#Scout Harding x Inquisitor

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2023 2 - Spiders

Summary: Aeronwen Trevelyan is afraid of spiders. Normally that isn't a problem, but when a new shipment comes in she comes face to face with her fear. Luckily, she has backup.

---

There was nothing like a shipment of fresh books to put Aeronwen Trevelyan in a good mood.

At the moment, she was in the library, surrounded by boxes that held the books rescued by Inquisition scouts from a falling apart mansion somewhere near the border. They hadn’t specified what the books were, or their condition, but just the thought of digging through them brought a spring to her step as she glanced around at her hoard.

Today was going to be a good day.

“Sorry we brought you so much work, Aeronwen. They insisted you would probably want to take a look at these based on where we found them.”

Scout Harding had been in charge of the delivery – she had shown up with the books too. It was always nice to have the dwarf in the library when she wasn’t working on her real job for the Inquisition. Aeronwen was never one to turn down a friendly face, especially if it was hers.

Besides, she had fascinating stories about where she had scouted, and she was always happy to hear them while she worked.

“It’s alright, really.” Aeronwen smiled as she lifted the lid off the first case. The books were old, but none of them looked particularly moldy or decrepit. A bit of dusting, some treatment of worn pages and spines, and they’d be on the shelf in no time. Of course, thoughts of shelving them went to the wayside as she lifted one out of the stack and inspected the cover, bound with an old symbol of the Circle of Magi. “By the Harvester’s scythe, where did you find these?”

It was rare for Circle books to make it out of the towers – the first enchanters were like dragons when it came to their stashes of knowledge. This one, and the others like it stamped with the symbol, looked to have come from somewhere in Nevarra.

Which… well, she always needed more books on Necromancy, if for her own personal study if not for the library’s stash.

“On the border between Ferelden and Orlais.” Scout Harding cocked her eyebrow. “Why? Is something odd about them?”

Aeronwen nodded as she held out the cover. “This came from the circle in Perendale. They must’ve looted it during the Blessed Age.”

She flipped it open – the book sent up dust, but there was nothing worse there. It was a tome on the basics of enchanting magical objects. The sight of it, and the mention of using Tranquil to do so, made her blood run cold. As soon as it was opened, she shut it tight and all but slammed it back.

Of course it had to be about that.

“Are you ok?”

That caused Aeronwen to look up – Scout Harding looked worried, eyebrows knit in concern. She felt her cheeks heat as she glanced away, back to the stack of books that still needed checking out.

It wouldn’t do to lose herself now. She had work to do.

“Bad memories is all. I think I’ll go back to that stack later.” She shook her head, feeling the twinge of pain from the center of her forehead. The brand was treating her better these days, but it still hurt from time to time. It was one of those times, probably brought on by memories of enchanting items in Ostwick.

She was the last person to need a book on the topic – it had been beaten into her.

Still, there was work to be done. With a deep breath, Aeronwen approached the next box and lifted the lid. Immediately, something scuttled out of the box and crawled up her hand. Her eyes widened at the sight of the large spider resting there, and more like it crawling out of the box to freedom.

Her body took over – she screamed and jumped back, slapping the spider to the floor. In a matter of seconds, a bolt of lightning crashed down on it, reducing it to ash. The rest of the spiders were soon smoldering as well, having burst into flames the second she had seen them.

Her mind flashed back – a dark room at the bottom of the tower, where spider webs stretched across the ceiling and tangled in her hair if she got too close. How big those spiders had been, and how large their eyes and teeth. How it had hurt when they bit her in her sleep, or when she got too close, or…

“Aeronwen, calm down!”

Scout Harding’s hands found her shoulders as her mind rushed in a panic. She could still feel the spider crawling up her arm, but there was nothing there. It was just a memory as the offending creature lay smoking on the floor in a pile of ash.

It took Aeronwen a few moments of frantic breathing, eyes shut tight, to calm down. At least she had only set fire to the spiders – there had been a real chance she could’ve burned the whole library down. Luckily, not even the books were singed.

But her heart still raced as she fought to stay in the present.

“I’m… sorry.” She muttered through gritted teeth, eyes still closed. “I can’t stand spiders.”

The dwarf patted her shoulder in a comforting motion. “It’s alright. It did come out of nowhere after all. Maybe I should check the other boxes to make sure there’s no more surprises waiting to say hello.”

“For the sake of the library, it might be for the best.”

Aeronwen took another shaky breath, feeling her heart slowly starting to beat less frantically. With a shaking hand, she took a book from the box. It had some cobwebs on it, but none as thick as the Tower. The spiders must’ve set up on the ride over.

She would need someone to freeze the books later – it would prevent any eggs from hatching.

Still, her face colored as she glanced over at Scout Harding looking through the boxes for any other stowaways. Of all the people to see her at her worst, the dwarf was the last person she would’ve hoped for it to be. No doubt she thought terribly of her now – a grown woman going to pieces over spiders.

She sighed, glancing down at the book. Ironically enough, it was a primer on primal magic. The gods must have been laughing then as she dusted off the cover and put it aside. At least the former apprentices of the Circle would get some use out of it, provided it wasn’t too out of date in practice.

Magic teaching didn’t change much – though whether that was a good thing or not, she wasn’t sure.

“This box is clean, Aeronwen.” Scout Harding’s voice brought her back to the present as she walked over. “Maybe it was just that one that had the spiders in it.”

“I should hope so…” She sighed. “I’ll get Ian to check the others later. He doesn’t…”

She paused. It was hard to explain to outsiders. “He’s better with spiders than I am. He can handle those for me.”

What he couldn’t handle was how stupid Aeronwen felt as she stared down at the box of books. When it came down to it, it was like she was a schoolgirl having done something stupid in front of her crush. Well, that was exactly it to be honest – only she wasn’t a school girl. She was a grown woman who couldn’t talk to the object of her affection outside of work.

And she had just made herself look ridiculous in front of her. Clearly, she was an ace at this romance thing.

“Alright, if you insist.” Scout Harding didn’t leave, though. “Er… maybe you should give the books some time to… you know. Have you had lunch yet? I was about to head down to the great hall and all…”

Aeronwen’s head picked up. “You want me to come with you?”

“Sure, you said you wanted to hear about my last mission, might as well do it over food.” The scout smiled. “And it’ll give some time for stowaways to leave the library so they don’t get flash fried.”

That made the dwarf chuckle, but it wasn’t from mockery. She seemed in good spirits – and surprisingly, Aeronwen found her mood had shifted with just a few words. Her steps felt light as she closed up the box, leaving it for her cousin to handle.

Technically, she was abandoning her post early… but if the Inquisitor wanted the library in one piece, he would understand.

“I should probably get something to eat.” She nodded. “Lead the way, Scout Harding.”

Maybe one day she would be brave enough to ask the woman for her first name. Until then, Scout Harding would have to do. At least she didn’t seem to mind the formality as the two left the library, close enough to make Aeronwen’s heart race for an entirely different reason.

She was no doubt reading into things… but she was a librarian. She could read into whatever she wanted.

“Now, tell me all about Orlais-“

But first, she was going to listen to where the other woman had been over some food. Then… well, she’d figure that out later. Being with the Inquisition was teaching her the fine art of improvisation.

Should she thank the spiders for that one? Maybe not… gods, she hated spiders.

[achlysfx]

He said he was SORRY 😭

[proffbon]

Harding:

My Inquisitor on his way to his very important business (getting plowed by The Iron Bull):

[queerlyloud]

Am I gonna live my lesbian gigolas (gimleaf? wtf even is their ship name anymore?) fantasies by romancing scout harding with an elf inquisitor, MAYBE, AND NOBODY CAN STOP ME, LIVING THE DREAM, BABYYYYYY

[sweetjulieapples]

Dear Commander - Chapter 23: From Ferelden, With Love

Cullen x Trevelyan

AO3 MASTERLIST

The Inquisitor and Cullen are on opposite sides of Ferelden but still on each other's minds.

Full chapter below:

Sera stopped me at first. I was making my way to the old tavern where I had a bedroll ready. In hindsight, I should have ran. Maybe then I could string together some semblance of a cohesive thought.

Maybe if we had just stood still, things would be different. But she followed me as I walked down the steps and in her jumble of curses and pessimism, she made some sense. I listened, that’s what the Inquisitor should do, right? She's scared like the rest of us. She just expresses it in a much more colourful way.

Then I heard his voice. Firm and authoritative. It was far too late in the darkness of the courtyard but he was working by candlelight. I sometimes worry that he pushes himself too far.

I tried to avoid him, to resist the temptation to approach, but Sera would not stop talking. Over and over. She must have found a dozen or so creative ways to say the name Corypheus without actually saying it. I shouldn't blame her, this is my mess and mine alone.

Then he looked up and it was too late to turn back. Sera left and I was standing there alone with no excuse. He appeared startled for a moment, then he looked away, throwing himself back into whatever it was that seemed a far greater priority than a decent night’s sleep. I was already there, his scouts looking at me as though I deserved his attention, looking back to him for some response. I didn’t know what to say, I just stood there like an idiot and then he just started telling me things. He didn’t say ‘hello’ or anything; instead, he rattled off all the things that he’s done and all the ways he’s keeping Skyhold secure. It felt so strange, almost dehumanizing. As though I am no more than an authoritative figure that expects military summaries in place of normal conversation. I froze, I didn’t know how to respond to that. So I laughed, because if I’m laughing, then nobody can be laughing at me. But I should never have poked fun at him for taking his role so seriously. It was shamefully unbecoming of me but I didn’t know what else to do. He clearly hadn’t been taking breaks or time for himself, but I said it anyway—the silly question: ‘Do you ever sleep?’ Of course he sleeps, at some point…at least I hope.

I hope he knows that I was joking and that I actually do believe he sleeps, because he didn’t say anything about it. He just turned back to what he was doing and attempted to justify his caution, saying that he couldn’t let anything happen. He was taking it so seriously that, for a moment, I could have sworn I saw him begin to shake. He was leaning all his weight into that little makeshift desk, it was starting to worry me. He turned to face me and he gave me the most piercing look that left me breathless. “We will not run from here, Inquisitor.” - is what he said and he meant every word.

Then it dawned on me that perhaps this is how he rests. He said it with so much pride. He doesn’t seem the type to sit by and let things happen. Maybe he’s more at ease planning and taking control than he could ever be if he were tucked up in bed.

I love really admire that about him. He's honorable and hard-working. The fact that he’s handsome is a nice bonus. Ugh, it hurts to even admit that. And that's the problem.

I find myself thinking of him all the time, far more than I did before. I feel like I’m starting to lose my mind. Even now as I sit here writing this, I wonder if he’s on his way back to Skyhold. I don’t doubt that I’ll receive word soon. For once, a mission report that I’d take joy in reading.

Oh, but my mind keeps wandering back to that night in the courtyard. I tried to keep my wits about me, to maintain composure and act in an appropriate manner. When he looks at me like that and speaks in that softer voice, my brain just stops. I tried to tell him that I appreciate all his hard work, offer my gratitude for rescuing me in the avalanche, and, more importantly, that I’m glad he survived—but I couldn’t find the words. I stumbled over my thoughts, cowering mid-sentence into some meaningless, vague statement that implied he was no more important to me than a random villager.

He looked away and whatever progress I thought we were making vanished just like that. It was so incredibly awkward that I just wanted to run away. I might have rolled my eyes at some point, I don’t even know. Then he stopped me. He touched me, grabbed my arm to stop me from walking away and promised that he wouldn’t allow the events at Haven to happen again.

“You have my word.”

He promised and it felt like that promise was just for me. The way he spoke, the intensity in his eyes - all for me.

Not because I’m The Inquisitor or The Herald of Andraste, but because I am me.

What if I’m wrong? If I let myself believe this…

“Inquisitor!”

The officer’s voice startled Juliette, making her flinch and drop her quill. Her heart raced as she took a deep breath, pressing her hand over her chest to calm her nerves. She had become a little too lost in thought, for a moment forgetting the attention that her duty demanded.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” she called, slamming the journal shut, the ink likely smearing before it had a chance to dry. She tucked it securely into her bedroll, her hands trembling slightly as she wondered how likely it would be that someone could happen upon it.

With one last glance at the journal, she stepped outside of her tent, greeted by the persistent drizzle of rain and the unmistakable stench of the bog that clung to the air. A crack of thunder rumbled above, as if to remind her that nothing—least of all her secrets—were safe here.

She scrunched her face in a dramatic manner just in case anyone had missed how much she hated this place. The dampness clung to her skin, the ever-present gloom made the world feel suffocating, even during the day. How anyone could call this home was beyond her understanding. The few days spent in the Fallow Mire were already far too many.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of a group approaching their camp -several scouts in Inquisition armor, one in particular that she had been eager to speak with.

“Harding!” Juliette called enthusiastically, weaving her way past the smoldering campfire. A few of the officers shot her curious glances as they rested, weary from the trip.

“Inquisitor,” Harding replied with a slight nod as Juliette approached. The rain pelted against her face, soaking her hair and cloak, but she barely flinched, her focus entirely on the Inquisitor. The other scouts moved ahead, sensing the need for privacy.

“What is it?” Juliette asked in a gasp, catching her breath from her sudden dash across the camp. “Did you find them?”

Harding’s expression darkened. “Not yet, Inquisitor. But we did find one who had escaped.” She passed Juliette a note with a regretful look. “Aubrey. He was a good man.” “Was?” Juliette asked, her voice wavering in sorrow as she pulled the note underneath her scarf to protect it. She motioned towards the tents with a tilt of her head, eager to get out of the rain.

As they reached the annex, where a loosely propped canvas offered little more than minimal shelter, Juliette unfurled the thin sheet of paper. She skimmed it swiftly, her attention flickering between the text and Harding’s words.

“We found his body in a cave. He likely passed away from his injuries.”

“Maker rest his soul,” Juliette replied, bowing her head in respect. “I’ll see that Aubrey is honored for his bravery.”

Harding gave a short nod. “He tried to warn you not to come here, but his letter never made it out of The Mire.”

Juliette glanced up from the letter, brow furrowed in confusion. “The Avvar want to challenge me to win favour with their gods…” Her voice trailed off, rising at the end as if she were still trying to make sense of it. “Because I’m the Herald of Andraste. That’s it? They think this will somehow disprove Andraste’s existence and... what?” She pressed her palm to her forehead, shaking her head. “This makes no sense.”

“Personally, I think their leader’s just a boastful little prick that wants to brag he killed you,” Harding said bluntly. ”Well,” Juliette said with a mirthless chuckle. “That’s fame for you.”

“They’re holed up in a castle called Hargrave Keep—what’s left of it, anyway. We’ll lead the way once you’re ready to depart.”

“Thank you, Harding,” Juliette said, casting a quick glance over her shoulder. “We need to move soon, once we’ve resupplied.”

“Getting to the troops won’t be easy. You’ll have to fight your way through undead,” Harding said, gesturing towards the murky water. Juliette shuddered at the thought. “Wait—you're not squeamish about undead, are you?” Harding teased.

“No, no, not at all,” Juliette replied, her voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Right at the top of my list of favourite monsters.”

“You’ll want to stay out of the water, then,” Harding said.

“If you can even call it water,” Juliette replied, wrinkling her nose. “It’s quite the smell.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Harding chuckled.

“I’ll make sure to let Josephine know that you need a raise once we’re back at Skyhold.”

“I might just hold you to that” Harding smiled. “Maker willing, The Inquisition’s people are still alive.”

“I am not letting the Avvar butcher our people,” Juliette said with determination.

“I appreciate it,” Harding smiled, nodding respectfully as she began to walk away.

Juliette hesitated, wrestling with the decision to bring up the operation at Denerim Palace. Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her scarf as she stepped back into the rain.

“Harding, wait!” she called, quickly closing the distance with a few quick steps.

Harding turned, watching curiously. “Yes?”

Juliette smiled awkwardly, tugging her scarf tighter over her head to shield herself from the rain. “You wouldn’t happen to know how far it is from Skyhold to Denerim, would you?”

“That depends,” Harding said, her voice wavering slightly, as though she could sense there was more to the question. “Are you talking distance measured or days traveled?”

“Days traveled. For a small army,” Juliette replied, tilting her head slightly, her thoughts already drifting elsewhere.

Harding considered this, squinting as though she could already see the journey laid out before them. “Maybe two weeks, horseback,” she shrugged. “It would depend on injuries, how many times they’d stop for supplies, that sort of thing.”

“Two weeks,” Juliette whispered to herself, nodding as she stared into the distance. He departed four days before me, seven for the mountain trail, another three for Redcliffe…

“Uh…is everything all right, Inquisitor?” Harding asked cautiously.

Juliette blinked and forced a smile. “Oh, yes,” she said, straightening her posture. “I just… like to keep track of where our people are, and what they’re… doing. It doesn’t matter.” Juliette began to quickly walk away, her head lowered and eyes focused on her feet. “We should hurry along,” Juliette added, her voice slightly more urgent now. “We have a big day ahead of ourselves.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Harding replied, though her gaze lingered on Juliette for a moment, still puzzled.

The next day they made steady progress as the Inquisition scouts moved farther ahead through the marshy bog of the Fallow Mire. Nearing Hargrave Keep, The Inquisitor and her party took a moment to rest after defeating a horde of undead. The scouts, seizing the moment of rest, moved ahead to assess the path before them.

The distant rumble of thunder filled the air and sparse rain drops made heavy splashing noises as they fell in the nearby lake. There was an eerie sense of calm while they waited for the scouts , until Cole decided to speak.

“Juliette?” His voice held a certain innocence, as if her title didn’t matter at all.

"Inquisitor," Cassandra snapped, her tone sharp enough to make him flinch.

"No, it’s fine," Juliette said, stepping closer to him. Her voice softened. "He can call me Juliette. I rather like it—it makes me feel like a person again."

Cassandra folded her arms tightly, her eyes narrowing as she watched Cole, as if measuring every word he spoke. Cole blinked up at Juliette, rising from his crouch. His oversized hat wobbled as he moved.

“But you are a person,” he said, sounding baffled.

Juliette sighed, her boot kicking at the dirt beneath her. "Sometimes... it doesn’t feel that way." She met his eyes with a forced smile. "Did you have a question, Cole?”

"Why do you hide your words underneath your pillow?"

“Oh!” Dorian gasped dramatically, his eyes lighting up as he swiftly crossed the space to Juliette. “Did I hear that correctly? Our lovely lady Inquisitor has a secret journal?” He grinned widely, clearly enjoying the moment as he waited for her reaction. Juliette sighed, shaking her head as she lowered it, her cheeks flushing slightly.

Dorian leaned in closer, trying to get a better look at her expression, his teasing grin only widening. “I packed so lightly for this trip, you know. I was hoping we’d stumble across something interesting for me to read.”

Juliette glared up at him, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t suppose there’s much point in hiding it now that Cole has announced it to the entire party,” she mumbled, rubbing her temples in frustration.

“But why, Juliette?” Cole asked, his voice genuinely curious. “You understand the meaning of the words, but you don’t know what they mean.”

She dropped her head into her hands, groaning. “Please don’t say anything else that will embarrass me, Cole.”

With a tilt of his head he replied, “But how will I know that it embarrasses you if I don’t say it?”

“He’s got you there,” Dorian chimed in, highly amused by the situation.

Juliette scoffed, walking briskly towards the water’s edge. “I’ll burn the book as soon as we return to camp,” she muttered, half to herself.

“Pages burn, yet words remain,” Cole spoke solemnly, his gaze lingering on her.

Juliette crossed her arms and shot Dorian one last, pointed glare. “Let’s just move on, shall we?”

Cassandra stood opposite Cole, her distrusting stare intense. “If you are to fight alongside us, Cole, I expect you to follow orders. The Inquisitor believes you wish to help…”

Juliette wandered ahead, hugging herself tightly as the rain began to fall a little heavier. She looked up at the sky, black clouds stirring above as though they were there to taunt her too. She rolled her eyes when she heard footsteps approaching.

“Dear diary,” Dorian said in a mocking tone. “Too many Templars. Too little time.”

Juliette sighed. “Maker give me strength.”

Inquisitor, Our forces were able to prov  

Cullen’s quill slipped, smudging ink across the carefully written words. With a heavy sigh, he crumpled the parchment and tossed it aside, starting over.

Inquisitor, Our

Again, the ink smeared beneath his trembling hand. He clenched his jaw and exhaled through his teeth, snatching another piece of fresh vellum.

This can’t keep happening. I’m wasting resources, he thought, frustration tightening his chest. His gaze lingered on his fingers, as though he could somehow will them to cooperate.

He paused, staring at the blank page, his hand shaking as it hovered over the ink. With a sharp exhale, Cullen removed his gloves, hoping that could give him a better grip and steady his erratic movements. One hand carefully spread the vellum over the crate that he used as a makeshift desk, while the other gripped the quill tightly. Holding his breath, he lowered the quill to the page.

Inquisitor, Our forces were able to provide assistance to Queen Anora

The first stroke was unsteady, the ink bleeding into the vellum before he could finish the letter. His brow furrowed as he concentrated, but each new letter came out shaky and crooked. His grip on the quill tightened, knuckles turning white, but the tremors only worsened.

Every movement was deliberate, yet his hand refused to obey. The letters began to lose their form, sliding and shifting into scribbles. His handwriting, normally precise and carefully penned, now appeared a jagged mess, almost as disorderly as his thoughts.

Frustration consumed him as he shoved the quill aside with a growl. He snatched the ink pot and hurled it at a pile of crates, splattering ink into the air, the faint scent of the dye lingering. He stood for a moment, chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

Nearby soldiers, alerted by the noise, glanced over in surprise. Cullen clenched his fists, turning away and forcing his shoulders back, trying his best to appear composed despite the fury raging inside him.

He hated this.

If I cannot complete a task as simple as writing a letter, how am I to command an army? What use am I like this?

Each breath came ragged, and he felt as though his head were spinning. The withdrawals hadn’t been this bad in months. He walked over to a barrel and slowly splashed cool water against his face, the shock of the cold momentarily pulling him from the fog in his mind.

He leaned against the barrel, tightly closing his eyes. It’s been days. How much longer until it passes? He took a slow, deep breath. I vowed to be better than this. To give more. His hands still trembled, and there wasn’t a muscle in his body free from aching. The Inquisition, the soldiers… Juliette — I can’t let them down.

He stood there for a while, gathering what little strength he had left. The soldiers would be waiting, the new recruits among them. He couldn’t afford to let them see him like this.

With a long, steadying breath, he rolled his shoulders, wiped his face dry with the back of his hand, and turned towards the camp. Each step felt heavy, but he pushed forward, determined not to break.

The sun was bright. It’s always too bright. Cullen squinted, shielding his eyes with a hand as he walked to the edge of the perimeter where messengers were stationed.

“Any word from the Fallow Mire?” Cullen asked as he approached.

“Still nothing, Ser,” the messenger replied, a formality to his voice.

“When you do hear something, anything at all, I'd like to be notified immediately,” Cullen instructed.

“Yes, Commander,” the messenger nodded. “Would you like us to send a message to The Inquisitor?”

"No," Cullen said sharply, turning to walk away. "I’m sure they’re just busy." He forced the words out through clenched teeth, the sunlight magnifying his headache, while his mind raced anew.

They should have been there by now. Each day without an update brought on more worry, more stress. With the constant travel, the steady influx of new recruits, and the lingering grip of withdrawal, Cullen barely had room to breathe, let alone manage the mounting stress of The Inquisitor’s whereabouts.

He gritted his teeth, his ink stained fingers twitching as the possibilities swirled in his mind, each scenario worse than the last. He couldn’t grasp one before another took its place—what if she was in danger? What if they had failed? If only he could write to her—just one letter, one reply to ease his mind.

Cullen turned back to the messenger, drawing in a sharp breath before speaking. “Perhaps write to the scouts. Harding should be able to inform us of their progress. She may know if the soldiers have been located…and if the Inquisitor has safely arrived.”

“Right away, Commander,” the messenger nodded with a fist raised to his chest. He scurried away, leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts—but only for a moment.

“Commander!” an officer called out, approaching at a brisk pace, a serious expression on his face. Cullen exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a moment to gather his patience before turning to face the officer.

“The bandits have been cleared, Commander. Giving ‘em swords... wasn’t such a bad call after all.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “The Sutherland lad that turned up at Skyhold?”

“That’s the one. Drove the bandits off, our patrols are clear,” the officer said proudly.

“He may have potential yet,” Cullen replied, folding his arms. His gaze drifted over the barren plains surrounding their camp, the dry earth stretching endlessly beneath the pale sky.

The officer stood at attention, waiting, but a silence fell between them as Cullen stared ahead in contemplation. The officer relaxed slightly, his gaze following Cullen’s before he spoke again. “Hard to believe this was all green once,” he muttered, sadness in his voice.

Cullen looked across, his arms still folded tightly. There was a moment of silence before he spoke. “You’re from Lothering?”

The officer’s eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, he seemed lost in the past. “Until the Blight,” he said quietly. “My family and I were lucky to make it out.” He pointed towards the west, his hand lingering on the air. “The village is out that way. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

“I suppose Honnleath is much the same,” Cullen said quietly.

The officer nodded slowly, his gaze now distant. “Just a name on a map these days.” He sighed heavily. “I best keep moving. More recruits will arrive soon.”

“Well, with luck they'll know which end to grip a sword by,” Cullen muttered sarcastically. The officer chuckled, walking back into the camp.

Once more alone with his thoughts, Cullen looked over at the dry, empty fields that were once thriving farmlands. He often found himself wondering just how damaged his childhood home had become. Did it still stand, left abandoned all these years? He couldn’t help but think of his family. Memories of warm August afternoons by the lake. He could almost hear his siblings laughter as they tried to throw each other in the water. What he’d give to go back to those days. Simpler, happier times. It had been seventeen years since he left to join the Templar order. Most of his life spent away from home. It felt like another lifetime ago. Cullen looked down at his sword, the Inquisition emblem glistening on the hilt. His siblings had likely heard of Haven, everyone in Denerim seemed to know after all. No doubt he’d return to Skyhold with an angry letter from his sister waiting. He didn’t feel ready to face his past, nor consider a future beyond this. He drew in a long, deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs. His hand rested against the pommel of the sword and the tremors eased. A habit he’d grown into over time, a strange sense of comfort. He had a duty now, and no matter the cost, he would not falter.

Juliette slowly pulled herself to her feet. The ringing in her ears was almost suffocating, a harsh, high-pitched sound that blurred her thoughts. Her vision swirled, three green glowing palms waved before her face, splattered in blood. Her blood, she realized, her stomach twisting. She coughed, the wind knocked from her chest, and forced herself to stay upright. Cassandra’s battle raged nearby, her sword flashing as she clashed with three Avvar warriors. The sound of steel meeting steel was accompanied by Cassandra’s grunts, each strike an explosion of power, but it was the crackling buzz of electricity nearby that seized Juliette’s attention.

Dorian stood just out of her reach, his hands crackling with magic. The Avvar warrior nearest to him was writhing on the ground, his body spasming from the brutal electrical shocks coursing through him. His sadistic laughter rang out, a sickening chill. Hand of Korth, he called himself, taking pleasure in his own suffering, each crackling surge of magic seeming to delight him. It was as though each strike against him was a moment of defiance against Andraste. Juliette shuddered at the thought. He could stay there, writhing in agony, a little longer.

Juliette raised her hands to the sky, the staff in her grip flaring with searing flames. With a wave, she conjured a barrier of fire that encircled the battlefield, flames crackling and swirling in a wall of blazing heat. Cassandra retreated, her enemies igniting in the inferno. Their screams echoed in the air, but Juliette's focus quickly shifted.

Her heart skipped a beat as her gaze fell on Cole, motionless on the ground, his daggers still tightly clutched in his hands.

“Hold on, Cole!” she yelled, racing towards him. As she kneeled before his limp body, a wave of confusion washed over Juliette. Does he heal? Will a potion... Her heart raced, her thoughts clouded with panic. “Cole!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “I don’t know how to heal you!”

With trembling hands, she pulled a vial of healing potion from her belt, her fingers fumbling as she tore the cork from the bottle. She held it under his nose, her breath frantic. Can he drink?

“Cassandra!” Dorian yelled, just seconds before the deafening crash of the overhang collapsing echoed through the air. Juliette scrambled to her feet, the healing vial slipping from her fingers and shattering against the ground. She froze, her eyes wide in horror as she watched Dorian rush to clear the rubble from where Cassandra lay trapped beneath. Did…did my fire do that?

Juliette struggled for breath, screaming out “Is she all ri—”

“Finish him!” Dorian shouted, fierce urgency in his voice with a glare over his shoulder. Juliette’s eyes darted to the Avvar, that so-called Hand of Korth crawling towards her with a twisted grin. She grabbed her staff, her breath quick and ragged. Too close, too close for fire. What do I do?

She stepped backwards, desperate to create some distance, to find enough space for her fire to rage without consuming her as well. Before she could react, he grabbed her ankle, yanking her to the ground. Her staff clattered against the stone as it fell beside her. A frightened squeal escaped her as the Avvar dragged her across the rough stone, his cruel laughter echoing in her ears as he muttered, “Weak. Weak is Andratse’s Herald.” Juliette snatched for her staff, her fingertips barely gripping it as she fumbled it into place. She raised it, hoping to smash it against his face, but his reflexes were too fast. In an instant, he grabbed the staff and bent the iron in half, a terrifying display of strength.

He laughed, shaking his head. Before Juliette could defend herself, his hands were wrapped around her neck, squeezing and choking while she clawed at his fingers, feeling herself slip away.

Suddenly, his grip loosened. A vacant expression crossed his face, followed by a slicing sound as he collapsed forward, falling beside her. Juliette sat there, eyes wide in shock, her breath shallow. Her fingers trembled as they instinctively moved to her neck, feeling the bruises forming beneath her skin. Cole stood before her, expressionless, blood-soaked daggers gripped tightly in his hands.

The walk back to camp was tense, the silence broken only by the steady rainfall, occasional thunder, and the distant groans of the undead. The Mire had mostly been cleared of danger by now, thanks to the closure of rifts and a reduced Avvar presence.

"Cassandra’s angry," Dorian observed loudly.

"I’m not angry—" she tried to object, but Dorian cut her off.

"Juliette’s angry." There was a pause, and the Inquisitor didn’t say a word.

"Tell me, Cole. What’s on your mind?" Dorian asked, his voice carrying a teasing lilt that went unnoticed by Cole.

"Relieved. Safe now. The Herald came for us, I knew she would!" Cole responded, his voice full of praise, mirroring the gratitude of the rescued soldiers.

"Yes, yes, she always takes all the credit," Dorian muttered sarcastically.

Juliette groaned, her boots thudding against the muddy ground as she stomped ahead, finally reaching the camp.

The Inquisition’s presence had nearly doubled in size during their absence. More soldiers, scouts, and officers swarmed the campsite, some planning, others preparing, and a few resting.

“What’s going on?” Juliette asked, her expression unusually stern as she moved into the center of the camp.

“Inquisitor!” an officer greeted her, bowing slightly. “Reinforcements were sent from Skyhold, your worship.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion. “There’s no need. We’re clearing out of here.”

“Commander Cullen sent us,” he explained cautiously, sensing her irritation.

“Well, it’s a little too late for that,” she snapped, throwing her ruined staff to the ground with a sharp clang and placing her hand on her hips. Her frustration flared as she let out a heavy sigh, her gaze shifting back to the officer. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… I’m just—” She faltered for a moment, stress getting the better of her. “Apologies, but you need to leave.”

Her eyes scanned the camp, and with a raised voice, she added, “You all need to leave. We’ve found the soldiers. Let’s just get out of this horrid bog of a—” She scoffed, shaking her head in frustration. Without another word, she beelined for her tent, the urgency of her steps mirroring her desire to escape the watchful eyes of the Inquisition. Dorian strolled into the camp, one arm supporting Cassandra as she limped beside him. Juliette glanced over her shoulder. That must be driving her crazy. Maker, she must hate me right now.

“This arrived for you, Inquisitor!” The requisition officer stepped in front of Juliette, holding a burlap-wrapped package.

“What is that?” Juliette asked, her expression softening slightly as she looked at the package with a flicker of curiosity.

“The soldiers brought this down from the Commander,” she explained. Juliette hesitated for a moment before extending her hand, taking the package with a quiet sigh, unsure of what to expect. Her breath caught for a split second, a fleeting warmth in her chest. She quickly masked the reaction, hiding the heat creeping along her cheeks, forcing her face to remain neutral. That was until she heard Dorians voice, in which she hung her head with a defeated sigh.

“A gift?” Dorian asked dramatically, stepping closer to Juliette. “From Commander Cullen?” he whispered, but his voice was far too loud, carrying more than Juliette would have liked.

Juliette clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around the package. “Thank you,” she said curtly to the officer, her voice strained as she dismissed her with a stiff nod.

“Whatever could it be?” Dorian wondered aloud, his tone far too gleeful for Juliette’s liking. She ignored him, ripping open the package with growing impatience.

“Flowers?” Dorian suggested with a dramatic tilt of his head.

“Flowers?” Juliette echoed, her nose scrunching at the absurdity of it.

“Jewelry? …Ah, a book.” He paused, looking at the item in her hands with a theatrical sigh. “How predictably dull.”

“Would you stop?” Juliette snapped. “You’ve been particularly irritating today.”

“Oh, I’ve hit a nerve,” Dorian teased, his hands raised defensively. “Don’t drop a building on me!” Juliette scowled, brushing past him with a sharp movement, her steps quick as she neared her tent. “You could at least tell me what the book is?”

“You wanted something to read?” she snapped, spinning back to face him. “Take it!” She threw the book at him and stormed off.

Dorian caught the book easily, an amused grin spreading across his face. “Tale of The Champion?” he read aloud. “I don’t think I’ll bother… Oh, a note.”

“What?” Cassandra shrieked from across the camp. With a limp she hobbled over quickly, anger flaring in her eyes. Juliette stepped forward and snatched the note that fell from the book from Dorian’s hands. She glanced down at the paper, skimming the words as Cassandra’s voice grew louder with fury.

“That bastard! I knew it!”

“What?” Juliette said, confused. “What did Cullen —”

“Not Cullen, Varric!” Cassandra snarled, her grip tightening on the book as she ripped it from Dorian’s hands, her gaze fiery.

Juliette looked back down at the note.

Inquisitor, Varric is up to something and if Leliana’s suspicions are correct, you should know what you’re in for. While I can’t say that the story is true in it’s entirety, the events mentioned are accurate where it matters. Ignore any mention of me, he was exaggerating I’ve marked the sections that are relevant. If Hawke is indeed making his way to Skyhold, then this may give you some insight, if not a fair warning. Cullen

Juliette looked up, meeting Dorian’s watchful gaze and Cassandra’s piercing stare. "Well," Juliette said, her voice uncertain, unsure of what else to say.

Cullen sat by the fire at the camp on the outskirts of Redcliffe. The soft crackle of the fire was a welcoming sound among the loud bustle of the camp. He held Juliette’s letter, his hands far steadier today.

Cullen, There’s nothing like some light reading amid the ambience of torrential rain, suffocating darkness and the persistent groaning of undead. I beg you, never send me here again. Not that the mission was a complete waste of time, however. I’m happy to report that we have managed to free our soldiers. All but one are accounted for and are in good health, a little shaken, but I consider it a victory. Interestingly, not all the Avvar were hostile - just the few dozen that wanted me dead. The challenger has been dealt with. There is no reason for The Inquisition to return here. Please don’t send any more of us here. With love, from the most miserable bog of Southern Ferelden, Inquisitor Trevelyan p.s Your attitude sounded foul, but Varric’s description of your hair was glorious.

Cullen let out an exasperated sigh. “I should have just tore out the pages,” he mumbled to himself. His eyes wandered back over her handwriting. With love. She’s being dramatically sarcastic. A small smirk tugged at his lips. I tried to warn her not to go there, he thought, his fingers tracing the edges of the letter. He could almost hear her voice, that mix of dry humor and underlying defiance. I’m certain she’ll have plenty to say once we’re both back at Skyhold.

[profoundfics]

Tertiary Opinions I/V

Unorthodox Introductions - V: Injurious Activities

Rating: Mature - Canon Typical Violence and Sex

Pairing: Rook Ingellvar x Emmrich Volkarin (Neve Gallus x Lucanis Dellamort | Lace Harding x Taash)

(A03 Chapter Index) | (Tumblr Chapter Index)

-- --

The Rivaini climate was far hotter than Emmrich had been expecting and he fully understood Rook’s grouse on the subject over breakfast. Before him were a number of flora specimens to appraise but after the unexpected encounter with the Antaam, Emmrich had little energy for anything other than taking the well earned break while they waited for their newest recruit. Rook had taken off her breastplate, a thin sheen of sweat glossing her face, leant over a boulder, stretching her back.

Harding was the only one who looked remotely comfortable.

He supposed that the Inquisition’s former lead scout was experienced in dealing with harsh climates on either end of the scale. Not that the glorious weather beating down on them could be called harsh. Just hot. Hotter than Nevarra.

‘Had you ever left Nevarra before you joined us, Professor?’ Harding asked, handing him a waterskin.

He took it gratefully, ignoring the use of his academic title. He’d decided the better way to encourage the team’s acceptance was to allow them all to call him what they felt comfortable with.

‘I’ve rarely left the Necropolis,’ he explained, ‘but I have been to Orlais. That was decades ago, however, and not far over the border. Not enough to notice the difference in any case.’

‘I wouldn’t let an Orlesian hear you say that,’ Harding chuckled.

‘I’ve not been to Orlais,’ Rook mused, turning her head to look at them. ‘Why haven’t we been to Orlais, Harding?’

‘Because Solas had already left by the time we bumped into you,’ said Harding, taking back the waterskien. ‘Besides, Empress Celene was pretty pissed with us on the way out, so best not to go back and poke that dragon.’

‘I know you keep saying you don’t, but you really do know everyone,’ said Rook. ‘The Empress of Orlais,’ she started, holding a finger up, ‘the King and Queen of Ferelden, Magister Pavus, the White Divine, the Inquisitor, Lady Morrigan.’

‘Bar for Ellana, Cassandra and Dorian, I don’t know them, know them,’ countered Harding, ‘and besides I’ve never actually met the Empress, that was all Varric.’

‘Figures,’ said Rook, before she turned her attention to Emmrich. ‘See, she likes to play it down, but Harding had mingled with the high and mighty of Southern Thedas. Closest I’ve got was an arranged betrothal to the fourth son, of the fourth son of the forty-third irgend etwas Baron Van Markham,’ Rook lamented. ‘As a senior necromancer, Emmrich, you must have met some of the great and good of Nevarra? Or at least embalmed them.’

‘Rook,’ he admonished, but his thoughts snagged on the small tidbit of information she had just revealed. Harding’s lack of response was also telling.

‘Ignore her,’ laughed Harding. ‘She likes to tease her friends.’

‘Bit rich coming from Miss ‘anything-you-talk-about-beginning-with-N-makes-you-sound-fancy’,’ Rook bickered back.

Harding shook her head, but there was little doubt as to the fondness the pair felt for each other. Rook had turned her face back to the sun, and drawn one leg up so her knee was close to her chest, holding it in place as she stretched the muscles there.

‘You know, I can’t tell if she actually expects you to answer that or not,’ Harding mused after a moment. ‘Is it normal for members of the Mourn Watch to be interested in who each other embalms? What is embalming?’

Emmrich felt a surge of sympathy for the dwarf. Her eyes were so curious but their last conversation around the practices of the Mourn Watch and the dead had not gone well. Rook was now holding her other leg to her chest, while turning her head away from them both, but he could easily imagine her biting down on her lip as she suppressed laughter.

‘Some Watchers like to gossip about the new inhabitants of the Necropolis,’ Emmrich eventually replied, mustering all the dignity his position afforded him. ‘But it isn’t encouraged. As for embalmment, it is one of the many practices we use to care for our dead.’

Harding gave a nervous chuckle, holding up her hand to indicate she didn’t want to know more but Emmrich’s attention was back on Rook. She was facing the sun again. Tension had clustered around her lips and eyes, her skin paler than it had been moments earlier. Sweat had beaded above her brow.

‘I thought you said you hadn’t been hit,’ Emmrich said, his tone more accusing than he intended, moving towards Rook to examine her more closely.

Rook opened her eyes, and gingerly pushed herself off the boulder. His words had prompted Harding to look concerned then began digging through her pack.

‘I wasn’t,’ she said, pressing her hand to her ribs, wincing slightly. ‘I twisted badly getting out of Taash’s way. She was charging in my direction, and for a moment, I thought she was Antaam. When I realised, well,’ she shrugged, wincing even more, bending over slightly. ‘I didn’t think she’d want a face full of my shield.’

‘Hardly the best way to make a good impression on our new associate,’ Emmrich agreed as Harding fished out a healing potion.

‘Last one of this batch,’ she said, offering it to Rook.

The Reaper took it gratefully, unstoppering it and gulping it down, holding back a grimace at the flavour. A bit of colour returned to her cheeks and she smiled at Harding as she handed back the empty flask. Emmrich watched her for a moment, realisation dawning; Rook could have healed herself on the battlefield. Alongside their renowned understanding of hexspells and wardweaves, Reapers could draw on the life forces of their enemies, weakening them while converting that power into a personal source of healing. She hadn’t done it. He remembered her telling him that the others forgot she was a Necromancer. He felt a strange, softness curl around him for their leader. That she would rather allow her team to see her as normal, or at least non threatening, than use magic to heal herself was quite remarkable, if foolish. She quirked her lips up in a gentle expression as if she understood the direction of his thoughts.

Heavy footsteps heralded the return of Taash, a bag carelessly slung over her shoulder. Rook schooled her expression to one of welcome.

‘Ready?’ She asked, bending down to pick up her chest piece and shield, wincing even more as she moved.

Emmrich beat her to it, picking up the heavy breast plate and leather strap attached to her shield. ‘Allow me.’

Her eyebrows flicked as he shouldered her shield. ‘Be my guest.��

--//-*-\\--

It had been years since Emmrich had last pulled Hubers Fundamentals of Healing from a bookcase. It was considered first year reading due to its broad look at anatomy, how to mix basic healing potions and simple spells for rejuvenation. He’d not had a need of it for years because he had not found himself facing a living patient since his twenties. However, he couldn’t just stitch the damage together in the same way he would a cadaver. Living tissue needed a different sort of care.

He would need to establish which of the muscles Rook had damaged although based on where she had been pressing her hand and the slight change in her gait, Emmrich would have diagnosed it as the latissimus dorsi being strained. At worst, the serratus posterior. Either way, Harding’s potion would hardly be enough to stave off the pain for long. Nor was it capable of the accelerated healing needed to get Rook back on her feet.

Beside him, Manfred ground the herbs Emmrich had instructed him to work with while the reagent simmered under a low flame. Glancing in the mortar, Manfred was close to finished so he put the book aside and pulled a small bottle from one of the many drawers under the desk. He held it to the light, a slightly viscous liquid curled towards the stopper. He wrapped his hand around it to warm the bottle then after a moment unscrewed it to extract a couple of drops to add to the reagent. With his gloved hand, he picked up the bottle at its neck and swirled it until it took on a pink hue with a swirl of smoke.

‘The herbs, Manfred,’ he instructed as he placed a funnel in the bottle neck.

He tipped the mixture in, swirling it again, channeling some magic with a twist of his fingers until the mixture glowed a silvery grey akin to Rook’s eyes. Emmrich placed it back on the stand to heat it back through while dismissing Manfred. His assistant had found his own fascination with the Lighthouse, and so long as he stuck to the main building, Emmrich allowed him to explore when he had no need of him.

When the mixture reached a bubble Emmrich began to tidy away, placing his books back and using cleansing spells to clean his equipment. A faint pop alerted him to the potion being ready. With additional care, he decanted the contents through a straining cloth, carefully mixing more healing evocation as the liquid dripped through into the new container.

While it was a potion best drunk warm, he paused for a moment to scrub his fingers and nails clean so it could cool enough to be drinkable.

He’d never visited Rook’s rooms before but he hadn’t failed to notice the corridor was next to his own. The rest of the Lighthouse was quiet. While Taash had taken the room beside the other side of the staircase, Harding had taken it upon herself to introduce the Qunari to the rest of the team in the kitchen. Not that Emmrich particularly cared if anyone saw him go to Rook’s rooms; she certainly visited him often enough.

She was expecting him, having suggested she rest while he produced this potion so he took the liberty of knocking then pushing the door open without waiting for a reply stepping into a cool, low lit room. She was led across her couch on her stomach, head cushioned by her folded arms with a breathing pattern that suggested she could be close to sleep. He stepped in and closed the door, eyes wandering over her domain, becoming captivated by the aquarium.

Occupying what should have been the outside wall, it seemed to stretch on, impossible but for the fact they were in the Fade. The Lighthouse was truly a marvel.

‘Pretty amazing, isn’t it,’ said Rook, alerting him to the fact that he had managed to cross the room without thought. ‘I don’t know how it works - if it’s projected or like Harding’s planets, and sort of semi there.’

Emmrich turned, her eyes looked silvery in the swirlingblue light of her room.

‘I made you that tonic,’ he said, holding it up because he needed to remember why he was there. ‘If I could examine your back as well? A healing spell should help it along nicely.’

Rook blinked, still for a moment then nodded her head. He placed her tonic on the table close to her head then knelt beside her.

‘I’ll have to lift your shirt,’ he said, hand hovering over the hem.

She responded with a small wiggle, freeing an arm to lift her shirt, revealing her back all the way up to the midpoint. Unlike her hands, and her face, Rook’s back was marred with a raised lightning flower scar. Dark skin rose in ridges from a point of origin hidden by her trousers and continued under the hem of her raised shirt in the direction of her right shoulder. Emmrich’s fingers flexed involuntarily. Then he placed his bare hand down close to her spine where there was evidence of bruising. He pressed down with his thumb to feel the lines of muscle below her skin. Rook blew out a soft, painen whimper. He flattened his hand across the injury, attempting to ignore the way his fingers fit between each of her ribs. Trying to ignore how warm her skin was. How soft, despite the ridges of scaring. He focused on channeling a silent healing spell through himself into her. Calling on Spirits of Faith and Compassion to lend him, and by extension, her, their aid. The magic spread from his fingers in a warm blue glow. Tension drained from Rook’s body and the next soft breath contained a note of relief. A soft smile lifted on her face.

‘You should still take the tonic,’ he told her, lifting his hand away and sliding her shirt back into place, trying to move at a normal pace caught between wanting to linger in the moment and escaping it. ‘How did you get that scarring?’

Rook rolled over, turning enough to reach the tonic and knocked it back. ‘Pride demon,’ she said, ‘when we were trying to get to Solas’ ritual.’

She returned to her stomach as he got to his feet. Still fighting the urge to gaze at her, Emmrich turned his attention to the aquarium, grateful at having somewhere else to look. But he could still feel her gaze on him as if some inexplicable thread of the Fade connected them; the residual energy of the healing spell.

‘You want to study it, don’t you?’ She asked, yawning as she spoke. ‘Be my guest.’

He turned to answer her, but her eyes were closed, breathing even and he wondered if he had dreamt her words. Emmrich watched her for a moment, the trust she had just extended to him swirling a warm rush in his chest. He wondered what it would be to explore the expanse of her back; tracing the scars with his fingertips; following delicate ridges of her spine with his lips and mapping the valleys between her ribs where his fingers had effortlessly rested moments before. Would she sigh in contentment under his ministrations? Or something else entirely. Something needy?

He was too old for such things. Now anyway. And he had a path forged that could not afford to include an unexpected dalliance. Particularly if that dalliance still had potential ties to a former intended. Rook had not elaborated on the outcome of her betrothal, although the lack of a ring indicated it had not resulted in marriage. Not yet, at least.

And still, he could not keep his eyes off her.

Emmrich closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with a steadying breath, reminding himself of how close he was to the end of his life’s work. His grand finale in touching distance. When he opened them again, his eyes landed on a patchwork blanket that he couldn’t entirely be certain was there before. After shaking it out, he draped it over her, his last sight of her snuggling into folds of fabric with another soft smile on her lips.

--

Author Notes:

Translations -

irgend etwas - Something or other (also, anything)

From the earliest stirrings of canon about Nevarra, the indication was that this was a Germanic coded culture, and as I was writing the segment where I added this, I felt it would work quiet well if Rook actually did drop into Nevarran, in the same way Lucanis drops into Antivan. Luckily, English is a Germanic Language as well, and the flow of the sentence ended up being better for using German in this context.

-- --

A note on Reaper's being able to heal themselves - in-game, at lvl 20 you get 'Spirit Storm', the Reaper ultimate ability that applies 'Siphon' to enemies, which converts their damage into healing. Rook not using the spell at this point in the fic is a little nod to the fact that I'm rarely at lvl 20 when I hit this point in the game, but it's also playing to the theme wherein Rook has admitted that the rest of the team seem to forget she's a Necromancer, and in this chapter, it becomes ragingly apparent to Emmrich that she has not been using her most powerful magics in front of the team because it would scare them. Within the DA universe, Necromancy is a strange one, because it's one-part spirit mage, one-part blood mage and one-part death mage, and shake until combined. From my PoV, 'Spirit Storm' and anything else that using siphoning effects is the proper terrifying Necromancy that Thedosians should be afraid of, not Emmrich raising corpses and channeling the spirits.

[broodwolf221]

“You’re staring.” - Solas x (a character you havent written with him yet >:3c)

hehehehehehe smutty >) @dadrunkwriting 1098 words cws: none

“You’re staring,” he pointed out, smirking as he saw Blackwall flinch in his periphery. 

“Just admiring how you’re handling the wood,” he said after a moment and Solas hummed, unconvinced. It wasn’t the chunk of hardwood in his hands that Blackwall had been staring at. Not the way he held the carving knife, nor the delicate shavings that were littering the tabletop. 

He should let it go. He should. Instead: “what do you think?” Blackwall cleared his throat.

“You’re skilled,” was what he apparently settled on. “Have you done this before?” 

“Yes. A few times.” He refrained from asking whether Blackwall had. He knew the other man had no ulterior motive to the question, however perfectly posed it was, but his interest was painfully obvious, as was his unfamiliarity with said interest. More than once Solas had caught the Warden examining him at length. At first he had worried that Blackwall might be suspicious, but over time he had recognized the true source.

It was curious. Before, he never would have thought of pursuing any member of the Inquisition. But now that he recognized Blackwall’s attraction for what it was, he had begun to look at the other man in a different light. It was terribly hard to refrain from flirting with him, from pushing him just enough that he’d blush and stammer, but ultimately Solas had no interest in being cruel. 

It was just…

“How did you come by this?” He asked the Warden, pausing in his carving to face him.

“By…?”

“This—” Solas lifted the carving knife Blackwall had loaned him. “A soldier, a Warden… when did you pick up carving?”

“Ah. Well, you know how it is. Sometimes all you're doing is waiting.”

“Indeed.”

“I had a knife. Easy to find some wood. It just… gave me something to do with my hands.”

That was what intrigued Solas. Their shared experiences. Oh, all members of the Inquisition had seen battle. But only a few of them had lived it. Bull had, of course, but he kept the difficulty of it locked up. He let himself rejoice in it in a way that Solas never could, even though he understood the use of that perspective well enough. 

But he recognized the weight Blackwall carried. There was something achingly familiar about him. 

He returned his attention to the wood.

-

Several days passed before the Inquisitor took them both out. As they made their way towards the Western Approach, he and Blackwall spoke often. At night, Solas worked on his carving more. Sometimes Blackwall watched. 

When they arrived it was predictably hot. They made good progress scouting the area more thoroughly, although by late afternoon they had to stop and recover for a while. They had stopped near a small river and Sera and Blackwall both decided to wade into it. Solas tried to discourage them but they were already stripping down to their smalls before plunging in. He sighed. 

When they emerged some time later and the sunburn began to set in, he had already prepared a poultice. He gave half to Lavellan, suspecting Sera would be less bothered by her touch than by his, while he tended to Blackwall. As he worked the poultice into the man's skin he also allowed himself to linger just a bit, to really let himself feel the ridge of scar tissue, the firm muscle, the layer of fat. 

And all the hair. Solas really wasn't accustomed to that, finding the sensation under his fingers fascinating. Then he had to focus on working the poultice into Blackwall’s face and neck, although a part of him knew that the other man could've done this much on his own.

-

They shared a tent that night, as they always did. This time, though, Solas did not lay down after taking off his outer layers of armor. And when Blackwall sat up in his bedroll with a puzzled frown, Solas hooked his thumbs in the waist of his breeches, smirking at the Warden's flush. “I think we could enjoy ourselves tonight, if you're willing,” he said after a moment, carefully watching the other man's expression. 

“Maker, yes.” The immediate acceptance went to Solas' head—and his cock. He had expected more hesitation, more dithering from the Warden, perhaps an uncertainty about his interest in men. Instead, he just sounded eager and relieved.

Still smirking, Solas drew his breeches and smalls down together, revealing his hard cock. Blackwall just stared for a moment before he seemed to realize his role in this, working quickly to strip away his remaining layers while Solas bit back a laugh at his haste.

The warrior’s cock was thick, even half-hard. He had been debating about letting Blackwall take him but the width made him decide against it, at least for tonight. They'd need more time to make that work. Something simpler for now.

He settled in beside Blackwall, then after a moment decided on something else and straddled him, both of them gasping as their cocks slid together. Then he began humping him, grinding sensitive flesh together, his own slick slowly making the process easier. Blackwall continued to fill out underneath him, hushed, gravelly moans escaping him periodically.

Aside from muted sounds of pleasure they were quiet, unwilling to advertise what they were doing, but the way Blackwall stared up at him spoke volumes. There was a deep admiration in his gaze that made Solas' feel delightfully overwhelmed, even as a distant part of him was wrenched with guilt at the sight. But he tried to let that part go for just this night, this shared moment. 

Soldiers finding some comfort in one another… it need not be anything more than that.

Eventually Blackwall's hands settled on his hips and he began to drag Solas against him even as he thrust up, his mouth parting as his breathing sped. “Close,” he whispered and Solas just nodded—so was he. He felt Blackwall's cock twitch against his before the man's whole body tensed, coming across his own stomach. Solas rose on his knees and took himself in hand, quickly jerking off until he clutched at Blackwall's bedroll and started coming, mixing his seed with the other man's, biting his own arm to muffle his moan.

When he was done he let himself fall to the side, slowly catching his breath. He glanced up when he felt himself being observed, grinning to see Blackwall looking down at him. “You’re staring,” he pointed out, amused, and Blackwall snorted.

“So I am,” he admitted readily, and did not look away.

Solas found that he didn’t mind.

[taashyvashedan]

Oof, made it out of finals—and it turned out alright! Nothing like the love lives of fictional characters being the thing keeping you sane.

…but maybe thinking about Lace calling Taash her “lover” and them not being able to refuse her might have also helped. Thought you should be able to think about it too! And thank you for what you said.

Hell to the yes!

I'm no longer in school. I had gone back for design a few years ago and finals were always incredibly stressful. The relief that came from accomplishing something that at one point felt overwhelmingly impossible though... Ah~! Nothing topped it.

Congrats for pushing through. You're smart. You're capable. You're learning. There's so much value in that.

--

And yes! I WILL think about Taash x Harding! ...More.

Taash scoffs at Rook in their romance scene when they say 'Lovers?" Lovers feels extremely casual. You're close, but you find sanctity in each other's body and passion. I think Taash knows and understands the emotional difference between a hookup and a romantic partner.

In a short chat with @nadas-dirthalen, we thought it would be incredibly cute if Harding was actually the one who used Taarala first, maybe trying to learn Qunlat to connect with Taash more.

Harding would probably butcher the word at first, or maybe Taash would assume that Harding was trying to say their name ("Taar-" and then maybe Harding gets nervous) before it clicked. Kinda like when you say "what?" to a question you most definitely heard.

I don't think there is a human alive that would be able to resit a confession of love from Inquisitor Scout Lace Harding, and Taash would probably implode from the sweetness.

[geeks-universe]

Cullen Rutherford x Female!Inquisitor

Just a little something I wrote while trying to flesh out some ideas

Cullen Rutherford was a man who struggled in many ways. He tried, most days- damned if he didn’t- but some parts of himself, the parts the Templar Order beat into him, were hard to let go of. His uneasiness, and general distrust, of magic, for one.

The scout sent to report the Herald’s latest news- a sharp faced Dalish elf with hair the color of ash and eyes as near to red as one could come- disagreed. While Commander Cullen had come to respect the man, he wasn’t sure he could echo his sentiments, despite his best effort. Magic was too unpredictable, too alluring.

So no, he didn’t believe the best course of action was to seek out support from the rebel mages. The Templars had their issues, as well as their uses, but they weren’t a wild card.

As the council continued to argue and discuss and plead with one another, an evolution that lasted days, the Herald sought out direction from her companions. Cullen noted, with no small amount of bitterness, that she’d been doing that a lot recently.

Vahwen Lavellan, Lelliana’s trusted scout, had found the Herald’s company wandering Ullander Forest on the Storm Coast. They were bloodied, starving, near feral- a testament to whatever they’d endured prior to returning to Haven. After managing to calm her down, and avoid the short swords she carried with a death grip, Vahwen had gotten her report: she intended to contact the mages in Redcliffe.

With only a small delay to retrieve information on the missing Grey Wardens, Vahwen had returned to Haven, the Herald’s party in tow. The Herald was quiet at first, cautious. It was Varric who managed to get her to crack her first smile.

And from there, she blossomed.

It had only been a couple of months or so since her arrival, but the entirety of the Inquisition felt her presence, the Commander included. There was something so light about her company, like the first rays of sunshine stretching the length of the sky on a new day- calm, peaceful, hopeful. There was something to be admired in that, how the strength of one woman’s character had bolstered the entire movement.

He, however, wasn’t ready to concede on the point. The stubborn part of him- the part that had made a teenager, a boy, willing to commit the atrocities of the past, the part that still tried to justify it if only so he could look at the man in the mirror- wouldn’t let it go.

“Herald, a word?”

Though he posed it as a question, the way a perfectly groomed dark brow rose told him that it came out as more of a command.

“Commander,” she nodded, her voice gentle, as always.

Words weren’t just spoken by her, they were woven- lyrical and pristine- lightly accented in a dialect unrecognizable to Cullen. Or, perhaps, unrecognizable to everyone.

Very little was known about the Herald of Andraste, much to the chagrin of the Nightingale, who prided herself on learning the most insignificant details of their lives, as well as the most important ones.

With the war room recently vacated by the rest of the council, and the door shut for privacy, the Herald gave Cullen her full attention. It was disconcerting, yet thrilling, his heart beating faster in his chest at the unnatural blue of her eyes- so light they were practically glowing.

Not for the first time he wondered about her, about the life she lived and who she was before the Conclave. She’d shared precious few details, a deep sadness in the downturn of her lips and the twinkle of her eyes whenever asked of her past. There was an ache there, one that tore her body asunder from the inside out.

“You must consider the Templars,” he said, finding it easier to focus on the task at hand as opposed to the Herald’s bright gaze.

There was a brief pause, considering.

“Magic makes you uncomfortable.”

She stated it plainly, without judgment. He couldn’t help but notice the quick frown, before she returned to a more neutral expression.

“It’s… it doesn’t- it’s more complicated than that.”

Frustration bubbled in his chest with a twang. The thought of magic, the mention of it- it stirred more than discomfort and fear. It stirred longing, a bone deep craving for Lyrium that carved itself into his ribs and demanded attention. Tension pulled at his brow, his jaw clenched in an effort to stave off overwhelming need that radiated down the length of his body.

“I will consider it.”

An olive branch, extended from this woman- whose heart was far too big for the world- to the tormented shell of her Commander. Maker, what had he become?

There was a hesitance after her words, a brief stuttering in the air where she obviously wanted to say more. His countenance gave her pause, however, and she let the thought bleed out into the wispy smoke of incense.

“Thank you.”

And he meant it.

It had become increasingly obvious that the Herald had a soft spot for the rebel mages. He wasn’t sure why they’d earned her sympathies specifically- though he had a few ideas- she’d been adamant about helping them.

“Did you…”

She paused, thoughtful. Her fingers tapped at the map of Ferelden and Orlais, hammering in time with his heart. Panic swelled at the topic of magic, as it so often did.

“Cassandra explained to me- about the mages and their treatment,” her words were careful, as if she were approaching a startled horse.

His breathing stuttered, stilted by the images that flashed before him- memories, horrible, horrible memories- ones he couldn’t escape in the dark of night. Yes, magic terrified him, and why shouldn’t it?

It caused so much death, so much destruction. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face twisted in a grimace as he fought the flurry of fractured memories, of all he’s seen and done- too much, too horrible- coalescing to a rising storm in his mind.

At some point, the Heralf had crept closer to him. She was always so careful, so guarded, yet now she placed a tentative hand to his chest, her touch a steady beacon.

“Breathe,” she soothed, lilting voice washing over him in that accent he still couldn’t place.

He found himself breathing deeply, in and out, in time to her gentle prompts. His body followed her command, as his eyes opened once more, locking onto the impossibly light blue of her gaze.

For a moment, he felt peace.

Then heat.

What had he done?

Embarrassment quickly replaced the fear. Heat crawled up his neck, coating his cheeks. It seemed, without lyrium, he’d become rather emotional. Cullen’s issues, the ones that haunt him all hours of the day and fester in the depths of his unconsciousness rarely found their way out anymore. He’d learned to shove them deep, deep down, trapped beneath an iron will and the weight of a craving he’d never satisfy again.

There were times though, when he couldn’t quite seal the lid fast enough, forced to stare at the man he was, at all the pain he had wrought and felt.

“It’s okay,” the Herald assured him, a kind smile behind even kinder eyes.

There was no doubt that the Herald of Andraste had her own secrets, her own pain that lingered in her expression when attention shifted from her, that stopped her hand short when she sparred. What it was, Cullen wasn’t privy to, but he knew another troubled soul when he saw one, and he had no doubt that the Herald and him were companions in more than just the Inquisition.

“Forgive me, Herald, I…”

The words died in his throat, hanging in the air around them. The warmth from her hand receded as she pulled it back to herself, apparently satisfied that he wasn’t about to curl in on himself. He didn’t continue and she didn’t push, a peace settling in the room between them.

“Raelaya,” she reminded him, as she often did.

Despite being granted the title of “Herald of Andraste”, she insisted on using her given name.

In fact, she seemed uncomfortable with the idea of being involved with any amount of divinity, even if her knowledge of their religion was severely lacking. Even in Tiviniter and amongst the Dalish there was some idea of it all, of what the Chantry believes.

But her…

She didn’t recognize the name of the Maker, didn’t understand who Andraste was.

[aclassitag]

This blog was first made shortly after the release of DA:I, when the fandom was godawful to the only trans character we had. Hence the name aclassitag, a tag where we only have the classy Krem content. Nowadays it's not as bad anymore, so herein comes the Kremnaissance

tags

full tag list nsfw (includes fanfic & fanart) fanart — fanfic — cosplay

character tags

inquisitor iron bull bull's chargers

shipping tags

(*full list of ships on full tag page, below have the most content)

shipping (includes all ships) krem x oc krem x inquisitor krem x iron bull krem x cole krem x cullen krem x dorian krem x scout harding

misc

messages, mod post, #kremweek2024 (fills), krem week prompts

Regarding spoilers: I will not be reblogging any until December 2024

transparency: one single mod now operates this blog, the original creator. i occasionally do rb my own krem stuff onto this blog

[ramblinganthropologist]

The saddest thing to come out of Veilguard so far is apparently Trevy and Scout Harding broke up after inquisition.

Poor Trevy. Maybe she'll find someone nice to settle down with and teach mage kids at her magic school.

[nirikeehan]

For Thalia x Hawke - A steaming mug of something hot, pinned down and mirror sex. If you please <3

All riiiiiight I've resurrected this terribly mediocre ship for one night only!!

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 2319

Rating: E for the smuts

---

The mug of mulled wine steamed on the table between them. Thalia watched the vapor rise off it as an excuse not to look at him. Hawke had his own mug in front of him, also untouched. The silence between them extended as the Gull and Lantern’s minstrel tuned his lute. His last song, about Scout Lace Harding, had been off key. 

Hawke cleared his throat. “So. You got my letter.” 

So she had, a couple days earlier. She’d been perfectly baffled by it. Inquisitor, it had read, I really enjoyed having a drink with you the last time we were together. Perhaps you’d like to have a drink again. I’ll be staying in Redcliffe village for the next week, if you’re available.

South Reach was only a day’s ride away on the Imperial Highway, so Thalia had saddled her horse and left Garlic with her sister-in-law that morning. Now at evenfall, Hawke sat before her, looking much the same as he had the last time she’d seen him: still too tall and too muscly, the unkempt beard and hair hiding an otherwise handsome face. She chewed her lip. Getting an answer to her question almost certainly hadn’t been worth the effort to come here. 

Thalia picked up the mug and took a sip of the hot wine, sweet with honey and strong with cloves. 

“Did we?” she asked. “Have a drink together last time?” 

She watched Hawke flush a deep red, almost as vibrant as that strange bit of war paint he always insisted upon smearing across his nose. A forty year old man, playing dress up. 

“I don’t seem to recall that part,” Thalia continued. 

Hawke cleared his throat, averting his gaze. “Yes, well. I don’t know. Spies could be anywhere. And it sounded less absurd than ‘I fondly think back on the night your mabari bit me.’” 

“You think back on that night fondly?” Thalia asked, bemusement only deepening. 

Hawke looked at her sharply. “You don’t?” 

Thalia frowned, now worried they might have two very different memories of the night in question. “I’d assumed you’d—” She glanced around the tavern, which was full enough that the din drowned out their conversation, but his mention of spies had spooked her. He kept the hood up on his cloak and her prosthetic arm was well-hidden in hers. Her hair was much shorter than it had been when she’d been traipsing through Redcliffe those years ago, long enough that everyday citizens rarely recognized her by sight. Still, the Champion of Kirkwall was technically a wanted man. She had a penchant for those, it seemed. “I’d assumed it was perhaps something you’d wished to forget.” 

She had, certainly. A dumb, impulsive thing she still couldn’t quite believe she had done while half-mad with grief. A knot of guilt formed in her ribcage when she thought about it for too long, especially while living in the cottage she’d shared with Cullen. 

Hawke leaned back in his seat, his expression difficult to read. She didn’t know him very well — that was the truth. One could read a great man’s biography, and still come away understanding little about him. Varric had told her all about the phenomenon, and the burden of being a chronicler of history. The lies he put in there, to protect his friend. The lies he put into All This Shit Is Weird, to protect her. 

“Why on earth would you think that?” Hawke asked, more startled than ever. 

Thalia was beginning to regret coming. “You said I reminded you of your sister!” 

“Once. When we first met. When you were young and in over your head with all that Inquisition business. Certainly not when we were—”

He broke off for modesty’s sake, but Thalia’s memory filled in the blanks. Fucking on my living room floor, she wanted to supply, but didn’t dare voice the words. She sipped her wine demurely. Hawke’s grip tightened on the edge of the table. He had evidently not expected resistance from her. Which made her wonder what he had expected. 

“Anyway,” he cut in again with a twitchy smile. He was less charming than Varric’s book made him out to be, that much she had learned when they’d first met on the battlements of Skyhold. He carried too much pain for that. To be known as a hero, only to have so few of your actions matter. Thalia felt a small bit of pity for him, suddenly. “I just thought it would be nice to see you, that’s all.” 

He wants to do it again, Thalia realized, her face flushing hot. He sent the letter on a whim, unsure if she would show up, but show up she did. It was far too late in the evening to turn around and go back to South Reach; she’d be riding all night. So she’d have to stay here and leave in the morning, no matter what. He’d already told her he was staying here, had a room upstairs. The more she thought about it, the less surprised she was. 

“Does Varric know about this?” Thalia demanded. 

“Why would he know?”

“I don’t know.” She wasn’t sure why the idea made her so queasy.

“Why would he care?” Hawke leaned forward, his bright brown eyes searching her face. “He’s not my father. Nor yours.” 

Thalia stared deep into her mug of wine so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

“If anything,” Hawke continued in a musing tone, “I think he’d approve. I think he’d want us to be happy.”

“Oh, being happy, is that you’d call this?” Thalia shot back. “And not just desperately, pathetically lonely?”

For such a large man, Hawke shrank with impressive volume when hurt. His eyes grew distant as he drained his mug in one grimacing gulp. He slammed it down on the table with enough force to rock it, and lurched to his feet. “I see I have been made the fool once more, Lady Inquisitor. Forgive me for thinking you held me in higher esteem than it appears you do.” 

Well, now you’ve done it. Regret flooded through her. “Hawke. Hawke, wait.” 

He paid no mind, shouldering through the crowd. 

Thalia let out a sigh, but resisted the urge to go after him. She nursed the rest of her drink, growing warmer and more morose with each sip. When she finished, the minstrel seemed determined to butcher Andraste’s Mabari, and Thalia stood. She thought about finding the innkeeper and renting her own room for the night, but the thought depressed her even more. 

She left the tap room and ventured up the stairs, searching for the room number Hawke had casually dropped at the beginning of their conversation. She found the correct one and knocked before her shame could kick in. 

After a few minutes the door opened. Hawke filled it with his massive frame and leaned against it, scowling down at her. His face and ends of his hair were damp; cheeks and nose were pink from where he must have just scrubbed off that ridiculous war paint. He looks better without it, Thalia thought, her stomach flopping. 

“Yeah? Can I help you?” His posture and tone were not kind. 

“I wanted to apologize,” Thalia said quickly. “I was terribly rude before.”

“You certainly were.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, biceps straining against the fabric of his tunic sleeve. 

She licked her lips. “Can I come in?”

His eyebrows shot upward. “What for?” 

Thalia felt herself blushing. She averted his gaze. “I’d rather not stand in a public space and argue with you, that’s all.” 

Hawke took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. “Right. It’d probably be all over the broadsheets by morning.” He opened the door wider and stepped aside. 

She stormed inside, and he closed the door with a firm click, leaning his weight against it. The Gull and Lantern had nice rooms: a wide featherbed with an embroidered cover dominated the room, and the stone walls were covered with oil paintings of the Ferelden elite. A full length mirror with a gilded frame stood in one corner, in front of which stood Hawke’s pack and belongings. But she didn’t come here to gawk at the decor. 

She turned to face him. Hawke stood before her, his expression stony. “Well? Have you come to keep throwing my feelings in my face, or do you wish to beg for forgiveness?”

Thalia swallowed thickly, her gaze straying to the bed. “Are those the only two options?”

---

“As I was trying to say,” Thalia said, straddling his naked waist, “it’s just that I don’t know you very well.”

Hawke’s hands gripped her hips as he helped her line up with his erection. He chuckled. “And you don’t think this counts as getting to know each other?” 

“I don’t know what this counts as.” She inhaled as they pressed against each other. It was both a relief and terribly annoying to feel him inside her again. She wriggled for purchase — he was sitting at the side of the bed, her in his lap, kneeling on either side of him — and let out a sigh. “Maker. Okay.” 

“Just okay?” He rolled his hips against hers and leaned in for a kiss. “I’d like it to be a little better than that.”

Thalia pressed her hand against his chest and closed her eyes, trying to focus on the feel of him. “It’s just— last time, ah—” She matched his slow rhythm and felt a nice little ache spreading from her pelvis. “It took us awhile.” 

“And that’s why you’re on top this time, yes?” He nipped at her ear. “I can be a quick study.”

“Be that as it may,” Thalia said, breath growing shallow, “This isn’t normally something I do, you understand.”

“And what is ‘this’?”

“Sex.” Thalia gasped as he grabbed her breasts and squeezed. “With near strangers!”

“I wouldn’t say we’re that. We saved the world together, remember?”

“Mm. I suppose.” His chest was warm and sculpted, beneath the thick hair that covered it. She ran her palm along its contours. She had always found the largeness of his body comforting. 

“Survived the Fade, side by side.” Another slow, purposeful thrust, as he stroked her nipples with his thumbs. This drew a little cry from her; he grunted in appreciation. “I admired your tenacity then.” 

“You didn’t say anything.” She tested out how it felt to slowly raise herself up and down on her knees, feeling the length of him. Good. Pretty good. She shuddered pleasantly. 

“You were busy. And young. Fuck, yes, just like that.”

“I’m still young,” Thalia reminded him, the thrill of the encouragement mixing with her ire. Cullen had never sworn when they made love. 

“Younger than now. And I was full of bitterness, grievances.” He adjusted her, tried a different angle. Better, she thought. Maker, I think I’m enjoying this. 

“Well, what a coincidence—” She gasped, grinding against him. “Now I’ve got those too.”

“So it works?”

“Maybe.” She was growing impatient. She shifted, and with better leverage, began to bounce harder and faster, abandoning pretense, her breaths coming in short gasps. 

“Bloody hell—” Hawke yelped. He leaned back, groaning. He fell flat on the bed, and Thalia gleefully straddled his waist and rode him, her breasts heaving. He cursed and muttered her name and pawed at her. “Fuck,” she said back, trying it out. Crude, but she liked it, if she allowed herself to, this messy copulation with a man she barely knew. She thought maybe she could bring them both to climax like this, call the deed done, but she slowed before they reached the tipping point, her knees betraying her. She sat back a little, her one good hand splayed on his panting stomach, hair obscuring her face, and tried to catch her breath.

“You’re real gaatlok when you get going, you know that?” Hawke demanded.  

Thalia bit her lip. “Thanks. I think.” She felt strangely shy all of a sudden, which was absurd because he was cupping her breasts and moving slowly inside her to get her going again. “Do you think — we can get there together this time?”

Hawke smirked. She didn’t see him smile much, and she had to admit the softening of his face made him more attractive. “We’re the Inquisitor and the Champion of Kirkwall. I believe in us.”

“I don’t think our previous accomplishments qualify us for this task.”

“Not with that attitude.”

She laughed, genuinely surprised at his humor. Garrett Hawke had always seemed so dour to her, preoccupied with the world and all its failings. Her laughter died, however, when he reached between her legs and found a certain spot with his thumb he had massaged last time on her living room floor. She gasped. “Oh, Maker….”

“Why don’t we try it?” he asked, putting some pressure there. Thalia bucked against him, causing them both to moan. 

“That isn’t fair,” Thalia whined, meeting his crescendoing pace, feeling herself losing more and more control. 

“Why? You think you’re the only one who can drive someone wild?”

Words were lost after that, lost to panting and grunting and epithets hissed through teeth. “Hawke,” she said, like an accusation; because that felt impersonal, she tried, “Garrett.” He returned the favor, saying her name fervently, like a prayer. 

Just as she felt herself about to slip over, she arched her back and threw her head back into the feeling. It was then she caught a full reflect of herself curled around him in the full length mirror. “Sweet Andraste!” she cried in horror. 

Hawke angled his head, amused. “So that’s what we look like.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice before. How unseemly.”

“You don’t think we look thrilling?”

“Certainly not!”

“Keep looking,” Hawke urged, and Thalia, too absorbed to disengage, obliged. 

She begrudgingly admitted it had a certain appeal, after. 

[two-reflections]

Hello, I'm PS. I sometimes paint minis and write fanfic.

I primarily rep the Salamanders, but I also like the Red Corsairs, the Iron Warriors, the Thousand Sons, Vashtorr the Arkifane, my original Dark Mechanicum sect, and several Astartes/Legionary characters from other Chapters/Legions.

Ao3

[Lists: Salamander Stories, My Salamander OC Squad, Chaos Stories, Imperial Stories, Xenos Stories.]

Mini Painting

Salamanders Lore

This is (unfortunately) a sideblog, so apologies if it's hard to tell whether we've interacted. If it helps, my main is a very old astronomy-related blog!

Asks are always open! I welcome feedback on my painting and writing. I'm trying my best to improve at both. 😅

Peek under the "Keep Reading" and I'll tell you way too much about myself and about my favourite guys.

Y'know, if you want. Don't say I didn't warn you. 💚

About me:

I live in the UK, but I wasn't born or raised here.

I was an archaeologist, but I'm a copy editor now. Cheers, Brexit. 🙄

My major hobby is LARP. I crew and play quite a lot of small and mid-size games.

My first experience with Warhammer 40k was a Dark Heresy TTRPG Campaign campaign where I played a "pilgrim" (scout equivalent) from a renegade Space Marine Chapter who was part of an Inquisitor's retinue. Still one of the best TTRPGs I've ever played.

Fell in love with the Salamanders due to a plot point in that game. Later read the Tome of Fire books, which only deepened my love.

I wanted to start painting, but after an uncomfortable experience at what was then my local GW store, I didn't feel like it would be a good idea.

My spouse and I painted minis for a few RPGs and Legacy board games together over the years. We sucked, but it was fun.

Last year, I started watching Warhammer videos while painting Frosthaven minis. Finding Ebay Miniature Rescues was what finally got through to me.

Since then, I've been painting and reading when I can. I've played Killteam a few times with my spouse, loved it every time.

I'm neurodivergent and a bit bad at communication. I have three modes: enthusiasm, anxiety spiral, and complete hermit. All of these can make me difficult to interpret. I've spent years giving myself hell for it and I'm trying not to do that any more, but please understand that it only takes one brief conversation for me to consider us friends. If I forget to reply, I still think you're amazing and I will genuinely be delighted if you nudge me or randomly get in touch months or years later.

I'm currently pregnant and off my narcolepsy meds, so my painting is on hiatus because I'm not awake enough most of the time. Very frustrating.

Canon Faves:

ALL THE SALAMANDERS - literally all of them. I'm super hung up on Nick Kyme's Rebirth though, so my favourites are Ur'zan Drakgaard (whom I HC as being a dreadnought in current 40k), Adrax Agatone, and the poor little meow meow x feral massive hiss hiss duo of Exor and Zartath (yes, he counts!!). Also, Chaplain Elysius is always 10/10. Sa'kan from Pariah Nexus is also wonderful and I hope we see him again soon.

All the cool humans around the Salamanders - RIP Makato. Issak and Agatone should kiss once. Shoutout to Tsu'gan's brander, he didn't deserve what happened to him. Colonel Redgage is babygirl and I'll always wonder if he survived.

Non-Salamander OCs:

Kemal Afshar and Setka Radjedef of the Thousand Sons. Technically my spouse's OCs, but they're kind of shared at this point. Despite being on different sides of the Ahriman-Magnus divide, these ancient Terran boys meet often to play sorcerous board games together. You can read more about them here! Also, these lads have minis! Plus, they're in my Thousand Sons Killteam.

After writing this story and one more that isn't on Ao3 yet, I also have Yazid Melek. He's an Exalted Sorceror from the Cult of Mutation who focuses on psychically active and mutated plants.

Warsmith Kirakos Neman of the Iron Warriors and Fleet Captain Roscius Sedulius of the Red Corsairs enter into a trade agreement together with personally devastating consequences. You can read more about them (and other characters from their warbands) here!

Skitarius Escher has been requisitioned from Forgeworld Urum by the Inquisition, serving in a team headed by Interrogator Arion Astraeus under the auspices of Inquisitor Griselda Novaria of the Ordo Hereticus. You can read more about them (and the rest of their team) here!

I also have several techmarines-in-training and Deathwatch marines. So far, I've only uploaded two stories about any of them: Adathan of the Blood Angels and Julen of the Imperial Fists.

OC squad: Salamanders 6th Company's 3rd Tactical

(Apologies for the Heroforge pics below, I hope to actually put together my squad's minis this year and then this'll have proper pictures. Or I'll commission some artwork.)

The 6th's 3rd is a squad of Salamanders currently stationed in the rotating garrison at Clymene. Currently eight men + a Sergeant, though they often deploy with the addition of Lexicanum An'terea, an elderly Astartes who was caught up in the Psychic Awakening at the turn of the millennium.

Brother Lattis (R) describing a creature to Sergeant Te'rien. (L).

Led by Sergeant Benedan Te'rien (~160), a fixture of the 6th. In the forge, Te'rien specialises in fine metalwork. Te'rien has tried to run his squad like a family where he is the paterfamilias, but he's still emotionally compromised after the death of someone he had an intense friendship with in the past. Even though younger Astartes are often seen as more emotional and less detached, Te'rien is an example of how untrue this is. His deep love for the 6th Company stands in contrast with his stubborn refusal to leave Clymene to rejoin the rest of the 6th in Aethonian. Only his current Captain and second-best friend Nehr Ur’Venn knows the reason for his self-imposed exile.

An'terea (L) and Philo (R) reminiscing.

Pe'tar Philo and Carix An'terea go back like 250 years and are absolutely devoted to each other. It's not that they exclude others on purpose, they're just unrelatably old and are the only ones left from an extremely tight knit squad that died many years before. An'terea isn't technically part of the same squad as Philo any more, but he takes advantage of his new Librarian status (thanks, Psychic Awakening) to attach himself to whatever squad Philo is part of. There are several younger Astartes he cares about like Kea'hi and Val'ten, and both Philo and An'terea have grown closer to Sabinus in recent years.

Philo is a brash, avuncular man who cares deeply about the squad. He was a Sergeant in the 5th many years ago and hated being in charge. Since then, he has rejected promotion. He just wants to fight on and spend the calm parts of his life reminiscing with An'terea. Only bothered crossing the Rubicon because An'terea asked him to.

Cor'en (L) scanning Bai'keti (R) after an accident with a malfunctioning power sword.

I don't plan to discuss this further in any of my Salamander stories beyond All-seeing Dawn, but pilot and emergency medic Cor'en (~300, claims 75) is an infiltrator. Not from Alpha Legion, but from a homebrew rogue chapter called the Reavers in Metal. He was meant to infiltrate the Deathwatch, but got stuck with the Salamanders by mistake. He genuinely respects Te'rien. Watching the flawed little Sergeant do his best reminds Cor'en of humanity's tenacity. He's not a big fan of the rest of the squad, though. He misses his old squad. He hopes to leave the Salamanders soon. He just this needs to get his hands on one thing, and then he can “die” on the next battlefield and go home. He's the only Firstborn in the squad at first, though more will arrive as young Primaris marines are promoted and older Firstborn marines transfer to the reserve companies.

Lattis (L) and Ke'leth (R) having a drink.

Lattis (60s), Ke'leth(80s), and Kea'hi (~45) are the tight core of the squad. The Themian Lattis thinks he's the ringleader of this group because Te'rien was his Forgefather when he was a child, but it's actually Ke'leth, a cuddly Hesiodian who takes on many young apprentices. Kea'hi is a bit younger, he is a very normal Salamander. Kea'hi worries that his position might be insecure since he's the youngest in the core and Lattis gives another soldier called Atsen Bai'keti a hard time for being “the baby”, but Kea'hi only thinks that because he doesn't understand what's actually going on between those two. The truth is that Lattis hates people he sees as dishonest, so he saw red when Bai'keti showed up and started swaggering around. Unfortunately, Lattis hasn't noticed that Bai'keti has grown up a lot over the years, so he keeps tormenting him.

Ke'leth (L) with one of his forgechildren.

Sabinus (R) comforting Bai'keti (L).

Sabinus (~65) used to be part of the core group until Bai'keti showed up. His defense of Bai'keti from Lattis's bullying split him off a little from that group, but only Lattis actually lost respect for him. Everyone else still likes him, and Sabinus, Philo and An'terea have become more friendly since then. Sabinus has a heavy, sullen face, but he's actually calm, perceptive and knows the backgrounds of all his squad mates except Cor’en. He has a big heart and a forgiving nature. He would make a good Sergeant, but he's utterly uninterested in command and doesn't know the rest of the 6th Company well on account of being stuck in Clymene for many decades. He may still be promoted someday. Teased Val'ten a little at first because he found him a bit soft.

Bai'keti (R) discussing his dodgy power sword with Sabinus. (L)

Atsen Bai'keti (~32) was never meant to be in the 6th's 3rd. He was once a special scout, not intended for the companies at all but for Mars. However, he suffered a medical mishap and ended up taking significantly longer than average to ascend, meaning that a different scout who began ascension after him left for Mars in his stead. Unfortunately, all the stress, memory issues, and the fall from star scout to disappointment meant that he was a complete mess when he joined the squad. At first, he acted childishly superior and conceited out of insecurity. He has mellowed over the years, especially now that his body has stabilised. Nevertheless, Lattis still gives him hell. When Sabinus stood up in Bai'keti's defense, this unfortunately created tension in the squad and isolated Bai'keti further. With only two friends and a horrible power sword he is desperately failing to make work, Bai'keti doesn't feel like he's part of the squad. Things will improve tremendously for him once he leaves for Mars and finds that he's older and more experienced than the average Techmarine-in-training. He will probably join the Deathwatch after that and return in his 80's with an actual reason to swagger around.

Val'ten (R) gets a talking-to from Sergeant Te'rien (L).

Dejan Val'ten (~25) is the newest member of the 6th. He was a PDF orphan from Heliosa before he was apprenticed to a Brother there. He's the opposite of Bai'keti, having had a relatively straightforward ascension. Unlike his Brother Salamanders, he isn't particularly gifted in the forge, but what he lacks in technical skills he makes up for with tenacity, diplomacy and a strategic mind. He's overly aware of his youth and inexperience, so he tries hard to fit in. He makes friends quickly with Bai'keti, which makes Kea'hi avoid him by proxy. Lattis and Keleth, however, treat him relatively well. On the flip side, Sabinus makes fun of him sometimes. Val'ten idolizes Sergeant Te'rien at first, but comes to see his human side. They will have been good friends for many years by the time Te'rien dies and Val'ten replaces him as Sergeant.

Dal'ris Moloi (~27) is not a Salamander. He was an aspirant who failed to ascend, and is now Val'ten's brander-priest. He requested to be assigned to Val'ten because Val'ten helped his family while he was a scout. The two become very close, working on a secret project together. Val'ten discovers that he enjoys making Dal'ris happy, Dal'ris thinks Val'ten is hot and is flattered that his Lord Astartes pays so much attention to him. They're falling in love.

Drek'tyr (~300) is a very old firstborn who moves down from a higher company when he realizes everyone around him is Primaris now. He replaces Bai'keti. He has a stupid saurian hat and I love him a lot. A little gremlin of an Astartes. He's here because my spouse gave me a very silly mini of a Salamander with a dinosaur head.

[demawrites]

dema!!! for Niva x Solas, 'I will be watching for your enemies, to let them know that they contend with me'??

Thank you for the prompt lovely! A fun first foray into @dadrunkwriting

I will be watching for your enemies, to let them know that they contend with me

He haunts the edges of her life like a ghost.

Sometimes, in dreams, she catches a glimpse of him – a wolf's eyes peering at her in the dark, or a flash of movement between the trees – but in the waking world she is oblivious, believing herself alone. It is almost disheartening, how easy it is to convince her that he has vanished without a trace. That he’d abandoned her.

No, he did abandon her. But not wholly.

His power traces over the stones of Skyhold like fingertips. He has eyes and ears everywhere, lurking behind masks and mirrors, in inquisition livery, in merchants’ carts, in petitioners with pretenses of kissing a new Divine’s ring. It is disheartening how completely his former companions trust the spies in their midst, how guileless they are, how unsuspecting. All but Niva, who casts her furtive glances at every shadow, who always seems to find him, even without knowing. (His Niva, he thinks, ever perceptive, and forever a mere breath away from the truth.)

Her eyes meet his across a distance, then skirt away.

It is disheartening, but he cannot blame her; he is wearing another’s face.

Even his acolytes do not know him in this shape. Neither Fen’harel nor Solas, but some elf mercenary in drab leathers and mud-spattered boots and an ill-fitting helm that covers him from forehead to chin. He looks exhausted and waifish, among so many who have come to his fortress seeking shelter. Just another mouth in a sea of them. No-one spares him a thought, least of all the Inquisitor, who loops her arm through her Commander’s and scales the steps to the keep. He watches them for longer than he should. Catches her looking, brows furrowed, over her shoulder at the crowd.

It is an effort to remind himself that he has a purpose, here.

One of Leliana’s scouts passes too closely, colliding with his shoulder, and amidst the perfunctory apologies and admonitions he finds a scrap of paper pressed into his palm. Solas scratches at his forearm, slipping the paper beneath the leather straps there, and ambles off to a cellar where he knows he won’t be disturbed. There are two elves inside; his. When he removes his helm, letting his features flicker a moment, they startle.

"Ara seranna-ma, we did not know you, ser."

He inclines his head. Without being bid, they collect their things and make for the hallway.

"Sulevin ghilana hanin," they whisper at the door, and he repeats it distractedly, frowning at the note in his hand. At the name, scrawled in hasty script.

Abernache.

He stares at it for a long moment, a silverite gleam rippling across his gaze, before he crumples the paper in a fist and casts it into the nearby hearth. When he looks up, his expression is hard as ice, and twice as cold. Intercepting the noble’s retinue on the road from Skyhold would be a simple enough matter – he needn’t dirty his own hands. But given the nature of the crimes, Solas finds himself inclined to make an example. After all, there is one thing the enemies of the Inquisition must be made to understand:

Anyone who dares to threaten the Inquisitor will find themselves at the mercy of the Wolf.

[seigephoenix]

Welcome and Happy DADWC! How about “Yeah, I have a plan.”   “Is it a good one?”   “I have a plan.” from your saracasm list for the characters or pairing of your choosing?

Happy Friday! For @dadrunkwriting! Niyra Cadash x Varric Tethras, with Dorian and Cassandra along for the shenanigans.

Content Warning: shenanigans, Varric being weak to a pair of blue eyes, and more shenanigans Length: ~500 words (I looked this time)

“Tell me again Inquisitor.”  Niyra turned and pointed her finger at Varric warning him not to continue that line of thought.  He scoffed at the peevish look on her face and held up his hands.  Cassandra stood next to them and Dorian directly behind him.

“I’m of the mind to agree with Varric.”  Niyra spared a look at Dorian that had him huffing in answer.  “Well I am.”

“Inquisitor, do not pay them any mind.” Cassandra waved off the complaints despite the protests coming from the other two.  They were in the Hissing Wastes and Niyra was studying the map the scouts had managed to cobble together.  She wanted to close the rifts there and the skulls had led them to this location.  She had to figure out why they’d killed all those tranquil.  “Do you know where we are going next?”

“According to the map, we’ll be going this way.”  Niyra pointed in the direction the map had the temple labelled.  “We’d best hurry, the scouts said a sandstorm was on the way.”

“Wonderful.” Dorian grumbled as Varric sighed heavily.  Niyra stopped herself from snapping at them, as if she wanted to be trudging through sand!  She pressed forward with Cassandra next to her, the other two would keep up or risk being stuck in the sand on their own.

Niyra paused as they approached the temple and she spotted the Venatori around the building.  She grasped her chin as she studied the area and she saw some loose rubble just above the guards, teetering on a ledge.  A well placed arrow would be just the ticket to dropping it on them.  Though that also threatened to give away their position.

“I see that look in your eyes.” Varric’s voice snapped her back to reality.  She looked over at Varric and scoffed at him.  “Well?  Do you have a plan Cadash?”  Her lips turned up in a smile that he recognized all too well.  She was going to ask him for something and he found it hard to resist when she did it with that smile on her face.  “Do you have a plan?”

“I certainly do,” Niyra told him and he arched an eyebrow.

“Is it a good one by any chance?”  Dorian piped in to agree with Varric.

“Your plans do have a tendency to involve…  Chaos.” Cassandra looked at Niyra in concern but she merely grinned at Varric.

“I have a plan.  I need you to shoot that ledge.” She pointed to it and Varric groaned.  This would not end well for them.  At all.  He still couldn’t resist when she was looking at him with those blue eyes sparkling.  He was powerless against them and sighed as he aimed Bianca at the ledge.

Just as she thought, the ledge did collapse onto the guards but it alerted the others to their position.  Niyra drew her sword and laughed as she ran into battle with Cassandra lecturing her as she followed.  Dorian cursed in Tevene before following.

After the fight

“I thought you said you had a plan Inquisitor?” Dorian asked as they all took a collective breath as the last guard fell.

“I did.  I never said it was a good plan now did I?” Niyra laughed as Dorian groaned along with Cassandra.

[veorlian]

sometimes you just gotta smooch your tiny wife. not pictured: lace standing on a very tall chair

belated doodle for the "breathless kisses" prompt for @14daysdalovers