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serstolas · 20 days ago

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Thursday Bangers 6/12

Rules: Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

I was tagged by the lovely @woundedsoul12

This week's lyrics are from one of my favorite songs:

And I'd give up forever to touch you , 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow, You're the closest to Heaven that I'll ever be , And I don't wanna go home right now ~ Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls

gently tagging @thatgaymerguyb, @jukkaricity, and @chaosherald

Here's a bit of modern magic AU Rookanis (also on AO3)

Demon possession wasn’t something that happened often in modern day Thedas. There’d been a number of advances in the study of magic and the Fade to help reduce the number of mages who became possessed.

That made Lucanis’s situation all the more difficult, especially because he wasn’t even a mage.

He’d been assigned to a major contract protecting a client. He knew someone had sold him out, because when he’d gotten to the jobsite, no client awaited him. Instead he’d been completely outnumbered and had been kidnapped, dragged to some secret offshore prison run by the secret society and cult known as the Venatori.

He’d spent a year in that void, tortured and experimented on, and somehow forcibly merged with a spirit. They’d seen the horror of other people used like a butterfly’s cocoon for a demon, the person tortured until they split like a wilted sack and a demon emerged.

His will and the will of the spirit possessing him were too strong, though, and somehow they’d made their own deal to work to get free of the prison.

Freedom had come in the form of a stranger, Rook, looking to recover an artifact that was said to have the power to rip open the Veil itself. They’d come to the Antivan Crows, a very old and well known private security firm, seeking him because they needed someone skilled at fighting and killing dangerous mages. His grandmother in turn had sent them here to rescue him, and in return he would work with them on a contract.

The team Rook had put together had faced so many challenges in their search for the artifact, including members of the Venatori cult and a militant group known as the Antaam that were in the employ of the ancient elven mages.

While he and Spite had managed to come to a sort of understanding, he knew how the world viewed abominations. He knew how his own grandmother and many he’d worked with for years at the Crows viewed him because of Spite.

But when Rook looked at him, he never saw disgust, horror, or fear in their eyes. They looked at him with a gaze full of trust and respect, of admiration for all he and Spite had survived.

It made him want so deeply he was almost afraid of it. He craved Rook’s company and their touch.

In a world that saw him as damned and during a time when they didn’t know what the next day would hold, he was grateful they saw him as something other than a monster. He wanted to know and be known by them.

He began walking up the beach, the sound of a seal barking coming somewhere further along the way, near the rocky outcroppings he’d seen harbor seals gathered around in the past. He left a trail of footprints in the sand as he continued in that direction, still absently listening to the sound of the seal barking.

Aside from locating ancient powerful artifacts, he’d learned during his time with Rook that they loved coffee, mythology, and the ocean. They were particularly fascinated by seals, which seemed almost ironic given that Rook was an absolutely terrible swimmer.

Lucanis and Spite could remember one night that they’d been particularly restless and roaming the halls of the Lighthouse complex that their team currently called home. Rook had found them walking towards the dining hall for coffee and seemed to pick up on their restlessness instantly.

They’d suggested a walk along the beach and had brought him to a particular patch of beach where they told him seals often gathered to sleep and rest from their travels and hunting in the ocean. He wasn’t far from that spot right now, actually.

He’d ended up spending hours sitting on a large rock with them, watching the seals. There’d been something peaceful about it that even soothed Spite’s chaotic nature.

As the sun sank lower and everything settled into a purple haze, he thought he saw a seal pulling itself up onto the beach a few hundred meters from where he stood. The seal was, in fact, very close to the same rock that he and Rook had sat on that night on the beach. Unsure what drove him forward, he continued walking, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he got closer to the lone seal.

He reached the rock that he’d sat on with Rook and began to climb, wondering what had brought this lone seal up onto the beach during a time when many harbor seals in the area were hunting.

As he sat on the rock, he saw the seal appear to lift their head in his direction, then, to his shock, they began to lumber their way up the beach towards him. He watched the harbor seal, mystified, as they moved towards him until they were no more than five or six meters away. Then the seal began to shift and twist. He started to rise, but Spite told him to wait. Instead of being alarmed, the demon was intrigued.

The seal skin split suddenly, revealing Rook, naked as the day they were born. Their dark blue eyes danced as they smiled at him. A sealskin hung over one arm.

“Hello Lucanis,” they said softly.

“Rook?” he asked as he found himself leaping off the rock and jogging over to them. “What, how?”

“You know how much I love an old myth or fairytale,” they chuckled.

His eyes grew wide and he stared at them in awe. “You’re a selkie?”

“I am,” they replied, inclining their head. “It’s not a secret I share with many. But I wanted you to see me, to know me, all of me.”

“Rook..” his voice was thick with emotion. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around them, and they embraced him, their seal skin shifting until it was pressed between them, warm even through his clothing.

“I care a great deal for you, Lucanis, you and Spite,” they told him.

“I, we, care for you too, Rook,” Lucanis replied. He realized as he stared into their eyes that they already knew him. They saw and accepted everything about him. “And you, Rook, are such a wonder. My beautiful Selkie.”

“Does that make you my crow, or my demon?” they laughed softly. They leaned up and brushed their lips lightly against his own.

He shifted his arms around them. “As long as I am yours, that is all I care about,” he said against their lips before deepening the kiss. As he did, he felt Spite’s wings erupt from his back and encompass both him and Rook. They were fully revealed to each other, and going forward, they would stand together.

#thursday bangers #rookankis #modern magic au #lucanis x rook #lucanis dellamorte #spite dellamorte #selkies

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mythals-whore · 2 months ago

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For the artifacts of Thedas asks "A letter with a broken seal; the wax is stamped with a familiar symbol"

Hellooo thank you for the ask ((:

Prompts come from HERE.

26. A letter with a broken seal; the wax is stamped with a familiar symbol

(divider from THIS post)

Davrin finds Cyri in the kitchen when he returns home, Assan in tow. He tries not to grimace, but she must catch the expression on his face because she grins.

"It's from the cart down the street. I picked it up on my way home." Davrin sags with relief and she rolls her eyes, "It was not that bad."

Davrin sets his shield by the door and slides his scabbard onto the counter before sidling up next to her.

"Cyri?" He presses a kiss to her cheek and then to her mouth when she turns to receive it.

She frowns suspiciously, "What?"

"I love you," he murmurs against her lips before kissing her a second time, longer—savoring the smile that graces her mouth before he says, "It was that bad."

Not only was the pasta overcooked—Davrin didn't even know it could look like that—but Cyri, who had trained with daggers since she was eleven, very nearly managed to slice her own finger off.

She scowls, but doesn't deny it.

Davrin kisses her cheek once more, squeezing her waist briefly before he pulls away, chuckling. He's no real culinary talent either, his few attempts have been less disastrous. One meal was at least half-way decent. He's determined to improve if only that means Cyri would stop trying.

He doesn't know why the letter catches his interest as he passes on his way to their bedroom, maybe it's the elegant letting and the official looking seal, but he slows on his way past her desk.

"Is this the Archon's seal?" Davrin asks, already reaching for the open letter. The seal is broken and he's certainly never seen the Archon's personal seal before, but the Tevinter insignia is unmistakable—the dancing dragon is all over the city.

Cyri throws a distracted glance over her shoulder, "Came earlier today."

Davrin takes this as a confirmation, but still feels compelled to confirm, "From Maevaris?"

She hums in the affirmative, and his eyes flit across the page.

Cyrilla Helvetia Mercar,

—Davrin makes a note to remember that name for later.

I am formally requesting you to join my personal guard, if you'll take no other position. You would be an asset to my staff. It's true that your record speaks for itself, but beyond that, it would mean so much for the people to see someone who cares by my side. Someone they trust.

I know you already told Ashur you would say no if I asked, but I am asking. Trust is hard to come by in the Magisterium, the Archon's palace in particular.

Take all the time you need.

All of this accompanied by Maevaris's signature.

Davrin reads the letter. Reads it again.

One corner of his mouth quirks, "You're going to be part of the Archon's personal guard?"

"No," Cyri says with a roll of her eyes.

He frowns up at where she's stuffing noodles into her mouth, "What do you mean, 'no'?"

She gives him an incredulous look, "I've already told her I'm going to say no."

Cyri's fork scrapes against the porcelain dish she'd transferred their meals to. Maybe it's the sound of it that makes the words so difficult to fathom. Davrin shakes his head, hoping to clear it.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to." She takes another rather large bite, and then gestures to what is apparently his own bowl, waiting across from hers. "It's going to get cold."

He hesitates a moment before joining her, letter still in hand. Davrin retrieves his fork and arches and eyebrow at her.

"You gonna make me ask again?"

She scowls at him.

"I just—" Cyri sighs heavily into her noodles. "It's a big deal—"

"It is." he agrees vehemently, and she rolls her eyes.

"It's so official. I don't really know how to do that anymore." She sags a little more against the counter, frowning into her bowl and Davrin knows he's getting to the truth of it. "I haven't been properly employed since I was enlisted. I don't really know how to do rules anymore."

Davrin can't help his slow grin, "I'm sure you'll make your own." she opens her mouth to protest and he blatantly ignores the attempt. "she asked you, Cyri." He sets two fingers on the letter and slides it between them. "She trusts you."

On a brief re-examination of the words on the page, his eyes snag on something specific.

"What other position did she offer you?"

Cyri chews, swallows, and starts winding more noodles around the tines of her fork before admitting, "She asked if I'd be one of her advisors."

She looks at him like she thinks he's particularly slow on the uptake, "You think I have the temperament for politics? I'd rather kill them all and be done with it."

Davrin shoots her a flat look that she doesn't see because she is very pointedly not meeting his eyes.

"If that's true, you would have done it already." He tells her, though she already knows it.

It's a funny thing about Cyri, one that can be as frustrating as it is endearing. She's an idealist, at heart. But she hates to admit it because she hates the disappointment that comes with it. She'd rather convince herself everything is going to shit and be pleasantly surprised when it doesn't.

Davrin lets his fork clatter to the side of the dish. Cyri's eyes flick up uncertainly as he rounds the counter, "Cyri." She scowls as he takes her face between his hands, "I think this is a good idea."

She rolls her eyes, "I'll consider it."

"No one cares about Minrathous more than you." he goes on anyway. "And maybe it's not the worst thing for some of those magisters to meet your right hook."

That draws a smile out of her, and she bats his hands away turning back to her meal. "I've already said I'd consider it, didn't I?"

Davrin smiles at her profile a moment longer before retrieving his bowl. They eat in companionable silence for a moment before another thought occurs to him.

"You won't have to wear some ridiculous uniform, will you?"

She gives him a pained expression that says she hadn't even considered that possibility.

Cyri groans, "And just like that, I've changed my mind again."

#artifact asks #I could have made this longer #and I did NOT #because it already broke 1000 and that felt like a lot #but anywho #thank you for the ask #I hope this was satisfactory #twas fun to write (:#davrilla #my writing

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gingervitus · 2 months ago

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Crushed or Minced: a Rookanis Post-Canon Drabble

Here is part one of my contribution to @thedissonantverses Writing Challenge Weekend prompt which you can find here.

I watched this tiktok and have been thinking a lot of Ella and Lucanis post-canon lately. So here's what I did (Davrook with Rook talking about another one of her worst jobs coming soon. This was just done first.)

I rolled yellow, rustle, and bottle to start but added a couple other words as well.

The very best part of a job going off without a hitch has always been the celebration. As Rook. As Ella. As a no name orphan from Rivain. It doesn’t matter, never has. Success is meant to be enjoyed in some way or another, so when she receives word from Isabela that the raid on an abandoned castle deep in Nevarra went off without a hitch, she has no choice but to indulge in a bottle of particularly expensive whiskey.

A part of her misses her days with the Lords. Traversing far off lands. Delving into dungeons. Unraveling twisted tales of nobles. Returning artifacts to their rightful places. Following the endless chase for gold and glory. However, as she sips her whiskey, leaning against an open doorway that overlooks Rialto Bay, she can’t say she misses the constant movement and frequent danger that came along with that lifestyle. Semi-retirement seems to suit her just fine.

Consulting from time to time with the various guilds within Thedas is enough these days. Mostly, she corresponds with the Lords through Isabela or Taash, looking to map out a dungeon expedition or strategize weaseling their way into a noble’s inner circle. She has received a request here and there from the Crows. Mostly from Teia and the occasional very begrudging Viago looking to map out a complex infiltration and requiring a second set of eyes. The Threads or Shadow Dragons periodically will write to her to get her thoughts on leads they’ve received through unnamed sources. A Grey Warden (or two… or three) often wants to pick her brain with regard to mapping out a siege of an abandoned village filled with lingering Darkspawn.

She smiles against the rim of her glass, knowing full well this is more than enough for her at this point in her life. A taste of the adventure she’s known for so much of her life will suffice now. Comfort and peace have been waiting in the wings for her for many years, and she is finally able to reap their rewards.

Inside the house, there is a quiet rustle, much like paper crinkling and tearing. “This is a bulb of garlic.” The voice is deep and gentle and familiar, causing her smile to grow and her heart to skip a beat. She glances over her shoulder to find Lucanis standing at the kitchen island, rolling a whole bulb of garlic with the ball of his hand to loosen the cloves. A chubby hand reaches out to grab a flake of discarded skin quicker than he is able to stop his movements. “Ah, ah, que asco!” Before the papery skin can be deposited into a mouth glistening with drool, he catches a tiny wrist. “That is not good to eat, mi cielo.”

Pale blue eyes stare up at him, curious and maybe a bit perturbed at his scolding. Rook watches the pair intently with a set of eyes to match the smaller pair watching Lucanis carefully move the garlic skin out of reach. The baby sits comfortably against his forearm and rests at his hip, adorned in a light yellow cotton dress to give some comfort in the summer haze that has begun to set over Treviso. “This is what we look for,” he continues as he plucks three cloves now loose from the bulb to place on the large cutting board before them. Small neck craning to look up at him, a headful of black curls tosses around as the child shifts against him. “Bellara may tell you mincing is preferable, but we know better.”

Moments go by every now and then where she feels like she’s peering in on an intimate moment she isn’t meant to see. Watching a father and daughter quietly prepare a meal together falls into that category until it quickly dawns on her that, despite everything, she’s supposed to see this. Watching her own family interact is something that she should witness. That he would want her to be seeing. Observing a one-sided conversation that they both worked to create.

“Crushing the garlic allows for more flavor to be released,” he explains while grabbing the handle of a large kitchen knife, resting the blade atop the clove. “Which is exactly what we are looking for.” The palm of his hand lines up and then comes down onto the side of the knife with a thud, an act Rook herself has experienced many times before… much like the mincing versus crushing argument between Lucanis and Bellara. Before she is able to make a comment about the longstanding disagreement between friends, a raucous giggle cuts through the room. Their daughter vibrates with laughter beside him, eyes trained on the knife. He stares back down at her with one brow raised. “Really?”

Resetting with a single hand takes him longer than Rook recalls him prepping to cook. Many times, she would find herself with piles of missives in front of her while she sat at the edge of the table in the dining hall. The rhythmic thud of the knife was therapeutic while she attempted to make her way as a leader against blighted gods. Over and over as he sliced through peppers, onions, mushrooms, whatever they had been able to get their hands on, she wouldn’t even notice when it ceased. Not until a piping hot cup of tea and a plateful of food materialized in front of her at least.

His hand hovers over the knife that now sits upon another clove of garlic. The palm slaps the broad side of the blade once more, though he doesn’t remove his gaze from the baby. Amusement shines bright in the umber of his eyes as another fit of laughter bubbles from the baby’s belly. “Why?” he chuckles. It is less of a question than it is a flabbergasted response. The newly crushed garlic is moved to the far side of the cutting board before placing the last clove onto the surface.

This time, he moves with haste, hand grasping the handle of the knife and then slamming his hand onto the blade. When the child dissolves into a fit of giggles this time around, he joins her, unable to allow her to enjoy the odd humor alone any longer. The corners of his eyes crease with the broad grin that has spread across his lips. Their laughter fills the air all the way to the ceiling and rings out through the open door that Rook watches them from. “You are ridiculous, tontita,” he laughs.

Ridiculous she may be, but he watches the little girl with an adoration he shares with very few. With a joy that many people never thought possible from him.

And Rook, while still observing them silently from the back door, is thrilled to share in such unbridled glee.

I've been laughing about that baby laughing at garlic crushing for the last couple of hours tbh.

#writing #drabble #rookanis #lucanis x rook #lucanis dellamorte #rook laidir #named rook #datv #datv fic #writing challenge #oc: eleanora “rook” laidir

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jazzmckay · 4 months ago

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happy thedasweekend jazzzzz uwu okay, so! i propose: inky anders au, anders/fenris, and the artifacts of thedas prompt of: Templar armor, marked by lightning. hope it's fun! 💖

let me tell you, man, i went through like 4 versions of this in my head before settling on one. there are so many options!! and even this could easily be just one scene within a larger work. damnit! 😂 i love inky anders sm, ty

2.2k for @thedasweekend

The village of Haven is alight with singing, dancing, and laughter. Bonfires chase away the southern chill, the glow adding further warmth to the festivities and merriment. Anders stands on the incline towards the chantry with Cassandra at his side, surveying it all with a dual sense of disbelief and hope; perhaps the longer he watches the freed mages revelling in their victory, the easier it will be to internalize that they made it. They’re alive, they’re free, and that cannot be taken away from them anymore.

Then, the moment shatters.

Clanging splits through the night, drowning out all else. The signal bells. While icy dread creeps up Anders’ spine, the ringing reverberates in his ears. Between one moment and the next, the village of Haven turns from celebration to mayhem and panic, the soldiers and mages taking arms while civilians flee from an unknown threat.

Anders gazes up at the mountain ranges to the north-east with wide eyes, his staff already in hand. Little spots of light from carried torches are all that stand out against darkness and endless snow, but the beat of marching forces drawing nearer is unmistakeable.

It couldn’t be so easy, of course. The Breach is closed, but the fight isn’t over.

Cassandra, her sword unsheathed, is already flying down the steps towards the lakeside gates of Haven. Anders hurries after her, passing through the whirlwind of everyone rushing in all directions, the cries of fear lifting into the night air. Justice simmers beneath the surface of his mind, on edge, preparing to defend.

They find the trio of advisors by the gate, Cassandra seeking more information while Anders tries to make out any distinctive features of the force descending the mountain pass in the distance.

From beyond the gate, he hears a scuffle; several pairs of boots in the snow, the clash of metal, a yell—

Something slams into the doors hard enough to rattle it on its great hinges. Blue light flashes beneath it. Another bang, then silence.

“We can’t come in unless you open!” a voice calls from the other side.

Anders has no clue what to make of it, but he rushes towards the doors all the same; whatever is going on, they need answers. The soldier on guard obligingly pushes the gate open for him, allowing him to dart through.

Bodies lie on the blood-splattered snow, each of them donning a suit of templar armour. In the middle of them stands yet another templar, their thick cuirass emblazoned with the flaming sword and their helm obscuring all personal features, forming one of the faceless, impenetrable jailors that Anders has spent most of his life running from.

Rage flaring through his veins, Anders swings his staff around and slams it into the ground, sending a strike of lightning upon the templar. Even here, he thinks with a blend of irritation, resignation, and despair, he is not free from being hunted. A Seeker may believe he was sent by Andraste, but that doesn’t mean the rest agree with her.

The templar grunts as the lightning crackles across the heavy armour, spreading paralyzing sparks. Satisfaction soothes Anders’ nerves when the templar’s grip on their greatsword goes slack and they stagger, one knee slamming into the disturbed snow.

“Wait!” that same voice from before cries.

Anders startles at the appearance of another from behind the templar, revealed as the bulky armour no longer blocks him from view. This one is no templar—he’s in patchwork linens and leathers, his deathly-pale face almost entirely obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.

“Explain yourself!” Anders orders as he brandishes his staff again, ready to bring more lightning down if he must. No templar will get the better of him again.

“My name is Cole,” the slighter figure says. He steps forward, hands raised and palms out in surrender.

The templar drops the sword into the snow, then lifts their hands to their helmet.

Anders bares his teeth, his grip tightening on his staff. He isn’t sure which of them to focus on; the threat of a templar is obvious, while the other—Cole—is too much of an unknown, leaving both Anders and Justice wary.

“We came to warn you. There are people trying to kill you. You probably already know that,” Cole continues.

“We?” Anders repeats.

The templar wrenches the helmet off, tossing it away, and Anders goes stock still, eyes widening.

Stark white hair grown longer than when Anders last saw it, now swept back into a braid revealing a trio of lyrium dots against dark skin that used to be obscured by bangs. Familiar green eyes meet Anders’ for the first time since that calamitous night in Kirkwall. Eyes that glared at him with fury, derision, and hurt.

Fenris looks at him with less reproach now, but no gentleness has replaced it; his gaze is flat, guarded. Anders can only stare at him, stunned, unsure.

Cole strides forward again, saying something about the Elder One and the templars. The Commander appears at Anders’ side, making Anders bristle, finally rousing him from watching Fenris in disbelief.

While Cole and Cullen speak, Anders takes a tentative step forward, returning his attention to Fenris. He looks down at the blazing sword upon Fenris’ chest, a new surge of anger coursing through him. “You became a templar?” he asks. “After everything, after… you…”

He clutches his staff, torn between guilt for unknowingly striking Fenris and wanting to strike him again for this new betrayal.

“No,” Fenris says, speaking for the first time. The sound of his deep voice makes Anders’ chest twist. “The armour was only a means to an end. It was how Cole and I escaped.”

“Escaped?” Anders echoes, his tone becoming embarrassingly shrill.

“We don’t have time to discuss it,” Fenris says. He grasps his sword again—and now that Anders takes the time to focus on it, he recognizes it as a Sword of Mercy—using it to push himself back onto his feet. He stumbles even with the crutch, still shaking off the lightning.

Despite himself, Anders darts forward to catch him, one hand still holding his staff while the other goes around Fenris’ waist.

Fenris exhales softly, like relief. He wraps an arm around Anders’ back. “I was coming to find you,” he says, barely above a whisper, like he’s sharing a secret.

Anders’ breath catches in his throat.

After Kirkwall, Anders thought the only way he’d ever see Fenris again would be as the warrior’s prey, just like the templars, like Vael. What he and Fenris used to have, the peace they’d managed to carve out for themselves—Anders understood that his actions shattered it just as thoroughly as he brought the Kirkwall chantry to ruin. Anders had expected it, had tried to prepare himself for it, but that hadn’t dulled the pain in the slightest when the inevitable came to pass.

He’d shown Fenris a different side to mages, and then—

But Fenris’ tone does not suggest that he was coming to kill Anders. Quite the opposite. There’s an aching regret in his voice that Anders never dared to hope for.

Anders wants to be angry—part of him still is angry—but it has been four years, the last couple months have changed everything, and he just misses Fenris so incredibly much. If Fenris heard about the Conclave and took up the opportunity to finally close the distance he put between them… that’s enough for Anders to clutch him a little tighter, even with the terrible templar armour stuck between them.

Neither of them gets the chance to say anything else. The Elder One’s army is upon them. Corypheus’ army. The blighted magister that should already be dead.

As they all hurry back through the gates into the village, Fenris straightens up, able to move under his own power, but he doesn’t pull away from Anders’ side.

“Sorry about the lightning,” Anders says.

Expression grim, Fenris says, “I understand.”

“Can you still fight?”

Now, Fenris scoffs as if offended. “You know me better than that.”

A small smile forms on Anders’ face. He does know Fenris’ abilities well. The two of them are matched in resilience. The kind of resilience born of always looking over one’s shoulder, needing to be ready to fight for freedom at any moment.

The group of people Anders has been travelling with since first being named the Herald of Andraste are waiting for them.

Anders glances at Fenris, then at the others. “Solas and Sera, with us. The rest of you, protect the villagers.”

They spread out, Anders leading his team to the north trebuchet. The templars are on them almost instantly, breaching the walls and storming towards them. With a sickened lurch in Anders’ stomach, he notices that unlike Fenris’ pristine armour, these templars are corrupted, infected: growths of red lyrium spike through the plates, emerging from the flesh beneath. Some of them glow an ominous red, like a sharp counterpoint to Justice’s pure blue aura.

Fenris contrasts them as well, his familiar ethereal tone feeling right when Anders catches sight of him phasing through the battlefield, cutting down templars with deadly efficiency. Fighting alongside each other again brings Anders a sense of home, even as the differences around them remain jarring.

Together with Solas and Sera, they cut through the onslaught, then proceed to the south trebuchet, preparing it for launch when there’s a second to breathe. Their efforts are rewarded when they bury a swath of the templars in an avalanche.

But their victory is short-lived when the night is split with the deafening roar of a dragon, its wingbeats growing louder as it emerges from the mountains, bearing down on them. Corypheus didn’t have a dragon last time.

There’s nothing to do but retreat.

As they hurry through the village, helping the stragglers along the way, Fenris remains close to Anders, the two of them naturally guarding each other’s flanks. For brief moments through the fight, Anders can feel like nothing ever broke between them.

When they make it into the relative safety of the chantry and convene with the Commander and Cole, it quickly becomes clear that the only way for everyone to escape through the passage Roderick reveals to them is with a miracle or a very significant distraction.

Anders’ eyes go unseeing as he processes, still breathing hard from the fight. He knows what must be done.

It is the right thing to do, Justice agrees.

Anders would have liked to do more before his end, but that he’s still standing after Kirkwall is already more than he bargained for. That he got to offer the mage rebellion safety and support is already more than he dreamed of back when the most he could grasp at was a catalyst for change.

And the Calling is upon him. His time is limited, whether it comes now or in a month. Better to die under the open skies than suffocated within the Deep Roads.

“If Corypheus is here for me, I’ll make him fight for it,” Anders says.

Cullen narrows his eyes at Anders, ever suspicious even after Anders has dutifully played the role of Herald just like the advisors want. “And when the mountain falls? What about you?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’ll mourn me,” Anders snaps.

“Anders.” Fenris grasps Anders’ arm, drawing his attention away from the Commander. With Fenris, it’s clear he does care what happens to Anders. His brow is pinched, his lips pressed into a firm line.

Anders forces a smile. “I’ve survived worse odds.”

The words only make Fenris’ expression tighten further, a flicker of pain in his eyes. “Then I will go with you.”

Anders’ chest clenches. “Fenris…”

“I will not abandon you a second time.”

Emotion lodges in Anders’ throat; the back of his eyes prickle. One phrase, spoken with Fenris’ strong, unyielding determination, and Anders is ready to crumple into his arms, to melt into him and forget all the time they spent apart, the hurt and grief washed away.

Unable to hold back, Anders leans into Fenris, dipping his head down as he reaches to cup the back of Fenris’ head with his free hand. His fingers slide over the soft strands of Fenris’ braided hair as they meet, Fenris pressing just as close to share their first kiss since the Kirkwall chantry fell.

Anders doesn’t care about their audience. He doesn’t care that they hardly have time to spare. He doesn’t care that they might both die in the coming minutes. He wants to commit the feeling of Fenris’ lips against his own to memory, for as long as that memory may last.

Still, they must break apart before long, but when they do so, Anders feels bolstered and full of fire. “Let’s go see if we can kill that bastard. Again,” he says.

Fenris smirks, eagerness crossing his features.

They turn for the great doors of the chantry together. Solas and Sera wordlessly fall back into step with them, warming Anders’ chest further.

The odds are bleak, but as Anders pushes through the doors into the snowy night and their last stand, he dares to believe they’ll make it through this one alive.

#dragon age #anders #fenris #fenders #inquisitor anders #my fic #thedasweekend

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thedasweekend · 5 months ago

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Prompts!

In order to avoid a mass-reblogging spree, and for future ease of access, this will be a growing masterpost of prompts. However, they will be queued and will slowly be added onto this blog over time.

Please feel free to send an ask to this blog with your own prompt list(s) if you would like to see them included!

DA-tober 2021

Kiss Challenge

Aug-Kissed Prompts

Veiltober

Swordtember 2024

Swordtember 2022

KissArtFebruary

Inktober Alternatives 2024 (masterpost) 2023 2022 2021 2020

Definitelynot-tober!

Blorbovember

Abisalli's Emotion Challenge

Halloween costume

OC Optics

OC Art Memes

Fankid Meme

Six Characters Challenge

Bondage Challenge

Kiss Template

DAI Hairstyles

Hawke Hairstyles

Hero of Ferelden Hairstyles

Inquisitor Art Meme!

Draw Your Mutuals' Rooks

Couple Meme

Draw Your OTP

Pose/Expression Meme

Dragon Age: The Veilguard Palette Challenge

Color Palette Challenge

Rare/Unusual Words

Heavy Content

DAVG Pantomime Prompts

Prompts - Emotions

Prompts - Reactions

Prompts - Associations

Meme/Prompt Masterpost - movies; romantic; dramatic; action; location; misc.; ooc

As Said By... (DAO) Alistair Therein Zevran Arainai

(DA2) Fenris Isabela Merrill Varric Tethras

(DAI) Blackwall Cassandra Pentaghast Dorian Pavus Iron Bull Josephine Montilyet Sera Solas Vivienne

(DAV) Davrin Emmrich Volkarin Lucanis Dellamorte

Dragon Age: The Veilguard Prompts pt.1

Dragon Age: The Veilguard Prompts pt.2

Inquisition Party Banter

Artifacts of Thedas

Artifacts of Thedas - Veilguard Edition

Rook Story Time Prompts

Rook Codex Writing Prompts

DAI OC Codex Prompts

Kiss & Tell

Alternate Universes

Hugs

"I have dreamed of you"

Drabble Prompts

Showing Comfort

Flowers and Prompts

Prompts for my Favorite Tropes

The Stranger (a collection of lyric prompts based on Billy Joel's 1977 album The Stranger)

Making Demands

Panic Attacks in Paradise

A Taste of Heavenly Light (Florence + The Machine lyric prompts)

Melt Into Me

Unreal Unearth (Hozier)

Cult Classics

The Dragon's Hoarde

Prompts for People Who Aren't Used to Kindness

Fluff Prompt List

50 Types of Kisses

20 Sleeping Prompts

Cuddle and Snuggle Prompts

What Are You Hiding From Me Prompts

Prompts for Patching Up Wounds

Circe - Madeline Miller Sentence Starters

Spirited Away Sentence Starters

Dragon Age Character Bingo

Chaos Gremlin Prompts

Tumblr Text Posts Pt.1

Tumblr Text Posts Pt.2

A Series of Unfortunate Events Prompts

Howl's Moving Castle Prompts

Hunger Games Inspired Prompts

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lottiesnotebook · 5 months ago

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hello hello lottie! happy thedasweekend! wow, emmrich/bellara fascinates me :o maybe with the dragon age lore prompt of: The Lost City of Barindur. A city lost to time or disaster. seems fitting for these two scholars uwu

Thank you so much for the prompt, and happy Thedas Weekend! I haven't actually written these two before, but this prompt absolutely is Them to me now, I hope the dynamic makes sense!

Emmrich Volkarin/Bellara Lutare, pining, angst, age difference

@broodsys | @thedasweekend

the lost city of barindur

The Kingdom of Barindur fell silent. In distant Minrathous, the priests of Razikale dreamed of dark omens. Their oracles declared that a dire fate had befallen King Carinatus. Finally, the fearful High King of Minrathous sent a company of soldiers to Barindur. The men reported that the road which led across the northern plains ended abruptly. They walked for leagues over barren, empty rock where the Kingdom of Barindur had once been. All of it swept from the face of the world by the hand of a god. Not a single stone of Barindur remains, and nothing of the once-powerful city has ever been found. A secret now, that can never be told.

“I know the records have probably been distorted over time, but they connect it to defying the will of the gods, and now we know the connection between the Evanuris and the Tevene pantheon…”

In the candlelight, Bellara’s face glows with enthusiasm, with curiosity, with the vivid, impossible light of youth and discovery. Were he a younger man, Emmrich would capture this moment in a sketch or a poem, preserve forever in amber the beauty of knowledge, of academic discovery. She would be Curiosity embodied, or Insight, perhaps, but neither word truly captures her lively, glittering intelligence, sparking like the artifacts she so treasures.

Were he a younger man, he might dare to allow his fingers to linger on hers as he passes her a quill or a book, or to brush the spilled-ink river of her hair back from her shoulder where it has escaped her bun. There are many things he might dare, if he were a younger man.

“It’s an intriguing theory - certainly more useful to our purposes than my own,” he says, because while he cannot agree with her, he also cannot crush the bright-sparking brilliance in her dark eyes. “I always assumed it was an allegory, which is far duller.”

She wrinkles her nose, head tilted like a curious bird’s, or like a wisp lured close by the promise of fascination. He wishes, selfishly, he had the power to fascinate her, that he had the right to wish for such things.

“I guess that makes sense,” she allows, “The priesthood would have a lot to gain from discouraging defying the gods, right?”

“They would,” he agrees, “but I always thought it was a little more than that - the priests of Dumat were historians and record-keepers, and the only record we now have of Barindur is this one.”

Her eyes light up again. “Oh, I see! ‘Respect the gods, or the only thing history will record of you is that you were erased from it.’” Her face falls a little as she puts the words together. “That was kind of their biggest trick for all their enemies, now I think about it.”

“The erasure of a people’s history is one of the cruellest acts any conquering empire performs,” he agrees, “but it’s why your work with the Nadas Dirthalen is so vital, Bellara. You stand at the precipice of restoring all the knowledge that was stolen from your people all those centuries ago.”

He envies that almost as much as he admires it. He longs to be young again, to stand on such a precipice, to have all the discoveries of the world still laid out before him. He longs to be the man who could meet this lovely, brilliant girl as an equal, as a fellow student of the world, rather than a middle-aged professor of dust and bones and ancient parchment.

Her lips purse to one side, torn between nervousness and trying not to laugh. “No pressure then,” she jokes, and if he were the man he was- or a better man than he’d been then, one worthy of her - he might lean in and kiss the folded flowerbud of her mouth, feel her gasp against his lips, let her quick, clever fingers write her theories on his skin rather than her paper.

But this is not that time, and he is not that man. He is old, while she is young and lovely. He can be a mentor and a friend, but never a lover. They are teacher and student, but what they might have been… That is a place he can never go, a place that never was, a place erased from time by the careless historians who placed their births so far apart. They are the Lost City of Barindur, a warning for careless travellers, for those who would defy the gods. They can never be anything more.

#dragon age #dragon age veilguard #emmrich volkarin #bellara lutare #emmrich x bellara #fic

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areyoutheredemons · 4 months ago

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Happy Thedas Weekend! Could I suggest Theriel in the Artifact palette? I think he'd come out really cute...

OH this one suits him so well 👏💜 thank you for the prompt!

#thedasweekend #DAI #inquisitor #Lavellan #OC #i am here demons: my art

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shivunin · 2 months ago

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Writing Prompt Lists

For organizational purposes, these are the writing/art prompt lists I have written:

Artifacts of Thedas: 40 items/sights one might see in Thedas

Artifacts of Thedas (Veilguard Edition): 40 more item prompts, themed after Veilguard

Rook Codex Writing Prompts: 30 codex ideas for Rook

List of AUs: List of 21 general AUs and 5 Dragon Age-specific AUs

Gestures of Affection: 30 gestures to indicate affection (mix of platonic/romantic)

#writing prompts #i was trying to track one of these down and it took forever so here is a list of lists #i want to make another codex one at some point #i love codex entry fic #or maybe an epistolary prompt list BUT that is harder #dixeram

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theluckywizard · 11 days ago

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hey, happy thedasweekend! may i prompt: rose/cullen + "Unforeseen need to remove clothes" from the sultry prompt list + "Party favor from an alienage wedding" from the artifacts of thedas list? :D

Hiiii thank you for the prompt. I hope you'll forgive me that I could not for the life of me think of a reason for these two to have a party favor from an alienage wedding in the era that I'm writing them, but I did manage to write a ridiculous little noodle incident! For @thedasweekend (oh my god I have genuinely thought it was Saturday all day sldkjfsdf) Pairing: Rose Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford

WC: 945 No CWs

Prompt fill below the cut👇

The five of us gather to formulate a plan for the rift by the river. Cullen explains that the position of the rift may make it difficult or impossible to close— and I’d already felt the size of it humming in my palm. I scan the rough map for possibilities. “How about the top of the waterfall? Could Solas and Dorian and I attack from there? I might have an easier time reaching it.” “It might work but we haven’t scouted it yet,” says Cullen. “I can put a couple soldiers on the task and get the information before noon. It’s not far.” “I’ll go.” “Not by yourself you’re not,” he says. Too quickly. “Dorian will come with me.” Cullen presses his lips together, a no sealed just behind them. “I need to know if I can reach,” I argue. “And Dorian can heal me if need be.” His stern look hardens further. I wish it didn’t look so bloody good on him. In my periphery, Dorian raises a single baffled eyebrow. “I’ll meet you there,” Cullen says. I lift my chin and flash a pleasant smile, singing my response. “Perfect.” I pluck Cullen’s map from his desk over his warnings that there’s only the one copy and stride out. Dorian jogs up beside me. “About that healing bit—” “Not you too,” I say. “The spirits needed for healing spells are… well, how can I put this delicately? They can smell my distaste for them.” “Then I’ll just have to stay out of trouble.”

oOo “Hide in those bushes!” shouts Dorian, gesturing behind him to the bank. “I’m not dying in a bloody bush!” I holler back. I claw my way up the river, tripping over rocks, blisteringly cold projectiles screaming past my cheek. Cullen’s map is in soggy tatters, crushed between my bow and my fist. A direct hit from whatever that demon is could kill me. The fact that I can’t seem to stay upright might be the only thing keeping me alive now that Dorian’s barrier has flickered out. A frenzied string of Tevene reels through the air behind me. Something hits my upper arm, sharp like the snap of a switch and then a numb sensation spreads from the center, ringed by scorching pain. Something between a howl and a curse leaves me as I trip over a log jam. “Keep running!” Dorian, somewhere behind me. I throw myself up over the logs and settle back against it in a shallow pool of frigid water, dragging in a few ragged, rattled breaths. “Herald?” Cullen’s voice over the sputter and hiss of the river. He’s just come round the bend a dozen yards upstream, gaping at me. An earsplitting shriek behind me precedes a frozen missile hurtling toward him, prompting Cullen to flatten himself atop the bilberry and sedges of the bank. “Cullen,” I croak, glancing at my right arm to see my jacket sleeve stiff and frost covered all the way into the shoulder. He picks himself up and plows ahead, shield piercing in the midday sun, sprinting down the river bank, batting away projectiles until he ducks behind the same log jamb beside me, gasping. “Of all the demons to provoke,” he mutters as he scans me. “Maker, your arm.” “Who needs two?” I grit out. Cullen looks nonplussed. “Sit up, I need to get your jacket off.” A fierce blush belies the authority in his voice. I fumble with the fastenings with my left hand, curl up while Cullen works it off my shoulders. In just a soggy chemise beneath a stay, I glance down at my arm, white and graying to my shoulder, a rim bright with blood all around it. Cullen digs at his hip and raises a healing draught to my lips. “This won’t do much, I have to get you to a proper healer,” he says, glancing up over the logs at the nonsense downstream. Dorian’s colorful taunts at least let us know he’s alive and well. “I won’t ask. Not right now.” Woozy from the pain, I grunt out an answer. “Better you didn’t. I have my hide to think of.” He curls both hands around my bare upper arm, trying to force warmth back into it while the healing draught works. In trying to avoid my gaze, my half-dressed state, Cullen stares at the wilted remains of his map floating in the pool beside me. “Is that—” I raise my guilty eyes to his, met with utter amusement behind a thin veneer of disapproval. “You’re not allowed to yell at me if I lose my arm.” Downstream, a triumphant cry rises above the rush of the river. “You’re not going to lose your arm,” he says, failing the battle against his smile. “Then I’ll brace myself for a tirade.” “Now you’re just trying to make me laugh,” he says, hoisting me to my feet. “It won’t work.”

A cursory look down kicks a curse past my lips: my breasts are askew inside my stay, nipples declaring themselves through my clinging chemise. I catch his startled, wide-eyed look and cover myself, dripping, shivering, blushing miserably. “I— uh— forgive me.” He turns. “No need. They were a bit hard to miss.” He nearly laughs. Cullen fishes my jacket from between a pair of rocks and spreads it for me just as Dorian comes huffing up the riverbank. “Nobody warned me I’d need proper physical conditioning for this trip,” he complains. “Is that what I think it is on your arm?” “I don’t suppose you know any healing spells,” asks Cullen. “I lack the temperament,” he sighs. “Solas it is,” I sigh. “Let’s hurry you back.”

I actually threw away 3000 words of yapping and action I didn't need to write this new stuff and I'm so glad I did!

#cullen x trevelyan #cullenmance #cullen x inquisitor #cullen rutherford #rose trevelyan #in the shattering of things #dorian pavus #dragon age fan fiction #thedas weekend #dragon age inquisition

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chrismerle · 2 months ago

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WOOPS i forgot to send thedas weekend prompts earlier this week. anyway, hi, happy thedas weekend! how does "A statue of Andraste, blood spatter at its feet" from the artifacts of thedas list sound, for one of your inquisitors?

(the artifact list)

It's a small village, somewhere at the ass end of Ferelden. One of those villages that is mostly just a chantry, a few houses, a well, and a series of paths. Or it was, at least, until a rift opened above the well. The rift is closed now, but there's no one left. They've checked every house, and now the chantry.

There's not much in the building. A few benches. A rug along the aisle. A small altar, assembled from odds and ends the villagers likely supplied themselves. The statue of Andraste at the end of the aisle looks like it cost more than the entirety of the village, likely brought there from a larger village.

Most of the benches are broken. The rug is shredded and scattered with torn pages from a prayer book. The altar was clearly used to block the door at some point, before being smashed aside.

There's a body crumpled at Andraste's feet, still warm.

Ten minutes sooner, Owain thinks dully. If we'd been ten minutes sooner.

Someone is speaking from behind him, voices trading back and forth, but Owain's not listening as closely as he likely should be--

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Aneirin snaps his fingers two inches from Owain's nose.

"Did you hear me?"

"Sorry?" Owain peels his eyes away from the statue.

"We need to go," Aneirin repeats. "Cole's getting... uncomfortable."

"Eerie, we can't just--"

Aneirin cuts him off. "We can't clean up every disaster we pass by, Oh. The Maker will welcome them regardless of their resting place, and in the meantime, Cole's about to chew his arm off like a snared fennec."

Aneirin gives him a pat on the shoulder before turning away, heading back to the door.

Owain lingers a moment longer, staring at Andraste, and then down at his hand.

He is the Herald of Andraste. That's supposed to mean something. In the silence of the ruined chantry, though, the title rings hollow.

written for @thedasweekend. I like writing ambiance and scenery. it's very relaxing, even if Owain is not particularly relaxed by it.

#ask #griffongrey #thedas weekend #dragon age #fanfiction

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contreparry · 2 months ago

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Happy Friday! For DADWC: "Justice: Reflect on the argument Rook and their partner have in the lead-up to the final battle. What emotions are driving the conversation? How is the issue resolved?"

Oooo! I've wanted to write my third Rook for a while now, but I think this prompt is the perfect time to introduce him into my roster! Here's some Veil Jumper!Rook for @dadrunkwriting!

Adric didn't want it to be a fight, but he'd been fighting for so long he didn't know how to stop. He'd scraped by in his clan, lost among a dozen cousins and desperate for adventures of his choosing. Survival wasn't an adventure, and he yearned for something beyond that. He was hungry for adventure, for ancient tales that he could live, for something that was more meaningful and... and memorable than being a hunter in the woods. He wanted something more! He wanted to find people who understood his restlessness. Was that so wrong?

Investigating the mysteries of Arlathan with the Veil Jumpers felt like an improvement. It felt like the new start! And he was good at it. Not as educated and knowledgeable as Bellara, true, but Adric learned all of Arlathan's winding paths and knew how to handle himself. He led successful campaigns through the forest's lost ruins. He retrieved broken artifacts, he fought broken mechanical monstrosities created by the ancient elvhen, he uncovered the history of his people, the sweet and the bitter, and he was...

He was learning to stretch his wings right when things went wrong and he had to rebuild all over again. But Adric was good at rebuilding. He joined up with Varric and Harding to hunt down a god- to hunt down one of his gods- and it felt good. He liked the work, and it wasn't that different from what he was already doing. Delve into dangerous places, dig up information, share it with your crew and make a plan for how to make things less dangerous, and on to the next! And he was lucky. He was so lucky to have a smooth talker like Varric guiding his steps. He was so lucky to have someone as steady and gentle and fierce as Harding watching his back. And they had him as well: smart-mouthed, fiery, impulsive, but good with a bow and knives and eager to get out in the world and do something. They worked well together. They were lucky.

It didn't last, but Adric was good at rebuilding. He started again, even with blinding headaches and Solas lingering in the back of his head like an unwelcome conscious chiming in on his every thought and deed. He traveled through northern Thedas, saw places he never thought he would, met people who were so incredible that they felt like they were figures from tales brought to life. He... he learned that they weren't characters, but people, people who were complex and strange and wonderous. He learned to like them. Learned to...

Adric was eager for adventure for adventure's sake, but he had hoped, so dearly hoped, that he would find like-minded individuals who could understand him. But even with all of his hopes, he was completely and utterly unprepared for Davrin.

He was a Warden and a monster hunter, the sort of hero that starred in all of Adric's favorite tales, but he was real, with real virtues and flaws. He was quick to anger, harsh with everyone, and so morally rigid that Adric used to wonder if he even had a sense of humor- but then he learned more about Davrin and revised his first impressions. Davrin might be quick to anger, but he was also quick to forgive. He was harsh to others, but even harsher with himself. He was a hard-bitten realist and a starry-eyed idealist, the sort of person who knew the world was deeply unfair and fought with every bit of his being to make life a little fairer. He was upfront, that was all, and the world didn't often know what to do with people who spoke honestly and plainly. But most of all, Davrin... understood him.

Davrin understood the restlessness within Adric because he felt it too. The world was so very big, and there was so much to see and experience. And even though Davrin had seen so much already, he was happy to share in his adventures with Adric regardless. Adric, for his part, was just happy to have found a friend, even as the world was falling to pieces.

And when they fell into something more, Adric jumped right in. How could he not? All he ever wanted was to be understood, and here was Davrin with his deep dark eyes and slow smile and quiet laughter, and he saw him like no one ever had before. What Davrin saw in him, Adric couldn't begin to guess. He was afraid to ask, afraid to confirm his worst fears that he was merely a pleasant distraction from the very real threats that faced them. So he didn't ask. It was the first time in his life that he ever acted so cautiously. And he continued to do so, pushing away Davrin's queries with a shrug and a smile and a "oh I'm fine, just tired," because he was terrified to ask what Davrin wanted of him. He was terrified of the answer.

But questions and fears had a way of coming out at the worst times. Adric didn't want to fight. He was so sick of fighting. But he'd find the strength to fight now, because it... it mattered. It mattered immensely.

"Don't. Don't do any self-sacrificial bullshit tomorrow," Adric hissed. He took to pacing along the floor, walking past Davrin's workbench over and over again as he treaded across the worn floorboards. The room smelled like fresh wood shavings, fire, and dusty griffon feathers. Assan was sleeping in his round bed, but he lazily lifted his eyelids and watched Adric as he paced.

"You knew when you met me that self-sacrifice was a possibility," Davrin said, and why did he have to be so reasonable? "It's the way Wardens tend to go. And if you're lucky... if you're lucky you survive until your number's called up again."

"Then be lucky! Be lucky again!" Adric retorted, rage and petulance and a bone-aching sorrow crawling through him like poison. Davrin just had to be like a legendary hero of old, willing to sacrifice himself for others, forever willing to give and give and- and wasn't it enough? Hadn't they all given enough?

It would never be enough. The world was hungry for heroes, and it ate them up and spat out their bones. There was no guarantee that Davrin would survive the morrow. There was no guarantee any of them would survive! But if Adric could, he would grasp hold of all these disparate threads of fate and tangle them together, knot them so nothing could be undone. If it was within his power, he would save all of his friends and loved ones. If he could save Davrin, the man he loved, he'd pay any price. It wouldn't matter what Davrin thought of him. Nothing mattered, so long as he lived. If Adric could only guarantee the future, Davrin's future, then he wouldn't care what happened to him. So long as Davrin lived, he'd be content.

But what if they both lived? What then?

"What is this really about, Adric?" Davrin asked sternly, every bit the commanding Warden. He rose from his seat by the fire and stood before him, one hand braced on the surface of his carpentry workbench as he looked down at Adric.

"I already told you. Don't... don't do any self-sacrificing shit tomorrow," Adric replied, voice and limbs as stiff and dry as the wood on the bench. "Don't plan on dying."

"I'm not-" anger flashed through Davrin's eyes, and Adric was glad. A fight. He could use a fight. If they were fighting, he wouldn't drown in his fear of tomorrow. He could throw himself completely into the present, because no matter how tired he was Adric knew how to fight.

"Adric..." Davrin repeated softly, the anger in his eyes fading away into a gentle, coaxing expression that made Adric's heart leap to his throat. "What is this about?"

Davrin might have asked a question, but his eyes... his eyes were sympathetic and understanding. Adric's heart jumped like a rabbit's. Davrin knew. He looked at him and he knew, just like he knew everything and understood him so easily, and Adric turned his face away. He couldn't bear to see pity written on Davrin's face. It was his fault, really. Adric was so reckless, of course he offered up his heart to the first handsome, noble, kind-hearted person he stumbled across. Of course he'd love Davrin, and because Davrin was noble and kind he was going to be so careful and gentle while they spoke of the future that hung above them like a storm. What would they do if only one of them lived? What would they do if they both lived? What if they failed? What if they succeeded? Davrin would lead them through this conversation and tear Adric's very heart out of him, and then where would they be?

"It's nothing. It's... it's stupid. Forget about it," Adric ordered. He should go. He made a mess of this. He meant... what did he even mean? He supposed he saw everyone else gathering together, and after everything they had been through and with everything that loomed ahead, he wanted... he wanted to be seen and understood. But Davrin was perceptive and would see it all, see that Adric was hopelessly in love with him and terrified of the future. If they failed he wouldn't have to live long with the consequences of it, but if they succeeded, if they all lived- then what came next? What if... what if Adric got everything he wanted? What then?

A strong arm loomed over his shoulder and chest and then, a moment later, he felt Davrin's rounded chin settle atop his head. His heavy sigh stirred the fine dark hair on his head, and Adric so desperately wished to fall back and sink into Davrin, let him hold him together for just a moment. All he needed was a moment, and he would be himself again.

"I don't know what I'll do if I lose you," Adric admitted, his voice so small and weak in the stillness of the room. His mouth was so dry that he couldn't even give voice to the rest of his thoughts. Yet Davrin heard him regardless, because he was good at picking up on context. Adric shut his eyes and breathed in the firewood smoke and sawdust.

"You'll live. That's what you'll do. Day by day, if you need to. And I'll do the same, best as I can," Davrin said automatically. "But I'm not about to let this go that easily. We've got a world to see, after all of this is over." He was practical, so very practical, but his grip tightened around Adric and it was then that Adric realized that their desperation in this moment was shared.

"We do," Adric agreed carefully, and he twisted about in Davrin's grip until he could return the embrace, twining around him like a vine if only for a moment. Just a moment more, hundreds upon hundreds of little moments until morning and the future arrived.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle #veilguard spoilers

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midmorninggrey · 1 year ago

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Hiya! Dunno if i'm late, but maybe 18 or 25 from the Artifacts of Thedas prompts? c:

Hey, it's never too late for prompts!! Thank you lots for sending these over. Short and sweet scenes are a joy to get back into.

(I will probably do #18 later, but I'm going to make myself post this one now.)

"25. An empty chest with scratch marks around the lock" from the wonderful Artifacts of Thedas writing prompts.

“Be careful,” her father said at the door. “Don’t touch anything.”

There wasn’t much for Celeste to touch in the burned farmhouse, and what was left had already been picked through by her father and the Seeker while she and Cole waited outside in the Ferelden sunshine. Still, she seized the chance to enter the dark house. Celeste always hoped to find something they’d missed.

The house had been built by a prosperous family, now gone. On their approach, she had seen the neat fences that remained around pastures, but the first sign of druffalo was a half-burned hide lying beside the cold hearth. The fire had swallowed half the house. Part of the thatched roof had been eaten by the flames, but the patch of sunlight the hole let in did nothing to brighten the charred, crumbling remains. The house stank of ruin.

Sniffing, Celeste ducked towards the back of the house, which the fire had spared. A thin mattress, leaking clumps of druffalo hair, was tossed in the corner. Someone had been at it with a knife, she thought, and not her father or the Seeker; they would have been cleaner. The same knife had been used on a great chest that was lying overturned on the floor. The polish must have once gleamed on a sunny day, but now desperate hacks and scratches dulled it. The thick wood had held against the attack, but the lock was weaker. The blade had chewed the metal before cracking it.

She knelt down to look inside, and then Cole stood beside her. He swayed, but the floorboards did not creak beneath his boots.

“What do you think was in it?” she asked. With her finger, Celeste drew a line through the dust gathered on the bottom of the chest, catching a hint of cedar.

Cole started in a rush. “Five head to market, a bursting spring. Heavy silver for bells, too heavy to carry - ”

“Wait, Cole,” Celeste cut in. “That’s not really the game.”

“The game?” He asked, the tip of his head exaggerated by his hat.

Celeste sat back on her heels. “Like, you guess the best thing that could be in the box. Even if it's made up. Like a big giant glowing spider that will catch your enemies. Or old maps to a forgotten temple. Or old love letters between two people who aren’t supposed to love each other or something.”

“Those are all things you want.”

“I suppose,” Celeste shrugged.

She didn’t mind Cole being in her head. After her weeks of interrogation at Haven and the days she now spent on display within Skyhold’s walls, it was a relief to not choose which version of herself to share. Everyone wanted something different from The Herald, she knew, yet she was learning she could not satisfy anyone. They deemed her cold and unnatural when she was calm; when she cried, they dismissed her as a child. The arrival of her father had taken many of the eyes and tongues away from her. Even when people had time to gossip between the orders of the newly appointed Inquisition Regent, few risked his ire by speaking of her unkindly. Celeste told herself she was not afraid of her father, but the year they’d spent apart was a gap not easily crossed even now that they could stand together again. She found herself trying to find the right version of herself for him, too.

“You used to play the game with your father,” Cole piped up. “You laughed.”

“Yes,” Celeste admitted, glancing over her shoulder. Her father and the Seeker were outside, but not out of earshot.

She couldn’t be in Cole’s mind, so she made due by peering up under his hat. “What’s your guess?”

“Something that makes the red fade, flash, then go. It will make them whole. A blanket, wrapped blue -”

“No,” Celeste interrupted again, frowning. “Those are things I want. What do you want?”

“The same. You want peace,” he said. “I want the hurt to stop.”

Celeste looked back to the empty chest and wished it were full.

“I don’t want the spider,” Cole was quick to add. “It’s very big.”

#oc: celeste trevelyan #Cole #my writing #dragon age fic

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teine-mallaichte · 1 year ago

Text

Angst prompts for fantasy settings

4 word prompts:

1. Lost in shadowed woods

2. Forsaken by ancient magic

3. Echoes of forgotten ruins

4. Bleak whispers of betrayal

5. Captive to spectral chains

6. Haunted by unseen voices

7. Torn by cursed destiny

8. Shattered hopes, silent screams

9. Bound by cursed blood

10. Trapped in endless sorrow

11. Forgotten by the light

12. Drowning in endless darkness

13. Wounded by spectral blades

14. Tormented by ghostly memories

15. Trapped in a cursed cycle

16. Forsaken by celestial guidance

17. Haunted by ancient phantoms

18. Suffocating in spectral fog

19. Cursed by twisted fate

20. Broken by ethereal hands

21. Betrayed by shadowy allies

22. Lost in a haunted labyrinth

23. Tortured by secret visions

24. Sacrificed to ancient powers

25. Devoured by arcane hunger

One line prompts:

1. "The streets hold secrets darker than night."

2. "The dragons' fire scorches more than flesh."

3. "Magic twists and warps; we're losing control."

4. "[city] heart beats with ancient, forbidden magic."

5. "Every spell casts a shadow; every curse, a scar."

6. "The blood magic stains our hands, our souls."

7. "Mages are born with power, but cursed with fate."

8. "Demons lure the weak like moths to flame."

9. "In the darkness, blood magic flows like a river."

10. "The shadows whisper secrets I wish I never knew."

11. "The blood on my hands stains my conscience."

12. "This artifact whispers dark secrets to me."

13. "Magic's a curse, not a gift. You'll see."

14. "The artifacts whisper promises of power, but they are lies."

15. "In the ruins, ancient magic stirs, hungry for souls."

16. "The cursed land thirsts for blood, never satisfied."

Some dragon age/Thedas specific prompts:

1. Trapped in the Deep Roads

2. Forced into the fade

3. Unable to control newfound powers

4. Ambushed by darkspawn

5. Stranded in the Frostback Mountains

6. Hunting down an ancient and powerful artifact, risking corruption

7. Experiencing a sudden loss of connection to the Fade

8. A failed/incomplete rite of tranquility

9. Battling a possessed/thralled companion

10. Discovering a hidden blood magic ritual

11. Accidentally triggering a magical trap

12. Being falsely accused of blood magic

13. A cursed artifact slowly corrupting the wielder's mind

These were collected for my DADWC prompt list, but feel free to use them yourself if they appeal.

#writing prompts #angst prompts #whump prompt #dialogue prompt #four word prompt #dragon age prompt #dragon age #fantasy

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starswritteninourscars · 1 year ago

Note

Happy DADWC Friday! How about "Crushed Elfroot leaves" from the Artifacts of Thedas prompt list for the character or pairing of your choosing?

I went with non-Warden Cousland for this, and I'm fairly pleased with how it came out. Elissa has the spirits, but she's new at the experience thing. She's a long way from Inquisition Commander here.

Tagging @dadrunkwriting

The infirmary tents at Ostagar had a stench all their own, layered over the general smell of the war camp like a sheen of rancid oil over chicken soup gone bad. It smelled of elfroot and rot, spindleweed and vomit. Elissa Cousland avoided it for nearly a week after arriving before finally storming in the day the senior Grey Warden returned with his mage recruit.

“What is this?” she demanded, tossing a handful of crushed elfroot leaves on the camp desk where a middle-aged scribbled away in a ledger. Maybe he was the one in charge, maybe he was a clerk. Either way, he wasn’t currently saving someone’s life.

The man’s beady eyes blinked up at her through the curtain of hair that had fallen into his face.

“Who are you?” he said after a long pause.

“Elissa,” she said. “Elissa Cousland. This came in for our wounded not an hour past. What is it?”

The man gave her and the House Cousland heraldry on her tunic a once-over, bowed without standing, and picked up the leaves.

“It’s elfroot, my lady. Excellent for wounds, especially–”

“I know that,” Elissa snapped. “Specifically it’s gossamer elfroot. I sent an order for royal elfroot. Any competent herbalist should be able to tell the difference!”

“Just so, my lady,” the man replied. “But our stores of royal elfroot are limited. My lady’s brother reported relatively minor wounds. I have ordered what we have of the royal variety reserved for amputations and infections.”

Somewhere not too far off, a man’s moans turned abruptly to a wailing scream. Elissa felt her stomach drop

“How much do you have?”

He named a figure. A very low figure, for the size of the army.

“We are holding much of it here in the royal encampment, though of course the other infirmaries have some for emergencies,” he continued. “Already I have reports of underground trade among the officers.”

“I see,” Elissa said.

“I’m sure you do, my lady,” he said in a very neutral tone.

“I’m taking a patrol into the wilds tomorrow,” Elissa said. “I’ll bring back what I can.”

“My lady, I thank you for your generosity, but–”

“Serah,” Elissa cut in, “before you assume I am another blundering warrior who has never opened an herbal in her life: How many noblewomen have you known who could tell gossamer elfroot from bitter?”

“I must admit, Lady Elissa, that I am not acquainted with many women of that station,” he said, brushing greying hair out of his eyes and smearing ink across his cheek in the process. “Perhaps I should not have assumed.”

“Oh, you’d be right most of the time,” Elissa said, “but probably not. I’ve recently been reminded of the danger of assumptions.”

#dadwc #dragon age fic #dragon age fanfic #my fic #elissa cousland #cousland

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