#and finally i have a desire to learn to draw beyond just drawing furries and the various animals on my parents' farm 😌

[zeawesomebirdie]

I should really get back to learning to draw

[darkeninganon]

(So, this storyline now has a name; it is the Ender Family AU! Dream’s design was based off @winifreyd and their White Enderman Dream! They are awesome and do amazing artwork, and this story would probably not exist if they did not  share their art! Warning for gore, blood, very heavy torture, passing out (as a fear/pain response), forced drugging/drinking (Potions are canonically drugs/alcohol), unwanted contact (Dream doesn’t like people touching his fur), and (there is no nice way of saying this) flaying. If you spot something else, message me and I will add it and apologize profusely. The beginning is deceptively sweet btw, just as another small warning.)

Ranboo looked between Tommy and Tubbo. His face was burning, but only one side showed a tinge of color.

"You mean you really don't remember staring down Quackity?" Tommy found it hard to believe, and was currently the main person opposing such an excuse.

"Really, I don't! You know how much I hate eye contact."

"He's got a point..."

Michael oinked in agreement. The trio were currently in the zombie piglin's room, Ranboo holding the child as the little monster drew something. Tubbo was kneeling next to the table, head partially resting on said table. Tommy was the only one standing, arms crossed, glaring at Ranboo.

Ranboo sighed, shaking his head. "Even if you don't believe me, it is the truth."

"Oh, I believe you, I just want to know why this is the first time we are hearing about it!" Tommy hissed, throwing his hands up. "I mean, if you hide that, what else are you hiding?!"

"Oh come on Tommy! Ranboo wouldn't-"

"Quite a bit because I would rather NOT be the reason someone kills Tubbo or Michael." Tubbo snapped his head towards Ranboo, horror plastered on his face.

"WHAT?!"

Michael snorted, holding up his picture. It depicted Ranboo holding a red square, and speaking in scribbles. Ranboo groaned as Michael proudly displayed his picture. The baby zombie piglin still had yet to learn to speak, but his writing skills were far beyond where most thought he should be at.

Tubbo stared at the picture, clearly concerned. "Michael, sweetie, have you seen daddy act weird?" Michael nodded, borderline enthusiastically. The little zombie pigling then grabbed a sheet of paper, scribbling most of it in red crayon before writing three large letters on it, and handing it to Ranboo.

Tommy and Tubbo stared.

"So, I guess I blew something up." Ranboo stated, staring at the crudely drawn TNT. He looked back to Tubbo and Tommy; "I think it's about time to tear down the walls of your old house."

"Damnit Ranboo!"

"I'm sorry?!"

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Dream stared, listening to the murmur of Quackity and Sam talking outside the wall of lava. It is a new day, Quackity is back. Dream could only wonder what Quackity was going to do today. Maybe he'll take my teeth, that would make sense. Or perhaps my other eye. Yeah, that sounds like something they could justify doing. Dream sat up as the lava fell away, Sam and Quackity standing at attention. Quackity was decked out in netherite armor. Enchanted netherite armor. Dream's ears fell back as a low growl fell from his chest.

Quackity made his way across the pit of lava, standing across from Dream with nothing in his hands but a potion and a pair of shears. Once the lava covered the opening again, Sam came through, glaring at Dream.

"Huh, what's the special occasion?" Dream smirked, tilting his head. Of course Sam; dear, dear Warden Sam; would want to help Quackity. "Don't tell me I actually scared you two." The prisoner chuckled, glancing between the two.

Quackity held out the potion; it looked like mud mixed with glitter. "Drink this."

"Excuse me?"

"Dream, do as Quackity says. I really don't want to have to force you." Sam stated, monotone. Dream stared at the warden, incredulous.

"No! I'm not drinking anything that crazy moron brings in here!" Sam sighed, striding over to Dream. "Get the hell away from me!" Sam went behind Dream, locking the prisoner's arms in an uncomfortable hold. Dream began yelling, kicking his legs out as Quackity approached. Quackity took Dream's jaw into a tight hold, digging his nails right into the joint and forcing Dream's mouth open. Once that was done, Quackity tore the cork from the bottle, shoving it into Dream's mouth.

Dream gagged, coughing and thrashing in an effort to get the bottle out of his mouth and not swallow the bitter liquid. Eventually, the potion's effects won out over Dream's own desires, his body going limp and his struggles ceasing.

Dream's eye darted around the cell. He wanted to move, wanted to cry out, wanted to not be sitting still. No matter how much he tried though, his body just sat there, even as Quackity removed the bottle and let go of his jaw.

"Hell yeah!" Quackity cheered, throwing the now empty bottle into the lava. "I told you it would work!"

Sam let go, gently resting Dream's head on his lap. "Yeah. You're sure he can't feel anything?" The warden sounded worried as he placed Dream's tongue back in his mouth and closed his jaw.

Quackity chuckled, "Yeah, I'm sure." He dragged his hand through Dream's fur, drawing lines at seemingly random points.

He's lying. Dream wanted to scream, Quackity's hands were cold and he hated as the "visitor" ran against the grain, causing the fur to stand up on end. Sam, he's lying! Please! But he couldn't say anything.

Sam, for his part, was staring at Dream sadly, carefully petting the prisoner as if he didn't co-sign this. He jumped as a hand snatched his wrist, holding it still. Sam looked to Quackity, who was still smiling.

"Seeing as how Dream isn't going to feel it, why don't you feel how soft he is!"

Sam looked at the prisoner, resting helplessly in his lap. Even though Dream's body couldn't move, his eyes were glaring at Sam. Still....

Curiosity won over the Warden as he took off his glove. Even with Dream unable to move, Sam was hesitant to touch the fur. When Quackity had entered the prison, that was all he talked about. It was just fur, what made it so special? What it because it was from Dream, and the prisoner never let anyone touch it?

Quackity groaned, snapping Sam from his thoughts. Without warning, the visitor grabbed Sam's hand and buried it in the mane around Dream's head. Sam could only stare. It was... So freakishly soft.

"Right!?" Sam glanced at Quackity, who was smiling like the cat that got the canary. "Seriously though, seeing as how he's going to be trapped in here for eternity, he really doesn't need this fur. He'll just overheat!"

No, I won't! Sam, please stop this! Tears fell from Dream's eyes, his mind racing. Taking his fur was the one thing he never expected.

Sam nodded, resuming petting Dream. "Just... be as quick as possible."

Quackity nodded as Dream's eyes darted to the man with the shears. "Let's see... Let's start here then!" Quackity stated, opening the shears and pulling Dream's skin right at his hip. Dream watched in horror as Quackity carefully cut a thin layer of skin and fur from his body, pulling and cutting just enough to make a starting point for him to continue. "Man, this is going to take a long while. Sam, would you mind grabbing a few more potions, just to be sure?"

Sam nodded, carefully setting Dream's head down on the obsidian floor, giving the prisoner one last pet before drinking a potion and diving into the lava.

As soon as Sam was gone, Quackity looked at Dream, and slid his hand between the skin he had just cut free, and the lower levels of skin and muscle. Dream tensed, the salt from Quackity's hand burning the fresh wound. "Man, this must really suck for you." The visitor laughed, a cruel smirk coming across his face as he wiggled his fingers in the wound. Dream gave a weak whimper, tear pouring from his eyes as the wound became wider and burned more. "Do you have any idea how hard is was to get the potion just right? Make sure you can't move, can't talk, but also heal you and make sure you can feel it? It was hard, man." Quackity finally removed his hand from the wound, marveling at the lack of blood. "This is probably what Tommy felt like. I have no idea what the afterlife is like, but maybe one day, I'll ask him."

Quackity straightened up as Sam came back, carrying a bag filled to the brim with the potions Quackity had made. The visitor smiled, turning back to Dream and resuming his work. Dream watched, heart racing as he finally saw what his fur and skin hid. Thin muscle hung from bones that showed painfully through in some places. It only took about two minutes for it to look like Dream was wearing a furry shirt or hoodie; a quiet whimper bubbling up from his chest as the first “hem” was finally completed.

Sam snatched a potion from the bag, opening Dream’s mouth and doing his best to make sure the prisoner didn’t drown on the vile liquid. Quackity gave Sam a weird look, getting ready to cut open Dream’s front.

“Really? He has another hour or so on the first potion.” Quackity muttered, pulling the skin up with his fingers, smirking as the muscles underneath twitched in pain.

Sam cast an unseen glance at Quackity, removing the empty bottle and throwing it into the lava. “He must have some form of tolerance, even after all this time. The numbing factor wore off I think.” Sam sounded distant, did Sam even believe his own words? Surely he knew.

“Well then let him deal with it. It’s not our fault he’s weird.” Quackity retaliated, making one final cut right at Dream’s collarbone, stopping as he noticed Sam flinch. “Hey, I’m sure Tommy felt way more pain than whatever little pin pricks this monster is feeling. Need I remind you-”

“No!” Sam winced, “No, I don’t need to be reminded.” He repeated, softer. Through the thick lenses of the mask, Dream could see Sam’s eyes darting between the prisoner and Quackity. Sam went back to petting Dream, unaware he had stopped for so long.

Quackity shrugged, cutting a gracefully curved line around Dream’s collarbones, stopping about halfway on either side. He grabbed Dream’s arms, inspecting both before dropping one to the ground, and making a quick slash around the whole wrist.

Blood poured from the fresh wound, diminishing to a trickle as Sam’s hand wrapped tightly around the small wrist. “Quackity! What the hell?!”

“Wow, language Sam.”

“Screw the language! What the heck were you thinking?! Get the bandages out of the bag now!” Sam glared at the visitor. Removing Dream’s fur was one thing, but getting so close to such areas… Sam would not stand for it.

“Will you relax? Look, it’s already closed!” Quackity pried Sam’s hand away, revealing a thin, bare scar circling Dream’s wrist. “Nothing to get pissy about.” He huffed, grabbing the prisoner’s other hand and doing the same. Sam was quick to cover the wound again, glaring hatefully at Quackity. “Alright. I need you to turn him onto his stomach so I can finish up the neck. I was not going to risk cutting your legs.”

“Quackity…”

“What? Don’t tell me you actually feel bad for this piece of trash.”

Sam looked between the visitor and prisoner. Dream looked terrified. Sam held out his hand. “I’ll take care of it.” Quackity stared at Sam, hesitantly handing him the shears. Quackity watched as the Warden made a shallow cut along the back of the prisoner’s neck, breathing heavily and muttering. Sam practically threw the shears back to Quackity, petting Dream as soon as they left his hands. “There, done.”

Quackity nodded, looking down at the paralyzed prisoner. He struggled to pry Dream’s skin open, humming and inspecting where it connected. Quackity took out a netherite knife, sliding it under the skin and between the muscle.

Dream watched, muscles burning and twitching. A ringing filled his ears, his heart racing, his lungs tight. He couldn’t breathe, and he felt way too hot… no, he was cold… Well, his body was cold, his arms freezing, but his face felt like it was right next to the lava. Sam… Sam something’s wrong… SAM! Sam please! SAM! Dream was suddenly in a void, screaming and wailing filling his head. He blinked, back in the cell. Quackity was further along in removing his skin. He could see his ribs laying right underneath the smooth muscle, his vision flitting to Sam, distress hidden by dark lenses. Sam’s head snapped to look at Quackity, muffled words demanding something. Dream’s mouth was pried open, another bottle shoved down his throat.

Black consumed him again. Back to the cell. Something hard and soft was in his mouth. Sam was holding his head, forcing him to look at the warden. Sam kept calling his name. Black again. Back to Sam. Black again. Sam. Black. Sam. Black. Sam. Black. Cloth?

Dream could feel his mouth was open; he could feel something wrapped around his body, arms, even his legs. Everything hurt. His eyes were wet, not from the cloth.

“S….Sam…?” His voice sounded too quiet. A hands was suddenly placed on his head; a gloveless, unarmored, calloused hand.

“It’s…”

“Sam… I’m sorry… I’m really, really sorry…”

Sam sat there, staring at Dream. Dream’s whole body was covered in tightly bound gauze. He looked almost like a mummy rather than… whatever he was. The only parts of him that still had fur were his head, hands, and knees. Sam had to fight with Quackity over leaving the fur on his knees. Sam sighed, closing his eyes as he took a breath, one hand resting on Dream’s chest while the other continued to pet him. “I know you are. I know.” Sam opened his eyes, staring at the creature laying on the floor before him, “It’s not me you have to apologize to though.”

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Quackity held up the pure white pelt. He had just finished cleaning it.

“Damn.” Quackity turned, smiling wildly at Schlatt. “Where the fuck did you get a coat like that?” The goat-man ghost lit up a cigarette, reaching out and touching the fur. “Again I say this: Damn.”

Quackity laughed, “I got it from my dear friend in prison.” Schlatt paused in his appraisal of the fur, staring at Quackity as if the still living man had grown another head. “Not like he needed it with how hot that place is. Besides,” Quackity pulled the fur away, brushing the soft hairs against his face. He froze, jolting to look at Schlatt, “Did you know his fur was this soft?”

The ghost stared, Quackity had a look to him that made Schlatt happy he was already dead. “No…” He spoke softly, lowering the cigarette he had. “I had no clue.” Schlatt watched as Quackity skipped way, the beautiful white pelt held close. Schlatt shook his head. Not for the first time in his life was he thankful that Quackity was on his side.

[ask-the-guiding-light-cast]

Guiding Light turns two years old today!

It’s crazy to think this all began only a couple of years back... and also hilarious it falls on the same day as “International Mystery Dungeon Day” over on Twitter. More after the cut. This is gonna be a long one, so I appreciate anyone willing to read this. ^^

For a long time, I had been a casual consumer of fan fics. It started in the late 2000s when I was in a Spyro craze thanks to the more story-driven Legend of Spyro trilogy. I had an itch that I needed scratched and FFN fulfilled that to some extent. I also looked at some Mario fics, including Paper Mario: The Temple of the Sun, which I greatly enjoyed and thought did a good job adapting the formula that made Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door so beloved and putting a unique spin on things.

But it was until the early 2010s that I actually started getting back into Pokémon games with Gen V. After Emerald, I fell out of touch with Pokémon for a time. When Gen VI came around, I dipped my toe into the fandom through Twitch livestreams, but also through reading a few anime-based fics that are very long and still going, even now. 

At the same time, I ended up buying PMD: Explorers of Sky... and damaged my cartridge before I could properly finish the game with my Vulpix/Riolu team. So, I watched cutscenes for what I missed on YouTube, then got Gates to Infinity and, later, Super Mystery Dungeon and had fun with both of them... though more for the stories and characters than the actual gameplay. Truth be told, I don’t care much for roguelikes at all.

It was during the gap in time between Super’s release and the first official footage of Sun & Moon in mid-2016 that I found myself hit with a recurring thought: “What if someone made a PMD story where the hero and the partner are forced to fight one another with the fate of the world at stake?” I wound up (loosely) brainstorming an idea for a PMD story revolving around an antagonistic Hoopa character who would use its ring portals to collect entire communities, including the Pokémon living in them... all so that he would never be bored. This would lead him to “collect” the partner to add to his “toys,” so when the hero shows up, he’d sic the partner on them.

But that was as far as I got with the idea. I ended up graduating college and took a job with late evening hours. It left me pretty tired and exhausted and unmotivated to do much of anything. I withdrew from the parts of the Pokémon community I was involved in.

Then the Generation VII games came out and, while divisive in the fandom, I found myself really liking some of the concepts. There were so many times when I thought, “Gee, I wonder what this would be like if it were in a PMD game?” For example, one of the ideas I had was a sort of edgy rival rescue team akin to Gladion, which would have a Midnight Lycanroc, a Zoroark, and a Type: Null character in it.

So, toward the end of 2016 and early 2017, I started creating an idea for a Choose Your Own Adventure story with the intent of putting it on this really small forum I was a part of. It would be a Gen VII-themed PMD story, but because I didn’t think that sounded interesting enough, I decided that, not only would the human keep their memories, but they would be from the real world and be a major Pokémon nerd. The idea was that the choices the readers made would affect the relationship between the human and partner. I even came up with a point system. The more points the readers earned for their choices, the “closer” the relationship the hero and partner would have and the happier an ending the story would get. If the hero and partner couldn’t stand each other, one of them would likely end up working with the bad guy and winning. If they became steadfast friends, they’d work together to save the world.

Unfortunately, the forum shut down before I got too far into planning it, so I shelved the idea and continued focusing on my job. And things stayed that way for several months, until I ended up getting into med school and scrambling to move.

During the downtime I had when I wasn’t doing moving related stuff, I decided to look at FFN again and found Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Defenders of Warmth. I wound up reading through the entirety of the story quite quickly. I guess you could say it sparked something in my head. The fic itself focuses on what, at the time, was the newest Gen (Gen V). It also has multiple humans and is set on a continent separate from the canon locations (which were just the Air and Grass Continents, since Gates and Super didn’t exist when the fic was written). In short, it renewed my desire to pursue my idea of a Gen VII-flavored PMD story.

So, I set about creating my story outline. It is so... so much different from the actual story, though I’ve gone into that in previous posts (search for #amby answers). Originally, I used Mario & Luigi: Partners in Time as the framework for the fic: an alien invasion in a colorful, comedic world. I took more specific cues, too. Zero was meant to be a (mostly) silent antagonist a la Princess Shroob, for example.

The problem was, I really didn’t have much confidence in myself or my abilities. I’d like to say I was writing for myself, but I really did want validation, too. I think any author is lying to themselves if they say they don’t feel this way at some point. Because of this, I figured if I put the fic on FFN, it would get ignored. The site’s huge! There were, at the time, around 85k fics in the Pokémon section alone. (That number’s since gone up to over 90k!)

Given I had experience with forums, I decided to post it to Serebii, because the fic community seemed much smaller and more open to giving feedback to one another. In an effort to try and, y’know, establish some connections, I actually read other pieces and reviewed them before posting any stories. This also helped me build up a backlog of chapters and prove to myself I enjoyed writing this enough to keep going.

When I finally did post the fic, it was a bumpy start, for sure. I do think I made a lot of mistakes out of the gate, including uploading chapters way too quickly for readers on Serebii to (reasonably) try to keep pace. That probably cost me a few potential readers... or made them silent readers who I never ended up hearing from. Which is why I’m especially thankful to @girl-like-substance (who I can seem to tag, drat) for all of the well-thought-out feedback given throughout the fic’s run. I don’t think I would’ve made such significant strides in my writing otherwise... and there are plenty of long-running fics where the quality tends to stagnate.

In any case... it was thanks to a request from @deliriousabsol to put the fic somewhere more mobile-friendly that I chose to mirror Guiding Light on FFN starting in October 2017. I would’ve kept going on Serebii had she not asked so nicely, so she’s the one you can thank for it showing up there! (She’s a fellow author who does cyberpunk-themed fics and art and her characters have cameoed in the fic.)

And, honestly, I’m just... beyond shocked at what wound up happening to the fic once it hit FFN. Well, actually, for the first several months I was lucky if I even got a comment when I put up a chapter. I’m not sure any of the people who first commented on FFN still follow the fic anymore. I haven’t seen/heard from them at all, so I assumed they moved on with their lives.

In any case, around March of 2018, the word count on FFN passed 300k and... somehow, the fic starting getting more attention. Like, a lot more attention. This was... not really something I was even remotely prepared for.

(Yes, this means there’s gonna be a giveaway. More on that later.) I never would’ve thought I’d reach a number like this. I never imagined I’d meet another PMD author who’d be willing to do a fun collab (thanks @virgil134, Spiteful Murkrow, and Namohysip). I really did not imagine that I’d ever get fanart of characters that I wrote (huge thanks @thebreak-ofdawn, @ask-nicky-and-others, and @cresselia92). I mean, above everything, I not expect the fic or characters to resonate with anybody the way it wound up.

A part of me feels like I don’t really deserve it. I’ve made a lot of serious gaffes with writing this. When initial Serebii feedback had people intrigued by Shane’s jerkass attitude (when I didn’t actually intend for him to come off as a jerk), I dialed things up in the hopes I’d keep their attention. It probably cost me readers. Then there’s the slow pacing of the early episodes and the mistake of making Special Episode 3 as long as it was... which my speaks to my (bad) tendency to give into some of my strongest impulses even though I had an outline I was trying to stick to.

And, I mean, there’s also some of the “shamlessly shameful” stuff I’ve done with the fic. I’m not fooling myself. Guiding Light has grown progressively more furry and, uh, probably fanservicey, too. All the big furbait (and some scalebait) ‘mons are accounted for. There’s a lot more sexual humor when I initially promised myself I would stay away from romance and keep everything platonic. I practically turned Xerneas into waifu bait, if some of these asks are anything to go by. This blog certainly didn’t help in that regard. Maybe I’m just being my usual nervous self? 

I am worried that this fic’s performance has, somehow, affected my thoughts and behavior. There are very popular fic authors who let their popularity get to their head... or chose to open up Patreons (something that makes me uncomfortable) or start doing things like taking commissions for written pieces, which is understandable... though I think it’s an easy way to lose your passion for writing. I guess some of that worry stems from a debacle I learned about on a Discord server I’m in, but that’s not something I’m comfortable discussing publicly. 

And I haven’t even talked much about the blog itself. Like, it somehow passed 100 followers? Where? When? How? I don’t actually draw stuff like many other Pokéasks. And, like, for a lot of folks, I have no idea if they’ve actually read the fic or just check in on the blog. It’s the same with the fic, I suppose. If you’re a silent reader/follower, I would really love to hear from you! I promise... I don’t bite or anything. I’d love to know what (if anything) you’re thinking. And if you’re a blog that’s following this one and we haven’t interacted, please feel free to reach out! It’s honestly hard to tell if people like what I’m doing, so any feedback is always appreciated.

In any case, if I haven’t lost you by now, I guess all I can say is... thank you. Thank you all so much for all of the support... whether it’s on the fic, the blog, or both of them. I really do hope this final episode can meet your expectations. I’ll try my very best to make this an ending to remember. Nothing would make me happier than to hear you guys enjoy it and feel it does justice to the PMD series.

Sorry for all the rambling. The inbox is open again if you’d like to send any messages for the ficaversary. Again, thank you all so much! You’re the best!

[elvhen-dreamfyre]

Your Choice (Dragon Age Origins)

           Your Choice

           ~InquisitorAllandra

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

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age. Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Taleal is mine.

F!Mahariel / Alistair

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Green eyes flashed in the dim lighting of the Landsmeet as the elf drew her back her blade, the deep red lifeblood of the man she had hated since Ostagar dripping to stone and carpet. The body before her released a last, single sigh as Loghain’s body fell.

           Justice had been served, for better or for worse. Anora and Rhiordan had argued for him trying the Joining. Alistair called for justice, and Taleal stood with him in that.

           Even her clan had heard of the hero of River Dane – when Loghain simply requested that she make it quick, she granted him that. If not for his sake, then for the sake of the people, and Anora.

It was a moment of truth – fates rested on the decision that would be made here this day. All the eyes of the Landsmeet were on her -- Banns, Arls, her companions...

           Anora, Alistair. One looked on with a cool calm, the other with love and trust and fear in their eyes.

           She was a Dalish Elf.  A huntress. Who was she to decide the fate of a nation? Of nations? Surely this one decision, like so many other's she's made lately, would have ripple effects that would go beyond this room and Ferelden.

           "Warden? What is your decision?" Arl Eamon's eyes were confident, sure she would make the decision he had wanted, that they had discussed at length.

 ~*~

           "Alistair has to be king, Warden. I need you to understand this." Eamon paced the library of his Denerim home, once again listing off the reasons he was so adamant that Alistair be chosen to take the throne.

           "He does not want it, Eamon - why would you force a man to lead when he has no desire to?"

           "It is his birthright!" Eamon growled, a scowl tugging at his lips. "And once he is king a suitable wife of noble birth will be found to be his queen."

           Taleal tilted her head, strands of dark hair falling across her face - she told herself it wasn't to try to hide the burning at her ears and face. "How so? You have said yourself, he was born a bastard. He was not raised to lead -you left him to your mabari or whoever would see to him, and then you- you sent him to the Chantry to be a templar. To learn to follow, not to lead. Even our Keepers undergo years of training to learn to lead, but first they must have the desire to lead and protect the clan. Even after that, they are tested to be sure that they are fit for such a role. You cannot force it." The elf paused before continuing. "As I understand it, and see it, Anora is fit to rule. She is capable, and wants to do right by the people of Ferelden. The people already know and love her. It makes no sense to cause MORE chaos by changing rulers in the middle of a Blight because you do not agree with the bloodline who sired her."

           She could see Eamon was growing both weary and agitated. She could feel her own agitation bubbling up as well -- why were humans, especially noble ones, so caught up in the idea of bloodlines? Bloodlines were history, ancestry. Important, yes, in tracking one’s heritage. They did not dictate that just because your ancestor was someone great, that you would be as well. There was always the hope, of course, but that’s all it was – hope.

           Drawing herself up to stand straight, Taleal took in a slow, deep breath before speaking again.

           "You seem to forget that Alistair is a Grey Warden - we are not supposed to get so involved in politics. We are already stepping over our boundaries by being tied up in this civil war as it is. I will not tell or order or demand Alistair take the throne, Eamon. It will be his decision -- and if he does not want it, I will stand with him in that decision.  I will vote that Anora keep the throne. If Alistair does decide he wants to be king...." By some miracle of the creators she managed not to flinch, "then I will stand by him in that decision as well. That is my final say on the matter before the Landsmeet, Eamon. "

           Eamon scowled, and took a few quick strides to cross the room to tower over the Dalish Warden. “You listen to me, and you listen well. He may have this dalliance with you, and fancy that he has feelings for you, but once he realizes he has a duty to something greater than himself, he will do what is necessary. A Therin must be the one to sit on the throne. Ferelden will have no other.”

           Now it was Taleal’s turn to scowl. She could not make herself physically taller, but she could seem decently threatening when she wanted to. “YOU listen to ME, you shem---”

           A sound from the doorway – an awkward clearing of the throat – cut her off, and drew the attention of both Eamon and Taleal. Alistair’s gaze darted between the two, confusion and concern in his features. “I…should I come back later?”

           Eamon straightened, stepping away from Taleal. “Not at all, Alistair, come on in. The Warden and I were just finishing up, weren’t we?”

Taleal sneered, turning on her heel to leave the room, elvish curses barely heard under her breath. She only barely caught Alistair's confused yet surprised expression as she passed him. Taleal did not stop when Alistair called after her, quickening her pace.

           The last thing she wanted to do right now was to explain why she was near to shouting with his uncle. Quickly, she climbed the stairs, going up and up and up, past the bedrooms and storage spaces, till she came to a hatch. The elf had found the hatch to the roof quite by accident one night when exploring the castle.

           Up and out she went, the wind stinging at her face and singing in her ears. The dull echoes of the city beyond the gate came with the whispers of the wind -- the last cries of vendors shouting their wares before closing for the night, shoppers shouting counter-offers, the delighted laughter of children playing in the streets that nearly drowned up parents calling them in for dinner.

           With the care of one who was used to navigating sitting in trees after a climb, Taleal found a perch that would not send her hurtling to the ground. Her knees drew up to create a rest for her chin, arms wrapping around her legs as green eyes gazed out over the overcrowded capital. Perhaps, she thought, I should have gone down to the alienage instead.

           The thought of the alienage made her cringe -- she could not see how any would suffer themselves to live in such squalor, just as she could not understand how they could all stand being crammed in this city. Taleal longed to flee the whole thing, to be rid of the stone walls and the guards and the small spaces. How could anyone breathe here? Cramped and tight and no space to think ---

           "Might I join you?" The sweet lilting voice interrupted the warden's thoughts, causing Taleal to jump and turn sharply before her gaze fell on Leliana. "I am sorry, I did not mean to frighten you--"

           "It’s all right. Please, sit. You just surprised me is all." Taleal fell silent as the red head settled herself in.

           "Are you all right? I heard some of the servants saying you were arguing with Eamon again."

           Taleal winced then, nodding slightly. "I suppose you could call it that."

           "Was it about Alistair?"

           Taleal smirked slightly, eyeing Leliana from the corner of her eye. "Whatever would give you that idea, dear Leliana?”

The redheaded human laughed lightly in response. “Because it is the only reason he will speak with you.” She fell silent for a moment, gazing out to watch the sun setting over the city, bathing everything in red. “What are you going to do?”

           “What should I do?”

           “What your faith tells you is right.”

           “I do not believe in your Maker, Leliana.”

           “No, but you have faith, regardless, my dearest friend. If not that, you have a mind, and a heart. If you cannot listen to yourself, then simply…listen. You will find the answer. I believe you will.”

           “Thank you, Leliana.”

           There was silence again as Leliana curled an arm around the small elf-Warden in a hug. Taleal leaned in, shoulders slumping as she let out an exhausted breath.

           “He does not want to be king. He does not want to lead – Alistair does not believe himself – does not believe IN himself, choosing to put his faith in others. He was not given the encouragement for such things he would have received had he been raised as Cailan had. I believe the Maker gave him the potential to lead, but he needs someone who can…guide him to believe in himself enough to lead others.”

           A frown formed again on the elf’s lips. She started to part them to speak before Leliana silenced her with a smile.

           “However,” the redhead tapped Taleal’s nose lightly with the tip of her finger, “I do not think kingship would suit Alistair.” She shrugs, starting to stand. “I suppose it is not for me to say, but the Maker. I believe, though, that you will make the right decision for all.”

           Taleal accepted the hand that Leliana offered, and stood with her friends help. “Thank you, Leli. I will…think on it.”

           “As you should. But for now, perhaps we should head down to supper?”

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

            Alistair nudged the heavy oaken door open as quietly as he could, peeking his head into Taleal’s room – well, it was their room in all but formality (Eamon had had a fit, insisting it was not proper for the future king to share his room with an elf. A Dalish elf, at that.) The ex-templar leaned against the doorframe, a goofy, lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, taking a moment to savor the scene in front of him.

           The elf in question sat before the fireplace, a warm fire crackling within, giving the room a soft light. To either side of her were her furry companions – the wolf, Shardani, and the oversized pup-mabari, Kelesann; both were curled on the rug, dozing.

           His heart’s desire had not yet noticed him, it seemed – from where he stood, her back was fully to him, so he could not tell if his elvhen lover was merely staring into the fire or working on something. It gave Alistair a moment to appreciate her out of armor – while her armor did not make her look a giant (she barely came up to his shoulder as it was), she looked even smaller in a simple nightshirt. With the dramatic shadows from the flames, her black hair took on even darker tones, what little light the strands did catch looked almost silver in reflection. Alistair’s heart swelled at the thought and sight of his lady love.

           “Do you plan to stand there all night, ma vhenan, or are you going to come in?” Her voice held amusement that barely covered up her distraction as the question broke the silence. Alistair noticed at last that she had turned towards him, and he had to catch himself from jumping at the way her eyes reflected the light in that cat-like way.

           It was a few easy steps that brought Alistair across the room and folding himself down to sit next to Taleal. “I couldn’t help it – you looked far to pretty to disturb from where I was standing. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt you if you were busy.” Sitting next to her now, it broke his heart to see the sad, downtrodden look in her eyes, and the exhaustion in every other feature of her body. Bags shadowed her eyes, a frown tugged her dainty lips downward. He frowned, eyebrows knitting together as Alistair pulled Taleal into his lap, fingers grazing her cheek. “What is it?” Hoping to help his companion relaxed, Alistair nuzzled against her neck, arms enveloping her in a hug that pressed Taleal’s back to his chest.

           Taleal’s ears flicked back, pinning down as low as they could go – she was nervous, he could tell. A deep sigh escaped her as her shoulders sagged, head slumping against the human’s shoulder. “The Landsmeet. The Archdemon. Your Uncle. I’m— “there was the tiniest of sobs. “I’m tired, Alistair. I just --- your uncle wants you to be king, Anora wants to still be Queen---“the babbling words were broken up by sobs that suddenly overtook the usually strong, stubborn elf. She turned, curling into and against Alistair as far as she could, tears streaming down her face, soaking his shirt.

           He knew what a stress it was on her, all these decisions. Alistair wrapped his arms tightly around Tally, muttering and murmuring to her in love and comfort. A hand played with her hair till he found the back of her slender neck, fingers massaging the tense muscles to help her relax. “My dear – please, no, don’t cry. Sshhh…” he felt at a loss, and knew Shardani and Kelesann felt it too. Both animals had awoken at the sound of their mistress’s distress, tails wagging worriedly.

           “Tally, love. It’s okay. I’m—“

           “Oh, he insists you should be king and find some simpering little lady to have your babies because the KINGDOM just HAS to have a THEIRIN ruling!” She cried out, nearly snapping. It wasn’t in Taleal to wail in woe. “Never mind how he raised you, or what you want, or that the people are just fine with Anora!”

           Alistair pursed his lips, eyes closing a moment as she ranted. “I’m sorry. I should’ve – I shouldn’t have told you, or I shouldn’t have said anything about not wanting to be king. I…” He paused, trying to find the words. “I didn’t want to be this kind of a bother to you, love. I really didn‘t.”

           The sobs had subsided as he spoke. Alistair thought for a moment that perhaps she had fallen asleep; her smaller body shifting against his told him that she hadn’t. Her voice was soft, muffled by her face buried in the cloth of his shirt.

           “You’re not a bother, vhenan. Never you. I just. I had a moment where it all felt like it was too much.” She tilted her head back, eyes bright as they reflected the fire, “I want to do right. By you, Ferelden, my People…” She let out a soft sigh, reaching up to play with a bit of his hair. “I meant what I told your uncle – I will not force you to sit up there in that ridiculous chair and fill a role you will resent. Unless….,” Taleal’s brows knit together, “unless you want to…?”

           Alistair had taken to playing with the long dark locks of her hair that fell to the floor, adjusting his embrace around the petite elf as she moved in his lap. “I – no. No, I really, truly do not want to be king. I wouldn’t know where to begin, or what to do – and besides.” He held Tally a bit tighter, sucking in a breath. “I wouldn’t want to trade you for a crown and kingdom.”

           “But—”

           “But I’d rather be a Warden with you for whatever time we have left than to be a king and watch you walk out those doors and probably never see you again once this Blight is done.” He watched as Tally’s eyes widened, blinking in surprise at his tone. Alistair could be serious, when he wanted to be, sometimes when he needed to be. It seemed that this was one of those moments.

           It seemed an age as they sat there, frozen where they were, searching for something in each other’s eyes. Neither spoke a word; the moment finally breaking when Taleal stretches up just enough to press her lips tenderly to Alistair’s. He responded by pulling her closer, leaning down towards her.

           “All right,” she murmured as Alistair pulled away, “no crowns for you.”

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

This was it.

           Every eye in the room was on her. Anora’s, Eamon’s, the Bannorn, Alistair’s…

           “Anora should remain Queen.”

           Alistair’s face lit with relief from where he stood next to her; Anora smiled regally and dipped her head. Eamon looked something like a red tree-fruit. Those of the Bannorn erupted into talk.

           And that was that. Taleal heard someone declare it should be so; Anora exclaimed something about needing some oath or other from Alistair.

           All the talking buzzed through Taleal’s ears like swarms of bees. Just like that, it was finished.

           Now they could turn their attention back to the Blight and the Archdemon.