#but yeah what is this Standard Lavellan Personality i keep hearing about?

[transmasc-tabris]

More screenshots (bonus, managed to find Bull a shirt and don't know how to feel about that)

[thatapostateboy]

we all have a hunger

Pairing: Rook & Lavellan (platonic), brief hint at Solas x Female Lavellan

Word Count: 1675

Synopsis: In which Rook and Lavellan finally get to talk.

Prompt: Day Two: Rebellion from the Veilbound challenge by @/nympthi and @/citadrells on Twitter

Warnings: Mentions of slavery, Veilguard mild spoilers/speculation

Crossposted: Here on AO3

Rook wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Lavellan. She’d heard the stories of course, from rumours whispered amongst slaves and nobles alike in Tevinter to hearing it straight from Varric’s mouth, and yet none of them were quite able to do the fabled Herald of Andraste justice. Solas had painfully little to say, often cutting that line of questioning short whenever she so much as hinted at a connection between them. Harding had been the most honest, telling her that yes, she was a hero, that she had walked in the Fade and slayed would-be gods, but that she was a woman, a person, same as the rest of them.

Rook found that all but impossible to believe when the legend herself had strode through the Eluvian like she owned the place, demanding to know what was going on and why the Evanuris were rampaging across Northern Thedas. She looked like one of the illustrations in Varric’s books come to life, minus the flowing hair and waving standard of the Inquisition planted behind her.

She had not taken charge, though Rook would not have protested to someone more qualified taking control of the situation, but there was a respect and reverence around her. When she so much as entered a room, everyone paid attention, even Assan.

It took weeks of hard-fought battles at each other’s side, even harder fought conversations as the two differing personalities attempted to work together, but Rook finally saw her.

It had been the early hours of the morning, or whatever counted as morning in the Fade, but as the other members of the Veilguard had found sleep, Rook had found none, and it seemed that neither had Lady Lavellan. Rook found her already sat at the kitchen island, a cup of tea in her hand, staring contemplatively down into the steaming liquid.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Lavellan looked up at her, letting out a sigh, “Is it that obvious?”

“I hate to break it you, but the circles under your eyes give it away,” she pointed out, pouring her own mug of tea and leaning against the counter to look at her, “Does it ever get easier? Finding rest after everything we see?”

“I’ll tell you when I know,” she gave a soft snort into her mug as she took a mouthful.

Rook sipped at her own mug, humming at the taste, “Is that honey… with hints of dragonthorn?”

Lavellan’s eyebrows rose, “You have quite the palate. It’s my own special blend. I guessed there wouldn’t be much tea here so I’ve been mixing my own.”

“No, the Dread Wolf doesn’t seem to be a fan of tea,” Rook noted, “Or most things, I’ve found.”

“Not entirely true, he does have a taste for tiny cakes.”

Rook smiled at that, “And what about you, Lady Lavellan? What do you have a taste for? Aside from excellent tea blends.”

“Honey cakes,” she admitted, “I used to make them all of the time when I was young, my papae’s family recipe… I can’t remember when I last had the time to bake. Everything just been so…”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “It has… Y’know, I never thanked you.”

“Thanked me? Whatever for?”

“Coming out of retirement, being here to keep my ass out of the fire,” she said.

“Sweet as it is for you to say, I never actually retired,” she pointed out, “Keeping people’s asses out of the fire is what I’ve been doing since the Conclave exploded.”

Rook examined her for a few moments, then gave a resounding nod, “Breakfast.”

“What?”

“I’m going to make you breakfast.”

“I couldn’t impose-”

“It’s the least I can do, all things considered. Besides, I enjoy cooking, so c’mon, what do you…” she trailed off, eyes landing firmly on the one unused pan that still hung on the rack, “How about an omelette?”

A smile spread across Lavellan’s face, “They are my absolute favourite, how did you know?”

“What’s with the one omelette pan?”

The conversation had occurred within the first week of living at the Lighthouse, not long after the full team had been recruited and they had truly begun to explore what the Dread Wolf had to hide away. And for all of the mysteries and magics here, there was only one thing that truly bothered Rook.

The irritation in Solas’ voice was palpable as he turned to look at her, “I’m sorry?”

“You have the most depressing kitchen setup, you own one fork, spoon, knife, plate, bowl and cup, all which look like they’ve never been used… and yet you have a top-of-the-line Orlesian omelette pan.”

He huffed, “Of all of the inane queries you have used this tenuous connection for- How do you know it’s Orlesian? And that it is designed for omelettes?”

She put her hands on her hips, “I know my way around a kitchen with my eyes shut. So, what does a god who doesn’t eat need with an omelette pan?”

“That is none of your business.”

“Very well,” she nodded, “Lucanis was looking to use it, I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t some hidden magical art-”

“No!”

She glanced up at him with a mirthful smirk at his protest, “No?”

“It’s…” he regained his composure a little, “I was saving it for a special occasion.”

Her smirk only grew, “I’ll tell Lucanis to get his own. The omelette pan will remain untouched until you can escape the Fade and treat yourself to breakfast.”

Oh that old wolf had it bad.

“Educated guess,” Rook smiled.

“I’ve had a love for them since I tried them on my first trip to Orlais, back when the Breach had just opened. I had to adjust to shem food, but the omelettes, I fell in love with them.”

“Then you’re in luck. Omelettes are my signature dish.”

“You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

“As I said, it is literally the least I can do.”

Rook grabbed the pan that had sat untouched for Maker knows how long, setting it to warm up on the stove as she gathered ingredients out of the cold storage. She set to work, cracking three eggs and whisking them through a sieve, creating a smooth mixture.

Lavellan watched her, still nursing her tea, “I have to admit, I’m impressed that you got the dragonthorn on the first try. I thought it was quite subtle. I didn’t realise I was in the presence of a connoisseur.”

Rook hummed as she whisked, “Hardly. I spent the better part of my youth being trained how to cook by only the finest of Orlesian slaves. My master wanted nothing but the best when we prepared his meals, so I was taught very young how to taste test everything.”

Lavellan met her gaze, “Varric told me a little of your past when he said that you were working together, but he mainly brought up the Shadow Dragons.”

“I can only imagine the spin he put on it,” she rolled her eyes a little, slicing off some butter to melt into the now hot pan, “The slave breaking free from chains to rebel against the system and bringing freedom to the Imperium.”

“Is that not the story?”

“It a version of the story. I’m just… doing what I can.”

“It’s more than most do.”

Rook turned, pouring the egg mixture with care into the pan, hands steady as she guided it to fill every part of the surface, wanting an even cook, “Do you know why I enjoy cooking? Despite my past?”

“Tell me.”

“My master hated eggs. He wasn’t allergic, but he had a distaste for them so bad that he would physically strike us if there was even an egg in the kitchen,” she said, eyes fixed on the omelette as it began to take shape, “So I decided that I would learn to cook every egg dish that I could cram into my head. I would learn them, cook them, and perfect them. And I would feed everything I cooked to the others in the household.”

“You took that risk?” she asked.

Rook grabbed some of the cream cheese mixture that Lucanis kept pre-made in the cold store, piping it delicately through the centre of the omelette, “When I was a child and was first sold to him, I knew that I couldn’t fight him. I was too young, and even if by some miracle I could kill him, I had nowhere to go. So I took solace in my little acts of rebellion. It kept me alive, gave me a reason to never truly give up on the idea of freedom… And the fact it brought joy to the others? That small act that was just for us? It gave us hope.”

She missed the smile on Lavellan’s face as she folded the egg over the cream cheese, the Inquisitor finally realising why Varric had chosen her as his second in command, just as Lavellan couldn’t see the soft look in Rook’s eyes as she told her story, finally opening up to someone.

She slid the omelette delicately onto a plate, finishing it off with some quickly chopped chives and some black pepper, placing it in front of the former Inquisitor.

Lavellan looked positively ravenous at the sight and dug in as soon as Rook handed her a fork, devouring it one messy mouthful at a time. She glanced up at Rook, tears pricking at her eyes, “This is the best thing I have ever eaten.”

Rook snorted, “Shut up, no it’s not.”

She swallowed down her mouthful, “Rook, I’m telling you, I’ve eaten at the Orlesian royal court itself, but this blows their chefs out of the water. This is so good,” she shovelled another forkful into her mouth, “Thank you.”

“Eva.”

“What?”

“My friends call me Eva.”

She smiled at her, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Eva, I’m Brenna.” She lifted her mug of tea towards her, “To small acts of rebellion.”

Eva grabbed her mug and tapped it against hers, “May they see us through.”

[pikapeppa]

Varric vs. Solas: Wake Up

I watched the Dec 2020 DA4 teaser trailer, heard Varric and SAW MA VHENAN, and I had to write a little something. Behold: a little post-Trespasser, mid-Tevinter Nights chit-chat between Varric and Solas, with a twist.

2400 words. Read here on AO3.

************************

Varric scrawled his signature one last time, then put his plume down with a sigh. He resentfully eyed the pile of documents he’d just finished signing; most of them were orders or requests that Bran could easily have signed on his behalf. Varric suspected that this was his comeuppance for telling Bran that he didn’t care that the new signposts in Lowtown were two centimetres taller than the regulation standards. 

“Not like the signposts will help,” he muttered to himself. “People are gonna get lost in Lowtown no matter what. It’s just the charm of the place.” Sure, maybe the real reason people got lost in Kirkwall was that the city design was based on some old magister’s crazy blood magic plan, but that didn’t bear thinking about right now – or ever, really, considering the other shit going on in the world right now. 

He sighed and regarded his paper-strewn desk. There was the tidy pile of documents he’d just signed, and the untidy larger pile of documents he had yet to review. A little stack of coded letters sat in a tray by his left hand — letters that he’d be sending out by raven once he was done here. And finally, poking out from underneath a dog-eared copy of the latest Randy Dowager, was the long-neglected draft of his most recent chapter of Swords and Shields 2. 

A pang of guilt penetrated his fatigue. It had been months now since he’d sent Cassandra a new chapter. He could try to get a little writing done now, while the Viscount's Keep was quiet in the middle of the night, but his eyes were stinging with tiredness…

Ah, what the hell, he thought. He couldn’t deprive his most loyal reader. He pulled out the chapter pages and quickly skimmed the last one to see where he’d left, off then dipped his plume and began to write. 

He had barely gotten out two paragraphs before he heard a soft knock on his office door – so soft he thought he’d imagined it. When the knock happened again, he looked up warily.

It was almost midnight. Who would be coming to his office this late? Whoever it was, it couldn’t be urgent. If it was urgent, they’d be banging, not knocking quietly. 

He leaned back in his chair and idly ran his thumb over the small stiletto blade he kept in a hidden pocket on his thigh – you could never be too careful these days. “Come on in,” he called. 

The door opened slowly, and a tall hooded figure stepped into his office. “Master Tethras,” the figure said. “It’s good to see you.”

A ripple of shock shot down Varric’s spine. He recognized the voice long before the hood was pushed back, revealing a shiny bald head and a subtly tragic expression.

Solas? he thought incredulously. Solas was here? Here, in his office? Impossible. For years they'd tried fruitlessly to track Solas down using any means available, and even with the knowledge of his last known whereabouts from his encounter with Charter, they hadn’t been able to find him. And now here he was, in Varric’s office, strolling in as casually as though he’d just come out of the rotunda at Skyhold? 

It was ridiculous. Totally ridiculous. But since when did things ever make sense, really?

He quickly gathered his wits and leaned back in his chair. “Chuckles. Funny seeing you here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or should I call you the Dread Wolf?”

Solas let out a little laugh – a very tired-sounding laugh. “Please don’t.”

Varric smirked. “What, reputation getting too heavy for you?”

“You would know, I suppose,” Solas said softly. “You have written about the crushing weight of a reputation several times over.” 

“Sure have,” Varric said. 

Solas nodded. For a long moment, they were silent as they looked at each other, and Varric got the impression that they were sizing each other up, almost like–

Don’t use a wolf-related simile, Varric scolded himself. He gestured at one of the visitors’ chairs across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” Solas said. He seated himself on the chair, somehow managing to make his rich dark cloak drape elegantly around himself without making a show of arranging it, and Varric took careful note of the elegance of the gesture. It was… different than the Solas he was used to. More reserved but more powerful at the same time.

Lavellan mentioned he’d changed, he thought. Well, here was the proof. But just how much had Solas changed in the years since Varric had last seen him?

He sat back comfortably. “So,” he said.

“So,” Solas agreed.

Another moment of silence ensued, and the back of Varric’s neck began to prickle. Solas’s expression was calm and neutral, almost alarmingly neutral, and Varric hoped he looked equally unfazed by the strangeness of the current situation. It might be as weird as a giant nug with a beard and a pirate’s hat to be sitting across from an elven god, but Varric didn’t want to show it.

The silence thickened between them. Varric itched to break it, to know what Solas was doing here, but he didn’t want to ask. Something about this visit felt like a power play, and Varric was fairly sure he’d lose if he asked a direct question.

Instead of asking why Solas was in his office, he asked something far more innocuous. “Any interest in a hand of diamondback?”

Solas’s posture relaxed slightly, and he gave Varric a faint smile. “I would like that. Thank you.”

Varric nodded and pulled a deck of worn cards from his desk drawer. He shuffled the cards and dealt a hand, and for the first time in years, Varric and Solas played a game of diamondback together.

They played a couple of hands in silence. Varric won the first round and Solas won the second, and by the time they were on their third, Varric was feeling much more in control of the situation.

He discarded a card and selected another. “It’s been a while, Chuckles. What have you been up to?”

“Travelling, mostly,” Solas said. “Observing. And yourself?”

“Signing my life away,” Varric said dryly, and he nodded to the pile of signed documents on his desk.

Solas’s smile widened slightly. “I see.” He glanced at the unfinished chapter under Varric’s elbow. “You have continued to write as well, I see?”

Varric huffed. “Eh, not really. This is just for Cassandra.”

“For Cassandra exclusively?” Solas said.

Varric nodded. “Aveline — she’s the inspiration for the main character — she demanded that I stop writing it. I told her that making me choose between her and Cassandra would be putting me between a rock and a hard place. Literally.” 

Solas chuckled. The rare sound of Solas’s amusement was strangely familiar, and it only served to highlight the weirdness of the situation.

Varric dealt another hand. “How’s Cole? You seen him lately?”

“Yes,” Solas said. “He is happily dwelling in the Fade once more.”

His tone was very bland, Varric noticed. With Solas, ‘bland’ usually meant ‘something very significant’. Had something happened to Cole, then?

Varric’s gut twisted with concern, but he carefully kept his expression calm. “Tell the kid I said ‘hi’ during your next Fade nap. We miss him around here.”

“I shall,” Solas said softly. “It is your turn.”

Varric nodded and selected a card. They finished the round, which went to Solas this time, and as Varric shuffled the cards, he carefully considered what to say next. Everything he and Solas said to each other involved giving up a piece of information. Even admitting that he and Cassandra were still in touch was a piece of information that could be used – though not one that would be hard to discover even by a fairly poor spy. But in such a fraught situation, Varric needed to be very careful about what he said next.  

It was time to try and unbalance Solas. And there was only one thing — or rather, one person — that had been able to soften Solas up in the past. Would a mention of her still be enough to unbalance this especially placid and self-possessed version of the elven apostate?

Only one way to find out, Varric thought. He dealt out their cards, then looked at Solas. “She’s fine, by the way.”

Solas met his eye. And for a split second, swift as the blink of an eye, an expression crossed his face — an expression that landed like a strike to Varric’s gut. It was a complicated mixture of heartwrenching longing and regret: the kind of regret that could haunt a person for decades. The kind of regret that spoke of near-misses and what-ifs that would never be resolved. 

The kind of regret that could twist and fester in the walls of a once-loved fortress until it became literally monstrous. 

Then, just as quickly as the weight of emotion crossed Solas’s face, it was gone — but not quickly enough for Varric to miss it. 

Solas still cares about Lavellan, Varric thought. This was very useful information to have. If Solas still loved Lavellan, if the Dread Wolf still had some kind of attachment to their world, then there was hope. A little hint of hope, sure, but Varric was well-accustomed to seemingly-hopeless situations by now. 

Hope is good, he thought. Hope’ll keep us going. He couldn’t take any pleasure from this information, though — not when he knew Lavellan still loved Solas too.  

Solas, meanwhile, had returned his now-neutral gaze to his cards. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “You see her often, I take it?”

“Nah,” Varric said. “She’s still out in the Hunterhorn Mountains.”

Solas looked up with a tiny frown. “The Hunterhorn Mountains?”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “With the rest of the Seekers. What’s left of them, anyway.”

Solas blinked. Then his face cleared with comprehension — and a whisper of disappointment. “Ah,” he said. “Cassandra. Of course.”

Varric raised his eyebrows in faux-innocence. “Who did you think I meant?”

Solas stared stonily at him, and Varric steadily returned his gaze. Then Solas huffed softly, and a hint of a smile touched the corner of his lips. He looked at his cards once more without replying, and Varric watched him carefully as they played out the remainder of the round, but his face had resumed its unnervingly placid expression.

Varric won the round. When he’d collected the cards once more, he paused and gave Solas a frank look. “Listen, Chuckles, the personal visit is nice, but I’ve gotta wonder what it’s about.” 

Solas leaned back and crossed one ankle over his knee, looking supremely comfortable for an ancient god who had just been called out by a mere mortal. “Truthfully?” he said. “It was an experiment.”

Varric frowned.  This was not what he expected Solas to say. “An experiment?”

“Yes,” Solas said. “I am both interested and somewhat alarmed to see that it worked.”

“Okay,” Varric said slowly. He couldn’t decide whether to be amused or annoyed that Solas was being his usual cryptic self. “So… what happen next, then?”

“That is largely up to you,” Solas said.

“What do you mean?” Varric asked.

“I mean that the choice is yours. It is your mind, after all.” He gestured at the cards in Varric’s hands. “We could continue talking and playing, if you like.”

Varric narrowed his eyes. What did Solas mean, ‘it is your mind’? “And what if I don’t want to?” he said suspiciously. “Are you going to kill me?”

Solas’s smile widened into something indescribably sad. “No, Varric. If you don’t wish to continue playing, then I suggest you wake up.”

Varric jerked and opened his eyes. “What?” he blurted.

Solas didn’t reply. In fact, Solas wasn’t there. 

Disoriented and alarmed, Varric looked around his empty office. What the hell? he thought. So… wait. He was confused. How — what had just happened? He’d been asleep, so how had he been playing cards with Solas? 

A sudden realization gripped him. Thinking or doing things or seeing people while he was asleep: Varric had never done this before. In fact, he didn’t know any dwarf ever who had done that before. 

“Did… did I just have a dream?” he said incredulously to his empty office.

No one answered — of course no one did, because Varric was alone. But… Andraste’s knickers, that had felt so real. If that was a dream, how did humans and elves and qunari stand it every night?

He rubbed his face roughly. He was spooked; there was no denying it. And he couldn’t make sense of how this was even possible. Everyone in Thedas knew that dwarves didn’t dream; it was a fact, like the sky being blue and grass being green. But if Varric had just had a dream, and Solas said it was an experiment… 

Shit, he thought. Maybe that meant Solas was doing some kind of weird new magic, which didn’t bode well. If that was the case, he needed to talk to some mages about this. Good thing Lavellan was in Kirkwall at the moment. He could talk to her and to Dorian through her sending crystal thing, and they could explain what had just happened. 

He stood up and stretched, then quickly locked the coded letters in the hidden compartment in his desk before leaving his office. As he made his way through the silent Viscount’s Keep, he tried to remember what he and Solas had talked about during the dream, but it was becoming indistinct. He remembered playing cards, and he remembered Solas saying it was an experiment, but the things they’d discussed… 

He rubbed his forehead, frustrated that his memory of the dream was so fuzzy. Had they talked about lyrium? Varric didn’t think so. Maybe… maybe about Varric’s books? That was possible. Was it normal for dreams to just disappear so quickly? He thought he remembered humans complaining about this, but Solas always made it sound like his dreams were so clear… 

Then Varric remembered something very clear: the look on Solas’s face when he was thinking about Lavellan. That wistful, yearning expression that spoke of hope and tragedy at the same time — the same expression that Lavellan wore when she thought no one was looking.

His heart sank, and he sighed. It looked like shit was about to get weird again for Lavellan, and soon. Then again, when had shit ever not been weird? 

At least we’re never bored, he thought wryly. With that semi-positive thought in mind, Varric stepped out of the Viscount’s Keep and into the heart of Hightown.