#14 days circle mages

[thewardenisonthecase]

14 Days of Circle Mages: Upbringing/Arrival/Phylactery

Read on AO3

This is my contribution to the @14dayscirclemages following the life of my Rook, Dawn Thorne, long before the Veilguard.

Chapter Summary: A little look into Dawn's last day with her family and her arrival at the Gallows.

A/N: Tw for child abuse (mainly, a 6 year old gets slapped in the face)

9:24 Dragon - The Anderfels

The Thorne family had always been a very religious family. Every night, before tucking her into bed, Dawn’s mother would sing to her parts of the Chant of Light. By age three, her favorite story to hear was of how Andraste pushed back against the evil Tevinter mages. 

Magic is to serve man, not rule over him, her parents would say. This is why we have the circles, to keep mages in check and make sure they can never hurt anyone. 

Apostates are to be feared, her brother would tell her. They are maleficarum. They cohort with demons and use blood magic. Magic is a powerful and dangerous thing, and no mage is ever safe from corruption. 

There had never been a mage in the Thorne family because they were very faithful, Dawn’s mother assured. As long as they continued to believe in Him, magic would never harm them. 

.

Dawn’s last day with her family had fallen on her birthday. 

The Thorne family followed its usual traditions. Both of her parents woke her up, kissing her face and wishing her a good day. Her mother let her eat anything she wanted and in the evening, while her father and brother worked, Dawn’s mother combed her hair, a song on her lips. 

The night is long

And the path is dark

Look to the sky

For one day soon

The dawn will come

She giggled. “That’s my name!” “Yes, it is.” Her mother kissed the top of her head. “My little Dawn. I named you after the hymn.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” Her mother began braiding her hair as she continued. “You’re the light of my life, brought into existence by the Maker. I had to give you a fitting name.” 

Dawn hadn’t understood what her mother meant but she didn’t question it. Her mother tied a blue ribbon at the end of each braid and turned her around, giving her a kiss on the forehead. 

Her mother stood up from her chair, and walked to the drawer, retrieving a small wooden box. There was a sort of key mechanism on it, which she turned around three times before handing it to Dawn, telling her to open it. 

Once she did, the box opened, and an image of Andraste spun around and the sound of the music that her mother sang played from it. 

“My mother gave me this when I was very young, Dawn. I want you to have it.” 

The little girl looked at her, green eyes wide and bright. 

“Dawn, what do we say when someone is nice to us?” 

“Thank you, mama!” 

“Goog girl.” She kissed her forehead. “Your father and brother must be done now, go call them for dinner, its time for us to eat.” 

She nodded and excitedly ran outside, clutching the music 

“Papa!” She shouted as she saw her father. He was a big man, tall and imposing, but once he saw her, his face lit up as he picked her up and kissed her cheek. 

“Ah, my Dawn, you look so pretty.” He said as he held her and she smiled. 

“Look at what mama gave me!” She showed him the music box. 

Her father put her on his shoulders and she handed the box to her brother. He examined it for a second before giving it back to her. 

The three of them walked back inside the house, and soon, they were all set at the table. Before they could eat, her mother began to pray.

We thank the Maker for the food we have today, and for the life we were given. Most importantly, we thank Him for giving us Dawn. 

There was a cake on the table, the candles on top of it unlit. Her parents struggled to find a way to light them. 

As Dawn looked at the candles, she began to feel a kindling in her fingers. Perhaps if she could just…

With a wave of her hand, she lit the candles, giggling to herself. Her brother stood up from his chair and looked at her horrified, as her parents turned around confused.

“Witch!” Her brother pointed at her. 

Dawn began to cry, not liking her brother’s tone, as her mother kneeled in front of her grabbing her shoulders. “Dawn, what did you do?”

“I only wanted to help you.” She sniffed. 

“She created the fire. She’s a mage.” Her brother told them. Her parents shared a look, before her mother lifted her up. “Let’s go to bed.” 

The next day, the templars had shown up in her door, and Dawn was only allowed to bring the music box with her. 

.

9:24 Dragon - ???

Dawn did not know where they were headed. She tried asking the templars on board but they either ignored her. Some even looked at her with fear. 

There were others like her aboard the ship, mages. Some were much older than her, while others seemed to be her age. Everyone looked terrified to be there. 

Inside her small cabin, she’d hold on tight to the music box, replaying it for hours on end. It was her only source of comfort. Why did no one explain to her what was happening? 

Dawn wanted to go back home. She had cried to the templars and they ignored her. She’d have nightmares, seeing her brother’s face. Where once her father would hold her tight and comfort her, now she’d be awakened by angry men with angry faces as they told her to shut it. 

When they finally arrived at their destination, the young girl was greeted with the sight of scary, golden status of hungry men covering their faces. 

She did not want to leave the boat but the templar gave her no choice. They all exited the boat and there were more statues around them. Dawn and the other mages were brought inside the building, where a tall, blond woman, with cold blue eyes, stood in the center, a greatsword in hand. 

“I am Knight-Commander Meredith and this is the Kirkwall Cirle of Magi - the Gallows. It’s where you’ll stay and learn to control your magic.” 

Dawn swallowed hard as the woman began to list all the things that they could and could not do - their clothes had to be circle appropriate, they couldn’t leave whenever they wanted, they were to stay in their rooms unless they were in class, they were not to cast spells outside of class, they weren’t allowed to speak with outsiders. 

All in the name of them being deemed too dangerous. She held onto the music box even stronger than before. 

Once the knight-commander was done, they were made to stand in line and wait in front of a room. One by one, they were called in, until it was Dawn’s turn. There, two other templars stood. Next to them there was a wooden table with several glass vials. 

They motioned for her to step forwards and she did.

“Your hand.” One of them asked.

“What for?”

“It's for your phylactery.” He answered and Dawn frowned, tilting her head in confusion. 

With a huff, the other one explained. “Their vials, filled with your blood. If you, or any other mage, tries to escape, this will ensure we’ll be able to track you down and bring you back to the circle.”

“Blood?” Dawn’s eyes widened. Her mother always told her stories of wicked maleficars and their twisted use of blood to power their spells. “But…if you’re using blood…isn’t that blood magi-”

Before she could finish her sentence, one of the templars backhanded. “How dare you insinuate such a thing?!” 

“But-”

“Silence! You will do as you are told.”

Dawn lowered her head, as a tear ran down her burning cheek. Roughly, they grabbed her hand, slicing her palm open and squeezing the blood into a vial. Quickly, they wrapped a bandage around it and kicked her out of the room, where she was eventually reassigned to a dorm. 

The other mages around her spoke, but Dawn just laid on one of the beds, holding on tight to the music box. That night, before she fell asleep, she silently prayed to Andraste for answers: what had she done that had been so evil and vile to be cursed like this? And when would her parents rescue her?

For the first time in her short life, Dawn felt like no one had listened to her prayers. 

.

Thanks for reading! If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging it and leaving a comment, they're extremely appreciated!

[14dayscirclemages]

14 Days of Circle Mages: EVENT START!!!

Let's go, Circle mage enthusiasts! Let's see your Circle-based fics!!! Remember to tag @14dayscirclemages on Tumblr and feel free to upload to the AO3 collection as well!

FAQ here

Character Profile template here

The event runs through the month of February but I will also keep monitoring this blog and the AO3 account all year, so you are encouraged to post whenever you like if you can't make this month work.

Have fun and happy writing!!

[vigilskept]

day 1: upbringing

a day late but here's a little diya surana backstory fic for 14 days of circle mages!! some speculative dalish/seheronese ancestor veneration practices + an immigrant father & his kid Doing Their Best :)

words: 840 | @14dayscirclemages

A month and ten days before her name-day, Father asks her to clean out the house before he leaves for work.

She starts in the morning with the tidying. Around noon, Shianni and Soris and Isaac and Teodor come to the window, tapping until she swings it open. They all frown when she says she won't come, but there's still the dusting and the sweeping and the cobwebs with spiders that need to be moved outside.

It takes her until just before Father gets home to finish with all of it, and it's almost good enough. It only takes another hour before Father is satisfied that every speck of dust has been defeated.

She's still too little to stand so close to the cooking fire, he says, so she sits quietly and patiently, mouth watering as sweet and savoury aromas begin to spread through the room.

She knows she won't be allowed to taste, so she does not ask.

This year, he trusts her with the task of setting out the dishes once the meal is prepared, and it's easy enough to set out the plates and bowls for the two of them at their usual seats at the table. She has to go onto her tippy toes to get the third set up onto the high shelf above the fireplace, though, and only just manages to get her balance back on her own after a little wobble.

Father gives her a rare, pleased smile when he sees that she's spilled nothing, and thanks her with a gentle hand placed atop her head.

This will make the her hair messy again, but it's nice. She smiles — because Alarith says she should smile when nice things happen.

He turns then to the box he keeps on the high shelf, and pulls out three of the fragrant wooden sticks he'd traded their last candleholder for last month.

She watches, wide eyed as he tips them into his other palm and cradles them in a bed of flame. Nudged by the fire, smoke begins to rise and trails through the air as her father carries them over to the brass jar that sits between the bowls of food.

Then, kneeling, he begins to speak in the language he always says he will teach her someday, but not yet.

It doesn't take long before the smoke from wraps around the whole of their home and each of her breaths feel heavy, as though she were swallowing water instead. The misty air stings at her eyes like tiny pins pricking at them.

Father, though, always seems more at home shrouded by this pale mist than anywhere else. Through the fog, she can just barely see that his eyes are dry as he speaks at length with his palms resting atop his knees.

She thinks it must be some blessing for the dead, a prayer for her mother’s soul, though the Chantry sisters who come to the alienage teach them some mornings say that after the dead are burned their spirits shouldn’t be bothered. 

She has never asked them if it's fine to bother those that are buried instead.

The sisters say the Maker is gone, and has not yet forgiven them. She does not want to hear that they might be making Him even more cross.

She keeps her lips sealed now as she does on those mornings and kneels quietly at Father's side.

She blinks away the moisture that gathers between her lashes and hopes that whoever Father prays to is kinder than the Maker. She hopes that they are not so far away and might answer whatever pleas he voices in that whisper that sounds so much like a song carried in the wind.

When he finally rises from his knees, he stumbles a little.

It hurts, a bit, when he catches himself against her shoulder and clutches tight. Still, she doesn't make a sound.

Father's legs have been more unsteady of late, threatening to buckle beneath him when they've been overly strained. It takes longer and longer each time, but he always rises back onto his feet, as he does this time.

She waits, quiet, until he can hold himself steady once more and drag his weary limbs to the table.

Once the ache fades a little, and she knows the pain won't give her away, she allows herself to rise and claims the chair opposite.

Father doesn't smile, but there's a softness to his eyes as he tells her, "Next year, I will teach you the rite, so you can perform it yourself."

She beams, and promises she will work hard to get it perfect.

If she works hard enough, maybe Father will finally teach her about where they're from and why they came to Ferelden too.

Hahren Valendrian says that their burdens are eased when they share their stories. Maybe if he tells her the story, it will ease the furrow that sits between Father's brows, the ache in his bones.

[nirikeehan]

14 Days Circle Mages Character Profile: Thalia Trevelyan

For @14dayscirclemages

Character Name: Thalia Trevelyan

Character Origin: Human noble

Mage Circle Setting: Ostwick

Age When Living at the Circle: 14-24ish

Brief Character Bio: Thalia was born the youngest daughter of Bann Trevelyan and lived a pampered and aristocratic life until her early teens. When her family learned of her magic, they sent her to the Circle and all but disowned her immediately, as the presence of a mage brought shame to such a so-called pious family. Little did they know she was one day destined to become the Herald of Andraste.

What Are You Most Excited to Write About? Love exploring the Circle as an institution and how it affected the trajectory of Thalia's life.

Character Image: 

Here is a screen shot as well as one of my favorite commissioned art pieces, by the amazing @sunshinemage!

[highwayphantoms]

Day 1: Upbringing

A tiny ficlet for the first day of @14dayscirclemages!

-

It takes her a few minutes to realize that what she’s just done shouldn’t have been possible. Soothing her younger brother, that was perfectly doable, and she’d done that—but he’d skinned his knee falling down chasing after the neighbor’s mouser. She’d cleaned the dirt out of the wound, just like Papa had taught her to do—except now the shallow scratches were gone. Carver’s knee looked like nothing had ever happened.

Magic. She’s inherited Papa’s magic.

For a few seconds, she’s elated. To be like Papa, to have his same gifts, to be able to use them to help—but then reality crashes back in. Mages are not allowed to live free. That’s why they never stay in any one place for too long, why Callie can remember living in a half-dozen different places in her short life. If anyone knew about Papa’s magic… and now hers.

If Carver notices that she’s gone quiet, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, her six-year-old brother grins up at her with a cheery thank you! and bounds back out of the house. A cool breeze floats through the house as the door swings shut after him, the promise of winter’s approach hanging on the wind, and she panics.

[kiastirling-fanfic]

14 Days of Circle Mages Character Profile

I'm looking forward to writing some words about the Circle next month!!! thanks @14dayscirclemages!!!

Here's a profile for the character I intend to focus on

Character Name: Robin Amell

Character Origin: Human minor noble, trans

Mage Circle Setting: Kinloch Hold (Circle of Ferelden)

Age When Living at the Circle: Age 6 to 21ish

Brief Character Bio: Robin realized she wasn't a boy very young and had transitioned socially even before her magic manifested, at which point she was written off by her family. She became close friends with Jowan, an older boy who was very kind to new incoming mages, and Hamin Surana, a dalish elf who is brought to the circle a few years after her. Robin is bright and personable, and uses the privileges that brings her to protect her less positively-viewed friends.

What Are You Most Excited to Write About? I'm excited to write about Robin with her friends, exploring her magic use, and her time in Aeonar

Character Image:

[suranastair]

@14dayscirclemages

This is Part 1 of a writing challenge for my Dragon Age Origins OC Selph Surana.

Tumblr Links: | 1 | 2 |

~ Prompt 1: Upbringing ~

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62724109/chapters/160576507

Rating: Teen & Mature

Warnings/Tags: Bullying, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Servitude, Good ol' Racism against elves/mages in Thedas.

Word Count: 1,639

Summary: After some confrontation, Selph finds solace in her favorite spot by the river. Something else may have found her as well...

It hadn’t rained in a fortnight, and the river was low that evening. As a result, Selph sat lower on her usual bank to dangle her feet in the lazy flowing stream. The cold was a stark contrast to the hot and darkening welt around her eye. A part of her wished she could dunk her head beneath the water, but then she’d smell like fish. Well, even more like fish.

She gnawed at the swollen part of her lower lip, tasting the blood and making the wound she sustained worse. Returning to the village now would be for the best, but either way she would get the switch. After all, she did humiliate the mayor’s daughter and her friends.

“She had it coming,” Selph told herself, flipping some of the water up with a foot. “Frost can happen whenever. It’s random, stupid! It’s not my fault the crops died! It’s…not my fault…”

Pulling herself into a ball, Selph began to cry, letting the earth around her encase her in a pseudo embrace. She missed her papae—her father. More and more as of late. Terrible dreams were keeping her up at night, dreams that woke her from the deepest confines of sleep. Sometimes, she felt like she wouldn’t wake, feared it.

But she didn’t want to trouble Eira with this nightmare talk. It would only bring trouble, and her stepmother had enough to worry about now that she was raising Selph alone. A human, let alone a servant, raising an orphaned elf was already problematic.

Even still, Eira loved Selph, deeply and wholly. Just like she had loved Selph’s father. He left his clan to be with her, had brought Selph with him. Selph had been young, too young to remember much of their departure out of the northern outskirts of the Brecilian Forest. The memory was a thickened haze for her now.

What she did know, what she held onto, was that her father loved her. Always. He had cared for her alone and through the grief he carried of the loss of his vhenan—Selph’s birth mother. Eira made him smile, made him sing like he used to around the bonfires with the clan. To Selph, Eira was a walking miracle.

And then he died.

Selph pulled herself into a tighter ball, desperately trying to push down the resurfacing memories and emotions that came with them. The earth around her seemed to shift, cradle her further as she was attempting to do to herself.

No. Not the earth. It was a…presence? It was warm, like a blanket fresh from a sunny day’s laundry line. A soothing balm of whispers reached her ears, nothing coherent, but comforting all the same. Selph was suddenly drowsy; her eye throbbed less, her skinned knees didn’t burn, and she stopped chewing on her lip as the freckled scrunch of her nose and brows untensed. Soon, she found herself laying on the scratchy grass of the bank. A prickly feeling transformed into one of utmost comfort, and her consciousness slipped into slumber.

The sun began to set, and the nightmares eluded Selph. Only upon hearing her name cut through the cooing voices did she stir.

Eira rounded one of the trees to Selph’s spot. Her large brown eyes were always calm, always kind. The pull of her mouth into a thin line conveyed otherwise. “Thought I’d find you here.”

Selph yawned and stretched, feeling lightweight and refreshed. Eira came into view as her vision adjusted, as did the rest of her forested surroundings. The sun had dipped behind mountain peaks in the far distance—a sign to Selph that she had stayed out too long.

“What time is it?” Selph rubbed crust from her emerald eyes, dirt from her bangs, and started a quick and loose braid of her lengthy hair. She scrambled up to complete the brush-off of her person.

“Late,” Eira said, stepping forward to help Selph get any missed spots off her oversized smock and breeches. “We’ve got barn duty.”

Selph turned toward her guardian with a smile, realizing then that her blackened eye was now in full view. As was her swollen lip and suspicious grass stains on her knees hiding the scrapes she got when she was shoved to the ground.

Eira wasn’t angry. In fact, the façade of anger she wanted to portray fell from her expression, promptly replaced with one of sympathy. “Halwen told me what happened.”

With a frown, Selph crossed her arms. “Did she? Or did she spin you a story again, gossip gab that she is?”

Kneeling down to meet her stepdaughter’s height, her loose bob of dark curls shifting, Eira tapped her forehead to Selph’s. “She spun me a story, obviously.”

Selph tried to hide her relieved smile, reaching out to hug Eira tightly. Eira picked her up and spun her around, and Selph let out a weak giggle before planting back to the ground.

Eira then grasped Selph’s hands, her eyes welling with tears. “I promise you, Selph, we’ll be able to leave this place soon. But until then—”

“I know.” Selph cut her off with a sudden huff.” But I didn’t kill the crops! Adelaide and her goons are idiots! From a family of idiots! Frosts happen, right? I’ve read a buncha books on it! And we’re in a part of Ferelden that gets cold! I mean, colder than most of Ferelden, but still!”

“Selph—”

“I didn’t do it! I’m not cursed!” She paused to take a breath. “I’m not a cursed knife-ear…”

Eira pulled her into another hug. “No. You’re not. Not at all. You’re a blessing, the biggest blessing I could have asked for along with you father, Maker rest him.” Her last words were choked.

Selph never knew her mamae. She died giving birth to her. But Eira was everything she could have wanted in a mother and more. She taught Selph to read and write, her falling into hard times and becoming a servant a betrayal to her educated background. Her roots were from Rivain, but her immediate family was from the Free Marches. All Selph knew at the time was that she left them behind in pursuit of better opportunities in Ferelden. Eira did her best with what she could, even if Selph didn’t fully believe it at times. Selph would look back on all Eira did—all she tried to do—with affection and amity.

However, at present, she wept in Eira’s arms in anger and sorrow only she felt she could understand. Emotions came back in a flood, as did the gentle blanket of warmth. It now surrounded her and Eira both, became a calming presence once again to the anguished girl.

With a big sniffle, Selph then inquired about it to Eira. The woman looked around, a breeze lifting some leaves around them before falling back to the ground. For a split second, her eyes glazed and hardened. Selph didn’t see.

“No, but I believe you,” Eira said, “and I think the pressure of another harrowing day of dealing with a bunch of spoiled brats is taking its toll.” She dropped her tone to a whisper toward the end, the fear of her status always at the forefront of her actions.

“Right…” Disappointment coated her words.

“Let’s get you back home, yeah? We’ll feed the livestock and join Halwen in the kitchen. Together.”

Selph scrunched her brows. “But I’m supposed to be on net duty with Eliot this eve.” She grumbled, kicking a stone after pulling on her shoes. “Stupid smelly fish.”

Eira couldn’t help but let out a belly laugh at that. “You told me you enjoyed net duty with old man Eliot!”

“When I can bathe after! Adelaide said she was gonna tell her dad to take my bath privileges away. Then I’d be a cursed and smelly knife-ear.”

“I see.” Eira frowned at the repeated pejorative. “Then I shall just have to relinquish my bathing privileges as well!” She placed her hands on her hips, lifting her chin to the tinted orange sky. “And then I’ll get Halwen to relinquish hers, and so on and so forth, until the whole village is rank with our rebellion!”

Selph blew a flippant raspberry. “Halwen will stop bathing when a pig sits on the Sunburst Throne.”

Eira laughed once again. “Too true, my child. Too true. Anyway, let’s get you home. A cool cloth for that eye and some elfroot rub for your lip and knees will do you good. Then we’ll get to our evening chores, get you a hot meal, and get you to your bed just in time to read a few chapters of your book, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Selph felt tears well in her eyes again, repeating, “Yeah.”

Selph took Eira’s hand, but not before glancing at her reflection in the stream. Selph stopped breathing. Next to her and Eira was a pale, human-like figure. Their features were barely visible in the sun’s setting light, but there was clearly a third person with them.

Eyes widening, Selph felt the start of a yelp bubble up from her chest. It was quashed when the figure slowly gifted her a wave. The calming, warm sensation returned to envelop her with the gesture, and Selph found herself smiling and waving back.

“Selph?” Eira tugged on the young girl’s hand. “Sweetheart?”

“I’m glad I get to come here when I want,” Selph said with genuine excitement, ignoring Eira’s open concern before finally snapping back to the present. “Sorry! Let’s go!”

The young elf then bounded off ahead of Eira, her energy renewed. Once again, Selph didn’t see her stepmother’s eyes glaze and harden. Even if she had, it was impossible for Eira to convey only what she had felt: the icy chill of a bad feeling creeping up her spine.

[griffonsong]

So I saw the prompts from @14dayscirclemages and decided why not grab the opportunity to flesh out my characters and get in some writing! I know I'm behind (several days lol, I'm formatting things on my tablet since my pc is Gone and it's hell) but it's all good fun.

This first one is for a little sister I imagined for Warden Surana, Suran'nain (disclaimer I only half care about elvhen im this instance so it means "Little Surana"in my heart). Mild warning for children bullying each other I guess?

1. Upbringing

Words: 1,597 || Character: Suran'nain (Elasilien Surana)

link to ao3

The afternoon was as warm as golden as any, but none of it was registered by the children under the boughs of the trees. For all they cared, the world around them was as cold and biting as the words that flew from their lips like a winter's wind.

“It wasn't me!”

"Liar!"

“You're the liar!”

It echoed through the trees, the children gathered, accusations flying over the shattered toy.

It had been a miniature aravel, complete with red sails sewn out of a fine-woven piece of cloth, embroidered with thin, silky thread that shimmered gold when the sails billowed in the breeze. Now the toy landship would never sail again, and everyone knew the Clan didn't have the time or resources to fashion a new one, not anytime soon. Worse than that, there would be anger and disappointment, for the loss of something that had been around since their parents' childhood, or even before that.

Something that had once been a source of happiness, a memory of the simple joys of endless childhood. Now it was the source of conflict.

"It doesn't matter who broke it! They're going to be mad, anyway!" Big Tolas shouted. "But if we all keep our mouths shut-"

"And lie to the grown-ups?" Suran'nain couldn't help but squawk, eyes huge. "You can't!"

"Shut up!" Big Tolas wheeled on her.

That alone was enough to make Suran'nain wince. He wasn't just years older than she was, at her meagre seven summers. But he never seemed to thin the way most everyone else seemed to do when they had a bad season, or the shemlen wouldn't trade, or set their hounds upon the Clan. He was always big, even when they all went hungry, his arms so broad only the oldest children growing into adulthood could put their hands around his upper arm and have their fingers touch.

Suran'nain knew he was mostly just angry because he was at risk of being scolded by the hahrens, as were they all, so really he was just afraid. But she was smart enough not to tell him that.

"You're just going to do as I say!" Big Tolas jabbed a finger at her. He waved an arm around the circle of them all. "All of you! If no one talks, no one gets punished. Got it?"

"They're not going to let it go just because we won't point fingers," someone muttered.

"Even if we could point fingers," came another mumble. It had been hard to point out one or even two culprits for the aravel's destruction; in the fight over it, no one really had been able to tell when it had first fallen, or one of its masts had first broken, the sails trampled.

"I said, shut it!"

Big Tolas's hand flew and struck, and found purchase. The sound of it - a sharp smack - turned the rest of them silent as stone.

One of the children who had mumbled held a hand to a cheek that was quickly growing red, eyes watering.

"If anyone talks, I'm coming to teach you a lesson." Big Tolas was always big on threats, but this one sounded like a promise. The only thing he liked almost as much as dictating playtime was getting into fights he could win. And more often than not, he won.

"They're going to be angry for that too, now," Suran'nain whispered.

Again, Tolas wheeled on her with a gaze that wanted to pin her to the ground, but there was something burning in her gut stronger than fear.

"You can't hit all of us. We'll just run. And if we say we all broke the aravel, they'll still be angry, but they'll also be proud because we were honest. And we all did break it a little bit."

Some in the group looked at her anxiously, then, as if they almost were afraid to hope that she could be right. Suran'nain felt small under their eyes, shivering almost, from fear or pride. She could fix this, maybe, even if they couldn't fix the aravel.

But then Big Tolas's anger melted, ever so slightly, with a curl of his lips, his eyes narrowed, and Suran'nain's gut twisted with fear.

"You're not going to do any of that," he told her, so self-assured he didn't even need to shout anymore. "And if you do, I'm going to tell them it was you, that you did magic when you didn't want us to have a turn playing with it, and that you broke it."

Suran'nain couldn't believe what she was hearing. She felt herself shaking with indignant anger, and it began to pour out, helplessly so. "Liar-"

But something else twisted in her gut as well, the sharp knife of fear when he'd said magic. She couldn't do magic, but-

-not yet, the Keeper had murmured, but it might still come, her siblings hadn't gotten it either, but her blood is strong and it sings true-

But she hadn't done any magic, and she forced the words out in a shrill scream because it was the truth, "I didn't do any magic-"

"Do you think they'll listen, if we all said you did?" Big Tolas snorted.

And Suran'nain looked around, but saw no faces turned towards her, all eyes fixed upon the ground or somewhere else, feet shuffling. Oh, where were her siblings? But Talim was watching the hunters he wanted to train with, and Tal had said to go away and stop interrupting the basket-weaving, and Rin hadn't wanted to come play if they were going with Big Tolas - oh, if she'd listened -

"Stupid little brat." Big Tolad grabbed her by the collar of her shirt with a large, clammy hand and yanked her forward. This time, the ferocity of his stare would have been enough to pin her down. "If you tattle, I will tell the hahrens that you did it, and when they find out you can do magic, they'll send you to the Circle, just like your stupid sister. A different Circle, so you'll be all alone. Is that what you want? Huh?"

He shook Suran'nain when she couldn't find her words. Her vision was swimming with tears that made her throat close up, and she wanted to scream and cry, but she couldn't. It didn't matter that they hadn't sent her sister anywhere - the Templars had taken her, she wanted to scream. And they'd find her one day, they wouldn't stop looking, and so she'd never be alone, the way stupid Big Tolas was alone with his mother, alone even though he had a whole Clan around him but no one to call a real friend.

But that didn't matter. It wouldn't matter to Big Tolas, and he had the biggest mouth and all the silent children in his pocket and she had none of her siblings here, her oldest sister most of all, and so Suran'nain swallowed the truth of things. It tasted salt, mixed in with her tears, and she hated it, hated it, wanted to stomp her feet, kick Big Tolas in the shins-

"I didn't think so." Big Tolas had never been big on patience, and so he let her go with a shove which almost sent her tumbling to the forest floor. He snorted. "You'll do as I say. Now go pick up the pieces, stupid."

Suran'nain went with some of the other children, gathering up every last piece of the broken aravel as best they could. But even as they worked, even though Maranis sent her shy looks of reassurance and Haelien shot daggers at Big Tolas from underneath his dark lashes, their hands never touched, not even as much as a brush of the fingers.

"I don't have any magic," Suran'nain dared to mutter when Maranis had snatched her hand back so she could pick a piece of red sail instead.

"But you will," Haelien muttered. He looked up to meet Suran'nain's eyes, serious as a grown-up. He didn't look afraid, but he didn't look like he believed himself completely, either. As if she already had magic. Suran'nain swallowed hard and pretended they both hadn't said a thing, going back to picking up the broken pieces. It was easier that way to ignore Maranis' damning silence.

For a sudden bright flash of a moment, Suran'nain bitterly wished that Templars would come and catch them. They'd know whether she had magic, so no one had to argue about it anymore over broken toys and in hushed whispers by campfires, the grown-ups mumbling things like equilibrium and inconspicuous and Arlathven.

And then if the Templars found she had no magic, the Clan would get her back, because it would mean she could learn basket-weaving too, because they needed Tal to learn before the craftsman got too old to teach, and so Suran'nain could help. And if not - oh, if not - her stomach lurched - then the Templars would take her to the Circle, and she'd just have to go to all of them until she'd found her sister.

As soon as she'd daydreamed it up, Suran'nain knew it was wrong, though, stealing anxious glances at Maranis and Haelien as if they somehow could have read her mind. But they didn't even look up, and she bit her lip from yelling at herself in frustration. Stupid, she told herself. The Templars would just kill all of us. Maybe. And the Circle wouldn't be better than the Clan if you had magic.

Though sometimes, when her friends wouldn't meet her eye or speak, she wondered if that was true.

[midmorninggrey]

Day 2: Arrival

Written for @14dayscirclemages! A lot of great stuff has been written for this event - and it's only day two. Go check it out!

{Event Prompt List}

Word Count: ~1400 | Karl Thekla & OC | CW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

They told Callahan to wait in Enchanter Gravid’s classroom, and he passed the time by playing chess with himself. Gravid had the best set in all of Kinloch Hold; other enchanters had sets made of marble and ivory, but each piece on Gravid’s humble board was unique, carved with care out of old soapstone. One of the black mages had a mole on her chin. A white Templar had a dented helmet. Wildflowers bloomed along the bottoms of the white towers, while ivy grew up the stones of the black ones.

In his drills, Callahan always had white win because the pale king and queen were his favorite pieces. Beneath their tall crowns, their royal features were soft and kind. The Queen was elegant, with closed eyes and a subtle smile. The King was stern with responsibility, but the carver had etched tiny crows feet around his eyes. Setting them back on their square thrones, victorious, Callahan felt a quiet sort of comfort; if they were real, he was sure, no harm would come to any of their subjects.

He felt them coming down the hall before he heard them. Sister Cynthia’s footsteps were familiar. Her blessed and slippered feet never wavered; she always traveled in straight lines. The boots of her companion practically danced in comparison. Despite his height, Sir Boris felt nervous to Callahan, as if he were patrolling the Circle on his tiptoes. Third set of steps was unfamiliar and unsure. Each footfall stayed on the floor a moment too long, dragging. The boy would have to be tired, Callahan supposed, after all his hollering. He had disrupted all of morning classes.

Callahan hurriedly reset the rest of pieces on the board and was already standing, hands folded politely in front of him, when the classroom door opened.

The boy was bigger than Callahan expected him to be. He looked like one of the chess pieces, carved from stone. His broad shoulders had been crammed into a new blue robe. His rough face mirrored his body, with a serious nose and a wide, flat forehead. Everything about him looked hard, except for his eyes. Hidden in the shadow of his brow, Callahan thought they were the gentlest shade gray he’d ever seen.

However, before they were introduced, Callahan pretended the boy was invisible.

“Good morning, Sister Cynthia. Good morning, Sir Boris.”

“Good morning, Callahan.” Sister Cynthia rewarded his manners with a smile, but unlike the Queen, her eyes stayed open and sharp. “Callahan, this is Karl. He arrived last night.”

She said this as if Karl was an old friend, someone expected. As if Callahan had not heard his calls for his father, then his threats to the Templars, and then his wretched pleas to go home.

The Chantry sister turned to the boy. “Karl, Callahan is one of our best apprentices, and he’s generously offered to accompany you for your first couple days, while you get settled.”

“Welcome, Karl,” Cal echoed, as he was supposed to do.

All three of them looked at Karl. Even Sir Boris, through the slits of his helmet, was waiting.

“Hi,” Karl finally croaked.

“You boys talk,” Sister Cynthia instructed, satisfied. She warned that they had less than an hour before the supper bell. Sir Boris took his place by the door, standing very upright.

Once, after Sister Cynthia had left them, a new girl had tried to strangle Callahan. With a push of magic, he’d thrown her away, but the way her eyes had bulged as she squeezed his neck had frightened him. He had felt the rage trembling in her fingers. If he concentrated, he could still feel her fury in a bouncing knee, three floors down.

All he felt in Karl’s skipping heart was fear.

Cal dropped his hands.

“Do you want to see the chess set?”

Karl followed him over to the table. He perched on the edge of a chair, as if he feared it might bite him or perhaps swallow him whole. Callahan offered him a white Mage, the one with the crescent staff. To his surprise, the bigger boy took it gently and not without appreciation. He looked at the piece with his sad eyes, lingering on the details of her cloak and her braids, then set it down on the table.

“Do I ever get to go home?”

At the question, Callahan looked to Sir Boris. The Templar’s helmet was unreadable.

“A lot of mages get to go places when they’ve finished their training,” Callahan offered. “They don’t have to even stay in Ferelden. Last week, Frederick, he got sent to Montsimmard. That’s in Orlais.”

“I don’t want to go to Montsimmard.” Karl said quietly. “I want to go home.”

“What’s your home like?” Callahan leaned forward, chin nearly bumping against the highest point of the King’s crown.

“I live outside Elmridge. My Pa -” Karl gulped. Tears welled up in his eyes. “He’s the blacksmith-”

Callahan plucked up the white King and held it out to the weeping boy. “He’s my favorite.”

Again, Karl took the piece from Callahan, but this time he held onto it as he cried. It was the kind of crying Callahan knew not to tease about; it was the kind of crying that hurt as much as the thing that caused it. The King disappeared into Karl’s big hands, folded away. When he finally emerged, so did great hiccupping words.

“He’s mad at me.”

“I’m sorry,” Callahan said, and he meant it. He knew it was awful to make someone mad.

“He said I – I ruined everything.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone saw.”

Callahan had heard those words before, from the girl who felt like rage and from a girl who had felt like terror. He knew it was a terrible thing, even worse than making someone mad, and it sounded terrible in Karl’s throat, like it was caught there. The bigger boy seemed to fold over it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m really sorry.”

On either side of the chess board, they sat quietly until the worst of Karl’s weeping eased. He uncurled and wiped away the tears and snot with the long sleeves of his robe. Callahan felt foolish for not bringing a handkerchief.

“A blacksmith.” Inky images of smoke and lifted hammers sprung to Callahan’s mind, lifted from books. “Do you like swords?”

“No,” Karl said. He looked down at the King he was cradling in his palm, and offered no further explanation.

With a single finger, Callahan adjusted one of the Templars. “Do you want to be a blacksmith too?”

“Yes. No,” Karl shook his head, then made a noise halfway between a sigh and a sob. “Pa wants me – he wanted me to. Before. My Ma – she wanted me to train to with the steward. I’m good with letters.”

The bigger boy said the word ‘steward’ strangely, as if he not really know what it meant, but Callahan knew it would be rude to question him. Letters were familiar though, and Callahan brightened. He told Karl about all the libraries in the Circle, even the ones on the higher floors, which were open only to the Senior and First Enchanters.

After he was done, Karl stared at him with his grey eyes, and Callahan was frightened to see that they didn’t look so gentle anymore.

“Don’t you miss your home?” Karl asked. "Your parents?"

Cal blinked. “I don’t remember them.”

A slow horror seeped into Karl’s expression at the thought that he, too, might one day forget his mother and father. “What?”

“I mean, I never met them,” Cal rushed to explain. “Not really. I was born here.”

Karl’s hands had curled around the King again. “So are your parents are here? They’re mages too?”

“Well, I was born in another Circle,” Cal said. “I was brought here - before I can remember. It’s safer that way.”

Once again, he looked to the hidden face of Sir Boris.

“You’ve lived here your whole life?” Karl was aghast. For the first time, his voice grew stronger. “You’ve never been outside?”

“I’ve been to the garden,” Callahan said, swallowing. His second defense came late. “And we get to go to the lake, when it isn’t cold.”

There was a clink of metal. Sir Boris had shifted his shoulders. With wide eyes, Karl looked at the Templar, then back to Callahan, who found himself sitting very still. Slowly, the bigger boy loosened his fingers from around the King and carefully released him back to Callahan. The stone was slick from sweat and tears.

“I’m sorry,” Karl said, and when Callahan reached out to feel his still skipping heart, he knew he meant it too.

[elspethdekarios]

Sorrow, a Blight Unbearable

For @14dayscirclemages I'm combining the first two prompts, "upbringing" and "arrival" since my Warden's backstory is a bit different from canon. Lucy is very dear to me and her story has been in my head for a while, so I'm glad I spent this time elaborating on her childhood.

TW: loss of a parent... sort of.

Read below or on AO3.

Lucy Amell was nine years old when the Tranquil mark was branded on her mother’s forehead.

Unlike the other mages in the Circle Tower, Lucy was born at Kinloch Hold. Never had she walked the busy streets of Denerim or glimpsed the snowy peaks of the Frostback Mountains. The farthest she had ever gone was the outskirts of Lake Calenhad when Irving permitted students outside—heavily supervised by templars, of course. A group of enchanters always accompanied them, their sole job being to uphold a magical barrier in the water. Lucy would swim as close to the barrier as she could just for a peek of Redcliffe Castle. On clear days, she could just barely make out the stone spires on the opposite side of the lake, pointed red flags blowing in the breeze. It was surreal to think that some of the most important people in Ferelden could be so close. Theirs were lives entirely different to her own, ones she had only read about in books. When she couldn’t sleep at night, she imagined what sort of things might be happening behind those castle walls. She cooked up stories of forbidden love between servants; King Maric and his advisors visiting on very important political business; heated arguments in a dining room adorned with crystal chandeliers and doused in candlelight. 

Despite her wandering imagination, Lucy was content as a child in the Circle. The Chantry sisters who raised her instilled her with the true Andrastian virtues of discipline and gratitude. They taught her to be quiet, proper, studious—and she was. Time spent with her mother, however, was different. 

On her free afternoons, Evanora took her daughter to the parts of the tower only senior enchanters were permitted to enter. She showed her rooms enchanted by shimmering wards, ancient books imbued with powerful magic, priceless staves both charmed and cursed. As Lucy began showing signs of magic, Evanora taught her daughter herself in addition to her routine studies. One of Lucy’s earliest memories is sitting on the floor of Evanora’s study, her mother’s hands cupping hers while she charged Lucy’s magic with her own, just enough to manifest the smallest snow flurry above her little palms. 

“I did it!” little Lucy squealed, giggling madly and pressing her cold hands to her face.

“I knew you could,” Evanora responded with a sly grin. “You have magic in your blood.”

Evanora was ambitious, gregarious, and one of the most skilled mages in Kinloch Hold. She earned the trust that Irving and other powerful mages in the Circle had placed in her. And with that trust came privilege. When the Circle needed representation—be it in Ferelden or elsewhere in Thedas—Evanora was almost always the one chosen. Where most mages in the tower were lucky to take one step outside the courtyard, she had been to places like Denerim, Highever, Ostwick. Her favorite place to tell Lucy about, however, was Nevarra. 

Lucy’s skin prickled with goosebumps as her mother described the Necropolis, a great, underground city of tombs. “The air was stale with death and decay,” she told her, “and some strange incense that made my nose itch.” The stories ensured that Lucy had no desire to visit the Necropolis herself, but she still loved to hear them. Not because of the morbid tomb-cities, but because of the way the story always ended. 

“And I came home with you,” she smiled.

“I’m from Nevarra?” little Lucy had asked the first time she heard the story. “Where the dead people are?”

“No, no. That’s just where the Maker decided the world needed a Lucy.”

Lucy always noticed a particular look in her mother’s eyes when she talked about it, something unfamiliar that she wasn’t able to place at the time. As she grew older, she realized what it was: nostalgia. The melancholic kind that pulled a bit too tight at the heart. 

The day Lucy lost her mother was scorched into her memory like the glyphs of a ward, so bright the pattern remained even behind closed eyes.

The adults in the tower spoke in hushed whispers when she entered a room. Lucy hadn’t seen her mother in days, which wasn’t unusual—she often had obligations that kept her busy for days at a time—but something was different. As the older mages’ glances lingered on her in the library one afternoon, Lucy wondered if she had done something wrong, if her mother was avoiding her for some transgression she wasn’t even aware of. She combed through the events of the past few days in her mind, trying to determine what it could be, but there was nothing. Her recent evaluations had gone exceedingly well. She had never, not once, been reprimanded for bad behavior. Her mind began to drift to the catastrophic. Maybe she was being transferred to a different Circle, like any child born within its walls. She had only recently learned that her mother insisted on keeping Lucy with her, and it was only at Irving’s trust and gratitude that she was able to do so. Irving was a reasonable man, but he still answered to the College of Magi. If her mother had done something to upset them, would Irving send Lucy away? Would he send her mother away?

Lucy sat at a table with eyes glazed over an open book, lost in her thoughts, a quill tapping restlessly on parchment.  She startled when senior enchanter Wynne approached.

“Lucy,” she said softly, a gentle smile on her lips. “Your studies are going well, I hear.”

Lucy looked up and nodded. Wynne wasn’t here to talk about school. 

“I am glad to hear it,” she said. Then, cutting to the chase: “Irving would like to see you in his study, dear. I’ll walk with you.”

Wynne made small talk as she led Lucy to the First Enchanter, but her words were careful; nervous. Lucy had spoken with Irving many times, but had never been to his study. Although Evanora had shown Lucy many secretive areas of the tower, Wynne brought her through corridors she had never walked before—the doors were visibly locked with heavy chains and armed with templars bigger and scarier than the ones she was used to. One of them looked their way as he polished a spot on his helmet, his face so badly scarred he was missing half of his nose. Lucy stuck a little closer to Wynne and felt a cool, steady hand on her shoulder until they reached the next floor and approached Irving’s study.

A group of enchanters gathered in a nearby chamber, and, like almost everyone the past few days, stopped talking and frowned in pity as Lucy walked by. Her chest tightened. Her stomach twisted. She wrapped her arms around herself as she often did at night when she felt lonely in a sea of bunkbeds, only this was much, much worse. All she wanted was her mother. Not the Chantry sisters who taught her to steel herself against emotion lest a demon squeeze itself in through a crack in the Fade—her mother, who was all laughs and rage and passion and had managed it all without ever becoming an abomination. She wanted to hear her voice, listen to her stories until Lucy’s pulse slowed back to its normal pace and she fell asleep. Everything would be better when she woke up.

The door to Irving’s study was open. He had always been kind to Lucy, always greeted her with a smile, but as he looked at her over his desk, his expression mirrored that of everyone else. He was better at hiding it than most, but it was still there, something jagged and blurred beneath the surface. It was more than pity, though. It was remorse. Wynne gently shut the door behind her as she left, and Lucy’s hands shook as she sat in a chair much too big for her. The room was silent as Irving searched for the right words to begin speaking, but Lucy could hear every particle of energy buzzing loudly in her ears. Every beat of her heart pounded against her ribcage. She felt as if her body itself might burst at the seams.

“Lucy, you are a very bright child, and I will not disparage you with small talk,” Irving finally said. His voice was calm and raspy as usual, but strained, as if his words were the only thing holding back a stampede. “You are aware that something is… different, are you not?”

Lucy nodded. She wanted to ask what was going on, why she was here, where her mother was, but she couldn’t open her mouth. Her body wouldn’t let her.

“The news I have to tell you is… unpleasant. It’s about your mother, Evanora.” Irving trailed off, eyes wet with grief. He looked at the paintings on the walls as if he would find solace there. Lucy took a sharp breath and braced herself for the worst—she was being sent away, or she had accidentally conjured a demon, or she had been injured in an accident. Hours seemed to pass before Irving turned his gaze back to her.

 “She was caught practicing blood magic.”

Lucy flinched as if he had just said the most foul words known to man. Blood magic—she didn’t know anything about it except that it was horrible, dangerous, and an affront to the Maker. It was a crime akin to murder. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. She could only stare at Irving as his words registered in her mind.

“No, that wasn’t her,” Lucy said, finally finding her voice. “She would never do that.”

Irving's gaze lingered on the paintings again. A single tear escaped and rolled down into his thick beard. 

“I would have said the same if I had not seen it myself.”

Lucy’s heart beat in her throat, ferocious and fearful. The room was shrinking, the air disappearing, the walls distorting.

“I know this is hard to hear, especially for one so young,” said Irving. Lucy could barely see him now. He was merely a blur behind a veil of tears. “The senior enchanters and I debated on whether or not to tell you. But you are bright, like I said, and you would have learned the truth eventually. I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it carelessly spoken by someone else.”

Everything felt too big, too much. She still longed for her mother’s embrace to shield her from it all, cocoon her in warmth and safety and promise her everything was going to be okay. Yet she felt repulsed at the thought of her arms around her, a blood mage, the most despicable thing a person could be. Only her mother could offer her the comfort she needed, yet she felt abject terror as she imagined it. A loving embrace became a strangled neck. Her hands and arms left blood in their wake. Lucy’s clothes and skin drenched in red. Her mother grinning madly in the shadows.

No—no, it wasn’t her. That wasn’t her. She shook her head to dislodge the image from her mind, to think of the Evanora she knew and loved. The one who told her stories of her travels, who snuck her into secret rooms, who taught her daughter magic in her own unique way. Those moments were clear in her head, and she willed herself to focus on them. But the blood always came back, dripping down the walls.

“What’s going to happen to her?” Lucy asked, wiping her tears futilely with the back of her sleeve. She could hardly get out the words.

Irving sighed and rose from the desk. He paced slowly from wall to wall, chin towards the ceiling and hand covering his mouth. A tendon in his neck tightened. Lucy wondered if he was silently speaking to the Maker.

“She will remain here in the tower,” he said. Relief and dread fought for dominance, raging inside her. They didn’t cancel each other out—only made the other more confusing. Could she bear seeing her mother in the halls knowing what she’d done? Could she bear being here without her? Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe she could explain everything, and it was all a misunderstanding. Yes, that must be it. 

“Please, can I see her?” she pleaded. Tears wet her lips with salt and grief. “Please.”

Irving stopped his pacing and braced himself on the desk with both hands. He dropped his chin to his chest and several small droplets fell onto the wood. When he looked back up, his eyes were rimmed with red. It was this moment when Lucy realized that grown-ups couldn’t always make things okay. 

“I’m so sorry, Lucy,” he breathed. “She’s been made Tranquil.”

—

The Formari workshop always made the hairs on Lucy’s arms stand on edge. She sometimes wondered if it was safe for her to be near so much lyrium, especially as it seemed to affect the air itself. The Tranquil assured her that as long as she didn’t touch it, limited periods of time in the workshop would not pose a threat. Over the years, she learned that she could stay for about half an hour before the inside of her mouth started to tingle. 

“Are you prepared for your Harrowing?” Evanora asked as she set a rune into a well-loved staff with meticulous precision. 

“Is anyone ever really  prepared for their Harrowing?” Lucy picked at the skin around her fingernails. She tried to avoid the topic when visiting her mother.

“Yes. I remember feeling…” she paused for a moment and looked up, searching her memory for an emotion she could no longer experience. “Confident.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Lucy smiled. Her mother’s face remained blank. 

“You are a skilled mage, Lucy. You should feel confident, too.” Her last words were uncertain, like she couldn’t quite grasp the concept, but knew it was the right thing to say. 

She watched her mother work with the inlaid runes, her movements methodical and rhythmic. The serene focus she seemed to find in her work reminded Lucy of the old Evanora, the version of her mother who could become so engrossed in her research that she’d disappear for days at a time and emerge with a wild look in her eye, talking excitedly to anyone who would listen. It was a different sort of focus now, but every time Lucy caught a glimpse of it, joy fluttered briefly in her chest before plummeting into sorrow. It was a reminder of what she lost—a ghost of the mother she knew. And sometimes it was easier to pretend that’s all she was. 

 A man’s voice interrupted Lucy’s thoughts.

“You do not have to do the Harrowing,” he said. “It is a peaceful life to be Tranquil.”

Alvin was one of the younger Tranquil, though still a few years older than Lucy. She remembered the day he was separated from the Fade. He did so willingly, too afraid to attempt the Harrowing at all. Lucy had more respect and understanding of the Tranquil than most, but even she thought him a coward.

“Lucy is unnerved by you, Alvin,” her mother said matter-of-factly. She had always been blunt, but even more so without an emotional filter. “She does not wish to be Tranquil.”

“Suit yourself.” Alvin looked at Lucy with that signature blank stare. The brand on his forehead was still dark red where many of the others’ had faded with time. “It doesn’t seem so terrible when the alternative is being struck down by templars. I much prefer living without that fear.”

“There is a third possibility you’re forgetting about,” Lucy said, visibly annoyed but trying to soothe the rising anxiety in her stomach. “Passing the Harrowing.”

“Yes. And the risk of becoming an abomination,” he said. “A risk that applies to none in this room except for you.”

He wasn’t trying to argue—he was just stating facts. Lucy knew that. But still, she found herself agitated. 

“Alvin,” Evanora said without looking up from her work. “Lucy is confident she will pass her Harrowing. Stop pestering her.”

As always, she spoke with no emotion, and somehow it hurt even worse when she tried to emulate the supportive mother she was before. Lucy felt her jaw clenching. She had been trying to push her worries about the Harrowing out of her mind, but the Tranquil always seemed to have a knack at prodding the most sensitive wounds. A subtle, electric tingle started to form in the back of her throat, and she took the opportunity to say goodbye to her mother and leave the room. She walked swiftly to a washroom at the end of the hall, thankful for the privacy in this area of the tower. Once inside, she fell against the heavy, wooden door and let the knot in her throat unravel. She stifled her cries with the sleeves of her robes, hoping it was enough to keep anyone from hearing. All fear had to be stamped out before the Harrowing, or they would not let her attempt it at all. There, sunk down to the cold, stone floor, she swore to herself this would be the only time she let her fears best her. After these tears were dry, there would be no more.

Tranquility was not an option. She would pass her Harrowing or die trying.

[vigilskept]

day 2: arrival

hurt my own feelings writing this one :) behold, tiny diya surana & the two old men with serious issues that are technically her new legal guardians. massive tw for implied violence against a child offscreen.

words: 544 | @14dayscirclemages

The knock isn’t loud, but it is firm. The voice that follows belongs to Greagoir.

“First Enchanter.”

Irving sighs, folds the letter atop his desk, and tucks it into the pages of a treatise on ritual architecture. It does no good to ignore today’s problems for tomorrow’s.

“Come in,” he calls, rolling his shoulders back with a wince at the small ache this reintroduces to him.

He has only the briefest of moments to reflect that he must have been careless with his posture, falling back into old habits, before Greagoir swings the door open.

He is frowning, as he often is these days, but he neither yells nor turns to scan the hall behind himself.

It’s only in puzzling over his behaviour that Irving notices the odd shape beneath his chestplate.

A girl, he realises. An elf.

She’s easily the smallest thing he’s ever seen come through the doors of the Hold, shorter still than the boy they’d dragged in three months past. He’d only been 6, Irving remembers. This one might be even younger. The top of her head barely reaches Gregoir’s hip, even with her chin tipped up to meet Irving’s gaze.

She is not frightened, at least. That much is a relief.

He smiles, as kindly as he can muster, and he beckons her forward.

She takes only one step, before she freezes in place, and glances back at Greagoir.

Surprise and relief curdle into something more familiar.

As she tips her head to the side, he sees that the back of her braided hair is in disarray, tufts of dark curls pulled out of place. As though caught in grip of a fisted gauntlet.

He bites his tongue.

“Go on,” Greagoir says, evenly.

It is not until the girl has turned away once more that he casts his eyes back to Irving. A silent, terse agreement: they will talk.

It will do no good to startle the girl with raised voices now, who approaches Irving’s desk with slow, laboured steps.

She is favouring her right leg, if only slightly. There is a tear near the hem of her dress that has grown dark around its edges. She does not wince. She meets Irving’s gaze as though she were taking his measure as surely as he is assessing her condition.

He wonders what she sees.

A tired old man, still far less adept at concealing his own aches and pains, he imagines.

When she comes to a standstill before his desk, she reaches out with her right hand. There is dirt caked under her nails, and a burn already faded to a scar on her palm. Healed, if he isn’t mistaken. The familiarity of its appearance sinks like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

He allows himself to set his growing dread aside for the moment. He does not look to Greagoir to confirm his suspicions.

Later, they will both have words for one another.

“Hello. My name is Diya,” the girl says, waiting expectantly for him to take her hand.

Careful not to brush against the mark, he gingerly accepts her hand between both of his own.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Diya,” he tells her. “My name is Irving, and you are very welcome here.”

[nirikeehan]

Day 1: Upbringing

For @14dayscirclemages

I actually wrote this awhile ago for Thalia, but I think it fits the prompt, so I'm going to post an excerpt for the Circle Mage event.

WC: 597

Thalia recalls running through the labyrinthine mazes of the back gardens, of scraping the bare skin under her summer dress on stone benches. The air was drenched with sea spray and the scent of her mother’s roses. The light was orange and their shadows long, and there was so much laughter.

The Trevelyan siblings were four: Micah the heir, tall and proud, grasping the hilt of his sword in the front entry portrait; Laela the lovely, with a straight smile and impeccable needlework; Charlotte the brave, keen at archery and bound for Chantry service, and Thalia. Littlest Thalia — a touch too clumsy to take after Laela, a bit too timid to follow Charlotte. Loved, but an afterthought.

She remembers Ostwick proper only vaguely, her father’s estate imposing, the walls secure against the riff-raff of the street. It’s the country house she recalls best, the languid summers spent there to escape the heat of the city. Her mother humming on the patio, wearing a wide-brimmed hat to protect her from the sun. The fresh-cut smell of grass, the green staining her knees, games of tag and capture the flag and templars and apostates.

(Was she more often the templar or the apostate? She doesn’t know. But she remembers running, and running, and Aha-caught-you, it’s the Circle for you! But it was just the shade under a willow tree, all forgotten for a piano lesson or a visit from a cousin or lemonade and cookies served in the atrium.)

What did she want, in those days? This, too, is a blank. Did she worry? Oh, no. She received fond pats on the head from her father, and the servants seemed charmed by her sense of humor. She read many books with her stomach on the floor, kicking her legs very unladylike in the air. She liked the romances, the adventure stories, the tales of heroes and kings and Andraste, the warrior prophet. She supposed her parents would one day find a match for her, and she would wile most of her life away at balls and picnics, with a husband who was bland but kind, the blurry faces of her children filling the air with their inane chatter. But it all seemed so far away, and there were three older ones to settle first.

When the accident occurred, Thalia was thirteen, part girl and part becoming-who-you-are-meant-to-be. A running game in the back garden, her sisters too fast for her to catch, her hand outstretched and then a crack of thunder as in a storm. Her hand smarted and the electricity reverberated in her teeth. No one hurt, just a burned patch of grass.

Yet things began to move quickly. Whispers of hushed urgency in the parlor, the door locked. She peered in the key hole to see her parents pacing. Her siblings’ sudden silence, giving her a wide berth when she entered a room, as if she had committed a crime. And then, not two days later, real templars at the gate, their armor shining so brightly in the sun it hurt her eyes. You must be dying in this heat, she said, but neither smiled.

It was Micah who told her the way of it. He was nineteen and pinch-faced, eager to prove he was every inch the man he’d grown up being told he would become. They stood in the entry hall, the templars lurking by the door. He said many things, but she only remembers one: Six generations of Trevelyans, and not one mage. Not one.

I’m not a mage, Thalia protested.

They took her anyway.

[highwayphantoms]

14 Days of Circle Mages - OC Profile

round two, let's gooooo @14dayscirclemages

(why are both of my Circle mage OCs non-binary? I don't know but I am only now realizing this commonality lmfao)

-

Character Name: Aquile Thorne

Character Origin: city elf from Nevarra

Mage Circle Setting: Montsimmard Circle

Age When Living at the Circle: 9-21

Brief Character Bio: Calling them an "odd duck" wouldn't be inaccurate. Though a gifted mage, they have a reputation for being difficult, not least because Aquile has a demand avoidance streak a mile wide. Being conscripted by the Wardens after the fall of the Circles was really the best thing that could have happened to them.

What Are You Most Excited to Write About? I haven't really delved into Aquile's time in the Circle at all so that should be fun!

Character Image:

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Day 1: Upbringing

I wrote some words for @14dayscirclemages! Day 1 is Upbringing, so I have a little slice of her life with her family from shortly before her magic first manifests.

Rating: G Word count: 529 Content Warnings: This segment is told from the perspective of a trans child (age about 6) and will include an accidental almost-deadnaming of the child in question. If that's not your jam, skip this one! OC in question: Robin Amell (though at this point she has not yet chosen the name Robin)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62694637

Junior scrunched her nose as she carefully considered her next move. If she moved her mage, surely her brother would take it with a templar, but then her queen would be poised to take the other templar… It was worth trying.

She looked up innocently as she could once the mage was in place, and Aiden fell for the bait.

"Dumby!" she cackled, and used her queen to batter the templar off the board. It fell to the table with a dull clunk.

"Is it my turn yet?" Aiden rolled his eyes at her, and waited patiently for her to sit back down. She didn't, choosing to clutch the table with the tips of her fingers to lever herself higher. She tricked him.

Aiden's mage, the one moving his templar had freed, slid to the edge of the board.

"Check."

"What?!" Junior climbed back on top of her chair to get a better view of the board, and sure enough the mage was sitting in the perfect window to hit her King diagonally. And her queen was all the way across the board, unable to do anything about it. She hastily moved a pawn to block the mage's path. She thought he might take the pawn and then she could take the mage with the next pawn in line, but Aiden didn't take the bait.

His templar moved again.

"Check."

Junior tried to move her king, but Aiden stopped her.

"You can't put him there, or my queen can kill him." It was true, there was a straight line from his queen to that square.

The only other open square was on the sane diagonal as she'd just blocked off with the pawn…

"You got me again?!" Junior huffed. If she put the king there, Aiden would have checkmate the turn after, all he had to do was take the pawn. The templar had the spot her king was in, the mage would have the spot it had to go, and the other other spot was also in range of the templar.

"I'll always get you, Dumby," Aiden stuck out his tongue.

"Don't call your sister names, Pup," their father's admonishment came as a habit from his desk, where he sat with the ledger as he did most days.

"She said it first!" Aiden protested, cheeks puffed in rage. Junior chuckled.

"Did she? I was distracted. Kin- er, kitten, don't call your brother names either. It does neither of you any favors."

Now it was Junior's turn to puff her cheeks in indignation, though not for the finger wagging. "You said you wouldn't call me that anymore," she pouted. She didn't like being Kincaid anymore, but she didn't know who else to be yet. Her parents had agreed to call her Junior until someone had a better name for her.

Her father sighed and stood from his desk. “I’m trying, Junior, it just takes time.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head and ruffled her brother’s hair in the same motion. “Now come along Pups, I believe the cook was making honey cakes for tea. We can’t let your mother have them all, now can we?”

[suranastair]

For @14dayscirclemages I hope to be able to keep up for this month, but am glad that this opportunity is continuing outside of February! I haven't written much in a year and want to give this a try 😊

14 Days of Circle Mages Character Profile

Character Name: Selph Surana

Character Origin: DAO Circle Mage Elf

Mage Circle Setting: Kinloch Hold/Ferelden Circle

Age When Living at the Circle: Ages 9-22

Brief Character Bio: Long story short, Selph was brought to Kinloch after years of hardship at the fishing village where she was raised. It caused her powers to fully manifest, resulting in tragedy. She secretly studies blood magic in her spare time to try and understand it better after what she's experienced. She's a clever and adaptable, and promptly learned the game of survival whilst living at the circle. Despite this, she remains compassionate and empathic for her fellow mages and longs for true connection and trust with others.

What Are You Most Excited to Write About? I've always wanted to explore a bit of her life at the circle and early years living in the fishing village outside of her Dragon Age Origins story.

Character Image (Optional):

Here's a couple of my favs I drew from my art sideblog along with a Veilguard recreation of her 😊

[14dayscirclemages]

14 Days of Circle Mages

A Dragon Age Fic Event

Coming: Feb 1st, 2025

Have a character with a Circle mage background you always wanted to write about? Now's your chance!

Why not take 14 days out of 2025 to develop these stories?

FAQ is now live! Check out this post for more information.

Text version of prompts and links under the cut!

Prompts:

Day 1: Upbringing Day 2: Arrival Day 3: Phylactery Day 4: Templar Day 5: Friends Day 6: Enemies Day 7: Lovers Day 8: Joy Day 9: Sorrow Day 10: Blood Magic Day 11: Lyrium Day 12: Wish Day 13: Escape Day 14: Free Space

Tag @14dayscirclemages or upload to the collection at https://archiveofourown.org/collections/202514DaysCircleMages