#DAfics

[usafphantom2]

These photographs are of the trainer SR 71, 981 being taken apart and placed into a cargo plane for a one-way ride to its new home. After the new SR 71C trainer was painstakingly put together, it was sent to Palmdale for testing. (the trainers were essential to the SR 71 program as there were always new pilots to train) after the crash of one of two trainers in 1968, there was a void. The decision to make an extra trainer is, in my opinion, remarkable as they used for the front half a static display model in the back part of the YF 12 that had been recovered from a crash. It had to be tested. Recalls: Bill Campbell later (Major General). I remember him as a colleague of my fathers

" 981 took a long time to pass the acceptance testing at Edwards because the inlets were acting so unusually. We had more than ten unstarts on several flights, and by-pass doors and spike positions were hardly ever in synch.

"I had Palmdale install a sideslip (Beta) indicator in the front cockpit because the aircraft seemed to be out of rig. Once installed, with indications of zero sideslip, the rudders needed to be trimmed out of the streamlined position, and the inlets were still acting up. For the next flight, I asked to have a yaw string (made out of Nomex) placed ahead of the cockpit.

"On that mission, the yaw string was centered when the Beta indicator showed a 4 degree yaw, and the rudders were then in streamlined trim. However, the inlets were still not matched in position. To determine what was wrong, Palmdale finally determined that the pitot boom was out of alignment in yaw by 4 degrees, thus feeding bad information to the inlet computers. Once they straightened the boom, 981 flew normally, and we delivered the aircraft to Beale."

By the time 981 was delivered to Beale on March 9, 1970, she flew just like the B model. The "Double Eagle" flight of 7 October 1969 was completely normal apart from two minor unstarts (which were themselves completely normal before DAFICS came along).

The only significant difference was that the C model only had five fuel tanks, whereas the B's had six, so refueling was a slightly different procedure.

These photographs were given to me by Jim Goodall (thank you, Jim) his photographs of when they packed up this SR 71 and flew it to its location, Hill Air Force Base, Utah

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[sabraefics]

Prompt: Getting Lost Somewhere Pairing: Light M!Handers

-----

There weren’t many constants in Hawke’s life. Between their family always running from the Templars, running from the Blight, and then struggling for a whole year to find their feet in Kirkwall, stability was never a luxury he’d really been granted. But one of the very few things he could count on being there was his lousy sense of direction, though honestly that flaw was more resented than counted on.

It hadn’t really been a problem for him back in Ferelden, where all the open villages and wide streets were easy enough to memorize, but right now he wasn’t in Ferelden. No, he and half of his friends were trapped in an abandoned Dwarven thaig, miles underground, and Hawke was starting to wonder if this place was purposely designed for outsiders to get lost and die in.

Typically, Hawke liked to look at violence as a last resort, charming his way out of any trouble he couldn’t settle with smooth actions. But oh, when he caught up to Bartrand he was going to strangle that traitorous fucker with his own innards.

Or, if they all ended up dying down here before catching up to Bartrand, Hawke was at the very least going to haunt him for the rest of his days. Take that!

“Not trying to sound like the voice of doom or anything-” Varric suddenly speaks up as they’re walking down the length of another hallway, causing Hawke, Anders, and Isabela to all look back at the dwarf that was bringing up the rear of the group. “-but I’m almost positive that we’ve gone through this corridor already.���

Hawke frowns, looking at the stone-carved walls and pillars around them. He tries to seek out something familiar but all of the hallways and rooms that they’d gone through so far looked so similar to him that they could’ve walked through this same corridor a dozen times and been none the wiser.

“Maybe it all just looks the same and we haven’t actually been wandering in circles for Maker knows how long?” Hawke replies, trying to sound at least a little hopeful but Varric just looks as skeptical as he feels. He was really going to have to work on sounding more optimistic if he wanted to keep their spirits up.

“No, we’ve definitely been here before,” Isabela says, and Hawke looks over to see her pointing towards something marked on one of the pillars beside her. He quickly moves forward to get a closer look but then stops mid-step when he realizes that the ‘symbol’ is just a crudely drawn erection carved into the stone. He blinks before meeting Isabela’s gaze, and she just grins back at him as shameless as ever. “What? I was marking the route.”

“Thanks, Bela,” Hawke replies in a deadpan tone before he sighs, looking around the corridor before he turns to face the group. “Okay, so we definitely just walked in a circle. Or a square, knowing how old Dwarves liked to think. Thoughts?”

“My thought is that trusting Bartrand and coming down here might not have been our best idea,” Anders says, sitting down on a broken chunk of what was probably once a pillar before he meets Hawke’s gaze. “But that probably goes without saying by now.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Blondie. Up until the part where Bartrand left us down here to die, I think it was all going pretty well.” Varric replies, his tone almost light but Hawke can hear the underlying hurt and anger in his friend’s tone. He can’t imagine what Varric was thinking right now.. They might not have always gotten along well, but there was no world where Hawke could imagine Carver ever doing something like this to him. It still stings to think about him, but Hawke tries not to dwell on that right now. His repressed grief was the least of their problems and it should probably remain that way.

“Well, standing around and talking about dismembering a traitorous dwarf might cheer us up,” Hawke says, returning the collective attention of his friends to him, “but it won’t get us out of here. Let’s keep going, and try to leave some better markers as we do.”

“You’ll thank me when we’re out of here,” Isabela replies, throwing him a playful wink. Hawke returns the familiar gesture with a smirk before his gaze goes over to Anders, and he watches as the mage gets to his feet with a weary huff.

“You feeling all right, Anders?” Hawke asks, approaching him before another thought suddenly crosses his mind. “And not trying to add to our current problems, but you don’t happen to sense any Darkspawn down here do you?”

“If I did, I certainly wouldn’t be keeping it to myself,” Anders replies, rolling his shoulders as he and Hawke follow after their other two companions, and they walk in silence for a few seconds before Anders lets out another soft sigh. “I just.. I can’t say I have a lot of fond memories about being underground.”

“Oh I’m sure we’ll look back at this and laugh someday.” Hawke replies, reaching over to give Anders’ shoulder a companionable pat. “But on the bright side, everything that we come across down here can probably be killed.”

“Yes, including us,” Anders replies, raising an eyebrow at the grin that Hawke gives him in lieu of a reply. “Just try to keep a distance if we do happen across any Darkspawn. The last thing we need is someone getting infected with the Blight sickness.”

“Precisely why I didn’t risk bringing Bethany down here,” Hawke replies promptly, watching as Isabela and Varric both pause in their walking to start scraping some noticeable markers in the stone walls. “But I’m not too worried – I’ve got a big, bad Grey Warden right here to keep me safe.”

Anders scoffs at that, and when Hawke glances over he thinks that he sees a faint dusting of red on his cheeks. It’s difficult to tell in the dim lighting of the walkway, but Anders is still smiling when he meets Hawke's gaze again. “Fine, but if we run into a dragon I’m leaving that one to you.”

“Fair enough.” Hawke grins. “But if it’s a baby dragon I’m going to try and tame it first.”

“That I don’t doubt.” Anders says, and there’s a noticeable fondness in his tone, one that fills Hawke’s chest with a pleasant warmth as they keep following after the others, eager to leave this thaig and this journey behind them.

-----

[theaologies]

We’ll Continue (to be disappointed) [fic]

Fandom: Dragon Age Ship: Solavellan (implied) Rating: Gen Summary: Charter delivers some news Wordcount: ~1700 Notes: I haven’t written anything in... so long... god. A drabble, some character introspection mostly Read on Ao3

HEAVY SPOILERS for TEVINTER NIGHTS

“Is that all?” Cassandra asks, dropping the bundle of papers that has occupied her hands for the past hour or so on the small, stained wood table their little group stands around.

The basement they find themselves gathered in this time is small and damp, the scent of fish drifting in from the port outside mixing none too sweetly with old ale that has spilled through the floorboards of the tavern above. The cramped space barely fits the four women with their table, which tilts precariously whenever something heavier than a dagger is placed upon it, and Leliana has joked more than once that if Cullen had joined them he and his pauldrons would have had to play door for them.

But this isn't a matter to disturb Cullen with. Not while he's enjoying his retirement and time with his family.

No, this little party is made up only of those absolutely necessary; Cassandra, Leliana, Lavellan, and Charter.

Charter, who is the one who retrieved this information for them.

The Elven woman nods as she watches Cassandra drop her notes, folding her arms across her chest. “That is all, yes. And since I was the only one spared we won't have to concern ourselves with cleaning up loose ends.”

Cassandra sighs, frustration evident in her voice. “I suppose you're right.” She nods, rubbing at her chin, “though I admit my confusion at your survival- he'd kill all those others in attendance, yet not you? Just because you... asked?”

“I had done nothing to wrong him,” Charter tells her, leaning over to gather the papers up once more. “The others had lied or slandered him or posed some kind of risk. I merely sought out information- and it was information he was willing to share.”

“He doesn't want to kill Elves,” Lavellan supplies, finally speaking up for the first time since their meeting began, “he will if he absolutely must, but Solas is... trying not to kill other Elves. He's still trying to recruit them into his army.” She glances up at the other Elf, violet eyes both hard and exhausted at the same time, “you said it yourself- he asked you to join. And it probably would have looked worse for him had you not returned.”

“He wants us to know he can be anywhere at anytime,” Leliana says, “even though we've officially disbanded he knows we're still working against him- he wants us to know just how big of a threat he, personally, is to us. Any of us. All of us.” The Divine, cloaked in a simple disguise, spreads a hand out over the small map of Tevinter tacked down on the table, looking over it dutifully. “We'll have to be more careful from now on- well, even more so than we have been.” She sighs, a frown etched across her lips, “I'm afraid our infrequent meetings will have to become... even more infrequent. And those of us who are traveling will have to do more to cover our tracks. It will be difficult but we can't afford to get lazy now- or ever.” Nimble fingers pluck at the tacks, carefully rolling the map back up before depositing it in a tiny canister. As she straightens she eyes both Charter and Lavellan, “I'm sorry to say, but that means being more careful around other Elves, as well- if he'd go so far as to attempt to recruit a known spymaster-”

“No, you're right,” Lavellan agrees quickly, though she doesn't meet her eye, “anyone could be one of his agents, at this point. There's no telling. Caution must be taken, especially with those Elves coming out of Tevinter.”

Leliana gives a single nod, seemingly pleased with her understanding. “Yes, exactly. We cannot, at the moment, take any unnecessary risks. Now-” her eyes sweep over the other women as she tugs at the hood of her cloak, ensuring her hair is completely covered, “I'm afraid I must take my leave. Cassandra and I must be present later tonight at the Viscount's banquet- there had to be some excuse for use to travel all the way to Kirkwall, after all.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise from the space by the door as she dons her own cloak. “Politics.”

“Now, now, Cassandra,” Leliana chides playfully, a smirk replacing her serious expression, “I'm sure Varric won't make it too unbearable for you. Perhaps our dear friend will even give you the next copy of his book.”

The dark haired woman rolls her eyes, turning toward the door quickly to hide the blush that creeps its way up her neck.

“Charter, if you wouldn't mind passing this information to Harding when you have the chance?” Leliana requests, “she'll need to know the details of this meeting in depth and what to keep an eye out for in the future.”

“Of course, My Lady,” Charter agrees, tucking the papers away into a leather pouch hidden inside her vest, “I will get this to her as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Leliana says, then turns to Lavellan, “I'm sorry you can't join us tonight,” she tells her sympathetically, “If there were a way-”

But Lavellan just lifts her hand to stop her. “It's fine,” she says, “I spent some time with Varric yesterday- we caught up then. Had lunch. It's no big deal.” She shrugs. “Besides, I'm to start trek toward the Arlathan Forest early tomorrow. Varric gave me information to catch up with one of his and Hawke's friends who's been working on dismantling the slave trade there. Thought I might be some help.”

Leliana doesn't miss the way she fidgets with the hem of her sleeve, though; fingers tugging at the fabric to try to hide the dragonbone contraption Dagna made to replace her missing arm. “You had said before,” the redhead starts carefully, “that you were considering stopping by Wycome on your way. Do you still-”

“I might,” she cuts her off again, still not looking her in the eye, “I haven't decided yet. I know reports have said that some of my Clan might still be out there- but-” she sighs, rolling her shoulders to try to stave off the shudder that threatens to run through her, “I just don't think it would matter if I went back. I doubt they'd want me back, after everything. If they even recognized me at all.”

Cassandra turns back to look at the Elven woman, a soft pity in her eyes, “Inqui-”

“Don't,” Lavellan says quickly, sharply, then deflates, letting the sudden anger rush out of her. “I'm not the Inquisitor anymore, Cassandra,” she tells her with a wavering smile, “let's not pretend I still am.”

The other woman frowns, though instead of her usual frustration it's one of sympathy. “Yes, of course.” She agrees softly, “I- just know- if there's anything you need-”

Lavellan nods, looking up at the human women, a fake smile plastered across her face. “I know, and thank you. But I'm fine. I'll be fine. Truly.”

There's a pause. Lavellan returns to her subconscious fidgeting. Leliana chooses not to say anything of it. “Very well,” The Divine relents, moving to join Cassandra at the door. “We'll be seeing you, then. Just be sure to keep in touch, wherever it is you end up. I've never met Fenris personally but I know he can be... a bit touchy, as Varric's said. And perhaps... don't mention your mage sympathies.” She then looks over toward Charter, giving her associate a nod. “And you know where your duties take you next?”

“Of course, My Lady. I will continue to inform you of any developments in the Imperium.”

“Thank you. Walk in the Maker's Light, both of you.” She tells them, and then follows Cassandra out the door, the dark haired woman giving a nod in farewell to both of them.

The door shuts with a click, leaving the two Elves alone together.

An awkward silence blankets the room as they wait until they are clear to leave. Lavellan has no idea if Charter is one for small talk- they never were more than acquaintances during their time with the Inquisition- but where Lavellan used to be, she's found she hasn't had the spirit to summon the casual lightheartedness that had been so central to her demeanor all her life.

At least not for the past year and a half.

So she lets the silence be. For about an hour the two Elven women simply sit in silence; Lavellan finding a discarded crate and fiddling with the more mechanical components of her arm while Charter perches on the table itself, pouring over a small, well worn notebook. Once, Lavellan briefly catches her sleeve in a joint and curses under her breath, waving Charter off when she looks up in question. It proves to be the extent of their interaction.

At least, until right before Lavellan rises to leave.

“Wait,” Charter stops her, just as she goes to tug her hood over her head. A scarred brow quirks in the spy's direction, watching as she tears a leaf of paper from the little notebook. She looks at it for a brief moment, as though second guessing herself, before holding it out for Lavellan to take. “I don't know that Leliana would... approve of me giving you this information,” she says as the other woman carefully takes it from her, “but for him to have said it...” she hums softly, tucking away the notebook, “he allowed me my life. Delivering it to you- it's a debt paid.”

Lavellan wills her hand not to shake as she looks down at the parchment, a sudden weakness trembling in the pit of her stomach.

“When you report back to the Inquisitor... Say that I am sorry.”

“For all that it's worth,” Charter continues, moving to stand, “it did sound like he meant it.”

There's the silence once again as Lavellan's eyes stayed glued to the page, that weakness trying to decide whether to manifest itself as sadness or anger. It's such a shock, for him to address anything directly towards her after all this time, that when if finally hits her throat it culminates as neither- a tiny, humorless chuckle escapes her mouth instead. “A teahouse.” Is all she can bring herself to say; just a whisper of the word, with an almost unwilling fondness trapped behind her teeth.

Charter smiles- just a little, with just a hint of pity- and lightly claps Lavellan on the shoulder as she slips past her and out the door, disappearing into the quickly setting sun.

[lpwrites]

the final stone unturned

“Alistair. Alistair, wake up!”

It’s strange. If Alistair didn’t know any better, he would say it was the Warden shaking his shoulder awake.

While it was routine once upon a time, he was king now, technically, and the Warden was....away. Searching. 

But no, the fingers on his arm are cold and fiendishly real as they pinch at the soft skin under his arm. “Alistair!”

Whatever swear had been building in Alistair’s throat dies as he sits up and stares blearily at the sight before him.

Tabris, hair in disarray, still in the blues and silvers of the Grey Wardens, is in his bedchamber, kneeling on his bed. Barkspawn chuffs softly, panting at his door. The moon is barely a sliver shining into his room, making everything seem ethereal, but the weight on his legs feels very real, sharp greaves digging into him even through the layers he’s tucked under.

“I...” Alistair draws the covers to his chest as nonchalantly as he can manage, squinting in the dim light. “This isn’t a dream, is it?”

Tabris’ answering pinch is more than enough proof, but still, there’s questions to be answered. Alistair sits up further and fumbles to light a candle at his bedside, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Um. Welcome back, I suppose. When did you arrive?”

“Twenty minutes ago.” Tabris drops onto his bed with a groan, already moving to rip off the greaves and braces and various bits of armor. “I snuck in, by the way. Don’t call the guards, it was hard enough to do this without Barkspawn waking everyone and their mother.”

“I really should inform them about possible weaknesses in their guard...patrols, I suppose.” Alistair points out, moving out of the way. It was routine a year ago, when they were still fighting off darkspawn, so it’s strange that it’s still so familiar. “Did you have to sneak in though? I feel like the Hero of Ferelden would be allowed in regardless of the time.”

“I missed you, as strange as that sounds.” Tabris smiles, and for the first time in a while, seems almost content, like a weight’s been lifted. 

“What brings you here? To my chambers? In the middle of the night?” Alistair prompts, reaching out to pat Barkspawn as he approaches to greet him.

“I figured it out!” A renewed sense of energy makes Tabris shoot up, kneeling on his bed again. “I know how to cure the taint!”

Alistair blinks, hand on Barkspawn’s large head. “I’m...sorry?”

“I cured Barkspawn all those years ago, remember? The sick mabari in the pens? I did it. I fixed it. In Ostagar.” Tabris nods, eyes wide with just a hint of madness.

Alistair hums softly in thought, trying to wrap his head around the strange midnight visit. His head’s still foggy and he’s not entirely sure this isn’t a delusion, despite the strangeness of it all. “Are you telling me,” he begins slowly. “That after all this time struggling, you removed the taint and forgot?”

“In my defense, it was a rough year.” Tabris adds hurriedly, grunting as the last piece of armor clinks to the floor. “You were also there and forgot, so it’s not all my fault.”

“You realize that could have saved us so much time, right? How long were we in the Korcari Wilds again? How much Elfroot did we pick? We could have taken care of the blight in a week.” 

"I remembered now, that has to count for something, right?” Tabris waves a hand in the air and shrugs, climbing towards the top of the bed. “Shove on over, it’s freezing out there.”

Alistair sighs, rolling his eyes but raising the covers regardless. “You realize this will be a scandal.”

“I’m sure you can handle it, your highness.” Tabris preens, hugging his side, all cold limbs and pointy elbows, and buries into his pillows. “That’s a problem for the morning, don’t you think?”

“You’re impossible, you know that?” Tabris doesn’t deign him with a response, and Alistair can’t offer more witticisms because Barkspawn jumps onto the bed and burrows into the blankets beside him.

It wasn’t how he had planned on spending the night, but he supposes he missed them too.

[hadiden-lavellan]

@ Everyone If you’re looking for Dorian/Lavellan (Pavellan) fics to read, I just posted TWO new chapters to my longfic.  Take a lookie, it’d be a rad thing to do

https://archiveofourown.org/works/6574201/chapters/15041878

[nerd-elf]

Work in Progress Wednesday

I'm writing a fic about DAI, and my inquisitor is Connor Trevelyan, a templar that falls in love with no one less than Dorian Pavus.

I've just finished this part, that occurs right after they start dating, and I couldn't not post it! <3

“Well, the scouts said there’s a rift on that direction. Watch out for the bears. “

Connor Trevelyan led his team upstream, and Dorian dragged himself to keep up.

“Ugh…does this rain ever stop???” The mage shivered, trying to warm himself with a fireball.

“Well, it’s called ‘The Storm Coast’ for a reason.” Varric stated sarcastically, chuckling at sight of the Tevinter, usually so pompous and haughty, now soaked and miserable.

Dorian exhaled, annoyed. “I am starting to run out of dry clothes.”

The Inquisitor turned to the mage with a scoff, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You??? Running out of clothes??? It would be like Varric running out of ideas.”

The Tevinter rolled his eyes “I never thought I would miss those horrid rags that you boldly call ‘bedrolls’ that much.” Then he trembled furiously, equally cold and disgusted.

“Well, that’s because you miss sleeping with the boss. You think we can’t hear you two?”

As The Iron Bull spoke, the couple stopped walking, and slowly looked at each other, shocked, their jaws dropped.

A subtle silence fell over the group.

Suddenly, with a snort, Connor laughed loudly, throwing his head back, not able to contain himself.

Dorian went speechless, a rare moment. He sensed his cheeks on fire, and kept his mouth open, not able to process any of that, until Varric startled him, pushing his arm with an elbow.

“What do you think of this, Sparkler: Templars and mages never ceased fire, and The Inquisitor and his Tevinter lover were no different. They consumed each other every night, their love as ardent as real flames!”

He gestured with his hands while he spoke, looking forward, as if he saw the scene before him. Bull couldn’t stop himself from laughing at everything.

The mage’s eyes widened even more with that phrase, and soon his brow furrowed, hands clenching in fists, furious with all that exposure.

“You hear me dwarf, if you-“ he started saying, but Connor interrupted him, hugging him from his side, still smiling. ”I love it. And I love you, too.”

Then, exploiting the fact Dorian had turned his face to him, the templar placed a brief kiss on his lips, before going back to finding the rift. “Now let’s fight some demons before anyone gets hurt.”

Varric snickered with the scene, and gave a significant look to Dorian before starting walking again.

The Bull passed through him with a suggestive smile, and the brief gesture he made with his fingers brought the mage’s flush to his ears.

Seeing the Tevinter hadn’t moved, Connor let his two other companions pass through him, and took the mage’s hand, pulling him. “C’mon, love. I don’t want you getting eaten so soon. Or frozen.”

“I can’t guarantee any of those in this wilderness.” Dorian quickly thought of an irritated answer, though the sight of their fingers intertwined made his heart race in his chest.

“Public demonstrations of love.” The thought reverberated through the mage’s mind; he couldn’t quite understand that concept.

Even though he still bore the exasperated expression, that new sensation warmed his heart.

[phoenixsoul13]

CW: grief; death mention; murder mention; post - All That Remains Summary: It wasn’t until she’d started opening Fenris’s front door that she realized where her steps had taken her.

~~~

The stone streets of Hightown were hard against her feet, which were bare since she’d stormed thoughtlessly out of the Amell manor. Alissa refused to let her help, had refused Uncle Gamlen’s offer of help, and she couldn’t stand to be there while ae took care of things without considering that they both needed something to do in the face of grief. They were Hawkes.

It wasn’t until she’d started opening Fenris’s front door that she realized where her steps had taken her. It was where she spent a lot of her time lately; she’d offered to teach him how to read.

Belatedly, Rosalie knocked on the door as she entered the manor to signify she was a friendly visitor. The thought that she was intruding on his time surfaced, but she wouldn’t demand his presence. She just... needed to be somewhere that wasn’t home.

Mother had gone missing. Alissa had gone looking after her, like the protector of the family that ae claimed to be. Rosalie had stayed home in case Mother came back, but she had tried not to worry. Ae had promised to bring Mother home.

But ae had not brought Mother home. Because Mother was dead. Murdered.

Rosalie leaned back against the front door to close it and inhaled deeply, relishing the lack of flowery scents that reminded her of Mother’s perfume. For the first time in hours, she actually felt like she could breathe. The rugs in the main hall were kinder on her feet than the stones of Hightown. The shadows felt far safer than the revealing light of Mother’s lamps. In here, the world wasn’t ending; everything was... calm. There was nothing to indicate anything terrible had happened today.

Nothing except for her sibling’s words ringing in her ears: ‘Mother is dead.’

She remembered how her mother had looked this morning, smiling as she arranged lilies in a vase, humming to herself. The last time Rosalie would see her.

A sob worked its way out of her throat, despite her attempts to muffle it. No no no, she couldn’t break down yet. She had to see if Fenris was here, to make sure she wasn’t intruding. But her grief was impatient, and the next thing she knew, she was curled up against the front door, sobbing, trying to hide tears in her skirts.

“Rosalie?”

Fenris. He must have heard her. Damn. Take a breath. Push down the grief. She shouldn’t make this his problem. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake.

She tried to wipe away the tears and get her breathing under control before she raised her head. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to say. How could she explain that her mother was-

Her thoughts were cut off by the sound of something landing on the rugs of the main hall. Before she could realize it, Fenris had jumped off the upper landing and was kneeling in front of her, eyes examining her, clearly looking for an injury or wound. He must have realized she was... not fine, but uninjured, because he relaxed, if only fractionally. “What happened?”

The thought of voicing the awful truth momentarily stole Rosalie’s breath. Where would she even start? The flowers? The necromancer? Mother going missing? Did she even have the strength?

Fenris looked increasingly concerned the longer she went without speaking, so she reached out a hand, hoping he would realize what she was asking. After a moment’s hesitation, he took her hand and moved to sit next to her.

Eventually, haltingly, she was able to tell him the story, starting with them learning Mother was missing, ending with Alissa arriving home covered in blood and demonic ichor. Without Mother.

As she finished, Fenris squeezed her hand with a sorrowful expression. “Rosalie, I am so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do...”

Those words broke something and Rosalie found herself sobbing again. Maker, why couldn’t she maintain her composure? She shouldn’t be making this Fenris’s problem. But she couldn’t help but remember her sibling’s angry expression when ae relayed what had occurred, aer refusal to let Rosalie help with anything, or even just stop and talk about it, and the grief welled up fresh all over again.

Eventually, eventually, she was able to stop crying long enough to say the words, “Thank you, Fenris.”

Ultimately, it was probably for the best that she had made her way here. Being alone at home -because she would have been, regardless of Alissa being home or not- was not a way she had ever had to deal with grief before.

Fenris was still holding her hand. It was warm, far warmer than she felt. A thought occurred to her. It was a selfish thing to ask, but, “…would it be all right if I asked you to hold me?”

He glanced at her and she couldn’t quite look him in the eyes. Why had she asked? She was a grown woman, not a four year old in need of being comforted through a thunderstorm. But to her surprise, he nodded.

As Rosalie curled up on Fenris’s lap, resting her head on his shoulder, trying to be careful around his lyrium marks, she swore she would find some way to thank him for helping her. It may only be a salve for the wound deep in her soul, but for now, it was more than enough.

[usafphantom2]

Tap pictures to enlarge

☝️ when the Astro-Inertial Navigation System (ANS) fails on a training mission and they accidentally fly into Mexican airspace

5 February 1968: Lockheed ordered to destroy A-12, YF-12, and SR-71 tooling

8 March 1968: First SR-71A (AF Ser. No. 61-7978) arrives at Kadena AB, Okinawa to replace A-12s

21 March 1968: First SR-71 (AF Ser. No. 61-7976) operational mission flown from Kadena AB over Vietnam

29 May 1968: CMSgt Bill Gornik begins the tie-cutting tradition of Habu crews' neckties

13 December 1969: Two SR-71s deployed to Taiwan.

1970s–1980s

3 December 1975: First flight of SR-71A (AF Ser. No. 61-7959) in "big tail" configuration

20 April 1976: TDY operations started at RAF Mildenhall, United Kingdom with SR-71A, AF Ser. No. 61-7972

27–28 July 1976: SR-71A sets speed and altitude records (altitude in horizontal flight: 85,068.997 ft (25,929.030 m) and speed over a straight course: 2,193.167 miles per hour (3,529.560 km/h))

August 1980: Honeywell starts conversion of AFICS to DAFICS

15 January 1982: SR-71B, AF Ser. No. 61-7956, flies its 1,000th sortie

21 April 1989: SR-71, AF Ser. No. 61-7974, is lost due to an engine explosion after taking off from Kadena AB, the last Blackbird to be lost

22 November 1989: USAF SR-71 program officially terminated

Where are the SR 71 today? 61-7950 SR-71A Lost, 10 January 1967

61-7951 SR-71A Pima Air & Space Museum (adjacent to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base), Tucson, Arizona. Loaned to NASA as "YF-12C #06937".

61-7952 SR-71A Lost in Mach 3 mid-air breakup near Tucumcari, New Mexico, 25 January 1966

61-7953 SR-71A Lost, 18 December 1969

61-7954 SR-71A Lost, 11 April 1969

61-7955 SR-71A Air Force Flight Test Center Museum, Edwards Air Force Base, California

61-7956 SR-71B Air Zoo, Kalamazoo, Michigan (ex-NASA831)

61-7957 SR-71B Lost, 11 January 1968

61-7958 SR-71A Museum of Aviation, Robins Air Force Base, Warner Robins, Georgia

61-7959 SR-71A Air Force Armament Museum, Eglin Air Force Base, Florida

61-7960 SR-71A Castle Air Museum at the former Castle Air Force Base, Atwater, California

61-7961 SR-71A Cosmosphere, Hutchinson, Kansas

61-7962 SR-71A American Air Museum in Britain, Imperial War Museum Duxford, Cambridgeshire, England

61-7963 SR-71A Beale Air Force Base, Marysville, California

61-7964 SR-71A Strategic Air Command & Aerospace Museum, Ashland, Nebraska

61-7965 SR-71A Lost, 25 October 1967

61-7966 SR-71A Lost, 13 April 1967

61-7967 SR-71A Barksdale Air Force Base, Bossier City, Louisiana

61-7968 SR-71A Science Museum of Virginia, Richmond, Virginia

61-7969 SR-71A Lost, 10 May 1970

61-7970 SR-71A Lost, 17 June 1970

61-7971 SR-71A Evergreen Aviation Museum, McMinnville, Oregon

61-7972 SR-71A Smithsonian Institution Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, Washington Dulles International Airport, Chantilly, Virginia

61-7973 SR-71A Blackbird Airpark, Air Force Plant 42, Palmdale, California

61-7974 SR-71A Lost, 21 April 1989

61-7975 SR-71A March Field Air Museum, March Air Reserve Base (former March AFB), Riverside, California

61-7976 SR-71A National Museum of the United States Air Force, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, near Dayton, Ohio,

61-7977 SR-71A Lost, 10 October 1968. Cockpit section survived and located at the Seattle Museum of Flight.

61-7978 SR-71A Nicknamed "Rapid Rabbit" and wearing a Playboy bunny image as tail art. (wearing a "black bunny" logo on its tail). Lost, 20 July 1972[4]

61-7979 SR-71A Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

61-7980 SR-71A Armstrong Flight Research Center, Edwards Air Force Base, California

61-7981 SR-71C Hill Aerospace Museum, Hill Air Force Base, Ogden, Utah (formerly YF-12A 60-6934)

How many SR 71 have you seen? Linda Sheffield Miller

[mahariel-theirin]

Chapters: 10/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Alistair/Female Mahariel  Series: Part 3 of On the Warden-Commander Vie Mahariel Summary:

Vie Mahariel is without her friends and family, and she is expected to fight in a war alongside humans. She has to gather an army, learn about the world of humans, play the game of politics, and most importantly, find her first love, Tamlen. But what of her shared destiny with fellow Grey Warden Alistair? And her deep bond with the assassin Zevran? Who exactly is Vie Mahariel in this larger, more chaotic world?

Alistair has finally found his place in the world, only for the world to crumble under his feet. As the Blight encroaches, he is forced to come to terms with who he is, and, ready or not, he must choose who he will become.

Zevran Arainai of the Antivan Crows expects nothing and takes whatever the day gives him. When he thought he'd get nothing more from life, his mark unexpectedly offers him the world.

Leliana chose a peaceful path, yet the world is wild and dangerous and beautiful. It is this world that her vision leads her to. A road of adventure, friendship, righteousness, and blood.

Morrigan has known the dark side of life since she was a girl, but only now will she know freedom. What will she do with it? And what is she willing to do to keep it?

Mahariel halved her pace, for it wasn’t a giant bird that was trapped within steel bars, but a giant man whose eyes watched her.

            Mahariel held his gaze as she approached and found herself tilting her head all the way back just to look at the man’s stony face. And here she thought Alistair was huge.

            “You aren’t one of my captors,” the man in the cage rasped, throat constricting as he swallowed. Or tried to. “I have nothing to say that would amuse you, elf. Leave me in peace.”

             ...By the Creators, the man had violet eyes, only three or four shades lighter than her own. And his ears! They ended in sharp points, shorter and less pronounced than Mahariel’s. His hair, which was braided into six tight rows, was white, a harsh contrast to the dark brown of his skin. Not human, not elvhen, certainly not a dwarf; then, Qunari? But no horns. Mahariel stared at the man just as he stared at her—silent and neutral. From the stains and faded cream of his tunic, not to mention the sour tinge of sweat and urine, the man spent more than two days in that cage.

            Slowly, Mahariel unstrung the waterskin from her belt and squeezed it between two bars. “What are you?”

            The man eyed the offered drink, but he remained unmoving. “A prisoner—” 

[sootspritesprinkles]

Andraste’s Favored Apostate - Chapter 15

Andraste’s Favored Apostate - Chapter 15 is posted

"Too many secrets can poison a well." "What?" "Something my mother used to say." "Our mothers were very different."

Setting up an Inquisition would be twice as easy if the Herald of Andraste would let someone, anyone, refer to her that way. But Hestia Trevelyan is a rebel mage first, a sister second, and prophet a distant third. If she's going to save the world as they know it, she'll first have to learn to trust the ones around her. And it's been a long long time since Hestia has trusted a templar.

Many thanks to @tommyoliverr for sharing this big fucked up family with me!

Start at the Beginning!

Chapter 15 is here!

[cityandking]

a little sunlight creeping in

Some mornings dawn gentle and kind. [Cullen Rutherford x f!Trevelyan. Mid- to late-game. 1.2k.]

Now that Nano is over I’m doing the 30 days of domestic fluff challenge! Here’s day one: waking up together.

other works // read on ao3

Of the two of them, she is the earlier riser. He does not sleep in all that much later, but she has a certain kinship with the dawn and finds herself rising to meet it no matter how late she has been up the night before. It is not always a blessing, especially on the days when she wakes sandy eyed with exhaustion and sick-hollow with the dread of facing another dragging day. Sometimes, though, it is a kindness to wake so early, to watch the first rosy beams spill over the mountains and turn the sky to a quilt of color, oranges and blues and pinks and yellows dusting the castle and the camp in the valley below as gentle as a kiss.

The best mornings are those when she can spare a few minutes to watch him sleep.

The light through her wide windows paints him in soft shades of pink today, grey of the predawn creeping towards color, and he is soft with it, gentle in his sleep. His hair curls in tight, mused ringlets at his temples and his lips part as he breathes, slow and steady. He is a warm weight at her side, careful to keep his distance until she breaches the space between them. She has time to study him like this, the shadow of days-old stubble on his jaw and the slight upturn of his nose and the silver sliver of a scar through his upper lip. There is another at his temple, nearly invisible, and her fingers itch to brush along it. 

She restrains herself for fear of waking him. He sleeps poorly enough. He deserves a few extra minutes of rest, of comfort, of peace before the day begins and wrings it all out of him afresh.

As she watches, the sunlight creep across the foot of their bed and his breathing changes as he begins to stir. His lips quirk slightly, and his head tilts in her direction, and she smiles to match him, even if he cannot see it, shifting closer to his warmth beneath the blankets.

“What time is it,” he mumbles, eyes cracking open, heavy-lidded with the weight of lingering sleep. She presses a quiet, warm kiss against his temple, against the near invisible scar there. He breaths out slowly.

“Early still,” Vesper murmurs. “You can sleep a little longer.”

He hums, eyes fluttering shut again. She watches his breathing steady and sighs. The bed is wide, and warm, and comfortable––it is an indulgence, truthfully, but one she had not made much of an effort to talk Josephine out of––but she has work to do. She presses a last, gentle kiss to his forehead and starts to get up.

From beside her, Cullen’s arm snakes around her waist. She blinks down at him.

“If I can sleep a little longer, so can you,” he says, eyes still closed. Her expression go soft as she looks down at him. His hand is warm against her hip even through the cotton of her nightshirt.

“I have work to do,” she replies, but her heart is not in it. He huffs a little and tugs her down, and she goes willingly, curling up in the hollow of his side. He breathes out long and slow, and his breath tickles. “Cullen...”

"A few more minutes,” he mumbles, and he sounds so very much like one of his own tired soldiers that she has to laugh, quiet to not disturb him and this delicate bubble of peace.

“Alright,” she agrees, shifting closer. His arm wraps around her as she lays her head on his shoulder, hair coming loose from the braid she sleeps in. The steady rise and fall of his chest is a lullaby, his heartbeat the melody, and she dozes without thought or effort.

The pink of the sunlight through the wide windows shifts slowly to orange, and then yellow, patterns creeping across the room, all awash in hazy early morning light. Far below, the castle slowly comes awake, cook and bakers setting the fires aglow in the kitchen, stable hands tending their charges, early risers among the troops practicing in the early hours when the training yards are nearly empty. War and strife keep far away, held at bay by the jagged teeth of the Frostbacks and the rosy-fingered brush of a quiet morning.

When she rouses herself again, soft yellow light streams through the windows, and the sun has still not quite risen high enough to crest the mountains and herald in the day. Cullen watches her, mouth soft and eyes amber.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, and she tilts her chin up for a kiss.

“Good morning,” she returns against his lips, and feels them curve in a smile. She pulls away and pushes herself up on an elbow, smothering a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Still early, I’m afraid,” he answers, rueful. Vesper sighs and stretches, shaking off the covers and the lingering cobwebs of half-remembered dreams, and then reaches up to tug her already loose braid free. She sits cross-legged in bed, blankets pooling around her waist, and cards her fingers through the mess of her hair before braiding it back up again. Cullen watches her work, silent.

“What is it?” she asks when she has finished and he has still not said a word. She scrubs a hand across her face, wipes the sleep out of her eyes. He stares at her. “Cullen?”

“What? No, nothing, I only...” He is limned all gold in the yellowing morning light. “I never thought I would be so lucky.”

She stares at him a moment, then snorts and throws a pillow at him. He yelps as it smacks him in the face and falls into his lap.

“What was that for?”

“You sap,” she laughs. She is all aglow, inside and out, so full of light she could burst.

He stares at her a heartbeat longer, and then his lips purse and his eyes crinkle, and that is all the warning she has before he launches himself across the bed to tackle her.

“Cullen!” she yelps, and there is a moment of confusion, limbs and warmth and blankets between them, and then he is above her, arms bracketing her head.

“Take it back,” he says, grinning down at her.

She cannot smother her smile, and in all honesty she does not try. “No.”

He laughs and kisses her. “Fair enough.”

She leans up to kiss him again, and then he rolls aside and sits up. She sits too, tucking the mused hairs that have come loose from her fresh braid back behind her ears.

“I could get used to this, you know,” she tells him, throwing off the covers and hissing when her feet touch the cold floor.

“Throwing things at me before the sun is fully up?” he asks dryly, leaning back on his hands and watching her begin her morning stretches, and she pauses a moment to look at him, all soft and warm and gold and hers.

“Waking up with you,” she says, and she begins the slow series of stretches with which she starts each day, and misses the pink spreading across his face to the tips of his ears.

She does not, however, miss his response.

“As could I,” he murmurs, gentle and almost reverent, and she smiles to her bare feet and the thick rug beneath her and hopes to do exactly that.

[magisterivm]

//you guys think i’m all wholesome pumpkin posts and shitpromos but one day, one day i will write some absolutely pants-ripping smut fic and then, you’ll truly know who i am inside 8)

[willwritesfic]

so proud and so unsure

how leliana knows morrigan on either side of ten years.

Leliana/Morrigan commission for @batpositivity! 1500 words of metaphors and introspection. 

commission info |  ao3 page

She’s grown softer with age, it seems; the loose strands of her hair curl gently across her cheek, and the curve of her jaw is not so sharp and angular. She’s lovely and quiet, the fires of her eyes settled to warm embers, her cloak draped over her form as though to shelter her.

“It’s been a while,” Leliana says as she approaches, stepping lightly around the corner.

She turns, arches her brows. “Indeed,” she says coolly, but not unkindly. “’Tis an illustrious position you have found yourself in, Sister.”

Leliana smiles faintly at that and shakes her head. “I could say the same to you,” she points out.

Morrigan’s laugh still sounds like autumn leaves scattering in the wind and the winds of sparrows taking flight. “And fate somehow finds us yet again at the center of events that shall change the world,” she observes. For a moment, she’s quiet, and then adds, “I wonder - is this what my mother intended?”

“I thought her intentions were quite different,” Leliana says. “Did she not intend to take your place?”

“And my name, perhaps,” Morrigan muses, “at least for a time. To put herself in this position - Court Sorceress, Arcane Advisor - everything I’ve achieved might have been hers instead.”

She doesn’t look at Leliana as she says it, but across the garden, eyes fixed on the child sitting on the stones, a book open in their lap, tossing seeds to the birds in the bushes.

“No,” Leliana tells her, and lays a hand on her arm. “Not everything.”

She is young and slight framed when they first meet, bones like a bird’s, eyes like a knife. She wears a cloak of feathers around her shoulders like armor and her voice is full of thorns.

Leliana knows her from the first moment.

She sees herself in Morrigan’s wary gaze, her drawn-in shoulders. She recognizes the face of a frightened girl lost in an unfamiliar world without guidance or help. She was like that, too, once. It is not a look that can be forgotten.

But the timing is wrong; she’s a few years too soon then and Morrigan’s heart is a bruised and battered thing not ready to love nor to be loved. She lashes out with sharp teeth and a bitter tongue, pushing away the frightening unknown and keeping everyone around them at arm’s length.

Leliana pities her, but she understands. She knows this, too - knows the way a lost and frightened creature bares its teeth and raises its claws against approach. She does not press. Better to keep her distance; if she cannot be the one who takes Morrigan’s hand and helps her to her feet again, she will meet another, some other time, when she’s ready.

“How is your lover?” Morrigan asks, sitting beside her on the garden wall. “The mage?”

Leliana wraps her arms around herself and sighs, looking away. “I do not write her as often as I should,” she murmurs. “She commands the Wardens in Ferelden, in the Hero’s absence, and when Justinia came to me for aid, I…I could not refuse her. It has been some time since I’ve seen Irianna.”

“Mm,” Morrigan says, and Leliana glances over to see her gazing again at the child. “Mahariel…last saw them when they were only an infant,” she says. “Still too young to walk or speak. Certainly too young to remember.” Her shoulders slump slightly with weariness. “I’ve not spoken to them since.”

“What’s their name?” Leliana asks gently.

“Kieran.” A flicker of a smile crosses Morrigan’s tired face. “They have grown into a fine child, have they not?”

“They seem a proper little scholar,” Leliana agrees. “They must take after you.”

She looks away and shakes her head, but she’s still smiling faintly.

“It feels as if it’s been a lifetime,” Leliana adds softly.

“I suppose it has,” Morrigan says, gazing at the child in the garden, “for some.”

That’s true, she thinks, and sighs softly, following Morrigan’s gaze. They fought one war as allies, and now they’ve met again to fight another - and in the space between, lives have ended and begun, and children have grown up. Time marches on and leaves in its wake vast oceans of empty space that even now seem to stretch on forever between the two of them, a distance far too great to cross even standing face to face again.

Years ago in the dim twilight shrouding the camp she approaches Morrigan and sits beside her, away from the others, at the edge of the trees. The last faint ribbons of sunlight glisten red and gold in her dark hair and set her eyes on fire when she turns her head.

“I brought you something to eat,” Leliana murmurs, offering the bowl of stew with both hands.

“I am not hungry,” Morrigan replies, her voice hollow; her eyes skirt away and gaze into the distance.

“You ought to eat it even so,” Leliana says, but she sets the bowl aside as she sits down beside the witch, following her gaze to the deep violet shadows among the wood.

The breeze whispers words she doesn’t know among the leaves and the light slants through the branches, casting Morrigan’s sharp features in rosy light that makes her look almost at peace.

“Are you alright?” Leliana asks softly, and reaches for her hand.

She flinches and draws away, brows drawing together. “I know not what you mean,” she replies after a moment.

“Learning what your mother planned cannot have been easy,” Leliana says. “Yet - she was your only family, yes? That, too, is difficult.”

“Nothing in life is easy,” Morrigan replies.

A long moment passes; the silence stretches like the shadows of the trees over their heads.

“What will you do now?” Leliana asks.

She hunches her shoulders, drawing her arms around herself. “I do not know,” she confesses softly, turning her face away. “I… have never known true freedom. I know not what to do with it.”

“Yes,” Leliana says, “I understand.”

She offers her hand again, and Morrigan glances at her, slender fingers curling into her palm, but does not pull back. Gentle, Leliana reaches out to touch her hand, which opens like a flower to the sunlight, lets Leliana’s fingers come to rest in her palm.

Despite everything, for one brief moment full of golden light, it seems as if everything might fall into place. It doesn’t, not yet - but for a moment their hearts almost touch, despite the war, despite the walls, despite everything in the way.

Leliana leans in to press a kiss to her lips, and she pulls away, draws back her hand. The light slips below the horizon and leaves her face in pale blue shadow.

“Leave me be,” she commands, turned cold and hard as stone.

“I… I’m sorry,” Leliana says, wilting, her cheeks flushing pink. “I didn’t mean…”

“Leave me,” Morrigan repeats, and her voice trembles and breaks, her eyes fierce and bright.

Leliana bows her head and returns to the camp in silence, but she spares a glance over her shoulder for the young woman sitting alone among the trees, no more than a fragile silhouette from her tent.

She remembers it now, an echo coming back across the years to haunt her, and something blooms warm in her chest as the sun begins to set upon the walls of the fortress.

“You’ve changed a great deal since I knew you,” she says softly.

“As have you,” Morrigan replies, angling her head, her eyes shining softly. A breeze winds through the cracks and around the corners of the great stone walls to toy with the loose strands of her hair.

Leliana smiles faintly at her and glances down. Their hands rest on the edge of the wall just inches apart. Her heart flutters in her chest.

Across the great empty space of ten years, she reaches out and takes Morrigan’s hand, slips her fingers into her palm which turns upwards towards her. Morrigan’s fingers curl around hers and stay that way.

The timing is wrong when they first meet; Leliana is too eager and Morrigan still too frightened, and they do not yet speak each other’s languages. There is too much lost in translation, and sparks scatter and burn them both when they touch.

But the heart, she thinks, is a growing, changing thing; like a seed it hides in darkness, wrapped tight in its shell. In the cold it sleeps, but warmth, water, sunlight make it stir, and with time it grows, it stretches towards the sun and like a flower slowly unfurls itself.

She reaches up to trace Morrigan’s cheek with her fingers and asks, softly, “May I?”

Morrigan’s eyes widen, but her face is soft. A long moment passes, and the sun gilds the edges of her face, the curl of her hair. “If you wish,” she says at last, and closes her eyes.

Leliana leans in to kiss her and feels her lips part, and her heart opens up to flood her breast with light and song as Morrigan kisses her back.

[lpwrites]

Masterlist: Dragon Age

One Shots: 

in death, sacrifice:  Fighting Rendon Howe was surprisingly similar to fighting darkspawn. | AO3

[trashquisitor-shirozora]

telling yourself your reward is writing more DAfic and executive dysfunction be like

[nerd-elf]

I wrote how my Inky would react to first meeting Dorian, the love of his life. A short Dorian X Trevelyan fic with a slight Dorian X Felix headcannon

Nothing prepared the Herald to what he was going to face inside that Chantry, though. The Breach was in the sky, demons poured inside the building and still, a mage fought them all alone, as if he did that every day, and he still looked impeccable.

When he grinned at Connor at the end of the battle, the warrior felt a slight shiver. “Damn, he’s handsome.” He thought. Even Bull pointed it out. Dorian Pavus would never go unnoticed, even if he wasn’t Tevinter.

But soon Felix entered the room, and Dorian’s face glowed with the sight. “Knew it.” With that thought, Connor’s hopes quickly went away. A man like that would never be single.