#also clan lavellan drama

[mzap]

Hey M! Nice to see the DA enthusiasm! Do you have a canon worldstate you're thinking of bringing into DA:TV? I'm really curious about it if so!

I do! There's another world state I was playing through a while ago where I make different decisions, but I've been kind of reluctant to make some of those decisions in DAI, so I haven't completed it haha (maybe the upcoming release date will encourage me to)

But you asked about my canon playthrough!

DAO: Melantha Tabris - warrior - romanced Alistair and survived the Blight. She's canonically his mistress post-game (he's unmarried), but I'm going to be so for real right now, it's been 20 years: they're married in my mind (at least secretly). If I were to give her a DA2 personality type, it'd be the blue diplomatic/helpful one.

DA2: Arzhela Hawke - mage - romanced Fenris and sided with the mages. To date, one of my favorite protagonist names. She's also sarcastic/purple Hawke and I adore her.

DAI: Athim Lavellan - mage - romanced Solas (rip), Leliana is Divine, elected to disband the Inquisition, and attempted to redeem Solas. Athim is very much the reluctant protagonist: she wants nothing but to return home to her clan and resume her responsibilities to eventually become Keeper. She has the red aggressive/direct personality, and yes, her name is a little ironic since she's very prideful and her name means "humility" in Elvhenan. While she attempted to redeem Solas, I'm kinda hoping for a tragic ending to that? For the drama, I suppose haha

[fengren-art]

Okay, I want to show off my Rook and the Inquisitor too~

Vale Laidir-Lavellan

There was a time when he thought convincing his mother, a strict matriarch of the house Laidir, to refer to him as a man was going to be the most difficult task in his life...

But that went surprisingly nice and easy, with mother fully accepting her son's true self.

She even allowed him and his older sister to join Lords of Fortune! What has provoked the sudden change of heart of such an uptight and overprotective woman Vale didn't know but did not complain. And even all the misadventures he came through with the Lords will never be comparable with what was going to happen...

No, the real trouble came from where Vale least expected it. Namely, from his older brother Iris, who had to flee Rivain with their younger sister Elaine when someone started to hunt down the Laidirs.

Iris and Elaine joined their father's Dalish clan, Lavellan, and the story could've just ended with "The siblings were separated and communicated via letters trice a year". It fucking could have just ended with Iris becoming first to the clan's Keeper and with Vale becoming the most legendary of the most glorious Lords in their fabulous history.

But nooo, Iris just had to get near the poor old Chantry woman who was being killed by the magical Tevinter monstrosity who just happened to have some magical orb graciously given to him by no other than some magical elven god who wanted to perform some magical ritual or whatever that will make Iris' hand... Magical? Vale lost the thread of the narrative somewhere at the beginning but it doesn't matter, the point is, it could have been avoided!

But because Iris did not have enough consciousness to not accidentally become important at job, people made him (or his magical hand, Vale wasn't sure) the Inquisitor.

And... Look, Vale loves his brother, he really does. Iris has always been on Vale's side, was the first to help him figure out this whole gender thing, was the first to accept who Vale is and always has been. Objectively, he's the best big brother in the whole Thedas. Buuut he's also a magnet for misfortunes so ridiculous they don't even sound real (the trait that, to be fair, runs in the family). Like, man, how, just how could you become besties with the actual elven god and then get betrayed by him!? There's literally no other living mortal in the Thedas who had been dumped by a god (okay, maybe Elaine, but the matter of "get your fragile mortal heart broken by the ancient god who allowed himself a luxury of falling in love" is a story on its own).

So anyways! Now that 10 years later Solas made himself the whole world's problem, Iris, who really, really, really needed help, asked his little brother to make himself Solas' problem.

And Vale Laidir-Lavellan, who has far too much L's in his name, decided to make this absolutely insane task of slapping god's bald head one huge W. If only he knew in what kind of drama he was getting himself into...

[hellomehlo]

Elowen Lavellan

First to Clan Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, Leader of the Inquisition

————————————————————————

Now that the main plot is finished, I’ve been dying to do one of these templates!!! (inspired by @owletbears and others I've seen!)

(grey marker indicates a shift after the Crestwood scene with Solas)

(‘Devout’, in this case, refers to the Elven Pantheon rather than the Maker)

choices below!

————————————————————————

World-Defining Choices

Full Alliance with Mages: This one was a no-brainer - Elowen is very pro-mage freedom, and Vivienne absolutely haaaated her to start with because of this (also In Hushed Whispers is a fantastic quest and there was no way I wasn't going to do it)

Stroud Left Behind in The Fade: Okay, originally I left Hawke behind, and it was honestly a 50/50 coin flip, because this is a default world state and therefore I had no emotional attachment to either Hawke or Stroud, but man. Seeing Varric upset made me cry so hard irl that I just had to go back and retcon this choice just so I didn't have to see him like that. Sorry, Stroud.

Rebuilt the Wardens: This one was hard, because Elowen could absolutely see where Solas was coming from in wanting the Wardens gone, but realistically, if another Blight were to happen, getting rid of the only people that can take down Darkspawn seemed like a very short-sighted decision to her. Yeah…that 'greatly disapproves' kinda hurt.

Celene & Briala reconciled: Oh, we were getting to the bottom of all this drama. An ending to the ball with the least possible bloodshed and hurt feelings, and Elowen gets to do a badass monologue in front of an entire ballroom? Yes please.

Morrigan Drinks from The Well of Sorrows: From literally Day 1, I agonised over this choice, because I knew it was a big deal. Ultimately, both Dorian and Solas warning her about its dangers was enough for Elowen to let Morrigan drink from the Well (albeit begrudgingly, because Morrigan standing in the Temple of Mythal and explaining Elowen's own heritage back to her reeeeeally didn't sit well with her, and she nearly drank from the Well purely to spite Morrigan.)

Other choices not listed here:

Cole stays more of a spirit

Solas removes Elowen’s vallaslin

Clan Lavellan survives!

Iron Bull is Tal’Vashoth

Blackwall is pardoned

Seekers are rebuilt

Leliana (softened) becomes Divine

Florianne becomes Court Jester (lmao)

[khalss]

i've fully committed to annie's kid being rook for my first veilguard playthrough. they're in their early 20s around the time of the game (somewhere between 22-24) and i can't wait to think about all the fucking drama of playing as her kid.

annie's kid was a teenager during dai. the lavellan clan was brought to skyhold eventually for safety so her kid was just running around, getting to know everyone and being reintroduced to friends of their mom's when they were a kid.

and in my head, this kid absolutely got to know solas. got to bond with him. i mean, annie would have been up front at the start of the relationship 'i have a kid. if you're not okay with that then this is over before it starts.' if he fell in love with and had a relationship with annie, then he'd also have to spend time with her child. get to know them, bond with them. they probably accidentally called him 'dad' a couple of times because they've never had one before and they can see the relationship between him and their mom is getting serious

but then it ends before it even really starts and solas just disappears. the kid grows up, becomes an adult, strikes out on their own to be their own person (while annie tries not to freak out. doesn't want to be a control freak but by GOD no one really told her how stressful it'd be to watch your only child go be an adult) only to somehow just

find solas again. find the person that their mother loves so much but also despises and man it's gonna be weird and difficult

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Meet Athalen Lavellan (Name is from @dalishious Elvhen Dictonary located HERE. It's a great resource for writers. Actually just go and troll through their blog, it's a great resource for lore and updates. I love them!) Athalen will be part of the "Those We Care For" world state and my first playthrough in Dragon Age: The Veilguard.

Keeping with the theme of the world state so far: Athalen has had a pretty rough life. She wasn't born to the Dalish, rather she was a street kid named Imogen in Val Royeux for her childhood. She left age fifteen hoping to find a home in the Free Marches but found her hopes of it being better then Orlais wasn't true. Eventually she found her way to clan Lavellan where she was accepted, and received her Vallaslin age 25 when she helped fight off a group of spiders from harming the clan. This is where she dropped her old name and accepted Athalen as her name.

Yet she never found really a connection to the clan. Being an adult when she joined the clan, many of the older generation felt she didn't deserve her markings despite the Keeper giving her them and the help she gave. Many her age would tease her for lacking the same knowledge they did. Other agreed with the elders. The younger of the clan were similarly split. The Keeper was her only real form of connection, but even she bowed to some of the pressures of the elders and often sent her off hunting. She learned all she could and threw herself into the events, but despite how much she connected to the history and her People, there were to many Elders speaking out against her.

Being sent to the Conclave was a slap in the face. The rewards were high, but she could tell she was being sent because they wouldn't care if she made it back. Keeper Deshanna secretly told her that she was making a trade with another clan much more accepting of City Elves rejoining the Dalish so that Athalen could find a home. Upset, but accepting, Athalen went to the Conclave where her whole world changed...

Plans: As mentioned, I specifically wanted to have Solas/Lavellan romance my first go in DATV due to the drama. She'll probably side with the mages. Not sure about the rest, right now she's just busy screaming cause she is terrified. She's a warrior so may go for Guardian. Feels like her speed.

Also I hate the eyebrows in game. They suck so much.

[pinayelf-archive]

I know the save clan lavellan mission is like extremely stressful (in picking the right advisor to do what) but I added extra drama in my own DAI story where the stakes are higher (haven't figured out how yet) and there's also a great danger to the troops from trying to protect both the clan and city elves

so immy hesitates to send more troops because she doesn't want their blood on her hands but also she could lose her clan. Cullen tells her he will go there himself to fortify the city with a smaller number of troops but it's risky

and immy's like "cullen no it's too dangerous why would you do this for me" and he tells her "because I would do anything for you". this is pre-romance btw :3

[starwrittenfates]

Which high school stereotype would you give to each of your muse(s) (name as many as you'd like), and why?

Untitled Questions for Multimuses

All of my Doctor's are "the Rebel" because it's literally what they are! He stole a TARDIS and said #ScrewtheTimeLords, I do what I want!

Romana is "the Overachiever" because, well...who else flaunts the fact they graduated from the Academy with a Triple First?

Lady Sif is probably "the Jock" because Goddess of War and all. QUEEN!

I'm sorry, but I just see Astarion as being "the Theatre Kid", not only because of the fact he puts on a mask to hid his trauma, but also...he loves to cause drama and chaos. Plus the hair! <3

My girl, Synnove, is for sure "the Band Kid." She could possibly also come off as a "Theatre Kid" too. Why not both? Mostly cause of being a Bard and loving to perform and tell stories.

Ellana dear is 'the Hippie.' Clan Lavellan are forest dwellers and nomads, so it makes sense.

Solas is 'the Rebel.' No questions. He literally said "screw you" to the Evanuris and is the elven God of Rebellion!

[nerdanel01]

A Small And Beautiful Surrender

(in which I finally write that haven scene)

There Is Only Forward - Chapter 12

Trapped in a dream she cannot escape, Lavellan is forced to relive the years she spent in the Inquisition—the years she spent with Solas. But not all is as it should be, for the longer she lingers in the dream, the more it begins to diverge from memory and into something else.

Excerpt: But he shook his head at her, no, no; a rejection of her shame. Defiant, as she tried to pull away from him. Then his hand was upon her waist, forceful and wanting, fierce. 

He pulled her into his arms and returned her kiss with one twice as hungry.

He kissed not with his lips but with his whole body; it swayed in rhythm with each press of his lips. His hands held her waist, drawing her closer with every cloistered breath, fisted tightly in the cloth of her tunic, clinging for purchase as if to keep themselves from wandering too freely. Each eager kiss he planted in the corner of her mouth felt like a small and beautiful surrender: the gift of himself, given freely and without reservation. For both their mouths were usually so heavily armored, guarded (the clicking of teeth against teeth) against words spilled carelessly. Mouths usually so possessed of intention and reservation moving against one another, dispossessed—for the moment—of their secrets.

(full chapter below cut, also here on AO3) (or... start from beginning)

A voice—familiar? (Idrilla’s?)—“Atisha, da’erelan.”

There was a dull, mounting sound; like the roar of the waves at the Storm Coast, and she felt something—the dream, the White Wolf, she no longer knew—pulling at her like the hands of the children in the alienage at Halamshiral, like an undertow, tugging her back to underneath, a soft song and the bliss of ignorance, moving through the dreams without the pain of foresight to know what was coming next. 

She allowed it drag her under.

[from one grief, into another: the feeling the same, only her place within it, changing.]

The light long faded, and everything in her chambers colored ever so slightly golden in the wash of light from the oil lamps. The stack of paperwork on her desk, finally—mercifully—attended to, and Thanduwen rewarding herself with a languid stretch in her chair, arms reaching skywards. The satisfaction of the tightness leaving her muscles, and a weary task concluded. 

Leliana had announced herself at her chambers with a brief but forceful rap of her knuckles on the door; she entered the bedroom without giving any further notice. It was the first hint that something was wrong—a creeping feeling, mist ghosting across still water, the apprehension soft but sharp in the way it punctured through the peace of her solitude—usually, the Spymaster was more than courteous.

“Inquisitor?” Leliana asked, the purple of her hood and shock of her copper hair gleaming in the light as she emerged from the stairs. “I apologize for the intrusion, I know it is late, but I thought, perhaps, you would not want to wait until the morning to address this.”

[from one grief, into another: she had not yet been in the War Room in the dead of night. The colored glass that usually flooded the room with light was black and lifeless, the table below lit with the glow of one hundred small candles, perched in the branches of the chandelier above, wax dripping, beading downwards like strands of pearls. Her hand grasped the small piece of parchment in front of her, and Thanduwen had to will it not to tremble as she read over Keeper Deshanna’s letter once more.]

“It is more serious than she says,” Thanduwen said, setting the letter down on the table. Her fingers smoothed the creases in the parchment, worried its edges. “My people would not ask for aid lightly. The fact that she is making such a request at all…” But her voice trailed off, unable to give voice to the thought that threatened to devour her. Her head too full of awful, close darkness. Cold dread had seized upon her heart, wrapped about it like the roots of an eager vine, insatiable and relentless, and climbing.

For this was what she had feared from the beginning: that harm would come to her family because of her role in the Inquisition, because it was she—a Dalish Elf—who had been held aloft as Herald. Her Clan had faced the threat of bandits before, but the fact that they came in such numbers, and so well equipped, suggested to Thanduwen something far more sinister at work. 

It turned her stomach. 

She let her fingers trace the parchment’s edge as she collected herself, continuing to smooth the wrinkles and folds, as if repeated, gentle caresses could will them away. In that moment it was very difficult to keep the faces of her family out of her mind. Drohan, smiling; Ithras, scowling; Ghedril and Sulien telling some crass story by the hearth that had the younger elves howling with laughter. 

They had never been safe, not really. Even before Thanduwen had become part of the Inquisition, each consecutive season brought new risks, fresh peril. In that respect, little had changed. But this time, she was not there to stand beside them. To die beside them, if fate willed it. She secluded herself among stone walls and mountains while the knife tip was pressed to their throats, blood ready to fall—the guilt felt like something gnarled, twisting inside of her, wringing her thin.

Finally, she tore her eyes from the slanted, inked words of her Keeper to up at her advisors. “What are our options?”

Josephine spoke at once, having already calculated their diplomatic advantages, the solution that was most politic and most tactful, if not the most effective. “The letter says they are in a small valley, near Wycome. The Duke of Wycome is an ally of the Inquisition. It is… unusual, for him to allow bandits to prey so close to his city. If we inform him of the threat of raiders in his holdings, no doubt he will move to help the Dalish.”

Thanduwen was always respectful of the Ambassador’s input; it came as no surprise, then, that Josephine balked at the sharp, dismissive tone in Thanduwen’s voice when she replied. “No,” she said, tersely, shaking her head. “No, I will not put the fate of my Clan in the hands of a human noble.”

(She had to focus very hard to keep the word ‘shemlen’ out of her refusal.)

Josephine frowned, focused her attention on the scrivener’s tablet n her arms. “There may come a time when you will have little choice but to put your faith in them.”

“But that time is not now,” Thanduwen replied, conviction unwavering. “Not for this.”

“I think, regardless of where her caution comes from, it is well founded,” Leliana interjected. She kept her arms folded behind her back, piercing gaze directed at the Inquisitor. “ If the situation was simple, we might call upon the Duke for help, but the situation is more complex than it appears. I do not like the way Keeper Deshanna describes these supposed ‘bandits;’ I suspect, much like the lyrium miners we discovered in the Hinterlands, they have ulterior motive.”

“That is my fear, as well,” Thanduwen agreed. “The behavior she describes is very unusual. If the bandits are as well equipped as she says, the Dalish likely have little of worth to reward their efforts. They are not attacking them simply to plunder and steal.”

“Then allow me to send my skirmishers to support them,” Leliana said. “The next time the bandits attempt an assault, we will catch them by surprise; it will give Clan Lavellan a chance to retreat to safety. And my forces are best suited to learn the intent of these ‘bandits,’ after the threat has been neutralized. A detail as small as the buckles of a breastplate or the type of arms they carry could tell us more about who sent these bandits and why—a detail that others not trained to observe might miss.”

But Thanduwen was uncertain. And even though she stood before them in her sleeping linens—they provided far less modesty than she would have liked—she was still very much in command of the room. Often, she felt conflicted about the scope of her influence, unwilling to make decisions unilaterally. But this was not so now, not with so much at stake. 

She stared for a time at the map of Thedas spread before her, then lifted her eyes to the one person in the room who had thus far remained silent. “Cullen?”

The Commander seemed taken aback at the sound of his name, surprised to be so frankly and respectfully acknowledged by her. He stepped forward, straightened his posture. “I agree with Leliana,” he said. “It seems unlikely that bandits would attack a Dalish camp with such excessive force.” Cullen leaned over the table, pointed to a small figurine on the map, near Ansburg. “We have troops currently stationed further upstream from your Clan, along the banks of the Minanter River. They have boats. Once the message reaches them, they can arrive at Wycome within two days time; less, probably, once they are aware of the urgency.”

Leliana’s bard training helped her subdue her emotions, but even Thanduwen with her untrained eye could see that she was practically sneering through her words when she responded. “If there is something more sinister going on here, your troops will obliterate whatever evidence there is that can help us uncover the truth,” Leliana said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And they will be easier to see coming. They may save the Dalish now, but if we do not uncover the motivation behind these attacks, new threats may come to replace them in time—attacks that we would be unprepared to anticipate, or defend against.”

“Not to mention the diplomatic repercussions of sending our troops so close to a sovereign city without justifiable cause,” Josephine added. But at the dangerous look Thanduwen flashed her from across the table, she corrected herself: “In the eyes of the nobility, that is; a group of soldiers may be seen as an act of aggression, whereas Leliana’s agents could get in and out unnoticed. I doubt the Duke of Wycombe would appreciate such a display of force so close to his territory.”

“I thought you said the Duke was our ally,” Thanduwen replied. “Can we not inform him ahead of time that we are coming?”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission, I think,” Leliana said. “If the Duke is involved in anyway—and we cannot rule out the possibility, for among those in the surrounding area he is one of the few wealthy enough to outfit such a troop of bandits—we risk overplaying our hand if we give him notice of what we plan to do. Which is part of why I believe sending my skirmishers is best. They cannot be tracked. No one will know of their presence until the threat is eliminated. They are good at covering their tracks.”

“If someone powerful is behind the attacks, then a show of force is the only solution,” Cullen retorted. It was, perhaps, the first time Thanduwen was not irritated by the belligerent tone he adopted when he argued with the other advisors; she felt it, too, that same impatience. “Whoever is behind the attacks will think twice about assaulting the Dalish again, once they know the strength of the Inquisition defends them.”

“You risk escalating the situation,” Leliana responded just as forcefully. “If they are not intimidated into submission—a tactic which, by the way, is not sustainable for the Inquisition, if we want to have any allies at all—they may return in greater number than we are prepared to face.”

Thanduwen heard their voices as they argued, tried to hold onto their words in her head, make sense of it all. But her distress was mounting. Impatient, anxious and torn; her Clan was in danger right now, and here she was, standing safe in her fortress while a group of shemlen bickered over her family’s fate. They weighed Clan Lavellan’s safety against the other goals of the Inquisition as though it were simply another treaty to negotiate. And for all of that—all the might at her disposal, all her options—she felt utterly powerless. The air in the War Room seemed suddenly so thin; it was difficult to hear the bickering of her advisors over the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears…

“Stop!” she cried, silencing her advisors, her voice a bit more loud and forceful than she had intended. “Just, stop. I…” but her voice trailed off as she looked helplessly at the map spread across table, the little pawns and icons that symbolized troops and scouts. So many lives at stake, under her command, but in that moment, she only cared about a select few. And her own awareness of that bias only fed her distress.

“Give me a moment alone, please,” she said, breathily, backing away from the table. “I need to think…” 

Then she turned, fled through the doors of the War Room.

  Once she was alone in the silent hall, the doors to the war room closed behind her, she leaned her back against the cool stone of the walls and closed her eyes. 

And as she struggled to slow her breathing, calm the frantic pace of her heart, she thought of Solas. Would he still be awake, at this late hour? What would he be doing, if not walking another forgotten path through the Fade, oblivious to her dilemma? A part of her wanted to run to him, ask him for his advice, but she knew adding another voice to the many would not help. And after all, she reminded herself with some bitterness, he did not consider the Dalish to be his people; he owed her Clan no greater allegiance than Josephine or Leliana.

But she longed for him, all the same—if not to advise her, then simply for the comfort of his company. She trusted him above all others. Perhaps it was that trust that always made her feel safe in his presence… isolated, for a time, from the concerns and responsibilities her title placed on her.

When the door to the War Room opened again, she did not know how much time had passed. But through the opened doors she could hear Leliana’s voice, a chastising hiss, before the door clicked shut on her. When she turned towards the sound she saw Commander Cullen walking towards her, recognized the shuffling hesitation in his gate that was most evident when he was uncomfortable.

“Inquisitor,” he said, voice thick with trepidation. He knew he was intruding, but the fact that he was— despite her clearly expressed desire to be left alone—impressed her. It was unlike him, to disobey so direct an order. She doubted he would have done so unless he had something very compelling to say. “Forgive me; I will return to the War Room if you prefer to be alone. But I wanted a private word with you.”

Thanduwen watched him as he approached, nodded, every so slightly, in consent. Cullen visibly relaxed.

He came to a rest beside her, leaning against the wall so that they stood side by side. (It was easier, like this, to speak to her without having to look at her, to see the way she looked at him.) His armor clanked against the stone. “Inquisitor, I know… that we have had our disagreements in the past. Some of them quite heated. But I…”

Cullen hesitated, sighed. His tone was soft, a welcome change from the heated conversation inside the room. “I do not like to talk about the Blight,” he said. “I was stationed at Kinloch Hold when we received the first reports of darkspawn in the south of Ferelden. I thought of my family constantly. Wondering whether or not they were safe, whether or not they would survive. It… distracted me, compromised my ability to carry out my duties. I did terrible things. And I know,” he said, hastily, as if already anticipating the criticism she was so quick to lay upon him, “that even if there had been no Blight, I would have been capable of the same cruelties. But I believe the danger to my kin moved me to….” He sighed, screwed up his face. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him bring his hand up to the back of his neck, a nervous tick. “I know that pain, of not being able to be in two places at once. Being torn between your duty and your family.”

Thanduwen had never spoken to Cullen about his family before. It was clear from listening to him how much they meant to him, how fond he was of them. She couldn’t help but wonder at it, a little bit. They’d had their disagreements, true; but for the first time she realized how little effort she’d made to get to know him better. That for all those disagreements, the man who Commander her troops was still practically a stranger to her.

It didn’t change what she knew about him. But it did make him seem, for the moment, a small measure more human.

“I do not want you to feel that way,” Cullen said, finally, and he turned to face her, though he kept his eyes cast down towards the floor. “You carry a great burden; so many depend on you. I wish for you to be able to attend your responsibilities without fearing that danger will come to your loved ones because of your actions. It will cloud your judgement, and that is something you cannot afford.”

No matter how she felt about Cullen—and the vile nature of some of his past deeds still turned her stomach each time she looked at him, the way he’d treated mages (how, she wondered, did he see her?)—the sentiment was kind. It softened her. “I have asked for a moment alone to consider,” Thanduwen said, and a smile was playing about her lips as she did, “and you have pursued me to convince me that your course of action is best.”

She’d called him out, he knew it. A torn look crossed his face before he continued; he released his hand from his neck, brought it down to the pommel of his sword, fidgeted with it lightly to reassure himself. “Some of our very best men are stationed in the Free Marches, on that river,” Cullen said, emphatic but gentle. “I know their captain personally. I would not push if I was not confident that they could reach your Clan in time and protect them. These men are deeply devoted to you, after what you did in Haven. They would lay down their lives before they allowed your kin to perish under their watch.”

The truth in his words didn’t help. She wanted no holy army, no zealots laying their lives down for her. For a moment they both settled into the space of that thought, weighing its solemnity. Cullen stirred first.

He paused, lifted his hand from the pommel of his sword and rummaged through his cloak. “A few days ago, you welcomed my resignation,” he said, pulling a piece of parchment from his pocket. When he handed it to her, she looked at him with a sudden curiosity. “I… have already had my own doubts, about how fit I am to serve in this position. You hold my resignation now in your hands. If my soldiers fail to protect your Clan, if any harm befalls them because our soldiers failed in their duty… you are welcome to use it.”

Thanduwen could not stop the surprise from her face; her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open before she reigned her features into a more neutral expression. She flashed him a wary glance before opening the parchment in her hands. She might have suspected it was a prank, if Cullen had an ounce of humor in his body, but she’d never known him to be anything but serious. And indeed, contained within, written in a surprisingly elegant, slanted script, was an formal offer of Commander Cullen’s resignation.

She raised her eyes to him in wonder. Of all the things she might have expected him to risk losing job over, the safety of her Clan was not one of them. She knew that, if he failed, his resignation (or his dismissal?) would not ease the pain of losing her family. Indeed, she thought, nothing short of seeing the “bandits” responsible dead by her own hand would ease that pain—though she thought it better not to voice that thought. But the offer of his resignation made plain that he was sincere. She knew what this position in the Inquisition meant to him personally; he would not risk it on a whim. He truly believed he could protect them. Cullen had made bad judgements before, but this felt different, somehow. She believed him. 

For what was possibly the first time, she trusted him.

They entered the War Room together. She had tucked Cullen’s resignation letter into the pockets of her comfortable linens; there was no need to speak of it with the others, not yet.

“Commander Cullen will be sending his troops to Wycome,” she said, in a tone that made clear that a decision had been made and that the subject was no longer under discussion. Josephine shook her head; Leliana’s features were set in a practiced, neutral expression. “I want updates by raven daily. Leliana, coordinate with Cullen to see that it is done.”

“As you command, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, bowing her head lightly.

And, without another word, Thanduwen turned on her heel, and exited the War Room.

But not to retire—not to sleep, not yet. She couldn’t, not with her head so full of plans and her heart so full of dread. (But how she had needed to escape, to get free of that room.) Cullen’s words had comforted her little, even if she had agreed to his course of action. Nothing would ease her anxiety until she knew her Clan was safe, the bandits eliminated, and the villain responsible for sending them severely punished.

As she walked through the empty Throne Room—quiet and cold, the hearth where Varric liked to sit already reduced from a roaring flame to smoldering embers—the even, measured padding of her bare feet against the stone seemed to echo through the vast space. The rustling of her night linens resounded, like the wind passing through an aravel’s sails.

She wondered—did he already hear her, approaching? Did he recognize that pattern of footfalls as her own?

(By now, she could recognize him by the rhythm of his step.)

If he was already asleep, she would simply pace the battlements until her restlessness was exhausted, her body tired enough to lie still in bed if not surrender wholly to sleep. This she decided even as she approached the door to the rotunda, the rational part of her mind telling her that it would calm her just as well as the company she sought. But the flutter of her heart at the sight of the rotunda door cracked open—a flickering light escaping from the room within—told her that it would have been a wholly unsatisfying substitute.

After almost five months, this simple fact remained true: there was no one in the Inquisition who she respected so fully, [loved with the warmth that she loved, though this she still kept secret, even from herself], trusted as deeply as she trusted Solas.

He stood with his back to her, one arm folded against the small of his back, his free hand running gently over the surface of the rotunda wall, which had been painted, coated so that now the wall was both smooth, and white. She watched him inquisitively as she entered the room. When he turned to face her, a smile playing about his lips, he seemed unsurprised to find her standing there—but by the subtle, barely noticeable lift of his eyebrows, it seemed that he had not expected to find her in her pajamas. She looked more feminine than she usually did, in the soft linens she never bothered to carry with her when traveling. Her hair, usually swept back out of her face, hung about her features in loose, black curls.

“Good evening, Inquisitor,” he welcomed, the corners of his lips lifting in the lightest of smiles.

“I’m wearing my sleeping linens, Solas,” she chided, gently, as she crossed the room to his side. “I think we can dispense with the formalities.”

“Perhaps,” Solas said, tilting his head. “But the title is new, and it is worth repeating. I should grow used to using it. And you should come celebrate hearing it. I know you were not eager for this,” Solas said, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she approached him, “but you should be proud. It is a testament to your strength and your virtue that the humans have raised you so high.”

Those words twisted inside of her like a small, sharp blade; she tried to keep the feeling from showing on her face, but Solas must have caught it, or sensed her disquiet. His expression darkened. “Is something wrong, lethallin?”

There were many things wrong: chief among them, that she was not nearly as strong and virtuous as he believed she was. She remembered that feeling in the War Room, like the walls closing in on her: trying to plan a course of action and without the strength to even endure the debate of her advisors, unable to withstand the pain of all the possibilities in which the blood of her family was spilt because of her own lack of action, her own inadequacy.

The corners of her mouth twitched while she searched for the words. Then, quietly, softly, “My Clan is in danger. It’s difficult to say how much. That’s why I’m only half dressed; I was about to sleep when Leliana brought me the news.”

Solas turned to face her, his eyebrows knit, expression troubled. “What kind of danger?”

Thanduwen waved her hand, a dismissive gesture meant to alleviate the sudden gravity of his tone. It was not the least bit convincing. “Bandits, or so the Keeper says. And I…” and a wry smile broke over her features. She laughed at herself, shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest.

Solas waited, patiently, for her to collect herself. This was one of the things she so loved about him: that when she struggled to put her emotions to words, looking for the right way to convey what she meant (so in love with language ever since Deshanna taught her to read; so careful with it, a tool and a weapon at once) he always waited for her, gave her the room she needed to express herself the way she wanted to. As he watched her, she kept her eyes trained on the smooth white surface in front of her, pocked with little holes. She wondered, if she reached out to touch the wall, would it be damp?

“I sent Inquisition troops to defend them,” Thanduwen said, finally, raising her own eyebrows, surprised at herself. No beating around the bush. “I hate—I loathe sending soldiers to do our bidding. Especially now that I am the Inquisition’s leader. I don’t want to conquer, slaughter, rule through the sword; I don’t want the Inquisition to be that. And yet when my Clan was in danger I did not hesitate.”

“Lethallin—”

“I value their lives above the lives of others,” she continued, cutting him off. “Their safety is more important to me than… peace in the Free Marches, politics, hierarchies. Josephine’s sure we’ll piss of some nobles by tramping across their land just for the possibility that our soldiers might be able to reach my Clan in time to help them. And yet so many others have died, directly or indirectly because of decisions I had made; times when I decided their lives were not worthy.” She couldn’t look at him; her eyes were directly at the wall in front of her but her gaze was far away, staring at some dark stain deep in her psyche that she could not clean off. “I want the Inquisition to be fair and just but how can I expect that when I am neither? I’m not measured enough, not disciplined enough. I’m not strong,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I am weak.”

Solas watched her, his face growing increasingly more concerned, but she could not meet his eyes. She forced a laugh, tightened the grip of her hands on her forearms. “And I know all this,” she said, emphatically, “and still I wouldn’t do anything differently. I know I should have… listened to Leliana, or Josephine, and considered the options more carefully. But I can’t bear the thought of harm coming to my Clan because of me, because of what I have done, or what I fail to do. The pain it would cause me to lose them… I have decided that was more important than the other considerations. I have to live with that choice.”

[This was one of the things she loved about him: that when she struggled to put her emotions into words, he listened. She could divulge to him all her self-doubt and her pride. She could lay bare her ugliness before him; he never judged her for it. She believed this was because he understood it. To so many others, she was Herald, Leader, Inquisitor; she could not falter before them. But she could reveal herself to Solas in all her weakness and still he would smile at her; despite all of that, he respected her. If she was strong, it was only because she had a space where she was allowed to be vulnerable. If she was strong, it had a lot to do with him.]

Then she fell silent. Solas stared at her, his expression soft, letting the silence linger for longer than most would have to be sure she had nothing left to say. Then, in a kind voice, he asked, “are you finished?”

With the words, yes, perhaps, but not the emotions behind them; she felt so keenly everything she’d said. She did not regret the way she had behaved, she would not change anything; what she regretted was that she did not feel she was capable of acting any other way, of being more (or less) ruthless; with others, with herself. And on top of that shame and guilt, dangling like a sword above her head: the fact that, whatever action she took, it guaranteed nothing. There was a very real chance that everyone she had loved before she had fallen into the Inquisition would perish, her whole world turn to ash, as ephemeral as smoke. And she was too many miles away, in a cold castle, a place she never should have seen.

When she turned to Solas, her eyes were glassy with tears.

“Oh, lethallin,” he soothed, and he collected her into his arms. She folded into him effortlessly, eager for the comfort of another body’s warmth against her own. She pressed her head to his chest; his chin came to rest gently on the crown of her head as her lungs heaved with shaking breaths—not quite sobs, but close. 

“I can’t imagine what you think of me,” she said, her voice muffled by the embrace. “About to cry like a child, unable to handle making the decisions this job demands of me. Falling to pieces at the first threat of danger to my family, when the fate of the whole continent is hanging in the balance.”

“On the contrary, lethallin,” Solas said, and Thanduwen could feel the hairs on the top of her head stir under the warmth of his breath as he spoke, “I would have been far more concerned if the safety of your Clan did not affect you so.”

She pressed herself against him, allowed herself a few more moments of the privacy the embrace offered, her face pressed against his tunic. It was damp beneath her cheeks. His hands were resting gently on her shoulder blades…. 

All at once, she became self-conscious of how long she had held him, clutching at him. And in nothing but her linens.

Even if she wanted him to hold her (and she did) these were not the circumstances in which she wanted to be held. Not out of pity, or consolation. And that mattered.

Thanduwen cleared her throat, pushed away from him, hastily wiping the tears from her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I don’t—I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said, apologetic. “It’s done, it’s decided. I came here because your company has always been such a comfort, to me. I just… needed to get that off my chest. I did come here for conversation, but not that conversation.” She sniffed, planted a hand on her hip, the other combing through her hair, pushing it back out of her face. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her carefully—unconvinced, perhaps, of her show of composure after how she had eviscerated herself, the self-flagellation in her words. But she was adamant that the discussion be ended; the longer it dragged on, the higher the probability that she’d be reduced to a blubbering mess. 

(That was still likely to happen, of course; she’d just prefer it not happen when Solas was present to witness it.)

She had turned to face the wall again, the smooth white surface upon it, freshly laid. “What’s this?” she asked, reaching her hand out, her fingertips brushing the plaster delicately.

Solas was perturbed still, she could tell, but he pushed it down and backwards. He wanted to support her; if she wanted a distraction, he would give it to her. “Ahh,” he said, the vowels long and low and thick with memory. He ran his hand over the smooth, damp set of the plaster on the wall, brought his fingers to rest only a few inches from hers. “A long time ago,” he said, “in another life,” looking at her conspiratorially, “I used to paint.”

“It’s art?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. The rotunda was enormous. She balked at the thought of covering each of its walls with paintings. It was a daunting task; she wouldn’t have known where to begin.

“Not yet, but it will be,” Solas replied, smiling fondly at the blank surface. “The pigment will be applied directly to the plaster, but I need to build up a series of layers before the final thin, wet layer is laid down with the paint. It seals the color into the wall as it dries.” He lifted his hand, rapped a knuckle against the surface of the plaster; the knocking sound it made was muffled and dull.“It is a… detail oriented kind of work, unforgiving of mistakes and not well suited to the nomadic lifestyle. I have not had the opportunity to practice in some time.” Then he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting. “But I doubt you came here for a lecture on painting technique.”

“No, I—”

“Thanduwen,” Solas said, and his voice was commanding even as it was kind. She had said her piece; now he would say his. That was how it worked between them, the unspoken agreement they’d made. “If you seek a distraction, I am happy to provide it. We’ll go somewhere…” he said, and his voice trailed off. The corners of his eyes crinkled curiously, and he wet his lips with his tongue. “Far more interesting than here, and we can do whatever you like. Avoid conversations that would bring you discomfort. But before we do that…”

And he reached out across the surface of the plaster, took her hand gently in his, pulling it away from the wall and cupping it between both his palms. “There’s something I wish to say. And I’d like for you to hear me.”

Thanduwen looked up at him, her eyes wide, still a bit red, and she nodded her head solemnly. “Okay,” she sniffed. “I’m listening.”

“The answers are never easy,” Solas said, looking straight into her eyes. “When we first met, I told you I was curious what kind of a hero you would become. And you have surprised me. You are… kind, compassionate, wise. And strong, though you think you are not. And you’re going to fail,” he said, and at this, Thanduwen shook her head, tried to back away from him; he held her hand tighter between his, preventing her retreat. “You will not save everyone. I need you to hear me: you will not save everyone. You cannot. But you have to try, even though the fear of failure makes it painful. It’s the attempt that matters, if it is sincere and dedicated, done with the best of intentions. The attempt, even in the face of failure, even after failure, is what matters. I see you struggle every day to do what is right, not only for yourself but for the people you serve. And that is no small thing.”

She was still shaking her head, unable to look him in the face. There was truth in his words, undeniable as it was painful. There was blood on her hands; before this was over, there would be plenty more. (Enough to bathe in.) She directed her gaze upwards, trying to blink the tears from her eyes without allowing them to spill over. “I can’t do it alone,” she croaked. “The burden is too great.”

“You do not have to,” Solas said, soft, his thumb circling a patch of skin on then back of her hand to soothe. “No one expects you to—me, least of all. It is why so many of us have flocked to the Inquisition’s banner: because we believe in you, and we wish to help you, in whatever way we can.”

Thanduwen sniffed. She knew he was right, but she was grateful for the reminder all the same. (It was why she had come to him, wasn’t it? To feel, for some small space of time, less alone?) She turned her eyes to their hands, folded together; she brought her free hand up to join them, lighting her fingers gently over Solas’, tracing the strong bones of his wrist as he continued.

“Only time will tell if you made the right choice with your Clan. Though I have never met them, I feel as if I know them, as if I had lived for years alongside them because of how frequently you speak of them. Your brother Drohan, Keeper Deshanna, even Tael Ithras, always so envious of you…” 

They shared a chuckle at the Second’s expense. Since Leliana had brought her Deshanna’s letter, she had thought of them often, and picturing their faces was like a twisting pain inside of her: the feeling of something precious just out of reach, in danger of being lost. But somehow, when Solas said their names aloud, she did not feel that pain. Perhaps it was because of how well Solas did know them, despite never having met them; how easily he could conjure them up. She felt only warmth. 

The ghost of the laugh still lingering about her lips, she turned her eyes up to his face.

“There is not a doubt in my mind that they are all nothing but proud of you, each of them,” he said, quietly, and he lifted a hand to brush a tear from her cheek gently with his knuckle. “And every day that you wake, bear your title, make decisions based on the values and judgement that they grew in you—you honor them. You carry them with you in the wisdom of your actions. They will always be with you, no matter what comes to pass.”

For a time, he held her hands, smiling kindly as the tears threatened to well again in her eyes. But after a time, she gave one final, shuddering breath; she nodded to signal her consent. His grin widened.

“Now,” he said emphatically, to signal that he had said his fill. He released her hands and turned away from her, crossing the rotunda to a small wooden case, containing a multitude of tiny drawers. His fingers danced as he read the carefully penned labels, before settling on one of the knobs and pulling the drawer open. “If it is a distraction you seek—something novel and mysterious to take your mind off of present circumstances…”

When he turned back to her, his cupped palm was full of dried blossoms. She peered curiously at them as he approached. The petals were dusky, muddy lavender, dried and sapped of their color; perhaps they had once been blue. He pinched one blossom between forefinger and thumb and raised it so that she could better inspect it, before placing the lot of them into her hand, closing her fingers over them gently.

“Return to your chamber, and take these with you. Burn them at your bedside and wait for me.” His voice was quiet, playful, though not in the least bit lascivious when he said, “I will come to you.”

His words were thick with promise and secrecy, and the effect it had upon her was immediate. She turned her head to the side, looked at Solas through narrowed eyes, a smile wavering on her lips. She could not help her curiosity. It drowned out all the other thoughts in her head, protests: that in a time of such crisis she should not permit herself this indulgence. That, circumstances notwithstanding, she should not permit him to call upon her in her bedchambers, especially in the middle of the night. (That she liked too much the idea of him calling upon her in the dead of night.) 

But she was confident (and she was surprised at her own disappointment at this fact) that there was nothing salacious in the offer. And she had just come through the Throne Room herself; it was desolate. No one would see him as he made his way to her tower.

(And, the truth was: she didn’t really care if they did.)

She tugged at her lip between her teeth, still measuring him with her look, wondering. “You said we were going somewhere?” she half-asked, half-asserted, testing him.

“Trust me,” he said, softly, simply; and she did. Even with that mischievous look in the corner of his eyes again, dark with hidden agendas, all his unknown depths. “I’ll join you soon.”

  Hours later, “Do you smell that?” asked in the deep quiet of night under a sky littered with stars. “That pleasant… smokey sort of smell?”

Solas paused, lifted his chin as if to better catch the scent, his eyelids fluttering shut. He inhaled deeply, savoring the breath before turning back to Thanduwen. “Probably Adaan, working on something in his cabin.”

It was dark, and Haven quiet, and they were alone, walking alongside one another; and she could feel Solas’ eyes lingering on her, long past the point when the words had left his mouth. The cold mountain air did nothing to lessen the heat she felt creeping up the sides of her neck under his persistent gaze. There was nothing carnal about it—she could tell it was just the weight of a question being measured on the tip of his tongue, but it flustered her all the same.

“What?” she prompted, raising an eyebrow at him.

He smiled—wrinkled his nose in amusement. It was such a whimsical expression, and so rare on him; it warmed her again to see him so comfortable and mischievous. He pursed his lips briefly before surrendering his question. “For so long, you wanted to leave this place. Do you still despise it, as you did then?” He turned back to her, tilting his head inquisitively.

“I never despised it,” she retorted, but even though her refusal had come quickly (instinctually) she knew it to be false. She had struggled so much here. She knew that the struggling was not yet behind her. But in the beginning, it had been so easy to see Haven as an antagonist in and of itself—this ancient village of Andrastian worship and pilgrimage—an amalgamation of all the things she wanted no part of. She had refused to be at home, here.

And Solas knew it, too. “I saw the way you’d sigh with relief as we left through the gates, how much easier you would breathe the farther we travelled from this mountain. You would laugh more freely.”

Her body reeled with the smile that broke across her features, the pleasure that overtook her. She felt light and paper thin, transparent under his gaze. Did he see the way those words made her flutter, the way she bubbled with joy to hear them? He saw her. Others looked to her as leader, as Herald, as Inquisitor, but when Solas looked at her—with that piercing, deliberate look of his—he saw her. This was why she had told him so much about her Clan: because she felt as at home with him as she had felt with them. (Always wondering if [hoping that] he felt the same—her accomplice, her partner.)

She joked: “I didn’t know you were watching me so closely.”

It was his turn to look away, grin still pulling at his mouth. Difficult to make out in the dim light of evening, but she almost thought his cheeks were coloring. “As you have reminded me on more than on occasion, it was my responsibility to watch you closely, when we first met. To ensure that you woke, though I knew not what to expect when you did.” He turned to her, a strange expression on his face. “Many things… changed, then.”

“Like what?” 

“Everything,” he said, as if it were so simple; and she had to swallow the sharp panic that bloomed in her at that, the fear that she would not be able to control her reactions, the risk that she might take that simple confession too much to heart. “The friendship that grew between us. It gave me cause to hope.”

“Hope?” she repeated, her face a battleground—everything, hope—expressing a forced and closely guarded neutrality. Mastered into submission so that it would not betray the hopes that were her own, the ones she felt with such intensity when he looked at her like that, all adoration and respect (his hands on mine, fingers circling, wanting him to trace each part of me with them—)

“Yes,” Solas said, quietly. “Hope. An underrated emotion, and not always a necessary one. One need not hope to act on principals, but it helps. And as I came to know you I…”

His steps slowed to a halt, and he turned to her. For a long time—for a short time?—she did not know, incapable of measuring it in anything other than the space between her heartbeats (thunderous as he looked at her) a confession trapped in his throat (that beautiful column of alabaster and sinew, the way it jumped when he swallowed) before he turned his eyes away, over her head, upwards….

Something pained flashed across his face, bright and unmistakable as lightning, and gone as swiftly as it had come. She turned in place, followed his gaze upwards into the sky where the Breach twisted, livid green and malevolent—but when she looked at Solas again he was calm.

“I felt the whole world change,” he said, quietly. “We had a chance.”

And as they shared another look, it struck Thanduwen how quiet it was. The hour must be very late; everyone else was tucked away for the evening, in the darkest hours of the night, just before dawn.

And it occurred to her, quite suddenly, that she had never before been so alone with him. They had shared plenty of time, separate and apart from others—scouting in the Frostbacks for Skyhold, huddled together on the Storm Coast—but it had never felt quite like this. So close, and heavy, and…

Something tightened in her throat at that observation.

She shouldn’t even be considering the thoughts that their privacy was inspiring in her. Firstly, in all of the Inquisition, Solas was her greatest friend. Or something like it. After all the time they had spent, listening to one another, she could not trust anyone or speak so frankly with anyone as she did with him. Surely it was best not to muddle it, with whatever this newfound boldness was trying to stir up within her. And secondly, even if that were not a consideration, there was still so much at stake. In all of the Inquisition, Solas knew the most about the Breach, about the Anchor, about the Orb that had placed its mark upon her. It would be a poor choice, to do anything that could complicate his ability to help with that.

And yet….

From where they stood in the center of the village she felt the past five months closing in around her like the cover of nightfall. There, the hut where he had given her that wolfish grin, where she had discovered both his wit and his grace. There, the path to the ramshackle tack hut, counting the freckles on his strong forearms in the dying light of evening. Below, the clearing where he had held her as they danced, oblivious to the world, wrapped up in one another, before—

There: You must make me a promise—a dirtha’vhen’an.

Creators, she was foolish. 

“I felt the world change when you kissed me goodbye,” Thanduwen said quietly. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, before she could second-guess herself into silence.

Solas took a step away from her, blinking at her twice, before his face transformed into a perfectly practiced expression of confusion. “Did I?” he asked. But it was not very convincing. There was something about him—perhaps the color in his face, or a tightening in his neck—that seemed almost nervous.

“You did,” she said, quietly, pointing to where the trebuchet stood. “Just there.” 

(And for a moment, both were silent, stewing in their own indecision: both of them aware of the danger, both of them pulled, despite that danger, together. Wondering if either of them had the strength to take the first step. And what was she supposed to tell him? What could she have said that he did not already know about her? At the top of the mountain, at the Vir Vian, she had fainted when she did because she had finally caught sight of him behind Cullen running towards her—and that it was this sight [knowing that he was safe; that she was safe, with him] that had her loosening her grip on consciousness, giving into her exhaustion. On the Storm Coast, after Redcliffe, she had basked in the comfort of his company—knowing, then, the pain it would cause her to lose him, having felt it in that ghastly future. How it had been made abundantly clear to her how much she had come to need him. Should she confess the true reason why he kept catching her glancing at his hands? Should she explain that sometimes she stared too long into his eyes because she feared if she did not they would fall to his lips and then— then…)

It was… complicated.

But when she looked up at him again, it became vey clear that it really wasn’t. No matter how many ways she tried to deny what she felt about him, it was really quite simple.

She closed the distance between them, her hand coming to rest on his chest as she tilted her face up to his. 

Her kiss was daring, declarative—a gentle force. And when her lips met his the world fell into a silent hush. Gone were the sounds of the wind in the trees. All she could hear was the rush of her own breath as she breathed into the kiss. But Solas was still beneath it. 

(Not resisting.)

(But not surrendering, either.)

She released his mouth, eyebrows knit, twisted in the fresh, hot shame and embarrassment that his dismissal stirred within her; she did not open her eyes until her head was turned away, unable to look at him.

But he shook his head at her, no, no; a rejection of her shame. Defiant, as she tried to pull away from him. Then his hand was upon her waist, forceful and wanting, fierce. 

He pulled her into his arms and returned her kiss with one twice as hungry.

He kissed not with his lips but with his whole body; it swayed in rhythm with each press of his lips. His hands held her waist, drawing her closer with every cloistered breath, fisted tightly in the cloth of her tunic, clinging for purchase as if to keep themselves from wandering too freely. Each eager kiss he planted in the corner of her mouth felt like a small and beautiful surrender: the gift of himself, given freely and without reservation. For both their mouths were usually so heavily armored, guarded (the clicking of teeth against teeth) against words spilled carelessly. Mouths usually so possessed of intention and reservation moving against one another, dispossessed—for the moment—of their secrets.

[Gone were the sounds of the wind in the trees, and the ground beneath them, and the sky above: everything else vanishing as if it had all been vapor. All that stayed behind was this: the charged thing between them, as brilliant as the break of dawn on the solstice. All doubt and pain cast aside to make space for this moment where she felt renewed and present and alive, a moon-gorged tide, a mountain creek swelling in pale spring as winter's chill is melted away.]

He had opened his mouth to her, that wellspring of words and story, his mouth like the mouth of a river and twice as sweet. She soared, wanted to sing—folded into him, effortlessly. If she retreated from the kiss (only ever to catch her breath) he pursued; she laughed with delight as he pulled her back into his arms, the sound soon muffled by his lips on hers, kissing through her grin. 

The soft touch of his hand on her cheek, holding her face delicately, so gently, as if was having difficulty believing in it. This moment. Heavy and brilliant and full of promise, and all the ways the future could enfold from this moment forward, spreading before them like the blue lines of the Minanter Delta, or the great and mighty branches of a vallasdahlen.

And it was too much; too much all at once.

They broke apart, breathing heavily, their noses brushing against one another’s as they caught their breath. Thanduwen cracked open her eyes just to look at him, and he was so near (closer than he’d ever been) that she couldn’t get his face in focus but she could see his eyes were still shut. His breath hitched; he leaned in closer, delivering the faintest brush of his lips to hers, before his eyebrows knitted in distress and he backed away from her, shaking his head once more, no, no.

“We shouldn’t,” Solas said, quietly. No, no; once to discourage her retreat, but now in rejection of the very intimacy he had pursued. The tone in his voice: anguish, remorse. “It isn’t right. Not even here.”

It made her feel foolish. She was standing in the center of Haven with her neck flushed from desire, lips plump and red from being kissed so wildly. Disheveled-looking as she stood before him, and he was saying, we shouldn’t. It seemed too late for that. But when she opened her mouth to speak, that was not the point she challenged. “What do you mean, “even here”?”

And though he might have been disappointed in his lack of restraint, displeased with himself for kissing her—we shouldn’t, but we did—he could not keep the satisfaction of his face, the pride in his own cleverness when he responded, “Where did you think we were?”

She looked around her: the silent huts, the quiet Chantry, not even a patrol on the outer wall. Cullen could be careless, but he never would have allowed the village to go unguarded. Haven was desolate. Her eyes turned to the trebuchet—I felt the world change when you kissed me. You did, just there—standing tall and ominous, but thoroughly intact. She remembered—

You must make me a promise—a dirtha’vhen’an.

—Haven was buried, ashes and ruin beneath a deep drift of snow.

“Where are we?” she asked, turning back to him.

“That’s a matter of debate,” Solas replied, grinning at her. “Probably best discussed after you wake up.”

  Her eyes wide like shutters thrust open on windows: she awoke in her bed with a gasp, launching herself upright. Slippery and flashing, the events of the night before came back to her, tumbling recollections like pebbles caught up in a frothing tide.

My Clan in danger — Cullen’s resignation — the smooth plaster, a promise of color to come — a kiss….

For a moment she sat with her hands planted in the mattress, breathing. Allowing the recollection of the dream and all of its implications overwhelm her. Groggy, but awake enough to feel shame; in all that had happened, she found herself pondering not the fate of her Clan, but the events that had transpired in the Fade. She brought her hand up to her face, brushing her fingertips against her lips, remembering the kiss… she lingered in the memory, let its softness cushion her awakening before logic inevitably intruded.

Because now that she was awake she knew Solas was right. They shouldn’t have; and they should not in the future. She had been weak, dizzy with the anxiety of lives in her hands, the world on her shoulders. She had been looking for comfort, something familiar and warm. It was not an auspicious way to begin any sort of emotional entanglement—any sort of romance.

She scoffed at the thought.

(But the feeling of his hands when he held her own—not the first time. This had begun a long, long time ago; in some ways, it was a surprise it had taken this long for such a collision, nigh inevitable since the moment he’d seized her hand in the mountains.)

She remembered so vividly what it had felt like to be held by him, as if he were still with her, beside her—the warmth of his body, the insistence of his hands… how she had felt so free and easy.

She groaned, bowed her head forward into her hands and rubbed at her face with her fingertips, trying to will herself into wakefulness and out of the groggy stupor she’d found herself in after being wrenched so suddenly from dreaming.

(Had he really been able to command her into waking…?)

Blinking, eyes bleary. Clear daylight pressed through the colored panes of glass, speckling the floor with color. By the angle and the intensity of the light she could tell it was still early morning, just after dawn. Skyhold would just be beginning to stir.

She stared at the light for a long time, arms looped around her knees, sitting silently in bed. Waiting. Mustering up her resolve, her resignation.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, pressed the soles of her feet against the cold stone of the floor, delighted in the shiver that ran down her spine at the contact. Her eyes fell to the table beside her bed, upon which still sat the metal dish in which she’d burned the dried blossoms Solas had given her the previous night in the rotunda. They’d been reduced to a chalky ash, silvery. She reached out, pinched a bit in her fingers, rolled it between the pads. Even that simple gesture released more of their fragrant scent into the air; at first whiff, Thanduwen felt a renewed weariness come over her, wiling her back to the bed.

Catching herself drifting again, she shook her head violently (as if to shake the weariness from her) and brushed the ash from her hands. Then she stood, and crossed the room to her armoire.

If she was swift, she thought, stepping out of her linens, she might reach the rotunda before any of her advisors discovered she was awake.

  Solas had barely moved from the spot where she’d left him. He stood in the center of the rotunda with his back turned to her, but she could see the parchment he held in front of him; his free hand he traced lines in dark charcoal across its surface. Occasionally, he would extend his drawing arm, the stick of charcoal held delicately between his fingers, and he’d pause, as if measuring something, before jotting own another few gestural lines on his parchment.

“Good morning,” she said, announcing her presence.

Solas turned, smiled. But the grin flickered. He appeared unsure—almost nervous. “Good morning, Inquisitor. Sleep well?”

“Dreamt well, certainly,” she quipped back. “Though I can’t say how rested I am as a result. But it is a lovely, brisk morning. Will you walk with me?”

  By the time they exited through Skyhold’s gates, the fortress had barely stirred from its slumber; few witnessed their departure.

For some time they walked in silence. Solas kept his hands joined behind his back; a deliberate gesture of self-restraint, she suspected. He looked relaxed; she wondered if he really was, or if he was roiling with the same disquiet she felt within her.

For Thanduwen's unease was plain. She kept glancing over her shoulder back at Skyhold's walls, watching the morning patrols parade across, keeping guard over the valley below. After several repetitions of the same gesture, Solas turned to her, amused.

“We’re out of earshot, now,” he said, quietly. Then, “Are you embarrassed?”

“No," Thanduwen replied, with an apologetic smile. "But I have a feeling I'm about to be.” 

Indeed, embarrassment seemed a certainty. Especially because—while buttoning her jacket, while fastening her boots, while climbing the stairs down to the rotunda—she had racked her brain for the words to tell Solas how she felt, and come up with nothing. 

(This was, most likely, because she did not quite understand how she felt, too many emotions at once, and difficult to untangle: The pain—persistent, even now, though its drumbeat had deadened beneath the complexity of everything that had come after—of being so far from her family, especially while they were in danger. And, though she tried to stifle it, the joy, of what it had felt like to be held, kissed, touched with tenderness—no, not those things, not just those things on their own, but—the joy at being tenderly touched by him. The confusion and the hurt at how he had turned her away, it isn’t right, knowing it to be true but knowing equally that she wished it weren’t, how she wished [for once, the first in all the time she had been part of the Inquisition] to do something she knew to be wrong. [That burden—!] And close on the heels of all those things, snapping its jaws, the crushing, gnawing guilt and shame. That she had woken and her thoughts had been of Solas and his generous mouth and not, instead, of the raven that carried Cullen’s orders to the troops near Ansburg, the soldiers who may or may not deliver her family from peril.)

Twigs crunching underfoot as they walked the mountain path, and she, searching still for the words. Thanduwen parted her lips, hesitant, turned her eyes away from him before she spoke. "I thought we should... talk about what happened, last night."

"Ahh," Solas hummed. "Well, to begin, I think I should apologize."

“Apologize?" Her eyes narrowed, suspicious despite herself; deep in the throes of her own self-deprecation, it seemed clear to her that she was the only one between the two of them guilty of any wrongdoing.

"The kiss was... ill considered," Solas said, turning to face her. "I should not have encouraged it. It has been a long time, and things have always been easier for me, in the Fade. It will not happen again.”

It was exactly what she needed to hear, if not what she had wanted. Because sometimes it is easier to say what is definitively not than it is to say what is. And that kiss (teeth clicking, mind numbing, body singing sweetness) had not been ill considered, and had she been in his place, she most certainly would have encouraged it. Despite everything else she felt, this much became astoundingly clear to her: selfish and ill-advised though it may be, kissing Solas was something she had done for herself. A small concession, a moment of clarity, all her titles (Herald, Inquisitor—First) falling away and leaving her with an equally small (but no less meaninful) truth: 

That she wanted him.

That he made her feel happy, safe—radiant.

They shouldn’t have, and they shouldn’t again. She knew it as surely as she knew her name. But that did not change how she felt, what she knew to be equally true: that she did not regret it. 

“And what if I want it to?” Thanduwen asked finally, quietly, unable to look at him. “Happen again.”

The rhythm of Solas’ stride faltered. He took a moment before he responded; when he did, his voice was low, his words carefully measured. “I would caution against that.”

“Why is that?” Thanduwen replied, knowing already her own reasons. Wanting to know his all the same.

“It could lead to trouble. For both of us.”

“We’re good at getting out of trouble.”

“Maybe not this kind,” Solas said, and she did not miss the note of remorse in his tone. “You and I…” he turned to look at her, the corners of his mouth twitching with thoughts unvoiced, beginnings without endings. Finally, he said simply, struggling his shoulders lightly in defeat, “There are considerations.”

That flickering mouth, and the knot between his eyebrows—it helped, a little, these visible signs that he too was torn. It softened the blow of the rejection, and it made what came next a little bit easier. Because while she was prepared (against her better judgement [they shouldn’t—]) to throw caution and concern to the mountain wind and kiss him a second, a third, a fourth and fifth time, she would not ask the same of him. An (in)auspicious beginning: she would not have him unless he was wholly willing.

“San,” she said, softly, lifting her chin, staring forward, trying to appear dignified, even as he pushed her away. 

Solas came to a halt beside her. “San?” he asked, sounding more than a bit bewildered.

Thanduwen sighed, folded her arms protectively over her chest, contemplated the twigs broken on the dirt path beneath them.

“I don’t want to push you into something you’re uncomfortable with,” she said. When she turned her eyes up from the ground to meet his, there was something assertive in them. “Obviously my position within the Inquisition makes this complicated. And the truth is…” and her gaze softened here, “I rely upon you too much to jeopardize our relationship by trying to talk you into something you don’t want. Your advice, your kindness, your knowledge; these things are too important to me to risk, even if it is for the sake of…” and here she smiled, playfully, “…more excellent, intense, fiery kisses.”

There was a curious look on Solas’ face when she finished: skeptical eyes, uncertain brows, amused mouth. Through his own tempest of indecision, he managed, “Are you trying to flatter me into submission?”

She laughed low; the laugh receded into a hum. “That would suggest my praise is insincere. It is not.”

He gave a low, rumbling sound of amusement; he was looking at her with something indecisive and dark (she’d seen that look, right before he shook his head, reached for her, pulled her to him) but it was gone in the next moment. He blinked, breathed deep, turned to her possessed of his self-restraint. But that did not stop him from reach out for her, his long fingers pinching a strand of dark hair and pushing it delicately out of her face.

“It is not simply a matter of what I do or do not want,” Solas said, quietly.”I ask only for time, to consider more fully the repercussions.”

“You’ll have it.” Simple, easy, to give him the space he needed; especially when she was due to depart for Crestwood soon. 

“But…” he said slowly, and he turned his eyes away from her, out to the bare trees, “it is a lovely, brisk morning.” A grin gracing his lips as he repeated her earlier words. He turned to her, kind, chaste, thankful. “If there is anything you wish to discuss, I would enjoy talking, and continuing our walk. Your advisors, I think, will not miss you for some time yet.”

The smile that split her face was as bright as the sun on the snow. “I’d like that.”

[heniareth]

Hello yes I would love to know more about Marelas please 👀👀👀

1) What would be written on their tombstone in the Fade?

And/or

2) What is a hobby or special interest they have?

Marelas, yes yes my boy let's go!!! I’ll place the text under the cut. CW for drowning and anxiety over powerlessness for the answer to the first question. But first, have a picture of my boy:

(I love the DAI screenshots when the lighting is pretty and the camer angle is good and the expression is nice XD)

1) What would be written on their tombstone in the Fade?

On his tombstone in the Fade there’d probably be a callback to one time he almost drowned. I’m still pretty short on details on his life before the Conclave, but I’m pretty set on this one. It happened in his later teens/early twenties. Definitely before getting his vallaslin. It was winter, and clan Lavellan was camped by the sea. I don’t know exactly what he was doing — climbing the rocks jutting out into the oceans for fun, or gathering clams, or maybe he was receiving a lesson from Keeper Deshanna — fact is he slipped on the wet stone and fell into the ocean. The water was freezing. His heavy winter clothes were dragging him down and the current was tossing him around until he literally didn’t know where up or down was. There was nothing he could do to save himself and the others had to fish him out. That experience stayed with him. He’d always been a careful person, but despite his best efforts, he nearly drowned. Prudence transformed into full-blown anxiety and it took him a lot of work and a lot of help from the Keeper to work through that (and one thing that helped was the figure of Falon’Din. Even if he’d died, Falon’Din would’ve guided him through the Fade. That’s why he got his vallaslin). So yeah, the Nightmare would probably really like to see him drowning in his fears again. The words on the tombstone themselves might be as bluntly as “drowning” or as generalized as “being helpless and alone”, but it would definitely refer to that moment.

2) What is a hobby or special interest they have?

As for a hobby or special interest... He’s a nerd XD XD XD Solas’s stories about what he’d seen in the Fade were right up his alley, and he chose the Rift mage specialization specifically because the rifts and the mark on his hand were fascinating to him (as much as the latter had been trying to kill him). The Nightmare’s lair would’ve been a joyride for him if it hadn’t been, y’know, the lair of the Nighmare.. Him and Dorian mesh well in that regard. Rather than being put-off by Dorian’s attitude about the fact that they’d traveled in time, he was right there with the whole “this is fascinating! \OoO/ And look at that red lyrium! What’s it doing??” The enthusiasm did vanish when they encountered the first people with red lyrium growing out of them, but it was there at some point.

He's also interested in history, particularly from a political point of view (treaties, alliances, negotiations and the whole drama). He's aware, even before becoming Inquisitor, that he will encounter similar situations in the future. Learning history from this perspective helps him prepare, and apart from that it's fascinating to him how people act when they have a lot of power. Horror upon horror, he becomes the very thing he read about XD XD XD What he learned about historical events does help, but it also makes him keenly aware of how delicate the situations he has to navigate are and that’s... not exactly helpful for cool-headed decision-making.

When he’s not inquisitoring he likes to sing, to himself and while he does other stuff. If he took singing lessons nowadays, he'd probably be a barritone. As a rule, people won’t know he likes to sing bc he’s incredibly shy about it and cannot sing for an audience for the life of him (except if it’s part of a ceremony. That he can do, Keeper Deshanna made sure of it).

— 

Thank you so so much for letting me talk about my boy XD XD XD Since he’s the newest addition to my ocs, I’m poking him quite a bit at the moment to see what he’s made of, and it’s always fun to share these things. Have a lovely day!!

[choccy-zefirka]

Rank your favorite ocs by level of unhinged!

Ooooh ranking sounds like a huge undertaking because I have like a million OCs, but some of them are indeed unhinged! Like Pilar Adaar, a Vashoth that was raised by Crows and trained as a blood mage assassin. Her specialization was essentially hypnotizing people into unaliving in case the client wanted to make it look like an accident. That did shit to her brain for sure, so she now considers herself a monster and tries *not* to use her powers, but when she snaps and reverts to what she was taught... Body and mind horror galore!

There's also Renee Trevelyan, a Golden Templar Girl who took the teachings of the Chantry very seriously and then had a crisis of faith when the Circles fell. In her main verse, she snaps out of it, but I do have an AU where she becomes a Red Templar. Either way, Samson is her lover, in a Death and the Maiden sort of way, and depending on the story, they either help each other seek redemption or make each other worse.

Maedhros Lavellan is generally calm, if grouchy, but the old man has also seen some shit (lost the entire clan he was Keeper of to an envy demon), and when he is angry, he becomes a destructive vortex of nature magic. Think thorny vines uprooting building foundations and ripping people off the ground.

Arryn Lavellan, younger and more impulsive, is like this but with frost magic. Ice spikes, ice spikes everywhere!

Elagara Lavellan and Temperance Trevelyan are initially quite unhinged emotionally because they are former Tranquil who got their Rite reversed by the Mark. Plus they both want to experience the world they were locked away from for most their lives (Elagara is in her 40s, Temperance is 20-ish) . So they can make rash, YOLO sort of choices and actions.

Adiba Adaar is kiiinda unhinged, but in a completely different way? She is a surgeon and scientist polymath; if she were in a modern crime drama, she'd be the kind of pathologist that grosses out the main cast by nerding out about some icky physiological processes in a cadaver while eating a sandwich. Zero squeamishness or sense of tact. A lot of enthusiasm, though.

Verisin, one of my ESO Vestiges (if you are familiar with the Elder Scrolls) is like that too. Follows the wood elven Green Pact (with it's ritualistic cannibalism) and is also a healer. Her bedside manner leaves room for improvement.

Squale Adaar is also gothically weird in a Beetlejuice-era Wynona Ryder Meets Lily From Duolingo kinda way.

[silvanils]

Writing Circle Prompt List

PROMPT LISTS

Prompt List #5

Fire Emblem: Three Houses Prompts

Hozier Lyric Prompts

Florence and the Machine Prompts

Six of Crows Prompts

101 Ways to say “I love you”

Cute Shippy Starters

Dragon Age Inspired Dialogue Prompts

Physical Contact Starters

Intimacy Prompts

Love Confessions

Soft Starters

All my main ships and oc tags can be found on my nav page: (link)

You can find more prompts in my prompts tag: (link)

Right now, I would especially like to recieve prompts for:

Serault and The Last Court in general!

The Scholar x The Wayward Bard

Morrigan, Mahariel, and Kieran

Solas x Passion x Varlas

Ithelan Lavellan (x Ash Lavellan)

Zevran x Dirk Tabris

Nathaniel Howe x Fergus Cousland (x Anders)

Kieran & King Alistair

Kieran + Minna Tabris

ADDITIONAL INFO

Serault (The Last Court)

courtly drama, family drama

the weirdness of the woods

The Horned Knight (aka... Reflection?)

the Shame casts a long shadow

(my Marquis is a mage, himself)

Kieran & King Alistair

Kieran having to deal with the Ferelden nobles

(but the Ferelden nobles also have to deal with HIM)

Dad!Alistair is just doing his best

Kieran + Minna Tabris

(bffs, here to cause absolute chaos)

Solas x Passion x Varlas (aka Felassan)

there is so much tension and drama here

Passion just wants to have fun

together, can they make a stubborn elf change his mind?

Ithelan “Hemlock” Lavellan

Clan Lavellan’s Second, an entropy mage

(also my Inquisitor’s ex)

he’s especially prickly after things settle in Wycome

does NOT get along with the elves from Clan Sabrae

GENERAL WRITING LIKES

Fluff

Mutual Pining

Established Relationships

Poly Relationships (open or closed)

Friends to Lovers

Enemies to Lovers

Hurt/Comfort

Found Family

I’m also a big fan of court intrigue, politics, and noble house dynamics --- similar to what you see in Downton Abbey, A Song of Ice and Fire, The Masked Empire, etc. And rogues doing roguish things! Infiltration, heists, assassinations, etc.

I also adore putting two characters with divergent viewpoints into a situation where they need to talk about stuff!

OTHER NOTES

While this list is primarily for the DA Drunk Writing Circle, I’m open to receiving prompts from anyone, and it doesn’t have to be limited to Dragon Age! I also take prompts for my Elders Scrolls characters.

More about them can be found here: (link)

[anywayhereskirkwall]

Anyway here’s Evaline, Clan Lavellan’s Second. I originally planned to romance Bull but I also feel like there’s gonna be some juicy drama for a Solas romance come DA4 so if anyone has an opinion to share let me know.

[mageglory]

I have no idea if I have ever summed all my Dragon Age Canon Characters but in short. Oh and I treat Bioware Canon like my playground so be warned.

Galria Theirin nee Brosca: Brosca origins (obviously), two handed reaver berserker. She is the Warden and becomes Queen of Ferelden with Alistair, her romance. She is the first non human queen of an human kingdom in history and tecnically she converted to andrastianism for politics (and because she doesn't care anyway about religion) but the Chantry keeps annoying her until Leli becomes Divine Victoria.

Ignis Hawke: Fire magic, Force magic and Blood Magic. He follows Anders romance and is a ruthless supporter of Mage RightsTM. He keeps switching between Red Hawke or Blue Hawke answers depending on who he is talking to (Red Hawke with Meredith, Elthina, Orlesians. Blue Hawke with fereldeans refugees, mages, elves and similar). He is one of the leaders of the Mage Underground with Anders if not the leader (mainly because Anders keeps telling him he's the boss even if Ignis considers himself equal to him) and he helped enlarge the underground across all the Free Marches, a lot of the random apostate npc we fight on the wounded coast are gonna live as members of the underground. To protect his identity/keep his family safe from Templars and because Hawke is not Hawke without drama he wears a mask in his rebel persona and Meredith has been yelling to Cullen to bring her the apostates leader in chains for years. He doesn't want to hurt civilians, but he is ready to accept civilians casualties as necessary if it's to free his people. His mabari is called Templar and Varric keeps saying Ignis exausted all his life capacity for jokes in that one idea. He's the gayest revolutionary/terrorist (depends who you ask) in town.

Raphaël De Bougainville: The Marquis of Serault. He has an obviously smaller role and is kinda irrelevant to The Fate of ThedasTM but he is a good guy despite having a very orlesian centric view of the world out of ignorance/cultural upbringing. His main worries are to restore Serault glory, which he succeeded in (and he also annexxes Aloyns along the road since the neighboor Marquis tried to sabotage his relationship with Justinia and failed) and romance Krem while visiting Skyhold. He had the idea to pay some mages after the rebellion won to come work for him with the glassworkers and now there are a lot of Serault glassworks for nobles with sparkly enchantments, but nothing plot relevant, he's just rich because now every noble in Orlais wants Serault magical glass. His main quirk is that he's an enthusiast of scientific research (think the king guy in Eragon) and his dream is to teach at the University of Orlais.

Melkior Lavellan: This damn boi is a pacifist. IN THEDAS. He is not the First of his clan, but only because he left the position to travel around the clans and bring messages/organize things. I'm not sure if canon mentions something similar but he's basically a travelling Keeper, so he has a bit more knowledge of the world, especially thanks to his high emotional intelligence. Kind of guy who smiles even when he doesn't like you and the "if he yells shit is going down" character archetype. Clan Lavellan Keeper is his grandma because his parents were murdered by Gaspard De Chalons during a dalish hunt, in front of him. Gaspard would have killed him too but decided that a knife eared kid wasn't worthy of a chevalier steel. Years later, Gaspard will fail to recognize Melkior at the Winter Palace (because elves are all the same amiright? I doubt Gaspard remembers his victims faces) and that's how the Granduke died and also one of the two occasions in which Melkior got really angry. Also, Melkior is the host to a spirit of Hope, which made the entire Inquisition scream in fear of abominations when they heard about that. Melkior romances Cassandra (altought I made her supposed character arc/change matter uh Bioware?) and tries to spare/redeem/imprison if necessary as much people as possible when sitting in Judgment because he doesn't like to kill and he does that enough on the field. At the end of Trespasser he disbands the Inquisition but he also creates a constitution that blocks the power of the Chantry so that in 100 years no Divine will be able to recreate Circles or Templars and a council to oversee the constitution with elected officials with a mandate of 5 years max.

Alidda Tabris: Someone could ask why I put the Tabris after the Lavellan, well that's because Alidda Tabris, my non warden dual wielder rougue, is more linked to Briala than Origins. She was prisoner of Arle Howe dungeons with others during Origins, forgotten there after having murdered the Arle son. She was freed by the Warden before the Landsmeet and despite the long imprisonment she suffered she fought in the Battle of Denerim, defending the alienage. After the death of the Archdemon, she helped King Alistair and Queen Galria in dealing with the many issues the elves had and was later sended to Orlais to investigate the risk of a new invasion of Ferelden. She joined Briala during the events of The Masked Empire, helping Celene in beating Gaspard but hating the Empress for her genocide of elves, she was helping only because forced to choose between her and Gaspard. She joined Briala at the end of the book and the two got together shortly after. In Inquisition, Alidda breaks in Celene vault during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearths to get her beloved medallion back and the two keep plotting the liberation of the Dales after the ball.

Livia Amladaris: Magister of Tevinter, new leader of House Amladaris, descendeant of Corypheus and the worst person ever and I love her for that. Livia is literally my favourite classic villain tropes throwed together, because if you don't do that in Tevinter what's the point. While Livia wasn't a Venatori during Inquisition, she took control of the movement later. She is considered the most beautiful woman in the Imperium by many (the Amladaris pratic eugenics unironically) and she is a political genious and probably the greatest demonologist and necromancer (the Quentin kind, not the Dorian kind) Tevinter will ever see. Sadly, all this perfection on paper was given to a woman who respects only one thing: power and hates the other Magisters because they are limited in their ambitions. Livia intends to not simply enter in the Fade like her ancestor, but to open thousands of minor rifts controlled only by her, causing an army of binded demons to invade every nation of Thedas at once. The Imperium will rise again with her as the first Imperatrix of all Thedas. Someone could call her mad, but if she is mad then she is of the lucid and most dangerous kind. She has invented numerous evil spells (the "blood sacrifices and demons" kind) and has the power to turn others in abominations against their will. She is at last defeated at the end of DA4, but not before she blood sacrificed all of her supporters inside the Imperial Senate to start her ritual and shapeshifted into a giant monster before being slain. She is the Maleficent of Thedas and I love a good old fashioned evil witch ok?

[himluv]

The Whole World Changed

Happy Dragon 4ge Day! Here is a Solavellan oneshot for the prompt “Beginnings”. 

Solas swung his staff and unleashed the well of frigid cold that had gathered in his chest. A jagged chunk of ice hurtled away from him and into the face of a shade. The spirit shrieked and writhed before collapsing away into the frozen earth. Still, after a year, it surprised him how much effort it took to call on his magic. Once it had been less than an after thought, an innate action like blinking.

But now, in the biting chill of the steppes of the Frostbacks, sweat streaked down his temple. Solas was wearing down. He couldn’t keep up fighting the demons and shades that continued to pour from the roiling green rift above them.

Behind him the sharp clack of Varric’s crossbow announced another deadly bolt hurtling across the battlefield. He turned in time to see the arrow find its mark in the head of a Rage demon.

“We can’t keep this up, Chuckles!” Varric hoisted his weapon and took aim, before releasing another bolt.

Solas spun his staff and gritted his teeth. “Just a moment longer.”

“If you say so.” The thunk and shriek of another bolt sinking into flesh.

He couldn’t explain to the dwarf why he believed Cassandra and the prisoner were close. His story about being a hapless wanderer, a self-made scholar of the Fade, was fragile enough. If he admitted that he could sense the mark in the prisoner’s hand drawing nearer, that the power thrummed and called to him, like a child lost in the fog, well…

Even he could not spin that tale in such a way that Varric Tethras, a notable storyteller in his own right, would believe.

He slung another barrage of ice at a shade as it materialized from the rift, but he could only assume his attack landed. The edges of his awareness went white, brighter than the sun reflecting off the snow, so bright that his eyes stung even though there was no visible light.

The prisoner stood atop the wall that directed the battlefield. Her mouth set in a hard line and her gaze dashing over the scene, scrutinizing and strategizing. Her dark hair was cut tight to the sides of her head, with just a fingers’ length on top. It contrasted with her pale, gently freckled skin to make her look almost ill.

Perhaps she was. She had nearly died after all, and with the Breach unstable she was surely in pain. All the more reason to hurry this along.

She dropped down into the snow and withdrew a plain, steel staff from behind her back. Solas had known she was a mage, of course. He’d spent so much time with her, keeping her alive against the fury of his own displaced magic, that he knew a startling amount about her body.

Especially considering he didn’t even know her name.

She swung her staff in a graceful figure-eight, slamming the butt of the weapon into the snow and calling down a series of lightning bolts to help clear the field.

“Quickly,” he shouted, taking her hand. “Before more come through.”

The mark hummed and pulsed at his touch, but she didn’t cry out. He marveled at how warm her skin was against his, at the shock that snapped at him. The remnants of her lightning energy, no doubt.

She didn’t pull away from him, didn’t demand answers. When he held her hand to the air and commanded the energy in her palm to commune with the rift, she watched with an almost sickly fascination. When the rift fought back, lashing out and drawing her in, she gritted her teeth and planted her feet.

But she never made a sound.

Solas found he was desperate to hear her voice. After long days and nights spent watching over her in those dim cells, seeing her washed in that green glow, her eyes a swirling mirror of the rift, he was utterly enchanted.

The rift closed with a crash, and she stared at her hand. It took him a moment to realize that his was still locked around her wrist. He released her immediately, and she blinked as if awaking from a spell.

“What did you do?” Her voice was gentle, a breeze rustling the springtime leaves in Arlathan. It was clear and cool, like stepping through an Eluvian for the very first time. It was prettier than he could have imagined.

He shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. “I did nothing,” he said. It was a lie, of course. Without his gentle instruction, the mark would have flickered and throbbed, but never reached out to the rift. If she were clever, and if her magic proved powerful enough, she would continue to close the rifts as if by instinct. The mark knew its purpose now. His purpose.

He smiled at her, a little sheepishly. “The credit is yours.” He willed her to see him as nothing more than a lowly apostate, but she continued to watch him with wide green eyes that saw too much.

She closed her hand into a fist and then stretched it again. “You mean this?” She looked at the mark on her palm with curiosity and a flicker of pain. But not hatred. Not fear. Her dark green vallaslin, a testament to Dirthamen, made it plain to him that she was a spy, and her magic buzzed in a subtle layer around her skin.

A dangerous woman indeed.

He took a step closer to her, his face animated as warmth blossomed on his cheeks. “Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake,” he grinned, “and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra said.

He glanced at the Seeker, struggling to keep his tone neutral. “Possibly.” He returned his attention to the elf before him and a wry smile twisted at his mouth. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

She frowned at that, a delicate crease forming between her black brows. She was uncomfortable with the spotlight, it seemed. More evidence for his spy theory.

Varric interrupted then, in typical Tethras fashion. With drama and crass language, and a noble effort to get under the Seeker’s skin. Once the banter became fairly specific, the elf turned back to face him.

“My name is Solas,” he said, “if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

She tilted her head, but there was no confusion in her eyes.

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric said.

“Is that so?” She pursed her lips, her expression owlish and endearing. Like a child determined to solve a particularly complicated puzzle. “You seem to know a great deal about it all.”

Warning bells rang in Solas’ head, but before he could backtrack or cover his competence with a convenient lie, Cassandra spoke.

“Like you, Solas is an apostate.”

It took considerable effort not to roll his eyes. “Technically, all mages are apostates now, Cassandra.” It wasn’t that he disliked the Seeker. She was an honest, devoted, and hard-working woman. But she was also righteous and devout, which made her a threat to not only his plans, but potentially his life.

He turned his attention back to the elf. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade,” he said. “Far beyond the experience of any Circle Mage.”

A sudden hunger leapt up like flames in her eyes. She looked him up and down, weighing his words against his appearance, measuring him as he had measured her these past few days.

“I come to offer whatever help I can with the Breach. If it is not closed, then we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

She was surprised at that, which was understandable. The Dalish were hardly known for their neighborly attitudes towards the humans. And the city elves were little better than slaves. Very few elves would sacrifice to help in the struggles of man. And yet, here he was, in the lion’s den.

So much for blending in.

She looked over his shoulder at the furious, roiling sea of green in the sky. She sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

She turned toward the faint trail that led down to a frozen lake, following Varric and Cassandra as they continued to argue. She paused at the top of the path and waited for him to draw even with her.

“Riallan,” she said. “First of Clan Lavellan of the Free Marches.” She blushed, the faintest blossom of color on her cheeks. “Thank you for all your help.”

They watched each other for a moment and then he nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, Riallan.” Then he stepped down the trail and hurried to join the others before they walked into more trouble. It took a moment, but he heard her feet crunch through the snow as she chased after him.

It brought a smile to his face.

[fandomn00blr]

Who's knocking at the door?

Ohhhhh...I have just the thing! Hang on...*rummages around in WIP folders I haven’t touched in like a year*

Ah ha! Here it is...this is, um, unpublished (unpolished) Hawke family drama, post-Inquisition by 10 years or so? lulz...

Anders’ eyes flew open as he cast a barrier around himself large enough to enclose the two people sleeping on either side of him within the sphere of his protective magic. His mind then immediately went to their children -- Malcolm and Leandera were still off hunting with Clan Lavellan for another couple of days. 

Good.

He sat up as his mind raced to catch up with his instincts. The wards outside had been activated by someone or something coming down the dead-end street that led to their estate.

Fenris had felt it, too -- his lyrium markings first reacting to the faint magical energy that had been activated by the intruder, then, of course, the sudden intense wave of Anders’ magic, which could sometimes feel like a soothing balm, but when it greeted him by surprise in the middle of the night, he’d learned to associate it with the mage’s keen awareness of impending danger.

Fenris squinted up at him, his eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the barrier. “Someone is approaching.”

“Yes. Still in the alley. One person and a horse.” Anders closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Not a mage.”

Hawke was still dozing in the pale light of the barrier, seemingly blissfully unaware. She may have been the sneakiest of the three of them, but she was capable of sleeping through almost anything. Fenris glanced over at her, but Anders whispered, “Leave her for now. It’s probably nothing...probably just someone who got lost on their way home from the tavern. Nothing the two of us can’t handle, anyway.”

They both slipped out of bed. Hawke mumbled and stretched to take up the other half of the bed that her two husbands had vacated, but seemed determined not to wake up. Anders grabbed a robe and some pants and tossed Fenris his leggings and a tunic. They dressed quickly, then headed down into the foyer to see who, or what, had decided to wander by in the middle of the night.

They heard the distinct sound of a horse’s hooves crunching along the gravel path outside, and then someone dismounting. From the thuddy clinks and scraping of metal on metal, it seemed their visitor was wearing lots of heavy armor. None of their friends immediately came to mind, at least none of the ones who would be likely to pay them a surprise midnight visit like this. Whoever it was walked with a sense of urgency, practically trotting up the short path that led straight to their front door. If this were a thief or assassin coming to rob or attack them in the middle of the night, they were doing a terrible job of surprising their intended targets.

Could it be one of the few remaining Templars who had managed to survive the war or the Inquisition, or not yet gone completely mad from red lyrium, seeking out Anders, the infamous terrorist apostate after all these years? Surely, the majority of the Order had been dissolved or decimated by one or all three of these things.

Or maybe it was a Venatori loyalist, sent to dispatch them for their role in the slave rebellions? The Inquisitor and her armies had destroyed most of their ranks outside of the Imperium, as well, but they were still relatively close to Tevinter here in the Free Marches.

It was also possible that someone who’d been close to Danarius sought to finally reclaim his missing property or to take up his “research” where he had left off with Fenris’ lyrium brands.

Truth be told, there were a number of people still who may have intended them some kind of harm or retribution, and it wasn’t the first time Fenris cursed Varric for drawing him and Hawke out of hiding nearly a decade ago. But if he hadn’t, he supposed, then they might have never gotten Anders back.

Fenris grabbed his sword and Anders’ staff from their place behind the cabinet next to the door, as Anders cast another barrier around the two of them. Fenris tossed his staff to him and they readied themselves to greet this nighttime visitor together, whoever it was, just as all three of them approached the door from either side.

Three hurried, hard knocks. Not as ominous or foreboding as they had both expected. The visitor clearly wished to wake them up, at least. Fenris reached toward the handle, looking at Anders, who was holding his staff ready in front of him. He nodded silently at him to open it. He could sense no demon, no magic...no Darkspawn taint, either, he realized with a hint of relief, checking another possibility off the list of people who might have had some unfinished business with him.

Fenris turned the handle and flung the door wide open, just as the mystery visitor raised a gauntleted fist to bang on the door again, nearly punching the elf right in the face, which would have been a tragic mistake, as his sword was ready. Luckily, they managed to stop themselves just in time, staggering back a few steps in surprise at the hostile greeting.

“Who are you and what do you want?!” Anders demanded, sounding and looking almost formidable, his staff pointed threateningly at the would-be intruder. If Fenris wasn’t busy trying to assess the situation in front of them, he might have appreciated the way his husband looked just then, flashes of a younger, more recklessly emboldened version of himself who had been foolish and idealistic enough to merge with a spirit of Justice in order to take up a fight he hadn’t any business believing he could win. Fenris hadn’t fully agreed with or understood the cause back then, but he’d certainly admired their ferocious commitment to it.

Focus.

The figure was wearing a hooded cloak over some impressive armor. The cloak somehow did a terrible job of hiding the heavy, unmarked chestplate and the weird face on the oversized buckle. It didn’t seem that subtlety was high on this person’s list of priorities, though, which gave Fenris a bit of relief, his muscles and his lyrium beginning to relax slightly as the visitor hastily pushed back his hood, revealing his face. It was twisted by distress and impatience and a hint of fear at the two of them bristling at him with their weapons ready, but the familiar vertical scar over lips that were just recently chewed raw again over long-forgotten worries, and the curly blonde hair, disheveled as it was and going gray, gave him away. He attempted to speak, but the rush of words got stuck somewhere on the way out, and he swallowed them back down, trying to catch his breath and start again.

[in-arlathan]

I just wanted to mess around in the CC to check if I can recreate one of my Lavellan OCs. I never intended to start another playthrough of DA:I with him, I swear!

This is Erendir, btw. He’s one of the clan members for my main Inquisitor, Elenara Lavellan. The two of them have kind of a complicated relationship since they were lovers but broke up over different life goals. I’m working on a multi-chapter fic for the two of them (plus Solas, for the drama) for the DA:I timeline, but I haven’t gotten around to actually post anything. I’m just trying to figure out the plot before getting the writing done.

While I made Elenara considerate and mindful, Erendir is very... Dalish? He’s good-hearted and kind, but also a bit testy. I like the idea of him being scared shitless in the face of Corypheus and deciding things on a whim rather than thinking them through beforehand. Also, he has no time for shemlen politics, so there is that. To play him accordingly forces me to make some choices I tried to avoid when playing with my female (Solas romancing) Lavellans and its, uh, challenging?

As of now, Solas doesn’t like him. Cole hates his guts which is incredibly painful (I don’t want the cinnamon roll to be mad at me). Vivienne loves him, though, which is a first. I never managed to achieve high approval with her before and it’s so interesting to get on her good side.

I’ll see how this playthrough goes. I took a ton of screenshots of him already, so this speakes volumes about how much I have fallen for one of my OCs again. Well, can you do? It’s Dragon Age, dang it!