#anyway enjoy the ruh roh chapter

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan has a lot on her plate.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,522. Rating: most audiences. Warnings: discussion of war and death.)

Chapter 29: Ostwick's Calling

It was a wonder how anyone worked in the rookery.

Located at the top of the rotunda, one had to face an excessive amount of stairs to reach it—only then to be greeted with a balcony view of the terrifyingly long drop back to the bottom.

Rumour had it that the Inquisitor had once leapt from this balcony with no means of stopping the fall, yet landed upon the ground with nary a scratch. The claim was dubious. And likely the invention of Varric Tethras.

Height, however, was perhaps not the worst aspect of the rookery—for in this regard, its residents were certainly competitive. The Inquisition’s birds, kept suspended from the ceiling in iron cages, cawed and crowed as much as they pleased. In other words: near-constantly.

Birdsong was not something Trevelyan had heard too much of, in the Circle. But Maker, right now, she did not feel as though she’d missed much. Then again, if she’d become used to the endless cacophany of the Undercroft, then she supposed one could get used to this. The scout she spoke to seemingly had, given his entirely untroubled demeanour as they conducted their business.

“You’ll know as soon as anything changes,” he said, handing Trevelyan a report on the Dales. Agents had been sent to scour the area chosen for the red lyrium experiment, just in case—fortunately, it seemed quite at peace. For now.

“Thank you,” Trevelyan said, adding the document to her collection. “And do you have the location of the clan I asked about?”

“Which was that, sorry?”

She concealed her irritation. “Clan Sumara.”

“Right! Right. I remember now. Your mage friend, eh?”

He referred to, of course, the lie she’d told to get her information. Well, she couldn’t simply out with it that an Orlesian noblewoman was elf-blooded and planning to run away from home. So, instead, Trevelyan had concocted a story in which a friend of hers from the Circle, who’d been taken from the clan as a child, was said to have returned to it after the rebellion. Quite natural, she thought, to wish to seek out one’s friend.

The scout had apparently agreed, though he was limited in his capacity to help: “Sumara was last seen in the Free Marches,” he explained. “Can’t be more specific than that, I’m afraid. They don’t give out locations so easily these days, with what’s been happening in Wycome.”

Trevelyan sighed a little too noticeably, for he followed this with:

“’Spose you could ask about it. Who do you report to? Commander, Ambassador, or Sister Nightingale?”

A curious question, for Trevelyan had never fully considered the answer. Though Dagna seemed to report to the Spymaster—the Sister Nightingale of which he spoke—Trevelyan had barely spoken two words to the woman.

“Ambassador,” she told the scout, unsure even as she said it.

“Ask her about it,” he suggested, “she’ll be able to give her approval.”

Ah, good. Another bloody permission slip.

“Thank you,” Trevelyan said regardless.

“Don’t mean to fob you off.”

“I quite understand”—Trevelyan indicated the thick pile of documents she already carted about—“I’m rather used to protocol, at this point.”

The scout gave a sympathetic nod, and thus, their dealings were concluded. With the cawing beginning to grate, Trevelyan bade him farewell, and made for the stairs. She would not be trying the Inquisitor’s method of departure.

But she stopped. For as she turned to leave, she saw nearby another visitor to the rookery: the Baroness Touledy.

The Baroness had made herself untypically small, standing off to one side, where she would be in no one’s way. One hand rested upon her cane, gripping the handle til her knuckles paled. The other held a note—small enough to have been carried by bird—which she read with a face of stone.

Trevelyan intended not to disturb her (she hardly had time for such diversions even if she wished to), but her gaze must have lingered upon the Baroness for a moment too long. As if feeling the stare, the Baroness looked up.

“Lady Trevelyan,” she greeted, her countenance relaxing.

Trevelyan approached. “Baroness Touledy.”

“How are you? I did not see you all of yesterday, nor this morning—you were not even at dinner last night.”

Trevelyan thought back to the previous night. No, she hadn’t been at dinner. But she’d eaten. Had she eaten? Yes, she’d eaten.

“I have been busy, with the Undercroft,” said Trevelyan, in the understatement of the Age. Between the Undercroft, and Samient, and Sudton, and Ostwick, Trevelyan had not had a single waking moment of peace. Nor a sleeping one, for that matter.

“I quite understand. You are here receiving a message?”

“A report,” Trevelyan told her, “which I should be getting to the Arcanist as soon as possible, so—”

“Val Misrenne is under attack.”

Trevelyan quieted at once. She stared at the Baroness, whose face remained stoic. Desperate for information, her eyes fell, instead, to the note in her palm. Touledy clutched it so tight, it could have crumbled to dust.

Trevelyan stammered, “What—what do you mean?”

The Baroness tipped her head towards the stair. “May I walk with you, to the Undercroft?”

It was hardly a request Trevelyan could deny—and so, she nodded. The Baroness fell alongside, and together, they began the winding descent into the library.

“You recall the bandits I spoke of at the banquet?” she muttered, beneath sounds of whispering scholars and shuffling papers.

Trevelyan nodded. Well-organised, defeated in a skirmish—that’s what she’d said.

“They were not bandits,” Touledy confessed. “They were Red Templars.”

A raw feeling, akin to the sting of a cold dagger, pierced Trevelyan’s chest. The subsequent stumble in her steps she managed to hide, but her gasp she could not:

“What?”

“They struck little more than a month ago,” Touledy explained. “My guard was able to fend them off, but… not without loss. I was unsure of travelling so soon afterward, but we believed, foolishly, that would be the end of it. But after I arrived here, they returned.”

Those urgent letters for the Baroness. Trevelyan had been curious of their contents at the time. She could well imagine what they said now.

“Much of my guard still recovers. Yet the Templars’ encampment, I am told, holds a force large enough to destroy Val Misrenne even if they were standing. I have attempted to entreat my fellow nobility to assist us, but the bulk of their troops remain in the Exalted Plains. The banquet was my last opportunity to muster support. Even so, I do not believe I have enough.”

Trevelyan shook her head—disbelief or denial, she did not know which compelled it. “But—what of the Inquisition? Could they not help?”

The question was spoken as if it had not been considered long ago.

“I confess, I thought I would find enough aid elsewhere,” Touledy mused, as they entered the Great Hall. “My own pride prevented me from seeking the Inquisition’s.”

Light poured in through the stained glass, and scattered prismatic patterns across the floor. Touledy swept her hand through, and splintered the rays.

“Though I do not perceive them as an extension of the Chantry, the Chantry does. They would take it as an invitation to return.”

Principled to the last. It required one with such strong conviction to oust the Chantry in the first place. The weak-willed do not provoke the ire of the Divine.

“Besides,” Touledy added, “that time has passed.”

And so they returned to the message the Baroness had been reading in the rookery. The dagger in Trevelyan’s chest twisted, as she repeated its contents:

“Val Misrenne is under attack.”

“Yes,” Touledy confirmed. “I received word of movement the day after the banquet. It is why I wished to speak to you. But, as of this morning... the siege is begun. Red Templars have surrounded Val Misrenne; they raise farms, and accost travellers. They intend to starve us out.”

She stopped a few paces from the door to the Undercroft, just out of earshot of the guards. Trevelyan faced her, expectant of some fear in her expression, or even sadness. But, most painfully, she was perfectly tranquil.

“What will you do?”

“We will hold as long as we can,” Touledy told her, “and I will keep trying. But… it may come to pass that I return home. I cannot let Val Misrenne fall without me.”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened; her head shook. “But if you do that, you’ll be—”

“I know. But at least I will see my home one last time.”

A single tear rolled down the Baroness’ perfect cheek. It was the first time Trevelyan had seen her cry. And, as it pained Trevelyan to think, it would be the last.

“I am sorry to tell all of this to you,” Touledy said, holding out a hand. Trevelyan took it and gripped it tight, unclear as to whose reassurance this gesture was for. “But I wished you to know, should the worst happen. And I wanted to say farewell—”

Trevelyan bit back her own tears. This, this couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. Had the lack of sleep finally come to haunt her?

“No—”

“You have been a delightful friend to me, Lady Trevelyan. I am glad to have met you.”

“Please, don’t…” There had to be something they could do.

“I wish you a happy life—and that this mysterious journey you prepare for, whatever its purpose, is successful.”

Trevelyan winced. She looked to the door of the Undercroft, for she could not look at the Baroness—not whilst knowing what slept beyond. Potential salvation, lying dormant. Waiting upon pieces of vellum to be passed around, and for tests to prove what they already knew.

Why couldn’t it have been ready earlier? How many would die before it was?

The feeling of the Baroness’ loosening fingers beckoned Trevelyan’s attention back to the woman before her. Trevelyan attempted to hold fast, but the Baroness retreated.

“I will let you return to your work,” she said.

“No, please…”

But she was already stepping away. “Thank you, Lady Trevelyan,” she said, “and farewell.”

She did not wait for Trevelyan to say it back. She knew Trevelyan had not the strength to. Instead, with her usual confidence and poise, the Baroness Touledy strode away.

Trevelyan watched her to the very last moment, until she slipped through a door, and was truly gone. The world expanded in that instant, and the presence of the Great Hall around her was felt for the first time since she had entered it.

People went about their daily tasks, some milling, some hurrying. The clank of a jug somewhere, the sound of laughter elsewhere. That was the cruelty of life. No matter who suffered, no matter how many—the world kept moving, same as the day before, and every day before that, and every day after.

Trevelyan turned and withdrew, beyond the door of the Undercroft. It muffled the noise, and provided her a moment of quiet, and dark, and reflection. She wiped the tears from her face, and gave a half-hearted effort to pat her apron dry. Her papers she saw into order; her skirts, smoothed. With a deep breath, she straightened her back, and made the descent.

Like the world above, this one below slowed for no body. Air, thick with the heat of the forge and the fumes of potioncraft, filled Trevelyan’s lungs. The sounds of labour and the shouts of many likewise flooded her ears.

In this maelstrom of people, she sought out Dagna. She was not as hard to find as one might expect—for in this place, all chaos sprung forth from her fountain. Like bees swarming the queen, people circled and left her station with the rhythm of a droning hum.

Trevelyan joined their number, and awaited her turn.

“There you are!” Dagna said, upon spotting her. “What did the scouts say?”

“The area is clear, for now,” Trevelyan replied, a shaky hand producing the report she’d been given. “They’re monitoring it. And, the, um, horsemaster says he has the horses ready. The quartermaster said they’ll pack the cart tomorrow.”

Dagna grinned. “Sounds like we’re nearly there! Come with me—we’ve been busy, too!”

She was off before Trevelyan could say another word. There was little else to do but follow.

She led Trevelyan to a chest, one that Trevelyan recognised. They had, mere days ago, escorted this chest to Skyhold’s deepest depths. And, as a result of their success, they had returned it empty.

Yet it was empty no more. As Dagna lifted the lid, a soft blue glow lit her face. A new device, better than the last, lay within. Its metal was smoother than its predecessor, shinier. Lambent runes, familiar in appearance, were carved into its surface. All their work had led to this.

And yet, it was pointless.

“Why must we do this test?” Trevelyan murmured.

“Huh?”

She looked to Dagna, firm in her gaze and voice. “If the device is ready, and we know it works—why can we not test it in the field?” She scoffed. “I am certain we could find a group of Red Templars deserving of it.”

There was a glint in Dagna’s eye at the suggestion. “I wish! But this is the way we have to do it.”

No. Trevelyan did not like this way. This way took too much time. Time she—they—did not have. Speaking with such urgency, she asked:

“Why? Why must we wait? This—this device could save lives. So many will die whilst we wait for ink to dry on forms of approval and pointless reports!”

“I understand,” Dagna spoke softly, one eye glancing to the growing glow of the runes, “but if we do this wrong, and it’s not safe to use, we’ll only put more lives in danger. It’s a hard bargain, but… it’s one we have to make, if we want to make any difference at all.”

Trevelyan shook her head, voice trembling: “It’s not fair.”

For what difference would they make now? There wasn’t enough time to make any difference. All of this would happen and there was nothing that could change it.

Dagna reached for her arm. In what was almost a whisper, she asked, “Are you okay?”

Trevelyan grimaced. Of course not! Of course she wasn’t! How could she be? Lady Samient needed escape. The Baroness faced her death. Their device was useless to those it was created for. And every moment she had spent in this Void-forsaken fortress was worthless, for at the end of it, no matter what she did, she would return home to the loathing and resentment of her parents regardless!

Trevelyan bit her lip, determined not to cry once more. She needed time. There wasn’t enough time.

Not for the Baroness.

Not for Samient.

Not for her.

“Do you want to maybe step out, for a minute?” asked Dagna.

Trevelyan straightened, and wiped her eyes. “No,” she said. No time, even for that. “I need to get back to work.”

[goatpaste]

hows the new jojoland chapter

lol thank you

buT fun as perusal, enjoying it as we go. the way Usagi got infected is about what i was expecting. Ruh roh.. he got the virus

Charming man's stand name is a bit clunky and awkward to say easily, but I guess a man named like that its fitting lol

anyways

was just looking for an excuse to draw that new tiny stand, chapters/stand reminding me of the lovers arc <3

[bonesandthebees]

*shoves aside all the other fic updates i need to read* GLASS IS HERE

i am in fact incredibly busy but i digress

I AM SO EXCITED

*casually scrolls past all the warnings*

i like to be blinded though i have been informed of death from our lovely other anon friends! i am so excited!!!

SMOKE RAHHH

i like that he said “the pythias room” as in like he is no longer the pythia he is leaving that behind for that room is not his and he is not the pythia anymore i think that was a nice touch

filigree is a nice word j like it

DARK VS LIGHT IMAGERY AHHHHH just yk light is supposed to be purity, goodness, etc so when what people have perceived as that becomes shrouded in darkness it highlights either the shift in the people, narrator, or the actual place of lights from the good to the bad or evil in a sense and it just says a lot about wilbur i think bc he didnt think the castle was pure persay but it wasnt horrible in his eyes but now that hes back after gaining clarity (which i have thoughts about regarding other symbolism and junk but i wont bore you) it is now dark like it has never been

WOW WILBUR ISNF A FIGHTER???? sorry something came over me

i dont think he wants to be rescued by you hottie

A GUN

NO BABY BROTHER

i love when wilbur uses his power of the title for himself rather than for that “im not a person” stuff and like serving others and whatnot yk?

anyways hes wilbur but also for like a few lines hes the pythia like right after the guard says your grace

anywhoooo

FRICK A PRIEST GO AWAY

vessel this vessel that why dont you go pray or something like dont you have more important things to do?

frick. the fricken tattoo

hes trying to be a person you literally a**

.

okay

HES NOT THE FIRST

a syringe

with bright yellow liquid

intriguing

and not good i would assume

as she should.

she dreamt of death so the curse interesting im interested

im questioning the tenets

“the connection” my god this priest

poor tomathy

HEY IT LOOKS GREAT (i think)

niki! jack!

wow look at them talk politely to each other!!!

THE MARBLE

OH FRICK THE POOL

JACK WTF

niki. let him get his brother.

tommy.

wilbur wheres the wffing vial thing at idk what it does but now or never

THERE IT IS

hes back! my boy!!! my baby!!!

darn schlatt what a shame.

the pythia cant change the future! who would have guessed! not i!

isnt that literally crazy????

i cant believe i got that one

okay!!!! slah wilbur! way to go king!

ranboo was never a snitch hes a real one

anyways bee this was incredible i loved this chapter all three of the big scenes were awesome and yeah this was super exciting i loved it i love this fic i cant believe its almost over anyways k got hot girl things to do!!

- 🪿

very fun to go in blind especially for a chapter like this

YEAHHH pythia's room not his room. it was never really his room.

god yeah you get the dark vs light imagery I was going for. the palace is so light and bright all the time with white and gold walls and plenty of windows and all of that so for it to suddenly be turned dark by the ash and smoke in the air... it's only dark now that he's back and seeing things as they really are for the first time...

it is fun to see the rare occasions where wilbur can use the pythia title for himself as a way to grab power. he's not great at it but he does try it sometimes in these little moments of trying to take advantage of the shitty position he's been put in

yes yes lots of fun switching between wilbur and pythia this chapter

he's not the first to try and leave :)) I was so excited to finally get to share that little snippet of pythia history I know you guys have been asking

jack and niki... ruh roh

I mean to be FAIR it's not confirmed 100% that the pythia can't change the future there's just. zero evidence that they actually can.

aaaa so glad you enjoyed!!

[insomnia-productions]

The final chapter of my damien + kid fic! Aaaahhh!

Chapter Title: i am all the things they might have said to you

Excerpt:

Sometimes he wakes up early and stands in the living room and looks around at the blankets on the couch and the mugs on the table and the color pencil drawings taped to the walls and thinks this is real. this is real. this is real.