#* &. HEADCANON.

[foulwitchknight]

Eddie leaves his rings as courting gifts for Steve thinking he’ll pick up his intentions. However Steve keeps giving back the rings he finds. It happens one too many times that Eddie falls into rejection sickness very close to his rut. Steve visits him worried and ends up helping him through it. The next morning while Steve is cooking breakfast he finds the ring that Eddie was going to use to ask him to officially court. He tears up when he realizes it’s engraved with ‘My omega’. He immediately goes to wake up Eddie calls him a dingus and tells him how he’s been waiting forever to be his.

[themortalitasi]

The guilt Emmrich feels when Rook becomes trapped in the Fade is overwhelming. He shoulders the blame entirely, knowing it was his words that urged Rook to reach for the blade.

The burden is so much if they are in a romance, as their last interaction was a fight the day before. Though Emmrich tries to make amends the next day at Tearstone Island, offering an apology, Rook assures him that it's alright and promises they’ll talk more once they return home.

But Rook never comes home.

In the weeks that follow, Emmrich is just simply devastated. The weight of Rook’s absence and his own perceived culpability just crushes him.

He's there in the Lighthouse replaying every moment, every word, as though he might find a way to undo it all. It's why he tries to craft the dagger, he's desperately trying to find a way to get Rook back but also he just needs to keep his mind busy.

Otherwise, he can't escape that gnawing belief that he is to blame for everything.

[inevestigator]

THE FALL OF MINRATHOUS.

So I'm posting this on AO3, here's the link if you want to read it not on tumblr. Or you can click through. It's almost 8000 words, there's your warning. if you see tense errors no you didn't. i really tried.

tw violence, death, blood... etc.

UNTIL IT BURNS.

Minrathous has its good days. It has many more bad days. But it’s never had a day like this. The city has stood for Ages through sieges and blights, repelling invaders and would-be-conquerors with barely any effort at all.

So where are the defences now? I hear you ask. Why does the Archon’s palace sit dark and unmanned? Why do the juggernauts not jump to the cities defence as they were created to do? Where are the magisters and their magic?

The answer is simple. There’s been a coup. Like a knife sliding between ribs, the Venatori have made a play for the heart of the city. They’ve wrested control and likely killed anyone who didn’t immediately pledge their loyalty. They had an easy enough time of it. How? Well, they brought a big enough distraction. It flaps around overhead and roars sparks and flames into the night sky- and down onto the streets.

The heat is everywhere, all encompassing. Buildings tremble like leaves in the wind. People are screaming and running. Where are they meant to go? When the safest city in Thedas is burning?

A girl in her father’s arms drops a nug shaped toy in the crowd. Only then does she begin to wail, adding to the cacophony.

It bounces from foot to foot until it hits my boot. I pick it up and find the wailing child. I wish I could tell her it’s going to be alright, but the outlook is grim and I’ve never been good with kids. I hand the nug over and look at her father. “Get underground, there’s a safehouse not far from here.” I point in the direction of one of many entrances to Shadow Dragon safehouses. Even from this distance I can see someone waving people inside. The smoke makes it hard to tell exactly who it is. The list of Shadow Dragons isn’t as long as I’d like, but longer than I’d expected.  

I turn my back once I’m sure the crowd is moving the right way and throw my hands out to extinguish the nearby fires.

Wingbeats sound overhead, a roar- if it can be called that- followed by intense, searing heat. People further down the street scream an agonising sound- and then they don’t. The stench is acrid and the cobbles are melting. I pull the freezing air back to me, cloak myself in it until my eyes and lungs stop aching from the hat and the smoke. A metal shop sign melts in slow drips.

I try not to look at the charred marks that used to be people.

I let my feet take me back towards The Shop, taking the obvious routes, the ones a non-native might take. I make it three streets before my plan works out and Lace comes barrelling towards me, bow drawn, chest heaving. There’s an echo of my own agony in her expression. And something else.

“Rook-“ She falters. It’s tough being the bearer of bad news.

“-Isn’t coming.” I finish for her. A knife between the ribs. But there’s only myself to blame. There isn’t time to dwell on it. I cut her off before she can speak again, we’ve no time for excuses, either. “There’s people trapped in the temple. Can you get to them?”

Harding looks more focused for being handed a mission. She nods.

I see Bellara appear, out of the smoke- she’s holding the hand of a young boy.

“Neve!” She sounds relieved. I try to echo some of her expression back to her.

“Nice to see you too, Bel,” I assure her. “You’ve made a friend.”

She looks uncomfortable at the thought. “He was lost-“

“I’ve got it.” I hold my hand out. “Go with Harding. I’ll get him to safety.”

We exchange responsibilities. Harding and Bellara go back the way they’d come and I find my way to the nearest safehouse. Hector hovers by the door, looking ashen and afraid, but gripping his sword just the same.

“Lost kid, get him somewhere safe.” I hand over the boy.

Hector stops me before I can leave. “Viper and Tarquin- they’re out by Dumat Plaza. There’s a safehouse out there- we lost contact.”

“Of course they are. I’ll find them.”

I walk away, already forming the best route to the water’s edge in my mind.

It takes me longer to get there than I wanted, but by the time I make it there’s a few less tenement buildings on fire.

True to Hector’s tip, Ashur and Tarquin are a couple of streets east of Dumat Plaza. The wing beats are louder here. People rush past in an effort to get inside the hatch Tarquin is holding open.

The dragon screeches. There’s another rush of heat. I whirl around, throwing up a barrier against the flames but I still feel it scorching through the ice.

There’s a scuffle. “They’re going to kill each other to make it in here!” Tarquin yells, as if Ashur and I couldn’t see that for ourselves.

“I’ll draw it off,” Ashur says and fires a beam into the air, it hits the dragon on a blight boil and the thing hisses and circles. Sparks form in its mouth.  

“Great, you’ve got it’s attention, now what?” I ask.

“Now, we move.” He says, and takes off, firing magic from his fingertips again. I watch him grab a zipline- brave and stupid- and disappear out of sight. Tarquin makes a sound of devastation. We share a look- and then we both follow him off the edge.

Turns out, we’re all a little brave. And very stupid, when we want to be.

The Viper actually looks surprised as we drop down next to him, beside Our Lady of Victory.

“You didn’t think we were going to let you have all the glory, did you?” Tarquin asks, with a voice that doesn’t match the tremble in his hand.

There’s another rushing sensation and I throw up another barrier around the three of us. It staves off the worst of the flames.

“We have to get it to land!” I yell over the sound of wings and fire and roaring dragon.

“Over here!” Ashur moves into an open area and starts drawing magic from the Fade. A lot of magic from the Fade.

We follow him. Two mages and a templar against the worst.

“Alright.” I brace myself for an attack. “Light it up.”

Ashur does. I feel the veil ripple in response to the power of the beacon, watch a magical bomb land a hit on the dragon’s shoulder and detonate, rocking everything. The dragon screeches as it finds a new target.

Tarquin stands with his sword held tight. Ashur stands with his hands up, ready. I stand with my staff in the vice my fingers have formed. Andraste stands over us, unmoved.

The ground shakes as the dragon slams into it, its breath is hot and foul.

We attack as one.

The dragon doesn’t care. We’re practically useless against it.

We do a damned good job of keeping it on the ground, but everything we throw at it seems to slide right off.

Just as I’m beginning to think we might have done some damage to it, it lashes out with its claws and Ashur goes down. Someone yells. It might be me.

There’s nothing I can do, I’m rooted to the spot by a jet of flame from the dragon’s maw- barely holding my own as I replace shield after shield of ice.

I see Tarquin run to help Ashur through the flame. He’s not looking at the dragon.

I can’t help either of them, I can barely help myself.

Ashur’s hand is limp as Tarquin rolls him over. There’s too much blood.

How poignant, I think, that Ashur might die at the feet of Andraste. Burned to death at the foot of the martyr herself. You could laugh at the irony.

The dragon blasts me again. I feel the magic weaken. I use the last of it to push myself aside on an icy slick. I cower behind a rock to catch my breath and wait for the flames to come again.

They don’t. The dragon, untethered and no longer under attack, flaps its wings and takes off into the air. I don’t want to be relieved but another hit would have killed us all- and instead of going back to burning down the city, it seems to be retreating. Though not because we’ve hurt it in any meaningful way.

I scramble to Tarquin’s side. Ashur is bleeding, but breathing. I manage to muster the energy to slow the bleeding to a crawl whilst Tarquin performs some kind of templar rudimentary field healing. Together, we drag him into a nearby building and onto a box to do a proper once-over.

Part of me wishes we hadn’t.

The wound is infected, with blackness oozing from it. The blight.

All our work for nothing. Ashur is still going to die.  

I find a functioning candlehop and send for Harding and Bellara.

Imagine my surprise when Rook turns up instead.

--------

UNTIL IT’S GONE.

Sometimes the world is nice, it gives you things without you having to ask, it provides. And sometimes a bad night turns into an even worse day, and right when you think you have nothing more to lose, you find out you do.

Watching the city burn had been bad enough. Hearing people roasting in locked or blocked off rooms and streets, or people choking on the smoke, or consumed by the blight, or trapped under rubble had been worse. After Rook left (see: was sent away before Tarquin could stab them) I spent the next several hours helping rescue efforts, pulling people from razed homes, taking notes and names to pass bad news onto next of kin, if I could find any.

I am helped by the templars. Or at least, a few of them. Knight-Captain Jahvis and Knight-Templar Rana Savas found me just as dawn was breaking. They look as terrible as I feel. Jahvis’ already banged up armour was dented and cracked and I’d never seen Rana’s hair so messy. There’s a bruise on her face and a deep, nasty looking cut on her arm. Where I’d normally be able to see my face in her armour, to assess my own appearance, it’s smudged with soot and plaster and streaked with blood.

She quickly assures me most of it isn’t hers.

I can’t do the same.

We argue about it, but she can’t stop me helping. At least, not until I stumble and almost crush Kight-Captain Jahvis’ foot with a lump of rubble and find the world swaying too much to get back to my feet.

“Templar Savas, please get her out of here,” he says, with more authority than I feel he has any right to, since it’s me he’s talking about and I am fully capable of standing up on my own. Just as soon as the world stops swimming.

“Neve.” Rana’s voice is firm, but caring. Truly, she has a gift. The gift is making me grind my teeth. “You need to sleep.”

“Or you could give me one of your templar issued lyrium potions and I could get back to work.”

Her face tells me everything I need to know about what she thinks of that plan. It’s almost worth it for the exasperation alone.

“Now, Neve. Go home. That’s an order.”

“I don’t take orders from you.” I snap, looking up at her too quickly. The world spins again.

She hooks her arm into mine and lifts me to my feet. She’s stronger than I give her credit for.

I don’t pull away. She walks me away from the rescue efforts.

We both know she already knows where I live, so she simply waltzes me back through the tattered streets in the direction of the Broken Spine bookshop where I reside.

The daybreak does what it does best and resets the streets to business as usual. Everyone climbing out of the safe houses and starting to pick up the pieces. People chatting and sweeping and throwing buckets of water onto the fires that were still burning.

I want to stop and help.

Rana doesn’t release my arm.

We round the corner and I watch a cat wind its way through the legs of a woman with a broom, mewing for food. Business as usual.

Rana stops. I do not- and am unceremoniously jerked back by our connection.

“Neve-“ There’s something broken about her voice that makes my head snap around.

Then I see the booksellers.

Or more accurately, see what’s left of it.

People are still throwing water onto the flames.

I unhook my arm from Rana (she lets me) and surge forward, exhaustion be damned.

I call for the Fade and it answers, reaching the doorway of the shop, I throw my hands out, ice spilling from my fingers. There was a decisively final hiss from the fire as it fizzles out. Someone cheers. I look around at the devastation.

Soaked ash and pages stir in the sea breeze. I peer up through the hole in the ceiling at the space that used to be my apartment. My bedframe is a half-melted, tangled mess, looming down through the floor like a metal spider.

Rana’s armour clanks as she catches up to me.

“Neve…” she says, again. I hate the pity in her voice.

“You’d best get back to work, Knight-Templar Savas. Looks like you’ve followed your orders. Best go see if there’s more.” It’s cold, even for me.

Rana sighs. “You know where to find me.” Then she leaves like the good soldier she is.

I test the stairs. They’re not very stable. I stabilise them with magic. My head throbs.

By some miracle, I still have a front door, so I unlock it and watch it swing open to reveal the true extent of damage done. The front and centre of the room are destroyed, open to the street and the bookshop below.

There isn’t even enough floor for me to walk across. I don’t have the magic left to make one. I can already see there’s no point. My clothes trunk stands melted, the fabrics within turned to ash, the bed twisted, my desk and documents burned.

Everything I had.

Everything not currently at the lighthouse, that is.

Hollowness settles inside my chest, something deeper than sadness. Something hungry and gnawing. Something black and bleak. The emptiness of having nothing.  

I turn my back on the remnants of my home and walk away.

I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t have anywhere to go. Nowhere that won’t be full of dozens of refugees that need the space far more than I do.

“Neve. Neve Gallus.” My name is enough to stop me from walking on. It usually is. The voice is coming from my neighbour (call me Birdy, it’s what the grandkids call me!). I can’t muster a pleasant expression. She doesn’t seem to mind. She beckons me over. “Come! Come with me. I see what happened to your apartment. You can’t stay out here on the streets in these dangerous times. Please, come on in here, sit down, have something to eat.”

I don’t have the energy to fight it, I barely have the energy to be suspicious about it, so I find myself ushered into a threadbare living space, with second hand cushions on the ground around a low table. Nothing seems to be damaged. It’s a small win. It’s what I need to be able to take a breath. Not everything is lost. Not everyone is suffering.

Birdy gestures at the cushions and I sit down. “What do you-?“ I start to question what she wants, but she shushes me.

“None of that paranoid nonsense, child, you think word doesn’t travel these streets? You think we don’t know who was out there fighting that dragon? Sit right there and let me fix you up a plate.”

I want to object to being called child, but it dies in my throat. The air smells of spice and jasmine, instead of ash and death. The cushions take the weight of my aching bones. The darkness welcomes me with warm embrace.

I swear me eyes are closed only for a moment, but when they reopen there’s already a plate of food in front of me. “Khinkali?” I ask.

Birdy smiles. “My grandad’s recipe. That’ll set you right. And there’s some tea there for you too.”

If she’s poisoning me, there are worst ways to go. My stomach growls in agreement. I reach for the plate.

I devour the dumplings in a way that most people might deem impolite. Birdy just adds more to my plate. I eat those too. The tea is warm and comforting. My blinks slow, like a particularly affectionate cat.

“There now,” Birdy proclaims. “You just lay your head down there and get some rest.”

If it’s poison, it’s painless. The weight is overwhelming and the darkness is coming whether I want it or not.

I fall asleep right there on the cushions.

------------

UNTIL THE LAST.

They say sleep is important, that it can save your life, they don’t know how true that is.

It’s dusk when I wake, the dim light shining into the room cut with the red-gold colours of evening instead of the brightness of dawn. It takes a moment to orient myself in the room. This is not my room. It’s not my home. It’s not the Lighthouse. There’s a pan on the stove, a lit lamp on the table and a homemade quilt over my shoulders but Birdy is no-where to be seen.

I stretch and stand up. Something is missing, but I can’t place it. Until I do. It’s too damn quiet. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to The Lighthouse where it’s always quiet, because it takes me far longer than it should to recognise that dusk in Minrathous should be loud. There’s a distance clanking sound and one muffled voice outside, but that’s not enough.

Stealthily, or as stealthily as possible, I make my way over to the door. From there I can hear a low rumble of more voices and the sound of stones scraping. I push aside the door curtain and find that Birdy is standing in the doorway right on the other side.

She doesn’t look at me, but reaches behind to push me back into the house. “Stay outta sight,” she hisses through clenched teeth and I take two steps backwards.

Naturally, as a being of an inquisitive nature and not one for following orders, I make my way over to one of the narrow windows instead. The street is full of people, most of them people I recognise as my neighbours. They’re all standing quietly. It’s so eerie I start feeling for blood magic.

There’s a crash and a yell and I realise it’s coming from roughly the place my apartment used to be. A templar in full golden guard armour walks into my limited line of sight, pointing at the gathered crowd in exasperation.

“I say this again-“ convenient for me, who missed the last act.  “Anybody who is found to be harbouring the dangerous criminals known as the Shadow Dragons will face a swift and brutal punishment. Anybody with information on the traitor known as the Viper and his cohorts will be rewarded. We know one of them was here. Bring me Neve Gallus and you will be given riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

They’re looking for me. Of course they are, they’re answering to the Venatori and I’ve made myself a thorn in their side. I make my way swiftly to the door again, this time taking up a stance beside it, back against the wall. I wait for someone to confess, to point their finger. I wait for the templars-who-are-probably-venatori to burst through the doorway of this tiny home. I mentally apologise to Birdy for starting a fight in her house. I prepare to fight them off, drawing magic to the palm of my hand.

It doesn’t come. The silence is deafening. No-one moves. No-one speaks. No-one turns me in.

The silence draws itself out.

That means if someone is going to stab me in the back, they’re not going to do it in front of a crowd of people.

I let the magic dissipate from my hand. I let my head fall back against the wall. I let my eyes close.

How could I have expected this? My neighbours don’t know me. Why would they stand up for me?

“You’re not welcome here!” calls a voice I don’t recognise.

“Go back to your high tower!” yells another.

The silence quickly deteriorates into shouting. Pretty soon it’ll be violence.

The templars seem to sense the shift too, because they start packing up. At least from the sounds of their movements and grumbling.

Only once they’ve gone does Birdy come back through the curtain. I want to tell her how grateful I am. I want to ask what was happening. Why people chose not to hand me over. I know I don’t have the time.

“It won’t last, someone wants that gold,” I say.

She nods her agreement, setting about folding the blanket she’d laid over me. “Someone always does.”

“I can’t stay here. They’ll be coming back soon.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can. Take a bite with you.” She potters around the kitchen and hands me a bag of cheesy rolls.

“Thank you.” It’s not enough. It’s all I have for her.

“Take this, too.” She hands me a cloak. Nothing like my usual attire, but enough to buy anonymity in a city like mine. I put it on and take the bag.

“Really, thank you.” I duck out of the curtained doorway into the long shadows of the streets. It’s almost completely dark. The lamps are lit, where they aren’t knocked down or broken.

I pull the hood up on the cloak, against the light drizzle that has started. At least I have a valid reason to keep the hood up.

I have to warn the Shadows, if they don’t already know. I travel along the winding streets, head down, gait quick. It wouldn’t do to get stopped and caught now.

Rain drips from overhead, black where it’s mixed with soot from the rooftops. The streets are still strewn with blood and wreckage. I travel up past the Eastern Wharf Crossing, up through the double gates, towards The Shop and I’m stopped dead in my tracks.

The square is awash with wreckage and blood, the shopfront equally so. Shelves have been emptied and thrown aside. There are no friendly faces. No Hector on the door. Just an eerie sort of silence and several sets of cart tracks in the blood- slowly being washed away by Dock Town’s perpetual rain cloud.

There are silent, gold-clad guards on the door and slaves on the street building something out of wood. A stage? New stalls? Something worse? I don’t dare walk any closer, instead turning and walking back to the tunnels. To the Anvallenim. There are no guards back there and I slip easily into the tunnels beyond without being seen.

I sense around for Fade tears or demons and listen out for a resurgence of darkspawn. Nothing hurtles out of the dark at me immediately and so I trudge through the tunnel network until I reach the secret door into the hideout.

It hangs crooked and open. Beyond it, there is carnage. The safehouse, the beds for refugees and escapees and anyone else who has ever needed help from the Shadows are destroyed or coated in blood. Or both.

There’s not enough bodies on the ground for the blood that’s been spilled.

Maybe it’s my mind trying to compartmentalise the horror, but the facts are easier to focus on. Most of the bodies are missing.

I pick my way through the scene, through the bedrooms to the stairs- only to find they’ve collapsed. Or been collapsed. No access to the hideout from down here, then. But it’s clear the Venatori have been through.

It’s obvious that someone has sold out the Shadow Dragons.

And that the Venatori considered them enough of a threat to make a raid on their home base within a day of their successful coup.

And that I’d slept through it.

And that I was next.

It’s a lot to process.

There, in the dark, at the bottom of a collapsed stairwell and among the blood of my friends and allies, my knees give out.

I sit at the bottom of that stairwell for almost fifteen minutes before I pull myself back together long enough to make my way back to the streets.

I don’t have a plan, I don’t have anywhere to go, I don’t have anyone I can trust. What’s a girl to do, alone in the city on a night like this?

I couldn’t get back to the eluvian even if I wanted to. Well, not without fighting at least two templars. Which I could do. But I was beginning to feel like keeping my presence a secret gave me the best chances of survival. And I didn’t want the Venatori figuring out the eluvian. If they hadn’t already.

I spend the rest of my night going around to all the safehouses- and dodging searchlights from the Archon’s Palace. It’s a similar story at each, doors thrown or blown open. Blood and gore in a trail out the door. There are Templars on watch everywhere.  

In a street full of charred bodies I stop to place a bloodied nug shaped toy in my pocket.

I really should stop being surprised at finding knives in my back, but this went beyond anything I could have imagined.

The very people who had been sheltered in those safehouses during the attack had sold out the Shadow Dragons to their newest overlords, the Venatori. The position of every hideout, compromised. The Shadows, missing. Or dead.

To have survived the dragon attack only to be slaughtered in the aftermath by the Venatori. Where was the justice in that?

The answer was, there is no justice. Not in Minrathous. Not in the world the Gods were creating. There was strength and there was weakness. Unfortunately, it looked like the Shadow Dragons were on the weak end of the scale.

There’s no satisfaction in being right all the time.

I do the only thing I can think of. The only thing left to ease a troubled mind.

I check on Hal.

The stall is closed, it’s late and the barred dock houses by the cobbled swan look full to bursting and surrounded by Templars, so I don’t risk getting closer.

Finding my way to his house is easy, though the streets are emptying faster than I would like, removing some of the anonymity a crowd provides.

I’m relieved to find the house intact and the lights on.

I don’t go in, don’t even make my presence known- just knowing me is a danger today- but I catch a glimpse of Halos through the window, with his daughter. They’re both smiling. It’s a win. I breathe it in, then head for the shadiest place in town. Somewhere someone who wants to lay low might find a secluded corner to disappear into. Somewhere the Archon’s Palace can’t see. Somewhere underground.

The Threads Market looms up to greet me, mostly undisturbed. The underground vantage really helping in keeping the worst of the dragon attack at bay. It’s more crowded than usual. Lots of people have lost homes to the dragon attack and now even the usual safe spaces have been cleared out.

I try to remain inconspicuous as I pass through the market, avoiding puddles of unknowable liquids.

“Neve Gallus,” a voice from behind me startles me with familiarity. Thankfully, it was one I recognised. Sadly, it was Elek Tavor.  

“Elek,” I greet, pushing the hood back from my face. No need to hide if he knows I’m here. “How did you know?”

He looks down at where the cloak stops, just below my knees, and then back up. I sigh, heavily.

“If you’re planning to hand me over to the Venatori- I’d prefer it if you just stab me yourself instead. It’d save me a lot of trouble.”

“Relax, Neve,” he says, easy smile never faltering. “We’re friends. I’m not going to hand my friends over to the Venatori for a few measly coin. How low is your opinion of me?”

“You don’t want me to answer that question. Are we friends?” I wasn’t in a position to question offered friendship, but I did it anyway.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re paranoid?”

“Frequently.” A friendship based off him almost getting me killed and me getting him arrested didn’t sound like a good friendship, but I was running low on options.

“What about ‘you’re a mess’? Anyone ever told you that?”

I narrow my eyes at him, he shrugs.

“Hey, cool it with the daggers. Only a true friend would tell you that you look like shit… You look like shit.”

I can’t even argue with him. It’s been less than a day since the dragon attack ended and I haven’t changed my clothes or washed my face.

“Some of us haven’t had the time to spare for sprucing up appearances,” I say, dryly.

“Oh, is that it?” He’s angling to something. “So it’s got nothing to do with your little flat going up in smoke? And the Venatori search parties that have been sniffing around?”

It’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes. Leave it to the Threads to know about things happening in this city. That’s why I go to him for leads, though. I just wasn’t expecting it to turn into such a double edged sword.

“What’s your angle?” I ask, tired of being given the runaround.

He looks offended for a moment. It’s a very convincing ruse, I almost believe him. Then he seems to remember who he’s talking to and plasters his smile back on.

“No angle, just offering a neighbourly hand. Get you all cleaned up, get you some food, give you a place to rest free of Venatori, guaranteed.”

“And you get what?” He must think I was born yesterday if he thinks I can’t see the looming shadow of debt. Being indebted to the Threads isn’t something I’m interested in.

“Nothing, we just want to help out.” I can feel the slime dripping from his tone. Too sickly sweet to be real.

“Forget it. I’m not interested.”

“Alright, fine. You caught me. One job. You owe us finding one person of our choosing, we protect you in the here and now.”

I consider my options. Turn around, go back to the streets where the guard patrols have my name, where I don’t have a house, where the safehouses are gone and I’m public enemy…probably number five or something. I don’t warrant top of the list, I have no delusions about that.

Or agree to a nebulous job in the future. Finding one person for Threads. Probably someone who’s skipped out on a debt to them. There’s no clause saying I can’t warn them once I find them and the Threads are good for protection rackets. It’s one of their biggest markets. “Fine. One job.”

Elek smiles and points his finger at me. “You won’t regret it.”

“I already do.”

True to his word, I’m given a change of clothes and some kind of soup. It goes well with the cheese bread Birdy had given me.

I decide to eat first and clean up after.

I’m given a small room with a partially collapsed wall that has been hastily repaired with wooden planks to afford some privacy and stave off the worst of the sea breeze. It’s mostly full of boxes, leading me to believe it was probably a store room before it was turned into a rudimentary guest suite.

It’s enough that I can strip down and wash the ash and blood from my skin using a washcloth and a basin of freezing water that I expend a little magic over to bring up to room temperature.

I can also give myself a thorough check-over, following the dragon attack. It looks like the enchanted robes and hastily applied ice magic have protected me from the worst of the fire damage, there’s no obvious burns. Though, there’s bruising all up my left side. I must have hit something pretty hard at some point.

I check for broken ribs, just in case I haven’t felt it by now. Nothing.

There are scrapes and cuts almost everywhere I had exposed skin- and some places I didn’t. But nothing major or life-altering.

I also take a moment to remove my prosthetic. The relief is instantaneous, it’s not designed for days of wear on end. The end of my leg is tender to the touch. What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath. I lay an icy palm over it instead. That helps too, but reminds me to be quick about changing.

The clothes I’ve been provided are nondescript, beige trousers and an overlarge once-white shirt. Elek has included a scarf in my signature colour of choice- and I wrap it around my waist as a makeshift belt. To keep the shirt cinched and stop it slipping.

There’s a knock at the door and I consider the option of putting my leg back on to answer it, in case I have to make a run for it. But the Venatori are unlikely to knock, so I use my staff for support instead. It’s not the intended purpose, but it allows me to move the two steps to open the door.

Elek is on the other side. He eyes my make-shift cane and raises an eyebrow.

“Looks like I was right, and you could use this.” He holds out a real cane. I take it gratefully and swap my weapon for a walking stick. I miss the crutch that used to sit beside my bed for late night stumbling around the apartment, topped with a cushioning enchantment to make it easier on my arm.

The stick will do. I’ve had worse. Elek looks like he’s waiting for something.

“Thanks,” I say, after thinking about it for a moment.

“Right. Thought you’d like to know that we’ve got people posted at every entrance to the Market. If they get so much as a whiff of Venatori or Templars they’re to report in. So, we’ve got eyes out.”

He almost means it to be comforting. I almost appreciate the effort.

“You’ve had your eyes all over the city all day.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question. I know he has, because I would have done the same if I were him.

“Sure. What about it?”

“What happened to the Shadows, Elek? I can’t get near their base. The place is trashed. Someone sold them out.”

He has the good grace to look cut up about it.

“Look, Neve, not even we knew where the hideout was until today-” he stammers.

“I’m not accusing you, I’m asking for details.” I’ll save my judgement on who sold out the Shadows until I have enough information to make a correct accusation.

“Right. You might wanna take a seat.” He gestures at the pallet bed in the room behind me. I can almost believe he cares. Almost.

“I can handle it.” I sit down anyway, because my arm is aching where I’m gripping the cane.

He hovers in the doorway. In another life I might have made a joke about him being a gentleman.

“The hideout,” I prompt, when it feels like he’s never going to start speaking again.

“Right.” I’m fed up of hearing that word. I grit my teeth. Elek continues, “there was no word from the Archon’s Palace at all last night. Not since the reports that there had been dozens of Venatori agents spotted heading into the Magisterium. The dragon- well, you saw it. The Palace didn’t fire on it once. They were totally cut off- for hours. And then just after dawn there was some paperwork dropped off to the Templars. Along with a boost of recruits.”

“The Venatori,” I say. He nods.

“They took charge of everything, and around mid-afternoon- they attacked the Pawn Shop. At least, that’s what it looked like to people outside. Like I said, we had no idea the Shadows were in there… Until they started dragging people out and tossing them into slave carts, prison transports, whatever else they had. Some of them badly bleeding, some of them not moving at all… we don’t have an exact number. But they dragged them all away.”

The soup was starting to feel like it was about to come back up.

“Where did they take them?” Maybe if I focus on the details, I can stop thinking about the blood on the steps.

“Some of them went down towards the docks, to the warehouses, to the templar holding pens- wherever there was space.”

That explained the miscellaneous cart tracks I’d seen in the plaza outside the Shop and the crowds around the dock slave pen.

“Did you recognise anyone being taken away?” It was worth asking. Elek didn’t know Ashur or Tarquin and I intended to keep it that way. But The Viper is recognisable, especially in his current state. “Or see anyone distinctive?”

He shook his head. “No, just a lot of people in grey jumpsuits. And a lot of slaves.”

The refugees. Anyone who had been hiding out in the Shop while Ashur secured them a way out of the city. They were going to get sent straight back to the slave pens, or their old masters, or the slave market.

And it would be foolish to think the Dragons were just going to be imprisoned. That wasn’t nearly public enough for the Venatori. They had to prove they had control.

I had to prioritise.

“Thanks, Elek. You’ve given me a place to start.”

“What are you going to do?”

I reach for my metal leg. “Whatever I can.”

------------------

UNTIL THE DROP.

They say the city never sleeps, it just does a very good impression of it. There’s always a shady deal happening in a nearby alley, always someone or something curled up in a doorway, always a virtuous soul looking to fall. The work never stops, and I should have known that would also be true for the Venatori.

Elek manages to get my clothes cleaned and mended, I don’t ask how and he doesn’t offer the information. I feel better in my armour, even though I know it makes me more noticeable, more obvious.

The thing is, I’m not really hiding.

It’s easy to see that most of the templars aren’t doing their jobs, or don’t care enough about the regime change to properly screen every person walking past them and who could blame them? A city this big?

Finding one criminal is like finding the cursed gem in a chest of jewels.

Easy, if you know what you’re doing.

Luckily for me, the templars don’t. And unluckily for the Venatori, I’m not currently for hire.

And I’m an expert at remaining unseen, if I do say so myself.

I keep my head down as I weave through the morning market. It seems almost normal, if not for the empty stalls and added guards on every corner. They’re too busy picking on a beggar who has the misfortune of being an elf to take notice of me in the early crowds.

The cheese seller yells about finest Orlesian offerings and the fruit seller offers 30% off bruised apples. I move past them both. The Temple of Andraste looms up on my right, just over the bridge. There’s dozens of people crowded outside the gates. Crowded, I realise a moment later, close to the Wall of Light.

I jut out my chin and keep walking.

That’s the other thing about the templars- they’re going to be looking for someone suspicious. They’re not going to be looking for someone acting like they own the place.

There are people weeping openly under the covered walkway. That’s not unusual.

What is unusual is the crowd gathered at the other end of the street. Someone is talking over the top of the chatter and opinions seem to be divided. There are some shouts of encouragement and some jeering and each step closer opens up the pit in my stomach, filled with the fear that I’m not going to like what I see when I round the corner.

It isn’t too late to walk away- but I already know I won’t. I make it to the back of the crowd and push my way forwards, brandishing my staff at anyone who dares turn to snap at me. It makes them back off.

The horror, it turns out, is warranted.

The structures the slaves had been building the day before, the ones I’d mistaken for stages or market stalls, stand as fifteen foot monuments to the new regime. In the form of gallows.

And on those gallows, familiar figures. Both the hooded Venatori agents holding onto the levers and the…equally hooded Shadow Dragons, standing on the raised plinths.  

My blood is ice, and so is the air around me. The temperature plummets. People in the crowd edge away.

I adjust my grip on the staff in my hand.

There’s some small, sensible part of me that tells me this isn’t. That I’m surely hopelessly outnumbered and that giving up my life to try and save four people isn’t worth it.

I don’t care.

The Fade is within easy reach and I summon blades of ice as if it was nothing, throwing my arms wide and watching the ice arc and slice through rope and Venatori alike. Blood splatters the walls and cobbles. The Shadows on the gallows are free from immediate danger. I’m not.

Chaos erupts in the crowd. I’m pushed and jostled as people attempt to flee. Alarms are raised. Armour clatters as Templars try and control the crowd, or maybe just try and push their way through it to get to me.

I move without thinking. There’s a slave cart between the two sets of gallows with people still in it. At least one of them yells my name. I freeze the lock and smash it to pieces with a solid blow from my metal foot.

If it had been chaos before, it’s pandemonium now, as the freed Shadow Dragons shove out of the cart and start wrestling weapons from Venatori agents and Templars alike.

There’s a rush to help the hooded, bound Shadows still on the gallows stage and I lose track of where they go as I’m dived on by two Venatori with their usual bloodletting tools.

I push them back with freezing blasts and thrust my arm upwards to convince the ice to follow suit, going right through a zealot. I barely have time to admire my handiwork before a blade skims across my ribs as another zealot swings at me. My coat takes the brunt but I still feel the bite. I toss him away with another freezing blast of magic.

More Templars pour into the plaza.

“Run!” Someone shouts. And the Shadows do.

Say anything you want about the Venatori, but they know how to pick a staging ground with few options for exits.

There’s the way the Templars are coming- from the direction of the Chantry and the Market, or the way that leads down towards the Wharf Crossing and the docks.

Everyone chooses the latter option.

There’s no sense to it, only a mad scramble through the streets. Some break away towards the tunnels, some towards the southern docks, some towards the northern docks. It’s a blur of shoving through crowds and past Templars trying valiantly to block the route.

But they can’t catch everyone, and most of the people running aren’t Shadows or wanted criminals, they’re just scared civilians.

The scattered crowd begins to blend in with the regular crowds. The Templars seem out of their depth.

I take the opportunity to slink away, towards the docks, hood pulled up over my head, staff shoved hastily between the folds of fabric.

I am stopped, abruptly, as I reach the Wharf Crossing, heart sinking, blood running cold. Again.

More gallows. Only these gallows have bodies hanging from them. They sway in the breeze, ropes and wood creaking. The Shadow Dragon basic gear the only identifying features.

The dawning realisation that this must be happening across the city is chilling. That there could be untold numbers of dead and that I hadn’t so much prevented a tragedy as released a basket of chickens inside a slaughterhouse.

“Dumat’s Teeth…”

I’d been stood still too long, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the gently swaying figures. The regular day crowd moved around me, at odds with the scene unfolding. The bar was still open, the paper seller still shouted from the corner, the food vendors still peddled their wares.

The only indication that something was wrong with this picture was the sidelong glances people kept giving the gallows. And the smell.

And the extra guards posted on the exits.

I struggle to maintain control of my breathing, of the anger that bubbles up again.

I can’t fight forever and I shouldn’t sacrifice myself for the sake of the dead. The dead don’t care.

So I walk away, with confidence, strolling past the guards with a steady, even gait and a determined air.

One of them turns, I hear the armour scrape slightly. “Hey, you-“

So much for that plan. I break into a run.

There’s a clattering sound as the Templars give chase.

My foot aches.

My knee hurts.

I long for my bed.

I miss my home.

I really miss not being hunted down like a dog in my own city.

I don’t look back and I easily outpace the Templars.

I take turn after turn, side streets and narrow alleys and rooftop highways until I’m sure the Templars are gone and there’s no-one on my trail.

Or at least, I thought there was no-one on my trail.

“Neve.” Tarquin appears out of an alley. I stare at him blankly, not sure how he managed to find me, but not angry that he has. His expression is an echo of the rage and grief I feel. I brace for more bad news. Instead, he says, “Come on. Ashur needs you, we’ve got lots of work to do.”

Ashur was alive. Ashur was still fighting. Ashur had a job for me.

A job. I could focus on a job.

And get back to making Minrathous better.

One step at a time.  

This…was going to take a while.

Time to send a letter to the Lighthouse and get to work.

[nobodyexpectsthe]

also the way pirith wants kids but doesn't think he should have any due to the nature of his work and the target it would put on them. he thinks maybe one day, when his work is done. but the work is never done and he'll mourn for the life he could have had.

the best he does is sets up an orphanage in one of the neighboring villages and makes frequent visits. and he's an excellent uncle to any children the inner circle have.

[recitedemise]

Gale's ambition is a result of his hunger for affection — or simpler yet, for approval. Upon meeting him, it might be easy, too easy in fact, to cast him as haughty and far too proud. And he is, don't get me wrong, eager to highlight, present, and parade his genius, but gallivanting merrily for the sake of vanity? Heaven forbid. In truth, it's more an attempt to wrangle praise.

Growing up, Gale Dekarios, a prodigy, was valued primarily for his vicious intellect. In that way, he was few in his companions and fewer in his friendships that would hold for years. Still, as he was only just a boy, he had learned to mold himself in a way they'd favor. In time, he grew to advertise it all, plastering his intelligence like a some gaudy ad. It's what they fancied, he had decided, never sought for his company or his too-spirited rambles, so why fumble through the legwork at having them grasp his quality? This way is far kinder — and far more painless.

It stands to reason then, unfortunately, why being chosen by Mystra only made this worse. Again, she had sought him for his mind. She had kept him in her cradle for his aptitude at spellcraft. Their love had been paltry, so vacant in a flavor as to toe on spartan; however, starved for affection and a tentative kindness? Gale, a stricken fool, couldn't see the truth.

To summarize, Gale was obscenely insecure, absolutely a strutting peacock for better opinion. Through some encouragement, however, he can slowly — and very carefully! — begin to curb that habit.

As a closing note, I think some dialogue at the end of the game captures this perfectly:

Who cares [what people think of you]?

Gale (at the party, content): Not me, of course. Gale of Waterdeep might have craved such attention, but Gale Dekarios does a heroic deed purely for its own quiet satisfaction — and the occasional hearty 'thank you.'

We love a more anchored, self-assured king. :)

[idolbound]

One thought before my Mother™️ comes over:

It is rare that Meredith goes out to the parties thrown by the nobility, but when she does, she typically chooses the dress shirt and trousers (like that of her concept art), but sometimes she will wear a dress - form fitting and accentuating her best features, hair styled appropriately, and maybe even a touch of make up - and most people don’t realize it’s her until they hear her speak. While not often worn, she still remains just as confident in her appearance too.

[wernerherzogs]

the thing is. eddie chosen as the designated driver by the captain while the team was rushing to save buck's life tells us everything we need to know about his driving skills.

[mskwtz]

I need to update these but some of them still stand and I love them. That said, give hawk a nickname!

[foulwitchknight]

I Want You to Want Me: Part II

Eddie had known Steve Harrington was his mate for years and he can’t say he was thrilled about it. He’d bumped into Steve in beginning of Sophomore year and his heart sank when he heard him hiss out Watch it! Thankfully Steve had been too preoccupied at the time and hadn’t even noticed him. Eddie still took it upon himself to avoid him like the plague for the rest of the year so they wouldn’t interact. Thankfully they ran in completely different circles so it was was easy. Eddie just couldn’t see how they would work. He’d watched Steve strut around town and treat people like Eddie like shit. No way Steve would accept him as his mate. He kept hoping he’d made a mistake but the longing and restlessness he got when he thought of Steve confirmed it. He just accepted that it was his fate to watch Steve court then marry some rich Alpha while he ended up pining and alone. Times got rough and he decided to help out by getting a part time job at the country club in a town close by. The same one he finds out later was a favorite of the Harrington’s. It honestly made him panic. He didn’t think he could face the youngest Harrington without exposing their mate status. So imagine his relief when he found out Steve rarely came there. He started to relax little by little confident that he would never see him and then the Incident happened. Eddie had always hoped that Steve would change but the display that day made him realize he never would. Not as long as the Harrington fortune and social currency would protect him. With their mating exposed, Steve started coming around the club more. He would seek him out to talk or flirt and always left him fat tips. Eddie tried to keep it as professional as possible. It didn’t help that Steve started wearing things to draw attention to his neck and his physical attributes. There was no question that Steve was beautiful even more so now that he could see him up close. The biggest issue though was that he smelled like heaven. He’d been denying himself even a whiff of Steve’s scent for a long time and could hardly handle his now constant exposure to it. All he wanted to do was bury his nose in his neck and take a deep whiff. Or better yet bite him and officially make him his. He already smelled like he should be. He was secretly thrilled by Steve’s attention, but Eddie really didn’t want him to know that so he wore scent patches to hide his attraction. He could tell that Steve was disappointed by Eddies seeming lack of interest, but in the long run Eddie thought it was safer this way. Steve was better off mating with one of those rich “charming” Alphas he was always going with. There was no way they could be together so why try.

Part 3

[sirserpentine]

New egg!!!

Meet Fitzgerald, Pentious and Alastor's ( @radioiaci ) latest invention! She is a newborn egg gal and finally has a name!!

She joins the ranks of Frank, Freddy Mercury, Frog, AJ, Francis, Felix, Fred and the rest of the egg gals that haven't been introduced yet! ((They are off on a special mission...))

She exists primarily in relation to Pen and Alastor's verse, but idk, she's so cute that I'll probs include her in the general verses too<33 Yeah. Totes will. Everyone is free to love her.

[shepcdr]

i know that Shepard asking about aliens and about literally every new piece of intergalactic info you come across is supposed to be for the player to be able to learn new information. but for Yishai I like the take that he just fucking sucks

he was taken into the alliance on account of biotic potential. he was raised on the streets and has a very basic grasp of reading/writing/arithmetic that he came into on his own. he at least took advantage of alliance enlistment incentives whilst trying to manage enlisting "the right way" ... got some studying help so that his asvab scores went from "abysmal" to "not great and still non-qualifying" until they were waived on account of his LE3 implants operation, and then he was training to be put on the front lines.

he joined the alliance with hopes of getting away from the gang he was heavily entangled with and until then reliant upon to survive. with no intention of ever becoming a commanding officer or goals for any position that requires that sort of knowledge. he aimed to be stationed near or in the Skyllian Verge and especially only started pushing for a large role in the operation targeting torfan, and by then he had some n7 training to show for it.

he has had supplemental education since joining the alliance as part of his benefits, help from VIs manages to navigate him through the more paperwork oriented parts of his job and without VI help he can recognise and jot down basics esp military jargon/abbreviations. but he is to some degree functionally illiterate outside the alliance. he Is capable of reading materials, given a lot of time and patience. he is not used to it and does not often want to do it (he is not going to stand for more than 10 seconds in front of a direction post on the citadel to figure out what it says. instead we're wandering around in the presidium in circles for another half hour!)

how realistic is this for an executive officer? Probably not very, and I need to learn more about how the alliance operates and the irl military equivalent, but this is the future and VIs and other developments have likely made these things easier to navigate and are integrated in ways that make it Possible that Shepard ended up where he is, in this situation. simply because that is how I want it to be for his specific case

when people talk about intergalactic politics and history and about only knowing "what they learnt in school," shepard is at least 10 steps behind because history class? he didn't take those. And he is not cracking open history books in his off time or listening to audiobooks. (his life is about the silly little personal missions and quests that he does in relation only to his work in the alliance and to the original Yishai shepard I made for his backstory.) the Normandy crew are educating him from almost nothing and he loves them for it. Hugely intense cultural exchange. Unfortunately weird sometimes when the commanding officer that took you onto his ship is like "so the genophage what is that? 🤪" but he is always learning smth new...

I also think he has some decent improvements in reading/writing without VI assistance throughout me1-me3 but that's my silly little headcanons there. maybe I'll expand on this, format it and make it look better to repost down the line but for now this is self-indulgent Runo rambling, tbd

[tornadotame]

they never found praveen’s body. addy had been so mangled and bruised that she was barely recognizable. all that had been found of jeb was his arm (the one he had wrapped so tightly around kate’s middle) impaled on a fence post, with part of its skin stripped off. kate had been shown the photos for identification purposes, she had dully pointed out the watch on jeb’s wrist that she bought him as an anniversary gift, before falling silent for nearly a week.

[recitedemise]

𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿. This lengthy headcanon will refer to canon dialogue from mostly Gale, sometimes others. Reader's discretion is advised. There will be in depth explorations into grooming, emotional abuse, heavy manipulation, and suicide.

First, let it be said that Gale, a mortal man, will always be the powerless one in his dynamic with Mystra. Of course, nearing forty years of age, he remains entirely responsible for his own actions, his own blunders and every hurt he'll cause, but it's important to remember who formed much of who he is: his goddess, his deity, and egregiously, his lover.

Mystra is power. Mystra is possibility. She knows what sway she holds over her Ioyal, vulnerable, and entirely mortal followers. In all ways that matter, they are but lambs she can steer and herd as she sees fit. She knows they can't deny her and knows they'll never want to. Gale's sheer servitude and complete devotion. Mystra, knowing that, used him to filth.

Gale: I was just... practising an incantation. Player Character: No, there's more to it than that. I know devotion when I see it. Gale: What can I say? She's—she's Mystra. I can't describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence... Mystra is all magic. And as far as I'm concerned, she is all creation. Player Character: I didn't realize the depth of your devotion. Gale: Magic is... my life. I've been touched with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it.

Gale, orb in his chest, doomed to be eaten by the very thing he loves the most, still speaks so reverently of the goddess, of his lover that has left him to die. He conjures images of her memory—and she is all the while forgetting about his.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rasheman. While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it born of caution after some catastrophe of wizardly men-folk of old. Now, I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

Tales of Mystra's treachery spreads far, leaving those familiar waters surrounding Gale's tower in Waterdeep. They whisper her name, afraid to utter it one time too many, suspecting, perhaps, that she'll show in their mirror like some Faerûnian Bloody Mary.

Talent rouses Mystra. She can see who uses the gift of the Weave and feel them, sampling whatever delight sings their veins as they pull from her domain. Not unlike a spider, she'll follows every tremor that strikes her as just a sliver more profound; and Gale, a prodigy, plucked the Weave's web to so garner her focus. And like some black widow scurrying, she surged down that ripple to prey on a boy. There, Gale, so impressionable, was just a mite older than twelve whole summers. He sat so stunned, beholding Mystra as she lured him into the cradle of her Astral domain. Bathed in her magic, pleasantly coddled within that glittering cosmos, Gale felt blessed in a way he'll struggle always to recount, no word, no language, fit to describe it. He felt chosen. He felt seen. And potently, to a child, he felt loved. Now, imagine a child experiencing something like that. Imagine what they'd think, how brilliant they must be when stood beside the rest. She told him he was gifted, made his heart swell not unlike a child's appetite for praise. She knew what she was doing by offering these morsels, by preying on a child's most delicate mind, and Gale, child prodigy, was already so awash in the idea that his value was in magic. Unfortunately, Gale, susceptible, had no way of squirming out of his goddess' grasp.

Reality: She's laid down the seeds to creep into his heart. When he's just old enough—seventeen's sufficient, she thinks—she stakes her claim and makes him hers.

Gale: My virtuosic talent once caught the eye of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra, who named me her chosen and her lover.

Gale is stunned when she takes him to bed the first time. (Is this really happening?) Mystra claims his mouth in a kiss, taking everything she knows he offers so willingly. Mystra, of course, is not so stunned.

Dream Visitor: An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals. Gale, tasked with Mystra's missive to sacrifice himself: This is it... I must do as Mystra commands.

Gale has worryingly low self-esteem beyond his magic. As already explored, his entire worth as a man hinged on and was built entirely off his talent as a wizard. He fought tooth and nail for any crumb of affection Mystra would offer his way, something she only gave him at all seeing his gift as a child. He wants her forgiveness. He desires it genuinely. He believes so firmly that he has wronged his goddess, buying into the idea that sacrificing himself will right his wrong. She holds such dominion over him, making him reduce his confidence in himself into a mere, trifling pittance; after all, she wasn't just his lover, but the patron deity he prays to. And regardless, Gale is a people pleaser, his initial acceptance of her missive coming as no surprise.

After all, Gale, at times, goes to incredible lengths to appease his audience. This habit, compulsion, impulse, whatever you want to call it, is a quality that was relentlessly exacerbated in his relationship with his immortal paramour. He wanted to content her, felt all he did was never enough, for as a matter of principle, he was oceans, leagues, and entire galaxies beneath her. Gale figures: well, how can a short-lived dalliance satisfy a god? He had to make her happy. Indeed, he'd done everything she'd ask. He'd bedded her how she liked, kissed her how she wanted, and of course, even said those words she'd said tasted best. She was his lover, a lover that never tended to his own needs and pleasures, and he fooled himself into thinking that's enough. He won't bend backwards for everyone, mind you, but if you're of the ones he would, he would stop at nothing to make you happy. After all, people pleasing is a way to keep oneself safe, a trauma response to sidestep discomfort, and though it achieves only a direly tentative peace, when that is all you've been fed, you will pursue it.

Gale did not want to lose Mystra; he couldn't bare the sting of it. And so, when Elminster visited him, Mystra's call for his death offered oh so callously, Gale, heartbroken, felt that part of him kick up. He couldn't endure the guilt, was so hungry for a chance to let his weighty heart breathe, even if it meant dying in the process.

At least this way, he'll finally do something right. At least this way, Mystra will forgive him, and all his friends will survive.

Gale: After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself.

As a byproduct of people pleasing, Gale, too, is all too quick to accept all guilt. He self-deprecates, gaslights himself to a venomous degree, and twists his reality in so cruel a way as to make him the villain Mystra'd led him to believe. He self-flagellates himself, the first one in the world who will throw Gale of Waterdeep a mental punishment. Mystra's a goddess, after all, seen as utterly faultless, and twined so tightly with a being so mighty in esteem, Gale slipped into the role of the guilty often. When tied with anyone with grandeur like this, so immeasurable in their own self worth, it's important to keep in mind this: you are nothing but a prop in which to fulfill their ego. Gale was not Mystra's, not by a long shot. Rather, Gale was a tool, simply her mortal extension.

And he took every blow meant for her... a common and terrible habit for many people in imbalanced, ego-fueled relationships.

Gale's life beyond her wasn't something that interested her. She took most of Gale's devotion, manipulated his life to be her sole mantle of attention, for Mystra is not a goddess that shares very happily.

Indeed, long before his self-imposed isolation, this jealous deity did well at keeping him isolated.

Player Character: Picture kissing him. With tenderness. Then, with passion. Gale: I... I didn't think— Narrator: You perceive quick-fire embarrassment, trepidation, and finally... elation.

And so, cheated out of love, so reduced in his value as a man and lover both, suffice to say, Gale's slow to believe he can ever be loved. That's what happens when you're with someone so cold, consistent only in their infinite lack of respect. Gale looks at fondness, and he feels—confounded, to be sure. He thinks, is this truly mine to have? He doesn't know what to do, is nearly forty in game, and despite having lived decades devoted to one relationship, he feels, at the same time, entirely out of depth. To be frank, he greets it with embarrassment, like he's been caught red handed with something not his at all. He's like a child caught rummaging with his hand in a cookie jar, all this isn't mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in, but he thinks, startled, but god, do I want. He wars with disbelief, uncertainty, and need, and in so many ways feeling utterly starved, with just a glimmer of affection, he falls fast into love.

Scenario: (And if properly romanced, it changes his world.)

Gale: In her (Mystra's) likeness, I used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes. But now... it is hard to see any redeeming qualities in a lover who condemned you to death. I'd much rather gaze into your eyes than hers. Yours are capable of tenderness and feeling... No god could ever compare.

He says it with sincerity. There is such wonder, such love, and such awe in his eyes. He makes the act of kissing him feel like you've just reached into the trenches to but pluck him soundly from his ruin and despair. You think, Gale Dekarios, how unloved have you been all this time?

Gale: To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before.

The answer is: entirely.

For so long, Gale thought love was simply being chosen. He knew nothing of being favored for the quality of his character, to be cherished and accepted even in those ways he fumbles and lacks. Again, his needs were seldom met, often treated with utter indifference by Mystra herself, and to meet someone so eager to treasure him, dote on him in a way his heart, his body is somberly new to, raptures his spirit and captures his soul. He's seen for who he is. He's... loved, desired for his silly quips, his easy smiles, and his growing affections. He bares himself to them, and in turn, they cradle his heart like something entirely precious. Gale thinks this has to be dream. He says, at times, you are more than I deserve.

Scenario: (But sometimes, he hopes too strongly and loves too greatly. As it always does, then, like he's once more wanted too much, he watches something beautiful slip right through his fingers. Of course, Gale Dekarios. Of course it does.)

Player Character: I didn't know you felt so strongly, Gale. Gale: Perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach... but I was only myself, and sometimes that isn't enough.

They don't love him anymore. It breaks his heart. He hurts so much, so profoundly and deeply, and he doesn't realize that he breaks their heart in turn.

Unable to ever voice his feelings with Mystra in any way that amounted to much, Gale's a tendency to wallow, expressions coming off as potentially 'guilt-tripping' and even, on occasion, passive aggressive. Firstly: Gale NEVER means to manipulate emotions, and he's no intention of twisting anyone's arm, either. Fact is, Gale, never taken seriously when he'd bared his vulnerabilities to the Mother of the Weave, can end up saying just a little too much. He feels very deeply, and for most his life, seldom had an outlet for these weeping sentiments. He sometimes lets slip raw words and oftentimes heart-wrenching expressions; all the same, it's not so pitiful as to shepherd an outcome, but rather, is a gesture taken by a man so desperate to be heard. It may feel like scheming, but the truth is far, far greyer: feeling as though he's no right to share the depth of his heart, Gale simply lets it geyser out in a way he can't cork up. In ways he doesn't realize, he's adapted to this ache, passively reacting so his feelings can at least be seen and recognized—no matter how pitifully unwhole. With someone who values so little his thoughts... well, when he slips into these moods, one can hardly feign shock.

Situation: (And if no one shows him trust and tenderness, any true care in his character or worth, Gale gets swallowed up by how wronged he was.

He thinks: Let me be a god. Let no one hurt like me anymore.)

Gale: They only want us to serve them, pray to them...and ultimately, to die for them. But what if we didn't need them? What if we wielded their power instead and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen.

Gale is not above anger, and as stated, he is not above pettiness; however, more than that, he is not above righting himself whatever wound he was struck. Gale, if not offered much by ways of affection, understanding, is made to believe that one idea that's lived growing in his mind: Gale Dekarios is far from sufficient; he has to be more. He has to be better. Gale, in such an unkind ending for himself, sips too desperately—and perhaps greedily, too, but desperately serves as a far better word—at that idea that he needs power. And so, wresting the Crown of Karsus for himself, he spites Mystra in his own way, becoming a god he feels is leagues better than she will ever be. Damn her thoroughly. Damn her ego, her power, and her endless indifference. He will serve the people, protect them, and in ways Mystra never could, better the world.

Situation: But as a god, he loses all sense of his kindness. Humanity. All who loved him leave him, and even Tara spurns the image he's become. With power, he's gained the respect he thought he always wanted... but in turn, he lost in even greater measure all the love he's known.

Endnote: But healing, knowing to forgive himself and knowing he's deserving of care simply for being Gale Dekarios will remain, always, the best path for him.

[idolbound]

The way that I approach Meredith in either of her redemptive AUs (e.g. Inquisition or Veilguard), is that, after her red lyrium idol sword, Certainty, blows up in her face (and ergo seen as a rejection from the Maker after she called on Him), being exiled serves as an important purpose to helping Meredith realize she was wrong, and understanding that she went too far.

After being exiled out of Kirkwall (think a bloodier, more injured and rushed version of Cersei being walked through King's Landing), for the Inquisition verse, she ventures amidst the outbreak of the mage-templar rebellion, trying to not only heal and recover, but to survive without a direct supply of lyrium. In some ways, she'd have access to supplies here and there for the right amount of coin but as the conflict continues, it becomes harder to get. As the Inquisition forms and moves to Skyhold, and word spreads, she makes the perilous journey there (scarred up, far weaker, and gaunt looking than she once was), and begs the Inquisitor to allow her to join; she is basically a sellsword at this point looking for lyrium supply to stave off the awful effects of withdrawal, but also as a way to try and at least redeem herself and to give herself purpose again. Of course, Culllen and Varric won't be happy she's there, but if accepted, she tends to keep to herself, finding quarters in basically a storage closet, sleeping on bags of feed for the horses and keeps her head down, going where she is demanded to go. She's like a ghost in Skyhold, knowing she failed Kirkwall and failed herself. Over time, with the completion of her personal quest (retrieving personal items from the Gallows/Kirkwall), she finds a new resolve and will survive for about 7-10 years after the Inquisition is over before lyrium dementia will finally set in. (If her personal quest is not completed, she will die serving the Inquisition).

For Veilguard, the tale is spun a little differently. In those 3 years, she still spends time reflecting on herself, but as access to lyrium becomes more difficult, she becomes more desperate and instead, after slowly, horrifically going through withdrawal and looking far worse for wear, she ends up travelling west to enlist with the Wardens as a last resort to save herself from an inevitable end (by, well, choosing another inevitable end). While she has years of experience as a templar, she ends up re-training to serve on the front lines against darkspawn, and eventually, some believe her ability to successfully suppress magic can be useful against certain types of darkspawn, so they secure a supply of lyrium which reinvigorates her strength and capability. But in this time, she is also much of a loner among the Wardens. While they accept nefarious types and criminals, those who know what she did let her know as such, even if it risks having solidarity in the ranks. But in this time, of course, she spends it fighting and giving herself to another cause (all she knows how to do is to serve an institution and something greater). Only after Weisshaupt, can she surface as a possible companion for the Veilguard, should they require her services.

For both verses, though, I think the act of redemption does not necessarily mean that Meredith is suddenly a good person. She's not. But! what it does mean is that she has been removed from the social institution that shaped her personal beliefs and allowed her to oppress mages; it is hard to see the evil when you are inside of it, but once exiled from the Order and Kirkwall more broadly, and spending time alone, she comes to realize that using the idol to gain more power and control was too much, and in a way, it's almost like how mages use blood magic to achieve similar purposes, and that is the very thing she hates the most.

Ultimately, she knows what life she has left to live is an early death sentence; she saw how her adoptive father slowly faded away from lyrium-related dementia, and knows that fate will likely be hers, too. So, Meredith believes that achieving redemption for herself is not to make up for the lives she has hurt and harmed, but to serve and protect others until her dying breath; it is the least she can do because it is all she has ever known.

She still holds prejudice towards mages (and that will always be ingrained in her), but she lacks the power to do anything about their existence now. She cannot let go of her early childhood trauma and general fear of what magic can do, but she has been removed from her station and the means to persecute mages. If the Inquisitor or Rook has mages in their ranks, she accepts it without argument (but she will be avoidant or weary around them, always keeping a watchful eye, just in case).

Also, in this sense, living in exile (despite living under rather unprecedented or... interesting times), is the first time Meredith has ever lived a normal life outside of the Gallows and the Order, and the demands of the Chantry. So this also plays into her redemptive arc by allowing her to experience things she's never gotten to do before, understanding life from a vastly different perspective (even if it is during a time when the world may be ending, and for a very short time compared to her old life).

In the end, redemption for Meredith is not a full 180 degree turn around for her character, but regret weighs heavily upon her; regret for what she did, regret for failing Kirkwall, and regret for never having a life outside of it.

She is haunted by ghosts; she is haunted by herself.

[archonoclasm]

𝗛𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗣𝗮𝘃𝘂𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗗𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗮 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗲. No, not just simply blood magic, a mere prick to one's finger, but specifically the siphoning of blood from someone entirely unwilling. Halward had wanted to change Dorian. Halward desired a more pliable son, an obedient son, and a child who would ask, if ever he were told to jump, 'how high, father?' before jumping off the cliff. Of course, wanting an heir, Halward had to alter Dorian permanently and at a very fundamental level, a goal that would require a very strong spell.

Dorian: I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to wanting to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me acceptable. I found out. I left.

A strong spell in the case of blood magic, unfortunately, also means a greater cost. Where other forms of magic have mages tapping into their connection with the Fade, blood magic requires one to make sacrifices -- be it on their own accord and body or someone else's. This is where the line between a simple spell of blood magic crosses into blood ritual territory, as the demands of both seem to vary considerably.

As we learn in Inquisition, Magister Livius Erimond joins the Grey Wardens and has their outfit undergo a widespread blood magic ritual wherein Grey Wardens were sacrificed to be bound to demons. Furthermore, we know that the Magisters Sidereal had conducted a blood ritual in which they were able to physically enter the Fade, though not without murdering a devastating amount of slaves. These examples are given not to say that a ritual always needs many bodies, unwilling or not, but to highlighte rather that the threat of death is always a very real and very near possibility.

However, as Halward Pavus, is neither willing to let neither himself nor his sole heir die, that would mean that he would require the sacrifice of someone else. In this case, as man of stature, wealth, and as a influential and extremely powerful magister in the Imperium, one could reasonably believe that that means a slave -- one of the House Pavus' undoubtedly. Halward had prepared to kill off a slave, perhaps several, in his monstrous and harebrained attempt to have his son sire him an heir. It hardly even mattered that he might have lost Dorian in all ways but physical considering how dangerous, difficult, and risky this ritual was. Again, this is a ritual for a complete and permanent change in someone else. What mattered most to Halward, however, was their family name.

Inquisitor: Can blood magic actually do that? Dorian: Maybe. It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn't really want to go through with it. If he had… I can't even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn't like that Dorian.

All that to say, Halward, considering the scope and intensity of this ritual, would have been planning for a great deal of time. In my interpretation of Dorian, I would have imagined, as one could reasonably suspect, that Halward had to trick Dorian or subdue him as there's certainly no possible way that Dorian would allow this. As such, considering how heavy on the drink Dorian had been back then, the idea of lacing something in his bottle or glass would have, to Halward, made sense.

It's over dinner. Aquinea is sat with them, all three sat substantially far apart, more cold, more distant, and nothing too familial. Halward tries for conversation, his own strange flavor of temperate stoking both a wicked hope in Dorian's heart and a considerable wariness. In the end, it's silly, as most things tend to be with them, how Dorian finds out about his father's intentions. Dorian sought to slip away early, needing space, still, after their recent fight over his opposing his arrangement with Livia Heradanus. ("You are no son of mine.") However, Halward urges him to sit and to finish his dinner, and because Dorian is Dorian who seldom ever listens, now a step away from the table, Halward commands he drinks. It alerts Dorian at once who, glancing at his mother, notices the sharp line of her mouth had grown all the thinner. It can't be, he thinks, as he takes up the glass and levels his father with a glare all a flurry of emotion.

"Magnanimity to pair with the pudding? It must be a holiday," he says glibly, charm and honey and razored hurt. "But I'm afraid I already had so much the other night as I'm sure we've all doubtlessly learned. Perhaps you should like to finish this with me? We can think of it as a toast to my turning a new leaf!"

And Halward doesn't. Halward sits still as Aquinea carves her steak. Dorian watches them both, a deep pit of hurt gutting in his belly. "It was supposed to be simple, son," his father says as Dorian asks hotly what he'd put in the wine. "Something I'd only thought would make things easier for you. You'd forced my hand." Right. Of course. Bolting from the room, a servant-- the house Pavus' favorite -- finds him as he hurries down the hall. "Am I free to go then, Lord Pavus?" he asks him, as Dorian stands there speechless. His father comes from farther behind, his footsteps bounding down the hall, and it is all metronome and thunk-thunk-thunk.

"Remind me," he breathes. "Free you from what exactly?"

He fidgets. "I--I'm not sure. Your father hadn't said."

"Typical. Had he told you to strip down like that, too?'

"He had. I was instructed to wait here until you were done with dinner."

Oh. "Well, it seems we're all retiring early for the evening."

"Lord Pavus." A breath. "I was told to clear my cot before I came down here. I'm not -- I'm not being punished for some offense, am I?"

"Are you being what?"

"Not for your offense, no. But that of my son's."

They both turn about. Dorian spies Halward go cold and steely. "There are things to consider that go beyond you, Dorian." Oh. The drink. Their argument. Their slave's quaking fear-- "I can't sit idly by to watch our house fall with you."

A ritual.

"At least this way, you can do something other than disappoint."

Right. Dorian rears away. His heart bellows like a maelstrom in the seat of his chest. Betrayal snicks through his middle, rendering him cloven to bleed messily and thick. His father goes to see him when the morning sun rises, but by then, after a quick letter to Maevaris, Dorian's left. In the back of his head, he still hears the clatter of Aquinea's cutlery.