her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

so this is what i’ve been up to for since Wednesday. I HOPE Y’ALL ARE HAPPY.

here it is, a song for Sera written to the tune of Centuries by Fall Out Boy, acoustified with my violin (because i really couldn’t procure a guitar :C)

hilarious and amazing lyrics by the astonishing confessionsofacreativewriter. thank you again for these lyrics, i really couldn’t have written them myself! 

lyrics: 

Du du du-du, du du du-du

Du du du-du, du du du-du

Du du…

Some legends are told

Some turn to dust or to gold

But you will remember me

A Red Jenny with jars of bees

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

We’ll go down in history

Remember me for centuries

He-e-e-ey ya, oh he-e-e-ey

He-e-e-ey ya

Remember me, a Red Jenny

She cookiefied my teenage dreams

No, it’s nothing wrong with me

The elves are all wrong

Their story’s all off

Lady Emmald broke my DUN DUN heart

Hold on, hold on you’ll let me in?

I really don’t get this acceptance thing

Lord Harmond was a twat

and Verchiel was a mess

and when I said ‘pranks’ you did not proteeeeest

Du du du-du, du du du-du

Du du du-du, du du du-du

Du du…

Some legends are told

C’mon let’s plug some arseholes

They will remember me

Remember me for centuries

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

I’ll go down in history

A Red Jenny and 10,000 bees

He-e-e-ey ya, oh he-e-e-ey

He-e-e-ey ya

Remember me, 10,000 bees

And you can stop pointing pity faces at me

Unless you want an arrow for your tea

We got out of the Fade, invited to the ball, did you ask me to dance

‘Cos I, I will absolutely stomp on your pinky

Now a De Launcet’s chuckin’ guts,

Celene’s about to bloom

‘Cos Gaspard’s head’s gonna go so soon

Du du du-du, du du du-du

Du du du-du, du du du-du

Du du…

Some legends are told

Some turn to dust or to gold

But you will remember me

A Red Jenny with Jars of Bees

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

We’ll go down in history

Remember me for centuries

He-e-e-ey ya, oh he-e-e-ey

He-e-e-ey ya

Remember me, A Red Jenny

We’ve been here forever

And here the Veil is booooored

Coryphenis won’t live forever

W e will settle that scoooore

Du du du-du, du du du-du

Du du du-du, du du du-du

Du du…)

Some legends are told

Some turn to wasps or to gold

But he will remember me

A Red Jenny with 10,000 bees

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

I’ll go down in history

A Red Jenny with 10,000 bees

He-e-e-ey ya, oh he-e-e-ey

He-e-e-ey ya

Remember me, 10,000 bees

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

tis I, the birthday girl!!!

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

i cannot recommend enough to make adaia a ghost haunting the narrative to a warden tabris. like the building blocks are already there between ducan knowing (and wanting to recruit!) her and then tabris wearing boots made by her with her dagger fang (with a bonus block if you're romancing leliana too). and if you pick a block up from headcanon territory then you can have adaia be a night elf which directly ties her to loghain, and With Everything He Does really lets you start making some sick and twisted cityscapes.

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: against all odds

Pairing: Adaia Tabris & Female Tabris

Setting: pre origins

---

The knife’s too big for her hands.

Adaia watches Kallian fumble with it anyway, stubborn little thing, jaw clenched like that’s enough to make her strong.

It ain’t.

Not strong enough when she went charging at three shems last week with a sodding stick.

"Grip’s all wrong," Adaia snaps.

Kallian’s brown eyes shoot up, defiant. Her face is still mottled with the fading bruises from that beating—yellow-green smudges on her cheek, a split lip healing crooked.

"I got it."

Adaia snorts. "Yeah? That why you’re holdin’ it like it owes you coin?"

Kallian scowls, adjusts her grip. The blade wobbles, catching a sliver of late afternoon light—too shiny, too clean.

Not for long.

Adaia steps in, snatches the knife easy as breathing. Familiar weight. Cool metal, warm from Kallian’s grip. She rolls the hilt between her fingers, loose but steady.

"Firm, not stiff. Knife’s gotta be an extension of you, not some bloody stick you’re swingin’ at shems like last time."

That hits. Adaia sees it—the twitch in Kallian’s jaw, the flash of something hot behind her eyes. Shame, maybe. Good. Let it sting. That sting keeps you sharp.

"They were hasslin’ old Dalan," Kallian mutters, voice low. "What was I s’posed to do? Just watch?"

Adaia’s breath hitches. She grinds her molars until the urge to shake the girl fades.

"You’re s’posed to *think*, Kalli." She holds up the knife between them. "This ain’t about bein’ brave. It’s about stayin’ alive."

She flips the knife, presses the hilt back into Kallian’s hand.

"Try again."

Kallian grabs it, sets her feet like Adaia showed her. Too wide. Adaia kicks her ankle, sharp.

"Closer. You ain’t bracing for a cave-in."

Kallian adjusts, face flushed with heat, pride stung raw.

She jabs. Awkward. Slow. Adaia slaps the blade aside with a flat palm, steps in, flicks her daughter’s ear.

"Dead," Adaia says. "Again."

Kallian growls under her breath, resets. Strikes faster. Better, but sloppy. Adaia catches her wrist mid-swing, twists. The knife clatters to the packed dirt.

Kallian jerks back, cradling her hand, eyes blazing.

"That’s not fair!"

"Fair?" Adaia spits the word like it’s sour. “You think those shems played fair when they knocked you into the gutter? Or when they kept kickin’ after you hit the ground?”

Kallian’s breathing hard now, face red, fists clenched. But she doesn’t cry. Not anymore.

Adaia made sure of that.

"You lose your knife, you lose your life. Simple as."

Kallian’s glare could cut steel. “Why’re we even doin’ this? Ain’t like anyone’s comin’ for us.”

Adaia’s chest goes tight.

(They always come.)

But she doesn’t say that. Not yet.

Instead, she steps back, picks up the knife, spins it once, then presses it into Kallian’s hand.

"Cause next time you’re not facin’ drunk shems lookin’ for a fight. You freeze up again, you’re dead. And I ain’t buryin’ you, girl."

She sees the question in Kallian’s eyes. Knows the girl wants to ask who-but she won’t. Not tonight.

Adaia ruffles her hair instead, rough but fond. "You did better today, Kalli."

Kallian glares. "You never say that."

"Don’t want you gettin’ soft."

Kallian rolls her eyes, but her grip on the knife is steadier now. Fingers sure.

Good.

Later, when Kallian’s asleep, curled up under a thin blanket with the knife tucked close, Adaia sits by the door.

She doesn’t reach for her dagger. Not tonight. Instead, her fingers brush over the old hahl resting beside her. The wood is worn smooth, the strings patched and re-patched. It’s the only thing she brought with her when she left Denerim’s Alienage to fight for Loghain’s Night Elves. The only thing left from before.

She plucks a string, testing the sound. It’s out of tune. Of course it is. She hasn’t played in-Maker, how long now?

Her calloused fingers work the pegs, adjusting the pitch. She plays slow at first, letting muscle memory guide her. The melody is old, familiar. A song Kallian hums sometimes without realizing—something from before she was born. Something from them.

The firelight flickers, and for a moment, she sees them as they were—sitting around a dying campfire deep in the Brecilian, soaked to the bone, blood crusted under their nails, but alive.

Miri, laughing as she twirled a stolen Orlesian scarf, dark curls damp with rain.

Jak, broad-shouldered and sharp-tongued, teasing Adaia for always picking sad songs.

Tam, the scrappy one from Amaranthine’s Alienage, perched on a fallen log, fingers quick as lightning as he whittled an arrow shaft.

Nell, freckled and fierce, her accent thick from the South Reach Alienage, quiet until she wasn’t, humming along to the tune.

Hew, the eldest of them, from Gwaren, already battle-scarred at twenty, keeping watch but tapping his foot along with the rhythm.

And Adaia, fingers dancing over the strings of this same hahl, playing a rebel’s tune.

They’d been young. Foolish. Free-though she hadn’t known it then.

She plays through the song, all the way to the end. The last time she played it, Miri was still warm in her arms, her blood soaking into the mud, her lips moving soundlessly. (Run, Adaia. Just run.)

Her fingers still on the final chord.

She wonders if Kallian will hate her one day—for the lessons, for the bruises, for turning love into something sharp-edged and heavy.

Her hand hovers over Kallian’s sleeping form. Almost reaches-

Warm breath against her knuckles, soft curls brushing her fingers.

Then she curls her hand into a fist instead.

Better hated and alive than loved and dead.

She sets the hahl down beside her, fingers ghosting over the strings one last time.

Because they always come.

---

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

interviewing to be divine like

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: Angry Because They Care

Pairing: Sera x female Trevelyan

Setting: pre tresspasser

Now I'm all out of ideas

---

Right, so the thing about magic, yeah? S'not natural. Specially not when it’s coming out your girlfriend’s hand like one of them fancy Orlesian fountain things, all green and glowy and wrong.

Used to be just a little sparkler trick when they first met—pip pip, tiny lights, proper cute actually. Like Buckles herself back then, all stammery and red-faced whenever Sera’d wink at her. ("Buckles" ’cause of all them stupid armor bits she wore-still wears-can never get the sodding things undone proper when they're trying to-yeah, anyway.)

But now? Shite’s gone all weird.

"Oi!"

Sera’s hanging upside down off the safe house bed, watching the door like it might sprout legs and run off. Been doing that lot lately, the watching. ’Cause Evelyn thinks she’s being all sneaky with her disappearing acts, right? But Sera weren’t born yesterday, and she knows what someone looking guilty looks like.

(And Evelyn looks guilty as shite.)

"You gonna stand there all night or what?"

Evelyn jumps like she’s been caught with her hand in some noble prick’s cookie jar. Hand goes behind her back quick-like, but too late-Sera’s already caught the green glow leaking through her fingers.

Brighter than before. Worse. But it’s not just the glow-there’s something off in the way Evelyn moves. Too stiff, too careful, like she’s trying not to jostle something that already hurts.

(She is. Knew it.)

"I didn’t-" Evelyn starts, then stops. Does that thing with her face where she tries to look all Inquisitor-y and proper but really just looks like she needs a good shit. "-expect you to be awake."

"Pfft. ’Course not. You was hoping to sneak in like a proper spy, yeah?" Sera flips right-side up, legs swinging before she plants her feet on the floor. Head spins a bit. (Bad idea. Flipping when pissed off? Stupid.) "Except you ain’t a spy, you’re just pants at lying. And that-" She points at the hand still badly hidden behind Evelyn’s back. "-is getting worse."

The glow pulses, like it knows they’re talking about it. Always does that now, like it’s listening. Like it’s got opinions.

"Oi. No." Sera leans in, squinting at the creeping green light. "You don’t get to have opinions, creepy hand. Piss off."

"Sera-"

"If you say 'nothing to worry about,' I’m gonna shoot you. Right in your fancy noble arse."

Silence drops between them like a dead nug. Then "...Really thought you were out on Jenny business."

"Ha!" Sera snorts. "Knew it! Known it for ages, actually. You sneaking off to Vivvy’s place, thinking no one’d notice ’cause ooooh, important Inquisition stuff!" She waggles her fingers in what might be magic-hands. "Except Jennies are everywhere, yeah? And you ain't half as clever as you think, dumping all them empty potion bottles."

The anchor proper explodes then, lighting up the whole room like one of them dramatic lightning strikes in Cass’s stupid romance books. Evelyn gasps-proper gasps, like the breath’s been punched out of her, her whole body locking up for a second before she folds over.

(Oh, that’s worse.)

Sera's across the room before her brain catches up with her feet.

Grabbing that glowing hand, ignoring the sharp static-zing of magic crawling up her arm, she feels it-hot like fever, fingers twitching like they don’t belong to her anymore. Evelyn flinches at the contact, her other hand coming up fast-too fast-to brace against Sera’s shoulder. Not pushing her away. Just trying to stay upright.

(That’s new.)

(That’s bad.)

"How long?"

Evelyn doesn’t answer right away. Her breath is all wrong, too shallow, like she’s trying to get a grip on something inside her that won’t settle.

"Sera—"

"How. Long."

A pause. Then, quiet-like:

"...A few weeks."

Sera’s stomach drops.

(A few weeks. A few sodding weeks.)

"A few weeks," she repeats. Flat.

Evelyn doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to laugh it off. Just looks at her, shoulders tight like a bowstring, lips pressed thin. Like she knows there’s no point lying anymore.

(That’s why she’s been sneaking off. That’s why she’s been moving different. Why her sword grip’s been shite. Why she looks at Sera sometimes like she’s trying to memorise her-)

"That’s why you been seeing Vivvy? Getting all them special potions and—and whatever?"

Evelyn exhales, slow. "She has connections. People who understand unusual magic—"

"Piss on that!" Sera’s proper angry now, which is better than scared. Angry’s good. Angry means doing something. "Unusual magic? It’s eating you! Can see it, can’t I? The way you hold yourself, the way you keep-"

Her voice cracks. Stupid voice, betraying her like that.

"-way you look at me sometimes. Like you’re trying to remember everything, ’cause you think-’cause you—"

Can’t finish. Won’t finish. Saying it makes it real.

"I didn’t want—" Evelyn starts, then stops. Tries again: "I thought if I could just... figure it out. Find a way to control it. Then maybe..." She trails off, that stupid noble martyr look crossing her face. The one that makes Sera want to simultaneously kiss her and kick her teeth in.

"Then maybe what? You’d just keep lying? Keep pretending everything’s fine while that thing-" Sera squeezes the marked hand, feels the magic buzz angry-like against her palm. "Keeps getting worse?"

"I was trying to protect you!"

"From what? Truth? Reality?" Sera yanks Evelyn closer, proper close, till they’re sharing breath.

"News flash, your Ladybits—been dealing with both them things my whole sodding life! You don’t get to decide what I can handle. Not after everything. Not after-after Haven, and Adamant, and Coryphenus, and all the other times you tried playing hero alone!"

The anchor flares again, but softer this time. Like it knows they’re having a Moment or something.

"I’m scared," Evelyn whispers, so quiet Sera almost misses it. "I don’t... I don’t know how to stop it. How to fix it. Everything I’ve tried, everyone I’ve asked... nothing works. It just keeps growing and I can’t-I can’t-"

"Hey." Sera gentles her voice, just a bit. Just enough.

"We. Not you."

(That’s the difference. That’s what’s changing now.)

"We can’t fix it yet. But that’s what’s happening now, yeah? We’re fixing it together. Proper together, not your version where you run off and do everything yourself like some tragic hero in Varric’s stories."

"Sera..."

"Nope! No arguing. New rules: you tell me everything. All the weird magic shite, all the scary bits, all of it. And I’ll help. Got contacts everywhere, don’t I? Proper network of people who hate nobles and their secret-keeping garbage."

A laugh escapes Evelyn, wet and broken but real. "Pretty sure most of those people hate me too. Being, you know, noble-adjacent."

"Pfft. You ain't proper noble. Proper nobles don’t snort when they laugh or trip over their own feet trying to kiss someone or-"

"I do not snort!"

"Do too! Like a proper pig sometimes, specially when you’re—"

The anchor pulses again, but this time it’s almost... happy? Weird, that.

"No more secrets," Sera demands, still holding that glowing hand.

A pause. Then: "I promise." Evelyn’s voice goes soft and wobbly, like she’s being proper serious about it. "No more secrets. No more... no more trying to handle it alone."

"Good."

They collapse onto the mattress together, and this time, when Sera asks her to talk—Evelyn does.

---

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

is she... you know... a friend of red jenny?

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: courtship

Pairing: Sera x Female Trevelyan

This is one of my older ones, but since I have a one shot related to this one, might as well use it here

---

Friggin' letters. Always in weird spots, these Jenny notes. This one's stuffed in her usual breakfast nook - well, not proper nook, more like that wobbly floorboard near where she dumps her crumbs for the tavern mice (named them all, she has. Little soldiers in her crumb army).

The Chargers are doing their morning thing in the corner, but something's off. They're trying too hard to look normal, yeah? Dalish "definitely not doing magic" with her "bow" more than usual. Skinner's actually sitting still instead of sharpening something deadly. Rocky hasn't blown anything up for at least an hour.

And Bull... that massive horned bastard's got that look. That "I know something you don't know I know" look. Probably figured it all out days ago - bet he spotted Eve sneaking off to write her fancy letters, because of course he did.

Stupid Ben-Hassrath training.

"Morning, Sera!" Krem calls out, way too cheerful for this early. "Boss was just saying how you might be getting some interesting post today."

Bull smacks him upside the head, gentle-like. "Way to be subtle, Krem de la Krem."

"Piss off, the lot of you," Sera says, but friendly-like. They're alright, even with the knowing looks and badly hidden grins. Papers go right down her shirt though - bit scratchy, that. Like wearing autumn. Tries not to look too obvious about it, but...

"Three pieces of advice," Bull rumbles, all casual-like while taking a long drink. "One: she spent six hours in the library researching traditional courtship customs. Two: Josephine caught her practicing her formal bow. Three: she's been up since dawn beating training dummies to splinters."

"I didn't ask!" Sera squawks, feeling her face go hot. But... six hours in the library? That's proper dedication, that is. Researching like it's some big important mission. Like Sera's worth all that effort.

"Didn't have to ask," Bull grins, tapping his temple with one massive finger. "Ben-Hassrath, remember? And the boss... well, let's just say subtlety isn't her strong suit right now."

Krem's practically bouncing in his seat now. "Go on then, read it! Boss has been wearing a path in the floor watching you this morning."

Right then, what's this about? Proper Jenny scrawl on this one, all wobbles and snorts...

-Sera-

Your Inquisitor sent us something... well, different. Ten whole pages of proper noble courtship-customs, traditions, the works. At first, we thought it was a prank (would’ve been a good one, mind), but then we hit the part where she went on about how much you mean to the Inquisition. And to her. She wrote that bit in smaller letters, like she got all shy just putting it down.

She didn’t miss a thing—Free Marches traditions, noble customs, even her whole family tree. Generations back, with notes and everything. Bit much, that. Sweet though, in a “someone raised her proper” sort of way. There’s a whole section about 'ensuring appropriate respect is maintained,' and Jenny Mae hasn’t stopped shaking her head and grinning since.

We’re saying yes because:

- She’s trying her heart out to do right by you, and that’s worth something.

- Anyone who fights dragons but still gets nervous writing about you is probably worth keeping around.

- Maker’s truth, we’ve not seen you this happy in ages.

**P.S.** We sent her back a fancy document, seals and all. Looked dead official—figured she’d like that.

**P.P.S.** The others say hello. Miss you here.

"Pfffft!" Sera nearly chokes on nothing, sliding right down the wall. Has to read it again. And again. No way. No frigging way! Evelyn "I Fight Bears For Fun" Trevelyan, sent a marriage proposal to the Jennies? Well, not marriage exactly, but close enough yeah? All proper and noble-like, probably used her fancy seal and everything.

This is... this is better than that time they filled Cullen's office with nugs. Better than when Cassandra found those drawings. Better than... than... everything!

Need to find her. Need to see her face. Like, right now immediately. Papers still crackling against her ribs as she runs, taking corners fast enough to bounce off walls. Some soldier yells about no running in the halls - she gives him a two-finger salute without looking back.

Training yard's where Eve always hides when she's nervous about something. Sure enough, there she is, beating up some poor practice dummy like it owes her money. Probably been out here since the birds woke up - Eve's got two types of not sleeping: the nightmary kind where she wakes up screaming about Kirkwall, and the nervous kind where she just gives up and hits things till they make sense.

That glowy hand thing's doing its morning exercise gleam - all soft and steady-like. Sera's got names for all the different glows now. This one's "Eve's brain's gone all quiet except for the hitting things part." Helps that her hands aren't doing the shaky thing so bad today - sometimes they get proper twitchy when she's been too long without the blue stuff, makes her grip go all wrong. Not that she ever says, but Sera's got eyes, yeah?

"Oi! Your Gracious Lady Bits!" Sera shouts, hopping the fence instead of using the gate like normal people. Because normal's boring, innit?

Eve goes all stiff, like someone replaced her spine with a sword. Does that thing where she keeps checking over her shoulder every few seconds - proper Templar habit that, like Knight-Commander Whatsit might pop out and grade her stance or something. The mark does that brilliant flash thing - the "oh shite she found out" glow. Then it starts flickering fast, like a candle in a draft. That's the "my stomach's doing backflips" one. Dead easy to read once you know what's what.

"Sera!" Eve's voice goes all squeaky, like it does when she's proper flustered. Sword drops a bit, probably forgot she's holding it. That fancy noble posture's kicking in now - shoulders all straight like she's at some posh tea party, except her face has gone all pink right up to that nasty scar on her cheek.

"You're... here. Now. In the morning. Not that I know your schedule! That'd be weird. I just happened to notice-"

"Ten pages!" Sera yanks the letter out, waving it like a victory flag. Bits of paper snow everywhere. Proper fancy paper too, not the cheap stuff - Eve probably spent ages picking it out, because that's what she does when she's nervous, makes everything too perfect. "Ten whole bleeding pages of 'please let me court your Jenny' complete with family trees and everything!"

The mark's going mental now, proper lightshow. Like that time they found those Tevinter fireworks and set them all off at once. Eve's face matches it - all red and glowy. Got that same look she had before fighting that dragon in the Hinterlands, all scared-but-doing-it-anyway. Weird how facing down massive lizards is easier for her than feelings and stuff.

"I... there are... it's important to..." Eve actually drops her sword this time. Clang! Goes right by her boots and she doesn't even notice, too busy doing that thing where she tries to look all official but her hands keep fiddling with her sleeve ends. Probably stretched out half her shirts doing that. "There are procedures! Rules! Things you're supposed to do!"

"Rules?" Sera's cackling now, can't help it. Watches Eve's eyes do that darting thing, like she's trying to remember something from some dusty old book.

"What, like 'How To Woo Common Folk For Proper Nobs'? Did you read a book? You read a book, didn't you?"

"Several actually," Eve mumbles, then looks horrified she admitted it. The mark's practically dancing now, matching the way she's shuffling her feet. Hands gone all twitchy again, that thing they do when she's missing her lyrium real bad or when she's proper nervous - hard to tell which right now. Probably both. "I wanted... you deserve... I mean..."

Got that look about her now, same one she gets when someone mentions Kirkwall or her fancy family - like she's trying to do everything right this time, make up for all the times before when everything went wrong. Daft tit doesn't realize Sera couldn't care less about proper anything, long as it's real.

"You complete and utter tit," Sera says, but she's grinning so hard her face hurts. Gets right up in Eve's space, close enough to see how she hasn't been sleeping proper. Dark circles under her eyes like bruises - betting she spent half the night pacing, other half writing, probably muttering those little prayers she thinks no one hears. Always does that when she's proper worried, like the Maker might pop down and give her courtship advice. Worried about this, was she? "Did you really draw little pictures on your family tree?"

"They were heraldic symbols!" Eve protests, all defensive and adorable like a ruffled owl. Hand goes straight to her sword belt - except oh right, dropped it, didn't she? Ends up grabbing air like a right fool, which makes that scar on her cheek go all white like it does when she's flustered. "I wanted to be thorough! And... and clear about my position and..." Catches herself standing noble-straight again, then deliberately slouches like she's trying to make up for it. "Oh Maker, this is why I wrote it down instead of saying it out loud."

The mark's settled into that nice buzzy glow now - the "everything's alright" one. Like sunshine through honey. Funny how it matches her eyes when she's happy - all warm green instead of that sharp templar-training look she gets when she's being all Inquisitor-y. Eve's still looking at her all nervous though, like Sera might run off or laugh or something (well, more laughing, but the nice kind). Keeps rubbing her thumb over her fingers too, that thing she does when she's trying not to reach for lyrium that isn't there anymore. Like she needs the extra nerves right now, stupid woman.

Got that same look she had back when she first started dropping cookies off - all hopeful and scared at once, like someone who's used to everything good turning bad but wanting to try anyway. Makes Sera want to shoot arrows at everyone who ever made her expect the worst. Starting with that poncy noble family of hers, maybe that brother she never talks about except when she's had too much wine.

The mark's settled into that nice buzzy glow now - the "everything's alright" one. Like sunshine through honey. Eve's still looking at her all nervous though, like Sera might run off or laugh or something (well, more laughing, but the nice kind).

"So go on then," Sera says, poking her in the chest. Right where that nasty scar from the pride demon is - Eve never talks about that one, but Sera's caught her rubbing it when reports come in about rifts. "Ask properly. All formal-like. Want to see if you stammer as much saying it as writing it."

"Must I?" Eve looks like she'd rather fight another dragon. Actually, she would - give her something to hit and she's fine, but feelings make her go all wobbly. Mark does that quick flutter - the "gathering up courage" flash. Same glow it had before she jumped in front of that fireball meant for Sera last month, except this time she's scared of words instead of burning.

"Oh yes, Your Worship," Sera puts on her best fancy voice, the one she uses to mock Vivienne. Sees Eve wince at the title - still hates it, even after all this time. Good. "One must observe all proper protocols and such. For honor and virtue and other noble shite."

"Sera of the Red Jennies," Evelyn starts, her voice wobbling like she’s holding back a cough. "I humbly request the honor of—of courting you. Properly. As befits someone of your... status." She swallows hard, glancing down at her hands like they might save her. You deserve—there’s a way these things are done, and—and I thought you might like it if I.."

Sod that. Sera grabs her face, callused fingers brushing the soft edge of Evelyn’s scar. Eve freezes, lips parting in a startled 'mph!'—the kind of sound she makes when she’s caught off-guard by something that isn’t a fight. Her hands twitch mid-air, fluttering like she doesn’t know where to put them, until they finally settle—one on Sera’s arm, the other clumsily curling in her hair. Sera presses closer, tasting metal and mint, and Maker, Evelyn’s shaking like a leaf, but she’s not pulling away."

"That's yes," Sera tells her when she pulls back. Reaches up to muss that stupid noble-proper hair she probably spent ages trying to tame this morning. "But if you try getting us a chaperone, I'm filling your rooms with bees. The angry ones. From that nest behind the tavern."

___

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: Found family

Pairing: Sera/Female Trevelyan, (background)

Setting: the Denerim branch of the Friends of Red Jenny

This is taking place just before my courtship one shot, for context

---

The package arrives at dawn, handed over by a messenger who looks like he’s been riding for days. Poor sod’s barely upright. Bess takes it because she’s the only one awake—or, well, still up from last night’s job. That counts, yeah?

"Fancy," she mutters, turning over the thick envelope. Red ribbon, heavy paper, gold edges. Definitely important. Probably complaints about their latest prank on that merchant who’d been shorting orphans.

Or maybe…

Bess freezes. Stares at the handwriting. All swoopy and perfect, like someone spent ages making each letter just right.

Her stomach flips.

"Shite," she says. Then, louder, "Double shite."

See, Bess knows letters. Some of them. Mostly the ones on wanted posters and tavern signs. REWARD is a good one—means someone’s got coin that needs redistributing. DANGER is helpful, too. But this? This is proper noble writing. Full sentences. Tiny words with too many letters.

And that seal—

"Oi!" She yells up at the warehouse rafters. "Anyone up there read proper?"

Shuffling above. Tallo pokes his head out from behind a beam, his long elf ears twitching with curiosity. "I can read 'KEEP OUT' and 'NO SPITTING!'"

"Not helping!"

More Jennies start appearing, groggy but curious. Problem is, none of them are much better. Jem—a stocky dwarf who grew up Casteless—can sound out anything with less than four letters. Pawl, who’s got the most impressive swear vocabulary in all of Denerim, knows the rude ones. Marren, an elf with a knack for spotting backwards writing in dirty tavern mirrors, is dead proud of her skill. Not exactly helpful right now.

"What’s it say, then?" Tallo squints at the envelope.

"Dunno, do I? But look—that’s the Inquisition seal."

"The glowy hand lady?"

"Yeah! Must be about Sera!"

That sets off proper panic.

What if Sera’s in trouble? What if she’s been arrested? (Again.) What if she’s married some noble? (Actually, that last one’s not bad. Easier to rob nobles when you’re related to them.)

"Right," Bess says, stuffing the letter in her shirt. "We need a reader. A proper one."

Operation Find Someone to Read the Fancy Letter (Jem Named It—He’s Good With Short Words)

Step One: The Chantry.

"Sisters are supposed to help people, right?" Tallo reasons.

Except they’re still mad about that thing with the garden snakes. And the incident with the bell tower. And possibly the business with the Grand Cleric’s underwear ending up as festival bunting.

No help there.

Step Two: The Merchant’s Quarter & Taverns.

"Merchants read contracts and such," Marren suggests.

They try. They fail. Most merchants slam their doors, the rest demand way too much coin.

"That’s highway robbery!" Pawl complains, then adds thoughtfully, "We should know. We do that sometimes."

They pivot to taverns. The first drunk declares it’s a recipe for fish stew. The second swears it’s a love poem about nugs.

"Brilliant," Bess mutters. "Sera’s either arrested or in love, and we ain’t got a clue which."

Step Three: The University Students.

Half of them are too scared to help (something about that time the Jennies filled the dean’s office with cheese).

The other half want to turn it into an academic study on "common folk literacy rates."

They leave before they get assigned homework.

By afternoon, they’re desperate. The letter’s practically burning a hole in Bess’s shirt, what with all the worry about what it might say.

That’s when Marna shows up, brushing dust off her coat like she hasn’t just walked into a crisis.

Marna’s been with them for a few years now, but she wasn’t always a Jenny. She knows things. Like how to spot a noble trying to blend in, or how to tell real silk from knockoff merchant scraps. She’s never said why, and no one’s pressed her. You don’t ask a Jenny where they came from. You just ask if they’re staying.

"What’s with all the long faces?" she asks, counting her lockpicks like always.

"We got a fancy letter from the Inquisitor about Sera but none of us can read it proper!" Tallo blurts.

Marna stares at them. "You lot have been running around all day trying to find someone to read it?"

Nods all around.

"Yeah! Even tried the Chantry!"

Marna blinks. "…I can read."

Silence.

Tallo rubs his eyes. "No. You choose to read."

"You’re tellin’ me," Bess says slowly, "that we’ve spent all soddin day listenin’ to drunkards talk about fish stew and nugs—"

"—and you were just sitting there?" Tallo finishes.

Marna shrugs. "Spent long enough pretending I didn’t know how. Didn’t think it mattered."

Bess gapes. "So you’ve been letting us scramble all day while sipping tea in your head?"

"Would’ve been wine, but you lot drink like barbarians."

Fair point.

They sprint back to the safehouse, shoving and pushing to get close as Marna breaks the seal. Papers spill out—turns out, the Inquisitor had a lot to say.

Marna stares at the page. Her mouth twitches. Then twitches again.

"Oh, no," she breathes, voice trembling.

The Jennies hold their breath.

"We’re all going to die," Tallo mutters.

Then she completely loses it, doubling over in laughter.

Turns out, the Inquisitor sent a proper courtship request. Ten whole pages of noble customs, family trees, and dragon-slaying stories. It’s ridiculous.

It’s also brilliant.

Bess frowns. "Are we just lettin’ Sera do this?"

They stare at her.

"Well, yeah," says Tallo. "She’d do it anyway."

"Right, but— Inky says here she wants proper permission. ‘Cause we’re Sera’s family."

The room goes quiet. Proper quiet.

Bess shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. "I mean, we are, right?"

Tallo snorts. "You think she’d let anyone else mess with her biscuits?"

Marren sniffles. "She called us family," she whispers.

"Yeah, yeah, get on with it," Bess grumbles, ears going pink.

They vote. It’s unanimous.

Marna sighs and adds a formal, "After due consideration, the Red Jennies approve of this courtship, with conditions: one (1) proof of dragon-slaying, and two (2) embarrassing stories about Sera."

She seals it, and they send it off.

Then they spend the rest of the evening teaching each other the words they do know. Turns out, between them all, they can almost read a whole sentence.

Almost.

"Still," Bess says proudly, "bet none of those fancy nobles can read ‘GUARDS APPROACHING’ upside down while hanging from a roof."

She grins. "And if they can—well, we’ll just drop the roof on ‘em. Reading’s no good if you’re buried under bricks."

Can’t argue with that kind of education, can you?

---

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: mutual pining

Pairing: Leliana/female Tabris

Rating: explicit

---

The ravens shift overhead, wings stirring the still air of the rookery. Leliana turns the folded parchment in her hands, thumb tracing the dark red wax seal.

The Griffen crest pressed into it is unmistakable—

(Kallian’s.)

(Three months without a word. Five years of empty beds and prayers that never reached the Maker’s ears.)

The letter feels heavier than it should. A faint thrum pulses beneath her fingertips, like a heartbeat. Magic lingers in the air, subtle but undeniable. (Something about this feels… alive.)

She hesitates.

Then breaks the seal.

The parchment unfolds smoothly, Kallian’s sharp, familiar handwriting staring back at her.

Leliana,

Should’ve written sooner. I know. Had the ink and parchment, had your name at the top of a dozen sodding letters I never sent. Just didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to say I miss you so bloody much it feels like losing parts of myself.

But I found something, love. Something that might help with the Calling. Can’t say more; walls have ears, and all that rot. But I’m getting closer.

Leliana exhales sharply. The weight in her chest eases, replaced by something molten, something sure.

Hells, I miss you. Miss the sound of your laugh in the morning, the way you hum under your breath when you think no one’s listening. Miss the way you touch me—gentle when you think I need it, rough when you know I bloody well don’t. Keep reaching for you at night, and all I find is cold sheets. Feels like I’ve been reaching for five damn years.

Do you still think of me, love? Do you still ache for me the way I ache for you?

Leliana’s fingers tighten around the parchment. She swallows against the knot in her throat.

Been thinking about that time in camp, when you pushed me up against that tree and—

Heat crawls up her neck. Leliana presses the parchment closer, glancing toward the rookery door. It’s locked. No one would come up here. Still, her pulse quickens.

—the way you begged so sweetly for my fingers. Still gets me hot just thinking about it. Speaking of which…

The parchment warms against her fingertips. Leliana jerks, breath stalling.

(Maker’s breath.)

Had to drag a mage into this—don’t ask how long it took to get the spell right. Poor sod ran out of patience after the fifth test. So you’d better appreciate this, love. Follow my instructions exactly, and you might find yourself remembering too. Bet you’re still in that drafty tower of yours. Find somewhere private, yeah? Unless…

The words shimmer faintly.

You feeling brave today, Nightingale?

A phantom touch brushes the side of her neck—warm, lingering, just where Kallian used to kiss her. Leliana stiffens, fingers tightening around the parchment. She raises her free hand, but there’s nothing there.

(This is ridiculous. I should—)

The touch moves lower, tracing her throat, her collarbone. Her back hits the rookery wall.

That’s better.

The letters pulse against her fingers.

Now then, love. Them gloves need to come off. Want you feeling everything proper-like.

Her hands shake as she tugs at the ties, the gloves slipping free and falling to the floor. The moment her bare fingers touch the parchment, the magic shifts, growing stronger. The unseen touch skims down her arms, slow and deliberate.

Good girl. Now, get them laces loose. Slow, mind—no rushing ahead.*

She fumbles with the ties of her chainmail, pulling them open one by one. Cool air meets flushed skin. The invisible touch follows, tracing over her ribs, her stomach. Familiar. Certain.

You’re gorgeous when you’re worked up like this. Bet you’re trying to stay quiet, aren’t you? Always did love making you lose control…*

A soft sound escapes her before she can stop it. Her back presses harder against the stone wall.

Touch yourself for me. Start at that spot on your neck—you know the one.

Her fingers find the sensitive place just below her jaw. The phantom touch mirrors it, and she exhales sharply, shivering.

That’s it. Now them perfect tits of yours. Give ’em a proper squeeze…

She obeys, rolling a nipple between her fingers, breath catching as the sensation doubles—her own touch and the magic’s. Heat licks through her, pooling deep in her belly.

Get that hand up under your skirts. Bet you’re soaked through already…

She hesitates, then slides her fingers beneath the leather.

Wet.

A shaky breath.

Nice and slow now. Circle that pretty clit—yeah, just like that…

Her thighs tense as she moves, the magic amplifying every stroke. Each motion sends a sharper spark through her, tension winding tighter.

Keep yourself right there on the edge. Don’t come yet.

Her jaw clenches. Her fingers slow, but she’s shaking now, stomach clenched, hips twitching toward every touch. The ache is unbearable, every nerve raw and wanting.

(Please—)

The parchment pulses against her hands, heat licking over her skin like breath against her ear.

Come for me now, love. Let go.

The words unravel her.

Pleasure crashes through her, sharp and unrelenting. She muffles a cry against her sleeve, legs threatening to give out. The magic holds her there, pushing her higher, until another wave slams into her, and then another, her body caught in the spell’s grip.

It takes her apart piece by piece, until she’s wrung out, boneless against the wall.

The warmth lingers—a teasing, ghostly press against her skin, as if Kallian were still there. Then the magic fades.

The cold of the rookery returns, but Leliana barely feels it. Her breath slows. Her fingers tremble around the parchment.

(Three months of silence. And now this.)

She presses her lips to the letter, tasting ink and something metallic.

For the first time in months, she feels here. Anchored.

Leliana pulls fresh parchment closer, a small smile playing at her lips as she writes:

My love,

You think I could ever stop aching for you?

The ravens shift on their perches, silent and watchful, as she writes.

---

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: Thought You Were Dead

Pairing: Sera/ female Trevelyan

Setting: post battle of Haven

---

Shite and pissballs and double shite—this snow’s proper mental. Like some demon’s having a laugh, chucking ice everywhere. (Not that Sera believes in demon snow. That’d be daft.)

Almost as daft as charging off alone to fight a darkspawn magister thing with a pet dragon. Almost as daft as—

No. Not thinking about that.(Not thinking about Evelyn maybe being… dead.)

"Oi! Herald!"

Her voice is raw now, sandpaper in her throat. Been yelling for hours, breath sharp, lungs stinging like she’s inhaled knives. Stupid. (Should’ve brought more water. More arrows, too—not that they’d do shite against this gods-awful white nothing.)

"Evelyn!"

Weird, using her name. (Makes something squirmy happen in Sera’s gut, like butterflies got in there and started a riot.) Usually just calls her Herald or Your Worship—that one all sarcastic-like, because it always makes Evelyn do that awkward snort-laugh thing. (Not cute. At all.)

The wind picks up, a proper banshee howl now, drowning out everything else. Ice needles bite her face. Her fingers are numb, feet past hurting. She's lost any sense of distance two snowdrifts ago.

The others gave up—"too dangerous," they said. "Wait till morning."

Morning won’t help when Evelyn’s out here freezing her fancy tits off.

Then—movement. Something. A shape, slumped and half-buried in snow.

Too still.

Her stomach plummets.

(Oh. Oh, shite.)

Sera stumbles, feet tangling—goes knees-first into the snow. Clawing, dragging herself forward, fingers scrabbling for purchase— (please, please still be breathing—)

A long, wheezy inhale.

A miserable groan.

(Thank the sodding Maker.)

"Frigging… pissbrained… tit-noble…" she mutters, voice shaking worse than her frozen hands. (Hates that. Hates this.)

Evelyn’s ice-cold, stiff as a bloody statue. Lips blue. That glowy magic-hand thing barely flickers—weak. Not enough.

Her breath stirs, barely.

"S-Sera?"

Comes out raw, cracked. Eyes half-focused.

(Not good. Not good at all.)

"Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Not the sodding Queen of Antiva."(Should sound casual. Doesn’t.)

Evelyn blinks sluggishly. She tries to shift, but her limbs barely respond.

"You came… looking…?"

That. Right there. The way she says it—like she didn’t expect Sera to.

Like she thought no one would.

Sera’s chest clamps down, tight. (Not thinking about that. Not now.)

"‘Course I did, you daft tit!" Her voice breaks in the middle, and she swallows hard, forcing something steady back into it."What, you think I’d just let you freeze out here?"

No response.

Evelyn’s eyes flutter closed, and Sera panics.

"Oi, no. None of that. Eyes open."

"Mmm. Tired."

Shite.

(Shite, shite, shite.)

She smacks her cheek—light, but enough to sting.

"No sleeping, Her gracious Lady bits.That’s a rule now. Ain't no dying on Sera’s watch."

Slow, painful blink. Evelyn’s eyelashes are rimmed with ice.

"S'that… an official proclamation?"

There. Sarcasm. (That’s good, right?)

"Yeah, and there’ll be a right proper royal decree if you don’t get your fancy arse moving."

Nothing. She doesn’t move.

The wind screams louder, shoving at Sera’s back, trying to steal Evelyn out of her arms. Snow slams into them like a living thing.

Sera clenches her jaw. (Throat feels tight. Hates that too.) Have to keep her talking. Have to—

"Bet you'd be shite at cheese making."

A barely-there furrow in Evelyn’s frost-crusted brow.

"…What?"

"Cheese," Sera repeats, gripping her tighter. (Keep up, Inky.)"Told you to get a new job, remember? Thought you might be crap at it. Can’t picture you making cheese. You’d try too hard and make some proper Orlesian 'triple-aged-sod-you' shite.”

A faint, frozen snort. Weak, but real.

"Would wear an apron."

Sera almost drops her.

"Eh?" Sera’s brain stutters. She wasn’t expecting that—wasn’t expecting anything really, except maybe more slurred nonsense about cheese.

"Would wear one," Evelyn mumbles, lips barely moving. "If you… if you wanted…"

And shite, that—that’s flirting, isn’t it

Evelyn’s mostly gone now, rambling in a half-dream, eyes slipping shut even as Sera shakes her.

And shite, she’s still bloody freezing, and—and—

"Mmm. Dream about you sometimes."

(Oh.)

(Oh, shite.)

Sera stares. Heart doing something stupid in her chest. Body locking up except for the part still holding Evelyn like her life depends on it.

"Wha—no, what kinda dreams?" (Comes out wrong. Too sharp, too soft, too something.)

Evelyn doesn't answer right away. Her brows twitch like she’s trying to think, like she wants to say something else—but the words keep slipping through her frostbitten fingers. Her lips part.

Then close.

Then part again.

"...Like… girls?."

Sera blinks.

"What?"

A pause. A long one.

Evelyn’s brow furrows deeper, and she tries again, sluggish and slurred, like pushing the word out might kill her.

"Like… liking them."

Sera’s brain short-circuits.

(Oh.)

(Oh.)

That—is she serious? Now?

Her whole body goes tight, like if she moves wrong, this entire moment might shatter. She scrambles for words, but her mouth and brain seem to be running in opposite directions. The best she manages is:

"...Yeah?"

Evelyn makes a tiny noise—almost a hm—and then, just as uselessly, breathes, "Okay."

Then promptly loses consciousness.

Sera makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

"Oi! No—no, no, you do not get to say cryptic shite and then just bloody pass out!"

No response.

Just great. Fantastic. Absolutely sodding perfect.

Sera glares at the unconscious lump in her arms like she's personally offended—because, really, what the shite was that? Girls? Like liking them? What?s that even mean?

(She knows what it means.)

(Not thinking about that. Not now.)

She shifts Evelyn’s weight against her shoulder, knees nearly buckling but refusing to give.

One step. Another.

Alive. Alive. Still alive.

"Alright, Evie," she mutters, voice gruff. "Let’s get you home."

And if her grip is just a little tighter, if her heart is still doing that stupid thing in her chest—

(Well. That’s nobody’s business but hers.)

---

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Prompt: my Warden's personal dream

Setting: broken circle

---

The stew smells bloody perfect.

Too perfect.

That's what twists something deep in Kallian's gut, makes her stomach go tight, makes the back of her neck itch like someone’s watching. But she shoves the feeling down. It's warm, it's here, and her head's pounding like she drank half of Denerim dry. Who gives a piss if it smells right? Ain't like she’s got the strength to question it now.

The chair creaks as she leans back, rubbing her temples, trying to remember where the hell she was last night.

Her father sits at the head of the table, ladling stew into bowls, slow and careful, like he’s measuring every drop. The table’s straight—not a wobble in sight—and covered with a proper tablecloth. Kallian squints. They’ve never owned a tablecloth.

"More wine, Kallian?"

Her stomach clenches.

Shianni’s voice is soft. Too soft. And that’s wrong, ain't it? There’s always a bite to her words, a sharp edge, something ready to fight. But the bottle's already there, dark glass catching the candlelight, and Kallian’s throat is dry as dust.

She takes the cup and sniffs. Smells like wine. Looks like wine.

"Since when do we have the coin for this shite?"

Shianni laughs, pouring herself a cup. "Oh, listen to you. Always suspicious. Maybe we finally got some luck, Kallian. Ever think of that?"

(Kallian.)

(Not Kal.)

She frowns, but it's just a name, right? Just her full name. Not wrong exactly, just… off.

"Yeah," she mutters, taking a slow sip. "Can’t say I have."

"Eat up," a voice says, warm and familiar.

Kallian freeses.

Her mother sits across from her, curls tumbling loose around her face, dark eyes bright with something Kallian barely remembers. Something soft. Something warm.

"You’re too thin, Kallian," she says, shaking her head like she's tsking at some minor offense. "Always running off, never stopping to take care of yourself."

The fork in Kallian’s hand wavers.

A lump forms in her throat, but she forces a smirk. "Yeah, well, hard to keep weight on when you spend half your time fighting darkspawn and the other half running from them."

Her father chuckles. Not the half-hearted one she remembers, the one weighed down by too many years and too much loss. This is light. Warm. (Wrong.)

"Always on the move, our girl," he says. "Just like her mother."

Her mother hums at that, swirling her wine. "If I had a sovereign for every time I had to chase you down, Kallian, we 'would' have the coin for this wine."

Kallian swallows. "Kalli," she says, before she even thinks about it. "You always called me Kalli."

Her mother tilts her head, smiling. "Did I?"

Something about the way she says it makes Kallian’s stomach twist.

"You’d make Aunty pull her hair out," Shianni laughs. "Remember when you snuck out to see the minstrels? Thought you'd run off to join ‘em."

Kallian snorts. "Aye, and I’d have got away with it too if you weren’t a sodding snitch."

Shianni leans in, grinning. "Snitched because I gave a toss. Still do, y'know."

That itch at her neck is getting worse.

Her mother watches her with those dark eyes, soft and knowing. "You don't have to run anymore, Kallian," she says. "You can rest here. With us."

Kallian’s grip tightens on the fork. The stew’s gone thick in her throat.

"You make it sound like I’ve got a choice."

"Of course you do." Her mother's voice stays gentle, like a hand smoothing over tangled hair. "You've fought so hard, Kallian. Lost so much. Let it go. Stay here, where 't’s safe."

(Safe?.)

(The alienage ain’t safe.)

(The alienage was never safe.)

Kallian shakes her head, jabbing at her food with her fork. "Got responsibilities, Mum. Can’t just piss off to play happy family."

Her father sighs, the way he used to when she argued with him. "You always make things harder than they need to be."

Soris pipes up from by the fire. "You’ve got that look again, Kallian. The one where you’re overthinking everything. Just eat."

Her chest tightens.

They’ve said her name more in the last five minutes than they ever did growing up. It was always 'Kal' short, quick, easy. Even her mother, the one person who always called her 'Kalli', won’t bloody say it now.

Her fork clatters against the plate.

"You’re ain't real."

The words tear out of her before she even means them to.

The room stills. Everything stops, like a blade being drawn.

Her mother tilts her head, too smooth, too fluid. "Kallian, dear, you're not well. Too much wine, maybe?"

"Don’t call me that." Kallian shoves the chair back, heart hammering. "You never called me ‘dear.’ And you sure as shite didn't call me Kallian every blighted time you spoke. Say it. Say my fucking name."

"Kalli," she says.

Too late.

Kallian snorts. "Took you long enough." Her hand wraps tight around the wine bottle's neck, muscles coiling.

"You don’t have to fight anymore," not-Soris says, voice echoing. Warping.

Her mother smiles, soft and sweet. "Stay, Kallian Adaia Tabris."

"Shut the fuck up!" The bottle flies, shattering against the wall, wine spattering like blood across the perfect table. "I’ve had enough of this demon shite!"

They move then. All at once. Faces melting, smiles stretching wide, too wide, too sharp.

Kallian moves too, flipping the table, sending bowls clattering to the floor. The fork's still in her hand, and she drives it deep into not-Soris’s throat. Wet. Sticky. Her stomach lurches.

They’re coming. Claws out. Teeth bared. Voices twisting, warping, the walls shifting around them—

And then—

(Snap.)

Pain—white-hot and immediate—shoots through her fingers, curling them inward against her will. It’s like someone’s just stomped on them, twisting until the bones crack. Her breath catches—

(no, no, this already happened.)

(Mud between her knees. A boot coming down. The sharp, unbearable crunch.)

Kallian stumbles back, her grip on the fork faltering. The room warps, stretches. The scent of stew and wine is gone, replaced by the stink of damp wood and city rot. The warehouse district. The night her mum—

Her ribs explode in agony.

She barely registers the blow before the next one lands—hard, brutal, a phantom fist slamming into her side. She doubles over, gasping, but she knows this pain.

(Remembers this pain.)

("That all you got, knife-ear?" Laughter. A kick to her stomach, stealing her breath. And then—)

"Your fault."

The voice is soft. Too soft. Her mother’s voice, close to her ear.

"You got caught, Kalli."

Kallian jerks upright, gasping. Her mother stands before her—not a twisted demon-thing, but Adaia (as she was). Strong. Sharp-eyed. But there’s no warmth in her gaze.

"You tripped," she says, stepping closer. "Dropped the coin. That’s why he saw you, isn’t it? If you’d been faster, you wouldn’t have needed saving."

Kallian grips the fork tighter, ignoring the tremor in her fingers. "Shut up."

Adaia cocks her head. "If you hadn’t been such a stupid, careless child, I wouldn’t have had to come for you. Wouldn’t have had to pull steel. Wouldn’t have—"

The words cut off, strangled, as blood pours from her lips. A blade juts from her stomach—long, steel, slick with red. The same way Kallian saw her last. The same way she

(couldn’t stop it.)

Kallian’s throat goes tight. "No—"

"You killed me, Kalli." Her mother’s voice warps, layers upon itself. "Didn’t you?"

The warehouse district flickers back into the dining room. The walls pulse, the floor warping beneath her feet. The demons are closing in, their grins stretching impossibly wide.

"Shut up," Kallian whispers. Her ribs still ache, her fingers still burn.

"You got her killed."

Her father’s voice this time.

(No.)

(Not him.)

(Not real.)

But he’s there, watching from his chair, wine glass still in hand. The others join in—Shianni, Soris, voices overlapping, twisting, pressing into her, a relentless tide.

"Your fault, Kallian."

"You're why she died."

"She should've let them take you."

Kallian grits her teeth. The fork is still in her grip. The fork.

(Three strikes, Kalli.)

(One to Stagger.)

(One to bleed.)

(One to finish.)

She exhales. "Yeah?" Her voice comes out steady, sharp. "Then it’s a good thing I bloody well take after me mum."

And then she moves.

She drives the fork into not-Soris’s throat again, harder this time, twisting. She wrenches the chair leg from the wreckage and slams it into not-Father’s skull. The demons shriek, the walls shuddering around her, distorting. The warehouse flickers in and out, but she forces herself through it, dodging, weaving, stabbing.

Not-Mother reaches for her. Her face is still kind. Still Adaia. But her teeth are too sharp. Her eyes too dark.

"Please, Kallian—"

The fork slams into her open maw, again and again and again.

The world shatters.

Kallian jerks awake, breath ragged, hands trembling.

No fork. No blood. Just stone, shadows, and the stench of demons.

Her ribs ache. Her fingers curl inward, useless. Phantom pain.

Not real.)

But Maker

( it felt real.)

Her stomach churns, bile rising in her throat. She presses a fist to her chest, sucking in air that won't come fast enough. Inhale—too quick. Exhale—too shallow.

(The Fade. I'm still in the Fade.)

The voices still echo in her skull.

(She should’ve let them take you.)

Kallian’s jaw clenches so tight it hurts.

(That wasn't her.)

(That wasn't her.)

(That wasn't her.)

Her fingers twitch, half-expecting the warmth of spilled wine—or something fouler—still clinging to them. But there's nothing. No blood. No broken bones. Just her, her daggers, and the empty dark.

She swipes a shaking hand across her mouth, forcing her breath to steady.

Four fingers gripping the dagger hilt. Three breaths. Two feet on solid ground. One bloody thing at a time.

She squeezes her eyes shut and drags in another breath. Slower. Smoother. (Better.)

When she opens them, the dream is gone. Just stone and silence and that ever-present, cloying sense of wrongness.

Kallian wipes her sweaty palms on her gambeson, rolls her shoulders, and grips her daggers tight. Her hands have steadied.

(Mostly.)

"Right then," she mutters, swallowing down the last of the unease. "Let’s be having you."

She strides forward, the shadows stretching long around her.

Next time, she's bringing her own damn cutlery.

---

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

HI hello

For the questions about the warden, (Lets say your Tabris, but any will do) let's go with

How would you describe the Warden's personality before and after the prologue? Did it change much or did they remain the same?

How is the Warden's personality like after the events of DAO? Did they change or are they still the same?

If the Warden was trapped in a nightmare, what would it be like?

Hiya thanks for the ask!! Emira Tabris time baby!!! [ask game]

2. How would you describe the Warden's personality before and after the prologue? Did it change much or did they remain the same?

Before the prologue Emira wasn't too different. She was fierce, independent, stubborn, headstrong, extroverted as all Hell. Positive. Something she very miraculously held on to even during the shitshow that is the Fifth Blight.

After the prologue, after everything that happened with Shianni, having to join the Wardens or having to very well be executed... she's kind of bitter. She feels a lot more.. guilt. She feels guilty about so much and she never really.. learns how to not feel that. She manages to stay the same but you can tell there's more to it, that maybe the confidence she exudes is more a mask/role than true.

9. If the Warden was trapped in a nightmare, what would it be like?

Probably having to relive the death of her mother. Over and over and over. Not being able to stop it or even help. Immediately followed by what happened to Shianni in the prologue, having to see it and not being able to help. She can take herself being hurt, not those she cares for. Not at all.

35. How is the Warden's personality like after the events of DAO? Did they change or are they still the same?

Emira lets go of her guilty but like. WAAAAAY after the events of DAO. Like only during the DAI-era does she truly let go of her guilt, guilt over her mother, Shianni, Duncan, Alistair, Leliana. The list could go on honestly.

So she's.. the same. More calm, more tempered maybe and filtered by age. But other than that she's the same.

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

still kind of completely insane you can mow down fiona like a nameless grunt with zero fanfare or like. anything at all.

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

i'm going pepe silva mode because i learned leliana and celene are about the same age. celene became empress at age 16 and leliana first went to val royeaux when she was 16 and that's where she met marjolaine.

do you think they talked, by chance. leliana dazzled by not only the beauty of the city but by the empress herself. maybe even before marjolaine. do you think they realize they were the same age. do you think they thought about it when they met again years down the line. i'm going to lay down.