#DAO Fic

[weaveandwood]

The First Time

Pairing: Alistair x Female Mahariel (Ellaria, a dual wielding rogue) Words: 4.2K NSFW

Summary:

Alistair Theirin did not expect many things that had happened to him since he became a Grey Warden. He didn't expect to be betrayed at Ostagar. He didn't expect to lose his mentor. He didn't expect to be one of the only two Wardens left in Ferelden that he knew of. He didn't expect to be traveling with such an...eclectic group.

Above all of this, he certainly didn't expect to fall in love with his fellow Grey Warden, a Dalish elf named Ellaria. Could she feel the same?

AN: In my playthrough, the scene for Alistair asking to spend the night with my warden triggered after the Urn of Sacred Ashes quest, which requires everyone to take off their clothes. I thought the timing was hilarious, and this one shot was born.

Read on AO3! comments and reblogs are very appreciated!

Alistair didn’t know what made him start feeling this way about Ellaria. He paced around his tent - and really, pacing was being generous. It was more like turning in circles. Slowly. He was a tall man and it was a small tent, after all. 

Was it her bravery? She had been tireless, fierce, stunningly brutal every day since he met her. Whether it was leaping onto an ogre to deal the killing strike or telling off his half-sister in Denerim, she was unwavering. 

Could it have been her beauty? When she was cleansed by fire to retrieve a pinch from the urn of sacred ashes to help Arl Eamon, just hours before, he had never seen her so…exposed. He would have to be a blind and incredibly stupid man to not admit that seeing her in that state of undress sent a hot flush through him he was surprised Morrigan did not comment upon. 

Maybe it was that she listened to him. He had mentioned his mother’s broken amulet as a regret he had, in passing, never expecting her to place it into his palm with an excited smile. Of course I remembered, you are special to me.

Or was it before that? At the Circle Tower, when they passed the tortured templar she remarked to him that she was glad he was not a templar anymore. Or even the first time they spoke at Ostagar, when she called him a strange human. 

How it started didn’t matter, he supposed, just that it did. Perhaps he fell for her over time, a trickle of interest slowly turning into a waterfall of feelings that landed on him all at once. He fell in love. With a fellow Grey Warden. During a blight. And they were the only two left to end it. Perfect timing, really. 

Which is why he couldn’t wait any longer.

He left his tent knowing she was on her shift for watch duty, and found her staring into the nearby campfire while absentmindedly petting Barkspawn. The fire cast a warm glow on her, turning her white hair and fair skin almost golden. Her brow was furrowed, a sure sign she was deep in thought. Tomorrow they would journey into Orzammar and with the way their luck was headed, into the Deep Roads. He closed his eyes, pushing the thought out of his mind. Still, the Deep Roads was where Grey Wardens went to die, and he would never forgive himself if something happened with words left unspoken or actions left undone. 

He felt his heart start to race as he drew nearer to her before settling down on the ground beside her. A pit threatened to form in his stomach before she glanced over at him and gave him a soft smile that instantly reassured him. She took his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, like it was something easy, something instinctual she just did when they were near each other. He sighed.

“Is everything okay? Why are you not resting like all of the others? Tomorrow will be a long day of travel,” she said, her attention focused on him now instead of the images she must have been seeing play out in the flames. He thought he saw a glare from Barkspawn. 

Now or never. 

“I…I really don’t know how to ask you this,” he stammered as he looked at her from the corner of his eyes, her face turned to him. Those deep green eyes he adored were highlighted by the orange light of the fire. This was not helping. He dragged his hand down his face. “You’d think it would be easier by now, but every time I’m around you, I feel as if my head is about to explode - in a good way! I just can’t think straight!” He felt his cheeks starting to burn hot and his resolve starting to waver. 

She laughed, the sound high and clear in the crisp night air. Oh, he loved all of her laughs, but this one in particular was his favorite - the one laugh she had when she was caught off guard by something he said or did. He loved it so much that he did everything he could to coax it out of her while they were at camp after long days of fighting darkspawn, bandits, and demons, no matter how silly it made him look. 

“You know, I feel the same way when I’m around you,” she said. Barkspawn had flopped over on his side and she was scratching his belly now. Lucky dog. He would give anything to feel her fingers on his skin, to only feel each other instead of fumbling around clothes or armor when they kissed in his tent in the evenings, away from the prying eyes of their companions. Well, friends at this point, he supposed. You couldn’t walk away from the things they had seen without being friends at least. He scolded himself internally, not wanting his mind to wander to Sten or Wynne or, Maker forbid, Zevran while he was trying to drum up the confidence to ask what he was attempting to. He turned his body to face her, keeping her hand in his. His heart now felt like a war drum, one beat away from pounding through his chest. She did the same and earned a whine from Barkspawn once her hand stopped scratching. 

“Here’s the thing, Ellaria: You are impulsive, you run headfirst into danger, you’re always putting yourself right in the middle of all the darkspawn or bandits or whoever else…being near you makes me crazy.” He saw her eyes drop and felt her starting to pull her hand away, quickly realizing he had only named negative things. He held on to her hand tighter, placing his other one on top. “You’re brave, you’re fierce, you’re protective, you’re beautiful…I can’t imagine being without you. Not ever.”

“Oh,” she said. He could see a faint flush on her cheek and the softest hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth at his confession.  

“I don’t know how to say this any better so here goes. I want to spend the night with you. Here. Tonight. In camp. Is this too fast? It might be too fast, I don’t know. I know what I feel, and what I feel is that I want to be with you. We stumbled into each other, and despite this not being the perfect time, the perfect place, I found myself falling for you in between the fighting and everything else. Honestly, even during the fighting - you’re quite breathtaking.” Visions of her sweaty and panting and covered in blood flashed through his mind. He wanted to recreate it -  minus the blood. 

“I guess you really liked what you saw in the temple today?” She laughed as he stammered and flushed a bright red, rubbing his neck with his hand. “Alistair, Alistair! I am teasing you. But…are you sure? Even though I am not…I am not human? I know what people say about elves. I have heard a lot of it on our travels,” she said, sounding uncharacteristically nervous around him. Every time someone called her knife-ear or rabbit, he saw red. He had never and would never consider her any different from any other person they had come across just because of the shape of her ears, her shorter stature, or the elegant swirling tattoo on her face. 

“Honestly, at this point I think elves are better than humans,” he smiled softly at her, stroking her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “I really don’t want to wait anymore. I’ve never done this before and I want it to be with you, while we have the chance. In case…” he trailed off, fear of the Deep Roads seeping into his veins. 

“I want it to be with you, too,” she smiled up at him. “My first time. I was hoping you would ask.” 

This time, he was the one who laughed as pure relief flooded his system. He kissed her softly. “Come to my tent after your watch ends.” 

The next few hours felt like an eternity. Alistair had tidied up his meager belongings, everything folded and placed into a neat stack in the farthest corner of his tent, which was actually not that far away at all. He lay on his bedroll, willing at least a little sleep to come but it was as elusive as it had been most nights since their journey began. So he lay there, staring up at the fabric of his tent and attempted unsuccessfully to calm his nerves while he waited for her. 

“Alistair?” he heard her whisper quietly, checking to see if he was still awake. Finally. He bolted upright, glad for the darkness to camouflage his awkward movements.

“Over here, Ellaria,” he said softly, reaching out for her hand as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. He should have had a candle lit. Should he light one now? Or would fumbling in the dark be better than fumbling in the light? His nerves caught up to him again as the reality of what they were about to do sank in. Her smaller hand clasped in his, he felt her kneel beside him. This wouldn’t do - he wanted to see her and decided right then and there that lighting a candle was the course of action to take. He placed the candleholder down on a book he used more often than not as a table rather than reading material, the small flame throwing just enough flickering light in the tent to send the darkness fleeing to the edges and corners. 

“You are so beautiful,” he said, smoothing her hair behind her delicately pointed ear. He brushed the tip of it with his finger, eliciting a small gasp from her lips. His eyes, instantly drawn to the source of the sound, took in their gentle curve, the full pout of her bottom lip, the slightly downturned corners that made her always look like she was deep in thought. He could no longer resist, closing the distance between them and pressing his own lips gently against hers as they had done for so many nights now since the night he gave her the rose outside Honnleath. This time, however, there was an undercurrent of something different, an anticipation of what was to come as their kisses grew more intense and their tongues danced, finding a rhythm that built and built. His hands fell to her waist, grateful more than ever for the Dalish dress style - the bare expanse of her stomach was one of the first things that drew his attention to her when she walked up to him at Ostagar, before he really knew her. Now it seemed like a bonus. In addition to the privilege of knowing her, he was also able to see those muscles flex and relax as she fought, or walked, or even laughed. 

He felt her fingers, fine and light, reach for the bottom of his shirt, crumpled from tossing and turning with unsuccessful sleep. She lifted it up, smiling against his kiss as she struggled. Impatient, he broke the kiss, pulling the shirt quickly over his head, leaving him bare chested in front of her. Obviously, she had seen him without a shirt on as he washed in rivers and streams, but this was different. Everything would be different after this. She reached out, running her hands through the fine hair that dusted his chest and left goosebumps in her path before turning around and allowing him to loosen the laces on the top she wore for sleeping. She pulled it off over her head, and he traced the faint red marks on her skin from where it had slightly dug in. She let out the softest sigh as he kissed the joining of her neck and shoulder, tilting her head to allow him more access which he gladly accepted.

She laughed softly. “I do not know why I am so nervous to turn around.” 

“I promise you will get nothing but rave reviews here,” he said, placing a kiss on her shoulder, her skin smooth and cool beneath his lips. 

She turned around and his heart skipped a beat. She was gorgeous when fully clothed, but she was without a doubt earth-shatteringly beautiful half undressed. He felt himself stir as he took her in, his eyes sweeping down to her breasts, small but perfect, nipples perked once exposed to the cool night air in his tent, before meeting her eyes again. 

“Beautiful,” was all he could whisper. 

She reached one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him to her to kiss her again while the other threaded through his hair, her nails sending delightful tingles through him. He would have to remember this, he wanted her to scratch his head for hours. Now he understood why Barkspawn was so upset when he interrupted earlier. Stop thinking about the dog, Alistair. Half naked Ellaria, right in front of you . His hand moved from her waist to her breast, fully covering it and squeezing lightly. It was softer than he thought it would be, given how lean and muscular she was. His thumb traced lightly over her nipple, feeling it grow even harder under his touch. The way her body reacted to him sent a crackling warmth through him. He crashed his lips against hers, kissing her deeply and pulling her onto his lap though he knew she could feel him growing harder for her with each second that passed. She pressed her hips against his, the pressure causing him to groan softly into her mouth. The sound made her press against him again and again, her hips slowly rocking against him. He rocked his own hips back into hers, a preview of how the night would end, if all went well. He needed her. He had never been with anyone before and yet he knew he needed her more than he had ever needed anything in his life. His fingers went to the drawstring of her loose sleeping pants, untying it, ready to cross the line from innocent flirting and kissing to something else.  

She smiled and climbed off his lap to stand before him. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her pants, pushing them off her hips slowly, exposing more of her fair skin than he had ever seen. He discovered lines of scars, both old and new. He discovered the patch of soft white curls between her legs. He discovered just how muscular her thighs were as he smoothed his hands over them, her pants and undergarments in a puddle at her feet. He thought he had a good idea of what she would look like from the temple, but seeing her up close, fully undressed? His imaginings didn’t come close to doing her justice. He stood up, his fingertips slowly tracing the outlines of her body - her hips, the underside of her breasts, her nipples, her collarbone, the sides of her neck. He wanted to commit every curve of hers to memory. He wanted to remember this for the rest of his life, no matter how long that life would be - days or weeks or months or, if they were lucky, years. 

“Ellaria, you…I don’t have words,” he said softly, reverently. He quickly undid the laces of his own pants, pushing them and his smallclothes down without the finesse he used on hers. He watched as her eyes moved over his body, taking him in.  He could feel himself flushing under the weight of her stare and felt the slightest tinge of shyness as he was fully bared in front of her for the first time. He had no worries about his size, having been told during his short time with the other Wardens that he should be proud of the sword he wielded - typical brotherly ribbing, but it did wonders for his confidence in this matter at least. She said earlier this would be her first time too, but he knew she was betrothed before all of…this, and he didn’t know what she had to compare against. He supposed it didn’t matter, at the end of things. He just hoped the rest of him was enough. That he was enough. That he deserved her. 

“Creators,” she whispered. “I am lucky,” she teased. 

She stood on her toes to kiss him, and he bent down as they did night after night to negate the vast differences in their heights. He stood a good foot taller than her, and he would be the first to admit it was easier to kiss her sitting down. He imagined it would be even easier to kiss her laying down. The thought sent a hum through him, settling into his abdomen. He felt himself pressed against her hip, impossibly hard for her. She reached between them, her fingers brushing against him with featherlight touches that caused him to gasp and press his hips harder into her. She wrapped her fingers around him and began to stroke him slowly, her hand moving from the base to the sensitive tip. He tipped his head back and saw stars. Never would he have imagined that someone else touching him would feel so…different. In a good way. In the best way. Better than his own hand felt when he pictured a night like tonight, with her. 

He wanted to make her feel this good. 

“Alistair, maybe we should…lay down?”

“Good -” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat while she giggled. “Good idea.”

They lay on the bedroll, facing each other, kissing each other. Her mouth moved from his lips to the corner of his jaw, then to his earlobe, lightly nipping at it because she knew it drove him crazy. The soft moan that escaped his lips was proof enough. His hand moved down her body - ribs, waist, hip, thigh, inner thigh.

“Can I touch you?” He whispered. 

“If you did not I would be very upset,” she replied softly before going back to work on his earlobe, then down his neck. She kissed him again as his fingers parted her, feeling this part of her, of any woman, for the first time. It was soft, warm, wet. And utterly foreign. 

“Show me where,” he said. He felt her hand on his, guiding him to where he assumed she touched herself at night. That was a thought to come back to later on a night spent alone, he mentally noted. He rubbed her in gentle circles, her hand guiding him before she pulled it away. Left to his own devices, he kept the same rhythm, her soft breaths acting as her approval of his technique. He sped up slightly, her hips starting to move against his hand. 

Her fingers wrapped around him again in a tighter grip than before, a groan escaping his lips when her thumb used the bead of moisture that had collected at the tip to help her stroke him. He couldn’t help but thrust slightly into her hand while moving his hand down to her entrance, a finger slowly slipping in and instantly wrapped in tight warmth. He moved in the same rhythm she did, easily able to glide his finger in and out, in and out, in and - 

Maker , the sounds she was making. If she felt this good around his finger, how would he be able to survive entering her? He couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Ellaria, I want to be inside you,” he whispered into her ear. 

“Please,” she moaned softly. “I am ready. I want you.” 

She rolled to her back, looking up at him as he moved between her now spread legs, using his thighs to spread them farther. His breathing picked up, his heart racing once more. No turning back now, not that he would have wanted to. This, with her, was everything he dreamed about these last few weeks. He wrapped a hand around himself and lined himself up at her entrance. It was at this moment he had a dreadful thought that he might be uncomfortable for her. He looked into her eyes, and she nodded. 

“Please,” she whispered. 

“You’ll let me know if I need to slow down, or anything?” he asked, getting another nod in return. He pressed forward slowly, so slowly , the tip entering her at last. He breathed deeply. Keeping eye contact, he looked for any sign of her discomfort as he kept pressing little by little. Finding none, he sank into her inch by inch, feeling her give and stretch around him as he entered her. Her moans filled the tent, and he was positive whoever had the next watch could hear them. A thrill went through him as he found himself almost fully sheathed inside her, the sheer realization that he was inside her sending a jolt of lightning through his veins. He stayed there for a moment, letting her get used to the feeling. And if he was being honest, letting himself get used to the feeling as well. He was not prepared for how warm she would be, how tight she would be, how wet she would be as he found himself enveloped by her. For him, all for him, because of him. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, breathless. 

“Better than okay,” she smiled. He took her in. She was…everything. Her white hair was splayed out on his thin pillow, the flickering candlelight throwing dancing waves of light over her body. She was divine, she was his religion, she was his life now. He would swear any oath to her that she wished for, any desire she had was his to fulfill. And he would, gladly. 

He leaned over her, his arms on either side of her head, and pulled back his hips, then pressed them forward. Pulled back and pressed forward again. And again. And again. He kissed her neck, the soft skin muffling the sound of his own moans, her soft gasps landing on his ears like the gentlest of butterflies. He lowered himself on top of her, needing to feel her body pressed against his, wanting her skin against his. He wrapped an arm around her back, holding her tightly as he thrust slowly, deeply inside her, each slow roll of his hips feeling better than the last, somehow. 

“Alistair…” she whispered, “more, I want more.” 

A fire pooled in his abdomen, desire taking the lead. He moved back to his knees, his hands grasping her hips. He picked up his pace, moving faster, thrusting a little harder. Together, they lost themselves to the moment. There was no Blight, no darkspawn, no archdemon. There was only this tent, this candle, this feeling. She held onto his arms, arching her back against the bedroll. He watched her breasts move each time their hips met. He watched the muscles of her stomach flex when she rocked her hips to meet him each time he thrust into her. He watched where their bodies met, her slick arousal coating him - the image alone making him veer dangerously close to the edge. He could feel it, just on the margins of his awareness. 

“Ellaria…I…” he panted. “I don’t know if I can last much longer.”

“Just a little longer, please, I am almost...there,” she moaned. 

“As you wish,” he joked, hoping that just a little longer was not that long at all. He focused on keeping the same rhythm, keeping the same pace, and listening to the sounds she was making. He felt her start to tighten around him - a little at first, then tighter and tighter. Her body tensed up and she grew quiet. He took one of her hands in his, squeezing, and she threw her head back and cried out, his name on her lips as she found her release, her orgasm rocking through her, making her tremble and shake beneath him. The feeling of her pulsing and fluttering around him made him lose what little control he had remaining. He dug his fingertips into the one hip he was still holding and thrust into her with reckless abandon. The fire in his abdomen turned into tension, building and building, moving lower and lower. He kept eye contact with her as he drove into her one last time, calling her name as he felt his release fill her. He could have sworn for that moment that the world stopped turning.

He looked at her - she was sweaty and panting, his mental images from earlier come to life. He fell down onto the bedroll beside her, laughing as their shoulders touched.

“Why are you laughing?” 

“According to the Chantry sisters, I should have been struck by lightning by now, and here I am...suspiciously lightning free.” 

“Maybe I should be thankful for their error - I do not want to be struck by lightning. You should have mentioned that was a possibility before we spent the night together, I may have changed my mind,” she teased before rolling onto her side to face him. Maker, she was so beautiful - even more beautiful now than she was when the night began. Something swelled within him he had no hope of ever containing. Not now. Especially not now. He didn’t want to contain it. It was bad timing, a bad situation, and probably doomed, but he had to get it out.

“I love you,” he said. 

Her eyes widened slightly before she broke out into a smile. 

“ Ar lath ma, vhenan. I love you, too.”

[elspethdekarios]

The Cadence of a Heart || A Dragon Age: Origins Story

Hello friends! I've started a fic for my DA:O Warden, Lucy Amell. This is going to largely focus on her relationship with Alistair through the events of the game. Two chapters are up!

Lucy was raised in the Circle of Magi. In fact, she's never been anywhere else in her life. It was safe there, and she was content... for a while. Eventually, she realized the cruelty in the Circle's forced Tranquility of her mother and began to question everything. Now, at 19, she longs to escape, to make a new life that she would choose for herself. The Grey Wardens wouldn't have been her first choice, but it became her reality. This story is told throughout the events of Dragon Age: Origins. Human mage, Alistair romance, fluff, some action scenes, some angst, eventually a teeny tiny bit smutty.

[mumms-the-word]

Bound by Blood - Ch. 6

Ch. 6 - Morrigan

Characters: Alistair, fem!Surana, Zevran, fem!Tabris, and basically the rest of the DAO crew Plot: Seventeen-year-old Nyssa Surana never expected to find herself a Grey Warden - let alone one of three surviving Wardens, one of which is her own cousin, Velle Tabris. She's the last person anyone would ever choose to save the world. Young, inexperienced, deeply anxious, and only just out of the Circle Tower for the first time in a decade, she's convinced she's as unlikely a hero as unlikely heroes come. But someone has to save Ferelden from the Fifth Blight...and keep her cousin out of trouble...and try not to fall in love with the charming Alistair Theirin, all at the same time. Three impossible tasks, but she's determined to succeed, even with the odds stacked against her. A/N: Nyssa finally obtains the darkspawn blood she's supposed to gather, and the team meets a mysterious Witch of the Wilds.

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Nyssa slipped out from under Alistair’s hand and stumbled toward some nearby bushes, hoping to disappear around them before she embarrassed herself completely. She managed to duck behind a sparse-looking shrub before she retched, her body heaving despite almost nothing coming up. Her stomach was as hollow as a cave, without even the small breakfast she'd eaten hours ago to lose.

She sank to her knees, panting, trying to force her stomach to settle through sheer force of will. The attempt only made her feel worse. She retched again, eyes watering as her throat and nose burned.

“Oh, charming,” Daveth said nearby.

“Quiet, you,” Jory responded. “We can’t all be so cavalier about these beasts.”

“I don’t see you emptying your guts, ser knight.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Velle snapped. Nyssa heard her coming, stomping through the swamp brush, before she felt her hand on her back. “Hey, it’s okay. Let it out. You’ll feel better.”

Nyssa pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, her skin feverishly hot. The icy cold that still lingered on her palm from that last ice spell was only a small relief. She called more ice magic to her palm and pressed her hand to the back of her neck.

Maker’s breath. She was pathetic.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ll…I’ll be okay in a second.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Velle said, rubbing her back. “You were awesome out there. The way you just crushed that guy? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Nyssa’s stomach lurched again and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Velle, please. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Oh. Okay, sorry.”

Beyond the brush, Alistair cleared his throat. “Uh, Jory, Daveth, why don’t you…scout around a bit? Make sure there aren’t any lingering darkspawn waiting to jump us. We can meet up by the bridge in a few minutes.”

Eyes still closed, she heard the two of them drawing away, Daveth muttering something under his breath, and then the sound of armored footsteps coming closer. She sat up and opened her eyes just as Alistair crouched near her, unhooking a flask from his belt and opening it.

“Here.” He offered it to her with a small, friendly smile. “Don’t worry, it’s just water. I’m not trying to trick you or anything.”

After a second's hesitation, she took the flask gratefully, raising it to her lips for a few tentative sips while Alistair fussed with another small pack on his belt. The water didn’t do much to settle her stomach, but it at least washed away some of the acidic taste of bile from her mouth.

“Feeling any better?” Velle asked, kneeling beside her now.

Not really. But she nodded instead. “A little.”

“I have some army rations,” Alistair said, pulling out a small bundle from his pack. He took something like a dry tea biscuit from the bundle and snapped it in half, holding out part of it to her. “It might help, I don’t know.”

“Thank you.” She took the biscuit from him and nibbled on one corner. It was dry and tasteless and almost too hard to bite into, but the thought of eating anything more adventurous than half a stale biscuit seemed like a bad idea anyway. And bite by tiny little bite, it did seem to help.

She cleared her throat gently, dropping her gaze to the ground. “Sorry that I’m so…you know.”

Weak. Ridiculous. Stupid. Slow. Any of those could apply, she supposed.

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Velle said. “These things are creepy as hell. And you splattered that one like a bug.”

Nyssa winced. “Not helping.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“She’s right, though,” Alistair said, giving Nyssa the other half of the biscuit as she finished the first half. “No need to be sorry. I remember when I fought my first darkspawn. I screamed like a little girl and nearly fell on my arse trying to stab it. I think it probably died of laughter before I even hit it.”

She couldn’t tell whether his story was true or if he was merely trying to make her feel better, but either way, it helped. She bit her lip to stop a smile from showing. “Did you feel sick afterward?”

“Well, no,” he said, shrugging, “but I did nearly soil my drawers, if that helps.”

She wrinkled her nose slightly but couldn’t help a small laugh. “Maybe a little.”

“Only a little? Well, you can’t blame a man for trying.” He smiled as she giggled again. “Feeling better now?”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Alistair.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, standing. “I know what it’s like to be the new guy. Or—I guess you would be the new girl. Girls,” he added, glancing at Velle, who stood and crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow at him. “Point is, I get it. And it does get easier. Fighting darkspawn, I mean. You sort of get used to them.”

Nyssa doubted she would ever get used to fighting darkspawn, but she kept those thoughts to herself as she ate the rest of the biscuit Alistair had given her and stood. She took one last sip of water and then, a little self-conscious, cleaned the mouth of the flask with her sleeve before closing it and handing it back to Alistair. “So what now?”

“Now you collect your vial of darkspawn blood, same as the others.” He reached into a different pack on his belt and produced a small crystal vial with a cork stopper, holding it up for her to see.

“Oh…” Right…she had forgotten that part. She took a deep breath. “Well let’s get that part over with, then.”

Velle put a hand on her shoulder. “Nyssa, I can—”

“No, no. I should do it.” If she couldn’t do this, then what was the point of all the dramatics? Besides, she did feel better now, with a little water and food in her. She nodded, mostly to herself, steeling her nerves. “I can do this.”

She took the vial from Alistair and returned to the path, making her way over to the darkspawn that she had killed with her magic. It was still a gruesome sight, with the darkspawn’s broken body in a mangled heap among the shattered wood and bones. She forced herself to study it, looking for places where blood still flowed freely from its body.

Think scientifically. This is a specimen, like in textbooks. Nothing more, nothing less.

She took a careful breath and crouched beside the debris.

Ugh, Maker, the stench…

She thought she had gotten used to it. They had fought and stepped over the dead bodies of plenty of darkspawn already. But to crouch so close, the pungent scent of wet, rotting decay, and foul, corrupted blood so near her nose, her stomach threatened to rebel all over again. This time, however, she swallowed down the nausea and held the vial beneath a dripping wound on the darkspawn’s arm.

Black, thick blood dripped steadily down into the vial, slowly turning the transparent crystal black, as if she were filling it with pitch or tar. As she watched, waiting for the little flask to fill, the words of one of the army sergeants lingered in her mind, something she had overheard as she was helping the other mages cast protective spells on the soldiers before they headed into the Wilds.

Careful with the darkspawn. Their blood is as black as sin and poisonous. Don’t even touch it. You get tainted with that blood and you may as well slit your throat.

Unbidden, the image of the soldier from that morning came to her mind. The way he writhed on his cot, mumbling feverish, half-mad nonsense, the veins standing out stark and black beneath his skin. 

She clenched her teeth together. Why was there no cure? And if there was, why did only the Grey Wardens know about it? Three Wilds flower blooms lay gathered in her bag right this moment, with enough potential to cure a mabari sick from darkspawn blood. Yet for men and women, the blood was a death sentence.

She held up the vial to the light, letting the early afternoon sun try to shine through the crystal. But the blood inside was so black and thick, she might as well have asked the sun to shine through stone.

This small crystal flask now held the thing all the soldiers in Ostagar feared. The thing that had corrupted the soldier in the clinic and caused him days of suffering.

You get tainted with that blood and you may as well slit your throat.

More than the claws or weapons of the darkspawn, more than the chill of the mountain air or wounds from the battle itself, it was this blackened blood that could taint and kill them. This little vial, only half-filled with darkspawn blood, would make the entire army camp quake if they knew she carried it with her.

So much fear, and so much trouble, for such a small measure of blood. And she didn’t even know what she needed it for.

She stood and stoppered the vial closed, careful not to get any of the blood on her hands. Then she slipped it into her bag alongside the Wilds flowers she had collected. Corruption and cure, side by side.

“Now what?” she asked, turning back to Alistair and Velle, who had already wandered over.

“Now we find those treaties that Duncan wants,” Alistair said. “Come on, let’s regroup with the others. The sooner we find the treaties, the sooner we can all return to camp for a bit of downtime.”

Nyssa wasn’t sure if they just had bad luck or if it was normal for nothing to go right for Grey Wardens, but of course, the treaties they were looking for were not in the ruin that Duncan had directed them to.

What waited for them instead was a witch.

“Well, well, what have we here?” a voice crooned nearby. Nyssa turned from where she and the others had gathered around a broken stone chest to see a woman descending the steps of the ruin. Dark-haired and with strange, gold-colored eyes, she smirked at the group of them and crossed her arms loosely in front of her. “Are you vultures, I wonder? Scavengers poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into this darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?”

Around Nyssa, the others reached for their weapons, either to stand ready or, as Daveth and Velle did, to completely unsheathe their blades, each of them on high alert.  But Nyssa only stared. The woman looked to be around the same age as her and Velle, yet she stood with an air of proud confidence that neither of them could match. Her clothing was a patchwork assortment of black-dyed leather, raven feathers, and a worn, purple drape of fabric that barely covered the curve of her pale breasts. Despite that most of her upper body was exposed to the chill of the mountain air, she seemed as unbothered by the cold as she wasby the wary stares and drawn blades directed at her.

Nyssa knew she ought to be wary, but something in the air crackled with energy, something she recognized instantly. Magic.

This girl was a mage. The staff she carried on her back, twisted black wood topped with some kind of curling horn, only confirmed Nyssa’s suspicions. A hedge mage, perhaps. A mage outside of the Circle, certainly.

An apostate.

At their silence, the woman tilted her head. “What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

Velle scoffed. “And who made you lord over these wilds, huh?”

The girl arched an eyebrow, amused. “No one. But I know them as only one who owns them could. Can you claim the same?”

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair muttered under his breath. “She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

The girl laughed. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

Alistair’s frown switched easily into a dry-humored expression. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Swooping is bad.”

“Stop talking to her,” Daveth hissed. For once in their entire adventure out in these swamps, he looked nervous, even scared. “She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is. She’ll turn us into toads!”

“Quiet, Daveth,” Jory whispered back. “Don’t give her any ideas.”

…toads? Nyssa tried to ignore a flicker of annoyance. Was that all people thought about when it came to magic? That it could turn people into frogs and toads? They had bigger things to worry about, if this girl truly was a Witch of the Wilds.

Nyssa had read a few stories of them in the Circle library. Stories of women practicing dark magics in far away corners of the world, swamps and forests to the north and south, from as distant as the jungle marshes of Rivain to the tangled forests of the Arbor Wilds in Orlais. They were either myth and legend, women selling their souls to demons in exchange for extended lifespans or more magical power, or they were simply hedge witches, apostates who were more danger to local villagers than power-hungry abominations.

It was hard to say which narrative fit this girl. She didn’t seem to align with anything Nyssa knew about these supposed witches.

“Witch of the Wilds,” the girl repeated slowly, sounding amused. “Such idle fancies you have, to believe such tales.”

Her gold-eyed gaze swept over to Nyssa and lingered. She uncrossed her arms and gestured to her, as if beckoning her to speak. “You there. You have not spoken yet, and elves do not frighten like these little boys do. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

The weight and attention of four other gazes suddenly settled on Nyssa, watching her. She knew she ought to be wary, even frightened of this girl, but instead, she was simply curious. The aura of her magic was unlike anything Nyssa had felt in the Circle. The girl carried fragments of wild, untamed magic about her, as though she’d never cleansed her staff or her clothing of residual energies even once in her entire life. It was so different than magic in the Circle, where the Templars were constantly doing mana cleanses and dispelling lingering magical effects whenever possible.

Something within her was drawn in like a magnet to steel, like a moth to a flame, even as another part of her whispered that she ought to be wary. This girl was an apostate, a rogue mage separated from both Circle and Chantry. The priests and Templars would call her a maleficar merely for existing and practicing unregulated magic. She was everything the Circle and the Templars had taught Nyssa to avoid. She was dangerous.

Yet Nyssa was not afraid.

“Nyssa,” she answered the girl. “My name is Nyssa Surana.”

The girl smiled, as if pleased. “You may call me Morrigan. And if you wish to retrieve what was so poorly hidden in that chest there, then I suggest you follow me. I can take you to the one who currently has them.”

“It’s a trap,” Daveth hissed, at the same time that Jory said, “I dislike this. We cannot trust her.”

“Who has them?” Nyssa asked, ignoring them.

“My mother,” was Morrigan’s mild reply.

Alistair scoffed. “Your mother?”

She cut her eyes toward him with open disdain. “Yes, my mother. Did you assume I spawned from a log?”

“A thieving, weird-talking log, perhaps,” Alistair muttered.

“Why does she have them?” Nyssa asked. They needed to stay on track. And, she had to admit, she wanted to know. How did Grey Warden treaties end up in the hands of a young apostate and her mother living out in the Wilds?

Morrigan shrugged. “I know not, but you may ask her yourself, if you please. I daresay she is curious enough about you to indulge you.”

The others shifted uncertainly. No one seemed eager to make a decision. Not even Alistair, who had more or less been leading their group around from place to place. Morrigan’s offer to take them to her mother still stood, however.

Velle stepped closer to Nyssa, lowering her voice to a near-silent murmur. “She’s weird, but I don’t think she’s trying to trick us. What do you think? Do you believe her?”

Nyssa considered for a moment before nodding. They didn’t have much of a choice if Morrigan’s mother had the treaties they needed. They had to get them back somehow. And if this was a trap, why would Morrigan lure them away to a different location? This ruin was secluded, and she was a mage. It wouldn’t take much for her to cast a spell to incapacitate them all and then call for others to kill them, if that was her plan.

Perhaps she was just being naive. But she believed that Morrigan was telling the truth about where the treaties were. Even so…

“Do you promise that you will do no harm to us while we retrieve those treaties?” Nyssa asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair shoot her a look, eyebrows raised, but she kept her eyes trained on Morrigan. She wasn’t expecting much of a promise, but maybe it would soothe the others’ nervousness to hear the “witch” agree.

If she agreed.

Morrigan smirked, amusement glittering in her strange-colored eyes. “Of course. You have stirred my curiosity, so you have my promise. Does that suffice?” She flicked her gaze to the others.

Daveth grumbled something under his breath, but there were no open complaints. Seemingly satisfied with the lack of response, Morrigan stepped over to a path, little more than a thin worn line through the swamps, and beckoned to them all.

“Follow me, then, if it pleases you.”

The five of them were relatively quiet as they followed Morrigan through the swamps. She was a sure-footed among the wetlands, navigating with ease down paths Nyssa couldn’t see even when she was walking along them. The rest of them crashed clumsily along behind her, with Nyssa once more at the back, quietly pondering the mystery that was this Morrigan of the Wilds.

Who was she? What was she doing out here in the Korcari Wilds? What was her mother like? More importantly, was Morrigan just a simple hedge mage, a relatively harmless sort of apostate, or were there darker things at play here?

Of course, Nyssa had answers to exactly none of these questions by the time they reached Morrigan’s mother. But she pondered them nonetheless.

The moment they stepped into the clearing where Morrigan’s home stood in the distance, the air shifted around them. None of the others seemed to notice, trudging along behind Morrigan, but Nyssa paused at the edge of the clearing.

Strange…the air felt thinner here, in a way that she had only felt in Kinloch Hold or at the main camp at Ostagar. Not colder, but as though the barrier between this world and the Fade, the Veil, was worn thin by time and magic. Curious, she called magic to her hand, drawing on the energies of the Fade. The energy came easily to her, dancing across her fingers with green and blue light, more easily than in the midst of the Wilds where it had taken more concentration to shape magical energy into spells.

She didn’t know if it meant anything. Perhaps this place was simply old. She frowned, but dispelled the magical energy with a quick wave of her hand, then hurried to catch up to the others as they moved toward the building in the clearing and the woman who stood outside.

Morrigan’s mother, she presumed.

She waited outside of a hut that looked as though it had been patched together two centuries ago and was only standing now through sheer force of will. Around the hut, more ruins lay crumbling, half-sunken in marshy pools, the stones bleached white by ages in the sun. It was difficult to say what was older, the ruins or the hut…or to which era Morrigan’s mother belonged.

She stood, arms folded, watching them approach as though they were late to an event she was hosting. Like her daughter, her eyes were a strange gold color, dimmed slightly by age, but there, much of the similarity ended. Whereas Morrigan was dark-haired, pale, and youthful, her features accentuated by the dark stain she had added to her lips and her eyes, her mother was wizened, her nose slightly crooked, her gray hair rough-cut and swept back out of her face. She narrowed her eyes at them as they drew nearer.

“Greetings, Mother,” Morrigan said breezily. “I bring before you five Grey Wardens who—”

Her mother cut in with a brusque, “I see them, girl.” She tapped her chin as she studied them, her eyes trailing slowly from one person to the next. “Hmm. Much as I expected.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?”

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe,” she said, a cynical smile suddenly on her lips. “Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide, either way, one’s a fool.”

Nyssa and Velle glanced at one another. What? Velle mouthed. Nyssa could only shrug.

“She’s a witch, I tell you!” Daveth said, his voice low and urgent. He looked even more nervous now than he had been before. “We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

Jory elbowed him hard in the side. “Quiet, Daveth! If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

The old woman chuckled. “There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will about me.”

Jory’s eyebrows drew together at the woman’s strange proclamation. Daveth, meanwhile, tightened his grip on the hilts of his daggers, which he kept unsheathed but at his sides. Alistair continued to look wary, but not necessarily threatened. It was difficult to tell what was going on in his mind, beyond the obvious distrust he harbored for both of the women before them.

But the old woman didn’t wait to hear what the men thought. She turned and appraised Velle and Nyssa with interest.

“But what about the two of you?” she asked. “Do your elven minds offer any insight? A different perspective for what you believe?”

Velle took a step back and shook her head. “I think you’re both crazy,” she said, pointing to the woman and Morrigan. “A pair of batty shems having too much fun with mud and magic. Leave me out of this.”

The woman snorted. “Is that all? And you?” she asked, her gaze now on Nyssa. “Is that also what you think?”

A whisper of warning brushed featherlight against her mind. It was a simple question, asked without a hint of serious weight in its tone, yet it felt like a trap. Or perhaps a test. Something in this old woman was familiar, her gaze too sharp for someone who pretended to be merely a madwoman, even a mad mage woman.

A chill worked its way down Nyssa’s spine as she realized what was so familiar about her. Her stare, the coy smirk on her lips, the stillness with which she waited for Nyssa’s answer—it was as though she was facing the pride demon she’d encountered during her Harrowing all over again.

Keep your wits about you, mage, he had whispered to her. True tests never end.

Just who was this woman?

Outwardly, she appeared little more than an old woman in patchwork clothing. Yet Nyssa couldn’t deny what she felt when they had first approached the hut. It went beyond the Veil being thin in this place. Something about this old woman herself suggested magic, older and deeper than anything Nyssa had encountered in the Circle, as though she herself carried ancient magic within her rather than drawing it from the Fade.

Maleficar. Demon. Abomination. The words came easily to mind, bringing with them a nervous trepidation that sank like a stone in Nyssa’s stomach. But she didn’t know whether any of those labels were necessarily true or accurate. The old woman seemed all of those things and none of them at the same time.

Whatever she was, it must be something very old, very powerful, and very dangerous. Morrigan was a curiosity. Her mother, however, was something unknowable.

“I…I don’t know what to believe,” she said at last. “Yet.”

The woman broke into a crackling laugh like a crow’s cackle. “A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies! An open mind, not yet made of mush. Or am I merely complimenting you? We shall see.”

She tilted her head and tapped her chin, examining Nyssa, then Velle, then Alistair, and back to Nyssa with narrowed eyes and a cat-like smile. “Hmm, yes. So much about you three is uncertain, and yet…I believe.” She paused briefly and then, as if to herself, or to someone within herself, “Do I? Why—it seems I do!”

“Wow,” Alistair said. “So this is the dreaded Witch of the Wilds, huh?”

And just like that, Morrigan’s mother was back to being a strange, slightly batty old woman. Another laugh cackled from her throat. “Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances—”

“Mother,” Morrigan cut her off. “They did not come for your wild tales.”

“Ah, true, true. They came for their treaties, yes?” She turned and retrieved several scrolls from within the satchel at her waist. They were smaller than Nyssa expected, curled tightly around smooth wooden rollers, wrapped with thin leather coverings to protect the parchment, and tied closed with cords. She handed these to Alistair. “And before you begin barking, your precious seal protecting them wore off long ago. I have protected them since then.”

Alistair blinked, staring down at the scrolls he now cradled in his hands. “You—protected them?”

“And why not,” she said, shrugging. “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize.”

Again that lingering feeling of this woman being more than she appeared—a demon, an abomination, a maleficar—needled Nyssa’s mind. One moment she was rambling nonsense, and the next she seemed to predict the future. Maybe it was all nonsense, but…it made Nyssa nervous, nonetheless.

“How…do you know all this?” she asked.

Another mysterious smile crossed the old woman’s lips. “Do I? Perhaps I am simply an old woman with a penchant for moldy parchments.”

Nyssa very much doubted that, but she kept silent. The woman merely chuckled.

“Oh, do not mind me,” she said. “You have what you came for. Morrigan?”

Morrigan sighed. “Yes, very well. Come with me then, and I shall return you to your camp.”

As the others turned to follow after her, Nyssa lingered, hesitant. “Thank you,” she said, directing her words to the old woman. It seemed like the polite thing to say.

But the woman merely arched an eyebrow at her, unimpressed. “Do not thank me yet, girl. We will see one another again soon, perhaps. Then you may think about whether you wish to thank me.”

With those words serving as her farewell, the woman turned away and returned to the hut. Nyssa swallowed the questions burning on her tongue and hurried to catch up to the others before she got left behind. Morrigan and her mother puzzled her, but she had no desire to linger any longer than she had to.

[nimthirielrinon]

Chapter 13 is up!

After Morrigan left the small room, Dania took in her surroundings. There was indeed a small fireplace with a fire in it, as she thought she had dreamed. A chest was situated at the foot of the bed, and on top of that was the armour she’d been wearing. Looking closely, she could see where holes had been patched at the shoulder.

[themournwatcher]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Born Again In Blood

Chapter 9

Keep reading for the opening paragraphs of the newest chapter. Open tags for anyone else who wants to post their WIP. I was tagged by @fenharel-apologist94

“What do you mean the Grey Wardens are gone?” Mahanon asked as he tugged the sheets up over his chest in a vain attempt to cover his bandaged breasts. It had been one thing to awaken in an unfamiliar bed—another all entirely to be at his most vulnerable with an apostate looking on. Around his neck, the vial of blood still dangled.

“‘Tis as I said,” Morrigan replied gently, turning her head away at his apparent discomfort. “Mother was only able to save you and your fellow Warden from the crumbling tower. Your Teyrn quit the field. There is nothing left of the valley.”

Mahanon’s heartbeats were thunderous in his own ears. His blood boiled beneath his skin, burning and chasing the breath out of his lungs. He clutched the thin blankets closer to himself. “So Alistair is alive. How long have I been asleep?”

“A day at most,” Morrigan said. “Mother and I have tended to you to the best of our ability. I believe it is the taint in your blood that spared you from the full suffering of your wounds.” She paused. “Did you know that it…”

“Burns?” Mahanon finished for her. “Yes. The blood does burn.”

…

“You! You’re alive!” Alistair gasped as Mahanon stumbled out of Flemeth’s hut. The door creaked to a shut behind him. The chittering of bugs and birdsong hummed in his ears along the humid air. Keeping his breathing steady despite the ache in his chest, Mahanon pushed forward to walk off of the narrow porch and to the edge of the lake alongside Alistair. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

Mahanon pressed his hand against the ache in his shoulder, beneath his armor. It had taken him ages to get dressed—longer due to Morrigan’s lingering. He hadn’t been able to look her in the eye since he woke up in her bed, his chest wrapped tightly in bandages. For a moment, beneath her critical gaze, he wished that he had died. Death might have been better than her knowing the truth. Then the thought passed, and reason won. As he stuttered to try and explain himself, Morrigan brushed him off. I care not what lies beneath your shirt, she had said to him. Far be it from me to criticize the reclamation of one’s body.

“It will take more than a few darkspawn to kill me,” Mahanon said grimly. It had been more than a few that hounded them within the Tower of Ishal, and judging by the wince on Alistair’s face, he knew it, too. He hadn’t intended for it to be a joke. He carved his way through an arl’s hold. Still, it fell flat. Flemeth, standing nearby, cleared her throat, prompting Mahanon to turn to her. “Oh. Thank you. Morrigan told me that… you rescued us.” She had told him enough, at least, muttering something of a dragon’s tale.

“Daveth was right about her,” Alistair said. “She is the Witch of the Wilds that the Chasind speak of.”

“And my magic has served you well,” she was quick to rebuke. “You both yet live, do you not?”

“Morrigan told me that others did not,” said Mahanon. “That the other Grey Wardens have fallen. Is that… true? Are we the only ones who survived? She said that Teyrn Loghain quit the battle.” He felt his lips draw into a frown; it was not as if that news truly surprised him. He had seen for himself the horde that had upset their flight up the tower; if it was anything like that down in the valley, it would be the wiser choice to flee rather than lose all of one’s forces. Surely there would be chance to regroup later.

“This much is true, yes,” Flemeth agreed. “There are others who live, but they are stragglers who wander the valley and will not get far before being picked off. Still, there is a larger matter at hand than the Teyrn’s strategy—the Blight. It has always been the duty of Grey Wardens to unite the land against the darkspawn. Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

“The Grey Wardens are dead,” Mahanon said. He didn’t look at Alistair, who flinched again at the harshness of his tone. He did not need to ask to know that Duncan must have perished also. Morrigan had already assured him of that much—that they were the only ones that Flemeth had rescued. He had bit back the urge to joke that Cailan would have won them a higher ransom. He would have time to ponder that later. “Do you really think that only two of us will be able to stop the Blight?”

“You don’t have a choice,” chuckled the old woman, “lest you are willing to leave the fate of Ferelden—nay, the world—to that chance that someone else will.”

“We still have the treaties,” Alistair interrupted quietly.

Catch up on Born Again in Blood below!

[ghost-bard]

HELLO

I wrote a dao fic! From Zevrans pov, about my surana character!

Surana has a nightmare and Zevran helps them through it is the basic summary

[katranga]

hey if anyone is interested in da:o fic, i've been posting one with alistair/brosca (casteless criminal, battle-hardened and bitter). the themes i'm exploring are not believing you're worthy of love and then finding it against all odds, and also moral quandaries about what we owe to each other

steady as she goes on ao3! just posted chap 5 last night

[toffee-arts]

. Kingfisher Feathers by Anonymous I binge read this fic the whole afternoon and lets just say I am inlove 🥺♥ political drama + wangxian = heaven

[sinfulpatata]

meeting your past self be like:

yllz: midget.

mxy!wwx: virgin.

lwj, being smothered by tits: mn.

[curiousthimble]

Chapter update! The story stalled me for a minute, but I swear I haven’t forgotten my heroine or her lovable companions. 

Chapter 182: The Arl's Estate

Sneaking into the Arl of Denerim's esate is much easier than breaking Queen Anora out of it, but Hera finds a friend and ally along the way.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082974/chapters/119038660

[sprintingficcommentator]

Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang-jun took a single look at Wei Wuxian, this strong, badass, seemingly-alpha-coded-looking man, just dripping with power and darkness, with a wicked smirk on his face, death in his eyes and dead women basically clinging to his robes, and said "I'mma top that". And he did.

And you know what? I respect that.

[starry-eyed-psychopomp]

No hate to cql or anything but every time I read a fic that has Lan Wangji be the Chief Cultivator I die inside. Because like. NO. That’s a TERRIBLE IDEA for everyone involved. First of all, Lan Zhan cannot communicate properly enough to be a politician, and his main priority is his husband. He is not suited for that role. Second of all, the novels’ implication that the next Chief Cultivator (if there even is one) would be Nie Huaisang is actually very important for Wei Wuxian’s character development?? Like, Wei Wuxian knows that Nie Huaisang is a lil conniving bitch who painstakingly arranged for the downfall of the most powerful man in the cultivation world, manipulating multiple people to their deaths (or at least emotional ruins) all for his own revenge. He knows that Nie Huaisang is capable of as much damage as Jin Guangyao, and that he’s poised to take over his seat of power. Wei Wuxian knows all of that and, very deliberately, decides not to give a fuck.

Wei Wuxian, who spent his entire life picking up the messes of other people, destroying himself in the process, only to have those same people spit in his face and make him a pariah, sees this potential Problem for the cultivation world and goes, “You know what? That’s none of my business.” and runs off to elope with his boyfriend. Like, Nie Huaisang probably won’t be as bad as Jin Guangyao. He’s been shown to have more human decency, at the very least. But he also spent the entire series expertly lying to everyone, so much so that we really don’t know what he plans to do now that he’s gotten his revenge. And you know what? That’s fine. He can fuck over all the four great sects if he’d like, because the cultivation world’s politics have been a corrupt shitshow for decades, and it’s their job to sort that shit out. It’s certainly not Wei Wuxian’s job. He’s done enough, and he deserves this one moment of selfishness. He deserves to get his own happy ending and settle down with the family he’s always wanted and not have to worry about saving all those ungrateful assholes. Wei Wuxian is at least on good terms with Nie Huaisang (it was awfully convenient that his old friend’s revenge scheme coincidentally involved resurrecting him and setting him up with his crush) and he trusts that he won’t fuck with him or his family.

And that’s good enough for him! Lan Wangji is similarly happy to spend the rest of his life with Wei Wuxian, and after 13 years of mourning he’s sure as fuck not gonna ruin his second chance to go play politics with the most obnoxious people in the world. The ideal ending for both of them is a happy marriage that mainly involves doing their own thing, night hunting together, fucking every day, and teaching the kids. Their calling, where other people are concerned, is absolutely as teachers, and nothing more.

[violetscanfly]

Art inspired by a tangled/mdzs fusion fic called the rivers start to sing by fruitys on ao3! Rapunzel-xian with his Xiao Pingguo crow just wouldn't leave my brain :'D

[mumms-the-word]

Bound by Blood - Prologue

Prologue

Characters: Alistair, fem!Surana, Zevran, fem!Tabris, and basically the rest of the DAO crew Plot: Seventeen-year-old Nyssa Surana never expected to find herself a Grey Warden - let alone one of three surviving Wardens, one of which is her own cousin, Velle Tabris. She's the last person anyone would ever choose to save the world. Young, inexperienced, deeply anxious, and only just out of the Circle Tower for the first time in a decade, she's convinced she's as unlikely a hero as unlikely heroes come. But someone has to save Ferelden from the Fifth Blight...and keep her cousin out of trouble...and try not to fall in love with the charming Alistair Theirin, all at the same time. Three impossible tasks, but she's determined to succeed, even with the odds stacked against her. A/N: A quick poetic prologue to get us started. More to come!

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | My Fic Masterlist | Read on AO3

She was only seventeen.

So young, and yet already burdened with responsibility.

Only seventeen, yet bearing the weight of an entire kingdom on her shoulders. Only seventeen, yet it was up to her and two other Wardens to defeat an oncoming Blight, the fifth in the history of all of Thedas. Only seventeen, yet she was expected to fill the shoes of heroes who were twice, three times her age when they gave their lives to defeat previous Blights.

She was only seventeen, but the world did not stop for her to remain young and carefree.

She was not meant to be one of three surviving Grey Wardens. She should have died in the Joining, or in the battle, or at the top of the Tower of Ishal. But the Maker had a sense of humor, if he was intervening at all, and so there she stood outside the ramshackle hut of Flemeth and her daughter, along with two other Grey Wardens not much older than her, each of them burdened with the weight of the impossible task ahead.

Part of her wished to hide until she was older, but Blights and Archdemons didn’t care about age. Younger women than her would die if she hid and did nothing. Children would not be spared the onslaught of the darkspawn hoard. She knew that. She had seen their vicious brutality firsthand.

She had to fight, no matter how naive and inexperienced and young she felt. If she didn’t, who would?

She was only seventeen. But the Blight, like death, did not discriminate. She had survived the Joining. Now she had to make that sacrifice mean something.

[anyanary]

They make me miserable

[themournwatcher]

Born Again in Blood Chapter 8 just dropped!

This is a shorter chapter due to the fact that I have been struggling with severe writers' block. And for the first time we pivot to the POV of someone new within Thedas! I hope everyone enjoys; I should get back on track with regular updates soon.