#DA2 Fanfiction

[littlelostmabari]

WIP Wednesday

I'm in orientation for my new job, so One of the Good Ones is late! I'm about halfway done with this chapter and I'm very proud of this interaction, where Saoirse uses a divination ritual to reach beyond the Veil.

Tagging @weaveandwood @mumms-the-word @gale-force-storm @sorceresssundries and @alpydk

Also @miradelletarot I love you and hope you are doing well. I'd love to see what you're working on but no pressure <3

Also @orangekittyenergy is making me some BEAUTIFUL artwork for this story, I am so excited! Stay tuned :D

(Dividers by cafekitsune)

"One of the Good Ones"

(DA2/DAI x 5e/Forgotten Realms: Cullen x OC : in progress) Check out the story on AO3! (Rating: M)

The faun was right. There was really only one question that she wanted to ask. "For what purpose was I brought… or… sent here, to Thedas? To Kirkwall?" The faun's smile grew a little, and eyes narrowed. Saoirse thought it might have been approval, or perhaps pride that she got the question right. Then a boisterous laugh, and the faun clapped their hands together and began to dance and sing, the melody beyond Saoirse's hearing. "The why you went to Kirkwall-town? Through rippled glass, and did not drown? You are tangled, muddied, strangled, but in the hands that she intended. She waits and wants for daughters still, to raise her flag, defend her will. You are needed, calm words heeded, in minds of those you have befriended."

[teine-mallaichte]

I would like "needing help but being unable to ask for it" for Fenders please 😊

I feel like I keep being a bit mean to Fenris in every Fenders ask... But in my defence people keep asking me to be mean to Anders in solo pieces so I have to give him a break 😅 also he does the caretaker role so well.

So a bit of Fenris having nightmare and trying to hide it for @dadrunkwriting - I'm working on improving my ability to write the comfort part of hurt/comfort at the moment.

The mansion was cloaked in an eerie silence, broken only by the faint murmur of wind outside and the occasional creak of old timber. Fenris slipped out of their shared bed, careful not to disturb his partner's peaceful slumber. Night after night recently, he had found himself haunted by memories he wished would fade, nightmares that tore through his sleep.

His breaths came in shallow gasps, the remnants of his latest night terror still clinging to his senses. Images of chains and darkness, of blood and betrayal, clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to consume him once more. His fingers clenched and unclenched, as he silently descended the stairs.

Upstairs in their shared bed, Anders stirred restlessly, his hand reaching out unconsciously to find the other side of the mattress cold and vacant once again. Neither of them were strangers to nightmares, most nights one of the others sleep would be fractured, but Fenris's midnight withdrawals were becoming more common.

The faint murmur of wind outside whispered through the ancient timbers, a haunting accompaniment to the silence within. Anders lay in their bed, the covers tangled around him as he drifted in and out of sleep, his mind restless with worry. He had grown accustomed to the routine of Fenris's nocturnal wanderings, but tonight felt different. There was a palpable tension in the air, a heaviness that seemed to weigh down on him as he lay there, listening to the distant echoes of Fenris's movements downstairs.

The flickering candlelight cast shadows that danced on the walls, mimicking the turmoil within Anders's own thoughts. He knew Fenris was struggling, looking more tired with each passing day as his sleep became more and more fractured. It pained Anders to see his partner suffer silently, to witness the haunted look that sometimes lingered in his eyes even in moments of supposed tranquility.

A part of Anders wanted to rush downstairs, to wrap Fenris in his arms and whisper soothing words until the nightmares retreated. Yet another part hesitated, held back by Fenris's independence and the walls he had painstakingly built around himself. He respected his partners boundaries, understood the scars that ran deep beneath the surface.

As minutes stretched into eternity, Anders finally couldn't bear the distance any longer. With a sigh, he pushed the covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards creaked softly under his weight as he padded barefoot across the room, the chill of the night air kissing his skin.

Downstairs, Fenris paced the dimly lit corridor, his steps echoing hollowly against the aged floorboards. Each stride felt heavier than the last, burdened not only by the weight of his memories but also by the knowledge of his own inability to ask for help. He longed for the solace of Anders's presence, yet the thought of burdening him, of being vulnerable, weak, held him back.

Anders paused on the stairs, his heart heavy with concern as he watched Fenris's silhouette pacing back and forth. He could feel the palpable tension radiating from Fenris, a silent cry for help that went unspoken yet echoed loudly in the stillness of the night.

With a deep breath to steady himself, Anders continued down the stairs, "Fenris," he called out gently, breaking through the silence.

Fenris froze mid-step, his muscles tensing as he turned, "Anders," Fenris replied quietly, as he averted his gaze, "I did not intend to wake you."

Anders approached Fenris cautiously, his eyes filled with concern as he closed the distance between them. "You didn't," he replied softly, "but I couldn't sleep knowing you were down here alone."

Fenris shifted uncomfortably, "I'm fine," he muttered.

Anders stopped in front of Fenris, his expression unwavering despite Fenris's attempt to deflect. "You don't look fine," he said gently, reaching out a hand but hesitating just before making contact, waiting for permission. He knew Fenris's boundaries well enough not to overstep them, especially in moments like these.

Fenris met Anders's gaze briefly before looking away, his jaw tight with unspoken turmoil. He knew Anders could see through his facade; there was no hiding from someone who knew him as intimately as Anders did.

"I had another nightmare," Fenris finally admitted, his voice quiet, as if confessing a weakness he had long tried to conceal.

Anders's heart sank at Fenris's admission, his concern deepening as he witnessed the vulnerability that Fenris rarely allowed himself to show. He resisted the urge to pull Fenris into an embrace, knowing that such gestures could either be welcomed or rejected fiercely depending on Fenris's state of mind.

"You are allowed to talk to me you know?" Anders spoke slowly, considering his words, "To tell me if you need help, support... comfort."

Fenris hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floorboards beneath his feet, grappling with the conflicting emotions stirring within him. For a few moments he looked almost lost, as of Anders was expressing a foreign concept.

Anders's words hung in the air, gentle yet laden with the weight of their unspoken implications. Fenris stood before him, caught between the comfort of Anders's presence and the walls he had meticulously erected around his vulnerability. His shoulders tensed as he struggled with the conflicting desire to open up and the ingrained instinct to retreat into solitude.

"I..." Fenris began, his voice betraying a hint of hesitation. He glanced up briefly, meeting Anders's concerned gaze before looking away again. The vulnerability of admitting his struggle gnawed at him, but so did the longing for relief from the relentless nightmares that haunted his nights.

Anders waited quietly, as he reached out tentatively, his hand hovering in the air between them.

Fenris's gaze flickered to Anders's outstretched hand, a silent invitation to bridge the gap between them. With a trembling breath, he allowed himself to reach out, his fingers intertwining with Anders's in a silent plea for understanding and support.

Anders's touch was warm and reassuring, grounding Fenris in the present moment and easing the grip of his nightmares on his mind. "It's not weak to ask for help, Fen," Anders said softly, his voice filled with sincerity.

Fenris's grip on Anders's hand tightened slightly, his fingers seeking solace in the warmth and reassurance of their connection. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to lean into the comfort offered by Anders, feeling the weight of his burdens ease ever so slightly in the presence of someone who truly cared.

"I know," Fenris whispered.

Anders nodded understandingly, "Are you ready to come back to bed?"

Fenris hesitated, torn between the familiarity of solitude and the longing for Anders's comforting presence. His fingers tightened briefly around Anders's hand as he nodded.

Anders led Fenris back upstairs, their footsteps quiet on the worn floorboards. Climbing back into bed, Fenris allowed himself to lean into Anders's embrace, seeking comfort in the warmth of his presence. Anders wrapped his arms around Fenris, holding him close as they settled back into the familiar rhythm of their shared space.

[greenapplespider]

Samson/Bethany from Dragon Age

Interesting rare pair. Rating cute but tragic.

Prompt follows as such: Bethany and Samson start a bit of a romantic fling in act one. Samson catches feeling for Bethany rather hard and the fact that she doesn’t come back from the deeproads hits him like a truck (if they existed in Thades). He spirals hard into depression and his lyrium addiction.

Making the song of red lyrium all the sweeter, by Inquisition, because what else is left for someone as pathetic as him?

[ephemeronidwrites]

Into My House You Walk Uninvited

Chapter 12 of The Knotted Path

Summary:

Much to the chagrin of both Hawke and Fenris, Anders simply cannot keep his hands to himself.

Content warning:

Content warning for depictions of well-meaning people acting with a poor understanding of boundaries, as well as canon-informed misogyny, homophobia, fantasy bigotry against mages, and racism that’s both setting-bound and true-to-rl. Much of the chapter also centers around a scene taking place at a public bath where all the nudity is nonsexual, but where the subtext also doesn’t skimp on dealing with themes of toxic masculinity and the corresponding fear (justified or not) of objectification / predation.

Excerpt:

“Blondie!” yelled Varric. “We took care of the demons last night, all right? So you can cool your heels! They won’t be back for a while now, at least according to what Hawke—”

“These are open configurations!” Anders’s voice rose to a high-pitched shriek. “They’re designed to pull spirits through at regular intervals—”

Fenris rounded on Hawke.

“You did not tell me that you had another mage amongst your associates,” he accused.

“Ah, that’s—”

Hawke was robbed of the chance to explain, however, as just at that moment she heard Anders’s voice grow deeper and more booming. She whipped around her head just in time to see hairline cracks appear across the surface of his skin, the unearthly light of the Fade shining out from underneath as if filling him from the inside out, threatening to slough off the mortal shell that could barely contain it.

“Venhedis kaffan vas—” she heard Fenris hiss under his breath.

“Not fucking again,” Carver moaned.

But it was too late. Before any of them could react, Justice was standing there, resplendent in all his bizarre, otherworldly fury, tongues of heatless flame licking around the gaunt planes of Anders’s sunken eye sockets and cheekbones and casting eerie shadows there.

And then Justice opened his mouth to speak.

“There are many devices in this place for the seizure and expulsion of demons,” he boomed. “Something must be done about this.”

Fenris took a step forward, towards where Anders was standing. Instinctively Hawke reached out to try and yank him backwards before thinking better of it and making herself stop from laying hands on him.

For the moment.

But, as if he had sensed her gesture, Fenris stopped on the spot, and leaned slightly onto his back foot, relaxing his posture a bit even.

“You are a demon,” Fenris said. If Hawke’s ears weren’t deceiving her, she could detect an undercurrent of laughter in his voice.

Justice, however, seemed to find precious little humour in this situation.

“I am no demon!” he bristled.

Varric was almost frozen in place, though he was casting anxious glances in Hawke’s direction. Hawke, for her part, had no idea how she was to respond.

Did she need to tackle the elf—this Fenris—to the ground? And so soon after they’d tried to strike up a friendship, too?

But for whatever reason, Justice seemed to think better of escalating the situation. He looked down at his own feet, then up again. And when he did, those blazing eyes bored straight into Fenris’s.

“You are not entirely wrong, mortal.”

The spirit’s voice was… no quieter now, but somehow even when it was deep and thunderous, it still managed to convey a certain timidity. Even sheepishness.

“It is not such a far step between these and what I am,” he admitted.

No sooner had Justice seemed to settle into this newest fit of melancholy than the fire behind his eyes revived and the wind surrounding whipped up again.

“And that is precisely why they need to be freed!” he declared, with equal measures of triumph and outrage.

Something about this insistence—this stubborn, repeated veering back towards a singular, predetermined object of focus—was feeling quite familiar to Hawke. And starting to explain a lot more about Anders, as well.

“It is not merely about the way my kin have been entrapped here in these… cages,” Justice went on, oblivious to the utter stunned silence of his audience. “Binding them here too long warps their nature, until they are beyond recognition and cannot be saved.”

“And what do you propose be done about it?” Fenris tossed out, in that same voice: light and measured, bordering on mocking.

Luckily—for the elf, likely enough for all of them—a spirit of the Fade didn’t seem to be well-versed enough in the subtleties of polite conversation to know when he was being disrespected.

“Dispel the bindings,” Justice rumbled, without a hint of hesitation. “Break the shackles that hold them here on a plane where they never belonged. Free them at once, as they should never have been imprisoned to begin with.”

[miarage-art]

Shackles

(I apologize for the construction of phrases and formatting - English is not my native language)

(текст на русском языке vk.com/@mia_ra_ge-okovy)

Pain.

Burning pain engulfs his entire body, biting into red-hot needles everywhere at once. Penetrates through the skin to the very bones, without leaving behind a single coherent thought. From this pain, it reduces every muscle at the same time with aching pain that does not recede, and with sharp flashes point-by-point throughout the body.

Pain.

The sound of chains barely penetrates through the fog in his head, as if his ears are stuffed with cotton, but Leto knows it's not cotton wool. Blood is pulsing in his head, surging from another flash of pain. It is buzzing in his ears with a booming, rapid pulse, echoing with a dull ringing. The elf has been standing like this for many hours — on his knees, in shackles and with his arms twisted. The shoulder blades stopped hurting a long time ago — this pain is incomparable with the one that followed with the first singing spell of Danarius.

Beads of sweat trickle down his face, burning his cracked lips with an acrid unbearable itch. But that's nothing. Leto doesn't even notice this pain, just as he doesn't notice the burning sensation from the same droplets all over his body when they slip on fresh blue-white marks from lyrium and pure magic.

"Are you satisfied, Leto?" Danarius twirls in his fingers a strange device consisting of several needles and a flask with lyrium. "You sacrificed yourself for science, for my success! This will be talked about for centuries in every corner of Tevinter!"

"I'm not doing this… for your… experiments… master…" the elf gasps with a wheeze. He takes long pauses between words to breathe, and swallows saliva. It is thick and with a taste of iron, sticks to the tongue and throat, forming a lump. The breath squeezes again.

"Oh yeah!" the magister pretends to sigh. "Your sister and mother. Don't worry, my precious wolf cub, I'll keep my word. Now they are free and can go wherever they want and do whatever comes to their mind."

Danarius comes close to Leto. For a few minutes he looks at the elf crucified by chains, whose hair has turned white from pain and magic. A day ago, this hair was such a rich black color, as if there was an abyss between them. The Magister puts his hand to the back of Leto's head, buries his fingers in his hair. Gathering them into a strong tail, he pulls his hand and throws the elf's head back. Removes sweat-damp strands of bangs from the forehead.

"There are three tiny marks left to make on your stubborn forehead, Leto." the magister chuckles. "And it will all be over."

The pain pierces the whole body again. Crackling electricity wanders from the puncture site to every single mark that was already on the body. The skin on his forehead is stretched taut, Leto feels a vibration every time the needle pierces her. It seems to him that he feels the flow of the lyrium under the skin, as it penetrates into the vessels and veins, is absorbed into every cell. Burns them from the inside, invading like a parasite.

Not even a scream escapes from the throat — the voice is hopelessly torn off — but only wheezes and moans. Consciousness slips away, fades, but before a second passes, it flashes scarlet.

The ear catches the chanting spell with which the master completes the rite.

"What a pity you won't remember what happened before today, my dear Fenris. Now it will be your name." Danarius gives the tool to the servant.

The elf looks in front of him with a bleary gaze devoid of meaning. A thin trickle of blood flows from under the nose to the lips.

"As the master commands…" Fenris breathes hoarsely.

He doesn't remember who he is. Doesn't know where he is. Vague outlines of memories say only that he is a slave and belongs to this man.

But somewhere deep inside, a tiny spark is smoldering, pulsating in time with the pain that still pierces the body, even though the rite has been stopped.

Fenris hides this spark even deeper, but does not ignore it.

One day he will let it burn up.

One day he will remember.

[yokelish]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age II Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Female Hawke (Dragon Age) Characters: Fenris (Dragon Age), Anders (Dragon Age), Marian Hawke, Varric Tethras, Orana (Dragon Age), Aveline Vallen Additional Tags: Anders is longing for Hawke, Unrequited obsession, Unrequited Love?, Fenris is also longing for Hawke, Requited Love, Fenris and Anders do not get along and never will, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Purple Hawke Summary:

Hawke survives the dual with the Arishok. But while the new Champion is recovering, conversations take place in her room. Conversation she is not a part of, but all care about her.

[spainkitty]

Shortest and Final Part of my little show-n-tell, a little time skip to after finding the Grey Wardens and Carver gone with them. Blatantly Handers. Mutual, dumbass pining ftw

Oh Fuck, The Deep Roads Part 3

Part 1 / Part 2

Hawke stared at him. She hadn’t slept in at least 24 hours. She was filthy. She was wearing Varric’s jacket to cover the giant holes in her shirt. She had almost died. So maybe she was dreaming it.

“He lived, Hawke. He’s… well, sleeping is the nice word for it, but he survived. He’s a Grey Warden now, Maker help the poor sod,” Anders reiterated, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

“He’s alive. He’s alive!” Hawke leapt onto Anders, arms thrown around his neck, balancing on her toes so she could put every bit of strength in her hug. “He’s alive because of you, thank you!”

“I just carted him to a bunch of Wardens. I didn’t--” Anders tried to point out, arms automatically around her waist as he smiled tiredly at her enthusiasm.

“No, shut up, he’s alive because of you. Thank you,” Hawke said, pulling back far enough to meet his eyes. She grinned, then kissed his cheek, firmly but briefly. “Thank you.”

“You forgot the part where he saved you, Birdie,” Varric said, smirking at Anders’ flummoxed expression.

“Oh, right!” She leaned up to kiss Anders’ other cheek. “Tell Justice one of those is for him, too.”

“Uh. Okay?” Anders stammered.

“Great. Everyone lived,” Fenris yanked Hawke away from Anders, making her yelp in surprise, and hauled her towards the bedroll she’d never gotten around to lying on. “You need sleep. We still have a long way to go and I don’t want you getting yourself killed again.”

“Is it killed again if I didn’t technically die the--I’ll shut up now,” Hawke said quickly, hands up in surrender, when all three men glared at her. She all but flopped onto the bedroll, groaning slightly when the solid rock beneath her admittedly too thin bedroll made her still tender torso ache.

Carver was alive. She pressed her face into the threadbare lump of a pillow, grinning in relief. He’s alive. He’ll be a Warden, a hero. Maybe he’ll finally find his own feet, and when they meet again one day, they’ll find a way to be better. Better siblings. Better friends.

The other three were talking quietly near the fire behind her as she settled more comfortably. She didn’t bother trying to figure out what they were saying, probably looking at the maps and planning out a course. For once, she didn’t feel like being in the middle of it. She was tired and so so relieved. She wanted to lay there and feel like it was all going to work out.

The murmur of Anders’ voice broke her reverie. Slowly, so they wouldn’t see her moving, Hawke lifted her hand and touched her fingertips to her lips. If she tried hard enough, she could remember the fleeting burn of his facial hair, hear the quietly surprised inhale, and the weight of his arms around her waist to hold her steady. She smiled, small and secret, heart thumping.

He had made it clear that only the thinnest and most innocent teasing was allowed. Even then, he would stop sometimes, pull away, shut down and shut her out.

Maybe a year ago, we could’ve had something…

She pressed her fingers harder against her lips. Her eyes squeezed shut.

At least she could keep this. A few innocent cheek kisses done in sheer relief. She hadn't even really thought about it before doing it, but in hindsight it had her spinning. Aching. There wasn’t anything too bad about it... right? The memory of his voice in her ear calling her 'sweetheart' and that kiss on her forehead were also hers to keep. Stolen moments in the depths of the Deep Roads and terror. She should feel more guilty for treasuring them, for repeating them over and over in her head, for rubbing her fingertips over her lips. But she didn’t.

[eliradear]

Burnt to Flesh, Burnt to Soul

https://archiveofourown.org/works/35363050/chapters/88140937

What's the recipe for Heartbreak: Part Two? Hawke isn't sure he wants to know, but boy, is he about to find out.

This is gradually turning into a Fenris x Hawke drabble collection. [Reblogs are <3]

[house-of-hoerrors]

the rot seeps deeper .

Warnings: descriptions of blood && gore, canon-typical violence, minor body horror. Summary: DA2-based, set during Bait and Switch in Act I ; a half-elf half-Qunari hunter chases down a lead that a Tevinter magister is rumoured to be in Kirkwall after an escaped slave. Word Count: 8,287

It was too damn cold in the Free Marches.

This wasn’t where Ashkaari would want to find themselves on the best of days but, well, they never chose where their leads led them. At least it wasn’t Ferelden, they reasoned. They had always hated the muck and mud that never seemed to solidify there, and its southern wilds hosted myths and legends that made their spine crawl with unease. Last year’s blight had only made things worse. If they never stepped foot in those veritable marshlands of darkspawn and backwoods sorcery ever again, it would be too damn soon.

The streets of Kirkwall were downright creepy under the veil of night. Quiet and empty, but only deceivingly so. Ashkaari knew better than to not assume there were thugs and cutthroats hiding in every shadowy corner, down every dark alley. Which was why they avoided the streets below entirely.

They let their hood fall as they scrambled across the rooftops of the City of Chains. No use hiding the curved points of their ears up here, the small horns that twisted along the crown of their head. Besides, they’d be gone by morning if all went to plan; may as well use their mixed heritage to scare the shit out of their unwitting informant.

The letter that led them here sat crumpled at the bottom of their purse, a hastily scrawled tip sent across the Waking Sea by a hawk that now soared somewhere above the bustling markets of Antiva. They would have to send Zevran a basket to thank him. Something expensive, perhaps a Qunari cheese spread? He would have gotten a kick out of that, and there would be no mistaking who had sent it.

No matter what they did, it would have to be memorable. A Tevinter magister was a rare prize, something Ashkaari had been trying to track down for years. If they could just get a foothold in Tevinter, they could perhaps stop some of its unbound cruelty.

The few whispers of use Ashkaari had managed to gather told them that this magister was pursuing an escaped slave, prized for sure if the magister had followed him all the way here. The descriptions their contacts gave were of practically no use, varied and clearly aggrandized by rumors and gossip. One claimed the magister chased not a slave at all but a powerful spirit he had summoned and failed to bind. Another swore the escaped slave was a resurrected Elvhen warrior, imbued with magical chains that shone from beneath his skin. The only throughline Ashkaari could find was that he was an elven man, which was about as useful as saying a lost Ferelden dog was a mabari.

But they had made do with less in the past, and it just so happened that an elf with strange, shimmering tattoos had been seen exchanging words and coin purses with a dwarf—Anso, they were told—in Lowtown just that morning. Ashkaari would bet just about anything that this elf and the unbound-spirit-slash-Elvhen-warrior were one and the same.

It was damn near silent when they finally skidded to a stop on a pitched roof overlooking a nearly empty market area. Merchant stalls lined the sides of the lowered street, stairs up either side leading away from the dark pitch of the stone-laid marketplace. A lone dwarf huddled among the drapes and tarps of a stall not halfway through the alleyway while a group of skulking thugs searched for him.

Ashkaari sighed before they let themselves slide over the edge of the building, a handful of throwing knives clutched between the knuckles of their free hand. None of the cutthroats even noticed them drop into the shadows between two stalls, and two fell to the ground with a glint of metal in their necks before a third finally turned with a shout. It was a quick fight, if it could even be called such. The rabble of common street thugs had fallen far behind Ashkaari’s skillset the moment the Fade staked its claim on them.

It was mostly for show when they knelt next to one of the bodies, absent-mindedly ruffling through their pockets without really looking for anything specific. "Anso, is it?" they called out as they slipped a couple sovereigns from the late cutpurse's coin pouch. "I am searching for someone, and I have been told you may know a certain glimmering elf that's after the same prey."

Anso wasn’t quiet when he emerged from his hiding spot, knocking over a bolt of fabric and cussing under his breath when he almost tripped over some rope on the ground. The dark hair and light eyes were a bit striking for a dwarf, but Ashkaari had seen all kinds over the years. They were one to talk, anyway.

They saw the moment the dwarf practically shit himself taking in their horns, understated as they were. There was no disguising Qunari lineage.

"Andraste's mercy, you—you're—"

He stumbled over his shock for a moment and Ashkaari let him, though only for a few seconds. They had an appointment to keep, after all, and it would be ever so rude if they missed their magister's execution.

"Yes, I'm Qunari," they spoke, abandoning their ruse of looting through the pickpocket's belongings to stand and face Anso. "Half, at least. No, I am not part of the Qun. Now, I'm sure I am quite exciting, but the glimmering elf? I have a limited window to catch up and I would rather not let my chance slip away. Rumors tell me you might have had some business dealings with him?"

There was a bit of shocked stammering before Anso seemed to finally catch up. To his credit, though, some people truly just could not get past the horns. "Oh, uh, yes. He, well, I'm not sure if I should—ah, I mean, he was rather specific that he wanted the person I hired not to know but I guess you're not the person I hired, so I'm not really breaking the deal, am I?"

He paused as if waiting for an answer. Ashkaari took a breath before they simply said, "No."

"Right, right, exactly!" he continued as if Ashkaari hadn't said a thing. "See, he's got some people after him, something about Tevinter slavers, nothing I really wanna get involved with. Too much trouble what with all the magic and slaves and, well, y'know?" The rambling was starting to wear on them, every wild flail of the dwarf's hand making their eye twitch. "But he just needed someone to act as a distraction, give him a chance to handle whatever he needed to handle. So I sent the lady Hawke and her brother to deal with it, told 'em there was a shipment I needed checked on."

Ashkaari’s ears perked up and they twitched forward slightly, instincts pricking up at the prospect of a destination, even as Anso continued on with his rambling; "They're capable though, I swear! 'm not in the business of sending anyone to their deaths, they'll be fine, plenty able to fend for 'emselves—"

They interrupted him with a wave of their hand. "Where did you send them to? Where did you say the shipment was?"

"I—the shipment? Well, I mean, it's not really mine, all just info from the elf to get them to—"

"Yes, yes, I understand the masterminding, but where did he tell you to send them?"

There was another moment of pause, during which Ashkaari swore they could hear their heart drumming in their ears. And then, finally, "Uh, just in the Alienage a few blocks down—hey, wait!"

The proverbial clock ticked away, so they barely spared the dwarf another glance as they turned on their heel, tossing a quick "ma serannas, serah!" over their shoulder along with the sovereigns they had nicked from the dead thief.

Ashkaari didn’t run into any other cutthroats on the way, thankfully, though at a dead sprint they were sure any that might have shown their pitiful faces wouldn't stop them anyway. The streets didn’t offer much direction, but they remembered the districts and general orientation well enough. It wouldn't do to lose their quarry just because they had gotten lost, so while their map of Kirkwall was tucked in the band of their belt, the contents were fresh enough in their mind for them to weave around corners without needing to check.

But, luck apparently being their enemy on this night, they were still too late. Bodies lay on the ground around a massive tree in the center of a stone courtyard. They were fresh, blood still glinting red in the moonlight, the smell of death not yet dissipated. The only living eyes Ashkaari could see hid behind drawn curtains the second they thought they had perhaps been spotted, leaving nothing but a quiet courtyard empty of any elves, shimmering or otherwise.

There was no point in trying to find a witness. If Ashkaari could even get anyone to come out of their homes to speak with them, they had no doubt that by the time they got anything useful the elven spirit and former master both would be long gone. So they were left with a last resort, one that was basically grasping at straws: the magister's mansion.

They cursed under their breath, knowing the trek up to Hightown would absolutely cost them this prize if nobody was up there. Still, they figured they truly had no other options remaining.

If it had been any other night, any other mark, they might have stopped to admire the view from the rooftops of mansions. The Waking Sea thrashed against the Wounded Coast to the south, and the jagged rocks that seemed so imposing to sail through were almost pretty from so far away. But it was not any other night, and Ashkaari already fretted that they would find nothing but a dusty mansion with no glimmering elf or soon-to-be-headless magister.

Maybe they would send Zevran a basket full of soggy sand and seawater if this did not pan out.

It was easy enough to find a window to pry open in a back alley that ran along the mansion walls. Ashkaari dropped into a room filled with dust and cobwebs, old crates and rotting wood furniture scattered around what seemed to be a storage room. They strained their ears but could hear nothing save the soft night calls of birds, city-dwelling rodents, and felines off in the distance.

An air of unease settled over them. The door creaked ominously as they pushed it open and stepped out into the hall. Instinct had them unsheathing their dagger, static crackling along their fingers and through the specially crafted metal. Magic pulsed somewhere nearby. It was a steady thrum of energy that bid the small hairs along Ashkaari’s arm stand straight, crawling up their spine and settling heavy at the back of their neck like a tensed knot of muscle and flesh.

Something was awake, of this they were certain. And they didn’t think it had anything to do with their intrusion. No, someone else was here.

Almost as if on cue, a voice echoed through the halls of the mansion from somewhere further within. Muffled by at least several walls, Ashkaari was not entirely sure what was said, but the voice was deep and angry.

Always a good sign.

Most of the doors they passed were locked. Curiosity beckoned them to pry at each one, but there would be plenty of time to explore later, when they were not on a timer. For now they went until they heard a click, a door near the end of the hallway on the opposite side from where the voice originated from. The creaking was, again, unsettling, but starting to wear off a bit. The magic was stronger here, anyway.

"Why worry about creaky doors when there's magical traps afoot," they muttered to themselves. It was a joke, they swore.

Wards Ashkaari expected, perhaps even an exploding tile or two. But what they had not expected was to take three steps into a room where they spied no hidden traps or scrawled runes, only for magic to explode around them as three demons tore the Fade open to crawl out into Thedas.

Vashedan.

Electricity lanced out at the demon closest to Ashkaari as they dodged out of its slashing claws, crackling over its body and arching to the next, blackening both of their hides from the inside out. They poured extra mana into the first strike just as it faded, and the first demon withered before it exploded in a brilliant show of sparks and static. The second lunged at Ashkaari as the third, still unharmed, slinked over to help corner them in the room. Which, while it realistically could have been worse, was really not ideal.

It was calculated when Ashkaari took the demon's slash across their face and neck. They ignored the burst of sharp pain that tore through their flesh and burned down to the bone, though the wound didn’t penetrate quite so deep, gritting their teeth to weave between the two demons. Their dagger, crackling with another lance of electricity, sliced through the unharmed demon while they dragged a bolt of lightning through the other’s charred hide. Both demons screeched as Ashkaari’s spell exploded and splattered their viscera across the room, but not before more claws dug into the back of their shoulder and sunk deep enough to touch bone. A final, parting blow.

This time they screamed and fell forward, a hot splash of gore sizzling over the wound and threatening to poison their blood before they could send a burst of healing mana through their veins. But the tide of soothing energy washed through them in time, knitting together flesh and muscle before the demons’ gunk could sink beneath the surface of their skin.

It took Ashkaari a few seconds to regain their breath, a staticky wave of red pulsing behind their eyelids before they pushed themselves back to their feet. There was a commotion somewhere close, now, perhaps just through the door on the other side of the hall. But this room had been protected; they needed to know why.

Keeping an ear out for any change in the ruckus, Ashkaari set about tearing the room apart. Dark ooze painted the walls and furniture now, though it didn’t look all that out of place among the cracked Antivan tile and termite-eaten furniture. Papers were strewn across the desk in the room, likely a study of some sort, most unreadable now that they were soaked through with demon splatter.

Ashkaari almost turned away from it after a moment of riffling, figuring they could come back to salvage any useful information later, before a glint caught their eye. A dull, unpolished key ring slid out from under a leather-bound book at the corner of the desk. There were at least a dozen keys dangling from the cracked bronze circle, and they would wager that they unlocked most—if not all—the doors in the mansion.

Useful.

The ring was clipped to their belt as they turned to leave the room, making sure to wipe their dagger off on a rotting tapestry along the way. There was still a commotion across the way, and two things became clear as they stepped back into the hallway.

One: it was most definitely coming from the room just beyond the opposite door. And two: it was a fight. A rowdy one, if the shouts were anything to go by. Ashkaari didn’t hear the abject screams of horror or booming chatter of powerful magic that they would expect from a fight with a magister, however, so they wagered it was likely just another demon trap.

Maybe they had caught up with the glimmering elf after all?

This door wasn’t locked, surprisingly. Though if one was bothering to lay down some sort of demon-summoning trip wire trap, Ashkaari figured they probably would not need to lock their doors. Or at least, one was likely to think as much. Magisters were nothing if not excessively arrogant, after all.

There was shouting as Ashkaari opened the door, and they noticed just a smidge too late that there was some sort of gas trap edging along the floor. Green vapor washed out into the hallway and over their boots, eating into the leather to get to the skin below. It felt like they were pulling at tar when they went to pick their foot up off the ground, and it was only thanks to a well-aimed bolt between the eyes that the demon closest to the door didn’t get its claws on Ashkaari before they had even really joined the fight.

They swore under their breath as they stumbled into the room, much slower than usual as they fought against the acid that sucked at the bottom of their boots. It was already starting to eat through the soles enough in some spots that they could feel the acid nip at their skin.

They needed to get the fuck off the floor.

There were stairs just to the left of the door, behind which Ashkaari could see a few others fighting off the handful of demons that blocked an easy passage up that way. The rest of the room was an open expanse, some sort of grand entry. The stairs on the opposite side of the room were empty, but far enough that they were not sure they would have feet to climb them by the time they got there. Which meant that they would have to be creative.

It took two steps for Ashkaari to get close enough to grab at the demon closest to the bottom of the stairs. There was more shouting, some of it perhaps directed at them, but they were no help to anyone until they got their boots free of the acid trap.

The demon lashed out as Ashkaari yanked it back hard enough to set it off balance. Claws sliced open new slashes on their cheek all the way through to the gums in their mouth, and they could taste bile on their tongue. But it was enough to give them the leverage they needed, so it was a fair trade in their book. They could handle claw marks, but regrowing their feet was beyond their (admittedly limited) healing capabilities.

As the demon stumbled back into the room, Ashkaari used the momentum to kick off its approximation of a shoulder and leapt at the wall along the stairs. The cloud of acid clung to their feet for a moment in an attempt to suck them back in before it lost grip. Their dagger sunk into a crack in the stone and another demon got a slash on their leg before they managed to shove off towards the balustrade across from it. It was clumsy and graceless, but it got Ashkaari out of the acid carpet and ahead of the demons.

They didn’t bother healing this time, bounding up with a ready crackle of lightning at their fingertips after they rolled onto the first landing where the defending group had been pushed back. There were four figures standing on the stairs, a human and an elf holding the demons off in melee while a dwarf and another human more stood to the back, covering the warriors with crossbow and magic. The elf at the front—more glowy than shimmery, Ashkaari would say—barely spared them a glance, but the human next to him looked at them as if they had sprouted a second head. They figured their small horns and unmistakably elven build were a fairly close approximation of that to most people.

"Demons first, talk later?" Ashkaari was already weaving between the two warriors even as the human nodded, somewhat dumbly, but they figured he got the idea.

This fight left Ashkaari bruised and sore, even after they caved and washed themselves with healing magic halfway through. Demons were always a pain, especially when they were specifically summoned as a deterrent.

By the time the last demon fell, Ashkaari and the two warriors stood on the first set of stairs while the other two others were at the topmost landing. Four pairs of eyes came to rest on Ashkaari, two from either side. There was only a moment of uncertainty, but then the elf was at their side in a flash of blurred blue light that left them dizzy, greatsword drawn to their chest. He glared at them harshly enough that they felt a bit intimidated despite their higher ground.

"Who are you?" It was less a question and more a growl.

Ashkaari lifted their hands in surrender, looking down at him with an even stare. They knew better than to offer pity or sympathy to someone like this, brash and bluster that would sooner tell them to fuck off than accept their assistance if he thought it came from a place of condescension.

"You're after your old master, are you not? An escaped slave, you—"

The blade pressed closer against their chest, threatening to draw blood even through leather as he jerked forward and sneered, "I am not a slave."

Ashkaari took a breath before they answered, nodding. "Yes," they started, keeping eye contact. "I know, my apologies. I am after the magister that's after you. I heard you were here, perhaps baiting him out, so I thought I might offer my help."

"You're hunting a magister?" This was from the woman, a mage, that had stepped closer to where Ashkaari still held their hands up at sword point. She had an accent, Ferelden if Ashkaari were to guess. "What for?"

"It's what I do. I am a hunter."

"Like a slave hunter?" the other warrior, apparently also Ferelden by his similar cadence, asked.

"No," Ashkaari answered, shook their head as much as they dared with the elf's sword still threatening to cleave them in two at the barest hint of a threat. "More like a slaver hunter." They turned back to the elf, then, held his eye even as he tried to burn through their head with just his gaze. "If you do not want my help that is one thing, but you do not have to hold me at sword point to get your answers. If you have questions, just ask them."

The elf finally seemed to take a breath, his shoulders relaxing a bit as he pulled his sword away and sheathed it again. "You are right, I apologize. I don't mean to seem ungrateful for your help just now, or your offer to aid with Danarius. You came from further within the mansion, so I assumed you were one of his soldiers."

Ashkaari nodded at his explanation, less interested in pleasantries than their quarry. "I tried to track you down through Anso, but I got where he sent your hirelings too late. I thought coming here was as good a backup plan as any, so I slipped in through the back."

"You spoke with Anso?"

"Yes, briefly. Jumpy dwarf. I found him hiding from a group of cutpurses in Lowtown." They paused to wipe their hands on their breaches, stepping to the side as the mage and bowman stepped down to join them. "I am Ashkaari."

"I'm Hawke," the mage introduced, then gestured over her shoulder to the dwarf as he clicked his crossbow into place on his back. "That's Varric—"

"How do you do." He tipped his head at Ashkaari with a crooked smirk.

"—my brother, Carver—" The other Ferelden, who definitely bore a family resemblance, gave them a gruff nod and crossed his arms while he tried to look sullen. "—and Fenris."

The elf barely tilted his head to one side as a greeting, but Ashkaari had no quarrel with forgotten politeness, given the circumstances. "Fantastic, lovely to meet you all. In all honesty, though, I was more interested in beheading a magister tonight than making friends, so, shall we?" This got something of a grin from Fenris, even as he turned to lead them up the stairs after taking the scavenged keys from them.

But Ashkaari already knew that their luck was sour tonight. They should have seen it coming, really.

A horrible screech echoed through the room just as Fenris pushed the door to the main bedroom open up on the top landing. If the creaking doors made their hair stand on end and the demon trip wires settled a knot on the back of their neck, this sound paired with the vile magic that washed over them was a full-on fucking panic attack. It prickled at their skin, even just its presence stinging over every goosebump and settling into their bones with a pulsing ache.

Ashkaari’s eyes watered and their nose burned when they turned to face the summoned demon along with the others. Shades flanked it on either side, rushing up the stairs to meet them.

The Arcane Horror hovered over the railing of the main landing, tattered robes that dripped blood and other viscera onto the tile below hanging off its emaciated frame. Rotting gray skin clung to desiccated muscles and chipped bone. Its cheeks were sunken and hollow, and shards of a shattered jaw stuck out from beneath the skin, poking through in some places and leaking a thick, viscous liquid down its neck. Where its eyes should have been were two hollow, empty holes that seemed to suck the very light out of the air around them.

Ashkaari heard Hawke mutter something along the lines of "here we go again" as they all unsheathed their weapons and readied for battle. Ashkaari had never fought an Arcane Horror before. Heard of them, sure. Listened to horror stories from disfigured survivors, absolutely. Seen the carnage they wreaked, yup. But actually fought one? This was a first.

They were going to need a gods damned miracle.

It was clumsy, at first. Ashkaari was not used to fighting with others, certainly not those who were barely past strangers. They kept getting in each other's way, nearly exchanging blows as if the stand-off on the stairs had ended differently. It was all Ashkaari could do to avoid the demons, the Arcane Horror's blasts, and all the magic, crossbow bolts, and greatswords flying around.

But despite the uncoordinated nature of their attack, they managed to land a few not-nothing blows on the Arcane Horror. It looked at least mildly injured, and the three melee fighters each had splatters of viscera painting their faces to prove it. It probably would have been fine if the damned thing had just stayed put.

There was a distortion in the air, something cracked, and space bent around itself before the Arcane Horror disappeared. The stench of death and decay permeated the air where it once hovered, and demons surged up the stairs to take its place. Ashkaari almost sent up a thanks to Andraste or the Maker, whoever might be listening, before they realized how stupid that would be.

They heard Varric shout, "it's down by the door!" before a burning hand wrapped around Ashkaari’s forearm and yanked them out of the way of a bolt of pulsing black magic. They stumbled against Fenris' chest as Carver cleaved the demon that tried to lunge at them, yelling about needing to take the fucker out.

Maker, Ashkaari could not have agreed more.

They steadied themselves when Fenris let go of their forearm but stayed by his side as they slashed at another demon. They had to yell to be heard over the chaos of battle; "If I can give you an opening, do you think you can get down there and cut that thing in half?"

Fenris grunted as he pushed a demon over the balustrade with the blunt edge of his sword, not even sparing Ashkaari a sideways glance as another came up to replace the first. "Yes."

Simple, easy, to the point. Perhaps Ashkaari could stand fighting alongside others after all. In truth the issues usually stemmed from the fact that most did not know how to answer a question in two syllables or less.

They only spared Hawke and Varric a quick glance, ensuring they hadn’t been swarmed with demons just yet. Carver and Fenris seemed capable enough to keep the shades at bay, and they had no doubt that the horde would be leagues easier to deal with once the Horror was gone.

Unfortunately for Ashkaari, there was a wall of said demons blocking the way to said Horror. It was not quite what they wanted, but it looked like they would have to take one with them.

They ducked under Carver's sword as he decapitated one of the shades, then charged at one close to the railing. The two toppled over the edge in a tangle of slashing claws and dagger, electricity sparking around them and cracking open the demon’s black hide. Ashkaari managed to push the thing under them before they landed. It exploded into a puddle of splattered gore that covered their forearms and shins, sticking to their skin like it was trying to find a way inside.

It took Ashkaari a moment to realize they had been screaming the whole way down. Dramatic, at least. Maker, they hoped that looked cool.

They didn’t get a chance to dwell on it, however, because there was another bolt of decrepit magic flying at them before they even had a chance to lift from the crouch. It flew just past their face as they threw their body to the side, catching and withering the skin around the shallow cut it traced across their cheekbone. They would have to deal with that later, but for now Ashkaari let the magic seep into their cheek and the muscle below. Healing had never been their strongest use of magic, and they could feel themselves running out of restorative energy just resisting the rot from the Horror’s spell.

“Merde, merde, merde,” they repeated the curse under their breath as they weaved back and forth, jumping over and ducking under blasts of necrotic energy.

Damnit, they needed a plan. Keeping it firing on them was one thing; it was another entirely to give Fenris a complete distraction so that he had an opening to cleave it in half. They would only get one shot at this thing, it had to be a killing blow. There was barely a moment for them to think, though, let alone breathe and look around. It was all they could do to avoid a shot of rotten, necrotizing magic right between their eyes.

Ashkaari’s dagger did not do much of anything, slashing at tattered robes and decayed skin, and their lightning didn’t seem to be doing much more than pissing the Horror off. Perhaps making it twitch just a little, which really was the opposite of helpful because they could swear its blasts were getting more unpredictable.

Phenomenal.

They could feel the rot eating away at their face, trying to seep deeper and claim more flesh even as their mana pulsed against it. Maybe it was stubbornness that kept them from washing it away with a tide of restorative energy, or maybe they were smart enough to know it would get worse.

Ashkaari jumped back to their feet after rolling halfway across the room to avoid several rapid-fire blasts of necrosis, using the momentum to fling a lightning-imbued throwing knife right between the Horror’s eyes. Their fingers splayed out to push a gust of air behind the knives in the hopes they would make it past the demon’s defenses. But then they blinked, and the room spun again as they were yanked back by the force of something (their own throwing knife) ripping straight through their palm.

Waves of necromantic mana flooded into them, circling their veins and crawling up their wrist. Tendrils of black spiderwebbed across their skin under the bandage wrapped around their hand and forearm, a physical manifestation of the spell that threatened to overtake them.

This healing was painful. Ashkaari’s brand glowed under the fabric covering their wrist, hues of deep red and purple crisscrossing into the symbol of a promise made not but five years ago. Ashkaari screamed as they clawed their way back to their feet, and pulses of mana emanated from them like a beacon on the shore. They sneered at the Horror even as the skin on their face stretched and contorted, cracking gray and black rot brightening into smooth pink that would take days to fade into the right color. Sinew and tendons in their hand twisted around each other to reform bonds between delicate bone and cartilage.

Adrenaline pushed them farther, faster, darting back and forth and circling around the Horror as they forced it away from the wall and closer to the center of the room. But it was that whisper in the back of their head that solved the puzzle for them, even as they missed the opportunity with their own eyes.

A blast of rotten magic, bigger than the rest—more akin to a fireball than a blast, really—forced Ashkaari to scurry up the wall over the main entrance. Their dagger sliced the tapestry that they clung to as they struggled to shimmy up high enough and grab at the wooden support it hung from. But the fabric was already worn and falling apart, nowhere near strong enough to support their weight. So instead they fell back to the ground with a tangle of thick, musty fabric threatening to trip them up.

Blind it, the voice told Ashkaari, even as they moved to mindlessly kick the ruined tapestry away.

There was no time to linger on it, not when they noticed Fenris materialize near the bottom of the stairs in a blur of blue light, demon viscera raining down behind him. He glanced over at them, the Horror between refusing to show either its back, and they gave him a quick nod.

Now or never, was it not?

The Horror was smart, knocking Ashkaari back anytime they tried to flank it and give Fenris an opportunity to cleave it in the back. But not as smart as them, because it let Ashkaari scramble up the tapestry on the other side of the door just as they did before. Metal slid through fabric like a hot butter knife, but this time they kicked off the wall with a handful of fabric when they fell, letting the Horror’s attention follow them as the dusty red silk blocked Fenris from view.

It was not much, but—thank the Maker—it was all he needed. Ashkaari’s momentum pulled them back around the Horror, wrapping it in the tatters of the tapestry they pulled off the wall, and they slid to the side as Fenris leapt over it, greatsword overhead, and brought it down with a resounding clash. There was another gush of something disgustingly hot that splattered over Ashkaari’s newly healed cheek as the Arcane Horror let out a deafening screech, and then the two halves of its body crumbled to the floor in a pile of moth-eaten fabric, dead.

The rest of the demons were easy enough without the Arcane Horror’s aura boosting their strength and resistance. They were all dispatched not a minute later, everyone panting and sweaty from the exertion.

Ashkaari’s ears rang when they stood, restorative magic finally fading away as their body pushed off the rest of the necrotic infection. Before they could even steady on their feet, Fenris stalked off into the room that triggered the trap the magister had set for intruders. Hawke followed him with just a glance at Varric, and the other two trailed after. Admittedly curious—and still yet to claim their quarry—Ashkaari followed as well.

The room was just as elaborate as the rest, though no less touched by decay and neglect. A hearth stood cold and empty on one wall, filled with ashes and half-burned logs that had been mostly finished off by termites and mildew. What had once been fine wooden furniture fared no better. Most pieces were covered in mold or moss, or had clearly been warped by moisture over the years.

Fenris stood among the destroyed finery, scowling at the room around him like it had personally offended him. He was finishing some sullen declaration when Ashkaari joined them in the room, though they caught none of it until Fenris glanced at the rest of them over his shoulder and turned to face them fully.

“I assume Danarius left valuables behind; take them if you wish. I…” He trailed off for a moment, eyes fixed on some faraway point that no doubt none of them could see if they tried. “… need some air.”

Nobody moved to stop him as he strode out of the room. Ashkaari had met many escaped slaves over the years, but this one… well, it would be stupid to point out that Fenris was different. He was dogged by rumors of spirit summonings and ancient Elvhen, and those markings in his skin had magic in them, though he was no mage. Perhaps it was a similar story to Ashkaari’s? If they knew anything of Tevinter, however, they would be willing to bet that he probably had them beat.

And then it was just Ashkaari and the other three. There was a beat of somewhat awkward silence for a moment before too many of them tried to break it at once.

“That’s one hell of a backhand, serah—”

“I didn’t come here for trinkets, so you—”

“Where did a mage learn to fight like—”

All three fell silent in one breath, cutting each other off. The others laughed and Ashkaari felt something in their chest twinge at the simple display of camaraderie. The corner of their mouth twitched into a smile despite themselves.

They were not staying.

“If you were about to give us free reign to loot this place without you,” Varric started, voice tinged with a sarcastic edge, “I vote you speak first.”

Ashkaari smirked and made the mistake of glancing down at themselves. They were going to need one hell of a bath before they left. Problem for later. “I do not need any of the magister’s wealth,” they answered, waving the others off. “It’s all yours. I am more interested in any papers he may have left around.”

“Planning on going after him, are you?” Varric asked, already walking off to riffle through the wardrobes in one corner. “He’s probably already halfway to Tevinter by now. Not sure following him up there is wise.”

Ashkaari sighed and crossed their arms, kicking at a bit of cracked tile. They would need new boots after that acid trap, no doubt. Because, blast it, the dwarf was right. It would be suicide to hunt a magister heading back to their city’s protection, even if Ashkaari thought they might catch him in open water. There was no hope that a confrontation like that could end in their favour.

“As-eb vashe-qalab… You are probably right. I’m just going to—” They sighed. What were they going to do? It would be a waste to have come all the way to the Free Marches only to leave empty handed. But what else could Ashkaari even accomplish here?

“You know,” Carver started, and Ashkaari turned to him just in time to see the tail end of some silent exchange between him and Hawke. “There are plenty of slavers in Kirkwall.”

“Ha! I think Junior wants to keep the stray this time.” Stray? “He’s turning out just like you, Hawke.”

Both siblings jumped in to argue with Varric, but Ashkaari was too caught up on the dwarf’s words to hear much of it. They furrowed their brows as they pulled the other three’s attention back to them. “I am no stray.”

*

It was a little surprising how easy it was to speak with Varric and the siblings as they made their way outside. After the three lined their pockets and they all shook off as much gore as they could, of course. It was not exactly that Ashkaari had been lonely, lately, but…

Well, okay, fine; they had been lonely.

And they did not miss the fact that none of the others gasped and clutched at their proverbial pearls over Ashkaari’s horns. None of them had even asked them about it yet. They had no doubt that it would come up, eventually. And simply asking was one thing; making a fuss was quite another. They rather enjoyed their mixed lineage not being a topic of contention, for once.

But Ashkaari was not stupid, so they still pulled their hood back up to cover them as they stepped out into the cool night air behind Carver, who stopped to keep the door open for Ashkaari.

“It never ends.” Fenris’ low rasp interrupted their quiet conversation. He leaned against one of the ivy-covered columns just outside the magister’s mansion, staring out at the streets of Kirkwall with his arms crossed over his chest and one foot propped up against the stone. “I escaped a land of dark magic, only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now I find myself in the company of yet more mages.”

He turned to glare at Ashkaari and Hawke in turn as he finished with that same glowering tone. It made their fingers twitch to reach for their blade, but they kept still. A Tevinter slave had every reason to be distrustful of magic. They knew this well enough, though they did not endorse it.

“I saw the both of you casting spells inside,” he continued, not quite angry but not exactly pleased, either. He pushed himself off the wall and moved to stand before them as he spoke. “I should have realized sooner what you really were. What you both are.”

“If you have a problem with my sister,” Carver interrupted, stepping forward to stand at his sister’s (and, as luck would have it, Ashkaari’s) side, “you have a problem with me.”

Ashkaari did not blame him for not defending their name as well. It was a family affair, they assumed. Maker, though, they hoped this did not turn into a fight. They did not fight slaves. And it was not just because they weren’t entirely convinced that they could defeat Fenris.

But the elf surprised Ashkaari again. Instead of hardening at Carver’s near-threat, he actually deflated slightly, shoulders relaxing as he let his posture fall, and sighed. “I imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further than the truth.” He bowed his head slightly and made eye contact with both mages before he continued. “I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. I’m afraid I only expected to pay one fee tonight, as Anso promised, but you can split all the coin I have, as well as anything you found inside.”

He pulled a coin purse from his belt as he spoke and held it out between Ashkaari and Hawke, who hesitated to take it. Ashkaari just shook their head, arms folded around their waist.

“As I already said to the others, I did not come here for payment.” They sidestepped Carver to fully address Fenris, whose brows furrowed as Hawke shrugged and took the full amount offered from his hand. “I sought you to find and execute your old master, but I will admit I am more than a little curious why he would risk so much to seek you out personally. Hunters aren’t particularly well known, less so in Tevinter, I imagine, but we’re not unheard of. At least not to those who would avoid us.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. There was value in knowing more about that which you hunt, and Ashkaari thought perhaps if they understood why the magister hunted this former slave so readily, maybe they would find something they could use.

“So you would ask for information as payment, then?”

They shrugged, feigning indifference at the matter. “I am simply telling you what might be of interest to me.”

Fenris regarded them for another moment, seemingly unsure of their intentions, or if he should agree, or perhaps a million other things. But then he seemed to make up his mind and nodded, mostly to himself. “He doesn’t want me at all, just the markings on my skin. They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet.” He spit the word like a foul taste on his tongue. Ashkaari could imagine why, but they would really rather not. “And now,” he continued, bitter tone seeping into his already venomous voice, “he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse.”

Lyrium would explain Fenris’ unique abilities, but burned into his skin? They found it difficult to extend any thoughts of compassion to a magister that would do something so… barbaric.

But something in the back of Ashkaari’s mind pressed them, still curious if perhaps there were any answers on their own predicament to be had from Fenris’ imbuement with magical properties. It was no connection to the Fade, but it could be something.

“And how did Danarius do something like that without, well, killing you? Or simply injuring you to no real effect?”

“I know nothing of the ritual that placed these markings on me. It was Danarius’ choice, one he now regrets.”

“I’ll bet,” Varric muttered from behind them with a smirk, a quip of sarcasm still lacing his voice.

And then it was Hawke’s turn to intervene; “I saw some of your abilities, inside during the fight. Do they come from those markings?”

Ashkaari assumed that they did. At least, the glowing blue displacement effect. It was not quite magic, not a typical spell, but it was magical in nature. Of that they had no doubt.

“Some. All I know is that, even in the Imperium, warriors such as myself are rare. Perhaps they believe I should feel honored?”

Ashkaari snorted at that. “I imagine most ‘Vints would think a slave that is not beaten should feel honored.”

“I imagine you’re right.” The answer was worded as if it would be bitter, but Fenris’ tone was almost sarcastic.

“Do you think your master will keep chasing you?” Carver was the one to ask, though he still sounded a little hostile. Ashkaari was curious about this, too, their ears twitching up under the veil of their hood, though they hid their interest with a downcast glance and shuffling of their feet.

“He is too proud not to,” Fenris answered, returning to a tone of anger and resentment. “Perhaps one day the hunt will cost him more than he is willing to pay, but I doubt that matters any longer.”

If Ashkaari were a betting woman, they would wager that Danarius was not the kind of man to let something he saw as his get away. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but they were beginning to believe that there was no doubt he would be back.

In the end, they might stay in Kirkwall for a bit after all. They could clear the city of black-market slavers and then claim the ultimate prize in separating Danarius from his head, and freeing Fenris of the nightmare that hounded him in one fell swoop.

“I am planning an expedition I might need help with,” Hawke offered between Fenris and Ashkaari, interrupting their thoughts.

“An expedition?” they asked, interest piqued once again, if only pure curiosity. “I know there are quarries here, but aren’t they already occupied?”

It was Varric who answered, this time. “They are, which is why we aren’t going into a quarry; it’s an expedition into the deep roads. But we can talk about it when we’re not sitting ducks for any wandering thugs prowling the streets.” He paused to shake off a glob of demon gunk he had missed earlier. “Besides, there’s a hot bath back at the Hanged Man with my name on it,” he finished with a tone of slight disgust.

“Fair enough. Should you ever have need of me, I will be here,” Fenris said, nodding back to the front door of the mansion. “If Danarius wishes his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it. Beyond that, I am at your disposal.”

They all said their goodbyes, and Ashkaari was reminded again of how intense the fights were. They rolled their shoulders to try and ease some of the tension, but they still pulsed with an ache they would likely be nursing for days. Their mana felt weak and distant, all used up, as if they had overextended their reach and sprained their connection to the Fade. They would have to summon Grace later to ask if they had done something to hurt it.

Ashkaari had fought plenty of demons before, but an Arcane Horror had been a new challenge. It was not something they were keen on ever doing again, not with how their face still tingled and their palm ached where fresh skin glowed a dusty pink. They could still feel the bite of necrosis eating away at flesh and bone. It made them shiver.

“So,” Ashkaari turned to Varric as they fell in step with him and the two siblings to trek back to Lowtown, the normal way this time. “I heard something about a hot bath and a pint of ale?”

[littlelostmabari]

Chapter 16: For Want of a Moment's Peace (Part III)

In which Antsa joins the Circle, and Cullen confronts himself.

This chapter is heavy. Mind the tags, take care of yourself. CW: blood (creation of a phylactery, tranquility), child abuse (creation of a phylactery), mage abuse / beatings, mentions of minor character deaths, inactive bystanders, anxiety/panic.

Fandom: Dragon Age 2 / Dragon Age Inquisition

Current Pairings: Cullen Rutherford x OC. Background F!Hawke x Anders

Rating: M (Canon-typical violence & behavior, check tags & CW on chapters)

Links: Whole Work | Chapter 16 | Saoirse Character Sheet

(Dividers by cafekitsune)

The chamber where phylacteries were made lay just outside the wards of the vault — wards that only a select few Templars and the First Enchanter knew how to deactivate. It was one of the most heavily guarded areas in the Circle, a thought that only crossed his mind as he realized he was letting a wanted apostate get close enough to the vault to see its secrets. Flashes of a soft smile, a head of wavy blonde hair worn down across her shoulders because he told her once that it looked nice that way. A melody of a laugh at a passing joke. Then a wail as sword met flesh and iron and stone and the last time he let a mage this close to him, this close to a phylactery vault she and Jowan had used blood magic to — He cursed under his breath and stopped Orsino and Antsa before they could round the corner. It took some convincing, and some promises that she would get everything back in just a few minutes, but he relieved Antsa of both her ragdoll and the pocket around her waist before he fell back and allowed Orsino to lead the child towards the chambers. This needed to be over. He needed the Witch out of the Circle. He needed his afternoon ration of lyrium. He needed everything to go back to normal.

[teine-mallaichte]

Happy Friday! For DADWC, might I suggest "Phantom Pain" from the Eclipsing Bingo for Anders? :3

OK so this... got way more angsty than I had intended... For the record I totally support Anders, totally egt why he did what he did, but... I am fairly sure that he is 100% the type of person who would spend years questioning himself. And being stabbed through the chest after the whole merging with Justice thing has got to leave an impression. Some post-cannon Anders introspection for @dadrunkwriting

Resting his hand on the stone balustrade, Anders felt a sudden, stabbing pain shoot through his chest, right where Rolan's sword had pierced him years ago. His fingers instinctively gripped his robe, seeking reassurance that the wound was no longer there. But the pain persisted, a phantom reminder that refused to fade away.

Closing his eyes, memories flooded back with vivid clarity. The forest engulfed in flames, the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh, the anguished cries of wardens. He recalled the surge of power, the uncontainable fury that had consumed him when Justice merged with him, transforming him into something beyond human or spirit. The shock of the sword piercing his chest had been both surreal and defining, marking the moment when he ceased to be just Anders.

He was Justice.

The years that followed had been turbulent. The revolution they had fought for had succeeded, but at a tremendous cost that weighed heavily on his soul. Mages were liberated, yet the price in lives lost haunted him relentlessly. Anders had wandered, a restless figure in a world he had helped reshape, searching for peace but finding only fleeting moments.

The phantom pain remained a constant companion, a visceral reminder of the night he had irrevocably changed his fate. It struck unexpectedly, a sharp ache that made him gasp for breath and relive the horrors of that pivotal night.

As he stood there with his eyes closed, the memories continued to play out vividly in his mind. The sights, the sounds, the overwhelming surge of emotions refused to diminish despite his attempts to move forward. The pain in his chest mirrored the wounds that couldn't be healed by magic or time, a testament to the choices made and the path he had chosen.

Anders had fled the Circle, abandoned the Grey Wardens, and found himself merged with Justice, a union that had altered him forever. Even in that transformation, he had tried to run, convinced he was meant to die—a belief reinforced first by Rolan's blade and later by Hawkes.

He was Vengeance.

The revolution had sparked war, casting him as both hero and villain, savior and fugitive. Blood stained his hands, a weight he carried with every beat of his heart.

Clutching his chest, Anders couldn't help but question whether it had all been worth it.

(For context the stabbing through the chest thing occurs in the BioWear short story Anders )

[quillfulwriter]

they're all disasters your honor

Commissions are also open on kofi or BMC ☕

[vee-vee-elle]

Chapters: 7/7 Fandom: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Original Characters, Hawke (Dragon Age), Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Fenris (Dragon Age), Anders (Dragon Age), Aveline Vallen, Isabela (Dragon Age), Merrill (Dragon Age), Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: mentions Sebastian, Canon-Typical Violence, No Beta Series: Part 6 of Anastasia's Story Summary:

Ana goes back to Kirkwall to see what's up. Who knew it would end with a fight to the death against the Arishok?

[ephemeronidwrites]

Borrow a Knife to Carve

Chapter 9 of The Knotted Path

Summary:

Merrill is struggling to adjust to her life in Kirkwall... and ends up finding help where she least expects it.

Content warning:

Child death, dysfunctional family dynamics. Mild content warning for canon-compliant fantasy racism.

Excerpt:

The Eluvian had to be her first priority, didn’t it? Though Merrill had to remind herself that as yet it was only shards, nowhere close to being a whole mirror. Moreover, there was no guarantee that she could succeed in making it so….

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Merrill thought, as a vision flickered into the forefront of her mind: the interior of a darkened cave, seen through the unfaltering gaze of the one trapped inside. Or would have been trapped inside still, if not for her intervention.

After all, hadn’t that been the whole point of coming here? For the city Merrill sought wasn’t Kirkwall, nor any other that stood anywhere in Thedas, but one that existed only in dim memories and lost records.

Unless, of course, Merrill did something to change that.

No, as much as Merrill already hated this place—this city where shems lorded it over the People, kept them groveling, ashamed, ignorant of who they really were—it was also ironically the only place she would be free to do what really needed to be done.

“What are you saying, Daisy?” Varric asked again, jolting Merrill out of her musings.

Varric raised an eyebrow. If ever a person had given the impression of listening with their eyes—indeed, with their entire face—the dwarf was doing that now.

“I mean…” Merrill found herself saying. “If you’re that worried about Hawke… well… I’ve fought with her before. I mean, I haven’t fought with her like… we didn’t fight! We get along all right—or at least I think so! I meant that…”

Varric’s grin had not budged a hair since Merrill had started talking.

“I mean I fought alongside her! Took out some walking corpses that were about to get her. Not that she can’t take care of herself, you know! I’ll have you know you picked a very competent partner! She used—”

And here Merrill brought herself up short, not sure how much she was allowed to say, before Varric cut in.

“What did she use? Fire? Lightning? Some kind of invisible fist to smash her foes into sausage meat?”

“Oh, Hawke told me that was a secret!” Merrill wailed, all of a sudden quite distressed for some reason she couldn’t entirely name.

“Ah, well she wasn’t wrong. But don’t worry.” And here Varric gave Merrill a broad wink. “I’m the very soul of discretion. Not to mention, I’m extremely picky about which templars I invite to my gambling table!”

“Huh?”

“I meant, Daisy, I can keep a secret. You’re a mage too, aren’t you?”

Merrill supposed there was little point any longer in pretending. Not to mention it would be a relief not to have to hide in front of at least one more person.

[tranquilweek]

Welcome to Tranquil Week!

Join us for a week dedicated to exploring the Tranquil characters from Dragon Age!

To participate, create a fanwork (art, writing, podfic, moodboard, etc.) that features a canon Tranquil character (list here!) or a Tranquil OC. Then post your work here on Tumblr from August 25th - August 31st and tag @tranquilweek so that we can reblog your post. If you have a question that isn't answered in this post, send us an ask!

Optional Prompts

image description in alt ID || text version of prompts under the cut ⬇️

You are welcome to follow our daily prompts, but it's not required! As long as your creation features a Tranquil character and follows our guidelines, we'll reblog it here.

Submitted creations must adhere to the tagging requirements detailed below and in the post here. Creations that are improperly or inadequately tagged will NOT be promoted on this blog.

This event is not a moral statement about the Rite of Tranquility. Exploring darker or potentially triggering content in fiction is not an endorsement of that content in real life. Tranquility is an element in Dragon Age canon and this event will not pass judgment on how participants choose to explore Tranquility in their works.

That being said, this event will not tolerate or promote:

Harassment of fans or moderators, including unkind or needless criticism of individual players' choices

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Callouts or intentionally inflammatory language

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Remember: don't like, don't read; ship & let ship; your kink is not my kink - and that is okay! If you cannot agree to these terms and participate in good faith, this may not be the event for you.

Required Tagging

See the full post about required tagging here

Dragon Age specific content tags:

chantry critical

anti-templar

anti-mage

pro-chantry

pro-templar

pro-mage

[character] critical

General content tags:

nsfw (including, but not limited to, explicit sexual content)

major character death

drugs, alcohol abuse, or addiction

eating disorders, fatphobia, or dysphoria

graphic medical descriptions or bodily fluids (esp. blood, vomit, or birth)

guns (anything to do with them)

harm to a child

fantasy hate speech, slurs, or racism

pregnancy, miscarriage, or abortion

racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, etc.

self-harm, suicide, or suicidal thoughts

sexual violence, referenced or explicit

stalking or harassment

violence toward animals

Prompts

Use of prompts is optional! Mix and match, switch the days, don't follow our prompts, or don't use prompts at all, as you prefer.

Any form or level of human-made art is allowed! Drabbles, sketches, fiber art, podfic - if you made it, it counts.

Sun 25: Enchanting || Rite of Tranquility || Skyhold Mo 26: Focus || Mage Rebellion || Kinloch Hold Tu 27: Logic || The Breach || Wonders of Thedas We 28: Free Will || Oculara || The Gallows Th 29: Research || Cure for Tranquility || Haven Fr 30: Dreams || The Harrowing || Ostagar Sat 31: Lyrium || The Conclave || Redcliffe Village

Alternate Prompts: A once fond memory || The Fade || Spirits & Demons || The Gull & Lantern || A friend they knew before

✨We hope you'll join us in August and we're excited to see what everyone creates!✨

[dapolyshipping]

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