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dragonologist-writings · 17 days ago

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Ch 5 - Dissonance

Luck is a tricky thing. Nobody with a straight face and half a brain could ever call Woljif lucky, not with all the rotten deals he’s been cut in his life. Some folks- the actual lucky ones- they get the world served to them on a silver platter. Meanwhile, Woljif’s best bet has always been to catch the crumbs off their plates. But it ain’t all bad. Sure, getting nabbed by the guards was no picnic, and there’d been a minute there when Woljif was certain he’d waste away from boredom before anyone important remembered they’d stuck him down in that basement. Then Piper Chanterelle sashayed down the stairs with her pretty words and winning smiles, and things have been looking up ever since. It’s not in Woljif’s nature to question a good break, and so he doesn’t. Oh, he knows Piper is about as much of a Crusader as he is; she might sweet-talk all the others into looking past her thieflingness, but Woljif knows she’s a woman after his own heart. Like recognizes like, after all, and he ain’t just talking about horns and tails. He’d be running the same scheme as her if he’d only thought of it first (heck, he did think of it, but the whole ‘lost prince’ tale just isn’t hooking as many fish as it should be). ‘Course, Woljif has never gone so far as to pose as an actual Crusader, and for good reason, too- running that kind of con is like juggling daggers. One slip-up, and this gal’s gonna get herself nicked.

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Title: Ballad for the Saints Fandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous Rating: T Status: In Progress (5/?) Main Characters: Knight-Commander Piper Chanterelle, All Companions Additional Notes: Novelization of Piper's Playthrough, Eventual Azata Path, Act 1 Word Count: 19.8k Summary:

When demons descend upon Kenabres, a tiefling bard with no name of her own and no place in the Crusades finds herself caught in the field of destruction. Worse than that, she finds herself inexplicably pulled into the front lines of the city’s defense as she struggles to understand the mighty and mysterious power she wields. Though the power is holy and her memories are muddled, she is certain of one thing: she is not the saint these people need her to be. So Piper does what any good bard does- she spins a song, she weaves a tale, and she makes the story her own.

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chapter 1 below

Death comes in the tolling of a bell.

The sound fills her head, spreads through her bones, reverberates harshly within her chest. It drowns out all other noises which once threatened to overwhelm her, those roars and crashes and shouts. Even her own screams fall suddenly silent as the tolling draws itself out in one long, unwavering cry. When the sound sweeps through her soul, memories come with it, flooding over her mind and slipping like silk between her fingers.

Running through crowded streets as twilight descends on the city.

Dancing in front of an audience, her ribbons a twirling whirlwind around her.

Sitting by the fireplace as her mother brushes her hair.

Watching a performance in hushed awe, envy burning like an ember inside her.

Whispering a prayer to the stars that glitter above like jewels in a dark velvet sky.

Magic rushing to her fingers, and the swell of pride that comes with it.

The cut of steel into her skin.

A gentle tracing of fingers along her arms, the touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

A heavy weight of judgement in the eyes of those who fear her.

Soft notes weaving through the air as she commands the room through the music of her lute.

Long days of stillness and silence.

Pain.

Her voice lifting in song, in screams, in an echo of the whisper soft in her ear- I promise.

A sharp breath bursts from her lungs, and as the deep tones of the bell recede from her mind, she opens her eyes.

The first thing she notices is the raucous pounding in her head.

Stars above, but it feels as if she’s just gone through three barrels of wine. She’s fairly certain she hasn’t- she remembers the festival, yes, but she never actually drinks much at those, and she’s been traveling long enough to know to keep her wits about her…hasn't she? It's difficult to say for certain; yesterday feels so distant now, and her thoughts are hazy and blurred. She tries to pull herself up off the ground and immediately regrets the action as every bone in her body rings out in protest.

(Stars, what has happened to her?)

She sits for a while, just breathing, and ever so slowly, bits and pieces of her memory return. There was a festival. Someone launched an attack- no, not just someone, demons- and she’d gotten lost in the storm of chaos and locusts. Then the ground had crumbled beneath her feet-

With that flash of understanding, the pains and aches make much more sense. She forces her aching head to focus long enough to get a good look around and quickly confirms that, yes, her memories are correct.

She currently is trapped in a giant hole.

Wonderful.

A small, insistent slice of sunlight has managed to slip through the ragged scar in the earth above, illuminating her surroundings. The walls are far too steep and tall to climb- and besides, she has no desire to return to the ruined battlefield above. Thankfully, she’s not completely trapped; in the weak light she can just barely make out a narrow path twisting away into the distant darkness.

She closes her eyes and releases a long sigh. The rhythm of her heartbeat is still echoed by a pulse of pain throughout her body, but she knows she has two choices: stay here and hope that someone will find her and fish her out of this impromptu grave, or set off into the ominous underground tunnels and hope they don’t lead her to some horrid monster’s lair.

This is exactly why she should’ve left Mendev in the dust when she had the chance.

(Didn’t she think that once before? Whe re had she wanted to go?)

The self-pity is comforting, but only for a moment. With a quiet groan, she pushes herself to her feet, stretching out her muscles and trying not to pay much mind to her aches. Sitting here doing nothing is as good as dying, and frankly, that option just doesn’t appeal to her much. The only real choice is to move forward. As far as she can tell, she has nothing but the clothes on her back, but she runs a hand over her pockets anyway. Maybe she has something useful tucked away- a dagger, or if she’s extremely lucky, some health potions…

Her hand comes back dark red and slicked with blood.

The wound is on her chest, large and gaping and bleeding through her tunic. It had escaped her notice before, simply because it doesn’t hurt- and why doesn’t it hurt, it should hurt, shouldn’t it? She automatically clasps her hand to the injury again, but before her fingers reach the wound it’s closed itself, her skin knitting together and leaving only a faint scar along her chest.

Her knees, already sore from the fall, give up the fight completely, and she stumbles back to the ground. She barely notices the fall; she still has one hand pressed to (her neck) her chest, where her strange wound which had certainly been there just moments before has simply stitched itself together. Blood remains- difficult to see against the natural rosy-red of her skin but still very much present, proof that this was more than mere imagination.

“What…” she whispers, her mind now spiraling as this day just keeps getting stranger. Although maybe it’s not so strange- she knows her fair share of magic, after all. (Doesn’t she?) Perhaps she’s spontaneously added healing to her arcane repertoire. Or perhaps she’d simply hit her head in the fall much harder than she thought.

But she can only allow herself a few moments of panicked confusion before deciding that this is one of those times when the wisest thing to do is to not ask questions. At this very moment, she’s not in danger of bleeding to death, and that will just have to be good enough for now.

Returning to the task of escape, she tears a few pieces of fabric from her long skirt- a pity, but it’s already ruined beyond hope of salvaging- and ties one of the cloth pieces around her scar, just in case the wound decides to open up again. The other she uses to tie back her matted silver hair, thanking her stars that no blood is leaking from her head and that her horns remain smooth and unbroken.

Her weapons (weapons?) have vanished, but there’s nothing to be done about that; her trick swords wouldn’t be much use down here, anyway, not if there’s anything truly dangerous lurking in the shadows. She does, at least, find her small carved flute tucked away in her skirts. Maybe it’s silly, but having the familiar (familiar?) object back in her hands is actually quite the comfort.

All in all it isn’t much, but it’s far better than nothing. She’s certainly had to make do with less. (Hasn’t she?)

And so with one hand gripping the flute and the other held aloft to provide a soft magical light, the displaced bard gathers as much courage as she can scrape together and limps off into the shadows.

#chapter update #fanfic #pwotr #ballad for the saints #oc: piper #pathfinder wotr #pathfinder wrath of the righteous

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dragonologist-writings · 22 days ago

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Ch 13 - Before Dawn's First Light

And with that...this fic is officially complete!!

Title: And So They Burned Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: M Status: Complete (13/13) Characters: Shay Surana, Rosalind Amell, Jowan; Various other Circle characters and Demons Ships: Surana/Amell/Jowan, Jowan/Lily Additional Notes: Mage Origin, Angst, Blood Magic, Polyamory, Codependent Idiots in Love Fighting Over Who Gets to Sacrifice Themselves For Each Other Word Count: 72.1k Summary:

And so they burned They raised nations They waged wars -Threnodies 1:8 The world was not a kind place to those touched by magic. Haunted by whispers of demons, fear of the Templars, and memories of the lives taken from them, three apprentices in Kinloch Hold turned to each other and made a world of their own. A chronicling of the Mage Origin in a world where no Grey Wardens are recruited from the Circle, and Rosalind Amell, Shay Surana, and Jowan must decide for themselves how far they will go for each other when their world goes up in flames.

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#dragon age #fic update #and so they burned #amell #surana #jowan

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dragonologist-writings · 1 month ago

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Title: The Weight of Silver Linings Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Rating: T Status: One-Shot Characters: Naia (F!Tav), Wyll Additional Notes: Friendship, Bonding over Family Issues, Missing Scene Word Count: 2.4k Summary:

Wyll’s pact is broken, his father saved. All should be right with the world…but of course, things are never so simple as that. After a tense reunion with his father, Wyll and Naia find themselves contemplating the day’s events as they discuss forgiveness, family, and the twisting path into the future.

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Wyll finds Naia on the roof of the Elfsong Tavern.

She’s easy to spot: a dark shadow against the polished white and gilded gold balcony, overlooking the sprawling city beneath her with a furrowed brow. When Wyll approaches she glances his way but says nothing, though that is not unexpected. She’d stormed off in quite the huff.

If Wyll had asked, the others might have told him it would be wise to leave her here and let her stew in her spite. But of course he can’t do that, not after all that has happened today.

So as is usual, Wyll takes it upon himself to fill the silence in his friend’s wake.

“Quite the view,” he remarks, taking place beside her at the balcony railing. A cliché start, but it’s true. The evening sun paints Baldur’s Gate a myriad of golden hues, its rays bathing the building and streets in warm light before stretching out to glitter upon the gentle waves of the bay. “Look at that ocean- now there’s a sight that’s hard to beat.”

That finally draws a reaction from Naia, even if it is a scoff. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“We drowned today, Wyll.”

“True…but we’re still here. All the more reason to enjoy the view, isn’t it?”

Naia’s composure breaks, and she turns on Wyll in a huff. “Would you stop it? I’m not in the mood, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Not in the mood for conversation?”

“Not in the mood for your happy hero act. Go perform for someone else.”

That one stings a little, Wyll had to admit. He glances away and rests his chin in his hands, his elbows propped against the railing. He’s long gotten used to the weight of his horns but oh, he feels them now, and it takes effort to not let his head sink any lower.

He and Naia must make for quite the view as well, he realizes. Two horned figures, him with his scars and marks of hell, her with her deathly-gray skin and skull-adorned staff. The sight wouldn’t seem so odd out in the frontiers or the shadow-cursed lands. Here in the city, however, things are somehow different.

Wyll can only imagine what his father must have thought the first time he laid eyes on his wayward son.

(He doesn’t have to imagine, does he? He saw it, that horror in his father’s eyes. “What have you done?” he’d demanded, and it was expected but it still hit like a knife twisting in Wyll’s gut. “What have you done?”)

Wyll glances at his friend from the corner of his demon-red eyes, and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m just pointing out that our clouds have some silver linings.”

A moment of silence passes, until Naia heaves a sigh and curses under her breath. “Sorry,” she says, as she runs a hand through her hair. “That…wasn’t fair.”

“It’s okay. We’ve both had a long day.”

She scoffs again. “Wyll Ravengard, you are far too forgiving.”

(“There’s nothing to forgive.” That’s what Wyll had told his father, after it all was laid out. “You wanted to protect the city. I only ever wanted the same. There’s nothing to forgive.” That was when the dark storm passed over Naia’s face, and she’d swept out of the room not long after.)

“Would you feel better if I were cross with you?” Wyll asks now, and Naia glares at him.

“It’s not about me, that’s the whole-” Naia cuts herself off and shakes her head. “I don’t wish to argue with you, Wyll. I’m trying not to. I’m just saying that I understand something of what you’ve been through. And if it were my father-”

“It’s not, though, is it?” Wyll interrupts, sharp and stern. “And didn’t you just say this wasn’t about you?”

“They’re all the same, aren’t they?”

(But it’s not the same, what happened to her. Wyll’s encounter with Naia’s parents was brief, but it was enough to give him their measure. They’re the type of people to shun a tiefling child for the crime of being born; the type of people to lay the family’s every misfortune at their daughter’s feet. There is no misunderstanding between Naia and her own father, only a cold resentment.

Wyll’s heart goes out to Naia for that. But whatever similarities she may see, they are not the same.)

“They’re not,” Wyll says softly. He can sense Naia readying herself to argue, so he takes a deep breath and speaks first. “Your family- from what I’ve seen, they’re something villainous. They’ve got their heads wrong about a lot of things, including you, and they have nobody to blame for it but themselves. And you’re one of the brightest people I’ve ever met, so maybe this doesn’t bear repeating, but just in case: you are better than what they think of you. You saved both myself and my father from Mizora now, and I’ll owe you forever for that.”

That stops Naia in her tracks. She just stares at Wyll a moment, taking in his words, then gives a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t owe me. After everything we’ve been through, I’m the one who owes you.”

“Then try to understand. For me. This wasn’t his fault. He never knew the truth.”

(There had been too much to explain in the aftermath of the Iron Throne, and the accusations from Wyll’s father came down strong. “My son, a monster, twisted beyond recognition.”

Wyll had felt Naia’s anger, then, leaking from her mind into his.

“We should have let you drown”, she’d spat at Ulder Ravengard, and in the moment she’d meant it.)

That anger still simmers within her.

Wyll knows Naia; he’s seen her go soft around the refugees and their children, and he’s seen her risk her life to save people. He’s also been witness to her biting temper, her razored edges. That temper comes out now, hardening her voice as she says, “It shouldn’t have mattered. He knew you.”

She does know how to cut to the quick.

And maybe- maybe she’s right, in her way. Maybe there should have been something unconditional in the bonds between father and child; maybe there should have been a little more faith.

But Wyll can’t chase those maybes, those shouldn’ts and shoulds. There’s enough difficulty in the world without indulging in regret. He needs his silver linings.

“He was always a good father,” Wyll says, gently. “But he had to be a good duke, too.”

Naia scowls and turns her gaze back over the city. “Do you remember…,” she asks slowly, “when you asked me what I would have done in your place? If it had been me, watching that horde about to attack Baldur’s Gate?”

The change in subject catches Wyll off guard. “I remember. And I remember you deflected, as you do.”

A grim smile flits across Naia’s face. “I deflected because the truth is…I would have let this city burn to the ground.”

Her eyes, dark and unreadable as ever, stayed fixed to the view below them. There’s a certainty to her in this moment, just as there had been when she spoke of letting Ulder Ravengard meet his end in Gortash’s prison beneath the sea.

Yet, Wyll’s father stands alive and well in the room below their feet.

(Wyll remembers thinking that his father might not make it, weakened as he was from his imprisonment. He remembers the anguish and the anger over what spectacular cruelty it would be to lose him now, when they’re so close to a real reunion.

He remembers the flash of light from Naia’s Dimension Door as she pulled them both to safety; how she shouted at his father to stay in the sub even as she ran back in search of other prisoners.

Shadowheart was full of panicked fury afterwards, when she had to use her magic to expel the water from Naia lungs. But Wyll could only feel an immense, overwhelming gratitude.)

“I don’t believe you would have gone through with that,” Wyll says.

Naia laughs, wry and dry. “You didn’t know me at seventeen.”

“I still don’t believe it,” he insists. “You’re a better person than you think you are.”

“And you are an impossibly good one,” Naia says firmly, with the conviction of one who has just won an argument. Wyll gives her a curious glance, and she elaborates. “Don’t you see that’s what I’m trying to say? You made an impossible choice, and- look at you! Still with the silver linings and the hope and the forgiveness. Most people, myself included, wouldn’t have lasted a fraction of this time. You deserve better than the hand you’ve been dealt, Wyll. You even deserve to be angry about it. If all those silver linings are weighing you down, you deserve to not be the one who carries them.”

Maybe (maybe) Wyll will agree with Naia one day. But he sees the bitterness that still resides in Naia, and though he does not blame her for it…he does not want it for himself.

“Dwelling on the injustices of the world does nothing to repair them,” he says, a smile playing at his lips. “If we want to make things better, we must be willing to move forward.”

Naia shoots him a sharp look. “If you tell me that’s a quote from your father, I’m going to push you off this roof.”

She’s joking, he’s fairly sure, which means her anger has finally waned. Wyll grants her his most charming grin and dips his head. “That one is a Wyll Ravengard original.”

A reluctant smile crosses her face, even as she rolls her eyes. “Good. Look, I don’t want to tell you how to feel about your father-” Wyll gives her a look of his own, and she relents. “Or fine, maybe I do, even though I know I shouldn’t. But what I can do is remind you that it’s your life. And you’ve done a lot of good with it all on your own. And I know your dad’s got some new task waiting for you now that he’s decided you’re his son again-”

“Naia.”

“Fine, now that he understands.” The words are still too scathing for Wyll’s liking, but Naia is on a roll now so he resigns to letting her continue. “Maybe we do what he asks, maybe we don’t. Just…keep making your own choices. Keep being you, and don’t let him or anyone give you shit about it.”

“Including you?” Wyll asks, acutely aware of the irony, and thankfully Naia simply chuckles.

“Hells, especially me. And especially about stuff like this. I don’t know the first thing about family.”

Wyll does remember Naia’s words later, is the funny thing.

His father ends up offering what Wyll has always wanted- a place back in the city, in the family. Not just at his father’s side, but at the helm of Baldur’s Gate herself. Duke Wyll Ravengard.

It’s not just the title Wyll hears, but everything that comes with it. Home. Honor. Acceptance. He does still want it, all of it, and maybe someday he will return for that life.

But not now.

Naia, of course, is scarcely able to conceal her pleasure when she hears of his decision.

“Blade of Avernus,” she says, testing the sound. She gives him one of her grim smiles. “I like it.”

“Good.” Wyll remembers, again, her words on the roof of the Elfsong. You deserve to be angry.

His heart doesn’t have the space for anger towards his father, that much is still true. But somewhere out there, a demon is still peddling her deals, forcing people into impossible deals and cackling as she watches them squirm.

That, he can be angry about.

“I’ll be hunting Mizora,” he says, and Naia nods as if she expected nothing less.

“I wish you luck,” she says. She pauses, as if fighting to get her next words out right. Finally, she says, “Silver linings…they’ll be hard to come by in Avernus. If anyone can do it, I trust its you. But if you ever need help- well, I’m rubbish at it, but you can always call on me anyway.”

Wyll laughs and holds out an arm, and with only a slight hesitation Naia allows him to pull her into a quick embrace.

“The Blade shall remember.”

Wyll’s father is disappointed, but he understands. Ulder Ravengard lets his son go again- this time with a blessing, and a legendary sword, and a fond embrace.

“You are a better man than most,” he whispers to Wyll before they part. “And a better son than I deserve. I’m sorry it took so long for me to realize that.”

“We got there in the end,” Wyll tells him, and a familiar mix of emotions rises within him. Grief over years lost, a new anxiety for the years ahead.

But beneath that grief lies relief in what has been recovered. Behind that anxiety, hope for what is to come. And above it all, the warmth of knowing that finally, finally, he can have a real conversation with his father again.

Silver linings, as Naia would say. She might claim they’re heavy, and she might be right. but Wyll has always found them to be worth the weight.

(And Naia is wrong about one thing, at least. The thought occurs to Wyll when he overhears her speaking with father one night at the Elfsong when they both think he is gone.

“You’re obviously quite protective of my son,” Ulder says to Naia, and she is silent for a moment.

Wyll can feel the memories floating between the tadpoles. For a moment, he sees himself through her eyes- always willing to help, always leaping into frays, always so good and so noble and gods that’s so annoying but she’s unspeakably grateful for him all the same.

“Your son can take care of himself,” she finally says. “He might be the strongest of all of us. But yes, I suppose I am protective of him. Somebody should be.”

“Good,” Ulder says without hesitation. “I’m thankful he had someone to be there for him when I was not.”

Wyll decides then and there that no matter what Naia says, she does know something about family, after all.)

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #oc: naia #wyll ravengard #fanfic #the weight of silver linings

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dragonologist-writings · 1 month ago

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Title: Ceremonials Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Rating: T Status: One-Shot Characters: F!Tav, Zevlor, Orin (Offscreen) Additional Notes: Character Death, Angst, Grief, Necromancy Word Count: 2k Summary: When Orin taunts the party over the death of an ally, Naia must take a moment to grieve in the only way she knows how.

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It is the smell that strikes you first. Spiced ceremonial oils, cut through with the copper tang of blood.

In the candlelight, Zevlor might almost be sleeping. But his empty eyes stare, his lips slack around a curl of parchment, poking through like a yellowed tongue.

A message.

Naia does not allow grief to take hold of her.

Still, she cannot stop the shock which seizes her instantly, freezing her in place, stopping her breath. She cannot speak- nor, it seems, can her companions. They merely gaze in silent horror at the broken, bloody taunt that has been left for them to find.

In the back of her mind, Naia knows this is exactly the reaction Orin was intending to provoke, and it is the thought of Orin and her intentions which finally spur her into movement. Her muscles take a long moment to catch up with her mind, but eventually they follow suit as she shrugs off the shock (the anger the horror the grief) and retreats to a place of cool, calm focus.

She takes the letter. Reads it quietly. Drops it to the ground. More taunts, that’s all it is, and the message is clear enough without Orin’s words.

In any case, it is not Orin’s words that matter here.

Deep breaths now. No shaking in her hands. Naia reaches out with her palm and reaches in with her magic- but comes back with nothing. A barest whisper of attention brushes against her senses, but the spirit eludes her grasp before the spell can even take hold. The body stares up at her, unmoving and unresponsive.

Naia scowls and drops to her knees beside the body, readying herself for a second attempt.

“Naia.��

Gale’s voice stops her hands in midair. A shaky breath- don’t be shaky, not now, right now you have to stay calm- escapes her lips. “What?”

“Are you certain…”

Naia’s head snaps up and she fixes Gale with a dark glare, daring him to finish his doubt. She knows that he knows what she is trying to do, just as she knows he knows that he has no right to protest. Something shifts in his expression, and he gently says, “Are you certain you wish to do this here?”

In the pause that follows, distant whimpers reach through the haze in Naia’s head. It’s Yenna, she realizes, stifling her cries as she hides behind Wyll’s legs.

And of course the girl is crying, because she thought their camp was a safe place. Naia told her it was a safe place. And now here is this body, with twisted limbs stretched out in mockery of a welcoming gesture, with artistic runes carved into its clammy skin, with the scent of blood and spiced oils hanging over it like perfume.

How could you let this happen?

Naia shakes her head against the intrusive thought and turns her gaze away from the child. “Right,” she says hoarsely. “Right, I should- can we move him?”

“I got him,” Karlach offers, her usual broiling energy gone quiet in the face of the somber scene. She lifts the body with gentle ease, and she’s halfway to the empty temple at the corner of the docks before Naia can force herself back to her feet.

Shadowheart and Gale both follow in her wake, and the group enters the temple with an air of procession. The temple is dim and dusty; it’s likely sat unused for ages, ever since the docks fell into disrepair and transformed from a place of bustling activity to a makeshift campsite for displaced adventurers. Gale sends a small spark of magic through the room as they enter to light the discarded candles, but his efforts don’t do much to lift the gloom.

With a great amount of care, Karlach lays the body out on one of the old stone benches shoved against the temple wall. She takes a step back and hovers there a moment, casting an uncertain glance towards Naia. “What else can I do?”

“I need to concentrate,” Naia answers. “I need to be alone.” A small sliver of guilt traces down her spine as she says it- her companions have just as much right to witness this as she does- but it’s true. The body is intact, the death is recent, the spirit must be close…but it is still a tricky task which lies in front of her. Speaking with the dead is always more difficult where trauma was involved.

(It is more difficult when you knew the dead, Naia’s mind reminds her before she can bite back the thoughts. It is more difficult when you let your emotions cloud your mind.)

If Karlach is offended, she does not show it. She simply nods and takes another step back, a sigh rattling her chest. “It’s a damned shame. No matter what he did, he didn’t deserve this.”

Shadowheart lingers a moment longer, and she extends her hand to Naia in silent offering. Naia takes it, laces their fingers, and gives Shadowheart a reassuring squeeze before gently pulling away. The gesture has become something of a signal between the two, and it’s enough to bring a brief, weak smile to both their lips before Shadowheart turns to go.

And then it is just Naia, and the body, and Gale looking between the two with a furrowed brow. “You realize that you needn’t go through with this?”

Naia has anticipated his protest, and she has an answer at the ready. “If anyone is doing it, it’s going to be me.”

“But nobody needs to do it at all.”

“He probably has information. He can tell us more about the cult, or maybe even Orin’s location.”

“Or maybe Orin knows of your talents and has accounted for them,” Gale counters. “Maybe she knew you would make this attempt, and everything about this was orchestrated to deliver the maximum level of torture.”

He isn’t wrong. Orin has been following them; she is obviously aware that Naia is a necromancer. Naia knows the truth of this, and she knows that there really isn’t a rational reason to do what she is about to do. She knows, and Gale knows she knows, and-

And it doesn’t make sense. With no proper argument, all Naia can say is, “I don’t want her to be the last person he ever spoke to.”

Gale is silent for a long moment. Finally, he releases a heavy breath and nods. “Very well. I will be right outside, if you require any assistance.”

He leaves, and finally, Naia is alone with- with Zevlor.

Naia kneels by the body once more, and she takes a moment to center herself. She breathes deeply, and immediately regrets it as the strong scent of spices assaults her senses, causing her stomach to churn. This was a ceremonial death, judging by the oils and anointments still lingering in the air. It was a slow death, judging by the numerous dagger lines marring the red skin. Karlach was right; it was not a death he deserved.

Naia notes all these things in stoic silence, and when she once more feels calm enough to concentrate, she lifts her hand and begins the spell.

The spirit is slippery, just as before; it winces away, blinks weakly within the Weave. But Naia is patient, and she is focused, and most importantly, she is very good at what she does. Beads of sweat form against her forehead, and she can feel the necrotic energy push back against the skin of her fingers, but she has endured worse for less.

She presses on. She digs deeper. And at long last she manages to take hold of the elusive spirit and guide it back into the body lying limply before her.

Zevlor’s body lifts from the ground, wreathed in a familiar green shimmer. Success. But the job has only just begun; the body now waits in silent anticipation until Naia is steady enough to clear her throat and speak.

“Zevlor. What happened to you?”

His familiar deep tone creaks out reluctantly from his throat, the words halting and labored. “Blessed…by the Chosen…”

The voice catches Naia off guard. She knows what to expect- she’s done this so many times- but still. It is different, doing this with someone she knew. Even so, she presses on, narrowing her query to something more specific. “How did you die?”

“Orin…an offering…”

“Where is Orin now?”

“Temple of Bhaal…underground…”

So recalcitrant, even in death. The short, unhelpful answers stir something in Naia, and suddenly her pretense for doing this is abandoned completely as the grief and anger she’s been forcing back come tumbling out in an angry hiss.

“Why? Why did you do it, Zevlor? Why did you surrender your people to the Absolute, just to end up like this?”

Zevlor, of course, does not react to the urgency in Naia’s tone. His answer is measured and emotionless as any other as he stutters out, “Her voice…Absolute…promised…”

“What? What could it possibly have promised that would be worth what happened?”

“To be…paladin again,” Zevlor croaks. “Protect…my people…”

A ragged breath pulls itself from Naia’s lips. Of course. Of course it all comes down to this: good intentions, protection, making decisions on behalf of others. What better justification is there? What does it matter that every decision just leads to grief and mutilated corpses?

Naia is tired of this. She pulls her hand back, ready to release the spell when Zevlor’s corpse stirs and rattles out a question of its own volition.

“What…happened to…others…?”

The question stops Naia in place. Not the question itself, but rather the fact that it was asked at all. She is supposed to make queries of the bodies, not the other way around. There is supposed to be no true emotion left within the body, no hint of desperation lingering in their voice.

Surprise at this breach of protocol is enough to keep Naia from snapping back immediately. She simply stares back at the body of this man whom she once trusted, before he gave everything away.

And then she begins speaking.

“They’re here. In the city. They made it. Rolan took over Lorroakan’s tower. He moved in with Cal and Lia. Lakrissa’s working at the Elfsong, and she and Alfira got a little apartment together. Alfira is so happy to be here…she said she’s starting a new bard school. And Mol...Mol’s still causing chaos. She’s going to be running this city in a few years, I’m sure. Arabella’s some kind of druid now, if you can believe it.”

Naia pauses, the swirl of conflict within her churning up resentment once again. “Others didn’t make it. Komira. Locke. Dammon. They died. And maybe if you’d done something different, they’d be alive.” Her voice breaks, and she closes her eyes. “Maybe if I’d done something different, they’d be alive. Or maybe if we were different, everybody else would be dead with them. I don’t know. It’s the not knowing that’s the worst.”

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #ceremonials #oc: naia #zevlor

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dragonologist-writings · 1 month ago

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Title: Tangled Together Fandom: Dragon Age: II Rating: E Status: One-Shot Characters: Thalia Hawke, Isabela Ships: Hawke/Isabela Additional Notes: Playful Sez, Mostly fun with feelings at the end, Mention of past Hawke/Fenris Word Count: 1.9k Summary: Hawke and Isabela are bad at feelings. Luckily, they're great at sex!

for the smut starter prompt: "Are you wearing my shirt?"

read here on ao3

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #oc: thalia hawke #hawke #isabela #hawkebela #fanfic #tangle together

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dragonologist-writings · 1 month ago

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Title: To The Bride Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: T Status: One-Shot Characters: Sirena Cousland, Anora Mac Tir Ships: Cousland/Anora Additional Notes: Politics & Arranged Marriages, Yearning, Angst Word Count: 4.9k Summary:

Anora Mac Tir is a woman who knows what she wants, and what she wants is to marry Cailan and become the greatest Queen Ferelden has ever known. (She wants other things, too. Sirena Cousland is the woman who reminds her of that.)

read below or here on ao3

It was the night before Anora was to be married, and try as she might, she simply couldn’t get a wink of sleep.

Of course she couldn’t. How could anyone expect her to, with such a momentous event looming on the horizon? She’d known her entire life that she was meant to one day become Queen of Ferelden; tomorrow, with her marriage into the Therein family, that destiny would finally become official. And while any wedding had its share of preparations, the marriage of a future king and queen required a good deal more than a gown and a recitation of vows before a Chantry Mother. There were public appearances to be made in front of the Denerim crowds, long speeches to be delivered beneath the Chantry roof, and of course a reception to be held for the visiting nobility who were traveling from all across the country to witness the union.

Anora had never been one to sit back and let others make arrangements in her stead; she had been involved in every step of the preparations, and had poured hours of effort into ensuring that everything would go exactly according to plan. Truth be told, she would be quite relieved when the whole thing was over and done with- the trappings of the wedding were important, a vital part of the image she and Cailan needed to display to the country, but Anora was long ready to turn her attentions to something a bit more stimulating.

She would have that freedom soon enough, she kept reminding herself. She just needed to get through the coming day. And although she knew a proper night’s sleep would help with that, her logic didn’t help as her mind continued to circle over the details she had so carefully planned out for her future.

The restless energy buzzed through Anora like a gnat she couldn’t swat away, filling her with the need to do… something. At last she threw her sheets to the side and rose from her bed, abandoning the pretense of peaceful slumber. What she needed was to move, to occupy herself, to do anything other than sit still and wait for morning. At the very least she could wander the palace gardens- perhaps the fresh air would be enough to free her mind until fatigue finally caught up with her.

As she pulled a warm woolen cloak over her shoulders, Anora told herself she wouldn’t be long. The last thing she wanted was for someone to come across her like this, with undone hair and tired eyes- or worse, for someone drop by her empty room and think her missing.

But as she stepped outside, Anora was greeted by a gust of refreshingly chilled wind, and the night sky above was clear and full of stars, and for the first time that day she felt some of the tension leave her body. Even as the hour grew later and later, Anora found herself lingering, her thoughts drifting as she strolled aimlessly along the dirt paths. Perhaps there was no need to rush, after all. She’d memorized the guard’s schedules long ago, and knew how to avoid them; no servants had any business in the gardens this late; any nobles still awake were probably deep in their cups, just as Cailan likely was.

Just as Anora had convinced herself that her solitude was complete, however, a voice rang out across the gardens.

“Anora Mac Tir? What in the world are you doing out here?”

The sudden voice made Anora jump, and she heaved a sigh of annoyance as she realized she’d been spotted. The annoyance fled, however, once she realized who it was that had done the spotting.

“Lady Sirena? Is that you?”

A closer look revealed that it was indeed the Lady Sirena Cousland, who for some reason was perched on a garden wall, one leg hanging carelessly off the side. She laughed and leapt from the wall, heading towards Anora with a grin. “Oh please, don’t lead with the Lady. If you do, I’ll have to call you ‘soon-to-be Queen Anora of Ferelden’, and as lovely a title as that is, it’s just too much of a mouthful to bother with.”

Anora fought back a smile. Nobody else would ever speak to her in such a way, but this was Sirena- always ready with a teasing response, hardly worried about any offense she might cause. The Couslands ruled over Highever, and were, along with the Mac Tirs, one of the most respected noble families of Ferelden. That reputation, coupled with Sirena’s disarming smile and easy temperament, was a perfect recipe for the effortless confidence which constantly radiated from the youngest Cousland child.

That disarming smile was now turned upon Anora in full force as Sirena asked, “Really, what are you doing out here?” She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me I’m interrupting a clandestine meeting under the moonlight? And on the eve of your own wedding?”

A huff of laughter escaped Anora’s lips even as she rolled her eyes. “Oh, banish the thought. I was just thinking how pleased I was to see you, and now you’re making me change my mind.”

Sirena just laughed again and wrapped an arm around Anora’s shoulders, pulling her close for a hug. Her long dark hair smelled of rain, and she wore a thick fur cloak over plain traveling clothes; she must have arrived very recently.

“How was the journey from Highever?”

“Too long, as always,” Sirena answered with a shrug. “But you don’t want to hear about a boring horseback ride through the rain and mud. How are you? I am genuinely curious as to what brings you out so late, and on this of all nights.”

Anora waved a dismissive hand in the air. “It’s not that late. And I couldn’t sleep.”

“Too excited?”

“Too preoccupied, rather. There’s so much to think about for tomorrow. Every time I close my eyes, I remember yet another detail I want to check up on.”

“I don’t doubt that. But don’t you have people to do that sort of work for you?”

“Of course I do,” Anora admitted. “But if you want something done correctly…”

“Do it yourself,” Sirena shook her head fondly as she finished the statement. “You’ve been living that motto since we were children.”

“And it’s still true,” Anora pointed out wryly. “Anyway, I could ask the same question of you. How did you end up out here instead of in our rather lovely guest chambers?”

Sirena shrugged and looked back in the direction she’d come from, her gaze traveling over the garden, toward the training ground, beyond the towers that looked over the Denerim marketplace. “Oh, traveling always leaves me nostalgic. I was just wandering around, revisiting a few spots before they’re filled up with people tomorrow.”

Anora could guess as to which memories Sirena was reliving. They had both spent many days at the Denerim palace, watching their parents go about the duties of nobility, knowing that someday they would take their places.

That knowledge had been with Anora for as long as she could remember; her entire life, she reflected, was a preparation for the throne, and it had always been a perfect fit. Even as a child, Anora had loved listening in on the courtly proceedings and hearings, things that bored Cailan to tears even as he dutifully followed her lead. In sharp contrast, the silly games and childish play of the other children had always seemed, to Anora, to all be horribly dull.

But even at a young age, Sirena was hard to dismiss. Always something of a troublemaker, she was direct and honest and said things as they were without layers of political machinations. Her friendship with Anora was something of a mystery, even to Anora herself. But she had to admit there was something about Sirena’s casually brazen nature and oddly insightful remarks that managed to hold Anora’s interest where few others could.

“It’s been too long since you’ve visited,” Anora remarked, and Sirena’s focus shifted from the palace grounds back to Anora. Her dark eyes were, for a moment, unexpectedly thoughtful. But only for a moment- they quickly brightened again as she gave Anora a warm smile.

“It really has, hasn’t it? We should catch up. And you obviously need to relax a little.” Her grin took on a mischievous edge. “I have just the thing for that.”

“I need to sleep, not drink myself into a stupor.”

Sirena gave a bark of laughter as she poured the liquor into two glasses and held one out to Anora. “Cailan and his buddies are getting good and drunk out in the courtyard as we speak. Why should they get all the fun?”

The two women were back in Anora’s quarters, having quietly returned after making a quick detour in the kitchens to pilfer a bottle of spirits. Sirena now sat cross-legged on Anora’s carpet, the very picture of temptation as she waggled the glass in her hand towards Anora.

Anora simply rolled her eyes. “You’re relentless.” And yet despite the scoffing she sat down anyway, gathering her skirts around knees, and graciously took the glass. Sirena had chosen a strong liquor, one of the more expensive selections from the cellar. Today, the choice seemed appropriate. “But I suppose I can’t refuse a toast on the eve of my wedding.”

“Exactly.” Sirena turned her attention to her own glass, carefully measuring out the drink before holding it aloft. “To the bride, and future Queen of Ferelden.”

Anora brought her glass to meet Sirena’s with a soft clink, and then swiftly lifted it to her lips and swallowed the entire drink in one quick gulp.

Sirena downed her drink as well, then laughed in delight. “That’s the spirit I was looking for! I must say, I’m impressed.”

“Don’t tell me this comes as a surprise,” Anora said with a smirk. “It hasn't been that long since we were young and sneaking drinks from banquet tables. In any case, handling one’s alcohol is practically a requisite of Fereldan nobility.”

“Ah, yes, I almost forgot. They fit that right between the lessons on Andrastian recitations and history of the Rebellion."

With a grin, Anora held out her glass for more liquor, and Sirena happily obliged. As they drank they fell into conversation, a simple rhythm of chatting and drinking between two longtime friends. It was, Anora had to admit, a situation that she was not particularly accustomed to. Cailan was the one who happily entertained others for hours on end, the one who brought about conversation and laughter. Anora was the one who already was known as imperious, severe, domineering. This description rarely bothered her- it was a good reputation for a future queen to have.

But to simply be a woman chatting amicably with pleasant company was nice, too.

“Tired yet?” Sirena asked eventually. She gave Anora a look that was only half joking. “You can tell me to leave whenever I start to get annoying. Believe me, you wouldn’t be the first to kick me out of a room.”

“No, no, stay,” Anora assured her. “If you begin to annoy me, I will certainly let you know.” She giggled- an effect of the drink, of course, for under normal circumstances Anora was most certainly not a giggler. “Believe me, you wouldn’t be the first I’ve kicked out of a room. I’m not exactly known for my gentle disposition, am I?”

“Oh, please,” Sirena said, rolling her eyes as she poured another glass. “Who needs a gentle disposition?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Anora agreed. “Better they think me too harsh than think they control me. I decided that a long time ago.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Sirena said, raising her cup. She was quiet for a moment then, and Anora thought she may be dozing off. But although her eyes held a distant look, they did not close, and eventually Sirena said, “Anyone who would try to control you is an idiot, by the way. You’re smarter than everyone in this castle combined. They should just…get out of your way and let you work your miracles.”

Anora smiled, surprised to feel heat rushing to her cheeks at the compliments. She blamed the drink for that, as well; she knew her own worth and was hardly unaccustomed to recognition. A simple compliment from Sirena Cousland shouldn’t have such an effect on its own. She looked away, hoping the redness in her face wasn’t obvious to the other woman. “Thank you.”

“And you’re going to make a marvelous queen!” Sirena continued. “Ferelden is lucky to have you. I mean that, truly. Nobody else could do a better job.”

“Well, I should hope not,” Anora said. “This is my entire life, after all.” She sighed, tilting her head back as she thought of all the work she had put forth, and all that lay ahead of her.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost missed the next words spoken quietly by Sirena. “Cailan is lucky, too.”

Anora blinked, startled by the apparent change in subject. Recovering quickly, she gave a thin smile. “Ah, yes. I’m certain he’s thanking the Maker that he will have someone to handle the details of his future rule. He’s wonderful with the people, of course, but try to talk to him about economics or resource distribution and he’s completely lost.”

“That’s true enough,” Sirena agreed, pushing back a long lock of hair from her face. “Although I did mean something more along the lines of…” She paused, and seemed to fumble for words for a moment. “He’s lucky to be marrying someone...someone that he’s actually fond of.”

“Oh.” Anora wanted to say more, but she didn’t quite know how to respond to that. It felt such an odd subject to bring up- but the again, her wedding was tomorrow. Perhaps it was a natural point of conversation, after all. She wouldn't know; her skills were many, but the ability to easily gossip about affections was hardly among them.

“Not to pry, of course,” Sirena said quickly, noticing Anora’s hesitation. She paused, chewing on her lip for short moment as she regarded Anora with curious, measuring eyes. “I mean, you are fond of each other, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Anora said at once. Realizing her reply came a tad too quickly, she sighed and leaned back against the wall, resting her head against the cool stone. “I’m certain you’ve heard me complain about him, and he can be quite the fool at times. But he has his talents, and he loves Ferelden, and he knows better than to try and order me about. We make a good team, he and I. We know each other, our strengths and weaknesses. As far as arrangements go, it could have been far worse.”

Sirena nodded, turning over Anora’s words in silence. She shifted her position until she, too, was leaning against the wall, close enough that their shoulders brushed against each other. “Do you think you could grow to love him at all?”

This time, the question did not take Anora by surprise. In fact, it was something she had often asked herself. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “But I hardly think that’s the most important thing in marriage. Especially between rulers.”

That earned her a chuckle from Sirena. “You’ve always been a pragmatic one.” Anora frowned, and Sirena gave her an apologetic smile before she playfully bumped her shoulder with her own. “And right, of course, I know you are. I only hope I’m that lucky if I ever get married.”

Anora was so relieved by the lack of judgement from Sirena that she nearly missed the implication in her words. Almost. Her brow furrowed, and she gave Sirena a questioning look. “If? Certainly you have your pick of suitors.” It only made sense- the Couslands were a family of wealth and renown, and Sirena herself was not lacking in beauty. More than that, she was intelligent and skilled with a blade and easy to speak with; any lord would be lucky to win her hand.

But Sirena only shrugged, a playfully crooked smile on her lips. “Oh, there are plenty of men sniffing around for a chance at marrying into the Couslands. Some are even somewhat tolerable. But…”

“But none quite meet your standards?” Anora finished. Her tone was teasing, but she knew the feeling well enough. If she hadn’t been promised to the future king at such a young age, she would probably have found herself in a very similar situation.

“They’re fine enough. Fine enough for flirting and dancing with at parties. But fine enough isn’t something I went to settle for in the long run.” Sirena sighed and looked down, tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. “It’s just that I grew up watching my parents, never realizing what a rare thing they had. They’re so in love that people have written songs about them. That sort of thing doesn’t happen often. Not when marriage is something for duty and politics and…”

“And pragmatism?” Anora asked pointedly, and Sirena gave her another apologetic grin.

“No offense. Like I said, you have the right of it. Eventually I shall likely choose someone, and I’m sure it won’t be as bad as I’m making it out to be. I know my parents would never marry me off to someone I dislike.” Her eyes flicked up to Anora’s face. “I just don’t think the odds of marrying for love are very high for me.”

Sirena’s voice was low and sorrowful, a startling change from her usual light tone. Without thinking, Anora reached out and put her hand over Sirena’s. “You never know. The future may surprise you.”

Sirena seemed startled at the contact, and Anora wondered for a moment if she was being too forward. But she didn’t pull away, and neither did Sirena- in fact, the other woman shifted her fingers, securing the grip. They stayed that way for a long moment, until at last Sirena recovered herself enough to straighten her shoulders and give Anora a bright smile. “I don’t know about that. But we’ll see.”

Something unfinished still lingered in her words, but for now she at least seemed eased by Anora’s presence. Anora knew she wasn’t the most comforting person, even at the best of times, but she was happy that she seemed to be doing some good. She gave a firm nod and continued, “And should you never get married, you would be just as well off. If I had been born to royalty on my own, well…as I said, Cailan and I make a good team. But he needs me far more than I need him.” Anora felt a small twinge of guilt saying that out loud, but it was true, and they both knew it, and saying it made Sirena laugh.

“You’ll hear no dispute from me,” she said. “In any case, I have far more exciting things to look forward to than marriage.” She stopped suddenly, and closed her eyes in apparent embarrassment. “Which is probably not what I should say to someone about to get married, is it? We’re supposed to be celebrating you, and I’ve gone and turned it bleak!”

“Oh, please,” Anora said with a laugh of her own. “I believe I’ve made my position on the whole situation rather clear. And I’m interested in hearing more of these grand plans of yours.”

Sirena still looked sheepish, but she obliged. “Well, Fergus will inherit rule of Highever. Firstborn gets all the perks. But I’ll still be around to assist. I’ll likely take command of our troops.” A small smile crept onto her face. “That’s something I’d be good at. I’d have them all whipped into shape in no time.”

“And if a lord swept you off your feet, you’d have an entire arling of your own to whip into shape. Troops and all,” Anora pointed out. Sirena looked unconvinced, and on impulse Anora added, “Or you could always come here to Denerim. Become a staple of the court. We certainly have plenty of troops that need the help. And I wouldn’t mind having a…”

Anora stumbled over the word friend. Even under the influence of the drink, it was difficult to let something like that slip out so easily. Anora was not accustomed to having friends. She had Cailan, of course; she had her father; she had servants and fellow nobles whom she trusted to varying degrees. But her friendship with Sirena was something different from any of that.

“…a confidante,” she said finally, hoping Sirena hadn’t noticed her momentary conflict. She glanced at the woman from the corner of her eye, and was satisfied to see that she looked pleased at the notion.

“A tempting offer, I admit,” Sirena said. A smirk played on her lips. “What would my duties as a confidante entail?”

That smirk made Anora oddly flustered, and she had to glance away before she could respond. “Oh…this sort of thing, really. Keeping me company. Listening to me complain. Supplying me with alcohol.” She smiled and raised her empty glass in the air as an example. “You’re doing a splendid job already.”

“And those are just a few of many talents,” Sirena laughed. “I’m honored by the offer. I’m sure there must be fierce competition.”

“Oh, certainly,” Anora agreed. “But most of the other competitors care less about me and more about the power I will wield. They simply want to be close to the Queen.” She grimaced. “Or the King. It’s difficult enough to reign him in without my own companions making eyes at him.”

“Their loss,” Sirena said definitively. “All of them. Anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend, and as…well, Cailan is even more a fool than I thought if he even looks at another woman when he has you.”

Maker, Anora could feel herself blushing. She straightened her shoulders, trying desperately not to show her sudden nerves. “I admit, it’s a pleasant change of pace for someone to rush to my defense like this. I certainly tell Cailan the same often enough. Honestly, I would hardly mind if he could at least be discreet about it. But he never thinks of things in such a way. And it certainly doesn’t help that he’s found so many who are ever so eager to indulge him. I’d be thankful to have at least one woman around who’s not chasing after him.”

It was a jest, but the possibility was a heavy weight in Anora’s chest, and she would be lying if she said it didn’t lighten when Sirena wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste. “Chasing after Cailan? Maker, no.” Her expression faded into something more contemplative as she looked at Anora. “If I’m to be honest…I was always chasing after someone else.”

That was unexpected- it took Anora a moment to process her words. That heavy weight in her chest was back, which made no sense; why should she care if Sirena was holding a torch for someone after all, so long as it was not Cailan? “That’s an unexpected revelation if I’ve ever heard one. What happened to never finding love?”

“Ah. That.” Sirena looked abashed and quickly shook her head. “It would never have worked out. Not with me. They’ve got other things in their life. Other people.”

“Not married, are they?” Anora inquired. She didn’t know why she was still pressing. She didn’t want to know about this person, didn’t want to know who it was Sirena was pining after. But she couldn’t stop the questions from coming.

Sirena was quiet for a moment, although her dark eyes never left Anora’s face. “Engaged, actually.”

Anora’s breath caught, and when she spoke her words were soft and quiet. “Engaged?”

“But only for one more night.”

There was soft moment of realization, a quiet oh in the back of Anora’s mind, and before she could think better of it she whispered, “Then you still have time.”

And suddenly Sirena was kissing her. It was soft at first, uncertain, her lips barely hovering against Anora’s, but as Anora leaned in she became more confident and soon enough the kiss had deepened. Sirena brought a hand to Anora’s face, gently caressing her cheek, and Anora threaded her fingers through Sirena’s long hair as she pulled her even closer. It was like nothing Anora had ever experienced; this was no polite show of carefully cultured affection, no hesitant testing of what was expected of her. This was passionate and earnest and real.

Anora wanted more. She wanted to pull Sirena to her bed, to press even closer together, to completely and utterly forget about everything else in the world-

And then it was over. Anora’s eyes fluttered open, and she realized Sirena was hastily rising from the floor, muttering hurried, half-formed apologies. “I’m sorry- that was stupid of me- I didn’t intend-and tomorrow you’re-Maker, I’m sorry-”

Anora hurriedly stood as well, reaching out for Sirena as the woman was turning for the door. Her fingers brushed Sirena’s wrist, and although the touch was light Sirena froze in place.

“Sirena, I…”

Anora faltered. She was accustomed to knowing what to say, to knowing exactly what she wanted and how to get it. But now…now she had no idea. She wanted to be the Queen that Ferelden needed her to be. She wanted to follow through on the promises she’d made. She wanted Sirena to stay. She wanted too many things, and those desire could not exist within the same space.

She couldn’t hold on to everything. And that wasn’t fair, not to her nor to Sirena. But it was the way things were.

“I’m sorry, too,” Anora whispered as she pulled back her hand. As she let Sirena go.

Sirena closed her eyes for moment, then nodded and left the room without another word. Anora numbly reached for the bottle she’d left behind and drained what little remained, trying to chase away the taste of Sirena’s lips. Then she went to bed, and once again she did not sleep.

Sirena almost didn’t show her face the next day.

But if she hid out all day, she’d eventually have to explain why. So the next morning she dragged herself out of bed, threw cold water on her face, donned her formal attire, and watched Anora get married.

The ceremony passed in a blur, with the songs of the Chant and the words of endless speeches lulling the day into a hazy rhythm. The only moment that stood out was when Anora entered the Chantry. She walked in with her head held high, the picture of beauty and confidence, draped in gold and ivory-white. Just looking at her sent a piercing pain through Sirena’s chest.

She was being ridiculous. Childish. Selfish. Sirena cared about Anora, and she knew this was what Anora wanted, and she had no right to the longing and jealously that burned through her.

What had she been thinking last night? She’d done so well all these years, fighting back those feelings, telling herself it was a passing fancy…and then last night it had all come crashing out. Maybe it was Anora’s suggestion to come to Denerim. The idea of seeing her every day, of being so close to her…all while she was married to Cailan.

Sirena wasn’t capable of such cruelty towards herself. But oh, she’d been tempted.

At least the slip in her defenses hadn’t ruined Anora’s wedding. She was still here, betraying not a single doubt or worry as she recited her vows with clarity before the Maker.

And that was a good thing, Sirena told herself throughout the ceremony. The only thing worse than Anora rejecting her advances would be Anora risking everything she had and everything she wanted over Sirena. That was what she repeated in her head as she did her best to endure the reception in the palace ballroom, where everyone gathered to celebrate the new husband and wife.

Someone thrust a glass of wine in her hand, and Sirena realized with a start she was being called upon to make a toast. She wavered for a moment, looking across the room and meeting Anora eye to eye.

For the first time that day, Sirena thought she caught a hint of something mournful through Anora’s well-practiced mask of assured certainty. She remembered Anora’s lips against hers, wanting, drawing her in closer. She remembered Anora’s hand on her wrist, silently pleading for something she couldn’t voice. She remembered those whispered words. I am sorry.

Sirena raised a glass and gave the room a smile, big and bright, just what they expected from the ostentatious Cousland girl. “To the bride and groom,” she said, her eyes never leaving Anora’s. “To your bright future. I know you will do amazing things for Ferelden, and it is my truest hope that this life brings you every happiness.”

Anora smiled at her- a small, sad smile that that spoke volumes more than any speech and utterly broke Sirena’s heart. It was there and gone in an instant, wiped away as the next person stood to make their toast. But every now and then her gaze would return to Sirena, and that smile would come back. Never for long. Never noticed by anybody else. But Sirena saw it, and she knew she would never forget it as long as she lived.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #anora mac tir #fanfic #dao #cousland #oc: sirena #to the bride #been meaning to repost this one for ages. its an old that im still so so fond of

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dragonologist-writings · 1 month ago

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Ch 4 - Playing By Ear

The Gray Garrison is in a downright sorry state by the time Seelah and her new friends bust their way in. Half the walls have collapsed into piles of rubble, and those that still stand bear the graffiti of occult symbols, scrawled in paint and blood. The grand statue of Iomedae which graces the main hall has been defaced, and one of her stone arms now rests in pieces on the marble floor after being cleaved from her body in an act of enraging disrespect. As Seelah hikes up the Garrison stairs, she can see the flames spread across the city, a grim reminder that Terendelev is no longer here to protect them from the worst of the Worldwound's dangers. Worst of all, a number of typically good, decent citizens have already betrayed their own values to throw their lot in with the demons. Seelah catches a few familiar faces in the crowds of cultists they fight through, and somewhere beneath the sting of their betrayal is the useless urge to just shake them until they come back to their senses. How can they lose faith so easily? As bad as things are, the Eagle Watch is still standing strong with Irabeth Tirabade at the helm. Kenabres is holding its ground- by the skin of its teeth, maybe, but it has a chance. And any chance is one worth fighting for. Isn’t it?

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Title: Ballad for the Saints Fandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous Rating: T Status: In Progress (3/?) Main Characters: Knight-Commander Piper Chanterelle, All Companions Additional Notes: Novelization of Piper's Playthrough, Eventual Azata Path, Act 1 Word Count: 9.5k Summary:

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chapter 1 below

Death comes in the tolling of a bell.

Running through crowded streets as twilight descends on the city.

Dancing in front of an audience, her ribbons a twirling whirlwind around her.

Sitting by the fireplace as her mother brushes her hair.

Watching a performance in hushed awe, envy burning like an ember inside her.

Whispering a prayer to the stars that glitter above like jewels in a dark velvet sky.

Magic rushing to her fingers, and the swell of pride that comes with it.

The cut of steel into her skin.

A gentle tracing of fingers along her arms, the touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

A heavy weight of judgement in the eyes of those who fear her.

Soft notes weaving through the air as she commands the room through the music of her lute.

Long days of stillness and silence.

Pain.

Her voice lifting in song, in screams, in an echo of the whisper soft in her ear- I promise.

A sharp breath bursts from her lungs, and as the deep tones of the bell recede from her mind, she opens her eyes.

The first thing she notices is the raucous pounding in her head.

(Stars, what has happened to her?)

She currently is trapped in a giant hole.

Wonderful.

This is exactly why she should’ve left Mendev in the dust when she had the chance.

(Didn’t she think that once before? Whe re had she wanted to go?)

Her hand comes back dark red and slicked with blood.

All in all it isn’t much, but it’s far better than nothing. She’s certainly had to make do with less. (Hasn’t she?)

And so with one hand gripping the flute and the other held aloft to provide a soft magical light, the displaced bard gathers as much courage as she can scrape together and limps off into the shadows.

#chapter update #fanfic #pwotr #pathfinder wotr #pathfinder wrath of the righteous #ballad for the saints #oc: piper

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dragonologist-writings · 2 months ago

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Chapter 12 - Not Alone Do We Stand

Leaving Aeonar behind wasn't quite the complete victory Ros would have liked.

Her chest ached with a vengeance, and every breath she took was like another sword through her ribs; she was forced to lean heavily on Jowan just to stagger down the hallway. As they walked, they had to step over what remained of the Templars, with Lily whimpering at the sight and Shay falling grimly silent. Shay’s eyes lingered on the commanding Templar’s body as they left the room behind, but their expression betrayed little of whatever was running through their mind. Ros touched her hand against theirs, and their fingers grasped tightly at hers, and without a word they allowed her to pull them away from the bloody scene.

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Title: And So They Burned Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: M Status: In Progress (12/?) Characters: Shay Surana, Rosalind Amell, Jowan; Various other Circle characters and Demons Ships: Surana/Amell/Jowan, Jowan/Lily Additional Notes: Mage Origin, Angst, Blood Magic, Polyamory, Codependent Idiots in Love Fighting Over Who Gets to Sacrifice Themselves For Each Other Word Count: 66.6k Summary:

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#chapter update #and so we burned #amell #surana #jowan #fanfic #dragon age #dragon age origins

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dragonologist-writings · 2 months ago

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#dragon age #fanfic #dao #dragon age origins #jowan #amell #surana #oc: shay surana #oc: rosalind amell #and so they burned #we're so back bby

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dragonologist-writings · 2 months ago

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read here on ao3

chapter 1 below

Death comes in the tolling of a bell.

Running through crowded streets as twilight descends on the city.

Dancing in front of an audience, her ribbons a twirling whirlwind around her.

Sitting by the fireplace as her mother brushes her hair.

Watching a performance in hushed awe, envy burning like an ember inside her.

Whispering a prayer to the stars that glitter above like jewels in a dark velvet sky.

Magic rushing to her fingers, and the swell of pride that comes with it.

The cut of steel into her skin.

A gentle tracing of fingers along her arms, the touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

A heavy weight of judgement in the eyes of those who fear her.

Soft notes weaving through the air as she commands the room through the music of her lute.

Long days of stillness and silence.

Pain.

Her voice lifting in song, in screams, in an echo of the whisper soft in her ear- I promise.

A sharp breath bursts from her lungs, and as the deep tones of the bell recede from her mind, she opens her eyes.

The first thing she notices is the raucous pounding in her head.

(Stars, what has happened to her?)

She currently is trapped in a giant hole.

Wonderful.

This is exactly why she should’ve left Mendev in the dust when she had the chance.

(Didn’t she think that once before? Whe re had she wanted to go?)

Her hand comes back dark red and slicked with blood.

All in all it isn’t much, but it’s far better than nothing. She’s certainly had to make do with less. (Hasn’t she?)

And so with one hand gripping the flute and the other held aloft to provide a soft magical light, the displaced bard gathers as much courage as she can scrape together and limps off into the shadows.

#fanfic #pwotr #pathfinder wotr #pathfinder wrath of the righteous #azata mythic path #oc: piper #ballad for the saints

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dragonologist-writings · 4 months ago

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Of Diamonds And Dust Chapter 50 - Change and Change and Change

Bonds are shifted within the Wardens and with their allies as the party leaves Denerim behind and sets their sights on the next leg of their mission.

“Shit, Princess,” Darvis mutters, “when did the life of an esteemed Aeducan get so fucking sad?” She knows she should be offended. Instead, she laughs. And since she’s already made a fool of herself, she asks, “Would you call us friends, Brosca?” “No,” is his immediate, predictable response. “Good. That makes things easier.” He nods, understanding what she means in a way perhaps only someone from Orzammar could. They fall into silence for a few minutes more, until Darvis finishes his work. “There you go.” Marja stares at herself in mirror, transfixed. As far back as she can remember, her hair has stayed long enough to fall past her shoulders; it would be twisted and tied into various styles throughout the day, but it always carried a weight. A meaning. Now, it barely skims her ears. Her face takes on a different shape as she inspects herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that. Everyone back home would taunt her for this, would wonder what disaster could lead to such a shearing. But Marja has never felt so light before, and she can’t help but smile. “Thanks again, Brosca.” Darvis crosses his arms and looks away, clearly uncomfortable with even that small bit of praise. “Yeah, you owe me,” he says gruffly. “And you can pay me back by never making me be the responsible one again. I’m not cut out for that shit.” Marja nods, still marveling at the weightlessness of the motion. “Deal.”

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#of diamonds and dust #oc: marja #oc: darvis #odad #brosca #aeducan #fanfic #dragon age #dragon age origins

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dragonologist-writings · 4 months ago

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Title: Monster, Mine Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Rating: M Status: One-Shot Main Characters: Minthara, The Dark Urge (Ursa), Orin Ships: Minthara/Ursa Additional Notes: Character Study, Past Abuse, Devotion Word Count: 2.1k Summary: With the threat of Orin looming so closely, Minthara cannot hide the fear she still has of the monster. Ursa promises to keep her safe, and when the confrontation finally comes, that oath will be put to the test- and a new monster may be revealed in the process.

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There is very, very little in this world which can strike fear in the heart of Minthara Baenre. She is a woman who does not fear death, nor pain, nor darkness, and she laughs at those who do.

But Orin…Orin the shapechanger, the daughter of Bhaal, Orin who is death and pain and darkness and worse…

Orin, she fears. It is a fear that has been carved into her, slowly and deliberately, and now that it is a part of her, it cannot be hidden or denied. Especially not now, when she walks so willingly into the city which acts as the murderer’s hunting grounds.

“Do not let me fall into her clutches again,” she asks of her companion- it is more than a request, she is begging, even as she detests the weakness in herself.

Ursa looks up at Minthara with earnest, silver eyes, and she touches Minthara’s hand. “I won’t. I won’t let anything hurt you. I promise.”

What a world it would be, if Minthara could believe her. The cruelest thing is that she almost can. She has seen Ursa’s power; she has stood at the dwarven woman’s side and played witness to the work of her daggers, her heated hunger for blood. It could be easy, for Minthara to believe that her lover can devour this threat as she has so many others.

But Minthara’s knowledge of their foe is scarred into her very being, and she can only shake her head, angry at them both as she pulls away from Ursa’s comforting touch. “Do not make vows which cannot be kept.”

Minthara remembers that vow when they meet Orin in Bhaal’s temple, deep in the bowels of the Undercity. This place is familiar to her; she recognizes the chill and the thick scent of blood which permeates the air.

When Orin notices their arrival, she laughs, and the sound is so shrill and feral and familiar that Minthara cannot hold against the sudden flood of memories.

(Cold fingers and colder knives press into her skin. A voice coos in her ear with cruel mockery of affection. Precious spider-filth, lovely pet-thing, bleeding so song-sweet for me. Copper and bile in her mouth as icy lips press against her own.)

Orin notices. She knows all the cracks in Minthara’s impenetrable armor, and her smile widens at the sight of the drow flinching before her once again. Minthara wishes she could stand bravely against her, but she remains frozen, nailed into place by the force of that awful milky gaze.

Then Orin’s attention shifts to Ursa, and she laughs again. “Look how low you’ve stooped, sister mine. Dragging around my broken blood-toys. You used to be so proud, and now you scavenge the bones I’ve already sucked dry.”

“This isn’t about her,” Ursa says, holding Orin’s gaze. She motions to the wizard strapped to Orin’s altar. “And this isn’t about him, either. This is about us.”

The promise Ursa has made echoes through Minthara’s mind as she watches her approach her sister, a dagger in each hand, and Minthara feels a fool for not insisting that her love swear the same oath for herself.

A Command dances on the tip of Minthara’s tongue. Stay away from her. Any other time, she would give it voice, and she would be obeyed. But now the order sticks in her throat, and she can only watch in terrible silence as Orin stalks closer, her shape twisting and cracking until she stands in front of Ursa as her perfect mirror.

Her imitation of the dwarf is flawless, and so, so much worse than the sight of Orin alone. Every inch of the woman Minthara knows so well is reflected exquisitely: the soft silver gray of her hair, the constellations of freckles upon her skin, the long jagged scar stretching from temple to jaw. But the worst twist of the knife is in the expression- that violence and hunger which is Orin’s trademark, which fits all too naturally on Ursa’s face. Minthara has glimpsed that look on Ursa before; it has simply never been directed at herself.

They truly are the same, these daughters of Bhaal.

(Are you afraid of me? Ursa had asked once, after the reveal of her lineage. “I am in awe of you,” Minthara had answered, and neither had acknowledged her lack of answer to the question.)

But this is a good thing- it means Ursa can do what Minthara never could. She can rip Orin to shreds. She can water the temple stones with Orin’s blood. She can crush Orin beneath her heel, and oh- what an exhilarating thought that is.

Then Orin’s shape twists and snaps again, into a shape Minthara has never seen. She screams with the pain of it- Orin has never screamed like that before- and where she once stood now stands a monster, all twisted bones and claws and teeth. It- Orin- looks over to Ursa, who despite her dwarfhood has never before seemed small.

She does now.

And Minthara knows, with a sickening certainty, that her lover is going to die.

She also knows that the only thing worse than facing Orin’s wrath would be to stand by and watch it happen. With nothing left to lose, Minthara reaches deep inside herself, to those small crevices in her soul where Orin and the Absolute have not yet managed to reach, and she clings tightly to whatever splinters of courage and faith remain. An aura of resolve fills her lungs, and she lets the feeling flow out to those around her.

Fueled by a devotion beyond understanding, Minthara draws her sword and leaps to Ursa’s side. The creature that was Orin roars in fury, and the effigy of Bhaal glows red with indignation over the discarded rules of his ritual.

But Minthara cares not for the rules and rituals of this god, so she drives her sword into the twisted skin of Orin’s heart. It does not kill her, but oh- it is far more satisfying than she’d ever fantasized.

Orin turns on Minthara, and even through her Aura, her heart is suddenly gripped in icy fear. But Ursa has already Misty Stepped to Orin’s blind spot, and her daggers flash as she digs the steel into her sister’s spine. Orin screeches again, her eyes wild and panicked in a way Minthara has never seen.

And the fight is on.

Orin fights well, if not honorably. But it is Ursa who draws last blood- her daggers slice through skin, blood rains on the stone floor, and when Orin finally slumps over she does not rise again.

Minthara breathes heavily, her bones aching, her ears ringing. She watches as Orin’s form twitches, and her sword lifts again- of course Orin would not go so easily, she thinks, but the movement is merely the shapechanger’s form falling away, withering from a formidable beast to nothing but a pile of dust and gore.

She is dead. Minthara lives, and Orin is dead. Victory rises in Minthara’s blood, and a vicious, vengeful smile spreads across her face. Orin is dead, and Minthara lives.

Ursa would do well to share in this elation, after all that her sister has done to her…but she is quiet. She stares down at her sister’s body, and the daggers slip from her hand. Her expression is unreadable; she seems, in this moment, to not be feeling anything at all.

“Orin,” Ursa murmurs, and she says nothing more.

Then her head snaps up, and her eyes go red, and the voice of Bhaal fills the temple.

Something has changed. Minthara senses the full power now dwelling within Ursa, just as she had sensed it within Orin. But Ursa is alive, and her eyes are bright as they meet Minthara’s own. That is enough, for Minthara.

The others judge Ursa’s choice. More than that, they have the nerve to condemn her, she who has saved them all and brought them so far. And now she has embraced her birthright and the ultimate power which comes with it- and they disapprove.

Not Minthara. Minthara takes her lover’s hands and laces their fingers together. “You have become what you were meant to be,” she whispers fervently, “and it is glorious.”

“I’ve become what Orin was,” Ursa says, her voice low as a melody. “Bhaal’s monster.”

The words send a shiver through Minthara, but she fights it off. “You are nothing like her. You are magnificent. You are mine. And I am yours, gladly.” Minthara touches her forehead to Ursa’s, uncaring as she senses the others watching with cold disgust. “Do not regret taking what you can.”

Ursa is quiet for a moment. Minthara can feel her breathing as they rest against each other. Then she nods, and with a slow stiffness she separates from Minthara and wordlessly moves to Orin’s remains. She studies the wreckage for a long moment, then silently takes the jagged red daggers from the filthy stone floor and slips them into her own belt.

Minthara shivers again, and this time she cannot stamp down the feeling. She knows the bite of those daggers all too intimately. But they seem to strengthen Ursa, and so Minthara says nothing as she follows her out of the temple.

And for all their disapproval, the others soon follow as well. That is how it always is; the spineless may protest in the face of strength, but they bow before it all the same.

There are, however, exceptions.

Jaheira is an exception. Foolish though she is, Minthara could almost respect her for that.

But the Harper’s misguided bravery is not enough. Not when Ursa has Bhaal on her side and Orin’s daggers in her hands. The dwarf cuts down the first Harper who approaches her, and after that it is all chaos and blood.

All seems normal at first; Ursa has always been most herself when covered in blood. But there is a viciousness to her now which surpasses even what she’d had before, and when her eyes lock with Jaheira’s across the battlefield, that fury explodes.

Her body twists and cracks. A shriek tears from her throat.

And then she is the Slayer- the same monster Orin had been, all teeth and claws and malice- ripping through Harpers with fierce abandon.

Minthara freezes. She knows it is not Orin; it is Ursa, her beloved, her beacon. but…

A sharp pain cuts into Minthara’s arm. In her distraction, Jaheira has snuck up on her. Minthara hisses in frustration at herself and locks her blade against another blow. Jaheira’s eyes are level with hers, and the druid growls as vines creep up Minthara’s legs, binding her in place. “You are aiding an evil greater than you know. It is too late for her.”

Minthara growls right back, a wordless sound of righteous fury. “You do not know her.”

“Do you?”

Minthara never answers, for at that moment Ursa’s jaws close around Jaheira’s neck.

Blood is slick on the stones when the last Harper falls and the fighting subsides. Ursa is left, still in Slayer form, staring down at Jaheira’s broken body.

Minthara approaches her slowly, taking in the new sight of her lover. So similar to Orin, in so many ways. Ursa may sense that thought, or perhaps she is still raw from Orin and Jaheira and all the other corpses in her wake. They weigh on her in a way Minthara does not understand, but they also excite her in ways she understands all too well.

And that, all of that, even her strange regrets, are what make Minthara love her.

Even now.

Especially now.

Their eyes meet, and their minds touch, and that is all Minthara needs to know that whatever else Ursa is, she is still hers.

“My love…” Minthara says softly, “you are stunning.”

She rests her forehead against Ursa’s, just as she had before. She stands at her full height now, and the Slayer’s skin is scarred and slick, but it is no different, not really.

“And you…” Ursa’s voice echoes in Minthara’s head. “I am my father’s daughter. But I swear by all that is holy and unholy, I will never let anything hurt you.”

This time, Minthara believes her. This time, she does not pull away. She presses a kiss to Ursa’s fanged mouth, and her lips come away bloody.

She doesn’t mind. They are both most themselves when covered in blood.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #oc: ursa #minthara baenre #the dark urge #durgethara #fanfic #monster mine

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dragonologist-writings · 4 months ago

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Title: The Company of Shadows Fandom: Pillars of Eternity Rating: G Status: One-Shot Collection (10/10) Characters: Original Character (Nona) Additional Notes: Backstory for TTRPG Character, Angst, Pining Word Count: 2.5k Summary: A collection of ficlets and drabbles centered on Nona Vercae's years rising through the ranks of the Leaden Key (Pre-Saint's War).

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#oc: nona #the company of shadows #pillars of eternity #fanfic

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dragonologist-writings · 4 months ago

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Title: Please, Be Enough Fandom: Critical Role Rating: G Status: One-Shot Characters: Vex'ahlia, Percy de Rolo Ships: Vex'ahlia/Percy Additional Notes: Character Study, Angst with a Happy Ending Word Count: 900 Summary: For so much of her life, Vex'ahlia has tried to be enough.

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Vex’ahlia lives in a tiny, humble house on the outskirts of a small village. The cold season is approaching, so she and Vax and their mother make their way to the market for new coats. Vax has grown- he’s taller than his sister now, which makes him quite happy and her quite annoyed- and his old coat is too short and scrunches up funny when he moves his arms. Vex fits into hers better, but it’s old and thin and not very good at keeping her warm. Their mother’s is even older, with patches running down the sleeves and threads hanging loose at the hem. Vax wanders off in the store, running his fingers over the clothes lined up against the wall, but Vex stays close to their mother. Leaning forward on her tiptoes, she watches as coins are counted over the countertop, and she bites her lip and glances at the storekeeper and hopes.

Please, be enough.

It’s not. The storekeeper looks at them with pity in his eyes, but only shakes his head. He and Vex’s mother argue for a bit, but to no avail. They leave with only mittens for Vex and Vax, which their mother promises will help them keep warm. She pulls the mittens down over Vax’s ears, which makes Vex giggle, but she still notices that their mother didn’t buy anything for herself.

Vex’ahlia lives in a mansion in a grand elven city. It’s a beautiful place, and she hates every inch of it. She misses her mother, and her hometown, and the way Vax used to smile. But the twins’ father has decided they need other things. Now they have all the finery they could ever think to ask for, and they are given lessons in history, language, and culture. But nothing can change the fact that they both hate living here, and it feels like the city itself hates them back. And yet Vex still tries. She works hard and attends her lessons and tries to find a way to fit into her father’s world. She knows it is hopeless, but she does it anyway because if she can at least do something to make their father proud to have them here maybe it won’t be so bad. She tries and looks to her father and hopes.

Please, be enough.

It isn’t. Nothing can satisfy her father or anyone else here. Eventually Vex and Vax reach their limit, and they leave together on a clear summer night. As Vex turns her back on the city, she pushes away anything that might resemble regret and vows to never think of life there again. She doesn’t need it, and she doesn’t need them. She has her brother, and very soon she has Trinket, and eventually she even has a family of a different sort.

Vex’ahlia lives nowhere, because the keep she once called home is now the only thing left standing in a city of burned rubble. The sting of the loss is especially strong because it wasn’t just hers, it was theirs. Vox Machina’s. Percy reminds her that cities can be rebuilt, and she comforts herself with the thought that one day they will all rebuild their home together. She steps as quietly as she can through the ruined streets, eyes scanning the skies for dragons, one hand on her bow, trying not to think of another place that was destroyed by dragon fire. Yes, they will leave. And they will return. It will not be easy, but these dragons must be killed, and she knows they must be the ones to do it. She thinks of how many times she’s nearly lost the people she loves in the last month alone, how she’s come close to death herself. But they’re all still here, still alive. They are strong and smart and skilled. Vex tightens her grip on her bow and hopes.

Please, be enough.

It isn’t. Vex screams and screams, but she knows it’s no use. Percy lies at her feet, and it’s wrong, it’s so wrong, Percy should be up and angry and firing his gun next to her. He should be fiddling with some new invention, should be thinking of a dozen different ways to fix this mess. Vex remains by his side as she fires two arrows at Ripley- one to stop her heart and one to silence her screams, for this woman deserves neither while Percy lies so still and silent. But it’s too late for her bow and arrows to do him any good. She kneels by Percy’s side and remembers a voice offering protection in exchange for something she could not give, and her heart breaks all over again.

Vex’ahlia kneels in the temple of the city in which she is a Baroness. She remembers the day Percy gave her that gift, and she speaks of it as she gently lays stones on his chest. Pike is preparing the ritual, and Vex knows if she doesn’t tell him now she will never tell him anything ever again. The temple is silent as Vex kisses Percy’s lips and offers him her heart. It is a bruised and bitter offering, but she makes it all the same because despite everything the world has thrown at her she has never been able to stamp out the spark of hope that keeps pushing her relentlessly forward. So Vex closes her eyes, and prays, and hopes.

Please, be enough.

And for once, it is.

#throwback to my first published fic <3 #critical role #please be enough #fanfic #Vex'ahlia #percy de rolo #perc'ahlia

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dragonologist-writings · 5 months ago

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Of Diamonds And Dust Chapter 49 - Blood, Water, Wine

A run in with an old friend leaves Marja struggling with past decisions and future plans.

Marja bites her tongue and forces herself to focus. None of this is Gorim’s fault, she knows; he has always been unerringly loyal. He truly was the only one to stand for the truth of her innocence, and Marja treasures dedication that now more than ever. “And you, my friend. You’ve truly no idea how much I’ve missed you.” She hesitates, as an idea begins to form in her mind. “You know, could still come with us.” “I can’t-” “You may not be able to fight, but I have always valued you as an advisor. I have treaties that will grant us access to Orzammar. When I make my return, I intend to take back what was stolen- so come with me. Be my Second once more, at least in title. Let us restore our names together. I may not be able to erase your injury, but I can give you back your House.” She expects excitement from Gorim at this offer. She expects the steadfast resolve she once knew so well. But Gorim just looks away with overcast eyes, and a terrible premonition settles over Marja’s shoulders even before he starts to speak. “Do not ask this of me.” His voice is quiet, but heavy. “Please. I have a new life here. It’s a simple life, I know, but- I’m happy. Far happier than I ever imagined I could be. Happier than I could have been, back in Orzammar.” “Happy? Here?” Marja repeats, scathing in a way she can’t prevent, because the very idea is ridiculous. That Gorim has made a life out of his circumstances- she can accept that. But she is offering him a chance to go back to the lives they both lost. How could he refuse?

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#of diamonds and dust #oc: marja #oc: darvis #odad #aeducan #brosca #fanfic #dragon age #dragon age origins

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dragonologist-writings · 5 months ago

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Title: Professional Curiosity Fandom: Avowed Rating: T Status: One-Shot Characters: Envoy (Helfella), Giatta Castell Ships: Helfella/Giatta Additional Notes: Pre-relationship, Nerds Flirting, Envoy is an Arcane Scholar, No Plot Spoilers Word Count: 3.6k Summary: Envoy Helfella is uniquely peculiar, both by virtue of her godlike body and her closely guarded mind. Giatta Castell has always been drawn to the peculiar, and she wants to know everything about this woman- purely out of professional curiosity, of course.

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The Aedyran Envoy is a uniquely peculiar sight, and Giatta can’t stop staring.

She tries not to be obvious. A generous favor has been done for her- because of the Envoy, she has the means to pursue her work and her theories, not to mention a place to sleep now that she has been so abruptly banished from her home. To greet that trust with poor manners is hardly her intention.

And yet the book in her lap sits opened and ignored, its pages ruffling in the breeze as Giatta’s attention is fully fixed upon the woman standing by the campfire.

This is the first night the two of them have been left alone together. If this were like previous evenings in camp, the night air would be filled with quiet chatter and friendly bickering to distract Giatta’s wandering thoughts, and the sirens of the unknown would not sing out quite so loudly. On this evening, however, Marius has set off on a hunt, and Kai has disappeared to ponder alone what he found in Tama’s cabin. Now it is only Giatta, and the Envoy.

Helfella, she calls herself during the informal hours spent at camp. Just Helfella. A pretty name, and one which carries an irony that Giatta both recognizes and enjoys.

Clouds above obscure the stars and waning moon, but the flickering campfire and luminescent glow of the towering adra work together well enough to illuminate the Envoy’s- Helfella’s- godlike features. Giatta knows it is impolite to stare; she still can’t help it. Even in a crowd of people, Helfella draws the eye, but out here? Alone and with no distractions?

It’s impossible to look away.

Giatta’s eyes flick to the godlike again and again, as her mind works furiously to catalogue and analyze every detail of her face. The skin that ripples across her face in a declaration of fluorescent pastels; the large fronds that bloom into billowing fans over her eyes; the ridges and caps and rings that continue on, winding around her head, growing as one with her living flesh. Helfella is like the dreamthralls who have been sprouting up all too frequently, yet her mind is her own. She is an amalgamation of familiar flora and fungi that thrive in the soil of these Lands, yet she walks among them as a stranger. She…

She has, finally, noticed Giatta’s staring.

At least, Giatta is fairly certain that’s what’s happened. The fronds fanning out from Helfella’s cheekbones envelop her eyes completely, making it difficult to track where her attention lies. But her head is tilted towards Giatta, and Giatta’s skin is prickling with the intuition of someone being watched.

Those suspicions are confirmed when the woman asks, in her polished-marble accent, “Did you need something?”

She doesn’t sound offended, not really, but Giatta gives her a small, apologetic smile anyway. Just in case. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to stare.”

“Yes, you do,” Helfella replies, simple and matter-of-fact and maybe even a little bit bemused. “But I’m used to stares.”

“The attention gets tiresome, I imagine.”

“Often, yes. But I don’t mind so much, when it’s from someone I like. I just hope it’s for a good reason.”

Her tone is light, cordial. Not flirting, not quite, not yet. Helfella is charming, in her own way, but far too cautious, and Giatta can sense that wariness in her now- that Aedyran moderation, fighting hard against a scholar’s natural curiosity. Perhaps that’s another reason Giatta finds herself so endeared by the godlike- she can tell Helfella is just as interested in her work (in her) in return, despite her efforts not to be.

She has to be. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be working together as they are now. Otherwise, she wouldn’t move to sit down next to Giatta, close enough that their knees brush against each other, and she wouldn’t ask, “You have questions, don’t you?”

Such a short time they’ve had together, and she already knows Giatta so well.

Not that Giatta is particularly difficult to predict, herself. It should be easy for anyone to see that yes, she’s bursting with questions, and all it takes is the barest hint at an invitation for her to lean forward and let them spill all too eagerly from her lips.

“Your sight- how does it work? Forgive me for starting with the obvious, but…you can see, can’t you? That would imply the presence of eyes, but I don’t understand how they receive information. And these growths- have they changed over time? Are they affected by weather? Do they have any sensory receptors? Are they poisonous?”

She has more, but Helfella holds up a hand and Giatta pauses. She waits, in anticipatory limbo, as Helfella considers her questions and then carefully delivers her answers. “Okay. In order: The specifics, as I know them, are complicated. I see best when it’s dim, in the twilight hours or in low lamplight; harsh lighting makes things more difficult. I get migraines. The worst of them will leave me functionally blind, sometimes for hours.

“Nobody really knows what I have for eyes, as adequately answering that question would require dissection, and I’d rather that be conducted post-mortum. The growths have grown in size over time but their overall presence relative to the rest of my body has remained consistent. Weather appears irrelevant to their growth or health, aside from the aforementioned effects of light. They do have feeling, but it’s more akin to the sensitivity of cartilage than that of skin.” A smile tugs at the edge of Helfella’s mouth, and she chuckles as she finishes, “And I wish they were poisonous- maybe then, the bears here would stop trying to take a bite out of me.”

Giatta smiles. Some part of her itches to fetch her journals, so that she may take notes for later…but she also doesn’t want to move from this spot, with the heat of the campfire on one side and the faint warmth of Helfella’s body sitting so close on the other. “Fascinating. Let’s start from the beginning- how complicated are we talking?”

“How much can you keep up with?”

“Just try me.”

The challenge brings a smile to Helfella’s face, and she complies. She starts small, telling Giatta about the mechanics, the biology, the botany, keeping most of it basic at first. Gradually, her explanations turn long and winding, prodded on by Giatta’s questions; she describes things like optic reception and the intake of light by her fronds, of rewired nerves and connections winding through her body and her brain. Giatta’s questions seem to put her at ease, as she realizes that this Fioran can keep up perfectly well with any Aedyran scholar- better, Giatta would claim, and soon enough Helfella doesn’t dare dispute her.

Time is lost as their conversation deepens. Eventually, Helfella even ventures into the slightly more philosophical idea that nobody is quite certain whether what she does is really seeing, but she has nothing to compare it to, and in the end it serves her well enough. Still, she seems almost embarrassed by this fact, for reasons Giatta can’t begin to fathom.

Because she is, as Giatta stated before, fascinating. Her body, her mind, all of it.

And her soul must be even moreso.

“You know your stuff,” Giatta admits when her first slew of questions has been satisfied, and Helfella releases a breathy laugh.

“I should hope so. It’s my body.” She reaches up to fidget thoughtfully at the wavy ridges which ripple over her face. “That’s how I got started with my own studies, in fact. I spent my childhood under the watch of healers and scholars, all trying to figure me out. I wanted to know what they knew. I wanted to figure myself out.”

“An admirable desire,” Giatta murmurs. She hovers on the edge of her next question; she already suspects the answer. But she’s come this far already, so she ventures forth. “Have you ever delved into your soul for answers?”

“You’re…speaking of animancy?”

“I am.”

For the first time, Helfella falters before delivering an answer. Her shoulders stiffen ever so slightly, and when she does speak her words are formal and rehearsed. “I’ve looked into the theory. Anyone would. But I’m well aware that anything further would be ill-advised, and I would never do anything so foolishly dangerous while under the fercönyng’s employ.”

It’s all the usual prattle Giatta has come to expect from Aedyrans. A few days ago, she might have even thought the words were sincere. But Giatta doesn’t believe the woman who just spent an hour talking through the finer points of scientific discoveries has never toed the lines of the acceptable, so she leans forward and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“You do realize this emperor of yours isn’t around to hear you right now?”

Helfella’s mouth twitches. Emotions aren’t easy to read on her mushroom-enshrined face, but Giatta senses some kind of internal argument playing out in her mind, until at last she leans in close and admits, “I have had a…curiosity, towards animancy. When I was a young student at university, I thought I could- I still don’t know, exactly. I didn’t have any of the equipment to conduct experiments myself. Bragganhyl has been rather strict about those things ever since some students got themselves into a mess over it, but the point is, I did study the subject. I even…I even got into contact with a researcher who specialized in utilizing animancy to influence godlike souls.

Giatta gives a playful, delighted gasp. “Oh, how scandalous.”

“Tease me if you must, but it was. His name was Giacolo, and he was controversial even outside of Aedyr. But his work with godlikes-”

“-was phenomenal,” Giatta finishes, her jests forgotten as she realizes whom Helfella is speaking of. “He pioneered the study of chimes! You collaborated with him?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but we shared ideas,” Helfella says, sounding proud in spite of herself. “We never managed to meet in person, of course. He wouldn’t have been allowed in Aedyr even if he desired it.”

“Still, it’s no so small feat to catch his attention. Especially while amidst your prickly countrymen.” Giatta rests her chin in her hands and grants Helfella an inviting smile. “It’s promising, to know you’re so much more daring than your comrades.”

“To an extent,” Helfella clarifies, though she still seems to enjoy the praise.

“I promise, it’s not as frightening as your Empire makes it sound. In fact, I’d be happy to tinker with your soul, should you ever find yourself in the mood.”

Giatta means it as a jest, mostly, though it is a genuine offer. She just doesn’t predict that Helfella will take her seriously. She realizes her miscalculation immediately, made evident in the immediate, instinctual flinch in Helfella as she shifts herself farther away.

Damn. Giatta has always known, intellectually, the people beyond her small sphere in Fior have narrowed their minds when it comes to things like animancy. Yet it still surprises her to see that truth in action, especially in a mind so sharp as Helfella’s.

“Is that a no, then?” she asks, and despite her efforts to salvage the lighthearted mood, the disappointment in her voice proves impossible to hide.

“It’s nothing personal,” Helfella says, but that stiff tone has returned to her voice, and she doesn’t move to recover the distance she’s put between them. “I’m simply no longer interested in such things. I can’t be. I shouldn’t even be working with you, honestly, but given the extenuating circumstances, that much can be pardoned. Anything more…you have to understand, there are rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken!” Giatta insists, as earnest as she’s ever been.

But in this, Helfella will not be moved. “Not in Aedyr. Certainly not for me. Following rules is what’s kept me safe all these years.” She turns her head away from Giatta and lifts her face towards the stars above. “It’s about walking the line, saying the right words and doing the right things- and if you do all that, you stay out of prison, and you manage to salvage your reputation and your career, and you even earn the favor of the crown. But even then, people don’t stop watching you. Some people can get away with pushing boundaries, but for those of us who are already anomalies…it’s smarter not to fight against the current.”

Having made her speech, she sighs, and turns her face to Giatta. Whatever expression she wears remains largely hidden, but there seems to be something sad in the resigned smile on her face. “I’ve always been smarter than I am brave.”

Giatta shakes her head. “I don’t know about that. You’re here, aren’t you?”

Helfella merely tilts her head in something between a nod and a shrug, her expression still inscrutable. Giatta studies her carefully, desperate to know what’s running through that mind of hers. She finds herself wanting to give this strange woman some form of comfort; she finds herself wanting to unravel her like one of the metaphysical mysteries she has built her work around. Giatta’s churning thoughts are interrupted when Helfella suddenly holds her hand out, palm up, as if in offering.

“I can’t offer up my soul. But…would you like to feel?”

Giatta likes to think herself as a difficult woman to surprise, but at that, her eyebrows shoot up. “Feel?”

“Feel me,” Helfella clarifies. “People think it’s impolite to ask, but I know they wonder what it all feels like. You’ve wondered, haven’t you?”

For a rare moment, Giatta is speechless. Then she laughs. “You’ll let me inspect your body, but not your soul?”

“Is that so strange?”

“It is,” Giatta says, and she moves closer. “But you won’t catch me complaining.”

She puts her hand in Helfella’s, and she allows the godlike to guide her fingers up to her face, where mushroom caps make frills and ripples and ridges of her skin. The fronds over her eyes are the most noticeable of her features, rising up past her brows in brilliant, scalloped pastels. This close, however, Giatta finds new details that had previously escaped her notice. Sprinkled amidst Helfella’s formations are freckles and moles, these perfectly ordinary marks made notable by their placement amongst godlike elements. Giatta’s fingers press lightly against the odd flesh, soft and inquisitive, testing the give of Helfella’s spongy fungal skin, following the path of her freckles.

“Magnificent,” Giatta mutters under her breath. “Is it sensitive?”

“No more than typical cartilage. ” Helfella’s voice is quiet, as if she’s afraid to breathe too deeply with Giatta’s touch against her skin. Giatta’s thumb sweeps along her cheekbone, and the fronds over her eyes flutter ever so slightly. “Strange, I know.”

“Strange, indeed,” Giatta agrees, because it is true- and yet, the longer she looks, the more the effect of Helfella’s appearance is allowed to settle into something eccentric and oddly beautiful on her face. “Strange and fascinating. You are intriguing, Envoy. You even returned from the dead, or so people say.”

“I did.” Giatta could swear Helfella’s skin grows warmer beneath her fingers, right before she adds, “Would you like to see?”

“Really?” Giatta can’t hide her enthusiasm. “You know, you may come to regret indulging me so much.”

“I’ll take the risk- especially for the sake of our resident healer satisfying her professional curiosity. You never know what useful things you might learn, isn’t that right?” For all her rationality and justifications, the grin on her face looks so genuine that Giatta can’t help but chuckle.

“That’s exactly right.”

Helfella needs no further encouragement; she takes Giatta’s hand and pulls her gently away from the fire, back toward their row of stick-and-blanket tents. There’s still no sign of Kai or Marius, and the tent doesn’t fully close, anyway- yet as Helfella settles down on a blanket there is a new and undeniable sense of privacy, of intimacy, which settles over the two women.

Despite the darkness, Helfella works quickly. She’s still wearing the fur-lined bracers she’d uncovered from an old hunter’s hideaway earlier that day, but it only takes moments to loosen them from her wrists and set them aside. Next comes her neatly trimmed vest, unlaced and shrugged off her shoulders, falling to the ground below without a second glance and soon followed by her dark purple undershirt.

And then it is just Helfella, in her trousers and her breastband, her skin bare and exposed for Giatta to inspect.

Giatta, for her part, does not miss a beat. She moves in close and presses her searching touch against Helfella’s abdomen, grazing her fingers over soft skin and raised ridges. Helfella’s growths are smaller here, and less concentrated than on her face and scalp, but her skin is still mottled and colored in a curious rainbow of freckles and moles that hover somewhere in the space between flesh and fungal.

“It was an arrow, yes?” Giatta asks, and Helfella nods.

“A poisoned arrow. Here.” She takes Giatta’s hand and guides her to the spot, her stomach softly falling and rising with her quick breaths. There is no scar to be seen, no remaining wound to be detected at all; just a tiny forest of lichen, spiraling around the point where Helfella presses Giatta’s fingers against her skin.

“Does it hurt?” Giatta asks softly.

“No. I don’t even remember it much.”

She’s lying, Giatta suspects, but she doesn’t call her on it. It seems kinder to let the moment pass, and so she does, and focuses instead on the way Helfella shivers as she moves her fingers up the godlike’s stomach.

“Ticklish?” she asks, and Helfella laughs even as she shakes her head, and she doesn’t protest as Giatta moves in closer.

Moves her hands slowly upwards.

Moves to position herself between Helfella’s legs, and the two of them curl around each other on the blanket.

“I’m glad for the chance of such a personal exploration, by the way,” Giatta murmurs, “if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I don’t mind at all- like I said, I’m used to being poked and prodded.” She smirks, just as a little, as if to let Giatta know she’s joking, but Giatta won’t let that one go.

“So this is a typical day for you, then? Should I be jealous?”

That makes Helfella laugh, soft and wondrous. “Oh, no. No, you’re…different.”

The statement makes Giatta smile. She lifts her hand to Helfella’s face, this time cradling her cheek, and she realizes in that moment just how much she wants to kiss this woman.

Giatta has never been shy about pursuing what she wants.

She’s certain that Helfella wants it, too, yet as she moves in close, Helfella moves away- just slightly, but enough to make Giatta halt her advance, her nose just barely brushing against Helfella’s. The smile is gone from the godlike’s face now, and she turns her head away from Giatta.

“I’m sorry,” Helfella says, her voice barely a whisper, and Giatta pulls back farther, shaking her head.

“No, I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s not- I want- I just can’t. I shouldn’t.”

“Of course.” Giatta puts in the effort to keep her tone light and friendly; there’s no real reason to be offended, not over someone she’s known such a short time. “There’s nothing to worry about. I mean it.”

“I’m sorry,” Helfella repeats, anyway. “It’s just- when I’m around you, it’s a little too easy to forget who I am, and why I’m here. You’re dangerous, you know.”

Giatta raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m a terrifying animancer?”

Helfella shakes her head, her voice rueful. “Because I’ve only known you for three days, and you’re already the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

“Me?” In spite of everything, Giatta must admit the flattery goes straight to her head.

“You,” Helfella agrees simply. “Because…you’re not wrong. Because I do trust you. I just can’t afford to be tempted right now.”

Some part of Giatta wants to push back against that, but another, wiser part knows now is not the time. Still, she eyes Helfella speculatively, and in light of the reassurance that the Envoy is not uninterested, she allows herself a certain amount of coy confidence. “Someday, then. I’ve been told I can be quite persistent.”

Helfella lets out a surprised laugh. “Is that a threat?”

“You’re a smart one,” Giatta says sweetly. “I’ll let you figure it out for yourself.”

She leaves Helfella there in her tent, the godlike still smiling in clear spite of herself. The thought does occur to Giatta that she herself hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s getting into with this person- this Aedyran who clings to such strange rules, this woman who already has such a hold on Giatta’s attentions.

But for all her faults, Giatta has never feared the unknown; rather, she delights in the prospect of discovery, whatever form it may take. This just another pursuit, another path on which she is tugged along by her insatiable curiosity, and she’s looking forward to finding out where it leads.

When Giatta goes to sleep that night, she dreams of firelight, and mushrooms, and what she imagines to be the taste of a soft, impossible kiss.

#fanfic #professional curiosity #oc: helfella #giatta castell #pillars of eternity #avowed

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