#andrin cadash

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I commissioned my child from a friend of mine! She did such a good job~~

I need to finish that modern AU with them...

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so i was talking with @sumomomochi about how modern au andrin never has consistent mods, and i realized they they probably just have a vast collection of fakes

except the P.A. the P.A. is completely real (that link is to wikipedia but also incredibly nsfw)

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I was thinking about Andrin music and nostalgia listening to Three Days Grace and thought... alternative Andrin in their late teens and was Amused

Also about Edgy cross necklaces and Thedas, so I went with Edgy sunburst jewelry

(also bull wears a fake eye in this AU, hence his having “both” here)

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Andrin’s Jessica Rabbit costume, colored with paintschainer

idk if Thedas has a costume holiday. i’m sure it does

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In honor of Andrin getting a PC remake, a tiny modern AU with Andrin propositioning bartender!bull

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I didn’t put this one in the last set, but i did use it in my new sidebar, so i figured i’d upload it

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Writing Inktober

In which I revisit my Homestuck days and write in 2nd person present because I didn’t feel like doing the pronoun dance with Andrin. I’m using @spymastery‘s writing prompts.  

15: Intimacy

Iron Bull is rubbing small circles against your back. The pads of his fingertips are rough with calluses and scars, but the pressure is welcome after a solid hour of your arms being pinned over your head, fixed to the headboard with silken ropes. (You'd laughed when you saw them, teased that Bull could hardly call silk a punishment. You'd been proven [wonderfully] wrong.)

The winter night is quiet. The crackle of the fire and the distant howl of the wind the backdrop to the sound of both of your breathing. Bull's breaths are so soft, you feel them more than you hear them, ticking the baby hairs at the top of your nape.

Eventually, his hands stop their slow circles and the bed shifts beneath you as he leans in and presses his lips against the skin of your neck. You can feel the smile on his face, and it makes you smile too. You comb your fingers through your long, red hair, trying to make sure he doesn't get any into his mouth by accident.

However, you hear him chuckle, and you turn to watch him stick out his tongue, unwinding a shining hair from around it. "You're a hazard, kadan," he says, sticking it to your shoulder.

You raise an eyebrow. "Should I cut it then?" you ask.

Bull wraps his arms around your torso, pulling you against his chest. He tilts his head to rest it against you. "Of course not. I couldn't deny you the vanity of your hair."

You both chuckle, settling into the warmth and weight of each other. There's a comfort and familiarity in it now, after months of your… liaisons. You don't want to give it a name yet, for fear of frightening it away.

But there is a warm mouth against the skin behind your ear, and a hand spread wide across your belly, holding you protectively and possessively. Words don't suit a space like this, so you let them fall away, unspoken, to be picked up and addressed some other day.

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For Dwarf Appreciation Week, allow me to discuss my dear nb Inquisitor Andrin Cadash

Andrin is someone who plays politics exceedingly well, but chooses not to most of the time. They just want a simple life of gold, adventure, pretty clothes, and sex. Being Inquisitor was a job taken out of convenience (and being done with the Carta) and then they just couldn’t escape until they literally lost an arm to it. They decided to cut and run before they lost a leg too. Bull was more than happy to oblige. 

 As Inquisitor, Andrin constantly fought against being characterized as devout, though eventually they accepted they wouldn’t be able to fight the general perception. Didn’t stop them from correctly literally anyone who asked them directly though. 

Fics about Andrin and their relationships with gender and the Bull are here

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Writing Inktober

I’m using @spymastery‘s writing prompts.

5: Fallen

It's just sex. A common refrain in Andrin's mind. But sometimes, the Bull makes it difficult. It's those quiet moments in the afterglow, when those big, scarred fingers are untying knots and smoothing balm over fresh marks, glowing with heat and the remembrance of touch. Those in-between times when the sex is finished, but hearts are still beating fast and bodies are still flushed; when the Bull's eye is fixed on Andrin's, pupil still wide with exertion and excitement, the eye patch still sitting on the nightstand of Andrin's bed, scars flickering the muted firelight of the evening.

It's just sex, Andrin repeats, as their lips come together again even after the sex is finished, dicks limp and spent, limbs soft and loose. Even the Bull is relaxed, a quiet half-smile on his face as he pulls away from Andrin's lips to nose downward, sucking a mark into the junction of neck and shoulder.

"Kadan," Bull breathes against the orange-red hair of Andrin's chest, and though the word is unknown, the feeling settles heavily in the room. Their gazes meet and they kiss again, no more words spoken.

6: Water

The first thing she noticed was the smell of the lake, soft and earthy. It drifted on the wind long before she could hear the lapping of the water against the little dock. Cullen's hand was warm around hers as he led her out onto the water, the moonlight overhead turning the blur of his form silvery.

He was relaxed here, more than she'd ever noticed at Skyhold. He was always careful when discussing his templar training with her—aware than their rejection of her still burned when she thought too much on it—so he focused on the lake itself, and the memories it held for him.

His brother's coin was warm and smooth on her ungloved palm, Andraste's serene face swimming into view as she raised it to her eye. "Humor me," he said gently, closing her fingers around it. "You face far greater dangers than I."

The water lapped against their boots through holes in the wood. With a smile, Amelia tucked the coin into her belt pouch and pulled off his gloves, entwining their fingers. "I'll keep it safe," she said, pulling him close. His breathing was deep and steady as they looked at one another and slowly leaned into the kiss they both began.

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Bern and Andrin hanging out, probably teasing each other about their respective bfs tbh

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When i’m bored, I doodle inquisitors. idk why andrin is so fun to modern au but they really are fun to modern au, even if i never give them consistent mods

The song on Eloni’s is here

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Even andrin has lazy days when they just shlub it up

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Writing Inktober

And the last! I’m happy I was able to finish this :D But now it’s back to work on my other WIPs. Many thanks to @spymastery for the writing prompts.

31: Final

Bern died in a Fereldan farmhouse, two mabari on his feet, and his children at his side. Dorian had died two years prior, and Bern had never quite been the same—quieter, melancholy. He contracted pneumonia in the winter, and though his daughter, Theo, was an accomplished spirit healer, she knew this infection would be his last.

She had a spell keeping the worst of the coughing away. Her brother, Julian, sat across from her, stone-faced, his eyes red-rimmed.

Bern coughed and struggled for breath, reaching for his children's hands. Theo renewed her spell, pushing the coughing back, and her father smiled. "Take care of the dogs, won't you?" he asked.

They nodded. Tears began to spill down Julian's cheeks.

"I love you. Panahadan…"

His eyes closed and his body relaxed. As they held his hands, they felt his grip slacken. Theo's spell winked out.

The dogs shifted, snuffling at their owner's face, then whimpered and began to howl.

The funeral was held in Val Royeaux, presided over by a small, wizened Josephine Montilyet—the last of the Inquisition's advisors. Hundreds of people gathered to bid the Inquisitor goodbye.

Theo and Julian held each other close. Despite being well into their adulthood, they were now no longer anyone's children.

+++

Eloni died on the road, surrounded by her followers. To greater Thedas, she had died long ago, so her funeral was short and small. They buried her with the flowers that adorned the tattoos on her shoulders and planted a tree over the grave, chanting old rites to Falon'Din for safe passage through the Beyond.

That night, her apprentice dreamed of her. She was standing among trees so tall and thick that they might have been older than the world. She looked younger than the apprentice had ever known her, and a woman with dark skin and darker hair stood at her side.

A white wolf approached the two woman, its body glowing and shifting in a way that made it look not quite real. Eloni and the wolf contemplated each other for a long time, until the wolf bowed low, its tail between its legs.

Eloni smiled then, and patted its white head. She turned and looked at her apprentice, flashing a wide grin before she and the woman began to glow, brighter and brighter and brighter still—until they both vanished and the apprentice awoke.

+++

Amelia died in Kirkwall, in her estate, her daughter and husband at her side. She had been injured in a fight with a particularly powerful blood mage who had been kidnapping noble children for sacrifice. The wounds had not seemed so grievous until they began to rot the flesh from her bones. But the mage was dead and her daughter was safe. Amelia faced her death with a contemplative air.

Cullen was frantic, finding every healer he could in the city, but none knew how to handle this level of blood poisoning. Eventually, Amelia bade him to stop. "Cullen, I fought to protect our daughter and those children like her. I could never regret that. If the Maker has chosen now to call me to His side, I will not fight Him."

Susanna, fifteen years old and a trouble-maker, had become pensive and silent during her mother's illness. She sat endlessly at her mother's side, squeezing her hand at times so tightly it was as if she hoped to hold her to this realm by force.

The infection wore on and Amelia's fever worsened, throwing her into dreams. At times she spoke to her family. Others, she spoke to those who were not present. Often, she talked to Andraste.

Her last words were to Susanna. "Be strong. Be brave. Have faith. I love you."

Thedas mourned the too-young death of its hero, but none mourned so deeply as her family.

+++

Andrin died wearing the name of Andi, at a small tavern in Rivain. Bull had died some years before, killed while fighting a dragon. Andrin had never quite been able to deny that it was Bull's ideal death. It kept a lot of the sadness at bay.

The title of Inquisitor had been left behind years and years prior. Thick, shining red hair had whitened and thinned, now kept in a long braid, wrapped around their head like a crown. Hazel-green eyes had clouded and greyed almost as much as their hair. Peachy-firm skin had sagged and wrinkled and blotched, but Andrin still insisted on cosmetics, even with the shaking of their hands.

"Andi" kept a page, a young woman named Sybil, who mainly read them documents and carried their things. She was there, reading a book, and waiting to be asked to fetch food or drink from the tavern below.

Andrin didn't know what they were sick with. Their limbs shook so much that it was now impossible to walk unassisted, and food now tasted mostly like sand, unless it was strongly seasoned. (It was in part why they had come Rivain.)

Talking now was difficult—tongue and lips no longer quite moving to their will. It was as if their body was becoming a prison. Perhaps it was time to break out.

They opened their eyes and Cole was there, unaged, still wearing his odd helmet-hat. "You want to escape," he said softly. "I can help."

Andrin chuckled, and Sybil looked at them. "Help?" they breathed, forcing their lips to make the word.

"Help," Cole confirmed, and smiled. "I can help. I will help. The Bull asked me."

"Mm," Andrin said skeptically. "Dead."

"He asked me before. 'If Boss needs you to do something, you do it.' I'll do it."

"Ser Andi? Do you need anything?" Sybil asked, setting aside her book and walking over to rest a hand on Andrin's forehead.

"Ti...red…" Andrin whispered, closing their eyes.

"I know," Sybil and Cole said at the same time.

"I can help," Cole said.

Whatever Cole did, there wasn't any pain. One moment, Andrin was there, trapped and tired, and the next, they were free.    

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Writing Inktober

Fell behind because I spent the weekend on a trip, but I’ve caught back up and finished!

27: Cage

The Anchor was a beacon in the Beyond, drawing spirits and demons that normally would not approach Eloni in her dreams. She had never been a large target for demons before—she wasn't quite powerful enough to serve as a worthy vessel. (In truth, she was powerful enough to hide her aura well.) But nothing could smother the Anchor.

She woke in a cage. In front of her, Hanin was on her knees, hands bound behind her back. Her dark eyes were wide and frantic as they stared at Eloni. Her normally bouncy black curls were limp, damp with sweat. "Vhenan," she gasped as their eyes met. Her voice was a hurried whisper. "Vhenan, please, help me. They're going to kill me."

Eloni was already moving, pressing herself against the front of the cage, rattling the iron bars. They stank of rust. "Who's going to kill you?" she hissed. She tried to call upon fire, to melt the metal against her palms, but her magic didn't come.

Hanin looked over her shoulder and back. "Hurry, please!"

"I'm trying!" But her magic remained just out of reach, teasing her with its distance. "Fucking thing!" She yanked hard on the bars.

Suddenly, fire flashed against her hands and, for a moment, Eloni was elated, glad to be able to melt the metal.

Until the screaming began. Eloni watched in horror as Hanin's body was consumed, her bounds breaking and her hands covering her face as she turned to the smoking, skeletal forms Eloni had seen in the Temple's ruins.

As Eloni threw herself against the bars to get to her wife, the corpse shifted, drawing its hands down, revealing an eyeless, toothsome face. "Give into your despair," it whispered. "Give me your pain and your longing. Give me yourself. What use are you now?"

Eloni breathed, taking in the stench of the metal and… nothing else. She didn't answer the corpse, focusing on her memories. How had she gotten there? Where was this cage? As she focused, the fog began to lift, and her magic returned to her hands.

"You will not take me, demon," she said, rising to her feet. With a wave of her hand, the cage collapsed to dust. "And you will be punished for desecrating her face."

28: Power

The first time Andrin entered the war room as the Herald of Andraste, they didn't know what to expect. Would they be giving an opinion, one vote of four? A rubber stamp of approval? Or even just an observer?

Instead, they found the humans deferring, asking them, an ex-Carta smuggler with no leadership experience, genuinely what should be done. The power was… overwhelming in its headiness, but also in its pressure. Should things go sour, it was now their fault.

Andrin had always been a cog in a machine. A dagger in the dark. A spy in the bedroom. They didn't know what to do with actual responsibility.

But that didn't mean they weren't going to fake it to their utmost ability.

"We received this letter from a Fereldan nobleman, a Lord Kildarn," Josephine explained, showing Andrin the vellum. This Kildarn was requesting that the Inquisition drive out some refugees attempting to settle on his lands. "Lord Kildarn is a pariah even among the Fereldan banns," she continued. "I recommend a polite refusal, especially considering how he seems to think that elves and mages cannot also be refugees in these difficult times." Her lips pinched.

"Why not court his favor even so?" Leliana suggested. "We have few allies in the Fereldan court. I could send some agents to relocate the refugees."

Josephine raised an eyebrow. "You are personal friends with the King, Leliana," she said.

With a lilting laugh, Leliana turned over one of her raven-shaped map pieces. "The King is not his court, Josie. Alistair himself is often harangued by them."

Cullen coughed. "We could send some patrols, but honestly, I'd rather they help the refugees, not the puffed-up bann in his manor."

And they looked to Andrin, who met Leliana's gaze. "It's probably better for the refugees to not be on his land anyway, given his attitude toward them," they said. "And we're not in a position to turn away any possible allies, unpleasant assholes or not."

Leliana chuckled. "Glad you and I see eye to eye on this," she said.

Andrin raised an eyebrow. "Sister Nightingale, I do hope you weren't joking about my height just then."

She smiled. "Never, Your Worship." She set her map piece down on the Hinterlands. "Now, this next letter is from the Teyrn of Highever…"  

29: Invitation

Cullen'd had a long day. By the time he got back to his office, he was nursing a terrible headache, sniffling from the cold mountain air, and was stiff-jointed from standing and walking for hours around the fortress.

He sat heavily behind his desk, groaning as he took a moment to cross his arms and lay his head down. Something poked into his ear. He almost cried as he sat back up and grabbed the little card. A joke from Leliana perhaps—a "love token" from one of his "Orlesian suiters"? He shuddered and opened it.

In dark, messy scrawl it said:

Cullen-

When you can, I would like to see you.

- Amelia

His heart sank. Was the dream coming to an end?

He got to his feet. Better to face it than hide from it. His boots thunked heavily on the stairs as he climbed the Inquisitor's tower. When he knocked on the door, Amelia's voice echoed out, bidding him to enter.

But when he got into the room, instead of finding mournful and serious, she was smiling, sitting behind a small table, a spread of food laid across it, and a bottle of wine sitting in a bucket of ice in the center. "Sit," she said, gesturing to the seat opposite her. "Cassandra told me you were exhausted, and I had time, so I had Josephine help me arrange a proper private dinner." Her eyes sparkled. "Feel free to take off your coat and armor and such. I expect to keep you for the rest of the evening."

Maker, but Cullen loved this woman. He slung his coat over the back of the couch and quickly unbuckled his armor, setting it across the cushions. Then finally, he sat with her. She poured him and herself a glass of wine, and raised the glass in a toast. "To taking a much-deserved break," she said.

"To you, Inquisitor."

As he went to clink his glass, she pulled it back, raising an eyebrow.

He laughed. "Sorry. To you, Amelia."

They had a lovely meal and a warm, enjoyable evening.

30: Secret

After Bianca locked up the mines, she split off from the Inquisition's group, making her own way home. She and Varric didn't speak.

Andrin looked between her retreating back and Varric's melancholy expression in the light of the campfire and decided to say nothing. They did offer Varric some whiskey from their flask however, which was taken with a grateful half-smile.

When they arrived back in Skyhold and Andrin had gone to the usual debriefing meeting with their advisors, they found Varric brooding again, his desk covered in half-crumpled papers. They poured some whiskey into the empty mug on the desk and placed it in Varric's hands. He laughed. "I don't know if you're trying to make me feel better or just get me drunk."

"It can be both," Andrin said with a grin. "But if you wanna actually talk about it, I have time."

Varric considered them for a moment, then knocked back the mug. "Sure," he said. "Why not? Let's take a walk, Inquisitor."

They climbed up onto the battlements, where the wind was cool and crisp, and the din of people in the entrance hall faded to silence. "She was right," Varric said, his eyes on a distant wisp of cloud. "I don't deal with things, least of all things with her."

"What's the history there?" Andrin asked.

Varric shrugged. "We met while we both lived in Kirkwall. I was looking for a smith; she's the best damn smith the world has to offer. We hit it off. Her family is Kalnas, so…"

"Well, shit," Andrin said, pulling a face. "Smith caste, I'm guessing. What's Tethras?"

"You don't know the story?" Varric seemed genuinely shocked.

"Nope. My family's been surfacers for years. We don't keep up with the drama unless it affects us directly. Or it's really juicy."

"Then you've heard about the guy fixing Provings, 'bout forty-five years ago?"

Andrin's eyes widened. "Oh shit, that was Tethras?! Even my mother heard about that."

"Yep. Whole family had to pack up and escape to the surface. We ended up in Kirkwall, where I was born."

Andrin offered the flask, which Varric took with a smile. "So," Andrin began, after Varric gave it back, "why does the Merchant Guild want you and Bianca not to meet exactly?"

"Well, her family picked out a nice Smith caste boy and… Well, long story short, there was almost a clan war. My brother was not thrilled. So now we're not supposed to be within 3000 leagues of each other."

Andrin whistled. "That's a long ways. Is she worth it?"

Varric sighed and leaned against the wall, looking out over the people milling around Skyhold. "Sometimes I wonder," he said quietly. "Sometimes I wonder."

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Writing Inktober

23: Wishes

Bern

His wishes are simple. A modest house with a garden. A mabari or two. Frequent visits with his parents. A world at peace. He is not unrealistic. He knows the world will never truly be at peace, but he also knows that to give up on that wish is to give in to despair. So he works toward his modest dreams, and keeps hope in his heart.

Eloni

She wishes for many things. For love lost to be returned. For past mistakes to be erased. For a better future to be written. She knows many of her wishes cannot come true, but the last… The last she will make it so.

Amelia

She has always wished for recognition, for acceptance, for love. For much of her childhood, it was denied her. By her adolescence, she had resigned herself to being a pitiful, ignored and unwelcome presence in her family's life. She had gone to the Conclave to make a difference, in some small way.

Instead, she found all that she'd been hoping for, and more. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

Andrin

Food in their belly. Fine clothes on their back. A life of adventure, supported by hidden riches. Exciting sex. And most recently, a disarmingly intelligent, charming partner in crime, with solid, strong horns and a wicked smile. A person who looks at Andrin and sees them, not what they can do for him.

But they don't have to wish for that last one any longer; it's well within their grasp.

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Writing Inktober

I stayed up too late writing this! I’m using @spymastery‘s writing prompts.

cw for misgendering (Andrin is nb but only out to Bull) 

18: Waiting

As the tails of Andrin's coat vanish through the silvery surface of the mirror, it abruptly goes black.

Bull stands in front of it, hand still raised to guide himself through. It falls against the surface, hitting solid glass. His mind whirls. His heartbeat picks up and echoes in his ears.

He turns to Vivienne. "Ma'am, can you get this open?" he asks, the calm of a commander in the heat of battle pressing into his chest, squeezing his heart tight but keeping his voice steady.

Her lips twist, her grip tightening on her staff. She is battleworn and sweaty, her boots muddy. "Perhaps," she says, not one to sell herself short on skill. "But not before we… run out of time."

The mark crackles as light races over Andrin's neck and face. "Get back!!" they yell, and Bull ignores them, pushing forward to hold them tightly.

Before he can touch them, the explosion knocks him back and he has to dig his axe hilt into the ground to keep his feet.

Andrin looks at him, and for the first time, Bull sees naked fear in their eyes.

It's Varric who touches him first, a gentle hand on Bull's forearm. He's smacked away on instinct, and Bull breathes. Blood rushes through his body and he marks its passage, counting the hummingbird flaps of his heartbeat. He breathes.

"Iron Bull, dear, you should sit," Vivienne says.

He doesn't. He grounds his axe, steadies his hands, and breathes. He watches the black mirror.

"Bull, if I don't come back—"

"Don't you dare. You're coming back, Kadan, even if I have to kill every single person and monster beyond that mirror to do it."

Their smile is brittle, but grateful. "I love you, Bull."

His heart tightens in his chest, holding back an emotion he cannot name, for fear of falling apart. "I love you, too, Kadan."

The three of them stand in silence for a long time. It's Varric who speaks first. "If he doesn't come back—"

"He will," Bull cuts in, gritting his teeth before resuming his silent counting.

"—in ten minutes, let me finish please—I'm going to go back for help. Maybe the kid can help get this open?"

Vivienne scoffs. "You would entrust something this important to the demon?" she asks.

"I don't see you offering any bright ideas of your own, Iron Lady."    

Bull lets their bickering fade into the background. He breathes and doesn't think. If he thinks, he worries what will happen. He can feel anger and hurt coursing through him with every throb of his heart, every inch of blood that passes his ears. If he lets it go, he doesn't know what will happen. He pictures Vivienne and Varric's corpses, a bloodlust of grief unsated by their deaths. He pictures annihilation, and breathes.

"Okay, I'm going back to the Palace," Varric says. "At the very least, we should let Ruffles kno—" His voice stutters to a halt and Bull has already dropped his axe to kneel before the open mirror, guiding a half-collapsed Andrin through before it closes again.

Andrin is pale and shaking, their arm a snarl of crackling magic, but they're alive. Their hair is loose from its bun, falling in limp strings over their face and neck. "It hurts," they whimper, and Bull feels a new emotion filling his throat. "Bull… Bull, i-it hurts." Fat tears leak from green eyes. "Katoh, Bull. Katoh. I can't…"

Bull scoops them into their arms, curling them to his chest. He sees Vivienne approach, wielding a vial. "Drink, Inquisitor. It will help," she says.

They drink and for a moment, there's no change, but soon they collapse against Bull, dead weight. He takes a deep breath, staring at Vivienne with an anger that threatens to overcome his barriers.

"A sleeping draught," she explains. "His arm is… returning to the Fade it seems. Better for him not to feel it."

Bull nods and touches his lips to Andrin's forehead. "Let's get him back," he says in a rough voice. It hurts coming out. "We've waited long enough."