#DA: those across the sea

[shizuu-chann]

Playing Veilguard a second time, I'm realizing how often the "Devouring Storm" is mentioned and I'm dying to know what's going to happen. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain mention (during one of the eavesdropping scenes in the Crossroads) that their dreams since escaping imprisonment have been grey and shadowed or something (I can't remember exactly what they say, but they're both perplexed and at least mildly concerned--at least until Elgar'nan waves his verbal hand and dismisses it while saying, "The future is intangible, only the past and present matter" or whatever).

Even Anaris wants to gain corporeal form again to escape the impending "storm" (not sure how that would have worked out for him, but again, whatever). Cyrian tells us Anaris is scared of something but he doesn't know what! Plus, learning more about what the qunari were running from before settling Par Vollen and the tablet mentioning said Devouring Storm. What did they want with the Inquisition last game with the War Table missions? Then there's the secret ending, of course, and I just really hope we actually get a game in the future that tells the story!

What about Those Across the Sea is powerful enough to force the kossith to splice some of their own with dragons to gain fire breath? What are they, that they had the Imperium scared a millennium ago when they still worshipped the Old Gods and were arguing during construction of the Archon's Palace whether or not it should be offensive or defensive? They made an entire floating fortress that shoots magic lasers to defend against Those Across the Sea.

What boggles my mind even more is everyone in Thedas just...forgot about them? I'm not completely sure about that, but I don't recall any mention of Those Across the Sea (in-game) prior to Inquisition. My guess would be that it was intentional on the part of TAtS. If it's true that they've had a hand in all these major events in Thedas, then it wouldn't surprise me they have the power/influence/reach to erase themselves from records and the like (likely with agents) to keep people from being aware of their existence or machinations. Was them causing these events in Thedas a way to keep Thedas distracted while they made plans for...whatever it is they're doing? Invasion, at least. Was it that calculated? Can they even be that calculated?

It could also just be that they want to destabilize the region for to enact their plan. They did a great a job, if that's the case. A Blight; a war between mages and Templars; Solas possibly being aware of this impending "storm" after waking and dreaming, like Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, and acting too rashly (as he is wont to do), giving his orb to Corypheus to expedite the process of regaining his powers, and tearing a massive hole in the sky that tore smaller holes that spit out angry spirits all over Southern Thedas; and now with Solas trying to tear down the Veil, perhaps, again, in reaction to this revelation that Something™ is coming, further destabilizing Thedas incidentally by releasing two power-mad ancient elven-spirit mages hell bent on blighting the world to reclaim their past glory.

Did TAtS anticipate that, too? Or were these two tyrants escaping unforeseen? Did they foresee someone stopping them, which is why they seemingly encourage Rook? Is foresight something they have? They seems to anticipate everything Rook does, at least in regard to the first two "circles" you find that unlock those cryptic codex entries. I just have so many questions and no answers.

I need to know who they are, what they are, and what they even want enough that they've had their suspicious little fingers(?) in, apparently, every major event in Thedas for the past several decades at least. And HOW have they had their fingers in them? Is their goal sinister? If so, do they KNOW it's sinister? I mean, the first circle-orb-thing you find, the voice says something like, "They interrupt. As predicted. As hoped. Learn. Adapt. Triumph." The second, "You return. We are content." and when you ask who they are, they reply, "Not now. Not yet. We will show you. Soon." Iirc, they seem surprised when you find the third, but I haven't found that one again yet so I can't remember off the top of my head. Their plans are a mystery, but seem sinister from what info is given to us, but then why do they want us to triumph? Unless the two Clowns escaping wasn't part of their plan and they want them dealt with, too, so their own goals won't be hampered. I DON'T KNOW UUUGGGHHH. I just love it~

[lilac-sweet]

Varric might still be alive and here’s why:

So this is going to sound like massive amounts of copium, but hear me out:

Why does the veil not collapse immediately after Elgar’nan’s death?

It is made out of and tied to the life force of the Evanuris, so with all of them dead it should fall, right? But it doesn’t - it holds long enough for Solas and Rook to have a heart-to-heart. So what gives? Are there some leftover life force from the other Evanuris ? Are they not as dead as we are led to believe? Falon’Din’s owl statues are certainly hinted at being somehow important since we can happen upon multiple of them and see they are tied to some sort of weird magic.

Or has the dagger preserved a fragment of those it has killed (just like it did with Mythal), and that is what’s keeping the veil up? Since all it takes to be tied to the veil is a cut (apparently), it begs the question: can a mortal be tied to the veil?

Lyrium is such an interesting aspect of Dragon Age lore, and it seems to work as a vessel for spirits: it is what the ancient elves used to bind themselves to the physical world; it is what held Mythal’s spirit fragment inside the dagger; it might be what the dwarves are actually referring to when they say they “return to the stone”; it might also be why lyrium sings, and “Isatunol” would be the accumulation of dwarven spirits flowing through the rivers of lyrium within the Titans.

In that way, Varric might actually have been the first dwarf in a long time to “return to the Stone” - and what happens to Harding when she touches the dagger? She becomes something very much like a titan! Her magic might literally be Varric’s spirit coursing through her body - her body does become lyrium-infused as you see in her romance.

So is it possible a piece of Varric lives on in Harding? Absolutely. It would also be another explanation on what the Varric who visits Rook in the prison of regret actually is. If he is tied to the veil he might have had access to the prison somehow. Solas’ blood magic should have ceased by now, since any further use would be unnecessary and cruel (which would be out of character for Solas), and the only other explanation for him being there, that I can think of, would be as a guide that Rook has conjured up subconsciously and is part of the magic of the regret prison just like whichever companions you chose to sacrifice.

Helping to hold up the veil while Rook deals with Solas just sounds like something Varric would totally do (and I can’t help becoming a bit misty-eyed thinking he might be there with us in the final hour) - of course it might be Ghilan’nain’s fragment doing the heavy lifting here, but it’s not nearly as poetic.

In the ending scene we see a picture of Varric in the skies: it might be a way to honor the end of his story arc, or it might be a way to imply him watching over us still (maybe both).

It is going to be interesting to see which direction the next Dragon Age game will take: the Executors and Those Across The Sea seem to have a connection to not only Qunari and the Elven Gods, but to death as well. We hear how everything turns cold around the executors and hear the same whenever we meet a lich or Vorgoth in the Necropolis. We are also told the Watchers guard many secrets, so who knows, maybe the next game will explore more about what happens after death to the inhabitants of Thedas, and in that (lyrium) vein maybe if we’re really lucky we’ll get to dive more into dwarven lore as well.

[meganooooooooooooooo]

WHOA if you change the decoration in the Lighthouse to the Dwarven one you get a codex entry I have never seen before and it might be the most compelling one about the Executors that I've found so far!!

Update: Now with screenshot for the curious!

[maybanksbaby]

warnings: none really

summary: jj really loves his new boat and shows it off to his girlfriend

a/n: he looked so cute in the comercial, i love him so much. please let him be happy this season 🙏🙏

⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

JJ Maybank was practically vibrating with excitement as he waited on the dock, a wide grin plastered across his face. His brand-new—well, new to him—boat was tied up right behind him, and he couldn’t wait to show it off to her. His pretty girlfriend and number one fan, the one who made everything in his life feel like it was coated in sugar and wrapped in a pink bow.

The sound of soft footsteps on the weathered wooden planks jolted him from his thoughts, and he whipped around to see his girlfriend, the absolute light of his life, making her way toward him. She looked as cute as ever, dressed in one of those sweet knitted tops she always wore, paired with a short skirt that twirled with each step. Her hair was bouncing with the sea breeze, and she had her usual pink gloss that smelled like strawberries, making him weak in the knees before she even said a word.

"J!" she called out, her voice making his already sky-high excitement bubble over.

Before she could even finish her next breath, JJ was already running toward her, grabbing her hand and practically dragging her down the dock. "You’re here, you’re here, you’re here! Okay, close your eyes!"

She blinked, giggling at his enthusiasm. "JJ, what are you—JJ!” she squealed, letting out an adorable little laugh when his hands covered her eyes from behind, her body relaxing into his. “What are you doing?”

“You trust me, right?”

“I do, yeah…”

“Then close your eyes,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, which instantly sent her into a new fit of giggles.

She sighs, her shoulders slumping down. “Can i at least get a hint of what it is?”

“Nope! Eyes closed, no peeking! This is a surprise!” He placed his other hand over her eyes too for extra insurance.

She let out a playful sigh but complied, trusting him as he eagerly led her down the last stretch of the dock. “Okay, okay! I’m closing them!”

JJ could barely contain himself as he guided her close to the boat, careful not to let her trip. “Alright… three… two… one—ta-da!” He whipped his hands away from her eyes and bounced on his heels as she finally saw it.

The messy panting, that if you narrowed your eyes read 'MAYBANK'S' on the right side, didn't let much to the imagination. Now, she understood.

Her eyes widened, and she let out a surprised gasp, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh my gosh, JJ! Is–Woah. Is this… this boat is yours?"

“Yup!” he said, puffing out his chest and throwing his hands up proudly.

Her gaze swept over the boat—a charming, beat-up thing, but it was perfect for JJ. The paint was chipped, and the motor looked like it had seen better days, but it had a certain rugged charm, just like him. “JJ, it’s—”

“Beautiful? Amazing? The best thing you’ve ever seen?” He interrupted, unable to contain his excitement.

She giggles, nodding along. “Yeah! How did you even manage this? We're... literally broke right now.”

JJ let out a short awkward chuckle, scratching his wrinkled eyebrows, “Uh, well... that's not really important. What is important though, is that she's all mine–Ours! It's not really new but, with a couple of technical adjustments, a little more of my girl's style right here and—boom! Meet 'The Maybank!”

She stared at him for a moment, eyes twinkling, before bursting into giggles. “The Maybank?”

“Okay, okay, it’s a work in progress, name-wise” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “But who cares about the name? Check this out! Come on, come on!" He grabbed her hand again and practically sprinted to the back of the boat, pulling her along with him like an overexcited puppy.

“JJ!” she laughed, trying to keep up with his energy.

“Look at this beauty of a motor!” he exclaimed, leaning over to pat the engine like it was some prized race car. “She purrs like a kitten! Well, kinda more like a sick kitten, but once I fix her up—purring.”

She smiled warmly, her heart swelling at how proud and happy he looked. JJ had been through so much, more than most people could handle, and yet here he was, smiling like a little kid on Christmas morning, showing her the boat he’d worked so hard to get. “A sick kitten? Oh, it's... Yeah, probably fixable. Without any more costs...”

“Oh, it is, princess!” JJ said, completely missing the uneasy tone. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet! Come here!”

He tugged her to the front of the boat, showing off the seats with grand gestures, talking a mile a minute. “These seats? Top-tier comfort. I mean, okay, there’s a rip or two, but it’s vintage, y’know? Character! Like–Like you say. Aesthetic.... And this right here—” He pointed to the tiny built-in cooler. “Boom! Cooler for all our drinks. You, me, the Pogues? Ice-cold sodas, beers, whatever we want. Fancy, huh?”

“Very fancy,” she giggled, nodding along.

“And wait, wait, there’s more!” He led her to the very front of the boat, practically skipping at this point. “See this space? Perfect for you to lay out and tan while I drive. Like a little sunbathing queen. Plus, I can park us in all the secret spots around OBX.”

She couldn’t stop laughing at how eager he was, and her heart swelled as she watched him ramble on. “You’re really proud of this, huh?”

He stopped mid-gesture and turned to her, his grin softening for a moment. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not much, but it’s mine. I can finally take you out on adventures, like we always talked about.”

Her heart melted at his words, and she reached up, cupping his cheek with her hand. “JJ, it’s perfect. I love it. I’m so proud of you.”

He leaned into her touch, his heart thudding in his chest. But before the moment could get too soft, his energy snapped back, and he grabbed her hand again. “Come on, I haven’t shown you the captain’s seat yet!”

He practically dragged her over to the helm, hopping into the driver’s seat and patting the spot next to him like an excited puppy. “Check it out! You wanna drive? You totally gotta drive.”

She shook her head, laughing again, but took a seat next to him, watching as he fiddled with the controls like a seasoned pro. “I don’t think I’m ready to drive a boat just yet, JJ. Can't even drive the HMS Pogue”

“Pfft, you’ve got me! I’m a captain now, baby. I’ll teach you everything. Plus, there’s not much to it—steering, not hitting rocks, easy peasy. You got it.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Maybe next time, Captain Maybank.”

“Next time, I’ll hold you to that,” he smirked, turning to plant a quick kiss on her forehead.

With one swift movement, JJ started up the boat, and they pulled away from the dock, the boat chugging forward at a steady pace. The wind whipped through her hair, and JJ was practically glowing beside her, his smile as wide as the ocean they were heading toward.

“See? Easy!” JJ exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear as they coasted along the water. “This is just the start. I’m gonna take you everywhere, baby—secret beaches, hidden coves, the works. We’ll go places no one else even knows about. And just then, we'll be traveling all over the world. Like pirates”

She watched him, her heart practically melting as he rambled on, his energy so infectious that it made her feel like they were the only two people in the world. His joy was her joy, and she couldn’t help but beam at how proud and excited he was. “JJ, this is… amazing.”

He shot her a playful smirk. “I'm telling you, just wait until I fix the motor. Then we’ll be flying across the water, like those fancy Kooky boats. But better.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder as the boat slowed to a gentle stop in the middle of the water, the sound of the engine fading away to leave just the soft lapping of the waves. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting the sky in a beautiful mix of orange, pink, and purple. It was serene, and perfect.

As they glided over the water, JJ kept up his constant narration, pointing out every little thing about the boat, from the condition of the steering wheel to a small patch he’d made on the deck with duct tape. She soaked it all in, giggling at his over-the-top enthusiasm, and her heart swelled at how happy and free he seemed.

After a while, JJ slowed the boat to a stop in a quiet, serene spot with a perfect view of the setting sun. The water around them was calm, reflecting the orange and pink hues of the sky.

“And here we are,” JJ announced, throwing his arm over her shoulders as if he’d just revealed a million-dollar mansion. “Not bad for a first trip, huh?”

She snuggled into his side, her fingers tracing little patterns on his arm. “Not bad at all. I think I could get used to this.”

JJ grinned, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “You'll see, pretty girl. ”

She laughed, tipping her head up to kiss him on the cheek. “I can’t wait, Captain Maybank.”

JJ wrapped both arms around her, pulling her close as they watched the sunset together. His excitement from earlier had finally settled into a comfortable warmth, and for the first time in a while, he felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. He places his chin on his shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, I’ve been thinking…”

“Uh-oh,” she teased, gentely tilting her head go look at him. “That’s never good.”

“Hey!” he laughed, then shook his head. “Nah, but seriously. You, know, the name of the boat? ‘The Maybank's’?" The way he pronounced it, slowly and with a twich of his eyebrows, managed to get a giggle from her. "It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

"Mhm, yeah. Really... characterized"

His grin softened into something a little more serious but no less JJ—playful yet full of warmth. He stepped closer, the arms around her waist gentely tighting. “Well, I was thinking… It’s perfect for when we get married too, you know? You’re gonna be a Maybank one day. Well, if you want. You can keep your last name though, not sure how it all works up these days, but... I wouldn't mind to share, you know? Just saying”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt her cheeks flush as his words settled in. Instead of being flustered, she melted into him, her smile only growing wider, softer, and so full of love. “No–I... You really think so?” she whispered, gazing up at him with that sweet, adoring look she saved just for him.

Her breath caught, the realization washing over her in a wave of warmth. They both knew it, had known it for a while now. The thought of marrying JJ felt like the most natural thing in the world, like it was already written in the stars.

“Of course! You’re my girl,” he said, his voice steady, almost serious, as if he was laying down the law. “When we get married, it’s going to be you and me, officially. Just picture it: ‘Captain and Mrs. Maybank’—how cool is that?”

A dreamy smile spread across her face, and she bit her lip, feeling giddy at the thought. “Mhm, sounds amazing, Jayj. Like a dream.”

His eyes lit up, and he pulled her closer, their bodies practically melting into one another. “See? It’s meant to be. I’ll show you the ropes on this boat, and then we can plan our future adventures as a married couple. Our honeymoon even” He flashed that goofy grin that always made her heart race. “You’ll make the best wife ever.”

Her cheeks flushed at the sincerity in his words, and she felt her heart swell with love. “I would love to be your wife, Mr. Maybank,” she said earnestly, her voice a soft melody. “I can’t imagine anything better.”

“Mhm. You, me, and this boat—just sailing off into the sunset. It’s perfect.” He pointed to the sea vaguely, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “And, hey, we can even practice the whole captain and first mate thing. We'll be the king and queen of these waters”

Her heart is about go explode in her chest, her eyes hurting from how much love they're holding while looking at him.

“Do you think we can take it out soon?” she asked, turning around in his arms to be face to face with him.

“Oh, absolutely. I already imagine us cruising around the island, just the two of us,” he said, a dreamy look crossing his face. “And then, in a few years, we’ll be out here with our kids, teaching them how to sail. It’ll be perfect.”

Her heart swelled at the thought, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest. “I can’t wait for that, JJ. You make everything sound so fun and exciting.”

“Because it is! Especially with you!” He grinned down at her, and she could see the love and enthusiasm shining in his eyes. “You and me, forever, right?”

“Forever,” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper, but filled with all the certainty in the world. As they stood there together, she knew without a doubt that one day, they’d be sailing through life as Mr. and Mrs. Maybank, and nothing could be more perfect than that.

With her by his side and the open water ahead of them, JJ Maybank couldn’t imagine life getting any better.

[hyperions-light]

The Poison Fruit Ripens

#defendingtheending here we go

First of all mega super ultra spoilers for the ending teaser that Steam says like… 6% ? Of players have seen? So you’ve been warned. No cuts baby, it’s Miyazaki style

Okay, so it’s the Executors, and they’re probably coming across the sea in the next game (if EA doesn’t nuke BW), from what I can gather. I mean, this is fine from a lore perspective. All we knew about those people before is that 1) they are mysterious 2) they are from over there, across the ocean

And now they’re maybe connected to the revealed Qunari lore, which I am ! So excited to have! We already knew that the Qunari fled across the ocean for unspecified reasons, and that going back there was Not A Thing. But now we know that they left because of the (probably metaphorical?) Devouring Storm, which could be connected to the Executors. What are the odds that there are two separate Huge Bad Things Over There that both want to destroy Thedas? Probably is just one big thing— also the title Executor implies they are doing the bidding of someone else, so whatever the Qunari were talking about could be it. (They also talked about being agents of someone else’s will in the Inquisition War Table quest).

So the cinematic shows a bunch of our prominent villains from the previous games being influenced in some way by the Executors. Which I think people are upset about, but I think it’s fine because:

- They did not really specify the manner of influence. I would be annoyed if they retconned Loghain’s decision to leave Cailan on the battlefield because it makes him interesting, but they didn’t say that. They just said they influenced his decisions. They could have done that by stoking his paranoia about Orlais, or by planting Arl Howe to influence him after the battle. He did a lot of OOC stuff while he was King Regent, and this could be a chance to explain what didn’t make sense for his previously established character and was just put in there to make him seem Very Evil.

- They also were around some people doing a blood magic ritual… there weren’t enough of them to be the Magisters, technically, but that is usually what it looks like when we see them in DA art so I’m going to assume that’s them for now. I mean that’s wild if that’s what it is bc that was such a long time ago? Thee guys have really been playing the long game I guess

- The other person they directly influenced seems to be Bartrand, which is really easy because who the fuck gave him that damn map? We NEVER found out who pointed Bartrand to the Thaig! Someone did it, and they probably did it on purpose! It may as well be these guys

- the rest of the villains don’t get guys whispering to them, so I have to assume they mean to imply that they just set up the circumstances that would lead to these people gaining power. I mean someone sent the Carta to the Vimmark mountains, right? And there was like some weird demon there, too.

-So basically they’re just implying that these people have been manipulating events to make sure that shit in Thedas is hitting the fan all at once, which does kind of explain the frankly improbable number of world-ending events that have happened during the Dragon Age. I mean, three Blights, two Magisters, two Evanuris, Antaam invasion, major mage rebellion, Templar schism, and the death of the Southern Divine? It’s only been like 50 years!!! Before the Dragon Age there had only been four Blights since the Ancient Age! Shit does not normally happen this fast in Thedas

I think the phrase itself is pretty direct (also giving Southern Reach vibes). All this chaos they helped sew is reaching its culmination, and now they’re getting ready to cash in the chips. They’re coming to Thedas at the moment that all the great powers are at their weakest, when there’s basically no one to oppose them. Tevinter? Fucked. Qunari? No military anymore. Antiva? Haha! lol, even. Fereldan? Basically gone. Orlais? In shambles. Free Marches? Decimated. Anderfels? There’s like 100 Wardens left in a swamp. Nevarra? I actually don’t know, maybe the lichlords can do something. Maybe Rivain could field some token resistance if they didn’t get hit by the Antaam too badly, but that’s kind of it IMO. This is THE time to come in and conquer(?) the land, or whatever they’re trying to do. Kill everybody?? Turn them into Darkspawn? Who knows!

Some speculation about what could be done to repel invasion:

- shit ton of blood magic

- fix titans, wake them up??? But idk if they’d be into it

- adaari, but idk if there are that many

- people with dragon blood, like the Theirins, are maybe super special and can do things?

- pirates, baby!!! Woooooo!

- I guess Mythal could know something? She can see the future a bit

- dragon army! Dragon army!!

[aleskie-hischier]

FALLING FOR YOU (ft. Charles Leclerc)

SUMMARY: You and Charles go ice skating. He doesn't know how to ice skate. Shenanigans ensues.

The Xmas Album Masterlist

Warnings: none! it's like 98% fluff but it gets a lil suggestive like right at the veryy end

You gaze out the window, watching snow-draped trees blur past, the serene white landscape contrasting with the warmth of his hand giving yours a gentle squeeze now and then. Charles liked whisking you away on little trips throughout the year, but he especially loved doing so during the holidays, when the off-season finally let him slow down and bask in your company.

While the season was in full swing, he’d take you to sun-soaked beaches and coastal getaways in the middle of packed race weekends. But come winter, his heart belonged to the snowy mountains, where the two of you could retreat to a cozy little cabin, far from the world.

“It’ll be a couples’ trip before the madness starts,” he’d explained when he first floated the idea of sneaking away as the season ended. With the chaos of family dinners, festive parties, and endless reunions on the horizon, this getaway felt like a perfect little pocket of peace—just for the two of you.

The first few days were spent entirely wrapped up in each other—fingers intertwined, skin pressed against skin, lips meeting in unhurried kisses. New marks bloomed on necks and collarbones and hips, small traces of intimacy shared beneath the warmth of the covers as the cold world outside faded into nothingness. It was a blissful blanket, the kind you could only share when his mind wasn’t preoccupied with racing or how the team was doing. Time seemed to stretch in those quiet moments, letting you focus on nothing but each other.

Today, though, Charles had insisted—albeit with his signature charm—that you get out of bed for a surprise adventure. “Trust me,” he’d said with a mischievous grin as he helped you bundle up for the cold. 

When the car finally pulls to a stop, he’s quick to hop out and open your door, excitement practically radiating off him. Before you can take in your surroundings, he’s already covering your eyes with his hands, laughing softly as he guides you forward.

The crisp winter air nips at your cheeks, growing sharper as you near the mystery destination. The muffled crunch of boots on snow accompanies the sound of children’s laughter, mingled with the cheerful hum of life bustling around you.

When Charles finally uncovers your eyes, your breath catches. 

A frozen lake stretches out before you, its smooth surface glinting in the soft afternoon light. Families and couples glide across it, their skates carving graceful lines into the ice. Nearby, a small booth rents skates and a scattering of string lights twinkles faintly against the snowy backdrop. The scene feels like it’s been plucked straight from a holiday movie—a sea of white stretching endlessly, snowflakes drifting lazily through the air, and the joyful energy of the people around you.

“Ta-da!” Charles says, his voice brimming with pride as he grins down at you, “What do you think?”

He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, leading you closer to the lake. The chill deepens as you step further onto the snowy bank, but the magic of the scene keeps it at bay. Your heart feels impossibly full as you take it all in.

“Oh, Charlie,” you whisper, your voice soft and awestruck, “It’s perfect.”

“Well, come on then,” Charles says, his voice brimming with enthusiasm as he leads you toward the skate rentals. “Let’s skate!”

You can’t help but smile, the grin stretching wide across your face as he eagerly handles everything—selecting skates for both of you and chatting animatedly with the attendant. The smile doesn’t fade even as you both sit on a nearby bench, lacing up your skates. You lean against each other for balance, your laughter mingling with the soft hum of activity around you. The cold bites at your fingers as you tug on the laces, but his easy warmth keeps the moment light.

Once ready, the two of you waddle toward the lake’s edge, unsteady on the frozen ground but too excited to care. As you’re about to step onto the ice, Charles suddenly catches your wrist, halting your progress. His expression is mischievous, the corners of his mouth curling up in that playful way you’ve come to adore.

“You’ve skated before, right?” he asks, tilting his head as though this question is long overdue.

You shrug, a teasing glint in your eyes. “I mean, yeah, but I’m not amazing at it.”

He narrows his eyes, studying you for a moment. “But you can balance?”

Instead of answering immediately, you step onto the ice and give a small glide, the motion smooth but cautious. “Yeah,” you reply over your shoulder, confidence lacing your tone.

“Good.” His grin widens as he steps gingerly onto the ice beside you, legs wobbling and torso swaying from side to side before placing his hands firmly on your shoulders. "Because I can't."

“Ah!” you exclaim, stumbling slightly as Charles leans his full weight against you. Your skates wobble precariously on the ice, but you manage to catch yourself, your hands instinctively gripping his arms for stability.

“Charlie,” you laugh breathlessly, your voice tinged with both amusement and panic, “One of us has to let go, or we’re both gonna fall!”

“I don’t know, mon ange, I’ve already fallen quite badly for you,” he quips, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. His legs may have been fighting for balance, wobbling dangerously, but his charm remained completely unshaken.

You chuckle, shaking your head as you try to steady yourself. “I’m serious, babe. I’m barely hanging on here!”

Instead of letting go, Charles takes an awkward, jerky step forward, his upper body practically collapsing against yours.

“If we don’t move, we can stay standing,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s utterly failing at proving his point. His arms wrap tightly around you, a precarious attempt at keeping both of you upright.

You roll your eyes playfully, threading a hand through his tousled hair. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his cheek before gently unraveling yourself from his hold, taking one of his hands in yours. His grip tightens, but there’s trust in his gaze as he looks at you.

“Do you trust me?” you ask, your tone light but reassuring.

“Always,” he replies without hesitation.

“Good.” A smile spreads across your face as you glide backward, the motion so gentle it’s barely more than a whisper of movement. “Let’s take this slow, Mr. I-Drive-Fast-Cars-For-A-Living. This might actually be harder for you than your usual laps.”

His laughter rings out, rich and warm despite his shaky stance. “What do you mean might? It already is.”

The two of you glide slowly across the edge of the ice, your hands firmly clasped together. His feet shuffle awkwardly, and his brows are knit in deep concentration as he wobbles with every step. You can’t help but stifle a laugh whenever he flails wildly to keep his balance. Of course, with his hands still gripping yours, his clumsy movements throw you off balance too—but you find it too funny to care.

“You’re doing wonderful, love,” you say, your smile stretching wide.

“It’s not too bad,” he replies, his steps still clunky but growing bolder, “I think I’m getting the hang of it now.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn teasingly, keeping the pace slow and steady as you gently pull him along.

But Charles, ever the adrenaline junkie, has no intention of playing it safe. “Oh, come on, mon ange,” he says, his grin turning mischievous, “This is a racetrack now.”

Before you can protest, he loosens his grip on your hand and pushes off against the ice with exaggerated effort, sending you gliding slightly ahead of him. Determined, he attempts to pick up speed, his legs awkwardly working against the slick surface.

“Charlie, be careful!” you exclaim, glancing back at him with growing concern. He’s teetering dangerously from side to side, his arms flailing in a desperate bid to stay upright.

“I’ve got this!” he calls out, his voice filled with far more hope than certainty, “It’s nothing too crazy!”

But fate—and the ice—have other plans. In a split second, his skate catches awkwardly, and he stumbles forward, completely losing control.

“Charles!” you squeal, trying to sidestep as he inches toward you like an unstoppable force. But it’s too late. With an almost comical lack of grace, his full weight barrels into you, and the two of you crash onto the ice in a tangled heap.

“Oh, dear, are you alright?” Charles asks when you're both fallen over, his voice laced with concern as he cups your cheeks, tilting your head gently to check for any injuries.

“I’m fine,” you reply between bursts of laughter, your breath fogging the cold air, “I can’t believe you wiped us both out!”

He groans, his face just inches from yours, his expression a mix of sheepishness and suppressed laughter. “It was a very calculated risk, you know.”

“Really?” you ask, raising an incredulous brow, “And what exactly did your calculations say?”

“That you’d make a wonderful crash pad,” he replies, his smirk breaking free, his tone dripping with playful mischief.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, still chuckling as you lean into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder. The two of you sit there for a moment, sprawled near the edge of the lake, just shy of solid land, the world around you bustling with joyful sounds of skaters and falling snow.

“Alright,” you finally say, brushing snow off your jacket as you prepare to get up. “Let’s try this again, yeah?”

He nods excitedly.

You rise carefully, holding out a hand to Charles. He grabs it, his grip firm as he starts to pull himself up. But before he can fully stand, his skates betray him, and with a comical yelp, he slips again, landing back on the ice with a soft thud.

“Have I ever told you how much I love watching you learn new things?” you tease, your laughter bubbling over. “You’re so cute.”

“Well,” he smirks, brushing snow off his jacket, “You think I’m cute, so I win.”

As you reach for him again, a young voice pipes up beside you. 

“Hi, sir!”

You both glance over to see a little boy skating confidently toward you, his skates cutting small arcs on the ice. His cheeks are pink from the cold, and a toothy grin spreads across his face.

“Since you’re struggling, you can always grab onto a Penguin Helper! They’re over there, and they help you skate and balance!” He points toward a line of small, penguin-shaped skating aids near the rental booth.

Charles blinks, momentarily stunned, before letting out a hearty laugh that echoes across the ice. “Ah, a Penguin Helper? Now that sounds like a genius idea.”

“Yeah!” the boy replies, nodding enthusiastically, “I used one when I was learning, and now I’m super good!” He punctuates his words with a quick, confident spin that leaves Charles gaping in exaggerated awe.

“You’re certainly very good,” Charles says, glancing at you with a grin, “How can I argue with a pro? I suppose a penguin might be my only hope.”

You giggle, watching as the boy skates off with the effortless confidence of someone far more practiced than Charles. 

“Come on, Charlie,” you tease, offering him your hand again. “Let’s get you your new best friend.”

“Only if you promise not to abandon me for a faster skater,” he quips, taking your hand as you help him up once more.

“I promise you’re the only one I want—bad skating and all,” you say with a warm smile. 

Hand in hand, you shuffle back toward the rental booth to grab him a penguin. Despite the slightly bruised ego, his laughter—and charm—remain completely intact.

“Ah, yes,” he says dramatically, gripping the handles of the cheerful plastic penguin, “My noble steed has arrived.”

“A fitting ride for the honorable Lord Perceval,” you tease, laughing as you quickly pull out your phone to snap a few photos. Watching him slowly glide across the ice, his newfound confidence was as endearing as it was amusing. “You look like a natural.”

“Do I?” he asks, flashing you a playful smile. “In that case, shall we race? I’m sure my trusty companion here will give me the edge I need.” He pats the penguin affectionately.

You skate beside him effortlessly, your movements smooth compared to his exaggerated shuffle. “I’d still like to have my boyfriend in one piece by the end of this, thank you very much.”

“Oh, but your boyfriend’s pride is already shattered,” he responds, tilting his head toward you with exaggerated seriousness, “What are you going to do about that?”

You smirk, leaning just close enough to him to make him wonder what you’re thinking. “Well,” you begin, your voice dripping with playful intrigue, “He’ll have to wait until we’re back at the cabin to find out, won’t he?”

His eyes narrow, and a mischievous grin spreads across his face, the twinkle in his eyes growing sharper. “Oh? Will there be a special gift waiting for me there?” His tone drops an octave, the teasing lilt turning into something more revealing. “Perhaps something that involves...less layers?"

You gasp in mock offense, placing a hand dramatically over your chest as if you’ve been scandalized. “I don’t know what’s in that mind of yours,” you say, fighting back a smile, “But I was just planning on having us take a nice, relaxing nap.”

He quirks an eyebrow, stepping closer with a playful glint in his eye. “But what if I asked for this gift nicely?”

You raise a brow, intrigued, yet still holding onto the upper hand. “Ask nicely…how?”

His smile widens as he leans in, lowering his voice in that teasing tone you know so well. “I’ll make you hot chocolate. Just the way you like it. Thick. More chocolate than milk. Extra marshmallows. No skimping.”

Your eyes widen for a moment before you let out a chuckle, shaking your head, your heart softening at his effort to win you over. “Alright, alright. You’ve convinced me.” You smile sweetly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I guess you can have your special gift after all.”

He grins, his posture slightly off-balance as he leans in—still holding onto that plastic penguin like it’s his lifeline—and plants a soft, warm kiss on your forehead. “You know just how to make a man’s bruised ego feel better,” he chuckles, his voice full of warmth.

“I know, right?” you smile, the promise of warmth, both literal and figurative, and more playful moments together at the cabin feels like the perfect ending to the day.

[eyesxxyou]

𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖆 🏴‍☠️🐚

| i. one| pearly white eyes

🐚・・・pirate!Hobie x mute!siren!reader.

𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱: blood. death. decompostion. mentions of person being eaten. reader is caged. mention of selling reader.

↳ ❝ If only the sea would love him back. How unrequited his adoration was ❞

𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

“Da ocean is no’cha friend, ‘Obie. It’ll chew ya up ‘n spit’cha ou’ ‘n there won’ be a trace of ya left.” His mother would grab his chin when he was young and gazed at the ocean for too long, hypnotized by the lapping waves at the shore, like it was coaxing him toward it. He’d stand there, body swaying with the sea back and forth back and forth, its song luring him closer. She’d try to hurry him along as they made their way to the market from their little home.

But Hobie would linger, feet bare against the ground, toes digging into the sand. The salt of the sea carried by the wind across his nose. He closed his eyes and listened—listened to the song of the sea. The crash of the waves against the rocks below, the seagulls cawing in the distance, the ripple of the salty wind against his face. He could taste it if he stuck his tongue out.

He knew that this was what it felt like to be completely at peace.

He let his eyes flutter open slowly and suddenly he was on the beach, taller, dressed in clothing that didn’t feel like his own. The sun had barely begun to set over the horizon, painting the sky in broad strokes of lilly pink and tangerine orange. The sea was calm, gentle waves washing up on shore. It was foamy and white, wetting his leather boots. Then it was pink, then the unmistakable brown-ish color of old blood. He looked out at the sea. Red, all red.

“‘Obie.” The calming voice of his mother. Low and thickly accented. Hobie looked back down at his feet and there she was, his poor mother, lying in the wet sand almost as if she had been washed up onto shore. The sea had spit her out. Half decomposed, half eaten, with blood coming from her ears. Her eyes were open, milky white, not a single spark of life to be found within them. But she spoke, her half exposed jaw opening. “‘Obie.”

“Mama?” He couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he help her? Why was he so useless? Why couldn’t he save her?

“I’s time t’wake up, ‘Obie.” She crooned so softly, almost singing to him. 

Hobie stared down at her, unable to look away as her body slowly withered away and turned to seafoam. Unable to do anything to stop it. “Mama, ‘m sorry I couldn’ save ya. ‘M sorry. Please forgive me.” He wanted her to hold him, even if she was decaying before his eyes. He wanted to know her kindness, her warmth, her forgiveness, just one last time.

But she just looked at him vacantly, with those dead eyes of hers. Just before her face melted away into nothingness, she spoke one last time.

“Wake up.”

Hobie shot up in bed, his eyes vigorously searching about his surroundings– wide and wild with panic. He was no longer on that beach he had known so well in his youth. He sat in his cabin, aboard his ship, The Mary Jane. His mother was nowhere to be found. She hasn’t been for years. He knew that already.

He was layered in a thin film of cold sweat, his chest rose and fell with the sway of the ship. His skin glistened under the golden rays of dawn stretching her fingers across the sky to mark a new day. It caressed him, told him it would all be okay. But it offered no comfort. He reached up and wiped away a stray tear from his cheek. Hobie figured there was no use in going back to sleep. He didn’t want to go back to sleep, didn’t want to run the risk of another recurring nightmare.

Hobie left his bed, disheveled and disgruntled. He grabbed his billowy, off-white tunic shirt from off the floor and slid it on over his head before grabbing his boots to shove onto his feet on his way out of his cabin. Tossing the door open, Hobie used his arm to cover his eyes from the rising sun. His face scrunched, grimacing at the abrupt brightness that overtook him. His lip curled with distaste. He was not a morning person.

“‘mornin’, Cap’n. How’d you sleep?”

Hobie looked up at the crow’s nest where one of his crew sat happily perched, looking down at him with a smile almost brighter than the early-morning sun. His skin was a deep caramel and his dark brown hair fell over his face, only tied back by a blue scarf. Pavitr had been placed on look out and by the looks of it, he'd been up there all night. He looked tired but was trying to hide it by being energetic.

Hobie only grunted and that was all the answer Pav needed to know that he had another nightmare. Everyone on the crew knew he had them but no one had the gull to bring it up to him or try to talk to him about it. He wasn’t the type to want to talk about and no one wanted to upset him. He had given them all a home aboard The Mary Jane and asks for nothing in return besides that they never talk to him about the things they’ve heard coming from his cabin.

“Get down from there ‘n get some rest, Pav.” Hobie motioned him down as he walked away.

The rest of his crew roamed about on the deck, either preparing their swords and guns or cleaning. There wasn’t much to do between raids besides prepare for the next one to float along their path. Most delegated chores amongst themselves simply out of sheer boredom. They all nodded their heads respectfully or greeted Hobie with a quiet, “‘mornin’, Cap’n”. They must have all known. Either he had been yelling again or they could tell just by the way he carried himself with a heaviness they could all feel, he cared not for which.

Hobie made his way up to the forecastle deck where he could feel the sea wind the best. He leaned against the railing and closed his eyes as he always had when he was a child and took in the beauty of the sea through the rest of his senses. The smell of salt and fish burned his nose and the breeze kissed his slender cheeks. He could feel the coolness of his rings against his knuckles and the layered chains around his neck almost restricting him. And he loved it all.

If only he could close his eyes and make it last forever. If only the sea would love him back. How unrequited his adoration was. He’s learned to despise the ocean and her children for everything it has done to him. And he’s vowed to conquer it. In a way, that's how he loved it.

“Cap’n.” Hobie didn’t open his eyes nor did he answer but he knew who stood beside him. She tried again. “Hobie.” He opened his eyes and glanced to his side where stood Gwen, a small blonde with brilliant blue eyes and a fierce attitude. She looked up at him sympathetically, the only one willing to take the risk to talk to him about his nightmares. “How were things last night? You were talking rather loudly in your sleep.” Her fingers twiddled with each other in front of her but she never stopped looking at him.

Hobie turned his head away, his jaw tightening with discomfort. “There’s nothin’ t’say. Y’all heard i’.” He dragged his tongue along the soft inner flesh of his cheek. “I don’ think i’s something’ we need t’talk ‘bout.” He retracted. It was easy to pull away from others. No one on deck knew him like Gwen did though, but even she had limited knowledge about Hobie’s life before he took up a life at sea.

“I won’t force you to talk, I never do. But I want you to know I’m always here if you need to talk. I’m your friend before anything else.” She placed her hand on Hobie’s shoulder only for him to shrug her away. “‘M fine. Where’s ya boyfriend, Gwendy. Go bother him.” He didn’t mean for his words to come off as harsh as they had but it didn’t seem to deter her.

She leaned against the wooden railing beside Hobie and sighed, looking out at the open sea before them. The sun was rising quickly, still red. The sea was as red as freshly spilled blood. She opened her mouth to speak but paused. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she looked out into the distance. “Is that a ship?”

Hobie perked up and squinted his eyes as well. It was indeed a British royal navy ship, the sails only half unraveled, just wading through the shallow waters entirely directionless. There seemed to be no one on the deck. There was something off about it. If he could see them with just his bare eyes then they could certainly see The Mary Jane, so why weren’t they attacking? They were certainly within range.

“Prepare the cannons but don’ fire jus’ yet. Ge’ ready to board.”

Gwen gave one firm nod and marched off to direct the rest of the crew who jumped up with enthusiasm and began scuttling about the deck in preparation. Finally, some excitement.

Hobie took his place at the helm of the ship, steering closer to the navy ship with an air of caution settling over the deck. “Fire a warning shot.” He commanded with authority that everyone respected. Within minutes there was a fire shot at the ship and before they knew it a white flag was being flown over the navy ship. They had given up without so much as a fight.

He was sure it must be a trap, a farce to get him to lower his guard. Hobie grabbed his sword and gun and rounded up some of his crew to board the navy ship with him while the others stayed behind to protect the Mary Jane from attack. He gathered Pav, Gwen, Miles, as well as a handful of others and took them with him.

Hobie boarded the navy ship with a heavy thump of his boots, his saber unsheathed in preparation for an attack. His eyes shifted back and forth, ringed fingers gripping the handle of his sword with a hold so tight his knuckles paled. He was soon followed by the rest of his crew, all equally as cautious.

“Search the ship, bring me everyone you can find.”

His crew split up and began to scour the ship for any people or loot they could find. Most of the crew were still asleep and were summarily caught with their pants down. Quite literally, as some were brought to Hobie in only their underwear. Including the captain or the ship who was tied up and brought before Hobie, shoved to his knees.

Hobie held the tip of his sword to the captain’s throat. He was an older, pale man with graying hair, round and fat with lack of work. He looked cowardly, afraid of the fate that lay before him. “We surrendered, take whatever you please. But leave us our dignity.” The man pleaded dramatically and Hobie found himself wanting nothing more than to slit the man’s throat and be done with it. He was not in the mood for being merciful after the night he’s had.

“Why did y’surrender so easily?”

The captain trembled. “We were raided by pirates just a day ago. We were in no position to fight. Most of our men were lost. Please, I beg.” He laced his fingers together only for Hobie to press his sword to his throat and draw the slightest bit of blood. “I wonder why I don’ believe ya.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Cap’n.” Miles came from the hold below the deck and motioned Hobie to come. “You’ll want to see this.” He shifted with distress and urgency. His golden, brown eyes shifted between Hobie and the lower deck where he, Gwen, and Pav all resided.

“Watch all of ‘em.” Hobie commanded the rest of his crew. “Don’ hesitate to kill anyone who ge’s outta line.” He looked back down to the white man before him before marching past him in firm strides towards the hold. Hobie followed Miles down, his sword still drawn.

It was dark in the hold and the smell of stale ale and old fish stung in his nose. The dim light of a lanturn offered just enough light to see exactly what Miles had beckoned him down for. He had seen you.

You were the most hauntingly beautiful thing he had ever seen. Pav and Gwen stood around the cage you were in; Miles joined them, all of them staring with something of wonder or horror, it was hard to tell which. Maybe it was a bit of both. Maybe they were one in the same.

You had eyes like the freshest milk he's ever seen, eyes like pearls, white and sparkling, all wide and framed with long lashes that stuck together with the tears that ran down your cheeks and over quivering lips that undoubtedly hid the horror of your fanged teeth. Shimmering scales like iridescent pearls showed up in small patches over your skin, on your shoulders, your forearms and your calves. You were akin to a human, minus the scales, your finned ears, and the fins that stuck out of the backs of your forearms and legs. You were covered in strings of pearls that hung around your neck and over your hips, shells, and coverings made of seaweed. 

You were something divine, something not of this world, something so terrifyingly gorgeous. Hobie knew exactly what you were.

“I’s a fuckin’ siren.” Hobie marched forward, his face stone-like with dispassion. He grinded his teeth almost to dust. His lip curled with disgust and his eyes lit up with fury. “Open the cage so I can kill the tin’.” They all looked at him with something of fear and worry. They had never seen him so furious about anything.

“Shouldn’t we think about this?” Pav stood between you and Hobie, his brows furrowed. “It’s hurt.” He looked back at you and saw the dried blood caked onto your skin originating from a large wound in your shoulder. “Shouldn’t we ask more questions? Why do they have a siren locked up in the first place? We should all be dead right now but we’re not.”

“Plus, sirens are useful. They cost a lot on the market.” Gwen piped up.

They were right. Hobie didn’t want to admit it but they were right. Siren's blood was highly valuable and was used to heal illnesses and injuries. Their scales were used to make jewelry as well. They were highly sought after and would make a good bounty but hunting them was incredibly dangerous. It’s rare that anyone actually captures one. They're known to bring entire ships to the bottom of the sea where they’d eat their victims.

Hobie sighed. He’d save himself a lot of trouble if he just killed you before you drowned the whole lot of them. “Keep them in the cage for now.” He turned on his booted heels and made his way back onto the upper deck. Everyone was just where they had been. He stood before the captain of the ship once more and glowered at him. “Wha’s with the siren? Y’should all be dead righ’ now.”

“I- We captured it for his majesty…he wants to make a zoo of the things, but it’s broken. Can’t sing. Figured…we jus’ might sell it on the market for parts. You– you can have it. Just leave us.” He smiled as he offered you to him, wearily and desperately. Something about the offer disgusted Hobie. The selling of flesh, even if it wasn’t that of a human, was morally reprehensible in his book.

With one swift motion of his sword, Hobie slit the captain’s throat and watched as he fell to the deck, choking and gurgling on his own blood. Blood splattered onto Hobie’s face at the initial spray and down the rest of his body as the captain collapsed.

He stepped on the captain’s body as he made his way back down to the hold to figure out if he should do just the same with you. Your kind killed hundreds in your lifetime, thousands even. Your kind lured people to their deaths by way of seducing them with everything they desired in life. There was something quite despicably sinister about it.

Hobie came back and stood before you, your frail, injured body. You looked up at him with those milky white eyes that almost made him flinch. He couldn’t bear to look at you, the way you wept, as if you were crying for your life. How could such a thing look so perfect while crying? He cursed his feelings, his empathy, his humanity. Would a being like you even understand something like that? Something as complex and beyond comprehension as human emotion? He barely understood it himself.

“Let it go.”

Gwen and Miles fiddled with the lock until they managed to break it open and let you free. You didn’t move for a bit, your eyes flicking from side to side at all of them to see what they would do. You trembled with fear, you sobbed in choking gasps. Hobie knew that sirens were meant to be alluring, that’s how they captured their victims, but he didn’t know one could look so pretty while crying.

After a while of stillness, you finally began to move. You crawled out of the small cage you had been locked in, wincing at the pressure put upon your injured shoulder until you stood up. You were a fragile thing, looking between the four of them as they all stood back and watched you. They were waiting for the moment you’d flip, the moment you’d sing your hypnotizing song and convince them to all jump ship.

“You’re free.” Hobie moved out of the way, sheathing his sword to show he meant no harm. He did it despite all signals in his mind telling him this was a terrible idea. “No one will kill ya, no one will sell ya. Yer probably gonna die from ya injuries anyway. Jus’ go.” If you remained in his presence any longer, he may just lose it. Your kind stole innocent people from their families. Monsters, the whole lot of you.

But you didn’t move, you just stared at him, blankly, blinking with those pretty lashes of yours. Your lips formed into the smallest pout.

Hobie sighed. “Don’cha understand me?” Sirens were meant to understand all languages.

You nodded, tears still streaking your pretty face.

“Then go, go now, before I change my min’.” He gritted his teeth and pointed towards the door, moving further out of the way to give you more room to leave. You hesitated just for a moment before beginning to walk on shaky legs and bare feet. You look at them all as you pass them but you stop in front of Hobie and stare– just stare for a long, drawn out moment. You stare even when he turns his face away from yours because he can’t bear to look into those eyes.

That’s when you begin to run. You scramble off up the stairs, soon followed by Hobie, Miles, Gwen, and Pav, and they all watch as you climb and stand on the edge of the boat. You look back one last time at Hobie before turning back towards the sea and diving overboard.

They all rush to watch you swim away. All except Hobie, who can’t stop thinking about those pearl white eyes.

[vigilskept]

Saw your tags on the last few posts and hard agree! Between the ever present Fen'harel foreshadowing AND Sandal's prophecy AND Mythal's reckoning? It always seemed like the Veil coming down was that proper big bang finish that would rewrite all the rules in a satisfying and interesting way. One of my issues with Veilgaurd is I feel like it took the series' opportunity for a destinct ending away. Personally, I believe good stories end. I don't want 30 DA games in a MCU verse. And now, to have the series end they have to come up with a stopping point that makes more sense than the Veil. Or revisit the Veil. And what would be the point in that when they wasted all the foreshadowing?

yes, exactly!! i felt like i was going insane on my soapbox there, thank you!! it really feels like they ran up against the natural end point for the franchise and just decided to do a little shimmy around it. i just don't see what exactly that achieves except to set up a new, bigger bad which we have no real stake in.

was i curious about the executors prior to veilguard? yes! but i expected them to appear in this game since they clearly had an interest in solas' plans!! not for them to have 3 completely missable interactions followed by the worst idea of a post credit scene i've ever seen. whatever curiosity i had about what they were up to & how the kossith relate to what's across the sea is pretty much gone at this point.

a "shadowy cabal" who's secretly responsible for all of the evil enacted in this world by people in power is not a plot i care to see play out in bioware's hands. it's a stupid, elders of zion ass direction to take things and was not worth trashing over a decade of build up.

there is nowhere they could take that plot thread (already relying on the worst possible trope...) that would give dragon age a more satisfying conclusion than dropping the veil.

it would've resolved or set up a potential resolution for all of the major conflicts that have been established up to now!! (mages under the chantry, tevene class structure/slavery, oppression of elves, the blights, the waking titans, etc. etc. i could go on!)

and with the way veilguard ends... it looks to me like they wanted to somehow get the implied resolutions that would come out of dropping the veil without committing to it. that's why no matter what you do, dorian or mae will become archon and singlehandedly restructure tevinter society. the load bearing piece of "mageocracy can't function if everyone's a mage now" is gone, so we have to have a poorly executed sideplot to resolve this plot thread for us instead...

i'm sure people will feel differently, but i personally would've found it more satisfying if the veil fell and the franchise wrapped up there. for good or ill, it changes everything and we can all have the time of our lives speculating about the Implications thereafter.

if they really wanted to(/needed to promise EA they could) make more games in this setting — they could've gone backwards! there's lots of stories you could tell throughout thedas in the gap between the fifth blight and solas' ritual! there's lots of stories you could tell about the centuries between andraste's rebellion and the fifth blight! there's so much happening in the background here that they've hinted at through codices that if they really wanted more content in this setting, there is so much room to expand on those.

could they set up world shattering events like "tearing down the veil" again? no. but i think that was a very obvious one and done situation, and i don't think anyone came into this franchise expecting their dragon age games to have stakes that apocalyptic until trespasser! i think there absolutely would've absolutely been an audience for a game about the assassination of queen madrigal or the fog warriors' resistance on seheron if they hadn't fumbled this....

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Sergeant Riley can't settle so he goes for a walk. He follows the warm sound of a guitar right to Price's room. Inspired by that one loading screen and how it might have come to be.

CW: Simon Riley's life., Scousier Price than usual (because I fancied it, headcanon that he trained himself out of his accent as he got promoted, and, as a friend hypothesised, Price wouldn't codeswitch when it's just him and Simon).

Simon wasn't sure where he was going when he left his bunk and started walking. There were only so many times he could type out and delete the same fucking message, blue light illuminating his face in the darkness - are you using again? is he still out the house? are you eating? is she out of hospital yet? are you alive? - before he chewed his way out of his own fucking skin.

He didn't press send because he knew being left on read was worse than not sending the message at all. And yet, he still couldn't stop typing out those words.

As he prowled through the dark corridors, Simon remembered the words of some English teacher way back when; the definition of madness was doing the same shit over and over and expecting the same outcome. She'd said it in a clipped southern accent (and used a different word to 'shit') while handing him a referral note for internal exclusion, but her words had stuck more than the five hours staring at the wall.

Maybe he was mad. Any trooper or officer that found him lingering in the hallways, a hulking shadow with even darker circles beneath his eyes, would definitely fucking think so.

He wondered what that pretty young English teacher would say if she knew he punched people for queen and country rather than because they'd slagged off his mum now. She'd probably give him that same look they all had at the time. Pity.

Simon tapped each of his fingers to his thumb as he rounded the corner and stormed down the next corridor. It was 0300. A strange halfway point in the night when no one was awake, not the late workers who still had reports to finish or the early risers that liked to get a few fasted sets in at the gym before breakfast. It was just Simon, alone with the clutter banging around his skull and the itch beneath his skin.

By the time he reached the officer's corridor, he was worrying away at the already sore cuticles of his left hand, if only to stop grinding his teeth into a dull ache. Simon stopped at the far end and slumped against the wall, grey slab concrete cool through his sweat-soaked shirt. Then he heard it through the thrum of blood in his ears and the clutching tightness of his own shaking breaths: Johnny Cash.

At least he thought it was. Pretty certain. He followed the sound like a wrecking ship followed the beam of a lighthouse. Something to latch onto so he didn't drown in the winter sea of his own fucking head. He stopped outside the door, his shoulder against it, and closed his eyes.

It reminded him of peace and home. In the few moments of stability, his da always played Johnny Cash. Tommy was clean, no arguments, no alcohol, no violence. Just the summer sun beaming through the net curtains and the smell of cheap sausages on the BBQ in the garden as Simon thrashed Tommy on the PS1. As that husky voice played through their battered living room stereo, the Rileys could almost pass as normal.

"Are y'gonna stand out there all night, la?"

The music had stopped and Simon's eyes snapped open. He hesitated in the darkness, weighing up whether he could get away with sneaking off, but Price was the kind of man to follow up on weird shit. He was thorough like that. So Simon squared his shoulders and nudged the door open. "Lieutenant," he murmured, dipping his chin.

Price was sitting by his open window, the guitar slung across his lap. He examined Simon for a beat, his head tilted, shrewd blue eyes squinting. Once he'd seen what he was looking for, he looked away and moved the capo up the fretboard. "Struggling to get ya head down?"

"Yeah." Simon glanced around the room. If you looked closely, there were a few indications of character visible in the cracks in military perfection: the Liverpool FC scarf across the back of the desk chair, the football shoved under the bed, the fishing magazines sticking out the bin, and the ash tray on the windowsill. The bed was unmade, suggesting Price had made an effort to sleep and given up. "Could say the same for you, that."

Price hummed noncommittally. "Tomorrow's chocka, so I sacked it off for some time to meself." He glanced up and then followed Simon's eyeline down to the guitar again. "You play?"

"Naw," Simon shook his head. "Just recognised Johnny Cash. Me old man likes 'im." He glanced at the bed and the desk.

Price snorted and jutted his chin towards the bed. "Sit down, ya muppet."

Simon's arse hit the mattress like it was magnetised. Price had that effect on him. The moment Simon had learned Price was the best by every metric the SAS had, he'd got it in his head that he wanted to impress, to emulate. Every order and every shred of praise was eagerly consumed because it got Simon one step closer to filling the void of purpose in his chest.

"Yours too, huh?" Price strummed his fingertips over the strings, the note barely registering. "Strange, that."

"He teach ya?" The most his own da had taught him was to roll a decent spliff.

"Not a bloody chance," Price said, "Learned while I was at camp as a kid, like. It got me outta washin' my own dishes. Bit of Wonderwall... y'know."

"Not a lot's changed then."

"Watch it. Still got to approve the details for next week."

There was no heat to the threat. Price was shifting his fingers through the motions of what Simon assumed were chords without strumming. Something had flashed across Price's face at the mention of his da and the camp. Simon has got good at reading faces; if something was gonna turn violent, it was your first warning sign. He'd seen the flicker at the corner of Price's mouth, the flinch at the corner of his eye, and...

"Sommat on my face?"

"Just that bum fluff you're tryin' to grow inta beard, sir."

"Ahh, ya fuckin' git, s'not that bad." Price ran a hand over his jaw with a smirk. "Like to see you get close ta all this."

Despite himself, Simon grinned back. It was a small one; no flashing of teeth, more a flicker compared to a normal person. But it was there. Something dark, heavy and cold slithered out of his chest and he breathed a deep sigh.

"So, not a Cash fan, what're'ya inta? Moody bastard like you, mid-twenties, sommat like--" Simon recognised the tune after the first few chords from the playlists of one of Tommy's girlfriends. She'd been into that emo scene shit, with the side fringe and the mouth full of metal. "With bloodshot eyes, I watch you sleeping, the warmth I feel beside me is slowly fadi-- ah, nah?" Price grinned at the perplexed look on Simon's face.

"Dunno, never really had favourite music." He'd never really considered it. In the house, they listened to whatever his da wanted, and it wasn't like he could ever afford to own an iPod. "What did ya play at the camps?"

Price snorted. "Kumbaya."

"Bullshit."

"Nah. Camp coordinator were an arlarse. Nothin' too risque."

"But Wonderwall were fine."

"Eh, don't look at me, fella. They're one've yours."

Simon grimaced. Not one of Manchester's finest exports, but he wasn't gonna let that fly. "Hot shit comin' from a Scouser who ain't had a hit band since the Beatles."

"Oer, I'll give ya tha'." Price leaned back and strummed out a few chords of 'Hey Jude', and then changed. They sat in companionable silence as Price strummed through a mash up of familiar tunes. Simon watched his hands, the agile twitch of his fingers over the strings, and grew so focused he stopped covering the damage of his own.

"Ya know, if that gets infected on ops, could become a problem," Price said, indicating Simon's hands with a jut of his chin.

Simon clamped his fingers into his palms. "I'll get it looked at."

Price sat back, one arm folded across the top of the guitar, a finger tapping lightly against the wood. Simon would have given anything to know what he was thinking, if only to banish the Maelstrom of condemnation his own mind was conjuring to fill the gap. "Here, take this."

"What?" Before Simon could protest, the guitar had been thrust into his lap.

"It'll keep ya hands occupied, stop yet pickin' 'em to pieces."

"But I can't fuckin' play."

"Yet." Price shuffled his chair forward and took Simon's hand. "Loosen ya wrist, ya meff. There'yar. Right, gotta press a bit harder. Gonna teach you Smoke on Water. Be playin' Oasis' back catalogue before ya know."

So Simon sat there as Price patiently positioned his fingers and helped him strum through his first song. Every time he nailed a transition or struck a clear chord, he got praise and it made the itch beneath his skin turn into a buzz. He wasn't stupid. He knew this warm reaction wasn't love, or even a crush; it was the reaction of a kicked shelter dog being shown the tiniest morsel of kindness. It should make him feel sick, but he was too enraptured by the fact his hands were making fucking music. Not violence, not pain or death. Music.

They must have been sat there for over an hour, because there was light peaking over the windowsill when Price leaned back to grab his baccy and roll ups from under the desk. As he prepped his ciggy, Simon's eyes rolled up to the ceiling to the smoke detector, and he smirked when he noted the wires hanging out.

"Sommat ta say, sergeant?" Price asked as he set the roll up between his teeth and struck his lighter.

"Naw, sir. Just thinkin' how I wanna be like you when I grow up."

Price snorted. "You wanna be better than me, Simon." He chucked his lighter onto the desk. "And you will be. Just gotta get your head straight."

Simon placed the guitar on Price's bed. "How'd you do it? Get your head straight..."

"Practice," Price nodded towards the guitar as he tapped ash out his window, "and distractions."

Some things would always be there. Some things... never healed. That flicker in Price's face when he'd spoke about home didn't come from nought; it was like looking in a fucking mirror. "I can do that."

"I know ya can."

They watched the smoke of Price's cigarette curl out the window together, and Simon felt the cold, icy talons of last night recede, and then...

"Price, if Riley's done sucking your dick, get to the mess! And if you're fucking smoking, I'm gonna rip your balls off."

"Yessir, right away, sir." Price pinched the end of his ciggy and lobbed it out the window, flapping a hand to dispense the last of the smoke. The other dismissed Simon out the door with a jabbing thumb, removing him from the scene should their good captain decide to perform a snap inspection.

The guitar thing... yeah, Simon took that and ran. It wasn't long before he bought his own out of a Cancer Research charity shop and downloaded sheet music over the base WiFi. Every time shit became too loud, his head too full of clutter, he sat somewhere quiet and strummed until his fingers were sore.

Years later, after Roba, after Price wrenched Simon from a hurricane of self destruction, held him under the torrent of a cold shower as Simon had wailed into his chest, only to find Ghost glaring back when the dust had settled, Simon would return to the guitar again.

This time the songs were a little different, a little softer, because his motivation - the thing that drove him crazy, that filled his head - had a shitty fucking mohawk and blue eyes that bore right through him. Johnny loved it when he played. And if Johnny asked, Simon would play til the gates of hell opened up.

[felassan]

EA site update:

"The Dread Wolf Rises Dragon Age Day 2023 Happy DA Day to our friends across Thedas!"

"[Mark] Dragon Age has always been a franchise about characters. Characters to fall in love with or to learn to loath. Those characters need a place in which to live, to fight, and to love—a place that shapes them and the events they find themselves swept up in. Today we explore the place they call home that forms the stage for everything that you do: Thedas. Corinne and the Dragon Age: Dreadwolf team have created a game that celebrates the rich and varied past of the franchise while crafting new experiences and stories. It has been incredible to come back to BioWare and see all of the progress they’ve made, and I’m excited for some of that world to be shared with all of you today. [Corinne] Thank you, Mark! I fondly remember playing each entry in the Dragon Age franchise, being completely immersed and enamored in the world you all had built. It amazes me to be here now, working alongside you and the team, to bring new stories and characters (not to mention a few returning characters) to all of the fans of the franchise. Dragon Age: Dreadwolf is the product of hard work and love. We know how much this world means to all of you, how these experiences stay with you. We want to get it right, so we’ve taken our time. We're so excited to join in this celebration of all things Dragon Age and the incredible fandom that surrounds it. Within the dev team, we’ve been eagerly awaiting Dragon Age Day as the enthusiasm, stories, charity, and artwork you share motivates us to be our best and create new experiences for all of you. To celebrate DA Day, we’re sharing a look at a few of the in-game locations you’ll explore on this new adventure (and perhaps a little more for those who listen closely). The stage is set. The Dread Wolf is ready to make his move. Oh, and one last thing before I go… In summer 2024, we’ll be fully revealing Dragon Age: Dreadwolf to you! We honestly can’t wait. See you all in Thedas, — Corinne Busche, Game Director & Mark Darrah, Sr Production Advisor"

"You’ve visited the lands of Thedas thrice before in our games and many more times in comics, books, art, and short stories. This time, you’ll be venturing to places unseen and returning to places from long ago. To celebrate Dragon Age Day, we wanted to show you some of those sights. [link to new trailer] We stand on the precipice of change. This is a world brimming with stories and characters waiting to meet you. The fate of this world teeters on the edge of a knife. In past games, you only got to see a slice of the world. In Origins, it was Ferelden—a land ravaged by war and Dark Spawn. In II, it was Kirkwall and its locales—festering with corruption and a dark underworld. And in Inquisition, you ventured across much of Orlais—facing down political intrigue as often as combat."

"This time, however, much more of Thedas is yours to see. The desolate, beautiful badlands of the Anderfels with curtains of distant mountainous spires. The twisting canals and gleaming towers of Antiva, where Crows may lurk in any shadow. The turquoise seas of Rivain with its rushes of greenery and hardy sea-faring people. And of course, there’s more."

"We felt this was best for the tale we wanted to tell this time and we hope you enjoy it as much as we have! It’s allowed us to create many more locations than past games, including both some you’ve longed to go to…and some you’ve never heard of before!"

"To help capture the wonders of Thedas, we partnered with three wonderful artists from our exceptionally talented community and gave them an early look at what you’ve now seen. We’ve always been so fortunate to have such an incredibly skilled community of artists, and getting to work with these three was a true joy! We asked each of them to create a vista of one of the three regions in the video based on their interpretation of it in their own unique styles. Please enjoy their wonderful work, and be sure to send them some love when you check out their personal channels for more of their art!" [link to art]

"Turning our focus to your closest kitchen, if you’re looking for a fun gift this holiday season or want to try some Thedosian dishes yourself, we’ve got you covered with Dragon Age: The Official Cookbook: Tastes of Thedas from our partners, Insight Editions! This project was lovingly crafted by the author, Jessie Hasset, as well as members of our team who have an affinity for the kitchen and a love of cuisine."

"The cookbook features recipes suited to all skill levels, but we know that jumping in may be a daunting task for some. To help you out, we’ve partnered with MisoHungrie, a wonderful YouTuber who specializes in cooking, with a particular knack for video game and entertainment-related dishes. If you’re looking for a place to start on your culinary journey, check out his video and follow along. And be sure to let us know what you think of these Thedosian delights! In addition to this, there are two giveaways you should keep an eye out for! For the first, our friends over at Insight Editions are giving away five copies of the cookbook on their social channels, so be sure to check them out. And it doesn’t end there. For those of you who decide to try your hand at making a culinary delight from the book (including one of the ones we’ve released separately), be sure to follow our own Dragon Age social channels for the second giveaway. Keep an eye out for the opportunity to submit your creation for a chance to win a BioWare Gear Store package, including the brand-new Morrigan romance bundle! Details on that giveaway will be posted next week."

"As we mentioned earlier this year, we’ve partnered with Dark Horse to create a digital package of all their comics for Dragon Age and Mass Effect on Humble Bundle. Visit the Humble Bundle page to find out how our partners are working to support Child’s Play, an organization that seeks to make the lives of children in hospitals more comfortable through the enjoyment of games. There’s no better time than the holidays to bring a smile to someone’s face. BioWare is also supporting a few local charities this month that focus on helping the most vulnerable in our communities via food banks. This includes the Edmonton Food Bank, the Greater Vancouver Food Bank, Les Banques alimentaires au Québec, and the Central Texas Food Bank. All of them provide food to thousands of people each month and rely on kindhearted donations and volunteers. If you’re wanting to give back this holiday season, please consider supporting Child’s Play or donating to your local food banks. Many communities also accept non-monetary donations of canned, dried, and packaged goods, clothing, and other useful supplies. However you choose to support those in need, know that every bit helps and can make a big difference in someone’s life, whether they’re in your community or around the world."

"An insult that he took as a badge of pride. An insult to inspire hope in his friends and fear in his enemies. That is what Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, truly is. Not a man who sees himself as evil, but someone who believes he’s fighting for a good cause and is willing to get his hands dirty. This long-awaited chapter of Dragon Age is fast approaching—the time close at hand. We’ll see you next summer with answers to your questions, including ones you have yet to ask. With that will come our full reveal including new trailers, gameplay, and—of course—the long-awaited release date. The Dread Wolf will rise once more and we’ll have much more to share with you as we approach Summer 2024. Please keep an eye on our social channels for all the latest information on Dragon Age: Dreadwolf’s reveal and beyond. Know this, though: The Dread Wolf has not been idle these past years. His reach is far, and soon his plans will come to fruition—a cataclysmic rejoining of magic and realms hundreds of years in the making. Will you be able to stop him? We hope so. Always believing in you,             — The Dragon Age Team"

[source and full post]

[marigold-hills]

Oh I am so jumping in here.

Can you give us a dreamy summer wolfstar first kiss/get together, but put it in YOUR nostalgic summer. Like whatever that means for you. Where are they? What are they eating/drinking? What is the air like? The lighting? The smells and sounds?

I humbly bow before your altar take my compliments on your prose and pacing and metaphors as my offering 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

Hey! Loved this ask. It completely run away from me. Hope you enjoy it! (Also you said altar and offering and well. Those words clearly stayed with me.)

It’s wine and bread, a fancy cheese selection from Tesco’s. A little plastic pot of olives. No blanket, because they’re not tourists and don’t mind a bit of sand as seasoning.

The storm is coming in.

They can see it, across the vastness of water, darkening the horizon and stretching through the sky like spilled ink.

Recreating exactly how it was the first time, years ago:

Remus had said there’s a storm tonight. We should go and watch it.

On the beach? Sirius had asked, a bit bewildered. The wind was already picking up, and the logistics of sitting out in the open during a downpour didn’t enamour him.

Remus, undeterred, prepared a backpack. I know a place, he said, we’ll be hidden from the rain. Trust me?

And Sirius did: with his life, with his time. Followed him off the main promenade and across the dunes until they reached a hidden spot of sand: a bay, of sorts, with a railway bridge backed into the cliff side. The arches of its support beams only faced open towards the water, secluded otherwise by brick and clay.

“Used to come here with da, when I was a kid,” Remus told him: “there are fossils in the clay if you know where to look. Come out after heavy rain best, maybe we’ll find something tomorrow.”

They set up under one of the arches. Remus built a stone circle at the mouth of it, stacked it with sticks and driftwood he’d collected on their way. Set a crumpled wad of receipts from his pocket on fire and used it as kindling.

“Impressing me with your caveman skills here, Moony.” Sirius had known, of course, that wild streak within Remus, seen it shine through sometimes when he let his guard down, but this was something new. Large hands stoking the flame as it slowly engulfed the given wood, eyes alight with its reflection. Sirius felt a pull at his navel like a fishhook: handle me like this, the pull said.

He’d made a mistake, maybe, following Moony back to his parents’ house for the summer after their graduation. A miscalculation of how much he could stand watching him, in the summer heat, with sea breeze curling his hair.

Red wine, a couple paper cups. Sirius didn’t like it then yet: not like he pretended to, and it was a cheap bottle from the middle shelf. The aftertaste was sharp, it stayed on his tongue and the insides of his cheeks - dry, clinging.

Cheeses Remus had cut into cubes. Pungent Stilton with dark blue veins, Brie, white skin coating the creamy interior, fruity Wensleydale filled with cranberries.

They sat side by side by the fire as the storm hit. The rain a heavy curtain in front of them, the wind making their fire dance erratically. Sirius had never seen it like this, surprised by the intensity of the smell of salt in the air. Despite the cover, a thin mist of spray hit his face when the wind blew just right.

Remus had made him a canapé of sorts, spread a chutney on a finger-torn piece of sourdough and topped it with the Stilton. He ate it in one bite. Asked for another, just like it, the taste round and warming, somehow.

“It’s the chutney,” Remus said. “There’s chilli in it. Try an olive.”

A new thing, this, being presented with food like offerings. Remus watched each bite Sirius took with an intent, as if they were eating something rare and costly. Like this, with the storm above them and the fire in Moony’s eyes, Sirius felt each mouth full was something precious, something to be cherished. A worship, and he wasn’t sure if he was the god being praised or the offering on the altar.

They’d almost finished the bottle when Remus asked want to swim? With such wonderful abandon that Sirius didn’t even hesitate. Yes, he said, and they took off their trousers and shirts and walked hand in hand into the water.

The first crack of thunder rang out when they were knee deep. Remus laughed, free and loud like a curlew, head thrown back into the falling rain. The sky turned white with the lightning and Sirius thought it’s you, that needs to be worshipped.

Moments like this, though, something Sirius didn’t know: it’s too easy, for thoughts to be said aloud.

Remus turned to him like a trap closing. “Is that right?”

“You look like a god of the sea.”

(Another break of thunder, a wave sweeping into them, rough with the storm but soft like a touch.)

Remus took his hand, pulled him further into the water. There were raindrops caught in his eyelashes, and Sirius realised I’m close enough to touch them. He did, shaky fingers, as lighting lit them up. The water made Remus’ curls heavy and darker, sat on his skin in a fine sheen. “I want to lay you out onto the sand,” Sirius thought-said, “trace the path of every raindrop.”

“You’ll be at it for hours.”

“As long as you’ll let me.”

The first time they kissed, Remus tasted like salt.

NOTES:

I feel compelled to point out: everyone. Please don’t drink and swim! Don’t swim in the storm! Especially not in the sea.

I don’t know how I didn’t realise before you’re the person who wrote The Homecoming of Sirius Black??? I LOVED it. Honestly the fact that you enjoy my writing feels like such a massive compliment.

[lilac-sweet]

Varric might still be alive and here’s why:

So this is going to sound like massive amounts of copium, but hear me out:

Why does the veil not collapse immediately after Elgar’nan’s death?

It is made out of and tied to the life force of the Evanuris, so with all of them dead it should fall, right? But it doesn’t - it holds long enough for Solas and Rook to have a heart-to-heart. So what gives? Are there some leftover life force from the other Evanuris ? Are they not as dead as we are led to believe? Falon’Din’s owl statues are certainly hinted at being somehow important since we can happen upon multiple of them and see they are tied to some sort of weird magic.

Or has the dagger preserved a fragment of those it has killed (just like it did with Mythal), and that is what’s keeping the veil up? Since all it takes to be tied to the veil is a cut (apparently), it begs the question: can a mortal be tied to the veil?

The veilguard do touch upon the subject when discussing what to tie the veil to: they come to the conclusion that it is safest to try to bind it to an elven god, since they are what it was made from in the first place. But could a mortal have worked? We don’t know. And could part of a mortal be preserved in the dagger just like the elven gods? We don’t know enough lore about what people ;(and particularly dwarves) are compared to spirits to answer that question.

Lyrium is such an interesting aspect of Dragon Age lore, and it seems to work as a vessel for spirits: it is what the ancient elves used to bind themselves to the physical world; it is what held Mythal’s spirit fragment inside the dagger; it might be what the dwarves are actually referring to when they say they “return to the stone”; it might also be why lyrium sings, and “Isatunol” would be the accumulation of dwarven spirits flowing through the rivers of lyrium within the Titans.

In that way, Varric might actually have been the first dwarf in a long time to “return to the Stone” - and what happens to Harding when she touches the dagger? She becomes something very much like a titan! Her magic might literally be Varric’s spirit coursing through her body - her body does become lyrium-infused as you see in her romance.

So is it possible a piece of Varric lives on in Harding? Absolutely. It would also be another explanation on what the Varric who visits Rook in the prison of regret actually is. If he is tied to the veil he might have had access to the prison somehow. Solas’ blood magic should have ceased by now, since any further use would be unnecessary and cruel (which would be out of character for Solas), and the only other explanation for him being there, that I can think of, would be as a guide that Rook has conjured up subconsciously and is part of the magic of the regret prison just like whichever companions you chose to sacrifice.

Helping to hold up the veil while Rook deals with Solas just sounds like something Varric would totally do (and I can’t help becoming a bit misty-eyed thinking he might be there with us in the final hour) - of course it might be Ghilan’nain’s fragment doing the heavy lifting here, but it’s not nearly as poetic.

In the ending scene we see a picture of Varric in the skies: it might be a way to honor the end of his story arc, or it might be a way to imply him watching over us still (maybe both).

It is going to be interesting to see which direction the next Dragon Age game will take: the executors and those across the sea seem to have a connection to not only Qunari and the Elven Gods, but to death as well. We hear how everything turns cold around the executors and hear the same whenever we meet a lich or Vorgoth in the Necropolis. We are also told the Watchers guard many secrets, so who knows, maybe the next game will explore more about what happens after death to the inhabitants of Thedas, and in that (lyrium) vein maybe if we’re really lucky we’ll get to dive more into dwarven lore as well.

[sam-keeper]

The Visitor aka STRIDULUM (1979)

Ha ha yeah, wooo YEAH

da daaaaa dadadaDAA DAAA DAAAAAAA DADADAAAAA DADADADADA DA DAAAAA YEAH!!!!

This is the most prog rock movie I've ever seen in my life. This is spiritually being painted on the side of a van. Does it have a good plot that makes sense? I don't know, asshole, does Emerson Lake and Palmer's seminal classic Karn Evil 9 part 2 have a good plot that makes sense? I'm telling my kids The Visitor (1979) is Star Wars.

I noticed a pattern when looking at other reviews of this film: they fall back on comparisons, as a slight. Well, it's sort of The Omen, and it's sort of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and it's sort of Carrie, and a little Battlestar Galactica and maybe The Birds... which all sounds very derivative, I suppose, until you actually a movie smashing all those things together, and realize, wait a minute, that's bonkers. It feels like critics grasp for these comparisons while foundering in The Visitor's psychedelic sea, desperate for a point of stability. None of these references offer stable landmarks, though, if you hope to predict where the film will veer next in its crazy pursuit of cool ideas and weird setpieces.

Not that the comparisons are totally off base, mind. This IS the story of Katy Collins, a Wicked Little Kid in the vein of the Omen's Damien or Carrie's... Carrie. It's just that this generic convention of the Bad Seed gets set up at the beginning of the film with a bizarre cosmic encounter between an old space wizard and an apparition of the devilish little girl in what looks like a blizzard on mars, followed by a whole ass monologue by "A Jesus Figure" about cosmic psychic spirits of good and evil dueling it out across the planets, delivered to a bunch of bald, white robed children. Hell yeah. But! But. Katy Collins is otherwise a classic, average evil psychic kid who kills people with telekinesis. And uses it to rig professional basketball matches for her shitty step dad, possibly at the behest of the satanic businessmen he answers to who are REALLY giving some serious drone hive vibes what with the way they all turn their heads at the same time. Oh and she's got a pet hawk that murders people at her behest. No, trust me though, it's a really derivative movie. Not like the movies we have now like uhhhh

[sweating] uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Better touchstones than typical blockbuster fare might be the mind-expanding chaos of paperback epics--Clive Barker's Great and Secret Show, King's Dark Tower, Morrison's The Invisibles. Here's some other fun facts: it was directed by Giulio Paradisi (it's a heavily italian production) but he directed it under the brilliant name "Michael J Paradise". The italian title was "Stridulum", which I guess is latin for something like a harsh or shrill sound or shriek, which fits the whole repeating War Between Birds motif and the use of bird cries in the soundtrack. Oh, and one of the guys playing basketball in the first scene with Katy is Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, actual famous athlete. It's sort of a bizarre and improbable movie!

But I don't think I'd be nearly so dazzled by all the crazy shit this film throws at the audience if not for Katy herself, played brilliantly by a young child star Paige Conner. She's written and performed in a way that suggests malice, yes, but a childish malice, a bit of a put-on, a belligerent front that gets more and more petulant and uncontrolled as John Huston as the space mystic Jerzy (yes) Colsowicz (get it) confronts her with the limits of her own powers. There's this sequence where Jerzy and Katy play pong against each other. Jerzy, smiling, accuses her cheating by speeding up the game with her powers. Katy, giggling genuinely, gloatingly informs him that no, she sped up the game using a switch on the game console. Later in the film she tries to drop a fire escape on his head, of course. In that conversation, though, there's this charming chemistry between them, the chemistry of a smart young person and an older adult willing to treat her, not as a peer exactly, but as a thinking being, not just a Thing to be smacked into shape. This dynamic is crucial to the climax of the film and its ultimate conviction that no matter how ghastly Katy is, there's more than just evil to her, which might not be the most seasonally horror-forward message but is honestly pretty damn refreshing. Like I don't know if The Visitor is as good a film as The Omen (ok, I know that obviously it's not) but on balance it's probably got its heart more in the right place. Perhaps notably along those lines, one of the horror subplots of The Omen involves possibility of a woman getting an abortion, whereas The Visitor explores the possibility of a woman being impregnated against her will. While it may lose out on form, The Visitor might just win the long game on its politics.

Also some shitty teens get thrown through a plate glass window, and there's a whole sequence where a big truck's lights are treated exactly like an approaching spacecraft, and it's awesome, I don't know what to tell you, I love this shit.

Read more horror reviews like this all season on my Patreon

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Thirty-Four

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Gore!, Blood, Explicit Language, Torture.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~3.8k

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The marine wharf stretches out before you, an eerie skeleton of wood and steel under the cold moonlight. The salty tang of the sea mixes with the fresh scent of sawdust. Your footsteps echo against the unfinished planks, your heart a hammer in your chest.

Collins stumbles beside you, barely coherent, his weight a burden on your shoulders. He mumbles incoherently, eyes glazed and unfocused. You drag him toward two thick support columns that rise from the ground like ancient sentinels.

Every step sends a jolt of pain through your body, but the fire in your heart burns brighter. You have learned much from the Red-Haired Pirates—knots, navigation, resilience. Tonight, those lessons will serve you well.

With a grunt, you push Collins against one of the columns. He slumps down, his legs giving out beneath him. You quickly grab a coil of rope from your bag and begin to work, your fingers nimble and sure despite the tremor in your hands.

“Stay still,” you hiss through gritted teeth, more to yourself than to him.

Collins’ head lolls to the side as you loop the rope around his wrist and secure it tightly to the column. You pull hard on the knot, ensuring it holds fast. His other arm flops uselessly until you snatch it up and bind it to the opposite column.

You step back to assess your work. Collins is now suspended between the two columns, his body forming a grotesque parody of a anatomical drawing you had once seen, Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. A drawing you had been fascinated by before your mother had promptly confiscated it. The ropes cut into his wrists and ankles, ensuring he won’t escape easily. Shanks is an excellent teacher.

A surge of satisfaction mingles with your fury. This man who sought to own you like property now hangs helpless before you. Your breaths come in ragged gasps as you tighten each knot further, making sure there’s no slack.

His eyes flutter open briefly, confusion clouding his gaze. “Elara... what are you doing?”

Your anger flares white-hot but you manage to hold your tongue and stop yourself from lashing out, working to check each knot again, tugging harshly on the ropes to test their strength.

You turn away from the limp form of Collins, your heart pounding a fierce rhythm against your ribcage. Your anger fuels growing excitement. The cool night air whispers across your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Your breaths are sharp and clear, cutting through the silence that has fallen over the deserted wharf.

The package you retrieved from your bag feels heavy in your hands. It's more than just the physical weight of the rolled-up fabric and the steel within. It's the burden of your past, the weight of your pain, and the promise of your retribution.

You unfurl the package on a nearby table, the wood rough and unyielding beneath your touch. The knives gleam under the pale moonlight, their blades a collection of silver crescents that wink at you with deadly intent. Gab's voice echoes in your mind, a ghostly presence guiding your hand as you pick up the first knife, its handle fitting perfectly into your palm.

You work meticulously, sharpening each blade with a honing stone you had the foresight to bring along. The rhythmic scrape of steel against stone is a lullaby to your vengeance, a prelude to the symphony of justice you are about to compose.

As the night wanes and the first hints of dawn paint the sky in hues of lavender and rose, you find yourself lost in thought. Each stroke of the stone against the blade conjures up images of what is to come.

You think about the ways you've been wronged, the pain he inflicted, the freedom he sought to strip away. The life he's taken. You imagine his face contorted in agony, the same expression he wore when he struck you across the face, the same look he had when he chased you down like an animal to be tamed.

The knives are not just tools of death; they are an extension of your will, your defiance, your unyielding spirit that refused to be caged by his tyranny.

You recall the lessons Gab imparted upon you, the way he taught you to hold a blade, to throw it with deadly precision, to wield it as an instrument of your liberation. How to move your wrist, how to flick and twist your fingers. The memory of his guidance fuels your determination, sharpening your focus as the dawn light dances across the honed edges of your arsenal.

You're lost in the rhythm of the stone against the blade when the first groan cuts through the stillness of the predawn air. Your heart skips a beat as Collins stirs, his movements tugging at the ropes that bind him. His eyes flutter, then open wide as realization dawns on him. He yanks at his restraints with a snarl that brings a smile to your lips.

"Who are you?" he spits, his voice laced with venom. "Release me at once, or you'll regret the day you were born!"

You pause, your finger hovering just above the edge of the blade that glints wickedly in the growing light. A smirk plays across your lips as you turn to face him, twirling the knife effortlessly in your hand. The black dress—a garment of silk and shadows—shimmers around you as you saunter toward him, each step a silent promise of retribution.

"Do you truly not recognize me?" you ask, your voice a husky whisper that slices through his threats. You trace the tip of your knife along the lapel of his uniform, the fabric parting with a soft sigh under the blade's caress. "Perhaps this will refresh your memory."

He sneers, his lip curling in disgust. "Why would I know a harlot like you?"

You laugh, a sound that cuts through the tension like a blade. "Oh, Commodore, such terrible manners! Is this how you speak to a lady?" You let the knife trace a path down his chest, slicing through the pristine fabric of his uniform with ease.

His eyes narrow, fury sparking in their depths. "You insolent—"

"Careful," you interrupt, the blade now hovering dangerously close to his throat. "Or I might think you're not enjoying our little reunion."

His frustration is palpable, radiating off him in waves. He tugs harder against the ropes, muscles straining, but the bindings hold firm. The sight of him, once so powerful and domineering, now reduced to this helpless state fills you with a dark satisfaction.

"You won't get away with this," he snarls, spittle flying from his lips.

You chuckle again, more deeply this time. "Oh, I think I will." You lean in closer, your breath warm against his ear. "You've always underestimated me, Collins."

You draw back and flick the knife with practiced ease. It slices cleanly through the fabric of his sleeve, exposing the skin beneath. A thin line of blood wells up where the blade kissed his flesh.

"Do you feel that?" you ask softly, your voice almost tender. "That's just the beginning."

His eyes widen in a mix of anger and fear. "You're mad," he hisses.

"Mad?" You tilt your head thoughtfully. "Oh no, Commodore. I'm motivated."

You move to his other side and repeat the process, your movements precise and controlled. Another slice, another thin line of blood.

"You see," you continue conversationally, "for someone who always prided himself on control and power, you're quite vulnerable right now." You run your fingers over one of the fresh cuts, smearing the blood between your fingers before wiping it on his cheek and promptly shoving his head back.

You straighten, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "Do you really not recognize me?" The words drip with amusement as you tilt your head, studying his face.

Collins' eyes flare with anger, his body straining against the ropes. "Enough of these games!" he roars, spittle flying from his mouth. "Who the hell are you?"

You step back, enjoying the moment of revelation that’s about to unfold. Your hands reach up to the black wig, fingers deftly undoing the pins holding it in place. With a smooth motion, you remove the wig and shake out your lavender hair. The silken strands cascade around your shoulders, catching the light and shimmering like a river of moonlight.

His eyes widen in shock and recognition floods his features. "Linaria?" he breathes, disbelief warring with fury.

"Aria," you correct him softly, your voice steady and cold. "Linaria Bonn no longer exists."

His face twists into a mask of rage. "You little—"

Before he can finish his insult, you step closer again, brandishing the knife with renewed purpose. You trace the blade lightly along his jawline, feeling the tremor that runs through him at your touch.

"Is this how you imagined our reunion?" you whisper, leaning in so close that your breath mingles with his. "Did you think you'd find me cowering in fear? Broken by your threats?"

He glares at you, nostrils flaring with each labored breath. "I'll make you regret this," he spits out, venom lacing every word.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Regret? No, Commodore. I think you'll find regret is all yours tonight."

The knife's tip presses against his skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood. You watch it bead up and trail down his neck with a detached fascination. His anger radiates off him in waves but now it's laced with something else—fear.

"Do you remember," you ask quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper now, "how many times I begged for my freedom in my youth? How many times I pleaded for mercy?"

He doesn't answer, his jaw set in defiance. You pull back slightly, allowing him to see the resolve in your eyes.

"You never listened," you continue, voice steady and unwavering. "But tonight... tonight you'll hear every word."

The tension between you crackles like static electricity, the air thick with unspoken threats and promises of retribution. For once in your life, you hold all the power here and it feels intoxicating.

The fabric of his jacket parts beneath your blade like water, the sound of tearing material loud in the stillness of the morning. You peel away the layers of his uniform, each slice of the knife revealing another patch of skin. His chest heaves with anger, the muscles twitching as you trace the tip of the blade over his heart.

His shirt falls away in tatters, leaving his torso exposed to the cool morning air and your cold, calculated gaze. You carve intricate patterns into his flesh, lines of crimson that bloom against his skin like grotesque flowers. The pain brings a grimace to his face, but he does not cry out. He is too proud, too certain of his own superiority. For now…

You move lower, your knife slicing through the belt and buttons of his trousers with ease. They pool around his ankles, leaving him completely vulnerable before you. His briefs follow suit, the blade cutting through the fabric as if it were nothing more than a whisper of silk.

As you work, Collins speaks, his words a mixture of fury and disbelief. "You think you're a true pirate now?" he sneers, his voice echoing off the wooden planks of the wharf. "Just a spoiled brat playing at revenge."

You force yourself to remain calm, your breathing steady despite the turmoil raging within you. Each word he speaks fans the flames of your anger, fueling your determination to see this through.

"Why so thirsty for blood, Linaria?" he taunts, his eyes glinting with malice. "You were raised to be noble, to be soft. This isn't you."

You pause, your knife hovering just above his skin. "You're right," you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. "I was soft once. But you took something precious from me, Collins."

His brow furrows in confusion, but you see the flicker of unease in his eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Your voice is steady, unwavering, as you tell him about the child you never knew you carried. The child that was lost before you ever had the chance to hold it in your arms. "You stole from me the future I could have had. A life of happiness born from love."

Collins snorts, a harsh, bitter sound. "A bastard child of a pirate? You're better off without it."

Rage boils within you, a tempest that cannot be contained and your control slips. With a swift movement, you plunge the knife into his lower abdomen. The blade sinks in up to the hilt, the impact making him gasp in pain. You twist the knife slightly, reveling in the way his face contorts, the way his body twitches against the ropes.

"That was for our child," you whisper, your lips just inches from his ear. "And this..." You pull the knife out slowly, watching as a fresh wave of blood spills from the wound. "This is for me."

You step back, your heart pounding in your chest as you watch Collins struggle against the pain, against the inevitable. His eyes meet yours, filled with hatred and disbelief. But beneath that, there is a flicker of fear. He finally realizes that he is not dealing with the naive, sheltered noble girl he once knew.

You are Aria now. And you will not be denied your vengeance.

Your wrist moves with calculated precision, each cut deliberate as you watch red bloom against his skin. The blade in your hand feels like an extension of your will, its edge parting flesh with an almost surgical precision. Death. The scent of copper mingles with the salty tang of the sea, filling your senses. Your dress, once a sleek black, now bears the marks of your retribution, each splatter of blood a testament to your resolve.

Collins' taunts are nothing more than background noise. You've learned to tune out his attempts at manipulation, focusing instead on the rhythm of your blade. He badmouths Shanks and your chosen family, but his words only fuel the fire of your determination. Each insult reminds you of the vast gulf between who he is and who you've become.

You lean in close, locking eyes with him as you carve another line across his chest. His sharp intake of breath and the tightening of his muscles feed into your sense of purpose. This close, you can see the fear lurking behind his bravado, the realization that he is powerless to stop you.

"Still think I'm just a spoiled brat?" you whisper, your voice cutting through his facade like a knife through flesh.

His glare holds no answer but defiance. "You think this changes anything?" he snarls through gritted teeth. "You're still nothing."

The knife slips beneath his skin, slicing through layers of muscle. You take your time exploring the topography of his torso with your blade, each new incision eliciting gasps and groans from Collins that spur you on.

"You talk too much," you murmur, almost to yourself as much as to him.

His face contorts through a gamut of emotions—anger, fear, disbelief—all shifting beneath the surface like shadows in murky water. His body convulses with each new cut, muscles contracting as if trying to escape the relentless onslaught.

The world around you fades into a blur of motion and sound, punctuated by the wet rhythm of the blade slicing through flesh. You're acutely aware of everything—the way his skin parts beneath the knife, the warmth of his blood spraying across your face and hands, the erratic pounding of his heart fighting to keep beating.

Even as he grows weaker and his insults turn frantic, you maintain your composure. You channel your rage into each precise movement, carving out your vengeance one agonizing cut at a time.

Finally, you step back to survey your work. Collins' body is a mosaic of pain and suffering you've inflicted upon him. His breaths come in shallow gasps; his skin is pale and clammy. There's a flicker of acceptance in his eyes as he realizes that his time is up.

Your fingers tighten around Collins' jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide with terror; arrogance replaced by dawning horror.

"Oh, no, no, no! You can't accept your fate yet," you whisper, voice chillingly calm despite the warmth of his blood coating your skin. "I haven't served dessert."

You release him with a shove, watching as his head lolls forward. Your attention turns to the array of knives laid out beside you. Each blade gleams in the dim light—a silent promise of pain yet to come.

Your hand hovers over the selection before closing around the hilt of the sharpest knife. The handle fits perfectly in your grip; its balance feels right. You turn back to Collins and let your gaze sweep over his mutilated body.

The cuts weep crimson against his pale skin. Your eyes drift lower to where he is most vulnerable—a place that once promised a lifetime of forced duty.

A slow smile curves your lips at the irony. He thought to own you for his desires but now lies exposed and vulnerable at your mercy. The power dynamic has shifted; satisfaction blooms knowing he will never wield his masculinity as oppression again. Men like him do not deserve such privilege.

With a swift motion, you bring the knife to bear on him again—tearing through muscle loudly in silence's stillness—and his screams echo off wooden planks beneath him: testament to inflicted agony by you.

You watch, almost dispassionately, as the severed parts of him fall to the ground. For a moment, they lie there, stark against the weathered wood, before a flock of seagulls descends upon them with ravenous intensity. The birds squawk and fight over their grisly prize, their beaks tearing and pulling at the flesh.

Collins' screams have turned to a wet, gurgling sound as he struggles to process the magnitude of his loss. His body convulses, blood pouring from the gaping wound between his legs. You watch, detached, as life drains from his eyes, the light within them flickering and dying like a candle caught in a gust of wind.

The knife slips from your fingers, landing on the wooden table with a dull thud. You turn away from him, your gaze drawn to the horizon where the first hints of dawn paint the sky in shades of pink and orange. The beauty of the sunrise stands in stark contrast to the horror that has just unfolded, a poignant reminder of the duality of existence.

Covered in his blood, you make your way to the edge of the dock. The salt air fills your lungs, a cool breeze tugging at the tendrils of your hair. You lift your face to the sky, allowing the first rays of the morning sun to warm your skin.

The sunrise is a riot of colors—pinks and oranges spilling across the sky like a painter’s masterpiece. Your dress, once beautiful and pristine, now clings to you in heavy, sodden folds, stained with the life that you took.

A faraway look settles in your eyes as you gaze at the horizon, your mind adrift in the aftermath of your actions. The knife lies abandoned behind you, a silent witness to the transformation you've undergone. You feel a sense of detachment, as if you're floating above it all, watching from a distance. but your heart feels so light now.

Footsteps approach from behind, growing louder and more frantic. You don't turn; you know who it is. Shanks and his crew have come for you. Their voices are a mix of concern and disbelief as they take in the scene—the mutilated body of Collins, the blood-soaked ground, and you standing amidst it all.

"Aria," Shanks calls out softly, his voice tinged with worry.

You blink, your trance broken by the sound of his voice. Slowly, you turn to face him. His eyes widen as he takes in your appearance—your beautiful dress now marred by gore, your hands still slick with blood.

"Now I am free," you whisper, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Shanks steps forward, taking your bloody hand in his. His grip is firm yet gentle, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if trying to reassure himself that you're real.

"Damn it," Yasopp grumbles from behind Shanks. "I spent all night carving Collins' name into a bullet."

The crew begins to argue amongst themselves over who was going to have the pleasure of killing Collins. Their voices blend into a cacophony of irritation and disappointment.

"Seriously, Yasopp?" Benn scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. "I had a whole plan involving some dynamite and a very inconvenient cliff."

Roux shakes his head, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. "I was gonna do it with my bare hands. Wanted to see the life drain from his eyes up close."

Shanks remains focused on you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of distress. "Aria," he calls out again, more insistent this time.

You take a deep breath, letting the crisp morning air fill your lungs. Meeting Shanks' worried gaze, you speak with conviction. "I do not regret my actions."

Relief floods his features as he moves his hand to your cheek, his thumb brushing away a streak of blood. He sighs softly before pulling you against his chest, pulling you against his warm body. You feel his face press into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp.

"Next time you want revenge, how about you ask one of us to accompany you, you nearly gave me a heart attack, treasure." Shanks murmurs softly, his fingers pressing into the nape of your neck now.

"Would you have let me?"

You feel Shanks' hesitation, his silence speaking volumes. His hand, warm and reassuring on the back of your neck, remains steady, but he doesn't answer your question with words. The answer is a silent but obvious no.

Raising an eyebrow, you pull back slightly to look up at him. His face is a mix of relief and exasperation, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he's trying to suppress a smile despite the seriousness of the situation.

Shanks sighs deeply, his shoulders sagging a bit as he shakes his head. "Treasure," he begins, his voice soft but firm, "we need to get you back to the ship."

You tilt your head in confusion. "Why?"

His eyes sweep over you, taking in the blood-stained dress and your disheveled appearance. "Because as beautiful as you are," he says with a wry grin, "you need a bath."

The words are so unexpected that you can't help but laugh, a small sound that bubbles up from your throat. Your laughter catches them off guard. The sound is light, airy, a stark contrast to the weight of the morning’s events. Shanks looks down at you, his grin widening as you turn your sights ahead. Your brightness is back.

Date Published: 8/9/24

Last Edit: 8/8/24

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[himluv]

DA Review Series: Hard in Hightown

<<< Previous Review: DA2 Character Stories

It's been a minute, but I'm back to talk about more Dragon Age Media Tie-Ins!

Title: Hard in Hightown Author: Varric Tethras (with Mary Kirby) Year Published: 2019 In-World Year: 9:33 Dragon Verdict: I mean, it's Varric doing what he does best — telling stories. At only 72 pages, why wouldn't you read it??

Hard in Hightown is a noir murder mystery set in Kirkwall. It follows Donnen Bren— look, I'm going to be honest, I can't remember character names because they're all just DA2 characters with the serial numbers filed off. Varric populated his most popular serial with his friends and I absolutely love him for it.

The main character Donnen is obviously guardsman Donnic, but with some Varric flare thrown in. Carver is the rookie Donnen's been saddled with. Merrill, Fenris, Isabela, Aveline, and Hawke all make appearances.

As do The Executors. Which is the one thing that REALLY caught my attention beyond all this fun whodunnit nonsense. When do we first learn about Those Across the Sea? If I'm not mistaken, THIS book is the first time.

Of course, there are chapters of Hard in Hightown spread all over Inquisition, and the Executors are included in a war table mission, "Unmask Those Across the Sea" but... Why is the first time we learn of them in a work of fiction?

And how does Varric know about them?

Sure, they're dismissed as a sort of myth or legend, and aren't ACTUALLY in the story, but still. That's weird, right?

Anyway, other than the Executors, there isn't any lore here. It's just Varric writing "Friend fiction" as Bela would say. But what I loved most about it is that it FEELS like Varric. It SOUNDS like Varric. He even breaks the fourth wall and bungles his own 3rd person POV because he didn't want to research boats, which made me cackle (big mood, Varric).

So, hat's off to Mary Kirby. Her brilliance really shines through on this one when you stop to think about it. She's writing Varric writing Donnen and it's absolutely stunning work.

And it's just plain fun!

[shieldkeeper]

Writing Prompt: Steer Word Count: 765 ---> masterlist

Ahhh… blue seas, clear skies, and boundless possibilities!

Or so it should have been.

Garen’s crew had set off from Old Sharlayan once all crew was accounted for. Everyone had their own place, their own duty, and their hull full of supplies for the journey that would take a few days to cross the ocean proper. They were as ready as they’d ever be to make for the New World of Tural.

Joining him was Emrys, Totsuka, Kojin, Luin, Mogcan, Olyxio, Seiseito, and most of all his Da, Yavin. Each associating and serving as ambassador for a specific society tribe to foster friendly relations amongst their people. Tural was but another place on the docket to complete that mission, though it was also for the fact of… adventure! A land full of mystery and intrigue compared to those of Eorzea and Othard. Tale was that Tural was home to many communities and tribes that had managed to make friends with their neighbors and live amicably.

Something that intrigued Garen most in his desire to bridge that same gap back home.

Though that was neither here nor there given their… current situation.

Halfway into their journey across the western seas did they encounter a storm unlike other. Yavin had been the first to sniff it out before it so much as came into view and warned Garen that they were in for a rough one. Trusting in his Da’s knowledge and experience with the seas, as captain of his crew he called for all hands on deck. To prepare for the worst as he would steer the boat on course—for the clouds they approached spread far over their path.

Indeed, the waves grew choppy and seized round them as they entered the fray. The unexperienced of the crew holding on for dear life to their appointed spot as the vessel swayed unnaturally beneath their feet. Rain poured heavily and lightning struck hazardly all around them. One wrong move and they might very well go overboard. Worse yet if their ship ended up struck and sunken!

Through it all, Garen managed to carry them through the storm. His Da barking orders to the others much like he had in his heyday as a captain himself. Where some struggled, Yavin was right there telling them what to do. Any who appeared to have no clue what they were doing, he sent down into the ship to instead fortify their belongings and nothing of import broke—though it was mostly to get the useless hands out of the way so he himself could take over.

It was an all-out effort to be certain… and there were times Garen wondered if he might have lost a crew member amidst the struggle…

But ultimately they had escaped rather unscathed! 

Well, except for the majority who were sick as a dog from being tossed and turned all over the place.

Once they were free of the storm’s clutches completely and able to assess damages, Yavin took over the helm as Garen checked in on each member. Mogcan and Olyxio having been the most useless of the lot (and at times, made things worse) had remained below deck for the majority. Out of fear of the situation, they had unglamoured back into their original forms and were found huddled together beneath a blanket as sylph and moogle refused to come out. Not until they knew all was well again. It was Emrys who truly kept everything safe and restrained below decks in the grand scheme of things.

Kojin and Seiseito had held their own above decks just fine. Luin and Totsuka struggled but ultimately were able to assist in a meaningful way with Yavin’s direction—though they may have been a bit too sick for words after being tossed about so roughly. Garen thanked them all regardless for keeping their cool and relieved them of their duties to get some rest.

Through the rest of the journey, Yavin and Garen took turns manning the wheel and watching for any further rough waters that might take them for a turn. Though it had been a rough one, it had been the only thing standing in their way of Tural.

For the closer they got, the clearer the waters became. Seabirds ringing in their arrival as Tuliyollal came into sight. Their destination just beyond the coral reef.

At long last, the New World lay right before their very eyes. A new place to call home as they settled in for their next grand adventure. And a step closer to Garen achieving what he so wished back home.