#before i boot up da2

[anders-hawke]

worst thing abt da2 and origins on my computer is that i can’t use my controller with them :/

[kenobihater]

downloaded wolfenstein after going on a jacob geller rewatch binge and getting intrigued by blazko. for reference i've played one fps in my 23 years and got stuck on the third level, so i'm either gonna cry and shit my pants or actually learn how shooters work. if you see me spamming ben affleck smoking reaction pics in my posts tomorrow then that's your explanation

[thekingofwinterblog]

How to fix Halamshiral as a Zone

Inquisition is a flawed game.

I don't think there's anyone who is going to argue otherwise.

The only question is wheter you place it higher or lower than DA2.

One of the things I think it does better than DA2, is that it managed to give every place a soul, an identity of it's own, and at least a distinct, if not always amazing storyline.

The emerald graves doesnt have a very interesting plot, but it has some spectacular side quests, and atmosphere, inculding a haunted mansion, which might be my favorite possession based quest in all of DA because it shows much better than others just how dangerous untrained mages actually are to those around them.

The storm coast tells a story of what was once an important dwarven port, and shows how it fell and was repurposed over time.

The Hinterlands shows the aftereffects of the templar mage war, as well as solas stupid plan to give cory his orb, and the mage rebellion and an actually decent time travel story.

I could go on, but the point is, I usually have at least aomething nice to say about every single region.

All except one.

Halamshiral.

Halamshiral was the single worst part of all of Dragon Age Inquisition for me, and every single time I boot up this game, it's always the last thing i do before the temple of sacred ashes, despite how bizarre the game flows as a result.

And the reason is because i hate everything about it.

I hate it's unique attempt at side quests, i hate the characters involved, i hate the Orlesians who inhabit it, and i hate how this section tries to copy what worked so amazingly well with Orzammar and Denerim during the landsmeet section, and fails every single shot it lines up.

The ONLY good thing i have to say about this, is that it's at the very least relatively short.

So here's today's question. How to fix Halamshiral?

Let's begin with the three main players.

Celene, Gasparde, and Briala.

The big problem with every single option, is that they all suck.

Celene and Gasparde are both fucking awful people without any redeeming qualities, they have no charisma, and there is no prospect of the Empire reforming itself under either of them, the way Orzammar would under Bhelen.

Meanwhile, Briala is much, much better, but the problem is that we know exactly what is going to happen here if you support her.

Maybe today elves will have it better, but tomorrow, when Gasparde is gone, or celene turns on elves again as she always does all the progress will be repealed, and reversed, along with a few purged alienages.

Its an old story that's been told before in Dragon age.

In short, there is no reason at all to care about this overall plot. None whatsoever.

There were so many reasons to care about both Orzammar and Denerim in the same situation, and every single character involved had so much more charisma than either of these would be monarchs.

So let's fix that.

Starting with Celene, take the idea of her wanting to reform the empire, and actually take it to the next level.

Celene is genuine in wanting to reform the empire, and has already taken grand, successful steps to make the entire thing much better for everyone, even elves, giving them and serfs more rights, outlawing the practice of chevaliers having a tradition of killing unarmed city elves to graduate.

But the catch is, while she is genuinely making progress, she is doing so within the confines of the great game.

Celene has nonintention of changing the great game, no plans of wanting to remove this thing that holds Orlais back more than any other, this center stone of their nobility and it's culture.

Meanwhile, Gasparde is a different kind of reformer, one that takes the ideas he had of him claiming to hate the game, and actually doing something with it.

He is far less progressive, has no love for elves, is far more warlike than Celene ever was... But unlike Celene, his ideas of reform isn't going to act within the grand game.

He's going to break it.

Unlike canon gasparde, this gasparde is hated by every single noble family in the entire empire. His only support, and it's a strong one, is the army. The parts of the army that supports Gasparde, and they are a huge part, are loyal to him personally to the hilt.

And he hates them back. He hates the game, he hates the way it cripples the empire, and he wants to change things. Like Celene he plans to break the serfs free of their chains, for the good of the nation and it's power and economy if not for any progressive reasons.

And he'a going to start with Halamshiral.

For this Gasparde isn't merely positioning men to stage a coup... He's planning to kill EVERY SINGLE NOBLE in Halamshiral. Evety man, every woman, every child there.

He's going to reform this empire by wiping out it's cancerous nobility in one fell swoop, and install himself as supreme dictator to see his reforms through, and wiping out the entire Orlesian nobility that might have opposed him, french revolution style.

And thus the Inquisitor has a dilemma.

Unlike Orzammar, where only one side was a reformer, both of these Orlesians are... But you have to choose one.

Do you choose Celene? The more progressive candidate, who wants a more peaceful Orlais going forward? But who is not willing to get ridd of the grand game to do so, thus making it a permanent risk that all her reforms will be undone...

Or will you support Gasparde, and by doing so be complicit in destroying the entire nobility of Orlais, many of whom are not guilty of the shit that Celene and Gasparde here both hate so much? Gasparde is far less likely to create a peaceful Orlais going forward... But he will have obliterated the Grand Game for good and all, a prize that might be worth this Red Wedding style bloodbath.

Meanwhile there is Briala, the elven spy who has enough influence to allow, or prevent Gasparde's plans from going through.

Here there should be another moral dilemma, quite different from the base game.

Do you convince her to aid Gasparde, in exchange for the Elves getting a duchy of their own in Halamshiral? Do you then back her up with Inquisition forces and support, forcing Him to publicly announce her as such, and trust his own, twisted version of honor to actually stick to it going forward(Something he ultimately does), or do you throw her to the Wolves the moment things get rough?

Or alternatively, do you convince her to side with Celene, and bury the hatchet? And if so, on what terms? And similarly, if she actually wants to get something out of this, you actually need to back her up... Something you may, or may not choose to do.

And voila, here you have an actual story of intrigue, massive, lasting political changes as a result of the Herald's actions, and morally grey on grey choices.

Everything that Denerim and Orzammar had in spades.

Now moving on from the plot to the actual place.

Halamshiral has no soul.

It's a french villa on a mountaintop. Whoop de freaking do.

It has no interesting murals, unique art only found there, interesting geography, or anything really to make it stand out.

Compare it to Denerim and Orzammar, and the way they fleshed out the entire city's levels of power and criminal underworlds, and you see the difference.

Denerim is a very realistic, squat, squalid medieval city, with it's buildings built on top of every single bit of available space.

Orzammar is a full on high fantasy dwarf city lit up by a lake of lava.

Halamshiral is a villa presented as a city.

How do you fix that?

There is an artist here on Tumblr who pretty much showcased what Halamshiral could have been, if they had taken the idea of the Dalish(who were the original owners) taking inspiration from native americans(amongst others), and use that to build a truly spectacular city, which has long ago been paved over, but the structure is still there.

Make it a city on the water, like the aztex capital of Tenochtitlan, a marvel of canals and stone.

Make it this Venezia like city, with canals everywhere you look, and the entire city running on water. A marvel of Dalish city building, where they took something as simple as a couple of islands in a lake, and built the most beautiful city in the world.

And rather than just limit you to the palace, instead let you actually explore this city.

Expand the entire event from one night, to a week.

Let the Herald explore the city, meet the players, interact with the nobles, become friends with a few like you could with Ferelden's bans, which in turn makes the possibility of sacrificing them for the greater good hit so much harder.

Let you choose what fancy stuff to wear to the balls and meetings, rather than have this stupid motto of forcing you to wear one, pre determined outfit like this game had for some reason.

Let you discover the places where what little Elven Architecture and art still remains can be found, and talk with the elves who still live here, the descendants after the first elves the Orlesians enslaved.

Make the plotting of Gasparde and the positioning of troops be gradual, not instantly discovered and twarted.

And at the end, if you choose to back Gasparde, you mirror that scene from Dragon Age 2, where the Templars sail across the bay, and you either step aside and witness the bloodbath you just allowed to happen, or you fight them and be recognized by the nobility(most of which are horrible, horrible people) as a hero who just saved the day.

Have the venatori plot be to kill both Gasparde and Celene, rather than their involvement mostly be about handing the player the the easy knife for the knot of which monarch to pick without having to get your hands dirty.

Also have the entire group be gathered for once. Every inner member of the Inquisition just like at Denerim.

Each of whom have their own thoughts on the events.

Who supports who? What is the right thing to do? What is better for the inquisition? Are you staining your honor beyond repair if you back Gasparde? Does the Inquisitor maybe have a breakdown after witnessing what they just allowed to happen and they walk through the gardens or rooms filled with corpses? Maybe have the scene at the end with the love interest be about a moment of them truly comforting their lover in the aftermath of it all, understanding(or not) that as boss, it's your job to have to make the tough decisions. And now you have to live with them.

Or if you wanna go the other way, this could be one of the breaking points like Origins had. If you support Gasparde, Blackwall choses to tell you to get bent, and that he will die as benefits a knight. Defending the week, and calling you out on how you are just as bad as he ever was, a child killer who's going to run away from responsibility, to pretend you are some better person than what you actually are. You're a murder. Just like he was. You are just as responsible for the blood that's flowing as he was with that carriage back in the day.

It would have been a far more impressive reveal moment for his crimes, that's for sure.

Cole probably would be the one who would be second most upset, but wheter he leaves or ultimately stays should probably be depended on your other choices and your relationship with him prior to this, probably have his personal quest be the determinating factor of what he chooses to do.

And i could go on, but point is, this would be a return to Origins choices actually mattering. There were choices that could make or break a characters bond with you. Shale would not budge regarding Caridin, Leliana and wynne would stand against you if you choose to defile the urn, Sevran would choose to betray you for his old friend if he didn't like you enough, and of course the age old choices at the end of act 3 in da2, where you have to pick between templars and Mages, as well as anders fate, and chances are regardless of what you do, at least 1 person ends up dead.

If anyone reading this has any suggestions for how to further improve this storyline, feel free to share, but regardless, i think we can all agree that this is a vast improvement of what we actually got.

[bearlytolerant]

9, 16, 19 for DA4 ask!

Thank you for these asks! I finally sat down to get them answered.

9. Which romance, if any, do you plan to pursue first?

Solas with my lavellan. I kid…unless.

Then Varric. I kid…u n l e s s.

The real answer is I’m torn. Everyone looks lovely! But I’m going to need to get to know them better in game before I can actually make any decision on who I’m romancing first. Unlike prior games, everyone I’ve seen in the new game is starting on the same level (even though I’ve got some snippets of chars from writing but I need more to go on).

16. What's one crack theory you subscribe to (yours or someone else's)

I don’t know. Probably none. Even my own I’m not fully subscribed to. A boring answer I know but I’ve got nothing. I’m just hoping we get some solid answers in the next game but it’s dragon age so—I expect I’ll get 12 more questions for every 1 I get an answer to.

21. Are you planning to replay any of the previous games, watch Dragon Age: Absolution, or read any of the books/comics/short stories, or are there other games you want to play in the meantime?

Yes! I booted up a new playthrough of da2 and Inquisition already. I have 3 of the comics to finish and I’m also working through Tevinter Nights again currently. I won’t read any of the other books though. Will probably watch absolution again too because I’ve only seen it once so I feel like a second time I’ll be able to glean details I missed prior from the show.

I’ve included vacation photos that Cole took of Sarya in the Elvhen ruins:

[theluckywizard]

Hey Lucky, happy Friday! How about a prompt for Hawke and one of the twins for pre-Blight/DA2 shenanigans? "Grabbing their shoulder to stop them from doing something they would regret." Happy writing!

Thank you Ocean! This has been in my box since June! 👀 Here's a little Hawke Sibling Fluff for you this evening for @dadrunkwriting

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Bethany, Carver and Isabela WC: 486 Rating: Gen

oOo

Hawke extends both hands delicately to his sides and digs the toe of his boot into the dirt of the street.

Carver watches him from where he’s leaning against the railing as they wait for the next ferry back to Kirkwall’s docks, the stinking, cluttered water of the bay sloshing behind him. “What are you doing?” he asks, brotherly disgust hanging on his words.

Hawke smiles coyly at his brother behind him and then brushes away an imaginary bit of dust from his shoulder with his pinky. “What?” 

“That. Whatever you’re doing. Stop that.”

“Stop what?” asks Hawke, settling with his hip jutting to one side, his hand set upon it. Few things gave him greater joy than provoking his siblings.

Bethany stares, a veritable storm cloud brewing behind her tawny eyes. “I see it too.”

Finished with their business in the Gallows and more than a little entertained by his sister’s preening and posing before the newly minted Knight-Lieutenant Cullen, there was little option but to roast her for it. Even Hawke could admit the man was damnably handsome, but as one who would lock her in the clink at the first reasonable opportunity, the absurdity of it was unparalleled.

“That is not how I stand, Garrett,” protests Bethany, crossing her arms and settling with her hip to one side.

“Is there some way you stand?” he says, his composure failing. “I hadn’t noticed.” 

Unable to resist, Hawke flounces toward a merchant mixing up fresh shikanji for Templars in too much armor for this Justinian heat. He makes it approximately four steps before Carver arrests him by the shoulder. 

“Andraste’s tits, Gar, don’t be a moron. Like we need more attention on us while we’re here.”

“We can’t all be lumbering brutes, Pup,” calls Isabela from where she’s sitting in a sliver of shade against a crate. “Perhaps Hawke is trying to turn over a new leaf.”

Hawke waves off his little brother and carries on to the shop to buy drinks.

“I don’t walk like that either,” Bethany protests loudly.

“It’s fine, Bethany,” says Isabela. “He might have a veritable tiller up his backside but there’s no denying he’s hot.”

“Who?” demands Carver, his disgust with the whole affair plain.

“Knight-Lieutenant Stick-in-the-Arse,” explains Isabela.

Carver slumps as he turns to his sister, sky colored eyes indignant. “You can’t be serious, Beth,” he moans and then drops his voice to a hiss. “He’s a sodding Templar.”

“What!? I’m not anything! I wasn’t doing anything!” Bethany protests, the whole of her face betraying her.

“Well I think it’s sweet,” says Isabela, standing to collect a drink from Hawke, which he offers with a pinky extended.

“Eugch, don’t encourage her,” sulks Carver.

“You’re all mad. I’m just standing. And walking!”

“Yes like a little baby coquette,” Isabela smiles and then settles into one of Bethany’s darling, ridiculous poses. Hawke joins her. Bethany stares daggers at them both. 

[snotsloth]

10 Characters/10 Fandoms/10 Tags

Tagged by @icehearts

Tagging, but don't feel pressured! (Also you do not have to make pretty pictures. Graphic Designer brain just took over and this happened.) @physicalvocalist, @sarenraegalpaladin, @vorpalbun, @captainqster, @leagor-majere, @sundered-souls, @ardberts, @hinganskies, @lilbittymonster, @janzoo

1. Harrowhark Nonagesimus - The Locked Tomb Trilogy

Harrow has true scrungly wet cat energy. I want to put her in one of those little backpacks with a window and carry her around in it for her enrichment. She's an absolute bitch. She is a pathetic little meow meow. She lobotomized herself to save the soul of the woman she refuses to admit she's in love with. She tried to kill a saint with soup made from her own bone marrow. She is a war crime. I like her so much!

2. Magneto - X-Men

He is the platonic ideal of my favorite trope, "Does all the wrong things for all the right reasons." Magneto has gone through the polar opposite of villain decay. The longer he exists, the longer the universe has to prove him increasingly correct on most things. All I can really say is, "Magneto was right."

3. Wei Wuxian - Mo Dao Zu Shi

Truly the most blorbo of all time. Are you also an ADHD burned out gifted and talented submissive brat with a praise kink? Boy howdy, do I have a character that you are going to imprint on like a baby goose! Wei Wuxian also has a hearty dose of, "Does all the wrong things for all the right reasons." Also like who multiclasses in wizard (specifically necromancer) and bard? This fucking guy apparently.

4. Hythlodaeus - Final Fantasy 14

I am so normal about Hythlodaeus, I made an entire AU around him. That is a reasonable thing to do about a character that you like a normal amount, right? The idealized lost love, trapped in amber, untouchable but also incorruptible by the sands of time that keep eroding the edges of your soul. And then they gave him lavender dead anime mom hair!

5. Varric Tethras - Dragon Age

I literally have a semi-viral post about how much this character has consumed my thoughts. Rule Number 1 of Dragon Age: Varric lies. He's a charming scoundrel. He's loyal to a fault. He knows everything worth knowing about Kirkwall. And he's a dirty fucking liar. The only reason Varric isn't romanceable in DA2 is that no other romantic interest would get any attention if Varric was on the table. I desire him carnally.

6. Temeraire - Temeraire

My most precious and smartest boy! I adore Temeraire so much. Swear to god, I did not read the Temeraire books before creating Orion as a character, but the parallels are so strong, you would think I had! He's a bookworm, a little awkward but full of opinions, and he has an unwavering moral compass. Temeraire will forever be one of my favorite dragon characters.

7. Jaina Solo - Star Wars Legends

I will never forget what Disney took from me. As a weird, nerdy girl who was also kind of a guy growing up, Jaina meant so much to me. She was an active participant in the stories she was in. She was an ace pilot, a skilled mechanic, and a Jedi to boot. She had her dad's sense of humor and her mom's moral certainty. I thought she was the coolest. Still do.

8. Ansur - Baldur's Gate 3

Ansur! My beloved! If you had told me that the character I would be most obsessed with from BG3 would be an undead bronze dragon who you don't even know about until the third act -- actually, no that checks out. He was so in love, and so loyal, and so bitter at Balduron for embracing his corruption! And that reveal! All the build-up, only to find his bones and then wham! the entire narrative of the Emperor gets turned on its head. I still get chills. Also, they were absolutely fucking.

9. Viktor - Arcane

Listen, as a disabled, obsessive nerd with too much to do and not enough time to do it all in, Viktor is my gender. I love just about everything about Arcane, but Viktor's storyline is my favorite part. I, for one, am very excited to watch his fall from grace and further corruption. I have already forgiven all of his atrocities. I do not care. He's babygirl.

10. Clark Kent - DC

You thought I was going to say Jason or Dick for a DC character didn't you? (Or even Roy!) Those would all have been very reasonable expectations. I am pretty obsessed with all of them. However, Clark Kent is a very special character to me, and yes I specifically am focusing on the Clark persona and not the Supes persona. Yeah, they are ultimately the same guy, but I much prefer Superman stories grounded in his Clark Kent identity. Superman is at his best when he is attached to the mundane world by things like his job, his family, and his love for Lois. (Lois/Clark is the ultimate het ship. I will not be taking questions on this. It just is.) Clark is essentially a demigod, and yet he chooses to spend his time loving people and living as one of them, and I think that's really fucking cool.

[kiivg]

What your art process? Do you do the backgrounds first or last? How do you pick colors? Sorry if you answered ask like this before. I am just big fan of how the art is completed looks! I like looking at all the small things and people in background!

.Thank you so much!! I am trying very hard with my art at the moment to do a few new things, always trying to improve, and I'm super enjoying it at the moment despite the 8,000,000 year art block I had hahaa.

.There's a sort of in depth look at my process below, but also I have a gigantic grand total of 2 videos on my youtube channel and I do not know how to record on this tablet so idk what's going to happen there :)c.

.So initially, I don't ever just sit down and draw something, like I have to at least have a vague idea in my head of what I want to draw. Right now it's all Dragon Age because I replayed DA2 and actually managed to do the Fenris romance, and then I wanted to try his rivalmance because Anders' rivalmance is delicious but apparently Fenris' sucks so... Wah. Also Sebastian ehehehee.

.Anyway, (if these pictures are unreadable I will scream and upload them separately), Depending on how clear my idea is on what I want the picture to look like depends on how clear the initial sketches are that I do. Like I could try to draw a few different angles or a few different poses, or start drawing like, for example, Hawke dancing whilst playing the lute thinking he was going to be in a tavern, and then changing it to a more sombre version of him in Crestwood at night with a few of the Inquisitor's companions. Like I say a lot, I like to have a story in mind with each picture, so the Champion in Crestwood image lead to things like, does Hawke have a fling with Dorian where he's very clear about not being able to give him what he wants (re: a boyfriend), because he's still in love with Sebastian, despite them breaking up years ago (re: Anders blows up the chantry). And I think that adds up to a lot in the picture, because it lets you put more things in that fit into a context; even if the majority on that picture is covered up by people.

.If I don't know what I'm drawing entirely, then I'll draw it in sections, like I'll draw what I know I want to draw, and then kind of fit things around it. The exception being that if I have a particular angle I want to draw, then I will sketch only the thumbnail and then the background, and then fit the thumbnail sketch better to the background, and then carry on as usual. Most of the time, the background is just framing lines and maybe the vague outline of what could end up being a pillar, or a flag, or a statue, or those kinds of things.

.Somethings end up being like a foreground filler (Varric is surprisingly good for that haha), which add another layer to the picture and hide something that can be quite monotonous, like drawing Meeran's trousers in that last picture, I didn't feel like they were interesting enough, so I just put two people playing cards in the front. It makes it a lot better, like yes, I did draw Meeran’s trousers, and his boots, and I ended up removing them. 

.But that’s a lesson I had to learn. I can actually draw something, completely line it, and then decide, actually it’d be cool if this was there instead, and just erase part of my picture. Like so many times I’ve watched youtube timelapses and watched people sketch everything, and then line everything, and then colour everything, and nothing is ever thrown away. But you can throw it away if it doesn’t fit, and you don’t get special artist points for not doing that or whatever idk, imaginary artist rules are dumb.

.One thing I do want to say is that when I’m drawing, I do take several hours to do a picture. Because like the Fade picture, that background is so line heavy, so many lines, so much to colour in and shade and everything. But it looks so cool haha. And since I take several hours I can get bored of just linearting the same thing. I’m not going to enjoy drawing someone’s outfit from head to toe in one sitting. It’s just too samey for me, so I like to flit around the picture. I’ll draw Carver’s face, and then I’ll draw Hawke’s face, and then I’ll draw Carver’s hands, and then start on the Inquisitor. Not only does it keep my brain finely tuned to what I’m doing, it also gives me fresh eyes on what I’ve already drawn. 

.Adding to this, it’s also good to go back to the sketch when I’m slowing down on lineart. I don’t know about other people but I don’t use pen pressure, all my lines are 3px, that is extremely samey across the whole picture, it can become kind of repetitive. So I go back to the sketch, and if there’s nothing that I haven’t drawn properly or clearly enough (I hardly ever sketch hands/feet or the things connected to on the first go round) I just add something else in. Maybe someone could be wearing another belt, or some fancy embellishment on their clothing, or maybe a whole other dude is there in the background. Just the simple action of going from clean straight lines to messy chicken scratch kind of loosens up the hands and switches the brain round, and after I’ve sketched what I need to, I’m fresh on the lineart again.

.So onto colour, I’m not going to lie, I do a lot of colour picking initially from my old stuff haha, and then edit it from there. It allows me to kind of pick skin/hair tones and then build off of those, so I’m not just white canvas to colour immediately. I also tend to sick to a very loose colour gamut, ranging from desaturated blues, purples, pinks, reds, and sometimes desaturated yellows. I don’t like using orange and I don’t like using green, the exception being the Fade picture which HAS to be green so I’m brave, I left my comfort zone there, and it worked, lmao, whatever.

.But what I start with is a limited palette, I have maybe three or four colours to start with, and then I slightly change those colours depending on what I need. Like for an example, does Sebastian’s jacket need to be lighter than his pants or darker, then I can just grab the colours of his pants and then change it as per what I want.

.The secret, imho, is putting the colours of people into the surrounding area like I explain below. It makes their skin or their hair or their eye colours fit in to the picture; it’s like an alternate version to reflective light (I think?). Yes this character does have blue eyes, but in this picture? Purple. Yes this character does have grey hair, but in this picture? It’s golden. It’s reflective light, it’s a colour gamut, and it’s colour theory. Which I’m not an expert on and other people can probably explain it better :).

.Throughout the picture’s process I will tend to change the colours of some things, or add layers of “Darker Colour” or “Subtract” or all those fancy things because I sort of know how they work. I used to use the “Soft Overlay(?)” but I prefer “Lighter/Darker colour” because it will only change a percentage of the image. Like for the picture above I made the whites of Sebastian and his wife’s clothing more yellow and subsequently warmer using the “Darker Colour” filter. If you experiment with those, you’ll learn how to use them how you like.

.For changing the colours of things (like Varric’s coat or the wine tray), it’s mostly about trying to balance the image out. It added some darker elements to the picture above because everything was no longer super pale. It frames Sebastian, his wife, and Hawke in a better way, they are essentially the brightest things in the picture.

.I also found out that personally I like to make things dark and the add highlights as opposed to the other way around. I feel like adding an orange light can be more beneficial than adding a blue shadow. But you could also do both which looks banging. Another thing with colour is the actual colour of the lineart. I usually take the darkest colour on the picture, and put it at anywhere between 15% and 50% on a layer above that only affects the lineart. (Can’t remember what that’s called exactly oops.) but that also helps to tie the picture in together.

.Anyway!! Thank you again! I’m having a lot of fun drawing and have gained a lot of followers lately, hello :). I’m always open to questions (especially about my OCs god if you ask me about them I will just be ecstatic) and I love reading all your tags and knowing all the pain I caused with that picture of Carver in the Fade >:)c hehhehehehh.

.Hopefully this is helpful? Or Interesting? Or, if this is TLDR: Sketch, lineart; you can do those things simultaneously, colour gamuts are your friend, the state of your art is not permanent, and I love you :).

[greypetrel]

!! for the hand in hand starters, how about ∆ HEAL ∆   -  sender treats a wound on the receiver’s hand

Hello! ✨

No character stated? Uh. Let’s do something new, shall we. And since last prompt was light and very fluff...

Also I honestly don’t know how but in my first DA2 play I triggered Anders’ romance by mistake. I was running after Isabela and suddenly Anders tried to kiss me and I was there bitch what. Of course I kept it.

Tis the prompt list

∆ HEAL ∆   -  sender treats a wound on the receiver’s hand

Raina staggered back, bumping her back against the wall -she didn’t want to know what exactly fell when she did, she just felt something splorch under her boot and she prayed it was a patch of snow that hadn’t melted yet. She had no heart to peek down and look, she was better without looking. She fixed on her adversary instead, raising up her fists against her face, spitting on the side as the last of the thugs got close by, blabbering something she didn’t even care to listen to. She was panting, her left thigh hurt if she put her weight on her leg, and as per usual, that spot on her left ribcage had a bruise as well, with two or three others around herself. None on her back, tho, of which she was proud.

So much for her grand return to the Hanged Man after Anders finally declared her stomach healed and her good to go out. He would have probably killed her for running head-first into a brawl after her second beer of the evening, but in the moment she couldn’t care less. Things were finally back to normal, she felt alive again, adrenaline rushing and keeping her active. And she hadn’t even needed to put that much effort in finding the fight. Or well, starting it, but those were details. She loved Kirkwall.

She waited in guard for the last thug to approach her – he was a tall and buff mercenary always so quick in whistling at her and Merrill whenever they came around the tavern, big words, apparently no neck and slow feet, not intelligent enough to guess that if she knocked out his three friends, chances were that she would have done the same with him as well. But oh no, he was the last in town to know exactly who killed the Arishok. Raina wasn’t complaining.

He stepped up, gained speed -as much as he could- and raised his fist, ready to punch her… And she ducked last minute, crouching and slipping just below his fist and leaving it colliding against the wall where her nose was before. How unfortunate. She didn’t lose time, and spun around at once. He just started screaming in pain that she hit him, slapping hard against his right ear to make him lose balance and kicking him in the kidney, from behind, hard with her knee, building momentum by spinning on herself.

He fell on the ground, and she punched his nose -she heard the crack of the bone breaking and ignored the sharp pain in her knuckles as they collided against the skull. He was on the ground, breathing hard and holding his nose with both hands, groaning loudly in gurgling noises, throat full of blood. Raina panted hard, spitting again somewhere and waiting for him to cross her eyes.

“Say one more comment to any girl and I’ll get back to finish the work. Got it, Casanova?”

She smiled at him, leaving clear that she wasn’t joking. He luckily got the message, and nodded, not trying to get up again. Luckily for her, because her hand was throbbing pretty painfully, and she was tired. Too much time in convalescence, and surely there wasn’t anything tugging in her stomach. Nothing at all, uh-uh.

She nodded once, declared it had been a pleasure talking of basic decency with them, and as the group of thugs was raising back from the ground and scampering away scared from her, she entered back the tavern.

Cheers and whistles welcomed her in, and in all answer she curtseyed, as graciously and elegantly as her mother tried to teach her ever since she was a child. She had listened, just refused to do it for the Chantry Mother in Lothering, driving her mother crazy and Garrett laughing under his hand.

Satisfied with herself and feeling a little less cranky than when she entered the tavern, she went straight for the counter, winking at Corff and asking him whatever hard liquor tasted less like piss he had.

She heard someone calling her from behind, but honestly? She didn’t want the company. Not this evening. This evening was for getting in the first fight on the way, no daggers, no weapons, just good old punches and kicks, and getting horribly drunk. She killed the fucking Arishok and suddenly everyone in Hightown liked her, the hypocrites, she had sex with one of her best friends on a whim and said best friend somehow didn’t hate her, was ok with the thing, just told her to settle things up with the other friend she really liked and had sex with and tell her what she decided. And who never came to check on her whilst she healed. Not when she was conscious at least, she’s been told the piratess has been there in the first night, after they got back from the palace. But then? Nothing.

And Raina Hawke was never good at talking about feelings. And feelings, with Bela, were very clearly out of the discussion. So, she would have done the sensible thing anyone in her fucked up position would do. Drown the feelings that shouldn’t be there in… It was clear, it could be whatever spirit brewed in a cellar in Darktown- and get on with her life. Decided what she wanted to do with her life.

Maybe the answer was on the bottom of that glass.

But when she drowned it, all in one gulp, there was none, just her throat burning hot, and her hand hurting really bad. Fantastic, the thugs had hard heads for real. She shook the offending appendage in the air, breathing out the too strong liquor and, finally, assessing the situation. Her knuckles were angry and red, and the blood was hers too, gushing out from a couple of bad cuts across the bones. Right when her fingers bent, and she bent them enough not to let the cut close. Fantastic.

She grunted, rubbing angrily her hand against her jacket -it was dirty anyway- and asking for another drink. Maybe it would have been the right one for an answer.

Isabela, tho, arrived before her drink, casually leaning her back against the counter, right beside her.

“What next, convincing Martin to lower his prices by gnawing at his ears?”

“You know me, I live to serve.”

“A difficult course of action. If Anders entered now and saw you like this, he’d tie you to the bed.”

“He wished.”

She snorted, mirthlessly. Feeling horrible right after for the sarcasm she used. She didn’t know if it was already cool joking on it, or it was too soon after he tried to kiss her and she had to tell him she wasn’t interested. In boys in general. Never been.

Her liquor arrived, giving her at least a distraction. Another shot right down her throat, all of a sudden. It hurt less than the first, her throat probably numbing. The silence felt forced and tense, and she was about to ask for maybe another couple of small drinks, when Bela stopped her, placing a hand on her elbow and pulling a little.

“Come on, Champion, let me see that hand.”

“What for.”

“We wouldn’t want Blondie to throw a fit because you’re undoing all his hard work.”

She laughed, but there was little joy in it, and she refused to look at her in the eyes, carefully looking at a random point on the other side of the room. Raina nodded and followed her, snaking through other adventors and usual faces to climb up the stairs, Isabela leading her to the room she inhabited. It wasn’t the first time, Raina knew what to expect. Few things scattered untidily around with little care, trinkets on surfaces of little value, just to sway thieves so uncareful to go stealing from her, just the bed neatly done.

And what she met was a tidy room, knick-knacks at their usual place, but no clothes, bad romance novels, papers and quills and tools around. An opened sack tossed in a corner, evidently full. So that was it. Raina tried to ignore the sting of knowing she was leaving, didn’t comment in the least to anything she saw. She just politely asked for permission to ender the Captain’s quarters, in a mock salute, and went to sit on the foot of the bed, perching on the border, when she was allowed in. She didn’t take off the jacket, but just focused on her boots as Bela retrieved from her sack the small lacquered box she kept her medicinal tools in. Because a girls must be ready for everything. And brought to the bed the bowl of water from the vanity, with a clean cloth.

She offered her hand when she asked, not saying anything but a nod of her head and letting her work, washing it thoroughly and disinfecting it with a pomade she had for the occasions. It stung, it really stung, and Raina hissed through her teeth, instinctively trying to retract her hand.

“For a person who gets in so many fights, your pain tolerance is incredibly low.” She giggles, and if Raina had wanted to hurt herself more, she could stop and consider that behind her words there was some affection. But, no.

“Why being predictable, after all. Predictability is boring.”

“Exactly, why.”

Silence fell again as Isabela carefully rubbed the pomade on her knuckles, fingers very delicate on hers and pressing a little on the meaty part of her hand, in a proper massage. It shouldn’t have been so intimate, none of them even closed the door. But they’d been there in other situations, none of them had involved luggages ready for departure, and there hadn’t been any “I almost died to save your life” part yet.  When she finished, Bela didn’t let go of the hand, taking it in both of hers and placing it on her lap. Raina didn’t turn to look and let her do, stubbornly silent.

“Listen. I’m… I wanted to thank you for what you did. All of it.”

“I should thank you for coming back.”

“Yeah, sure.” She snorted. “You could have done it without me. You and Aveline could have stormed the Keep on your own, add your brother in the mix and neither the ashes would have been left.”

“I… “ I didn’t care enough to do it. Weren’t it for you, I would have left the city to the Qunari. She can’t tell her anything of that sort, tho. “… I don’t think so.” Better. Less pining. Maybe.

She heard sighing from her right, some more fumbling in the box, before something leant on her knuckles. A rapid glance on the side showed clean bandages being wrapped around it. The discourse looked concluded, but if Bela was really leaving, she had to ask. She needed to ask.

“You never came to say hi, ever since the Keep.” There. She couldn’t look at her anymore. “Why so?”

The work on her hand stopped.

“I am sorry. I… I was busy.”

Oh. So it was that. Busy. Well, she could understand it. After all, they had stolen back a relic from a gang of bandits whose boss was still around and knew who did it. And she also had had to organise her journey. Of course. Raina couldn’t reply, too busy, herself, to suppress everything, every nasty, self-deprecating and uncomfortable feeling that was arising in her throat. She wished it was alcohol, but she didn’t drink enough. She swallowed it.

“Well, you missed Anders almost getting along with Fenris, and Merrill playing doctor. It was fun. And Wicked Grace on my bed all together in our nightwear. Nothing much, anyway, we could do it again.” A pause. “Well, not the Anders and Fenris not trying to jump at each other’s throat, that would be difficult to recreate.”

“Merrill told me.”

“About the pyjama party? Yes, that was fun, Garrett and her built a huge pillow fort, Beowoof destroyed running right at it. It was-”

“She told me about you. And her.”

“… Ah.”

She froze, not replying in the least. And what to tell her? Yeah she had been crying and she was cute and I fucked it up but maybe not so much.

“She’s a good one, Hawke she’ll… She’ll be good for you.”

It hurt, honestly. It hurt even more than that luggage ready for departure.

“What about…?”

“We had our fun together. But that was it. Fun, right?”

“Yeah…” No, it was not. Not for her. “It’s been fun.”

She didn’t sound convinced, not even to herself. But, whatever doubts she had is ignored, swept away in that pile of unsaid and unexpressed that’s raising so high this evening. And with that, Bela deemed the bandage done, and patted delicately the back of her hand, satisfied.

“There, good as new. And that’s it.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I see.”

“It’s… I can’t stay here, Hawke.”

“I understand.”

“Castillon’s men will look for me.”

“Of course.”

“And… I don’t want to drag you in. I already did too much damage to you.”

“I was the one to follow you and not Aveline.”

“It wasn’t Aveline you almost died in a one-on-one combat.”

And, Raina had no words to reply to that. She just slouched forward, propping her elbows on her thighs and crossing her fingers between them, observing with focus a larger crack between two of the planks of the pavement, following the nodes in the woods.

“I- Listen, I’m not good for you. Haven’t been from the start. We both know it. I told you I didn’t want feelings.”

“You did.”

“And, you found another person. It’s gonna be fine. Someone has to think of your own good, while you’re so busy thinking of everyone else’s…”

“It makes sense.”

She felt her eyes burning, and clenched her jaw, hard, not to cry. What had Merrill done to her, that she now cried at every given chance? So many years in carefully avoiding it and now, twice in a week? She hated Kirkwall.

A hand clenched on her shoulder -contracted to the limit shoulder, but the fingers managed to squeeze nonetheless.

“So, goodbye, Hawke. And thank you, really. For everything. I’ll… I’ll leave you here, take your time. It’s the least I can do.”

And with that, Isabela rose up, mattress swaying a little as her weight left it. One step, another, another one as the Captain reached the door, hinges squeaking-

“It doesn’t have to be one over the other.” Raina blurted out, unwillingly. She hated how desperate she looked. But she could care later. “I mean, if you two are ok… It works with both, for me. All three of us. If you’re ok.”

There, out in the open, the forbidden dream she couldn’t even admit with herself. Drooling out of her lips before she can even think about what she was saying. Her heart thumped so loud in her ears, nose pricked as the urge to cry got more and more urgent every second Isabela didn’t speak. But again, she suppressed tears for twenty years. She could resist some more, contracting her fingers on themselves until the knuckles still visible became white. And waiting.

“… Goodbye, Hawke. Thank you.”

And with that, the door closed behind Bela, and Raina was left to herself and her tears, bursting out suddenly and more violently than she would have expected. She didn’t care if she could be heard -the walls of that place were horribly thin- or of whatever. She just slipped to the ground, pressed her face between her thighs, and hugged her knees, crying and crying until she had no more to give.

By all means, all Isabela said made perfect, absolute sense. But this was Kirkwall, and this was her, and nothing in that city or in her life followed rules that made any sense. So, she just dragged herself to her feet, and marched right out of the tavern, straight to home.

There was alcohol that was more reliable, at home, for sure.

[the-technicolor-whiscash]

It’s always pretty funny going back to playing da2 after playing other games esp more recent ones cause like I just started another playthrough of horizon zero Dawn which is this beautifully crafted universe with rich characters and deep worldbuilding and stunning graphics and it’s like wow this is a good game. And then I boot up da2 on my pc and I’m crawling through identical dungeons that look like they’re carved out of cat vomit while also making friends with characters with some of the most insane moral dilemmas and life stories you’ve ever seen and it’s like oh yeah. This bitch needed some more time in the oven. The bread ain’t done proving Bestie you gotta let this bitch rise before you can bake it.

I still love da2. I would take a bullet for each of the companions. No exceptions even if I don’t like them as much if they’re Hawke’s friend we’re all fuckin staying together whether we like it or not. But boy. Boy.

[ars0nism]

me having 100+ approval with zevran and neutral with literally everyone else except wynne for some reason???

[thessalian]

Thess vs Dragon Age Executive Dysfunction

Right. Now that I’ve done my first proper, 100% completionist playthrough of Dragon Age: Origins, with the Golems of Amgarrak and Witch Hunt and everything, it’d be a total waste if I didn’t continue and see what happens with DA2 when those things are completed rather than assumed. And see what happens in DA:I when I’m not having to rely on the Keep which occasionally decides that either Alistair left you or you died when that isn’t what happened. I mean, total waste.

Right?

RIGHT.

Okay also maybe I just want to play DA2 and the fun parts of DA:I in an All Molly, All The Time sort of way. And maybe liveblog because it’s been awhile since I liveblogged a Molly!Hawke and people seem to like that kind of thing.

I can do an All Meep, All The Time Jallira playthrough of the series later. Because that’s the other temptation - boot up DA:O again and start fresh as the world’s meepiest, most shy elven mage getting booted into the whole Warden-ship Because Reasons. And I’ve never liveblogged a Jallira before.

......DAMNIT, EXECUTIVE DYSFUNCTION, ONE THING AT A TIME.

...Fuck this, I’m flipping a coin. Or rather, rolling a d20 because that’s what I have to hand. Odds - DA2 Molly!Hawke; evens - DA:O Meep!Warden.

*shakeshaketoss*

That’s a two. Meep!Warden it is. Then I’ll have two proper, 100% completionist playthroughs of Dragon Age: Origins to choose from when I replay the other games!

Because I don’t give my executive dysfunction enough to work with. Yeesh.

Right. ALL MEEP, ALL THE TIME. Meet the ... well, not ‘newest’ Hole in the Headcanon archetype since she’s been around for over a decade and versions of her have been seen in Star Wars: The Old Republic, The Secret World, and Pillars of Eternity. But certainly the quietest. We start with Jallira Surana. (Because Jalliras are Jedi, clerics or mages.)

[dismalzelenka]

KNIFE PLAY KNIFE PLAY KNI sorry I was worried I'd forget this. happy Friday! anyway KNIFE PLAY KNIFE PLAY K

ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE. This uh. This whole thing is going under a cut ok. (ahahah. a cut. see what i did there).

tags are as follows: knifeplay, as requested. bloodplay. breathplay. pain kink. biting. spicy roleplay. magic during sex. temperature play. anal fingering. anal sex. kinda sorta double penetration. cuddly aftercare.

Behold, the only scenario I will ever accept of Hawke stabbing Anders at the end of DA2, and the filthy, filthy retaliation afterwards. :>

neither safe, nor sane, but definitely consensual. read at your own risk. happy @dadrunkwriting.

Journey jolts out of a dead sleep to a hand tightening around her throat. She draws magic to her fingers in a panic, struggling beneath the weight of someone pinning her to the mattress, and discovers her wrists are secured tightly to the bedposts behind with rope so scratchy she swears it's already beginning to break the skin.

"Shh," Anders whispers, lips inches from her ear. She relaxes with a sigh of relief, heart still thudding with fear-fueled adrenaline, and then he jerks a knee between her legs and claps a hand roughly over her mouth. "Did you think I would forget?"

—

Kirkwall burns around them. What's left of the Chantry lies in ruins, a great and magnificent backdrop of destruction that floods her chest with a victorious sort of elation.

There can be no compromise.

Well, they bloody well can't now, can they?

Anders sits on a nearby crate, shoulders slumped in a perfect picture of contrition. It's unbelievable, really, how convincing his deception is with a spirit inside of him who refuses to let him dabble in falsehood, but then again, she's always been particularly convincing when it comes to Justice. He likes her quite a lot, after all.

And besides. After what the three of them had just accomplished together, he owes her this one.

She supposes she should shore up her own mask before anyone steps too close and manages to spot the victory in her eyes. Better make this big.

"I've always been ready to die for the cause," Anders says morosely as she approaches.

"I know," she says. She makes a show of trembling hands when she pulls the dagger from her boot. "I'm sorry, Anders."

To anyone watching, her knifework is clumsy, fumbled with grief and fear and hilariously fabricated disbelief. She traces her fingertips against his back — to steady herself for this visibly awful deed, and also to find the exact place he'd shown her that would do minimal damage he could heal stealthily without drawing attention to himself — and drives the knife between his ribs. Exactly the way they'd practiced.

She leans in to kiss his temple and whisper her last words into his ear. It's all a very tragically romantic scene. Varric is furiously scribbling notes, she's absolutely certain of it.

"I'll punish you for this later, love," he chokes under his breath.

She runs her hand (mournfully, she hopes) through his tousled, sweaty hair and touches her lips to the crown of his head.

"I'm counting on it, sweetheart," she whispers, and yanks the knife out of his back with an exaggerated grunt.

—

Journey bucks against the way Anders holds her down. She loves the way his fingers feel, long and slender and squeezing against her neck just enough to send her heart racing. She can feel the arousal already beginning to build, the slick warmth pooling between her thighs at the way he grinds his knee into her cunt and trails his teeth menacingly (probably) down the slope of her jaw. His breath ghosts against her chin, his loose hair brushing across her cheeks as he claims her mouth for a bruising kiss. He bites down on her lip just hard enough to draw the tiniest amount of blood, breathes in her gasp of pain with a soft chuckle as he releases her throat and traces his fingers down her face.

It had been almost two weeks since that night, two weeks since he'd breathed a tantalizing promise into the ash-dusted Hightown air and offered not another word of it since. If he hadn't brought it up in a few more days, she'd probably have cracked and broached the topic herself, but now she's glad she's kept her mouth shut.

Really, this is the best sort of surprise.

She catches his lip between her teeth in retaliation and tugs at it greedily. "I was hoping you wouldn't," she gasps. She'd intended it as a bratty sort of statement, but the way he trails his hand down her chest and slings a thin sheen of ice across her stomach sends her coherent thoughts spiraling into smoke. Her hands ball into fists, wrists tugging at the ropes burning friction into her skin as she writhes beneath his touch. "Fuck—" she whimpers.

"Did you think you would get away with something so audacious?" he purrs into her ear. "That I would let you drive a knife between my ribs without consequences?"

"It's — oh, fuck — what you deserve for being such a smarmy arsehole," she pants with a cheeky grin. "Did it hurt? Did you ache at my betrayal?"

"I've never been so heartbroken," he says, his lips trailing wet kisses down her neck before his teeth clamp down on her skin hard enough to make her yelp in surprise. "I've dreamed of revenge ever since."

"Have — have you, now?"

She's long since accepted that her particular proclivities occasionally get very questionable. She knows who she is, and she can't help the way her thighs twist together in anticipation at what he could mean by that.

The sharp bite of cold steel trailing down the outside of her thigh draws out a surprised and needy gasp. "Oh, fuck me," she breathes, eyes fluttering closed in excitement.

"I intend to," he says. He trails the blade down her leg before drawing it back up to her hip, pressing just hard enough to cut a searing line into her flesh before sealing it back up with his magic. "Did you know, the human body contains roughly sixty thousand miles of blood vessels?" He traces the tip of the blade across her stomach, numbed by the ice he's only just dissipated. "I have so many choices."

"I'm not — hnng — not even going to ask how you know that," she gasps.

A gentle draw of the blade against her belly blooms the warmth of freshly drawn blood against her skin. She shudders under the sensation, the sudden agony melting into a wave of euphoria that only fuels the insistent throbbing between her legs.

Every carefully placed cut is precise, every draw of blood followed by the prickle of skin knitting back together that she ordinarily hates but is too turned on now to mind much. The discomfort is nothing beneath the burn of arousal flooding her body.

He latches his lips onto her nipple and sucks, dragging it between his teeth before laving his tongue over it, and when he grips her other one between his thumb and forefinger and twists, she lets out a desperate cry. "Oh, fuck, please, fuck me," she gasps, thighs twisting against one another in needy desperation.

"I don't think you've earned that yet," he growls into her ear. She squeezes her eyes shut and swallows her whine as he drags the knife between her tits and cuts a fine line up her sternum. It stings, it burns, it hurts, and then pleasure ripples through her body, shivers sending goosebumps down her arms, and she needs — oh, Maker, she needs him to touch her, needs it so badly she forgets how to breathe.

"You shouldn't move so much, love." He pulls back just enough to trail the tip of the knife across her cheek. "Never know what you might break by mistake." The blood itches as it drips down her face. He seals the cut that drew it and carves another one beneath it, shallow and delicate against her skin. "Do you know how hard it was?" he whispers. "To play dead while staunching the hole you poked in my right lung from driving the knife a hair too deep?"

"Aren't you—" She bites back a whine when he pulls the blade across her shoulder, a fresh wave of pain cascading down her arm. "Aren't you supposed to be the best spirit healer in all of Thedas?"

"Mm, didn't make it bloody hurt any less, though, did it?"

She means to respond, but the words die in her throat when he repeats the motion three more times in succession down her upper arm before sealing them all up at once. She's floating, she thinks dimly, in a wavy haze of stinging pleasure, and all she can think about is the desperate ache between her legs and how uncomfortably empty she still is.

And then he's trailing slick fingers up the cleft of her arse, teasing and prodding at her entrance, and when he finally slips one finger in, she can't hold back the litany of pleas that fall from her lips.

Her cunt is so fucking empty, it aches.

"This is your punishment, remember?" he murmurs. "I intend to take my time with your suffering."

"Fuck you," she manages to grit out. He silences her with a second finger in her arse, setting the knife aside and swallowing her moans in a needy and overwhelming kiss. She grinds desperately against his hand as he fucks her open, and when the tip of his thumb grazes her clit she can't help the way she yanks at her bindings with a frustrated groan.

His fingers are warm and sizzling with magic when he pushes her legs up and lines up his cock to her arse, the head stretching her with a pleasant sort of burn that leaves her babbling, begging, pleading for more. "Please, please, fuck, Anders—"

When he finally begins to fuck her in earnest, she tips her head back and loses herself in it, in the way he stretches and fills her with euphoric friction, in the obscene slap of flesh and the way her fingers find the ropes tugging at her wrists, hooking around them and gripping for dear life.

And then, he stops. She swears violently and yanks at her bonds, but he just laughs. He doesn't pull out, just reaches over her, and when curiosity wins out over her arousal and forces her eyes open, she can't help but whimper in anticipation.

He's grasped the knife by the blade, a shimmering barrier protecting his fingers from the sharp edge, and positioned it at her cunt with a wild grin on his face. The pommel is cold against hot, aching flesh, and she groans when it goes in. She can feel every rounded ridge of the hilt against the barrier between her cunt and where his cock is nestled in her arse, every moment of friction sending her to new heights of arousal.

He begins to fuck her again, pistoning in and out of her with both his cock and the hilt of her blade in a rhythm that sends sparks racing down her spine. She's so close, she's sobbing in desperation, a fresh litany of begging falling from her lips with every thrust. It's so good, so good she can hardly think beyond the pressure building in her belly, uncoiling in her core, rippling out through every inch of her skin.

"Beautiful," he whispers. He stops thrusting with the dagger and simply holds it in place, and she can feel the way the magic radiates from the barrier he's holding around it as it buzzes against her flesh. His own thrusts become harder, less controlled as his breath catches in his throat, and when he comes in her arse with a flood of wet warmth he sends a pulse of shock into her through the knife that drives her over the edge with an unrestrained wail that practically echoes on the walls of their room.

Their rented room.

He pulls the knife out of her and tosses it aside where it falls on the floor with a clatter before collapsing on top of her with a breathless laugh as he claps his hand across her mouth. "That's one way to wake up all of the neighbors," he pants, head falling against her neck, lips finding her pulse point for kisses far more delicate than any he'd given her all night.

"Please," she mumbles. "We're probably never coming back here again after tonight anyway. Isn't — fuck, that was amazing — isn't that half the fun of being on the run?"

"Maker, I love you." He nuzzles his nose into her cheek and trails kisses across her jaw before pressing his lips against hers. "So much."

"I love you too." She returns his kiss with the gentleness he deserves, a soft contrast to the way he'd just fucked the absolute life out of her, admittedly, but the adoration in his eyes draws affection from her as naturally as breathing. Love isn't a strong enough word for what she feels, for him and Justice and everything they've shared the past few years.

"Have I been punished enough, then?" she asks sleepily as Anders pulls out of her fully and rolls beside her before pulling her into his arms with a contented hum. "Or does Justice get a turn next?"

"You are insatiable," he mutters. "I shudder to think how you'd be if you had Grey Warden stamina."

She snorts as she feels the telltale hum of creation magic as he checks her over for lingering injuries. She's probably got blood all over the sheets, but she won't have so much as a scratch on her come morning. The bruises on her neck, though — he always leaves those for her to keep. To treasure.

"We should clean up before we sleep," he says softly, his breath tickling her ear as he leans in for another kiss on her temple.

"Yeah," she mumbles, with no intention of getting up whatsoever. "Probably."

He shakes her gently by the shoulder with an amused chuckle. "Are you going to get out of bed now, then?"

Journey snorts and burrows further under the covers against his chest. "Absolutely fucking not."

[theluckywizard]

Hiii Lucky!! Rawke you say, hehehe - "Boots soaked through, toes going numb" from Winter is Coming. Bonding over how much the world seems to hate you today, is the best kind of bonding. XD

Thank you Wren! For @dadrunkwriting I whipped up this bit for my distraction fic during which Rose and Hawke's mothers try to fix them up during DA2, Act 2. I'm not working on it chronologically anymore, but here's the first part from last DADWC! Rating: Teen WC: 1355 CW: None

Hawke stares, his jaw seldom agape this way, astonished to see the fussy looking ingenue tenuously descending a drainpipe from her guest bedroom balcony. Gone is the stiff green dress. Gone is the perfectly pinned hair. Instead it streaks down past her left shoulder in a long splintering braid. Dusting off her hands, Rose Trevelyan looks up the length of pipe she just climbed down, turns to stride into the night, and then walks straight into Hawke’s chest.

“Oh!” she cries, clutching her nose as he steadies her reflexively, unable to contain his laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he manages. “I saw you scrambling down from up there and thought perhaps— well I don’t know what I thought. I—” Staring at Rose, her hair loosely braided, he feels that same whisper of familiarity, but it’s more potent. It couldn’t be. He picks up her hand on the off chance, turning it over. But there’s nothing.

“I’ll have that back, thanks,” she says, a little put out by his strange reaction.

“Forgive me,” says Hawke, watching her tug on some gloves. He purses his lips and decides to pivot the conversation. “So. Climb down a lot of downspouts?”

“A few,” she answers, the corner of her lips turning. That can’t be all. He presses for more.

“Off somewhere special?”

“Not really. I thought I’d wander around a bit.”

“At night… in Kirkwall,” he says, the doubt in his voice concealing his utter amusement.

“Well I can’t wander around during the day. Mother would pitch a fit,” she says, annoyed to be prodded. “I overheard you say you were going someplace called the Hanged Man. Can I come?”

Hawke’s brow lifts in surprise. It’s not as though he isn’t surrounded by surprising companions, but his mother’s never tried to fix him up with any of them.

“Look,” she starts. “I’m sure you’re off to see your lover or whatever. And we don’t need to pretend that either of us are actually interested in settling, let alone with one another. But if you’re headed that way, perhaps you wouldn’t mind me tagging along. I can take care of myself once I’m there. I’d do anything for a moment out from under my mother’s vigilant bloody thumb.”

“So you’ve bought the rumors,” he chuckles. “Wild Fereldan man beds half of Kirkwall.”

“They do tend to get more ridiculous with each pass, I suppose,” she answers, donning that blazing smirk again. He gestures in the direction of Lowtown and she falls into step beside him. Peeking over, he notes the handsome leathers she wears under an enormous cozy looking knit wool cowl.

“What if your mother finds out you’re gone?” he asks.

“Oh I’ll blame you,” she says. “Obviously.”

A snicker snuffs through his nose.

“Do you always bring your sword and shield to the tavern?” she asks. Hawke stifles the next laugh, clutching his hand over his mouth before peering over at her. She looks up at him without a speck of irony, genuinely curious.

“I’m surprised you’re unfamiliar with the perils of Kirkwall. Given the fact that your mother expects you to live here…”

“I’m sure she conveniently forgot,” replies Rose. “She’s been trying to get rid of me for nearly five years now.”

“Must be desperate if she’s pawning you off on the ne’er-do-well son of an apostate.”

“Nonsense. She’s more than happy to overlook your rapscallion ways if there’s enough money and prestige involved.”

“Rapscallion?” Hawke grins. “I suppose if the shoe fits…”

“So how did you get talked into this monstrousness?” she asks, brushing her braid over her lips as if in thought.

“Unlike you, I don’t seem to be able to tell my mother no. I knew it would make her happy to see an old friend. And to at least look like I’m trying,” he says.

“That’s—“

“Adorable? I know,” he cuts in, flashing a smile that he hopes is marginally dashing for this surprising lady.

“I was going to say a little pathetic.”

“Oh. Well. That too of course.”

As they make their way through plazas and tree lined boulevards, he notices there’s a swing in her step that belies her upbringing. It’s graceful in its own way, but hardly the delicate glide he would have expected from someone of her background.

“So you’re a treasure hunter?”

“You do something one time,” he mutters, letting his head fall back. He fixes bright eyes upon her. “Yes. I went on a treasure expedition. And yes, it made me outrageously wealthy. But— that’s not what I am.”

Rose seems to be waiting for him to say more.

“Well, you can’t leave me hanging. What are you then?”

“Bit of this and that,” he answers with a shrug.

“This and that?”

“It was different when I needed to pay the bills. Mercenary work. Smuggling. Whatever brought the most coin without making me hate myself at the end of the day. And now…”

“A mercenary? You killed people for money?” she asks. He can’t decide if she looks galled or fascinated. Perhaps a bit of both. 

“That would be an assassin. I— made sure people paid their debts mostly. But I wound up spending my own money half the time when the people in question turned out to be down on their luck. In too deep with the wrong sorts trying to carve out a life in this infernal place. So I suppose that makes me a terrible merc.”

He sees her lips twist in a smile she’s fighting.

“And what do you do now that you’re fabulously rich?”

“Drink and carouse mainly,” he says with a grin.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s the whole of it.” Rose stares expectantly, crossing her arms.

“Solve the odd mystery. Run errands. Stick my fingers into pies I later regret.”

“Stick your fingers into pies?” she asks, raising her brow. “And do the pies feel the same regret?”

“Andraste’s blazing— Isabela’s going to like you.”

“Isabela. Was she the tall one wearing half an outfit under her coat or the quiet Dalish one?”

“Captain Half-an-Outfit herself.”

Hawke finds himself telling her all about his friends, a motley collection who barely get along unless they’re drinking or Varric is around to help him smooth everyone’s ruffled feathers with distractions. He’s not sure who exactly will feel up for the Hanged Man after the kerfuffle with Dougal and his goons, but he’s counting on at least a few of them being there and this poor woman had best be prepared for the madness.

As they saunter down the street, they’re accosted by a sudden burst of snow, falling in a sideways waltz on a wet breeze kicked up from the harbor. The flakes cling to one another and then to Hawke and Rose, their hair and clothes quickly dusted with it. It doesn’t take long for the streets of Hightown to grow perilous for leather soles, but Hawke consoles himself that soon the carefully laid cobbles will  dwindle away and then disappear entirely as they make their way into Lowtown. When she nearly slips, recovering herself in an awkward dance of flailing limbs before clinging to his arm for support, he makes it a point to slip a few minutes later, landing on his arse hard enough that he’s sure it will bruise.

Rose extends him a hand, reaching for him, a pitying smile brightening her face. He can’t help but admire it from his spot in the slop on the ground. The soft indigo gray of her wide eyes, the spray of freckles all over, the way she looks at him.

He had seen her before. In that haunting blazing dream of his. 

“You,” he utters softly.

“Me?”

“I mean— you— look rather fetching in inclement weather,” he says, burying the thrill that hums inside him.

“You don’t owe me any sort of compliments, Messere,” she says, pulling him up with surprising ease. “We don’t have to pretend.”

“Right. Good. Terrible look on you anyway, snow. Does nothing for your complexion.”

She laughs, hiding it behind a fist tucked inside her jacket. In spite of the dream, in spite of his sudden certainty, Rose Trevelyan looks perfectly darling.

“I think the slush is seeping into my boots. Can we get a move on before my toes go numb?”

“By all means,” he says. They carry on bantering about all manner of things, passing the time so agreeably that he stumbles into the nexus of Lowtown that contains his favorite haunt. He smiles at this adorable creature as he considers this farce of a matchmaking scheme might not be the dreck he though it might be. 

And then he remembers all his friends who could be at the Hanged Man. Their brutally impertinent looks. Their filters carried away on vapors of Antivan Sip-Sip. All the rancid gossip and nonsense they might foist upon her.

Oh fuck.

[notabloodmage]

Even then. (DA2 fic)

doin some writing on my canon version of the Hawke family!! this is kind of messy but i needed to get some ideas down  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ anyway listen to me there is nothing in canon that says malcolm hawke couldn’t be an elf @ bioware let me have this

They hadn’t planned to settle in Lothering. Leandra was five months pregnant, the plan was to keep pressing towards the wilds, in hopes of finding a band of Chasind or Avvar that wouldn’t be so opposed to Malcolm’s magical abilities. The prospect frightened Leandra, but Malcolm insisted it was their best shot at a Templar-free life.

The storm had caught them off guard. 

The torrential downpour was on them suddenly, and all at once. Malcolm had enough mana remaining to protect them from lightning, but there was no way for him to subtly shield them from the cold that was creeping in through the wet. Ferelden was not always an easy place to live, but it had to be better than Kirkwall. 

At least that’s what Malcolm repeated to himself as he scooped his firstborn child up into his arms, trying to ignore the way his back ached from days upon days of travel. The long nights of sleeping on the cold hard ground probably weren’t helping either.  

They’d passed several small settlements on the road, but they always tried to avoid contact with other people. People didn’t even need to suspect him of being a mage--being an elf was bad enough for a lot of the country folk. He couldn’t take five steps in a town without being accused of stealing, it seemed. 

They always tried to sleep beneath the stars if they could, or in a tent if they thought it would be well hidden enough. Leandra had accused him of being paranoid, now that they were already so far from home but as far as Malcolm was concerned you couldn’t be too careful. 

He had done so much--sacrificed all of his ideals-- just to get them this far, and Maker be damned if he was going to be caught now. 

Still, in a storm like this exceptions had to be made, and Leandra had spotted an old farmhouse on the horizon. Malcolm, while hesitant, grew more and more at ease as they approached. It seemed to be abandoned. 

The couple trudged through the rain hand in hand. The land surrounding the farmhouse was uneven, muddy, and completely overgrown. Malcolm prayed that the rain would cover their tracks as they made their way to the 

It was a little worse for wear, looking like it had been sitting untouched for years which was a blessing in disguise because all it took was a swift kick (combined with a bit of mana, of course) to break the rusted padlock.

Malcolm guided them in cautiously, scanning the room for any threats. Abandoned didn’t mean safe. He wasted no time setting up wards to protect them-- but Malcolm was tired too. 

Perhaps he’d missed a spot, perhaps he hadn’t been as thorough as he’d thought. Perhaps his wards were weak with his exhaustion as he joined his wife and daughter on a bed of stale hay. Perhaps he’d been distracted with casting a quick warming spell to ensure the most important people in his life slept soundly. Perhaps he’d given in, for a moment, to the sense of hope burning brightly in his chest as he pulled his family close. He slept far too soundly that night. Better than he had in months. 

The high-pitched creak of the barn door swinging open jerked the three of them awake. 

Rays of sunlight were streaming in through the rafters--had morning really come so soon? 

The sight was so peaceful that Malcolm nearly didn’t register the clunk of boots on the wooden floor, and the wide figure stepped towards him, fiddling with the trigger of a small hunting crossbow. Malcolm scrambled back, drawing Leandra closer with one arm while the other fumbled for his staff--lost in the hay. 

“Hold still now, friend, I’d prefer not to use this--”

“Stay away from my family!!” The stranger was interrupted by his daughter’s tiny voice. 

She had leaped out of the shadows beside them, brandishing the pocket knife that Malcolm kept strapped to his belt. 

How did she-- Malcolm didn’t have time to finish the thought. He rushed forward, intent on yanking her back by the shirt collar. He’d been in such a deep state of sleep that he hadn’t even registered her absence. Then again, she was always so sneaky. Malcolm hadn’t the faintest clue where she’d gotten it from, but she had a way of sinking into the shadows and completely disappearing.  

She was only four, and a tiny little thing at that-- shaking in the little booties Leandra had made her. Leaping to defend her family with a . 

So brave, even then. 

“Minerva NO!!” Leandra was shrieking. “Don’t shoot, serah--please!! Minnie get back here--“

For a moment Malcolm thought that all was lost. He pictured himself in chains, being dragged away by Templars-- leaving his wife and daughter alone and penniless in a foreign land. He’d let them down. He’d failed. 

The atmosphere of the room changed entirely, however, when the stranger began to laugh. 

It wasn’t a bad laugh. 

Not condescending. Not cruel. 

It was light and youthful, despite the obvious late-middle-age of its owner. It rang through the morning air like a Chantry bell on the breeze. It was the kind of pure laugh that can only be created by the innocence of a child. In that moment the light in Malcolm’s chest returned, soothing his racing heart. He paused, studying the face of the stranger in the barn doorway as he raised his weapon in mock surrender, humouring the child.  

“Oh my! Be careful with that, little dragonling!” The stranger smiled down at the child warmly, crouching down to her level to look her in the eyes, before his gaze rose to her fathers, noting the matching eyes that seemed to burn with something he couldn’t quite name. Malcolm saw what he hoped was understanding in the old man’s eyes. “Put that there knife away, and settle down. We can talk this out, I promise.”

Malcolm hurriedly ushered Minerva behind him-- the child kept her eyes glued to the intruder, even when she began to cling to her father’s pant leg. Malcolm could feel her trembling, so he reached down and carded a comforting hand through a mop of brown curls that matched his own, trying to be as brave as his daughter. 

A tense quiet had settled over the barn as Malcolm tried to appraise the man before him, who was doing the same. They must’ve been quite the sight--all clinging to each other, covered in hay. Malcolm didn’t dare reach for his staff, he just prayed that wherever the damned thing was it was out of sight.  

Finally the stranger huffed, standing and leaning back on his heels.  

“Name’s Barlin,” The stranger jutted his chin at Malcolm, crossing his arms casually. “Sorry for bargin’ in on ya.”

“Malcolm…” He held his head high, meeting Barlin’s eyes as he introduced himself. “Malcolm Hawke.” 

“Quite the little bodyguard you have there,” Barlin’s voice was genuine. Warm. 

Malcolm’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. 

“Small but mighty,” He could feel Minerva nodding against his thigh, as well as the tears she was smearing into the fabric of his trousers.

He called her that a lot, especially when she was little. Such a simple little phrase, but it always made Minerva feel big, in a way.

“Look, I was just checkin’ to make sure you all weren’t bandits, or bears, or something.” The man shrugged disarmingly. “I didn’t come here for a fight. Lothering’s a peaceful little town, and we like to keep it that way.”

“Peaceful? What’s that like?” Malcolm’s sarcastic question slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, and Leandra squeezed his shoulder tightly in warning. 

Barlin merely chuckled, smiling at him wryly. 

“Y’all don’t look like the type of folk who are accustomed to peaceful.” He observed. “I’m just glad you got out of the storm-- it was a good one!”

Barlin took a step inside, eyes travelling upward, surveying how the roof sagged and leaked. The old building had fallen into disrepair, but it wasn’t unsalvageable.

“Look, this place ain’t even mine. It was my brother’s before he moved to Denerim for work. Place hasn’t seen any life in aside from rats and the occasional nug in a while, as I'm sure you’ve noticed.” 

The old man paused for a moment, gaze landing on the family before him. He’d later told Malcolm that he’d had a good feeling in his gut about them, and his gut was just about the only thing he trusted. 

“I run the tavern in town, why don’t you all come back with me and let me fix you something to eat.”

Minerva perked up at that, and even Malcolm couldn’t stop his mouth from watering at the prospect of a hot meal. Leandra looked cautious, but when he met her gaze she nodded slowly. Barlin smiled at that. 

“Come on, while we walk, why don’t you tell me what you know about farming?”

Malcolm would find out through gossip in the years to come that Barlin had been trying to get rid of that property for years, but that didn’t change the kindness. He didn’t ask anything about where they’d come from or why they were running. He asked Malcolm what he did and he’d told him he was an herbalist--which wasn’t a lie, and he suspected Barlin could tell. 

“Herbalism? Farming? Sounds like the same thing to me.”

The old man let Malcolm pay him back for the land over time after they’d settled in and started earning some money. He’d also scoffed at the notion of charging interest. 

The farmhouse was rotting and falling apart, but with a lot of hard work (and a bit of hidden, domestic magic) they turned it into a home. Minerva grew up toddling around the gardens and helping Malcolm till the fields. She’d climbed gnarled tree in their front yard to watch the sun rise every morning since she was six, regardless of weather, much to Leandra’s chagrin. 

His eldest child had grown up far too quickly for his liking, and couldn’t help but blame himself. He knew it wasn’t fair to place her in charge of her siblings, especially with the added responsibility of protecting Bethany--but Minerva would insist that she could handle it. She’d lead the twins on adventures in the fields and forests surrounding the little town-- quests, she always called them. 

They had to work hard, but Malcolm had taught her to always try to make it fun. The children would race each other home, Minerva usually in front, although Carver would occasionally shove his way past her. Bethany was a lot quicker than she looked too--and always smarter than she let on. Malcolm would never forget the looks on Minerva and Carver’s faces the time he’d taught Bethany how to freeze their feet to the ground, nor Bethany’s own wide grin as she’d crossed the finish line (their garden gate), cheering with victory as Carver swore and Minerva laughed alongside her.  

His children were adventurous-- all three of them. Malcolm had lost count of the amount of times Carver and Bethany had burst through the door, shouting that Minerva was in trouble. She had a habit of getting stuck in trees, that girl... Bethany claimed to be the least so, favouring staying inside to study most days, especially as she got older, but even she couldn’t resist the call of a bright summer day. 

Minerva always knew exactly what to say to coax her out of hiding, too. Be it a promise to stop by the Chantry for one song, or spinning a scheme so grand that even Bethany couldn’t resist. Bethany was more competitive than she let on, and Minerva was always too clever for her own good. The eldest sister got herself and Carver into heaps of trouble throughout their youth. They were so rambunctious, and Minerva was always pressing Carver’s buttons on purpose, but never in a way that pushed the lad too far.  

Always so precise, even then.

Malcolm had had to come down hard on her only once. She’d set off a tar bomb in barracks of the local Templars, bringing the Knight Captain huffing and puffing to their doorstep, completely unaware that he was in the presence of not one, but two apostates.  Leandra was beside herself, disguising her frantic panic for Bethany’s safety as being furious at the tar tracked all over their home. Andraste’s Mercy, she had given poor Minerva an earful. Malcolm knew it was mostly for show-- so the templars could believe it was just a well-meant prank by some kid. Malcolm had a reputation around town for being good around a cauldron, and he promised to supply the knight commander with a free shipment of potions, and assurance that Minerva would clean up the mess. Minerva had inherited his alchemic ability. but not his connection to the fade. He’d taught her the recipe himself, so she could help him fix the thatching on their chicken coop. 

He was mostly just mad he didn’t think of this himself--he would’ve done the same at her age. He couldn’t tell her that, though, could he?What he did tell her was that she was old enough to know better, he’d said. Perhaps that was too harsh… For the Maker’s sake she was only ten...

He’d come up to her guiltily that evening, offering her a glass of her favourite tea-- a recipe they’d invented together. She was gazing up at the stars, before she mumbled an apology and he did too. 

He made it up to her by telling a story about a similar prank he played on the templars back at the Gallows. 

“I know they’re the worst, but provoking them won’t do us any favours, Mighty Mini,” The nickname made her giggle. “It’s not your fight.” That made her pause. 

“But…” She looked up at him, eyes full of concern. “They make things just awful for you and Bethany!” She protested. “You shouldn’t have to hide your magic! Magic is good!” She said it with childlike simplicity. He’d taught her well… Maybe a little too well, if he was being honest. 

“I know, Min, it isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean you should go out of your way to cause problems for the templars. You don’t want their attention. Think of Bethany.” He gave her shoulder a firm squeeze. 

She stilled, gazing at her feet.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He took her up into a tight hug. “It’s just not fair...” 

Always seeking justice, even then. 

Malcolm was far from the perfect father, but, Maker, did he try. At the very least, he was always there when his children needed him. Even years later, he cherished every moment spent outside the walls of the Gallows. 

He was able to give his kids the childhood he’d always wanted-- more or less.

On (idk what the dragon age equivalent to Sundays is but That LMAO) Minerva and Carver would spar for hours, using swords carved out of sticks they’d found exploring woods, while Malcolm, Bethany, and Leandra would go into town. Malcolm would take care of the shopping for the week and the two of them would head to the Chantry for the service. Bethany always tithed her allowance at the Chantry, even when her siblings teased her for it. She was always such a sweet, gentle girl. She wanted to help, and the cloister in Lothering was vastly different from the Kirkwall Chantry. They were a peaceful folk, down to earth. 

Once their farm was in its prime the revered mother even asked to buy some of their harvested herbs for their healers on a yearly basis, and Malcolm given it to her for free--inspired by the kindness of his youngest daughter. He knew the gift of magic weighed on the poor girl, and he wished he could take the burden from her. 

He would’ve preferred they not have to worry about hiding his and Bethany’s magic at all, but he figured that this was as good as it was going to get. 

And it was good, indeed. For a time. 

Minerva grew up with a Father who could coax her down from the trees she’d get stuck in, and catch her when she fell. Bethany had a Father who could guide her in the ways of the Fade and teach her not to fear her power, but to control it with ease. Carver had a Father who encouraged his study of the blade despite having no combat experience of his own. 

Whatever made them happy, as long as they were safe, just, and kind. That was who their father was.

Malcolm Hawke died too young, and too suddenly. 

The fever came when Minerva had just turned seventeen, and the twins were only twelve. The illness swept through their entire family, but it took her Father with it when it left. He was buried beneath the apple tree in their garden as a free man. Not a mage, just Malcolm Hawke. His children worked in tandem to carve a headstone themselves, nestling it with care between the roots. 

Lothering wasn’t the same after Malcolm died. Minerva did her best to fill the void, standing in as her Sister’s keeper, trying to smile her way through the tears the way her Father taught her to. 

Carver left to join the king’s army as soon as he turned sixteen, prying himself out of his mother’s arms with a groan. Leandra drew her daughters even closer in his absence, especially Bethany. The young mage became even more reclusive, afraid to wander too far from home by herself. She became convinced that the Templars in Lothering suspected something, no matter how many times Minerva assured her of how careful they’d been. 

Then, Carver was back, and the Blight was upon them. They’d only had a few short days on the run to cherish their brother’s return before the darkspawn ripped him away from them once more, this time for good. 

The farmhouse in Lothering never received a proper goodbye from the family that had inhabited it for all those years. The Blight fell upon them far too suddenly for them to grab anything more than their most precious of possessions before running for the hills. 

Barlin visits it sometimes, finding the tombstone beneath the trees. The old man hasn’t died yet, even though he’s buried many of his juniors. He chats to the stone as he clears it of moss, pulling out a book with a dwarvish name on the cover.

The eldest Hawke child--the little dragonling who’d stood her ground in that old farmhouse brandishing a knife while shaking like a leaf all those years ago had done quite well for herself, it seemed. Barlin was glad of it. He hadn’t known Malcolm was a mage, but it certainly made a lot about the strange elf make sense. 

Barlin wonders sometimes if the Champion of Kirkwall knows how proud those few that survived Lothering are of her. 

[doctormage]

u should be able to see nathaniel in act 3, u have to talk to his sister in hightown and she'll give u a quest to rescue him from the deeproads. it might also just not have triggered for some reason? but if u imported ur save from da:o he should show up :)!

oh thank u!! 🖤🖤 I’ll boot up an old save from act 3 and give it a try (also I’m sure there’s a mod if it’s just something funky w my dragon age keep import i simply always forget to look before playing da2 sksjdjdjd)

[pigeontheoneandonly]

The Birthday

The Birthday

So here is a bittersweet little thing I wrote because Dragon Age won’t leave me alone this week.

NB: It is the year after the Kirkwall rebellion.  Anders and Briar Hawke are hiding out in Amaranthine, and Dae Tabris has, of course, put Anders to work, as if nothing at all amiss has occurred. Not having played either of those games in many years, I’m sure I’ve borked Anders’ voice.  Also, do not ask me about the early timeline; I think we all just do our best trying to reconcile Awakenings and DA2.

“We’re stopping here a moment.”  Daeroavain Tabris, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Hero of the Fifth Blight, and Arl of Amaranthine, pushed into the small shop just off the main square.  

Warden Anders trailed after him, lowering his hood as the door shut and cut off the steaming cold. Weak winter light filtered through the windows where the snow accumulation softened its edges.  “A toy shop?”

“It’s Wintermarch,” he said, as if that explained it.  He picked up a wooden soldier and scrutinized it, before setting it down and reaching for a bag of marbles.  

Anders glanced around the wares, awkward, and wishing they’d just get on with their errand, which was meeting with the city watch about some odd cattle killings they thought could be darkspawn.  “You have a nephew, or something?”

“Or something.” Distracted.  “You were a kid when they took you to the tower, right?”

“What?”  He blinked.  “Yes.  I was twelve.”

“Fuck.  I thought you were younger.  When did you know you were a mage?”

“That’s blunt.”

The look Dae gave him was pure exasperation.  “Two months underground, no baths and eating shit I don’t want to think about too hard, looking for that damn dwarf, and this is what you balk at?”

The Warden-Commander was one of the very few people in Thedas who could make Anders feel even slightly sheepish.  He stuffed his hands in his pockets.  “Eight.”

“Eight. That’s perfect.”  He held up a box emblazoned with an illustration of topsy-turvy glassware.  “Would you have liked an alchemy kit?”

Anders simply stared.  Dae looked at the box.  “No?”

“What are you on about?” he asked, patience running dry.

“I’m trying to buy a birthday gift for an eight-year-old mage.”  He tilted his head.  “Well, overwhelmingly likely a mage, in any case.”

“What, some kid trapped in the Circle?” It wasn’t that he thought child mages were undeserving. It was that he couldn’t imagine Dae knowing one well enough to undertake this errand.  The Circles were a mess these days, anyway.  Breaking down right and left.  It was what he’d wanted, but at the same time, somehow not.  Hawke had been right about that—nothing ever fell out the way you planned.  It just kept going.

Dae scoffed at that idea.  “You clearly haven’t met his mother, if you think she’d let him end up there.  She grew up luring templars to their deaths for kicks.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never introduced me to to this charming lady.”

“I would, if I had the faintest idea where she is.  You’d like her but she’d surely hate you.  You shouldn’t feel badly, though.  She hates everyone.”  He turned towards a shelf stacked with games, each piece carefully stained or painted. “A chess set is boring, right?”

“If she hates you, why are you buying her kid a gift?”

He smiled, to himself more than anything.  “Because she was one of my dearest friends.”

His brow furrowed. Verbal fencing wasn’t much like him, either.  “Come to think of it, how are you going to deliver this gift, if you don’t know where she is?”

“I’m not.”  

“That makes no sense.”

He shifted his weight, picking up a chess piece, contemplating it without really seeing it. “I’ve never met him.  His birthday would be sometime this month, so I just… get him something every year.”

“I don’t—”  Then he really saw Dae, staring down at the rook.  Oh.  Oh.

He put the piece back.  “Don’t think I don’t know how stupid it is.  There’s… simply not anything else I can do.”

Standing in the middle of the shop, comparing various toys and hunched in on himself with a feigned nonchalance so unlike him, Dae didn’t look so much like any of the things he actually was.  Just a shorter than average elf in worn armor and mud on his boots, staring down a hopeless task.

Dae backed him against the templars when they first met.  Barely knew him, no questions asked, just handed him a permanent way out. Like it was nothing.  He mentioned the dumb story about Mr. Wiggums, exceptionally careful to not make a big deal of how he was his only real friend and how hard it was to lose him, and the next thing he knew Dae somehow found a kitten and told him to take care of it, as if it were a big favor.  Come to that, he never saw him angrier than when he got back from being frog-marched to Weisshaupt after years of avoiding it, only to find the stand-in they sent had made Anders give him up.

When he and Briar fled Kirkwall, not a friend left in the world and and any number of people wanting them dead, Dae welcomed him back like he’d never left, greeted Hawke like an old friend, and stated flat out that the templars hadn’t managed to take the Keep yet but they were welcome to try.

“Here,” he said, pulling down something from an adjacent display.  “It’s a whirligig.  Stomp on the pedal, here, and some kind of clockwork makes it fly.  I think he’d like that.”