#all that just to i don’t know hope it makes the tevinters drop their guard?

[vigilskeep]

if lucanis did fake his death in a normal, non-supernatural way, the funniest answer is that illario was in on it the whole time and he decided the way to sell his cousin being dead was to get completely wasted and make it multiple other crows’ problem and also make it lucanis’ problem by telling everyone abt his childhood wyvern obsession

[5lazarus]

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.

Read on AO3 here.

They were drinking and it wasn’t going well. Hawke had already left, pissed off at Fenris’ rant about the Viscount’s complicity with the Tevinter slave trade, as if any of them could do anything about it, and Fenris was sulking in the corner by himself. Donnic was slumped in his chair, hand loosely wrapped around a dirty glass of whiskey. All glasses Norah gave him were dirty. She didn’t like guards much. Varric kept talking hopelessly, trying to improve the mood of the party, but even retelling the story about Bartrand’s aborted wedding failed to provoke hilarity. Anders continued to glare, eyes glinting slightly, and kept drinking. He was blatantly ignoring him. At least Donnic tried to grunt at the appropriate parts, and Varric had long since given up at getting Fenris to rejoin their table. Varric stopped himself and decided a new tactic was in order. Baiting Anders was always worth a laugh, so he pointed his chin at him and snapped his fingers in front of his eyes to get his attention. “Blondie, what’s up? What’s with all the sighing and the glaring and the doom and gloom? Templar step on your tail?”

Anders drew himself up in his chair. “I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” He took Donnic’s glass from him. Donnic blinked at him and blearily protested, but Anders drank it regardless. Varric was amused. He was pretty sure Norah spat in that. “Right. The sighing? The templar? Or the tail? You’ll have to be specific.” Varric wasn’t in the mood to be easygoing anymore--he’d been trying to cheer them up all night, and they could at least return with a story. “Evelina,” he says. “Huon. I knew them, you know. And they were better than what became of them. They weren’t-- blood mages . They were desperate! They were scared. They missed their families. They deserved help , not Tranquility. Not death. Not the templars. They deserved more . So, I guess you’re right.” He stares at his empty drink bitterly. “‘Templar step on your tail’--what haven’t they stepped on?” Varric is only temporarily speechless. Anders never has anything good to say, he shouldn’t have asked, at least not without Isabela gone, she could normally get him to laugh.  Varric personally thinks the ending is a little too depressing, he gets tired of the constant misery of the mages--and the templars made her Tranquil because she was going to turn into an abomination, she was already using blood magic. He’ll have to write it cleaner than it happened, because yet another Tranquil blood magic lacked the tragic punch. Varric says, “Well, shit. That’s crazy. That’s how it goes sometimes.” “ All the time,” Anders hisses, and reaches for Varric’s drink. Varric stops his hand warily. “Buy your own,” Varric said. “This round’s on you.” Anders, unimpressed, gets up and goes to the bar. Donnic raises his head, tired. “Careful,” he says. “Don’t bait him too much.” Varric snorts. “Or else? I get a fireball to the face?” Donnic says, “No. You can only push someone so far before they break.” He drops a couple coins on the table. “Get your last round on me.” He leaves, stumbling only slightly, and Varric marvels at his perspicacity. Donnic does like his one-liners--the man’s so anodyne, he has to spice him up when he finishes Hard in Hightown . Aveline already forbade him from writing about anything interesting, since her investigations into the corruption of the guard were still ongoing. He shakes his head at the exit. Donnic, what would they all do without Donnic? Live exactly the same as they did without him--and for that blessed quality of irrelevance, he has to write a story about him. Anders returns to the table and sets down his whiskey. Varric squints at him. “You sure you should be drinking that?” he says. “Don’t want Justice taking control.” “You were laughing,” Anders says. “What were you laughing about?” Varric sighs. He gets that watching what happened to those Circle mages bothered him, it bothered him too, but Varric knows all too well that sometimes you just have to breathe and let it pass, because there’s no use obsessing over the past. He glances at his crossbow, which he had given its own chair: perhaps he’s a hypocrite. He’s a lot of things--but he’s not paranoid, and he doesn’t want to deal with this. Varric says, “Oh, you know, everything. Donnic. You. The same old stories shaking out the same. You and me bristling over a drink. What to talk about between disasters. The usual shtick.” Anders drops into his chair suddenly, so fast Varric reaches for Bianca. “Oh,” he says. “So glad you can find the humor in it. I guess it’s easy to laugh when you’re not in it.” Varric scowls. “Not in it? Blondie, I live here.” He gestures grandly, to try and take the sting out of his tone. “Don’t be obtuse,” Anders says. “You know what I mean.” “I know I’ve lived here longer than you,” Varric says testily. “Not getting nativist. But I know this city’s problems. Been stuck in the muck of it longer than you have, Blondie. By a good thirty years.” Anders’ eyes flash, Justice peeking through. He snaps,“That is not what I mean and you are deliberately misunderstanding me.” Varric raises a hand wearily, glancing to see who has taken notice. A few apostates in the corner are watching, but they’re friendly with the Mage Underground, so that’s fine. Fenris looks up, eyes narrow, but Varric shakes his head at him. Anders isn’t going to blow up in public, at least not tonight. He’s prone to picking fights, but Varric’s not going to fall for it. “Sure,” Varric says. “Tell me what I’m deliberately misunderstanding.” Anders flashes, “Don’t patronize me.” “Okay,” he says. “I’m not. Sorry.” He reaches for Anders’ drink. He really doesn’t need more liquor in him, and Varric’s got money and the influence that comes with money, but not even the Merchants’ Guild can bribe Meredith to look the other way if Anders goes on a Justice-rampage in the middle of the Hanged Man. Donnic is at least gone--they’ve put him and Aveline in enough difficult spots, lately. Sometimes Varric wonders if Hawke realizes how stressful it is, being their friend. Varric grimaces and sips at the whiskey. It’s alright for what it is. He’s fine with it. Anders says, “You don’t know what it’s like, to be hunted. For people to want to-- lobotomize you, just for existing. That people think there’s something fundamentally evil about you, just because you--see things and feel things!” His voice breaks, and he says raggedly, “The Maker made me this way, Varric. He made us like this. Don’t tell me you know what it’s like. To be made to be punished.” Varric says, “Well, shit. You are drunk. Let’s get you out of here.” “Fuck you,” Anders says. “Really, from the bottom of my heart. Fuck you.” Varric scowls. “Cool it, mage. I get you’re upset about your friends being Tranquil, and yeah, it sucks, but what did you think was going to happen? They ran away from Meredith , they were dealing with demons, and that Huon guy put the whole alienage in danger, coming back to his wife. It was fucked up. You gotta admit that.” “That his family loved him and wanted him safe?” Anders says. “What’s so fucked up about that? You think Nyssa wasn’t elated when he came back? She’d been smuggling--” He stops himself, and Varric realizes that there is a story there, there is something he’s not saying, there is something he probably shouldn’t know. “But sure, think what you like. Write it whatever way that makes you happy. Crazed blood mage beating his wife. Clinging Ferelden refugee selfishly taking care of two orphans. Compassion’s just a despair demon, after all. Hope is really just pride. And Justice? That’s just vengeance. As we don’t deserve any recompense. No, forgive and forget, that’s what you want. Reconciliation. Compromise by surrendering all of our rights.” Varric says, “What the fuck is your problem? I haven’t said any of that shit. I have been nothing but a friend to you. Sure, I think you’re crazy. Bit of an asshole too, and I don’t even pretend to get that Fade shit you got going on with Justice. But you do good work in Darktown and you don’t get in the way of my business, and that’s fine for Kirkwall. I want what’s good for Kirkwall. I don’t get what you mean by ‘compromise,’ forgiving and forgetting. I just want the job fucking done. And your job--you take care of the refugees. No one else does that. You take care of Hawke and keep the rest of us patched up. That’s nice too. But get out of my face with this pity-me bullshit.” He says that, and realizes that perhaps he is drunk too: well, shit. He tries to roll it back. “Let’s get you back to the clinic, you’re drunk.” Anders says, “And you’re not?” Varric says, “Your point?” Anders settles back in his chair and crosses his arms. Justice has left his eyes now, and he smiles grimly at him. “No fucking need. You made it for me.” Varric stares at him and considers violence, considers stomping all the way to Hightown and shaking Hawke for sticking him with this mule disguised as a man. He throws his hands. “Right! So glad to help.” He shakes his head. “You’re impossible, do you know that? Fucking impossible sometimes.” “Yeah,” Anders says. “So I’ve been told.”

[the-red-jenny]

“Tell me you don’t care.”

“I can’t”

“Tell me that I was just some casual dalliance so I can call you a cold hearted son of a bitch and move on”

- - - -

Even in his dreams, he could hear her words echo through him. He could feel her hurt and sorrow, as well as own. Fendhis, he muttered. Begrudgingly, he opened his eyes and looked around to see the soft glow of the torches in his room. He had fallen asleep at his desk again. He shifted and was surprised to feel a blanket draped over his shoulders. She had been here he thought to himself. He let out a long sigh.

It had been only a few weeks since he left his heart in Crestwood, for fear of what would happen if he didn’t. He couldn’t let his heart rule his head. He couldn’t forsake the hundreds of thousands of lives on his shoulders. There was too much at stake. How could he justify being happy when it was his fault things were this way? He had to fix it, no matter what it cost him.

Solas had been trying to be respectful in those days following Crestwood, but he still felt her eyes lingering on him whenever she passed him by. He had heard her being comforted by Dorian, and Leliana, and ... the Commander. He could feel the unspoken words in the air.

How could you?

He was a traitor once again. He knew he deserved all of it.

Of course, he still stole glimpses of her smile when she spoke to everyone else, but him. The gleam of joy in her eyes when she beat Varric at Wicked Grace or mastered a new technique in the courtyard never failed to leave him breathless. It was enough, he thought, to see her happy from afar. It was all he was allowed to have.

He was stunned on the day she cut off her hair. Her dark, charcoal hair had been long enough to caress the arch of her back, but was now barely grazing her chin. She was still as beautiful as ever, but when let his eyes rest on hers, and saw her staring back, he quickly retreated into his study.

After that, he couldn’t understand why she still asked him to accompany her on missions. He supposed it was good to keep someone with an extensive knowledge of healing spells handy, but she never spoke to him. Instead, she threw herself into every battle, twice as hard as she ever did before. The grace he had once complimented her on was now being used to swiftly and brutally cut down each enemy in her path, without a care for her own safety.

Was this his punishment? To heal every wound she took upon herself because of her anger?

The roar of a Hurlock Alpha quickly snapped him back to attention. The creature’s talons tore into his back, leaving several deep gashes. Solas quickly realized he had run out of mana and Lyrium potions, and cursed at himself for being so careless. Solas quickly cast Barrier, praying it would be enough for him to last long enough to see this fight through.

“Solas needs help!” He heard the Inquisitor yell. Even with the gashes in his back, he still felt his chest ache hearing her call his name. She quickly lept in front of him driving her daggers deep into the neck of the Darkspawn. With one last terrible cry, the creature fell dead on the floor.

Solas looked at the Inquisitor, bathed in Darkspawn blood and ichor. Gods, she was beautiful, he thought. Her breaths were heavy as she wrenched her blades free. He could feel the chill in the air as she passed him by. He wondered briefly if she regretted saving him.

“Good one, Boss!” Iron Bull exclaimed. The Qunari then handed Cora a health potion and turned his attention to his Tevinter companion. “Whaddaya think, Dorian? We’re ready to take on a dragon!”

“Take on a Dragon? Oh, no. If it's all the same to you, I’d rather take on a bath.”

Cora smiled at the two, clearly more than just friends. It was nice to see something good come of this, even now. She turned her attention to Solas, who was leaning a bit on his staff. He quickly turned his attention to his feet, not wanting to meet her gaze. He could hear her footsteps approaching him, and he braced himself for what he was sure was going to sting.

“Take this, Solas”

He looked up to see her offering the health potion to him. He wanted to respond, do anything other than just stare. He felt his legs fail him and he fell to his knees, still gripping onto his staff.

“Solas!” Cora exclaimed. Her voice wracked with worry. He felt Cora’s hands along the gashes in his back, carefully inspecting the wounds. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks with shame, as he chastised himself for even considering the idea that she would be any different. She was who she was, no matter the circumstance. It’s what he loved about her. She surprised him, even now.

“I’m alright, Inquisitor. The beast caught me off guard, and I ran out of Lyrium.” Solas explained “It won’t happen again in the future.”

“Its okay to rely on me in the future, Solas.” Cora pleaded. He could feel her hesitate behind him. “You still owe me an explanation when this is over, but I would never just abandon you. Can you please-”

“I shall keep that in mind, Vhen... Inquisitor.” Solas could bear no more and quickly got to his feet. Every step forward was more difficult than the last, but he endured. He must.

They walked in silence back to camp, and offered each other no more than a glance on the way back to Skyhold. After getting his wounds looked at by a healer, he made his way back to his part of the castle, hoping to disappear into some research.

Not long after another unsuccessful attempt at translating writings from an ancient Thaig, his door opened. Cora walked briskly through his study, towards the door leading to the barracks. To the Commander. She seemed... happy. Solas frowned. He had noticed that she frequented his office more recently than in the past, but he hadn’t considered why. Solas could feel the anger, like a pit in his stomach. He knew it was wrong, but couldn't stop himself before he spoke. “Cullen isn’t in his Quarters.”

Cora stopped in her tracks. “What?”

Solas cleared his throat, “I just assumed that's where you were headed since his is the only door in that direction. I thought I would save you the effort.”

A bemused smile spread across her face “Save me my effort for what, Solas?”

“I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to.”

Cora scoffed and walked back towards his study door. She muttered something he didn’t quite catch under her breath. From the inflection, he could tell it wasn’t positive. She took a moment before she spoke. “You lost the right to interfere with whom I speak to when you left me. You can’t expect me to wait until you decide I deserve to know why.”

“I didn’t expect you to wait, but I expected it not so be done so blatantly and without regard for-“

“You feelings?” Cora cut him off. “I was desperate to hear yours, and now that I’m not begging for it, it's an issue? Enlighten me, Solas. What would you have me do? Do you get off on me miserable and moping around Skyhold? Is that it? Cullen at least is honest with his emotions. I don’t have to wonder if he enjoys my presence, because he says so! I don’t have to plead for him to tell me the truth...”

Solas stood in stunned silence. Everything that he wanted to say and everything she wanted required more of the truth. The damned truth that she shouldn’t be responsible for. He had to get her to drop this. He took a deep breath.

“Cora, if I believed you wanted me to play the part of a cold hearted fiend so desperately, I would have made more of an effort. I expected that our time together meant more than what the Commander could provide quick comforts for. It seems I was mistaken. Now, unless you have any questions about Coreypheus, we should focus on the task at hand.”

Shocked at the amount of venom in his voice, he turned away from her. He was afraid of letting anything else slip, or worse, that his resolve would crumble if he saw her expression. He could feel the hurt and anger radiating from her like waves. He wondered if she would yell, or cry, or hit him. He wanted her to. It would be better than the silence. Instead, he heard her let out a long sigh.

“Everyone makes mistakes.” Cora said softly. “Don’t make this one again.”

She shut the door firmly behind her. Slowly, Solas slumped in his chair. From above he could hear Dorian whistle in surprise. He lamented at the lack of privacy the rotunda allowed. The whole of Skyhold would know about it within the hour, he was sure. He supposed it was his punishment for putting them both in this position. He would make everything right, when this was done. He just wasn’t sure how.

[jawsofhakkontranscript]

On Ameridan's Trail

(Previous quest - What Yet Lingers: Return to Kenric)

Main questline: On Ameridan’s Trail

Characters involved: Bram Kenric, Lace Harding

A spirit - in the guise of Inquisitor Ameridan's lover, Telana - revealed that Ameridan travelled upriver.

Part 1: Follow the river and look for spires. Follow the spire path to an ancient ruin.

(The Tevinter ruin can be seen in the distance.)

Party comments:

Varric: Well, we're up the river. That old Tevinter building must be what the spirit meant.

Sera: So. River, metal—just like the friendly spirit said. Great.

Cole: Yes. Upriver, spires, a place to pray and plan, one last night. This is it.

Solas: This must be the area the spirit referred to.

(Approach the ruin. It’s guarded by a large group of Hakkonites.)

Party comments:

Dorian: It seems the Jaws of Hakkon would rather we weren’t here.

Blackwall: Look's like we've stumbled on what they don't want found.

Cassandra: The Jaws of Hakkon must be guarding this place for a reason.

Iron Bull: We found something they don't want found.

(Defeat the Hakkonites and enter Razikale’s Reach.)

(Dorian has a unique comment about each Tevinter ruin. Here’s what he has to say about Razikale’s Reach.)

Dorian: Makes you wonder about the sad, mid-level bureaucrat who thought building an outpost here would be a career boost.

Part 2: Wait for Harding and Kenric to arrive. Investigate the area.

Kenric: This is brilliant! This must be what the spirit meant. Excellent find! From what I can see, this is an ancillary station, likely a scouting post for the larger structure to the east. What can it tell us about where Inquisitor Ameridan went? Hmm…

Harding: I got Professor Kenric here safely. The rest is up to you.

Kenric: Lady Harding was quite nimble in the wilderness!

Harding: I'll be watching to make sure the Hakkonites don't come back.

(Enter the main courtyard. There are strange tiles on the ground.)

Kenric: This is Tevinter, from well before the last Inquisitor's time. I understand they used such tiles as locks. Interesting, though not likely related to Ameridan.

(There are two closed doors on your right and left. In front of each door, there’s a smaller tileset, similar to the one in the center of the courtyard. They show two patterns.)

Kenric: I believe that shape relates to the tiles. If you could replicate the shape in the tiles, something... would happen?

(Once you press the tiles in the correct order, replicating the pattern visible in the smaller tileset, the corresponding doors open. Kenric has an additional remark after both doors have been opened.)

Kenric: Brilliant! Look at that!

(The following remarks appear to have been cut from the game, but they can still be found in the voice file connected to this questline. They might’ve been intended to occur during the investigation of the outskirts of Razikale’s Reach.)

* Kenric: Hmm, Dalish. Of course, modern clans often carry heirlooms—it may be from a Dalish clan passing through.

* Kenric: I've heard of such illuminations but only encountered drawings. Elven or the common tongue? It's not quite legible.

* Kenric: An Orlesian buckle. Unlikely to have been dropped by ancient Tevinters, wouldn't you say?

PC: Is this useful?

Kenric: (Laughs.) Merely interesting.

PC: That's... good?

(Continue exploring the ruin. One of the chambers is guarded by a magical barrier.)

Part 3: Find a way to take down the barrier.

(Investigate the inscription on the left side of the barrier.)

Kenric: This is elven. I believe it's the word for "light."

(Investigate the inscription on the right side of the barrier.)

Kenric: "Theneras." The elven word for "dream," I think.

Kenric: It's some sort of clue to this barrier. I'm not sure how…

(Find a veilfire source on the battlements. Use it to dispel the barrier.)

Part 4: Explore the chamber.

Kenric: Oh, well done. Well done, indeed.

Harding: That's something you don't see every day.

Kenric: A pair of shrines. This one is clearly Andrastian, albeit from a very early period, likely pre-Divine. But this is elven. One of their gods. Um, what was it...? "Every mother finds druffalo among sleeping juniper groves..." G-something, the one with the deer.

[1] Dialogue options:

Investigate: Every mother finds what? [2]

Special: That sentence is incomplete. [3] (Becomes available after following the dialogue branch [2] “Every mother finds what?”)

Elf: Ghilan'nain. [4]

History: Ghilan'nain. [5]

Special: Solas? [6]

Special: Sera? [7]

General: Focus, Kenric. [8]

[2] Investigate: Every mother finds what?

PC: What was that, every mother finds druffalo?

Kenric: Oh, it's, um, a memory aid to help me with the names of the elven gods. "Every" is Elgar'nan, "mother" is Mythal, "finds" is Fallow-something… (Coughs.) I was more focused on early Chantry history. I didn't really do elves. [Back to 1]

[3] Special: That sentence is incomplete.

PC: Are you sure that your memory aid caught all the elven gods?

Kenric: Well, there's only one "F", for Falon'Din. I suppose I forgot Fen'Harel.

(If Solas is in the party.) Solas: Most people do.

Kenric: This isn't him, though. It's one of the ladies, ah, obviously. G-something… [Back to 1]

[4] Elf: Ghilan'nain.

PC: That would be Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla. [9]

[5] History: Ghilan'nain.

PC: That would be Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla. [9]

[6] Special: Solas?

PC: (Looks expectantly at Solas.)

Solas: (Sighs.) Ghilan'nain. [9]

[7] Special: Sera?

PC: Sera, I don't suppose...?

Sera: I know things. It's Ghilan'nain. Ghilan'nain. Arse. [9]

[8] General: Focus, Kenric.

PC: Unless the deer points us at the final resting place of Inquisitor Ameridan, we can probably leave it for now.

Kenric: Right. Regardless of the deity, this is clearly elven. [Go straight to 10]

[9] Kenric: Yes, brilliant, thank you! That would have bothered me all day. [10]

[10] Harding: Two shrines for two lovers: Inquisitor Ameridan and Telana. Maybe Telana was an elf.

Kenric: Oh, yes, that's good! The Chantry expunged references to elves before the Exalted March on the Dales. They erased the Canticle of Shartan. They must have done the same to Telana. [11]

[11] Dialogue options:

General: That's offensive. [12]

General: That's normal. [13]

General: Is this where Ameridan died? [14]

[12] General: That's offensive.

PC: The Chantry should not rewrite history to cover up inconvenient truths.

Party comments:

Cassandra: Agreed. The Chant of Light should spread the truth, not suppress it.

Kenric: Regardless, the important thing is what this tells us. It's not a burial site, that much is obvious. [15]

[13] General: That's normal.

PC: It's only natural. History is written by the victor, after all.

Party comments:

Cassandra: Natural, perhaps. But not right.

Kenric: Regardless, the important thing is what this tells us. It's not a burial site, that much is obvious. [15]

[14] General: Is this where Ameridan died?

PC: Do you think this is where Ameridan died?

Kenric: No, this was a site of preparation, not burial. Ameridan and Telana put up this shrine together. [15]

[15] Harding: Look at those flowers. They're not native to the area. What if they were left at the shrine as an offering?

Kenric: Yes, a night of prayer before battle against the dragon. But then where, where… We're missing something. What are we missing? Where did you go?

Part 5: Look for more clues.

(Activate one of the veilfire runes in the chamber.)

PC: Professor, look at this: "Shartan 10:7" and "Transfigurations 10:1."

Kenric: Shartan is dissonant: "And before them, empty, outstretched lay the land which led to the gates of Minrathous." And Transfigurations is, "The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world." Why these verses? Why would Inquisitor Ameridan take the time to carve this before going into battle?

(Activate the other veilfire rune.)

PC: "The gates of Minrathous." Isn't there a Tevinter fortress in the area?

Kenric: Yes? ...Oh, of course, the ritual site! To seal the dragon away, Ameridan's elven mage must have used a spell, at a site of great power!

Harding: My scouts have checked the fortress. It's sealed behind a wall of ice. It has to be magic.

PC: Let's look around. Ameridan found a way through that ice, so that way should be nearby.

Part 6: Activate a trail marker.

PC: "The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next."

Kenric: Brilliant! When the Imperium abandoned this fortress, they left the wall of ice to—to... lock the door behind them?

Harding: And every lock has a key.

Kenric: Like these trail markers. Ameridan must have known how to use them. If they can melt through the ice, that must be where Ameridan sealed away the dragon.

PC: I'll follow the markers and see what we can find.

Part 7: Light all of the trail markers.

(Leave the temple and follow the trail of light across the Frostback Basin.)

Party comments when you activate the first trail marker in the forest:

First comment:

Cassandra: Are we certain these trail markers will burn through this wall of ice around the fortress?

Blackwall: Let's hope these trail markers can breach the wall of ice around the fortress.

Iron Bull: We sure these things will burn through the magical ice?

(If no companion makes a comment here.)

PC: Hopefully this removes the wall of ice around the Tevinter fortress.

Possible second comment:

Dorian: As long as the trail markers are still functional, we should be fine.

Vivienne: At least the trail markers appear to be functional.

Solas: Given that the trail markers retain enough energy to illuminate one another, I see no reason to worry.

Possible third comment:

Sera: No ice, still a wall. What about that?

Cole: But there's still a wall. Light doesn't make walls go away.

Varric: You think these things will get us through that giant fortress wall?

(After activating the third marker, you’ll have to cross the river by foot, which causes your companions to voice their dissatisfaction.)

Party comments:

Sera: Ugh, water everywhere. Everything is dank and chafy.

Dorian: Are we wading now? I'm so glad I came along.

Vivienne: It appears we shall be reduced to wading. Lovely.

Iron Bull: Looks like we're wading.

(If Varric is in the party, he always speaks at the end.) Varric: I don't know what you're complaining about. You're taller than I am.

(The path from the sixth to seventh trail marker is destroyed, so you’ll have to take a detour.)

Party comments:

Sera: The road is not a road anymore. Find another way, yeah?

Varric: 800 years is a long time to expect a path to stay pristine. We'll have to find another way.

Iron Bull: Rockslide took out the path. We'll have to go around.

Cassandra: The path is gone. We must find another way around.

Solas: The path has been destroyed. We will need to find another way.

Blackwall: With the path destroyed, we'll have to find another way around.

(Activate the ninth trail marker - one before the last.)

Party comments:

Cassandra: We are almost to the fortress.

Iron Bull: Not far to that old Vint fortress now.

Blackwall: That Tevinter fortress shouldn't be much further.

(The trail markers lead to the Old Temple where the Jaws of Hakkon burrowed in.)

(Dorian has a unique comment about each Tevinter ruin. Here’s what he has to say about the Old Temple.)

Dorian: Tevinter architecture at its finest. This just screams "I hated my parents and had no friends as a child," doesn't it?

(Activate the last marker and dissolve the magical wall of ice. You may attempt to attack the Hakkonites defending the battlements, but they’ll just keep coming and one of the male Hakkonites will mock your efforts.)

Hakkonite taunts:

Your gods are weak, Inquisitor! You will see the power of Hakkon when we destroy the lowlands! Can your lowland magic melt stone as well as ice?

Will you stay and wait, lowland fools? The walls are stone. They will not melt! (Laughs.)

The Jaws of Hakkon can hold this fortress until the winter snaps your bones!

The Jaws of Hakkon will bring death to you all!

Will you bring an army to breach these walls? We will destroy you all!

Your mother was a nug and your father smelled of elfroot!

Party comments:

Solas: This fortress is too well-fortified for a direct assault! We must find some other way inside! Perhaps Kenric will have a suggestion! (Or) Perhaps the Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold will have a suggestion!

Dorian: I don't see us breaching these walls. Could we try something else? Perhaps Kenric will have a suggestion! (Or) Perhaps our new friends at Stone-Bear Hold will have some ideas!

Cassandra: The fortress is too well-defended! We must find another way in! Perhaps Kenric will have some idea! (Or) The Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold may have ideas!

Blackwall: We cannot take this fortress in a direct assault. We must find another way! Perhaps Kenric will know something! (Or) The Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold have no love for these Hakkonites! They may have an idea!

Sera: Up the front isn't working. Find a different hole! (Laughs) I hate other people's arrows! Tell Kenric this won't work! (Or) We need friends! The Stone-Bears hate this lot—get them!

Varric: I don't think we're taking this fortress with a direct assault! Can we talk about it with Kenric maybe, somewhere we aren't being shot at? (Or) Anybody got a better idea? The Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold might have some ideas!

Iron Bull: No way we take this place by force! We need another plan! Maybe Kenric can tell us something! (Or) What about Stone-Bear Hold? Anybody can get in, it'll be them!

Cole: Too strong, too many! We need a different way! Kenric sent us here! He can send us somewhere else! (Or) The Avvar at Stone-Bear Hold! They want to help!

Vivienne: We are ill-equipped for a siege, my dear! Perhaps a change of tactics? Perhaps Kenric will have a suggestion! (Or) Our new friends at Stone-Bear Hold may be of some use!

(In case you have come across the Old Temple prior to this questline, you’ll still find it protected by a wall of ice, but with no clues how to dispel it, so you might hear some comments from your companions.)

Party comments:

Dorian: A wall of ice. Lovely. I don't see any way through for now.

Sera: Well. Not your normal... giant wall of ice. Maybe leave it alone?

Solas: This wall is magical in nature. Curious, though I see no way through at the moment.

Vivienne: This is obviously magical, and just as obviously impassable for now.

(Report back to Kenric after you took care of the ice-wall.)

General: I disabled the fortress wards.

PC: I used the trail markers to disable the wards on the Tevinter fortress. Unfortunately, the Jaws of Hakkon hold the fortress.

Kenric: The Hakkonites? Oh dear. That's going to make it difficult to study the area. Lady Harding discussed the other Avvar. They haven't been hostile. Do you think they might help? I'm sorry I don't have anything more useful. I like battles when they've been over for a few ages.

(Go to Stone-Bear and plan the assault with Professor Kenric and Svarah Sun-Hair.)

(Next quest - Ameridan's End: Assault the Jaws of Hakkon)

[ofgoodmenarchive]

The second in a series of drabbles exploring my Blood Mage!Dorian.

Spring Thaw

Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself.

No- he was definitely getting ahead of himself.

At the very least, Dorian shouldn't have discarded the Venatori's equipment so impulsively. It was possible- even likely- the Herald would be immune to his charms. If no attraction existed between them to start with, then he'd forsaken his current, sole employment for nothing.

Introducing himself was also a complex matter. His subject of fixation was more often than not swarmed by Chantry puppets- Inquisition puppets, whatever.

Either way, they'd be wary of something like him.

  Which would be perfectly sensible, if we're being honest...

For days he stalked them through the Hinterlands, camping out of sight- preferably at high vantage points. On this occasion he'd discovered a homely cave dug into a cliff, with an ideal view of the Inquisition camp. They'd organised around a half-crumbled tower, wrangling full command of the King's Road at this end.

It took time to accomplish- Dorian had spectated most of the work. The Templar-Mage conflict was their main concern- by now almost completely eliminated. Still there was plenty of trouble to be had, Dorian knew.

  Are they even aware of the Venatori yet?

Indeed for now they mostly focused on the resident lyrium-smugglers. To be fair, they were a nuisance- and had not enough sense to leave the Inquisition unmolested.

In his shadowing he concluded a few things, at least.

For one, the Herald was a mage with an affinity for ice. Admittedly Dorian felt stupid for not realising on their first encounter. That sword of light channelled the man's will, swaying him towards close combat. Odd for a mage- so Dorian didn't berate himself much for failing to notice.

Secondly, the man was Spirit-bound. To what sort of spirit and for what purpose, Dorian couldn't guess. He'd only concluded this due to a chance look at his weapon- a summoning circle was inscribed into the hilt. An insanely reckless thing to attempt- unless your will and the spirit's could work in perfect unison.

  We have something in common, at least!

Though Dorian was positive none regarded him as an Abomination.

Lastly, the Herald was unaccustomed to such close work with humans. Dorian rarely overheard conversation but frequently witnessed him seeming lost, needing elaboration on what appeared self-evident.

Overall he was somewhat peculiar, even for an elf.

  “You know...” Dorian mused while building a small fire for the night. “I'm already feeling chipper. It's probably a trick of the mind, since there's potential for a meal...but wouldn't it be funny if my desire was feeding into itself?”

An unamused grumble responded and he frowned at his shadow- slumped morosely against the cave entrance, like a wrung out towel.

  “Yes, yes, I know that's not how it works.” Dorian rebuffed, scowling. “I'm just saying I don't mind all this creeping around! Or I don't mind it yet...give it a while, I suppose...”

  The Herald of Andraste...

  …probably also does not speak to himself.

  “Well I'm not speaking to myself, am I?!” He countered, huffing. “I'm speaking to you!- And you're being especially bratty today!”

Desire slouched down the cliff-wall until it was almost flat.

Dorian spluttered with laughter.

  “You're like a cat, you know!? An ominous, perverted cat.”

The creature bubbled sadly, giving no answer.

Rolling his eyes, Dorian would have returned to working on the fire- except Desire's head emerged from it's puddle, leering down the slope.

  “Hrm...?” He followed it's gaze, squinting. “Something happening down there...?”

A tall figure wandering from camp, accompanied by a much shorter one- the Herald and his dwarf ally.

  “Where are they wandering off to on their own...?” He frowned at his shadow. “Should they really be doing that?”

Desire shrugged, shoulders casting ripples along it's spooled form.

  “For some reason...” Dorian swiped his staff from nearby. “I don't like it. Let's make sure nothing bothers them, yes?”

Maker forbid the elf get himself killed- it would be a waste of his whole week!

The pair strode upon the King's Road, moonlight leading their path and their path leading Dorian- always close behind but not too close. Eventually they paused at a road-marker, muttered between themselves and appeared to wait.

  Are they missing one of their people, or something..?

Regardless of the situation, whatever was meant to occur, didn't. Exchanging anxious stares, the duo walked further along, ignorant to Dorian's presence as he slunk from shadow to shadow.

Within minutes all heard the same thuggish shouting- accented in Ferelden, somewhere amidst an outcrop of limestone. Sprinting forward, the Herald and his companion hunched behind cover, in frantic discussion.

Wanting a full perspective, Dorian climbed ledges as stealthily as possible. Once he had an ideal view, he sat and assessed.

Lyrium-smugglers again, of course. Carta, perhaps? No one Dorian had ties with, whoever they were. More than a dozen- with enough heavies in their ranks to pose serious threat to a miniscule party.

A party of two, for example, would likely be obliterated.

Dorian could see why there was discourse between the Herald and his friend. An Inquisition scout knelt among the group, bleeding and mid-interrogation.

  So they did lose someone...

Now the Herald wished to attempt rescue and his companion reasonably disagreed. Even out of earshot, Dorian could tell who was winning- through pure stubbornness alone.

Glancing behind, he spotted that looming, bratty shadow of his.

  “I hope you're ready to actually work for your meal.”

Not a second passed after his speech before all erupted into chaos. The Herald careened through the group, carried along paves of ice. Flailing and visibly irritated, the dwarf scrambled onto a high-point, where he could launch arrows from some elaborate crossbow.

Skidding from his perch, Dorian leapt into the fray.

Blood had already touched ground- that didn't bode well for anything near him. The grinning skull of his staff raised high, he willed every drop of lost life into himself. It swirled around him in crimson ribbons- he hadn't even channelled a form before people screamed.

  “MALEFICAR!”

Earning a wild, blood-crazed laugh from him as he barrelled forth, slicing enemies with their own pain- weaponised. Anyone struck deep enough and lacking proper resistance became crazed, attacking all in their proximity.

It had been a while since he'd stretched his abilities for combat- quite invigorating, really! Not to mention all the blood- a fair snack, though not his usual preference. Licking some from his fingers, Dorian launched into another attack and found himself brushing passed blizzard.

Swivelling to face it, he bore his teeth in a personable manner.

Winter-touched eyes regarded him quizzically, then vanished into battle.

Moments later and it was done- together with the scout, their enemy was reduced to a pile of corpses.

Inhaling, Dorian glimpsed the dwarf and recruit in breathless conversation. Elsewhere stood the Herald- sheathing his weapon, sighing with relief.

  Talk-talk-talk-talk-talk-talk-talk.

  Maker, stop it! Yes, I see.

This was the closest opportunity he was chance to get.

Awkwardly, uncharacteristically- Dorian hesitated.

  TALK-TALK-TALK-T

  I SAID STOP THAT! I'M GOING!

Mustering composure, he sauntered that direction, beaming.

  “Greetings, friend!”

The Herald blinked from wiping stained hands, eyes widening a second later.

  “...Who are you?” He mumbled, automatically hunching to Dorian's level- as he'd witnessed many times.

  “Me?”  He laughed airily- had to restrain more when the elf flinched. “My name is Dorian Pavus...and you would be the Herald of Andraste, no?”

Much hesitation from this so-called Herald- the poor man's eyes darted as if seeking attendance, white complexion reddening. Effortless traits for human eyes to see- and then there were aspects only Dorian would see. A quickened pulse, hitched breath, heightened temperature...

  Well, that answers that question...

  But...I really didn't intend to give the poor fool a heart-attack.

He hadn't even exercised his will in any fashion- just introduced himself! The Herald's clan must have been terribly isolationist, if that's all it took to fluster him.

  “That...is what they say...” He managed after a long pause, brow furrowing. “...Have you been following me, Dorian Pavus?”

  Oh, I like that.

  So formal.

  “Only for your own protection, my darling Herald!” He chuckled warmly, gestured to their fallen opponents. “As you can so clearly see.”

Another drawn out silence, pale features struggling to stay that way and failing- pink had spread to his neck.

  “You are from Tevinter.” He observed clumsily.

Dorian's head tilted.

  “Nothing gets passed you, does it?”

The Herald didn't seem to know how to respond, grasping air dumbly and again searching around for aid. Deciding to provide such aid, Dorian inquired;

  “Since I gave you my name- may I have yours?”

Though fidgeting, he offered;

  “Lavellan.”

  “That would be a last name, no?”

  “I do not tend to give my first.”

  “You don't 'tend to'...” He smiled, shamelessly familiar. “So you might make an exception?”

Something about this caught the elf off guard- absolutely flushed. He merely stared as though Dorian proposed he strip to his undergarments.

  “Uhh...hey, there.” The dwarf ambled to them before Lavellan could recover.

  “Ah, hello!” Determined to make a good impression, Dorian stuck out his hand. “Dorian Pavus! Pleased to make your acquaintance!”

The Dwarf relented to a light shake, inspecting him doubtfully.

  “Varric Tethras- pleased to make yours..” He knit his brow, glanced between the two men. “...I guess.”

All the while Lavellan was statuesque, face crimson and attention flying everywhere.

  “...You okay, Lord Heraldness?”

  “I...am fine- I am fine.” He practically squeaked. “I think...Cassandra will wish us back at camp...right now...im...immediately.”

Incapable of restraining himself, Dorian roared with mirth and hoped it didn't sound unkind.

  “We'll talk soon, my dear Herald.” He bid farewell with more obvious warmth. Lavellan swiftly fled- half-marching, half-scurrying, Varric at his heels.

-–

Dirt and blood raced beneath his feet. Evallan Lavellan fought to correct the hue of his face.

  “...Are you okay?” Varric- barely audible above the sound of his heartbeat.

  “I am fine!”  He snapped, shrill. “I just...was not prepared for...for that.”

Varric's expression scrunched inwards, perplexed.

  “Prepared for what?”

Speech died on Evallan's tongue, frowning helplessly at his companion. He barely had the words in his own language, how could he explain with the vocabulary they both shared?

All the human mages he'd encountered- they were so reserved, tame.

He couldn't imagine any human to carry themselves so shamelessly- draped in blood and bone, cackling and grinning through danger. Formidable yet exercising flawless control- so at ease in his nature.

And Mythal have mercy- Those eyes- deadly flares of red and gold.

  Absolutely wild.

  He must be mad.

  “...Oh, Maker's breath, Herald...” Evallan became aware he'd been glaring into space. “Don't worry- I won't tell anyone you took one look at the weirdo-'Vint-blood-mage and turned into a tomato.��

He flushed every shade of red imaginable, snapping-

  “I said I was not prepared!”

  “I wasn't prepared either!” Varric chortled. “And I do not look like you do right now!”

Groaning, Evallan sped his pace, wishing for nothing more than to hide in his tent and scream until humiliation subsided.

[blarrghe]

Aaahhh hand holding!!

squeezing hand for comfort and encouragement for Dorianders? :D

Hi! Thank you for the ask! I didnt forget about this project, I just got a bit bogged down. Anyway I finally finished this little bit of wedding shenanigans for What if we were and will hopefully follow it up...soon...

This is an ongoing modern au Dorianders series. You can read them all in order on AO3 or just this prompt fill under the cut.

--

Anders had never actually been to a wedding. He’d skipped the Chantry portion of Donnic and Aveline’s nuptials, for obvious reasons, and mostly pouted in the corner for the short while he attended the reception. Other than that, he didn’t even know any married couples. At first, he was almost looking forward to the service. Intrigued, anyway; he wondered if any part of the rituals would involve magic. They did, it turned out. Quick, sparkly bits of magic that were supposed to convey blessings, but mainly just looked showy. It also turned out that there were about five hundred of them, scattered throughout a four hour long ceremony, with a great manner of pomp and rhetoric the same as in any Chantry around each one. Stand up, sit down, chant some verses, stand up again. For four fucking hours. So it was no wonder that his mind began to wander.

First, he scanned the faces of the crowd. Justice often had a good sense for people, flashing alarm bells of blue heat and aggravation over the unpleasant types, but even with help Anders’ judgement wasn’t immaculate, and in this crowd, all he could feel was a general wave of discomfort. Lots of the worst kinds of people were present; captains of all sorts of unethical industries, and politicians to boot. Not to mention the nice brothers and sisters of the Chantry itself, stationed around the pews like palace guards, all shrewd-eyed and deceptively pious. Or maybe he was projecting, and none of the smiles were laced with judgement and malice. Though, from the way Dorian flinched under them too, he more got the feeling that, as different as a Tevinter Chantry was, it was all sort of the same. 

Which was how he found himself once again devoting too much of his focus to Dorian. Dorian didn’t set off alarm bells in his mind, and he could be counted on to roll his eyes over the more dreary verses and to laugh under his breath at Anders’ attempts to make him by cracking rude jokes under his own, and pretending to nod off here and there. He pointed out bad hats with enthusiastic judgement and gave an exaggerated yawn to the third round of archaic traditional vows, but grew appropriately quiet and attentive at the gentle parts. 

He looked gorgeous, of course. All done up in formal robes — black, which at a wedding made a statement, but he could get away with it, events being what they were. It was a good distraction, watching Dorian, until it wasn’t. He went down from standing to kneeling with the rest of the congregation, muttered his verses wrong and shot Anders a few roguish looks, and his thighs, when they went back to sitting in the pew, were almost close enough to be touching Anders’. His hands kept flashing distractingly as he fiddled with the wedding programme, or absently flipped through a book of verses — they were decorated with too many bright gold rings and shiny black nail polish, and they moved with all the grace and flair of a magician performing sleights of hand. He also smelled like something; dark, woody and spiced and somehow a compliment to the incense and must of an old gilded Chantry hall, while still at odds with it all. It was all almost enough to keep Anders’ mind busy through the ceremony, and he made it through the first two hours just sort of floating on Dorian’s pretty coattails, thinking about things he shouldn’t be thinking about while sitting under the gaze of a revered Father and various lay Sisters, and delighting in the act of doing it anyway. But even sex appeal and lighthearted blasphemy couldn’t keep him busy through all of it, and, apparently, it couldn’t keep Dorian’s beautiful hands calm either. About three hours in, they both started to get twitchy. 

There was a point — Anders couldn’t even say what it was, a particularly dark scowl from a Sister, or a whiff of too much smoke from one of the great lanterns of incense floating overhead, or just too many wrong notes in the song, but there it was; deep discomfort in his stomach, shivers in his shoulders that wouldn’t quell no matter how hard he tried to make them, sweat in his palms — and he got up. Slid awkwardly out of the pew, squeezing around politely scrunched-up legs and still managing to jostle every knee he passed, and snuck around to the back of the hall, through an archway, and finally shoving his way through a big stone door that he hoped would lead outside. 

Thankfully, it did. The air was clear and the day was sunny. Even with the colourful brilliance of sunlit stained-glass in the hall, Anders had almost forgotten that it was day, under the fog and weight of all that smoke and mumbling of verses. He breathed in, then out, then in again, smelling the freshly cut grass and the blooms of late season flowers in the Chantry’s overflowing garden. He slunk back a bit, towards the walls all sprawled over with vines and in behind a growth of prickly rosebush that was more thorn than flower, and sank into the slightly cooler air that its shelter provided. The Chantry was a pretty, impossibly old building, all high, vaulted roofs and crumbling white stone pillars, statuary of Andraste and her various disciples littering the grounds. He leaned against a pillar to steady himself, and kept breathing. 

“Hiding in the bushes and you aren’t even smoking,” Dorian’s voice tutted out at him with mock disappointment, the rosebush rustling as he made his way around it to where Anders leaned in the scraggly shade, sending more floral notes into the air. 

“Needed a break,” Anders muttered with a shrug. He’d lost track of how long he’d spent out here, just breathing, and a wave of guilt and embarrassment hit him for being found hiding. 

“Maker, you could have told me. If I’d known we were going to skip out on the ceremonies to loiter in the Chantry gardens, I’d have scored some elfroot first.” 

“I don’t smoke.” 

“Of course you don’t. Well, don’t hog all the fun, if we time our exits from this hiding spot properly, we could cause all sorts of scandals.” 

Anders grunted. 

“Or we could simply catch our breaths and then rejoin for the final vows, and no one will ever be the wiser.” Dorian continued, the humour draining quickly from his voice, eyes settling on Anders with a look of unmasked concern. 

“Yeah. I’m — I’m fine, we should probably head back in.” 

“Well, if you’re fine,” Dorian said, “personally, I feel I’m crawling out of my skin, but I think I can tolerate a few more verses before my lungs give out.” 

“Hm,” said Anders, which must not have been the response Dorian was looking for, because he frowned and crossed his arms. 

“You know, the Chantry I went to growing up had fantastic bushes for hiding in. I became very well acquainted with them. Not without consequence of course, I’d inevitably get caught and dealt a right smack, but a young, investigative mind can only take so much repetition before it begins to turn to mush, so what’s a young budding genius to do?” He sighed with exaggerated wistfulness, sarcastically emphasising his point before going on; “a particularly sadistic Sister had it out for me. Every week being expected to sit quietly in service, and it was a smack if you missed a line or dropped a book or cleared your throat too loud or… just for anything, really. Still feel my hand itching every time one of the Sisters looks at me wrong.”  

Anders nodded again, still mostly busy taking breaths. 

“I imagine a Circle wouldn’t be much better…” 

He nodded once more, this time with a sigh. 

“Anders?” 

“Did I ever tell you I blew up a Chantry? Well. Seminary, really. The one in Kirkwall.” He just sort of said it, not even in tones that were particularly hushed. Anders kept his eyes pointed away, meeting anything but Dorian’s own, and inadvertently found them landing in the empty stone gaze of Andraste’s, her smooth, placid face peering over the topiary at them.   

“You — wait.” Dorian was looking at him though, intently. “That made the news even here. Wasn’t that the shot that rang out across all the Circles down south? Beginning of the great collapse?” 

“That's not all my fault,” Anders interjected quickly, though some part of him wanted to replace the word “fault” with “credit” and then to proudly take all of it, though he really couldn’t claim that, “but it did cause a fair amount of disruption, yeah.”

“Huh.” Anders carefully broke contact with the eyes of the marble prophet, finding Dorian’s still examining him closely. He swallowed, and then Dorian shrugged. “Good for you.” 

“Not sure why I agreed to come to this. I suppose I thought a Tevinter service would be different, somehow, but I keep expecting a bolt of lightning or something to crash down upon me from the heavens.”

It was not exactly the response he’d expected. It wasn’t like he went around telling everybody that he had, prior to his expulsion from the University of Kirkwall’s medical school, helped to orchestrate an explosive attack on the school’s seminary institution, taking a large chunk of the city’s gleaming pillar of a hightown Chantry with it, but he was fairly certain the response most people would have fell solidly short of good for you. Dorian made no signs of striking him with anything — lightning or otherwise — however, and the skies remained clear.

“Nonsense. Laugh in the face of the Maker’s judgement, that's what I always say.” Dorian declared boldly. 

“I'm sure that does wonders for your career,” all that exaggerated bravado was doing something, but still all Anders could manage in response was some mild sarcasm and a raised eyebrow.  

“It most certainly does not,” Dorian continued to exaggerate in his responses to everything except Anders’ actual admission of a felony, “I deplore anything less than a suitable challenge.” Dorian flashed him a proud grin. 

Anders tried to laugh, appreciating the attempts to lift his spirit. It came out as more of a sigh. “Right. Well I'll be watching your drinks at the reception.” he promised, keeping his eyebrow raised. 

“And I suppose I should be watching your back in case of mortally offended Ferelden Chantry Sisters.” Dorian countered, flashing him a smile that was less braggy, this time, and very far from the usual all-talk sorts of smirks he gave out like favours. A reassuring smile; soft, glint of concern still twinkling in his eyes, no teeth, but no suggestive bit of pout or sly lean, either.  

“You know, I heard there was one from Lothering who was quite stabby,” Dorian’s smile picked up confidence from Anders’ weak attempt at a joke, and Anders found that his mouth was almost on its way to one too. 

Then Dorian took his hand. Placed his right over Anders’ left, fingertips cool, rings smooth and metallic points of hardness against Anders’ knuckles. He squeezed once, pressing those cool fingertips into the supple give of Anders’ palm firmly for a fraction of a moment, long enough to be exhilarating, quick enough to be careful, and then he let go. 

“Thanks,” Anders mumbled, dislodging his eyes from the care in Dorian’s before he pushed himself back to standing upright, ready to leave the bushes behind. 

“You’re doing me a favour here, remember?” Dorian corrected with a quiet scoff. He strode off ahead, out of the bushes without catching his robes on a single snag, and slipping quietly back into the Chantry through a small, vine-covered side door.   

[smutnug]

Day 10: Surprise kiss

Owen Trevelyan had always been fascinated by magic: as a boy he pored over illustrations of griffons and dragons, devouring folk tales of witches and enchantments and talking animals.

"You shouldn't let him read that nonsense," his mother said. "He'll turn into a mage."

Bann Trevelyan peered over his spectacles - the finest in dwarven craftsmanship - and blinked mildly. "I'm quite sure that's not how it works."

"How will he ever be a templar? He won't know which side he's on."

"I don't think it's supposed to be about sides, dear."

Lady Trevelyan sniffed. "I see where he gets it from."

Thankfully for his mother, Owen's sense of adventure extended to a love of swords and rough-and-tumble play. A dutiful but indifferent Andrastian, he was considered too old at ten for templar training, but utterly unsuited to clerical work.

"We'll send him out to squire. It will do him good to be around boys his own age."

Owen had been a late addition: a surprise, or an accident, depending on his mother's mood. She looked at her youngest son doubtfully. "I just don't want him to be bullied."

"Stop bullying him then, dear." The bann returned to his book.

Squiring agreed with Owen exceptionally well.

"The duke is happy with his progress," said Bann Trevelyan over his morning letters. "Very popular with the other boys, evidently."

Lady Trevelyan choked genteelly on her tea. "Not too popular, I hope."

Her husband peered over his spectacles. "You're a hard woman to please, dear."

Owen returned home to Ostwick in his eighteenth year. Described variously as strapping, honourable to a fault, affable, and a host of other complimentary things, he had distinguished himself in tourneys and skirmishes alike. He was, everyone agreed, a credit to his house.

Lady Trevelyan looked her son up and down. Tall and broad with a mop of straw-coloured hair and a radiant grin, he was already gaining a reputation as the handsomest youth in Ostwick.

She pursed her lips.

They held a ball to celebrate his homecoming. Owen danced every dance, no more than once or twice with the same partner. People seemed drawn to him.

"I wish you wouldn't lead those poor girls on, Owen."

He looked down at his mother with a mock-wounded expression. "What makes you think I'm leading them on, mother dear?"

"Oh, Owen."

He laughed and kissed her on the cheek, and she couldn't help but smile.

Owen Trevelyan loved magic. He walked the streets of Haven with a grin, his cheeks ruddied by the cold. Mages, real mages, everywhere he looked! Some were half-starved, some surly, many too nervous to look anyone in the eye, but to him they may as well have been exotic butterflies.

"Is it true a dragon used to live here?" he asked the tavern keeper.

"That's what they say, ser," she said with a shrug.

"How wonderful!" he said, and tipped her richly enough that she forgave him for being a bit strange, and wondered if he were single.

He was. Lady Trevelyan had farewelled him with a kiss, a thick woollen scarf, and a murmured, perhaps you'll meet a nice man over there.

For you, mother, I'll try, he'd answered, and swept her into a bone-crushing hug.

He hadn't spent the past five years idle. He'd served in his father's guard, with such distinction that any suggestions of nepotism were quickly abandoned. He'd helped strengthen trade agreements with Markham and Ansburg, and turned down half a dozen marriage contracts with such charm that nobody felt any offense (but more than one young lady was left a touch disappointed). He bested some of the best fighters in the Free Marches at tourney. And, of course, he read.

None of this entirely prepared him for what was to come.

Owen Trevelyan loved magic - that didn't mean he wanted a mysterious, sometimes bad-humoured magical mark embedded in his hand. He loved the idea of dragons, but there was nothing exciting about having one attack his home. The novelty of demons wore off at his first encounter.

He loved magic; and while it didn't cross into fetish, it wouldn't be true to say he'd never thought of having a mage lover. There was a certain exotic, star-crossed romance to it after all.

Dorian, though…Dorian was something else altogether.

Smooth, flashy, witty…beautiful. Every visible inch seemed perfectly sculpted. His voice was richer than mead, his skin almost seemed to glow with warmth. For all Owen's romanticism, he didn't believe in love at first sight. But his first sight of Dorian…well, it took a man a while to recover from something like that.

Every ounce of charm Owen could throw at him was returned with double the force. He slashed, he parried, but it seemed Dorian didn't even know he was part of a duel. The mage shielded himself in sarcasm and cast wit like fireballs, all without so much as a sheen of sweat forming on his perfect brow.

A lesser man might have given up. Not Owen Trevelyan. He believed in magic.

"New books?" Dorian exclaimed. "Just when I thought my brain was about to wither and die."

"Our budget has allowed for some arcane study," Owen said, nearly dropping an armful of priceless tomes.

"Stop right there," Dorian ordered, "and let me help you. Why?"

"The advisors thought it might help me to have more knowledge of magical…things. I was hoping you might help me choose some good starting material?"

His eyes lit up like a glutton at a feast. "If you promise to take better care of them. I absolutely forbid you to carry more than three at a time."

"As you wish," Owen said with a winning smile.

"Dorian." Owen slid into a seat at the Herald's Rest. "I've been meaning to ask you - just how closely related are we?"

The mage took a sip of his drink, wrinkling his nose in elegant disgust. "I'd hardly say closely. Barely at all, and even then only by marriage."

"Oh. Good."

"Good?" Dorian swivelled in his chair. "I suppose you're right. The shame of being linked to a Tevinter mage, and all that."

"Dorian." Owen drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "I've travelled, you know. I've fought in battles. I've made love. I know you think I'm some over-excited puppy, but I want you to take me seriously."

"Where did this come from? I do take you seriously, dear boy."

"Dorian," he said a third time. "I'd like you to take me seriously. Because I take you seriously." Rising from his chair, he gave Dorian a backslap that soaked his mustaches in sour wine. "Good talking to you."

When the Inquisitor had gone, Sera stuck her head over the railing.

"Oi!" she called. "You, Dorian, are a frigging idiot."

Owen found Dorian leaning against the wall of the Gull and Lantern, staring at his finely tailored boots.

"I suppose you think I should forgive him?"

He joined him, tilting his face towards the sun. "I think it's up to you. Say the word and we'll leave now, and I'll never talk of it again if you don't want me to."

"But…?"

"But if you want to talk, even to say goodbye, I'll wait here."

Dorian looked at him for a long moment, then clasped his arm. "I won't be long."

"As long as you want."

"Thank you," he said softly, and straightened his spine. Then he opened the tavern door, and closed it quietly behind him.

The kiss came as a surprise to nobody but Dorian.

"You have to fight for what's in your heart," he said, and Owen couldn't help but take those two steps and kiss him.

The setting was perfect: Dorian's little corner of the library, filtered afternoon light streaming through the windows. Softer than Owen had dreamed of, gentler (although harder kisses were to come, later; rough, savage, stolen-in-the-midst-of-wrestling kisses) and sweeter by far than his imagination could conjure. He captured Dorian's small sound of surprise with his mouth, then Dorian caught his bottom lip carefully between his teeth, and only one word crystallised in the back of his mind as they melted together, two halves finally whole.

Magic.

[askdragonagecompanions]

👀👀 dai romances finding out that the Inquisitor is a vampire...?

Dorian: Dorian first finds out after quite the harrowing battle. No one in the party had walked away unscathed. What truly worried Dorian was that the Inquisitor wouldn’t let any of the healers check his wounds. He just walked away from the battle and kept his nose and mouth covered. He had noticed plenty of odd behavior from the Inquisitor since he joined, even more since he and the Inquisitor started to spend more time together. Honestly? Dorian was just worried about the man. He’d seen the injury when the Inquisitor got it, stabbed right through by one of the Red Templars. Dorian doesn’t know why the Inquisitor won’t let any of the healers help him, but maybe his Amatus will at least let him take a look. When he gets to the Inquisitor’s room he hears things being tossed around and he immediately rushes in thinking that the Inquisitor is being attacked or robbed, or something. What he finds is the Inquisitor rummaging through his room, tossing things aside, clearly looking for something. He’s shirtless, and that’s when Dorian sees it. His side is completely fine, not even a scratch left. Healing magic would have made a scar, but the Inquisitor’s side looks like he wasn’t even touched in battle. Dorian and the Inquisitor look up at each other at the same time. Dorian sees the Inquisitor’s now black eyes and the long fangs in his mouth. For a moment his heart races. He’s heard tale of vampires, but he thought they were all fictional. Sure there were some in Tevinter who insisted Vampires were still out there... Maker it was breathtaking. In hindsight maybe Dorian should have been more scared, but all he could see was the dawning horror on his Amatus’s face having realized that Dorian knew what he truly was. Dorian steps towards him slowly. The Inquisitor makes his vampiric features recede and he looks away. Dorian hugs him from behind and sighs softly, “I’m... guessing you misplaced a vial of blood?” His voice is free of judgement. When the Inquisitor nods Dorian kisses his neck. “And I’m also going to assume you haven’t fed in a while, which was why you avoided the healers and us all day?” Another nod. “Well. I suppose, since we don’t want you losing control I can let you take some of mine.” He murmurs. “And don’t worry Amatus, the only thing this changes is that you’ll have to promise to be extra careful when leaving hickeys alright?” And there’s the smile Dorian’s been waiting for. Honestly with ancient Magisters turned Darkspawn and giant tears in the Fade? His Amatus being a vampire isn’t all that strange or terrifying. The Inquisitor has never hurt him, and so Dorian doesn’t fear that he will. He only worries that the Inquisitor isn’t taking proper care of himself. After battles Dorian distracts the other party members so that his amatus can collect blood from the fallen. He also starts asking questions, because he thought vampires would turn to dust in the sunlight. He’s fascinated by what the Inquisitor tells him.

Solas: Solas has known a few vampires in his time. Some are just as bloodthirsty as the tales say they are (but those vampires tend to have been just as bloodthirsty before they were turned), and most were just trying to adjust to their new life style. When Solas woke up he had been under the impression that vampires had all died out over the centuries. It was sad, but with how fearful humans were it wasn’t a surprise that they would have hunted the creatures down. So, when Solas starts to see evidence of a vampire in the midst of the Inquisition he’s quite surprised. It’s just small things, the apothecary starts running low on plants and herbs that Solas knows can be made into an effective salve to keep the sun from turning a vampire into ash. Some people begin to complain about little cuts that appeared out of nowhere. He would have investigated more but things began to grow increasingly stressful. It was on the journey to Skyhold that Solas began to suspect the Inquisitor might be the Vampire he had been noticing about. The longer they traveled the more anxious she seemed to become. She would start dawning more layers, though this could be explained by the cold air of the mountain, but she also looked a little gaunt. He could only assume that the blood she had stored was dwindling and that she was trying to ration it, if she was a vampire of course. It wouldn’t do anyone good if the Inquisitor went into a blood frenzy, so Solas prepared a vial of his own blood. He knew it would be potent enough to keep any vampire satiated for the rest of the journey, and he left it somewhere inconspicuous. A vampire would find it sure enough. Solas watched from a distance and when he saw that the Inquisitor was the one to pick it up it only confirmed his suspicions. His opinion of her didn’t change, in fact he was impressed that she was keeping it hidden so well. What Solas didn’t expect was to fall for the Inquisitor. She had such a brilliant mind, and she was so open to ideas about the Fade and spirits. Solas had been so blindsided that he fell in love before he could steel off his heart. One night they are together the Inquisitor seems more nervous than usual. When she finally speaks up she tells him that she’s a vampire and she starts to ramble but Solas just laughs gently and kisses her. “Ma Vhenan, I already knew.” His voice is soft as he cups her cheek. She looks shocked before replying, “You did? Why didn’t you say anything?” “It simply wasn’t my place, and clearly you were only taking what you needed. What you are doesn’t define you.”

Sera: Okay the only stories Sera knows about vampires is that they’re blood sucking demons who kill their victims by biting into their necks and drinking all the blood. Great for scary stories not for real life. She finds out because the Inquisitor tells her. They had just started getting serious and Sera was really excited, she really liked the Inquisitor. She really felt like she could trust her with everything and that Inky would always have her back. So when the Inquisitor told Sera that she was a vampire, Sera thought she was joking at first. That’s when the Inquisitor showed her the fangs and how her eyes went all creepy and black. Sera... did not handle it well at first. She kind of freaked out because 1. vampires were friggin real and that was really fucking scary and 2. Her inky was one of them? Inky left that night, she looked really sad and Sera felt really guilty. She hadn’t meant to make Inky feel bad, she was just... scared. It took Sera a few weeks to really accept it. Inky only hurt bad people, and she never bit anyone in Skyhold... there weren’t any bloodless bodies being discovered. And Sera was only feeling worse. Inky was giving her space, and the more Sera waited the more she wanted to hang out with Inky again. She really did love the Inquisitor, and as long as she wasn’t going to get all bitey and monstery Sera was pretty sure she could handle it. They talked about it together for a while and finally Sera hugged Inky close because, “I’m sorry... I acted like an ass... I just... i only heard about scary vampires, but... you’re not scary. Not really. You can be, but you’re also bloody amazing and you’re sweet, and you know how to make me feel... really nice and stuff. I’m sorry.” Sera is OK with the fact that Inky’s a vampire, as long as she isn’t hurting enemies and doesn’t drink blood around Sera it should be fine. Sera’s still a little nervous, but she trusts Inky.

Blackwall: Blackwall’s honestly just stumped. He finds out that the Inquisitor is a werewolf after she gets seriously hurt during a fight. He sends the others to go get a healer or something while he stays with the Inquisitor and tries to keep pressure on her wound. What stumps him is that the wound starts closing underneath his hands all on his own. He’s not a mage, and even so a spell wouldn’t work that fast or that clean. The Inquisitor tells him to grab the red vial from her pack and he does. The liquid inside looks suspiciously like blood and she quickly drinks it down. In a matter of seconds she begins to look better and within a few minutes she’s back to normal. Blackwall raised a brow and the Inquisitor sighed and quickly began to explain how she was a vampire, how she only took blood from the enemies they killed in battle, and how she hoped this wouldnt’ change anything about how Blackwall felt about her. Blackwall just gave her a smile and then kissed her, “Inquisitor after everything that’s happened you being a vampire is like the least crazy thing that’s happened alright? You still love me after finding out who I truly am, and honestly this doesn’t change how I feel.” He promises. As long as the blood is in a vial it doesn’t bother Blackwall. He does ask a few questions and while they travel he picks up herbs he knows that can be used to make the salve that will keep her safe from the sun. He also makes sure to remind her, in private of course, to pack enough blood vials if they’re going on a long journey. It’s actually the Inquisitor who’s so surprised that Blackwall’s taking the news so well. 

Iron Bull: He’s had a few run ins with vampires. Nasty creatures if they’ve gone feral from hunger. Honestly Bull’s not one to judge. He figures out that the Inquisitor is a vampire shortly after meeting them. The eyes, the teeth that just look a tad too sharp, on top of the way they always look so nervous when they’re traveling during the day are a dead give away to him. What he does do is keep his eye out for any strange deaths of Inquisition soldiers, but none come along. He knows the Inquisitor must be getting blood from somewhere, or else they would have gone feral by now and Maker that would fucking suck. But he’s pretty sure that’s not going to happen, so he drops the topic. He’s confident that the Inquisitor has their shit under control. The more he gets to know the Inquisitor the more he likes them. They guard themself a bit, only natural, but as the two grow closer Bull finds himself... he cares about them a great deal. The feeling is only solidified after they tell him its okay to save the Chargers. They trust him, they care about how he feels and what’s important to him, and honestly it feels amazing to have someone that close that cares for him like that. He wants to make them feel the same way. Every night they spend together he makes it special. He wants them to relax, to trust him, and afterwards when its just them curled close in bed he smiles. They both know a side of each other that no one else will get to see. It was the night when his Kadan gave him the dragon tooth necklace, they were curled up against Bull’s chest and he was playing with their hair and making sure they were resting when they told him they were a vampire. No wonder they had seemed so worked up all day, they were planning two huge things to admit to Bull. He kissed their neck gently and ran his hand down their side. “I know.” His voice was gentle and he chuckled when they asked how. “Ben Hasrath remember? Besides it wasn’t my place to ask about it Kadan. You weren’t hurting anyone and you still trusted me even knowing I was still working for the Qun. And before you ask, no it doesn’t change anything. You have my heart.” And he kisses them again before smirking a little, “One question, will biting me turn me into a vampire? No? Great.” It’s all about trust really, and Bull would trust his life with the Inquisitor. There’s only a few times that the Inquisitor gets gravely injured during battle, and Bull lets them drink from him. They’re always gentle and only take what they need. He feels a lot closer to them, and he’ll fight anyone that calls his Kadan a monster. 

Cassandra: She has heard of vampires before, yes. Cursed creatures forced to drink blood and dwell in the dark shadows just to survive. She knows they are not demons, but they are dangerous. Cassandra had always been confident that if she saw a vampire she would be able to tell right away. They would have large fangs, black eyes, and unable to step into the sunlight. Besides they were also quite rare, so she never even suspected that the Inquisitor was one. His odd behavior could simply be written off as someone who was squeamish around injuries which wasn’t uncommon at all. She finds out the Inquisitor is a vampire when he tells her. They had started to grow quite close. They weren’t dating yet, but Cassandra was really starting to open up to him, and he was making it very obvious that he wanted to be with her. She was nervous. He said they needed to talk and that never really sounded like it was going to be a positive thing. She frowned when she saw how nervous the Inquisitor looked. For a moment Cassandra thought she had done something that upset him, but then he started to talk. He explained what he was, how he felt she deserved to know before they got serious or anything, and that he’d understand if him being a vampire changed anything for Cassandra. She was stunned at first. This felt like a joke, she wanted to accuse him of making this a joke, or some prank, but the way he was looking at her. He clearly believed that what he was saying to be true. As if seeming to notice she was doubting his statement he showed her his fangs. Cassandra is not proud of how she handled the news. She walked away from him without a word. She needed time to think. The Seekers taught that vampires were monsters, no humanity in them, that they would kill because they enjoyed it and because they needed the blood. She began to go through the reports of every mission, looking for any odd deaths, of corpses drained of all of their blood, but she found none. No one seemed to have been turned either... Cassandra began to realize that she may have overreacted. She still needed to time to sort out her own feelings. It become obvious to her that the Seekers had lied once again, that the Inquisitor wasn’t actually a bloodthirsty killer. He couldn’t control what he was, and he wasn’t killing people and draining them. Eventually she decides that she still has feelings for the Inquisitor and she tells him as such (it’s awkward and she’s blushing because feelings are hard to express). Their relationship has a bit of a slow start, they both need to earn each other’s trust again, but once they do Cassandra feels so stupid for how she acted when he first told her. She makes sure he has enough blood vials, and she makes sure that he always has enough salve before leaving on journeys. She would hate if he turned into ash because he didn’t bring enough.

Cullen: One would think that Cullen would be quite nervous around the Inquisitor once he finds out she’s a vampire, but honestly? It was the opposite. The Inquisitor told him about what she was on a night where he was really struggling with beating his Lyrium addiction, and he had been embarrassed that anyone saw him so vulnerable, let alone the Inquisitor, but there was no judgement in her eyes. She closed the door to his office and began to help him pick up the shattered remains of his phial before sitting next to him. His hands were shaking, so she put hers on top of his. She told him what she was to show him he wasn’t alone. She too had something similar to his addiction, and how much of a struggle it could be sometimes, but that having those feelings didn’t make her weak, or any less of a person. He’s a little surprised at first, a little nervous for just a moment, but it ebbs away. She has done nothing but help people and do her best to save Thedas. Besides shes... she understands what hes going through... kind of. Knowing what she is early on actually helps them grow closer. Cullen opens up a little more and she comforts him and helps him stay strong on the days where it feels impossible to just get out of bed. When Cullen sees the Inquisitor start to get nervous because there are too many people in the room, too much temptation he pulls her out and makes an excuse so that they can be alone, so that she can have a chance to calm down. Sometimes he worries about her, that he’s going to lose her either because someone else found out and took things into their own hands, or because she runs out of her salve... when those worries fog his mind he finds her and murmurs to her so that they can retire to his room. He just needs to hold her close and assure himself that she’s okay, that she’s safe. Whenever she’s away on missions he’s nervous and jittery, but when she comes back safe and sound he relaxes almost immediately. He knows she doesn’t need sleep, but he does appreciate that she will spend the nights with him, just holding him close. It helps keep his nightmares at bay, and she assures him she likes to watch him sleep. 

Josephine: She was very surprised when the Inquisitor told her they were a vampire. For a moment she thought it was just another prank, but they were so nervous it couldn’t be. If she had had to suspect anyone of being a vampire she would have thought Dorian to be one, granted her only knowledge of vampires was based off what she had heard in stories. It is hard for her to wrap her head around it, but in the end she knows the Inquisitor. They haven’t attacked any allies, they haven’t drained anyone of all of their blood, and they are so kind to her. Josie keeps an open mind about it all really and she asks questions just in case. She wants to be prepared if word ever gets out because it would be absolutely awful if people wanted to kill her love just because of what they were. It takes a while for her to get used to it, but once she does it’s really not a big deal to her. Josie treats it like a condition. The Inquisitor just has rare dietary restrictions, a severe allergy to the sun, and doesn’t need sleep. 

[jackdawyt]

Following Jason Schreier's continued BioWare story, we have direct insight from many BioWare employees regarding the initial Dragon Age 4 BioWare were going to create code named 'Joplin' and envisioned by Mike Laidlaw, against the now in production Dragon Age project that has been code named 'Morrison'.  

Last time we talked about both projects - Joplin and Morrison, equally named after their respected music artists who died at the age of 27, but were both known for revolutionizing their respected industry.

This latest report examines everything that Joplin was going to be regarding the future of the next Dragon Age title.

Let's now delve into the potential game that Dragon Age 4 initially was going to be, before it was rebooted for Anthem and Andromeda's developments.

As I quote:

The plan for Joplin was exciting, say people who worked on it. First and foremost, they already had many tools and production pipelines in place after Inquisition, ones that they hoped to improve and continue using for this new project.

They committed to prototyping ideas early and often, testing as quickly as possible rather than waiting until everything was on fire, as they had done the last time thanks to the glut of people and Frostbite’s difficulties.

“Everyone in project leadership agreed that we couldn’t do that again, and worked to avoid the kind of things that had led to problems,” said one person who worked on the project, explaining that some of the big changes included:

1) Laying down a clear vision as early as possible.

2) Maintaining regular on-boarding documents and procedures so new team members could get up to speed fast; and

3) A decision-making mentality where “we acknowledged that making the second-best choice was far, far better than not deciding and letting ambiguity stick around while people waited for a decision.”

(That person, like all of the sources for this story, spoke under condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to talk about their experiences.)

Prepare the tears for this next quote guys....

Another former BioWare developer who worked on Joplin called it “some of the best work experiences” they’d ever had. “We were working towards something very cool, a hugely reactive game, smaller in scope than Dragon Age: Inquisition but much larger in player choice, followers, reactivity, and depth,” they said. “I’m sad that game will never get made.”

You’d play as a group of spies in Tevinter Imperium, a wizard-ruled country on the north end of Dragon Age’s main continent, Thedas. The goal was to focus as much as possible on choice and consequence, with smaller areas and fewer fetch quests than Dragon Age: Inquisition.

(In other words, they wanted Joplin to be the opposite of the Hinterlands.) There was an emphasis on “repeat play,” one developer said, noting that they wanted to make areas that changed over time and missions that branched in interesting ways based on your decisions, to the point where you could even get “non-standard game overs” if you followed certain paths.

A large chunk of Joplin would center on heists. The developers talked about building systemic narrative mechanics, allowing the player to perform actions like persuading or extorting guards without the writers having to hand-craft every scene.

It was all very ambitious and very early, and would have no doubt changed drastically once Joplin entered production, but members of the team say they were thrilled about the possibilities.

The first big hiccup came in late 2016, when BioWare put Joplin on hold and moved the entire team onto the troubled Mass Effect: Andromeda, which needed as many hands as possible during its final months of development.

The Joplin team expanded with people who were rolling off Andromeda and kept working, prototyping, and designing the game. After spending months of their lives helping finish a Mass Effect that didn’t excite a ton of people, it was nice to return to Dragon Age.

One thing that wasn’t discussed much on Joplin was multiplayer, according to a few people who worked on the project, which is perhaps why the project couldn’t last.

By the latter half of 2017, Anthem was in real trouble, and there was concern that it might never be finished unless the studio did something drastic.

In October of 2017, not long after veteran Mass Effect director Casey Hudson returned to the studio to take over as general manager, EA and BioWare took that drastic action, canceling Joplin and moving the bulk of its staff, including executive producer Mark Darrah, onto Anthem.

A tiny team stuck around to work on a brand new Dragon Age 4, code-named Morrison, that would be built on Anthem’s tools and code base. It’s the game being made now. Unlike Joplin, this new version of the fourth Dragon Age is planned with a live service component, built for long-term gameplay and revenue.

One promise from management, according to a developer, was that in EA’s balance sheet, they’d be starting from scratch and not burdened with the two years of money that Joplin had already spent. Question was, how many of those ideas and prototypes would they use?

It’s not clear how much of Joplin’s vision will shape Morrison (at least some of it will, says one person on the game), but shortly after the reboot, creative director Mike Laidlaw left, as did some other veteran Dragon Agestaff.

Matt Goldman, art director on Dragon Age: Inquisition and then Joplin, took over as creative director for Morrison, while Darrah remained executive producer on both that project and Anthem.

In early 2018, when I first reported that BioWare had rebooted the next Dragon Age and that its replacement would be a live service game, studio GM Casey Hudson responded on Twitter.

“Reading lots of feedback regarding Dragon Age, and I think you’ll be relieved to see what the team is working on. Story & character focused. Too early to talk details, but when we talk about ‘live’ it just means designing a game for continued storytelling after the main story.”

The game is still very early in development and could evolve based on the negative reception to Anthem. Rumor among BioWare circles for the past year has been that Morrison is “Anthem with dragons”—a snarky label conveyed to me by several people—but a couple of current BioWare employees have waved me off that description.

“The idea was that Anthem would be the online game and that Dragon Age and Mass Effect, while they may experiment with online portions, that’s not what defines them as franchises,” said one. “I don’t think you’ll see us completely change those franchises.”

When asked, a few BioWare developers agreed that it’d be technically possible for a game built on Anthem’s codebase to also have an offline branch, but it’s not yet clear whether Morrison will take that approach. If it does turn out to be an online game, which seems likely, it would be shocking if you couldn’t play the bulk of it by yourself.

(Diablo III, for example, is online-only on PC yet can be played entirely solo.)

One person close to the game told me this week that Morrison’s critical path, or main story, would be designed for single-player and that goal of the multiplayer elements would be to keep people engaged so that they would actually stick with post-launch content.

Single-player downloadable content like Dragon Age: Inquisition’s Trespasser, while often excellent, typically sells only a fraction of the main game, according to developers from BioWare and elsewhere across the industry.

Yet this wouldn’t be a “live service” game if it was a repeat of Dragon Age: Inquisition, which compartmentalized its single- and multiplayer modes.

Fans in the past have grown outraged at the idea of BioWare putting a lot of emphasis on multiplayer gaming, but there are ways in which a service-heavy Dragon Age 4 could be ambitious and impressive.

For example, some ideas I’ve heard floated for Morrison’s multiplayer include companions that can be controlled by multiple players via drop-in/drop-out co-op, similar to old-school BioWare RPGs like Baldur’s Gate, and quests that could change based not just on one player’s decisions, but on the choices of players across the globe.

Maybe in two or three years, Morrison will look completely different. It’s not like Dragon Age hasn’t changed drastically in the past. In the office, BioWare developers often refer to Mark Darrah’s Dragon Age team as a pirate ship, one that will eventually wind up at its destination, but not before meandering from port to port, drinking as much rum as possible along the way.

His is a team that, in the past, has iterated and changed direction constantly—something that they hoped to cut down for Joplin, but has always been part of their DNA (and, it should be noted, heavy iteration is common in all game development).

One BioWare employee summed it up well as we talked about the future of BioWare’s fantasy franchise. “Keep in mind,” they said, “Dragon Age games shift more than other games.

”Said another current BioWare employee about Morrison: “They have a lot of unanswered questions. Plus I know it’s going to change like five times in the next two years.”

There are other questions remaining, too: With BioWare’s Austin office gradually taking over Anthem going forward, when will the bulk of employees at the company’s Edmonton HQ move to the Morrison team?

Will Morrison be able to avoid following the lead of Dragon Age: Inquisition, which took on too many people too early and wound up suffering as a result?

And, most important, will BioWare work to prevent the burnout that has led to dozens of developers leaving over the past two years, with so many citing stress, depression, and anxiety?

End of article, so my thoughts on this, of course, I have my worries especially regarding the multiplayer part, it was to my knowledge that there is a separate Dragon Age team working on the multiplayer component completely estranged from the core team.

I hope that this is still the case, however, it's EA that're the ones who plaque BioWare to incorporate multiplayer and live-service.  

Honestly the biggest concern here is how much of Joplin's original vision and resources are going to be put into Morrison's production, because the description of Joplin is everything I've wanted in a Dragon Age game following from Inquisition.

To hear that this initial game has been canned is heart-wrenching, any signs of Joplin's ashes in Morrison is all I can hope for.

Hope is all we really have right now regarding the future of Dragon Age, and don't forget Mass Effect, which is also going to affected by this too.

Of course, I have my worries. But I am hopeful for what the Dragon Age team can do, and I feel to fear when we still haven't seen the game yet is a little blind-sighted. Who knows when we will see or hear anything, I imagine we may see something on EA Play's live-streams next June, just before E3, but honestly, I'm not sure!

The next Dragon Age project is expected to release within 2-3 years from now, all we can hope for next is a reveal of some-sorts, like a title or development update.

It would be incredible if BioWare could come out and share some insight on what the heck is going on with the next Dragon Age, like a development diary which they did with Mass Effect: Andromeda.

To get a glimpse of this next game and the vision for it is what we in the BioWare fandom all need right now. To know what is going on with the next Dragon Age and how true it will stick to Joplin's original vision.

But until we do hear something, like always, you're already in the right place...

[kylan-writes]

Banal’halam

Banal'halam: Meaning the concept of souls and memories travelling onwards throughout history within the minds and hearts of loved ones, thus meaning that everything – in a small way – is immortal. Buildings will remain, clues will remain of lost cultres, dead loved ones live onward in our memories. Nothing truly ends

Non-sexual, intimate Nan/Bull fluffiness for your consideration

Also on AO3 | Support me on Ko-fi

Nan couldn’t help the disquiet that took hold of her as they returned from the Frostback Basin. She sent for a bath to be set up for her in her quarters as she took a brief walk on the battlements. The sun was hidden behind the mountains, leaving only hues of violet in its wake. She stared at the view for a moment before turning back towards the castle grounds, looking at the Inquisition of their time fondly.

Of all the things they’d learned in their search for Ameridan… to find that history had stripped him of who he had been in favor of a lie that made them comfortable had been the most upsetting.

Nan kept her arms folded over her chest and sighed, taking the long way back to her quarters. The bath was ready and sitting by the fire. Of all the things to come from living among the shems, she’d never complain about the servants willingly catering to her whims.

She stripped herself bare and grabbed the oils and soaps that Josie had passed along; all gifts from a noble in Orlais. Nan had always preferred the practical gifts. She stepped into the tub by her lit and steady fire and sank into the water, taking care of the grime clinging to her skin and hair.

Nan startled at the sound of Iron Bull’s knock on the door. Three in quick succession followed by two slower. She forced herself to relax back in the water, her knees bent so that her shoulders sank into the lukewarm water, and she listened to her partner come up the steps.

“Everything alright?” he asked, taking a seat on her couch.

“Just thinking too much,” she responded, her eyes on the ceiling.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Nan sighed and rubbed at her neck, wincing when she caught a knot pressed against her spine. Bull noticed and came to sit behind her, taking the lilac scented oil from her small pile of goods. She didn’t have to look to know, it was his favorite to use on her. Nan pulled all her hair over one shoulder and began to finger through the tangles while he worked out the knots in her upper body. “You’re too good to me,” she moaned.

“Nah, this is what I’m here for,” he said, giving a kiss to the space behind her pointed ear. She felt like she could melt under his touch. “Now, tell me what’s on your mind.”

She winced as he caught a tight knot, strong fingers bearing down before it started to come loose. She breathed deeply and began, “Do you think this Inquisition will end up like the last?”

He frowned. “As Seekers?”

“No, to history. They…” She trailed off a bit, gathering her words and moaning slightly as Bull distracted her by gently kneading along the length of her spine. She cleared her throat and began again. “Ameridan was an elf. A Dalish elf with an elven lover, both mages. And history just… rewrote them. Made into Chantry devout humans because it didn’t fit what they wanted to remember. Because how dare we be seen as people to the world, or better yet, as heroes?”

Bull was quiet as Nan spoke. They’d talked about her identity struggles with her clan. She hadn’t been born to it, but when Lavellan’s hunters found a blooded child hidden away in the forest, they took her in. She was as elvhen as the rest of them, but she still wasn’t one of them. Nan had fought to prove herself since she was a child, fought for relevance and worth. Even if it was more for herself than anyone else.

“I’ve spent my life protecting and preserving the history of my people.” She drew in a shaky breath and hugged her knees to her chest, bowing her head.

“Are you afraid of being rewritten?” Bull asked as he tried to unfold her.

“You aren’t?” she mumbled against herself, squeaking as he poked his finger into her side. Nan turned back to look at him with mock betrayal.

He smirked and let out a laugh. “I need you relaxed,” he coaxed, running his hands down her arms. Nan relented and still folded forwards, but this time eased so he could continue his work. “I’ve always assumed history would get all of this wrong. I mean, shit, they’ve already got your name wrong.”

Nan grimaced, remembering that her clan name had been twisted into her surname and recorded as such for the masses. “Ugh, humans. They don’t understand naming conventions that don’t fit their standards.”

He laughed lightly at this, smiling as she let out another moan as he dug into her shoulders. “That’s already one point against historians. Doesn’t help that all the shit we’ve been through sounds so unbelievable.”

“You sound like Varric,” she sighed. “Maybe he’ll- ouch…” Nan seethed as Bull pressed into a tightly wound spot near her mid back before it turned into a moan. “Maybe he’ll get the story right when he writes about this. It will be embellished, sure, but the big details will stay as they’re supposed to.”

“You really think so?” Bull smiled as she eased out of her melancholy.

“I can hope, and at least be able to proofread before he sends it to a publisher.” She went quiet for a few seconds, the melancholia returning. “I miss him.”

Bull gave her arms a squeeze and pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades. “I know, Kadan.”

Varric and Vivienne had already left for Kirkwall and Val Royeaux, respectively. Rainier was about to leave for the Wardens. And Dorian, her best friend, was preparing to head back to Tevinter to begin his campaign with Maevaris. Cassandra was thankfully still around, as was Sera. But their group was getting smaller. The Inquisition had been around for a year and a half, but already it was changing. Who could know what was to come?

“Alright, that’s as much as I can do for now,” Bull said, sitting back.

Nan rolled out her neck and arms, humming her approval. “You work miracles with those hands of yours, I swear it.” She smiled back at him. “Do I get a turn?”

He smirked and laughed a little at the thought of Nan’s comparatively small hands kneading into his back. “I’ve had most of these knots since Seheron, I doubt they’ll be coming out anytime soon.”

“You of all people know I’m stronger than I look,” Nan chided playfully.

He looked her over fondly. She was always so eager to jump at the chance to care for him, even when he assured her otherwise. “If you really want to try…”

“I do.”

He smiled and nodded. “Then, alright.”

Nan grinned at him. “Could you hand me my towel?”

Bull got up and grabbed the towel waiting for her on her couch, passing it over as she stood up.

“I’ve only got some floral oils right now, but some are really nice,” she said as she patted out her long hair and carefully dried herself off, making sure to get as little water on the carpet as she could. “Take your pick, Josie’s care packages are never ending. Though I doubt Kenric’s colleagues at the University will take to having nearly all of their existing information on Ameridan nullified.”

“We did stop another dragon from rampaging across the county,” Bull pointed out as he pulled off the leather harness still strapped to his shoulder. He watched her put on a clean set of smallclothes and wrap up in her favorite pink satin robe, smacking her ass as she passed by so that she let out a yelp. “I think that’s worth more gifts.”

“You ass,” she squeaked, laughing at him anyways before bending down to kiss him on the head. “But you’re right! I should have Josie make a request for new treats. Maybe a box of those spiced nuts you liked at the Winter Palace.”

Bull hummed in approval as he passed over a bottle of body oil that smelled of patchouli and something that he couldn’t quite make out that wasn’t as floral as the rest. “I think they were Rivaini. They like their weird spices up there.”

“I’ve never been,” Nan said as she dropped a couple pillows on the ground for him. “Lie face down for me, vhenan?”

“Only for you,” he teased, indulging her by lying with his arms folded around the pillows.

Nan smiled as she straddled his waist, sitting on him with her knees on the ground as she uncapped the bottle. “Sathan, lana em vasrea nar nu’ard, emma lath,” she purred, rolling up her sleeves and starting with his shoulders.

Bull let out a grunt as Nan bared down on him with the heel of her palms, almost caught off guard by the combination of her raw strength and how she used her own weight to slowly but effectively knead out the kinks and aches that had plagued him for years.  “I only caught about a quarter of that,” he said, his face mostly buried in the pillows. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing more.”

She let out an easy laugh as she rolled her thumbs up along the sides of his neck, getting him to groan as she dug into the base of his skull. “Ar isala ma ama, ara nas’falon, amahn dur da’laves.”

He groaned as she sat on his lower back, pressing her elbow into a knot between his right shoulder blade and spine. “You’re making me curious, now.”

“I thought you liked the mystery,” she teased as she put her weight into her elbow, driving the point of it harder and rolling it on the knot until it began to ease. “Made it sexier?”

Bull let himself moan as he felt the tension release and she moved to the other side. “Well, sure.” He gasped slightly as she found a spot that he’d been largely pretending wasn’t causing him any pain before his voice turned into a rumble deep in his chest. “But that- ah!” Nan bared down harder and he gripped at the pillows before forcing himself to relax. “Mmh, that doesn’t mean you’re not back there saying something like, ‘your dick smells like a cabbage!’”

Nan burst into a fit of laughter at this, throwing her head back as she fought to hold herself together. Bull laughed heartily himself, the two so at ease in each other’s presence. “Do you really think I would falsify my sweet nothings like that?” she managed to get out, wiping the laughter tears from her face with her sleeve before picking up the bottle of oil again and squeezing a hefty amount into her palms.

“Depends on how sweet these nothings of yours are,” Bull said.

She smiled at him and shifted so she was sitting on his hips, pressing her hands down into his lower back so that the heels of her palms ground into the tense muscle beneath his scarred skin. “I said,” Nan began, slowly rolling her hands through the muscles along either side of the length of his spine. Bull moaned under her touch. “Please, let me release your pain, my love.”

Bull closed his eyes as he soaked in the warmth of her touch and her words. Warmth he let himself indulge in as her effectiveness continued to surprise him. Their roles had always been such that he put her needs first, took control of her body as a way to keep the title of Inquisitor from suffocating her. He’d never needed anything more, but this was nice. Perhaps he’d indulge more often, given how eager she was to please.

“What about the other part?” he mumbled as she dug her elbows into his mid back.

Nan was quiet, and she was glad his wide horns prevented him from fully turning back to see the flush creeping on her cheeks. “Hm?”

“The ‘issala’ bit,” he elaborated, shifting slightly, “but it’s not qunlat, and I don’t know what yours means.”

She smiled as she bared down a bit harder, grinning to herself when she heard him moan loudly as the knot she was beating finally relaxed. “‘Isala,’” she corrected, the pronunciation more fluid than qunlat. “Means, a personal wish or desire.”

“That’s completely different from my translation for it,” Bull chuckled.

Nan laughed back and pulled away once she’d finished on the opposite side, trying to stay even but starting to get tired. She yawned and laid flat on her stomach, still straddling him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “I did what I could. I hope you don’t mind the bruises.”

“A few bruises in exchange for your hands all over me? Seems fair enough,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles.

She smiled against his skin and kissed him again, nipping at his shoulder playfully before nuzzling against him. “Think history will remember us? The Inquisitor and her Tal’Vashoth partner?”

He hummed thoughtfully, lazily. “Probably won’t get the terminology right, but that’d be pretty great.”

Nan sighed, breathing him in and feeling at peace. She let herself close her eyes and start to drift, letting herself savor the closeness. “It would.”

[everestv-themuse]

temperance: communication, healing, moderation;

“I’m here for you. You can talk to me.”

possible AUs/settings/ideas: comfort, deep talks, hugging, woundtending

Thanks for the prompt! So essentially, this is the second of three mini-fics in this little arc set during Of Somewhat Fallen Fortune, wherein Leliana is pissed about Trea going the long way around the whole assassination contract debacle and supporting Josephine’s method. Ask me why I wrote this out of order when I had this whole thing planned in my notes forever now. Couldn’t tell you. Regardless, I hope it’s not too confusing. Trea Adaar x Josephine Montilyet for @midnightprelude​ & @dadrunkwriting​

“Neither a guard nor Trea will be there next time, Josie. That is the point.” Leliana finishes her speech of sorts and walks over to pick up her bow again. The room is quiet, save for Josephine’s hard breathing in the corner. She’s glaring holes in the floor, Trea is glaring at her Spymaster from her position halfway in the doorway, but Leliana doesn’t comment on the obvious tone of the room. She simply gives a last flashing look to the Inquisitor before pushing past.

Trea lets the door thud heavily behind her before finally allowing herself to rush to the other end of the office. “Josephine, are you alright? I can’t believe she just—”

“Please.” If Josephine noticed the absence of formality, she simply brushes it aside just as she waves away Trea’s concern. “I’m perfectly fine, Inquisitor, startled is all. I apologize for the...the commotion of sorts. I hope this didn’t interrupt anything.”

Trea gapes at the shaking woman before her, the hollowness in Josephine’s voice alone sending ice into her veins. “C-Commotion?! I...n-no, I was on my way to...Leliana, she just...what the fuck was she thinking?!”

“Inquisitor, please,” Josephine says flatly, finally relinquishing her hold on the knife still clasped tight in her shaking hand. It drops to her desk and she puts more pressure where she’s grasping at her bicep, fingers covering where the second arrow tore through her sleeve. “Lower your voice.”

“Lower my...?” Trea’s voice trails off as she looks up at the ceiling in disbelief. “She attacked you! In your own office! And then threatens me before I could give her—”

“She simply did so to make a point.” Josephine interrupts and stares at the two arrows lodged deep in the stone wall behind her. “One we all heard loud and clear.”

“Jo— Lady Montilyet, you can’t honestly tell me that she...” The arrows join her knife in a small pile on her desk and her fingers slip just slightly as she slumps into her armchair. She winces at Trea’s suddenly trembling voice. “You’re bleeding. You’re actually...I thought Leliana meant to miss both times, I thought...wait here.”

“Inquisitor, please. I said I’m fine, it’s just a—”

“I’ll only be a second,” Trea cuts her off, steel in her voice, before rushing out of the office.

Josephine can hear her heartbeat thudding away in her ears and a wave of exhaustion hits her, bowling her over if she hadn’t already been sitting. With a sigh, she lets go of her arm and stares at the blood now staining her fingers. Stupid. She glances at the weapons on her desk before suddenly pushing them away, hard enough to send the knife and arrows clattering to the floor. Childish. With a shaky breath she turns to one of her desk drawers, pulling out a small bottle of Tevinter liqueur. Pouring a healthy amount into the rest of her now-cold tea, she downs the cup in one swig and splutters out a cough. Irresponsible.

And so she sits in silence, taking a final deep breath before holding it trapped inside her chest. She can tell herself all she wants that she’s listening for shouts from the rookery, signs that a fight broke out, guards rushing over, crows cawing at the scene, a certain Orlesian mage and Seeker holding back an enraged Inquisitor and Spymaster respectively. But there’s no point. Really, she’s listening for any discernible creaks from the windows, from the floorboards, from either door. She’s waiting for some kind of sign from a shadowy assassin, come to finally finish the job and prove to Leliana once and for all that if the naive Ambassador had just—

Trea bursts in, a weather-worn burlap sack all but cradled in her arms, and Josephine jumps. “I brought the— oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I only...I have some things for your arm!”

Josephine wishes she had the strength to stop the qunari’s rushing advances, hands a flurry of movement as she empties the bag of its wound care equipment onto the desk. “Inquisitor, really, there’s no need, I—”

“Ambassador, really,” Trea responds easily, as if anticipating the protest. “If you tell me you’re fine again, I’ll be forced to get the healer to confirm your claims. If you let me look at your arm, however, it’ll only be a second.”

“...if you insist,” Josephine gives in after a moment, watching Trea as she unrolls a wad of clean bandages and inspects the cut.

“Well, you’re right about one thing,”

“Only one?”

Trea brushes her fingertips around the wound, trying not to prod too much, and Josephine certainly does not shiver. “It’s not very deep, should heal fine on its own. I just need some...oh, uh, perfect...actually. May I?” She asks hesitantly, suddenly noticing the bottle of alcohol on the table.

It’s so terribly expensive these days... Josephine almost laughs at the instinctive thought and nods. “Be my guest,”

“Thank you. This might sting a little,” Trea says as she pours the smallest amount necessary on a bit of bandage. “So feel free to squeeze as hard as you need to.”

Josephine stares at Trea’s open palm before hers, stares for maybe a beat too long, before taking it hastily to cover up the hesitation. Ridiculous. “Ready when you—” Her voice cuts off in a hiss of surprise and she closes her eyes tight, only opening them again when she feels Trea give a gentle squeeze in return.

“Taashath, ebasit kata,” She chuckles softly and pulls her hand away to secure the bandage in place. “Good job, you were very brave.”

Josephine blinks at the suddenly playful tone. “I...thank you.”

Trea glances at Josephine’s bloody hand and offers a bandage to wipe off the excess. “I’m sure you’ll want to wash up, change maybe. I can walk you to your room if you’d like.”

“No, I...” Josephine says quickly and shakes her head, scrambling for an excuse. “Knowing Leliana, she’s probably there now, waiting to catch me off guard again. She’d likely want to go over all the things I did wrong in her little excuse or run through it again or...”

Trea’s gaze hardens and she turns to pack up her medical supplies again, as if the action would hide her stormy expression. “Oh, well, you’re welcome in my quarters, if you’d like. I have a water basin. Um, a very comfortable sofa as well. Though you probably are aware of that. And, well...” Her voice lowers as she knowingly toes the proverbial line before her, hoping she won’t regret crossing it. “I can also offer a locked door. Unscalable walls. My sword, if need be. You won’t be caught off guard again if I have anything to say about it.”

Josephine watches Trea’s hands as she cleans up, clenching and unclenching, almost rhythmically, systematically. “What was that you said before? Ta-sha...I don’t believe I caught the rest.”

Trea looks up. “Oh, uh, taashath...ebasit...kata.” She pauses and Josephine repeats the phrase slowly, softly, and enough times for Trea to approve of her pronunciation with a nod. “It means ‘calm, it is ended.’ The Valo-Kas, we...we would say it after a hard fight or after patching each other up or...well...it’s just meant to be something soothing, encouraging, you know?”

Josephine nods and looks down at her blood-stained fingers, at the open bottle of alcohol sitting there so invitingly, at the cracked mortar in the wall behind her. At Trea’s hand, once again open and offering itself on her desk. She takes it without hesitation this time. Inadvisable. “Thank you for the offer, I can’t see any reason not to take it. Shall we?”

[buttsonthebeach]

In Media Res

I love that commissions allow me to write about pairings and world states that I have never written about before, and to dive into new characters, so I should be the one thanking @spectrestatus-recognised for trusting me with writing about Artur Hawke and Fenris during the Legacy DLC, struggling with the fallout of their tryst during Act II. 

So thank you, new friend! I loved working on this.

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots currently open as of 9/16/19)

Pairing: Artur Hawke x Fenris

Rating: Teen for sexual references

*************

In hindsight, bringing up the rumors he’d heard circulating Kirkwall while walking through the desolate ruins in the Vinmark Mountains, shortly after fighting Carta dwarves who were making even less sense than usual, knowing they were headed straight for an even larger Carta hideout, was not Artur Hawke’s finest decision.

But there, away from the city, they seemed so big that he could not ignore them. They filled the wide desert sky the way they’d filled each night since the night, which was the only way he would allow himself to think of what had happened. There amongst the scrubby plants and yellow sand, where there was only Carver, Varric - and, of course, Fenris - he could think of nothing else.

However much he wanted to.

And then they encountered Gerav, Varric’s old Carta contact, and as it became clear that they were after Artur and Carver’s blood, he just had to make the comment.

“Why do you want his blood so badly anyway? If you’re after eternal youth, I have to tell you, he’s no virgin.”

And even though Artur knew he should be more focused on the interrogation, he could hardly breathe now, and his hands were trembling, because that was the first time he’d heard someone say those words out loud, and Varric was saying them to a stranger, and Fenris was right here, and Carver was right here, and he wanted the earth to swallow him whole and be done with it.

So he said something once Gerav had been dealt with. Quietly, while he and Varric were at the head of the party.

“Varric, I’ve heard… stories of a personal nature being spread around town.”

“And you want me to set the record straight? I’m flattered.”

He should have noticed then that Varric’s voice was not pitched as low as he would like, that Carver and Fenris were close behind them, but his blood was still up from their fight, and his carefully wrought control - the greatest treasure he owned - was already balanced on a knife edge, because here he was fixing another thing magic had torn asunder, and likely righting another wrong of his father’s own making. Varric turned to look up at him, and then raised his eyebrows at the stony expression in Artur’s eyes. He was lucky he couldn’t see beneath the mask Artur wore to obscure the rest of his face. Artur willed that to be enough to end the matter, to grant him some peace from his own foolishness, to make it easier to be out here with the man he could not stop thinking about, to ease some of the shame.

“I haven’t told anyone about you and that, uh, angsty Tevinter elf. Try looking closer to home for that intelligence leak.”

And the same way that a fireball sucked up all the air around it before it exploded into life, all the air around Artur was sucked up by Varric’s words. There was a quick inhale behind them - Carver sucking in a lungful of his own. Artur felt his face lighting up hot as fire, felt the parts of it covered in fractal scarring puckering and stiffening as his lips drew tighter and tighter. He fidgeted with the edge of his mask, ensuring they stayed covered.

“Varric,” he managed to grit out.

“What? If Gamlen knows about your passionate night together, it can’t be that much of a secret.”

Artur’s mind was a clanging whirl of thought. Crazed Carta and strange murmurings about Hawke blood be damned. Magic had controlled - had ruined - everything about his life. He could hardly believe anything else could rise to a place in his life where it upset that balance - but here they were. Ground to a halt in the Vinmarks, not moving urgently through the Carta hideout towards the Warden Tower that promised to be the solution to the attacks he and Carver had faced, because -

Because one night, around a month ago, Artur had thought things were changing.

He had thought that all the destruction magic had wrought might be leading somewhere beautiful - that his father denying him the chance to enter the Circle, damning him to flee Ferelden with his family, to watch Bethany die, to fight to survive on Kirkwall’s streets - that teaching himself to control the very power that marked his skin with scars, that haunted his every night - that it might all have been leading to Fenris. Steady, forthright, principled, disciplined Fenris. If Fenris could look at Artur and see someone to love - someone to cherish - perhaps he could begin to see that in himself.

But that wasn’t what happened, of course. Artur had bared himself - had bared every inch of scarred, ruined skin - for the first time, and Fenris had delved in, had seemed, perhaps, to cherish it.

And then he’d turned away. Left without a trace.

Artur should have known not to expect anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Carver was saying, though the words may as well have come from a hundred miles away. “Are you saying…?”

“That Hawke and Fenris spent some quality alone time together?”

“Yes. That.”

“Well, yeah. Again, I didn’t think this was exactly a secret. I mean, where did you think the little red handkerchief came from?”

And now Artur’s whole body was locked up with anger, fear, dismay. Because of course Varric had noticed the token Fenris still wore, the token that tormented Artur himself, because why was Fenris wearing it if he had run away from their night together? Why wear a brand you had not wanted in the first place?

And why, on the Maker’s good green earth, was Carver asking Varric for more details?

“Angsty Tevinter elf?”

Fenris’s voice shook Artur free from the prison of his own body. They were spoken in that low drawl that sent heat up his spine even now, because he knew what it sounded like when the only light came from candles, when it was only the two of them. Artur turned back at last to see Fenris. His heart twisted in the desert wind, seeing the arch of Fenris’s pale eyebrow. The disdain written clearly on his face.

“I strive for nothing if not accuracy,” Varric said, his chin acquiring a haughty lift.

Fenris looked at Varric a moment longer. Then his eyes flickered over to Artur, so quickly that he immediately began to doubt whether or not it happened. Then back to Varric.

“Are we going to continue on at some point, or are we going to continue to allow bloodthirsty criminals to run rampant?” he drawled.

Varric turned back to Artur.

“Well, fearless leader? What say you? Am I exonerated in the case of who leaked the story of Hawke and the angsty Tevinter elf and their one night affair?”

Just like that the tension returned, radiating up his back, and the shame coiled tight in his stomach. Tears welled up and he had to speak around them, his voice coming out strangled and broken.

“Enough. We’re headed out.”

He turned away from all of them and headed down the path.

Except that wasn’t the end of it, of course.

They pushed through the Carta hideout, through a grueling fight with a man called Rhatigan, and into a passage down into the earth, down into the promised prison. They decided to make camp there, in the base of the prison, to give themselves time to recover. Varric hadn’t made any further comments, but Carver was glaring at him nonetheless whenever he caught the dwarf’s eye. Artur himself was exhausted enough that he could almost hope he would sleep without dreams, without the relentless circling of demons looking for the slightest weakness. Without any of them taking Fenris’s face, tempting and beckoning and shaming him.

But before he could slip off to that hopeful oblivion, Carver pulled up a seat next to him at their campfire, and Artur knew what was coming next.

“I’m sorry, how is it that half of Kirkwall, including the mouthy dwarf, seems to know something that I don’t?”

“Because the Grey Wardens, unlike half of Kirkwall, are actually focused on the duties they need to uphold. They don’t have time for gossip.”

Carver rolled his eyes. “What happened? With you and Fenris?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Carver.”

“Well you obviously talked to Varric about it.”

“A mistake which I both recognize and regret now. Can we drop it?”

Carver raised both his hands up, defensive. “Fine. I’m just - surprised. And I would have been happy that you let your guard down and let someone in if it wasn’t for Mother’s letter. She didn’t seem to know exactly what was going on, but she said until the Carta attacks started, you were barely leaving your room. Barely sleeping, barely eating. For an entire fortnight. And that was all because of Fenris? Was it really that bad?”

Artur’s heart ached. It had ached before, when his father died, when Bethany died, when Carver was bitten by the darkspawn in the Deep Roads, and then carted off by the Wardens. It ached whenever he saw the Gallows and thought of how much simpler and safer his life would have been within its stone walls. He thought he knew all the different ways it could ache. But this bruise was new, and fresh, and Carver wanted to keep pressing on it.

“I let Fenris in and he changed his mind,” Artur said finally, curtly. “End of discussion.”

Carver’s eyes widened - and then his face softened, and for a brief instant he looked so much like the sister they’d both lost that it closed up Artur’s throat. Then the anger resurfaced, and he was Carver again.

“I see. Well, then that says more about what kind of man he is than what kind of man you are.”

He didn’t raise the subject again that night, even though there was a part of Artur that wanted the chance to disagree with his little brother. To tell him that Fenris was the one who was right. That he had never deserved him. But Artur slept first, so exhausted that he remembered nothing of what he’d dreamt when Varric woke him for his turn on watch. This time it was the waking hours of the night that haunted him. Sitting there at the campfire, in the damp closeness of the prison with its eerie green light, replaying it over and over again - Fenris coming to the mansion after their confrontation with Hadriana on the Wounded Coast, Fenris’s lips on his, the shock of finally feeling another person’s body so close and warm against his own, finally crossing that barrier, finally letting go for once, instead of holding tight. Then Fenris lit by firelight, saying he could not stay, snapping shut the hopeful door Artur had opened within himself, seemingly for good. The images played over and over again on a loop in his mind, and at a certain point he stopped fighting them, let them wash over him, turned them this way and that, examining each moment for something new to cherish, something new to be wounded by.

Fenris was the one he needed to wake for the next guard rotation, though. It was the order they’d taken on previous excursions - Varric, Artur, Fenris, Carver, or Sebastian in the years that followed their disastrous Deep Roads expedition, and Carver joining the Wardens. But this was the first time after what had happened that he would be going into Fenris’s tent, seeing him sleeping there, touching his strong, solid shoulder, seeing him bleary and quiet in the dark for that split second before all his own walls came up, before he was alert and watchful again. He used to live for that moment of softness that only he got to see. He used to think that Fenris did, too. In the weeks leading up to the night they spent together, he’d sometimes catch Fenris lingering in that soft moment, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Artur went to Fenris’s tent, pulled back the flap, called his name. Did not dare to touch him, as he once had. He heard the rustle of blankets and then saw Fenris sitting up, the gleam of his elven eyes in the near-total darkness. The single, curt nod that indicated his understanding. He saw nothing of the softness he used to know. He pretended that it did not matter. This was what he had always expected out of his life. Fenris was right after all, about what he’d said when he killed Hadriana. 

What did magic touch that it did not spoil?

Artur, lying in his tent, seeing the indistinct shape of Fenris as he settled in for his watch, knew that it had spoiled this.

*

It was hard to tell that it was morning based on how dark it was within the tower, but their watches told them it was, and so they ate their rations and packed up camp and prepared to head onwards, upwards, through the tower, to whatever awaited them at the top. Things were getting serious now. The base of the tower was full of darkspawn, and deepstalkers, and a man called Larius who seemed to know the answers to the questions they were afraid to ask. It was full of memories, too, of Malcolm Hawke. Of his own demons, real and imagined. That had to mean that Fenris and Artur’s - indiscretion - would take a back seat. 

Right?

“Hawke looks like he could use some help over there moving the debris out of that doorway. Fenris, why don’t you offer assistance?” Varric said, even though Carver was closer, and already moving towards Artur to help shift the rocks that had fallen in their fight with one of the imprisoned shades.

“The situation looks to be well in hand,” Fenris returned dryly, evenly, refusing as ever to rise to anyone else’s bait, and wasn’t that one of the things Artur so admired about him? That no one - not even Anders - could ruffle him? Artur did not miss that Carver shot a glare at Fenris, and again he almost wanted to intervene, to defend the man who had shattered his heart.

“Somehow I doubt that Carver’s hands are the ones Hawke wants to be in.”

Artur didn’t even have to turn around to know what Varric’s face looked like. Smug, pleased with himself, with his own wordplay. He prayed silently to the Maker and his Bride for a moment for guidance, discernment, calm, self-control.

“How about instead of witty comments, you help next time?” Carver said when they were done, bristling with anger, staring Varric down.

“You should always play to your strengths, Junior. Witty repartee is mine.”

So of course, it still wasn’t over.

Because Varric was nervous.

There were darkspawn about, and crazed Wardens, and ancient demons and magical wards, and ancient dwarven secrets, and all of those were things that made Varric uneasy, and Varric’s way of dealing with unease was to engage in said witty repartee. So when they discovered the grave of a dwarf named Tethras Garen, and Artur said the rites to lay him to rest, what Varric said next was probably inevitable.

“That was sweet, Hawke. Now let’s get out of here before you see me cry. Unlike you, I don’t have a strong shoulder to go and bury my face in.”

That strike drove true, lodged deep. Artur remembered the smell of Fenris’s skin when he buried his face there. It overrode every other scent surrounding them in the present moment. He remembered the sound of Fenris’s heart pounding in his ears.

“No one here has any shoulders to cry on,” Carver said. “Onward. I think I see the next stairs up.”

“You know, you’ve been away too long, Carver,” Varric sighed. “I’ve missed having a lovable lug with more sword than sense along for one of our wild rides. Now, speaking of wild rides, I do have to ask if -”

“No.”

Artur said the word louder than was strictly necessary, and brushed past Varric as he did so. There were images that threatened within his mind that he would not allow himself to replay, or the shame would burn too bright, and there was shame aplenty here, with his father’s voice ringing in his ears.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written. The Maker’s will is in me, and I am safe. He had the will to withstand possession, temptation, destruction, despair. He had the will to overcome this.

It still wasn’t over there, though. Varric’s ability to find a joke was boundless, and perhaps even keener for the constant danger surrounding them, and after they defiled the foul Altar of Dumat they found in the base of the tower, he returned to the subject.

“So I’m curious” he said, panting, still exhausted from the effort of fighting the demons that poured forth when the altar was defiled. “Which of you made the first move? Purely for posterity’s sake, of course. I may not have started the rumors floating around Kirkwall, but now that they’re out there, you’ll want someone to help keep the story straight, right?”

“Varric, enough,” Carver said. “Can you not see the looks Artur’s face? And Fenris’s too, for that matter, though I have to confess I care a little less about his feelings on the matter.”

Artur had been doing his best not to look at Fenris as all of this happened. Or to look at him much more than normal, anyway. He’d caught that one glimpse when Varric first broached this subject, and he’d read it as disdain. He looked again now, more closely. Fenris was looking away from them, mouth set in a hard, thin line, fists clenched at his sides.

He was ashamed. Willing himself to be anywhere but here. Like he had been that night by the fire.

This should never have happened.

“Yes, I can see the look on their faces. Have you ever seen a pair that needed to lighten up more than these two? Or anyone who really needed to kiss and make up, for that matter? Because I sure haven’t.”

Carver made an exasperated, almost wounded sound.

“We don’t have time for this. We’re getting close. I can feel it. Hear it. Like - like a Calling.”

“Junior, I don’t know about you, but I need a rest after that fight,” Varric said. It was true. He was leaning on Bianca for support.

“Fine,” Artur said. “We’ll take a quick breather.”

The instant the words left his mouth, Fenris strode away from them, off into the damp darkness, far enough to be outside of earshot, and Artur’s heart broke again. He should not have brought Fenris along. He should not have subjected him to this shame. Even if he’d only caught wind of the rumors about them right as they left the city, he should have known that it was too soon. That mere weeks would not be enough to erase what had happened, the bottomless guilt Fenris must feel for violating his principles, for getting close to someone who did not deserve it, someone damaged. Artur felt the hard knot that had choked him for those weeks that he had stayed inside the mansion rising up from the pit of his belly into his throat once more, threatening to cut off his breath, to make moving impossible.

“Should you go talk to him?” Carver asked, voice pitched low.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Carver threw his hands in the air. “Well, I guess we’ll all just be miserable all the way up then. Wonderful.”

“We’d be fine if it wasn’t for that blasted dwarf,” Artur finally said, his voice cracking. “We were fine all the way from Kirkwall to the Vinmarks. You saw it. Fenris was polite. He even stood up for me when Varric made his blasted comment about me - rolling around in pudding and gravy or whatever nonsense he came up with this time.” Although, had that really helped? Fenris, the only person who’d seen him beneath the clothes and mask, insisting that Artur wasn’t at all fat? Didn’t that just kindle the shame even further? 

“I swear, if Varric doesn’t stop, I’ll tell him that Sebastian is more of a friend than he has ever been. That will shut him up,” Artur said, his voice cracking again, and he hadn’t felt this on edge in so long, and it only made the flame of his shame burn higher, hotter.

“Still,” Carver insisted. “If you and Fenris had a fling, and it ended badly, why did you bring him along?”

“It wasn’t a fling,” Artur countered. “It was -”

It was supposed to be a beginning. And it had been. It was a beginning the way a stillbirth was, the way a candle that flamed to life and then guttered and died in the same breath was. A beginning that never got to really begin. His eyes drifted over to Fenris again, standing ramrod straight, arms folded, staring off at something Artur could not see.

“It wasn’t a fling,” he went on finally. “And I brought him because I knew we would face heavy opposition from the Carta, whatever they were up to. I needed the best warrior I knew to help keep us safe.”

Not all because Artur was hoping that a change of scenery, that getting out of dreadful Kirkwall, that fighting alongside each other, might fix things. Might at least save their friendship. Not at all because he had gone so many weeks already without seeing Fenris, and he didn’t want to wait longer. He was not a fool. He wasn’t.

“You already had me. What more could you need?” Carver said, a wry, cocky little grin on his face. Artur rolled his eyes. “Come on. Smile. Everyone has had their heart broken before.”

As if this was the first time Artur’s heart had been broken. As if the world didn’t break it every day.

Carver clapped his hand to Artur’s shoulder. It shook his whole body. When had his little brother stopped being so little?

“Thank you for trying, Carver,” he said. Carver nodded, smiled, went to sit down.

Varric sidled over a few moments later, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“So - I may have possibly, once or twice, just a little, crossed a line today.”

At that, Artur could not help but snort, even if full on laughter felt impossible, even if it had for weeks.

“But - look, you and Fenris are tough reads on a good day. I genuinely couldn’t tell at first if this was just the two of you being intensely awkward about a budding romance, or if things really had gone sideways.”

“And at exactly what point did it become clear to you that it was the latter?”

“Oh, right after that first exchange.”

“And yet you persisted?”

Varric raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Look - I don’t do my best work in caves. Or surrounded by darkspawn. Or demons.”

“I don’t think you have to be at your intellectual prime to recognize when something is private and should be left that way.”

“Alright, alright, alright. Message received. But - I’ve gotta ask - why did it go sideways?”

Artur wondered why anyone would keep asking such an elementary, obvious question. He had only ever shown his scars to his family - and to Fenris, on that night - but he knew they manifested in places other than his face. That his magic alone should have made it obvious why he was an unworthy partner. The Chantry was wise to separate them, to prevent them from having families. To contain the danger they represented. And then there were the changes his magic had wrought in him - how it had made him cautious, controlled, afraid. How it had filled him with loathing.

“There was never a way that it could have gone otherwise,” Artur said finally.

Varric looked at him for a good long moment.

“I know you have a hard time seeing it, but you’re the hero in this story, Hawke. You deserve to be happy. If Fenris makes you happy - isn’t it worth reaching for that happiness?”

He had been happy the night that Fenris came to him. Blindingly, stupidly happy. Artur glanced towards Fenris once more, and then looked away again. The memory of that feeling would have to be enough.

“Varric - I just need you to leave us alone. Please.”

Again, the hands raised in the placating gesture.

“I hear you. But, Hawke - I know when a story is over. And this one - this one isn’t yet.”

Artur knew that Varric meant for the words to be soothing, but instead they felt ominous. Wasn’t that what Artur had wanted all his life? For things to just be over? Resolved? Safe, the way they would have been within the thick stone walls of a Circle? He couldn’t have Fenris. He’d accepted that. Now he just wanted the pain to go away.

“I hope it is over,” he said, and Varric saw his cue to leave.

They went on through the tower, its madness, its twists and turns and dangers. Towards this ancient evil named Corypheus, who Malcolm Hawke had used his own blood to seal away. By the end the focused edge that was necessary for combat had shorn away most of Artur Hawke’s other feelings and thoughts. But then there was a moment, near the very top of the tower, knowing what was next, when they caught their breath, and Fenris was standing there, tan cheeks flushed, green eyes bright, white hair mussed, and Artur could think of nothing but how he wanted to cross the space between them and kiss him, and speak the truth.

I don’t want this to be over.

Fenris caught his gaze that time, and a shock coursed down Artur’s spine, like ice water. For an instant, there was that softness again in Fenris, the kind that blurred every line, dulled every hurt. Then Fenris looked away again, and Artur took a deep breath, centering himself, preparing for what came next, and climbed to the top of the tower.

*

They came home in one piece, Corypheus defeated, another of his family’s mistakes corrected. Fenris melted back into the shadows of Hightown, and for all that they lived close to one another, Artur did not see him for several more weeks. It was for the best. He needed to let the wound close up, scar over. One more mark to join all the others.

Varric couldn’t quite seem to stop himself from bringing it up, whatever he’d promised while they were in the tower. Artur was sure he meant well. But he found himself closing off from Varric as well, too wounded by the invasion of his privacy, that one square foot of space he tried to reserve for himself alone in a world that seemed determined to take all the rest. The others wasted no time joining in on the cajoling. Sebastian was the only one who politely refused to join in, who sent Artur sympathetic glances whenever the topic came up. They discussed it only once, standing on the steps of Kirkwall’s chantry, looking out over the city. The endless rows of houses leading down to the harbor and the Gallows, the endless problems that always found ways to lay themselves at Artur Hawke’s feet.

“If Andraste has taught us anything,” Sebastian said. “It is that we have to pass through the fire to reach our true potential. Perhaps even to know the truth of anything. You and Fenris are passing through the fire now. Only the Maker knows what is on the other side. All you need to do is put your trust in Him, and keep putting one foot in front of another. He will not lead you astray.”

Artur took in each word, held them close in his chest, refused to let them just slide away. He took the first real, deep breath he’d taken since that night.

“You’re right,” he said. “Nothing is over until the Maker says it is so.”

Sebastian clapped his hand to Artur’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze. Artur closed his eyes, the better to take in that sensation, the warmth of the sun on his face, the smell of incense and the quiet murmur of the Chant coming out of the chantry. He pictured Fenris’s face, and for the first time he was filled with more hope than fear.

[oftachancer]

Ch 2. pier-pressure (2/2)

Between the rain and the salt spray of the waves crashing against the shore, Aran was in heaven. Cassandra looked like she was one inch away from either combusting or rusting. It might have been the water logging her armor.

“Right, we’re here, let’s seas the day!” Aran beamed. Or it might have been the puns.

“Shell we see these mercenaries then?” Varric asked.

“Enough!” It was definitely the puns. She snapped, “I’ve had enough of both of you.”

Aran glanced sideways at Varric, “She wants me to be more sofishticated.”

The Seeker groaned, ready to let loose a lecture on the duties of his representation if the Inquisition again when the sounds of fighting ahead distracted her.

Solas tilted his head to the side, watching her rush forward into the fray. “It’s possible that you two have made her suicidal.”

“Nah, she likes us,” Varric locked a bolt into his bow, “otherwise she’d have made us go in first. Isn’t that right, Ar-“ he looked around, “Huh, where’d he go?”

Aran slipped through the battle, looking for weak spots. His dagger wove, illuminating the weaknesses in armor-the bands of a greave, the laces of a breastplate, the cords holding a quiver to a back. Everywhere he went, sheaths fell off, bowstrings snapped, armor fell off or open.

Figuring out the difference between the Chargers and the enemy was an easy matter, thankfully. The Chargers were the ones who were everywhere, whooping and swearing, like a swarm of drunk, happy wasps. And in the middle of them, the giant qunari swinging a massive hammer around him as though it were a light staff, knocking men back and shields asunder.

“Chargers!” The qunari shouted as the last enemy fell, “Stand down. Krem! How’d we do?”

“Five or six wounded, Chief,” a young man in slapped together plate reported brusquely. “No dead.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Let the throat-cutters finish up, then break out the casks.”

Aran wiped down one of his knives with an oiled rag Varric had suggested, slipping it into the torso sheaths.

“So, you’re with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. C’mon, have a seat, drinks are comin’.”

Aran glanced up, up, up. He’d expected the qunari to be talking to Cassandra, but she was away, sending a report back with one of Leliana’s agents. “Right, I mean, yes-” He sank onto a driftwood log, hoping that sitting would bring the giant of a man down to his level. Even sitting, the qunari was taller than him by a head. He’d never seen a qunari up close, but the descriptions didn’t do this man justice. He was seven feet, at least, all brute strength and thick corded muscles, and there were those qunari horns, yes, but they weren’t anything like what he’d imagined. Long and twisted back from a scarred, intelligent face. “Iron Bull, I presume,” he said, putting on the ‘deep nobility voice’ he’d been practicing with Varric on the way down.

“Yeah, the horns usually give it away.” Aran took pains not to allow his gaze to slip back up to those horns. Maker, they were stunning. He itched to touch them, to see if they were rough or smooth. How deep the ridges really were. How much was shadow. Instead, he focused on the young man in plate mail from before, as he trudged over to them with a couple of massive wood tankards. “I assume you remember Cremesius Aclassi, my lieutenant.”

“Good to see you again,” Krem acknowledged.

Aran nodded to him, “Same,” curious about the subtle shift of… pride? in the young man’s eyes.

“Throat-cutters are done, chief.”

“Already? Have them check again, I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem.”

“None taken. At least a bastard knows who his mother was. One up on you qunari, right?” Krem smirked, turning back to check again.

“So,” Iron Bull said, drawing Aran’s attention back from the shore littered with bodies. “You’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it. And I’m sure the Inquisition can afford it.”

“The Chargers seem like an excellent company,” Aran equivocated, wondering where the hell Cassandra was and why Iron Bull seemed to think that he was the one to haggle with. Maybe his green-ness was exactly the reason.

“They are, but you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me. You need a front line bodyguard, I’m your man. Whatever it is, demons, dragons, the bigger the better.”

Aran stayed where he was as Iron Bull stood, muscles flexing with the movement. It had to be in purpose, didn’t it? The words, the muscles. It was worth tilting his head back at the odd angle to avoid standing and showing just what part of his body he wanted guarded at this particular moment.

“And there’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off.” He squinted up at the qunari as the sun pierced the storm clouds behind him. “Ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?”

“They’re a qunari organization, right? The equivalent of your guards and city watch?”

“I’d go closer to spies, but yeah. That’s them. Or, well, us. The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. Sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

He wondered, was he was supposed to be impressed, or angry, or horrified? He was curious, instead. “You’re a qunari spy and you just… told me?”

“Whatever happened at the Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

“You still could have hidden what you are.”

“From something called the Inquisition? I’d have been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me.”

It was a good point. One that had Aran reconsidering the number of things he himself had failed to disclose up front to that self-same Inquisition. Maybe he needed to at least have a talk with Josephine. Explain how little she should be relying on whatever she’d heard about his family. She shouldn't be expecting people to come out of the woodwork for Bann Trevelyan’s youngest son, regardless of what kind of weird light glowed from his hand. “Alright. You’re in.”

“Excellent. Krem, tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The Chargers just got hired.”

“What about the casks, Chief? We just opened them up. With axes.”

“Find some way to seal them. You’re Tevinter, right? Try blood magic.” He glanced back at Aran, “We’ll meet you back at Haven.”

Blood magic. The words got his mind churning. “Ah…” Aran cleared his throat. “Just… hold on.” “P

“Second thoughts already?”

“No, I just- Let your men drink. We’ve got a camp just up from the coast. You can stay with us, and I’ll touch base with our agents in the meantime.” Aran kept his eyes on the crashing waves against the shore. He’d wanted a few days on the coast, but now his thoughts were whirling. Damn it.

“You… just going to sit there?”

Aran rested his fingertips at the bridge of his nose. “I’m thinking,” he said.

“Not what you’re known for.”

Blue eyes snapped from the waves to the qunari, “And just what am I known for?” “

“The great and pious Herald of Andraste,” Iron Bull grinned. The effect was bracing. It had to be on purpose. “Closing rifts with that thing on your hand.”

Aran flexed his glowing palm reflexively. “And?”

“Not much else, to be honest.” There was that damned smile again. “And that’s saying something, coming from the Ben-Hassrath. We know things about everyone. Especially nobility. I can tell you things about your brothers and sisters that you probably don’t even know.”

“You think so?” Aran tilted his head to the side.

The Iron Bull hummed quietly. “But until the Conclave… no word about Aran Trevelyan. Then again, we’ve only had about a week to dig into you specifically.” “

“You’ll have to let me know what you find out.”

The qunari eyed him, that smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Will I?” he asked, thoughtfully. “Have to?”

“Herald!” Varric’s voice pulled him out of the dark pools of Bull’s gaze with its joviality. The thick-fingered hand that dropped to his shoulder was an anchor. “Did we make a deal?”

“That’s up to Josephine.” He tried to relax under the calloused palm, “And Leliana. Varric, the Iron Bull. The Iron Bull, Varric.”

“Remembered the ‘the’,” Iron Bull commented, sounding pleased. “Everyone always forgets.”

“Probably because it’s a mouth full.”

“You bet it is.”

Aran blinked. Grinned.

Varric glanced between them. “So… they’re staying…?”

“Yes.” Aran lifted a brow at Iron Bull who nodded.

“I’ll tell the boys,” he said before turning and heading towards his men.

“Big guy,” Varric commented.

“Everyone seems big to you.”

“Short jokes,” Varric sighed. “That’s beneath you.”

Aran smirked, gaze returning to the waves. “Do you think the Grand Enchanter might be able to help find a missing mage?”

“You know one?”

“My sister. We haven’t seen her since the Rebellion started. She was in the Circle, but when everything happened… no one knows where she went. Or if she’s okay.”

“No harm asking.” He whistled low, “So you’re going to go ask the mages for help. The Seeker will love that.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve disappointed her.”

“Now, now, you’re still alive. And unchained. It took me weeks of spinning stories to get out of her interrogation chair.”

Aran snorted. “Tough locks?”

“Tough armored guards with swords.”

“Ah.”

[elfrootaddict]

Now You Know - Chapter 5/8

CONTAINS SPOILERS - DO NOT READ ON UNTIL YOU HAVE COMPLETED DAI TRESPASSER DLC!

DESCRIPTION: Experience (my first) Lavellan’s thoughts and feelings during the final cut scene of the Trespasser DLC. Including her experience when she loses the Anchor.

Chapter 1 ¦ Chapter 2 ¦ Chapter 3 ¦ Chapter 4 ¦ Chapter 5 ¦ Chapter 6 ¦ Chapter 7 ¦ Chapter 8

***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***

To all those in Solavellan Hell,

I have written this to not only express my emotions but to hopefully capture some of yours, too.

After completing Trespasser, and going through the hell that is the final cut scene, I had to do something. So, to help myself work through it, I’ve written (my first) Lavellan’s thoughts and experiences down during the DLC’s final cut scene.

This is my very first FanFic, so I hope it doesn’t turn out completely terrible. *fingers crossed*

Happy Dragon 4ge Day!

WARNING: Chapter 6 contains a moment of distress and gore. Read with sensitivity and discretion.

***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***

CHAPTER 5

When Lavellan was still Keeper Deshanna’s First, her priority was always to her clan and to the elves. Whether they were Dalish, city-born, followed the Qun or slaves of Tevinter. She always held the deepest, most sincere hope that there would come a day when the elves could be what they once were. That there was a forgotten ruin that contained the key to achieving that dream. Surely the past was better than their present? The answer was out there somewhere.

But after being thrown into the role as Inquisitor, she saw both the true beauty and ugliness of Thedas. Even though Keeper Deshanna had an open mind about the shemlen, which helped her not be so narrow-minded like other Dalish elves, she still hadn’t really seen the whole of Thedas.

There is a vast array of beliefs, cultures and practices. So many different types of shemlen! They truly weren’t one and the same. After her years as Inquisitor, she realised how small her world really was amongst the Dalish. 

This world may not be what it once was. It may not be Elvhenan. But it is still magnificent. It is my home. Everybody matters. The elves are not the one and only important race. No time is more important than another. 

Lavellan wants to do right by the Elvhen and improve their lives. Solas is that missing key. He can achieve what she has been dreaming for her people. But her eyes have been opened to what Thedas contained. It cannot be destroyed. 

She can also see how incredibly torn Solas is. Does he truly want to do this? Does he even have a choice?

There has to be another way. A different way. We can figure it out together, vhenan.

“Let me help you Solas.” begs Lavellan.

With his back still towards her, he rejects her assistance, “I cannot do that to you, vhenan.” 

She thinks back to being in the Fade. Solas’s gravestone of fear read ‘dying alone’. He did not see her notice it. She’s kept this knowledge of him to herself. But nevertheless, she knows one of his deepest fears and this causes great distress in her heart.

With her voice shaking and desperate she cries, “But you would do it to yourself? I cannot bear to think of you alone.”

“I walk the Din’Anshiral,” replies Solas with distress. “There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.”

Crushed, Lavellan closes her yes and drops her head. 

I will always love you, Solas. I will always accept you. Don’t you understand? 

Turning around to face Lavellan, Solas’s tone of voice changes. He is always better at suppressing his emotions than she is. Like simply blowing out a candle’s flame. 

In a matter-of-fact sort of way, Solas changes the subject, “It is my fight. You should be more concerned about the Inquisition. Your Inquisition. In stopping the Dragon’s Breath, you have prevented an invasion by Qunari forces. With luck, they will return their forces to Tevinter. That should give you a few years of relative peace.”

With her emotions all over the place, that nearly makes her burst out laughing. Why would he suddenly care about the safety of Thedas, when moments ago he declared he was planning on destroying it? And was it really ‘her’ Inquisition? Solas has clearly been using the Inquisition to right a wrong. How many spies are there? She didn’t believe herself to be naive, but now she feels foolish. She does not like to be made a fool of. 

Now frustrated, her anger helps focus her thoughts. She is still Inquisitor and is going to get as much information out of him as possible. She knows she isn’t going to get a chance like this again.

“The Qunari said the Inquisition was unknowingly working for the agents of Fen’Harel.” asks Lavellan angrily, feeling deceived.

“I gave no orders.” Solas replies promptly.

Irritated she says, “You led us to Skyhold.”

“Corypheus should of died unlocking my Orb. When he survived, my plans were thrown into chaos,” he pauses. “When you survived, I saw the Inquisition as the best hope this world had of stopping him. And you needed a home. Hence, Skyhold.”

“You gave your Orb to Corypheus?” Lavellan asks with disgust. 

“Not directly,” Solas answers. “My agents allowed the Venatori to locate it. The Orb had built up magical energy while I lay unconscious for millennia. I was not powerful enough to open it. The plan was for Corypheus to unlock it, and for the resulting explosion to kill him. Then I would claim the Orb.” 

Solas looks down towards the ground and shakes his head in disbelief. “I did not forsee a Tevinter magister having learned the secret of effective immortality.”

With a quiet and downcast voice she asks, “What would have happened if Corypheus had died and you’d recovered the Orb?”

With his face unveiling the amount of remorse in his heart, “I would have entered the Fade, using the mark you now bear. Then I would have torn down the Veil. As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time… the world of the elves.”

“If you destroyed the Veil, wouldn’t the false gods be freed?” Lavellan asks alarmed. 

“I had plans.” he answers assertively. 

Lavellan is picturing Solas as... Corypheus. He has indeed changed in her eyes. In her mind's eye she sees him holding the Orb and disintegrating the Veil. She can’t stomach the fact that, should things have turned out as planned, Solas would of been the one responsible for the chaos that ensued. 

He is so tenderhearted, thoughtful, respectable and gentle. She can hear Varric saying, “It’s always the quiet ones.”

She knows his heart. But his mind has always been a mystery. She refuses to believe that Solas is completely alone in this decision. There has to be more elements at play here. 

She can see his heart and mind battling each other. He may be good at playing nonchalant, but she knows him better than he realises. There is something he is not telling her. Perhaps if he did, he would have to admit he needs help. Her help. 

Shaking her head in disbelief, “I never thought of you as someone who would do that, Solas.”

He looks away with relief, “Thank you.” 

Solas attempts to convince her, “You must understand. I awoke in a world where the Veil had blocked most people’s conscious connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil.”

Disturbed she asks, “We aren’t even people to you?”

“Not at first,” he says. “You showed me that I was wrong… again,” looking down with guilt he murmurs. “That does make what must come next any easier.” 

Despite all that has transpired, Solas still stayed to defeat Corypheus. Even though it seems pointless to her now, she always prided herself in displaying her appreciation towards others. It is something Keeper Deshanna ingrained into her.

“Whatever your reasons,” says Lavellan. “We couldn’t have defeated Corypheus without you.”

“Your doubts are misplaced,” declares Solas. “Everything you accomplished, you earned.” 

Lavellan feels comforted by his praise. She constantly craves for his approval in her decisions. He always had a wealth of knowledge and wisdom on hand. She thrives on learning from those around her and Solas had in abundance. 

Remembering his concern over the Inquisition, she has to know his thoughts on the matter. He would clearly offer sound advice that would be imperative to hear. 

“What’s wrong with the Inquisition?” she inquires. 

Solas gladly bestows his counsel, “You created a powerful organisation, and now it suffers the inevitable fate of such: betrayal and corruption.”

“It’s not that simple.” says Lavellan ignorantly. 

With an air of superiority he explains, “Do you know how I discovered the Qunari plot? The plot I disrupted by leading them to your doorstep? The Qunari spies in the Inquisition tripped over my spies in the Inquisition. The elven guard who let you to the Qunari body, who intercepted the servant with the gaatlok barrel? Mine.”

“Why bother disrupting the Qunari plot, if you’re going to destroy the world regardless?” asks Lavellan in disgust. 

He answers sympathetically, “You have shown me that there is value in this world, Inquisitor. I take no joy in what I must do. Until that day comes, I would see those recovering from the Breach free of the Qun.”

“Why?” she asks bewildered. 

“Because I am not a monster,” proclaims Solas. “If they must die, I would rather they die in comfort.” he pauses. “In any event, it is done.”

Lavellan feels indebted to him. He helped her and Thedas… again. 

“I guess we owe you for that one, too.”

“I hope it gives your people some final peace.”

Without warning, Lavellan feels her mark starting to violently pulse in the palm of her hand. Cursing the Anchor in her mind she realises she has finally run out of time. Unlike Solas, she has never had a problem admitting she needs help. She needs his help. And she needs it now.

Trying to shake away the pain, in discomfort she says, “There’s still the matter of the Anchor. It’s getting worse.”

Solas looks away with grief, “I know, vhenan. And we are running out of time.”

And just like that, the Anchor flares up and it is the worst pain she has ever felt. It completely cripples her and she is unable to stand. The Anchor even propels her body forward. She has absolutely no control. Clenching and supporting her left forearm with her right hand, she grunts and cries with agony.

Solas slowly kneels down in front of her and says, “The mark will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you… at least for now.”

Lavellan feels she finally understands his determination and conviction. Solas is a loyal servant of Mythal. He knew the All-Mother. From the Dalish tales and what Solas has described, Mythal was clearly the voice of reason amongst the Evanuris. She was wise in her judgements and loved by all who lived in Elvhenan. Solas’s loyalty to Mythal is enduring. And therefore, Solas has to see Mythal avenged and the lives of the elves restored to what it once was.

If she was in Solas’s position, she would also most likely be making the same choice. 

Their love did complicate matters. It was clearly unforeseen and something neither of them expected. 

Nevertheless, their love did happen. Their love has turned into a force unto itself. You can feel it in the air around them. It didn’t diminish in the time that they were apart - if anything, it only grew stronger. 

Even if Solas wouldn’t admit it to her or himself, she knows this is not the end. She knows him to be stubborn but she is stubborn, too. 

I may not save you today, my heart. But I will save you from yourself. I will not give up on you.

The Anchor has almost depleted all the energy she has left in her. She can feel her mind beginning to fade. The pain is just too much. 

In a desperate attempt, she cries, “Solas, var lath vir suledin!”

Looking down with remorse he says, “I wish it could, vhenan.”

Lavellan no longer holds back her tears. She has no more energy left for pretenses. Between the pain in her heart and her hand she can’t tell which one is more agonising.

Solas starts to lean in closer to her and whispers, “My love…”

Holding the side of her face in his hand, he guides her closer to him. His eyes light up with the same magic as before. Lavellan tries her best to ignore the pain of the Anchor and to just focus on him. 

She has never felt more at peace than when he is this close to her. This is where she belonged. This is where he belonged. When he finally kisses her, she can feel his yearning. She can feel his heart being torn in two. 

Should the Anchor kill her now, there would be no better way to die. She is in his embrace and that is all she could ask for. 

It doesn’t have to be this way, my Dread Wolf! You could stay! I can see it on your face!

Solas slowly stands up. With utter despair, only for her to hear, he whispers, “I will never forget you.”

Lavellan is still on her knees. The Anchor renders her powerless. She cannot move. She cannot run after him. 

He is walking away. 

For whatever it is worth, she can still use her voice. She has to try. 

With Solas almost reaching the eluvian, and with tears flooding down her face she cries after him, “Don’t leave me like this! Solas! Solas!”

Solas reaches the Eluvian. He stops. 

And without looking back, he steps through.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 39 - Parting

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

--

They stayed out on the cliff-side for what seemed like hours, wrapped up in each other, revelling in the space away from the constraints of duty that had kept them apart. They sat in the long grass and watched Cuno chase after crickets as the sun curved across the sky; Rosslyn showed him how to weave a flower crown, and though his was uneven and already falling to bits by the time it was finished, she blushed and pulled her lip between her teeth when he fitted it gently into her hair.  

“That means something, you know,” she told him as she did the same with hers. 

“What?”  

The answer was a lopsided smirk pressed delicately against his own mouth, while a feathersoft hand had traced the line of his jaw. Alistair’s stomach coiled and shot heat down to his toes as he leaned in, and steadied them both with a hand on her waist, lips parted to deepen the kiss.  

Then her stomach rumbled.  

“Of all the days to not bring a picnic,” he murmured as he let her go.  

She traced her fingers down the line of his neck, still barely an inch away. “I don’t want to go back, not yet.”  

“They’ll come looking for us if we don’t,” he reminded her, with a quick darted kiss against the corner of her mouth. “Knowing our guard-captains, they’d probably find us, too. That was meant to be a joke,” he added when she frowned and turned away.  

“Not your best,” she teased. “But you’re probably right.”  

“Then what is it?”  

Sighing, she drew her knees up to her chin and fiddled with the end of her sleeve. “We haven’t said…” she tried. “This… us…”  

“You don’t want to tell anyone,” Alistair guessed. Something unpleasant lurched in his gut.

She glanced at him sharply, watching his jaw clench. “It’s not like that. I want –” The words fell away, lost to frustration as she shook her head. “There’s just so much going on, with the war and everything else – our lives are open for everyone to see, prince and teyrna and whatever else they choose to call us. I want… Void take it, I want something that can’t be touched by any of that, something that’s just… us. Ours. I’m… not explaining it very well.”  

She turned away too soon to see the light rekindle in Alistair’s eyes, preoccupied instead with drawing her hair over her shoulder like a veil to hide her mortification, the idea that she had stepped too far and now could not go back.  

“I know what you mean,” came the reassurance as he caught her fingers and brought them to his lips. “I understand. Everything in my life has always been about politics and whether or not I was more useful to keep around or send away, but you – politics has interfered long enough with how I feel about you.”  

“Alistair…”  

“I don’t know where this is going to go – I hope…” He paused then, dropped his gaze to follow the path of his fingers as he traced the bones of her hand. “If it’s what you want, I’d like to court you. Properly. But… not because you’re the Teyrna of Highever, and I’m a prince – for whatever that’s even worth – but because you’re you, and I – I want to be with you. Hang what everyone else thinks. It’s not their business, and… they don’t need to know. I just thought I’d tell you, in case – you know, in case you maybe wanted something like that too… And now I’m rambling, aren’t I?”  

She didn’t answer immediately – she couldn’t, entranced as she was by the glide of Alistair’s skin over her own. His speech burned in her ears, and beyond that the sincerity in his voice echoing every desperate hope carried in the deep, painful places of her heart, which rose now like spring from the roots of a great tree. The size of it lacked expression, though she tried to push through the hitch in her breath to stammer out something, anything to put aside the worry her silence had brought to his eyes.  

“Yup. Rambling. I knew it.”  

She collapsed against his shoulder with a huffed laugh, a self-deprecating sound of defeat tucked against the crook of his neck so she could muffle her uncertainty. A cautious hand settled on her back, but when he tried to pull his hand away, she caught his fingers and laced them with hers.  

“Nobody’s ever just outright asked to court me,” she explained. “I wasn’t expecting it. And…”  

“And…?”  

There are things I haven’t told you. I don’t want this to come to nothing. I’m not –

“And it might be a bit late to keep it from everybody. I’m not sure there’s a person on Innse Gaillean who doesn’t know.”    

He squeezed her hand. “Well you can be rather obvious, you know, the way you stare.”  

“Me?” she replied, pulling back to glare indignation at him. “And I suppose you don’t stare at all?”  

“Oh no, dear lady,” he answered. “I own how much I stare at you, but then, can you blame me? You are rather lovely.” The low, confidential hum of his voice caught her breath and she had to turn into his shoulder again to hide her grin.  

“I think I could get used to being courted by you.”  

Above her, he froze, and then with a sigh that ruffled past her ear, he shifted and turned, craning his neck to see her better. “Really?”  

She moved just far enough to brush a grinning kiss against his pulse. “Really.”  

--  

The week after that passed too slowly, for both of them. The euphoria of their shared confession was abruptly swept away as they folded back into the patterns of regular life, livened by the preparations to return to the mainland and the first news of battle joined between the Clayne and the marauding Tevinter ships. Besides, with so many eyes on them there was little time for private moments. Tabris disappeared, given berth on Lord Misyluinan’s ship for her own chance at vengeance, while Isabela grumbled about all the concurrent fortunes she could be making were she not stuck waiting for word from the king.  

That word came nine days after Alistair had retrieved the dragon bone, when Arl Eamon stepped onto the docks. The old man greeted them with a beneficent smile and a hearty clap on the shoulder, until he caught sight of Rosslyn’s glare and added proper deference with a bow. Before he could move on to clasp the Storm Giant’s arm, however, Connor pushed through the crowd, full of excitement.  

“Father! Look! Magus Breca taught me how to do it.”  

Eamon’s eyes shot wide at the curling lick of flame balanced like a pet on his son’s palm. His lips peeled back from his teeth as if he’d bitten into something sour, and when he glanced to Rosslyn and Alistair, their faces slack with shock, whatever he might have said floundered as ruddy colour flushed his face.

“Isn’t it good, Father?” Connor pressed. “It’s meant to take ages to learn but I did it in only days!”  

Eamon bent down, his hand heavy on his son’s shoulder. “What did we discuss about keeping your… abilities out of sight? What would your mother think of such a display?”  

“But…” the boy frowned. “Magus Breca said –”  

“We will speak of this later.”  

The incident was not mentioned again. Eamon, eager to re-establish himself, kept Alistair close company for long hours over the following two days, to the point where Brantis, too well-mannered for complaining, redoubled his efforts to appear indispensable and all but tied himself to Rosslyn’s shadow overseeing their preparations to leave. If part of his motive was to keep the two of them apart, he was tactful enough not to mention it, but it meant that between one thing and another, Rosslyn had no private chance to talk to Alistair until their last night in the broch, when the noise of the leaving feast drowned out all conversation not immediately hollered into a partner’s ear.

“You managed to persuade him to give you a moment of peace, then?” she asked as she shared a plate of mutton pastries. She eyed the servers for unwanted attention, wary of protocol again with her departure for the mainland only hours away. The arl, carefully out if earshot, sat four seats away on the Storm Giant’s other side, swapping war tales with subtle, increasing degrees of escalation.  

“If you can call it peace,” Alistair replied. “Considering.”  

His fingers drummed against the rim of his goblet, the only betrayal of his agitation at being so close and unable to hold her hand. She noticed the movement and made a show of reaching across him for a bowl of roasted vegetables, brushing her arm past his shoulder, while beneath the table her knee pressed even closer next to his.  

“Subtle as an anchor on the heid,” Eoin grumbled on her other side as Alistair leaned back and braced a hand against her waist. “Yair lucky they’re all I’ thair cups.”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied loftily.  

But Alistair’s hand fell from her back. In the morning, they would have to go their separate ways, she back south to the war and the king, and he onwards to Orzammar to forestall any treaty the dwarves might make with Loghain. With all the scrutiny from those around them, there had been no time to discuss the change, and with so little time left now before the morning tide, the fear was stalking closer that they might have to part back into danger without anything more than a formal goodbye.  

“Aye, o’ course. Dinnae mind me.”  

A runner stepped up to the dais and bent to whisper in Alistair’s ear, distracting Rosslyn from her retort.  

“What was that about?” she asked as the man padded back into the swirl of the crowd.  

Alistair winked. “You’ll see.” He stood and turned towards the Storm Giant, his shoulders thrown back in the way Brantis had shown him was best for grand, formal announcements. “My Lord Fearchar, the thing we discussed is now, uh… ready. My Lady Lileas, If I might be permitted to interrupt the proceedings?”

For a long moment, the fearsome Mac Eanraig matriarch held him in her pale gaze, her head tilted with an impartial curiosity that collapsed into a smile as she glanced between the young prince and her granddaughter. She nodded.

“Thank you, my lady.”  

“What is the meaning of this?” Eamon sputtered, rising as Alistair stepped over the bench. “Your Highness, this is most irregular –”  

“Ha! Ye picked yer timing all right!” the Storm Giant boomed over him. “You there! Clear a space for the prince, he willnae be able te move in all this mess. An’ all the rest o’ you, settle! Ye’ll want te watch this, milord.”

An anticipatory murmur accompanied the bustle of the servers as platters were cleared to make room for whatever it was Alistair had planned. He didn’t move immediately to the central dais, striding instead to one of the side doors, where Wade stood just inside, a long lacquered box held in his arms with the care of a newborn. When alistair undid the clasps and lifted the lid, Rosslyn glanced curiously to the Storm Giant, frowning when the only response was a catlike smirk.  

“Your Ladyship, will you join me please?”  

She rose at the call, flustered, but didn’t otherwise move. “Your Highness?”  

“I have something for you,” he explained. “Something that deserves a little bit of ceremony, just in case.”  

Aware of all the eyes on them, she bit down on her retort and smoothed her expression into the calm mask she had been taught to wear since childhood, even if she couldn’t quite help the suspicious wrinkle of her brows. The expression only made Alistair grin all the wider, though only she was close enough to see his underlying nervousness, and the way his gaze softened when she stepped close.

He cleared his throat. “Teyrna Rosslyn, it is time your service and your inspiration in this war was recognised. Your loyalty to the crown is unsurpassed, your bravery unrivalled.” He paused, and the silence hung in the space around them.

“Your Highness, I haven’t done anything,” she replied with a note of caution in her voice, throwing an uneasy glance to the Storm Giant. “Only my duty.”

“Oh… you mean it wasn’t you who waded out across the mouth of the Swallow and pulled me from certain death?” he teased. “You weren’t the one who got me away from the field at Lothering, and denied your own vengeance at West Roth so the army could be saved? That’s going to make things a bit awkward.”  

“Your Highness –”  

“Rosslyn. Let me do this.”  

She blinked at the earnest softness in his voice, caught his steady gaze and held it as she smiled her defeat. “I’m not entirely sure how I’d stop you at this point.”  

“That’s the spirit. Master Wade?”  

The smith approached, his face split in a beaming smile beneath his moustache, and offered up the box in his arms. His fingers unhooked the clasps in deft movements, and with a great amount of ceremony, he creaked the lid open.  

Her breath stilled.  

“I thought it was time the army’s Commander in Chief had her own sword,” Alistair explained. “Brantis told me it’s custom for the king to reward the crown’s vassals, but I’m sure HM won’t mind just this once if I steal his moment. Do you… like it?”  

Nested in a bed of black silk, the sword gleamed, sheathed in a scabbard of blue leather embossed with an intricate pattern of laurel leaves that twined along its entire length. The hilt continued the motif, with a crossguard of engraved aurum and a pommel that twisted into the shape of a raptor’s claw gripped around a runestone. It was almost too beautiful to spoil by touching.  

“Alistair – that is, Your Highness – this is…”

“Told you she’d like it.”  

Wade preened. “I do hope you’re pleased with it, Your Ladyship.” He hung on the awe in her expression. “It’s my finest work, made exact to His Highness’ specifications, and sharp as sharp can be. The materials – oh, more than I ever dreamed of! Very receptive to what I was trying to accomplish, and it’s given me so much to think about!”  

“Well, lass?” the Storm Giant called from his place. “After all that it’d be rude not te try it. Ye have leave te draw steel in my hall.”  

With a last questioning look at Wade and a heaved breath to steady her nerves, Rosslyn curled her fingers under the sword and lifted it from the box. When she gripped the hilt and drew it, the blade sang. It was thin, delicately balanced, with a slight reminiscent of the fang of some great beast, and edges that seemed to gather light as she swept it through the air. Oily blues and golds flashed over the surface and sank into the runes etched into the blood-groove. She had never seen such a property in a metal blade, had only read about it in stories.  

“The dragon bone,” she realised, turning to Alistair with wide eyes.

“It turns out nobody really expected me to bring one back,” he told her lightly. “Lord Fearchar was at a loss for what to do with it, and I offered a suggestion. Truthfully, it’s more his gift than mine.”  

“You give yourself too little credit, Your Highness,” Lileas said. “And either my granddaughter is speechless, or she has forgotten her manners.”  

Rosslyn started. The sword was still in her hand, at rest like a natural extension of her arm, and parting with it, even just to put it away, left her feeling strangely anxious. She wanted to test it; it wanted to be used.  

“A blade like this must have a name,” she said.  

Wade nodded. “Indeed, Your Ladyship. I call it Talon. Made from a dragon claw for the Falcon of Highever – such things require a touch of the poetic, even Herren agrees.”  

“As do I,” she replied graciously. “Talon it will be. You should be very proud of your work, Serah.”  

“So yair happy wi’ it, then?” the Storm Giant asked.

She nodded. “It’s a royal gift. Thank you, Gamba – and Your Highness…” she added, turning to Alistair, aware once again of the scrutiny of the entire broch, the expectation placed upon them all to act with ceremony. Sheathing the sword to buy herself time, she held it out to him, perfectly balanced.

“Your Highness, I will not forget this kindness, nor what it means. You gave me this sword, and now I give it back to you in service – my loyalty to Ferelden, and to the crown that serves it.”  

He came forward and took the sword from her hands, so that their fingers brushed on the hilt. Seeing her gaze flick down to his mouth, he smiled, the meaning clear between them. I want to kiss you, too.

“A gift gladly received,” he said in a clear voice, and laid it back in the box before turning towards one of the servers with his best commanding voice. “Make sure this is placed among Her Ladyship’s things.”

The server bowed and left, towing a rather uncertain pause in his wake as the broch recovered from the impromptu formality of the presentation and remembered there was still half a feast to be had. With all eyes still on them, Rosslyn and Alistair kept a careful distance from each other as they returned to their seats. Lileas briefly pressed her granddaughter’s hand before returning to her duties as hostess, and just like that, the moment passed, the watched feeling left them, and they found a moment to breathe in each other’s company.

“That wasn’t too much, was it?” he asked, once the platters were cleared and the singers had taken over the floor. “There was meant to be a proper ceremony, but since we’re leaving tomorrow…”

She nudged him with her elbow. “At least now I know where you were every time you snuck off every time I tried to find you this past week. How did Wade react to all the badgering?”

“Not well,” he admitted. Despite his better judgement, he reached for her hand under the table.

“In seriousness, thank you for the sword. I’m not sure you know how much it means.”

“I wish we were alone, so you could tell me.”

“I wish ye were alone, so I wouldnae have tae witness it,” Eoin interrupted.

Rosslyn scowled at him. “Follow me,” she whispered to Alistair. “But not too close.”

Before he could respond, she retreated from his grasp, waking Cuno from his place under the table so she could take him outside. Alistair watched her bid goodnight to her grandparents with manners as smooth as silk, his mind already racing ahead to the moment where he might make his own excuses and join her, and talk to her, and feel proper comfort for the first time since that afternoon on the cliffs. He almost yielded when she threw him a glance at the door, but Eamon’s gaze was on him, warning him against the impulse. He forced himself to wait. One of the singers plucked on her harp, the broch quieted to hear, and after that his departure would have been too conspicuous until the song finished.

In the end, he made it out after only one performance, having fidgeted the entire way through at the worry that he was taking too long, that Rosslyn wouldn’t wait. Eoin took pity on him and made a show of being too drunk to stand on his own, and with that cover they slipped out to a chorus of good natured laughter.

“Away and find her afore someone comes looking,” the Reaper’s captain grunted as soon as they were out of sight.

“Thank you.”

A hand landed pincerlike on Alistair’s arm. “I did this because ye make her happy, and the lass needs that after everything. Hurt her, and I’ll hoist ye up the lanyard by yer own entrails.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” he replied. “It looks like there’ll be a queue.”

Eoin smirked. “Not half bad for a royal bastard. Get on,” he huffed. “Yer lady’s awaiting.”

Rosslyn wasn’t hard to find. She stood in the shadow of the broch, hiding from the light of the two moons full overhead in a sky still rimed with dusk, where only the brightest point of Judex was shining. Cuno snuffled about somewhere in the darkness, and coughed a warning when he heard Alistair approach. He announced himself, and the stiff line of her shoulders relaxed.

“I was beginning to worry,” she chuckled as she stepped close. His arms slid around her waist as she cupped his cheek to kiss him, a chaste, relieved press of her lips that sent a wash of calm all the way down to his toes. When they parted he pulled her close, winding his hands into her hair as if that alone might hold off the dread of leaving in the morning.

“You will write to me, won’t you?” she asked, muffled against his shoulder.

He brushed a kiss against her hair. “I have the first letter already copied out. I know it by heart, if you want to hear it?”  

She twisted in his arms, intrigued. “Go on.”  

Grinning, he trailed his fingers down her arms and lifted her hands in courtly fashion between them. “Dear Rosslyn…” he began.

She frowned. “Yes?”

“I miss you. Fondest regards, Alistair.”

“I… Wait, that’s it?”

“What else were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” she retorted, fighting to keep her own smile under control. “Something… more. Replying to that would be a waste of a messenger.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned. “So demanding. Alright then. Ahem. Dear Rosslyn, I miss you very, very much.” His voice softened and she leaned closer, folding her arms against his chest. How long would it be before he saw her again? “I still don’t know why Cailan thought I’d be any help in these negotiations, but the sooner they’re over, the sooner I get to see you again. Yours, Alistair.” The last was breathed against her mouth, the words a low hum that made her breath catch. But she giggled and dodged out of reach when he tried to kiss her.

“Oh, and you can do better, hm?” he teased.  

She cast him a sly look as she pulled away. “Dear Alistair, today Cailan bet me five sovereigns that I couldn’t fight a bear single-handed. Well, you know I can’t bear to pass up a challenge, and the coffers have been rattling for months. You’ll only fret if I give you the details, but since I’m writing, you can rest assured that I won the bet. Thinking of you, Rosslyn.”  

“That’s not funny.” He pouted. “It’s not funny.”  

“Then why are you smiling?”  

“Because, dear lady,” he said as he once more closed the space between them, “I’m about to kiss you, and I’m fond of kissing you.”  

“Are you now?” she hummed, leaning up to meet him.

“Mmhm…”

He didn’t want to leave, or to hide, or to lose the thrill of being pressed so close. Fingers raked across his scalp, a warm waist supple under his hands, and when he ventured forward with a flick of the tongue, Rosslyn opened to him with a gasp that lit his nerves on fire. He wanted to learn how to have her make that noise again.

“I wish you were going with me,” he murmured when they finally parted for breath.

“So do I. My father said Orzammar is like nothing humans have ever built.” She turned her gaze away. “But then there would be nobody left to stop Loghain and Baudrillard both tearing Ferelden apart.”  

“If anyone can deal with them, it’s you.” He sighed. “Come on, its late.”

Hand in hand, they ambled in the direction of the guesthouse, leaning on each other while Cuno returned from his investigations to trot ahead like an honour guard. The light inside the common room had dimmed, the banked fire now no more than spitting embers, the whale-oil lamps extinguished to preserve fuel. A rafter above their heads creaked as the building settled, but no other sound broke the stifling air.  

“Promise me you’ll be careful?” Alistair asked. They were already at his door.  

Rosslyn’s hand settled over his heart as she turned for a farewell. “Of course.”  

Hesitant, she traced the line of his collar, unable to quite step out of reach, and unwilling to lose the softness of his fingertips on her skin. With her resolve to leave crumbling away, she rocked forward so her forehead leaned against his cheek.  

“It’s hard to believe we aren’t going to see each other after tomorrow.”  

“Only for a little while.” He caught her chin and offered her a smile too brittle to work. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to miss you any less.”

She kissed him. “I’ll miss you as well, especially when I need a sparring partner.”

“Ah, so that’s the real reason you keep me around!”

“The truth comes out,” she teased.

He poked her in the ribs. “You nobles – all the same.”

“We can’t be all bad if you enjoy kissing me so much,” she pointed out.

“Huh. True. Well how about one more, then – for luck?”

Rosslyn’s smile faded, her breath tight in her chest as the phrase stirred her memory – that last morning in Highever, resentment at being left behind, her parents uncaring who saw their affection as they stood together under the shadow of war.

“is everything alright?”

“The last time I heard those words, my family’s luck turned sour.” She offered a weak smile. “I should let you get some rest.”  

“Of course.”

The fire cracked. Voices carried from outside as the broch started to empty, the songs finished. Sighing, Rosslyn retreated towards the stairs, her fingers linked with Alistair’s until the connection stretched too far and was lost.

“Goodnight,” he murmured as she disappeared through her door.  

Without her, the silence echoed, a snapped cobweb drifting, the empty space a cavern with all the warmth sucked away. With a sigh, he turned to his own room. Moonlight painted a fat stripe across the clothes Marten had laid out for him to wear in the morning, but it was only another reminder of the impending bleakness of his near-future.

The door to the guesthouse opened.

“Ah, there you are, my boy,” Eamon slurred, with a hand braced against the wall to keep himself from wobbling.

“My lord,” Alistair replied. “I was about to go to bed.”

The old man waved him away. “Of course, of course. Perhaps I might have a word first?”

“Uh…”

“Splendid. Perhaps in there – it would be better not to be overheard.” He tramped past the fire and led the way into Alistair’s room, where he spoke the command to light the glowstone on Alistair’s desk. Alistair followed warily, aware of all the times in the past when the arl’s desire to talk turned into requests, or attempts to send his fosterling away.  

But that had been then, when Alistair was still just a servant’s bastard, not the Prince of Ferelden.

“My lord, whatever this is, it’s late,” Alistair tried. “We have an early start in the morning.”  

“We do indeed,” Eamon answered. “I wanted to say I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished here, that’s all – no need to fret. You are coming into your own, my boy.”

Deflated by the unexpected praise, Alistair sank onto his bed. Before he had worked out a proper response, however, his sort-of uncle was already continuing.  

“Of course, it’s about time. Now that Anora has revealed her true loyalties in leaving Gwaren to be with her father, it is more important than ever to show a united line. The gift-giving this evening was very fortuitous to that end, in fact. Couldn’t have come at a better time.”

“I don’t understand.”

Eamon clasped his hands behind his back, tilting a knowing look over his shoulder. “His Majesty is fond of Anora, but her latest action condemns their connection utterly.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Alistair snapped. He was too tired, and trusted the itch in his mind that told him the conversation had a point that he wasn’t going to like.    

“Sometimes I forget how unskilled you are in politics.” The response came with a chuckle. “My boy, Anora’s position cannot be supported. She is entirely her father’s creature, and no matter the outcome, His Majesty knows he must distance himself from her. He plans to divorce her in favour of someone better suited.”  

A stone dropped in Alistair’s gut. “Who?”  

“Her Ladyship, of course. Your official show of favour today has paved the first step to making her queen.”  

A chill stole over Alistair’s skin. Somehow, he managed to stumble through the rest of the conversation, his ears ringing and his fingers numb, until Eamon, mistaking his horror for mere fatigue, clapped him on the shoulder and bid him goodnight. When the old man finally left, with a promise to see him bright and early, he nodded, and when he was finally shut in with his thoughts, he let his head fall against the door with a thud.

[cha0ticmimzy]

Here Lies the Abyss, II

Author’s Notes: The Battle is well underway when Sylthana arrives, but just what happens when she enters the fray? Word Count: 1930 Characters: Sylthana Lavellan, Cullen Rutherford, Garrett Hawke, Alistair Theirin Warnings: I don’t know what actually needs to be warned here so lets just  there be some blood?

The battle was already well underway by the time she arrived on the field, The Iron Bull, Solas, and Cassandra behind her. Hawke and Alistair had arrived well before she did.

And what a battle it was.

Her gaze swept across the fortress, taking note of how the Inquisition seemed to be winning thus far. But she knew far too well how quickly the tides could change. Cullen was easy to spot, with that blond hair and fur cloak. She made her way through the battle, paying no mind to the carnage that covered the ground, ignoring the blood that soaked the souls the of her boots.

So many souls, lost.

“Pull back, they’re through!” The panicked shout echoed through the night. A grim, gleeful smile curled her lips before another voice made her pause.

“Alright, Inquisitor. You have your way in. Best make use of it!” Cullen called out, voice rough from yelling commands. “We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.” Grim determination.

“There’s a worrying lack of specificity there, Commander,” she teased, smirking despite the worry that coursed through her. Seeing Cullen here- it made her fears come through. She couldn’t bare to think on if she l o s t him.

“There are more of them than I was hoping, Inquisitor.” A breath of a laugh left him.

“You don’t say?”

An amused smirk curled his lips as he shook his head. “Warden Alistair will guard your back. Hawke is with the soldiers on the battlements; he’s assisting them until you arrive.” He paused, gaze directing upwards. She turned, following his gaze. A demon appeared, snarling and hissing into the night. “There’s too much resistance on the walls. Our men on the ladders can’t get a foothold. If you can clear out the enemies on the battlements, we’ll cover your advance!”

“Don’t get yourself killed, Rutherford. I happen to like that face of yours!” Sylthana called over her shoulder as she took off in a sprint, dodging arrows and blades alike. At one point, she’d used a mound- a literal mound- of dead bodies as a platform, leaping from it onto a staircase. By the time she reached the battlements, she was covered in blood that was not her own.

The sight that greeted her was grim. 

The Wardens were fighting tooth and nail with the Inquisition. But it seemed that Hawke had managed to get them to stand down- at least, sort of. Enough that they could talk before swinging their blades.

“We could save you!” Alistair exclaimed, brows furrowing as the Warden backed away, fearful.

“Why should I trust you, Alistair? You’re a traitor to the wardens!” Sylthana was surprised at the amount of fear in his voice, causing his words to tremble. “Clarell called for your death!” Ouch.

“The Inquisition is here to stop Clarell, not to kill Wardens!” She yelled back, nose scrunching up in anger and annoyance. “If you f a l l back, you won’t be h a r m e d!”

Clarity seemed to break through. “Alright,” the warden agreed. “My men will stay back. We don’t want no part in this. Deal with Clarell as you must.”

“Wardens! We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect!” Clarell called out across the battlefield, rallying her men once more.

“The Inquisition is inside, Clarell!” Erimond exclaimed, scowling. “We’ve no time to stand upon ceremony!”

Clarell’s eyes narrowed at the Tevinter mage, lip curling. “These men and women are giving their lives, Magister! That might mean little in Tevinter,” she took pride in the way he flinched back, “but in the Wardens, it is a sacred duty.” She didn’t back down, raising her chin to meet his gaze. Finally, he looked away, causing a smirk to curl her lips. Turning, she faced an old, familiar face. “It has been many long years, my friend.”

“Too many, Clarell,” he replied, dropping down to take a knee. “If my sword arm can no longer serve the Wardens, then my blood will have to do.” He rose, slowly, drawing his last few breaths. Battle raged on around him, the night filled with the shrieks and screams of human and demon alike. And yet- he found himself at peace, even as Clarell came behind him, arms wrapping around him, holding him tight against her body.

“It will,” Clarell reassured, voice a mixture of sorrow and promise. She wasted no time, knife slicing across his throat, spilling life’s essence upon the platform. His body fell limp, sliding to the ground.

Sylthana felt bile rise in her throat at the display she witnessed.

“Stop them! We must complete the ritual!” Erimond commanded, having taken notice of Sylthana and her merry band.

She held up a hand, causing her companions to fall still. Slowly, she walked forward, gaze tracking over each face in the courtyard. So young, so scared. “It’s done, Clarell!” She yelled, anger ripping through her words. “There’ll be no ritual and no demon army!”

“Then the Blight rises with no Wardens left to stop it, and the world dies! Is that what you want?!” Erimond called out. “And yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice. Hate me for that if you must! But do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty!”

“We make the sacrifices no one else will!” Clarell spoke up, and Sylthana found herself nor angry- no, she felt pity. They had no idea they were all just toy soldiers. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them!”

“And then he binds your mages to Corypheus!” Alistair counters, eyes narrowing.

Clarell felt a horrible, sinking feeling settle in her gut as her blood turned to ice in her veins. “Corypheus?” She asked softly, shock settling in. “But he’s dead…?”

“These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarell!” Erimond attempted.

Clarell ran a hand over her face, rubbing at her eyes. Sylthana watched grimly as the Warden Commander had this new realization dumped upon her like ice water. She almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

Erimond watched her closely, panic clutching at the edges of his mind. Would she not go through with it?

“Bring it through!” Clarell finally ordered, causing Erimond to smile smugly. He watched, full of pride, as the mages all began to work the Fade, attempting to draw through the Nightmare demon.

Sylthana scowled, marching forward, Hawke keeping step with her. Alistair hesitated before joining, a few steps behind. The Wardens shifted nervously, taking hesitant steps forward. No doubt a few had seen the carnage she’d left in her wake.

“Please, I’ve seen more than my share of blood magic. It is never worth the cost.” Hawke pleaded.

“I have fought against the archdemon in Fereldan. Could you at least consider listening to me?” Alistair tried, resorting to pleading and begging.

They won’t listen, Sylthana thought to herself. None of them will. The horrid sound of the demon screeching filled the air.

“Be ready with the ritual, Clarell,” Erimond warned, glancing to the woman beside him. “This demon is truly worthy of your strength!”

“Listen to me!” She tried once more, throat straining with the force of her voice. “I have no quarrel with the Wardens! I have spared those I could! I don’t want to kill you, but you’re being used!” Pleading, begging; anything to end the bloodshed. “Some of you know it, don’t you?”

“The mages who’ve done the ritual! They’re not right,” one Warden spoke up, fear written across his face. “They were my friends, but now they’re like puppets on a string!”

“You cannot let fear sway your mind, Warden Chernoff!” Clarell cut in, shaking her head.

“He’s not afraid- you are!” Hawke yelled. “You’re afraid that you ordered all these brave men and women to die for nothing!”

“If this were a fight against a future Blight, I would be at your side! But it’s a lie!” Alistair scowled. The Wardens all turned, slowly, to Clarell for guidance.

Clarell stood still, the words Alistair spoke echoing in her mind. He would be… He would be here, at their side. He had been beside the Hero of Fereldan. He was THE Warden.

“Clarell, we have come so far! You’re the only one who could do this!” Erimond hissed, pleading.

“Perhaps we could… Test the truth of these charges? To prevent more bloodshed?” Clarell attempted in vain.

“Or perhaps,” Erimond all but growled, “I should bring in a more reliable ally!” Turning to face the Inquisitor, he scowled. “My Master thought you would come here, Inquisitor!” He called out as he banged his staff upon the stone beneath him. “He sent me this to welcome you!” The sound of a familiar screeching growl echoed through the night.

Sylthana felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. “No,” she whispered, taking a half step back. “No.” But the sound of wings beating in the wind sounded, and then came the scream of the dragon.

“Run!” She screamed, just before jumping for cover as the dragon swept low, a blast of that lyrium-tainted fire coming from it’s gaping maw. It circled around the fortress, ready to attack.

Clarell stumbled back a few steps, staring at Erimond in horror. That beast- he’d called forth such a terror. The truth of the situation began to settle into her bones. She had been used. She had been played a fool. Anger, disgust, both filled her system as she let loose a bolt of lightning, zapping Erimond in the back, causing him to fall to the ground with a surprised yelp. She stared down at the Magister, nose scrunching up in disgust at this… This snake of a man.

“Clarell,” Erimond tried, voice nervous as he watched her raise her staff, lighting zapping about it, “wait-” but it was too late, for she’d already let loose a bolt towards the dragon.

Sylthana felt panic rise in her.

The dragon let out a bellow before releasing a stream of lyrium-tianted fire.

Sylthana wanted to run as she watched it fly overhead.

“Help the Inquisitor!” Clarell ordered, making the elf turn in surprise. She didn’t stick around, taking off in a sprint with her companions falling in behind her, albeit they were slower than she was. Chaos had ensued around her- demons, chasing. Men and women crying out for help, releasing a final yell before their death. She nearly found herself in the midst of dragon fire had she not stopped in time.

She managed to make it to a platform, only to skid to a stop at the sight of Erimond, lying upon the ground. Clarell stood above his body, anger practically radiating off of her. The dragon came back, grabbing Clarell and taking flight for a moment, before flinging her down upon the stone. Sylthana felt herself trembling in fear as the beast surged forward.

“In war, victory,” Clarell murmured as she crawled forward, “in peace, vigilance.” She let loose a bolt of lightning, shocking the dragon, causing the dragon to fly upwards, only to not quite land upon the edge of the ledge. It fell, causing the stone pathway to begin to crumble with it. Try as she might, Sylthana couldn’t get her footing, wobbling about. And yet, she managed to dive, grabbing hold of Alistair’s hand and pulling him up to safety.

But that safety didn’t last- no, for the pathway beneath her crumbled, and then she was falling.