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andnatiabrosca · 1 year

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21 or 22 for the artifact prompts!

thanks for the prompt! this one really got away from me. it's in the style of a dwarven folk tale - a first for me

an unstrung bow that whispers when touched, or the story of brother treasure-hunter

Before the Roads were new and after the Thaigs were lost, back when the Stone knew your name, a brother of ours was treasure-hunting far from here. Rockfall had separated him from his sisters; time had taken him from his home. A great cavern opened before him.

The shine of the stone in his lamplight echoed back its story. Long before, a city had risen. Long before, a city had fallen.

“Good hunting,” he said to himself and left the collapsed stone behind him.

Brother Treasure-Hunter was a wise dwarf and knew to watch for the bones of the lost among the rubble. Here there were many, broken and unburied where their city had crumbled. Fallen cities are good for the treasure-hunter, and good for the ghost.

Brother Treasure-Hunter’s bag soon grew full with gold and gems, heavy with scrolls of memory, long before even half the Thaig was searched.

“I must bring my sisters next,” he said. “They will dance with joy when they see the riches here.”

He pulled out his map to mark the Thaig and the rockfall that had brought him there. And he saw the land around him was unknown.

“How do I find my exit?” he asked to the Stone. “It is time for me to leave.”

A wind whipped through the cavern, pulling him towards the distant southern wall. Brother Treasure-Hunter followed the path the Stone had shown him, remembering to care for his steps. No bones crushed under his heels.

The Stone-wind blew out his lamp.

“Thanks,” said Brother Treasure-Hunter. “I needed that to find my way home.”

His hands found the wall and he let his eyes find the darkness. The Thaig was different in the dark, as it always is. The southern wall seemed further, and the wind weaker. The ruins he had seen just before him were now empty halls.

Brave as black, Brother Treasure-Hunter started walking again, although the southern wall never seemed to draw nearer. He walked for many minutes in the dark and silent.

Who knows me? Something whispered in the wind.

“Brother Ghost, I apologize,” said Brother Treasure-Hunter, feeling something hard and brittle against his boot. “I will move your bones from my path.”

But what he picked up was not cold and dirty bone, but warm and broken wood.

Raise me, whispered the wind, so I may know you.

Brother Treasure-Hunter raised the wood until he could see the fine make of its shape, curving into an elegant bow. The hand that held it turned cold, the splinters of the ancient wood pricking blood from his skin.

Ah, child of Stone, I have not known a hand like yours, the bow whispered to him.

“And I haven’t known a curve like yours,” replied Brother Treasure-Hunter. He knew the heavy comfort of a shield and steel too well to have ever been tempted by the safety of a distant shot, indeed. “I will put you from my path and leave you to rest, Brother Bow.”

Not so quickly, Brother Bow said, I may not know your hand, but I will learn. You will find my vengeance to me.

Brother Treasure-Hunter had no such plans. “Esteemed Brother Bow,” said he, “I don’t know your vengeance and cannot shoot. Besides, you are broken by forgetful time. If you wait for my return, I will bring you my sister, who can shoot.”

I don’t need to wait, said Brother Bow. I will learn your hand.

The wood warped before him, recarving itself before his eyes and worming splinters deep into his hand.

See, I have learned your hand, said Forgotten Bow, and now I will find my vengeance.

“Brother Bow,” said Brother Treasure-Hunter, trying to find himself time, “you are still unstrung and have no arrows. And I don’t know what vengeance you seek.”

I do not need such things, said Forgotten Bow. Your Stone remembers me.

The cavern lit the flickering green of half-remembered flame. Brother Treasure-Hunter’s ruins were no more; they had rebuilt themselves to the towering carvings they once had been. Blue ghosts flickered in and out of doorways.

You see your people, yes, said Forgotten Bow, and now you see mine.

An army of green flowed in from the southern wall, bows like Brother Treasure-Hunter’s in their hands. Brother Treasure-Hunter knew the wars, and this was one.

“What vengeance do you want?” he asked Remembered Bow.

I will bring the sun to my forgotten ones, said Remembered Bow, and that will be vengeance enough for me.

“I could never be buried in the sun,” said Brother Treasure-Hunter, “What of my forgotten ones?”

They are not here; observe them flee.

And the lyrium-memory did, collapsing the northern exit behind them. And then fell the southern.

“I will help you,” said Brother Treasure-Hunter, remembering the pain of lost Stone, “if it will satisfy your vengeance.”

You see the light, all the way up there? asked Remembered Bow, Sight me at it and hold still.

And Brother Treasure-Hunter did.

He saw a flash of light, bright and burning past his face.

He heard the rumble of a rockfall and fell to the ground.

The Stone split open. The sun found the ground.

Away faded the ghosts of green, and away crumbled Remembered Bow.

Thank you, whispered the wind.

In thanks for its vengeance, Remembered Bow gave us a growing thaig. Brother Treasure-Hunter remained wise, and stopped treasure-hunting. He was lucky once; no one is lucky twice.

#birch answers #herearedragons #long post #birch writes #ask game answer #artifacts of thedas prompts

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greypetrel · 6 months

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Olè! For the Artifacts of Thedas meme: 14 for Radha 33 for Alyra (or Aisling because it could be interesting lol up to vossia) Grasie ;u; <3

Uuuuh these were interesting!

I’ll post the shoes one later on so each have their own post and tag you, but in the meanwhile… Here we are. I debated some on the ending, but it’s been *a couple of weeks* and listen, that’s it. I’m working on the presumption that there are print machines in Thedas. Purely on the fact that in Europe bestsellers weren’t a thing before printing was imported and adapted from China… And Varric wouldn’t be such a renowned author, the Tale of the Champion wouldn’t have caught so much attention if it was distributed only amongst nobles, rich people and monasteries that could afford hand-copied volumes. Plus: if there’s no printing, Skyhold having 40 copies of Hard in Hightown makes no sense. Who spent all those money on precious hand-written volumes during a war? (On today’s episode of “Tell me you studied the middle ages without telling me”…)

Tis the prompt list

All-Nighter

14. Volume of Koslun’s teachings, the page edges soft and worn

She found the book by chance, in the very back of one of the bookshelves in one run down store in Llomerryn, looking for entirely something else.

But she never actually saw one copy of it, not even in Skyhold, and she was surprised to find one. She thought it wasn’t translated, least of all printed, lest people could access it and run to Par Vollen. An actual physical copy slightly tattered by time, corners dulled and consumed, gold foil of the title fainted on the leather, but still readable and most of all translated in Trade, was something she would have never expected to find, and she shuffled the pages of the volume with reverence and wonder.

Stunned by the discovery, and curiosity aflame from having the actual thing in her hands, with surely more informations that she could gather from months of questioning the Iron Bull, she forgot what she was rummaging that old shop for. She should have been searching for another book altogether, a volume on old Tevinter records of Arlathan ruins, out of prints since at least an age outside Tevinter. Since Minrathous was impossible to reach -she tried, but even with all the documents Aisling gave her, without asking directly to a Magister, it was too dangerous. Hopefully, it was too dangerous for Solas as well.

In the lack of willingness to return to Skyhold and ask her sister to write personally to Magister Tilani, gather her support and her agreement and wait for answers -which she wasn’t really eager to do if she could help it-, her best option apparently was Llomerryn’s second-hand dealers. Overcrowded shop upon overcrowded shop of old books whose former owners had died, owned by people who were too eager to barter -which Radha was good at but hated, too many words, too much time spent.

Koslun’s teaching weren’t what she was expecting.

Koslun’s teaching was an extra volume she went out of the shop with, for once happy about her findings, and with her mind away from the Dreadwolf and how to find him and stop him for the first time after that night in Crestwood, monhs ago.

Sitting crossed-legged on the small bed of the room she rented, with laughter and happy voices, the smell of spices and fish coming from the open window and the golden light of lanterns, Radha opened the book.

Curious as she didn’t remember she’s been in… Well, years.

She started from the first page. And went on.

Ten pages she promised herself would have been what she read that night became twenty.

Twenty became thirty, the book opened on the ground and the elf hanging down from the end of the bed, arms down and legs folded up behind her, swinging gently in the night breeze.

A hundred pages, and the voices from the inns and taverns outside started to calm down. She lit another candle, and didn’t mind much how much she would have had to pay for her lodgings if she read all night.

A hundred, and then two and three.

Words upon word, candle after candle, the air chilled down from the heath of the day to a chilly night. Radha slipped under the blanket, propped herself on the pillow and kept reading.

It was… She wasn’t sure what to think of it, beside the fact that it was new, it was fascinating, and her mind was aflame with the insight on a wholly different perspective on life.

She started to wonder, page after page.

There was poetry in it, and beauty, and hope. It was nice to think that the world was just as it was supposed to be, full of certainties and surety, if one knew how to accept it.

Half a mind was spent, tho, on mages: she knew Aisling wouldn’t have survived long like that, as a Saarebas. Pavyn would have lasted even less. Solas… Solas would have started a riot, she thought with a sureness that made her scrunch her nose in irritation. Irritation all due to the fact that she would also have agreed with him, having lived in close contact with mages all her life.

But beside that…

The night grew old when she finished, the sky was paling as the moon had set since long and the sun was approaching again. Radha was sitting on the ground, book propped on her bent legs, wrapped in the blanket. Rivaini nights were chill, she knew that from when they travelled north, up to the Arlathan forest.

And yet, now for the first time in months, she felt more at peace, warmer inside.

She hadn’t stayed awake all night reading since she was a teen, in her mother’s aravel, Pavyn snoring in a cot, their mother sleeping in her own, Aisling drooling on her shoulder, hugging her arm in sleep still.

She sorely missed them.

And yet, she thrived in being alone, on her own, a course set, free.

She was there also for them.

She was there especially for them: she was part of them, and if her path brought her to travel alone, she was really never so. There was, she supposed, an order in that, that she could accept. And she was fighting and travelling exactly to keep that order. Mages beside, it was a comforting thought.

Her fingers caressed the leather of the book, with a gratefulness she reserved for the good ones.

Maybe she wouldn’t convert to the Qun.

But she could respect it, and like the poetry in it and take comfort in some of its teachings.

As the first rays of the sunrise painted the sky in lilacs and golds, she rose and picked a piece of paper from her stash. Carefully traced some words on it and closed the message with a dollop of wax, and smiled at it.

Someone would have put the book to some better use, she was sure.

---

Days later, Aisling stepped into the Herald’s Rest, a question on her face that only became deeper as she was greeted upon entering by a boisterous and loud laughter.

“What is it?” She asked the Iron Bull, currently busy in staring at a piece of paper and trying to stop laughing to tears, a thick and old book on his knees.

“Your sister, Boss.”

That got her curious. She ignored how it stung that Radha had sent something to Bull and just a letter -a short one- to her. She was happy she made some friends, and she still felt guilty towards her, but seeing it…

Krem approached too, casually bending his elbow and resting his arm on her shoulder. An effective distraction from some grim thought Aisling was very grateful for.

“What did she sent, chief?”

Discourse back on track, Aisling nodded, focusing on the curiosity. The rest could be forgotten and swiped under the carpet. She snaked her arm behind and up, hugging Krem and holding on his other shoulder in a silent thank you. The Qunari smiled fondly at them, and nodded to the book.

“She sent Koslun’s teachings. And a note.”

All their eyes opened wide in surprise.

“What? How did she find it? Is she in Par Vollen? What- What did she write?”

Aisling was the first to speak, now, a thousand questions on her mind. She tried to look the volume up in Orlais, out of curiosity, but with no results. All she had found was, upon Bull’s inspection, a rendering of the teachings, very partial and overtly simplified, that wasn’t really helpful.

The note, upon inspection, just recited:

Interesting. But it’s spelled wrong: I was brought to be sure it’s actually Sera-bas. R.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #qunari #dalish elves #solavellan #(roughly)#writing petrel #da fic #artifact of thedas prompts #radha lavellan

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shivunin · 1 year

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Artifacts of Thedas

A set of 40 writing/art prompts situated in the Dragon Age universe:

A vial of lyrium; one drop remains

Crushed elfroot leaves

A freshly painted vhenadahl

A mage’s staff, splintered in the center

A Joining cup, its lip badly dented

Two handprints on an aravel

A Crow’s dagger, sticky with drying blood

A basket full of embrium and blood lotus

Dracolisk scales

A shard of mirrored glass that reflects a different sky

Avvar furs, warm before the fire

A book of Tevene grammar, open on a table

A partially melted statue of Andraste

Volume of Koslun’s teachings, the page edges soft and worn

A meticulously clean elven mosaic

Bronze statuette of the Champion, polished by handling

An Inquisition banner, mended many times over

Lyrium dust suspended in a clear fluid

A pendant of a Paragon

An empty nug cage

An unstrung bow that whispers when touched

A set of leather armor with bolt holes in the shoulder

A plaque denoting the Hero of Ferelden’s birthplace

Halla fur caught on tree bark

An empty chest with scratch marks around the lock

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

A small pot of kaddis, partially used

A handful of werewolf teeth

A sketch marked with the symbol of the Shaperate

Party favor from an alienage wedding

A Satinalia mask

A palm frond from Seheron

Orlesian shoes with jeweled buckles

A hand mirror, its glass irreparably shattered

A Rivaini amulet on a golden chain

Templar armor, marked by lightning

A cask of ale from Orzammar

Sketchbook marked with a griffon insignia

A doll dressed in an Antivan gown

Tiny cakes that taste like melancholy

#da #dragon age #thedas #dragon age writing prompts #writing prompts #writing #idk if these count as writing prompts per se but i can't think of a better thing to call them. writing inspiration? idk #i tried to span the major social/racial groups and countries #but of course i might have missed something

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midmorninggrey · 5 months

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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 · 5 months

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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 · 2 months

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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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nirikeehan · 1 year

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Happy Friday Niri! For DADWC, how about #31 from Artifacts of Thedas, for Cullen and Dorian (heh heh): A Satinalia mask

HI DEMA thank you!! This deliciously fit right into my ongoing masquerade side quest fic set in Pravinquisition AU, previous installation here

Also I was an absolute maniac and managed (I hope) to shove five Cullen & Dorian prompts into one scene, so thank you @zenstrike, @rosella-writes, @kiastirling, and @liza011 for these additional prompts:

overdramatic arguments about non-important subjects

All I Do is Wear Cool Outfits, Tell Jokes and Hide My Depression

doing things in sync

'Rule one: Don’t get caught.'

Madness. But perfect for them and I think I got them all

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1350

---

Cullen stood sentry in the corner of a marble-pillared room, watching the revelry with distaste. A pair of inebriated Orlesians had taken it upon themselves to climb upon a makeshift stage and butcher the Fereldan tavern song Andraste’s Mabari. He was nominally glad the panther-shaped mask he wore hid his grimace, though the rest of him wanted to wrench the damn thing off his face. It made his forehead itch something awful.

He was grateful to see Dorian stroll into the room and make eye contact. The Tevinter mage looked far more comfortable at this soiree than Cullen knew he would be in a million years. Dorian cut a sharp figure in blues and greens. He wore a black half-mask; it was adorned with feathers and sparkled even in the dim light.

“I hope you’re not grinding your teeth too hard in there, Commander,” Dorian said jovially, sidling up with a goblet of wine in one hand. “You’re like to give yourself a headache.”

Cullen opened his mouth to protest, only to realize how correct the mage was. He worked his jaw, trying to loosen it up. “I didn’t think I’d have to suffer attacks on my homeland when I agreed to come here, that’s all.”

Dorian tilted his head, caught wind of the lyrics, and took a stiff sip of his drink. “I see your point. Perhaps we ought to go somewhere a touch, ah, quieter?”

“Please.”

They ducked down a hallway that spilled out onto a small courtyard. The chill night was a welcome respite from the stuffiness of the Comte de Valette’s estate. The place seemed deserted, so Cullen removed the mask to the feel the relief of open air on his face. Any moment an angry Orlesian noble would probably materialize and command he put it back on — the allure of secrecy and all that — but for the moment he could think unburdened.

“Tut, tut, Commander,” Dorian chided, smirking at his clear hatred of the mask and all it signified, “do you also remove your helm mid-battle?”

“This farce of a party is hardly the battlefield,” Cullen grumbled. “And perhaps if I hadn’t let Fidencio design my entire outfit I’d feel less like a made-up doll.” The whole ensemble had been the bard’s idea. Cullen stood all in black, with a paisley patterned in velvet on his jerkin, gold trim on the sleeves, and a black overcoat. He already felt like a mummer’s idea of a pirate, but then Fidencio had insisted upon the damn mask to complete the look. Because a lion — Cullen’s suggestion — was the official sigil of Orlais and would send the wrong message. “Did the bard pick out your costume as well?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Commander, but I’d never need a theatre man to dress me properly.” Dorian smirked into his wine goblet. “I happen to dress this sharply on the regular, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Why, this was just my Satinalia mask from last year.”

“I bet.” Cullen paid the boasting no mind. “Anything to report?”

“Sadly not. The Inquisitor and I spoke to all the premiere nobles of the Orlesian court — you think they’d want to hide their identities better, but I found them quite easy to identify. They had little and less to say. Nothing but praise for the Comte, but curiously no one can find the man.”

“Strange, do you think?” Cullen asked. “That the Comte should be so aloof?”

“Ah, who knows?” Dorian countered. “I’ve been to galas in Tevinter thrown while the host wasn’t even in the country. He’d do it just to remind everyone he still had more money than the Maker.”

“And Lady Thalia?” Cullen asked, scanning the windows facing the courtyard. In the orange glow of the rooms, the revelers cut ghastly, demon-like shadows. Or maybe that was just how it seemed. The mind could play tricks, and Cullen hadn’t wanted Thalia to accept the Comte’s invitation even before he learned that de Valette was rumored to be some dark mage.

“She was with Fidencio, last I checked. In that room with the enchanted butterflies.”

“Maybe I should check on her. No offense to Fidencio, but I’ve seen him in the sparring ring. He’s more of a lover than a fighter.”

Dorian snorted. “That he is, for certain.”

Cullen waited for a snide remark about Fidencio’s swordplay in alternative arenas, but Dorian merely smirked. It seemed he was too polite to grasp for the low-hanging fruit. That was fine with Cullen, who had uncovered a strange sense of foreboding he couldn’t shake. He replaced the asinine mask on his face and headed back inside with Dorian matching his stride.

Dorian led the way to the butterfly room, which was full of the flitting insect lanterns and simpering party guests, but no Inquisitor or the headwear-loving bard. Cullen’s bad feeling worsened.

“Well, they were just here,” Dorian added unhelpfully.

Cullen walked brusquely from room to room, checking with his stationed soldiers along the way, but none had seen the Lady Thalia. Even Blackwall confessed they’d only crossed paths before she’d met up with Fidencio.

Dorian kept pace, cracking bad jokes along the way, until Cullen finally snapped, “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously?”

Dorian sobered. “Ah, yes, the humor is just my dominant coping mechanism, I’m afraid. I’m actually a bit nervous myself.”

Cullen let out a slow breath. “Any idea where they could have gone?”

“No, but I think we must employ process of elimination here, Commander.” He leaned against the wall in a small, winding corridor and crossed his arms. “Thus far the masquerade has been confined to the ground floor of the chateau and surrounding environs. As Inquisition soldiers have been stationed in both places, I think it’s safe to assume they’re not there.”

“So that leaves, what, upstairs? In the guest chambers? ” Cullen did not like to think about what might be transpiring up there. One heard tell of what transpired at certain Orlesian parties. “I hope Fidencio would not be fool enough to let Thalia near any sort of—” Could he even say it?

“I think it’s unlikely Fidencio would have led her to an orgy,” Dorian said blithely. “Unless she asked to go— which is also unlikely,” he added before Cullen’s pulse could spike too much. “Goodness, you have met the girl, haven’t you? She can barely handle one man, let alone a whole gaggle.”

Cullen chose not to dignify any of that with a response. “So then, where else?”

A silent beat passed between the two men, and they spoke in unison: “The cellar.”

“There must be one,” Dorian said. “This is a castle. What’s a castle without a wine cellar?”

“And a dungeon,” Cullen said darkly. What if the Comte de Valette had made an appearance after all, and now Thalia was his captive?

“Commander, your imagination is at times alarming,” Dorian said lightly.

“I’m in charge of an army. I’m paid to think about the worst case scenario.”

“Be that as it may.” Dorian paced back and forth in the corridor, and raised a finger in the air. “I think I might know a way in.”

“Oh?” Cullen asked.

“A little staircase I came across when I took a wrong turn earlier in the evening. A pageboy assured me it was just the servant stairwell and steered me back to the party.”

Cullen drew the mask from his face, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Do you think you can find it again?”

Dorian stroked the end of his mustache. “I’m fairly certain, yes.”

“Though I suppose we’ll have to think of a fine excuse, to allow ourselves entry,” Cullen mused. “Unless we want the entire chateau alerted to our movements.”

“Spoken like someone who never snuck around much in his youth.” Dorian flashed him a mischievous grin.

Cullen sighed. “What do you want me to say? The Templar barracks were well-monitored.”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me; that was not meant to be a slight. I only mean, Commander, you’ve not yet learned rule number one in subterfuge: don’t get caught.”

#cullen rutherford #dorian pavus #cullen & dorian #thalia trevelyan #pravin talavera #pravinquisition #fics #dragon age drunk writing circle

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theluckywizard · 1 year

Note

OC SITUATION PROMPT, for Rose and Thalia (cousinverse Trevelyan interaction?): "A relative passes away, and you inherit their creepy, isolated mansion." from the spooky prompts + "A basket full of embrium and blood lotus" from the Artifacts of Thedas?

A double prompt OC/ OC prompt for @nirikeehan and @melisusthewee for @dadrunkwriting! Please enjoy Chapter 1 of my yet to be named Spooky Castle fic featuring Rose Trevelyan, Thalia Trevelyan and Quinn Trevelyan, the oddball cousins chosen by their oddball Aunt Lucille to inherit her sprawling estate in Highever. Set in Niri's Temperance and Templars AU! WC: 2615 Rating: Mature CW: Some spooky body horror Characters: Rose Trevelyan, Thalia Trevelyan, Quinn Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford

They stare at each other curiously across the dim span of the carriage, two practical strangers bumping and jostling toward a peculiar shared destination. Velvet curtains in Trevelyan colors buffet against the grasping clutches of a Fereldan Harvestmere. And though the carriage is opulent enough to be afforded sizable windows, the sun is oppressed under a layer of gloom and the pair sit in a darkness that defies the hour. A cumbersome silence lurches between them, their glances doing the bulk of their conversation.

The two women had been the unwitting beneficiaries of a dreadful mishap involving a flower arrangement, a step ladder and a pair of pruning shears. The victim in question was their mutual relative Lucille Trevelyan, an eccentric, abrasive woman who had retreated from the Free Marches to Ferelden on the remains of the substantial fortune her dead husband had left her. There she reveled in a brazen sort of freedom and isolation that made her the subject of savage speculation. Mysterious parties with unsavory guests. A predilection for non-human companions. Morsels of truth that grew into bombastic, indulgent tales on the lips of horrified relatives.

Through some miraculous oversight of property law, Lucille’s sprawling estate in Highever tumbled into the hands of her two unmarried nieces who, having only seen each other as children, now appraise each other with wary glances.

Nobody could doubt the relation. Though Lady Rose’s face is long and angular while Lady Thalia’s cheeks are nigh cherubic, they both bear striking red hair, eyes as blue as the bottom of the Waking Sea and a spray of freckles that betrays their shared appreciation for the outdoors.

Thalia rankles that her cousin appears to have dodged the infamous Trevelyan nose, a pronounced little bend in the bridge that marks most in the family while Rose envies the perfect oval of Thalia’s face. Thalia’s hair is pinned in carefully organized plaits, the kind of elaborate arrangement that requires a second set of hands while Rose’s streaks in a long braid over her shoulder, strands of her hair wildly mismanaged. Indeed, the whole effect of Rose’s look and countenance is one of having given up, an impetuous disregard for all the expectations carefully bred into Thalia in her tidy capelet and proper frock.

“Did you know Aunt Lucille well?” asks Thalia after lightly clearing her throat.

“Mostly in the abstract. Speaking in hushed tones about her was one of my mother’s favorite past times,” replies Rose, stretching her leather-clad legs across the carriage. Thalia regard’s her cousin’s rather dashing hunting outfit with a twinge of jealousy. If only she had the nerve to exist with such forcible disregard.

“I assume our mothers could have entertained each other for hours,” Thalia answers, a smile emerging tentatively. “Though never around our fathers, I suspect.”

“It’s true, Father had a soft spot for his renegade sister,” Rose says, laughing softly into her lap. “And from what it looks like, Lucille had a soft spot for renegade nieces.”

Thalia’s head jerks up at that, trying to assess what Rose could mean, what she might be able to detect. Rose tilts her head slightly, amused by the strength of the reaction.

“Come, you didn’t think I couldn’t figure out what that that strapping bodyguard was all about, did you?” asks Rose. “I won’t tell.”

Thalia isn’t sure if Rose is picking up on the truth or suspects her of something far more salacious. And to some degree of surprise, the latter doesn’t bother her in the least.

“I— he’s— father thought we could use some protection,” fumbles Thalia, but her cheeks betray her. Rose smiles out the window, peeking at Thalia’s guardian who rides dutifully alongside the carriage, her knowing smile landing on Thalia with such force that she finds herself staring at her lap.

“Suit yourself. I’m just happy there’s something pleasant to look at other than this dreary, blighted countryside. Your father did us a favor,” she says with a smirk. Thalia can’t help but match it as her eyes fall upon him with a flutter of affection. Ser Cullen bobs along at a trot, his handsome features tied up in an expression that is somehow both resigned and exasperated. The soggy weather could do that all on its own though the task itself, an unanticipated jaunt across the Waking Sea to a strange estate might be a contributor as well.

“What if we don’t want any part of this estate?” Rose asks.

“From what I understand we’re stuck with it.”

“We can’t sell it?”

“I don’t believe so. But the lawyer is meeting us there and we can ask him.”

“Well. Let’s hope it’s interesting at least. If it’s nice enough maybe we can leave our dreadful families behind and live like a pair of queens,” Rose says. “I’m nearly thirty and my mother is still trying to marry me off to the highest bidder.”

It’s a fairly novel thought to Thalia, deviating from her prescribed path, though her own circumstances have forced her to consider what manner of prosperous marriage she could possibly secure. Perhaps Lucille was onto something, living her best life as an independently wealthy woman away from the suffocating scrutiny of her own family. Maker knows Thalia would like to break from hers.

oOo

Rose snorts as they rumble into view of the estate, the kind of ancient country refuge with hollow little windows that watch them from its soulless depths. How Aunt Lucille spent so many years in darkness is bloody beyond her. She watches her younger cousin marvel at it, her blue eyes wide and searching, following the crenelated edge of the parapets and up the little towers that punctuate the line of the roof.

“Maker, it looks several ages old. Have you seen any documentation on it? I’d like to know the history behind it,” Thalia says, puzzling it out like studying it could make it less hostile in its impression.

“I’m sure there will be a steward to enlighten you on such matters,” says Rose, her lips turning softly at Thalia’s genuine curiosity. “Maker knows they can ramble on.”

“Oh I’d be delighted if they did,” Thalia answers, her continued enthusiasm defying Rose’s cynicism. “And with any luck, Aunt Lucille kept up with her library!”

“Let that be our first incursion then. I suspect she had more interesting tastes than our own parents.”

The carriage rumbles and crackles to a stop on the gravel drive and Thalia and Rose are both startled to see a man clad in deep red and gold stretched long across a garden wall, his feathered cap pulled low over his eyes as if sunning himself pointlessly beneath the heavy stratus of the sky. If it weren’t for a pipe bouncing slightly in his teeth, they might believe him dead. The carriage seems to have barely stirred his interest.

“What do you think? Is that our lawyer?” asks Rose, tossing a secret smirk to Thalia. Thalia wonders if this is what it’s like to have a normal sister.

“You there, Ser,” calls Ser Cullen in his honeyed tenor. “Are you expecting the Ladies Thalia and Rose Trevelyan?” Rose’s knowing smile finds Thalia again.

“Nice voice,” she remarks. Thalia bites her bottom lip and then lets a tiny laugh pop through her nose at last.

“It really is,” she says, the admission spilling from her like a dam breaking.

They watch as the lounging man’s leg falls from the wall, swinging gently and he lifts himself languidly, emerging from under his cap, squinting at the carriage. He laughs, shaking his head as Cullen rides closer. Their discussion is muffled but the women can still see him.

“Oh no,” says Thalia, almost reflexively. “It’s cousin Quinn.”

“Quinn? The Quinn? No. It can’t be. I thought he was in Markham living off the dregs of the tourney.”

“Not anymore. From what understand he is a tourney knight now. Look— the rosettes at his waist. Those are the sort won in the archery tournaments. And the feathers in his cap are those of some manner of exotic bird from Seheron. An Ostrich I believe? They’re only given to those with enough points in the Grand Tourney.”

“You gathered that from all those bits and bobs he’s wearing?” asks Rose, her brow high. “Well if he’s wearing them all at once the rumors about him being a shameless showboat are true.”

They emerge from the oppressive darkness of the carriage, their maladapted eyes wincing at the light diffusing through the gloom. Thalia shakes out the rumples in her skirts and reorganizes her capeand then glances around appraisingly. Rose takes a few brash steps out behind her and draws her shoulders high around her ears, pulling her wool cowl up over her chin.

“I think Ferelden is trying to burrow its way inside me,” she mutters with a little shudder.

Ser Cullen dismounts from his handsome black Forder and makes his way back to the women with the third Trevelyan. Cousin Quinn makes a foppish bow before them, removing his soft cap from a head of golden locks with a flutter of Ostrich plume. His smile is thrust to one side in such a way that both women are sure he must be at least some measure the impish layabout they’d heard he was.

“I can think of several things worse than sharing an estate with my two beautiful young cousins,” he declares as if it’s a great compliment. Rose raises her brow at his cheek. Thalia gapes. They each catch a whiff of brandy on his breath. He winks at them both. “Quinn Trevelyan, at your service.”

“Do you always wink at your relations?” asks Rose tartly, folding her arms.

“If you’re afraid I’m singling you out, I do it to everyone,” Quinn says, his smirk outstripping Rose’s own in its utter brazenness. His blue eyes shine like the only bit of open sky in this cursed place and he turns to Thalia’s scowling bodyguard and pitches him another cheeky little wink. Rose’s eyebrow raises high again. Ser Cullen’s handsome features vanish under a cranky glare, the set of his mouth a rebuke all its own. He reaches for the back of his neck and paces anxiously back and forth beside the three Trevelyans.

“So you’ve inherited as well,” remarks Thalia, impatient to get down to business.

Quinn flashes an inscrutable grin and reaches into the breast pocket of his velvet doublet withdrawing a haphazardly folded bit of paper of the same expensive heft as the ones that each Thalia and Rose received. The women look it over together, exchange a glance and then shrug. Little has changed for them. What’s one more stranger to quibble over a castle with?

“Splendid. I wonder who else we can expect. Aside from all the grasping imps who will soon hear of our fortune,” quips Rose, her eyes sweeping up a stretch of mossy masonry, eerily verdant, seemingly the only pop of color in the whole of the estate save the new arrivals.

Ser Cullen, whose pacing has grown only more frenetic stills himself long enough to inform the three of his intention.

“I’d like to sweep the perimeter. Lord Trevelyan informs me—“

“—there’s no one home,” finishes Quinn, replacing his cap and glancing up at the castle.

“No steward? No lawyer?” asks Thalia, a tic of consternation marring her brow. “No staff? No housekeeper? Who is maintaining the grounds?”

“Do they look maintained?” asks Quinn, sipping placidly from a small flask he’d withdrawn from his interior pocket.

“Perhaps Aunt Lucille liked things a little wild,” Rose remarks, making her way toward the entry with leisurely, tentative steps, waiting for the others to follow.

“Her reputation is a sterling testament to that,” remarks Quinn. “I heard her Qunari lover was a Ben Hassreth spy.”

“Really, Quinn,” huffs Thalia.

“Certainly no more shocking than absconding with one’s fetching Templar guardian, I should think,” he says, his eyes brimming with delight. Rose’s eyes dart to Thalia’s so quickly that the youngest Trevelyan fumbles for an answer. She tugs her gloves onto her hands more firmly. “Don’t worry,” Quinn says, turning a sly glance from Thalia to Cullen who is striding away at a forceful clip. “I won’t tell.” Thalia rolls her eyes and grumbles softly to herself, applying herself to the situation at hand to stuff down the fluster inside her.

They approach the great oaken door that’s broader than all three of them abreast, all amused by the comically small keyhole that secures it. Quinn braces both hands against the door and jostles it but the lock holds fast. Shocking neither Thalia nor Rose, he breaks out a tidy little set of lockpicking tools and sets to work feeling for the pins.

“You’re a mage?” hisses Rose, pulling Thalia aside pointlessly. The secret is out.

“Don’t worry, my keeper is here. You’re in no danger,” Thalia answers and there’s an edge of bitterness to her tone that most might miss, but Rose nods slightly, her expression soft. Not the sympathy Thalia expected, but then neither cousin seemed to be cut from the same stiff cloth as the rest of the family.

“I’m just— surprised is all,” she says quietly, memories of her older brother drifting in wraith-like. Rose wonders passingly if Thalia knew anything of their dark secret.

“Bastard of a lock, this one, but I think—“ Quinn eases his hand gently in a rotating motion. “—that should do it. Rusted probably.”

“Rust? She can’t have been dead that long,” says Rose.

“Perhaps there’s a side entrance she used,” suggests Thalia.

“At any rate,” Quinn says, standing to give the door a stiff shove. It swings inward on a deep and contrary groan, the laden air of Highever rushing in as if the dwelling yawns. “Shall we?”

They step in tentatively, simultaneously, surveying their inheritance side by side. A pair of staircases curl and cling along the back wall of the grand foyer, a space so suffocated by dust and cobwebs that it’s no wonder the castle inhaled. The center of the space is marked by an unusual table made from the twisted trunk of a great tree. Spread over it are dried leaves and stems. At first glance it appears haphazard, as if someone had left their herbalism workbench in the midst of a project. But a closer inspection reveals patterns, intentionally arranged. The three stand over it, shaking their heads, marveling at it even as their skin prickles. Even as their breath freezes in their lungs.

“Perhaps Lucille is playing a prank,” says Rose, apprehension nibbling at the edges of her mood. The whole atmosphere of the place feels hungry, having drawn them in. The door finally shuts again, the long moan of the hinges silencing with a thunk, closed in behind teeth.

“Blood lotus. Embrium,” mutters Thalia, hovering her fingers, tracing the shapes in the air. “These symbols— I’ve seen things like this before. In my books— the ones I had Father secure for me.”

“Maker’s breath!” cries Ser Cullen, his boots scuffling as he hurries into the gaping foyer behind them from some manner of side room. “Lady Thalia, come back with me. All of you— step back.” They stumble back, submitting automatically to the authority that steels the Templar’s voice and they follow his gaze up. Cullen loops an arm around Thalia protectively, his sword singing as it unsheathes.

They all stare, transfixed. Swinging gently on the residual breath of Ferelden air, hangs a man in the sort of staid finery one might expect of a professional. His bloated face gray, his eyes unblinking.

“Well then,” says Quinn swallowing. “This must be the lawyer.”

#Trevelyan cousinverse #Dragon Age Fan Fiction #Cullen Rutherford #Temperance and Templars #cullen x trevelyan #Thalia Trevelyan #Quinn Trevelyan #Rose Trevelyan #Spooky Fic #Gothic Mystery #cullenmance

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herearedragons · 1 year

Note

27 from the artifacts list!

Artifacts of Thedas prompt list

I went with a banter format for this one.

27. A small pot of kaddis, partially used

Alistair: Uh… Ariel, what happened to your dog?

Ariel: What do you mean? He’s fine.

Alistair: I don’t know if you noticed, but he looks like a fancy cake.

Zevran (if present): Oh, good. So I’m not the only one who was seeing that.

Morrigan (if present): He certainly does not smell like one.

Ariel: He does not look like a cake.

Leliana: (chuckles) The swirls around his neck do remind me of my favorite frosting.

Ariel: Those are the rays of Elgar’nan! It’s a warrior’s pattern!

Leliana: Ariel, I’m sorry for earlier. Fen’Falon’s war paint looks lovely.

Ariel: Thank you! It took me an hour to paint all of him.

Leliana: He’s so cute! Festive, even.

Fen'Falon: (happy bark)

Ariel: He’s not - oh, Fen’Harel take you all. I’ve got a steady hand for shooting, not for art.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #warden mahariel #alistair theirin #leliana #dao #thanks for the ask!#oc: ariel mahariel #his first appearance on the blog and it's him getting dunked on #to be fair. it's the dao party. no one is really safe #herearedragons writing

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vivispec · 7 months

Text

DA Drunk Writing Prompts

What I Like to Write

I enjoy fluff and whump, and tend to get creative in my interpretation of certain prompts. I'm not afraid of gore or smut, but I'm not great at the latter (hence me not posting it). I LOVE writing platonic and familial relationships, probably more than I like writing romance honestly. Platonic soulmates are my bread and butter!

Bolded are what I like to/am most comfortable writing, but I want to work my writing muscle so feel free to choose any. Choose from below or just send me a prompt and I'll fill in whoever, I'm game either way.

wanna see my ocs? most of them are here, under the cut!

Romantic Pairings

Viera Lavellan / Solas

Marian Hawke (Mage) / Fenris

Iloniyn Lavellan / Athimien (Friend's Dalish OC)

Ishme Aeducan / Alistair

Araia Surana / Leliana

Taufei Sabrae / Morrigan

Kita Tabris / Zevran

Platonic/Familial/Other Pairings

Viera Lavellan & Iloniyn Lavellan (soulmates)

Marian Hawke & Garrett Hawke (twins)

Viera Lavellan &/ Nuarehn Lavellan (pre-game, childhood besties, arranged bonding)

Viera Lavellan &... Dorian, Varric, Cole, Josephine, Iron Bull, Sera. She's friends with (and I'm happy to write) the others but those are her besties.

Marian Hawke &... Varric, Carver specifically, all the DA2 companions.

Any characters and their fankids (my pairings with kids are Viera/Solas, Marian/Fenris, Iloniyn/Athimien, Ishme/Alistair, Taufei/Morrigan)

Prompt Ideas

Artifacts of Thedas Florence + The Machine Quotes (one & two) DA Dialogue Flufftober Prompts (Spring, 2023, 2022. I do these casually-year round, just for fun.) Whumptober Prompts (2023, 2021, 2020. Already did 2022.) Cuddle Prompts Injury Prompts Platonic Prompts Fluff & Angst Flower Themed Prompts Sibling Prompt List

#dadwc #dragon age drunk writing club #writing prompts

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ar-lath-ma-cully · 1 year

Text

Prompt me, baby!

Gimme a prompt with a pairing (listed below) and I'll do my best, your honor.

Things in BOLD are things I am slightly more enthusiastic about, but you're more than welcome to send anything that tickles your fancy!

Pairings I'll do:

- Alistair / Cousland or Mahariel (Melodie or Lellana) - Hawke / Fenris - Solavellan - Cullen / OC (Amaryllis) - Blackwall / OC (Akasha)

Prompt lists and ideas: **NSFW/Romance Prompts:** - 100 NSFW (smut) prompts - couple prompts!!! - the intimacy of hands - actions that say "I love you" - fictional kiss prompts - touch prompts - emotional intimacy/pillow talk prompts & scenarios - 'the enormity of my desire' prompts - pining prompts - height difference prompts & scenarios - emotionally charged sentence starters - 101 'i love you' in actions - OTP prompts

**Angst Prompts:**

- whumpy whump!! - angsty dialogue - Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts - emotion prompts - hidden injury whump

**DA Specific Prompts:**

- Artifacts of Thedas - DA dialogue prompts **Other Prompts:** - lines of Sylvia Plath's poems - Kid!AU prompts - random song lyrics! - Hozier lyrics - Sensory Prompts - untranslatable word prompts - Kubo prompts - Margaret Atwood prompts - Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury quote prompts - also open to any random prompt, really.

#prompts #dadwc

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andnatiabrosca · 1 year

Note

maybee 19 Or 29 for either Nat or Mal?

this is Late but this is from the [artifacts of thedas] prompt list (always open! just struggling sometimes to get things done in anything resembling good time.

[@layalu pinging you in case tumblr doesn't want to tell you I answered the ask]

19. a pendant of a paragon for Malachite (and kind of Nat?)

"Look like you lost this, boss." Bull's even voice falls over Malachite like a warm blanket.

Her sight isn't quite back yet, so she lifts a hand. "I'll take it. Can you sort in my bag? I need a heal and my compounding kit."

Bull's heavy as he squats down, brace clicking as he shifts into a sustainable position.

"There you are," he says, pressing a small metal disk into her palm.

She knows it from just that weight. Flips it over and rubs her thumb against the face.

“You about found the sodding thing?” she barks towards the sound of Bull rummaging in her rucksack. Sharper than she intended.

“Just looking for a cleaner rag,” he replies, even and steady. “You’re gonna need something for those eyes. Ever heard of blocking?”

Must be worse than she thought.

“Hard to block a fucking blood-crazed bird. If I were the Maker’s wrath sort…”

“After all the shit coming after you, I wouldn’t blame you,” Bull says and hands her an elixir. “I thought I’d seen almost everything out here. Crows that drink your eyes, well. Didn’t see that.”

The healing elixir helps the floating feeling in Mal’s everything, and removes the overwhelming urge to just lie down and sleep. Forever.

The sluggish numb relieved, the pain makes itself known. And the ache.

Rough linen – one of her spare shirts – presses hard against her forehead.

“Sit still and I’ll get this stablized,” Bull says. “I’m no healer, but you’re not going anywhere like this.”

Malachite complies, sagging into the leg Bull has kindly propped behind her. She needs to top up on her philter soon, especially after that fight, but she can’t hope to compound one if she can’t see – it’s only been a few weeks.

The little iron pendant in her hand – she knows that without sight. Tries to build an image of it in her head from touch alone to distract from the burning and tugging as The Iron Bull disinfects and stitches her head, quick and dirty.

The pendant is a little bigger than a sovereign, but feels half as heavy. The iron is pitted from years hanging from her neck. The reverse was once blank, but she ground her name fighting seasickness on a long sail. On the face is the cameo bust of a dwarven woman. She can trace the outlines and feel the proud cheekbones, the wide nose. Malachite knows the woman – barely a woman, to be fair – depicted on the face looks hard and tired in the sharp geometry of dwarven art. Her face is too sharp, life fading on her cheeks. Her eyes glare even in the cast metal.

“Could be you,” the smith had joked selling her the disk.

“I used to want to believe in the Maker,” Malachite admits, like Bull is going to give a shit. Not like Cassandra would, or even her Josie.

“Yeah?” he entertains her, tugging sharply to set a stitch. “How come?”

“I’m casteless. My family were thrown out of the Stone before living memory, for a reason we can’t remember.” She sighs and lets herself slump into his lap, pain cresting nausea in her stomach. “Figured if I was going to be a second-class person, I might as well do it with a g-d that hadn’t already tried to kill me.”

“No g-d wasn’t an answer?” Bull asks, pressing a dry section of her shirt against a bleed.

“Don’t pretend you don’t undersand, Ser turned-myself-in-for-reeducation. I’ve never been the biggest thing out there. I just hoped whatever was there was friendly.” She’s starting to drift along with the pain.

“Because the Orlesian Chantry is known for being friendly?”

“Point taken.”

There’s a last sharp dousing of alcohol, the greasy paste of an elfroot poultice, and she’s patched up.

Bull huffs, shifting pressure off his hips and her off as she opens her eyes. “’Always wanted to’ isn’t the same as ‘believed in’. Nor ‘want to believe in’, present tense. What’s keeping the Herald of Andraste from believing in the Maker?”

Malachite holds up the pendant, weaving the leather cord around her fingers.

“This,” she says, holding it out to Bull. “I was almost seventeen and a smith threw this in with some leathers I bought off him.”

“Some kind of charm?” he asks, respectfully not touching it, although the spark in his eye betrays his interest.

“Paragon charm, yeah,” Malachite says, pulling her arm closer before the tremors start. “But it’s who the Paragon is. See the raised bit on her cheek there? She’s casteless, like me. She’s a reminder.”

“Reminder?” Bull starts adjusting his braces where they loosened during the fight.

“She’s out there, somewhere. Reminding that even us the Shaperate claims are forgotten by the ancestors – even we have a place in the Stone.” The smith’s words spill out of Malachite’s mouth – words that kept her breathing through her mother’s death.

And then the words that have kept her breathing even as the whole damn world calls her Herald and Saviour.

“Nat Brosca was just some duster to the Shaperate, but she was always a Paragon of Duty. It doesn’t matter if Thedas is calling me Herald of Andraste. I’m still Malachite, of House Cadash, and I’m still going to fight that rotting magister because someone has to.”

#birch answers #layalu #thanks for the ask!!#this is what came of slapping drafts 1 3 and 5 together #(did I finish this to avoid outlining love knows life? yeah.)#it's not quite Right yet but it's okay. kind of lost Mal's voice for a minute I think #oc: malachite cadash #prompt game

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