#and i do love a man with manners (templars apparently)

[depresseddepot]

SO THERE'S THIS APOSTATE NAMED MORRIGAN.......

[antigonick]

FIVE CHARACTER TROPES

RULES: List five tropes applicable to your character, then tag others to do the same. (Tropes Wiki), repost / do not reblog.

(okay apparently it’s a Una day today, let’s do this). 

tagged by @forestcreatures​ and @impossible-rat-babies​ ♡ thank you, I’ve been losing my mind on TV tropes for a full hour. Tagging @ace-of-kings @mihqorio @heartbrreak and @ardellian​ if you want to!

Una.

FALLEN HERO / ANTI-HERO / FACE-HEEL TURN Not all villains are born. Some are made, and none are more tragic than the Fallen Hero. As the name implies, the Fallen Hero used to be a hero before doing a Face–Heel Turn. They may even have been an Ideal Hero or another equally optimistic archetype, up until the moment when they suffered something bad enough for them to lose all faith in good and idealism, be it the loss of a loved one, too many good deeds coming back to bite them hard, betrayal by someone they trusted the most, too much distrust from those who should have been allies, or some other faith-shattering event. It might even be a drawn out process of seduction to The Dark Side or fall from grace. Some Evil Old Folks happened to be this type in their younger days.

What they choose to do about it determines what they become:

If they retreat into themselves and fight evil mercilessly to dull the pain, they become an Anti-Hero, though if this fight is motivated by vengeance, they may run the risk of becoming like the very monsters they have sworn to destroy.

DETERMINATOR

A character — good or evil, male or female, young or old — who never gives up. Ever. No matter what.

There is no stopping the Determinator. They do not understand tact. They do not Know When to Fold 'Em, and it's a waste of time to tell them the odds. No one can reason with them. They'll do whatever they have to without question. No price is too great to pay for success, up to and including their own life. Do not expect them to realize they might be better off letting it go, even if they can barely stand. If you're ever kidnapped or lost with no hope of rescue, they'll be the one who will find you. Their adversaries will shout, in exasperated rage, "Why Won't You Die?!". For them, there is no line between "perseverance" and "insanity."

The nobility of their goal is not necessarily proportionate to their persistence. This is just as often an obsessive rival with a grudge as it is a hero on a chivalrous quest, and where their willpower ultimately leads them will depend both on their role and on where the work stands on the Sliding Scale of Idealism vs. Cynicism.

TELL ME HOW YOU FIGHT

and I will tell you what you are. You can tell a lot about a person by the way he fights. This is when a character's fighting style reflects his personality or methodology. Similar to Weapon of Choice except here, it's not so much what you use as how you use it.

• Suicidal Tactics: Character launches forward, not caring about leaving himself wide open to attack. It is a style appropriate for Blood Knight, a Death Seeker, a Leeroy Jenkins or a Berserker. Could be an Action Bomb.

• Self-Imposed Challenge: Character eschews weapons when everyone else uses them, or otherwise limits his power (and it may not be by choice); appropriate for a Proud Warrior Race Guy or variety of Martial Pacifist or "smiling, wrinkly old man" types. May be used by Blood Knights or Worthy Opponentswho can't get a satisfying fight any other way, which shows deserved overconfidence. May be fond of saying I Am Not Left-Handed.

• Fights Like a Normal: If a superpowered character prefers good old martial arts, then either he is too arrogant (villain) or afraid (hero) to use his powers, or he might simply find "normal" skills more enjoyable (either hero or villain).

• Close-Range Combatant: The character in this case is strong, confident and/or reckless, shining on hand-to-hand combat and often overlapping with the suicidal tactics described above, but with an emphasis on this character's lack of reach being a potentially crippling weakness.

ENEMY WITHIN

A specific form of Split Personality. Maybe the Body Horror became a bit too fused with someone. Maybe the Unstoppable Rage is getting... too unstoppable. Perhaps The Atoner's past is taking on a life of its own. Either way, the enemy is behind the hero's eyes, and its time is coming when it can take over. Until then, it'll do all it can to control him and get him to give in to its Horror Hunger. The thing to stress most is that the Enemy Within is the hero. He or she cannot simply exorcise it out. Often the Enemy Within is the cause of the powers that the hero has that allows them to do what they do. With Great Power Comes Great Insanity, remember?Often, since Evil Is Cool and Evil Feels Good, other characters may realize the danger before the hero and need to convince him.

SHE WHO FIGHTS MONSTERS

Usually, not quite a villain, but they act antagonistically enough that they're little better. Something has happened to our Fallen Hero: his village was destroyed, his friends killed, his puppy roasted on an open spit, his bike stolen, whatever. All that matters is that It's Personal, and he feels that the law just isn't suitable enough (or has become too corrupt and ignorant) to be of any use to him in settling the matter. He may justify his actions by claiming that it's Justice he's after, not vengeance, but anyone with half a brain can easily see that he's out for Revenge... unfortunately, we can also see that the more he hunts the cause of his woes, the more he takes on the villain's personality and mannerisms—something that our "hero" is too blinded by his single-minded goal to realize.

Our avenger may have good intentions—the fiend may well be too dangerous to be kept alive—but ultimately, his obsession with dealing out due punishment (or worse) and his refusal to think about what he's doing twists him into a monster just as bad as, or even worse than, the one he's hunting. And even before he gets to that point, it's nigh-impossible to turn him away; calling him out on it will be ignored or retaliated against. The Power of Friendship and The Power of Love were lost to him the moment the atrocity that sent him on his wild goose chasehappened; he feels that Team Spirit is just a hindrance, and that Love Is a Weakness that he can't afford to have.

Also includes, but not limited to (can you tell I’m cheating yet?): What You Are In The Dark, Beneath The Mask / Becoming The Mask, Escaped From the Lab / Become a Real Boy, Unreliable Narrator, No-Holds-Barred Beatdown, Berserk Button, Blood Knight / Knight Templar / Death Seeker / in Harm’s Way, Don’t You Dare Pity Me!, Heroic Sacrifice, Cute Bruiser, Mugging The Monster, Jerk With a Heart of Gold, Sir Swears-A-Lot, Telepathy, Love is a Weakness, Mind Rape, Roaring Rampage of Revenge, Humans Are the Real Monsters, The Power of Hate, and, indulgently, Birds of a Feather, Interplay of Sex and Violence, In Love With Your Carnage, Undying Loyalty, The Only One Allowed to Defeat You, I Know Your True Name. 

[dragonswithjetpacks]

I’m going to say this one time about Cullen and that’s it. And my opinion will be out there and done. This is not a negative post. But this is a long post so buckle up babes.

*warning for use of language because I swear like a sailor*

*also brief mention of rape*

Anyway, Cullen is a perfect example of poor planning in the gaming industry.

He is also a perfect example of fans thirsting so hard and wanting something so bad that the writers and developers change a character and even game elements to suite their needs. They didn’t even give him a book or a comic for redemption. You know what they did instead? They switched writers. Cullen has three writers. All of them with a different character in mind.

Cullen was a fucked up mess in Origins. He was meant to be creepy and sociopathic. I get that. The writer who basically created him had no idea he was even going to be not only a reoccurring character, but one that was going to be romance able in future games. She even apologized. Which wasn’t necessary. And so many people who played the game missed a big point about Cullen. He was never supposed to recover from Origins.

“The young templar Cullen never quite recovered from his ordeal. After months of attempting to convince his superiors that the tower was still a danger, he finally snapped and killed three apprentices before being stopped by his fellow templars. Eventually, Cullen escaped from prison, a madman and a threat to any mage he encountered.”

“Once the tower was rebuilt, Knight-Commander Greagoir stepped down from his post and retired to a life of private contemplation as a brother in the Chantry. His health failed over time, and after refusing treatment, he perished in his sleep. Knight-Commander Cullen was said to be more strict and less trusting of the mages even than Greagoir was. He ruled the Circle with fear.”

I’m sorry. But yeah. That’s the epilogue on two different choices involving the Circle’s fate in Origins. And it was ignored. I agree with that, too. But it wasn’t just Cullen that was ignored. It was the entire Circle at Kinloch Hold. If the mage warden sacrifices their own life, the Circle is supposedly free. Which... is not mentioned... ever again. And not to mention is impossible? Like okay thanks Anora or whoever but I don’t think you can just do that.

Poor writing.

I’d also like to mention for the record I did not like Cullen in Origins. I still don’t.

Now, I don’t know why exactly Cullen was brought back in DA2? I know his writer got bullied out of Bioware. I do not have an opinion on that. I mean the woman co-wrote my favorite part of Origins (Anvil of the Void). She also wrote Anders. Which I don’t think is a coincidence. People, men and women, often have this idea of fixing a broken person. It’s heavily romanticized. It’s called codependency. And you see it a lot in romance novels. But that’s another topic. It seems this writer implemented that in the game (along with some of her own personal things she had) without fully knowing Cullen would even be a romantic interest in Inquisition, but also still wanting to give him some sort reason to be desired. And all the while knowing Anders was fully romanceable. Even... a little forcefully... romanceable... if I may add... (I am uncomfortable) I also dislike some of Anders’ writing but that’s another post and I don’t want to compare the two. But Anders was the opposite side of Cullen that was done better because they had time to write it.

Regardless, Cullen seemed to hold some resemblance to his former character. But we do see a lot hesitance with him. He’s basically that “good” cop that doesn’t do anything when the bad cop is beating the shit out of everyone. Still not good, hence the quotes. Not a good guy. He has his meh he’s alright moments. And seems to generally disregard Hawke in every single way. But he’s still an ass hole for letting things happen the way that they did when he could very much so have put a stop to it. Maybe it was the writers’ intention to make it that way to show he was still suffering from trauma in Origins.

Again. Poor writing. BECAUSE WE DON’T KNOW. DIDN’T HE KILL THREE PEOPLE, BIOWARE? ISN’T HE SUPPOSED TO BE KNIGHT COMMANDER IN FERELDEN, B I O W A R E??? WHAT. HAPPENED. BIOWARE.

So here’s the next thing. They decided to slip him into Inquisition for whatever reason. His writing was fair enough in DA2. Could have been better. But these people are still thirsty. They want some Curly. At the last minute, they throw romance on him. Not a bad idea. But are we supposed to forget the man was basically raped by desire demons? Is he even ok to have a relationship? OH WAIT THAT’S RIGHT. We didn’t closure on that because they ignored it.

Anyway, Cullen in Inquisition seems to be different. But because they couldn’t just, oh I don’t know, write a different character with the same traits but better, they had to somehow put the events of the previous games and how it affected him into this new current game where he supposed to be... better? Ish? Which is where we get the stereo type soldier with PTSD and a substance abuse problem. Now, if you’re any good with imagining and writing fanfic, then you probably know or already have figured out a way to connect everything better than Bioware could. But hey. Last minute romance written in on a character who was already all over the charts? Count me in. I like a good writing challenge. Poor girl who took the job of writing Inquisition Cullen likes a challenge too, apparently. Because it was her first big project. And she didn’t do a bad job. But imagine working hard on trying to write a character half the fandom hates into someone somewhat likeable just for everyone to shit all over it.

The way I look at it.... we have three different characters. And he is not really a good example to look at analyze wise. He is inconsistent. And was molded for Inquisition for thirsty fan girls. And some boys (I see you). A good example for study would be Morrigan. Or even Alistair. And Alistair is in several of the comics and still remains pretty consistent. Leliana is a prime example of character development over a course of three games. And I highly recommend you fall in love with her good and bad side because she is written beautifully. Don’t @ me.

Cullen, and I mean Inquisition Cullen, has a lot to like. And a lot to dislike. Every character is flawed. I think a lot of hate that gets tagged onto Cullen is really from poor writing. They really got lazy with him. And it is a shame. I feel like he could have been redeemed way better. He could have had one hell of a redemption. Or possibly just skipped over all together. I see a lot of posts about putting Samson in his place and I often agree. It was never quite the character that made him appealing to me. It was the personality. And they could have easily done with anyone. They could have made Samson sexy, too. It didn’t have to be sexy Cullen. And let’s face it. With Cullen’s writing in Origins and even some of the writing in DA2, Cullen siding with Coryphedouche is way more fitting than Samson.

Basically, it is up to us to fill in the gaps. So I love seeing fanfic with Cullen backstory. Because it gives better insight than what the writers could accomplish. And I applaud you if you’ve done that. BUT the over sexualization of this character is a bit... wrong. It feels wrong. And that’s all I’ll say to that. Personally, I’ve been working on some Cullen romance fic for awhile and it’s been challenging trying to find a way to make him less douchey. One minute, he’s yelling at you about mages. And the next, he’s got this soft tone and nervous look. Like, yeah... you can tell it’s rushed. And awful. And even the dialogue is just... painful. It doesn’t fit. (you can check my Cullen tag in blog to see how I feel about that). I will say that even speaking to him on a personal note, asking him questions about life as a templar, he even says he does not agree with the Order. And he wants to change his thinking. But he still gets angry when you go to side with the mages. It feels like they wanted redeem him but they also needed someone to side with the templars to provide conflict at the war table.

So in my opinion, calling him controlling and abusive is a bit of a stretch. He was clearly used by the writers. It just seems ridiculous to put so much effort in bashing the character when clearly... he was not planned out... or put together... I just... I don’t get...

I know what you’re thinking at this point: Kay.... why do you like him then?

Beacause. I am weak for a man who gets nervous around girls he likes. His awkward mannerisms despite being a man of power makes me weak. The need to protect also makes me weak. But also the ability to admit vulnerability makes me suuuuuper weak. So like I said. There was a lot there. It just was not delivered correctly. You know what I would have done? If I had to put him in the Commander shoes, I would have made the whole Kirkwall thing a life changer for him. Maybe even give him a soul searching type situation before joining the Inquisition. And definitely tell him to keep his mouth shut about siding with the templars.

Long story short: Ya’ll thirsted over a weird dude in Origins and Bioware went hmmmm okay. But by the time they gave him to you on a silver plate, it was last minute. Like you just found out your crush Jared is going to Becky’s party but you’re already at Jessica’s house and have like nothing to wear so you have to just wing it. And your shoes look tacky, but Jessica’s shoes don’t fit. So you either have to wear shoes that don’t fit or just look like omg total garbage. And Bioware went with the shoes that don’t fit. And Jared totally likes them.

I’m also going to say the most controversial thing on this entire post by just... saying... by calling Cullen out as trash without realizing the writing, the directive, the lack of development, the rush on this character, and the complete absolute bullying this community does to it’s FANS AND WRITERS kind of feels like you didn’t really put any effort into understanding why and just jumped on a band wagon. And the fact that some of you make other people feel bad for liking this character is awful. Some of the most toxic shit I’ve seen. Like maybe they like this character from Inquisition because, I don’t know, maaaaaaybe he was written out almost like a new character with a last minute fantasy romance.. because he kind of was...

Now for my opinion on Greg Ellis.

FUCK THAT GUY.

And that’s it. Thanks for stopping by. If you agree cool, if not cool. I’m not here to argue with anyone or say your opinion is invalid. We all have reasons why we hate or love the color blue. So we can all disagree or agree and live in peace and still love a game.

You can always message me, too, guys. I have a lot of opinions. And reasons for my opinions. And theories. And just things in general. But I will not hate characters written in Dragon Age. Someone wrote them. Someone is out there working their ass off to deliver a character. And I refuse to hate someone fictional.

[projectomerta]

Kindred Souls - Chapter 11: The Last Wall

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Words: 1693

“Stay still,” said Shay while he was bandaging Wá:ri’s forehead. The cut was deeper than he previously thought, but it wasn’t that bad. Wá:ri was experiencing a mix of grief, disgust and confusion. Her mind was fogged by what she had just done. She had failed to follow her own plan, she killed her brother, and now Robbie was gone, probably to warn their father about her. 

Without saying a word, Wá:ri approached Kevin’s body and retrieved her Tomahawk from his skull, putting it back in its socket without wiping the blood. Shay approached her, and lifted her chin up with his hand, looking attentively at her face. In a worried tone he asked: “Lass, the color’s escaped your face, are you fine?”

“No, I’m not fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

“What?” Shay reached for Wá:ri as she walked towards where Robbie was, “Wait, you’re in no condition to go after him!” 

Wá:ri gave Shay a killer look, but he couldn’t tell whether she was really looking at him or through him. “Shay, let me go. I have to find Robbie before he tells my father about Kevin and Layla,” she said monotonically.

Shay couldn’t contain his anger any longer. “Wá:ri! You look like a ghost! I’ll say it again, you’re in no condition to go after Robbie!” He pointed at Kevin, “And shouldn’t we give your brother a proper burial?!”

Wá:ri turned her eyes to Kevin’s corpse and images of his death minutes ago continued to flood her head. The moment where she killed her brother kept replaying in her head. From the blood squirting out, to the sound of his head being crushed under her Tomahawk, every little detail was there, time after time. Her head felt like quicksand, she got stuck on every little emotion or thought and couldn’t get away from them. As a result, none of them surfaced, and her expression showed nothing but a blank slate.

“Leave him be. We don’t have time.” Wá:ri turned around and walked away, letting Shay’s arm fall from her shoulder.

Shay looked at Wá:ri as she walked away. She was but a shell of herself. Poor lass… After watching her for a few long seconds, he decided to go with her, walking by her side, but letting her lead. Wá:ri stopped where Shay had knocked Robbie out, and she crouched down looking for something her brother might have left behind, something that could lead them to him. She noticed some blood on the floor. She almost said something but Shay interrupted her thoughts. 

“He went west, into the city.” 

She was surprised. It is the most likely option, but how does he know for sure? Fortunately for her, Shay noticed the hint of surprise in her eyes and decided to explain himself: “The blood stain on the floor has marks in two directions. He must have picked up his sword behind him and ran back into the city.” 

Wá:ri was impressed, but she didn’t say anything besides a “Oh…” which escaped her mouth, almost involuntarily. 

Barely any words were shared between the two as they ran into the busy innards of New York City that night. Wá:ri would glance at the roofs every now and then to see if she could spot Robbie, but it was to no avail. Those roofs would’ve brought her some comfort in any other circumstance, but she felt nothing looking at them that night.

It wasn’t very cold, but there was a slight wind blowing through the streets, which could both feel on their faces. They were going in the general direction of Rhodes' manor, but they were checking side streets and alleyways, as well. While Shay was searching somewhat at random, Wá:ri was expertly navigating the streets, despite her mental state. 

“This is the last part of the main street before we get there,” Wá:ri informed Shay. 

Shay nodded in agreement and continued looking as she did the same. They checked everywhere they could for blood or any other clue that might lead them to where Robbie could have gone. The logical course of action would’ve been to go straight to the manor, but they were thinking Kevin could have made some sort of plan B, in case his plan went wrong. 

The wind got suddenly stronger and whistled through the streets of New York. Wá:ri looked to the roofs once more, wishing she could climb up and look around, but the streets were much too busy for that. As she made her way out of a dark alley, she started looking for Shay, who had gone into an alley himself, on the other side of the main street.

“Did you find anything, lass?” 

“No. It’s hard to look for anything with this many people around.”

She looks more relaxed. But is she? Shay thought.

“Where to next?”

“We’ll follow the main street and go right in the very next alleyway, and follow it all the way home,” she answered. 

The two made their way through New York, into the place Wá:ri mentioned. It was larger than most of the alleys they had searched through that night, but not nearly as big as the main street. Wá:ri knew the house in which she lived for nearly two decades lied at the end of that street and she was starting to feel anxious because of it. As they progressed, the number of people outside decreased, until they reached a point where it felt like they were the only ones outside that night. 

“Is it always this empty here?”

“Apparently my stepmother preferred the suburbs to the center of the city, but my father couldn’t just live on the border of the city, so they compromised.”

Shay raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Stepmother?”

Wá:ri let out a very slight laugh, “Ah, yes, Kevin and Robbie’s mother. She died while giving birth to Robbie, so I never met her.”

“I see.” Shay was happy that Wá:ri was talking again. He let himself walk a step behind so he could look at her properly, admiring her for a second, until she stopped dead in her tracks. Shay looked forward and it didn't take him long to notice a man wearing assassin robes. 

"Shay, it's Francis…" 

Francis was leaning against a house when they showed up. Upon noticing them he slowly walked to the middle of the street, opening his arms in a welcoming manner, very theatrically. 

"Well well well! What do we have here?!" he started, "My cute little sister and a charming Templar man!" Francis faked a gasp, "An Assassin and a Templar! Forbidden love sure is beautiful..." 

While his words were nothing but jokes, Wá:ri felt intimidated by her older brother, but Shay wasn’t scared. All he knew about Francis’ skills was from what Wá:ri had told him but he could tell at a glance that he was in very good shape, so he made himself weary.

Wá:ri pulled her Tomahawk out of her belt. “Francis, it’s two to one, don’t even try it.” 

Francis burst out into laughter. “Please! Like I’d lose to a little girl and an old man. Sister…” His smile relaxed ever so slightly, “Don’t play with me.”

Wá:ri felt a chill go down her spine. She was shaking from fear. The three were at a standstill for what felt like an eternity to Wá:ri. Shay noticed how nervous she was and he wanted to put an end to it. If he won’t move, I will. Shay pulled out his flintlock and shot at Francis, but the assassin managed to move out of the way before the gunshot even went off. 

With the opportunity given to him by Shay, Francis ran towards his sister with his sabers in hand. 

“Shit.” Shay quickly put his flintlock away and brought out his sword and dagger.

Shay jumped in front of Wá:ri, blocking Francis’ first strike at her. 

“A dagger?” Francis laughed, “Good luck with that, old man.”

“I make my own luck, lad,” Shay said, pushing away Francis.

Wá:ri was still frozen in place, but now it wasn’t due to fear. Now she was in awe at the two fighters she had in front of her. That simple interaction was more telling of their skill than anything she could’ve asked for.

Francis’ expression changed. His smile wasn’t cocky now, it almost looked like that of a playful child. He jumped back into the fight with Shay, trading blow for blow with the templar. Both Shay and Francis were impressed with each other. Despite the situation, there was a sense of respect between the two of them.

Wá:ri was watching them fight, looking for an opportunity to jump in and help Shay, but there wasn’t one. Francis’ fighting style was more fluid and every move connected almost seamlessly to one another, while Shay’s was more rugged and violent, but just as fast. In Wá:ri’s eyes, they looked like a moving painting. The contrast between the two was nothing short of beautiful to her. 

Shay’s blades continued clashing with Francis’ sabers as they continued to fight. Shay eventually managed to kick Francis in the stomach, making him jump back, but the Assassin bounced back like it was nothing, suddenly he was right in front of Shay again, attacking even faster. Or so Shay thought.

They continued to trade blows equally, when Shay noticed Francis was getting faster and faster. Wait, how?! It wasn’t long before he realized the truth, he was the one getting slower. The biggest difference between him and Francis was obviously their age and it was finally starting to show.

Wá:ri hadn’t noticed that Shay was getting tired as the fight went on, so when Shay’s dagger was sent flying and landed at her feet, she couldn’t help but let out a gasp.

“Come on Mr. Templar, don’t let it end so soon!” Francis mocked.

Looking at the dagger by her feet, Wá:ri felt a looming fear growing within her - the fear of death.

[shannaraisles]

A Convenient Princess - Chapter 1

The Inquisition has been disbanded. After several years of triumph and loss, Anne Trevelyan has made her decision. If Starkhaven wants a princess, then she will be that princess. Who said anything about love?

[Read on AO3]

Chapter One

Skyhold was still bustling.

Despite the disbanding of the Inquisition, there were still many things left to do before the organization could truly be said to be finished. There were territories to hand over calmly, soldiers and scouts to be paid off and helped back into society, merchants to be resettled, mages to be housed, templars to be helped in finding their new place in the new Divine's regime. Not to mention the prospect of what the Inquisitor herself would now do. That, at least, was close to completion.

Josephine bit back a sigh as she listened to the representatives nit-pick at every detail in the contract already agreed upon. This had been weeks, months, in the making, and yet suddenly there were objections. Not from the other signatory, but from the men he had sent to confirm the contract and have it signed and notarized here in the presence of the Inquisition.

"Gentlemen, I fail to see why this is being brought up again," she said as calmly as she could manage. "The conditions have been agreed to on both sides. Your presence here is simply to confirm the contract and witness the signing."

"It is a matter of honor, Ambassador Montilyet," the older of the two men told her. "For our prince to agree such terms, that of ending a war, merely for the prospect of marriage? It is not acceptable to the nobility of our city."

"It is acceptable to your prince," she pointed out. "The prestige of this marriage far outweighs the dishonor of your continued attacks upon the beleaguered city miles to the south of yours, not to mention the end of the disruption in trade which has impacted your own merchants considerably in past years."

"Our prince is young still," the older ambassador insisted, waving a hand as though to dismiss his ruler's decision entirely. "He does not yet understand how to work with the nobility."

"Indeed?" Josephine gave him a polite smile. "I was under the impression that Prince Sebastian is highly thought of in Starkhaven. If things are as you say, then perhaps it is unsafe for us to send our Inquisitor to be his wife."

The younger of the two men frowned, stepping forward half a step with a sharp gesture to silence his colleague.

"That will not be necessary, ambassador," he said smoothly. "I believe my colleague merely wishes to state that the end to this conflict does not sit well with all those the Inquisitor will soon be living amongst."

"You believe her presence will somehow exacerbate this?" Josephine asked, raising her brows. "That she is incapable of protecting herself against any attempt to change the view by harming her?"

The two men looked awkwardly at one another.

"We have been lead to understand that the Inquisitor's injury has lessened her ability to do just that," the younger began, but Josephine was already shaking her head.

"Come with me, gentlemen," she told them, rising from her seat to lead the pair from her office and across the great hall.

Around them, men and women were working together to dismantle the finery of the Inquisition, preparing to give up Skyhold to the elements and leave it to fall back into the state in which they had found it only a few years before. The two Starkhaven ambassadors kept pace with her, but she knew they would be marveling at the treasures being taken down from the walls - the shining gold mosaics, the colossal dragon skull, the banners and pennants of the various noble houses that had promised unending support during the crisis and beyond. Though all these things were to be packed away or returned to their owners in the coming weeks, they were still a powerful sign of the favor the Inquisition had gathered over the few years they had been in operation. Josephine had no doubt that this little reminder of just who they were dealing with would sink into the minds of the little men trying to amend a contract already agreed for their own gain.

She lead them out onto the parapet of the main stairs into the great hall, shading her eyes from the bright sunshine as she looked down into the courtyard, knowing what she would find there.

"Ah. As you can see, gentlemen, the Inquisitor is not as defenseless as you have been lead to believe."

She watched them as they stepped forward to view the activity in the courtyard below. Anne Trevelyan, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, was sparring with Iron Bull and the Chargers. Though the world knew she had lost her arm to the Anchor that had aided her in closing the Breach and ending Corypheus for good, there was no sign of any weakness in her as she spun about the wide space with graceful agility. The prosthetic Dagna had created for her - a composite of refined lyrium and mechanical parts - was as much a part of her as her arm had once been; there was no indication that she found it difficult to wield her daggers or her bow in the rough and tumble of the melee below them.

"Forgive me, Ambassador Montilyet, but ..." The younger man seemed to be shaken as he spoke. "I had heard that the Inquisitor had lost her arm?"

"Do you think the Inquisition so poor that we cannot give our Inquisitor exactly what she needs?" Josephine countered with innocent courtesy. "The finest minds worked on the problem and, as you can see, created a solution."

The older of the two was staring down at the mixed race melee, a frown still on his weathered face. Josephine made a mental note of the well-hidden dismay in his eyes. This one had been hoping to tell the world that Inquisitor Trevelyan was a broken woman, and unsuitable to be the Princess of Starkhaven. She would have to pass that onto Leliana quickly.

"That is marvelous," the younger said, and he seemed to be genuine in his compliment. "The naysayers on the council have made much of her injury these past months. I am glad that we will be able to report such good news to counter them."

"The Inquisitor's injury was never a deciding factor in your prince's offer of marriage," Josephine said, letting a little sternness show through. "Indeed, the opinion of the nobility was never cited as a deciding factor, either. This is a marriage contract, gentlemen - a union between man and woman. Surely, as men of Starkhaven, you wish your ruler to be well settled with a good wife? I can assure you there is no better woman in the world than Anne Trevelyan."

The elder made a quiet sound that might have been agreement, turning away from the spectacle below to look upon Josephine once more.

"Your point is well made, ambassador," he said, with just the barest suggestion of reluctance in his manner. "But I maintain that to insist upon a full retreat from Kirkwall is simply folly."

"Nevertheless, that is the Inquisitor's only condition in this contract," she reminded him. "She has gracefully conceded to all Starkhaven's demands of her. Yet this one thing is beyond you?"

"A cessation of hostilities, perhaps, but not a complete ending," he began, but his younger companion interrupted him.

"Prince Sebastian has agreed, and has made the announcement already," he said, apparently reminding his colleague as much as telling Josephine herself. "Hostilities will be at an end by the date of the wedding, should the Inquisitor sign the contract today."

"I assure you that she will," Josephine told him. "But should the terms of the contract not be upheld, there will be no wedding, gentlemen. Indeed, the world will be told of Starkhaven's fickleness in keeping its word."

"Is that a threat, Ambassador Montilyet?" the older man bristled.

"No, ser, it is a promise," she said with stern emphasis. "The Inquisitor is known and respected across Southern Thedas. You would do well not to cross her, or those whose loyalty will always be to her."

"And with the Inquisition disbanded, who might those be?" he sneered.

Josephine let her lips tick upward into a winning smile.

"Well, my lord, Divine Victoria, for one," she said, and watched as his confidence withered with that little reminder.

Vivienne de Fer had been a shocking choice for Divine, but her leadership over the Chantry had certainly been decisive in the past years, not to mention the charm and skill with which she navigated the nobility of multiple countries. Anne would never have any problems, Josephine was certain - Vivienne adored the Inquisitor, their friendship having grown very close during the crisis and the year following. If Starkhaven messed Anne around, the Divine would lead the charge to make them regret it.

"Do you need me, Josephine?"

Taking her gaze away from the gentlemen from Starkhaven, Josephine looked down into the courtyard, smiling at the sight of Anne waving back up at her. The woman looked more refreshed than tired by her exertions.

"When you are ready, Inquisitor, yes," she called back. "We are prepared for you."

Anne nodded, brushing her blonde hair off her brow.

"I'll be up in a moment," was her response, her right hand already moving to her left elbow as she turned away.

"Since the Inquisitor will shortly be joining us, gentlemen, shall we return to the matter at hand?" Josephine then said, turning sharp eyes back to her companions.

The older man seemed to have lost the ability to speak for now, leaving his younger colleague to smile in agreement.

"Certainly, ambassador," he said, gesturing for her to lead the way back into the keep. "And may I say what a shame it is that the Inquisition was so strong-armed into disbanding so abruptly?"

"You may."

She still thought she could have negotiated them out of it, but Anne had finally had enough of the snide insults and backhanded politicking of the summit between Orlais and Ferelden. Josephine didn't entirely disagree with the way she had done it, either.

"The wariness of these two nations is understandable, however," she went on, nodding to Cullen as he strode past, apparently on the war path about something or other. "The Inquisition could field a larger, better equipped army than either for a good year. It did not help settle the tension between the former conqueror and conquered."

"Never thought there would be a day when Orlais and Ferelden agreed on anything," the older man muttered. "You'd never catch us standing shoulder to shoulder with them."

"Perhaps that is why you almost failed to ratify the contracted agreement today," Josephine said as sweetly as she could manage, ushering them into her office once again.

It was supremely satisfying to see the man brace as though she had slapped him, as though he had temporarily forgotten that he was not the one in the powerful position here. Indeed, he wasn't even in a powerful position in Starkhaven as far as she knew; after all, he was expendable enough to send into the Frostbacks between Ferelden and Orlais just to get a signature. That he had thought himself able to somehow end the contract agreed was nothing short of astounding.

Thankfully, the awkwardness of the following silence did not last long before the door opened to admit Lady Anne Trevelyan. Her prosthetic left arm had been replaced with the more realistic model for formal occasions, her blonde hair hastily redone to pull it back from her face. The two men from Starkhaven rose to greet her automatically as Josephine smiled.

"Lady Inquisitor, may I present the ambassadors from Starkhaven - Lord Angus Mercer, and Lord Jamis Boannan," the Antivan woman said, gesturing toward the two men. "Gentlemen, Inquisitor Trevelyan."

"Lord Mercer, Lord Boannan." Anne smiled at both of them, offering her right hand in greeting. "Welcome to Skyhold. I am sorry you find us in such a state of disarray."

"There is no need for an apology, Inquisitor," Lord Jamis, the younger of the two, said, bowing over her offered hand courteously.

"Aye, your Skyhold is in fine fettle despite the circumstances," Lord Angus added.

Behind him, Josephine raised a brow. It was interesting to note that this nobleman put on a different face to the Inquisitor than the one he had shown to her. She would have to warn Anne ahead of time to be wary of the sweetness offered to her in Starkhaven.

"Well, I am glad you find it welcoming," Anne said, moving toward the desk. "Skyhold has been a good home to me these past years, but I am looking forward to settling into my new home in Starkhaven."

"As Starkhaven is looking forward to having you, my lady," Jamis replied. "The prince desired me to deliver this letter into your hands and no others. I would hope to have a reply to deliver to him upon our return."

Anne's smile was almost shy as she took the sealed parchment from him, unaccustomed as she was to being courted, even by the man she had agreed to marry.

"You will have one," she promised the younger lord. "I trust you are both satisfied with your accommodations?"

"Aye," Angus nodded. "Even with your people dismantling everything, there is luxury to be found here. Not as fine as the palace in Starkhaven, I'll be bound, but well comforting to a man after a long journey."

"I am very pleased to hear that," Anne assured him. "I am surprised to see you here, though, Lord Angus. I was given to understand that you oppose this marriage quite vehemently."

Josephine blinked, inwardly rolling her eyes at herself. Of course Anne knew about the man; she had grown up among the politics of the Free Marches, and she was about to enter one of the more influential spheres of those politics. There was no way she would do that unprepared.

Angus looked taken aback at the polite comment offered to him on his allegiance.

"My lady, I've no objection to the marriage at all," he rushed to assure her. "The conditions of the contract have me concerned, that is all."

"Ah, yes." Anne nodded, absently scanning the contract on the desk top. "It will be so difficult to stop attacks on a city weakened by tragedy and only recently beginning to return to some semblance of normality."

Angus blanched, his eyes narrowing, but Jamis actually chuckled, stifling the sound as soon as his colleague shot a sharp glance in his direction.

"Kirkwall is not so defenseless as you seem to believe, Inquisitor," Angus began, but he had nowhere to go.

Anne's expression was calmly unmoved as she looked up at him.

"One of my closest friends is the Viscount of Kirkwall, Lord Angus," she pointed out to him. "An allied Free Marches is stronger than a Free Marches split by war and greed. There is trouble coming, I guarantee you. You will be glad of this clause before the end."

As the older man stared at her, seemingly at a loss as to how to respond to such calm assertion, Anne looked back down at the document.

"This does appear to be in order," she mused. "Though the wording has been changed in certain clauses. Josephine?"

"The changes were ours, Inquisitor," Josephine told her in a warm tone, always happy to be witness to Anne's gentle undermining of the overconfidence of nobles. "The initial language was too vague to be considered binding. We have adjusted it, and the prince has agreed to those adjustments. This is the final draft, which will be notarized when you have signed."

"I see."

Anne let her gaze fall to the single signature already in place. Smooth, firm lines that formed the cursive name Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. She had never met the man in person, but had corresponded with him through letters for almost a full year now. She knew he sought her in marriage because of the prestige of the Inquisition, and because of her near folk-legendary status as the chosen Herald of Andraste. She knew also that all she truly brought to the marriage was a womb ready to bear the next in line to the throne. But she missed the Free Marches in her bones, longing to be near her sister once again, and with no welcome back to her brother's household, this was a good choice for her future. At least as the Princess of Starkhaven, she could still have some influence on policy and politics, and perhaps mitigate some of the separation already beginning between humans and elves as Solas began his work.

She reached out, and Josephine placed the quill into her right hand, watching with wary concern as she wrote her own name carefully. Learning to write all over again was proving difficult, but Anne was confident that she could at least sign her name with grace. She was not wrong, exactly, but the signing took longer than either woman would have liked.

Still, when it was done, her name lay next to Sebastian's at the foot of the contract, both copies signed and sealed, with the notary moving forward to add their signature and seal to the document to bind it legally.

"I understand the wedding has been arranged for Bloomingtide," Anne said, turning back to the two ambassadors. "I will, of course, be sure to arrive ahead of time."

"Certainly, my lady," Jamis answered. He seemed relieved to have the document signed and his mission fulfilled. "I am sure the prince and his advisors will keep you informed of all arrangements, and make certain that you and your company will be welcomed in comfort to our fair city when you arrive."

"An escort will likely meet you at Ostwick when you make land," Angus said. "The Bann will, no doubt, wish to see his sister safely to Starkhaven under his own banner."

Anne raised a brow at this rather brazen disregard of the very open contempt in which her brother held her.

"Lord Angus, my brother and I do not speak," she told him. "Starkhaven is not allying with Ostwick, but with the Inquisition, and all those who were once a part of it. I will make land at Kirkwall, where my friend will take care of the travel arrangements to Starkhaven. And if there is any hint of further hostilities now this contract has been signed, gentlemen ... the wedding will not go ahead. Am I clear?"

Josephine could have sworn she heard Lord Angus' jaw grinding as he clenched his teeth behind a passable attempt at a winning smile.

"Of course, my lady," he assured Anne, bowing slightly as he did so. "You will see nothing that will cause such a disaster to take place."

"I do not personally have to see it to know it is happening, Lord Angus," Anne said sharply. "I have the means to discover the truth of such things. You would do well not to offer me false flattery and slippery words - I grew up in the world of noble lies and schemes, just as you did."

The man, to Josephine's delight, seemed genuinely abashed to have been caught out in such a false reassurance. He cleared his throat, bowing to Anne once again.

"My apologies, my lady. The world is changing, and I am an old man."

"That is no excuse for rudeness and deception, Lord Angus, but I accept your apology," Anne allowed. "Perhaps you should warn your compatriots ahead of time that I am not the simpering idiot my brother has always maintained me to be."

"Aye, I can see that," Angus agreed.

"You will be fine addition to our prince's court," Jamis stepped in hurriedly. "There is always need of a calm head on strong shoulders in such a position."

Anne smiled, seemingly brushing aside her warning to the elder nobleman.

"Will you join us for dinner this evening, gentlemen?" she asked. "The Inquisition is always pleased to host friends, and we will soon be the very closest of friends."

"That is most generous of you, Inquisitor," Jamis said, nodding eagerly. "We'd be honored to join you, and your people, for the evening meal."

"Then I shall see you there," Anne said with a smile. "Do excuse me, I am afraid there is still much to be done."

"Of course."

The two men bowed as she nodded to them, and only Josephine caught the exasperated roll of Anne's eyes as the Inquisitor stepped through the far door to make her way to what had once been the war room. Left alone with the ambassadors, the Inquisition's diplomat let out a satisfied huff of breath.

"It would appear your business is concluded, gentlemen," she said cheerfully. "Congratulations."

"It is a good day, ambassador," Jamis said, though the look on Angus' face betrayed his lack of agreement. "Naturally, there will be arrangements that must now be concluded, but I am sure the prince already has lines of communication with your people to make certain those are taken care of."

"Of course, Lord Jamis," Josephine assured him. "The evening meal begins at sundown - you have a few hours before you need present yourselves in the great hall. Skyhold is yours to explore."

"I look forward to it, Lady Montilyet," Angus said, rousing himself from his apparently dark thoughts. "By your leave."

"Of course."

She watched them out of the office, relaxing only when the door closed behind them. The notary handed her the Inquisition's copy of the marriage contract, sealing the other to be taken back to Starkhaven when the ambassadors left on the morrow. Though Jamis seemed eager enough for the marriage, and the prince had been nothing less than delightful throughout the process, the behavior of Lord Angus Mercer left her a little uneasy. She was not certain she was happy to send Anne into a city where the allegiance of many of the noble was so fluid.

"Don't look so dour, Josie."

Josephine looked up, almost laughing to find Anne standing in her office once again. Apparently there hadn't been anything the Inquisitor needed to do in the war room; she had just needed an escape.

"I am a little disturbed by Lord Mercer's attitude," she confessed to the Inquisitor.

"The Mercers are known for their love of battle and conflict," Anne reminded her. "No doubt he has business prospects that would be greatly improved if Kirkwall was brought down. But he is not the only noble in Starkhaven, Josie. There are plenty of others like Jamis, I am sure."

"And are you sure this is what you want?" Josephine asked, needing to hear her say it again.

Anne sighed, looking over at the window. Her expression was unreadable, except to those who knew her, and Josephine did know her. She was sad and tired, and in need of a haven to call home.

"No matter what I choose, I will always be what the people have decided to believe me to be," the blonde woman said quietly. "In Starkhaven, I can make use of it to improve matters in the Free Marches. Varric needs an ally in that city, and I can be that. It isn't as though I have another home to go to, Josie."

"You could come to Antiva with me," Josephine reminded her. "Varric would make provision for you in Kirkwall. Divine Victoria would go out of her way to see you settled and cared for, wherever you chose."

"And I love you all for that," Anne said, offering her weary smile to her friend. "But none of that would change the fact that I am very much alone in the world now. In marriage, I can at least make a friend of my husband, and through him, I will have children. I won't be lonely anymore."

"Oh, Anne ..."

Josephine moved to her, tucking an arm about her friend's waist in a fond, understanding embrace.

"If he does not love you, then he is not the man I believe him to be," she said fiercely. "For all his mistakes, Sebastian Vael has passion and warmth to share with the right woman. He has chosen you, and I believe he has chosen well. I cannot help but hope that you will be happy with him."

"That would be lovely," Anne admitted with a faint chuckle. "But I would settle for companionable friendship with my husband. He has promised me a home, Josie, and you know that's what I need. If I can help my friends at the same time, that is simply a marvelous bonus for me."

She turned, hugging Josephine affectionately.

"Thank you for doing this. It means the world that someone I consider to be as close as a sister has been overseeing all the painful details."

Josephine laughed.

"If Yvette is even half as easy to marry off as you have been, I will consider myself blessed," she teased fondly. "Go and bathe. You smell terrible."

"You're such a snob about sweat, Josie," Anne countered laughingly, drawing back with a grin. "Very well, I'm going. I'll even wear a dress tonight, to please you."

"Am I really so easy to please?"

Anne grinned at her, moving away to the door into the great hall.

"Only when it comes to me and velvet."

As the door closed behind her, Josephine felt the smile slip from her face, her eyes drifting down to the marriage contract on her desk. She knew this was what Anne wanted. The prince wanted it. Even Varric supported the principle behind it. So why did it feel as though she had just sold her friend into a lifetime of danger, just for the sake of a single city?

[allisondraste]

Temperance 30/42

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:    The Grand Tourney defies Nathaniel’s expectations

Note: That’s right, y’all! We have a final chapter number (and the big 3 - 0)! I have a few notes that I wanted to make about this chapter as well.  Due to the amount of suggestion, innuendo, and things referenced in this chapter, I thought it warranted a note that there are some more mature and sexual themes explored in this chapter that I did not feel necessitated a rating change. However, I just wanted to give everyone a heads up! ^^   Also, shout out to the WoT V.2 for providing me with the excellent backdrop of this story (if you haven’t read Nate’s entry, I highly recommend) as well as to @daydreamingdragonage for coming up with the awesome tavern name featured here.  Finally, I just want to thank everyone for being so patient with me in updating!  November has been a hellish month with internship apps due, a draft of my dissertation due, a conference, and some personal/mental health woes that all just knocked me on my butt, but I’m back and so happy to be writing again.  I’m so grateful to all of my lovely, wonderful readers and friends.  Thanks from the bottom of my heart. 

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

[AO3 LINK]

Tantervale, 9:26 Dragon

For all that Starkhaven made Ferelden seem like a small, dirty hovel filled with unrefined brutes and barbarians, Tantervale made it seem like a land of impious sinners.  Not only was the large marcher city-state pristine and orderly, but it’s people were quiet and mild mannered. On its own, it was not a particularly beautiful place. Plain, uniform buildings stood side by side for as far as the eye could see.  The Chantry was the only exception. Decorated with stained glass and golden filigree, the building was nothing like Nathaniel had ever seen, vibrant and large as the palace in Starkhaven and as imposing as Fort Drakon’s shadow.

Down every street and every corner, Andrastian icons and images could be found, accompanied by a fully armored Templar or two, who served as city guards and watched through the slits of their helmets with vigilant eyes.  Still, the city and it’s people seemed to revel in the presence of the Grand Tourney, decorating their plain buildings with pennants of blue and gold. Citizens and guests alike danced and sang in the street as wine flowed freely. Nathaniel wondered how the Chantry felt about the influx of pleasure-seeking outsiders pouring into Tantervale, bringing their sin with them.  Then again, it was likely a profitable venture. How else would they afford to feed their chancellors to excess or erect a fiftieth marble statue of the Holy Bride of the Maker?

The sheer opulence disgusted him, and yet he was in no position to complain.  He’d only ever read about the Grand Tourney in books, or heard about them from Liss who always enthusiastically rambled about her favorite contests and competitors.  Even her emphatic descriptions did not do it justice. He wished she could be there to see it. He imagined her face lighting up with excitement as she took everything in, and  laughed as he thought about how she might slap him on the arm repeatedly as she pointed at something she did not want him to miss. He had not seen her in four years, and yet there was a big hole at his side where she belonged.  At this point, he had no hope that it’d ever be filled.  

He shook his head, attempting to refocus on the present, where he stood in the center of the festivities in Tantervale, with a new pouch of coin resting heavily in his hand.  Ser Rodolphe had given it to him after watching him compete in the Grand Melee. Nathaniel had stubbornly entered the contest with a bow as his weapon, determined to prove to his mentor how archery could be useful in close-quarters combat.  He was faster than his opponents, and managed to duck under, dodge, and evade the many clumsy attacks against him. That is, until the end.

Nathaniel typically enjoyed irony, but the Orlesian bastard that finally managed to disarm him and force him to yield bore an uncanny resemblance to his own father.  He had piercing blue eyes and a cruel smirk, and seemed to take great pleasure in disarming Nathaniel, knocking him to the ground, and holding a sword just above his throat.  Nathaniel did not enjoy that one bit.  

To his surprise, Ser Rodolphe seemed pleased with his performance -- or at least as pleased as he’d ever seen him be.  He claimed it was “entertaining” to watch him outmaneuver his opponents, and even admitted that he might have underestimated Nathaniel’s abilities.  The knight handed him a purse of coin, gave him a good-natured clap on the shoulder, and went on his way. Nathaniel remained where he stood, dumbfounded, staring at the purse in his hand with a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

It was Ben who finally drew him from his pleasant stupor, running up and throwing his arms around Nathaniel, patting him on the back with some force.  His fellow squire had grown considerably over the past two years, and he did not yet know his own strength. It reminded Nathaniel of every young mabari he’d ever met.  Fully grown, with all the excitement of a pup. It was as uplifting as it was annoying.

“Nate,” Ben shouted right near Nathaniel’s ear, before releasing him from the smothering embrace, “You were fantastic!  I was on the edge of my seat the whole time. What did Rodolphe say?”

Nate grinned and held up the coin purse by its strings, letting it swing back and forth in front of Ben’s eyes. “He said to use it wisely.”

“That means ale, yes?”  Ben fidgeted eagerly. “And food?  One of the locals was telling me about this tavern--”

“Let’s go,” Nate said, laughing and putting an arm around Ben’s shoulder.  The younger man smiled in response, and they headed back toward the center of town.  

It was early in the afternoon and many merchants from around Thedas stood at kiosks that lined the streets and squares, bringing color and life to the city.  At one of the stands, Ben found a replica of Hessarian’s Sword of Mercy that caused his eyes to glitter with youthful excitement, and Nathaniel had no choice but to purchase it for him.  He swore he saw his friend’s eyes brim with tears as he thanked him profusely.  

They continued on, but Nathaniel stalled at the site of a stand owned by a Dwarven merchant with a thick, braided beard and a doublet of bright red and gold.  On the table beside him was a series of small, mechanical music boxes that the man claimed were hand-crafted. One, in particular, caught Nathaniel’s eye. It was a tiny, bronze bronto that sparkled in the sunlight.  Twisting its tail produced a tinkling, plucky sound, and a song that Nathaniel had never heard before. Liss would have loved it, he thought, remembering all the times she’d talked to him about Dwarven culture and brontos.  He wondered if she’d gotten to “meet” one yet.

Without giving it much of a thought, he bought it, and the merchant thanked him repeatedly for his business.  Apparently the people of Tantervale and the visiting Tourney attendees were tough customers when it came to mechanical, dwarven-made music boxes. Nathaniel was happy to oblige.

“Finally,” Ben said, and pointed in the direction of a tavern straight ahead of them.  The sign that hung above the doorway featured a humble templar kneeling in front of a curvy figure wearing the robes of a Revered Mother, whose face bore an unusual, shocked expression.

“The Kneeling Knight?” Nathaniel snorted and raised his eyebrows as he followed after his friend.

“Thought you’d like that,” Ben said, turning back and winking at him. “Apparently the locals aren’t as buttoned up as they pretend to be.”

“No one is as buttoned up as they pretend to be.”

“Including you?” Ben offered his typical mischievous smile as he opened the door, motioning for Nathaniel to go in first.

“Especially me,” Nathaniel answered with a shrug, and then entered the crowded tavern.

The Kneeling Knight was a spacious tavern, with a main floor filled with many wooden tables, as well as the bar area where several barmaids an a man who appeared to be the owner worked rapidly to fill mugs and flagons and carry them to guests.  A second floor housed a few more tables as well as a balcony where a minstrel stood, performing her songs and poems.  

They pushed their way past the dense crowd of people gathered chatting and celebrating to occupy one of the few vacant tables that sat against the back wall.  Several of the other patrons pointed and stared, whispering so loudly that it could hardly be called whispering. They’d watched the melee, or so it seemed, and Nathaniel was recognized as “that Fereldan dog who nearly won.” Nearly.  He huffed, and attempted to ignore the dozens of eyes that bore into him.

“What’ll you boys be havin’ today,” chirped one of the barmaids as she bumped her hip against Nathaniel’s shoulder.  He flinched, but did his best to not look as annoyed as he felt. Ben laughed into his hand.

Offering his most charming smile, he turned his head up to face the barmaid, whose lips were painted red as blood, and offered her his entire purse.  “Whatever this buys us.”

The woman grinned mischievously, taking the pouch and tucking it down safely into the top of her dress. “Say no more, sweet thing,” she said and bumped him with her hip again.  This time he rolled his eyes.

It was not long after she left that the propositions began. Handfuls of people, person after person, most of them at least twice Nathaniel’s age approached the table, batting their eyes at him, touching his arms, making completely inappropriate remarks involving his bow and their quivers.  If his face was not red, it was missing its chance. He declined each and every one of them politely, and when the barmaid returned with the first round of ale, Nathaniel could not have downed the first tankard any faster.

“I can’t believe you sent that last one away,” Ben said after they’d finished a few rounds, “He was right handsome.  That woman too! The one with the--” he made a lewd gesture with his hands.

“Ben.”

“What?”  He offered Nathaniel a bewildered expression, foam from his last sip hanging just over his upper lip.

“They’re people, not… play things.” He grimaced and Ben seemed to notice the froth on his lip, wiping it off with the back of his arm.

“Right. Sure,” Ben answered wiggling his eyebrows. “If I were you I’d really be playing up my second place finish.”

“Second place is just another way of saying that I lost the slowest,” Nathaniel mumbled as he stared at the music box he’d sat on the table as they came in.  He didn’t know why he thought the ale would make him forget about her. It never did anything except make him numb.

“You’re impossible,” Ben prodded good-naturedly, “You’re a young, decently good-looking man who just got himself some attention.  Enjoy it, man! Live a little. Unless, of course, you’d rather pine over that Fereldan lass for the rest of your life.”

“If I wanted to talk about Liss, I would have brought her up.”  He leaned back in his seat and sighed, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “If you want me to enjoy myself, you’re doing a terrible job of helping me.”

Ben snorted.  “ You’re the one sitting in a tavern, with beautiful men and women throwing themselves at you, while you stare longingly at a toy bronto like it broke your heart.”

“Oh, piss off,” Nathaniel snapped, wishing he had something to throw at him.

“Fine, Fine,” he said, throwing up his hands.  He surrendered, but not before throwing Nathaniel a smug expression. “Here I thought that thing with the prince knocked you out of it.

“What ‘thing?’  There was no ‘thing.’”  He was lying, of course.  He and Sebastian had, in fact, had a thing.  He thought he’d been discreet enough that Ben did not know.  Clearly, he was mistaken.

Ben smirked, and shook his head. “RIght. ‘Course not.”

Nathaniel sighed and glared at the red-head, muttering. “Once.  It was one time.”

“Only because his parents forced him into the Chantry.”  His typically rosy cheeks were even rosier, as he teased.

“Ben.”

“A shame, that,” he continued, completely oblivious, “You seemed to really get on with him.”

“Ben,” Nathaniel hissed again, clenching his fists at his side.

“You could have tamed that wild boy prince for them.  No need to bother the Maker with it, really.”

Instead of speaking again, he stood and reached across the table to flick his friend forcefully right between his eyes. Ben flinched and reached up to touch the now reddened patch of skin on his forehead.  “Ow. Maker! Fine. I’ll stop.”

“Thank you,” Nathaniel muttered dryly, small smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.  Suddenly, he felt much better.

Eventually, Ben got some attention of his own, a young woman with dark eyes and porcelain skin approaching, and whispering in his ear.  He blushed, and offered her a seat next to him. He widened his eyes at Nathaniel as she looked away briefly. They exchanged a few flirtations, and wasted no time making their lips acquainted with one another, hands moving where hands shouldn’t go in public.  He had to remind himself that Ben was barely more than a boy. Still, Nathaniel was not inclined to remain at the table and watch their publicly-displayed affection. He moved to stand quietly, but staggered a bit, vision swimming. He’d nearly forgotten how much he had to drink.  Once he steadied, he made his way to the door, and out of the tavern.

He was not certain how he wound up in the middle of the archery range, only that he did, and that a skillful arrow had brushed past him, nicking his cheek slightly.  He reached up, wiping a trickle of warm blood from his face, disoriented and searching for the direction from which the arrow came. One more step, and he’d have been dead, he thought.  Or perhaps, someone else said it. It was difficult to tell. There was shouting, a woman’s voice, and a string of profanity, and he looked down to see an elven woman, as angry as she was petite standing in front of him and glowering as if she, in fact, were his size.

“Are you mad,” she shouted, Antivan accent thick on her tongue. “You could have been killed!”

Nathaniel did not answer her immediately, completely disarmed.  She was lovely, with her deep green eyes beneath furrowed brows.  Her auburn hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, rustling slightly with the wind and her own agitated movement.  The fact that she looked at him so sternly did nothing to make her any less attractive.

“Hello,” she drawled, waving a hand emphatically in front of his face.  

He shook his head and straightened his posture, hoping to regain what little dignity he could muster in his current state. “You call yourself an archer?”  

The elf flinched, clearly offended.  “What does it look like, human?”

Nathaniel looked around dramatically and shrugged before returning his gaze to meet hers.  “No offense my lady, but you seem to be a terrible shot.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, first, you missed your target by quite a bit.  And second” he slurred, holding up two fingers for emphasis, “You nearly killed a man.”

“Because that man stumbled out onto the field like some sort of confused druffalo,” she spat, shaking her head in complete disbelief.  Nathaniel should not have enjoyed it as much as he did.

“Excuses,” he teased.

“You think that you could do better?”  She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I know I could,” he replied with a smirk.

The elven woman seemed to relax at his words, and offered him a smirk of her own.  Reaching behind her head, she took an arrow from its quiver, raised her bow, nocked, and fired in one smooth motion.  The arrow flew past his head and straight on into the bullseye of the target. Nathaniel observed the arrow for a moment before meeting her lovely eyes again.

“Prove it,” she said, thrusting her bow at him and handing him an arrow.

“Very well,” he answered, bowing playfully before turning around and shooting the borrowed bow, matching her shot exactly.  He was impressed with himself, considering how his head still swam. Though he was no longer certain how much of it was from the ale, and how much of it was the prospect of a beautiful woman testing his archery mettle.  He almost wanted her to beat him.  

They spent the better part of an hour taking turns making increasingly more difficult shots, each time matching one another perfectly.  A small crowd amassed watching them and cheering, and occasionally they looked at one another exchanging smiles. It was the most fun he could recall having in years.  Eventually, they tired, and decided to call it a draw. When they shook hands, Nathaniel found himself not wanting to let her go. Ridiculous, he knew, the workings of a disinhibited mind.  He did not even know her name.

“I am Erina,” she announced, as if reading his mind, “And that was… impressive.”

Nathaniel chuckled.  “It is nice to officially meet your acquaintance, Lady Erina.  I am Nathaniel.”

“You flatter me,” she answered with an embarrassed laugh.

“Is it working?”  He did not know what possessed him, nor did he care.

“Perhaps.” Erina grinned playfully, then scowled at him again. “I still think you are a fool who is lucky I did not shoot him.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” he began, “A fool, that is. I do, however, feel rather lucky.  It has been my pleasure not getting shot by such a lovely, competent woman.”

She laughed gently, darting her eyes away from his quickly and looking toward the ground where she kicked the toe of her boot into the soft, grassy dirt.  After several moments passed, she looked back up at him, embarrassment gone from her features. “What are you doing this evening?”

“Nothing,” he answered quickly, though he could not shake the feeling that he was forgetting something.  “Do you have something in mind?”

Erina grinned, eyes sparkling as she took his hand and led him away from the range, and toward the outskirts of the city.  They climbed the steps that led to the top of the battlements on the walls surrounding Tantervale, green grassland extending off into the horizon.  The sun had not yet begun to set, but it hung low in the sky, and the breeze had become cool with a hint of the approaching evening.  

“So, Nathaniel,” she said as she crawled up to perch on the parapet, legs dangling over the edge. “Tell me about yourself.”

Moving forward to rest his elbows beside her on the parapet, not trusting his current balancing abilities to keep him from falling to his death, he asked, “What would you like to know?”

“Everything,” she answered.

Nathaniel obliged.  They spent the next several hours talking, sharing stories of their troubled pasts.  He told her of his childhood and his strained relationship with Father, of the Couslands and their hospitality.  He explained how he’d been forced into a squireship in Starkhaven, but had not hated it as much as he expected. He even complained affectionately about Ben and Ser Rodolphe.  In turn, Erina told him her own story, about how she’d grown up in an Alienage in Antiva City, and trained to become a Crow, one of the infamous assassins known for their skill and ruthlessness.  She’d been disappointed when they turned her down, and so she left, hoping to find mercenary work to help her family get by.

“Why did the Crows reject you,” Nathaniel asked, “I can’t imagine that it was lack of skill.”

“They said that I was too headstrong and compassionate.” Erina chuckled. “Not exactly what one looks for in an assassin.”

“Perhaps not,” he said with a laugh of his own.  Thankfully, the effects of the ale had begun to dissipate, and his thoughts came more clearly. “But they are desirable qualities for...other things.”

Erina turned abruptly to face him, smirking. “Yes? Like what, exactly?”

Nathaniel could not bring himself to answer, instead holding her gaze for what could have been an eternity.  It was an odd sensation, he thought, to be so ridiculously attracted to someone he’d just met, so drawn to her that only a few hours left him hoping he could see her again.  Catching himself staring at her for entirely too long, noticing the knowing smile that continued to twitch on her lips, he shook his head and looked out over the city.

“It is starting to get dark,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Is the big brave archer afraid of the dark?” She elbowed him.

“Not exactly, but I am just unfamiliar enough with the area, and just drunk enough that I do not trust myself to find my way back to the inn in one piece.”

“Then, I shall escort you,” Erina remarked cheerfully.

“You don’t have to--”

“I do.”  Her words were serious as they left her lips, and he found himself unwilling to argue.  

By the time they made it to the inn where he had been staying, the sun had set completely, stars twinkling brightly against the dark sky above.  Erina entered with him, and he was glad to see that the inn was much more subdued than the tavern had been. He was grateful that Rodolphe and Ben still seemed to be absent as they would both no doubt tease him relentlessly for his drunken escapades.  He was not certain if he intended to tell them.  

“This is me,” Nathaniel stated softly, somberly as he pointed to his room.

“Oh,” Erina replied, tone resonating similarly to his. “Good.”

“I have had a lovely time,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head, “Much lovelier than I’ve been allowing myself to hope for.”

She smiled brightly.  “Me too.”

Silence stretched on for eternity between them, as Nathaniel searched for the proper words to say.  Finally, he found them. “Listen, I apologize for being so forward earlier. I was --”

He was not able to finish his apology, as Erina’s lips found their way to his, soft yet powerful, just as everything else about her seemed to be.  He stumbled, back bumping into the door so that he was flush against it. With as much force as she had given him, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him more closely, bending down to deepen the kiss, breathing in sharply as their tongues met, as if it were his first breath in years.  Perhaps it was. Reaching behind him, Nathaniel turned the door knob and pushed open the door with his back, pulling Erina into the dark room with him. He caught a glimpse of her glittering smile in the light from the hallway just as she kicked the door closed behind her.

Nathaniel awoke to a pounding at the door, sunlight flickering directly through the closed curtains and into his eyes.  Ben’s voice was muffled through the wooden door, calling his name repeatedly, Nathaniel’s head throbbing with each word, and again with each knock.  He’d definitely had too much to drink, without question. Never again, he promised, massaging his temples as he turned to get out of bed. It was only then that he realized he was naked.  His pulse quickened as he could hear Ben fiddling with the door knob.

“Shit.  Erina,” He muttered and then turned over to where he expected her to be in the bed, but she was nowhere to be found.   Had he imagined the entire night before? Had it been some ridiculous drunken dream? His heart sank at the thought, but he did not have time to be sad, and rushed back into bed, pulling the coverlet and sheets up over his head just as been burst through the door.

“Nate,” he shouted and tugged the covers down from off his head, “There you are.  Rodolphe’s been looking all over the place for you. Said he wants to know what you thought of his joust.”

“What,” Nathaniel asked hoarsely, squinting his eyes in the still unwelcome light.

“You did go to his joust, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” he lied in his most annoyed tone.

“I didn’t,” Ben said, laughing mischievously, “Unlike you, I actually had a good time last night.”

Just as Ben finished his sentence, a petite figure emerged from the bath area of the room, auburn hair a disheveled mess, and clad in Nathaniel’s shirt.  “Hey, Nathaniel I --”

She froze as she saw Ben, eyes darting nervously between the red-headed stranger and Nathaniel.  A wide grin slowly stretched its way across the young man’s face, eyebrows raising so high up on his forehead they might as well have flown away.

“Ben,” Nathaniel snapped, pointing to the hallway, “Out.”

“Nate, you dog ,” Ben exclaimed excitedly, unmoving from his spot in the middle of the room.

Nathaniel glanced over at Erina, who smiled, and brought her hand up to cover her mouth.  Thank the Maker she did not seem embarrassed. “Ben. Out,” he repeated, “Now.”

“Oh, right.  Sorry,” he answered, flustered, clambering to leave the room and close the door behind him.

Once he was gone, Nathaniel sat up on the edge of the bed, so that his feet touched the cool stone floor, and brought his hands to his face.  He sighed as he attempted to scrub away the remnants of sleep and hide any evidence of his shame. The bed moved beneath him and there was a warmth at his side, a weight on his shoulder, and he dropped his hands and looked to see Erina, leaning against him.

“So that’s Ben,” she remarked cheerfully, turning her face up to look at him, smiling.

“That’s Ben,” he sighed again.

She shrugged.  “He seems… enthusiastic.”

“You have no idea.” Nathaniel laughed, trying his damndest to not stare at the woman.  She was even more beautiful than she’d seemed the night before. He was relieved he had not simply dreamed her up.

“I hope I get to know him better,” Erina stated, returning  her head to its spot on his shoulder.  

“Me too,” he said as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her more closely to him, his eyes fixated on the dresser at the far end of the room, where a small, bronze music box sat alone.  “Me, too.”

[tellmevarric]

A Change Of Mind

Warnings for minor mention of withdrawal and some mild intimacy. No sex.

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

“Well. Yell, scream, say something, anything.”

Maxwell’s chin jutted out defiantly as he waited for Cullen’s reply. For his part, Cullen sighed and scrubbed his face with both hands.

“Inquisitor…” He swallowed and looked down at the work on his desk. He wasn’t really seeing it, he just needed another moment to try and pull together the thoughts Maxwell had scattered to the four winds. “What I said before, in Haven…”

“You meant it,” Maxwell said, clenching his jaw and trying to ignore the lump growing in his throat.

“Yes,” Cullen replied then he shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, I meant it back then. Inquisitor… Maxwell… I wasn’t in a good place back then. You… you know why.”

Maxwell frowned. “What do you mean?” His eyes widened. “Wait… the lyrium?”

Cullen sighed and nodded. “I was still… Lyrium…” His shoulders sagged and he licked his lips. “Lyrium use, the way the Templars take it… it dulls certain senses. Between the withdrawal and the… the recovery of those senses, I was…” He smiled in a self-deprecating manner. “A mess. One who was apparently doing a very good job of not appearing that way on the surface.”

Maxwell felt the now familiar concern for Cullen rear up. “But you’re okay now?”

Cullen’s smile turned wry. “Mostly. The… the worst of it is over, at least.”

“So…” Maxwell began then found himself unable to continue.

“So, the answer I gave you back then...” Cullen drew in a breath and let it out again. “Is no longer correct.”

It took Maxwell a moment to parse his way through that and when he did, he felt hope flare within him. “You mean…?”

Cullen pulled off his gloves and dropped them onto his desk. He stepped around the desk and came to stand in front of Maxwell where he was positioned in the middle of the room. He raised a hand and cupped Maxwell’s cheek.

“I mean that if I… I haven’t lost my chance, I’d… I’d like another opportunity to answer that question.”

Maxwell leaned into Cullen’s touch. He then laughed softly. “I can’t even remember precisely what I asked back then.”

Cullen smiled as well. “I think you wanted to know if there could be anything between us.”

“And can there?”

Cullen nodded then leaned forward. “Yes.” He closed the gap and kissed him.

Maxwell made a soft sound and pressed into the kiss. He didn’t have much experience with this and he was afraid it showed. If it did, Cullen didn’t seem to mind and from the way he kissed, he certainly had more experience than Maxwell did. He didn’t realise that Cullen had been moving them backwards until his back hit the wood of one of the doors. He gasped into Cullen’s mouth when he suddenly had every inch of the Commander’s body pressed against his own. He pulled Cullen closer then gasped for another, less pleasant reason.

He tore his mouth away. “Cullen,” he gasped.

Cullen made an indistinct noise as he shifted his attention to kissing his way along Maxwell’s jawline. Maxwell melted a bit at that before he remembered why he’d stopped kissing the other man.

“Your armour,” he managed.

Cullen pulled away a little. “What about it?”

“It has to go,” Maxwell demanded. “It’s very pokey.”

Cullen looked down at his cuirass then chuckled softly. “It’s kind of meant to be.”

Maxwell scowled and reached for the straps. “We’re not on a battlefield right now, Cullen, and I want to be able to kiss you without being poked by random pieces of metal.”

Cullen’s smile was something that Maxwell wanted to see over and over again. “That can be arranged.”

It took a little more work than normal since Maxwell kept sneaking his fingers under the metal and distracting Cullen but soon enough, the furred coat was tossed back onto the desk and the various bits of armour Cullen wore lay scattered at their feet. Maxwell thought Cullen looked smaller and far gentler without his armour and he liked that.

“Better?” Cullen asked.

Maxwell nodded, eager now to get back to the kissing. “Much.”

“Good.”

Maxwell only had enough time to see the glint in Cullen’s eyes before he suddenly found himself being lifted up and pressed back against the door again. He wrapped his legs around Cullen’s waist almost by instinct and bit back a moan and a shudder at the feeling of the man he’d loved almost since the first time he’d set eyes on him being pressed so intimately against him.

“Maxwell?”

He blinked and realised that Cullen had said his name more than once. “M’okay,” he hurriedly assured him. He blushed. “Just… never really done this before.”

Cullen blinked and would have pulled back if Maxwell hadn’t wrapped himself around the man more tightly. “You’ve never…”

“Well, not never,” Maxwell admitted. “Just… not like this. You know what Circles are like.”

A complicated expression settled on Cullen’s face for a moment before he smiled wryly. “That I do.”

“But this is good,” Maxwell said eagerly. “Very, very good.”

The amusement that now grew on Cullen’s face was fond and happy and Maxwell’s somewhat addled mind thought that happy looked very good on Cullen.

“Perhaps I can make it a bit better,” Cullen said with a confidence that Maxwell adored and wanted to keep to himself.

Cullen rocked  his hips a little and Maxwell’s eyes practically rolled back in his head. He moaned and then hauled Cullen in so he could kiss him some more. Neither of them heard the door to the battlements open.

“Reports from Sister Nightinga-ahhh! I’m going, I didn’t see anything, nothing is happening here.”

Cullen turned his head just in time to see the door close again behind Jim. He sighed and let his forehead fall down onto Maxwell’s shoulder. “Well, it’ll be all over Skyhold by morning,” he said ruefully.

Maxwell bit his bottom lip. “Do you mind?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer to that question.

Cullen raised his head and let him see that rueful tone extended to his smile. “Well, I’m not a fan of my personal life being fodder for gossips but I’m not going to change my mind, Maxwell.”

Maxwell let out a relieved breath. “Good.” He was then very confused when Cullen slowly lowered him and let him get his feet underneath him. “What… Cullen?”

“Let’s take this upstairs,” Cullen said gesturing towards the ladder. “That way we won’t be interrupted.”

Maxwell’s eyes widened at the implication and he nearly tripped over Cullen’s armour in his haste to get to the ladder. Cullen’s laughter chased him as he climbed and he could hear the man collecting his armour and setting it on the desk. He then followed Maxwell up to the loft and pulled him into his arms again.

“Can we go back to what we were doing?” Maxwell blurted out. “I liked that.”

Cullen blushed and ducked his head for a moment then Maxwell let out a yelp as he was lifted up again and carried backwards until his back hit the stone wall.

“Like this?” Cullen asked, leaning in.

Maxwell nodded happily and pulled Cullen back into the kisses he liked so much.

[padme4000writes]

Fictober 3.“Now? Now you listen to me?” Rating: T

Pairing: Alistair x GN!Reader

Fandom: Dragon Age Origins

Wordcount: 1,644

Rating: T

Tal-vashoth mage reader.

Summary: You were always told to hide you are, to wear a hat to hide your horns. You understood why but hoped that the one person you cared for would accept you. On the eve of Battle you wonder if you'll ever see him again.

I know the line is used at the end, that is actually what I started with but then decided to write the before. As I just felt like it was a very Morrigan thing to say.

You were different, that much was clear from the get go. But you had learnt from those who raised you to hide your differences. So when the Grey Wardens recruited you, you felt like maybe that could be the start of letting people see you for you. Yet they still asked you to hide the things that defined who you were.

You might scare the locals or worse cause them to become hostile. That's what they always told you. You understood that, but you had to do it even in camp just in case you also had to hide that side of your life. 

You should be proud of who you are, yet everyone made you feel otherwise. That was until he joined up. He would look at the oddly shaped hat, and wonder what made you like it so much. When in truth it was there to hide the things you use to love. 

Then it happened, they appeared. The human of higher birth. The eyes you so adored looked elsewhere. No longer did your odd hat and odd personality hold his interest, or maybe it was just his nice personality wanting to help this newcomer. Or the simple fact he was ordered to guide them.

But you still couldn’t help but think that this pretty noble had caught his attention beyond that. So you watched sullenly as they got closer, as he laughed. Cursing the day you ever listened to anyone for telling you to hold back, telling you not to show who you really are. It was a miracle you never got caught by Templars and then you began to fall for an ex Templar. 

And still they told you to hide, even though with being a Grey Warden they had no standing to take you in as an Apostate. Though the truth of the fact was that being a mage was not their main concern. The main concern had always been and always be what you hid under the hat. 

And later the helm that hid the truth by showing the truth as part of the armours aesthetics. 

You knew that not everyone liked your kind, or what they represented. You had seen how the elves were treated and still are treated. Whenever anyone saw the points of your ears they just assumed the hat was to try and hide them, and that you were tall for an elf. Little did they know you were and are a Tal-Vashoth. Something they did not like due to looking like those under the Qun. 

A sigh left your lips as you continued to check the weapons for the upcoming battle. Later at night, he approached you first telling you of his day. His Ventures in the Korcari Wilds and his meeting with a Witch of the Wilds. When he came to the final piece of information, likely the main reason for him coming to talk to you. “Can you believe it? They don’t want me on the front lines.”

A raised eyebrow was all the answer you gave him, you had your theories on why that was the case. A certain blond king with similar features being the big key point in your theory. There were too many similarities for them not to be related in some form or another. 

“Well?”

Another raised eyebrow, “Well, what?”

“Can you believe it?”

You nod a small smile lighting up your face, “Yes I can, and I’m pretty sure you know deep down the reasoning.” It was a test, one he failed when he froze and his eyes widened. You shook your head, “Your secret is safe with me, friend. But it would take a fool not to notice the similarities when seeing you both in such close quarters.” You stand, towering over the man who held your heart without any knowledge of the fact. You placed a hand on his shoulder, “But I did not know completely if my theory was true until now.”

“Oh.”

His embarrassment was endearing, “Promise me something?” When he said nothing you continued, “Don’t ever play Wicked Grace, you will fail miserably.” From the sag of his shoulders you realise he had likely thought you were going to say something much more serious. 

You begin to walk away when his hand on your arm stops you, “Thank you.” He clears his throat before saying, “Look after yourself tomorrow and don’t hold back.” Instead he was being the serious one.

Then it was him who walked away, not you. You watched as his figure faded into the night. A heavy weight settling in your stomach, the thought that this may be the last time you lay eyes on him weighing on you heavily as you go prepare for the morning.

Don’t hold back. Did he know?

Then morning came. Then they came. 

Your eyes drifted towards the tower you knew he would be going to, hoping it would instill some strength. Then you turned towards the oncoming storm, letting your hat fly off. The metal of your horns glinting in the morning light as you twirl your staff as if you were dancing, slamming it into ground. Watching as your magic takes effect. 

You would fight till the end if it meant he would get more time in the tower to light the beacon. The fight was getting horrendous, two others you had befriended were getting surrounded so you lit their foes up in flames after casting a shield for them. Rushing to them, "Hawkes, are you okay?"

They both nodded, looking at the grim sights around them. You would live this day and while the Battle was lost, the war against this blight was yet to happen.

When you reached Lothering you helped the Hawkes prepare to leave but when they'd leave you would not follow.

You were back to wearing disguises, helping anyone you could while you waited in hopes he had survived. A few days had passed and there he was. You just stood off to the side of the Qunari Sten when you spotted him. He was with the noble and a witch of the wilds by the looks of it. Maybe the one he had told you about? 

The Qunari made you uncomfortable, he had you pegged in minutes of you trying to talk to  him. Which just made you even more uncomfortable. In fact he was still glaring at you. That being the only reason they looked in your direction. 

Before you or anyone could do anything you had a human practically leap at you, wrapping you in their arms.

Due to being taller you rested your head on top of theirs. Heart wrenching at the heartbreaking sounds he was making at finding someone he cared about alive and well.

You hugged him back, never wanting to let go. You saw the mages face of disgust and glared when she opened her mouth to likely say something snarky going by the look on her face. Surprisingly she stopped, raising an eyebrow at your protectiveness.

But then she turned to the noble, who then exclaimed, "They're a what?"

Now he pulled away looking at them then you. A sigh left your lips. Glancing at the Qunari behind them half expecting it was him who told the witch of the wilds. 

"It was me not your Qunari friend who told me what you are."

It was your turn to raise an eyebrow. "He is no friend of mine. He follows the Qun and would see my kind used or dead." He had made that abundantly clear. Labelling you Saarebas. You knew what the Qun did to mages. No thank you.

"Tal-vashoth? Interesting." You glanced at her again. "I am Morrigan and you are?"

"Not amused." You hear a snort from beside you and look at him. Expecting disgust or even hatred. None of it. He was smiling at you and then frowned in concern.

"You knew?" The noble had apparently worked out what you couldn't. "Well, Alistair?"

It was his turn to look a tad sour. "Of course I knew, I didn't tell you as it wasn't my place. That and judging by your reaction it was a good choice."

He was getting defensive for you. He knew and was defending you. This man had no idea what he was doing to your heart. 

The noble sighs, "I do not mind what they are Alistair but a heads up would have been preferable." They nod to you, "I expect you'll be joining us?"

You couldn't help but notice the pleading look in his eyes. He thought you wouldn't? You had a job to do as a Grey Warden. A duty you didn't take lightly. 

You also vowed to keep him safe. "I would not leave your side." You told him while looking him directly in the eyes. Ignoring the sound of disgust from Morrigan. Smiling when you noticed his cheeks flush.

He glanced at the others who were now talking to the Sten. Then he looked at you arm raising and his hand going to the back of his neck in what you assumed was a nervous mannerism. His cheeks flushing once more as he looked at you, "And I you."

The Tal-vashoth Grey Warden mage and the human Grey Warden ex Templar.

It was then you heard Morrigan shout at the Mabari, "Now? Now you listen to me!" You smiled thinking you were going to quite like being around all these people. Frowning at the Sten. Well almost everyone. 

A hand taking yours made the frown fall from your face as a smile was sent your way from the one person you cared for most. Yes all that had led  you here was worth it. And maybe just maybe this would be the start of accepting who you are and letting others accept it too.

[alqanas-blog1]

My thoughts on Ertugrul S:1

So I finished watching the first season of Dirilis: Ertugrul a few days ago and i’m a couple of episodes in season 2 already and i just wanted to write down my thoughts about the first season. before i forgot them! I was just reflecting on how i started watching this show and how I was so omg too many episodes!!! and yet i still watched and still am right now, because it’s just that good. anyway, first season was good. 

We got to see the beginnings, by being introduced to the Kayi tribe and Suleyman Shah and Hayme Ana 

and then their children or rather their sons, Gundogdu, Ertugrul and Dundar. 

There’s Sungartenkin too but he’s just mentioned because he apparently went missing during the Mongol wars and his mother still believes he’s alive even though it’s been years. I have a feeling he’s going to make an appearance in later seasons though.Then there’s the adopted daughters, Selcan and Gokce. With Selcan being married to Gundogdu. 

The interesting thing was despite Selcan being brought up by the family, she has her own vendetta against them since Suleyman Shah killed her father who was also his blood brother. So most of the evil plots that befall the tribe were orchestrated by her and Suleyman Shah’s other blood brother Kurdoglu - who just wanted to be lord of the tribe because envy is a powerful motivator. Selcan was cunning and underestimated because she was a woman and as Kurdoglu said if she had been born a man she would have been frightening to stop.  But she also goes through her own little transformation around the end where she repents for her ways and turns a new leaf. Sad thing though is those closest to her namely her husband and sister and who had been hurt by her the most don’t give her the chance to “be good” by just avoiding her altogether. As one of the inner villains who later turned good, i liked her immensely. She made me hate her with all the plotting she was doing and later feel sorry for her when no one was giving her a chance.

Meanwhile, poor Gokce is portrayed as this little meek, lovesick girl who has her eye on Ertugrul but he doesn’t even see her (except as being a little sister to him) but Selcan fills her younger sister’s head with thoughts that she should and will get married to him and be the lady of the tribe. Much to Ertugrul’s annoyance even if he doesn’t know of the full extent the brainwashing Selcan’s doing to her sister. 

Conversely, I really loved Ertugrul’s alps though and their beautiful comradeship; Turgut, Dogan and Bamsi. With Bamsi being my favourite after Turgut because of his mannerisms and wild behaviour. He was also something of comic relief during certain serious moments. 

Turgut and what happened to him with the Templars although being long and somewhat annoyingly boring helped shape his character more and kudos to the actor who showed us the difference between “drugged” Judas and actual Turgut. Badass ax-man, Turgut was awesome when he recovered once again.

Then there’s a little love thing going on between him and Aykis who is the blacksmith Dil Demir’s daughter. 

Aykis’ character in the start was lovely with the way she was welcoming of Halime Sultan who ends up being Ertugrul love interest. Once Halime and her father and brother come to the tribe is when problems emerge for the Kayi tribe, as Selcan more than once mentioned. Aykis is one of the only people who took Halime in and the bond that grew between them was delightful to watch until we reach later episodes and nice and welcoming Aykis turns into mean and vengeful Aykis because of Turgut being taken hostage by the Templars and she even releases her venom on her once friend Halime and much to her dismay too. But because of that time and shift in her character, we also got to see how badass she is with her archery skills and apparently sword fighting too. To which Dil Demir mentioned in passing how she had been taught by her brothers while growing up.

My all time favourite has to be Suleyman Shah in the first season and even his passing at the end of the season had me tearing up because of attached I’d grown to him. He was that warm, loving father that everyone would want to have but was also firm and strict when he had to be. And his death in the river was the best scene for me, what a peaceful way for him to go with his sons holding him and a smile on his face. I also liked how they showed Hayme way over at the tribe getting these premoniations of her husband’s death despite him already telling her before he left that he may not make it back alive. So the moment he passed away, she knew and bid him farewell as well. That was a good symbolic show of their bond. 

I didn’t like how they made the Ayyubid El Aziz in Halab seem like a clueless idiot who needed someone to rule for him when he was supposed to be the grandson of Salahuddin Ayubi. He was a total failure of a poet, that was weak and liked women and Ertugrul even insults him to his face that he’s such a weak man that can’t take care of his own kingdom. How he also just suddenly fell in love with an ailing Halime was kinda dumb too.

The other thing I didn’t like was how Halime’s strong willed Seljuk Sultan father gave up at the end and allowed himself to be manipulated because he just “couldn’t take it anymore”. So when both Halime and Yigit were giving him such disapproving looks I was so with them. Then he gets killed off by his own once guard because, dude, you’ve strayed and you need to stop NOW! 

All in all, season one was action packed and enjoyable but good grief does season two make all the trouble the Kayi and those characters go through seem like an absolute stroll in the park. The Templars are nothing compared to how savage and ruthless the Mongols are and we get to see that right in the beginning of the first episode. 

[meararutherford]

I like to think of Dorian as my Inquisitor’s soul mate, they are always looking out for each other. Although, he really likes Cullen he wants him to know he loves Meara too and he is watching him. 

The door to Cullen’s office swung open and Dorian walked into the room. “Good Morning Commander.”

“Did we have a game I forgot about?” Cullen didn’t think he would forget, but after last night he was still cleaning up his office and couldn’t remember much except falling asleep tangled with Meara.

Dorian crossed the room and sat on the edge of the desk, “No, do you have a moment?”

“Of course, I am just tidying up a bit, things got a little crazy when we returned from Adamant Fortress last night.” Cullen felt a blush start to pink his cheeks and hoped it wasn’t overly apparent.

“That is what I was hoping to talk to you about.” Dorian’s tone went somewhat flat and his brow furrowed.

Cullen stopped shuffling the papers he was trying to stack and sat down. “I see, what is on your mind?” He hoped this was about something that had happened in Adamant, although he had a feeling this was of a more personal nature. His hand immediately went to rub the back of his neck, a tell tale sign he was uncomfortable.

“Cullen, I don’t have many people I am close to and I would like to consider us friends.” Dorian began to pace across the room on the other side of the desk. Cullen noticed a few small bits of broken glass and a dried puddle of wine on the floor. He recalled last night with Meara on his desk, her shirt undone, his armor thrown to the side and his hands caressing her soft skin as he kissed her. It was all he could do to focus on what Dorian was trying to say to him.

Dorian cleared his throat trying to snap Cullen out of his daydream, “As I was saying…” the mage looked annoyed at this point. “You know that Meara and I are close.”

Cullen started to pay more attention curious where this was going. He knew that Dorian and Meara were close but had never considered it being more than a friendship. “I know that she is quite fond of you as well.” he managed to sound somewhat neutral, although he was growing concerned.

“There have been whispers about the two of you around Skyhold for some time now. I know she came to see you last night, I also know she didn’t leave until this morning.” Dorian’s voice took an accusatory tone and he stopped to stand almost in front of Cullen.

Cullen’s mouth went dry, he felt like a reprimanded chantry boy, what was he supposed to say. He swallowed hard and decided he should listen not speak for fear of what might come out.

“You should know that I consider her more than a friend. In fact, in another time I might well think of her as much more than a friend.” Dorian’s expression changed and for a moment he looked hurt.

“Dorian, I didn’t know you had feelings like this for Meara.” He leaned out to the edge of his seat, “I would never have pursued a relationship with her had I known you felt so strongly.” He stood and started to walk towards the bookcase, turning back to face Dorian. “I don’t want to be at odds with you Dorian, but I love her. I have never felt this way with anyone before and I am not going to just give that up.” The words poured out of him along with a release of tension and a bit of remorse at the idea of this causing hurt feelings.

Dorian’s eyes grew narrow and his posture became rigid, “You love her?” He stood and took a step closer to Cullen.

Cullen braced, for what he wasn’t sure. Certainly, Dorian would not hit him or blast him with magic, would he? How serious were his feelings for Meara? Did she know about this? How was he going to explain it to her if a fight broke out between them?

He stood his ground, although he did not want it to come to a fight he was not going to just back down either. His feelings for Meara had grown too much and he couldn’t imagine the idea of stepping away, especially when he knew she felt the same way.

“So, your feelings are so strong that you are willing to fight for her?” Dorian was almost in his face.

“Dorian, we are friends I don’t want this to be an issue between us. I would like to think we can settle this without it coming to blows.” Cullen tried to relax his stance while still keeping his guard up. “I told you, I love her, I can not imagine a life without her in it. I do not want to fight with you. It would hurt Meara, she holds you dear and I love her too much to hurt her.”

Dorian stepped up closing the gap between the two of them. “Good man!” his manner completely changed. “I do love Meara, she is an amazing woman. However, I do not love her in that particular way. After she spent the night with you I knew the whispers and rumors were true. I needed to make sure you had her best interests in mind, and that you knew I do too.”

Cullen shook his head, “What!?”

Dorian leaned in almost nose to nose with Cullen, “I like you, consider you a friend as well, but hurt Meara or break her heart and there are not enough Templars in Thedas to save your leather clad ass from my magic. Got it?”

Cullen was confused and relieved at the same time. “You have to know I would never do anything to hurt…”

Just then Meara popped her head in the door to his office, “Cullen I forgot I left my….Dorian?” She stepped into the office and noticed a bit of tension between the two men. “Are my two favorite men playing nice?”

The two of them looked at each other then took a step back and smiled at Meara, “Absolutely!”

[ladydracarysao3]

Nemesis of Neglect: A Dragon Age & Jack the Ripper Tale

Chapter Two

Disclaimer This is a canon divergent Dragon Age and True Crime mash-up of Kirkwall, and London’s notorious Jack the Ripper. It is a tale not for the faint of heart, but rather for the reader who wishes to ride a thrilling mystery of sex, deception, and murder.

[Read Chapter Two on AO3]  or  [Start with the Prologue]

Chapter Two

Hours filled with the sounds of Leandra and Carver mourning turn slowly throughout the day. Silently, Ian sits in her home and listens to her mother berate her and blame her for Bethany’s demise. Ian hasn’t the strength to object, in fact, she agrees. So, she listens and takes every hurtful word her mother cries, absorbing each one into her burden. Building blocks to strengthen her revenge. Steam to power her hate, both at herself and at Kirkwall.

Eventually, late in the evening, her mother loses the energy to continue and retires to her bedroom. All who reside in the house follow suit, and Ian lies awake in her bed, listening to the soft sobs coming from her mother’s room.

She stares at the top of her bed’s crimson canopy. She watches lights and shadows move along her stone walls, ghostly shapes haunting her from large bedroom windows. She listens to the low cracks of the wood in her small hearth after the sounds of her mother give way to exhaustion and sleep.

Death to conjurers.

The evil words repeat in her mind.

There are those who exhibit a talent in the conjuring of magic. The practice, whether natural to the person or not, is strictly forbidden by both governmental law and the law of the Maker. Those who are devout are especially zealous against anyone who may attempt at using their conjuring abilities, and the common people as a whole tend to view it as an evil and vile practice.

The self-righteous men Carver has involved himself with are some of those who think they fight against wickedness by hunting and imprisoning conjurers. Victims are rarely heard from or seen again, and those who do come back from the Templar’s hold are never the same people they once were.

The order is an unofficial, though widely accepted, special branch of the Chantry. The Chantry does not formally lay claim to the Templars, however it is one of those unspoken truths that everyone knows and most accept, even support.

Ian is not one of those supporters. She views them as a group of thugs acting as illegal enforcement for a religion. A view that was instilled in her since childhood by her father. For the reason her mother and father fled Kirkwall to begin with - where the gang of Templars is most cherished and rampant - was due to the fact that Malcolm Hawke was one of those souls who naturally took to magic. His resistance to religious persecution caused him to flee, his loving young bride in tow.

It made sense that Bethany would have inherited their father’s abilities, but she never spoke of it. Ian knew that she, too, held some talent for conjuring. However, while her father fled in order to practice his beliefs, he discouraged it from his children. To amplify or use one’s abilities was to risk one’s life. Dangerous, addictive, and highly guarded substances were sometimes involved, and Malcolm did his best to shield his children from the knowledge.

Malcolm used his own abilities far from home, often leaving to perform feats for both shady and legitimate organizations alike. He wanted a different life for his children, and he explained early on to Ian that while he saw potential within her, he wished for her to pursue a more normal way of life.

Funny how the wishes of parents work out for their offspring.

Ian followed her father’s wishes for the most part, in that course anyway. She never cared much to dabble in magic and worked on her other skills instead. She never assumed her siblings conjured, either. They never spoke of it. It was never a topic the family discussed at the dinner table. Instead, Ian held fast to ideals that opposed the Chantry and left it at that.

To think that Bethany could have been involved in magic, conjuring, bending the laws of physics with others like her… in the shadows of Lowtown…

Ian is aware of pockets, or perhaps covens, of people who practice in secret.

But Bethany?

If true, Ian knows less of her sister than she had ever imagined.

As dawn crests the smoky horizon over Hightown’s billowing black chimneys, Ian feels her mind returning. She has questions, and she’s found her voice to demand them answered.

It does not take her long to dress and storm to the city center. The Viscount’s Keep had barely unlocked its doors by the time Ian slams them open. A smattering of guardsmen and townspeople stand in the grand hall, most of whom stare wide-eyed at Ian as she marches past, startled by her loud and commanding entrance. Albeit, she has bloodlust in her eyes, there are still those in the city who find it hard not to stare when they see a woman in trousers walk by.

Quickly scaling the red carpeted marble steps at the end of the opulent hall, Ian veers toward Aveline’s office. Upon arrival, she does not knock, she does not announce herself, she whips the door open with such force that it slams into the wall making the office windows rattle.

“Why is my sister dead?” Ian demands, fists slamming onto Aveline’s large oak desk. “I want answers, Aveline.”

“Hawke,” Aveline says, slowly raising her eyes from the papers in front of her. Unlike the windowpanes, Aveline is not at all startled by the way Ian entered. It was not the first time Ian’s paraded through the keep in such a manner, in fact, it is her tendency.

The Guard Captain sighs and rubs her forehead with tense fingers. “I’m trying to figure that out.”

“Death to conjurers? What is that about, Bethany never mentioned--”

“I’m sorry to say, your sister was part of a group, a cult maybe. It seems she had magical talent that she kept secret.”

Ian slumps into a chair opposite Aveline’s desk. “Do you have any leads?”

“Unfortunately, hers was not the first murder of this nature,” Aveline admits with a drop to her shoulders.

“What are you saying, there have been others?”

“One. A man. Cut in a similar fashion with the same writing over his body.”

“Why hadn’t I heard of this, Aveline?” Ian shouts.

“Hawke, you of all people know that murder is no strange fate for those who haunt Lowtown. I had hoped it was an isolated incident. I kept the details hush in an attempt to not start a stir, or inspire others to be as gruesome.”

“And this man, he was also a conjurer? Are there other similarities?”

“Both had the message, both had their throats cut, and…” Aveline pauses and avoids eye contact.

“Tell me.”

“You no doubt noticed Bethany’s stomach. I received word from the medical examiner that… Oh, Hawke, I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, fingers once again finding purchase on the forehead that clearly plagues her with pain. “They took her womb.”

“Her womb? They took…” Ian’s voice trails off. That familiar sick feeling possesses her stomach. She feels the color leave her face, but she presses on with her questions, though her voice asks them in a weakened state. “What does that have to do with the man, or magic?”

“He had been castrated. I think it is another message of the killer’s. Even more gruesome than the writing.”

Ian ponders for a moment before her realization softly leaves her lips. “Reproduction. Eliminate conjurers entirely...”

“I’m afraid there will be more. So far, what we know is that he must be intelligent. Well-educated or with access, for him to have an understanding of anatomy, and also I think he works alone. He is either strong enough to quickly overtake his victims, or perhaps he lures them willingly. I cannot be sure which.” She pauses and watches Ian for a moment. “I want to keep this hush, Hawke. I do not want copycats or hysteria to strike our streets. I need to work this right. I have my best men going through the evidence, and I’ve been reviewing it constantly, trying to connect the dots. This all needs to be done above board, Ian. I can’t have chaos take over the investigation.”

“Aveline, people need to know. These groups of conjurers need to know they are in even more danger than normal. They have families. If I had known this, maybe I could have kept Bethany safe.”

“You didn’t even know she had magic.”

Like the pebble needed to tip the scales from sickness over to the favor of rage, Ian’s fury takes hold. In one swift movement, she slams her feet to the ground and launches her body so that her palms land on Aveline’s desk. She leans across it and sneers down at the Captain. “Well I do now, don’t I? Or at least whoever this monster is thought she was. Silence is a grave mistake. Who did she know, Aveline? Tell me.”

“I would kindly remind you that you are in the office of the Guard Captain, Hawke. You do not get to question me in such a manner, no matter our personal history, or your personal tragedy,” Aveline says. An underlying river of anger, a tremor of a warning lies within her tone.

Ian’s eyes scan the woman across her, curling her lip in a snarl. “Useless. The city guard have always been and always will be useless.” From her fists, she pushes herself upright and points to Aveline’s office window. “The little people of this city get no justice. And it’s due to the lack of care from this house that people like me even earn a living. Your men do nothing for them.” She shakes her head and turns to stalk out the door.

Aveline yells after her. “Do not take law into your own hands on this, Hawke! I’m warning you! I will not turn a blind eye to you this time! It is my duty!” The words fall on deaf ears. Ian has no trust in the government. If there was any control on this city, this wouldn’t have happened.

Her feet carry her through Kirkwall to the slums. The stark contrast between the care of the streets in Hightown, especially the Viscount district, and the laxity in Lowtown is even more apparent when traveled at once. No longer are trees and bushes decorating the clean cobblestone. No longer are there guardsmen patrolling in almost laughable numbers - whose main purpose seems to be helping the elderly society folk from their stately carriages, and knocking their billy clubs on rot iron fencing when rascal children get too loud.

None of that is present.

No, instead of wide avenues lined with beautiful estates, the streets turn smaller and smaller until bystanders and carriages alike have difficulty moving. Instead of greenery and fencing, there is filth and crates - poor folk standing with stolen baubles hollering at passersby to purchase their treasures for the lovely ladies at home. Instead of cobblestone that is swept by silent, invisible men, the streets begin to resemble more of rivers of mud, shit, and piss than anything else. And instead of kind guardsmen keeping order and helping the weak, one more likely will find them heckling or beating the numerous starving unfortunates in rags.

Ian follows the ruin to The Hanged Man. The inn happens to be the epicenter from dealings with those who do not wish to strictly follow the law. Law that has many times failed them all. If Ian wants to learn more about the underground groups of conjurers, and whom may wish them murdered, The Hanged Man is the best place to start.

It is also a place where she can have a drink to cut her nerves, and a meal that is more palatable. She’s never had much taste for higher cooking, peasant food is perfectly fine to her.

She orders the day’s mash with a stiff drink to accompany it, and she sits down at the end of a long wooden bench and a long wooden table.

She does not have to wait before her first visitor strides by.

“Ian,” a thick Rivaini accent purrs as slender tan fingers grip at Ian’s shoulders from behind. Lips trail so close to the shell of her ear that Ian feels them tickle her tiny hairs. “I am so sorry to hear about Bethany.”

“You know? Aveline said she was keeping it hush.”

“Oh please, you know that nothing stays hush in Lowtown, and certainly not from me,” Isabela says as she produces herself from behind, strutting slowly around the table to other side.

“How much do you know?” Ian asks as the woman sits.

Isabela smirks, her amber eyes peering coyly through fallen strands of thick, wavy black hair. “As much as there is to know, I suppose.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Sweet Bethany walked with the a new crowd. No matter how hard you worked to keep her from here, she was determined, apparently.”

“Why didn’t I know about this? Why didn’t you tell me?” Ian feels her anger rise in her chest. The city knew her, especially the folk of Lowtown knew that everything she did was to protect her family. People knew, yet didn’t bother to warn her of her sister’s secret, and it is becoming infuriating.

Isabela crosses her arms and tilts her head. “Listen, you spend so much time in that mansion of yours now, honestly, how am I supposed to have any idea what you know and don’t know anymore?”

Ian growls and glares across the table. “I am here at least two nights a week, Isabela.”

“Yeah, sure. Getting pissed and knocking out benders. But you’re not truly here. Not like you used to be.”

Ian speaks low, enunciating each syllable as if it is dripped in blood. “You should have told me.”

“And risk your fist coming at my head next? No, thank you.” Isabela scoffs. They sit silently for a moment, a war of the wills, but Ian’s glare bores a hole into Isabela’s sarcastic armor. Finally, the woman sighs in capitulation. “I’m sorry, Ian. If I had known this would happen to her, I wouldn’t have listened to her. I would have told you.”

That is a shock to Ian, and she feels a cold rush across her skin. “She talked to you about this?”

“Not in so many words, no. I found out a little of what she was up to and confronted her. She begged me not to tell you. She assured me that she had everything under control.”

“What do you know?”

“Not as much as it sounds, I’m sure, but I saw her talking to Merrill here a lot. That seemed a bit odd to me, especially since if she spotted you walk in, she vanished.”

Merrill is a known conjurer in Lowtown, and a unique one at that as she moved from a small clan of elves outside the city. It is fabled that her people have long mastered the art of exotic magics that Ian never cared to investigate.

Ian’s food and drink arrive. Everything feeling a little too much, and she grabs the mug of amber liquid and gulps it down so quickly that small rivers of whiskey stream down from the corners of her mouth.

“What did Bethany say to you?” Ian asks, wiping the corners of her mouth on her coat’s sleeve.

“Nothing much except to not tell you.”

Their conversation is interrupted by a drunk fool who strides up to their table. “Well aren’t you as pretty as pie... Except you,” the man says with a burp to punctuate it, pointing at Ian with a lazy finger. “What is it with you dressin’ like a man. One’d assume you like to fuck ladies like a man, too? Are you going to fuck--”

Ian chucks her empty mug at the drunk’s face, and before he can react, she is out of her seat and slamming his body to the ground. He lands with a loud thud, and she is on top of him in an instant. Her left fist gathers the garb at his neck, and her face hovers maliciously over his. The smell of his breath disgusts her, only intensifying her snarl.

“Assumptions are the lies of wicked demons in your ear,” Ian says in a low growl. “Now unless you want me to remove both of yours,” Ian’s right hand grabs hold of his ear and pulls until the man whines and writhes beneath her, “then I suggest you leave. My business is none of your own.”

“Hey, hey, Hawke. This is a little early for bar fights, even for you, don’t you think?” a raspy voice says beside them. Boots walk tentatively beside her head. Ian looks up to find the short-statured Varric Tethras standing over them. “Why don’t you let the man go and come sit with me in a my office, huh? Sound good? A little less violent, perhaps?”

Ian grunts and pushes herself off the drunk. She spits at the feet of the man before following Varric to his office in the rear of the tavern. She glances back, and with satisfaction, watches Isabela toss the sod out the tavern door and into the street.

Varric gestures for Ian to sit at his table in his personal room in the inn, and then shuts his door behind them. “How are you holding up, kid? To anyone else I’d say not very well, but that behavior isn’t exactly uncommon.”

Ian grunts again and slumps into one of his dwarven inspired chairs, geometric and sturdy by design with furs draped over the seat and arms. Varric sits at the head of the table and patiently waits while Ian stares into a roaring fire across from her.

“You loved her, how the fuck are you handling it?” Ian eventually grumbles.

Varric sighs. “I want to filet the bastard that did it.”

“Only if I gut him first.” There is a silence again until Ian adds, “Aveline thinks there will be more. We have to stop him.”

“Anything I can do to help, you just let me know,” Varric says, and he means it. The dwarf is probably the one man in this city with the most connections. He runs a rag called Bianca Knows that is tossed around the city. Legends swarm the streets about the dwarf, though Ian knows better. The most comical of the rumors being that he has actual ears on the walls of alleyways.

“You need to get the word out to anyone who may need it,” Ian says. “Aveline doesn’t want it in the papers, but you follow Lowtown’s rules.”

Varric nods. “Consider it done. I already drafted the story and sent it to my printer this morning.”

“Good. Let’s hope we get this guy before there is another Bethany.” Ian glances at Varric, noticing the way his gaze hangs in the air. The far-off stare of a man who is nowhere nearby. Instead, his mind drowns in a dimension of sadness and regret. It is well known how deeply he admired Bethany, though he never once acted on his feelings.

A soft knock at the door calls their attention, and Varric summons the person to enter. A young boy walks in, shaken, dirty, and obviously malnourished. He speaks with a tremor and his tattered gloved hand holds out an envelope like it could be his unfortunate ticket to the Maker. “I have a letter for M-M-Miss Hawke. A man gave me six coppers to deliver it right away.”

“What man, boy? Speak up,” Ian says as she takes the envelope from his hand.

“Don’t know, Miss. He was in the shadows. Face covered up with a scarf.”

“Where was this man now?” Varric asks.

The boy shrugs his shoulders and points to the far wall. “Called me from the alley by the inn, he did.” The boy looks between them both a few times and before turning and bolting from the room.

“Hey! Get back here!” Ian yells, but he’s gone. She hesitates and stares at the letter in her hand. Her curiosity for its contents ultimately outweighs her will to chase the child, and she opens the envelope to find red writing.

I know your Captain pet thinks she’ll have me. It gives me quite a thrill.

I am down on witches. Will rip them up till their foul wickedness reeks these streets no longer. Your sister was grand work, but I gave the lady no time to squeal. Saved a bit of her tainted blood to write this letter, though the stuff went thick. Red ink will have to do.

I’ve found I enjoy this venture more than I’d thought. First out of passion, second of lust, the next will follow and follow until the job is done. It is my calling.

Death to conjurers.

Ripper

Ian places the paper on Varric’s table. Whomever this Ripper is, he seems to know Ian, and knew he was killing her sister. If Ian had conviction before, it has now been increased ten-fold. She eyes Varric, his nervous wait apparent in the chewing of his lower lip and the wringing of his hands. Glancing back at the letter she says, “I need to speak to Merrill.”

[delightfully-difficult-pirate]

Assassin’s Creed: Misthaven (2/18)

Summary: For hundreds of years, the Brotherhood of Assassins and the Templar Order have waged war.  For Princess Emma of Misthaven, that war has become personal.  After a mission gone wrong, the Templar Grandmaster, placed a curse on Emma’s son that is slowly killing him.  Emma will stop at nothing to save Henry, even if it means going rogue from the Brotherhood and consorting with pirates.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Sex, Adult Language.

AN: A special @preciouscucumber for being an ever patient and diligent beta. To @cocohook38 and @utopiozphere for the awesome artwork they have created.  Last, but not least, this fic wouldn’t exist without the encouragement from @icecubelotr44 every step of the way.  All of them deserve all the cookies for dealing with my inability to keep deadlines or write dialog in a coherent manner.

AO3 

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Art for Chapter 2 by @cocohook38

                                                       Captain Hook,

               I am in need of discreet services. If you are interested in a lucrative business proposition, come to the Rabbit Hole at 9pm this evening.  A woman wearing a red cloak will be waiting for you.

               Killian Jones, more commonly known as Captain Hook, held the curious missive in his hand as he contemplated its contents.  Written on rough parchment and sealed with a simple blob of red wax, the letter itself was unremarkable.  However, it was uncommon for him to receive written invitations to clandestine meetings and the “discreet services” part made him instantly suspicious.  Additionally, the dock urchin who had delivered it had been unable to describe the person who had paid him, saying only that the figure had worn a hood and appeared to be male.  He placed the note on his desk and took a swig of rum from his flask, savoring the soft burn.

              “Mister Smee!” Hook called out to one of the crewmembers he knew was still aboard the Jolly Roger.  He sighed at the resulting thumps and crashes his summons elicited.  When the nervous man appeared, he asked, “How many men do we still have signed on as crew?”

               It was autumn and the season brought with it more frequent and severe storms.  As a result, only the most dedicated, or desperate, sailors remained aboard the ships that did not go to dry dock for the season.  Hook didn’t enjoy spending a season on land, so he’d brought his ship and crew north, where the storms caused less problems.

               “Fifteen men, Captain.”  Smee may not be the most trustworthy member of his crew, but he had a knack for knowing what was going on aboard the ship.

               “And the chances of us recruiting a few more?”

               “The Wyatt brothers and a few others could probably be persuaded, with enough of an incentive” Smee admitted, shrugging,  “But why? You said we would only be doing some honest smuggling and wouldn’t need a large crew.”

               “A possible opportunity has arisen. Make some inquiries and put the word out that we may be seeking crew.”

               Smee nodded, looking confused, and left the cabin.

               Suspicious or not, a job was a job.  He would attend the arranged meeting and get the particulars, then make his decision.

--

               The Rabbit Hole was a dingy tavern close to the docks, and had a reputation as a good place to do shady business. As long as patrons paid their tabs and kept violence to a minimum, the tavern keeper turned a blind eye to any dealings of questionable legality.

               Hook entered through the main door, his eyes quickly scanning the tavern's main room for the woman with a red cloak the letter had mentioned.  He spotted her leaning over at the bar, where the man behind it, busy ogling the feminine assets her chemise was ill-equipped to hide, didn’t appear to notice her slim hand snagging a bottle of rum from behind the counter.  A fine rum too, one of Hook’s favorites from the Southern Isles, and he found himself hoping that she would be willing to share her spoils.

               As he approached, he also took note of the dagger hanging from her belt, mostly hidden from sight by the folds of her cloak.  She was a wise woman to arm herself in this part of town.

               “M’lady,” he said in a low voice as he drew close. “I believe you have need of my services?”

               The hood of the cloak fell back as the woman turned her head, revealing a lovely face framed by a dark fall of curls.  He could feel her gaze as eyes with a mischievous gleam gave him a once-over, pausing for only a moment at the end of his left arm, where the inspiration for his nom de guerre rested.  When she finished, her plump lips curved into a wicked smile.

               “I can think of plenty of services you could do for me, handsome, but I am afraid I am not the one in need of them,” the woman said, trailing one of her nimble fingers down the buttons of his greatcoat. “I am only here to lead you to your benefactor.”

               “I will follow you wherever you wish to go, love,” he said with a bow, holding out his hand to indicate that she should lead.  With one last smirk, his contact turned her back on him as if she had not a care in the world, something that few people were willing to do.  That action, along with the manner in which she carried herself, led him to believe that she was far more than just a powerful person’s lackey.  They left the main room of the tavern and navigated the narrow hallway to a private dining hall.

               They were nearing the dining room door when he spotted another sign that not all was what it seemed; a hint of leather, imperfectly concealed by the fabric of her sleeve, and a glint of steel, reflecting the flame of a lamp.   His eyes immediately went to his guide’s left hand and he tensed, spotting a silver signet ring bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Brotherhood of Assassins.

               The former Templar in him instantly wanted to sink his hook into the neck of the Assassin in front of him: part of him, however, was intrigued as to why members of the Brotherhood would be seeking outside assistance.

               The Assassin paused, her hand on the handle to the room beyond, and gave him another assessing look.  This one was no survey of his aesthetic features, but more calculating, and he knew that she was determining whether he was a danger to the person beyond.  He flashed his most charming smile, and tried not to appear as if the very idea of meeting with assassins had set his teeth on edge.

               Having apparently passed this final approval, his guide turned the handle and he was ushered into the company of his client.  The lady in red preceded him into the room and approached the wing-backed chairs that were positioned in front of a roaring fire.  She had a quiet word with a figure in the chair and then retreated to a corner of the room.

               “Captain Hook, thank you for coming,” said the figure, as she stood to greet him.  This new woman, presumably his client, wore a simple tunic, belted at the waist, and plain trousers: but she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever beheld.

               Stunning green eyes topped high cheekbones and he longed to kiss her finely shaped brows and pink lips, to run his fingers through the golden hair cascading over her shoulders.

               She also wore a silver signet ring with the mark of the Brotherhood of Assassins, but he could see no sign of a vambrace or hidden blade underneath the sleeves of the simple tunic she wore.  While that did not make her unarmed by any means, the lack of the Order’s signature weapon indicated that she did not expect a fight, which set him slightly at ease.

               “At your service, m’lady.” He gave a short bow, his eyes never leaving her face.

               “Would you care for a drink?” she asked politely, holding up the bottle of rum he had watched her companion pilfer from the bar keep.

               “I never turn down drinks with a gorgeous woman.  And please, allow me.” He stepped forward and retrieved the bottle from her hands.  He deftly cut the wax sealing the top with his hook, quickly checking for any signs of tampering, and pried the cork from the bottle.  He handed it back to her with a flourish and he was rewarded with a soft smile as she poured two glasses.

               She returned to her seat and, with a lazy wave of her hand, indicated that he could do that same.  He hesitated.  Seating himself would put his back to the door and the rest of the dining room, against which his survival instincts screamed.  Instead, he leaned against the wall next to the fireplace, enjoying a full view of the room and his lovely companion.  Said companion raised a delicate brow at his choice, but seemed to take no insult.

               “Captain, you may call me Swan, and as my letter stated, I have a business proposition for you,” she explained. “I am in need of transport to the Kingdom of Camelot.  There, I intend to abduct a sorcerer known as Rumpelstiltskin, and I may need assistance in doing so.  After, I will need transport for the both of us to the Kingdom of Misthaven.”

               Killian frowned. Although he appreciated her honesty about the illegality of her intended actions-he had had jobs go south because he’d been deprived of essential information--Camelot wasn’t a difficult journey, but it could be a long one.  He frowned as he digested her intended destination.  

               “It would take a month, at least, to sail to Camelot,” he informed her, “and just as long to sail back.” He sipped from his glass, rolling the spicy rum across his tongue.

               “A month?” Miss Swan said, surprised. “It only takes just over a fortnight to sail to Camelot from Arandelle, which is further away.”

               “In spring or summer, sure. But we would need to hug the coast to avoid the worst of the autumn storms and to make port if needed.”

               She nodded, frowning, but appeared to accept his assessment.

               “The man you intend to capture, this Rumpelstiltskin: I assume he is dangerous?” Killian asked. He wasn’t fond of sorcerers; not since Robert Gold, the sorcerer son of the head of the Templar Order, had killed Milah and chopped off Hook’s hand.

               Swan nodded again and Killian enjoyed the way the firelight cast her hair in a reddish hue.

               “He is a powerful and ruthless sorcerer.  He has knowledge and experience in magics that most spell-casters do not even dream of attempting.” A crease had appeared between her brows as she spoke. “He’s set himself up as Camelot’s court sorcerer on a promise to recreate the Holy Grail and restore the Kingdom to its former glory.  Gaining access to him will not be easy.”

               "My men and I are not opposed to a bit of violence, when the need arises, or when there is proper compensation,” he declared, with a wiggle of his brows and a smirk.

               The lady in red rolled her eyes at his antics as she produced a satchel from underneath her cloak but Miss Swan accepted the satchel without comment.  It made a satisfying clink when she set it on the table next to the bottle of rum.

               “Two hundred and fifty gold doubloons now, to ensure your services and procure provisions. You will receive two hundred and fifty more when we reach Camelot, and another five hundred when we return, safely, to Misthaven.”

               Hook nearly choked. A thousand gold doubloons was what he and his crew expected to make from some of their best catches when out pirating at the peak of the trade season.  And even then, each man of his usually 70-person crew walked away pleasantly more wealthy after repairs to The Jolly Roger were made, if she had taken any damage when subduing the prize.  This venture wouldn’t require a large crew, 25 or 30; enough to sail the ship and have men to spare to for fighting, should it be needed.

               Quickly doing the math, Killian determined this was an acceptable price. The pirate in him, however, wanted to see just how much he could drive the offer up.

               “That is a very generous offer, milady,” he admitted, and tossed back his remaining rum. “But this late in the season, adequate supplies will be harder to obtain and more expensive.  And good men will need a large incentive to sign onto a crew sailing south.”

               Whatever he’d been hoping she would offer in addition to the gold, the next words out of Miss Swan’s mouth changed everything.

               “Would the location of Liam Jones be adequate?”

---

               Emma watched, fascinated, as the affable scoundrel in front of her disappeared.  Hook had immediately tensed at her words and she’d seen his hand twitch towards the sword at his hip.  Suddenly, he laughed, an unpleasant, rough sound.

               “Fucking assassins,” he spat, “holding onto information until revealing it is to their own benefit.”

               Emma stood, reacting instantly to the threat an angry pirate could pose.  She heard Red move as well, preparing to have her back if it came to that.

               “Captain Hook, Nemo assured me that it was his decision, not that of the Brotherhood, to keep Liam’s location from you,” she said, calmly. “It was always his intention to provide you with it, when the time was right.”

               “Really? Or until it became of greater value and he could use it to his, and the Brotherhood’s, advantage?” He snarled.

               Unwilling to be the target of his anger, Emma collected the bag of gold and turned towards the door “Think on my offer, Captain.  Speak to your crew.  If you find my terms to be satisfactory, meet me back here tomorrow, same time.”

               With that, she walked out; Red following close on her heels.

--

               As soon as Miss Swan and the Lady in Red left, Killian collapsed in the chair he had eschewed earlier, his anger draining and replacing with regret.  He grabbed the bottle of rum and took a long, strong pull.  He shouldn’t have snapped at his prospective patron as he had.  A thousand  gold doubloons was almost twice what he and his crew would normally make during the slow sailing season, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done exactly what the Brotherhood was doing now, concealing information from others until it was of use to him.  Hell, he’d probably blackmailed a dozen port officers this year alone.

               The mention of Liam had thrown him off his game, unexpected as it was.  He’d continued searching for his younger brother after Nemo had refused to give him a location three years ago, but had had no luck.  People in the tavern’s town remembered the lad, but there was no consensus on what happened to him after his father’s death.  Some had said he’d been taken by a workhouse, others insisted he’d run off to join a group of bandits, and one man had claimed that the kid had been taken in by Misthaven’s royal family, to serve as companion to the young prince.

               Wherever he was, Killian felt responsible for the death of their father and thus it was his obligation to care for his brother, just as the older Liam had cared for him after their father’s abandonment.

               Abandonment was an understatement for what their father had done to him and Liam.  Brennan had taken him and his brother aboard the Hispaniola, ostensibly to sail to a new home.  However, the following morning, he and Liam found that their father had sold them to Captain Silver, The Templar Order’s premier Captain.  In return, Brennan had gotten a fresh start away from his debts and his sons.  Killian had fought back tooth and nail against their new masters, scrappy little child that he had been.  Liam, always the more level-headed of the Jones brothers, had figured out how to benefit from their new situation. While Killian spent most of his first year in the brig for trying to run away, Liam had thrown himself into sailing.  He learned anything anyone would teach him.  Swordplay, navigation, dicing; he studied it all.  Eventually, with Liam’s careful guidance, Killian had followed his brother’s lead and become more of an asset to the crew instead of a hindrance.

               Within a few years, their efforts earned them a spot as crew aboard The Morrigan, under Captain Shay Cormac.  This was where Killian and Liam had begun their true training as members of the Templar Order.  Liam had eaten it all up, while Killian had remained wary of a group that claimed to make the world a better place by limiting people’s freedoms.  He stayed, though, because of Liam.  At least until the disastrous voyage to Neverland in search of Dreamshade had claimed his brother’s life.

               Shaking himself from memory lane, Killian reached again for the rum, only to realize he’d already drank half the bottle.  Any more and he’d find himself too far gone to give Swan’s offer the consideration it deserved.  Not that he was inclined to turn it down.  The possibility of getting his younger brother’s location and living up to his older brother’s example was too much to pass up.

--

               “I like him,” Red said as they arrived in their room at the boarding house where they were staying.

               Emma gave a very unlady-like snort, unsurprised. “Of course you do.” Though Emma knew her friend was was very loyal to her wife, Red was an unrepentant flirt, and Hook was all that Red desired in a man; tall, scruffy, full of attitude, and a bit of danger.

               Her friend punched her arm in retaliation. “Not just because he’s a gorgeous specimen of a man.  Though I wouldn’t mind spending a few months in close quarters with him.”

               “You wouldn’t, but I’m sure Dorothy would have something to say about it.”

               Red laughed, “That she would.  I’d be sleeping in the kennels for weeks,” Red sobered, though, as she thought about her wife, who was back home helping tend Henry, “But in all seriousness, I think Hook is the right choice for this.  His reputation speaks for itself on his competency as a sailor and fighter.  He knows what he is doing.  And he’s smart; to have figured out we are with the Brotherhood.”

               Emma rubbed a hand across her face, bothered by the ease with which the Captain had named them assassins of the Brotherhood.  Obviously he had had dealings with the Brotherhood before through Nemo, but based upon Nemo’s explanation, it hadn’t been an extensive meeting: just enough to get a feel for the pirate.  So, how, then was the man able to call them out so quickly?  Either he’d had additional contact with the Brotherhood she was unaware of, or he was familiar with their enemy, the Templar Order.

               Thoughts of the Templar Order brought her up short as she paced the room.  The only people who spotted assassins with ease were Templars.

               “Could he be a Templar?” she mused aloud as she stared out the window towards the docks.

               “A Templar?” Red replied, pulling a brush through her hair.  “He’d have killed us the instant he realized we were Assassins.”

               Emma sighed, knowing her friend spoke the truth.  Few meetings between Assassins and Templars ended with no deaths.  However, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Captain Hook’s association with the Brotherhood than she knew.

               “I’m going out,” she said as she pulled a dark cloak on over the simple outfit she’d worn to the meeting.

               Red paused, halfway out of her chemise. “Would you like company?”

               “No, I’m just…”

               “Going to the docks to spy on Captain Hook.” Red finished undressing and slipped under the covers of one of the beds. “Go.  Ponder whatever mystery if bothering you about him.  I know you won’t be able to sleep otherwise.”

               Emma smiled, glad her friend knew her so well, and silently slipped out the window and onto the street below.

--

               Though she didn’t know much about ships, even Emma could tell that The Jolly Roger was a magnificent vessel.  She looked unimposing, with her sails furled, ropes coiled, and only a lone crewmember keeping watch on deck.  However, she was rumored to be made of enchanted wood and able to outrun even King Eric’s fearsome navy.

               She’d gotten to the docks in time to see Captain Hook returning to his ship, the bottle of rum Red had liberated at The Rabbit Hole clutched in his hand.  It looked half-empty.  Depending on his tolerance, he was either pleasantly on his way to being drunk or already there.  He’d gone straight down a hatch by the helm to what she figured was the Captain’s cabin, if the ship had the same basic layout as ones she’d sailed on before. He hadn’t reemerged in the hour she’d been watching, so she was debating whether it was safe to sneak aboard to have a look around.

               Deciding to risk it, she took a circuitous route down the docks to the berth where The Jolly Roger was moored.  She hid beside some barrels near the forward bow and with a carefully time jump, launched herself toward the area below bowsprit.  She grabbed one of the four rails and her nails dug into the wood as her feet scrambled for purchase against the slick wood.  Once secure, she climbed slowly until she could peek above the side.  The crewmember on guard was pacing the length of the ship, so Emma retreated when he came near.  Onehanded, she carefully loaded a dart laced with a strong sleeping potion into her blowgun.  On the crewman’s next pass, she waited until his back was turned and fired the dart into his neck.

               He let out a quick “what the…” then began to collapse, but she was there to catch him as he fell.  Thankfully, he wasn’t a large man, so she was able to shift him easily to the deck without a sound.  She left him there, partially hidden among some rope.

               Being a pirate ship, The Jolly Roger was well armed. There were 14 cannons on the main-deck, six each on the starboard and port sides, and two more closer to the front of the bow.  She’d spotted cannon holes near the aft of the lower deck as well, so she suspect there were more below.  It was almost overkill to have so many guns.  Captain Hook’s reputation was so fearsome that most ships would surrender once they figured out it was The Jolly Roger that chased them.  

               Everything she heard about the Captain made him seem like exactly what she needed for this mission… and that made her wary.  She’d offered him the job, but she wanted more information before it was official.

               She made her way towards the hatch she hoped led to the decks below.  She heard no noise coming through so she lifted it slowly, set it aside, and poked her head through.  It appeared empty, so she carefully lowered herself through the hatch.  She landed in a crouch and remained still, prepared for any surprises.  When none appeared, she rose and began poking around.  This deck was just as organized as the one above.  Folded canvas hammocks hanged between the beams of the ceiling, so she assumed this was where the crew slept while at sea.  Emma riffled through one of the crates against the hull, finding metal plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery.  Apparently, this was where the crew ate as well.

               Distracted by her snooping, she didn’t hear the creak of the wood behind her until the edge of a sword was caressing the curve of her neck.

---

               “Stand up, slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them,” Hook said to the hooded intruder currently riffling through his crew’s dinnerware.  He heard a very low, feminine curse and was surprised when the hood fell back to reveal Miss Swan as she stood.

               “It’s bad form, lass, to come aboard a ship without the Captain’s permission.”

               “My apologies, Captain.” She couldn’t have sounded more insincere if she had tried.

               He sheathed his sword and rubbed his hand across his face to wake himself up a bit.  He’d been dozing in his cabin over when he’d heard noises from what should have been an empty deck.  He’d expected to find Logan, who was on watch, sneaking down in search of a snack.

               Remembering the crewman who should have prevented any from sneaking aboard his ship, he asked, “Is my watchman alive or shall I need to find another?” He hoped Logan was alive.  The young man was one of the more reliable members of his crew.

               “He’ll have a headache in the morning, but he’ll be no worse the wear.”

               He nodded, pleased. “Thank you for that.”

               “I may be an assassin, Captain, but I do not like killing if I don’t have too.” Her words had a bit of spice to them, which piqued his curiosity, but now was not the time to uncover the story behind that reaction.  Instead, he asked the question that had been burning in his mind all evening.

               “You are an Assassin, meaning you have the resources of the Brotherhood behind you, but you are seeking external help for your mission.  This leads me to believe that said mission is not completely above board.  Have you gone rogue, m’lady?”

               “You’re supposed to be a simple pirate, but you made my companion and myself as Assassins within minutes,” his lovely trespasser countered.

               He laughed, full and loud.  Touché.

               “Step into my cabin, Miss Swan, and let’s continue our discussion from earlier, shall we?” He invited, gesturing with his hook toward the doorway behind him.

               Hesitantly, she followed.  Gentleman that he was, he pulled out her chair for her and made sure she was comfortable before rolling up the maps that were spread out across the table.  He placed the bottle of rum from earlier before her, as well as a two glasses and a pitcher of water before taking a seat of his own.  She opted for the water.

               Figuring he owed her for losing his temper earlier, he started, “I’ve had more experience with the Brotherhood than Captain Nemo may been aware.  I am a long time acquaintance of Captain Kenway.  We once both had our eye on the same lass one night.  We had words initially, but eventually, good times were had by all,” he said with a lascivious grin.

               That earned him a small smile. “After that, we kept in touch,” Hook continued.  “Trade information on prizes, mostly.”

               “I am not on a mission that has been approved by the Brotherhood.  They have a kill order on Rumpelstiltskin and I have need of him alive.  Thus, I am unable to utilize their resources.  I have, in fact, gone out of my way to ensure that they have no idea what I am currently about,” Miss Swan admitted.

               He nodded, understanding.  It was hard to serve a master whose ideals didn’t always match your own.

               “Don’t get me wrong, Captain.  I am fully committed to the goals of the Brotherhood.  However, their refusal to reconsider their ruling on Rumpelstiltskin will put innocent lives at stake,” she continued, her eyes lighting with resolve , the dim light of his cabin lending them a stunning gleam.

               “A noble quest, lass,” he conceded, and raised his glass of rum in salute.  She rolled her eyes, but raised her water in return.

               “So Captain, are you willing to take the job?”

               “For a thousand gold doubloons and the location of Liam Jones, I accept the terms of your offer, Miss Swan.” He offered his hand across the table to shake on their deal, and swore he felt a small spark the instant their fingers touched.

               Now that there deal was struck, he escorted her off The Jolly Roger.  “We will leave at dawn in two days’ time.  Send word if you believe you are being watched, and we’ll find a way to sneak you aboard,” he said as he walked her down the gangplank.

               Emma nodded and adjusted her hood as a stiff wind tried to blow it off.  Ever the showman, Hook gave her a courtly bow and placed a kiss on her hand, before making to return to his ship.  He stopped and warned, “Come aboard my ship without permission again, lass, and I’ll throw you in the brig.”

---

               Emma told Red about her adventure aboard The Jolly Roger the next morning over breakfast.  Red had been so amused by the fact that Hook had managed to sneak up on her that she earned a few scathing looks from their fellow diners because of her laughter.

               Over the next two days, Emma collected any supplies she imagined she would need for the next few months.  She restocked her small medical kit with herbs and bandages.  Because Alexandria was a popular port town, she was even able to find the rarer herbs she used in her poisons and sleeping draughts.  When Emma returned to the boarding house, Red was pacing across their rented room.

               “Emma, I spotted Gus at the docks.  I’m afraid you’re going to need to take the Captain up on his clandestine boarding plan.”

               Emma groaned time in annoyance.

               “Could he be here on a completely separate mission?  Or is that too much to hope for?” she asked.

               Red just shrugged in reply.  It was possible.  However, was it worth taking the risk?  Emma sighed and composed a quick letter to Captain Hook.

               Later that evening, Emma and Red carefully snuck out of their boarding house and to a storage warehouse by the docks.  There, they said their goodbyes.  Friends for years, there was little need for words.  “Be safe” was all they said as they just hugged each other tight.  Red would ride out in the morning, just after dawn, with a blonde maid named Ashley disguised as Emma.  They would head south, toward Midas, and if Gus was tailing them, he would hopefully follow.

               After Red was gone, Captain Hook and a Mr. Smee helped Emma climb into a partially empty orange barrel.  She felt bad about squishing the fruit that would be part of the crew’s rations for however long their journey was.  At least she did, until more oranges were poured around her and the lid sealed above her head.  Though she had dealt with her fair share of small hiding spaces, she felt her heartbeat speed up in response to her current circumstances.

               “Have no worries, Miss Swan.  We will have you out as soon as the barrel is in the hold,” she heard Hook say.

               She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing as the barrel was tilted and rolled on its edge.  When the barrel stopped, she could hear the crewmen talking about predictions for the weather and other inane topics as the goods were roped together.  Ropes creaked and the platform shook and she imagined she could feel herself being lifted.  Her nails dug crescents moons in her palms as her world tilted, but only for a few moments before she was upright again.

               The journey from warehouse to hold couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes, at most, but Emma was more than ready to be out of the barrel when Hook removed the lid.  She stood quickly, spilling oranges everywhere and was bodily lifted by the Captain out of her hiding spot.  Once back on her feet, she stood, disoriented, and remained holding onto his arms as she caught her breath.

               “That its lass. Take a few deep breaths.  That’s it,” she could hear Hook saying.  Her breathing slowed and once she felt more like herself she stepped back and away.

               “Thank you,” she said.

               Hook nodded. “Anytime, lass.  Please, allow me to show you about your home for the next few months.  This is the hold, and the lowest level of The Jolly Roger.  No one but myself, the cook, and the quartermaster are allowed down here unescorted.  The brig is forward, and that is where we shall keep your-” he paused a moment “-companion… after we leave Camelot.”

               She followed him up a steep stairway to what he told her was the Orlop deck.  Her private quarters were aft on this deck, next to sickbay.

“Our resident surgeon fancies himself a quite the ladies’ man, so you may want to watch out for him.  I’m sure you’ll have no problem dealing with him.” He glanced with amusement at her blades, covered by her sleeves, before continuing, “Storage for arms and ammunition is forward, in a secure room, though the powder magazine is below in the hold.”

               Going up another staircase brought them the deckwhere she had been found sneaking about the night.

               “Our cook serves up delicious creations, rations permitting, twice daily.  You are welcome to eat with the crew, myself, or alone if you wish.”        

               Tour done, they returned to the deck below and he escorted her to her quarters.  They were simple, with a bed and a small desk, and a hanging lantern to illuminate it all.

               “Except for the hold, you have full run of the ship.  However, if we encounter a situation, I expect you to follow any orders I give, just as any member of this crew.  Is that understood?” He waited for her agreement.  

               “What qualifies as a situation?” she asked, curious.

               “Most likely a naval patrol, though I’ll do my best to avoid them.  We will find ourselves sailing in some less than pleasant weather, this trip, and you would be safest in your quarters during those times.”

               “Then I will follow your instructions to the best of my abilities.”

               Apparently satisfied, Hook bid her a goodnight and left her to her to get situated.

Chapter 3

[therealdragonnerdagain]

This is a retired gaming blog, blah, blah, blah. But I wanted to post this.

So I was playing Skyrim (Vilkas is a crappy follower -- Farkas is better) and for some reason, I started thinking about how I made that Loghain post about two (?) years ago and how Dragon Age fans misunderstood it.

I remember having some fans attack me, astonished and self-righteously outraged that I was "defending" a racist slaver. Meanwhile, other fans approached me in a friendly manner, shocked that I had apparently killed Loghain in the game even though I pitied him. These two groups were both under the impression that I liked Loghain, which was . . . utterly baffling to me.

It occurred to me that these fans must've been very young, because they were still thinking with a very black and white mentality. To them, pitying Loghain was equal to liking him (except it's not) and explaining why he did what he did in Origins was somehow the same as condoning his actions (again, it's not).

If I recall correctly, the purpose of my post was to recount Loghain's sins in a list where I explained why he committed each one through codexes, letters, and info I'd gathered in the game (working with Howe, Anora's schemes, etc).

Also, keep in mind that I always tended to write such posts after having taken my meds and right before going to bed, so they were often incoherent, drowsily written nonsense.

So ironic that I was accused of ableism while too out of my mind to write a decent post due to a medication for my MENTAL ILLNESS.

So ironic that I was accused of racism and condoning slavery, only to have my accuser turn around and make racist insults at me.

But whatever. Back to Loghain.

I think Alistair summed it up best when he said that people like Loghain and Anora think they're the only ones who can get anything done. Loghain thinking he was the only competent and trustworthy person in all of Feralden is half the reason Feralden nearly burned to the ground.

Yes, I pity Loghain. But, no, I don't like him. He's an asshole and I've never had a playthrough where I spared him (especially since I played elves so much).

I pity Loghain because he has PTSD and his wild paranoia was sad to watch. He truly believed Cailan was going to marry Celene when he clearly wasn't (something Inquisition and The Masked Empire only further proves -- Celene is queer, power-hungry, and in no way willing to marry a man) and if you take Loghain back to Ostagar, he rants and raves about Cailan's "betrayal" wildly. It reminds me of mentally ill people I knew personally.

So, yes. I pity Loghain because he is a broken soldier. And how could anyone have helped him? Thedas doesn't "do" mental illness well. As I mentioned on another post, Cullen is probably the first templar in (recent) history to open a rest home for broken soldiers.

What was more, Loghain had too much power. There was no one to stop him in the heights of his paranoia. Even Cailan couldn't do anything because he needed Loghain's help against the darkspawn.

Also, Anora would probably never speak to Cailan again if he sent her father away. I believe Cailan really loved Anora and was never going to marry Celene. Eamon (so high on having the king's ear) kept telling Cailan to find a new wife, and Cailan kept telling Eamon to mind his own business. So Eamon's letters, combined with the complete businesslike letters from Celene about an "alliance" both led Loghain -- in his feverish brain -- into believing his son-in-law was casting Anora aside, when nothing was farthest from the truth.

If you pay attention at Ostagar, Cailan is clearly annoyed by Loghain but can't be rid of him. I wouldn't be surprised if he suggested having Loghain retire to a chantry somewhere, only for Anora to become upset with him until he called it off. Remember, Anora practically worshiped her father.

Also, yes, I enjoy understanding the reasons why Loghain did what he did. That's because I'm a writer and I enjoy knowing the entire story. That does not mean I condone Loghain's actions.

I recall fans sneering on me for talking about gray morality and how the Gray Wardens were called GRAY WARDENS because gray morality is the entire theme of Dragon Age.

The fans were sneering on me because they thought I was using "gray morality" to excuse the elven slave trade. Only I wasn't. I never said it was right or necessary to sell the elves off to Teviner. In fact, it was completely unnecessary (when is slavery ever necessary?). And given the fact that my favorite Gray Warden was Kalian (and my second favorite was Mahariel) it was downright infuriating. (Kalian's father almost gets sold.)

Also, it wasn't Loghain that sold the elves. It was Howe, as theorized in another post of mine. Howe led a massacre against the elves after Tabris killed Vaughn, and when that wasn't enough to cow them, he used bio warfare and slavery to be rid of them. In fact, he did just about everything that has been done historically to people of color in real life -- why in FUCK would I excuse or condone this???

David Gaider stated on BSN (I believe the thread is gone now with the rest of the forums) that Loghain didn't even know what was happening in the alienage until you wave the slaver documents in his face during the landsmeet.

Loghain wasn't given a short stick by the plot. He was written wonderfully. He was written just well enough that you could pity him and hate him at the same time. And he felt very human. And very real. More real than Coryphshit, anyway.

Loghain had a full story arc with multiple outcomes. It's pretty much everything a fictional character in a video game could ask for. He wasn't given the short end of anything, in my humble opinion.

Even though Loghain wasn't directly (but was indirectly) responsible for the slave trade, he was still responsible for a lot of seedy shit. He was responsible for Uldred. He promised a man -- a slave -- his freedom, only to go back on that promise, which led to Uldred committing suicide by giving his body to a demon and wreaking havoc on the tower: the real Uldred was dead by the time the Warden arrived.

Loghain was also responsible for Redcliffe but couldn't be bothered to manipulate the Dalish into his control. No, they were already destroying themselves in a neat little plot about how the writers think white people aren't responsible for modern day oppression or whatever.

Anyway.

It's supposed to be ironic that Loghain depises the Gray Wardens and yet acts just like them, committing atrocities to do what is necessary (or what he THINKS is necessary) but not what is right. It's almost like the game was building up specifically for him to become a Gray Warden. Especially if you read the books, you can see what I mean. (The same kinda goes for Solas, though he's just a Loghain-expy anyway.)

My point is, fans of the game are too young to grasp its more mature themes, which reach beyond simple black and white ethics. Dragon Age: Origins is a world were nothing is black and white and nothing is supposed to be simple (again, not "condoning" slavery. Slavery is pretty simple: it's wrong). It's a world full of anti-heroes who do bad things to save the day.

Again, Howe wasn't doing something "necessary" in selling off elves, so I'm NOT talking about him when I speak about gray morality. I'm talking about Loghain, who firmly believed he was doing the right thing at Ostagar, even though he really wasn't. Loghain firmly believed that saving his troops and pulling them out would protect Ferelden, even if it meant sacrificing thousands of lives -- just as Solas believed sacrificing all those people on the mountain by tricking Corypheus into opening his foci was necessary to save his own people.

As a side note, it kind of pisses me off that Patrick Weekes wrote that segment for Solas where Solas talks about the battle at Ostagar being not so black and white. He tries to make it seem as if Loghain's actions could have actually been right in some way, but anyone who's paid close nerdy attention knows that Loghain was clearly WRONG. I believe this was done mostly to honor the player's interpretation but . . .

If Loghain hadn't barred the Orlesians from entering Ferelden, then pulled out his own troops, Ostagar would not have happened. Period.

During the first act of Inquisition, you can actually get in a fight with the quartermaster at Haven about Ostagar. It's another example of Patrick's Weeke's shitty writing, where he tries to get an emotional reaction from the audience by appealing to the player instead of the Inquisitor. He basically has no idea how to write for a video game and instead writes like this is a novel. 

The Inquisitor has no reason to care so passionately about Loghain and Ostagar, while those of us who played Origins do. Yet the Inquisitor is so angry, they act as if they were there (because we were there) when they really shouldn't give a fuck. This is immersion breaking, also stupid, and Weekes uses this method to pull us into the story emotionally multiple times throughout the game: Morrigan's introduction where the Inquisitor is smiling at a dangerous stranger as if they know her, the popular and much loved Teagan being a jerk in order to play on our feelings (and again not the Inquisitor’s feelings), etc.

Loghain wanted desperately to keep the Orlesians out because the war against Orlais had left him paranoid and suffering PTSD. Orlesians raped his mother and killed his father. Orlesians mounted the heads of his family and friends on pikes. Orlesians made his life a living hell.

And it was so, so easy to blame everything on Cailan once he was dead, wasn't it? But I don't think Loghain was really even blaming Cailan out of power-hungry maliciousness: he actually believed Cailan was a stupid child (Calian's name even means child) and would forever see Cailan through the "father filter."

Loghain has a Fade nightmare that was cut from the game and buried in the game files. In it, he is trapped with child!Cailan in the Fade and is bogged down by guilt and anger. He will always see Cailan as a child and will hate himself for killing him, even while still hating Cailan.

Yes, Loghain hated Cailan, possibly because he was the child of Maric and Rowan, Rowan being the woman he loved. He believed Cailan was a little boy who wanted war and had miscalculated the battle, when in fact Cailan was pretending to want war to keep his troops in good spirits (Wynne confirms this). Cailan knew they were going to die at Ostagar thanks to Loghain -- this is why he sends you and Alistair to the tower. I think he might have even known Loghain was sabotaging the tower.

Again, all of this is mentioned in Return to Ostagar. Nothing about Ostagar was "morally gray" as Solas (and Patrick Weekes, who apparently doesn’t know the story) would have you believe.

And yet, while Loghain's actions were very wrong, he was also not the mad, evil, cartoony villain Alistair saw him as.

Loghain was a sick man who believed he was doing what was right: THAT is what makes this situation morally gray.

Also, Loghain's an asshole because he's racist. I recall one playthrough he called my Mahariel a wild elf, insinuating that she was worthless because she was Dalish. And even though he worked with the Dalish in the books, he and Maric never really treated them like people. The elves fought in the war to liberate Ferelden and then got all of nothing for it and went right back to being socially, religiously, economically oppressed (correct me if I'm wrong). Sounds a bit like the Revolutionary War, huh?

All those nobles at the landsmeet screaming about how Fereldens don't believe in slavery, as if oppression ends at whips and chains.That entire scene at the landsmeet was very realistic, actually. How many white people today think people of color aren't socially, economically oppressed and that oppression ended with slavery? They'v got freedom and don't even know what it is. But if it was suddenly taken away, they would know. Oh, they would know. 

This grimdark crap is why I enjoy breaking the theme by playing a Warden who is not an anti-hero but a hero. Which means that Loghain always dies in my games because a hero would kill him, while a pragmatic anti-hero would make use of him.

The fact that Dragon Age: Origins is grimdark is what makes playing a shining hero so great. Dagna's line about the Gray Warden "It was a time of darkness, she was the only light" was perfect because of this.

I loved playing a hero who saved the day without resorting to pragmatism. I loved it simply because the real world doesn't work that way, and I wish desperately that it did; I wish that people could just be good for once.

I loved playing a hero and having Loghain realize my character was everything he should have been and everything he could not be. (Again, it's the same with Solas and a good, morally upstanding Inquisitor.)

That being said, I also believe a "good" Inquisitor would let Blackwall live. I believe the difference between Loghain and Blackwall is that  while one has a chance to overcome his own darkness, the other does not. Loghain never goes on a killing spree again should you let him live, but he also has to live in misery the rest of his life. Frankly, I always viewed his execution as a mercy kill. And if you defeat him in combat, he pretty much asks you -- with a content smile -- to kill him.

The point I'm trying to make, what I'm getting at is this:

I suddenly understand why series with more "mature," thought-provoking themes like Dragon Age and Mass Effect have been dumbed down and watered down into childish, cartoony, bullcrap.

The fans are too young to get it.

That's not an insult. It's just the truth. We're all naive and inexperienced at least once in our lives. That's the very definition of youth.

Look at Tales of Symphonia and Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of a New World. The first game -- while still a bit ridiculous, adolescent, and cliched -- at least has more mature, thought-provoking themes, situations that leave you questioning if you did the right thing. The second game is a bunch of adolescent whining, cringey cliches, and utter nonsense.

Dragon Age: Origins went from characters with depth, meaningful choices, and interesting npcs to Inquisition, the light-hearted, bubbly, bland, cliched, MMORPG/Skyrim wannabe, where your choices don’t matter and your own followers treat you like shit long after you’ve befriended them -- but only if you’re Dalish.

Mass Effect went from the same deal (mature themes, blah, blah, blah) to watered down . .  . everything. Tactics, choices, any seriousness or depth was all replaced with button-mashing combat and campy comic book drivel (yeah, I went there). Though don't get me wrong: at least the combat for Mass Effect was fun across all three games.

It's like the writers went, "Fuck it. The audience wouldn't appreciate or grasp mature themes anyway!" and gave us a bunch of cartoonish, ridiculous shit.

I wish they’d stop. If young fans don’t get it, then they don’t get it. Why change your games when the audience is still the same?

[movietvtechgeeks]

Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/rip-iconic-james-bond-roger-moore-dies-89-battle-cancer/

RIP: Iconic James Bond Roger Moore dies at 89 after battle with cancer

Best known for his iconic role playing James Bond, Roger Moore has died at the age of 89 after a battle with cancer. The Englishman also was suave as another hero, Simon Templar, in the British TV series 'The Saint.' “I would have loved to have played a real baddie,” he once said. Roger Moore, the handsome Londoner who portrayed James Bond in more films than anyone else and did so with cartoonish, cheeky charm and probably for a bit too long, has died. He was 89 (born on Oct. 14, 1927). Moore, who earlier made his reputation as a suave leading man on the television series Maverick, The Saint and The Persuaders!, died, with a message from his children shared on the actor's official Twitter account reading: "It is with a heavy heart that we must announce our loving father, Sir Roger Moore, has passed away today in Switzerland after a short but brave battle with cancer." It is with a heavy heart that we must announce our loving father, Sir Roger Moore, has passed away today in Switzerland after a short but brave battle with cancer. After George Lazenby was one and done as Bond in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969), Moore took on the guise of Agent 007 in Live and Let Die (1973) and stayed for The Man With the Golden Gun (1974), The Spy Who Loved Me (1977), Moonraker (1979), For Your Eyes Only (1981), Octopussy (1983) and A View to a Kill (1985), which hit theaters when he was nearly 58. He said it was his choice to leave the franchise. His Bond was more of a charmer than a fighter, more of a stirrer than was the shaker embodied by the first Bond, Scotsman Sean Connery. Moore took on the role with a grain of salt, not to mention cigars — as part of his contract, he reportedly was given unlimited Montecristos during production. “My personality is entirely different than previous Bonds. I’m not that cold-blooded killer type. Which is why I play it mostly for laughs,” he once said. Moore’s devilish smile and famously cocked eyebrow made his Bond a more polished, albeit less pugnacious, chap than former bodybuilder Connery’s robust warrior. The late Amy Winehouse apparently was a fan. On her song “You Know I’m No Good” from the 2006 album Back to Black, she sings, “By the time I’m out the door, you tear men down like Roger Moore.” “I probably just rhymed with door,” he once said. “Or she couldn’t find anything to rhyme with Connery.” Moore played Bond more than any other actor — while bedding a total of 19 beauties, by one count — and his films earned more than $1 billion at the box office. But he considered himself to be the fourth-best 007, trailing Connery, Daniel Craig and Lazenby. And after leaving the series, he acted only sporadically. Earlier, Moore starred for six seasons as the slick Simon Templar, who makes a living stealing from crooks, in the popular 1962-69 series The Saint, which aired in the U.K. on ITV and in the U.S. on NBC (an international hit, it sold to more than 80 countries.) In an October 2014 interview, Moore lamented the fact that he pretty much always played the good guy. “I wasn’t an Albert Finney or a Tom Courtenay,” he said. “I didn’t have their natural talent, I had to work quite hard at acting. My life’s been all right, but people like that get to play wonderful parts. I spent my life playing heroes because I looked like one. Practically everything I’ve been offered didn’t require much beyond looking like me. I would have loved to have played a real baddie.” Roger George Moore was born on Oct. 14, 1927, in Stockwell, England south of the River Thames in London. An only child, he was evacuated as a teen during World War II to Worthing, Sussex in southern England while his father remained in London, serving as a police constable who sketched crime scenes. His first job was with Publicity Pictures Production, a film company in London, which specialized in animated cartoons. He worked as a tracer and filler-in, made tea and ran errands. After he was fired, a friend suggested he could make some easy money serving as an extra on Caesar and Cleopatra (1945), then filming outside London. He played a Roman soldier in a crowd scene in the film that starred Claude Raines and Vivien Leigh, and the experience put his life on a new course. He studied at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (with future Miss Moneypenny Lois Maxwell), and by the end of the first term, he managed to get into a West End production of The Italian Straw Hat. Moore quickly landed more parts, including a role in another West End Theater production, The Circle of Chalk. In 1945, Moore was drafted and entered officer training school. He was sent to Germany after winning his commission, commanding a small supply depot. During his tour of duty, he joined the Combined Services Entertainment Unit in Hamburg, doing traveling shows throughout Europe. Upon his discharge, Moore landed a role in the musical comedy Trotti True (1949) but then experienced a long period of unemployment. During this time, he joined a repertory company, the Intimate Theatre; performed in such plays as Noel Coward’s Easy Virtue; and supported himself as a model for things like knitwear and toothpaste. After he understudied for David Tomlinson in a West End production of The Little Hut, Moore moved to Hollywood and within days got a role on a 1953 episode of the live NBC anthology series Robert Montgomery Presents. He played a tennis player who is the object of Elizabeth Taylor’s flirtation in the MGM drama The Last Time I Saw Paris (1954), followed by parts in such films as the biopic Interrupted Melody (1955), starring Eleanor Parker and Glenn Ford; The King’s Thief (1955), with Ann Blyth and David Niven; Diane (1956) with Lana Turner; and The Miracle (1959), with Carroll Baker. Moore’s pretty-boy looks and confident manner elicited comparisons to a young Errol Flynn, and he landed his first starring role, portraying the title knight in the U.S.-British swashbuckling TV series Ivanhoe. He played swindler Silky Harris on the 1959-60 ABC series The Alaskans, and when James Garner quit Maverick in a breach-of-contract dispute, Moore stepped in as cousin Beauregarde “Beau” Maverick, even going so far as to wear the costumes that Garner had left behind. He would later quit the show as well. Disillusioned with television in the U.S., Moore starred in The Sins of Rachel Cade (1961) with Angie Dickinson and returned to England to make Romulus and the Sabines (1961), an Italian film about the founding of Rome. His co-star was Italian actress Luisa Mattioli, whom he married in 1969, after his divorce from singer Dorothy Squires was finalized. They had three children together before divorcing in 1996. British media mogul Lew Grade wanted Moore to star as Templar, the character created by author Leslie Charteris and played on the big screen by George Sanders in the 1940s (and by Val Kilmer in a 1997 film). His savoir-faire was perfect for the part, and Moore became an international celebrity. Grade also signed him to star in the big-screen thrillers Crossplot (1969) and The Man Who Haunted Himself (1970) — he considered the latter to be his best film — and then approached him with another TV series, The Persuaders! Moore played English nobleman Lord Brett Sinclair opposite Tony Curtis as rogue New Yorker Danny Wilde, and the mismatched pair solved crimes in exotic locations in the 1971 ITV-ABC series. Around that time, Moore also served as the European managing director of Brut Productions, the show-business wing of Faberge cosmetic works. Working around his 007 assignments, Moore appeared in Shout at the Devil (1976) with Lee Marvin, The Wild Geese (1978) with Richard Burton, The Sea Wolves (1980) with Gregory Peck and Niven and The Cannonball Run (1981) with Burt Reynolds. He also starred in the 1976 NBC movie Sherlock Holmes in New York (Patrick Macnee played Dr. Watson and John Huston was Professor Moriarty). In 1999, Moore was awarded the Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire by Queen Elizabeth II, and knighthood followed in 2003. He spent the past several years doing charity work as a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador. Survivors include his wife Kristina, whom he married in 2002, and children Deborah, Geoffrey and Christian. After to describe his version of Bond in relation to others, Moore told NPR in November 2014: “I look like a comedic lover, and Sean [Connery] in particular, and Daniel Craig now, they are killers. They look like killers. I wouldn’t like to meet Daniel Craig on a dark night if I’d said anything bad about him. “George [Lazenby], Timothy [Dalton] and Pierce [Brosnan], we’ve been together, the four of us. But Sean, Sean really was sort of not that enamored of being confused with James Bond all the time. Sean … damn good actor, but he felt that he was only being remembered for Bond. I personally don’t give a damn. I just want to be remembered as somebody who paid his debts.

Movie TV Tech Geeks News

[top-hat-assassin]

Little Family (Jacob Frye X Fem!Reader)

Hello dear Followers, I am acutally very... amazed, stunned, to be honest. There are over 140 Followers now (though a few might be just shell accounts). But I can't believe you chose to click the Follow button for this slowly updating Blog. With all those other awesome Blogs out there, who are much more active and better at writing.

Thank you so, so, so much. You don't know how much this makes me happy.

I've got another Fanfiction up for you. Not sure if you will enjoy it, but better than this just collecting dust at my PC.

Title: Little Family Summary: Reader and her son are looking for Mr. Frye on a particular train. Characters: Fem!Reader, Jacob Frye, Emmett (very young, toddler age) Relationships: Jacob Frye x Fem!Reader Warnings: None Words: 1.751

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The shrill whistle signaled it's oncoming arrival and you stood from the bench you were resting on together with a toddler. Until now, you only watched with him the transport machines from afar. And to be honest, you were a little worried about how the little boy would react. Thankfully, the child was rather intimidated by the train and hid behind you; peeking out while the train gets slower. You felt strangely pleased that he wasn't as eager when you two were a little bit further away from those machines.

It came to a stop and you waited paitently for the little boy, now in front of you, to hop on. He still seemed a little bit scared and hesitated as he looked back to you with big eyes. "Don't you worry. Here, let me help you." You offered your right hand, which the toddler took and when you made a step forward, entering the train, he came along. "See?", you smiled down at him. You watched curiously yet your senses were sharpened, to ensure nothing will happen, as he left the train and with a jump he entered it again. "You learn quickly, little man." The boy looked proud and you couldn't help but think, that he looks a lot like his father when he did that.

It was late in the afternoon when you went to look for the old train hideout. You had a suspicion you might find a certain Assassin onboard. Before you could enter the train cart, you felt a tug at your coat. "No, no.", the toddler shook his head. "Shoes, Mama." He took his own shoes off and pointed at yours. "You're right. Where are my manners.", after all, you wanted it this way at home (it's taken to the point where your son even scolded his father with leaving his boots on). Once you've taken care of it, the boy ran across the floor of the train cart. As he had bare feet, it sounded funny when they touched the wooden floor. Meanwhile, the door behind you shut softly into it's lock. Your eyes also checked the other site of the cart to see, that the other door is closed, too.

It didn't take you long to find the certain man you've been looking for; sleeping at the Lounge. He had pulled his top hat deep into his face, and a barely audible snore came from his mouth. His leather coat and west draped over a nearby chair. He looked peaceful and you slightly felt guilty to actually disturb him. Well, not precisely you, but it was still your fault.

"Pssst." you said to the child, which you were following to make sure he won't touch anything he isn't supposed to touch. The kid stopped and turned to you. The big eyes were puppy like and even those reminded you of his father. "We do not want to wake up Papa, now do we?"

The answer was a small head shake before the child took in his target again. He didn't run like before, but he was still determined to go to the man on the lounge. When he stopped in front of the furniture, he watched the sleeping person for a few seconds.

While your son was occupied, you took care of some of the things that lay scattered around the floor. You couldn't help the feeling that took a hold of you. You missed being on the train, not long ago this was your home. There were still so many memories attached to the hideout.

The boy giggled softly. "Dada." You looked over to the voice and smiled when you saw that he wanted to grab the top hat. "You'll wake him up if you do that, Emmett."

Apparently, the boy doesn't care at all as the top hat was interesting to him. He stretched his little hand towards the sleeping man and grasped the hat. It was then being pulled over the man's face until it was finally in his possession. Of course, while the hat was being dragged across the sleeping person's face, this woke said person.

"Ugh. What the-" the man stemmed himself with his hands up in a sitting position. His face screamed sleepiness all over, his eyes blinking to try and get rid of the heavy feeling. At first, he saw you who gave him a shrug, before his hazel eyes fell onto the child next to the couch.

With a thud, the top hat had long been forgotten and little hands stretched out again; now towards the man. "Oi, lad, you know I will not let anyone get away with stealing my precious hat." He swung his legs off the couch, got up and picked Emmett up with both arms. Right now, Jacob doesn't even look like he just slept. Except for the hair, which was more dishevelled than usual, and the slightly deeper voice. "How do we proceed, little Rook?" a small smile stretched across your lips as he said the nickname. As soon as you told him you were expecting, nothing could stop the man from calling his child 'Little Rook'. Even amongst the gang itself, everyone knew who it was and greet him as such. "A fist fight?", Jacob grinned. Emmett always latched his hands onto the face of Jacob, and always with a frown upon his face when his small fingers glided over the stubbles. Now, the Assassin put his cheek against that of the toddler and gently began rubbing up and down. Thanks to the stubbles, it was ticklish and Emmett squeaked and laughed at the same time. "Oh, I know just the thing!" Jacob sat back down on the Lounge, placing the boy next to his right side onto his back. Immediately the father began to attack Emmett with tickling, which ended once again in squeaky, breathless laughters.

The little child tried to free himself and kicked his little legs in the air. Jacob didn't let the child get off so easily, even smothering him with kisses all over his face. But when he stopped his attacks and his son charged at him, Jacob let himself be thrown to the ground without resistance. "Oh no, the Rook beat me.", he lay flat on his back and prepared himself for the launch of Emmett. He jumped from the Couch right on his father, who let out a "Uff"-sound at the impact. "I give up, you are too strong for me." he had put his arms in a surrendered position. Emmett giggled and made it himself comfortable with laying on his stomach on the upper body of the man underneath him. "I 'ave won, Papa." "That you have." as a reward, Jacob ruffled through his son's hair.

You looked at the two of them, a short laugh coming from you due to the scene. "I guess the Rooks got a new leader, huh?" Jacobs eyes shifted to you, still with a grin stuck to his lips. Emmett, crawling down from his father, found another interesting thing among a few papers under the wall, where once all the informations about London's Templars were pinned. The male Frye stood and focused his attention now to you. "Hello Mrs. Frye." You were the first to capture his lips. It was meant to be a quick peck, but the man's lips were glued to yours for a few seconds longer. "Sorry for sleeping here." "Nothing to be sorry about, Jacob. You wanted it to be quiet and I know how active your son can be.", you tapped him a few times with the palm of your right hand on his chest. "He got that from you by the way." your tone was accusingly yet amusing. Jacobs eyes flashed with a playful glare.

A yelp escaped your mouth when he crashed your body against his. But the noise was drowned when his lips were back on yours for a more passionate kiss. Your hands found their place at his shoulders, grasping the material of his shirt. A faint bubbling could be registered in the background, but both of you do not seem to be bothered by it.

"I'm sorry for disturbing your sleep, though.", once you two seperated, your favoured hand seeked the warmth of his skin on his neck, fingertips drawing a line along his pulse. "Quite alright, darling. As much as I love to sleep - I love my little family more.", he dipped his head again to give you a quick kiss. "I love you, (Y/N)." "I love you, too, Jacob." A last loving smile before he turned in the direction of the still on going bubbling. "Now, I bet you're eager to get to know Agnes and Berta, right?"

Emmett was sitting between a few scattered papers, one sheet in his hands, almost as if he was reading the written words. But when he heard his fathers voice directed to him, you never saw him getting on his feet that quickly before. Jacob picked the boy up again, putting him this time on his shoulders. Being on his fathers shoulders was a favourite spot for Emmett. While waiting for Jacob to bring him to Agnes, his little hands started to be interested in the hair of the Assassin. You had gone back to the entrance of the cart to retrieve Emmett's shoes, which you were now putting on quite fast. "I'll be careful." Jacob assured. He had caught a glimpse of your light concern in your eyes. "I know. I'll wait here." you smiled up to him. "Don't take too long." Your lover gave you a nod and went to the direction of the cart, which was once owned by Evie. The man opened the door. "Duck your head, little Rook."

When both of your men were out of view, you picked the top hat from the floor and wanted to place it on the table. But you know that Jacob might take a while with Berta. And as you know Agnes, she can talk about her loc like there was no tomorrow. This was your chance, which you took as soon as the idea formed inside your head. You made yourself comfortable on the Lounge, placed the top hat on your face to shield yourself from any light. You only hoped you could get at least an hour of rest. With the child of Jacob Frye running around and other important Assassin duties, it was almost impossible to get enough sleep.

[trulycertain]

The Shield Raised Masterpost

May also be of interest: The Great Big Masterpost (everything I’ve ever written on Tumblr) The Armour masterpost (F!Amell/Alistair) The An Unquenchable Flame masterpost (F!Trevelyan/Cullen) The Knight Shop masterpost (multi-writer modern AU)

Shield Raised is a series of drabbles about my stoic, awkward Trevelyan, Gal, and his romance with Dorian. a.k.a., “A Marcher nearly-templar, a Tevinter altus, and a slow understanding.” The Inquisition-era ones (though not the pre- and post-game ones) are collected on AO3 here.

Pre-Inquisition

sans peur et sans reproche: Basically, Gal’s angsty backstory. Chantries, angry young men and controlling mothers.

Haven

Rejection: The Herald has barely spoken since he arrived. (Josephine, Gal and the beginning of a tentative friendship.)

Futures: Dorian thinks the supposed Herald of Andraste is rather… odd.

The Measure: Dorian, Gal and a slow understanding. Also Dorian working out. Because apparently that’s important?

Drinking with the Tevinter: The Inquisition isn’t happy having someone from the Imperium in its ranks. Gal feels rather differently.

Questions and Answers: Gal gets upset and a bit drunk and finally opens up about his past. That’s pretty much it.

pictures in the snow: The attack on Haven and Gal’s apparent death.

Skyhold

Crossing: Turns out Gal’s alive. Cue Skyhold, UST and a step forwards.

Mamihlapinatapei: Promptfic. Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

Sweet Nothing: The companions attempt to be helpful because the UST is getting painful to watch. Gal and Dorian do not appreciate it, but it gives them food for thought.

Liminal: Dorian tries to deal with being chucked into the Fade, and then with his father, and lines are crossed. Angsty as hell, even by Shield Raised standards.

Out Of My Head: Post-Last Resort Of Good Men. Dorian gets drunk, tries not to snog Gal and is homesick.

Answers: In which they finally spit it out. Only took them 21k.

Rumours:  A revised and improved rewrite of “Answers.” Blech, kissing.

Attachment: Some fluff, some angst, some snogging. In the aftermath of That Kiss, Gal and Dorian try to work out what this thing between them is.

Truths: Homesickness, making out, and Dorian playing the “what, of course I’m not falling for him, what do you mean I called him amatus, I don’t even know what that means” game.

Promises: “Wishing but wondering, wounded and wistful. What if he doesn’t want me after?” A seduction, and Dorian waiting to get his heart broken. As usual.

the light of day: In which all the companions have an opinion. Of course.

Chess: Gal gets trounced at chess by a twelve-year-old. Oh, and he and Irene talk about happiness.

Pretexts:  SFW, despite subject matter. Gal attempts to find time to do some “paperwork.” Said paperwork has a moustache.

Gifts, and surprises: Two short drabbles for the prompts “Did you do this?” and “So uh. I noticed you’re kinda naked. Is that intentional, or… ?” Gal and Dorian attempt to be spontaneous, with varying levels of success.

Sers: SFW, but written for #sexlaughterhonesty Week and the theme “coitus interruptus”. In which a messenger is privy to too much.

A Request: Short snippet. Josephine and Gal, pre-Winter Palace.

Formality: Why they got scruffy!Gal at Halamshiral, despite Josephine’s wishes.

A letter found on the Inquisitor’s desk: For the Dragon Age 100 prompt “Family.” Gal and an old friend from the Chantry days.

The Golden Floor: Halamshiral fluff, and why dancing can sometimes be an act of bravery.

Kohl: The adventures of Gal and Dorian and their battles with eyeliner. Does a little bit of timeline-hopping.

Mornings: On waking up together and Gal’s ridiculously large bed.

Mutual Domesticity: “You didn’t think I lived in leathers, did you?”

Maps: Short promptfic for “kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing.“

Dignity: Very daft fluff. Gal’s battles with the Helm of the Inquisitor. And prima sandwicha.

Ironically, Zombie Spider: What it says on the tin. Dorian really, really needs to stop idle magic experiments.

For Now:  The Arbour Wilds fallout, and the “I’m going back to Tevinter” conversation. Angst, 5.1k.

“So if Gal’s 'amatus’, what does he call you?” Very short headcanon drabble thing.

Post-game

A Problem: Spans from shortly after their meeting to post-game. About 7k. Dorian and his struggles with The Dreaded L Word.

The Hangover: The big “we survived” celebration. Gal finally gets truly, astonishingly drunk, and emotional honesty happens. Much to his horror. Also: sorbet.

Malapert: Promptfic. Malapert - Clever in manners of speech.

“I love you” - said loudly, so everyone can hear

The Trespasser hair: Short, silly headcanon drabble.

Trespasser

Worst Case Scenario: Angsty AU drabble where Trespasser was even more difficult for Gal and Dorian. I let these two be happy sometimes. I promise.

Green: How Trespasser actually went. Truthfully, it’s not much less angsty than the AU.

Post-Trespasser

on the turning away: Leaving, and coming back.

Depth Over Distance: Gal, Dorian and managing the long-distance thing. Partly epistolary. Also, the return of Erren.

The Trespasser hair, part two: Gal has opinions on long-haired Dorian.

“I love you” - said as a thank you

Pain: Gal gets another tattoo. Dorian has… thoughts on it. Written for a Dragon Age 100 Challenge prompt.

A Question: What it says on the tin.

AUs

it’s running you with red: A short, miserable red-templar!Gal drabble.

Birthright (AO3): Another of the not quite fairy tales: the Cinderella AU no-one asked for. In a world where things happened slightly differently, Dorian takes a masked ball as a chance to covertly investigate this Inquisition he’s heard so much about. It’s only one night. Not much can go wrong. Can it? (Spoiler: The answer is yes. Or it can go very, very right.)

“Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.” (All things change, and we change with them.) For a prompt. In which a time travel experiment goes wrong and Dorian ends up meeting a very sad eighteen-year-old stuck-in-the-Chantry Gal.

Reprise: Or “the one where Gal freaks out and breaks up with Dorian in Trespasser because he is an idiot, and they have to sort things out nearly two years later.” Ten-parter (there is a lot of mess to sort out). Over at AO3 | On Tumblr: Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 |  Angsty extra drabble | 9 | 10

That very silly modern AU where they met at Yvaine’s wedding

Antivan Brandy: “I’d make an excellent spy. Charming, handsome, perfect teeth and hair…”

july forever (AO3): These visiting Tevinters are going to be fundamental for trade. The Trevelyans' son is under no circumstances to do anything stupid or inappropriate to embarrass the family, like seducing any of their foreign guests. Unfortunately, said Tevinters' son has rather different ideas.The "angry young men have a doomed summer romance" AU.

The Knight Shop stuff (modern-ish fluff-ish AU)

Terms & Conditions - The problem with distinguished old houses is that they tend to fall down around your ears when ignored for a decade. Dorian needs a handyman (possibly a whole squad of them). Gal is... well, a one-man most-of-a-squad. Or a knight.

Revenge - Gal’s all pink round the edges due to the Shop’s newest customer. Time for Alistair to tease him relentlessly about it. “I didn’t know ‘seventeenth-century villain’ was your type, but whatever works for you…”

“The washing machine broke, I almost lost my keys, the car got dented, and a wasp got into the house and hijacked the bedroom for four days! Four. Days.” Promptfic. The Knight Shop AU I will someday write properly with these two.

A to B - That time Dorian ended up on the back of Gal’s bike. Yeah, really.

DELETED SCENES

The First Round - Very important shirtless *cough* plot.

Happiness - Gal, Irene and a game of chess

Graphic depictions of cuddling

If asked, “When did you first fall in love?” both Gal and Dorian will struggle to answer the question.

OUTTAKES

Tru and Gal get a pint together, part one

Tru and Gal get a pint together, part two

“Only one orgy?”

Very, very bad jokes

HEADCANONS/COMMENTARY

Gal headcanons and history

More headcanons/extra info on Gal

Why Gal is called Galahad

Half-asleep Gal

Haircanons - Gal’s “phases” after DAI

Ten questions for Gal

Pros and cons of dating Gal (what pros?)

Gal and romance

Gal vs. TVTropes

Gal/Dorian couple-y silliness

Gal, Dorian and the bedroom (not quite as unsafe for work as it sounds)

Erren headcanons and info

Dorian headcanons (very general, but might tell you a bit about how I write him)

Dorian totally had a punk phase (Knight Shop/modern AU, I guess?)

Shield Raised and horses

Chev Trev The Horse