#a herald of andraste and a commander of the inquisition

[sweetjulieapples]

Cullen was so eager to protect the Inquisitor that he fell down the steps.

[tapir-boy]

uh oh everyone my expansive network of dragon age ocs is only getting more expansive and more convoluted 👍

[rinalllin]

You go through a lot

[thechildofmythal]

Well-tailored fit

When it comes to a big story like Dragon Age: Inquisition, I often think about what's happening between the scenes. The game has not depicted toilets or eating food or drying your socks after trudging at the swamps. The game also does not implicitly show where the Herald's cool new clothes in Haven come from, or where all their stuff is. Surely they had at least a bag full of spare clothes and something like that when they travelled to the Conclave, right?

So here's a fun little piece to deal with the Herald's outfit, show a little of what my dear Lavellan looks like, and what Cullen thinks of her looks. (Spoiler: he embarrasses himself and thinks she's hot.)

Please read the fic under the cut! Rating G. Words: 1 264

Characters: Ellana Lavellan, Cullen, Leliana and Josephine.

Ellana Lavellan, the completely bewildered Dalish Elf suddenly turned Herald of Andraste, found an assortment of clothes in the stone hut she had woken up in and that was apparently hers now. After the explosion at the Conclave she had been unconscious for a long time and taken prisoner. Her meagre belongings were nowhere to be found - most likely her bag had burned with everything else in the Temple of the Sacred Ashes. All she had were the clothes on her back, and she had been wearing them for quite many days already. 

The clothes she found in the hut Josephine had amassed from various sources. They were worn and most of them were too big for her. The trousers she held up at her waist with a belt, and she rolled up the trouser legs. The linen shirts were loose and shapeless, but they were warm and comfortable. The armoured coat made her look like a child in their parent’s clothes, but it did the job anyway. 

Josephine had, however, decided that Lavellan needed to look the part of the Herald of Andraste, too. So whenever she was at Haven and not in the Hinterlands to help the refugees at the Crossroads, she was constantly being called to see the seamstress of the village and the armourer of the Inquisition. The seamstress had at first been flabbergasted at having to sew bespoke clothing for an elf, but the armourer didn’t blink twice. Ellana was measured all over and had to endure discussions of style and colour and “respecting her heritage while not estranging the believers” with Josephine. It was quite overwhelming, but she met it all with her usual curiosity. 

After a while she began receiving brand new pieces of clothing. It felt wonderful to wear clothes that fit her properly, and she immediately took the armoured coat made for her. The outer layer of her outfit was all white in colour, despite its obvious impracticality. She agreed with Josephine that white was clearly a colour the Andrastians would associate with their saint, so the Herald of Andraste would play into that.

Ellana’s new wardrobe consisted of dark grey trousers that hugged her hips quite low with a utility belt, and a grey linen top that bared her midriff. She received two kinds: a halter neck wrap top that bared her shoulders and arms too, and a long-sleeved top with a high neck. The tops were pretty close to the ones she had worn back with her clan, and made her feel more at home. The last piece she received was a fur-lined vest, apparently meant to keep her warm while in Haven rather than out in the field. 

Ellana looked at herself in the mirror, wearing her new clothes. The trousers paired well with her old leather boots, and the long sleeved top was a snug fit - it allowed her to move freely but kept her ladybits in place well enough. She ran her hands on her bare stomach. She had a piercing on her belly button - a delicate silver ring with a small jewel. It looked good with the grey set of clothes, she decided, feeling quite pleased with the image in the mirror.

Ellana did her long golden hair in an intricate, thick braid that she drew over her shoulder. Finally she grabbed the fur vest on her arm rather than putting it on since the afternoon was quite warm, and left for the Chantry. She knew the others were expecting her to join them to discuss what options they had going forward.

“We need more men, and not just any soldiers, but Templars. Their abilities and numbers are our best option in containing this situation,” Cullen was saying in a very firm, argumentative tone just as the Herald entered the War Room. 

All three advisors glanced at Lavellan and greeted her with a quick nod, but Cullen did double take. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at her from head to toes before his eyes were drawn to the jewel adorning the hard curve of her abdomen. Lavellan looked like a different person - not a young girl drowning in too big hand-me-down clothes but a surprisingly powerful, physically toned woman. What a difference well-tailored clothes made. That the clothes happened to also be quite flattering to an athletic feminine form was an added bonus. 

“Mistress Lavellan,” Josephine greeted her and was visibly pleased seeing her wear her new clothes. “You look wonderful. I see the new clothes are a great fit.”

“Thank you, Josephine. I feel right at home in my new gear,” the elf said graciously, taking her place by the table. “Please, continue.”

“Thank you. I was going to say that we need to explore all our options to make sure we have not overlooked anything,” Josephine reminded Cullen, and made him tear his eyes off of the Herald’s midriff. 

“Be it as it may, we still need to navel - travel to Orlais and speak with the navel - nave - knight captain,” Cullen stuttered, getting more and more frustrated the further he went, turning redder and redder in the face. 

“Speak with who now?” Leliana smirked at the Commander.

Cullen tried again, a little too quickly for his own good. “We need to make contact with the nave- Templars to gain their nav… Andraste’s mercy,” he finally mumbled, completely frustrated with himself, turning his eyes at the ceiling and swatting a roll of papers in his hand against the table.

Leliana and Josephine both looked from the Commander to the Herald and back, then shared knowing glances together.

“Something distracting you, Commander?” Leliana asked with a smug face.

“No. Not at all. Perhaps you could suggest an alternative plan just so I can shut up for a moment, ” Cullen replied dryly and pointedly did not look in Lavellan’s direction.

Lavellan stood on the other side of the war table with her eyes as big as dinner plates.

“Perhaps I should…” she said slowly and took a step back, but Cullen leaned both of his hands on the table, sighed heavily and finally looked up at her. Neither his gaze nor words faltered this time. 

“I’m so sorry, Herald. Let’s just say Josephine has outdone herself with your new wardrobe. Combined with your natural,” Cullen made himself avoid the word beauty but went with another observation, “talent with people, you are certain to gain the hearts of the people out there. The Inquisition is lucky to have you.”

“You might gain the hearts of some people around here as well,” Leliana quipped. Josephine kicked her foot under the table and both Cullen and Ellana both shot the Spymaster pointed looks. 

“Alright, can we get back to the topic at hand?” Cullen said gruffly and pushed himself off the table to stand up straight.

The rest of the meeting went without anyone embarrassing themselves any further. Once it was over, Ellana was the first to leave and Cullen couldn’t help but look after her.

“The Herald has quite the figure, doesn’t she,” Josephine mused. 

Cullen snapped his attention back to the room and promptly gathered his notes from the table. “The Herald’s looks hardly matter. The fact that she’s an impressive looking woman bolsters her charisma, sure, but what really matters is that she can close the rifts.”

“Impressive, is she? Well I believe she did say she has family back with the clan,” Leliana said thoughtfully. “But I think she referred to parents and siblings. No husband or children.”

“I’ll be at the barracks,” Cullen grunted and left, ignoring the women’s teasing completely.

[mourn-and-watch]

there were no fereldan grey wardens in inquisition because they're too unhinged for this game. i mean they would absolutely ruin the narrative and the stakes. amaranthine squad is literally a dalish mage with a pure disgust for humans and especially their attempts to erase other cultures, a casteless member of the legion of the dead who used to work for carta, a drunkard who keeps finding himself in the weirdest situations possible and getting out of them almost without a scratch and a son of disgraced war criminal and all of them also happened to be buddies with a certain apostate and a spirit of justice. these guys don't give a shit about andraste's supposed herald and they already managed to kick one magister's ass or even reason with him. they would crack some kirkwall boom joke in front of the whole inquisition and then call corypheus a pretentious dumbass and nathaniel would bother to stop it only because he promised the commander they would behave and not cause problems if they left them on their own for a while

[eastgaysian]

SHIV: is this serious? kendall's leading the inquisition now?

FRANK: mm. the 'herald of andraste,' apparently.

TOM: no, he can't call himself that. can he?

SHIV: he shouldn't. it's insane. he's having some kind of—public mental breakdown, and nobody's stopping him. we can't give him our support.

ROMAN: i mean, it's not up to you, shiv. if we don't back him when the templars do, it kind of makes us look like we're too busy jerking off in a palace to do anything about a world-ending crisis.

SHIV: it makes us look like we're still sane. we need to get a handle on him before this escalates into an international incident. he's not stable. he's petitioning heads of state to supply troops using the old grey warden treaties.

TOM: he's a warden-commander now, too?

SHIV: he could decide he is in the next week. he could ruin us, politically, probably financially, and there's no telling how the orlesians might react—

[Enter LOGAN.]

LOGAN: fucking rifts! demons getting spat out in the middle of the street! you try to reason with mages and they tear open the sky. after what happened in kirkwall i don't know why every knight-commander didn't invoke the right of annulment. what's this about kendall?

[shewolfofvilnius]

Presenting my four ‘canon’ Dragon Age OCs - all rendered in Veilguard at their canon ages!

The Hero of Ferelden, Elissa Tabris. Born 9:09 Dragon, aged 44. From Denerim. Champion of the Fifth Blight, slayer of Urthemiel. Her later-stage blighting has led to somewhat premature aging, but her determination and ferocity have not dulled even after 23 years. She had begun making plans with Zevran for her calling - he had suggested he kill her, but she refused to let her husband do that.

The Champion of Kirkwall, Amelia Hawke. Born 9:07 Dragon. Presumed dead 9:41 Dragon. Considers herself to be from ‘the Free Marches’ and ‘originally from Ferelden’ but deflects further questions. Occasionally develops a blank stare if the Dalish are mentioned out of guilt for her role in ending an entire clan at the need of a friend. That pales in comparison to the crime she’s really wanted for, being an accomplice to the destruction of Kirkwall’s chantry and the mass of death that follows. The guilt drove a wedge between her and her love Merrill.

Is ‘lost’ in the Fade a few years later after electing to stay behind - on the onetime suggestion of Asha’bellanar - and to force Loghain to continue his redemption tour.

Both of Hawke’s siblings survive, with Carver a longstanding member of the Grey Wardens while Bethany went on to marry Prince Sebastian Vael and became Senior Enchanter of the Starkhaven College of Enchanters

The Inquisitor, Vilkė Lavellan Rainier. Born approx 9:05 Dragon. Age 48. Resisted fiercely early attempts to label her the ‘Herald of Andraste’. Her advisor, the disgraced former second in command of the Kirkwall Templars Cullen, got her entire clan killed near Wycome shortly after being named Herald, for which she never forgave him. Fell in love with the wildman of the woods, the man claiming to be Warden Blackwall. She believed when he said his feelings for her were the truth, and the pair remain together as of 9:53. Loat interest in matters of the Inquisition after discovering the fate of Ameridan, and after Solas’ betrayal for which she swore vengeance.

She and Thom retreated to a homestead just on the periphery of Avvar holdings, where Thom is primarily a dutiful house-husband and father to their two kids (a boy, 6 and girl, 4) when not out offering redemption to another lost soul. She drank from the Well of Sorrows in 9:41 but the voices requested to leave in 9:48 and found their way to Morrigan. She takes up the mantle of Inquisitor one last time upon the declaration of the Sixth Blight. Took a renewed interest in ancient elven artifacts in her 40s and cofounded the Veil Jumpers alongside Merrill.

The Champion of the Fade, the Godslayer, Hero of the Sixth Blight - Jordana ‘Rook’ Mercar. Born 9:30 Dragon, age 23. As an infant was found by Charon Mercar of the Tevinter military abandoned on battlefields near Ventus. He and his wife took her in and raised her as their own. She was denied entry into a prestigious military cadet program by virtue of the Tevinter military’s sexist, and later spent her first night in jail after defending some elves from an attack when she was 15.

Varric discovered Rook after receiving word from the high ranking diplomat - a cousin of King Bhelen Awducan - of what had happened in the liveration of a alave ring near Nessus, a dwarven trading partner. Rook was trained up to be Rook’s second in command.

She was involved with the deaths of the final two archdemons as well as the ‘god’ Elgar’nan, while her actions tricked Solas - the former Fen’Harel - into binding himself to the veil.

The greatest highlight of Rook’s life came in the midst of her worst, as she met the Veil Jumper Bellara Lutare. The pair took it slow (too slow for eventual Lady of Honor at their wedding Neve Galkus). Though Jordana has a rich life of her own, she sees herself first and foremost as Bellara’s knight-protector.

Rook and Bellara marry one year to the day of Elgar’nan’s death. The marriage largely follows Dalish customs sans mention of the Evanuris, with Rook proving her worth to Bel’s ‘clan’ the Veil Jumpers, per elven tradition, having singlehandedly contributed more to elven knowledge of their lost culture than any human in preserved history. (And it turns out their gods had ijt coming)

Is the biological daughter of Ser Jory from Dragon Age Origins and his wife Helena, the latter having fled Highever for Tevinter when Arl Howe’s men raided. Helena died shortly after giving birth in a Qunari attack. Rook learns the truth of her father from records salvaged before the fall of Weisshaupt and both Morrigan and the Hero of Ferelden’s testimony. They are later as a group able to track Helena’s journey.

[inquisimer]

dragon age character study fic recs

I'm back with another fic rec list, this time focusing on character studies! There were so many more than five that I flagged as interesting 👀 when I was putting this together, so there's definitely a chance that this theme makes a repeat in the future.

Check these awesome fics out! And leave a comment + kudos to let the author know you did💜

Vote in this poll to help me choose a theme for next week's rec list (:

-

New Tricks by Penknife (@penknife)

Dorian Pavus & Cullen Rutherford, Josephine Montilyet & Cullen Rutherford & Leliana | G | 1968 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: Five times Cullen found that he didn't have to do everything the hard way. Mer's Rec: If you're into Cullen & Dorian friendship, or really any Cullen friendship, this fic will be right up your alley. Penknife does an excellent job of contrasting Dorian as a beleaguered academic (beloved) with Cullen's quieter intelligence. They also highlight Cullen as a strategist and commander, not just the "send the troops" guy, and the advisor interactions resonate with coworker friend energy, which I loved. I always adore fics that explore Cullen's habits and traits leftover from so many years as a Templar and this story seamlessly weaves in those details, which brings a real depth to both Cullen and his interactions.

Names Are Cloaks by EllanaSan

Female Adaar & Josephine Montilyet | G | 2963 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: They can’t have that, she supposes, the Herald of Andraste being called names behind her back… The only way the situation could have been worse is if she had been an elf. She could tell the ambassador that there are people in this very camp disrespecting her at every turn but she is far too used to it to care. They call her oxwoman. They call her witch. They call her chosen or your worship. They call her Tal-Vashoth. Names are weapons. For the bearer to hold and to wield. Names are cloaks. For the bearer to wrap themselves in and discard when outgrown. Mer's Rec: With Bioware's scant lore about Qunari and the Qun, I was impressed by how this story immersed me in Adaar's history. Tidbits from canon interwoven with fascinating-slash-heartbreaking details about the Qun, Vashoth, and Saarebas, plus her introspective musings on the past and her identity make this Adaar stand out from the cookie-cutter protagonist in the best way. I want to know more about her! From Josephine's dialogue and mannerisms to the uncertainty, fear, and alienation the Herald can experience in Haven, everything about this story feels like it could be straight out of the DAI canon.

I have outlived the night by lilith_morgana (@senseandaccountability)

Loghain Mac Tir, Minor/Background Relationships | T | 2106 words | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Author's Summary: He's five, he's eighteen, nineteen, twenty, forty-six, and fifty-five, he's fifty-six, fifty-seven and ready to die. Instead, he lives. Mer's Rec: The emotion in this fic is so palpable, so visceral, and it slaps you in the face the way careful consideration of complicated characters should. With repeated contrasts between Loghain in his youth versus his later years, the author takes us on a journey from hot-headed kid to weary veteran, and it just makes your heart ache😭 It features strong exposition on Loghain's motives, feelings, and regrets during the Fifth Blight, which I love to see since it's fairly absent from the game itself. Their portrayal of Loghain in Inquisition also felt fresh and different, including a conversation with Cullen, which is a dynamic I hadn't considered before and found incredibly interesting to read. And of course it ends on a bittersweet note, as it always does with Loghain.

To Yield Is Not Weak by disasterhawke

Alistair/Anora Mac Tir | M | 4018 words | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Author's Summary: She may not like her new husband, but Anora Theirin is not about to let the world treat him like it has treated her. She will do whatever it takes to earn his trust. This is not quite what he expects. An Anora character study that explores her arranged marriage to her husband's bastard brother. Mer's Rec: this 👏 was 👏 everything I wanted out of an Alistair/Anora fic! While I think antagonism between those two has a place, this fic explored their relationship through the lens of teaching and working together, rather than animosity. It works SO well and there was a definite give-and-take, with Anora running the show immediately post-coronation, but gradually softening her harsher edges and highlighting Alistair's strengths while they grow as rulers. Anora's internal monologue, not only about Alistair, but also Cailan and Loghain, does a fantastic job showing the humanity she usually has to hide, without diminishing her competence in the least.

when the bough breaks by gummies (orphaned)

Morrigan, Flemeth | G | 1124 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: In her hands, the mouse is kept still. The only movement Morrigan feels from it is the beating of its tiny heart. With her eyes closed, it almost seems that she is holding in her hands its heart alone. Tiny, vulnerable, and so stutteringly fast. It must be afraid, Morrigan muses. Something twinges in her chest. Empathy. She cannot help the flare of protectiveness inside her. For now, the mouse is hers. Plucked from the world from whence it came, tucked away and safe. She wonders if this is how Mother feels of her. Mer's Rec: What struck me most about this fic was the author's grasp of character voices. Flemeth is just as cunning and calculating as she comes across in game, but I was beyond impressed by their young!Morrigan. I could see and hear so clearly how Morrigan would get from the childlike hope she has in this story to the harsher, bitter Morrigan we meet in game. I don't even know how they did that, but it was incredible to read, even as this slice of Morrigan's childhood and her abuse at Flemeth's hands was breaking my heart.

Don't forget to get your fic and art recs lined up for tomorrow's Fan Work Friday!

[thetaxicabber]

Because Dragon Age is on my brain….let me introduce you to my original 3 characters!

Elissa Cousland - Hero and Queen of Ferelden

Elissa defeated the Blight at age 18 and became Queen and Warden Commander all within a year of losing her parents. She once studied to be a Tevinter historian. She still wears the necklace she got at the joining, though she’s added a few tokens to it over the years. She is best friends with Morrigan and Leliana and married to Alistair. She went searching for a cure to the calling at the time of inquisition.

Aelin Hawke - Champion of Kirkwall

Aelin saved both her siblings from the blight. Carver joined the Templar order and Bethany the Grey Wardens. She’s sarcastic and prone to violence. Her best friend is Varric. After the defeat of Corypheus she married Sebastian Vael and they settled into life in Starkhaven - though she’s still known to make mischief.

Evelyn Trevelyan - Inquistor/Herald of Andraste

Evelyn is the youngest child of Lord and Lady Trevelyan. She has four older brothers and the whole family is deeply entrenched with the Templar order. Her magic manifested at age 8 and she was taken to the Ostwick circle where her Uncle was Lord Commander and two of her brothers trained as Templars. This led to Evelyn being very sheltered from the horrors of living in the circle. Her best friend is Dorian. After the defeat of Corypheus, she dissolved the inquisition and enjoyed a few years of quiet peace with husband Cullen - though they still worked to find Solas.

I’ve put a lot of thought into my protagonist and I can’t wait to add Rook as I play through the new game! I’m a shadow dragon mage this first playthrough!

Art by lillithblack_comics on Insta

[widowling]

I am once again writing solavellan fanfiction.

Title: Martyr

Category: F/M

Fandom: Dragon Age (Games)

Relationships: Female Lavellan / Solas

Summary:

Solas is trapped in the Fade when he hears the news that the blighted gods have taken Inquisitor Fen Lavellan.

Excerpt:

Between other, more ancient regrets, Solas can catch glimpses of her. There is a flash of her bright eyes. The flicker of her hair in the void. He thinks that maybe the hands holding up the island must be hers. It’s the hand that he marked, that he kissed, that he removed as the flesh boiled and the bones disintegrated.

Sometimes, he swears he can hear her as though she was right beside her. She presses her body against his side, warm and comforting, just to whisper in his ear, “Which do you regret more? Loving me? Or leaving me?”

He wants to lean into her. He wants to give in and turn around, capturing her ethereal form in his arms. But he knows that when he does, she will dissipate. She will dissolve into the eerie nothingness of his prison. He has made this mistake many times before. It is only a matter of time before he makes it again. He must pretend that he does not notice her presence so that she will stay and haunt him. Her ghost is the only comfort he has here. So, he stands, perfectly still and lets her presence glow in the corner of his eyes, a breath away from his memory. If this is all he gets, in the infinite emptiness, then it is enough. He is a starving man, savoring scraps.

As he walks up the endless stairs of the prison, he encounters people from his past. Most, he just ignores. Felassan is there, crying after him and asking him why. Mythal is ever-present, dominating the black skyline. But she lingers between them, as if she is carefully holding the entire world together. She flits ahead, just out of his line of sight, twirling around corners and disappearing. He follows her at a measured pace, keeping a careful eye on the mere flicker of her form. He turns a corner, expecting the pattern to repeat and is instead met with a figure he did not expect.

He stops short, “Cullen?”

In his time with the Inquisition, Solas had not interacted with the man in any meaningful sense. They had been cordial at best, respectful at worst. They spoke only briefly. Played chess together once or twice. He could not fathom why the commander might be here. Had he committed so many sins as to forget some entirely?

“She should have chosen me,” Cullen said, his voice small and sad against the howling of the void.

Ah, Solas thought. This is not Cullen. Merely another facet of her. 

Solas had been aware of Cullen’s affection for her but could never blame him for it. He understood how difficult it was not to love her. Solas had thought, many times, that perhaps they were better suited for one another. It had been a stray, meaningless thought. The Commander and the Inquisitor, the leader of the army and the head of an organization that would shake the world. They could have been perfectly matched to one another. Surely it made more sense than the Herald of Andraste and an Elven apostate. Of course it was better than a Dalish First and the Dread Wolf. It had been idle thoughts at the time, but Solas should have known that the Fade would take its liberties where it could.

“I would have loved her better,” Cullen continues. “I would have loved her longer. I would have loved her more.”

Solas seethes beneath the words. His pride bristles. He wants to swipe his hand through the shade of the Commander and for her shadow to return to him.

“Better?” He grits his teeth and admits it, “Perhaps.” 

Cullen would have been able to share parts of himself that Solas never could. He could have given her affection freely, without fear, untainted by regret. Cullen would have married her, given her children. All Solas ever gave were lies, half-truths, and tainted dreams. In the end, he admitted it. Cullen would have loved her better. But Solas was prideful and would not concede on all fronts.

“Longer?” Solas continues. “Maybe. But only in the sense that you mortals can comprehend.”

Cullen had stayed while Solas had left but the sky would burn, and the moons would crumble before Solas could stop loving her. His love for her would be the last thing to exist in a dead and dying universe.

Solas snaps. “But more? More? Not possible. I almost gave up a world for her."

Then, the weight of her hand on the center of his back and her whisper in his ear, “Almost.”

Before he can stop himself, he whips around. He needs to see her. He needs to see the brightness of her eyes and smell the forest in her red hair. He needs her like the starving animal that he is. Even if it was just for a moment, it could sustain him for an eternity. In the end, he does not even get that. She is gone before he can even turn around. Something inside of him shatters. It is a mistake that he has made before. It is a mistake that he will make again.

“She would have lived longer if she had chosen me.”

Solas turns around again to face the apparition of Cullen. Carefully, he says, “She is not dead.”

“Not yet.”

[plisuu]

happy friday! how about ❛ you knew who i was with every step that i ran to you. ❜ for connor/solas?

Thank you!! The prompt kind of got away from me, so here is Solas trying to convince himself that he's not as attached to Connor as he actually is. Something something strangers something something Connor is a big ol sweetheart and Solas is Solas about it.

wc: 1090 @dadrunkwriting

To say that they were little more than strangers was an understatement. The Herald of Andraste, in the wake of freshly broken Tranquility, was little more than a stranger to any of the inner circle, save perhaps the commander.

For Solas, to say they were strangers would have been extraordinarily generous. An apostate, an elven wanderer with nothing more than the knowledge of the Fade, meant little to someone now raised as a figurehead of the Chantry. They had fought—if one could call an interaction with the Tranquil a fight—about religion, about spirits, about magic, and yet…

And yet, Solas found himself at the Herald’s side with increasing frequency over the days in Haven, found himself searching the Fade in the face of death and bitter chill, found himself directing the scraps of the Inquisition to what was once his place of former glory, a thrill of pride and something else blossoming in his chest at the Herald’s look of awe as they stood at the precipice of change.

But still, they were strangers at best.

Every moment they spent in each other’s presence was a moment of confusion, of learning magic and unlearning biases, and every time Solas thought he discovered something about the newly-titled Inquisitor, he found that very discovery dashed. The man was unpredictable, always forming and reforming opinions, absorbing new information like parched soil drinks down water, unquenchable, constantly seeking more, constantly changing. Every time they met for scheduled lessons, the Inquisitor was different in ways that Solas could not fathom nor keep up with. The only certainties were his thirst for knowledge and quiet stoicism that hid a tumultuous current of emotion behind it. He knew little more about the Inquisitor than he did the first day they met, when he lay unconscious beneath Haven’s chantry, unaware of the depth of mistakes he bore in his palm.

That is what Solas told himself, at least. It would be easier, that way. The less involved with the Inquisitor’s personal quirks and inner machinations he was, the better for everyone involved—a sentiment much easier said than done as short magic lessons stretched into afternoons of lengthy explanations and of questions he would have never expected the Inquisitor to ask about the nature of spirits and the Veil.

As it turned out, the Inquisitor was quite complex. He was lost and desperate, forced to make decisions equal to those made in some of history’s greatest moments. He was as afraid of magic as he was interested in learning it… but he was also much simpler. He liked birds. He frowned at the snow and huffed at the prospect of inclement weather. He fidgeted with his sleeves when he was nervous and liked his tea lukewarm.

It grew harder still, as those afternoons stretched into evenings. Questions turned to conversations over small meals, conversations turned to quiet introspections and moments of vulnerability. But even so, as much as Solas knew, he also knew that he divulged little information about himself. He felt the imbalance, the shift of the scales in his favor.

Evening stretched even further into dreams, and as much as Solas might try to deny it, there was a certain intimacy to dreams that could not be given words in the waking world.

“Does it not bother you, Inquisitor?” Solas ventured to ask one such time, as they walked side-by-side through the Fade, the ground turning to sand beneath their feet, warm as it slipped through their toes.

“Does what bother me, Solas?” Connor stopping to look at him. His gaze was piercing, grey-green, the same color as the sea that lapped against the sandy shore he had conjured. Solas turned away, looking over the expanse of water. Nothing reflected on its surface, an imperfection that reflected the Inquisitor’s lack of practice, through the stretch of rolling waves was ambitious, he would give him that.

“How little you know of me? You are an endless stream of questions, yet you never ask about anything other than what I have seen in the Fade.”

Connor shrugged. “Honestly, I never thought to,” he shook his head, “I figured you would tell me, if you wanted.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. Would have even told me if I asked?”

“That is… unlikely.”

“Exactly.”

“Fair enough,” Solas chuckled, and they lapsed back into silence, letting the sound of the waves wash over them.

“Besides, I do know more than you think. Probably,” Connor continued. He paused, looking back at where their footsteps should have been, where, for a moment, only one pair marked their path. Solas raised an eyebrow, but the expression felt forced, stilled to hide the bite of anxiety that rose at the back of his throat.

“Oh?” He tried not to hold his breath, tried to steady himself. Perhaps this had been a mistake after all. The Inquisitor’s pause seemed to last an age.

“It’s nothing so dire. But you’re not as mysterious as you think.” Connor extended his hand, a small gesture that Solas had become strangely accustomed to over the months, and their fingers intertwined as Solas offered his own in return, attempting to relax some of the tension he held.

“Do tell,” Solas pressed, all but choking on the words.

The Inquisitor laughed softly, raising their hands to press his lips against Solas’s. “I know you are an expert on the Fade. I know your past is storied—I hear the way you talk to Blackwall. I know you are passionate about freedom, I know you are friends with many spirits. I know you are good at chess. I know you hate tea.”

He paused again with a warm huff of breath into the skin of Solas’s palm, and Solas watched him curiously. This wasn’t what he expected—he wasn’t sure what he had expected, really.

“That’s not all though,” Connor murmured, as if suddenly shy. He closed his eyes for a moment, before fixing his gaze on Solas again. “I know you are wise. I know you are kind, and that you care deeply about people. I know that you’re my friend. I don’t need to ask about you to know the things that matter.”

Solas simply blinked, unsure how to respond as the sand beneath them slid back into the stone floors of the rotunda, the walls of fresco rising around then once again.

“Thank you, Inquisitor.” he sighed, slowly pulling his hand back, and turning into one of the arched doorways as the Fade began to slip away. “You are too kind.”

[propenseverbosity]

Did I mention I started writing an Inquisition fic?

I might not have mentioned this before, but I'm actually fairly new to the DA fandom. I started playing Inquisition last april, and it's rewired my brain.

I've only posted Veilguard fics on my Ao3 but I actually have quite a few Inquisition WIPs as well. (none of them are complete yet, but I've been thinking about my Inquisition blorbos lately and I might end up working on these again.)

Trying to post more of my writing on here so this is part of one of my favorite chapters, my take on In Your Heart Shall Burn.

-----------------------------------------

In the dead of night, nothing but frozen wasteland surrounded a field of makeshift shelters.

Was this really all that remained of the Inquisition?

Between the relentless snowstorm that only barely managed to let up long enough for them to make camp, tents filled with the cold and wounded, and the horror of losing Haven still fresh in everyone’s mind, morale was at an all-time low.

If that wasn’t enough to put a damper on the mood, their savior– the only reason they escaped in the first place– was still missing.

Technically, he was presumed dead, if you asked half the people around, but Varric chose to go with missing. Missing implied there was still a chance for Aramil to come back, and if anyone could have survived an entire mountain falling on their head, it would be the maker-damned Herald of Andraste.

Varric sat under the safety of a tarp as he waited for someone, anyone, to come up with a plan. Given that Cassandra and Cullen were still in the middle of a shouting match over which direction to travel next, he suspected no plans would be hatching anytime soon.

The truth (that none of them were willing to admit) was that Aramil was the plan, up until Corypheus showed up. With no other way to close the rifts, or his calming voice of reason to settle their disagreements, the Inquisition was all but crippled.

The remaining Chantry Sisters did their best to tend to the injured, while the soldiers kept watch for Corypheus or his pet archdemon.

Varric was keeping watch for Aramil.

Well, he was mostly trying to stay out of everyone’s way. He knew he was already permanently on the Seeker’s bad side, he wasn’t about to make that worse after the day they’d had.

The rapid crunching of boots drew Varric’s gaze to a scout, sprinting towards Commander Cullen.

“Ser, someone’s approaching the camp. It looks like the Herald.” the scout panted.

The moment they heard any mention of the Herald, Cullen and Cassandra took off towards the rest of the scouts, with Leliana and Josephine close behind. 

“There! It’s him!” Cullen shouted.

Varric watched from afar as their beloved Herald rose into view.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” he muttered to himself.

Aramil shielded his eyes from the snow as he trudged towards the camp. Exhausted from his journey, he would have fallen face-first into the snow if Cassandra hadn’t caught him, scooping him up into her arms to carry him the rest of the way.

Everyone who could still stand began to crowd around Cassandra, hoping to get a better look at the Herald. Their hero, risen from the ashes of Haven.

“The Maker brought him back to us.” some of them whispered.

“The Maker sent him to save us.” others agreed.

Cullen managed to keep the crowd back, barking orders to the soldiers while Cassandra gently laid their savior down on a cot.

“Is he alive?” Josephine asked.

“He’s injured, and barely conscious,” Cassandra replied. “But yes. He is alive.” 

“I will inform the others. They could use some good news.”

…

Though most of the Chantry Sisters had other patients to attend to, Mother Giselle offered to keep an eye on their sleeping Herald. With Aramil safe and sound, his advisors could return to the task at hand: Figuring out what to do next.

Varric kept himself busy jotting down future plots for his novels by the light of a small lantern, when a shadowy figure caught his attention.

Ordinarily, he would have been concerned to see someone lurking around the Herald’s tent, but Varric would recognize that sparkly robe anywhere.

Mother Giselle gasped lightly as she noticed the mage. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, when the Maker brought the Herald of Andraste back from the dead, I just knew I needed to see it for myself.” Dorian quipped. “Is our hero awake yet?”

He stepped forward to enter the tent, but Mother Giselle was quick to stop him. “He needs to rest. Leave him be.”

“Surely you must have other patients that require healing, yes?” Dorian asked. “How about I relieve you of your command?”

If it were anyone else, she might have agreed, but the Chantry Mother’s eyes always narrowed at the sight of the Tevinter mage. “I do not believe that would be wise.”

“And why not?” Dorian scoffed.

“I don’t know what you think you are doing, but this is not the time.”

“And I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re referring to, Your Reverence. Have I done something to offend?”

“You know exactly what I mean, young man.”

Varric rolled his eyes, tucking his notebook away as he stood. Even patient men had their limits.

“I can watch him.” Varric spoke up. “Sparkler’s right. There must be lots of people who need you right now. Let me take this one off your hands.”

Mother Giselle sighed quietly to herself. “Alright, but if the Herald's condition changes, let me know immediately.”

“Of course.” Varric nodded.

Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he caught Dorian smiling as the Revered Mother left her post.

“Well,” Varric began. “If you need me, I’ll just be... right over there.” 

Dorian pretended to look scandalized. “And leave our poor hero, defenseless against the evil Tevinter mage?”

“Just don’t let her see you.” Varric whispered, leaving Dorian alone with the Herald.

…

Grateful for Varric’s timely intervention, Dorian made himself comfortable on the cot next to Aramil. Comfortable, being a relative term. The stiff fabric seemed to absorb every bit of chill in the air, even through his clothes. How the elf could sleep soundly under such conditions, he’d never know.

“Gave us all quite the scare, oh Lord Herald.” Dorian whispered, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. “You do like to make an entrance, don’t you?”

As he watched the sleeping elf, he found himself fighting back tears for some Maker-forsaken reason. He was only glad Varric wasn't there to see him making a fool of himself. There was no reason to worry, Aramil was safe.

The reassurance did nothing to erase the fear of his... friend, dying in that avalanche.

Though his complexion looked paler than usual, Aramil’s breathing remained steady. The healers had already given him enough elixirs to mend his injuries, but they hadn't done much to help with the cold.

Dorian began searching the tent for a blanket, or anything to help keep the Herald from freezing to death, but to no avail. Supplies had been dwindling since they left Haven. Everything they had was already in use.

“What is the Inquisition coming to?” he pondered aloud, ignoring the way his voice still shook.

Dorian sighed to himself, and began to rub his hands together, generating friction to draw heat from The Fade. Slowly and carefully, he pressed his palm against the center of the Herald’s chest. The fire spell didn't draw enough heat to cause any real damage, but just enough to keep him warm inside his armor.

After a moment, the elf’s eyes fluttered open. “Dorian?” He carefully raised his head, reaching up towards the mage’s hand.

“Hold still. I don’t want to burn you.” he replied, focusing on maintaining an even temperature.

Aramil’s hand returned to his side as he laid back down. “That feels… nice. How are you doing that?”

“It’s a simple spell. You’ve seen me cast it before, just on a much larger scale.”

“Dorian, please tell me you’re not pressing a fireball into my chest.” Aramil asked. It was nice to see the avalanche hadn’t destroyed his wit.

“Nonsense.” Dorian chuckled. “Just a trick I learned after you dragged me into this frozen tundra. If you’d like to go back to sleep, I could explain it to you.”

The Herald exhaled sharply. It might have been a cough, if it weren’t for the way his lips curled into an amused smile. “I’d like that. Maybe later.”

In an effort not to cook him from the inside out, Dorian removed his hand. “Better?”

“Warmer, at least.” Aramil nodded. “Thank you.”

“How do you feel?” Dorian knew it was a silly question, but he felt rather helpless watching the elf suffer.

“Like a mountain fell on me.” Aramil tried to sit up, but immediately winced in pain.

Dorian quickly moved to stop him, guiding him back down to prevent further injury. “Relax. Do try not to break anything else, I’m already going to be reprimanded for waking you up.”

“How long was I out?”

“Not long as long as they expected you to be, after that whole display. Never a dull day in the Inquisition, is there?” Dorian asked, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“Decidedly not.” Aramil agreed. “Do you have any idea where we are?”

“No,” he answered, honestly. “But if it’s of any comfort, neither does anyone else.”

“And Corypheus?”

“No signs of him near the camp. Of course, that could change at any moment, but it appears we’re as safe as we can be... We have you to thank for that.”

Aramil sighed with relief, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian glanced back for a moment, to make sure none of the Chantry Sisters were lurking about. “Whatever for?”

The elf fixed his gaze on Dorian as he attempted to smile. “I think that drink might have to wait.”

Dorian did his best to ignore the way his heart fluttered at the Herald’s words. Even after all they’d been through in the past 24 hours, Aramil was still thinking of him.

“If you wanted to cancel, there were easier ways to tell me.” he teased.

“And miss the chance to spend time with you? Wouldn’t dream of it. Unless you’re having second thoughts?”

“Not a chance.” he assured him. “You know me. I never turn down a free drink.”

The elf began to drowse, letting his eyes close once more. “Good to know.”

------------------------------------------------

If you made it this far, thanks for reading! If folks are interested, I might post more of these. I had about 30 pages of fics written before veilguard came out.

[beccacoffindaffer]

Chapter 4: Wherein a Wolf Sings Her Home (Even Gods Need Miracles: Expanded Edition)

Summary:

The Breach is closed, but victory is brief and forces march on Haven. Solas works to keep Lavellan from being lost in the process.

The barred doors of the chantry rattle with the roars of the false archdemon and the booms and shouts of the oncoming red templars, threatening to crash over them like a tidal wave. He leans against a pillar, watching her tense conversation with the commander.

There are no good options. They are cornered prey, and he faces the very real possibility that all his plans will end here, unrealized.

And yet, the idea of escaping, of leaving her, never even crosses his mind. 

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village.” The strange new boy, Cole. He feels familiar, and his voice rings with the songs of the Fade. “He only wants the Herald.”

Don’t say that, Solas thinks, and his stomach drops. He knows what her response will be before it even leaves her mouth. 

“If it will save these people, he can have me.”

No. He can’t. He should never have survived the orb, and I will finish the job myself before he touches you.

He moves to step forward, to object, but Cole beats him to it.

“It won’t. He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway.” The boy shudders. “I don’t like him.”

It is the petulant chancellor that gives them a way forward, an escape out the back through the mountains.

But the Herald. She will have to use herself as bait, as a distraction, with no certainty of survival. She does not hesitate — of course she doesn’t — and the instant she turns to select those who will go with her, he is at her side.

“I would see this through with you, Herald.”

She frowns, hesitating. “This may be a dead-end mission, Solas. The Inquisition needs your knowledge.”

He dips his head, dropping his voice low so that she alone can hear him. “I apologize, lethallan, but I care not for the Inquisition’s needs in this moment. I am more concerned with yours.”

Her eyes soften, hesitation falling away. “Alright, then. You’re with me. Grab Varric and Blackwall and meet me at the doors.” She touches his arm as she turns away. “Let’s hope this works.”

***

She is not here. 

He had stood with her at the trebuchet, fighting off hordes of templars mutated and destroyed by red lyrium, buying everyone time. Then the ear-splitting roars of the false archdemon had shattered the air, and she’d told all of them to run, to get out, so they had and she had been behind him, right behind him.

But she is not here. 

The smoke and the fires and the chaos of retreat had been so thick that he hadn’t realized it until the crowd had swept him into the mountain pass. Even as he’d turned back toward Haven, fighting against the flow of panicked and injured people, there’d been a rumble in the earth, and an avalanche of snow and ice had slid from the side of the mountain, burying what was left of the village.

Burying her.

No.

Survivors had flowed past him, and he hadn’t moved, still staring at the smoke rising from Haven, until Cassandra, bringing up the rear guard, had grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him forward.

He does not remember much of the rest of the trek through the pass or the haphazard way they finally set up a camp. He sits by the fire, silent, staring into the white-hot heart of it. 

Brooding, are we? He can hear just how she would say it if she were here. He can picture the exact expression on her face, the lopsided curve of her teasing smile.

Conversations in hushed voices are all over the camp, thrumming with the questions that no one will speak aloud.

Where is the Herald of Andraste? What if she’s dead?

It lurks in the shadows of Leliana’s eyes and Cassandra’s tense, coiled pacing, the uncharacteristic gruffness of Cullen, the hollowness in Varric’s voice, and the tears Josephine keeps swiping away before they have a chance to fall.

He banishes those questions from his mind with brutal impatience. Even considering them for a moment sucks the air from his lungs until he cannot breathe. 

She is not dead. He would know. She is connected to the orb, to him, and the loss of a spirit like hers would leave a mark on this world tangible enough for him to feel.

Off in the darkness, his sharp ears pick out the distant song of wolves howling to each other, their voices layering together. Closing his eyes, he reaches for them with his mind, his magic, whatever he has left inside him after thousands of years of sleep. He would change his shape to match them, set out into the snow himself, but his powers are still rebuilding. He cannot reach deep enough to reclaim that form. 

Still, the wolf is his symbol and pride; let them be an extension of him now. 

Find her. Sing her home.

An hour creeps by. And another. Even the hushed whispers fall silent as despair sets in. He keeps his eyes closed as if he is meditating or resting, but he is miles away, moving, seeing the snow-packed mountains through a predator’s eyes, feeling the keening song in his throat as the wolf pack shadows her, urging her onward, nudging at her face and her arms when she stumbles, guiding her through the shrouded woods.

A sudden shout, jerking him back to his body in the center of camp. An outcry.

“There! It’s her!”

“Thank the Maker!”

A figure appears far up on the ridge, wavering and then collapsing into the snow.

***

Once again he sits beside her as she lays on a cot, unconscious. Once again, he feels suspended, a held breath, as he waits for her to wake. 

Come back to me. You did not survive the Conclave and the mark for me to lose you to this.

She had been injured in the avalanche — deep, internal injuries that didn’t show on the outside. That she’d sustained such wounds and still managed to push through blizzards and snow up to her thighs to make her way back to them was nothing short of a miracle. 

He has done all he can to help stabilize and heal her, despite the objections of the Chantry sisters who wanted him far away from their precious Herald. Cassandra had intervened and vouched for him, although Mother Giselle continues to watch him like a hawk. 

Let her. What they think of him means less than nothing right now. She is here, and she is still breathing, her heart still beating, and he will drain every last drop of magic in his body to keep it that way.

The camp of Haven survivors is in disarray. Angry. Scared. Grieving. The Inquisition leaders arguing amongst themselves. All of them looking often to the medical tent where the Herald lays.

Waiting, like he is. Except while he waits for the woman, they wait for the symbol. 

He needs her to wake so he can be certain the only spirit he has felt call to his own in thousands of years has not been extinguished. 

They need her to wake so she can be their figurehead once more. And that thought leaves a burning flame of anger, deep in his belly.

He has been a figurehead, a leader, a general pushing back against the chaos and treachery of others. It left deep fissures inside of him, chasms that will never fully heal no matter how many millennia he sleeps or how many wrongs he manages to turn right. He did not chose the name Dread Wolf, but he had become it all the same. Pressure did not always make diamonds; sometimes it just created monsters.

He will not let that happen to her. 

The moment she starts to stir, relief bursts within him. More than anything, he wants to be the first one she sees when she opens her eyes. He wants to be the one holding her hand, reassuring her that she’s safe. He wants to press his lips against her forehead and linger there, his face close to hers. The intensity of these desires swamp him; he cannot afford to examine them closer. So he quickly retreats from her bedside. Better to let someone else be there instead.

Instead, he stands and watches from the shadows as she slowly wakes and rises. He can hear, even from this distance, the conversation she has with Mother Giselle. The mother wants her to embrace the mantle of Herald of Andraste, to admit that some holy destiny must be involved to have delivered her from the edge of death. They want her to profess that she believes in the myth they are creating around her, but she rejects it, pushes back.   

“Whatever the rest of you say, I felt no divine aid at the Conclave or Haven.” She rises from her cot, her face drawn. She shouldn't be up yet. She needs more rest. “The struggle ahead seems mine alone.”

He wants to come down on these people like a storm. Can’t they see what they’re doing? That they are building a shape around her that will become her tomb? Either it will steal her breath and slowly suffocate her or she will fuse herself to it in order to survive and in so doing, lose all sense of her true self.

It doesn’t matter, in the end. Mother Giselle sings of shadows and long nights and coming dawn, and as the song spreads throughout the camp, the survivors kneel to her, their savior, their hero. 

He wonders if any of them are truly looking at her face — at the seeds of worry and exhaustion already blooming deep in her eyes. She is not buoyed by their awe and reverence; she is trapped by it. A Dalish elf, born into a world that has always despised her, suddenly shoved onto a towering pedestal and told how it is such an honor.

But no. None of them see that. They do not even see her at all. They are lost and mourning. They need hope, and she is the shape of that hope for them.

In the shadows on the edge of camp, he grips his staff tighter and clenches his jaw.

So be it. 

If she is to be their symbol, he will be her bulwark. A lee for her in the oncoming storm. A shelter from the deluge of expectations that threaten to weather her away. 

He will ensure she has a solid place to stand.

He will give her Skyhold. 

[lottiesnotebook]

hihi and welcome to dadwc!! how about "A shared dream summons people to the same place" for cassandra x adaar? - @heylavellan

@heylavellan Thank you for the welcome and for this delightful prompt! I've never written Cassandra before, so I hope you enjoy this little snippet of hurt/comfort about bad dreams and shared traumas.

@dadrunkwriting

Cassandra/Rheyah Adaar, set pre Here Lies The Abyss, pre-relationship, hurt/comfort

The Walls of Dreaming

For all her vague proximity to the Nevarran throne, Cassandra Pentaghast had never really imagined herself the chatelaine of some grand estate, or even the commander of her own castle. When she was a girl, she'd dreamed of becoming an itinerant hero, a dragonslayer and adventurer, like the Pentaghasts of old. When she'd become a woman… well, she'd been the Divine's own Right Hand since she was but nineteen, and to live and die at the Most Holy's command did not lend itself well to setting down roots anywhere.

But Skyhold was as close to her own as any place had ever been - far more hers than the Grand Necropolis - and while she had not enjoyed her endless childhood lessons in administering and managing such a keep, she was both sufficiently well-trained to understand the logistics of such an exercise and the only person with sufficient time and energy to take on the extra work. Rheyah - the Herald, she reminded herself, or the Inquisitor, it was not fitting that she should take such liberties - freely admitted she could not even begin to understand the logistics required, and happily left it in her hands. But neither her begrudging affection for Skyhold nor her- duty to the Inquisitor explained why, night after night, she found herself returning to the cells beneath the castle.

There were not often prisoners within them - Rheyah Adaar believed that justice should be both swift and, where possible, merciful - but even so, there was something reassuring in making sure that even the parts of the castle where the Inquisition's enemies were held remained clean, in good repair, and as comfortable as any part of the drafty castle remained. Part of it was duty - as someone claiming to act in Andraste's name, it was her place to ensure that even their enemies were treated humanely - but part of it ran deeper, drew her gaze to a locked door at the back of her mind that she'd sealed away long ago, and though she did not wish to open it, nor could she quite forget it was there, as long as these cells - and the prisoners within them - remained her charge.

"Trouble sleeping?" She had not realised she was not alone, not until the Inquisitor moved from her stool into a narrow shaft of moonlight to address her, but now her presence was impossible to ignore. With her stature, the silver of her hair, the burnished pewter of her skin, she might have been a statue of Andraste built to match the greatest of cathedrals for scale.

"Yes, my apologies, Inquisitor. I- did not intend to disturb you." For all that the Inquisitor was barely more than a girl, there was something about her gaze - practical, yes, but merciful too, forgiving as the Maker's own Bride - that made her stumble over her words, less the experienced commander she wished to be than a girl herself.

"You didn't," she smiled, and there it was again - that tenderness, that quiet softness for even one who needed softness as little as Cassandra did. The kind of gentleness that might have made a weaker woman lay her head against her knees and confess- what, exactly? She did not know. She had not opened that door in years. "Company's good, after a night of bad dreams, isn't it?"

"I- have not often found it so." To seek out another's company after a nightmare was a weakness, and one that had died in her when her brother did.

"I can leave, if you'd rather-"

"No!" The word came out too quick, too undisciplined - it embarrassed her. She tried again: "No, I- this is your keep. It would be presumptuous of me to banish you from any part of it."

"You could presume a lot of things, if you'd let yourself, Seeker Pentaghast," The smile playing about the Inquisitor's lips was playful now, almost teasing, and she did not like it - something about that particular smile always made her cheeks feel hot, her words emerge clumsy and ill-formed. It revealed all the flaws she took such care to bury, and then forgave them, "but I'd appreciate your company, if you'd offer it."

"As my lady Inquisitor commands." Easier to hide behind titles and formalities, to remind herself of the distance that ought to remain between them.

"Less a command, more a request," Rheyah corrected, but her smile broadened as Cassandra took a seat on the guard-bench beside her. "Thank you, I- appreciate it."

Something softened in her spine, then, and she let her head rest against Cassandra's shoulder - a surprising weight to it, with her crown of horns, the soft fall of her hair against her back. She kept it braided back, but long - an impractical vanity, in a mercenary mage, but one that fascinated Cassandra, who'd never permitted herself such things.

"I always find myself here, after a bad dream," she continued, voice soft and tentative, as if she was afraid Cassandra might rebuff her weakness. "It's- reassuring to know that even if they came true, it wouldn't be- it wouldn't be as bad as I imagine."

"As bad as you imagine?" Cassandra queried. "You are the Herald of Andraste. You have survived more impossible things than anyone I have ever met. What terrors can a cell hold for you?"

A soft little laugh that reverberated through her, that sparked a warmth in her chest she did not want to interrogate. "I could ask you the same question," she replied, "but I won't- I know you hate prying."

"I am the daughter of traitors," she said, simply, and could not explain why here, now, she could allow that door to slip open a crack. "Had I been older, I might have shared my parents' fate. As it was… they found a different sort of prison for me, and perhaps I should be grateful, but I have never quite managed it."

An understanding hum. "I grew up on the road, mostly," Rheyah said. "It's not the same, but- it's hard to sleep so far from the sky. I don't think I'd've thrived in the Grand Necropolis either."

She would not have, Cassandra knew it in her bones. Rheyah Adaar was a wildflower of a woman - setting her roots wherever she chose, growing wild and rampant and free beneath the sun. The weight of stones would have crushed her. Might be crushing her now, if she permitted anyone to see beyond her sweet smiles and eager assurances.

"Is that why you come down here?" she asked, "To face your fears?"

"Not exactly." A deep inhale, as if, though she's faced demons and dragons and monsters who were once human unshaken, this secret requires her to steel her courage. It should not warm Cassandra's heart, to be the recipient of such knowledge, the Herald's own confessor, but it sparks a private joy nonetheless. "I need to remember that even if- if everything went wrong, if this all came crumbling down and you realised- realised you were mistaken, that Andraste didn't choose me, that I'm no Herald or Inquisitor-"

"That is impossible," Cassandra interjected, attempting reassurance, but Rheyah continued over her:

"If you did realise you put all the power in Southern Thedas into the hands of a Tal-Vashoth mage who's never seen the inside of a Circle, and had no- no holy blessing to recommend her, if you decided I was a traitor and a threat-"

"I would never think such a thing-"

"But if you did," Rheyah continued, stubbornly, "I'd be comfortable down here, at least. I wouldn't be hurt, tortured- you wouldn't-" She swallowed, bit down hard on her lip, and she realised, with horror, with pity, that the other woman was near tears, and wrapped a tentative arm around her shoulders. "Even if you decided to execute me, or make me Tranquil-" The idea froze Cassandra's blood in her veins, "there are far more terrible prisons than this one, right?"

There was a desperate, pleading tremor in her voice, a plea for a promise Cassandra could not name and did not understand, but nonetheless, she tried to offer it. With difficulty - the chill of the cells had stiffened her joints - she moved to kneel at Rheyah's feet, taking both her hands like a knight swearing fealty to a queen, or a Chantry sister making her vows.

"Rheyah Adaar," she said, low and solemn, "even if the mark on your hand was the work of Corypheus himself, the good I have seen you put into the world is enough proof for me that Andraste chose you. If, one day, your enemies come to tear down your castle, to name you spy or traitor, I will not be among them. I will die in your defence before I see you imprisoned, or-" and here her own throat tightened, choked by remorse for what she had once been party to, "-made Tranquil."

Haloed by moonlight, she might as well have been Andraste herself - a silver-haired saint cut from shimmering stone - but for the fear in her eyes, the tremor in her voice. Had Andraste ever looked so fearful, before they dragged her out and burned her? The Chant did not record it, but Cassandra could well imagine it.

"You say that now," Rheyah said softly, with no condemnation, only that soft, sad sigh of a hurt already forgiven, "but you locked me up before, after the Conclave, when you thought I'd-" She trailed off, shook her head. "I know why you did it, and I know things have changed so much since then, but- I can't help wondering when it will all come crumbling down, this thing we've built. When I'll find myself back in that cell."

"Things have changed," Cassandra echoed, seeing in that simple phrase how far they'd come from that cell in Haven, and yet how much of Rheyah Adaar had remained there - everything she could not carry with her into Haven, everything that might have made her a threat or a target when they were still so unsure of her loyalties. Cassandra remembered that feeling well, how her bags had been packed for the Necropolis with nothing in her parents' colours, nothing that could tie her to them, "but your station is not the only difference between now and then. You have changed me, Rheyah Adaar, and I think it is for the better."

Rheyah's breath caught in her throat. "Don't say that," she warned, her voice still shaking but with a different emotion, "You'll give me ideas."

"Will the ideas be more pleasant company than nightmares?" Cassandra retorted, and to her relief, Rheyah smiled.

"Anything you give me could never be a nightmare," she said, and squeezed her hands, "and even if your parents were traitors to Nevarra, I would still thank them, for being the reason I have you."

[kirkwallguy]

You're the lead of Dragon Age and decided to make an Inquisition Remake. What would you do, add and fix from the original game

oh god. i meant to write a paragraph because i think about this a lot but it became a whole thing. beneath the cut because it's long

you don't even know how often i think about this. i have like several visions for a different dai in my head and they're all kind of messy and complicated in a way that would probably require more time and resources than they actually had but, if we're just talking hypotheticals...

since i'm biased towards the mage-templar conflict i'd definitely put it in the foreground towards the beginning. since it was the main threat at the end of da2, i don't think it should last the entire game as the main focus, but having it be similar to loghain or the arishok in the way it feels like the big bad until the end of act 2 would work well. and starting as a soldier in the war would be a good way of grounding players in the conflict.

it would've been really fun to have an origins-style selection screen at the beginning of the game that lets you choose your 'side', different lineages can have different reasons for being there (a dwarf siding with the templars could be sent by the carta to set up a lyrium trade) but having two distinct openings to the game isn't TOO ambitious considering they had 5 in origins. then you'd go through a unique extended tutorial where you establish who you are and fight to reclaim haven as a base.

act one could be similar to dai and pretty much the same for both origins, you run around maps (smaller than dai tho lol) doing quests to aid people and gain notoriety. through reclaiming haven you've become second in command of your little corner of the rebellion. you recruit companions but maybe some are harder to recruit depending on your faction (think: having to do a quest to recruit arcade gannon in fnv, but if you're gay or stupid you can skip it). ofc to get that warrior/rogue/mage balance there could be a few people that are automatically unlocked by claiming haven, and it'd be fun if there was one companion from the tutorial who was exclusive to your origin.

then you have a main quest that gains the inquisition's attention (in the place of cotj/ihw) causing them to come to shut you down (in your heart shall burn). this introduces the herald of andraste (who doesn't have the mark but is still claiming andraste speaks to them in a joan of arc kind of way) and their army. it would be so fun if the core members of the inquisition were the same, varric, cass, leliana, cullen, all recurring characters who are now vague antagonists because they've all been pulled into this cult for some reason or another.

the inquisition is stronger than you and you retreat to your 'skyhold', but instead of skyhold it's actually a big fancy camp. then ofc in dai there's probably another 100 hours left in the game lol so i'd knock like 50 hours off that and keep side quests relevant like they did in da2. for main story quests, instead of here lies the abyss, i'd go for a deep roads quest (maybe with hawke?) to investigate the red lyrium, with the other faction starting to experiment with it and suffering its effects. then instead of wicked eyes it would be fun to do a similar quest but with a conclave, where you interact with the leader of the other faction and divine justinia gets assassinated (not exploded, just like stabbed a little bit). it's probably the inquisition doing the assassinating but they seemed to be with the divine sooooo???

end of act 2 is you going to make a move against the other faction because their use of red lyrium has left them vulnerable. your commander sends you off and you do a big infiltration battle in their base and yaaay you win. except the quest isn't over. and you go back to your camp to find the inquisition has invaded and your commander is dead. since you're second in command it's up to you to decide what to do, the inquisition has you by the throat and it's basically a choice between joining willingly or being conscripted. maybe you even only get the choice to join willingly if you've earned the herald's approval in previous quests idk. either way you and your companions / remaining troops are moved to skyhold.

act 3 is harder because i rarely get this far in dai lol. without the threat of cory it's kind of hard to see what the inquisition would be fighting for but if the herald becomes a kind of meredith parallel and wants to 'restore order' in a way that's becoming increasingly worrying, bordering on wanting to invade tevinter because the northern chantry are heretics, it would be fun if you were basically leashed and forced to do missions you don't want to do or feel good about at this point. again, kind of similar to killing the blood mages for meredith but intentional this time. you and your companions / people from your army (because i'm thinking there'd be an advisor or two. maybe the exclusive companion from the other faction's origin could be recruited in the previous quest as a prisoner somehow), start conspiring against the inquisitor. you get one or two people (maybe varric and leliana?) on your side and go searching through the inquisitor's things and find a map of the deep roads with an entrance hidden beneath skyhold. you all go down there and get the same lore as the descent dlc, but also find some red lyrium that speaks to you and promises not to hurt you because you're soooooo special and it can give you the power to do what you need to do. um. this is your well choice and you can choose to either take it or leave it. you know deep down that can't beat the herald without it but taking it will start giving you hallucinations/visions and it's obviously not a good idea.

back in skyhold you can tell things are gearing up for the final battle, you're getting the conclusions to companion quests and the sidequests are drying up. i'd really want to replicate that tense desperation you start feeling towards the end of da2 that imo was mostly just an accident since they ran out of time during act 3. it still hits tho.

it would be kind of cheap to have two final antagonists in a row be red lyrium crazed, so i think the herald here is just a product of the chantry. they're obviously getting more and more antsy about the northern chantry and you find out they're going to meet with a major tevinter leader, probably not the divine, but a magister powerful enough that you don't trust the herald to not do something that starts a war. if you took the red lyrium from the deep roads you get a final choice to either use it or leave it.

half way through the meeting with the tevinter person, the inquisitor starts acting suspiciously. if you left the red lyrium in the deep roads you just get a sense that something's wrong, if you took it from the deep roads but didn't use it you can hear the inquisitor's thoughts and know exactly what's about to happen but know you can't reach the inquisitor in time to stop them, if you used it you know what's about to happen AND can use your power to stop it (at the cost of your own life probably). either way, the assassination/attempted assassination starts a giant final battle as skyhold burns and you fight your way out. the herald dies but there are a few people still loyal to the inquisition who want to fight you

if you took the lyrium you die, if you didn't you're a fugitive or apostate who may have just started a war between the two chantries yaaay.

sorry this is so long i've been having little bits and pieces in my mind for ages and have wanted to sort through them by writing it down lol. the overarching story isn't too hard tbh, what makes da2 good is the side quests all being thematically coherent and i'm too lazy to do side quests rn.

[cassiaorsellio]

arthur doesn't specialise in a particular element when it comes to defending himself - a lot of his magic and his attitude towards his magic use is based in preserving life rather than destroying it. a lot of his power, even with the anchor acting as a more powerful conduit for his magic, comes from his supportive capabilities. but he gets pigeon-holed into fire while with the inquisition. the holy flame, representative of the flames that burned andraste, and he absolutely hates that that's what it's come to represent: something destructive, a punishment for the non-believers and the enemies of the inquisition.

he's always viewed primal magic (as it's called in origins; i like using those schools of magic) as a potential supportive force rather than something wholly destructive: flames can be used to cauterise a wound to stop bleeding or infection, or even help with hypothermia. ice can be used to reduce muscle pain and spasms, bleeding, and inflammation. and storm magic, he's found, can sometimes be used to reset a heart's abnormal rhythms to be normal again (like a built in defibrillator, i guess?)

if he needed to defend himself, that's what the spirit blade is for if they do somehow get past his frontline (blackwall and bull) to him. spin that as the blade of mercy if they must - he knew him going through knight-enchanter training would show southern thedas that he has finally accepted the burden of command (though ultimately he took it because he knew he could enhance his capabilities as a frontline healer), but leave what he views as part of his treatments out of it.

i think being w/ the inquisition actually made him come to resent or even hate his magic more than being in the circle or being around his family did. in the circle, at least, he was among his peers and his magic was respected for what it was: they were the right tools for an extremely talented and dedicated healer. and while he always felt like the black sheep of the trevelyans because of his magic, in time they came to acknowledge and respect his path as a spirit healer vs. say, learning purely destructive magics - he had found a purpose that he was thriving in and it was a respectable calling.

but the inquisition? because the anchor ends up being a conduit for his magic - it's on his dominant casting hand - and because his entire identity is swallowed up in favour of being the herald and the inquisitor, that included the magic and the spirit he'd bonded with. his magic became seen as ~a gift from the maker, representative of andraste~ and he despised it. his healing capabilities being seen as evidence of his sanctity and his spirit being considered to be andraste guiding him (yeah......) — no wonder that he stops using magic for the most part post-trespasser unless it's what he needs to use in order to keep compassion's purpose fulfilled so neither of them become corrupted.