#ddragon age

[much-obliged-timothy]

Whumptober #13

Day 13 - Dragon Age - "Death will do us part"

*

“Dorian. Dorian, stop. You have to stop!”

Dorian heard the words, but they were muffled and meaningless in his ears. His eyes fixed on Lavellan as he staggered forward towards Dorian. Dorian held his hand out, his vision blurring as he reached for the love of his life. 

“Dorian!”

Someone hit him across the face with considerable force. Dorian fell to his knees, his face smarting but his eyes immediately darting to Lavellan again. He was still moving towards Dorian, filling him with relief.

“Stop!” Iron Bull snapped, grabbing Dorian by his shoulder and shaking him roughly. “Stop it, you monster!”

“Bull!” Varric said, trying to push him off Dorian. “Bull, let him go. You’re not helping. Stop.”

Bull looked like he might strike Dorian again, but reluctantly released him and stepped back. He turned away sharply.

“Make him stop before I do, Varric,” he snarled, his voice breaking a little. “Make him stop.”

Dorian ignored them; nothing mattered but Lavellan, growing ever closer to him. He didn’t rise, instead waiting for the warm arms to wrap around him and bring him the comfort they always did.

Then Varric stepped between them. Dorian tried to look around him, but Varric refused to let him.

“Dorian,” he said, his voice wavering just the slightest despite how hard he was clearly trying to be firm. “Dorian, you have to stop this.”

“Move, Varric,” Dorian said. “Move. He’s trying to get to me.”

“He’s dead!” Varric said, pain engulfing the words. “Look at him, Dorian! He’s a corpse!”

Dorian felt the stinging in his eyes again. He wiped the tears away before they could distort his view of Lavellan as Varric finally stepped aside, then regretted it.

Lavellan continued his slow, shambling way to Dorian, eyes as blank as his expression. Despite the steady progress forward, he dragged one leg pathetically. The leg that had broken and left him stranded for them to…to…

The sword was gone from his chest, but the blood and wound remained.

“Let him go, Dorian. He wouldn’t want this for you. You know it’s not him. It’s just his body,” Varric said, practically pleading. “Please. Stop doing this to his body. He’s not in there. He’s dead.”

“I can fix it,” Dorian whispered. “I can. Maybe if I…with blood magic…”

Varric grabbed his shoulder roughly. “No. No, he would never let you. It would break his heart.”

“Maybe with it, I could bring the soul back to the body,” Dorian said, vision blurring again. This time, he let the tears fall. “I couldn’t save him the first time, but maybe it’s not too late.”

“Dorian,” Varric begged. “You’re hurting us, too. Let him go. Let him rest.”

At that, the shambling corpse fell to the ground, lifeless once more. Dorian let out a choked sob, burying his face in his hands. He knew it was over, that he was just prolonging the inevitable. But it felt like he’d given up.

Varric put his arms around Dorian. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry we lost him.”

Dorian couldn’t respond as he wept into his hands, unable to look at the bloodied corpse of the man he loved. For all the power Dorian wielded, it was not enough to save him in the end.

[ankharel]

ddragon age four news happened so i have to admit to you all that i am a dragon age fan and got excited to redesign my inquisitor for veilguard

[non-toxicdragonageconfessions]

Confession: Barring his own dark past, I think Blackwall would make a good father someday based on his interactions with Cole and Sera. 

[lavellanism]

Celeste yes-it’s-2020-and-i-am-still-playing-this-game Cousland

[mahariel-theirin]

Chapters: 37/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Female Mahariel/Tamlen, Mahariel/Tamlen Characters: Female Mahariel, Tamlen, Merrill (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Canonical Character Death Series: Part 1 of On the Warden-Commander Vie Mahariel Summary:

Mahariel and Tamlen were inseparable since childhood. Where one goes, the other is close behind. Like Sabrae clan's very own Dirthamen and Falon'Din, as Keeper Marethari once reminisced. Though unbreakable as their bond was, it was not always stable. As both grew into adulthood, their relationship shifted and expanded; siblings, friends, comrade-at-arms, lovers. Perhaps fate would be kinder to them than it had been to the Elven gods.

[occasional-autistic-jotaro]

Fine sure whatever, *he shrugs it off and tosses it at him*

Jojo will you lend me your coat again? Just for a while. Pls.

Why do you want it? *squints*

[nereanonony7pwa-blog]

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[bunny-banana]

Art challenge: draw your Warden, Hawke and Inquisitor dancing to Single Ladies together

[miyamorana]

Fenris, prompt #2 "Buried Alive" :D?

Fenris moves through the battle, Fade-stepping to get faster, to dodge attacks and projectiles. One second he’s not-quite-there, and the enemy sword is ripping through air, the next he’s material again, his fist becoming solid inside the soldier’s chest, flesh and bone ripping to make space for him.

He doesn’t see who fires the arrow, but he feels it as the shaft slides in-between his ribs, piercing a lung. Fenris can’t breath, through the pain and the shock and the blood flooding his lungs. He barely manages to Fade-step long enough for the arrow to fall to the ground without doing more damage, and then he’s falling to his knees.

For the first time since the Chantry, maybe the first time in years and years, Fenris wishes Anders was here. He wishes the familiar warmth of the mage’s healing magic would wrap around him, mend his flesh, make sure he can stand and fight for as long as it takes. But Hawke sent him away after they finished saving the circle from Meredith’s insanity, and Merrill can’t cast healing spells, another price of her blood magic.

There’s blood on the dirt ground, his or the enemy’s or both, Fenris doesn’t know. He can’t think. He can’t breath. He needs to heal, needs to… The lyrium brands on his skin flare up, blindingly bright, and Fenris tries to force this destructive power to heal, to mend. It’s not what it’s meant for, and his whole body protests.

Fenris doesn’t feel it when his face hits the muddy ground. His heartbeat is slowing, almost to a stop, but he thinks he can feel himself slowly start to heal. The smell of blood fills his nose. The oblivion of unconsciousness is a welcome respite from the pain.

***

He wakes up, much later, in complete darkness. His heartbeat is slow, too slow, and so are his thoughts. It takes him several minutes to realise there’s something on his face. Slowly, he tries to raise a hand, but there’s fabric restricting his movements, holding his arms against his side. Fenris takes a sharp in-breath, feeling more fabric against his mouth. Now that he’s identified it, he can tell that’s what he’s been feeling on his face. He’s been wrapped, head-to-toe, into some sort of sheet or cloth.

Fenris’s heartbeat, which had still been a little too slow, quickens with a sudden surge of panic. He pulls on the strength of his lyrium brands to free his right arm, ripping through the fabric, but the strength comes with a sharp, searing pain in his lungs and the lyrium tatoos on his skin feel like liquid fire. Whatever he did to heal himself has left him cripped, and he’s pretty sure that if he tries to phase out of his restraint, he’s going to either pass out or outright die from the pain.

His arm is free though, and Fenris slowly, carefully disentangles himself from the fabric. In the dark, he knocks on something on top of him, rough and cold. His knee encounters the same thing on his left side, and Fenris starts to panic when it dawns on him. It’s wooden planks around him, and a shroud he’s been wrapped in.

They thought he was dead. They buried him.

Fenris’s breathing become erratic as he finishes to wrestles out of the shroud, his heart beaten faster than ever. His body is weak from healing itself over who knows how long. The air around him is stuffy, it feels like it’s not enough, it’s never gonna be enough.

They took off his armor. Of course they did. Hawke, probably, ever the scavenger, never letting anything go to waste. Which means Fenriss doesn’t have the clawed guantlets to help him rip through the wood of the cheap coffin. So he slams his fist against it, over and over, wincing through the pain in is fingers. He should slow his breathing, save some air, but he can’t. It’s dark andd cold and oppressive in his tomb, and all Fenris can think of is the six feet of dirt above him, waiting to fall on him, to choke and suffocate him, but he has to get out, has to.

The wood creaks and breaks and packed earth falls on his chest. Fenris swallows around a panicked moan and grabs the broken edges of the plank, pulling at them to widen the hole. more dirt falls down, and he messily pushes it down towards his feet. The smell of dirt is now filling the coffin, and Fenris chokes,not really registering the fact that he’s crying. He whimpers as he pushes his bleeding fingers into the packed dirt and starts to dig upwards.

It feels like it takes forever to claw his way out. The dirt crumbles or falls by big chunks, and there isn’t enough room to shove it all away. A small part of him wonders if he’s only accelerating his death, but most of his mind is shut off from the paniced need to escape.

There are things in the dirt. Worms, and spiders and various insect that Fenris wishes he could see instead of feeling them against his fingers, or sliding over his body. His lungs hurt, the air is too thin. His hands hurt from smashing and digging. His chest hurts from his heart’s frantic beating. Fenris is going to die, he knows it. He survived a fatal injury only to die in his own grave, killed by the people who cared enough about him to give him a proper burial.

Dirt falls on his face now. He’s halfway out of the coffin, the earth pressing all around him, as he keeps frantically clawing upwards, moving the dirt down, towards his feet. Something bites his arm and Fenris cries out, the sound muffled in the small space hes has to breath. There are cuts all over his body from the small rocks mixed with the dirt. He doesn’t think he’ll ever make it out.

He’s entirely out of the coffin now, he thinks. If he’s been digging straight up, he should be out soon, shouldn’t he? With that though, a new rush of desperate energy curses through him and he digs faster. He keeps his eyes open, hoping to see the light of day, even though dirt falls in them. He’s swallowed a lot of it, too, the taste of it is heavy in his dry mouth. His head is heavy, he feels dizzy from the lack of air.

Suddenly, a bigger chunck of dirt falls down, a rock knocking him on the cheek, cutting his skin. But Fenris doesn’t care. He can see stars above his head. It’s night. He’d been expecting the sunlight, but he doesn’t care. There’s fresh air, and he inhales deeply, then coughs. He stops digging for a few minutes, just breathes and looks up at the stars. He’s smiling like a lunatic, and tears are running down his cheeks, burning where they fall into the cuts on his skin.

Eventually, Fenris starts moving again. Actually climbing out is slow. His limbs are heavy, and he’s exhausted, but he drags himself out of the grave and collapses on the ground. Slowly, he rolls onto his back and looks up at the sky. The moon is shining, almost full, and when Fenris musters the strength to sit up he can see that he’s in an actual graveyard. There’s a pile of stones at the head of his grave, and something’s carved in the biggest one: the shape of a greatsword, surrounded by what looks like the lyrium marks on his face. Fenris raises a shaking head to trace the marks with a fingertip, feeling oddly touched.

There’s a noise in his back, like someone walking, dragging their feet. This is Kirkwall, most people don’t hang out in cemeteries at night, not with how often the dea rise. The only person Fenris knows who’d do it is Hawke.

Fenris smiles faintly, tired but feeling safe, finally. He gathers his strength to get on his feet, holding on the gravestones to help himself up, then turns to face his friend.

It isn’t Hawke. This is Kirkwall, and more often than not, the dead rise at night.

[flowers-silence]

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