#and varric laughing his butt off

[littlemissgeek8]

I worked so darn hard on this, you have no idea. Between writer's block and a migraine and having the sudden asexual panic of "HOW ON EARTH DO PEOPLE ACTUALLY FLIRT?" it seemed like the universe didn't want me to write at all! But, hopefully I ticked both boxes. ^^;;; Even if the "angst" is more "wallowing in self-pity," hurt/comfort is my JAM. Once again shoving the bulk of the story behind a cut because it's almost 2000 words, oops.

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Not for the first time that day, nor even that week, Varric cursed the name of that Maker-forsaken pony. It made sense to travel by horseback--you could carry your equipment better, you could go further in a single day than you could on foot... and, apparently if you were Varric, you could get brushed off your pony and sprain your ankle. Luckily, they'd been almost back to Skyhold, and somehow he'd managed to stay on the pony afterwards long enough to get home.

Still, he never could find a way to get along with the blasted animal, even though he'd been assigned to ride her for months. She sucked in air when she was saddled and nearly dropped him on his head the first time he mounted. She found every. single. branch. to smack him in the head with. She'd even folded her ears back and tried to nip him a few times before he started avoiding her head like the plague.

And she had the audacity of having the same name he'd given Hawke's sister.

Now, he was holed up in his quarters at Skyhold, stretched out on his bed, with a pillow under his foot and several more tucked behind his back. And, though he wouldn't admit it even under pain of torture, he was absolutely sulking.

He should be writing, but his desk was across the room and moving was a lot of work. He wanted to be down in his usual spot in the great hall, curled up in a comfortable chair by the fire. It was the best place for people watching, and of course all the juiciest gossip got whispered about right near him. The table was perfect for writing too, either working on his serials, jotting down notes, or writing the occasional report about their most recent excursion.

The great hall, of course, was a much further walk than his desk, and down more than one flight of stairs too. So instead, he lay in his bed with a scowl, doing absolutely nothing at all.

A knock at the door poked a hole through the gloom of his self-pity. It was timid at first, as if the person knocking was afraid to bother him, then followed by a louder set of rapid-fire knocks. Apparently the person outside had decided to get it over with all at once. Unfortunately, the gloom settled back in stronger than before.

"What do you want?" Varric called from the bed, his voice an irritated growl. A part of him deep down twinged at the harshness of his words. But he shoved it back down, burying it under his frustration at his situation and the layer of pain that swirled up whenever he moved wrong. He wasn't really in the mood for pleasantries or visitors, truth be told.

"Varric? I wanted to check on you, are you all right?" A soft feminine voice came from beyond the door, draped in the flatter tones of a dwarven accent. Inquisitor Cadash, the Herald of Andraste. The woman wrapped in a warning of "look, but don't touch" in his mind.

"No," he answered flatly. Then, after a momentary pause, "The door's not locked." The door opened with a creak, and the Inquisitor's round, curious face poked in. Her brown hair was braided as usual, but this time she had it coiled and pinned at the base of her neck. Not a bad look at all, really, if one was looking at her like that. Varric told himself he definitely wasn't. He was just getting the details right, that's all.

"Sorry to bother you, I thought it must be frightfully lonely up here all alone." She hovered at the doorway, hands hidden under her cloak and probably clasped together out of nerves if he knew her right. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"Its your fortress," Varric said bluntly. At least she asked, he thought to himself. Not everyone who had that kind of power would. "Don't worry, I'm decent." He'd managed to struggle himself into a loose pair of breeches earlier, when he thought he might try hobbling off to the main hall. It was after he moved his ankle just wrong in the process that he decided to stay in his room. The breeches he'd kept on out of stubbornness, but he hadn't bothered with a shirt.

The Inquisitor saw his chest hair on a regular basis anyway, this shouldn't shock her, Varric reasoned.

Still, her cheeks took on a reddish cast as she entered, looking at everything in the room but him. Her hands were still tucked under her cloak, and Varric sighed. All the confidence the Inquisitor had developed during Haven seemed to have cracked after they arrived in Skyhold. At least, as far as he'd seen--she'd been so comfortable when they'd spent time together in Haven. Had Corypheus's attack really unnerved her so much?

"So, what's so urgent you came up here to find me? I can't go on any wild adventures right now, sorry. Doctor's orders." Even with his valiant efforts, his usual sarcasm came out harsh. He wasn't really wanting visitors today anyway, even one as easy on the eyes as serah Cadash. It was frankly hard to wallow in self-pity when there was someone around whose feelings he cared about. Somewhat cared about, he told himself, even if it wasn't exactly true.

The Inquisitor laughed softly, her eyes crinkling up as she glanced at him. "No adventures this time, I think you've had enough trouble for a few days." Carefully, she walked across the room to his writing desk, before she finally moved her hands out from under the cloak and placed a covered object on the desk. As Varric sat up a little, he saw her remove the quilted cover to reveal an attractive silver coffeepot. Then, she slid her hands into the bulging pockets of the cloak and took out a pair of silver cups to go with it.

"Coffee?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The Inquisitor glanced back at him with a smile.

"Well, you're not much for tea, if I remember right, and it's too early for alcohol, and you didn't seem interested in that cocoa stuff Bull had you ship in..." Before Varric could ask why that mattered at all, she produced a cloth bundle and set it on the desk before unwrapping it to reveal a selection of baked goods. It was a little hard to see from the bed, but when she held one up, Varric recognized the crunchy, wedge-shaped almond pastries he'd taken a liking to back in Kirkwall.

"Oh," he said, eloquently.

"I thought I remembered you liked these," the Inquisitor said, untying the strings of her cloak, "but I'm afraid you'll have to get up if you want some."

Flames. He did, in fact, want some of those tasty little pastries, and she knew it too. Someone must have put her up to this, maybe Nightingale or Ruffles. He'd have suspected Chuckles, but he knew the two didn't get along. He pressed his lips together into something vaguely resembling a tight smile, and steeled himself in preparation to get up.

The floor was cold and his feet were bare, and the slightest touch made him recoil at first. But, bribery is a powerful motivator, and soon both feet were over the side of the bed as he prepared to stand. Somewhere in the room, the crutches he'd been given lay where he'd discarded them in a fit of frustration. They were awkward to use and walking around like that hurt his pride even more than his ankle. Instead, he pushed himself into a standing position with a bedside table and what little leverage he could get from the bed itself, before lurching sideways to lean against the wall. The stones of the wall felt even colder on his bare arms than the floor did against his bare feet.

Step by agonizing step, Varric made his way across the room to his desk out of pure stubbornness. He only half registered that the Inquisitor had pulled his chair out before he half fell into it. Lifting himself up with his arms, he settled into the chair and shot a glare at the woman beside him. "That was cruel," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry," Inquisitor Cadash said softly, before shooting him a sideways glance. "Would it have been better if I let you wallow in bed all day?" There was a teasing quality to her voice that gave Varric pause. She'd teased and cracked jokes before, yes, but this felt different. Once again the "Look but don't touch" warning rang out in his head, and he busied himself by pouring some coffee.

The kitchen staff must have added sugar and a bit of cream to the pot itself before sending it up, because it tasted just the way he liked it when he took a sip. Odd, he hadn't known they kept track of his tastes. The almond pastry was just right as well, the dryness offset by dunking it in the coffee. A smile crept over his face despite his dark mood, before he noticed the Inquisitor watching him nearby with an expectant expression.

Varric cocked his head to the side a bit with a questioning expression, and Inquisitor Cadash took a step back. "Was it right? It looks like it was right..."

"Were you behind this?" He asked, an amused chuckle sneaking out of his throat.

The Inquisitor shoved her hands into her pockets and took another step back, bumping into the end of the bed and sitting down with a thump. "I... knew you were feeling down and I didn't do it without help. But the cooks downstairs let me do some stirring and I added the almonds... and I hope I remembered how you like your coffee."

The unbidden chuckle had given way to a genuine smile, one that softened his eyes as he leaned against the desk with his cheek cradled in one hand. It was always a slightly terrifying ordeal, to be seen. Varric had long relied on stories and fabrications and outright lies to keep himself guarded, but at this moment being seen wasn't scary at all. "Do you treat all your friends like this, your Inquisitorialness?" he asked, quietly pushing down a wish that the answer was no.

The Inquisitor elected not to answer, chewing on her lip and refusing to meet his eyes again.

Varric took one of the almond pastries and held it out to her. "Why don't you try one? They came out pretty good." Her grey-blue eyes met his for a moment as she took the pastry from his hand, then she stood up and put her hand on the coffee pot.

"Uh, do you mind?" she asked, indicating the pot.

Varric shook his head in reply. "I thought you didn't like coffee," he said, watching her pour a small amount into the other cup. "Something about it being 'too bitter,' wasn't it?"

The Inquisitor focused on dunking her pastry in the coffee, before glancing back up at him through her eyelashes. "It's sweeter with company," she said softly with a smile.

Varric couldn't argue with that.

Writing Challenge

Alright now that I was both sincere and pedantic(warned y’all I’m almost always both) here’s your writing challenge for the day. Don’t forget there’s no time limit to these, if you find it in a month I’ll still reblog it. I’ll take pretty much any BW fic not just DA. Reblog, tag, or link me!! My ask box is always open as are my DM’s! Without further ado:

I want flirty dialogue without physical touch OR flirty touch without dialogue.

OR OR

If romance like that isn’t your thing I want angst. Give me the longing. Give me the hurt/comfort. I yearn for yearning. Emotional distress???? I love that shit. I’m leaving this one wide open. Bonus points if you manage both categories. Look for mine later.

[shivunin]

More micro stories and prompts?? YAY!

So, let's say.

Starry for Maria

Truth for Elowen

Medicine for Arianwen

Profane for Emma

Initiative for Salshira

… Pick the one(s) that you'd like best of course, no obligation to do them all! ✨

YAY BACK, oh man, you just know what I had to do for "initiative" right? Because now I desperately want a modern AU dnd group with Salshira as the DM. She would make a fantastic DM.

Thank you, Arja! 💗

(Micro-Fic Prompts)

Starry  

“Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue,” Maria sang, and motes of light spun from her fingertips, swirling in tiny constellations over the cradle before her. Leander reached for them, cooing, his tiny eyes fixed on the starry whorls above his bed. 

“You must love me, dilly dilly, for I love you.” 

This past few weeks, he’d refused to fall asleep without something to watch when she put him down to sleep. She’d been the same as a child—lights much like these were the first thing she’d ever called from the other side of the Fade—so Hawke would stand by his bed and sing until he dozed off at last. It was just a phase, she’d been assured, and the babe would grow out of it in time. For now, she didn’t much mind the singing, nor the stars.

“Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?” she sang, and smiled when she saw movement in her periphery: pale hair against the shadows, the shift of a shoulder against the doorframe, always watching in case she needed him. Ah, how she loved them both.

“Twas my own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.”

Truth

“Tell the truth,” Varric panted between bolts, “it’s the hair, isn’t it?”

Elowen cast him a horrified glance and tossed a fistful of lightning at the bear they were fighting. 

“You want to talk about this now?” she asked, and ducked when a massive paw would have crushed her head. Varric snagged her arm and tugged her out of range while Cassandra swung into the breach. 

“What else could it be?” he asked. “He’s not exactly the most charming guy out there.”

“Varric,” Elowen said, and slammed the butt of her staff on the ground, “no. Stop trying to turn this into a narrative.”

“I’m just saying—” he began, but she gestured sharply. 

“Let it go,” she insisted, and then he had no choice but to let it go, for the first bear had called for a second and there was no longer any breath to talk with.

Medicine

“The mage sent me with your medicine,” the assassin said, and he was opening the flap of her tent before Tabris could decide if she wanted to pull the blanket over her damaged arm or leave it out in the open. 

Zevran hissed between his teeth and crouched beside her, eyeing the burned skin over her wrist and forearm. 

“A nasty wound,” he said, “do you need help with it?”

“No,” Wen said sharply, and winced when she tried to angle her arm closer, “...maybe.”

Zevran made a soft noise, tongue against teeth, and carefully sat beside her. Wen hissed at the sensation of the balm on her tender skin and buried her face in her shoulder. 

“Why did she not come herself?” he asked idly, his fingertips very careful over her skin. 

“I told her to fuck off when she offered,” Wen muttered into her shoulder, flinching when he laughed and traced ointment over the edge of the wound. His fingertips were callused and warm; for some reason, she hadn’t expected that. 

“There—it is done,” he said a moment later, and stood to go. 

“Thank you,” she muttered in response, long after the tent flap had swung shut again and the sound of footsteps had faded away. 

Profane

It felt profane to walk here. 

How funny to think so, after all the ruins and temples Emma had explored as a child. But this place—this temple—was different. It felt alive somehow, as if the goddess it revered was still present to watch what she did here. 

“I am sorry,” she told the first statue of Mythal in Elvhen, “I want to help and I will be as careful as I can be, but there are others here who mean this place harm.”

She could hear the others murmuring behind her, feel the weight of Solas’s stare against the back of her neck. He’d been odd since they approached this place, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. 

Didn’t matter. He’d made it clear that her faith was not his, and that was fine. 

“Let’s do these puzzles,” she said after a moment, turning away from the remote expression of the statue. “We have to make this right, however we still can.”

Initiative

“The high inquisitor rises from her throne, staff in hand, magic spilling from her fingertips,” Salshira said, rising slightly from her chair as she spoke. “‘You have overstepped your bounds and you must pay the price,’ she says, and when she waves her hand every single one of the doors behind you slams shut and locks.”

The six players at the table before her gazed on in various stages of horror, Cassandra’s hands clasped before her, Cullen with one palm over his forehead, Bull grinning broadly and rubbing his hands together. 

“You know what I’m gonna say,” Salshira said, spreading her hands. 

The others groaned and fumbled around for dice, Sera drawing her set from under a paper plate and two grease-stained sheets of paper, Varric from inside a velvet-lined case, and Josephine from the precise line of dice she’d set before her. Salshira waited until all six players held their d20 in hand before grinning and leaning forward. 

“Roll for initiative,” she said, and the fight began.

[sky-scribbles]

Party banter with Inquisitor Essek

(Because this ridiculous crossover has taken over my life. A brief explanation, as much as explanation is possible: a mis-cast spell has yote a post-campaign Essek through a planar rift and into Thedas, and he happened to land in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. These banters go up to the destruction of Haven, which is why Cole isn’t here - but he will be in later instalments!)

Cassandra: Leliana has found no information about you. Not a thing. Essek: Considering that most mages are met with disgust and imprisonment, it would be... imprudent of me to advertise my presence. Cassandra: Living in secrecy is one thing. Leaving no mark on the world at all is another. Essek: And you would prefer, I think, for all my secrets to be at your disposal.  Cassandra: Are you surprised that I suspect you have something to hide? Essek: Is hostile intent the only possible reason for secrecy, Seeker?

Solas: It would appear that your mark is affecting you physically, Herald. Essek: My hand was not green before, no. Solas: Aside from the obvious. While I tended to you after the conclave, you did not always seem to be asleep. At times, you lapsed into true unconsciousness. At other times, you seemed to trance, half-sleeping. Essek: Ah. Yes. I suppose... the connection to the Fade has altered the way I sleep. I find I can enter these trances at will, as a substitute for sleep. Solas: That is fascinating. The ancient elves could enter an endless dream called uthenera. Perhaps this is a related phenomenon. Essek: So one would assume.

Essek: So, Sera. I was going through  my research notes - Sera: [Sniggering] Essek: And I found that they had been expertly illustrated. Sera: That's what your weird rifty timey magic shite needs. All the butts. Essek: They certainly add interest. Although... that drawing of me closing a rift full of demon butts? You should have shaped my cloak so that it looked like a dick. Sera: [laughs] Like a dick! You're all right, Herald Weirdyhand. Essek: And you are quite the jester.

Varric: How is it you can just walk around pitch-black caves without a problem? Don’t tell me you're part-dwarf and it's stone-sense. Essek: Ah, no. I would assume it is yet another change from the mark. Varric: So this thing lets you fix the sky, and it's a free torch? Who knew that being Andraste's chosen came with a multi-purpose toolkit? Essek: There is no evidence for my being chosen by anything other than political convenience.  Varric: You’re not crazy about the whole Herald business, are you? Essek: About people deciding that I am the mouthpiece of an unproven god who does not speak to anyone, and yet whose name and teachings people use as an excuse for war and conquest, without investigating the truth behind those teachings? No. I am not.

Blackwall: So what does an apostate do, if he's on his own for... I don't know, how many years? Essek: Arcane research, mostly. Why, what does a Grey Warden do when he's on his own for however many years? Blackwall: Kill darkspawn. Recruit for the Wardens. Kill more darkspawn. Essek: And your fellow Wardens do not accompany you? Blackwall: You don't need more than one person to say 'how do you feel about fighting darkspawn for the rest of your life?' Essek: Did you... ever find yourself becoming lonely, in your solitude? Blackwall: I... sometimes, I suppose. Never gave much thought to it. Easier that way. Essek: Mm. I know the feeling.

Dorian: So you think Alexius’s perception of time was fundamentally flawed? Essek: I do. Time is not a straight line, through which one can jump ahead, skip back and rub bits out. Dorian: How would you have done it differently? Aside from the whole ‘conjure a world infested with red lyrium and catastrophe’ part. Essek: Imagine time as a branching thing. Every choice we make causes potential timelines to fade into non-existence. Essek: But their potential remains, waiting to be tapped. Alexius should have attempted to manifest a timeline in which I was never here, rather than removing me from this one. Dorian: Well, don’t tell everybody how to make it work. Wouldn’t want them to get ideas. Though perhaps you’d like to compare notes, later? Essek: I... would like that. 

Vivienne: You carry yourself remarkably well, Herald. Almost like nobility. Essek: Only 'almost'? I shall have to try harder. Vivienne: And despite your youth, you deflect personal inquiries with the deftness of a seasoned player of the Game. Quite remarkable, from a hedge mage. Essek: I'm mildly curious: 'hedge mage'? Vivienne: A self-taught mage, dear. One who has gone without the instruction of a Circle, or even a Dalish clan. If you ever require tuition, I am at your disposal. Essek: I’m sure you are. But I am not especially interested in whatever you think you have to teach.

Sera: You’re proper weird, you are. You go all swanny around the noble piss-bags, all smiles and pretty words like Lady Josie, but you put teeth in it, like Vivvy. Essek: Like Vivienne? I should hope not. Sera: And then you screw the nobs over like Josie does, ‘cept she makes them love her for it and you make them scared. Leliana kind of scared. Essek: When people don’t know you, or what to make of you, they fear you. It makes them... malleable. It’s something I’ve learned to use. As has Leliana, it would seem.

Varric: You doing all right, Smiles? Essek: 'Smiles'? An intriguing choice. Varric: Same reasoning as Iron Lady and Sparkler. Meet as many messes as I have, and you get good at spotting masks. Essek: Indeed? Varric: You fell out of the sky, got attacked by a shit ton of demons and put in charge of an army, and never once stopped smiling. Kind of impressive, actually. Essek: Thank you. Varric: Also, creepy as shit. 

Solas: I'm curious about your name, Herald. Essek: My name? It's Essek. Sera: [laughs] Solas: I meant that it isn't elven, though your family name sounds very like it. Solas: ‘Thelyss’. I wonder if it is is a result of syllables from the name 'Lethallas' being lost and altered over the years. It means, 'a gift to one's kin.' Essek: Ha. Solas: You don't find that likely? Essek: Me being a gift to my kin? Highly unlikely.

Iron Bull: So, boss, what do you make of my guys? Essek: They clearly have an array of talents. Iron Bull: Oh, come on. I didn't ask for what the Herald thought of his new recruits, I asked what you make of my guys. Essek: Very well. They are... unusual. Enthusiastic. I think that some would underestimate them, some would be thrown off-balance by them, and many would do both. Iron Bull: Ha. Yeah, we like to keep people guessing.  Essek: I like them. They are... lively.

Sera: I don’t get it. You can screw over noble shite-faces without being scary. And you’re not scary! I know you and you’re not scary, so why be scary? Essek: Well, I don’t find you scary either, Sera. But I’m sure our enemies do, when they’re on the wrong end of your arrows. Sera: That’s different things, though. I learned arrows because arrows mean nobs are dead and I’m not. Essek: Exactly. Like you, I have had to fight for survival in my own ways. And unlike you, for a long time, I was without friends. Sera: So... you learned how to do scary because you’re scared? Essek: I would say more... aware of potential dangers. Sera: So, scared.

Solas: As for your first name, the final syllable is not even a sound that occurs in elven. Is it Qunlat? One of your parents is Qunari, I assume? Essek: Ah. Yes, of course. Solas: So it is Qunlat? Iron Bull: Nah, that’s not Qunlat, whatever it is. Almost sounds like it, though. Kinda like ‘isskari’. Name for Ben-Hassrath who get hold of weird magic crap. Essek: Oddly appropriate. But since I'm not in contact with my family, the truth shall have to remain a mystery.

Blackwall: Are you all right, Herald? Essek: Fine, thank you. I simply have somewhat sensitive eyes and skin, and it is a very bright day. Blackwall: If you need to stop, I could... I don’t know. Hold a shield over your head? Essek: I appreciate it, but no, thank you. It is tolerable. Blackwall: Didn’t meant to offend. Essek: It is all right. I - [sighs] I apologise. That would help, if you could. Years of solitude have made me... reliant on my own self-reliance, I suppose.  Blackwall: I know what you mean. Shield parasol it is, then.

Sera: Don’t need to be scared, right? Anyone gives you shit, I give ‘em arrows. Or just pies. Or worms in their shoes. Essek: [chuckles] Thank you, Sera. Please do. Sera: Did think you were scary at first, you know.  Essek: What changed your mind? Sera: Scary wouldn’t grin when I drew butts on things.  Essek: ... Are you at all fond of cupcakes, Sera?

[jasperlucilfer]

Dragon Age Tranquil Part 1

Hawke groaned as his group clambered down into darktown behind him. It’s not that he disliked the people down here, though quite a few were very dangerous, it was just… the smell. The smell got to him every time, rank and clinging to the inside of his nose for days. He hated coming down here but this was a direct request from Knight-Captain Cullen. Now, just because it came from Cullen didn’t necessarily mean anything except… this time it was the loss of several of their Tranquil that was putting the whole tower on edge.

So, here he was slogging through Darktown once again as he followed a lead; hopefully their last lead on this ridiculous mission.

“Ooo, I never liked coming down here,” Merril whispered. Just for this expedition Varric had gotten her to wear boots because it was disgustingly dirty down here and it would be horrible if Merril caught infection from a tiny cut.

“It’s a miserable place,” Avaline grunted, her plated armor scratching loudly against the wall as she stumbled through a pile of muck.

“Aw, c’mon ladies! It’s got it’s own charm,” Varric groaned. “Dark and rank. The perfect hideaway for vagabonds and rats.”

Hawke snorted. “Is that something to be considered charming?”

“What? You don’t consider it a nice little getaway? Poor Feathers might consider that an insult,” Varric chuckled, hoisting Bianca off his back and into his arms.

Hawke shortly followed suit, hearing the same noise that had set off Varric. Merril and Aveline were quick to follow suit, readying themselves as the screams became louder the further down the underground they went. Darktown was a rat maze with so many twists, turns, dead ends, fake walls, and traps that it was a miracle that people could actually live down here. Not that it was healthy for them- Anders especially but that man was ridiculously stubborn.

The sounds of fighting were starting to die down as the small group of four approached another bend in the path. As soon as they cleared the wall enough to see the wide cavernous space, they were hit with the smell of old blood and the scene of eviscerated mages sprawled across the ground. There had to be at least twenty of them…

“Well, shit,” Varric rumbled, cautiously stepping forward. Hawke followed suit, slinging his staff back onto his back so he had the use of both hands. As a mage he didn’t necessarily need his staff to cast, so he was the best one to put away his weapon and root around the bodies. There was nothing particularly special about them besides the fact that they were already somewhat bloated and chewed on, which meant…

“Interesting. They’ve been dead for a few days at the very least.”

Aveline hummed. “Then where were the sounds of fighting coming from?”

It was a great question. “Hey, Merril.” The little elf had been poking at the ground behind them. When she heard her name, she tilted her head up in acknowledgment. “Do you sense that?”

“Hmm. Yes. The tear in the veil, it’s particularly potent about right here,” the butte of her staff tapped against the moldy rock beneath her feet. “It almost feels like it’s directly under us.”

“Well, there’s no tranquil here,” Varric said slowly, eyes still roving the dead bodies.

“So, the job’s still not done,” Hawke sighed.

Varric groaned. “Can’t I go somewhere nice for a change. Maybe a beach that doesn’t have Qunari, slavers, and Carta crawling across it like ants. Or even a nice villa where I can relax.”

“I thought you said this place was charming,” Hawke laughed quietly.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Oh!” Maerril’s startled voice attracted everyone’s attention. Her head popped out from a wall making Varric jump and Aveline curse. Hawke only glowed happily, very relieved that the elf had found an illusion that could lead them further in. Not that he enjoyed being here, mind, but the faster this was done, the less that Templar was likely to bother them later.

He had hoped to maybe save the Tranquil as well but with the state of the bodies here… very unlikely.

“I tripped and fell right through this wall,” Merril chirped. “It’s a very nicely done illusion. The path goes down too!”

“Well? What are we waiting for?”

The path Merril had found was long and steep. There had been two offshoots that they followed up on, trying to track the resumed sound of fighting. All it led them to was more dead bodies. Though some of the potions in the side caverns were useful enough that Hawke took them. And then finally they emerged into another, even larger cavern. Once again, as soon as the place was in view, the screaming and fighting vanished as if it had never happened. Hawke had already chalked it down to Veil shenanigans.

“More dead bodies,” Varric said, sarcasm just dripping from his lips. “Oh, what joy! It’s all I’ve ever wanted in life, to discover human remains!”

“Really, Varric? I didn’t know you wanted to do something like that! Did you know that elven clans often do the same thing in hopes of discovering more of our history?”

“That’s not what I- Oh, never mind.”

Aveline had started forward almost immediately this time and it was her who pointed out the array drawn in blood on the ground with eight tranquil situated around it.

“Damn, too late.” Hawke brushed his fingers through his hair. “Well, keep your guard up. This city has a nasty habit of walking corpses and I’d rather we not get surrounded with how many dead bodies are hanging around here. We’ll just have to report the location to the Knight-Captain and be done with this.”

“But what about the demon,” Merril asked, a thoughtful frown on her face as she cocked her head.

“Whatever it was that got summoned… it’s not here anymore and it’s going to be way too much of a hassle trying to find out where it’s gone off too. After all, everyone else in Darktown was fine on the way down. It’s only this section that harbors the dead.”

“No, no. It’s still here.”

Everyone tensed up at that. Hawke was quick to pull his staff back into a ready position, the blade scraping noisily on the stone floor. If there was one thing he’d learned about Merril, it was that she had an impeccable feeling for when demons were around. Despite her status as a blood mage, Merril was far more attuned to the veil than even Hawke was. So, if she said there was a demon around, there was definitely a demon around.

“Where?”

“I-I don’t know. It’s rather close, I think,” she murmured, tapping her staff on the ground again. “It doesn’t feel hostile but… I could try drawing it out with blood magic.”

Avenline immediately scoffed in disgust and Varric gave an exasperated sigh. Hawke knew no one truly approved of her blood magic but it had come in handy a few times. By this point, after living 9 years in Kirkwall, even Hawke’s morals had grown a little skewed. What harm was blood magic as long as it wasn’t being used insidiously?

If there was ever someone he trusted to use it safely, it was Merril. And he said so, watching her face light up at the trust he continued to show in her. The other two weren’t as happy but Hawke wasn’t willing to leave this problem to fester and cause bigger problems later.

Without any fanfare, Marril had sliced her palm open and was allowing the drops to fall at the edges of the already existing array. The large thing flashed crimson, once, twice, then the light seemed to solidify into a small red string that trailed off into another wall.

Ah, another illusion. “Well, nothing for it.”

They were expecting an abomination as soon as they passed through the illusion.

They were expecting an adult, possessed and violent.

They were not expecting a tiny child curled tight, sobbing, and shivering.

They were not expecting the Tranquil brand on the small boy’s forehead.

“Fuck.”

[wordtotherose]

6 with a ship of ur choice

Thank you, hun :D Ik you don't know them but I am on a huge Fenris & Hawke kick as you do know! So read if you wish but I shall not be upset if not! I got to write it which is the fun bit!

Read on AO3 too!

It’s a testament to just how attuned he is to Fenris that he doesn’t sit up from his slouch over the table in a battle-ready panic when a hand runs through his hair. No gauntlets today, just the sparking scrape of nails against his scalp. Hawke, eyes still closed, hangover headache making itself known, turns his head on his arms.

“Goodmorning,” Fenris says quietly, tugging out a cot.

Hawke’s pouts but struggles to keep it up when Fenris huffs a laugh. He grumbles his own greeting, tongue heavy and mouth tasting foul. Fenris’ fingers leave and Hawke fusses, twisting on his chair to give blind chase.

“If you want to avoid the masses in Hightown whispering about the state of you for the next week, I’d recommend coming home with me before they crawl out of their hovels.”

He groans loudly, too tired to be bothered with forming words. Footsteps move away. There’s the sound of rummaging on one of Varric’s shelves and then Fenris’ return.

“Drink this.”

He sits up, squeezing his eyes tighter closed against the candle that has been lit on the table. Fenris sighs, the kind that is always accompanied by the quirk of a smile, and takes Hawke’s wrist in hand, directing searching fingers to the bottle of hangover cure that Varric has on order from Anders for this exact situation. Hawke tips it back in one, catching Fenris’ hand before he can disappear again, tangling their fingers together. He tugs lightly and feels Fenris lean down to meet him.

“What is it, Haw-- Mhm,” Fenris hums into the kiss, nipping at Hawke’s bottom lip in revenge for cutting him off.

Hawke grins helplessly. This man. This wonderful, wonderful man. He is everything. He is the whole world. The best of it all.

“If you keep smiling,” Fenris mutters against Hawke’s mouth, “then you cannot keep kissing me like you so clearly wanted.”

“Can’t I have both?” Hawke asks, voice scratchy and deeper than normal.

Fenris shifts, using the height he currently has over Hawke to catch him up in a deeper kiss than before. Hawke whines when he moves away again, this time opening his eyes at last.

“You need sleep.”

“But that’s so far. Can’t I just keep sleeping here? You could join me?” He waggles his eyebrows playfully in the face of Fenris’ consternation.

“I am not sleeping on a table, Hawke. Come home.”

“Well, as you asked so nicely.”

***

Hawke wakes a second time that day to Biscuit barking. He holds still for a moment, straining to make out voices downstairs. Orana is easy to tell from her cadence. The other woman is not. He tries to roll over but is hindered dramatically by Fenris’ strong grip around his stomach. The elf butts his head up against Hawke’s chin in reproach.

“It’s the kitchen delivery,” Fenris says, nearly slurred with sleep.

Hawke relaxes again, straining his neck to press a kiss to the top of Fenris’ head. A kiss is pressed to his bare shoulder in return. Retaliation with a kiss to the tip of Fenris’ ear not pressed against his heart. Fenris twitches slightly in response and nips at Hawke’s collarbone.

“That’sa bit far,” Hawke mumbles, most of it coming out as one incomprehensible word.

He, of course, proceeds to then slide down the bed, wriggling in Fenris’ grasp, until he can reach Fenris’ neck just behind the hinge of his jaw. He grazes his teeth against the delicate skin, pleased with himself as Fenris squirms, his leg curling up on top of Hawke’s hip. He soothes any sting with a warm kiss.

“And that wasn’t?” Fenris grouses, rousing himself enough to draw Hawke’s face from the crook of his neck, nuzzling along the strong line of Hawke’s cheekbone.

Hawke pushes back softly. With barely a nudge they’re kissing. Lazy and honest. No push or need involved. Fingers wandering in aimless travels over expanses of skin and well-worn fabric. The kitchen door closes down below. Biscuit’s bark echoes up the stairs to them. Hawke pulls back just enough to speak. Or tries to. Fenris chases after him, waking up more second by second, stealing kiss after kiss after kiss until Hawke changes tactic. He rolls slightly on top of Fenris who stretches out languidly beneath him, lyrium tattoos singing as Hawke brushes his lips over the heart beating safe and sound in his chest.

“Goodmorning, Fenris,” Hawke whispers, teasing lilt to match his teasing kisses, “that’s all I wanted to say, you know.”

Fenris pushes him back and swiftly takes the high ground, hovering over Hawke with the softest smile Hawke has even been faced with. He smiles back, brushing the silver strands of hair out of Fenris’ eyes. Fenris kisses the tips of his retreating fingers, smile morphing into an indulgent grin.

“Goodmorning to you too.”

[commie-eschatology]

Return to Redcliffe

particularly proud of this Solas + Trevelyan scene from “Return to Redcliffe” so gonna do some shameless self-promotion. Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

When all her companions are asleep, Trevelyan leaves the Inquisition camp. She isn’t sure if she’ll come back. Someone is clearly following her, but she ignores that for now. The road back to Redcliffe stretches in front of her, but she hesitates. This is an extraordinary bad idea, she tells herself, but when has that ever stopped her? Lydia used to complain about her tendency to just act on desire alone. But Lydia is dead, she tells herself, you broke her head open with your staff until her brains spilled all over the floor. You killed the woman who raised you, only for the rebellion to sell themselves into slavery. ` In the woods, she stumbles upon a templar caravan. Very fortunate for her, very unfortunate for them. Their screams echo through the Ferelden forest; she imagines getting incinerated from inferno magic would hurt quite a bit, but it’s certainly not her problem. Trevelyan leaps onto the, now empty, wagon, and finds a crate of apples. She takes a few bites of one and monologues, “I rebel, therefore I am,” to the half eaten piece of fruit.

There’s groaning from underneath the wheels, and a jumble of words that vaguely sound like “what the fuck?” so she asks, “Sorry, are you still alive down there?” There’s no response, so in the interest of being thorough, she throws a fireball at the voice. The smell of burnt flesh follows, so she assumes it got the job done, but then again, Ferelden usually smells like that. Really not a terrible scent, she considers. Or perhaps she’s just gone mad.

Trevelyan looks at the Mark on her hand- staying with the Inquisition is the clever choice, she tells herself. Only she can close the rifts, after all. The rebels have been utterly defeated, the movement badly needs allies if it’s to survive. Still, her logic feels cold and hollow. The Venatori ships are already in Redcliffe harbor. She asks herself, how many will be shipped up to the Imperium in chains, in just the time it takes to travel between the Hinterlands and Haven?

Fire burns underneath the wagon. It’s always been fire for Trevelyan- burning the family manor during a childhood nightmare, cremating Lydia’s mangled corpse with her own spells, and, most recently, incinerating more templars than she can count. It���s the same fire that she could use to burn those Tevinter slave ships tonight- despite Fiona and Linnea’s betrayal, she has no doubt that at least a few of her people would join her.  

“Do you want to keep staring at me from the woods then?” she asks the person shadowing her. Solas steps out from the shadows, clearly surprised at being discovered, but he tries not to let it show. He’s usually far more subtle, she doesn't doubt she could be more stealthy if he wanted, but he clearly believes everyone around him is an utter idiot. Fair enough, she supposes. He gives a slight smile, the kind that might say “well done.”

As with everyone, Solas projects emotions into the Fade- but his are more tightly moderated than any other mage she’s ever seen. Now though, Trevelyan sees a wave of complex feelings she can barely sort through, radiating from him: rage at the Tevinters, intense all-consuming fear of something she can’t sense, great sadness for something lost, but all controlled, and directed by conscious purpose.

“These woods are dangerous,” he says, characteristically naming the obvious, “and you have the only means of closing the rifts.” He regards her for a moment. “I apologize if I intruded. You have proven yourself a capable fighter, but I have found it is far too easy to make rash mistakes when one is alone.” His actual meaning is not lost on her: don’t be an idiot and run, is what he wants to say.

He adds, “And in my defense, you did just eviscerate an entire troop of men.” She expects him to ask her why, but he doesn’t; apparently needing no explanation for her small act of rebellion.

“They were templars,” she explains anyways, “most are awful. The others just look away when the Circle rapes happen. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the former.”

“I can’t disagree with you,” Solas says, “my few interactions with templars have been... unpleasant. Either they are accustomed to following the worst orders, as you have said, or they just enjoy inflicting pain, especially upon those without recourse.” There is clear contempt and disgust in his voice, it’s as if he’s speaking from experience.

“That’s why we rebelled,” she says, taking another bite of the apple, “also,  I was hungry. Inquisition rations weren’t doing it.” Solas actually laughs. Trevelyan idly wonders when murder became so casual for her. Kill the woman who raised you, and everyone else becomes easy, she supposes.

There’s a short, but not awkward, silence between them. She knows exactly why he is here, to prevent her from defecting back to the rebels, but his presence is, surprisingly, not unwelcome. They haven’t had much time to talk like this; the conversations they’ve had have so far been in either the shadow of Haven’s Chantry, or on the road with Cassandra.

She motions to the adjacent seat on the wagon. To her surprise, he nods, and walks, or more accurately, struts over, butt wiggle and all. Like most mages, he usually makes himself seem as small as possible, scuttling rather than walking, but unlike the rest, it’s almost as if he has to consciously remind himself to do so.

Solas likes questions, she reminds herself, so ask one. He jumps up on the wagon, and she says, “do you like apples?”

Solas doesn’t even blink. “Apples were first domesticated in this part of the world.” How the fuck does he even know that, she wonders. “I saw a memory once, of a horde of human barbarians, desperately defending a part of these woods they held sacred, from the legions of the Imperium. When the barbarians were slain, the Tevinters marched forward, only to find a simple apple orchard, one which hundreds gave their lives to protect.” He takes one out of the crate, and takes a bite. “However, if you were asking about the taste- no, I detest apples.” He takes another bite. “This one in particular tastes sort of like burnt human flesh.”

“Dying for a lost cause. You really never miss an opportunity to make a point, do you?” she says, “also, how do you even know what burnt human flesh tastes like?”

Solas smiles mischievously. “I don’t like to waste words,” he says. The other point he is suspiciously quiet on. I don’t judge, Trevelyan thinks, you go eat as much flesh as you like, Solas.

His words are somewhat slurred, and she smells something in the air, besides the burning templars of course. She recognizes it as the unmistakable stench of peach whiskey, suspiciously similar to the bottle she had nicked from Dennet yesterday. Solas seems to notice and says, “Master Dennet had many such bottles wasting away on the shelf. He will not miss one, or two, I suppose.” He shrugs.

On the topic, she notices a small bottle of ale in one of the templar crates; the cork is stuck when she pulls on it, so she simply uses a bit of force magic to smash the top of the bottle off. It smells absolutely wretched, and tastes even worse, but she drinks it anyway. Solas watches her, possibly judging her, but he’s always hard to read. “Been a shit day,” she explains. Linnea said, go back to your templars. Fuck her. Tevinter apologist. Shockingly flat ass. Terrible kisser.

“Was today your first time in Redcliffe?” she asks. Solas chuckles softly to himself, apparently a joke only he understands.

“A long time ago, before your rebellion,” he says, “it’s changed since, of course. But I assume you’re asking my opinion on the rebel mages, rather than the settlement itself.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Despair sticks to most of the mages like gnats.” He’s right, during the retreat from the Free Marches, every morning some mages wouldn’t wake up, taken by Despair demons in their sleep. And the war has only gotten worse. She can’t even imagine. “Still, they endure. Their fight against oppression is admirable, and utterly hopeless.” , “Hopeless?” Trevelyan raises an eyebrow. She should be angry, but more than anything she feels exhausted. “You seem rather certain.”

“Of course I am.” he says, matter of fact. Trevelyan picked up some dalish during the rebellion; she’s not ignorant as to the meaning of his name. “In my journeys through the Fade, I have seen countless rebellions rise up, confident in the just nature of their cause, only to be crushed mercilessly. Righteousness, unfortunately, is no match against steel.” Good poetry. She’ll give him that.

“And, yet, Recliffe is still standing,” she says, “for the first time in a thousand years, in this part of the world, mages govern ourselves. No templars. No Chantry. We built that. Isn’t that freedom worth defending?” Trevelyan spent most of her life in the Circle. No price can be too great, she thinks.

“You forget you aren’t speaking to Cassandra or Varric. We do not disagree on the necessity of rebellion,” he smiles, just a bit, mostly to himself, “but, in order for a rebellion to win its immediate demands, as well has change what it is possible in the long term, something you once told me that you seek to do, they must do one thing.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and honestly it works. “They must win.”  

“Even failed revolutions can teach lessons,” she says, the only dogma she’s ever needed to believe in, “no matter what Varric says, the mage rebellion didn’t manifest spontaneously.” She thinks of the thousand year struggle for freedom, and what feels like generations of the dead on her shoulders. In the distance, Trevelyan can just make out the flag of the Venatori, waving from the ramparts of Redcliffe. The ships are not far behind.

“No,” Solas says, suddenly melancholy, “or if they do, it is always the wrong lessons.” He’s silent for a long moment, staring into the ground. “I saw a memory once in the Fade. A man who sought to overthrow a tyrant. Then, a half-hearted assassination attempt, tailored for drama, instead of results. It of course failed. The man himself was burned alive, defiant at first, but when the flames reached his body, when his skin began to melt off, he screamed for mercy that never came.”

Trevelyan takes a long drink. Solas adds, eerily calm, “In the end, martyrdom is just melted flesh upon a wooden stake, and a name utterly forgotten.”  She drains the rest of the bottle.

“I killed my mother,” she says, suddenly, without really meaning to, “when the Circle was annulled, I tried to give her the courtesy of a quick spell, but the tower wards blocked magic so…” she makes a motion with her staff “I, well, had improvise.”

“Your first murder?” he asks. She shakes her head. Definitely not. “If you want absolution, I’m not the person to give it.”

“Oh fuck no, I’m not Andrastian,” Trevelyan scoffs, and Solas chuckles softly. The Andrastians think they can solve all the world’s evils, all their many personal failings, through a song. It’s childish. Besides, Trevelyan would rather hold onto her sins for now- keep them close like a badge of honor. She looks down at the dead templars, corpses bathed in green light from her Mark.

“I don’t regret it,” she says, and she thinks she means it, “not if it served a purpose.” Trevelyan looks again towards Redcliffe, and thinks, everything I am, I owe to them. “In just the time it takes to travel back to Haven, how many will already be on the ships?”

“Likely a few dozen,” Solas answers, “there will be far more, thousands, if these Venatori are not defeated, which is a battle only the Inquisition has the resources to win. It is fortunate, then, that you have a position where you can speak on behalf of the rebel mages.”

The sun begins to rise, bathing the forest in dim orange light. “We should get back then ,” she forces herself to say, though every word is like a block of lead. Solas exhales in relief.

“One final thing,” she says as Solas moves to get up. She looks at her counterpart, studying him best she can, sensing his projections into the Fade. He’s unlike any other apostate she’s ever met, and there’s something about him she can’t quite put her finger on, much less vocalize. “You know quite a bit about rebellions,” she says.

“I have seen much in my travels,” he says, pausing as he considers his next words, “and you could say I had a dramatic youth.”

“One I’d be interested in hearing about,” she says, genuinely. “Especially if it involves more surprisingly melancholy stories about apple domestication.” Solas seems taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly, chucking politely at her joke. He then smiles quietly to himself.

The two apostates return to the Inquisition camp, though Trevelyan keeps Redcliffe in her sight for as long as she can.

Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

[bioware-reacts]

How about the companions and advisors reacting to meeting the Qunari Inquisitor's elven daughter after she breaks into Haven to "rescue" their mom/dad. (Take your time. I know you aren't feeling well)

I swear I'm not lazy I'm just forgetful. And with this done, I'm off to the gym, hopefully I'll write more when I get back! -Mod M

Blackwall: Well that's... interesting. He tries his best to explain to her that her parent wasn't in danger in Haven and that they didn't need to be rescued, to a debatable level of success. Listen, he tried! If all else fails, he tries to get Josephine so she can talk her down.

Cassandra: Shes even worse at talking her down than Blackwall. Mostly, Cassandra ends up taking the "if they wanted out, they would've gotten halfway across Thedas by now" approach. Though she hates to admit it, it's right. It's not like anyone can force the Herald to stay somewhere, they can seal rifts, so they always have the upper hand in discussions about their treatment.

Cole: He gets why she's breaking in. Worry or anger or spite or whatever else, he gets it. So he helps, since that's what Cole does, however might work best. Likely, he'll go get the Herald to talk to their kid instead of anyone else, because that's what she wants in the end. Why would you rescue someone you didn't want to see?

Dorian: Oh well isn't that darling. A heroic rescue for her dear captured parent! Almost storybook, isn't it? Well, he can hardly judge. He'll definitely judge (jokingly, and he'll quit before he crosses any lines), but at the same time he would probably do something similar for a friend so... he shuts up pretty quick if someone points that out, though not without a bit of snark.

Iron Bull: Oh he gets a kick out if it. Listen, he gets stabbed by assassins and shrugs it off. The Heralds daughter? No problem. If she might cause an actual problem, he'll step in, but mostly he just watches what she's doing and jokes about it to the Herald later. He does let Cullen amd Leliana know how she got in though.

Sera: Catch her laughing her butt off at this. Did you see everyone's faces? Hilarious! Honestly she's 110% willing to work with the Heralds daughter in the future. Can you imagine the chaos they could cause? Especially if she's as sneaky as Sera. Oh Maker, what has this rescue brought upon Haven? Beehives in all the training dummies, thats what.

Solas: I'm gonna be real with y'all, there's a good chance he didn't notice until later. As far as he's concerned, thered always chaos in Haven. He probably shrugged it off as Sera pranking someone again and causing a fuss. Later though, when he finds out it was the Heralds daughter, he's honestly a little shocked. If this is going to be a pattern with her, hes gonna need to set our ground rules (they likely involve "dont damage my paintings or books during your chaotic ventures in the future")

Varric: 5 sovereigns says something more chaotic happens in about half an hour. He half-jokes about putting her attempted daring rescue in his book about the Heralds story, though he actually might if she seems interested. Honestly, he's coming up with nicknames the minute he thinks she might stay. What that nickname ends up being honestly probably has something to do with how she tried to get in.

Vivienne: Oh she's gonna lecture. Stuff about how we need the Herald to close rifts and destroying Havens (already minimal) defenses to try and "rescue" the Herald is selfish and immature. Vivienne does somewhat understand though. Once she's certain that their sudden guest has gotten the point, she rests a hand on her shoulder. 'A letter would have sufficed darling, I'm sure [Inquisitors name] would have been happy to invite you here.'

Cullen: Ohhhhh no. No no no. Hes stressed. Listen if a likely untrained and possibly particularly spiteful kid/teen can get in, then a trained spy or assassin definitely can. Cullen knows that Haven isn't exactly fortified, but now its just gonna bother him until he fixes how she got in. Let the poor man sleep hes trying his best

Josephine: She was likely in the middle of talking with a noble when either a guard or Blackwall ran up, trying to explain to her that the Heralds daughter broke in and is trying to rescue her parent, and she nearly had a stroke when she learned said daughter was an elf. Honestly, she spent most of the time she was talking to the daughter trying to figure out how to draw attention away and avoid nobles complaining about all the elves in Haven.

Leliana: She probably saw it coming from a mile away. Oh, the scouts are reporting someone nearby asking about the Herald? Got it. That same person is headed here? Alright. She asks the Herald if they know anyone matching that description, even if there's a good chance she already knows what's up. What happens next depends on what the Herald wants to do tbh, but Leliana does at least try to set up a room for her so she has somewhere to stay once her "rescue mission" was done.

[maleficar-writes]

Of Unicorns, Virgins, and Other Such Things

Pairing: Female Lavellan/Solas

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Only partially crack

Summary: A noble attempting to curry favor with the Inquisition gives Inquisitor Lavellan a unicorn. It gets in the way. A lot.

On AO3: Link

“But what is it?” the Inquisitor asked, ears flicking with annoyance as she peered at the massive white beast stomping around her courtyard, nickering nastily at everyone who wasn’t Cole. It was quite pretty, with a flowing mane and tail that shimmered like starlight. Its hooves and horn glimmered gold in the brilliant light of early afternoon.

“A gift,” Josephine said, a bit too cheerfully. “From a noble who seeks to curry your favor. It is a rare, almost mythical unicorn.”

The Inquisitor peered at it. “It doesn’t have a sword through its face like the other one.”

“Because this is a natural unicorn,” Josephine said with infinite patience.

The Inquisitor’s right ear twitched, her expression flattening. “You said mythical.”

“I said almost mythical.”

“And this from you,” Varric interjected, leaning against a wooden post and giving the Inquisitor one of those shit-eating grins. Her ears twitched again. “The woman who does at least ten impossible things before breakfast.”

She pulled her lips back and gave him a snarl. Any normal person would have seen that expression and pissed themselves, but Varric just laughed like this was all good fun. It was infuriating how she was supposed to be the most deadly person in Thedas – though, probably, the Hero of Ferelden was more so – but none of her companions seemed to treat her with the respect deadly people deserved. Actually, now that she thought about it, no one did. It was always Inquisitor, fetch this thing or Inquisitor, take this other thing to the place with the people or even Inquisitor, my wife is dying and my son knows how to cure her so please go to him but, oh, no, he won’t come back with the potion or even given you the recipe he’ll just give you the potion to bring back to me necessitating you making future trips to bolster the Inquisition’s reputation. Not that she had strong feelings about this.

“Also this unicorn is not dead.”

“Fluffy,” the Inquisitor said with sharp enunciating, “is not dead. She is respirationally challenged. More importantly, why doesn’t this one like anyone except Cole?”

Solas, who had been hovering at the edge of the courtyard with a studious expression on his face, swung toward her at the question. “Lore surrounding unicorns posits they prefer the company of virgins and will defend a virgin quite violently.”

The Inquisitor went still. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Oh,” she finally managed.

“Indeed.” Solas slipped closer to her. “Given the unicorn’s nature, it might be best to have—”

He broke off as the unicorn, with a whiny loud enough to burst eardrums, rounded on them and charged. He threw himself to the side, snapping a barrier into place around himself, Josie, the Inquisitor, and Varric, and stumbled. He righted himself only with Josie’s help.

“Oh,” the Inquisitor said as the unicorn paced in a circle around her. She felt heat rising to her cheeks. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of being a virgin. That didn’t bother her at all. It was just that a four-legged beast with a spike growing out its head was telling everyone in Skyhold that she’d never gotten laid.

Twenty-four years old, leading one of the most powerful political forces in the world, surrounded by men and women who pretty much oozed sex appeal, and she’d never had sex.

This was her life.

She dragged a hand down her face as Varric made a noise of pure delight. “Inquisitor, he seems to like you.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she muttered.

The unicorn’s muzzle rubbed against her face. It lipped her ear. With a shriek, she bolted away from it.

“He really seems to like you!” Varric called after her as she tore across the courtyard, the unicorn prancing happily after her.

She tried hiding in the great hall. She tried hiding in the tavern. She climbed the ladder to Cullen’s Blighted bedroom and crawled under his bed – much to his sputtering horror – and the damn thing somehow managed to follow her everywhere. When she decided to go out on missions, it was waiting in the stables, somehow saddled, looking at her with huge, watery eyes that seemed to say Ride me, beautiful virgin, and she’d go red to her ears.

Passing judgments was next to impossible. The Tevinter shem who had led the Wardens astray had taken one look at the unicorn standing proudly beside her throne and dissolved into giggles. Ser Ruth, who had turned herself in around the same time the Tevinter mage was brought before her, took one look at the unicorn and started choking. Ostensibly on laughter, but the Inquisitor hoped the woman swallowed her tongue.

“You can’t follow me everywhere,” she told the damn beast as it followed her across one of the ramparts. She and Cole kept putting him in the stables. He kept escaping. Somehow.

Vivienne thought he was possessed, and Bull tended to agree, but everything was demons and despair with those two anyway.

“You need to let me do my job.” He stared at her with watery eyes. She attempted to remain unmoved. “You need a name, too.”

He pranced, hopping from hoof to hoof as if he understood. In the back of her head, she heard Solas intoning, Unicorns are widely believed to be incredibly intelligent creatures. Do your best to be polite. That horn isn’t for show.

“Pokey?” she suggested.

The unicorn gave her a look that pretty clearly said, You’re shitting me.

“Fine, fair, I agree, it was a bad idea.” She was bad at naming things, though. The other day, she’d scraped together enough lambswool to make a new set of robes for Solas, and when asked by Dagna and Harritt to give the coat some kind of identifier, she’d just said, “Sheep’s Clothing.” They’d looked at her like she’d grown two heads before declaring it Resisting Magical Something or Another.

She had told Solas about the incident. He hadn’t approved, though she couldn’t fathom why.

Tugging on one of her braids, she gave the unicorn an assessing look. “You kind of look like a Bob to me.”

He blinked at her and that blink somehow managed to convey his dripping disdain.

“Not Pokey. Not Bob.” She chewed on her lower lip, and the unicorn made a sound that might have been horsey delight. It disturbed her. Deeply. She stopped chewing on her lip. “We could go with something noble. Charger?” He shook his head. Or ruffled his mane. Or something. She took it to be a no. “Dasher? Dancer? Prancer?” She paused. “Now that’s just ridiculous. You’re not making this easy, you know.”

He shuffled up to her and rubbed his nose against her shoulder. She, meanwhile, eyed the exceptionally sharp tip of his horn as it bobbed next to her face. Tentatively, she stroked the unicorn’s neck. “What about Hanal’ghilan? You’re not a halla, but it’s a noble name.”

He whickered and caught her ear with his lips. With an indignant shriek, she tore across the parapets.

In a rare moment of unicorn-free time later that afternoon, she slipped into Solas’s room to study the murals he was painting. And possibly to snuggle up to him and make him incredibly uncomfortable. There was something to be said for flustering him, and it was so delightfully easy that even a virgin could do it.

In her defense, she wasn’t much of a virgin. The unicorn might count her as one, but she’d done more than her fair share of playing poke and tickle with some of the other youths in her clan. She’d just never gone far enough to jeopardize her position.

“Solas,” she greeted cheerfully.

His head snapped up, his eyes darting all around her. Then he relaxed. “I see you’re without your stalwart protector.”

She slipped up to him. He wasn’t painting, was standing beside his table with a book in one hand. His fingers, long and lithe and delightfully wicked, were splayed across the pages of a book that lay open on the table before him.

Dancing her fingers up his tunic, she drew closer to him. “Stolen moments are so rare,” she purred, watching with delight as his eyes widened slightly.

“Inquisitor, I—”

“You?” she asked, rising onto her toes to brush her lips against his. It wasn’t even close to a kiss, but it was enough to get her a little tingly and a lot interested in actual kissing. She wanted real kisses, the fiery, passionate, he-shoves-his-hands-in-her-hair kinds of kisses. Kisses that involved tongue, but not Fade tongue. Fade tongue only got a girl so far.

He swallowed and made a strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t think…”

“Oh, but you do,” she murmured. “Entirely too much.” She canted her head to the side, sliding one arm about his neck. His book tumbled to the ground as his arm went around her waist, tugging her flush against him.

Their mouths were so close, his eyes so intent and filled with burning, desperate wanting.

From above them came a mighty crash.

“Confounded creature!” Dorian shouted. He followed that shout with many more, none of them understandable, all of them Tevene.

Solas all but shoved her away from him, throwing himself at the scaffolding to the side of the room as she heaved a heavy, beleaguered sigh and Hanal’ghilan tore into the room looking like a demon. He snorted, chest heaving, head lowered, and charged straight at Solas.

His horn missed Solas’s butt – and what a tight, sexy butt it was, she thought as he scrambled up the ladder – by inches.

Hanal’ghilan skidded to a stop between her and Solas, scratching the stone floor fiercely with his hooves. He huffed, dragging one hoof over the stone as if readying to charge, and she sighed heavily. “We need to discuss personal boundaries,” she said to him, patting him on the back.

It took her and Cole promising Hana’ghilan the best oats and a stupid amount of sugar cubes to get him to leave Solas’s rotunda. It took even longer to get the unicorn back to the stables, where the Inquisitor assured him up and down that she wouldn’t go anywhere near Solas ever again and he needn’t worry about her losing her virginity in the near to immediate future. He snorted, clearly not believing her, which was pretty much the right response because that night, Solas barged into her dreams with all the subtly of a charging druffalo.

He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, and she threw her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist and forcing him to hold her. They stumbled until her back pressed against a wall, and his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her, and it was so good.

Except for the part where it wasn’t real.

“I’m going to kill that creature,” Solas growled against her mouth, working his hands under her tunic to cup her breasts. That was also good. It was better than good. Heat lanced through her, and she dragged his mouth back to hers for more kisses.

She’d done a lot of kissing in twenty four years. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t as though she’d popped out of the womb and started kissing people. Maybe it was more like twelve years, unless she counted that time she kissed Theron when she was six. It hadn’t been a good kiss. She decided not to count it.

“I’m going to kill you,” she growled back, tugging at his clothes, wondering why he bothered with them in the Fade at all.

Probably because they never got much further than kissing shirtless. He always balked at that point.

“What have I done?” he asked as he caught her lower lip in his teeth, tugging gently.

She responded by grinding her hips against his, making him gasp with pleasure and shock and, really, he should be used to her doing this like this by now. “Nothing, hahren,” she replied in a throaty murmur, and he pressed closer to her, his eyes flickering with lust. “And that’s the problem.”

She heard something crash. It was a splintery sound. Rather like what wood might sound like when it shattered. She went stiff in his arms, and he noticed immediately. “Vhenan?” he asked, drawing his hands down her sides.

“Oh, by the Dread Wolf’s hairy ball—” The Fade dream fractured as a very large something pounded up her stairs and neighed loud enough to wake the dead. She bolted upright from her nest on the floor – she still wasn’t used to the concept of shem beds – and hurled her pillow at Hanal’ghilan’s face.

It hit his horn and stuck.

As he shook his head wildly, trying to dislodge the pillow, she threw another one. “It was a dream!” she shouted, hurling a third pillow. “It was just a dream, I was dreaming, and how did you even get in here?”

In the end, her pillow went flying off Hanal’ghilan’s horn and straight out her open window. It soared over her balcony and disappeared into the snowy mountains. Hanal’ghilan had the good sense to bow his head and give her those sad, watery eyes that were almost as guilt-inducing as puppy eyes.

“I’m still mad at you,” she groused as she patted a spot next to her pile of blankets. Hanal’ghilan happily settled there, and, after a moment, she dropped a pillow on his side and curled up against him. It wasn’t so different from sleeping with a halla.

The next morning, she stumbled into the tavern for breakfast with Hanal’ghilan on her heels, and Varric, who was always obscenely cheerful at all hours, saluted her with a mug of that wonderfully bitter, disgustingly perfect drink the shems called coffee. She made grabby hands at it and he surrendered it to her. “Looks like you’ve still got your unicorn chastity belt,” he said and she dragged her hands down her face, pushing the coffee aside and leaning across the table.

“All I want,” she hissed, “is to kiss him.”

“Who, the unicorn or Chuckles?” Varric asked, waving a serving girl over for another cup of coffee.

She pinned Varric with a glare that could probably melt silverite. At the very least, it should have seared the flesh off his bones.

Varric, however, was immune to such looks. She knew this. She still tried to employ them. They always failed. “My hahren—”

“That’s what the kids are calling it these days?” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“That,” she sputtered, “is a term of respect for an elder and not some – some—” She broke off, still sputtering.

“Some salacious pet name?” he supplied.

Dorian dropped into the seat next to her. Aside from Cole, Dorian was the only man Hanal’ghilan let touch her. “Who are we giving salacious pet names to? Can I be next?”

She dropped her head to the table with an audible thunk. “It’s bad enough everyone knows I’ve never had sex with anyone,” she complained into the wood.

“And all you want is for Solas to throw you down and have his wicked way with you, but you have one very large, very white, very horny problem,” Dorian said with far too much cheer for the time of morning.

There was a beat of silence. Then he and Varric broke into laughter so loud it probably reached the Creator’s in the Beyond. She wanted to claw their faces off, but that wasn’t what civilized Inquisitors did.

The door to the tavern banged open, and she turned her head to see a very surly Solas in the doorway. He stopped there. Saw Hanal’ghilan. Hanal’ghilan saw him.

Some kind of energy snapped between the two of them, Hanal’ghilan pawing at the hardwood floor as she hissed at him to behave. Solas spun about on his heel and left. With a cheerful whicker of pleasure, Hanal’ghilan nuzzled against her shoulder.

“I’m going to die a virgin,” she groaned.

“Was this even an issue before our friend showed up?” Dorian asked. He had tried to pronounce Hanal’ghilan’s name once. She had told him if he ever tried again, she would burn all his silky robes and force him to wear cotton. The horror on his face had been priceless.

“No,” she moaned, reaching blindly for her coffee.

One of them, Creators bless them, pushed the mug into her hands. She picked her face off the table and hunkered over the steaming mug, taking small sips of the still too hot drink. It was black and bitter – as bleak as her sex life. She pointed to the mug. “This coffee is my sex life.”

“Hot and steamy?” Varric asked.

“Bitter and black and awful.”

“I thought you liked coffee,” Varric said.

“I don’t. I hate it.” She drank it anyway. “It’s just a good kick in the ass in the morning so I’m awake enough to wrangle all of you. Like whiny little halla who don’t want to go in their pens.”

“We have pens now?” Dorian asked. “That’s rather deviant, Inquisitor.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, throwing back the rest of the coffee in a single gulp.

She began to plan. She went to Cole, because Cole was the only one in Skyhold other than her, apparently, who was a virgin. It was awful. It was terrible. Because of Hanal’ghilan, she knew more about the sex lives of everyone in the Inquisition that she ever wanted or needed to know. The reverse, of course, was also true, and the only one who didn’t seem to care was Cole. Everyone else teased her mercilessly.

“Still have your white shadow,” Leliana had said idly in the War Room two days ago while Hanal’ghilan had lowered his horn at Cullen and proceeded to push the Commander around the room – the Inquisitor had not wanted to consider why.

Just yesterday, Sera had gone on at some length to Blackwall about being elbow deep in circumstances. And had asked the Inquisitor how her circumstances were. They’d both howled with laughter. The Inquisitor had wanted to die.

Or to stick them with something pointy.

Hanal’ghilan was off harassing someone else, so she was planning. With Cole. Planning with Cole was more like trying to herd cats than halla. He kept wandering off in his mind, and she kept having to refocus him. She understood the drifting; they were in the tavern, and there were lots of thoughts constantly brushing up on him. “We should have gone to one of the empty towers,” she said after two hours of getting nothing done.

“I can lead him away for a while,” Cole said abruptly. “We can make crowns of flowers and give them to you when it’s done.”

Her head hit the table with an audible thunk. “Couldn’t we have come to this conclusion at least an hour and a half ago, Cole?”

“Maybe,” he said. He tilted his head to the side. “But you weren’t ready then. You are now. Don’t worry, Solas burns, too. Heated, hot, heavy hands on his—”

Squeaking, she flailed, shushing him. “That’s private, Cole!”

“But he thinks it so loud.” Cole blinked at her with those huge eyes of his. “So do you. You think about him pushing, pressing, pinning. Holding you down and—”

She sputtered, pressing her face into her hands. “Private,” she groaned. When her face stopped flaming, she lowered her hands. “Let’s do it, then. You lead him away. Do the flower thing. And I…”

“Will have and be had,” Cole supplied.

“Yes, that,” she agreed.

So Cole left, and she watched him go to the stables. She watched him lead Hanal’ghilan to the gates. She watched him lead the unicorn out. And then she ran for Solas.

He was pouring over some book she was sure was very interesting, but it couldn’t be more interesting than him bending her over something and—well. She really didn’t know where to go from there, she’d just heard Dorian talk about being bent over things. Presumably, it worked the same way as everything else, but she just didn’t know.

“Hahren,” she said breathlessly, stumbling to a halt just in front of him.

He looked up at her with interest, but not interest.

“Forgive me, but I—”

“Cole took Hanal’ghilan out of Skyhold,” she said, and there was the interest she was looking for. She held out her hand. “Come with me?”

Creators, it suddenly occurred to her that he might say no. That he might gently rebuff her. He had hinted, on more than one occasion, that she was too young for him, that it was inappropriate for him as her hahren to act on any feelings for her. She would strangle him, she decided, if he told her no.

He shot to his feet, taking her hand. “You deserve better than what is sure to be a quick tumble,” he said as she all but dragged him out of the rotunda and hauled him across the great hall.

Behind them, Varric called out, “Unicorn chastity belt, Inquisitor!”

“I’m going to stick you on a spit and roast you, Varric,” she shouted back just before she pushed open her door.

She and Solas tumbled through the door and scrambled as quickly as possible around the tower to the actual door to her room. Then they were through it, and his hands were in her hair, dragging her mouth to his as he pressed her against the side of the stairwell and kissed her. Creators, it was a kiss. His nails scraped against her scalp as his tongue swept into her mouth. It was real and visceral and it flooded her with heat.

“Bed,” he said against her mouth, and he started to draw away.

“The wall is fine,” she protested, pulling him back.

His teeth found her lip, biting and tugging, and she whimpered softly before pressing another hot kiss to his mouth. “Not for your first time,” he said.

“Solas, you could fuck me in the dirt in the woods, and it would be fine,” she snapped, thrusting her hand into his breeches to find him achingly hard.

He swore, cleverly and creatively in Elvish, as she closed her fist around him and stroked. Creators, he was big. She’d stroked boys in her clan until they spilled in her hand, but they were boys and Solas was a man, and the idea of having this part of him inside of her was turning her brain to goo. Her smalls were a mess. She was a mess.

“Fuck me here, hahren,” she breathed, squeezing his cock. He gasped, his breath fanning across her lips. “Up against the wall, just like this.” She rubbed her thumb over his tip, rolling her hips against his thigh.

“Vhenan,” he said, strangled.

“The more you protest, the more time you waste,” she pointed out, taking his hand and guiding it between her legs.

He hissed, pressing the heel of his palm against her clit, rubbing her through the fabric of her trousers, and her mind went blank. She rocked against him, grinding herself on him in a rhythm that practically had her soaking through the fabric. Words escaped her. All she could do was gasp and moan, mewling for more as she worked herself over his hand, hers still stroking him.

Yanking his hand back, he deftly unlaced her trousers. Pushed them down her hips. They caught on her boots, but that didn’t deter them. He stepped between her legs, and she lifted them, trapped as they were, around his hips. His fingers pressed against her wet cunt, one sliding easily into her, and he groaned. “I should do more for you,” he said.

“Fuck me,” she demanded, sliding the fingers of her free hand behind his head. She urged him closer, feigning a kiss, then went straight for his ear. Her lips closed around the delicately pointed tip and he snapped.

He tore at the laces of his breeches, knocking her hand aside in his efforts to free himself. She kept sucking him, pulling broken groans from him with every drag of her tongue along the shell of his ear. And then his cock was free of his pants, and he was pressing it into her, and she had to release his ear so she could let her head fall back against the stone.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she hissed, clawing at his shoulders as he worked himself inside her.

He murmured something in Elvish she couldn’t understand – he was always doing that, speaking far more of their language than any elvhen had a right to – and then he was all the way inside her. “Vhenan.” He sounded strangled.

She brought his lips to hers. “Doesn’t hurt,” she told him. “Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t,” he ground out, and she ground against him, rocking her hips over his. They both gasped at the same time.

“Lucky me,” she said on a soft exhale. “Now, won’t you shut up and fuck me?”

He did. Creators, he did. He wasn’t tender or gentle. He was demanding, taking what he wanted with brisk thrusts that had her moaning his name every time he pushed into her. One hand curved around her ass to support her, to give her more leverage, while the other worked between their bodies to stroke her clit.

That was a revelation. Having a man inside her as he played with her? She could hardly breathe for how good it felt. Some demented part of her thought it felt so good in part because it was petty revenge on an obnoxious unicorn, too.

Then she was lost to thought, drowning in the feel of him. He made her cry out, made her quiver and shake in his arms, until finally, finally, her body clenched around his cock. It was the strangest, most delightful sensation she’d ever experienced, the orgasm somehow more intense for having him inside her. She swore – something about the Dread Wolf’s balls – and Solas swore – something about Mythal’s tits – and then he was coming, too, with jerky, abbreviated thrusts and a look of ecstasy on his face.

They slumped against each other, gasping.

“Vhenan,” he began, but she cut him off with bright, wicked laughter, peppering his face with kisses.

“Finally,” she crowed, laughing, kissing him, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders and just hugging him. “Finally, finally, finally!” She pulled back, eyes widening with delight. “You know what this means?”

“I’m damned for all eternity for despoiling you?” he asked mildly.

She knew her expression was demented from the way his brows rose slowly. “That Blighted unicorn is going to hate me now!”

An hour or so later, Hanal’ghilan came screaming into the great hall, flowers braided into his mane. He slid to a halt before the Inquisitor’s throne, where she sat idly drinking coffee. He approached slowly, his nostrils flaring, and then recoiled from her. There was, interestingly enough, no condemnation in his eyes. Just quiet acceptance. He trotted away.

“I almost feel bad,” she said, taking a noisy sip of her coffee, as Solas drifted through the great hall toward her, a predatory look in his eyes.

At her side, Varric said, “Do you really?”

“Mmm. A little. A very little.” She sighed happily. “My sex life is still like my coffee, though.”

“Bitter and black?”

She gave him a wicked smile. “Hot and steamy.”

“More than I needed to know, Inquisitor,” he said, and he fled as Solas gained the dais.

“I believe I owe you hours of leisurely lovemaking, vhenan,” he said.

She tossed back the rest of her coffee and set the mug aside. “Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.” He did. But so did she, and it was wonderful.

[davidorian]

WIP Wednesday

Wooden boxes stood in the former inquisitor's quarters. Some of them open and half-filled, others boarded up and ready to be picked up.

"You don't have to do this! You know?" Sera reached for a book on the shelf and put it in a box with the others.

"And you don't have to do this. Really Sera, sweet of you, but I can handle it." Trevelyan smiled.

"Pffff... It takes you twice as long with only one arm. And as much as I hate cleaning up and moving - ugh, ugh spider - I like you, you blockhead! And to be honest, you could just stay. I'm sure no one would mind. You're nice, clean, people like you, except for the people who hate you." Sera put her hands on her hips.

"Um... thanks Sera." David chuckled.

"I can't, mustn't and won't stay. Varric already got me a place to stay anyway. It's not bad to know a viscount."

"Don't you have countless unpronounceable unnecessary titles yourself? What do you need Varric for? Look, David, old sausage skin. I may stay at the tavern too, so may Cole. We could expand the tavern, make great rooms out of it. Or you could just move into Dorian's room, this is empty after all."

Suddenly Sera stopped talking and looked into David's sad eyes.

"Have you actually forgiven him, Davey?" She now asked.

"What is there to forgive?"

"Stupid! He just took off! Wasn't the nicest way...pfff!" The blonde crossed her arms and glared at her counterpart.

"He had his reasons. I'm not angry with him at all. Now let's get back to it." Trevelyan wrapped a small dainty vase in an old cloth.

Sera understood and kept silent.

After a while, the crystal buzzed around David's neck.

"Dorian?" Trevelyan's voice sounded joyfully excited and a smile brightened his face.

"Avanna and who else... hihihi." Laughed through the green glow.

"A nice greeting from Sera, she's standing next to me."

Sera came closer, "Dori, how's it going? Are minrathous and consonants still in turmoil?"

"Consorts and yes, my dear. All still chaos, I feel at home. A joy-fest of madness! As they say - MAYHEM! Well... Are you all right then, are you looking after the Herald?" The Magister could be heard chuckling.

"The guy's been packing for days and I'm playing his second and third hand. I finally want to get rid of him." And Sera winked at David.

"You're leaving Skyhold already? Is your house already prepared then?" Dorian asked, slightly concerned.

"Camping and being on the road is my thing after all, don't worry about it."

"Ey, do you want me to leave you alone? Maybe you'd like to 'talk' a bit?" Sera said mischievously.

"Not at all! I just wanted to say a quick hello anyway, I'm in a hurry. An important meeting is about to take place. I need to kick some butt to get order in Tevinter, then it'll be safe enough for you noses to arrive. So, see you then and take good care of each other!"

"Love you, Dori." Sera said and laughed.

"I love you too... hahahaha. Farewell, Lord Trevelyan. We'll talk later." At the last words, Dorian's voice became all velvet and soft.

"See you soon, Dorian." And the Herald sighed louder than he meant to.

After a little while, Sera broke the silence.

"Now, where were we? Oh yes... I'd kick his ass! How can you forgive someone like that? He's totally changed your life. Mine too, I can't eat eggs without thinking of him anymore...." Sera slapped her forehead.

(A WIP of "Solas non ce")

[ill-heart]

Party Banter #2

 (I had fun writting party banter with my Inquisitor... So, here I am again. I’m sorry, I’m a sucker for cute or tragic talk.)

Varric : How is it going, Cupcake ?

Dam : What do you mean ?

Varric : The entire population of Thedas wants to know how Buttercup and you are doing together.

Dam : Oh really ? The world really wants to know or… is it just you, for your book ?

Varric : Oh Cupcake, I can’t hide anything from you…

Dam : *giggles*

Varric : So, can my curiosity and my readers’s one can be satisfied ?

Dam : Only if you satisfy mine…

Varric : You really want to know more about me ? I’m flattered !

Dam : No… Well… I want to know more about you… And Hawke.

Varric : I…

Dam : There is something between you two, right ?

Varric : I’m terribly sorry, Cupcake, but this is the one story I will never tell.

Dam : Didn’t you say the same thing about Bianca ?

Varric : *laughs* You got me here, Cupcake.

 **

 Dam : I know you wanted to prove to Orlesians we weren’t together, but…

Dorian : Yes, my dear ?

Dam : Were you, and Iron, forced to have sex when we stopped at Val Royeaux ?

Dorian : It is not my fault, my dear. Bull is… very persuasive about this kind of stuff.

Iron Bull : You didn’t say that when I asked you what you wanted… It was like you begged me to rip off your clothes and put somes chains on your…

Dam : Okay, boys ! I don’t want to know, I’ve heard enough.

Dorian : I didn’t say a thing when Sera made you scream like a virgin.

Dam : Dorian ?

Dorian : Yes, my dear ?

Dam : Shut up.

Dorian : *giggles* I won’t make promises.

 **

 Iron Bull : Tell me, boss, why did you choose Knight Enchanter as a specialization ?

Dam : Well, you might find it silly…

Iron Bull : Let me be the judge of that.

Dam : *sighs* When I was a kid, I wanted to be a knight. My uncle was one of them and… I admired him when I was younger. He was really good with a sword, so I’d liked to watch his trainings.

Iron Bull : Hm…

Dam : I guess, I’m not good as him, right ?

Iron Bull : Yeah, you’re bad. Really bad.

Dam : *giggles nervously* Well… At least, the dragon didn’t eat me.

Iron Bull : He was about to, boss. You’re lucky Varric was near by to save your ass.

Dam : Yes, I know… I…

Iron Bull : But I can train you, if you want, boss.

Dam : Really ?

Iron Bull : Of course, and I’m sure Krem could learn a lot of things with you. He needs to fight someone else.

Dam : I can’t wait to start !

Iron Bull : *laughs* You won’t be happy for long. Krem is good, and he won’t give you a chance to win. So… Your ass will be kick everyday.

Dam : Well, I think I can survive him !

Iron Bull : We’ll see, boss. We’ll see.

 **

 (After Here Lies the Abyss)

 Cassandra : Inquisitor, can I ask you something ?

Dam : Well, I guess I can’t say no, right ?

Cassandra : Yes, of course, you can. It’s just…

Dam : If it’s about Sera or Varric, I think we shouldn’t waste our time talking, Cass’. We can’t get along about them.

Cassandra : I know, I just want to know why you decide to save Hawke and let Stroud in the Fade. I don’t want to judge you or anything, but I don’t understand why you save him when the Grey Wardens needed Stroud.

Dam : What can I say, Cass’ ? That I’m sorry ? That I’m just a stupid mage who shouldn’t take responsabilities because everyone seems to think I can’t see the consequences of it ? That I couldn’t sacrificed Hawke because I thought of Varric’s pain if I leave his closest friend in the Fade ? You know what ? If you think you can do better than me, take my place, all the responsabilities and we will see if you can handle it !

Cassandra : I’m…

Dam : I don’t want to hear you, so just leave me alone for once.

Cassandra : …

Dam : …

Cassandra : I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings or act like I’m judging your decision. I won’t do it again, you have my word.

Dam : Whatever you say, I don’t care.

 **

 (After Here Lies the Abyss)

 Cole : You are not alone.

Dam : Please, Cole, I’m not in the mood today.

Cole : You did your best in the Fade. Stroud didn’t blame you, he was happy to stay behind and fight Nightmare. He wanted to prove that Grey Wardens can be trust. He wanted to do it.

Dam : … I…

Cole : They all know you did you best back there. They know you had a difficult decision to make, and they will never blame you too.

Dam : …

Cole : You don’t have to regret anything. If you do that, your brain will exploded and you might hurt yourself and the ones who like you.

Dam : *laughs* Brains can’t explose, Cole.

Cole : No one will forgive you if you die. Sera will yell at everyone, I can feel it. Cassandra will become a demon and no one will be able to stop her fury. Dorian will burn everything. It will be like a storm of fire which will consume them all.

Dam : I… I’m sorry.

Cole : Those words aren’t needed. Friends don’t want to hear them. They want you to smile, and shine because they think you deserve it.  

Dam : Well, I will try my best. Thanks, Cole.

 **

 Dam : That dress you weared last evening…

Vivienne : Yes, darling ?

Dam : It was… beautiful.

Vivienne : You impress me, darling. I didn’t though you have some… taste in fashion.

Dam : I have, but… I… I’m afraid dress can’t suit me well.

Vivienne : Oh darling *laughs*, if you weren’t so stupid, I would say you are cute.

Dam : *giggles* I know, it’s silly, however I can’t help it.

Vivienne : Maybe, I can take you to shops next time we stop at Val Royeaux. I know a lot of people who would enjoy creating dresses for the Inquisitor.

Dam : Isn’t… it a trick to humiliate me ?

Vivienne : Please, darling, I would never do such a thing. I’m not like some of your… friends.

Dam : I prefer to be sure, before I accept you offer.

Vivienne : Don’t worry about that, I will make a beauty out of you.

Dam : Good luck with that, Vivienne.

 **

 Dam : Your paintings are gorgeous, Solas.

Solas : You would have love the ancient elven’s paintings then. Most of it were as huge and as beautiful as Skyhold is now.

Dam : I’m jealous, I have to admit it.

Solas : *laughs* You shouldn’t be, Inquisitor, you can’t be good at everything.

Dam : I know, however I’m happy to have you by my side. I can appreciate your skills and the stories which lies within. Besides, your last painting… does it represent our battle in the Fade ?

Solas : Kind off. I tried to portray what you saw back there. I wish I could have seen it with my own eyes.

Dam : Next time I’m planning to join the Fade, I promise you will be the first to know.

Solas : *laughs* It’s kind of you, even if it certainly won’t happen again.

Dam : Who knows ? We could be surprise.

 **

 Dam : You are a good man.

Blackwall : You… hm… Why now ?

Dam : I don’t know, I just thought about all the times you are kind to people, and I wanted to tell you what I…

Blackwall : I’m not so…

Dam : Don’t say it, Blakwall. Don’t deny it in front of me. You are kind with others people, even if you don’t believe it.

Blackwall : You flatter me, my lady, but I think you overestimate me.

Dam : Blackwall ?

Blackwall : Yes ?

Dam : Next time you doubt about your kindness, I will punch your face like no one, not even your father, ever did.

Blackwall : Well, you are a… lively woman, Inquisitor *laughs*. I understand why Sera loves you.

Dam : I just know when I’m right about someone. Don’t you ever forget that.

 **

 Sera : Sunny… I love you and all this bullshit but…

Dam : Hm hm ?

Sera : Can’t you change it ?

Dam : Change what ?

Sera : You know… This thing.

Dam : Yes ?

Sera : This horse ! I mean, a horse isn’t supposed to have a fucking sword in the head and walk around like it’s nothing ! It’s… not normal !

Dam : But, love, just look at her ! She is beautiful. I can’t betray her trust, Laëtie won’t forgive me.

Sera : Laë… Wait, don’t tell me you gave a name to this thing ?

Blackwall : She did that weeks ago, Sera.

Sera : Sweet Andraste tits ! I will never put my butt on this… demon.

Dam : As long as I can ride Laëtie, I’m okay.

Sera : *whispers* I’m the one you should ride.

[johaerys-writes]

The Bum End of The Library

Everything started when @pikapeppa sent me this incredible comic  by @knightofbunnies of a modern AU where Dorian is a substitute librarian. Then we got to talking about how cool it would be if her OC Rynne Hawke and my OC Tristan Trevelyan were there (with Dorian and Fenris, of course). One thing led to another… AND NO, WE TOTALLY DIDN’T COME UP WITH A CRACK ONE SHOT THAT HAD ME WHEEZING THE ENTIRE TIME I WROTE IT XD

This is dedicated to @pikapeppa whom I adore endlessly for enabling my tomfoolery, and for the banter ideas that ARE ABSOLUTELY GOLDEN AND I CAN’T DEAL. (also, title courtesy of @solas-disapproves! :D)

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

“Why are we doing this, again?”

Tristan sat on the plush armchair tucked at a small corner of the library. He flicked idly through the book in his lap -something about rune casting or other- and took a sip of warm tea spiked with brandy from his flask. He was still quite sleepy; Dorian had dragged him out of bed first thing in the morning, with a promise to get him a warm berry tart from the bakery on their way to the Kirkwall University library. Tristan had gotten the tart, but that hadn’t improved his sour mood one bit.

Dorian was on the narrow ladder leaning against the sturdy bookcase, placing a thick leather tome on the shelf. He shot him a sharp look.

“We, amatus?” he asked him poignantly, carefully climbing down the ladder. “We are doing nothing. I am filling in for Felix while he’s away on that research trip of his. You were supposed to come and help me sort this mountain of books, but all you’re doing is sitting on your arse and-“

His eyes widened considerably when he saw the flask in Tristan’s hands. With a sharp exhale, he strode over to him and snatched the flask away, oblivious to Tristan’s glare.

“No drinking over the books! How many times do I have to say it?” he chided him. He screwed the cap back on the flask and carefully placed it in his coat pocket, but not before taking a tiny sip himself.

Tristan flashed him a teasing smile. Dorian rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help a small smile of his own. “Oh, wipe that smirk off your face, will you?”

Tristan arched an eyebrow at him. “Make me.”

Before Dorian could respond, a cheerful voice cut through the quiet of the library.

“Dorian!” Rynne exclaimed, running up to him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite girl,” Dorian said, returning her grin as she went up on her tip toes to hug him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked, still holding him by the shoulders. “I thought Felix was in charge of the library!”

“He still is. I’m only substitute librarian while he’s away. What brings you here?”

“Oh, I was just passing by to return some books on Pyromancy. They were incredibly dull. I almost died of boredom while reading them,” she replied, her raspberry lips pursing in a small frown, which instantly melted away when she looked up at Dorian. “When are you going to write a book? You do know how much I love reading your research!”

“Ah, always the flatterer, aren’t you?” Dorian said, pinching her chin. “When I write a book, you’ll be the first to read it.”

Rynne’s beamed at him before her eyes fell on Tristan. He returned her animated wave with a nod, returning to flipping the pages of the book in his lap.

“Oh, dear,” Rynne said, lowering her voice, “he’s not very talkative today, is he?”

Dorian shot him an amused glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t mind him. He’s just upset that I didn’t let him sleep until late afternoon.”

“I heard that,” Tristan grumbled.

“Good! I meant you to,” Dorian said with a sweet smile.

Rynne laughed softly as she glanced at the books Dorian was still holding in his arms. “Let’s see, what do we have here? Alchemy, more alchemy, rune forging… Treatises on Fade magic! That’s quite interesting,” she said, picking the book up. A smaller book fell through the bundle as she did so, and her amber eyes flashed with interest.

“Oh, and what is this? Is that the latest instalment of Swords & Shields? And a very smutty one, too. You dirty dog,” she laughed, tapping him playfully on the arm.

“I was only returning it to its proper place! Besides, it’s not like I didn’t read it as soon as it came out.”

Rynne shifted on her feet somewhat uncomfortably and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That makes one of us, then.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really? You are always the first to finish them! I know that Varric gives you some of his manuscripts to read before he publishes them, too. What happened now?”

“Oh, well, you know how it is.” A faint blush crept up Rynne’s cheeks and she glanced behind her.

Dorian chuckled under his breath, following her gaze towards the white haired elf that was browsing some books on a shelf across the room. “I most certainly do. No time to read about the Knight-Captain getting it on, when you’re getting a fair bit of it yourself, hmm?”

Rynne’s barking laugh rang across the library. “You could say that!”

Dorian gave her a knowing look, placing his hand on his hip. “He is very charming, I won’t lie.”

“Are you kidding me? He’s gorgeous! Just look at him,” she said and let out a soft, dreamy sigh. “And he’s kind and thoughtful and caring… Not to mention he has the nicest butt in all of Thedas,” she said, elbowing Dorian and winking cheekily at him.

Tristan scoffed. “I find that hard to believe,” he said, not taking his eyes off his book.

Rynne shot him a look of honest curiosity. “Really? How so?”

A small smile curled Tristan’s lips before he spoke. “Everyone knows that Dorian has the finest rear end in Thedas.”

Dorian let out a loud guffaw and turned around to blow him a kiss. “You know best, amatus.” He looked at Rynne and tapped her sympathetically on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, my dear, but the title of the best behind in Thedas is already taken.”

“Nonsense!” Rynne exclaimed. “I am sorry, because you’re about to be dethroned. Fenris has the best butt in Thedas, and that’s final.”

“No it isn’t,” Tristan said.

“Yes, it is!”

Dorian huffed in mock exasperation, and snatched the book she was holding. “Did you want this magical treatise or not?” he said teasingly.

“Hey! I need that for my Fade course!” She tried to take it back, but Dorian held it well over his head.

“By all means, continue to debate my fine assets - pun entirely intended - but did you really need this book? Something tells me you didn’t. Perhaps you’ll be able to pass that course without it, if you’re very lucky.”

Rynne stretched her arm to grab it, laughing all the while. “Just give it back, you horrible man!”

“What is happening here?”

Fenris’s deep voice echoed in the circular rotunda. He was a little way away, his brows furrowed. He crossed the distance with a couple large strides, coming to stand protectively beside Rynne.

Varric, who materialised as if from thin air from behind a cubicle shot him a wide smile. “Everything’s happening here, elf,” he chuckled. “Everything.”

Fenris shot him a sidelong frown. “Where did you come from?”

“Oh, Fenris!” Rynne exclaimed excitedly. “Dorian, Tristan and I were discussing who has the finest butt in Thedas. I was saying that yours is the best, while Tristan-“

A crimson flush spread on Fenris’s cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. “You did what?”

Tristan let his book fall closed and stood up, walking up to them. He tilted his head to glance at Fenris’s back, then shrugged. “You have a point,” he told Rynne. “His behind is quite shapely.”

“See? I told you!”Rynne said, her face brightening up, while Fenris glowered at him.

“… but I insist that Dorian’s is better,” Tristan continued with a sly smile.

“He’s right, you know,” Dorian said, as matter-of-factly as if they were having an argument about the weather. “Not to sound vain, but it is quite incredible. I picture it in marble.”

Fenris folded his arms before his chest and gave Dorian a bored look. “You do realise how ridiculously vain that sounds, I hope?” he deadpanned.

“Oh! Oh! I have an idea!” a voice behind them said.

They all turned to see Sera perched up on the railing of the rotunda, watching them all as they bickered.

“Why don’t you both have your arses carved in marble, and then we can have people decide whose is best?” she suggested with a grin.

“Now, that’s an idea I can get behind,” Varric chimed in, barely suppressing his amused grin. “Then we can have the carving that wins outside the library as a tourist attraction.”

Everyone laughed, except for Fenris, whose mouth twisted in a snarl. “Not. A. Chance.”

“Oh, come on, Fen, it will be fun!” Rynne said. “We could throw a huge party with drinks, and music, and we’ll invite all our friends-“

“No, Hawke,” Fenris insisted, even though his scowl lessened considerably when he glanced at her.

Rynne opened her mouth to retort, not doubt intending to persuade him, when a head emerged from the nearby cubicle, and a very disgruntled Solas glared at them.

“Do you mind?” he asked pointedly. “Some of us are trying to read.”

“Hey, Elfy!” Sera said, jumping off the railing. “You never told us who you think has the best bum.”

“And I won’t,” Solas said, his tone flat and dry. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a very important essay to complete.”

Sera shrugged and waved dismissively behind his back as he turned to leave. “Oh, forget him. Elfy’s just bitter that no one’s arguing about his arse.”

“I most certainly am not!” Solas replied, a look of indignation on his features, while the rest of them burst into raucous laughter.

“Well, you always have a friggin’ opinion on everything else,” Sera said with a sneer, “so I think you’re very bitter.”

“Alright, alright, let’s all play nice,” Varric said placatingly, wiping a tear from his eye. “How about we settle this over a couple drinks at the pub? The atmosphere there is much more inviting for discussions of this sort.”

“Absolutely not,” Fenris growled, his mouth set in a tight line.

“I’m in,” Tristan said, grabbing his coat from the armchair.

“So am I!” Rynne said, clapping her hands. She pulled at Fenris’s arm enthusiastically. “Let’s go, it’ll be fun!”

A look at Rynne’s smiling face had Fenris letting out a defeated sigh. “Fine. But you dimwits are paying,” he said, looking at Varric, Dorian and Tristan in turn.

Tristan placed his palm on Dorian’s back and winked at him. “Winner’s treat.”

[shadowglens]

2, 9, 20 and 25 for nuala, fran and hugo?

2. what’s their height and body type?

nuala— 5′6, and lean. clearly works hard and takes care of her body, but never puts on as much muscle mass as you’d expect for her strength. broad shoulders and small breasts. 

frances— 5′11, pushing 6′ if she wears heels. is 90% legs at this point, although doesn’t look out of proportion. generous curves in both her chest and hips, but otherwise very slim and lithe physique. most of her muscle is concentrated in her arms and core, although she’s by no means bulky. 

hugo— 6′2, and incredibly muscular. most of it is centered in his biceps, shoulders and core, although he has thick thighs (and a good butt) too. by no means chunky or body builder level, but it’s clear even through clothes of the power in his body. 

9. what’s their posture like?

nuala — strong, shoulders back and set in place, a stone in a storm. immovable. doesn’t turn her chin up at people very often though. a leader, yet humble about it. doesn’t feel the need to use her position, because people tend to be scared enough as it is.

frances — chin high, hands folded either behind her back or in front of her, hip cocked a little. if it wasn’t for that smug-verging-on-cruel smirk, she could almost pass for casual, but it’s clear she was born with noble blood in her veins. she knows how to flaunt herself effectively, knows how to look down on someone just enough that they stutter to do what she wants. she only uses it on aristocrats or assholes though, never those close to her. 

hugo — casual, humble, verging on anxious but he was bred to hide his fear well. tries to release the tension in his shoulders, only succeeds 50% of the time. perfectly straight back in polite company, but lets himself slouch in private or with friends. he was never a very good noble, after all, despite all the hours of tutelage and practice. 

20. formal wear?

nuala — at first she disliked it, the stiffness of the pants and jacket, the way the fabric weighed her down, but she learnt to tolerate it out of necessity, like so many other things in her life. she’d rather be in armour, or at least a dress that wasn’t so claustrophobic, but she knows neither is practical for standing at the head of a crowd. she settles for a pressed beige jacket, with silver and green trim, and dark leather pants that could almost be mistaken for the pair she wears in the field. dark gloves to hide the pulsing monstrosity that her hand eventually becomes. it makes nobles feel more at ease, that they can’t see the green light flickering in her palm, although she finds some of them still flinch even when she flexes it.

frances — she’s always favoured dresses, or at least a nice blouse and pants combo. a high necked pale pink gown, with long sleeves but a low back, fabric thick enough to withstand any sharp movements should the need arise. heeled boots or sparkling stilettos underneath depending on the event, and you’ll never see her step waver even in her favoured six inch pair. she grows quite fond of wearing the viscountess crown at functions, mostly so no one forgets (as if they could, varric quips one late night, and she throws him that too-sharp smile she only uses on the particularly unruly nobles, and he feels himself shudder before shoving her away with a laugh). hair out, or loosely braided, but always flowing to some degree down her back. the staff is never there, as if to put minds at ease, but she learnt to cast without it many years ago. it’s more a battering ram than funnel, these days, but no one needs to know that at a fete that could spiral into violence at any moment. 

hugo — the trevelyan hues of gold, white and a pale blue have followed him his entire life, but he’d be lying if he said he disliked the colours. most of his suits favour the colours, white jackets with gold trim and blue hints, here and there to make his eyes pop, light brown pants and boots to offset all that brightness up top. hair pushed back off his forehead, styled to say there, and maybe a sheen of gold at the corner of his eyes if he’s feeling particularly fancy. call him snobby, but he’s also always preferred undershirts with the billowing sleeves that come tight at the wrist, that give him some sense of freedom and room to breathe after a long day on his feet plastering a smile on his face. 

25. fantasy/modern au?

nuala — lots of loose, flowing dresses, the ones with a thousand criss-crossing straps across the back and soft linen fabric, with brown lace-up boots that have flowers stitched into them. hair in a loose plait down the middle of her shoulder blades, a pale green knit jumper hanging in the crook of her arm. huge pearl earings. 

frances — strappy silk dresses in pale pink and black, with suede heeled boots. an oversized denim jacket in black to throw over the top, her hair loose and flowing like water over her shoulders and down her back. fake nails made into points and painted either beige or black depending on the week, lots of necklaces and rings. 

hugo — loose button ups tucked into jeans, usually in white or a deep blue. jeans rolled up to the ankles, with either worn brown leather boots or sandals on the bottom. hair kind of a tousled mess but making it work, a pair of black sunglasses pushed up into it to keep it off his face. a few bangles here and there.

[tryvyalsynnes]

WIP Wednesday

Wednesday again! I got tagged once more by the ever beautiful @midnightprelude. This is something that’s stalled, as usual. It’s based on the ‘oh no, there’s only one bed!’ trope. Poor Hawke is caught having inappropriate reactions while the gang is on the run after Kirkwall. In his defense, the circumstances are difficult.

Tagging writers for word wips, artists for art wips, @pikapeppa, @lethendralis-paints, @levikra, @midnightprelude, @aban-asaara, @schoute, @thesaltyhealer​, @anxietysquiddie, @barbex​, @kallielef​, @your-dark-magic-man-mysterio, @quiprava (I remember you mentioning you had a wip, no pressure) @serpentsshipmate, @the-rogue-mockingjay, @dickeybbqpit, and whoever else wants to do this thing, no pressure, tag me!

The Snitch

“Shit shit shit, he's here, he's here!”

Fenris was barely able to get out of the way when Isabella burst through the door and slammed it behind her.

Hawke was sitting at the table fixing his armor. He looked up from his work, surprised. “I thought he wasn't coming until sundown?”

“That was the way it was supposed to go! He's early! Varric's gone up the road to stall him, but that won't last long. He's got almost as good a reason as you do for not wanting to be seen around here.” Isabela scrambled, making a pile of their packs and personal belongings in the middle of the floor.

“Can't we walk into the woods like we planned?” Merrill was crushed; she had been looking forward to the walk.

“There's no time! He'd see you. We have to hide you in here!”

Hawke looked around helplessly. They'd found a comfortable, neatly furnished house to hole up and rest in, far better than Hawke had expected to get. The floors were wood, the walls were stone; it had a thatched roof with a stout chimney and narrow windows lined with thin scraped hide. There was a large raised fireplace like a stone table in one corner where Orana was cooking their supper and a table, a thick wool carpet, benches, a couch, two large wing-backed chairs, a curtained bed, hooks for their hammocks and space for extra pallets, cupboards, shelves, even a copper basin for washing. It had everything they needed, but it was small--one room, to be exact. “Wonderful. Where?”

“I'll show you. It's one of the reasons Varric and I rented this place.” Isabella dragged the chairs off the carpet and flipped it. She grabbed a short rope and heaved up a section of the floorboards. “This is it.”

It was a small empty root cellar, a nice one as root cellars go. Someone had walled it with baked mud brick and drenched it with whitewash. On one end a regular line of bricks jutted for climbing. It even had a tiny shuttered window, no more than a long slot, at the top of the outer wall.

Hawke reached into the cellar and slid the shutter. The opening was lined with thick wire mesh. “All four of us in here? There's no room to sit.”

“Nope. You'll have to lie down. Hurry, help me.” Isabella grabbed his and Fenris' greatswords and dropped them in so they laid flat. Fenris grabbed their packs and bedrolls and tossed them near one end. Isabella swept Hawk's armor off the table and tossed it in too, on top of the packs. “You might have to kick that down so your legs will fit. Help me with this mattress.”

Hawke eyed the cellar dubiously. Lying down wasn't much of a better option. There was barely enough room for Hawke, let alone three more people. “Can't we just talk to him?”

Isabella laughed. “Maker, no. Don't be stupid. He'd sell you out in a second.”

They dragged the mattress from Orana's cot and dropped it flat so it covered the swords. Fenris upended the cot and kept moving, looking for more signs that would give away six people lived in the house, not two. He shoved Merrill’s staff under the canopied bed. Isabella motioned to Hawke.

Hawke hastily climbed into the cellar and laid on the mattress. He was the heaviest, so it made sense that he should be on the bottom. The cellar was barely wider than he was.

Isabella's next target was Orana. “Your turn, sweetness.”

“Me too? Can't I just be your servant?”

“Thieves don't have servants, love.”

“What about the food?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve watched you. It seems simple enough. What could go wrong?”

Orana must have balked further, because there was a squeak, and Isabella appeared at the side of the cellar with Orana in her arms. She crouched and unceremoniously dropped her onto Hawke.

He tried to break her fall, grunting when she landed painfully on his hip. Hawke pulled her to his left and she slid into the small bit of room between his body and his arm and froze.

In a lot of ways she was still very much the person she'd been when he met her, and he knew being this close to him was more than just physically difficult. There was no way she would move to get more comfortable, not that there was room for her to do more than wiggle. He tried to pull her up with one arm so her head was on his shoulder.

Merrill peered at them, unsure how to get down to them without stepping on them. Isabella rolled her eyes. “We're running out of time, folks.” She gave Merrill a shove, and the little mage fell, her arms stretched out in front of her. He tried catching her with his free hand and grunted when she landed on his chest. Merrill seemed slight but there was muscle in that lithe frame.

Fenris appeared and tossed a few things onto the pile of packs and armor, then braced his hands on the floorboards and lowered himself into the cellar. He slid into the space on Hawke’s right, lying on his side to fit in the crook of his arm.

“Sorry for this,” Isabella looked down on them approvingly. “We’ll try to be quick. I hope none of you have to pee.” She tossed some folded blankets on top of them and slid the cellar door shut and they could hear her heavy, quick tread of her boots and the sounds of the carpet and the table being shoved back into place. There was banging and more quick pacing, and then a chair scraped on the floor and creaked as she sat, not a moment too soon. They heard the door open and muffled voices.

Hawke took a deep, ragged breath and sighed. “That was nerve-wracking. I guess we might as well get some sleep, since we're stuck here.”

The mattress was thin, a pallet, and he could feel the greatswords through it, but he'd slept on worse.

“That's a good idea.” Merrill folded her arms on his chest and rested her cheek on them, shutting her eyes. Orana and Fenris fussed with the blankets, each of them working with one hand, stretching one over Merrill and tucking the other ones between their backs and the cold walls.

Orana was still tense. Hawke felt sorry for her. He tried to brace his arm up, but realized quickly it was not going to work, so instead he made sure his hand was going to stay on her arm if he fell asleep, not on her waist or her breasts or her bum, hugged her briefly in what he hoped was a reassuring, non-proprietary way, and left it at that.

Fenris shifted, getting comfortable. He slipped a hand under Hawke's butt, and ran his other down Hawke's ribs. Hawke could only reach his flank. He stroked it. It would have been wonderful to be trapped here with only his lover. They'd had little time alone since Kirkwall.

Fenris seemed to be thinking the same thing. There was a sudden heat between them and Hawke felt him press up against his thigh, but he stopped. Hawke kissed the top of his head, and felt Fenris give his butt a gentle squeeze.

Hawke sighed again and shut his eyes. This was actually nice. There was an elf on either side and one on top, and one of them loved him. Merrill’s breathing had deepened; she’d fallen asleep quickly. He hardly felt her weight; she was light. They all were, even Fenris. This situation could be worse; he tried to imagine what it would be like if Varric was down here with him and chuckled. It could have been much worse.

He wondered absently how much the Blooming Rose would have charged him for something like this back in the day. He imagined ordering it, three elves to warm him, one of them horny, please, and chuckled again. It probably would have been quite expensive. It would also have been a pale, gross imitation of this.

They smelt nice too. Merrill smelt like spring flowers and sunshine; Orana smelt like soap and peaches, which was odd. There were no peaches in the house. There had been no fruit besides apples in their diet since they had fled Kirkwall. Fenris smelt of iron, and of the wood he'd been chopping earlier in the day. He'd looked so fine stripped to his waist. His muscles had rippled when he’d lifted the axe, and his hair had gleamed in the sun…

…It's strange how one never expects the inevitable.

He cursed himself silently, and lay absolutely still, hoping it would settle and go away on its own. Merrill was on top of him, not Fenris, and he didn't want any of their precious time together spoiled by awkward questions and distrust. Merrill would also tease, and tell Isabella, who would tell Varric, and he would probably never hear the end of it.

It was also strange how fear could make things worse.

Merrill wiggled, moving her hips from one side to the other. Hawke would probably have done the same if he'd suddenly felt a hard lump in the middle of where he was trying to rest. She must be unaware. He was certain she was unconscious. Hawke gritted his teeth. Merrill kept shifting, trying to find that sweet spot she must have found when she had fallen asleep.

She was still finding a sweet spot, but it was definitely the wrong one. Hawke rolled his eyes, cursing himself again. Of all the dumbest, most inappropriate—he tried to think of something else. Varric. No—red lyrium. The memory of Meredith's sword consuming her was the perfect stuff of nightmares. That led to other thoughts of sorrow and horror, of Anders, and the Chantry, and the mess they had made of Kirkwall.

[impossible-rat-babies]

For the @dadrunkwriting monthly prompt “oh no we’re stuck here!” Funny enough most of this came from some very old writing I did back in 2016 that I’ve held onto for several years now. I changed a great deal of it around, but it’s still very interesting to compare between my writing skill then and now.

Pavellan | 2445 words | some character introspection really + pining

--

Elven ruins would be fun, he had said. On top of the searching for any references as to why Corphyeus was ransacking them all over Thedas, it would be fun to see a slice of history and ancient magic. Hopefully without any negative side effects, but luck was rarely if ever on their side. Dorian was kidding himself; luck was rarely on their sides, especially taking Darva anywhere. He was a magnet for anything and everything going wrong. It shouldn't have surprised him that much when they stepped into some little alcove--at his behest--that some magical switch or another would trigger and drop a rather large stone door over the entrance.

Sera had yelled, let out some ungodly sound with the cacophonous crash. Both Cassandra had tried to grab to lift it open, but it was a futile effort in the face of thousands of pounds of rock. He should have seen it coming, but hindsight was only kind in the pitch black dark and the sure feeling that they were completely and utterly stuck.

"This is the most excitement we've ever gotten out of these old ruins." Dorian grumbled, listening to Darva still fussing about the door, cursing under his breath. Dorian ran his hands down his face, a heavy sigh escaping him.

"Could be more exciting if you could make some light to see how much fun my face is having." Darva mumbled, abandoning the door to yank his helmet off. He shook his head, pulling down the wrap around his hair.

"Oh I'm sure it is utterly delightful." Dorian replied and Darva squinted at the sudden spot of flame in Dorian’s hand. It casted shadows across the whole of the small enclosed room and onto Darva’s scrunched up face.

"You look more like you're going to sneeze. And your hair is a mess." He noted and Darva huffed, tucking his helmet under his arm to ruffle his hair. It only served to make the curls poofier, which looked not unlike a strange bird nest on top of Darva’s head.

"You're impossible..." He muttered under his breath, turning back to the door. “At least Sera and Cass saw it happen, so hopefully they'll figure something out." He heaved and sigh and ran his fingers down his face.

"It was the magic that affected it, I’d wager...do we still have that bet going? On how your extraordinary bad luck is magical?" Dorian asked, a hint of cheekiness in his tone.

"My bad luck isn’t magical; it’s as you put once: you're simply a complete and utter fool a great deal of the time." Darva replied with a wave of his hand and Dorian rolled his eyes.

“You’re far too charming with your ability to make friends and be...friendly with everyone to be that much of a fool.” Dorian spoke and Darva chuckled, glancing over at him with his green eyes reflecting in the dim light.

“Do I have you all fooled then? Because it rather feels like the blind leading the blind.” Darva mocked him and Dorian scoffed.

They'd been traveling all across Thedas for months now, following threads of rumors on who was planning to kill the Empress and what was going on with the Wardens. Only slivers of leads, but a small lead was better than nothing, even if it took them to the strangest places. Deserts had left Sera with a terrible sunburn she whined about for weeks and sand still in the pockets and crevices of old gear. Many pairs of boots had been ruined by rain and mud seeping into the leather, others worn to the barest sole from sliding and skidding across rocky ground and putting one foot in front of the other. Countless whetstones and spare cloth had been used to sharpen daggers and swords alike; hundreds of broken bow strings had nearly costed Sera her eye, but each time it happened she laughed and got to work restringing her bow. There was little around but the four of them on the long treks, only the four of them to talk to, to keep entertained. There was only so much “sightseeing” one could do before it as mind numbing. Camps in the wilderness left little to entertain them beyond talking to each other or making a game to pass the time; none of them quite had Varric’s talent for stories, but Sera still tried and they were all plenty good enough at cards even with Darva cheating. Even more so after he had taught Sera how to cheat too.

It was a strange collection they had, the company that was presented as the Inquisition, but they were trying their best. It was all anyone could ask of them, all that could be asked of Darva.

“Best not let them hear you say that, or the facade of their great leader in shining armor would be ruined.” Dorian jested and Darva laughed.

“Yes, the wicked skill and integrity of a dalish elf with zero leadership experiences. They should all be disappointed.” Darva remarked, his tone skirting the line between jest and genuine self deprecation. A narrow line.

“You’re selling yourself awful short. I’ve never quite met a man so set on exploring ruins, even if they might kill you. A wondrous shame to die alongside you in a horrid ruin." Dorian spoke, letting the flame go. It rose up to the ceiling, casting a pale orange light all across the small alcove.

“At least dying would be for a good cause. You could be a martyr, Dorian! Even if your magic is the one to blame.” Darva joked, plopping down among the dirt and grime, examining and picking his nails.

"Hardly my fault if the ruins decide that magic isn’t their forte." He resigned himself and grimaced at the ground. He would rather sit than stand, even if the ground was rather...ghastly. He sat himself down beside Darva, almost close enough to touch--to reach out and brush fingers against skin.

“Oh? Where is all that pride in your great and wondrous skill in magic?” Darva smirked and Dorian rolled his eyes, tucking his staff against his neck, resting his hands on the haft.

"Now you're just making fun of me." He huffed.

"I am not." Darva insisted and Dorian’s face curled, mustache raising in indignation. "Well, only half making fun of you, but I’m being honest." Darva patted Dorian's thigh, his hand drifting away before the shock of the simple touch wore off. Dorian cursed his reaction, how it felt like electricity on his skin with just the simplest touch; it was a simple reassurance, nothing more. A touch from...a friend to a friend, nothing more. Not all it took to break the thought from his head, but enough for his reaction to quiet.

"You flatter with reckless abandon, I’ll have you know.” Dorian replied quickly and Darva snorted.

“It only means something if you’re honest about it.” Darva pointed out. “Which I was in this case. And I do learn from the best.”

"You know you do have a tone for that and it’s a sickeningly sweet flattering tone. Perfect for the ladies who flirt with you with reckless abandon." Dorian remarked and Darva laughed, bright and warm, like sunlight in the depths of summer. It never failed to color Dorian’s cheeks, light up the little places in his chest.

"Never going to get anything past you, hm?” Darva raised a brow and his lips curved to a grin just so. Dorian casted his eyes away, ears burning. Always and forever foolish notions bubbling in his head.

“Maybe, if we ever get out of here.” Dorian leaned his head back against the stone, neither warm nor cool to the touch, almost tingling against his skin. Old elvish places were full of magic, just crackling below the surface.

"You think they forgot?" Darva wondered, lips quirking. He had no clue how long they had been sitting in the dark, alcove room. His butt was numb and Dorian fussed with his mustache, tweaking the ends over and over in a nervous tick.

"I would hope not.” Dorian sighed, drumming his fingers against his staff haft. The flame bobbed steadily above them, carried by the air still flowing into the chamber. It hardly seemed designed to choke them, but dying in other ways was much less enjoyable.

"You don't have to keep the light on, you know. I can imagine it gets exhausting..." Darva told him and he put his hands on his knees, willing his legs to stand. He shook out his ankles, gingerly rubbing the numb out of his butt.

"It makes it feel less like the temple is going to trap us here forever and kill us." Dorian droned and Darva sighed, rocking from one foot to the other, hip to hip.

"Cheery thought..." He brushed himself off and looked back at the imposing block of stone that had blocked their way.

"Maybe it's a puzzle or something." He added, looking at the stones. "Not like any of the temples give you their secrets readily, but the ancient elves were fond of puzzles." He mused, biting his finger as he scanned the patterns of the stone. A nervous habit of his own.

"Might as well give it a try." Dorian blew a sigh out of his nose, watching as Darva’s foot tapped on the ground, fingers fidgeting.

How he was going to figure it out was beyond Dorian; he didn’t necessarily doubt Darva's abilities, but skepticism wasn't unwarranted. Darva could be foolish, but many would be fools to think he was stupid. He had a head on his shoulders, one capable of frightening amounts of determination. Dorian had witnessed it when he took the burden of leading the Inquisition, taking the struggles of it in stride with a half grin on his face, saying it was another adventure along the way. Or even back when Haven was destroyed when Cassandra and Cullen carried him half frozen into the camp, lips and ears a deep blue, shivering all over, but eyes still open. Struggling to stay open, but still open.

"Indulge me, will you Darva?" Dorian questioned and Darva took a moment, foot still tapping on the floor.

"What'cha got?" He replied, eyes still on the stonework.

"You didn’t want to be Inquisitor, but you took it up anyway. You didn’t go running, or leave when you could have. You kept going. Why?" Dorian asked, watching as Darva looked all around the stonework. The silence stretched on and on between them until Darva finally spoke up.

"Combination: conscience, and making it up along the way. No one else was going to do it, so I decided I was going to do it. I don’t want to be a savior. I’m just helping people." He spoke surprisingly sincerely, his focus still on the stones as he mouthed numbers and pressed against them.

Dorian chuckled in disbelief. "Just like that then? You make choices that influence the whole world and the future of it by making it up along the way and doing it because no one else will?" He pressed and Darva shrugged, putting his hands on his hips.

"I may be oversimplifying it. There are people around whom I rely on to help make choices. Informed ones hopefully. Leliana gives me reports, plus Josephine does a lot of the heavy lifting. Plus you. You do read to me in fact.”

"Giving me as much credit as them? What will people think?” Dorian snickered and Darva laughed quietly.

"Right? Mother Giselle would have a heart attack." Darva shook his head, his grin lopsided--his big tell on his genuine enjoyment.

"But, still," Darva cleared his throat, "you are a mage, which I am not, and you have insight and abilities the other Mages in the Inquisition do not have. You are also from Tevinter, and there is a rather large lack of such opinions in the Inquisition.” Darva explained.

“An opinion many would not want.” Dorian reminded him and Darva gave a casual shrug as if the weight of the statement ran right off of him.

“You are Tevene, but not all Tevene people are you.” Darva reminded him, giving him a pointed look. “You hardly meet the expectation of the horrifying legend the south has built up. You want to do good and to help the people you care about. You have faith in them--in how they can be better. You haven’t sat idly by. You’ve risked everything to help people who don’t even like you, Dorian.” Darva spoke quietly, keen eyes watching Dorian the whole time.

“I value your opinion highly.” He concluded, looking back at the stones. Quiet filed the space between them and Dorian sat in it, unsure of what to say next. Genuine praise from a man who was rarely genuine, who hid much of that behind a mask of niceties, of strained happy looks. He bore the burdens as well, but underneath Dorian saw the cracks--the strain. 

It was easy to see, seeing how they shared that much between them.

“You are selling yourself awfully short as well, Darva.”

Darva turned back, brow raising with a question on his lips.

“Playing the paying a compliment back game?” Darva asked, something in his tone, something in his eyes: skepticism, frustration.

“No.” Dorian spoke plainly, meeting Darva’s eyes. He pushed himself up, only a few short steps to reach him. “I am being honest and genuine. Not many could do what you are doing, and you are doing it well. You’ve been trusted to this position and you’ve worn it well. It’s...brave.” Dorian spoke plainly--plainer than Darva had ever heard him speak before. No gimmicks hiding behind his teeth, or testing the boundaries of it in his eyes.

Darva managed a half chuckle, looking away from Dorian. “I keep expecting a joke. Genuine honesty in hard to come by, I’ll have you know.” Darva half grinned and Dorian snickered.

“It’s strange to say, I’ll have you know.” A faint smile twisted Dorian’s face and Darva chuckled.

“Well I do rather appreciate genuine Dorian honesty.” Darva gently reached out, lightly patting his hand against Dorian’s chest, fingers lingering longer than they needed to--longer than appropriate.

But it only took a second for Darva to pull his hand away, for the touch to end and the intimacy that came with it. The warmth snuffed out, as quick as flame with a cover pulled over it. Only smoke remained, the touch still felt.

“We’re going to get out of here.” Darva spoke to clear the smoke, the embers dying back to nothing once more. 

[varricmancer]

Lost And Found | 3

Pairing: Varric Tethras x OC

Word Count: 5,880

Summary: Instead of the nothingness she had craved, Crystal woke up in the world of Thedas. What had once been merely a story that she loved now seemed very real and she was right in the heart of it all. She soon finds a reason to live again and a love in the arms of someone as quietly broken as her.

Warnings: Attempted suicide (not graphic, but possible trigger). The OC has depression and low self-esteem, so don’t expect her to be some bright mary sue. At the same time, this sounds darker than it is. It’s going to have fluff and comedy and all that eventually, but OC has some growing to do first. She’s just not the usual strong and easygoing character many oc’s are. She’s more of a delicate creature. Also, it is Dragon Age, so there will be descriptions of war/battles/violence.

Notes: Would you guys be interested in a chapter from Varric’s POV? 

The day after the Herald left the crossroads was spent packing up what Crystal thought she’d need to keep from her little borrowed hut. Giles had assured her that she was free to take anything, but she only wanted to take essentials considering how much traveling they’d be doing not only now, but in the future when they would need to move to Skyhold. 

She left out what she would need for the remaining week, of course, but packed up everything else she wanted to keep. All she had to use were flour sacks until she could afford to get something better. All she determined worth keeping was the clothing she could actually wear, the fur and small blanket from the bed (she hoped for a decent place at Haven, but she also knew they were still starting out and struggling too), and the small collection of paper and charcoal sticks she’d been hoarding. She’d been itching to draw, but paper itself was hard to obtain for the common folk as it was all made by hand. Parchment was a little easier, but still hard to come by in the middle of the wilderness. 

She spent several days like that, giving away what she couldn’t use and preparing the hut for the next occupant. It was on the third night that the sending crystal Varric had given her began to glow. She picked it up and sat on her cot in anxious fascination. She was a little worried about trying to keep up with a conversation on such a weird device, not that she’d been any better at them on cellphones. Texting was much more her speed. After a few moments, the crystal made a little sound like a delicate bell, followed by the rumbles of Varric’s voice. 

“So, the Magistrate is standing there looking like he has a giant staff up his ass and goes, "I was looking for someone with your...special talents.” You can tell right away that Hawke has decided to fuck with the guy, because he gets that crazy grin of his going and says, “I'm guessing you don't mean my ability to juggle small rodents while humming Orlesian ballads."

There’s a rumble of laughter and Crystal realizes that he’s telling a story to his group, probably sitting around a fire at one of the camps. She smiles to herself and lays on her little cot, listening as he continues the story. She doesn’t even mind if he probably did the Thedas version of butt-dialing her. She found his voice comforting, a bit of familiarity in this strange land. She soon found herself falling asleep with a smile on her face. 

***

It quickly became apparent after three more nights of the sending crystal activating that Varric was letting her listen to the stories on purpose. She couldn’t figure out why, but she was grateful. She’d spend her days helping where she could around the village, and her nights relaxing in her cot listening to the stories, some familiar and some he was clearly making up on the spot. Sometimes the others would join in and tell stories of their own, sometimes they would just discuss things that happened that day and their plans for the next. Anytime the conversation swayed towards discussing Crystal herself, she noticed Varric was quick to change the subject. She figured the others weren’t aware she was listening in.

The best reason she could come up with was that he’d been very observant and noticed she had the constitution of a terrified rabbit and had decided to try to let her get to know them a little bit before she ran off with them. It seemed like a very Varric-like thing for him to do, she supposed. 

Tonight, however, she was hoping to hear it in person as it had been a week. She figured if they wanted to be technical they wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, but she’d heard that the Herald had been spotted nearby and would most likely arrive in the crossroads in a matter of hours. Being that it was the middle of the afternoon already, she guessed they would most likely stay the night and leave for Haven the next day. 

Thankfully, they would be arriving to see an improved situation. The sisters and Mother Giselle had already left for Haven days ago, taking the wounded soldiers with them. That cleaned up the area quite a bit, as people were able to take back their own houses and the area was no longer haunted by the screams of the dying. 

With the supplies the Herald had given them, the people themselves were looking better. Everyone was well fed and clothed. Crystal had even gotten to bathe with real soap, simple as it had been. It probably wasn’t good to use it on her hair, but she didn’t care. She was clean from head to toe for the first time in weeks, even if she’d still had to use a bucket of water instead of an actual tub. She was just happy that the next time she saw everyone, she wouldn’t look like an unbathed goblin. 

In fact, as she slipped in feet into the best looking pair of shoes she could find, she realized she’d unconsciously taken a great deal of care with her appearance. It had taken her nearly an hour to dry her long hair near the fire (good God she missed hair dryers), and she’d let the results fall freely down her back in cascading waves. She was pleased that the harsh soap didn’t seem to dry it out that much.  The dress she was wearing was the best she could find, long and a lovely royal blue color, if a bit scratchy. Obviously, she wasn’t going to find something of amazing quality out in the middle of nowhere, but she looked decent enough in it and the color looked good with her brown hair. 

She was growing nervous, she realized, as she began fluttering around her little hut. She was anxious to get out of here, yes, but that also meant she was going right into the middle of everything. She was terrified that maybe she was making a mistake and should just stick it out here, or at least wait until they went to Skyhold before joining them. That would be the cowardly choice, of course, but she’d never claimed to be brave. 

She huffed in frustration and grabbed a precious piece of paper and one of her charcoal sticks, striding outside to sit near the little pond. There was a log stump there that she liked to use as a table, so she set her things down and observed the bustle of the little village. Soon enough she caught sight of Giles standing near the crossroads sign speaking to one of the Inquisition soldiers. She smiled and set charcoal to paper, letting her overactive mind quiet as she drew. The paper wasn’t what she was used, of course, and the bumps and ridges in it made her displeased with the result, but it would do. 

After nearly half an hour, she judged her sketch good enough and cleaned the charcoal from her hands with a quick flick in the pond. She didn’t want to risk getting anything on the one good dress she had. Giles hadn’t moved from his spot near the stone fence, though the soldier whose ear he’d been talking off had since moved on, so she walked over to join him. He grinned when she got close enough, waggling his eyebrows in his exaggerated way. 

“Well, don’t ye clean up nicely, lass.” 

“I’m hoping after the past few weeks we’ve all had that we all cleaned up nicely,” she laughed, then shyly handed the paper to Giles. 

“For me?” He stood up straight and took the paper, whistling as he looked it over. “Now, no ones ever made my likeness before, but even I can tell this is good.”

She beamed from the simple praise. “I studied art. Not sure what good that’s going to do me here, but it’s what I know. Anyway, this is just a simple thank you for looking out for me. You know I don’t have anything else, so this is the least I could do.” 

Giles reached out and squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “Lass, ye don’t owe me a thing except staying safe. I feel like I’m sending ye right into the mouth o’ the beast, but the Herald lad seems a good sort. Certainly helped the crossroads, and I hear tell he shut down the fighting all over the Hinterlands. I think if I have to trust anyone with ye, it would be him and his lot.” 

There was a commotion near the tunnel and the two shared a looked before observing as people crowded the party coming out of it. She sent Giles a little grin and wandered over, hoping it was who she thought it was. 

The Herald and his crew were all riding new mounts, along with a few riderless ones behind them. The trip to Dennant was apparently successful. The mounts varied greatly from the Herald’s Fereldan Forder to Solas’s Red Hart. She was not looking forward to hearing that thing in person. It was bad enough in the game. 

One of the mounts without a rider was a Battle Nug, something she’d never thought she’d see in her life beyond the screen. It was cute in a strange sort of way, with the rhino face and bunny ears. The hairless skin was cocoa brown, not unlike her own hair. Although the gorilla-like hands would take some getting used to. How did it not hurt it to run around on those things? 

Varric separated from the party, trotting his sturdy looking pony over to her and jumping down as he grinned. The once over he gave her was fairly subtle, but not enough that she didn’t catch the way his eyes roamed over the curves revealed by her almost too tight dress. She could also see just how quickly he dismissed whatever he was thinking as he turned to observe the nug. 

“Ugly, huh?” he chuckled. “Pretty sure he just gave it to us because no one else was buyin. Apparently, it’s a runt and when people actually buy these things they want em big.” 

“It’s kinda cute in a way,” she shrugged, her smile widening when he groaned. 

“You’re going to get along great with Red. She has two of the regular ones at Haven. She’s going to freak when she sees this guy.” 

“Is that who he’s for?”

“Don’t know yet. When I said he gave it to us, I meant really gave. As in threw it in for free. I guess while it goes along easy enough, it’s really picky about who rides it. Wouldn’t let any of us touch him more than a couple pats. Dennant says it’s nice and well trained though,” Varric shrugs, and walks next to her as she goes closer to the Battle Nug.

As if it had sensed it was being talked about, the beast’s attention zeroed in on the two of them. Its snout wiggled as it scented the air, before releasing a loud huff and walking closer. Crystal reached out her hand and let it sniff at her, giggling as the heated breath tickled her. After getting in a few good sniffs, it batted it’s head against her hand, begging for pets. She scratched the area between his huge horns, the feel of the skin not unlike a hairless cat she’d once pet. 

Suddenly, it surprised both of them when the Battle Nug dropped down and began trying to herd her towards it’s back. 

“I think it wants you to ride it,” Varric chuckles, shaking his head. 

Crystal stuttered, “What? I’m...I don’t even know how to ride.” 

“How were you planning on getting to Haven?” Varric asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“I don’t know,” she answered weakly, staring at the huge saddled back of the nug. “A wagon or something?” 

“If that was the case you should have gone with the sisters. With us, you’d have to ride. I suppose if you’re really scared you can ride with one of us, but it looks like this big lug has chosen you, so maybe you can give it a try at least.”

She bites her lip and stares as she tries to gather enough courage to climb up. The nug is still nuzzling into her side, trying to encourage her, she supposes. 

“I’m wearing a dress, Varric.” 

“The saddle is big enough that you could sit side saddle. I’ll help you up.”

She sighs and lets Varric lead her to the side of the beast. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not a big fan of riding either, but it gets the job done,” Varric shrugs and laces his hands together as a makeshift mounting block. 

She straightens her back, nodding in a show of fake bravery. She places her hand on Varric’s shoulder and is momentarily distracted by how solid it felt under her fingers. Thick and muscled - and flexing? A quick glance at Varric’s lazy grin and dark eyes is enough proof that he knew where her mind had gone and was maybe showing off a little. 

She flushed and quickly lifted a leg, stopped by Varric clicking his tongue. 

“The right leg first for side saddle.” 

She nods and does as he says, placing her right leg in his cupped hands. He boosts her up a little and she scoots into the leather saddle. The squeal she makes when the nug stands up was embarrassing, and Varrics slow chuckles didn’t help. 

“Alright, now these guys are pretty slow so you don’t need to worry about speed. Reins are fairly easy; left and right, pull back lightly when you want to stop. Press into him with your thighs to go.” 

Crystal releases the death grip she has on the saddle horn, reaching for the reins. Her hands are shaking and she’s sure the nug can sense how scared she is because he’s not making any sudden movements; just stands there patiently waiting. She exhales and digs her thighs in and the nug starts a gentle trot. She barely has to do anything with the reins as it makes little circles and walks up and down a tiny stretch of road, occasionally shaking its head and looking back at her.

The Herald had joined Varric as they stood watching her, and she waved at him and sent him a little shaky smile. 

“Look at that. He wouldn’t let any of us on him, and now he’s prancing around like a pony. Look at him showing you off,” Maxwell chuckled as he greeted her.  

This wasn’t so bad, she mused. She relaxed a bit and let the nug wander around until it walked back to the rest of the mounts. She pulled the reins back gently and it stopped completely, dropping belly down so she could slide off easily. 

She was a little unsteady still from the adrenaline rush and nearly fell as her knees buckled. Varric was quickly at her side, wrapping a thick arm around her waist as Maxwell reached a hand out in concern. 

“You good there?”

She nodded and grinned sheepishly, “Just a little shaky. First time rider.” 

Maxwell grimaced with sympathy, “Yes, I remember my first time. I couldn’t sit well for two days.”

Varrics sniggers quietly and she rolls her eyes while Maxwell continues on, oblivious. 

“Make sure you used creams or oils to make it a smoother ride.” 

Varric’s snickers have become outright guffaws and Crystal finds herself giggling when Maxwell stares at them in confusion for a full minute before he finally groans. 

“Varric, you have the sense of humor of a child.” 

The dwarf’s laughter quiets slowly and he shrugs, flashing the Herald a playful grin. 

“Anyway,” Maxwell begins with a sigh, “Since the nug hasn’t let anyone else ride him and it appears he’s decided he likes you, he’s yours,” he nods towards Crystal. 

Her jaw drops and she looks between the Herald and the giant beast. 

“Oh, really, I couldn’t.” 

“Of course you can. I’m giving him to you. He was free, so it’s not like it’s a great burden. And before you can use any other arguments, the Inquisition will handle his basic care needs like food and such. Congratulations.” 

She opened her mouth to retort but with nothing coming to mind her jaw snapped shut. She sighed and flushed. 

“Fine. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. When you get a moment, please join us for a meal and we can discuss the events of the last week and our future plans.” 

With that, Maxwell saluted the two of them and sauntered off, whistling. 

“He’s kind of a brat, isn’t he?” 

Varric snorts, “Yeah, a bit.” 

Crystal sighs and looks at the Battle Nug that is now snuffling into the ground. 

“So now the only thing I actually own in this entire world is a giant pig-rabbit.” 

“Seems like it,” Varric laughs. 

“I’m not as ungrateful as I sound, I promise. Just...overwhelmed, I suppose. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do with a great big beast like that. I suppose a plus side is if we meet any bad guys on the road, he can just sit on them and save me from having to fight.” 

Varric shakes his head with a grin and gestures for her to lead the way back to the center of the village where everyone was meeting up. They are both silent for a few moments before he clears his throat. 

“You look nice, by the way.” 

She blushed and really fucking wished any of the clothes here had pockets so she could shove her hands nervously in them like she wanted. 

“Thanks. It’s a miracle what eating every day and using actual soap can do.”

Varric snorts before returning the acknowledging wave of the Herald once they were close enough. 

The party is sitting outside of her hut, of all places. Giles winks at her cheekily as he settles into one of the stools he’d dragged over for them to use and proceeds to dominate the conversation, pelting everyone with questions. She knew it was mostly because he was just a talkative fellow, but also because he knew that she preferred to listen. 

Talking to anyone, especially a big group of intimidating people like this, was incredibly hard for her. Back in her world, she was a certified medication-guzzling socially anxious mess with severe depression. Here in Thedas, she was simply known as shy, which amused her. 

The village was already at work preparing the fresh rams that they had brought back, filling the air with the scent of roasting meat and the sounds of excited villagers. Crystal leans her back against her little hut and wills herself to relax, listening to the now familiar voices of everyone around her. Her fingers itched to sketch the little village, knowing it was her last night here among these people. She’d start with her own little hut, she muses, perhaps at dawn when the sun just begins to color the sky. Maybe one of the children as they sit in rapturous fascination whenever she tells them a story. She’d already drawn one for Thomas of his sweet daughter that he’d lost. He’d cried and thanked her with a fierce hug that brought tears to her own eyes. 

“What do you think, Crystal?”

She straightened quickly as she was jolted out of her thoughts, glancing at Maxwell in confusion. She’d been so out of it, she hadn’t even realized Giles had gone to get them food. 

“Pardon?” 

“We were just discussing our travel plans. It took us a little over four days to get here from Haven, but that was also because we made minimal stops since most of us are used to travel. We were wondering if you would be fine with that or if we should think on factoring inn stops into our plans?” Maxwell explained with a kind smile. 

“Oh, God, no. No need to do anything different for me. I don’t want to be a bother.” 

“It wouldn’t be a bother. Personally, I like to stay on the road as much as possible, because that’s less paperwork I’m forced to do.” Maxwell grinned as the others chuckled lightly. 

“So...if you’re talking about taking me with you, everything went well?” she asked tentatively, still slightly afraid that her very appearance in Thedas might have changed even the small things. 

“Oh, yes. Everything was just where you told us, even the ridiculous Druffalo. The caches of supplies are on their way as we speak. We closed all the rifts except for the one by the river you told us about. Set up very comfortable camps on all the marked spots. Took out the Templar and Mage hideouts. We were all very impressed. Obviously, we haven’t delved into your future knowledge that you say you have yet, but this was enough to know that at the very least you seem to be on our side for now.” 

Crystal released a relieved breath, finally able to release weeks of tension. She’d be in the thick of things, but she’d also be surrounded by those that could protect her the most. 

“Thank you.” 

Maxwell nods, pausing as if to catch his thoughts before asking. 

“You seem like...there’s something specific that you’re wanting protection from. That you believe we can protect you from, specifically. Are you...able to tell me what that is?” 

She chews her lip in thought, trying to figure out what she should say. 

“I’m not sure? Honestly, I don’t think I’m the smartest person, so I’m never quite sure my logic behind what I can and can’t share is sound. I’ll be happy to go over things more once we get to Haven, but I think I can at least tell you we should start stocking up on travel supplies and weapons. Haven doesn’t seem the sort of place that would withstand an attack, does it?” 

They all looked mildly disturbed by that, but Maxwell nodded in thought. She was relieved no one asked her to go into detail, because she wasn’t sure how she would have been able to talk her way out of that. She was afraid if she told them too much, it would create so much change that she wouldn’t recognize the story anymore and be worthless. 

Giles soon brought them bowls of roasted meat and vegetables, and they were all more than happy to change the talk to more pleasant things. Varric and Maxwell both were very nice about asking her questions and trying to draw her into the conversation. Cassandra acted like she wasn’t there most of the time. Crystal knew it was most likely because she still considered her a threat so she tried not to be too hurt by it. Solas seemed as content as her to merely listen to those around him. She was especially glad he paid her no mind. 

“Excuse me, Miss Crystal?” 

She turned towards the shy voice of one of her favorite kids in the village, Malcolm. He was like her little shadow most days, and was always quick to ask for a story or for her to teach him how to draw. 

“Good evening, Mal. Did you need something, buddy?” She asked with a fond smile. 

He shoved one of his hands practically in her face as he handed her what appeared to be a rock. 

“I worked all day doin’ chores for Ma so I could give you this. It’s a heating rune. Cuz you’re gonna be traveling and hate the cold like me. You just press your finger here and it warms up, but it doesn’t hurt or nothin’. So you can keep your tent warm and it works in water too!” 

“Wow, Mal! This is so nice. Thank you!” 

She grins at the blushing boy and means every word. If this thing works like she thinks it should, she can look forward to toasty tents on the road. Damn she hated being cold, especially after these last few weeks with nothing but a thin blanket to warm her. She leans over and hugs him tightly. 

“You’ll remember to keep up with your drawing, right? I expect you to send me a drawing every now and then so I can see your progress. I’ll send you some of whatever I see too, okay?” 

“Kay!” Malcolm grins and runs back to his parents. She smiles at the little rune before tucking it into her pocket. 

“You didn’t mention you had a suitor,” Varric smirks. 

She snorts and plays along. “Oh yes, he’s lovely. He catches me frogs and only wets the bed twice a week. The catch of the ages, really.” 

He huffs a little laugh before turning to the group. 

“Did I ever tell you guys about the time Hawke bought a mine?” 

Crystal grins and leans in to listen, even though it was yet another story that she already knew. The way that Varric told them always made them sound new, however. She could tell the parts he was embellishing heavily and tried to contain her commentary. She was amused by Maxwell’s gasps of surprise and Cassandra’s eye rolls when Varric tried to describe the dragons in terrifying detail. Mostly, she was just happy to be sitting here listening in person. 

Varric was so expressive when he told a story. His hands waved enthusiastically, and his face showed every emotion. He timed everything perfectly to get the reactions he wanted, smirking slightly whenever someone was shocked or appropriately enthralled. She soon discovered that she’d been focusing so much on him that she’d missed most of the story, too entranced by the dwarf himself. 

She needed to get over this fascination with him, and fast. That way lay heartbreak and pain, she was sure of it. 

She yawned loudly, hoping the others would catch on. Thankfully, Maxwell must have been looking at her because he yawned too. 

“I think we should all get some sleep. We have a long few days ahead of us,” he grunted as he stood up and stretched. 

The others murmured their agreements, slowly getting up and putting the stools to the side. 

Giles scratches his belly as he looks them over. 

“We have a couple o’ empty huts that you lot can use. You’d have to squeeze in there, but it would probably be a nice break from tents at least.” 

“I have one extra cot in mine as well, if it’s needed,” Crystal ventured quietly. 

The party spoke amongst themselves and eventually it was decided that Solas and Maxwell would share one hut, Cassandra would take the other as she wanted to bathe in privacy. Of course, this left...

Varric’s smirk as she glanced at him in surprise was gone so fast she could almost believe she imagined it. Everyone wandered towards their assigned places for the night, leaving Varric to open the door for her. 

“After you,” he said softly, standing to the side as she tried to get past him before he could see her blushing. 

Maxwell ran up and threw Varric his pack of supplies before he could enter. He accepted them with a grunt of thanks and shut the door, bringing the wooden bar down to secure it. 

Crystal was practically vibrating she was so nervous. Logically, she knew that nothing was going to happen and that the chances of him being genuinely into her beyond friendly flirting were zilch, but she couldn’t help the rush of anxiety she felt just being in a room alone with him. 

“So, uh, the cots are over here. The one on the right is a little more sturdy since it belonged to the man who owned this place before. I’ll take the smaller one,” she winced as she heard how shaky her voice sounded. She hated that he probably thought she was some freak scared of her own shadow. 

He nods and smiles gently, seeming to pick up on her nervousness. 

“If you wanted to change into your night things, I promise I won’t look if you don’t. I must protect my virtue, after all,” he drawled. She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped over his stupid joke, letting him lighten the tension in the room a little.  

She peeled off her slippers and tucked them away into her bag of supplies. She’d use the more sturdy boots she had for the journey. She snuck a quick peek at Varric, finding him turned all the way around facing the wall as he shucked his own clothes. She nibbled her lip nervously and quickly pulled the dress up and off, leaving the thin white chemise on to sleep in. Unable to help herself, she looked out of the corner of her eye towards the dwarf behind her. 

He’d already torn off his shoes and shirt, leaving him barechested as he struggled with his belt. She inhaled lightly as she watched his back muscles rippling like some damn romance movie hero. She turned away just as quickly, knowing that with his skills he’d probably know if someone was watching him. 

She cleared her throat and instead focused on finishing readying for bed. She went to the little table that she’d turned into a sort of vanity and poured water into a bowl for washing her face and a cup for brushing her teeth. She missed the convenience of running water and tubes of toothpaste, not to mention her creams. This place was drying the hell out of her skin. 

When she was done, she poured everything out and cleaned up the area. 

“There’s still plenty of water left if you need it,” she said softly. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he rumbled, his voice close enough that she figured it was safe to look. 

She wanted to groan out loud and barely stopped herself from doing so. He’d changed into some comfortable looking pants at least, but he’d left his chest bare. Judging by the look on his face, he knew damn well the effect he had on her and did it on purpose. She didn’t even like body hair, but she couldn’t stop staring at him. He’d even pulled his hair from its tie, letting flow freely. It wasn’t that long, just towards the middle of his neck, but it was still such an intimate thing to see, she thought. 

He chuckled as she turned to busy herself, trying to keep her mind on other things besides half naked dwarves that were too handsome for their own good. She set her bags near the door for easy pickup in the morning and started the fire, knowing that the hut would be ice cold in a couple of hours if she didn’t. 

Once it was blazing she stood with her back to it, letting it warm her before she tried to sleep with her one little blanket. The first thing she planned to do once she figured out how to get money here was going to be buying at least five blankets and the stuff to make proper pillows, not the blocks they used here. 

She was swaying slightly with her eyes closed, listening to Varric humming and cleaning himself as she tried to relax enough to get to sleep quickly. She heard the splashing water stop and sounds of a towel being unfurled, then suddenly he growled.  

Her eyes shot open and she stared wide-eyed as Varric’s face turned hard and tense with hunger. His hooded eyes traveled the length of her body, and when she looked down she realized, to her utter horror, that the chemise was so thin that standing in front of the fire had made it damn near see through. She could see everything, and if she could, so could he. She blushed wildly but rushed past him and jumped into her cot, covering herself with her threadbare blanket. 

She could hear him breathing heavily, like he was trying to calm himself. A few moments later he walked over and pulled a blanket from his bag, settling into the cot that was so close to her own she could practically feel his body heat. 

He turned on his right side as he got comfortable, facing her. In a surprising show of bravery, she turned towards him as well. They both lay in silence for a few moments, looking at each other with only the flickering light of the fire, studying and weighing each other. 

She knew he was at least somewhat attracted to her, but she also knew he was probably fighting it because of his loyalty towards Bianca. Though she was sure he messed around at least somewhat, but never seriously and never with feelings. And Crystal, no matter how attracted to him she’d turned out to be, wasn’t the type to do anything casual. She grew attached too easily, was too needy for flings. She had a feeling he could probably tell and that’s why he was able to restrain himself. 

She sighed curled up more into her little blanket, starting to feel a little more tired now that the heat was starting to fill the little hut. The only thing she needed now was Varric’s familiar voice rumbling through the sending crystal. 

“Why did you let me listen?” she suddenly blurts. 

Varric’s soft grin says he was expecting the question sooner or later. 

“I thought it might help. Woman all alone in a strange place, about to travel with a bunch of scary warriors for almost a week. Figured it might help you get to know us a little and at least let you know we weren’t planning on chopping you to bits or feeding you to a dragon.” 

“I was so very worried about the dragon too. Bless you, sir.” 

He chuckles and sends her another little smile. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” 

Crystal fights her blush and whispers, “Goodnight, Varric.” 

She turned away and faced the wall as she willed herself to sleep, trying not to focus on every little sound he made. It was a very long night. 

[dovabunny]

Nobody Would Want to Dance with a Magic Ox

Click link above to read on Ao3 or read below under the cut.

Relationship: Adaar/Krem

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition

Rating: Teen

Characters: Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi; Female Adaar; Female Inquisitor; The Iron Bull; Josephine Montilyet; Leliana; Dorian Pavus; Cullen Rutherford            

Tags: fictober18; cremquisitor;

Chapter: 1/1

Series: FicTober Ficlets

Summary: Adaar had always thought nobody would ever look at her and see beauty and strength in equal measure, that nobody could ever love her as she is. She always thought nobody would ever want to dance with her, especially not more than once. Maker, she has never been more happy to be right.

FicTober prompt ( from @barbex ): “I thought you would forget

Dragon Age Inktober prompt (from Dankou): Halamshiral

The result: this hot garbage.

Adaar shifted uncomfortably in the constricting fruity outfit they made her wear. For someone used to wearing Arishok armour while twirling a staff around at lightning speed, feeling like a stuffed nug in a frilly sock was...demeaning and embarrassing.

But they meant well, her advisors. Josie had practically bounced on her toes when first she saw Adaar in the Inquisition formal attire, calling her both ‘striking’ and ‘resplendent’. Whatever the fade that means. Leliana has smirked in that creepy I-can-murder-you-in-your-sleep-but-chose-not-to-you’re-welcome way of hers, speculating that the Inquisitor would be flooded with hopeful suitors. Cullen was the only one who grumbled along with her as they tugged and frowned at their outfits.

But standing here, on the balcony of the queen of Orlais’ home or whatever (Maker, Josie will kill her if she heard those thoughts), there was no sweeping compliments, no swooning suitors, and no friendly faces. There were masks and gossip, thinly-veiled insults and condescending giggles. No one cared that she had saved Briala’s ex-girlfriend and thereby saving the whole damn country from a bloody civil war. Oh no, they’d rather keep their distance from the 7ft grey giant with swooping black horns adorned in gold, long white hair braided to her butt, and the tell-tale scars around her red lips of where she had once been silenced.

Too big, too opposing, too ugly, too grey, too non-human, too...horny.

She allowed herself a stupid little giggle at that last bit.

Truth be told, very few things made her smile these days. Before Haven fell she had been a simple woman that found happiness in simple things - good food, a good fight, good ale, and good company was enough to have her grinning ear to ear with a flush on her cheeks. Being with Bull’s Chargers gave her that long lost sense of belonging. Around that lot of misfits she felt safe to be herself and let her guard down, they never judged only teased, and never talked in circles.

And then...there was Krem.

The first time she had seen the lieutenant, swinging a gigantic warhammer like it was a turkey leg, looking like the hero from one of Varric’s fantastic romance stories - she’d felt something strange twist in her stomach. It had taken her a long time to realise that twist was her having a ginormous crush on the man. But instead of being a decent adult about it, instead she blushed like a virgin maid about to get her V card stamped by Zevran Arainai, and running to hide whenever she saw him in fear that instead of words only garbled sounds would escape her. That actually did happen, three times, where she would drink that strong shit Iron Bull said could make you damn-near breath fire and grow a tail, until she felt brave enough to approach the handsome, strapping warrior standing on his chair like he was the king of the tavern….

...not knowing he was the king of her heart.

...holy fuck, did she really just think that? That’s good shit! She needs to give Varric some tips on writing romance, seems she’s a natural. But only in theory.

Each time she opened her mouth to say something smart or witty, to compliment that way he sweeps his warhammer low to knock enemies off their feet before spinning it up to slam back down crushing the skull of a Venatori. Or maybe she would compliment his choice of haircut? How he could burp words in Qunlat? It made no difference what she ‘planned’ on saying, because all that came out was “so-Ima-fyo-imean-notwha-hnggk…” right before she turned and all but fled the Tavern to go hide under the hay in the stables. If Blackwall saw her he never said a word. Good man that, seems honest and reliable.

Because of such profoundly mature and sophisticated behaviour one might come to expect of a person of her status and office - she had started to avoid Krem, the Tavern, and the Chargers. Heck, she even avoided being in Skyhold if she could. There would barely be a ‘welcome back, Inquisitor’ before there was a ‘let’s go get something to drink’ and then of course a ‘Boss! The chargers and I haven’t seen you in a while, ain’t that right, Kerem de-la Creme?’ and she’d be ‘I NEED TO GO TO THE HISSING WASTES’ -ing out of Skyhold before anyone could say ‘Dorian your mustache is looking marvelous for someone who had just arrived back at civilisation not ten minutes ago from the Fallow Mire’.

It was the last night before the Inquisition left Skyhold for Halamshiral that she decided to cave and go wallow in self-pity at Herald’s Rest, her forehead planted on the table she claimed for herself in the corner. She typically gave off quite a ‘keep your distance I am big and scary’ aura, even without the glowing arm, but tonight she was giving off plain old ‘fuck off’ vibes. Of course ‘vibes’ never meant shit if you’re the Iron Bull.

“Bummed about the upcoming party?” he cheerfully said in that warm gravelly voice of his. “It’s not that bad, boss. We’ll go, save the empress, scare some humans, have them kiss our asses, and then get our bellies full of fancy food and wine.” At her barely scoffed response, his voice went a little softer. “What’s this really about? You got a weak stomach for Orlesian Ham? Dorian claims it tastes of despair. Scared of masks? Can’t dance in red velvet?”

“Bull, if you don’t shut up and let me drink I’ll send that redhead in the kitchens to Redcliffe and there’ll be no more ‘strawberry shortcake’ for you. And yes I meant it like that.” Adaar snorted mirthlessly. “Besides, I’m a giant grey ox mage with fade power gifted by Andraste herself and more scars than they have hair. Nobody would want to dance with me…” She had said the words softly, whispering it to the wood on the table, not intending it to fall on any ears.

Especially not the beautiful ears of a handsome Tevinter warrior who looked at her with slight confusion and concern when she finally lifted her head.  

The inquisitor tugged at the tight collar, ripping a few seams so she could breathe. With not much else to do, she amused herself by watching the gardens below. The balcony was secluded enough to not draw the attention of other guests looking to step into the cool air but still wanting to bask in the festivities. And those seeking seclusion for ‘other’ reasons, well, she could see them behind various shrubbery and hedges from where she stood. She’ll commend them for their commitment, that’s for sure, for soldiering through removing so many layers of cloth and frill and belts and skirts before they get to smoosh the parts together they want to smoosh together. Maybe she should go call Cassandra...

As it were, she was so distracted that she completely missed the doors behind her open and close, as well as the steps towards her, till a not-so-subtle throat clearing had her whirl around, her long white braid whipping her in the face as she started with “I wasn’t looking at anything!” only to freeze.

“Inquisitor,” Krem greeted with a polite nod of the head. His hair neatly styled to the side (she suspected Dorian had a hand in that, literally), his uniform showing off his broad shoulders, strong arms, and soldier’s posture.

But that wasn’t what caused her breath to catch.

Stuck to his chest was a little scrap of paper with the word ‘Nobody’ written on it.

Krem smirked when he saw her stare at it. “I may have overhead you say ‘nobody’ would want to dance with you.”

Her eyes went wide as he took a step closer, his arms behind his back, all cool confidence and determination. “I… I thought you’d forgotten,” she said dumbly. But HEY at least it was words!

Krem’s smirk turned into a smile as he stopped in front of her and offered her his hand. “It would be very hard for me to forget you, my Inquisitor.” He extended one sinfully strong leg and gave a bow. “Now, would you be willing to dance with a nobody? Because nobody very much wants to dance with you.”

They couldn’t dance, neither of them, but heck if those kids didn’t care. Even as she towered over him, Adaar seemed to look up at Krem with stars in her eyes as he leads her in a swaying twirl around the balcony. They laughed and teased and danced, and her heart felt full.

Adaar had always thought nobody would ever look at her and see beauty and strength in equal measure, that nobody could ever love her as she is. She always thought nobody would ever want to dance with her, especially not more than once.  

Maker, she has never been more happy to be right.