#Draw Me Like One of Your Orlesian Girls

[sassylavellen]

Bringing this back one more time

No one:

Literally no one:

Me: Draw Me Like One Of Your Orlesian Girls Part 2?

Pose references used

My Characters -  Origins - DA2 - Inquisition (part 1) - Inquisition (part 2) - DLC and Misc Companions

[daisymeade]

Introduce your Hero of Ferelden

31 Days of DA : Day 1

Heulwen Surana

Pictures after the cut at the end

Born 22 Wintermarch 9:11 in the Highever Alienage to Dimas Surana, the son of Rivaini immigrants, and Braith Vethavin, daughter of a Fereldan father and Antivan mother.

Her love of the stars came from her mother, who died from recurrent respiratory infections when Heulwen was five.

Nana Nerys, her maternal great-grandmother, would tell her stories as a child of elven heroes like the Hero of Fourth Blight, Garahel, and the Night Elves of the Rebellion. The latter, along with him already being a national hero, caused Heulwen to hero-worship the Teryn of Gwaren.

Knows sign language. Telor, her maternal grandfather, was made mute by an Orlesian before the rebellion.

Braith was a storyteller, Dimas loved to paint, Nerys was a poet, and Telor was once a singer. Heulwen is insecure about the fact that she was never any good at artistic pursuits. (Jokes on her. She loves maps and can draw one well but considers that practical not artistic).

Her magic manifested when she was eight years old, near the alienage's vhenadahl. An outburst of anger called down lightning on other children bullying her friends, injuring several of them...including her closest friend who ran screaming in terror.

Dimas made it in time to say goodbye and give his necklace to his daughter before the Templars arrived. He pays a neighbor to help write to her until his death when Heulwen is 13.

Before the Circle, she was much like her mother: bright and sociable. At Kinloch, she became shy and throws herself into studying, determined that if she couldn't leave then the Templars would never find fault with her as a mage. Knowledge and competence was safety.

She was in love with Solona Amell (the feeling was mutual) but was too nervous to pursue anything and was devastated upon learning that Amell, Uldred's apprentice, was a blood mage.

Ser Carroll attacked her when she was sixteen, leaving scars between her shoulder blades from his mace. Her crime was putting her hand on his arm when she thought he was being unnecessarily rough with another apprentice. He was moved upstairs with the plan to move him back down to the apprentice floor once Heulwen passed her Harrowing and moved upstairs herself. He was only punished because she was Irving's apprentice; the older mages told her that she should have known better.

Jowan, a year older than her, was assigned to be her guide when she first came to the Circle. It was common to see the two young apprentices walking around holding hands as Heulwen got nervous easily and would run off to hide otherwise (something that she would get in trouble for. One time a Templar had to pull her out from under a bed by an ankle as she wailed).

She immediately bonds with Duncan, a fellow Highevrian of Rivaini descent. He was little older than Dimas would have been and she knows logically that this will be her commander, but she feels an intense kinship and when he tells her, "I believe you will become the best of us," Heulwen holds that in her heart for the rest of her life.

In my canon, Heulwen recruits Jowan to the Wardens and Riordan puts him through the Joining alongside Loghain after the Landsmeet. Jowan really is the linchpin of this story because my girl would never have accepted Morrigan's ritual, but my favorite wet malewife malefirat would.

Heulwen and Loghain never learn why he survives killing the Archdemon (she's very happy about the fact; Loghain insists she take the credit), Jowan leaves with Morrigan through the Eluvian, and I get several fun little side stories my brain will never let me actually write.

Heulwen is a devout Andrastian. While Leliana is one of her closest friends and trusts that she'll do the best she can, Heulwen still doesn't have faith in the Chantry.

She's always felt like an outsider among her own people.* As a city elf because she was a mage. As a mage because she hated the Circle and wasn't "grateful" to not be in the alienage. Among the Dalish because she was deeply Andrastian. But she butts heads with no one more than elven Qunverts who say that the Qun is the solution. That as elves it's a better and safer place because for Heulwen, as a mage, it's not.

The only place that has never summoned her sense of alienation was the Grey Wardens, no matter how Weisshaupt pushed, because it was her sense of duty that filled her with belonging.

Also Zevran. Her husband Zevran is the sun that waits at the end of the end of the long, deep road that is her duty. Cause who doesn't like some cheese for their angst bread?

The languages she knows are Old Tevene, Elvhen, Antivan, CSL (Common Sign Language), Orlesian, and passable Dwarvish and Anderisch

Her favorite past times are cartography, astronomy, herbology, entomology, and research.

Her mabari's full name is Mithrahn'dahr or "dog with teeth like saws" as attested by Eyas and Talfryn Mahariel.

A Very Autistic Elf. Has a very Elle Woods attitude of, "What, like it's hard?"

Her specialization is a lightning elementalist, Arcane Warrior, and spirit healer. The healing doesn't come easily easily to her and is mainly a supplement to her traditional healing.

She still carries her longsword Spellweaver by 9:52.

Loves soup, coffee, and licorice

Sexuality is biromantic greysexual. She enjoys kissing and cuddling and her love language is acts of service.

Her closest friends are Leliana, Loghain, Anora, Oghren, and Nate

Not Fun Facts: Young Heulwen was merciful to a fault. Her entire thing during Origins was that, "I'm a Warden. I'm meant to kill darkspawn, not people." That said, had she been given the chance, knowing what he'd done, she would have conscripted Rendon Howe. Also, after forcing him to leave the captives and documents, Heulwen let Caladrius escape with his life, something she regrets deeply down the line.

Her game decisions:

Saves Connor with Circle mages. Finding out that the possessed don't need to be killed pushed Heulwen even further from the Chantry.

Peace with Dalish and werewolves

Anvil destroyed, Bhelen made king

Avernus conducts ethical research. Heulwen is very interested in all of his research and even brings him the Architect's things after Awakening.

Alistair rules with Anora

Saves Amaranthine City and Vigil's Keep. Nothing better than a good dwarven-built wall! The Hero of Orzammar doesn't skimp on her fortifications or craftsfolk.

Kills the Architect. She allowed Garevel to let The Messenger go but allying with the Architect would have been a step too far in her eyes.

*her feelings of alienation come from my own. those ocs do be reflections haha

art by @/ayumeart, @/themaybug, and @/birdcrow

[danceswithdarkspawn]

🍒 What’s your favorite character dynamic to write? (Can be romantic or platonic, specific or general!)

🍑 If you could make a connection between your favorite character and another work you care about (whether a crossover/fusion or a wonderfully “pretentious” literary reference) what would it be? How would it work?

🥭 Rank from most enjoyable/fun to write to least: Fluff, Smut, Angst, Crack.

🍌 In your opinion, what’s the funniest joke/reference/pun you’ve made in a fic?

🍈 Who’s your blorbo and what are some of your favorite headcanons/ideas about them that repeatedly show up in your fics? Free pass to rant about blorbo opinions.

"a few," he said

🍒: very, very close competition between Oblivious Idiots, Sharing A Braincell and platonic/familial relationships in general.

🍑: this is...a really good question. I'm actually not sure. I'm not actually involved in a lot of media and their fandoms, and the ones that I am, their genres and themes vary so wildly that I struggle to draw comparisons. I'm also pretty stubborn and like my things in neat little defined boxes. I did deliberately make a pop culture reference once for comedic effect and it kinda worked.

🥭:

angst - are we really surprised

smut - depending on the day/subject matter, this can be swapped with fluff. Sometimes it's fun, sometimes it's a pain to write.

fluff - I don't mind fluff, most of my ideas don't float this way unfortunately

crack - crack is the only genre I actively don't like, and this is true in trad media as well. Especially those that are meta-aware/break the 4th wall. This is something I associate with cartoons I grew up watching (think Looney Toons), and now I just don't find it as compelling or funny. I wouldn't even know how to start something cracky.

🍌: I usually don't intentionally put in jokes. Probably a toss-up of the pop culture reference listed above (a reference to Titanic, 'draw me like one of your French girls' became 'paint me like an Orlesian girl'); and a pseudo-meta reference in Broken Bird about Leliana probably being able to snap someone's neck with just her legs (which she does in Inquisition if you side with the mages).

🍈: I'm Not Normal about Leliana. As of yet, I don't think I have any recurring things for her across my fics (at least not intentionally) aside from Morrigan referring to her as 'little bird.' She does this in the Broken Bird universe as well as an unpublished Morriana ficlet sitting in my drafts. I don't really have much else to say about her except leave her aloneeeeee.

[broodwolf221]

Look I’ll say it. I am SHOCKED that I’ve yet to see a single “draw me like one of your Orlesian girls” scenario for Solavellan.

omg ur right?? PLS THE POTENTIAL......

like! maybe lavellan is just being silly but he's like okay and draws her and it's soooo tender and she's like 🥹 I wasn't expecting you to rly put that much effort in

[elle-enasalin]

So @sassylavellen‘s “draw me like one of your Orlesian girls” series inspired me and uuuuh here’s the result!

[sassytail]

I was inspired by @sassylavellen‘s draw me like one of your orlesian girls series to draw my own Mahannon lavellan(she/her)

also i know it’s been a million years since i posted anything on here but heyo

Twitter Mirror

[jacklyn-flynn]

"Are they sexy consequences?" Girl, I fucking hope so. 🤤

75 for Elodie and Fen 🤤 Please and thank you!

75. Kisses Meant To Distract The Other Person From Whatever They Were Intently Doing.

“Are you done yet?” Hawke asked, finally making her presence known after having spent the last five minutes staring lewdly at Fenris’s naked back from the doorway. He was sprawled out on his bed, propped up on his elbows adding the finishing touches to a sketch he’d been working on for the past few weeks.

Fenris growled in response, sounding less than impressed by yet another interruption. 

“You do know growling at me like that isn’t going to scare me off - quite the opposite actually.” She winked when he turned his head to give her an irritated glare.

Hawke completely ignored her lovers less than welcoming demeanour as he shook his head and returned his attention to his sketchbook, climbing on to the bed and crawling on top of him to straddle the backs of his thighs.

“Hawke,” he warned as she leaned forwards to press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” she whispered sensually in his ear before giving the sensitive tip and gentle suck.

“So help me, Hawke,” he began, “if you don’t let me finish this, there will be consequences.”

“What kinds of consequences?” She innocently asked, pressing another kiss to his back, and another, and another as she worked a path up to his other ear. “Are they sexy consequences?”

She felt him shudder beneath her, the markings on his skin shimmering slightly in response to her performance. 

And then nothing.

Hawke slid fluidly on to her back beside him, her mass of inky-black waves making it impossible for him to continue as she provocatively stretched her arms out above her head, drawing his attention to her naked chest.

“Oh, am I in your way?” she asked as he fixed her with an intense stare, innocently batting her eyelashes.

A spike of white-hot lust surged through her entire body when his intensely arousing voice moodily responded, “yes.”

Hawke slowly licked her lips, pleased by the annoyed twitch of his eye as he tried unsuccessfully to avoid looking at her mouth. “Give me a kiss and I’ll leave you alone.” 

Fenris rolled his eyes in exasperation, but she didn’t miss the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth - confirming he wasn’t quite as annoyed as he’d have her believe.

“Fine,” he grumpily submitted, pressing his lips to hers in what he intended to be a quick peck. 

But Hawke had other ideas.

She slid her fingers into his hair, holding him in place as she ran her tongue along the seam of his lips until he opened his mouth and kissed her properly. She tugged his hair at the roots, nails scraping along his scalp as she coercively kissed him into surrender.

“I’ll go now,” she spoke as his lips trailed a path down her throat, attempting to sit up and move away from him.

Fenris growled as he grabbed her by the hip and dragged her beneath him, the suave velvet of his voice making her visibly shiver as he spoke against her lips, “you’re going nowhere, woman.”

[Kiss Prompt List] | [26]

[thebookworm0001]

she uh. hasn’t had a great day.

[foppishdandy]

"How about I take some pictures of you? Somenudesforexample."

Beneath the wrinkle of concern, his eyes dart to the device in question-- hair-trigger ready camera of Prompto’s unfamiliar to Dorian-- which floated into his line of sight for the fourth time now. He suspected that the glare of its glass face served to enhance a subject for drawing or mapping for some other medium, but lacking more than moderate certainty he let its wielder do the explaining first.

“How will you manage anything while you’re pointing that ominous looking contraption at me?”

[shadowheartoffaith]

Her hands curl over the headboard, her head falling back against the pillows as a low moan tears its way from her throat. Cullen’s head is buried between her legs, his hands wrapped gently around her thighs, keeping her spread open for him as his tongue passes over her folds in a way that has her swearing she is going to die from pleasure. 

She had woken to his fingers trailing featherlight down the bare skin of her side, the room still warm from the fire and the down of the lavish blankets draped over the bed. The entirety of Chateau Desjardins is stunning and decadently over-the-top with its marble floors and foreign art lining the walls. Elodie had been enraptured despite her exhaustion the night before when they had arrived. Though she is now accustomed to long haul treks through Thedas with Inquisitor Trevelyan and his party, five days of traveling on horseback had left her tired and a bit sore. 

They had arrived late in the evening, the Inquisitor and his Inner Circle and Advisors being led to the formal dining room for a warm meal and then shown to their rooms throughout the winding estate. The soldiers had made camp on the grounds and Leliana’s agents had gone on ahead to Halamshiral to find places to smuggle Inquisition troops into the Winter Palace during Empress Celene’s peace talks.

The evening had been long with talk of dress code and etiquette and protocol. The list of nobles in attendance had been chattered about between Vivienne and Josephine and Leliana. Vivienne had even arranged for gilded carriages to take them to the palace and mercilessly questioned the Inquisitor about the famed Council of Heralds for the majority of the meal, leaving Elodie’s head spinning with the intricacies of the Game. 

Her head spins for another reason now. Her back arches off of the mattress and Cullen’s hands slip higher to pin her hips down. Light dances behind her eyelids, his name escaping her in a sigh and he slows his ministrations but does not stop. Her fingers dig into his curls, urging him closer.

A sharp rap at the door has her eyes flying open. 

She bites down on another moan. A leftover habit from their days in the Circle; she fears being caught. She tugs at Cullen’s hair and he chuckles against her, his nose bumping against her clit. She hisses out a breath at the sensation. 

“They’ll leave,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. 

Another sharp knock sounds before a heavily Orlesian-accented voice informs them that breakfast is being served in the dining room. A heartbeat later her ears twitch at the sound of footsteps receding down the hall. 

“We should go,” she grouses. 

Cullen hums against her, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses up her bare leg. “Do you wish for me to stop?”

His voice is so low, so roughened with lust. She trembles at the thick edge of his Fereldan accent as it creeps into his voice. He lifts his head to look at her. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes are nearly black and she watches as he licks his lips clean of her. 

Her toes curl.

“No,” she breathes and he is back to the pressing task of making her see stars. 

He strokes her leg as he circles a particularly sensitive spot with his wicked tongue and a cry catches in her throat. All of her nerve endings are alight with fire and she feels her muscles coiling tighter and tighter before she falls limp and boneless against the mattress. Another soft kiss is pressed to her hip and then Cullen is hovering over her, those amber eyes tender and amused. “Good morning,” he murmurs, bringing his mouth down to hers.

She cannot speak, she can hardly move, but she returns his kiss. 

An even sharper knock at the door has Cullen growling down into her throat in frustration. He pulls away to call “What?” over his shoulder. 

“If you two are quite finished,” comes Josephine’s haughty voice, “There are preparations to begin! We have much to do!”

Elodie lets out a quiet laugh and Cullen grumbles something about privacy. 

“It is time to greet the day, Commander!” Josephine sing-songs from outside before she proceeds down the hall to break down another door. 

Elodie traces her fingertips from Cullen’s jaw up and over the shell of his ear. He leans into her touch, his stormy expression softening. “Duty calls,” she murmurs. 

He drops his head down to nuzzle at her neck. “I had no idea this party was going to take up so much of our time. Or become an all day event.”

“From what I’ve gathered Orlesian parties are some sort of national pastime.” She strokes the back of his head soothingly. “I may be even less excited than you are,” she admits. “But this is important. And once it’s over we can do this again.”

“I will be holding you to that,” he informs her, his breath warm against her skin. 

She grins.

“Dorian Pavus! Open this door!” comes Josephine’s shout from down the hall.

Elodie shakes her head. “I hope they locked that door or Josephine is about to get an eye full.”

Cullen peers up at her questioningly.

“If you’d ever been camping with Dorian and Bull, you’d understand. Apparently qunari have very lax views on public decency.”

His cheeks flush at her implication. “Have you...have you ever seen-?”

“A time or two, yes.” She tries not to think too long on the few times she had been sitting at the cook fire and Iron Bull had come wandering from his shared tent without a stitch on him, Dorian shouting from inside.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen grumbles, mortified, and pulls himself out of bed. 

She watches him gather up his clothing from the floor and splash water on his face. Something about watching him prepare for the day has always left her somewhat speechless. It is such a domestic and commonplace thing but it is also something so horribly intimate. She had never dared dream that a day would come when she would be the first to see him in the morning. His golden hair curled and bed-tousled before he tames it into submission, his amber eyes soft and still slightly glazed. 

He is lacing up his breeches when he glances back at her, still lounging in bed. He follows her gaze and can’t seem to help glancing down at himself self consciously. “What is it?”

Another smile spreads her lips and she shakes her head. “Nothing, vhen’an. I just cannot seem to move my legs yet, is all. You were very...thorough.”

His ears burn scarlet and he coughs to clear his throat. 

“For Maker’s sake! This is not a circus,” cries Josephine. “Find yourself a decent pair of trousers!”

The day is a flurry of orders and reports and dresses and shoes. 

The Inner Circle flits through the chateau as they prepare, sharing jokes and jabs in passing. Servants come through with trays of figs and roasted nuts and glasses of sparkling wine. 

Elodie is sat in front of a vanity mirror while one of the household servant’s carefully tends to her hair. Her long red tresses are carefully pulled atop her head in a coronet, a few loose strands curled into tight tendrils that frame her face. She has had no one to tend to her hair since Ormaline left the Circle. 

The girl is young, her brow furrowed in concentration as she threads diamond crusted combs into Elodie’s hair. She bobs her head with a satisfied smile which Elodie watches in the mirror’s reflection. “What do you think, my lady?”

“It is very beautiful, thank you,” Elodie tells her.

The girl’s smile widens. “What color is your gown, my lady?”

Vivienne glides into the parlor with Josephine and Cassandra trailing behind her. “You look marvelous, darling!” she praises, motioning with a hand. Two more servants enter, holding aloft the heavy dress boxes from Val Royeaux. Vivienne leaves them to arrange the gowns and comes up to Elodie’s side, studying her. 

“Madame de Fer?”

Vivienne purses her lips before turning to the servant girl. “Her face has such fine angles, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course,” the girl says instantly. 

“I think some rouge along her cheekbones will do well to accentuate that. And perhaps some coal for her eyes, yes?” Vivienne recommends and Elodie feels as if she has become one with the furniture. She has never worn cosmetics on her face. Has only worn a gown two other times in her life. 

She feels frighteningly out of her depth and cannot help but wonder what Cullen will think when he sees her dressed up like some sort of showy bird. 

“Now, now, darling,” tuts Vivienne. “Do not frown! You will thank me.”

Vivienne had been present at all of Elodie’s dress fittings in Val Royeaux, offering her opinion on fabrics and colors she felt would suit Elodie’s skin and hair and eyes. Things that had been entirely lost on the healer. 

She takes a steadying breath and allows the girl to do as Vivienne has instructed, keeping her eyes downcast throughout the process of brightening her cheeks and lining her eyes and coloring her lips. 

There is rustling behind her as Cassandra and Josephine ready themselves. 

Vivienne is humming in approval behind Elodie. “Stunning, dear.”

“You will draw many eyes this evening, my lady,” the servant adds in agreement.

Elodie dares a glance at her reflection and her lips part in surprise. Her grey eyes sparkle like starlight, a thin line of coal smudge beneath to make them even brighter. Her lips are full and pouty and the color of flower petals. And the light rouge sweeping high up on her cheekbones makes her face appear even sharper, a bit more exotic. 

“Fashion is a type of magic as well, my dear,” Vivienne informs her, her tone as gentle as Elodie as ever heard her. “I daresay our dear Commander will be unable to keep his eyes off of you tonight.”

That thought sits warmly in her belly. She wishes this were the sort of party where that sort of thing could be afforded. Where Cullen could simply look his fill and perhaps ask her to dance, sweep her away from the crowd and kiss her soundly. But she knows that these peace talks cannot fail and that Cullen cannot be distracted. Not by her, not by anything. 

The Enchanter excuses herself to dress and Josephine takes up her place when the servant girl moves to retrieve Elodie’s gown. The ambassador is a vision in a soft dandelion yellow, her dark hair swept up into an elaborate updo of curls finished with shimmering ribbon. Long satin gloves cover her arms up to the elbow. 

Cassandra is in a pair of fitted trousers of black velvet, a purple doublet with the Inquisition’s insignia finishing off the look. The Seeker’s boots are polished to perfection and the entire ensemble fits her so perfectly that Elodie smiles. 

“You both look amazing,” she says earnestly. “Masen is not going to know what to do with himself,” she adds to Josephine.

The ambassador waves away the compliment, clearly flustered. “Oh, you flatter me much too much. He will have so much else to occupy his time this evening, I doubt he will even notice.”

Elodie doubts that very much and Cassandra says as much.

“Here we are, my lady.” The servant girl holds up Elodie’s dress and she rises from her seat and stares back at the emerald skirts of her ballgown. 

Now or never, she thinks to herself. She is suddenly nervous she will step on her trailing skirts and rip them. Or that she will trip in front of the nobility. Or-

The heavy fabric pools on the floor and she steps into the puddle of green tulle and satin. She holds out her arms to slip them through the thin cap sleeves that rest below her shoulders. The neckline ends just above her cleavage and the bodice is a masterpiece of embroidered leaves and flowers and the back dips into an elegant V baring her shoulder blades and the first few notches of the bar of her spine. She sucks in a breath as the servant girl laces up the corseting before stepping away to admire her work.

Elodie resists the urge to bite at her lip to avoid smudging the paint there. She sways in an anxious half-twirl, looking to Josephine and Cassandra for validation. “Well?” she asks nervously, bunching her hands in her skirts. “How is it?”

“Madame de Fer is correct,” Josephine says, eyes sparkling. “Cullen will not be able to keep his eyes off you. That is certain.”

“Perhaps it will be enough to distract him from how much he detests these affairs,” Cassandra laughs.

“Pardon me, ladies!” Dorian sing-songs as he strides into the room. “Ah!” He makes a beeline for the vanity, snatching up the stick of coal that had been used to line Elodie’s eyes before repeating the process on himself with practiced efficiency. He catches sight of her in the mirror and spins around. “Elodie?”

She laughs nervously, dipping her head.

The servant softly excuses herself, collecting the dress box and departing. 

Josephine smooths down her skirts before announcing she is off to see to the rest of the party, her concern seeming to center around Sera. Cassandra offers Elodie a nod and follows the ambassador out. 

“Is it so bad that you did not even recognize me?” Elodie teases Dorian once they are alone. 

“You must be joking,” he scoffs, drawing closer. “You are positively stunning.” He takes her hand and leads her into a twirl. “The color suits you. You will draw the eyes of the entire court.”

Elodie rolls her eyes. “Ah, yes. A rabbit in a ballgown. Simply magnificent.”

Dorian waves off her words. “We will look quite the menagerie, I am certain. You will be in good company with a Tevinter Altus, a Qunari spy and whatever Cole happens to be. And that’s not to mention Varric and his fan club and Blackwall’s beard. You just worry about wearing that dress as brilliantly as you are now.”

“Elodie, are you-Maker’s breath.”

She and Dorian turn to see Cullen standing in the doorway, obviously gobsmacked with his mouth hanging open. He stares at her, eyes roving from the diamond combs in her hair down to the embroidery of her bodice, trailing the length of her skirts. He blinks.

“Do you feel better about it now?” Dorian teases her. “I believe our Commander’s reaction says it all.”

“You look...that gown...it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,” Cullen manages to stammer out. 

He paces into the parlor, his fitted coat a deep grey with the adornments afforded to his military position shining against the fabric.  

Dorian smirks. “It does look rather good, doesn’t it?” He gives her another once over, a 

mischievous glint in his eyes. “I do, however, think it would look even better on Cullen’s floor.”

Cullen pauses his advance, seeming to choke on his tongue. “Are you...are you flirting with her for me?”

Dorian shrugs. “I supposed I would get your evening off to as decent a start as your morning.” He holds up a hand before Cullen or Elodie can argue. “This house may be exquisite but the walls are not that thick.” He offers them a salacious wink before sauntering from the room.

Cullen watches him go, at a loss for words. 

“You look very handsome, vhen’an,” Elodie whispers. 

And he does. His coat hugs him perfectly, his trousers well pressed and flattering. And, of course, his boots are as immaculate as Cassandra’s. Thankfully his collar is high enough to hide the love bite she had left him with the night before. 

Cullen turns back to her, holding out a hand.

She takes it, their fingers lacing together as he draws her closer. 

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on,” he whispers reverently. His lips press to the side of her jaw, lingering. 

She trails her fingers over the Inquisition insignia emblazoned on the breast of his coat. “Cullen, I-”

“Come now, everyone!” Josephine calls from the vestibule. “We must be on our way! Has anyone seen Cole?”

Cullen offers Elodie a wry smile. “Duty calls,” he murmurs her earlier words back to her. “Shall we?”  

She takes his arm, feeling as if this is all some sort of fever dream and she will wake alone in her bed in Kinloch Hold. She tightens her grip and draws herself up to her full height as Cullen leads her from the parlor and into the vestibule where the others are already waiting.

[sassylavellen]

I was so scared to share those original drawings I did a few weeks ago for the “Draw Me Like One Of Your Orlesian Girls” sets, but a lot of people, including some of my absolute favorite artists here have been making art that was inspired by my set... I never thought it would happen like this, I was sure tumblr would strike me down, or that people would yell at me for doing them (that part did happen).

Thank you to everyone for all the kind words about my art over the last couple weeks! I’m definitely still learning, and I want to keep sharing my progress as I go! This means a whole lot to me, and I am excited to keep learning!

pose refrence used

[hollyand-writes]

Throwaway Thursday! 

I was tagged in this in early December 2020 by the lovely @fandomn00blr (back at you! 😄 and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to reply to this!) to post something I liked but wasn’t working/coalescing/fitting into whatever I wanted it to! ❤️ 

Here is a long deleted scene (813 words) from my Regency AU Carver/Merrill fanfic “A Chance Engagement” (although I re-worked some of it in Chapter 20–21): 

---

Lady Leandra descended the grand staircase to greet Mr Tethras before he went, and ordered her son to go back to entertain their other guests, so Carver was forced to go back to the drawing room while the Hawke women had the privilege of walking with Varric out of the front entrance to linger in the street, and talk a little longer. Carver grumbled to himself, but inwardly he was torn: on the one hand he had no desire to spend any time with Babette or Fifi de Launcet; but on the other, Miss Merrill Alerion was with them – and surely he would not need to be so much on his guard around the pretty elf girl while his mother and sisters were temporarily out of sight.

He strode back into the drawing room, where Babette and Fifi were all smiles of delight at his re-entrance, and made space for him on the sofa so that he could sit between them. Carver hesitated; he did not want to sit anywhere near them if he could help it; and in the end he seated himself between their sofa and Miss Merrill’s chair, the better to look at her lovely face.

‘My mother ordered me to rejoin you,’ he said, unconsciously addressing himself more to Miss Alerion than the de Launcets. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting any intimate conversation.’

‘Oh! not at all!’ cried Miss Babette, somewhat shrilly, ‘we were just about to enquire what elven marriages were like. Are they similar to human marriages, Miss Merrill? Elven culture is so different from humans that elven gentry have very different standards of marriageability than human gentry, I am sure.’  

‘Um,’ Merrill started; she looked uncomfortable in the de Launcets’ presence, Carver noted, although he honestly could not blame her. ‘Well, like humans, we’re expected to make a desirable match if we can; but elven marriages are far more about love marriages than social advancement. I’m sure the latter does happen sometimes – but generally, affection for your spouse-to-be is important.’

To her further annoyance, the Orlesians scoffed at this. ‘Oh, how quaint!’ Fifi tittered, in a voice that indicated she thought anything but. ‘How naïve! No wonder it is so easy for human noblemen to seduce their elven servants, if something as fickle and unquantifiable as love is what you value above all else!’

‘Miss de Launcet,’ Sir Carver cut in, sharply, and both women stopped giggling at a red-faced Merrill, ‘I would advise you not to insult a fellow guest in my house.’  

‘Oh! of course!’ Babette simpered, anxious not to upset the man on whom she and her sister had such designs, ‘we were not trying to be rude – we apologise profusely to Miss Alerion if she believed us capable of such a thing! But Miss Merrill, as a friend: let me caution you not to give credit to such a notion. You know not the ways of the world, especially the human one; and we are only too happy to assist you. We would not want to see you taken advantage of by an unscrupulous human nobleman – would we, Sir Carver?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘You know,’ Merrill said, even more desirous of getting away than she was already, ‘I really should go back to Mahariel – I have deserted her too long. The Hawke Estate is so huge, though! – I fear I shall get lost before I find her room again, if there is not a servant who can guide me.’

‘No need,’ Sir Carver said, standing up, ‘I shall accompany you there.’

‘Oh, I really don’t think that will be necessary,’ Merrill said, backing away towards the door, while a glance showed her that both de Launcets were regarding her with hostile eyes – presumably they were angry that she was forcing Carver to spend time away from them, and she had no desire of coming between the silliness of all the human nobles in this room, ‘I am sure one of the servants will be sufficient!’

But it was to no avail: Sir Carver loomed over her, tall and broad and strapping, blue eyes peeking at her from under his dark hair so intently that Merrill felt she had no choice but to follow him.

For Carver, it was a welcome opportunity to get out of the drawing room, away from the de Launcets, and spend even a few extra moments on his own with Merrill. They did not speak as he led her through the halls to Mahariel’s chamber, but Carver’s mind was so full he was not sure he was able to speak. Merrill’s pronouncements on marriage captivated him even more than he was already, and as pleasing as she was to look at and listen to, he could not help wondering how in Thedas he would be able to keep any of this to himself for the duration of her stay. 

---

I tag the following people (no pressure!): @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold, @elveny, @kunstpause, @uchidachi, @charlatron, @wardenari, @goblin-tea, @visceralcoma, @veorlian, @hawkeish, @midnightprelude, @nug-juggler, @ayantiel, @stitchcasual, @natsora, @lauraemoriarty, @andrew-blackthorn, @wickedwitchofthewilds, @asaara-writes, @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul, @in-arlathan, @jentrevellan, @luzial and anyone else who wants to do this! ❤️

[ghilenan]

When Daeron says “draw me like one of your Orlesian girls,” you draw him like one of your Orlesian girls, Maker damnit!

Happy birthday, @quizzikemen! And also I’m sorry!

[crystalessenceswrites]

You’re Enchanting-- Excerpt

 So I guess I was feeling a bit angsty today? Not sure what brought it on, but I had to get this down on paper today. Decided I might as well share it too. Gives some lovely insight into Delphine’s childhood, although a bit depressing... whoops.

You can check out Chapter One [here] or on AO3 [here]

Thanks to @flyingmarshmallow64 for letting me bug you about this all evening!

Summary:  Delphine always told Elazar she would do anything to help him if he was ever in trouble, even knowing his knack for finding it. She didn't expect to be helping him save the world after someone blows up the Conclave and tears a hole in the sky. Nor did Delphine expect to be falling for anyone, let alone a troubled, former templar, while she's watching her best friend shape the future of their world with a green glowing hand.

Pairings: Cullen/Trevelyan & Dorian/Lavellan

Warnings: angst, panic/anxiety attack, Cole tries but is not particularly helpful this time... but Cullen’s here to save the day

Excerpt- The Winter Palace Approaches 

Josephine has enough energy to run Skyhold three times over on a normal day, and how she did was well beyond Del’s understanding. Just meeting with guests on sparse occasions in lieu of Josie was exhausting. Del’s years in the Circle had worn down whatever tolerance she had for her fellow members of the nobility. When word finally arrived on the status of securing the Inquisition’s invitations to the Winter Palace, Josephine truly became a force of nature.

Every detail had to be perfected; every soldier attending in the retinue briefed and schooled in court decorum, accommodations sorted and reserved, travel plans sorted down to the minute, clothes tailored and wardrobes packed. It was enough to make anyone’s head spin. Josephine took it all in stride. Del simply did her best to offer support where she could, even if it didn’t seem like much, Josie did always voice her thanks.

She did so again with a knowing smile as Del corralled Dorian and El into Josie’s office with the others. Varric was already lounging on a sofa in front of the fireplace -much like he did in the main hall- talking rather animatedly to a disinterested Cullen, Josie was deep in conversation with Leliana at her desk, passing swaths of fabric back and forth, while Dorian and El draped themselves over the sofa across from the author and commander.

Del’s eyes quickly shot back to Josie and the spymaster tossing around satins in varying shades of blue. Now she knew what this meeting was about. Was it still possible for her to sneak away and escape the coming torture? El would approve of her skipping anything for the first time in her life.

Whatever chance she did have of escape slipped away with Bull’s entrance, his boisterous greeting drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

Smiling at the final arrival, Josie clapped her hands together and got down to business. Del slid into the spot next to Cullen on the sofa, much to the enjoyment of the couple sitting across from her. El gave her his signature shit-eating grin and Dorian wiggled his eyebrows rather suggestively at them. Varric tried rather unsuccessfully to hide a snort of laughter behind a cough.

At least someone was enjoying themselves right now.

Josie looked rather unimpressed with the dwarf but continued on with a speech about etiquette and appearances at the Winter Palace, “… so, taking this all into consideration, Leliana and I have chosen a formal uniform for those attending the ball.”

Grinning- something Del did not see Leliana do all that often- the spymaster unfurled a red formal military jacket. It wasn’t overly flashy despite being trimmed with a gold pattern and decked out with full shoulder pads, but it was understated in terms of Orlesian fashion. Del could live with it as it lacked a corset.

Varric made his distaste rather clear, moaning to Leliana about his reputation in Kirkwall, and whatever else seemed to come to mind.

El, surprisingly, didn’t seem to perturbed by it. He and Dorian held the jacket between them, inspecting the design. Even while holding it, Del couldn’t picture El wearing it, it was the opposite of his style, if you could call El’s choices in clothing a style. Most days he wandered around Skyhold shoeless, in a half unlaced white tunic and brown leather breeches, much to Dorian’s apparent delight.

Maybe this was Josie’s way of getting back at him for his blatant lack of regency as the Inquisitor.

Cullen pulled Del from her thoughts as he gingerly wrapped his hand around hers where it sat between them on the sofa. His move, while discreet, did not go unnoticed by their company. Iron Bull sent them both a knowing smirk from his place leaning against the wall behind Dorian and El.

Del rolled her eyes at the qunari before leaning over to bump shoulders with Cullen.

“Care to share your opinion Commander?”

As annoyed as he was by the proceedings, he still sent a small, soft smile her way, one that made Del want to wrap herself up in arms like the lovesick girl she was trying not to be.

“There’s a long list of reasons why templars don’t attend balls. I’d say this is near the top.”

Del tried to hide her mirth at the mental image of templars dancing in full armor but was rather unsuccessful. Cullen’s smile matched her own, his honey-colored eyes shining. He must be having a good day to be looking at her so warmly.

“How in the Maker’s name are you going to get Bull in one of these?”

Del didn’t even try to hide her snickers at the pure indignation that laced Elazar’s voice. Cullen rolled his eyes.

“We have an army of tailors at our disposal, Inquisitor. Iron Bull’s outfit will be taken care of.” Josie reassured the room while Bull looked like he was holding his tongue.

“Oh, but Ambassador, can’t you just imagine the juicy gossip that would arise from Bull attending the Winter Palace shirtless!” Dorian cooed, obviously enjoying whatever mental image he had conjured.

Josie balked at the thought, drawing snickers from most of the room. “He will do no such thing!”

As Josie descended into banter with the Tevinter mage, Leliana slid up beside Del, one hand lightly curling over her shoulder.

Curious.

“Has Josie spoken with you yet?”

“Spoken of what?”

“The letter we received from your mother.”

A chill ran down Del’s spine and Cullen aptly noticed. His grip on her hand tightened- his show of silent reassurance.

“And what does my mother want?”

Leliana didn’t react to the steel in her voice, or at least not in a way Del could note. Elazar did. Del chose not to acknowledge how he leaned away from Josie and Dorian, his brows furrowing, tattoos crinkling around his eyes.

The spymaster produced a piece of folded paper, passing it to Del, “she notified us she would be sending the Trevelyan’s family seamstress, who arrived in Skyhold this morning, to prepare and fit you with a new gown for the ball.”

Del wondered why the news seemed draw all the air from her lungs.

“But…” Del’s voice croaked slightly, she cursed her body for betraying her. “There’s no need- the uniform…”

“Josie and I thought it best not come between a noblewoman and her daughter.” Leliana spoke softly. Her voice calculatedly level, as if to sooth, “and we debated for a time… it may prove beneficial for the Inquisition for you to appear at the ball as a lady of your station. Your name, after all, supplies the Inquisitor with substantial credibility.”

It made sense, the were playing The Game for the highest stakes. So why was her head spinning?

Del nods, rather weakly. “I see…” She couldn’t find it in herself to look across the room at Elazar. “Would you give me a few moments to read her letter?”

“Of course.” Leliana retreats to Josie’s desk, shuffling papers in the now quiet room.

Del quickly squeezes Cullen’s hand back before standing, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

No one responds as she darts toward the main hall.

Cullen’s frown deepens as he watched her figure disappear, letter clutched tight in her fist.

“Maker’s balls, follow her Curly!”

 Delphine thanks Andraste and the Maker that the courtyard was empty today. She found her seat on the floor of the empty gazebo, leaning back against the railing as she pours over her mother’s words.

They hadn’t spoken since before the assault on Haven but Delphine recognized her handwriting all the same. They were definitely her words too- about her role in showing Orlais the position of the Trevelyans- that she couldn’t appear before the court as anything less than perfect.

You are a Trevelyan after all.

What a load of crap. Del’s grip tightened around the parchment. She hadn’t been a Trevelyan since she was eight.

“Delphine.” Elazar’s soft voice drew her attention away from the letter as he crouched down in front of her. Cullen stood silently behind him; worry etched onto his features.

Maker, she didn’t want Cullen to see her like this.

“El- I-I didn’t hear you…”

“S’okay, Del. It’s just us.”

Just us- just the two people who meant the world to her.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong, Del?”

Del wasn’t sure she could. She didn’t know if there were words to explain why it felt like there was a druffalo sitting on her chest.

“Broken… shattered… betrayed. Why did they lie to me? Why would they send me away? I tried to be good. I promise I’ll be good…”

Del immediately recognized the icy feeling washing over her as Cole seemingly materialized next to her, sitting cross-legged on the gazebo floor with her. “Every time they call it twists the knife deeper, stinging and biting… you want to be angry but you aren’t.”

If this wasn’t anger she was feeling then what was it?

“Like a doll or a prize they pull out to show it off when people are looking and then shove back on the shelf the moment they look away. It hurts… but for a moment you forget… its warm. She makes you feel safe, like when you were little and she’d hold you in her lap and tell you how special you were and how important you would be one day.”

Maker make him stop. She wants to scream so her eyes will stop watering but she can’t breathe. She can’t speak.

“And then they send you away again and back to the cage- to the shelf they hide you away on so no one can see the blemishes on their precious name.”

The first tear falls, Delphine tries to choke back the sob building in her throat. She can’t bear to look at Elazar or Cullen.

“Cole, this isn’t really the time-”

“She hurts too. Every time she sends her little girl away, she’s worried she’ll never see you again. She never wanted this life for you.”

How in the world could he know that? In what world was it okay for her mother to play the victim when it was Delphine they sent away! When they replaced her!

“She has no right to be sad!” Delphine wants to scream it so all of Skyhold can hear, but her voice comes out just above a whisper between her broken sobs. “They had the chance to stop it, they had the power to make people look the other way! They chose to send me away, even after they said they would do everything to protect me. They betrayed me, that’s all there is to it.”

Her vision is blurry, she doesn’t see Cullen kneel at her side, but Delphine hears him. Armor against stone. And she feels him. Cole’s cool presence quickly replaced by Cullen’s warmth. His arms begin to gather her up and Del lets him pull her into his lap, pushing her head into the space between his chin and chest piece. Her mother’s letter flutters from her grip. Del grasps at his armor, his cloak, the fur, anything she can find purchase on as the sobs come faster. She’s blubbering into his neck but Cullen just wraps himself tighter around her. Shielding her. One hand runs up and down her back in time with his breathing, the other cards through her hair, unintentionally pulling her braid apart.

A hand joins hers where it’s tangled up in Cullen’s mantle. She recognizes Elazar’s spindly grip. It’s grounding, in the way only El can be. She grips it as she grips at reality.

Slowly, Del begins to match her breathing with Cullen, long and deep as he continues to rub her back. The tears being to subside, replaced by hiccups. His arms never loosen.

“Come back to us, Delphine. Come back to me…” Cullen’s voice is so low she almost can’t hear him as he keeps her pressed tightly against his chest. His breath is warm against her neck but his armor is cold against her limbs. She tries to focus on the sensations and not the swirling mess in her head.

“Cullen-” his name falls from her lips as she wraps her arms around his neck- “don’t let go.”

“I’ve got you.”

[herald-divine-hell]

Woven Memories

Am I starting a new multichapter fanfic with Amayian? Yes, yes I am. Am I including most of my other OCs like Alexandra or Esaira? I will indeed try. Will this fanfiction story actually ever be finished or even liked by the Dragon Age fandom? Most likely not! But we are all slaves to the unbridled power of Inquisitor/Leliana on blog, so take that as you will. 

Artwork is done by @mortt-artsy​!

Prologue - A Land of Silver and Crimson

Year: 9:14 Dragon

The horse stomped the earth with impatient hooves, shifting from one to the other with kicks sending dirt and dust flying. Esmarian could see a heavy gray, billowing mist comb over the vale, before descending like a rippling cloak at its feet. Hints of sunlight came as thin, cold wisps, and the sky was gray and thickly-strung with clouds. He could only see a few paces in front of him, the mist rolling and folding in on itself like steel. 

Drawing his reins near to his chest and tilting a little toward the right with his weight, he sent Dasor off into a trot back to Vasenarg. The path was hard underhoof, sturdy enough that Esmarian did not fear Dasor losing his step. It curved and twisted before rushing like a river into a shadowy forest where the mist still marched on, low enough to hide the earth beneath Dasor’s feet.

Long limbs of trees rustled with the soft breeze from the north. Singing lowly in his ears, Esmarian could only hear the wind in the air, cold and slick with a moisture that warned of rain. He trotted along the path in silence. Leaves crunched beneath Dasor’s hooves, moaning and groaning with each trample. It brought forth an eerily melody that he longed to be rid of. Another rain-cursed night, no doubt. 

He knew the path back to Vasenarg well. He had often wandered the forest when he had just been a boy of six, with his elder brothers. That had been before the war with Starkhaven, when Ostwick had allied themselves with Kirkwall - before when Lord Amayian of Vasenarg had three boys instead of two. Then, the forest had been washed with golden light and filled with vibrant greens. The earth had been soft enough that if one lost their footing climbing the child would be wrapped and left unharmed. 

But it had been a cold and hard winter in the thirteenth year of the Dragon Age. Not enough wheat and barely had been grown, and more than enough snow had fallen from the heavens in horrible white tears. Most had melted, burned away by the spring sun’s warmth. Yet, rains returned and mists formed and the world seemed tired once more. Not even a bird’s chirp cried out in the gloominess. Only grays and blacks colored the world that Esmarian knew - had since the day he held Abalian’s body in his arms. Rhyis had only saw the ale before trotting away with his cold, dead excuses. There were many things he could forgive his brother for, but not that. 

That had been over nineteen years ago, when their father still lorded over House Trevelyan as its patriarch; when Rhyis had only just been named the Storm of Starkhaven. 

The forests thinned and then spread into a gloomy field of rolling hills marked with gray-green grass. Esmarian could hear the crashing of the Waking Sea’s waves against the jagged black shore. He tugged at the reins before resting it and his hands upon the leather saddle. He knew that he had faced westward, staring into the unknown toward Ostwick’s ally, Kirkwall. The mist lifted, though dim and unfailingly hid most of the world in its arms, and Esmarian could see Vasenarg, a mountain of carved and chiseled marble ice peeking from the white-gray shroud. A little northward, and he would have seen Ostwick. 

Once, his family had resided in the ancient city, but it had been nearly ages since any Trevelyan claimed the ancestral meadhall of Osthabern as their seat. Vasenarg had been built away from the city, but near enough to claim a large portion of its trade routes for House Trevelyan’s own - the ones that ran from Kirkwall and Starkhaven, at least. Esmarian was on one such path, though it was ancient and rarely used any longer, not since Ostwick had expanded southward and built a port at the feet of the Waking Sea. 

Sending Dasor into a canter, Esmarian rode over the ancient, near-forgotten path. The wind came open and free, whirling from the sky to slashed and pushed the heaving mist back and fro like children fighting over a toy. The breeze was soft, grazing across his touch with gentle fingers. He needed this, more than he expected. There was something sweet in the wind, a clearness in the air. Something he could not have in the buzzing halls of Vasenarg, less so in the streets of Ostwick. 

The wind swayed the grass, like rippling sheets of gray-flecked green. The salty air of the sea filled his senses and he inhaled softly, smiling as the breeze grew strong and swift, marching along with a whistle at its lips. The hills rose and fell in gentle slopes. A thin riverlet trinkled softly between two cradling mounds. He passed over it, water splashing and splattering, before climbing up a hill. The mist followed along as well, swathing across the meadows and valleys with its long, widening arms. 

It was a sorrowful and lonely rode to Vasenarg, as if the world was hushed to silence with the wind giving the eulogy of a bygone age, forgotten in the hearts of time and men. Rhyis hoped that summer would be a more plentiful revival—he had even visited the Grand Cleric to break fast and morning prayers—but Esmarian had doubts, stronger than he would like. And Rhyis doesn’t even have a spare. If Ashania grew ill…

Soft beats of warmth indicted midday, though he could not see the sun in the sky. Rolling clouds shrouded the world like a heavy cloak, bordering on darkness. Northward, he caught glimpses of a rigid arm of mountains blocking the horizon, tips cladded in shimmering silvery-white and stomachs darken like licking shadows. The Vimmark Mountains. It seemed to have been years past since Esmarian rode at the feet of the great mountains, towering and looming like a sharp, jagged castle. To face Ser Elthbart, if I recall correctly. Maker, had it been that long?

Shaking his head, he tugged at his reins toward the left before gently kicking Doser’s flanks, sending him off in a gallop. 

Mist swirled and churned like a veil of shimmering moonlight. It was thin enough for Esmarian to see the path at least. Enough for him to continue on his gallop with relative ease. Family belief held that Trevelyans were first given to the horse and then to their mothers after their birth. Esmarian had seen enough pregnancies to believe such rituals only occured on occasions, and typically for heirs of cadet branches. He had been disappointed when his mother had informed him that he was never given to such an honor. But he rode any horse as if they were his second - technically four - legs.

He laughed and kicked Dasor’s sides once more. The wind struck his cheeks, kissing and grazing, and he laughed harder. Esmarian never felt more alive then when he rode upon Dasor, wind in his hair and the rumbling of hooves meeting earth, bouncing him along. A song was formed, crafted, and he was the conductor.

The gatehouses glimmered faintly with the same paleness of freshly fallen snow. On silver poles stirred the rearing golden horse of House Trevelyan upon a black stable, flapping and weaving through the air. Vasenarg’s doubled-walled fortifications ran left and right, expanding like spread thick wings, and dipping with the fall of hills. Shouts and the clanging of metal rang loud as he rode into the lower bailey.   

A few dozen or so of his brother’s household guards trained with great and bastard swords. Faint glimmers of sunlight shone on the metal of their armor and blade. The mist was softer here, faint and thinned, as if Vasenarg washed out the darkness and coldness of the world when one passed through its gates. Orange-golden light burned bright on hung torches, enough to bring tears to Esmarian’s eyes. 

Wiping his face with a gloved-hand, Esmarian swung feet of the stirrup and dismounted.

“Uncle Esmi!”

Esmarian groaned as a weight slammed into his abdomen, knocking the breath out of him. “Ashania!” He managed to choke out. “Release me a bit, lass.”

The crushing of his sides were lessen and he inhaled sharply, capturing the air as if it was the smell of roasted mutton and freshly pressed bread. Glancing down, his gaze were met with large, almond-shaped purple eyes. Rhyis’ eyes, he thought with a hint of a smile. 

The heir of Vasenarg was a girl of only three years, with curls of russet-brown hair falling like a waterfall, gleaming faintly with the flickering of the torchlight. Her pale cheeks were tinted with a rosy-red, hinting to her staying out in the cool day longer than she should have. But, Esmarian could not have been mad at her. In everything but her eyes, Ashania Trevelyan was her mother’s daughter. She had the same russet-brown curls; the same rose-tinted cheeks and pale skin of House Mouguare of the Orlesian Empire. Some of the family would had claimed bastardy if she had not been born with Rhyis’ eyes. She is too Orlesian in appearance. Maker bless Rhyis with a child that had his black, wavy locks and olive-tan skin of House Trevelyan. If not, than Jacqueline should be worried. 

Ashania was still smiling, sweet and soft in the way only a child could. But, as if a bolt of lightning had struck her, she remembered her manners. She bowed low, dipping her feet and rising the edge of her dress a little high, and said, “Hello, Uncle.” 

Esmarian laughed and ruffled her curls with his hand, grinning down at her. “No need to be formal, love. I’m not Aunt Jaylia.” He winked, then bent down on his knee, wrapped his arms around her waist, and then rose her high into the air. “Where’s your father, lass?”

Her brows furrowed and her nose wrinkled. “Um, I don’t know.” She pouted, and her eyes grew glossy. Then, she gasped. “In the big room!” 

“Ah, yes, the big room.” Esmarian chuckled, shook his head, and then stode toward the great bronze doors of the keep. The big room was actually his brother’s study, and while one of the largest chambers in the castle, it was nowhere the largest. 

Two of the household guards, straight-faced and stern, stood at the entranceway of the keep. With a nod of greeting, Esmarian waited as they pushed open the ancient doors. Groaning softly, the doors fell open slowly, and Esmarian passed through with his niece in arms, the wind slapping against his cloaked-back. 

The great hall was silent, with only the soft patter of servants' feet bouncing off the walls. Light pooled and spread, scattering the shadows into hiding, and filled the warmed hall with a haze of orange and gold and crimson. He turned toward the right, gazed as darkness slipped and filled the wide hall. Smiling at Ashania, who mumbled incoherent and insensible words, he stepped through. 

His brother was not in his study, he noted as he passed through its threshold, empty-handed. Ashania had wanted to go off and play with a sleeping cat; so much so that she had nearly tried to jump out of Esmarian’s arms and onto the stone floor below, which could have resulted in an injury—one that he was not willing to sacrifice his neck for.  

He found only Lady Jacqueline, seated near a window with its curtains thrown back. Bars of pale sunlight slanted through and splattered onto the floor in lengthened fingers. “My lady,” greeted Esmarian with a slight bow.

She was facing toward the window, humming softly, a hand resting upon her protruding stomach. “Lord Esmarian.” Jacqueliene did not turn to face him. “If you’re looking for Rhyis, he’s still sleeping.”

Esmarian grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Sleeping? That might not have to do with you, Lady Jacqueliene?” 

Jacqueline Trevelyan was as beautiful as a marble statue, with her long waves of russet-brown falling down to her mid-back and her large, almond-shaped green eyes flecked with gold. Her lips were soft and small, but full. Her cheeks were rose-tinted and freckled lightly, only able to see it when she was flush, which Esmarian found rare. Only Rhyis seemed to make her flush, and even those were far and between. Jacqueline smiled and laughed beatifically. “I have no idea what you are suggesting, my dear good-brother.” Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint. “My love works so hard and without any rest. I thought it would be merely good for him if he actually could attain one, even if it is for a single night.” 

“How’s the child?” asked Esmarian after chuckling for a few moments, eyeing the woman’s stomach with concern. Without Rhyis there to fret over the woman, it fell upon him to do so. 

Jacqueline sighed, irritated, as far as Esmarian could tell. “One rests and another takes it place.” She raised a hand to her brow, rubbing at her temples. “The babe is fine, I assure you, Esmarian. I would have summoned the healer if there were any problems.” She eyed him, a frown tugged at the corner of her lips. “You are far too like Rhyis at times.” Scoffing, Jacqueline laughed softly and rubbed her stomach, staring at it with gentle eyes. “Maker save him if he is cursed with two Rhyises.”

Esmarian blinked. “Him?”

“Oh, a mother’s intuition.”

“How do you know it is a he?” Esmarian never trusted the idea of the so-called “mother’s intuition.” Rhyis said that Mother had been wrong about Abalian, and perhaps he was right on that.

“A dream I had, Esmarian.” Her voice was almost breathless—detached, remote, as if she was no longer truly there in mind. She returned her gaze back to the window, rubbing her stomach in fleeting circles. “A dream of a little boy with a shadowy crown and green eyes with the sun’s light in them, standing against a storm of fire and darkness, billowing, threatening to swallow the world in darkness.”   

[anotherdayforchaosfay]

Ghanima Music Drabbles

This is a warm-up I like to do. Here are the rules:

One fic per song.

You write that fic only while the song is playing

When the song ends, so does the story.

You cannot edit while writing the fic, only after all the songs are done.

Do at least 10 songs, at any length.

I did this for Ghanima so I can share more of her. Music is from Pan’s Labyrinth OST, a total of 21 songs and 21 fics. Not sorry if I make you cry.

You can read this on AO3

Song: Long, Long Time Ago 2:11  

She remembered her mother’s humming. Late at night, when she was cold and alone, she could hear it as though her mother were still holding her. The song put her to sleep within a minute, as she  was rocked in her mother’s arms. She couldn’t remember her face very well, but her eyes. She remembered those eyes looking into hers as she fell asleep. Blue as the sea, deep and bright in the dark of the night. She would  look into   them and see her own as she fell asleep to her song. So long ago...so  very long ago.  

Song: The Labyrinth 4:07  

Along in the dark. Any other time, any other day, it wouldn’t bother her. But she  couldn’t see the walls, couldn’t feel them, and the echo came back so lonely. Where was she? She didn’t dare pace, there was no telling how lost she was. A light! Better than remaining cold and alone. She followed the light, step after careful step. A rock, the sound of it rolling, as she kicked it in her movements. The light never faded, it kept going, at pace with her. Was it waiting for her? She rushed a little more, eager to not be alone in whatever this place was. Now she ran, following as the light turn a corner. No slipping, just running. Faster now! Her lungs were burning in the cold of this place. She grew closer to the light and saw a figure. It was holding the light, or was it the light? No sounds but what she made. She kept going as it turned again, rushing after it now. No thoughts but to reach it, no time to think. Keep pace, keep your steps. Reach it! 

Song: Rose, Dragon 3:36  

She looked at the dress on the stand. A gift, a sick gift she wanted to burn. It had his signature all over it, no doubting that. Why would he send this? Now, of all times? Anger burned inside her, made worse by the breaking of her heart. She had just put the pieces back together, and now her she was, staring at this thing. She laid her hands on her belly, then balled her hands into fists and let them fall to her side. The dress was a wedding dress, of all things. It appeared to  be made of magic and flowers, of wind and spring breezes. The train of the skirt was several meters long, heavy with the flowers. The bodice deep and the middle...no thought for her belly. He  didn’t know, she never told him. She had planned on it, but then he changed all that. He still  didn’t know, probably never  would. She set the dress on fire and watched the ashes fall.  

Song: The Fairy & the Labyrinth 3:36  

“If you were here, I don’t know what I would do. I would rage at you, scream at you, wish you dead. I would cry, beg you to tell me why you left, hope for an honest answer. Were you ever honest? I like to think you were, in moments between lies and loathing. I loved you, love you, want to love you and be loved  by you. Would telling you about the pregnancy have changed anything? I don’t  know. I’m afraid of what your answer would be. Would you have poisoned my tea, just enough to end this life we made?” She stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, imagining Solas somewhere out there, listening to her. “You lied. It was all a lie. I loved you as I never dared love anyone. To be that intimate with anyone was forbidden by my clan. I told you this! I broke the rules because I fucking could, it was my right. Now here I am, shunned by my Keeper for daring to be my own.”  

Song: Three Trails 2:07  

She listened with full attention, to every word, every nuance, every shift of tone. I will be a better Keeper. All of nine years old and here she was thinking herself more.  

She watched with full attention, to every movement, every change in breath, every shift of body. I will be a better Keeper. All of 15 years old and here she was, knowing herself to be more.  

I am a better Keeper. All of 35 years old and Keeper of so many.  

Song: The Moribund Tree and the Toad 7:11  

Steps light, soft, hand on her waist, hand on his shoulder, a sharing of hands and touch. Around and across the floor, skirts flowing around her, his eyes never leaving hers. A moment together in the crowd of mannequins. The only living, the only moving, the only ones really here. No one else in the hall, no sound but what they made.  

They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Here they were each other and themselves. 

In her youth, she loved to dance. The soft and slow, the fast and burning, but never so intimate. Those dances were as ritual as this, but a different kind. Drawing power and connection, certainly, but in completely different worlds.  

Different worlds. Was that what it is? She lived in so many. The world of the Inquisition throne. The world of the Winter Palace and The Game. The world of war room with all the choices and none of them what she wanted. The world with her companions, and each of those worlds different. Some brought together as pieces to create a world among many.  

But not this world. This one was where she could be herself, where she could be with him. Let them  guffaw, let them cover their mouths with their fans as they whispered. Leave them to their sad little world where they locked themselves in cages and claimed to sing freely.  

Here she was as free as she was trapped. By his grip, his eyes, his smile. The promise his breathing told her. A promise of later, of a much later, and more after that. A world in waking, in sleeping, in between.  

What would happen if all these worlds met? If any of them simply vanished? She let the thought pass, giving it no piece of her mind as it flitted away like a rumor.  

Song: Guerrilleros 2:08  

The place was as alien as any she could imagine. Too much structure, too much stone. No life, no growth, just cold and snow.  

She kept her distance, observing as the Keeper had instructed. Never interact, keep away, watch  and learn.  

Except she couldn’t. The stone was cold under feet, and something was wrong. She felt it in the air, a wrong magic, a twisting that burrowed into her mind.  

She followed it.  

Song: A Book of Blood 3:49  

Giggling was the first thing she learned not to do when playing this game. It gave her away, and that would mean death for her. She learned to breath  just right, to keep it slow with her heart. The hunter cannot know the prey is so near.  

Sprinting was the second thing she learned she must do to win this game.

Sprint when spotted, do not pause. Run as fast as you can and zig-zag, never a straight line. Some may have bows and a straight line is easier to hit.  

Jumping and reaching was the third thing she learned. There are  nearly always   perches to grab hold, be it trees, a wall, anything. Move up, always up, and then over when you  can’t go up any more. Zig zag and keep the breathing controlled.  

Closing her eyes and trusting her ears was the fourth thing she learned. Her people’s eyes reflect the light, and always her people  are found. Be as a cat, if you must, but do it from down low and  squint to keep the eyes smaller. Better to be blind and hear instead.  

Hide and Seek is never a game. 

Mercedes Lullaby 1:37  

She held her daughters, one in each arm, swaying back and forth. So tiny, so very tiny. Three days of labor and a pair of twin girls. It had been hard, but she refused to let go. Now, alive, she holds them and sings the song her mother gave her. They slept as swiftly as she had.  

The Refuge 1:34  

A tree is a good place to hide, especially in summer. The leaves obscure everything, especially when the right clothes  are worn  . Never too shiny, never too dull. Remain still in a way like a tree limb. Blend in so well your eyes are that of a predator.  

So young and so well learned in survival. Hear the silence and up you go.  

Not Human 5:53  

She was an observer first. Learn the field, any battle. That’s what it was like with the  Orlesians. She couldn’t  even think of them as people, not with their ridiculous masks and behavior. Always thinking themselves clever and sly, but the  subtlety was more blatant as a fart in a chantry. Yes, that’s what they were to her. A stink in a room she didn’t want to be in. Their whispers were loud as wind on a poorly sealed window. Creators, why couldn’t just shut up for one fucking minute? She wanted to leave as soon as she saw them, but knew she couldn’t. This a battlefield and they must never believe they have the high ground, not for one damn moment. She put on the mental armor, ready for war, armed with everything her Keeper, companions, and advisors had taught her. She left her opponents afraid, sometimes more socially wounded than they thought they could recover from, and often receiving the respect they never wanted to give in any situation where they didn’t win. Yes, it’s better this way.   Watch them  squirm and writhe.  

The River 2:52  

She lounged on a warm stone near the creek, on her belly, head resting on one arm as the other hung down far enough she could dip her fingers in the water. Birds sang, the halla grazed nearby, and she could hear her clan at work. But today was for herself, a gift from the Keeper for paying better attention during lessons.  

The sun was warm on her back, as was the stone she rested on, feeling like home. It was a home she vaguely remembered, from before she was made   part of this clan. What were her people called?  

 A Tale 1:53  

In a tree overlooking a lake, she sat with the quiet of the night. The Keeper had told her this was her clan, to never ask of where she came from. Those who had come with her, from home, were now banned from speaking to her and sent to other areas of the clan. Their skin was like hers, why couldn’t she know why it was so different from who they were now?  

Deep Forest 5:48  

Run! That was the only thought in her mind. Humans never came so far in the Woods! This what’s their place, never was, and now they chased her. She yelled at her companions to run faster. They couldn’t fight like her, but they could run faster. Up! Go up! They leapt, just like they  were taught, and up they went. Leaping from limb to limb, high as they dared. An arrow shot up at them, but missed and hit and branch. She was behind them now, and she was okay with that. The men would be a nice meal for shadow cats that lived here. She went off one tree and to the next, leaping as best to could, and caught an arrow in the calf. It hurt, Creators, it hurt! But she didn’t release the branch she caught and instead pulled herself up.  

Never pull the arrow, and break it if you must. That’s what she learned from the hunters. If it went through, try removing the head first. Humans didn’t seal the tips on well. Leaning on the trunk, well above the humans and out of sight, she gritted her teeth and twisted the tip while holding the arrow. It hurt, and she saw stars, but it came off. The end was smooth, pull it out, and bind with what you have.  

The humans were yelling, shooting aimlessly.  

She pulled out the arrow out and pulled the bindings on her legs tighter. Would she be a shadow cat meal too?  

Vals of the Maldrake  3:41  

Beaches of red sand, warm sea water hitting her feet. She kicked her legs and the water sprayed. A squealing giggle came from her as the hand hold hers tightened a little. Jump, pull back, stay a little longer. They did and she splashed more.  

The cliffs were back! The big hill with rocks and sand, then up and flat so high they needed rope and wood. She didn’t was so sleep, so tired. Kicking is hard work. Strong arms lift her up.  

The Funeral 2:46  

She watched her girls play in the hall, giggling and laughing, Iron Bull on the flooring reaching for them. It made her smile, seeing them like this. He didn’t   know a thing about raising children, and had been so afraid the first time he held them. Now at  almost two years old, Iron Bull is playing with them rough as he dares. The jump on him, knocking him to the ground. Limp, dead, and the girls go to investigate. She remembers feeling this, a long time ago, and hopes her daughters remember it always.  

Mercedes 5:37  

She had refused the bed at the Winter Palace. All the running around, finding every passage, every hidden door, she  couldn’t feel safe enough to close her eyes. Thankfully her advisors agreed it was too dangerous. At an inn now, with Solas beside her, she was still on edge. Was this place filled with hidden ways? Were the walls hollow? It made her skin crawl, thinking someone could watch them, come in while they rested, and kill them. She felt safer in the damn  bog   than she did here.  

Was that a footstep? Yes, but outside the door and down the hall. Creators, she was not going to sleep. Solas shifted, pulling her closer to him. He wasn’t   asleep, eyes open and aware. No assurance he gave her helped her relax, not a damn word. She got plenty in herself, stating how ridiculous this is, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling they were watched.  

Then the sun was up, Solas holding her and keeping her safe.  

Pan & the Full Moon 5:07  

Sleeping was different now. It took only one attempt and she had crossed into the waking world of the Fade, shocking Solas and setting off a new path she hadn’t expected. It was motivation beyond necessary to learn this skill. How much could she learn in these dreams? The Redcliffs were what she didn’t   want to learn, but she knew it was necessary. Know the history was what her Keeper taught her. Solas guided her when she stumbled. Here were her people, the memory of them, ghosts. Then it was the building of the castle and village. There was hope, and she saw it  was made of a little boy. The hope became pain and was gone, replaced by betrayal in the shape of a woman. Solas had told her all stories have many sides, she learned all the sides. The little boy, she knew his name and what it meant to many people. The woman reeked of betrayal and fear, of losing what she loved. Then it got ugly. Creators, how could this happen? Keep your own emotions under control or you’ll change the narrative. Watch. So, she did.  

Ofelia 2:20  

The flowers on the cliffs were bright orange and full of warm. She plucked a few with the long stems and gathered more as she walked on the wood and rope way. Never take too many; they must be able to return. A thick bouquet of orange was growing in her hands, and when she was  satisfied, she sat on the landing with hammock and table. It had taken practice, but now she could make a good crown of sunset.  

A Princess 4:02  

She held her head high when they could see her. Especially on the throne. A casual position had become difficult in recent months, with her belly swelling like it was. She felt the kick when she set her hands on it.  

The humans from Denerim had arrived today, dignitaries and bureaucrats. At least they were visibly honest. They weren’t even a little bothered by the pregnancy, unlike the Orlesians who implied she was a whore who had better learn to be careful. These humans brought a small trunk with gifts. Blankets of soft warm wool, a mobile to hang over the basinet, some wood toys and soft dolls. It was a formality, but it was honest.

Pan’s Labyrinth Lullaby 1:52  

She hummed the song to Cullen several times, to comfort him when he didn’t   suspect. He was a good human, a good man, with a past he couldn’t forgive himself for. The addiction didn’t help. So, she gave him a song.  

Then she needed comfort and he gave it to her by violin. Her mother’s song made solid for her.