#also don’t care for what she said about The Dalish but that’s neither here nor there

[arlathvhenan]

I really hope they’re saving some real good content for Harding’s character arc in this next game because everything I’ve seen of her so far hasn’t really done much to soften my opinion of her…

[modernagesomniari]

Fic - ‘The Wrong Game’

Part 15 (15!?!?!) of my Mala Suledin Nadas series, which follows my playthrough of Ellana Lavellan.  All the stories can pretty much be read on their own, but there is continuity through them.  You can check out the whole series here or read this chapter in isolation on AO3 here.

So, I'd just finished Hushed Whispers and done the rounds back at Haven, which meant that Eli and Vivienne's relationship by this point basically involved two flaming rows about the status of mages. However, the next thing I did was complete Viv's first war table quest, which rewards you with her approval. This didn't make sense to me, so I wrote a thing that made it make sense i.e. Eli is crap at politics and asks Viv's advice despite disagreeing with her. This speaks of a practicality and humility Vivienne approves of (plus we get a sneak peak of how Eli may or may not SLAY the Winter Palace).

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

After their second strong disagreement about the status of mages, Vivienne is dismayed to see Herald coming in her direction again.

The Wrong Game

It had been quite some time since Vivienne had needed to calm herself down this way.  Intellectually, she knew why this was different, but that neither made the anger less potent nor curbed the irritation at being made to feel it.  Perhaps she had been at court for too long - she was getting lazy.

It wasn’t just that she disagreed with this new Herald of Andraste - she had disagreed with many people before.  Nor was it that the Herald existed outside of the Game - Vivienne had taken great pleasure in instructing many scholars from all over Thedas of their academic failings.  No, this particular woman was infuriating because her logic had no bearing to the Game at all.  Nor to the Chantry.  Vivienne was more than adept at wielding her learning to point out the flaws in most foolish arguments like Lavellan’s, but her reasoning meant nothing to this girl.  On the contrary, they had barely made it to the more mainstream discussions around mage rights, so busy had they been questioning the fundamental definition of mages that made those discussions relevant.

Lack of preparation, that was what was making her so angry, Vivienne realised.  When Lavellan had rebutted any question of the necessity of mage towers using the Dalish as an example of a society that needed no such thing, Vivienne did not have the tools available to argue the point.  As such she was reduced to simply dismissing the point outright, which felt beneath her.  She was no novice, of course. As soon as she had found out that the Herald was both a mage and a Dalish elf she had combed the library of the Winter Palace for every useful tome on the culture she hadn’t yet read.  That, she quickly learned, was precious few.  Not because she had read them all, but because every account of elven culture that was available was either monstrously out of date or so steeped in mind-numbingly simplified Chantry rhetoric she felt momentarily ashamed for the entirety of the Orlesian academic elite.

Thus, she had come to an argument she was not expecting, that had turned in a direction she should have foreseen, woefully unprepared.  This was not a situation she cared to repeat, although she was slightly at a loss for how not to.  The Herald clearly distrusted her greatly now - there was a defensiveness in her last few sentences that precluded a rather dull mental attitude suggesting any further actual intellectual debate was going to turn predictably cumbersome and personally affronted.  How exceedingly dull.  She was aware she could not blame the Herald for such an attitude.  It seemed to be true that the Dalish did not have the space to carry books with them, so Lavellan couldn’t be accustomed to truly rigorous intellectual discourse, but Vivienne would have appreciated a little more time to gather the information about Dalish culture she needed before they got to the bullish stage.

She had developed just enough of a headache that the sight of the Herald darting out of the war room at the back of the Chantry had her sigh and turn to her books, away from the main body of the building.  She did not wish to get into this discussion again, so did rather hope that the girl would pass her on her way out.

“Madame Vivienne?”

No such luck, it would seem.

“I am rather busy, darling.  Perhaps we can pick this up another time.”

“Oh.  It will only take a moment, I’m sure.  I was wondering if I could ask your advice.”

Well that was unexpected.  Vivienne turned, shrewd eyes skirting over the Herald’s crude (if rather fetching) attire to her face, where she noticed a slight rise of colour to her cheeks, a distinct widening of the eyes.  Something had shaken her, clearly.  

“My advice?” she asked, knowing that for all the frost in her voice she might as well be standing back with her arms crossed.  Lavellan did not look reassured.  Good. “I believe we just established that my advice is not particularly welcome.”

“Not on magic.  I think we’ve discussed that enough for today.” Lavellan said quietly, adding a rather surprisingly self-deprecating chuckle before looking directly up into Vivienne’s eyes.  She had courage, Vivienne had to give her that much.  

Those big green eyes still slightly panicky, the Herald took a step towards her and her words all came out in a rush.  “I was in the war room and they’re asking me to make some decisions because they can’t agree, which is fine.  But there’s a problem just south of Val Royeux to do with the letter your friend sent and it’s to do with some nobles?  Of different families?  That I can’t remember the names of?  And they’re having some disagreements about…about…um…something and the advisors want me to help them decide what to do.  Me.  Me, Madame Vivienne.  Ellana Lavellan, First of Clan Lavellan.  Being, as that name suggests, Dalish.  And I thought to myself ‘why on earth invite an expert on the Orlesian court to join the Inquisition if you’re not going to use her’?  Because, for some reason, they seem to think I’m qualified.”

There was something unavoidably charming about the genuine panic in her face that Vivienne was fighting a losing battle not to be swayed by.  Apparently, however, the Herald wasn’t finished.  “I know we don’t see eye to eye on some things.  And I’m not stupid, so your advice wouldn’t be wasted.  It’s just not my area of expertise and I know it’s yours.  Will you advise me?”

Vivienne considered her and Lavellan, rather surprisingly, let her do it.  She had to admit, she was rather taken aback by this approach.  She had assumed that Lavellan would have taken such offence to their earlier disagreement that Vivienne would now be spurned to the Herald’s detriment.  Still.

“You are aware we come from very different backgrounds, my dear?”

“That’s sort of the point, Madame Vivienne, yes. No one knows woods better than those who have had to survive in them except those who have learned to thrive in them.  My woods are made up of actual trees.  Yours are noble families with bewilderingly similar names.”

Vivienne resolved not to let the Herald see her smile at that particular comment, though from the sparkle of mischief in those same eyes that were so wide a moment ago, she perceived she had possibly failed.

“And you trust me to help you navigate these woods?”

Lavellan cocked her head, something like a smile on her face.  Vivienne realised, not pleasantly, that it seemed she herself was being considered now.  Whatever Lavellan had decided made her nod to herself, the grin widening.  Goodness but she would never survive the Game.

“No.”

Vivienne’s eyebrows raised, pausing her own assumption in its tracks.  Never say that Madame de Fer did not learn from the scant few mistakes she made.

“No?”

“No.  However, I do trust that you have your own ideas about what is best in this situation and how best to resolve it so I think I can learn a lot from listening and watching you hunt in these woods.  I also trust that you will see this as an opportunity to further any agenda you have yourself, which will be just as educational for me.  You can learn just as much about hunting by being hunted as you can by hunting something yourself.”

Well.  It had been a long time since anyone had stood in front of Vivienne and accused her to her face of planning to manipulate them.  Oh, plenty of inferences and innuendo, but never flat out.  She found it rather invigorating.

“What made you be honest with me?”

Lavellan was surprised enough by her choice of question that she laughed.  A little too loudly, so the sound echoed in the Chantry proper and she flinched a little, coming closer with a conspiratorial smile like they’d both just been nearly caught filching chocolates from a Senior Enchanter’s desk.

“I don’t have much experience with the Game,” she admitted in an almost whisper.  “But I do get the impression that plain talking isn’t part of it.  Which made me wonder whether it wasn’t then actually quite a good weapon if used right.  The huntmaster never let me go on hunts because he thought I’d be no use,” she explained at Vivienne’s questioning look.  “Then I helped my brother win a contest by freezing a deer solid so it wouldn’t run from his bow and the look on his face was like he’d just swallowed a wasps’ nest!”

“Wasn’t that cheating, my dear?”

“Not at all,” Lavellan replied, affecting an extremely convincing innocent look.  It was the touch of affronted, Vivienne thought, that sold it.  “My brother was allowed to pick a second to help him.  He picked me.  The fact that the huntmaster had already decided I was useless was his mistake, not ours.”

Vivienne had underestimated this apostate.  She had underestimated her greatly.  A small approving smile graced her lips and she watched Lavellan notice, hope and challenge in her smirk.  Vivienne could not find it in herself to care, impressed very much by Lavellan’s clear attitude to her assets and resources.  That her pride after an argument was not going to get in the way of her practicality was an aspect to her personality Vivienne very much appreciated.  Perhaps, despite their differences, she could still get her to listen, to make sure that no more damage was done to Vivienne’s people.  This war was taking its toll and the stakes had never been so high.  She couldn’t begin to forgive herself if she didn’t use every talent and skill the Maker had entrusted her to develop to protect and elevate those people who now so desperately needed someone on their side.  Whether they could see it or not.

Which meant keeping the Herald sweet.  The Herald who had just proved that she might be a lot more useful as an ally and dangerous as an enemy than Vivienne had initially predicted.  It was rather delicious being wrong.  Not that the Herald needed to know anything of the sort.

“I assume,” She began, moving away towards the open doors and expecting Lavellan to follow (which she did), “That you refer to the rumours that the Divine is not, in fact, dead?”

“Yes!” Lavellan replied, relief evident in her voice as it appeared that Vivienne was indeed going to help.  “Only apparently just refuting it doesn’t work and we need to choose carefully what we say to who and when?”

Vivienne looked down at her, seeing nothing but an earnest desire to learn in Lavellan’s upturned eyes.  She didn’t trust that look for a second.  This assignment she’d given herself had just got significantly more interesting.

How marvellous.  

[dragonageconfessions]

CONFESSION:

The one thing I love about Dragon Age, is the creativity of the fandom. Yes, there is toxic parts of the fandom, but the works people make of their interpretations of the characters is what enriches the world for me. Take Touhou, a Japanese bullet hell game, the world of the game and characters is enhanced by the fans.

Sometimes the original canon works of said characters aren’t as well written as one wants. Before I got into Inquisition late, I saw all the fanfic and fanart and I fell in love with all the characters.

When I finally got the game, I noticed certain characters were different from the fan interpretations I had experience. Take the Iron Bull for example. I honestly prefer how the fans represented him than how the official writers wrote him in the game.

I’m also not a fan of Adoribull because of how the dialogue in the game between Bull and Dorian make me uncomfortable. I now avoid fanfic featuring them. There is only one I had read that was written well for me to handle the romance but other than that, I’m not interested in the pairing at all. (And then there is my personal preference of Dorian being in bed and he and Bull clash too much with my preference but that’s neither here nor there)

But once again, any qualms fans have with how some characters are in the game (based on my observations of reading these confessions), it comes down to the official writing. Iron Bull has potential imho, same with Sera and her qurikiness, Dorian and his upbringing views with slavery, Cullen trying to change for the better, I could go on on every character who has gotten extreme criticism here. It’s the writing that the creators missed out on.

But that’s the point of us fans. We use our creativity to fix the problems we saw. Take Harry Potter. There is discourse and drama over JK Rowling with her choices of writing characters. Then the fans go and write/draw works that fix that. The ending of Voltron? Fans will go write their own ending then. I could go on.

I’m slowly working on a fanfic myself of the whole storyline of Inquisition and I’m brainstorming it heavily through to enhance the companions after they interact with my main characters. My male Lavellan is cautious around Dorian but after romancing him, I want to work on the idea that Dorian will open his eyes to the privilege he’s had and him going back to Tevinter to try and help the slaves.

I love all the companions in Dragon Age even though the dialogue options may be limited of me interacting with them but that’s where my own interpretation comes in. Cassandra asks your Lavellan if you believe in the Maker at Haven and you can reply that you believe in Elven Gods and she asks if you have room for one more and then the dialogue scene ends. In my story, I went further with that scene where my Lavellan does say that yes, as her maker and his Creators are their own religious interpretations of whatever deity there is out there. Sera doesn’t care for Dalish culture, my Lavellan understands. He is of mixed city elf and Dalish elf (sorta a representation of me being a mixed race child). While he does embrace his Dalish heritage as his identity, he knows that not all elves want to be part of that. Let us not forget Sera’s quirky behaviour. Some people think she’s annoying but I personally relate to her way of thinking as I am on the Autism Spectrum. But the game only allows you to choose you saying her way of thinking is dumb or that you don’t understand and want her to elaborate. If there was an option where I could say: I get you!, I’m pretty sure I’d get massive approval from her. If the game dialogue had options like that, it would be helpful.

It really comes down to us fans who make things for the better. There are Headcanon submissions that I see on this blog that make me smile. Headcanon that Cassandra kills the dragons in her brother’s honor and Cole puts her mind at ease about it? Awesome! Headcanon Blackwall carves wooden flowers for Josephine? Keep at it with all those ideas! Keep on creating guys!

[buttsonthebeach]

*whispering* solavellan sex on the Normandy

ANON. I don’t even know if you’re still out there, I’m pretty sure you sent this like a year ago, but I want you to know that I have been working on this prompt ever since you sent it!!!

Fun fact #1: I have never played any of the original Mass Effect games.

Fun fact #2: I had so much reading about them and watching videos and concocting headcanons that I accidentally put more energy into that than into smut?

(I’m sorryyyy I hope it was worth the wait if you are still out there)

@dadrunkwriting

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots currently open as of 10/4/19)

Pairing: Solavellan

Rating: Mature/Explicit (it’s right on that line - sexual content but not a lot and not the most explicit I have ever done)

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

Solas was fairly certain that the new soldier Commander Shepard had brought on board the Normandy SR-2 was doomed to be just like all the others - more brawn than brain, all muscle and no substance. He tried not to let it matter to him too much. He was here to take advantage of Cerberus’s technology and resources to further his own research into biotics. Everything else was window dressing.

In the case of the new soldier, the window dressing simply happened to be rather striking.

She had skin like mahogany, and red, tightly curled hair worn in a flat top hair cut, and eyes like steel. Her name was Ellana Lavellan, and she was the first person to pull him out of the tight cocoon of his lab - really, out of the tight cocoon he’d woven around himself - in years.

“You know, I was under the impression that our doctor was a salarian,” she said when she first wandered in one day.

“I am neither a doctor nor a salarian, as you can see,” he said, gesturing at the insignia that designated him as a scientist. “You are thinking of Mordin Solus. His quarters are next door. My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

She laughed, and it was a surprisingly musical laugh. He wasn’t sure why he expected all soldiers to be gunmetal and grim looks. She was off duty, and in a tank top that bared her toned arms. He took in her pointed ears. He’d known from her name, of course, that they shared at least a race in common. It had been many centuries since their people were considered a separate but lesser species on the planet called Thedas, but there was still a twinge of happy recognition at the sight of her. Every other member of this crew whose ancestors hailed from Thedas was human. There might be some commonality between them, at least, if they were both elves.

Then again, as she sauntered around the lab, her head cocked in curiosity, he saw the tattoo marking the upper part of her back. Three long, arched branches that likely continued all the way down to her hips. She was likely of Dalish descent then. Or, worse, one of the people who got such tattoos and had no idea what they meant.

Solas ducked his head, returning to the readout on his omnitool.

“Well, you have to admit it is confusing. Solus, Solas. What are you doing?”

She was leaning on his workstation. She smelled like gun oil. Usually people backed away by this point, put off by his arch manner. Why hadn’t she?

“Testing this new implant for Commander Shepard,” he said.

“Interesting. You’ll have to explain how it works to me, sometime. When are you off duty?”

That was how she did it in the end, how she drew him out - she was relentless. Like a hunter on a trail with everything to lose. Except she, like him, had nothing to lose. Her parents were long dead - victims of the same slaver raid on Mindoir that had taken Shepard’s own parents, apparently that was how they knew each other - and she had struggled to find a place for herself since then. She’d been in the Alliance military (another connection with their esteemed commander, who Solas had to admit was growing on him too) but left that life behind, hoping for a new start, only to be drawn back into danger once more. The Illusive Man had given Solas no reason to believe that the Normandy SR-2 would be an easy mission, but he was still surprised by the level of violence they encountered - by the bruises and blood he saw on Ellana whenever she passed his lab on her way to Mordin’s, needing healing.

“I thought you were a sniper,” he chided her after one particularly bad episode. He was holding her left wrist, examining a burn that radiated up the inside of her left arm.

“I am,” she said. “And I thought you were a scientist, and not a doctor.”

He had not asked to take her hand, to examine her. He dropped it. But she just reached out and touched his hand - a touch that burned, that brought back memories, that made him remember just how long it had been since he had been touched. He shivered and he knew Ellana saw it. Solas had been living under masks for years now. He knew she saw through them all.

“I’ll be okay,” she said. “I promise.”

*

He only had the privilege of watching Ellana fight once. Shepard was a formidable biotic herself, and rarely brought other biotics on her missions. But when they went in pursuit of someone called Archangel, she said she wanted the backup.

“I’d also like a measure of stealth,” Shepard went on. “And Jack is, well -”

“Not subtle?” Solas said, dryly.

“Very diplomatic. We’ll bring Lavellan, too.”

Solas tried to ignore the little thrill that ran through him at the thought. He wasn’t successful.

She was a wonder with her rifle. Swift, silent, precise, powerful. She made shots he would have thought impossible, covered him and Shepard with an instinctive ease and tactical awareness. He watched her when he could. He may have even been staring.

“See something you like, Solas?” She asked.

Precise as one of her bullets, blunt as a mallet, and her smile was so sly, and Shepard was distracted by the turian that turned out to be Archangel. Garrus Vakarian, no doubt, if Solas’s research was to be believed.

“Watching you was - impressive. You move differently than any other soldier I have seen. Almost as if it is a dance.”

Ellana slung her rifle over her back and leaned against a wall, her grey eyes alight.

“Are you implying that I am graceful?”

“I am declaring it.” The words slipped out before he could consider them, and that was the danger, wasn’t it, of stepping outside his cocoon, his lab, his routine?

“I was equally impressed by you,” Ellana said. “Your biotics - it’s like it’s totally natural for you.”

He shrugged, pretended he was not complimented, that her words did not light him up from the inside out. “Elves generally take to it better than other Thedosians. Have you read any of the theories that our people were once like asari, with similarly long lives and control over our nervous systems that produced effects so startling they were once called magic?”

Ellana looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. “I was too busy being a dumb grunt to read stuff like that. But I’ve heard of it a little. Maybe you could explain more sometime?”

“Of course.”

*

It was soft and easy after that, except for when it wasn’t, when they talked about her Dalish heritage, her fierce belief that there was something important about sticking to traditions, even if there was little basis in fact for them.

“Of course my tattoos aren’t what made me an adult,” she retorted one day. “But getting them made me feel connected to something bigger than myself. Is that really so bad?”

“But the implications that they were once -”

“Oh, fuck the implications, Solas. I’m tired of the implications. I live here, and now, and I was just trying to share something about myself with someone who I thought cared about me without it turning into a big fucking deal.”

Her voice rang against the metal walls of his lab. She appeared almost immediately ashamed of her anger. He’d noticed that about her too. That was his job. To notice things, gather intel, play the Illusive Man’s game long enough to figure out if it was true, if biotics were inherent to his race, if they could perhaps be made inherent once again, raising the status of all Thedosians in the Council’s eyes…

But so much of what he had been noticing lately was her.

“I am sorry,” he said. He reached out and touched her hand. He’d been getting used to that. Little touches.

Ellana Lavellan kissed him then, full on the lips, without even the slightest warning, and he was sitting on a stool and though she was a slight woman this made her a little taller than him, and he tilted his head back, let himself fall into the kiss, wrapped his arms around her and felt her warmth and life and just how much he wanted this. Wanted a life that was not just secrets and watching and never partaking.

Ellana pulled back, looked down at him.

“I hope that was okay,” she said. “You’re not going to report me to the commander for sexual harassment, are you?”

Solas kissed her again, hungrier this time, fingers digging into her muscles, the solid reality of her. The realest thing he’d felt in years.

“So you are tired of the implications, then?” he asked when they parted.

“Like I said,” Ellana grinned, sliding into his lap, straddling him. “Fuck the implications.”

*

Solas could not help himself, of course. He had to tell her that there were considerations. Well, fuck the considerations too, she’d said jokingly, but she respected his boundaries nonetheless. Because there were considerations. He knew more than even Shepard did. He knew that the supposedly disabled Collector ship they were headed to was a trap. He tried to tell Ellana not to go on that mission. To convince Shepard to bring Garrus instead.

“Don’t go soft on me. Besides - I have to beat Vakarian’s high score,” she said, and kissed him.

He knew that to the Illusive Man, all the people on this ship were merely pawns at play in a larger game. He had guessed at what that larger game might be. He had willingly chosen to be a bigger pawn in that game, to do the things the Illusive Man asked of him as long as he could continue his research. And he knew Ellana now - knew that she would not take any of this lightly, that she had a soldier’s sense of loyalty and honor, old-fashioned as the tattoos on her back.

And he knew that he wanted her in all the ways one person could want another. He knew with increasing clarity as time went on that he wanted her more than he wanted anything else.

But to turn his back now -

The formless shadow of what lay beyond the Omega-4 Relay loomed larger and larger, and in its shadow things grew clearer and clearer. Clear as Ellana’s grey eyes, clear as her perception of the world. They might not come back from this mission. And the Illusive Man would not care, not even if he lost one of his foremost biotics researchers, one of his best spies. And Solas’s work would not care if he was not there to finish it. He looked out at the vastness of space outside the Normandy and that thought grew clearer and clearer.

No one would care except for her.

So he went to her the night before they would make their last stand. Her room was small and cramped and her bed was even more small but she was alive in it, alive in her body, already stripped down to her simple training bra and standard issued underwear when he arrived and yet beautiful as any ancient nebula he’d ever seen.

“Are you sure?” she asked him, finding the buttons on his lab coat, undressing him, her eyes bright in the dark.

“I have never been more sure of anything than I am of you,” he said.

So he stripped off all the things that made her a warrior - the training bra, the briefs, the dog tags - and he stripped off all the things that made him a scientist, a spy - the lab coat and the gloves and every single mask - and he loved her. She was warm and firm beneath him and he slid between her thighs - lingered there a long time, just rocking back and forth, just kissing her, just feeling her, the silky drag of skin on skin - and there, in the darkness of space, he loved her, and she loved him. She rolled him over and took her turn on top, not pushing him inside her yet, not even asking him to touch her, to ease her own wet ache. She just felt, explored, touched.

And then when she did take him in her hand raise herself up, and sink back down on him, taking him within her - when she did lace both of her hands with his and pin them over his head as she rode him, as she kissed him - then she was so impossibly real, so impossibly alive, that Solas forgot of the possibility of death. There was only her, them, the light of distant stars, of his own biotics flaring.

“I love you,” she said, and from another woman’s lips it would have felt false to hear those words said when they were still joined, still making love. But this was Ellana, and Solas had watched her, and he knew she was nothing if not sincere.

“I love you,” he said, surrendering, bucking his hips up into her. “I love you, I love you -”

There were people walking down the hall outside - Taylor, Lawson, Tali, Thane, all on their way to some distraction or another, all of them waiting out the end like they were. They tried to fall silent, to move to a different position, each time they passed, and they wound up on the cold metal floor, cocooned in blankets, Solas on top of her this time, looking down at her, mesmerized, angling himself to make it good for her, so he would rub against her in all the right places, so he could watch her when she came, and she squirmed a hand between them to make it happen because she was nothing if not self-sufficient, but he did get to watch her, to feel her from the inside out as she came. Then he was gone too, wave after sweet wave, and it was all too much and too good.

“Hey,” she said in the aftermath, touching his cheek, drawing him back. “It’s okay, you know. It’s gonna be okay.”

He kissed her hand, pretended she was right, that the Omega-4 Relay was not on their horizon now. It was easier than it ever had been. The pretending. She made it easy, lying there in his arms in the nest they’d made on the floor. It was going to be okay. They would make it through the relay and what came after. They’d walk away from Cerberus, the Illusive Man, Shepard, together. They’d see what the world was like without all of those things, without masks. Together.

Solas slept, and waited for tomorrow.

[secretsfromwholecloth]

Dragon Age: Origins (and DLCs), day 10.

Daiwen is very politely waiting to roll his eyes at Nathaniel’s complaints about his family legacy and all that until the man’s back is turned; it’s not like he doesn’t understand family ties and the value of reputation, and his new friend is clearly in the process of gaining at least a little perspective, but he’d still like to forget about the existence of shem nobility, much less Rendon Howe in specific, unless it’s absolutely necessary. He’s not even muttering “Dread Wolf take you and your nonsense” under his breath—well, not loudly enough for anyone to hear him, anyway—he’s grown so much!

I just banged out Anders’ quest, and his approval is now at “+91 (Love)”. I see, ah, certain quirks of his aren’t unique to his DA2 incarnation, heh.

I mean, look, it’s a short DLC, so the characters are all on the flat side. At their best, they’re rough sketches of potentially interesting and complex people that indicate the places where there’d be more to dig into (as angry as I get at G**d*r sometimes, he brought his A-game to Nathaniel). At worst, well, yes, Oghren also had to be flattened somewhat, but was “lol, he’s a homophobic harasser who blew past “functioning alcoholic” three years ago” the best flattening that could’ve been done? (Don’t get me wrong, I still deeply respect the writer in question, she’s taken far too good care of me over the course of the series for me to get properly mad about this, but I don’t love it, and I don’t like Oghren here any more than I did in Origins.)

Well, now that things are properly underway, let’s head for the Wending Wood. Daiwen is comfortable in forests, after all, and I’m eager to form a new perspective on Velanna, who left me cold the first time around.

Wow, Velanna sure starts out friendly to a Dalish Warden. She is still causing problems on purpose, but Daiwen finds her a lot more understandable and has a lot more faith in his ability to resolve this than Alix did.

That said, he’s more inclined to believe that it really was the shems who took Seranni, because fucking shems, amirite, so it may be a whlie before it actually gets resolved.

I am slightly uncomfortable with the differences in accent between the Statue of War and the Statue of Peace—you’d think they’d sound the same, what with being brothers and all, but Peace uses RP while War has certain features associated with West African accents, among others.

Well, Velanna has been talked down and recruited. Things may get hairy with one melee fighter to three ranged, but Anders and Nathaniel are both undroppable for healing/unlocking reasons, and Oghren is both expendable and annoying. Let’s do this.

Velanna, can you wait until after this guy is either dead or out of earshot to make fun of his hackneyed sentiments? Matter of fact, has Daiwen properly explained the whole “the Wardens are basically our clan now, and sadly for us, that does include the shem members, so please try and refrain from being awful to your brethren” thing yet?

Oh, look, it’s the...I was about to say “original-recipe stretchy man”, but no, that’s not right, he’s not stretchy. Melty man? He is pretty melty. Fuck it, he’s the melty man now.

Babies, please. Daiwen is happy to keep the nasties off of you—he’s built and kitted out to not even feel attacks that would floor some of you—but you have to hold up your end of the bargain and at least try to stay out of melee range of the nasties. Please don’t make his job harder than it has to be, there’s only one of him.

Looking forward to gaining enough levels to start trying out some of those Guardian powers.

What’s all this about a court session? Will any of this lot even listen to what Daiwen says? Well, here goes.

Conspirators dispatched. That was satisfying. I didn’t get a chance to do it last time, I left paying the Dark Wolf so late that he didn’t have time to track them before the Crow attack.

Hello, Sigrun. You seem nice. The Legion has done good work for Daiwen in the past. And he has some, ah, positive associations with dual-dagger rogues (and could do with your help on the melee end of things).

Sorry, Nate, we’ll have to drop your girlfriend for a bit. The new girl’s less tiresome, anyway, she’ll be good company.

Yay, I found the side entrance this time instead of barging in the front door and praying that Alix had disarmed enough of the traps to get through safely! (She missed a fair number of them, but we managed.)

Today on Item Names That Sound Like Euphemisms For Something Filthy, I just picked up a Staff of Vigor.

Yay, childer grubs! And by “yay” I mean “oh gods, these fucking things”.

Broodmothers squished. And oh, hey, it’s the Mother. *siiiiiigh*

Yay, a peasant rebellion! Yes, I mean the same thing again by “yay”. Neither Daiwen nor his player particularly enjoys killing people who just want to feed themselves, you know.

More tomorrow, it’s late.

[metalslimes]

Zevwarden week day 2: Wardens Gift

i know its the last day of the event and im just now posting day 2 but whatever

ao3 link

It had been three days since Arl Eamon had begun his recovery, thanks to The Urn of Sacred Ashes, and Arren was itching to get back on the road.  After the events outside of Haven the rest of his group was concerned for his well being.  One doesn’t just kill their tainted near-bonded without any repercussions.  But Arren’s wasn’t one to voice his emotions like that, he didn’t want to worry anyone, which, of course, just made them even more so.  The rest of the group wanted to relax a couple of days in Redcliffe.  Arl Eamon had graciously offered them each a room in his castle and they were all eager to sleep in real beds.  Except Arren, who just wanted to get back on the road.  He never liked cities, and he had a hard time sitting still, especially when he was trying to avoid thinking about something.

He had spent the first day catching the Arl up on recent events and making plans for the foreseeable future, but after that he was left to wander the town and surrounding area while the rest of his team took a well deserved break.  Arren did whatever he needed to to stay busy in the day; helping around the village, training, hunting, entertaining the children, anything.  At night he was quieter than normal as his friends dined in the castle, frequently sneaking out to walk around the town.  Tonight however, he spoke his mind.

“It is time we continue our task, we have much to do.  Tomorrow morning we should leave.”

“Agreed.”  Sten nodded, arms crossed.  “We have spent too much time here.”

Alistair dramatically sniffled.  “Goodbye soft bed, goodbye actual meals…”  But he knew his fellow Warden was right, so he would only mildly object.  Surprisingly, it was Zevran who pushed his preference against Arren’s word.

“Actually, dear Warden, could we perchance stay another day or two?”  Though he tried to play it off casually by reclining in his seat, Arren could tell he was nervous about making such a request.  Did he worry he was being out of line?  He had been travelling with the rest of the group for near two months, he had earned his trust and should speak his mind.  Of course, Arren couldn’t just give in because he had a soft spot for his fellow elf.  Instead he gave Zevran a curious look.

“What for?”

“I seem to have gotten myself into quite the situation, and I would hate to leave loose ends,” he replied vaguely, though he didn’t shy away from Arren’s stare.

“A situation.”

“A situation.”

“Is this a situation you’d like to share with the rest of the class?  Perhaps we could help.”

“No no, I’d much rather do this on my own.  It should not take much longer.”

“Oh?  Does this happen to involve the pretty blonde from the tavern?”  Leliana smiled teasingly.  “You have been spending an awful lot of time with her.”  That got Arren’s attention, though he was quick to hide any surprise or hurt.  He knew what his relationship with Zevran was; it was recent and it wasn’t serious.  Zevran had been very clear from the beginning that if they were to have a relationship, Arren must understand that it would not stop him from flirting with others, and occasionally, should he desire, sleep with them.  The same would go for Arren.  Arren had agreed, so why it made his chest feel heavy to hear Zevran wants to stay in town because of someone he met was beyond him.  Of course, he could be getting ahead of himself, no one said they were sleeping together.

“Perhaps it does, my darling bard.”  Zevran threw the grin right back at her, leaning on his elbow.  “And perhaps you would like to join me tomorrow- permitting we get to stay that is.”

She scoffed, taking another sip of her drink.  “I think not.”

“What say you Warden?  Will you grant my request?”

Arren was quiet, debating it as he finished his food.  Finally he nodded.  “Two days at most.  We leave at dawn on the third.  Unless you finish early, tell us so we can go.”

“But of course.”  Zevran’s grin widened as he excused himself.  He lightly touched Arren’s arm as he passed, humming contently.  Once he was out of the room Alistair turned to his fellow Warden.

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Doesn’t what bother me?”

“That!  Aren’t you and Zev...canoodling?  And he just asked to stay here longer so he could keep doing that with some girl at the tavern!”

“Did he now?  From what I gathered he is simply taking care of some personal business.  There may or may not be a pretty girl involved.”

“Oh there definitely is.  Doesn’t it bother you that he flirts with everyone?”

“Not at all.”  Which was...mostly true.  The flirting he didn’t mind, yet… “Zevran has been nothing if not honest with me.  I knew what I was getting myself into when I agreed to ‘canoodle’ with him.  If he also wishes to canoodle with others I will not stop him, nor would he if I did.”

“But you don’t.”  Leliana joined the conversation, watching Arren from behind her glass.

“No, that is not who I am.  But I will not stop Zevran from being who he is, nor would I want to.”  He stood, hands on the table.  “I appreciate everyone's...concerns...with my relationship, but it is not needed.  I trust Zevran and I trust that we will both act like adults should any conflict between us arise.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find something to do for the next two days.”

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

As it turns out, he spent the next two days frequently on the roads around Redcliffe.  Morrigan, Sten, himself, and his Mabari Falon’din often hunted and trained together, not caring for the city life.  Or in Falon’din’s case, just following his master.  Arren would wake in the morning to Zevran getting out of bed.  Once or twice they ran into each other either in town or at the castle.  They’d all have dinner together, then Zevran would leave again, not coming back until well into the night.  When prompted about his day the Antivan would shrug.

“I will be having more drinks with the lovely lady at the tavern our dear bard mentioned.”

“I have almost finished my business here, just one more day my Warden.”

“Worried are we?  Fear not mi amor, no one in this town would touch any of their heroes.”

Arren decided not to push his luck.  He trusted Zevran, and he was allowed to do whatever he wanted with his day.  Yet he was clearly hiding something, and that hurt for some reason the Dalish was not ready to sift through.  He had far too much else to worry about.  

Alistair was a surprisingly good comfort to Arren in Zevran’s stead.  Of course he thought of Alistair as a brother and turned to him for advice frequently, but something this personal was better handled by someone better with words.  Perhaps it was how Arren had helped his fellow Warden after Duncan’s death, but Alistair was quite the support as Arren grieved his dead clansmate.  He would push for Arren to talk about it, but knew signs of when to back off well enough.  With Zevran gone most of the time, Arren turned to Alistair for the nitty gritty Warden and taint related truths and comforts, to Leliana for something more idealistic, and Wynne when he just needed to be around someone.

For now though, all he needed was a bit of space and silence.  Arren laid on the roof of the castle, arms behind his head as he stared at the stars.  He recited Elven constellations and their stories to himself, keeping them fresh in his mind.  His ear flicked as he heard quiet footsteps, though he didn’t look up at his sudden companion.  Instead, he pointed up at the sky.

“Do you see the one that looks like a halla?  See her front legs in the air, and her head held high?  That is Equinor, Ghilan’nain’s constellation; the mother of halla.”  His companion hummed, laying next to Arren to join him in his stargazing.

“The stallion, yes?”  Zevran spoke fairly quietly, it felt wrong to speak at a normal volume.  “I always thought horses were to Tevinter’s, what dogs are to you Fereldon’s.”

“Constellations have many stories.  Alistair tells me that the Gray Wardens say it is a griffon sitting, not a horse or halla.”

“Speaking of many stories, I assume you did not share any at dinner, since Wynne says you did not attend?”

“Apparently neither did you.”

“No, I was finally able to wrap up my business here.”

“Good.  We can leave tomorrow then.”  Again Zevran hummed, and the two fell into a peaceful quiet, enjoying eachothers company.  Yet when Zevran reached for Arren’s hand, the other elf flinched slightly.  Zevran faced his leader, an eyebrow raised.  When Arren remained silent, refusing to look at him Zevran sighed.

“I had hoped our little groups mother had been wrong in her scoldings tonight, though perhaps she was not.  She tells me I have been neglecting you.  That while I am free to make my own choices, I should consider how they affect others.  You recently lost your Bonded, then in your time of need I spend my days in a tavern with another.  I see how that could be taken, and I want to assure you that nothing happened between her and I.”

Taking a deep breath, Arren’s eyes remained on the stars.  “It would be fine if something had.  I know the terms of our arrangement.  I have been coping fine on my own.”

“Ah, but you should not have to, mi amor.  I would hate to assume, but I also like to fancy that I have a special impact on those around me.  I fancy thinking I have a special impact on you.  I know you do not like to voice such things, but if you need me, for any reason, I implore of you to act on those needs.”

Arren turned his head, expecting to find a smirk at what could very easily be considered an innuendo.  The sincerity and slight concern he found in Zevran’s soft smile instead surprised him.  He stared for a moment before returning the smile; smaller, and with more pain, but at least he was finally expressing himself more.  He took Zevran’s hand, looking back up at the sky with him.  After a moment Zevran sat up, prompting Arren to do the same.

“Ah!  I nearly forgot!  The reason I have been so absent, my business here with the woman at the tavern; it is a gift for you, mi amor.”

“A gift?  You didn’t have to do that Zevran.”

“After all you have given me and the others in our little group of misfits?  No, I did not.  But I wanted to.”  The Antivan reached into a small bag on his hip and handed a velvet pouch over.  Arren looked between the pouch and Zevran a few times before slowly untying it and pulling out the contents.  He gasped, staring at the wood carving in his hand; stylized tree with carvings resembling a hare, a hawk, and an owl etched into the bark.  Almost tentatively he ran his fingers across the small statue.

“Zevran...where did you-”  He stopped as Zevran put a hand over his, the other tilting Arren’s chin up to make him look at him.

“Ir su arvel tu elvaral u na emma abelas…”  He spoke slow and clunky, his accent making him put emphasis in the wrong spot, but even spoken in such a way Arren recognized the lines from the Elven song.  Long journeys are made longer when alone within.  “I know you have been through much, you are away from your clan and surrounded by shemlem.  You are made to be the strong and silent leader and make life changing decisions.  But you are not alone mi amor- ma vhenan.”

In the next moment Zevran was knocked back on the roof, practically tackled by Arren.  He grunted in surprise when he felt the others lips on his own.  Before he could react more than that the other pulled away, just enough to rest his forehead on Zevran’s.  Arren was not one to show emotions often.  In fact, the only other time he had seen the Dalish so worked up was when he saw Tamlen.  Twice.  But here he was, eyes closed, smiling softly, brows upturned, and whispering things Zevran couldn’t understand in Elven.  Slowly Zevran lifted a hand, brushing Arren’s hair out of his face and caressing his cheek.

“Ma serannas, ma vhenan…for everything…”  Softer this time, they kissed again.  When Arren leaned back this time, he got off of Zevran, examining the statue once more.  “Where did you get this?”

“Well!  The first night here when I went for a drink, I saw a Dalish woman on her own.  I knew you were in a difficult place, so I asked her for help in ways to cheer you up.  I told her how you like to make wood carvings, and she suggested making you a place of worship to bring with us on our journeys.  I wanted to serenade you, but settled for learning a sentence or two in Elven instead.”  He sat up, shrugging.  Arren leaned against his partner.

“It’s perfect Zevran...thank you.”  They sat together quietly for several minutes, enjoying eachothers company, until Arren spoke again.  “You know...I would have liked to meet this Dalish woman.”

“Perhaps I did not wish to share you, hm?”  He laid back on the roof once more, pulling Arren down with him.  “But let us not talk of others.  Why don’t you tell me more about this Ghilan’nain, and your Andruil.”

Arren spent his last night in Redcliffe wrapped in his lovers arms, telling grand tales of the Elven Gods, not despising the town quite as much anymore.

[elellan]

Chapters: 13/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age (Video Games) Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford

Summary

Riwan Lavellan wakes up after the Conclave only to find her world shattered into pieces. She strains to adjust to her new life in the Inquisition, especially after discovering that the Commander of its forces is an ex-templar.

CHAPTER 13. NIGHT CHAT

She opened quietly the door to the rotunda. Everything was still and silent and the room was submerged in a pitch-black darkness, a single candle that flickered on Solas' desk being the only faint source of light.

She looked around her but the elf was nowhere to be seen. She took a few noiseless, bare-footed steps on the cold pavement, standing in the shadows, her nightgown blending with the dark surroundings.

"Can't sleep, lethallan?", a whisper echoed in the rotunda, making her jump and hiss like a cat.

"Solas?", she whispered back, bewildered. Her heart beat in her throat. 

She heard his held-back chuckle coming from the couch. She narrowed her eyes and saw a shadow moving on it, its form becoming more elf-like as he emerged from under a blanket.

"I didn't mean to scare you", he said. He got up and reached her, his features more recognizable with every pace. He stepped finally into the dim-light.

"What are you doing here? How could you hear me?".

He looked at her with a quizzical look, took the candle and proceeded to light some others with slow movements and care.

"I did not hear you. Your mark flickered and gave you away".

"Right, the mark...", Riwan mumbled, raising her bare hand and staring at the green light that now pulsated softly. "Why are you sleeping here, anyway? You do have your own bedroom if I remember right!".

He chuckled again in seeing her still baffled expression. "I was studying and brought the book with me on the couch. I didn't want to get up, it is too comfortable". He gestured quietly towards the couch with interrogative eyes. "Would you care for a night chat, since neither of us can rest?". 

Riwan shrugged and sat on the ground instead, the lighted chandeliers making everything around her look eerie and sinister. She looked intently at him while he sat cross-legged in front of her, his smile never leaving his face. She did not want to talk to him.

She had hoped to find a relaxing book in the library, a novel perhaps - if such a book could ever exist in a Chantry approved library - and to steal some cookies from the kitchen, but apparently nothing would go as planned that night.

"It seems that there's a little party going on in Josephine's study...", he ventured.

"Yes, I heard it". She lied. She hadn't just heard it, she had shamelessly eavesdropped on Josephine's door and when she heard Cullen's laughter among Cassandra, Josephine and Leliana's ones, she felt like she was simmering in anger. She also had to hide from the Seeker who soon after exited from that door by jumping down the stairs right into the cellar, gaining a bruise on one of her butt-cheeks that hurt terribly. 

"And apparently we weren't invited". He didn't seem very hurt by his exclusion as he lifted again his amused eyes on her.

"No, we weren't. Advisors only. No Inquisitor to ruin their party".

"Don't be angry...".

"I'm not".

"But you look troubled".

She shot him an inquisitive glance. He did not know that he was one of her motives to be so upset.

"That I am...". Her voice came out like a low growl. 

"I take that your expedition to the Dales didn't go as you expected".

"What do you think? How could any elf be glad to explore the Dales?", she snapped.

His curious expression did not falter. The shadows created by the candlelight under his brows, nose and mouth made him look even more quizzical and almost creepy.

"That is a place full of sorrow for the elves, I agree...".

"Strange for you to agree". 

She couldn't stop her tongue nor her brain could filter her words. The week she had spent in Dirthavaren with Dorian, Bull and Cassandra had put a strain on her mental stability. Dirthavaren, the promised land, the land about which Shalle had daydreamed during their days together- it was just a graveyard. An open-air graveyard of their civilization, where each and every elven mural or statue had been savagely destroyed and replaced by proud Chantry landmarks that recounted the fabulous tales of the Exalted March heroes. Cassandra read out loud the writings carved upon them, in wonder and with interest, while Riwan's temper became shorter with every word she said.

Feelings that she thought long forgotten had started to resurface from the recesses of her mind, resentment leading them all: towards the Chantry, towards humans, towards merciless history records; then, towards Cassandra and what Riwan thought to be lack of tact from her part; towards templars who had taken her sister and destroyed her previous life, leading her to this unwanted one; towards Cullen, who had pushed her away and whose interest in Dalish culture seemed to her now like a polite facade for his true distaste for her; finally, towards Solas, who proudly claimed that the Dalish did not understand the ways of the world and that he was not her kind. 

'What is wrong with my kind?', she had found herself thinking over and over again while gritting her teeth. Still, she did not speak, she did not let these thoughts overflow out of the boiling pot of her mind. Only Dorian's presence soothed her temper, his sense of guilt over his ancestors' deeds compelling him to comfort her through words and gestures.

"I could hardly rejoice over the fall of Halamshiral...".

"I'm glad to hear it. I thought you were ready to lecture me on my own stupidity for being so offended by what I saw in the Dales".

"I would never do such a thing, Inquisitor". His voice, that had been soft until that moment, reached her now cutting and edgy. Good. She was in need of a fight. She wanted to see just how far his proud went, his certainty to be always one step above others. 

'Go and meet the Dalish clan, if you wish', his letter to her had reached and hit her. She had thrown it in the campfire. She did not care whether he intended to be rude or not. She had been wrong to share her exultation for having found traces of her people in that barren land.

"Would you not, Solas? Yet you have done so on many different occasions. Oh, but I see, we weren't talking about elves in general back then, we were talking about Dalish, stupid, obtuse Dalish. That's why tonight I'm not worthy of a reprimand".

"Inquisitor, I-".

"Because you are not my kind, are you not Solas?".

"It's been a long time since I said that thing-".

"And I still remember it as if it was yesterday! If you're not my kind, then who are you, Solas? What are you?” 

CONTINUE ON AO3

[dalishious]

@briannamorley Well I wasn’t going to respond to all your replies, but then I figured hell, if you felt the need to go through all my anti Celene shit to leave messages saying you disagreed, you must really value my opinion of your opinion, so who would I be not to?

briannamorley replied to your post “What ending should I take in WEWH? Last time I played I hadn't read...”

Love the page; disagree about Celine and Briala's relationship being toxic--save for her killing Bria's parents. I personally always reconcile them even if you weigh her over Gaspard, she's the lesser of two evils. Gaspard would do way more killing then a 1k elves plus, as far as the abuse we don't know the extent all Bria says is on days she was cruel, she imagined them being amongst the Dalish with Celine having to serve her.

So like... if having her parents murdered doesn’t cross a line for you into toxic territory, what does, then?

And re: “We don’t know the extent” of Celene’s treatment of Briala...

The black curls lightened to grey with the pre-dawn light, then slid to the light brown of cinnamon as the sun brought colour to the room. Dirt-brown, Celene had called it, when Briala had waited upon her as a girl. Horse-dung brown, an ugly shadow of Celene’s spun-gold locks. -pg 27

Briala, a WOC, grew up serving Celene, a white woman, comparing her hair to horse-dung. And had to just grin and bare it because that was her job, and her mother instructed her to be Celene’s friend.

“Maker, I envy you sometimes.” She knew immediately that she had said something wrong. She felt Briala stiffen, though her arms didn’t move, and Briala’s voice was light as she said, “The empress of Orlais envies an elven handmaid?” “You know what I mean, Bria.” Still holding her, Celene patted Briala’s back. “You could leave here, become someone else.” “As long as that someone is an elf,” Briala said with a dimpled smile, but Celene knew she was still hurt. “Yes, I know. But I... I was born to sit on that throne. I can’t do anything else. Since my parents and Lady Mantillon...” She trailed off. This time, Briala pulled away. “You would make a wonderful scholar,” she said as she stood and pulled her robe on, “at least until Emperor Gaspard made a decision you found objectionable. Then, I believe trouble would ensue.” She smiled over her shoulder. “You are probably right, my love.” Celene rose as well and pulled her own robe on, as if nothing were wrong. “And... I will consider Remache.” Briala nodded and slipped her mask into place, then left through the passage behind the mirror, and Celene sighed and fetched her little magical pot. She would be making her own tea this morning, it seemed. -pg 59

Celene hurts Briala, and her thought is how she’ll have to make her own tea.

Briala sat. “...The elves in Halamshiral are angry. Lord Mainserai killed a tradesman without justification, and the elves are calling for mien’harel.” At Celene’s silence, Briala added, “It is an elven word. When the humans go too far, the elves remind them that even a short blade must be respected. They—” “They will rebel,” Celene said, the words cutting through the chilly autumn air. “Against me. Now.” “It is not rebellion, Your Majesty.” Briala bowed her head and took a shaky breath, clutching at the griffon-head arm of her chair. This was exactly what she had feared. “The elves of Halamshiral have never seen you. Their grievance is with neither you nor Orlais. They only wish justice for a man of your empire who died without cause.” “What they wish is irrelevant.” Celene turned and stalked away from the window. “I am already fighting a war on two fronts. I cannot be seen to fight a war on three.” “Then don’t.” Briala rose, putting herself in Celene’s path. “Give them justice.” “A lord for the death of an elf? I... damn this thing.” With a quick jerk, Celene tore the mask from her face. Her face was flushed beneath, her eyes red from another night of little sleep. “Shall I declare the elves equal citizens before the Maker and the throne as well, while I’m at it?” “Why not?” Briala took her own mask off, stealing a quick moment to steady herself. “Unless you don’t believe that, and I’m just a jumped-up kitchen slut you haven’t tired of yet.” Celene turned away, tossing her mask onto an overstuffed couch and stalking to the great amber wall. “You know I cannot do that, Bria. I might as well engrave Gaspard’s initials on the throne.” Against the wall of gold and red, Briala’s empress and lover looked pale and wan. Celene had always seen sleep as an enemy, or at most a necessary evil, from what Briala could tell, and since the events in Kirkwall the stress of rising tensions had her awake before dawn almost every morning. If it were early enough, Briala could sometimes coax her into lovemaking, and the warm and drowsy bliss afterward would let Celene steal a few more hours of rest. Lately, even that had not been enough. Briala sighed. “I do know.” Instead of going to Celene, she went to the small table where Celene’s teapot sat, forever just shy of boiling. She poured Celene a cup of tea, brought it over, and gently touched Celene’s shoulder. It was not quite an apology. -pg 62

Briala fears having to ask Celene to enact justice. Celene says what the elves want is of no care to her. She then mocks the idea of elven freedoms. And “It was not quite an apology” my ass - Briala has nothing to apologize for.

What had happened at Halamshiral was a still-painful ache, but the elves had rebelled. Celene had done what she had to do. Had Briala been there, she might have been able to turn Celene to a different course, but Briala herself was the one who had left. It was not Celene’s fault that she had been manoeuvred into doing what she had done, any more than it was Briala’s fault for leaving Celene without the guidance she had wanted. -pg 167

Celene even has Briala convinced that she’s to blame for Halamshiral, because she wasn’t there to tell Celene otherwise. If one person in a relationship relies solely on another to guide their morals, yes, I would indeed call that toxic.

But anyway, these are just a few samples of Celene’s dismissive behaviour towards Briala. She only does the bare minimum to keep Briala at her side; she does not truly care about the elves.

briannamorley replied to your post “What ending should I take in WEWH? Last time I played I hadn't read...”

Also Bria has accepted that neither the city or Dalish elves see her as part of them; letting her rule with him as her mask--much like forcing them to work together--while interesting in theory, wouldn't last I don't think anyway. Ppl would get suspicious; Gaspard is a military strategist not an adept ruler

Briala goes from this:

Briala could not afford to spare tears for inevitable deaths. In that respect, she supposed that she was more like the nobles she served than the elves in the marketplace. The thought sometimes sickened her, but again, not as much as the thought of deaths she could have prevented. -pg 61

to this:

She had been in Celene’s court for too long. Too many years being called “rabbit,” too many years ducking her head and working from the shadows. Too many years of being proud of who she was, a feeling she could cling to like a floating log in a rushing river. It had kept her head above water, but it had never let her steer her own course. She would fight for her people, because nobody else would, and Fen’Harel take whoever got in her way. -pg 144

Briala’s whole character arc is about discovering who she is as her own person, and reconnecting with her people. Unless “has” was a typo for “had.”

Also, why is it unrealistic for Dalish and city elves to work together? Dalish elves go to the city, and city elves go to the Dalish all the time. In some cases you have clans that have very strong relationships with nearby alienages, such as Clan Boranehn and the Edgehall alienage in Knight Errant, for example.

briannamorley replied to your post “grandenchanterfiona: I don’t hate Celene because she’s a woman. I...”

Disagree not about the genocide or lying to Bria but everything else

...K?

briannamorley replied to your post “grandenchanterfiona: That’s it. Until proven otherwise the Masked...”

Nope to each their own though

...K?

briannamorley replied to your post “grandenchanterfiona: Celene is a straight guy’s idea of a lesbian....”

Stop... I can see if you were equating this to RR Martin but really???

Yes really lol

briannamorley replied to your post “I just read The Masked Empire and even though I knew how bad Celene...”

Theres disliking something and then there's bashing it to the point it becomes infuriating

Sorry guess we never received the guidelines one has to follow in terms of disliking something. Tell me, does it include going through a blog’s tags and leaving reply after reply that says basically the same thing?

briannamorley replied to your post “mllemaenad: jocelyntorrent: mllemaenad: … Okay, I don’t get it. ...”

Disagree but crazy tired so to each their own

Good thing you left another just plain ‘disagree,’ otherwise I might have gotten confused.

briannamorley replied to your post “So this by no means excuses Celene's actions whatsoever, but I noticed...”

Love orlais but again, to each their own

Cool cool I hate Orlais but to each their own. Perhaps I should find some random Orlais fan and spam their email notifications with replies saying as such, to make sure they know!

briannamorley replied to your post “lmao no, about 300 elves were brutally slaughtered, sweet summer...”

More than 300 but it does border on bashing

WTF does this one even mean?

briannamorley replied to your post “grandenchanterfiona: Celene has absolute power; she does not have a...”

If so say that from jump don't go on and on going from legitimate gripe to bashing... like damn I like both of y'alls pages but FUCK me this is exhausting

Then why are you reading through all this? And seriously, what is with this “bashing?” Is there some kind of internet slang I’m unfamiliar with? Because if you just mean bashing as in criticism that hell fucking yes I am critical of Celene. She has a lot of reasons for me to be.

briannamorley replied to your post “Remember that time when Michel de Chevin partook in the Academie des...”

Sigh... y es it was an oversight by them that shouldn't have happened but goddamn

“But goddamn...” what? Why is there a but? Why is there a but goddamn? Just... why, period?

Anyway, TL;DR:

[leothelionsaysgrrrr]

Far Greater Purpose [f. Thalon Lavellan]

Emma Sparrow gets a lecture from Inquisitor Thalon Lavellan (belongs to the wonderful @ourinquisitorialness about hiding things, scars, and healing.  Cameo appearance by @sunshinemage‘s Nindarhmen Lavellan.  ~2400 words.

“Agent Harper, isn’t it?”

The low, soothing voice that ever so calmly broke her focus was unfamiliar, but it and the shadow that fell over her had such a heaviness to them that Emma could mistake them for no other.  She raised the steaming mug she cradled in her hands to her lips and only nodded.  She did not turn to greet their owner.

“I don't believe we’ve met,” the voice continued.  “I am-”

“I know who you are, Inquisitor.”

Now, she turned.  

Inquisitor Lavellan stood far enough behind her that his height would not overwhelm her, his blue eyes offering a kind reassurance and a bit of a sparkle as he chuckled, giving a soft glance to the ground for a moment before returning his attention to her.

“Even so, my name is Thalon.”

Again, Emma responded with only a nod, even as he watched her for a moment longer, waiting for an actual reply.  He would be waiting quite a while; he knew what the Inquisition called her, and he could easily find out what the rest of Thedas called her should he be so inclined.  No reason for her to waste the breath to tell him.

“Would you walk with me?” he finally continued, after far longer than she had expected.  She nodded again, cautiously this time, through a furrowed brow.  Months had passed since she and Lux entered the Inquisition’s service, and, as he had keenly pointed out, she and the Inquisitor had never spoken.  There had never been a need.  Any reports of hers meant for his eyes passed first through Nightingale’s.  What, she wondered, prompted him to seek her out now?

Thalon walked with a straight back and a leisurely pace, one to which Emma’s short legs, accustomed to walking briskly to remain abreast of her tall, gangly partner, took a few minutes to adjust.  He kept his eyes forward, with only an occasional glance in her direction, almost as if to make sure she was still there, and did not speak until they reached the courtyard in the lower bailey of the stronghold.  He took up a position leaning against one of the stone walls, and stared pensively across the courtyard at the area recently designated as the Inquisition’s infirmary.  The soft curves and branches of his vallaslin twisted and turned around his face, not much older than her own, which in turn stretched and bent them further as he silently eyed the aides and servants rushing in and out of the infirmary to assist the healers and surgeons, simultaneously swelling with pride and sinking under the weight on his shoulders.  Silence was generally welcome, if not preferred, but he had not asked her here to be silent, and Emma’s curiosity grew with each second he did not speak.

“I overheard a fascinating story about you earlier today.”  

“Oh.”  It came out in a barely articulated sigh, breathed into her tea as she sipped; she hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but Thalon’s eyes were already fixed on her, the slight upward arch of his eyebrows almost teasing her to go on.  “Piper?”

“Yes.”  He offered another quiet smile as he folded his arms in front of his chest, and glanced across the courtyard once more.  “He was rather enthusiastically telling another agent that you were injured on a mission.  Quite badly, in fact.”

A flesh wound to one arm and a few cracked ribs.  She’d had worse, and Lux knew it.

“He exaggerates.”

The corners of Thalon’s mouth turned downward for just a moment, and he tilted his head slightly to one side, as if he'd expected she'd say that.  The way his eyes settled on her once he held his head upright again was not any less ominous.

“He also said you were able to heal this grievous injury yourself.  With magic.”

Damn it, Lux.  Damn it all.  

“I...see.”

“He spoke the truth, then?”  No use continuing to hide it; the nod that confirmed his suspicions was slow and reluctant.  Instead of tensing into a glare, Thalon’s face simply fell.  Emma would have almost preferred he be angry than this sort of knowing disappointment, as if he’d known better than to expect otherwise but did so nonetheless.

“The two of you have been in the Inquisition’s service for months, yet neither of you have ever mentioned that you are a healer, and one skilled enough for such a feat at that.”  

Emma said nothing, and instead lifted her mug to her lips again.  What would she have said?  No excuse she would have given - not that she was particularly talented with excuses, anyway - would have stopped him from staring spears through her before watching his infirmary once more.  

“With your proficiency in combat, I can understand not wanting to be stuck in an infirmary, but times like these leave Thedas in desperate need of healers, and healers in short supply.”  

The way the lines under his eyes almost shivered as he turned back to look at her again said he was telling her something she already knew, or should already know, at least.  Something he shouldn’t have to tell her.  

“This is precisely the worst time to keep such a skill to yourself, agent.”

No.  This was exactly the time to keep it to herself.

“My proficiency in combat is of greater benefit the Inquisition,” she replied, taking another sip, and avoiding what she knew he wanted to ask.  Thalon’s face finally tensed into a stern glare down his nose, indicating he tired of her avoidance of the subject as much as she tired of being forced to discuss it.

“You should have told us,” he admonished her after a resigned sigh, the friendly tone all but disappearing from his voice, settling instead into a low, coarse timbre reminiscent of a parent trying not to be too angry with an unruly child.  “It is a far greater purpose, and a far more pressing duty of the Inquisition as a whole, to save lives rather than to take them.”

Emma returned her own heavy sigh.  A greater purpose, perhaps - no, that, at least, was objectively true, but not a purpose meant for her.  

“That is why I did not.”

Thalon arched an eyebrow.  “I'm not sure I follow.”

She finished her tea, and gave the mug a quick wipe with her sleeve.  “Do you have any scars, Inquisitor?”

A moment’s hesitation, then a curt nod.  She knew the answer before he said it.

“I do.”

“Then you know that wounds will heal on their own, given time and proper care, and the process can be painful.”

The vallaslin relaxed around his eyes, and the freckles around Emma’s mimicked it.

“That is true, yes.  In more ways than one.”

Some elves left the infirmary burdened with full wash basins and wet rags stained with blood.  Emma reached across herself and rested her hand on the opposite arm, just below the shoulder, where she'd held back a steady flow of blood as her flesh knit back together only days before.

“I simply accelerate that process to close wounds and mend broken bones quickly so I may continue fighting.  I am not a true healer, Inquisitor.  I cannot call spirits to aid me as you do.”

He made the face that seemed to be the quintessential response to hearing someone say they cannot do something; part gentle yet enthusiastic reassurance, part shock that she would say such a thing in the first place, and just the slightest bit condescending.  Thankfully, Emma suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

“Ignoring that spirit healers are not the only ‘true healers’, have you tried?  It isn’t always as intuitive as you might think.  Perhaps you just need to learn how to speak to them.”

She stared back at him for a moment, her face fixed in a half-glaring, half-bewildered expression.

“They will not hear me.”  Predictably, Thalon didn’t seem to fully understand, but Emma sighed with relief when he decided not to press the issue.  The condition of her mind was an entirely different conversation she had no desire to have at the moment.  “I can block the body’s signal to feel pain, but the mending itself requires so much focus that it is impossible for me to do both.  Thus, pain that is usually spread over weeks or months is felt all at once, in the space of a few minutes.  It is...excruciating.”  

As much as she tried not to, she could still see the scaly, grey skin, lined with veins black with corruption, the gaunt cheeks surrounding desiccated lips begging her for relief.  Still heard the screams of agony as her magic tore through him, chasing the corruption with such focus, so sure she could kill it, so absolutely certain that with her help, the Blight would never take him.  She’d never even considered...

“Sometimes lethal.”

Despite her attempts to keep the memories from displaying themselves on her face, the Inquisitor’s brow creased upwards at the center.  Emma looked away before he could speak; sympathy was the last thing she wanted from him.

“Someone close to you?”

Damn it.  Her eyes fell shut as her chin fell softly to her chest.  

I’m sorry, Papa.  I’m so sorry...

“Very.”

She didn’t look up, but after a long pause there was a soft rustling as Thalon shifted his position against the wall.  

“This...may be difficult for you to believe, but I do understand.”  Across the courtyard, one of the elven runners tripped, sending both the runner and the supplies he carried crashing to the ground. Thalon watched with his face set in somber, straight lines, the wrinkles around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth accentuated and betraying his own pain, old and long scarred-over.   “The loss of a loved one at your own hand is...far too great a wound to ever be truly healed, neither by magic nor the passage of time.  Sometimes, though…”  

He paused momentarily, his breath almost hitched in his throat as he continued watching across the courtyard, where another elf had emerged from the infirmary, one Emma had seen many times before; a small Dalish elf, white vallaslin standing out in stark contrast to his face, his neck wrapped in an orange scarf and his crimson hair reflecting bits of orange in the low sun.  He held out one hand to the fallen elf, and helped him to his feet before dusting him off and, once they’d gathered all of his supplies, carried some to the infirmary for him.  Thalon watched all of this as though entranced, his eyes heavy-lidded and locked on the other elf, and his mouth forced upward at the corners; he couldn’t have held the firm countenance he’d kept on her moments earlier even if he’d wanted to.  A few moments after the activity at the door ceased, and he seemed to snap back to the present, and continued as if he’d never stopped speaking.

“Sometimes, the forces that take from us are also those that give us our greatest gifts.”  

The red-haired elf walked the runner back outside, glanced in their direction, and sent Thalon a smile that in turn drew one out of him like a man watching the sun rise for the first time; almost involuntary, an innate reaction to such overwhelming beauty.  Emma knew it well, since the same look crept across her face as Lux, bow slung across his back and bound for the training yard nearby, hopped off of the second to last of the stairs in front of them and, noticing their presence there, stretched his face into a wide grin.  Thalon must’ve noticed, and he leaned downward towards her, almost whispering,  

“But, from what I understand, you already know that.”

She did.  The wash of warmth that permeated her already warm core as she watched her friend smile with his entire face, scars and all, and shake hands with at least five people before he finally reached his destination and readied his bow wouldn’t be as familiar and soothing if she didn’t.  There would be no need to suppress the chuckle as he lowered his weapon no sooner than he’d drawn it, to greet someone else and spend the next few minutes talking, forgetting why he was there in the first place.  The same magic that had ended her father’s life had brought Lux back from the very brink of death, and his resulting presence in her life had, in turn, saved her, too.  

It was her turn to snap back to the present now, facilitated by Thalon’s firm, yet kind hand coming to rest on her shoulder.  

“Your friend is proof you’ve not killed everyone you've ever healed.  It's not unreasonable to think that, should you try, perhaps take your time instead of trying to fix everything at once, you may not kill anyone at all.”  

Ten years, she thought, since this magic had killed anyone.  What the Inquisitor suggested was possible; she was far better adjusted to her magic now than she was then, but the thought remained, tugging on tiny bits of her like irritating pinpricks, that she’d achieved that for so long not through overcoming her own insecurities, but by simply refusing to take the chance.  Thalon noticed her discomfort at the suggestion, and she felt a momentary increase in pressure on her shoulder before he straightened his back, and folded his hands together behind it.

“I won't force you, but consider lending your talents to the surgeons.  There truly is peace in knowing you can save a life rather than end it.”

Thalon also noticed the hesitation in the terse nod she gave in reply, watching behind him and all around him, eyes anywhere but on him, and dropped his tone once more.

“Agent Harper…”

Deliberately, and with no movement anywhere else, her eyes flicked upwards to meet the Inquisitor’s, once again sparkling with a glint of that same kind reassurance.

“Consider it.”

A deeper, more respectful nod this time, laced with a barely noticeable smile, as the Inquisitor took his leave, turning his head back at least once with a bit of a smile of his own.  No such luck, Inquisitor, she thought with a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth, as she let her attention fall once more on the infirmary door.  

She considered it, just for a moment, and deemed a certain scrawny Tevinter elf’s need of a reminder to be aware of his surroundings more pressing at that particular moment.

She would consider it again tomorrow.

[pestopascal]

edging towards hope

“‘Quid pro quo’?” she asks, aside, as squabbling begins. Words heavy and foreign. Definitely not Elvish, trade or even what little qunlat Bull and Amon had shared with her. “It’s Tevene,” Amon answers, as they watch Alistair rise at some taunt from Morrigan. “A way of saying ‘a favour for a favour’.”

Kahari watches as their arguments go, and go, and go, running circles around how they wanted to help, but didn't want to admit why.

cross posted: ao3

Kahari Lavellan is the Herald, Amon Adaar is the Inquisitor. I kinda always preferred the titles separately and, well,

i do like how in game, depending on romance ofc, but esp w zevran, no one just assumed to find zevran and they would find the warden? 'oh they're missing!' actually theyre vacationing in antiva, drinking mimosas in their villa and sighing about how much money they have, but w/e

Leliana had summoned the both of them to the war room, post-haste. Kahari barely had a moment to loop buttons through holes, when Amon had knocked precisely once at her door, throwing it open immediately after. He had looked at her, with that frown he always wore, edged his head in the general direction of where they needed to go, and took off. It didn’t help one of his strides was at least three of hers, but she caught up eventually, and now stood before their advisors.

Two of three who looked like they had accidentally eaten something sour, and Josephine looking just as confused as the rest of them. Morrigan too, lingered around the table, and the warden, Alistair, making himself comfortable in a chair off to the left. Quite a group they had managed, and Kahari sent Amon a look from the corner of her eye. What was going on?

Finally, Cassandra joined them, and whatever stillness filled the room fled. Kahari peered around Cassandra to also see Varric trailing after her. She almost expected the rest of their inner circle to join them, but the door was shut, and Leliana finally spoke.

“We asked you to join us because… we weren’t sure how to do this ourselves.” Such uncertainty in Leliana finally has Amon react, even it was just a slow blink. Kahari watches his chest slowing rise and fall, and wondered what went on in his head for his face to remain so impassive, but how his fingers clenched behind his back so tightly.

“What seems to be the problem?” she probes, as she presumes that was the right thing to do. Humans were strange in that they needed needling and reminding to continue conversation. Whilst Kahari found it oddly adorable, Shiral had merely bristled at such an idea. There was harping on about how conversation was not a matter of asking your partner to continue, but well, Shiral said a lot of things Kahari stopped listening to, especially when it came to humans.

Cullen moves, but he’s stiff, just as unsure. Like he wasn’t sure if he should lean against the table, sit at the edge, maybe just lie down on the ground. Kahari was halfway to asking if he would be more comfortable that way, when he finally speaks: “the Hero of Ferelden made contact with us. They… wish to offer their assistance.”

“Oh?” Amon surely made the question, but his mouth hardly moved for it. Fascinated, Kahari continued to stare, waiting for Amon to continue, move the conversation along. But he had said his piece, and Cullen stepped in.

“However, she wants us to help her first.” From the way Cullen fidgets, resting elbow upon hilt before moving once again, this was hitting some chord that he wasn’t sure how to deal with. Kahari left watching Amon’s face, to looking around the room. (Absently, she noticed Varric showing something other than despair — a blank look of fear, and that just begged addressing).

Morrigan interjects, and this was starting off like one of those overtly dramatic books Kahari had recently. “Of course she does. Basilia has always been fond of ‘quid pro quo’, as it was.”

“‘Quid pro quo’?” she asks, aside, as squabbling begins. Words heavy and foreign. Definitely not Elvish, trade or even what little qunlat Bull and Amon had shared with her.

“It’s Tevene,” Amon answers, as they watch Alistair rise at some taunt from Morrigan. “A way of saying ‘a favour for a favour’.”

“Oh… what a strange language.”

Amon’s mouth curls into a smile. “Very old fashioned.”

Rolling the words in her head, adding it away to the Tevene that she knew of, Kahari had to ask: “so, should we be worried?” The ‘of her’ went unspoken, but Amon knew immediately.

“I’ve heard stories from the Arishok. He spoke highly of this Hero. Even more so than his predecessor of Hawke. ‘Basalit-an’ is what Hawke is, but the Hero…” His voice sunk to some depth Kahari hadn’t heard before — low, reverent. As if his life had been marked by meeting the Hero, too.

But Kahari frowned as Amon trailed off. Of course she had heard of the Blight, heard of the mage. A Dalish elf had also accompanied her, or several, stories get muddled, but whatever happened to them was lost to the wind. “What did the Arishok call the Hero of Ferelden?”

“‘Kadan’. ‘Ashkaari’. ‘Basalit-an’ even before he was Arishok.”

“Huh.” Truly, that was all she could manage, as Amon’s face fell smoothly back into place, conversation over. Revealed too much, or enough? Kahari had a grasp of Qunlat that she understood the meaning of words, that the new Arishok had heaped on the Hero of Ferelden, and watching how the humans were still disputing over some request or other, just made her wonder what everyone else in the room referred to her as.

“What would you have us do, then?” She asks, just as Leliana, or Josephine, or even Cassandra, went to fire up again.

“Don’t—”

“—We have to—”

“—Morale—”

“Enough!”

Blinking, Kahari turns to look over her shoulder. Varric had finally spoken up. Strange, to see him equal parts fearful and angered, as he strode into the centre of the room, not letting his emotions prevent him from capturing all eyes. Kahari caught the look Amon gave her, quickly, and nodded. Let Varric say his piece.

“Yes, having the Hero of Ferelden on our side will be helpful. She’s powerful, connected, and having her in our back pocket will bring in a lot of income, too.” Varric’s eyes sweep as he talks, picking out each person as he raises a point. Making it apparent to them. Kahari always enjoyed watching him speak, as Amon was commanding, authoritative, and she believed herself to be adequate enough. But Varric addressed a room in ways neither of them could.

“I think we’re forgetting the fact that we condemned her cousin to the Fade, the wardens are now separated from the North, what happened at Redcliffe, and the fact that it’s an archdemon. Any one of those reasons is enough for her to leave, or burn us all.”

“Varric—” Cassandra speaks up, taking a step forward. An attempt to intervene.

“What’s your point then, Varric? Are you saying we help her, or don’t?” Cullen is tense, just wanting a definitive yes or no. His face shifts too much, as if he himself knows what he wants, and is trying to deny it for argument’s sake. But arguing with who? A mental note, for later. Discuss with Amon.

“She’ll know about what happened with Hawke by now. Hawke said she left Fenris in Amell’s care.” There’s tension in him now. The wound was still raw, and when Kahari had sat with Varric by the fire, as he had written out letters to friends spread all over Thedas, she had listened to tales of Hawke that seemed wild and unrealistic. Clenched fists. Hunched shoulders. Wound open and bleeding on the floor.

Kahari wanted to help, but she didn’t know these people. Names, going over her head. Amon seemed to have moved, no longer stony faced and impassive, but looking, trying to find answers in body language. Whatever he found, Kahari hoped he would share. At least three separate people in the room were for the Hero, and Kahari could hear their hearts beat a little faster at just the mention of a surname.

“We just need to know what we need to do, and what to do,” Kahari reminds them, interjecting. No need to rehash the events of Adamant, of Redcliffe, of Haven. “We’ll find her, just, please—”

“Basilia plans on heading to Tevinter,” Alistair speaks, and his tone is grave. “She wouldn’t be here for long, even if you found her.”

Morrigan practically squawks, and Kahari had never thought for her to make such an unrefined noise. She was not the only one to notice. “And how would you know something like that?”

Alistair actually manages to procure the most withering stare, and his response was filled with enough weight behind it, that Kahari had to wonder if something deeper was going on. “I do actually try to keep in contact with friends, Morrigan. You should learn about this amazing thing called a letter. Quite handy.”

Finally, finally, Josephine spoke up. “But if you have been keeping in contact, how has no one been able to find Lady Amell?” Kahari had to crack a smile at how she pointedly looked at Cassandra and Leliana.

“She’s been in Antiva,” Alistair answered, to no one in particular. As if it was just a mere fact. And it was.

Cassandra scoffed. “Antiva?! Don’t be ridiculous!” Had they actually travelled to Antiva? Amon had said something about how much effort had gone into scouring for Hawke, when Hawke walked through the front gates of Skyhold without anyone stopping her. Which just begged the question: did anyone know what their Heroes and Champions even looked like? As no one seemed to believe that neither herself nor Amon could be Herald or Inquisitor.

And as far as Kahari was aware, both Amell and Hawke were humans. Ferelden women, too.

“With Zevran. Crows? Antivan Crows? Remember that assassination attempt? Love at first stab thing? Her and Zevran are always together. The last time I saw them at Amaranthine they were hardly separated for a minute.”

From the way Alistair spelled it out, realisation seemed to dawn on Cassandra like she hadn’t considered that a possibility. When Kahari’s clan had been going between lands and borders, they had heard of the Crows — but of course, almost everyone did. Rumours of Dalish elves joining the Crows was something elders tried to crush, but some younger ones romanticised it, while others lived in fear of being taken in the night.

Kahari admittedly had found one of the stories some of the older girls told to be bittersweet, and well. Well. “Wait, the Hero — the Warden — nearly got assassinated, and instead married her assassin?” Creators, this was definitely better than her books.

“It wasn’t a very good attempt, to be fair.” Alistair shrugged. Kahari was going to write a letter home, and tell them that at least a combination of six different stories had actually come true.

“But it happened!”

Opening his mouth to speak, Alistair was cut off. Not by Morrigan, Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen or even Josephine! But, in fact—

“I have heard enough.” Snatching the papers off the table, a map, a note, a series of questions, Amon turns heel and only stops to pause at the door for one last rumble. “We will leave at sundown. Finish your squabbling and see me before then if need be.”

The door closes. No one spoke. Kahari assumed that meant Amon had gathered what he had needed to understand, and let out a small sigh. Her cue to leave as well. Amon would tell Bull, who would tell her. Convenient Bull was so willing to work between the two of them, as if the translation and secrecy reminded him of a life he once had, perhaps.

A thought for another time. Kahari just smiles, bows, and follows where Amon would have gone, not waiting for the door to shut behind her. She can hear the voices rise down the hallway and thinks, oh, humans.