks with Solas. They speak about magic, spirits, the Fade and more, and it’s like she’s back home, listening to Deshanna. As her mind turns to Solas, her eyes do as well, leaving her careful watch of the stew to steal a glance at him. She’s surprised when they make eye contact, quickly looking back at the food. Still, Eliana can’t help but smile. Creators, I hope I’m not blushing.

After a moment, she finds her eyes wandering his direction again, almost as if she can’t help it. He’s leaning against a nearby tree, his sketchbook resting against his legs, and she watches as he adds a few quick, light strokes to the page. Solas’ movements are so gentle, so precise, and she can’t help but wonder if he’s always been an artist, in some way.

Eliana looks back at the fire, adding a little heat when she can be sure the Seeker isn’t watching. The other woman had seemed surprised the first time Eliana suggested using magic to cook. They’ve been making non-magical fires each night since then, but if she doesn’t do something they’re not going to have any cooked food to eat tonight. Thankfully, the Seeker is distracted, pouring over a map of the area in order to decide what to do next. She gives the stew a good stir, then lets it sit and continue cooking, pulling her long braids into her lap. Eliana runs her hands over them, checking for stuck twigs or leaves, but looks up suddenly when she feels eyes on her. She bites back a smile when she finds herself making eye contact with Solas yet again, trying not to laugh, or blush, but ultimately failing at both.

“You’re very distracting, you know,” she says, turning back towards the pot. She smirks at him from over her shoulder. “If this burns, I’m telling Varric it’s your fault.”

He closes his sketchbook, tucking it under his arm as he slowly rises to his feet. Eliana looks away for a moment, tossing her braids over her shoulder - away from the heat of the fire - and is surprised when he speaks from behind her.

“Perhaps I’ll tell the Seeker it burned because you used magic to heat it.” Solas’ voice is low, quiet enough that only she’ll hear it, and has a playful edge to it that delights her.

She whips around to face him. “You wouldn’t!” Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, and she’s fighting to hold back the grin that threatens to overtake her face. She checks to make sure neither of their other companions have heard them, feeling like a little kid again, whispering conspiringly with her brothers behind the aravels over some prank they had planned. Solas remains impassive, although the barely noticeable glint in his eye betrays his amusement.

“Then I’ll tell Varric you’ve never heard a single story about the Champion of Kirkwall.” She crosses her arms, playing at seriousness, despite the wide grin on her face and the slowly creeping blush on her ears.

“Hmmm..” Solas’ hands disappear behind his back, undoubtedly interlocked behind him as he pretends to think. After a moment, he makes eye contact with her again, his blue-grey eyes piercing her own. There is a rare smile on his face. “It appears we’re evenly matched. Also, I believe the stew is burning.”

[dadrunkwriting]

Hey happy DADWC, how about Rook’s notes on the Lighthouse/Caretaker from the Rook Codex prompt list? ~Mythalsknickers

Absolutely! Here's some Inas for @dadrunkwriting! Veilguard Spoilers apply!

Inas wasn't much of a writer. Writing left evidence, traces of a person, and that was bad policy in her line of work. She wasn't supposed to be easy to track, and writing left a trail. But sometimes writing was necessary. You had to share information somehow, and writing was the most efficient way to do it. Leave notes, send letters, write messages in code- it had to be done, though she didn't enjoy it. She hated leaving evidence.

She hated writing goodbyes even more.

Inas practiced goodbyes out of necessity. She wrote them in a journal, pages upon pages of farewells to her fellow Crows, living and dead. They were farewells that she hoped someone would find when she was gone, because fighting a god wasn't going to end happily. She wasn't going to survive it. And then... she somehow did. She kept on living, and the goodbye letters had to be edited as she wrote more and more about her life and everything she experienced. The goodbyes became updates, became one-sided conversations, and soon this was less of a documentation of final farewells and more of a record of her experiences. Evidence of her life. Even now as she pulled the journal out from between her bedframe and mattress, grabbed a pen from her bookshelf, and set to writing another entry.

Tuesday

Still alive. Spent the day in the Lighthouse, resting my leg. Venatori cut on my thigh. Bellara's taken a look at it and wrapped it but warned me to keep off it while it heals or else it will open again. Won't be moving around much in any case, seeing as she's set all of our company to watching over me. If Emmerich wanders in one more time asking if I require anything, I may well scream (darling man that he is, he frets far too much over a mere scratch). Bellara somehow convinced the Lighthouse Caretaker to visit as well, and there is nothing quite as alarming as a spirit drifting through a wall to stare at you.

Speaking of the Caretaker... I don't quite understand what they are. Emmerich's explanation of 'spirit' aren't satisfactory. I am no Mage, and I have little more than a layman's understanding of magic. But even taking all of that into account, the Caretaker is... unique. Unusual. But at least they are friendly, so I can't complain. I think that they might even care for us in their own way. I wonder how we can show them some appreciation.

I wonder what they think of knitwear.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday! For DADWC: "when does a man become a monster?" for Anders/Warden, maybe? 🥺

Thank you for this prompt! My Warden is Eluvia Amell, who uses she/her pronouns.

For @dadrunkwriting

“I don’t know about this,” Anders says, shifting his weight from side to side. “What if something goes wrong?”  

“Then we’ll handle it,” Eluvia says firmly, but not unkindly. “We’ll figure it out like we figure everything out.” 

“Well, excuse me for being hesitant about risking my life.” Anders rolls his eyes. 

Eluvia frowns. “You don’t have to do this, Anders,” she points out. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I know.” Anders sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know that. I do. It’s just– I’m just nervous is all. I’ve never exactly surrendered my body to a spirit before.” 

“It’s not surrendering your body. You’ll still be yourself. Justice will just… also be there.”

“In theory.” 

“I knew someone who carried a spirit inside of her,” Eluvia reminds him. “Wynne never lost control of herself and she never became an abomination. I can’t imagine why this would be any different, especially when you and Justice are already friends.”

“I still can’t believe Wynne of all people gave herself to a spirit,” he mutters. “She always wagged her finger at me for experimenting too much with magic.”

Eluvia shrugs. “People change.” 

“Yes, that they do, I suppose.” Anders chews on his nails, a nervous energy still surrounding him. “I guess the question is how much I will change after this. When does a man become a monster?”

Eluvia’s gaze softens. “You won’t become a monster, Anders.” She wraps her arms around his shoulders. “And even if you became a murderous abomination, I’d still love you all the same.”

Anders snorts. “I won’t be nearly as handsome. Have you seen abominations? Most of them look like things out of a nightmare.” 

“Yeah, but you’d be my nightmarish horror.” 

Anders laughs, unable to help himself. “Alright, alright. I’ll give it some more consideration.” 

“Think it over. No one will force you into anything.” Eluvia presses a kiss to his cheek. “Now, quit being so over dramatic and kiss me.” 

That’s exactly what Anders does. 

[dadrunkwriting]

happy dadwc friday, welcome!! :) sending you "Just when you think you have it figured out, something new begins to take" for Neve/Rook

Thank you very much for the prompt! This was a lot of fun, and definitely a perfect quote for Neve @dadrunkwriting ---

This year, Neve Gallus finally has it all figured out.

She has her client list, finally enough to make a living. She has her contacts, a web of connections over the city. She has a potted plant growing on her windowsill, and she's kept it alive, all this time. When Neve waters her plant she thinks to herself it's like a kind of miracle: the webs in the translucent leaves, all coming apart at the veins.

She has her little apartment over the water. At night, she can hear the city breathing. It's her favorite kind of solitude.

Neve Gallus knows how to put herself together. She can construct a self from haberdashery and fabrics: an earring, a slanted hat, the careful folds of her necktie. The high collar of her jacket. She can trace herself back to the places where all of these things came from, like it's just a story. It's a collection of stories that she's strung together to make sure nobody can ever get at the real story underneath.

Neve Gallus doesn't ask anyone for anything. She can do it all herself. She always has.

But Rook – well. Rook is different.

Neve tells Rook she needs to go deal with the relic and Rook just says 'Right. Where first?' And Neve feels the words in her chest, as if Rook just reached in and poured a part of herself in there. Warm and sweet, like honey wine.

'This way,' she says. Keeping her voice steady. She's good at that.

'Oh,' Rook says. 'Your earring.'

She reaches up to adjust the earring, where it's caught in Neve's hair. Her fingers brush along Neve's cheekbone. A flutter; a forgotten tenderness.

Neve Gallus doesn't ask anyone for anything. But with Rook, she doesn't need to ask.

Rook doesn't ask anyone for anything either. She, too, is carefully put together: the autumn-coloured layers of her elven robes. The vallaslin, lying sweet and soft on her cheek. The single braid in her hair, swept back. Sometimes Neve catches herself imagining Rook sitting there each morning, braiding her own hair. Those clever fingers. She has no idea why this, of all things, is the image that has caught on the edges of her mind.

A few days after the relic, Rook comes into Neve's office; she's holding a wisp in her cupped hands, like a lily. She opens her hands and offers it to Neve. The wisp's glow touches her face, soft fingers of light. In all the places Neve would like to touch.

The air feels impossibly transparent, between them. There is simply too much light, Neve tells herself.

Rook smiles, and says something inconsequential, and then Neve watches her go. Afterwards she finds herself tracing out the pattern of Rook's vallaslin on her desk, like a a sort of prayer.

She feels delightfully shuddery. She feels utterly in despair.

Just when you think you have it figured out, she thinks to herself, something new begins to take.