#can you imagine if the old and lost templars were the first to drink?

[vultures-and-scavengers]

thinking about the lyrium-mad templars, the old, their memories stolen and carved away. thinking about how their brethren took them to therinfal (you would want the same care once you suffer the same) and thinking about how they took the red lyrium

it must have been a miracle at first. they remember. they recognize. for the first time in months or years they’re cognizant.

and only too late do you realize this miracle was not woven by a caring god

[dreadfulsanity]

Spinning 🧶: Gods, what did he do?

I'm thinking. I know. That's never good. Because I can get lost in those thoughts for eternity. But here me out. This is not me getting an idea and trying (at least) to back that up with official sources or something. This is just me, spinning some good old yarn. Want to join? Take a seat, have a beverage, and follow me down a rabbit hole that’s just there fore funsies and nothing more.

Seriously. Don’t read to much into it. I beg you.

What if

The Evanuris killed at least one Titan. Then they mined the lyrium of that Titan. Over the aeons, that dead Titan changed. Rotted, if you will. Decomposed. Or one might call it tainted. Which is how we got the Blight. Kinda. Yay, am I right? Without the Blight, there would’ve been no Dragon Age: Origins.

Some of the ancient elves (Mythal, Solas) didn't like that at all. They saw what the taint could do and that it wasn't worth it. Mythal tried to reason with the other Evanuris. But they only saw the power that it holds. I mean, aside from going completely kooky, the red templars were quite powerful. And so the Evanuris killed her. She was the the spoilsport anyway. Caring about the People? Protecting them? Ugh. What about good old blood sacrifices? The blood of virgins to bathe in? To drink the… okay, I'll stop.

After they killed Mythal, Solas locked the Titan corpse away. Never to be seen again. Let it rot, forgotten below the Deep Roads. And he started his rebellion, because he finally saw the Evanuris for what they were. False Gods and power-hungry despots. What he didn't count in was that they already took some of the Blight with them. And slowly, it started to taint the heart of Arlathan, where they resided (I imagine a huge palace like never seen, with crystal towers reaching into the clouds). Shocked by this, he locked them away. But the taint didn't care about gates or locks. It just spread. Panicked, he threw up a barrier, and the Veil. To keep it (and them) from destroying the world.

Now, mind you, this was a preliminary measure. Maybe the plan was to form a little pocket dimension. Like the Crossroads, a place in-between, to lock them and the Blight away for good. And this led to his first mistake. He didn't expect that the act of throwing up the Veil would take every last bit of power he had, sending him straight into Uthenera. Maybe he was already in a place where no one would find him for millennia. Or maybe his followers brought him somewhere save. What happened is that he slept. For a very, very long time.

And while he slept, the world moved on. The elves lost everything, even themselves. Humans came into the picture. And the Evanuris plotted, leading to the assault on the Golden City by the Tevinter magisters. And all he could do was watch from the Fade, powerless to stop it.

Fast forward 4000+ years later, he's woken up (or he has been woken up \Mythal\). Still weak, not able to unlock the orb by himself. Which is why he let Corypheus find it. Making his second HUGE mistake. But why would he risk destroying the Veil and tainting all of Thedas. Because it wasn't his plan in the first place to keep the Fade separated. As I said before, it was a preliminary measure. To give him time. To create that pocket-dimension or whatever you want to call it. Or to devise another plan on how to deal with it.

But now time's running out. The Veil has thinned all over Thedas. The seals he locked the Evanuris away with are weakened. They will break free and swarm Thedas like locusts. And honestly… that would be bad. I just hope that his current plans on dealing with this situation are better than the previous ones. For all our sakes. Maybe if he would let a certain Lavellan in on it, she could help.

Sometimes, all you need is a second pair of eyes. But he has to be stubborn. Why does he have to a wolf and not—let's say—a German Shepherd? <sigh>

Thanks for coming with me on this little silly trip. Again, this is neither a theory nor speculation. This is just something that popped into my brain one night when I couldn't sleep, and I thought it could be a fun read. If you stayed til the end, thank you so much. I really appreciate you. 🫶 If you want more of my ramblings, follow me on Twitter. Other than that, have a nice night, and I read you guys later. 💋 Byyyeeee.

[fancytrinkets]

Brandy in the Library (Trevelyan/Dorian)

Note: Flirting and friendship features heavily here. Content warning for excessive alcohol use. And if you’ve read it before it’s because I’m repurposing pieces of my recent fic for 30 Days of Dorian. As a courtesy for potential readers, this is probably one to avoid if you don’t want to read about a mage Inquisitor who didn’t support the mage rebellion.

On his way to see Leliana, Trevelyan passes through the library — though it's not much of one yet, stocked only with a handful of books scavenged from Haven. A team of scouts went back three days ago to sift through the rubble. They returned with whatever they could salvage.

Dorian's sitting at one of the library tables, paging through a half-scorched book. He looks up as Trevelyan approaches, and smiles in a way that makes Trevelyan's heart beat faster.

"I see you've found this place," Trevelyan says. "Have you been to the other library?"

"There's another library? Does that one have more than eight books in it?"

"In fact it does. If you're free in two hours, I have a break between meetings when I can show you."

"I have a better idea," Dorian says. "Let's make it later this evening. I hear the tavern's expecting its first shipment of supplies. I'll nick a bottle of something good. You can have a drink with me in this secret library of yours."

That same evening, he finds Dorian waiting for him in the upstairs library with a bottle of Antivan brandy in hand.

The man looks even more attractive than usual, if that's possible. He's clearly taken extra care with his hair and clothing. He's chosen robes with an uneven cut, alluringly designed to reveal the contours of his chest and shoulders. Trevelyan has to force his imagination away from its preferred course — conjuring up vivid imagery of Dorian taking off those robes and climbing into bed with him.

Instead he focuses on the brandy.

"Always a good choice. Shall we get started?"

"Lead the way," Dorian says.

Trevelyan endures a pleasant case of nerves as he takes the stairs to the cellars and unlocks the lower library. He's been looking forward to this all afternoon, and now that the moment is here, he hopes Dorian won't find fault with his choice of venue.

His worries disappear as soon as the door shuts behind them.

"Very interesting," Dorian says. "A mage's library."

He pauses at a shelf near the entryway to have a look at the spines of the nearest books.

"Old, but not ancient," he says. "I wonder who was living here several hundred years ago."

Trevelyan doesn't have answers. While Solas seems familiar with Skyhold, he doesn't speak as freely and generously about it as he does when he's asked about the Fade.

"Hard to believe we found this site just when we needed it most," Trevelyan says.

"Or you were, in fact, chosen by Andraste." Dorian doesn't sound like he's joking.

"I can't rule it out," Trevelyan says. "But I'm not claiming it either."

"Fair enough. Here."

Dorian pours for both of them and hands Trevelyan a glass. The first sip warms his throat delightfully. He takes a seat and Dorian pulls up the other chair, moving it closer to Trevelyan before he sits down.

"Here we are in a southern mage's library," Dorian says. "I think you should tell me what it's like to be a southern mage."

"What would you like to know?"

"About you? Probably everything," Dorian says. "But start with what it was like to learn magic at your Circle."

Trevelyan shares a few stories from his younger days at Ostwick — of learning magic along with his peers, and being cautioned all the time about its dangers. In contrast, Dorian offers some details about his own elite, but tempestuous magical education in Tevinter. The differences in their training are vast, and yet the more they talk, the more Trevelyan appreciates the similarities in how they both turned out.

Openly and without shame, Dorian loves being a mage. It's obvious just from watching him. He loves the way it feels to use magic — and he's exceptionally good at it. Trevelyan knows that feeling also. Not the total lack of shame, of course. But in the months since he's left the Circle, he's grown to love his own magic in a way he never truly did before. The chance to use it fully for a good cause, to push himself to the limits of his capacity, and to see, for the first time in his thirty-five years, what a powerful mage he is — it's an unparalleled experience.

One that Dorian understands.

Trevelyan reaches for the bottle and pours them both another drink. He can feel the warmth in his belly, relaxing him.

Dorian smells good, he thinks. He'd like to hold this man close — press him against the bookshelves and kiss him, perhaps — all the while breathing in deeply to appreciate his scent up close. Trevelyan is far from anything he'd find so embarrassing as being fully aroused by nothing more than conversation and fantasy — he's not a teenager, for Maker's sake. But he is aware of the early stages of that particular reaction, and his close-fitting robes don't help him. He shifts in his chair for better comfort and discretion, and tries to stop the flood of mental imagery from pouring in.

Soon enough, he and Dorian are falling back into the friendly give and take of a conversation in which they don't quite agree.

The topic is templars — more specifically, the need for the power of mages to be held in check by a group of trained professionals with the ability to suppress magic when needed. Trevelyan finds it essential, given Tevinter as the cautionary tale. Dorian finds the south to be an example of a system both poorly designed and horrifically implemented — "hence the mage rebellion, yes?"

"Well, obviously the Circles here need to change drastically," Trevelyan says.

"And yet you were loyal to yours," Dorian points out.

"It's complicated."

"How so?"

Their exchange continues over drinks refreshed a third and fourth time.

Trevelyan replies with some details about Ostwick, but witholds others. He explains it as more lenient than most, without dragging his family into it. He may be keeping things back, but it's mostly because he wants to stay on topic. He likes these conversations.

He's being pushed, yes. But in the process, he's clarifying his thoughts — revising and rethinking them. Sometimes he agrees that he's wrong, or concedes that he's too accustomed to one way of thinking to change it immediately. And Dorian takes as well he gives. He's got a certain arrogance about him, sure, but when they start talking this way, he often yields a point and backs off without rancor when he knows he's mistaken.

It's refreshing and interesting to speak so candidly.

"Alright," Dorian says after the fifth drink has been poured. "If your Circle wasn't abusive towards you, then what about your peers who voted to rebel. What did they want?"

By now Trevelyan's thoughts are feeling nicely fuzzy.

"I don't know," he says. "More from their lives? The chance to move freely, live where they choose, visit families, get married, have children, that sort of thing."

"And that didn't matter to you?"

"I agreed with them. We all deserve those chances if we want them."

"But?" Dorian asks.

"Complacency? I'd begun to accept my life for what it was. A limited one."

Dorian shakes his head, disbelieving. "You don't strike me as complacent at all."

"Oh?" Trevelyan asks. "How do I strike you?"

Dorian smiles, but doesn't answer. At least not at first. He finishes the last of his drink, holds the glass forward, and then watches as Trevelyan pours him another.

"You strike me," he says. "A lot of ways."

"Good ways, I hope."

Dorian tilts his drink until it shines with reflected candlelight. He studies it a moment, then looks at Trevelyan.

"You're not as well-read as some, but more clever than most. Good-natured, though I suspect you have a temper under there somewhere, and that's intriguing," he says.

"Also, you seem to genuinely care about everyone. Including the people you don't like — which I can't even fathom. What sort of forbidden magic granted you that ability? Please tell me so I can avoid it — it looks exhausting!"

Trevelyan laughs. "And here I was expecting insults about southern mages with our backwards ideas."

"Yes, I was getting to that part."

Drinking and laughing with Dorian is a wonderful way to spend the evening. As the haze of intoxication sets in, Trevelyan finds he's happiest to talk about the battles they've won while fighting together.

"Do you know," Dorian says, "how thoroughly I underestimated you when first we met? I thought I'd have to look after you at Redcliffe castle — get you through the ordeal with my superior knowledge and abilities."

"Hah! How altruistic of you."

"Not at all. You were very nice to look at — I considered it a pleasant burden."

"Wow, that's– I'm speechless." Trevelyan can hear the drunken slurring of his words. It only makes him giggle.

Dorian's still lost in the story.

"When you took down that first guard with one hit, I thought, alright, perhaps this one can handle himself. And that was before we stumbled into the large hall full of Venatori."

"Ugh, there were nine of them, I remember."

"Yes, and I didn't like our chances," Dorian says. "But then you said, 'You take those three, I've got the rest,' and I started to think that between the two of us, maybe I wasn't the unbearably arrogant one, after all."

"No, hold on," Trevelyan says. "Did I not get all six of them?"

He knows he did. And he's sure it doesn't count as arrogance if you're actually capable of doing the thing you claim you can. But he thinks he might have that backwards. Thoughts are increasingly difficult to keep hold of.

"You did get all six!" Dorian says, sounding delighted. "I was very impressed."

"Glad I wasn't too much of a burden for you."

"I'm honestly surprised you trusted me. I doubt I would have."

"I didn't," Trevelyan admits. "I was expecting a double cross. But I was desperate enough to risk it."

Dorian grins at him and raises his empty glass.

"Here's to desperation!"

"To being wildly desperate for things," Trevelyan says, and clinks their glasses together.

Dorian tries to drink, only to find nothing left of alcohol.

"Fuck, I'm drunk," he says.

"I'm the same. And I should go to sleep," Trevelyan says. "I have meetings in the morning."

And so the evening ends with friendly words of goodnight and a hazy walk upstairs to his quarters.

.

When Trevelyan wakes in the morning, the sunlight is painful and a headache sets in. On his way to the kitchens to grab a late breakfast, he runs into Dorian doing the same. He looks perfectly groomed, as always, but Trevelyan can see the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Didn't sleep well?"

"No," Dorian says. "And you?"

"Terribly," Trevelyan admits. "But that was fun. We should do it again some time."

"Find a strange old room that frightens other people and go there to get drunk off stolen brandy?"

"Exactly," Trevelyan says.

The hangover is worth it for the way Dorian smiles at him.

[mydrug-is-dragonage]

Veda Adaar, After the Exalted Council

The first few weeks, Thom had hardly left my side, bringing me meals, preparing my baths, redressing my bandages. He moved slowly, sure of each action, careful to read my reactions. We often sat in silence. Spring rain falling, washing Skyhold clean, he and I made our way down the steps, back to his old barn. The horses still around, Master Dennet returned to his wife and daughter, now grown. Thom helped me up the stairs, we laid on hay and listened to the sound of rain on the roof. We didn’t have words. I reached over and put a hand on his.

“Veda,” he started. I shook my head. “Not yet?”

“No,” I said, “what do we even start with?”

“It’s only been two weeks. Every wound is still fresh.” A small exhaled laugh escaped me. “I didn’t mean just physically.” I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. My eyes welled and tears began to fall down my face. “You have survived a hundred things meant to kill you. You will survive this too.” I moved towards him, he put his arm around me and I nestled into his chest.

“Imagine if they saw the mighty inquisitor now,” I laughed. I snorted away the dripping from my tears. “They’d be so pleased to see how far I’d fallen.”

He shushed me. “Anyone who sees you and doesn’t have their heart broken for you is no one worth knowing. You and the Inquisition have more than proved your worth.”

“Oh yeah, me, the great one-armed mage-warrior who can barely carry a staff in battle and the Inquisition, four agents and their maimed leader.”

“You’re hurt. You’re hurting. You aren’t lesser just because you’ve lost a hand.” I sighed, blinked my eyes. “You were able to forgive me for crimes I didn’t even commit against you, but  you can’t forgive yourself for things that happened to you.” I started to open my mouth. “No, Veda. Sit in the grief. Don’t wallow like a pig in shit. Sit in it. Feel the pain. There will be life after this, just as there was life before.” He put his arm back out, and I turned towards him and cried in his chest.

We didn’t discuss when he’d leave. I knew he’d get going again, inevitable continuance of life. The day he packed his things to go, I leaned against the wall in the barn, arms crossed. My fingers rubbed the bandages, perhaps the last ones he’d prepare for me. “Do you know where you’re going first?” I asked.

“Cullen’s invited me down to his home for the Templars. Going to see what good I can do there.”

“You could do good, here,” I said.

“I could,” he said, he stopped packing and looked towards the wall, then to me, “but I think you need some time.”

“Time?”

“You have to learn how to be Veda, again.”

I snorted, “I’ve been Veda this whole time.”

“No, you haven’t been Veda since Haven. I remember her, the girl you were. Barely 18, green, flirting with me while I helped the recruits fight bandits. You were so sure of yourself, the way children always are.”

“I didn’t flirt,” I said, “and I wasn’t a child. I’d been in different companies on and off for three years at that point.”

“You were experienced, but you were a child. You still are, in some ways, Veda. You were meant to be the Inquisitor, but you shouldn’t have had to be.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” I said. “I made some wonderful friendships. I became a household name. I became so much.”

“And you never got to figure out who you were. You had some time, those few years, you and Bull fighting demons and settling petty disputes. You started to get a feel for who you were. I remember the first time I came back, me, you, Cassandra. Divine Victoria returning for a visit. Bull pouring drinks, Varric dealing a hand for Wicked Grace, Sera drunk and happy hanging on Dagna. I saw you being yourself for a moment. No longer the Inquisitor or the mercenary or a child. Just being Veda, a young woman surrounded by her friends. The teenager you should have been all those years ago. But something always called you away, the mask returned. You give Orlesians a run for their money.”

The sound of Bull’s name caused me to swallow. Skyhold felt emptier. The masses had left, but they weren’t what made our home hollow. I reached up, felt the groove in my horn. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t have mentioned him.” His voice was sharper, his body stiffened.

“You don’t have to be angry for me.”

“I do, until you’re ready to be angry.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be angry,” I said. “I want to be, some times. I want to scream and curse his name. I want him to suffer. Sometimes I start to pray that he doesn’t return to the Maker’s side.”

“But you never do.” “But I never do.”

“One day you will,” he said. “It won’t have made your love any less real. It won’t have made what you had any less important. But one day you’ll finally be angry. Then, some time after that, the anger, too, will pass.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I have practice mourning.” I walked up to him. He turned towards me and we embraced.

“Thank you, Thom.”

“Always a pleasure, my lady Inquisitor.”

Skyhold felt emptier then. The few of us who remained settled into routines. Lace and I in the war room, Dagna fiddling with her contraptions. Visitors stopped by, Skyhold remained a pilgrimage of sorts. Lace learned how to read me, when I could greet people, when I needed to be left alone. Lace, the kind woman, had become my greatest ally. We sat comfortably in silence. She was one of the few people unafraid to still make me laugh. She told me stories of growing up near Redcliffe, the way winters made spring worth the wait.

Six weeks had gone by. The world had resumed, Thom had been gone for a fortnight. I found it harder to go up and down the many stairs of Skyhold. When sitting in Dorian’s nook, I found myself exhausted, inclined to sleep instead of read. At first, I cursed my arm. Being functionally decommissioned had rendered me lazy. But it’d only been six weeks, it hadn’t been long enough for me to lose years of strength overnight. Lace woke me up early, and we went for a walk along the battlements. The sun began to rise over the mountain tops. “I’m still not used to how beautiful it is here,” she said.

I smiled and looked down at her, “I hope I never get used to it.”

“Do you think we’ll move on, eventually?”

“I think Skyhold will be ours. A headquarters, I guess.”

“Good,” she said, “I’ve really settled into Divine Victoria’s quarters.” We laughed, and the nausea came upon me. I tried to compose myself, hoping it’d pass, but I felt the churning rising from my stomach and I ran to the edge. When I finished being sick, Lace turned to me. “You okay, V? Is it something you ate?”

I wiped my mouth and put a hand out for her waterskin. “I don’t think so. I’ve felt so awful the last couple weeks. Exhausted, now this.” I rinsed my mouth, then drank from the bag.

Lace pursed her lips and looked towards the sky. “What?” I asked.

“Well, V, Veda, Inquisitor.”

“Lace, what?”

“Have you considered,” she started.

“Considered what?” I asked, the curtness of my voice surprising me.

“You may, in fact, be with child?”

“What? No, that couldn’t be,” I said, shaking the thought from my mind.

“You’re tired, you’re sick. Unless the birds are especially lively you have had sex.”

“Not since,” I started and let myself trail off. “Lace, a healer. Discreet. Someone Leliana would trust.”

“Understood.”

It was a long week. The nausea came and went, my breasts began to swell. I closed my eyes to it. When Lace and I attempted to spar, the easiest maneuvers left me tired. I sat in the grand hall, near the fireplace. People came and went, carrying food or supplies, maps or documents. Lace approached me. “The healer is here, V.”

“Let’s go to my room. More privacy,” I said. She nodded.

In my bedroom, I lay on the bed. Lace sat towards my feet. The healer looked up at me and smiled. “I’m going to touch your stomach, is that alright?” I nodded and she ran her hands along my belly.

The time passed slowly, I felt myself breathless and she moved her hands, the magic permeating my body. She moved her fingers precisely, lingering in certain spots. After a few moments, she pulled her hands away and stepped back. “Congratulations,” she said.

I swallowed. “Congratulations?”

“You’re expecting. The baby feels healthy.” She smiled. I looked towards Lace, my eyes wet. I felt my lip quiver.

“Let’s give the Inquisitor a moment. Can you wait downstairs?”

“Of course,” she said. She gave me a soft bow and walked down the stairs. I waited to hear the first door close, then the second.

I sat up, my right arm holding up my body. I pulled my legs into myself and put my head on my knees. “V,” Lace said.

“That bastard.”

“Huh?”

“That bastard!” I screamed. I stood up and paced around. I crossed my arms. “How could he do this? What was he thinking?”

“V…”

“No, Lace. No. We were together for three years and we never had any sort of incident. We were together for three years. We had sex for three years, Lace. We had sex all the fucking time and not once did we have a problem. Not even a scare. Not even once was I afraid I’d get pregnant, afraid I’d carry his child. Not once was it even a concern,” I yelled.

“V…”

“Lace,” I turned towards her. I put my arms by my side, the muscles in my neck tensing.

“It could have been an accident. Everyone slips up,” she said.

“Not. Bull. Not even once,” I yelled again. I started pacing again, then I walked to the balcony. I saw the sky, the birds flying about, the arm had begun to warm, but kept the crispness of the mountains. I looked over the edge and screamed.

“Veda, we have guests,” she said.

“Well, Lace, you better go keep them distracted then.” She took her cue and left the room. I walked over to my bed, the stack of colorful pillows I’d slept on for years. I grabbed one and started ripping at the seams. Its age betrayed it, it tore apart like it barely existed all. I walked to my wardrobe, my robes and armor and the occasional gown. I started pulling everything out, tossing it about, and then pulled the wardrobe over with it. I continued, breaking apart my desk, knocking it over. I kept going, until I cried and hit the window with my fist.

The shattered glass woke me up from the destructive trance. The sounds of cracks and bursting, the shards of light littering the floor. I looked at my hand, full of glass and bleeding. I sat on the floor and cried. Too young for this, too old for this, too alone for this, surrounded by too many people for this. With the sound of the shattering, Lace ran back in. “Oh sweet Maker, V. What are you doing?”

I looked up at her, crying, “I don’t know!” She leaned over me, embracing me.

After a moment, she looked down at me, “I’m going to get the healer, and maybe some water. Gonna need to get all that glass out. A broom too.” I sat on the floor, surrounded by colored glass. The breeze blew in the window, tickling the hair on my neck.

The healer walked in and put a hand on her chest. She walked over to me and extended a hand. “Let’s get you up,” she said. She walked towards me and put her arm around my right forearm. I used her as a balance and found my way to my feet. She used her sleeve to dust off my backside, clearing the debris off me. I sat on the sofa, one of only a few things not overturned in my room.

Lace brought a bowl of water and the healer unpacked her supplies. She took her time, moving each piece of glass out of my hand. She used water to cleanse it, a poultice to soothe it, spiritual allies to heal it properly. As she wrapped my hand in a bandage, she kept her gaze down. “I’m sorry,” she said.

I kept my eyes out the window, staring at the peaks just out of reach. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“No, I do,” she said. “I knew about you and your lover. Your partnership has reached fame of its own. I presumed, due to his passing, this would be a welcome surprise. I hadn’t considered the grief you may be enduring.”

“His passing,” I said, my tone even and calm.

“Yes, his unfortunate loss is known amongst some circles.”

I formed a weak smile. “No one has ever said, ‘he passed,” before. Everyone always refers to it as the betrayal.”

“That doesn’t change its roots. It’s loss, regardless,” she said. She tied the bandage to secure it, and placed her hands on her lap. “It’s still early. I’d say seven or eight weeks, if forced to put a number on it.”

“Seven or eight weeks?” I asked, the words cracking as they left my thoat.

“Yes, my lady. You’ve still got some time to go before the little one arrives. I’d be happy to assist, as necessary, although I’m admittedly not well-versed in Qunari gestation. Do they,” she started, but stopped herself.

“Do they what?”

“Um… well…”

From near the window, Lace perked her head up. “She wants to know if they come out with horns.” For the first time in weeks, I laughed. I let out a laugh deep from my belly. Lace joins me, and before we know it the healer and us are all bent over with such casual glee. My hand drifted to my belly, and my eyes watered again. This time, I swallowed and looked at Lace. With those piercing green eyes I could hear her saying You’re going to be okay.

[5lazarus]

BTV OC Question Time - 2. Does your character have any fond family memories? If yes, tell me about one of them.

I had already gotten this question, so I decided to answer this as a story instead, and explore a character I don’t really care about--Hawke, who I always regarded as a way to explore Kirkwall and the other characters and the story at large, rather than a defined personalty by themselves. So here’s a story about Leandra and Hawke having a lot of fun at Hawke’s debut ball, and my take on Leandra--a woman who happily ran off with an apostate, who fought to keep her daughter from the Circle, and who saw her cousin Revka canonically devastated by losing all five of her children to the templars. Reading about the Amell family on the Wiki was a trip to be sure--hadn’t picked up on how Leandra’s father would’ve been Viscount if it weren’t for the discrimination against mages on my first playthrough! I posted on AO3 here, for the sake of convenience. But here’s the story!

“Oh hush,” Leandra scolds. “You look fine.” She stands behind her firstborn, watching them stare horrified at the mirror. They do not like their make-up, they do not like their hair, and they especially despise the doublet she picked out for them: too bad. Marrion inherited all of their father’s panache but not of his actual fashion sense. Luckily, Leandra is there to guide the way. She only wishes her mother were there to smooth over the connections, and Bethany teasing Carver with a falcon-feathered hat as they both complain they cannot come too. Hawke sees her face fall and sits up straighter in their chair. “I look like a peacock,” they complain. Leandra smiles, catching her own eye in the mirror, and fusses with the back of her child’s collar. Age has come to her too quickly. This is not how she imagined she would present her child at their first ball--but she has spent too much time Carver died drowning in that sea of regret. She still has Marrion. She forces a smile onto her face. “You look like the scion of the Amell family,” Leandra corrects. “If you want to look less like a peacock, don’t strut like one.” Mischievous, she produces a magnificent blue hat with a feather in its brim. She places it on Hawke’s head, and turns it to a jaunty angle. Hawke makes a horrified face. “Mother, no,” they say desperately. “You already put me into a turquoise doublet. I’m shiny. I won’t be able to turn without--blinding someone or whacking them in the face with that feather. And then they’re going to challenge me to a duel, and of course I’m going to win, but it’s embarrassing.” Leandra puts her hand on their shoulders. “Well, you wouldn’t wear the gown. The hat for that is smaller. You can hide a dagger in the brim, at least. As a hatpin! And if you hit them, well--challenge them to a duel! This is your debut, my love. You have to make a splash. A positive splash. Not a literal splash.” She remembers that the Viscount’s Gardens do have a duck pond--didn’t someone push Gamlen in, during her second cousin’s debut? She says repressively, “Please avoid the duck pond.” “I miss Lothering,” Hawke says. “I’ll take mucking out the stables over this.” Leandra rests her head against theirs, just for a moment, and closes her eyes. Hawke frowns at their reflection in the mirror. “Oh, Mother….” “I miss Lothering too,” Leandra says bracingly. Hawke reaches for her hand but Leandra pats them briskly on the shoulder. “No matter. It’s a shame Knight-Commander Meredith denied our request for Bethany to attend.” Hawke snorts. “If she even looked at it.” Leandra tenses. Templars have always unsettled her, ever since her cousin Amell was taken to the Circle, and Malcolm taught her to hate them. Meredith is the worst of that lot, strutting about on the backs of the nobility, bringing the worst fundamentalism back to the Marches. She tries to give her child as much distance as she needs, but she keeps finding that apostate’s manifesto in books about the house, and she finds herself agreeing. She can read between the lines of Bethany’s letters. The Circle must be destroyed--she wants her daughter back. She wasted so much time, running with Malcolm and her little girl--and poor cousin Revka and her five lost children. The Circle must be destroyed. “I wish your father were here,” she says foolishly. Malcolm had a dispensation, because of the deal he made with the Grey Wardens. The Wardens paraded him at the occasional ball, because he was as charming as their Marrion. He would have been able to charm even Meredith into letting Bethany out, she’s sure of it--or he would have broken her out, and they would have moved onto Rivain, or back to Weisshaupt. Hawke looks askance. “Did he ever go to parties with you?” Leandra laughs. “Once. Before the Wardens called him back. Not where I met him, of course. This was the fourth time.” She smiles at their reflection in the mirror. “By that point I had quite the crush. He was funny. And so much more grounded than the suitors my mother threw at me. I could actually see myself raising a family with him.” Grief rushes her, because they had it and lost and all that is left is Marrion, the last of the Hawkes, Carver is gone forever and Bethany is at the mercy of a madwoman and while she has Kirkwall, Kirkwall takes as much as it gives, and what more can she give away? She steels herself: Amells do not cry with make-up on. Neither do Hawkes, for that matter. Hawke gets up and pulls her into a hug. “And here we are,” they say. “My first ball.” Leandra sniffs and forces herself to laugh. Hawke looks like her, but with their father’s grandiose expressions. They have his smile and his way of waving his arms about, his sarcasm and sense of comedic timing. Sometimes Leandra feels like she is looking in the mirror. Then Marrion’s face will break into exactly the grin Malcolm makes when he knows he is saying something utterly absurd and is probably about to get punched, and it is as if he has entered the room and he isn’t dead, not really, when their child demands to be called by their name, when their child joyously lives his most chaotic impulses. “Yes, my love. We should send for the carriage--we want to be fashionably late, after all.” “But it’s a five minute walk,” Hawke says, puzzled. Leandra shakes her head fondly. “Ferelden. I should’ve taught you better. Let’s go.”

Leandra emerges from the carriage and smiles, drinking in the jasmine-scented night air. The du Parrys have always known how to throw a party. She steps aside to let Hawke out, who miraculously maintains an air of dignity as they step onto the ground. They look at her and she inclines her head. “Lead the way, love,” she murmurs, and threads her arm in theirs. Hawke wears turquoise, bringing out their sparkling blue eyes, while Leandra has dressed herself in something more sedate. She is a widow now, and has lost a child. Still, she won’t consign herself to black--Malcolm loved her peacock colors, and she does too, more confident in her violet and green and gold than Hawke is in their debut outfit. People pause, people stare, and she smirks as she hears the whispers behind the fans. She has always known how to make a splash. They are announced, and Leandra smirks at her title, Lady Hawke--she is proud to be an Amell and proud to be a Hawke, and even more proud how Marrion does not look back at her, but strides forward into the ballroom with perfect equanimity and grace. That, they inherited from her. She didn’t like to fight, but she could delay a bard, at the very least, and Marrion had proved an able student. Speaking of bards, the Viscount’s court is packed full of Orlesians, which is irritating. Her family had supported Perrin Threnhold, not just because of the magic that ran in their blood, but because they genuinely believed in the “free” part of the Free Marches. Worse than Orlesians, there is Grand Cleric Elthina, and Leandra curtseys at her, smiling curtly. Her father should have been Viscount, and would have, if it hadn’t been for the Divine intervening, if it hadn’t been for Meredith’s coup, if it hadn’t been for Elthina imprisoning poor old Perrin--but then, perhaps she would not have met Malcolm, perhaps she would not have adventured all over Ferelden, and had her children, and lost them too. Marrion whispers, “Is that a smile on your face, or a knife?” Leandra smiles thinly and says, “Hush your mouth. At least the Knight-Commander is not here.” She would have loved to debut Bethany, who is perhaps less of a peacock than Marrion but prettier. She hears a rustle and instinctively presses a hand to her bodice. She is wearing the amulet against poison her mother gave her, and she has a small blade. Cautiously, she turns, and her eyes widen, because it is her old friend DeLauncey, gray now, but still with that mischievous sparkle to her eyes. She blinks. DeLauncey is wearing an elaborate Orlesian-style mask, with antlers sticking out of the sides. “Messere Hawke, and your wonderful lady mother,” DeLauncey says, and flutters an Orlesian curtsey at them. Leandra mimics it. She had cut her dead after she left with Malcolm. She had not even answered her call when they moved to Hightown. She is too old to be disappointed, but still, it stings. Hawke bows extravagantly. Leandra rolls her eyes, and hides a laugh behind her fan as Marrion seizes DeLauncey’s hand. “Ah, to meet an old friend of my mother’s in the flesh!” they exclaim. “You’re even...more than the stories told. I do love your hat.” 

Leandra coughs a laugh into her hand. Perhaps they did listen to her etiquette lessons after all. Shame it was only the ones on how to insult people, but isn’t that what Hawkes do? Malcolm would be proud. “Charming,” DeLauncey says. I know, Leandra thinks proudly, I know. But DeLauncey recovers herself and eyes Leandra and prices out her finery. “And thank you for the compliment--it is the latest from Halamshiral, hunted straight from the Dales! The antlers come from those wild-elf deer, the halla, I believe they’re called. But!” She raps her hand with her own fan. “You must pay me a visit soon, Lady Amell.” “Hawke,” Leandra says. “My name is Leandra Hawke.” DeLauncey blinks. “Yes. I’ve heard many stories about your journey from the Blight. Perhaps you would be interested in speaking at my salon next week. We are fundraising for the Chantry’s project in Lowtown, and it would be lovely to hear your experiences.” Lovely, Leandra thinks sourly. She never saw the Chantry give out alms but for the missionaries at the Qunari compound, and most of the Fereldens were still stuck in Darktown. “I could put you in touch with someone,” she says instead. She does not want to be stuck as the refugee-made-good; she is Bethann Amell’s daughter after all, and her father was almost the Viscount. “Lirene, perhaps,” Hawke says blandly, and then shakes out a fan and flutters at their face. Leandra rolls her eyes.  She can imagine the sharp-tongued, no-nonsense unofficial almoner let loose amongst the Kirkwall aristocracy, particularly since Orlesian fashions and marriages are so in vogue. “Oh yes,” Leandra says. “We must introduce you.” She takes DeLauncey’s hand. “Come by the manse next week, and we’ll arrange things then.” DeLauncey looks at her sharply, but Leandra is already floating away, Hawke in tow, giggling behind their fans. “Mother,” Hawke says happily, “she’ll whip them. Maybe literally.” “I know,” Leandra giggles. “And she might bring that warden friend of yours, too.” “Maker,” Hawke snorts. “That’d go along as well as a house on fire.” “She does have an ugly house,” Leandra says happily. “An eyesore. It’ll be an excuse to remodel.” She pauses. “He won’t really burn the house down, will he? I know he glows, but he does have some self-control, yes?” Hawke shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound. Leandra feels her hair turn gray and decides that she will simply not think about it, not just yet. Then a Starkhaven burr calls out, and Leandra tenses as the Grand Cleric herself approaches in the wake of a knight in gleaming white armor. “Ah. Sebastian,” Hawke says. “Er. Nice to see you here, great party. Um. Maybe I introduce to you,” they flourish at Leandra, finally remembering their manners, “my lady mother, Lady Leandra Hawke, Lord Aristide Amell’s daughter. This is Sebastian Vale, Prince of Starkhaven.” They look at their mother significantly, and then cut their eyes down. Leandra follows Marrion’s gaze and coughs a laugh--the boy has Andraste’s face as a damn jockstrap. Free Marcher fashions certainly have changed. Quickly she looks back up and curtseys, though not too deeply--she knows the Vael family were pushed out, and her father had taught her to hedge her bets. She glances at the Grand Cleric and nods coolly. There is no need to be too subservient to the woman who allowed Perrin Threnhold to be poisoned in her custody. The Amell family has never been a friend of Orlais. The prince bows solemnly. “It is my greatest honor to meet the lady who has taught Hawke, who came to me in my hour of need. I promise you that will not be forgotten, when I am restored to my throne.” “Aren’t you charming,” Leandra says. Trumped by her own child: she always thought she was the most eccentric of the Amells, but Marrion has brought home a Lord of Fortune, a Dalish blood mage, an abomination, a deshyr of the Merchants’ Guild, an escaped Tevinter slave who glows in the dark, and now a lost prince. She does wonder what her parents would think of this, and then she stops herself, and smiles. Malcolm, at least, would be proud. “Marrion does make a lot of friends.” “Allies,” Marrion says. “Connections! Occasional enemies, true, but that’s just the Kirkwall spirit.” Leandra gives them a look and Marrion tosses their head, faux-bashly. They grin a tad viciously at Elthina. “And how are you, Grand Cleric? Did you get our letter?” “Pardon?” Elthina says. “Oh yes,” Hawke says. “I wrote you a petition. And Knight-Commander Meredith too, and Viscount Dumar.” Good old Marlowe, Leandra thinks sourly, always incapable of finding time, even for old friends--hadn’t Gamlen pushed him into a duck pond? “Sebastian, I thought you said you’d give it to her, ‘by your own hand’?” Hawke smiles dangerously. “You did say by your own hand.” The prince looks uncomfortable. Leandra taps Hawke’s hand with her fan discreetly, to tell them to knock it off. They are only recently returned to their name, after all, and one does not harass the Chantry lightly. Elthina looks beauteously concerned. “I do apologize, Messere Hawke. We get so many letters from the faithful, it is difficult to keep up. Dear Sebastian did give me your note, but then there was the services, the giving of alms--the days run on. But how charming  you look! It’s good to see the Amell family restored.” After all you did to destroy it, Leandra does not say, taking my cousin’s children away from her, threatening to take my husband away. And my daughter. My little Bethany. She knows intellectually that the Grand Cleric has done little to her personally but follow the orders of the Divine--that the Chantry ordered Lord Threnhold’s blockade destroyed, and that is is Chantry law that mages be taken from their families. But she remembers that sister in Lothering, who sang the Chant of Shartan so prettily, and talked about the plight of the mages with Bethany. She makes herself meet Elthina’s placid blue eyes. “Yes,” Leandra murmurs. “My oldest’s debut.” She smiles mechanically, and thinks about that night she ran away from the party, upset at something someone said about poor Revka,  and in the garden came upon a dashing young warden, sitting at the fountain and reading a book. She folds her arms and looks at her Hawke. “The belle of the ball.” Hawke flourishes again, mocking a curtsey at the Grand Cleric. “That’s me! Mother, do you hear the music? That’s the one song you taught me how to dance to! You know what that means?” “Oh Maker no,” Leandra says, but Marrion takes her by the hand and onto the dancefloor, and Leandra is amused and grateful and a bit tearful despite herself, because they are so clumsy, they are so egregious, they are such a Hawke, and as she tries to tame their flailing on the dancefloor, she has to laugh, because they’re funny, not taking this as seriously as an Amell should, but isn’t that the point? They’re not Amells anymore, and never were, and she is glad to laugh in the faces of the worst of the Kirkwall aristocracy, because she is proud of her choices and proud of her Hawke. “You’re trying to distract me,” Leandra says, taming them into a waltz. “Yeah,” Marrion says. “I know it’s hard for you, Mother, so isn’t it better to laugh?” They try to whirl Leandra around but step on her gown instead. “Marrion,” Leandra says, “you’re doing this on purpose. Making a fool of yourself.” “And you’re laughing,” Marrion returns. “Mother, you can’t take them seriously, can you? Like that woman’s so-called halla-hat. I know for a fact that Lady Elegant took those off a deer, not a hart, and painted them and sold them for thirty sovereigns. You have to laugh.” Leandra’s jaw drops. She grins incredulously. “Thirty sovereigns? Oh, I can’t want for the next DeLauncey salon.” Hawke grins. “Lirene’s the one who sold Elegant the deer. Have fun.”

[askdragonagecompanions]

How would the companions react to a teenaged Inquisitor after defeating corypheus dies from their wounds?

[This ask does contain topics of death, fatal injuries, and sensitive content, please take care of yourself

Dorian: When Corypheus was defeated he had a moment of relief and joy, they’d done it. They’d actually won! But then the Inquisitor fell. He ran to their side quickly and when he saw the state of their injuries he couldn’t keep his tears at bay. He knew there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t fair. They were so young… They had saved Thedas didn’t they deserve their happy ending? Not this… He could see the fear in their eyes as they too began to realize they weren’t going to make it. Maker it broke his heart. He held the Inquisitor close. He didn’t care about the blood. He just wanted them to feel comforted. He tried to keep his voice steady but it was so hard, “Y-you saved the day. Even though it seemed i-impossible you did it.” And he would wipe their tears away with shaky hands. “You did wonderfully little one. You can relax now okay? I-I’ve got you…” And he keeps comforting them and easing their pain with the limited healing magic he knows. When they do pass on Dorian cannot stop himself from sobbing and holding their body closer. He had gotten so close to the Inquisitor. He thought of them like family. He swore that he was going to protect them, to make sure they saw this thing through the end so that they could relax and get the chance to be a normal teenager. He failed them… They didn’t deserve for things to end like this. It takes him a while to calm down enough to carry their body to the others. He can’t say anything without breaking down again. He ends up drinking more than he normally does but he’s even more determined to change Tevinter. He wants to start making the world better, somewhere where wars aren’t raging on, where children don’t have to fear being dragged into the fights, somewhere without slaves… the world he would have loved for the Inquisitor to see. 

Solas: It was never supposed to be this way. He gave Corypheus his orb in hopes that the ancient magister would perish and its powers would be unlocked. He never intended for it to anchor itself onto someone else, let alone a child. Solas swore that he was going to ensure the Inquisitor’s survival. He could keep the Anchor at bay. He could save them… or so he thought. The final battle with Corypheus was intense and so sudden. None of them had time to prepare and the Inquisitor acted so fast. When he found the Inquisitor he tried to heal their wounds, but… no amount of magic can heal a hole in ones chest that size. His eyes began to water and when the Inquisitor began to cough and cry, apologizing about the orb, how it just broke Solas gently quieted them down. “Lethallen there is nothing you should apologize for. The orb is of no importance. You saved us, all of us.” He tries to smile for the Inquisitor to help them calm down. All he can do is ease their pain with his spells and help make their passing gentle. “You are the bravest person I have ever met. I am only sorry I couldn’t have done more for you…” When the Inquisitor does pass Solas feels tears slip down his cheeks. He knows this is his fault. They would not have met this fate had it not been for his plan, and now not only are they gone but his orb is broken. He lays their body down somewhere where the others will find them, he makes sure their eyes are close. Perhaps, in the long run, this is the more merciful way for the Inquisitor to go. They died not having to see what Solas would become in order to succeed…

Vivienne: She truly felt for the Inquisitor, they were so young to be put in such an important and stressful position. When she joined she made it her job to coach them on how to act and deal with nobles. She was going to help them learn the etiquette and proper manners because she knew that even when the war with Corypheus was over there would still be plenty of clamoring nobles that would want an audience with the Inquisitor. It was just going to have to be a part of the Inquisitor’s life, but it didn’t mean they had to go through it alone. In battle she would protect the Inquisitor as best she can, but nothing was enough to prepare them for the final battle with Corypheus. They were all exhausted, and when she could not see the Inquisitor she quickly began to search for them. She found them in the rubble with their armor covered in blood. Vivienne did not cry, not in front of them. She gently wiped their tears away and began to ease their pain with a spell, “You did an absolutely wonderful job darling.” Her voice was gentle and calming as she tried to help the Inquisitor relax. “You’re a true hero Inquisitor. We all owe you our lives, but you can rest now my dear. It’s going to be alright. You’re going to be alright.” Her throat felt tight as she said this. When the Inquisitor passed she finally let herself break down. A controlled moment of weakness before she made herself stop. She wiped her tears and carefully lifted the Inquisitor’s body and closed their eyes. They deserved a hero’s burial surrounded by friends, not to be left here in this… mess. She did not wish for this to be the outcome, but in war there are always sacrifices…

Cassandra: Her first meeting with the Inquisitor was not… the best. Yes they were a teen, but she needed someone, anyone to blame for the Divine’s death and they were the only one they had found. When she realized she had been wrong she felt quite guilty. They were just a child after all, and they were undoubtedly terrified. Cassandra tried to make up for this by training them in combat and just generally try to be nicer. She would share with them the more… tame of her romance novels and the closer they grew the more she considered the Inquisitor to be family. They were like a younger sibling. Maker she wanted nothing more than to be able to protect them from all of this fighting. She wished that they were not the one that had to face all of this, but what she could do was assure them they weren’t alone. After Corypheus was defeated it was chaos. Cassandra herself was injured but she needed to find the Inquisitor. She couldn’t lose someone so close to her again, but the world was never fair. When she found them they looked so scared, they were in so much pain. Her heart broke when their eyes lit up upon seeing her. She forced a smile for them but she could barely choke out any words. She held them close and rubbed their back. “You… You saved us all, even though… it wasn’t easy. I… You will not be forgotten my friend. I swear to you…” Damn it all she was crying now. It felt like losing Antony all over again. An old wound torn open. She held the Inquisitor close, even long after they had passed. She kept them in her arms as she carried them back to Skyhold. Yes the battle had been won, the world was safe for now… but there was a great cost. She just wish she could have taken it for the Inquisitor. 

Blackwall: The Inquisitor was always so kind, maybe it was just because they were too young to know better. Either way it didn’t matter. What did matter were their actions. The Inquisitor proved themself time and time again to be a true leader and a true hero. They kept going despite everything being thrown at them. Blackwall truly felt sorrow for them because they were so young to be thrown into the mix of all of this. He knew how he could help lighten their load though, he would often talk with the Inquisitor and offer his support. They would talk for hours some time and he made sure the Inquisitor had tea. He had even made them a worry token to keep in their pocket and help when they started to get overwhelmed when dealing with nobles and things like that. When they were in battle he always tried to shield the Inquisitor and take blows for them. He knew they were a capable fighter, but they were also just a kid. So, when he found them after the fight with Corypheus, bleeding out and terrified his heart broke. Blackwall had seen sights like this before but it never got any easier. He quickly fell to his knees and began to apply pressure to the wound to try and stem the bleeding, though he knew the Inquisitor wouldn’t make it. They had lost so much blood already. He felt ashamed that he started crying in front of them but… they meant so much to him. He had planned to offer to keep traveling with them once all of this was done, that they could be a sort of family. He wouldn’t call himself their dad, but its what he felt like. He only stopped his efforts when he felt their hand on their arm. The weakly pushed their worry token into his hands and Blackwall could not stop the small sob that escaped him. He gently wiped stray strands of hair from their face. “You are the bravest fighter I have ever met, and it was an honor to be your friend. I promise you I”m going to keep being a better man. I-I’m going to keep fighting for what’s right okay? Don’t you worry about us. I’ll keep everyone safe?” And they smiled, it was weak but it was there… They passed soon after, the smile still on their face. Blackwall shakily closed their eyes and picked them up. He blamed himself. He had failed them. They were just a child… but deep down he knew that this was just another part of war. People died all the time even if it wasn’t fair. 

Iron Bull: He felt bad for the kid honestly, to be shoved into such a powerful position and have to face hoards of demons and monsters and red templars. He couldn’t imagine what was going through the Inquisitor’s mind. Everyone else was teaching them how to be proper, how to fight, but Bull wanted to make sure they still got the chance to be a kid during all of this. He and the Chargers often encouraged the Inquisitor to join them in card games or tell stories of their travels, and on days where he could tell it was all getting to the Inquisitor he would just listen to them, give them a shoulder to lean on. He knew war wasn’t fair, that they were all going to lose people they cared about. He just… Damn he wished it hadn’t been the Inquisitor. Bull had lost plenty of good men, so he knew when he saw those injuries that the Inquisitor wasn’t going to make it. They looked so young and scared. He did what he could and sat down next to them, gently petting their hair to help them calm down. “You did great out there Imekari. You kicked ass and you saved the fucking world. You saved my ass.” And he gives them a big grin because he wants them to know that they are a hero, a kick ass hero that deserved so much more. Losing someone close is never easy. A part of him wonders if he should go back to the Qun, but… it just doesn’t feel right. He’s Vashoth now for better or for worse. All he can do is keep fighting the good fight. He just wished the Inquisitor had made it. He was going to offer them a spot in the Chargers after all of this. 

Sera: She really felt for the Inquisitor. It had to suck to be so young and have to deal with shitty nobles and demons all day while everyone else their age got to just… well be a kid. She hates seeing them all serious and stuff, so she makes it her mission to make the Inquisitor laugh and be a kid at least once a day. They prank together and tell scary stories until they get too scary and then they go prank some more to calm down. She never expected to get so close to them. To want to protect them so much. Sera really considered them a great friend, maybe family even. She was already making the plans, they could be a part of the Red Jennies with her. It would be great! They could keep pranking and sticking it to the nobles and… and… that’s how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to make it and be heroes not this. When she found the Inquisitor after the battle she staggered back. There armor was just ruined and the wounds were too big. “No no no no no…” She quickly rushed forward and tried to apply pressure. “W-we just got to wait for Solas o-or Vivi and they’ll heal you right up okay? You just have t-to stay awake okay? You’re gonna be fine and we won so once they patch you up we can have the biggest party and throw pies and eat all those tiny cakes…” Her voice is cracking and her hands are shaking. Her tears are streaming down her face and she can’t stop them. She knows she’s going to lose the Inquisitor and it’s just not fair. It’s not fair! A small broken voice breaks through her thoughts, “Did I do good?” It makes her heart shatter and she tries to muster a smile, “You did friggin great kiddo. Y-you’re gonna be the biggest hero, all the minstrils’ll be singing about you okay?” She cups their cheek and tries to keep them relaxed. When they pass it’s like whatever was allowing her to sort of keep her emotions under control was shattered. She holds their body close and she’s sobbing. It just isn’t fair… She empties all of her arrows into stupid Corypheshits stupid dumb corpse and then she carries the Inquisitor out of that place. They’re a friggin hero… why do all the heroes have to die…

Cole: Cole liked they Inquisitor. They were nice and curious and their heart was always full of good intentions. They wanted to help They wanted to save everyone even though they were terrified inside. What made him even happier was that they liked him, even if he was odd at times they didn’t mind. Cole would listen to the Inquisitor’s worries. When they were overwhelmed he would take them somewhere quiet and help them calm down. He never wanted them to be in pain. So when he found them after the battle with Corypheus he knew what he had to do. Terrified, hurt, I’m scared, I don’t want to be alone. It hurts… it hurts! I’m going to die… He followed those thoughts until he found the broken and battered body of his friend. “You are not alone my friend. You saved them all, and now you deserve your rest. Close your eyes and relax.” His voice was gently and he slowly began to ease their mind of fear. They would not survive their wounds. Even if they were brought back to Skyhold all that could be done would be to prolong their suffering. Cole made sure their mind was relaxed and they felt no pain. He made it quick, painless, and yet he was confused as to why it hurt him so much to do it. He had done this plenty of times, he knew it was merciful, but now his eyes were getting misty and his throat felt tight. He brought the body of the Inquisitor back. Cole would truly miss them. They were a wonderful friend, but now they are at peace. 

Varric: Varric had kind of meant it when he told the kid to run while they had a chance. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped that the kid’s story would have a happy ending, that once Corypheus was gone they could catch a break and get to live a normal life. Well as normal as one’s life could be after all this crazy shit. He encouraged them to take time for themself, to be a kid and have fun. Reports and nobles could wait a little longer. They reminded him of Hawke a little. He hated that a kid had been thrown into all of this. He wished there was someone else that could take their place, but he knew well enough that life wasn’t fair. Varric hated when he was right. The final battle against Corypheus was terrifying and intense, and that any of them had survived was a miracle. When he couldn’t see the kid though he started to get worried. Varric kept looking until he found them. Shit shit shit… Maybe if he’d found them sooner, it wasn’t supposed to end this way… “Varric?” A small voice choking on blood. “I-I’m here kid its okay.” He knelt beside them and held their hand. “You did it. You saved everyone, took down an ancient darkspawn magister. You’re a hero!” His eyes were getting misty. The Inquisitor looked so small and scared lying in the rubble. “I-I’m scared Varric. I-I don’t want to die…” Shit… Varric swallowed back the lump forming in his throat. “Now who said anything about that?” And he carefully moved to hold them a little. “How about I tell you the story of the time Hawke thought it would be a good idea to steal and try and hatch a dragon egg?” And so he told the story, gently running his hand through the kid’s hair to try and help them relax and calm down to make it easier on them. He could almost believe they were asleep if their eyes were closed. The Inquisitor died in his arms and it felt like the world was crashing down on him. Varric cried silently, just tears slipping down his face as he closed the Inquisitor’s eyes and stood up. He couldn’t take losing anyone else. Maker why did it have to be them…

[richmond-rex]

🌹🌹 - If I’m not too late!

Oh, you’re definitely not late! I was here thinking to myself which excerpt I could post without giving too many spoilers away, and I remember I wrote the first chapter of a character study about Cardinal Beaufort on the days before my thesis’ viva—I needed to decompress and I couldn’t possibly try to write my usual fics and characters because nothing would come out right. But I had no emotional attachment to Henry Winchester whatsoever besides a mere curiosity and for once I wanted the challenge of writing a devious, cunning character. The fic is entitled Four Kings, Five Scenes and each chapter was supposed to portray the cardinal during four different reigns: King Richard II (ch 1), King Henry IV (ch 2), King Henry V (ch 3), King Henry VI (ch 4) and King Henry VI again (ch 5). Obviously, I realised that no one would want to read this story lol. It really was the stress of the moment that made me write the first chapter. Well, since I’m not going to publish it anywhere and the chapter is fairly small compared to my usual chapter length (5k or more), you can read it here below the cut! Tagging @nuingiliath because she might be interested as well.

OLD TEMPLE, HOLBORN

Late September 1398

“Tell me what I ought to do, brother.”

Henry Beaufort, newly-appointed Bishop of Lincoln, rolled the episcopal ring on his finger—amethyst flaring under the sunlight—and let out an exasperated, long-held sigh. He could see its tracking ascendence in the air, the way the dust specks caught in the sunbeam would spiral and dance. Though old as its very name suggested, Old Temple was still one of the finest episcopal houses in London, bought for the exclusive use of the bishops of Lincoln after the Knights Templar decided to move within the borders of the City. A dusty residence it might be, but it was still one of the various privileges acquired after Henry’s consecration, or perhaps more importantly, his legitimisation. Everything was coming together, and yet, all hung at the brink of destruction.

“You are the eldest of us, John,” Lincoln replied, voice softening. “It is for you to lead us once Father is gone.”

His brother turned from the arched window, face twisting into a frown. He looked lost, utterly and completely lost, the tip of his red chaperon thrown over one shoulder as if the very fabric was trapping him in place or threatening to coil around his neck and squeeze out his breath.

“You’re the family’s clergyman.” He entreated, stepping closer. “Tell me, brother. What would God have me do?”

It was Lincoln’s turn to frown. By then the morning had given way to noon and the bishop had just finished donning his purple robes, a gold-threaded stole hanging from either side of his neck. It was almost time for Lincoln to resume his administrative duties concerning his diocese—let not anyone claim Henry Beaufort had earned his mitre by bribery and favouritism. He ran a hand along his tonsured head—he still had to send for his zucchetto hat to be brought to him—and paused in that pensive state, partially choosing what to say and partially assessing when he should schedule another shaving.

“God would have you love your brother—” He clasped his hands before his stomach, magnanimously. “—and obey your king.”

It was the first opportunity the two Beauforts had to discuss Bolingbroke’s banishment from the kingdom. It was an urgent matter: Henry Bolingbroke was Duke of Hereford and Earl of Derby, and—that was the most important piece of information—their father’s rightful heir. He was to inherit the large possessions and prodigious fortune that belonged to the Duke of Lancaster, the richest man in the realm—or so it had seemed, at least until the moment King Richard sent him into exile. The king had not mentioned his Lancastrian inheritance but as all invisible things, it still had its own weight, it still cast its own shadow. Lancaster himself was no less worried for the omission of the matter. It hung heavily, unresolved, in the air. 

His brother John, lately elevated from his earldom of Somerset to the marquessate of Dorset, resumed his speech after a brief moment of consideration.

“I say Bolingbroke is a good Christian, brother. He has vowed to defend the faithful and I know he means well and true.” 

John would know, the two of them had gone crusading together. While John, Bolingbroke and Swynford were bonding over tournaments and military expeditions, young Henry had his head buried deep in manuscripts and missals. For a time it had been a fancy of Henry’s to imagine himself a Knight Templar fighting for the kingdom of Christ in the Holy Land: the armour, the tabard and the red cross, entire armies under his command as a Grand Master. A child’s fancy, yes, for the Templars were no more—yet there Lincoln stood, at the very place those brothers had once called home. There was a rightness to it, a taste he could feel at the very tip of his tongue. Lancaster might have arranged for the trio of brothers to be admitted into the Confraternity at Lincoln’s Cathedral but it was he—Henry Beaufort—the one chosen to command the entire diocese now. 

His brother John didn’t even seem to notice his state of reminiscence. He kept talking, his words coming to Lincoln’s ears in all of their ardour again.

“—I didn’t speak for Uncle Gloucester at the time and now it weighs on my conscience! Worse, brother, I condemned him! I called for his very arrest!”

“Woodstock was a traitor of the realm.” The bishop deadpanned. “It was your duty as a peer to call for his arrest. You know that as well as I d—”

A boy holding his purple zucchetto was just about to enter the room. The bishop dismissed him with a sharp turn of his head, shooed him away with a glare and a quick motion of his hand. The boy scurried away, his hurried steps echoing on the flagstones. Lincoln frowned, pressed his lips into a thin line: his own brusqueness had displeased him. He should be nobler in his actions, loftier, gentler even, a true shepherd of Christ. As he turned, he saw John had already stepped back to the window. Once again, he didn’t seem to have noticed any commotion around him.

“Be as it may, this time is different.” John restarted. “Our brother has done no wrong against the king. There is only one explanation for this—” John stopped short before he went further, checking himself at the very last minute. He didn’t utter the word, but it hovered just above them, somewhere over their heads. Retribution. Vengeance for the time Bolingbroke joined the Lords Appellant and rebelled against cousin Richard. One by one those rebels had been crushed.

The glass panels tinted his brother’s face with green, spots of red covered his face as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Shocking blue, poisonous red, a liquid green so fresh one could almost drink. 

“It was cruel to make him fight Mowbray to the death, but there was still honour in it. There’s no honour to be found in exile.” He closed his eyes. “He has six children, Henry.”

This time the bishop’s reply was swift. “Father will take care of them. As will we if it comes to such an end. We shall support the family as we always have.”

John, still looking very much disheartened, acceded with a small nod. “You know,” he smiled weakly, eyes growing distant like a far-away ship. “I used to look up to him when I was little. All I ever wanted was to be like Bolingbroke, a true son of Lancaster.”

The sensation was familiar to the bishop himself, only his brother still seem to hold to that boyish memory as his heart’s truest wish, even now that his aspirations were supported by law: standing there at the bishop’s residence, John was dressed in Lancaster blue and white, their father’s SS livery collar hung over his shoulders, the S-shaped links crafted in pure gold and held closely together. 

A sting of bittersweetness washed over the bishop. What if… what if the king had Bolingbroke attainted? Surely, King Richard was unpredictable those days—no one had been quite able to placate his moods ever since Queen Anne had died—but if the king did attaint their brother, neither he nor his children would be authorised to inherit Lancaster’s lands and title. Perhaps… perhaps King Richard would choose to pass them over to Lancaster’s next legitimate male heir, in that case, his brother John himself.

“Dear brother, why do you choose to dwell in such sorrowful thoughts? Father loves you best.”

John turned to him sharply. “You cannot know such a thing!”

Oh, the plain irony of watching his brother’s face turned into a scowl that mirrored exactly the one their father was famous to possess! John had Lancaster’s same strong nose, as did the bishop himself, yet now at his anger, his brother had turned into the very picture of John of Gaunt. It was oftentimes that natural children would have their sire’s face if not his name, as if it was an underhanded way of nature to compensate for their social ostracism.

“He does.” The bishop repeated in a firm voice. He clasped his hands, a position that gave him reassurance in difficult situations. “Recall that Father has done everything in his power to make us his true children. He appealed to Parliament and His Holiness the Pope Himself, he moved mountains to secure our charts of legitimisation. All this time, he has extensively defended our cause to the king. Now, that same king has banished his heir from the land and the Duke of Lancaster poses no resistance. Why do you think that is?”

It was not exactly true, but it was what his brother needed to hear. Lancaster had, in fact, negotiated with the king to the best of his abilities, a piece of information that the bishop suspected his brother John knew already. The Marquess of Dorset was, after all, well-placed within cousin Richard’s circle. A more credible point against the bishop’s claim would be, however, that the Duke of Lancaster rarely ever showed his true emotions, fatherly or otherwise. It would be impossible to say whom he loved best.

“If Father will not risk his head over this matter, John—John, my beloved John! Heed my words now. You should not risk your own!”

John looked at him with such heaviness it bore into the bishop’s own soul. Henry walked over to his brother and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“You have a good heart, John. It is loyal and true and it bears testament to your character, but it will get you killed. Remember who gave you your earldom of Somerset, who made you marquess of Dorset, knight of the Garter, who married you to that illustrious lady, the king’s own niece. He who appointed you as Constable of Dover—”

“—Warden of the Cinq Ports, Admiral of the Fleet in the North and West, Lieutenant in Aquitaine, I know, I know!” John took a long breath. “I know. The king, our cousin.”

King Richard himself had fastened the earl’s belt during John’s girding; the king himself had draped the velvet cloak across John’s shoulders. The ceremony had been clear enough: the earl’s power derived from his authority and his authority alone.

The bishop retrieved his hand from his brother’s shoulder slowly, pulled it back inch by inch until it was safely resting against its twin counterpart, flat against his stomach. 

“Father has been unwell. When the Lord deems time to call him to His side again, who will look after us? Remember our brother Tom, so young and not yet a peer. Remember Joan and her children. Remember Mother.”

“No. No, brother, you speak true.” John conceded with a nod. “I can’t endanger your safety nor leave any of you unprotected. I cannot defy the king.”

There was resolution on his face, yet there was sadness as well. The bishop still sought a way of soothing his brother’s heart. “Let me be the one to speak for our brother. Cousin Richard already knows I’ve had my whole diocese pray for him. I stand safer as a prelate than you do as a courtier.”

In a second, his brother gripped his shoulder, displaced the stole hung around the bishop’s neck with a heartiness that surprised him. As though they were mere, simple children again, John smiled in truth at last.

“You have always been the wisest of us, brother. Yet,” He looked down,chuckled. “Yet sometimes I still remember that boy who vowed to God he would become pope.”

Bishop Beaufort felt his lips quirk up—a genuine, delicious thrill elicited by the memory—and so, accordingly, he lowered his eyelids in modesty. “All wisdom comes from our Holy Mother, the Church. All grace from God the Lord Almighty and His Son, Christ the Holy Lamb.” His prelate answer given, he glanced up again. “Sometimes I caught myself thinking of that boy as well, dear John, yet times have changed.”

John raised an eyebrow, apparently befuddled. “Have they?” 

“Yes,” The bishop replied, no longer speaking of the ambitions held for a long time inside his heart. “If for the better or for the worse, only the future will tell.”

_______________________ *notes: it’s said that John Beaufort, while still suporting Richard II at the time of Bolingbroke’s invasion, might have played a double game. When he was captured by his brother’s forces and the Percys called for his execution, Henry IV is supposed to have said: “I beseech you do him no harm, for he is my brother, and has always been my friend; see the letter he sent to me in France.” Henry IV later made John Beaufort his Lord Chamberlain.

Henry Beaufort remained close to his brother John up until his last breath. The bishop stayed by his side at St Katherine’s hospital while he was dying. Henry was made executor of John’s will, a mark of deep trust, if not also affection the brothers had for each other. It may explain why Cardinal Beaufort vouched for his nephews, his brother’s children, so fiercely in the coming decades.

[the-halo-of-my-memory]

Tell Me You Love Me Anyway (rough draft - tease)

A/n: This probably has a billion errors but I feel like posting it anyway. This is only a tiny bit of what I have in mind. I could use as much feedback as possible for this. 

---- [Act 1] ----

Maker, did Anders miss being drunk. 

Justice hasn’t let him sway under the influence since their union. He sees it as a waste of time and senses. 

But to lose one's senses was such a beautiful and intoxicated mess to be a part of. 

Can you stop speaking nonsense?

It’s not nonsense, it’s passion.

It is a waste of time. 

Anders chuckles, nearly spilling his useless drink in the process. 

“What’s so funny, mage?” 

It’s Fenris. He held a drink also, now flirting with drunkenness that will soon take him fully. 

The two have only met not too long ago through a mutual friend, one Garrett Hawke. Anders liked Hawke enough. He was a fellow mage and Fereldan refugee who suffered loss before reaching Kirkwall. He came to his clinic a month ago asking for maps to the Deep Roads. 

It sounded so ridiculous. People who went to the Deep Roads voluntarily must have a death wish. To want to walk in a place full of darkspawn and deepstalkers. A place with rocky terrain and putrid wet air. It was dark and in some places you could hardly see your own hand in front of your place. He could light a torch but it wasn’t worth accidentally burning someone. 

He never wants to go there again. Especially not without Pounce. 

Things changed though. For a favor, he asked for a favor himself. 

Karl……..

He did love him…….and to see him like that……...made tranquil…….

It broke more than just his heart, it shattered his entire being. 

Oh Karl…..

Back in the Circle, the two had agreed between kisses in a quiet nook away from prying eyes, that if either of them became tranquil, they would not want to live like that. There was no known cure. It was either be made a thoughtless pet of the Templars and the Chantry or death. 

It wasn’t actually a plan that would happen. He didn’t think this would be an actual choice that he would make. 

Oh maker, Karl…….

It has been a month since he had to kill him. He still feels the blood on his hands, the sound of his last breath, and how empty he felt when he fell upon the floor. 

He still yearns to get a letter from him…..anything from him. 

Despite everything, he had Hawke to thank. At least Karl has peace now. He can have the maps and himself for the expedition if needed. 

Though he resented it at the time, he was glad he went to have drinks with Hawke the night after. Hearing his and Aveline’s story of loss before reaching Kirkwall brought him back from the pain. 

Hawke had asked him to join him on another night like that.

“But you know, in much better spirits,” he said with a hand on the back of his neck. He swore he saw him turn a shade red underneath that smile and beard.

And here he is now. 

He sat at a table with Fenris, Isabela, Varric, and Merrill. The women were giggling and whispering, Merrill turning pink and covering her mouth while Isabella said something too low for him to decipher. The men were talking about one of Varric’s tales. 

“No, dwarf. I have never read any of your stories.” 

“Have you ever thought about it?” 

“No.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Varric, I can’t read.” 

Well, that’s news…….

Wait, where’s Hawke? He was here just a second ago. 

Anders spots him at the bar. Talking with someone, a human woman. 

He’s never seen her before. She was short, maybe the same height as Merrill. She had deep warm mahogany skin, short dark curly hair, and wore a shirt opened at the neck and chest tucked into the tightest pair of trousers he’s ever seen. 

Sweet Andraste, what an arse!

They speak for a short moment before they each grab a drink and walk over to wear the rest of them sat. 

“Maker, Hawke!” Isabella yells, “How did you find this fine lady? Tell me, are you seeing anyone. Do you have a sister?” 

Hawke’s friend laughs loud and boisterous, covering her mouth half way before she sits herself down. 

“I’m not interested, I'm afraid. If I have a sister, I wouldn’t know. But I know some ladies who would love to give some company to a humorous and attractive lady such as yourself.” 

“You’ll have to tell me all about them, kitten.” 

She sat next to Anders and Hawke sat on the other side of her. 

Now closer to him, he gets a good look at her. 

Fine lady indeed. She had deep dark wide eyes like the night’s sky. Lips pursed as she took sips on her drink. Lots of skin covered down her naked neck and chest, teasing the swell of her breasts where her shirt is undone by the laces. She had small hands with gentle fingers tapping on the drink and the table. She wore no makeup and no jewelry.

Not that she needed them. 

“Friends!” Hawke stood up, hitting and shaking the table on the way. “I want you to meet my friend, Valentine. Val, these are my friends. This is Varric, and that’s Merrill and that’s-” He introduces everyone by name and they all exchange words and greetings. When Anders’ was introduced, he said “hello there.” She replies with only one word. 

“Pleasure.” 

*******

I have no idea where I am. 

It’s green all over. The grass is green and long and being blown by the wind. And the sky is blue and cloudless.

It’s not cold. But it was cold? There were clouds and snow and cold. And now…..not anymore. 

I don’t understand. I was in the car with Jackson. Where is he? 

I remember something. When we were driving…...I saw lights. Like headlights and then…….

Am I dead? Is this a dream? Am I in a coma? I don’t understand at all. 

My suitcase is here. It has my stuff still in it. Didn’t expect that old vintage thing to hold up. My clothes are there, but it’s too warm for them. I’m wearing the only pair of shoes I brought. My notebook was also there, and I’m writing in it right now. 

I don’t know what to do. 

*******

The next time he meets Hawke’s friend is when they get ready for the Deep Roads expedition. 

They were all together meeting with Bertrand in Hightown. He had to give credit to Hawke for making a colorful group of friends. He sees her near him, dressed in leather armor and carrying a long thin sword in a scabbard by her side. 

Her eyes catch his and she waves a hello to him. He waves back. 

Hawke and the dwarven brothers are discussing something when someone cries out. 

It was from a woman with tied back greying hair, running towards the group with a worrisome look in her exhausted eyes. 

“Excuse me, but I need to talk to my children”

Oh, that must be Hawke’s mother. He’s only heard nice things about her whenever Hawke opens up about his family. 

He sees him and Carver walk over to the lady and he’s too far to overhear. 

Some sort of disagreement starts and Carver is yelling and Hawke and their mother try to subdue him. There’s a lot of head shaking and hand waving. At last, Carver appears to accept whatever was that was said. Hawke walks away and his brother and mother stay where they stood. 

Hawke walks over to his groups of friends looking lost in thought. A moment passes and then with both hands he waves over the group to come over. 

“What happened?” Merrill asks. 

“Nothing,” Hawke sighs. “Mother just wanted Carver to stay. He…..eventually agreed.” 

“Now what?” Fenris crosses his arms, a knot between brows form. 

“We have to decide who I am bringing on this expedition.” Hawke sighs once more. He takes in a good look at his companions and bobs his head side to side as if he’s rolling die to choose who he’ll bring. 

“Alright! Besides Varric, I shall bring Anders and Valentine. Do you two agree?” 

Fuck no. 

“Of course, Hawke,” Anders instead says. It was inevitable. 

“Sure,” Valentine nods with a small smile upon her lips. 

“The rest of you can go about your business. We’ll be gone for a while in the meantime.” 

Some murmurs of “alright,” “be careful,” and “see you soon,” were heard before the others left their separate ways. 

Anders watches Hawke go back to the dwarven brothers, no doubt to wrap up a few things before they head out. 

“So you were a grey warden, correct?” It was Valentine. 

“Yes, I was.” She really was quite short. She was a whole head short of him, couldn’t look like she could put her head on his shoulder if she wanted. 

“That’s a lifelong joining, isn’t it? I imagine they’re not happy having you…..displaced.” 

That got a chuckle out of him. 

“Yes, you could say that.” 

“That’s too bad,” she kicks a pebble with the tip of her boot, her eyes looking into the sky and nowhere in particular. “I’m sure they’re doing fine without you. You have more important things like spelunking with us losers in demon infested caves.” 

That got him to laugh out loud. 

“Well when you put it like that, I’m even more grateful I left the wardens.” 

When she laughs, she laughs with her being. She bends forward with her arms wrapped around her abdomen as if she was a tree swaying in the wind. 

She’s kinda cute, isn’t she? 

I do not see what this has to do with the task at hand. 

Relax. It’s just an observation. 

*******

I am in a country called Ferelden. I have never heard of this place before. Is that old English or whatever the fuck? I don’t know, my head hurts and I’m tired from all the travel. 

It took me days by foot, but I eventually reached a small village called Draycott. I asked around for a place to stay and work. And luckily I did. Their innkeeper/pub owner was looking for someone to help clean and keep order in their establishment. He seemed like enough of a nice guy to trust for now. Everything is ancient. There is no electricity or indoor plumbing. Everyone uses candles, gets water from the well, and shits in a pot. I’m afraid to ask why that is. 

I am currently writing in my journal in a room of my own by candle light in the late evening. I’m even using a quill and ink. It’s much harder than I thought. Hope I can read this later. 

This place is so much more strange than I first thought. 

This country and land is certainly beautiful. I believe it's either mid to late spring to early fall. Grass is long, the hills roll, mountains are tall, and the trees high. 

But then I noticed the plant and wildlife. I have never seen these herbs or flowers or whatever the hell they are. They look like something out of a story book. And the animals. I’ve seen wolves and bears from a distance. Luckily, I haven't bothered them enough to attack me. 

But then I noticed a crow. It had such a large beak with ruffled feathers and splashes of red? 

And spiders. The most gigantic ones I have ever seen. They look like the size of horses! What the fuck??

I must’ve been hallucinating. I should get some rest. The people here like to wake at daybreak. 

Farmers are insane. 

*******

They have been in the deep roads for a few days. 

It’s as claustrophobic and dark and all things awful as Anders last remembers. 

He wished the warden commander was here. She must be so warm and cozy now being the queen of Ferelden. 

And Pounce. His little mews and purrs was what really kept him going. 

Well, that and screwing around with Nathaniel was also fun. He had the best expressions. 

The company he has now however wasn't too bad. They certainly made an entertaining crowd. 

“Garrett, if you had to choose, would you rather eat your shirt or your trousers?” 

The echoes of Hawke’s belly laugh lasts almost a minute as they trek along. He had to hold on to his staff to keep himself upright. It was quite contagious and made himself, Varric, and Valentine laugh along with him. 

“Maker Val, I knew I wouldn’t regret bringing you. I think I would eat my shirt. My shirt in particular today looks rather tasty.” 

“I swear no one wants to eat their pants, it’s always the shirt.” 

“Who the hell wants to eat their pants?” Varric raises a brow. 

“I don't know, but I’m waiting for someone to tell me.” 

Without daylight, it’s impossible to tell when it's dawn or near dusk. After crossing corridors and making quick work of darkspawn that lurked, they all agreed to make camp and rest. 

Spare food and drink are brought out, bringing out better spirits for the exhausted party. Bottles of wine and flasks of water. Wrapped packs of dried fruit, meat, and nuts. 

Words start spilling and conversations follow. 

It never ceases to amaze Anders how well Hawke carries himself in social situations. He held a poise like a noble yet spoke like a child raised by pirates. Held confidence in his chest and said things like “Anders, can you help me get my hand out of this jar?” 

 He was like an affectionate pet. 

“Val,” Hawke said. He sat next to Varric while Anders and Valentine sat opposite them. “Did you know that our friend Anders runs a clinic in Darktown?”

Valentine laughs.

“That’s very all of a sudden, Garrett. That would make you a healer, yes?” She looks at Anders now. 

“That’s right,” he smiles back for politeness. “I just try to help the sick as much as I can.” 

“That’s incredibly thoughtful of you. You must make decent coin as well.” 

“Oh, I don’t charge.” Valentine nearly spits out as she drinks from a water flask. 

“You don't?” Her eyes wide and brows raised. “That’s insane. How do you get by?” 

“I get by by getting by. Also being dragged around by Hawke helps.” 

“And you are incredibly welcomed!” Hawke laughs, so does Varric, Valentine, and Anders. 

The group would soon pack their things and move on. 

*******

NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE GIANT SPIDERS ARE REAL I HATE WHERE EVER THE FUCK I AM AT 

ANYWAYS....

Life in the village is peaceful. I can’t complain.

Yeah sure, the food could be better and I have to shit in a pot but overall, I like it. 

Not shaving is a big plus for me.

I’ve made the mistake of asking too many questions. Some of the things I don't know are common knowledge, causing people to look at me weird. Someone even asked if I had brain damage. 

And then I realized having amnesia is a great excuse. Everyone now believes I have suffered such an injury. That’s my life now. 

The innkeeper offered me a position to keep his rooms cleaned and naturally, I accepted. He also asked me to watch and possibly teach his young daughter to read and write along with watching her.

She is the dearest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

Her name is Wenona. She is nearly four years of age, has light brown hair that is always braided, has a freckled face, and wears homemade dresses. 

She is mute. I have never heard her talk or make any noise. Her father says she’s only shy, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was on the spectrum. She is nice nonetheless and gestures when she wants something like food. I speak to her with simple words but not any different than to the others i have spoken here in the village. She understands me just fine. 

We have so far spent days outdoors, picking herbs and flowers and laying in the grass and staring at the clouds. Indoors I help her learn how to write, have tea parties, and cook and bake . I read to her every night before bed and sometimes I sing to her. 

I’ve also realized that this girl has no friends. I’ve seen a few other children here, but they never go up to here to talk or play. I asked her myself and she nodded. I told her that she was my friend and the look in her eyes…..

Learning about the world through her is an amazing experience too. 

They have a religion here called Andrastanism. It sounds similar to Christianity, but instead of God, they have a maker and instead of a son, the maker has a bride named Andraste. I’ve read their biblical stories to Wenona. 

I still have so much to learn. 

****

[cedarmoons]

She has heard stories of the Dalish drums of war, how they echoed throughout the days and nights in the weeks after Red Crossing. Supposedly part of a prayer to Elgar’nan, alerting him to the coming vengeance that would be sought against the humans. After the Exalted Marches, after her People lost their home, there had never been a point to sound the drums. It had always been safer to run from the humans than to fight. More people lived, that way.

She has never heard the drums of war, but she imagines they are like this: the thrum of her bare feet echoing in the fortress halls. The wet sounds of her reddened feet, soaked in the blood of those who had died believing in Solas’s cause, upon the cold stone that would never know what loss of life it had borne witness to. The slight rustle of her cloak, clasped at the shoulder with the burning eye of the Inquisition, as the cold draft wafts through the cracks in the stone.

The pulse of her heart, thrumming in her fingertips, in the points of her ears.

She has lived many years Clanless, but she wears the Mother’s Mark. The branches of Mythal’s living tree are inked in orange across her forehead and temples, across her back. A hound sleeps near the base of the tree, just in the dip of her spine. Her grandmother had put him there to protect her from the Dread Wolf. 

She will not need his protection today. It is she who is Dread, now. She is what he has made her, over these many long years.

She presses a button above where her elbow had once been, and the sword that has replaced her arm sheathes itself. The complex metal, wound through with lyrium and copious amounts of Dorian’s magic, whirs as it shifts to find the replacement she seeks. She does not even look down to watch as the crossbow slides into place where the sword had once been, and a bolt shrrks as it is fastened into place, ready for her thought to release.

It is the closest she will ever get to wielding magic.

She finds him in the highest point of the fortress. The door is open, and she hears the whistle of the wind; the screams of griffins and her dragons. She opens it, and sees the snow-covered mountain peaks in the distance. Snow falls in thick blurs, whirling outside, but kept from the open balcony by what she can only assume to be magic.

In winter they had met, and in winter they will end. The world’s cycles at work. 

An eluvian glows in the corner of the room, directly ahead of her, and she tenses, instinctively, before she sees Solas. He is on the opposite side of the room, though that means nothing—she has heard stories of the Dread Wolf Fade-stepping so far and so quickly it seemed to be teleportation. He has left armies of stone in his wake. If he had wanted to escape, he would have.

His back is to her. He wears no armor, only a blue tunic she had once stolen from him and black leathers. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and he is hunched over his desk, illuminated in the glow of the candle- and eluvian’s light. If she was desperate to delude herself, she could imagine herself crossing the space. Could almost rest her cheek between his shoulder blades, and hold him until he sighed and spoke his mind to her.

She steps into the room and lifts her left arm. At her thought, the Veilquartz crossbow bolt is notched. Solas turns, half-facing her, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. The candlelight catches in his eye.

He smiles, but there is nothing joyful about it. Ariala steps sideways, putting herself between him and the eluvian. Giving her a better view of him. If she misses, it’s over. He has let her live only out of sentimentality. She only has one chance to get this right.

“So,” he says, the first word he has spoken since she entered the room. He crosses his arms behind his back. “You have found me at last.” His gaze drops from her face to the crossbow of living metal attached to her arm. She cannot read him. She’s not sure she’s ever been able to read him, honestly. He’s only ever let her see what he wanted her to see. “This is how it will happen, then?”

Gods. He sounds exhausted. She’s not close enough to see, but she is almost certain he has those old hollows in his cheeks, those familiar, unwelcome shadows under his eyes. She has learned to recognize his fatigue; she has lived with it herself, all these years. It is not something that ever truly goes away.

“I have poison,” she says instead. “Probably less painful, but more drawn out.”

“You have given me options,” he says. “Very considerate of you.”

“These were better than my first idea,” she says.

“And what was your first idea?”

“We put you in magic-suppressant chains. Like the Templars used to use on apostates.” His jaw clenches at that, but she continues. “We make a little piece of a... parallel world, or whatever the Crossroads are. One you can’t escape. We put you in there and break the eluvian. There would’ve been a spell to put you to sleep. You would’ve starved, but it would’ve been peaceful.”

“I would have died alone,” he says.

Ariala exhales through her nose. She should pull the trigger. He hasn’t invoked the geas, yet, but he would. He has before, to get out of situations when they had almost had him. But the look on his face twists at her, and she stays her hand. She’s missed his voice. She’s always been a fool. “Yes.”

She is cruel, when she is angry. But she is not angry now, not anymore. She is tired. She wants this to be over. She wants to sleep a thousand-thousand years, and only then wake up from the nightmare her life has become. Or go back to when her largest concerns were Corypheus.

Solas looks down at the papers on his desk, reaching out and straightening one. “Fitting. No less than I deserve, certainly.” After a moment, he sighs, looking at her. “If I may be selfish one last time, vhenan... I would like the poison. I would like it to be painless.”

Fuck. Fuck. She needs to pull the trigger. She needs to. Another moment she talks with him is another moment one of their people dies. But.

(Gods. Gods. She’s always been a fucking fool, with him.)

She lifts her arm, dismissing the crossbow with a thought, and as her hand becomes a hand again she reaches down and pulls out the vial at her side-pouch. The clear liquid is still and calm until she tilts it sideways, examining the flow of it within the glass.

When she looks at Solas, he is walking to the end table near the bed, where a carafe of golden liquid rests. It glows, even in the relative darkness of the room. He opens the drawer and withdraws a stemless glass, pouring it to the brim. When he turns, not a drop of it is spilled.

He holds the glass toward her, and Ariala holds his gaze as she uncorks the vial and upends it into the drink. Solas watches the clear poison drift down and dissipate into the drink, then stirs it a little with expert tilts of his wrist. When the poison is fully dissolved, he looks at her.

“You will be with me?”

“Yes.” The word barely leaves her lips. She doesn’t hear herself, but Solas does. He exhales, softly, and his gaze drifts down her face, to the leather cords around her neck. His arm lifts, and he hesitates, then shakes his head, reaching out to her. She tenses, but all he does is hook his fingers under the dual cords, following them to the apex and pulling out the jawbone necklace, hidden beneath her chestplate stamped with the all-seeing eye of the Inquisition.

She sees the bob of his throat as he swallows. His eyes catch the light when he looks to her again. “Still?” he asks. His fingers brush against her bare throat, and Ariala doesn’t let herself move.

“Drink it,” she says.

Solas holds her gaze and downs the drink in three swallows. When it is over, her exhale stutters, and he lets the glass fall empty from his hand. He hasn’t looked away from her, and her heart is racing, and why does she feel nauseous, like her own lungs are burning despite the clear wintry air—

Outside, someone screams; a lone voice is soon echoed by a thousand others. Ariala turns, and all she sees is a glimpse of orange in the sky before something hits her, hard. The air is driven from her lungs as the world tilts, and arms wrap around her, and she feels an electric hum raise every hair on her body before—

The world evens out, and she is suddenly not in the fortress. She is in a forgotten elven palace, instead. Where there had been golden tile, there is meadow, flowers gently swaying in the breeze. 

It would be peaceful, if the sky was not burning. If it was not blood-red and orange and flame. 

She can see—just like the Breach, holes ripping in the sky, revealing sickly green behind it—the screams of demons, free to enter the Fade, and spirits, twisted against their wills to join the living world.

“No,” she breathes. “No, no, no—”

“I am sorry,” Solas says. “I did not know you would be the one they sent. I could not—I thought I was strong enough—I was wrong. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.”

“You were stalling,” she says, unable to look away from the Veil being torn asunder. His yes is quiet but entirely guiltless. A meteor spits from the newest breach, its tail flaming green, and she watches it crash into the valley a thousand miles away. The earth shakes at the impact, even here, and Ariala wants to vomit. She watches the thick black smoke rise, a distant column that blackens the sky, and fights the scream rising in her throat.

“You were—the poison—”

“Poison alone is not enough to kill me, vhenan. I am sorry. You will be safe here.”

Ariala lunges for him, screaming, her arm already shifting back to the sword. Solas’s eyes flash and her vallaslin turns white. She feels her body yank itself back, the geas activating to keep him safe. She kneels in the meadow, the flowers brushing her cheek, and screams her grief to the heavens, unable to do anything but watch as her world is torn asunder.

[mysdrymmumbles]

Getting Into My OC

A comprehensive breakdown of your OC.

Thank you to the wonderful @ellenembee​ for tagging me with this! I’m going to do Finley from Andraste’s Witch and Weslyn and Nicole from Tales of Mysdrym. 

Thank you so much for the tag!

NAME: None, though she calls herself Finley as of the Conclave

AGE: 27 at the time of the conclave 

GENDER: Female

ORIENTATION: pan

PROFESSION: Wilds’ Apostate

BACKGROUND:

Finley’s father was a heartless maleficar and her mother was an abomination. The demon inside her mother was a third parent of sorts, the only one who cared for her, and the only reason the others didn’t drown her when she was little, instead tricking her maleficar parents into believing that Finley’s blood would enhance their blood magic, thus ensuring they would keep her alive.

Around four years old, templars came and killed her parents. Because she had been a hostage of the blood mages, as far as the templars knew, they kept her with them, initially to keep an eye out for signs of possession, though they ended up becoming very protective of their dear, odd girl. 

For the first time, Finley knew what it was like to be safe, to have a home. Her templars -- Ser Caudry, Ser Ross, and Ser Neil -- doted on her and treated her like their own child, telling her stories to make the world less frightening and always there to hold a hand when her nightmares were too much. She would steal the templars’ shields and run around, imagining herself a savior to others from the terrifying blood mages and monsters in the world. She didn’t want anyone else to be trapped with monsters like she had been and was determined to be like her heroes, even if she was very afraid of most all other people.

After 3 years of living with the templars, one of them, Ser Caudry, was brought back severely injured. Terrified that one of her heroes would die, Finley’s magic woke up, and she expended almost all of her energy healing him as best she could.

When she woke up, one of the other templars, Ser Neil, was taking her into the woods, telling her that she would be safe with the Avvar, as he feared what would happen to her if she was taken to a Circle when she was already so skittish and mentally frail. The Revered Mother from the Chantry they’d been living at, however, had already alerted the Circle of Finley’s magic, and the Circle templars caught up before they could get far into the mountains. 

Ser Neil tried to fend off the templars, but one snuck up behind them and ran Finley through, just barely missing her heart. Distracted by Finley’s cry from getting hurt, Ser Neil was cut down in front of her.

When Finley next awoke, she was with the renowned Flemeth and one of her daughters. The great Witch of the Wilds had caught sight of the templars attacking Finley and Ser Neil and had been curious because Finley seemed a bit closer to the Fade than most her age, so she had intervened. 

Flemeth told her that going back north would result in death, at best, and that there was a sliver of a chance she might survive if she fled into the Wilds. When Finley woke up, she was alone in a deserted camp that looked like it hadn’t been used in months.

Life in the Wilds was hard at first, but Finley learned that most of the creatures people deemed to be monsters could be allies of sorts, if one offered them the proper respect and understood that they simply followed their nature.

Seeking peace and quiet, she became known as the Green Witch, as her magic dealt mostly with nature and she wound up helping the lost find their way out of the woods and the like. Mostly she did it to prevent search parties from drawing too much attention to herself and bringing in the templars, but in the stories that sprung up around her, people lauded her a kind Witch. 

Heartbreak and betrayal, as well as the demon that had possessed her mother, followed her through her life, leading to some hellacious trust and abandonment issues.

After the Blight, she devoted herself to finding a way to heal the Wilds and return them to the way they were before the arrogance of man had destroyed so much of it. It was during her research that a familiar old Witch came by to tell her that there was someone who could help her with her research, though she would need to go to the Conclave to get their assistance.

PHYSICAL

Body type: lithe

Eyes: blue with gold flame-like center around the pupils, fade-touched

Hair: fiery orange

Skin: tanned with oodles of freckles

Height: 5′3

Weight: 105   

SKILLS (S.P.E.C.I.A.L + M)

Strength: 5/10, but only because she can heal herself well enough that she can over exert without too much in the way of repercussions. 

Perception: Varies. 9/10 when she’s in the Wilds, on her own, 5/10 when she’s dealing with a lot of people, mostly because she may see what they’re doing but doesn’t understand what their little movements/tells mean so seeing it is meaningless, 6/10 when she’s in a fight and collected, 3/10 when her side is losing and she’s panicking that someone is going to die and she’ll be blamed. She tends to get hurt most often with the last one because she forgets to look after herself.

Endurance: 9/10. She’s been through some shit and is used to having to outrun/outlast templars. 

Charisma: 2/10. Her general paranoia and fear of people betraying her does not lend well to being charismatic.

Intelligence: 7/10. Finley picks up on things quickly, so long as she can make sense of why it is done or why it is necessary. Her lack of understanding of currency, for example, stems from her not seeing a point in having tiny coins when one can just do favors for one another. Spells, she learns incredibly quickly, flips, and the like. Nuances to conversation and culture, not so much. Most of the time, her problems also stem from the fact that if she knows (or thinks she knows) one way to do something, she sees no point in learning another way when hers is already effective. She’s her own biggest obstacle.

Agility: 9/10. One does not outmaneuver a templar if one is slow.

Luck: 1/10. Father - maleficar. Mother - possessed and dead. 3 Templars - dead or exiled from the order. 1st love - possessed and dead. 2nd lover - possessed and dead. 3rd lover - was a liar who tried to sell her to the templars and Finley was almost beheaded while she ran away (she doesn’t like to talk about it). Demon stalker. Wilds ravaged. People messing up her wards and making them clunky and cumbersome. Stuck around a ridiculous number of templars. Expected to play nice with idiot nobility and mage haters. Favorite spider - stepped on by Hawke. Hawke - exists. 

As far as Finley’s concerned, she has no good luck. Well, except for getting to meet the Alistair Theirin and a few other grey wardens. 

Magic: 10/10 Finley is very good with magic, also rather condescending to anyone who doesn’t practice her style, which is everyone. 

LIKES

Colors: birds, wild animals, the Wilds, not being around people

Smells: Fresh rain, ocean breezes, wildflowers 

Food: For someone as picky as she is, she’s surprisingly blasé toward food in general

Fruit: any of them

Drinks: Anything non-alcoholic

Alcoholic drinks: she doesn’t like them because she likes to stay alert.

OTHER

Smoke: none. Smoke makes it easier for someone to find you.

Drugs: none, unless she’s slipping them to someone else so she can run away

Driver’s license?: much to Varric’s amusement, she claims she can ride kelpies, but not much else.

NAME: Weslyn Kagris, 2nd son of Jasserai Kagris

AGE: 28 at the beginning of the book

GENDER: male

ORIENTATION: gay

PROFESSION: emissary/make-shift monarch (not by choice)

BACKGROUND:

Weslyn grew up in Kyvrell, Mysdrym’s southern neighbor who has poor standing with Mysdrym ever since the Demons’ War four thousand years ago, during which the lands that now make up Kyvrell were abandoned by the crown. The people who survived the demonic onslaught and fall of their sacred temples refused to return to the rule of the people who had left them to die, and it is a point of pride that they have survived so well on their own. Especially considering that they are the ones who are most frequently attacked by the Chaotic shifters from the islands to the south.

While Weslyn had expected to join Kyvrell’s prominent military, being the second child of noble parents, when it became clear that the demons were reemerging after four turns (1 turn is 1000 years) of silence, he was elected to go to Mysdrym on behalf of Kyvrell to request the ancient seals that could lock the demons away once more.

He was nearly laughed out of court when he presented himself to High Grace Norwrithe of Mysdrym.

Even as he’d considered what he could do—he couldn’t return home without the seals, but knew he couldn’t expect the High Grace to take him seriously—he was approached by Lord Sehnswrift, a noble who had fallen out of favor with the high grace. Lord Sehnswrift was adamant that Weslyn was right; the demons were returning.

They began working together, gathering support where they could—even though he’d fallen from favor with the court, Lord Sehnswrift still held a great deal of respect among the soldiers.

Then, abruptly, Lord Sehnswrift staged a coup, with Weslyn at his side, murdering the high grace and scattering the surviving nobles from the capital. Despite taking power, Lord Sehnswrift showed no desire to take over the duties of running the country, instead handing the job off to Weslyn, who—despite pleas that him running things would make it look like Kyvrell had declared war on Mysdrym—finally accepted with great reluctance.

Despite the rather legitimate fear that he will be assassinated, Weslyn has done what he can to ease tensions, working on redirecting funds from the high grace’s parties to doing construction around Mysdrym’s capital and attempting to show the people of Mysdrym that he and Lord Sehnswrift wish to help.

He keeps his sword near him at all times, so that he will not be taken unawares.

After a few months of somehow managing to not have a heart attack whilst running a foreign country, Lord Sehnswrift gathered him to go and meet fabled other-worlders, who are sent by the Gods in times of strife. Weslyn is not particularly pleased with their arrival, as that means that the return of the demons is likely to be so devastating that the Gods thought other-worlders were necessary.

PHYSICAL

Body type: well toned

Eyes: gray

Hair: dark brown

Skin: coppery

Height: 5′11

Weight: idfk, he’s got muscle though  

SKILLS (S.P.E.C.I.A.L + M)

Strength: 7/10. He’s a pretty solid fighter. 

Perception: 7/10 He’d probably notice more, but he’s kind of paranoid about being assassinated, so what he thinks is hyper-vigilance does make him miss some stuff because he gets so easily distracted by harmless sounds and shadows. 

Endurance: Varies. 9/10 in a fight, 6/10 dealing with the upkeep of the castle, 2/10 dealing with other-worlders’ bullshit, but he’s working on that last one.

Charisma: 5/10. He’s not great at hiding the growing terror that he’s going to be deposed with the Lord he sided with, should people come to reclaim the throne for the young grace. 

Intelligence: 7/10. He’s a quick study, and a fairly good tactician. 

Agility: 7/10. Not the fastest, but good at dodging stuff, in a fair fight. Demons don’t fight fair, though. 

Luck: 4/10. He went to a foreign country to find out how to save his, got stuck running said country and accidentally freed the demon lord, when all he wants is to go home, so... not the best.

Magick: 3/10. He is not a fan of his healing magick, as it wears him down, but he is trying to strengthen it, as the other-worlders are so accident prone and it would help to have a healer while fighting the demons. 

LIKES

Colors: reds, browns, golds

Smells: ocean breezes, baking bread

Food: He likes a good wyvern steak. 

Fruit: eh, star flower fruit is alright

Drinks: something to take the edge off

Alcoholic drinks: yes, please

OTHER

Smoke: a good distraction tactic, if necessary.

Drugs: he sees enough shit hiding in the shadows, he doesn’t need drugs adding to it.

Driver’s license?: He does not come from a world with driver’s licenses, but he’s fairly good on a horse.

NAME: Nicole (Nik) Katerin Hedgeway

AGE: 21 at the beginning of the book

GENDER: female

ORIENTATION: pan

PROFESSION: other-worlder

BACKGROUND:

The first five years of Nik’s life are never brought up or talked about, other than to say her mother was unwell and unfit. Zachary’s father found Nik living in the woods behind their house, scrawny and underfed and terrified of people. He talked her into coming home with him, and while his wife and son talked with her, he called for help.

Nik’s mother had failed to inform anyone that she’d been missing, and had a breakdown after her reappearance, saying that Nik was the product of rape, and she couldn’t look at her. While Nik has always doubted this, her mother’s family did not, rallying behind her mother. When her aunt refused to shun Nik, saying she deserved to be with family, Nik, her aunt, and her cousin Samantha were all disowned.

Nik has fought with guilt over that for most of her life, though she can’t say that she thinks Samantha is missing out on much. Still, she knows it hurts her aunt and wishes she could fix things.

Because of a freak accident in the woods when she was 7 that left Nik severely injured, she was unable to go to school for two years and ended up being in the same grade as Samantha, Zachary, and Ella.

Her injuries have caused her problems ever since, and she’s been in and out of the hospital far too many times.

One of the things that has helped her the most throughout her life are stories that have been in her head for as long as she can remember, of fantastical creatures and magick. She is sure that they are as real as she is, and often claims to have seen them or other magickal creatures wandering the world.

While Samantha and Zachary—and later Ella—were fond of her stories growing up, Samantha has become disenfranchised with them, feeling that Nik is using them to avoid reality. Nik is annoyed that Samantha would be so quick to insist they are not real, but tries to keep the peace, as she knows Samantha will not accept her truths.

Knowing that Samantha has spent much of her life giving up too many things so that she can stay with and help her, Nik fakes getting accepted into a local college so that Samantha will go off into the world and have a chance to find herself, free from Nik’s shadow.

It doesn’t quite work, and when Zachary finds out she’s not in college, things get uncomfortable as she realizes she’s going to have to tell Samantha she lied.

However, before things can fall apart completely, Nik and Ella are whisked away to Mysdrym by a dog made of shadows.

Needless to say, Nik is ecstatic.

PHYSICAL

Body type: a bit too thin

Eyes: gray

Hair: brown

Skin: too pale

Height: 6′0

Weight: underweight 

SKILLS (S.P.E.C.I.A.L + M)

Strength: 4/10. Despite being so thin, she can carry about as much as her healthier friends, and insists she could do more, if given the chance. She is never given the chance. 

Perception: 4/10. Nik’s pretty thrilled to learn new stuff, but she doesn’t pick up on danger really quick. Like, she’ll be inspecting an awesome flower she’s never seen before and would be so entranced with memorizing the details on the pistils that someone could easily sneak up on her. She tries to pay attention, but gets distracted really easily. 

Endurance: 7/10. She’s pretty proud that she’s been improving lately, not falling over and collapsing like she used to.

Charisma: 4/10. She’s friendly enough, but people often find themselves experiencing an innate unease from merely being around her, and as a result, a lot of people just try to avoid her.

Intelligence: 9/10. She catches on to stuff really quickly, even things she’s not able to do herself, and can walk others through how to do it (i.e. magick).

Agility: 8/10 fast for someone who looks like they’re about to fall over, and when Ella and Zach catch her doing things like backflips, they wonder how. Samantha threatens murder, though, so Nik tries to be subtle with any acrobatics, so that word doesn’t get back to her dear cousin.

Luck: 4/10. Things are always trying to kill her, when all she wants is to have fun and go on adventures.

Magick: 0/10. Much to her chagrin, she cannot use magick. 

LIKES

Colors: all of them

Smells: leaves, wind - yes, she insists it does have a smell unto itself, nature-y things

Food: salad

Fruit: fuck yeah

Drinks: water

Alcoholic drinks: she is wary of alcohol and other mind-altering things

OTHER

Smoke: her cousin, Samantha, would kill her.

Drugs: just got off a bunch of prescribed bullshit against her doctor’s orders, and is not a fan of any type in general

Driver’s license?: due to her health issues, she’s not really allowed to drive, since she was prone to passing out and stuff for a while. Though she’s doing better, she doesn’t need one because she’s in Mysdrym now.

Tagging: @cometeclipsewriting, @momopichu, @commandershepardvasfuckit, @slothquisitor, @rederiswrites, @gugle1980, and @thesecondsealwrites. No pressure :D

[theticklishpear]

A sampling of covers from across the world for Oliver Pötzsch’s The Hangman’s Daughter.

Magdalena, the clever and headstrong daughter of Bavarian hangman Jakob Kuisl, lives with her father outside the village walls and is destined to be married off to another hangman’s son—except that the town physician’s son is hopelessly in love with her. And her father’s wisdom and empathy are as unusual as his despised profession. It is 1659, the Thirty Years’ War has finally ended, and there hasn’t been a witchcraft mania in decades. But now, a drowning and gruesomely injured boy, tattooed with the mark of a witch, is pulled from a river and the villagers suspect the local midwife, Martha Stechlin. Jakob Kuisl is charged with extracting a confession from her and torturing her until he gets one. Convinced she is innocent, he, Magdalena, and her would-be suitor race against the clock to find the true killer. Approaching Walpurgisnacht, when witches are believed to dance in the forest and mate with the devil, another tattooed orphan is found dead and the town becomes frenzied. More than one person has spotted what looks like the devil—a man with a hand made only of bones. The hangman, his daughter, and the doctor’s son face a terrifying and very real enemy. (x)

Taking us back in history to a place where autopsies were blasphemous, coffee was an exotic drink, dried toads were the recommended remedy for the plague, and the devil was as real as anything, The Hangman’s Daughter brings to cinematic life the sights, sounds, and smells of seventeenth-century Bavaria, telling the engrossing story of a compassionate hangman who will live on in readers’ imaginations long after they’ve put down the novel. (x)

Originally written in German, this story has garnered a broad spectrum of feedback and opinions, and sold more than 800,000 copies by the time its fourth installment came out. The Hangman’s Daughter is the first in a series of the same name, however the first can stand alone if you’re looking for that kind of story.

It’s important to point out at least one of the main complaints about the book: The title is a bit misleading. The main character of this book is not the hangman’s daughter, Magdalena, but rather hangman father, Jakob Kuisl himself. The plot does revolve closely around Magdalena’s fate and her as a character, but she is not the main character in any sense. This disconnect between what’s being advertised and audience expectations left many feeling a bit cheated. It’s not false advertising per se, but it certainly isn’t the expectation titles establish in their audience in English markets.

Aside from this, many folks have found the translation to have caused some anachronisms, the mark of a not-stellar translation. I didn’t find them to be distracting, but it has caused some to abandon the books. The sometimes overwrought metaphors and descriptions could also be laid at the translator’s doorstep, but part of that must also stem from the stylistic decisions of the original text.

The story plays on old ideas of a lost Templar treasure and witchcraft accusations that some found wearisome, and others have called attention to the characters as somewhat boring and the slowness of the pacing. Finally, the author himself boasts the hangman as a part of his ancestry. His devotion to the research he’s done in order to understand this character from his family’s past leads sometimes to it being a bit heavy in its historical details.

My own opinion is much kinder. I enjoyed this story, and enjoyed the slow, thoughtful, practical nature of Jakob as a character. Perhaps it comes from having to read all those classics and literary fiction in school, but I found that the language didn’t bother me, and I could almost always trace the ideas Jakob used as his narrative metaphors back to his thinking, history, and profession. When Magdalena is present, I loved her knowledge and ability.

This story is either one you like or one you didn’t, and I think quite a lot of it hinges on your expectations and what you thought you were going to get. Have you tried out this historical fiction murder mystery?

Do you have any of these covers? If you pick it up, let me know what you think! Good or bad, let’s talk about it! -Pear

[adventurinosdospainandportugal]

Lisbon and our day trip to Sintra

We took the bus from Seville to a southern seaside town in Portugal called Faro. There was some translation difficulties with the bus driver, as his first stop was at the Faro airport, and we were trying to ask him if there was another stop in Faro. We ended up risking it and staying on the bus, knowing if there wasn't we would be heading to Albuferria two hours west, but luckily the risk was worth it and the bus also stopped at the bus station in Faro. We waited for a few hours in Faro till we boarded our train to Lisbon. It was a pretty uneventful train ride, interesting to look out at the countryside. Something I noticed is that there are lots of buildings abandoned with collapsed roofs that are falling apart. We got to Lisbon and took the metro to our hostel which was pretty easy to find. First impression of the hostel was awesome, really cool common spaces and a nice atmosphere. Our hostel room had 3 beds and a cool lounging bean bag chair, definitely the biggest hostel room I've ever stayed in. Every night a chef prepares dinner for those interested and willing to pay 10€. Grace and I joined in and really enjoyed it! There was prosciutto and melon salad to start, they melon was so sweet and fresh. The main course was a mushroom risotto and the dessert was tiramisu. Overall an incredible meal for only 10€. Not only was the food amazing but the people were amazing too! We met a retired couple staying at the hostel named Loyd and Franny from Halifax. They were so nice to talk with over dinner as well as a girl from Buenos Aires. We all ate and chatted for 2.5 hours until the wine we were drinking began to catch up with us. Franny actually reminded me so much of Laura Knickle, a very close family friend of Jason's. She just had this positivity and energy about her that seems to match Laura's. The next day in Lisbon was actually a good day to leave the city because it was a workers holiday and everything would be closed. We went on a Sintra day trip organized through the hostel with only 8 people. We drove along the coast on our way there, it was cool to see so many surfers out on the water, looking like Tofino with all these black specks in the water bobbing up and down waiting for the perfect wave. On our way to Sintra we stopped at a beautiful beach with incredible waves. I was making a video of my feet walking into the water when an unexpectedly large wave arrived, coming up higher than any other wave in the last 20 min, soaking my pants up to me knees. Needless to say it was pretty funny, and I dried off after about an hour. Our next stop was in the region of Sintra, but not yet in the town. It is called Cabo de Roca, the most western part of the European continent which used to be known as the end of the world. Walking around this area and looking out at the ocean you can appreciate that hundreds of years ago someone looking out at the ocean would feel that this is the end of the land and the beginning of the sea. After this we headed from the coast towards the foothills of the Sintra mountains where the actual town of Sintra is found as well as various monuments. The town of Sintra is tucked into the foothills of the mountains, with narrow winding roads, and big stone walls with moss growing on them surrounding the road. Sintra has an interesting history in that it has been a place for the wealthy to get away for vacation, especially during world war 2 as Portugal was considered neutral. All these extravagant houses have been built, along with the different monuments in the Sintra region truly makes it a unique and magical place. We arrived in Sintra, driving on the incredibly narrow roads with barely enough room for two cars, but somehow our guide Lara managed to always make it through. We stopped for lunch and had authentic Portuguese food. I had a dish that had fava beans with chorizo, pork pieces and blood sausage in it as well as deep fried green beans. It was good but blood sausage is definitely not my favourite. After lunch we had some tasty Portuguese desserts, one cheese-custard like tart and another flaky almond dessert. If I've learned anything about Portugal so far is that the country has so many pastries, and each region has their own unique type. After lunch we headed off to the monuments that we wanted to see, we each picked two, a majority of us did the same ones, which was fun to explore them as a group. The first monument I visited was the Castle of the Moors which is a hilltop medieval castle built in the 8th century. It was incredible to explore this massive monument, so grand especially for how long ago it was built. You could walk along the wall of the castle from turret to turret, taking in the views of the town of Sintra below, the palaces put there more recently and the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. I love visiting things that are so old, I can't imagine how much effort it would take to build by hand a massive stone fortress that is still standing strong to this day. After the Castle of the Moors we headed to Quinta da Regaleira which is an estate built more recently in the early 1900s, containing a mansion with gothic , Egyptian, Moorish and Renaissance architectural features. The most amazing part of visiting here was actually the enchanting gardens and grounds. Within the grounds there are references to the Knights Templar and the secret society of the Masons. There are underground tunnels that you can explore, with their entrances not being obvious to someone without a map of the property. The tunnels connect two Initiation wells/inverted towers which have some use in the secret society. The wells plunge 27m down into the earth, with a spiralling staircase the entire way. There are multiple theories on the symbolism of these wells and the one I liked the most is that you start in the tunnels, in complete darkness, finding your way to the well, which is also finding your way to the light. Some say the meaning is that you have to be lost in darkness and hard times before getting to the reward of light and positivity in your life. Unfortunately the staff running the staircase were forcing people to go down the stairs instead of up (to increase flow of people) so I didn't get to have this existential experience, but nonetheless it was cool. After Quinta da Regaleira we headed into the town of Sintra to do some cheese tasting as well as try some port wine. Following our wine and cheese tasting we grabbed Traveseiro pastries, which are a puff pastry with almond cream, originating at the tiny bakery in the town and to this day are only made there. We got back in the car and ready to head back to Lisbon. On our way to the hostel we were driving through the neighbourhood of Belem which is home to a world renowned bakery called Pasteis de Belem. This bakery invented this other famous pastry which again is only made in this particular bakery with a secret recipe. The pastry was a warm egg tart that you put cinnamon sugar on. It was delicious as well and as I mentioned earlier, Portugal is all about the pastries so it's fitting that our day ended with a famous pastry. We were there just before closing but in the middle of the day people wait for up to 2 hours to buy these pastures. Back at the hostel we headed to bed pretty quickly as it been about a 13 hour day of explorations. Thanks for reading and I'll be sharing how our last couple of days in Lisbon are soon! -Alanna

[harmless-offering]

They bury the other Templars first. It's only fair.

Well -- Lukas buries them, and Karen putters around trying to make herself useful. She's very careful not to look at him in case it turns out he's staring down at their bodies, full of sorrow, because she doesn't know what she could possibly say to make that better. Everything that comes to mind is empty and meaningless, so what's the point ?

(If he'd done his job right they would still be alive)

He removes the bodies from the monastery first, but more for her benefit than his -- wrapping each in a shroud and hefting them outside, one after the other after the other, silent except for the occasional grunt of exertion. There's no discussion on whether this is the right thing to do -- she's not even sure the Templars really existed, and even if they did, how could you explain this kind of mass slaughter ? She understands that this really is the best course of action, but it still leaves a bitter taste in the back of her throat.

Do you need help ? she thinks, as they pass each other in the hall, but says nothing. He doesn't look at her.

(He could have prevented this. He should have prevented this.)

But when he walks back past, carrying a shovel over his shoulder, Karen reaches out to touch his arm. He could have kept on walking, not even acknowledging the contact, but he doesn't -- he stops and turns, silently questioning, and struggles with just what she was trying to say.

Don't get dirt in your wound she utters, which isn't at all what she meant to say, but it's all she can say, staring at his arm -- at the bandage, wrapped around the bicep, where a bullet was but isn't anymore. (Thanks to her.) He follows her gaze, but instead of brushing her concern off, he offers a small, mirthless smile. Before she can react he's leaned in and pressed his lips against her forehead, just for a second -- it's a chaste kiss, a brother to his little sister, but he doesn't speak.

(You're killing me.)

Karen watches, silently, as he leaves out the open door.

Hours later, she goes to make sure he hasn't dropped dead, outside and all alone. The entrance room is tidier; aimlessly, she has wandered about and found herself picking up empty shell casings, putting the halberd back where it belongs, and spending a few hours on her hands and knees scrubbing at the stains on the floor.

They won't come off.

(Stop, I'm begging you. I'm suffering.)

It's just busy work and Karen knows that, but she feels lost and bewildered and isn't sure what else she can do, not yet. It might not even be a bad thing, she acknowledges -- some time to figure out just what the hell happened, to deal with the fact there's a door to fucking Hell underneath her feet, might be a good idea. Those are the kind of things that require a bit of time to process.

But she goes out to see if Lukas is still alive anyway, and takes him a glass of water to disguise her true intentions. He glances up as she approaches, knee deep in yet another hole, and it's only mildly surprising that he's digging individual graves for the fallen. Well, obviously that was the right thing to do, but it was still going to take him forever and he was going to be exhausted by the end of it and he has to know that, and he's still doing it.

(Karen, stop.)

He accepts the water with a nod and another of those half-smiles, leaning on the shovel and he chugs it. Already she can see the bandage has slipped and there is dirt in it, but if he's not going to say anything, neither will she.

As he drinks, Karen plants her hands on her hips and lets her gaze rake around the area, surveying his work. It's clear he's been more productive than she has. When she looks back she finds him watching her silently and thinks -- This is the moment to say something. It's the perfect moment to reassure him.

She doesn't. She takes the empty glass back and leaves him to it, and even before she's taken two steps the shovel is hitting the dirt again. It sounds frustrated, but that's just her imagination, surely -- after all, she's the one that's frustrated here.

(You can't be tempted, no.)

Night comes and he's still out there, still working, but when she goes outside once more, another glass in hand, all the graves are dug and Lukas is just sitting there, back against the wall, staring at the holes. The moon sheds some light, but all it does is make the graves seem darker and deeper, and for a second Karen thinks he's actually fallen asleep, with his head bowed like that and so still, but then she realizes the truth.

He's praying.

She waits, standing awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt.

"Karen," he utters, when he's done, looking to her. She's not sure if it's a plea or an accusation or just a sigh, and his expression reveals nothing.

Do you need help ? she thinks again, and still doesn't say it aloud. This time she tells herself it's because this is his burden, his whale to slay, and if she tries to take that away he'll be insulted. It might not even be a real lie, that one. As she stands there, unresponsive, he pushes himself to his feet and moves back towards the bodies, leaving her to follow in his wake, still with the glass of water.

(You're killing me, Karen.)

Lukas is surprisingly gentle, laying each body in its grave, and pausing the mutter a short prayer. Maybe he asks for forgiveness or maybe he just prays for their souls -- who can even tell ? She doesn't want to ask and intrude, after all. The lines in his face look deeper in the moonlight, the same way each grave has become its own little abyss, and it's not a similarity that is lost on her as she stands there and observes. It isn't long before she has to turn away, and he doesn't seem upset by this, which is just great, because it wouldn't have mattered even if he had been.

(Never going to see Gramps in his grave never going to be there I can't --)

Lukas works silently, and the night passes, slowly. She sits and waits, unwilling to retire to bed and leave him to do this alone. The glass of water has been set to the side, all but forgotten.

"Karen ?" he asked, suddenly, and the sound of his voice is startling. She jerks her head up and finds him looming above, mud stained and exhausted, though his voice is strong. She blinks once, groggily, and thinks (he's not himself that's not what Lukas looks like) he looks very, very old.

"I'm not asleep," she protests, pushing herself up. She sways and he reaches a hand to steady her, withdrawing it before his touch lands. His gaze is drawn to his hand for a long second and she wonders what he sees there, in the moonlight -- it is mud ? Or is it blood ?

"You should be," he tells her, but there is no criticism in his tone.

"Are you done ?" she asks, glancing behind him.

"Yes," he agrees, then pauses. "One more," he corrects himself, and she understands then -- she understands who is left.

There is only Bernard, now -- the last vessel of the minion, and you can't touch the vessel or look into its eyes or comfort it at all. It is foul and untouchable, but it used to be his brother. She sees grief in his face, as he drags the body out, and for this, she accompanies him again. She is the only one that flinches as it thuds into the last grave.

Lukas stands above, motions at his chest and moves his lips silently, and then -- she understands what he's doing. Relief floods her and she makes an involuntary noise, so when he glances at her, it's with quizzical silence.

"Praying," she utters aloud. "You're praying for him."

Lukas seems puzzled by this.

"Yes," he agrees.

"He was a vessel," she elaborates.

"His actions were not his own," Lukas corrects her, and the relief becomes almost tangible -- she feels like she's drowning, standing there. She tries to speak and fails, and tries again, because the concern on his face is just too much.

"Gramps," she forces out, struggling to explain. He moves towards her, but she shakes her head, stopping him, trying again. "It -- he was Gramps."

(The doors twists and it turns and there's no devil with his vicious horns, there's only her grandfather who loved her and who she loves and he's in pain and he's begging her to stop he's suffering he --)

"A lie," Lukas tells her, seeming to understand the gist, if not the details. (Gramps isn't suffering he's not in Hell -- if Bernard is safe then so is Gramps, because he never did anything so bad. I didn't condemn him and we didn't condemn him and --) "I told you -- just a lie."

"Still," says Karen -- she tries to sound strong, but her voice breaks, and it's too hard to fight against it as Lukas wraps his arms around her. He's covered in mud and smells like blood and death, but underneath that -- underneath all that -- there's still him, and none of that is him. She feels his chest rise and fall, as he sighs, and it's not quite even.

"You should have asked," he informs her, and she laughs -- a quiet, breathless and bitter sort of sound, lost in his shirt.

No, she thinks, but she doesn't say that, either. No, I couldn't.