#darkspawn-ate-my-lover

[moonsugar-and-spice]

🌧️ 8

Varric x Cassandra

Arriving in ultra-high fashion (which is to say egregiously late—but late usually beats never). Thanks for stopping by, enjoy!

Send me a prompt + a pairing and I’ll write you a ficlet. 

+++

The storm had rolled in fast. Wind tore at the trees, clouds roiled and flashed like an angry sea, thunder shook the earth. Within seconds, they had been drenched.

Beyond the windows of the forsaken hunter’s shack, the world was an ever-darkening blur of grey fury as dusk slowly siphoned the last of daylight. Rain lashed the neglected roof and stone walls with no sign of fatigue, weeping through cracks in the ceiling, drowning out their breaths and Cassandra’s restless footfalls.

She paced the cramped cabin, the soft clink of her armor keeping time. One-two-three relentless strides to an old carving block, dark stains sunken in and around the wood. Turn. One-two-three back toward the ladder that led to a sleeping loft, partially blocked by the drooping, water-stained ceiling. Turn. Sparing only occasional glances to where Varric slouched resignedly upon the single bench at the dust-ridden table.

Earlier that day, he and Cassandra had been scouting ahead, searching for a safe path through the treacherous wilds. The rest of their party had waited several miles behind, now likely hunkered down as best they could.  The two of them had been on their way back when the storm hit, had fortuitously stumbled upon the overgrown shack. The corpse of a long-forgotten fire lay huddled in the hearth, cobwebbed but dry. With a spark, the remains had wheezed back to life and now suffused the dingy place with a meager glow, a thin warmth.

Varric took another long draught from his flask. Already more than half-empty, by the diminished heft of it. The cabin’s door sagged on its rusty hinges, letting in sporadic darts of rain and a loamy tang. But the somnolent flames, the haze of liquor, Cassandra’s rhythmic movement all conspired to lull him into a trance. Firelight wavered over her set jaw and winked against her scar, limned the damp fringe still clinging to her forehead. She seemed caught in her own reverie—fingertips tapping against her thigh, eyes shooting daggers out the window on every turn, as if she might threaten the storm into submission.

Not that he would put it past her. If this storm had any sense, it’d start looking for a new job right about now.

As it was, Varric took advantage of the moment and let his gaze follow her.

Cassandra Pentaghast was a study in contrasts. Fierce, yet reverent. Imposing, yet merciful. Terrifying, yet… well, still terrifying. But beneath the warrior’s facade was a depth of compassion she seldom revealed. He had glimpsed it in her care for their comrades, in the moments of vulnerability she allowed herself. Her unwavering selflessness and mettle stirred and fostered within him a profound admiration. Though Varric often and habitually cloaked this fact in a timely jest or embellished tale.

And he knew her unrest here spoke to more than the storm’s fury. It embodied the mantle of a duty that seemed to settle more heavily on her shoulders. While each member of the Inquisition bore their share of the burden, Cassandra’s own personal conviction amplified the pressure she felt. The looming threat of Corypheus cast a long shadow over their every move. Delays felt perilous, every moment of inaction a potential disaster.

His flask thunked quietly on its return to the table, and Cassandra stopped just long enough to fix him with a look. There was the barest hitch of her breath as she blinked. A blooming flush as she realized he had been staring.

On reflex, she frowned anew, averting her eyes from his to the drink still wrapped in his hand. “Why do you always bring that thing with you?”

Varric raised an eyebrow. As if prompted, he lifted the flask to his lips and took another swig, shrugging. “Never know when it might come in handy.” 

With a scoff, she shook her head, even as the stern lines around her mouth yielded to something gentler. “You’re incorrigible.”

The grin he returned didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s part of my charm.”

The hearth rasped and sighed, their shadows shifting on the wall like phantoms. An insect scuttled across the floor. His gaze lingered on hers a beat longer than it should have before Cassandra broke it to resume her troubled circuit of the cabin.

There was so much he had been wanting to tell her, ask her, for entirely too long. But the time had never felt right, and on the rare occasion it might have, the words tangled his tongue and knotted themselves in his chest. He needed to know whether this thing that had been growing between them for months only existed in his imaginings. Though he didn’t think it did. So, when she’d volunteered as scout that morning, he had stepped up to accompany her, hoping to carve out a moment where that ever-choking anxiety might be tempered by the purpose of their movement, the lesser demand for eye contact.

The trek had afforded him plenty of low-pressure alone time with her. More than one chance to speak his heart. Yet when he’d finally had it, he choked. Again.

One of her boots scuffed against the slanting floor. He watched her a few moments longer, his expression dimming on an exhale. “Stop pacing, Seeker. You’re making me nervous.”

Cassandra paused mid-stride and turned, shoulders stiffening at his remark. “Stop drinking, then. You’re making me nervous.”

Varric huffed a singular chuckle, but it was a hollow sound, lost under the clamor of rain and wind. Raising both hands in a show of concession, he took the flask and set it across the table from him. It came down louder than he’d intended. “There. Happy?”

For a moment, she didn’t answer. He could almost feel it, the reprimand straining the leash of her disapproval. But at last, her edges softened in acceptance, the hands at her sides closing once before loosening.

A gust rattled the grimy windowpane. With it came a lurch in the cabin’s pulse, a rise in the tick-tick-ticking of rain that pooled in the corner, drained between decaying floorboards.

Varric held Cassandra’s gaze the way one might a flame in a draft. Delicate. Imploring. One wrong move and it might gutter.

“Come sit with me.”

Cassandra stood there, warrior-rigid and tall and still, as if weighing his request. In the pause that unfurled, he thought she might refuse, simply retreat back into herself and her compulsive restlessness, deflect any prospect of vulnerability.

But with a sigh laden with more than mere agitation, she crossed the small room.

Old wood creaked as she lowered herself onto the vacant side of the bench, her armor brushing against him. The cool damp where his shirt clung fresh made him shiver, but he was certain the prickling on his skin had more to do with the growing warmth of her beside him.

Varric felt suddenly very hot. Painfully aware of the way they both developed a keen interest in the veins of the table. He cleared his throat.

“We aren’t going anywhere tonight,” his voice husky with drink and nerves and firelight. “May as well make peace with that and get comfortable.”

Cassandra eased against the table, folding her hands in front of her. “I’m not used to being idle,” she replied quietly, her thumb circling a callus on the other, worn by her sword over many years. “And… I suppose this storm has me on edge.” 

Varric gave half a nod and murmured, “Storms’ll do that.” He didn’t say how it put him in mind of her—unyielding, a force of nature, starkly beautiful. Woe to anyone who got in her way.

The side of her thigh grazed his as she shifted. The hushed creak of her armor carried a whiff of damp leather and metal, sweat, a hint of cedar. And beneath it, a trace of something spicy-sweet he couldn’t quite place. 

Varric stared hard down at his hands. Caught between this yearning to break the silence and the fear of what might come of it if he did.

Amid the grooves and pocks in the wood, a name and date had been carved that he hadn’t noticed. He traced it with a fingertip until skin snagged against a splinter trying to lodge itself there. 

He wasn’t sure what he might be waiting for—some excuse to let the words die in his throat again, maybe. But it wasn’t coming. This longing that had been gnawing at him for months was eating him from the inside out. Every stolen glance, every not-quite-accidental brush of skin only added to it.

But, like most things stuffed into words, once said it couldn’t be unsaid. It left him adrift in a disorienting fog of doubt and want, uncertain which way to navigate. It was a strange and unpleasant feeling for him.

Without thinking, he reached for a familiar comfort. Halfway en route from the table to his flask, Varric’s hand was swatted from its trajectory. 

“I said stop drinking,” Cassandra bit with command. “We need to be ready at dawn’s light and I refuse to drag you back to camp hungover.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Muscle memory.” 

The half-hearted smile he offered didn’t stick, slipping away as he drummed his fingers in front of him. They twitched toward Bianca, who lay within arms’ reach, silent witness to his predicament, then stopped, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve instead.

“You know...” he began at length, “I’ve always had a knack for finding my way out of trouble. Give me an angry mob, a heist gone wrong, a burning trash heap of bad decisions, and I’d manage to fashion some joke or smooth remark to get me out. I found I could talk myself out of most scrapes, and drink my way out of the ones I couldn’t.”

With a subtle turn of his head, he dared a look and drew her gaze. 

“But, not this time.” 

Some deeper part of himself was grasping at his shirt collar, trying to pull him back from the edge of the cliff. But Varric knew if he didn’t extricate this thing in him now, there was a chance he might never. 

“This time, I can’t just evade it with humor or another drink, or even distance. Not out here, Fate knows what I’d give for a little privacy,” he added, but the chuckle that followed came out thin. Varric steadied himself on a breath, letting all trace of a joke drain away. “Because what I’m feeling won’t let me off that easily.”

He let his eyes brush from the slight furrow between her brows to the flickers of gold in her irises to the soft parting of her lips, curiosity transmuting to a charged, unfolding anticipation.

“I guess what I’m trying to say, what I’ve wanted to say for a while is…” Varric pitched himself toward that ledge, and jumped. “I’m in love with you, Seeker. And I had this crazy hope that maybe you…” He trailed off, blinking.

Cassandra had gone stock still, her eyes wide with something beautiful. Something fragile. Something terrible.

Silence fell like a wet, woolen blanket. The fire, the storm, every sound seemed to collapse into a dull hum. In it, he heard the ungainly sound of his own tight swallow.

Cassandra’s lip curled into a silent snarl, even as her expression betrayed something deep—an ache, a question unasked—before she grated out, “Tell me that when you’re sober, you idiot.”

The aftertaste of liquor turned sour on his tongue. Varric wanted nothing more than to suck the confession back into his chest and cork it tight. Fingernails bit into his clenched fists, knuckles taut and white, as he worked for something more to say, a way to take the sting out of her response.

She looked wrought in stone for as hard and unmoving as she sat, if not for her eyes scoring a pattern in the wood, every plink of rain like the fall of a hammer.

And then she stood, sharp as a blade, putting her back to him as she marched to the window and leaned gruffly against the sill. A couple of dead flies skittered in the harsh current of air she stirred. Cassandra’s shoulders rose and fell in stiff measure, the lines of her figure silvered in a flash of lightning, and he braced himself for her silence. For the coldness of her rejection to fill the space between them like an unbreachable wall.

But with renewed ferocity, she spun back, her eyes flashing hotter than the hearth. “You choose now, of all times, to say this? Half-drunk while we’re stuck in a putrid shack. You’ve been sitting on this for, how long? Weeks? Months? And now—?” She growled, threw her arms in the air, shook her head. “How can I even be sure it’s real, Varric? That it’s not just the drink?”

“Come on. I’m not that far gone,” he argued. Outside, the loose shutters clapped a shrill rebuke against the cabin’s walls. With a throaty sound, half groan and half sigh, his eyes slid closed and he rubbed his brow. 

She was right. He shouldn’t have said it, not like this. She deserved better. 

“It’s been there long before this drink,” Varric pressed, his voice gravel, dropping his hand to lock eyes with her again. “And it’ll be there long after. Drunk, sober, it doesn’t magically change how I feel.” 

Cassandra’s nostrils flared, and then she turned her back again, hands curling around the windowsill. But she didn’t lash out a second time. Instead, she exhaled, long and slow, her anger bleeding out, leaving only weariness.

“There have been… things… I’ve wanted to speak of as well,” she admitted haltingly, her voice softer. “But not tonight.”

A note of tension eased, like a grip uncoiling. Varric had been bracing for a clean break, something final, painful but uncomplicated. Instead, her words were a door left ajar, cracked enough to let in a sliver of hope that he hadn’t fucked up everything in this one untimely swoop.

For now, it was enough.

[retrowondergirl]

Eamon worrying over Declan and Declan being a good lad.

The people of Haven were gathered around the guest house, quietly murmuring about the new arrival. The sight of it made Eamon chuckled and he couldn’t help but remember the time he last visited the Circle Tower. So many mages surrounding his little brother, Eamon chuckled again then he strode towards the crowd. The people’s murmur got a bit louder as they watched Eamon walk through the crowd, a smirk grew on his face and his eyes filled with mischief; knowing all too well how this would go.

As he opened the door, there he saw Declan sitting up in his bed and, of course, with that little frown on his face and huffing and puffing, but when Declan saw his big brother that frown turned upside down. “Eamon.” He said in a quiet but still loud voice, which caused Eamon’s smirk to disappear and his eyes fill with worry.

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[dismalzelenka]

For DADW: "Either way you choose you cannot win" for Handers. "I choose to not understand these signs" for Nanders.

Played around with some more canon divergent Journeyverse AU 😌 first @dadrunkwriting prompt I've taken in probably three years and it goes absolutely nowhere and also the prompt has been VERY loosely interpreted but here we are 🥂 bottoms up kiddos

“Either way you choose, you cannot win,” Fenris hissed.

“We are far past the point of winning,” Anders shot back.

Hawke rubbed her eyes with her palms. She was mostly concerned about the fact that they were still in the Deep Roads, and she was being completely honest, she was only half paying attention to the argument unfolding in front of her. It happened enough; she already knew how this would play out. They'd yell it out and then reluctantly slink back and apologize and everyone else would breathe a sigh of relief for some fucking peace and quiet. It was positively formulaic at this point.

She was far too preoccupied with other matters today: namely, the Grey Warden archer carefully fixing the fletching on his arrows at the edge of camp.

His name was Nathaniel. He'd served with Anders in Amaranthine.

They'd been lovers.

Quite frankly that last part bothered her less than she'd have expected, but beneath the faint prickling of jealousy that wove its way beneath her skin whenever he and Anders locked gazes, there was far more fascination on her part than anything else. The secrets were what ate away at her more than anything else, but she'd grown up being taught the importance of keeping them enough to let well enough alone.

It helped that he was easy on the eyes.

“Is something the matter, my lady?” he said quietly.

“Just — Hawke,” she croaked. “I'm not a — it's just my — Hawke is fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. I'm — going to go over there.” She pointed vaguely in the opposite direction and wandered that way immediately.

Alright, with a voice like that, she was pretty sure she couldn't blame Anders one bit, she decided with a huff. She kicked a stray piece of stone and watched it bounce down the edge of an overhang into the darkness below.

Sure hope that didn't awaken something.

“You alright, Sparkles?” Varric's voice floated over her as she scuffed her boot into the stone.

“I would be if you'd stop calling me Sparkles,” she shot back automatically.

He laughed, a hearty sound from the center of his chest. “Trust me, you'll like the alternatives I came up with even less.”

“Try me,” she muttered.

—

She'd been beginning to nod off against the rather large rock she'd slumped against when someone shook her awake by the shoulder. “Are you alright, love?”

Why did everyone keep asking her that?

“Just tired,” she mumbled automatically. Maybe if she convinced enough people, she'd start believing it herself.

“Have you even eaten yet?”

“Why, were you too busy picking fights to notice anything else around you?” Ouch. That wasn't fair, and she winced the second it came out of her mouth. She squeezed her eyes closed and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I'm — I didn't mean that. This place makes me jumpy. I don't know how he stands it.” She jerked her head at Nathaniel, casually reading something by the firelight. She was babbling and she knew it, but she was too wound up to make herself stop.

“Journey. Breathe.” Hands on her shoulders, gentle touches drawing her back to reality. “I'm fairly certain the Deep Roads could make an arse out of Andraste herself.”

“Are you so smitten, that I could insult you to your face and you would still compare me to Andraste?” she teased as she tipped her head back and finally met his eyes.

“Keep looking at me like that and I'd let you get away with a lot more than insults,” he breathed before planting a kiss on her forehead and pulling her to her feet. “And you haven't eaten, have you,” he said finally with a flat stare.

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“It's a very exasperated healer who doesn't wish to see the light of his life waste away into nothing before we see daylight again.”

“You're certainly one to talk,” she grumbled, but she let him lead her back to camp anyway with minimal complaint. “Light of your life, you say?” she prodded with a grin when he thrust a bowl of beans into her hands. “What colour?”

“Hmm.” He paused thoughtfully. “D’you know the moment you open your eyes in direct sunlight after a night of drinking so much you forget your own existence?” His grin broadened. “That colour.”

She smacked him on the chest in offense. “Prat,” she snorted.

She trailed off when she looked up and saw Nathaniel watching them with an odd expression on his face. Anders cupped her face between his hands. “I'm with you,” he said firmly. “Past be damned. This is just a favour for an old friend. Nothing more.”

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she just squeezed his hand and left it alone.

—

It was impossible to mark the passage of days in the Deep Roads; Hawke awoke from a markedly troubled sleep and helped tear down the camp in exhausted silence. The entire place reeked of death and rot tinged with the sickly sweet scent of something that wanted to be enticing but managed to land well on the other side of foul. It reminded her of her first trip into the Deep Roads, and of her less than glamorous voyage to Kirkwall before all of this ever began.

“Where did you learn how to fight?” Nathaniel asked curiously after a skirmish with darkspawn left her winded and depleted enough she managed to knock back an entire lyrium potion without gagging. Sweet, metallic, and unnaturally cold as it slipped down her throat like distilled sweat. The taste still made her shudder even as she stuffed the bottle back into her pack.

“My father taught me,” she said with a grimace. She spat the last of the taste onto the ground. “Ugh. Awful stuff.”

“Was your father also an apostate?”

“Of course not. The Circle gave him permission to traipse about the countryside with a wife and three children. Sometimes they sent Templars after him, but only as a friendly little game.”

“I'm choosing to interpret that as a joke that wasn't at my expense.”

“So you're an idiot and a poor comedian.”

He snorted. “And you're remarkably short tempered for a Champion.”

“You didn't think I killed the Arishok with my winning personality, did you? I'm sorry to say you're going to be awfully disappointed.”

“You're working so hard to win me over,” he said dryly. “And here I've been told I'm quite likeable beneath the scowl.”

“Is that so?” She squared her stance in front of him and planted her hands firmly on her hips with a smirk. “What happened to the last person who tried to win you over?”

His gaze flickered ahead of them to Anders as his expression darkened. “I watched him die,” he muttered. He took a deep breath. “We're falling behind. We shouldn't linger.”

[5lazarus]

after the nightmare

The desert strips his throat and leaves him cold. He is very close to the town where he was born, buried under eight thousand years of dirt. Lavellan has sent Blackwall, Vivienne, Sera, and Cassandra back to Skyhold, after the battering they took in Emprise du Lion. Things are tenuous, tender, and he feels raw under her gaze. They all see him now, what he is and what he has been, and it is odd to be himself, all at once. During the long, slow healing in Suledin Keep, they all trickled in, to talk and to blame and to ask, and months later the Inquisition has adjusted to the new normal, as ever they do. A Dalish mage bearing the mark of their human prophet? They can accept it. A darkspawn magister ripping open the Fade? With enough trebuchets, they are certain they can face it. An ancient elvhen trickster god attempting to rip the world apart and, in the raw chaos, forge it into what it was supposed to be? They forgive him. He can hardly accept it himself, but they forgive him, and that, he supposes, is the most just revenge. He hates himself worse, because of the magnanimity of his companions. He denied their personhood, and they prove their worth over and over again, as they give him room to grieve and move on. But where?

He almost died of thirst here, he remembers, in the first empty days awoken from uthenera. He had expected the cool, quiet woods he had roamed as a child, before the war. Now, though, he has enough of himself restored to appreciate its austere beauty. The stars remain unchanged, he reminds himself. Both moons are full in the endless night. It is cold and the sand gets into his footwraps, no matter how tightly he ties them, but Lavellan is incandescent in starlight, and one night, she takes his hand when they sit by the campfire, listening to Varric’s stories, and it is the first time she has touched him in front of the others, since before the Nightmare, and it is the first touch since the Nightmare that does not feel desperate. He laces his fingers between hers and holds on tightly. At this age, he knows grace when he sees it. Wisdom told him to endure, that he would find what he was looking for. He had never known forgiveness to come so easily; perhaps it is because their worlds are so irreconcilable, that the only way forward is to endure.

Their clasped hands garners nothing more than a raised eyebrow from Dorian and a sudden, agitated move from Cole. But Varric keeps speaking, weaving his own tale: a story about his friends Fenris and Isabela, hunting slavers in the desert, and Isabela looking for a lost ship.

The heat edges into the night and they separate into their own tents--Bull is too big for the communal one they used in the early days, when it was only him and Varric and Cassandra and Lavellan roaming the Hinterlands. Dorian slips into Iron Bull’s, making a face at the smirk Lavellan sends him. Varric takes off his shirt as the sun comes up and pulls out a leatherbound book. He wants to finish the story as if Isabela had found the ship. Cole begins to hum. Solas closes his eyes slightly: he knows it, it matches the pulse of the lyrium he and Mythal had found in the Deep Roads, uncorrupted. The stone sings, and Varric writes it into the sunlight.

As the dawn melts the waves of the dunes, Solas reaches for Lavellan. He has never been good at self-abnegation, and recently he has learned not to punish others for drawing out his desire. It is a lesson he should have learned as a much younger man. In the daylight, he hold her close, and though she is surprised, she does not draw away.

“Let’s go to bed,” she says, and he follow her to their tent--because, somehow, between eight thousand years and reality torn asunder, from their worst nightmares reenacted to the cold corrupt torture of Imshael’s red lyrium farm, they are them again, he is Solas first and Fen’Harel as well, as she is Lavellan and the Inquisitor too. They strip, and she helps him with the bandages on his left leg, checking the new scar, where Dagna had ripped the red lyrium from his flesh. It is angry, and the cold has been making it ache, and the incipient heat will make it worse, but it does not sing. He continues to live, still Solas, still Fen’Harel.

They curl up together, and Lavellan traces a frost rune onto the canvas above them. They are too tired for sex, they are comfortable enough with each other to admit it. She flexes her left hand, the Anchor flaring, and Solas pushes himself back up. “Is it hurting?” he asks. There is not much he can do until they retrieve the foci. He is afraid it will kill her before they find it.

“Just stiff. Go to sleep, Solas. It’ll be a long ride tomorrow.”

“Mm.” He lays down and pulls her toward him, and she sighs and rests her head on his chest. He does not understand how this is happening. Nothing is as it should be. Lavellan, as always, proves his worst assumptions wrong. He tells her idly, as her breathing slows, “I was born not too far from here.”

Her eyes snap open. She pauses and thinks before she speaks, “I had assumed you were more...formed than born.”

“I had a mother and a father,” he says, amused. “Procreation has not changed particularly much in the past eight millenia, I assure you. Though I am glad the People has abandoned our practice of binding curious spirits to our children’s souls. I might be an easier man, if not for Mythal’s Pride.”

“I cannot imagine you ever being easy.”

He laughs shortly. “True. But this place was Mythal’s, once. We called it Durglas Durgen’len--the Valley of the Children of the Stone, where they found us and we traded with them. She had me at her temple here, and gave me to my father to raise. A forest used to tower here, until the sand ate away at its roots. She needed the wood for the mines.” He sighs. “And then nothing could take root.”

“Is there anything left?” Lavellan asks tentatively. “Something of her temple?”

“We can look.” He presses a kiss to her temple. The heat is coming in, despite the spell she has cast, and Solas is curious to see what time has made of these wastes. It is new, to be eager for tomorrow: to see what is left. “I love you,” he says suddenly, in Common. He does not know if the Dalish is different than his Elvhen, and he is trying. How does one prove to their lover they will not burn the world down? He is figuring it out.

Lavellan says, “I love you too, ma’ishan. Dream well.”

He wants to say, I will dream of you, and see the hope in those enslaved elves’ eyes when you came flashing in, sending them to their freedom. I will see your legend born, and if you manage to sleep, as now you seldom do, I will show you my father’s studio, and the woods where I played when I was a boy, before the war. I will give you every dream, if you just say the word. But Lavellan rolls onto her side and pulls a blanket over herself, despite the heat, and he knows she will not sleep.

[theassassinlover]

Reunion

More Zev and Venna. Enjoy.

***

Venna stared out the window of her quarters in the keep sighing quietly to herself. It was done. The Mother was defeated, the Architect dealt with. All things considered, she should be happy now that she could finally relax, hopefully for good this time. Instead, she was restless. 

She reread the letter in her hands for what must have been the hundredth time. Her eyes scanned the words she now nearly knew by heart, the page lit only by the candle beside her.

Dearest Venna,

I know it has been long since I last wrote you. I apologize for that. It seems you have had quite the adventure in my absence, you must tell me all about it when I return. Speaking of returning, I have nearly finished my job here with the Crows. Soon we should have nothing to worry about, and I will be with you once again. In two months I shall return to your side, amor. I miss you dearly. Well, you and your talented hands. Alas, I must wait until I return for those, no? Until then you remain in my dreams as always, especially the naughty ones. I will see you soon.

~Z

“Oh Zev,” Venna whispered into the dark, silent tears running slowly down her face. “Where are you?” Zevran still hadn’t returned, and she had stopped receiving letters weeks ago. Worry ate at her gut and she couldn’t help but fear the worst. Zevran was strong. She knew that better than almost anyone, but against a force like the Crows…

She shook her head free of the offending thoughts. No, she had to believe in him. He promised her he would return and Zevran is nothing if not a man of his word. Turning from her window she moved to her desk, folding the letter and placing it in a drawer.

Being the warden commander had its downsides. The ungodly amount of paperwork was one of them. She decided the best thing she could do was try and take her mind off of things for a while, even if her choice in distraction was incredibly boring.

Hours later she groaned as she lifted her head from the desk realizing that, not for the first time, she had fallen asleep there. Venna rose, stretching her limbs that were sore from the unorthodox sleeping place, and made her way over to the bed. Exhausted as she was it took barely any time at all for her to fall back asleep.

The sun had barely risen over the horizon when she awoke again, this time to a knocking at her door. “Heh, uh, sorry to bother you warden, but we’re recivin’ more complaints about stragglin’ darkspawn.” Oghren’s familiar voice said through the door.  Venna groaned out a response before forcing herself to move. 

She rose, got dressed in her armor for what she knew would be a day trip to fight the last of the stragglers, and pulled her hair into its signature ponytail. She then headed down to the main hall to meet with her companions for a quick meal.

“Please tell me it’s just one group of stragglers.” She muttered taking her place beside Anders and across from Oghren.

“That’s all we know of.” Anders told her and Venna let out a noticeable sigh of relief. Anders furrowed his brow. “Is something troubling you commander?”

Venna shook her head. “Nothing you need concern yourself with. I’ve just got a personal matter on my mind.”

“Haven’t heard from lover boy lately have ya?” Oghren asked suddenly, earning a look from Venna. “What? I traveled with you for almost a year and there ain’t much that gets you outta focus warden.”

“It’s nothing to concern yourself with Oghren.” Venna said even as her voice cracked slightly.

“Hey now, the elf don’t die that easily. What’s it been? Two weeks since ya heard word?” He guessed and Venna’s eyes shot to his.

“Try four months.” She hissed out before standing, her voice cracking on the last word. “He said he would be home in two." Her expression faltered and she turned away from them. "I’m not hungry. Nathaniel, Oghren, and Velanna meet me in the courtyard when you’re ready. The rest of you standby in case we need help.”

“I didn’t know the commander was even in a relationship.” Nathaniel said once Venna had left the room. “Not that it’s my business, but now that I think of it that would explain why she seemed so…closed off.”

“Heh, you should have been with us durin’ the blight. It was impossible not to know. Those two don’t know how to keep it down.” Was the response Oghren gave. “I wouldn’t worry too much though. Like I said, the elf doesn’t die that easy. He has to have some reason for not writin’ her. He'll be home in her bed in no time, heh-heh.” After that, the rest of the meal passed by with some idle chat, but they tried to keep off the subject of their troubled commander.

When they hit the field Venna was venting all of her internal frustration into her enemy, which in theory isn’t a bad thing. However, when she started to overkill her targets Nathaniel couldn’t help but point it out. “Commander, not that I’m trying to tell you how to do your job, but I think it’s dead.” He told her as she continued to thrust her daggers into a Hurlock’s corpse.

She stopped and looked at her party, embarrassed. “Right, sorry.” She muttered. “I think that was the last of them. We can head back to the keep.”

Upon their return, Venna approached the courier hoping for news. Her companions watched her walk away with her ears drooped in sorrow. They didn’t see her again until dinner where she was unusually quiet and hardly ate at all.

Venna waited anxiously over the next two weeks for any sign Zevran’s return. 

What if something happened? What if the Crows found him? I never should have let him go alone.

These thoughts haunted her as she once again sat at the dinner table, this time nursing a tankard of ale, lightweight be damned. She never was sure why the Warden metabolism hadn't seemed to affect her, but she found herself grateful for it as of late. She was most of the way through her cup and about to reach for the bottle when she was interrupted by a member of the guard.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, commander, but there is a blond elf outside who claims to know you.”

Venna was out of her seat and heading for the door almost before the guard was finished speaking, running from the hall like the Archdemon himself had risen from the dead. Her companions all looked at each other puzzled and couldn’t help but follow. 

Venna ran through the halls, dodging soldiers, and out the keep doors. Once outside the keep, just as she had suspected, Venna immediately caught sight of Zevran dressed in what could only be fancy Antivan garb. “Zev!” She cried out in relief and excitement. 

He turned to look at her just as she shot down the stairs two at a time, jumping into his arms and nearly knocking them both to the ground. Zevran laughed, spinning her around before putting her down and kissing her. Venna held him close, returning the kiss with more passion and never wanting to let him go again. “I missed you, amor.” Zev told her once they broke apart.

“Where were you? You are three months late and when I didn’t hear from you I feared…” Her voice trailed off before it broke but Zevran understood.

“Apologies, amor.” He whispered holding her closer. “I had an unexpected run-in with some of the Crows. They needed to think me dead, and so I faked my death. That, unfortunately, meant that I was unable to send you word. I needed to lay low for a time.” He stroked her hair. “I am sorry I worried you, though the Crows will likely leave us be for now. At least until they realize I still breathe.”

Venna shook her head. “I'm just glad you are safe.” She muttered into his chest, arms tightening around him.

The two finally pulled back from one another, Zevran only then noticing the group of her companions staring from the top of the stairs. 

He laughed softly. “It would seem we have an audience.” He told her and she turned around to face her followers.

“Elf!” A voice suddenly came forward and Oghren pushed his way through the crowd. “You had us worried there for a while.”

“Ah, Oghren my friend. How I missed your drunken ramblings.” Zevran said in a way that was just, well, Zevran. Venna found it odd how something so simple could make her chest tighten.

“Come on, let’s find a place without so many prying eyes.” Venna said taking his hand and leading him up into the keep. She gave her companions a look that said “do not disturb unless the keep is being attacked by four high dragons and an archdemon” and led him up to her room.

They didn’t miss Oghren’s shout of “Keep it down!” though making both of them laugh. 

As Zevran pressed Venna against her closed chamber door, his lips finding hers again, she remembered what it truly felt like to feel at home. Her home was in the arms of her lover, and she had no intention of leaving them again.

[juniper-tree]

Holystone | 2. Confer

Fresh snow from the night before had buried all the signs of work in Haven.   It hid the muddy tracks of wagons bearing supplies, the ash and clinker from the smith fires.  Soft piles topped every surface, every roof, and the village looked like a poorly done winter landscape, where the artist hid her technical sins in snowdrifts.  But even early in the morning, work had begun again, and the snow would not be white for long.  

Bryn had not been tasked with anything yet.  It was good to have some time to himself, however early or sleepy.  He ventured out of his cabin, into the cold.  The freezing air was still, a small mercy.  He had dressed in rough layers, covered them with a thick coat, then wrapped a knotty wool blanket—a favorite of his, traded to him by a pirate for a rare bottle of deathroot liquor—around his shoulders and neck.  The blues and purples of the yarn had only faded a little over the years.  He wrapped his hands around a mug of spiced tea from his dwindling stash, and let the steam warm his face.  

He had been too long in the warm islands of the north.  The cold was getting to him.  And the older he got, the worse it felt.  

Trudging through the lightly packed snow, he wandered along the path that led to the village gate.  He pushed open the heavy doors.

Here the operations took shape.  Commander Cullen barked orders at his men and women, while a more junior soldier led them through their drills.  The dull thwack of wood swords against practice shields made an ugly drumbeat around them.  It was joined by the clanging hammers of the smith, the sizzle of quenching metal.  Runners padded over the snow, quick and quiet as hares among the noise of the Inquisition at work.  

And to the side of the gate, outside his tent, stood the Iron Bull.  He watched and listened.  His sharp eye took in everything, filing it away for his reports, no doubt.  But he was a keen observer by nature, Bryn was sure, as well as training.  Bryn had known many Qunari, in Rivain and Par Vollen—fellow sailors, friends, lovers.  They didn’t last long among the bas if they were not measured, and careful, for their own sake.  The chaos of the world ate at their patience.  Bull seemed as though he could thrive anywhere.  

Bryn took a spot next to Bull, who did not react, and sipped his tea.  “Morning, Bull.”

Bull cut a quick glance toward him.  “Nice scarf.  Cold?”

“Yep.”  He shivered even in his thick clothes.  “You?”  

“Nope.”  That should have been obvious, as Bull stood in the chilled air in a thin pair of pants, light boots, and nothing more.

“Ever get cold?” Bryn asked.

“Nope.”  

That was a stupid question.  Perhaps it was too early for conversation.  But Bryn was awake, and so was Bull, and they were both here.  

“I remember when I was in Par Vollen,” Bryn said, “I’d have given anything for weather like this.”  The humidity made everything sticky, the fruit rotted in the trees.  As soon as you drank anything you’d sweat it out.  “Of course, now I’d enjoy that kind of warmth.”  

Bull half-turned to him, but kept his eye on the surroundings.  “Been to Par Vollen, have you?  When was that?”  His voice was affably curious.  

He begn to answer freely, to tell some tales of warm island sailing, anything to distract from the cold and wake himself up.  But he stopped himself.  Something wasn’t right about Bull’s question.  “Surely,” he said, “you know I’ve been to Par Vollen.  And when.  Right?”

“Yeah,” Bull said, laughing.  “But I thought it would be polite to ask anyway.”  He tugged at the high waist of his pants as his line of sight moved toward horses being corraled into their pen.  “Some people don’t like it when you know too much about them.  Gets under their skin.”

Bryn shrugged.  “My skin’s pretty thick.  Hard to get under.”

“That’s good.”  Bull shuffled his feet and shifted the thick leather armor at his shoulder.  “Been to Seheron, too.”  He turned to look at Bryn fully.  “Right?”

“Just the coast,” he answered, aware that Bull likely knew everything he was about to say.  “Picked up a shipment from a Tevinter spice plantation.”  He sniffed his mug of tea.  It was stale compared to the freshly picked spices in the islands, to the dried cords of badiam and elakkai that hung in every tea shop.  “Best run we ever did, because the ship smelled nice.  For once.”

“Didn’t even step foot on the island?” Bull asked.

He had not even wanted to.  He remembered the elven slaves who brought down the bundles of cinnamon, the barrels of nutmeg.  How worn they looked.  How they had stared at him on the ship deck, free and happy.  How guilty he felt.  “Nope.”

Bull grunted.  “Just as well.  It’s a dangerous place.”

Around them, the soldiers screamed in mock rage as they battled each other, boulders were rolled toward the trebuchets, and the smith pounded at steel which would become a sword.  All this noise in preparation for war.  “Where isn’t dangerous?” Bryn asked.

“A few pockets here and there.”  Bull scratched at his ear.  “Place south of Kassel in the Anderfels that’s nice and quiet.  Been there a few times.  A little blighted but it’s kinda pretty,” he said.  

“On the river?  Think I know the place.”  That little village in the valley, with the good sour ale and the sharp, briny pickles.  It was as far into the Anderfels as he had gone, and even there the darkspawn were still a threat.  He wondered at Bull’s definition of nice and quiet.

Bull nodded, but said nothing.  Bryn stayed quiet, too, and drank his tea.  It was growing cold.  

“You’re right, though,” Bull said finally.  “Things are bad all over.  Especially now.”  He huffed, a frustrated sigh.  “Guess it’s up to us to fix it.”  Bryn watched him as he began to crack his thick knuckles.  “You’ve got a good team here.”  Crack, crack.  “They’re willing to fight.  Treat them right and they’ll keep fighting for you.”  

Bryn hesitated to answer, not wanting to argue or agree.  This was not his team.  And they were not fighting for him.  They were all fighting together, for survival.

He had never been a leader.  Never a captain, or a boss.  He was first mate material.  Give him an order and he’d see it done, see that others did their part.  Him giving orders?  Anything he could order someone else to do, he’d rather do himself.  He didn’t mind getting dirty, or getting hurt.  He wasn’t going to sit by and let anybody die for him.

“That’s advice for Cullen, I think,” he said.  “Or Leliana.  I just do what they ask.”

Bull looked toward the mountains in the distance, a faint smile on his face.  “Keep telling yourself that.  Meantime, people are lining up to join your army.  Not Cullen’s.”

He turned to face Bryn.  “Listen, I don’t pretend to understand this… Herald of Andraste shit.  I don’t even want to.”  The look on his face made that clear.  “But I do know how to get people to fight for you.  Doesn’t matter whether they’re soldiers or mercenaries.”  Bull scanned the line of troops by the tents, their breath visible as they went through their exercises.  “It isn’t money, or glory.  Those are nice.  What you need is respect.”  

A soldier.  That was something he never wanted to be.  Too close to the hunting bands at home, so careful and serious.  No freedom.  He admired them, but it was not who he was, or had ever been.  “I’ve got nothing but respect for them,” he argued.  

“Yeah, you respect them.”  Bull shook his head.  “And they fear you as much as they need you.  That’s not respect.”  He folded his arms, his jaw set tight.  “You want to win this thing?  You’re in charge.  So act like it.”  He shifted to gaze again toward the distant hills.  “Do them the favor of letting them know you’re worth it,” he said.  “Even when you don’t think so.”

Bryn did not have an answer.  His mind fought what Bull said.  It clenched around an old idea of himself, who had been for decades.  It was sunny and warm and on a ship somewhere in Rialto Bay.  Here, he was cold, and tired, and wrapped in an old blanket.  He held onto his tea and looked out into the same distance.  “That’s good advice,” he said.

Bull nodded.  “Yep.”

[angstofdestiny]

Tavaris yawned, stretching lazily in bed and reaching to his side to search for his partners. Zevran’s side of bed was slowly cooling — he couldn’t have left long ago — but Spawn was still here, chuckling at Tav’s sleepy face. “Hello, love,” he said softly, wrapping his arms around Tav’s waist and pulling him closer. “Happy whatever-you-call-it vallaslin day.”

Tavaris hummed quietly, nuzzling his face into the crook of Spawn’s shoulder. “It’s vallas’vun’in, not whateveryoucallit,” he grumbled. “Where’s Zev?” “He should be back in a moment,” Spawn promised, lifting Tav’s chin for a kiss. Tavaris winced, his ears jerking comically. “Morning breath,” he huffed, turning away. “’m not gonna kiss anyone until I get a brush and some assinthe.” Spawn laughed, kissing Tav’s temple. “Does my breath offend you? If not, then you know I am a shem barbarian and I’m always happy to kiss your morning breath away.” Tav looked up at him, still rather bleary, but gave a small smile. “Shem barbarian,” he said, but the insult lacked any bite. “I might take you up on your offer, but I need to get up. I still haven’t reviewed all the correspondence from the last week and Varel surely has something he wants me to handle.” Spawn’s arms around his waist tightened. “Nope,” he said, grinning widely. “You’re not reviewing any correspondence today. And Varel will wait till tomorrow. He knows already that nobody can bother us today.” “Spawn,” Tavaris tone turned tired. “Lath, I can’t just slack of. I am the arl, I have responsibilities…” “Tav,” Spawn kissed the crown of his head, smiling. “You can and you will. Varel already knows that he’s to give you some space today and that you’re not having any responsibilities today. The arling will survive one day without you overseeing every single thing.” Tavaris furrowed his brows, already opening his mouth to protest when there was a dull knock on the door. “Spawn, hermoso mio, would you please help me with that?” Came Zevran’s muffled voice. “I cannot seem to grow a third arm so far.” The mage smiled, kissed Tav’s brow and stood up quickly, not bothering to cover himself. “Stay here, alright?” He asked, hurrying to the door to let Zevran in. Their third lover came in in a thin shirt and soft silk trousers he liked to wear in the comfort of the keep. His hands were busy with a heavy looking tray, full of divine smelling food. “So, did he try to escape already?” He asked, standing on his tiptoes to steal a kiss from Spawn. Spawn smiled, returning the chaste peck and picked an apple piece from the tray. “He did, but I told him that there are no responsibilities today. He doesn’t seem to agree.” He plopped the piece of fruit in his mouth and chewed, a blissful expression on his face. “It’s perfect,” he said. “I don’t know where Mistress Dana gets the fruits from, but they must grow on lyrium veins to taste like that.” Tavaris sat up, finally completely awake. “What’s that?” He asked. “Ah, that is a breakfast in bed,” Zevran answered. “A concept you might not be completely unfamiliar with, given the fact that you brought it to both of us more than once.” Spawn shrugged, still distractingly naked. “Now it’s your turn.” He smiled, sitting back on the bed. “We thought that since you don’t celebrate your namesday like a normal person, then we need to have a celebration on your vallaslin-day.” “Starting with the breakfast,” Zevran added, sitting down on the other edge of the bed and laying the tray in Tavaris’ lap. “Mistress Dana was very excited to prepare some of your favourites.” Tavaris blinked, staring at the choice of food with a dumbfounded expression. “I am not sick,” he said. “I shouldn’t…” He spotted something among the plates and his eyes widened. “Are these halliman cookies? How?” “Mistress Dana employed Velanna to help her. Velanna brought some recipes and contacted one of the clans passing in the area to buy some halla milk and other Dalish ingredients for you.” Tavaris blinked, cleared his throat and stopped his undignified attempt to sniff the cookie. “Velanna, Mistress Dana… Who else?” “Oh, it would be easier to say who did not participate. Ambassador Cera, to be precise.” “She said it would be improper of her to condone whatever disgusting intemperance I have planned,” Spawn grinned. “In the hindsight it might have gone better if Zevran was the one who’d done the asking.” Tavaris shrugged. “I despise that woman anyway. I truly believe Greagoir had send her here as a thinly veiled insult.” He finally bit on the cookie, closing his eyes in deep pleasure at the familiar taste. “I do not know about you, amor, but for the first time in my life I am jealous of a cookie,” Zevran remarked with a smile. “I haven’s seen him doing this face without someone doing unspeakable things to him.” “I wonder what face he would make if we did unspeakable things to him now,” Spawn winked at Zevran and moved to crawl under the cover. Tavaris stopped him with a raised hand. “Don’ yoo dere,” he said around the cookie, then swallowed and repeated. “Don’t you dare. I hadn’t had those since the Blight. I had a blowjob last evening.” “Now I am definitely jealous of the cookies,” Spawn complained. Zevran chuckled, hugging him from behind. “At least it seems that the surprise was well received,” he said, kissing Spawn’s neck. Spawn purred, leaning against Zevran and looking at Tavaris softly. “Well, it’s a good thing demons aren’t very interested in people who don’t wield magic,” he commented. “I imagine a desire demon would have a terribly easy job with this one.” “A plate of cookies and the soul is sold?” Zevran chuckled. “I can see that.” Tavaris swallowed. “Not just a plate,” he corrected. “I’m not stupid. I’d demand a lifetime supply of tasty things.” Spawn smiled, feeling affection welling in his chest. “You know, you can have it here, without any desire demons.” Tavaris looked at him with warmth in his eyes. “And with much more attractive tempters,” he noted. “I could never understand why all the desire demons I met had worn feminine forms.” He pushed the tray towards his lovers. “I don’t believe any of you ate already?” Spawn attacked the fruit bowl with ferocious intensity, finally failing to hide how hungry he woke up — not that it was anything special. Warden appetites were something that couldn’t be easily dismissed. Zevran picked at the cheese in a much more restrained manner. “So, now that we have established that you are not working today, what would you like to do?” He asked after he swallowed a bite. “We want you to have fun today.” Tavaris grinned. “I have two most handsome men in Ferelden in my bed,” he said cheerfully. “I can think of number of fun things to do together.” Zevran laughed quietly. “Of course, that is on the table, without doubt. However, I was thinking that maybe you’d like to do something else. Apart of sex, I don’t think I ever saw you do anything just for pleasure.” Tavaris frowned. “I am not sure what you have in mind,” he said. “I don’t usually have any time for frivolities.” Spawn sighed. “Everyone needs something frivolous now and then,” he said quietly. “We’re worried a bit, seeing that you’re always working. You need your rest, Tav, just like the rest of us, mortals.” “I do rest,” Tavaris was frowning, but Spawn could easily tell it was more confusion than anger. “I get enough sleep, I drink and sleep enough, I try to pace my trainings…” “And I thank the Maker every single day for that,” Zevran answered — while at the very same time Spawn was saying: “yes, after you have collapsed in the middle of throne room and Anders had to yell at you stuff that is basic common sense for the rest of us.” Tavaris sighed. “Alright, alright, I can see your point. But I still don’t really know what you are expecting now.” Zevran rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You know, you should take care of your mental health as well. The Blight is over, the talking Darkspawn are a thing of the past and the arling is running smoothly - yet I still see you as high strung as you were when you had the weight of the whole world on your shoulders.” “People are still relying on me, Zevran,” Tavaris said tiredly. “Why won’t we just have a mindblowing sex and then I get back to my work?” “Mindblowing sex is something I am always happy to provide, and I believe that Zevran agrees,” Spawn said, licking his fingers of juice. “But, I am curious — what you used to do for fun when you lived with your clan?” “I didn’t have much time for frivolities as well. There was always something to do.” “When you were a kid as well?” Zevran asked. “I always liked to go out and see some street theaters when I could spare some time and energy from my training. If even the Crows allowed occasional idling, I have trouble imagining that your family would keep you too busy to do something pleasurable from time to time.” “I had no street theaters to go to,” Tavaris answered slowly. “But I always liked when we would gather together and tell the stories, and sing. Other than that, I hunted, I shot things, swam with Tamlen and Merrill…” Spawn grinned. “Stories and singing you say? It seems we have a good starting point.” He leaned over the tray, giving Tavaris a sticky kiss. “Have you ever tried reading anything that wasn’t a dry history account or a handbook you thought necessary to know? Like a novel, for example?” Tavaris rolled his eyes. “I have no time for…” “…frivolities, yes, we have heard that, amor,” Zevran interrupted. “You also have Varel and Misstress Woolsey and a whole army of clerks trained in varied skills. You don’t have to do everything by yourself, you can spare some time for yourself.” “But…” “No ‘buts’, love.” Spawn reached for a meat roll that he knew was on the tray mostly for him, as Tavaris wasn’t a big fan of those. “Only butts you should be interested in are mine and Zevran’s.” “…I am responsible for the people living here. I still don’t understand why, but they do rely on me.” Tav’s ears drooped a bit. “And I am the worst person for the job anyone could find. The least I can do…” “You are a great person for the job, carissimo. You are smart and responsible and you care.”  Zevran kissed his fingers. “But delegating tasks is something every smart and responsible leader does, because otherwise you spread yourself too thin and end up mad or dead while you’re still needed.” “So, you two nagging me a way of ensuring I don’t get mad?” Tavaris gave them a crooked smile, reaching for the honey jar and scooping some of it with a cookie. Spawn felt sugar high just from looking at him. “Yes, love, that’s exactly what it is.” Spawn smiled, getting another roll, while Zevran apparently was already done with his cheese. “So, what would you like to do today?” “Reading feels like a pretty solitary activity and if you force me to play hooky for today, then I want you both with me. We could start with this mindblowing sex we were talking about. And later, maybe, we can go for a ride?” Zevran looked at Spawn with one brow raised. “I do not think we will get him out of the bed today. Especially not for a ride. “As long as he’s happy. It’s his vallaslin-day after all.”

[retrowondergirl]

Eamon teasing Declan a bit after he complains about Adan’s bedside manners

“Oh? And what about those times when you pushed yourself too far? Remember how mother acted then?” The two brothers started to laugh, unbeknownst to them, the giggling crowd watching them through the windows.

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[retrowondergirl]

Ok, I did this yesterday from a prompt, claim and because I’ve been having brain worms about it and it won’t get out of my head. I’m definitely gonna draw Declan and Cullen arm wrestling though.

Declan and Cullen were having a spat at each other….again. There were some on-lookers, all were giggling at them, then an idea sparked in Rylen’s head; his smile filled with mischief.

The two stopped with their little spat, “What?” They both said. Rylen’s mischievous smile grew bigger and then he suddenly got up from his seat, “Ladies and Gentlemen, since you seem so entertained by these two! I shall present you a game of strength! Arm Wrestling!” The crowd started to clap and cheer at Rylen’s exaggerated presentation.

“The winner will have a whole day at the spa in Val Royeaux with a person of their choosing! A great prize to claim is it not?��Cullen’s eyes drifted to Orlagh and Declan’s to Cassandra. “But!” The two snapped their attention back to Rylen. “The loser will have to walk around Skyhold without a shirt!” Rylen winked at the two frowning men. “So, place your bets on who will claim the prize! And let the game begin!” Rylen shouted, exciting the crowd.

Declan and Cullen locked hands, eyes boring into each other; ready themselves for the match, “Aaaaannnd start!” Rylen started then the room fell into silence, the crowd quietly cheering for their bets.

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[retrowondergirl]

I have finished Declan Trevelyan, a good, sexy templar boi. I just love how he looks!

Happy Dragon Age Day!

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[retrowondergirl]

I apologize in advance to those who love this bean and you have every right to yell at me about it. Since it’s mentioned a little bit I’ll put a warning. TW: recalling trauma and self-loathing

In Glory We Rise

Chapter 3: The Valiant Knight of the Free Marches

Word Count: 841

Rating: M

Chapter Summary: A lone, former templar recalls his time at the Circle Tower then witnesses something that’ll forever change his life.

How long has it been since he last saw Ostwick?

How long has it been since he last saw his family?

How long has it been since he actually slept?

How long has it been since he had an actual meal?

He can’t remember clearly at the moment, his stomach growling, distracting from his train of thoughts. He gave out a weary sigh, wishing he would be caught up in his siblings' shenanigans again than to be stuck in the Hinterlands.

Declan has been wandering the vast forest of the Hinterlands with no way of knowing where exactly he is. A tired groan escaped his lips once more, he hadn’t been sleeping well nor had he been eating well. The cold, wet ground itself wasn’t the problem, it was what lurked in it that kept Declan up most nights and, of course, the wolves and bears that kept finding their way into his camp. And the food was hard to find as well, he hadn’t spotted a single ram nor deer and the only creatures that seemed to be around and edible were Fennecs and rabbits. He rubbed his temples, his head pounding from the lack of sleep, how long must he keep going on like this?

He had to keep his mind off from his current pain somehow.

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[retrowondergirl]

My last line from my WIP of In Glory We Rise, Chapter 3:

Declan let out a heavy sigh, he was tired from everything and now all he is doing is watching the flames flicker in his campfire.

He got up from the tree stump and decided it was best to atleast get some rest before he had to head out again, but before he could even move, the sky itself started to break apart before his very eyes.

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[retrowondergirl]

It’s a bit late but last time I checked my phone it’s still Wednesday. Atleast that’s what the phone tells me.

A snippet of my WIP of Chapter 4 for In Glory We Rise:

As he opened the door, he was greeted with many people outside. Many people looked at him with awe, some kneeling before him as he walked by and some even reaching out towards him. It was very unnerving for him. They kept repeating, “Herald of Andraste,”

What in….? Herald of Andraste?! This has to be some sort of joke, right? Eamon let out a weary sigh, hoping this is some bad dream. Then his fears were confirmed, it was real. The Breach, his mark, Haven, the Inquisition, this disgustingly tight uniform, and the unsettling title these people placed upon him.

It has been about a week now and Eamon had been lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling for a good while. He still couldn’t believe it. “Oh Maker, what have I gotten myself into?” He said dully to himself.

As he was about to get up, bells were ringing and men were shouting. Eamon quickly got up and ran outside to see what was happening, and he let out a relieved sigh and a huge smile adorned his face. It was his little sister, Orlagh, riding into Haven and with Declan in tow and then suddenly, that big smile was quickly replaced with a panicked frown. Declan was slumped over her, almost crushing her due to his size, while Orlagh was trying her best to hold him up. Eamon ran towards them while yelling orders to his men to help him with his siblings. They all started to gently take Declan off of Orlagh’s horse and carried him to a bed, while some soldiers stayed with Orlagh to help her.

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[retrowondergirl]

Chapter 2 of In Glory We Rise is out! Here’s a little sneak peek of it:

In Glory We Rise

Chapter 2: The Princess of Faxhold

Chapters: 2/?

Rating: M

Word Count: 1235

Chapter Summary: The most popular mage in the Circle of Ostwick gets a letter that will change her life forever.

“Again?!” Two mages had been playing a game of chess for hours now. “Hehehe, once again I’ve beaten you. Maybe you should stop doing the same moves, it’s obviously not working.” One of them is the most popular and talented amongst the Ostwickian mages, Orlagh Trevelyan.

“But…but…” The other mage was jealous of her magical talents and challenged her in games that didn’t involve magic, so he could make her look like a fool, which obviously didn’t work. “This is what happens when you underestimate someone.” Orlagh said proudly with a giggle.

“But how?!” The challenger said in disbelief.

“Maybe I’m just that good?” Orlagh replied with haughtiness in her posh voice. “Nobody is naturally good at Wicked Grace.” The other mage said with suspicion. Her challenger crossed his arms, he knew she wasn’t what she appeared to be and he was right, but was she gonna confirm his suspicions? Of course not.

Orlagh giggled innocently at his accusation, which prompted him to narrow his eyes at her. He knew that she is the younger sister of Eamon Trevelyan, a man who is a little too charming for his own good and is known to be very skilled in Wicked Grace, and he too was suspected of his amazing skills. Her challenger had an idea what was up but doesn’t exactly know what.

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