#Tara Trevelyan

[artilaz]

Seeing some absolutely lovely fanart with an aged version of Gale in it earlier made me want to try to make a model for an older Tristan as well, and since I still only have FFXIV at my disposal, that's what I rolled with, as usual. Honestly, I absolutely love the result! I originally wanted to give him a bit less saturated hair, but it ended up making him look pale as a ghost, so I guess he gets to remain blond for another couple decades. He is getting some white strands though, they just don't seem to stand out very well.

I've mentioned it in other posts before, but I'll gladly do so again: Once he and Gale settle down in Waterdeep, he'll become a shipwright at the Waterdhavian docks, and I can absolutely see him doing that job until his body can't bear it anymore. And since shipwrighting is a branch of carpentry, I also gave him some clothes that can only be worn by carpenters in FFXIV. I think he looks amazing in the outfit, and now I can't wait for him and Gale to grow old together 💙💜

Not pictured in these images: Tara seething in the background over both of them having beards now 😂

[shannaraisles]

Ulterior Motives - @artilaz

For the delightful @artilaz, who has been patient and truly inspiring to work with. Thank you so much, my lovely!

Ulterior Motives

Laughter rang through the clearing, two voices joined in shared amusement at some private joke that bit at his heart.

Tristan ... and Wyll. Enjoying time alone, together.

Gale paused in his foraging as a wave of bitterness swept through his heart. How had this happened again? How had he thought to find some love that would soothe and inspire him, only to have that prospective love ease away at the first sign of his, Gale’s, attachment to them? What had he done this time? Was he just impossible to grow close to, after so many years spent devoted to Mystra?

He stopped those thoughts firmly before they could spiral out of his control. No, he was not some new-formed pup with more eagerness than sense. This situation they had all found themselves in was one fraught with tension and no little danger, and there was no blame to be cast on those who sought to alleviate that tension with the comfort of finding a kindred soul among their companions. Wyll was a good man; he would treat Tristan well, show the young princeling the world and all its wonders with adventure and kindness and, above all else, love. But knowing that did not soothe the sting in his own heart as he contemplated the hopes he had held to be that guide and lover to Tristan Trevelyan, whose shy warmth and bold eyes had kindled feelings in the Gale Dekarios of old.

He sighed to himself, rising to his feet with his armful of herbs gathered from the shaded roots of the trees. Perhaps he was too old for Tristan. Perhaps he was too dour. Was he too talkative? Oh gods ... did he talk about Mystra too much? Tara had warned him that, if he ever met another love of his life, he should not mention his goddess too much. Did Tristan believe him still enamoured of Mystra? It would make sense. Who would take a risk with their heart on a man who could not, for the life of him, shut up about the woman who rejected him so thoroughly because he did not know when to quit?

There was a clue in there somewhere, he was sure. 

The murmur of the younger men’s voices reached him again, too distant to make out the words, and another laugh, this time solely from Tristan. The shy, awkward laugh that had wrapped itself around Gale’s heart with hope and joy. The laugh he had fooled himself into thinking belonged only to himself ...

“Pull yourself together, man,” he muttered, straightening his shoulders. “His heart is his own to give to whom he chooses. Who can blame him? It’s not much of a choice between a fine, handsome adventurer, and a washed up magician with a death sentence.”

Now, the thing to do would be to leave now and get back to the camp before the two men realised they were overheard or discovered. He would set to cooking the evening meal, and when everyone was settled, he would find a way to get Tristan alone and make sure the younger man knew that there were no hard feelings. 

Even if there were hard feelings, there was no need to hurt Tristan with them. He had already been through so much, fought so hard to just be accepted for who he was ... What right did Gale have to demand from him anything he was not wholly able to give? Gale, who had had everything handed to him and still managed to screw it up; did he even have the right to hope for the love of a man like Tristan, much less mourn when it did not come to pass?

But he had lingered too long; footsteps cracking over fallen twigs echoed into his mind, and he found himself looking up at the sight of Tristan and Wyll returning to the camp, retracing their steps along the same path he himself had chosen in foraging for herbs. The two men faltered in their stride, awkwardness flaring between all three as the silence stretched out. 

“Ah,” Wyll said finally, taking a prudent step away from Tristan’s side. “I will leave you both to what, I am sure, will be satisfying conversation.”

Gale watched as the warlock gave Tristan a look that seemed to hold stern yet affectionate meaning, as Tristan’s cheeks flushed just a little and his head ducked under the pointedness of that look. He didn’t watch Wyll walk away, his eyes returning to Tristan in the still forest silence that now enveloped them. 

A silence that lingered for too long, just as he had, stretching out the moments into seconds, into minutes, unwilling to break and have this be the last moment to share for themselves. 

Tristan raised a hand to his own neck, rubbing nervously as he opened his mouth. 

“Gale, I -”

“Please,” Gale interrupted, one hand rising to prevent those words as though by sheer will alone. “Don’t say it. It does not take a genius of any intellect to put the pieces together, and we both know I am somewhat overqualified to do that.”

“You don’t -”

“I wish you all the happiness in the world,” the wizard went on, not allowing the other man to speak, afraid that if Tristan were to say anything at all that he might embarrass himself further than he already had. “Wyll is a good man. He does not deserve you, but ... I venture to state that no one does. You are indescribable, Tristan. The one who earns your love is a lucky person indeed.” 

He sighed, unable to keep that one sigh of his disappointment from his little speech.

“I will trespass no further upon your emotions,” he promised, offering a firm nod as though to underline his intentions. “Happiness is not to be sniffed at, nor held back for the sake of another. Be happy, Tristan.”

What was that look on the younger man’s face now? Tristan was staring at him, azure eyes wide with ... disbelief? Incredulity? Pain? No, no, no, pain was the last thing Gale had wanted to give him. He’d thought that in stepping aside he would be seeing relief in Tristan’s eyes, perhaps even a smile on his handsome face. Not this near numbing uncertainty and wounded sweetness. 

“Are you ... breaking up with me?” Tristan finally said, the quiver in his voice tearing at the open wound in Gale’s.

“Sweet Mystra, no!” Gale lurched forward, one hand outstretched yet afraid to actually touch him. “No, I ... I thought you were ...” He gestured behind himself, along the trail Wyll had taken back to camp. “Are you and Wyll not lovers, then?”

Tristan stared a moment longer. Then incredulity gave way to laughter, relief, the warm sound Gale enjoyed so much employed now as almost a mockery to his confusion and upset. He must have shown that distress all too plainly, for Tristan was swift to swallow that laugh, reaching out to take Gale’s outstretched hand between his own. 

“Wyll is a dear friend,” he said, “but it is not Wyll I guard in battle, Gale. It is not Wyll’s company I seek out at every opportunity.”

“Yet the time you do seek with him is sought in private, away from others’ eyes,” Gale pointed out, perhaps a shade petulant in the wake of Tristan’s amusement. Hope was flaring in his chest, refusing to be swallowed by pragmatism no matter how hard he tried. 

“Well, he’s the only other person who knows how to dance the courtly dances,” Tristan said, and Gale felt a sudden sharp pang of idiocy threaten to stab him in his heart. Had he totally misread the situation? “You said you ... you said you liked to dance! And ... well ...” He let out a harsh sigh, more an expression of frustration than annoyance. “I am nowhere near good enough for this, yet.”

Gale felt a tug on his hand, his body lurching into a new position, shoulder to shoulder with Tristan, facing into the trees. Instinct drilled into him over many years of society gatherings drew his spine straight, raised his chin until he was looking into Tristan’s eyes, listening to the younger man count down to the first steps of a galliard, the energetic dance that Wyll seemed to prefer of an evening. Tristan’s hand belatedly caught hold of Gale’s as they began to move, feet flicking in time to a beat Gale knew by heart and Tristan seemed to hold somewhere in his head.

And Gale’s heart began to beat again.

There was little grace in Tristan’s movement, no practised elegance to smooth his steps. But the little frown between his brows as he focused fiercely on those steps, the mumble of his lips as he fought to keep both the beat and the steps in mind ... Gale could not help but melt. So much secrecy, so much misplaced hurt, simply because one of them wanted to give the other a surprise, and the other was too damned insecure to let him have his moments in private to deliver that surprise when he was ready. 

Yet for all his fierce concentration, his hands were sure and gentle as fingers gripped and twisted between Gale’s, each change of position and direction perfect as Gale could have wished for. Oh, he would have been laughed off the floor of any society ball in Waterdeep, but for Gale ... here and now, melting into the knowledge that Tristan’s ulterior motives had been entirely for his benefit, Gale could not imagine a more perfect dance than this. Even when toes were accidentally victimised by stray steps, or hands gripped tighter than necessary to prevent a fall, nothing could possibly have Gale’s heart soaring higher than the certainty that Tristan cared enough for him to learn something that so clearly did not come naturally. 

At the last stumble, he found himself laughing - not at, but with - hoping that the softness he could see in Tristan’s eyes was reflected in his own expression. For once, he did not want to be the wizard, but simply the man ... a man who was touched and moved, and needed to do something to prove his feelings now, once and for all. 

His fingers grazed Tristan’s jaw, a tender touch that wanted to convey so much more than just physical sweetness. 

“I am the greatest fool there ever was,” he admitted, wry humour quirking the corner of his smile as he drew the younger man’s brow to his own, inviting intimacy in the wake of something no one else had ever done for him. “Can you ever forgive me for my weakness?”

Tristan’s smile was audible even as Gale closed his eyes, feeling his lover’s hands find their resting place at his sides. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he murmured. “And for all your foolishness, you are my fool ... at least, I hope you are.”

“Oh, I am.” Gale’s laugh was a mere ghost of sound, unwilling to break the comfort of this one, special moment for anything in the world. “I will never question your ulterior motives again.”

[commie-eschatology]

Return to Redcliffe

particularly proud of this Solas + Trevelyan scene from “Return to Redcliffe” so gonna do some shameless self-promotion. Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

When all her companions are asleep, Trevelyan leaves the Inquisition camp. She isn’t sure if she’ll come back. Someone is clearly following her, but she ignores that for now. The road back to Redcliffe stretches in front of her, but she hesitates. This is an extraordinary bad idea, she tells herself, but when has that ever stopped her? Lydia used to complain about her tendency to just act on desire alone. But Lydia is dead, she tells herself, you broke her head open with your staff until her brains spilled all over the floor. You killed the woman who raised you, only for the rebellion to sell themselves into slavery. ` In the woods, she stumbles upon a templar caravan. Very fortunate for her, very unfortunate for them. Their screams echo through the Ferelden forest; she imagines getting incinerated from inferno magic would hurt quite a bit, but it’s certainly not her problem. Trevelyan leaps onto the, now empty, wagon, and finds a crate of apples. She takes a few bites of one and monologues, “I rebel, therefore I am,” to the half eaten piece of fruit.

There’s groaning from underneath the wheels, and a jumble of words that vaguely sound like “what the fuck?” so she asks, “Sorry, are you still alive down there?” There’s no response, so in the interest of being thorough, she throws a fireball at the voice. The smell of burnt flesh follows, so she assumes it got the job done, but then again, Ferelden usually smells like that. Really not a terrible scent, she considers. Or perhaps she’s just gone mad.

Trevelyan looks at the Mark on her hand- staying with the Inquisition is the clever choice, she tells herself. Only she can close the rifts, after all. The rebels have been utterly defeated, the movement badly needs allies if it’s to survive. Still, her logic feels cold and hollow. The Venatori ships are already in Redcliffe harbor. She asks herself, how many will be shipped up to the Imperium in chains, in just the time it takes to travel between the Hinterlands and Haven?

Fire burns underneath the wagon. It’s always been fire for Trevelyan- burning the family manor during a childhood nightmare, cremating Lydia’s mangled corpse with her own spells, and, most recently, incinerating more templars than she can count. It’s the same fire that she could use to burn those Tevinter slave ships tonight- despite Fiona and Linnea’s betrayal, she has no doubt that at least a few of her people would join her.  

“Do you want to keep staring at me from the woods then?” she asks the person shadowing her. Solas steps out from the shadows, clearly surprised at being discovered, but he tries not to let it show. He’s usually far more subtle, she doesn't doubt she could be more stealthy if he wanted, but he clearly believes everyone around him is an utter idiot. Fair enough, she supposes. He gives a slight smile, the kind that might say “well done.”

As with everyone, Solas projects emotions into the Fade- but his are more tightly moderated than any other mage she’s ever seen. Now though, Trevelyan sees a wave of complex feelings she can barely sort through, radiating from him: rage at the Tevinters, intense all-consuming fear of something she can’t sense, great sadness for something lost, but all controlled, and directed by conscious purpose.

“These woods are dangerous,” he says, characteristically naming the obvious, “and you have the only means of closing the rifts.” He regards her for a moment. “I apologize if I intruded. You have proven yourself a capable fighter, but I have found it is far too easy to make rash mistakes when one is alone.” His actual meaning is not lost on her: don’t be an idiot and run, is what he wants to say.

He adds, “And in my defense, you did just eviscerate an entire troop of men.” She expects him to ask her why, but he doesn’t; apparently needing no explanation for her small act of rebellion.

“They were templars,” she explains anyways, “most are awful. The others just look away when the Circle rapes happen. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the former.”

“I can’t disagree with you,” Solas says, “my few interactions with templars have been... unpleasant. Either they are accustomed to following the worst orders, as you have said, or they just enjoy inflicting pain, especially upon those without recourse.” There is clear contempt and disgust in his voice, it’s as if he’s speaking from experience.

“That’s why we rebelled,” she says, taking another bite of the apple, “also,  I was hungry. Inquisition rations weren’t doing it.” Solas actually laughs. Trevelyan idly wonders when murder became so casual for her. Kill the woman who raised you, and everyone else becomes easy, she supposes.

There’s a short, but not awkward, silence between them. She knows exactly why he is here, to prevent her from defecting back to the rebels, but his presence is, surprisingly, not unwelcome. They haven’t had much time to talk like this; the conversations they’ve had have so far been in either the shadow of Haven’s Chantry, or on the road with Cassandra.

She motions to the adjacent seat on the wagon. To her surprise, he nods, and walks, or more accurately, struts over, butt wiggle and all. Like most mages, he usually makes himself seem as small as possible, scuttling rather than walking, but unlike the rest, it’s almost as if he has to consciously remind himself to do so.

Solas likes questions, she reminds herself, so ask one. He jumps up on the wagon, and she says, “do you like apples?”

Solas doesn’t even blink. “Apples were first domesticated in this part of the world.” How the fuck does he even know that, she wonders. “I saw a memory once, of a horde of human barbarians, desperately defending a part of these woods they held sacred, from the legions of the Imperium. When the barbarians were slain, the Tevinters marched forward, only to find a simple apple orchard, one which hundreds gave their lives to protect.” He takes one out of the crate, and takes a bite. “However, if you were asking about the taste- no, I detest apples.” He takes another bite. “This one in particular tastes sort of like burnt human flesh.”

“Dying for a lost cause. You really never miss an opportunity to make a point, do you?” she says, “also, how do you even know what burnt human flesh tastes like?”

Solas smiles mischievously. “I don’t like to waste words,” he says. The other point he is suspiciously quiet on. I don’t judge, Trevelyan thinks, you go eat as much flesh as you like, Solas.

His words are somewhat slurred, and she smells something in the air, besides the burning templars of course. She recognizes it as the unmistakable stench of peach whiskey, suspiciously similar to the bottle she had nicked from Dennet yesterday. Solas seems to notice and says, “Master Dennet had many such bottles wasting away on the shelf. He will not miss one, or two, I suppose.” He shrugs.

On the topic, she notices a small bottle of ale in one of the templar crates; the cork is stuck when she pulls on it, so she simply uses a bit of force magic to smash the top of the bottle off. It smells absolutely wretched, and tastes even worse, but she drinks it anyway. Solas watches her, possibly judging her, but he’s always hard to read. “Been a shit day,” she explains. Linnea said, go back to your templars. Fuck her. Tevinter apologist. Shockingly flat ass. Terrible kisser.

“Was today your first time in Redcliffe?” she asks. Solas chuckles softly to himself, apparently a joke only he understands.

“A long time ago, before your rebellion,” he says, “it’s changed since, of course. But I assume you’re asking my opinion on the rebel mages, rather than the settlement itself.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Despair sticks to most of the mages like gnats.” He’s right, during the retreat from the Free Marches, every morning some mages wouldn’t wake up, taken by Despair demons in their sleep. And the war has only gotten worse. She can’t even imagine. “Still, they endure. Their fight against oppression is admirable, and utterly hopeless.” , “Hopeless?” Trevelyan raises an eyebrow. She should be angry, but more than anything she feels exhausted. “You seem rather certain.”

“Of course I am.” he says, matter of fact. Trevelyan picked up some dalish during the rebellion; she’s not ignorant as to the meaning of his name. “In my journeys through the Fade, I have seen countless rebellions rise up, confident in the just nature of their cause, only to be crushed mercilessly. Righteousness, unfortunately, is no match against steel.” Good poetry. She’ll give him that.

“And, yet, Recliffe is still standing,” she says, “for the first time in a thousand years, in this part of the world, mages govern ourselves. No templars. No Chantry. We built that. Isn’t that freedom worth defending?” Trevelyan spent most of her life in the Circle. No price can be too great, she thinks.

“You forget you aren’t speaking to Cassandra or Varric. We do not disagree on the necessity of rebellion,” he smiles, just a bit, mostly to himself, “but, in order for a rebellion to win its immediate demands, as well has change what it is possible in the long term, something you once told me that you seek to do, they must do one thing.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and honestly it works. “They must win.”  

“Even failed revolutions can teach lessons,” she says, the only dogma she’s ever needed to believe in, “no matter what Varric says, the mage rebellion didn’t manifest spontaneously.” She thinks of the thousand year struggle for freedom, and what feels like generations of the dead on her shoulders. In the distance, Trevelyan can just make out the flag of the Venatori, waving from the ramparts of Redcliffe. The ships are not far behind.

“No,” Solas says, suddenly melancholy, “or if they do, it is always the wrong lessons.” He’s silent for a long moment, staring into the ground. “I saw a memory once in the Fade. A man who sought to overthrow a tyrant. Then, a half-hearted assassination attempt, tailored for drama, instead of results. It of course failed. The man himself was burned alive, defiant at first, but when the flames reached his body, when his skin began to melt off, he screamed for mercy that never came.”

Trevelyan takes a long drink. Solas adds, eerily calm, “In the end, martyrdom is just melted flesh upon a wooden stake, and a name utterly forgotten.”  She drains the rest of the bottle.

“I killed my mother,” she says, suddenly, without really meaning to, “when the Circle was annulled, I tried to give her the courtesy of a quick spell, but the tower wards blocked magic so…” she makes a motion with her staff “I, well, had improvise.”

“Your first murder?” he asks. She shakes her head. Definitely not. “If you want absolution, I’m not the person to give it.”

“Oh fuck no, I’m not Andrastian,” Trevelyan scoffs, and Solas chuckles softly. The Andrastians think they can solve all the world’s evils, all their many personal failings, through a song. It’s childish. Besides, Trevelyan would rather hold onto her sins for now- keep them close like a badge of honor. She looks down at the dead templars, corpses bathed in green light from her Mark.

“I don’t regret it,” she says, and she thinks she means it, “not if it served a purpose.” Trevelyan looks again towards Redcliffe, and thinks, everything I am, I owe to them. “In just the time it takes to travel back to Haven, how many will already be on the ships?”

“Likely a few dozen,” Solas answers, “there will be far more, thousands, if these Venatori are not defeated, which is a battle only the Inquisition has the resources to win. It is fortunate, then, that you have a position where you can speak on behalf of the rebel mages.”

The sun begins to rise, bathing the forest in dim orange light. “We should get back then ,” she forces herself to say, though every word is like a block of lead. Solas exhales in relief.

“One final thing,” she says as Solas moves to get up. She looks at her counterpart, studying him best she can, sensing his projections into the Fade. He’s unlike any other apostate she’s ever met, and there’s something about him she can’t quite put her finger on, much less vocalize. “You know quite a bit about rebellions,” she says.

“I have seen much in my travels,” he says, pausing as he considers his next words, “and you could say I had a dramatic youth.”

“One I’d be interested in hearing about,” she says, genuinely. “Especially if it involves more surprisingly melancholy stories about apple domestication.” Solas seems taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly, chucking politely at her joke. He then smiles quietly to himself.

The two apostates return to the Inquisition camp, though Trevelyan keeps Redcliffe in her sight for as long as she can.

Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

[coronerandundersheriff]

Derota Hawke (for @for-lovely-things )

Tara and Toby (and Zevran and Isabela for @nernershuman )

Ebrisa Rutherford (by @tokutenshi )

[nernershuman]

So I had been tossing around the idea of making a Sims version of my DA Inquisitor Tara and her love Carver. 

The second pic is how she appears in DA Inquisition. I can already see I need to make her eyes bigger. Carver was even harder to make, and I still don’t know if I got it right. That character has a chin for days.

If it’s not proper form to tag the games they originally appeared in, let me know. Don’t want to annoy anyone.

@muses-circle @tessa1972 @themefo

[themefo]

The lovely Tara Trevelyan And Carver Hawke are a gorgeous couple and I am so happy I got to work on this piece! Thank you to @nernershuman for commissioning me!

Tara Trevelyan belongs to @nernershuman and she’s written a gorgeous story about her which you all should read!

[sassylavellen]

She’s not one of my main Inquisitors but my one and only mage Inquisitor was named Tara Trevelyan. A name I forgot I named a character and then reused later for Tara Tabris. But hey there can be more than one Tara in the world.

We’ll just say that she’s Holli’s other sister Amanda.

[this-should-do]

Mages are great :)

[pookydraws]

Tara Trevelyan and Carver Hawke.

A commission for @nernershuman. Thank you! :)

[chantrymouse]

same faces; 3½ years later

[storybook-lili]

So in my first playthrough of Inquisition, I’m playing a mage Trevelyan (her name is Rae), and I only just realized now that I unintentionally somehow made her resemble Tara Hawke, just with instead golden eyes, tattoos, different hairstyle, and slightly longer face.

[galadrieljones]

What are your gay ships if you have any? Name the ship, charters and fandom. 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

Hey anon! ^_^ Here you go! I doubt this is all of them, but it’s all I could think of today.

Dragon Age: Inquisition

Adoribull (Dorian x Iron Bull) - A secondary ship in my Solavellan fic "The Dead Season"

Sera x Dagna - Also a secondary ship in "TDS"

Hawke x Fenris - Also a secondary ship in "TDS"

Sera x Trevelyan (OC) - my first DAI playthrough!

Red Dead Redemption 2

Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason - I ship them in my chapter fic "That he may hold," one of my favorite all time ships that I've ever written.

Vandermatthews (Dutch x Hosea) - Lightly shipped in "That he may hold" and "The Lily Farm"

Charthur (Arthur x Charles) - I have no fics for them, but I love them!

Molly x Sadie - I saw this somewhere and yes, I ship it lol.

The Last of Us (2)

Ellie x Dina - I ship them in my fic "As You Were"

Ellie x Riley - my TLoU otp, tbh. I love Dina, but Riley's death was so hurtful. I’m still not over it ;-;

The Walking Dead

Rickyl (Rick x Daryl) - This is my favorite non-canon ship from TWD. Though I prefer and write them as best friends, I can totally ship the romance.

Tara x Denise - ;-;

Aaron x Jesus - Honestly the fact that they didn't get to be together pissed me off more than any botched ship in TWD second only to Beth x Daryl >:(

Have a great day! ❤️

[commie-eschatology]

wlw/mlm solidarity in action 

[coronerandundersheriff]

Tara belongs to @nernershuman

[nernershuman]

If I could, then I would I'll go wherever you will go Way up high or down low, I'll go wherever you will go

(music)

@muses-circle @tessa1972 @themefo

[5lazarus]

My Dragon Age Fanfiction Masterlist

In chronological order, from Arlathan to post-Trespasser.

There Is No Ithaca Three moments where Solas loses his home: Solas wrecks his revolution on the altar of Mythal. Solas returns from war to find Ghilan’nain incubating the Blight within their own home. Fen'Harel negotiates the end of the world with the Thaig of the Bastion of the Pure. Answers to various asks from brightoncemore’s wonderful promptlist.

Overheard at the Hanged Man Thirty-one stories written in Nightmare-mode for Beyond the Veil’s 2020 Artober Challenge, ranging through the entire series, from Arlathan before the Blight to the Chargers in Serault.

Alistair the Accidental Heretic Alistair gets bored during morning prayer and starts changing the words of the Chant as he sings. Mother Prudence and Knight-Commander Greagoir are less than pleased, and soon he finds himself tripping up over accidental heresy even within the kitchens of Kinloch Hold. It’s not easy, being a half-elf templar with a conscience, because even having a sense of humor is heresy.

The Starkhaven Crier A portrait of two future apostates at ten-year-olds: Jowan and Surana are bored, get dragged to the Chantry for the good of their souls, and accidentally make the new girl from Starkhaven cry. Featuring Surana determined to be the one Dalish against letting the Maker come back, the self-hating mage in the Surana/Amell origin as the Starkhaven Crier, and the same Mother Prudence who sent Alistair to bed without supper. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Morrigan at the Crossroads Morrigan reaches her breaking point, confronted with the one person she cannot flee: her six-week-old son, who cannot be soothed back to sleep, struggling in the Crossroads. From a prompt musettta3 sent me.

Shartan’s Riddle Surana talks Mahariel through writing Leliana, after Leliana leaves to work for the Divine. Shartan promised them a home, and Mahariel worries Leliana, devout as she is, cannot give it to her. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Winter in Amaranthine The Wardens’ companions decide to leave, and Warden-Commander Arana Mahariel cannot find a reason good enough to tell them no. Meanwhile, letters between the Warden and Leliana get lost in translation, and Arana makes it worse. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Phosphorescence A Despair demon in the Foundry district is clogging up the whole city with a miasma of misery. Justice runs into an old friend of his, during Anders’ first few weeks in Kirkwall, and the three set to work. Heavy-handed allegory abounds, but, Justine opines, that’s the Dreamers’ fault. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Labyrinth "Anders made no attempt at escape during the years they were together." This story is meant to explore everything absolutely horrible about that statement. If the core part of Anders' identity is his refusal to submit to imprisonment, then perhaps listening to Karl was a violation of his sense of self. Things get better, and then things get worse.

Kirkwall Thunderstorm Family squabbling as the storm sets in, Hawke flees to face the thunderstorm head on, and laughs, because what’s more to life than this, chasing a storm all the way down to the harbor? From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Debutante Leandra manages Hawke’s debut ball, and surprises herself by having a lot of fun. From an OC ask I decided to turn into a prompt.

Dregs Anders baits Varric, or Varric baits Anders, both drunk at the Hanged Man. There’s no resolution to an argument when they’re both just angry, thinking about dead mages. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

The Scent of Pomegranates Merrill brings a pomegranate to the Hanged Man, to try and capture some of the way her clan celebrated the new year. Fenris is oddly moved. Written for the DA Den’s 2020 Holiday Gift Exchange.

Anders in Autumn Anders and Fenris, over the course of one gorgeous autumn in Kirkwall, find common ground, a common goal, and even tenderness, as the city grows cool and vibrant in the changing of the year. Justice returns to the streets of Kirkwall, one way or another, and it is as transformative and loving as justice truly is. An answer to an Artober challenge from cozy-autumn-prompts.

Warp & Weft Anders wakes Fenris up in the middle of the night talking, and then not wanting to talk, about weaving. What they remember and what they have forgot climb into the bed with them. A gift for potatowitch.

Landlocked Merrill goes looking for Isabela after a night of drinking at the Hanged Man, and finds her considering the sun rising over the horizon at the docks. They're landlocked and the salt's drained them both dry, but maybe it's not all been a waste. They're shipless, not shipwrecked. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

Catabasis Kirkwall’s in ashes and Hawke and their friends are on the run. Varric might have ended the story at the docks, but the conflict continues. The question persists: should they separate? And what brought them together in the first place? From a series of prompts ellie-effie and musetta3 sent me.

Dead Man Hiking Solas broods over what has been lost. Dorian interrupts, and Solas dangles hidden knowledge in front of him like a carrot. They both take the bait, because, as irritable and sad Solas can get, “he wants to give wisdom, not orders,” and Dorian loves to learn. Written for Beyond the Veil’s 2020 Satinalia Gift Exchange.

Dirthara Ma! May You Learn After the Exalted Council, Solas stops for a drink and a sulk in a quiet tavern in Ostwick. He is convinced no one will ever recognize him with a full head of hair and a beard. Then the Inquisitor walks in. The first in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series.

White Nights A year after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a new lover to a quiet inn in Val Royeaux. She steps out to the balcony for a quick smoke under the stars, looks over to the balcony adjacent to hers–and who is there but the Dread Wolf himself, slightly disguised, with a glass of wine? Despite themselves they talk, and do not stop talking. “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.” The second and most comprehensive in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Ligaments Briala has loaded her dice when playing the Game. Gaspard throws her in prison, but her message goes out to both the Dread Wolf, keen to better his reputation for catastrophe amongst the elves of Orlais, and the Dalish Inquisitor, who is still reeling from the loss of her arm. “We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” The third in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I’ve written in 2020.

Out From Under the Dread Wolf's Eye Briala and Merrill try and steal an eluvian out from under the Dread Wolf's eye. It doesn't quite work, but that doesn't mean the day's a failure, not when there's dinner to be had and a connection to explore. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

The Domesticities Solas adjust to a new, gentle love that has gripped his heart and will not let him go: a Lavellan who heralds a world he did dream of, and learns how to survive grief and his own betrayal, learns how to surrender the high moral ground and focus on the domesticities. A series of Solas-POV ficlets from my story, Fen'Harel’s Teeth, where Lavellan is a mother and leader in her own right, and barely keeping her head above the water of her own deep grief. Not in chronological order!

He Who Hunts Alone Solas will restore the Elvhen People as he knew them, even if this world must die. It is his only purpose as he understands it. But a magical accident leaves him in another world, where a version of himself has made a very different choice. Solas is forced to reckon with a desire he has never let himself explore. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan, both his friend and adversary, is dragged with him, as they move from their world, to a world where Solas seems to have won it all, to another that seems both their worst nightmare. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan: the rebel apostate mage, romanced Josephine Inquisitor Imladris Lavellan: the Dalish First, romanced Solas, featured in Fen'Harel’s Teeth Inquisitor Brigid Trevelyan: the faithful Andrastian prophet, rogue and noble, Tara’s sister, romanced Blackwall and then Cullen Written in tandem with my partner, batsy22-me, and likewise abandoned when we got bored of it.

Fen'Harel’s Teeth First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, thought that her audience with the Divine against templars’ harassment of Dalish mages would be a token protest, and that her people would use it to draw the city elves closer to the Vir Tanadahl. She didn’t think her Keeper’s calculations would catapult her to the top of the Chantry’s leadership, manipulating the powers of Thedas to leave her people be. Meanwhile, Briala foments revolution in Halamshiral, using the eluvian network to sabotage the armies of Orlais. A new movement erupts in the Dales, and elves across Thedas look at this so-called “Herald of Andraste” and see Mythal’s vallaslin. Fiona breaks the chains of mages across Thedas, and Fenris starts whispers of a new age in Tevinter–one where the slaves throw down their masters. A new age is coming, and all of Thedas look to Lavellan to usher it in. My baby, my never-ending story, my current work-in-progress.